Marjorie Toes the Line

The further adventures of Marjorie Tompkins/Simpkins from Blushes 10, sequel to Marjorie Simpkins: A Maiden All Forlorn and Back to School.

‘Oooww! Oooouuch! Aaaooohhh! Eeekkk!!’

The cries could almost be those of Billy Bunter on the receiving end of a cane, and we are at a boys public school. But if we listen it is clear that the anguished yelps have a distinctive high-pitched female ring, also there is no sound of the swish and thwack of a cane. There is though a hissing roar as of a tropical rain-storm — or it could be a shower turned on full blast.

It is a shower turned on full blast. An icy cold shower. In it, or under it, is the twisting, shivering but nonetheless delightful nude form of Marjorie Tompkins, new secretary to the Head at this establishment of higher learning for boys, Oakwood Academy. Marjorie is in the shower very much against her wishes, for outside the cubicle with a stern look on her face and her hand on the tap is Mrs Walker, the school housekeeper. Mrs Irene Walker, a pleasant-faced lady of some 50 years who until now has seemed so sweet and friendly.

‘Stay in there, Marjorie! Until I say you can come out.’

Mrs Walker has had an early morning call from the Headmaster, Mr Collingwood, to the effect that Marjorie was to start the day in this manner. Mr Collingwood had clearly been very angry and Mrs Walker could only guess at the reason. She could only guess that these slimly pretty thighs twisting and writhing in extreme discomfort under the hissing beat of icy water had not been opened for the Headmaster’s pleasure. Presumably last night, for Irene Walker liked to keep an ear to the ground and she was aware that Mr Collingwood had gone to Marjorie’s room at about 10.30. He had gone to satisfy his manly pleasure, Irene had no doubts about that, and this fact did not surprise her at all. Mr Collingwood was a normal healthy adult male and, as such, needed to engage in a certain form of activity at regular intervals otherwise all kinds of pressures would build up inside him and everyone would suffer.

Irene Walker herself would have been happy to provide those services for the Head but she accepted that at 50, though still attractive, she was not ideally what the Head required. She had obliged him on a couple of occasions but what Mr Collingwood really needed was young flesh. Like his previous secretary, the very obliging Deborah, and like this new and undoubtedly tasty Marjorie Tompkins. After all, wasn’t that largely why he had hired the girl! And now to find, it seemed, that the little minx would not open up. Well one could understand the Head’s frustration and anger.

‘Stay in there, Marjorie!’ Mrs Walker repeated to the gasping, goose-pimpled girl. ‘The Headmaster says you are to have a cold shower every morning from now on.’

At last the icy blast was turned off and Marjorie was allowed to stumble out. Mrs Walker was ready with a large towel with which she enveloped the shivering girl. ’Ooohhh! Aaaoowww! Aaaeehh!’ Bunter-like sounds were still gasping out from between chattering teeth.

Mrs Walker briskly rubbed the trim form, now blue with cold. ‘If you ask me, Marjorie, you must have annoyed Mr Collingwood and he has therefore decided to smarten you up. Do you think that’s possible?’

Marjorie did think it possible. She could recall, all too vividly, struggling with the Head on her bed last night. For some reason she had not felt like co-operating. The day’s events had left her tired and edgy and it had been the last straw to find that Mr Collingwood did after all want what Mrs Walker had hinted at. He had tried to pry open Marjorie’s legs but she had refused and in the struggle an overexcited and trouser-less Headmaster had spurted abruptly and prematurely out before getting anywhere near his intended target.

Mr Collingwood had become very angry then. He had got off the bed, his shirt-tails no longer tenting out in their previous impressive manner, and had repeated what he had said earlier in the day about Marjorie’s typing. He had now definitely decided that a dose of the cane was the way to improve those skills.

Marjorie guessed that her poor typing would not have been so important if the Headmaster had got what he had come for but she just hadn’t felt like it. So she had been thinking fearfully of the cane — but being thrown in an icy shower by Mrs Walker had come completely out of the blue.

Irene Walker’s busy rubbing had now restored some circulation and Marjorie was glowing pinkly. ‘A girl’s got to be nice to her boss,’ observed the older woman. ‘That’s all part of the job.’

Marjorie rolled her eyes.

‘Have you got a boyfriend, dear?’ inquired Mrs Walker, briskly rubbing between Marjorie’s legs.

Gasping, Marjorie nodded. ‘And do you? You know…?’

Marjorie shook her head. Irene Walker made a face. ‘But you’re not a virgin, are you, dear?’

Marjorie shook her head again, then gave a sharp squeal. The towel had come away from between her legs but Mrs Walker’s hand was still there. Unbelievably a finger had slid up into her.

‘Just checking, dear.’ The finger slid in and out a couple of times. ‘Yes, well, I don’t see that you should have any physical problem, Marjorie. Everything seems all right. Just be a nice sensible girl and lie back and think of England — or something.’

Mrs Walker removed her finger, then gave Marjorie’s bare bottom a sharp dismissive slap. She exited from the bathroom wrapped in the towel and carrying her pyjamas and not quite sure which end was up. What an absolutely devastating start to the day.

Marjorie was in her little office at 8.30 right on time but fervently wishing she was back home with her mum. Was she going to get the cane or had that truly awful cold shower been instead? There was also that other matter: what Mr Collingwood wanted from her. What he wanted to do to her. It sounded as if it might be cold showers every morning until she did agree. She went to sit shivering at her desk, praying desperately that her employer might be suddenly taken ill. A major heart attack would do nicely.

At that point his head appeared round the door. He was clearly in the pink of health. ‘In here, Marjorie. If you please.’

She entered his room and Mr Collingwood locked the door behind her. Marjorie fought desperately to banish the vision of last night. The Headmaster without his trousers on. His rampant manhood… suddenly jerking… spurting… It had made a nasty sticky mess but Mr Collingwood had simply ignored that.

Clearly he was not put off by any such memories as he fixed Marjorie with a steely eye. ‘The cane, Miss. I think that was what we decided you needed.’

Marjorie wrung her hands. ‘Sir, I… Mrs Walker made me have a cold shower, sir.’

‘I am quite aware of that, because I instructed Mrs Walker in what she did. But that does not mean you do not have the caning. You will have a cold shower every day and you will be caned every day. In fact you will be caned twice a day. Until I am happy with your work and… er… behaviour. Now take off your skirt and knickers.’

A vicious-looking cane, long and thin and whippy, had appeared in Mr Collingwood’s hand. Marjorie’s stomach turned over. ‘Sir…’ said a weak little voice, ‘You… you can’t, sir…’

‘Just you see if I can’t!’ barked the Head briskly, ‘Now get those things off or I’ll get them off for you.’

A moment’s hesitation and two dainty hands went to the broad blue leather belt spanning Marjorie’s slim waist. Well, there wasn’t much option, was there? Apart from simply offering Mr Collingwood what he wanted there and then and Marjorie was in too much of a state to think of that. The belt came off and with an unhappy look at her employer Marjorie wriggled out of her tight pink-and-mauve skirt. Underneath were lace-edge white knickers plus a matching suspender belt.

‘And now the knickers.’ The Head gave the ravishing sight a hard hot look before beginning to clear his desk. The knickers came reluctantly down. ‘That’s it, my girl. Now come on!’ Unseeing almost, Marjorie stepped over to lie herself over his desk.

‘Oh, no!’ Mr Collingwood’s eyes took in the curving moons of Marjorie’s bare bottom, now proffered towards him. ‘Not like that. I want you up on your back.’

Marjorie lifted her head from the desk, barely able to comprehend the horror of what he was saying. ‘Yes Miss! Come on!’ Mr Collingwood was suddenly close, with one hand taking hold of Marjorie’s arm and the other palming a pale buttock, resilient and yielding like a firm blancmange. Marjorie was hoisted up. In the process his bottom-holding hand somehow got nicely in between her thighs. Marjorie was made to raise her legs, and grip the backs of slender nylon-clad knees.

Surely this must be a nightmare and in a moment with any luck she would wake up?

CRACK! ‘Aaaaooowwwwhhh!’

Oh Jesus Christ! It clearly was not a nightmare, or at least not the kind you dream and then wake up from. This was a real live nightmare. Marjorie’s bare bum, upraised and stretched drum-tight by her undignified and indeed indecent position, had been struck a sizzling, slashing, mortifying real live cut with the cane.

CRACK! ‘Aaaaooowwwwhhh!’

A second shot caused her to abruptly let go of her legs which jerked forward and down to flail wildly. But the Head immediately gathered up the flailing limbs and bent them back up over Marjorie’s head, ordering ’Hold them tight!’ The cane cracked down again… and again. The Bunter-like howls continued — evidence, if nothing else, of the healthy state of Marjorie’s lungs.

‘Eight,’ Mr Collingwood told her when she was at last down off the desk and standing, or attempting to, on rubbery legs. ‘Eight is a nice number, eh Marjorie? Not too little and not too much. I’ll give you the same again this afternoon and we’ll continue it every day until you show some improvement. Now would you like some cream on it?’

Marjorie shook her head, causing the descending tears to splatter haphazardly over her cheeks.

Well, what could you do after that? That mind-zapping caning following the equally devastating cold shower. Could you possibly contemplate that every day? Or even once more, come to that? No, you could not. Sitting at her desk on a painfully smarting bum, Marjorie told herself that there was no way she could even take the promised second caning this afternoon. So where did that leave you? You could run off home but that did seem rather stupid. Apart from that you could only say yes to Mr Collingwood right away.

He was not an unattractive man in fact, when he wasn’t spanking your bare bottom, that was. He was a lot more attractive than creepy Mr Aitken at the Top Girls Agency whom she had let do her. Marjorie didn’t really know why she had put up so much of a fight, except that it had come as a shock.

There was another thing too. Those two awful boys who had said yesterday she was to come and have tea with them this afternoon. At break time they laughingly burst into Marjorie’s office and grabbed her. Still laughing they attempted to take off her knickers. They did not succeed and Marjorie had the satisfaction of sticking a sharp elbow firmly in the eye of Robert Neil. But she knew she was not really a match for the two of them and once she was in their room…

Clearly she couldn’t fight those two and the Head. What she needed was Mr Collingwood on her side. And there was only one way to achieve that. Marjorie gritted her teeth. At 12 o’clock she went to the loo, had a brisk pee, powdered her nose and applied some fresh lipstick. Steeling herself she went to knock at the Headmaster’s door.

‘Sir… I… I think I was feeling… you know… tired last night. And… you know… that was why I wasn’t very… uh… friendly.’ Although she had rehearsed it carefully her little speech came out in a very disjointed manner.

Mr Collingwood’s eyes gleamed. It seemed that the medicine was having an immediate effect.

‘I…I’m going to try ever so hard with my typing, sir. And also… I’m going to be very co-operative and… and you know, sir.’

Mr Collingwood stood up. His trousers were already tenting out at the front. He moved to put his arms round Marjorie in an avuncular manner. One hand slid down to take hold of her bum. ‘Excellent, young lady.’

‘Sir. The cane, sir… And those cold showers…’

The Headmaster, going to lock his door, assured Marjorie that those disciplinary measures could undoubtedly be reconsidered. Mr Collingwood was evidently very excited. Would Marjorie please remove her skirt and knickers. The request was as earlier though now it was clearly for a different reason.

‘Sir, those two boys, Robert Neil and Richard Graythorpe. I don’t want to have to go to their room, sir.’

Mr Collingwood could understand that. High-spirited youths, they could be a bit rough with a sensitive girl. And besides he saw no reason to share his new secretary with them. Later on perhaps but not when she was so nice and new and fresh.

‘I’ll get Mrs Walker to have a word,’ he advised.

This time there were no hitches, no problems with going off at half cock as you might say or anything like that. It all went very smoothly, Mr Collingwood employing the same position as that favoured by Mr Aitken of Top Girls and bending Marjorie face-down over his desk. There was just one worrying thing for that young lady. How many times could she do this before getting pregnant? She would just have to get on the Pill and right away, she told herself as Mr Collingwood, thrusting away, emitted sounds of urgent pleasure.

‘Can Mrs Walker really deal with those awful boys?’ queried Marjorie afterwards as she replaced her discarded garments. The Head, zipping up, assured her that she could. ‘Mrs Walker is a very capable lady.’

----//----

It is 3 pm, the appointed hour for Marjorie’s visit to the two youths but Robert Neil at least is here in the comfy sitting room of Mrs Walker’s flat. That lady, attired in a flowery dressing gown, is pouring tea.

‘No, Robert. You’ve got to be a sensible boy and leave that poor young girl alone; and that goes for Richard too. At least for the moment. She’s rather nervous just now and the Head will be angry if she’s upset.’

‘That bugger just wants to screw the ass off her.’

‘There’s no need to be coarse, Robert. No need at all. That’s not the kind of talk if you want your Aunty Irene to be nice to you.’

Irene Walker smiled sweetly at her youthful guest whose face bore a look of revolt. ‘I haven’t shown you what I bought up in London the other day, have I?’ She stood up and opened the flowery gown. Underneath there was only a black lace-and-silk basque plus black nylons. Irene Walker was a large lady but for her 50 years she was in surprisingly good shape, firm and solid. If you liked the mature female form it was a very arousing sight: black lace and silk and nylon, abundant white flesh, a luxurious thick bush of black hair.

Mrs Walker proceeded to take her gown right off and lie back on the sofa. Generously she opened wide her full thighs. Robert, goggling, rapidly removed his trousers. For the moment at least any thoughts of bothering young Marjorie had been obliterated from his mind.

‘Oooh, what a lovely big boy,’ cooed the housekeeper. ‘You can take your time, dear. Your friend Richard isn’t due here for another 20 minutes.’

Meanwhile, as Robert Neil was placated, Marjorie herself was in the flat of Mr Parsons, ageing school caretaker. Well you did need all the friends you could get in this world, didn’t you? So she had taken him up on his earlier invitation to drop in for a cup of tea. They had had the tea and Marjorie was now sitting on Mr Parson’s lap. Mr Parson had his hand up her skirt doing something which Marjorie found rather pleasant, although it was something he shouldn’t be doing.

‘Do you like ‘aving it played with?’ inquired Herbert Parsons, somewhat breathlessly.

‘Yes, quite,’ Marjorie replied. In the interests of cementing this new friendship she inserted a wet tongue into Mr Parson’s ear. He made a sort of drowning sound. When she got back to her room, Marjorie told herself, she had better write home — to her mum and Ian, her boyfriend. Edited versions of events of course but at least she could say she was getting things sorted out here at Oakwood Academy.

As the sun sinks slowly behind the trees bordering the school grounds, Marjorie Tompkins continues to clatter away at her ancient typewriter, giving way occasionally to tears of self-pity, and thinking miserably of her next encounter with Mr Collingwood.