Recruit for Special Deliveries

From Blushes 52. A follow-up to Special Deliveries.

The place seems to be deserted. The display window beneath the peeling, weather-beaten lettering pronouncing M.J. Bartling is unlit and if we try the door we will find it locked. This is perhaps not surprising, it is after opening hours, a quarter to six now, and Mr Bartling is not one to contravene shopkeeping regulations. Well, not some of them. The street lights are on of course, at a quarter to six on a late November day, and indeed a rather murky spitting-with-rain one into the bargain. M.J. Bartling is deserted and so is the street outside; but this again is not surprising, no one wants to hang about passing the time of day on this sort of day, they will all be at home thinking about their teas. And furthermore and in any case Great Midgeley, as we know, is no great metropolis, its inhabitants are few in number, their dwellings scattered here and there.

But though it may appear as deserted as the street outside, Mr M.J. Bartling’s premises are not at this moment entirely without human occupant. These occupants, though, and there are two, are through in the back, in Mr Bartling’s stock room. Which cannot be seen from the street. In here things are much brighter, in contrast to the outside world and indeed to Mr Bartling’s actual shop. The smallish room is brightly lit with the light thrown back, reflecting, from the serried ranks of brightly packaged merchandise, shelves piled to the ceiling with cans and cartons and everything else, the extensive stock of a rural general store which prides itself on being able to supply pretty much everything. Which includes in this case, this being M.J. Bartling’s, trade beyond what the customer will find in your average general store. Trade not reflected in all this brightly reflecting merchandise. A service. A very private service. A service that is extremely highly prized by those who are aware of and partake of it.

It is in connection with this side of things that Mr Bartling is here this afternoon after hours. And his visitor. This visitor is young and female. She is called Stacy. Not a resident of Great Midgeley but of Garlock which is a very similar village, equally small and humdrum and off-the-map, a few miles to the north. Stacy is young and female and also pretty and with a nice shape. Mr Bartling can see something of the shape as Stacy is standing with her coat held open in front of him. Mr Bartling is seated in his chair, in an old sweater, an appraising look in his eye.

‘Mmmm… ’ he observes. ‘Yes, that looks nice. Open it a bit more.’

Stacy obligingly holds her coat open wider. Under the tight bodice of her dress there are evidently firm high boobs and below there is a slim, trim waist. Below that the rest of her in the dress’s loose skirt which stops short of her knees looks likely to be equally nice. The legs are slim and shapely. In tights?

‘So you’re a mate of young Sarah, eh?’ Mr Bartling queries. ‘An’ look a bit like ‘er too. No relation?’ [She actually looks a lot like her, I think it’s fair to say, given they clearly used the same photo-set from Special Deliveries.]

Stacy shakes her head. it is a pretty head of dark curls with indeed a resemblance to Sarah who is one of Mr Bartling’s two assistants. ‘I just know her. And she told me… well… ’

‘Wot exactly? Wot exactly did she say? I’ve warned that Sarah about goin’ round waggin’ ‘er tongue.’

‘No! No she’s not. It’s just that I’m a friend. She wouldn’t tell anyone else.’

‘Come ‘ere,’ Mr Bartling instructs. ‘Where I can see you.’

This would imply very poor eyesight on Mr Bartling’s part, for Stacy has been standing no more than two feet away. But out of arm’s reach. What Mr Bartling — who has quite adequate eyesight — actually means is where he can get hold of her. Which is what he now does as Stacy obediently steps forward, close. Mr Bartling’s hand takes hold of a boob — or at least the tight front of Stacy’s dress where it bulges with the evident swell of a mammary gland underneath. A nice, firm, good-sized one. Mr Bartling’s hand closing on it. To jiggle it gently up and down.

‘Wot did she say then?’

Stacy’s face has perhaps coloured slightly but she stands still allowing the hand to do what it is doing. ‘Well… she said… I might be able to get a job. The same… as she’s got.’

Mr Bartling chooses not to answer this, for the present. ‘Got a boyfriend, ‘ave you, Stacy?’ He is still squeezing and jiggling.

Stacy nods. ‘Uh yes… you know… ’

Mr Bartling transfers his hand to the other boob, to give it the same treatment. ‘Likes to get ‘is ‘ands on these, I daresay.’

Stacy, who is still holding her coat open, shrugs. Her face is somewhat redder now. ‘Ow old are you anyway?’ groping Mr Bartling enquires.

Stacy says, ‘I’m 18.’

‘Ah. Cos a girl ‘oo works for me ‘as to be 18. A girl ‘as to be old enough to know ‘er own mind as you might say. An’ I reckons that is 18.’

Having pronounced this philosophy Mr Bartling takes his hand away from Stacy’s nice firm boobs, both of them. The hand slides down… to without warning take hold through Stacy’s dress of where her pussy is. She lets out a sharp squeal — as a girl will who is suddenly grabbed in that very sensitive spot. Stacy’s own hand jerks automatically across, letting go of one side of her coat, to where Mr Bartling’s has taken a firm, cupping grip. Part of her evidently wants to grab the hand away, but the rest of her… her hand hovers there, lightly touching Mr Bartling’s.

‘E likes to get ‘is ‘and on this an’ all I daresay, that boyfriend. Eh?’

Stacy doesn’t know what to answer — or anyway doesn’t. Instead she chirps, ‘Please… don’t…’ The “don’t”, though, would seem to be more for form’s sake than a genuine attempt to get Mr Bartling to stop. Because — well, this may well be all part of the business of checking her out for the job. Anyway Mr Bartling doesn’t stop. His hand is cupping, squeezing, his fingers pushed in between Stacy’s legs.

‘Ave you got tights on?’ the proprietor of M.J. Bartling mildly asks while going on with what he is doing, as if it is the most normal thing in the world to play with a girl’s pussy when she has come about a job. But maybe, allowing for certain aspects of this particular job and what is involved, it is reasonable. Stacy, her voice perhaps a little bit shaky, says, ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t like tights. Nor do my gentlemen customers. What they like is proper stockings an’ a suspender belt — or maybe nothing. Why don’t you take those tights off, young Stacy.’

The hand does now let go. Stacy seems to breath a breath of relief. ‘OK.’

‘An’ the knickers,’ Mr Bartling adds giving her an owlish look. ‘While you’re at it, let’s ‘ave the knickers off as well.’

Stacy’s big dark eyes are rounded. The soft, full-lipped mouth, to which for this interview she has carefully applied pink lipstick, opens and then closes again. Is she surprised at this request, or instruction? Shocked by it? It is difficult to say. No doubt, though, she is wondering what the request regarding her knickers will entail. Nonetheless Stacy complies. Hands up under her dress slide down tights and pink knickers as one. Down the slim and shapely legs. Stepping out of her white courts to allow the garments to be finally removed. Mr Bartling tells her to put the shoes back on.

His hand pulls her close. Stacy shivers slightly. Not that it is at all cold in here, in this snug little room. Mr Bartling has the heater on. It may be a raw and wet November day outside but in here it is snug enough. But a girl will shiver when suddenly she has no knickers on, nothing on under her skirt, and a gentleman has pulled her forward, close to him. And his hand then commences… to slide up under her skirt.

‘So if one of my gentlemen customers wants young Stacy to get ‘er knickers off… young Stacy will be able to do it?’

Stacy’s breath comes out in a little moan. Because Mr Bartling’s hand has not hung about; it has gone right there. The furry nest of Stacy’s pussy. ‘Uh yes… if… I have to…’

‘I reckon it will be requested. More’n likely.’ Mr Bartling’s fingers are pushing in between Stacy’s thighs. ‘But I reckon your frien’ Sarah told you that. Dint she?’

‘Y… Yes,’ pipes Stacy. She has relaxed her thighs. After first automatically squeezing them together to prevent entry of the fingers Stacy has now relaxed them. In fact shifted her feet apart a fraction. Another squeaky moan escapes her lips. As now Mr Bartling pushes a finger up into her. His voice continuing.

‘A smack bottom. An’ the cane. Depending. That’s wot they’ll likely be wantin’ the knickers off for. An’ maybe… somethin’ else, young Stacy. Eh?’

Well, no doubt if Stacy has been talking to Sarah she knows about all this. Smacked bottoms and the cane. Also the possibility of the other. And presumably if, knowing this, she has come here wanting a job… Mr Bartling’s fingers — it is not only one finger now — are doing things that are making Stacy shake at the knees. As he goes on.

‘A course wot’s most important is that you get it all down in your little book that you’ll ‘ave. Special deliveries a course calls for special rates. An’ we can’t ‘av anythin’ that’s not accounted for. When you’re in business that’s the very first thing you got to learn, Stacy my girl. Everythin’ accounted for.’

Stacy says a breathy ‘Yes Mr Bartling.’ He has got her all hot now. What he is doing and also the fact that she is standing here like this with her legs open and letting him do it: altogether it has got Stacy all hot and trembly. Got her going in fact. At this point Mr Bartling takes his busy hand away. When if he had kept on doing that for just a little longer Stacy would probably have come. She is all hot and bothered, her blood pounding about as a girl’s blood will when someone has been doing that to her for… well, quite a few minutes.

And now he has abruptly stopped. Stacy is left high and dry (well, not dry, very wet). She should be grateful perhaps that he hasn’t actually brought her off, it would be highly embarrassing to actually come, on his hand, squirming and thrusting herself against Mr Bardling’s hand as she stands in from of him. Yes, she should be grateful. But actually…

But maybe Mr Bartling is not finished. He has a certain look in his eye. ‘Orlright, Stacy my girl. Well, we better do some testin’, ‘adn’t we? A smacked bum. An’ a touch of the cane. See ‘ow you can ‘andle it.’

Stacy makes a garbled sound, its meaning unclear. Has she expected to be spanked and caned on this interview? Her head is still in something of a whirl from Mr Bartling’s manual operations. ‘But first, young Stacy… I’d like to…’

What? Stacy’s eyes wide. Biting that full lower lip. What is Mr Bartling saying? ‘Wot you give that boyfriend, eh? ‘Oo is ‘e anyway. From around ‘ere?’

What she gives that boyfriend. Oh God. Stacy knows what Mr Bartling means all right. It is quite clear. ‘Come ‘ere,’ he says. Yes it is quite clear because Mr Bartling is unzipping his trousers. Oh God!

Oh God. Stacy is all hot and quivery because of what Mr Bartling has been doing with his hand, moments earlier she was about ready to come in fact. But all the same the thought of actually doing it with Mr Bartling hasn’t entered Stacy’s head. Not today at this interview. Not really at all in fact. Stacy does not even know if Sarah has done it with Mr Bartling. Mr Bartling likes to spank, Stacy knows that, possibly also the cane too. But as for the other… well if there was that, and Sarah hasn’t actually said exactly, Stacy assumed it would be the customers who are not as old as Mr Bartling. Well did men at that age actually want to do it? As opposed to feeling you up and that — and of course smacking a girl’s bottom or giving her the cane. And also making her do those exercises that Sarah has spoken about: upside-down cycling your legs for one so that they can see your pussy. But as for actually doing it… when they’re Mr Bartling’s age. Well Stacy has vaguely thought that they wouldn’t be capable for one thing. But…

But Jesus Christ. Mr Bartling’s thing. That he’s taken out of his trousers. Christ! It’s bigger than Raymond’s. Quite clearly with something like that Mr Bartling is capable all right.

He is pulling her forward. It suddenly dawns on Stacy how Mr Bartling means to do it. She is to sort of sit down on it. Getting on his lap more or less, her legs astride, facing him. Stacy has never thought of doing it that way. But… Jesus… Oooh…! It is enormous… but it has gone in all right. Because she is all wet for one thing. She is sitting on it. It… is right up inside her. Mr Bartling has his hands at her waist and begins… to move her up and down… Jesus Christ… So that… it is sliding in and out. Sweet Jesus.

‘Oo is it? Your boyfriend?’

What? Oh. With this stunning development Stacy has forgotten that question. Haltingly as she slides up and down on Mr Bartling’s prong, Stacy says ‘Raymond Calver.’ ‘Oh, that Raymond,’ Mr Bartling says, not breaking his rhythm. ‘I know ‘im. Gets a nice little bit of this, does ‘e?’ Mr Bartling words are slightly wheezy with his efforts.

Raymond does get a bit of course but not nearly as much as he would like. Stacy does not believe in doing it a lot at present, not with Raymond, calculating that if he can get it all the time now there will be no incentive for Raymond to marry her. Like most girls in Great Midgeley, Garlock, Dingfield etc, the quiet little villages of England, Stacy thinks in terms of getting married at an early age. It is the accepted thing. Young males, such as Raymond Calver who works on a farm, may seek to avoid or delay this. But they want to get their oats. Raymond has said they can’t afford to get married yet — which is partly why Stacy wants this job with Mr Bartling. Raymond doesn’t know what Sarah has told Stacy about the job of course. Naturally. Sarah made Stacy promise not to tell anyone for one thing, but in any case Stacy wouldn’t tell Raymond.

Stacy gasps out. She is coming. A high-pitched squeal. Mr Bartling is not ready yet. He does not come for quite a while. During which time Stacy comes twice more.

Afterwards Mr Bartling makes a cup of tea. And after that he spanks Stacy’s bare bottom. And then gives her a taste of the cane. Jesus Christ, that cane! Stacy has never had the cane before and has been rather dreading the thought ever since it was mentioned by Sarah. There has been good reason to dread it as now she jerks and writhes her bottom in response to Mr Bartling’s whippy bamboo. ‘Just so you know what it feels like,’ he tells her.

Yes, Stacy gets the job. She can join Mr Bartling’s other two assistants in their special deliveries around the neighbourhood. His customers will be quite delighted with this new recruit — and they will of course be charged special, special rates for the privilege. Only one thing causes Mr Bartling to furrow his brow for a moment. Explaining three girl assistants in what is after all only a small business — on the face of things at least: is that going to cause raised eyebrows, or questioning thoughts? Hmmm… Maurice Battling ponders that one as he gives Stacy’s bottom a final fondle before letting her out the back way. Out into the cold, still spitting-with-rain November evening.