The need for release was everything.
Fifteen miles Jed Martin had driven from the venue, longing through each one to pull over and jack off. Desire didn’t reside in his hard cock alone, it raged in his blood – the tension knotting his muscles and stretching his tendons taut.
When he reached his apartment - the one where Patricia no longer resided - that impulse drove him up the stairs to the bathroom. No fucking around. This wasn’t one to savour, it was a fierce erotic poison he had to pump free of his system. Christ – in three years Trish had never made him feel like this.
The one thing to slow him, as he tugged at his straining zipper, was the memory of those final words. In heart-thumping dread he clicked on his phone and accessed his work-mails, erection still striving to expand beyond its fabric restraints. There was a jolt in his chest. She’d actually fucking sent it. And then when he saw her message…
Goddamn, you bitch. You little fucking…
If he hadn’t craved it already, those words alone would have had him wanking like a motherfucker. Incensed, Jed set about remedying his rock-hard condition, regretting he’d ever agreed to chaperone that damn prom.
Not that there’d been much choice. ‘Sir you’re going,’ the members of his tutorial group had insisted, the female contingent proving particularly insistent. Those eyelashes had been fluttering like an onslaught of sexy bats, none more so than the pair belonging to Tori Beeching.
Of course he’d go, whether or not Mrs Landry the VP had been press-ganging staff to provide a ‘civilising influence’. The event may be held off-site, she’d hinted, but it’d still reflect poorly on the school if the class of 2018 were witnessed indulging in pre-copulative behaviour at an upmarket hotel. Jed hadn’t fancied witnessing it either, for reasons all his own.
Talk about a confluence of events. The Trish break-up was two months past as he straightened his bowtie and exited his car to join the thronging teens at Eastwell Manor. Loss had been ebbing enough for horniness to come surging back. For two nights running, however, sleep had taken him before masturbation, so that his balls – he realised it on mingling with those posh-frocked girls all sequined and slender – were full to bloody bursting.
‘You made it, Sir!’ They were all over him in a foxy low-cut gaggle, the slinky young Miss Beeching running fingers down his tux lapel in classic Bond-girl fashion, as her date for the evening photographed him with her and his other female tutees. ‘The name’s Martin. Jed Martin.’ Her blue-grey eyes flashed with mischief. ‘How about I call you Jed after tonight?’
‘Maybe once you’ve sat your exams.’ The sentence clunked so badly that a blush overtook him. Tori had spent two years making him feel that way.
Her brand of classroom tease wasn’t overt – this girl was way too smart for that. Call it low-level seduction. The day-to-day fashion parade of casually sexy outfits – off-the-shoulder tops and high-waisted shorts, tight t-shirts and ass-caressing jeans, summer dresses as mini as school policy would allow. Her behaviour was worse. That tongue tracing its way across her lower lip when he looked, without her ever looking back. Fingers idling in her red hair and casually – accidentally? – brushing a nipple. Crossing her legs side-on, while a hand strayed oh so inadvertently between her thighs. Teasing her ear-lobe, tilting her chin to drape those flaming tresses down her back, all that infernal lip-biting… Fuck! And everything staged so artfully as to retain plausible deniability, should he be fool enough to mention it.
It barely ever took on verbal form. Just that one instance when he coached her through her self-statement for uni one-to-one. He’d made her rework it, fine tune it, finesse it. ‘You like to push me, don’t you, Sir? Academically I mean.’ The ghost of a smirk floated on her parted lips. He’d had to stifle a choking fit.
Trish had never let him take it seriously. ‘You’d love to think a skinny teenager fancied you that much.’
Well she damn well does, he thought that prom-night, his nipples still prickling from her touch. Thank God she’s got herself a hot date. The accompanying surge of jealousy took him by surprise.
He chewed distractedly throughout dinner with the other staff. Around him the students fraternised between tables and descended into debauchery, alcohol serving as accelerant. Many of their plates, he noticed, were untouched, the dance-floor providing more enticement than a lacklustre meal. Just finish dessert and go, he advised himself, as horny teens migrated to the mirror-ball’s spiral of light, but Ellen Landry had other ideas.
‘Jed, go keep an eye on those lads,’ the Vice Principal instructed him softly, indicating where Harrison Doyle and co were working crass eighteen-year-old moves on their female counterparts. ‘Make sure they don’t harass anyone or cause trouble.’
Our sixth-form girls aren’t easily harassed, he might have said, and tonight they’re the hotel staff’s problem anyway. But Landry was his line-manager, so with a heavy tread he obeyed.
The dance space was a broil of hormonal teens. Smart-suited boys were thrusting close to girls who teased like champions in their scant summer gowns. The whole floor was a confection of clingy satin, ramped-up cleavage and thigh-skimming skirt fringes – a nightmare for any sexually deprived male teacher. Mark Selby had pinned Jenny Latimer against one of the fake Doric pillars on the outskirts and her palms were sliding all over his ass. Harrison was insinuating a hand down the front of Christine Norris’s dress to cup one of her substantial tits and she was letting him. A lot of teen pussies are going to get fucked tonight. The thought dropped full-formed into Jed’s mind before any politically correct instinct could prevent it.
And then he saw her again - in the heart of the throng and blowing her lanky date’s mind. Tori’s dress was red to match that incendiary hair – strappy and low-cut, the mesh under her ribs showing off that tight little waist. Mid-thigh in length, it stretched tight over her most formidable attribute. The ass in question – that formidably toned peach of a bum – was busy too. Twerking, it struck Jed, would never go out of fashion. Her sexy rump was jutting into her partner’s crotch and he was just letting it happen, eyes ablaze with wonder. And then as though by instinct her eyes flicked through the darkness to Jed. The hair on his neck bristled and he swung away, instantly beelining for an exit.
‘You’re not going?’ the VP said urgently as he passed.
‘Some lads,’ he muttered. ‘Outside. Checking on them.’ Now get the hell out of prick-teasing Dodge.
Jed made the front entrance and kept going with no plan beyond distancing himself from the teen mayhem. I’ll give it ten minutes – say I’m feeling poorly and drive home. His dogged footsteps took him round the hotel to a patio, divided into individual seating spaces by trellised brickwork. In one such compartment he took refuge, flicking through text messages for want of something to do. Letting his cock calm the fuck down. Party music filtered into his shadowy seclusion from some little distance away.