Join the Dots…

From Uniform Girls 25, with extra pictures from New Justice 3.02

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ he said, his voice eager. ‘I could meet you after work and we could have something to eat and then…’

‘No,’ she cut in sharply. ‘Not tomorrow. I can’t see you tomorrow.’

His face fell. at this sudden dash of cold water breaking in on the giddy way he felt. He wanted to see her every day — and he assumed she felt the same. She was a year younger, 18, and just fantastic: her face and her figure too. She worked in a local shop: had been there all the time he had been here at the university, six months now, but he hadn’t known, not until last Friday when he had chanced to go in… and somehow… because he wasn’t usually very bold with strange girls, especially fantastic looking ones. Friday and today was Monday: it was like a dream.

‘Not Tuesday,’ she said, producing a sympathetic smile in response to the look on his face. ‘I can’t. Or Thursdays. I can see you Wednesday.’

He tried to conceal the feeling of sudden let-down. ‘Why? Why not?’ Though perhaps he didn’t have a right to ask that. He had only known her for four days. He had seen her on each of those four days, every day since Friday when he’d first spoken to her and then, incredibly, taken her out in the evening. The four days seemed much longer, so that it was difficult to remember what it was like before he had met her. But it was only four days. He didn’t know everything about her. He didn’t know that she wouldn’t be able to see him on Tuesday. Perhaps… she had another boyfriend. The thought was like a sharp knife slicing into his stomach.

‘I’ve… got my piano class,’ she said. Was there a moment’s hesitation? ‘Tuesdays and Thursdays.’ She smiled. ‘I can’t miss them.’

He forced a smile too, concealing his disappointment. He wouldn’t see her for a whole day. Unless he could see her at lunchtime: but she had already said that lunchtimes weren’t good because she didn’t have long off. Perhaps she sees someone at lunchtime, he thought, giving the knife an extra twist. But he knew that was being stupid: if you worked in a shop you didn’t have long off for lunch. And why should he suspect her piano classes? Just because she hadn’t mentioned them. There were probably lots of things she hadn’t mentioned: it was only four days. There were things he hadn’t told her about himself.

‘OK. Great,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday then. Half past five.’

----//----

‘Hello,’ she said when he opened the door. Was there an extra quaver in her voice today? It was the first time since meeting Simon. Simon wouldn’t have followed her here, to see where she went for her piano classes? That was stupid, why would he. Piano classes wasn’t a particularly good thing to say because she knew nothing about the piano, and what if Simon asked her to play sometime? She should have thought about it beforehand and come up with something else. But she hadn’t, his question had just hit her from nowhere. Anyway what else could she say?

She stepped inside. Mr Barling closed the door behind them. ‘And how was trade today?’ He meant the shop. ‘OK,’ she said, feeling extra shivery. She didn’t want to be here. Mr Barling’s hand came round behind her, to her bottom.

‘And what about your hot-handed employer, Daphne? Mr Nasegrove. Playing with your delightful bottom behind the counter all day?’

She shook her head. Mr Nasegrove hadn’t been any worse than usual. Mr Barling laughed, and pinched. ‘Not getting you in the back room at lunch time for a little quickie?’

She said a quick No. Mr Nasegrove anyway wasn’t like that. He just liked playing with her bottom. She wished she hadn’t told Mr Barling that. Even more she wished she hadn’t… got involved with Mr Barling.

They were going through now, into Mr Barling’s big room which had the flight of open stairs circling up. That was where he usually wanted her. He had taken pictures of her against the stairs, striking shots, soft flesh tones against the angular iron and teak treads. ‘Excellent shots,’ Mr Barling had said, showing them to her. ‘I really should exhibit these, Daphne. Don’t you think.’

In her head she saw the pictures, and shivered. Could she get them from him? Perhaps he would sell them to her? She knew it was unlikely. She pushed the pictures out of her mind. Mr Barling said, ‘Get your things off then.’

She wanted to say, plead. ‘Look, Mr Barling, I don’t want to do it any more. Can we say it’s finished now? Well, perhaps today but after today, I don’t have to come any more. No more Tuesdays and Thursdays. Please.’ Get down on her knees if that would help, just as long as… he would agree.

She didn’t say it. Not now. She would say it later. Right now he would only say: No. Don’t be a silly girl, Daphne. She was undressing. Down to the brief bikini pants that Mr Darling requested and the silvery high-heeled courts that she’d brought in a plastic bag that he also requested.

Standing in only the miniscule pants and the heels, Mr Barling’s hand softly sliding over her. ‘You know, Daphne, I can almost forget, after an absence of four days, just what a lovely body you’ve got.’

She didn’t say anything, wanted to close her mind.

‘Stand against the stairs, Daphne dear. Your back to them. And stretch your arms up. Holding the rung.’

Mr Barling stroked the taut, uplifted tits, fingering her nipples, bringing them up into hardness. ‘Lovely,’ he breathed. ‘You really are the most lovely girl I’ve had.’

His hand came down, to the brief knickers, hooking in the narrow band which spanned her hip. Tugging it down.

‘Do you know what I thought, Daphne? If I put my camera on a tripod and on the delay exposure… I could get some marvellous shots of the whip in action. It would take some practice to get the timing right of course. To catch the moment of truth, as it were. The instant when it kisses the flesh. But when I’ve got the timing… they’ll be quite breathtaking.’

‘No!’ she yelped. ‘No more photographs. Please!’

Mr Barling laughed and dug his fingers in underneath her now bared bottom. ‘Don’t be silly, Daphne dear. It’ll be a real work of art. It can’t be today, though. I’m having the camera serviced. Tomorrow. We’ll have a special session tomorrow. Wednesday.’

‘No!’ she squealed. ‘I can’t. Not tomorrow.’ She wanted to add and not any more, no more sessions, none. But she didn’t. Because Mr Barling would only laugh. And say…

He laughed anyway and said it. ‘Of course you can come tomorrow, Daphne. You know you can. And now for today, with no camera, we’ll just have to practise. Won’t we? Turn round. Facing the stairs. Your arms up. That’s it.’

Mr Barling had the riding whip in his hand.