His Nasty Little Pussy

To Sir, With Lust They were on stage in the school auditorium. Karen stood at the piano, bent at the waist, her face pressed up hard against the polished wood and her black lace knickers discarded nearby. And… her daughter’s teacher… he was on his knees behind her, his face pressed against her, his tongue making long sweeping movements starting at her clit and working up over the folds of her labia to her arse.

She stifled a groan as his tongue slid across one buttock and then moved down to drive deep into her pussy. They had to stay quiet. They had to hope that no one wandered in to see why there were people still there.

Each time he drove his tongue deep he sucked on her pussy lips and a surge of intense pleasure flowed through her and it was all she could do not to cry out.NôvelDrama.Org: text © owner.

They shouldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t be doing this here.

She should stop him, stop him now.

She knew she should.

But…

As soon as she had climbed out of her car in the school car park that evening, Karen had felt as if she was stepping back in time. There was something about entering a school that took her right back. She felt like she was fifteen again, late for class, in school uniform disheveled from the rush to get ready, homework not done and excuses only half-formed in her mind.

She had to force herself to snap out of it.

She was the grown-up. She was thirty-four years old. She had a respectable job. She was wearing a neat little black pencil skirt, sheer holdups, a tailored jacket from Coast, and a pair of Kurt Geiger stiletto slingbacks to die for.

“Come on, Gem, keep up,” she said, pausing and turning to her daughter, who was hanging back several paces behind. “It’s only a parent-teacher evening. What could they possibly tell me about you that I don’t know already?”

In the main reception, a few family groups were milling around, chatting to each other and getting directions from the Year 11 kids who had been posted here for just that purpose. Those families were another reminder for Karen that she was in this alone, a single mum: just her looking after Gemma, as it had been for the past four years since Steve had left.

To tell the truth though, even when he’d still been with them he would never have come to anything like this. In practice, Karen had been a single parent for much longer than the last four years.

She was good at it, too. And she was successful at work.

So why did the simple act of walking into a school make her feel so insignificant again?

“Mrs Carter for Science?” said a skinny blonde in a crisp uniform, peering at Karen’s appointment sheet.

“It’s okay, thanks,” said Karen. “I know where her room is.

Gemma?”

By the time she reached the second appointment, Karen was ready to hit the gin.

It was important to do this kind of thing, but in truth, Karen probably got more from reading Gemma’s termly report and being friends with her on Facebook.

It was only when the fourth interview was over that her daughter suddenly seemed to come alive.

“Who is it next, then?” asked Karen.

Gemma flushed bright red and wouldn’t meet her mother’s look.

“It’s him, isn’t it? Mr Hot Hotty.”

Gemma had mentioned Mr Parkes at least a hundred times in the last week or so, by Karen’s reckoning. Mr Parkes did this, and Mr Parkes said that. When Mr Parkes was…

All the girls in Gemma’s class fancied Mr Parkes. They called him Mr Hotty on Facebook, a pseudonym that fooled nobody.

Gemma was still red and Karen relented in her teasing. “Are you going to show me the way, then?”

For the first time this evening, Gemma rushed ahead, and Karen fought hard to suppress a big smile.

She remembered how it was at that age. Just into your teens, the world experienced through a stew of hormones. She remembered what it was like to have a crush on a teacher. More than one. She remembered Mr Valentine, in particular: tall and skinny and always ready with an easy joke and a smile for the girls. Born in Trinidad, a black teacher in deepest Surrey was still an exotic exception when Karen was a teenager. A black teacher who snogged the girls in the school darkroom was even more the exception if Karen’s friend Holly was to be believed.

She’d had lots of adolescent fantasies about getting Mr Valentine into that darkroom!

She realized Gemma had shot even farther ahead and now she was on her own, walking along a corridor where the wood had been polished to an extra sheen in the center by the shoes of generations of schoolkids. A row of school photos ran along one wall. Gemma would be in one of those groups, but Karen didn’t pause to look.

She rounded a corner and Gemma was waiting by a door, peering into the classroom.

Mr Parkes was in there with Phil Jameson and his boy, Luke.

Karen glanced at her watch and said, “He may be hot, but he’s running late.”

“You think so?” said Gemma, off in a world of her own.

Karen assumed that her daughter was only responding to the first part of her comment. She looked more closely at the teacher everyone fancied. He was so young! Probably closer to Gemma’s age than Karen’s, which wasn’t a pleasant thought. The last thing Karen needed right now was a reminder that she was a thirty-something divorcee, almost old enough to be the hot young teacher’s mother.

“Don’t you think he’s a bit cheesy?” she said and was rewarded with an instant glare from Gemma.

As the Jamesons left, Karen and Gemma went in and sat on plastic chairs across a desk from Mr Parkes. Closer to, Karen could see some of the attraction, if you liked that superficial boy band kind of look. He had spiky black hair, a sparse peppering of stubble, and just a hint of puppy fat still about his features. His top shirt button was undone, and his tie loosened, slightly askew, as if he had just been caught in flagrante.

Karen flashed back to Mr Valentine, and now it was her turn to feel a blush steal over her face. “Mr Parkes,” she said, trying to cover up a sudden self-consciousness. “Gemma’s told me all about you.”

She felt another glare from her daughter without having to look.

“I don’t think she’s ever been so interested in History…” she added, batting her eyes. Might as well have a bit of fun, she decided.

“That’s cool,” said Mr Parkes. “That’s ace. She’s doing well. Straight As, maybe A-stars with a bit more work.”

Gemma was beaming at the praise. It was all so transparent. Karen thought back to her teens: had she and her friends been this obvious too?

“Is there anything I can do?” Karen asked, and for a moment Mr Parkes faltered.

“I… Um, well, it’s just a matter of encouraging her and supporting her. Keep an eye on her home-school record so you know what she should

be working on, that kind of thing would be cool.” Too boy band, for Karen’s liking.

“Sir, tell Mum about the project,” said Gemma.

If only Gemma had been so engaged in her other interviews. Now, she just wanted to keep Mr Hotty talking for as long as possible so she could surreptitiously eye him up.

“Cool,” he said now. “The project. I’ve split the class up into groups of three or four and they’re…”

Karen let his words wash over her. Boy band, but quite cute, in his way. No harm in a bit of eye candy. She glanced at Gemma and was surprised to see she was watching her mother as much as Mr Hotty. Had she misinterpreted this? She’d thought all the comments about Mr Parkes were because Gemma fancied him, but… was she trying to set her mother up with him instead?

She realized the room had fallen silent. Mr Parkes was waiting for a response. The project… something about interviewing old relatives. Oral history, he’d called it.

Now that was a poor choice of phrase when she was so easily distracted!

He was watching her, now, maybe thinking about a bit of oral history, too.

“Thank you,” she said. “That was… very useful.”

“Well, as I say, any time you fancy a chat.” Had he said something about having a chat? Karen had missed that.

She just smiled and nodded, and said, “That’d be… cool. Thanks again.”

She didn’t miss the roll of the eyes from Gemma as they walked out.