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“I can’t do this on my own.” I plead. Smith lets go of the door and looks at me wondering what I mean. He can’t be much past 18 years old, he’s never going to understand how fiercely I’m fighting myself to accept this challenge but I try to explain anyway, desperate. “Help me?” I try.

All I need is someone on my side, someone to look after me, a friend amongst the pack of wolves I’m about to be thrown to. I want there to be someone I can turn to who’ll abuse me less, who’ll let me escape the worst of the horror and who’ll at least try to steer my torture away from the mindlessness so often the way when the pack takes over those in it.

His expression turns thoughtful as I tell him what I want, as if I’ve just introduced him to some radical new concept. One step away from the door is all it takes for him to put us face to face. I look up at him trembling. “What do I get out of it?” he asks. I have no idea, but he does.

Smiling down at me he lifts his right hand, places it squarely on my left breast and squeezes it. He has to bend slightly to slip his left hand up the outside of my right thigh, it slides up under my skirt as he stands up straight, resting on my hip. I feel him gently tug the side of my knickers and let it him do it, to show willing. “I’ll see what I can do.” he laughs, takes his hands away with no real indication I’ve impressed him and returns to opening the door.

Did I just make a deal? I pray I have and wonder how much it’ll cost me. This time I walk into the house, shaking from the intensity of doing it.

The office isn’t an office it’s a mock up of a classroom, obviously not real because there’s nothing on the walls, no books, no storage for materials or no untidy, misplaced paraphernalia. There is only the bare essentials for role playing some sort of teacher/student relationship. The teacher gets a big desk with a blackboard behind it raised up on a low stage and the students, should there unfortunately, like today, be more than one, get small desks with chairs on the floor in front of it, and that’s it. They’re not real desks but simple office furniture and mine just a big table.

Four of the student desks are occupied, Smith sits down behind a fifth, next to HH. Why did I hope he’d be missing?

Laird Tarn himself isn’t the crumbling old relic of the empire somehow I expected. He’s hardly middle aged and therefore still dangerously and sexually active.

We all know we can’t possibly keep up the pacy assault of Alison’s awful phone clip for three hours so it’s no surprise LT plans to start slowly. He asks me to take up a position behind the teachers desk while he sits on the corner.

Such is the positioning of the desks and the difference in elevation between them that the floor’s view up my skirt is unimpeded.

I’m offered the blackboard because at least to begin with, I am the teacher. “Write something.” he says. Anything? “Yes, anything at all, please yourself.” Obviously this could be some sort of psychological, condemn myself as a nutter test I can expect to get laughed at for failing. I realise it’s much simpler than that when LT flicks the chalk which was lying on the base of the blackboard onto the floor so I have to pick it up from there. I’m about to bend my knees and lower myself with my back straight like a lady in a short skirt should when LT demands “Do it properly!” So I turn away from him, bend with my legs straight, so what there is, or isn’t, of my little skirt exposes my fat arse and flashes my “panties” as required, right at him. “Happy now?” I ask silently with a withering look over my shoulder as I regain my posture. He’s grinning at me.

Please myself? Inspired by the word please I put the piece of chalk on the board and with a trembling hand, as steadily as I can I write……..

I promise my rose as faithful whore to those who tease but nothing more.
My skirt is up, my lace aside, I’ve no defence, no place to hide.
My will is free, my shame’s undone, I’ll acquiesce, your prize you’ve won.
But let me live, please heed my prayer, don’t fuck me, please, not if you care.

I put the chalk down and look at LT who’s still reading. When he finishes he stares at me pretty much gobsmacked. Smith nods his approval but not at my poetic prowess, his smile means he’s got it, he knows what I mean. Even so I can’t rely on his help. He might know I need him but he might not want me.

LT looks slightly bemused by this apparent undercurrent and HH squints through his scientific glasses at the unfathomable, alien concept of poetry, wondering what on earth it is.

Then LT knocks the blackboard rubber onto the floor and orders me to rub out my poem and write it again. Obviously I’m supposed to show off again by picking up the rubber so I do but while I’m clearing the blackboard LT throws the chalk over my desk so this time it lands on the floor immediately in front of the row of students. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t understand I’m intended to put on a display of womanhood for the boys and that too must be done properly. Having recovered the chalk I look behind me, still bent over, past my right thigh, and notice HH has moved. A second later someone prods me in the genitals. I thought I’d be ready but I’m not. I knew something like this was inevitable but I’m still stunned by it, and angry.

My fist is clenched as I spin round to provoke a confrontation but LT shouts “Something wrong Miss Grindall?” to stop me in my tracks. I curse inside but reply “No Sir.” not smashing the self satisfied smirk off HH’s face, this time.

“Do you want her to do it again lads?” LT asks and they do. During this early stage of my humiliation each of the boys is given the chance to stroke the inside of my legs and press the fabric of my panties between my labia or poke it into my arse as I try to concentrate on picking up the chalk, pushed off balance by the force of it. Whoever he is on the left seems to be attracted to the synthetic feel of my stockings where the others prefer the flesh above them and a tactile exploration of the contours of my crotch.

I’ve written my poem five times before, overcome with confidence, the boys get off their chairs to wriggle their hands between my thighs and enjoy a clumsy fumble for my fun button as she hides, not having had less fun in my whole life! Smith has a tender touch but predictably it’s HH who pushes his luck and my panties out of his way.

I snarl my disapproval at the discomfort he causes me and LT is off the desk and over me with that bastard magic, appear from nowhere cane. It swishes through the air, I hear it in time and twist away instead of throwing a punch at HH’s head but my escape can only be temporary. Too fast to understand how my punching arm is up my back, I’m man(boy)handled round and thrown over the teacher’s desk breasts down amid the clatter of displaced furniture as chairs and desks are kicked aside in the attack . My feet are kicked aside too, spreading me open arse up. I feel my skirt get hauled up round my waist and my punishment sting the inside of my left thigh. It’s a crippling, searing pain and my surprise is complete and bewildering. I can’t think through the shock with enough clarity to cry.

There are hands all over me, inside my clothing pulling me undone, holding me down on the table.

Someone twists my head up, pulling on my braid. It’s LT. I have time to realise he doesn’t have the cane before it lashes me again in someone else’s hands. I flinch violently, breathing hard through gritted teeth as LT watches my face, the degradation I’m suffering and hating the shame written all over it. Two more lashes rip into me, one across my arse and the other across the back of my right thigh from a new direction. Are they taking it in turns to thrash me? I feel the last blow ping off one of my suspender clips. “Having fun yet Miss Grindall?” LT asks with a smile as insincere as he can make it. I can’t hold back the tears now and plead for mercy with pathetic abandon. “Please don’t, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” I wail, over and over again meaning it without reserve. My promise to behave loosens LT’s grip on my hair and the thrashing stops. I have two hours forty minutes to go and it matters that Smith didn’t stop the cane.

They let me stand up but LT nods in the direction of the chalk, sent skidding across the floor in the scuffle to pin me down on the desk. It’s in the corner of the room. “You want me to go get it?” I ask. Of course he does. The welts from the cane feel like a wet sting, both hot and cold together and worse when I move to walk across the room. The boys follow me and stand around behind me knowing I’m going to bend over again for the chalk but this time I’m cornered.

My heart is hammering in my chest, my muscles feel like they’re going to snap I’m so tense. Someone still has the cane, I feel it rub me between my legs as I reach down, distinct from the smoothing sensation of warm hands handling my arse cheeks. Someone’s pulling my suspender straps, there’s fingers under my knickers. “Stop!” LT commands. Light replaces the darkness as the boys step back but folded in half in my corner, I can’t see what’s happening.

I’m instructed to place the palms of my hands on the walls either side of my head and move my feet far enough apart to touch both walls either side of my corner. “Give her a whack.” I hear LT say to whoever has the cane. It cracks across my left buttock but from the standing angle it was delivered at, the end whips under me. I fight not to curse. “Any idea what that was for?” LT jokes. I haven’t, I did as I was asked, I’m not expected to know.

“Crack!” again the cane catches me right at the top of my inner thigh. This time I squeal like a tortured pig, pointlessly squirming as if doing so might help me avoid the pain. I can’t breathe until the sting subsides. Two more help me figure out that my back is insufficiently arched. I force my body into the exposed vulnerability I think they want. “Good girl.” LT says then asks “Right then, who’s first?” I can’t believe this can get worse. It turns out to be some sort of depraved photo opportunity. They take turns in taking pictures of each other humiliating me while LT watches me suffer.

The nylon fetishist rips holes in my stockings and they take pictures of his hands tearing them and inside the holes. One of the other anonymous perverts twists my knickers inside out and wants a close up not just of me but the inside of the crotch as well. What does he expect to see? I imagine, in the alternative picture taken of him, he’s standing beside me in my defeat with a handful of my knickers like a Victorian hunter holding the head of a dead lion up. I’m photographed with a pencil painfully poked into my arse by the third, for some reason.

Although I can’t see, because I dare not try to look round, I think I know when it’s Smith’s turn. Did he lick his fingers first so they’d slide more comfortably over me? All of them choose to grope me flesh to flesh in their awkward, youthful way and they all think it’s fun to irritate the damage done by thrashing me, making it stand proud, red and angry for their cameras. Do they think I’m enjoying it? HH takes me last, and really pisses me off. If he ever gets a girlfriend I feel so sorry for her!

I’ve been so comprehensively subdued by the cane I think I can endure my ordeal and get the signature I need from LT if I achieve faultless obedience but I’m wrong.

HH is fingernails, brutal pinching and careless, forceful probing. He goes straight for a penetration my sore genitals are reluctant to accommodate and he hurts me so badly I have to wriggle out of his way. “Stand still lassie!” LT roars but I’m sorry, rebellion it has to be.

After I’ve pushed myself upright and spun round to face HH he’s looking away from me, at LT as if an order barked by Laird Tarn himself is going to put me immediately back in my place. It’s a gift I take full advantage of. HH’s hand slips out of my knickers as I turn and when he looks back it’s down instead of up to find out why.

I whip his glasses off his head with one hand, poke him in the eye with the other and when he instinctively lifts his hands to his face my knee’s crushing his bollocks with the weight of a whole Kate thigh behind it. “Get her back on the desk.” LT orders, as if it’s that simple. I’m determined to take as many of them down with me as I can. Arse pencil boy reaches me first and as he tries to grab my arm I hear Smith joke loudly “This happened last time she was here!” and “You’re fuckin’ useless you are.” at HH writhing somewhere.

Master nylon fetish predictably goes for my legs and bravely wraps himself round my ankles in a sort of rugby tackle, pulling a stocking down, out of it’s remaining suspender clip. Crotch close up boy has to clamber over him to catch my other arm but misses and off balance, we crash to the floor with Smith laughing his head off some distance away.

All 80kg of me land on someone, seriously winding him temporarily out of action. Then I realise I can get at my rugby tackler with my free hand and heave on his hair which distracts him enough to let me loosen one leg from his grip and stamp on him. In heels that’s fearsome, making him let go completely to retreat to a safe distance, for the moment. But then I’m unguarded from above and someone crashes on top of me.

My only hope is to inflict as much damage as I can quickly to shake the resolve of my attackers. This is just a game to them but I’m fighting for my dignity, I’m scared and the thought of how awful my punishment will be for fighting so hard makes me fight harder. I can’t lose and tangle us into a frantic heap.

I grasp anything I can get at, blazers, hair, belts, shirts, limbs, punching, kicking and scratching in an effort to pull them off me but I’m swamped under a pile of boy bodies. I’ve no idea which part of who is what, I just try to hurt it as much as possible.

Smith adopts an advisory role on the periphery of our struggle. Grab her this or get her that he calls from above us somewhere. LT shouts “Get in there man!” to encourage him to do something useful and I hear him complain “There isn’t room Sir!”

The three boys have too much excess capacity and they’re loving the chance to get rough. Our close quarter combat generates a lot of body heat and we stink of my perfume, billowing off me in clouds of perspiration. Soon I’m dripping in it, making me harder to grip but they have hands to spare.

Someone’s hand is wedged between my legs. “She’s wet Sir!” he cries. “No Wilkins, she’s sweating!” LT cries back. I have to abandon my upper body defence to lever Wilkin’s off my sex organs and someone hauls my blouse open. A split second after that my tits are out and my bra is being heaved upwards in an attempt to force it over my head.

I’m breathing their breath as they work hard to subdue me, using their weight to trap me but they’re exhausting me faster, they’re slowly overcoming me, pinning me down. One last kick knocks Wilkins away from my hips but he takes my knickers with him, a souvenir he’s certain is rightfully his.

Suddenly I find myself stretched between my arms, tangled in my bra above my head and someone wrestling my legs. I feel my feet twist. It hurts so much I’m forced to relax to relieve the stress and let them drag me wide open on my back. Am I fucked?

Smith joins in now, at the moment of my defeat. I can’t believe it and want to scream “You arsehole!” but I can’t afford the breath. He straddles my stomach and grabs my tits with both hands. From somewhere I find the strength to push my body up, trying to flick him off but I’ve not much left. My feeble attempt makes him fall forward with a force I didn’t apply.

I realise he’s not an arsehole as he pretends to be thrown over my head, as if I’d caught him by surprise. He lands on my hair, my braid’s been pulled undone, it’s spread out round my head. and unavoidable. For a second he nails my head to the floor, almost tearing my scalp, smothering me momentarily before acting the momentum to fall into whoever is holding my arms down. I did make deal!

My arms become free. I sit up against the weight of the boys trapping my legs in their wrestling holds with my bra where it fell in one hand and whip one across his face with it, the little catches in the back strap cutting him at supersonic speed. The shock stuns both of them so badly they let me kick them off me.

Before anyone can react to this new development I’m clambering to my feet and half falling, half running for the door. I need to drop my bra to wrench the door handle undone with both hands. Everyone except LT is sprawling uselessly behind me giving me a valuable head start. I can’t believe I’m escaping!

Crashing through the door into the hallway I stumble on my heels, regain my footing then elect not to run for the front door, all there is out there is cricket pitches, I need to hide. Instead I run into the rest of the house. I discover the kitchen, the back door is unlocked so I open it then try what turns out to be a pantry. I hide in there.

I’m panting like race horse, desperately trying to keep my breathing quiet and notice the inside pantry door knob is wet with sweat from my hands, the outside must be too. I pray they don’t notice. It’s dark in here, there are no windows. I can’t see the door handle so I keep hold of it for ages so I’ll remember where it is. Then it won’t rattle if I have to look for it. I dare not risk looking for a light switch in case I knock something over.

A couple of seconds later I hear cries of “She’s outside!” and LT bellowing “Get after her then!” They’ve seen the open back door. Escaping Kate 1, stupid chasing wolf pack 0 I think and hear boys running out of the house. I wait but I can’t calm down. I can’t catch my breath, I’m shaking, I feel like I’ve been in a car crash, everything hurts but at least now I stand some chance of saving myself, but I’ve no idea how.

My clothing, if you can call wrecked stockings, a suspender belt with three straps and a uselessly short skirt that, is likely to be an impediment. All it will do is give whoever I might end up scrapping with something to grab me by and I decide to abandon it along with my shoes. I can’t sprint in them. I wish I’d saved my knickers, oh well.

Sooner or later they’ll figure out I’m still in the house so I can’t stay here. The dilemma is I can’t move until I’m sure they’ve extended their search far enough away from the house, but not so far they’ll give up and return. Darkness is half a day away, I can forget that.

In spite of listening hard my heart is making so much noise I can’t hear well enough to know if anyone’s still in the house. Distant voices call to each other outside but my pulse is coursing through my ears, drowning out their sensitivity. I can’t be sure how far away they are. At some point soon I have to open the pantry door. If anyone’s in the kitchen they’ll see it instantly. I have to gamble no one is.

The door opens inwards which means I get to peer round it as I open it, if no one kicks it in my face. As challenges go, this one demands more courage than I ever thought I’d have. After I’ve punted my discarded clothes out of the way and fought back the onset of mindless panic I ease open the door only wanting to throw up a bit. The coast, kitchen that is, is clear.

Each footfall has to be placed to avoid my bare feet slapping the stone floor as I inch my way across it towards the still open back door. Silence is essential, I might not be alone. Plan A is to discover how much cover there is in what I hope will be a back garden and use it to stay invisible while I look for a suitable escape route. Ben, Alison and the van will still be in the car park, won’t they? All I have to do is get there.

For a moment I stay in the back doorway. There is a garden, with bushes, fences, a shed and two tall trees. I watch for moving shadows, the flash of the St Nick’s blazer colour through the foliage or horror of horrors, one of the boys in dangerous proximity. It all looks good, they must be looking for me elsewhere and I decide to run for the shed as a safe (!!!) vantage point from which to find out what’s over the fence beyond. I hear “click” behind me.

When I instinctively spin round, looking back over my shoulder, my hair falls over my eyes but I’m sure I see LT with what looks like a hunting rifle!