The Art of Penelope PinPrick
with storyette by Prim    

Ordeal at the Dame Hilda Finishing School

  "You can start now, Mister Robbins, and bear in mind that I intend my accounts to be exactly how I like them, as with every other aspect of the Dame Hilda Finishing School."
Jeremy Robbins took his place in the small chair facing the wall in Headmistress Anthea Crushboy's office, where he would do his computerised number crunching under her close supervision. It was no wonder there were misgivings troubling his mind now that he was employed in an all-girls school with such a dominant employer, but on the other hand he was desperate for income of any sort to support himself. It was the Dame Hilda school or a life on the road.
No sooner had he begun than the Head pressed her desk bell, and into the office came a sight that shocked the new employee down to his socks. A very tall little girl came in, closing the door behind her, and minced across the room towards Miss Crushboy, where she turned so that she could ease her bottom onto the edge of the desk, just to one side of the Head but facing her.
Jeremy Robbins couldn't take his eyes off her. Such a fussy, frilly little dress was more suitable for a party than a school office, and she was so tall, almost - almost like a grown up girl, or was it - was it a boy?
The accountant was horrified. This was disgraceful. Miss Crushboy was feeling the front of her little panties so that the girl opened her legs wider as if welcoming these shocking attentions. And in the middle of the panties, as the Head concentrated on this dreadful finger play, Mister Robbins could see what looked like a boy's cock, shaped in the pink silk and fully erect, even though only small.
Yes, he thought, looking at the young person more closely. It's a boy! For heaven's sake, why is he dressed like this? And the misery on his face shows without doubt that he isn't enjoying these attentions to his panties. Jeremy Robbins had to step in. He had to stop this.
Miss Crushboy turned a look or utter indignation on the new employee at her elbow. "How dare you object to what I am doing in my own office. This, Mister Robbins, is my nephew Anthony, who is my personal assistant, and I will deal with him as I see fit. Who on earth do you think you are, pushing your nose into my office arrangements?" Her carmined lips rippled with resolution and fury and her thumb nearly pressed her desk bell through to the floor.
The poor nephew assistant, who must have been eighteen or nineteen, held his cheeks in his hands as if a ton of fireworks were about to go off. They were joined by two girls in the shortest school skirts that Jeremy Robbins had ever seen.
"Anthea, Isabel, this is Robbins, the new accountant. He needs putting into office uniform. Please see to it for me."
The girls must have been selected for their physical strength, because the poor man was gripped as if with iron and had to bend to their force. He was pulled, scrambling between them, into the adjoining room, followed in a procession of pleated skirts and clacking high heels, by the Headmistress herself and her whimpering nephew. He found himself faced with rails and rails of little dresses, skirts and blouses, with more rails of petticoats and pairs of panties, each on its little hanger as if for display.
"Put him into a pair of Anthony's panties, and a little blouse," cried Miss Crushboy as the girls wrenched Jeremy's clothing from him, item by item. "I think I'll call a special assembly to present the nincompoop to all the girls, so that they can see he's going to need scorn and humiliation." She click-clacked her way back into her office with her weeping nephew in tow, leaving the girls to see to her new accountant.
Minutes later, Jeremy Robbins cringed with shame, barely able to stay on his feet, as he was marched onto the school stage in front of a hundred assembled girls, their laughter ringing in his ears. Miss Crushboy was there to supervise, her nephew beside her in an even prettier little dress than before that revealed the whole of his panties with their emasculating little erection in the panty gusset.
"Get him up on the display table, girls," she ordered, and the accountant was lifted, his legs fastened apart, for the Head to pluck the Peter Pan collar of his blouse into sweetness, while her fingers probed the stiffened erection in his wretched pink panties. "You can wear this little pleated skirt of my nephew's, Robbins," she declared, clipping the pink silk garment together at the back of his waist and passing the straps over his shoulders for the girls to button him into them. "And I think you'd better have a similar collection of dresses and panties as my Anthony, Robbins. In that way we won't be having to share little girl dresses and lingerie. And this afternoon I'll teach you how to show your panties to me while you sit on my desk for a good little fondle of that infant little prick of yours."