School for Nurses (17 page)

‘No ladder.' Ron smiled at me. ‘We believe in getting on the floor with the customer.'

I turned my back on them, and was obliged to push my bottom virtually in their faces as I climbed the steel frame to the top of the sugar bags. A heel broke off one of my sandals in the process, but I got up there, and sat with my arms crossed over my breasts, dangling my bronzed legs down over the sacks. I could feel their eyes pulling my skirt up as I climbed, and now I sat with my pussy at eye level to them as they looked straight into my mini-skirt at my frilly black panties. ‘What more do you boys want?' I asked sulkily.

‘Take your panties off,' Damien responded at once, and smirked up at me.

‘You'd be so lucky!' I snapped. I was flushed from the climb and still a little tearful, but I was also strangely flushed, not from the climb but with an excitement I could scarcely admit to myself.

Ron put his hand on my leg, cradling my calf. ‘The supermarket,' he said, ‘can reclaim property in lieu of costs, if such action is required. Aren't those the store brand? I recognise the gusset. I've receipts for every item of intimate apparel you've bought here for months, Amanda. I could tear your panties off you a thread at a time and charge you for my hour.'

I felt a tear of humiliation slip helplessly down my cheek.

‘Take your hands off your breasts and show them to us, like a good customer,' Ron urged, his hand moving slowly up my leg to my thigh as Damien stepped up close beside him.

I bit my lip as I raised my arms and put my hands on my head. My breasts stiffened in the cool air of the backroom, and my nipples perked up even as I blushed with shame.

‘Do you want us to charge you for taking your panties off?' Ron asked.

I shook my head, and was just starting to wriggle my hips to try and get them off without lifting my skirt too far when he thrust his hand impatiently between my thighs. He ripped open my panties as easily as wet tissue, slid them down my thighs, and tossed them behind him. All I had around my waist now was my mini-skirt, and both of them were staring avidly into it. I closed my eyes and tried to close my legs, but they wouldn't let me; they each grabbed hold of one of my ankles and made me spread them wide. Then Ron told me to get back down off of the sugar bags.

I turned around, and held on to the begs as I started climbing back down. A pair of hands - I think Damien's since they were so quick - caught hold of my hips and pushed my skirt up as I was coming down from my perch, so that now my bottom was as bare as a baby's. And before my feet touched the floor, he had found the clasp in my skirt and slipped it off me completely.

I don't know how long I was in the backroom that day. Damien's hands pressing on my shoulders told me I should go down on my knees, and so I did. I wouldn't open my eyes, I wouldn't look at them, but I knelt. And then somebody's cock nudged my lips. I don't know whose cock it was, but it was slick with pre-cum, like he'd been hard for a long time, and I parted my lips and it slipped between them, its engorged helmet pushing down on my tongue and grazing the roof of my mouth. Whoever he was, he moaned above me and held me down as I sucked him, controlling my movements by holding my head.

When I tried to finish him off too soon to get it over with, he pushed my face away for a moment, and then made me keep sucking him gently. I took him deep into my mouth, even caressing him with my throat, nodding my head like I agreed to everything he wanted, and when he finally came he forced me to swallow.

After that, Ron made me lie back across the milk trolley with my legs spread and began hungrily licking my pussy. I kept my eyes closed, but my clitoris eagerly sought his mouth, I couldn't help it, his tongue just felt too good. But then he pulled me up off the trolley, bent me over a cold stack of butter bricks that made my nipples painfully hard, and spanked me while he fucked my pussy from behind, smacking both my cheeks with each of his hands every time he thrust into me. I don't know who came after that, literally. I heard the plastic doors flap open as someone else entered the back room. Ron climaxed inside me with a great sigh, and let go of my hips. My bottom was so hot, I imagined it was letting off steam in the chilly backroom. Then some other man turned me around and suckled my breasts until I nearly had an orgasm. Then he made me kiss his cock, just kiss it once, and he came all over my face.

That was the first night. I still go there sometimes. If Ron is having trouble getting his clerks to work late shifts Saturday night, or to re-stock Sunday morning, he calls me. He says I'm the supermarket's Employee Reward Program all on my own, and that I should be honoured, because not every client has the same opportunity that I do to award privileges and make dreams come true as widely and as indiscriminately as the supermarket does. I know my place. I still get to tease checkout clerks, especially Saturday night, only the rule is, if he checks my price tag I have to step around behind his counter, get on my knees where no one else can see me, unzip his trousers, and take his cock in my mouth. And sometimes I have to offer Ron my bottom so he can bugger me, but he saves that for Employee of the Month day.

 

 

My husband is headmaster of a school for boys located on a wild, rocky outskirt of land that juts out into the Nordic sea. It rains a lot and cold winds blow, so we don't venture outside very much, but my spouse keeps me wide awake at night. You see, he's a devotee of the cane. Even when boys aren't misbehaving, he likes to swish it about. He is very proud of his long white bamboo cane with the deep brown rings decorating its entire length. He swishes it this way and that, and it whistles through the air as he walks down the school corridors in his black professor's gown and mortar board. He can't actually punish the boys very much, because their parents pay to send them there and they would complain, so he keeps in trim with me.

At night we play this game. I slip into a frilly little teddy, and he comes to the bedroom wearing nothing but his black gown and mortar board. He is naked beneath his headmaster's attire, and the crisp hairs around his penis peep out between the black folds of his cape. He swings the white cane to the right, and I dodge it. He swings the white cane to the left, and I dodge it again. Eventually, he corners me at one end of the bed and I kneel down on it. He makes me pull the straps of my teddy off my shoulders and bare my lush breasts. My nipples are big as rosebuds, and he fondles me, running his hands through my hair while I kiss his cock. But it never gets hard; my husband has not had an erection for years.

 

The problems began when my husband's stepson, Stefan, came to stay with us. I had married his father the year before and never met Stefan until just before this particular holiday. His father purchased me from a mail-order bride catalogue for men who live in remote places, and for girls who do not have a much better choice when it comes to finding a good husband. I came from a family of four sisters and no money for a dowry. My new husband met me at the station where the little buggy that brought me from the last outpost dropped me. It was in the carriage on our way to the school that was to be my home that he first showed me his cane.

Stefan was blond whereas his father was grey, and that first night the three of us were together, we all sat down to dinner in the empty school. All the boys had been sent home that morning for a few weeks, and the halls echoed now with the ghosts of footsteps where we sat at one of the tables in the dining hall. Stefan was a slender young man with hot blue eyes, and every word he said echoed in the large, empty space.

He had an announcement to make. ‘I want to devote myself to the cane,' he said. He was eighteen-years-old and would graduate from school that June. He was a man now, training to be a teacher like his father, and like him, he wanted to take up the use of the cane. ‘I want to learn how to work a cane properly,' he went on very seriously, but strangely enough, he was looking at me rather than at his father. My husband was studying the ceiling with considerable interest, and stroking his grey beard as he listened to his son, who was eyeing the low, lace-trimmed neckline of my form-fitting black dress. From there his gaze travelled up to my blonde hair, gathered into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, and to my warm cheeks. For some reason the way he looked at me with those eyes of his - like blue ice that burned it was so cold - made me blush. ‘I want to find out what the cane can do,' he added, ‘I want to hear it sing.'

‘You will have the halls to knock about in,' his father replied. ‘I will lend you one of my spares. The old black India bamboo one, perhaps. That will start you off nicely.'

‘Thank you, father,' Stefan said politely. ‘I would be honoured to handle anything you have used.'

The trouble started the following morning out on the rocks. When the boys are away, I go out in the mornings to walk by the sea and sun myself on the rocks, braving the chill in the air for the pleasure of feeling the sun's warmth caressing my face and hands. My husband, the headmaster, does not mind my doing this, and no one sees me since the boys are all gone. It is a totally private stretch of beach and shingle beneath a looming cliff. Some mornings I even roll my black dress up around my waist and wade hip-deep into the icy water. Usually I take my panties off first and walk down to the water with my pussy exposed to the frigid air beneath my heavy black wool skirt.

On this particular morning the water was so surprisingly warm, and the sun felt so lovely on my face and neck, that I lost track of time. When I finally turned towards the shore and waded back onto dry land, my skirt hiked up around my belly, and my blonde bush shining in the soft morning light just out of reach of the waves washing over my thighs, I saw him sitting between two crags on the cliff-face.

‘Stefan!' I exclaimed, blushing furiously and quickly dropping my skirt. The hem got wet in surf, but I did not notice; I was too captivated by the expression on his face as he leapt agilely off his perch, and walked down the beach towards me. The look in his eyes told he had seen that most intimate space between my thighs. ‘You should have told me you were going swimming this morning,' I said nervously.

‘I do not go swimming, I take the air, mother dearest.' I have no idea why he called me mother as he was my husband's stepson from his first marriage. ‘And you were not really swimming either, mother. What you were doing was more like parading naked on the beach.'

‘Stefan!' I gasped.

‘You were,' he insisted coldly.

‘I was... I was hardly...'

‘Did you not show your pretty little pussy to anyone who might happen to be around, to
me
, in fact?' His eighteen-year-old face was hard, and flushed with an excitement made even more obvious by the bulge visible inside his button-down trousers.

‘I did
not
show myself to you, I was just... it was an accident!' My cheeks were burning with indignation now, and my pussy was also strangely warm, perhaps from being the subject of so much attention, and of the conversation, which was exposing it in a different sense simply by acknowledging its existence. Normally, a woman did not discuss her most private parts with a man, and I could scarcely believe I was being forced to do so now by my own stepson.

‘We shall ask my father if this is his definition of an accident. A headmaster's wife cannot be seen to do anything wrong. She certainly cannot be seen showing off her body like a common tart.'

‘I did not...'

‘Then how will you explain the fact that I know you have blonde hair the colour of dark honey between your legs, mother?'

‘I will say...'

‘He will put you on the next train back to that pathetic little village you came from.'

‘My family would not take me back,' I said desperately, pleading with him by talking to him as an adult and master of the house.

‘Oh, how terrible. You should have thought of that before you showed your pussy off like a harlot. Fortunately, for you, I have decided that you can help me with my work. Be at my room at nine o'clock tonight.'

‘But I...'

‘My father will be reading my school essays this evening, and tomorrow evening, and the evening after that, if I know him. He does not believe anyone could teach me as properly as he could. He will not want you in his bed until after ten. Wear the dress you wore last night to dinner,' he instructed, and then turned on his heels and marched away up the beach.

I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach, and I felt tears threatening behind my eyes, but the deep cleft between my thighs made me feel as though I was still standing in the sea it was so strangely wet.

 

I wore the low-cut dress Stefan had demanded, but with a neck scarf draped across my cleavage. Just as he had predicted, my husband was in his study reading his son's essays. Why I could not have worn a more modest dress to help him with his studies, I did not know.

I stood at his bedroom door at nine o'clock trembling like a schoolgirl outside the headmaster's study. I had never felt this way even about his father, who actually
was
a stern headmaster. But his father had a penis that would not stand to attention no matter how long I licked it, and as I had already seen, Stefan's cock stood to attention without even being touched.