It was a bright, warm morning early in September, and the playing fields of St Mary’s sparkled in the autumn sunlight. In the distance, a class of girls was playing hockey. As we turned the corner of the main building, heading for Miss Chastaine’s room for a French class, we stopped for a moment to enjoy the scene.

“Are you an athlete, Mr Johnson?” my colleague asked.

“Oh, I dabbled in tennis a bit at college. I was never very good at it.”

“You are too modest, I think. I have it on good authority that your athletic credentials are first class. That’s one reason you got the job.”

Her voice was warm, but there was a severity in her expression which warned me not to feel too pleased with this compliment.

“After all,” she continued, “it wasn’t your academic ability, was it?”

“Well, I don’t...”

“Oh, don’t get defensive, Mr Johnson. We are in desperate need of a tennis coach. If you can prove yourself capable, you will earn our undying gratitude. And the girls will adore you. If you can teach them some literature as well, that will certainly be a bonus.”

“I’ll try to make myself useful,” I said sourly, smarting from her patronising manner.

“Do so,” she said. “Sporting ability is highly respected at St. Mary’s. The girls do two hours of P.E. every day. Health and good discipline, Mr Johnson. These are our values, and you will do well to appreciate them. Come on, it’s time for class.”

Feeling more like a wayward pupil than a new teacher, I followed Miss Chastain into the building.

“We will have the annex to ourselves, Mr Johnson. There is only one senior class this year.”

“I hope they’re keen,” I commented.

“You shall see and judge for yourself.”

The silence of the corridor was broken now by a chatter of young voices, and as we rounded the corner, we found a group of about a dozen girls waiting for us. They were gathered in small groups, chatting casually, but the sudden appearance of Miss Chastain jolted them into action.

“Line up girls.”

They obeyed with alacrity. All conversation ceased immediately and the girls formed an orderly line against the wall. Taking her time, Miss Chastain began inspecting the girls’ uniforms and readiness for class.

Being an old-fashioned school, St Mary’s insisted on school uniforms even for the senior year, and had strict rules about hair, makeup and jewellery, rules that had been drummed into me relentlessly during my first week. Although seniors were allowed more freedom than the other years, the importance of protecting the girls’ modesty was repeated over and over. Excessive makeup had to be washed off. Forbidden items were confiscated.

I had mixed feelings about such strict rules, but I had to admit that Miss Chastain’s class looked very smart in their grey and white uniforms. Each girl wore a crisp white shirt and a light grey, pleated skirt. And although the uniform was identical to that of other years, the seniors carried it off with plenty of style. Their shirts were close-fitting and the sleeves cut high, so the girls’ arms were bare almost to the shoulder. The skirts, which elsewhere in the school dropped conservatively to the knees, in this class revealed more of the girls’ legs, and the hems spread outwards in a flattering curve.

 In the summer months, the seniors were also allowed to wear plain white trainers, which the girls all wore with no show socks. It was a rule meant to encourage physical activity. And I have to admit, the whole class was glowing with health

As I watched the inspection unfold, it quickly became clear that Miss Chastain was not to be messed with. One girl was sent to the toilets to wash off her lipstick. Another was asked to remove a bangle. When she got to the end of the line though, the teacher’s back stiffened, and I sensed a more serious confrontation.

The student she has stopped before was a remarkably pretty girl of about medium height, with loose shoulder-length hair and soft features. Her uniform was as neat and tidy as the other girls, and she was not wearing makeup or jewellery, as far as I could see. Only a streak of chestnut in her almost black hair set her apart. And yet, there was something casual in her posture that seemed to irritate her teacher intensely.

“Stand up straight, Rachel,” Miss Chastain ordered.

The girl reluctantly obeyed.

“Break time is over now. You should be ready for class.”

“Yes, Miss,” she replied, in a neutral voice.

“Is your homework finished?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And is your uniform correct today?”

The girl blushed and did not answer. The question confused me. Rachel’s uniform was exactly the same as the other girls, as far as I could see.

“Show me please, Miss Chastain ordered. “Top first.”

To my amazement, Rachel then undid the top three buttons of her shirt and held it open. Leaning forward slightly, Miss Chastain peered down at the girl’s chest and I suddenly realised that she was inspecting Rachel’s bra.

What the hell? I thought. But my surprise was only just beginning.

“Very good,” said Miss Chastain, in a businesslike fashion. “Now bottoms.”

“Oh Miss, don’t make me do it again. It’s not fair!”

The panic in the girl’s voice erupted suddenly. But it only seemed to make her teacher more determined.

“It’s your own time you’re wasting, Rachel.”

“But Miss!” The girl jerked her head in my direction. “Not in front of him.”

“The rules are the same for all the teachers. Don’t worry about Mr Johnson. Now, do we need to continue this after school, or are you going to do as you’re told?”

There was something ominous about the way Miss Chastain said ‘after school’ that sent a shiver through the whole class.

The girl gave a petulant cry of frustration, but she was clearly defeated. Sighing to show how ridiculous this all was, she reached down, took her skirt in both hands, and lifted it waist-high. After a moment, she dropped it again.

“Happy now?”

The French teacher said nothing but held the girl firm with her iron gaze.

“Oh fine!” said the exasperated girl.

Once again, she lifted the hem of her skirt, but this time brought it higher and held her position, exposing a pair of pale blue knickers.

“I see!” said Miss Chastain, triumphantly. “Come here, Mr Johnson.”

“Oh what?” I gasped. “Perhaps I should leave you in… a…”

I thought about making a bolt for the exit, but Miss Chastain’s manner was irresistible, and I reluctantly joined her before the blushing student.

“Please note, Mr Johnson, that the uniform policy insists upon plain white underwear. Is the girl complying?”

“No,” I replied, stiffly.

“Please check for yourself, Mr Johnson.”

The gentle beauty of Rachel’s exposed body made it rather difficult to focus. My pulse was racing. Should I protest at this disgraceful scene? I wondered. Would anybody even listen to me if I did?

My eyes descended to the opening of Rachel’s shirt, and had a generous view of her small, full breasts, neatly supported in a simple white bra. My gaze travelled to her waist, where her soft brown arms held up her skirt, and there was a strip of her firm belly above her knickers. I did not dare to look at her lovely bare legs, but I confirmed the illegal underwear as neutrally as I could manage. Rachel’s panties were a small cotton pair with a little bow at the top, cut high above her slim, gently curving hips.

“She’s not complying,” I confirmed.

“Thank you, Mr Johnson. Okay Rachel, you know the rules.”

For a second, Rachel looked me in the eye, and I could see her anger. But when she faced Miss Chastain, she could only beg.

“Miss, I promise it won’t happen again. Please don’t make me strip.”

“You know the rules, Rachel. You only have yourself to blame.”

“But I didn’t have any…” the girl’s voice trailed off, as if she knew that it was too late for excuses. The other girls turned to watch her and I saw tears in Rachel’s eyes.

The next moment would stay in my memory forever.

As if in slow motion, Rachel dropped the hem of her skirt and then, using only her feet, slipped off her trainers. Reaching beneath her skirt again, she slowly slipped her panties down her firm young legs. Carefully, she stepped out of them and handed the garment to Miss Chastain.

“Thank you, Rachel. Go in class.”

With some quiet muttering, the girls trailed into the classroom, followed by the humiliated Rachel, holding her shoes in one hand and her school bag in the other.

As I was here to observe Miss Chastain, I took my seat at the back and brought out my notebook and pen as the girls prepared for class. Rachel took a seat over to my left, facing across the room to the wide windows on the other side, in a group table with two other girls, and immediately started a secretive whispered conversation with the girl next to her. As Miss Chastain began the class, I noticed that the confiscated items, including Rachel’s knickers, were left casually on her desk in full view of the class, like a warning. On my notepad, I wrote the date and underneath the words: What the hell is going on at this school?

The scene in the corridor had left me confused and angry. One part of me wanted to stand up for Rachel in the face of this bullying, and I felt ashamed at my cowardice. But there was another feeling that I could hardly admit, even to myself. The humiliation of this lovely student, only a few years younger than myself, had left me strongly aroused.

For a while, I tried to concentrate on the class and took notes on Miss Chastain’s methods and the class behaviour. I made a list of the girls’ names as they were called on, and wrote comments on their character and behaviour. But after a while, the chatter of the French language, which I barely understood, and the warmth of the sun coming through the large windows, made me feel sleepy, and I put down my pen and just watched. Despite my intention to try and ignore her, my eyes were drawn back to Rachel irresistibly.

Half an hour into the class, she had recovered from her embarrassment and was now working with her group cheerfully enough. Under the desk, she had kicked off her trainers and was tapping her foot on the floor as if listening to music. Suddenly, her hand shot up.

“Yes Rachel?”

“It’s too bright, Miss. Can we shut the blinds please?”

Miss Chastain seemed reluctant to agree, but the morning sun was shining right into the room and was quite dazzling.

“Go on then.”

Rachel slipped across the wooden floor in her white ankle socks and began to adjust the three large Venetian blinds that covered the whole width of the classroom. When she got to the last window, however, she found the pull cord was cut short and out of reach. She stood up on tiptoes, leaning forward over the bookcase that stood in front of the window, showing her bare legs to the room. By this point, half the class were watching her.

“Why don’t you stand on a chair, Rachel?” one girl suggested in a sarcastic voice.

Titters went around the class, and in the general hubbub, I heard a couple of unfriendly comments: “She's such a tart,” a nearby girl muttered to her neighbour.

“Shut up, Mandy.”

The class thought she was showing off, I realised, and it was hard to disagree. As Rachel stretched for the pull cord, her calf muscles grew round and firm and her skirt rode higher on her thighs until it was barely an inch above her bottom. Eventually, she put one knee on the bookcase and, balancing precariously, succeeded in adjusting the blind. But, as she stepped gingerly back down, and turned her back to her seat, she slipped slightly on the polished wooden floorboard, and stumbled towards me. I grabbed her by the arm before she fell, and held her other hand as she regained her footing.

“Oh sorry, Sir!” she cried out.

“That’s alright Rachel,” I said. “Go and sit down now.”

“How do you know my name, Sir?” she asked.

I shook my head at this obvious attention-seeking and just repeated, “Go and sit down.”

“Ok, sorry, Sir!” she said again. She gave me a sweet smile and a flash of her large dark eyes, then twirled around and went back to her seat. As she did so, I caught the tiniest glimpse of her bare bottom.

If I had been distracted before, this latest encounter sent my head spinning. Had I not caught her, I realised, she would have landed straight in my lap. I felt a swelling between my legs and to my embarrassment, I realised I was getting a hardon for one of my students. What was worse, in my thin summer slacks it would be impossible to hide. Guiltily, I crossed my legs and rested my notebook on my crotch.

When our hands had touched, some invisible spark had passed between Rachel’s body and my own. Something connected us and we both felt it. But even while I tried to deny it, Rachel was striving to catch my attention.

I could sense it in every movement. The lazy way she played with her loose brown hair. The little pouting expression on her lips. The way she leant back in her chair and stretched out her arms, lifting up her small young breasts. The little secret glances she cast in my direction. The little half-smile when she noticed the notepad on my lap. The casual way she played with the hem of her skirt...

All of this I noticed and pretended to ignore. But before the end of the class, my penis was rock hard and there was a damp patch in my boxers.

About five minutes before the end of the class, Rachel tried a different tactic. I noticed her touching something in her lap, and after a moment, realised that she had pulled her mobile from her bag and was using it in my full view.

This was a blatant breach of the school rules and a clear challenge to my authority. To make things worse, as soon as I noticed, Rachel turned to me with a conspiratorial expression and put her fingers to her lips, as if to say, “Shhh!” Then she smiled and went back to her phone again, and as she did so, she casually scratched her thigh, sliding the hem of her skirt so high that I could see her bare bottom against the chair.

She was trying to bribe me, I realised. If I accepted this and did nothing, I would have no chance of disciplining her in my own class. It was time to take action.

I should have gone over to her desk and confiscated the phone there and then. But the embarrassing situation between my legs prevented that course of action. Instead, I asked loudly and clearly:

“I hope that’s not a phone you’re using Rachel...”

She shot me an angry glance, furious at this betrayal. But Miss Chastain was at the girl’s side in a flash.

“My office. After school.” she declared with finality. “You too, Mr Johnson.”