tagNonConsent/ReluctanceBob-a-Job, Sir?

Bob-a-Job, Sir?



If you've ever been to Humpton-on-Thames, it was probably by mistake. Because Humpton is a pretty dull little place. Maybe you got off the train at the wrong stop, goon brain?

If you did make that mistake, you'll have wandered around Humpton Station. Trying to pass the time, until the next train to somewhere more interesting came along. The station entrance at Humpton is as good a place as any to do that. It has a KostaKrappaKoffee, where you can pay four quid for a cup of hot brown foam. And WH Smugg, station booksellers, with an abnormally large selection of magazines on crochet, angling and model railways.

There's a map of the town, which looks like a diagram of a sex maniac's brain. The map has so many phallic shapes, little round cartoon bosoms and cavities. (Then you realise that the town planners were just very keen on beacons and towers, double roundabouts and tunnels.) And the street signs suggest that the guys at the council are either terribly, terribly innocent or really pervy.

What with 'Uranus Hill'. (Prompting the exchange you often hear on Humpton streets between old ladies and little boys: "Where are you going, Tommy, dear?" "Up your anus, Mrs Smith")

Then there's the local beauty spot and lover's lane, 'Allder Way'. ("Sue, darling, how are you getting on with Malcolm?" "Not bad, thanks, Mum. Hoping to go Allder Way with him tonight.")

Now Humpton is a pretty insular place, you know. When the Titanic went down, the local paper carried the headline "Berkshire Man Lost At Sea". But fair play to the Humpton authorities. They really are proud of their town.

So there's a little display put up by the Humpton Chamber of Commerce. This shows you the richness and variety of Humpton life.

For example, a notice informs the casual visitor that Humpton is proud to be twinned with its sister towns of Punk (Moldova); Goolie Lick (Western Australia); and Satan (New Jersey). And here's a plaque to commemorate the visit last year by the mayor of Punk. (That must have been nice!)

Then there's a dingy little photo gallery, 'celebrating' the town. Councillor Splott opening the new multi-story car park. The Humpton Morris Dancers doing their bit to keep crime off the street, by showing the Humpton youth something wholesome to do on a Friday night. Etc etc.

One of the photos is of some sort of presentation. It is captioned: "Mr Jim Shaft of the Humpton Chamber of Commerce makes a presentation to Dr Eleanor Twatte, headmistress of Hampton Girls School".

Mr Shaft is wearing a tuxedo. Dr Twatte is evidently wearing some sort of strapless evening gown. (The picture is head and shoulders only, so all you can see is Dr Twatte's bare throat and white shoulders. A shame about the restricted view, because she looks like a very attractive middle-aged bird.)

If you linger on the picture, you might ask yourself one or two questions.

For example, that caption is a bit vague, isn't it? What exactly is Mr Shaft presenting? It looks like a rather tatty cardboard folder, not the usual flash certificate or trophy.

And the facial expressions are slightly weird. Mr Shaft looks jolly enough. In fact, he must be completely sloshed, because he seems to be brimming over with excitement. Not what you'd usually expect at a Chamber of Commerce meeting.

But poor Dr Twatte looks as if she'd rather not be there. She's showing her gnashers dutifully enough. But her cheeks are very pink. And, my, those beautiful dark eyes do have a slightly trapped look about them.

And then your train arrives, you gladly leap on, and Humpton fades away like a bad smell. But maybe at the back of your mind there remain questions? Well, read on....


Humpton Girls School is a small private school, occupying quite an obscure place in the English education pantheon. It offers a bit of finishing-school polish and A-level cramming to the thick daughters of the less-wealthy upper classes.

Not exactly rewarding work – either financially or professionally. As a result, the school is always in trouble at the bank. And the school staff tend to fall into two categories – disillusioned old grunters counting the minutes till retirement; or young/middle-aged desperately hoping that Humpton would be a stepping stone to something better.

Our story starts with an emergency 6pm staff meeting at the school. The time of day will tell you what category of school staff were attending. Yes, it was the 'young' and dynamic element. All four of them.

Dr Twatte was in the chair. A very handsome lady, approaching 50. Sitting where we are, we can appreciate Dr Twatte's really splendid profile. From her fine straight nose, down to her generous bust. In the old days, you'd have seen the good Doctor's profile (carved, topless and queenly) on the figure head of a ship. How noble she would look, breasting the waves!

Next to Dr Twatte was a quite extraordinary person. The Humpton Deputy Head, Dr Virginia McGrott, MA (Edinburgh University). Dr McGrott was also the Head of Languages and school Bursar.

Although Dr McGrott had been at the school for years, she was still a figure of mystery. In fact, McGrott was downright scary. Barely five feet tall and of dainty build, she nonetheless oozed menace.

Partly, it was her bizarre appearance. Always dressed in thick tweeds, whatever the weather. Highly starched cream-coloured blouses. Old lady's hair do (surely a wig?). Pince nez (perfect for glaring through). She looked like a baleful midget dressing up as Miss Marple.

There was so little of McGrott actually showing (apart from the frown) that it was impossible to work out her age. Somewhere between 30 and 70 was the best you could do.

Then there was her voice – absolutely rinky-dink posh BBC Weld Service. McGrott was Scots upper-crust, and of course they sound even more lah-di-dah than the Royal Family.

With parents and students, Dr McGrott talked like the Encyclopedia Britannica. She made Stephen Fry sound like an illiterate numty with Tourette's.

In fact, as we join the meeting, McGrott is just winding up a detailed exposition of the school finances, taking in international accounting standards and the philosophy of tax avoidance. We only catch two words, but somehow they seem the essence of McGrott. The words are: "...and ninthly..." We shudder, and turn off the volume again.

Yet in private and when emotional, McGrott's language would make Eminem cry for Mummy. She is a real bad bastard!

Then there was the Head of Games, Miss Fenella Blowett, BSc. Oh dear!

Well, she was rather plain. What with her tombstone teeth, goofy expression, and absolutely tragic hair and clothes. Sadly, no male hearts had ever beaten any faster as Fenella Blowett galloped around the hockey field.

Which was a real shame. Because Fenella was by far the nicest person in the staff room. She was an incredibly good hockey coach (Humpton Girls first team had been Berkshire champions for years). And there must surely be a jolly fit (if rather virginal) body, inside that orange-and-tartan tracksuit?

The final member of staff was the booful Head of Business Studies, Ms Jenny Pratt, BSc. What a scrumptious cutie pie! At the very interesting age (mid-thirties) when the female body starts to fill out excitingly, Ms Pratt's shape made most Humpton blokes weak to contemplate............

So these were the stars of our little adventure.

At that time of night, there was only one other member of the school on the premises. Bill Swett, the school caretaker. Bill's duties involved: (1) Cleanliness (that was a laugh); and (2) Security. Bill put all his time into Security, or rather, his interpretation of it.

This meant that when Bill wasn't checking the girls' toilets for illicit sex, he listened at doors and peeped through windows. Bill had a fossilised broom in his hand, as cover, should anyone come along and want to know why he was outside the staff room. Bill's eye was plastered to a spyhole, which he'd had the foresight to drill in the door.

Now, the staff meeting had been called for the usual reason. Humpton Girls School was in foul need of money.

Each time Dr Twatte went to the bank, she was having to lay on the charm thicker and thicker. Because Mr Shaft, the bank manager, was certainly susceptible to charm!

The first time there, Dr Twatte undid a button on her blouse, and leant over the table frequently to make her points. Mr Shaft came through with a nice overdraft facility on that occasion.

But the law of diminishing returns was now setting in. Mr Shaft was wanting almost daily conferences. And Dr Twatte was having to undo more and more buttons. It just couldn't go on!

"There's no option" said Dr McGrott. "We'll have to have another fundraising drive. The last one kept us afloat over the summer. The only trouble is that these fundraising drives usually leave a lot of shite behind them. And it's always us four who end up wielding the fucking shovels."

"Virginia's right", said Dr Twatte, "we can't afford a repeat of last summer's fiasco. One more scandal like that and this school will be finished." The women shuddered.

Yet the sponsored car wash by the Upper Sixth had seemed such a good idea at the time! Half a dozen of the most beautiful 18-year-olds in Humpton Girls School, wearing swimsuits, holding out their buckets, and offering you a quick one in the lay by! What red-blooded motorist could resist that?

For a few glorious days last summer, the funds flowed in. Jaded businessmen driving home would pull in to have their cars washed. They would drive round the block and get a dead fly on their windscreen. So they'd decide they needed another wash. It was taking some blokes all night to get home!

The girls worked like dogs; the cars of Humpton were spotlessly clean; everyone was happy. Then the girls got a bit carried away. They started selling kisses to go with the car wash, and keeping the money from that little sideline. And one thing led to another....

Before you could say 'Squeegee', the girls were offering all sorts of extras to the blokes they liked the look of. Then the more 'commercially minded' girls started selling the extras to anyone at all whose money was right.

The Hon Veronica Ramsbottom decided to save school funds by doing away with the sponges and chamois leathers. Veronica took off her swimsuit, and coated her ample buttocks and breasts with soapy water. Then she rolled around on the top of the lucky motorist's car. Finally Veronica squatted on the bonnet, and dried the car off with her unused swimsuit.

Mandy Ponsonby-Clapp went one better! She started to offer a 'pipe-cleaning' service in the back seat, where you could get a very expert blow job at a pretty decent rate.

The local paper, the Humpton Helmet, ran an exposé of the car washing service. (The Helmet's editor, Mark Swordsman, went back a long way with Dr Twatte. And not in a 'dear old drinking buddy' kind of way either.) This came to the attention of the national tabloids.

One Sunday paper then came out with a very weird scoop, in which it covered a group known as the Royal County of Berkshire Sex Workers Guild. This 'Guild' staged a topless picket of the school's Parent's Evening. The Sunday paper and the Helmet just happened to be on the spot. They carried a lurid story, alleging price-fixing and uncompetitive sex practices by the Humpton School Upper Sixth.

The pièce de resistance was a photograph of Dr Twatte expostulating with a voluptuous picket. The 'Guild' picket was wearing only black leather boots and miniskirt. By some 'cock up' at the Humpton Helmet, the caption read:-

"'YOUR GIRLS REALLY GET ON MY T**TS!' Busty sex worker, Eleanor Twatte, abuses a teacher at Humpton School"

The whole thing had brought shame and disgrace on the school. The women winced.

"Eleanor", said Dr McGrott, "we just can't involve those half-witted tarts!"

"No, Virginia, you're right" replied the head mistress. "Any fund raising this year needs to be done by the school staff. Which realistically means us four. I don't mind our using our feminine wiles", she simpered. "But it's got to be TASTEFUL."

"I know!" said Fenella. "Why not do a Bob-a-Job week this half term! They used to be such fun when I was in the Guides. We could all use our special talents. I could give the parents hockey tips!"

Everyone looked indulgently at Fenella. Bless her!

"I'm not sure, dear", said Dr Twatte, "that a tired stockbroker would really fancy an evening on a cold hockey field when they come home from work. But it is a nice idea, though, Fenella. Perhaps we could do indoor stuff, like giving the students extra coaching."

"Yes," said Jenny Pratt. "We could get some positive publicity in the Helmet for a change. I've got an old khaki-coloured trouser suit, which I could adapt into a saucy kind of Girl Guide uniform. The Helmet loves that kind of thing."

Fenella flushed with pride. It was the first suggestion she'd made for years which had been (even partially) accepted. Little did she know the awful consequences that would ensue...

Well, the Humpton Helmet was jolly interested in the Bob-a-Job week. Especially when the sub-editor clapped his eyes on the photos of Jenny Pratt bursting out of her 'Guide' uniform. So the Helmet produced quite a sympathetic piece for once. And Mark Swordsman even made a friendly comment about the school in his editorial, the slimy bugger.

Following the piece in the Helmet, there was some steady interest in Bob-a-Job week. Jenny Pratt and Dr Twatte found themselves in high demand, although there were no takers for Miss Blowett's hockey lessons.

There were no takers either for Dr McGrott's lectures at the Library on Eastern European folk-myth. (Which was just as well, really because even McGrott never turned up for the lectures. She was narked because the Helmet had refused to publicise her first choice: "The British Press". McGrott's trailer for that talk had been: "We've all fantasised, haven't we, about performing open heart surgery with a rusty chain saw on a newspaper editor, preferrably without anaesthetic. My talk will explore the chances that you might find the fossilised remains of a conscience inside the editor's body.")

And then came a really big development!

Jenny Pratt received a most intriguing phone call at her office. The caller spoke with an attractively deep, rumbling voice. He had a local accent, but there were traces of something foreign and exotic about it.

"Hello, Ms Pratt? My name is Vladimir Curtiv. I am the emissary for Dimitri Tossoff, the Russian oil billionaire. Mr Tossoff has settled in Berkshire, and is looking for a school for his daughter.

"Mr Tossoff has read of your Bob-a-Job week, and is most interested in Humpton Girls School. Mr Tossoff has expressed a wish that you personally do a 'Bob-a-Job' for him. Would it be possible for you and I to meet and discuss this request?"

"Oh yes, golly, absolutely!" Jenny practically shrieked. "Errr...where would be convenient?"

"Can I suggest the Humpton Grand tonight, at 8pm? Perhaps we could dine at the hotel first? Mr Tossoff will of course bear the expense."

This was thrilling news! The Grand was the only good hotel in Humpton, so this guy was clearly serious. A good, spurting wad of Russian oil money, pumped into the tired loins of Humpton School, could really get the old girl back on her feet!

The knock-on effect on Jenny's career could also be rather mega. It should give Jenny a really good chance at the Registrar's post, when the old bag currently doing it retired next term. Plus Jenny couldn't help wondering if Vladimir was as sexy as his voice....

Jenny hurried out of her office, bowling over some nerdy girl or other from the Scholarship class, who seemed to think she had a tutorial booked with Jenny.

"Not today, dear!" Jenny bellowed. "Errr...dentist's appointment. Yes, that's it, dentist's appointment! Sorry, must dash!"

4.30pm. Just time for some essential preparations for the 8pm meeting. Gym, hairdresser, Ann Summers, nail bar, leg waxing, bath, make-up. After all, she was a professional, and must present herself in a professional way.

Accordingly, 8 o'clock found our heroine at reception in the Grand Hotel, asking for Mr Curtiv.

"Ms Jenny Pratt?" There was that voice again! "Thank you for coming so promptly."

Jenny turned round, and got an eyeful of Mr Vladimir Curtiv. "Just as I thought!" she told herself. "Fucking gorgeous!"

Vladimir was six feet four, in his early thirties, and looked like Jose Mourinho's fit younger brother. And best of all, there was a VERY admiring expression on his handsome kisser.

As the man and woman stood very close together in the foyer, they only had eyes for each other. It seemed as if they were quite, quite alone! And yet they did have company....

About four feet above their heads, a little, roly-poly cherub was floating around with a tiny bow and arrow. Cupid drew back his little dimpled arm and let fly two arrows – one at Jenny's nether parts and one at Vladimir's.

Jenny felt the faintest little sting in her pussy, and Vladimir got a brief, delicious tingle in his balls. Ever had that feeling, readers, when you've met someone attractive?

"They'll be shagging tonight!" laughed the little god of love, and off he flew.

Jenny looked enquiringly at the hotel restaurant, but Vladimir smiled and shook his head.

"Mr Tossoff has a permanent booking in the penthouse suite, Ms Pratt. It's more convenient. We can dine up there." And so began a delightful and romantic candle-lit meal.

Vladimir proved excellent company. It turned out that he was a local man, born in Ukraine, but brought up in Humpton. Jenny had only been in Humpton a few years, and she found that Vladimir knew much more of the town than she did. In fact, Vladimir was a fund of juicy anecdote, and he even hinted that he knew a few tales about the Humpton School staff.

The champagne flowed; the moon shone through the huge windows of the penthouse; the heads of the two young people got closer and closer together over the table. It did look as if Cupid had known a thing or two.

Finally, with a slight sigh, Vladimir broached the question of the 'Bob-a-Job'.

"Mr Tossoff is a very rich and elderly man", he said. "To be honest, he may not have much longer to live. As he approaches the end of his long and hard-working life, he is indulging himself more. He wants to have some fun before he goes!"

"Now, Jenny, I have to be frank with you, and admit that Mr Tossoff was not attracted by Humpton School's academic reputation. Why should he be, since he does not have any school age children at all! No, Mr Tossoff just saw a picture of a beautiful school teacher in his local paper, and was greatly tickled by the thought of her 'bobbing his job'."

"And I have to confess that Mr Tossoff's 'jobs' are of an...um....sexual nature." ("Well, I could see that one coming a mile off", thought Jenny, quietly twanging her suspenders.)

Vladimir hurried on. Clearly embarrassed, the poor love.

"Now, don't get me wrong. Mr Tossoff is too infirm to ... errr ... do anything. He will just want to look. And so I am authorised to commit up to £5,000 to school funds, if you could pose for some photos."

"Sexy photos, Vladimir? Errr ... nude photos?" He nodded, regretfully.

"Oh dear, I've never done anything like that before", Jenny lied. (Thanking her lucky stars for the regular gym sessions, waxing, etc.) "What did your employer have in mind?"

Vladimir led her into an adjoining room, which was a fully-equipped photo studio. Centre stage was a school teacher's desk (with an apple on it) and a blackboard. Piled on a chair were an old-fashioned black school teacher's gown and a mortarboard.

"Mmmm...looks quite fun!" Jenny thought. "Especially if you join in, handsome!" But she put on a pious expression.

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