I sprinted down the field, moving into position to intercept Sarah's return pass. How many times had we performed the give-and-go in hockey practice? It was second nature. She hit the ball. Perfect pass. Adrenaline flooded my veins. I could see the goal in my mind's eye. A few more strides and I'd scoop the ball into the back of the net.
Pain. My ankle. I dropped like a sack of potatoes. Apparently, the crowd of students, teachers, and parents collectively gasped when I went down, but I don't remember that.
I do remember the impact of hitting the ground. I remember sitting up and the sting of pain in my foot. But mostly I remember Mr Redding, crouched before me.
'My God Issy, are you okay?'
'It hurts,' I said lamely, holding my ankle.
I will never forget what Mr Redding did next. He lowered my skirt which was hiked up from the fall. It was a small thing. It's not like my knickers were exposed. My skirt had shorts attached. But the gesture distracted me from the pain. I felt a little embarrassed, a little humiliated, a little excited. More than a little excited, truth be told.
And Mr Redding knew my thoughts. We shared a look after he adjusted my skirt. He
knew
, and he smiled.
He proceeded to remove my trainers, shinguard, and sock, inspecting my foot.
'It's not broken, I think.'
It hurt like a bitch, but Mr Redding's touch offset the pain.
'Give me some space,' he said to the girls in my team who had clustered around us.
Mr Redding scooped me up and carried me off the field. His arm pushed against my breast and I swear my nipples would cut through my shirt for reacting so hard to my strange lust.
I knew then that I wanted him. I wanted my maths teacher and hockey coach to fuck me.
To this end, I set out to seduce him.
The following day, I limped into his classroom with a crutch. My ankle injury was not actually that bad. It was twisted, not even sprained. I sat in one of the desks in the back, and during the lesson, I made sure to make eye contact with him. When he looked at me, I'd lazily play with my nipple over my shirt with a pencil.
For a few weeks I would attempt these childish micro-seductions, being as slutty as I could be, trying not to be noticed by my classmates. I would also draw little doodles and write little notes on assignments that he'd be marking. They were innocent but suggestive somehow.
Mr Redding did not respond to my horny hints, except to linger just a little too long when we shared eye contact. I was starting to feel discouraged until I received a two-word response written on a maths test that I had aced. The message read: Good girl.
My ankle recovered quickly and soon I was playing sports again. One morning during PE, I damaged my cheap hockey stick, splintering it when it hit another player's. We had a match the next day, and I was quite upset at the misfortune.
'I have spares at home,' Mr Redding said to reassure me. 'Don't worry, Issy, I'll bring one to school tomorrow.'
Here was an opportunity, I realised.
The last period of the day was maths. When the lesson was over, I stayed behind, saying to Sarah that she should leave without me because I needed to ask Mr Redding about a maths problem. She rolled her eyes and left. I never knew if she suspected my desire for our teacher. She had to, surely?
'What can I help you with, Issy?' Mr Redding asked.
'I was wondering if I could come and fetch the stick this afternoon. I'd like to practise more today for the match tomorrow.'
His grey eyes pierced my intent. I felt again that mixture of humiliation and excitement. My pussy soaked my knickers in response.
Mr Reading reached for a sticky note on the table. He wrote his address and handed it to me. Our fingers touched.
I sprinted out of the classroom and raced home. I decided to keep my school dress on, shirt and skirt, but I let my hair down. Most importantly, I changed my underwear. From my parents' room, I nicked one of my mother's Brazilian-cut, lace knickers.
At 4pm, I knocked on Mr Redding's front door.
A woman opened the door to my profound disappointment.
'Hi Mrs Redding,' I said, 'I'm... uh... I'm here for a stick. A hockey stick.'
'Come in, Issy,' she said, and shouted up the stairs, 'Tom! Issy's here!'
Mr Reading descended the stairs still wearing his school attire: trousers, shirt, tie.
'Follow me,' he said to me. 'They're in the shed.'
I followed him through the hallway—where I could not help but notice the pictures of him and his lovely wife—to the kitchen, to the back garden and finally, the shed. He unlocked the door and ushered me in.
'The sticks are in the back,' he said, 'The world's your oyster. Pick one for me.' There was
something
in his voice.
I nearly lost my nerve, but I'm proud that I did not.
I walked to the back of the shed, bent over to inspect the hockey sticks on the floor, exaggerating my bend to expose my young arse to my teacher.
'This one,' I announced after a good long time.
When I straightened and faced Mr Redding, he regarded me intently. Then he turned and walked away.
Fuck,
I thought in panic.
But Mr Redding did not leave the shed. Instead, he closed the door.
In a blink of an eye, he was right in my space. He pushed me back against the wall of the shed. I dropped the hockey stick.
'You think you can tease me,' he growled into my ear, 'and not get what's coming to you?'
My shock faded to fear, which quickly faded to excitement and desire.
'No, sir,' he said, 'I... I want it. I want you.'
'Do you now?'
He ran his hand down my front, and in contrast to the day that I had twisted my ankle, he hiked my skirt up. His warm hand rested on my lower belly, and a moment later, moved under my knickers.
'Spread your legs,' he commanded, and I complied.
'Is this what you want?' he said as he fingered me.
Oh God, the thrill of him using me was intoxicating.
'Yes sir,' I moaned. 'Yes sir.'
'You're my little whore now,' he said and I found that I beamed with pride.
Mr Redding stopped and brought his hand up to my face. His index and middle fingers glistened, a string of my viscous wetness hanging between them. This he pushed into my mouth. He didn't have to say anything. I sucked his cunt-wet fingers clean.
After this, he crouched before me, and yanked my knickers down.
'These are mine now,' he said, and put them in his pocket. His words seemed to carry a double meaning.
Shit,
I thought.
Hope mum never notices her fancy knickers are missing.
While I held up my skirt, Mr Redding inspected me, and then gave me his first instruction, 'You will shave your pussy before we meet again, and you'll keep it smooth for me.'
