Chapter 27
Story
When I walk to school the following morning, I do so bow-legged.
I’m both exhausted and exhilarated.
Every time I yawn, I think about another position Hendricks had me in, once more bringing out my inner contortionist. We fucked all over the house, moving from room to room until it was time to wave the white flag and fall asleep.
My limbs, still soft and gelatinous, are working out how to function.
So when I turn the corner toward the school gates and a woman walking in the opposite direction bumps into me before I can dodge her, I have neither the dexterity nor the reflexes to hold the folder I’m carrying, along with a tote bag filled with pink and red cards. Today, we’re making valentines.
“Oh crap.” I watch as papers float around me and drift to the ground.
I catch exactly none, which is all the more annoying when half of them land in a puddle.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
As I delicately try to pick up soaking wet sheets of paper and pile them up before they turn to pulp, I glance up from my position of scrambling into the eyes of a very pretty woman.
“Don’t worry,” I grumble, though there’s no irritation in my tone.
Not as much as there should be. I am a little annoyed she’s just staring at me, however, and not making the slightest attempt to assist me in the collection of soggy silhouettes the children will be decorating and cutting out later for their Valentine’s cards.
Gathering the last of them, I push to standing. Except my thighs are so sore I can’t get myself into position without looking like I’m either drunk or standing is a skill I only recently learned.
“They look cute.” She points at the pile. “I’m sure Valentine’s is a busy time for you in school.”
I nod and smile, trying to figure out why this woman seems so familiar to me. “Are you a parent here?”
Her eyes drop, and her head bobs, but in an almost timid, coy way. “Yes.”
Great. I stand straighter to appear a little more professional. “Lovely, what year? I teach reception, if you can’t tell.”
Her eyes widen, and she reaches into her bag to pull out her phone. “I’m so sorry. I have to take this. Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I wave as she hurries off out of sight.
My eyes are still trained on the spot where she disappeared because I can’t decide if the whole interaction was bizarre. Who doesn’t help someone pick up all the stuff they were complicit in dropping?
It becomes my second biggest problem of the day, however. When I walk into my classroom a few minutes later, I attempt to separate the soggy papers and hang them over the radiator. It’s a disaster. The ink on the wettest ones has diluted, and several have ripped.
My leisurely morning becomes a race to get new ones printed before the bells ring and pupils arrive.
“Good morning, Miss MacIntosh.”
“Good morning, Miss MacIntosh.”
“Good morning, Miss MacIntosh.”
The third voice greeting me is decidedly deeper and more delicious.
It’s a voice I recognize most recently from whispering in my ear that my pussy was made for his cock. It sets off a flutter of excitement radiating from my belly outward, and a flurry of memories from my evening floods my synapses.
Me bent over the hallway table while Hendricks filled me.
Me sitting on the stairs, thighs wide, Hendricks eating me out like a man possessed.
Me on my knees with Hendricks’s cock down my throat.
Me caged against the wall, arms pinned above my head, Hendricks tormenting me for hours before dragging my fourth orgasm out of me.
Waking up before the sun, wrapped up in the warmth of Hendricks’s huge biceps and solid thighs.
A night I will never forget.
I bite back an incriminatory smile. “Good morning, Lord Burlington. Good morning, Max.”
“Morning,” Max replies in his usual dulcet tone. “Are we singing today?”
I nod. “We are.”
He turns to Hendricks, who peers down amused. “Daddy, I hate singing.”
“Max, remember what we talked about?”
He puffs out an exasperated, “Don’t say hate?”
Hendricks nods. “Good job, bud. Any other word is fine.”
“Then I really, really, really don’t like singing.”
It’s hard to stop myself from laughing or catching Hendricks’s eye when he replies, “Sometimes we’ve got to do things we don’t like. But you know what? I’ll like watching your concert. So will Granny.”
Skepticism flashes in his eyes before he decides to be satisfied with his father’s response, then tugs him forward toward his classroom.
“See you later?” Hendricks whispers so quietly that only I hear it.
I nod, turning my attention to more parents who’ve arrived for drop-off and need me, but I’m also incredibly aware of Hendricks.
Fingertips brush mine as he passes. He’s focused straight ahead, giving nothing away.
I forget that we’ve known each other for a lifetime, that us talking and laughing like the best friends we’ve always been is nothing out of the norm.
But the adrenaline rush that we’re being intimate in broad daylight, in front of witnesses, is more thrilling than I thought possible.
The morning passes relatively quickly, and even though I’ve barely had two hours of sleep, I feel incredible. Much to Max’s chagrin, along with a few others in the rabble that he’s incited, we practice the Valentine’s concert while we craft. I figure it kills two birds with one stone.
“Pink and red cards are on the front desk, which you can help yourself to if you want them,” I point out. “On the side tables, you’ll find everything you need to decorate your card. Please remember our sharing skills.”
There’s a scramble to get to the desk, so I step out of the way and gather up the bottles of glitter glue to hand out.
When I do, my eyes catch a movement across the path outside the classroom and over to the road in front of the school.
It’s not unusual to see people walking up and down it, but it’s a country lane, so outside of drop-off / pickup hours, it tends to be farmers, or horse and rider, or the Burlington Estate teams mending the hedgerows.
So a woman walking back and forth feels a bit out of context, especially when I look a little closer and realize it’s the woman who knocked into me. If she hadn’t caused a mountain of extra work, I probably would have forgotten all about it. But it brings back the feeling that I know who she is.
“Miss MacIntosh, Miss MacIntosh? Are these real diamonds?”
Leaving the window, I walk over to Alice, who’s turning a plastic jewel over and over in her hand.
“They aren’t, but they look real, don’t they? Very sparkly.” I hold out a bottle of glitter. “You can use this to stick it on your card, and the glitter will add to the sparkle.”
It’s followed by more demand for glitter, and I hand them out as quickly as possible. For the next hour, I hurry between desks—helping to cut out shapes, unstick the globs of glue, and wipe up spillages—but I can’t shake my thoughts about the woman who’s still outside.
The children are too focused on making their valentines and who’s using feathers on their card, which means everyone wants to use feathers on their card, to notice me opening the classroom door. Rushing across the hall to Celeste, I knock and pop my head around the doorframe.
“Could I borrow you for a minute?”
She turns to her class, motioning to Katie, our shared classroom assistant, that she’s leaving, but like mine, everyone is too deep in their craft projects to notice.
The moment we’re out of earshot, she grunts loudly, “God, I could use a cup of tea. Henry’s already stuck four hearts to Sabine’s school skirt with Gorilla Glue. Gorilla Glue! I have no idea where it came from, but that child is a menace.” Her cheeks blow out as she exhales. “Anyway, what’s up?”
“I want to show you something, then I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.”
“Oh, you absolute angel. Two sugars? Thank you.”
She follows me through to my classroom, where the children are too busy to acknowledge her. I point out the window, where the woman is still standing there.
“Who’s that?”
She pulls down the glasses from where they’re resting on her head and squints. “No idea. Why?”
“You’ve never seen her before? She’s not a parent?”
Celeste shakes her head. “No, I’ve never seen her before.”
“Are you sure?”
She looks again, hard. “Yes, positive. I’ve done enough morning duties by now to know all the parents by sight.” She points to where the woman is standing. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“Shit.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “Something’s not right. I bumped into her this morning, and she said she was a parent. But it just dawned on me she didn’t have a child with her, and it was too early for drop-off. She’s been sitting there for over an hour.”
“That does seem a little odd.” Celeste pushes her glasses back onto her head. “But who knows why people do things. Now, would you like a cup of tea? I know you said you’d make it, but I’m out now and would like to stay out for another few minutes before I return to the chaos of my classroom.”
I nod, distracted. Maybe I should report her to Mrs. Benson. “Sure. Thank you.”
Once I’ve partaken in the soothing properties of English Breakfast, I feel better. The children tidy up their workstations, and unlike Celeste’s room, we don’t have any major accidents to deal with.
“Would everyone like to share their Valentine’s cards?”
Several hands shoot up. “Me, me, me.”
Alice is leaning so far over her desk, one hand pushing her other arm up, that it looks like she’s in danger of dislocating it at any moment.
“Yes, Alice—”
Her Valentine’s card shoots in the air, a red and pink chaotic jumble of pompoms and hearts, with more bling than the Crown Jewels. “This is for my mummy because she’s always doing nice things for me, and she’s my valentine.”
“That’s very sweet, Alice. Well done.” I smile encouragingly. “Who’s next?”
All hands shoot in the air again, and we speed around the class. Everyone is showing off their artistic skills.
“Thank you, Felicity. Very good,” I say to a Valentine that’s more glue than card. It’s so wet and heavy that it sinks in the middle. “Who’s left?”
“Me,” says Max, standing up with a simple red card with stenciled animals and swirls of pink. When he holds it to the light, I catch hints of glitter because after Felicity, there probably wasn’t much to go around. “This is for my daddy because he doesn’t have a valentine.”
I don’t know what it is about Max’s sentence, but my sixth sense perks up and smacks me right between the eyes.
I know who that woman is.