Edward had told her before to be more careful about her parking because she had had a couple of near misses. But as usual there were several things in her mind at once and her proximity to the next car was perhaps not paramount. As she backed there was a jolting crunch.
Swallowing, she went forward again and then back at a snail’s pace this time. And then feeling sick got out to look at the damage. It was only then that she realised it was the Head’s car. Sarah’s stomach turned over as she took in the state of the wing, the headlamp.
They had only been there a week. St Luke’s School, a minor boys’ public school, where Sarah’s husband Edward had been appointed Housemaster and history teacher. It was a very good appointment, after one year in the hell of a state comprehensive, and naturally he was very anxious to do well — as of course was Sarah. And now she had wrecked the Headmaster’s car! She stared at it in awed fascination. The difference a few seconds could make: one moment pristine, shining, perfect… and now… their own car had a bit of a dent but nothing like what had happened to Mr Ballard’s.
She didn’t know him too well as yet. About 60, a biggish man with at times an amiable smile — but Sarah had also seen him with a face like thunder tearing a strip off one of the boys. That was surely how he was going to look, and sound, when he saw his car.
‘Hello Mrs Tillot. Oh Cripes!’
Sarah looked up and her heart sank. Robert Foster, Head Boy of Edward’s house. Seventeen, tall and with a somewhat earnest manner, Robert Foster also clearly fancied her. Ever since they had arrived he had been eagerly hanging around her at every opportunity, offering help and advice of all sorts. Help and advice were very acceptable when you were completely new. But there was that other side to it. Robert Foster had busy wandering hands — and liked to rub himself up against Sarah if he could find half an excuse.
‘Gosh Mrs Tillot, did you do it?’
Sarah was in no mood for silly questions, nor for his hand which slid round her. She had her coat on which meant he couldn’t get one of his serious gropes in, but she pushed him away anyway. He had hands like octopus tentacles. It was a pity he didn’t have someone his own age but then it was a boys’ school. ‘Hell!’ she said, looking again at what she had done.
There was no point standing there staring at it. She turned to go in. The hot-eyed youth was naturally still with her. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea, Mrs Tillot. You need something. I mean when the Head…’
Sarah could make her own tea but she didn’t stop him coming in the flat. When the Head… Oh Jesus Christ. She took her coat off and sat down. And there was Edward to be told as well. Would they lose their No Claims Bonus? Oh God! Edward was out for the afternoon, junior rugby.
Eager young Robert shortly came in from the kitchen bearing two mugs of tea. A proper little helper. His eyes of course, now she had her coat off, were on Sarah’s blouse front, the taut bulge of her big tits. They seemed to attract all eyes, covertly or openly. The boys, juniors as well as the older ones, and not only them but most male members of staff as well. Mr Ballard when Sarah had first met him had looked and smiled and said, ‘My, you will be popular, Mrs Tillot.’
It was perhaps inevitable. There were naturally no girls around and what other wives there were seemed to be older. Twenty-three-year-old Sarah, pretty and with a full-bodied figure, was bound to cause a stir. Especially those large, firm tits. Right now, though, Mr Ballard would certainly not be saying she was popular — at least not with him.
‘Don’t, Robert,’ she was shortly saying. ‘Please don’t do that.’
He had sat down on the settee next to her and was immediately reaching out. Grabbing. She pushed his hand away but it came right back again. ‘What’re you going to do?’ he asked, seemingly deaf to her pleas. ‘I mean about the Head’s car?’
What was she going to do? She would presumably have to go and see him. Grovel. Sarah turned to face her apparently sex-crazed young companion. ‘I don’t know. Robert. Go and crawl, I suppose. And please stop grabbing my boobs.’
‘I can’t help it,’ he said. He was red in the face but seemingly not with embarrassment. ‘Let me unbutton your blouse. Please. Just for a moment.’
‘No!’ She pushed his hand away again. ‘You must be mad. What am I going to do?’
‘Say Mr Tillot did it,’ he said laughing. ‘I mean I bet he’d take the blame. And I’d say I saw him. If you let me unbutton your blouse, that is. Ohh, those things drive me mad, Mrs Tillot. I dream about them. I dream I’ve got you locked up in my room and you’re completely naked.’
‘You’ll just have to go and see him,’ Edward said. ‘Right away, this afternoon. It’s bloody marvellous after we’ve been here just one week, but it’s done, isn’t it? I did warn you about your parking.’
That was a lot of help. And certainly no suggestion that he might want to take the blame. Her husband was not quite as gallant as young Robert might think. Edward had come back from rugby, gone out to examine the damage and come back in — looking grim. Robert Foster had left 20 minutes earlier. He had kept on at Sarah so much and she had been so distracted by this awful business that she had somehow let him get her blouse undone. And more than that, his frantic hands had got at her bra strap and had undone that as well. For a few brief moments Sarah’s magnificent tits had been out, bare. The Head Boy had gone almost bonkers.
‘Oh Christ!’ She groaned. She had never let Robert Foster do anything like that before but right now she wasn’t concerned about it, it was Mr Ballard. But clearly she had to go and see him.
She had half-hoped he might not be in, although that would only delay the inevitable. But he was there all right, his bulky figure at the door, smiling when he saw her. Sarah thought her knees were going to give way. ‘I… uh… Mr Ballard… There was something I wanted…’
In his sitting room he poured her a sherry. Somehow she had to find the words. ‘Uh…’
But she didn’t need to. Sitting opposite her and with a bland smile he said, ‘I had occasion to go to my car half-an-hour ago, Mrs Tillot. I believe that was your vehicle next to it.’
Sarah blushed crimson. So he knew. ‘I… uh… I’m most terribly sorry. It was just…’
‘Just one of those things, my dear.’ His voice amazingly was calm, soft. Not at all what she had expected, none of the hot anger he had shown with that boy. Sarah ventured a nervous smile.
‘No, these things do happen and I suppose the insurance companies will sort it out.’ His bland smile was still there, his eyes seeming to be directed at Sarah’s nylon-clad knees which showed beneath her shortish tartan skirt.
She shifted a little nervously — but really she felt a huge wave of relief. ‘It’s really terribly decent of you to, well…’
‘But I think we shall need a little something, don’t you, my dear? Every act needs its just reward, that is the philosophy one tries to instil into the boys. So we shall need a little something.’
Sarah’s eyes widened, she was not sure what he was on about.
‘Ever have the cane when you were a girl at school, Mrs Tillot?’
She couldn’t have heard him correctly.
‘The cane, my dear. Did you ever have that really splendid bottom caned when you were a schoolgirl.’
The colour was flooding back into her face now. Sarah shook her head. Mr Ballard smiling again. ‘No? It is not entirely extinct in girls’ schools, you know. And naturally I use it here when needed. But it will be a most pleasant change to get at a female posterior.’
‘You can’t,’ she gasped.
‘Of course I can.’ His voice was more incisive. ‘You and your husband are in a probationary period, as you know, subject to satisfactory progress. Satisfactory progress does not include wrecking my car. I am prepared to forget that but there must be a price. You needn’t worry, it will be strictly between ourselves: no one will know, neither the boys or staff. You may keep it from your husband if you wish.’
A caning. The thought was so horrendous it was difficult to accept. Sarah could feel herself sweating. If only she had some money she could offer to pay.
‘Look, I’ll pay for it.’ she blurted desperately. Maybe somehow she could get some. A bank loan?
‘I don’t want it paid for. The insurance will do that. Now are we going to be sensible or is St Luke’s going to lose the services of you and your husband? May I say I certainly do not wish that.’
Sarah bit her lip. They wanted the job — badly — so there wasn’t any choice. ‘Yes?’ the Head queried. And Sarah reluctantly produced a croaky sound of assent.
He got to his feet. ‘Excellent. I’m sure it will do you good. I do think it a regrettable thing that caning is not so widely practised in our girls’ schools as in years gone by. I think a lot of modern women’s unhappiness can be put down to that. But in your case, my dear, we are going to make amends, eh? Six nice juicy ones, I think.’
Sarah had got up too. Her legs were back in the jelly-like state they had been in when she knocked at his door. She still couldn’t believe any of this. He came close — and his hand came round to her bottom.
‘If I may say so, Mrs Tillot, you have just the rear for it. A truly splendid seat.’ The hand squeezed one ripe cheek through her skirt. ‘In fact I can recall when you and your husband came for interview thinking it then how splendid it would be to have your bottom over my desk.’
The hand let go. ‘We shall go through to my study. That is where I conduct all corporal chastisements.’
In the study he pulled down the window-blind but the late afternoon sun continued to stream in through the French door. It opened onto his private garden so presumably… ‘No one’s going to know?’ Sarah whispered. Mr Ballard said, ‘Of course not. Now just bend yourself over the desk.’
He had fetched a cane from somewhere. A truly awful thin, whippy-looking bamboo. Oh bloody Christ!
Mr Ballard was pulling up her skirt. ‘Oh my…’ His murmur of appreciation was not surprising. Sheer dark nylons, the darker rims stretched taut by slim black suspenders spanning full round thighs. And up above, skimpily over the ripe bottom, a pair of brief, lace-edged French knickers. Had she any idea that anything like this was going to happen Sarah would have worn something less — well, spicy.
‘My, oh my!’ Mr Ballard’s caressing voice and she could just imagine his eyes popping out of his head. ‘What lovely things. But I think they must come down…’
She squealed ‘No!’ but was not in much of a position to do anything about it. ‘Yes. Not the routine I use with boys but this is rather different. You did crunch my car, young woman.’
Shivering, Sarah felt her knickers being slipped down. Briefly there was Mr Ballard’s hand sliding over her bare bottom. But she wasn’t really thinking about that. It was sickeningly awful to be here like this with her bottom bared but what she was really thinking about was that it was going to be fearfully painful. That dreadful cane across her poor bare bum. Sarah felt a panicky desire to get up and run… anywhere…
Instead she held on, feeling sick.
She gave a grunt which turned into a yell. The pain was horrendous. Developing a second after the actual impact — like they say a knife cut does, you only feel it after it comes out. Her bottom automatically clenching as it tried to shake off the fearsome sting which was now reaching a crescendo. Sarah made a moaning sound.
Crackkk! Oh Jesus Christ! Her bottom dancing, jerking. The pain was diabolical now, the second on top of the first. ‘No!’ she yelled out. Mr Ballard barked, ‘Don’t move!’ She was moving, her stricken rear churning, but she stayed down over the desk. He waited some seconds, letting the pain develop, watching the ripe rear in its torment. Then the cane was up and whipping down again.
After that there were three more; six altogether. Sarah didn’t really know how she took them for the pain just got worse and worse. She was sweating, gasping, and she had to keep blinking her eyes or she would be crying and that would be the ultimate humiliation. Somehow, though, it was over. Not knowing where to look she scrabbled at her lowered knickers, with shaking hands.
‘That’s it then. Now we can say we’re quits.’ The Head sounded pleased with himself — as well he might. Sarah bit her lip and did some more rapid blinking. it was impossible to believe what had just happened — except she had a bottom that was still killing her.
‘Those marks may last for 24 hours so keep it out of sight of your husband if you don’t want him to know.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘How does it feel?’
Sarah shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
Mr Ballard chuckled. ‘I understand some women find the cane arousing. Who knows, he may find you extra active in bed tonight, eh?’
She certainly wasn’t going to answer that. ‘Can I go now?’ she managed. Mr Ballard said ‘Of course,’ At the door he slapped her bottom. ‘If you do find it has that effect you’ll have to come back for more, won’t you, my dear?’
On uncertain legs she walked down the laurel-shrouded path that led from his house to the main school. The fresh air at least felt good. The path was deserted — but then suddenly someone was at her side. Robert Foster.
‘Mrs Tillot!’ His voice was an excited hiss. Sarah found herself being pulled off the path, behind a laurel bush. ‘Mrs Tillot, let’s go to my room.’
Red-faced, he was grabbing at her boobs, her bottom. Sarah shook him off. ‘Get off. What’re you doing!’
‘That rotten bastard Ballard, Mrs Tillot. I saw what he did.’
‘What!’ she gasped.
‘I went in his garden, round the back.’ His two hands were frantically at her breasts again.
Weakly she tried to push him away. That French door with the sunlight flooding in… Oh Jesus Christ!
She couldn’t go to his room, Sarah told him, she had to get back to her flat. And anyway why did he want her to go to his room? ‘After supper then, Mrs Tillot. You’ve got to. or…’
‘Or what?’ she hissed.
He at least looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you know… our little secret.’ Yes: blackmail.
‘You bastard,’ she spat. He grinned. ‘I won’t tell, Mrs Tillot. But I do need to see you. Really badly.’
I bet, she thought. What had she got into now? Back at the flat she made Edward something to eat but couldn’t stomach anything herself. ‘I’m still nervous,’ she told him. She had said, rather haltingly, that Mr Ballard had been very good about it, said those things did happen, etc.
As it turned out Edward had to go out to a meeting afterwards. And so…
‘I can’t stay long,’ she told the Head Boy. ‘And I don’t know what you want.’ It was really sickening to think he had watched all that in the Head’s study. Sickening. Robert Foster locked the door behind her. He was in his dressing gown.
‘It’s like in my dream,’ he grinned. ‘You in here with the door locked. I won’t do anything but… I want you to take all your clothes off.’
‘Look…’ she said, eyes darting round at the four walls, the locked door, the closed curtains.
‘Come on!’ His face was red, his eyes glinting. ‘I won’t do anything, honest, I just want to see you. And I’m not going to tell about Mr Ballard.’
He went to move a chair to the side of the room, leaving a clear space in the centre. As he moved, his unbuttoned dressing gown slid apart for an instant. Robert Foster had nothing underneath except his socks. And he was in a state of extreme arousal.
‘Come on!’ he repeated, holding his gown together.