by Ashe Barker
And that does seem to be considerable if his grunts and moans are any indication. It’s quite obvious that his climax is close, whereas mine is nowhere in sight, not even waving hopefully from the far horizon. In final desperation, I reach down between our bodies to stroke my clit, and I manage to make up a little lost ground. My efforts at playing catch up are doomed however, and he comes within seconds. His cock drives deep and hard, nudging my cervix as the warmth of his semen fills the condom. Then James goes still, his weight lowering onto me as his muscles relax in what I assume is post-orgasmic bliss. My still questing hand is trapped painfully between our bodies. Frustrated, disillusioned and totally confused, I tug it free.
Dan may have spanked me, hurt me and at times frightened me. And his refusal to fuck me felt like a slap of another sort. But despite all that, he provided me with more pleasure, more bone-deep satisfaction than I now suspect a lifetime of lukewarm and self-obsessed fumbling with the gentle but unexciting James Barnard is likely to engender.
It makes no sense. None at all.
Chapter Eight
Should I have cut my losses and dumped James at that stage? Maybe. I certainly considered it.
Safe and predictable is one thing, boring and unfulfilling entirely another. But outside the bedroom, he’s nice, good company. We get on well at school, and I do enjoy spending time with him. Maybe I could coach him, give him some pointers in how to pep up his performance to make it more satisfying for me. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, the only people I know now in Bristol are my colleagues at the school, and essentially my social circle relies upon getting on at least amicably with James. So I decide against any boat-rocking. For now.
James and I settle into a comfortable routine of going out together a couple of evenings a week, usually ending up at my place for a quick roll across the duvet. I do make some gentle attempts at refining James’ bedroom technique, but my efforts are not appreciated. Nor even particularly understood as far as I can make out.
“Don’t worry about it, love. It’ll come. Not all women are as highly sexed as we blokes. You shouldn’t feel self-conscious about it. It’s not your fault.”
Err, right…
I have tried once or twice to sort of direct matters, but to no discernible effect. James continues to hump and grind in his own energetic fashion, enjoying himself immensely whilst remaining totally impervious to my indifference. Occasionally he comments on what he sees as my continued lack of progress and suggests I might consider seeking professional help. I’ve now perfected the art of faking orgasms, and James seems quite delighted with his performance.
Sometimes we go out to eat, or to the cinema, and occasionally something more active such a ten-pin bowling. James is always keen for me to come back to his house with him after one of our excursions, usually pressuring me to stay the night. I prefer not to and can more often than not find some reason to go home. Alone.
James lives in a small semi-detached house in the Bristol suburbs. He bought the place a couple of years ago but is struggling with the mortgage. Teachers don’t earn that much, after all. He’s looking for someone to move in and share costs, and it seems he thinks I’d do very nicely. He conveniently forgot that I work as a volunteer at the school. I don’t earn anything. When I reminded him of this he airily dismissed my objections.
“There are always paid jobs coming up. In the school kitchen, classroom assistants. Cleaning. If you’re already volunteering at the school you’ll be able to walk into one of those jobs dead easy.”
I might fancy being a classroom assistant if the opportunity arose, but none of the other roles he seems to think suitable excite me at all. James is constantly asking me when my lease is up and what I intend to do then, pointing out how compatible we are. In every way. I generally manage a suitably non-committal response and with his finely honed talent for remaining completely oblivious to the feelings of those around him, James is quite sure it’s only a matter of time.
The school holidays are a difficult time. The six weeks of inactivity almost send me scurrying back to Kendal, but my bruised ego manages to convince me I should stay away a bit longer. Too much likelihood of running into Daniel Riche and his piercing, knowing eyes, his dazzling smile and sinful voice, drawing me in, making me agree to… Christ, no. Never again!
September comes at last, and I throw myself back into my role, helping to instil a love of reading in young minds. I start to feel more positive. I’m even contemplating new career options. Maybe I could find a way to re-train and become a primary school teacher. That might be nice, certainly a worthwhile calling. I could teach in Cumbria.
With that thought comes the recognition, clear and unmistakable, that I’m homesick. I miss Freya, though I suspect she’s not pining for me that much if her aspirations as far as Nicholas Hardisty are working out. But I want to see her again. And I long for my sisters, for Lucy’s friendly, open trust, her exuberant affection, and for Maisie’s more solemn approach. What if my mother just ups and goes again? What if they’re abandoned, in care somewhere? Foster carers like Margaret Maloney don’t pop up all that often. I really should have at least left a forwarding address in case…
Who am I kidding? A forwarding address would have been fatal. The only reason my mother gets away with her nonsense and keeps on pulling these stunts, is because she knows I’ll be there to mop up the mess. The fact that she has no idea how to contact me has probably kept her on the straight and narrow, or at least her version of it. Even so, home is calling.
I knock on the head teacher’s office door and explain to her that I’ll be leaving at the end of this half term, in October. She expresses regret, says how much my work has been appreciated, and yes, of course she’d be happy to give me a glowing reference. That’s good. You never know when a glowing reference might come in useful. Now, I just have to tell James.
* * * *
It’s a few days since my chat with the head teacher, and I’ve still to break the news to James that he’ll need to find someone else to split the phone bill with. And to fuck. Both positions are soon to be vacant—not that my contribution to his phone bill has been anything to shout about. As we’re chewing on ham and cheese sandwiches and sharing a yoghurt in the staffroom at lunchtime, he asks me if I’m coming round later. I nod, might as well. And it’ll be a chance to talk.
James offers to cook, and I accept. He’s not bad in the kitchen, in an unambitious sort of a way. Not a patch on Freya, who is without doubt a culinary artist, but he’s good enough and whole lot better than me. He knows his way around a spaghetti Bolognese, so I accept his kind offer and present myself at his front door early in the evening, ready to do it justice. By eight thirty we’ve polished off the pasta and sauce, swilled it down with half a bottle of white wine, and James has started waggling his eyebrows suggestively toward the upper floor. I take the hint and we plod upstairs.
James manages matters with his usual alacrity, and I enjoy the foreplay as long as it lasts. As usual, he slips on a condom and drives his cock into me just as I’m beginning to get interested, and I fall back on the DIY approach. I slip my fingers between our bodies and start to manipulate my clit in the way I’ve come to really like, starting by drawing my middle finger tip along the length of my clit, then rubbing firmly from side to side. Maybe James is under the weather or something, because his normal headlong pelt toward orgasm seems to be reduced to a more sedate stroll tonight, and I do on this occasion have time to bring myself to an acceptable climax. My pussy convulses wildly around his thrusting cock, and I scream, as much in surprise as pleasure, as he grunts and grimaces above me.
A few minutes later we’re lying side by side, James’ breathing has evened out and he turns to me. He clears his throat, often a prelude to some momentous statement from him. This occasion is no exception.
“We need to talk. This isn’t working.”
What? I frown in confusion, managing to control any overt display of relief. M
aybe this isn’t going to be such a difficult conversation after all. If he’s also feeling less than enamored of the way our relationship is progressing…
“You’re not one of my pupils, Summer. I don’t like it when you call me sir.”
I sit bolt upright. “What the fuck are you on about?” Now, this I never saw coming.
“You called me sir. Just then. Just before your orgasm. If this is what happens when I encourage you to let your libido have free rein, I rather think I preferred you before.”
“I did not! I did not call you Sir!” And how would he know in any case? He’s so fixated on his own dick when he’s fucking me that I expect the ceiling could fall in and he’d never notice. Let my libido have free rein! He wouldn’t recognize my libido if it grabbed him by the balls and twisted—which it just might if he pisses me off much more right now.
“Yes, you did. Twice actually. This was the second time.” Oblivious to my horrified response, James continues his self-righteous lecture on coital protocol, “I didn’t mention it last week, thought it was probably just a one-off, a mistake. But it happened again, just now. It has to stop.”
Yes, it fucking does. Christ, how humiliating.
James hasn’t finished. He continues to explain the correct form of address for me to use, in bed and out of it, but I’m not listening anymore. My head’s whirling with the awesome implications.
Sir. I called him Sir, when my guard was down, when I was about to come. Oh, Jesus…
At least it’s crystallized matters for me. I sit up, turn to face James.
“You’re right. It isn’t working. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Now it’s his turn to be incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, Summer. Of course we’ll be seeing each other. You’re about to move in.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But you said.”
“No, you said. I never told you I would.” I wriggle into a sitting position and glance around the room for my clothes. Ah, yes, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. I turn to James, and make one last, doomed attempt to acquaint him with the reality of our situation. “You were so busy making plans, your plans, that you never noticed no one else was agreeing.” I pause, then, “I spoke to Mrs Smithson last week. I told her I’d be leaving at the end of this half term. I’m going back to Cumbria.”
“No, you are not. We’re going to be living here, together…”
I just shake my head. Still he doesn’t hear anything I say. I slide my feet out from under the duvet and get to my feet. James continues to rattle on about how things are going to be on Planet Barnard, seemingly undeterred by my words and actions. Even as I dress and quietly leave the room, he’s still laying out my future for me, as though it’s his to command. Even Dan did me the courtesy of giving me a choice. James does seem to come briefly to his senses as I reach the bottom of the stairs because he starts to come after me, calling to me from the landing. “Summer, where are you going? Wait, I’m talking to you…”
At me, maybe. I don’t bother to reply, just close the front door softly on my way out.
Chapter Nine
It’s not especially easy at school, now that James and I are no longer seeing each other. He alternates between taking it hard, by which I mean remonstrating with me at every turn regarding my callous disregard for his feelings, and not taking it at all. The latter state is characterized by his continued belief, apparently, that I’m likely to take up residence with him in semi-detached suburbia some time very soon. I’ve given up trying to convince him otherwise, though the rest of my colleagues seem clear enough what the true situation is. I can’t help wondering how suited he is to his calling as a teacher, if he can’t make sense of the simple phrase, ‘You’re dumped’.
I’m not immune to others’ feelings and I never wanted to hurt him, but I’ve given up sugar-coating it. James Barnard doesn’t listen to anything he doesn’t want to hear, however it’s presented. My strategy now is to give him a wide berth as far as possible, avoid engaging in conversation, and wherever it can’t be avoided and others might be within earshot, I will restate my position as clearly and unambiguously as I can. It’s not pleasant, though—not comfortable for anyone.
I tend to stay out of the staff room at lunch and break, just to avoid James. I’ve taken to staying in whatever classroom I’m based in, either preparing for my next lesson or messing about on the computer while the children are playing outside or eating their midday meal. And it was while I was indulging in a bit of aimless surfing this morning that something incredible happened.
When I lived in Bristol previously, I briefly befriended one of the library users. She was called Sharon, a photographer. Sharon used to call round at my flat a few evenings a week to use my laptop for downloading her pictures as she didn’t have one of her own. We were mates, sort of, until she suddenly disappeared. She left her pictures on my computer, and her library book on my kitchen table. I was worried about her, asked around a bit and finally discovered she was in prison.
I was sorry at the time, I liked her. I missed her company. And now, out of the blue, I’ve found her again. Or more accurately, Sharon found me.
I wasn’t even looking for her, my friend who was thrown in jail after providing a false alibi for the scumbag boyfriend she lived with and who never came back once she was released. I waited for her, expecting her to pop in at the library or maybe at my flat, but she never did. I’d no idea what had happened to her since she’d been released, and I was nothing short of stupefied to stumble across a message from her on my Facebook account.
I hardly ever use it, I only go online when I’m at school and wouldn’t even then if I wasn’t lying low to stay out of James’ way. I logged into my account and there it was, a message that had been lying unopened for nearly three weeks already.
At first I’d no idea who it was from. The name of the sender was no one I knew. Ashley McAllister. I opened it, and the note was short and to the point.
Hi. Are you the same Summer Jones who worked in the library in Bristol?
I wasn’t sure if I ought to reply. It might have been some Internet stalker weirdo or something. I’ve read about those people. But curiosity got the better of me. And what could be the harm?
Yes, I used to work there. I hit the return key and the message was sent.
The reply came even before the bell went to call the children back in. Really? That’s fantastic. Do you remember someone called Sharon Spencer? That’s me. I changed my name, but it’s me.
I stared at the screen. Could it be true? Sharon? Really? After all this time. A sudden, and possibly belated, spurt of caution drove me to check.
It’s good to hear from you Sharon. Or Ashley. It’s been a long time. I wonder, would you mind me asking if you can confirm what items you left with me last time I saw you? I’m sorry to appear suspicious, but you understand how it is…
I was not convinced even I understood ‘how it is’, but still, I felt a need to ask, to make sure. I only had a couple of minutes to wait for a reply.
I do understand. Good thinking. I left a library book, but I can’t remember if I left anything else. You used to let me use your computer for my pictures. You were very kind. I want to thank you.
The library book. The Complete Introduction to Digital Photography. That was enough to convince me, if indeed I was harboring any doubts at all.
Hello, Sharon. How lovely to hear from you. I took your book back to the library. You also left a lot of pictures on my laptop. They are now on a pen drive. I’d be happy to send them on to you if you let me have an address to post it to. How are you? Are you still in Bristol?
Hi, Summer. No, I left Bristol. I daresay you’ll have found out what happened. I pleaded guilty in court and the judge decided I needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe he was right, though I don’t think my subsequent rehabilitation had much to do with him. I ended up in prison but got out after four months. I went back to Gloucester for a while then
moved to Yorkshire where I still live. I became a proper professional photographer. Can you believe that? And you helped me to get there. Your friendship and support, when I really needed it, made such a difference to me. I wish we hadn’t lost touch, but I’m so glad to have found you again. I’ll send you my address, but I don’t want you to post the pen drive. I want you to bring it personally. Would you? And would you come to my wedding? I’m getting married, next month. 20th October, here in Yorkshire. Oh, and I’m having a baby too. Please, Summer, if you can at all, please come. I’d love to see you again.
That bombshell sort of floored me. I didn’t respond straight away. I needed to think. A photographer. Yorkshire. Getting married, and presumably not to the scumbag. Wow, talk about turning your life around. Sharon Spencer, now known as Ashley McAllister, certainly sounds to have done all right for herself.
* * * *
Later that evening, I’m turning over the possibilities in my head. The twentieth of October. That’s the last week of term. I really should be working with the children. But I’m only a volunteer here. If I was being paid, it might be different. I’m intending to leave at the end of that week anyway. And Yorkshire is on the way back to Cumbria. It makes sense. I could go to Ashley’s wedding then continue north and throw myself on Freya’s hospitality again, as usual. I don’t know which of my friends I’m most looking forward to seeing.