Teacher Slave Pt. 04 by Codlingsby
In erotica, the sex is central and everything else fits round it. In real life, it’s the reverse. My afternoon with Beth and Mistress Annette left me feeling drained, exhausted, but sure now of what I was — what I am — and confident about it, proud, even. I am a submissive lesbian slut, with a passion for student cunt and a strong Thing for being pissed on — and it felt good to have been open about it.
But in the meantime the real world was waiting. I was away for the weekend at a wedding and then term restarted on the Monday morning. On the face of it, everything was back to normal and my sex life seemed a world away. But in fact, I felt great. I felt confident and on top of things and I strode into college, to take charge of things and make everyone know I meant business. People commented. This was a new me, assertive, efficient and going places. I was pretty impressed myself.
Sue and Cathy were dying to know more about how things had gone since Amsterdam, so we arranged to meet for a drink and a meal one Friday evening. I felt I had my life in its proper proportion — and then I had the lesson with Lizzie’s class.
“Morning!” they all said, as they trooped in. But when Lizzie came in, I just stared. She had completely changed her image, as students often do. She had always been in jeans and shirts before, but now she had gone goth. At any rate, she was in tight black trousers, white shirt, black leather jacket and dark eye shadow. And a black leather choker.
“Wow, Lizzie! New image?” She just smiled and raised her eyebrows, enigmatically.
The lesson went well: to my amusement, it was on Shakespeare’s use of imagery. I wondered what Shakespeare would make of the imagery in this room. At the end, a few of them stopped to ask me things. I dealt with them all, and then there was Lizzie standing in front of me. I forced myself to stay calm.
“Lizzie?”
“Miss Brewer, we’re having a joint eighteenth party on Friday, Philip, Ali and me — ”
“Happy Birthday. When is it yours?”
“It was yesterday. We’re going clubbing and — well, I wondered if you’d like to come.”
Oh, I was tempted. I was so tempted. She looked so delicious I could barely refrain from reaching out to touch her — and as for going clubbing with her: I had never dared dream of it. And for her to invite me!
But I had to be sensible. Of course I did, and of course I was.
“That’s really sweet of you. But I’m afraid I’m taken that night. But thank you so much for asking me.”
“Not to worry, Miss. I told them you’d probably have a better offer.”
And she smiled and went. No lingering look over her shoulder, no special touch or frisson or anything. She just went. And that was that.
A “better offer”, eh? If only. But that Friday night proved eventful, even so.
*****
It was so stupid. I’m a Londoner born and bred and I still made the sort of mistake tourists make, for heaven’s sake. It was a warm evening, so Sue and Cathy and I chose to sit outside at the pizzeria. And I hung my bag over the back of my chair. I mean — how stupid! It was on a busy street, too, with noisy traffic but somehow when you’re with friends you don’t notice that. I told them as much as I dared about the afternoon with Lisa and Miriam, which seemed a lifetime ago. I didn’t tell them about Mistress Annette or Beth, though — call it instinct.
It’s true what they say: everything happened so fast, so instantly, that for a moment I was utterly bewildered, had no idea what was happening. Sue and Cathy were listening to my story, open-mouthed, pretend-shocked, when suddenly Sue leapt to her feet shouting angrily, and Cathy scrambled to her feet, and I heard other people shouting, and Cathy looked down at me and said, “He’s got your bag!” What?? I stood up and looked at my chair: my bag had gone and I could see a young man in black jacket and jeans clutching it and running down the road.
Cathy was up and running down the road after him — she was a PE teacher and knew how to sprint. I ran after her but she was way ahead. He came to a Pelican crossing and ran across the road; Cathy got there just as the lights changed and the traffic roared ahead, and she couldn’t follow him. I was so angry — with myself (leaving it on the back of my chair, outside a restaurant — how stupid can you be?) and with him, because the little shit was going to get away with it. And then, suddenly, everything changed. He was stuck on the island in the middle of the road, with traffic moving on either side of him; Cathy and I were caught on our side of the road. But on the other side of the road a group of young people were coming out of a pub, and I recognised them. They were my English class — gathering for their night out.
“Stop him! He’s got my bag!” I yelled.
They looked up, saw me, I pointed at the guy, and they understood. Three of the boys were pretty strong-looking and they went to where he would have to cross. He must have realised the situation; as soon as the lights changed he tried to run daigonally across the road but they were too quick for him; two of them caught him and grabbed him and all three wrestled him to the ground. Cathy and I got across the road and the boys gave me my bag back. And at that very moment a police car drew up. Well, this is London.
Then it was all breathless statements to the police, and How about a drink?, and Sue ran up to say she’d paid the restaurant and that we all deserved a drink, and Are you all right, Miss? and Please, call me Louise, and so we all went into the pub and took over one of its corners, and I found myself next to Lizzie.
She looked amazing: goth eye shadow, leather choker round her neck, fishnet stockings and a red tartan miniskirt. And chains. Lots of chains.
“Was that your better offer?” she asked, and I laughed. But I was shaken, nevertheless. Having something stolen always does that to you anyway, and when it’s your bag, it’s far worse. Especially when it has your dildo inside. I shivered.
We all talked excitedly about our adventure and laughed about how everyone had responded and teased each other … and suddenly I didn’t want to go out any more. I went quiet, and when Steve stood up and suggested we all head to the club and Did their teachers want to join them?, and Sue and Cathy both agreed, my heart sank. I just wanted some time to myself. But of course they were all turning to me.
“Come on, Louise, it’s just what you need.”
“Come on, Miss. You’ll enjoy it.”
“No. She doesn’t want to.”
That was Lizzie.
“I’ll stay here a bit longer,” I said. “I’ll see you down there.” Everyone British knows what that means: I’m not coming, and you know it.
“I’ll stay with you.” That was Lizzie too.
So the others headed off clubbing and Lizzie and I sat having a quiet drink and talking. She had a place to read Psychology at Sussex and would be starting in September, so we talked a bit about that and about what she would miss from school, and then she said, “Do you want to go on somewhere? Not where they’re going: somewhere quieter. Somewhere for us.”
Somewhere for us. I caught it; I was meant to. I smiled. “Yes,” I said, “I’d like that.”
“Come on, then.”
It was a tube journey into the West End. We went past a couple of pubs and even a club with neon lights and music thumping, and down a small alley off Oxford Street. There was a light above a door and Lizzie rang the bell. A women opened the door and we went in.
I had half expected what we found. It was dimly lit, with music playing quietly, tables and cubby holes arranged around a central dancefloor. There weren’t many people in, but it only took a glance to see they were all women. Thought so.
“I may have guessed wrong,” said Lizzie.
“No,” I said, “you guessed right.”
We sat, we had a couple of drinks, the place began to fill up and a band of very sexy women walked to the small stage in the corner, took up their instruments and began to play — oldies, for the most part: hits of the sixties and seventies. Some women got up to dance, until the floor was too full and too eye-catchingly sexy to ignore. Lizzie and I watched them, and I could see her eyes were as alight as mine. Then she reached over and touched my hand, just that split second longer than was necessary — and I noticed that too. “Come on”.
We danced. We threw ourselves around and enjoyed the moment, enjoyed the togetherness, enjoyed the fun of it. We weren’t teacher and student — though we were that too; we were Lizzie and Louise, friends, lesbians, lovers? enjoying a dance. We stopped for drinks and then danced some more. You know what dancing means. We were making love, we wanted each other, and we both knew it. We didn’t even need the inevitable slow number, though that came, and we held each other and pressed our tits together and said not a word. We didn’t need to.
We kissed. Tongues. It was only brief — I got nervous and broke it off quickly — but we’d done it. We both knew we would do it again.
We chose my place. It could have been hers; her parents were away until Sunday — but I felt more comfortable with my place, and it meant Lizzie could stay. We both knew that. On the tube, we held hands — cautiously at first, then in full view of everyone. But when we got close to my station we let them drop away. There would be time.
You know that thrill when you arrive at your place with the person you want? Yes. That.
I was on her the moment I shut the door. Her arms around me, my tongue in her mouth, pressing her up against the door. I was kissing her as if my life depended on it. Her cunt. I needed her cunt. My hand slid between her legs and I felt her body presing forward to take it. She was grinding her cunt against my hand.
“I want to fuck you”.
Her eyes lit up. She was daring me.
“Go on, then.”
I grabbed her by the hand and almost dragged her upstairs. I even briefly wondered if my bedroom was presentable, but there was no time for that. She pushed me on the bed and straddled me. I looked up at her. She was pulling her t-shirt over her head. I sat up and dived into her tits. Her big, gorgeous tits. I was moaning with pleasure as I sucked them, first one, then the other. She had her hand on my head, holding me firmly.