Click. A good girl in the classroom. The right answers, every time, to the questions that I posed to the group. Quick; sharp. Watching, observing, weighing up this new schoolmaster, playing the game to her rules.
Oh those eyes…
Click. Misbehaving now. Pushing the boundaries. Testing, wittily. Up against the line. Calculating. Crossing.
Something special…
Click. Weeks, months later. Watching each other from neighbouring seats. She moves over, is draped across my lap. For ever, almost; for blissfully long, at least.
She reddens, squirms, so beautifully…
Click. Emails fly through the ether. Testing? Explaining? Oh so few words; oh so many hints. Surely my mind was racing too fast?
Dreams…
So very hot…
So very cool…
Click. Time passes. The group gathers; I watch one person. We manoeuvre next to one another on the sofa. She slides down, curling under my outstretched arm. She fits. Perfectly. We’re watched: with approval, trust.
You two should go upstairs…
Click. We scarcely make it. No exhibitionist, me, but I want her there. In the hallway. Against the wall.
Can this be real?
Click. She’s beautiful. Responsive. Touch, taste; tied. The straight cane, I think. Just three strokes. Just enough for a girl to know her place. To know what’s coming next.
“I cup your face in my hands”
Click. I watch her, responding. Look up at her… Kissing. Smiles, laughter. Kissing. Confidences shared. Kissing. Histories explored. Kissing. Have we really just…?
Kissing…
Click. Tantalising.
Kissing…
Click. I picture her at work, looking serious and hard-working; trying so hard to concentrate with texts buzzing, you-got-mail-of-a-type-that-would-astonish-those-at-the-neighbouring-desks.
A naked woman on her knees, demurely offering up a crop?
Click. Champagne in hand, I reach out, and knock at her door…
