Educating Ayla

My name is Martin Wilde. I might have been a good man, once. Now, I'm definitely not. Sure, I'm not a criminal, not technically at least. I haven't broken the law. But you'll think I should be locked up anyway, for moral fucking bankruptcy if nothing else.

This is the story of a bad decision. Of giving in to weakness. Of abject fucking failure to live up to the standards expected of me, to be the man I thought I was. You'll judge me, reading it, and you will find me wanting. What I did was not okay. I know that, now. I knew it at the time and still, that didn't stop me.

So, judge on. I deserve it.

Here's what you need to know before we begin. I'm a teacher. A pretty good one, by most measures. The head rates my lessons good. Ofsted usually agree, when they show up every few years. Kids I teach pass their exams, mostly. If you asked them they'd probably say, yeah, Mr Wilde, he's alright. Taught my brother. Helped me a lot. Good laugh. Something like that.

I'm fortunate not to be cursed with stunning good looks. That's a handicap in my profession. Nobody wants to be the hot teacher, it's too fucking dangerous. You wonder why every time there's a teacher on telly, they're always oddly unattractive? That's why. The nice-looking ones don't tend to last. Too much attention. It's different for the rest of us. Easier, for sure.

Still, I wouldn't say I'm ugly. Not really. Just average, I guess. Five nine-and-a-half. Five-ten on a good day. Decent enough body, especially for my age, thanks to cycling to work and a couple of nights each week sweating at the gym. I'm a long way from young, but I reckon I've aged more gracefully than most, and I've still got all my hair which helps. A few lines, some wrinkly bits here and there, a beard that's starting to go salt-n-pepper. Personally, I think age suits me fine. My wife didn't agree. We parted a while back when she upgraded to a younger model. There's been no one else since. Nobody serious, anyway.

Does that make me a sad old man? Probably. No wife. No kids. No friends to speak of, outside of teaching anyway. No hobbies, other than the gym. Mates from my younger days have drifted away one by one, fed up with my endless excuses for not showing up. Teaching takes over your life if you let it, and I did. Now it's too late to change. Evenings are for marking. Weekends for lesson plans. And all those fabled holidays are just time to catch up on sleep and get your head straight before the next term hits.

Only the summers offer any real kind of break. Maybe a chance to get away, to become human again. To finally summon the energy to fly off for a couple of weeks in the sun, have a few beers by the poolside. Maybe even manage a little holiday romance, a quick fling with some other divorcee, before you head back and the routine all starts again. But with all the shit going on in recent years, I haven't even managed that for a while.

Yeah. Romance. Flings. Attraction. Let's talk about that. Because if you're not a teacher yourself, you're probably wondering how we cope with endless temptation, right? At least, those of us who teach the older ones - the ones who'd actually be legal, if only we weren't their teacher.

I get why you might think that. I really do. I mean, there we are, every day, faced with an endless display of youthful female bodies, often rather more visible than the school dress code technically allows, in close proximity, leaning over to correct their work, staying after school for personal tuition... that's got to be some kind of torture for any normal, hot-blooded male, right? Surrounded by what we can't have -- what we can't even allow ourselves to think about having -- every day, week after week? Must be a living hell.

It's not, though. Getting the unwanted horn when you're teaching 13A on a Thursday Period 3 isn't really a thing. I can't say why. Nobody trains you to suppress those natural urges but somehow, mostly, you do. They just fade into the background after those first, difficult, few weeks when you're newly qualified. Maybe familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe the consequences of not suppressing them are so life-destroying that your brain just kind of does it for you automatically, like some kind of survival mechanism. Whatever. Don't get me wrong. I love teen tits as much as the next old perv, but when I'm surrounded by them at work, that's not where my thoughts are. Honestly, it's not.

Sure, sometimes there's an accidental down-blouse glance, or an unexpected wind-gust reveal, that puts images in your head you could really do without. And yes, every now and again, your subconscious betrays you. Pops up one particular individual in your dreams unbidden, some poor girl you think you've barely noticed but who's obviously made an impression. That might require a shame wank in the morning to rid your mind of those lingering images. Can be tricky to look her in the eye for a while, too. But that's as far as it ever goes. You get over it. Move on.

More rarely, maybe once in a few years, there'll be someone who tickles something deeper inside you. Enough to develop a connection, an affection even, that feels deeper than the usual student/teacher relationship. Enough for the daydreams to start. The impossible fantasies. The stirrings of dangerous obsession. But even then, you recognise that danger and pull back. Keep your distance. Watch your language, your positioning, make sure you're never alone with them. And after a while it passes, and you take pride in seeing them head off into the world, knowing you kept up your side of the deal, did the right thing, with maybe just the tiniest lingering sadness that they'll forget you long before you forget them.

You might not believe me, but seriously, that's just how it is.

At least, that's how it was.

Until Kayla Canning turned my world upside-down.

***

"Oh, Mr Wilde! Hello." Mrs Canning offers a flustered smile as she opens the front door of her second-floor council flat.

She must be younger than me, but she looks careworn and frazzled. I'm not surprised. Teachers always bleat on about stress and low pay, but we don't know shit. Not really. Try bringing up a teenage daughter as a single parent, ex-husband on a restraining order, no family support, scraping by on benefits and a zero-hour contract as a cleaner.

"Sorry Mrs Canning, I'm a bit earlier than I said. I can come back later, if it's easier?"

I'm standing there, sweating under my t-shirt, holding a desktop computer in front of me that's got progressively heavier after two flights of stairs, with an old flat screen monitor balanced precariously on top, and a carrier bag stuffed with a keyboard, mouse and cables dangling from one arm.

"No, no, it's fine. Work just called, they need me in last-minute for a shift. I was literally on my way out." She nods at the computer. It's old, the case bearing the scrapes and dents of a few years in the classroom. "Thank you so much for bringing it round. I'm so grateful. Kayla is, too."

I smile back. "No problem."

She turns away, checks herself for a millisecond in the hall mirror, then sighs as she turns back. "You know things haven't been easy for us. This will make a real difference to her in college. I really appreciate it. I really appreciate everything you've done for her, these last two years. She'd never have passed without you."

"Yeah, she would. She's a hard worker."

"Huh. Not at home she isn't." She grabs keys off a hook, drops them in her shoulder bag. "Anyway, it's kind of you to give up your holiday time just to bring it round."

"Honestly, it's fine."

She checks her phone. "I'm so sorry. I really have to go. I'll miss my bus."

I shift to let her get past, not entirely sure what I'm supposed to do. "Um, shall I just drop this inside before you go, then?" I try to hide my disappointment that her daughter's nowhere to be seen.

"What?" She's stepping right past me, leaving the front door open behind her. Then she realises my confusion. Laughs awkwardly. "Oh no, sorry, you go on in. Kayla's in her room." She calls back through the front door. "Kayla! Mr Wilde's here. He's got the computer!"

The black cloud of disappointment lifts. She's here. Kayla's here.

"Thanks again," Mrs Canning says. "Got to go. Bye." She offers a final harried smile, then disappears off down the communal staircase, leaving me to head into the flat and shut the front door behind me. I blink, looking round the tiny, cluttered hallway with its peeling wallpaper and shoes piled up against the wall, and wonder what the actual fuck I think I'm doing here.

Doing a good deed. A charitable act. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?

Kayla's school laptop, one of the ones we lent to hard-up students, had needed to be returned when she'd finished her exams. Tapping out notes on a crappy phone with a cracked screen was hardly going to be a good start to her time at university so, as her form-tutor, I'd pulled a few strings to come up with a solution. The school IT department was clearing out some old-but-working computers in the summer hols, and I'd arranged for one to be put aside for her. Better than ending up in the skip, or whatever the school did with their castoff kit.

That was the good deed bit. The not-quite-so-noble part was me phoning Mrs Canning last week, knowing she didn't drive, offering to drop the computer round to the flat today. That wasn't charity. That was me trying to engineer myself an excuse to see Kayla for one last time.

It worked, and here I am. Why I set this up and why I wanted to see her again so badly, are questions I don't want to think too hard about right now.

I take a deep breath. My arms are trembling, and not just from the weight of the computer. I move forward, past a door leading into a poky kitchen, into a small, square living space almost completely filled by a sofa, chair and coffee table. There's a TV in the corner, awkwardly placed in front of double doors that open onto a tiny balcony. The place must have been built in the seventies and doesn't look like it's been decorated since. At least it's light, with late summer sun streaming in through the glass. Hot, too. I'm sweating.

There's still no sign of Kayla. Leading off the opposite side of the living room is another internal hall with three doors, one on each wall. I'm about to call out to find which one she might be behind, when she finally emerges, looking more flustered than her mother, adjusting her clothes like she was just getting dressed.

I try to relax, offer a warm smile. Maybe even manage it. "Kayla! How are you? It's been a while."

She smiles back nervously with a little finger wave, then immediately looks at the floor, not answering my question. "I thought you were coming later." Her voice is quiet. She's always been shy. She pushes her hair behind her ears. "Mum said you said four o'clock."

It's twenty-to, now. "Yeah, sorry, I finished sorting things at school a bit earlier than expected." Not I couldn't wait any longer to see you again. Definitely not that.

And now, here she is. Just looking at her, I'm realising how much I've missed her for the last few weeks since she finished school. And realising how fucking wrong it is for me to think that.

Kayla Canning. One of the few girls who ever chose to take my subject as a post-16 option, although she was in my form group as well, so I've seen her every school day for the last two years. She's also one of the tiny number of students who, somehow, wormed their way into my affections rather more than I should have let them. I thought I'd shut that down. Moved on. Now, I know otherwise. My heart's thumping, and a whole avalanche of dangerous thoughts is crashing around my head, mostly centred around me being here, in her home, with nobody else around. That last bit hadn't been part of my cunning plan. But now...

No. For fuck's sake. That line of thought needs killing with fire. Right now.

"How've you been? Had a good break?" It's more of a croak than a question. I cough, trying to cover my own sudden nervousness. Probably fail. Make the mistake of looking at her again, which just gets my heart pounding harder.

She twists a strand of hair. Still looking down. "Pretty boring. I miss school, to be honest."

I haven't seen her since she finished her final exams. Now, I can't take my eyes off her. She's not a tall girl, maybe five-two, five-three. A skin tone that's not quite tanned, but not deathly white either. Creamy, I guess. Looks smooth, not that I've ever touched her to find out, obviously. She's nowhere near fat, but not skinny either. You'd maybe think she carries too much on her thighs and round her middle for her small frame, if that kind of thing bothers you. It doesn't bother me. Her hair's long, straight, halfway down her back. Mid-brown, not really styled, no fringe, just parted and tucked behind her ears. Sometimes she adds some pink streaks to the front.

She's done that now. It kind of suits her.

All in all, I doubt you'd consider her conventionally attractive. I reckon you'd say more plain, than pretty. A small mouth, although she smiles a lot, which kind of makes up for that. A funny little nose that's got a kink in it just above the nostrils, like someone's tweaked it up. Odd, but cute in its own way. Soft brown eyes, always natural, never made-up. Maybe that's why boys don't seem to look twice at her. She's not putting herself out there like so many of her peers feel the need to.

Maybe that's why she got past my defences. She's quirky. Different. Shy. Just a small circle of equally unusual friends, male and female. Not drama queens. Not interested in the endless socials. Kayla's not even on TikTok. I admire that. She and her little group are the true cool kids. I like her.

Perhaps more than like, sometimes, when I fail to crush those thoughts. Like I'm failing to, right now.

And maybe, if I'm honest, and I'm prepared to confront the grubby workings of my mind, I might admit that my inappropriate feelings for her perhaps have less to do with her quaintly old-fashioned outlook, and rather more to do with the last non-uniform day we had at school this year. One of those days when the dress code for everyone is relaxed. The day when, for reasons entirely beyond my understanding, Kayla abandoned her usual, modest, nondescript appearance and decided to turn up in what I could only describe as some kind of anime cosplay outfit, all stripey long socks and chunky boots and a very unexpectedly low-cut top, revealing very unexpectedly ample curves that, until then, she'd kept well-hidden under a jumper or hoodie. Yeah, that outfit definitely made an impression. Kind of stuck in my mind.

I'm thinking about it again, now. Mainly because she's wearing it.

Fucking hell. I know it's a hot day, but still. Who dresses up at home like that? The sparkly silver top is a strappy little thing, leaving her arms fully bare. It doesn't do a lot to cover her chest, either. It's cropped short enough to reveal a couple of inches of bare skin, even though she's done some weird thing where she's hoiked her skirt right up so the waistband's nearly under her tits. She used to do that at school, too, although those skirts were always longer. This one's a white, pleated A-Line that might have been respectable if she wore it normally, but at its current position is borderline indecent, revealing an extensive quantity of soft-looking, curvy leg above stripey black-and-white thigh-highs. She doesn't have the chunky boots today, mind. Just fluffy pink slippers.

I swallow hard, trying not to stare. She knew I was coming. Did she dress up for me?

Fuck's sake. Of course she didn't. She's wearing it because it's Friday afternoon and she'll be going out later. Get a fucking grip.

"Um. Where do you want it?" I ask. The mild innuendo hangs in the room for a second, but she doesn't pick it up. That's not her style.

"On my desk, in here, please," she says. No, she didn't say 'over my desk.' Sometimes I'm more juvenile than the students.

I pick my way awkwardly past the living room furniture as she steps back into her room. With the computer still balanced against my chest, I nearly trip over the coffee table.

"No, it's fine Kayla, I can manage."

My sarcasm brings her back out, and I nearly laugh out loud at the stricken look on her face. She's always been polite, always one of those students who'd hold a door and say please and thank you. But now it's like she hadn't even thought to help.

I smile. "Don't worry, just messing with you."

She looks relieved. Poor girl. She's just feeling a bit awkward. I mean, who wouldn't be, with their teacher in their living room. She watches me for a moment, like she's still not sure what to do, then disappears back into her room.

I pause at the threshold of her bedroom, peering around the room. Mainly so I'm not peering at her, standing inside with her hands clasped in front of her, nervously pulling at her fingers, the movements carried through to her chest. I force my gaze to anywhere but that sparkly low-cut top.

Thin pink curtains, drawn across a small window, cast a rosy glow over a cramped, rectangular room that might be described by an estate agent as a 'single bedroom' but barely meets that definition. Just enough floorspace to fit a single divan bed, a wonky looking bedside unit, an old white Ikea desk parallel to the bed, and a scuffed single wardrobe next to that. Kayla's standing in the narrow strip between the desk and her bed, a space that's barely two feet wide.

I swallow again. Wherever I stand, we're going to be close. I hesitate at the door, still looking around.

The walls are plastered with a patchwork of hand-drawn manga characters. The rest of the decor looks like it's not changed since she was a child. Bedcovers with cartoon bears almost faded to invisibility and a carpet, pink like the curtains, with threadbare patches where her desk chair's worn though. Everything's old, but it smells nice in here, like she's sprayed some girly deodorant around. Unexpectedly tidy, too, given what most parents tell me about their kids. No dirty clothes strewn on the floor.

Not that I was hoping to see her underwear scattered around. That had definitely never crossed my mind.

"Um, am I okay to come in?" As in, I am your teacher, do you really want me in your bedroom?

"Sure," she says, a hint of confusion clouding her eyes. Of course she'd be confused. Because she trusts me so implicitly that the very idea of it being inappropriate for me to be here would never enter her head. I swallow hard, yet again. Get a grip.

A handful of soft toys line the back of the desk, plastic eyes judging me. A make-up box lies open, with a few items scattered on the surface. I frown, surprised to see the box, as I've literally never seen her made-up, and she doesn't appear to be now, either.

"Oh, ah, sorry," she says, noticing I've got nowhere to put the PC, and gathering the bits up to shove back in the box. When she closes it, I see 'Rachel' stenciled in big red letters on its top. Right. Rachel is one of her friends. Maybe her closest. She must have been round earlier.

Finally, there's a space for me to put the computer down. I drop the carrier bag beside it and shake cramp out of my arms, looking in more detail at the walls. Almost every inch is covered with blu-tacked drawings, a quilt of colourful, hand-shaded characters in that big-eyed, exaggerated style. One right next to her pillow catches my eye -- an A3 drawing of a pigtailed girl wielding a massive sword, next to an old, bearded dude with an axe, hand on her shoulder as they face down a horde of faceless demons together.

The girl looks a bit like Kayla. She'd look cute in pigtails.

No. Fucking hell. Sort it out.

"Wow," I say, blinking at the artwork. "Did you do all these yourself?"