Chapter 6

“Wake up sleepy”, Miss Driscoll said with a smile, standing next to the bed as she switched her phone alarm off with one hand and stroked the hair of her half asleep lover with the other.

She bent down and kissed him briefly with a warm, affectionate smile, breathing deeply through her nose as she looked into his opening eyes before returning to the small dressing table that faced her bedroom window directly.

“You’d better get home quickly to change or you’ll be late for school.”

She put the final touches to her mascara and checked her long brown hair that waved only very gently to her naked shoulders and over the top of the towel that wrapped her body tightly. The died blonde highlights at the tip of each strand, she noticed, needed a touch up and she made a mental note to book an appointment at her favourite salon for the coming weekend.

The boy rose from the large bed, the Egyptian cotton sheet and fluffy, bright white duvet was almost blinding as the morning sun streamed through the window, reflecting off the covers and bouncing off the walls. He stood, running his fingers through his jet black hair before stretching, his long muscular arms almost touching the ceiling.

Miss Driscoll looked in the small mirror atop her dressing table; even now his cock looked far bigger than could reasonably be expected of a 15 year old boy and even from this distance the thick vein that ran down its shaft was clear to see. She smiled to herself with appreciation.

She didn’t often invite boys back to her small flat (and when she did it was never just one). But he was worth making an exception for.

He kissed her neck from behind, taking a moment to enjoy the natural scent of her freshly showered body, and thanked her before dressing and leaving hurriedly. School started in half an hour and he was already in trouble for his regular tardiness.

Miss Driscoll took a slightly more relaxed approach to timing - her role at St Augustine’s was a little more varied than that of a regular teacher - she glanced at her thin silver wrist watch before reaching for a cigarette. She opened the window and felt the warm late summer sun on her naked shoulders, kissing the soft features of her classically beautiful oval face. She pulled on the cigarette, drawing a thick plume of smoke into her lungs and exhaled just as deeply. She looked down on to the alleyway below.

Her flat was just behind the market square of the small, semi rural town. It was the sort of place that the tourism board would describe as a ‘quintessential, English market town’. She could see suited men scuttling off to work, Range Rovers and Nissans sweeping around the central square taking their owners to important business meetings. Shop owners - the market square was dominated by small tea shops and the kind of quaint trinket shops that looked pretty but didn’t sell anything that anything would want to buy - arrived wearily, unlocking their doors and disappearing from view.

The alleyway connected the market square to the Black Swan, an ancient coaching inn that once served highwaymen and well-to-do travellers alike, but now was the pub known most famously being the only one in town that would sell alcohol to the local school’s pupils. She knew the pub well, she knew the alley way outside it even better.

She finished her cigarette and stood, humming to herself as she opened the door to the long cupboard that spanned the far width of bedroom. She flicked through the collection of dresses, skirts and shops that were hung on wooden coat hangers in perfect alignment.

‘I need some new clothes’, she thought, spying an opportunity for a shopping spree.

Miss Driscoll loved fashion, and had often been encouraged as a child to take a modelling career (a number of local photographers had offered her father their services for free). Normally she would wear well-fitted dresses that caught the eye of her admirers but didn’t show too much off, and she had a particular love for 1950s style skirts that, whilst often long and colourful, were quickly removable should the need arise.

But her clothes often spent at least part of the school day on the floor or thrown into some distant corner in a moment of enthusiastic passion. And since her encounter with Molly two weeks earlier, where she and the 14 year old pupil had entertained a large number of boys (not to mention several teacher’s) in the school playground, her attitude had become relaxed further still.

Her femininity, and the dignified grace of her posture that suggested a well-to-do background, she knew were her most attractive qualities. Whilst her figure hugging dresses, and flowing summer skirts often helped accentuate them, so did pretty lingerie and risqué uniforms.

It took her a full twenty minutes to decide what to wear, and her wrist watch appeared to be ticking at double time as she realised she really did need to get to work.

“For the third time Molly, get a move on” cried the girl’s dad with increasing exasperation.

His wife had already departed for work and, as he straightened his tie in the bathroom mirror, he glanced at his wristwatch which read 8.30am. Barely a month into his new job he had already realised that it wasn’t exactly what he expected and, after forcing his family to move 100 miles from their old life in order to set up an entirely new one, he had quietly feared the whole move had been a mistake. Nevertheless, he couldn’t make a habit of being late.

But he had seen how much Molly was thriving at St Augustine’s, and how much happier she had been in recent weeks. The insecurity of adolescence that so badly afflicted most girls her age had never quite materialised, and he had observed with pride how significantly her confidence had grown.