SIXTH FORM MISTRESS

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SIXTH FORM MISTRESS

Trevor McGovern

Chapter One

A young woman was coming down the stairs of the number 141 bus. Desmond Lewis watched with mounting interest from a seat at the rear. First a pair of trim ankles in black stockings. Then calves with a classic roundness that invited you to cup your hands around them. They were plump enough to stretch out the nylon of the stockings making the blackness of the fabric pale to a taut, shiny grey. They were tear‑drop shaped calves, their widest circumference not high below the knee but coming in a sweet curve lower down.

Next came a pair of delicious slim knees, seeming to rub against each other invitingly as the legs followed each other down the steps. Then came just enough thigh to make you want to see more, the rest concealed by a navy blue skirt that was tight enough to emphasize the slight protrusion of the woman's belly above the rising and falling front of her nearest thigh. Above the skirt she was wearing a blue V‑necked sweater revealing the outline of a pair of the sweetest young boobs ‑Desmond estimated it was a 34C bra ‑ with the lower tresses of a mass of chestnut hair sliding back and forth, concealing first one boob then the other.

Then the face, heart‑shaped, with huge eyes and lips parted to show front teeth with an intriguing little gap between them. Sensing that she was being observed, the girl turned her head slightly and met his eyes. She smiled shyly.

It was one of the sixth‑formers from the school where he taught French. Fortunately ‑ or unfortunately ‑ she was not one of his pupils but she recognized him. He gave a school‑masterly half‑smile and a nod and let his eyes drift casually away from her.

The bus stopped and the girl got off. He suppressed the urge to look out of the rear window as the bus pulled away from the kerb. It simply wouldn't do to show any sign that he was lusting after the sixth‑formers he taught or any of the other girls at St. Chad's.

It was difficult. Though only twenty‑nine, Desmond found that he was regarded by his pupils as definitely belonging to the older generation. And, for his own part, dealing with teenagers as a teacher, marking their wretchedly scrawled exercises, maintaining discipline in the classroom, made them appear even more juvenile and immature than they really were. The girls were only slightly better than the boys in this respect. And yet, while constantly being reminded of how ignorant and unformed and juvenile and obnoxious and adolescent his female pupils were, he was all the time noticing the shortness of their skirts, the perkiness of their breasts, the way their bottoms moved as they strode between the desks in the classroom.

It was worst of all with the sixth‑formers as one could pretty much take it for granted in a London school that none of there were virgins, though who precisely they were having it off with was obscure: they generally treated the sixth‑form boys with contempt. After school though the girls would rush off in bevies to various select coffee bars and presumably they met their boyfriends there.

Wishing he had someone to meet in a coffee bar, Desmond got off at his usual stop. He remembered in time that his phone was out of order and stepped into the call‑box near the bus shelter to ring Larry Langston, an old college friend who had written the day before to suggest they met up for a chin‑wag and a few pints. What a life, to rendezvous with Larry Langston when the world was full of nubile seventeen‑year‑olds! He found Langston's number in his wallet and fingered the appropriate buttons. They reminded him of erect nipples, for no other reason than their coolness and the way they went in and popped out again when he pressed them.

He'd never had a girl whose nipples were square and with numbers on them. To think that in Second Year Sixth French eleven pairs of female nipples pointed in his direction for several hours a week ‑ and he'd never seen even a single pair. His eyes roved over the cards advertising Large Chests, Strict Discipline, Bondage and Personal Services that were posted up inside the call‑box.

Larry Langston was taking a long time to answer. Madame Whip sounded intriguing. Young Model: Will Try Anything might be promising too. He took a quick glance outside the call‑box to .gee if anyone was waiting. Wouldn't do for a school teacher to be seen reading these cards. He allowed Langston's phone to ring two more times, then hung up.

Beautiful Teenager: probably some saggy hag nearing fifty. Sixth Form Mistress. It was amazing how these women had the nerve to claim they were schoolgirls when most of them were probably double or triple divorcees. It was just a kind of weird convention: phone up a whore advertising herself as a Sixth‑Former and you'd get a grandmother.

On the other hand, you couldn't really tell what you'd get till you tried. He noticed the card promising Sixth Form Mistress wasn't crudely but professionally printed like the rest, but hand‑printed in just the over‑elaborate way a teenage girl. might favour. On an impulse he dialled the number on the card.

After all, you never knew, Desmond told himself. He might even be able to guess the woman's age from her voice. He thought of the girl on the bus.

"Yes," said a breathless voice in the receiver.

"Is that the Sixth Form Mistress?" Desmond asked.

"Yes, it is."

"And you're panting because you've just rushed back from school?"

"That's right. How'd you guess?" The voice did sound young, and was responding to his attempt at wit quite seriously and literally.

"Anyway, I've seen your card," said Desmond, "and I was wondering if you could give me an appointment?"

"Certainly. What did you have in mind? I offer a range of services. Simple discipline is twenty‑five pounds a forty minute session, and I've a graduated scale of charges from there upwards. Penetration's extra, of course."

Not nearly as expensive as he'd feared, thought Desmond, who was beginning to feel distinctly horny. "What about eight o'clock tonight?"

"Let me consult my Filofax...Yes, eight will be convenient. Shall I put you down for forty minutes or should I keep the nine o'clock slot open for you too?"

Just as long as you keep your slot open, thought Desmond. But: what he said was: "Oh ...er...as it's just a first appointment, forty minutes should be sufficient."

"As you wish," said the young voice primly. "In fact, your wish is my command ‑ though I expect you prefer it the other way round." The voice laughed without excessive conviction.

"Okay, see you at eight," Desmond said and, having taken down her address, he rang off.

Chapter Two

The door opened almost as soon as Desmond rang the bell. The woman standing there was wearing dark glasses and he could not see her features very distinctly because of the brightness of the hallway light just behind her. She seemed young enough though, and ‑ even more encouraging ‑ the silky kimono she was wearing was translucent, so that he could see the sleek curves of two very nicely shaped thighs silhouetted against the light.

"It's you!" she exclaimed in a needlessly dramatic tone.

"Who were you expecting ‑ the Chippendales?" quipped Desmond, pretending to be more at ease than he really felt.

"You better come in," she said, standing to one side. He had a good view of her cleavage as he squeezed past: black uplift bra, but what it contained didn't actually seem to need much support. And though she kept her dark glasses averted, he could see from her cheek and the pure line of her throat that she really was quite young.

It seemed to be a family flat. There was a kitchen at the far end, but all the other doors except the nearest were firmly closed. The nearest room was a bedroom, containing a double bed, a table on which lay a selection of canes, riding switches and leather belts, and a large wardrobe. From the marks on the thick, wall‑to‑wall carpets it appeared that other items of furniture had recently been moved out into another room.

"I hope you don't mind," Desmond said a little anxiously, "I mean, I wasn't sure how young you'd be, but ...You don't happen to have anything like a school uniform, do you? I mean like a gym slip, white blouse, striped tie ...best of all navy blue school knickers? I'd find them really ...erotic. I wouldn't mind. paying extra for navy blue school knickers."

"Nobody wears navy blue school knickers any more these day:," said the girl, taking off her dark glasses but still keeping her face averted. "And we're both at a school which doesn't really have a proper school uniform."

It was then that he recognized her.

It was a curious physical sensation. One bit of him ‑ his heart or his stomach or perhaps the whole assemblage from throat to intestines ‑‑‑ seemed to drop like a badly regulated elevator. Simultaneously, something lower down, round his crotch, seemed to give a surge in an upwards, hopeful direction.

It was Marie. Marie Masson from his Second Year Sixth French group!

Of all the eleven pairs of nipples which, it was to be assumed, faced him during his Second Year Sixth classes, Marie Masson's were the number two or number three on the list of those he would have most wanted to scrutinize in private. (The owner of Pair Number One was Vanessa Evans, and even at this moment of shock and dismay he was able to reflect that it would have been simply too good to be true if it had been Vanessa Evans who now stood before him in open kimono and uplift bra.)

"I thought I recognized your voice when you phoned," said Marie. "God, this is so embarrassing."

"Well, what about me?" Desmond nearly said I could lose my job over a thing like this, but stopped himself in time in case he put dangerous ideas into the wretched girl's head. "I mean, why on earth‑‑‑?"

"My father's had to go to New York on a long business trip, and my mother's never been to New York so she's gone too. I've never been to New York either, but, of course, they didn't ask me if I wanted to go. Anyway, since I've been left Home Alone in this flat with hardly any money, I decided to make some extra pocket money for myself."

"Well..." he floundered, at a loss as to how best to deal with the situation. He supposed he could say that if both of them promised not to tell anyone else, he could just go away quietly and no harm done. On the other hand, though Vanessa Evans had easily the most gorgeous legs he had ever seen on an eighteen‑year‑old, Marie Masson's weren't at all bad either. In fact, looking at her knees and calves as revealed by her kimono, he wouldn't have at all minded getting his hands round them, perhaps kissing the little crease at the back of her knee...

"Well, now I'm here," he suggested, "I mean..."

"Oh, I couldn't. Really, Mr Lewis, you're supposed to set an example to us girls. Anyway, the whole point of putting up cards in call‑boxes and arranging things over the phone is so that one doesn't know one's customers personally."

"But I've always, uh, liked you," Desmond insisted.

"Yes, but don't you see, that's part of the problem! I used to quite like you too ‑ though come to think of it, I always had the impression from the way you looked at us in class sometimes that you were, well, a randy old bastard. Still, I never thought you were the kind of man who‑‑‑Well, anyway, the point is we're not supposed to like each other. It's supposed to be business. Business pure and simple. I'm trying to be a professional."

"All right then, be professional! Leave the fact that we already know each other out of it. Let's handle this purely as a business transaction."

He could see Marie was starting to weaken.

"Go on. Just the minimum twenty‑five quid's worth. There can't be much harm in that." Desmond tried to make his voice as persuasive as possible.

"Well...All right then. We could do more if you pay for it. What did you actually have in mind?"

Desmond remembered that she had spoken of "simple discipline" on the phone. For a moment he wondered if it would not be more consistent with his dignity as her French teacher to pretend that he was only interested in straight sex, but then he decided he might as well get what he came for.

"Well, how about this ...I strip down to my vest, you take off your tights and panties but leave on your bra and, if you like, your kimono," he suggested. "Then I kneel down in front of you, pressing my lips to your, uh, pubes while you beat me across the shoulders from above with one of those splendid canes I see over there. After a while I take off my vest, and you keep beating me. I remain kneeling, but after a bit I might want to take off your bra."

"Sounds wonderful," said Marie. "I always say that, of course. Actually, if you really want to know my opinion, it sounds ...well, never mind. Oh, and it's a fiver extra if you take my bra off. That's thirty pounds payable in advance."

"Is a fuck included in the price?" asked Desmond hopefully.

"No, of course it isn't. It would be forty pounds for penetration ‑ missionary position that is. Doggie style's fifty pounds."

"All right," he said, suspecting she was putting up her charges specially for him. "Here's forty pounds."

Chapter Three

Desmond took off all his clothes except his vest and socks. Marie took off her panties and tights but slipped into high‑heeled shoes to give herself extra height. She undid the sash of her kimono and let it fall open to give her arms room to swing. The tops of her breasts, cupped in their black lace supports, looked translucent and virginal: then she turned her back on him, bending over the table to select a cane. Desmond eyed her delicately‑rounded buttocks beneath the caressing silk of the kimono and found himself trembling with anticipation.

"Ready?" she asked, turning back to him.

"Yes, Miss."

He knelt quickly at her feet and pressed his mouth to the fuzz of crinkly auburn hair which covered her mound of Venus. It tasted and smelt vaguely of soap or shampoo, though with an exquisite tang of urine somewhere in there too. Her navel was on a level with the bridge of his nose, and as he looked up the two projecting cups of her bra were right above him, looming blackly. The right‑hand one jerked upward noticeably as she raised her arm and brought the cane down Thwack! across his shoulders.

"That'll teach you to use the word 'fuck' in my presence," Marie's voice said from above. And again Thwack!

"Yes, Miss, I'm very sorry."

Thwack!

"I can't stand dirty boys' talk."

Thwack!

"Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss. A bit harder, Miss?"

Ththwackk!

"You remember that bad mark I gave you in French last week, Miss? I want you to punish me for that."

"You didn't give me a bad mark last week. Actually, you gave me quite good marks."

Desmond leaned back and looked up at her.

"You're supposed to pretend."

"Oh, all right." Ththwack! "Though I'd prefer you not to bring school into it."

"You're right. Punish me for bringing the name of St Chad's into disrepute." Ththwackk!

He slipped off his vest.

"You're unworthy to even grovel at my feet." Ththwackk!

"That's a split infinitive," Desmond said through a mouthful of pubic hair, "it should be unworthy even to grovel." Ththwackk!

"Don't speak with your mouth full! And that's for correcting me!" Ththwack! "I won't be corrected ...but you certainly will..." Ththwack! Ththwack!

He was getting an erection now. Putting his hands up under the back of her kimono, he grasped her buttocks, forcing her crotch hard against his tongue.

"And that's for daring to touch my bottom." Ththwack! Her buttocks squirmed deliciously under his fingers. "And that's for not telling me you were going to touch my bottom!" Ththwack! Ththwackk!

"I've got to do something with my hands."

"And that's for talking!" Ththwack! "And that's for making excuses!" Thhwack!

He reached up, still kneeling, and pulled her kimono down over her shoulders. She had to drop the cane in order to get her right arm out of the sleeve. She tossed the garment onto the bed and picked up the cane again. Hands on her buttocks, he pulled her crotch against his face once more.

"Actually, I don't like people touching my buttocks," she said.. "They're very sensitive. It makes me feel sexy."

"I want you to keep on hitting me."

"Only if you let go of my bottom."

He moved his hands down the backs of her thighs. They were firm and tense, somehow suggestive of indignation.

"That's better." Ththwack! "That'll teach you to dare to touch my bottom." Ththwack!

"Your arse," he said. "Your lovely arse."

"Another of your filthy words!" Ththwackk! "I forbid you to use filthy language!" Ththwackk!

He reached up, lips still pressed to her now moist fuzz, sand. began wrestling with the catch of her bra.

"And. that's for daring to touch my bra!" Ththwackk! She dropped the cane again and deftly undid her bra catch. "You nearly tore it, you ignorant little boy!"

Picking up the cane again, she struck him twice more. "That's for nearly tearing my bra!"

Desmond sat back on his heels and lifted the bra away from her bosom. Once released, her breasts lolled down, somewhat larger and heavier than he would have expected in a girl of only eighteen. He cupped 'one in each hand and licked the nipples in turn, first the left and then the right.

"You've got to punish me for trying to kiss your breasts."

"You wicked man! That's for kissing my left boob!" Ththwack! "And that's for kissing my right boob!" Ththwackk!

"And that's for persisting even though you've been told it’s naughty!" Ththwackk! Ththwackk!

As she brought the cane down again and again across his back and shoulders, he teased her nipples with his lips till the points came up hard, and projecting, each in its circle of delicate pink goose pimples. Still stooping, he pushed her back towards the bed.

"That's for daring to move!" Ththwack! Ththwackk! "Now I'm giving you some good marks..." She stood with the bed against the back of her knees. "And that's for being generally so naughty!" Ththwack! Ththwack! Ththwackk!

At last it was enough. He toppled her backwards onto the bed. She spread her legs promptly, but there was something defiant about the expression of angry curiosity with which she stared up at him. Her loosened bra was still round her throat, and she kept hold of the cane. Remembering how she had asked him to desist from holding her buttocks because it made her feel sexy, he put one hand under her rump, but his orgasm came almost as soon as he thrust into her.

"Okay," she said tonelessly, sitting up. "It's nearly nine o' clock. "

They looked at each other. He had noticed in class that she had a way of pushing out her lower lip when she was concentrating on what she was going 'to say next. She was pushing out her lower lip now, but in the end she didn't say anything, merely stood up wordlessly and replaced the cane, which she had been holding even while he penetrated her, on the table beside her other instruments.

"If you'll, excuse me," she said, finally, "I've got to wash."

Chapter Four

Arriving at school next day, Desmond felt exactly as he had often done when he had been himself a schoolboy. The school buildings, built in the Outsize Public Lavatory style, seemed transformed into a place of romance, and his eyes and ears ‑ even it seemed his sense of taste ‑ were alert for the first glimpse or whisper that day of the girl who filled his thoughts.

He found himself wondering which part of the school building it would be where he would first see her, who else would be there, whether they would be able to speak.

She would be in Morning Assembly, of course, but so would all the rest of the school. He might see her between classes, or in the yard during. Break. And then, that afternoon, he would see her for a whole forty minutes in French.

But most of all he wondered how she would react when she first saw him again. She had said she used to like him, but by the time they had parted the evening before she had definitely seemed on the sulky side.

He didn't see her in Assembly, though most of the rest of the Second Year Sixth French set were there, including the delicious Vanessa Evans. He wondered if Marie would say anything to the others about what had happened. He supposed not: he hoped not.

But presumably most of the others would be shocked by her ideas about how to earn extra pocket money ‑ after all they were only eighteen, and in his experience girls who were studying to get into university tended to be backward for their age in any case. Still, he wouldn't mind if Marie had a go at persuading Vanessa Evans to come in on the act.

He watched Vanessa all through the hymn and the headmaster's ramblings. That innocent, angelic, heartbreakingly beautiful heart‑shaped face ...she looked as if she would. blush if you mentioned sucking chocolate to her. But she couldn't be as innocent as that. He craned his head to get a better view of those gorgeous legs. Where those thighs joined, behind the cover of her drab skirt, he bet it was all functioning, juice and all... She wouldn't have had such a lovely complexion otherwise.

As it turned out he didn't see Marie till he entered the classroom for their French lesson that afternoon. As usual, some of the sixth‑formers were already sitting at their desks, others standing in twos or threes chatting. The latter, as he walked in, would look round, recognize him, and go quietly to their places. That afternoon Marie was one of those standing ‑ by the window with Vanessa Evans in fact ‑ and like the others she went and sat down without giving him any particular sign.

At first he was disappointed she did not look at him with even a hint of a smile but then he realized her manner was exactly what it would normally have been, exactly the same as the other girls', and he silently congratulated her and himself on her presence of mind.

During the first half of the lesson Marie spoke when asked a question, and gave answers, just as she normally did, though the way she kept pushing out her lower lip while concentrating on what she had to say kept reminding Desmond of the night before. Also one of the buttons of her blouse was undone, which was all the more titillating because he now had intimate knowledge of what was underneath. (Did Vanessa Evans have such beautiful sepia nipples? No, they would probably be pinker, because she was blonde, and the mathematical chances of having two girls in the same class whose nipples stuck out and upward at exactly the same angle seemed remote.)

He found himself having to guard against asking Marie too many questions, but, at the same time he couldn't leave her out of the lesson altogether. Then it happened.

It was her turn to translate again, and he had to correct her French.

"Thanks for correcting me," she said, pulling up one end of her ruler as it lay on her desk, and letting it slap down against the desktop with a distinct Thwack!

A couple of girls looked round, but nobody seemed to think this was worth a giggle, and so the lesson proceeded. It even took Desmond a minute to convince himself she was trying to remind him of the night before.

A few minutes later, he noticed Vanessa Evans whispering to the girl next to her. Whispering and passing notes was perfectly usual in class, though like any other teacher Desmond found it irritating and distracting, and he felt he had to shut the girl up.

"Do stop whispering, Vanessa," he said. "Or I'll throw some chalk at you."

Again the Thwack! of Marie's ruler, only this time louder.

"And that's for being so naughty," she said.

This time there was a general laugh. Desmond discovered to his horror that he was blushing.

"Really, you girls. Can't you behave yourselves?"

"What we need," said Marie distinctly, "is MORE DISCIPLINE!"

Their eyes met. After a long moment, Marie looked down.

"You wouldn't mind putting that ruler away, would you?" Desmond said, wondering if he had won the contest of wills.

Marie put the ruler inside her, desk and the lesson resumed. She made no more interruptions.

At the end of the lesson, when the others were leaving to go to another room, he called Marie over to the teacher's desk.

He could see she was hesitating, as if considering whether to ignore his summons. But being called over to speak to the teacher, especially after misbehaving, was after all such a routine matter that none of the others were paying any notice, and Desmond had an idea she decided to obey simply to avoid drawing attention to herself.

"Thanks for the interruptions," he said. She made no answer. "Why did you do that?" "Why not?" He knew suddenly that he couldn't let it go at that. He wanted her too much to ignore anything she did. "I must see you again," he said in a lower voice. "I don't think that's a very good idea." "Please." "No, it's not a good idea at all." "I'll come at eight tonight," he said. She looked at him angrily. Finally she said, "All right them. If you must come..."

Chapter Five

This time, when Marie opened the door, she was still wearing her school outfit.

"I still think this is a really tacky idea," she said.

By way of answer he handed her ten five pound notes.

"What's this for?" she asked, holding up two of the notes ‑ the surplus over her standard £40 fee for penetration ‑ as if they were a sperm‑clotted handkerchief.

"In case I get carried away," said Desmond. He looked at her, wondering if she guessed how much she had already become an obsession with him. "Do you think you‑could keep on your blouse and pullover for a moment?"

Not saying anything, Marie stripped off her skirt, tights and panties. In order to give herself extra height she put on a pair of black cavalry boots with raised heels. They were perfect: as Desmond knelt in front of her, her pubic hair was exactly at the level of his mouth.

This time Marie chose a cane that was both heavier and springier, and when she struck Desmond it was with something like real enthusiasm. She gave a little gasp as, reaching up under her school blouse, he pushed her bra up over her breasts so that they came naked into his squeezing hands.

He twisted. his mouth away from her pubic hair.

"You've got to say something as you hit me," he reminded her, squeezing her breasts harder as she landed a particularly stinging blow.

"What do you want me to say? rejoined Marie angrily. "How you've been a naughty little boy again?‑‑Well, if you must know‑‑‑ "

Another painful Ththwack! "‑‑‑I think you're disgusting, I mean, frankly, you're a rotten teacher, easily the most boring we've got. Everybody says so." Ththwack!

He transferred one hand from her right breast to her right buttock, and though she squirmed furiously, and hit him even harder the next time, she made no protest about his touching her oh so sensitive bottom.

“‑‑‑And it's pretty obvious now that you're just basically a randy old sex maniac who's gone into teaching not because you want to teach, not because you can teach, but just because you want to hang round young girls and look up their skirts in the classroom, and stand over them while they bend over their exercise books so you can look down the front of their blouses out of the corner of your eye ...You know perfectly well what I mean, the way one's blouse hangs forward and away from one's body as one bends forward‑--“

All the while she was raining a succession of furious blows across his shoulders. "It's really degrading being taught by a man like you, I mean, sometimes I think I don't want to go back inside that school again, it's disgusted me with the whole idea of education and the thought of having to be polite in class---“

With a sudden lurch Desmond rose to his feet and grappled her down on the bed. His hugely erect penis surged into her like a pile‑driver. "‑‑‑and not‑‑‑give you ‑‑‑ah‑‑‑away‑‑‑ah‑‑in front of the ‑‑‑ah‑‑‑other girls‑‑‑who would probably ‑‑‑ah‑‑aaar;‑‑‑aaaaaaah!‑‑‑tell their parents ‑‑‑ah‑‑‑if they knew..."

She was silent for a while, lying passively under him while he nuzzled her neck and shoulder. Then she resumed. "Really, you make me sick. Since you paid me fifty pounds you can do it doggie‑style if you like. Do you want me to turn over?"

"Just so I can look at your bottom."

"That's an extra fiver," Marie said, but turned over anyway, and lay propped on her elbows, sucking the curved handle of her cane. "You know, it's quite true," she said in a more relaxed voice, "It is disgusting you being a schoolmaster and doing this to me."

"No more so than you being a schoolgirl and doing this," said Desmond, squinting at her cunt.

"Go on, admit it, you only became a teacher because you like being around young girls."

"No, that aspect of it really never occurred to me till after I qualified. Then it kind of crept up on me. You must admit some of the girls are pretty darned sexy."

"Who for instance?"

"Well, you for a start."

"Come off it," scoffed Marie, glancing round. "You're only saying that 'cause you're getting horny again. And don't deny it, it's staring me in the face. Who do you fancy most anyway?"

"Well, I'd better not say."

Marie sat on her haunches and shucked off her pullover, blouse and bra all in one go. She looked down at him and then poked him derisively with the cane. "Go on, you coward, tell me.'‑"

She leaned over him, her breasts dangling warmly against his shoulder and kissed him hard on the mouth. "Tell me."

"No "

"I bet whoever it is it's someone I've seen in the showers loads of times," she said. "You've no idea the kind, of games we get up to in the showers, prancing around, showing off, posing. We certainly have plenty of opportunity to make sure that what we've got the others girls have too. Or vice versa ...Especially the vice part."

"All right then, who's got the nicest arse?"

"Apart from me?" Marie wiggled hers provocatively in his face, then sat back again with a laugh. "Let me see now..." She tool; the crook of the cane between her teeth, considering. "Mmmm, that'd be Barbara Hammond."

"Her!" Barbara Hammond was a pear‑shaped, resentful‑faced girl. "She's not at all pretty."

"You should see her in the showers though. Oh, I know who it is you really fancy. Old Butter‑Won't‑Melt‑In‑My‑Cunt Vanessa Evans."

"Well, how does she look?"

"Well, I was really surprised the first time I saw her without any clothes on ‑ but first you have to admit it's her you fancy most of all, or if it isn't her, you've got to say who

"All right, If I admit it's Vanessa Evans, will you describe how she looks naked?"

"It's a deal. First say 'I really fancy Vanessa Evans.'"

"I really fancy Vanessa Evans. There! Why were you really surprised the first time you saw her without any clothes?"

"You'll never guess! She shaved her pubic hair right off! Don't worry though, it's all grown back. Yeah, I guess she's not bad looking at all in the buff."

"What's her arse like?"

"Well, you know, kind of two buttocks with a hole in the middle. But flatter than mine. I'm not very good at describing arses."

"And her breasts?"

"Actually, I think it's the bras she wears that makes them look so special. In the showers they're, you know, just breasts."

"When she takes her bra off, do they remain sticking out at right angles like that with the nipples dead centre, or do they loll down a little with more of them below the nipple than above?"

"Sort of in between. She tends to suck her tummy in and push her chest out if she sees you looking at her, even in the shower. She's incredibly vain. She wants to be a model, did you know that?"

Marie giggled suddenly. "Tell you what, I bet she'd pose for photos. What'll you pay me for photos of Vanessa in the showers?"

"I don't suppose she'd let you take any. She'd guess you'd show them to someone."

"'You never know. I think she thinks I'm a lesbian because I never talk about boys."

"Get the photos then, and we'll see. I'll let you have twenty or thirty pounds depending on quality."

"Mm," said Marie, licking the cane, "sounds easier money than letting old men stick it in me. I'll see what I can arrange."

Chapter Six

Somehow, despite her initial anger, he had seemed to get on much better with Marie on this second visit, and accordingly Desmond hoped that she would not repeat in their next French class any of the tricks she had tried on in the previous lesson.

In fact she did her best to behave worse. He could see how it was going to be as soon as he walked into the room and saw Marie pointing a rather fancy‑looking camera at him. It had a zoom lens and a flash attachment and various trimmings. For a moment he thought she meant to take his picture but instead she announced: "We've got netball next lesson and I'm going to take some tasty pics in the ...er...netball court."

Several of the other girls giggled in a way that made him wonder nervously what they had been talking about before he had entered the room.

They were reading a play by Moliere. For about five minutes the lesson pursued a more or less normal course until Desmond happened to pause while saying something, and Marie interjected "Ooh la la!!" into the silence. The whole class laughed. Desmond felt himself go red, but decided to ignore her for the moment.

After another five minutes Marie interrupted him again. "This is boring," she said. "Who cares about Moliere and the court of Louis XIV or whatever it was. Let's talk about something interesting and up to date, that might be of some use to us. Let's talk about the sex lives of the French. You know, l'Amour and all that ...."

"I don't think that's on the syllabus," said Desmond, pretending to be amused. One of the problems that was becoming apparent ‑ yes, all too apparent, he feared ‑ in dealing with Marie in class was that he felt horny every time he looked at her. She was dressed in normal sixth‑form fashion, but now that he knew what was underneath the somewhat formlessly bulging blue V‑necked sweater, he could somehow see her nakedness every time he turned his eyes in her direction. And though, as she sat there, she looked demure and attentive, and a little bored, like any other of his pupils, he could also see her with a quite different expression, eyes bright„ cheeks flushed, lips parted in a grimace of sexual arousal.

"Oh, come on, Sir," said one of the boys. "We've been working really hard all term, so it really shouldn't matter if we relaxed a bit for once. And you must have been to France lots. of times. You must have had some adventures..."

The class laughed.

Desmond found that he was looking at all the girls in the class as if he could see through their clothes too. It wasn't as vivid as it was with Marie but it was definitely enough to make him feel he needed to loosen his collar.

"Go on, Sir," said Marie. "You must have had a French girlfriend. Tell us about her."

The fact was that Desmond had spent a whole year in France as a. student and had not had a French girlfriend.

"She was called Anne‑Joelle," he said. "I'll tell you about her for a couple of minutes and then we really must get back to work. It's not at all like what you seem to think in France. In spite of the French Revolution and Brigitte Bardot and Jean‑Paul Gaultier it's in the main a really conservative society. The Church still has a lot of influence. Anne‑Joelle was the devoutest person I ever met. She went to confession at least once a week. I don't know what she had to confess. It couldn't have been anything to do with me. Occasionally she let me hold her hand but that was strictly her limit."

"Then why did you hang around with her?" asked Marie. Somehow, though he knew she was asking these questions just to tease and annoy him, he couldn't help wondering if she wasn't genuinely curious, genuinely interested in his life. He had to warn himself not to be taken in by her.

"Oh, she was terribly beautiful," he said. "Especially in the lace shawl she always used to wear to Mass."

"I bet you had fantasies about her," said Marie.

"Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn't. It was rather a long time ago."

Eventually he got the lesson back to the French syllabus. He wondered, as he warbled on about Seventeenth Century French comedy, whether he dared call Marie to stay behind after the 30 others and tell her off. He decided he didn't really dare. One wrong word from him and he would never get his leg over her again.

As it happened Marie stayed behind after the others on her own accord.

"Must rush," she said, aiming the camera suggestively. "Today's my big chance. But I wanted to ask you something."

"What?"

"Well, you see, one of my other clients hasn't been able to keep an appointment so I'm a bit short. You couldn't sub me ten quid could you?"

"In advance for a session tonight?"

"Well, I don't know about tonight. I'm going out with friends."

"Do you really have to?"

"Well, I've got to keep some sort of normal social life going, haven't I, or people'll begin to start wondering." She looked somewhat depressed.

"Tomorrow, then?"

"Oh, okay. I still don't think this is a very good idea, Sir. "

It felt very odd ‑ actually not at all unpleasant ‑ to be called Sir by a girl who was arranging to go to bed with you. Glancing round to make sure they were now alone in the classroom, he gave her two five pound notes.

"Thanks," she said, brightening up and then peeking at him through the viewfinder of the camera. "See you tomorrow." She ran out the room, perfect legs flashing.