A good friend once told me that I was very lucky. He pointed out that I was one of only three men on a staff of fifty teachers, in an all girls private school. He also reminded me that I lived in an apartment with three of the most attractive ones. I just smiled and told him that he wouldn't believe the story I had to tell, so I wasn't going to try and explain. He insisted.
"Perhaps I'm sensitive, intelligent and good company." I offered as a reasonable, and very concise explanation.
He laughed.
"My friend," he replied. "You may be all three of those things, but I've seen how they look at you. Now tell me the truth!"
I gave in.
It all started in July of nineteen ninety-nine, when I decided I had had enough of the school in which I had been working for three years. It was a rough, under funded inner city high school and my nerves were on the verge of giving up. One morning in the staff room I sent off my application to Ladywood Academy for Girls, a school I was totally unsuited for. It was just to pass the time, an escapist fantasy to relieve the anticipation of the coming stress. No one was more surprised than me when I received a letter inviting me to an interview.
Set in an exclusive suburb of Manchester, Ladywood was a motley collection of large Victorian houses connected by smaller modern extensions, strangely shaped schoolyards and a gymnasium. Its academic success was high and they felt it was time to expand their art department with a young dynamic teacher at the helm. I suddenly realised Mrs Parks, the headmistress, was talking about me. My Paul Smith suite and new silk tie must have impressed her, as I do not remember saying anything intelligent. That evening I drove back to Birmingham with a smile on my face.
Fiona was waiting for me at the flat with a bottle of Irish whiskey. She was my head of department at school, but we'd been seeing each other for over a year and she had a key.
"I believe you will be leaving us to go up North," she said wistfully, waving the bottle at a glass on my behalf. " I knew my days were numbered."
"We can stay in touch." I suggested. "Or move in together half way between both schools?"
"You wouldn't have suggested we move in together if it wasn't an emergency would you? Be honest!"
I shrugged and sat down. She wandered over and took a swig of the whiskey. Then she straddled my lap and kissed me. The whiskey on her warm breath was delightful, as was the feeling of her small pert breasts rubbing against my shoulders.
"We should make the best of the time we have left," she said, putting my hands on her bottom.
I pulled up her skirt expecting her panties, but all that greeted me was the bare flesh of her buttocks.
"I thought I'd be prepared," she giggled.
I squeezed the soft flesh of her bottom, allowing a finger or two to explore her delicate cleft, probing the bud of her anus and detecting the edge of her moistness.
After a minute or two our lips parted and she stood up, unzipping my trousers and hauling out my already hardened tool. Just as deliberately, she eased herself down again, carefully swallowing me up inside her.
"Where am I going to find one as good as this?" she complained breathlessly in my ear.
September came and I found myself in a large, overpriced flat a few streets away from my new school. I couldn't afford to live there alone, but I couldn't find any suitable flatmates either. I thought I would stay there until Christmas then find somewhere smaller when I knew the area better. It later turned out I wouldn't need to.
My first few weeks were tough ones. There was lesson planning, pushing paper, learning new names, and toughest of all getting someone on the staff to smile or even talk to me unprompted. They really were a bitchy lot and I was beginning to despair that I had made a mistake. Perhaps I thought I'd swapped the happy camaraderie of a difficult school for an easy life of social misery. But I wasn't to be deterred that easily, and I made up my mind to force the most attractive woman I could find in to a conversation. It wasn't difficult finding one either. It was Fenella Greenhough I chose as my first real attempt. I'd tried several half hearted attempt s the first week but abandoned it in the face of such magnificent frostiness. Fenella was the French mistress and the pupils called her Madame Greenhough, even though I knew she wasn't married from a sneaky look I took at the records in the office. She was a magnificent site. Tall and slim with olive skin, she moved very gracefully along the corridors, her sharp cut black bobbed hair gently swaying about her face. She was, as you would expect, very chic, and her heels were impossibly high, her toes unreasonably pointed and her patent leather Louis Vuitton handbag shone like a mirror. All this aside I just felt she had a way about her, a certain sexual malice. She was a woman who would literally love you (or fuck you) to death. I was convinced of that.
"Excuse me Madam Greenhough, " I said one day in the empty corridor of the art block. "Can I ask you a question?"
"If you must, but I'm busy?"
