'Bob-a-Job, Sir?' free porn video

?BOB A JOB, SIR??

PROLOGUE

If you’ve ever been to Humpton-on-Thames, it was probably by mistake.  Because Humpton is a pretty dull little place.  Maybe you got off the train at the wrong stop, goon brain?

If you did make that mistake, you’ll have wandered around Humpton Station.  Trying to pass the time, until the next train to somewhere more interesting came along.  The station entrance at Humpton is as good a place as any to do that.  It has a KostaKrappaKoffee, where you can pay four quid for a cup of hot brown foam.  And WH Smugg, station booksellers, with an abnormally large selection of magazines on crochet, angling and model railways.

There’s a map of the town, which looks like a diagram of a sex maniac’s brain.  The map has so many phallic shapes, little round cartoon bosoms and cavities.  (Then you realise that the town planners were just very keen on beacons and towers, double roundabouts and tunnels.)  And the street signs suggest that the guys at the council are either terribly, terribly innocent or really pervy. 

What with ‘Uranus Hill’.  (Prompting the exchange you often hear on Humpton streets between old ladies and little boys:  ?Where are you going, Tommy, dear??  ?Up your anus, Mrs Smith?)   

Then there’s the local beauty spot and lover’s lane, ‘Allder Way’.  (?Sue, darling, how are you getting on with Malcolm??  ?Not bad, thanks, Mum.  Hoping to go Allder Way with him tonight.?) 

Now Humpton is a pretty insular place, you know.  When the Titanic went down, the local paper carried the headline ?Berkshire Man Lost At Sea?.   But fair play to the Humpton authorities.  They really are proud of their town. 

So there’s a little display put up by the Humpton Chamber of Commerce.  This shows you the richness and variety of Humpton life.

For example, a notice informs the casual visitor that Humpton is proud to be twinned with its sister towns of Punk (Moldova); Goolie Lick (Western Australia); and Satan (New Jersey).  And here’s a plaque to commemorate the visit last year by the mayor of Punk.  (That must have been nice!)

Then there’s a dingy little photo gallery, ‘celebrating’ the town.  Councillor Splott opening the new multi-story car park.  The Humpton Morris Dancers doing their bit to keep crime off the street, by showing the Humpton youth something wholesome to do on a Friday night.   Etc etc.

One of the photos is of some sort of presentation.   It is captioned: ?Mr Jim Shaft of the Humpton Chamber of Commerce makes a presentation to Dr Eleanor Twatte, headmistress of Hampton Girls School?.

Mr Shaft is wearing a tuxedo.  Dr Twatte is evidently wearing some sort of strapless evening gown.  (The picture is head and shoulders only, so all you can see is Dr Twatte’s bare throat and white shoulders.  A shame about the restricted view, because she looks like a very attractive middle-aged bird.)

If you linger on the picture, you might ask yourself one or two questions.  

For example, that caption is a bit vague, isn’t it?  What exactly is Mr Shaft presenting?  It looks like a rather tatty cardboard folder, not the usual flash certificate or trophy.

And the facial expressions are slightly weird.  Mr Shaft looks jolly enough.  In fact, he must be completely sloshed, because he seems to be brimming over with excitement.  Not what you’d usually expect at a Chamber of Commerce meeting. 

But poor Dr Twatte looks as if she’d rather not be there.  She’s showing her gnashers dutifully enough.  But her cheeks are very pink.  And, my, those beautiful dark eyes do have a slightly trapped look about them.

And then your train arrives, you gladly leap on, and Humpton fades away like a bad smell.  But maybe at the back of your mind there remain questions?  Well, read on....

BOB-A-JOB WEEK

Humpton Girls School is a small private school, occupying quite an obscure place in the English education pantheon.  It offers a bit of finishing-school polish and A-level cramming to the thick daughters of the less-wealthy upper classes.

Not exactly rewarding work – either financially or professionally.  As a result, the school is always in trouble at the bank.  And the school staff tend to fall into two categories – disillusioned old grunters counting the minutes till retirement; or young/middle-aged desperately hoping that Humpton would be a stepping stone to something better.

Our story starts with an emergency 6pm staff meeting at the school.  The time of day will tell you what category of school staff were attending.  Yes, it was the ‘young’ and dynamic element.  All four of them.

Dr Twatte was in the chair.  A very handsome lady, approaching 50.  Sitting where we are, we can appreciate Dr Twatte’s really splendid profile.   From her fine straight nose, down to her generous bust.  In the old days, you’d have seen the good Doctor’s profile (carved, topless and queenly) on the figure head of a ship.  How noble she would look, breasting the waves!

Next to Dr Twatte was a quite extraordinary person.  The Humpton Deputy Head, Dr Virginia McGrott, MA (Edinburgh University).  Dr McGrott was also the Head of Languages and school Bursar.

Although Dr McGrott had been at the school for years, she was still a figure of mystery.  In fact, McGrott was downright scary.  Barely five feet tall and of dainty build, she nonetheless oozed menace. 

Partly, it was her bizarre appearance.  Always dressed in thick tweeds, whatever the weather.  Highly starched cream-coloured blouses.  Old lady’s hair do (surely a wig?).  Pince nez (perfect for glaring through).  She looked like a baleful midget dressing up as Miss Marple.

There was so little of McGrott actually showing (apart from the frown) that it was impossible to work out her age.  Somewhere between 30 and 70 was the best you could do.

Then there was her voice – absolutely rinky-dink posh BBC Weld Service.  McGrott was Scots upper-crust, and of course they sound even more lah-di-dah than the Royal Family. 

With parents and students, Dr McGrott talked like the Encyclopedia Britannica.  She made Stephen Fry sound like an illiterate numty with Tourette’s. 

In fact, as we join the meeting, McGrott is just winding up a detailed exposition of the school finances, taking in international accounting standards and the philosophy of tax avoidance.  We only catch two words, but somehow they seem the essence of McGrott.  The words are:  ?...and ninthly...?   We shudder, and turn off the volume again.

Yet in private and when emotional, McGrott’s language would make Eminem cry for Mummy.  She is a real bad bastard!

Then there was the Head of Games, Miss Fenella Blowett, BSc.  Oh dear!

Well, she was rather plain. What with her tombstone teeth, goofy expression, and absolutely tragic hair and clothes.  Sadly, no male hearts had ever beaten any faster as Fenella Blowett galloped around the hockey field.

Which was a real shame. Because Fenella was by far the nicest person in the staff room.  She was an incredibly good hockey coach (Humpton Girls first team had been Berkshire champions for years).  And there must surely be a jolly fit (if rather virginal) body, inside that orange-and-tartan tracksuit?

The final member of staff was the booful Head of Business Studies, Ms Jenny Pratt, BA.  What a scrumptious cutie pie!  At the very interesting age (mid-thirties) when the female body starts to fill out excitingly, Ms Pratt’s shape made most Humpton blokes weak to contemplate............

So these were the stars of our little adventure. 

At that time of night, there was only one other member of the school on the premises.  Bill Swett, the school caretaker.  Bill’s duties involved: (1) Cleanliness (that was a laugh); and (2) Security.  Bill put all his time into Security, or rather, his interpretation of it.

This meant that when Bill wasn’t checking the girls’ toilets for illicit sex, he listened at doors and peeped through windows.  Bill had a fossilised broom in his hand, as cover, should anyone come along and want to know why he was outside the staff room.  Bill’s eye was plastered to a spyhole, which he’d had the foresight to drill in the door.

Now, the staff meeting had been called for the usual reason.   Humpton Girls School was in foul need of money. 

Each time Dr Twatte went to the bank, she was having to lay on the charm thicker and thicker.  Because Mr Shaft, the bank manager, was certainly susceptible to charm!

The first time there, Dr Twatte undid a button on her blouse, and leant over the table frequently to make her points.  Mr Shaft came through with a nice overdraft facility on that occasion. 

But the law of diminishing returns was now setting in.  Mr Shaft was wanting almost daily conferences.  And Dr Twatte was having to undo more and more buttons.  It just couldn’t go on!

?There’s no option? said Dr McGrott.  ?We’ll have to have another fundraising drive.  The last one kept us afloat over the summer.  The only trouble is that these fundraising drives usually leave a lot of shite behind them.  And it’s always us four who end up wielding the fucking shovels.?

?Virginia’s right?, said Dr Twatte, ?we can’t afford a repeat of last summer’s fiasco.  One more scandal like that and this school will be finished.?  The women shuddered.

Yet the sponsored car wash by the Upper Sixth had seemed such a good idea at the time!  Half a dozen of the most beautiful 18-year-olds in Humpton Girls School, wearing swimsuits, holding out their buckets, and offering you a quick one in the lay by!  What red-blooded motorist could resist that?

For a few glorious days last summer, the funds flowed in.  Jaded businessmen driving home would pull in to have their cars washed.  They would drive round the block and get a dead fly on their windscreen.  So they’d decide they needed another wash.  It was taking some blokes all night to get home!

The girls worked like dogs; the cars of Humpton were spotlessly clean; everyone was happy.  Then the girls got a bit carried away.  They started selling kisses to go with the car wash, and keeping the money from that little sideline.  And one thing led to another....

Before you could say ‘Squeegee’, the girls were offering all sorts of extras to the blokes they liked the look of.  Then the more ‘commercially minded’ girls started selling the extras to anyone at all whose money was right.

The Hon Veronica Ramsbottom decided to save school funds by doing away with the sponges and chamois leathers.  Veronica took off her swimsuit, and coated her ample buttocks and breasts with soapy water.  Then she rolled around on the top of the lucky motorist’s car.  Finally Veronica squatted on the bonnet, and dried the car off with her unused swimsuit.

Mandy Ponsonby-Clapp went one better!  She started to offer a ‘pipe-cleaning’ service in the back seat, where you could get a very expert blow job at a pretty decent rate.

The local paper, the Humpton Helmet, ran an expos? of the car washing service.  (The Helmet’s editor, Mark Swordsman, went back a long way with Dr Twatte.  And not in a ‘dear old drinking buddy’ kind of way either.)  This came to the attention of the national tabloids.

One Sunday paper then came out with a very weird scoop, in which it covered a group known as the Royal County of Berkshire Sex Workers Guild.  This ‘Guild’ staged a topless picket of the school’s Parent’s Evening.  The Sunday paper and the Helmet just happened to be on the spot.  They carried a lurid story, alleging price-fixing and uncompetitive sex practices by the Humpton School Upper Sixth.

The pi?ce de resistance was a photograph of Dr Twatte expostulating with a voluptuous picket.  The ‘Guild’ picket was wearing only black leather boots and miniskirt.  By some ‘cock up’ at the Humpton Helmet, the caption read:-

?’YOUR GIRLS REALLY GET ON MY T**TS!’

Busty sex worker, Eleanor Twatte, abuses a teacher at Humpton School?

The whole thing had brought shame and disgrace on the school.  The women winced.

?Eleanor?, said Dr McGrott, ?we just can’t involve those half-witted tarts!?  

?No, Virginia, you’re right? replied the head mistress.  ?Any fund raising this year needs to be done by the school staff.  Which realistically means us four.  I don’t mind our using our feminine wiles?, she simpered.  ?But it’s got to be TASTEFUL.?

?I know!? said Fenella.  ?Why not do a Bob-a-Job week this half term!  They used to be such fun when I was in the Guides.  We could all use our special talents.  I could give the parents hockey tips!?

Everyone looked indulgently at Fenella.  Bless her!

?I’m not sure, dear?, said Dr Twatte, ?that a tired stockbroker would really fancy an evening on a cold hockey field when they come home from work.  But it is a nice idea, though, Fenella.  Perhaps we could do indoor stuff, like giving the students extra coaching.?

?Yes,? said Jenny Pratt.  ?We could get some positive publicity in the Helmet for a change.  I’ve got an old khaki-coloured trouser suit, which I could adapt into a saucy kind of Girl Guide uniform.  The Helmet loves that kind of thing.?

Fenella flushed with pride.  It was the first suggestion she’d made for years which had been (even partially) accepted.  Little did she know the awful consequences that would ensue...

Well, the Humpton Helmet was jolly interested in the Bob-a-Job week.  Especially when the sub-editor clapped his eyes on the photos of Jenny Pratt bursting out of her ‘Guide’ uniform.  So the Helmet produced quite a sympathetic piece for once.  And Mark Swordsman even made a friendly comment about the school in his editorial, the slimy bugger.

Following the piece in the Helmet, there was some steady interest in Bob-a-Job week.  Jenny Pratt and Dr Twatte found themselves in high demand, although there were no takers for Miss Blowett’s hockey lessons. 

There were no takers either for Dr McGrott’s lectures at the Library on Eastern European folk-myth.  (Which was just as well, really because even McGrott never turned up for the lectures.  She was narked because the Helmet had refused to publicise her first choice:  ?The British Press?.  McGrott’s trailer for that talk had been:  ?We’ve all fantasised, haven’t we, about performing open heart surgery with a rusty chain saw on a newspaper editor, preferrably without anaesthetic.  My talk will explore the chances that you might find the fossilised remains of a conscience inside the editor’s body.?)

And then came a really big development!

Jenny Pratt received a most intriguing phone call at her office.  The caller spoke with an attractively deep, rumbling voice.  He had a local accent, but there were traces of something foreign and exotic about it.

?Hello, Ms Pratt?  My name is Vladimir Curtiv.  I am the emissary for Dimitri Tossoff, the Russian oil billionaire.  Mr Tossoff has settled in Berkshire, and is looking for a school for his daughter.

?Mr Tossoff has read of your Bob-a-Job week, and is most interested in Humpton Girls School.  Mr Tossoff has expressed a wish that you personally do a ‘Bob-a-Job’ for him.  Would it be possible for you and I to meet and discuss this request??

?Oh yes, golly, absolutely!? Jenny practically shrieked.  ?Errr...where would be convenient??

?Can I suggest the Humpton Grand tonight, at 8pm?  Perhaps we could dine at the hotel first?  Mr Tossoff will of course bear the expense.?

This was thrilling news!  The Grand was the only good hotel in Humpton, so this guy was clearly serious.  A good, spurting wad of Russian oil money, pumped into the tired loins of Humpton School, could really get the old girl back on her feet! 

The knock-on effect on Jenny’s career could also be rather mega.  It should give Jenny a really good chance at the Registrar’s post, when the old bag currently doing it retired next term.  Plus Jenny couldn’t help wondering if Vladimir was as sexy as his voice....

Jenny hurried out of her office, bowling over some nerdy girl or other from the Scholarship class, who seemed to think she had a tutorial booked with Jenny.

?Not today, dear!? Jenny bellowed.  ?Errr...dentist’s appointment.  Yes, that’s it, dentist’s appointment!  Sorry, must dash!?

4.30pm. Just time for some essential preparations for the 8pm meeting.  Gym, hairdresser, Ann Summers, nail bar, leg waxing, bath, make-up.  After all, she was a professional, and must present herself in a professional way.

Accordingly, 8 o’clock found our heroine at reception in the Grand Hotel, asking for Mr Curtiv.

?Ms Jenny Pratt??  There was that voice again!  ?Thank you for coming so promptly.?

Jenny turned round, and got an eyeful of Mr Vladimir Curtiv.   ?Just as I thought!? she told herself.  ?Fucking gorgeous!?

Vladimir was six feet four, in his early thirties, and looked like Jose Mourinho’s fit younger brother.  And best of all, there was a VERY admiring expression on his handsome kisser.

As the man and woman stood very close together in the foyer, they only had eyes for each other.  It seemed as if they were quite, quite alone!   And yet they did have company....

About four feet above their heads, a little, roly-poly cherub was floating around with a tiny bow and arrow.  Cupid drew back his little dimpled arm and let fly two arrows – one at Jenny’s nether parts and one at Vladimir’s. 

Jenny felt the faintest little sting in her pussy, and Vladimir got a brief, delicious tingle in his balls.  Ever had that feeling, readers, when you’ve met someone attractive?

?They’ll be shagging tonight!? laughed the little god of love, and off he flew.

Jenny looked enquiringly at the hotel restaurant, but Vladimir smiled and shook his head.

?Mr Tossoff has a permanent booking in the penthouse suite, Ms Pratt.  It’s more convenient.  We can dine up there.?  And so began a delightful and romantic candle-lit meal. 

Vladimir proved excellent company.  It turned out that he was a local man, born in Ukraine, but brought up in Humpton.   Jenny had only been in Humpton a few years, and she found that Vladimir knew much more of the town than she did.  In fact, Vladimir was a fund of juicy anecdote, and he even hinted that he knew a few tales about the Humpton School staff.

The champagne flowed; the moon shone through the huge windows of the penthouse; the heads of the two young people got closer and closer together over the table.  It did look as if Cupid had known a thing or two.

Finally, with a slight sigh, Vladimir broached the question of the ‘Bob-a-Job’. 

?Mr Tossoff is a very rich and elderly man?, he said.  ?To be honest, he may not have much longer to live.  As he approaches the end of his long and hard-working life, he is indulging himself more.  He wants to have some fun before he goes!?

?Now, Jenny, I have to be frank with you, and admit that Mr Tossoff was not attracted by Humpton School’s academic reputation.  Why should he be, since he does not have any school age children at all!  No, Mr Tossoff just saw a picture of a beautiful school teacher in his local paper, and was greatly tickled by the thought of her ‘bobbing his job’.?

?And I have to confess that Mr Tossoff’s ‘jobs’ are of an...um....sexual nature.?   (?Well, I could see that one coming a mile off?, thought Jenny, quietly twanging her suspenders.)

Vladimir hurried on.  Clearly embarrassed, the poor love. 

?Now, don’t get me wrong.  Mr Tossoff is too infirm to ... errr ... do anything.  He will just want to look.  And so I am authorised to commit up to ?5,000 to school funds, if you could pose for some photos.?

?Sexy photos, Vladimir?  Errr ... nude photos??   He nodded, regretfully.

?Oh dear, I’ve never done anything like that before?, Jenny lied.  (Thanking her lucky stars for the regular gym sessions, waxing, etc.)  ?What did your employer have in mind??

Vladimir led her into an adjoining room, which was a fully-equipped photo studio.  Centre stage was a school teacher’s desk (with an apple on it) and a blackboard.  Piled on a chair were an old-fashioned black school teacher’s gown and a mortarboard.

?Mmmm...looks quite fun!? Jenny thought.  ?Especially if you join in, handsome!?   But she put on a pious expression.

??5,000 is an awful lot of money?, Jenny said.  ?We could do so much good with it.  For the children!   Errr...would these pictures be confidential??

?Oh yes!? said Vladimir.  ?I will take them myself.  We are all alone on this floor of the hotel.?

?Great!? thought Jenny.

Keeping her dirty ideas to herself, though, the Head of Business Studies tried to look innocent and troubled. 

?But I hardly know you, Vladimir? she said.  ?I will feel so ashamed and exposed, with you fully dressed, and me in my ... errr ...petticoat.?

?Alright? said Vladimir (with alacrity).  ?I’ll take my clothes off, if it will help.?

And fair play to the gallant Russian, he immediately stripped off.  Right down to his underpant-skis.  (Which Jenny was delighted to see were a very snug fit!)

Trying not to slaver too obviously, Jenny clocked Vladimir’s lean, muscular body.  Broad chest and shoulders.  (Which Jenny could just visualise straining up and down above her in the good old missionary position – Jenny was a bit of a traditionalist and didn’t like to get too kinky on her first date.)  Slim, hard torso – just right for wrapping your legs around!  And a neat, firm butt, which seemed to have plenty of thrust in it.

?I love my job!? Jenny exulted to herself, as she threw on the gown and mortarboard.  The gown, she noticed, had the school crest on, and there was a big banner above the desk saying ?Ms Jenny Pratt, BA (Hons), Humpton School, Head of Business Studies?.

?Hmmmm...wouldn’t want these photos to fall into the wrong hands? she thought.  But then it was lights, cameras, action!  And Jenny cast aside her worries (and much, much else besides).   

The opening snaps would (just about) have passed muster in the school prospectus.  Jenny sat demurely at her desk; reading glasses on; wielding a fat red marker pen.  Maybe in one or two pics she was giving the pen a little bit too much slobber?  Still, by and large, it was a good advert for a Humpton education.

But once Jenny removed her skirt and blouse, it became very difficult to think about Business Studies.  Vladimir really became quite flustered!  Poor guy.  You try holding a camera straight under these circumstances, and simultaneously concealing your cock as it bursts your tight Y-fronts.

Jenny had given a lot of thought to the important question of underwear.  And her professionalism and thoroughness was certainly paying off now! 

Jenny’s black silk Janet Reger combination of balconette bra, bikini-style panties and suspenders looked simply wondrous under the black gown.  Better still, as Jenny casually slipped the gown off her beautiful white shoulders, nibbling the apple and smiling most invitingly at the camera.

The mortarboard sat rakishly on Jenny’s lovely dark curls.  But it completely failed to make the teacher look stern!  No instead it told you: ?Education Can Be Fun, Boys!?

Jenny wriggled very, very slowly indeed out of her underwear.  First she eased the bra straps over her shoulders, cupping her hands over her breasts and working them gently up and down, up and down, you are completely in my power, sir.  All the while, she arched and then relaxed her back, breathed very deeply in and out, slowly eased her bra down, and generally caused complete mayhem in Vladimir’s underpants.

The whole effect was of a beautiful, creamy, fleshy landscape, slowly shifting.  Now a deep valley; now a huge cascade of dangling bosom. 

The bra was becoming less and less relevant, and in the end it just flaked away.  Leaving Jenny clad in only her panties, stockings, suspenders (and mortarboard).  Standing there, with her hands on her lovely spreading hips.  And really giving it to the camera with both barrels!  What charming nipples!  How roguishly they bobbed around, on the end of Jenny’s large, low-hanging breasts.

Vladimir’s underpants were getting VERY tight now!  With shaking hands, he tore them off, and there was quite a slap, as Vladimir’s huge engorged cock got free and smacked up into his muscular belly.  Oohh, that’s better!

Jenny eyed the new arrival very hungrily indeed.  She welcomed it with a sloppy kiss, right on its straining pink knob-end.   Nice!

Eye contact now became very poor.  Because Vladimir was addressing all his remarks to Jenny’s chest, and Jenny was responding by talking exclusively to Vladimir’s penis.  Still, neither of them took the huff!

Jenny’s panties were becoming a little moist – they just had to go!  Jenny turned her back to the camera, and slowly eased her knickers down.  Two large, round, white buttocks simply rippled into view.  Jenny absent-mindedly scratched her butt, which gently parted, showing a lovely glimpse of black muff.

Vladimir was almost demented by now, and panting like a walrus.  Jenny turned round to face him.  If she did this in order to calm Vladimir down, it didn’t work!  Because the Head of Business Studies was now looking as cunty as sin. 

Vladimir started to have trouble pointing his camera straight, so Jenny helped him.  She sat on the desk, opened her legs wide, and invited him in for a close up.  In this way, he could hardly miss!

But then, remembering that she was at school, Jenny turned back to the desk.  A good teacher will keep the class’s attention, even when she has her back turned.  Jenny did this by throwing one leg up on the desk, as she leant over it and fumbled with the drawer.  Her beautiful bare backside opened up quite delightfully, revealing a glorious, damp, hairy snatch, with cunt lips protruding.  Seldom could a lesson plan have been so beautifully presented.

Jenny gave a delighted cry – she’d found what she’d been looking for.  Yes, it was that essential tool for lady teachers – the dildo!  Not in Humpton School colours (it was black and ribbed), but never mind.

Jenny sat on the desk, facing the camera.  She hauled up her knees under her ears, so that her legs now formed an ‘M’ shape, with her wet gaping cunt at the bottom of the M’s middle foot. 

Now she really started to butter up that lucky dildo!  Jenny licked it with great sloppy strokes of her tongue; she kissed it lovingly; she fondled it with her tits.  And then she applied it as per manufacturer’s instructions: ‘Slowly into your steaming gash, madam (diagram attached)’.

Deeper and deeper it went, as the lovely naked woman bucked and thrashed and moaned and drivelled.  And then she opened her big beautiful eyes, and gave the camera The Look.  You know!  That look which says: ?if only this dildo were YOU, handsome!?

And that is how Vladimir found himself screwing Jenny on the table.  He just couldn’t help it!  And then he carried her into the bedroom, with their mouths suctioned together.  Vladimir threw Jenny on the bed, and chivalrously licked out her cunt.  Always a tasty dish, is cunt, especially when stewed in its own juices. 

Jenny enjoyed the meal too!  She went all sort of floppy and inviting, and so Vladimir had to fuck her again.  Well, it was the least he could do.  In the finest traditions of the Girl Guide Association (or maybe not), it was a good, panting, sweaty ride.

Bob-a-fucking-job!

And so our heroine fell asleep in the hunky Russian’s arms.....

To be rudely awakened a few minutes later!

BRRRRRIIINNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!

Fire alarm!

Vladimir (a true gentleman) wrapped Jenny in a blanket and bundled her down the stairs.  Twenty flights later, they were down in the lobby.  Just in time for the hotel staff to inform them that it had been a false alarm.

By this time, Vladimir and Jenny had lost each other in the crowd.  In fact, it was a pretty chaotic scene.  

The time was just past midnight.  The Grand Hotel was in the same block as Rockets night club.  Rockets seemed to have some sort of rowdy stag party thing going on, which had been just reaching its climax.  As a result, there were a lot of tanked-up, disgruntled blokes crowding the lobby. 

As well as this, a 21st birthday party was going on in the hotel ballroom, on the first floor.  Also a very dis-chuffed pensioners’ coach party had been turned out of bed.  The old folks digesting the news that they’d now got to climb umpteen flights of stairs back to their bedrooms.   (Lifts disabled – health and safety, you know!)

The manager of the Grand had locked himself in the toilets, for fear of reprisals.  The hotel staff were at best knackered, and at worst suicidal.  Most of the people around Jenny were pissed.  The language was simply terrible, my dear.  All in all, Jenny had seen better organised riots.

And it was in this tranquil setting that Jenny had quite a bad break.  As she headed for the stairs, someone trod on her trailing blanket.  The blanket slipped from her shoulders.  Someone else stumbled over the blanket, and flung it aside with a curse.  The blanket disappeared in the crowd.  And the Humpton Girls School Head of Business Studies found herself naked!

The only good news was that nobody in the mad crowd had registered Jenny’s sudden nude calamity.  She darted under the stairwell, her large, white breasts heaving with panic.

Crouching under the stairwell like a lovely bare-assed beast at bay, she considered her options.  There weren’t any!

Perhaps she could cower here in the nude, until the pensioners had finally clambered the stairs?  Then flee back to her room?

Disadvantage:  Twenty flights of stairs, straight after two sweaty, animal fucks.  My God, it would be an arse-juddering, knocker-bouncing, lung-bursting climb.  And she would probably get slower and more straddle-legged as she toiled up the stairs.  So, what a weary, crawling, cunty spectacle she would become!  And no doubt there would be a CCTV pointing up her arse at every flight, with the footage appearing on YouTube before daybreak. 

And anyway, that wasn’t even the real problem.  The true problem started to become very clear, as the desperate naked woman peeked up the stairs.  

For the 21st birthday party was back in full swing, and every Sixth Former at Humpton Girls School seemed to be there on the pull.  In fact, some of them had pulled already.  She saw Mandy Ponsonby-Clapp with one lucky chap, who looked like he was about to get his pipes very nicely cleaned.

On occasions like this, you could hardly rush past your students in the nude with your tits wobbling, could you?  It wouldn’t be polite.

Instead you should really walk up the stairs in a more lady-like way, with your big bare bristols swaying gently and the hairs on your twat nicely in place.  You would then stop to give good advice like ?they won’t respect you if you show so much cleavage, Victoria? and ?don’t slobber when you’re sucking cock, Mandy?.  After all, you are a role model for these young ladies!

And you should give them the chance to interface with you.  Eg ?whose spunk is that oozing out of your cunt, Miss?  Anyone I know?? 

And in best ‘Miss Jean Brodie’ style, you could reply:  ?Don’t know much about him, girls.  I only met him a couple of hours ago, so it’s been a ‘whirlwind romance’.  What I can tell you is that he’s got a gorgeous body and a big cock, which is the main thing to look for in a man.  Anyway, he’s left me naked on the stairs, so I must go.?

And you depart, with a final word to the girls’ gentlemen friends: ?I know it’s tempting, boys, but try not to stare at my arse as I climb the stairs.  When I’m stark naked, I get a bit self-conscious!  I’ve had a big meal, so my butt is more floppy than I’d like.  Also I’m probably showing you too much cunt as I climb the stairs.?

No, Jenny thought, this option was NOT attractive!  But suddenly an alternative presented itself....

As Jenny cringed naked under the stairs, she had been observed.  A bloke wearing a ‘Rockets Club’ bomber jacket came up to her in quite a matter-of-fact way.  He was quite hygienically challenged.  He had an official-looking lapel badge, saying ‘Front of House: Jimmy the Rat’.  Jenny had rarely seen anyone so well described.

?Come on, love!? he said briskly.  ?Fire drill’s over.  The show must go on, eh??

Looking past him into the night club, Jenny could see a few other naked females making their way to the stage. 

?They’re having a strip show in there?, she thought.  ?Ugh!  And he thinks I’m one of those naked sluts!?

Jenny was about to dismiss the wretch angrily, when he said: ?where’s your Catwoman mask??   Looking at the stage, Jenny saw a banner saying ?Climb The Bat Pole!?

Ah, a little boys’ cartoon mag-themed strip show – how classy!  But actually, a Catwoman mask would give Jenny one thing she was currently lacking – anonymity.  Quick as a flash, Jenny decided to throw in her lot with the stag party (good clean fun, no doubt!)

?Err...I lost it? she said.  ?Have you got a spare?? 

?Yes, here you are, dear? Jimmy the Rat replied, leading the nude and blushing teacher into the strip show.  Jenny clapped the mask on – and not a moment too soon!

Because the first person Jenny saw as she walked in was Bill Swett, the school caretaker.  The dirty bugger!  His eyes lit up when he saw the fine naked slapper.

Bill fondled Jenny’s left tit as she brushed past his table.  She was about to wallop him, but then she remembered her role.  So instead Jenny leant over Bill, and dangled both her lovely bazoomers in Bill’s delighted fat face.   ?You naughty boy!?  ‘Catwoman’ purred.  ?I’ll lick out your cream later!?

Not that she had the slightest intention of doing that!  Jenny’s plan was to get up on stage, do a few twirls, and then melt away unobtrusively towards the strippers’ dressing room.  Borrow a robe and escape.

Well, that was the plan.  But Jenny’s escort immediately demolished that!  ?Well done, darlin’, that was a nice routine with the fat guy on Table 6.  You obviously know what you’re doing, so I’ll keep it brief.?

?Get up on stage and finish the act. Then point sexily at one of the tables – you can do Table 6, as you got a nice thing going with Fatty there.  Then just help them to get their rocks off, quick as you can and we can all go home.  Don’t forget, no penetration, but hand jobs, in the mouth, whatever you like.?   (?Like?? thought Jenny unhappily.)

?OK? she said.  ?And once I finish Table 6, I can go, right??

?Yes, dear,? said Jimmy.  ?You look like you know what you’re doing!  The older ones know a few tricks, eh?!!?  (?The older ones!? thought Jenny.)

Anyway, this was no time to stop for a debate about the guy’s bad manners.  The music was pumping out and the nude Catwomen were mounting the stage.  Each one undulated up to a Bat Pole.  Jenny was late!

Jenny hastened after her Cat-colleagues, jiggling and wiggling for all she was worth.  Jenny charged across the stage and threw herself at her pole, without too much idea what she was meant to do with it when she got there.

Jenny mashed her breasts against the pole; licked it; hauled herself up and down it; skipped around it as if it were a Maypole; and generally acted the fool.

I think you could say that the red mist had come down on the naked teacher at this point.  She was in a world of her own!  Jenny just wanted to get the whole ghastly thing over with as quick as possible.

As a result, she wasn’t really blending into the background very well!  All round the club, people were scratching heads as they watched the spectacle on stage.  Six skinny, perma-tanned pros, grinding away languidly.  Plus the nude, white and curvy Head of Business Studies, absolutely freaking out.

Blokes were saying:  ?Look at the mad nympho on the end, with the big charleys and the hairy twat!  Who let her in?  My God, I could do with a piece of that!?

As the music stopped, Jenny was first off the mark.  She simply galloped downstage.  Sitting starkers on the edge of the stage, Jenny then made full use of what Dr Twatte had described as her ?feminine wiles?. 

Which is to say that Jenny eased her legs apart; thrust her crotch forward; diddled with her clit; ran her tongue round her lips; batted her eye-lashes; shrugged her shoulders (this got her breasts wobbling wildly); leered at Table 6; and pointed to the gentlemen on that table one by one.

Jenny then made real heavy weather of lowering herself down off the three-foot stage!  (Even though there was a perfectly adequate flight of steps at the side of the stage.)

First Jenny squatted cuntily on the edge of the stage, boobs heaving with ‘fear’ as she looked down at the sheer drop.  Next, Jenny turned her back to the audience. She stuck out her big beautiful bare bottom; and splayed her thighs for the great climb down. 

Then (oh dear!) she got stuck.  Her sprawling legs scissored wildly, which ‘unfortunately’ left her hairy fanny gaping wide.  Finally, with a mighty effort, Jenny collapsed to the ground.  She naturally had to lie spread-eagled on the floor with her knees up, while she recovered her breath. 

None the worse for her ordeal, though, Jenny scrambled to her feet, with her amazing breasts surging and billowing.  A quick scratch of the cunt as she got her bearings.  A wave to Bill Swett.

Then she barrelled towards Table 6 and leapt into a ‘cow girl’ position on Bill’s lap.  Table 6 greeted Jenny rather warmly!

As Jenny landed on Bill, she shoved her knockers into his face to shut him up.  This gave her a moment to take stock of the situation.  

The first thing that struck Jenny was what a small town Humpton was.  Most of the blokes in the club were familiar.  (Familiar, in every sense of the word, I’m sorry to say.)  And she knew every single one of the four blokes on Table 6!

There was pervy Bill, of course, who’d now taken two great handfuls of Jenny’s arse.  On either side of Bill were his two drinking pals, Jerry Slugg and Arthur Slyme.  What a sleazy pair of sex pests they’d been over the years.  But worst of all, look who was sat behind Jenny and trying to peek at her anus.  Stuart Little!  The knobhead estate agent.

Several years ago, Jenny had had the poor judgement to go to the pics with Stuart.  How he had drooled and groped in the darkness!  On that occasion, Jenny had been able to deal with Stuart quite firmly, by ‘accidentally’ emptying her coffee into his lap.  This time round, though, she’d have to be a bit ‘friendlier’.

Word on the street was that Stuart Little’s manhood was well described by his second name.  Well, within a few minutes Jenny would unfortunately be the town authority on that question.

?Oh well, better get on with it?, she thought.  ?This is a race I must win.?

Not that the competition was that fierce right now.  Her esteemed co-workers were ambling over to the tables of their ‘choice’.  But most of the punters on those tables were looking wistfully at the fun everyone was having on Table 6.

Jenny swivelled round on Bill’s lap.  (Unfortunately, this gave Bill the opportunity to stick a finger up Jenny’s cunt.)

?Evening, gentlemen!? Jenny said.  (Thanking God for the Catwoman mask.)  ?Nice to meet you.  My name’s Ms Gash.  Errr.....Fanny Gash.?  That raised a laugh.

?Now, gentlemen - ooooohhhh!!?  (To Bill.)  ?Careful with my cunt, sir!  You don’t know where it’s been.?

?Now, gentlemen, I like breaking the rules, don’t you?  So here’s the deal – ooooohhhhh!!!!?  (Bill’s fingers again, and that actually felt quite nice.  But he’s groping Jenny’s tits again, and it’s holding her up.)

?Sorry, sir, I LOVE what you’re doing, but it’s spoiling the view for the other gentlemen.  They want to see my bazookas too!?

So Jenny clambered off Bill, with a squelching pop.  She stood beseechingly in front of the four blokes.  Lips parted, arms spread wide, palms up, feet apart, knees slightly bent, vagina thrust forward.  Clearly panting for a fuck. 

Jenny hoped that she looked so arousing that they’d come in their drawers.  Being stark naked certainly helped Jenny in her worthy aim.  And the flushed faces of her audience showed how close she’d now taken them to the finishing line.

The four men gazed at ‘Catwoman’ in sheer bloody wonderment.  Although the bottom half of the beautiful arch-criminal’s face was vaguely familiar to them, the men all assumed they’d seen it in some hot video.  Anyway, it was below the neck that they were really focussing!

Here what stood before them was a very well-built naked female with a lovely smooth white body.  Panting a little from her exertions, which was sending all kinds of exciting tremors up and down her luscious anatomy.  Rippling the swelling hips; pumping the large, firm buttocks; and stirring the black undergrowth of cunt.

‘Catwoman’s’ great, fun-packed breasts took up most of her upper half, and they were really heaving up and down.  With the pink nipples waggling cheekily, as they rode out the great knocker storm.

?So here’s the deal, gentlemen?, she resumed.  ?I’m here to give you a nice time.  But there are four of you ... errr ... gorgeous blokes, and only one of me.  Nobody wants to be last in the queue at times like this, do they!   So let’s try to do this together in one big sexy bang!  But we’ll need to be discreet – there’s some stuffy old rule about no penetration...?

Which is how she ended up in a classic ‘spit roast’ position. (?Classic?? thought Jenny grimly.)  Do I need to expand?  All right, then, if you insist.....

To be precise, the Head of Business Studies at Humpton Girls School was totally nude, except for a daft Catwoman mask.  She was tummy down underneath Table 6, propped on a cushion with her thighs splayed and her bum sticking up. 

Stuart Little was (feebly) fucking her doggy style.  Supported by the cushion, Jenny had her head in Bill Swett’s groin, and was sucking Bill’s cock.  With her right hand, she was wanking Arthur Slyme, and with her left hand she was ‘processing’ Jerry Slugg.

Now, dear reader, if we’d told Jenny an hour ago that she’d be doing this, she’d have ripped our knackers off.  And if we’d told her that it was actually her idea, she’d have advised us that the Humpton Lunatic Asylum was third road on the left after the town hall, do not stop, do not pass Go, do not collect ?200.

But it really was Jenny’s idea, the filthy pervert!  And it worked jolly well. 

Bill, Arthur and Jerry were so excited that they showed their ‘appreciation’ within seconds.   SPLISH!  SPLOSH!  SPLASH!  Three volleys of goo spattered Catwoman’s whiskers.

But Stuart Little proved more of a problem.  His tiny penis poked around the uplands of Jenny’s magnificent backside, without really getting anywhere. 

In her impatience, Jenny tried subterfuge.  She bellowed ?God, Stuart, that’s fucking amazing, do it, do it, AARRRGHH!!?   But this seemed to frighten Stuart, rather than turn him on.

So in the end Jenny stifled a yawn, crawled out from under the table, and said: ?That was unforgettable!  I’m totally shafted!  Now is there anything I can do for you, darling??

And, without waiting for an answer, she gave Stuart a small thrill, with her hand, all over his lap.

The four chaps were totally spent, so Jenny gave them all a chaste peck on the cheek.  But she refrained from exchanging phone numbers.  (After all, you don’t want to make yourself look cheap, do you!)  And Jenny hurried off towards the backstage dressing room.

There was one final irritation, though.  Sleazeball Jimmy stopped her.  He seemed to have something on his mind, and was that a banana in his pocket?

?That was great, love!? he said.  ?Really .... intense!  I wish they was all like you.  Look at the rest of them – bloody amateurs by comparison, dear.?   (You could always rely on this guy, Jenny decided.  Rely on him to say completely the wrong thing, that is.)

?Anyway, here’s your money, darlin’.  ?100, plus a ?5 bonus for an early finish.   I saw your little under-the-table trick, mind – naughty, naughty!  We did say no penetration now.?

?I can assure you, sir?, said Jenny haughtily, ?no penetration took place.  Stuart was just too small!?

But Jimmy the Rat wasn’t listening.  He was goggling at Jenny’s nipples, which were suddenly sticking out like organ stops.  (How embarrassing!   To tell the truth, now that the hideous ordeal was nearly over, Jenny was starting to come to her senses again.  That, combined with Jimmy being such a bloody creep, was suddenly making her feel very naked and exposed.)

?You must be fucking hungry after all that shagging, dear? said Jimmy, talking into the red-faced nude woman’s chest.  ?I mean, it’ll be nice to put something in your mouth that you can actually eat, ha ha!  Fancy a kebab?  We could have a good time together!?

And then the little perv checked Jenny’s quivering bare bottom for ripeness, by giving it a very hard pinch.  Oww!

That did it.

This, remember, was a Batman party.  Most of the blokes there were sincere admirers of the Tim Burton film.  In particular, of the great artistry of Michelle Pfeiffer.  Who could forget Michelle’s sensitive interpretation of the tragic heroine, Selina Kyle?  Especially the moving scene where Michelle kicks ass in black leather, and damn nearly garrots a mugger/sex pest with her thighs?

For most of the chaps in the club, that scene was precious, artistic and beautiful.  So imagine their emotions when they saw Michelle’s thrilling assault on the pervy little guy re-created before their very eyes!  And ‘Catwoman Jenny’ was the spitting image of Michelle Pfeiffer.  Except, you obviously need to imagine Michelle Pfeiffer naked, with curly black pubes, bigger breasts and bigger buttocks.

Jenny’s beautiful white perspiring body gleamed under the lights.  Leap, kick and punch were all one magnificent, rippling movement, as she assaulted Jimmy the Rat. Jenny brought him to his knees with a good solid boot in the balls; she rocked him back with a forearm jab to the head; and then splattered him over a table, doing nasty things to his backside. 

Explosive!  Jenny’s breasts and buttocks were still heaving, two minutes after the rest of her had stopped.

The crowd roared!

And Jenny stalked off to the dressing room.  The guys on Table 6 applauded louder than anyone.  With only one slightly confused person.  ?How did she know I was called Stuart?? wondered the little estate agent.

Crimson now with rage, rather than embarrassment, Jenny kicked open the dressing room door.  At last her nude hell would be over.  Quickly now!

None of the trollops’ clothes fitted her – they were all too skinny.  This did nothing to improve Jenny’s mood!  But she eventually squeezed into one unfortunate woman’s garments, and made good her escape.  Someone else’s turn to be left naked tonight – serve her right for doing such a slow blow job!

Jenny toiled up the stairs, found her bedroom door unlocked, and fell into bed.  Awaking Vladimir, who was VERY pleased that she’d returned!   He grabbed her eagerly.

Jenny’s first thoughts were ?oh no, Vladimir!  I’m a professional.  The girls need me tomorrow morning.  I must sleep!?

But then she thought about the psychological scars left by the Stuart Little experience.  Ugh!  She urgently needed therapy, to help her deal with that.  Deep Protein Treatment was required.  (DPT is up-market ladies’ magazine terminology for a good shag.)  And Vladimir’s volcanic penis was the instrument of choice.

In any case, the little geeks in her Business Studies class could have the cobwebs blown off them by a nice hearty hockey lesson instead.  (Good old Fenella!)

And so Jenny slid herself underneath Vladimir; pulled up her knees on either side of him; grabbed him tightly by the arse; and signified that she was ready for another ride.  And the bumpier, the better!

The poor old bed was violently shaken.  And then the headboard started to judder.

Vladimir pounded away, full of beans, God bless his soul.  Third time round in quick succession, it’s quite difficult for a bloke to reach orgasm.  (I don’t know, but I’ve been told!)  And so the ‘bumpy ride’ started to become a marathon rather than a sprint.  

Never mind, though!  Still high on adrenalin, Jenny matched Vladimir all the way.  As he thrust up, she breathed in and clamped her legs.  As he withdrew, she breathed out and eased down her cunt muscles.  They set up a real rocking rhythm.  The plaster started to flake from the ceiling of the room below. 

The thudding and moaning went on into the night.  Tom cats started to yowl, and babies stirred in their sleep.  And so closed another day in the English education system.

Then (about 3 o’clock in the morning) another bloody ringing bell!  This time, though, it was Vladimir’s mobile, not the fire alarm.  Vladimir went off to take the call.  He returned, saying: ?Sorry, I’ve got to go.  It’s work.  Something just came up.?

So Jenny woke up alone the next morning.  Which was actually a bit of a relief!  Because any more of Vladimir’s ‘vigour’ might have been a little too much of a good thing.  On the bedside table was a lovely bunch of flowers and a note:-

?To my dear Jenny

  I love you, but feel I’ve betrayed you.

  Hope you can forgive me.

  Vladimir xxxxx ?