Search This Blog

Monday, 28 May 2018

Saint Cecelia’s

From Blushes 23. Interesting writing style – I don’t recall reading similar in Blushes before – perhaps an author moonlighting from Kane.
When John Craig B.A., M. Ed., (Cantab) applied for the job of junior housemaster at Saint Cecelia’s he made one of the best decisions in all his thirty years.
To begin with the effect of a dishy male on the upper sixth was quite traumatic. Miss Jones the Headmistress stressed to John the need of discipline.
‘None of your namby-pamby state sector at Saint Cecelia’s. We run a tight ship here and any trouble,’ she paused, ‘beat ‘em. The girls need it and the parents expect it.’
In the event, although John Craig always carried a cane, his ‘Mr Whippy’, as he affectionately called it — just as much a badge of office as his B.A. gown — he found the teaching of his gaggle of Lolitas a doddle.
It wasn’t long before Craig had his girls mentally pigeon-holed according to their various characteristics.
Mary Smith had a good brain and the prettiest of titties. Sarah Brown always chose the desk below the blackboard, teasing Craig with ample glimpses of thigh. In short, every day was a revelation, in one way or another. Mentally Craig was stimulated by the girls intellectual abilities. Physically — well he was only too pleased that the billowing folds of his gown concealed the devastating effect that a glimpse of tit, underthigh or peachy pube had on him.
Only one girl, Audrey Ponsonby, affected a calculated disdain towards the new member of the staff. Audrey — ‘Pon’ to her friends — was in truth a bit of a tearaway. She painted her toenails a vivid green; smoked black Russian Sobranie cigarettes and wore the most outré undergarments; open-legged French knickers and half bra from Jean Roget. She was, so she confided to her pals, ‘quite safe’ having purloined a supply of foil-encased rubbers from her mum, the Honorable Lady Ponsonby who was no better than she should have been.
Pon, like Craig, was content to play a waiting game. The other girls of her class giggled and flirted throughout the lessons; Pon, suave and soignee, sat in the second row just near enough to give Craig exciting glimpses of the cleavage between the bewitching valley of her tits. She set out, as she vulgarly put it, to ‘get a rise’ out of Craig. As she crossed and recrossed one succulent thigh over the other she sensed that the sight of satin suspender ribbon stretching the welts of her gunmetal nylon stockings did just that thing.
Pon glances at her Longines. It is only three o’clock. ‘Golly! A full hour to wait for tea!’ An hour to wait before her fag and friend, the pretty and succulent Minnie Smith, is due to attend to her needs; tea and crumpets toasted at the blazing hearth. Minnie might be her junior but Pon has her well trained, and is she not a little darling? Audrey Ponsonby stretches her body the length of her study sofa and purrs.
Truth to tell she ought to be out there on Saint Cecelia’s weekly run, pounding over the wintry Barsetshire countryside. But with a little guile, why not opt out of the exercise and spend a pleasant, decadent afternoon in the privacy of her study? Naturally one has to use a little cunning, but if nothing else Pon is cunning par excellence.
Tog yourself out in the ridiculous Saint Cecelia’s P.E. outfit: runners, white cotton socks, white cotton vest and navy-blue, bum-hugging knickers. Then one stands shivering while the dishy Mr Craig’s eyes wander over you from head to toe: chapped thighs, the tight stretch of knicks between your legs and the outstanding nubbins of your boobs. On these occasions would Audrey sometimes wish that that the good God might have given her titties a little less obvious.
Craig whistles the pack away. Scoot off at top speed. Hard right at the Old Oak scarce five minutes from the start and back to one’s study. Now one has a full hour of idleness while the rest of the poor darlings puff and gasp their way over hill and dale. Come tea time, slip back to the Oak; an easy lead and Audrey will breast the tape the winner. Victor Ludorum, laurels and praise. Hot shower and crumpets for tea prepared by one’s fag. Two hours to supper. Time enough, who knows, for a little girlish dalliance with the aforementioned Minnie Smith.
With the rest of the school away, circuiting painfully over the mud-squelching course, Audrey lies back in her study chair and indulges in idleness and sensuous reverie. She runs a hand lightly over her body and raises her right leg languidly. She wriggles her toes. Alone of all the girls at Saint Cecelia’s Audrey paints her toenails: deep apple green. Very sexy.
Only last week Mr Grant, the school chaplain, in one of his pie-wiggings had accused Audrey of being narcissistic. If Audrey was not sure what the word meant, (flower power perhaps?) she sensed that it was something very wicked. The Reverend Grant might be very old, all of fifty, but Audrey reckons that given the inclination she is quite capable of giving him an inexpensive thrill.
Pon flips the pages of a French novel which caught her attention in the school library. She chuckles to herself. That pretty Mmselle had recommended it to her. In English it would be called a ‘dirty book’; in French it is literature. She finds the page which had so excited her at the last reading. ‘…I have with reckless hands raised the folds of your dress and contemplated your bare bosom which though virginal is heavy with milk but only gave suck to divine lips. I have followed the entire tracing of its delicate blue veins to where the eye can no longer trace them. I have pressed my fingers to the teats as though I could cause the celestial potion to jet forth in white jets. My lips have grazed the bud of the mystic rose…’ Reading and then re-reading this erotic story Pon can scarcely contain herself. She eases aside the thin shoulder strap of her vest to finger her nipples. The novel drops to the floor beside her.
Pon grips the elasticated waistband of her running knicks and pulls them down, in no hurry, from the deep set swirl of her belly button over a tight muscled tum to free the tendrils of her bush.
A certain instrument of relief purloined from mum goes to work, and a soft hum cuts out all sound from the outside world.
A minute or so later there is a rap at the door of her study but, for the present, Pon is quite oblivious of all but her sensuous pleasure.
Back at the school Craig has sauntered upwards to his victims lair. Was Craig stupid? Of course not. For a whole term, Pon and her wicked, idle ways have been under his surveillance. Now is the time to strike. The Head Girl’s study door swings open.
‘Enjoying yourself, eh?’
The ‘thing’ ceases to buzz and is pushed down between the cushions of Pon’s chair. All is confusion. The half-clothed girl tries to cover herself and then reddens as she has to face the inevitable. Craig is stern of mien.
‘Got you, my girl!’ He saunters magisterially to the centre of Pon’s study. Pon decides that to brazen it out in all the circumstances is not really on. Craig has indeed caught her in flagrante delicto.
‘Head Girl, what an example! Cheat on the run, bad example to the juniors and,’ he glances at Pon’s mud-bespattered thighs. ‘Just look at yourself! What a sight!’ He pauses.
‘Dirty girl — need a good clean up! — A little bit of discipline!’
Pon gulps. ‘Discipline?’
‘Yes. Discipline. A good beating!’ The words of the Headmistress come back to him. ‘Beat ‘em hard. That’s what the parents expect, that’s what they deserve.’ Craig looks at his watch. Half an hour to go to the end of the run. Staff all out. He takes Pon by the arm. ‘Go and find your clothes, shall we? Down to the changing room.’
With Craig behind her, no one, but no one else is in the building. There is a full half hour before the pack of the upper sixth is due back and meantime Audrey and Craig are alone.
Splat! and Craig’s Mr Whippy catches Pon mid-thigh to encourage her down the steps. The door of the changing room shuts with a thud.
Craig glances at his watch. Plenty of time to discipline the unruly Pon and to bring her to her senses. Pon is firmly pushed against the edge of the sink.
‘Get these off shall we’? Craig watches as first the vest and then the knicks fall to the floor. He grasps a handy bar of red carbolic soap. Pon gasps as cold water splashes over her while vigorous hands lather the mud of the run from her thighs to gurgle away into the waste pipe.
Back home at the manor, Pon has been well used to giving her pet pooch, a snappy Pekinese, his monthly shampoo. She would grasp him by the back of his neck, ignore his anguished barks and proceed to shampoo him all over. Minutes later the tyke would emerge, shaking dollops of water all over but fit for Crufts after a brisk rub. Now Pon waits with trepidation for her own medicine.
She looks up appealingly. Her boobs are firm and outstanding. Two melons, firm as bullets and tipped by over-sized nipples begging to give suck.
‘Perhaps, sir? Well — you know sir?’ Pon ventures. ‘Perhaps — an understanding?’
Craig shakes his head. The little jezebel. Try to seduce him! A housemaster! No. Negative. No.
Craig cups a bum-cheek with his right hand and guides her squirming up into the sink, into the six inches of ice-cold water.
‘Christ’ gasps Pon, as she sits in the sink and the water seeps up the length of her thighs over her bush to lap just below her navel.
‘That’s a good girl.’ He starts to wash away the last traces of mud from her thighs with his rough block of carbolic soap. Pon squirms and gasps as Craig’s soap-filled hands cover first one and then the twin of her breasts, the nipples of which quite uncontrollably fill out to the caress. Fingers slide from her buttocks to her bush concealed under a snowy field of suds. Pon shivers unwittingly at the deft fondling of damp fingers.
Craig recollects the Latin tag of his schooldays. Mens sana in corpore sano. In a clean body a clean mind. So far as the body is concerned, Craig is quite satisfied. From the auburn crown of her head, downwards from shoulder-blades to the skin of her slim waist burgeoning over fulsome bum and down again past open-splayed legs to the dearest of tootsies, Audrey is as clean as a new pin.
Audrey sits miserably in the sink. A forlorn tear drops and runs to a stop, arrested by the uprising of a tit. What a humiliation! To have been washed all over by the hateful Mr Craig! Oh the shame of it all! Craig leans forward and scoops up one of Pons discarded runners.
Crack! He slaps the sole of her slipper against the sink. Firmly he pushes Pon face downwards to lie gasping like a landed fish along the length of the sink surround. Completely naked now and glistening with damp, Pon’s body offers itself as sacrifice. On a dry skin the punishment would be painful. Against this flesh bedewed with water it will be horrendous!
‘One!’ The slipper cracks down dead on target.
‘Two!’ and the slipper slices in as a hot knife into butter.
‘Three!’ A misfire catches Pon mid-thigh.
‘Ooooogh! That bloody well hurts!
‘Four’ And quite uncontrollably Pon lets a hand run to the crease of her bum.
‘Five!’ ‘Ooogh! Jesus Christ!
Number six is to be the Daddy of them all. He pauses, raises the slipper full height. The air whistles as he catches her deep in the crease of thigh and bum-cheek.
Pon blubbers quite uncontrollably.
Upstairs later, and back in the study, Minnie Smith with a plate of buttered crumpets waits for the Head Girl. Talk of tea and sympathy! Pon sobs out the whole unhappy story. Both agree that men are horrid. Min wipes away Pon’s tears.
The cool sheets of Pon’s bed invite. Girlish limbs intertwine. Minnie dips her fingers deeply. Pon forgets the horrors of the afternoon. The pain disappears and gives way to sweet nothings as Minnie’s hands stroke away those horrid burnings of her bum-cheeks. All tensions depart in a warm sensation; only to be experienced by very good friends.

1 comment:

  1. On xhamster porn movies you can see her as fcpenny (as in Fiona Cooper) stripping off and shagging. Lovely girl. Wonder what happened to her?