Pupils v Staff hockey match: Lynne Grant loses her tampons

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It was a tradition. No one knew when it had begun or who started it. But it had gone on for as long as anyone could remember.

Every year, at the end of their final year the girls who were leaving for university challenged the female staff to a hockey match. It was always a good humoured affair played in the true spirit of sport.

Until this year.

It had been a difficult year. There was no denying that. Girls that age were always rebellious, but this year their behaviour had been particularly trying, as a result of which discipline had been tightened to try to control them. But surely that was all behind them now. At least so the teachers thought. It was certainly what Helen Richards, the senior games mistress, thought as she addressed the staff team in their dressing room.

‘Ladies, we mustn’t underestimate our opponents. That’s always a mistake, a big mistake. They may be younger than us, and fitter than some,’ she added with a sidelong glance at Margaret Williams, who taught English literature and whose qualification for selection as goalkeeper was that her plump frame would fill more of the goal than any of the other teachers. ‘But we have experience on our side,’ Helen continued, ‘and after the year we have had this will be a good chance to show the girls the advantages of maturity.’

Stirring words indeed, but as the staff ran out onto the pitch in their crisp white shirts and pleated dark blue skirts concealing sensible pristine white panties, there were signs that this was not going to be a normal match. For a start, at least half the school had turned up to watch, whereas normally there would have been just a scattering of friends and supporters. And those signs increased when the girls ran out from their dressing room, attired in tight white t-shirts that left no doubt that they were not wearing bras, grey micro skirts that barely covered their buttocks, and thigh high red socks.

The headmistress, in accordance with custom, was refereeing the match, although her knowledge of the rules was equalled only by her inability to keep up with the play.

She blew a sharp blast on her whistle for play to begin and Helen passed the ball to Jayne Sawyer.

This was Jayne’s first year in post as a newly qualified science teacher, but her sartorial standards were the talk of staff and students alike. She seemed to wear something different every day and never the same thing twice. Rumour had it that she threw everything away as soon as it was dirty. Some said this was because she couldn’t bear the thought of wearing anything that wasn’t brand new. Others said it was because she was too lazy to bother washing her clothes.

Whatever the reason, she was well liked as a teacher and skillful on the hockey field. She weaved her way deftly around girls who seemed to make little effort to stop her until she tripped over an apparently carelessly trailed stick. Propelled forward by her momentum, she landed on her face and slid through an unfortunately located patch of mud. As she staggered to her feet, she appealed for a foul, but the referee waved play on and Helen curtly told her to watch where she was going. Jayne ignored her and busied herself trying to brush the mud off her blouse, only to succeed in smearing it. So busy was she that she missed the excitement developing on the other side of the pitch.

 

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While Jayne was trying, and failing, to salvage her sartorial appearance, one of the girls took advantage of the distraction and of the staff being one player down to make a run for goal, with Marie Latour in hot pursuit. Marie was the French language assistance, much admired among the girls, and some of the staff, for her soft accent, dark skin and lithe body. She was homing in for a tackle when other girls moved in a pincer movement towards her. She managed to secure possession, but found herself facing another girl, whose swiftly rising stick caught her hard on her right nipple which was, as usual, fully erect and attempting to break out of her clothing as her tits swung to and fro. There had been a private competition between the girls to see which would be able to hit the moving target and the blow had landed right on the button. Marie’s howl of pain almost drowned out the headmistress’s whistle and her loud admonishment for high sticks. Marie immediately pulled up her shirt to reveal a definitely non-sports half cup bra in purple lace, producing a chorus of cheers and whistles from the girls watching on her side of the pitch. She ignored the referee and the crowd as she eased the thin lace aside and gently touched her nipple that was now throbbing. Helen was, again, unsympathetic. ‘Hazards of the game, Marie,’ she muttered as she passed, ‘hazards of the game.’ Marie managed a weak smile that concealed her concern at the bruise that she imagined growing as she jogged down the pitch.

 

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The match settled into a fast affair with girls and teachers frantically dashing back and forth as possession and advantage swung between the teams. Although some of the staff had already put the early incidents out of their minds, others were still waiting for the next incident to confirm what they suspected, that this had all been carefully planned.

That was in fact what was in the mind of Margaret Williams as she watched the mayhem unfold wondering what was in store for her and praying as each minute passed that she would get to half time unscathed. In fact, she was right that the girls had planned their campaign against their former teachers. But planning had to make way for inspiration, which was what happened when opportunity presented itself to the girls’ captain. Despite her flirtatious manner and carefully cultivated carefree attitude, she was a serious scholar and experienced player. Which is how she came to be advancing on the teachers’ goal, swerving first to her left and then to her right as she out manoeuvred her opponents. Margaret, attempting to cover the goal mouth, tried to follow her swift changes of direction, slipped, tried to save herself and landed on her ass, her thighs spread wide to display a patch of white that was too tempting to miss, literally. Without hesitation, the captain took aim and fired the ball at the target. As if in slow motion, all the players and spectators watched the progress of the ball across the pitch before it ploughed into Margaret’s crotch. The scream of pain could be heard in the dressing room. ‘Well,’ Helen remarked curtly, ‘unorthodox, but at least you prevented the girls scoring.’ The referee was more constructive. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, Miss Williams, always keep your legs together.’ Right at that moment, Margaret doubted if she would ever open them again, not even for the Chair of the Board of Governors, who had a penchant for large women and was due to visit her that evening. It was no consolation to Margaret that in the annals of these matches she would be idolised as the teacher who took one for the team.

 

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After the inspirational busting of Margaret Williams the girls settled back into their plan and their next target, Stephanie Roberts, the history teacher. In her mid-30s, she was inspirational with the girls but less popular among her colleagues. If it had been the staff who were laying a trap for her, her fate would have been decided unpleasant, especially if it had been entrusted to those whose partners had been led astray by Stephie. Fortunately, that fate lay in the future. Right now, she was in the hands of the girls. The trap was a combination of that laid for Jayne and Marie. A pincer movement, followed by a collision in which Stephie found herself flat on her back under a pile of bodies. Several of the staff shared the same uncharitable thought that this was not an unusual position for Stephie, who was known to prefer males of the married variety and was rumoured not to limit herself to one at a time.

Emerging as she thought unscathed, Stephanie rolled onto her knees and launched herself forward to follow the play, only to fall flat on her face in the same patch of mud as Jayne Sawyer had slid through earlier in the match. Attempting to struggle to her feet, she fell again and, looking down, saw that her laces were now tied together, hobbling her. She sat trying to undo the tight knot, cursing the mess she was sitting in but relieved not to have sustained the kind of injury that would seriously curtail Margaret Williams’ bedroom activities in the near future.

She was right to feel relieved, because from now on the fate of the remaining staff would be decidedly different.

 

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Rachel Grimes, the geography mistress, was the first to learn of the change in tactics. She was known principally for her strict marking, which had caused several pupils to fail to attain the required grades, and her large breasts, which were variously compared to water melons and Sumo wrestlers in a sack.

The incident developed, with no warning, in the centre of the pitch. Several players tumbled over each other and Rachel found herself at the bottom of the heap. And from the midst her stern tone could be heard crying, ‘No, Nooo, Noooo.’ And then a hand emerged from the pack, waving and then releasing a white object that was quickly caught by the breeze and swept away, to the cheers from the crowd. The girls parted to reveal Rachel standing in her skirt and a bra that had not been chosen for public display. When she had bought it, it had been glistening white, but that was a long time ago and it had now been reduced by repeated washing to a dull frayed grey. It had never been large enough to accommodate such huge tits, which bulged over the cups, and the straps had long ago given up on holding her bosom in place when there was even gentle movement. Even a gentle jog set them off in a dance that threatened to unbalance their owner and to knock anyone who got in the way off their feet. The headmistress couldn’t think of a rule that had been infringed and Helen remarked coldly that air circulation would cool her down.

Rachel could only comfort herself with the thought that she had a spare shirt in the dressing room. She would have not found that thought so comforting if she had known that, at that precise point, it was being removed by some of the junior girls. And that was not the only item they were taking. As Lynne Grant would learn to her cost. But her fate would have to wait, because Jessica Metcalfe was next on the agenda.

 

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If Rachel was known for her tits, Jessica Metcalfe was known for her ass. It was the general opinion, among both staff and pupils, that it had a mind of its own, because it moved around with no relationship to Jessica’s direction of travel. This would merely have been occasion for amusement were it not for the fact that her skill in information technology was matched only by her skill in humiliating any pupil who was not able to keep up with her super fast delivery in class.

The girl’s had practiced their manoeuvre on each other, so it was over in a matter of seconds. A collision, a swift flick of the wrist, and Jessica was left without a skirt before she had a chance to realise what was happening. There was no way she could cover herself by pulling down her shirt, not over an ass that size, but the girls had misjudged Jessica. If they had expected her to be embarrassed, they were going to be disappointed, because she was proud of her ass. She had learned at school that guys liked it and had made several of them cum in their pants by exposing herself to them. And her husband’s favourite position was reverse cowgirl. So, she simply carried on nonchalantly as before, rushing around with her ass following her when it had no choice and otherwise taking whatever course came naturally.

The referee was not, though, as amused as the girls watching from the touchline and blew for half time rather sooner than anyone expected.

 

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Half time and the girls skipped and whooped to their dressing room. The staff formed a straggly line and burst out in an explosion of expletives as they collapsed onto the benches. Margaret, still pale, doubled over in pain, as Rachel scrambled through her bag for the spare shirt she was sure she had brought with her. ‘Damn,’ she cursed, ‘I was sure I’d brought my spare. Has anyone got one I could borrow?’ The answer was a foregone conclusion – no one had a shirt that would enclose Rachel’s ample bosom. Jessica made no attempt to find her spare skirt, because it had never occurred to her that she might need one. ‘Anyone got a spare.’ Several offers were made from which she selected the largest, but it was still far too small and left swathes of her buttocks on display.

Everyone was now searching their belongings and announcing their losses. Marie had lost some underwear, Stephie couldn’t find a scarf. And so on. It was, though, Lynne Grant who suffered the worst indignity from the spate of thefts. She had immediately headed for the toilets, only to rush out for her bag. ‘Fuck,’ she announced, unaware of the spate of thefts that the others had discovered. ‘Has anyone got some tampons, I’m flooding.’ No one had. Margaret’s suggestion that, ‘I don’t suppose one of the girls-’ was met with derisive laughter. Everyone now knew what was going on. ‘Use some tissue for padding,’ Helen suggested. Lynne’s expression indicated that this was unlikely to be helpful.

Simone Turner, Helen’s closest friend among the staff, drew her to one side. ‘For God’s sake, look at what’s happening. We have to stop this. Think what they have in store for you. And if you don’t care about that,’ her voice cracked, ‘at least think what they might be planning for me.’ ‘Please,’ Georgina Wrenn had wandered over, ‘just remember half of the school is watching and we’re going to have to face them and teach them next term.’

Patricia Valentine was on the opposite of the changing room, giving her opinion to her colleagues. ‘Just look at what they did to Margaret, and the girls like her. They don’t like me.’

But Helen was not listening. She was leading her demoralised team back onto the pitch, with Lynne sure that the mess would not be confined to her pants by the time the match was over and hoping that this humiliation was all that the pupils had in mind for her.

As it happened, it was.

The girls had already prepared the trap for their next victim.