Are You Fit Miss Moxley?
'Are you fit, Miss Moxley?'
Paula blinked, taken momentarily aback. The position was to teach English and History, not Games Mistress. But she didn't have to reply as the Chairman of the Governors was continuing:
'Physical fitness is more and more being regarded as a highly desirable – even essential – attribute these days. No matter what the position. A person keeping his or her body fit and in good shape is always a step ahead of the sluggard. For one thing the brain is that much sharper – a good strong supply of oxygen – and of course, that person will set an example to others. The girls especially. You look in reasonable shape Miss Moxley. Do you play any sports? Do any jogging, or this – ah – aerobics?'
Flushing slightly Paula had to shake her head. She didn't do any sports although she wasn't fat or anything, and indeed, as Mr Brentwood had indicated, had a nice firm figure. She smiled nervously across the table. She wanted this job, needed it; and she had been told there were loads of applicants. Some of them were sure to be keen games players.
'I... I think I am quite fit, though, Sir.'
Mr Brentwood, who was about 30 and trim looking with a healthy light in his eye, frowned. 'Mmmm. You need to do something to keep fit, my girl. For instance I myself run 20 miles a week.'
Paula felt like saying 'Good for you!' but he was the Chairman and therefore no doubt had a mayor say in who got the job. And she did need it! She did her best to concentrate as the questioning was taken up by one of the other two members of the board. Questions about her degree. But if this bloody Mr Brentwood didn't want her what was the point?
At the end he told her to wait outside for a few minutes. Paula went out to the ante-room feeling rather depressed. There weren't a lot of jobs around in her subjects and this one was just what she wanted. Her mother lived in the next town and was in poor health and so Paula really needed to be close. Oh sod! Why hadn't she said she played something? Tennis, something like that. She had played when she was at school but somehow at the university hadn't found time for any of that. But she could have said she did. Paula looked morosely at the door of the interview room... which then opened. Mr Brentwood.
It was 4.30 and Paula guessed she was the last candidate for the day. Mr Brentwood confirmed this. She put on a brave face: she was going to hear her fate. With his eyes keenly on her, Mr Brentwood slowly shook his head.
'No sports, Miss Moxley. That's a pity because otherwise you are a very good candidate. My two colleagues were very impressed. As I was. Except...'
'I... I'm not really out of shape.' Her voice was eager. 'I can help with games. I... I did games at school.'
Mr Brentwood had dark eyes and they were sort of staring. 'I could check, I suppose? See what shape you're in.'
Paula looked blank. Mr Brentwood seemed to take Paula's bewilderment as unspoken assent, he waved airily towards the door.
'The gymnasium is this way, Miss Moxley.' He ushered her out of the door and then, with a hand in the small of her back – small of her back, tending lower towards the top of her buttocks, perhaps, though she pretended to herself that she was imagining that – he piloted her along several corridors to the gym. Her heels sounded loud on the wooden floor as she followed the Chairman across the gym to a door which he held open for her and then closed firmly behind them. She wasn't sure if she heard the click of a latch –
They were in a kind of ante-room to the gym, blank walls on three sides, with a limited view from the windows on the fourth of a corner of the playground bounded by a high wall. There was a broken-down vaulting horse and a few bits and pieces of gymnasium apparatus; Paula tried to meet Mr Brentwood's gaze calmly.
'Take off your suit. Let me see. Let me see your shape.'
Take off her suit? Had he said that?
'Strictly off the record of course, Miss Moxley. But there are only the two of us here, the others have left. Indeed there is no-one in the entire building. So no need to be bashful. But it could make the difference; I don't need to tell you that there are some other very promising candidates.'
Paula wet her lips; full pink lips, their natural colour enhanced this afternoon by not-too-obvious lipstick. You wanted to look smart but not of course tarty for an interview, especially for a teacher at a highly thought-of co-ed school where clearly they would be considering the effect of a young woman teacher on the boys. For that reason Paula had also worn her smart but not showy grey suit. Which this Mr Brentwood really was now asking her to take off. She could feel little pin-pricks of perspiration. Was he one of those? A Dirty Old Man?
The dark eyes met hers. 'Come on, Miss Moxley. It's not too unreasonable, is it?'
Yes it was. Who had ever heard of such a thing. If she reported it to the union, which she had just joined... but Mr Brentwood would simply deny it, and as he said there were no witnesses. The pink tongue wet the pink lips again. 'I... I don't think...' she stammered.
Mr Brentwood shook his head. 'It's up to you. I'm giving you a chance, off the record to – er – prove yourself. There are at least two other very strong candidates.'
Somehow Paula found she was standing on legs that she didn't seem to have complete control of. Her hands were going to the buttons of her smartly tailored jacket. Slipping it off. And then, hesitating... looking at him. Yes he did mean the skirt as well. Uncertain fingers at the zip and then sliding the skirt down over her hips. Stepping out of it. Placing it with the jacket on the little table. She had a blouse on under the jacket, but of course Mr Brentwood wanted yes... yes.
Making herself do it. Take the blouse of. Standing, looking straight ahead, not at Mr Brentwood, Paula's face pink like her pink lips.
She had on dark nylons and a suspender belt. Not something she normally wore but she had just thought: well why not? Never thinking, naturally... A sexy black suspender belt contrasting with the pale flesh of her thighs and the pure white of brief knickers and bra. She wasn't looking at Mr Brentwood but beyond him, making her eyes focus on a point head-high on the far wall. But she could imagine his face, his eyes.
'Very nice, Miss.' His voice breathy. 'Mmmm. Come – come a bit closer.'
There was no point arguing. She clattered forward the two paces on her high heels. Close in front of him. His hand on her leg, at the top of her stocking. Fingering the suspender clasp.
'You don't think... they'll get the boys too excited? The stockings? They can be devils, you know. Always trying to get a look up a woman's skirt.' The hand was fiddling with the clasp and then slid up, on Paula's warm thigh. She should push it away and grab her things and put them on and stamp out! Inform that union representative! But... she was just standing there. Shaking.
Mr Brentwood's weasily voice. 'Slip your knickers off, my dear.'
'NO!' she yelped.
'Yes. It's nothing. It's just that I want... to see you properly. See if you're in shape. And I want to see you exercise. But I need the knickers off for it.'
Paula violently shaking her head. No, he couldn't make her do that. But then Mr Brentwood said she was going to get the job, it was hers. But first of all he had to see her do some exercises; and she had to do them with her knickers off.
The room seemed to have got smaller – and hotter. She was sweating. He was just a Dirty Old Man and all his talk of fitness and exercise was just a sham, an excuse, to see her body. She should tell him what to do, to sod off, she was going straightaway to her union representative and report him! But once again Paula wasn't doing that. She was standing there. Hesitating. And then her hands were slowly going to the top of her knickers. Peeling them down.
'Right off,' said Mr Brentwood's hot voice. 'That's a good girl.'
They were somehow right off. She couldn't...
'Now stand up straight. Come on. And take your hands away from there. Don't be silly.'
She couldn't. But she had to. His beastly eyes of course on her pussy. That full bush of hair a couple of shades darker than her blonde head. Mr Brentwood saying nothing, just looking. Then standing close... and his hand suddenly, shockingly on her bare bottom. Jiggling the cheeks.
'Mmm. Not bad, young woman. Not fat at all, is it? A nice shape.' Paula gave a squeal as the hand smacked. 'But is it fit, Miss?'
He sat down again and told her she had to do some running on the spot. Take off her high-heeled shoes and start running in her stockinged feet. 'A nice high knee action.'
It was unreal, impossible. She couldn't really be standing here in from of the Chairman of the Governors in just her bra and suspender belt. In a minute she would wake up, out of this nightmare. But for the moment... Paula began the on-the-spot running.
'Come on, young woman. Put some effort into it. Speed it up. And lift those knees.'
No, it couldn't be happening. Nothing so ghastly was possible. But at the same time Paula knew it was. She was awake. And sweating. Pounding her stockinged feet desperately on the wooden floor.
'Keep going, Miss. If you want this position you have to prove yourself.'
He just kept her at it. Until she could have wept. She was collapsing. At last...
'All right, Miss Moxley. Stop now...' Paula did collapse, against the vaulting horse.
'I am not greatly impressed, my dear. You are clearly quite out of condition.' Mr Brentwood was close all at once, behind the horse and leaning across it as Paula stood gasping for breath. His hands came round... and cupped her breasts.
'Let me feel your heart.'
Paula's heart was going like a runaway horse but it was her tits that Mr Brentwood had hold of. She was too far gone to do anything except let him grasp them. Mr Brentwood, making concerned noises, was in no hurry to let go, but finally he was straightening up.
'Recovered now? Now we have a second little test. Nothing too difficult. But I want you on this horse. On your back and cycling your legs in the air.'
Weakly shaking her head. He couldn't. Not that. There was a limit. But Mr Brentwood was saying, 'I want you to have this job, Miss Moxley. Believe me. But I need...'
He needed to have her lying on the vaulting horse with her legs in the air. Her nyloned legs with the suspender belt and of course no knickers. And Paula, having let herself get this far and in any case with her head in such a state... able only to think that she had to have this job...
Getting onto the horse. Mr Brentwood helping... Paula getting up on it and Mr Brentwood showing her just how he wanted her. Her hands gripping the edge. Lifting her bottom. 'Reach your legs high and then cycle...'
She was doing it. Somehow. In that hot little room and conscious of Mr Brentwood first on one side and then the other. Getting different angles as her up-side-down legs and thighs did the cycling action. And getting different angles on something else of course which in her up-side-down position was fully revealed.
And then, with little pats on her bare bottom which were soon more like slaps and then stingy, Oooh!-making spanks. For a long time.
Paula feeling tears falling sideways from the corners of her eyes, her breath coming in gasps, her leg-action becoming jerky and spasmodic, her hands trying to protect her bottom and being slapped away, then more firm spanks on her naked, upside-down bottom...
* * * *
'How did it go, dear?' Paula's mother bright-eyed and eager for news. Paula could scarcely bring herself to answer, not with the memory of what had happened. And in any case...
'I... I don't really know. They didn't really say.'
Because in spite of complying with Mr Brentwood's dreadful requests Paula didn't know for sure that she had the job. Not yet, not definitely. Mr Brentwood was almost sure but... He wanted to do some more fitness tests. Tomorrow. And what could you say? If you had to have the job.
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