OK, I'm pretty sure that most people are familiar with L P Hartley's quote; “the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there”.
Well, it is not just a great quote, but, it is also a fact. So, when reading this story don't look upon me as being some stupid girl, remember that the past is indeed a foreign country.
It was 1971, I was eighteen and a half years old, and madly in love with my boyfriend, Joe. Now, when I say madly, it is up to you to decide just how mad I was.
I had left school at the age of fifteen, with no academic qualifications, though that does not mean that I was thick in any way. I was well versed in the three “R's” of; reading, writing, and arithmetic. I would actually suggest that whoever decided to call those subjects the three “R's” were themselves dyslexic. Though, of course, dyslexia was unheard of in those days, as was ADHD, you had thick kids, naughty kids, and problem teens, such was the enlightenment of the day.
Joe and I were planning to get married; he was working as an apprentice welder at a local engineering firm. Apprentices were paid notoriously bad wages till they “came out of their time”, I, on the other hand, was getting quite a good wage as a machine operator in a textiles firm. So, out of the two of us, I was, at least for the time being, the major breadwinner. As such, it was, for the most part, my wages that were squirreled away for savings.
It meant that I could not now buy the records and clothes that I had gotten used to since leaving school. Joe, for his part, cut down on his nights out with his mates. With our now strict saving plans, we tended to spend most nights just playing music in my bedroom.
My parents though kept me to a strict, one foot on the floor rule, so there was no cavorting, or at least very little cavorting on my bed.
As I said earlier, we are looking back to a time when things were done differently. Virgin weddings were still, despite the influence of the Swinging Sixties, more the rule, than the exception.
However, even with managing to save between five to seven pounds a week, our savings were still very meagre. There always seemed to be something cropping up that would eat into “our money”. Whether it was an away football match that Joe had to go to or some tools that he needed to buy for his work. It appeared “our money” just didn't seem able to stay in our joint Post Office savings account.
Then a new night club opened up in the centre of town. Night clubs in the early 1970's were a different kettle of fish as they are today. They tended to be, at least, for the most part, more than just late night drinking dens frequented by late teens and people in their early twenties, as they are now.
Night clubs in those days, featured live entertainment and gambling, not just drinking, dancing and fighting.
When I saw that they were advertising for Bunny Girl hostesses, I though that could be the way to boost our meagre savings. Also, I thought that such an idea would meet certain obstacles, not least from my parents and boyfriend. I decided I would test the waters with the latter first.
“Joe, I've been thinking,” I said one night as we sat together on my bedroom floor, listening to Led Zeppelin's last album.
“Yeah, what about pet?”
“About getting a part time job,” I replied as Robert Plant sang about a land of ice and snow.
“What? On top of your job at the factory?” Joe asked, with a look of curiosity now on his previously blank face.
“Well, that new nightclub is looking for staff.”
“I can't see you working behind a bar Sue, not really your thing is it?”
“No, not working behind the bar,” I said, working up the nerve to explain my plan, “being a Bunny Girl!” I finally managed to get out.
“Really?” He said grinning at me, cleary imagining me in the outfit. He seemed amused by the idea of me wearing the very costume that I had somehow thought he would forbid me to wear.
“Well, it would only be a Friday and Saturday night, and the money would come in handy.”
He sat, deep in thought, I was sure he would not allow me to flaunt myself in such a manner. I could see that he was weighing something up in his mind, and then he finally spoke.
“I suppose it's not a bad idea. I'm always out with the lads on a Friday anyway, and I'm pretty sure I'll be able to find a way to fill in my time on a Saturday. Sounds like a great idea to me, go for it lass!”
It was odd, his acceptance was a double edged sword, I wanted the job, and we really needed the money. But, I also wanted him to show some kind of reluctance to me getting the job. I think I wanted him to show at least a little jealousy of other men leering at me. But, all that he seemed concerned about was how it would impact his social life.
My parents were a different story.
My mother hated the idea; she had some mad notion that I would be lured into the world of “white slavery” that was so often reported on in the Sunday papers. My dad was a little more pragmatic, seeing how the extra money would come in handy for our savings. Moreso, after I had spoken to him about his little stash of Playboy magazines that he kept in his garden shed.
“Dad, I know you are a fan of Bunny Girls, and they are all somebodies daughters,” I whispered to him, when my mam was out of earshot.
Of course, with dad now onside, my mother capitulated. That was just the way of things in those days.
The first couple of months were fantastic, once I got over my initial nerves about being in almost a state of undress all evening. I talked myself into thinking that I would be showing a lot more on a beach, as my uniform, skimpy as it was, still covered way more flesh than by bikini would.
The pay was good, in fact, the pay was very good, once you included the tips. I was earning almost as much, working twelve hours at the weekend, as I did working forty hours in the factory. Just, for being little more than a glorified waitress.
Also, without seeming arrogant, I knew I had the face and the figure to carry off the uniform, and the required smile to garner extra tips.
As it turned out, it was those very tips that almost became my downfall. It was standard practice that we all pooled our tips, and then split them up equally among us. However, one of the other hostesses decided that she would skim her tips and keep them to herself. I watched as she put two pound notes that she had received from a customer into her bra, instead of putting them in the communal jar.
I told Joe about what Cynthia had been doing; he was furious that she was, in his eyes, stealing our money. He was also angry with me for allowing her to walk all over me in such a manner.
“You have to learn how to stand up for yourself, don't let people walk all over you!” He told me.
I did not have to be told twice, as back then I was quite a feisty girl and did not like Joe to think that I was easy to walk over.
I waited, on that fateful Saturday night, till the club had closed, and we were all in the staff changing room, to confront Cynthia.
I was fully dressed, she had her jeans on, but was about to pick up her blouse, when I said.
“Do you not want to check your bra, just in case any money has fallen in there?”
“What?...Are, for fucks sake Sue, give it a rest will you. It's been a long night, and I can't be bothered with any shit from you!” She replied, her blue eyes glaring at me.
“I saw you last night, trying to gyp us all, slipping them notes down your tits, when you thought no one was looking.”
“You don't know what you are talking about, as usual, and I just can't be bothered with explaining myself to some scrawny little bitch!”
That was it. The red mist descended, and I threw myself at her, grabbing a handful of her blond hair as we both fell to the floor.
My left hand gripped her right hand, as I manoeuvred myself over her body pinning her left arm to the floor with my knee. I raised my right hand, which was now formed into a fist, just as I was about to punch her; I felt arms around my torso. The next thing I knew I was in mid-air, my limbs flailing like a badly controlled marionette, then I heard a voice booming in my ears.
“What the hell is going on here?” Asked Mr. Burton, the club owner, and my boss.
“She was stealing tips!” I replied as I was ignominiously dumped onto the floor about five feet away from Cynthia.
“No, I wasn't you idiot!” Shouted, the now bare breasted Cynthia, her bra having come loose in our fracas.
“I haven't got time to sort this out tonight; I want to see you both here tomorrow morning at ten o'clock sharp!” Mr. Burton said, the tone of his voice making it clear that this was not a request, but an order. “Now both of you get dressed, and get home.”
I can still recall, how hard sleep was to find that night when I got home. I lay in bed thinking about the next day; it was clear in my mind that Mr. Burton would sack me. I had deep feelings of resentment about the whole affair, after all if Cynthia had not been a thieving cow, the bust up would not have happened in the first place.
The next morning I had to lie to my mother, saying that I had been asked to go into work to help with a stock check. She was not happy about having to make a late Sunday dinner, dad on the other hand was quite happy, as it meant an extra hour in the pub for him.
I made the short walk from home to the club with leaden feet. It even crossed my mind to not go at all, but then I would not get my wages that were due to me. I had to face up to the fact; I could not get out of seeing Mr. Burton, and also the queen bitch Cynthia if I wanted to get the money due to me.
When I got to the club, Cynthia was already in Mr. Burton's office, and to my surprise she was looking very sheepish. In fact, she looked to be virtually on the edge of tears, standing in front of Mr. Burton's Desk. I gathered, wrongly, that she was also to be sacked.
“Good morning Susan,” Mr. Burton cheerfully greeted me. “I have had a little chat with Cynthia about last night's misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding? You mean her being a thieving little magpie, more like!” I said in perhaps a rather too sharp manner.
Mr. Burton sighed deeply, then delivered Cynthia's explanation in a calm, almost fatherly tone. It would seem, that the customer who had given her the two pounds was actually her uncle. He had been asked by Cynthia's father to pop in and see her, and give her some money so she could get a taxi home.
I didn't know it, as myself and Cynthia had talked very little to each other, Cynthia lived out in the countryside, and her father always picked her up after work.
Cynthia's father was an engineer, and he had been called into his workplace because of some machinery malfunction, so could not collect her that Friday evening.
As Mr. Burton's soft even voice continued, I just felt regret at my stupidity.
“So, as you see Susan, it was indeed a misunderstanding wasn't it?”
“Yes sir,” I said, now feeling as sheepish as Cynthia looked, also wondering why I had called him sir, something I had never done before.
“But, ladies you have both put me in a bit of a pickle. I can't allow my staff to brawl or to allow such brawling to go unpunished. After all, my customers don't come here to see two hot cross bunnies fighting, now do they?”
Both Cynthia and I gave Mr. Burton's weak joke an equally weak laugh.
“Having said that,” He continued, “some of them may find it entertaining. That though is of no concern to us. I have already spoken to Cynthia, and she agrees that she was partly to blame for the fight. As she could have just told you about the reason for her receiving the money, and then the fight would never have happened.
She also sees my point of view, that I cannot be seen to condone such behaviour or to let it go unpunished.”
I now realised that was the second time he had said unpunished.
“We had a little discussion before you arrived Susan Cynthia agrees, that rather than being dismissed, she would take a spanking from me this morning, and then the matter would be done with.”
“What?” I said, not believing what I was hearing.
“She has agreed to take chastisement from me, as she understands her part in the whole debacle. So, in fairness, I am going to give you the same option.” Mr. Burton said, a faint smile now forming as he awaited my reply. “Susan, because it was you who initiated the violence after you have both been spanked, you shall also receive a caning!”
Now, despite what you may have read about the nineteen seventies, and the corporal punishment of schoolgirls. It was nowhere near as rife as the spanking stories and films would have you believe. Sure, it happened, but it was rare compared to the corporal punishment of boys. In fact, I went through all of secondary school without being slippered, strapped, or caned. The only thing that happened to me was three whacks on the palm of my left hand with a wooden rule for passing notes class.
The cane was something I had no real comprehension of, nor was it something that I wanted to familiarise myself with.
“How many with the cane?” I asked, the words coming out before I could stop myself.
“Six of the best, I think that would be more than fair, don't you?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, my eyes now downcast on to the floor to avoid his gaze.
“Right, let's get this over and done with shall we,” Mr. Burton said, rising from his seat behind the desk, and clapping his palms together by way of punctuating his sentence.
He then explained the running order, as he pulled a chair into the centre of his office. Cynthia would be spanked first; then I would receive my spanking. After my spanking, Cynthia would be allowed to leave before my caning, to save me from the added embarrassment of having a witness.
Mr. Burton then sat on the chair and motioned for Cynthia to stand by his side. Cynthia was dressed in a similar manner to myself; we were both wearing jeans, sweatshirts, and low platform shoes.
I was stunned, when Mr. Burton's hands went to the waistband of Cynthia's jeans, and he started to unbutton them.
However, if I was stunned, Cynthia was mortified as she struggled away from him.
“Mr. Burton, what on earth do you think you are doing?” she said, in a panic filled voice.
“Those brass buttons on your back pockets are going to hurt my hand long before I manage to tan your bum,” Mr. Burton replied emphatically, “your jeans are going to have to come down young lady!”
I could tell by the look in his eyes, that despite the lack of buttons on my Wranglers, my jeans would also be making a downward journey, when it was my turn.
“This isn't right...” Cynthia said sulkily, as Mr. Burton unbuttoned and then unzipped her jeans, pulling them down to her knees.
An odd thought crossed my mind, “will he pull down her knickers as well?”, that thought was both horrific and slightly enticing in almost equal measure.
“Over you go!” He said, waving his hand over his lap, answering my unsaid question.
Cynthia's knickers were staying in place after all. My mind was now all of a jumble; I was almost disappointed that this was not going to be a bare bottom spanking. Of course, if it had been, logically it would have meant mine would have to be also.
The whole proceeding was now bringing thoughts that I had always tried to ignore, tried to force to the back of my mind. Those very hidden thoughts were now at the very front of my mind, fantasies that I would never dare to mention, were about to be acted out in front of me. I held my breath as I waited for Mr. Burton's palm to go into action across Cynthia's pale blue knickers. I did not have to wait long for the noise of the first slap to ring around the office. I watched in morbid fascination as his hand relentlessly came down upon her knickered bottom.
The sound of her pleas seemed to be deaf to his ears, those same sounds though, were music to my ears. I watched on, my mind a tumult of emotions; I wished to see her punished though I also wanted for her punishment to end so that mine could begin!
It was madness; it was a delicious madness. Finally after all of those daydreams, and sneaking little looks at my father's secret magazine stash. I was now going to feel the hand of dominant male across my bottom. I was going to have my deepest, darkest fantasy fulfilled, and I was terrified and intrigued of it becoming a reality.
Cynthia's vigorous spanking finally came to a close. Mr.Burton helped my now tearful nemesis back to her feet. She made an attempt to pull her jeans back up, to cover her evidently reddened bottom and thighs.
“No, leave those where the are...” Mr. Burton said, in his still calm voice, “change places with Susan.”
We both obeyed, as we passed each other; I could see her tears tracing their path down her face. Her mascara had run leaving her with the worst “Panda Eyes” I had ever seen. I knew in a few minutes time that I would be in a similar state.
As I stood next to Mr. Burton's chair, our eyes made contact, his blue eyes sparkled in gleeful expectation. I moved my arms, crossing them behind my back; he gave me a knowing smile, as he reached for the waistband of my denim trousers.
“As with Cynthia, these will need to come down. I don't want to be seen to be favouring either of you, that is only fair isn't it Susan?”
“Yes sir,” I managed to whisper, my mouth now as dry as sandpaper.
“Of course it's fair.” He said lowering my jeans to reveal my white rose patterned knickers.
“A lovely choice of knickers Susan!” He said, evidently triumphal with his discovery.
“Thank you, sir...” I replied, then wished for the floor to swallow me up, such seemed the stupidity of my answer in the circumstances.
As with Cynthia, he waved his hand over his lap by way of invitation for me. As I lowered myself over his thighs, a question crossed my mind, something I should have picked upon earlier.
Why does Mr. Burton own a cane?
Of course the answer came to me straight away, he was not as I had thought earlier, just a middle-aged guy with a thing about knickers. He was into corporal punishment; he was a kindred spirit, a soulmate. He was the sour to my sweet, the fire to my ice!
Then Mr. Burton's hard palm brought me out of my daydreaming. The spanking, he then started to deliver, was indeed like fire upon my bottom. It only took some thirty slaps or so until I felt distinctly uncomfortable. After what was probably only two minutes or so, my bottom and the tops of my thighs, felt as if they were on fire.
As that heat built up, my eyes were starting to fog over, I knew that tears were not far off. I did not call out pleas and protestations as Cynthia had earlier, for I needed and yearned for the release that this castigation would bring me.
I was actually on the verge of orgasm, something that never happened to me other than when I frigged myself off, when he stopped spanking me. His hand rested on my bottom as he spoke.
“You took that very well Susan, I know you will not think it, but I did you a favour by spanking you before the caning you. The cane hurts much more on a cold target, and as I can feel, even through your charming knickers, your bottom is now anything but cold.”
Those sentences revealed to me something I had been pondering over. Would the cane be on my hands, or on my bum? Evidently it would be on my bottom.
As Mr. Burton helped me up, he spoke to the still traumatised Cynthia.
“Cynthia, I believe that you will agree that Susan's spanking was just as severe, or perhaps even a little worse than yours?”
“Yes sir...” she said and nodded, her face that of vacant possession.
“Right, you may go now Cynthia.”
Her rush to re-arrange her clothing and get out of the building was comical. She did not even stop to go to the Ladies and wash her Panda Eyed face.
“So then, Susan,” Mr. Burton said as he unlocked a cupboard behind his desk, retrieving a thin yellow cane, “have you ever been caned before?”
“No sir, never,” I replied, trying and failing to sound calm.
“Well, it is an entirely different sensation to that of a spanking, let me assure you of that.”
I looked Mr. Burton in the eye and nodded. All of a sudden, since going over his lap, I viewed my boss in a different light. Whereas before, he was just some middle-aged bloke. Now, he was the mature dominant gentleman of my fantasies.
And, going by the look in his eye, he seemed to be well aware of my feelings.
“Susan, take off your shoes and jeans, please?”
“What!” I replied, in genuine shock.
“Really there is no need for me to repeat the request, we both know you heard me clear enough!”
Of course, he was correct, and his voice made it clear that it was not a request that was open for negotiation. As I untied my shoelaces, my fingers trembled, not with fear, but with the excitement of what may be to come. I took off my jeans, folded them nicely, and placed them on the floor next to my shoes.
“As pretty as they are, your knickers too will have to come off.”
I did not argue, I did, however, feel a rush of adrenaline trickle down my spine.Fight or flight could not have been further from my mind as I placed my knickers on top of my jeans.
“Let's have a little look at you Susan, hands on top of your head, please.”
Mr. Burton slowly walked around me, as if I were some fascinating statue in a museum.
“You know I have to cane you, don't you Susan?”
“You also know that it will hurt incredibly?”
“You actually want to experience that pain, don't you Susan?”
Now, I could hardly get my mouth to form words. Least of all, words that would make me admit to my kink. So, I just nodded.
“Over the desk please, grab the other side of the desk tight and do not rise...”
I obeyed him without question.
“Legs a little further apart, please...”
He instructed, tapping my inner thighs with the cane till my legs were splayed to his liking.
“We shall begin now...” He said tapping my bared bottom three times with the cane.
Then the first stroke struck, searing into my already hot flesh, despite my plans to be silent, I howled out in pain.
“I told you it would hurt...” He said, his hand caressing my burning nates, a caress a longed to feel more of.
The second and third stroke were as bad as the first, in fact, they were worse, as I did not get to feel his hand on between those strokes. By the time he delivered the last three, I was a bubbling wreck, crying like a little girl.
He put the cane down on the desk next to my face, no doubt to so that I could see the instrument of my correction.
His hand returned to my rear, massaging and soothing the area, where only seconds before he had been inflicting pain onto. His fingers drifted lower, teasing at the folds of my virgin quim, gently dipping into the wetness; then he traced up to my little button.
No sooner, had he started to manipulate my clit, than to my shock, I came to a juddering climax!
“It would seem that has been building up inside you for a while Susan?”
“Yes sir...thank you sir!” I replied.
I then felt the head of his cock at the lips of my fanny.
“I'm still a virgin sir...” I said, more to inform him than to stop him.
“I'll be gentle...” He said, as he slowly entered me, taking my maidenhead as he did so.
Post Script. After this session, myself and Mr. Burton became “a secret thing” for about eighteen months. During those eighteen months; I split up with Joe, left my job in the factory and went to tech college to get some qualifications. They say, never look back. But, sometimes it is nice to re-visit a foreign country where things are done differently.