A new job, a new home and what else?

By Robert Dingley

I turned to my bedroom mirror to admire my 5ft 7in frame in silk underwear, suspenders and stockings. The feeling of silk against my skin always made me feel good. Looking at my reflection it made me look good too. Good firm bottom, I thought, turning and admiring; none of this ‘does my bum look too big in this’. Pert breasts, holding them, a good handful. It is only an interview I thought, but I need to feel good to enable me to project professional competence.

Turning back to the bed I picked up my white blouse and buttoned it up, and then stepped into the grey skirt before admiring myself in the mirror again. Mmm, smart and competent, I thought, just the right image for an assistant curator. Competition for these jobs was stiff and this would be my eighth interview. I was well qualified with a BA in history and an MA in History of Art, but so many of my peers had qualifications just as good. Even so, I had real hopes for this job.

The job was in a well known stately home in the West Midlands. Like many such properties the family lived in part of the building whilst the National Trust managed that part of the building open to the public, and the grounds. For over 150 years some five owners from the same family had kept open house for painters, sculptors, writers and other artisans who in turn had given the owner examples of their work in thanks for their hospitality. Those owners had been keen collectors too. Indeed it was rumoured that drawings by Leonardo de Vinci himself had been found in the house collection. This would be a good job to begin my career.

All those being interviewed (there were five of us) had been asked to arrive by 9.00 am. It was February and only just becoming light. The fact that the sky was overcast, and drizzle was falling added to the dreariness. However, despite the weather the house looked magnificent as I drove up the long drive. At the front door I was met by a butler! He was probably the largest man I have ever seen; over 6 ft tall, wide shoulders, arms as thick as my legs and hands the size of dinner plates. He looked to be about forty years old.

“Hello. I’m Jennifer Dunn and I have an interview with Mr Porter,” I explained.

“Please come in, Miss Dunn,” he said formally. “The other interviewees are waiting in the reception room.”

At that moment a slightly tubby middle aged man about my height bounced down the last few steps of the main staircase. “Thank you Mr Hunt, I will take her from here. How many have arrived already please?”

“Three, Mr Porter, plus Miss Dunn here. They are waiting in the reception room as you requested.”

“Fine,” he said. “Thank you. Will you let me know when the last person arrives please.”

“I’m Dennis Porter, the Head Curator for the house” he said turning to me. “And you are?”

“Jennifer Dunn, Mr Porter,” I repeated. At that moment there was the sound of a door peal rather than a ring and Mr Hunt appeared to open the door and welcome the last candidate.

Mr Hunt presented him to the curator. “The last candidate, Mr Porter. John Williams.”

“Thank you again, Mr Hunt,” he replied. “If you both come this way we’ll meet the other candidates and I will give you a brief tour of the house before we begin interviewing at 9.30 am.”

“I’m sorry about all the dust sheets,” he explained. “We open the house to the public for the week before Easter in just over a month’s time. The dust sheets will only be removed in the week beforehand. There is still plenty for you to see however. Now look at the fresco on this ceiling, nearly 200 years since it was painted and fully restored last year.”

During the tour I managed to speak to all the other four candidates to assess the competition.

I was first up for interview, which was conducted by Mr Porter and a National Trust executive for the property and felt cautiously optimistic about the outcome. “Can you come back at about 1 pm please, Miss Dunn, when we can let you know whether you have been successful. If you walk down the drive at the back of the house the centre of the town is about 5 minutes walk away.”

I was walking down the hall towards the front door when I heard yelps of pain coming from a room on my left. Seeing no one around I gently opened the door a few inches and peeped round it.

It was the dining room, and what a sight! About 3 metres in front of me Mr Hunt was sitting on a chair pummelling, there is no other word for it, a bare tomato red bottom with a wooden hairbrush.

From the cries it was obviously a lady. One huge hand held both her arms with the arm round her waist. The hand on the other arm held the hairbrush which was forcefully and rapidly hitting the gyrating bottom. Every time contact was made the woman’s torso rose up and there was a cry of: “Ooh” or “Ouch” and sometimes: “Please stop.” Her body and bottom were dancing around continuously trying to avoid the heavy punishment.

The woman looked back and I saw tears running down her face. She looked younger than me, perhaps twenty. I was only watching for a few seconds, perhaps twenty in all, but the whole scene made a huge impact on me (though not as great perhaps than that being made to the girl’s bottom). Then the spanking stopped, just like that, and I immediately pulled back and shut the door as quietly as I could.

Heart pounding, I hid myself in the most convenient place I could, the ladies toilets which were nearby. After a short while the door to the dining room opened and the girl clad, I could now see, in a maid’s uniform of short black skirt and white shirt, came through still crying her eyes out. Emerging from my hiding place I walked towards her. She looked up and I could see she recognised me, so I opened my arms and she practically fell into them sobbing.

After a few seconds while I wondered what to say I said: “Sorry I had to see that. Let’s go to the toilet and clean you up.” She just nodded.

When she had washed her face I said: “I’m Jennifer Dunn. I’m here for an interview for the National Trust Assistant Curator job. Now what was that spanking all about?”

“Lucy Williams,” she replied. “That was a real walloping he gave me. He has never hit me so hard. Mind you,” she mused. “I might have deserved it for dropping the breakfast tray.”

“What! He has spanked you, punished you before?” I exclaimed.

“Oh no,” she responded. “Or rather yes. But the other times were nothing to do with my job. This mirror is hopeless,” she said standing on tiptoe and looking behind her.

“Need to look at your bottom do you?” I asked. “Well I can tell you it is as red as a tomato.” I grinned. “Here, use my vanity mirror.” I said pulling it out of my handbag.

“Ooh it is red,” she said. “I bet it will be one big bruise by this evening though.” She suddenly giggled. “I can’t believe I am examining my bare red bottom with a woman I have only met for ten minutes.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to ask that woman whether I can feel that said red bottom,” I said, laughing too and catching her eye.

“Ok.” she replied. I reached out hesitantly and put my hand on her left buttock.

“It feels pretty hot,” I said, squeezing it. “Now you had better tell me what this is all about, and why Mr Hunt apparently has a franchise to redden your derriere.”

“Such long impressive words and what a nosy parker!” She said. “And I’m such a chatterbox too. Okay, if you let go of my bottom we’ll go to the staff room. It will be empty till about eleven.”

In the staff room Lucy made us both coffee and, sitting in an armchair, I said: “Right spill. Why was Mr Hunt spanking you? It was the hardest spanking I have ever seen. Your bottom was really jumping.”

“Yes. Bill is a big man. He used to be the local blacksmith apparently and you can see he has the muscles to go with it,” Lucy said. “Anyway I dropped the breakfast tray when I missed the last step on the stairs. He just grabbed me and dragged me into the dining room. Not a thing I could do about it.”

“You said he does not spank you as a punishment.” I said. “Indeed I should think not in this day and age, and yet he has done.” I continued, the implied question hanging.

“Well,” Lucy explained. “We sort of get together every week with two or three friends. He has spanked me several times with them on a sort of friendly basis. Go to pubs and walking and such. Are you into spanking then, Jennifer?” She asked.

“A boyfriend liked me beating him with a slipper,” I said. “I do prefer dishing it out than receiving it though.”

“That is natural,” replied Lucy. “Although somehow a good spanking takes away all the stress. Strange that. Stan would like you,” she continued. “Much prefers receiving the hairbrush from a woman than Bill. And it’s not just how hard Bill hits people,” she explained. “It is a woman / man thing rather than a man / man. Mind you before you could join us Bill has to audition you to make sure you really are into CP and not just after a few love pats. Bill hates people who only take love pats as you will have noticed.” She prattled on. “We are always on the look out for others with an interest.

Might you be interested Jennifer?” She asked directly again. “Goodness me is that the time?” She then asked before I could answer: “I had better be getting on with my work. I’ll show you out.”

“Lucy,” I said as we walked to the front door. “I don’t even know whether I will be working here.”

“Well just let us know whether you are interested,” was her reply as she opened the door. “And thanks for the support earlier. I was in a right tizzy after that session over Bill’s knee,” and she rubbed her bottom again ruefully.

“A pleasure,” I said really meaning it. “Hope to see you again. Bye.”

Walking into the town I thought about what I had just witnessed and the information Lucy had given me. She could be a friend. She was a bit young, rather talkative and trusting with strangers. In no time at all I was back at the house, and waiting with the other candidates to see who would be offered the job. Dennis Porter came into the reception room, looked at me and said: “Miss Dunn, can we see you again please?”

In the interview room he asked: “Have you any further questions about the job Miss Dunn?”

“No, thank you,” I responded. “Your information pack was very comprehensive.”

“Mrs Jones and I were most impressed with your application,” he said. “And would like to offer you the job.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “When would you like me to start?”

We settled on a date about two weeks later, and he escorted me to the front door.

“I look forward to seeing you on the 25th,” he said.

“I am looking forward to it,” I replied and, after shaking his hand, left the building.

Sitting in my car I raised my arms and shouted in relief: “I got it, I got it, I got it!” My first professional job. At that moment I saw Lucy looking through the kitchen window with her thumb up. I nodded my head vigorously and returned the thumb up sign with a broad smile.

Then she waved ‘come here’. I hesitated a moment and then climbed out of the car and walked to the kitchen door. It opened before I reached it and Lucy, beaming with a tea towel in her hand said: “They gave it to you. Congratulations,” and gave me a hug. “When do you start work?” She asked.

“On the 25th,” I replied. “I’m just about to go into town, back to the letting agency. They have a couple of flats available at this end of town which I would like to look at.”

In the kitchen Lucy said: “Now you have the job, would you like to see Bill, you know for an audition? I’ve already told him you might be interested.”

I flushed. “Oh Lucy!” I said flustered. “I’m not sure.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “I’ll go and tell him.”

Rather too quickly she returned with Bill Hunt who, I noticed, was carrying the wooden hairbrush I saw being used that morning. I gazed into his eyes.

“I understand from Lucy that you would like an audition? He asked.

“Of course she does,” interrupted Lucy. “That’s why she is still here.”

I gulped, and after a second or two said: “Ok. Ok, I’ll do it.” As I smiled.

Lucy smiled too and said: “Oh good, I’ll come and watch.”

They led me into the dining room and Bill removed a dust sheet from a dining chair and moved it to a convenient position. Taking my arm he pulled me over his knee. He then pulled up my skirt and tucked it into the waist band.

“She has silk knickers and stockings, Bill. You lucky man!” Said Lucy.

Bill said nothing and just pulled the knickers down over my thighs to my knees.

“Hold on, I’ll help.” Said Lucy, pulling the material right off my legs. “You have a peach of a bottom, Jennifer. I think Bill is drooling.”

Bill said nothing but brought his hand down smartly on my left buttock. I clutched the chair legs with my hands and promised myself I would not let go. My bottom was smarting with each spank as he worked up one buttock and down the other. After a short while the smarting gave way to uncomfortable pain and my bottom began to dance a little to try to avoid the heavy slaps. Once or twice a slap was more painful than usual and I uttered an “Ouch.” His hand was not only big but hard too.

After a pause the next slap was considerably more painful and I jerked upward with a loud: “Ouch.” From then on I lost control. The spanks came thick and fast and my jerking bottom could not avoid the ruthlessly wielded hairbrush. I bucked and grunted in pain An arm kept me firmly in place over his knees but I managed to keep hold of the chair legs.

“Ow, Ow, Ow OOOw!!” I cried plaintively, but Bill seemed to take no notice. Then he stopped.

My bottom seemed on fire and was pulsating in pain. Bill helped me up from his knees.

“You took that pretty well,” he said.

“Yes, she did,” agreed Lucy. “Want to try it again Jennifer?”

“Not just yet.” I said rubbing my cheeks gently and wiping at my tears with the other hand.

“Well, I’ll be off,” said Bill. “See you soon Jennifer, and be good.”

Lucy leant close to me and whispered: “You passed. Can I feel your bottom please?”

We both laughed, me partly in relief for a successful audition.

Driving home after finding a room to let I reflected on my day. One job, one sore bottom, one successful audition and a new home. Quite a day.

The End