Teach Me Dirty

“Sit back down,” he said. “We should talk about this.”

I shook my head. “No need, it won’t happen again, I promise. It will never, ever happen again.”

“I’m not looking for apologies or assurance, Helen, I just want to talk.”

Talking was the last thing I wanted to do. I could have cried with relief when the door swung open and Lizzie’s little pigtails came into view over the paint stand.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. “Please?”

He shrugged in defeat. “School’s over, Helen, you’re free to leave.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and I was away, clattering into Lizzie by the whiteboard and grabbing her by the elbow. I frogmarched her out of there and didn’t dare look back.

I’d never be able to look back. Not ever.

In fact, I doubted I’d ever be able to look at him again.

***

Helen

“Whoa. Just… wow. Ok.” Lizzie’s face said it all, and mine burned all the brighter for it. She turned the sketchbook in her hands, admiring the embarrassing sketch from all angles. I wished the ground would swallow me up. “Do you really think he’s that well hung? You’ve probably flattered him, at least.”

“I don’t think flattered is the right word for it. How about mortified?”

Her eyes twinkled. “He isn’t going to be mortified by this, Hels. It’s quite something.”

“And he’s quite my teacher. He’s going to be utterly, totally, abysmally, horrifically mortified.” I pressed my palms to my cheeks and they were still hot. “How will I ever be able to look at him again?”

“It’ll take more than this to stop you looking at him,” she laughed. “Old habits die way harder than that.”

“I can’t believe you’re laughing. This is a total disaster.” She’d started flipping back through the pages before I had chance to reclaim my sketchpad, and slapped my hands away as I tried to protest.

“You may as well let me see the rest now! How much worse can they possibly be?”

Much worse.

Much, much worse.

My dirty obsession really knew no shame.

But I did. Shame and I were getting a solid introduction.

Her cute little eyebrows rose on her forehead and her mouth curved into a grin. “Dirty minx. I thought you were over all the kinky stuff?”

“Said who?”

She shrugged. “It’s been ages since we talked. You know, talked.”

“No it hasn’t,” I scoffed. “We talk.”

“Yeah, just not like we used to.” She flipped another page. “Wow.”

My stomach lurched. “He didn’t see that one. Praise Heaven for small mercies.”

“Shame.” Her smile was full of glee as she held up the page. One of my favourites. Me, bound to a bed, spread-eagled and at the mercy of the man at my feet. He was in shadow, ominous but beautiful, the outline of his tousled hair captured perfectly, even if I did say so myself. My lips were parted, eyes glazed and wanting. My back arched, my weight heavy on my shoulders as my body strained for him, powerless against the invisible call of his touch. “I think he’d have liked this one.”

“He’s not going to like any of them, Lizzie. He’ll think I’m a weirdo.” She flipped another, onto my very favourite, the one where Mr Roberts was angry, eyes burning, taking me hard over the art bench where I spent the majority of my school time. He had my hair in his fist, forcing my cheek flat to the wood, my splayed palms smearing paint over a half-finished canvas. A tumbler of water had been knocked clean over, rivers of paint-dirty water snaking away from us and dribbling into the foreground.

“I think you should drop your sketchpad more often,” she giggled. “I think you might get somewhere.”

“Yeah. Expelled.”

“Don’t be so… morbid.” She poked her tongue out. “I like them. I love them. Come on, he’s a man, right? He’d have to be turned on by these, Hels. Hell, I’m turned on by these.” Her expression turned, a sly smile creeping across her pretty face. “Draw me one.”

“Draw you one? Um, no. They’ve got me in more than enough trouble today already, thanks very much.” She shoved the sketchbook in my hands regardless, then flopped herself onto my bed and struck a pose. I giggle-snorted as she pulled the duck-face and pinched her nipples through her school blouse. “I’m not drawing that.”

“But I’m so pwetty.”

I groaned, but I was already reaching for my pencil case.

She fist-pumped the air. “She shoots, she scores! Make it hot please. Really hot!”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want? You fucking Emo-boy over his guitar amps? What’s his coming face like? No, don’t tell me… I won’t be able to forget it.”

“His coming face is just fine, actually.” She gave me the finger, then shook her head. “I don’t want you to draw me with Scottie, I want you to draw me with Mr Roberts.” Her eyes twinkled with deviance. “You can be in it, too, it you like.”