'Bob-a-Job, sir?'

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 “
“Ah, the poor love!” thought Jenny. “He thinks he’s taken advantage of me! Well, let him think that. Now I must phone Fenella and ask her to do me a favour....”

THE AUCTION

The first cloud on the horizon was the arrival of Thursday night’s Humpton Helmet.

The Helmet’s front page was dominated by the usual trashy Humpton Helmet sex scandal ‘public interest’ story. Under the World War Three-sized headline “ANGRY STRIPPERS RUN AMOK”, our “on the spot correspondent”, Vladimir Curtis brought the news of “an astonishing nude brawl” at the Rockets night club.

The front page picture was of a furious naked woman in hand cuffs. She was being carried, bellowing with rage, into a police van by some very flustered-looking coppers.

Her private parts were obscured by exclamation marks, but with its usual chivalry, the Helmet showed her face, gave her name, and dug up a few comments from the neighbours. The Helmet also promised “a full colour, uncensored poster-sized print, lads, for only £7.99 (including P&P) available from your fun-loving Humpton Helmet.”

When you turned from the huge picture to the tiny little paragraph of text, you learned the “full astonishing story”. Apparently, Sharon Spreddam, stripper of this parish, had finished her “depraved act” at a stag party. On returning to her dressing room, Ms Spreddam had found that her clothes had been pinched. She’d then flipped her wig, trashed the dressing room, and been arrested by the entire Humpton police force.

The Helmet’s considered opinion was that the “busty nude delinquent” was still high from her “disgusting acts” and so the whole thing was inevitable. (Or as the Helmet put it, “these stag parties are a tinderbox of sex and violence, and we shall be investigating them thoroughly in the coming weeks”.)

It looked as if the £7.99 poster would be a nice little earner for the Helmet. As it would certainly provide some extra points of interest. For example, the police handling of the naked woman was very ‘unfortunate’. One copper was carrying each leg, and the two plods had obviously got so muddled that they’d turned in opposite directions. As a result, the luckless stripper’s cunt had been opened very wide indeed, for the benefit of the photographer.

In Ms Spreddam’s rage, her breasts were evidently rising and falling under the exclamation marks. The pervier class of Helmet reader (was there any other type?) could therefore pay their £7.99, and look forward to a really outstanding display of nicely-widened areolae, and spectacular stand-out nipples.

In a quite separate incident, Vladimir Curtis reported that the club manager, Mr Jimmy Ratner, had been the subject of a fierce and totally unprovoked assault by “a deranged stripper with a Batman fixation”. Mr Ratner was now in Humpton General Hospital, with severe bruising, and was having a beer mat surgically removed from his anus.

The police were now looking for a well-built naked woman who is wearing only a superhero mask. The public were warned not to approach this individual.

The Helmet deplored this sort of filthy behaviour, and described it in loving detail on pages 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6.

And in today’s text vote, the Helmet asked its readers:- “Do you feel that Humpton strippers should be forced to take anger management lessons? If so, should they take the lessons fully clothed or in the nude?”

“Usual Helmet sleaze” growled Dr McGrott to Miss Blowett. “That little tosser, Mark Swordsman! Freud would have had a field day with him. I imagine that Swordsman got caught with a stonker in the boys’ showers in Year 9, and he’s been trying to prove something ever since.”

“Yes, Virginia”, said Miss Blowett, who didn’t have a clue what her colleague was talking about. “Err...’stonkers’ can be very trying, dear.... but what’s this little story on page 17?”

The two teachers boggled at a news item tucked away in the ‘What’s On’ column:

“AUCTION IN AID OF OUR GIRLS SCHOOL”

“We reported last month on the Humpton Girls School ‘Bob-a-Job’ week. During their half-term holiday, Dr Eleanor Twatte and her staff personally provided a variety of services to the community. The week was highly successful, both in raising funds for our fine old school and in raising the profile in the community.

“Following the Bob-a-Job week, the Humpton Chamber of Commerce has embraced the school’s cause. The Chamber of Commerce wants to strongly support the school in the run up to Christmas, First step will be an auction in support of the school on Saturday, 6th November. The auction will be at the Grand Hotel. Dr Eleanor Twatte and her senior staff will be in attendance. Although it will be a private function, the Helmet will carry pictures next week.”
“And look at this”, said Dr McGrott. “’By our special correspondent, Vladimir Curtis’. Him again! He seems to be writing half of this newspaper. But that gelled toe-rag still splits his fucking infinitives. ‘To strongly support’ indeed. You remember him, don’t you, Fenella? Vlad the Impaler?”

“Oh dear, Virginia, is that him? The young man who used to call himself ‘Curtiv’ and pretended he was Stalin’s grandson? The trouble he caused when we teamed up with the Journalism College for that holiday in France. So many teenage pregnancies in the Sixth Form, precisely nine months after the holiday. Most embarrassing.”

“Anyway,” commented McGrott, “I’ve got better things to do with my Saturday nights than go to a Chamber of Commerce event. For example, there must be a busted sewer somewhere in this town that I could wash my hair in. So the Impaler’s got his facts wrong this time. I’m not bloody going.”

“Errr... I’m afraid that we must go, Virginia.” Dr Twatte and Jenny Pratt had just arrived. They were both ashen faced, and Dr Twatte was carrying a large brown envelope. “I’ve just had the most dreadful letter from that man at the Helmet.

Jenny burst into tears. And oh dear, there it was in the envelope. A large glossy centrefold of Ms Jenny Pratt, BA (Hons), Humpton School, Head of Business Studies. Naked, except for a mortarboard.

It must have been one of the last photos Vladimir took before he totally lost his grip. There Jenny was, with her trusty dildo, in a pose that would have curdled milk.

“Hang on a minute”, said McGrott. “I thought there was something a bit odd about the takings from Bob-a-Job week. Let’s have another look at your Bob-a-Job card, Jenny.”

And there it was on the card:-

Tuesday 19th October
GCSE extra tuition with Becky Jackson
£50

Wednesday 20th October
A-level cramming with Colonel Davenport’s thick daughter
£50

Thursday 21st October
Sweeping the fallen leaves from Mr Tossoff’s garden path
£5,000
Yes, it did look a bit strange, now you came to think of it.

“But he gave me a cheque and everything”, sobbed Jenny. “Made payable on some Russian-sounding bank.”

“Well, I’ve just had a letter from Mr Shaft at our bank”, said Dr Twatte. “Let me see ... oh dear, he’s returned the cheque. ‘Dear Dr Twatte...blah blah....the Yuvbinad Bank does not exist’. Oh dear, Jenny. ‘Yuvbinad’, get it? You’ve been had.”

The ladies looked at the letter from Mark Swordsman at the Humpton Helmet. Written in the Helmet’s usual elegant prose, it read:-

“Dear Dr Twat, you’re really in the poo now, ain’t you, you silly old bag. If you want to keep your job, get your fat butt down to the Grand Hotel on Sat night. And bring your useless pals McGrott, Blowett & Pratt. PS You’d better be wearing nice undies.”

And there wasn’t even an RSVP. But something told our four friends that they’d better obey. So Saturday night, 6th November, saw the teachers at the Grand Hotel.

They were shown up to the ‘Seraglio’ Room.

“What a curious name for a hotel room!” said the ever-innocent Fenella.

“History, dear”, muttered McGrott. “Well, it’s as close to ‘Heritage’ as Humpton ever gets. You’ve heard of Sir Percy O’Pillock, the great Victorian benefactor of this town? Well that sleazy old wanker built the original Grand Hotel in 1898, just after he’d been on some sex-tourist ‘factfinding’ trip out East.”

“’Seraglio’ is a Turkish word for ‘knocking shop’, dear. Observe the doors opening out around this sitting room. They all lead into bedrooms, gettit? So O’Pillock and his whiskery pervert pals could invite a few slack-bloomered local strumpets up here. They could play nude cricket or something on this very large floor space. And then everyone could pair off in the bedrooms. Bonko!”

“Really, I don’t know what’s possessed Eleanor to waste our Saturday night up here with these drooling tossers. We should have called their bluff....” But that was empty talk, and they all knew it.

So the four women found themselves standing in the middle of the Seraglio Room. It was nicely furnished, and an open fire was blazing. The seats were round the walls, and they were all taken by the Chamber of Commerce blokes. It didn’t look like it was going to be the sort of evening where the gentlemen would give up their seats to the ladies.

There were eleven blokes there altogether. Jim Shaft, the Chair of the Chamber of Commerce. Mark Swordsman, gloating away, the horrible man. Councillor Dave Splott, a guy who managed to combine local government pay with a playboy lifestyle. (Maybe that had something to do with the fact that he controlled all the Council building projects.) Norman Nobbead, the owner of the Humpton Bingo Hall. And various other captains of industry.

Three unexpected faces, though. Firstly, Bill Swett was there. (“What’s that fat degenerate doing here, Eleanor?” whispered McGrott. “I’ll bet you he’s been leaking like a sieve to the bloody Helmet”)

Vladimir Curtis was also present, looking extremely uncomfortable. He moved towards Jenny, but she glared at him with hot and angry eyes.

And there was one complete stranger in the room. A huge brute of a man, with sweaty, shaven head, astonishing facial hair and shoulders like an up-ended bed. He was absent-mindedly eating a chicken leg (bones and all).

This scary giant cast a raking glance over the four teachers, and boggled a little at the sight of Dr McGrott. (Who could blame him?) He then bit the top off a bottle of lager and drank the contents in one gulp. His throat resembled an elephant’s foot, in terms of size, shape and texture. Looking at it, there was no sign that the lager had even touched the sides. He looked bored to buggery.

Mr Shaft welcomed the ladies courteously, and offered them a drink. Then he went to the little stage at the front of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please! Welcome, everyone, to this special auction in support of Humpton Girls School. Now we have some very valuable items on sale here tonight. I’m sure that some people present will wish to bid very high for them!”

“This could be a long and strenuous evening for some of us, so let’s make a quick start. Item No 1 is a dossier detailing certain events a fortnight ago at this very hotel. Do I have any interest? Dr Twatte perhaps? Ms Pratt?”

Eleanor went white and Jenny went red.

“Yes,” continued Mr Shaft. “There does seem to be some interest! So I’ll start the bidding .... at two dresses!!”

Two dresses?!! The men guffawed, and all eyes turned to the four women. McGrott looked witheringly scornful, and Fenella just seemed bewildered. But Eleanor and Jenny clearly knew the score.

Eleanor was wearing a black number, which she unzipped down the back and stepped out of. She looked absolutely luscious in her black bra and panties. Long slender legs, swelling out to a good meaty rump, and amazing superstructure.

Jenny had (or rather used to have) a red strappy ball gown on. Now that it was lying at her feet, the men were gratified to see red matching underwear which left little to the imagination. Thong panties and half cup bra. (Maybe Jenny had a feeling that the underwear wouldn’t be staying on long?)

Mr Shaft said “Going, Going, GONE!” in a very jolly voice, and banged a mallet on the table. He then invited the ‘lucky’ winners to make their deposits. Dr Twatte and Jenny Pratt walked, or rather wiggled, to the table, frowning, flushed and apprehensive.

Mr Shaft shook hands with them most energetically. Up and down, up and down went the ladies’ hands (and much else besides).

Mark Swordsman said “photo shoot, ladies!” and beckoned to Vladimir. But Jenny stopped Vladimir in his tracks with such a glare.

Swordsman took the camera off Vladimir with an “I’ll see you later!” look. He snapped a few pics of the curvy lovelies, but things had lost impetus a bit.

So Mr Shaft stepped forward again, and said: “Now for Item 2!” What could this be?

“Item 2 is another dossier which would benefit from being restored to the school. It concerns the 2007 Southern Counties Schools Hockey Final.”

Fenella Blowett’s face altered from its usual healthy outdoor tint. Fenella went the colour of old parchment. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Dr Twatte turned to Fenella, and said in such a sad, gentle little whisper: “The 2007 Southern Counties Final? Oh, Fenella...”

Mr Shaft went on: “Yes, this dossier contains witnessed statements from the two umpires involved in the game, plus photographs of the Head of Games at Humpton School – “ but then he stopped. He realised that he’d made his point already.

The 2007 Southern Counties Final was generally accepted as one of the finest exhibitions of school girl hockey there has ever been. They show films of the match on coaching courses around the world.

Apart from anything else, the game provided a classic contrast in styles. The cup holders, Cheltenham Ladies College, included seven Schools internationals and were overwhelming favourites. Their opponents were Humpton, an unknown team who had scrambled through round after round of qualifying games.

The Cheltenham players produced thrilling passages of individual brilliance. Humpton by contrast were a limited team, but were superbly organised and had incredible levels of fitness and resolve.

It was a tremendous ding-dong match, only marred by the controversy of the final minute. At that point, with the score at 4-4, Cheltenham scored. By some extraordinary oversight, the umpire disallowed the goal. Then Humpton went up the other end, and won a very dubious penalty stroke from the other umpire. From which they scored. Humpton won 5-4!!

Fenella started to cry. “Eleanor, I’m so sorry! I wanted us to win so badly that I took out a little ‘insurance’. By coincidence, my two old pals, Bunty Cockett and Lucy Poope were the umpires. I ... errr ....persuaded them to ‘favour’ Humpton if the time was right. And in that final minute of the game they both delivered.”

“We all knew it was wrong, though, and I’ve been expecting this for years. Bunty and Lucy had to get it off their chest, and I don’t blame them at all.”

“But, Fenella, dear”, said Dr Twatte, very tenderly. (Knowing that Fenella would be getting something off her own chest very soon. Something bra-shaped.) “Fenella, you didn’t need to do it, dear. That run to the Southern Counties final was my proudest moment in education. You did that fairly, didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have minded if we’d lost that game to Cheltenham. Just being part of that wonderful Final was good enough for me. Fenella, you worked miracles with the girls that year. You’ll always be my best colleague.”

Dr Twatte would have given Fenella a hankie, but the only material the Doctor had to hand was covering (just!) her own private parts. So Fenella dabbed her face with her sleeve.

It was, by the way, a fairly hideous pink gingham sack thing that Fenella was wearing. So the garment was only good for two things: (1) nose wipe; and (2) stripping off. Both of which actions Fenella performed.

Unfortunately, Fenella’s underwear was ghastly, but at least there were now large stretches of slim, well-toned flesh on view, so everybody looked very kindly on Fenella. The general opinion of the Chamber of Commerce was: “Poor old Fenella, don’t slaughter her for one mistake. Look at that firm tummy! I’d love to lick something gooey out of her navel!”

So the Chamber of Commerce took stock of the three juicy school teachers. How charming they looked in their undies!

And at this point, there was a knock on the door.

“Ah, that’ll be the caterers!” said Mr Shaft. He called out “hold on a minute, please!”

Clad only in their underwear, the three women cringed.

“You can’t have them in here, with us like this” pleaded Dr Twatte. “Shame on you! Give us back our dresses, please!”

“Dr Twatte makes a fair point” said Mark Swordsman. “But we have to do things democratically here. All in favour of returning the ladies’ dresses, say ‘Aye!’”

Silence!

“Sorry ladies, carry on as you are!”

Bill Swett made his way to the door and opened it a crack. “Oh, hi there, Wayne!” he said. Then, turning to the party, Bill said with a grin: “It’s Wayne Slugg and his pals. They’ve got a Saturday job with Enteritis Catering.”

Quick as a flash, Dr McGrott hurtled across the room and slammed the door.

“You can’t let those little turds in here!” she rasped. “They’re under 16. You’d be liable under the Obscenity in Public Places Act, 1961, schedule 1 – Corrupting A Minor. You’ll have the school’s lawyers up your scabby arses, with a blow torch.”