No Ordinary Affair

by Fiona Wilde

  His hand was under my shirt now, his left hand kneading my right breast as the nipple swelled and hardened under his palm. I threw back my head as his hot mouth blazed a trail down my neck and raised my hips as his other hand pulled aside the sodden crotch of my knickers. I could feel the head of his cock, already released from his slacks, pressing against my clit and I ground into him and then felt him slip deep into me, drawn in by my own need.

  I came almost immediately, intoxicated by the mingling sensation of lingering pain and intense, primal pleasure of Ethan’s thrusting hips.

  “That’s a lovely girl,” he was saying into my hair. “That’s a lovely, clever girl.”

  He pulled at the front of my shirt and I heard the sound of buttons clattering onto the floor and then felt his mouth on my breast, tongue thrusting and teeth worrying the tender nipples.

  “Professor!” I cried, jogging up and down on him, keeping the rhythm as my hair spilled across my face and skin flushed with heat and excitement. “Oh, god, Professor!”

  “Mary. Lass!” He pulled me to him then and I felt him pulse, felt him pump into me. I wrapped my leg around him, around the back of the chair and squeezed as if I could lock us together, right there in that moment.

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that. When I next looked out it was dark. Mark. I looked around frantically. “What time is it?”

  He looked down at his watch. “Half past eight.” He stood, tipping me from his lap. “You’d best get home or your parents will worry. I trust you’ll keep the details of this particular detention to yourself?”

  “I, uh, yes….of course.” I was tucking my shirt back into my skirt now even as I looked down with horror at my shirt. Three buttons were missing and I pulled the sweater I was wearing over the gap and hurriedly buttoned it. I needed no mirror to know that I was a complete, well-fucked mess. My makeup had surely run from all the crying, my hair was a rat’s nest from where Ethan Willoughby had run his hands through it and my bottom….I didn’t even want to think about what it looked like, so scored as it was from the cane which now hung innocently on the wall.

  “There will be no school tomorrow,” he said. “I’m away to a conference in London, and to a special store where I plan to pick up a tawse for any student who decides to test me upon my return.”

  I shuddered and he laughed. “Not that you will need it. I expect a very good girl waiting here to greet me. So I shall see you the day following?”

  I nodded and began walking to the door. But as I reached it I stopped. “Professor?”

  “Yes, Mary?”

  “Are there…others?”

  “Others?”

  I bit my lip and blushed. I knew I had no right to feel jealous or possessive. I was married, for Christ sakes. And yet I could not help myself. “Other students,” I said quietly.

  “Well of course!” he said, laughing and waved his hands towards the empty classroom. “I spoke of them the first day. Didn’t you see them all around you?”

  I looked down, feeling silly and he walked over and took my face in his hands.

  “Pretty Mary,” he said. “Schoolgirls can be so jealous, but put your mind at ease. Do you see anyone else here?”

  “No,” I said.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Only a star pupil would get this level of detention.”

  He turned and patted me on my still sore bottom. “Now off you go,” he said and I walked out, feeling awful and exhilarated and confused and content all at the same time.

  The drive home went far quicker, it seemed, than the drive to the Drumlin's school. I prayed that Mark would still be at work. He was and I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled up in the drive.

  I was inside in record time and pulled my clothes off in the foyer, sobbing as I did. I smelled like sex and sweat and chalk and Ethan. My hands shook as I threw my clothes in the wash, not caring that the sweater was marked Dry Clean Only. I put the washer on the hottest setting and ran upstairs to the bath, where I stood under the shower for as long as I could stand the steaming water sluicing down my body.

  I was frantically scrubbing my still sore pussy when I heard the bathroom door open, and before I could stop him Mark had opened the shower door. Fortunately my back was facing the wall and he could not see my striped bum.

  “Do you mind?” I asked sharply, feeling awful when his appreciative expression gave way to a crestfallen look.

  “Sorry,” he said defensively. “I heard you in here and thought I might hop in for a bit.”

  “No. I…not tonight, Mark,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was just getting out in fact.”

  As if to prove I wasn’t lying I reached behind my back without turning and cut the water off before grabbing the towel from hanging over the door and wrapping it around my body.

  “You sure?” Mark asked with a small smile.

  “Positive.” I said nothing more and let my expression do the talking instead. Mark quickly got the message and shut the door with sigh. As he left the bathroom I let out one of my own before stepping from the shower and reaching for the big terrycloth robe that hung on the back of the door.

  I put it on, pulled the sash tight and turned to the mirror, where I concentrated on my reflection as I brushed my wet hair away from my face. I looked so young and plain and innocent without my makeup, every bit the schoolgirl that Ethan pretended I was. But I knew the truth of who I really was. I was a cheating wife. An unfaithful strumpet. A whore.

  And I was a liar, not just to Mark but to myself. I’d told myself that what I was doing wasn’t really cheating. Now there was no question. I’d told myself it was casual, but even now I couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan Willoughby and how his mouth had felt on my breasts. I told myself it was Mark’s fault, but it wasn’t. Not really.

  It was mine.

  “I won’t see him again,” I said quietly to my reflection. “That’s it. It’s done. I won’t do this anymore.” I turned and pushed the robe aside to look at my bum, wincing as I did. It was striped with purplish lines that would take God-only-knows how long to fade. No, I could not do this anymore at all.

  I quickly rubbed some cream onto my face and then opened the bathroom door, listening for sounds to indicate where Mark might be. I could hear the strains of Dr. Who coming from downstairs and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d be left to myself now, at least for an hour.

  I put on my most unattractive pair of high waist knickers and flannel pajama pants and shirt before tucking myself in bed with a glass of water and a sleeping pill. I was not eager to face lying to Mark again, and if he found me sleeping when he came up to bed later I’d not have to fib and say I was too tired to entertain his attentions.

  The pill worked quickly, but my sleep was not deep. All night was plagued by dreams of searching for something I knew I would never find.

  When I awoke, it was to find Mark gone. On the pillow was a chocolate bar and a note reading, “Love you, tonight perhaps?”

  I’d forgotten that he was headed in early to work early to welcome visiting teams from other schools participating in the science fair. Again I was thankful for his absence, and felt guilty for being thankful. But I had much to sort out in my head as I went to the closet to dress.

  I reached for the dowdiest thing I owned, a pair of rather shapeless jeans and a worn but comfortable fisherman’s sweater and pair of clogs. But as I held them I thought of how I felt wearing those prettier things. I felt more feminine, more submissive somehow and there was something delightful about that, something I appreciated even if Mark never would.

  I put the drab clothes back and selected a long, flowing black skirt, strappy black heels and v-necked silk blouse with tiny pearl buttons. As I put them on I noticed a pile of folded clothes sitting on the bedroom chair by the door. It was the outfit from the previous night and I realized in horror that I’d left it in the wash. Mark, ever the dutiful husband, had obviously taken them out and put them on to dry. I wondered if he thought it odd that
the entire outfit, including knickers, had been thrown into the wash with disastrous results. The hot water had felted and shrunk the sweater, and the color from the skirt had bled into the blouse. The outfit was all but ruined.

  My eyes filled with tears as I picked the clothing up and tucked it onto a shelf in the closet. The laundry mishap was another of a string of odd behaviors that Mark would have to be blind to miss. But it wasn’t too late, and I reminded myself that the whole mess was over now, and that I could concentrate on redeeming myself in my own eyes for what I’d done. I could redeem myself by being a better wife.

  I arrived at the shop determined to work and grateful that Miss Parsham had not scheduled any outings for that day. Her company and ever-present list of demands would keep me adequately busy and leave no time to reflect on my tawdry behavior or the man who so successfully brought it out in me.

  At lunch I half-expected Ethan Willoughby to walk through the door, so much in fact that when I heard the bell I jumped a little. But I was pleased to see not him, but Helen Costin, the wife of the accountant who kept the books for Curiosities.

  “Helen!” I said with a smile as she walked over. As she did I instantly took note of her appearance. It was vastly improved since our last meeting. With her husband Tristan’s business doing so well, Helen had plenty of time to indulge her interests. Her favorite was horseback riding, and despite her stunning face and figure it was rare to see her out of her barn clothes. Today, however, she was wearing a lovely blue dress and matching heels and her usually braided hair hung loose in glossy waves to her shoulders.

  “You look absolutely gorgeous!” I said.

  She laughed. “Do I? It’s odd, I’m sure, seeing me like this. I just got tired of dressing like a stablehand.

  “I bet Tristan loves your new look,” I said with a smile.

  “Tristan?” she snorted a laugh. “He’s so busy I could walk by with a flashing light on my head and he’d not take notice. I think he’s become married to his work, that one.”

  “Oh yes, it can seem that way,” I commented. “I know I feel that way about Mark at times. If it’s not school then it’s some activity associated with it.”

  “Yes, they can be quite blind to our needs can’t they?”

  “Good Lord, listen to you two.” Miss Parsham stood there, her lips pursed in disapproval as she stared at the two of us over her glasses. “You act as though your husbands are beating you three times a day rather than out there working to do their part. I’d have given anything to have found a man willing to do that. However, it was never in the cards for me.”

  “Well sometimes getting married isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Helen said.

  “Maybe,” Miss Parsham said. “Maybe not. I suppose the grass is always greener.”

  She walked away with a laugh, leaving us standing there.

  “So what can I help you with?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “My Aunt Chloe. She mentioned she was in here a few weeks back and you had the most unusual watch, a little cuckoo clock..”

  I sighed. “We did,” I said. “But that gentleman bought it. The one who moved to the Drumlin place. Ethan….”

  “…Willoughby?” she finished my sentence and stood looking at me, a shocked expression on her face. “You know him?”

  “No,” I stammered. “I don’t know him. He’s been in here once or twice and made a purchase or two. He introduced himself. We... uh... chatted."

  Helen stared at me, her friendly expression completely gone. She looked tense now, and suspicious, her eyes looking me up and down as if sizing me up. I felt extremely uncomfortable.

  “That’s a lovely outfit,” she said. “I just realized that you’re a bit more dressed up than usual, too.”

  I touched my hand to my collar. “Yes,” I agreed. “I just decided to….”

  I looked at her then and saw her eyes narrow a bit. “Have you seen his place?” The question was put to me sharply, as if she were daring me to give her an answer she didn’t want to hear.

  “You mean the Drumlin’s place? Why, I…no.”

  “You’re positive?” Her tone was somewhat shrill, and it made me angry.

  “Excuse me, Helen, but if I had why would it matter? Drumlin's is a place of historic significance. Is there something about the place that’s dangerous? You seem upset about something and I’m frankly at a loss to understand what.”

  The question seemed to bring her back to herself.

  “No,” she said suddenly. “No, I don’t know anything about it at all." She turned. “I must be going. Thanks for your help.”

  The door closed behind her with a ‘ding’ leaving me and Miss Parsham standing behind the counter looking after her as she went.

  “What on earth was that about?” my employer asked.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” I replied, but deep down I knew I was wrong, about more things than one.

  “Well, we’re a moody sex,” Mrs Parsham said, but even after her light comment, she was still looking after Helen, puzzled.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “That we are.”

  Fortunately, finally, Miss Parsham's attention turned to something else. “Well look at this,” she was saying. “How unusual.”

  “What?” I turned to see her holding up a perfect, life-sized glass apple. “Where did that come from?” I asked.

  “The Weaver estate. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  I put my hand out. “May I hold it?”

  She handed it to me. “An apple for teacher,” she said. “It’d make a great gift for an educator.”

  I closed my hand on it. “Yes.” I paused. “Miss Parsham, may I buy this?”

  “Oh I don’t know. I may not want to sell it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You sell everything. Come on now, sell it to me. Please?”

  “No,” she said and I scowled. She could be so –

  “I’ll give it to you.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “But put it in your coat pocket this once if you really want it. You know how prone I am to changing my mind.”

  I did as she asked, looking at the glass apple for a long moment before tucking it in the pocket of my coat.

  “An apple for teacher,” I thought, and the pain of his memory hit me like a ton of bricks. I’d promised myself that I didn’t care, that he didn’t matter, that we were finished. But the sight of that apple had brought all the desire for him, and with it the doubts Helen’s visit had added to it.

  Chapter Five

  What right did I have to be suspicious? Even if Ethan was seeing Helen as well, I was a married woman. I could hardly play the jilted lover when I was the one doing the jilting.

  And yet I felt more down by the moment, and so taciturn by the end of the day that Miss Parsham took to asking me whether she’d done or said something to offend me.

  “It’s not you, promise,” I said. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “You’re welcome to take the rest of the afternoon off,” she said. “Lord knows you’ve earned it with all the extra time you’ve put in lately.”

  I started to say no, but instead found myself taking her up on her offer. I had class that night and couldn’t risk missing it again. But I needed something of a pick-me-up, too and decided to go to the bookshop on the corner and find some new reading material to take my mind off my woes.

  But after an hour of perusing the collection I left empty handed and got back into my car.

  I don’t know why I headed west out of town. I don’t know what drew me to Drumlin's. Perhaps I wanted to confirm for myself whether Ethan was really out of town. Maybe he’d lied, and this was his day to meet another woman at the school. Or perhaps he didn’t meet all of them at the school. Perhaps he was different things to different women and at that very moment was on a renovated clipper ship down at the harbor, where he was binding and whipping some woman who’d always dreamed of being of being taken captive by pirates.
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  I couldn’t say what I was more afraid of, not seeing Ethan’s car and worrying about where he was or who he was with, or seeing his car and having to explain to him why I’d decided to come out to Drumlins in defiance of his wishes.

  I looked for it as I drove but didn’t see it, not by his house or by the Drumlin school. I pulled up in back where my car couldn’t be seen from the road and cut my engine, trying to decide whether to get out and go in.

  It’s probably locked anyway, I told myself as I walked up to the front door. But when I pushed it, the door fell open.

  “Hello?” I stood there, half expecting to see him appear from the shadows and demand to know why I was there. But he did not.

  I walked to the board. My lines from the day before were gone. He’d erased them all, and cleaned the board 'til no traces of writing remained. But why? Did he plan to invite another woman? Did he not want her to see that there were other students? Real students?

  There was another hook on the wall. I wondered if it were for the tawse. Perhaps he really was in London as he said. Perhaps he was at some stodgy conference at just that very moment and would stop by a shop afterwards to buy a new implement from some other unsuspecting woman.

  I’d never even seen a tawse, not in the flesh anyway. I’d seen them in books. They were horrid things with thick leather handles and multiple lashes at the end. I tried to imagine being over the table with those fingers of leather biting into my skin, catching my thighs, my lower back, that place between my legs.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said aloud. “You shouldn’t be here in this place having these thoughts. You’re being a silly cow, Mary.”

  I turned to go, but as I did I heard the noise. I knew right away what it was. The click of the door, the creak of the boards was distinctive.

  I looked around, frantic. There was no way out without being seen. Quickly I ducked into the coatroom and made to shut the door, but the wood had swollen, leaving a crack that I could see through. I prayed Ethan Willoughby would not notice. And I knew it was him because I could recognize his footfalls.