Back to School

From Blushes 9, with additional photos from Blushes 40, featuring the model Tracy Wilkes (aka porn star Liza Lane) in the role of Marjorie Tompkins — a very light re-branding of Marjorie Simpkins who, as we left her in Janus 13, had fallen into the predatory clutches of Mr Aitken of the Top Girls Employment Agency which is where we pick up with Marjorie Tompkins in this story. There are two further sequels to come.

This confirms me in my long-held view that R.T. Mason was a prolific uncredited writer for Blushes in addition to his many credited stories for Janus.

‘A letter, sir?’ she’d said, on that first morning at her new job. ‘A typed letter, sir?’

‘Er — yes. To Messrs Wilkins, Educational Suppliers.’ A guilty look had passed across her pretty face — her tongue had licked minutely at her lips. He’d studied her strangely troubled expression, seeing colour rise in her cheeks. ‘You do type, don’t you, Susan?’

Her blush had heightened instantly, and no teacher of experience could have failed to realise that he had touched upon the very thing the girl most wanted to keep hidden. She had looked down into her lap, perched on her office chair, and a tear had rolled slowly down her cheek.

‘Susan’ — He’d had to say her name again before she would look up. ‘You said, at your interview, that you could type. Indeed, you said you’d held down a job as a secretary — typing is what secretaries do, isn’t it, amongst other things — as a secretary, for six months. Are you telling me now that what you told me was nothing more than lies? Hmm?’

Susan had wept, quietly, undemonstratively, sitting miserably on her chair with her knees close together and her hands folded in her lap. Mr Collingwood had sat down at his desk and waited for the tears to cease; then they had talked about it. They had talked for half an hour, Susan explaining how she had so much wanted to be a secretary, so that she’d fibbed and bluffed her way into the job, and how she’d hoped he’d understand when it came out that; no, she couldn’t type, nor actually do any of the things a secretary would be expected to do. Mr Collingwood had reflected upon those revelations while Susan had gone to dry her eyes and freshen her face, and when the nervous girl returned he’d already have thought of a solution to the problem.

Susan had sat on her chair again and nodded demurely as her boss had explained that, on certain conditions, she might keep her job. One condition was that she took an intensive course and learned how to type — she’d agreed readily to that; surprisingly she’d agreed to his other conditions too, not quite so eagerly but with a fatalistic cheerfulness; all that really mattered, it seemed, was that she would be a secretary after all. Then, on that first of many occasions, she had got to her feet and obediently followed his instructions to wangle her skirt up and peel her knickers down and arrange herself bottom-up across the big desk —

Other occasions arose — or were engineered — regularly thereafter. Susan’s plump young bottom was bared and spanked and quite often caned, sometimes several times in a single day. After school, when the headmaster had time to devote to what soon became his favourite pastime, it was not at all unusual for his secretary’s knickers to be inched down in that apologetically reluctant way the girl had, to disclose a bottom still bearing pale bluish-mauve cane marks from a punishment administered the evening before, or even that very morning, yet a bottom obedient nevertheless to his requirement that it should be properly positioned across his desk, and kept just so whilst six or a dozen or even more cane strokes were delivered to already tender young buttocks —

That had been the beginning of Mr Collingwood’s fascination with the entertaining business of whipping the bottoms of a succession of inexperienced yet willing-to-please young girls, whose aspirations rendered them vulnerable to a combination of promise and threat, carrot and stick — mostly stick, to be honest, and a little of the carrot when no-one was likely to find out.

Susan, Brenda, Alison, Debbie — and now this new girl, Marjorie Tompkins. Mr Collingwood had no reason to suppose that Marjorie would be any more difficult to handle than had all the others before her —

----//----

Marjorie Tompkins was starting to sweat just a little. She was 17 and not long left school, a very pretty blonde with a nice shapely figure as well. She really needed a job badly but there just didn’t seem to be anything about. It was all the fault of the government, according to her dad. But now, at last, this man, the manager of Top Girls Employment Agency, said he did have something. That was without doubt the best news Marjorie had heard all week, indeed for several weeks. The only problem, and the reason why she was sweating, was that he had his hand up her skirt.

Mr Aitken he was called, middle-aged and going bald, and he was sitting close up against Marjorie on the couch in his office. As he told her about the job his hand had simply gone up her skirt until now it was about one third of the way up, gripping Marjorie’s firmly rounded thigh. A meaty hand intimately on her bare flesh for she was not wearing any tights or stockings.

Nervously she moved her own hand over on her lap, covering the threatening hand which was under her skirt, hoping to arrest its progress. Two opposing hands separated by two flimsy layers of feminine apparel — Marjorie’s mauve silk slip and over it the cotton lawn of her prettily pink-and-mauve-flowered print dress. ‘Please, Mr Aitken… I… I…’

‘Secretary at one of the country’s major Public Schools,’ said Mr Aitken, pushing his hand further up in spite of the opposition.

He continued, ‘It’s a job there could be a lot of applicants for but I think I could see that you get it.’

Well, with this awful state of the economy that people were always talking about, a firm offer of a good job was like manna from heaven. But Marjorie was having difficulty in concentrating. Fingers were trying to reach in between her closed thighs. ‘Well… I’m afraid my typing and such like aren’t all that good…’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Aitken, breathing more heavily, his hand trying to get this delightful girl to open her legs just a little. ‘They don’t want the world’s best typist; they want a nice… well, they want a nice sensible pretty girl.’

He had in fact just stopped himself from saying ‘they want a nice pair of tits.’ It was certainly true but not what a nice girl wanted to hear. He recalled the letter from the Head, Mr Collingwood: ‘If she can type, all to the good, but what I do want is a nice attractive young person. Something to brighten up our monastic scene, if you understand me.’ Well, Roger Aitken did understand. What Mr Collingwood wanted was a nice pretty face… and a nice pert round bum… and a nice pair of tits. Understandable too, if you were Head of a school of 400 boys and didn’t happen to be queer.

Yes, this young applicant, Marjorie Tompkins, would fit the bill all right at Oakwood Academy. No doubt about that. But she also fitted the bill for Roger Aitken. To a tee. He was getting all excited by her, and if he didn’t do something about it — well, he would get one of those awful headaches and he would be kicking the dog when he got home, and bullying the wife as well probably. And he always felt really bad afterwards if he kicked Rover. No, he’d have to do something about it and… well, she wanted the job. didn’t she? And these modern girls… everyone knew… like rabbits…

‘Please… Mr Aitken!’ gasped a hot-faced Marjorie. Really, his hand had almost got as far as her knickers.

‘Look,’ he said suddenly standing up and pulling Marjorie to her feet. ‘Come over here.’

He led her over to his filing cabinet and pulled out the advertising brochure on Oakwood Academy which Mr Collingwood had sent. He put it down on top of the low cabinet. ‘Have a look at that.’

Marjorie bent to look at the fully coloured brochure. Oakwood Academy: set in the heart of the Sussex countryside. Meanwhile Mr Aitken had gone to his office door and was saying to someone outside, ‘I don’t want to be disturbed for a quarter of an hour or so.’ He was closing the door and locking it.

Marjorie, studying the delights of Oakwood Academy, became aware that Mr Aitken was back, standing close behind her, and… she gave a sudden yelp as she realised he was lifting her dress at the back. Lifting her dress and that pretty mauve lace-edged slip. ‘Mr Aitken!’

His voice thick: ‘Look, my dear, I know you want this job and I’m going to see you get it. Only there’s loads of other girls just dying to get it as well, and I know that if I make sure you’re the lucky one… Well, you’ll want to show your appreciation.’

Marjorie heard this in shocked disbelief, while at the same time she felt — also in shocked disbelief — Mr Aitken’s hands starting to roam over her body. She had a pretty good idea what he was talking about, especially now he’d got her skirt and slip up round her waist. It was just awful, but… well, she really needed this job. She had been round all those other agencies and… nothing. She leant her hands on the cabinet to steady herself. As she felt Mr Aitken start to pull down the flimsy lace-edged mauve silk knickers.

She stood still, trembling, her knickers now round her knees, the Oakwood brochure open in front of her but not seen, her eyes not focusing. Mr Aitken’s hands at her bare bottom, fondling… Really, men were awful, or at least quite a number of them were. Mr Aitken telling her to bend further over and to hold still. The sound of a zip being opened… Then that… pushing itself in between her thighs from behind… searching… finding… thrusting… Oooh! Oh Christ! What if…?

Afterwards, Mr Aitken, zipping himself up, said that without doubt she would get the job and he was sure she was just what they wanted. He went to unlock the door as red-faced Marjorie, her knickers now back in place, smoothed down that pretty print dress. It was a super dress, one she had bought only last week in Fenwick’s with some birthday money. Fortunately the dress seemed to have survived the ordeal — being crushed between her and the cabinet in front and between her and Mr Aitken at the back — without serious creasing.

----//----

High tea three days later at the Tompkins’ house. One of Mrs Tompkins’ noted Sunday high teas with a good number of the extensive Tompkins clan present: Mr George Tompkins, Marjorie’s dad, naturally at the head of the table, with her Gran next to him; Mrs Tompkins, Marjorie’s mum, ‘pouring’; and a number of aunts and uncles, all of Marjorie’s younger brothers and sisters, and of course Marjorie herself and her boyfriend Ian.

The topic of conversation, as liberal quantities of food and tea were consumed, was naturally Marjorie’s new job which she would be starting tomorrow. ‘Secretary!’ marvelled Uncle Jim, ‘And at a big school like that!’

Uncle Bill said, ‘With the state of the country at the moment and what this government is doing, it’s a marvel for anyone to get any job at all. How did you manage it, my girl?’

Marjorie, not having a ready answer and also having a quick mental picture of herself bent over that cabinet in the Top Girls agency while Mr Aitken had intercourse with her, said nothing but coloured prettily.

‘Don’t you worry,’ said her dad, ‘Our Marjorie’s got what it takes!’

‘Yes,’ said her Mum. ‘Those men know a good thing when they see it. Another cup of tea, Elsie?’

Aunt Elsie said, Yes, she thought she would. She gave a cackle. ‘You’ll have to watch out for the boys though, Marjorie, Gentlemen’s lads I suppose they’ll be.’

‘I don’t suppose they’ll be any better or worse than any other lads,’ observed Uncle Bill. ‘It may be them masters you’ll have to worry about, Marjorie my girl.’

‘There’s no need to talk a lot of nonsense, Bill,’ put in Marjorie’s mum, seeing the none-too-pleased look on Ian’s face. ‘You don’t get any hanky-panky at these high-class establishments.’

The adult conversation drifted to politics, which was quite all right with Marjorie. She smiled at Ian whose hand under the table was stroking her thigh. His voice breathily in her ear: ‘Can we go now?’

They slipped out, to go up to Marjorie’s bedroom. ‘But only if you behave, Ian.’

Ian, though, was not in the mood for behaving. Sitting next to his beloved through tea, for a large part of this time with his hand surreptitiously stroking her thigh, had got him decidedly aroused. They sat on the bed, then lay on it, Ian getting even more ardent with the thought that tomorrow she was going off.

It had been a hectic time for Marjorie since leaving school two months ago. Starting off right at the beginning with that week in Benidorm with her friend Julie. Marjorie hadn’t been all that keen to go but Julie had persuaded her. It was then that she had done it for the first time — with a boy called Felipe. Well, didn’t everyone do it when they went to places like Benidorm? Not that she let on to Ian, naturally, she had told him she hadn’t even been out with anyone and Julie had told the same story. Marjorie had felt a bit bad about it but as Julie said it was time to start when you were 17 and also good to start with someone who knew what he was doing. Felipe had certainly known what he was doing.

Then after getting back from Benidorm there had just been the awful grind of trying to find a job. It had seemed quite hopeless. ‘No, nothing I’m afraid, dear.’ She must have heard it a thousand times. Though if it was a man he usually tried to get a nice feel at your boobs or something before you left. By the time she had got to Top Girls Marjorie had been really despairing. Which was why she let that Mr Aitken do her. At least having done it with Felipe in Benidorm meant she knew what was what, so in a way it had been a good thing.

‘Watch out for those boys at the school,’ Ian murmured as they lay smooching on the bed. ‘What do you take me for?’ demanded Marjorie indignantly.

‘I didn’t mean anything,’ he said, his hand stroking between her legs. ‘There must have been a lot of girls after that job.’

Marjorie, stretched out, looking up at the ceiling, said, ‘Yes, there were.’ She again pictured herself submitting to Mr Aitken. His sort of gasping voice as she bent over that cabinet. ‘Get your bottom up… a bit more. So I can get… all the way up. Aaahh… That’s lovely…’

Julie said when you started off you could do it about 10 times without taking precautions and you wouldn’t get pregnant. When Marjorie queried this Julie said, ‘Well, five then.’ Clearly Julie didn’t really know. Marjorie had done it three times now, two with Felipe and one with Mr Aitken. She was all right from the Felipe times but as for Mr Aitken clearly she couldn’t be sure yet. It had better be at least five times.

‘No, Ian! You know you can’t; you know what we agreed.’ She did, though, after a little argument, let him take her knickers off. ‘But if you try anything, Ian. You know…’

She had made it plain to him that she wasn’t going to do it before marriage, and that was something Marjorie really meant to stick to. Do it with Ian, that meant, naturally. Those three other times obviously didn’t count. They were just part of a girl’s growing up and, it seemed, what you had to do to get a job these days.

She kissed Ian, and groaned as his hand found where she was wet. Marjorie didn’t mind him doing it. In fact she liked it, it would relax her. Because she was a bit tense wondering what this new job would be like. Oakwood Academy. She started rocking her hips against Ian’s hand.

----//----

Guy Francis Collingwood, M.A., Headmaster of Oakwood Academy, was looking out of his study window: a tall silver-haired distinguished-looking man in his fifties; an impressive figure, especially to mothers enquiring about places at Oakwood for their young sons. He was gazing out on a pleasing scene: the lawn bright in the afternoon sun, with at its farther end the spreading branches of the ancient blue cedar.

A closer inspection, though, would reveal that this idyllic scene and indeed the rest of the grounds were going a bit to seed — a consequence of the fact that the school could no longer afford even one full-time gardener. For the truth was that Oakwood Academy had rather fallen on hard times and that glossy brochure (seen by Marjorie as she bent over the cabinet in the Top Girls office) did put something of a glamorous gloss on reality. Primarily a lack of cash was the problem — cash to pay for better-qualified staff, to pay for those little extras which attracted the more well-heeled parents, to pay indeed to mend leaking roofs and resurface crumbling tennis courts.

These matters could be very worrying and at times the Head’s handsome features had a haggard look. However, that was not the case today as he looked approvingly out on the tranquil scene. There were no boys rioting, or if there were they were doing it out of sight. Most of all, today, this afternoon, was when that scrumptious-looking new secretary was due to arrive.

He went back to his desk to look again at the photo which had been sent. Yes, extremely attractive — young, innocent-looking, just how he liked them — and that fellow at the agency had said he could recommend her unreservedly. Hmmm… Putting on his reading glasses Mr Collingwood tried to gauge just how big her tits were. Difficult to be sure, of course; but anyway she would now very shortly be here and he would be able to see, in the flesh, as it were. Be able to feel as well, no doubt. He looked at the clock. Only about an hour to wait now.

----//----

Marjorie Tompkins arrived at Oakwood Academy right on time, driven from the station in the school’s ancient Rover by its even more ancient caretaker, Herbert Parsons. They entered the school gates in a highly hazardous manner, missing by a hair’s breadth one of the brick pillars which, from the state of its brickwork, looked as if it could not survive even a moderate impact.

Bert Parsons’ driving, at 71 years of age, was not completely reliable at the best of times and on this occasion was hampered by his very late realisation that he would need two hands at the wheel to negotiate the turning into the school. And up until that late moment one hand, his left, had been lying on the near thigh of his passenger, Marjorie. Gripping that nicely rounded limb in a firm, slightly trembling grasp.

Marjorie let out a little cry of alarm, but miraculously they had made it. Old Mr Parsons’ hand immediately came back down onto her thigh but she hardly noticed it in her eagerness to get this first view of her new place of employment. It looked big and impressive, sprawling old buildings at the end of the long driveway, through grounds with stately old trees, and in places overgrown-looking shrubs.

As for that hand on Marjorie’s thigh, it had been placed there soon after they had left the station; to stay firmly in place throughout the drive except when extreme circumstances forced Mr Parsons to use a second hand for driving — as at the school gates. But Mr Parsons did seem a friendly old man, asking Marjorie about herself and telling her about the school which according to him had ‘gone completely to the dogs!’

‘And you watch out for some of the boys, young Miss. Devilish, some of ‘em, and the ‘ead, ‘e’s so desperate for their fees that ‘e’d let em get away with murder.’

It sounded a bit awful, but he was probably exaggerating because some old people did find young ones a bit trying. But he had told her to come round to his flat and have a cup of tea, any time, which was very nice of him. Because being new you never knew how you would get on. And that hand squeezing her leg… well, it was just a friendly old man’s hand.

That was what she thought. But then when they got out, round the back of the main building and she was standing looking up at it all… Suddenly Mr Parsons was standing close behind her, saying: ‘Arr, you’re a lovely young thing all right!’ And his two hands were holding her bottom, one cheek in each hand… squeezing… Just like that awful Mr Aitken at the agency. Though he had gone on to do something else. Marjorie struggled away from the clutching hands. Really, it did seem at times that men simply couldn’t control themselves.

Mr Parsons seemed not at all put out by Marjorie’s annoyed reaction. ‘Now don’t you fuss, young lady. I reckon you’ll get that pretty little bum felt a few times ‘afore you been ‘ere long. Arr. And I reckon that won’t be all you’ll be getting.’

Marjorie blinked and bit her lip. It was definitely not the kind of talk she wanted to hear.

The old man was now saying she’d better come and meet the Head right away, and he’d get her bags later. He led her inside and along a corridor. Then at the stairs he indicated she was to go first. Marjorie soon realised why as Mr Parsons followed her up in close attendance, a step behind and slightly below… with his hands busy at the cheeks of her bottom again. Her voice slightly shrill: ‘Please, Mr Parsons…! Do you have to do that…’

With Marjorie still trying to protect her bum they went along another corridor — thankfully a short one — to an oak-panelled door with the legend: ‘Headmaster’.

‘Just a mo,’ said a flush-faced Marjorie. She adjusted her dress (the self-same one with the pink-and-mauve flowers which she’d worn to her interview at Top Girls), then had a glance in her compact… the pretty full-lipped face, framed by the short blonde curls… Yes she looked OK… A little flushed… from Mr Parsons attentions. But still… ‘OK,’ she said.

Mr Parsons knocked at the door.

Well, Mr Collingwood did seem nice, thought Marjorie a few minutes later. So welcoming and friendly and also so distinguished-looking. He told her how glad they all were that she’d been able to come. ‘And my, you’re such a pretty girl too! Even prettier than your photo.’

He looked at her with his piercing blue eyes and she felt herself blushing. Yes, he seemed a real gentleman, not like some who called themselves gentlemen but acted in a decidedly ungentlemanly way. But then Mr Collingwood took her over to the window, showing her the view… And as he did so his hand went round her waist… and then ever so casually slipped down… and took hold of one of the cheeks of her bottom. Just like everyone else seemed to want to do.

Marjorie felt just a little shattered, after having decided he was so nice. She blushed, but she didn’t feel she could angrily squirm away like she had with old Mr Parsons. Mr Collingwood continued talking about the garden… while he casually transferred his attention to the other cheek of her bottom. He said that unfortunately they were having trouble keeping the gardens up as they would like. ‘Labour problems, I’m afraid,’ he said as his hand explored the hem of her brief knickers through that pink-and-mauve dress.

Then Mrs Walker, the housekeeper, brought in some tea and Marjorie and the Head sat on the settee side by side. ‘One lump or two?’ He brandished the silver sugar tongs. He told her about the sort of thing she would be doing: letters; keeping the boys’ files up to date, etc., etc. As he talked he put his arm round her shoulder in a sort of friendly way. But then Mr Collingwood’s hand came round in front and dropped down… onto her breast. Onto the right-hand member of that pair of firm, nicely-rounded tits.

The hand stroked and squeezed… while Marjorie sweated. He was talking about her typing and what speed she could do. Then out of the blue he said: ‘They’re quite a good size aren’t they?’

‘Wh… what?’ stammered Marjorie.

‘These nice things.’ He gave an extra squeeze to the right breast he was holding. ‘Quite a good size and nice and firm. And I do believe this nipple’s stiffening up. You know, with them being so nice and firm you really could go without a bra. Show your nipples. I should like that. But perhaps some of the boys might get a bit over-excited. Hmm….’

----//----

Well, she thought later as she unpacked her things, her new boss certainly had a nerve. Just calmly doing that, and saying those things, a mere 20 minutes after their first meeting. No bra! She certainly didn’t plan to go without a bra. Not unless he made her, of course.

Anyway, looking on the bright side, she had this quite nice room up on the top floor, pleasantly furnished and looking out over the gardens. Mrs Walker, a nice lady of about 50, had looked rather critically at the ceiling and said, ‘I don’t think this roof leaks, but let me know if it does.’

Then she had given Marjorie a key, telling her to lock her door at night. ‘You don’t want any over-excited boys climbing into bed with you!’

She continued, ‘Mr Collingwood of course has his own key to your room. In case, you know, he wants to come in and see you.’

Marjorie looked a bit amazed and Mrs Walker coloured slightly and said lamely, ‘Well, you know, in case he wants to come in… and, well… see you. The thing is, dear, all these financial problems, they get poor Mr Collingwood all tensed up at times and, well, the other secretary, Deborah… Well, I think Mr Collingwood used to go in and see her, and… well, it seemed to make him a lot more relaxed.’

Listening to this, Marjorie had gradually turned a bright red. Mrs Walker added, ‘I think Deborah was quite… agreeable. I mean I think she wanted to do what she could to help Mr Collingwood. Anyway…’

Marjorie turned away, still flushing. What she thought Mrs Walker was saying, in this hesitant manner, was that to get rid of the Head’s tensions that other secretary, Deborah, had allowed him to have intercourse with her. Well, she certainly had no intention of obliging in that respect herself. Quite definitely not! The thought of Mr Collingwood coming in her room… for that purpose… But Mrs Walker didn’t seem exactly definite about it. Perhaps Mrs Walker had been mistaken. Or Marjorie was misunderstanding what she was saying. Because… really, you didn’t expect to hear that kind of thing a few hours after getting to a place.

Marjorie tried to forget it. Later, during the evening, she walked round the school a bit, partly with Mrs Walker and partly by herself. Mrs Walker introduced her to some of the boys they happened to meet, and also Marjorie introduced herself to some after Mrs Walker had left her. Some of them, especially the younger ones, just looked a bit bashful. But with the older ones the reaction was at times rather different.

In particular there were two 6^th formers she passed outside the hall. One of them, when she said who she was, said, ‘Mmmm… Just what the old place has been lacking for two months, Richard: luscious ripe young girl-flesh. Tell me, Miss Tompkins, has the Head taken your knickers down yet?’

Marjorie had blushed and then the other went on, ‘Yes, that young Deborah, your predecessor, was certainly popular with our Headmaster. He had her knickers down practically all the time I believe.’

She had no wish to answer these rude youths and turned to go. As she did so the first one slapped her on the bottom and said, ‘You’ll have to come and have tea with us one afternoon, young Miss. Just the three of us. We’ll let you know when: and then you can come and take them down for us.’

Their mocking laughter followed her as she walked angrily away. Really! ‘Young Miss Tompkins’ when they were probably no older than she was!

Yes, she thought, as she got ready for bed later, clearly she might have some trouble with some of the older boys — such as those two. (And as for the Head’s suggestion that she not wear a bra!) And obviously there was a chance that she might have trouble with Mr Collingwood as well, even discounting what she had thought Mrs Walker was alluding to. Marjorie hadn’t met any of the other masters yet, so heaven knows about them, she thought. Still, as yet nothing too bad had happened.

She slipped off her knickers and bra and got into her pyjamas, eyeing her locked door just a little warily.

She turned off the light and got into bed. Lying awake for a while, she went over in her mind what had happened in an eventful day, still half listening for the sound of a key in her door lock. But nothing happened. She fell asleep.

----//----

The next day, Tuesday, was Marjorie’s first full day at Oakwood Academy. It was full all right, including a number of bad moments. Moments that Marjorie could certainly have done without. Moments that she would pretty definitely not be writing home about. Into everyone’s life there must come some bad moments, of course. It was just that in Marjorie’s they at times seem to come a bit more frequently than with other people.

The first came at Morning Assembly, which Mr Collingwood had said he would use to introduce Marjorie to the school. She hadn’t exactly looked forward to being up there on the stage in front of 400 boys, but she had told herself it was nothing to worry about. She was doing her best to look the part of the smart secretary, in crisp blouse and tailored skirt and wearing nylons and high heels. And of course, she had just had a quick check in her compact before going on the stage and taking her seat.

The Head made some routine announcements and then, ‘Now boys, it is my pleasure to introduce to you our new and very attractive secretary.’

As instructed she had got up and rather nervously gone to stand at the front of the stage. And then in the silence following the Head’s words and with all eyes on her, one voice called out from somewhere in the hall: ‘Take down your knickers!’

The place was inevitably in an immediate uproar, boys chanting, ‘Take down your knickers! Take down your knickers!’ and shouting and laughing, while a terribly embarrassed Marjorie went to sit down again, not knowing where to look, just wanting some corner to hide in. It took the Head a little while to calm the boys down: when he had he said he didn’t know who that boy was but it certainly was not in the best traditions of Oakwood. ‘It was an extremely unkind thing to say to a new member of our community.’

It wasn’t going to be forgotten easily, though, as Marjorie realised when later in the morning she had to take a note from the Head round to one of the classrooms. It was a 1^st form class, a roomful of 13-year-old boys who, as soon as she entered, were grinning broadly and saying, ‘Take down your knickers!’ — before the master shut them up.

That was number one — a rather bad start to the day. Then mid-morning when she was working in her little office next to the Head’s study, the door quietly opened and there appeared those two 6^th formers whom she’d unfortunately met yesterday.

‘Hello, remember us!’ said the taller of the two. ‘Robert Neil and Richard Graythorpe. We met yesterday. We’ve just looked in to say you can come to tea tomorrow. Make it 5 o’clock. You’ll find our study over in Jackson’s House. And don’t be late, young Miss Tompkins!’

Then he put his face close to hers and said, ‘Knickers optional!’

They shot out again almost before she had time to catch her breath, but when she did her reaction was hot — and strong. After the way they had spoken to her yesterday they must be out of their minds; you wouldn’t catch her going round there in a hundred years. She also had a strong suspicion that he, Robert Neil, could have been the boy who shouted out in Assembly: the voice sounded exactly the same.

Anyway she later happened to mention what he’d said to Mrs Walker, remarking that they were the last people she would ever have tea with.

But Mrs Walker said, ‘Oh dear, Marjorie, I’m afraid you won’t be able to refuse. You see Robert Neil is one of the boys… well, the Head will make you go. Because he’s one of the few boys here from quite a wealthy family. He’s only here because he was thrown out of two other schools. Anyway, the Head is hopeful that his father will come through with a nice donation when Robert finishes. So he has to be humoured. And you’ll have to go to tea. And be nice to them.’

Have to go and be nice to those two! The very thought made her want to throw up. They’d probably have her on her back on the carpet before you could say Oakwood Academy.

The thought of this horrible prospect — this awful date for tomorrow — occupied her throughout lunch, which she had with Mrs Walker, and on into the afternoon. Then about 3 o’clock there was something else to worry about. Mr Collingwood. Who came into her office ‘for a serious chat’, he said.

It was her typing and her spelling. ‘Quite simply not good enough.’

Nervously she said, ‘Well, I know they’re not my strong point…’

‘I think that’s the understatement of the year,’ said Mr Collingwood, his eyes on the pert full breasts under her blouse.

‘Anyway, you can come in and see me at 4. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you in hand, young lady.’

Taking her in hand presumably meant something different than playing with her nipples, as he had done yesterday. But what, exactly?

At 4 o’clock she went nervously in. Mr Collingwood, at his desk, looked up. ‘Ah, yes. Marjorie.’ His face assumed a serious expression.

‘Yes, the typing and the spelling. Well, they’re both going to have to improve considerably. At the moment they’re simply nowhere near good enough. Actually I think it’s mostly carelessness. And what I’m going to do is give you something that I hope will buck your ideas up.’

His unblinking blue eyes seemed to bore right into her as he said evenly: ‘A smacked bottom, Marjorie. A soundly smacked bare bottom.’

Poor Marjorie felt her knees go weak. No! It wasn’t possible. She was 17. You couldn’t have your bare bottom smacked at 17!

‘Please… sir… I…’

His voice mild but firm: ‘Go and lock the door, please. And then come over here.’

She did as she was told, to stand flinching before him.

‘Right. Now take your knickers down.’

‘Please, sir…’

‘Take your knickers down, Marjorie!’

Hands went up under the smart skirt, fumbled, and came down with a brief handful of pink silk.

‘Step out of them. And put them on the desk.’

Left foot, then right foot, in the high heels, raised in turn. The flimsy knickers placed on his desk.

‘Now come here. Over my lap.’

It was awful, truly awful. But Marjorie had no choice. She got down over his lap and let him pull her skirt and slip up round her waist. To expose a pretty pink satin suspender belt and Marjorie’s full round-cheeked bottom which everyone seemed to want to grab or feel or something. Mr Collingwood started off grabbing and groping a bit. And then began to smack his hand down, really hard, on that ripe round rear.

It was simply dreadful. Impossibly humiliating and also extremely painful. It went on and on. When at last it was finally over Marjorie was both red-faced and red-bottomed, but she had managed not to actually cry. She took her knickers back from his desk and pulled them back on… as Mr Collingwood, in a distracted sort of way, fondled her breasts. He said he hoped it had done her some good. But he had the feeling there would need to be some repeats before the message had finally sunk in. And then he added, ‘Of course, if that doesn’t do the job, Marjorie, I just might have to use the cane on you.’

She went to the door with these last words whirling in her head. Then as she was leaving he suddenly asked what time she went to bed.

‘About half past ten,’ she told him.

‘That’s all right,’ he said dismissively. ‘Just wondering. You must see you get your sleep, of course.’

----//----

10.25 that evening. Wearing her nylons and that pink suspender belt and nothing else, Marjorie was vigorously brushing her teeth. So much for her first full day, she thought ruefully. Some good and some bad, and quite definitely too much bad. That awful business in Assembly; finding out the hard way that the Head was a spanker of girls’ bare bums; not to mention the awful prospect of tea tomorrow with those two dreadful 6^th formers; and not to mention either the Head’s ominous mention of the cane. The thought of this last possibility caused an apprehensive flinching of that pretty bare bum which was at present jiggling rhythmically as a result of her energetic teeth brushing. Please, please, not that!

But forgetting future possibilities for the moment, Marjorie was at least glad that today was over. She turned on her bedside lamp, turned off the main lamp, and got into bed.

Yes, she was really thankful the day was over. She reached out to turn off the bedside lamp… when there was the heart-stopping sound of a key turning in the lock of her door.

She gasped… and went all hot and cold. With everything else happening she had completely forgotten what Mrs Walker had said yesterday: what, anyway, she had decided just couldn’t be true, but…

Yes, it was Mr Collingwood coming in and carefully closing the door behind him. Carrying a cup of something in his hand.

‘I thought you might like a cup of cocoa, Marjorie.’ His voice sounded rather nervous, excited.

She sat up and with trembling hands took the cup of cocoa.

‘Yes, I just thought I’d come in and see you.’

And then he started unbuttoning her pyjama top. Starting at the top… one… two… three… four buttons. It only had four buttons. ‘Drink up, dear,’ he said. His hands went in the opened jacket… and took hold of her breasts… Stroking her nipples… ‘They are nice aren’t they!’

Well, what exactly is the purpose of Mr Collingwood’s nocturnal visit to Marjorie? Has he simply come to say goodnight? And what are Neil and Graythorpe planning for her tomorrow? Is it something more than tea and buttered toast? And that nasty reference to the cane…