“Okay, Mr Clark, you can go in now.”
Sandy was Karen Robertson’s secretary. The head teacher’s sentry, who protected her from a world of urgent, concerned parents, pushy salesmen and so on. You got nowhere without Sandy’s permission, but I was lucky: she seemed to like me. When I turned up just as she was leaving – in this case, it was lunchtime – she didn’t give me a grilling, as I had seen her do to other people.
I could only assume that was because Mrs Robertson had said nice things about me. So when I arrived with my briefcase on the vague pretext of doing something with the school’s computer system, Sandy was all for it. She knew Mrs Robertson would be happy to see me and pleasant and relaxed after I had left.
This was the same Karen Robertson whom I had met through an adult dating site a few months earlier. It had been a somewhat nerve-wracking occasion at first. A bit cloak-and-dagger, with the unexpected complication that we actually knew each other, but only realized when we got there, to the hotel where we had arranged to have a sizzling but somehow impersonal encounter.
When it turned out that she was Mrs Robertson, the headteacher at my son George’s former school and I was Mr Clark, whom she had met at parents’ evenings and sports days. It was something of a shock after our online alter egos had outlined in lurid detail what we were going to do to each other, in that frank and reckless way that anonymity facilitates.
“Oh, yes. You must be the chap who wants to put his tongue between my buttocks and stimulate my anal nerve endings.”
“That I am, Mrs Robertson. Pleased to meet you.”
After the awkward start, that first night had been a huge success, as they might say in the school magazine. I had indeed licked her bottom and we had both enjoyed it immensely, to the extent that we had gone down for dinner to savour the moment, before returning to the room, mellowed by food and liqueurs, to retrace our steps and add some more, including her sucking my penis and licking my crotch with the sort of abandon that suggested she was as depraved as I was.
And we finished the evening with a tumultuous fuck which culminated with me cumming in her mouth.
And then, over the course of several clandestine meetings in her office, our sexual practice had become focused on that first act we had committed. We had established a pattern of rimming-only dates, which gave us both great satisfaction and freed her from the pressures of avoiding pregnancy and the more mundane issue of cleaning up afterwards.
Her husband, short of finding DNA evidence of my saliva between his wife’s arse cheeks, would notice nothing incriminating. And unless Sandy the secretary kissed my nose when I emerged from Mrs Robertson’s office, she too would be none the wiser.
She was very discreet, Sandy. On the rare occasions when she needed to talk to her boss urgently she would use the phone. She wasn’t one of those arrogant PA’s who would take it upon herself to barge in, or attempt to barge in and find the door suspiciously locked.
As Sandy pulled her outdoor jacket on, I knocked quickly and quietly on the head teacher’s door and opened it before I heard, “Come.”
“Mr Clark,” Karen said, striding toward me with her hand outstretched as if in a genuine greeting. “How nice of you to come at such short notice.” She locked the door and then stood right in front of me, looking up, with her lap pressing against mine and her breasts on intimate terms with my ribcage.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she said seriously. “I just had to see you.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” I said, as I often did with clients who appreciated my doctor-like approach to their IT problems.
“My A-drive needs attention,” she said.
“Oh good,” I replied. “Let’s have a look at it.”
Karen unzipped her grey pinstriped pencil skirt and let it fall to the floor. I knelt in front of her and pulled her knickers down. If she was wearing a thong, as she sometimes did, I would sometimes not even bother to remove it, as the string presented no real obstacle to our mutual pleasure. But today she was wearing big, Bridget Jones-style pants which were supposed to help disguise a bigger-than-she-wanted stomach. I pulled them down to her feet and held them as she stepped out of them.
Her neatly trimmed pubic hair looked positively prim as I gave it an affectionate kiss. And then Karen turned round and leaned with both hands on the desk. I kissed her lightly on both buttocks and then parted them to gaze in awe at her beautiful bumhole, whose crinkles formed a perfect circle, like an illustration of the sun.
“I see what the problem is,” I said thoughtfully.
“Can you fix it?” she asked playfully.
“No problem,” I said. “Two minutes.”
Kneeling, fully clothed behind this woman who was naked from the waist down and whose bits were utterly exposed to me, it briefly crossed my mind what someone watching – Sandy, for instance – might think. Something about a balance of power, perhaps.
But I was no servant of Karen’s. Or rather, she was as much my servant as I was hers. We loved doing this together. She gave me the most intimate, secret part of her body, and I gave it a comprehensive loving with my tongue. I could play Karen’s arsehole like a concert pianist plays a Steinway.
I ran my tongue up each side, trying to feel the crinkles with my tongue. I breathed in the wonderful natural aroma of her. I teased her by slipping my tongue up and down the slide above, where the lower back becomes a smooth, safe pass between her twin mountains.
Then I plunged down, right into her, licking strongly at the centre, that wonderful part like the shutter of a camera, which is called into action quite rarely and for the rest of the time remains tightly but effortlessly closed.
A woman’s well-tended leisure-time anus is a wonder to behold and to have access to.
Karen was panting slightly, as she did when she started to get past aroused and towards her climax. A couple of minutes was all it took us, such was the precision of our contact and the compatibility of our desires. I licked her gently, tickling her a little, and then more strongly, pushing her towards her orgasm, and she began to wriggle almost imperceptibly, utterly absorbed in the beauty of what was happening between us.
Sometimes when she had climaxed I would masturbate into her crack and then wipe my spunk out of her, but not always, and today was one of those not-always days. The strength of our peculiar relationship was that I gained as much pleasure, as much of a thrill, from licking her as she derived from being licked. And while the process led inevitably to her cumming, that was enough for me. I didn’t have that teenage compulsion to ejaculate, as if that were the be-all and end-all of the exercise.
My love for Karen and her arsehole transcended such selfish ambitions. Perhaps it’s like the deep satisfaction a chef receives when providing a diner with a wonderful meal. He doesn’t feel the need to go out there and sit at the table and enjoy the fruits of his own brilliance.
Of course, at times it was good to lie there and luxuriate in the bounties of a full sexual experience, but such opportunities were rare for us and these little episodes, these brief but thrilling blasts of excitement, kept us both more than happy.
Karen was adept at cumming quietly, somehow channelling the urge to scream and celebrate into an extra-long orgasm in which her body trembled and shook and vibrated.
That was what she was doing now, her quivering, exultant flesh oozing its thanks to me, as I clung on for dear life, in my own private ecstasy in her beautiful antechamber.
When it was over, we would kiss and mumble heartfelt endearments to each other. She would dress and I would straighten myself out and compose myself to greet Sandy, or anyone else who might be out there, looking for a piece of Mrs Robertson. But the piece of Mrs Robertson that I had, as often as possible and grateful for it, was an unspeakable, indescribable piece of heaven on earth.
