Charity Work Ch. 01

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I had been working in the charity shop for around six months. To be honest, it had been a real breath of fresh air for me — since my children had flown the nest, my life had been growing ever less meaningful. Suddenly I was doing something important; something that made a real difference to people’s lives. Admittedly, all I was actually doing was serving in a bookshop, but the money we made was feeding starving people throughout the Third World.

The job had been my husband’s idea: he had seen a ‘volunteers wanted’ sign in the window and suggested that, as I was so fond of books and had so much free time available, it might be just what I needed. Given where I am now, that is ironic in the extreme!

The shop was staffed entirely by volunteers, with the one exception of Blake, the manager, who was a paid employee of the charity. I liked Blake from the very first time we met. It was his enthusiasm. He loved his work, he loved the charity, he loved books; he was very much the right man in the right job. He was ex-military. A career soldier, nearly thirty years in the Scots guards, ending up a major. And he was a Scot, with a beautiful gently lilting Edinburgh accent, all his words perfectly enunciated.

He started me one day a week in the shop and after only a couple of weeks asked me if I would like to do a second day, helping him in the depot sorting the donations. Everything donated had to be assessed for condition and literary quality, then sorted into what could be sold in the shop, what should be transferred to other branches, and what we should donate onwards to other charity shops. I jumped at the chance. I probably enjoyed my Thursdays in the depot with Blake more that my Tuesday’s in the shop — we worked very well together, and he was good company. We chatted about anything and everything; I found I could talk about things with Blake that I never could with my husband: Blake never judged me.

Then one Thursday as we were closing, he informed me that he was going to reorganize the shift patterns. There had been several new volunteers and a couple of old hands had moved on and he said it was time for a shake-up. He asked would I be happy to do both my shifts in the shop in future. I was devastated and, with the complete surprise, I felt tears well up in my eyes. Not noticing my distress, he carried on, telling me there were a couple of new ladies who he wanted to try out in the depot, while they were getting to know the ropes.

I blurted dikimevi escort out that that I really looked forward to our Tuesdays and that I really didn’t want anything to change and that I could do anything that they could do; by this time the tears were streaming down my face. I so wanted him to put his arms round me and tell me that everything would be alright, however he stood stock still and just watched me. I tried desperately to pull myself together.

Then he said, rather coldly: “go to the ladies’ room and wash your face.” He was so firm and matter-of-fact that I just did as I was told.

When I returned, he was still standing exactly where I had left him. I apologized for my behaviour and told him it wouldn’t happen again. I tried to explain that I had just been so surprised by what he had said. Again, I expected him to tell me he had changed his mind but, with no show of emotion in that gentle Edinburgh lilt, he spoke again.

“It is important to remember, Mrs Henley, that although the shop is staffed by volunteers, we are running a business, and a business must be run properly. There has to be someone in charge and there has to be a degree of discipline, otherwise it would be chaos. Do you understand that?”

I told him I did and apologized again.

“Do you think outbursts like this make it easier or harder for me to do my job?”

I didn’t reply, just stood with my head bowed, feeling like a small child being told off.

“And do you think that I should tolerate this kind of behaviour, Mrs Henley?”

“No,” I responded.

“So what do you think I should do?” he continued.

There was a silence. He continued to stare at me, impassively, as I wondered was he going to ask me to stop volunteering altogether, or just transfer me to the shop. Had I ruined everything completely? What could I possibly say to get back into his good books?

“Well?”

“I think you should punish me,” I responded. I don’t know where this came from but there was something about his tone of voice which made me feel I should somehow throw myself on his mercy.

He seemed to stop and weigh this up for a few moments, then asked: “and how should I do that, Mrs Henley?”

“I don’t think that is for me to say,” I responded, then added “but I am sure whatever you decide will be fair and I know I will deserve it.”

Again, he seemed to be giving proper consideration to the situation. Inside I was in a dikmen escort blind panic; if he said I could carry on in the shop two days a week, I would be thrilled, although I realized he could simply ask me to leave. Then everything changed.

“So to be clear, are you thinking of some kind of change to your duties? Or perhaps a penance to atone for your outburst?” He paused, momentarily, then continued: “or do you want to be punished as one might punish a naughty child?”

I realized that what I said next would determine not only my future at the shop but also my whole relationship with Blake, but I couldn’t throw away what I had. “I still don’t think it is for me to say, Sir” I responded. Where the ‘Sir’ came from I do not know.

He stood stock still for a full minute, staring into my eyes, then finally turned away and went to sit down on a chair. Then he said very matter-of-factly “Come here, Mrs Henley.”

I did as he instructed.

“Now lay down across my knees.

I lay on his lap. feeling rather stupid, knowing he was going to spank my bottom, like a naughty child, but knowing that if I allowed him then I might keep my job. It was a price worth paying: a few moments humiliation in return for my job, albeit now in the shop, not the depot.

His hand came down hard on my bottom, and even through my trousers it stung. I don’t think I have ever been slapped before, certainly not by my husband, and I could not remember it happening as a child.

The second slap was slightly harder, and although it stung slightly more, I found myself feeling a rather warm sensation inside — this was not as bad as I had thought. Numbers three and four were much the same as the second. Then he told me to stand up. I actually felt a pang of disappointment that it was all over so quickly, crazy as that may seem. However, I should have known better.

“I think that this would be more affective if you were to take off those trousers, don’t you Mrs Henley?” There was a slight catch in his voice — he was excited too.

“Yes sir,” I responded, and removed the offending garment. Then without being asked, I lay back down on his knee.

The fifth blow really stung. Whilst my underwear could not be described as skimpy, it did leave scope for his hand to come into contact with my bare skin. The sixth blow was harder still and I let out an involuntary whelp.

“Shhh” he said as the seventh blow was delivered. This time his elmadağ escort hand lingered on my bottom, gently rubbing, easing the pain slightly. The same pattern was repeated for the eighth, ninth and tenth blows, each time his hand remaining a little longer than the previous time as he rubbed and kneaded the red flesh.

After the tenth blow, his hand seemed to stay massaging me for an age, then he said: “you really were a very naughty girl, weren’t you Mrs Henley?”

“Yes Sir,” I replied.

I felt his hand move and my pants were pulled down onto my thighs, uncovering my behind completely. The next blow came down hard onto my now bare bottom, making a much crisper sound and hurting like hell; again, his hand remained on my skin, rubbing and kneading me to lessen the pain. Then I felt him raise his hand again and this time the hardest smack of all was delivered, leaving my skin stinging; this time his hand did not linger, much to my disappointment.

“Stand up, Mrs Henley,” he instructed.

I did as I was told and made to pull up my pants.

“Did I say to do that?”

I stopped, “No Sir.”

“Then, why are you doing it?”

“I don’t know, Sir”

“I think you enjoyed that, didn’t you Mrs Henley?”

“I got what I deserved, Sir” I replied, hoping this was what he wanted to hear.

“That is not what I asked, Mrs Henley” he responded. He reached out his hand and slipped his hand between my legs and his middle finger slid inside me. “You seem to be very excited, Mrs Henley”

“Yes Sir” I responded; my face now as red as my stinging bottom.

“I think you are just a dirty little slut, Mrs Henley. Would I be right?” A second finger slipped inside me.

“Yes Sir.”

He removed his hand. “I think you need to work here in the depot both days next week, Mrs Henley. We need to ensure that you learn what behaviour is allowed and what is not.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I have been meaning to suggest that you wear a skirt rather than slacks to work; it is so much more appropriate to a working environment. Also, I think you should invest in some slightly less matronly underwear — you are not of retirement age yet!”

“Yes Sir, I replied. “Anything else Sir?”

“If you feel the need to cover your legs, please use stockings or hold-ups, not tights. I always feel tights are unhygienic.”

“Yes Sir”

His hand reached forward again, and this time he grabbed and tugged sharply at my pubic hair. “And get rid of this before next Tuesday.”

Then suddenly back to normal, he said. “Now make yourself look respectable; I need to lock up.” And with that, the meeting was over. It had taken him less than half an hour to reduce me from a 52-year-old woman to his slave. My journey of discovery had begun.

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