by Primula Bond
‘Hello again, Mrs Epsom.’ He took her hand and kissed it. God, that tongue! The boys all whooped and elbowed each other. Stella was having a hard time keeping a straight face. ‘Didn’t the boys tell you?’ Matt said, stepping away but grinning as if he owned her. ‘We’re all roommates.’
Behind the Scenes
CORPORAL PUNISHMENT MIGHT BE outlawed in school these days, but Mrs Caroline March, commandant, sorry, chair of the entertainment committee, was extremely skilled at slapping wrists. Not the kids’ wrists. God forbid that she would ever put a patent leather toe out of line. No. It was the mothers who got the treatment. The dirty look, the brittle phone call. Being sent to Coventry. The flounce. And their crime? Oh, buying cakes instead of baking them. Refusing to high-kick and wave pompoms on sports day. Wriggling out of the activity weekend in Snowdonia.
Sara Singer had the reddest wrist. She might have been the most beautiful mother in the playground, but she was also the most idle and after endless pleading, cajoling and bullying, Caroline had no more truck with her. Until one steamy summer day near the end of term, staggering out of the town library with a stack of gardening books for the allotment club, she spotted Sara in the new art gallery next door. The lazy mare who claimed to be too ham-fisted to sew flamenco costumes for the dance committee’s ‘Strictly Classroom’ competition was straddling a ladder, bold as brass, and deftly hanging a picture.
Caroline pressed her nose up against the window and watched as Sara stretched up to thread wire over the nails screwed into the wall. Her short summer dress rode up over her long brown legs. She cocked a knee on the next rung to steady herself, and Caroline saw a flash of bright pink thong, caught between two peachy buttocks.
Caroline’s mouth dropped open. She was about to rap on the glass to stop the show, the striptease virtually, but Sara was so unaware as she moved about in there, all alone, showing her bottom to the world, if the world cared to look. So nonchalant. Caroline glanced round. The world hadn’t seen. But she had. She could see her reflection in the window, goggle-eyed and gaping.
Sara bent slightly on the ladder and Caroline could see daylight glimmering between the tops of her legs and right through the gap to the neat bulge of her sex lips. Caroline felt her own pussy twitch sharply.
‘Shit!’ Caroline gasped, totally unladylike. Good thing the other mothers couldn’t hear. ‘Fuck!’
The silk gusset of her expensive French knickers felt sticky as a little dampness seeped in, pricking at the tender skin of her freshly waxed snatch. Sweat, surely. It was like she and Sara Singer shared a secret. Her breath steamed on the glass as she went on staring up Sara’s flowery dress like a brazen schoolboy, at the way the thong sliced the darkness between those cheeks, the way the plump flesh wobbled slightly as Sara climbed another step to balance the frame. Even her butt was brown. Where did she sunbathe to get a tan like that, Caroline wondered? When did she have time? Was her garden sheltered from the neighbours’ prying eyes? But now Sara was tilting her bottom, thrusting it out and away from the ladder as she absently reached a finger right into her crack to tug at the sliver of pink cotton caught up there.
Caroline jumped away from the window, dropping her books. Sara later remarked that she looked like she’d been stung. But back then Caroline always had the look of a woman chewing wasps.
Sara twisted round at the commotion. When she saw Caroline staring at her, out on the pavement, she frowned. But she didn’t rush to smooth down her dress to hide the tiny pink triangle barely covering her crotch. Didn’t come down the ladder. From here it looked as if, as usual, Caroline March was eyeing her with disapproval. So she slowly raised a hand to scrape her red hair away from her hot face, thereby lifting her dress even higher so that now Caroline could see the outline of her sex lips under the shiny pink cotton, God, even the sharp cleft dividing them. The thong was much too tight, that was the problem. It would be painful rubbing up there, chafing in this heat against that wet, soft surface. Caroline ran her tongue over her lips, which felt like paper. Sara must have borrowed that thong – surely only teenage girls wore such ridiculous garments –
Sara was crooking her finger to beckon Caroline inside.
‘So, Sara, you look busy?’ Caroline shouldered open the door and hovered on the step. The sun was hot on her back. The pile of books dug into her breasts. Her armpits in her floaty empire top were itchy with sweat. She swallowed and glanced at the huge pictures hung about in the clean white space. ‘Didn’t realise you worked here?’
‘I don’t.’ Sara jumped down off the ladder. Her dress floated up for a moment, revealing one last glimpse of tanned thighs and more, a last flash of that cute, pouting fanny. ‘I’m just hanging my exhibition.’ She perched on the ladder, crossing one leg over the other.
The pictures were nearly all nudes. Glorious, spread-eagled nudes in mostly charcoal and chalk but with a gentle burst here and there of watercolour. Some were half obscure, backs turned, some full frontal, all sexy, but all tasteful, Caroline could see. Even the huge one dominating the back wall, of an impossibly gorgeous naked man approaching a supine woman from behind, lifting her hips towards him –
‘But you’re so talented!’ Caroline could make out the unmistakeable shape of the man’s cock jabbing at the shadows as he lifted the sleeping woman, steadied himself on his knees as if his hard-on was knocking him off balance, ready to ease himself between her legs, ready to fuck her –
‘Who knew?’ Sara laughed softly, coming to stand beside Caroline. She smelt of fresh laundry and turpentine. ‘See now why I’ve no time for fun runs or tombolas?’
‘My God, Sara!’ Caroline tossed her glossy hair. ‘Surely it’s illegal to depict a stiff, you know, penis, in a state of arousal like that, even for the sake of art?’
‘Well, is it a thing of beauty or isn’t it?’ Sara placed her finger on her chin in a thinking pose. ‘Don’t we all love the sight of pliant, female haunches about to be pulled open and penetrated by a strong, horny male?’
‘This is too weird. The way you’re talking. I’ve got to go. Got to read up about seed planting.’ Caroline backed towards the door. ‘I always had you down as, you know. Innocent.’
Sara laughed, and held the door open. Her arm rested across Caroline’s shoulders for a moment. Brown skin against pale bones. ‘And I always had you down as frigid, Caroline. But seeing you creaming yourself just now in front of my pictures I know different, don’t I?’
Caroline winched her shoulder away from Sara’s touch. They had never stood so close to each other before. Or stayed so still in the hustle of the playground. Sara had freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose. Caroline stuck her own nose in the air.
‘No, Sara Singer, I’m interested, that’s all. Because I’ve just found the person who’s going to paint the gypsy backdrop for our ballroom show.’
‘Strictly Boring, you mean!’ Sara snorted.
Quick as a flash Caroline’s fingers were smacking down on Sara’s wrist. They both looked down as two red streaks came up on her tanned skin.
Sara’s green eyes glittered. ‘I’ll get you for that, Mrs March.’
‘Brownie points, Sara. Just think of those brownie points!’
Her friend Marta, a genuine Spaniard in genuine frills, clacked her castanets. ‘And she did barge into the private view of your exhibition and persuade all those hedge fund daddies to buy, buy, buy –’
‘Si, si, signora!’ Sara said with a sigh, hooking a tambourine over the spit of a makeshift fire. ‘But this scene setting will never be finished. It’s opening night, for God’s sake –’
‘Which is why we need to lace up your dress, Sara. You look like a cheap whore with it all falling off your shoulders like that.’ Caroline was standing in the wings, one hand on her jutting hip. The other held an open bottle of sherry.
Sara flicked her previously smacked paw at her and turned her back.
‘And you look splendid, Caroline! Quite the Spanish matriarch with that towering mantilla hea
ddress!’ Marta snatched the bottle and had a swig. ‘And that ferocious cleavage!’
‘Did you hear me about the dress, Sara? You may as well try to look the part –’
‘What part?’ Sara dipped an oversized paintbrush into a barrel. ‘I’m behind the scenes, Caroline, slaving away, not doing the fandango out front! No one will see me!’
‘You have to take a bow on the night. For all your hard work.’
‘Yes, Sara!’ Marta stamped dramatically about, lifting her scarlet petticoats and drumming her heels on the wooden boards. She handed Sara the sherry. ‘You’ll be an absolute siren all corseted up like a fiery Carmen!’
Sara took a swig, relishing the warmth surging through her brain, and climbed with the bottle onto a flaking Romany caravan to splash green paint onto its shutters.
‘There’s your intro, Marta!’ Caroline waved her large lace fan towards the stage, where the local equivalent of the Gypsy Kings was strumming sly, sensual guitar chords. ‘Break a leg!’
‘Ole!’ shrieked Marta, cantering out of sight to face her public.
‘Right, now stop nagging, Caroline, and leave me to finish this painting –’
‘Behave yourself, Sara! Just let me lace you up.’
Caroline had climbed up the wooden steps behind her. She pulled Sara roughly backwards so that she fell against her. Marta was right. Caroline did have a ferocious cleavage. Sara could feel it, pressing soft and warm against her shoulder blades. She could also feel Caroline’s breath, hot against her neck. The music out front was getting faster, and louder. Some of the staff, wheeled out to watch the rehearsal, were clapping naffly in time. But back here, tucked in the corner of the back stage, there was a kind of frenzied silence. Sara couldn’t move. Caroline’s warm breasts were squashed against her bare back, rubbing from side to side, so slightly that she must be imagining it, but she could hear Caroline’s breathing, hard and fast, as she started tugging closed Sara’s plunging black bodice. The whalebone closed in tight around her ribcage, squeezing her breasts together, forcing them up and out, nearly falling over the lace edging.
Sara’s heart started a low, fast drumming of its own. She felt light-headed from lack of air, her ribs refused to move as she struggled to breathe, so she had to open her mouth. As her lips parted twinges of excitement zigzagged through her. Her breasts bulged and pushed to escape, scraping her nipples over the rim of the bodice until they were sore.
Caroline took hold of her cinched-in waist and swivelled her round, so fast that she nearly lost her balance. Her skirts rustled, the net petticoats scratching her bare thighs. Caroline’s ice blue eyes were smudged in thick dark shadow and outlined like a cat’s with exaggerated black eye-liner. Her normally pastel-frosted lips were blood red and glistening as her tongue slipped out and ran over her mouth.
‘You wearing that pink thong today, Sara?’ Her voice, normally a kind of haughty bray, came from somewhere else tonight, deep and hoarse. She bit her lip. ‘Whoops.’
They both stared at each other. Then down at the way their breasts were pressed up against each other, bouncing with each laboured heartbeat in time to some sort of tom-tom out front. Caroline’s arms were still round Sara’s waist and as she yanked her close, one of Sara’s breasts bulged and fell heavily over the edge of her bodice, the nipple impossible to ignore, burning red and raw, stiffening in the cool air.
‘Christ, Caroline, what are you like!’ Sara’s voice wavered out as a gasp. Confused, she tried to push her breast back in and at the same time knocked Caroline with her elbow and sent her sprawling backwards through the stable door. Her ankle in the high heeled dancing shoes twisted and she tumbled in a flurry of scarlet petticoats onto a pile of paint-spattered sacking.
Sara clapped her hand over her mouth. Caroline March, chairperson and parent extraordinaire, was flat on her back in a dusty old caravan, tangled amongst the props for her precious dancing show, black stockinged legs akimbo, one shoe off and one wrist bound by some nautical looking rope Sara reckoned looked suitable for harnessing the imaginary horses.
‘You little bitch!’ Caroline started struggling with the rope, kicking her legs and getting even more tangled. ‘Get me out of here! I’m stuck!’
‘God, I’m sorry, Caroline. Don’t know my own strength. Come on. Let’s get you up–’
She knelt down, hitched her skirts back, and started to crawl over Caroline’s legs to untangle her. Caroline tugged weakly at the rope round her wrist, struggled a bit, then lay still and started to laugh softly. Her eyes gleamed at Sara under the theatrical make up. Her tongue came out again, sliding over her wet mouth.
‘No, let’s not. Let’s stay right here, where no one can see us. I’ve been wanting to tell you –’ There was that growl again, deep and sexy. She lay back, tossing her head from side to side, and arching her back, thrusting her big breasts up, one hand snaking over them and down her tight bodice to start pulling up her petticoats. ‘I saw your pink thong in the gallery the other day, Sara. And your bottom. So gorgeous I wanted to bite it.’
‘Too much sherry, Mrs March!’ Sara yelped, face flaming. ‘I can’t believe you just said that!’
‘Nor can I! You’re a bad influence, Mrs Singer.’ Caroline didn’t look pissed. She looked as if she was in heaven. She kept her eyes on Sara, smiling her rare smile and shifting from side to side, parting her long legs, her thighs white above the stockings, her bottom rolling, squashing against the paint spattered blanket, lifting to show the black seam between her white buttocks.
Sara froze, hanging there on all fours. Her breasts swelled, and tumbled out of the bodice again. Her sensitive nipples shrank tight in the cool air and a thrill shivered through her.
Out on stage, they were doing the rumba.
‘So are you, Sara Singer?’ Caroline hooked her leg around Sara’s back, tango-style, and pulled her lower. Her tongue was flicking back and forth with obvious pleasure. She tried to sit up, and started running her free hand under Sara’s skirt, up her thigh. ‘Wearing that pink thong?’
Sara leaned closer. ‘No, I’m not, Mrs March.’ Caroline was staring at her mouth, trailing her fingers over Sara’s buttocks, tickling up the tiny hairs all over her skin. Sara shivered again, and now it was her turn to whisper. ‘I’m not wearing anything.’
There was a short burst of applause and some wisecracks from one of the ‘judges’.
‘So you aren’t.’ Caroline’s hand spread over Sara’s pussy. She pushed herself up, paused, then brushed her red lips across Sara’s. Sara stopped breathing. She closed her eyes. Christ, should she stop this, give Caroline a slap? But she couldn’t move. Saliva was gathering in her mouth. Caroline’s fingers were stroking at the crack between her butt cheeks, pushing them gently open, probing the damp warmth just as her tongue pushed between Sara’s lips, running over the tender, tickling lining.
Then, as their kissing became more passionate, Caroline pushed one finger gently against Sara’s tight closed arse hole. Sara tried to wriggle away but the finger followed her movements, and as it pushed further she went weak. This sensation was totally new to her. It should have disgusted her, but instead it was overwhelmingly dirty and gorgeous. She sucked greedily on Caroline’s tongue as her hot little hole gave a little to Caroline’s probing finger, teased like a tight little cunt as it opened slightly. It was shocking but delicious and her body started trembling as lust sliced through her.
Then, without warning, Caroline pushed the finger right in and up Sara’s arse
‘You filthy –!’ Sara flinched away, breaking the spell, and pushed Caroline back down on the floor of the caravan, her legs waving in the air, and smacked her, hard, on the rump. The sharp sound reverberated round the old wooden walls. ‘That’s for touching me up, Caroline. For touching me there. Christ, that’s for everything, actually! All your bloody bossiness!’ Sara couldn’t help it. She smacked her again. The prime, tender flesh rippled under her hand. She waited for Caroline to scream back at her, but instead she
sighed sensuously and squealed girlishly. Not a sound any of the mummies had heard before. A livid pink hand print came up like a stain on Caroline’s bottom. Sara felt power surging through her. A hot bolt of evil pleasure.
‘Now look what you made me do!’
‘I’m sorry, Sara!’ Caroline whimpered, wriggling furiously on the old sheets. Her thighs slapped open and closed as she rubbed herself frantically against the rough fabric. ‘You’ll need to keep punishing me. Please smack me again!’
‘That’s better. Start feeling a little humility, lady.’ Sara grabbed one of Caroline’s ankles and without really thinking, lashed it with some ribbon round the leg of the little built-in table.
‘Oh, I’m not a lady.’ Caroline’s voice was all husky. Sara’s stomach clenched up with excitement. ‘I’m a filthy little tart!’
‘That’s right, Caroline. A filthy little slut who needs a good slapping,’ Sara murmured, and smacked her hand down again, loving the sharp sound ringing out in the tight little room, loving Caroline’s responding yelp. The strange new power bunched up inside her, dark pleasure spiking right at her cunt, making it throb with desire. Caroline wriggled. Again Sara slapped, watching Caroline jerk, then slapped again. ‘So keep totally still, filthy little tart, otherwise they’ll hear you and then we’re both in trouble.’
Out front the hip-wiggling salsa started. Caroline went rigid, exaggeratedly obeying orders.
‘I’m a tart, because I stuck my finger up your arse, Sara, and I shocked you,’ she said into the thick silence as the Spanish music swelled in the distance. ‘Come here. I want to put it up your juicy cunt this time, finger fuck you hard up there –’
‘You want the other mummies to know you talk like a back-street whore?’
Caroline smiled, and started stroking Sara’s leg again. Sara’s pussy went tight with ridiculous longing. ‘Don’t care. I’m sick of being good. You can tell them what you like!’
Sara was really struggling now. Caroline looked so sexy, writhing about there, her skirt right up round her waist now so Sara could see her flimsy silk knickers. ‘No. You’ll do what I want, Caroline. Not the other way round.’ Sara smacked her hard again and shoved one knee between Caroline’s legs.