The Best of Roger Frank Selby Read online

  ‘Quite!’ She laughed into his eyes, then looked up as the bell rang. ‘Oh dear, I have to go. Is that enough for you to get started?’

  ‘What about the size of the thing. Is it for the seniors? I could do with seeing the actor who’s to fit in to it – make it bespoke for him … or her.’

  ‘Must dash. Can I see you about that later?’

  ‘After school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was late. She saw him through the corridor windows, lounging against his desk with his pad, sketching in the empty classroom. He cut a fine figure but always looked happier without his class. She knew he had trouble keeping order, sometimes. If only she could show him how she controlled a class. A matter of confidence, really.

  But he also had this reputation of being something of an artist. She had seen one or two of his caricatures in the staffroom, and that sketch of ‘stocks’ and captive confirmed it. She wondered just what he was drawing now.

  ‘Hello. So sorry I’m late.’

  He closed his pad rather quickly. ‘Hi. No problem.’

  ‘Have you been doing some more sketching?’ She lounged beside him, conscious of his height, maybe a little too close, as her breast brushed against the hairs of his bare forearm.

  ‘I have.’ He opened the pad at an early page, showing a drawing of an empty device.

  ‘Wow! Look at all that detail. Hinges, clasps …’

  ‘I’m assuming you want a robust, realistic device, with things working just as they should.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And have you decided on the size?’

  ‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘could you make it bespoke for me?’

  He glanced at her, eyebrows raised.

  She felt herself reddening again. ‘Well, the lead actor is just about my height …’

  ‘No problem.’ He straightened and faced her. ‘Just lean your elbows on my desk for a start …’

  She bent over and did just that, feeling the stiffening tips of her breasts jab the wooden surface.

  ‘This gives us a general idea. I would guess that you probably want your back to be lower than that…’

  ‘Shall I bend lower? Perhaps my wrist and neck should be close to desk level?’ Her bosom flattened, spreading out against the ancient wood.

  ‘Do you want your back to be horizontal then?’ He rested his hand on the small of her back.

  ‘Oh!’ she jumped a little at his touch. The touch was not out of place in the circumstances, she decided. ‘You mean level? Ah yes, that would be ideal.’

  ‘It won’t be very comfortable bent over that much with your legs straight.’

  ‘Well, I would guess that comfort is not the idea of the device, besides, I’m quite flexible.’

  She was. And she knew her bottom stood out quite nicely too. He pulled out a pocket tape measure and began taking measurements centred around her pose, muttering as he wrote them down on his sketchpad – how long and wide the base would have to be, the height of the neck and wrist holes and so on.

  ‘Now, how wide apart do you want the wrists?’

  She showed him.

  ‘About a metre, then.’ He came up close to her and carefully measured around her neck and wrists, presumably to work out the best diameter for the holes. Finally, he walked around to her side. She felt her heart give a lurch as he leant over and patted her bottom. ‘That’s it, thanks, Miss Curzon.’

  For a second she considered objecting to the familiarity, but she knew her bottom was sticking up quite outrageously and his touch had been so light and natural, almost thoughtless – an artist dismissing his model, perhaps.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking …’ He’d noticed her hesitation.

  Her heart was still beating noticeably as she straightened. She decided she did not want to be dismissed. She raised her arms and stretched her shoulders. The natural action emphasised her jutting breasts and set his eyes on them. He quickly glanced down to the pad and his notes. Her eyes followed. ‘Can I see some more of your sketches, please, Mr Finch?’

  ‘I guess so, but …’

  ‘Let me see.’ She flipped over the pad pages and he didn’t stop her.

  This time his latest sketches showed an unmistakable Miss Curzon held captive. Several views – one from in front, her head slightly drooped and a view from the side and behind. He must have seen her in the swimming pool: his artist’s eye saw how she would look in the raw, and here she was. They were roughly sketched nudes, however, outlines and details rather blurred but unmistakably her – with her full breasts hanging down. He had them almost right.

  She breathed in sharply. ‘Oh!’

  ‘I’m sorry if you’re offended. I used to do figure drawing …’

  ‘I can see that. But this is not from life, this is …’

  ‘… just my imagination, unfortunately. Do you like them?’

  She kept her eyes down on the drawing. She knew she was blushing yet again. ‘I do, actually. They are marvellous.’ Then she looked him in the eye. ‘When did you last draw from life?’

  He laughed, his eyes sparkling. ‘It’s been a few years.’

  She didn’t speak for a moment. ‘A pity … You are very good, in my humble opinion, but I expect it’s pretty difficult finding a model?’

  ‘There’s the rub!’ He grinned.

  She closed the pad with a dismissive gesture. ‘I know the sketches are strictly personal to you, but I’m a little worried about the students seeing these stocks being made. You know how they are about such things. Theirimaginations will run riot!’

  ‘I’ll be doing the main assembly work out of hours. I can keep the project securely locked up in my storeroom.’

  ‘Excellent! It’s really very kind of you to do this for me Mr Finch … When do you think they’ll be ready?’

  ‘I have all the wood I need in stock but some of the hardware I’ll have to shop around for. Give me a week.’

  It took him slightly longer, but the play wasn’t for another month. She’d walked by his classroom after hours once or twice and seen the light coming from under the storeroom door. Then one day in the staffroom, he whispered discreetly, ‘They’re almost finished – just the varnish drying. After school tomorrow night?’

  ‘Right.’

  She chose a longish dress for her visit. Perhaps a rather similar one to the wench depicted in his first drawing. She found her breath coming more quickly as he led her straight into the spacious storeroom and closed the door.

  There in the centre were the stocks – a sinister construction of polished mahogany and black wrought iron fittings, solid and stable on a low platform, a powerful icon of mediaeval punishment. Real hide cushioned the open neck and wrist slots. There was a sharp smell of wood, leather and varnish.

  ‘Oh! They are quite beautiful, Mr Finch!’

  ‘Would you like to try them for size, ma’am?’ he smiled.

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Once I close them on you, you will be locked in and helpless, you do realise that, Miss Curzon?’

  She knew that. That was precisely what excited her, ‘But you will be here with me. Just promise that you won’t leave me alone.’

  ‘I can promise you faithfully that I will not leave you alone.’

  She met his gaze and he held it. She felt her heart thumping.

  She stood on the platform and bent her head low, placing her neck and wrist in the slots. He swung over the heavy top half of the board, carefully closing the lock. She found that her neck and wrists were loosely but securely held, while her view to the rear was cut off completely. The feeling was quite different to being bent over Mr Finch’s desk. Her breasts touched no surface, but hung free, constrained only by her bra. Her bottom felt even more stuck out and exposed than before.

  ‘Now you are my prisoner, Miss Curzon.’ His voice was harder, with a certain relish.

  ‘What are you going to do with me, Mr Finch?’

  ‘First, I’m just going to ske
tch you.’

  ‘Oh. With my clothes on?’

  ‘Yes, briefly.’

  Briefly?Her heart was pounding. ‘Very well.’

  After a minute or two out of sight, he showed her a drawing of herself bent over in the stocks – a helpless woman in a long summer dress, looking very vulnerable to the rear … Could her bottom look that big, she wondered?

  Then he and the drawing vanished but she felt him behind her, his hands low on the outside of her legs, just under the hem of her dress.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Now I want to sketch you a little less draped. Is that OK?’

  ‘How much “less draped”?’ She breathed deeply.

  ‘Tell me when to stop lifting your clothes – just say “when”.’

  With a shock, she noticed the mirror to her right. He already had her dress raised to her thighs. My God, he would soon discover …

  She kept silent and he kept lifting – slowly, right over her bare bottom, past the dip of her naked waist. If he was surprised by the lack of knickers, he wasn’t showing it. This man was an artist, she thought, completely at home with the female form. The dress was now up to her shoulder blades, revealing the tight, white brassiere strap. Had she been a less well-endowed woman, she would have forgone the bra too, but to jiggle about noticeably braless in school, even after-hours, would have been quite indiscreet.

  He’d now lifted her clothes right up to her neck and forearms, revealing the sturdy cups of her brassiere, which, she could now see, gave a rather conical outline to their charges. She rather wished she hadn’t worn it. Foolishly she tried to move her arms as if to reach around her back and unhook … Immediately, she felt the firm restriction of the hardwood surrounding the leather encircling her wrists.

  ‘No “when”, Miss Curzon?’

  ‘No!’ she laughed. ‘Can you, ah, undo the strap for me? I really would like to be completely natural for your sketching.’

  The woodwork master’s heart was thumping as the full, splendid form of the drama teacher was revealed to his gaze. Her skin was so smooth. Not white, but creamy. Looking down on her back, he savoured the way the swell of her round behind narrowed into her waist and gently out again to her long back, the sight only marred by the strap across the groove of her spine.

  Hardly trusting himself to speak, he unhooked her. On both sides of her back he could see the slightly whiter swell of her released breasts as he cleared the straps over her shoulders. He glanced in the mirror and saw how her tits had adopted a beautiful natural line as they hung lower in their fullness, the generous pink nipples pointing slightly forwards and outwards.

  ‘Lovely!’ he breathed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’d like to clear away these clothes. Promise you won’t run away if I release you for a moment?’

  ‘I promise.’

  She remained bent over in the stocks as he unlocked and lifted the top board to one side. She raised her neck and arms slightly as he pulled her clothes over her head. His hands made slight contact with the cool flesh of her breasts and they jiggled and swung with the movement. Soon, she was safely locked up again, quite naked in the stocks.

  * * *

  The sketching phase didn’t last long. In a few minutes, he showed her the results. Excellent, of course, but she did not dwell on them, something more functional than mere sketching was on her mind. He must have noticed her preoccupation and seen the look in half-closed eyes, for he moved to her side and reached around and under her, boldly grasping a breast in each hand.

  She sighed deeply. His touch was delicious. He soon gave up trying to play with both her breasts at the same time – they were more than a handful, even for his manly hands. His mouth joined in as he moved under her, sucking while his fingers squeezed and kneaded.

  She looked in the mirror and watched him fondling her. But she also saw her bare bottom sticking out, unattended. He noticed her looking and she wiggled her waist and behind, suggestively.

  With parting kisses on her nipples, he stood up beside her. His hand stroked down her back to the dip of her waist, then rose up smoothly, rounding over her bottom. His hand dallied there. He patted her right buttock. It was the lightest of smacks, yet it sent a dart of electricity through her loins. ‘Oh!’ He patted her left buttock – a trifle harder. No one had ever dared to do this to her before. ‘Oh, Mr Finch!’

  ‘You have only to say “stop”, and I shall, Miss Curzon.’

  She didn’t trust herself to reply – but he had not asked a question, after all. A moment later, she felt his renewed touch on her bottom. His powerful, slightly rough, working hands were kneading the flesh of her bottom instead of her breast, opening and closing her buttocks, imparting the occasional firm slap. In response, she found herself wiggling her bare arse from side to side.

  He began to spank her, fairly hard.

  She cried out a little with each loud smack, discovering that quite a loud smack hardly hurt at all, but made her breath come quicker and her heart beat faster. Sometimes the spanking would pause and his hand would stray between her legs, then trail up delightfully through her moist lips.

  ‘I am your prisoner,’ she breathed, ‘you can do with me as you will.’ A little over-dramatic perhaps, but she had already seen that his trousers were fit to burst their straining contents.

  He took them off.

  She was not displeased with the side view of him in the mirror: a magnificent member raised in salute to her naked body. She wanted to be closer to him. ‘Please bring him around to the front for a moment, Mr Finch.’

  It was an order. She had her bossy voice on, but he was happy to come around to where she could eyeball his cock directly. He saw her hands convulse slightly as she went to hold him and found her wrists constrained once again by the leather padding.

  ‘Can you release me again, please – just briefly?’

  He opened the stocks. Her hands came together to hold him firmly and to guide the swollen head into her mouth. He gasped, feeling the sweet, wet warmth of her mouth as she took him in. He lifted her a little from the wooden slots, reaching again for her creamy, swinging breasts as she now took her turn at sucking.

  It was difficult to say how long she sucked him – certainly longer than he had sucked her breasts – but he was surprised and slightly shocked with the skill of her tongue around his cockhead and the way her hands played along his shaft, lifted and fondled his balls and even felt around his bottom. He was more than ready for her, and even in danger of culminating his performance when she finally released him.

  ‘Now, Mr Finch, lock me down and come up behind me.’

  That bossy voice again.

  ‘I’m locking you down, but I’lldecide what happens from now on.’

  Her silence was eloquent.

  Maybe he’d hurt her feelings but the tone of his voice had done the trick. Behind her again, he gave her one or two more spanks for good measure.

  ‘Oh!’

  Then he spread her cheeks wide. Her wet lips opened a little and he guided himself into her.

  ‘Aaaahhhh!’

  Most of the sigh came from her, but he joined in a little too, as he felt himself slip deep up inside her tightness.

  He slowly slid in and out of her.

  He took his time. He held onto her waist but also stroked her wide hips and buttocks, spanking them alternately as she rolled her penetrated pussy around his penetrating member, very gentle and easy fucking to start with, apart from the smacks.

  This was what she had been craving – the intimacy with Mr Finch and the forced submission of the stocks. To her surprise, both had measured up superbly! With her head held down and her hind quarters free, she allowed her bottom to toss around wildly while the spearing cock moved inside her, now slow and steady, now pistoning fast, right up to the hilt, flattening her labia at the end of each deep stroke. With her knees bent forward a little and her thighs slightly apart, she was wide open for him, a direct line from the root of his cr
otch into the depths of her belly

  She felt her excitement build and build with the hard thrusting, felt herself beginning to tighten around him, knowing he would be feeling her squeezing him along his length. She began to cry out, to howl, her bottom seeming to come alive, rolling and thrusting against him. He was crying out too, holding onto her waist, his motion even more urgent as the long strokes of his hips began to deliver his body’s purpose deep within her body.

  He lasted a long time, filling her, pulling on her creamy buttocks to bounce and quiver, hard up against him, again and again.

  They were still for a long time afterwards, locked together, basking in the afterglow.

  ‘Oh, Mr Finch … That was so … so lovely!’

  There was less noise in the class these days and the quality of work had improved noticeably. He saw her tap on the glass in the corridor and motioned her inside the door. There she waited, her hands behind her back on the door knob, unconsciously emphasising her impressive bosom. She looked absolutely radiant these days. One of the boys attempted a wolf whistle but Mr Finch’s swift scowl at the culprit nipped it in the bud.

  ‘OK you lot, get on with your work.’

  They did.

  At his desk, the two teachers could talk business.

  ‘Mr Finch, I was wondering if you would be interested in constructing another major prop for our next play – it’s set on the quarterdeck of an old ship. Specifically I need a ship’s wheel.’

  ‘Right.’

  He sat down, opened his pad and started sketching a detailed ship’s wheel as she looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Hmmmm – how big would that be? Can you draw in a person to give it scale?’

  He sketched again. The naked woman was bent low over the wheel, arms lashed to the spokes, her heavy breasts hanging down, her bottom offered up.

  She lowered her voice and spoke close to his ear. ‘Perfect! That’s exactly how I want it.’

  The Butler Did It

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m enquiring about the position at Abbey House.’

  ‘Are you phoning on behalf of your husband?’