Sunday morning. Through my bedroom window, I could hear my dad’s distinctive laugh as he talked to our neighbour. As far as I was concerned, Sunday was Groundhog Day. Mum was playing Steve Wright’s love songs on the radio in the kitchen as she peeled the spuds for Sunday dinner, as dad kept out of her way.

It had been two weeks since my encounter with Mrs Harrison in the boys’ changing room. Now, every time I stepped out of the school’s changing room showers, I was confronted by the memory of finding her on the other side.

That brief moment had dominated my thoughts ever since. The vision of my hand combing through her dark red hair as it bobbed up and down between my legs was with me constantly.

Of course I’d seen her. As one of my schoolteachers, she would have been impossible to avoid. There have been the odd moments where we made contact, accidentally or otherwise and I once felt her run her finger lazily across the back of my collar during class, making the skin beneath my hairline prickle.

Also, the casual eye contact she made as she spoke to the class, giving me hope that there was something hidden behind all those foreign words. It may have all been in my head and perhaps in my impatience, that I was confusing her actions, willing her to connect. The thought that it was just a onetime thing, a fleeting moment, agitated me. Although I had convinced myself that there was more, she appeared to be distancing herself.

And then there was this growing jealousy that was difficult for me to understand. The lewd comments about her from the other students, which only weeks before I had enjoyed and even contributed to, now made me silently seethe inside. Was she testing me and waiting to see if I could be trusted? If she was, it was killing me.

Last week she arrived in class wearing a short blue skirt that was cut at mid-thigh, underneath she wore either tights or stockings. It wasn’t clear until she had to reach up high on the blackboard, forcing her skirt to ride up at the back revealing to the class the briefest glimpse of stocking top and the delicious pale white skin above, but it was enough.

Whistles and jeers echoed around the classroom until she turned to face them with this wonderfully naughty, sexy little grin on her face.

“Settle down, everyone,” she hollered, and then continued with a bizarre comment that I assumed was aimed directly at me, “You’ll make my husband jealous.”

Then out of the blue, my fears escalated when Tracy Burrows leaned in and whispered in my ear.

“Someone wants Joey’s cock.”

In the past, I would have laughed it off or joined in with some tasteless remark, but now it startled me.

“What? Who?”

“Look at her, Joey. Jesus, it’s obvious.”

“Fuck off.”

“Don’t say you wouldn’t, given a chance.”

Now Tracy is brilliant at winding people up; world-class in fact. Her tongue could be vicious and that’s why I liked her. We both shared the same cruel sense of humour but I was determined not to bite. To react would have only heightened her attack.

“Now why would I fuck an oldie like her when I’ve got them queuing round the block?” She grinned and put her hand on my knee, shamelessly snaking it up towards my groin. “You’ll have to wait, Tracy, I promise I’ll get round to you one day.” She took her hand from my knee and punched my arm, drawing the attention of Mrs Harrison.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, Miss,” Tracy piped up, “we were just wondering what the French word for slut was.” This gained a few sniggers from the class, even though I’m sure no one had a clue what the joke was. The alarm on Mrs Harrison’s face was chilling, as first she stared at Tracy then at me. The disappointment of her face was clear as she tried to work out what sort of conversation would lead up to Tracy asking this.

“Salope, Tracy. Why ...” Just as she was going to return a question, her words were lost as the bell sounded, signalling the end of the class. During the commotion to leave the room, excited chatter and chairs scraping on the hardwood floor, her eyes were fixed on me, looking for confirmation that everything was okay.

As I collected my things and shuffled towards the exit, I kind of smiled and nodded, hopefully sending her the message that everything was fine.

*****

My phone suddenly buzzed a message.

Anon: ‘Bonjour.’

I stared at the screen for a moment and must admit that my heart leapt a bit. It had to be her. Didn't it?

Me: ‘Who’s this?’

I couldn’t run the risk of ruining everything now, not after I had been so careful.

Anon: ‘The house is empty, I’m bored, and we need to talk.’

I was convinced it was her but needed confirmation. Wracking my brain, I tried to think of something only we would know.

Me: ‘Where do you have a tattoo?’

It was all I could think of at the time. Something that only she would know. And so I waited. 

Silence. Nothing. The wait was unbearable as a million thoughts overloaded my mind. If this wasn’t her, then who was it? Who knew our secret? How did they find out? What do they want? Have they told anyone? Then.

Anon: ‘My slag tag?’

Bingo. It was her.

Me: ‘Yes.’

Anon: ‘A beautiful black butterfly. Its wings reaching out across my lower back.’

Me: ‘Mrs Harrison?’

Anon: ‘Call me Sally.’

Me: ‘Hello Sally.’

Sally: ‘Husband away. Did you want to come over here?’

Me: ‘Where’s here?’

Sally: ‘My home.’

Me: ‘Ok.’

Me: ‘Is it safe?’

Sally: ‘Yes’

Me: ‘Where’s home?’

Sally: ‘184 Harbinden Road NW3’

Me: ‘Ok. When?’

Sally: ‘I’m free all day.’

Me: ‘What did you have in mind?’

I could sense myself stirring; my right hand snaked under the warm covers, feeling my cock harden to my touch.

Sally: ‘As I said to you when we last met, I’ll do whatever you want.’

Me: ‘What are you wearing?’

There was a short pause before I heard the familiar tone of my phone buzzing. A picture of her standing in front of a full-length mirror filled the screen. Her hair was down, and she was wearing a black and purple basque and stockings.

Sally: ‘You like?’

Me: ‘Yes.’

Sally: ‘My husband’s favourite.’

Me: ‘What would he say if knew?’

Sally: ‘While the cat's away …’

I arranged to come over to her at some time in the afternoon. After quickly googling the postcode, I found that she lived in the up-market Belsize Park area, a fairly long way geographically, but a million miles culturally from my East End home. But I was hooked. After the brief text conversation, how could I refuse?

Joseph Potter, what are you getting yourself into?

*******

It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon by the time I cycled into Harbinden road and the light was fading. I stopped under the bare branches of a large old walnut tree to get my bearings as it began to drizzle.

The wide, tree-lined avenue with its impressive three-storey houses and flash top-of-the-range cars confirmed to me that there was some real money behind these facades. More money, I’m guessing, that a secondary school teacher’s salary allows.

There was a story here, and it gave me an uneasy feeling. I checked the nearest house, number 273 and then across the road, 258, before slowly cycling down the road, counting down the house numbers as I went until I stopped outside number 184.

Two cars were parked on the shingle driveway: the familiar ancient beat-up blue Citroen 2CV that Sally always drove to school, with a far more formidable shiny silver Range Rover parked alongside.

Wheeling my bike up to the paved pathway, the black front door opened and there she was, wearing a huge welcoming smile and a very short mustard-coloured dress which belied the season.

“Hello, Joseph, or is it Joey?”

I was amazed by her brazenness. I had partly expected to be smuggled secretly around to the back door, away from the prying eyes of the curtain-twitchers. Stepping to one side, I entered the surprisingly large hallway

The stairs were to the left; old black and white family photos in fashionably distressed frames lined the cream painted walls. The hall led ahead to the kitchen, with the large living room to which I was ushered, to the right.

“I won’t be a minute,” she said, turning to leave, “make yourself at home,” she added, closing the door behind her. The sound of an old jazz song was dancing through the open serving hatch. I’d heard it before at home and the woman’s voice was incredibly familiar.

The room was dark and uninviting, more like a study than a family front room. One of the walls was dominated by a huge floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The books appeared to be mainly academic, historic and political biographies, sitting next to study books on law.

Opposite, a gold-framed photograph was given pride of place on a highly polished mahogany sideboard. I vaguely recognised the man in the picture, smiling suitably smugly in a blue suit and tie. 'The Rt Hon David Harrison' was written underneath in bold black type.

“My husband,” she said, arriving behind me with a tray of nibbles and a bottle of wine.

“He’s a politician?” I asked, more than a little surprised. It just didn’t fit somehow, this hippy-like secondary school teacher, married to a member of her Majesty’s government.

“Yes,” she said, giggling. “I take it you don’t follow politics?” she added, placing the tray down on the glass coffee table in the middle of the room.

“No.”

“Very wise,” she grinned, handing me a glass of red wine, “it’s tedious.”

“Where is he?”

“Wow, you really don’t follow the news, do you.” I shrugged my shoulders in reply.

She was right though; politics held absolutely no interest for me or, as dad would shout at the tv screen, “Bunch of lazy freeloaders.”

“David is in Manchester. He was interviewed on the BBC this morning. It’s all over the newspapers.” She looked at me with a quiet appreciation of my ignorance before directing me towards the sofa. 

As she started to pour the wine, I noticed, with not a little disappointment, that under the thin shoestring shoulder straps of her dress, there was nothing but skin. The sexy black basque from earlier was missing. As she handed me the glass, her knowing smirk let me know that my indiscreet gaze had been embarrassingly noticed.

I watched her close her eyes and bring the wine glass to her nose, savouring its bouquet before tasting. Now I have only drunk wine once before in my life, at a family wedding. It was white, and not particularly to my taste. In the event, I drank too much and was as sick as a dog. I could tell from her features that she recognised my apprehension.

“Why don’t you try some cheese before you taste. I think you’ll find it might take the edge off.” I looked at the plate of cheeses in front of me, not recognising any of the choices. The only cheese that I knew was the cheddar that mum puts in our sandwiches, but it was absent.

She leaned in and gave me a guided tour, pointing and naming them as you might to a child at primary school.

“Brie, Edam, Wensleydale, Lancashire and Oxford Blue; a bit of a required taste that one.” I plumped for the Wensleydale, taking a bite of the crumbly cheese and then bracing myself as if I was to receive a spoonful of medicine.

She was right, the cheese did dilute the initial acidic tang and in fact, it was fine, almost fruity. She sat back in a large armchair opposite me, one leg tucked under the other, displaying a tantalisingly large amount of bare thigh.

“So, what was that all about with Tracy Burrows the other day?” she asked and I kind of thought that there had been a reason behind my invitation. I also now realised that this was it.

“You know what Tracy’s like.”

“No,” she said, placing a slither of Brie on a biscuit, “no, I don’t know what Tracy’s like.”

“It was after you showed your knickers to the class.”

“I didn’t,” she interrupted, then with a smirk, “did I?”

“You might as well have done.”

“Oh dear, don’t you approve?” I ignored the remark, deciding instead to proceed on the front foot.

“Well, she made a comment about you showing off for me,” I said, watching as she drew her finger under the shoulder straps and along the neckline of her dress as she listened.

“What did she say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me,” she said, leaning forward and allowing the top of her dress to fall away slightly, permitting me a view of the top of her full naked breasts underneath. She was deliberately teasing me, and I knew it. And I could also see that she had noticed my stare and was enjoying having my attention, “tell me, Joseph.”

“She said something about you wanting my cock,” I bragged before sitting back and waiting for her reaction. It suddenly occurred to me that she was playing a game, revelling in putting me to the test.

“What else?”

“She said it was obvious that you were putting on a show for me.”

“Do you think I was?”

“I don’t know to be honest. Were you?” Her eyes sparkled as I countered her.

“Do you really think that when I’m choosing my clothes each morning, I’m thinking about what’s going to turn on Joey Potter?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“And does it turn you on, Joey?” My reply was silenced by the ringtone of her phone on the coffee table. The illuminated screen spelled out the caller’s name in bold type: ‘DAVID’

She looked down at the screen for a moment, deliberating over whether to accept or not, then picked the phone up.

“Hi,” she said, looking out into the world beyond the window. The tone of her voice had notably changed. Gone was the easy humour, replaced by strait-laced formality. I could hear a muffled, indecipherable voice talking on the other end of the line and tried to gauge the contents of the conversation from her answers.

“Yes, it went well, I think. What’s the reaction your end?” I took a drink of wine and watched her expressions as she listened to her husband talk. “That’s good then,” her eyes moved around the room, the ceiling, the floor and all four walls, before suddenly falling on me.

“Yes, yes, he is here,” she said, as a tiny simper arrived at the corner of her mouth. Again, she listened to the disembodied voice on the line, the expression on her face giving nothing away, “Okay, tell me what you want me to do,” she asked, pausing for instruction, “Okay, where are you?”

Again, all I could hear was this dull, muted tone, “Are you alone?” she paused, “Really, tell me what he’s doing.” Whatever his reply was brought a shiver from her as first she raised her right leg onto the low armrest of the chair, with her left leg following immediately afterwards onto the other, exhibiting her scant underwear to me.

I swallowed hard, not quite understanding either what was happening or what part I was to play in it. After another brief interlude where she received direction, she very deliberately drew her hand to her mouth and licked her fingers before slowly sliding her hand down under the elasticated waistband of her translucent yellow knickers.

Still listening to more instructions, she began to rub herself between her legs, her gaze remaining firmly focused on me.

“Yes, he is,” she said, “I promise,” she added, as she disconnected the call.

The music from the kitchen continued to break through the silence in the room as I watched her perform for me. Her knuckles pressed against the thin material, as her hand moving in circles. I remained seated watching and waiting for her guidance while all the time I could feel my cock swelling and uncomfortably pushing against the confines of my tight blue jeans.

“Do you want me to make myself cum for you, Joey?” she moaned, “Do you want to watch me do that?” I studied her face, observing her wide imploring eyes, and the growing crimson flush on her pale skin, spreading across her chest and neck, adding its colour to her cheeks.

“Do you want me to watch you?”

“No!” she quivered, throwing her head back, trying to control her emotions, “I want you to do it, I want you to make me cum, Joey. I want you to taste me.” Closing her legs together, she raised her bottom and rolled her knickers over her waist, letting the garment slide down her legs until they arrived at her ankles, where they were unceremoniously kicked to one side. Regaining her position on the armchair, with her legs spread wide, she beckoned me in.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I approached her. Ridiculously, I was nervous. Despite my tender years, I had seen enough porn to know what was expected of me, but quite clueless about how to execute it. The soft pink folds of her pussy, with the precisely trimmed patch of red pubic hair above, enticed me in until I was level with her sex.

I watched her fingers open herself up; the scent was unusual and intoxicating, musty and bittersweet. Hardening my tongue, I enthusiastically delved in, using it as if it were my finger plunging into her.

She laid her hands on my head, her fingers running through my hair, pulling me, guiding me. I could feel the firm nub of her clitoris and gained confidence in her reaction as I flicked it with my tongue, slowly working in tiny circles.

“There,” she whimpered, as a soft moan exhaled as she breathed, “just there. My god, you’re a quick learner.” I inwardly beamed. Hearing her words inflated my ego and boosted my self-confidence.

“There?” I teased, instinctively knowing from her response that it was. I felt her grip on my hair tighten.

“Yesss," she hissed as I closed my lips over her now noticeably erect clitoris and sucked. My hands rested on her inner thighs, feeling faint shaking pulses from her muscles. Tenderly I held her clitoris in place between my teeth and flicked it with the tip of my tongue.

My tongue flicked faster and faster, gaining the desired response from her with each passing second, until abruptly she clamped her legs around my head, trapping my face between.

“I’m cumming,” she cried, her whole body convulsing above me, “I’m cumming.” Her voice was distraught and uninhibited. Her legs gripped me tight, pulling me into her, burying my face into her now sopping mass, my nose grinding against her clitoris.

The sounds above me were barely human. Moaning, grunting and carefree, she let her emotions fly. Breathing through my mouth, I could taste her on my tongue, feeling the combination of her sweetness and my saliva fill my mouth and then trickle down my chin.

It must have been five minutes before she finally released me from the confines of her still shaking legs. Bending down, she kissed me full on the mouth, tasting herself on my lips, and then she placed her hands either side of my face.

“And where the fuck did you learn to do that?” she asked, as I turned myself so that my head rested on the chair cushion between her legs.

“No idea. I’ve never done it before,” I replied proudly.

“Well, you are full of surprises aren’t you, Joey Potter,” she said, as she left her seat to pour herself another glass of wine.

“Nice surprises I hope?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, “very.” I don’t know if it was accident or design but as she bent slightly to reach the glass on the coffee table, her dress rose at the back presenting to me a delightful view of her astonishing behind.

“Do you want some?” she asked.

“Wine or your ass?”

“You can have both if you like,” she said, returning with two full glasses in her hands. She handed one glass to me then took a sip from the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, Joseph. Well, certainly not someone of your age. Your confidence is incredible."

The compliment made me glow inside, but my attention was drawn to the large bay window and beyond. Outside, the yellow streetlights cast shadows as they shimmered through the branches of the bare trees. Night had gently descended on the day. In my head, I knew that it was time to go home.

I could picture my mum making the tea and checking the small clock on the cooker. It would have been at about this time of the day that she used to call me in from the park as I played football as a child. My reply was always the same, that I’d be there in a minute. My minute would always last longer or until it was impossible to see the ball before we all trudged home. This time, unfortunately, I knew that I had an hour’s bike journey ahead of me.

“You can stay the night if you want,” she urged, as if reading my thoughts, and I must admit, the prospect of cycling back across town didn’t fill me with joy. She was leaning against the sideboard, her glass resting under her chin. She had this dreamy, faraway look on her face, her eyes half-closed, but I knew deep down that time had beaten us again.

“What about your husband?”

“Oh, he’s staying over in Manchester.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? Him being away?”

“No, not really. I knew what I was getting into when I married him,” she paused, taking another rather large gulp of wine, “He’s driven. He’ll be Prime Minister one day, mark my words. He ticks all the establishment’s boxes. Schooled at Eton. University at Queens in Cambridge. His father was a name in politics as well, served in Margaret Thatcher’s cabinet; it’s in the genes, Joseph.”

She trailed off into her own world, staring into space. There was a sadness in her, something hidden. Breathing a sigh, she turned to pour herself a top-up, but barely a teaspoon’s worth drizzled miserably from the bottle.

“Another bottle, I think,” she said, walking towards the door.

“Really?”

“Live a little. The night is still young, young Potter,” she called from the kitchen, before returning with a fresh bottle in one hand and an ancient-looking corkscrew in the other. I watched her twist the sharp coiled screw into the cork, and then place the bottle between her legs.

Even during this most inelegant of activities, she looked gorgeous, her deep red hair falling in front of her eyes as she wrestled with the task in hand. As she leaned forward, I was again rewarded with an almost unobscured peek of the full breasts under her dress, her slightly raised nipples pressing against the cotton, surrounded by the soft pimpled pink areola.

I was just about to offer my services when the cork came free, causing her unsupported breasts to do a delightful dance. And then she smiled at me watching her. It may have only been a kooky half-smile, but it lit up her face. She wanted me; that much was obvious, but I didn’t want her to be like all the other girls at school. I wanted more.

“Stay the night, Joey.” She had her back to me as she placed the bottle on the sideboard. The temptation to go to her was huge. To bend her over the mahogany sideboard, force her head down amongst the family photographs and fuck her was almost overwhelming. But then what? Would that be it, a quick knee-trembler, a breathless shag?

I wanted more, I wanted it to mean something, I wanted her to remember it. Not like this, her memories seen through a drunken haze.

“You could stay, Joey. You haven’t any lessons tomorrow morning.” Suddenly the reality of the situation hit me. This was my teacher. This was Mrs Hamilton, the inspiration behind a hundred wet dreams and wanks into dirty socks.

In my pocket, I could feel my phone vibrating; even without looking, I knew exactly who it was. And I knew that I had to go.