Head Girl Again

Story from Roué 20, following on from Head Girl.

Yes, Gillian Blair of course. Head Girl at Greenfields Comprehensive and last seen cycling towards her headmaster’s house on that lovely early summer Saturday afternoon. An afternoon which Gillian is unconsciously making even more attractive by choosing to wear one of those brief full skirts which when you’re pedalling just will not keep down, and which is giving passers-by a more or less complete view of those lovely long smoothly-rounded thighs. And giving them additionally, whenever she forgets to grab the aforementioned skirt every few minutes, a view of brief, rather tight, pale pink knickers as well.

Gillian, indeed, who in cycling over to Mr Kendall’s house this afternoon could well be going to get more than she bargains for. Because from what we know it seems that Mr Kendall very likely has definite designs on his Head Girl this afternoon. Is planning in fact, if we use the rather basic language of ‘Nose’ Parker (Five B at Greenfields) to ‘give her a fuck’. For unfortunately there is no doubt that this was indeed his intention in inviting Gillian over this afternoon, as readers of Roué 18 will know only too well. As they will also know that already, two evenings ago, our rather super Head Girl was most regrettably, again if we use the language of the said ‘Nose’ Parker, ‘fucked’ on the Common by two sales reps.

And that really is the point: should it be allowed to happen again? Should Mr Kendall be allowed to repeat what those two unprincipled reps did? Because it can certainly be argued that this would be just too much, going just too far, on top of what has already happened to our Gillian in the last few days.

It’s true, of course, that she has brought it on herself by that silly act of shoplifting, but has she not been amply punished? First the decidedly painful and also humiliating caning, having her knickers taken down in front of three men. And then what happened on the Common the next evening which apart from anything else would undoubtedly have been painful — Gillian, of course, a virgin and the two men with no thought other than simply using her for their own pleasure. One can all too easily imagine the tearful pleadings (‘Please stop.’ ‘Ooh please, it hurts awfully. It’s just too big.’ etc., etc.) as the unthinkable happens and Gillian finds herself enduring what her mother would certainly describe as ‘a fate worse than death’. And when one man has finished her ordeal is not over, for there is still the other one waiting to take his turn.

Yes, silly girl or not, there is no doubt that she has received punishment — and punishment which some would say was already more than sufficient. Surely, then, Gillian must have a Good Fairy somewhere who will decide that for the moment at least she has had enough. That what the Head intended will not take place, or at least will not take place this afternoon, so soon after Gillian’s other harrowing experiences.

Whether, of course, the Good Fairy would permit it after Gillian has had a chance to recover a bit — for instance next week — well, who can say? Good Fairies are probably limited in their powers anyway. But as for this afternoon, yes, Gillian will probably be all right. No one anyway would want our heroine having a nervous breakdown or something. What can the Good Fairy do? Well the kind of thing possible would be to make Mr Kendall’s wife change her mind about going to her mother’s for the day, thus effectively nipping Mr Kendall’s plans in the bud…

----//----

The Head, one must regrettably report, is most chagrined at this change of plan. One might have hoped that he would possibly have welcomed it as a means of preventing his baser instincts from taking over, but no. Having Gillian there and thinking what might have been if only Angela had indeed gone off for the day has put him in a most frustrated state. To at least get away from the immediate presence of his dear wife he takes Gillian out to show her the garden.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have done this as now our poor Headmaster feels more frustrated than ever. As they wander round, out of sight of the house, he can’t resist the temptation to put an arm round pretty, so-desirable Gillian then slips it down so that it is round her bottom. He can clearly feel the outline of the brief knickers scantily covering the splendid buttocks: quite evidently they are the only garment she has on under her skirt…

Poor Mr Kendall is just getting too excited. As they stand looking at some shrub or other, his hand, with a will of its own, goes down to the hem of Gillian’s skirt and comes up again, inside, to take hold of her full, scantily-knickered rear in a most un-headmasterly manner. Gillian’s face, not surprisingly, registers a look of astonishment. The Head starts stuttering something unintelligible about this plant, while his fingers jiggle the cheeks of Gillian’s bottom.

Things are obviously getting a little steamy — the front of Mr Kendall’s trousers, bulging stiffly out, is proof of this — and perhaps it is just as well that at this point there is the sound of Mrs Kendall’s voice announcing that tea is ready.

----//----

Some two hours later Gillian is again on her bicycle, this time heading for home, again giving free show of thighs and knickers, and wondering, as she does so, about Mr Kendall. Twice more, after they’d gone in the house for tea, he had put his hand up her skirt. And also when they were in the kitchen, Gillian helping him with the washing up, he had rubbed himself up against her from behind — rubbed his stiff thing up against the cleft of her bottom, that is — at the same time reaching round and taking her breasts in both hands. She had broken away from him, of course, and he hadn’t really persisted. Just looked all hot and flustered, as he had looked when she had embarrassedly pushed his hand down from up her skirt.

All of this had naturally taken place when his wife was in a different room. It was all most strange because he had never done anything like it before. He had also, again when he was alone with her, tried to get some more details about the other night on the Common. She hadn’t really said any more, beyond the fact that it had hurt and she was still sore. At this the Head had gone all red and looked very excited. Well, it was all just not like him.

At her house she puts the bike away and goes in. Her mother says Hello and adds that she has just made a cup of tea. Then: ‘Kevin called just a few minutes ago, dear. Oh, and earlier there was a call from a Major Fortnum.’

This simple statement stops Gillian in her tracks. Her mother continues: ‘He said he’d call you later. Major Fortnum? Haven’t I heard that name? He’s something to do with the magistrates, isn’t he?’

Gillian has a distinctly queasy feeling, all thought of the Head’s strange behaviour now forgotten. What could Major Fortnum want with her? She can only think back to the other afternoon, in his study. That dreadful, dreadful experience.

‘Isn’t he?’ continues her mother, ‘one of the magistrates?’

‘Oh… Oh, I really don’t know. I — I expect it’s something to do with the school.’

She refuses the cup of tea her mother offers. She just couldn’t drink it. And can’t do anything else while there is this hanging over her head. She can only wait on tenterhooks, dreading him calling again.

The phone rings again at 7. She jumps up, composes herself; goes to pick it up. Her heart is going like an express train. Yes, the clipped tones of Major Fortnum…

He doesn’t say much but it is enough. The introductory pleasantries, and then that he wants to see her again. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient? It is rather important. Yes, it is to do with the… er… incident of the other day.

It isn’t much but it is enough to make her feel sick. However awful it had been on Thursday at least there was the consolation that it was over, but now it evidently wasn’t. She has no option but to agree, of course. (Well, it certainly doesn’t sound too good. Does that Good Fairy know about this? Or is she perhaps taking a nap?)

‘What did he want, dear?’

‘Oh… nothing really. It’s something the… the school is… er… trying to organise.’

Gillian bites her lip. She hates having to lie to her mother. And really she should be doing some revision for her A-levels, but there is no way she can do anything with this now hanging over her.

‘Mum, I — I think I’ll have a bath and an early night.’

‘All right, dear. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? You do seem to be looking a bit pale.’

Gillian runs the bath as hot as she will be able to stand it and starts taking everything off: flat-heeled shoes and the white ankle-socks, her blouse and skirt, finally the pink nylon knickers and matching bra. She checks the temperature and steps in, lying down and letting the hot water slip over her until she is completely submerged, except her face, her nipples, her bush, her toes. Hopefully the hot enveloping water will soothe away that awful feeling, the fear of what is in store…

She lies there for half an hour, then gets out and starts towelling herself. She wipes the steam from the full-length mirror, to show a tall pretty girl, her nude body pink and glowing, the wet blonde curls, the damp darker bush below, the full breasts with their darker pink nipples now standing boldly out after the rubbing with the warm towel. A pretty girl with a rather unhappy look on her lovely face. Because the hot bath has not done what she had hoped, has not really removed the tension. She rubs the towel over her breasts again and then back down between her legs. She knows what she needs although she hates doing it. But the way she is feeling she knows she will. She is conscious of the fact that she is putting on her short nightie and not her pyjamas. With the nightie it is easier…

In bed she lies on her back and at once her hand goes down between her legs. She is wet down there, a sticky wet which is not due to her bath. She thinks of Kevin as her fingers go to work. She thinks of Kevin and, also, though not wanting to, she finds she is thinking of the two men, the sales reps. And what happened on the Common. Her fingers are inside, stroking and rubbing on the special spot, as she pictures the two men, one after the other, on top of her. She tries to imagine Kevin doing it, but the other image keeps coming back with an awful fascination. The image of the two men… Her fingers continue, more urgently. With a feeling of guilt she realises she is coming.

----//----

Sunday afternoon. Walking up the driveway of Major Fortnum’s house, pushing her bike, inevitably it all comes back. Three afternoons ago, being brought here in Mr Kendall’s car, Mr Kendall with his cane hidden in his overcoat… She feels a wild irrational urge to turn tail, to go off, anywhere. She can’t, of course, she can only go through with it, and accept whatever is to come.

All the morning it has been the same: not being able to stop thinking about what might be coming. She went to church with Kevin as planned although she desperately needed to do some revision. Then Kevin came to her house for lunch but had to leave directly afterwards, because Gillian’s appointment at Major Fortnum’s was for 2 pm. She told Kevin, as she had told her mother, that it was to do with some school business.

She is still, now, this sunny Sunday afternoon, wearing her smart suit she wore to church. A grey jacket and matching pleated skirt with a white blouse underneath; underneath that, white nylon knickers and bra, dark nylons and her white satin suspender belt; low heels because she has come over on her bike (Major Fortnum’s house being a couple of miles out in the country). She parks the bike against a tree opposite the front of the house, briefly checks that the seams of her nylons are straight and takes a quick apprehensive look in her compact mirror.

As she feared she looks just like what she is — a scared schoolgirl. A scared schoolgirl who has put some make-up on to try and look grown-up. Back home she put on the eye-shadow and the pink lipstick (not very much) with the somewhat illogical reasoning that looking more grown-up will make what she fears, at the back of her mind, less likely to happen. What she fears of course, that lurking illogical fear, is quite simply another dose of the cane. It is illogical because there is absolutely no reason why she should get it again, but nonetheless the thought, the fear, is there, lurking, like a fish at the bottom of a deep pool.

The fear that Major Fortnum is going to take her knickers down again, and is once more going to whip that cane across her bare bottom. She knows really that her pathetic lipstick and eye-shadow are not going to influence matters one bit: if he has decided to do it then, well, he will. Back home, though, it made her feel a bit better, a bit braver. But now…

She bites her lip and snaps the compact shut. She will soon know. She forces herself to walk up the short flight of steps to his front door. She hesitates, then rings the bell.

----//----

Yes, Gillian is not a very happy girl at this moment and one may well ask, could those fears of hers just possibly be justified?

It is unfortunately a fact that ever since Thursday afternoon the Major has not been able to get that extremely and exceptionally stimulating experience out of his mind. The solid splat as the cane jolted the pretty 18-year-old’s ripe rear. The firm flesh juddering. The immediate red stripe and, of course, the anguished cry which denotes that punishment has been properly felt. All this has indeed — and most unfortunately for Gillian — been constantly in his mind. And his purpose in inviting her here today is simply to experience those heady pleasures once more. Unhappily for our heroine that sound of the doorbell ringing, at 2 pm precisely, is like music to his ears.

But what about the Good Fairy? Is she going to do something? Well, of course, Good Fairies are not infallible. She could, as has been suggested, be taking a nap. Alternatively she could be properly awake but not happy with what she saw Gillian doing in bed last night. Good Fairies are known not to approve of that kind of thing. Whatever the situation there is sadly no sign of Good Fairy action as the Major, with springy strides, goes to the door.

Yes, there she is, looking a picture in that smart suit. Looking also decidedly apprehensive. ‘Ah, Miss Blair. Do come in.’ The clipped, modulated tones; the tones which, if it could speak, an educated spider might use when inviting a fly into its parlour. ‘What lovely weather we’re having. This way, if you please. We’ll go into my study.’

Where they were on Thursday afternoon, of course. The Major closes the door behind them. There it is: the desk which she’d had to bend over, while this man took her knickers down. He now indicates one of the leather armchairs. ‘Do sit down. Then I must tell you the situation.’

She hears it all as if in a dream — or perhaps a nightmare would be more appropriate. He says that last Thursday’s punishment had been sufficient to satisfy Mr Carter who had brought the charge. The trouble is that he, the Major, has the responsibility to ensure that the law is properly carried out, and of course what has happened has been outside the normal remit of the law. Nonetheless he has that responsibility and can he be sure, allowing for the irregularity of the whole episode, that his responsibility has been fully carried out?

He puts a concerned look on his face. Unfortunately, he tells her, he just cannot be sure that six with the cane was sufficient punishment for what was, after all, quite a serious case of law-breaking. He looks a bit sad: No, he cannot be at all sure about that. And therefore he has decided, after much thought, that the only proper course is for him to give her another six.

As Gillian’s eyes widen and she feels that awful, dreadful, sinking feeling, he adds: ‘Unless of course you would rather, after all, that the law follow its proper course.’

He pauses to study her reaction. To see if she might say he is talking a load of nonsense and she is simply not going to allow herself to be caned again. But she says nothing. Her face has gone very red, though, and she has taken a small handkerchief from her pocket and is dabbing at her eyes. It is of course that worst fear, the one she thought just not possible. The fish from the bottom of the pond has suddenly loomed to the surface, its wide mouth greedily gaping.

‘Yes, well, as I say this further session will be completely private. No one will know anything about it and that includes your Headmaster and Mr Carter. Just the two of us.’ He smiles encouragingly. ‘That will make it easier for you, because I can appreciate that it’s worse in front of several men.’

She seems to him to be close to crying, but not quite. Certainly she looks most unhappy but then he hasn’t seen her when she didn’t. She really is a pretty girl though, and such a lovely bottom. He pictures it again, bare and bent over his desk. Well, there won’t be long to wait now for another such treat…

He continues: ‘Anyway, I intend to do it now, this afternoon. But first of course I will check that you’re showing no after-effects of last Thursday’s… er… session. I’m sure you won’t be but we will check first and if you are, well, we could delay it for a day or two.’

Gillian has heard all this while still scarcely able to believe it. She is barely managing to keep from crying. ‘Pl-please. Please, Major. I had… I had my… my punishment. Last week.’

Major Fortnum frowns: ‘Now my dear young lady, I’ve just explained the situation at some length. And I’m sure that an intelligent girl like yourself has understood perfectly. So just try and be sensible, please. What I want you to do now is to come over here next to me and lift up your skirt. Then I can have a quick look.’

Her head in a daze, Gillian gets up. Can this really be happening? Stumblingly she goes to stand next to Major Fortnum’s chair, then turns so that she is facing away. Her hands go to the hem of her skirt but don’t seem to be able to get any further.

‘Come on, my dear, get it up. We don’t want to be all day with the preliminaries.’

Hesitatingly, bit by bit, the skirt is raised. It seems to the Major that she is altogether too reluctant. ‘Come on, young lady! Up! Up! Up! Up!’ He impatiently slaps one of her thighs, ‘Up round your waist. Higher! Higher! That’s it! That’s better!’

The swelling rump in the tight white nylon knickers. Which he proceeds to slip down, to her nylon tops. ‘Now then…’ His hand at her bare buttocks, fondling, jiggling…

‘Yes, you appear to be perfectly all right, my dear. But just bend over will you, and we’ll have a final check. Come on, right over. Let go of your skirt. That’s it.’

He takes the skirt and flips it up over her back. ‘Now reach down and touch your toes. Knees straight! That’s it, right over. That’s it. That’s very good. Yes…’

It is a decidedly revealing position, which of course is just what Major Fortnum had assumed it would be. Quite marvellous. Just about the whole of it on view, sticking out between her legs. He gazes… for quite a little while. Well, nowadays of course the Major just doesn’t normally get to look at this kind of thing. Finally he slaps her bottom.

‘Right, Miss. Up you get and pull up your knickers. I’m sure you’re quite all right.’

Hot-faced, Gillian stands and slips her knickers back up.

‘Well now,’ says the Major, red-faced also at what he’s just been looking at. ‘Shall we be civilised and have a nice cup of tea first?’

Gillian, standing awkwardly, straightening her skirt, miserably shakes her head.’

‘What, no tea? Then you mean you want to get on with our little business right away?’

This, and the semi-jocular tone in which it is delivered, is the last straw for Gillian who now bursts into tears. Tears through which words can just be made out: ‘No I don’t… want it… right aw… away. I don’t… want… it at all.’

A further outburst and then: ‘I’ve had… my… my… punishment al… ready… and I… don’t… I don’t…’ More sobbing prevents the completion of this sentence.

Major Fortnum is unmoved by all this. With his renewed acquaintance with Gillian’s bottom he can think only of getting at it again — and getting on with the treatment. Neither tears nor anything else are likely to dissuade him from this now.

His voice is not sympathetic: ‘I have patiently explained that you have not yet properly had your punishment. Not all of it. So… we will therefore proceed, and you will kindly be sensible and co-operate. You are 18, I believe, and not a young child. Now, you had better take your jacket off.’

He goes to his cupboard. ‘Fortunately your Headmaster left his cane here. But don’t worry. As I said, he doesn’t know I’m going to use it on you again.’

He turns from the cupboard with the cane in his hand. Gillian is still standing, immobile, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief, though the outburst of crying seems to have stopped.

‘Miss Blair. I said get your jacket off. Right away, if you please. And then get over the desk. The same position as you were in the last time.’ He is bending the cane experimentally in his two hands.

‘Come on, Miss. No more delay please.’

The jacket comes off and she goes to stand where she stood on Thursday, close to the desk; then lowers herself over its top. He takes her arms and stretches them out as before, for her to take hold of the further edge of the desk top. Then he moves to her side and briskly lifts her full skirt, up over her back. The white nylon knickers again on view. Again his fingers in the waistband of the knickers, drawing them cleanly down to where he had them ten minutes ago.

Gillian is now in position with her bottom bared just as she had been three days ago. Minor parts in the scenario have changed; there are now the suspender belt and the nylons; there is now only the one pair of male eyes viewing her eagerly, not three. But the room is the same, the girl is the same, her bottom, the full soft cheeks, the curling tuft of hair, all are the same. And the man standing over her, the Major, with the cane in his hand which he is now laying testingly across the bared buttocks making the firm flesh shudder slightly, all this is the same too.

A slight change now though. The Major gives Gillian’s rear a little testing flick with the cane and then: ‘Mmm, I think we’ll have your legs apart this time.’ The cane flicks against her thigh. ‘Yes, open them, please. As far as the knickers will allow. That’s it, feet close to the desk. A little bit wider… Good. Knees nice and straight… Yes. Keep it just like that.’

Her spread thighs have her knickers, at the level of her nylon tops, stretched taut. It is a position, like the toe-touching episode a few minutes ago, which inevitably reveals a great deal. In fact a pretty full view of what a grown girl has down there. Whether this is the Major’s purpose, to get another view of this, or whether he considers it a better position for caning, well, one can only guess.

Anyway, after another good look he is ready to proceed. ‘Keep the bottom still now. If you don’t I shall have to increase the number of strokes my dear.’

A final testing tap and he is ready. The cane is raised and brought down in a smoothly accelerating motion to make contact with a zipping thwack! across the fullest part of Gillian’s buttocks. The solid springy flesh shudders as momentarily the cane sinks in. A sobbing gasping ‘Ooof!’ from Gillian. Her rear starts an agonised writhing as those so-sensitive nerve endings send up frantic messages that they have been horrendously attacked.

‘Don’t rub it!’ barks the Major. He waits until the more violent of Gillian’s writhings have subsided, then flicks her thigh with the cane: ‘Come on, knees straight again.’

Once more the cane is smoothly raised and brought down, this time about an inch below the vivid red stripe which marks the first line of impact. The nerve endings once more send up their desperate panicky clamouring. Once more Gillian’s buttocks (and other parts of her as well) go into violent uncontrolled motion. Once more the yelping, gasping cry…

There are four more to some of course and they are duly delivered in like manner, though as the caning proceeds the Major experiences increasing difficulty in getting Gillian to maintain the required position. By the time of the fifth and sixth she indeed seems to be having considerable trouble in keeping still for the cane, to the exasperation of Major Fortnum who is keen to get all six cleanly on the prime target area. Gillian’s writhings are being accompanied by tearful claims of ‘I can’t… I just can’t keep still,’ ‘Please… don’t… give me any… more, Major,’ ‘I can’t stand any more… I… can’t…’ And similar.

But the whole six naturally have to be delivered and Gillian does finally manage to keep still long enough — under the threat that if she doesn’t co-operate the Major will indeed give her extra ones, and moreover they will be across the backs of her thighs which, he says, will be even more painful. So finally, as on Thursday, Gillian’s bottom has the six stripes on it.

It has been a bit of a struggle though. The Major puts down the cane and straightens his suit which in his exertion has become somewhat rumpled. Gillian is still over the desk, sobbing and twitching a little, her skirt still up over her back. He reaches out his hand and takes hold of first one and then the other of the now glowing buttocks, his fingers fondling. She flinches in pain when his fingers go near those red stripes…

‘Stings a bit, I imagine,’ he offers in a friendly avuncular manner. It is a comment which produces no answer, only an increased sound of sobbing. ‘Stings a bit’ is perhaps something of an understatement with Gillian’s bottom feeling as if someone has casually applied a red-hot poker to it half a dozen times.

The Major’s voice again: ‘Mmm… well shall we have that cup of tea now?’

Gillian abruptly stands up. This is not so much due to his invitation, though, as the fact that as he said it the Major’s hand had chosen to slip in between her legs. Red-faced, she stammers: ‘N-no. No thank you.’ She starts pulling up her knickers.

‘Oh no, I shouldn’t pull them back up,’ says a concerned-sounding Major Fortnum. ‘Not at all a good idea to have them on right after a caning. What your bottom needs now is a bit of air to it. No, take them off. Here let me…’

And before Gillian quite realises what is happening he has snaked the knickers down to her ankles and she is automatically stepping out of them. Her knickers disappear into the Major’s pocket. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I would have told you on Thursday but with those other two chaps here I quite forgot. Now are you quite sure you won’t have a cup of tea, my dear?’

Gillian is quite, quite sure. All she wants is to get out of there, and hopefully never see Major Fortnum again. Her bottom still feels like it is on fire, and she is pretty sure the whole thing has just been to gratify him. All that business about being sure the law was satisfied was obviously, well…

‘I mustn’t force you, of course,’ he says. ‘I suppose you’re keen to get on with your exam work. By the way what subjects are you taking?’

Gillian, not surprisingly, is in no mood for a prolonged polite conversation with a man who has just viciously caned her and then pocketed her knickers as well. ‘English and History,’ she says curtly.

‘History!’ repeats Major Fortnum in amazed tones. ‘Why, that’s my own subject. Yes, well, I could probably help you there. Tell me, isn’t it the Cambridge Syllabus your school does?’

‘Yes.’ Gillian doesn’t know what to think now.

‘Well, it so happens that I know personally one of the examiners on that Board. Well, young lady, I could certainly help you with the work. And now that your account is fully settled regarding that other little matter I should be happy to give you some of my time. It would show you that I bear no ill feeling, for one thing.’

All this undoubtedly comes as a shock to Gillian, the more so considering what has just happened. On the basis of what he has just done she has no wish whatever to continue the acquaintance. But on the other hand, if he does know one of the examiners… She was going to have a bit of trouble with that subject anyway. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I don’t know…’

‘Come round a couple of times a week and if we do two hours’ work each time it will make all the difference. How about Tuesday for a start?’

‘Well… er… all right then. And… and… thank you, Major.’

He conducts her to the door as they agree on a time. He still has her knickers in his pocket but Gillian doesn’t like to ask for them right now, preferring to try and forget all that; if you can forget it with a bottom still stinging like blazes. In fact, though, at the front door the Major casually once more slips his hand up the back of her skirt, lightly cupping her bare buttocks. ‘Feeling a bit better now, I hope?’ he inquires.

Flushing, she says: ‘Er… uh… Major.’

----//----

She is still flushing a few minutes later as she walks across the drive to her bike, conscious of Major Fortnum’s eyes watching her from his doorway. She is in fact flushing considerably more. Because just as she stepped out of the house the Major’s hand which had been sort of jiggling her buttocks had suddenly, smoothly, like a snake, slithered down and in between her legs from behind. Smoothly and comprehensively feeling her there, where of course she was quite bare. She had gasped, and half-stumbled down the front steps as he called after her, ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday, then.’

Twenty minutes later, pushing her bike along the road from Major Fortnum’s, Gillian is still seething. How could he! It was all just too much. First the caning which she knew had simply been him taking advantage of her; then pocketing her knickers so that she was left to go home without any on; and then finally that, at his door. Casually feeling her between her legs like that. Well, it was just too much. She feels again hot tears on her face — tears this time of anger and humiliation. Really, what has happened in these last few days… all these men… and there seems no end to it; for she has foolishly agreed to go back to Major Fortnum’s again on Tuesday. What will he be doing then? Probably some other excuse to get that cane out again. Or perhaps next time it’ll be a stinging strap! Really she has been dumb to agree to it. In her annoyance she kicks the wheel of her bike, but only succeeds in stubbing her toe.

She would be riding the bike of course, except that when she tried getting on, outside the Major’s house, her bottom hurt so much that she gave up. She decided to walk the bike for a while and maybe after a bit try again. She has come about half-a-mile now and decides to give it another try; because otherwise she is going to be an awfully long time getting home.

She gets on the bike and carefully sits on the saddle, gingerly putting her weight on her bottom. It is painful all right, but she can just about stand it. She sets off somewhat hesitantly; her thoughts concentrating on minimising the discomfort from pedalling rather than thinking too much about the road. Weaving a rather erratic course she gradually increases her speed.

She is proceeding in this manner, unfortunately not looking or thinking about where she is going, when suddenly a car appears round the bend. Gillian at that moment is in approximately the centre of what in any case is a rather narrow road and there is the car, suddenly almost upon her. She has time to register that it is a large car, a shiny grey Rolls, with in the front seats two men with looks of horror on their faces — horror at what seems like an inevitable collision.

Somehow, though, the collision is avoided, the driver desperately braking and Gillian abruptly changing course and cycling into the grassy bank at the side of the road. She is suddenly in the air, parting company from her bike; then making contact with, thankfully rather soft, ground.

She isn’t actually knocked out — just, well, bemused, dazed. Everything seems to be happening to her and maybe the best thing is just to lie there, otherwise who knows what other calamities will be coming along. She lies there, on her back, her eyes open but not focussing. She is aware of voices. Men’s voices, alarmed. Coming rapidly closer. One voice, in cultured accents, is saying: ‘Good heavens! Is she all right? She must have knocked herself out!’

Focussing her eyes, she sees leaning over her two men, both middle-aged, one with glasses, the other in a uniform of some sort, with a peaked cap — a chauffeur presumably. He sees the flicker of Gillian’s eyes and says in somewhat rustic tones: ‘Arr, I think she be coming round, sir.’

The other man, the one with the cultured voice and glasses: ‘Don’t try to move, young lady. We’ll just check that there are no bones broken.’

‘Arr, now you just hold still, Miss.’ The chauffeur is unbuttoning her jacket; then taking hold of her breasts in both hands, mounding them. ‘Ahh, yes… Feels all right here, sir.’

Gillian, still in a daze, is trying to sort out what is happening. The chauffeur continues to knead her breasts, rather as if he is making bread; then changes the focus of his attention. She feels his hands running over her nyloned calves, in an investigatory manner, at the same time parting her legs. The hands move up to her knee, then her thighs, squeezing and kneading.

Then without warning one hand suddenly swoops and is right up between her legs, cupping her there, exactly as Major Fortnum’s hand had less than half-an-hour ago when she was leaving his house. The Major’s attack was of course from the rear and this one is frontal, but the target is unquestionably the same.

The hand has a shock effect, making Gillian instantly fully conscious, her own hands automatically going down to grab the man’s wrist and try to pull it away. At the same time she starts struggling to get up into a sitting position; but the other man takes her firmly by the shoulders and pushes her back down again. ‘Now young lady, just hold on a bit. We must be sure you’re quite all right.’

‘Arr yes, we must make sure. My word, yes!’ The chauffeur kneeling over her, takes hold of both of Gillian’s struggling hands to enclose them in one big fist, while his free hand grabs her skirt and yanks it clear up round her waist. ‘Arr… just you look at that, sir!’

Gillian’s long shapely nylon-clad legs, the only part of her which is free, struggle wildly but ineffectually, serving only to increase the display. The men’s eyes, though, are trained not so much on the actual legs as on what is between them, at their origin. The full brown bush. The man with the glasses exclaims: ‘Good Heavens, Manners!’ And then: ‘I say…’

The ‘Good Heavens, Manners!’ is engendered by the obviously unexpected sight of Gillian’s bare pussy. The ‘I say…’ by the fact that Manners’ free hand has come down and, once again, is firmly taking hold of it.

‘Ahh, Sir. Must check it’s not been harmed. It’s the most delicate place on a young lady, sir.’

----//----

Well, one must ask, who are these characters? And also, what are their intentions? Can they be trusted with our heroine? In particular the evidently lecherous Manners, can he be trusted?

Because shortly, when Manners has finally taken his hand away from Gillian’s private parts and they have allowed her to sit up, they are insisting, or rather the one with the glasses is insisting, that Gillian get in the car with them. He says he wouldn’t dream of letting her go without first taking her to his place for at least a little something to drink. Gillian protests that she is all right but he is adamant. And there is also the little matter of her bike. It is obviously unrideable, the front wheel now a most peculiar shape.

So reluctantly Gillian agrees. The bike is put in the boot of the Rolls and she herself is propelled into its front passenger seat by Manners’ hand which firmly clasps one cheek of her bottom. She is wondering though, as we all must be, what she has let herself in for. Manners, getting in beside her, pushes her skirt back and gives her thigh a friendly squeeze. He puts the car in motion and then his hand comes back down onto the nyloned thigh next to him, to start playing with the front suspender clasp.