1966 and all that!

Story with some nice Alan Bell illustrations, from Roué 23

It was 1966 — that halcyon period when mini-skirts had come in, and stockings and suspenders had not yet gone out. Dedicated observers were treated to the sight of more white thighs and stocking-tops than they were ever to see again.

Just such a dedicated observer was Mr George Jones, draper and pillar of the community in his small home town.

Mr Jones was sitting, as usual when the shop wasn’t busy, in his office-cum-storeroom at the back. When not serving he always had plenty of accounting and bookwork to keep up, and was happy to leave his young assistant, Carol Summers, to look after the trickle of customers.

Carol had entered the storeroom to look for a type of cloth required by a woman who had just come in. She asked Mr Jones where the particular cloth was kept.

‘It’s up there, Carol. You’ll need the steps,’ he told her, indicating the row of shelves immediately behind where he was sitting.

Mr Jones watched surreptitiously as Carol heaved the heavy mahogany steps just to the left of his chair and prepared to mount them. With her back to him and only a few inches from his side Carol was not aware of Mr Jones’s interest in what she was doing. She was only 16, rather inexperienced in sexual matters, and besides she was concentrating on reaching the top of the rickety steps without coming to grief.

As the hem of Carol’s mini-skirt passed the level of Mr Jones’s eyes and continued upwards, his fascinated gaze was rewarded with the sight of two dark stocking tops out of which bulged the roundest, plumpest pair of teenage thighs a middle-aged member of the Chamber of Trade could ever wish to see.

As Carol reached the platform at the top of the steps her taut black suspenders hove into view, causing Mr Jones’s eyes nearly to pop out of his head. But more was to come.

‘I can’t find it, Mr Jones,’ said Carol, as she searched the top shelf.

Carol’s failure to find the cloth was no real surprise to Mr Jones. He knew it wasn’t there. But past experience had taught him in the few months that Carol had been working for him that the best possible view of her nether regions was afforded when Carol was having to reach and stretch for an item which was proving elusive.

‘Have a really good look, Carol,’ he instructed her. ‘It ought to be there.’

Obligingly the plump young miss bent forward as far as she could, searching the shelf thoroughly, thus causing her brief brown mini-skirt to ride up at the back and reveal the sauciest pair of black nylon knickers Mr Jones had ever dreamed of, never mind seen. So small were they that most of the diaphanous material had slipped enchantingly into the crevice between Carol’s ample buttocks. All pretence of working gone, Mr Jones stared transfixed at the sight before him, watching his pretty young assistant’s cheeks wobble and jostle each other as she shifted the position of her feet.

It’s absolutely disgraceful, thought Mr Jones disapprovingly. Why virtually the whole of her bottom is bare and she seems quite oblivious. This young lady needs taking in hand. Of course it doesn’t matter, a respectable married man like myself seeing her like this — I am quite unaffected by it — but what if young men and boys caught sight of this display?

And so it was that a plot was born in the mind of Mr George Jones, to bring retribution to this shameless young teenager, and in particular to that part of her anatomy which she was most shameless about displaying. Mr Jones approached the task he had set himself in the disinterested light of a town councillor and churchwarden who felt it his moral duty to show this naughty teenage draper’s assistant the error of her ways. The fact that the methods he proposed to adopt were somewhat devious was beside the point. One sometimes had to be a little underhand to achieve a desired result.

Every day Mr Jones went out promptly at 12.45 to have lunch at the Conservative Club, leaving Carol to mind the shop. She’d already had sandwiches in the storeroom before he left.

Over the next few weeks Mr Jones took to leaving the petty cash tin unlocked on his desk, and occasionally he left the lid open to reveal the cash contents within.

Gratifyingly, after a while he found that on his return the odd ten shillings or pound was missing. Carol was raiding the till.

I thought as much, he mused disapprovingly. Dishonest as well as shameless. And this conclusion confirmed him in the rightness of what he was doing. This young girl must be punished, and punished severely, for her own good.

On the day of the final baiting of the trap, Mr Jones made use of a small hatch at the back of the storeroom which gave onto a lean-to kitchen beyond. The hatch was never used and it was usually blocked by various packages and bolts of cloth. Carefully removing some of these and opening the hatch, Mr Jones placed on the ledge a camera with built-in flash. He then lowered the hatch to the level of the camera and built-up a camouflage of cloth around it so that only the lens and flash were not covered. Carol would never notice it, and even if she did she wouldn’t suspect anything.

Next Mr Jones placed his wallet, ostentatiously bulging with banknotes, on a table near the hatch. A photograph of Carol at the petty cash box would not be nearly so incriminating because she no doubt would have cause to use it quite legitimately.

Then this eminently respectable citizen announced to his teenage assistant that he was off to lunch.

In fact he doubled round to the back of the shop, cautiously let himself in at the back door and took up a position at the hatch, finger on the button and right eye glued to the viewfinder.

It was so deliciously simple. Carol wandered into the storeroom, noticed the wallet, decided that with all that he’d never miss two, and was just in the act of extracting them when the flash-bulb popped and a certain naughty young teenager’s misdemeanours were immortalised on celluloid.

Mr Jones’s righteous indignation was a miracle to behold. But he showed his charitable side as well. He was convinced there was good in Carol, and he shrank from ruining her life by reporting her crime to the police. Before taking that irrevocable step he would like to give her a chance.

Carol’s heart leapt at this escape from disaster. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Jones, I’ll never do it again, truly I won’t,’ she cried.

‘Don’t misunderstand me, Carol. I’m not saying that you are not going to be punished. Merely that I will punish you myself, and that no one else will know about it. Of course,’ he added with silky menace, ‘if anyone else does get to know about it, this photograph will go straight to the police and you’ll be up in court.’

‘Of course, Mr Jones, I’ll do anything you say. I’ll stay late, and clean the shop, and do the books for you,’ volunteered this contrite young teenager.

‘That’s not entirely what I have in mind,’ replied Mr Jones. ‘You have behaved like a naughty little girl and I intend to punish you like a naughty little girl. I’m going to chastise you on your bottom. Kindly bend over the table.’

Nervously and reluctantly Carol leant over the low table and gripped its far end. Her own far end, meanwhile, came automatically into view as her short skirt followed the forward movement and parted company with that section of her it was intended to conceal.

Mr Jones pulled up a chair behind the bending miscreant and took stock. He recalled that he had once wanted to become a medical student, only his father couldn’t afford the fees. He had always been fascinated by the subject of anatomy, he assured himself, and only poverty had prevented him from studying it in his youth. That and the fact that Mrs Jones was not given to displaying what charms she had, even when they were first married.

Now, thought Mr Jones, was a golden opportunity to make up for those deprivations and use Carol as a guinea pig for pursuing a purely scientific interest in the human body.

Carol’s position had had the effect of plumping her already ample bottom into yet broader proportions. Quite amazing, thought Mr Jones. You’d never realise looking at her fully clothed how well-developed she was.

Carol was wearing the same tiny black knickers Mr Jones had seen several times before, though not, as now, at a range of about six inches. The material had inevitably in the stretching movement almost disappeared into the deep and fascinating cleft between the buttock cheeks. Mr Jones made a decision. In the interests of science they would have to come down.

With palpitating heart he inserted his fingers into the elastic at the top of the wispy garment, and slowly pulled it down, leaving it forlornly at mid-thigh.

This was a wholly new experience for Mr Jones. Having had a strict upbringing and an unaccommodating wife, he had never seen a bare female bottom in his life. Now a plump, white, wobbling pair of naked buttocks was literally staring him in the face.

With the removal of the knickers Carol felt the cool air playing around areas where the cool air normally doesn’t play. She may not have been very experienced, but she knew that a 55-year-old man was looking at parts of her no man had ever seen.

Carol tried desperately to squeeze her cheeks together, to blot out this blatant display of her most intimate regions. But it was no good. The lowness of the table meant that her back was hollowed, and her plump, girlish buttocks were out-thrust lewdly, obscenely, a few inches from Mr Jones’s eager face.

That estimable draper approached his medical studies systematically, starting at the top. His eyes ran from the small of Carol’s back, down to where her cleft began, then onwards and downwards to a tuft of dark hair, and then to a delightful pink object that was peeping bewitchingly from between Carol’s thighs. She could feel his breath falling somewhat unevenly onto this specially sensitive area and blushed unseen at the shame of it. She would never be able to look Mr Jones in the eye again, knowing that he had gazed uninterrupted and at close range at every square centimetre of her — well, that bit of her.

Mr Jones suddenly became aware of certain striking physical manifestation which had unaccountably overtaken him while he had so laudably been filling in the gaps in his education.

He remembered his mission. ‘Now Carol, I am going to punish you with this,’ he said sternly, reaching into a drawer for a wicked-looking tawse he had thoughtfully placed there beforehand, having purchased it in a mood of now justified optimism.

Carol gasped as she looked round at the instrument of her impending chastisement. She was a dull-witted creature — witness her somewhat bovine compliance with Mr Jones’s lengthy inspection of her bare bottom — but she knew she was in for a very painful experience indeed.

‘Now Carol, I want you to stick your bottom right out as far as it will go, and I insist that you hold that position without fail. If you don’t I shall simply add on more strokes.’ Having acquired a taste for observing the feminine physique at its most intimate, Mr Jones wished to keep up the good work while he applied the tawse to Carol’s tender bottom. Her cheeks were so very full and plump that it was only when she pushed her bottom out to the limit, that she looked her ‘very best’.

As before Mr Jones began at top, where Carol’s bulging haunches expanded riotously from her waist. Rhythmically, remorselessly, the tawse rose and fell in that draper’s store-room, while a pretty young draper’s assistant wailed and wriggled, pleaded and gasped, as her fat and wobbling bottom was subjected to the punishment of its life.

There was no one to hear — Mr Jones had shut up shop — and her employer and tormentor was free to express on behalf of society as a whole the indignation he felt at modern girlhood, at the deceit and the shameless exhibitionism of which it was guilty.

As he thrashed his way slowly down Carol’s helpless bottom Mr Jones’s attention was focused on those parts which had awakened in him feelings of which he had not believed himself capable.

His sense of outrage redoubled. How dare she, he thought. He’d teach her to flaunt herself like that in front of him, provoking innocent married men by her teasing ways. The tawse whipped time and again across the soft, sensitive undercurve of her wobbling cheeks.

‘Stick it out, Carol,’ he commanded, as she tried to close her cheeks to protect her most sensitive parts. Carol was understandably slow to respond.

‘Right, miss, we’ll soon settle this. Take off your knickers, lie down face upwards on the table and raise your knees.’

Compliantly Carol did as she was told. ‘Now Carol, I notice from close observation of your, er, bottom and thighs that you are rather too plump for your own good. Exercise is what you need, and I’m going to see that you get it.’

The exercise Mr Jones had in mind for his naughty young teenage assistant was what you might call an upside-down bicycle ride, minus the bicycle. Carol was made to place her elbows on the table, to raise her forearms vertically, and swinging her hips upwards into the air to support them on her outstretched hands. In her distressed condition she had some difficulty in achieving this posture and Mr Jones thoughtfully helped her by placing a hand on her bottom so that the exercise could begin.

‘Now Carol, I want you to keep up a bicycling motion which I think you will find is excellent for slimming purposes. I shall stand here in front of your, er, er, bottom, and correct you if I feel that you are slacking.’

By standing at the edge of the table Mr Jones was able to look down at Carol’s upturned buttocks as they heaved and gyrated in front of him. Her undignified position, and the scissor motion of the legs which he was making her perform, caused an even more dramatic revelation of her girlish secrets than before. Worse still, as she peered disconsolately up between her raised knees, all she could see of her employer was his face staring intently downwards, enriching his knowledge of anatomy.

The ceaseless motion of those pumping teenage legs reminded Mr Jones by its very provocation of the course of duty on which he was embarked. Carol’s plump bare thighs and bottom were spread out before him like a banquet, and their indecent wobblings and squirmings began to produce in him ambiguous emotions for which he decided she must suffer.

How dare she tempt and tease him like this. ‘Carol, you’re slacking,’ he rapped out, bringing the tawse down vertically so that the end snaked painfully down the inside of her rounded thigh. Carol gasped and redoubled her efforts.

Her bottom was already crimson from the attentions of the tormenting tawse, and Mr Jones decided that her still-milky thighs merited some punishment of their own where they spilled ripely from her dark stocking tops. Accordingly he raised the tawse to shoulder height and brought it down wristily on the fullest and fattest part of her upper legs.

In vain Carol complained that ‘it hurt’, in vain she whimpered and sobbed and begged him to stop. The continual pedalling motion of her slimming exercise was causing her buttock-cheeks and upper thighs to move independently of each other, continually shifting their juxtaposition, drawing the eyes of her master towards the centre of her attractions, and thus intensifying his determination to punish her, and punish her and punish her. For Mr Jones this mischievous young teenager, wriggling so seductively under the sting of the tawse, embodied the temptations he frowned on, and the thought of the good he was doing to himself, to her, and to the world in general by covering every inch of her hind-quarters in a painful coating of crimson lent him strength in his resolve.

Sometimes he would take a breather, and Carol would look pitifully at him. ‘Please, Mr Jones, don’t whip my bottom any more. It’s so sore.’

‘I’m sorry, Carol, but I am to be the judge of when to terminate your punishment. Certainly your thighs and bottom are very red and sore,’ said Mr Jones, leaning over her spread-eagled rump and studying it closely. ‘But I don’t think you have sufficiently learnt your lesson yet. I think we will try another position which will enable me to reach certain areas which have not had their full share of punishment.’

Weepily Carol rolled off the table and stood in front of her employer. ‘I think you had better take your skirt off, Carol,’ he told her.

Carol unzipped her little mini and let it fall, while Mr Jones pulled up a chair and sat looking at her. In contrast to the bright-red of her backside, Carol’s rounded stomach and the front of her upper legs were still virgin white, except for the luxuriant dark bush of pubic hair which was affording Mr Jones a good deal of interest.

‘Now Carol, your last job is to brush the stairs very thoroughly. I want you to start at the top and I shall be behind you as you work your way down to see that it’s done properly.’

Carol fetched the dustpan and brush from a cupboard, her big red bottom wobbling charmingly as she walked towards it. Then she climbed the stairs, with that conscientious task-master, Mr George Jones, two steps behind her all the way.

The alternate parting and closing of her heavy bottom cheeks as she raised one leg after another, the stretching and relaxing of the gluteal fold where bottom met thigh, the wobble of the punished female flesh, all combined to make Mr Jones wish the stairs went a lot higher. But he pulled himself together and set his half-naked teenage assistant to work.

Of course the position required for brushing the stairs forced Carol again to disclose to the world, or at any rate to Mr Jones, what were once her private parts. It also had the effect, as she bent to her task, of throwing her swollen buttocks outwards in just the kind of way Mr Jones found most provocative and worthy of chastisement.

Slowly they worked their way down the stairway. Every missed piece of fluff was rewarded with several smarting whacks with the tawse, and when there were no stray bits she received a few more for dawdling.

At last Mr Jones felt that Carol’s lesson in good conduct and morality could be suspended, at any rate for the time being. Ever-solicitous in her interest he announced his intention of applying cold cream to the tender parts, which included the entire area from her stocking tops to her suspender belt. For this Carol was made to go back over the table and present herself, with legs apart, for treatment.

Yes, I should certainly have been a doctor, he thought, as his searching fingers, slippery with cream, massaged and probed, rubbed and insinuated.

The climax to all this laboratory research was that Carol suddenly came with an unexpected shudder, and Mr Jones decided that perhaps things had gone far enough for that day. There was always tomorrow, and the day after that………

And so Carol’s salvation and mortification were over for the moment. She and Mr Jones found that she really was all the better for regular punishment, though the funny thing was that those lovely chubby thighs, and that wobbling girlish rump never seemed to get any slimmer, despite all the upside-down bicycling she had to do.