Maid Service (4 page)

“Alright, alright, a quid,” Ben promised. “I can borrow it from Richards or Hunter, I reckon. When does it happen? And it's got to be safe, Finch, I'm not getting kicked out.”

“It'll be safe, if it happens,” Peter answered coolly, now thoroughly pleased with himself. “I'll let you know.”

Ben withdrew to ring the bell that marked the end of prep, leaving Peter to sit back in his chair with his hands behind his head. Ben's mixture of awe and disbelief made him feel good, and he knew his other friends would react the same way. After spanking Tiffany in front of them, nobody would call his bluff. Yet he also felt deeply frustrated, both for the dirty images crowding his mind and the seeming impossibility of making his scheme a reality. His cock was rock hard in his pants and it would have been the work of a moment to bring himself to orgasm, but masturbation seemed an admission of defeat.

With prep over there was an hour of association time before he prepared for bed. So he went downstairs, hoping that a game of ping-pong or some interesting television program would distract him. The strategy failed, with the ping-pong table already occupied, while the James Bond film projected in the common room contained enough bikini clad loveliness to ensure that his need grew stronger rather than weaker. By the time the bell rang for the seniors to go upstairs he felt as if he would burst at any instant, yet masturbation still seemed an insipid riposte. His heart was racing as he lay staring up into the darkness, with the college now quiet but for the toll of the chapel bell as it marked out the quarter hours.

Three miles away, St. Monica's lay under the same bright, gibbous moon that made silver rims along the curtains of his bedsit. Tiffany would be in bed, just as he was, perhaps asleep, perhaps awake and thoughtful, perhaps with her nightie pulled up over her breasts and her fingers busy between her legs as she thought of him. She'd as good as offered him her virginity if he had the courage to break in. So perhaps she'd be imagining how it would be to wake to the feel of his body as he climbed in beside her, her shock giving way to excitement and submission as he explored her body, her thighs slowly drifting wide until she was ready to accept him into her virgin heat.

The thought made his cock ache with need and he tried to turn his mind back to the more practical matter of getting Tiffany and her friends spanked. But the thought of Alice opened up a new possibility that Tiffany might not be alone in her bed. He knew that her room was in an upper passage with just four neighbors, all senior girls like herself. One was Alice and, while nothing had been admitted beyond a few sessions of kissing practice, he was fairly sure the two girls had at very least explored each other's bodies. Perhaps they were together now, cuddled into each other's arms, fingers moving over nubile breasts and perky bottoms with as much embarrassment as excitement, their lips coming into play as their arousal increased, mouths put to stiff pink nipples to lick and suck before they finally gave in to their need and went head to toe with their faces between each other's thighs.

Peter gave a hollow groan, his hand already stealing to his cock, only to withdraw. Muttering under his breath, he threw the covers back, walked to the window and jerked the curtains aside. The quad lay pale and still in the moonlight, with the buildings opposite creating a silhouette against a sky ragged with cloud. The confinements of school, which he'd found increasingly hard to bear as he came to maturity, suddenly seemed intolerable, a captivity as irksome as it was ridiculous.

“I'm eighteen years old,” he sighed, “and I'm cooped up as if I was in the nursery. The hell with it, they can do what they like to me. I'm going out.”

He took just moments to dress, pulling on his darkest clothes before slipping into the corridor and downstairs. It was far from the first time he'd ventured outside after dark, and the route he followed to get clear of the school grounds was familiar. Still, he remained cautious, skulking from shadow to shadow and repeatedly pausing to listen until he had reached the comparative safety of the river path.

There was no doubt in his mind as to where he was going—St. Monica's—but he had little idea what to do once he got there. It was all very well Tiffany encouraging him to break in, but the convent kept their charges under a far tighter rein than Broadfields, despite their claims of providing a progressive education. A high brick wall, punctuated with spiked, wrought iron gates, surrounded the accommodation and teaching buildings, and the wall itself was topped with broken glass. The front gate was not even worth investigating, on the main road and in full view of the buildings of Junior St. Monica's should any of the nuns chance to look out. It was locked at eight o'clock each evening, sealing Tiffany and some three hundred other girls away from temptation.

He'd only gone a few hundred yards when he stopped, telling himself that the trip was far too risky, only to decide that at the very least he had to reach the convent and scout out the lay of the land. Gathering his courage, he thought first of his Uncle Charles, a commando during the war, then of Tiffany, warm and eager in her bed, her cunt wet and ready for his cock. Neither ever had to know of his expedition, but the thought of their scorn and disappointment if he turned back was enough to make him push on.

Following a tiny lane and the familiar railway cutting, Peter reached the bank overlooking the playing fields just as the bells signaled midnight. He felt no less nervous than when he had come to peep at the girls from the woods, with every night-time sound magnified and invested with unseen fears, emotions that grew sharper as he stepped out onto the moonlit playing fields. For all his cultivated rationality, his imagination peopled the shadows with huge, vindictive nuns determined to protect their precious charges, and worse, especially where the chapel pushed out to one side and the pale light showed the angular shapes of gravestones.

The buildings were dark but for a few pallid rectangles, most on the upper floors, which suggested the possibility of catching sight of girls in a state of undress, a thought that gave him fresh courage. There was an athletic pavilion nearby, a low wooden building with its back to the woods, allowing him to keep in shelter for a little longer. As he reached it, he reflected that it would be the perfect place to stage his group spanking, perhaps on a quiet evening when anybody coming across the playing fields would be seen in plenty of time to allow him and his friends to melt unseen into the woods. The back door had even been left open and he peered briefly inside, drawing in the scent of wood polish and girlish exertion, before returning outside to check the voyeuristic possibilities of a line of high, algae encrusted windows at the back. They proved ideal, with the bank allowing him to stand in moderate comfort and look down into the changing area, and he was grinning as he moved on.

With no choice but to cross the open fields, he ducked low and ran, imagining the angry cry of some prowling nun with every step until he had reached the shelter of the wall. Nothing happened, but the wall rose a good two feet above his head and was as well defended as the one at the front; and the single iron gate which offered access to the convent was chained securely shut. Getting in was clearly going to be difficult and dangerous, finding Tiffany would be harder still. Feeling somewhat foolish, he tried to tell himself that the trip had been worthwhile both as a reconnaissance and an act of defiance, but the figure of his Uncle Charles rose up in his mind once more, chiding him for his cowardice and telling him to think out his strategy.

High above him the upper part of the convent was a muddle of roofs, gables and leaded flats. He knew that Tiffany's window looked out over the playing fields from the top floor. He could count eight that might be the one, all dark, two rows of three and a pair, but if she had three neighbors it surely had to be one of the pair. To think of her beyond the window gave him fresh determination. Looking around, there seemed to be two possible ways in. The graveyard wall was low and looked easy to climb. But, while the chapel beyond was sure to have several doors, they seemed likely to be locked. In the opposite direction a long, low building thrust out from the wall—clearly an addition after the convent had first been built. If he could get onto the roof it might be possible to cross the main wall, but a row of windows showed pale with light. He moved closer, keeping to the shadow of the high wall, slow, and slower still as he caught a strange, irregular thumping, then a voice, soft and feminine, singing a psalm. Curiosity overcame his caution and as he reached the first of the windows he peered within.

The building was a laundry, with a double row of tubs and various other more mysterious machines. A nun was working at the tubs, her back turned to Peter as she used a baton of bleached wood to push clothes down into the water. But it wasn't what she was doing that made his eyes grow round and his mouth drop open. She had taken off her habit and wimple, presumably to add them to the wash, leaving her in nothing but her underwear, which was plain and ample, but quite revealing enough to send the blood pumping to his cock, especially as she herself was young and beautiful. Her chest and belly were hidden beneath a full girdle, but it held her heavy breasts high and proud while accentuating the sculpted curves of her waist and hips, with the hem half covering her bottom to leave the seat of her full white panties (and quite a bit of plump young cheek) peeping out beneath. Taut suspender straps led down from her girdle, three at each side, to support thick, tan colored stockings, each topped by a soft bulge of pale thigh. Better still, the way she was working at the tub kept her bottom nicely presented, with her flesh moving to the gentle rhythm of her work.

Time and again Tiffany had railed against the smug, holier-then-thou attitude of the nuns, especially their assumption of superiority through their vows of chastity. To see one of them stripped down to her underwear was a magnificent outrage, better still when she was so attractive, and it was the work of an instant for Peter to free his mischievous cock. He began to masturbate, an act as deliberately and delightfully insolent as it was impossible to resist, all the while praying that she'd add her girdle and panties to the load in the wash tub, treating him to a view of her bare bottom and full breasts.

It was easy to imagine, her girdle unfastened and slipped off to let her breasts loll forward, round and heavy and bare as they swung to the motion of her work, her nipples large and stiff. Then her panties, pushed down over her glorious bottom and down her fine, shapely legs. She'd have to bend down to take them right off, perhaps far enough to allow him one brief, fleeting glimpse of her rear view in its full glory, with her virgin cunt and the tight dimple of her anus naked to his gaze. Not that she showed the least inclination to strip completely, but it was too late anyway. Peter had cum in his hand.

The laundry room had also begun to get steamy, with condensation on the window making it difficult to see. As he sank down against the wall he was glad to have finished in time, and gladder still when the window directly above him was pushed open. He froze, sure that she would lean out and catch him, with his erect cock still sticking out from his trousers, sticky with cum and revealing the full extent of his abominable transgression. But nothing happened, and presently the gentle, rhythmic thump of the washing baton began once more.

Peter moved into the deeper shadows where the laundry jutted out from the wall. As he cleaned himself up, he told himself that he'd done enough for one night: a successful reconnaissance culminating in an act of spectacular impropriety. Tiffany would be delighted, but she would also want to know why he hadn't continued on his mission. He stayed put, his thoughts moving between a bold, near demented delight in his behavior and the further possibilities that cool, reasoned caution would make all the more probable. His orgasm had taken the edge off his need, but he knew he'd be ready again after a few minutes in bed with Tiffany, while the open window above offered a tempting route into the convent, and out again once he was done.

The light went off, the nun's gentle singing receded, but the window remained open, and with that Peter decided to act. He was inside in an instant, blinking in the gloom until his eyes grew accustomed to what little moonlight came in at the windows. The scent of freshly washed clothes was strong in the air, at which a new possibility occurred to him. To think was to act, and he had quickly wriggled himself into a habit and wimple, with his face contorted into a manic, daring grin as he peered out from the laundry room. A corridor led away into dimness that could only be part of the main building. He was inside.

As he started along the corridor he lowered his gaze to the ground and laced his fingers together across his midriff, a meek attitude he assumed typical for a nun. Nobody was there to criticize, the lower part of the convent silent and dark but for the faint glow of nightlights at well spaced intervals. The corridor met another, with doors leading off to either side, one open to reveal the shapes of bulky kitchen equipment, another half-closed, only to swing wide too suddenly for Peter to react.

He stood face to face with a girl, the two of them frozen in shock. Her eyes were wide in a face framed by dark, tousled hair, her pretty mouth slightly open and sticky with jam from the little jar she held in one hand. She looked terrified and was evidently waiting for the supposed nun who had caught her at her crime to speak. Peter hesitated, not sure if he should tell her off, order her to visit the Mother Superior in the morning, even punish her then and there. The first choice seemed inadequate, the second unfair, the third irresistible. He raised his chin and spoke in his renowned imitation of Mrs. Malaprop.

“Put down that jam, girl, and lift your nightie.”

For one awful moment he thought she was going to scream, before her expression of terror gave way to one of sulky compliance. Half turning, she placed the jam on the floor and lifted her nightie at the back, exposing a small, sweetly rounded bottom, already bare, which she then pushed out petulantly, and inadvertently pertly. She braced herself against the wall and Peter swallowed hard, the blood already pumping to his cock for the sight she was presenting. But he managed to keep his voice level as he spoke again, timing his words to five firm smacks across her pert little cheeks.