Spelling It Out

From Blushes 60, the first of two parts.

A very pretty blonde girl stands by the book shelves in a gentleman’s library. She is not only very pretty but extremely shapely too, a fact which is abundantly clear because a good deal of her is on show. She is wearing a white blouse or shirtwaist but no skirt. A tight white pair of knickers snugly encases womanly hips and bottom and her long shapely legs are in black fishnet stockings fastened with the slim straps of a black suspender belt which tautly span creamy upper thighs. Perhaps her partially clothed state has something to do with the unhappy expression on her face, the anxious look in the big blue eyes. She glances towards the closed door and nervously shifts her weight from one high-heeled shoe to the other.

----//----

‘Can you spell, Miss Roseley?’ Mr Corfield asked pleasantly.

They were in his study, George Corfield sitting behind his desk in his leather chair and the girl who was called Pamela Roseley standing before the desk. Bright afternoon sunshine slanted in from the high window to her left highlighting her ash-blonde hair and delineating the rest of her. Her quite tall and very shapely figure in blouse and hip-fitting darker skirt. A very pretty girl but perhaps not looking too sure of herself. As indeed an 18-year-old girl frequently is not when presenting herself at an interview for a job. The soft pouting mouth formed nervous words:

‘Uh yes. Yes Mr Corfield. I mean most words.’

‘Most words?’ Mr Corfield raised his eyebrows. ‘Most words. And would that be for instance most words in the Oxford Dictionary? Or what exactly.’

Pamela’s confusion deepened as did the pink flush which already suffused her cheeks. She stammered out some sort of reply. Shaking her pretty blonds head as she guessed the Oxford Dictionary contained rather a lot of words. No perhaps she couldn’t spell all those. Nervously she shifted her weight from one shapely leg to the other, from one blue high-heeled court shoe to the other.

‘Oh,’ Mr Corfield said mildly. ‘I see. Well, there is a large number of words in that particular tome. Maybe I couldn’t spell every one of them myself. But we need to know what you can spell, don’t we? I mean for this job the person does need a certain modicum of spelling ability. In addition to being a very pretty girl with a nice shape, eh? Clearly you fill that requirement splendidly, Miss Roseley. With those nice big things up front. They really are splendid. Aren’t they?’

What did you answer to that? If you were a pretty girl come to interview for a job and you did have very nice big things ‘up front’. Which of course Pamela did. A very nice big pair of boobs mounding out her pale-blue blouse front in a most impressive manner. What did you say if you were already fairly unsure of yourself, having been sent here by the agency for this job. Librarian/secretary they said. For Mr Corfield who was a writer and also had a library of books that he wanted cataloguing.

Pamela didn’t really think she had the skills for a job like that, not the background. The agency had mentioned an A Level in English. Which of course Pamela didn’t have. Not even an O Level. Never mind they said, go for the interview anyway. Because this Mr Corfield did want a pretty girl. He had been very insistent on that.

Pamela didn’t answer. The only answer she had about her big boobs was to blush some more. And squirm a bit. Which produced an unplanned but nonetheless attractive jiggling of the large and lightly brassiered mammaries. Mr Corfield was perhaps trying to embarrass her. Pamela knew she shouldn’t have come for this job.

Mr Corfield didn’t seem to mind the absence of an answer. He was going on:

‘So let’s try an easy word, Miss. For a start. See if you can spell it. Let’s say knickers, shall we? As in the sentence: The very pretty girl had worn her best pair of silk knickers for the interview. As in that sentence. Knickers, Miss Roseley. Let me hear you spell it.’

Haltingly and flush-faced Pamela spelled it out.

‘Good. Quite correct. And are you perhaps? Wearing your best pair of blue silk knickers? That is just a guess on my part of course.’

Pamela shook her head. Shifting the weight of her hips from left foot back to right.

‘No? Perhaps… none then? Perhaps pretty Miss Roseley came here this afternoon with no knickers on? Eh?’

Shaking her head again and conscious of her brightly flushing face. Mr Corfield was trying to embarrass her.

‘What colour then?’

With difficulty she said it. ‘Wh… White.’

‘White knickers. Sweet and virginal white knickers. That is another word: Virginal. I wonder if you can spell that. But let’s try another easy one. Pussy. Can you spell that, Miss?’

The letters came haltingly out.

‘Excellent. And what does it mean? There is a baby cat of course. But what is the other definition. More of a slang term. Tell me that.’

Pamela knew what he meant alright. What Mr Corfield was referring to. Following on his talking about her knickers there was no doubt at all. But she certainly couldn’t bring herself to say it. Shaking her head and feeling pin-pricks of perspiration now. All over. This was dreadful.

‘No Miss Roseley? Pamela? I’m quite sure you do. I’m quite sure that an 18-year-old girl knows what a pussy is. I’m sure your boyfriend knows. You have a boyfriend Pamela?’

‘Y… Yes…’ she stammered.’

‘Yes of course. A girl as pretty and attractive as you is bound to have a boyfriend. Well I’m quite sure he knows what a pussy is. Your pussy is right there nestling between those lovely thighs, isn’t it?’

Pamela bit her lip. Blinked her big blue eyes. Not knowing where to look. Feeling a little bit sick with embarrassment.

‘Isn’t it, Miss? In between those pretty legs. Your pussy. Snug in those virginal white knickers.’

‘Y… Yes…’ she somehow breathed.

‘Of course. We mustn’t be afraid of words. The words of the beautiful English language. Now tell me another word for that part of you. There is a number of other words of course. Let’s have the one which begins with a c and ends in t. A so-called four-lettered word.’

Pamela shook her head again. She knew the word of course. Cunt. But she certainly couldn’t say it. Mr Corfield was getting to his feet. Coming round his desk to her.

‘Come on, Pamela. Don’t be so coy. I think I want you for this job. In fact I’m sure I do. Because you’re such a lovely girl and you’ve got those lovely big things in your blouse. Haven’t you.’

Pamela gave a little yelp. Because Mr Corfield, up close to her now, had taken hold of her boobs. His two hands lightly cupping them. She gave another little cry and backed away. Or tried to. But Mr Corfield held her and turned her. Got her backed up against the desk.

‘Just stand still, Pamela. Didn’t you hear what I said? You’re getting the job. Stand still and… take your hands away. I just want to… Come on…’

What Mr Corfield wanted was to get his hands back on Pamela’s tits. Her lovely big jutting-out boobs. And he was doing it. Because for one thing Pamela was feeling suddenly faint, her head swirling around. It was a good thing she was backed up against the desk like this… because her legs felt all rubbery and they might otherwise give way at any moment. Mr Corfield’s hotly embarrassing talk and then him all at once here like this. On top of her. Grabbing her. His hands… mounding her tits. She couldn’t stop him because her head was going round and round and it was all she could do to stand up on her rubbery legs. He was holding her tits. Squeezing them. And saying…

‘Say it, Pamela dear. That word. Cunt. Say it.’

Somehow a breathy version of it was popping out of her mouth… and then tailing off into a gurgling sound. Because one of Mr Corfield’s hands had left Pam’s tits and slid down. To that very part of her. Her cunt. Cupping the firm bulge of Pamela’s mound of Venus through the thin material of her skirt. She gave a violent shiver and her legs did give way . But Mr Corfield of course had hold of Pam. Firmly supporting her solid weight with his hand cupping her cunt. Her pussy. She made a whinnying sound.

----//----

Naturally everyone — Pam’s mother, her boyfriend Nick, her friend Elaine — was delighted when she said she had been successful at the interview and Pamela had to appear delighted herself. Or at least seem to be with difficulty modestly controlling her delight. She certainly couldn’t say she had wanted to refuse, tell Mr Corfield she didn’t want the job. Not that Pamela didn’t need it because she certainly did, and it was going to pay really well. But… Mr Corfield. That awful talk. And perhaps even worse — yes definitely worse — his hands. It was difficult to believe he had done those things. His hands groping her boobs. And then his right hand… down there. She couldn’t have dreamt it? Imagined it? No. Pam knew there was no way she could have imagined it.

It couldn’t be normal, could it? Something a girl had to expect from a boss? This would be Pam’s first job so she had nothing to go by. There were only the one or two other interviews she had been to. Pam hadn’t been groped at them — but equally she hadn’t been offered a job. Not the right qualifications. Clearly those other people hadn’t been so impressed with Pamela’s shape. Her big boobs. Hadn’t been desperate to get their hands on them. They had been only concerned with Pam’s poor paper qualifications.

She could ask Elaine of course. Discuss it with Elaine who had been working in an office for six months now. Could Elaine be getting groped at work each day? Pamela didn’t really think so and she couldn’t bring herself to discuss it with her friend. As for Nick… She certainly couldn’t discuss it with Nick. Couldn’t tell Nick what Mr Corfield. With also those other things he had said. After those awful hands had finally let go of her. There had been some more of that spelling business. Suspender belt. Could she spell suspender belt?

‘As in the sentence: The pretty girl for her first day at the office wore stockings and a suspender belt but no knickers, in case her employer wished to spank her bare bottom for any shortcoming in performance. As in that sentence, Pamela.’

It had been a joke. An awful joke of course but a joke. It had to be a joke. He couldn’t have meant it. Mr Corfield had acted like he did mean it, but that could only have been part of the joke. Or his idea of a joke. He couldn’t really mean it. There was no way she could go to Mr Corfield’s house with no knickers on. No way. Pamela didn’t want to go there at all. Whatever happened it was sure to be dreadful. Even if Mr Corfield had been joking and he must have been. Maybe she would go along and say she didn’t really want the job. Something had come up, her mother was ill and she had to look after her. But even then she would have to give two weeks notice. Two weeks of Mr Corfield and his awful hands and awful jokes. It must have been a joke.

----//----

‘Ah, good morning Pamela. A very good morning, is it not? And right on time. That’s an excellent start, isn’t it?’

Pam was right on time; nine o’clock at Mr Corfield’s having taken the bus. It was a nice morning, as far as the weather went at least. But Pamela was virtually shaking with apprehension — as she had been for most of the weekend. Dreading this morning. This meeting with Mr Corfield.

He was ushering her in after her tentative knock at the door. In the hallway.

‘Yes an excellent start. So far so good as they say. Now what about that other thing. Eh? What we were going to wear. How Pamela was going to be attired for her first morning’s work. Mmm?’

Pam gave a sudden frantic yelp. Its immediate cause was Mr Corfield’s hand, suddenly on her bottom. But that was only part of it. She would not have reacted quite so violently if she hadn’t been so keyed up, in anticipation of something awful. So when the hand came, although it was perhaps half expected, Pamela almost jumped out of her skin.

‘You’re exceedingly jumpy,’ Mr Corfield observed. Boring his hand in and firmly gripping one ripe bottom-cheek through her skirt. ‘And what about… this…?’

Yes that was the other thing. Pamela was wearing knickers, and also tights. Having convinced herself — or more or less — that Mr Corfield had been joking. But it seemed he hadn’t. He had meant it. Suspender belt and stockings. And no knickers. Unbelievable as it might seem that was how he had intended her to arrive for work this morning.

‘So it’s not such a good start after all, Pamela. What is the reason? Don’t tell me you forgot. That you were too busy with other things to remember. It couldn’t be too much time on the nest, as the expression is, could it Pamela? With that boyfriend, what did you say his name was, Nick? Too much of that can certainly do things to a girl’s memory. Mmm?’

Pam was shaking her head, and also shaking somewhat all over. The awful business that she had feared had started right away. Mr Corfield was turning her… and now taking hold of her tits.

‘Spell it for me, Pamela. Fuck. As in the sentence: The pretty girl has been fucking her boyfriend too much so that she can’t concentrate properly.’

Pam tried to refuse but then had to spell it out.

‘Good. You can spell the very basic words, my dear. Well, how many times did you fuck that young man? Seven or eight perhaps?’

It was truly awful. Worse than she had anticipated, which was bad enough. Mr Corfield finally made her say it. That she and Nick had screwed twice. He was grabbing her everywhere and getting her in such a state that she couldn’t refuse. Mr Corfield said he didn’t think he could believe her, he thought it was more likely to be eight or ten times to make her forget what she was supposed to wear. And regarding that…

Mr Corfield’s voice hot in Pam’s ear told her that she could take the tights and knickers off. Right now. And then he was going to drive her into town and buy her some nice stockings and a sexy suspender belt. So that she would be properly dressed for her morning’s work. But first of all, before they drove into town and after Pam had taken her tights and knickers off, there would be something else. A smacked bottom. Pam’s bare bottom smacked over Mr Corfield’s lap. For not coming properly dressed this morning.

She tried to refuse. Not at first thinking he could mean it. But Mr Corfield did mean it. He did mean these things that you might think were unbelievable. And it was either take her things off herself or have Mr Corfield do it for her. Which would Pamela prefer? She was anyway in such a state that she wasn’t sure what was happening. Was she, in Mr Corfield’s library now, sliding down her tights? And then her knickers?

Yes she was. Pam knew she was. Her head was going round and round and she had that sicky-fainty feeling but it was happening. Mr Corfield was sitting on that upright chair and with her tights and knickers and shoes off now she was stumbling to him and he was pulling her down. Over his lap. pulling up her skirt. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. His hand on the ripe silky flesh of her bottom. Pam’s bare and defenceless bottom. Sliding sensuously over the surging cheeks and breathtakingly into the split between them. Pam was going to faint. Then…

Splat!… Splat!…

Desperate yelps. No, she wasn’t fainting now. As the large male hand began cracking hard down. Stingingly into the ripe bottom-cheeks which were now jerking and writhing.

Splat!… Splat!… Smack!…

It was quite devastating.

Splat!… Smack!… Smack!…

To be held helpless over Mr Corfield’s lap like this with her poor bottom quite bare and his hand cracking rhythmically in with all his force. It was really hurting. And of course utterly humiliating…

Pamela’s eyes were wet with hot tears when Mr Corfield eventually let up and she could get off his lap. Her face was as red and hot as her bottom as she dragged her skirt back down over her scalded rear. Supporting herself with one hand on the back of Mr Corfield’s chair because her legs were like jelly.

Mr Corfield standing up ran his hand over Pam’s big tits again — as if he owned them. ‘There. That’ll do for a start, eh. So we know where we stand. I’ll just go and get the car out.’

Yes, Mr Corfield had meant that other too: about taking Pam into town to buy stockings and a suspender belt. They drove to a small specialist shop where the owner, a man who Mr Corfield evidently knew, took them into a small back room for a personal fitting.

Pam had to take her skirt off in front of the two men and of course with now nothing under it. Standing in just her blouse and high-heeled shoes and showing herself to these two middle-aged men.

‘Isn’t she nice,’ Mr Corfield remarked, seating himself in an easy chair. ‘A lovely girl. Not a great intellect I fear but a lovely body. Actually she can spell simple words. Spell that word for Mr Mulgrave, Pamela. That pretty thing that we’re looking at. Beginning with a c and ending in t.’

Red-faced, Pam forced herself to pronounce the letters of cunt. As she stood urgently wanting to put her hands in front of that part of her, her pretty blonde bush, but of course not allowed to.

‘Good girl,’ Mr Corfield said. ‘But I fear she may be getting a little too much action in that region. Too much indulgence with her boyfriend. On the nest. Which is why we’re here this morning, Charles. Her forgetfulness caused by that.’

Mr Corfield chose two pairs of black fishnet stockings and a little slim-strapped black satin suspender belt. Mr Corfield said it was a pity she had to put on a skirt on top. Though of course when they were back at his house she wouldn’t need to.

Pam was allowed to put her skirt on to leave the shop, though. They didn’t go directly back to Mr Corfield’s; first of all he took her to an expensive restaurant for coffee.

Waiting for their coffee to arrive, Mr Corfield said, ‘Yes, you really are such an attractive girl, Pamela. And especially in those pretty stockings and the suspender belt. Maybe we should let these other people see. Mmm? You could stand up on the table. And lift your skirt up round your waist.’

To be continued…