Join the Dots… Italian Lessons

From Blushes 40 with Gaynor Gold

‘Would I be correct, Miss Milford, to say that temporary employment, such as you enjoy, is scarce in this town? Positions such as yours almost like gold-dust one could say?’ Mr Vortelli’s English was very good, though at times somewhat flowery. Diane answered nervously, ‘I know that. Yes.’

‘So in that case, Miss Milford, I do not know why you are so free and easy with your job. Twice now you have been significantly late to start.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. Standing before Mr Vortelli in this secluded alcove at the rear of the restaurant. She had been late yesterday and also the day before. Not meaning to, it was that boy she had met. She wasn’t late today, though: the restaurant didn’t open for lunch for another hour. ‘Be there at 11.30 tomorrow, Miss Milford,’ Mr Vortelli had said. ‘Otherwise your employment will terminate immediately. Do you understand?’ Yes, she understood and she was here, on time.

‘You know the problem with you English girls, Miss Milford? No discipline. The problem with all you English. Your football hooligans and also your girls on holiday who when they are given a good job can’t be bothered to be there at the correct time. Isn’t that correct?’

She shook her head, flushing. Mr Vortelli was staring hard at her. At her tits it seemed in particular. She was wearing a white thin tee-shirt and brief shorts, and had nothing underneath. She had planned to put her uniform dress on when she got here, plus knickers and a bra of course. They were in her locker. But Mr Vortelli had caught her as she came in and said, ‘Don’t worry about the uniform. We’re going to have our little talk. Right away.’

He was really staring at her tits. At her nipples which were pretty much in evidence under the thin white material. Diane could feel herself begin to sweat. It was one thing not wearing a bra outside, in the town or on the beach, but here at close quarters with Mr Vortelli was something else. He was in shirt and trousers, his big belly hanging over his belt. Still staring at her tits. She had a sudden vision of him reaching out and pulling up her top, baring them. Mr Vortelli was a bit scary. She would make sure she wasn’t late again.

‘Italian girls have discipline, Miss Milford. Do you know that?’

Diane nodded. There was no point getting in an argument. She would accept a telling off and would humbly apologise. Grovel if necessary. He was right of course, there weren’t any spare jobs going and she needed to hang on to what she’d got.

‘They have discipline, Miss Milford, because they are taught discipline. Their fathers teach it to them. With a stick, Miss Milford. Or a little whip. On their bottoms. Or perhaps the backs of their legs. That is how Italian girls learn discipline and so their employers have no problems with them coming in late all the time.’

Diane shuffled her feet. She still had on her ankle socks and sneakers, not the high heels she had to wear for work. Did Italian girls really get that sort of treatment? ‘I… I’m really not going to be late any more, Mr Vortelli.’

‘No, Miss? I suppose your father never whipped your bottom. Eh?’

Diane could feel herself flushing again. It seemed hotter than ever in here in spite of her having very little on. Or perhaps of course because of that. Making Mr Vortelli’s eyes shine behind his glasses. And what he was saying. She shook her head.

‘Then perhaps that is what you need, Miss. Eh? A little whipping. To teach that pretty bottom some discipline.’

The words came out soft and silky. Like a snake slithering out of the grass and suddenly confronting her. Causing all her nerve endings to go into instant alarm. She produced a weak sort of half-smile. He doesn’t mean it. He is just trying to scare me. She shook her head again. ‘I… I’m really going to be on time. Every day, Mr Vortelli. I really promise.’

‘I am sure you do, Miss Milford. But I am of the opinion that a little whipping will ensure that. Like our own girls.’

Diane was suddenly feeling sick. Mr Vortelli wasn’t joking. He really meant it. Shaking her head… with that awful feeling in her stomach.

‘Yes, Miss. I am going to take your shorts down. And whip that pretty bottom.’

‘No! You can’t! Look…’ Her on-show nipples were forgotten now. With the sickening thought of what Mr Vortelli had said. Taking her shorts down… and she had nothing underneath. Vigorously shaking her head, sending the black curls into violent motion.

‘If you won’t accept it, Miss Milford, I shall terminate your employment immediately. I don’t need to tell you there are hundreds of girls out there desperate for a job. I took you because you were very pretty and that is good for business. But there are lots of pretty girls and some of them, even the English ones, will not be late all the time.’

‘I won’t!’ Her voice hysterical now. ‘I won’t be late.’ Mr Vortelli’s large face came close. ‘Are you going to take a whipping or not, Miss Milford. Or do you want to leave right away?’

She stood there. There seemed to be no air in the room. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t get another job and she’d have to go home. She couldn’t do that. But… Mr Vortelli was going over to the basket chair. Unhooking it from the pivot. Taking it over to the side. What…?

‘Over here, Miss. Kneel in the middle. And raise your arms up to hold onto the hook.’

Her head was spinning. Perhaps she was going to be sick. From somewhere Mr Vortelli had now got a dreadful looking stick in his hand. A long, thin black stick. A cane. He… couldn’t… use that…

‘Come on, Miss.’ She was walking over to him. On it seemed like someone else’s legs, legs that were walking without her telling them to. And then… kneeling. Reaching up. Mr Vortelli was kneeling too. ‘No… oooo…’ But his hands were at her shorts. Tugging them down. Discovering the absence of knickers. That there was nothing underneath except the pretty English girl’s firmly rounded flanks, haunches. She gave a desperate little squeak. Mr Vortelli had them right down, to her knees. And then, his hands…

‘Pull this up as well, shall we? So we can see all of you.’ He was sliding up the tee-shirt. As she had earlier imagined him doing. Diane gave another squeal of shock but there was nothing she could so, a rabbit frozen into immobility by the terror of a weasel. An extremely pretty rabbit with now her extremely pretty tits bared for the weasel’s gaze. As her flinching buttocks were equally bared.

‘There we are, Miss Milford. Now hold on quite tightly. I expect it will hurt. Do you think so?’

He couldn’t. This couldn’t be happening. You couldn’t just… cane…

‘Aaaiiieeehhh…!’

----//----

‘Do you think that business yesterday will be the answer, Miss Milford? Do you think that will be the answer to your little problems?’

They were in the little room at the top of the building, above the restaurant, a sort of attic. From the window you could see the trees which shaded the garden and terrace and further over the azure blue of the sea. Diane could still feel that dreadful black cane, feel it zipping into her bottom as if it was going to cut right through, cut her in half. Yesterday morning. She could barely walk afterwards. There had been a half an hour to get herself into some sort of presentable state, composure. Get her uniform on and try and act as if everything was normal, talk to the other staff, smile at the customers. While the ache in her bottom was simply killing her.

‘Has that done the trick, Miss? Are you going to be on time in the morning?’ Mr Vortelli asked when it was time to leave. And then said he wanted her again an hour early in the morning. ‘To see how well we are learning.’

‘We will go upstairs, Miss. Up to the top. More air I think.’ There was nothing much in the room, no basket-chair frame to make her kneel beneath. Just some piles of junk along one side, and a large wicker basket out in the middle. Why had he brought her up here? And why make her come in an hour early again. Mr Vortelli couldn’t be planning… any more. NO! He had done it and she had been forced to accept it. But… not any more. But she had laid awake thinking about it, thinking that mind-searing thought. That Mr Vortelli was having her in early… to do it again.

‘Yes.’ Her voice half-choky because she was scared. Of being up here alone with him. After yesterday. Yes she was quite sure. She would never be a second late again. The thought of going on working for Mr Vortelli after yesterday made her feel slightly ill but she had no choice, she had to stay now she had met Robert.

‘Completely cured, Miss Milford?’ Mr Vortelli’s voice had a teasing edge to it. He had moved over to the window. ‘Come here. Take a look at our beautiful sea — which brings all you pretty English girls to our town, eh?’

Diane went to stand next to him. To look at the sea beyond the trees. But that wasn’t Mr Vortelli’s main interest. His hand came onto her bottom. Gripping the near-side cheek. ‘A little shock to the posterior, was it, Miss Milford?’

She squirmed. Diane had a skirt on today. And knickers. And a bra under her tee-shirt. Mr Vortelli’s hand squeezed. ‘Perhaps it needs more, Miss.’

‘NO!’ A panicky yelp. He was thinking… of that. ‘NO! Look…’ Half squirming away… but Mr Vortelli’s hand on your bum wasn’t in the same league as that other. Diane could feel tears welling up. Because he was… And there wasn’t anything she could do…

‘Our Italian girls don’t only get it once, Miss. That is not considered sufficient to discipline a girl. With only one session she could easily forget, after a time. Forget that nasty pain and fall back into bad habits. So an Italian father doesn’t only do it once…’

She made a whimpering sound. Mr Vortelli’s hand was still holding her bottom. Jiggling it. More important was what he was saying. He was going to do it again. He was going to cane her again. What she had had in her head since yesterday but she had told herself couldn’t happen, she was just being silly. She had had that dreadful, humiliating punishment and that was it. But it wasn’t. Mr Vortelli was going to do it again. Diane brushed at her eyes. They were wet. The hand was lifting her skirt. Sliding up underneath. Up her bare thigh, to her knickers.

‘Wearing something else today, Miss? Take them off, will you. The panties. And the skirt. Yes, Miss Milford, once is not enough to make sure a girl remembers.’

It was the same as yesterday. Except for the details. Not her shorts but skirt and knickers and she had to take them right off. Not the basket-chair frame but that wicker basket which was a convenient size and height for lying across. For lying across if your bare bottom was going to be caned. Mr Vortelli was not quite ready for that, though. Diane’s tee-shirt had first to be pulled up round her shoulders. And her bra removed. She was doing all these things — taking everything off — like a sort of zombie. Her hands doing what they had to but her mind keeping away, distant. If she thought about what she was doing, what was going to happen again, she would burst into hysterical tears, sobs. Her body was shivering, though. Shaking. The hysterical tears weren’t very far away. It would only take… It would only take that cane…

Mr Vortelli had a different cane today. Shorter; a bamboo cane. Not that dreadful long, thin black one, like a riding whip. But this bamboo one, it wouldn’t be better, it would be just as bad. Mr Vortelli was pushing her down. Over the square wicker basket. Face down and right over it. Her bottom over the edge, her feet off the ground. She was nude except for the tee-shirt twisted up round her shoulders. Mr Vortelli’s hand was at her nude bottom. Fondling it. Patting. Giving little smacks.

‘I don’t think it has left any marks, Miss. Perhaps very faint ones but hardly anything. Yes, I think it is ready for a repeat, Miss Milford.’

His hand was still stroking and patting. Teasing her bottom. There had been marks after work yesterday. Twisting her head in front of the mirror in her room Diane had seen them. Angry narrow red stripes. Stripes that would show in her swimsuit which was cut high, slanting up across the ripeness of her buttocks. She had gone to a beach with Robert in the evening but had worn a skirt. He had wanted to know why… afterwards, later, she had let him. Screw her. The first time. And the reason was Mr Vortelli’s cane, that thin, black riding cane. She was still feeling so absolutely dreadful… that she had agreed. The first time.

Mr Vortelli’s voice. Soft and silky. Purring almost. ‘Are you ready, Miss Milford? Hold tight. I’m going to have you just like a nice disciplined Italian girl before you go home.’

Diane’s fingers gripped onto the basket’s edge. As the cane whipped down. Squarely across the fullness of her bared buttocks. Like a knife. Like a knife that was cutting her in two.