Try Harder Miss Moxley

Final part of the story from Blushes Supplement 16

With a silent prayer Paula crept along the corridor. It was 7 pm and the school was deserted, all the pupils gone home long ago and now all the other staff as well. The cleaners too would have finished. Just herself — and of course Mr Brentwood. Waiting for her. In that little room adjoining the gym at the end of the corridor. Her training room, he called it.

There was just possibly a faint chance that he wouldn’t be here. Like last Tuesday. That note in her pigeon-hole: ’Unfortunately I shall not be able to attend this evening as I have an important engagement.’ Paula had almost wept with relief when she read it. Her session with Mr Brentwood called off. Of course he had made up for it on Thursday, making her perform twice as hard and for twice as long. But at least there had been the bliss of missing it on Tuesday evening.

There had not been a note today so there was no reason seriously to suppose he wouldn’t be here. It was simply a faint hope, a wild hope, that for some reason he might be called away — at the last moment so that he hadn’t been able to tell her.

It was only wishful thinking, she knew. Paula knew he would really be there waiting. In the little room where they kept the gym things. Her training room. Ever since she had started her job he had made her come here; on Saturday mornings and twice a week in the evenings, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7 pm. When the school was deserted although being summer term it was still light. Fitness sessions. ‘Don’t you want to be fit, Miss Moxley?’ he would ask with that sardonic grin. What she wanted didn’t enter into it, it was what Mr Brentwood wanted and he wanted to exercise her. Make her do those awful exercises until sometimes she quite literally couldn’t go on. Just collapsed in a heap. He’s going to kill me, she thought in those sickening moments of utter exhaustion. It hadn’t killed her, though, or not so far. Maybe she was even getting fitter. But that didn’t help; he just made her do them longer, faster, harder — until Paula was at the point of collapse just like before.

There was nothing Paula could do. She was on probation and Mr Brentwood, being a Governor, could simply say she was unsuitable if he wanted to. And he would: ‘You are unfit, Miss Moxley, and we want a fit young woman, to set an example.’ No one else was fit of course, but Mr Brentwood wasn’t interested in anyone else. All the other women staff were older, they did not have Paula’s firm young body — or her pretty face. No, there would be no fun in putting them through their paces — and in any case they might even tell him what he could do. But not Paula. Poor defenceless, probationer Paula.

Round the corner and there was the door. Paula with her little bundle felt that desperate urge to turn tail and run. Tell Mr Brentwood when he phoned, as he would, that she was sick. But he would know she wasn’t sick, she had been at school today and she would presumably be in tomorrow. If this went on much longer she would be sick. A nervous breakdown. Or some sort of physical exhaustion. There was nothing for it. Knock on the door. He would be in there. Waiting.

Yes. ‘Hello, my dear. Have you had a rewarding day with our nation’s youth?’

Yes, Mr Brentwood was here, turning from the window now as she entered. Now after three weeks he called her Paula as well as Miss Moxley. He was still as hateful as ever though. She still had difficulty believing all of it: that Mr Brentwood could possibly make her do these things.

‘Get changed then and we’ll make a start. We mustn’t waste valuable time.’

He always made her change there, in front of him. She could of course have changed at home and then come over in a coat, but Mr Brentwood didn’t want that. She had to bring her things and change in front of him. An extra horrible little dimension. Take everything off until she was nude and then put on her tee-top and those awful knickers which was what he now mostly required.

She began. Her skirt and then her blouse. Trying to shut out the fact of those keen brown eyes rivetted on her body. She wore stockings and suspender belt — at Mr Brentwood’s insistence. ‘I would like you to wear them, Paula. I find them charming and feminine, unlike those dreadful tights.’ Mr Brentwood meant wear them all the time, in school when she was teaching, and a couple of times he had checked. Coming in at the end of a lesson and sliding his hand up her skirt. She was wearing them, because she was too scared to disobey. She didn’t like it, knowing what the boys would be like, all silly and excited, if they found out. And some of them had found out, somehow. One boy, a Fifth Former, had cheekily asked, ‘Is it true. Miss? That you wear stockings and suspenders?’ Hot-faced she had told him not to be impertinent. Someone had seen — a boy in the front row of a class bending down for something?

Shakily Paula unfastened the suspenders and drew off her stockings. If any of the boys, or anyone, found out about any of this… Her bra. Then her knickers. She was nude.

‘Lovely, Paula. And I’m sure we are toning you up.’ Mr Brentwood came close. His two hands taking hold of her firm bare tits. Squeezing. Then one hand down, to that fur-covered mound. Paula trembling. Mr Brentwood could do just about whatever he wanted. And he did. Handling her as if she was his personal property.

He groped and squeezed and then let go. She could put on her top, and those dreadful knickers he had given her. Navy blue, tight at the legs, but slightly baggy. Schoolgirl knickers of a bygone era? Paula pulled them up over her full hips. At least they were knickers. She had knickers on. Later on, shortly, if Mr Brentwood’s normal pattern was followed she would have to take them off. ‘Now we will have a session with no knickers, Miss Moxley.’

That would come. But what was Mr Brentwood saying now? ‘Tonight I have something special, Paula. As you are no doubt improving and getting stronger. In a few minutes. First a little regular running on the spot, to get warmed up.’

She began, her thoughts naturally on what he had said. Something special. That could only mean something extra dreadful, either in terms of hot-faced embarrassment (like the upside-down cycling) or of heart pounding exhaustion. Either way it didn’t bear thinking about. Anyway there was enough to think about right now. If she didn’t concentrate on getting her knees really high Mr Brentwood’s cane would… ‘Aaaiiikkk!’

‘Knees higher, Paula. And let me see a faster rhythm. You’re doing no better than you did right back at the beginning.’

She struggled on, smarting from the cane which had whistled in across her bare thigh. Concentrate. Or else that diabolical cane would…

‘Aaaaiiieee!’

At last he was telling her she could stop. That would do as a warm up. Gasping for breath Paula then remembered what Mr Brentwood had said. Something special. Oh Christ.

‘Feeling strong, are we, Paula? And fit? You were doing a bit better after that very sluggish start. After I tickled you up a bit. What was the trouble? Been eating too much school pudding? Or perhaps something else?’

Paula shook her head, still gasping for breath from her forced exertions.

‘That boyfriend, Miss. He’s not getting at you, is he? Sexual intercourse can play havoc with a girl’s fitness.’

Hot-faced, Paula shook her head again. Why should Mr Brentwood be allowed to ask about her private life, and make these awful intimate insinuations? She should tell him to mind his own business. She should. But…

She whimpered as Mr Brentwood’s hand took hold of the crotch of her baggy knickers. Took hold of her pussy. ‘I’m sure he wants this, Miss. Pesters you for it. Doesn’t he?’

She was shivering from what his hand was doing. He was just a monster. ‘S… sometimes,’ she whispered.

‘And you don’t let him?’

‘No!’ she gasped. ‘No. I don’t. I told you I don’t.’ Paula was very close to tears at the sheer horribleness of Mr Brentwood.

He grunted and let go. ‘Well anyway, now we’ll see just what shape you are in. As I said, I’ve got something special this evening.’

Oh Christ! Now it was coming. Whatever it was. Mr Brentwood was over at the side behind the vaulting horse. Paula chewed at a fingernail. What…? It was a rucksack he was lifting out. And the way he was lifting it…

‘This pack, Paula, weighs about 85 pounds. Bags of gravel and sand. Nice heavy stuff… Do you know how much 85 pounds is, my dear?’

From the way Mr Brentwood was having to exert himself carrying it, it was clear it was dreadfully heavy. This was confirmed when he dropped it at her feet. She couldn’t lift it.

‘I can’t,’ she gasped. There was simply no way she could lift it. Her arms weren’t strong enough.

‘I’m not asking you to lift it with your arms, Miss. A rucksack goes on your back. Then it’s your back and leg muscles that take the strain. They’re much stronger than the arms. Come on, get it on.’

Mr Brentwood was lifting it again, holding it up for Paula to slip the straps on. ‘I can’t,’ she wailed again. ’It’s too heavy.’ It weighed a ton. ‘Get it on,’ Mr Brentwood gritted.

When he let go of it Paula almost fell over backwards. She couldn’t do it. Mr Brentwood harshly telling her to lean forward. ‘Of course you can do it. If you make the effort.’

She stood, bending right over, teetering, leg muscles quivering, but somehow with the pack on her back unsupported. The weight was impossible. It was crushing her.

‘Now do some running, Paula. Get your legs moving. This will really do something for those muscles.’

‘I can’t,’ she wailed. ‘Aaaiiieeooowww!’

Mr Brentwood’s little persuader had sliced in across the backs of her thighs. ‘Don’t say can’t, Miss. Do it!’

Paula making a desperate effort managed a few heart-wrenching steps. And then sank down under the awful weight. The pack pulled her over and she rolled over on her back on the floor. She felt like one of those insects that can’t move, their legs twitching helplessly, once they’re on their backs.

‘Get up!’ ordered her tormentor. He whipped his cane in across one of Paula’s calves.

She was pulled to her feet, Mr Brentwood helping with the weight of the pack and then letting go of it. ‘Lean forward and balance it,’ he yelled.

She could do that, just. It was mainly a matter of balance although there was the sense of the pack trying to drive her feet through the floor. She could stand with it… but when he told her, once more, to start the running… the result was the same, after a few killing steps. The weight was too much. She was collapsing, dragged down.

‘Up! Up! Get up!’ Mr Brentwood did not sound pleased at all. ‘Perhaps your legs need more freedom, Paula. Is that it? All right, we’ll have the knickers off. Come on, take them off.’

Paula was up on her feet again with Mr Brentwood behind her, supporting the pack. ‘Get them off, my girl.’

She was close to tears again. Her legs were killing her. But Mr Brentwood had to be obeyed. Choking back the sobs Paula slid the knickers down, and stepped out of them. Just the tee-top now — and this horrendous rucksack.

Mr Brentwood took the knickers and then let go of the pack. Another desperate attempt. But Paula’s legs felt like lead: hot, molten lead for her thighs were burning. She couldn’t run. Not with this pack. The cane cut into her thigh but she couldn’t help it. Once again she was collapsing onto the floor. Gasping. Wailing.

‘You really haven’t improved, Paula. Have you?’

The question, or statement, was accompanied by a sharp cut of the cane across her thigh as she lay weeping on the floor. She had the choice; somehow she had to remember that.

‘Not trying, Miss!’ CRACK!

‘Are you?’ CRACK!

Mr Brentwood told her to take the rucksack off. ‘We’ll have a little rest and then try again.’ Paula struggled to her feet, thighs and flanks burning from the cane but at least free from that dreadful, killing weight. Mr Brentwood was smiling his sardonic smile.

‘You really should be able to do a little better, Paula. Able to keep going for a little while.’ He pulled her tee-shirt up, beyond the tops of her boobs so that they were fully exposed. His hands took hold of Paula’s bare tits. Squeezing.

‘Are you sure you’re not doing anything with that young man?’ One hand came down to her crotch. Grabbing her. ‘That business can ruin a girl’s fitness.’

‘Nnngghh,’ she gasped. It was meant to be ‘No’. But Paula was crying again. Mr Brentwood groped some more and then let go.

‘Well, we’ll see. What I am going to do, Paula, is have you meet a friend of mine. A lady. Miss Kitson her name is. Miss Kitson, Paula, is extremely fit and is also extremely keen on meeting young women such as yourself who are not fit. She loves training them — even more than I do myself. You could say, quite a lot more than I do, in fact.’

Mr Brentwood’s hands gave Paula’s nude tits another hard squeeze. ‘Miss Kitson is very, very strict and hard, Paula. A lot harder than I am. I think she’s going to love you.’

Paula’s brain was desperately trying to take in this new dimension. Miss Kitson. Much harder and stricter than Mr Brentwood. It seemed quite impossible. No one could be worse than Mr Brentwood. She let out a squeal as he gave her tits an extra hard squeeze.

‘She just loves pretty young women, Paula. With nice soft bodies like this one. Oh, she’ll have a marvellous time with you.’

She couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true. Mr Brentwood was just trying to scare her. And succeeding. But he didn’t sound like he was joking. He was going to let this Miss Kitson have her for a couple of sessions, he said, and after that Paula would appreciate how easy on her he had been.

‘At the weekend, Paula. We’ll start then. I’ve already told her as it happens. She was very, very keen to meet you.’

Paula shaking her head. Mr Brentwood must be joking. But he was now saying that she’d had her rest, and she had to get the pack on again.

‘And this time, my girl, if you can’t make a reasonable effort I’m going to bend you over the horse and give that bottom a thorough warming-up with the cane.’