The Uniform Series 2: Disadvantage Vicky

From Janus 120

Vicky Martins is a classic player: or she could be, if she’d just set her mind to it. Pushing twenty, she has to get herself noticed this year or it will be too late. There’s an army of nymphets, still wearing braces on their teeth, with their eyes on Wimbledon’s Centre Court and the determination to get there: if she’s not careful, Vicky will be trampled into the ground by their merciless trainers.

It makes no sense: she is a very talented player. She has a natural ability, innate stamina, a lean, fit body, natural blonde hair and amazing upper body power. She just lacks application. Talent alone will get her nowhere — the parks are full of people who can hit a ball in the right direction. She needs to learn how to exploit her fresh-faced looks, how to woo the media. She’s losing valuable sponsorship with her off-hand attitudes and inappropriate honesty.

Look at her in her classic tennis whites: her contemporaries are in body suits, multi-colours, lycra, discreetly flaunting the logo of their major sponsors. Yet Vicky turns out in a pristine white pleated skirt and a top commonly called a polo shirt but in her case still referred to as a Fred Perry. Vicky would have done well in his era, would have been considered young and aggressive, sought after by the press. Instead she’s almost at retirement age, scarcely known outside of the circuit and in danger of being dumped by both her coach and agent.

‘I’m close to chucking it all in: this life isn’t for me. Just because I’m good at something doesn’t mean I have to earn my living at it: I’ve got other talents only I’ve not had a chance to show them in the last five years. It’s not just the game and the training; it’s the way everybody tries to control me, to change me. ‘Grow your hair and put it in pigtails,’ they said a few years back. ‘Capture the hearts of the nation with the fresh, youthful look.’ Of course, I refused: I like my hair in a bob; it’s practical, easy to look after, suits my lifestyle on and off the court.

‘Then they started on my clothes. ‘Wear something that shows off your figure more; try something coloured; wear frilly knickers.’ Honestly, I’m a tennis player, not an exotic dancer! They don’t seem to realise how close I am to giving up: my coach has threatened to quit and I keep hoping he will so that I can use that as an excuse not to continue.’

She’s not coping well with the strain of constant practice and the pressure to court publicity. She trains lethargically much of the time and temper tantrums are becoming too frequent. Last week she hurled all the balls off the court so that they were lost in the shrubbery. A dog was seen chewing one yesterday.

Today’s session is not going well: any kid could knock a ball against the wall the way she does. Her coach and agent have been in conference and have agreed to give her one final chance to change her attitude: they’ve devised their own regime of “tough love”.

Coach Williams watches her rehearse her service. ‘Reach and follow through,’ he calls.

Startled, Vicky Martins glowers at him. ‘This racquet’s useless,’ she barks. ‘It’s too heavy, it pulls to one side… oh!’ She suddenly erupts, raising a knee and attempting to break the offending item across her thigh. It’s almost funny to watch her futile efforts.

‘It’s not the racquet, it’s the player,’ Coach Williams informs her. ‘And you know perfectly well that you can’t break a modern one like that, so stop being so melodramatic.’

‘I didn’t realise he was watching. I suppose it’s lecture time.’

‘I don’t think traditional training methods are having much success with you, so I’ve decided to implement a new system.’ She looks at him with sullen curiosity. ‘As you’re supposed to be a sports person, it’s time you learned some physical discipline. I suppose you’re wearing your nice, sensible white panties?’ She nods. ‘Very Christine Truman. Okay, rest your racquet on the floor so it supports your weight and bend over until I can see your pants.’

‘What’s he playing at now? I would have thought in his job he saw more than enough of knickers. He’s fiddling about with my skirt; it must be something to do with upper leg tone, I suppose.’

He arranges her to suit his purpose, bent over, legs straight, skirt raised. ‘See how strong your racquet is? It supports your nine stone without any trouble.’

‘This is an unusual kind of massage — not what I was expecting at all. He’s kneading my bottom quite roughly, I think I should tell him to st… oh!’

His hand has come down swift and hard on her taut, knicker-clad buttocks. The shock stops her reacting immediately, she just sways on firmly planted feet and the racquet rocks beneath her weight. As she tries to make sense of what is happening, his palm strikes again and, as she draws breath to curse him, again.

‘This is our new regime,’ he explains to her bent back. You slacken in your practice, turn down publicity opportunities, throw tantrums or in any way let the team down and I administer an old-fashioned spanking. You should appreciate that with your old-fashioned tastes. You need to learn some discipline before we can improve your game. Stand up and hold your racquet across your head.’

She’s puzzled, but too bewildered to argue. Again the hand crashes into her buttocks, the sensation changed along with her posture.

‘It’s spreading in a circle. When I was bent over the heat went inwards, now my bum’s softer it goes round in a circle from the centre. I should stop him really, but it’s interesting…’

He’s amazed by her acquiescence. Vicky is far from being the first girl he has spanked, but he has never incorporated it into a training programme before. He wonders how far it will go.

‘I don’t want to damage your assets,’ he tells her. ‘Let’s get your pants off.’

‘He wants me to take off my pants! Is he bluffing? Is this how he usually trains his pupils? This is so weird!’

Coach Williams is astounded by her unquestioning compliance. He watches spellbound as the pristine white briefs slide down her thighs, revealing her reddened nates. Small, firm, inviting. How much redder could they become?

‘Take off one of your shoes.’

‘My shoe? Just one? Surely he’s not going to…?’

The coach pulls out a chair and, without even having to be told, Vicky drapes herself across his lap, knickers still at half-mast.

‘I can’t believe I’m letting him do this. The hand-spanking was a bit cheeky, but this is serious. The sole of my shoe makes this really sharp sensation, then there are little darts scrambling around the area. It almost tickles, but the first impact is too harsh for that. The noise is incredible: I can hear the initial slap and then it gets chased around the practice court and then the next one comes. How long will this last? What will happen if I tell him to stop?’

‘I’m glad to see you accepting the new discipline programme. Is it concentrating your mind on your career? Every time the plimsoll strikes I want you to think about your next match: What you will wear; how you will communicate with the crowd; what you will say to potential sponsors. Then I want you to think about the game itself: your strong strokes, the service that will intimidate your opponent. I want you to think about winning: collecting the shield, posing for the photographers so that they can appreciate your figure. Got it?’

All through this speech, the tennis shoe has been rhythmically striking the acquiescent bottom, watching the hue change from rosy to crimson. How far can he go?

‘Kneel up on the chair.’

‘My bottom’s scorching! The heat starts in the centre and spreads up my back and down my legs; I wonder if it will show under my skirt when I stand up? I wish he’d stop so we could get on with training. I need to practice my service before the match next month. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to tell him that.’

He is amazed at her stoicism. Aside from a few grunts, she has made no sound. There is no sign of tears, no hint of protest. He’s never met a girl who can stay silent during a heavy slippering. Vicky Martins rises in his estimation. He watches her ease herself of his lap and worries about the evident stiffness in her limbs. She climbs on the chair, facing away from him, bottom thrust out invitingly.

‘Now the pain is direct, immediate, relentlessly attacking a much smaller area. I’m crying: will he despise me for that?’

Tears at last: she’s reaching her limit.

‘Stand up.’ She does so. ‘Get the rest of your kit off.’

‘What now?’

Still there is no argument. just an efficient and strangely unerotic disrobing. The shoe strikes just once on her surprised behind and then it’s back to business.

‘Okay, I want you to work on that service. Let me see those muscles moving; I want to see how your whole body performs. And if you must have any stray thoughts while you’re working out, let them be about what you’re going to be covering your body with in future. There are some rather fetching lycra suits with contrasting wrapround skirts I think you should consider: they’ll get you noticed and the company will sponsor all your transport.’

She raises her racquet and slams a ball into the opposite wall.

‘And there’s a toiletries company interested in your hair…’

The ball hits the same spot as she imagines herself, long-haired and lycra-clad, collecting her shield, her cup, flirting with the journalists after her victory at Wimbledon.