Lucy's Predicament
Copyright© 2025 by Edward Pembroke
Chapter 7
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Lucy is a shy, awkward and innocent red headed schoolgirl, struggling to deal with school bullies, puberty and becoming the prey of predatory perverts. This is a tale of evil, please do not read if you are after something light and fun.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft ft/ft Fa/ft ft Mult Teenagers Blackmail Coercion NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual FemaleDom Sadistic Spanking Analingus Oral Sex Teacher/Student
Lucy stood rigidly in front of the living-room mirror while Samantha bustled behind her, brushing her daughter’s hair and smoothing her long ankle-length skirt.
“Honestly, Lucy,” Samantha said, “I simply cannot imagine what Ms Trunchbull would think if you turn up in something like that tiny little rag you insist on wearing to school. It barely covers your dignity! When I was your age, Ms Trunchbull would have sent me home to change if my skirt was that short, and quite right too.”
Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but the words died halfway up her throat. It didn’t really matter what length of skirt she wore for the old woman, she supposed.
“Mummy, are you sure it’s a good idea? I don’t really want...”
“Like Ms Trunchbull said,” Samantha tutted sharply, “you’re a child and I will decide what is good for you. She taught me, you know. Finest teacher I ever had. Morals. Standards. None of this modern mollycoddling. I dread to think what your generation would be like without people like her.”
“I don’t like her,” was all Lucy could say, quietly, wishing she had the courage to really tell her mother the truth. But Lucy had never breathed a word of it. Not to anyone.
“Do NOT be cheeky when referring to Ms Trunchbull.”
Samantha suddenly swooped in, grabbing Lucy’s chin. “Hold still!”
Before Lucy could protest, her mother spat on a handkerchief and scrubbed at her cheek.
“Muuuummy!”
“Well, someone has to make you presentable. We can’t have Ms Trunchbull thinking you’re reared in a barn.” Samantha stepped back, assessing the results like a sculptor. “I hope you don’t wear makeup to school. Do I need to inspect you every morning? Ms Trunchbull despises makeup on young ladies. She once wiped lipstick off me with chalkboard cleaner. Taught me a valuable lesson about vanity.”
Lucy closed her eyes. If only wiping her mouth would be the only thing she would have done to her tonight.
“Now—blouse. The cream one. And that lovely cardigan.”
Lucy’s stomach tightened as her mother buttoned it up, wondering how useless it was to be modest.
But she kept her mouth shut and let her mother pull her red hair into a severe ponytail that tugged at her scalp.
Samantha smiled, misty-eyed. “If Ms Trunchbull takes a shine to you, Lucy, she might just turn you into the respectable young lady I know you can be.”
Lucy gave a faint, brittle smile. She doubted that very much.
“And don’t forget the French song,” Samantha added. “She expects you to have learned it. She prizes culture. She always used to say that memorisation builds character.”
Lucy nodded. She had a feeling it would not be the main part of the lesson.
________________________________________ Fifteen minutes later, Samantha pulled up alongside the large house in the nice part of Willowbridge where Ms Trunchbull lived. Samantha insisted on accompanying Lucy to the front door.
“Stop fidgeting,” Samantha muttered as she straightened Lucy’s collar for the fifteenth time. They walked up the path, and Samantha rapped firmly on the large polished door.
It swung open almost at once.
There stood Ms Trunchbull, dressed in a crisp linen blouse and a flowing skirt, her grey hair loosened slightly from its usual tight bun.
“Ah,” she purred, eyes raking over Lucy from head to toe. “How prompt. I do appreciate punctuality.”
Her gaze slid to Samantha. “You may go, Mrs McSworley. Lucy and I have much to discuss.”
Lucy felt her mother stiffen beside her. Samantha hesitated, clutching her purse, torn between pride and disappointment.
“Are you sure...? Oh, well. Thank you again,” she gushed, stepping back.
She gave Lucy’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Be good.”
Ms Trunchbull’s smile widened as she stepped aside to let the girl in.
---------------------------- The moment the front door clicked shut, something inside her dropped. Her protection was gone. Now she was alone with ... this woman.
The air felt colder, Lucy kept her eyes on the ground, terrified to meet those of the woman who she knew was going to violate her ... again.
“Follow me,” she said curtly. Lucy trailed behind her. They entered the living room. Everything was unnervingly tidy: soft chairs arranged in perfect angles, a polished piano reflecting the little light that seeped through the heavy curtains.
Dread coiling through Lucy’s stomach. She wondered, hopelessly, whether this would be different from what had happened at school.
“Do you play the piano, child?” Ms Trunchbull asked without looking back.
“N-no ... no, Ms Trunchbull.”
“A pity,” she snapped. “It’s the mark of a respectable girl.”
She turned slowly, fixing Lucy with a stare that lasted until Lucy raised her eyes to meet hers.
“Now,” Ms Trunchbull said. “Your mother expects proper tuition. Stand up. Hands by your sides. Back straight.”
“Yes miss.” Lucy obeyed, looking at the wall.
“Now, that song I told your mother about. Recie it for me.”
Ms Trunchbull lowered herself onto the sofa facing her, legs crossed neatly. She picked up a half-finished piece of knitting and began working the needles, smiling through her glasses at her.
Lucy swallowed. “Er ... miss, I might need to read it. I ... I can’t remember it all.”
“A pity. Oh, well. Stand straight, girl, and recite.”
She clasped her hands in front of her skirt and took a breath.
“À la claire fontaine...” she began gently, voice wavering.
“M’en allant promener...”
Her mouth felt dry. Ms Trunchbull’s needles clicked softly, rhythmically, her eyes never leaving Lucy’s face.
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