Sex and the Stranger

Elizabeth Coldwell

The blinds are drawn; jasmine-scented candles burn on the nightstand, casting a soft glow over the bed. Within easy reach, I have a glass of crisp, chilled Chablis, a bottle of raspberry-flavoured lube and my favourite anthology of bondage-themed short stories, dog-eared from repeated reading, should I need a little extra help in getting turned on – though I can’t see that being necessary tonight. Squeezed onto a more than usually packed commuter train on the way home, I found myself squashed up against a broad expanse of chest belonging to a red-haired student type, sweetly geeky behind black-framed glasses. The enforced body contact – and the rather large bulge in his khaki shorts, the one he was so desperate to pretend didn’t really exist – kept me on a rolling boil all the way home, and now I finally have the opportunity to do something about it.

Closing my eyes, I slip into fantasy land. I’m back on that crowded train, pressed tight against Geek Boy, and I snake a hand down into the tiny gap between our bodies, to loose his cock, long and thickly veined, from the fly of his shorts. The breath catches in his throat as I start to stroke him. Alarm that someone might notice what we’re doing gives way to rising desire, and he jerks his hips as much as the confined space allows, pushing his shaft deeper into the grip of my steadily wanking fingers.

I roll a finger over my clit and feel the tight little bead respond to my touch, sending quivers of sensation through my belly. It’s good, and I could play with myself like this for a while, lost in a delightfully rude daydream and making the slow ascent to my peak. But already I’m desperate for more, aware of an emptiness in my pussy that needs to be filled. My faithful vibrator lies on the bedcover, loaded with fresh batteries and ready to go. Grabbing it, I twist the base and set it humming into life, spreading my legs wide so I can slide those eight fat inches of purple plastic between my juicy lips.

Which is the exact moment the phone rings. If I ignore it, whoever’s calling will go away, I tell myself, trying not to lose the erotic mood I’ve worked so hard to create. But they’re persistent, and I’m forced to concede defeat. Tossing the buzzing vibrator aside, I pick up the phone and flip the cover open.

‘Hello?’

‘Marissa. How are you, darling?’

‘Mitchell. I’m fine. What can I do for you?’ Of all the people I wanted to interrupt me at a time like this, my ex-husband would be way down at the bottom of the list. Oh, as divorced couples go, our relationship is on the cordial side – we’ve always tried to adhere to the maxim that you should love your child more than you hate your ex – but even so, he’s caught me mid-wank, and I can’t help feeling resentful, particularly as he’s the one with a new wife and a baby on the way, and I’m the one lying alone on my bed, fantasising over some random guy I rubbed up against in the rush hour.

‘I hate to ask, but I need you to do me an enormous favour. It’s parents’ evening at Lily’s school tonight.’

Trying to turn the vibrator off discreetly, so he won’t hear the telltale noise in the background and realise what I’ve been up to, I do my best to keep the irritation out of my tone. ‘Yes, of course, I hadn’t forgotten. But why are you reminding me? You know the arrangement. You attend parents’ evenings; I go to the end-of-term play. You take part in the dad’s race at sports day; I provide cakes for the bake sale. Or do you want to change the terms of our agreement?’

‘Not at all,’ he assures me, ‘but we’ve had a major power outage in the office, and all the servers have gone down. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get away from here until we’ve fixed the problem. To be honest, it could take hours. So, just this once, could you go down to the school for me, please? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

I want to say no, and go back to my wine and my book of naughty bondage stories, but I have to be more mature than that. After all, how long can it take the teacher to tell me that, yet again, Lily’s up at the top of her class and absolutely no trouble at all? But I’ll have to get a move on. Already it’s gone seven, and the parents’ evening finishes at eight. ‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘I’m on my way. But you owe me a box of those champagne truffles I like. You know, the ones they sell at the chocolatier on the high street.’

‘Sure thing. Thanks, Marissa.’

With that, he’s gone. Taking a hefty gulp of my wine to fortify myself for what’s to come, I slip into my skirt, struggling to zip it up as I hunt round for the shoes I kicked off on the way into the bedroom. My panties are nowhere to be seen, and I’m running so late I don’t have time to fetch another pair from my underwear drawer. Looks like I’ll be turning up to parents’ evening bare beneath my respectable work suit, but what does that matter? After all, who else but me will ever know?

* * *

It’s a brisk twenty-minute walk to St Susan’s Junior and Infant School, a journey I used to make twice a day when we still all lived together as a family. When I arrive, cars are parked on the playground, but already the flow of traffic is away from the school, rather than towards it. Walking through the main door, I’m immediately hit by a smell that makes me nostalgic for my own schooldays, a mixture of chalk and floor polish, with a faint undertone of damp PE kit.

Lily’s form room is at the far end of the school, through the main hall, with its proud displays of pupils’ artwork, from the splodgy handprints of the reception class to the papier-mâché stegosaurus produced by the top year juniors. I pause for a moment outside the headteacher’s room, outside which stands a trophy cabinet containing all the prizes handed out on school sports day, and a small fish tank filled with darting cichlids and neon tetras. Checking my reflection in the glass door of the trophy cabinet, I run a hand through my windblown curls. Then I pass on, to Room 10, where Lily’s teacher waits.

At first, I think I’ve made a mistake. Sitting behind the desk is not Mrs Shenton, the grey-haired, mumsy woman who’s been teaching Lily for the past year. Instead, I’m greeted by the sight of a man who can’t be any older than twenty-five, with dark fashionably tufty hair, a stubbly growth of beard and biceps that bulge beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt. My pussy, deprived of a much-needed orgasm by Mitchell’s unexpected phone call, twitches back to life at the sight of him.

‘Excuse me, this is the Year Six classroom?’ I hover close to the door, ready to back out if I’m in the wrong place. ‘Only I was looking for Mrs Shenton?’

‘Yes, that’s right, but she’s off with glandular fever at the moment.’ He beckons me to step forwards and take a seat on the other side of his desk. ‘I’m Jake Greening, the supply teacher who’s looking after her class till she gets back. You did get the note explaining the arrangements, right?’

I shake my head, flustered by being in the presence of this unexpectedly hot man. Vaguely, I recall Lily mentioning something about another teacher, but all the official paperwork goes to Mitchell, and he’d neglected to fill me in on the details. Still, there’s a vague kind of symmetry to the situation: me, the stand-in parent, dealing with him, the stand-in teacher. ‘I’m sorry. That would have been sent to my ex-husband. And he’s the one who should have been here tonight, but there’s been an emergency.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to explain to me, Mrs–’ He runs a finger down his list of names and finds the one pupil whose parents haven’t made an appearance yet tonight. ‘Mrs Durham.’

‘Call me Marissa, please. Mrs Durham is married to my ex.’ I grin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m probably making this more complicated than it needs to be.’

‘No, that’s fine. I might not have been in the profession long, but I’ve learnt plenty about the mysteries of extended families. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Marissa.’

Jake holds out a hand for me to shake. When I do, his nose wrinkles and he looks at me oddly. He can’t detect wine on my breath, surely? I made sure to crunch a couple of peppermints on the way over; an old trick, but one that usually works. Then the truth dawns. In my hurry to leave, I neglected to wash my hands. The scent of my pussy must still be on my fingers.

Blushing, wondering what kind of slut he must think I am, I mutter, ‘So how is Lily doing this term?’

‘Oh, what can I say about Lily?’ It’s the same line Mitchell and I have heard from her teachers almost since the moment Lily toddled into nursery school. As he talks me through her progress in the various subjects, praising her for her consistently high marks and excellent attendance record, I can’t prevent myself from tuning out. My mind returns to my earlier fantasy of wanking off a guy while we’re pressed close together on a train, surrounded by a mass of oblivious commuters. Only now, the man whose cock is hot and pulsing gently in my grasp is no longer that sexy red-haired geek. It’s Jake.

My thighs rub together, sticky-wet, as I shift in my seat, consumed with thoughts of bringing this gorgeous supply teacher to the stage where he’s gasping against my shoulder, only a few sly strokes from shooting his come over my fist.

‘… when she moves up to senior school next year. So, do you have any questions?’

With a start, I realise Jake is looking at me, having finished his spiel and clearly expecting a response. Does he know I haven’t paid attention to a thing he’s said, too busy admiring the full pout of his mouth to actually follow the words it’s been shaping?