A St Angela’s story from Roué 13
It must not be assumed from The Rosalind Bottomley File that actual sexual intercourse between a master and a pupil was a normal occurrence at St Angela’s. It quite definitely was not and indeed if the Head or, worse, the Governors had known it had taken place on this occasion between Rosalind and Mr Evans then he would have been sent packing immediately, senior master or not. For it was something which could never be countenanced at a reputable school.
Inevitably though with a girl such as Rosalind — very attractive and also known from her background to be no longer a virgin — the thought of sexual intercourse was bound to pass through more than one master’s mind. But of course it was more than any of them would dare do to translate the thought into action. And Mr Evans, though he had frequently indulged in daydreams in which he fucked Rosalind, had not really intended to do it — it was just that at that particular caning session the temptation had finally been too great, with Rosalind’s deliberate teasing — blatantly opening her legs to display herself when he had her over the desk, and then asking to have her bottom rubbed with cold cream. It was simply too much and in the heat of the moment he had pushed her down on the bed, and without pausing to think of the possible consequences had started unfastening those old-fashioned fly buttons which he still insisted on having on his trousers.
Contrary to what might have been expected from Rosalind’s previous demeanour she started struggling when she realised what Mr Evans had in mind but the aroused master, his head in a whirl and his trousers lowered, had been unstoppable; pinioning the struggling girl, pushing her legs apart, and then forcibly mounting her. And then delivering a series of exquisite thrusts which in his over-excited state resulted in an all-too-rapid climax. It was marvellous, fantastic — while it lasted. But then Evans came down to earth with a thud as the realisation of what he had done hit home with crystal clarity; not least the fact that the wretched girl, now crying, had of course had no form of contraception.
Rosalind’s tears were genuine, from the shock and dismay at what had happened. She had never for one moment dreamt that Mr Evans would do it, and had only meant to annoy him with her teasing in order to get her own back for those awful stingers he had moments earlier landed on her bottom. She was not a promiscuous girl and indeed when she had been living with that Clapham car dealer earlier she had only been letting him do it because she had no option. And he had been the only one — until now that dirty sod Evans had done it as well. Her tears started afresh as she too thought of the dreadful possibility of having a baby — at least Mr Goldman in Clapham had put her on the Pill, whereas now...
Evans’ first reaction, after drawing up his trousers and refastening his fly-buttons with what dignity he could muster, had been squalid fear for his own skin. If this should ever become known... To be followed immediately by a firm resolve that it would not become known. It had clearly all been the fault of this wretched over-sexed girl, and indeed he wondered briefly if he should not give her another caning. But while it would certainly do her good he reluctantly decided against it. Her bottom was looking pretty well-done already and he didn’t want to overdo things in her present state and trigger some unfortunate reaction — such as going to the Head, or even to someone else. (In another moment of quaking fear he could see the gutter press getting hold of it — ‘Master Has Sex With Teenage Pupil’ emblazoned on the front page.)
No, controlling himself, he instead peremptorily told the girl to get tidied up and then started on a lengthy and frightening lecture on the consequences which would occur if what had taken place ever became known. The gist of this was that Rosalind would undoubtedly be removed from St Angela’s to a proper Borstal where the conditions would be such as to make St Angela’s seem like a veritable holiday camp. And to put what had just happened in a more favourable light he told her that at such an institution she would automatically be forced to have sexual intercourse with all of the male staff whenever they felt so inclined. It’s a well-known fact, said Evans authoritatively. And once having been to such a place a girl was inevitably branded for life, an outcast, with no possibility of ever living it down. (In all this there was no mention of what his own fate would be. Presumably he was to get off scot-free in his role as the innocent sorely-tempted party.)
In any event a chastened-looking Rosalind went off promising not to breathe a word — she indeed had accepted at face value everything Mr Evans had said. And feeling just a little better, that gentleman couldn’t resist a quick feel up her skirt as she went out. As regards the possibility of a pregnancy — well he could only hope for the best. And if instead the worst did happen in that regard he would just have to deny all knowledge — and perhaps blame, say, that youth who delivered the school papers.
Rosalind, though, could not dismiss the awful possibility so lightly. For if it were to happen, well, whatever would she do? It preyed on her mind and it was this as much as the prospect of a third punishment that day (see The Rosalind Bottomley File) which later precipitated that unfortunate business with Mr Pink when she had panicked and run off.
Evans naturally had been sick with fear again when this happened and also when she was subsequently found and brought back to school. But as The Rosalind Bottomley File relates Rosalind did not disclose what had taken place in Mr Evans’ room, although she was still desperately worried about possibly being pregnant. And indeed it was not until a week after that final awful ordeal — being caned in 2D in front of all the Governors — that she knew for sure she wasn’t.
This whole time was a very trying one for Rosalind for she really did seem to be a prime target for just about every master. And not just the masters but it seemed the Governors too, for it was at about this time — just a couple of weeks earlier — when there had been that ordeal with Mr Grimsley in the sports store room (as described in Rose and Charlotte Recommended) when Rosalind and Charlotte Lawson were both wearing those distinctly too-tight shorts with, of course, no knickers underneath.
It had not actually been all that accidental, for the gym mistress, Miss Davies, knew that Mr Grimsley was particularly appreciative of well-displayed big-girl contours. And so, especially for his visit to the gym class, she had conveniently ‘lost’ Rosalind’s and Charlotte’s normal shorts and substituted those two other pairs which were indisputably too small for them.
The tight shorts had the hoped-for effect, putting Mr Grimsley in a decidedly good mood as the two girls were kept behind after the lesson and taken to the sports store room. And there of course, as we know, were given a distinctly harrowing time. Mr Grimsley using the slipper to very telling effect on those tautly-covered bums. And additionally handling both girls’ private parts in a manner which, if it ever became known, would do his public image no good whatsoever.
Yes, there was just no escape for a pretty girl at St Angela’s and it had all been really getting to her. The worst though had undoubtedly been this fearful wait to see if anything would result from what Mr Evans had done; and when finally it was evident that it hadn’t, that she was going to be alright, well, it was such a relief that she felt as if all her worries were over.
But they weren’t, of course. Masters at St Angela’s unfortunately did not change and in particular Mr Evans did not change. And that initial fear he had had of exposure, subsequently reinforced by the Head’s warning when Rosalind had run away, well, the fear had gradually disappeared as he realised that he had scared her sufficiently into keeping quiet. And as his fear diminished so his desire for her returned — a desire to cane that tempting bum again and also, putting it bluntly, a desire to fuck her again as well.
The need to cane her could be satisfied easily enough once all the excitement had died down and he had got his confidence back. He waited just a week after Rosalind’s caning in front of the Governors and then simply produced a trumped-up claim of slack work followed by an order that she present herself at 2D after classes that day. Knickers down over the chair and four stingers on her bare bottom — good sharp stingers which made the pretty girl gasp but nothing too punitive, nothing to bring up angry welts as he had done before. For this caning was primarily a warning, a taste of what he could do with the cane if she was not docile, co-operative.
Because Evans had that other need in mind, a need which was definitely intensified by the sight of Rosalind’s full upthrust bottom now squirming painfully from the cane. His hand reached out for one red-striped buttock, squeezing it greedily, his excitement mounting at the thought of once again having intercourse with her. He was quite conscious of the undoubted risk but that only served to increase his excitement. With the front of his trousers bulging unashamedly and in a somewhat shaking voice he told her to report to his rooms that evening at the beginning of Prep.
But contrary to what Rosalind feared there was nothing immediately threatening when she entered Mr Evans’ room that evening. She was conducted to a settee in front of a cosy fire and there was coffee freshly prepared and biscuits laid out. The master was undoubtedly on his best behaviour although this did not preclude him, as he sat down next to her, reaching out and fondling a firm shapely breast through Rosalind’s crisp school uniform blouse. ‘The dirty beast!’ she thought; but she knew he hadn’t invited her to his rooms just to do that. There had to be some other reason for giving her coffee and biscuits and he was obviously after something. She warily sipped her coffee while Mr Evans groped... and started questioning.
And what he questioned her about was the Clapham car dealer business. She had of course been having... er... sex with him? ‘Y...yes Sir’ Rosalind’s eyes lowered unhappily as she wondered what was coming.
‘Nice, was it?’ asked Mr Evans, ‘I mean, you enjoyed it?’
Blushing, Rosalind mumbled — ‘Well, I... um... not really sir.’
‘Of course you enjoyed it my girl.’ He enthusiastically squeezed her breast. ‘Come, come — there’s no need to be shy. And I expect you miss... er... are having it now?’
Rosalind looked distinctly unhappy: ‘Uh... no sir. I don’t sir. I mean...’
But Mr Evans knew better — ‘Come now, please! It is a recognised fact that once a girl has... er... started then she misses not having it. I’m sure that’s a large part of your trouble here at St Angela’s.’
Having established this he now changed his tack to the area of his primary interest. How had they managed to avoid her... ahem... getting pregnant?
‘Well sir, I... that is, he made me... well, go on the Pill sir.’
Ah! As Evans had assumed and just what he wanted to hear: ‘And you were able to obtain supplies of these... er... Pills?’
Rosalind all at once could see a certain awful possibility behind Mr Evans’ questioning: ‘Well sir... I... um...’
The master’s tone at once became more aggressive — ‘Now kindly do not prevaricate with me, Miss. I asked you a simple question!’ The hand at her breast squeezed... painfully.
‘Ooooh! Oh please sir, no sir, I mean yes sir!’
‘That’s better. And how exactly did you obtain them?’
‘Well sir, this lady, Mrs Rochelle. A friend of Mr Goldman, the man I was living with. She got them for me sir.’
‘Ah! And this lady — I expect you could get in touch with her again?’
‘I... I don’t know sir...’
Mr Evans squeezed again (‘Ouch!’) ‘Miss, would you like another taste of the cane? I could really make that nice bottom of yours jump, you know!’
‘Oh no sir. Please sir. Yes sir. I mean yes, I think I do know where she lives.’
‘Yes, I thought you might. Well now listen to me carefully, young lady. There are obvious shortcomings in your work here as I and other masters have not infrequently observed. And the reason for this is quite simple, as I have already intimated to you. It is not, as some masters think, because you are basically lazy but is rather the result of your personal background. As I have told you, when a girl starts having... er... sex at an early age, as you have done, then her body unfortunately comes to require this. And when, as in your case, this... er... sexual activity is subsequently stopped then serious hormonal imbalances are set up which result in inability to concentrate, listlessness, etc. In fact all the symptoms which have been seen in your work.’
All of this of course was a complete travesty of the truth. Apart from the fact that Evans was talking a lot of mumbo-jumbo about hormone imbalances Rosalind’s work, as we have seen from The Rosalind Bottomley File, had been excellent since joining St Angela’s. But unfortunately the truth was not always important. The pretty girl sat with head lowered, a flush spreading over her face, knowing there was nothing she could say — as always at St Angela’s you didn’t argue.
The hand continued to knead her breast as Mr Evans went on — ‘And so I have come to the reluctant conclusion, Miss, that there is only one answer to this problem. You are a... um... highly sexed girl and you cannot now do without this... er... stimulation. Unfortunately you are still a schoolgirl, albeit an eighteen-year-old one, and society does not approve of schoolgirls getting... er... sexual stimulation. And quite rightly so in the normal course of events, but in your own case... Well, anyway, if you are to get it then it has to be in... ahem... a discreet manner.’
Mr Evans drew a deep breath such as a man might on announcing his intention of undertaking some heroic deed.
‘What I intend then Miss is to provide this... er... stimulation myself. I shall do this only because I am convinced it is necessary and of course not for any gratification of my own. Indeed I shall be taking a considerable risk but I am prepared to accept that. What you will do is to come here to my room, I think twice a week, when I shall... ahem... that is... well... have intercourse with you. You will observe the utmost discretion of course, coming I think after supper and telling absolutely no-one of these visits.’
He paused for just a slight breath and then continued.
‘I am convinced that you must start on this... er... programme at the very earliest opportunity. So you will immediately contact your acquaintance and obtain supplies of these... er... Pills, which naturally you will take most conscientiously. We don’t want any... ah... slip-ups, as I’m sure you will agree.’
It was all so unbelievable that Rosalind could only blink, with Mr Evans’ words seeming to run around in circles in her head. She might have thought he was joking except that she knew he wouldn’t be joking about something like this. And of course the dirty beast had done it once already. Now he was planning to do it regularly twice a week under the pretence — she knew it must be a pretence — that it was all for her own good.
But there was nothing she could do, she knew; no one she could go to to prevent Mr Evans doing this. If she went to Matron she wouldn’t be believed (‘What a nasty imagination you’ve got, Rosalind. I think what you need is another dose of the cane.’) And if she went to the Head she’d get exactly the same response — and probably be bent over his desk there and then. While all the time there was that threat of Borstal where all the guards and officers, or whatever they had, would be doing it to her. No, she could only agree and submit. She felt she was going to break into tears at any moment.
Mr Evans, though, obviously could not wait to get the arrangements started. Pulling the girl round sideways so that she had her back to him and he could reach round and now take hold of both breasts, he wanted to know if she could phone the lady right away — that evening as soon as he had finished with Rosalind. Then he could get her a pass to go out of the school and collect the Pills — tomorrow perhaps?
Rosalind had an awful sense of helplessness. All this when she had just been telling herself that her problems were over. Now — well, she just felt a sense of despair. She thought briefly of trying to put Mr Evans off by saying that she didn’t have Mrs Rochelle’s phone number but what was the use. She had this dreadful feeling that he could see right into her thoughts, and he would know she was lying. And then he would simply cane her until she could take no more. She tried to blink away tears, dimly aware that Mr Evans was now unbuttoning her blouse.
Rosalind was blinking away more tears when she left the room half an hour later. She was now without her knickers, holding them in one hand while the other ruefully rubbed her bum; for she had been given another caning, as Mr Evans said ‘just to remind you what you have to do young lady’. Rosalind had pleaded — ‘Please sir; not the cane again sir. I’ll do just what you’ve told me sir, I promise.’ But beastly Evans had insisted, unwilling probably to let her leave without getting her knickers off. It was not a severe caning, though, more what the Head would term a ‘touching up’, over the arm of the settee, with knickers off, three across her bottom and then two across her upper thighs. Just enough to make her yelp and ensure that she towed the line. She was to report to Mr Evans the next day and then...
Rosalind duly did it all as she was told — contacted Mrs Rochelle, telling her a fabricated story as to why she had to have them; got her pass from dirty beast Evans; collected the horrid Pills; and started taking them. And one week later made her first horrid after-supper visit to him. It was, well, horrid; but then she hadn’t expected it to be anything else.
Yes it was all horrid and awful, the clandestine twice-weekly visits to his rooms either in her normal uniform or changed into pyjamas and dressing gown... the discreet knock at his door... his head popping out and peering anxiously up and down the corridor... and, once inside, her knickers or pyjama bottoms coming off immediately. And then, afterwards, the equally clandestine walk back.
It was awful alright, but there was the saving thought that it would not be forever; for she was in her last year at St Angela’s and in really just a few months would be out of reach of beastly Mr Evans and all the other beastly masters. She would be free to get a job and live her own life and not be continually harassed by lecherous masters who could never leave you alone. Because she was already 18 and in fact would be 19 by the end of term, and there was no way you could be kept at St Angela’s beyond that.
At this point, our contributor is about to allow the charmingly named Rosie Bottomley to escape from St Angela’s by reason of her approaching nineteenth birthday. The editorial staff have had to mount an operation to prevent this unfortunate occurrence. Operation ‘Rosie Recaptured’ follows.
But there was. Because, ‘progressive’ though some of the ‘educational techniques’ might have been at St Angela’s — in particular the ‘sexual therapeutics’ of Mr Evans, St Angela’s was, like many an institution, somewhat hampered in its operation by cumbersome and grossly inefficient secretarial arrangements. In the past, administrative muddles had been responsible for many oversights, omissions and misapprehensions, and with the school’s administration floundering along as it did, it dawned on Mr Evans that by a little sleight of hand in the office while no-one was about, a secretarial ‘cock-up’ might be engineered which would facilitate the continued perpetration of those more literal ‘cock-ups’ to which Mr Evans, the beast, had become accustomed.
A secretive visit to the school office, an alteration here, a ‘mislaying’ there, a letter on the school’s headed notepaper, to Rosalind Bottomley’s family explaining the ‘original miscalculation’ — and there it was. All at once Rosalind Bottomley was recorded in the school’s records as being, not eighteen, but seventeen. Her family had been advised that their Rosie would not be home at the end of term, since she was going on the Pennine Expedition in the holidays, and due to a misunderstanding the original order for her to be sent to St Angela’s had been wrongly dated. Rosalind was to stay at the school until summer nineteen eighty-two, not nineteen eighty-one. It was to be hoped that they would understand.
That was the most difficult bit accomplished. How Rosalind would take it would be another matter, though a familiarity with the methods used at St Angela’s might lead one to suppose that Rosalind would have to take it lying down — though which way up would doubtless be for Mr Evans to decide.
Thank you, R.T.M., for this contribution, but we really cannot have you allowing the seductive Rosalind B. to slide out of the St Angela’s saga just yet! That would require a meeting of the Board of Governors — and I doubt that Mr Grimsley, for one, would let her slip through his fingers while he can keep her to slip his fingers through!