Teach Me Dirty (2 page)

“What a difference a few hours make,” he said. “Really, Helen, this has life.”

I loved his eyes, the genuine appreciation for the craft. He took a stool, pulled it between his legs and perched himself at my side.

“I think I’m just about… finished,” I said, applying the final highlight. I took a long breath, closed my eyes and held them closed as I prepared to inspect the final result with clear vision.

“Stay still,” he said, and his voice was low, so low. “You must appreciate this moment and assign it to memory. I want this in your commentary.”

I smiled. “Okay.”

“When you open your eyes I want you to feel everything about this piece. I want you to write it down, all of it, raw. This is a magical moment of creativity brought to fruition, Helen,
you
are an artist. I want to know how that feels, how
you
feel, I want to live it through your write up.”

I could hardly breathe.

And then the unthinkable happened. I heard the clank of my pencil cases as he swept them from my sketchbook, my stomach lurching in horror at the sound of familiar pages being thumbed. My eyes were already wide as he flipped through the contents, desperate in his search to find me a blank page.

My mouth was open, but no words came out, just a weird haunted shriek as my hands went for his, tearing him away from my most private fantasies. He was just a few flips away from the forbidden zone, just a breath away from my abject humiliation, and in shock he recoiled, and so did I. The sketchbook went tumbling between us, and time slowed to nothing as I watched it fall, its pages flapping like autumn leaves until it slammed to the floor.

On the wrong page.

Fate betrayed me.

A lifelike sketch of my own naked body burned my eyes. I was bound on my knees, staring up in reverence at the shaded man before me. My wrists were tied tight behind my back, my head tipped upwards and mouth wide to take what was coming.

The naked flesh of Mr Roberts was purely imagination running wild, but his face wasn’t. His face was perfectly clear and perfectly recognisable. His dark brows were deep in shadow, eyes burning as he guided his thick veined cock towards my waiting mouth. His lips were curved, smiling, his hand heavy on the back of my head, holding me tight.

Oh. My. God.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

I let out a pained yelp and scurried from my seat, but he was there before me, my sketch firmly in his grip as his eyes roved over my dirty secret.

I felt sick and the world lurched around me, my cheeks burning as I fought back the panic. I gathered up my materials in a flurry and threw them into my art case.

“Helen…” he began, but I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “I’m… I’m just… I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“Helen,” he said again, and this time he reached out for me, his hand so hot on my wrist that I jolted away.

“Please, please may I have my sketchbook?” I didn’t sound like me. I sounded like a little mouse, a terrified little mouse.

He flipped it shut and handed it over without argument, and I dropped it into my case like a hot potato. Then I was up, on my feet and ready to go, clumsy feet tripping over each other in my haste to escape, but he called me again, and this time his voice was firmer.

“Sit back down,” he said. “We should talk about this.”

I shook my head. “No need, it won’t happen again, I promise. It will never, ever happen again.”

“I’m not looking for apologies or assurance, Helen, I just want to talk.”

Talking was the last thing I wanted to do. I could have cried with relief when the door swung open and Lizzie’s little pigtails came into view over the paint stand.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. “Please?”

He shrugged in defeat. “School’s over, Helen, you’re free to leave.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, and I was away, clattering into Lizzie by the whiteboard and grabbing her by the elbow. I frogmarched her out of there and didn’t dare look back.

I’d never be able to look back. Not ever.

In fact, I doubted I’d ever be able to look at him again.

***

Helen 

“Whoa. Just… wow. Ok.” Lizzie’s face said it all, and mine burned all the brighter for it. She turned the sketchbook in her hands, admiring the embarrassing sketch from all angles. I wished the ground would swallow me up. “Do you really think he’s that well hung? You’ve probably flattered him, at least.”

“I don’t think flattered is the right word for it. How about mortified?”

Her eyes twinkled. “He isn’t going to be mortified by this, Hels. It’s quite something.”

“And he’s quite my
teacher
. He’s going to be utterly, totally, abysmally, horrifically mortified.” I pressed my palms to my cheeks and they were still hot. “How will I ever be able to look at him again?”

“It’ll take more than this to stop you looking at him,” she laughed. “Old habits die way harder than that.”

“I can’t believe you’re laughing. This is a total disaster.” She’d started flipping back through the pages before I had chance to reclaim my sketchpad, and slapped my hands away as I tried to protest.

“You may as well let me see the rest now! How much worse can they possibly be?”

Much worse.

Much, much worse.

My dirty obsession really knew no shame.

But
I
did. Shame and I were getting a solid introduction.

Her cute little eyebrows rose on her forehead and her mouth curved into a grin. “Dirty minx. I thought you were over all the kinky stuff?”

“Said who?”

She shrugged. “It’s been ages since we talked. You know,
talked
.”

“No it hasn’t,” I scoffed. “We talk.”

“Yeah, just not like we used to.” She flipped another page. “Wow.”

My stomach lurched. “He didn’t see that one. Praise Heaven for small mercies.”

“Shame.” Her smile was full of glee as she held up the page. One of my favourites. Me, bound to a bed, spread-eagled and at the mercy of the man at my feet. He was in shadow, ominous but beautiful, the outline of his tousled hair captured perfectly, even if I did say so myself. My lips were parted, eyes glazed and wanting. My back arched, my weight heavy on my shoulders as my body strained for him, powerless against the invisible call of his touch. “I think he’d have liked this one.”

“He’s not going to like
any
of them, Lizzie. He’ll think I’m a weirdo.” She flipped another, onto my very favourite, the one where Mr Roberts was angry, eyes burning, taking me hard over the art bench where I spent the majority of my school time. He had my hair in his fist, forcing my cheek flat to the wood, my splayed palms smearing paint over a half-finished canvas. A tumbler of water had been knocked clean over, rivers of paint-dirty water snaking away from us and dribbling into the foreground.

“I think you should drop your sketchpad more often,” she giggled. “I think you might get somewhere.”

“Yeah. Expelled.”

“Don’t be so… morbid.” She poked her tongue out. “I like them. I
love
them. Come on, he’s a
man
, right? He’d have to be turned on by these, Hels. Hell,
I’m
turned on by these.” Her expression turned, a sly smile creeping across her pretty face. “Draw me one.”

“Draw
you
one? Um, no. They’ve got me in more than enough trouble today already, thanks very much.” She shoved the sketchbook in my hands regardless, then flopped herself onto my bed and struck a pose. I giggle-snorted as she pulled the duck-face and pinched her nipples through her school blouse. “I’m not drawing
that
.”

“But I’m so
pwetty
.”

I groaned, but I was already reaching for my pencil case.

She fist-pumped the air. “She shoots, she scores! Make it hot please. Really hot!”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want? You fucking Emo-boy over his guitar amps? What’s his coming face like? No, don’t tell me… I won’t be able to forget it.”

“His coming face is just fine, actually.” She gave me the finger, then shook her head. “I don’t want you to draw me with Scottie, I want you to draw me with Mr Roberts.” Her eyes twinkled with deviance. “You can be in it, too, it you like.”

My stomach churned. “
You
and Mr Roberts?”

She nodded. “Come on, Hels, it’s only a game! It’ll be fun!”

“You want me to draw dirty sketches of
you
and the love of my entire measly, miserable, weirdo teenage existence? Why? I’m not even drunk.
You’re
not even drunk.”

“Because it will be
fun!
And, we’re not drunk
yet
.” She reached for her overnight bag, and dug out a bottle. “
Tada!
A quality beverage from the cabinet of the delightful Ray.”

I took it from her. Cheap vodka. Nasty. I tutted but reached for our cola-filled tumblers regardless.

“Bad influence, Lizzie Thomas, you’re a
very
bad influence.”

She held out her glass for a toast, and I clinked it with a sigh. “To Mr Roberts,” she said. “And the magnificent cock you picture him with. May it be true to life. Amen.” She downed hers then pulled a face at the burn. “Now draw me,” she ordered. “And don’t skimp on the detail, I want
everything
, Helen Palmer, your very finest work.”

Nights like this were exactly why Lizzie Thomas and I were born to be best friends. A couple of vodkas took the edge off, and a couple more had me feeling just fine. The giddiness and the giggles numbed my shame in a way that felt nice and warm and tingly. Talking about the
incident
felt easier, lighter. Talking about
him
became dirtier, and Lizzie talked, too. She talked of sex, and boys, and all the hot things waiting for us at university that I had no interest in whatsoever, and all the while I drew her. And him. And me.

I drew all three of us, and it was hot, and wrong, and quite ridiculous, but what the hell. I had to slam the sketchpad closed as Mum poked her head around the door to say her goodnights, and only just managed to clear it from view in time. The damned thing was on a mission to embarrass me completely and utterly, like it hadn’t done enough already. Lizzie collapsed in giggles once the coast was clear, pointing at my cheeks as they re-bloomed to beetroot.

“Shut up,” I protested. “Just shut up, Lizzie. You’re so bad. Look what you’ve made me do!”

I held up the picture and her laughter stopped. Her eyes focused, and she reached out for it, holding it close for viewing. “You see me like this?”

“You
are
like this.” I giggled, warm. “You’re so pretty, Lizzie. Of
course
I see you like this.”

The girl in the drawing had Lizzie’s perfect smile, her twinkling eyes. She was mischievous and dramatic, and alive. In the picture I was holding her hand, both of us naked, on our knees, as Mr Roberts stood tall, his cock proud and ruler in his hand, about to land with a tap against his palm.

“I love it,” she said. “You are so cool, Hels. Sooo cool.”

She downed the last of her drink before pulling out her night clothes. I smiled at the faded cat print on her camisole. She’d been wearing that since we were in primary, only once it had been a nightdress. She undressed in front of me without the slightest awkwardness, brazen and bold, as though the picture itself had come to life. Through tipsy eyes I admired the girl I’d been drawing so accurately. Her tits were bigger than mine, her nipples darker against pale skin. Hers were perky, and bounced when she ran, unlike my little teenager breasts that I bulked out with padding. Her hips were curvy and her ass was cute, and the dark hair between her legs was so much more tame these days. Boys had seen to that. Namely one boy.
Emo
boy. Scottie Davis.

She pulled up a pair of frilly white panties, and checked herself out in my dressing table mirror.

“Height of fashion,” she smirked. “Check me out, Hels. Aren’t I a hottie?”

“I
am
checking you out.” I smiled. “You look cute.”

“
You’re
the cute one,” she said. “Nobody would ever guess what a dirty little cow you are.” She tapped her lips. “My secret. Promise.”

She offered out a hand and pulled me to my feet, wrapping her arm around my waist and making me stand beside her. Our reflections stared out at us, and in the lamplight I looked so much more innocent than her with her edgy little pigtails and smoky eyes.

“I’m boring next to you.”

“No way,” she said. “Don’t be a crazy bitch. You’re so beautiful, Helen.”

She brushed the hair from my face, chocolate brown tendrils of standard shoulder-length hair. My eyes were hazel, not bright blue like hers, and my mouth was not nearly so pouty or dramatic. I had a nice nose, and a cute enough face, and my eyebrows were thick and naturally shaped without the crazy plucking routine Lizzie endured, but she was dramatic, and hot, and different, and I was, well, Helen. Just Helen.

Why would a man like Mr Roberts go for someone ordinary? Pretty, yeah, I guess I was pretty enough. But I was ordinary on the outside, not attractive and outgoing like Lizzie.

“Best friends forever,” she announced.

“
Only
friends forever,” I laughed. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She slapped my ass. “Bed time.”

Her hands found the hem of my t-shirt, as though she was taking care of me in my drunkenness, even though she was easily as gone as I was. She yanked it over my head and I took down my jeans. I unhooked my bra and grabbed my nightdress quickly, pulling it on while Lizzie’s eyes stared at me in the mirror.

“I can get the airbed?” I offered.

She pulled a face. “Since when have I ever, ever needed the airbed?”

I wrapped my arms around her neck, pulled her in for a hug. “Thanks for being my friend, even though I embarrassed myself beyond all redemption. And thanks for the vodka, too.”

“Anytime.”

We washed up in tandem in the bathroom, like we’d done a million times before, and it was comfortable, so comfortable. I was glad she was there in my hour of humiliation. Really glad. She slid into bed first, as always, and I got the lamp. I only had a single; the same white wooden frame I’d had since I was a girl who wanted to live in a princess castle, with the same doodles of butterflies in glittery felt tip. I should grow out of it, one day, but I still liked it. I slipped between the sheets and Lizzie adjusted herself at my side, resting her head against my shoulder.

“I hope we still do this at uni,” she said.

“Of course. Always.”

“Do you think you’ll really be sad, when we get there? Without him, I mean.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I lied. “Maybe there’ll be a hot weirdo arty student out there for me, after all.”

“Do you ever think it could happen? For real? You and Mr Roberts?”

I smiled into the darkness, a sad smile. “Yeah, right. As if.”

“I’m serious,” she whispered. “Why wouldn’t it? I think he looks at you, you know. Sometimes.”

“I don’t even have time to list all the reasons why it wouldn’t happen, and you’re making it up. He’s my
teacher
. He doesn’t feel like that.”

“You don’t
know
that! So, he’s your teacher, but what about when he’s not?”

“I might never even see him again. He might have a girlfriend. A stunning arty girlfriend. He’s probably got one of those. At
least
one of those.”

“You know that’s crap. You know the rumours.”

“If the rumours are true then I’m screwed anyway.”

“I don’t think he’s gay. I think that’s just stupid kid talk.”

“I hope not.” I took a breath. “But I could live with bi. I could live with just about anything. I’d
like
bi. Crap, I’m really drunk.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being bi, Hels,” she whispered. “You’d like him to be dirty, wouldn’t you? Really dirty.”