A Study in Shame (6 page)

The other girls plainly agreed with her and I was tempted to tell them that they could go their own way and I’d go mine, but Mr Scott was listening to our conversation, along with two of the people from Confidence. When I answered, I was speaking for their ears more than Stacey’s, knowing that I’d be expected to show leadership qualities. ‘I’ll take your advice on board, Sergeant Atkinson. Instead of sixteen back and four forward, we’ll have eight back, eight spread out as you advise and four forward.’

I adapted my plan to include hers, showing not only leadership but flexibility, which I knew would go down well.

Stacey wasn’t impressed. ‘We’ll be too thinly spread …’

‘I’m in charge. That’s how it’s going to be.’

I turned away, making for our only team member from the post room, who was dressed in her work overalls and looked completely lost. As I passed Mr Scott, he gave me a nod of approval. I knew Stacey and her friends were going to be furious with me, even if we won, perhaps more than ever if we won, but they hated me anyway. I didn’t even know the girl from the post room, and she obviously needed to be brought into the team, so I did my best to buck her up and let her sit next to me in the front of the minibus as we drove north.

The girls in the back were muttering together most of the way, but I ignored them, waiting until we’d reached the woods and been issued our guns and protective gear before ordering them to gather around. We’d been given pink paintballs, while the boys had blue. Stacey drew a bead on a tree and hit it from right across the car park, making my stomach tighten at the noise of the gun and the ball as it exploded to mark the tree with a broad pink splat.

I signalled her over. ‘Sergeant Atkinson, you’re in command of the base team. Both corporals are to be with the middle group, on either flank. I’ll lead the forward team, although we’ll be operating independently.’

Her face registered immediate disappointment and she was about to speak up, but thought better of it as Mr Scott approached. I made a show of choosing my three companions with care, all young athletic girls who could take care of themselves. Mr Scott rewarded me with another approving nod and walked off towards the male team, who were performing some sort of bonding exercise which involved clumping together as if they were in a rugby scrum and shouting a lot.

There were staff from both Confidence and the people who owned the site, one of whom told us to follow her to our base camp. As we walked, I quickly realised that the woods were far larger than I’d imagined, which probably meant Stacey was right and we would be too spread out, but I was sure that, if I changed my mind, I’d get marked down as indecisive. I’d also spotted a way to improve my personal chances of getting the flag, and greatly reduce my chances of getting shot. It was cheating, but that only mattered if I got caught.

My tension was rising fast as I gave the girls their orders at the base, once again ignoring Stacey’s resentful scowl. With everybody knowing what they were supposed to do, I could only wait, with the seconds ticking by painfully slowly until at last the horn sounded and we were on our way. I ran immediately, down through big pine trees and across the path we’d walked along to reach the base. Beyond was thick undergrowth, then more trees and a barbed-wire fence that marked the boundary we were supposed to stay within. On the far side thick hedges ran to either side of a lane.

I shot a quick glance behind me to make absolutely sure I wasn’t being watched, swung one leg over the fence, slipped on mud, lost my balance and went down hard, ripping my trousers on the wire. The material was still caught, but I could hear somebody in the woods behind me and wrenched myself free, to push through the hedge and tumble into the lane. I ducked down, breathing hard as I looked back, but it was difficult to see anything at all and if anybody had been there they weren’t visible.

My trousers were torn from just below the waistband to halfway down one leg, a long jagged rent that left the side of my panties showing and made me wish I’d had the sense not to choose a pair decorated with little yellow ducks. Yet there was nothing to be done but tuck the piece of dangling cloth in and carry on as planned, running down the lane until I judged that I was beyond the male base. I could hear shouts and the occasional pop of paintball guns off among the woods, but the game only just seemed to be getting going.

I pushed back through the hedge and climbed the fence, more carefully this time, then started through the woods, ducked low. Just as I’d hoped, there was nobody about, and to judge by the noises of battle I was well behind the male base. I came close enough to the car park to see the vans, now with the battle hotting up nicely, judging by the distant pops and shouts, then angled into the woods, moving carefully from tree to tree until at last I came in sight of the men’s rearguard.

It was fat Mr Potts from Accounts, a man whose eyes always seemed to be fixed to my bottom, so I shot him in his. He went up like a punctured balloon, taken completely by surprise, and I was past him before he realised who’d got him. Another man rose up from among a stand of ferns, his gun lifting to take aim squarely at my chest even as pink dye splashed across his stomach from my paintball, and I was diving for the flag, gripping it tight as I pulled it from the earth, screaming in triumph.

We’d won, or, at least, I had, and it was only the first game, but I couldn’t help but feel extremely pleased with myself. I even took my jacket off and slung it over my shoulder in a deliberately casual style as I walked back to rejoin the other girls at our base. Unfortunately, things didn’t seem to have gone too well. The flag was still where the staff had put it, and two of the girls were unmarked, but the rest were spattered with blue paint, most of them in several different places, while the men seemed to have found it amusing to aim for bottoms and breasts. Stacey was plastered, her front smeared with blue and the inside of one thigh marked with a double splat that was sure to have bruised the flesh beneath. I felt I ought to say something. ‘Well done. You obviously put up a good defence.’

‘No thanks to you, Lieutenant Salisbury.’

‘We won, and that’s what matters.’

‘
You
won. We got sacrificed so you can look good in front of Mr Scott.’

‘It wasn’t like that …’

One of her main cronies spoke up, then another.

‘Bitch.’

‘Arse kisser.’

I spread my hands in a gesture of what I hoped would be taken as an apology, but they weren’t done with me.

Stacey stepped forward, the others following behind as she spoke. ‘I say we get her, girls.’

Her paintball gun had come up, pointing right at my chest.

‘Stacey!’

‘You’ve had this coming to you a long time, Posh Bit. You get a count of five. Now run.’

‘Stacey, you can’t …’

She could, and she was going to. I ran, terrified, dodging behind one pine and then a second, with her voice loud with triumph behind me, counting slowly down from five. At three, I heard the pop of a paintball gun and saw pink splash across a tree just next to me. A second caught my boot, a third my back and the air was full of laughter and the sound of their guns as they all opened fire together. Balls began to burst all around me, and against my body, on my arms and legs, my back and bottom, and on the bare flesh where my hip showed through my ripped trousers.

It can’t have lasted more than a few seconds and I didn’t even slow down, but I wasn’t about to stop running, not for anything. When I got to a fence I went straight over, down a slippery bank and into the mud and water of the stream at the bottom, but even that didn’t stop me. I could hear them behind me, and they were still firing, even though the balls were falling short, but it wasn’t until I’d crossed a second fence into a field that I finally allowed myself to slow down.

My jacket was gone, and my cap, lost somewhere behind me. At some point I’d caught the rip in my trousers again, making the tear so wide it left half my panties and a good deal of my bottom on show. My skin was scratched and filthy, spotted with bruises and spattered with pink paint or slippery with sweat and mud; my hair was a filthy bedraggled mess and I could barely see through my goggles. I pulled them off and threw a last cautious glance towards the woods, but there was nobody in sight, only a cluster of large black and white cows at the far side of the field, so I sat down heavily in the long grass, only to discover that it concealed something squashy and unpleasantly warm.

I’d been shot by my own side. That sort of thing always seems to happen to me, and I’ve got used to it, but sitting down in a cowpat really was the final straw. I’d been meaning to tidy myself up and loop back to the car park, where I’d have been safe from Stacey and her pack of vindictive little bitches. That was now out of the question, with the seat of my panties in a state I didn’t even like to think about and the rip in my trousers so wide I couldn’t even cover up properly. My colleagues had camera phones, Stacey included, and I’d seen one of the Confidence people with a video recorder. I could not possibly go back until I’d cleaned myself up properly. That meant begging help from a local, but there was no other choice.

There were two possibilities, a big modern-looking farm at the bottom of the valley and what looked like a cottage set in a copse of trees, although only the red brick chimneys were visible, with a curl of smoke rising from one of them. I chose the cottage, not wanting to suffer the leers and jokes of farm workers, while with any luck it belonged to a well-off city couple who’d be sympathetic to my plight.

I was luckier still. The owner proved to be an elderly lady, plump, with a benign smile on a face like a wrinkly, rosy apple, who was working in her garden as I approached. I began to explain, but she took one look at the state I was in and began to tut and fuss, chiding me for my behaviour even as she offered all the help I needed.

‘You poor thing. Still, if you will play these silly games, what can you expect? And you’ve torn your trousers. Really! Never mind, it’s nothing a needle and thread won’t fix. Now, let’s get you out of those filthy clothes and into a hot bath. It’s in the scullery, and you just need to leave the water running to make the boiler come on. Oh dear, have you had an accident?’

‘I sat in a cowpat.’

She shook her head, as if I’d done it on purpose and it was further proof of my delinquency. I didn’t bother to argue the point but just let her take over, not caring what she thought as long as she continued to mother me. She told me she was called Mrs Forbes, without adding a Christian name, which seemed to set the seal on our relationship, but that felt right, and I said my name was Lucy in case Lucinda made her think I was pretentious.

The bath in the scullery was a huge cast-iron thing standing on four squat legs. Mrs Forbes turned on the taps, then began to fiddle with a washing machine, talking all the while. ‘Come along, out of your clothes. What a state you are in! And all this pink business! What is it, the dye they have in those paintballs, I imagine. Come along, you needn’t be embarrassed in front of me, young lady.’

I made a face but began to strip, as she clearly had no intention of leaving the room. Not that it mattered, as she was utterly indifferent to my nudity but shocked by the state of my clothes, tutting and shaking her head as she inspected them, while I stood there stark naked waiting for the bath to fill up. She had the washing machine going before I could get in, but finally left. I closed the door behind her and climbed into the bath, slowly immersing my bruised and filthy body into the near-scalding water.

It was bliss, and as I settled into the bath I closed my eyes and let my mouth come open in a long contented sigh. She was still talking to me, or at least to herself, wondering if she had the right shade of grey thread in her sewing box to mend my trousers properly, but as I laid my head back to wash the mud out of my hair her voice was blocked out. When I came up again, she’d stopped talking and the only sound was the steady hum of the washing machine. I began to soap myself, wincing at the scratches and bruises, most of which were on my legs, but when it came to the paintball hits they’d mostly been aiming for my bottom and plenty of shots had gone home.

‘Bitches!’

I meant it, but I was already fighting my reaction to what they’d done to me. They’d shot me, my own team, and even though there’d been nothing openly sexual about it I knew it would end up turning me on. So many of my fantasies involved having nasty things done to me by girls like Stacey and her friends; being made to strip for their amusement, having my face pushed in food or mud, being held down while they took it in turns to sit on my face. Being shot with paintballs came close, especially when I’d ended up muddy and bruised, with my clothes torn and my body filthy.

‘Mrs Forbes?’

There was no answer, which presumably meant she’d gone back outside to carry on with her gardening. I let my hand slip between my legs, telling myself I needed a wash anyway and that a little rub of my clit wouldn’t hurt. The first touch sent a shock of pleasure through me, surprisingly strong, and I pulled my hand away, telling myself I was not going to masturbate in Mrs Forbes’ bath.

I turned my attention to my feet, trying hard not to think about my shameful fate and the girls who’d inflicted it on me. It wasn’t easy, with my body spotted with bruises where their paintballs had got me, especially now that I was immersed in hot soapy water, while my endorphins had kicked in, combining to soothe my aches and pains. Every inch of my body felt sensitive, so that there was nowhere I could touch that didn’t provoke a reaction, and as I ran the bar of soap up and down the length of my legs I was finding it ever harder not to turn my attention back to my sex.

‘Mrs Forbes?’

Again there was no answer. I bit my lip, telling myself I needed to wash my bottom properly but knowing that to touch my bruised cheeks was sure to set me off again, never mind between them. Yet it had to be done, and I pulled my legs up, then decided that I might as well enjoy myself at least a little bit more and rolled over, sticking my wet bottom out from the surface of the water. I’d closed my eyes as I began to soap my hurt skin, allowing my fingers to trace out the individual bruises as I washed myself. They’d done a thorough job on me, at least a dozen hits, some right in the middle, so that if I’d had no trousers or panties on I’d have really been in trouble. I was glad I had been covered, as I knew full well it wouldn’t have been nice at all, but fantasy is fantasy and the idea of being made to run nude through the woods as they chased me was immensely appealing.