The Neighbourly Thing to Do

From Blushes Supplement 7

Emma had only just got back from school, had barely had time to put her bike away and take her blazer off and was just considering whether to make herself a cup of tea first before starting on some revision, then came the knock at the door. It was Mr Dalkins, the third house along the street. Fortyish Mr Dalkins, a bit fat and overweight and now with his round face somewhat red. ‘Hello Emma,’ he said, smiling, his eyes sharp, and came in.

Emma was by herself for the week, her parents having gone off yesterday morning with her younger brother Gregory to stay with their Aunt Millicent. Emma was still here because she had exams coming up — A-Levels. That hadn’t stopped her going out yesterday evening, though; to the pictures with her boyfriend Steven. She should have stayed in and worked but with the sense of freedom produced by her parents’ absence she had allowed herself to be persuaded.

Steven had wanted to come back early and be invited in but that at least Emma had decided was not a good idea. She knew Steve could get her all hot and excited and if they were alone in the house, well, you didn’t know where it would stop. So they had seen the whole of the programme and then Steve had brought her back on their bikes and there had been a bit of smooching at the back door but that was all. It had meant that a whole evening had been wasted and also Emma had promised her mother not to go out with Steve until after the exams. But her mother wouldn’t know and she would make up for lost time tonight. Emma had been just about to start when Mr Dalkins’ knock came.

‘Making some tea?’ he inquired cheerily. ‘Good, I feel like a cuppa.’ His hand came out and playfully slapped her bottom. Emma flushed, suddenly conscious of the fact that she and Mr Dalkins were alone in the house. She moved away from him, going to the sink to fill the kettle, then putting it on the stove. Mr Dalkins was all right but she did want to get on with some work. Still, if she made him some tea he would then presumably go.

He was now leaning against the kitchen table, half-sitting on it and dangling one leg. His eyes were keenly on her. He said, ‘Your mum told me to keep an eye on you while they were away. So here I am, doing just that.’

His eager eyes drank her in. Emma Heaton was just about the prettiest 17-year-old in the area, a blonde English rose and with a pretty nifty figure too. Good-sized twin bulges pushed out the front of her blouse and the blue school skirt revealed taut-fleshed haunches at every movement. Oh yes indeed, a girl like Emma Heaton needed keeping an eye on when her parents were off for the week — and keeping an eye on her was no hardship at all.

‘Did she?’ queried Emma. Her mother certainly hadn’t said anything about eyes being kept on her, and she was 17.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Dalkins. ‘She said you had your exams coming up and so you’d be working hard.’ He laughed. ‘But blow me, there you are on the very first day out all evening with that Steve Taylor. Good gracious me!’

Emma flushed to the roots of her blonde tresses. It had been dark when they got back, the street deserted. Christ! At that moment the kettle decided to boil, sending out its shrill whistle. Emma jumped forward to get it. Suddenly Mr Dalkins was there too, close behind her. Two largish hands on Emma’s slim waist. She shook her head, trying to cope with everything happening at once. Mr Dalkins’ breath hot in her ear.

‘Been a naughty girl, haven’t we? Mummy won’t be at all pleased.’

She reached up for the tea caddy — and gave a sharp squeal. One of Mr Dalkins’ hands had left her waist, to slip down and behind. Emma’s behind. The hand cupping and squeezing. Then the bottom-squeezing hand back up at Emma’s waist and the whole of Mr Dalkins’ front pressed hard up against Emma’s back. She yelped again — and the tea caddy fell from her hands, spilling tea over the counter. Mr Dalkins had a good firm rub up against her, then let go.

Emma stood shaking. Mr Dalkins swept the spilt tea up in his hand and poured it back in the caddy. He grinned, his face shiny with perspiration.

‘I’ll have to tell her won’t I? About being out like that.’

For the moment, as he grabbed her, Emma had forgotten about that. She straightened her blouse, pushed back a lock of blonde hair. ‘No. No, please. Please don’t say anything.’

One large hand, the one which had squeezed her bum, came forward to poke a finger playfully in Emma’s midriff. ‘But I must. You’ve been a naughty girl. She’ll want to punish you. Perhaps she’ll want to smack that bottom.’

Weakly Emma shook her head.

‘Won’t she? Won’t she want to take those knickers down and smack that pretty bottom?’

Emma shook her head again. Mr Dalkins was clearly not at all in a nice mood — though that was already evident from the way he had grabbed her.

He licked his full red lips. ‘If she doesn’t then she should. It’s what 17-year-old young ladies need to keep them on the straight and narrow. What were you and that Steve doing all evening anyway? If I know young lads all he’d be interested in is what you’ve got in those knickers.’

Emma felt herself go all hot and cold. Mr Dalkins was clearly in a very unfortunate mood. What was she going to do? ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t…’ She tried a smile but it wasn’t a very good one. ‘The tea… I expect it’s brewed… Shall… I put some sugar in…?’

Two spoonfuls please, Emma.’ Mr Dalkins was close again. ‘Two please, sweet-as-sugar Emma. And what about that Taylor boy. Does he get any sugar?’

‘Wha… what?’ she asked, flushing, but having a pretty good idea what Mr Dalkins might be referring to. He made a loose fist with his left hand and then, grinning, slid his right forefinger down the tunnel formed by the loosely clenching fingers. He withdrew the stiff digit, then slid it in and out a couple of times.

‘You know, Emma. You know what these young lads are always after. Does he get any?’

Emma’s heart was thumping. She shook her head. Mr Dalkins was just trying to embarrass her — and he was succeeding very well. Her shaking hand held the mug of tea out to him.

‘Thank you, my dear. So you don’t let him get any?’

Couldn’t Mr Dalkins think of anything else? Flush-faced, Emma shook her head again. Her unwelcome visitor nodded sagely. ‘Very sensible. A girl should keep her legs closed and her knickers on — except when she’s having her bottom smacked of course.’ He grinned again. ‘Shall we go and sit in the other room?’

Please God, send him home, Emma prayed — but reluctantly nodded. Mr Dalkins motioned for her to lead. At the door of their sitting room she gave a squeal — as his hand grabbed at her bum again. She stumbled forward to sit on the sofa. It was not a good choice because Mr Dalkins could of course sit next to her.

‘I really have got to do some work,’ she haltingly told him, edging away as he sat down. Mr Dalkins said he quite understood, and she should have been working yesterday as well.

‘And the other thing, Emma, is to decide what we’re going to do about that. As I say I should tell your mum; but on the other hand I could handle it myself. I could give you a smacked bottom. On the bare of course because it’d have to be something you’d remember.’

‘No!’ she breathed, the thought almost too awful to contemplate. Mr Dalkins said it was up to Emma. If she’d rather he told her mother, OK. But he was sure Mrs Heaton would be most upset and would really feel let down to hear that Emma had so disregarded her wishes.

That was true, Emma’s mother would be upset. Emma had promised faithfully not to go out and here she was on the very first evening doing just that. Eager-eyed Mr Dalkins could see he had struck a sensitive and unhappy chord all right. He took Emma’s mug from her hand and put it with his own on the coffee table, then was pulling her to her feet.

‘Come on; get it over with and then forget all about it. Lift your skirt up and I’ll slip them down.’

She stood there, trembling. It just wasn’t possible. Was it? ’Come on: or I might decide to ring your Mum up right now.’

It didn’t seem real because Mr Dalkins surely wouldn’t, couldn’t, come walking into the house and make awful threats like that. No, he couldn’t, it wasn’t possible, so it couldn’t be real. In that state of unreality, though this girl called Emma Heaton was somehow lifting her blue school skirt as she stood before this man called Mr Dalkins who lived three houses down the road. She lifted it up and he told her to lift it higher, up round her waist. And then his hands were reaching out, to the top of her brief white nylon knickers. Drawing them down, down her slim thighs, down close to the pretty knees.

‘Oh my!’ he said. ‘A real live blondie!’ Then he was pulling her down, over his lap. Over a lap that contained at its centre something unmistakably stiff and hard. That and the hand which started fondling her bum, though, did seem much too horribly substantial to be a dream. And when the hand started spanking — crisp, sharp, pistol-like smacks to the smooth resilient cheeks — well, there wasn’t much doubt then. It was real all right, awful, shocking, painful, humiliating reality.

At length the dreadful spanking stopped and Emma was being hauled to her feet. But immediately she was back on Mr Dalkins’ lap again, this time sitting on it. Her knickers were still at knee-level. She was in a real state, it had been just the most awful, awful thing. The last time Emma had had her bottom smacked she had been about ten and anyway it had been her mother doing it. Now she was 17 and grown up and it had been a man and it had been her bare bottom.

‘There, that’s better,’ said Mr Dalkins, all breathy and bright-red in the face. ‘That’s what a naughty girl needs. Mind you I do think girls your age should have a touch of the cane occasionally.’

Emma was still gasping for breath. She hadn’t actually cried but the blue eyes were full of moisture. Mr Dalkins had one arm round her, his fingers in between body and arm at bra level. His other clammy hand, the spanking one, came down to grasp one silky bare thigh high up below the rucked-up skirt. He gave an excited sort of laugh.

‘Now what about that Steve Taylor. What do you and him really get up to? I bet he can be very persuasive — and let’s face it, young girls nowadays don’t need a lot of persuading, do they? I mean it’s in the papers all the time.’

The hand gripping Emma’s thigh squeezed and moved further up. ‘Come on: don’t be shy. Let’s hear it.’

----//----

Emma eventually got rid of him after about three-quarters-of-an-hour, during which time Mr Dalkins demonstrated just how truly awful he could be. He kept repeating that everyone knew all girls did it nowadays so why be shy and pretend she didn’t? It was silly to be shy about something that was really a normal part of life for a grown-up girl and Emma was a grown-up girl, although naturally a girl had to be careful. About protection. What awful Mr Dalkins made quite clear was that he wanted to do it himself. And naturally Emma need have no fears about anything happening because of course Mr Dalkins knew all about that side of things. All this time Emma was sitting on his lap and all this time Mr Dalkins was doing pretty awful things as well.

But eventually, after a final scrimmage with Emma, not on Mr Dalkins’ lap but horizontal on her back on the sofa with Mr Dalkins more or less on top of her, eventually Mr Dalkins did finally leave.

Emma shook her head as she closed the door after him. Who would believe it? Mr Dalkins who had been known to perhaps eye her a bit in the past but nothing else. Unless it had been Mr Dalkins who had squeezed her bottom that time at last year’s bonfire party. Someone had given it a really good squeeze but in the darkness and with everyone milling around it could have been anyone. Yes, it must have been Mr Dalkins.

Emma made herself some more tea and some baked beans on toast; then she must get down to some revision. What an awful business, though. That spanking — she still shuddered to think about it; and equally horrible had been all that business afterwards. Mr Dalkins going on about doing it while his hands kept doing things. Especially as Emma and Steve didn’t. Steve wanted to of course but Emma wouldn’t agree.

She washed up the crockery and got her books out, trying her best to forget what had happened and concentrate. Then, would you believe it, the doorbell rang again. Oh God, it wasn’t Steve, was it? She had told him not to come round she had to work. No, it wasn’t Steve; it was Mr Wiggins.

Mr Wiggins, next door to Mr Dalkins, on the other side from them. About the same age as Mr Dalkins too but not fat, taller and thin with a little businessman’s moustache. ‘Hello Emma,’ he said, just like Mr Dalkins but in his more prissy way. And came in, also just like Mr Dalkins.

What had Mr Wiggins come about? Incredible as it might seem Mr Wiggins had also seen Emma come home with Steve and had also, so he said, been told by Mrs Heaton to keep an eye on Emma. And if that was pretty unbelievable there was shortly something else that made Emma’s mouth go dry and her stomach turn over. Mr Wiggins had been carrying his jacket, not wearing it, as he came in. Now, having marched confidently into the sitting room, leading the way so at least he wasn’t taking quick feels at Emma’s bottom like Mr Dalkins had, Mr Wiggins placed his jacket down on the sofa and unfolded it. Inside the jacket was a cane.

Emma stared at it, frankly unable to believe her eyes. Mr Wiggins moved close and squeezed her arm, quite hard. His eyes were glinting. ‘A short sharp shock, Emma: that is what is called for, I think. That is certainly what I would give you if you were my own daughter and I have I think been granted the statue of loco parentis.’

Mr Wiggins didn’t of course have a daughter of his own, because he was a bachelor. A rather pompous prissy bachelor from what Emma knew of him, given to making disapproving pronouncements about “today’s youth”. What he was saying therefore was not out of character, but the thought that he could have the nerve to come marching in… with a cane… It was too much!

‘No! she blurted, in very much the same shocked tones she had used when Mr Dalkins announced his plan for spanking her bottom. ‘No! You can’t!’

‘Yes I can, Miss,’ he snapped. And to prove it Mr Wiggins stepped over to that dreadful thing lying on the sofa like some kind of poisonous snake, picked it up and before Emma knew what was happening had whipped it smartly across her calf.

‘Bloody Hell!’ Emma didn’t usually swear but it stung like a bee. She did a little dance, rubbing her legs at the same time. ‘That bloody hurt!’

‘Please don’t swear, Emma. It was meant to hurt. Now get your knickers down. I’m going to cane your bottom. At least the marks won’t show there.’

‘You can’t,’ she gasped. And then gave another shocked squeal as the cane whipped across her calves again. ‘I can, Emma. And I will.’ Mr Wiggins, like Mr Dalkins before him, was now quite pink in the face with the excitement of getting to grips with his prey.

There didn’t seem much choice. Either have your legs decorated with nasty painful red stripes or have it on your bum which, as Mr Wiggins had considerately pointed out, would not show. Feeling sick Emma reached under her skirt. Her knickers came down, quite unbelievably for the second time today, and she was having to lie herself humiliatingly over the low glass-topped coffee table. Mr Wiggins was dragging her skirt up — and then grabbing at her lowered knickers.

His prim prissy voice. ‘We might as well do it properly. Let’s have them right off.’

And that was what he was doing, in spite of Emma’s wailing protests. Dragging them on down, over the pretty knees and on down the slim calves, and off over the neat white ankle socks and shiny black slip-on shoes.

‘Part your legs,’ the prim voice instructed. ‘Let’s do it properly.’ And hands placed Emma’s feet a full 36 inches apart, stretched out from the table with her knees straight. She could picture only too well what this awful position revealed. She was picturing it, her maidenly secrets blatantly and shame-makingly on show; but then the cane came down and all such considerations of maidenly modesty went abruptly out of the window. Because with a pain like that exploding in your flesh, hotly shooting through your whole body, jangling and jarring in your head — well, there was just no room for anything else.

The shock indeed was such that Emma jerked almost completely off the table, letting go of the edge and closing her legs and bending her knees as she writhed and rolled about. Mr Wiggins made a sound of annoyance and hauled her back. Another example of the ill-discipline of modern youth. His bright eyes feasted as he parted her legs again… just so. And then again whipped the cane in.

----//----

Six distinct bright red stripes. That wasn’t counting the two that he’d slashed across her legs. Six red stripes decorating the firm rondures of Emma’s buttocks as, 20 minutes later and still blinking away tears, she looked over her shoulder in the bathroom mirror. That rotten bastard! He had almost killed her! Emma really felt like phoning her mum and telling her except that would entail saying why Mr Wiggins had caned her in this savage manner. On balance she decided not to phone — but clearly even if her mother had told him to keep an eye on her she hadn’t meant caning her in this sickening way. She also clearly hadn’t meant Mr Dalkins to come in and smack her bare bottom and put his hands everywhere. They had both simply taken advantage. Emma wiped away fresh tears: tears not only of pain but of humiliation and gross injustice. She dropped her skirt back into place. The way her bottom felt she decided to leave her knickers off.

Then from downstairs she heard the doorbell go again.

Emma shook her head. No, it was too much. Could she perhaps ignore it and pretend she was out? But there were lights on so whoever it was would know. She forced herself to go down.

It was Mr Grant. Emma flushed, batting the big blue eyes. Mr Grant lived opposite those other two but was in a decidedly different category. He was younger than them for one thing, thirtyish she thought, and also tall and very nice-looking. He had a wife of course and Mrs Grant was very pretty, but that didn’t stop 17-year-old Emma from smiling sweetly whenever she saw him and blushing slightly too and her heart giving a little jump.

He smiled and said could he come in — just like those other two. Emma stood aside and felt herself shaking with sudden excitement. She couldn’t help it, even though he was married, she fancied him. ‘Had any visitors?’ he asked, still smiling.

‘Wha…what?’ she said, her mind suddenly full again of her two dreadful visitors and what they had done to her.

‘Bob Dalkins and Arthur Wiggins,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ said Emma blankly, numbly. They were now in the sitting room, where everything had taken place. Standing by the coffee table where…

‘Yes. You see the three of us were in Arthur Wiggins’ front garden last night, about 11 I suppose. He wanted to show us this paving he’d done, even though it was pretty dark. Anyway there we were when two people went by on bikes. Bob Dalkins said, “Well blow me, there’s Emma Heaton with that Steve Taylor. And she’s supposed to be studying for her ‘A’ Levels.”‘

Emma’s eyes performed some rapid blinking motions as a sudden increase in moisture made everything distinctly blurred.

‘And of course your mother has been going round telling everyone to make sure you’re all right. So I wondered…’

All at once the rapid blinking was insufficient to stem the tide. Two big round tears welled out and trickled down Emma’s cheeks.

‘Hey, what’s up,’ said a concerned-sounding (and very handsome-looking) Mr Grant.

The trickle became a flood. Suddenly Mr Grant had his arms round Emma and the flood was soaking into his shirtfront. Soon it wasn’t only the tears that were flooding out but, haltingly, an account of all that had transpired.

‘Poor Emma,’ commiserated Mr Grant. ‘Smacked your bottom? And caned you?’

Emma made a kind of grunt of assent, her face and also her pert boobs pressed firmly against Mr Grant’s somewhat damp shirt. The memory of it was truly awful — but what was happening now was something else. She became aware of a hand on her bottom. Mr Grant’s hand. Stroking gently.

‘Does it still hurt?’

Emma made a sound something like ‘Unngghhh’. She wasn’t sure herself what the sound meant. She didn’t really know if her bottom still hurt or not. All she knew was that she was snuggled up against Mr Grant and somehow she now had her arms round him and Mr Grant was stroking her bottom in a very nice way. Stroking it and also pulling her hard in against a hard and stiff something down there.

Then the hand wasn’t on her bottom but at her waist, at the side-fastener of Emma’s skirt. Mr Grant saying softly, ‘Hadn’t we better take a look?’ And then he had her skirt undone and it was sliding down. And of course, Emma had nothing on underneath, having decided to leave her knickers off after the caning from Mr Wiggins.

Mr Grant’s hand on Emma’s bare bottom was just about too much for her. She felt her knees trembling like jelly. Then the hand was parting her legs and pushing in from behind. She shuddered as the hand took hold of her, opening her up where she was soaking wet. Mr Dalkins of course had managed to get his hand on it earlier but this was in an entirely different category altogether. This was Mr Grant. With a muted squeal Emma started coming almost immediately.

Soon afterwards they were on the sofa which was certainly more comfortable than doing things standing up. Emma was emotionally exhausted from coming but very soon recovered. The bodies of fit and healthy 17-year-old girls are very resilient. Mr Grant naturally wasn’t finished. Perhaps naturally he wanted something else. She told him what she had told Mr Dalkins: that she hadn’t ever done it, not yet. Mr Grant didn’t go on, like Mr Dalkins had done, when Emma said she was scared. He simply suggested something else. Something Emma had heard that people did but had never been able to believe. It seemed that it was true, though. The thought of it was utterly, utterly mind-zonking. And actually doing it was ten times more mind-zonking even than that. Apart from zonking you right out of your mind there was also the feeling that you were going to choke at any moment whilst doing it.

This had just finished and the whole world for Emma was spinning round and round when from somewhere out in the spinning world she thought she heard a familiar sound.

Mr Grant confirmed it. ‘Your door bell,’ he said.

This time it was Steve. Flush-faced she let him in. ‘This is Mr Grant,’ she managed to say. ‘He… he’s looked in to see I’m all right.’

Mr Grant of course was zipped up now, just as Emma had frantically put her skirt back on and straightened her hair a bit though there had been no time for knickers. In the kitchen she made them all a cup of tea while reminding Steve that he wasn’t supposed to come round, she was revising. Emma sent him off as soon as he’d drunk his tea, saying she’d see him tomorrow lunchtime. Steve looked a bit questioningly at Mr Grant.

Mr Grant went half an hour later, after getting Emma to do that utterly mind-zonking thing again. She closed the door after him and went back in the sitting room. It was 8 o’clock. In theory she could do, say, three hours’ work before going to bed. But quite clearly there was no possibility of doing even five minutes. She flopped down on the sofa, to look weakly up at the ceiling. Christ! And it was only Monday —!