Ah well, back to reality. The Friday was a busy day with lots of unexpected problems to deal with – easily the best way to take my mind off the evening ahead. But as the end of the school day approached, I knew I would not be able to stay on and deal with the emails I really ought to look at before I went home: I was too excited to concentrate. A sort of dull ache descended and enveloped my whole body: I was sick with excitement and anticipation.
I had it all planned; I took every stage calmly and methodically. I drove home, parked the car, went up to the flat, made myself a cup of tea and forced myself to have something to eat: just some cereal and toast. I didn’t know if I’d get anything to eat at Belinda’s, though I didn’t doubt there’d be something to drink, and I wanted to be able to stay in control; I didn’t want to be left weak and vulnerable just for want of a snack.
Then I had a shower. I washed off all the work and worry of the day and stepped out clean, fresh and ready to face Belinda. After that was the moment of truth: what I was going to wear.
I had decided to prepare two lots of clothing: what I would wear to go to Belinda’s (and, let’s face it, might very well wear for the whole evening), and a change of clothing should things go the way I hoped – oh yes, I hoped – they would. It occurred to me that some women would normally deal with this by popping a couple of condoms in their handbag; I would need something a bit bigger. Still wearing my towel, I got out a small holdall. Then I got down my old school blazer, skirt and tie from the wardrobe. I ran over everything one more time in my mind: the underwear I would be wearing, and probably the shoes too. Or should I wear boots? Shoes. No, boots. Yes, definitely boots. Why shouldn’t I feel sexy too? And the white shirt, of course. The one I had worn in the shower the night before was in the washing basket; I had a very nice clean one to put on now.
I packed the schoolgirl uniform things into the holdall and started to get dressed. Black bra and panties, black hold-up stockings. I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror: very nice, though I say it myself. Am I putting on a bit round the waist? Maybe? Does it show? No, I look fine. I’m a woman of thirty: I look fucking gorgeous, sweetheart. Right.
Next: hair. Brushed, combed – looking good. Make-up: mm, yes – face, eyes, lips. Look at that, Belinda – you’re not the only one who can look sophisticated.
Next I put on the shirt and a pair of tight jeans. Checked again in the mirror: I was definitely looking good. Then the boots: I’d decided on boots for this evening rather than shoes. They gave me more confidence. And they looked gorgeous. This was all going well.
Next a black jacket – the old jacket and jeans combo never fails. Yes – it looked good. And then the final touch. I opened a drawer and took out a silk scarf. Black – the best colour. I tied it fairly loosely round my neck. Then I looked at the effect in the mirror. Hey, sister, if I was meeting that girl, I would kneel down and eat her pussy. I looked that good.
I chose my best coat, picked up the holdall and my handbag and headed for the door. And stopped. And looked back. Paused. Yes? No? And decided: Yes. I went to my drawers, took it out and put it in the bag with the uniform.
Then I went down to the Tube.
* * *
The week that followed was hell. I couldn’t compartmentalise the way Belinda could: she sailed through the week as if nothing whatever had happened. She was her usual self – friendly, cheerful, a bit lacking in confidence, even. Fran went back to being Fran, our friendly, easy-going English teacher. Only the white blouses and the scarves – and one wonderful day a tie – gave anything away, and even then, only to Belinda and me. I sometimes caught her exchanging looks with Belinda and felt left out – were they seeing each other during the week? Were Belinda’s demarcation lines not quite as firm as she said? I was tortured by doubt. Looking back, I have no doubt – of course they were seeing each other. But at the time, I couldn’t know because I didn’t want to know. I wasn’t even sure which of them I was jealous of – I just didn’t want to be excluded: I wanted to be there with them.
And so we reached Friday, our very last day of school ever, a day of shrieks and hugs and swearing never to lose touch, ever and all the rest that goes with a school full of over-emotional teenage girls. And the Leavers’ Party in the evening. Dear God I want to forget that. In case you’re wondering – no, it definitely did not turn into some sexual free-for-all. For one thing, no boys were allowed, so everyone was planning to move on to a club afterwards. It was held in the school hall, with warm wine and plain crisps left out on metal-legged school canteen tables with white paper table cloths draped over them cross-ways, so you could still see the boring institutional yellow table top underneath. Everyone was dressed up in party dresses and standing round talking very fast and bursting out in hysterical laughter at almost anything anyone said. Our teachers were mingling with Ankara escort us all, including Fran, but I knew she was on duty that night, and therefore off-limits. She smiled at me whenever I caught her eye, but she didn’t come over to chat: maybe she thought it would be too artificial, and maybe it would have been, but I wish she had tried. To make it worse, Belinda seemed to be off-limits too. At least, she was to me. She was the centre of attention, and everyone was throwing their arms around her, and she didn’t seem to have a moment for me. I didn’t want to believe she was avoiding me, but that’s how it looked. I hoped she would notice me, notice how I was looking and feeling, I hoped she would stop and realise she’d been neglecting me, I hoped – and suddenly she was right by me. She was on her way to the loo. “Hi,” she said, “you OK?” And she went past me.
I felt wretched. What had I done? Why were they being like this? Why were they ignoring me? Why couldn’t they see what they were doing? I turned and ran out into the car park. I wanted to cry, but even tears wouldn’t come. I just felt wretched and confused – I just didn’t understand.
“Hello Louise. Is Belinda in there?”
It was Belinda’s mum.
“She’s in there,” I said, making my voice sound as bright and normal as I could, and not succeeding. “I think she’s just in the loo.”
“That’s no good. She’ll be in there for ages, gossiping. She forgot her handbag when she went out and she’ll need it for later. Are you going clubbing with them?”
She seemed surprised.
“Oh.” She looked at me more closely. “Louise, are you all right?”
And that’s when the tears flowed.
She took me home. Her home, I mean, not mine. She took me to her car, went in to give Belinda her handbag, then drove me back to the flat. She said if I wasn’t going clubbing with the others, then I should still have a drink to celebrate the end of school. The situation was new and interesting, and I started to perk up a bit. Maybe I liked the idea of winning one over on Belinda by going to her flat with her mother. Maybe I had an idea of what was going to happen. Maybe – but more likely not.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Mrs Stokes said as we came in. It didn’t seem particularly messy to me, but there were a few cups and plates around, as if they’d had dinner in front of the telly and hadn’t cleared up. “I’ll just clear these things and then we can have a drink.”
She picked up the cups and plates and headed into the kitchen. I sat down on an armchair and realised I’d sat on something. I felt behind and pulled it out – it was the strap-on dildo. I stared at it in horror and was still holding it when Mrs Stokes came through.
“Oh, that thing,” she said. “I’m always telling Belinda not to leave it lying around. And I bet she hasn’t cleaned it. It’s so unhygienic.” And she came over, took it from me, and took it into the kitchen. Fascinated, I followed. She was wiping it with a wet-wipe tissue.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” she said, still wiping it and without looking up at me: “Belinda and I have no secrets from each other. Or that, at any rate,” she said, putting the dildo down and looking up at me, “is what she thinks.”
This was amazing. Did this mean Mrs Stokes knew? I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask directly, so I said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, “that I know about Fran, I know about Trixie, and I know about you.”
“It’s all right, Louise, I’m very happy for you.”
“Wh – what do you know?”
“Stay there,” she said. “Give me a minute.” And she went out of the kitchen. There was a brief pause, and then I heard her call from the sitting room, “Now go over near the door.”
I walked back across the kitchen and, just before the door, I fell back with surprise. Mrs Stokes was standing in front of me, topless. What? How? Where? She wasn’t in the room, yet –
“Now come in here. It’s all right: don’t be shy.”
I felt I was in a dream. What was going on here? I went through to the living room. There was Mrs Stokes, in her jeans and boots and her gorgeous big breasts – my eyes went wide when I saw those – standing in front of that mirror I’d noticed, her hands on her hips. I gulped: the sight was so unexpected, and so fucking sexy. But why? What was she doing? And then at last, feeling very slow and foolish, I understood. Of course. It was a two-way mirror.
“You see? I was in the kitchen, watching it all.”
I blushed with shame.
“You saw it?”
“Hey, don’t worry. I loved every minute of it. There’s nothing to worry about. In fact, it looked wonderful. When Belinda was fucking you -” it felt so strange to hear her say the word – “I felt a massive urge to come out here and join in.”
“Belinda knew you were watching?”
“Of course she knew. Who do you think tied her corset up at the back?”
I was thrown. I didn’t know what to think. The idea of having been watched….
“Belinda likes to be watched. Some people do, you know. And I like watching. It’s very sexy – much better than porn. And, of Ankara escort bayan course, watching from the kitchen means I can make myself a nice cup of tea.”
“What about Fran? Er – Trixie?”
“We kept it from her at first. Then Belinda decided to tell her.”
“And? How did she take it?”
Mrs Stokes gave me a rather saucy smile. “She loved it,” she said.
So everyone had been in on it except me. They’d all known I was being watched – Oh my God, was I being filmed? My alarm must have registered in my face.
“It’s all right, Louise. Some people like to watch and some people like being watched, that’s all.”
“You’re not going to do anything with it, are you? You’re not going to tell anyone? Show anyone?”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I saw my daughter having the most amazing lesbian sex with her teacher and her best friend, and I got off on it. In fact, I loved every minute of it. And the way you took that spanking… Did you enjoy it?”
I managed a smile. “Yes. Yes, I loved it.”
“Would you like me to spank you?”
“Would you? Please? I love it. I need it.”
“Oh I’ll do more than that for you, Louise. If you’ll let me. Those lazy girls haven’t tied you up yet, and I’ve got such a lovely ball-gag that would look just right in that gorgeous mouth of yours. Come here, you.”
She came over to me, her gorgeous breasts pressing against mine, and she gently wiped a strand of hair back from my face. And suddenly, without a word, I fell on her tits and sucked them. I took her right breast and filled my mouth with it. I sucked it, licked it, ran it across my face, flicked her nipple with my tongue, kissed it – worshipped it. I put my face between her breasts, I hugged her to press them onto me, I wanted to dive into them, lose myself in them, sink into them.
“Ssh, ssh,” she soothed. “Take it slowly. They’re all yours.”
I looked up at her.
“Yes, dear,” she said, “Really.”
“No, dear. My name is Marion.”
“Marion? Could I ask something?”
“Marion, would you fuck me? With the strap-on?”
“I thought you’d never ask. I’ll just go and put it on. And I’ll get the gag and some handcuffs as well. I don’t suppose you’ve tried bondage? I thought not. You’ll love it. And while we’re at it, let’s turn these lights down a bit, shall we?”
I thought she would go into the kitchen, but she disappeared towards her bedroom. A few moments later, she came through. She was in black stockings and knickers and she wore a large strap-on – much larger than Belinda’s, I noticed – which stuck out in front of her. But what I feasted my eyes on was the large white man’s shirt she wore unbuttoned on top.
“I put it on for you. I know how much you like them,” she said, softly.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s too beautiful.”
I fell to my knees, trembling. It was all too much for me.
“Here, Louise,” said Marion, folding me to her gorgeous breasts. Instinctively I started sucking them. I wanted to be hers, only hers.
“Marion,” I said, “I want to worship you. I want to kiss your gorgeous tits for ever.”
“You like my tits, don’t you?”
“They’re beautiful. I never want to let go of them.”
“You don’t have to. I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to own you, Louise. You’re going to be my little schoolgirl. My schoolgirl lover. My schoolgirl whore. Would you like that?”
“Oh yes, mummy! Thank you, mummy.” And I kissed her breasts, all over them, adoring them, worshipping them.
“That’s good. That’s very good. Now suck my cock, like a good little whore.”
“I’ll be a good whore for you, mummy. I’ll be a fucking schoolgirl whore for you, mummy.”
She stood up and I knelt in front of her, kissing her cock, gently, almost reverently at first, then gradually licking it, all the way along, like an ice lolly, until I felt ready, and opened my mouth and sucked it in. She held my head and moved her hips into me, and I gave in to her – I closed my eyes and let my mouth be fucked by this gorgeous woman. She could fuck my mouth or any part of me for as long as she liked. I was hers – I knew it now. I was hers and I never wanted to be anyone else’s.
“That’s it, you little cocksucker. You little bitch. Suck my gorgeous cock, you fucking lovely little whore.”
Next thing I knew I was back on all fours and Marion was sliding that amazing dildo into my cunt. I closed my eyes as I felt it slide deep into me, Marion’s hands firmly on my hips, guiding it in. I started to rock slowly, easing it further into me, fucking myself with it. We got faster, I was shouting out, telling her I was cumming, I was her girl, I was her schoolgirl, I was her slut, and I was cumming –
And that was when Belinda came home.
It’s just possible you won’t find any guidance in etiquette and self-help books on what to do when your best friend comes home to find you being fucked doggy-style on the living room carpet by her mother. To fill in this scandalous gap in the literature, let me say that gasping out your best friend’s name, which Escort Ankara is what I did, is natural but not particularly helpful. And should your mind start running through possible explanations you could give, which is what mine did, forget it. There’s only one explanation – the real one.
However, it helps enormously if, instead of storming from the room in disgust, your best friend reacts as Belinda did, not with shock but with genuine surprise, as if this was an interesting and unexpected development she hadn’t thought of but wasn’t necessarily opposed to. I remember thinking that she reminded me of the way Miss Pringle, our maths teacher, reacted when someone came up with an unexpected but still valid solution to a problem. Oh. I see. Yes. Yes, that could work.
But the most unexpected reaction came from Marion. Without losing pace, without even pausing, just as if she were rolling pastry or scrubbing a stubborn bit of dried food from a saucepan, she just said, “There you are. If I’d known you were going to be back so soon, I wouldn’t have worried about your handbag.”
We did stop then, though. Marion withdrew her dildo from my cunt and then held it up to my mouth and I licked it, tentatively at first, aware of the situation, but then more deliberately, licking all the way along it, loving the taste of my cunt juices. And loving that Belinda was watching me do it. Maybe there was something in this voyeur thing after all.
“Right,” said Marion, standing up: “Things to do.”
Belinda was still looking completely surprised, as we all sat up in the armchairs and sofa. I had no idea what to say – this was between them. I was expecting tension, but there wasn’t any. Just a sort of recognised need to say something about what was going on.
“I’ll just give this a clean and then I’ll make us all some coffee,” Marion announced. Still in her white shirt and underwear she took off the strap-on, cleaned it with a wet-wipe tissue – she was clearly very hot on sexual hygiene – and put it on the coffee table. Then she went into the kitchen to make us all coffee. The sight of her carrying it in still in her shirt and stockings, deliberately bending down so that her amazing bum was level with my face, just added to the turmoil inside me.
“Mother!” said Belinda, crossly.
“Louise doesn’t mind, do you, dear?”
I didn’t say anything. I just leaned forward and licked her bum. She closed her eyes, put her hand round to my head and pressed my face into her bum crack. I nuzzled my face between her bum cheeks and kissed her cunt through her black knickers.
“Oh, good grief.”
That was Belinda. Fair enough. So we stopped and sat up on the chairs for coffee.
Apparently the clubbing scene hadn’t gone well: Belinda had gone with Fran, but Fran was nervous about being too obvious in front of so many of her (now) ex-pupils, and then two boys had started chatting them both up and wouldn’t go away, and in the end she and Fran had decided to call it a night and had gone home. To their own homes. I felt relieved: it didn’t sound as if I had missed much.
“So how did this start?” asked Belinda, looking at me. “You can’t have been here five minutes.” But Marion answered for me:
“It started ages ago.”
I looked at her in surprise.
“Yes, dear. On my side at least. I knew months ago that I fancied you. And, even while you three were playing around in here, deep down Louise fancied me. You know that now, don’t you, Louise?”
Did I? I had noticed Marion, it’s true. I knew she was good looking and that she dressed young and attractively. But if I’m honest, I hadn’t taken it any further. I just didn’t realise I could.
“Well,” as long as you’re not going to start behaving like my mother, this does resolve one issue,” said Belinda, with decision. “Threesomes may be fun in the bedroom, but they never work in reality.”
That was true.
“Well, Louise,” Marion asked, “how do you feel about it?”
I gathered my thoughts, and then knew what to say. I put my mug down on the coffee table, stood up, went over to Marion and knelt at her feet. I could feel the atmosphere change: they put their cups down too and Belinda leant forward, listening. I kept my eyes downwards to start with, then looked up and met Marion’s gaze. She was looking straight into my eyes, with a look of such love and affection I nearly hugged her.
“I want to be your slave, Marion. I want to be your slut, your whore, your bitch. I want to be dirty for you. I want you to fuck me in every hole: my cunt, my arse, my mouth: they are all yours, to do with as you please. I want to be your three-holed fuck doll. I want to dress in my school uniform for you and be your schoolgirl whore. I want to lick your boots and suck your dildo. I want to take it in my mouth, and in my cunt and in my arse. I want to lose myself in your cunt and wash my face in your juices. I want to worship your glorious, your magnificent tits. But, most of all, I want to serve you. I want to be your sex slave, your plaything, your toy, your little girl slave. I want to submit to your desires, your needs, your discipline and your lust. I want you to punish me, to spank me, to fuck me, to tie me up, to do whatever you want with me and whatever you think I need. I have complete trust in you and I submit myself to you. Absolutely.”