Friday, 5 October 2012

Friday fiction: Farm life

“By rights miss, I should let the District Commissioner deal with this,” she said, maintaining eye contact with her employee in a way that Bee found difficult to return.  “But as you’ve agreed to take your medicine then we can keep it between ourselves. Is that correct?”
“Yes Mrs Jones,” Bee said quietly.
“Ladies?” asked Mrs J, sweeping the other three with a searchlight stare. They all chimed in with a mumbled “yes Mrs Jones”.
“A good dose of strap oil it is then,” said Mrs J, taking a tightly-coiled strap from her cardigan pocket. With a flick of her wrist the strap uncoiled like a snake and Bee watched with alarm noticing how heavy and supple it looked. 
“Now then,” she said, stepping up to Beryl and taking her by the arm.  Bee felt the firmness of the grip and yielded, allowing herself to be propelled to the foot of her bed.
The metal frame formed a half-circle and Bee was positioned at its centre. Then Mrs J’s hand was moved from her arm to the back of her head and she was pushed face down into the quilt.
Bee felt acutely aware of the shape and size of her bum. “Pants down to your knees, please.”
“Really, I don’t think that’s fair...” Bee began.
“Two extras,” said Mrs J in a businesslike way.
Reluctantly Bee tugged her tight knickers down, and over, her out-thrust buttocks. She had to wriggle a little to help them along, which made her bumcheeks quiver in a eye-catching way.
It certainly caught the eye of each of the watching girls, Bunty, Anne and Gladys. Four girls – all new to one another - sharing a room had to be prepared to undress in one another’s presence.
How they dealt with the intimacy differed. Bunty’s background was much like Bee’s and she was used to unselfconscious nudity from years in dormitories.
At Annie’s terraced home in Yorkshire five sisters shared a room, so little room for shyness there. However, for Gladys, a bank manager’s daughter, sharing a room was something of an ordeal; at her comfortable detached home in Hertfordshire she bolted her bedroom door before changing clothes.
Over the week each had got more comfortable with the enforced closeness of arrangements at Bryn Farm. When they dress and undressed they did it hurriedly to avoid baring too much flesh to either cold air or curious glances.
So, each of the three was shocked and fascinated by Bee’s nakedness. With her head down and legs straight her round bumcheeks were opened wide, exposing what she called her bits and bobs to view.
Gladys felt she should look away, but couldn’t. How different Bee’s fanny looked, she thought. Gladys was a little embarrassed at the way that her own “down there” hair was thick and dark, and was intrigued by how Bee’s fine, light ginger curls did little to hide her new friend’s most intimate parts.
All three witnesses held their breath as Mrs J planted her feet wide apart and rolled up the right sleeve of her blouse. “Let this be an example to you all,” she said, swinging the strap through the air so that it whispered like the wings of a bird.
“Beryl, hold onto the sides and don’t let go,” Mrs J told her. “Stay in position.” With the next swing Bee clenched her cheeks up tight hiding her bumhole for a moment.
As she did, Mrs J measured her distance just right and the heavy leather caught Bee’s tensed buttocks low and hard. The girls saw Bee’s bum flatten momentarily before the strap swang back, fast and low. Bee had just enough time to squawk out her shock at the flash of bright pain before Mrs J followed through with stroke number two.
Another three strokes followed up at lightning speed and Bee’s screeches of anguish rang into one another.
The unwritten Bullington code stipulated that a girl took her swishing well, which meant keeping noise to a minimum, staying in position and never, ever begging for mercy. Bee was rather ashamed of how far below the standard she was falling.
That she was making so much of a racket was a shocker, but Mrs J was turning out to be a very proficient disciplinarian. Worse was the struggle she was having maintaining position.
For a start the bed frame was a little too high for her and the cold iron cut into her waist. And she could only just get handholds on the sides to keep in place.
Through watering eyes she could see her left hand locked into place, knuckles white. She had had eleven strokes when her grip was broken and – with a howl - she sprang upright, palms pressing to her tormented cheeks.
She took two handfuls of burning buttock and kneaded away at them like a baker.
“Don’t be a baby, Beryl,” said Mrs J after allowing Bee a moment’s dancing on the spot. “Bear up, there’s a war on. Back into position or I’ll have to double your ration.”
With some difficulty Bee did as she was told. There was, she accepted, a war on and meant having her backside leathered.
Back in place, Bee’s bottom sustained a barrage of strokes at a steady pace. She clung on and howled her way through to the last, which came in rather low across her thighs.
Somewhere between the second dozen and the third Bunty decided she couldn’t watch and covered her eyes.  Gladys, on the other hand, couldn’t tear her gaze away from.
“There, three dozen give and received,” said Mrs J, popping the strap back into her apron pocket. “Let that be a lesson.”
She moved closer to Bee and patted her on the shoulder before sitting on the side of her bed. As Mrs J’s weight settled onto the mattress the bed springs squeaked and Bee lifted her head, her mass of curls a curtain around her face.
Gently Mrs J parted the curls so that Bee could see her. “Can we be friends again?”
Bee was a little puzzled by the remark. Mrs J smiled at her in a way that was almost shy and said: “Come along stand up then.”
Bee straightened up with one hand on her smarting, striped bottom and the other trying to tidy her hair. Watching her, Mrs J sat very upright and with her knees pressed together.
She smiled again, patted her lap and nodded. Bee understood and went to her employer and, a little awkwardly, sat on her knee.
She allowed herself to be pulled into the older woman’s arms. For a moment she stiffened, but then relaxed into the hug, burying her face into the older woman’s shoulder.
It felt so good, so comforting. But at the same time she could feel how in that position she was making an exhibition of herself, with her red-raw bum sticking out.
I’m certainly giving the girls something to goggle at, she thought. Her behind felt all round and hot. It made her feel ashamed of how big her bottom was and that it deserved to be swished hard and often.
It also made Aunty start to get wet and tingly, which made Bee worry that Mrs J would notice her inappropriate reaction to the situation she found herself in. As that thought was crossing her confused mind she felt Mrs J’s hand drop from her waist and her cool palm settled gently on one of Bee’s jutting buttocks.
Bee shivered with the thrill of the contact and she lifted her face out of Mrs J’s hair. She found herself looking into warm, smiling eyes.
“I don’t want to have to do this to you again Beryl,” she said. “So you’ll try to be a good girl, won’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs Jones. I promise,” she said.
“Good,” said Mrs J, then she looked to the other three. “All of you, do keep my rules in mind, that way we’ll get along very nicely. Let me down, and there’s plenty more of the medicine Beryl’s just taken. Understand?”
“Yes, Mrs Jones,” they answered nervously.
“Now then,” said Mrs J, patting Beryl smartly on the bottom. “Beryl get into your pyjamas and into bed. You’ve all got an early morning tomorrow.”

A while back I was in the habit of posting snippets of writing on Fridays as 'Friday fiction', but it hasn't happened for a while. I thought I'd put things right with this chunk of 'Beryl gets Stuck In'  which sits on my computer a third written - it's about the adventures of a Land Army volunteer called Beryl, or Bee for short.
It isn't going anywhere at the moment - it just seemed to run out of road. So, I thought at least a little of it probably deserves an audience.


  1. Just imagine if this old-fashioned strapping scene happened as you so beautifully described. I actually never think of years past as being the "good old days," but they do make great settings for spanking stories. Those four are going to want to be good girls. Aren't they?

  2. You're right, the good old days weren't that good. But they're the perfect setting for spanko fantasies.