“BOB A JOB, SIR?”

PROLOGUE

If you’ve ever been to Humpton-on-Thames, it was probably by mistake.  Because Humpton is a pretty dull little place.  Maybe you got off the train at the wrong stop, goon brain?

If you did make that mistake, you’ll have wandered around Humpton Station.  Trying to pass the time, until the next train to somewhere more interesting came along.  The station entrance at Humpton is as good a place as any to do that.  It has a KostaKrappaKoffee, where you can pay four quid for a cup of hot brown foam.  And WH Smugg, station booksellers, with an abnormally large selection of magazines on crochet, angling and model railways.

There’s a map of the town, which looks like a diagram of a sex maniac’s brain.  The map has so many phallic shapes, little round cartoon bosoms and cavities.  (Then you realise that the town planners were just very keen on beacons and towers, double roundabouts and tunnels.)  And the street signs suggest that the guys at the council are either terribly, terribly innocent or really pervy. 

What with ‘Uranus Hill’.  (Prompting the exchange you often hear on Humpton streets between old ladies and little boys:  “Where are you going, Tommy, dear?”  “Up your anus, Mrs Smith”)   

Then there’s the local beauty spot and lover’s lane, ‘Allder Way’.  (“Sue, darling, how are you getting on with Malcolm?”  “Not bad, thanks, Mum.  Hoping to go Allder Way with him tonight.”) 

Now Humpton is a pretty insular place, you know.  When the Titanic went down, the local paper carried the headline “Berkshire Man Lost At Sea”.   But fair play to the Humpton authorities.  They really are proud of their town. 

So there’s a little display put up by the Humpton Chamber of Commerce.  This shows you the richness and variety of Humpton life.

For example, a notice informs the casual visitor that Humpton is proud to be twinned with its sister towns of Punk (Moldova); Goolie Lick (Western Australia); and Satan (New Jersey).  And here’s a plaque to commemorate the visit last year by the mayor of Punk.  (That must have been nice!)

Then there’s a dingy little photo gallery, ‘celebrating’ the town.  Councillor Splott opening the new multi-story car park.  The Humpton Morris Dancers doing their bit to keep crime off the street, by showing the Humpton youth something wholesome to do on a Friday night.   Etc etc.

One of the photos is of some sort of presentation.   It is captioned: “Mr Jim Shaft of the Humpton Chamber of Commerce makes a presentation to Dr Eleanor Twatte, headmistress of Hampton Girls School”.

Mr Shaft is wearing a tuxedo.  Dr Twatte is evidently wearing some sort of strapless evening gown.  (The picture is head and shoulders only, so all you can see is Dr Twatte’s bare throat and white shoulders.  A shame about the restricted view, because she looks like a very attractive middle-aged bird.)

If you linger on the picture, you might ask yourself one or two questions.  

For example, that caption is a bit vague, isn’t it?  What exactly is Mr Shaft presenting?  It looks like a rather tatty cardboard folder, not the usual flash certificate or trophy.

And the facial expressions are slightly weird.  Mr Shaft looks jolly enough.  In fact, he must be completely sloshed, because he seems to be brimming over with excitement.  Not what you’d usually expect at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. 

But poor Dr Twatte looks as if she’d rather not be there.  She’s showing her gnashers dutifully enough.  But her cheeks are very pink.  And, my, those beautiful dark eyes do have a slightly trapped look about them.

And then your train arrives, you gladly leap on, and Humpton fades away like a bad smell.  But maybe at the back of your mind there remain questions?  Well, read on....

BOB-A-JOB WEEK

Humpton Girls School is a small private school, occupying quite an obscure place in the English education pantheon.  It offers a bit of finishing-school polish and A-level cramming to the thick daughters of the less-wealthy upper classes.

Not exactly rewarding work – either financially or professionally.  As a result, the school is always in trouble at the bank.  And the school staff tend to fall into two categories – disillusioned old grunters counting the minutes till retirement; or young/middle-aged desperately hoping that Humpton would be a stepping stone to something better.

Our story starts with an emergency 6pm staff meeting at the school.  The time of day will tell you what category of school staff were attending.  Yes, it was the ‘young’ and dynamic element.  All four of them.

Dr Twatte was in the chair.  A very handsome lady, approaching 50.  Sitting where we are, we can appreciate Dr Twatte’s really splendid profile.   From her fine straight nose, down to her generous bust.  In the old days, you’d have seen the good Doctor’s profile (carved, topless and queenly) on the figure head of a ship.  How noble she would look, breasting the waves!

Next to Dr Twatte was a quite extraordinary person.  The Humpton Deputy Head, Dr Virginia McGrott, MA (Edinburgh University).  Dr McGrott was also the Head of Languages and school Bursar.

Although Dr McGrott had been at the school for years, she was still a figure of mystery.  In fact, McGrott was downright scary.  Barely five feet tall and of dainty build, she nonetheless oozed menace. 

Partly, it was her bizarre appearance.  Always dressed in thick tweeds, whatever the weather.  Highly starched cream-coloured blouses.  Old lady’s hair do (surely a wig?).  Pince nez (perfect for glaring through).  She looked like a baleful midget dressing up as Miss Marple.

There was so little of McGrott actually showing (apart from the frown) that it was impossible to work out her age.  Somewhere between 30 and 70 was the best you could do.

Then there was her voice – absolutely rinky-dink posh BBC Weld Service.  McGrott was Scots upper-crust, and of course they sound even more lah-di-dah than the Royal Family. 

With parents and students, Dr McGrott talked like the Encyclopedia Britannica.  She made Stephen Fry sound like an illiterate numty with Tourette’s. 

In fact, as we join the meeting, McGrott is just winding up a detailed exposition of the school finances, taking in international accounting standards and the philosophy of tax avoidance.  We only catch two words, but somehow they seem the essence of McGrott.  The words are:  “...and ninthly...”   We shudder, and turn off the volume again.

Yet in private and when emotional, McGrott’s language would make Eminem cry for Mummy.  She is a real bad bastard!

Then there was the Head of Games, Miss Fenella Blowett, BSc.  Oh dear!

Well, she was rather plain. What with her tombstone teeth, goofy expression, and absolutely tragic hair and clothes.  Sadly, no male hearts had ever beaten any faster as Fenella Blowett galloped around the hockey field.

Which was a real shame. Because Fenella was by far the nicest person in the staff room.  She was an incredibly good hockey coach (Humpton Girls first team had been Berkshire champions for years).  And there must surely be a jolly fit (if rather virginal) body, inside that orange-and-tartan tracksuit?

The final member of staff was the booful Head of Business Studies, Ms Jenny Pratt, BA.  What a scrumptious cutie pie!  At the very interesting age (mid-thirties) when the female body starts to fill out excitingly, Ms Pratt’s shape made most Humpton blokes weak to contemplate............

So these were the stars of our little adventure. 

At that time of night, there was only one other member of the school on the premises.  Bill Swett, the school caretaker.  Bill’s duties involved: (1) Cleanliness (that was a laugh); and (2) Security.  Bill put all his time into Security, or rather, his interpretation of it.

This meant that when Bill wasn’t checking the girls’ toilets for illicit sex, he listened at doors and peeped through windows.  Bill had a fossilised broom in his hand, as cover, should anyone come along and want to know why he was outside the staff room.  Bill’s eye was plastered to a spyhole, which he’d had the foresight to drill in the door.

Now, the staff meeting had been called for the usual reason.   Humpton Girls School was in foul need of money. 

Each time Dr Twatte went to the bank, she was having to lay on the charm thicker and thicker.  Because Mr Shaft, the bank manager, was certainly susceptible to charm!

The first time there, Dr Twatte undid a button on her blouse, and leant over the table frequently to make her points.  Mr Shaft came through with a nice overdraft facility on that occasion. 

But the law of diminishing returns was now setting in.  Mr Shaft was wanting almost daily conferences.  And Dr Twatte was having to undo more and more buttons.  It just couldn’t go on!

“There’s no option” said Dr McGrott.  “We’ll have to have another fundraising drive.  The last one kept us afloat over the summer.  The only trouble is that these fundraising drives usually leave a lot of shite behind them.  And it’s always us four who end up wielding the fucking shovels.”

“Virginia’s right”, said Dr Twatte, “we can’t afford a repeat of last summer’s fiasco.  One more scandal like that and this school will be finished.”  The women shuddered.

Yet the sponsored car wash by the Upper Sixth had seemed such a good idea at the time!  Half a dozen of the most beautiful 18-year-olds in Humpton Girls School, wearing swimsuits, holding out their buckets, and offering you a quick one in the lay by!  What red-blooded motorist could resist that?

For a few glorious days last summer, the funds flowed in.  Jaded businessmen driving home would pull in to have their cars washed.  They would drive round the block and get a dead fly on their windscreen.  So they’d decide they needed another wash.  It was taking some blokes all night to get home!

The girls worked like dogs; the cars of Humpton were spotlessly clean; everyone was happy.  Then the girls got a bit carried away.  They started selling kisses to go with the car wash, and keeping the money from that little sideline.  And one thing led to another....

Before you could say ‘Squeegee’, the girls were offering all sorts of extras to the blokes they liked the look of.  Then the more ‘commercially minded’ girls started selling the extras to anyone at all whose money was right.

The Hon Veronica Ramsbottom decided to save school funds by doing away with the sponges and chamois leathers.  Veronica took off her swimsuit, and coated her ample buttocks and breasts with soapy water.  Then she rolled around on the top of the lucky motorist’s car.  Finally Veronica squatted on the bonnet, and dried the car off with her unused swimsuit.

Mandy Ponsonby-Clapp went one better!  She started to offer a ‘pipe-cleaning’ service in the back seat, where you could get a very expert blow job at a pretty decent rate.

The local paper, the Humpton Helmet, ran an exposé of the car washing service.  (The Helmet’s editor, Mark Swordsman, went back a long way with Dr Twatte.  And not in a ‘dear old drinking buddy’ kind of way either.)  This came to the attention of the national tabloids.

One Sunday paper then came out with a very weird scoop, in which it covered a group known as the Royal County of Berkshire Sex Workers Guild.  This ‘Guild’ staged a topless picket of the school’s Parent’s Evening.  The Sunday paper and the Helmet just happened to be on the spot.  They carried a lurid story, alleging price-fixing and uncompetitive sex practices by the Humpton School Upper Sixth.

The pièce de resistance was a photograph of Dr Twatte expostulating with a voluptuous picket.  The ‘Guild’ picket was wearing only black leather boots and miniskirt.  By some ‘cock up’ at the Humpton Helmet, the caption read:-

“’YOUR GIRLS REALLY GET ON MY T**TS!’

Busty sex worker, Eleanor Twatte, abuses a teacher at Humpton School”

The whole thing had brought shame and disgrace on the school.  The women winced.

“Eleanor”, said Dr McGrott, “we just can’t involve those half-witted tarts!”  

“No, Virginia, you’re right” replied the head mistress.  “Any fund raising this year needs to be done by the school staff.  Which realistically means us four.  I don’t mind our using our feminine wiles”, she simpered.  “But it’s got to be TASTEFUL.”

“I know!” said Fenella.  “Why not do a Bob-a-Job week this half term!  They used to be such fun when I was in the Guides.  We could all use our special talents.  I could give the parents hockey tips!”

Everyone looked indulgently at Fenella.  Bless her!

“I’m not sure, dear”, said Dr Twatte, “that a tired stockbroker would really fancy an evening on a cold hockey field when they come home from work.  But it is a nice idea, though, Fenella.  Perhaps we could do indoor stuff, like giving the students extra coaching.”

“Yes,” said Jenny Pratt.  “We could get some positive publicity in the Helmet for a change.  I’ve got an old khaki-coloured trouser suit, which I could adapt into a saucy kind of Girl Guide uniform.  The Helmet loves that kind of thing.”

Fenella flushed with pride.  It was the first suggestion she’d made for years which had been (even partially) accepted.  Little did she know the awful consequences that would ensue...

Well, the Humpton Helmet was jolly interested in the Bob-a-Job week.  Especially when the sub-editor clapped his eyes on the photos of Jenny Pratt bursting out of her ‘Guide’ uniform.  So the Helmet produced quite a sympathetic piece for once.  And Mark Swordsman even made a friendly comment about the school in his editorial, the slimy bugger.

Following the piece in the Helmet, there was some steady interest in Bob-a-Job week.  Jenny Pratt and Dr Twatte found themselves in high demand, although there were no takers for Miss Blowett’s hockey lessons. 

There were no takers either for Dr McGrott’s lectures at the Library on Eastern European folk-myth.  (Which was just as well, really because even McGrott never turned up for the lectures.  She was narked because the Helmet had refused to publicise her first choice:  “The British Press”.  McGrott’s trailer for that talk had been:  “We’ve all fantasised, haven’t we, about performing open heart surgery with a rusty chain saw on a newspaper editor, preferrably without anaesthetic.  My talk will explore the chances that you might find the fossilised remains of a conscience inside the editor’s body.”)

And then came a really big development!

Jenny Pratt received a most intriguing phone call at her office.  The caller spoke with an attractively deep, rumbling voice.  He had a local accent, but there were traces of something foreign and exotic about it.

“Hello, Ms Pratt?  My name is Vladimir Curtiv.  I am the emissary for Dimitri Tossoff, the Russian oil billionaire.  Mr Tossoff has settled in Berkshire, and is looking for a school for his daughter.

“Mr Tossoff has read of your Bob-a-Job week, and is most interested in Humpton Girls School.  Mr Tossoff has expressed a wish that you personally do a ‘Bob-a-Job’ for him.  Would it be possible for you and I to meet and discuss this request?”

“Oh yes, golly, absolutely!” Jenny practically shrieked.  “Errr...where would be convenient?”

“Can I suggest the Humpton Grand tonight, at 8pm?  Perhaps we could dine at the hotel first?  Mr Tossoff will of course bear the expense.”

This was thrilling news!  The Grand was the only good hotel in Humpton, so this guy was clearly serious.  A good, spurting wad of Russian oil money, pumped into the tired loins of Humpton School, could really get the old girl back on her feet! 

The knock-on effect on Jenny’s career could also be rather mega.  It should give Jenny a really good chance at the Registrar’s post, when the old bag currently doing it retired next term.  Plus Jenny couldn’t help wondering if Vladimir was as sexy as his voice....

Jenny hurried out of her office, bowling over some nerdy girl or other from the Scholarship class, who seemed to think she had a tutorial booked with Jenny.

“Not today, dear!” Jenny bellowed.  “Errr...dentist’s appointment.  Yes, that’s it, dentist’s appointment!  Sorry, must dash!”

4.30pm. Just time for some essential preparations for the 8pm meeting.  Gym, hairdresser, Ann Summers, nail bar, leg waxing, bath, make-up.  After all, she was a professional, and must present herself in a professional way.

Accordingly, 8 o’clock found our heroine at reception in the Grand Hotel, asking for Mr Curtiv.

“Ms Jenny Pratt?”  There was that voice again!  “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

Jenny turned round, and got an eyeful of Mr Vladimir Curtiv.   “Just as I thought!” she told herself.  “Fucking gorgeous!”

Vladimir was six feet four, in his early thirties, and looked like Jose Mourinho’s fit younger brother.  And best of all, there was a VERY admiring expression on his handsome kisser.

As the man and woman stood very close together in the foyer, they only had eyes for each other.  It seemed as if they were quite, quite alone!   And yet they did have company....

About four feet above their heads, a little, roly-poly cherub was floating around with a tiny bow and arrow.  Cupid drew back his little dimpled arm and let fly two arrows – one at Jenny’s nether parts and one at Vladimir’s. 

Jenny felt the faintest little sting in her pussy, and Vladimir got a brief, delicious tingle in his balls.  Ever had that feeling, readers, when you’ve met someone attractive?

“They’ll be shagging tonight!” laughed the little god of love, and off he flew.

Jenny looked enquiringly at the hotel restaurant, but Vladimir smiled and shook his head.

“Mr Tossoff has a permanent booking in the penthouse suite, Ms Pratt.  It’s more convenient.  We can dine up there.”  And so began a delightful and romantic candle-lit meal. 

Vladimir proved excellent company.  It turned out that he was a local man, born in Ukraine, but brought up in Humpton.   Jenny had only been in Humpton a few years, and she found that Vladimir knew much more of the town than she did.  In fact, Vladimir was a fund of juicy anecdote, and he even hinted that he knew a few tales about the Humpton School staff.

The champagne flowed; the moon shone through the huge windows of the penthouse; the heads of the two young people got closer and closer together over the table.  It did look as if Cupid had known a thing or two.

Finally, with a slight sigh, Vladimir broached the question of the ‘Bob-a-Job’. 

“Mr Tossoff is a very rich and elderly man”, he said.  “To be honest, he may not have much longer to live.  As he approaches the end of his long and hard-working life, he is indulging himself more.  He wants to have some fun before he goes!”

“Now, Jenny, I have to be frank with you, and admit that Mr Tossoff was not attracted by Humpton School’s academic reputation.  Why should he be, since he does not have any school age children at all!  No, Mr Tossoff just saw a picture of a beautiful school teacher in his local paper, and was greatly tickled by the thought of her ‘bobbing his job’.”

“And I have to confess that Mr Tossoff’s ‘jobs’ are of an...um....sexual nature.”   (“Well, I could see that one coming a mile off”, thought Jenny, quietly twanging her suspenders.)

Vladimir hurried on.  Clearly embarrassed, the poor love. 

“Now, don’t get me wrong.  Mr Tossoff is too infirm to ... errr ... do anything.  He will just want to look.  And so I am authorised to commit up to £5,000 to school funds, if you could pose for some photos.”

“Sexy photos, Vladimir?  Errr ... nude photos?”   He nodded, regretfully.

“Oh dear, I’ve never done anything like that before”, Jenny lied.  (Thanking her lucky stars for the regular gym sessions, waxing, etc.)  “What did your employer have in mind?”

Vladimir led her into an adjoining room, which was a fully-equipped photo studio.  Centre stage was a school teacher’s desk (with an apple on it) and a blackboard.  Piled on a chair were an old-fashioned black school teacher’s gown and a mortarboard.

“Mmmm...looks quite fun!” Jenny thought.  “Especially if you join in, handsome!”   But she put on a pious expression.

“£5,000 is an awful lot of money”, Jenny said.  “We could do so much good with it.  For the children!   Errr...would these pictures be confidential?”

“Oh yes!” said Vladimir.  “I will take them myself.  We are all alone on this floor of the hotel.”

“Great!” thought Jenny.

Keeping her dirty ideas to herself, though, the Head of Business Studies tried to look innocent and troubled. 

“But I hardly know you, Vladimir” she said.  “I will feel so ashamed and exposed, with you fully dressed, and me in my ... errr ...petticoat.”

“Alright” said Vladimir (with alacrity).  “I’ll take my clothes off, if it will help.”

And fair play to the gallant Russian, he immediately stripped off.  Right down to his underpant-skis.  (Which Jenny was delighted to see were a very snug fit!)

Trying not to slaver too obviously, Jenny clocked Vladimir’s lean, muscular body.  Broad chest and shoulders.  (Which Jenny could just visualise straining up and down above her in the good old missionary position – Jenny was a bit of a traditionalist and didn’t like to get too kinky on her first date.)  Slim, hard torso – just right for wrapping your legs around!  And a neat, firm butt, which seemed to have plenty of thrust in it.

“I love my job!” Jenny exulted to herself, as she threw on the gown and mortarboard.  The gown, she noticed, had the school crest on, and there was a big banner above the desk saying “Ms Jenny Pratt, BA (Hons), Humpton School, Head of Business Studies”.

“Hmmmm...wouldn’t want these photos to fall into the wrong hands” she thought.  But then it was lights, cameras, action!  And Jenny cast aside her worries (and much, much else besides).   

The opening snaps would (just about) have passed muster in the school prospectus.  Jenny sat demurely at her desk; reading glasses on; wielding a fat red marker pen.  Maybe in one or two pics she was giving the pen a little bit too much slobber?  Still, by and large, it was a good advert for a Humpton education.

But once Jenny removed her skirt and blouse, it became very difficult to think about Business Studies.  Vladimir really became quite flustered!  Poor guy.  You try holding a camera straight under these circumstances, and simultaneously concealing your cock as it bursts your tight Y-fronts.

Jenny had given a lot of thought to the important question of underwear.  And her professionalism and thoroughness was certainly paying off now! 

Jenny’s black silk Janet Reger combination of balconette bra, bikini-style panties and suspenders looked simply wondrous under the black gown.  Better still, as Jenny casually slipped the gown off her beautiful white shoulders, nibbling the apple and smiling most invitingly at the camera.

The mortarboard sat rakishly on Jenny’s lovely dark curls.  But it completely failed to make the teacher look stern!  No instead it told you: “Education Can Be Fun, Boys!”

Jenny wriggled very, very slowly indeed out of her underwear.  First she eased the bra straps over her shoulders, cupping her hands over her breasts and working them gently up and down, up and down, you are completely in my power, sir.  All the while, she arched and then relaxed her back, breathed very deeply in and out, slowly eased her bra down, and generally caused complete mayhem in Vladimir’s underpants.

The whole effect was of a beautiful, creamy, fleshy landscape, slowly shifting.  Now a deep valley; now a huge cascade of dangling bosom. 

The bra was becoming less and less relevant, and in the end it just flaked away.  Leaving Jenny clad in only her panties, stockings, suspenders (and mortarboard).  Standing there, with her hands on her lovely spreading hips.  And really giving it to the camera with both barrels!  What charming nipples!  How roguishly they bobbed around, on the end of Jenny’s large, low-hanging breasts.

Vladimir’s underpants were getting VERY tight now!  With shaking hands, he tore them off, and there was quite a slap, as Vladimir’s huge engorged cock got free and smacked up into his muscular belly.  Oohh, that’s better!

Jenny eyed the new arrival very hungrily indeed.  She welcomed it with a sloppy kiss, right on its straining pink knob-end.   Nice!

Eye contact now became very poor.  Because Vladimir was addressing all his remarks to Jenny’s chest, and Jenny was responding by talking exclusively to Vladimir’s penis.  Still, neither of them took the huff!

Jenny’s panties were becoming a little moist – they just had to go!  Jenny turned her back to the camera, and slowly eased her knickers down.  Two large, round, white buttocks simply rippled into view.  Jenny absent-mindedly scratched her butt, which gently parted, showing a lovely glimpse of black muff.

Vladimir was almost demented by now, and panting like a walrus.  Jenny turned round to face him.  If she did this in order to calm Vladimir down, it didn’t work!  Because the Head of Business Studies was now looking as cunty as sin. 

Vladimir started to have trouble pointing his camera straight, so Jenny helped him.  She sat on the desk, opened her legs wide, and invited him in for a close up.  In this way, he could hardly miss!

But then, remembering that she was at school, Jenny turned back to the desk.  A good teacher will keep the class’s attention, even when she has her back turned.  Jenny did this by throwing one leg up on the desk, as she leant over it and fumbled with the drawer.  Her beautiful bare backside opened up quite delightfully, revealing a glorious, damp, hairy snatch, with cunt lips protruding.  Seldom could a lesson plan have been so beautifully presented.

Jenny gave a delighted cry – she’d found what she’d been looking for.  Yes, it was that essential tool for lady teachers – the dildo!  Not in Humpton School colours (it was black and ribbed), but never mind.

Jenny sat on the desk, facing the camera.  She hauled up her knees under her ears, so that her legs now formed an ‘M’ shape, with her wet gaping cunt at the bottom of the M’s middle foot. 

Now she really started to butter up that lucky dildo!  Jenny licked it with great sloppy strokes of her tongue; she kissed it lovingly; she fondled it with her tits.  And then she applied it as per manufacturer’s instructions: ‘Slowly into your steaming gash, madam (diagram attached)’.

Deeper and deeper it went, as the lovely naked woman bucked and thrashed and moaned and drivelled.  And then she opened her big beautiful eyes, and gave the camera The Look.  You know!  That look which says: “if only this dildo were YOU, handsome!”

And that is how Vladimir found himself screwing Jenny on the table.  He just couldn’t help it!  And then he carried her into the bedroom, with their mouths suctioned together.  Vladimir threw Jenny on the bed, and chivalrously licked out her cunt.  Always a tasty dish, is cunt, especially when stewed in its own juices. 

Jenny enjoyed the meal too!  She went all sort of floppy and inviting, and so Vladimir had to fuck her again.  Well, it was the least he could do.  In the finest traditions of the Girl Guide Association (or maybe not), it was a good, panting, sweaty ride.

Bob-a-fucking-job!

  

And so our heroine fell asleep in the hunky Russian’s arms.....

To be rudely awakened a few minutes later!

BRRRRRIIINNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!

Fire alarm!

Vladimir (a true gentleman) wrapped Jenny in a blanket and bundled her down the stairs.  Twenty flights later, they were down in the lobby.  Just in time for the hotel staff to inform them that it had been a false alarm.

By this time, Vladimir and Jenny had lost each other in the crowd.  In fact, it was a pretty chaotic scene.  

The time was just past midnight.  The Grand Hotel was in the same block as Rockets night club.  Rockets seemed to have some sort of rowdy stag party thing going on, which had been just reaching its climax.  As a result, there were a lot of tanked-up, disgruntled blokes crowding the lobby. 

As well as this, a 21st birthday party was going on in the hotel ballroom, on the first floor.  Also a very dis-chuffed pensioners’ coach party had been turned out of bed.  The old folks digesting the news that they’d now got to climb umpteen flights of stairs back to their bedrooms.   (Lifts disabled – health and safety, you know!)

The manager of the Grand had locked himself in the toilets, for fear of reprisals.  The hotel staff were at best knackered, and at worst suicidal.  Most of the people around Jenny were pissed.  The language was simply terrible, my dear.  All in all, Jenny had seen better organised riots.

And it was in this tranquil setting that Jenny had quite a bad break.  As she headed for the stairs, someone trod on her trailing blanket.  The blanket slipped from her shoulders.  Someone else stumbled over the blanket, and flung it aside with a curse.  The blanket disappeared in the crowd.  And the Humpton Girls School Head of Business Studies found herself naked!

The only good news was that nobody in the mad crowd had registered Jenny’s sudden nude calamity.  She darted under the stairwell, her large, white breasts heaving with panic.

Crouching under the stairwell like a lovely bare-assed beast at bay, she considered her options.  There weren’t any!

Perhaps she could cower here in the nude, until the pensioners had finally clambered the stairs?  Then flee back to her room?

Disadvantage:  Twenty flights of stairs, straight after two sweaty, animal fucks.  My God, it would be an arse-juddering, knocker-bouncing, lung-bursting climb.  And she would probably get slower and more straddle-legged as she toiled up the stairs.  So, what a weary, crawling, cunty spectacle she would become!  And no doubt there would be a CCTV pointing up her arse at every flight, with the footage appearing on YouTube before daybreak. 

And anyway, that wasn’t even the real problem.  The true problem started to become very clear, as the desperate naked woman peeked up the stairs.  

For the 21st birthday party was back in full swing, and every Sixth Former at Humpton Girls School seemed to be there on the pull.  In fact, some of them had pulled already.  She saw Mandy Ponsonby-Clapp with one lucky chap, who looked like he was about to get his pipes very nicely cleaned.

On occasions like this, you could hardly rush past your students in the nude with your tits wobbling, could you?  It wouldn’t be polite.

Instead you should really walk up the stairs in a more lady-like way, with your big bare bristols swaying gently and the hairs on your twat nicely in place.  You would then stop to give good advice like “they won’t respect you if you show so much cleavage, Victoria” and “don’t slobber when you’re sucking cock, Mandy”.  After all, you are a role model for these young ladies!

And you should give them the chance to interface with you.  Eg “whose spunk is that oozing out of your cunt, Miss?  Anyone I know?” 

And in best ‘Miss Jean Brodie’ style, you could reply:  “Don’t know much about him, girls.  I only met him a couple of hours ago, so it’s been a ‘whirlwind romance’.  What I can tell you is that he’s got a gorgeous body and a big cock, which is the main thing to look for in a man.  Anyway, he’s left me naked on the stairs, so I must go.”

And you depart, with a final word to the girls’ gentlemen friends: “I know it’s tempting, boys, but try not to stare at my arse as I climb the stairs.  When I’m stark naked, I get a bit self-conscious!  I’ve had a big meal, so my butt is more floppy than I’d like.  Also I’m probably showing you too much cunt as I climb the stairs.”

No, Jenny thought, this option was NOT attractive!  But suddenly an alternative presented itself....

As Jenny cringed naked under the stairs, she had been observed.  A bloke wearing a ‘Rockets Club’ bomber jacket came up to her in quite a matter-of-fact way.  He was quite hygienically challenged.  He had an official-looking lapel badge, saying ‘Front of House: Jimmy the Rat’.  Jenny had rarely seen anyone so well described.

“Come on, love!” he said briskly.  “Fire drill’s over.  The show must go on, eh?”

Looking past him into the night club, Jenny could see a few other naked females making their way to the stage. 

“They’re having a strip show in there”, she thought.  “Ugh!  And he thinks I’m one of those naked sluts!”

Jenny was about to dismiss the wretch angrily, when he said: “where’s your Catwoman mask?”   Looking at the stage, Jenny saw a banner saying “Climb The Bat Pole!”

Ah, a little boys’ cartoon mag-themed strip show – how classy!  But actually, a Catwoman mask would give Jenny one thing she was currently lacking – anonymity.  Quick as a flash, Jenny decided to throw in her lot with the stag party (good clean fun, no doubt!)

“Err...I lost it” she said.  “Have you got a spare?” 

“Yes, here you are, dear” Jimmy the Rat replied, leading the nude and blushing teacher into the strip show.  Jenny clapped the mask on – and not a moment too soon!

Because the first person Jenny saw as she walked in was Bill Swett, the school caretaker.  The dirty bugger!  His eyes lit up when he saw the fine naked slapper.

Bill fondled Jenny’s left tit as she brushed past his table.  She was about to wallop him, but then she remembered her role.  So instead Jenny leant over Bill, and dangled both her lovely bazoomers in Bill’s delighted fat face.   “You naughty boy!”  ‘Catwoman’ purred.  “I’ll lick out your cream later!”

Not that she had the slightest intention of doing that!  Jenny’s plan was to get up on stage, do a few twirls, and then melt away unobtrusively towards the strippers’ dressing room.  Borrow a robe and escape.

Well, that was the plan.  But Jenny’s escort immediately demolished that!  “Well done, darlin’, that was a nice routine with the fat guy on Table 6.  You obviously know what you’re doing, so I’ll keep it brief.”

“Get up on stage and finish the act. Then point sexily at one of the tables – you can do Table 6, as you got a nice thing going with Fatty there.  Then just help them to get their rocks off, quick as you can and we can all go home.  Don’t forget, no penetration, but hand jobs, in the mouth, whatever you like.”   (“Like?” thought Jenny unhappily.)

“OK” she said.  “And once I finish Table 6, I can go, right?”

“Yes, dear,” said Jimmy.  “You look like you know what you’re doing!  The older ones know a few tricks, eh?!!”  (“The older ones!” thought Jenny.)

Anyway, this was no time to stop for a debate about the guy’s bad manners.  The music was pumping out and the nude Catwomen were mounting the stage.  Each one undulated up to a Bat Pole.  Jenny was late!

Jenny hastened after her Cat-colleagues, jiggling and wiggling for all she was worth.  Jenny charged across the stage and threw herself at her pole, without too much idea what she was meant to do with it when she got there.

Jenny mashed her breasts against the pole; licked it; hauled herself up and down it; skipped around it as if it were a Maypole; and generally acted the fool.

I think you could say that the red mist had come down on the naked teacher at this point.  She was in a world of her own!  Jenny just wanted to get the whole ghastly thing over with as quick as possible.

As a result, she wasn’t really blending into the background very well!  All round the club, people were scratching heads as they watched the spectacle on stage.  Six skinny, perma-tanned pros, grinding away languidly.  Plus the nude, white and curvy Head of Business Studies, absolutely freaking out.

Blokes were saying:  “Look at the mad nympho on the end, with the big charleys and the hairy twat!  Who let her in?  My God, I could do with a piece of that!”

As the music stopped, Jenny was first off the mark.  She simply galloped downstage.  Sitting starkers on the edge of the stage, Jenny then made full use of what Dr Twatte had described as her “feminine wiles”. 

Which is to say that Jenny eased her legs apart; thrust her crotch forward; diddled with her clit; ran her tongue round her lips; batted her eye-lashes; shrugged her shoulders (this got her breasts wobbling wildly); leered at Table 6; and pointed to the gentlemen on that table one by one.

Jenny then made real heavy weather of lowering herself down off the three-foot stage!  (Even though there was a perfectly adequate flight of steps at the side of the stage.)

First Jenny squatted cuntily on the edge of the stage, boobs heaving with ‘fear’ as she looked down at the sheer drop.  Next, Jenny turned her back to the audience. She stuck out her big beautiful bare bottom; and splayed her thighs for the great climb down. 

Then (oh dear!) she got stuck.  Her sprawling legs scissored wildly, which ‘unfortunately’ left her hairy fanny gaping wide.  Finally, with a mighty effort, Jenny collapsed to the ground.  She naturally had to lie spread-eagled on the floor with her knees up, while she recovered her breath. 

None the worse for her ordeal, though, Jenny scrambled to her feet, with her amazing breasts surging and billowing.  A quick scratch of the cunt as she got her bearings.  A wave to Bill Swett.

Then she barrelled towards Table 6 and leapt into a ‘cow girl’ position on Bill’s lap.  Table 6 greeted Jenny rather warmly!

As Jenny landed on Bill, she shoved her knockers into his face to shut him up.  This gave her a moment to take stock of the situation.  

The first thing that struck Jenny was what a small town Humpton was.  Most of the blokes in the club were familiar.  (Familiar, in every sense of the word, I’m sorry to say.)  And she knew every single one of the four blokes on Table 6!

There was pervy Bill, of course, who’d now taken two great handfuls of Jenny’s arse.  On either side of Bill were his two drinking pals, Jerry Slugg and Arthur Slyme.  What a sleazy pair of sex pests they’d been over the years.  But worst of all, look who was sat behind Jenny and trying to peek at her anus.  Stuart Little!  The knobhead estate agent.

Several years ago, Jenny had had the poor judgement to go to the pics with Stuart.  How he had drooled and groped in the darkness!  On that occasion, Jenny had been able to deal with Stuart quite firmly, by ‘accidentally’ emptying her coffee into his lap.  This time round, though, she’d have to be a bit ‘friendlier’.

Word on the street was that Stuart Little’s manhood was well described by his second name.  Well, within a few minutes Jenny would unfortunately be the town authority on that question.

“Oh well, better get on with it”, she thought.  “This is a race I must win.”

Not that the competition was that fierce right now.  Her esteemed co-workers were ambling over to the tables of their ‘choice’.  But most of the punters on those tables were looking wistfully at the fun everyone was having on Table 6.

Jenny swivelled round on Bill’s lap.  (Unfortunately, this gave Bill the opportunity to stick a finger up Jenny’s cunt.)

“Evening, gentlemen!” Jenny said.  (Thanking God for the Catwoman mask.)  “Nice to meet you.  My name’s Ms Gash.  Errr.....Fanny Gash.”  That raised a laugh.

“Now, gentlemen - ooooohhhh!!”  (To Bill.)  “Careful with my cunt, sir!  You don’t know where it’s been.”

“Now, gentlemen, I like breaking the rules, don’t you?  So here’s the deal – ooooohhhhh!!!!”  (Bill’s fingers again, and that actually felt quite nice.  But he’s groping Jenny’s tits again, and it’s holding her up.)

“Sorry, sir, I LOVE what you’re doing, but it’s spoiling the view for the other gentlemen.  They want to see my bazookas too!”

So Jenny clambered off Bill, with a squelching pop.  She stood beseechingly in front of the four blokes.  Lips parted, arms spread wide, palms up, feet apart, knees slightly bent, vagina thrust forward.  Clearly panting for a fuck. 

Jenny hoped that she looked so arousing that they’d come in their drawers.  Being stark naked certainly helped Jenny in her worthy aim.  And the flushed faces of her audience showed how close she’d now taken them to the finishing line.

The four men gazed at ‘Catwoman’ in sheer bloody wonderment.  Although the bottom half of the beautiful arch-criminal’s face was vaguely familiar to them, the men all assumed they’d seen it in some hot video.  Anyway, it was below the neck that they were really focussing!

Here what stood before them was a very well-built naked female with a lovely smooth white body.  Panting a little from her exertions, which was sending all kinds of exciting tremors up and down her luscious anatomy.  Rippling the swelling hips; pumping the large, firm buttocks; and stirring the black undergrowth of cunt.

‘Catwoman’s’ great, fun-packed breasts took up most of her upper half, and they were really heaving up and down.  With the pink nipples waggling cheekily, as they rode out the great knocker storm.

“So here’s the deal, gentlemen”, she resumed.  “I’m here to give you a nice time.  But there are four of you ... errr ... gorgeous blokes, and only one of me.  Nobody wants to be last in the queue at times like this, do they!   So let’s try to do this together in one big sexy bang!  But we’ll need to be discreet – there’s some stuffy old rule about no penetration...”

Which is how she ended up in a classic ‘spit roast’ position. (“Classic?” thought Jenny grimly.)  Do I need to expand?  All right, then, if you insist.....

To be precise, the Head of Business Studies at Humpton Girls School was totally nude, except for a daft Catwoman mask.  She was tummy down underneath Table 6, propped on a cushion with her thighs splayed and her bum sticking up. 

Stuart Little was (feebly) fucking her doggy style.  Supported by the cushion, Jenny had her head in Bill Swett’s groin, and was sucking Bill’s cock.  With her right hand, she was wanking Arthur Slyme, and with her left hand she was ‘processing’ Jerry Slugg.

Now, dear reader, if we’d told Jenny an hour ago that she’d be doing this, she’d have ripped our knackers off.  And if we’d told her that it was actually her idea, she’d have advised us that the Humpton Lunatic Asylum was third road on the left after the town hall, do not stop, do not pass Go, do not collect £200.

But it really was Jenny’s idea, the filthy pervert!  And it worked jolly well. 

Bill, Arthur and Jerry were so excited that they showed their ‘appreciation’ within seconds.   SPLISH!  SPLOSH!  SPLASH!  Three volleys of goo spattered Catwoman’s whiskers.

But Stuart Little proved more of a problem.  His tiny penis poked around the uplands of Jenny’s magnificent backside, without really getting anywhere. 

In her impatience, Jenny tried subterfuge.  She bellowed “God, Stuart, that’s fucking amazing, do it, do it, AARRRGHH!!”   But this seemed to frighten Stuart, rather than turn him on.

So in the end Jenny stifled a yawn, crawled out from under the table, and said: “That was unforgettable!  I’m totally shafted!  Now is there anything I can do for you, darling?”

And, without waiting for an answer, she gave Stuart a small thrill, with her hand, all over his lap.

The four chaps were totally spent, so Jenny gave them all a chaste peck on the cheek.  But she refrained from exchanging phone numbers.  (After all, you don’t want to make yourself look cheap, do you!)  And Jenny hurried off towards the backstage dressing room.

There was one final irritation, though.  Sleazeball Jimmy stopped her.  He seemed to have something on his mind, and was that a banana in his pocket?

“That was great, love!” he said.  “Really .... intense!  I wish they was all like you.  Look at the rest of them – bloody amateurs by comparison, dear.”   (You could always rely on this guy, Jenny decided.  Rely on him to say completely the wrong thing, that is.)

“Anyway, here’s your money, darlin’.  £100, plus a £5 bonus for an early finish.   I saw your little under-the-table trick, mind – naughty, naughty!  We did say no penetration now.”

“I can assure you, sir”, said Jenny haughtily, “no penetration took place.  Stuart was just too small!”

But Jimmy the Rat wasn’t listening.  He was goggling at Jenny’s nipples, which were suddenly sticking out like organ stops.  (How embarrassing!   To tell the truth, now that the hideous ordeal was nearly over, Jenny was starting to come to her senses again.  That, combined with Jimmy being such a bloody creep, was suddenly making her feel very naked and exposed.)

“You must be fucking hungry after all that shagging, dear” said Jimmy, talking into the red-faced nude woman’s chest.  “I mean, it’ll be nice to put something in your mouth that you can actually eat, ha ha!  Fancy a kebab?  We could have a good time together!”

And then the little perv checked Jenny’s quivering bare bottom for ripeness, by giving it a very hard pinch.  Oww!

That did it.

This, remember, was a Batman party.  Most of the blokes there were sincere admirers of the Tim Burton film.  In particular, of the great artistry of Michelle Pfeiffer.  Who could forget Michelle’s sensitive interpretation of the tragic heroine, Selina Kyle?  Especially the moving scene where Michelle kicks ass in black leather, and damn nearly garrots a mugger/sex pest with her thighs?

For most of the chaps in the club, that scene was precious, artistic and beautiful.  So imagine their emotions when they saw Michelle’s thrilling assault on the pervy little guy re-created before their very eyes!  And ‘Catwoman Jenny’ was the spitting image of Michelle Pfeiffer.  Except, you obviously need to imagine Michelle Pfeiffer naked, with curly black pubes, bigger breasts and bigger buttocks.

Jenny’s beautiful white perspiring body gleamed under the lights.  Leap, kick and punch were all one magnificent, rippling movement, as she assaulted Jimmy the Rat. Jenny brought him to his knees with a good solid boot in the balls; she rocked him back with a forearm jab to the head; and then splattered him over a table, doing nasty things to his backside. 

Explosive!  Jenny’s breasts and buttocks were still heaving, two minutes after the rest of her had stopped.

The crowd roared!

And Jenny stalked off to the dressing room.  The guys on Table 6 applauded louder than anyone.  With only one slightly confused person.  “How did she know I was called Stuart?” wondered the little estate agent.

Crimson now with rage, rather than embarrassment, Jenny kicked open the dressing room door.  At last her nude hell would be over.  Quickly now!

None of the trollops’ clothes fitted her – they were all too skinny.  This did nothing to improve Jenny’s mood!  But she eventually squeezed into one unfortunate woman’s garments, and made good her escape.  Someone else’s turn to be left naked tonight – serve her right for doing such a slow blow job!

Jenny toiled up the stairs, found her bedroom door unlocked, and fell into bed.  Awaking Vladimir, who was VERY pleased that she’d returned!   He grabbed her eagerly.

Jenny’s first thoughts were “oh no, Vladimir!  I’m a professional.  The girls need me tomorrow morning.  I must sleep!”

But then she thought about the psychological scars left by the Stuart Little experience.  Ugh!  She urgently needed therapy, to help her deal with that.  Deep Protein Treatment was required.  (DPT is up-market ladies’ magazine terminology for a good shag.)  And Vladimir’s volcanic penis was the instrument of choice.

In any case, the little geeks in her Business Studies class could have the cobwebs blown off them by a nice hearty hockey lesson instead.  (Good old Fenella!)

And so Jenny slid herself underneath Vladimir; pulled up her knees on either side of him; grabbed him tightly by the arse; and signified that she was ready for another ride.  And the bumpier, the better!

The poor old bed was violently shaken.  And then the headboard started to judder.

Vladimir pounded away, full of beans, God bless his soul.  Third time round in quick succession, it’s quite difficult for a bloke to reach orgasm.  (I don’t know, but I’ve been told!)  And so the ‘bumpy ride’ started to become a marathon rather than a sprint.  

Never mind, though!  Still high on adrenalin, Jenny matched Vladimir all the way.  As he thrust up, she breathed in and clamped her legs.  As he withdrew, she breathed out and eased down her cunt muscles.  They set up a real rocking rhythm.  The plaster started to flake from the ceiling of the room below. 

The thudding and moaning went on into the night.  Tom cats started to yowl, and babies stirred in their sleep.  And so closed another day in the English education system.

Then (about 3 o’clock in the morning) another bloody ringing bell!  This time, though, it was Vladimir’s mobile, not the fire alarm.  Vladimir went off to take the call.  He returned, saying: “Sorry, I’ve got to go.  It’s work.  Something just came up.”

So Jenny woke up alone the next morning.  Which was actually a bit of a relief!  Because any more of Vladimir’s ‘vigour’ might have been a little too much of a good thing.  On the bedside table was a lovely bunch of flowers and a note:-

“Ah, the poor love!” thought Jenny.  “He thinks he’s taken advantage of me!  Well, let him think that.  Now I must phone Fenella and ask her to do me a favour....”

THE AUCTION

The first cloud on the horizon was the arrival of Thursday night’s Humpton Helmet. 

The Helmet’s front page was dominated by the usual trashy Humpton Helmet sex scandal ‘public interest’ story.  Under the World War Three-sized headline “ANGRY STRIPPERS RUN AMOK”, our “on the spot correspondent”, Vladimir Curtis brought the news of “an astonishing nude brawl” at the Rockets night club.

The front page picture was of a furious naked woman in hand cuffs.  She was being carried, bellowing with rage, into a police van by some very flustered-looking coppers. 

Her private parts were obscured by exclamation marks, but with its usual chivalry, the Helmet showed her face, gave her name, and dug up a few comments from the neighbours.  The Helmet also promised “a full colour, uncensored poster-sized print, lads, for only £7.99 (including P&P) available from your fun-loving Humpton Helmet.”

When you turned from the huge picture to the tiny little paragraph of text, you learned the “full astonishing story”.  Apparently, Sharon Spreddam, stripper of this parish, had finished her “depraved act” at a stag party.  On returning to her dressing room, Ms Spreddam had found that her clothes had been pinched.  She’d then flipped her wig, trashed the dressing room, and been arrested by the entire Humpton police force. 

The Helmet’s considered opinion was that the “busty nude delinquent” was still high from her “disgusting acts” and so the whole thing was inevitable.  (Or as the Helmet put it, “these stag parties are a tinderbox of sex and violence, and we shall be investigating them thoroughly in the coming weeks”.)

It looked as if the £7.99 poster would be a nice little earner for the Helmet.  As it would certainly provide some extra points of interest.   For example, the police handling of the naked woman was very ‘unfortunate’.  One copper was carrying each leg, and the two plods had obviously got so muddled that they’d turned in opposite directions.  As a result, the luckless stripper’s cunt had been opened very wide indeed, for the benefit of the photographer.

In Ms Spreddam’s rage, her breasts were evidently rising and falling under the exclamation marks.  The pervier class of Helmet reader (was there any other type?) could therefore pay their £7.99, and look forward to a really outstanding display of nicely-widened areolae, and spectacular stand-out nipples.

In a quite separate incident, Vladimir Curtis reported that the club manager, Mr Jimmy Ratner, had been the subject of a fierce and totally unprovoked assault by “a deranged stripper with a Batman fixation”.  Mr Ratner was now in Humpton General Hospital, with severe bruising, and was having a beer mat surgically removed from his anus.

The police were now looking for a well-built naked woman who is wearing only a superhero mask.  The public were warned not to approach this individual.

The Helmet deplored this sort of filthy behaviour, and described it in loving detail on pages 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6. 

And in today’s text vote, the Helmet asked its readers:-   “Do you feel that Humpton strippers should be forced to take anger management lessons?  If so, should they take the lessons fully clothed or in the nude?”

“Usual Helmet sleaze” growled Dr McGrott to Miss Blowett.  “That little tosser, Mark Swordsman!  Freud would have had a field day with him.  I imagine that Swordsman got caught with a stonker in the boys’ showers in Year 9, and he’s been trying to prove something ever since.”

“Yes, Virginia”, said Miss Blowett, who didn’t have a clue what her colleague was talking about.  “Err...’stonkers’ can be very trying, dear.... but what’s this little story on page 17?”

The two teachers boggled at a news item tucked away in the ‘What’s On’ column:

“And look at this”, said Dr McGrott.  “’By our special correspondent, Vladimir Curtis’.  Him again!  He seems to be writing half of this newspaper.  But that gelled toe-rag still splits his fucking infinitives.  ‘To strongly support’ indeed.  You remember him, don’t you, Fenella?  Vlad the Impaler?”

“Oh dear, Virginia, is that him?  The young man who used to call himself ‘Curtiv’ and pretended he was Stalin’s grandson?  The trouble he caused when we teamed up with the Journalism College for that holiday in France.  So many teenage pregnancies in the Sixth Form, precisely nine months after the holiday.  Most embarrassing.”

“Anyway,” commented McGrott, “I’ve got better things to do with my Saturday nights than go to a Chamber of Commerce event.  For example, there must be a busted sewer somewhere in this town that I could wash my hair in.  So the Impaler’s got his facts wrong this time.  I’m not bloody going.”

“Errr... I’m afraid that we must go, Virginia.”  Dr Twatte and Jenny Pratt had just arrived.  They were both ashen faced, and Dr Twatte was carrying a large brown envelope.  “I’ve just had the most dreadful letter from that man at the Helmet.

Jenny burst into tears.  And oh dear, there it was in the envelope.  A large glossy centrefold of Ms Jenny Pratt, BA (Hons), Humpton School, Head of Business Studies.  Naked, except for a mortarboard. 

It must have been one of the last photos Vladimir took before he totally lost his grip.  There Jenny was, with her trusty dildo, in a pose that would have curdled milk.

“Hang on a minute”, said McGrott. “I thought there was something a bit odd about the takings from Bob-a-Job week.  Let’s have another look at your Bob-a-Job card, Jenny.”

And there it was on the card:-

Yes, it did look a bit strange, now you came to think of it.

“But he gave me a cheque and everything”, sobbed Jenny.  “Made payable on some Russian-sounding bank.”

“Well, I’ve just had a letter from Mr Shaft at our bank”, said Dr Twatte.  “Let me see ... oh dear, he’s returned the cheque.  ‘Dear Dr Twatte...blah blah....the Yuvbinad Bank does not exist’.  Oh dear, Jenny.  ‘Yuvbinad’, get it?  You’ve been had.”

The ladies looked at the letter from Mark Swordsman at the Humpton Helmet.  Written in the Helmet’s usual elegant prose, it read:-

“Dear Dr Twat, you’re really in the poo now, ain’t you, you silly old bag.  If you want to keep your job, get your fat butt down to the Grand Hotel on Sat night.  And bring your useless pals McGrott, Blowett & Pratt.   PS You’d better be wearing nice undies.”

And there wasn’t even an RSVP.  But something told our four friends that they’d better obey.  So Saturday night, 6th November, saw the teachers at the Grand Hotel.

They were shown up to the ‘Seraglio’ Room. 

“What a curious name for a hotel room!” said the ever-innocent Fenella.

“History, dear”, muttered McGrott.  “Well, it’s as close to ‘Heritage’ as Humpton ever gets.  You’ve heard of Sir Percy O’Pillock, the great Victorian benefactor of this town?  Well that sleazy old wanker built the original Grand Hotel in 1898, just after he’d been on some sex-tourist ‘factfinding’ trip out East.”

“’Seraglio’ is a Turkish word for ‘knocking shop’, dear.  Observe the doors opening out around this sitting room.  They all lead into bedrooms, gettit?  So O’Pillock and his whiskery pervert pals could invite a few slack-bloomered local strumpets up here.  They could play nude cricket or something on this very large floor space.  And then everyone could pair off in the bedrooms.  Bonko!”

“Really, I don’t know what’s possessed Eleanor to waste our Saturday night up here with these drooling tossers.  We should have called their bluff....”   But that was empty talk, and they all knew it.

So the four women found themselves standing in the middle of the Seraglio Room.  It was nicely furnished, and an open fire was blazing.  The seats were round the walls, and they were all taken by the Chamber of Commerce blokes.  It didn’t look like it was going to be the sort of evening where the gentlemen would give up their seats to the ladies.

There were eleven blokes there altogether.  Jim Shaft, the Chair of the Chamber of Commerce.  Mark Swordsman, gloating away, the horrible man.  Councillor Dave Splott, a guy who managed to combine local government pay with a playboy lifestyle.  (Maybe that had something to do with the fact that he controlled all the Council building projects.)  Norman Nobbead, the owner of the Humpton Bingo Hall.  And various other captains of industry.

Three unexpected faces, though.  Firstly, Bill Swett was there.  (“What’s that fat degenerate doing here, Eleanor?” whispered McGrott.  “I’ll bet you he’s been leaking like a sieve to the bloody Helmet”)

Vladimir Curtis was also present, looking extremely uncomfortable.  He moved towards Jenny, but she glared at him with hot and angry eyes.

And there was one complete stranger in the room.  A huge brute of a man, with sweaty, shaven head, astonishing facial hair and shoulders like an up-ended bed.  He was absent-mindedly eating a chicken leg (bones and all).

This scary giant cast a raking glance over the four teachers, and boggled a little at the sight of Dr McGrott.  (Who could blame him?)  He then bit the top off a bottle of lager and drank the contents in one gulp.  His throat resembled an elephant’s foot, in terms of size, shape and texture.  Looking at it, there was no sign that the lager had even touched the sides.  He looked bored to buggery.

Mr Shaft welcomed the ladies courteously, and offered them a drink.  Then he went to the little stage at the front of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please!  Welcome, everyone, to this special auction in support of Humpton Girls School.  Now we have some very valuable items on sale here tonight.  I’m sure that some people present will wish to bid very high for them!”

“This could be a long and strenuous evening for some of us, so let’s make a quick start.  Item No 1 is a dossier detailing certain events a fortnight ago at this very hotel.  Do I have any interest?  Dr Twatte perhaps?  Ms Pratt?”

Eleanor went white and Jenny went red.

“Yes,” continued Mr Shaft.  “There does seem to be some interest!  So I’ll start the bidding .... at two dresses!!”

Two dresses?!!  The men guffawed, and all eyes turned to the four women.   McGrott looked witheringly scornful, and Fenella just seemed bewildered.  But Eleanor and Jenny clearly knew the score.

Eleanor was wearing a black number, which she unzipped down the back and stepped out of.  She looked absolutely luscious in her black bra and panties.  Long slender legs, swelling out to a good meaty rump, and amazing superstructure.

Jenny had (or rather used to have) a red strappy ball gown on.  Now that it was lying at her feet, the men were gratified to see red matching underwear which left little to the imagination.  Thong panties and half cup bra.  (Maybe Jenny had a feeling that the underwear wouldn’t be staying on long?)

Mr Shaft said “Going, Going, GONE!” in a very jolly voice, and banged a mallet on the table.  He then invited the ‘lucky’ winners to make their deposits.  Dr Twatte and Jenny Pratt walked, or rather wiggled, to the table, frowning, flushed and apprehensive.

Mr Shaft shook hands with them most energetically.  Up and down, up and down went the ladies’ hands (and much else besides). 

Mark Swordsman said “photo shoot, ladies!” and beckoned to Vladimir.  But Jenny stopped Vladimir in his tracks with such a glare.

Swordsman took the camera off Vladimir with an “I’ll see you later!” look.  He snapped a few pics of the curvy lovelies, but things had lost impetus a bit.

So Mr Shaft stepped forward again, and said: “Now for Item 2!”  What could this be?

“Item 2 is another dossier which would benefit from being restored to the school.  It concerns the 2007 Southern Counties Schools Hockey Final.”

Fenella Blowett’s face altered from its usual healthy outdoor tint.  Fenella went the colour of old parchment.  She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.  Dr Twatte turned to Fenella, and said in such a sad, gentle little whisper:  “The 2007 Southern Counties Final?  Oh, Fenella...”

Mr Shaft went on:  “Yes, this dossier contains witnessed statements from the two umpires involved in the game, plus photographs of the Head of Games at Humpton School – “ but then he stopped.  He realised that he’d made his point already.

The 2007 Southern Counties Final was generally accepted as one of the finest exhibitions of school girl hockey there has ever been.  They show films of the match on coaching courses around the world. 

Apart from anything else, the game provided a classic contrast in styles.  The cup holders, Cheltenham Ladies College, included seven Schools internationals and were overwhelming favourites.  Their opponents were Humpton, an unknown team who had scrambled through round after round of qualifying games.

The Cheltenham players produced thrilling passages of individual brilliance.  Humpton by contrast were a limited team, but were superbly organised and had incredible levels of fitness and resolve.

It was a tremendous ding-dong match, only marred by the controversy of the final minute.  At that point, with the score at 4-4, Cheltenham scored.  By some extraordinary oversight, the umpire disallowed the goal.  Then Humpton went up the other end, and won a very dubious penalty stroke from the other umpire.  From which they scored.   Humpton won 5-4!!

Fenella started to cry.  “Eleanor, I’m so sorry!  I wanted us to win so badly that I took out a little ‘insurance’.  By coincidence, my two old pals, Bunty Cockett and Lucy Poope were the umpires.  I ... errr ....persuaded them to ‘favour’ Humpton if the time was right.  And in that final minute of the game they both delivered.”

“We all knew it was wrong, though, and I’ve been expecting this for years.  Bunty and Lucy had to get it off their chest, and I don’t blame them at all.”

“But, Fenella, dear”, said Dr Twatte, very tenderly.  (Knowing that Fenella would be getting something off her own chest very soon.  Something bra-shaped.)  “Fenella, you didn’t need to do it, dear.  That run to the Southern Counties final was my proudest moment in education.  You did that fairly, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have minded if we’d lost that game to Cheltenham.  Just being part of that wonderful Final was good enough for me.  Fenella, you worked miracles with the girls that year.  You’ll always be my best colleague.”

Dr Twatte would have given Fenella a hankie, but the only material the Doctor had to hand was covering (just!) her own private parts.   So Fenella dabbed her face with her sleeve. 

It was, by the way, a fairly hideous pink gingham sack thing that Fenella was wearing.  So the garment was only good for two things: (1) nose wipe; and (2) stripping off.  Both of which actions Fenella performed.

Unfortunately, Fenella’s underwear was ghastly, but at least there were now large stretches of slim, well-toned flesh on view, so everybody looked very kindly on Fenella.  The general opinion of the Chamber of Commerce was:  “Poor old Fenella, don’t slaughter her for one mistake.  Look at that firm tummy!  I’d love to lick something gooey out of her navel!”

So the Chamber of Commerce took stock of the three juicy school teachers.  How charming they looked in their undies!  

And at this point, there was a knock on the door. 

“Ah, that’ll be the caterers!” said Mr Shaft.  He called out “hold on a minute, please!”

Clad only in their underwear, the three women cringed. 

“You can’t have them in here, with us like this” pleaded Dr Twatte.  “Shame on you!  Give us back our dresses, please!”

“Dr Twatte makes a fair point” said Mark Swordsman.  “But we have to do things democratically here.  All in favour of returning the ladies’ dresses, say ‘Aye!’”

Silence!

“Sorry ladies, carry on as you are!”

Bill Swett made his way to the door and opened it a crack.  “Oh, hi there, Wayne!” he said.  Then, turning to the party, Bill said with a grin: “It’s Wayne Slugg and his pals.  They’ve got a Saturday job with Enteritis Catering.”

Quick as a flash, Dr McGrott hurtled across the room and slammed the door.

“You can’t let those little turds in here!” she rasped.  “They’re under 16.  You’d be liable under the Obscenity in Public Places Act, 1961, schedule 1 – Corrupting A Minor.  You’ll have the school’s lawyers up your scabby arses, with a blow torch.”

“Good old Virginia!” thought Dr Twatte.  She suspected that her colleague was talking complete balls.  But McGrott always sounded so convincing!

The men were certainly taken aback.  Even the slimeball, Mark Swordsman, looked uncertain.  Swordsman made a half-hearted move towards the women’s dresses.  The women felt a surge of hope.

But alas!  Swordsman saw three discarded Catwoman masks in the corner, and picked them up instead.  “The perfect solution, ladies!” he said, with a cruel grin.   “Your identities will be protected.... as per Schedule 2 of the Talking Crapola Act of 1066, eh, Dr McGrott!  Now put ‘em on quick, or you’ll be done for corruption!  Let the lads in, Bill!”

With dread in their hearts (and goose-pimples on their cleavage), the three wretched women put on the masks.  But as soon as Jenny put hers on, Bill Swett did a violent double take!  Jenny looked beseechingly at Bill, and put her finger on her lips.  Bill winked back, and said “sorry, gents, I was in a dream!”  He flung open the door, and the caterers walked in.

Wayne Slugg, Shane Slyme and Duane Skank were delighted to see the generously-built, half-naked Catwomen! 

Wayne and Shane knew that their dear old Dads had recently had one hell of a night romping with some hot, pervy bimbo in a Catwoman mask.    And holy Mary, mother of Jesus, here were THREE of them! One each!!  The three adolescent lads were in fleshy, crumpet heaven.  

On the other hand, the three red-faced women felt very far from heaven.   Poor Miss Blowett was particularly distressed.  After 42 years of almost zero sexual experience, she was now suffering great emotional shock waves. 

For one thing, she had done something very, very wrong.  And she was now being punished.  Shame, disgrace and humiliation was being visited upon her.  All her life she’d tried to be modest and pure.  And now she was being forced to swagger around half-naked in front of these awful leering men.  She would never live this down.

On the other hand, the attention she was getting was more intense than she’d ever known.  And it was quite admiring.  A dozen male eyes were following her every move.  Her body quite liked this, even if her mind didn’t.  So, inside her sensible knickers, she was getting a little bit squishy.

The blood was really coursing around Fenella’s exposed body.   Her cheeks were burning with shame.  And there were red blotches on throat and round her collar bone. 

Worst of all, her nipples were springing to life!  Maybe only partly visible through her baggy bra, but these horrible men were peering at her chest as if they had X-Ray eyes.  And the more they looked, the more hot and bothered (and nipply!) she became.  And the increasingly urgent question was: ‘how much longer would she even be able to keep her bra on?’

Wayne, Shane and Duane bustled backwards and forwards, replenishing the drinks and bringing in the dessert.  They were puzzled by the huge Hell’s Angel in the corner.  He looked a fierce wild bastard.  And what was McGrott doing at this stag do?  That scary little bitch was really off-putting. 

So the lads didn’t make quite as free with the slappers as they’d have liked.  But they still managed to rub up against the Catwomen plenty of times – a nice little grope here and a friendly pinch there.  Their cheeks burning, Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella had to put up with it.

Then Duane overdid it.  As he brought in the ice bucket, he had to squeeze round behind the Catwoman with the baggy drawers.  What a great opportunity!  With one hand, Duane very delicately pulled out the waistband of the panties.  With the other hand, he quickly shovelled down some ice cubes.

“OWW!  OWWWW!!!  OOOOOOHHHH!!!!!”

The freezing cold pellets slipped down Fenella’s arse crack and rapidly melted in the heat of her fanny.  It was the most ... errr ...vivid experience the poor lady had ever known. 

Fenella capered and twisted and scrabbled at her panties.  Tears came to her eyes – partly tears of pain and shame, but there was also a thrilling kind of sensation mixed in with them.  Duane laughed and laughed.  Which wasn’t clever of him.

Even the wicked Mark Swordsman thought the little yob had gone too far.  Swordsman had been looking quite fondly (well, OK, lustfully) at Fenella, and he was genuinely sorry to see her humiliated like this.  “That’s enough, kid!” he said, which was the nicest thing Swordsman had ever done in his whole rotten life.

Virginia McGrott was a bit more practical than Swordsman.  Rapidly appraising the situation, McGrott caught the eye of the huge savage stranger (whose wavelength she seemed to be on).  McGrott pointed to Duane and jerked her thumb meaningfully. 

The giant brute moved across the room. He picked Duane up by his collar, as if the big teenager were a new-born kitten, and hurled Duane through the open window.  Everybody froze.  They were five floors up!

Duane’s screams of terror died away, and then.....

SPLASH!! 

Thank God for that – the hotel swimming pool!

Dave Splott laughed nervously, and said “Good aim!”

“Away and raffle your doughnut, man” rasped McGrott.  “He didn’t know the pool was there!”  Then she looked approvingly at their foreign guest, who was eating more chicken.  “Mind you, I don’t think the big steamer even knew the window was open...”

Gibbering with fear, Wayne and Shane ran from the room.  As the lads departed, Mr Shaft called for attention again.

“Right, ladies and gentlemen, now for the next stage of the auction.   I have here a very precious item indeed!  I believe that this will be worth an entire set of clothes!  Which is where I’d like to start the bidding....”

Everybody looked blank.

Mr Shaft resumed:  “If I do not have any bids for this dossier, I will put one copy in the hands of the Berkshire Police and another copy in the hands of Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs.”

“This details all the taxable supplies bought and sold by Humpton Girls School over the last five years.  It reconciles these payments and receipts to the school’s official General Ledger, but there is a £500,000 shortfall.  It also reconciles these transactions to a secret General Ledger, which is maintained by the school Bursar –“

“YOUR ARSE IN PARSLEY!!!”

And, purple-faced with fury, Dr Virginia McGrott ran up to the stage.  She tore off her hair (it was a wig after all).  She ripped of all her clothes and barked at Mr Shaft:  “Don’t stand there like a fart in a trance, man!  Give me that fucking file!”

She turned to the newspaper editor:  “Well I might have known that you’d have a bog-full of shit on everyone here, Swordsman.  This had better be the only copy”

And then McGrott flung everything on the fire – dossier, clothes and all.  She was absolutely foaming!

Everybody froze.  Seeing McGrott nude was quite stupefying.  The effect was a bit like a plucked chicken or a skinned rabbit (although much sexier).  The difference between McGrott fully dressed and starkers was so dramatic.

Dr Virginia McGrott had two mops of ginger curls (one on her head and one down below).  She was a pale, delicate little cutie, although this was belied by her fierce laser blue eyes.  Maybe in her early forties.  As fit as a butcher’s dog.  Slender, small-breasted, but all woman.

Dr McGrott looked around the room.  Quite imperiously, considering that she was the tiniest person there, and was stark nippling naked.

“Stop goggling at me, you fucking perverts!  Didn’t you think I had a fanny?  Now, are any of you bampots going to give a lady a seat?”

And then, turning to Bill Swett: “Hoy, fatty, you’ve got the biggest lap.  Let me up.”  And up she clambered, white bottom dimpling.

Now the last few minutes had been a bit of a car crash, so Mr Shaft declared a break.  He hoped that the three ‘normal’ members of the school (Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella) would get a bit flirty with the blokes, who were obviously dying to mix with them.  The drinks flowed.

Meanwhile, perched naked on Bill Swett’s lap, Dr McGrott had been taking stock.  She was, of course, a woman of absolutely bomb-proof self-assurance.  So her current situation (while not ideal) didn’t faze her.

For one thing, that bloody tax fiddle really had been hanging over her.  Ever since the papers had disappeared from her desk, she’d been dreading the moment when they would return.  In the hands of the police?  Or in the hands of the Revenue?  Seeing them disappear for ever in the fire was a sweet moment.

For another thing, she was feeling quite cheerful and randy.  Thanks to Bill Swett’s attentions, of course!  That fat rascal had managed to get his hands wedged firmly between McGrott’s thighs when she first lowered her dainty, bare fanny into his lap.  In her blind raging fury, she’d not noticed Bill’s fingers in her cunt at first.  But she was noticing them now!

Jenny Pratt could have told Virginia that Bill Swett was a skilled cunt masseur.  But Pratt and McGrott didn’t have the kind of relationship where they compared notes about sex thrills.  So Bill came as quite a revelation! 

Bill’s big, unexpectedly gentle fingers kneaded and rubbed and teased and tweaked.  The Deputy Head’s clitoris and vagina lips were getting quite puffy under the stimulation!  She felt all warm and runny inside.  It was really lovely, just flopping around in the nude, on a good man’s lap.  Just a bit deeper please, Bill – ooooooooohh!! That’s so nice!

“Good man?”  Curses, curses, what was she saying?  McGrott blinked angrily, and tried to clear her head.  “Did I just say ‘nice’?  That’s not my kind of word at all!”

In an attempt to get back to the old hardboiled McGrott, she told herself: “well, I’ve got the best view in this room anyway.  Because it’s the only seat in the room where I don’t have to look at Bill Swett, the wee fat wank.”

But this wasn’t ringing true, and she knew it.  Bill was OK.  He was - oooohhh!!*!!@!!! - doing a good job, in fact. 

And Bill could keep his mouth shut.  Her cunt was really dripping now, and you could hang a ‘For Sale’ sign on her nipples.  But Bill was just keeping mum; licking the back of her neck (nice!!); and letting his fingers (not his mouth) do the talking – mmmm!!  Ooohhh, yessssssss, BILL !!*!!@!&!!

No, the reason she had the best view in the room was because she was right opposite that incredible looking foreign guy.  What a fucking BEAST!  Somebody had said he was the Mayor of Punk, a town in Moldova.

Now Virginia McGrott had lived in Humpton for ten years, and the only carnal relationship she’d had in all that time had been with her vibrator.    Virginia had her urges, sure, but she’d never found any guy in Humpton remotely deserving of the stunning McGrott body. 

Virginia, you see, did like a bit of rough.  In fact, she liked her men big and ballsy and grizzly strong and rough as fuck.  And the closest you got to rough trade in Humpton was maybe the odd unemployed car park attendant. 

Humpton blokes were a bit soft and wimpy.  I mean, some of them were pretty enough.  Vladimir Curtis looked OK , and no doubt he was adequate in bed.  But look at him moping about over Jenny Pratt.  Buck up, man!  Where was the fucking edge?

Glasgow....  Now there was a real hard man’s town!  And Virginia’s love button quivered at the memory of.... but no, let’s focus on the here and now.

And what a here and now!  So this tasty-looking gorilla was the Mayor of Punk, was he?  Punk must be a lively town.  I wonder if all the men there have broken noses, fierce burning black eyes, and hands like shovels?  Interesting, very interesting.

Moldova, now let me see.... Chief language Romanian.  OK then.  And McGrott called out, in her beautiful cut-glass voice:-

“Salut, ce mai fac!”  (“Hi, how are you?”)  

Konrad Jizz nearly fell off his chair.  He’d been boggling at this mad, beautiful little doll, ever since she’d thrown her clothes on the fire and clambered on to the fat guy’s lap. 

He replied “err... bunã scumpo, cum te numeti?” (“hello, beautiful, what’s your name?”)  (Good start! thought McGrott.) 

Here is an English translation of the rest of their conversation.

“Virginia.  Born in Scotland, but I was kissed by the Zȃnã.  My great grandfather was beloved of one of them.”  

Despite her naked and cunt-dribbling plight, this outrageous lie showed that the McGrott bullshit machine was in smooth working order.   The Zȃnã were powerful benign female spirits in Eastern European folklore. 

“Wow!  The Zȃnã.  Can it really be true?  Tell me, what gift did she give you?”

“Wisdom.  I know all languages.  And strength of will.  Look at how these wretches cower from me, even though I go naked amongst them.”  (This was true actually.  The blokes didn’t know where to look.  Having been patronised, scorned and insulted by McGrott for so many years, the Humpton captains of industry simply couldn’t think of her as a desirable bit of fluff.)

Konrad was beside himself.  How his once-great people yearned for true leadership.  Not just the leadership which he could provide – the leadership of force.  But leadership that was wise as well, and which was founded on the true ancient spirit of Moldova.  The Zȃnã!  What a consort this fairy woman could make.

Besides, she was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.  A different order of being from the women of his homeland, with their dark features and wide hips.  Those crazy blue eyes!  That beautiful red muff!  Her nipples were practically semaphoring him!  His cock strained.  She had to be his!

Virginia had certainly noticed the impressive bulge in Konrad’s leather trousers.  She eased her legs a little wider apart, just to check – ah yes, the bulge throbbed in response!  It was all him.

“Tell me”, she asked, “in your land, do you have bilge rats called ‘taxmen’?  I have big trouble with them here.”

“Moldova does have tax collectors, but no, they don’t bother me.”

“I bet they don’t, big boy!  Heh heh, we need a few good citizens like you over here.  What do you earn then?”

“Last year I made 200 million leu before tax, and, heh heh, I pay no tax!”

200 million leu, thought Virginia.  It was 50 leu to the pound in the Financial Times this morning.  That’ll do nicely.

Virginia licked her index finger very deliberately, held it up in front of Major Jizz, and then smilingly applied it to her clitoris.  Up and down she rubbed it, licking her lips as she did so.  Then she gave him The Look.

He wriggled very uncomfortably in his seat.

“Who is that fat man whose knee you’re perched on?  Is he your husband?”

“No, he’s my faithful butler.  He’s warming my fanny, but I’m thinking you could do that, handsome.”

And with that, he rushed her.  Catching up the delighted McGrott in one massive arm and plunging through the nearest bedroom door.  They heard McGrott screaming – first with laughter; then with delight; and then (after a zipping noise) with shock and awe.

It was as if a whirlwind had passed through the room.  It stopped the cocktail chatter stone dead!  At this display of raw sexuality, Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella cowered together. 

“Now”, said Mr Shaft hastily, “for the second part of the auction.  I may have forgotten to mention that these dossiers are each in two folders!”

“Dr Twatte and Ms Pratt have successfully bid for the first half of the Bob-a-Job dossier.  And Miss Blowett has secured the first volume of the hockey dossier.  Now what am I bid for Volume 2?  How about selling these as a combined lot?  In order to register an interest in these two dossiers, could I please have an immediate down payment of three bras?!!”

An electric silence now fell on the room.  (Well, it wasn’t totally silent!  From the adjoining bedroom there came the steady squeaking of a mattress.  Deep, growling, snuffling grunts, plus orgasmic screams in a much higher pitch.  Dr Virginia McGrott, MA (Edinburgh University), was clearly getting the pasting of a lifetime.)

Then Dr Twatte (showing great leadership) sadly unclipped her bra.  Jenny Pratt followed suit.  And off the bras came! 

With their arms concealing their breasts, the two women shuffled forward to present their bras to the auctioneer.  They were surrounded, though, by grinning men, eager to congratulate them.  And of course shake their hands! 

Knocker show!!

Now, readers, we’ve got a pretty fair knowledge of Jenny’s beautiful breasts.  After all, they only appeared a few pages ago. 

Dr Twatte’s, though, have been eagerly awaited.  The headmistress’s jugs did NOT disappoint.  They were heavy, mind, and swung quite ponderously to and fro as their owner moved.  They sagged a bit, it’s true.  But they were so large, so beautifully ‘tear drop’ shaped, so smooth, so round..... So utterly jaw-droppingly splendid, that the only sensible response to Dr Twatte’s breasts had to be “ga ga ga”, or maybe “goo goo”.

Follow that, Fenella!

Well of course, Fenella was built on different lines altogether from Jenny and Eleanor.  There wasn’t going to be the same sense of Biblical revelation when Fenella Blowett took off her bra. 

But there were a few reasons why the blokes turned eagerly to Fenella, now that it was her turn to ‘make a deposit’. 

Firstly, Fenella’s wrinkled, baggy underwear looked bloody awful, and simply had to be removed.  On aesthetic grounds, you understand!

Secondly, Fenella’s nipples were making quite a statement!

Thirdly, these were sophisticated, broad-minded guys, with a catholic taste in women.  Hourglass Marilyn Monroe figures are great.  But so too are women who are long, lean, limber and toned.  Basically, these blokes heartily approved of naked women.  Full stop!

So Fenella found the audience very positive indeed about her auction bid.

Crimson with embarrassment, Fenella turned her back to the audience and removed her bra.  She hunched her shoulders, as if to cover up, but then she realised the hopelessness of her plight.  So she turned round, and showed everyone the ‘assets’ she’d brought to the auction. 

Relatively small breasts, but lovely little round handfuls.  With rosy-pink, urgent-looking nipples.  Well done, Fenella!

Mr Shaft hurried on, understandably keen to keep up the momentum. 

“Congratulations, ladies, a successful down payment!  You are now preferred bidders for these items!  Please join me in a formal viewing.”

This ‘formal viewing’ ruse was of course just an excuse for getting the poor bare-breasted women to the front of the room, where they had to stand behind a very low table, and turn the pages of the folders.  This had the double benefit of: (1) keeping the women’s arms down and their beautiful melons in full, lip-smacking view; and (2) getting them to lean forward and ‘dangle’. 

The guys found it a fantastic display of ‘low-hanging fruit’.  They loudly discussed the competing merits of the small, sweet and perky ones (Fenella); the large and juicy ones (Jenny) and huge, awesome belters (Dr Twatte). 

Mark Swordsman did everything he could to humiliate the fuming, topless teachers.  He asked them to smile for photographs, and made ‘helpful’ comments like: “lads, don’t grope Eleanor’s tits – yet!”

Another indignity for the bosomy beauties lay in the Nipple factor.  In her embarrassment, Fenella’s nipples had been jutting out from the moment she took off her dress. 

Eleanor and Jenny were a bit less self-conscious.  But their appalling situation did start to get to them.   And so their cheeks got pinker and their nipples more showy.  To the point where the three bare chests looked like six very pervy coat pegs all in a row.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end, and the fun and laughter gradually calmed.  Mr Shaft said: “Thank you, ladies.  Now for your final payment!  I do require three pairs of knickers, you know....!”

NOW YOU’RE BLOODY TALKING, MAN!!

The atmosphere became very highly charged.  For any right-thinking man, this would have to be the pivotal moment of the whole evening.

The three teachers must have seen this coming.  But maybe they’d been hoping against hope for some stay of execution.  At any rate, their shoulders suddenly sagged.  (Hey, that was a lovely knocker avalanche you did there with your shoulders, Dr Twatte!  Bet you can’t do it again!)

Oddly enough, though, all three of them had a slightly pulpy, squelchy feeling in their panties.  It was horrible, but it was sort of thrilling.

Dr Twatte made one last desperate bid to keep her knickers.  Clasping her hands together, the poor topless headmistress pleaded: “Mr Shaft... Jim!  Don’t let this happen to us!”

Mr Shaft weakened at the sight of Dr Twatte’s beautiful dark eyes and beautiful white bazoomas.  And there was a murmur of sympathy for the lovely and well-stacked damsels in distress.

But that rotter Mark Swordsman broke the spell. 

“Come on, Eleanor, don’t play so hard to get! “ he jeered.  “There’s a lot in this for you, dear.  Your job, for example!  Get them off!”

Well there was nothing to be done.  The knickers had to go! 

Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella slowly, unhappily bent over, slipped their knickers down over their bottoms, down their legs, and off entirely.  Mark Swordsman scooped the knickers up, swept a courtly bow to the three mortified strippers, and handed them to the auctioneer.

“Thank you, ladies” croaked Mr Shaft.  In his excitement, he was barely able to make speaking noises.  “That’s most satisfactory!  Please mingle with the chaps, while I ... errr ... document your payment. 

The three naked women didn’t seem at all keen to ‘mingle’.  Instead they huddled together miserably, while Mr Shaft gravely made an entry in some ledger or other.  (Probably his football pools.)

The nude teachers looked very wistfully at their knickers, as Mr Shaft put them on the table, on top of their other clothes.  So near, and yet so far!

But then, as if reading their minds, Mark Swordsman grabbed the clothes and stuffed them into a wall safe.  CLANG!  He swung the safe door shut.  The noise struck a chill to their fannies.

“Right then, that’s the time lock on!” said Swordsman.

“Time lock?  Till when?” quavered Eleanor.

“Seven o’clock tomorrow morning!  Tomorrow’s Sunday, isn’t it, so I thought we could all make a night of it!!  This suite has got bedrooms, as (heh! heh!) your colleague Dr McGrott has discovered.  Mind you, there aren’t enough beds to go round, so we’ll probably need to (heh! heh!) pair up!”

Seven o’clock tomorrow morning!  But it was only 10 pm now!  NINE MORE HOURS in the nude!

It was an appalling prospect.  And yet, so indomitable is the human spirit, that our three heroines did start to come to terms with the situation.  All three of them felt a tiny little thrill.  Who knows, there just might be some compensations...

After all, there was no point in trying to cover up your boobs, butt and pussy for nine hours.  So the bare-assed trio let their arms fall to their sides and they squared their shoulders.  There was a slight sucking in of tummies, puffing out of chests and inching apart of feet.  Well, if you’re at the gates of hell, you might as well look good.

There was a short silence, while the men smacked their lips over the naked women, and the red-faced women tried to look nonchalant. 

Through the adjoining wall, there came a rough, wet, scraping noise.  It sounded like a great big Moldovan tongue licking a sticky ginger thatch.  Then a harsh little female voice cried out in a kind of orgasmic sing-song:

“AH!  AHH!!  AAAHHHHH!!!*!!”

“UH!  UHH!!  UUUUHHHH!!*!!!”

“YURR!  YUURRRR!!   YURROOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!!*!!@!!”

Was that English, or was it Romanian?  Fenella, Eleanor and Jenny thought “Virginia’s having a good time!  Why can’t we?”

In the meantime, Jim Shaft and Mark Swordsman were conferring.  They too had heard the party sounds from next door.

“Listen, Swordsman”, said Mr Shaft, “we need to change our approach.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s all going unbelievably well so far.  But the stakes have risen.” 

“There’s a big economic factor, you see.  They’ve just discovered natural gas under Punk.  It could become the boom town of Eastern Europe.  ‘Mayor’ Jizz is the key guy in the region.  Well, he’s not really a properly elected Mayor – he’s just the strongest gang leader in town, but look at him – you wouldn’t want to challenge him on the bloody hustings, would you!”

“So we’ve got this incredible stroke of luck – that in some dusty old pan-European local government accord, Humpton is twinned with Punk.  So we get the Mayor over here, to impress him with Humpton know-how and glamour.”

“And what happens?  He hates the Morris dancers.  He turns up his nose at our haute cuisine, and goes off looking for roadkill.  We try him out with the choicest hookers in town – Sharon Spreddam, for God’s sake, and he says she’s got no personality!   He gives the impression that we’re the most boring bunch of bloody wimps he’s ever met.   And he brings forward his flight, to go back tomorrow.  Total disaster.”

“But then he meets that crazy little witch, McGrott, and she stops him dead!  Just listen to that row next door!”

“Look here, Mark, my considered opinion, as the commercial and business leader of this town, is that Dr Virginia McGrott is Humpton-on-Thames’s biggest asset.  And Humpton Girls School is therefore our most valuable institution.  Right?”

“Now, I know that you’ve got a few scores to settle with Dr Twatte.  But we don’t want to slaughter her, do we?  Personally, when I look at Dr Twatte, I feel like making Love, not War.”

“And I know your young assistant Curtis has blotted his copybook with Jenny Pratt, and would do anything to get back between her legs.   And do I or don’t I see a soft, romantic gleam in your eye whenever Fenella Blowett’s lovely bare body comes near?”

“So let’s be a bit more positive now.  You’ve taken Dr Twatte down a peg.  Let’s give the school our support; let’s help these poor bare naked ladies through the night; the town prospers; and WE ALL GET LAID!!”     

Swordsman had to agree, so the two men broke apart.  Jim Shaft clapped his hands and said: 

“Ladies, where are our manners?!  We invited you here to show our support for the school, and ... errr ....our respect for you as professionals.   By your actions tonight, you have successfully averted disaster for Humpton Girls School – well done!   Dr Twatte, let me ceremonially present you with the dossiers you’ve bid for, and then I have a very interesting proposition for you....!”

And so, Dr Eleanor Twatte, MA (Cantab), found herself starring at an award ceremony.  In the course of her distinguished career, Dr Twatte had collected many prizes.  But this was a bit different! 

For one thing, she had never displayed quite so much of her cunt on a podium before.  For another thing, she’d never before received an award from a guy who shook her hand with his right hand, and groped her arse crack with his left. 

But most important of all, she’d never been so relieved to actually take possession of an award in her life!  It might be only a few grubby folders, but getting hold of them meant salvation for the school.

Dr Twatte squatted in front of the fire, feeding each page to the flames.   She was past caring about the fact that every guy in the room was getting a lovely view of her minge by the firelight.  It was just such a relief!

Mr Shaft courteously stayed very close to the large-breasted nude academic.  Once she had done her essential admin work, he beckoned her to a far corner of the room. 

Mr Shaft guided Dr Twatte with his arm as they walked there.  And if he occasionally brushed a lovely bare bosom, one could hardly blame him.  Her tits were so big that they were very hard to avoid.

Fenella and Jenny looked at them curiously.  And the rest of the men looked at Fenella and Jenny. 

Through the walls came Dr McGrott’s voice.  She was giving an instruction, presumably in Romanian.  Then she said “Fuck it!  ‘Doggy style’ doesn’t translate literally in Romanian.  I’m buggered if I can remember the idiomatic phrase.”

Then (obviously miming it to Mayor Jizz), she sad “Woof! Woof!”   There was a deep chuckle, and a steady thumping started up again.  Followed soon by cries of delight  from McGrott.

Fenella and Jenny couldn’t hear what Mr Shaft was proposing to Dr Twatte.  But they were relieved to see their leader’s body language.  Whatever it was that Mr Shaft was saying, Dr Twatte seemed to be finding it acceptable.

First Dr Twatte started to smile.  Then she inched closer to Mr Shaft, so that her naked side, hip and thigh were jammed against him.  Dr Twatte uncrossed her legs.  She cupped her huge breasts and pointed them playfully at Mr Shaft, evidently to underline some point she was making.

Then Dr Twatte opened her legs wide, thrust out her crotch, and twisted her body to face Mr Shaft full on.  Then she climbed on top of Mr Shaft and started eating his face.  Flinging a beautiful white leg over Mr Shaft as she did so, and humping her substantial bare backside up and down.

The couple slid on the floor, and Eleanor reluctantly scrambled to her feet.  But not without a playful little dab at Mr Shaft’s flies.  She stood over him, legs naughtily apart.  Dangling her tits in Mr Shaft’s face and grinding her bottom, Eleanor whispered something to him that made him go cross-eyed with delight.

Then Dr Twatte skipped back to her colleagues, making absolutely no attempt to steady her bouncing breasts and jiggling buttocks.  The watching men nodded their heads up and down.   As they followed Twatte’s boing-ing body, they looked like little toy dogs in the back windows of cars,.

Fenella and Jenny were glad to see Eleanor’s flushed face and protruding nipples.  Also to smell the faint odour of musk on her.  She must have good news for them!

The three naked women got into a huddle, with their bottoms sticking out.

Eleanor quickly explained the seven point plan:-

The bare bottoms waggled in agreement.  All this sounded very reasonable. 

“And I think Virginia will be happy with that,” said Dr Twatte.  At that point, there was a massive vibration from the room next door, followed by a throaty howl of feminine joy.  “Yes, I think Virginia would be happy with anything right now!  Oh, I do hope they haven’t broken that bed...”

“But what about this ‘entertainment’ we’re meant to provide?” worried Fenella.  “It’s so embarrassing being naked with all these men.  I really couldn’t dance in front of them and do magic tricks and things.” 

“Poor Fenella!” thought the other two sympathetically.  There’ll be a bit more required of you, dear, than doing card tricks.”

“Never mind, Fenella”, said Jenny.  “You’ll be surprised how naturally it comes to you.  When I did this the other night – errr.... I mean, I hear that it’s all quite easy to improvise.”

“Look, Fenella,” said Dr Twatte.  “Jenny and I will start with a little floor show and you can watch.   I suggest you sit on Bill Swett’s lap [winking at Jenny].  You’ll get a good view there, and it will keep Bill happy.”

“Oh yes, good idea!” said Jenny.  “Bill won’t mind if you ask him nicely.”

So Fenella walked over to Bill, blushing from head to toe, and from tits to ass.  She asked Bill shyly if she could sit on his lap, and guess what?  Bill said yes.

Then silence fell, as Jenny and Eleanor stood together.  Each of the nude beauties had an arm around the other’s waist.   

From the bedroom there came a slobbering, slurping, sucking sort of noise.  It sounded as if somebody was trying to swallow a rather large, stiff, pink, throbbing, Moldovan kind of object.  Everyone stopped what they were doing, and listened as the gobbling and gulping grew noisier.  What a messy eater!

Then, in a low, rumbling key, a very happy grunting started up.  It grew louder and jollier.  And then it climaxed with a big belching sort of roar.  Somebody choked and spat.  And then two people started to laugh.  (The gobbler and the grunter?)  What on earth was going on in there?

Now, where were we?  Ah yes...

Everyone turned back to look at Eleanor and Jenny.  Who were well worth looking at.  What a tasty pair of naked, curvy, cunty lovelies! 

Clearly the ladies were a bit nervous.  But deep breathing is very good when you’re nervous.  So the men were very glad to see the nude women’s knockers rising and falling, swinging and swaying.  Excellent!

“Evening, gentlemen!” said Dr Twatte.  “We hope you’re having a good time.”  (Whistles and cheers.)  “Here’s my friend Jenny Pratt.”  Jenny slapped her thigh – ripple! – and blew the guys a kiss. 

“Jenny and I are your entertainment for the evening.  With our good friend, Fenella, to...errr...come.”  Applause for Fenella, who blushed furiously and tried vainly to cover her breasts.

“Now Jenny and I are ... errr ...wide open.   To any suggestions you might have!  And the naughtier, the better!”  Obscene little mime from the two ladies, showing just how ‘open’ they could get, and what kind of ‘suggestions’ they might welcome.

“I’m delighted to see so many good-looking men here tonight.  I hope to see more of you as the night goes on.  I’m really glad that you can see so much of me.  But sometimes when I don’t have a man in my life, I think a woman is nice.”  (Squeezing Jenny.) 

Jenny giggled (which sent her breasts tumbling up and down).  She said “ooohh, naughty girl, Eleanor, that tickles!” 

Jenny was an inch or two shorter than Eleanor, so she stood on tip toes facing Eleanor, and held on to Eleanor’s buttocks for support.  Looking into Eleanor’s eyes, she put her tongue into Eleanor’s mouth.  The men cheered and clapped, as the two naked education professionals kissed each other greedily. 

Eleanor now held on to Jenny’s buttocks.  Their breasts squashed together.  And their legs started to wobble. 

Jenny couldn’t stay on tip toes forever, but not to worry!  There was plenty of Eleanor for her to lick a bit lower down.  Jenny delicately rolled Eleanor’s nipples around with her tongue and teeth.  And she considerately rubbed at her boss’s crotch while she was at it. 

Eleanor began to pant; her head rolled back; her legs went all bandy; and she sank to the floor in a randy little swoon.  But Jenny’s blood was up!  She knelt on the floor, shoulders under Eleanor’s knees, bottom in the air, and licked the headmistress’s cunt like a dog slobbering over a bone.

Eleanor went into great shudders of delight.  The naked, sweaty woman thrashed her arms and legs, clutched her breasts and howled at the ceiling.  One would judge her to be pleased. 

Damned fine acting!  Or was it?   The men started to get a little uneasy – especially the ladies’ prospective suitors.  “Mark”, murmured Mr Shaft, “when you were seeing Dr Twatte, she did like cock, didn’t she?”  

“Oh yes, Jim!  Insatiable!  I’ve got every detail written down in this little journal....” 

“That’s bloody typical of you, Swordsman.”

Jenny Pratt (a real trouper!) wasn’t content simply to lick Twatte’s vagina.  Jenny had given a lot of thought to the overall spectacle.

So she parted her thighs prettily; she arched her back; and she thrust her bottom upwards and outwards.  From sessions at home with the mirrors, Jenny knew that this would be sure to give the guys a great view of the underside of her cunt.  And then she ground her butt in a clockwise direction, to heighten the appeal.

She was, after all, a professional, and must present herself in a professional way!

Also on her mind was (of course) Vladimir.  He would be driven into a frenzy by this.  And hopefully, also maddened with jealousy, as the other blokes made ‘appreciative’ comments.

Because Jenny was still cross with Vladimir.  That young man would have a lot of clit-licking to do, before she would let him back on to the old footing.  (And when you think about it, he would have a lot of clit-licking to do, after she’d let him back on the old footing.  He’d have a lot of it to do, full stop.)

These thoughts preoccupied Jenny, while she lapped away at Eleanor’s cunt.  She wasn’t really paying attention to her own body.  No doubt her own nether regions would be seeing some action.  But that would take place later on.....

Then she was brought suddenly back to reality.

SLAVER!   SLOBBER!!   SLURP!!!*!!

What was this?!  Some kind soul had just given her a big sloppy kiss on her fanny!  And now they were ‘following through’ most excitingly!!   Wow, that was nice!

Now it was Jenny’s turn to buck and writhe and go cross-eyed and paw at her breasts.  Eleanor was having to clamp Jenny’s head between her thighs, to ensure that Jenny stayed ‘on the job’!  The men were guffawing and cheering.  What the fuck was going on?

Let us wind back five minutes.  To Fenella, sitting naked and embarrassed onBill Swett’s knee.

Now, if a wily old bird like Virginia McGrott had been taken unawares by Bill, you can imagine that Fenella was no match for him.  Bill very quickly got Fenella where he wanted her!  His cunning fingers worked their way inside Miss Blowett’s trembling snatch.

So, unnoticed by the others, Fenella was soon very flushed, very sprawled and very breathless.  Bill Swett had lit a great flame of pleasure inside Fenella Blowett.  It even beat last year’s Berkshire Cup Final.  The most delicious little tremors started to ripple up and down Fenella’s tummy, thighs, breasts, and (of course) fanny.

Through a sort of randy mist, Fenella focussed on Eleanor and Jenny’s writhing bodies.  They were really trying hard for the school!  She just couldn’t sit on the sidelines, letting her pals do all the work.  And suddenly, Fenella Blowett saw her duty very clear.

Fenella clambered (very reluctantly) off Bill’s lap.  She lowered herself down to the floor in a most ungainly way – legs buckled and cunt all a-splay.   Fenella then galumphed over to her naked fellow professionals.  They would be surprised!

As Jenny had predicted, it was quite easy to improvise.  You didn’t need to think.  Fenella simply knelt down, clung hold of Jenny’s thighs, and plunged her face into Jenny’s hot and hairy cunt.  Delicious!

Jenny reared and moaned and sobbed and quivered.  Which Fenella took to be a good sign.  So Fenella kept on doing what she was doing.  And Jenny, sandwiched between Eleanor and Fenella, and head clamped between Eleanor’s thighs, had to on doing what she was doing.  And the men certainly weren’t in any mood to stop them.  So everyone just kept on splattering away at everyone else, until Eleanor and Jenny were all orgasm’d out.

The headmistress and her Head of Business Studies lay there naked on the carpet.  Eyes closed, legs apart, knees up, cunts dribbling, clits throbbing and breasts heaving.   Out for the count!

Which left Fenella with the ball at her feet.  Jenny and Eleanor were temporarily out of action, so all eyes were on Fenella.  Think fast, old girl!

Looking round wildly, she saw the buffet table.  Ah, that would do!  Fenella swept aside the paper plates and cutlery – if her idea came off, nobody would be needing them!   She picked up the big jug of single cream, and emptied it over her head.  Sticky and refreshing!

Then she clambered on to the table, wet buttocks slapping on it, as if she were a big sexy walrus.  She lay down on her back on top of the table, and sluiced the big bowl of fresh fruit salad all over her torso.  Rubbing the fruit over her tits, thighs, tummy and cunt.  Then she said brightly:  “Gather round, gentlemen!  Dessert’s ready!!”

In the ensuing fracas, nobody noticed Eleanor and Jenny totter to their feet.  They were quite astonished to see Miss Blowett, Head of Games, committing a lewd act with a banana, while two blokes licked the cream off her breasts.  What a great big sweet sticky delicious fruit tart!

At that moment, Vladimir hurried over to Jenny, and drew her into a corner. 

Scratching her lovely white bottom thoughtfully, Eleanor assessed the situation.  Her forces numbered four naked women.  Their task was to ‘entertain’ eleven hungry blokes. 

It seemed highly unlikely that Major Jizz or Dr McGrott would reappear.  Bill Swett had nodded off in his chair.  Vladimir and Jenny clearly had a lot to say to each other, a lot of kissing to do, and no sign at all that they wanted to play mixed doubles.   Which was nice for Jenny, but it left Eleanor a bit short handed.

Doing the maths, that meant there were only her and Fenella left, and eight blokes to look after.  Quite a challenge!  

But the matter was taken out of Eleanor’s hands.  An arm crept round her waist – it was Jim Shaft.  He was breathing very hard, and looked in urgent need, the poor dear man.

Recognising where her duty lay, Eleanor gave her bank manager a kiss.  He returned the kiss hungrily.  And suffice to say, within micro-seconds, Eleanor found herself flat out in a nearby bedroom, getting a stiff dose of Banker’s Cock. 

It was OK, but Jim wasn’t that fit, and his technique needed to improve.  Working out how best to put this to him, Eleanor fell asleep.  So did Mr Shaft.  Later in the night, they woke up and had another go, with improved results.  And again, in the small hours of the morning.  And again, around dawn.  In fact, Jim was getting better all the time!

So much so, that when Eleanor finally woke up around 10 o’clock on the Sunday morning, her first thought was “Goody!  Let’s see if Jim’s even better this time!”

But then it all came back to her.  That little arithmetical problem she’d been trying to solve last night.  Take 4 nude school teachers + 11 horny men.  Subtract Virginia and Mayor Punk.  Subtract Bill Swett.  Subtract Jenny and Vladimir.  Subtract Eleanor and Mr ‘Surprisingly Exciting’ Shaft.  And your answer = Fenella getting a gang bang.  Oh dear!

Eleanor tore out of the room, her breasts bouncing in wild panic.  A bedroom door was ajar, and she peeked in.  There was Fenella!  Sat up in bed, looking quite cheery.  “Oh, there you are, Eleanor!” called out her friend.  “You turned in early last night.”

“Oh, Fenella, I’m so sorry....What happened to you, with all those men?”

Fenella blushed a little.  “Well, dear, there are some things that are private, you know....”

“Oh yes, of course, but – “

Fenella resumed, counting on her fingers.  “Yes, let me see, there were six private things that happened to me.  It was jolly good, you know, a bit like playing squash.  Every ... errr ... encounter presenting different challenges, but you will always do well if you get a firm grip on the ... errr ... instrument, and make sure your weight’s distributed properly.” 

Eleanor thought for a moment about this preposterous explanation of the Art of Love.  Maybe Fenella’s after hours ‘sports’ lessons with the tired stockbrokers would have worked quite well after all for ‘Bob-a-Job’ week.

Then she did a bit of mental arithmetic.  Eleven men.  Minus Major Jizz, Bill Swett, Mr Shaft and Vladimir Curtis.  That left seven.  But Fenella only mentioned six.

“Fenella, dear, did you ... errr ... say ‘No’ to anyone?”

Fenella giggled.  “No, Eleanor, I felt it was my duty to say ‘Yes’ to anyone who was kind enough to ask.  (And actually, I’m dating them all in turn next week, which should be fun!)  But maybe I was a little deceitful with Mr Swordsman.  He’s not a very nice man, you know.”

“So I told him that I would see him at 3 am in Room 4”.  Eleanor checked the door.  This was Room 3.  Room 4 was the room occupied by Mayor Jizz.

Eleanor walked into the Seraglio Room.  Bill Swett was just waking up. 

“Hi, Bill!  Was there any disturbance in the night?”

Bill nodded.  “Yes, the big foreign guy found Mark Swordsman climbing into bed with him, stark naked.  I never knew Swordsman swung that way, but there’s no telling.  Anyway, the big baboon half killed Swordsman.  The ambulance came for Swordsman about four in the morning.  They say he’ll be OK, but will be poorly for a few weeks.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

And then Dr Twatte thought: “I’m stark naked!  It’s 10 o’clock in the morning, and I took my knickers off at 10 o’clock last night.  I’ve been nude around the clock!”

These were strange circumstances for a school headmistress to be having a chat with her caretaker.  Eleanor caught sight of herself in the mirror above Bill’s chair, and saw what Bill saw. 

A tall, elegant naked brunette.  Not too big a belly, considering her age – the fucking and nude frolics had certainly helped her waistline.  A juicy, inviting cunt – ah, that really looks welcoming if I bend at the knees a little!  And, though I say it myself, my tits are amazing!  Look what happens when I shrug my shoulders – knocker landslide!

Bill started to pant and whimper a little.

“Sorry, Bill, where are my manners!” said Dr Twatte, bending over him very breast-ily and rummaging in his lap.  “Bill, we’ve never really talked, have we?  You were in the army, weren’t you before coming here.  Was it hard in Iraq?”

“Not as hard as it is now!” said Bill.  (Ah, the old jokes, they’re still the best, aren’t they, readers!)

“Well, Bill”, said Dr Twatte, starting to lower herself to the floor.  “It’s been a brilliant weekend.  I never thought it would work out as well as this.  And you were instrumental in it, weren’t you?  Because it was you who dug up all those secrets, wasn’t it?  And you’re very good with your hands, aren’t you?”

“I want to stay in touch with your important work, Bill” said the lovely naked woman.  She unzipped Bill’s flies with her teeth.  “Why don’t you come and see me after work – let’s say the last Friday night of every month?  I could give you a little strip show, and then park my fanny on your lap while you told me what you’d found.  And then I could reward you, like this!”

And she wrapped her lips round Bill’s cock.  Her head bobbed up and down for a good long time, and then she pulled away.  Just in time to admire a fine geyser of spunk!  Then Dr Twatte kissed Bill, and wiggled off, very fannily, to get her clothes. 

Leaving the paraplegic war hero sat in his wheelchair.  He too had had a good weekend.  And this, readers, is truly where the spirit of man never dies.

EPILOGUE

Three months later, Jenny Curtis arrives at the school for another gay day.  She’s now the school Bursar.  (Quite a sudden promotion, as the previous Bursar was relieved of her duties at very short notice.) 

In that capacity, Jenny gets first whack at the day’s post.  She settles herself rather gingerly in her chair.  Vladimir was very ‘attentive’ last night.  (Being married hasn’t cooled his passion – yet.)

Usual huge mailbag from Eastern Europe for the Mayoress of Punk.  The McGrott bullshit is working a treat in Moldova, where Virginia is now the object of cult worship.

Another massive bunch of flowers for Fenella.   Who is it from this time?  Oh, it’s Councillor Splott.  And he’s inviting Fenella to Sandown Park.  Where no doubt he’ll lose a wad of public money on the horses, and then try to bang Fenella in the evening at the rate payers’ expense.  Ah well, that’ll be another quid on the Council Tax then.

But then Jenny’s guts unravel.  She picks up the next letter from the pile.  What’s this?  A letter franked ‘Stuart Little, Estate Agent’, and addressed to ‘Ms Fanny Gash, Head of Business Studies, Humpton Girls School’!!

THE END (or is it?)