From Roué 23
There could be no doubt about it: it had not been one of Vic Tarrant’s better days.
Being secretary of Hallsham United Football Club and coach of the club’s 1st team had its rewards but these were fewer (far fewer Vic felt) than its drawbacks.
Today had been a day of drawbacks. Following the witnessing of his side’s defeat at the hands of the local rivals he had entered the sports club to learn that the 2nd and 3rd teams had suffered a similar fate in their games.
He sipped thoughtfully at his beer then ordered a large Scotch. If ever there was a night for drowning ones sorrows this, Vic thought, was it.
Half-an-hour (and three glasses of the amber liquid) later he was joined by Roger Thorpe — an interruption of his self-imposed one-man piss-up he could well do without.
‘Came second again then, Vic.’
Tarrant’s only reaction was to light up another cigarette.
‘You know what you need in your side, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Tarrant began. ‘But I’ve got a sneaking feeling that you do.’
‘Come on man — face facts. You’ve got plenty of strength up front but the lads simply aren’t getting the proper service. Now — a nippy little right winger…’
‘Called Vanessa Thorpe…’ Tarrant interjected.
‘Mock me if you like, Vic, but you ask anybody.’
‘Listen Thorpe and listen good,’ he said leaning across the table and staring his uninvited guest squarely between the eyes. ‘This is a lads’ football club. Now for the last time get off my sodding back.’
‘Lads’ football club, is it? That’s where you’re wrong, Vic old man. You show me where it says in the rules that players representing this club have to be male. Show me!’
Vic Tarrant had had this conversation with Roger Thorpe (or a version thereof) on several occasions but tonight there appeared to be a little more determination in the voice of the man who had badgered him for so long.
‘Fuck the rules,’ Tarrant shouted, causing a few eyebrows to be raised around the bar.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Thorpe retorted. ‘The bloody secretary of the club saying ‘Fuck the rules’. Well I’d like you to listen to what I’ve got to say and this time you listen good.’
Regretting his outburst and feeling more than a little apprehensive about what Thorpe had to say to him, Tarrant took a puff of his cigarette and sat back into his chair in a vain attempt at looking at ease with the situation. Whatever this man had to say, Tarrant felt, was going to be something he didn’t want to hear. But, hear it he must for he had the feeling that if he didn’t it could spell trouble for him and the Club.
‘Have you heard of the Equal Rights Commission?’ he began. ‘They are a body of people who investigate cases of Sex Discrimination. And by not allowing my daughter — who, as everyone in the district knows, is a bloody fine player — into your club, you can be taken to court for discrimination. So — what I have to put to you is this: let her join the club and you’ll hear no more about it; but continue to keep her out and I’ll take you and your precious club to the cleaners. Think on that, Vic.’
Tarrant knew he was over the proverbial barrel. He had guessed that one day it may come to this and now that it had he felt sure there was no way out. He was fully aware of Vanessa Thorpe’s prowess on the football field and was certain that if she were a boy she would have made her way into the 1st team some time ago. But it was a man’s game and no matter how talented a player she was, his club was for males. A man’s game played by men. He’d said that to the irritating Roger Thorpe some weeks back.
There was nothing else for it now, though. He had to allow her into the Club. I’ll stick her into the 3rd team for a couple of games and with a bit of luck she won’t do too well and then we’ll drop her. Then that bastard Thorpe can’t say I didn’t give her a fair crack of the whip. Yes — that’s what I’ll do. And he did.
The problem with his plan, however, was that he didn’t even give it much chance of succeeding himself.
It was a situation that Tarrant simply could not avoid. The pressure on him to include her in his team was so great he just had to bend. And so it was that on a wet, windswept day in February Vanessa Thorpe’s name was posted up on the notice board as the 1st team’s number seven.
Vic Tarrant wasn’t anti-women — far from it; he was very keen on the ‘gentle sex’. But it was because he thought of females as the gentle sex that he was so against one of their number playing such sports as football — especially in his side.
He noticed the girl making her way across the muddy field, holdall in her hand and felt distinctly sorry for her. She’d made it into the side now, alright, but how unfair it had been to exclude her because of her sex for that length of time. He straightened his back. Come on, Vic — you’re getting soft in your old age, he told himself. She’s a girl. A woman’s place is at the sink not on the football field.
‘Hi, Mr Tarrant,’ she called to him as she mounted the steps to the clubhouse.
The bitch, Tarrant thought. Oh, the greeting was pleasant enough but it was the way in which it was delivered. Her eyes had said it all: ‘My dad said he’d get me into the club and now he has. And look — a 16-year-old schoolgirl and I’m in the 1st team. Says a lot for you men, I must say!’
Whether that was anything like what Vanessa was thinking as she passed Tarrant is a matter of conjecture but the man was convinced of it and, when the girl appeared in the dressing room after changing in the ladies and ascertaining that her male team-mates had completed dressing themselves in the club colours of gold and blue, the way she eyed him convinced him more than ever that this was how she felt towards him. The pre-match chat over, the players strode out of the dressing room and onto the pitch. Tarrant couldn’t resist calling Vanessa back.
‘Just a word, young lady.’
‘Yes Mr Tarrant — certainly Mr Tarrant,’ she said with a flicker of her eyelashes.
‘One bad game and you’re out — you understand? Out!’
‘I take it, Mr Tarrant, that that goes for the rest of the side as well. I mean — you wouldn’t be thinking of taking it out of me because I’m a girl — would you?’
‘What?… Eh?… Er, look — just get out on the field, will you?’
‘But of course, Mr Tarrant.’ With a toss of her mid-length blonde hair she made her way out of the lobby. Her chubby bottom filled the dark blue shorts like he’d never seen them filled before and as this part of her fetching anatomy wobbled onto the pitch Tarrant felt a distinct itching in the palm of his hand.
It was Vanessa’s firm young breasts that caught the eyes of most people at the game but to the 1st team coach her backside, stretching the thin material of the shorts almost to bursting point, was the focal point. He knew precisely what he’d like to do to that precocious protuberance and it was about ten minutes into the 2nd half when an idea began to form itself in his mind.
The match resulted in a 1-0 victory for Tarrant’s side. Vanessa, he was pleased to note, hadn’t found it particularly easy against the calibre of players she came up against at this level. She had, though, done well — well enough to warrant a further game in the 1st team but, although that was how he felt, she didn’t have to be made aware of it — did she?
In the dressing room Tarrant confronted the players. ‘Well — there’s a lot we can improve on but we’ll talk it all over at training on Tuesday. Well done — now you can get dressed. Oh, Vanessa — in the ladies for you.’
This brought a chuckle from the players and various types of lewd comment. Vanessa slipped, red-faced, out of the room. She didn’t, Tarrant noted, looked particularly pleased with her own contribution to the game and that, he felt, improved no-end the chances of his plan being successful.
Before long, the players trudged wearily from the dressing room to be greeted by the usual: ‘Well done lads — see you all Tuesday,’ from their coach. At about the same time as the left-back, Tom Harrison, appeared Vanessa made her way down the stairs from the ladies.
‘Er, you two — in here.’ Tarrant ordered.
Vanessa looked at the lad questioningly but succeeded only in getting a shrug of his shoulders.
The door was locked and Tarrant set about a lecture on their respective performances then, much to his surprise, Harrison was told to follow his coach into the ante-room at the back.
For a couple of minutes there was silence, then muffled voices then… no — it couldn’t be. Vanessa stood by the showers hardly able to believe her ears. But it was true! From within the confines of the little room could be heard the sound of… beating! Tarrant is actually beating Harrison! The bastard! How could he?!
Then it became clear to Vanessa that as it was Harrison and herself who had been called back for a lecture her coach more than likely intended to give her the same treatment. On realising this she turned towards the door only to find that the key had been removed.
The lad appeared from the room and behind him was Tarrant who unlocked the door. ‘Let that be a lesson to you, Tom,’ he called after him and re-locked the door. ‘Follow me, Vanessa, will you?’
‘W-What are you going to d-do?’
‘You’ll see. Just follow me.’
For some inexplicable reason the girl found herself doing precisely what she was told even though she felt fairly certain what she was letting herself in for.
Once inside the room she saw a rubber-soled slipper laying on the table.
‘Things — as you are about to find out — are tougher at this level of the game, young lady. You played well enough as far as your own potential goes but not, unfortunately, well enough for the 1st team. Therefore it is my sad duty to inform you that I shall have to drop you from the 1st team.’
She looked at him incredulously. She was aware that she had not played as well as she can but to be dropped after only one chance — well, it just didn’t seem fair.
She said as much to her coach which served only to increase the man’s anger.
‘You want to keep your place then, do you?’ he asked.
‘Okay then — over the desk with you.’
‘You heard me — over the desk!’
‘B-But w-what f-for?’ Vanessa enquired, her face turning a bright red.
‘What for? A dose of the slipper, that’s what for.’
‘B-But you c-can’t, Mr Tarrant…’
‘Oh! I get the picture — you want to play a man’s game but you don’t want to suffer the same consequences as the lads do when they have a bad game.’
Tears were beginning to well in the girl’s eyes. Tarrant spoke again.
‘Harrison had to take his medicine — so why not you, eh?’
‘Not the tough little thing you thought you were, eh? Okay then — you’re in the 2nd team next week,’ he announced taking hold of the slipper and putting it away in a cupboard.
‘Er… wait…’ she said, moving around the table and catching hold of his arm.
‘What is it, Vanessa?’
‘Well… it’s j-just th-that I didn’t realise that you do things this way.’
‘Well we do — and if you want to remain a 1st team player you have to abide by the same rules as the lads.’
‘Okay then,’ she said, almost immediately regretting the statement.
‘You agree then? — Agree to be punished?’
‘If it’s the done thing… yes — I s’pose I do.’
‘That’s the way. You take it well and maybe — just maybe — I’ll start considering you as one of the lads. Now — get yourself bent over the table, will you?’
Vanessa put her holdall down onto the floor and approached the table while her coach took the slipper out of the cupboard again. Slowly, she bent over, leaning her upper body over its hard wooden top.
‘No, no this won’t do at all, young lady,’ Tarrant exclaimed, eyeing her pretty form awaiting his attentions. ‘Tell you what — pop out into the dressing room again and change into your kit. We can’t have all these tights and petticoats in the way, can we?’
Robot-like, Vanessa obeyed, leaving the little room with her holdall and closing the door before, ever-so nervously, stripping off down to her bra and knickers and then donning the gold shirt and blue skin-tight shorts.
Within a couple of minutes she returned to Tarrant in the ante-room and he drank in the gorgeous sight before him. How come I haven’t had her in my side until now, he mused.
Her semi-matured breasts jutted out invitingly within the confines of the tight shirt and as she turned to close the door her perfectly rounded young bottom swelled out the seat of her shorts.
Up until today Tarrant had considered all bottoms to look the same. Maybe, he thought, this had been brought about by seeing so many male behinds and not enough female ones. This particular bottom of Miss Vanessa Thorpe’s was something the like of which he hadn’t had the pleasure of treating his eyes to ever before. And yet it was completely covered. This fact was something that he resolved to alter just as soon as he could. He must get to see those curves fully displayed — he just must!
The order to bend over came and the girl, with more than a little awkwardness, complied. Tarrant moved around the table, slipper in hand, and stared, open-mouthed, at the wondrous sight before him. The shorts looked as if they would burst their seam at any second and it was this reason the excited coach gave for taking hold of the waistband and drawing them downwards to around her knees.
‘W-What… are you d-doing?’
‘We don’t want your dad having to pay out for another pair, do we?’
On display now were Vanessa’s ultra-tight pink pants. Because of the tightness of the shorts these had ridden up into the cleft between the cheeks of her rear-end. It was the perfect target for Tarrant but still he wasn’t fully satisfied with the situation. Those pants just had to come down and there was no stopping him now.
Slowly — relishing every second of the operation — Tarrant peeled the thin garment down over the girl’s pink bottom and let them hang around the tops of her thighs. It was an action that brought only a wriggle of protest from the bending girl.
Tarrant stood back from her and took in the voluptuous vista then, stepping forward and slightly to Vanessa’s left side, gripped the slipper tightly in his right hand.
Ten times the rubber-soled implement walloped across the trembling curves of the girl’s bottom producing ten squeals of varying loudness and ten wriggles of her young hips.
After the last whack had landed she lay there, legs now quite far apart displaying her innermost charms.
The next desire on her coach’s mind was to drop his pants, grab hold of her hips and thrust himself up her, much to his annoyance, it was an idea that he thought better of. Instead, he told the snivelling girl to stand and, after he had closely examined the redness of her delectable bottom, instructed her to dress and leave with a promise that she would again be picked for the 1st team the following week.
‘Thank you, Mr Tarrant,’ she said as she left, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Thank you indeed, thought the exhausted coach.
Half-an-hour later found Tarrant up in the bar chatting to young Tom Harrison.
‘How’d it go, boss?’ the lad enquired of him.
‘Not bad,’ he replied. ‘Not bad at all. Thanks to you, I might add.’
‘Oh! It was nothing.’
‘Didn’t hurt too much, did it?’
‘No — you’re joking. My dad used to hit me a lot harder than that.’
‘Reckon you could take another dose after next week’s match, Tom?’‘Listen,’ the lad replied. ‘At a tenner a time I can take it anytime you want.