Join the Dots… At the Third Stroke

From Uniform Girls 27

‘Sally! Come in here!’ She scuttled into the office, her heartbeat already rising. ‘This is a telex from Mr Marshall; and he is very annoyed!’ Sally pursed her lips. She couldn’t think why Mr Marshall should have been in touch… about her. What on earth had she done wrong now?

‘You remember that conference call to New York, yesterday afternoon?’ Sally nodded. It had been her last major job of the day. ‘What happened at the end of it?’ Sally suddenly remembered. The call had lasted ages, and she had slipped out to make some coffee; then Mr Jones in Personnel had seen her in the corridor about a file; and after that… well… it had been time to go home…

‘You left the line open, didn’t you? And open it remained until the International Operator rang Head Office to check!’ Sally’s manager stood up, and briskly cleared his desk-top, collecting the paperwork and placing it in a neat pile above a filing cabinet. ‘The line was open for almost three hours… three hours! You do realise how much they will cost the company?’ Sally had a very good idea of how much… and how much it was likely to cost her, as well.

‘Bend over the desk, Sally. You know the drill.’ Hurriedly, she leaned across the length of the desk, on tip-toe, expecting the worst. She certainly knew the drill; it had been only a matter of a week or so since… her manager hitched up her skirt, and pulled her panties down, right down to her knees, baring her big, pale, trembly bottom.

‘Before we continue, I have two calls for you to make; but you can stay exactly where you are as you make them.’

Sally stared at the man in blank amazement, and then at the two telephones on the desk, just a few inches from where she was lying. ‘First, dial Head Office, and ask for Mr Marshall.’ Sally knew the extension on the internal exchange. Nervously she dialled the three digits, finding it difficult to hold the receiver while lying flat across a desk, her bare bottom in mid-air. The connection was made, and Mr Marshall’s secretary answered. ‘Mr… Mr Marshall… please…’ There were a few more clicks, and then the Managing Director answered.

‘He… he wants to… to speak to you…’ Her manager took the receiver from her. ‘Open your legs, Sally.’ She shuffled a little, parting her legs until her panties restricted her movement. He moved the receiver further along the desk-top and placed the handset inside the little tangle of white fabric. Poor Sally tried to see exactly what was happening, but it was so difficult to see, lying there…

‘Use the other phone, young lady, and dial an outside line; then 8081.’ Again she twisted round to look up at him. ‘The… the speaking clock?’ He nodded. ‘Yes. That’s right. Mr Marshall feels quite rightly that you ought to be taught a lesson about time.’

She dialled, and waited, and then the speaking clock clicked into action with its precise repetitive cold tones. ‘At the third stroke…’ From his desk drawer, just next to where young Sally was lying, her manager took out his cane; the one issued by Mr Marshall, to be used on errant secretaries whenever it was called for.

‘Put the clock up on the amplifier.’ Sally fumbled for the button and pressed it, and then the tones of the speaking clock began to echo around the small office.

The man stepped back, resting the thin cane across Sally’s quivering pink buttocks, judging his position. ‘Mr Marshall is most concerned about your negligent use of his time and his money; the cost of these calls and the New York call will be deducted from your wages.’ He paused, and listened to the telephone voice, still droning on. He tapped the cane lightly across Sally’s bottom, watching it wobble. ‘Well, I think we are ready. Take hold of the edge of the desk, please Sally.’ Sally closed her eyes, held on tight, and listened.

A few miles away Mr Marshall turned up his amplifier, and listened intently. He could hear the speaking clock and he could also hear the faint rustle of flimsy material. That wasn’t all, however —

‘At the third stroke…’ WHACK! ‘Aaagh!’ … ‘It will be four…’ WHACK! ‘Ooooh’ ‘… thirty-two…’ WHACK! ‘Oooowww!’ ‘… and ten seconds.’ WHACK!

Mr Marshall heard every sound, including the frightened yelps of the young secretary. ‘Precisely.’ he said to himself, and poured himself another scotch.

It would take just one minute to teach that young timewaster a lesson she would never forget. One very long minute! And his minute was yet to come!