Special Deliveries

From Blushes Supplement 28, a treat — a great story illustrated with lots of pictures of two gorgeous girls. This story was referenced by New Moral Order in a comment.

It is late autumn, the leaves have fallen from all except the very latest trees and there is a cold wind in the air as the little Mini pursues its steady way along the narrow lane. At this time of year even though it is mid-afternoon the sun, which on this dull day is hidden by cloud, is already low in the sky. Great Midgeley is said by some to be named for the swarms of small insects which can hover annoyingly on summer evenings but at least there is not that problem in late November.

Great Midgeley is one of those scattered rural villages, a few houses huddled together here and then some way along a lane will be found a couple more. The village extends in this way over several square miles though it boasts no more than perhaps 15 dwellings. If it has a centre it must be that stretch of the Dingfield Road which within a hundred yards contains four houses — cottages three of them. The fourth is the one and only Great Midgeley shop, a general store, over the front of which the painted sign: M.J. Bartling is faded and weather-beaten. It is from this emporium that the little Mini has set out on this unprepossessing afternoon.

The driver of the Mini is young and female. Clearly she must be of a certain age to be driving this vehicle on the public highway but she does not look to be much beyond that limit. She is fair-haired, a pretty girl who has, perhaps to make herself appear older, more confident in the ways of the world, emphasised her full lips with pink lipstick. She has a slightly retroussé nose and large greenish blue eyes. In spite of the lipstick — or indeed it could be because of it because lipstick alone does not convey an air of sophistication but almost the reverse — she does not look very assured. She is wearing a dark coat and a bright blue beret.

The tip of her pink tongue appears as she negotiates a tight bend and then is retracted as she comes to a straight bit, sloping down. At the bottom another, equally minor, lane crosses the one she is on. Hereabouts would be reckoned the furthest extent of Great Midgeley; a bit further on you could consider yourself in the neighbouring village of Dingfield which is equally spread out. The girl, whose name is Maureen, is making frequent quick little glances to left and right. As if perhaps she is not sure where she is, or is concerned about whom she might see; but there is little traffic about in these parts on a Thursday mid-afternoon in late November. She would seem to be making a delivery: on the back seat are two cardboard cartons containing a selection of M.J. Bartling’s stock.

She is definitely within what must be regarded as Dingfield’s boundaries now; and of course Dingfield has its own shop with a range of merchandise equal to that of Bartling’s of Great Midgeley, and as attractively priced.

Perhaps, though, for the extra custom Mr Bartling is prepared to travel further afield. Or send this attractive young assistant who seems unsure of her route or nervous about some other matter. She has found her destination now, however. Or so it would seem. A large old house standing off by itself, as so many of them do round here, but also set back from the road too which some others are not. Secluded in trees, though many of them have now lost their leaves. She is driving in, through an open gate and up the driveway. To come to a halt at the side of the house: the tradesman’s entrance. Tradeswoman perhaps more correctly in this case. Young tradesperson.

The young tradesperson is still looking apprehensive so perhaps her nervousness was not that she didn’t know the route but something else. Something connected with this place, her destination? A large and fierce dog could it be? But there is no sign of such an animal. As she gets out of the car and, hesitantly, approaches the door. Stands in front of it and shifts her weight from foot to foot (black, low-heeled shoes and also it would seem stockings) rather as a person who needs to visit the bathroom. Finally rings the bell. The door opens promptly. The owner, or occupant. A brief conversation. Relating no doubt to what is on the back seat of her Mini.

The girl, this young tradesperson, Maureen, turns to go back to the car. The gentleman from the house follows close behind. He is casually dressed in sweater and slacks, fiftyish. The girl is opening the rear door, bending in where those two cartons are. The gentleman, recipient of these goods no doubt, comes close. The two of them are standing between the car and the house so no one can see them, except possibly from a couple of the house’s windows and there is no one else inside. Outside within its sheltering trees the house is isolated. In any case there seems to be no one else around on this autumn afternoon. So there is no one to see. As the gentleman slides his hand up under the bottom of the young tradesperson’s coat. Up under the back and indeed up under the hem of the skirt, right underneath. There are only those stockings, sheer nylons, encasing her legs, her lovely slender long thighs, up the backs of which the hand is now sliding. The nylons, as is the way with such items of female apparel, finish at about mid-thigh. Finished in taut rims which are held in their tautness by the straps of a suspender belt at the sides and front of the thighs. At the backs, which is where the hand now is, there is only snuggly warm flesh.

The hand takes hold of one warm and softly-rounded bare thigh. Fingers in the snug hollow between this thigh and its partner. The girl, Maureen, reaching for a carton, has already produced a yelping squeal, accompanied by a shocked jerk of the ripe, round bottom which is above the soft bare thighs. But she is not actually protesting. At this hand which is sliding even higher. As high as it can go in fact. At least with the fingers in between the thighs, as they are. From inside the rear of the car, from the pretty blonde head, comes a further frantic whimper. The fingers have reached the tight-stretched. crotch of knickers: tight-stretched over a girl’s most intimate intimacies. There is a low laugh from the gentleman who it would seem is acquainted with this young tradeswoman’s person in some detail. ‘Didn’t I say no knickers last time?’ he observes in a teasing tone.

Shortly, no doubt to the intense relief of its female participant, this intriguing little cameo scene comes to an end. The gentleman customer of M.J. Bartling’s withdraws his hand, steps back. The red-faced girl emerges from the back seat, with one of the boxes. Hands it to this gentleman who has so casually made free with her private-most parts. Then dragging out the second box. She pushes the car door shut with her shoulder and, with a none-too-happy expression on her pretty face, follows the gentleman into the house.

----//----

M.J. Bartling’s. Great Midgeley’s village store. Here it is, with above the not exactly sparkling window the peeling weather-beaten letters, veterans of hot summers — ‘76 a scorcher — and rather more wet ones plus the general inclemencies of succeeding winters, which announce this fact. The street is deserted and the shop too would appear to the passer-by, if there were one, to be also empty. This appearance is deceiving, though, caused by Maurice Bartling’s reluctance to waste (as he would see it) money on lighting. Within the ill-lit and, it must be said, generally drab interior, there are persons. The owner for one, properly behind the counter, and also on the other side a customer. Of the male sex. Mr Bartling and his customer, who is called Raymond Gerald Farcroft, who a mile and a half distant, at more or less this same instant, has got his hand up the back of Mr Bartling’s assistant’s skirt and is stroking his fingers along the nylon-clad groove of her sex. Can Mr Bartling have any idea of this?

Whether he has or not his attention, as Mr Farcroft does that, is centred, with an owlish look, on Mr Pinkford opposite. Mr Pinkford is a new customer, new indeed to these parts, to Great Midgeley. He has just purchased a property, not in Great Midgeley but in the next village, Ballop. Which is in the opposite direction to Dingfield where young Maureen has taken her delivery (and her person). Ballop, like Great Midgeley and Dingfield, is small, scarcely worth marking on the map some would say, but like these other miniscule centres of civilisation it boasts its own village shop. Nonetheless here is Mr Pinkford in Bartling’s conversing with its owner. As no doubt has Gerald Farcroft before him. All roads it would seem lead to Great Midgeley, to Maurice Bartling’s emporium.

What, one may ask, is it that Mr Pinkford is desirous of purchasing? What is taking him out of his way in this manner? He does not seem keen, in all honesty, to spell it out. There is a hesitation to his manner, a nervousness almost. He has asked for two cans of baked beans but clearly he has not come all this way to buy baked beans. The beans are merely, as it were, an opening gambit. Mr Bartling is still eyeing his new customer owlishly. Mr Pinkford is working up to it. Via bits of small talk. Eventually:

‘Ah… I understand you do deliveries.’

Ah. Are we now seeing light?

‘I mean your… ah… assistant. The girl.’

Maurice Bartling half closes one eye. Ah yes. ‘I got two girls.’

Ah. ‘Do… they both deliver?’

‘Yers. They can do. But ‘oo… said anything? About delivering I mean.’

Mr Pinkford mentions a name. Mr Bartling’s eyes brighten. Clearly it is a most acceptable name. A kind of Open Sesame password. ‘Ah well. If ‘e sent you. Yers. There’re… the rates of course.’

Rates hold no fears for Raymond Pinkford. A dismissive sweep of his hand. Not if he can have what he wants delivered. Well in that case…

‘One of ‘em’s out now. On a delivery. Young Maureen. But young Sarah: she’s out the back. ‘Ave a look if you like. See what we’re talking about.’

Raymond Pinkford smiles with pleasure. All nervousness is now gone, though to be replaced perhaps with a little nervous excitement. What an excellent fellow this Mr Bartling is. Yes, Raymond Pinkford certainly would like to see what we’re talking about.

The proprietor leads the way. Behind the counter and along a passageway. To a small stockroom. Wherein is indeed the young Sarah, the second young tradesperson, engaged in placing items on a shelf. In contrast to her colleague, at this moment obliging Mr Farcroft in certain esoteric pleasures in his sitting room, Sarah is a brunette, with a splendid head of almost black, short curls, but from the head down to the tips of her toes she is certainly the equal of Maureen in general attractiveness. She has perhaps a bolder look, with those big dark eyes, than has Maureen, whose equally big but blue eyes always convey delicious unhappiness at having to provide esoteric pleasures for gentleman customers; whereas when Sarah is providing those same pleasures though she may be making protest her eyes are not. Not of course that Mr Pinkford knows much of this at this moment; just that she is a very attractive, spicy-looking young lady in that white tunic which indicates firm tits and slim waist and shapely bottom below.

‘This is our young Sarah,’ observes Mr Bartling by way of introduction. ‘An’ this ‘ere, young Sar, is a gentleman ‘oo might be wantin’ deliveries.’

The big eyes widen. Sarah says Hello and treats Mr Pinkford to a coy but appraising look. Wondering no doubt if she can discern at this first sight what particular esoteric pleasures this gentleman is likely to require on a delivery. Painful… or… not so painful? Because if he wants deliveries… he is going to want… Perhaps she decides he doesn’t look too bad. For the slim shoulders seem to come back a little, thereby thrusting into slightly greater prominence the two girlish globes which are rounding the front of her tightish tunic.

‘Ow about a better look?’ inquiries Mr Bartling, inspired it seems in the cosy confines of this small room to heights of camaraderie. ‘Our Sarah won’t mind.’

The big, dark eyes widen again. Does Mr Bartling mean…? Yes he does. ‘No!’ she says sharply. But more perhaps for effect, to indicate we have a basically shy girl here, than with expectation of deflecting Mr Bartling. Who is, after all, her boss. ‘Come on,’ he urges. And she does. Though with more protests, naturally, of shocked modesty. Unzips the front of the tunic and, coyly looking away, shrugs out of it.

Underneath is a similar outfit to Maureen’s. Mr Bartling does not only define the tunic for work wear but also what goes underneath. Brief bra and knickers; nylon, white, a white suspender belt, the slim straps of which hold firmly in their nylon fasteners the rims of dark stockings. It is an arousing outfit all right, especially when adorning a slim but youthful rounded form such as Sarah possesses. The young lady is shyly not engaging in any eye contact, is indeed flushing slightly.  But she is not shrinking, cowering, as Mr Bartling’s other assistant, Maureen, would, as indeed she has, in similar circumstances.

‘Nice eh? A nice little package.’ Mr Bartling’s large hand slaps his employee’s tightly-knickered bottom, producing a sharp squeal of alarm. Perhaps it is this response which inspires Mr Bartling to wish to provide a further demonstration of Sarah’s charms, or perhaps he intended it in any case. At any rate he takes her arm, at the same time sitting heavily down on the battered kitchen chair which stands to one side and is used by Sarah and Maureen when reaching for the upper shelves. In a no doubt practised movement he pulls Sarah down and over his lap. Another sharp cry, louder this time. An automatic response, though, and not emitted with any particular hope of preventing Mr Bartling from what he clearly now intends to do. For he is yanking down the tight white knickers. Pulling them right off of the ripe, round cheeks, the soft, pale globes of Sarah’s bottom. An arousing sight all right and Raymond Pinkford is correspondingly and immediately aroused, his face hot and the front of his trousers suddenly undeniably tight. His manhood is stiff, purple-headed, thrusting, or eager to thrust, to get into action. The action which is now Mr Bartling cracking his large hand heavily down on these soft, sweet cheeks.

In the middle of this action — the resounding cracks of the hand, the accompanying yelps from the recipient, the turbulence in Mr Pinkford’s trousers — there is the sound of a bell. Bing-Bong. In all this excitement it does not really register on Mr Pinkford but for Mr Bartling it is a sound to which his ear is highly attuned. It is of course the door of the shop. A customer. Presumably.

‘Bugger!’ he briskly opines. And stands up. Sarah, knickers round her knees, sweet rear cheeks now aglow, manages to avoid falling to the floor. Mr Bartling grabs one pink cheek in the hand which has been delivering the resounding smacks.

‘Ere,’ he says to his visitor. ‘Ave a go. Carry on. I better see ‘oo that is.’

Mr Pinkford needs no further urging. He has no thought even that there may be a significant rate for this. No, all he can think of is that ripe-as-a-plum bottom which its owner has now turned away from him whilst at the same time covering with her hand the well-developed tuft of black hair which otherwise would be in Mr Pinkford’s full view. ‘No!’ she blurts. But again it is not a very convincing No. With one hand — not the one covering her tuft — Sarah makes an attempt at yanking her knickers up. As Mr Pinkford grabs her. ‘No, Sarah. Mr Bartling said…’

A squeal as he pulls her down over his lap. On top of that prong-like part of himself which is threatening to go off like a roman candle at any moment. His hand on her bare bum is almost enough to precipitate this. Soft yet firm. Squashy. Warm with an inner heat. Smooth; silk-like. All those qualities in fact that the ideal teenage girl’s bottom should be. He squeezes the succulent flesh. She whimpers. Then yelps. As Raymond Pinkford’s hand smacks solidly down.

He is still at it when Mr Bartling returns. ‘Business,’ the latter pronounces. ‘Mrs Alvine. ‘Alf a pound of streaky bacon. ‘Ow you gettin’ on then? She’s orlright is young Sarah. A lovely ‘andful. Mind you, so’s young Maureen.’

----//----

Young Maureen is at this moment where we left her. With Mr Farcroft. In Mr Farcroft’s sitting room. Not happy; in fact distinctly unhappy. Unlike Sarah who is not really averse to the whims of gentlemen customers; doesn’t really mind having her bare bum spanked. It can indeed turn Sarah on (not always but sometimes) to have a man’s hard hand splatting down onto the sensitive bare flesh — and sometimes reaching in to those even more sensitive little nooks and corners. Sarah can find this agreeable though she may like to make out she does not. Maureen on the other hand hates it.

Maureen undoubtedly hates what is happening at this moment. For Mr Farcroft is spanking Maureen’s bottom, just as Mr Pinkford is spanking Sarah’s. Maureen’s position, however, for this is much worse than Sarah’s. It is enough to make a shy and sensitive girl want to curl up and die. Maureen is curled up in a way, because she is upside-down on Mr Farcroft’s table. On her back with her legs in the air. Her legs held in this position by her own hands, gripping behind her knees. On the instruction of Mr Farcroft, of course, she is not likely to assume this position of her own free will (even Sarah might hesitate). Maureen’s tunic is pulled up, to her waist, and her knickers are pulled down, to the tops of her stockings. So that her bottom — quite the equal of Sarah’s in general attractiveness and femininity — is fully bare and on display. As it would be fair to say is also something else fully bare and on display.

Mr Farcroft’s hand is splatting sharply down. A nice steady rhythm (nice for Mr Farcroft at least). Onto these splendid feminine globes and onto the upturned backs of the thighs as well. Every now and then, though, every five or six splats or so, this regular rhythm is interrupted. As Mr Farcroft takes a little break. A rest. Resting his hand. Where he rests it is on that furry part nestling where the thighs meet the splendid globes. That part in the centre of all this spanking action, the eye of the storm as it were, for Mr Farcroft does not spank this particular part. He seems to regard it as unsuitable for spanking but perhaps a part designed for resting a man’s hand. It is, come to think of it, where he wormed this same hand when Maureen was outside reaching into the rear of the Mini. Maureen would no doubt agree that it is an unsuitable spot for spanking but would also claim, one feels sure, that it equally unsuitable for hand resting. Not that Mr Farcroft is likely to listen to, or take notice of, this. ‘Resting’ anyway does not properly describe what his hand is engaged in. It is not resting, it is active, although not active in the spanking mode. It is finger action as opposed to that of the fore and upper-arm. Yes, a delicate working and manipulation of the fingers. Not an action requiring any great expenditure of energy so to that extent it can be described as resting. At the same time, though, these ‘restings’ can (and do) produce in the upturned Maureen gaspings, yelpings, desperate writhings that are quite the equal of what the pistol-cracking spanks engender.

All of this goes on for some time. Because with these energy-recuperating breaks a man could go on and on. Indefinitely. Mr Farcroft does not want to go on indefinitely, for ever, but just enough to satisfy his own desire for spanking and finger twiddling. Which as it happens is approximately the time it takes to get Maureen in a thoroughly desperate state. She is going to faint. Or possibly pee herself (which in her present position upside-down on Mr Farcroft’s table would be most unfortunate). Or of course come. Just because Maureen is a shy and sensitive girl does not mean she is necessarily a complete stranger to orgasm. Shy and sensitive girls can frequently be quite addicted to self-stimulation — masturbation in a word. Maureen is not addicted to this practice but equally she is not a complete stranger to it. She has been known to resort to it for instance on being told by Mr Bartling that she has to deliver to one of the more demanding customers. Such as indeed the present Mr Farcroft.

But although Maureen thinks she is going to do all these things, either separately, one by one, or even if it is possible all at once, she does not. Not any of them. Mr Farcroft does eventually stop and perhaps just in time. Maureen is quite shattered, she certainly cannot stand upright. And this at least, when she rolls off the table, proves to be correct.

Can Maureen go now? This delicious but definitely shattered-looking blonde with her tunic still tucked up round her waist and her knickers down round her knees, hanging onto the table because her knees are too wobbly to support her. With Mr Farcroft having finally stopped spanking and also that other business and allowing her to get off the table; can he go now? Always supposing she can find the strength in her wobbly legs to get her out to her car.

It is of course a question Maureen is asking herself. She is waiting for an indication from Mr Farcroft because the answer is maybe. Maybe Mr Farcroft has had enough and she can go and then again maybe he hasn’t. Not yet. And if he wants more it will be on the bill, just as what he has already enjoyed is on his bill. The time Maureen arrived and the time she leaves will both be recorded in the little book that is in Maureen’s bag. Also what has transpired in the meantime. In coded abbreviation, it will all be listed and itemised because Mr Bartling is always the businessman. Because of this, because it all has to be paid for, Mr Farcroft may decide he has had enough. Or… he may not.

Gerald Farcroft looks at his watch. And asks Maureen if she would like a cup of tea. This offer, hospitable as it may sound, is not a good sign. A good sign would be Mr Farcroft saying, after perhaps delivering a playful smack to Maureen’s already well-smacked bottom, ‘Well that’s it then. You’d better be getting back I suppose.’ But if he is offering tea…

Maureen’s instructions are that if a customer wishes her to stay she must stay. The customer is always right; this as we all know is the central tenet of the retailing business. And a customer must always be given the opportunity to spend more money, if he shows the inclination, rather than being put off. Those are Mr Bartling’s instructions to his young assistants. Maureen must in these circumstances say: Yes she would like a cup of tea. Thereby prolonging her stay in Mr Farcroft’s house and giving him the opportunity to get re-stimulated by her presence. And thus of maximising the trading situation. (Maximising the trading situation is another central tenet of retailing).

Maureen does not wish to stay — for tea or anything else — but to get out. What has already happened has been impossibly awful (though it is not the first time she has experienced it) and the thought of receiving more of the same is an unthinkable thought. But Mr Farcroft could easily remark to Mr Bartling the next time he sees him that young Maureen refused an offer of tea saying she had to rush off home… and Mr Bartling would not be pleased with that.

So Maureen says, ‘OK… Yes… yes please.’ (You have to be polite, say please, even if you don’t mean it.) Gingerly letting go of the table she reaches for her knickers. Without any specific instruction to the contrary she can pull them up. And pull her tunic down. No doubt the knickers will be down again after the tea. Or right off. She could be up on the table again. Or something else, as bad if not worse. Maureen glances up, at the ceiling. Not thinking of the ceiling but of what is on the other side of it. The bedroom. It could be up in the bedroom afterwards.

----//----

Mr Bartling says, ‘No, not now. Not this ar’ernoon. She’s got a booking. A delivery. Avint you, Sar?’

Sarah makes a face and says yes she has. And it is true, she has got a delivery. Mr Greentree. Although Mr Bartling might well say this even if she hadn’t. Because letting Mr Pinkford have Sarah right away, take her off this first afternoon, could in some degree devalue the merchandise. In Mr Bartling’s estimation. On the theory that if you get something too easily its full value is not appreciated. Mr Pinkford has been generously allowed a free go at Sarah’s bottom but that has to be it for today. That free go will serve as a splendid appetiser, getting Mr Pinkford’s juices flowing, making him eager, desperate even, for more. And he can have more. But not right away. Anyway Sarah does have her appointment. With Mr Greentree.

Sarah herself wouldn’t have minded going with this Mr Pinkford as he has requested. He is new and obviously very keen (well, they’re most of them very keen), and the combination of newness and keenness can offer opportunities for the willing and outgoing girl. Over and above what may subsequently appear in Mr Bartling’s little book. And quite apart from such materialistic considerations Mr Pinkford seems pleasant and interesting.

‘Pleasant’ is of course at present based on minimal knowledge; it is not impossible that Mr Pinkford will subsequently prove desirous of doing things that even Sarah with her outgoing nature is not keen on. But Sarah would not mind going with Mr Pinkford and having a look at his new house. Whereas with Mr Greentree… well, she knows what to expect there.

Mr Greentree’s house is actually in Great Midgeley, towards its northerly boundary. A house off by itself like almost everything else round here. Which is convenient: not everyone is a special customer of Mr Bartling; certainly not. There are those around, of the female sex in particular, who would most strongly disapprove. Of anything at all… ah… of that nature. Rural Mrs Whitehouses. Individuals who cannot mind their own businesses and let others mind theirs. So one needs to proceed with caution. As new customer Mr Pinkford has been carefully advised by Mr Bartling.

Sarah is driving Mr Bartling’s little van. It has no identifying marks, though most persons hereabouts would recognise it as Mr Bartling’s. But no one is about and in any case it is only Mr Bartling’s girl making a delivery.

Mr Greentree in his hallway pinches the bottom of the carton-carrying Sarah. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he asks. Sarah makes a face, rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t know, Mr Greentree,’ though of course she does know. Mr Greentree usually wants to go upstairs. Though at his age, older that Mr Bartling you would think, you would think he wouldn’t, that he was past it. But Mr Greentree is not past it, not at all. Which just goes to show. Sarah is not arguing. Going upstairs beats, for instance, being on the receiving end of a cane. ‘Tickled up with it,’ as Mr Farcroft calls it but it is not tickling, not at all.

Upstairs. With Mr Greentree. Will that Mr Pinkford want her to go upstairs? He seemed pretty keen on smacking her bottom but Sarah doesn’t think that’s all he’s going to be interested in. When she was on his lap… she could feel it all right. Like a broomstick. Yes going to Mr Pinkford’s would be interesting. Him being new. Seeing exactly what he likes. Sarah groans and tries to shift her position. Mr Greentree is heavy. Sometimes she thinks she’ll be squashed flat. Like a pancake. She groans again. Mr Greentree grunts, with his efforts. What will there be for tea when she gets home, Sarah wonders.

In Mr Farcroft’s house Maureen and Mr Farcroft are also in a bedroom now. They are not, though, in the same position of close physical intimacy as are Mr Greentree and Sarah. That close physical intimacy necessitated by an act of sexual intercourse. Mr Greentree is on the bed but sitting, not lying, on it. And Maureen is standing in front of him. Not standing still, she is jumping vigorously up and down, an act which causes her firm, round tits to be jumping seemingly quite separately from the rest of her. The tits, and the rest of Maureen, are quite nude. Maureen is exercising, which is a favourite with Mr Farcroft.

Maureen is gasping, making little gaspy squeals of exertion, because Mr Farcroft will not accept anything less than 100 per cent of effort — 120 per cent even? — when a girl is exercising. Up and down, bouncing up and down on her bare feet, until she is absolutely exhausted. When she has reached that stage and simply cannot go on, her body won’t respond any more even if she concentrates her mind on the cane, Mr Farcroft tells her to stop. He gets to his feet. Maureen sort of collapses against him, gasping for breath. Mr Farcroft’s arm goes round her. He likes the feel of a girl when she is all hot and sweaty and weak with exhaustion. His hand slides over the taut, sweat-slick flesh.

Still holding her he backs towards the bed. Sits down again. And slides the shaking-with-exhaustion Maureen over his lap. Just as he had her downstairs in fact only now Maureen is nude rather than in her tunic etc. She is still trembling and it is partly anticipation as well as exhaustion. Because she knows what to expect. No so much another extended spanking session (although there will be a few splats at her bottom) but more of the other. Mr Farcroft’s twiddling fingers. In between her legs. She gives a gurgling gasp… and her hips jerk. Oh Christ… Maureen’s body is exhausted but it is able to respond to this. Or rather it is not able not to respond. It is like a sort of Chinese torture. When you hate it and you’re anyway flopped out from all that jumping up and down. Mr Farcroft’s fingers… bring Maureen to the very brink. And then… as she knows he will… he pushes her to her feet. Maureen’s legs don’t want to support her but they have to. It is more exercising now. Not jumping again but it will be something equally killing. What…?

‘Let’s have a bit of upside-down cycling,’ she hears Mr Farcroft say.

Feebly protesting, Maureen nonetheless has to get down on the carpet. Lying on her back. And get her legs up in the air. ‘Come on,’ Mr Farcroft tells her. ‘Let’s have some action, Maureen. Or do you want me to get the cane?’

She begins. As best she can. What has gone before — the jumping, Mr Farcroft’s hand working her up — has naturally taken its toll. The pretty legs feel incapable of anything, they are like lead weights. ‘That’s not very good. It’s awful,’ Mr Farcroft says. Oh Christ. She knows what… Yes. Looking up she sees he has got the cane. A despairing wail… and a despairingly desperate attempt to put some action into her legs.

‘Aaaiiieeehhh…!’

Mr Farcroft’s cane has nevertheless come down. Onto the undercurve of one struggling thigh.

‘Come on then. Get those legs going properly.’

‘I ca…can’t…’ Maureen gasps, now with the sting of the cane to go with everything else. But she knows that Mr Farcroft is going to make her go on. This cycling, with the cane coming briskly in if he doesn’t think it’s good enough, and then over his lap again. For more of that. And then some other awful exercise. And then more…

----//----

‘Eat up,’ Maureen’s mother tells her. ‘I don’t want to have to throw that away. Did you have a nice day?’

Maureen makes a face. She doesn’t feel hungry and she hasn’t had a nice day. Mr Farcroft was awful. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she says. Her mother shakes her head. ‘You’ll be hungry later, I warn you. What did you do today?’

Maureen tells her. Or at least that she did a delivery to Mr Farcroft. She doesn’t say what happened at Mr Farcroft’s. But perhaps her mother knows anyway. Or knows more or less. What the special customers want. Sometimes she thinks her mother knows, she is after all quite friendly with Mr Bartling. Mr Farcroft was really awful and tomorrow… she’s got a delivery to Mr Bakewell. Mr Bakewell is just as bad as Mr Farcroft. If not worse.

Sarah in contrast to Maureen is eating her tea with no sign of reluctance. A healthy girl with a healthy appetite. Sarah is in a good mood after her visit to Mr Greentree. Mr Greentree wanted an extra special favour and told her not to put it down in her book. Which Sarah was happy to agree to. She is mostly thinking about Mr Pinkford, though, not Mr Greentree. Perhaps he’ll want a delivery tomorrow: his first. At the moment Sarah is not scheduled for any deliveries tomorrow. So she could…