Scoring With Sir

by Judy Jarvie

  I point him to the kitchen. “You’ll make somebody a lovely wife.”

  “Lie on the couch, woman. We’ll eat, then I’ll put you to bed. Then I’ll leave you to recover.”

  I lie down and pull up my throw to my starting position. “Um. Will?” I’m feeling naughty.

  From my follicles to my toes, it’s zizzing inside me like live voltage.

  “Yeah.” He’s already out of his jacket and rolling up sleeves, chopping things up with my big chopper. I knew he’d be a big chopper man. Knew it sure as eggs are eggs.

  “I am feeling tired. But I’m kinda not sure I want you to leave me all alone tonight yet…” I bat my lashes on super speed.

  He smiles. “No touching still applies.”

  “I can handle that.” Oh, believe me, babe. I can handle all you can give me.

  “I’m so very pleased you said that,” he tells me.

  My womb is happy dancing and hitting a piñata till it’s pulverized.

  * * * *

  I resist the urge to give a blissful moan at how good the food is. Pasta salads with a light dressing and something amazing made from roasted sweet potatoes. Who knew this would rock my world?

  “I spoke to Rogerson regarding your wariness about me mentoring you in football.”

  “You did?”

  “For some reason I think Rogerson reacts well to me, no idea why.”

  I tell him with my mouth full. “Tottenham fan. Why bloody else?”

  “Anyway, I told him and he says if you don’t want to do it, then that’s fine. But the English teaching element is his main ‘must do’.”

  I chomp as I mull this over. “Wow—you did that for me?”

  “I did. Call it my softie side.”

  “Do you mind if I leave you to the perils of Musical Annie? She’s a nympho by the way.”

  “I know. She’s my idea of hell on heels.” Will shakes his head. “I want you to be happy, Iz. Though, for what it’s worth, I think you’d be great. If you gave yourself the chance to try, you could master a few football tricks and that’s honestly all that’s being asked here.”

  I push in another delicious, sublime forkful. “I’ll think about it. But I’m pretty sure if I have a get-out clause, I’m going to take it.”

  “Shame. I was looking forward to a bit of rough and tumble on the pitch with you.” Will places his fork on his empty plate and pushes it aside. He crosses the space between us like a green-eyed, sleek panther intent on a kill. He takes the fork from between my fingers and pushes the morsel between my lips. “Let me feed you…”

  I moan as I bite down on the fork. “You’re bad for me.”

  “You’re hungry. Let me satisfy you. There’s dessert so keep room for something indulgent…”

  “Tiramisu?” I bat my lashes.

  “Don’t spoil the surprises. I said I’d make your night tonight and I still intend to,” Will tells me and pushes his mouth to mine.

  It’s going to be a long evening. And, for the first time ever, I’m jubilant I got so ill. It’s brought such amazing fringe benefits.

  * * * *

  I’m raw molten heat inside as Will stares at me across my bed. My bedroom was recently styled in muted shades of taupe in an effort to keep it minimalist and trendy. I now realize that Will is the only ornamentation this room has been yelling for. And now I have him I don’t intend to waste the opportunity.

  “Strip for me,” he commands.

  I’m wearing PJs so it’s an easy enough feat. Three seconds and I’m bare. And every pore is goosebumping—for him. I know I’m blushing.

  “Don’t be coy, lie down. Wait for me. I don’t have to prove how much I want you.” He’s right—there’s plenty of evidence tenting out his trousers.

  I grin up at him as I lie back. I feel like a model in a painting by one of the Old Masters—voluptuous and come hither and uninhibited, all at once. It feels damn good. He kisses me and in a matter of moments his mouth is on my thighs. I’m not complaining, it’s blissful and I find I have a particular preference for his own unique brand of five o’clock shadow against my sensitive, intimate skin.

  But already it’s back to Will’s mouth on me. I daren’t complain when he’s as good as he is, but I’m sensing a pattern.

  “You taste so good, I have to savor.”

  I lie back and welcome him like donning a favorite outfit. We fit so well. And when his tongue meets my clitoris and circles my folds, I’m utterly at his mercy again. Will manages to induce orgasm in record speed. I’m weak and quaking at his touch as he licks me into a stellar orgasm that pulses on and on so deep I wonder how he and I can breathe.

  “Wow. You do that so well you must’ve taken classes!” The sheen of perspiration makes me feel like I’m marathon woman.

  Will sits back and grins. “Let’s say I’ve an inspiring subject.”

  “Please tell me we’re going to do it,” I say, staring at his proud member to relay my true meaning. It’s tenting his trousers as if trying to capture our attentions. It certainly has mine.

  “Maybe not in the way you think.”

  Damn. This man is all confusions and contradictions. Why doesn’t he peel down his pants and let me welcome him home to mamma? Okay, I’m not Mrs. Experienced. I’ve never been ultra-wild but I’m certainly keen and I know enough from my reading to give this a stellar attempt at enticing the man. Whether it be a blow job or a happy hand of heavenly pleasure, I’ll give it my best. If reverse cowgirl would stir his stallion, I’d happily get to it.

  I want to touch, to taste and to explore. I’m definitely picking up severe constraints and reticence issues in this department and it bothers me more than a touch.

  “Will. I want to see you naked.” Turn-on makes me bolder. I thrust my chest out a bit for emphasis and he hisses between his teeth. He’s shucked off his pants and his shirt’s flown across the room pretty sharpish as if it’s outside Dorothy’s shack in Kansas during the tornado. All that’s between us and another very good time are clingy sports boxers. “Come to Iz, I promise I’ll be kind,” I urge, as if they’re the magic red ballet shoes and I’m about to seize the upper hand.

  But reticence lingers heavily like the smell of party poppers after the New Year’s bells.

  “I’m going to be specific. I’ll make you come with my mouth, my hand. And if this goes further, in lots of other varied ways. I’ll do it so well and so fast your head won’t be on straight for days. That’s a promise, Iz. But when it comes to touching me, there are rules.”

  An ice wash trickles through my bloodstream and my cells go on sensitivity wary mode. “Um… Will. What’s up here?”

  “Can’t you go with me on my needs? Can’t you follow orders?” His tone’s changed. “It’s not a lot to ask.”

  Hell, the whole vibe in the room’s changed. From tones of neutral to shades of scarlet and dark-striped Will-who-must-be-obeyed. He has a firm expression I don’t want to cross, and a tone that’s pure RSC lead hero part at Stratford-upon-Avon during a pathos scene.

  “I care for you, Izzy. But when it comes to sex, we have to do it my way or no way.”

  “Why so strict, Sir? Surely a little fun might cheer you up?” I’m gulping down more reservations than a box set of Bonanza. But simply because I don’t know what’s up or how this dynamic has changed. I realized he wanted a slow lead-up but a little more info would help here.

  I want him—but I want to know the score. I sit up. I hug my knees. And I pull for my robe from the end of the bed.

  “I can sense you find my preferences difficult.”

  “It’s not your preferences. It’s the mystery and cloak and dagger shit. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here?”

  Will stares at me, then simply shrugs. “I can’t be what you want me to be.”

  “But all I want is to turn you on.”

  He sits beside me and his hand is on my thigh, rubbing lightly. “It’s something you’ll have to get used to. And it’s not up for
discussion.”

  “Will. I want you. I think we share a connection. But if this is going anywhere, you have to tell me what this is all about.”

  Will stares at me. He’s looking down at his feet, but then I notice the problem is staring me in the face. It’s in his lap. His hard-on is gone.

  “Are you getting my signal?” he asks. “I can’t promise the earth will move. Sometimes it will. Sometimes…not.”

  I gulp as realization dawns on fast flow. “Shit, Will. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. This is the very reason I didn’t want to tell you. Apologies are even shitter than the obvious disappointment.”

  Will’s eyebrows furrow so hard he must’ve had input from a plow and oxen. He sits on the bed, like a man defeated after battle, and every pore of me wants to take back my words and hug him close.

  “Will. I… I don’t know how to…”

  He gets up swiftly and I can tell he’s brimming with fire, rage and humiliation. A mix that, if it were to go on a Guy Fawkes bonfire, would combust in a deadly fashion.

  “Ironic. I’m the striker who can’t score in the goal mouth. Now you know. Satisfied? Or should we make that decidedly unsatisfied in a very important way.”

  “Will, that’s not even funny. But… How did it happen?”

  He stares at the now flaccid wreck of his earlier erection. He turns to face me. He pulls me close to gently kiss my cheek then my forehead. I kiss him back and the gesture’s tender and arousing—I notice, from the feel of him at my groin area, that his pants are telling me that he’s finding it that way too. We’re back in business.

  A big part of me lets out a sigh of relief. So…he’s not exactly impotent because he clearly gets excited, like now. It’s not me being the biggest turn-off ever in the history of the world. But there’s still something else…

  Will rises and retrieves his shirt. He dons it and does up the buttons with his back to me. “Don’t say anything. You don’t need to. I like you, Izzy. And nothing you’ve done or said is wrong. I need space.”

  He walks to the door, his expression darker than his hair. But he’s stooping some and that leaves a dent of pain in my heart.

  “Don’t go, Will! Please? I’m so sorry I brought this up.”

  “No, you’re right. You need explanations. But I’m not ready to give them. I need time. I’m sorry. This won’t work.”

  Will walks out of my room. I hear his heavy footfall on the stairs then the door slam. And he’s gone.

  Chapter Ten

  I have a whole weekend to fester and wonder. About Will and how everything blew apart. And yes, there’s a whispering shroud of guilt that jabs me at regular intervals to make me uncomfortable about how things turned so wrong so fast.

  What a bitch you were, the shroud reminds me. For a shroud it’s got an annoying voice and it’s quick to judge.

  The man has a problem but you didn’t need to force him to confront it immediately. I pause for thought on this because it’s true—erectile problems go hand in hand with questions about male identity and virility. Why were you such an aggressive harpy about it?

  I have no answers except yes, I was wrong and too fast to force things. Will Darby’s gone. He nursed me back to health, hand-orchestrated my biggest ever orgasms most splendidly—twice. Then took off like the proverbial bat from the abyss because I had the audacity to question his most private privates.

  As scenarios in life go, nobody could have guessed at this one. Now we’ll work in the same building while trying to avoid contact. I’ll have to see him at meetings. Face my nemesis with him as a mentor. Shit karma or what?

  I have, in my defense, tried to text him. Twice. I kept them brief and light but there has been no answer or reply. So I’ve stayed home. Read two books cover to Kindle cover. Almost considered going over there to speak with him then totally talked myself down. Then I’ve done what I needed to do most. I’ve written erotic sex scenes.

  Just like I’ve experienced with Will. And a few more that are purely from my fantasy erotic imagination and yes, he’s the starring hero. My keyboard’s been smoking and I hasten to admit I’ve been in a pretty high state of thrill through fiction alone. And all the while my guilty conscience smarts and snaps like a poorly put out campfire with the latent potential to take out an eye. Or at least maim me irreparably in the groin region for life.

  I pay homage to his skills as a lover by writing about them on my laptop. I write about sex with Will because it has changed me. I never expected what I could become.

  * * * *

  Next day I’m gobsmacked to find out we’ve a new addition in the Netherfield car park. It’s a small gaggle of photographers bedecked with lenses and cameras and flasks of coffee. They’re waiting by the car park gates with menacing portent.

  As I’m wracking my brains on why—well, I have been off for a few days and a lot can happen in a short time—I realize the answer and it bugs me to swearing point. Janey. Shit. Kill the fuckers.

  They’re here to catch the pole dancing diva. As I lock the car, I’m about to go and give them a mouthful until Jack shows up with one other burly junior janitor called Phil. I assume they’re going to tell them to get off school property sharpish—they’ll likely use data protection to cover a myriad of ills.

  I can’t see Janey’s car in the car park. I’m thinking she’s not in yet—either that or maybe Ben’s dropped her off? Good job.

  And as I’m walking through the car park searching for Janey, I spy Dibian in her car. Now, call it my Spidey Sense but something’s not right. She’s eating doughnuts. One in each hand. Something jars. I reverse walk to stand beside her Volvo and tap on the window. She rolls it down. I see the mascara tracks telling a story all of their own.

  “Bollocks, Dibs.”

  “Don’t be nice to me, I’ll only cry more.” Her voice is a tired squeak.

  “Let me the fuck in. What the hell’s up?” She may be my boss but we know each other well enough by this length of time working together. We’ve weathered sufficient Christmas parties and private bitching sessions to ably know gritty reality’s swearword-infested tundra.

  She may be a crap head of department but her heart’s in the right place. “You don’t want to know, darling.” She’s sniffing—it isn’t hay fever season.

  “Course I want to know. Fess up.”

  “I can’t bear it.”

  “I won’t budge until you do.” I give her my death glare. “And I don’t care if I’m late for class or if we sit here all morning and I lose my job but you’re going to confide.”

  “Oh, fucking all right but it’s totally dire. I’d rather not go there. Online arsing dating, that’s what! I’ve been duped by a charlatan and he’s ripped me off big time. Taken my money, promised me a Christmas wedding and now he’s left with half my heirloom jewels.” And now her tears and her nose are running afresh and she looks like a makeup counter car crash, straight through the decency central reservation.

  Dibian pulls a hanky from the top pocket of her ruby tweed suit and blows her nose with sufficient gusto for a cruise liner blast. “Met him months ago. Marios. Thought I’d met The One. Of course I believed his sweet lines and didn’t for a minute question why somebody as gorgeous and young as him wanted an old boiler with bingo wings like me. He had the cutest arse in the galaxy, darling, and I don’t even want to talk about how well hung he was. Anyway, that’s history. He’s dumped me, nicked my money. He’s not even called Marios at all.”

  “The bastard!” I interject, but she’s still going strong.

  “He’s a ruddy Ronald and there’s another six women he’s scammed. The police came last night. He’s made off with my building society savings and two credit cards. I haven’t slept a wink. The bugger even adopted an elephant in my name—I’m thinking it was a cruel joke. It’s virtually all I’m left with. A virtual elephant called Whopper.” She howls. Proper gusto.

  I feel like a plumber who dared to press the bowed ceiling and got
the whole deluge of flood—rafters and all—upon his sorry head. But Dibian is golden-hearted and doesn’t deserve this sorry situation.

  “Shit, Dibs!” I pull her for the hug she needs. It proves to be a sticky hug. She’s eaten a heck of a lot of therapeutic doughnuts. Most of them double glazed and supersized.

  “Don’t dare tell a soul.”

  “As if. But you’re going home,” I tell her.

  “I can’t. Work is all I have!” Another wail escapes her peony lips, one that’s so bad I need ear defenders to withstand it.

  “I’ll see Rogerson. I’ll tell him you’re ill with the bug and I’ll come and see you later. Can you drive?”

  I look at her. It’s a rhetorical question. She could drive but I might have a pile-up and a roundabout multi-catastrophe news bulletin on my conscience. “I’ll get Jack. He’ll drive you. That bastard Marios…”

  “Ronald! Ronald Brown! Rhymes with clown,” she corrects. “I’ll never face a drive-through McDonald’s again!”

  “Whoever the hell he is—as God is my witness, he will pay. Because Ronald’s a rogue. But for now, you’re going to watch the Comedy Channel, eat ice cream and think about booking a cheap holiday online to somewhere hot very soon.”

  I dial Jack’s number. What would I do without my superhero, situation savior janitor? Answer? I’d be in a lot more shit more regularly than I could cope with.

  He answers my call, and Jack can’t contain a long sentence about how he and Will Darby have been getting to know each other and went out for a coffee, but I have to stall him. I don’t even go there with the tiny needle stab of pain in my heart when he mentions Will’s name. I block it out.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack, now’s not the time. We’ll talk later. Dibian’s unwell and needs a lift, can you oblige? We’re in her car in the car park. Come pronto.”

  “Mistress Hicks taken poorly? Of course—on my way.”

  “And if Rogerson asks, she’s green and you had to stop in lay-bys.”