School for Nurses (14 page)

‘I wasn't responsible for this!' Anna declared. ‘How could I be?'

‘I don't care how, you just are!' her boss barked back. ‘Go get my merchandise! You don't get the merchandise back, you got no job!' He stuck the money he had been counting in his pockets, and left. He walked past the window on his way down the pavement, and watching him go, she caught sight of the old man, Pat Walker, putting one of her store's more expensive dresses on a mannequin inside the charity shop's display window.

 

‘I'm very sorry,' she found herself saying to Pat a few minutes later where she once again stood in the back room of his shop, ‘about before.'

‘About what before?' he asked cheerfully.

‘The... misunderstanding.' She blushed. Despite herself, she could feel something inside her, deep down inside her, stirring for this old man, which made matters even worse. It was like being attacked from both sides, inside and out.

‘Oh? I thought you said it wasn't your stock, little one.'

‘Well, you see, my boss says I've got to get it back. It's our stock, all right.'

‘Oh. Then what was the misunderstanding about?' He looked genuinely perplexed.

‘I just... I'm sorry, I didn't... I'm sorry more young women don't stop by and say hello. I'm sorry they don't... give of themselves. It must make your job very...'

‘Lonely? No, I don't think so. You know, I believe there
was
a misunderstanding. I don't think this is your stock at all, that's why I've begun putting it out. That dress in the window, lovely, isn't it?'

‘Don't...'

‘Don't what?'

‘Nothing,' she said quickly.

‘Yes, well, it's amazing what some people leave out. It's a waste, I say.'

‘Please,' Anna begged softly.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I have to get all the stock back,' she whispered in desperation. ‘My boss will kill me if I don't. He'll...'

‘He'll what?'

‘It is our stock!'

‘I tell you what,' Pat Walker said, ‘as it's your stock, and you model it to the customers over there... that's what you do, isn't it, model?'

‘I'm the manager... well, the assistant manager.'

‘One of these must fit you, mustn't it? Stands to reason, doesn't it, little one? One of these must fit you, if it's your stock and you modelled it. So, why not try one of them on for me and see how it hangs?'

‘You don't wear anything under dresses like these,' Anna heard herself say, and blushed suddenly, even though she wasn't sure why. ‘You can't get such a fine dress to hang over a bra and panties.'

‘Is that a problem?' Pat asked, his eyes twinkling. ‘You don't have anything I haven't seen before, unless women have changed in the last few decades. Have women changed, little one?'

Her blush deepened; he was getting to her, this decrepit old man was actually getting to her! ‘Where could I change? And it's cold...'

‘You could change right here. I'll put the gas fire on for you. Just change right here, my dear. It's a cold world out there for the charitable. You don't have to have stock, we manage here without it, I'm just not sure
you
can manage, without your job, that is. Can you manage without it, little one?'

Anna sighed.

He put the gas fire on for her. Its two bars, gold and red, flickered cosily as she stood in the back room of the charity shop and handed her clothes over to him. First came her shoes, black stilettos heels shiny as coals. He took them from her, and set them down on a shelf full of stuffed bears. Then she rolled her tights down from beneath her skirt with her back to him, so as not to show him too much. But he got impatient and rested a hand on her bottom, a light, appreciative hand.

‘Please, don't,' she said.

‘Is it your stock, or mine?' he asked gently.

‘We'll see,' her own voice sounded strangely husky to her, ‘once I've tried it on.' She took her skirt off.

His eyes travelled up and down her long legs. She stood there in her panties and a bodice over her strapless bra as he laid the fine garment she was to put on over an empty dress stand. Then he waited.

Sighing again, she reached behind to snap open the bodice, and then bent forward to let it fall off her.

He took it from her. ‘Now take off your bra,' he said.

‘Do I have to?' she asked in the petulant tone of a little girl.

‘The stock doesn't belong to anyone,' he said, ‘it's what you give that gets you to heaven.'

She reached back again, and unhooked her bra. The lace cups fell away and her breasts, full and pink and standing erect in the chilly room, hung free. She gasped when his frail, dry hand immediately took hold of one of them and caressed it as gently as he had before. ‘And my panties?' she whispered.

‘You don't have to take those off, my dear,' he said, smiling. ‘What's a gentleman for?' And he slipped his fingers into her panties, slipped them down around her thighs, and cupped her warm young mound in his cool old hand. He fumbled a bit with his fly, and she instinctively reached out to help him pull his zipper down, curious to reach inside his pants and feel his wiry white hairs.

When, on her knees before him, she had licked him erect - her tongue awakening a surprisingly big and firm prick out of all that soft, snowy hair - he made her lie back on a pile of coats beside the softly hissing gas fire. Then he spread her legs and drove his cock into her slowly. Eventually, she found herself coming as the old man kept thrusting patiently into her pussy, seemingly in no rush to come himself. She groaned as she climaxed, and afterwards he caressed her brow gently. ‘Little one,' he said, ‘you just don't meet the right men.'

 

In the morning she woke up on the creased coats covered with a blanket Pat had spread over her. And in the doorway of the charity shop's loading bay at the back of the store stood her manager handing Pat a twenty-pound note. ‘It's very cheap storage, don't you think, Anna? Very cheap storage back here for stock, not expensive like it is across the street.' Her boss laughed. ‘You like this old man? In my country we have a saying, “look after the old, because what you give them you will one day take for yourself”. Don't forget the dress!' And he left, trailing laughter behind him.

Pat helped her up. She was still naked, and he insisted she put on the expensive garment. ‘No, you earned it,' he said when she protested. ‘It is your stock, little one. Don't you let it get cold.' And he kissed her until she felt that wonderful golden warmth in her pussy again.

‘Do you watch old movies, little one?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well then, why don't you bend over this chair for me like a good girl.'

She did as he said, and he lifted the shining dress up over her lovely bottom, and took a cane to it. He used an old bamboo cane someone had donated, a swishy cane that seemed to cut right through her flesh. When he lifted the weapon up for her to see, her eyes widened in alarm, but he promised her he would be gentle. She nodded, and lowering her head, waited for the first stroke to fall.

It burned impossibly. ‘Ah!' she cried.

‘Only five more,' Pat said. ‘You can't have less than six, it's tradition.'

‘Please, just use your hand, Mr Walker,' she begged. ‘I'm not as strong as women used to be. I'm...'

‘Just a girl,' Pat finished for her. ‘All right, little one, just my hand, but it'll have to be the full dozen then on your lovely bottom.'

She nodded, and bit her lip.

The spanks were soft, at first, and after the terrible burn of the cane, they barely hurt. He smacked her on each cheek, and then let her rest a moment. Gradually, however, her bottom began glowing as it warmed up, and by the tenth smack her cheeks were blazing like a furnace. He stopped to caress them, and to cool their heat by blowing on them.

‘Two more, then a treat,' he said, and spanked her two more times before, to her amazement, he broke out a small jar of cold cream. ‘Oh no, little one, good girls deserve favours.' And his fingers rubbed the wonderfully cool cream into her flaming buttocks, very slowly and gently, until the fiery discomfort dimmed and flowed down into her pussy as a deliciously exciting warmth. And then he greased her, his cunning fingers dipping down into the valley between her now cool, sleek cheeks. His cold-cream laden finger thrust gently into her anus, and then his slim old cock slipped comfortably deep into her bottom. He penetrated her with surprising strength and speed, and glancing over her shoulder at him, she could have sworn that as he took her from behind, ramming his miraculously rampant old rod into her willing buttocks, Pat Walker looked like a young man... it was nineteen-thirty again and she was coming and coming forever...

 

 

 

Cora Brown taught piano in her tiny apartment at the top of the tower block, and the pupils who came to her - from the local school that couldn't afford to keep a full-time music teacher on staff - were mostly boys. She had taught girls once a few years ago, but now most of her students were boys, and she sometimes wondered if this had anything to do with her outfits.

She taught A-Level piano for boys sixteen to eighteen-years-old, and she wore tight dresses that hugged her breasts and tied her blonde hair back in a prim little bun that left her bosom and elegant shoulders fully exposed.

Sometimes, in the summer especially, she wore skimpy shorts. A breeze would play through the tall tower block windows she enjoyed feeling on her bare legs, and all the students who walked through her door invariably looked down at her thighs, and blushed.

Her star pupil, who was taking his exams this summer, was Paul. He was blond and thin but solidly built, he had long, angular hands ideal for a pianist, and he hated practice. Yet he played like an angel when he made the effort.

He could definitely play, she reflected as she pinned her hair up in the hall mirror just prior to his arrival. He played like a devil. But he didn't like to practice, and if he didn't practice, he would fail his exams, and that would be that.

 

‘Do it again, Paul,' she said after he had taken a trial run at the short Grieg.

He was not wearing a school uniform; the sixth formers wear permitted to wear their own clothes to school. Personally, she liked the regulation blazers and ties.

Paul, however, was obviously much more comfortable in his blue tracksuit bottoms and grey sweatshirt, and he wasn't in the least bit interested in playing Grieg again. He was staring at her breasts, and he didn't blush when he looked up and caught her eyes on him. He simply turned his head and stared out the window at some pigeons perched on the ledge.

‘Paul...' she said.

‘Yes?'

‘Do you want to fail?'

‘What's the difference, it's all a con anyway. I'm not going to play the piano when I get out of school, I can't get a grant.'

‘You can play for pleasure.'

‘No pleasure in it,' he replied shortly.

She sighed. This was always the way it was with Paul. He made a show of his resistance, and then he got the piece in his head and the notes flowed like water off his fingers. But he didn't have any time to waste now. This was the exam piece, and he only had two weeks to get it right. ‘There will be time for pleasure later,' she assured him.

‘I can't concentrate,' he said.

‘Paul, you're the best student they've got. If you fail, they might lose the funding for the music option.'

‘Not my fault.' He looked bored as he snuck another glance at her breasts.

She let out a slow, patient breath, and watched his gaze follow her bosom up and down. Suddenly she was annoyed. ‘Paul, I could lose my job!' she snapped. ‘I could lose this flat! And then you couldn't stare at my tits any more!'

He met her eye. ‘If I couldn't look at them, I wouldn't come here at all.' He smiled. He wasn't even embarrassed by what he had just said.

‘Is that all you come here for?' she demanded, really angry now. And, for some reason, she was blushing. Perhaps she was a little flattered too...

‘No offence, Cora... I mean, Miss Brown.'

‘I try to teach you something,' she muttered, ‘and what do I get for it?'

‘Not my fault if there's no pleasure for me in playing.'

‘What would it take to get you to practice, Paul?'

‘I don't know.' He looked her up and down. ‘A bit of fun, I think.'

‘Looking at my breasts?' she asked, more out of desperation than anything.

‘Yeah, all right.'

‘What?'

‘I'll practice if you show me your breasts. It's a start, isn't it?'