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As the Uber drove me back to my lodgings, I got a text from Elle and replied. We did that all the way back to mine.
“Your boyfriend clearly misses you, Miss,” the driver commented.
Not wanting to share or disillusion him, I just agreed.
Mrs Jerome was asleep, and I crept upstairs.
As I had showered, I put on my vest and boy shorts and snuggled in.
I fell asleep reflecting on the day, and woke in much the same frame of mind. I had no idea what to expect in England, but whatever might have lurked in the back of my mind, what had happened with Elle was not remotely on my agenda.
As my thoughts cleared, I checked my phone:
“Thanx, xxx c u l8r”
I was not a fan of text speak, but then again, I was in my thirties, and if that was what Elle wanted, it was fine by me. But the implications? Those kept me awake.
She was my student, so I had just blown away everything I had learned in my safeguarding courses. Then I could not help but smile at the irony. The “rules” assumed that adults were in a position of power and students not; it hardly felt that applied to Elle and me; but how to explain that to another? And yet and yet, I was in a position of power. I knew more than Elle. But that, to my way of thinking, gave me a responsibility.
Elle was not a tabula rasa on which I could inscribe what I wanted. She clearly identified as gay, and she liked to be in charge. My job, as I had had hinted to her, was to work with the grain of her personality to help bring out what was there – the very definition of “education.” We gelled.
I could see from her texts, and from the way she had behaved towards the end last night that she might be falling for me; but then again, was I not in the same danger, if that was the right word? She was blonde, bossy, beautiful and bold, what on earth was there not to like? That I had been able to read what she needed simply told me that we are on the same wavelength. What else lay on that wavelength? We should see.
I checked my phone. It was still only seven o’clock. I showered, dressed, and went down to the kitchen. A few moments later Mrs J arrived, still in her dressing gown.
“You’re up early for someone out so late. Hope you don’t expect breakfast yet?”
I smiled sweetly.
“Can I do you a cup of tea and something to eat? Would you like a cheese omelette?”
She looked at me as though I had sworn at her.
“Well, yes, yes, if, well…”
Silently giggling, I let her show me where the utensils and pans were, and then cooked her a light and fluffy omelette, which she seemed to enjoy, as she did the coffee, which I made the proper way. How on earth the English can pour hot water on granules and call it coffee, who knows? But I cannot.
Mrs J’s mood seemed to improve.
“Thank you, Fabienne, that was kind of you.”
“It was no trouble, happy to help.”
I let her get on and have her shower. While she was doing that, I found the vacuum cleaner and did the downstairs, then I tidied up the kitchen and cleaned the floor. Finally, I thought, it looks as it should!
When she emerged from her toilette, about an hour later, she stood amazed.
“Fabienne! There was no need, you are my lodger, not my cleaner.”
“Madame,” I replied, “I am not used to not pulling what little weight I have, and I am happy to help.”
She thanked me again, and I thought that I had, with any luck, got my landlady onside.
Elle had texted me half a dozen times, and enjoyed the to and the fro.
I headed into the city centre. I wanted to look around the Norman cathedral, which seemed to dominate the city. In the end I spent the morning exploring it. It had a way of reminding me of the fleeting nature of life; it was best to live it while one could. As I prayed before the tomb of St Bede, I reflected on those doctors who had told my mother that I would not live long and that, in effect, my life would amount to nothing. I gave thanks.
There was, I thought, as I had a bite to eat at the café, no doubt of two things: that the English made the most ghastly sandwiches I had ever had the misfortune to encounter; and that the people of Durham were not used to coloured girls. I got no sense of hostility -on the whole – but was conscious of glances in my direction.
Elle texted and asked what I was up to. I texted back and said I was sight-seeing. She texted back that she was looking forward to seeing me later. That reminded me, I had things to do.
I checked out the club/bar, and found the bar staff friendly – once, that was, I had shown my ID and established I was indeed old enough to drink. I had a chat with one of the waitresses about protocols for the evening. She looked as though I was still speaking in French. In the clubs I had been to with Mme Duclos there were dress-codes and things one could, and could not do. Here, it seemed, it was freedom hall.
“Will you be coming alone, or do you have a girlfriend? It’s just kurtköy escort that we also have discreet escorts if you need one.”
I smiled at her.
“That is kind, but I shall be coming with my Mistress!”
I could see her, at least mentally, licking her lips.
“I see, well I am sure that will be fine. Do you want to book a table?’
It gave me a frisson, telling the waitress I had a Mistress, though, strictly speaking (and how else should one speak of a Mistress?) it was not true. Elle had the makings of one, but there was a journey to undertake: I should be her guide. It was, of course, a fine line to tread, but as Mme Duclos had said to me more than once: “tu ma domine du fond.” It had taken me time to realise what she meant, but when, as with her and with Elle, one’s desires were aligned so closely, it made sense, and with one as inexperienced as Elle, it became a duty.
I looked over the menu, and, deciding that I should starve to death in this place, nonetheless booked a table. I loved mussels, and how they were cooked here would be a test; not, I hoped an acid one.
I did a little shopping. I was (just) getting used to having some money, but was careful. However, I knew what I wanted, and found it in a little chichi boutique. I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw – as far as the dress was concerned. It looked like a trapeze slip, but were the ones I had were sheer and black and silk (thank you Madame Duclos), this was a cotton mix in a floral pattern. It hung loosely over my small breasts, neither emphasising them nor hiding them. Mid-thigh, it showed enough to be sexy, but not so much as to look slutty. With a vest top underneath and hi-cut knickers, I would, I hoped, do Miss Elle credit.
After a visit to a final shop, I strolled back to my lodgings to prepare for the evening.
Mrs J seemed in a good mood. I told her I would be out late but would, on getting back, be sure to be quiet.
“Didn’t take you long to find yourself a young man, Fabienne. Ah you French girls, I guess that accent just bowls them over?”
I giggled my assent. My sexuality was none of her business.
More texts from Elle suggested her growing excitement.
“Can u skype?”
I texted I could, and skyped the number she had given.
There she was – my heart skipped a beat – she was bare-breasted.
“Miss Elle, you look so delicious!”
“You make me so horny, Teach.”
“Where is your right hand, Elle?”
She gave a delightful giggle.
“Down my knickers, Teach. I need to cum before tonight.”
“As you are on your laptop, can you pinch your nipples while you rub?”
“My nipples are SO achy,” she panted. I could see from the look in her eyes where she was, mentally.
“Dip your finger into your wetness, Miss Elle, and smear it onto your nipples.”
“Fuck, Teach, that makes them so, so, so throbby!”
As she touched herself, I could see those gorgeous breasts jiggle. I wanted her. But I knew what she needed.
“Good, Miss Elle, now pull your knickers up so they are pulled into your lips!”
The look on her face as she did, told me all that I needed to know.
“OMG! Fuck, Fabienne, that feels so, so, so naughty. SO tingly. Even my asshole feels tingly!”
“Now pull, my darling Elle!”
I watched her pull her kickers up and move them so that she was rubbing her clit. Her left thumb and index finger was pinching her nipple.
“You look so sexy, Miss, such a hot slutty teen!”
“Yes, fuck, yes, talk dirty to me!”
“Does my Miss need me to lick her tight teen cunt and arse?”
“Yes, fuck yes, and you will later.”
“What, my tongue licking up until I tease your clit? Sucking on it and then teasing your wetness?”
“Yessss, yesss, fuck, you are such a dirty bitch.”
“Three fingers in now Miss! Stretch!”
“Oh, oh fuck, fuck, Fabienne!”
I watched as she came hard.
I smiled. She really was such a horny girl.
As she came down from her high, she thanked me.
“OMG, that was amaze! See you later lover!”
And with that, she was gone.
I spent some time getting myself ready after that.
I showered, made sure that my pussy was bare – not that difficult as one of the effects of the syndrome was sparse hair growth down there, and then dressed. I applied my make up carefully. There, I thought, I hope that will do.
Mrs J, who was watching TV as I waited for my Uber, smiled:
“You scrub up well, luv!”
I smiled, taking that as, on the whole, a compliment.
As always, I got there first. I was always chronically early. I would rather wait an hour for someone than be even five minutes late. It was, I assumed, part of my passion for having everything just so. No doubt there was a label for it, but I had enough of those to last a lifetime, so I just accepted it.
There was no doubting when Elle entered the pub. I think every male eye in the place turned to stare.
She aydıntepe escort was wearing a white mini dress, with a V-neckline and flutter sleeves. As she moved, her generous cleavage seemed to move with her. The hemline was equally perfect in showcasing her long legs. She knew the effect she was having, and smiled at me.
“Hi girlfriend!”
“Hi Miss Elle,” I said, rising to kiss her.
At that kiss, I could almost sense a groan from some of the men. I smiled inwardly.
“You look absolutely stunning Miss Elle.”
“So do you, Fabienne.”
As I went to the bar to get her a white wine, I was conscious of being gawped at. Well, I supposed that coloured lesbians were not a common feature of their lives, so they might as well gawp.
I brought the wine back and crossed my legs.
“What’s that?” Elle asked.
“What Miss?”
“On your ankle?”
“Oh that is my ownership anklet Miss.”
“What’s that?” Elle asked in that beautifully blunt way she had.
“The charm in the initial E, for Elle, and the silver anklet will tell anyone at the club that I am owned.”
Elle blushed, which made her look even more stunning – at least in my eyes.
“What, like a slave?”
She looked incredulous.
“No, not like you are thinking.”
“Well what, then?” She asked, sipping her wine, and looking at me.
“There’s a world out there on the Internet where male ideas rule, and yes, those ideas take the American system of slavery, with sexual overtones emphasised and often with pain; but there is another world.”
“I’ve seen the videos,” said Elle with the confidence of someone who had certainly seen some obvious ones.
I grinned.
“No doubt. But there’s another world too, darling. Sometimes they can overlap, and some women do, indeed, want that sadistic side, and if that gets you off, and her, then go for it.”
“But not you?” Elle asked, taking another sip, and locking her eyes with mine.
“Not me. Not women like me either.”
“Can you explain – teacher?”
I crossed my legs, making my anklet jingle.
“Let me try.”
She was suddenly alert – in receiving mode, which boded well for our adventure.
“For most of my life I have worked hard to overcome obstacles. It took gut and an ability to take pressure, but there are times when I just want to surrender control, and those times seem to occur in the bedroom – and” I giggled, “elsewhere.”
“So, let me get this right,” she said, “it’s kind of a relief for you. So If I told you to go to the ladies and take your knickers off you would, and you’d get off on it?”
“I’d get off,” I said, memorising the colloquial English, “on pleasing you. Because that’s the other side of it. I like to please.”
Elle’s smile was wider enough to light up the whole bar.
“Well, you please me, Teach!”
“Good. The two things go together, which is why I tend to choose lovers who like to take charge. But the problem for me is aligning their needs and mine.”
“That,” said Elle with emphasis, “did not seem to be a problem with us yesterday.”
“No,” I smiled, “and that is one of the things which will make this fun.”
“So,” she asked, ever the good student, “other women are like you, yes?”
“Some,” I said, “others just like the hearts and romance side, not that I don’t, but I like something with an edge too, at times. Others, well sure, they will buy into the sort of porn you have probably viewed.”
I could see that Elle was storing all this away, which pleased me.
“Hey girls, can I buy you two a drink?”
The speaker was a man of medium height, a little taller than Elle, which meant a lot taller than me. I looked at Elle. In my mind this was a test.
“If you don’t mind wasting your cash, mate, we’re gay!”
She had done it! She had, without equivocation, thrown a gauntlet down; that was brave. It was the sort of thing I should have liked to have been able to do, but somehow, well…
He looked startled.
“Bloody waste if you ask me!” He exclaimed.
“No one was,” Elle riposted. “Excuse us, we have a gay bar to go to.”
And with that, she whisked my from my seat and we headed out.
Once outside she giggled.
“OMG, that was fun!”
I squeezed her hand.
“It was very brave!”
“Well, what was he going to do, jump me in the bar. I think not!”
Elle was fearless, and I liked that. Confidence went a long way, and given her love of running, I suspected she could out-distance a pursuer; I hopes she never had to find out.
We got to the club/bar, just after seven thirty. As I had expected, no one asked Elle for her ID, but I was asked. To be fair, the woman in the door had her eyes so focussed on Elle’s breasts that I could have shown her a library card and she’s have let me in. And, once in, there was something of a repeat of what had happened in the bar – eyes focussed on Elle.
The pretty waitress to whom I had talked tuzla içmeler escort earlier, was on duty and welcomed us, again her eyes focussed on Elle. I ordered us some wine and we sat to study the menus.
“Is it so obvious that I am only eighteen?” Elle asked.
“Do you think that is why they are looking at you? After all the woman at the door never asked for your ID!”
She giggled:
“No, but she did ask for yours, Miss Thirty something going on sweet eighteen.”
I giggled.
“I’m used to it. You just wait. No, darling, they look at you because you are so beautiful!”
Again there was that blush, which I was coming to love.
“Well, there is something fucking hot about all these older women looking at me.”
“You wait till we dance later. By the way, what do you want to do after? My landlady is not likely to welcome you, and I’m guessing your Mum might not?”
“Back to mine, and don’t worry about Mum. She’s gone out with some friends and is usually back later – we’ll be in bed by then. She may even get lucky and end up doing the walk of shame in the morning, in which case we are clear.”
That sublime confidence of gilded youth. Nothing had gone wrong, and nothing could go wrong. That was such an asset, and I wondered what it must be like to possess it? I would never know.
“You like those?” Elle asked, as the mussels were presented to me. She was going with the safer steak and chips!
“I do,” I said, slowly bringing one to my lips and sucking before swallowing.
“God, that was sexy!”
I smiled, and showing her the next mussel in its shell said:
“Always reminds me of pussy!”
“Fuck, you are such a dirty bitch sometimes, Teach.”
“You object, Miss?” I smiled as a I slurped another.
“Fuck no! How can you make eating so sexy?”
Her foot began to play with mine.
“It’s all in that filthy mind of yours, Miss Elle,” I joked, letting our toes begin to play.
“Well, you make me so wet, Teach, it’s not surprising my mind gets filthy!”
Our eyes locked as I ate my mussels, and I could see the effect it was having on Elle. I noticed that others were watching too. For some strange reason the waitress was extremely attentive, and as she delivered the bill asked Elle:
“Are you two going downstairs to join the dancing?”
“Why?” Elle smiled sweetly.
“Because if you are, I want to dance with you at some point.”
“Done,” said Elle.
We went downstairs. It took some moments to get used to the darkness, and even longer to get used to the noise. I can’t say I liked the atmosphere, but that was not what we were there for.
Elle and I danced together, and then took a breather while I got some drinks. When I got back, having yet again had to show my ID, there was a tall, dark-haired woman talking to Elle.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, as I put the drinks down, “I hope you don’t object to me chatting up your girlfriend?”
Elle put her hand on the woman’s arm:
“It’s me you need to ask, and no, I don’t mind you chatting me up.”
“Oh, okay, but who is this?”
“She’s mine,” Elle said, “she does as she is told. Show her your anklet.”
I showed the woman my anklet.
She smiled.
“I suppose I’ll just sit right down now then.”
“Fabienne, get her a drink too, what will you have?”
I went to the bar to get her a martini. I felt flustered.
Mme Duclos had often done what Elle had just done, but this time it did not feel the same. I had enjoyed the sensation that the woman I was with, who owned me, was desired by others, and had liked, even more, the flirting, and sometimes more, that followed. But with Elle? I dismissed it. I took the woman her drink and sat and listened and watched.
“Fabienne, this is June, she comes here quite often. June, this is Fabienne, she likes to do as I tell her, don’t you?” She looked at me.
“Yes Miss.”
“How old is the little thing?” June asked. “She is legal, isn’t she?”
“Legal,” Elle giggled, “she’s in her thirties.”
“Really?” June smiled at me, “well you are a cutie, but I prefer blondes. Shall we dance, Elle?”
She and Elle went to the dance floor. Sipping my wine, I watched them. Inevitably a slow number came on, and that gave June the chance to get more intimate. I watched as her hands gripped Elle’s bum. They kissed.
I felt myself shiver. I looked round. I was not the only one watching June and Elle make out. There was, I had noticed, a mature blonde checking the two of them out. Then, to my surprise, she came to my table.
“Hi love, been watching your girlfriend making out, so how about I make out with you, sweetie?”
She was as tall, if not taller, than Elle. She too, was blonde and blue-eyed – and even bustier, if the evidence of her cleavage (which was more or less in my face) was to be believed.
“I am not sure,” I replied, truthfully.
“Well you are a cutie, so let me kiss you.”
Her lips touched mine. It felt good.
At that moment I heard a voice – Elle’s.
“What the fuck is going on here? She’s my slut, bitch, how dare you!”
The woman turned to see Elle, who was glaring at her.
“Elle, what the fuck?”
“Mum?”
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