The School Mistress

The day Jane Laird had always dreaded may occur had finally arrived. In her eight years as headmistress, she had never before had to deal with a suggestion of a member of her staff sleeping with a pupil. The worst of it was, it was just a suggestion – well, a few overheard comments actually. Now Jane was about to, with the greatest reluctance, try to seek proof.

The trouble was that today's young teachers lacked discipline. When she had embarked on her career, more than 20 years earlier, there had been a clear dividing line between staff and pupils. Now she saw the new breed chatting and joking with the older kids, being altogether too familiar. 'Breaking down the barriers' her deputy called it – as if that was a good thing! Well, Rachael Webster certainly seemed to have dropped a few barriers with Mark Robertson.

The boy had only been at the school a few months, and Jane was only vaguely aware of him. A 6th former, he was apparently something of a polymath. Talented at sport, he was also a skilled artist whose clay models had featured in the recent school art show. That, it seemed, was where the trouble had started. Miss Webster, the young art teacher, had always seemed a little spaced out; but surely she would not be so reckless, so bloody stupid, as to put her career, indeed her liberty, at jeopardy in this way. There had, however, been no mistaking the sniggered comments about the couple that Jane had overheard two of her other young staff members making. She had also been slightly alarmed by the parting shot of one of the girls: "I don't blame Rachael, I would too if he asked me nicely!"

Ridiculous! How could such intelligent young women allow themselves to be attracted to a mere child of 18? Jane had decided to interview the boy first. After all, it was a serious matter to accuse a fellow teacher of such a grievous abuse of trust; the youth was likely to be easier for Jane to impose herself upon, to wheedle a confession out of him. There was a business-like tap on her door, and her secretary showed Mark Robertson into the head's office. Jane told her, "Thank you Janet, I don't want to be disturbed until further notice."

Jane had to admit to herself that Mark was a good looking lad, in a young Tom Cruise sort of way. Tall, perhaps just under six feet, with short, neat hair, almost black in colour, large intelligent eyes, a slim nose and a sensitive mouth above a firm chin. Wide-shouldered, slim but athletically built. Jane could see why some of the younger women might find him superficially attractive. There was a disarming self-confidence in the way he sauntered across her office towards the chair in front of her impressively large desk. Most pupils trembled making that short journey! Smiling in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, she waved him instead to a chair she had placed behind the desk, near her own. She wanted to put the kid at ease before dropping the bombshell on him. "Sit here please Mark."

Giving her a nervous smile the boy strolled to the chair, removing his school blazer and draping it over the back. Jane was mildly affronted by his presumption, but let it go: he had bigger troubles to face. Jane cleared her throat, but was surprised to hear her student speak first. "Good morning Mrs Laird, I'd like to thank you for this opportunity. I've been looking forward to it."

Jane was thrown off balance by the comment. "What do you mean, opportunity?"

"To meet you in person. You're a very impressive figure around school, but quite austere, and distant. I've always felt that beneath that forbidding image there's a very real warmth."

What rot, thought Jane. He certainly doesn't speak like an 18-year old. There was something magnetic about his voice though; almost hypnotic. It was the measured, confident cadence, the rich tone, the softly spoken manner which required Jane to incline forwards to catch every word, every nuance. Mark's final words cut through her reverie like a knife through flesh. "And of course, a considerable allure."

Jane was momentarily startled. She kept herself in reasonable shape, and was at an age when she considered herself to be what was termed handsome. But the notion that this teenage boy, nearly 30 years her junior, could find her in any way attractive was quite preposterous. Did he even know the meaning of the word allure? Jane realised with surprise that they were both perched on the edge of their chairs, their heads less than a foot apart. She clearly couldn't move back, she couldn't give the slightest impression she was in any way intimidated by this curiously self-assured juvenile. Ridiculous though the notion clearly was. "Don't be so silly young man. Now, the reason..."

Almost as if she had never spoken, Mark interrupted her, with a shy smile. "I can't believe you're divorced, the bloke must be crazy. Still, your boyfriend's a very lucky man."

Jane couldn't believe it. The little shit was actually flirting with her. As if she was one of the young trollops from the staff room! He had a certain boyish appeal, but by God did he know it. Jane had to recover the initiative, immediately. "For your information, sine you seem so fascinated by my private life, I am quite happily unattached. Anyway, how do you know I'm divorced?"

Damn, why on earth had she told him that? What possible relevance did it have to anything? She felt her cheeks warming as a blush spread across her face. Get a grip woman! As she tried to marshal her thoughts Mark answered her question. "I could say it's because you call yourself Missus and you don't wear a ring. But the truth is, Rachael told me; I mean Miss Webster. That is what this is about, isn't it Jane – me and Miss Webster? Do you mind if I call you Jane?"

Of course she bloody well minded! Right, that was it, no more Mrs Nice Guy, she...Jane's eyes fluttered shut and an involuntary shiver passed down her body as cool fingers stroked a spot just below her ear, a very sensitive place for Jane. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She knew she should just knock the boy's hand away and put him well and truly in his place. Why didn't she? What the fuck was wrong with her? His mesmeric voice cut through her addled brain. "Yes, I've spoken quite a lot about you to Rachael. I think she's starting to get a little jealous. You see Jane..."

The hand slipped around behind Jane's head, its fingers now gently massaging the back of her neck. "You see Jane, young girls like Rachael are sweet enough, in their own way; but I find I'm really attracted to more mature women. In my experience they're not only more skilled, they're much more voracious, more...giving."

More desperate he means, the last rational sliver of her mind screamed. And as for Rachael Webster, she was barely five years older than this boy. He was anything but a child though; Jane thought he was possibly the most sexually commanding man she had ever met. His head was now so close to hers that she could feel his warm, minty breath on her face. She had to regain control now, before...before what? Trembling from the effect of the stroking fingers, which scalded her neck like hot coals, she forced her eyes to open – and found herself staring straight into Mark's intense brown eyes. He had the most beautiful long eyelashes she had ever seen on a man. She barely noticed his other hand caressing her knee, the fingers slipping past the hem of her grey tweed skirt.

His voice had dropped to a seductive half-whisper. "You don't do justice to your own beauty Jane. You dress like an old maid; you're anything but old, you're a ripe, startlingly lovely woman in your prime. Did you know that women are at the peak of their sexual potency in their mid-forties? In men, it's our late teens."

Mark's lips pressed to Jane's and, incapable of resistance, she admitted his tongue to her mouth, to teasingly fence with her own. His large, strong hand pressed against the back of her head, while with a shock she felt the fingers of the other flutter across her naked belly, push past the waistband of her tights, dip into her knickers...In a last desperate bid for sanity, Jane ripped her mouth from his, heard herself gasp pleadingly, "Mark, please, don't make me do this. It's not just immoral, I could actually go to prison for it."

His warm, gentle mouth attached itself to her throat; that mobile hand moved again, now from her head to the collar of her silk blouse, past it and onto a cup of her bra. Between nibbling the tender flesh of her neck he murmured, "I swear I won't make you do anything that you don't truly want to do. Anyway, who'll know? I promise I won't say anything. And I'm rather annoyed at little Rachael: I place a high value on discretion in my lovers."

With the slight emphasis he placed on the final word Jane's stomach lurched. Oh God, this was really going to happen. She was actually going to allow a student to make love...to have sex with her. As a hand closed around the naked flesh of her breast, the palm rubbing across a straining nipple, Jane heard a strange animal wail, and registered somewhere in her mind that it had come from her own mouth. The final shreds of her resolve melted like the last snows of winter, and with a gasp of desperation she thrust her hips forward, impaling herself to the hilt on her young seducer's probing fingers.

She cried out in dismay as Mark's hands detached themselves from her body. As she opened her eyes she saw his naked muscular buttocks moving towards the door. He turned the key in the lock. "We don't want to take any chance of being interrupted, do we my love?"

When he turned Jane saw an attractive average-sized penis rising like a tent pole from a thick bush of black pubic hair. Still wearing his socks, his shirt tails hanging at his waist, Mark should have looked ridiculous. To Jane's desire-filled eyes he looked magnificent, like a young Greek god. Like a mannequin she allowed him to pull her blouse over her head, to unclip her bra, pausing to lovingly kiss each erect nipple. She moved to stop him when he reached for the zip of her skirt, but he gently pushed her hand away. "When I make love to you, my sweet Jane, I want to see every inch of you."

He pulled her unsteadily to her feet and, kneeling before her, peeled down her tights and pants. Her legs nearly buckled as he pressed his face into her groin and inhaled deeply. Taking a cushion from her chair he placed it on her desk and lay her across it, face down. He quickly removed his shirt and tie then stood behind her, his powerful hands kneading her buttocks much as he moulded clay in the art studio – Rachael Webster's studio.

Jane felt the burning tip of his cock nestling against the mouth of her vagina. God, it had been so very long since she had last felt that sensation. Keening like some wounded creature she pressed insistently back against him. He entered her, smoothly but infinitely slowly. Then he simply nestled in her warmth, for seconds which felt like hours. His next stroke was fast and powerful, forcing the breath from her body. He carried on like that, skilled far beyond his years, teasing her, taking her to the very edge of release and holding her there, hovering above the precipice until she begged for finality. At last, when neither of them could hold it off any longer, they shared a breathless, strength sapping climax, he groaning, she gasping obscene encouragements. When he finally slipped out of her he turned her onto her back on the desk, his softening prick rubbing against her mons as he leant over her to kiss her deeply and lovingly, the sparse hairs on his chest tickling her still inflamed nipples. His eyes shone into hers as he murmured "Oh Christ, you are so beautiful."

As Jane finished dressing, she tensed as she felt Mark press himself to her back, his hands momentarily reaching around her to cup her breasts. Nuzzling her ear, he pressed a slip of paper into her hand, whispering, "My mobile number. I can feel you have so much more to give, and I know I have. Call me – please."

When he left Jane glanced at the clock. Only 45 minutes had passed. That was all it had taken for her to transform from a proud headmistress to a slut who fucked schoolboys yards from where her secretary sat. She felt physically sick. In a spasm of self-revulsion at her debasement she screwed the piece of paper into a tight ball and hurled it viciously into her waste bin. As it struck home her intercom buzzed, startling her. "Miss Laird, Miss Webster's here for her appointment. Shall I send her in?"

Jane closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "It's okay Janet, tell her I have nothing to say to her."

After all, what could she say? Keep your hands off him, he's mine? She stared at nothing for an indefinite amount of time. Then, slowly, she bent and retrieved the ball of paper from the bin. Spreading it out on the desk, where she had lain naked such a brief time before, she stared at it, as if trying to interpret an unknown language. Then she carefully folded it and slipped it into her handbag. Of course, she wouldn't dial the number. Probably. Still, on the way home tonight she might buy herself a pretty summer frock, a short one. And perhaps some sexy underwear. After all, he had asked nicely!