‘Oh yes,’ Sophie sniffled, ‘I’ll try, only please don’t spank me any more.’
‘Good girl, that is what I wanted to hear,’ the woman cooed. ‘I’m sure we will get on ever so well once you get over this silly shyness. Only, I do need to make sure that you really have bucked your ideas up.’
Sophie could not see what the woman was doing, but then she gasped as the cool back of her hairbrush was placed on the hot skin of her spanked bottom.
Mrs Powell chuckled. ‘Is that nice and cool, my pet?’ she asked. ‘Because I’m afraid it won’t be for very long.’
With that the back of the hairbrush cracked down hard on the back of Sophie’s right thigh. The hand spanking had been bad enough, but the pain was so intense now it took her breath away. Mrs Powell brought the hairbrush down even harder on the back of Sophie’s left thigh, and then began punishing the squealing girl’s bottom furiously.
Sophie struggled in vain against her captor’s iron grip. The hairbrush punished her relentlessly. Over and over again it smacked down on her ever more tender bottom and thighs. All Sophie could do was open her pretty mouth and shriek.
‘Not much further, my dear,’ Mrs Powell said as they pulled away from the traffic.
Sophie had been surprised to find that the woman drove a Daimler, the car much more luxurious and plush than anything in Sophie’s limited experience. She shifted on the leather seat a little uncomfortably, however, for her bottom was still sore from the hairbrush spanking.
After that unexpected and unjust punishment she had been in no state to resist Mrs Powell’s demands. Still sniffling, she stripped in front of the woman as the tears rolled down her face, Mrs Powell watching her like a hawk in horn-rimmed glasses as Sophie unhooked her bra and let her generous breasts swing free. The hairbrush tapped menacingly into the palm of Mrs Powell’s hand as she did undress, and Sophie wasn’t able to look away from it.
‘You have a lovely body, my dear,’ Mrs Powell said once Sophie stood, blushing furiously, utterly naked. ‘What a nice trim waist, and such lovely titties. My gentlemen will like them very much. I think we will shave your pubic hair, though. I will get Monique to do it before she bathes you.’
Sophie had met Monique only once, when she opened the door of Mrs Powell’s house the night before. She was a pretty dark-haired girl who wore a neat maid’s uniform. Monique led the way to a surprisingly large bathroom where a tub had already been drawn, and Sophie followed, her upper arm firmly gripped by Mrs Powell.
‘Shave her first, Monique. I don’t think she will give you any trouble, but ring me if she does. We can always strap her down if necessary.’ With that Mrs Powell left the two young women alone, eyeing each other uncertainly.
‘All right, get on there and lie back with your legs apart,’ Monique said, indicating a small table.
‘But, why must I be shaved?’ Sophie asked.
‘Because some of madame’s customers like us that way,’ Monique said, with a shrug. ‘Look, don’t give me any trouble. It really is best to do as she says. Mrs Powell is not so bad, on the whole, but she can be a real tartar if you cross her.’
‘I know,’ Sophie grumbled as she got on the table, wincing as her still throbbing bottom met the cold surface, ‘she spanked me with a hairbrush.’
This disclosure caused Monique to stop making lather from the shaving soap for a moment, and she regarded Sophie with astonishment. ‘A hairbrush?’ she said incredulously. ‘Believe me, you will learn that when I say our benefactress can be a bit of a tyrant, I mean she can do a lot worse than giving a few taps with a hairbrush. Compared to what she’ll do if you really annoy her, a hairbrush is like being tickled with a feather duster.’
Those ominous words came back to Sophie as the car sped on. She had been shaved by Monique, and found the process profoundly humiliating. Afterwards she was bathed, and then Monique towelled her dry and made her sit in front of a dressing table and applied pink lipstick to her mouth and a touch of mascara to her eyes. To Sophie’s astonishment a spot of rouge was even put on her nipples, then her brown hair was brushed into girlish bunches and it was time to dress.
First there was a basque in pale pink satin and white lace, with suspenders, to which sheer tan stockings were carefully smoothed up her legs and fastened. Monique’s face was so close to Sophie’s freshly shaven quim as the maid fastened the stockings that Sophie had a sudden strange desire for the kneeling girl to kiss her there. Sophie blushed furiously and looked away in confusion.
Then Monique stood and produced pink frilly panties, and a short frock with a flounced skirt to complete the outfit.
The car turned into the drive of an undistinguished suburban house, and Sophie felt her heart pounding as the vehicle pulled up. The time spent travelling had not made her feel any better about the outfit; it seemed such an odd mixture of the girlish and the tarty. And the tightness in her tummy told her that Mrs Powell would want her to do what she had refused to do before. The blood rushed to Sophie’s cheeks at the thought of stripping in front of strangers.
A man came out of the house to greet them, just as Sophie was getting out of the car. She recognised him from Mrs Powell’s house, and could feel his eyes on her legs. She wished the skirt was longer, for she was sure she treated him to the sight of bare flesh above her stockings as she swung her legs out of the car.
‘Mrs Powell, and… Sophie, isn’t it?’ he greeted them. ‘Please come in, the others are all waiting.’
‘Thank you, superintendent,’ Mrs Powell said as they followed him into the entrance hall. ‘I’ve had a little chat with Sophie and I can assure you there won’t be a repetition of her previous silliness.’
‘I do hope so,’ he said. ‘Though of course, girls do get first night nerves. However, we do have a rather distinguished group this evening and it would not be advisable to disappoint them.’
With that he opened the door to a large room. The furniture was expensive, if rather old fashioned, with a thick carpet, dark mahogany tables and sideboards and darker leather chesterfields. Not that Sophie was very aware of the furnishings, for what drew her attention was the group of people who stopped talking the moment she entered the room and, as one, stared at her.
There were six of them, not including Mrs Powell and the superintendent. Two men she recognised from the earlier shambles, two other men, and two women; one a rather severe type, the other a quite beautiful blonde in a twin set and pearls.
‘Lovely,’ the blonde lady said, looking at Sophie with twinkling eyes. ‘She really does look sweet enough to eat, Marjorie.’
‘Shall we get on with it, then?’ asked one of the men, a balding individual who seemed to be sweating rather profusely.
‘Don’t be in such a rush, George,’ a tall man with a moustache said languidly. ‘Anticipation is much of the pleasure. Look at the little morsel, how she blushes and trembles. The anticipation is turning her pretty knees to jelly, quite unlike my cock, which is turning to—’
‘Yes, yes, we all know about your cock, Julian,’ the severe looking woman – Marjorie – said sharply. ‘For once I am with George. She shied at the first fence once, so we don’t want to give her too long to think about her situation now, or she might just baulk again.’
‘I don’t think that is very likely,’ Mrs Powell said mildly. ‘But neither do I see any reason to delay. Superintendent, did you get the things I asked for.’
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Here on the table.’
The little gathering parted to allow Mrs Powell to steer Sophie to a large mahogany dining table, upon which was a collection of items that made the girl’s knees weaken. There was a strap made of thick, red-brown leather, split into two wicked tails. Beside this tawse was a pair of heavy handcuffs and a coil of rope, a black velvet bag, and a small black rubber ball attached to some straps.
‘Now, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell said into h
er ear, squeezing the girl’s arm so hard it hurt. ‘You are going to perform a little dance to entertain the company, and then you are going to take off your clothes. What happens next will depend, to a large extent, on how nicely you dance for us. And you will be sensible this time, won’t you, my dear?’
How poor Sophie managed to whisper the affirmative as she continued to stare at the horrid looking implements she did not know, but somehow she did.
‘Good, good,’ Mrs Powell said, before addressing the host once again. ‘May we have the lights and music now, please?’
‘Dr Montgomery, the lights, if you please,’ the superintendent said crisply, as he took up station next to a gramophone.
There was a little positioning of dining chairs, until sufficient for the company were arranged in a rough semicircle before the marble fireplace. Then Dr Montgomery, a rather rotund fellow, turned on a couple of lights that shone in the direction of the hearth. ‘She needs to get into position,’ the doctor said, as he fussed with the lamps.
‘Come along, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell steered her into place just in front of the fireplace, then let go of her arm and sat on a vacant chair. Everyone was seated now, except the superintendent and the doctor. The latter moved one of the lamps until it shone full in Sophie’s face, making her flinch and frown, and now she could only feel, rather than see, eight pairs of eyes on her body.
The superintendent must have started the gramophone, because the music began to play. For a moment Sophie stood miserably in the glare of the lights, trying to smooth down the short hem of the frock, then she heard Mrs Powell say sharply, ‘Dance, Sophie, dance,’ followed by a clap of her hands.
Not daring to refuse this time, Sophie started to move in time to the music, so anxious and embarrassed that her dancing must be graceless and awkward. Chuckling and audible comments from the audience did not help.
‘She is a pretty little chit, but she dances like a duckling!’
‘A bit wobbly, I’ll grant you, Julian, but she may strip with more grace.’
‘Remember, it’s the little tart’s first time, boys.’
‘True, Estelle, and she is young. There is plenty of time for her to learn.’
‘Hm, with help from your cane, eh, Desmond?’
The music changed to a slower melody, and for the first few bars she still danced miserably, trying to stop the tears she felt welling.
‘Take off your dress now, Sophie,’ Mrs Powell’s voice ordered from the glaring lamps, and the tears did begin to flow. With fumbling fingers Sophie somehow undid the buttons that secured the back of the frock, and to the accompaniment of the odd encouraging comment she slipped it off and dropped it to the floor. To her utter mortification there was a general murmuring of impressed approbation, and even a smattering of clapping.
‘Keep dancing, girl,’ Mrs Powell ordered, and Sophie continued to sway with the music, tears meandering down her blushing cheeks and glistening under the glare of the lamps.
‘All right, my dear, we want to see your titties, now,’ Mrs Powell said crisply. ‘No need to take the basque off, just pull the cups down.’
Sophie took a deep breath. She was still swaying to the music in a desultory sort of way, but she could not really concentrate on dancing. Somehow she forced herself to ease the cups down, until her breasts swelled free of the rounded containers.
‘Very nice…’ someone growled.
‘Gertrude, they look good enough to eat. You really have brought us a real treasure. Well done.’
Sophie danced on, miserably aware that her unconstrained breasts were swaying and quivering as she moved in time to the gentle rhythm.
‘Time for your knickers now, dear Sophie,’ Mrs Powell said after a short while, and Sophie hesitated, all too awfully aware that if she took of the frilly panties she would be exposing her freshly shaven sex to the whole company, but with a sob of reluctance, knowing she had little choice, she bent to pull her panties down. Tears dripped from her chin onto her stockinged knees, and as the pink panties shimmered down there was a collective murmur of appreciation from the audience.
‘No, you silly girl,’ Mrs Powell admonished as Sophie straightened up. ‘Don’t cover yourself. Lift your hands above your head and keep dancing. Turn around from time to time; we also want to see your delicious bottom.’
How she obeyed Sophie did not know. Her knees felt weak and she hoped she might actually faint, as that would free her from such unbearable humiliation. But she dared not disobey, and somehow made herself lift her hands high and occasionally turn her back to the lecherous onlookers, and have to listen to lewd comments about her bottom rather than her breasts and shaven pussy.
For how long she danced she could not say, but the music stopped at last and the lights were switched off. Quickly she bent down to retrieve her dress and knickers.
‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Powell demanded as Sophie instinctively reached down for her dress and knickers. ‘Leave those alone. Just stand still and put your hands behind your head. You must wait while the gentlemen and ladies score your performance.’
Sophie watched meekly as the woman handed out cards and pens to the assembled guests. Then she moved to Sophie’s side and fixed the trembling girl with her gimlet gaze. ‘I don’t know why you’re blubbing like that,’ she said tersely. ‘If I were you I would save some tears for later. For now you are to be scored out of ten – five marks for your dancing and five for the rest of your performance, and as there are eight guests you have a maximum of eighty. Do you understand me?’
Sophie swallowed hard and nodded briefly.
‘You are required to achieve a score of ninety-five percent overall. Any less and I am afraid that we will require a forfeit.’
Mrs Powell looked from Sophie to the table, and with mounting alarm the girl followed her gaze, her stomach tightening as she eyed the ominous implements.
‘What we do is subtract your total score from the required figure. What is left is how many strokes you are awarded, in order to buck your ideas up for next time.’
Sophie felt herself swoon a little, the woman’s menacing words chasing around her bewildered head, but Mrs Powell slipped an arm around her waist and held her steady. All she understood for sure was that her ordeal was far from being at an end.
‘Superintendent Rutherford?’
Sophie did not want to look; she wanted to keep looking at the floor and try to blot out what was happening to her, but a dreadful curiosity seized her and she simply had to lift her gaze.
The superintendent held up two pre-printed cards, and Sophie nearly fell of the chair she now stood on.
‘Artistic impression,’ Mrs Powell announced, ‘three.’ She jotted down the figure in a notebook. ‘Striptease expertise… two.’
Sophie had very nearly baulked again when they made her stand up on the chair, and it did take a few slaps from Mrs Powell to encourage her. Then once the superintendent put the heavy handcuffs on her, chaining her wrists behind her back, any rebellion was completely quashed and she let him help her up onto the chair.
She was then targeted by one of the lights, while the other one was trained on the onlookers, Dr Montgomery moving it as each member gave their verdict, so that Mrs Powell and Sophie could read the cards as they were held up.
Sophie blinked and wondered if she had understood the system. Surely Mrs Powell had said that each card gave a score out of a possible five, which would mean that, counting both cards, Superintendent Rutherford only scored her five out of a possible ten. But that would mean that there were five, minus something small for the allowed five percent. No, she thought, that cannot be right. It was too complicated and she had been in no state to listen carefully to Mrs Powell’s explanation.
Sophie darted an anxious glance at the portly man the others had called George, as he was next in line to pass sentence.
Piggy eyes sta
red back at her and she saw him lick his lips, and instinctively tried to bring her hands around to shield her naked sex and breasts, which merely made the handcuffs chink as she pulled hopelessly at them.
At that moment she felt even more naked than ever, standing helpless and handcuffed, presented for their delectation on the chair, the bright lamp focussed on her vulnerable form, their collective gaze crawling over her exposed flesh, feeling their arousal and amusement, their desire and contempt.
‘Mr Pettifer, your scores, if you please,’ Mrs Powell said.
‘Artistic impression, two. Striptease expertise, two also.’ From over the cards with their appallingly low scores, George Pettifer gave her a little smile and winked.
‘Let’s see now,’ Mrs Powell said as she totted up the scores and did the necessary calculations. There was a possible eighty points available, but Sophie has scored an extremely disappointing total of thirty-three.’
The feeble score provoked a murmur from the audience, and Sophie felt her knees begin to buckle.
‘As ninety-five percent of eighty is seventy-six, we subtract thirty-three from seventy-six leaving us with…’ The room seemed to hold its collective breath. The sum should have been simple enough but Sophie was so distressed and so distracted by her situation she could not concentrate on it. ‘Thirty-eight.’
‘Thirty-eight strokes,’ George Pettifer echoed excitedly. ‘Well, well, the little baggage is certainly going to know she’s had a belting.’
‘We must encourage these girls to do their best for us,’ one of his female associates said. ‘It was clear that the little trollop was not even trying.’
‘Quite right, Estelle,’ Julian put in. ‘If we skin her arse properly now, next time she is sure to give us a better show altogether.’
Sophie felt sick and could not help but look over at the tawse laid out and waiting, as Mrs Powell moved to the table and the superintendent unlocked the handcuffs. But Sophie’s wrists were only free for a moment, as he secured them again immediately in front of her. Mrs Powell picked up the velvet bag and the tawse and moved back to the chair Sophie stood upon. The poor girl stared at the belt with growing horror, but it was the bag that Mrs Powell held up to her.
Damsels in Distress Page 16
