Story from Blushes 11
‘What’s he like, this school inspector?’ queried Marjorie Tompkins. She was seated on Mr Collingwood’s lap in the latter’s sitting room. It was 6pm but as live-in secretary to the Headmaster at Oakwood Academy, a minor boys public school, one could naturally be required to work outside the normal office hours. Not that Marjorie was exactly working at the moment but she would certainly put it down as overtime when she presented Mr Collingwood with her weekly sheet of hours worked. Marjorie was attired in demure high-necked white blouse and black skirt but the blouse was unbuttoned to her waist and as Marjorie was not wearing a bra her boobs were fully on display — except that Mr Collingwood’s hand was covering one.
‘I suppose he’s like all his kind. Interfering busybodies. Parasites on the state.’ The Headmaster’s hand vigorously kneaded Marjorie’s firm flesh to indicate the intensity of his feelings. ‘Nonetheless one can’t just throw him out, and I fear he will come up with a whole list of complaints unless we, uh, buy him off. And that’s where you come in, Marjorie my girl.’
‘Oh, Mr Collingwood, you’re not expecting me to —?’
Marjorie’s voice tailed off in helpless indignation. She was almost getting used to it, of course. After a month at Oakwood Academy Marjorie was now on the Pill and having sexual intercourse with her employer on a pretty regular twice-weekly basis. This following those frantic days right at the beginning when Mr Collingwood, frustrated after some week’s abstinence, had seemed to want to do it all the time. Naturally she pretended to herself that she was being made to do it and she told herself that if her boyfriend Ian knew he would understand.
In reality Marjorie knew that Ian would not understand but then she didn’t intend him to find out. It was simply something that was expected of her in the course of her work and therefore nothing to do with anyone else. Without admitting to herself that she had acquired a bit of a taste for it, but with Mr Collingwood only wanting to do it twice a week, Marjorie had wondered whether one or two of the other masters might want to do it as well. A number of them had shown a distinct, if veiled, interest.
She didn’t think Mr Collingwood would like her doing it with anyone else so she would have to tread carefully if she was going to let it happen, in the interests of a quiet life. Marjorie certainly wasn’t going to let any of the boys to do it. That included those two horrors Robert Neil and Richard Graythorpe who in fact weren’t so bad now. But now the subject of this school inspector had come up the thought did occur to Marjorie that perhaps he might be interested — and there might be something in the way of a bonus — she didn’t earn much — to be gained by being ‘nice’.
The Head continued to knead Marjorie’s tits in a way she found embarrassingly stimulating. What he now said though caused her to utter a groan of horror.
‘I was certainly not thinking of sexual intercourse, my dear. But I rather fancy our friend Mr Inspector would appreciate putting the cane across your pretty bottom. Your bare bottom, naturally. Needless to say, I find the thought of another man doing that quite distasteful, and especially some wretched parasite like this inspector. But I do feel it may be necessary.’
‘Oh no! Not the cane!’
Marjorie was still getting the cane from Mr Collingwood, though mercifully not more than once a week. She would much rather have something else done to her but at times the Head just seemed to have this very strong urge to use the cane. It must be something to do with being a Headmaster.
‘Don’t disturb yourself, my dear. I hate to suggest it but I can see no alternative. Otherwise there’s the distinct chance of this wretched little man recommending that the school be closed down and that wouldn’t do any of us any good now would it?’
Perhaps it was the mental agitation induced by the impending visit but Mr Collingwood now showed clear signs of arousal, in spite of the fact he had screwed her only yesterday. Marjorie made some proper noises of complaint but quite willingly took off her skirt and then the pale blue lacy knickers. Mr Collingwood used his favourite position, bending Marjorie over his table.
One thing about doing it with an older man, as Marjorie’s friend Julie had told her, was that they could take a nice long time and a girl could get her proper enjoyment from it. Marjorie had pretended that such things were of no concern to her, but she had to admit that Mr Collingwood was certainly able to take a nice long time, and now proceeded to do so, punctuating his performance with noisy gasps and groans of pleasure. Marjorie found it vaguely satisfactory — though at the same time there was the decidedly unpleasant prospect of that inspector’s cane in her mind.
He turned up two days later at 9 o’clock, a pompous little man of about Mr Collingwood’s age called Mr Smithers. He immediately started poking his nose into everything and Mr Collingwood immediately started getting highly agitated. By lunchtime the Headmaster was looking very worried indeed and Marjorie was informed that her services — her bottom in other words — would have to be offered. ‘Otherwise we’ll all be for the chop.’
Marjorie didn’t say anything but what she thought couldn’t have been said! The Head told her she was to bring tea into his sitting room at half past three.
Naturally Mr Smithers was in there with the Head, with a coal fire burning in the fireplace. Mr Collingwood told Marjorie to put her tray of tea and cakes down on the table. He had got to his feet, an embarrassed smile on his face.
‘Ah, Marjorie. You’ve met Inspector Smithers of course. As I’ve just been telling him I have a rather urgent appointment just now but I am sure you can entertain him for a little while. She is a most capable girl, Inspector. And a very attractive one as well as you can see.’
Rat-bag, thought Marjorie, though forcing her face into a charming smile. The Head went out — and she was left alone with Mr Bloody Inspector Smithers.
‘Yes, indeed, most attractive.’ He had stood up and was smiling at Marjorie but the eyes behind his spectacles weren’t smiling; they just looked greedy as they stared at her tits. ‘And still at a very tender age. Still young enough to be a schoolgirl, I believe. Seventeen, was it, your Headmaster told me?’
Marjorie flushed. ‘Yes sir.’
‘And young enough to have your bottom smacked and indeed have it caned. Would that be correct?’ Marjorie’s flush deepened. ‘Don’t be coy, my dear. Your Headmaster has informed me that he does indeed carry out those disciplinary measures and I must say — in spite of his various other shortcomings — I can applaud his good sense in that.’
What could she say? ‘Would you like some tea, sir?’ was what Marjorie came up with, but it was clear that her tender bottom was at some considerable risk. She poured the tea and then sat down quickly, on a chair rather than the sofa. Mr Smithers sat down opposite. He began sipping his tea and biting into a cake in a prissy manner.
‘Isn’t this cosy?’ he observed, careful not to speak with his mouth full. ‘Most delightful. And you know, my dear, I am sure, what I have been told?’
Marjorie shook her head. She could make a good guess though.
‘Don’t be coy, my dear,’ he repeated. ‘Your Headmaster told me you had been told. You are being offered to me as a sweetener. So that I moderate somewhat a report which otherwise will be rather devastating. For where Oakwood Academy is concerned, Marjorie, the list of shortcomings is almost endless; both of its very fabric and in the way it is run. But in order that I don’t say anything too awful I am being offered the pleasure of your delightful bottom. That seems to be the situation in a nutshell and it is of course highly irregular.’
Marjorie said nothing. There wasn’t much to say.
‘Stand up, my dear.’
Sod Mr Collingwood and sod this inspector, Marjorie told herself. But she nevertheless got to her feet. Greedy eyes focussed on Marjorie’s breasts under the pale green blouse, and on her hips.
‘Yes. Decidedly irregular, but also highly tempting. Yes indeed. Take off your clothes will you, please, Marjorie Tompkins.’
Marjorie gave him a resentful look, ran a few rude words through her mind, and then reached for her blouse buttons. With a somewhat illogical idea of modesty she stepped behind Mr Collingwood’s fire-screen. ‘All your clothes,’ advised Mr Smithers’ prim voice. ‘And come out from behind that thing. I want to see all of you.’ Part way through Marjorie’s disrobing he modified his instructions. ‘Keep the stockings and suspender belt on, I think. They do look rather fetching.’
Undoubtedly Marjorie did look charming in suspender belt and nylons and her shoes and nothing else. Mr Smithers coaxed her into various poses and Marjorie didn’t object because she quite liked showing herself off. What she didn’t like was getting the cane. There was just that one possible way Marjorie could see of perhaps getting off a caning. ‘Sir,’ she asked in a hesitant voice.
Mr Smithers in fact now had Mr Collingwood’s cane in his hand. He looked questioningly.
‘Please sir; wouldn’t you rather...’ Marjorie searched for some polite way of putting it but there didn’t seem to be one. ‘Wouldn’t you rather, you know, do me, sir? I wouldn’t mind, sir. In fact I’d much rather have that than the cane...’
Mr Smithers’ eyes were wide behind his glasses. ‘Good gracious me!’ He repeated this, while at the same time his mind was working overtime.
‘Is it possible, Miss, that your Headmaster has sexual intercourse with you?’
Marjorie mumbled something, not at all sure she should admit it. The inspector was suddenly close, the cane abandoned for the moment. Two pudgy hands seized hold of Marjorie’s firm and now very nude breasts. ‘Answer me, Miss!’
This time, gasping a bit from his sudden assault on her breasts, Marjorie’s reply was more clearly in the affirmative. ‘That is quite, quite disgraceful.’ Mr Smithers’ eyes were shining brightly as he squeezed. ‘Quite disgraceful! When you are just 17 and should still be at school yourself! I find it almost unbelievable!’
He had got quite red in the face, either from the thought of Mr Collingwood screwing Marjorie or it could be from those two splendid boobs he was still grasping, their nipples now fully erect and sticking out like little pink fingers. ‘Well, the very least I can do is to have a quick check to determine that no serious harm has been done. Get up on the table, Miss. On your back and open your legs.’
It was Marjorie’s turn to go very red in the face now. She protested vehemently but Mr Smithers, visibly sweating, primly told her to do as she was told and do it at once. You dirty beast, she thought hotly, but there was nothing to do except comply. It was very reminiscent of that morning in Mr Collingwood’s office when he made her get on his desk on her back for her very first caning. He still liked to do it that way and Marjorie really hated it.
Now she was in very much the same position except that this awful inspector person made her raise her knees by putting her feet on the table and spread her legs.
Marjorie bit her lip but heard her breath hiss out as he began stroking her inner thighs above the nylons. She was very sensitive there but his hand almost immediately moved on to a much more sensitive region. She was already wet because although Inspector Smithers might be a nasty little horror it had nonetheless been oddly exciting getting undressed in front of him. She whispered a little groan as his fingers stroked her. The groan changed to a squeal as two fingers became more adventurously demanding. Involuntarily she arched her hips against the hand. It was just like being done. It was awful but it was also something else. Her squeals and gasps and groans kept coming and Marjorie’s hips began a rhythmic thrusting as Mr Smithers proceeded quite simply to bring her off.
‘Very depraved behaviour,’ pronounced the inspector unctuously when, not too much later, Marjorie lay exhausted on the table having come with an undignified writhing of hips. ‘I can see you are certainly in need of a caning.’
She was hauled off the table and made to stand, on jelly-like legs, in front of the fire, her arms spread wide along the mantelpiece.
The flickering flames were hot against her nude front but very soon Marjorie experienced considerably greater heat across her quivering buttocks. The searing, slicing, red-hot pain was repeated. Again and again.
From Marjorie’s pretty mouth came cries very similar to those which had gasped out minutes before on the table. Squeals and yelps of urgent desperation. At last the caning stopped.
After the caning and what had gone before, Marjorie’s mind, not surprisingly, was a little numb. She was aware though that she was being propelled back to the table, this time to be stood bent over. It was of course the position favoured by Mr Collingwood and also by that Mr Aitken at the Agency. It must be very popular because from what was going on behind her it was clear that Inspector Smithers had very much the same thing in mind. That thing which he had expressed such horror and shock over when Marjorie had admitted that Mr Collingwood did it. But somehow it didn’t seem too surprising that now this Inspector Smithers was going to do it himself.
After the caning, and having just worn herself out anyway, Marjorie didn’t get much out of it. Mr Smithers though, clearly did.
The day was over, or should have been. It was 10.45 and Marjorie was in bed wondering what she might be able to get out of the Head for her sufferings at the hands of Mr Smithers. She realised that if she had been smart she would have come to some agreement before. Her thoughts were interrupted by a cautious knock at the bedroom door.
It couldn’t be the Head because he had his own key. It couldn’t be that Inspector Smithers, surely, because he was supposed to have left. It could of course be one of the boys, ever hopeful. As she lay silent the knock was repeated. Now a small voice. ‘Marjorie. It’s me. Stephen James.’
‘Go away,’ Marjorie hissed. At least it wasn’t one of the older ones who were always after her. Stephen James was a smallish boy with an angelic, innocent look.
‘I’ve got to see you. It’s very important.’
She lay still for a bit and then reluctantly got up and padded over in her pyjamas to the door. Stephen James was also in his pyjamas plus dressing gown. ‘Let me come in,’ he said. He looked excited. ‘What the hell d’you want?’ Marjorie demanded. ‘It’s nearly 11 o’clock.’
What innocent-faced Stephen, a good three inches shorter than Marjorie, wanted he very soon made clear. As he explained, red-faced, there was a secret spy-hole where you could peer into the Head’s sitting room and it had been Stephen James’ good fortune to have his eye to it earlier that day. Sometime after 3.30 in fact.
She seized his shoulders angrily. Stephen did not resist. ‘I haven’t told anyone,’ he gasped as he was squeezed in a bear-hug. ‘And I won’t. Honest. Not if... if... you know...’ Taking advantage of his position his own hands had slid round behind Marjorie and were now cupping her pyjama-clad bottom.
‘You little blackmailer,’ Marjorie spat out into his ear. ‘No, Marjorie. Don’t say that. It... it’s just that I think you’re so super.’ The two hands had tentatively begun drawing down Marjorie’s pyjama trousers...