On my knees and obedient, with his seed slowly trickling down my throat in salty stream, I hear his voice.
"So you can be a good girl", he muses, stroking my hair gently. "Who knew...."
He leads me, stumbling to the sofa. My face is flushed, with the minimal make up I was wearing smeared down my cheeks, my shirt is ripped open, my arms tangled in my bra, my skirt hitched up but my school stockings are still very much in place.
He sits down and then pulls me down on his lap.
I don't want to look at him. I hide my face in his shoulder. It's not that any of this felt wrong. It's that it felt so right that I need some time out. Not be in character for a moment.
He strokes my hair. Gently and methodically, as if smoothing the literal and metaphorical kinks.
"And look how shy you are all of the sudden"
I push my face into him even further, seeking refuge in the nook between his neck and shoulder.
"You have made amends with me. I give you that. But... you developed a little bit of reputation at school... among other teachers. I would like to help you overcome that', he says, shifting lightly so that I fall even deeper into his lap.
My idea of me being me again is clearly not what he had in mind.
We are back at school.
We are back at school.
He stretches me out, adjuststing my limbs. Legs apart, my arms out of the way. Arranging me, with great focus, as if I am his favourite toy.
He leisurely moves his hand on my thigh, playing briefly with the hem of my stocking and moving it upwards. I lock my thighs and trap his hand.
"No!", I mumble. "Please no"
"Open your legs", he orders harshly and stops stroking my head. Instead, I feel his palms sneaking between the messy strands of my hair and grabbing a firm hold. He yanks my head back.
I am now fully stretched, open and available. Bar the stubborn statement of my clenched thighs.
I am now fully stretched, open and available. Bar the stubborn statement of my clenched thighs.
His hands travels upwards nonetheless, insistently breaking the the resisting flesh of my thighs. He stops just short of reaching between my legs.
"Open your legs"
But by now, I want his thick fingers to penetrate me and acknowledge the hot, bubbling need inside me, to break inside me and free me from the unberable tension. I recall the first ever kiss in the dark school corridor, and the incompetent fumbling that followed from my 16 year-old boyfriend and what is about to happen, is what I wanted to happen then, but it never really did.
My legs fall open.
He strokes me through my knickers. They are so soaked that I feel the wetness spilling onto my thighs. His thumb is applying just enough pressure through the cotton softness of the fabric; so pleasurable, it's almost painful. He no longer has to hold my head back. It rolls back freely, my eyes are open, surveying the cream fabric of the sofa. Odd. It's the strands and threads I am looking at that are holding me, barely, in the moment. I am lost until he I feel his breath on my cheek and his voice seeping into my ear:
He strokes me through my knickers. They are so soaked that I feel the wetness spilling onto my thighs. His thumb is applying just enough pressure through the cotton softness of the fabric; so pleasurable, it's almost painful. He no longer has to hold my head back. It rolls back freely, my eyes are open, surveying the cream fabric of the sofa. Odd. It's the strands and threads I am looking at that are holding me, barely, in the moment. I am lost until he I feel his breath on my cheek and his voice seeping into my ear:
"As I said, you will have to repair your reputation. And I will make the necessary arrangements. Instead of going to your violin class this Wednesday, you will come to my office. I will invite a couple of other teachers. Maybe more than a couple. You will show them, like you shown me, what a good little girl you are."
His fingers deftly move my knickers aside. As he slides them inside me, I hear him take a quick breath. It's the only time during the whole thing he ever reacts. Maybe because I am not as much wet, as drenched, closing greedily around his fingers in a hot, wet grip. He moves his fingers to my clitoris and starts teasing it a little. I push onto his hand and as he picks up the tempo I move with him, arching, begging incoherently, my head pounding, my legs apart as much as I can open them. As he brings me closer and closer to the edge, I hear the soundtrack of his voice, calm and dark:
"I will have you in the middle of the room. On your knees. You will suck me off first. They will watch first, then they'll use you. Some will come in your mouth, some will come on your face. You will take them one by one and you WILL be grateful"
As I come, the moment is so shattering that I am falling apart in my head, a flurry of black spots whirling around my mind, blinding me. I spasm, contract and utter a animal-like scream of release.
He quickly picks me up, sits me up and impales me on his cock. As I have no strength left, he lifts me up and down, my head spinning and lolling around, my arms flailing until he grabs hold of them and drapes them around his neck. He uses me like a rag doll.
Afterwards, he takes me to bed and is very gentle with me, tucking me in and making sure I am comfortable.
I have an early start next morning. I get up without waking him and have a quick shower. I gather up the schoolgirl debris of the crumpled skirt, the House Prefect badge and rolled up stockings and drop it into my overnight bag. I am wearing high-waisted black trousers and the white shirt from last night (I planned this outfit ahead) with a black sheer body suit underneath, and a pair of high heels. My hair is slicked back and I'm wearing sharp make up. My Blackberry beeps. The quarterly financial review at 9.30.
I am all grown up again.
