She Always Had Her Cats
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Another Year At St Cat’s Ch. 01 free porn video
Discipline and Dilemmas (1)
———————–
Wednesday, 18 September
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Jenny Coombes rolled over and looked at the clock on her bedside table through half-open eyes. It was only half-past-six so she still had another hour before she had to get up to go to work. Her boyfriend, Derek, was still asleep, snoring quietly beside her. She’d woken up hot and agitated having had that dream again. That recurring dream that she’d had as long as she could remember, the one where hands emerged from the night’s inky darkness. Slim female hands rubbing her arms and caressing her legs. Pale hands stroking her hair and olive-skinned hands sliding smoothly over her stomach. Hands with brightly painted nails gently caressing her breasts. Hands with elaborate henna tattoos and bright silver rings gliding over her naked flesh as she squirmed contentedly.
But whenever she tried to sit up and find the source of the disembodied hands, stronger hands would grasp her shoulders and pull her back. Firm male hands grasping her ankles and wrists pulling them towards the distant corners of the large bed so that she was held fast. She felt them tangling in hair, tugging at her dark brown locks forcing her head back against the pillow. Thick fingers covered her eyes, rendering her unable to see the source of the restless hands. Rendering her powerless to stop them exploring her warm thighs, fondling her swollen boobs, pinching her engorged nipples.
‘Please!’ she’d gasp, although no one was listening and her moans of pleasure were always cut short by a large male hand clamped tightly over her mouth, forcing her breath to whistle through her nose.
There was never an explanation or reason, just the hands endlessly stroking her, determined to explore every inch of her nakedness.
She’d twist and shudder with hot, sudden pleasure as the warm, probing fingers slid between her legs and brushed against her sex as if drawn to the heat like moths to a flame. The rough male hands sliding up over her legs and firmly grabbing her knees, prising them wide open, exposing her hot thighs to the relentlessly searching fingers. Her sobs of pleasure muffled as the soft feminine fingers explored the soft, pink folds of her moist pussy. Examining the slick, pink flesh at the junction of her hot thighs as she twisted and thrashed against the mattress.
She’d awoken gasping for air, disoriented but very aroused. She’d had these fantasies of restraint and submission for many years. They’d seemed to intensify since she’d been dating Derek. Although he had many good qualities, being creative and generous in bed wasn’t one of them. In fact, he was quite lazy, selfish, and conventional, so her craving for something more dangerous, arousing and exciting was confined to her dreams. Once or twice, she’d tried to playfully suggest to Derek that they could experiment with tying each other up but even after a couple of glasses of wine he’d called it ‘weird’ and ‘perverted’, so she’d given up, confining her fantasies to the private cinema of her mind.
She rolled over and slid her arms around her sleeping boyfriend. He grumbled and snorted as she ran her hands over his bare torso, slowly awakening as she caressed him, her moist lips brushing against his neck. His sleepy groans turned to moans as she ran her hands lower, over his shorts, feeling his cock stir as she stroked him through the increasingly taut material. He groaned sleepily, raising his hips as she sat up tugged his shorts down over his legs then wrapped a hand around his semi-erect prick.
Once he was fully hard, he twisted around and, still half-asleep, rolled on top of her. Jenny would have liked a bit of foreplay but, as always, once Derek was aroused he just wanted to get on with it. She helped him tug her knickers off, and then spread her legs as he positioned himself between them. Luckily, she was still hot and wet from her dream, and it only hurt a little as he eased his modestly long, but thick cock between her thighs.
As he began to ease himself in and out, Jenny lay back and stretched her hands above her head. She closed her eyes and was back in her dream world, pretending she was being held down, those strong hands covering her eyes and tugging at her wrists and ankles until she was spread-eagled. Those sensuous, lithe female fingers exploring her naked, helpless, hot body. Teasing her hot, wet slit then eagerly slipping between her juicy lips, probing her deeper and deeper. Soft feminine fingertips toying with her aching clit as she writhed and strained.
She was just edging towards a gorgeous orgasm when Derek came suddenly and loudly, his body straining and quivering as she felt his hot cum spill deep inside her. She wrapped her arms around him as he collapsed heavily onto her only partially sated body, his chest heaving, and his ragged breath hot against her neck.
‘That was lovely, dear,’ she sighed, trying to hide her disappointment.
—
Mike Barrett, editor-in-chief of the Eastbrook Echo, opened the door of his large corner office. He leant against the door-frame and ran his fingers through his short, greying hair as he looked around the rest of the office thoughtfully. It was noisy and crowded, full of journalists tapping away at keyboards, and talking loudly into their phones. A mixture of male and female, young and old.
He needed someone for a very special assignment. Which journalist looked most as if they could play the part of a temporary secretary? He needed someone who didn’t mind bending the rules a little, who knew how to forge relationships quickly and get information whilst giving nothing away themselves. His eyes kept returning to Jenny Coombes. Ambitious, intelligent, attractive, twenty-two year-old Jenny. She’d only worked for the Echo for a year after graduating, but he could already tell she was destined for bigger things.
‘Jenny?’ he called out.
‘Yes?’ she said, looking up from her PC screen.
‘Can I have a word please?’ he said, motioning for her to follow him into his office.
‘Have you heard of St Catherine’s?’ he asked as she settled into the chair opposite him.
‘The private school for girls? A couple of miles from the village? Yes, I was there about eighteen months ago to cover the opening of their new cafeteria.’
‘Okay, well I don’t know if you know, but for years there have been rumours about that place.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘Well, there’s always been plenty of gossip about them. Teachers spanking schoolgirls and playing sexual games with them mostly. But recently I heard there was a group of girls blackmailing the teachers there. Something to do with helping them cheat at their exams.’
‘Scandal and blackmail, eh? Sounds juicy,’ Jenny said, smiling.
He sighed and leant back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
‘The thing is, there have been rumours ever since I took over here fifteen years ago but we’ve never been able to prove anything.’
‘You’ve never been able to find anybody willing to talk?’
‘No one that’s willing to talk on the record. The headmaster’s a cunning old fox and very protective of the school. I’ve tried lots of times but somehow he always finds a way to stop people talking to us. I’ve been thinking recently that the only way to do this properly is to have someone on the inside.’
‘On the inside? You mean like a spy?’
‘Kind of. Here, read this,’ he said, handing her a handwritten note.
A few months ago, he’d asked the girls in Classified to come to him if they had anything for St Catherine’s. This morning one of them had to come to him with the scrap of paper.
‘Wanted: secretary for maternity cover. We are looking for an enthusiastic and well-organised individual to join our team. This vacancy is to support the Headmaster with secretarial tasks. You should be able to present a positive and friendly approach to our students, th
eir parents and staff. You should be computer literate (including Word and Excel) and flexible. Apply to the headmaster at St Catherine’s School for Girls in the first instance,’ Jenny read.
‘That was phoned in this morning. They want it placed in Friday’s edition.’
‘I see… and you want me to apply for this?’ she said, joining the dots.
‘Exactly,’ he confirmed. ‘There’s definitely something going on up there and I bet it’s quite sordid and juicy. With your talent for sniffing out a story it shouldn’t take you more than a couple of weeks.’
‘I don’t know, I mean what if they check my background? What about my CV?’
‘Don’t worry about that. Make something up to cover the time after you left university and use my ‘phone number as a reference. I’ll confirm whatever story you want. Oh, and use an alias.’
‘You know I’ve never really worked undercover before, I should really think about this.’
‘Well think it over. But you’ll kick yourself if I give this to one of your colleagues and they uncover a nice juicy scandal that gets picked up by the nationals. I know you’re keen to move on Jenny, but we’re a small local paper, we don’t get many chances like this.’
Jenny nodded as she got up and headed towards the door.
‘And one more thing: if you do decide to apply and get an interview wear something conservative. The headmaster’s quite old-fashioned.’
———————-
Thursday, 26 September
———————-
Her interview was at eleven o’clock but Mike had given her the whole morning off. She was a little late as she’d had to drop her boyfriend Derek off at the airport to get the early flight to Stuttgart. He was likely to be away for a couple of months installing and supporting a software upgrade at the German office of the multinational accountancy firm he contracted for.
She and Derek had been together for about eighteen months now and, by and large, they were very happy together. He was honest, steady, and very good with money. All of the characteristics that made him ideal husband material. In fact, they’d talked about getting married next spring. Of course, nobody was perfect, and Derek’s flaw was that he was a little boring and conventional, especially in the bedroom. For example, he insisted that the idea of oral sex disgusted him, although he seemed happy enough for her to give him a blowjob on his last birthday. It’s not that he was doing anything wrong, it’s just that his idea of ‘kinky’ was doing it with the lights on. But, as her mother always reminded her, you couldn’t have everything, and Derek was kind, loving, and considerate, some of the qualities she most valued.
Her mind returned to the school as she motored past a signpost saying it was another mile. Of course, Mike had been right, she really would kick herself if someone else got the story. Jenny felt a little flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach as she imagined the headlines as she turned left at the school gates. ‘Sordid spanking and sex scandal at posh girls’ school’. ‘Naughty schoolgirls blackmail teachers to cheat exam system’.
She wouldn’t be surprised if there was something inappropriate going on up here. All those girls, well young women really, running around in those little short, pleated skirts and white knee socks pandering to the whims of their middle-aged teachers, desperately trying to please them so they could get the results they needed. It was like some adolescent fantasy and perhaps it wouldn’t be too shocking if some of the teachers took advantage of their position.
She dreamed of leaving the small provincial newspaper of her hometown and working for one of the national newspapers. And this was exactly the kind of story that could get her noticed by the Sunday tabloids. Sex, scandal and intrigue at a posh girls’ school: it was classic tabloid fodder. She kept going over her cover story in her mind as she drove: she was Joanne Courtney, she had been temping since she left university, and she’d love the opportunity to work at such at a prestigious school.
After she’d parked, she took off her worn, old trainers and slipped on a pair of sensible but uncomfortable black court shoes to complete her conservative office girl look. Knee-length grey skirt, black tights and a pale pink blouse. Finally, she took off her sparkly engagement ring and put it in the glove box. She had a feeling that it might be better if her alter-ego Joanne was single and unattached.
The big, thick wooden doors were wide open and inside there was a spacious but dim entrance hall with a black and white tiled floor that reminded Jenny of a huge chessboard. Signs directed her up an oak staircase, the banister’s varnished surface worn dull and smooth over the years by thousands of girls’ hands. Her sensible shoes echoed crisply on the hardwood stairs. Halfway up she paused to examine an old black-and-white picture of the school taken from the air. She guessed it had been taken in the nineteen-fifties. It showed the main house in the centre with the newer red brick extension on the left forming a broken ‘L’ shape. The gymnasium was missing and Jenny guessed it must have been built later. At the top was the gently winding river, shining like mercury where it caught the sun.
—
The headmaster was away for a couple of weeks at a conference in Brighton and Wicklow reasoned that as his deputy he was entitled to the use of his office. The headmaster hadn’t actually said he could, but then again he hadn’t said he couldn’t either. It was much bigger than his, with a much better view. He stood by the window, hands behind his back watching the trees swaying in the gentle breeze and the cows grazing the pasture on the far side of the river. Yes, this would do very nicely when the head retired. He wondered if he should start asking people to address him as ‘acting’ rather than ‘deputy’ headmaster.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.
‘Yes?’ he said, as Mrs Higson’s pregnant stomach appeared around the door followed by her head.
‘The next candidate is here, deputy headmaster.’
‘Thanks, give me a minute then send her in,’ he said, sitting back down at the desk.
He hoped this girl was better than the ones he’d seen so far. Wicklow picked up the CV from the desk and looked over it again. Joanne Courtney, good academic record, left university twelve months ago after graduating with a 2:1 in English, had been temping ever since.
‘Hello, I’m Mr Wicklow, the acting headmaster,’ he said, leaning forward and extending his hand over the large desk towards the young brunette that appeared in the doorway.
‘Joanne Courtney, pleased to meet you,’ Jenny said, taking his hand and mentally congratulating herself on remembering to use her alias.
‘Likewise. The head is away at the moment so I’m doing the interviews today. Now is that Miss or Mrs, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Jenny/Joanne wanted to ask him why on earth he thought that was relevant but instead she smiled politely and replied ‘Miss’.
Well, thought Wicklow, looking her up and down, she was certainly easier on the eye than the other candidates so far. Petite and slim with long, shoulder-length, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. She already had a head start as far as he was concerned.
He continued to be impressed as they talked about her education and her work experience. She came across as bright, capable and articulate, listening carefully and asking the right kind of questions when appropriate. If anything, she seemed over-qualified. After only a few minutes he was satisfied he’d found Mrs Higson’s replacement.
When they’d finished talking, he stood and offered his hand once more.
‘Well thank you for coming in Miss Courtney, you can expect to hear from us by the end of tomorrow.’
‘Thanks again,’ replied Jenny, taking his hand and smiling politely as she stood.
Wicklow leaned forward a little as she bent
over to retrieve her handbag from the floor, her tight grey skirt stretching tightly over her nicely rounded derrière. And a lovely looking bottom it was, firm and rounded, just the way he liked them. Oh yes, he thought, he’d certainly look forward to seeing a lot more of Miss Courtney.
——————–
Monday, 30 September
——————–
Her first day at the school passed quickly. In the morning, the heavily pregnant Mrs Higson took her through what would be expected of her. It was fairly standard work: answering the office phone, opening the mail, managing the headmaster’s calendar and maintaining the student database. Nothing too taxing for a graduate journalist. In the afternoon Wicklow gave her a brief tour of the school and introduced her to some of the teachers.
They started by walking around the extensive grounds, stopping briefly at the gym where they met Miss Lambert, a bright, energetic, young woman with artfully tousled blonde hair refereeing an indoor hockey game. Then they walked down to the river before heading back towards the main house.
‘The main building dates back to the nineteenth century,’ Wicklow explained.
Jenny wasn’t quite sure what to make of Wicklow, or the ‘acting headmaster’ as he insisted on being called. Physically, he was of average build with thinning hair and a greying, wiry moustache. He always seemed to be dressed smartly, today he was wearing a navy blazer and a matching tie with some kind of crest in the centre.
Although he was outwardly polite and professional, something about him made her feel uneasy. Her journalistic instincts told her that if there were some kind of scandal, he’d probably be right in the thick of it.
‘It has three floors,’ Wicklow continued. ‘The ground floor of the house is mainly classrooms but also has the library and cafeteria, and some accommodation for junior teachers. The first floor is all accommodation, a lot of the students who board have rooms up there. And the top floor, as you know, has the office, the headmaster’s room, and accommodation for senior teachers.’
Jenny was only half-listening as they went back through the main doors, where they nearly collided with a teacher coming the other way.
‘Ah, David!’ Wicklow exclaimed. ‘This is Miss Courtney, our new secretary. Miss Courtney this is Mr Lean, one of our maths teachers.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, smiling pleasantly as he shook her hand.
‘Thanks, nice to meet you too,’ Jenny said, looking him up and down. He was tall and good-looking in a clean-cut, boyish sort of way, his dark hair neatly trimmed, the crease in his trousers as sharp as a knife, his shoes well polished.
A little further on, they met a female teacher, exiting one of the classrooms behind her students.
‘Ah Annabel,’ Wicklow said. ‘Let me introduce Miss Courtney. This is Miss Hunter, our biology teacher.’
‘Ah, acting headmaster, what a pleasant surprise,’ Annabel said, with barely disguised sarcasm and a mirthless smile.
Annabel Hunter stood slightly taller than Jenny in her expensive-looking heels. She was an attractive woman, handsome rather than pretty, clad in a neat charcoal-grey pants suit, her intelligent green eyes sparkling behind thin-framed glasses. Her grip was soft yet firm as they shook hands.
They moved through the corridors meeting more teachers, most of whose names Jenny soon forgot. Mr Sanders, the history teacher, whose eye patch and beard reminded her of a pirate. Miss Rogers, the religious instruction teacher, a mousy lady in her sixties, her steely grey hair tied back in a neat bun. After a while, she stopped even trying to remember their names.
——————–
Thursday, 3 October
——————–
Jenny made it into the office early on Thursday. She wanted to have a good look around before Wicklow got in. It was a large office with a hardwood floor and plain walls. Jenny’s desk was set in one corner with the door leading to the headmaster’s office immediately to her right, along the opposite wall was a long olive-green, padded bench where visitors waited to see the head. To her left was an open doorway leading to a kitchen area.
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