Temporary Duties

From Blushes 39

Brrrinnnggg. Brrinnnnggg. The phone. Again. Stanley Cardew mutters an expletive under his breath. He has only just replaced the receiver. With an anguished expression he picks it up again. It is a good job he is not an excitable man.

‘Hello. Cardew Partners.’ Forcing his voice into polite, sympathetic tones. He listens. Rolling his eyes. He has heard it before, so many times. The basic problem is that demand greatly exceeds supply. One might imagine in broadly economic terms that for a supplier this would be an ideal situation. But it is not. It simply creates unending hassle, agitation, aggravation.

‘I’m very sorry.’ The tones are kept meek and apologetic. ‘I’m afraid we simply do not have anyone. At the moment.’

There follows the usual response. No one will accept this answer. They all assume there is at least one who must be free. One who is being kept for an especially favoured client. And why should she be kept back for that customer when he, the caller, surely has the same rights and privileges as anyone else.

‘I really am awfully sorry. But I will put you on the list. High priority. There shouldn’t be any serious delay.’

What does ‘serious’ mean the caller demands. And is he at the top of the waiting list?

Stanley Cardew shakes his head. He picks up the phone again. ‘Susan: look, if there are any more calls say I’m in a meeting.’

‘Yes, Mr Cardew.’ A pleasant young feminine voice, with upper-class vowels. ‘But they’ll want to know when you’re free.’

He shakes his head again and this time gets to his feet. Wearily he walks round his desk and across the plushly furnished office to the door. In the outer room a pretty brunette is sitting at a smaller, less impressive desk. He walks over and perches on the side of it.

‘Maybe you’ll have to say I’m off sick, Sue.’

She gives him a bright smile. She has large clear hazel eyes and a soft delectable looking mouth. ‘I should think they’ll still want an answer, Mr Cardew.’

‘I need more girls, Susan. That’s the answer, isn’t it?’

Susan purses the delectable mouth. Her flowery silk blouse is not especially tight but it does not disguise what is there, underneath, at the front. Stanley Cardew’s hand reaches out to one of the two distinct swellings. Lightly his fingers close on the globe of soft and vibrant flesh. Susan Ponsonly mostly doesn’t wear a bra to the office and that is the case today. The big hazel eyes widen. The soft mouth opens. But she does not otherwise move.

‘I really need a stand-in, Sue dear.’

‘Oh no!’ The large eyes round with apparent alarm. ‘No! Not me.’ The hand is still there, squeezing the warm, soft boob under the silk blouse. Firmly gripping it. Susan doesn’t try to push it away, or squirm back from it. ‘No! I couldn’t!’

‘Susan dear…’ But Susan’s phone rings. Shaking his head again Stanley Cardew removes his hand from Susan’s front and reaches to lift the receiver. He lays it on the desk and then depresses the button in the cradle to silently cut off the caller. Susan sucks in her full lower lip at this cavalier behaviour. Her eyes widen once more as Mr Cardew’s hand comes back. Not this time to the trembling silk-covered boob itself but to the little buttons down the centre of the blouse. Fingers and thumb begin working at the top button.

‘Susan dear, we are in difficulties. After Deborah leaving especially. You know that.’

‘No!’ she yelps again. ‘I’m not… I…’ Mr Cardew has two buttons undone now. He is beginning on the third. This does not seem to exercise Susan, or if it does she is apparently resigned to it. Part of a conscientious secretary’s duties perhaps. But what Mr Cardew is suggesting… is something else.

‘They would love you, Susan. Simply love you. And so they should. Such a truly lovely girl. And it would really…’ Three buttons are enough for his hand to slip inside. Where there is nothing except for Susan. Warm bare flesh. More specifically there is an erect nipple. Susan groans a little as Stanley Cardew’s finger and thumb take hold.

‘Could you please put the phone back?’ he asks in a soft and sympathetic voice. Susan, perhaps breathing a little harder now, silently complies. Almost immediately the phone rings. She picks it up.

‘Uh, yes. One moment please. Hands it to Mr Cardew. It will make him stop what he is doing. Not that she has shown any overwhelming urgency in this direction.

Mr Cardew withdraws his hand from the blouse, to take the phone. ‘Yes, speaking. What?’ The voice is telling him his phone has been continually engaged — or out of order. The voice then goes on — about what it has been so desperate to say, to request…

Stanley Cardew smiles at his secretary. ‘Yes. I understand, Mr Hambrook. I can understand it has been disappointing. But we have been under… a lot of pressure. But… as it happens… I can now tell you…’ Susan, desperate-eyed, is violently shaking her head. But Mr Cardew continues. ‘We can help. We have just — today actually — got this new girl. A real peach. And of course quite new to this business. Very special. So that if you don’t tell me you are absolutely delighted I shall certainly refund your membership fee. Now, shall I get my diary?’

There is another wailing groan from Susan. ‘I won’t…’ she wails. But perhaps without a great deal of conviction.

----//----

This is it. Number 24. An ordinary looking semi in a leafy suburban street. I can’t, she tells herself. For perhaps the hundredth time. But nonetheless she is opening the gate. Closing it carefully behind her. Her eyes darting to left and right. No doubt all the neighbours are there peering through holes in the fence. They know why she is here. And perhaps they will recognise her. She should never have begun working for Mr Cardew. Or at least when she found out she should have resigned. It was bound to come to this.

Round the side. The side door. And somehow making herself ring the bell. He will look like some sort of monster. He is bound to. She has never seen any of Mr Cardew’s customers, but they are bound to have depravity etched on their faces. The door opens.

‘Ah… Julie…’

Susan forces a wan smile. She has at least insisted that Mr Cardew change her name. She is Julie. And this is: Mr Hambrook. Who no doubt is a monster though he has a somewhat ordinary appearance. Bald on top. Not all that old. Not exactly raddled looking from over-indulgence in perverse pleasures. He is inviting her in. Of course. No, she can’t; her feet won’t. But they have to.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks. ‘A nice cuppa, or a real drink if you prefer. Tell me, is it really? Your first time?’

She doesn’t want to answer that. It is of course her first time but she doesn’t want to say so. Though equally she wouldn’t want him to think she habitually does this sort of thing. Susan finds herself in fact hesitantly telling the truth.

‘I… uh… sort of helping out.’

Mr Hambrook beams. His eyes show excitement. ‘Helping out,’ he breathes. ‘My word. Let me take your coat.’

A nervous whinny, but there is no point trying to be difficult. That would just make things ten times worse. Under the coat are a blouse and skirt. Well what do you wear on a visit like this? That was what she despairingly asked Mr Cardew. ‘Mr Hambrook doesn’t mind,’ he said. ‘Some of them of course will have their little specialities. Mostly suspender belt and stockings.’ Mr Cardew smirking. ‘Or perhaps no knickers. But Mr Hambrook doesn’t mind.’ Another dreadful smirk. ‘Because Mr Hambrook will take all your clothes off anyway, Susan dear.’

Oh God! ‘Oooh…’

Mr Hambrook is at her bottom. Susan automatically flinches away. Mr Hambrook grins. ‘Lovely.’ He steps forward and Susan finds she is trapped against the table in this room which would seem to be the dining room. ‘Lovely,’ he repeats. ‘And we’re not too shy, are we? Though if a girl is shy… it can add a certain something.’

He is turning her. She blurts ‘Don’t…’ and ‘Please…’ but given that she is here there is not much she can do. Facing the table on her jittery legs. Her hands on the polished wooden surface give some sort of contact with solid reality for her body which is apparently turning to jelly. Mr Hambrook close behind is at her bottom again. Of course. He has her skirt up. She has knickers on of course. And a bra. But if Mr Hambrook is going to… It won’t make a lot of difference… Ohhh! Oh!

Mr Hambrook is moving to take them down. His hands up to the waistband. Fingers inserting. ‘No…!’ she breathes again. But he has her wedged up against the table and Susan’s body has no strength in it. She is shaking like a leaf, she would collapse onto the floor if it weren’t for the table… and the solid and awful presence of Mr Hambrook behind her.

‘Don’t be a silly girl,’ he says softly in her ear. ‘You know what you’re here for, Julie dear. And I expect you’ll enjoy it. Girls basically have an inner need for it you know. Which generally our modern world does not satisfy.’

‘No…!’ Susan whispers once more. But Mr Hambrook now has the knickers well and truly down.

----//----

A small bedroom containing a narrow bed. Susan is in the bed, the covers clutched tight up to her throat. Her eyes like those of some fearful little wild creature look out in the half-light caused by the drawn curtains. Mr Hambrook will shortly be here. With his… Susan makes a supreme effort to prevent her mind thinking about, picturing, what he will have in his hand. The thought is too awful. To think that girls are prepared to do this. On a regular basis. And they are not dreadful tarts for Susan has met a couple of them; they are nice, pleasant middle-class girls. How can they? More to the point perhaps how can she? Susan Ponsonly. For she is here. She has agreed, has allowed Mr Cardew to persuade her. She is here: her bare body shivering under the cover.

Not quite bare perhaps. She has a little nightie on. It was here in this room Mr Hambrook sent her to. To get undressed. ‘Get your clothes off and get into bed, Julie. You can put the nightie on if you like. I shall be in right away…’

And as Susan gives another darting glance at the door it opens. Yes, Mr Hambrook. Yes, with a cane. Susan’s heart, already doing a brisk canter, begins a frantic gallop. Her hands clutch at the bedcover. But Mr Hambrook’s hand, without delay, reaches for it too. And simply grabs it away. Uttering a shrill cry, Susan’s hands transfer abruptly to the nightie: her only covering now. Gripping its skirt around her vulnerable form.

‘Get over on your front,’ Mr Hambrook instructs. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’ At the same time, he yanks the nightdress out of the clutching hands and up round her neck.

Another yelp erupts from the trembling mouth as Susan finds herself suddenly bare. Turning over on her front will at least protect those most intimate parts: her boobs, and the little nest of hair. But at the same time…

‘No! I don’t want it,’ she squeals. For answer Mr Hambrook brings the cane zipping down across the flinching bare bottom.

Thwack!!

Aarrrgghhhh!… Aaarrooowwwhhhh…!’

‘I know you think you don’t like it. But really…’

Thwack!!

Aarrrhhhh!… Aaaaooowwwhhh…!’

‘Really, deep down inside…’

Thwack!…

----//----

‘Wasn’t too bad, was it? Not as bad as you thought, I expect.’

Mr Cardew. In the office. With an avuncular arm round her. And quite soon no doubt an avuncular hand will be opening her blouse. Mr Cardew who has made her do that awful thing: the Hambrook visit. Words are not possible.

‘Not too bad at all. I daresay.’ Yes. His fingers are reaching for the blouse buttons. Mr Hambrook… who excruciatingly caned her bottom as she lay face-down on the bed. And then did that even worse thing. Turned her onto her back and made her lift her legs. Right up. And caned her in that position, with everything on show Everything indeed at times getting the devastating sting of the cane on it. ‘Not too bad I daresay,’ Mr Cardew repeats, his hand now in that warm and intimate place where it loves to go.

‘And now you’re started, Suzy… well…’ She yelps. No, she’s not doing any more. She can’t. Mr Cardew smiles understandingly, and squeezes what he has hold of. ‘I’m sure you’ll co-operate, Susan dear. Take some of this awful strain off me. Now you know it’s not all that bad. Mmmm?’