Reading Notes:
1. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
2. This story contains some of my favourite fetishes, namely Hot Wife and cuckold; smoking; lesbian sex; bdsm and tease and denial. If some, or all of these don't float your boat, please find a story that appeals to you.
3. All characters in this story are over the age of 18, and all sexual acts described are entered into willingly and consensually.
4. Please consider leaving a comment (and a star rating) after having read my story.
Olwen Simpson sighed, stifled a yawn and stole a quick glance at the classroom clock. Ten minutes until the end of the lesson, the end of the day, the end of the school week, and more importantly, the beginning of the weekend. She shook herself metaphorically and returned her attention to Alice, who was making a very good job of reading the extract of Γ la recherche du temps perdu, the interminably long Proust novel which her A level class were studying this term.
Alice paused at the end of the paragraph she was reading and looked up uncertainly. Olwen beamed at her.
"Très bien, Madamoiselle Brearley," she complemented the young girl, who blushed with pleasure.
"We'll leave it there for today," Olwen continued. "You are all doing very well with this. It isn't easy, but believe me, you should be grateful that we only have to study the first book this term. When I was in university, I had to read all seven volumes."
"Was that a first edition then, Miss?" asked Liam innocently, and the rest of the class smirked.
"No, Mr. Jackson, it was not," replied Olwen, refusing to rise to the bait. "I know you think I'm an old fuddy-duddy, but I'm not all that ancient."
"You're not old, Miss," said Julia loyally. "My mam's much older than you!"
"Thank you, Miss Morgan, but I very much doubt that," smiled Olwen. "Now, enough about my age. Your task this weekend is to finish reading up to the end of page nineteen. There's a natural break there. Make notes on what you have read, and on anything you don't understand. Our next lesson is on Wednesday morning. We'll pick it up again then. Any questions?"
There were none. The bell to signal the end of the day sounded, and Olwen nodded to the seven youngsters that it was alright for them to leave.
"Have a lovely weekend," she said as they got up and began to stack the chairs in the classroom on their desks. "This glorious weather is set to last, so they say. So don't work too hard on your Proust. Give yourselves a bit of 'me time'. You all deserve it."
"Are you doing anything nice this weekend, Miss?" asked Liam. "Out clubbing tonight?"
"No, not tonight, Liam," answered Olwen truthfully. "Saturday night is my clubbing night. Tonight I'm having dinner with my husband, and then we'll probably spend the rest of the evening in front of the television."
"Well enjoy your weekend," replied Liam, " and if you want my advice, watch Netflix at nine o'clock. Shaun of the Dead is on. It's my favourite film."
"Thank you, Liam. I'll bear that in mind," replied Olwen, who had no intention of watching some idiotic film about zombies. She knew exactly what she would be doing with Richard, her cuckold. He'd discovered a porn site that catered specifically for Hot Wives and for a modest monthly fee, subscribers could access a vast library of clips of Hot Wives and their cuckolds playing. It was standard Friday night viewing on the occasions that Olwen didn't have a date with one of her several boyfriends.
After the departure of her pupils, Olwen spent a few minutes tidying her desk and gathering some exercise books for marking. Then she picked up her shoulder bag and made her way to the staff room, to collect her other belongings. The staff room was deserted. No one hung about on Friday afternoons. She was about to leave when the door opened. Olwen looked up and cursed to herself silently. It was the head teacher.
"Ah, Mrs. Simpson. You're still here. Excellent. Please follow me down to my study. I have some news that I want to share with you."
He didn't wait for Olwen, but turned on his heel and stalked off. Olwen sighed. She didn't get on with the head, who had come into teaching late after a very successful career in merchant banking. He ran the school like a branch of his former occupation, and whilst Olwen had to admit that the school's reputation was flourishing under his leadership, in effect she knew that both staff and pupils were being stifled because he treated the place like a business rather than an educational establishment.
Justin Howells was already seated behind his huge desk when Olwen knocked on the door and walked in to the head teacher's study, as he insisted on calling it. She noted that the desk was clear of any clutter. Mr. Howells looked up.
"Come in, Mrs. Simpson," he said unnecessarily as Olwen was already standing in front of his desk. "Don't worry. I won't keep you long. I just wanted to share some information with you."
He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a folder. Opening it, he spent a few moments scanning the first page. Olwen sighed quietly and waited. Eventually, he looked up at her and smiled.
"The local employment agency have been in touch," he began. "It seems that Mrs. Harrison-Roderick has given shelter to a young refugee from Ukraine. She, the refugee that is, is a qualified teacher. She'll be joining the staff on Monday. She speaks several languages, so I thought that she would fit in perfectly in your department. And we don't want to upset Mrs. Harrison-Roderick, do we?"
The lady in question was the Chair of Governors at the school, and somebody else that Olwen didn't really get on with. She was not only Chair of Governors, but a Magistrate, a Conservative on the local town council, and, in Olwen's opinion, a complete and utter do-gooder, snob and social climber.
"We don't teach either Ukranian or Russian," Olwen pointed out.
"I realise that," replied Howells. "This young lady's mother is Italian. Her father is Ukranian. She speaks Italian, French and Spanish as well as English, obviously. She'll be a real asset to your department."
Olwen doubted that very much, but she kept her reservations to herself. Pointedly, she looked at the clock on the wall.
"So, if you could manage to be in early on Monday to greet Miss Magrin, I'd be obliged," the headteacher said, closing the file and returning it to its rightful place in his drawer. Olwen didn't bother to correct him by letting him know that she was always in early, Ukranian refugee or not. She smiled sweetly.