The Games Mistress

From Blushes 17

‘She’s a big girl all right,’ mused the Headmaster reflectively. ‘That was all real, I take it? All that in the front of her blouse, I mean.’

Linda Bennett, his secretary, knew what Mr Dowling meant without him explaining. She said yes, there was no reason to suspect that ‘all that’ was not the genuine article.

‘What size would you say?’ pondered the Headmaster. ‘What size bra would she take?’

Miss Bennett pursed her lips. It hardly seemed the most pertinent consideration when interviewing for a new gym and games mistress — but on the other hand perhaps for Mr Dowling it was the most pertinent. ‘It could be 39,’ she answered. ‘It could even be 39 D-cup.’ Linda Bennett herself, trim in her late twenties, took a neat 35B.

‘Thirty-nine!’ marvelled the Head. ‘I would have thought more like 49. I’ve never seen anything like those things; never in all my experience. Well…’

Arthur Dowling was approaching 60 and had been Headmaster at Kingswood School for Girls for some years so his experience was considerable, not only in terms of girls but of female staff as well. So surely this applicant was out of the ordinary. Linda had to admit that if you liked big girls, well, this Miss Crawshaw was big. And didn’t all men dream about girls with mammoth boobs? Arthur Dowling, she knew, certainly liked to find excuses to cane well-built girls. Not that he stopped there if he had half a chance: he had used the cane on Linda a couple of times when she had got in a spot of bother. But there wasn’t much doubt who Mr Dowling was going to prefer for this vacant post of junior gym mistress.

‘She has very good qualifications,’ he pronounced.

‘Yes, Mr Dowling,’ said Linda dutifully. What she wanted to say was: you mean she’s got enormous tits. But of course she was too circumspect for that.

And so Christine Crawshaw duly found herself appointed.

‘Naturally there is a probationary period to start with,’ the Head told her on her first morning. ‘You will get an assessment at the end of three months.’ Christine had a free period first thing and they were in Mr Dowling’s study, with a cup of coffee Miss Bennett had brought in.

‘Yes, Mr Dowling,’ said Christine demurely. She was demurely dressed too, in a neat blue linen suit and white blouse. Nothing outlandish for she was keen to impress. Kingswood School paid quite a bit above the going Burnham rate so Christine was very pleased to have got the job, which was her first, right after college. She tried not to look nervous. Mr Dowling, a big, solid-looking man, was, she realised, casting interested glances at her boobs which even though she had her demure suit on could not easily be hidden. He had also been looking at them at the interview. But there was not much you could do about that, when you had big boobs men did look.

Mr Dowling was now talking about discipline. Without discipline the girls would become a mere rabble. He wanted to see good discipline in the classroom and also on the playing field. But to instil discipline a member of staff had herself to be disciplined. ‘Were you subject to proper discipline at school, Miss Crawshaw?’

‘Uh, yes, I think so.’ Christine was conscious once more of the Headmaster’s keen gaze at her impressive chest.

‘The cane, my dear? Were you disciplined at school with the cane; or perhaps the strap?’

That did rather take your mind away from the fact that he was staring at your boobs. No, Christine Crawshaw certainly hadn’t been subjected to any of that.

‘No? My, my; some establishments are rather remiss, are they not? But it is never too late to learn, Miss Crawshaw. Oh no, it is never too late to learn.’

What exactly did that mean?

Mr Dowling leaned forward across the coffee table, eyes gleaming. Were they gleaming at the thought of the new games mistress’s very large tits nestling in her demure suit front, or was it perhaps related to what he was saying?

‘At this school, Miss Crawshaw, girls are caned and strapped. Fifth and sixth form girls, that is. It is a duty I reserve to myself. I feel strongly that something as important as corporal chastisement cannot be delegated to juniors, certainly not to my female staff.’

He got to his feet and Christine, head in a bit of a whirl, followed suit.

‘Yes, Miss Crawshaw. I deal with it myself. And so if it seems that our new games teacher who has never received training in that direction, if it is decided that she needs a little… ah… so that she can fully appreciate corporal discipline in all its aspects… Well, I will be the one to perform that function, Miss Crawshaw. Yes?’

It was all a bit garbled but it seemed to mean… Christine’s mind was wrenched from that mind-boggling possibility as the Head deftly changed the subject.

‘Will you wear a bra when you conduct sports and games, Miss Crawshaw?’

It was to say the least a question out of the blue. Christine made spluttering sounds.

‘I ask because I have noticed you are a very well-developed young woman. I like to see girls enjoying freedom of movement when they engage in sports and so there is an instruction that brassieres are not to be worn. And a teacher should set an example; do you not agree?’

‘Ah… er… yes…’

‘Good,’ said the Head. ‘I shall look forward to that. I like to watch the senior girls at hockey practice. By the way, Miss Crawshaw, just between the two of us… what size are they?’

‘Good Heavens,’ marvelled Mr Dowling when red-faced Christine had managed an answer. ‘Do you know, my secretary was exactly right. Amazing.’

Afterwards, thinking about it, Christine decided that she must have misunderstood Mr Dowling. He couldn’t have actually meant she should do hockey practice without a bra. Could he? No, it wasn’t possible, a headmaster wouldn’t suggest anything like that — in the same way that she had must also have been mistaken about that other thing. Caning. He wouldn’t suggest that a teacher should submit to the cane in order to properly understand corporal punishment. He just couldn’t have meant that. Could he?

Christine could of course have asked someone, one of her new colleagues, but it would be highly embarrassing and if as was likely she had got it all wrong it would be an unnecessary embarrassment.

It would certainly be an embarrassment to turn out for hockey without a bra. Christine’s womanly protuberances were nice and firm, jutting solidly outwards, but they were 39 D-cup size and if you were that big — even a firm 39 D-cup — and were running up and down a hockey field without a bra they were bound to be jumping and bouncing about in your shirt. And teenage girls could be given to fits of giggles, to sniggering even. No, Christine decided…

----//----

‘Are you wearing a bra, Miss,’ one girl, Althea Simpson, asked Christine in the changing room. ‘We aren’t allowed to wear bras for hockey. It’s a ruling from the Head — it’s more healthy to be unconstrained. That’s what he says.’

Another girl, a pretty blonde called Nicola Timmings who was quite well-developed, giggled. ‘Actually, Miss Crawshaw, it’s so he can look at our boobs. And I should have thought he would love to look at yours.’

There was general giggling and the inevitable query. ‘What size are you, Miss?’ Christine did not consider she need impart such information — it was bad enough with the Head demanding to know. ‘Come on,’ she said sharply. ‘Let’s not engage in trivialities. Everyone change quickly.’

The Headmaster was there on the sideline, his eyes keenly observing these full-grown girls at play. A number of them, including Nicola Timmings, were very well-built and womanly breasts — and womanly nipples — were to be seen bouncing freely. But there was no one approaching Christine’s size and she was very happy she had worn a bra. Because really he couldn’t really have meant…

But… Mr Dowling came up to her after the practice, his face a bit like a thunderstorm. ‘I shall want to see you this evening, Miss Crawshaw. I am not at all pleased. For one thing the girls were like a rabble. And for another thing there is a matter of pure disregard of my wishes on your part.’

Oh dear. There had been one or two instances of minor larking about, the girls no doubt over-excited at the presence of a new teacher. And also… disregard of my wishes…

----//----

Right after tea there was a knock at Christine’s door. It was Matron, Mrs Wilkins. She was carrying a pile of clothes. ‘Mr Dowling wants you to wear this.’ Mrs Wilkins, thirtyish, had a little smile on her pleasant face. ‘This’ was a set of sixth form uniform. ‘I think it should fit. And what size shoes are you? The Head wants those as well and I think I can probably find a pair.’

Mrs Wilkins went out, leaving Christine looking in disbelief at the uniform, to reappear almost at once with a pair of black buckle-over shoes — regulation school wear.

‘You know where to go, don’t you? Room 4C, it’s at the end of the main corridor.’ Mrs Wilkins paused, the smile again in evidence. ‘That’s where he always punishes girls, of course.’

Christine looked from the clothes to Mrs Wilkins, her expression of incredulity even more pronounced. Elizabeth Wilkins’ eyes twinkled.

‘I shouldn’t keep him waiting, he can get a bit excited. Oh and better not wear a bra with that lot. Girls don’t wear a bra when they go for punishment. Not allowed. Part of the disciplinary ritual according to the Head, but between you and me I rather think it’s simply… Anyway, if he wants to discipline you as a schoolgirl I’m quite sure he won’t want a bra. I mean especially with your… ah… development, Christine.’

Before Christine could answer Mrs Wilkins, with a parting ‘Good luck’, had exited.

Ten minutes later Christine knocked on the door of 4C and went in. At least there had been no one in the corridor to see her dressed like this — in sixth form blouse and skirt and red tie plus knee socks and the distinctly schoolgirl-type shoes. She closed the door quickly behind her. The room was empty. It was like a little classroom, with a desk and a couple of chairs, a stool, a blackboard. Then she saw it, in the corner behind the blackboard. A three-foot-long cane. That was what Mrs Wilkins had said: 4C is where he punishes girls and Mr Dowling himself had said he used the cane.

Christine broke out into a little sweat. He couldn’t. It was bad enough to be made to wear this outfit, but he just couldn’t use that… that dreadful looking thing. Perhaps she was just going to be warned — to watch the discipline in future. And also — well, if he was so desperate about not wearing a bra for hockey… she was very conscious at that moment of the heavy, unsupported weight of her breasts. But really it was all so…

Suddenly she was no longer alone in the little room. The Headmaster, wearing his gown and also a grim expression on his face. Christine got quickly up from the chair she had been sitting on.

‘Not at all a good start, Miss Crawshaw.’

‘Sir… I… I’m sorry about the girls messing about a bit. I…’ Standing in front of Mr Dowling Christine was hotly conscious of where his eyes were focussed. On the tight white blouse front which did not have the benefit of a bra underneath. Her nipples, she knew, were sticking blatantly out.

‘It was not only the girls’ ill-discipline, Miss Crawshaw. I made perfectly clear how I wished you to dress and you saw fit to disregard it. What do you have to say to that?’

‘I… uh…’ Christine started to speak but the words became a squeaky gasp. Mr Dowling’s hand had reached out and was underneath one unbrassiered breast, hefting its weight in his palm.

‘I distinctly said I wished you to do the same as the girls, who have been told not to wear a bra for… er…  health reasons. Why could you not comply with that, Miss Crawshaw?’

‘I… er… I don’t know, Sir.’ Christine could feel her knees quivering. Mr Dowling was now using two hands, one for each weighty protuberance. She felt a bit faint.

‘I take it you wish to stay with us, Miss Crawshaw. We do of course pay a very attractive salary and there were very many applicants for your post.’

‘Yes sir.’ Yes Christine did want the job, even though this randy old bugger had two hands on her tits and had made her dress up in this humiliating schoolgirl outfit.

‘In that case, my dear young woman, I intend to cane you. In any event it is something I would wish to do in view of our conversation yesterday. It will I hope teach you a lesson in responsibility and obedience.’ He gave a final squeeze at her boobs and let go. ‘Kindly lower your knickers.’

Christine stood rooted to the spot as the Headmaster strode over to where the cane leant against the wall in the corner. He was going to do it… unless perhaps she told him to stick his job and walked out. But she couldn’t do that. There was no way she could tell her mum or boyfriend Kevin that she had packed in her new job because the Head wanted to cane her. No way. And so…

Mr Dowling was back with the cane, swishing it up and down. Christine took a big breath. ‘Sir… Mr Dowling… No one’s going to know about this. Are they, sir?’

The Head raised his eyebrows. ‘I fancy Mrs Wilkins knows, but no one else. I wouldn’t want the girls to know of course — bad for discipline. So you are welcome to ask Mrs Wilkins to keep it to herself. Now get those knickers down.’

Telling herself not to think, Christine reached up under the pleated skirt. They were navy blue cotton, standard Kingswood type. They were the sort of knickers you could imagine girls having to take down to be caned in. Christine had never worn anything like them before because at her school they could wear what knickers they liked, within reason. But at Christine’s school you didn’t get caned.

‘Now lift your skirt up round your waist and lie yourself over the desk.’

Just tell yourself it’s not happening, Christine told herself. Concentrate on the floor which had a pattern of squares with diamonds in the corners. Just concentrate on anything except…

‘Aeeeeehh!’

Oh no! Pain like that wasn’t possible! She had shot up, one hand clutching her dreadfully stricken rear.

‘Get down, Miss. Get down and stay down. Don’t dare move; or I’ll have you bending over that desk for the rest of the evening.’

Christine resumed her position. It was impossible, the stinging pain was quite impossible. But somehow when the next one cut in she did manage to hang onto the edge of the table. And for the next. And…

‘Stand up now, Miss Crawshaw. Stand up but keep your skirt up round your waist.’ Mr Dowling had to repeat his instruction for at this point Christine didn’t know what was happening. All she knew was that her bottom was red raw and her whole body was throbbing, pulsating…

‘That’s better.’ The Headmaster patted her bottom, patted where the six red stripes were. ‘Yes, after the first you took it quite well. Right, you can pull them up now.’

She struggled the knickers up. Mr Dowling’s hands had gone back to her boobs again, seemingly an irresistible attraction, but the way Christine was feeling it hardly mattered. He was talking again. She did her best to concentrate through the pain.

‘Yes I think you’ll do all right here, Miss Crawshaw. It’s early days yet of course, but I’m sure you’ll settle in.’

His hands were still groping, rubbing her nipples now. ‘Tell me, Miss Crawshaw do you have a boyfriend? Do you lead an active sex life?’

Continued in The Games…