My name is Jim Priest. I’m a private investigator tracking down a stolen ancient artefact[JIMP#19]. The trail had led to St.Agatha’s Domestic Service College, London, where I was posing as an IT manager [JIMP#21]. It looked like Principal Newman was passing on stolen antiques to an auction house, J.T. Holland & Sons of Kensington [JIMP#22]. This was one of those ‘by appointment’ places only accessible to the filthy rich. They weren’t listed in the phone book or on search engines. I even searched through several society magazines and specialist antique journals before finally coming across a discrete advertisement for ‘the discerning connoisseur of antiquities’. This gave a web server IP address that needed an account to gain access. Membership was invitation-only, but a post office box number was given for application. Using a pseudonym and a PO box of my own, I applied but received no reply, evidently not making the grade of their clientele.

From my former profession in IT, I knew of some tools for assessing IT security (if you get my drift). Tailoring these together with a Perl script, I developed something that could be left running on a server. I was just fine-tuning this when a young woman’s voice made me jump. “Oi! What’re you up to?”. Instinctively, I blanked the screen. “Looking at porno websites again?”. I breathed easy; it was one of the resident students, Michelle Wellington. Slim, blonde, and quite pretty, Michelle stood about 5’6”. Long, golden hair swept down from a high forehead, over her ears, and down below her slender shoulders. Her face was quite long, with slender blue eyes, a slim nose, and a small mouth. Fair-skinned with a good complexion, she wore no makeup. Her voice was soft with a West London accent.

Despite being a college, Principal Newman insisted on dress etiquette for the students to ‘better prepare them for their station in life’. For girls, this was a white blouse, a black cardigan, a matching knee-length skirt, and low-heeled shoes.

“You startled me. I was just looking at something.” I replied. “Yeah, porn,” she said with a grin. “No.” Un-blanking the screen and hoping she hadn’t seen me tab to the next window, the screen came back to life showing the Holland’s logon page. “See?” “Oh,” she said. “Is it alright for me and the girls to come down tonight and use the computers?” she asked. I’m a sucker for a pretty face; anyway, Michelle and her friends were quite studious. “OK, as long as you don’t bring your brother,” I told her.

Martin Wellington was bored and fed up. He was bored of this place, fed up being only 4’2”, and sick of adults thinking he was an angelic-looking angel. That might suit his sister, older by a couple of years, but he wanted people to know he was tough. He wanted to be the top bully. It was his sister’s entire fault. He remembered that day back at 6th form college.

Michelle came storming into the tutor room where Martin was lounging on a table with his mates. “You’ve done it this time, you little squirt,” she said angrily, marching up to him. “I’ve warned you before to keep out of my love life.” Martin burst into laughter. “No one wants to date me because of you,” she told him. “No one wants to date you because you’re a cow,” he replied. He thought that was funny and looked at his mates to make sure they did too. Suddenly, he found his sister’s hand between his legs, grabbing his balls and twisting sharply. “Ohhiiiiii,” a shrill noise came from Martin’s mouth, rising through several octaves. “You little prick, I’m going to twist these right off,” Michelle spat. “Noooo,” he cried shrilly as she twisted his balls tighter and tighter. His body jerked uncontrollably as waves of sharp pain tore through his scrotum.

A lucky kick pushed Michelle away. She just flung herself straight back, and together they tumbled to the floor. Martin landed on his back, his sister falling on top of him. “Orph,” Martin felt his sister’s knees land heavily in the pit of his stomach. Winded, he watched his big sister swiftly hop forwards to the top of his chest, pinning his arms with her long, bare legs. Although slim, her greater build and weight meant he was unable to unseat her. To add to his embarrassment, he could see right up his sister’s skirt that had ridden up over her thighs, to the obvious delight of his mates. “Phroar, you lucky bastard,” one of his mates shouted. Martin didn’t think himself lucky.

WHACK WHACK WHACK. “I hate you. Hate you. Hate you!” the venomous shouts were accompanied by hard, open palm slaps to his cheeks that stung and rocked his face from one side to the other. She was furious. Martin had never seen her as angry as this before. Maybe he and his mates shouldn’t have attacked that boy she fancied with hockey sticks. Pinned and unable to fight back, Martin was red-faced from the stinging slaps, embarrassment, and futile rage. How dare his bitch-sister humiliate him like this? WHACK WHACK WHACK. “Hate. Despise. Loath”. The slaps continued, not decreasing in their intensity.

The slapping suddenly stopped. Martin looked up at Michelle and saw her lips curled in such hatred that it gave him the chills. “Get off me, you silly bitch.” The look of hatred intensified. With dawning horror, he saw his pretty sister actually clench her fist. “No, wait...”. WHAM WHAM WHAM “I HATE you. HATE. HATE!”. His sister screamed, pummelling his face. Martin felt explosions of agony as her fists smashed into his face over and over again. “HATE. HATE. HATE”. She wasn’t holding back. Hard punches driven by her fury rained down on his face. Punches much stronger than he would have expected from a girl. Martin was panicking; her punches really hurt. His face ached; he could feel the bruises on his cheeks and tasted blood on his lips. Embarrassingly, a girl was smashing his face, and there was nothing he could do about it except try not to cry like a wimp.

Apparently, it took two male teachers to pull her, kicking and screaming, off him. He didn’t remember. She had punched his lights out long before.

They were both expelled. Martin thought that was excellent. Michelle was moody and glared daggers at him. She had wanted qualifications and all that nerdy crap. Unfortunately, his parents agreed. However, none of the local colleges would take them. Then came the man from the Ministry. “Have you considered entering your children into Domestic Service?” he asked. “Certainly not!” their parents protested. “There is a college in London, St.Agatha’s, specialising in training young people for a career in Domestic Service. Not only would they obtain top academic qualifications but also a guaranteed job at the end of it”. “I thought that kind of servitude had died out,” their father said. The Government man laughed. “Oh no, not at all. The gap between the classes has never been greater. The rich are getting richer, buying bigger, grander estates. The demand for domestic staff is growing, and with rising unemployment, your children would get the pick of the best jobs”.

Although they lived in West London, near Heathrow Airport, it was too costly and too long to commute daily on the overcrowded tube trains. They were given a boarding place during the week in attic bunkrooms in exchange for performing daily chores. Martin hated the place. His mates were going to a proper college. This dump was like something from Victorian times. It was very strict, trying to ‘instil a sense of subservience to the ruling classes’. He hated it; he wasn’t going to be anybody’s slave. Sod the chores. Michelle could do his share. He wanted to have fun, muck around, and most of all, become Top Bully.

One of his old mates told him how much he was enjoying life at university; how he had a large study-bedroom as well as sharing a kitchen with 20 girls and one other guy. Martin had to share a bunkroom with 19 other boys and eat the slop they laughingly called food in the refectory. His dorm mates were either wimps or geeks that he bullied or older, bigger burkes that tried to stop him. The few blokes he did get along with weren’t residents.

Martin was bored. He thought about bullying some girls. However, their dorms were only accessible by a staircase from the girls’ assembly hall. That was strictly out of bounds for males. The last time he had tried, he had been caught by the Ice Queen, Ms. Butcher, and didn’t want to repeat the experience. Instead, he sneaked down to the basement, heading for the poolroom, narrowly avoiding Maria the cleaner. It was said that she and Ms.Butcher beat up a handful of intruders [JIMP#21], but he didn’t believe that. The poolroom was just past the indoor swimming pool from which he had been banned for dive-bombing the wimps and nerds.

The double doors to the pool swung outwards. For a moment, he thought that it was one of the staff. Then out strode Carol Connor, a girl a few years older than him. She was a nice, intelligent, studious type who didn’t like confrontation. Oh yes, thank God. Things were looking up; he was going to have fun after all. The girl sees him and, to Martin’s pleasure, visibly jumps. Her face turns white, and her body starts to tremble. “You aren’t allowed in the pool after hours,” he shouts. He was pleased to see that her hands were shaking so much that she dropped her swimming kit bag.

Carol was slender, about 5’5” with short, wavy brown hair that wore high over the forehead and just covering her ears. Her face was squarish with a rounded chin sitting atop a long, slender neck. Slender eyebrows arched over big, bright brown eyes, in between which was a sturdy nose with a rounded end. Thin lips graced a small mouth that was usually smiling, giving her perky prettiness. Martin only saw a victim. “And you haven’t got my permission to be down here. You’re in big trouble,” he sneered. Carol trembled, nervous glances twitching one way then the other. She wore the regulation uniform.

The girl was shaking like a leaf. “M-M-Ms Butcher said I c-can p-practice,” she stuttered, her face going red and her eyes brimming with tears. Carol was swimming training for selection for the Olympics. Well, he’ll fix that! “Are you back-chatting me?” he sneered, standing on his toes to bring his face closer to hers. “N-no,” she whispered. “I think you need to be taught a lesson in respect,” he snarls, his lip curling for emphasis. She was in tears now; he felt good. “I don’t want to ever see you down here again. Understand?” he spat. “M-my t-training,” she whimpered. “You back-chatting me again!” he screamed in her face. Her body was quivering, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Martin poked her in her chest, his finger pressing her small breast. “Look at you. Nothing but a bag of nerves.” He pokes her again, enjoying the sensations as her breasts move. He’ll get her wet so she’ll have to take her top off. Pulling his victim by the arm, he towed her through the double doors. “P-please,” she begs. “Shut up and come on, or it’ll be worse for you,” he tells her. “You need to be punished. You’re going for a swim,” he chuckles.

Dragging her to the pool edge, Carol is panicking and pulls back. “N-n-no, please.” He laughs nastily as he gives her a hard pull towards the pool. Suddenly, he feels a sharp kick in the shins. The unexpected defiance causes Martin to lose his grip on her, and without her counterweight, he falls into the pool. Spluttering and weighted down by his wet clothes, he wipes the water from his eyes and shouts after the swinging doors, “Come back here. I’m going to make you suffer for that.”

The next day, Martin spotted Carol partway down a crowded corridor. “You! Come here,” he shouted, causing heads to turn. Carol blanched, turned, and ran in the opposite direction. “Come here, you effing bitch!” he shouted, barging other students out of the way. He pursued her down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. He was puffing up the steps, but the girl didn’t slow. “Stop! I’m warning you,” he yelled, but she kept running. Giving chase, his prey fled through a set of double doors and into the girls’ assembly hall. Without slowing, Martin presented his shoulder to the doors, expecting them to swing open. WHAM!. He collided at high speed with doors that barely budged. “Ow! For fuck’s sake,” he cried, rubbing his shoulder.

Through the glass panes in the upper part of the doors, he could make out a blonde head on the other side. Someone had deliberately leaned against the doors to stop them from opening. “You’re dead meat! Open the effing door, or I’ll smash your face in,” he yelled.

He felt a hand on his shoulder that he brushed off. “Don’t touch me, you bastard,” he yelled at the older boy. Priest, Bobby Priest, that was his name. “You know only the girls are allowed in there,” Priest said. “Fuck off Bastard Priest,” he shouted. The bastard’s been sniffing around Michelle. “And leave my sister alone, you bastard,” he cried, swinging a fist towards Bobby’s face.

The punch didn’t connect. One of the doors burst open, slamming right into Martin’s face, the wood flattening his nose. “You bastard!” he yelled, clutching his nose. It hurt but wasn’t bleeding. “You fucking bastard. You effing effing bastard. I’ll fucking kill you,” he screamed.

“Go on then, you little toad. I like to see you try,” a voice as loud as a foghorn boomed out. The loud noise made Martin jump. Oh crap. He didn’t need to look to know whom it belonged to. Crap, it’s Sharon Cartwright. The one person who had a worse reputation than him.

He looked up to see the archetypical tomboy: 5’6” with short, wiry, unkempt blonde hair and an angry red face. Unattractive with a bad complexion, glaring brown eyes, a broad nose, and a large mouth with thick lips, her large, square face seemed to be permanently red. A thick, boyish body bore plump breasts that no male would dare gaze upon. She wore the required white blouse, a black skirt with socks, and plain shoes. “Come on then. What’re you waiting for, you little toe-rag? You think you’re so tough; have a go.” Her voice was loud, deep, and gruff.

“Has anyone ever mistaken you for a girl?” Martin sneered. Her face got redder, and her lip curled, baring her teeth. “You must have permanent PMT; you’re always in a bad mood,” he jibed. They stood glaring at each other. The short, would-be top bully and the tough tomboy. “You better shut that mouth, or I’ll shut it for you, shrimp,” she bellowed. “I’ll deck you with just one punch. You’ll be drinking your meals through a straw for a month,”. She added.

Martin had heard rumours that she could lay out a guy with a single punch, but they must have been wimps. Although he remembered what had happened to Billy Field. Billy was in the refectory loudly telling everyone that the singers on reality TV shows were crap and used auto-tuning. “Take that back, Field!” Sharon bellowed, stomping across the hall. Billy looked nervous. “It’s true; it’s all faked,” he said. “I don’t hit a man with glasses; take them off,” she ordered. Billy wasn’t stupid enough to do that. “Have it your way,” she hollered. Instead of punching him in the face, a strong upper cut hammered his groin so hard that he couldn’t sit without a cushion for a month.