Erotica Sex Story: Wherein Mrs Cranfield, mourning the departure of her erstwhile lover, Simon, finds consolation - but is left wondering who seduced whom.
{notice} ('Duplicity' is the third of a series of stories that began with 'Early Days' which in turn was followed by 'Moving On'. Copyright belongs to the author, S.A. Ninian. Neither this story nor any extract of it can be reproduced in anyway without the author's consent.)
Chapter One
It was the end of the second month and yet another Friday without him; Elinor Cranfield felt quite miserable. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the happiness she had experienced in the nine months of their torrid relationship. She had never conceived such happiness possible. And now it was over. Life would never be the same. Not without Simon.
She remembered how it had begun and how outraged she had been at the audacity, the sheer effrontery, of a 17-year-old student declaring his interest in her as a woman. She remembered the days of mental turmoil that followed, until that life-changing Friday when she had opened the door and admitted him, not as a student but as a lover.
Mrs Cranfield sipped her gin and rose from the couch to put another log on the fire. She felt cold. The thought amused her slightly as she remembered how he had teased her after that first session of passionate lovemaking in front of this very fire.
'Well, Mrs.Cranny Berg', he had asked as she lay spread-eagled before him, the swollen pink lips of her cunt glistening wet with her juices and his white semen oozing from it, 'how does it feel to be frigid?'
The nickname was one used by the girls at her school; the description was one she had told Simon her husband had frequently applied to her during the years of their hopeless, loveless marriage.
She smiled wanly through her tears as she thought of how inappropriate such an adjective had been to her at that moment and in the months since. Simon had melted all her ice that first time, here in front of this fire. And, in their subsequent lovemaking, her confidence in herself as a woman had grown.
She had always been clear about her intellectual prowess, her analytical mind, her ability to grasp the essential details of a problem and present a synthesis that was lucid and coherent. But she had never thought of herself as sexy. Never! Simon had changed that misperception. He himself, however, had been quite clear that he had not wrought any real metamorphosis.
'It was always there, Elinor', he had insisted, 'all I did was unlock the door behind which it was trapped. And', he had added, very solemnly, ' now the genie is out, there can be no going back. Cranny Berg is gone.'
'And now you have gone, Simon', she wailed inwardly. 'And what is to become of me now?'
She got up and switched on the television but soon tired of the mindless soap. All she could think of was how it had been on those Fridays - and Tuesdays and Wednesdays - when he had been with her. Fridays had been best though. Right from the first. On the other days they had concentrated so hard on work with only a brief time for lovemaking at the end but each Friday had been given over to love alone.
And there had been the times when they had spent whole nights together here in her flat, when his mother was away staying with friends or on holiday. Delicious nights of sex and fun. Kinky nights when they had pushed out the envelope of their individual fantasies and had discovered new depths and heights of pleasure.
In her mind's eye she saw him: so tall and beautiful. So young and full of delicious energy.
'Like a Greek god', she thought as she pictured the white athletic torso quite devoid of body hair except where it forested between his thighs and over his lower belly. And thrusting out of that bush of black hair, the great thick column of bone-hard flesh with its blue veins standing out like cords and the large bulbous head with its single slit eye.
Mrs. Cranfield felt a familiar heat spread through her groin and she pressed her legs together, as she became aroused at the thought of how that cock had so often found lodging in her thighs. She rose abruptly, went swiftly to her bedroom where she opened the needlework box on the top of her chest of drawers, and drew from it a large red-coloured vibrator. With a sense of urgency she removed her skirt and knickers and after turning the little milled wheel at the device's base she presented the buzzing penis-like instrument to her genitals.
'Oh, Simon! Simon!' she moaned, as with eyes closed and tears staining her cheeks, she pressed the dildo into her entrance.
Chapter Two
Just as disaster can fall upon one from a clear blue sky, so, occasionally, good things happen when least expected - and they come from the most unexpected quarter. Thus it was that a telephone call from her minister's wife brought an improvement in Elinor Cranfield's circumstances.
The call itself was wholly unexpected: Mrs. Cranfield's attendance at church had been infrequent since she and Simon had become lovers. Although she felt no unhappy sense of guilt, ordinarily, nevertheless, sitting in her pew on a Sunday after she and Simon had engaged in several hours of sexual abandonment on the previous Friday, she had found herself reliving what had taken place and had felt consequently uncomfortable.
'Hello, Mrs. Cranfield, I hope you don't mind me calling you at this hour.' Mrs. Shepherd always began a conversation with some kind of apology.
She glanced at the clock - it was 9:30 p.m. Perhaps clergymen and their wives were early bedders. She smiled at the thought of plump jolly Mrs. Shepherd in bed with her solemn husband.
'Not at all, Mrs. Shepherd', she replied, 'how can I help you?'
And then Mrs. Shepherd had told her how she had been up in Little Fendon to visit a Sudanese refugee family who had rented a house next to the Blacks. 'And I happened to meet Mrs. Black. We were in the garden and she invited us in for coffee and when Mrs. Waziri spoke of how her son Ibrahim needed help with his schoolwork, Mrs. Black told us of how much you had helped Simon.
'Now wasn't that strange that we should all meet like that? Don't you think it must have been meant?'
Mrs. Cranfield thought no such thing but Mrs. Black's next revelation took her breath away.
'And then Mrs. Black phoned Simon. Wasn't that good of her? And he was just on the point of leaving the house when he heard the phone. And he thinks it would be wonderful if you taught Ibrahim. Now let me see, what was it he said? Oh, yes. Simon said that he had looked forward to every lesson with you and that the whole experience had been wonderfully rewarding. Isn't that such a lovely thing for a pupil to say of his teacher? You must be thrilled, Elinor. Oh, may I call you Elinor?'
And before she could say a word, Mrs. Shepherd went on,
'And - Oh yes - Simon also said that he felt Ibrahim could benefit in the same way and have just as much enjoyment'.
Mrs. Shepherd took a deep breath and rabbited on:
'Provided - yes that was it, Simon emphasized this to his mother - provided Ibrahim stuck to your rules, worked his socks off and never let you down.
'Simon said that he hoped you would agree to take the boy on but that he felt he himself shouldn't get involved in trying to persuade you. So what do you think, Elinor? Will you help?'
There was a long pause. Mrs. Cranfield could hear her heart beating. What was Simon suggesting? Did he really think she would get involved with this sixteen-years-old Sudanese boy? Indeed he seemed to be hinting at just that. She took a deep breath but before she could speak, Mrs. Shepherd was off again:
'Mrs. Black asked me to speak to Simon on the phone myself and he asked me to make sure that when I spoke with you I was to give you a message. Just a minute I wrote it down because I wasn't sure as to what it meant and I felt I must say it just as he did.
'Here it is: 'Thank you, Mrs. Cranfield, for being such a wonderful teacher and such a friend. I shall never forget you. All boys should have a teacher like you. It has been difficult to settle here but I am determined to move on with my life. I'm glad that we were part of each other's history. But now we move on.'
Elinor Cranfield felt the tears rolling down her cheeks.
Afterwards, lying on top of her bed and feeling very confused, she couldn't recollect what she had said to the voluble Mrs. Shepherd but she knew she had agreed to meet with her and Mrs. Waziri and Ibrahim at the vicarage on Monday evening.
Ibrahim Waziri was not what Mrs. Cranfield had expected. For one thing his command of English was excellent; this she noticed, despite the young man's reserve - a reserve that bordered on the painfully shy. He had seemed afraid to meet her eyes as they were introduced but he took her hand in his and the grip was firm, albeit he let go of her hand almost as soon as he held it.
She was surprised at how tall he was and so incredibly thin. Slender was the word she felt more appropriate, and his features were so finely sculpted that he appeared almost feminine, particularly when one took into account those huge brown eyes and the curling eyelashes and the silky black hair that came over his ears. He looked a bit older than his 16 years, she thought.
And he was much less dark than she had anticipated: his skin colour was almost a dark honey colour and she was not surprised to learn later that his father was Greek. He, poor man, had been involved in a revolt in the Sudan and had died there. Ibrahim's mother had reverted to her maiden name at her family's insistence, they being afraid of the authorities taking action against her and Ibrahim. Hence their flight to England.
Mrs. Waziri was a small plump woman who, fifteen years ago, must have been quite beautiful, Elinor Cranfield thought. She was darker than Ibrahim but one could see where the boy's fine features came from. However Mrs. Waziri showed no signs of reserve. Without engaging in any overt criticism of the local school she made it clear that she felt that institution would not give her son the high standard of education he needed if he was to secure a University place at Cambridge itself or at Oxford.
'I also concerned he make wrong choices', Mrs. Waziri held up her hands in an attitude like that of a surrendering combatant, the gold and jeweled rings catching the light as she did so
'He will make friends with wrong people, he - how you say? - Learn bad things in bad company.'
Elinor Cranfield glanced across to where Ibrahim sat perched on the edge of a chair, hands clasped together resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on a spot an inch or so in front of his large feet.
Mrs. Shepherd made an attempt to protest the good record of the local school and the good behaviour of the young people there and in Little Fendon but Mrs. Waziri ignored her.
'I like Ibrahim concentrate on study and on his music. I like if he come to you for help in study, like Mrs. Black's son - next house here. She speaks well of your help. I can pay. I like if you do this for Ibrahim.'
There was a silence. Then Mrs. Cranfield spoke, 'And what of you, Ibrahim? Is that what you want, to concentrate on your studies and your music and to come to see me two or three times a week to work? Wouldn't you rather spend some time making friends?'
Mrs. Wazir, her face showing her extreme annoyance, made to answer but Mrs. Cranfield in fiercely schoolmarmish mode, silenced her. 'Mrs. Waziri, if I am to teach your son then I must be sure of two things: one, his willingness to do the work that I give him and secondly, and more importantly, his commitment, his whole-hearted commitment to work with me.'
She held up her hand as Mrs. Waziri again sought to speak. She turned to where Ibrahim sat and found him gazing at her with a kind of awe. She smiled her schoolteacher, tight-lipped smile but she also tried to convey in her look something of the concern she felt for this mother-dominated boy. Their eyes met and Elinor Cranfield thought that she detected a glimmer in those huge sad eyes.
'Well, Ibrahim. What do you say? Do you wish to come and work with me under those conditions?'
Again Mrs. Waziri attempted to speak but Mrs. Cranfield silenced her with an imperious gesture. Ibrahim looked down at his feet, then raised his head and looked Mrs. Cranfield in the eye.
'Yes', he said slowly and clearly, 'it will be a great honour to have you as my teacher. I shall work very hard. I shall do everything you tell me.'
Chapter Three
She wasn't sure when exactly she began to think about Ibrahim as more than a student. From the first she had found him physically attractive but she had not thought of him with any feelings of lust. She did not consider him as a replacement for Simon. He was too... too... well, passive. Too shy.
Nevertheless, from time to time she wondered about Simon's insistence that she take the boy on as a student, 'to have the same rewarding experience as me'.
Wasn't that what Simon had said? She knew he must have been suggesting that she form a relationship with the lad.
Quite often she looked at Ibrahim's face with its finely chiseled lines, she thought his mouth and those beautifully formed sensual lips but she did not imagine that mouth, those lips, upon her own. She observed the long slender fingers of his hands as they held his book or wrote in his exercise jotter but she never conceived of them touching her.
She had noted though, the small rounded hemispheres of his bottom, outlined by the thin material of his trousers when he bent to pick up a fallen pencil or to retrieve his shoes from her hallway. And she admitted now that she had deemed it the kind of bottom she liked to look upon.
But she had not thought of herself as desiring him. Not really. Or had she?
Later as she pieced together the jigsaw of events that led up to her decision to seduce Ibrahim, she saw no real pattern or trail. But she admitted that she had found herself more and more relaxed with him and, from time to time, musing about his possible interest in her. And then came the accident.
She had arrived home from school about fifteen minutes before 3:00 p.m. that Friday, a good two hours earlier than usual, having had a free double period last thing in the day and having got permission to go home, to be there for delivery of her new washing machine.
There was a message on her answer-phone requesting her to telephone Ibrahim's school as soon as possible. The message had been left at 2:32 p.m.
'He's had a nasty fall during the lunch break, Mrs. Cranfield'. The secretary's tone conveyed considerable concern, 'I'm sorry to trouble you but he got upset when we were going to phone his mother and he pleaded with us to phone you instead.
'I know he comes straight to you for lessons today so I thought it would be o.k. I'll wait till around 3:00 but then we will have to phone home. I don't think he's seriously hurt, he doesn't need hospital - but he won't let our auxiliary near him... '
The secretary prattled on a bit before Elinor managed to end the conversation and put the phone down.
It took her only ten minutes in the car to reach the Grammar School, having left the flat key with old Mrs. Gray next door and a note on her own door for the washing machine man.
Ibrahim lay facing the far wall on the narrow bed in the small sick bay, curled into a ball. He peered over his shoulder when she spoke his name. His dark eyes were full of pain, his olive-brown skin much paler than she'd ever seen it.
'Thank you for coming, Mrs. Cranfield. I am sorry to give you trouble. Can you take me to your house?'
The school's Deputy-Head was aware of Mrs. Cranfield's position as Ibrahim's tutor and, since the boy usually went to her house directly from school, the Deputy saw no problem in releasing him into her care.
Supporting him as he limped out to her car, Mrs. Cranfield questioned herself as to what she should do. When she suggested to him that she take him home right away he pleaded with her not to do so. It seemed that his mother was so over-protective that he feared she would not allow him to return to school and, he claimed he would be kept at home all the time in future.
To her surprise the washing machine had arrived and the man was busy making the connections. She helped Ibrahim to the settee and got him comfortable, then made a pot of tea.
The man was in a hurry and turned down the tea. By the time it was brewed he was leaving.
Mrs. Cranfield knelt by the settee and studied the boy. There were no signs of injury to his hands, face, or head, and he seemed a lot calmer once she had assured him that she was not going to contact his mother.
'You realize, Ibrahim that I could get into trouble if your mother finds out that I have kept this from her. You must promise me that you will not tell her.'
He looked at her solemnly, ' I do not speak to my mother of anything. Ever! I say only that you teach me well and that you are strict. Very! She likes that.'
It registered with Mrs. Cranfield that Simon had made such declaration of his trustworthiness and discretion and she tried to conceal the smile caused by Ibrahim's assurance, then found that it had been spotted and that the boy was smiling back at her.
'You are happy with what I say, I think. I have, how do you say it: a 'close mouth'.'
'That is good, Ibrahim', Mrs. Cranfield smiled her approval, 'But what about these injuries? I understand you would not let the school check them. I need to be sure that you are not seriously hurt or that you will not get infection. You seem to be in pain. What is hurt? If you will not let me attend to you then I have no choice but to inform your mother.'
Ibrahim hung his head. 'It is my side and my leg. They are very sore.'
Mrs. Cranfield adopted a stern tone. 'Then no more foolishness. Let's get this shirt off.'
She reached out and turned him by his shoulders to face her. To her surprise he made no resistance as she began to undo his buttons. He winced as she eased the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms but he did not resist.
'How beautiful he is', she thought as she gazed upon the slim light brown torso.
'Where does it hurt?' she inquired, running her hands over the lovely smooth skin.
The boy turned away from her slightly and touched his hand to an area at his side where Mrs.Cranfield detected bruising.
'Here' he said, 'And here. And here'. He pointed to his hip and to his upper thigh.
'You'll need to take your trousers off, 'she spoke firmly and matter-of-factly, although her pulse was quickening and her throat felt dry, 'I'll get some warm water and Dettol and some anti-inflammatory cream. I won't be long. Quick as you can now.'
She rose and without looking at the boy set off for the bathroom.
The light-blue boxers seemed to enhance the rich colour of his skin as the firelight flickered and danced shadow then light upon Ibrahim's body as he stood on the hearth side rug where she had left him.
Later she was to wonder if that was the point when lust, for the second time in her life, won victory over common sense.
He had his back to her as she stood in the doorway holding the basin and the tube of cream and she stood admiring him, feeling the warm glow in her loins and the dry tightness in her throat. He turned and saw her and smiled, breaking the spell.
She placed the basin of warm water at his feet and motioned him to move closer to the fire.
'I don't want you catching cold. Are you warm enough?' So saying she unbuttoned her cardigan and draped it over a chair.
With her back to Ibrahim she quickly unfastened the top two buttons of her white blouse. She could feel the hardened nipples of her unfettered breasts pushing against the flimsy silk, and before turning she pushed the blouse down beneath her tight skirt, causing her breasts to protrude full and firm against the stretched material.
She turned and began to walk slowly towards him. She could feel her breasts moving against the fabric of her blouse, full and round, her nipples prodding the silk. Ibrahim's stood wide-eyed gazing at her as she approached. She smiled at him then dropped to her knees at his feet. She could sense his eyes on her partially exposed breasts and she almost purred as excitement and anticipation welled up in her.
Now she focussed on the front of the baggy boxers, just where they bulged. She detected a movement in the material and smiled to herself. He was well aware that she was a woman.
'Can you show me where the problem is? She touched the back of his thigh with the palm of her hand just below the curve of his buttock. Her gave a little start.
'Don't worry. I'll be gentle' She gave his thigh a tiny squeeze. 'And don't be embarrassed. There's just the two of us. I won't tell anyone about this. I hope you won't either. I wouldn't want your pals to be talking about it. Nor your mother. Agreed?'
'Yy.ess'. Thank you.' His voice was husky and she saw that he had moved his hands so that they now covered the front of his boxers. She could see that they bulged out much more.
'Good' She said firmly. Now point to where the problem is.'
Slowly he moved one hand and pointed to just below his right hipbone. As his hand moved, she could see the way his boxers now tented out, half-hidden by the other hand as he sought to conceal his aroused state.
'Let's have a look then' she said and gently pulled the waistband down over his hipbone. He clutched on to his boxers to prevent them coming further down.
'I need to see, Ibrahim, ' she said firmly. 'Please don't be embarrassed.' She removed his right hand from the shorts and pulled them down to expose his hip and much of his buttock. She could feel him trembling.
At the top of his buttock some of the skin had been badly grazed and there was a large bruise on his buttock. 'Right then', she said. 'Let's see. I need to bathe that scrape with water and Dettol, Ibrahim, and then I'll rub some of this cream into the bruising. There's a lot of swelling there.'
'There certainly is swelling - and it's getting more swollen all the time!' She laughed inwardly at her unspoken observation.
'Now I know you don't want your mother to know about this so we need to avoid getting your boxers soaked with Dettol or smelling of this anti-inflammatory cream. It's only just after four o'clock and you're not due back till seven-thirty, so I can wash the cream off just before you go home. As long as we don't get it or the Dettol on your boxers, she'll never know. So you just slip your boxers off and put this bath-towel round you with the opening to this side and I'll soon have you sorted.' She handed him the bath-towel.
Ibrahim wrapped the towel round his waist and let its other end fall. Elinor could see his erection pushing it out as the boy tightened the towel round his waist. She smiled to herself as he hesitated, unsure of how to remove his boxers, now covered by the towel.
'Here, it's awkward, isn't it? Like changing at the beach. Come on, I'll help you.' She took hold of the towel at his hips and turned him round to face the fire so that she now knelt right behind him with his bottom almost touching her face. 'There now. Take them off. I won't peek. I promise.'
Slowly he bent down and raised the bottom of the towel then reached under to slide off his boxers. Elinor was tempted to let the towel go but resisted the urge. 'Slowly. Slowly catchee tiger', she said to herself.
She glanced across the room at the mirror strategically placed to allow a view of the hearth side rug. She remembered how she and Simon had put the mirrors in the room to give views of them, fucking.
Now it showed her kneeling, with Ibrahim in front of her, facing the fire, hands clasping the hem of the towel at his waist, while his erection pushed the towel well out from his body. It was plain to Mrs. Cranfield that her student was far from being under- developed.
