French Frolics

My life as a schoolteacher had become quite complicated in recent months. First an 18-year old pupil wanked me out of the blue on a field trip to France. Then she and a couple of her friends chained me up in a shed on the school grounds and took turns fucking me. And as a result of that, I'd started a very passionate, but very dangerous, affair with one of the girls involved. It wasn't just the risk of being caught 'abusing' the pupil-teacher relationship that worried me. Inderjit's dad is this big, muscular local Sikh politician, who wears a ceremonial sword on civic occasions that looks as if it could cut me in half with a single swipe. Indy and I could only see each other once a week outside school to avoid her parents getting suspicious, and when we did we barely wasted time on talking, we just sucked and screwed each other's brains out. She's a big, meaty girl, with the most gorgeous pillowy bum I've ever had the pleasure of licking.

My other problem had been our French teacher, Yvette Mouthillon. I was more or less sure she knew about the wanking incident, and she had started making rather barbed comments about Indy, which made me think she was onto that as well. Whatever else I could say about her, the woman was as sharp as a cut-throat razor. The problem was, she had this deep, girlish crush on me. We're the same age -- 26 -- but she just wasn't my type. I saw her as a little simpering girl, with dark hair, dark eyes, a skinny body, rounded shoulders and big ugly spectacles, not to mention a burgeoning moustache most unbecoming on someone of her age. Like most of my colleagues, I had been polite and friendly towards her when she first joined the school staff, but in my case she had chosen to read entirely too much into it.

I did my best to stay out of her way -- I teach geography, so there wasn't too much connection between our subjects -- but every morning she was in my face in the staff room with a sunny "Good morning Robert", pronounced the French way, 'Robaire'. All my other colleagues call me Rob or Robbie, and I generally just grunted in response and hunched down in a corner with a coffee and the morning paper.

One afternoon, towards the end of the school day, I found a note in my pigeonhole in the staff room: 'Robert, I need to speak to you about something -- in private. This is most urgent. Yvette.' I cursed under my breath. Ever since the French trip I'd been worried she might tell someone about her suspicions as to what happened there, but I was sure she didn't have any proof, and I was counting on her attraction to me stopping her from squealing on me anyway. I screwed the note up and dropped it in a bin, then turned -- and walked straight into la Mouthillon. I manufactured a smile from somewhere, and told her I was sorry but I just didn't have time to meet with her. Her face darkened in anger and she hissed, "Well you'd better find the time, Monsieur Peters. You'd just better, that's all." Then she stalked off.

I'd never seen that side of her before, and something in her voice alarmed me. Surely she couldn't have anything on me, could she? But I thought I'd better make sure, so after school, sighing with reluctance, I made my way up the stairs to the language lab. Yvette was sitting there having a coffee and a laugh with her Spanish counterpart, but the moment I arrived the Spaniard seemed to pick up that there was an atmosphere between us and scuttled off. I closed the door behind her and, just to be on the safe side, turned the key in the lock. Then, adopting a world-weary tone, I said, "Okay Yvette, what is it that's so bloody important that I'm missing my first pint of the day for it?"

She refused to meet my eyes, but said, "I have something I think you need to see Robert", and started laying out some rectangular cards on her desk. I wandered over and felt the blood drain from my face. They were a series of photographs. The first showed me lying on my back, a naked sixth former called Jeanette Adams sprawled on top of me, my prick buried to the hilt in her cunt. At the same time Inderjit, subsequently my lover, was squatting over my face while I licked her out. A conniving little witch called Charlotte Evans had taken the photo. She was the one who'd started the whole thing by tossing me off, and the picture had been taken during the kidnapping of me that she'd organised. My hands were cuffed to shelves on either side of me at the time, but you couldn't see that in the photo, so it just looked like I was having it away quite voluntarily with a couple of pupils.

The next two pictures had been taken that evening too, and showed me kneeling behind Inderjit, who was on all fours as I rammed my cock into her. At that moment I could have killed Charlotte bloody Evans -- she and I had a very brief fling after the evening captured in the photos, and she'd sworn to me that she'd destroyed the pictures. The final two snaps shook me though. They weren't very well taken, and were from quite a distance, but the subject matter was quite clear. The first showed me opening my front door to Inderjit. The second showed Inderjit, framed by my bedroom light, staring out of the bedroom window, topless, her enormous tits clearly visible. Jesus Christ, I thought, what the hell had Indy been doing standing at the window like that? Obviously Yvette had been busy with her camera too, the sneaky little bitch.

Furiously I snatched at the pictures, but Yvette managed to get to them before me. "It's okay, I've got them all set up on my computer at home. I just press one button and, poof, they go to the headmistress, the board of school governors, the local newspaper, Inderjit's papa...."

Sullenly I slumped into the chair behind Yvette's desk. "How the fuck did you get them?" I snarled. "The first three, I mean. Obviously you did your own dirty work for the others."

Yvette pulled a chair out from behind one of the pupils' desks and sat beside me. "Charlotte Evans is a very nice, kind girl. She knew I admired you and she saw how unhappy it was making me. So one day she, erm, what is the term, tipped me the wink as to how I could attract your attention."

That was it -- I really was going to send that evil little Evans cunt to an early grave. How could she do that to me? Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I took a deep breath. "Okay Yvette, what is it you want?" I knew damned well what she wanted from me. It wouldn't have surprised me if I'd learnt she was a virgin. If there was any woman in the school who needed a bloody good rogering, I thought, it was Yvette Mouthillon. But Christ, I really didn't want it to be me who was forced to give it to her.

Her answer surprised me, slightly. "What I want, Robert, is, just for one day, you to be nice to me. I want to be your girlfriend, one you care about very much. I want you to take me for a nice meal, maybe to a show, talk sweetly to me, take me home, and spend the night making love to me, tenderly and adoringly. Just give me a chance for one day. If you never want to see me again after that, okay, I leave you in peace. But be really kind to me just for one day, and I make these pictures disappear for ever, I promise."

I stared at her in disbelief. I actually pitied her in a way. How desperate must she be to resort to this sort of approach? Unable to help myself, I said, "Jesus Christ woman, just think for a minute about what you're doing here."

She stood, and I shuddered in revulsion as she placed a hand on my shoulder. "I know what I'm doing Robert. But when a woman with affection in her heart is continually spurned, not even given the slightest chance to prove herself, sometimes she has to resort to extreme measures." I felt my face form into a vicious scowl. Yvette knelt in front of me and took one of my hands between both of hers. "Please Robert, don't be mean. All I want is one chance. I want us both to have a good time. Perhaps, if you try, we can have fun, and you will find out that, despite this, I am not really such a bad, ugly person after all."

I closed my eyes and thought about the situation. I didn't really see that I had much choice, short of throttling her. Still, if she really did mean just once, then she'd let me off the hook, I was sure I could put up with it. She wanted a fuck, I'd fuck her. After all, as one of my pals at the rugby club sometimes said, at the end of the day one cunt's much like any other, and when you're poking the fire it doesn't really matter what's on the mantelpiece. Taking her totally by surprise, I gave her my best lady-killer smile. "Okay Yvette, I'd love to take you out on a date, and see how it goes. What are you doing this Saturday?" I wasn't surprised to learn she didn't have any plans, and we arranged that I would pick her up at two o'clock. She left the room with a huge beam of delight on her face, and gave me a peck on the cheek. I managed to keep my face from collapsing into disgust and anger until I'd turned the corridor out of her sight.

I had a long lie-in on Saturday morning, trying to steel myself for the day ahead, and hoping nobody I knew would see me and Yvette together. Then, after some toast, strong coffee, a shower and a shave, I dressed in a brand new Lacoste polo shirt and tan slacks, and applied a sweet smelling aftershave. I'd decided that if I was going to do this I was going to do it properly, and make damned sure I got those bloody photos back. Then, I fantasised, I might just beat la Mouthillon to death with her own leg bone, before going in search of Charlotte the harlot. Her I'd torture for a few hours before I killed her. Donning my rugby club blazer I spurned the car in favour of walking to Yvette's address. The coastal town where we live isn't that big, it was a sunny day, and I thought the fresh air would do me good. Besides, I had every intention of getting drunk out of my tiny mind over dinner. Yvette lived on the sixth floor of a council multi-storey block. I took the lift up to her flat and rang the bell at exactly two o'clock. The door opened almost instantly, and I stared in astonishment at a woman I didn't know.

It took several seconds for me to realise it was Yvette. Her long black hair had been cut to just above her shoulders and looked glossy; her eyebrows had been thinned and shaped; her top lip had been waxed, and the moustache was history; she must have been wearing contact lenses, because her ugly spectacles were absent; and she was nicely made-up with blue eye shadow, mascara, light blusher and ruby red lipstick. I'd never seen her wear make-up at school. She was dressed in a pretty white sleeveless dress printed with big red flowers, instead of her usual black attire. Despite the fact that it was winter she was bare legged, and her small feet were in open-toed sandals, her toenails painted red to match her fingernails and her lipstick. Instead of her usual stooped posture she stood erect, with her shoulders back, and that together with the dress emphasised a decent pair of boobs which I'd never noticed before. I knew my mouth was hanging open, and I managed to mumble, "Hi Yvette, you look, er, nice."

She seemed delighted by my reaction, and gave me a welcoming peck on the cheek. Then she said, "Thank you Robert, I thought you were worth making a special effort for. Oh, are those for me? Thank you again." She took from my limp hand the dozen red roses I'd bought on the way over, and bustled off to find a vase.

The flat had a small balcony, and while I waited I stood on it gazing at the view of the promenade and the sea. I couldn't believe the physical change Yvette had achieved. I pictured her turning up at some beauty salon at dawn and spending the entire morning there. I couldn't understand why, if she was capable of this, she didn't make more effort at work. Okay, I dressed pretty slummily for school, saving my best stuff for my own time; but Yvette's transformation from her normal look was near miraculous. As I heard her move about behind me I reminded myself that this was still the cunning little bitch who was blackmailing me into screwing her. I turned and saw she had pulled on a short red cotton jacket. She smiled shyly at me and said, "Very well Robert, shall we go?"

I'd decided to take her to our local art cinema, as they were showing an Audrey Tautou film, which I thought was appropriate. We walked there saying little, my hands in my pocket, one of Yvette's arms looped through mine. I couldn't help noticing that several men glanced at her with interest as we walked. The film was an English language romance set in the First World War. It was well over two hours long, and quite melodramatic, not really my cup of tea, but Yvette clearly enjoyed it. I had bought her a big tub of popcorn, which she insisted that we share. When it was finished she snuggled up to me, pretty much forcing me to drape an arm around her shoulders. After a few minutes I felt her hand exploring, and I thought for an awful moment she was going to start groping me, right there in the theatre. In fact, it turned out she just wanted to hold my spare hand, which she did for the rest of the show.

After the film we walked through the pedestrian precinct, Yvette still holding my hand, to the restaurant where I'd booked. It was a new one, the classiest and expensive in town. Yvette stopped dead in surprise when she saw where we were going, and pulled at my arm. "Oh no Robert, this is too much, let's go somewhere better priced." I was damned if we were going to go elsewhere. I'd been very lucky to get a table at short notice; anyway, apart from wanting to surprise, and maybe shame, Yvette, I'd been looking for an excuse to treat myself to a meal there anyway. I ordered us champagne cocktails which we sipped while we selected our meals. Naturally, despite my reluctance to be with Yvette, we talked through the meal, and she told me about her past.

She had enjoyed an idyllic childhood in the heart of rural France, then studied English at a minor university. There had been one passionate but doomed affair there -- "we French, we all have at least one grande tragique romance in our pasts". That took care of the question of her virginity, anyway. After that she had foresworn men for ever. "That was until I first saw you Robert." She fluttered her eyelashes at me as she said that, and I felt myself blushing in embarrassment. She said she had never really bothered with her appearance since then, determining to become a "hard, independent careerist". Having gained her degree she enrolled for teacher training in the UK, and had managed to gain employment at our school. While telling the story she related several funny anecdotes, and I couldn't help laughing -- she has a gift for a comic tale.

During the course of the meal, apart from the cocktails, we polished off a couple of bottles of wine, and a dessert each which was basically a dish of Marsala wine posing as tiramisu. As the waiter brought the vintage cognac I'd ordered to finish off the meal Yvette giggled coquettishly and, in a stage whisper, said, "Rob, you're not trying to get me drunk are you?" It was the first time she hadn't called me 'Robaire'. As I felt her bare toes stroke my ankle I reflected that it had been my intention to get myself smashed, yet despite having matched Yvette drink for drink I still felt stone cold sober. A few minutes later I felt a desire for a really strong drink as the bill arrived!

When we left the restaurant Yvette said, "I don't want us to go back to my place Rob. Let's go to your house." I had a momentary panic, trying to remember what state of untidyness I'd left it in. We strolled along the promenade for a while, under the multi-coloured fairy lights, the sea breeze gently ruffling our hair and carrying the faint sounds of a Wurlitzer organ being played on the pier. Our arms were linked and Yvette was leaning against me. As a particularly cold blast struck us she shivered. I slipped an arm around her shoulders and flagged down a taxi. After all, Yvette was bare-legged, and wearing only a very thin jacket. She snuggled into my armpit in the cab, and I found myself nuzzling her hair.

Thankfully my place was reasonably tidy, although I recalled that I hadn't changed the bedclothes for over a week. I suddenly felt unaccountably nervous -- after all, this was the moment the entire afternoon and evening had been leading up to. Yvette stood, a little unsteadily, in the centre of the lounge and draped her jacket over the arm of a chair. I asked her if she'd like a coffee or something. She giggled, "I'd like 'or something'." She took a step towards me and put her arms around my waist. I jumped as her hands lightly grasped my butt cheeks. "What I'd like, Rob darling, is you to take me upstairs, to your bedroom, take off my clothes, and make love to me."

I took her hand and, as she asked, led her up the stairs. I felt dazed and confused. My original intention had been to grit my teeth and get this over with as quickly as possible, for the sole reason of getting those sodding photos off my back and the blackmailing bitch out of my hair. Now I wasn't sure how I felt. I couldn't deny, to myself at least, that it had actually been quite a pleasant afternoon, and Yvette had been agreeable company. Now I was about to sleep with her. I was no longer sure whether I would be doing it because that was the agreement, or because I actually wanted to.

On the landing Yvette slipped off her sandals and padded barefoot ahead of me into my bedroom, smiling at the sight of my double bed (ever the hopeful bachelor!). She stood before me as I slowly unbuttoned her dress and pushed it off her shoulders, to fall to the floor. She was wearing extremely sexy underwear - a white silk half-cup bra with lace trimmings, over which her deep brown nipples peeped shyly, and a matching G-string which left little to the imagination. I suddenly felt as nervous as a teenager on his first date, and I was aware of a definite stirring of interest in my pants.

I leaned into Yvette and kissed her softly on the lips as I reached around her and unclipped the bra. She took me by surprise, throwing her arms around my neck and mashing her lips to mine, her tongue forcing its way into mine and exploring. I stepped back to gaze at her naked boobs. They really were attractive -- very pale pink, with those long contrasting nips. I moved to remove her panties but she stopped me. Reaching out she pulled my polo shirt over my head, and trailed a finger through my chest hair. Then she knelt in front of me and undid my slacks, pushing them down my legs. I felt her run a finger up the outside of my underpants, tracing the outline of my now semi-erect cock. She rested her head against my stomach for a moment and breathed, "Oh my God, I can't believe that this is actually happening." I knew how she felt, as my pants followed my trousers to the floor. Mechanically I lifted my feet, allowing Yvette to entirely remove my remaining clothes. When she stood I saw that she slid off her G-string and, naked, we faced each other, each taking in the body of our soon-to-be lover.

Yvette gave a little giggle and jumped -- literally -- onto my bed: the same bed where, three nights earlier, I had had my face buried between Inderjit Kaur's teenage thighs. I noticed that Yvette's pubes had had a Brazilian wax -- undoubtedly especially for this occasion - leaving just a small strip of black hair adorning her pubis. As she gazed up at me, completely relaxed with her nakedness, I had to admit that whatever her makeover had cost, it had been money well spent: the ugly duckling had been truly transformed into a most beautiful swan.

My heart racing with nerves, I joined her on the bed. I hesitated for a moment, not sure where to put my hand, then rested it on her side, a few inches below her left breast as we kissed, more gently than before, our tongues meeting each other hesitantly. I could still taste the cognac from the restaurant on hers. Gradually, as the kiss warmed up, my hand drifted across Yvette's cool skin until it cupped her tit. She sighed happily into my mouth. A moment later I gasped into hers as her fingers tickled my scrotum then wrapped around my cock. She broke the kiss and, with a little giggle, whispered, "Hello, big boy."