Expire Before Tea-Time

A photo-story by Julie Holmes from Februs 17

It had been a long day and there were still at least three hours to go. Prunella Simmons had arrived at the tea rooms at seven as usual to start preparing the basic items for the day. Then there had been the breakfast rush (why didn’t these people stay at home and have cornflakes like any civilised being would do?) followed by the genteel lady shoppers arriving for elevenses which, in turn, were followed by the usual motley crowd at lunchtime. The two part-timers had helped to clear the debris and then left for the day and it would be a good half-hour before the Canadian student arrived to assist with the afternoon cream teas.

Pru was exhausted and the chaise-longue standing guard in front of the curtained boundary between public tea-room and the private living quarters of the proprietor was just too inviting. She plumped a cushion and stretched out for a quick break with a magazine and a cigarette.

Actually, she quite enjoyed these snatched moments of solitude. The tea-room was decorated in a timeless arty fashion with muslin and chintz drapes with the furnishings and crockery collected randomly from various flea markets and bankruptcy sales. With her cheeky traditional maid’s uniform (with stockings and suspenders almost on view) she felt as if she was taking part in a period farce (“Carry On Waitressing” she secretly christened her job).

Unfortunately, there was nothing either period or farcical about her employer. Ivy Allen was very much the modern businesswoman: brusque and exacting towards her employees; sweetness and light to her customers. She made no concessions to the Miss Marple ambience and habitually dressed like an off-duty showgirl in revealing tops and skin-tight pants with a variety of footwear ranging from thigh-high boots to low-heeled moccasins. Her fair hair was either tied high on her head or held in a tight pleat at the back of her skull, so its true length was hard to gauge.

Too late Prunella looked up to see her employer stalking towards her. There was no time to get her feet off the upholstery or stub out her cigarette or dispose of the magazine… she was caught fairly and squarely skiving.

‘Mrs Allen! Oh, I was just grabbing a few minutes’ peace and quiet before the afternoon rush…’ She scrambled about on the long seat, uncertain whether to stand up or sit straight. Ivy Allen towered over her, the red and black second-skin of an ensemble elongating her athletic body. Her voice started as a menacing rumble and ended in a shrill stream of vituperation as she upbraided the hapless waitress, snatching first the smouldering cigarette and then the offending reading material. She didn’t pay her staff to enjoy peace and quiet, she hissed; it was bad enough when paying customers stank out her premises with their vile habits, she didn’t need her employees to add to the foul stench; if she wanted to read during the day she should stay home and do it and let somebody who really wanted to work have her job. The admonishment and abuse seemed to go on in a breathless stream forever.

Trembling and tearful, Prunella managed eventually to rise to her feet, but Ivy Allen just stepped even nearer and rasped her ire so close to her face that Pru could smell the onions she had eaten with her lunch.

Of course, she was threatened with the sack, with having her wages docked and having to work late to make up. None of the options were viable and Pru simply hung her head in the hope that her boss would run out of steam and give up her tirade. Ivy Allen had other ideas, however. She knew how much the younger woman needed the job; she also knew of the girl’s penchant for what was euphemistically known as “a bit of slap and tickle” with several young men from the local bus depot.

Now, Ivy knew full well what the phrase actually meant, but she too had her predilections and hers were mainly for nubile female flesh yielding to her whims. She would not try direct intimacy with her employee — not yet, anyway — but she rather fancied getting a closer look at the pneumatic hemispheres she sometimes glanced beneath Pru’s stocking-skimming skirt. She lifted the girl’s chin with one carefully manicured finger.

‘I’m going to make you a much more conscientious waitress,’ she vowed ominously. ‘Turn around slowly.’

As Prunella obliged, the older woman sat on the edge of the chaise lounge and watched her closely. The uniform was immaculate: pristine cap, cuffs and apron; dress adjusted to reveal without being vulgar; hair tied back neatly but cascading down her back in a dark blonde waterfall. A regular Alice in Wonderland, despite her sophisticated high heels. An innocent temptress.

‘Come closer and learn your lesson properly.’ A hand snaked out and manoeuvred the surprised girl across her waiting trousered lap. The skirt rode up and revealed flawless fair-skinned thighs and buttocks, framed and moulded by the flimsy trappings of her underwear Her transgressions were irrelevant now. Ivy expressed displeasure and lust in very similar ways. Her soft hands caressed the exposed flesh, making Prunella squirm with shock and humiliation and, in turn, her writhings inflamed the passions of her tormentor.

A heavy palm landed hard on the bare skin of Prunella’s right buttock; its red print had hardly formed before its mate attacked the opposite cheek.

When Prunella gasped her protest, both nates were struck simultaneously and then vigorously massaged before the sting had run its natural course. Her backside burned with a confusion of conflicting sensations as her bottom was slapped, pummelled and scratched passionately.

She panted and bucked and whimpered, but to no avail: her chastiser was completely immersed in her task of covering every millimetre of the tender flesh with a scarlet blanket. Prunella’s cries and pleadings were of no more significance than the background rock music Ivy Allen liked to play in her car: they created and sustained a mood but did not require deeper consideration.

The innocent white panties were proving an encumbrance, so Ivy dragged them down Pru’s thighs. Now the target area was increased and even her practised hand could not continue the spanking effectively: she needed an implement.

‘Stand up.’ she barked and Prunella obeyed immediately. At the back of her mind a small voice suggested she run out of the shop and complain of her treatment to the police but, although she understood the general idea, she was unable to do anything about it. She simply stood meekly awaiting instructions, her lower lip trembling and her eyes shedding slow, bewildered tears.

Without consciously hearing the instruction to do so, Pru found herself slipping under the muslin curtain and fetching an object her employer requested: a heavy leather strap with a reinforced handle.

Still whimpering, she clasped the strange tool in front of her, awaiting further commands. Ivy Allen took her favourite toy from Prunella’s tentative grasp and began to describe what she was about to do with it, the sound it would make upon impact and the searing streaks that would course intimately through the waitress’s nether regions.

Prunella made no comment. When told to do so, she removed her apron and dress and stood near-naked until told to drape herself over the padded end of the chaise. She knew what was about to happen, knew it would be painful and humiliating, but she could not resist.

The narrow paddle came down, touched her frightened skin and continued its trajectory until the firm muscle was flattened along its length. There was a sensation of cold slicing into her bottom, pursued by the stinging bites of a thousand midges which then exploded into a consuming blaze. She reached behind to soothe and defend herself, only to have her hand shoved unceremoniously away and the leather band descend remorselessly in a staccato rain she could not start to count.

Ivy Allen was in her element: young, yielding flesh completely at her mercy, turning through shades of pink to red to mauve, undulating its responses, exuding that secret female fragrance no artificial perfume can ever emulate. She knew she must stop soon, but the scent and sound and sight were intoxicating so that she had to keep striking “just once more” to reach fulfilment.

Prunella alternated between motionless passivity and vociferous, bucking protests. Her bra was removed and her sensitive nipples were rasped by the upholstery as she squirmed beneath her employer’s ministrations. Even when Ivy — perspiring slightly across her shoulders and in her cleavage — paused to remove her own top and thus allow her breasts to sway without inhibition during her exertions, Prunella remained in position, striving to absorb the aftershocks of her punishment. She barely noticed that her employer had used the break to procure another implement; this time she was going to use a genuine riding crop on Prunella’s flanks and she looked forward to the furrowed stripes that would raise themselves above the mottling from the strap.

Neither woman heard the discreet tinkle of the bell over the door or the equally discreet clearing of a masculine throat. They did not hear his tread on the worn carpet or notice his shadow fall across them. Both of them were totally oblivious until his deep voice suggested courteously that maybe their activities were a little one-sided.

Startled, the two blondes leapt up in unison and attempted to cover their semi-nudity. For an instant, even the muscle cramps and throbbing heat in Pru’s lower body were forgotten as the two women stared at their unexpected witness. It was unheard of for the little shop to have customers between two-thirty and three o’clock on week-days.

‘Is this a private orgy or can anyone join in?’ he asked, the old joke seeming unintentional in his sombre tone.

The proprietress tried to take control of the situation. ‘Just a little staff disciplining. Would you like to see the menu? Teas are served from three; I’m afraid you’re too late for lunch.’

The stranger smiled enigmatically. ‘Actually, I just wanted a coffee and a bun before my next appointment, but it seems to me that if this is your idea of staff discipline, then this young lady should instigate grievance procedures.’

In one deft move he put down his briefcase and snatched the whip from Ivy Allen’s hands. ‘Tables and worms are turning,’ he informed her.

Within seconds, Ivy Allen was crouched on the seat with the crop cutting into her lycra-sheathed rump. Stoicism was not in her nature and she yelled her pain and humiliation from the start. Although she was not a natural submissive, the man’s mention of grievance procedures and his authoritative air made her wonder if he might not be some kind of civil liberties’ champion who would encourage Pru (and a few former employees) to take her to a tribunal. Anyway, her pride told her she could withstand a bit of a flogging as well as any waitress!

Pru watched in fascination as her boss meekly complied with the stranger’s instruction to remove her trousers and proffer her naked behind (she rarely bothered with underwear) for further treatment. There were distinct pink stripes with lavender patches from the crop’s leather tab. Within seconds, they were joined by scarlet weals and purple tab-marks as the whip slashed into the unprotected flesh.

Mrs Allen, 34, confident, dominant and manipulative, shuddered with overwhelming physical and emotional defeat. The trembling became so violent that the unknown, unnamed man dragged her over his knees to continue her treatment.

‘This crop’s too long in this position,’ he complained. ‘Does she use anything else on you?’

Pru responded with alacrity, passing to him the short-handled paddle she had so recently fallen victim to. He flexed it once, then pressed down with one hand on the cafe-owner’s back as the leather struck at the crease between her buttocks and thighs. The flesh around it pancaked and he held the strap in place, watching the skin ripple as it absorbed the shock.

Eight times the strap came down, crossing and mirroring the weals from the crop, until Ivy was screaming for release.

‘Just one moment,’ her punisher told her. ‘I think someone else should have a chance to join in.’ He turned to Pru: ‘I bet you’d like to know how it feels to wield that crop, wouldn’t you?’

She needed no second bidding: the whip was raised and brought down fully across Ivy Allen’s buttocks six more times before she was eventually released. Pru’s inexperience and awkward angle meant her blows were less forceful than those she had received or the man had delivered, but they gave her great satisfaction and were the most degrading her haughty employer suffered.

The natural conclusion was felt by them all: the man released his grip; Ivy Allen perched cautiously on the edge of the seat and Prunella began to gather up their discarded clothes. The anonymous man stood and brushed imaginary lint from his trousers, smiling ironically.

‘Well, ladies, I would love to stay for tea, but I’m afraid I must leave. Perhaps I’ll drop by another time.’

He left with the same undramatic unobtrusiveness with which he had arrived and in the embarrassed silence the two women began preparing for the afternoon trade.