Rich Tapestry (16 page)

“Good God, what’s this?” He leans up to peer more closely. “You’ve got birds on your bum! What are birds doing on your arse?”

“Not birds. Swallows.” My tone has developed a defensive edge, and I reach to lift his hand from my buttock.

He does not resist. “Swallows
are
birds. What I want to know is why? You don’t look the type to have tattoos.”

Defensiveness is replaced by belligerence. Who does he think he is? “No? What type do I look then? And what ‘type’ has tattoos? In your considered opinion.”

“I don’t know, not really. I just know that you look too—nice. Too ordinary.”

My sarcasm is lost on James or perhaps he just chooses to ignore it.

He shrugs. “Still, not to worry, I hear you can get tattoos removed pretty well these days. And no one will notice any scarring there.”

Well, I can name at least one person who most definitely would. And I may be lots of things but ordinary is not among them. I’m probably not that nice either, in truth. And my swallows will be staying. Clearly James and I are not to be soul mates, but maybe he can still pass muster as a fuck buddy. I’m nothing if not resolute.

Dismissing my swallows, and seemingly impervious to my rather snippy response, James rolls me onto my back and leans in to kiss me. His lips are soft, dry, warm, and he’s actually a much better kisser than I anticipated. I open my mouth, and he slips his tongue inside, curling it sinuously around my own. This is really rather nice, and I decide his less than charitable attitude toward my beautiful swallows might not be terminal after all. Unfortunately, James is less enamored of the preambles to lovemaking than I am, and he breaks the kiss almost as quickly as he started it, to embark on an exploration of my right nipple.

He drums up a competent performance, sucking and nibbling artfully. The tight little bud responds. Clearly Dan Riche was correct in his assessment—I do appear to have sensitive nipples and they harden and swell obligingly. James seems encouraged by this—as well he should be—and transfers his attentions to my left breast. He repeats his ministrations, and soon my left nipple is pebbling to his satisfaction.

James seems keen to press on, trailing his fingertips across my stomach then reaching down to slide his hand between my helpfully spread thighs. He parts my not particularly moist folds gently, wasting no time in pushing two fingers deep inside my pussy. I’d expected maybe a little more preparation than this, and it’s uncomfortable. I gasp, but manage not to wince. Well, not a lot. James is undaunted, and not for the first time, it occurs to me that he’s quite oblivious to my responses. I lie still as he withdraws, to plunge his probing fingers deep again. My pussy is at last starting to take notice, and the second stroke is slicker and vaguely pleasurable. Maybe my ghosts are to be laid after all, though for a moment back there I doubted it.

James continues to finger-fuck me enthusiastically, and my earlier discomfort is quickly forgotten. I jerk my hips, my pleasure building as he manages to hit my G-spot at least half the time. I gasp and tighten around his hand, at the same time reaching for his cock. He seems to interpret that as my signal to move matters on, though in this he is sadly mistaken. Really, I’d prefer to take more time, but James is on a mission and not about to take his foot off the accelerator any time soon, it seems.

He withdraws his fingers just as matters are getting seriously interesting and reaches for the condom he tossed onto my bedside table. He rips the foil and sheathes himself quickly, waving away my offer to unroll the condom onto his cock. He rolls to position himself between my legs, supporting his weight on his elbows and knees as he maneuvers the head of his cock between the lips of my pussy. I’m wet and more or less ready, so I don’t expect this to be as painful as when he thrust his fingers inside me, but I’m slightly nervous all the same.

I needn’t have been. He eases his cock inside me slowly, taking care over this, at least, and my pussy is moist and welcoming. In moments, his erection is deep in me, and he holds still in apparent satisfaction with his work so far. I close my eyes, relishing the sensation of fullness as my cunt stretches and shapes itself around his length. I savor the promise of delights soon to be delivered.

“You all right, Summer?”

These are the first words he’s spoken to me since he told me I was ‘nice’. I recall that Dan was considerably chattier during the evening we spent together and at the time, I resented it. I wanted him to get on with things, whether it was to spank me or to fuck me. He did the former and refused me the latter. Now, with James, I would value a little more communication. I’d really appreciate a sense of connection that seems to be missing between us. At least, I think that’s what’s lacking. And, most disconcerting of all, not even waiting for my confirmation that I am indeed ‘all right’, James is now fucking me with a brand of determined enthusiasm I might have considered quite impressive, were I not so generally disillusioned with the whole business. Now, in comparison with Dan’s more restrained but emphatically more satisfying approach, it just seems like a waste of energy.

I shift under James, trying to re-position myself so that his plunging cock hits my G-spot but as I do so, he changes his angle of entry to compensate and my efforts are foiled. I try again, but the outcome is the same. I look up into James’ face, wondering if he’d take kindly to a little direct advice. His eyes are clenched shut, his grimace one of what I now realize is fully self-absorbed ecstasy. He has no idea at all what, if any, impact his efforts are having on me and his concentration is wholly focused on his own pleasure.

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. Maybe 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.”