Hunting The Teacher	Back to D	Back to main page

Collected by Djian
update jan 17 - 2011

Another story by Wolverine

MF/fff, nc, abduct, bnd, D/s, humil

Hunting The Teacher
by WOLVERINE 

PART 1

The parade of sixth-form schoolgirls marched back from the games lesson towards the equipment store in ones, twos and threes, chatting together but only a little, for they were tired. The fourth-form boys watched them pass with hungry eyes, noting how the firm breasts pressed and heaved against the uneven white material of their tops and how the bulging arse-cheeks filling the tight navy-blue knickers shifted against one another as they walked. No two arses were the same: they varied in size, shape and the adequacy of the covering, for a few slivers of arse-cheek escaped from the elasticated edges of the knickers. The boys discussed the girls – their legs, their arses, their tits, their rumoured sexual adventures or virginity. Some of them, though it was not obvious in this kit, were prefects, and for all these boys that made them not only enemies but traitors. The William Slocumbe School was a rough place, a difficult one for anyone representing authority, but while most of the boys recognised that teachers were doing a job for pay – much as a professional soldier might hold no malice against an enemy soldier he shot – the kids who agreed to support and uphold that authority deserved contempt and no mercy. From time to time a male prefect was beaten up on his way home from school or jumped and smashed up by attackers who knew where he lived. Once or twice even the police had been involved, but they had encountered a wall of silence from the youth. As for the girl prefects, it was considered among the boys a noble duty and a badge of honour to rape one wherever she could be caught; and if one was caught by girls, not boys, her fate was likely to be even worse.

At the end of the parade of teenage arses came one slightly more mature and fuller than most, packaged quite differently. The boys had watched the blue parade with lust, but the new attraction excited their wolfish desires even more. It was four or five times the size of the thing’s head and constrained in a tight off-white skirt with little blue and dark grey flecks. Because of the tightness of the skirt the arse could not move fast. Because the shoes the thing wore were quite high heeled, the arse angled up, inviting all the world to attack it. The massive round cheeks worked up and down, sliding against one another. Above it, breasts that were quite large and firm jiggled against the fabric of a bright blue blouse with (on a hot day) the top button invitingly undone. Above that was a pretty, intelligent, innocent-looking face with big eyes, topped by neat brown hair cut short. It was Miss Barrett, the young teacher whose arse had won 91% of the votes in a secret poll for the William Slocumbe arse of the century. As Miss Barrett’s arse waddled past, the tall, wolfish boy called Larter spoke.

“What an arse! I’d fuck that now given the chance!”

“Good target for an air-rifle,” the stocky lad called Moffat added.

“Fancy it on the dinner table with a fucking big kitchen knife,” said the fat lad Hoggart.

“Strip her, tie her up and whip her till she howled, then fuck her,” the studious Oates ruled. Neither of the black lads had spoken, but the bigger one, Chandler, a gang leader, wolf-whistled loud enough for the young teacher to hear (though she pretended not to and kept on walking) and then commented,

“White tail like that is black man’s breakfast. Like they made us slaves and now we make them slaves, but only the juicy ones. I’d fuck her till her cunt came out of her arsehole.” The other lads laughed at the image and the smaller black one, Hull, added,

“Make her crawl around like a dog and get a great fucking big dog to fuck her!” This was impressive imagination and all the others signalled their agreement. There was just time for Larter to pick up the small, hard, red cricket ball he had lifted from some wet kids trying to play cricket, take aim, and throw it, scoring a direct hit on the middle of the right arse-cheek of the retreating target. She shrieked and this time turned round. The boys ran, cheering and laughing.

Susan Barrett was enough of a realist to realise there was no point pursuing them or trying to identify the one who had thrown that ball. Gingerly rubbing her bruised bottom, she continued on her way. If she had caught the lad, in any case, she would have had to report him to the Headmaster Mr Sexton, and the lad would have been suspended. She had argued passionately with the Head about his tendency to suspend unruly kids, arguing that calm love and personal attention were more effective in the long run, and had incurred his contempt. She did not want to climb down or be inconsistent. If she found out who the lad was, she would talk to him quietly about why he had done that.

A few days later some of the same lads met again, this time outside the science classroom where Miss Barrett taught, some coming from a lesson and others going to one.

“What’s the fat-arsed cow wearing today?” Chandler asked Hoggart.
“The tight skirt and the blouse you can see her tits down,” the fat lad replied.
“Good. Anyone sent a Bunsen burner flame up her cunt yet?”
“If they did, I didn’t notice. Look – Oates and Larter were talking. They want some kids to meet after school to talk about Miss Bummy Barrett. They want you there.”
“Sounds good. Outside the main gates?”
“Yes.” Miss Barrett greeted her new class with a smile. Once they had all sat down and brought out their books, she turned to write something on the blackboard, quite unaware of the intake of breath and the cocks rising under the benches.

At the end of the day kids young and old were streaming out of the gates, most of them eager to get home. Most of those that noticed the growing knot of lads just outside, which included all those who had watched the parade of blue-wrapped arses plus a few more, gave it a wide berth. Larter and Chandler were best not offended and it was obvious they were up to something that probably was bad news for someone. Most girls in particular kept well clear, fearing that Larter and Chandler were looking for a new recruit to what they called The Herd, a group of girls under thair orders and too frightened to disobey; but then three of the older girls came out together and headed straight for the group of boys.

“That everyone you invited?” Chandler asked the white lad.

“Yeah. Every one I asked was up for it,” he replied. “Did you ask the girls?”

“Yeah. They’re all cool, all good for a bit of fun and they’d all like to see Barrett sorted – Smail because she’s a lezzie, Finnegan because she’s sex mad and Bruno because Barrett stopped her twisting some stupid little stuck-up kid’s ear.”

“Fine, we’re all in favour of equal opportunities in this school!” Larter declaimed, imitating Miss Barrett herself.

“O.K. – I called this meeting, but Hoggart and Oates had the idea,” Larter announced. “You want to tell us all about it?” Hoggart and Oates looked at one another. Hoggart started, his fat face quivering with excitement.
“We all talk about that stupid cow Barrett a lot. Kids have got her on the arse with cricket balls and tennis balls. There was that time she walked through a half-open door and got a bucket of piss all down her. Some kids have tried looking up her skirt and Hull here got a classic photo and put it on YouTube. We all know that. But with respect, that’s kids’ stuff. We talk about her cunt but none of us has seen it, still less stuck something in it. For all we know, it doesn’t exist. It’s not good enough. Over to you.” The studious-looking lad took over the story.

“We know how she goes home. She walks down Cambridge Road and left into Barclay Avenue and right along it to the footbridge and over that to the railway station. She goes two stops on the train to Hunter’s Park. Stupid cow says walking is healthy. Well, it won’t be healthy for her if we do what I’m suggesting. You know down Barclay Avenue there’s a lot of big houses with big front gardens, lots of bushes and stuff. A few of us follow her. A few others will have got ahead of her and will walk back so we’ve got her sandwiched. We jump her and drag her behind the bushes.” He was sounding breathless and more and more excited. “Then we fuck her everywhere it’ll go in. We can do it tomorrow.”
“What if she tells?” asked Hull.
“She won’t,” Chandler replied. “I know where her kid sister lives. Anyway, she’ll be so scared of us when we’ve finished she won’t dare tell. Shock and awe, yeah?”
“We’ll probably need to soften her up a bit first,” Hoggart commented.
“Oh, great! I volunteer!” Veronica Bruno hissed.
“What if someone in the house sees?” asked Lucy Finnegan. Oates had an answer.
“I’ve been watching a group of houses and I’ve asked Hussein here – he lives in Barclay Avenue. Number 44’s on the side she walks. It has a holly hedge at the front and then some big rhododendrons. Some old fart lives there alone and doesn’t go out much. It’s ideal.”
“Are we doing it, then?” Larter asked. The replies were enthusiastic. “O.K. – one by one, swear to rape her and not to tell,” he instructed. One by one willingly, with shining eyes, they swore.

In the middle of that Miss Barrett herself walked past carrying a big bag full of homework to mark. She smiled and waved at the kids. Some of them she knew were outwardly rather hard cases, but she firmly believed if they were treated well they would respond, and the friendly small black kid Hull and the shy, hardworking Oates were both rather sweet. In fact, she suspected Oates had a bit of a crush on her, which was sweet but not to be encouraged too far. The kids smiled and waved back.
“Have a nice evening, Miss! See you tomorrow,” Larter called.
“Thankyou,” she called back, and smiled again sweetly.

Throughout the next day boys and girls were exchanging glances and nods with one another but saying nothing (except to pass on the news that their prey was wearing their favourite tight skirt); it was almost as if to speak about their great plan would be to put it at risk. It was not just among the group who had gathered the previous night that there was excitement, for news had spread that the prissy Miss Barrett was about to learn what her tits, arse and cunt were for. Miss Barrett was excited too, for her younger sister had just approached her about a ski-ing holiday in the French Alps. It helped that the boys and girls were in a good mood and made very little trouble. At the end of her last lesson she smiled at her class (which included Hoggart and Oates), wished them a safe journey home and pleasant evening, gathered up some books and left on her usual walk to the railway station.

Hull, on watch, spoke into his mobile phone to alert the posse already on Barclay Avenue and joined the group that began silently to shadow their future victim, their eyes fixed on the swaying of her big, round haunches. From the window of his office upstairs, the Headmaster, Mr Sexton, watched impassively. The group of boys – with a few girls – looked as if they were stalking Miss Barrett, and her bottom was certainly the centre of their interest, but Mr Sexton was not concerned. In the first place, he assumed they would merely follow her for a while and possibly throw or shout something at her. In the second place, he was quite amused to see the conceited little do-gooder treated like a piece of meat or a parading hooker. It would serve her right if she ran into some trouble, for only a few days ago she had rushed to comfort some girl coming sobbing out of his office and had then accused him of being too hard on the kids and even of treating the girls more harshly than the boys! She had not actually said she thought he came down hard on the girls to gain some kind of pleasure, but he could see in her eyes that she suspected just that. What a nerve! When he was young, teachers had been allowed to use the cane on their charges, and while of course that had not applied to the punishment of teachers, he could not help thinking how much better this self-righteous tight-arsed sexpot would be for a good thrashing which would teach her proper respect. Besides, she had a glorious arse, that skirt was really so tight that one day it might split, and he found the attention the kids were paying to the view perfectly understandable.

Miss Barrett never noticed the posse behind her. Halfway down Barclay Avenue she met a small group of older kids heading back towards the school. They looked a bit serious, so as they came near she called out,
“Hello! Forgotten something?”
“Not exactly, Miss. Going to put something where it belongs,” the Pakistani lad Hussein replied.

“That’s good,” she said approvingly. Then Chandler kicked her hard on the ankle. She screamed, dropped her bag of books and hopped around in pain – something made much harder by her tarty red high-heeled shoes. One of the shoes came off, making her hopping lopsided. The boys ringed her round and just watched.

“Why did you do that?” Miss Barrett wailed. “My poor…” She got no further, as Hussein hit her clinically in the belly. She doubled up, which was just what Chandler was waiting for: he balanced carefully and kicked her cruelly up the undercheeks of her unmissable arse, leaning back as he did so. She fell on the hard pavement. The rest of the gang were running to join the action. Before they had got there, the teacher had received a series of kicks in her ribs and thighs. Chandler, pinning one delicate white hand under his foot, was directing proceedings and ordering the kids to leave her head alone. As Larter joined him, the big Black lad pushed their victim flat on her front with his other foot before placing it triumphantly on the heights of her arse, folding his arms and smiling like a hunter posing for a photo with his catch. The big white lad joined him in a display of interracial harmony, his foot pinning her down by the back of her neck.

“Get her into the bushes!” Larter ordered. Willing hands, those of the three girls among them, grabbed hold of the young teacher’s hair and collar. They dragged her through the gateway of Number 44, over some gravel and behind a large, pink-flowering rhododendron bush. There they kicked her a few more times to make sure she knew who was boss and to kill off any idea of resistance. She already looked a sluttish mess, thought Chandler, with twigs stuck to her creamy white tits, smears of mud on her stupid face and her tights – or whatever they were – torn over the lower leg. He drew out his prize possession, a long, slim, gleaming knife, and held it half an inch from Miss Barrett’s blue eyes. She stared at it like a rabbit in the headlights just before it was squashed. Then, stupidly, she started talking:
“Chandler, please! Don’t do anything you’d be sorry for, anything you can’t, er, go back on. Look, this has really gone far enough. Plea…URGH!” Hull had kicked her in the mouth. Her mouth went crooked and blood seeped out.
“What yer reckon, boys,” asked Chandler, “what’d improve the look of this white slag most? Slice her ear off? Nose? Pop an eye out?”
“Nah, mate. Do her tits,” Larter advised. “And wait a bit so we can have other fun first.”

The big black lad had never intended to carve Miss Barrett, not right at the start anyway – but he pretended to be undecided. Finally he sliced off a hank of her hair, stuffed it in his pocket, and ripped open her blouse. Inside the creamy white tits bulged out of a finely decorated pale blue bra. He brought the tip of the knife down to the top of her right breast and ran it lightly down into the cleft between the two orbs, leaving a thin red line behind. Then he brought it forward to the bridge between the cups, and with one decisive action sliced the bridge apart. He stood up and let Hoggard and Hussein pull the cups off the firm, defenceless tits to reveal long, hard nipples. They stared hungrily at what they had discovered.

“Hold that tit for me,” he said, and Hoggard grasped the left one firmly. Chandler approached slowly, making sure Miss Barrett could see the knife all the way, till he could crouch down and touch the side of her nipple with the sharp tip of the knife.

“Sliced these off a cunt once,” he told her conversationally, “undercover pig, I done it for my dad, he told me to, she was making trouble for his business. Ate ‘em too, they taste good. She didn’t stop screaming till they shoved the knife up her cunt. Then she was quiet.” Miss Barrett listened with horror. Chandler withdrew the knife. “That can wait,” he said. “Fuck her first, right?”
“Right!” said Larter, and kicked her once more for luck. Chandler reverently handed him the knife and Larter bent to slice open the top of the teacher’s skirt. He sliced it all the way down to the hem. It was tough material and he made slow progress, but that did not seem to bother him. Finally he pulled the two halves roughly apart. Underneath Miss Barret was wearing old-fashioned elastic-topped stockings which covered her lower thighs and emphasised the creamy white defenceless upper thighs. Her panties were plain white and deliciously tight: just above the meeting of the legs a bulging bush pushed the material out. Veronica had noticed this.
“Look – she’s got a hairy cunt!” she said very loud. Hoggart reached out and pulled the elasticated waist out a long way before letting it snap back. He did this three more times, peering down at the tangle of curly hairs, before Larter pushed him aside. He planted his foot on the teacher’s white belly, grasped the elasticated waist firmly, and pulled up until there was a loud TWANG and a ripping noise. He held the swatch of filmy, ripped cloth above his head and threw it to Hoggard, who kissed it and pocketed it. The lads stared down at Miss Barrett’s tight triangle.

“Turn the cunt over!” said Chandler. There were plenty of willing hands to do that and now their favourite teacher’s big, plump arse stared up at them naked, quivering slightly.
“You could lose a bull terrier in that arsecrack,” mused Larter.
“Or a dildo!” said Moffat.
“Or a cock!” said Hull.
“Open her legs wide!” said Chandler.

A murmur of protest from Miss Barrett was cut off as Larter kicked her in the tits. Her legs were spread wide so her sweet, pink cunt lips not only showed, but opened invitingly. Her arsecrack widened as if an earthquake was starting.

Larter and Chandler stared at their victim and then stared at one another.
“Who goes first?” asked Chandler.
“Flip a coin?” suggested Larter – and so it was agreed. He span the coin and Chandler called:
“Tails”. It was indeed tails. Chandler laughed. “I wanted tail, man, so I called tails!” He loped over to the fallen teacher and stared at her.
“Chandler, Rupert isn’t it – Rupert, please don’t do something you’ll regret,” she pleaded. “I understand all your justified resentment. Please believe me – I understand you.”

Chandler chuckled. “That’s good, white cunt! ‘Cause if you understand me, you understand that I want to feel my big black cock in your cunt and in your asshole AND I WANT YOU TO RESPOND, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY. And I won’t do something I’ll regret, ‘cause I won’t regret fucking you one bit!” Now Miss Barrett was just staring at him over her shoulder. He spat in her face. Then he unbuttoned his flies and pulled out huge, stiffening, pulsing, angry, conquering cock. Now Susan Barrett was staring at that and nothing else in the whole world, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights and about to be splatted on the road.

“This is going to be special, cunt!” Chandler announced. As he forced his way in, she gave a little helpless cry. Then it was more of a desperate wail as the huge weapon struggled to force a way up her too small opening. But nothing could resist it. He was in and pumping, and she was responding like a bird shaken about by a cat.

Susan lost all awareness of her surroundings. She could not see the other boys standing staring down at her. She forgot the damp grass. She forgot past and future. She was a tunnel of pain being shaken by a thing of incredible power.

Chandler was aware of the white cunt’s fearstruck, subservient face staring over her shoulder. He was aware of her great fat, deep-divided arse pushing against his belly. He was aware of her big tits because he was gripping them both hard. But most of all he was aware of her conquered cunt responding like a dutiful slave.

But there came a point when he wanted something else. He pulled out from her pink lips and forced his battering-ram in between her trembling arsecheeks, into her arsehole. If her cunt had been too small, her arsehole was too small by far – but that was not going to stop him. He pushed harder. Susan whimpered. Then she screamed. Chandler grunted – a long drawn-out grunt almost more like a groan – as blood spurted from her arse. He kept on pumping as the other lads chanted GO-GO-GO-GO-GO-GO and clapped in rhythm. Miss Barrett was whimpering again, a small, defeated sound. Chandler knew she would offer no resistance or insubordination now. He yanked her head up and round by her hair.

“Open yer mouth, white shit!” he ordered. She opened her mouth. He shoved his huge slavering cock in and gave her further orders: “Lick, you cunt!” and “Suck fuck you, suck!” She obeyed. When finally he pulled out he was smiling.”

“You next, bro,” he said to Larter. The big white lad was also smiling.
“Turn her over!” he ordered; then “Pull her legs up – ankles up to her ears.” It was done. “Legs apart, far as they’ll go!” he instructed. Miss Barrett’s pink lips were forced apart and the boys could stare into her helpless cunt. But some of them paid as much attention to her tearstained face and defeated, lost eyes.

Larter unleashed his cock.
“Shit, bro, that’s the biggest cock I’ve seen on a white kid!” said Chandler. “It’s almost as big as mine.”
“Bigger!” said Larter.
“Shit, no. Hey, white trash! Yeah, you, Miss fucking Barrett! Which one of us has the bigger cock? ANSWER!”
“Er…I don’t know,” said Miss Barrett weakly.
“Then you’ll just have to judge – the best way!” said Larter, ramming it into her.
“Fucking hell, Larter, watch out or you’ll come out of her arsehole!” said Hull. A few minutes later Larter was ready to reply.
“Nah, I’m going in there next!” he said.

When he did force his steaming cock between her white arsecheeks and into the narrow, bloodied hole, she wailed and moaned. That was unwise, because it made the lad even more exited and his cock grew even more. Finally he pulled out and looked at his cock’s bloodstained tip.
“That’s your fucking blood you’ve left on my cock, you cunt!” he told her. “Lick it off! Now!” She did what she was told.

“Moffat, you’re next,” he announced. Don’t anyone push in, ‘cause you’ll all get a go on her all holes.”

A long time later, ten boys and three girls stood staring down at a ripped, squashed mess on the ground. The mess was Miss Barrett. Her face, tits and flanks were purple with bruises. Sticky cum was spread over almost every part of her except her lower legs. There was blood on her face and around her cunt. One eye was closed and her hair was glued with cum. She lay on the ground flatter than they’d thought a live body could lie, her legs wide apart like the whore she was. She might have been dead, but they could see her tits rising and falling a little as she breathed. One big black lad unloaded the last of his cum on to her tits and face. The only girl who had not yet scratched her tits with her long nails scratched her lower belly instead. They ringed her round as if they were thinking of something else to do. Larter stepped forward, his cock still out of his trousers. He straddled the fallen cunt and pissed on her face.

“Can I? CAN I?” pleaded the girl called Liz Bruno. The boys laughed and let her. She squatted above the teacher’s face, pulled her own panties out of the way and unleashed a stream of piss. The steaming, acrid liquid went into Miss Barrett’s eyes, making them sting. Despite her best efforts, her mouth opened and took in the horrible liquid. The boys cheered. Chandler swaggered up to have his go. In turn all the boys and girls pissed on her till she was sodden as a tissue used to wipe up spilt beer.

The three girls had been whispering together and now they approached Larter and Chandler.

“Who owns her?” Anna Finnegan asked. The two gang leaders exchanged looks. They spoke no words, but they nodded and shook hands. They understood. On their orders, Miss Barrett was rolled over to reveal her massive arse once more. Chandler took from his belt a thin-bladed, sharp knife. He knelt to the teacher’s rump, chose his place carefully, and cut into it. He worked like a craftsman. When he had finished, Miss Barrett’s cheek was deeply incised with a picture of a clenched fist. With a slight bow, he handed the knife to Larter. The picture he cut into the arseflesh was simpler – a Celtic cross, a cross inside a circle. To laughter, Oates posed like a hunter with one foot on their prey, before spitting into its arsecrack.

“Here, Barrett! We own you now! Your left half is Chandler’s and your right half is Larter’s – right? RIGHT?” Frightened that worse would be done to her, the half-dead teacher mumbled agreement. The boys laughed and left her.

Miss Barrett lay faintly moaning, her face a sticky mess, her bottom stinging, her cunt a battle of pains. She stared uncomprehending at the grey sky. She was not quick to pick up the sound of approaching feet, even though one pair had the flapping, smacking sound of slippers. The she realised what the noise meant. Someone was coming to help. Two blurry figures stood looking down at her.

“So that’s what all the noise was,” the fat, middle-aged woman said. “Does this sort of thing happen here often?”

Solly Kramer had invited the woman to his home in the hope of just about a last hurrah for his proud male powers, but the sight in front of him was doing far more for him than his guest could. He thought he recognised the cum-splattered slag laid out before him. She was one of the teachers at the school. He’d often watched her waddle by in her tight skirt and thought of what he’d like to do to her. Now he could. Except this woman Martha, whom he definitely no longer fancied, was in the way. He glanced at her, hoping she might just be so revolted she’d flee back to the house; but what he saw amazed him. Martha was staring at the broken young woman on the ground with excitement and fascination. Still, she might not be prepared to admit to what he could see. He’d try, though.

“I see something in your eyes, Martha,” he said quietly.

“I see something in yours, Solly,” she replied. “Let’s have the slut.”

Susan Barrett could hardly distinguish what was happening now from nightmares or terrible recent memories. Hands were groping into her cunt – knobbly hands with rings. The pain that had just started to die down welled up again. Voices laughed. They were not the excited young voices of her tormentors, but old, throaty voices. Or was she imagining her parents come to help her? Rough hands turned her over and pulled her arse-cheeks wide apart. Yet another rigid cock slammed into her sore arse-hole and pumped her with cum while in the background a female voice kept up a chant of cheers and giggles.

The man pulled out. The hands turned her over again. In the half-dark a huge female arse loomed over her face and stinking piss rained down on her.

The voices left and she was alone.

She could see the stars in the sky and somehow they reassured her – until the rustling started. It sounded very loud and was coming closer, but not steadily. She imagined yet another rapist, but not human. In fact it was only a hedgehog. Slugs and snails crawled over her motionless body. She drifted in and out of consciousness.

Then far away, the front gate clicked. Heavy steps sounded, getting closer and closer. They stopped. Some of the stars had been blotted out. There was a shape standing over her.

“Don’t worry – I’m a taxi-driver,” said the man in an Indian accent. “I’ve been told to take you home, so I’d better help you get up.”

She could give him little assistance, but he was a strong man. He listed her on to his shoulder and carried her to the taxi, laying her carefully in the back. She was just able to whisper her address.

They seemed to be driving for a long while. Then she lost consciousness again.

When she regained consciousness the taxi-driver was lifting her out of the cab. She must be home! But she could not see any street or house lights at all. It didn’t look like home, but she wasn’t seeing or thinking clearly. She tried to ask the driver how much she owed him and to thank him.

“Nothing to pay. No need for thanks, either,” he said as he carried her into the woods.

Solly had indeed engaged the taxi-driver, a friend of his, to take the messed-up slag to her home. The friend, though, had his own ideas.

It was only when her bottom hit sticks and mud that Susan realised she was not at home at all. It was only when the taxi-driver’s hard and angry cock sliced into her cunt that she realised why. When he had finished there, he turned her over and forced his way into her arsehole. The he left her. It was time for a warming drink, the comfortable feel of his bed and sweet dreams.

Susan lay not sure if she was dreaming, hallucinating, seeing or dead. Then the dog found her.

The Great Dane was not a true stray, having been separated from its owners that morning when it chased a rabbit. Its fate would be to be reunited with them the next morning when they returned to search for it. They would fuss over it and ask if it had been a bad boy. The answer, in fact, was yes.

The giant dog sniffed Susan, paying most attention to the sticky areas of cum and blood. It sniffed her arse closest. Then it seized the back of her neck in its jaws and pushed powerfully into her cunt. She knew she was being fucked by a dog, its hot, hairy belly pressed against her buttocks, but could do nothing about it. She was only grateful that it did not last as long as the fucking by the taxi-driver. The dog listed a leg and pissed on her cheeks so the liquid ran down into her crack. Then it was gone.

For hours she drifted in and out of consciousness till at last before the dawn she fell into a coma.

It was a pair of early-morning joggers who found her. At first they thought she was dead – but she was breathing. She was not aware of the ambulance or of the doctors. When she did awake in hospital she wanted to forget what had happened to her. That was a nurse. That was a chair. That was sunlight coming through the window. These were her fingers. The first visitor she received as she began her recovery was her younger sister who shared her flat. The second was a police officer, but she could tell him little. The third visitor was the Head Teacher from the William Slocumbe school; and the fourth and fifth were two pupils.

“Hello, Miss,” said Larter.

“Hello, Miss,” said Chandler.

“You!” she said.

“Glad you’re alive, Miss, because you’ve got work to do,” Larter continued. “You’re property of our two gangs now, half ours, half his. You do what we say and we protect you. You annoy us and you’re dead meat, and so is your gymnast fucking kid sister. We know where she lives. You going to be a good girl? WELL, ARE YOU?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Good. So nothing to the flith about any schoolkids, O.K.?”

“Yes.”

“Right!” said Chandler. “Get well soon!”

She did what she was told and the rape investigation went nowhere. Privately the police believed she’d volunteered for rough sex and then found herself out of her depth. When she’s physically recovered she returned to work at the school because that was what her masters had ordered. From time to time the boys called her and she came – behind the temporary huts, into the boys’ toilets, into a car park five minutes from the school.

Her colleagues had mixed reactions to her now. They had been horrified by news of her ordeal, but rumours about her and some of the boys were circulating. One girl, though, a prefect, was totally supportive.

Meera Desai was the first ethnic Indian girl to be made a prefect in the William Slocumbe. Tall, leggy, beautiful, demure, dedicated to her studies and very intelligent, she undoubtedly had a bright future, which could not have been said with confidence about many of the kids there. Some of the other kids considered her snooty; many girls were jealous because of the attention she got from the boys; and many boys resented her for not opening her legs for them. The teachers liked her, though, as did some fellow-prefects because she took the role seriously and worked hard at it, which meant less work for them.

Meera had observed the troubled demeanour of Miss Barrett since her return from her terrible ordeal. She had also noticed with concern the way certain notorious boys were hanging round her, brushing against her, leering at her. She was convinced that Miss Barrett had a secret she was agonising over. Perhaps she could help.

She watched for an opportunity to speak to the teacher alone. When it came, after a class, she did not waste words.

“Miss, I think something’s troubling you. I hate seeing you all miserable. Can I help? Is there something you can tell me?” Miss Barrett looked startled and then almost hostile – but her only words were,

“No. Thanks, Meera, that’s very kind of you, but I’m quite all right.” The sweet girl left.

“What did the Paki cunt want?” asked the lad Hull, barging the door open.

“Nothing really.”

“Listen, cunt!” Hull snarled. “I don’t buy ‘nothing really’. What did she want? You better answer and it better be right.” Miss Barrett hung her head.

“She said I seemed miserable and asked if she could help me.”

“Help you? How?”

“If there was anything I could tell her.”

“You stay tonight in your classroom. I reckon some of us are going to need to speak to you.”

“Yes, master,” she replied.

That evening Hull, Chandler, Larter, Oates and Moffat gathered in Miss Barrett’s classroom. She was not there. Then she came in, and Moffat whacked her bottom affectionately as if she were a prize cow or pony. She looked from one to the other, awaiting instructions.

“Right, cunt – this is what you have to do,” Chandler began. “It’s about that cunt Desai.”

The next day, in the lunch hour, Meera Desai was patrolling the playground when Miss Barrett came up to her.

“Meera,” she said, “I think there’s something odd going on behind the science block, but I should be checking out the back of the sports field. Would you mind doing that for me while I check the science block? I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”

Meera smiled, glad she could help poor Miss Barrett, and willingly agreed.

Susan walked behind the science block, slowed almost to a stop and strolled out the other side. She could see Meera’s pert bottom and long legs way out across the sports field, heading for the far side. She set off after the prefect and caught up with her by the bushes at the far end.

“All quiet, Miss,” said the conscientious girl. A desperate, ear-splitting scream rang out and was cut short. It seemed to come from behind the bushes.

“Oh, gosh. What was that? We’ll have to find out!” said Meera, heading for the bushes.

“No!” Susan shouted. “No, Meera, I can’t. Those terrible memories come back. You check. It’s probably just play.” Bravely, resolutely, Meera ran to do her duty. She disappeared into a gap between the bushes. A moment later came another desperate scream, also cut short. The came a cry for help:

“Miss! Help!” Miss Barrett did not move. Chandler’s big shape appeared in the same gap. He smiled at her and waved her forward.

Meera was on the ground, in the grip of at least ten kids, boys and girls. Her long legs thrashed as she fought them, but it was hopeless. The girls aimed a few vicious kicks at her, laughing. Her striped tie was pulled up under her chin and wrenched tight. Her blouse was ripped to reveal a pale blue bra over firm, teenage breasts. Her skirt was pulled up to reveal her white panties and a firm little bulge where the bush was. Her wrists and her ankles were pinned down. Moffat, grinning, took a knife to her bra and sliced the central bridge, tugging it off her tight, pointing breasts. Larter gripped the top of her panty-elastic in both hands and ripped the pathetic garments apart. Girls took her shoes off and threw them away. Oates carefully unclipped her prefect’s badge.

In the V above the join of her legs was a tight little black tangle which the girls laughed over. One of them seized a handful and tugged, wrenching out many black hairs. The girls spat in her face. At a word of command from Chandler, they doubled her legs back up to her shoulders, revealing her round, tight arse, its deep central crack and her sweet, pink, puckered sex-lips.

At that point she saw the teacher.

“Miss! Miss! Help! No, save yourself! Run and get hUMPF!” Hull had hit her in the belly. This was purely for pleasure: the teacher was making no move to help or get help. She could not, for she was under orders.

The kids spread Meera’s legs until they would go no further – and then pushed down on them to force them wider even so. Meera started to scream. Oates produced a gymshoe and started whacking her arse and thighs, to great laughter and cheers.

“You!” Larter commanded Susan, “Drop your skirt, drop your panties and sit on this cunt’s face. Arsecrack around her nose and cunt on her mouth!” Dutifully, she dropped her skirt and pretty blue panties. Then as Meera screamed,

“No, Miss! No, Miss! Please!” she sat on her face. She had to wriggle her big bottom a bit to fit it exactly where Larter had ordered. Meera squirmed, struggling to breathe. That was when Chandler pulled out his huge, steaming cock and rammed into her. Blood spurted out. Meera had been a virgin. Chandler, still pumping, let out a yell of triumph and raised his fists in a salute. Susan could feel the girl’s face shifting about more as she struggled. It was actually rather sexy. Miss Barrett was getting wet and some of her sweet juices were seeping over the prefect’s face and into her mouth as she struggled to breath.

Larter replaced Chandler and chose to ram his way into the girl’s arsehole. The girls were playing with their victim’s tits, playing till one of them with long nails scratched her initials there. When Hull replaced Larter, Meera’s struggles were weaker, and by the time Moffat had finished with her, after one convulsive kick, she was limp.

“You can get up now,” Larter told their slave. She stood up and moved away from the motionless girl. She was dead! She herself had killed her, smothered her. But Oates, looking almost bored, checked the girl’s pulse and said she was still just alive.

It was only then that Susan noticed the man standing watching on the other side of the high school fence – a man in expensive clothes worn carelessly, slouching and smoking, big rings on his fingers and designer stubble on his chin. He caught Chandler’s eyes and made a sign. The boys dragged Meena by her long, glossy hair, her superb legs rasping along the bumpy ground, to the fence. The man pushed a thick wad of notes through. Larter and Chandler took hold of their prey by her hair and her ankles and swung her right over the fence, where she landed in a heap. The man pushed more notes through, stubbed out his cigarette on Meena’s thigh, and spoke into his phone. Chandler said something and all the boys and girls moved away, back the other side of the bushes. Making herself decent, the teacher followed them. She was a little bit sorry for what had happened to Meera, but the stupid girl really had been asking for it. She shouldn’t have resisted. No-one could stand against her masters. They had told her that.

“Now we’re going to do your kid sister and sell her off afterwards,” Larter told her outside the school gate that evening. You’re going to lead us to her.”

“Yes, master,” she said.

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