Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
She clapped her hands together. “End of term pantomime showing, this Friday afternoon. Can you make it?” She looked from me to Helen. “And you, of course, Helen.”
It took me all of one second to blurt out the beginnings of an excuse. “I’m likely busy. End of term approaching, and…”
“Mr Roberts, please don’t try and tell me you won’t be coming to our pantomime!”
I smiled, defeated, in the hope that agreeing to her demands would send her packing as quickly as possible. “I’m sure I can make time. How about you, Helen?”
She smiled like a natural, and I wondered what kind of deviant little vixen heart must be hidden under such an innocent shell. “I’d love to. Thank you, Miss Monkton.”
“Excellent!” Jenny declared. “I’ll set you up by the lighting desk, it’s a good view from there, not too crowded.”
“Look forward to it.”
“I’ll leave you to your…” she peered over the desk at the book and I nearly had a coronary in my fucking seat. “Guernica. What a weird picture.” She pulled a face. “Can’t say I see the attraction.”
And she wouldn’t. She’d never see the attraction. For all the will in the world a woman like Jenny would never see the beauty in the things I see beauty in, or dwell in the same murky pools of the artistic subconscious.
She was flamboyant, and dramatic, and extroverted.
And far too close to my naked cock for comfort.
“I’ll seek you out before Friday, to finalise the details,” I said, and that seemed to appease her. She darted away with nothing more than a ‘wonderful’ and a grin, before I could change my mind, presumably.
I waited until she was definitely gone, then adjusted myself into some semblance of professionalism.
Helen was staring at the door. “She likes you.”
“She’s a nice woman. Well-meaning.”
“She likes you, though, doesn’t she?”
I nodded. “I think so.”
“She didn’t see us.”
My heart was still beating in my temples. “That was more good luck than good judgement, Helen.”
“She didn’t though, did she? We were ok.” Her eyes were still filled with mischief and sex. “You could still touch me…”
I took one long, slow, cleansing breath. “Open your blazer.”
She smiled. “You mean it?”
“I mean it,” I said. “Just open your blazer. Keep your back to the windows.”
She did as she was told, and her pert little nipples greeted me so beautifully from under her blouse that my mouth watered.
“I’m going to touch you, Helen, just once, and then you’re going to lunch without another word. Understood?”
She nodded, and her eyes were like saucers.
I held my breath and begged for salvation, and then I touched her. I touched Helen Palmer’s sweet little tits through her blouse, with a hard-on straining in my pants, and kids playing football obliviously beyond the window. I squeezed her tits until she gasped for breath, and I felt the tight little peaks of her, and she was beautiful, and divine, and worth risking everything for.
And then I packed her off to lunch with her breath still ragged.
Helen
I was soaked through by the time Mr Roberts swung his car onto our usual patch. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care it was dark, either, or that winter was making my picnic bench perch quite unbearable.
But Mr Roberts did. Mr Roberts cared a lot.
I slipped into the passenger seat and his face was stern.
“Christ, Helen, you’re soaking.” He turned the heater up full and took hold of my chin and wiped my face with the cuff of his jacket, and all I could do was smile.
“I thought it would be a surprise…”
“I could do without surprises like finding you with hypothermia on a picnic bench. This needs better planning.”
One impulsive text message and he’d come for me, and I liked that.
“I didn’t think it would be so wet.”
He scowled. “It’s December, Helen. It’s always wet.”
“I just… wanted to see you.”
“You saw me in class, and at lunchtime. You saw more of me than intended at lunchtime, Miss Palmer.”
“I know, but… this is different. You weren’t there, after school.”
“Staff end of term meeting. I got here as soon as I could.”
“Sorry. I thought this would be exciting.”
His expression lightened, even in the gloom of the car. “I didn’t say it wasn’t exciting, I just don’t want you catching your death.”
“Thanks, sir.”
“And where does your master plan lead now, Helen?”
I shrugged, and giggled, because I didn’t know. “Mum’s expecting me home for six. Unless I cancel…”
“Tempting. What assignments do you have due in before Friday?”
I paused too long. “Nothing much…”
“Helen, you have at least three of mine. What else?”
“A commentary on Blake for English, and my term journal.”
“Then you’re going to be home for six, and you’re going to eat your dinner and do your homework like the good little student you were before I stole your innocence.” He smiled. At least he smiled. “I have enough professional guilt on my shoulders already, Helen. Please study.”