Chapter 11

Mrs Halbrook rang from her room to the secretary “Ah, Angela? Yes, I’m feeling a little under the weather today. I shan’t be able to take morning assembly; I had a call with someone from the Education Department didn’t I? Can you call them and apologise and re-make the appointment? Thank you so much. No, ... yes, I’m sure I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

It was unheard of that Mrs Halbrook should be off sick. She had never taken a day off in living memory. Even the holidays were usually largely spent preparing for the following term, or attending conferences. She was married to the school, everybody knew that. Angela mentioned it to Tanya (who was young, gossipy, and – it was said - ‘no better than she should be’). Tanya had heard the rumour about what went on at the weekend. Like everybody who heard it, even she had dismissed it as tittle-tattle of the most ridiculous nature.

Mrs Halbrook bathed her groin in cool water again, that helped. Then she put the cool damp face cloth on her rear entrance. She smiled, she had rinsed her mouth out twice, but she could still taste (or was it remember?) the salty semen that she had ingested. She had been used, some would say abused, by so many over the weekend. How had she been unable to object? That was the one thing she didn’t understand. It was like the upper school (she knew the whole upper school, including the teachers, had been involved; just not to the level she had) had gone mad. Not as mad as she. She smiled again. She had been assailed by over thirty penises, some in where they should be, some in where they should not; and she had welcomed every suggestion. She was appalled that she had become such a slut so easily, appalled and really rather pleased with herself. She hadn’t thought of herself as a nymphomaniac, more of a strait-laced boring kind of bluestocking. Finding another aspect to her character at her age was exciting.

Her fingers slid to her groin again, “ooooh!”, no, she couldn’t, it was too sore. She had been made to make an exhibition of herself a couple of times; rubbing and stroking while a boy or a man (that Mr Conch was a gay as a bent pikestaff, as her father used to say; but he had enjoyed watching her. He had clapped at the end) watched. Even that was rather exciting, that someone could observe her pleasing herself. It would be a few more days before she would lie in bed in her flannelette nightdress, pulling it up to her waist and remembering the boy with the two foot penis – that’s what it felt like, anyway.