'Bob-a-Job, sir?'

“Good old Virginia!” thought Dr Twatte. She suspected that her colleague was talking complete balls. But McGrott always sounded so convincing!

The men were certainly taken aback. Even the slimeball, Mark Swordsman, looked uncertain. Swordsman made a half-hearted move towards the women’s dresses. The women felt a surge of hope.

But alas! Swordsman saw three discarded Catwoman masks in the corner, and picked them up instead. “The perfect solution, ladies!” he said, with a cruel grin. “Your identities will be protected.... as per Schedule 2 of the Talking Crapola Act of 1066, eh, Dr McGrott! Now put ‘em on quick, or you’ll be done for corruption! Let the lads in, Bill!”

With dread in their hearts (and goose-pimples on their cleavage), the three wretched women put on the masks. But as soon as Jenny put hers on, Bill Swett did a violent double take! Jenny looked beseechingly at Bill, and put her finger on her lips. Bill winked back, and said “sorry, gents, I was in a dream!” He flung open the door, and the caterers walked in.

Wayne Slugg, Shane Slyme and Duane Skank were delighted to see the generously-built, half-naked Catwomen!

Wayne and Shane knew that their dear old Dads had recently had one hell of a night romping with some hot, pervy bimbo in a Catwoman mask. And holy Mary, mother of Jesus, here were THREE of them! One each!! The three adolescent lads were in fleshy, crumpet heaven.

On the other hand, the three red-faced women felt very far from heaven. Poor Miss Blowett was particularly distressed. After 42 years of almost zero sexual experience, she was now suffering great emotional shock waves.

For one thing, she had done something very, very wrong. And she was now being punished. Shame, disgrace and humiliation was being visited upon her. All her life she’d tried to be modest and pure. And now she was being forced to swagger around half-naked in front of these awful leering men. She would never live this down.

On the other hand, the attention she was getting was more intense than she’d ever known. And it was quite admiring. A dozen male eyes were following her every move. Her body quite liked this, even if her mind didn’t. So, inside her sensible knickers, she was getting a little bit squishy.

The blood was really coursing around Fenella’s exposed body. Her cheeks were burning with shame. And there were red blotches on throat and round her collar bone.

Worst of all, her nipples were springing to life! Maybe only partly visible through her baggy bra, but these horrible men were peering at her chest as if they had X-Ray eyes. And the more they looked, the more hot and bothered (and nipply!) she became. And the increasingly urgent question was: ‘how much longer would she even be able to keep her bra on?’

Wayne, Shane and Duane bustled backwards and forwards, replenishing the drinks and bringing in the dessert. They were puzzled by the huge Hell’s Angel in the corner. He looked a fierce wild bastard. And what was McGrott doing at this stag do? That scary little bitch was really off-putting.

So the lads didn’t make quite as free with the slappers as they’d have liked. But they still managed to rub up against the Catwomen plenty of times – a nice little grope here and a friendly pinch there. Their cheeks burning, Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella had to put up with it.

Then Duane overdid it. As he brought in the ice bucket, he had to squeeze round behind the Catwoman with the baggy drawers. What a great opportunity! With one hand, Duane very delicately pulled out the waistband of the panties. With the other hand, he quickly shovelled down some ice cubes.

“OWW! OWWWW!!! OOOOOOHHHH!!!!!”

The freezing cold pellets slipped down Fenella’s arse crack and rapidly melted in the heat of her fanny. It was the most ... errr ...vivid experience the poor lady had ever known.

Fenella capered and twisted and scrabbled at her panties. Tears came to her eyes – partly tears of pain and shame, but there was also a thrilling kind of sensation mixed in with them. Duane laughed and laughed. Which wasn’t clever of him.

Even the wicked Mark Swordsman thought the little yob had gone too far. Swordsman had been looking quite fondly (well, OK, lustfully) at Fenella, and he was genuinely sorry to see her humiliated like this. “That’s enough, kid!” he said, which was the nicest thing Swordsman had ever done in his whole rotten life.

Virginia McGrott was a bit more practical than Swordsman. Rapidly appraising the situation, McGrott caught the eye of the huge savage stranger (whose wavelength she seemed to be on). McGrott pointed to Duane and jerked her thumb meaningfully.

The giant brute moved across the room. He picked Duane up by his collar, as if the big teenager were a new-born kitten, and hurled Duane through the open window. Everybody froze. They were five floors up!

Duane’s screams of terror died away, and then.....

SPLASH!!

Thank God for that – the hotel swimming pool!

Dave Splott laughed nervously, and said “Good aim!”

“Away and raffle your doughnut, man” rasped McGrott. “He didn’t know the pool was there!” Then she looked approvingly at their foreign guest, who was eating more chicken. “Mind you, I don’t think the big steamer even knew the window was open...”

Gibbering with fear, Wayne and Shane ran from the room. As the lads departed, Mr Shaft called for attention again.

“Right, ladies and gentlemen, now for the next stage of the auction. I have here a very precious item indeed! I believe that this will be worth an entire set of clothes! Which is where I’d like to start the bidding....”

Everybody looked blank.

Mr Shaft resumed: “If I do not have any bids for this dossier, I will put one copy in the hands of the Berkshire Police and another copy in the hands of Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs.”

“This details all the taxable supplies bought and sold by Humpton Girls School over the last five years. It reconciles these payments and receipts to the school’s official General Ledger, but there is a Ł500,000 shortfall. It also reconciles these transactions to a secret General Ledger, which is maintained by the school Bursar –“

“YOUR ARSE IN PARSLEY!!!”

And, purple-faced with fury, Dr Virginia McGrott ran up to the stage. She tore off her hair (it was a wig after all). She ripped of all her clothes and barked at Mr Shaft: “Don’t stand there like a fart in a trance, man! Give me that fucking file!”

She turned to the newspaper editor: “Well I might have known that you’d have a bog-full of shit on everyone here, Swordsman. This had better be the only copy”

And then McGrott flung everything on the fire – dossier, clothes and all. She was absolutely foaming!

Everybody froze. Seeing McGrott nude was quite stupefying. The effect was a bit like a plucked chicken or a skinned rabbit (although much sexier). The difference between McGrott fully dressed and starkers was so dramatic.

Dr Virginia McGrott had two mops of ginger curls (one on her head and one down below). She was a pale, delicate little cutie, although this was belied by her fierce laser blue eyes. Maybe in her early forties. As fit as a butcher’s dog. Slender, small-breasted, but all woman.

Dr McGrott looked around the room. Quite imperiously, considering that she was the tiniest person there, and was stark nippling naked.

“Stop goggling at me, you fucking perverts! Didn’t you think I had a fanny? Now, are any of you bampots going to give a lady a seat?”

And then, turning to Bill Swett: “Hoy, fatty, you’ve got the biggest lap. Let me up.” And up she clambered, white bottom dimpling.

Now the last few minutes had been a bit of a car crash, so Mr Shaft declared a break. He hoped that the three ‘normal’ members of the school (Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella) would get a bit flirty with the blokes, who were obviously dying to mix with them. The drinks flowed.

Meanwhile, perched naked on Bill Swett’s lap, Dr McGrott had been taking stock. She was, of course, a woman of absolutely bomb-proof self-assurance. So her current situation (while not ideal) didn’t faze her.

For one thing, that bloody tax fiddle really had been hanging over her. Ever since the papers had disappeared from her desk, she’d been dreading the moment when they would return. In the hands of the police? Or in the hands of the Revenue? Seeing them disappear for ever in the fire was a sweet moment.

For another thing, she was feeling quite cheerful and randy. Thanks to Bill Swett’s attentions, of course! That fat rascal had managed to get his hands wedged firmly between McGrott’s thighs when she first lowered her dainty, bare fanny into his lap. In her blind raging fury, she’d not noticed Bill’s fingers in her cunt at first. But she was noticing them now!

Jenny Pratt could have told Virginia that Bill Swett was a skilled cunt masseur. But Pratt and McGrott didn’t have the kind of relationship where they compared notes about sex thrills. So Bill came as quite a revelation!

Bill’s big, unexpectedly gentle fingers kneaded and rubbed and teased and tweaked. The Deputy Head’s clitoris and vagina lips were getting quite puffy under the stimulation! She felt all warm and runny inside. It was really lovely, just flopping around in the nude, on a good man’s lap. Just a bit deeper please, Bill – ooooooooohh!! That’s so nice!

“Good man?” Curses, curses, what was she saying? McGrott blinked angrily, and tried to clear her head. “Did I just say ‘nice’? That’s not my kind of word at all!”

In an attempt to get back to the old hardboiled McGrott, she told herself: “well, I’ve got the best view in this room anyway. Because it’s the only seat in the room where I don’t have to look at Bill Swett, the wee fat wank.”

But this wasn’t ringing true, and she knew it. Bill was OK. He was - oooohhh!!*!!@!!! - doing a good job, in fact.

And Bill could keep his mouth shut. Her cunt was really dripping now, and you could hang a ‘For Sale’ sign on her nipples. But Bill was just keeping mum; licking the back of her neck (nice!!); and letting his fingers (not his mouth) do the talking – mmmm!! Ooohhh, yessssssss, BILL !!*!!@!&!!

No, the reason she had the best view in the room was because she was right opposite that incredible looking foreign guy. What a fucking BEAST! Somebody had said he was the Mayor of Punk, a town in Moldova.

Now Virginia McGrott had lived in Humpton for ten years, and the only carnal relationship she’d had in all that time had been with her vibrator. Virginia had her urges, sure, but she’d never found any guy in Humpton remotely deserving of the stunning McGrott body.

Virginia, you see, did like a bit of rough. In fact, she liked her men big and ballsy and grizzly strong and rough as fuck. And the closest you got to rough trade in Humpton was maybe the odd unemployed car park attendant.

Humpton blokes were a bit soft and wimpy. I mean, some of them were pretty enough. Vladimir Curtis looked OK , and no doubt he was adequate in bed. But look at him moping about over Jenny Pratt. Buck up, man! Where was the fucking edge?

Glasgow.... Now there was a real hard man’s town! And Virginia’s love button quivered at the memory of.... but no, let’s focus on the here and now.

And what a here and now! So this tasty-looking gorilla was the Mayor of Punk, was he? Punk must be a lively town. I wonder if all the men there have broken noses, fierce burning black eyes, and hands like shovels? Interesting, very interesting.

Moldova, now let me see.... Chief language Romanian. OK then. And McGrott called out, in her beautiful cut-glass voice:-

“Salut, ce mai fac!” (“Hi, how are you?”)

Konrad Jizz nearly fell off his chair. He’d been boggling at this mad, beautiful little doll, ever since she’d thrown her clothes on the fire and clambered on to the fat guy’s lap.

He replied “err... bună scumpo, cum te numeti?” (“hello, beautiful, what’s your name?”) (Good start! thought McGrott.)

Here is an English translation of the rest of their conversation.

“Virginia. Born in Scotland, but I was kissed by the Zȃnă. My great grandfather was beloved of one of them.”

Despite her naked and cunt-dribbling plight, this outrageous lie showed that the McGrott bullshit machine was in smooth working order. The Zȃnă were powerful benign female spirits in Eastern European folklore.

“Wow! The Zȃnă. Can it really be true? Tell me, what gift did she give you?”

“Wisdom. I know all languages. And strength of will. Look at how these wretches cower from me, even though I go naked amongst them.” (This was true actually. The blokes didn’t know where to look. Having been patronised, scorned and insulted by McGrott for so many years, the Humpton captains of industry simply couldn’t think of her as a desirable bit of fluff.)

Konrad was beside himself. How his once-great people yearned for true leadership. Not just the leadership which he could provide – the leadership of force. But leadership that was wise as well, and which was founded on the true ancient spirit of Moldova. The Zȃnă! What a consort this fairy woman could make.

Besides, she was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. A different order of being from the women of his homeland, with their dark features and wide hips. Those crazy blue eyes! That beautiful red muff! Her nipples were practically semaphoring him! His cock strained. She had to be his!

Virginia had certainly noticed the impressive bulge in Konrad’s leather trousers. She eased her legs a little wider apart, just to check – ah yes, the bulge throbbed in response! It was all him.

“Tell me”, she asked, “in your land, do you have bilge rats called ‘taxmen’? I have big trouble with them here.”

“Moldova does have tax collectors, but no, they don’t bother me.”

“I bet they don’t, big boy! Heh heh, we need a few good citizens like you over here. What do you earn then?”

“Last year I made 200 million leu before tax, and, heh heh, I pay no tax!”

200 million leu, thought Virginia. It was 50 leu to the pound in the Financial Times this morning. That’ll do nicely.

Virginia licked her index finger very deliberately, held it up in front of Major Jizz, and then smilingly applied it to her clitoris. Up and down she rubbed it, licking her lips as she did so. Then she gave him The Look.

He wriggled very uncomfortably in his seat.

“Who is that fat man whose knee you’re perched on? Is he your husband?”

“No, he’s my faithful butler. He’s warming my fanny, but I’m thinking you could do that, handsome.”

And with that, he rushed her. Catching up the delighted McGrott in one massive arm and plunging through the nearest bedroom door. They heard McGrott screaming – first with laughter; then with delight; and then (after a zipping noise) with shock and awe.

It was as if a whirlwind had passed through the room. It stopped the cocktail chatter stone dead! At this display of raw sexuality, Eleanor, Jenny and Fenella cowered together.

“Now”, said Mr Shaft hastily, “for the second part of the auction. I may have forgotten to mention that these dossiers are each in two folders!”

“Dr Twatte and Ms Pratt have successfully bid for the first half of the Bob-a-Job dossier. And Miss Blowett has secured the first volume of the hockey dossier. Now what am I bid for Volume 2? How about selling these as a combined lot? In order to register an interest in these two dossiers, could I please have an immediate down payment of three bras?!!”

An electric silence now fell on the room. (Well, it wasn’t totally silent! From the adjoining bedroom there came the steady squeaking of a mattress. Deep, growling, snuffling grunts, plus orgasmic screams in a much higher pitch. Dr Virginia McGrott, MA (Edinburgh University), was clearly getting the pasting of a lifetime.)

Then Dr Twatte (showing great leadership) sadly unclipped her bra. Jenny Pratt followed suit. And off the bras came!

With their arms concealing their breasts, the two women shuffled forward to present their bras to the auctioneer. They were surrounded, though, by grinning men, eager to congratulate them. And of course shake their hands!

Knocker show!!

Now, readers, we’ve got a pretty fair knowledge of Jenny’s beautiful breasts. After all, they only appeared a few pages ago.

Dr Twatte’s, though, have been eagerly awaited. The headmistress’s jugs did NOT disappoint. They were heavy, mind, and swung quite ponderously to and fro as their owner moved. They sagged a bit, it’s true. But they were so large, so beautifully ‘tear drop’ shaped, so smooth, so round..... So utterly jaw-droppingly splendid, that the only sensible response to Dr Twatte’s breasts had to be “ga ga ga”, or maybe “goo goo”.

Follow that, Fenella!

Well of course, Fenella was built on different lines altogether from Jenny and Eleanor. There wasn’t going to be the same sense of Biblical revelation when Fenella Blowett took off her bra.

But there were a few reasons why the blokes turned eagerly to Fenella, now that it was her turn to ‘make a deposit’.

Firstly, Fenella’s wrinkled, baggy underwear looked bloody awful, and simply had to be removed. On aesthetic grounds, you understand!

Secondly, Fenella’s nipples were making quite a statement!

Thirdly, these were sophisticated, broad-minded guys, with a catholic taste in women. Hourglass Marilyn Monroe figures are great. But so too are women who are long, lean, limber and toned. Basically, these blokes heartily approved of naked women. Full stop!

So Fenella found the audience very positive indeed about her auction bid.

Crimson with embarrassment, Fenella turned her back to the audience and removed her bra. She hunched her shoulders, as if to cover up, but then she realised the hopelessness of her plight. So she turned round, and showed everyone the ‘assets’ she’d brought to the auction.

Relatively small breasts, but lovely little round handfuls. With rosy-pink, urgent-looking nipples. Well done, Fenella!

Mr Shaft hurried on, understandably keen to keep up the momentum.

“Congratulations, ladies, a successful down payment! You are now preferred bidders for these items! Please join me in a formal viewing.”

This ‘formal viewing’ ruse was of course just an excuse for getting the poor bare-breasted women to the front of the room, where they had to stand behind a very low table, and turn the pages of the folders. This had the double benefit of: (1) keeping the women’s arms down and their beautiful melons in full, lip-smacking view; and (2) getting them to lean forward and ‘dangle’.

The guys found it a fantastic display of ‘low-hanging fruit’. They loudly discussed the competing merits of the small, sweet and perky ones (Fenella); the large and juicy ones (Jenny) and huge, awesome belters (Dr Twatte).

Mark Swordsman did everything he could to humiliate the fuming, topless teachers. He asked them to smile for photographs, and made ‘helpful’ comments like: “lads, don’t grope Eleanor’s tits – yet!”

Another indignity for the bosomy beauties lay in the Nipple factor. In her embarrassment, Fenella’s nipples had been jutting out from the moment she took off her dress.

Eleanor and Jenny were a bit less self-conscious. But their appalling situation did start to get to them. And so their cheeks got pinker and their nipples more showy. To the point where the three bare chests looked like six very pervy coat pegs all in a row.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end, and the fun and laughter gradually calmed. Mr Shaft said: “Thank you, ladies. Now for your final payment! I do require three pairs of knickers, you know....!”

NOW YOU’RE BLOODY TALKING, MAN!!

The atmosphere became very highly charged. For any right-thinking man, this would have to be the pivotal moment of the whole evening.

The three teachers must have seen this coming. But maybe they’d been hoping against hope for some stay of execution. At any rate, their shoulders suddenly sagged. (Hey, that was a lovely knocker avalanche you did there with your shoulders, Dr Twatte! Bet you can’t do it again!)

Oddly enough, though, all three of them had a slightly pulpy, squelchy feeling in their panties. It was horrible, but it was sort of thrilling.

Dr Twatte made one last desperate bid to keep her knickers. Clasping her hands together, the poor topless headmistress pleaded: “Mr Shaft... Jim! Don’t let this happen to us!”

Mr Shaft weakened at the sight of Dr Twatte’s beautiful dark eyes and beautiful white bazoomas. And there was a murmur of sympathy for the lovely and well-stacked damsels in distress.

But that rotter Mark Swordsman broke the spell.

“Come on, Eleanor, don’t play so hard to get! “ he jeered. “There’s a lot in this for you, dear. Your job, for example! Get them off!”

Well there was nothing to be done. The knickers had to go!