Chapter 9

They stepped into the bedroom together. Ms. Trunchbull’s fingers trailed slowly down Lucy’s spine, savoring the curve of each vertebra. “It’s always best for a young lady to be unclothed when one checks her posture,” she mused. “Such a pity they wear so many clothes these days at school, don’t you think?”

One hand pressed firmly against Lucy’s collarbones, pushing her shoulders back, while the other slid down to the small of her back, arching her spine until she stood straight. “Chin up, child,” Ms. Trunchbull cooed, tilting Lucy’s face upward with a gentle but insistent touch. “That’s it ... good girl.”

Lucy obeyed, her body rigid. Ms. Trunchbull patted her buttocks with approval. “Now, kneel here,” she instructed, guiding Lucy down onto the soft floor in front of the bed. She settled onto the mattress herself, stretching out with an air of entitlement, her skirt riding up slightly as she made herself comfortable.

“Massage my feet again,” she commanded, extending a stockinged leg toward Lucy. “And recite that French poem for me, you’ll want to impress your mother with it when you go home, won’t you?”

“*Le ... lac...” she began, her voice catching as Trunchbull’s toes flexed beneath her hands, the arch pressing demandingly into her palm.

Ms. Trunchbull sighed contently, unbuttoning her top with deliberate slowness. Lucy tried to keep her eyes on the stocking feet in her hands, but her gaze flickered upward as Ms. Trunchbull uncrossed her legs. The skirt parted just enough to reveal the tops of her stockings, the white flashes of flesh above them. Lucy’s breath hitched—she shouldn’t be looking, but she couldn’t help it.

Ms. Trunchbull’s brassiere was utilitarian, thick-strapped, the kind meant to contain rather than adorn. She arched her back slightly, rolling one shoulder as if working out a stiffness. “Keep going, child,” she smiled down at Lucy, her fingers suddenly tweaking Lucy’s nipple.

Ms. Trunchbull delighted in the small, rubbery resilience of Lucy’s nipples, cherry red against the alabaster white of her skin. She cupped the slight half-moons of Lucy’s breasts, her thumbs brushing over the delicate buds.

“Such perfect little things,” she murmured. “Like the first blush of fruit—still hard, still green ... so fleeting, so precious. When I taught your mother at your age, she was already a woman, large, full breasts. But you...” Her fingers traced the ribs of Lucy’s chest. “Soon you will be a woman, and you won’t be like this anymore, so tight, so innocent. I like to ... savour it before it’s gone ... forever.”

Lucy’s face burned crimson. She’d always hated her flat, childish chest, praying for curves while dreading them. Yet this older woman loved them? As Ms. Trunchbull’s thumbs rolled and pinched her nipples, Lucy bit her lip, feeling the heat flood to between her legs.

The feet slipped from Lucy’s hands as Ms. Trunchbull planted them firmly on the floor and rose, towering above her. The woolen skirt swished against Lucy’s face. Then, a sharp, audible click, and the skirt pooled at the headmistress’s ankles.

There, just inches from the youngster’s face, were black lace knickers, the suspenders clinging to thick, fleshy hips, the stockings taut over powerful thighs. Lucy had never seen suspenders before, had barely even glimpsed a woman’s undergarments other than her mother in a swimsuit, and now she was eye-level with the sheer, intimidating expanse of Ms. Trunchbull’s body. The older woman was all curves, her thighs thick and strong, her stomach pale and soft.

Lucy did not know where to look.

“A lesson between the two of us. Try and remove my suspenders, little one.”

Lucy’s fingers hovered over the metal clasps. The metal of the fastenings contrasted with the warm, giving flesh beneath. She fumbled with the first clasp, her thumbnail slipping before it sprang open with a sharp snick. The strap slithered down like a black satin serpent.

“Good girl.” Ms Trunchbull tangled her fingers in the red hair of the schoolgirl as she worked on the suspender on her other thigh. “Does your mother wear suspenders like this?”

“Err ... I don’t know Miss...” Lucy struggled with other clasp, the lace of the older woman’s knickers brushing her knuckles, the scent of something like talcum powder coming from within the black lace.

“I’m surprised you don’t know. We both know you wear your mother’s underwear from time to time, don’t we?” Her fingers massaged the girl’s scalp. “They’re quite appealing, I think. In fact, I once pushed to make them part of the girls’ school uniform. Imagine, suspenders, lace, stockings, every day. A shame it was rejected.”

The clasp gave way, leaving only the sheer stockings clinging to her legs. Lucy ran her fingers around the remaining suspender belt, looking for the clasp there, her nose practically touching the older woman’s panty clad crotch, her hands brushing over her headmistress’ firm muscular buttocks.

Finally, the last clasp gave way, and the suspender belt fell away. Lucy exhaled, she’d done it, like the nice, obedient girl she was. She looked up, and saw Ms. Trunchbull’s breasts, spilling over the black cups of her bra, and between them, the headmistress’s face looking down at her.

The older woman sat down on the bed again, spreading her legs, the black triangle of fabric between her legs drawing Lucy’s eyes as the small girl remained kneeling.

“Touch my stockings, child, I can see you are fascinated.”

Lucy’s fingers crept along the nylon, tracing the curve of muscle beneath through the sheer fabric. She hesitated at the pale softness of her upper thighs, where faint blue veins—the only betrayal of age—threaded beneath still-firm flesh. But when her knuckles brushed the lace edge of the knickers, she snatched her hand back, as if scalded.

Ms. Trunchbull chuckled. “Oh, don’t be shy now.” She caught Lucy’s wrist, guiding the girl’s palm flat against her inner thigh. Lucy’s breath came shallow.

“Look at me, child.”

Lucy raised her eyes to meet Ms. Trunchbull’s heavy-lidded gaze.

“You are so pretty. So young. I can see I will have to teach you what your mother has not.”

With that, she guided Lucy’s small hand directly over the damp lace of her knickers. Lucy twitched violently, but her puny strength was no match for the vice-like grip holding her in place.

“Ah-ah,” Ms. Trunchbull chided, as she arched forward, her breasts pressing against Lucy’s forehead. “Does this frighten you?” Her thumb traced slow circles over Lucy’s wrist, her grip unyielding. “Your mother’s never shown you this, has she? Never let you touch her like this?”

Lucy’s fingertip snagged on the seam of the panties, and she touched bare wet flesh underneath. She didn’t understand, was it normal for girls to think about sex with her own mother as this woman kept insinuating? Was any of this normal? Or was Ms Trunchbull a pervert who was doing something that was illegal? She did not know what to think, it was all too much for a young girl.