If I close my eyes, I can see her face and the sultry smile that warmed the coldest of days. If I concentrate, I can feel her skin, run fingertips over its silky smooth surface and smell the light floral fragrance that lingers upon it. And, as I conjure that fragrance, I recall the heat of her body and the electric tingle that arced between us when we kissed. Romilly. I need her, I want her, and if I close my eyes…
“Mum!”
Snapped back to reality, I see Emma standing, hands on hips, one eyebrow arched.
“Are you playing or not?”
“Yes, sorry.” I kick the football her way and watch her dribble it towards the goal where Jim puts up a show of resistance. Then, with a last-minute dive in completely the wrong direction, he lets her score. Emma races around the garden in noisy celebration.
Poor kid. This isn’t the tenth birthday she wanted. We’d booked a professionally-led football party, all the invites out and answered. Instead, she’s got a picnic in the garden with Lucy, Jim and me. Bloody lockdown. I watch her laugh and high-five little Lucy who’s just scored a wobbly goal of her own. Funny, Emma’s the one let down yet she’s coping better than me.
My kids are resilient, bless ’em. I’m not. While Emma and Lucy see homeschooling as a novel change, I’m finding lockdown extremely trying. Juggling “kitchen classroom” time, providing entertainment, and feeding everyone when I can’t get a shopping delivery slot, is stressful. On top of which, teaching my students online is much harder than I’d envisaged. I’m worried that I’m not doing enough and I feel physically sick when I think about grading my GCSE students.
And then there’s her. Always on my mind, invading my thoughts.
“Picnic time, I think,” says Jim, pointing at Emma’s red face.
Emma grins and I nod agreement before fetching plates of pre-prepared food – Emma’s favourites, some bought in advance of the cancelled party, the rest homemade. Emma claps her hands and smiles gratefully while Lucy gets stuck into a fairy cake, licking the icing off first. It’s a lovely moment, captured on camera by Jim to be posted on Facebook and Twitter for the benefit of absent family and friends. It’s not what Emma wanted but she’s having a great day and we’re spending quality family time together. What could be better?
Yet, I’m uneasy. I’m happy, of course, but my thoughts keep drifting. I miss her. I can’t get her off my mind.
***
My first impression of Romilly Dupont wasn’t favourable. She struck me as terribly fake – false lashes, lips too pouty to be natural, and boobs so pert they had to be implants. They were also too large for a woman of her tiny stature. Glamour model proportions. Utterly ridiculous. Always dressed in tight-fitting French chic, inevitably displaying cleavage, I thought her busty Barbie doll image inappropriate for 2020. She was not, in my opinion, a good role model.
Romilly’s Spring Term employment to cover Mrs. Jackson’s maternity leave caused quite a stir. A native of Paris, she was the first actual French person to teach in our school. Her presence was quite a novelty and the fact that she also looked French, in a clichéd kind of way, proved popular with staff and pupils alike. Especially the boys. I’d never seen them so keen to attend French class. That said, the girls liked her too. Everyone did. I alone found her objectionable.
***
The kick-about resumes after food and I escape by clearing up. Guilt eats at me for stepping away but I need a moment to myself. I can’t shake Romilly’s image – her dark brown eyes like liquid chocolate, the kinks in her short raven hair that gave it a messy, carefree look. Nor can I forget the kiss we shared and how she tasted of wine and cigarettes. One kiss… that’s all it was yet it sparked a fire in my loins that flared with unexpected ferocity.
I scrape dishes and dump them into the dishwasher. Working absentmindedly, I drop a cup, relieved to find it’s one of Lucy’s plastic ones. It bounces but I chastise my clumsiness. I must stop thinking about Romilly. I really must.
***
It was her manner and sexy voice that changed my mind about her. Husky from too many cigarettes, coupled with the most seductive Parisian accent, her chirpy hellos and friendly disposition charmed everyone. Including me. I quickly acknowledge that my first impressions were wrong. Romilly may have looked false but she was anything but. She was, in fact, brutally honest and not afraid to speak her mind – making the sixth form students wear uniform was stupid, the food in the school canteen was merde. I wholeheartedly agreed and her brash uncensored statements were a breath of fresh air.
Romilly was also open about her sexuality. In the staffroom, she told tales of adventures with lovers both male and female. And she flirted with everyone, laughing when we teasingly called her a shameless slut. “Oh yes,” she’d say, “I am. Absolument.”
She was fascinating, so free. My attraction to her blossomed swiftly, the intensity of my feelings taking me entirely by surprise. I was happily married with two kids and had never developed feelings for a woman before, so I didn’t understand this sudden and powerful girl-crush. And I couldn’t control it.
I began to watch Romilly. I studied her confident swagger: hips swaying, boobs bouncing. I noticed her outfits and careful make-up, admired the red highlights in her raven hair and the way her fringe sat perfectly in line with her thick dark brows. I noted how her lipstick always complemented her clothes, matching the colour of a flower on her dress, or the buttons on her blouse. And I counted the tiny creases on her chest above her cleavage and the crinkly lines near her eyes when she smiled – indications that she was closer to my age than she let on.
I liked her creases and flaws, and strangely, I grew to like her enhancements. Her enormous boobs suited her as did her full lips. I guess I liked her. All of her. The clothes, the make-up, even the Botox, enhanced her personality rather than defined it. She was gorgeous. Truthfully, I became a little obsessed. I would change my route around school just to see her, and I sat next to her in the staffroom whenever possible. I stalked her and I wasn’t subtle. Yet it wasn’t until she touched my hand and told me that I realised she’d noticed.
***
The sun’s disappeared behind the clouds. Shame, it’s been lovely. Thankfully, Emma doesn’t mind. Smiling, she tells me she’s going upstairs to play with her presents. She got lots, delivered by post. Cards too, and dozens of Facebook messages. I’m glad about that.
Lucy’s overtired. Seeing her yawn and stagger, I scoop her into my arms and carry her upstairs to bed. I draw the curtains and she rolls over to sleep immediately. Downstairs, the TV is switched on and I know Jim will be watching the news as he does every day, worried about our situation. “Furloughed staff payments won’t last forever,” he keeps telling me. Unfortunately, he’s right. But I don’t want to think about that today.
I peep into Emma’s room and she’s on her bed reading. I should go in and listen like a good mother and teacher. But today I don’t. I need time too – just a little time. I tiptoe onward to my bedroom and close the door.
***
I was shocked when Romilly asked me out. It was the last thing I expected. Caught spying on her, I thought she’d ask me to back off and leave her alone, not join her for a drink. Mortified by my behaviour, I accepted. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t trust myself around Romilly, didn’t know myself.
I was a bag of nerves when we met in the pub but Romilly’s warm smile put me at ease and her welcoming double cheek kisses set the tone for the evening. It was impossible not to be comfortable with Romilly and once the wine flowed, I forgot I’d ever had reservations. Have you ever met someone you just click with? Someone you feel you’ve known for years and will be part of your life forever?
That’s how it was with Romilly. It was the joie de vivre that shone in her beautiful eyes, the gentle curve of her lips, and the way she animated her speech with her hands. Grand gestures. No inhibitions. Her body language was openly sexual and she lavished me with flirtatious glances. Me. She was into me.
I talked total crap that evening, my babbling interspersed with schoolgirl giggles, self-control lost in a fug of adoration and wine. I was in my own personal heaven with her. I loved her. So when she leaned in to kiss me, I reciprocated without hesitation. Her lips were soft and she tasted of the red wine we’d shared, mixed with the tang of nicotine. When she deepened the kiss, breasts squishing against me, my pussy throbbed.
It was brief – too brief – but wonderful. A magical moment indelibly imprinted into my brain.
***
I slide into bed and quickly wriggle out of my leggings and panties. Flesh exposed, I touch myself. My loins are hot, as they always are when I think about her. I immediately rub my clit, aware that time is short and my family are in the house – all of them potential invaders of my privacy. I stay alert, listening, but the need to masturbate is strong. Romilly… I need her, now. I feel cheated by lockdown, like time with her has been snatched away and I’ve no idea if I’ll get it back – or even see her again.
Rubbing faster, I picture her face, remembering her red wine kisses and warm touch. I imagine her fingers teasing my clit and sliding inside me. Her groans singing along with mine. My juices stir and I slide a finger along my slit, smearing slick cream along the length before returning to the punishment of my hard, pointy clit.
Closing my eyes, I relive our kiss in glorious detail. Only this time, I don’t let it stop. This time, Romilly nuzzles my neck and peels down my dress straps to expose my shoulders. She kisses them: soft, delicate pecks that dance over my skin. Her body presses against me, her delicate fragrance filling my nostrils. Aroused, I unhook my bra and slide fingertips beneath the silky cups. I pinch and tweak each bullet-hard nipple while, in my mind, Romilly licks and sucks. I gasp – hold my breath – as a flutter in the pit of my stomach sparks tiny spasms that make my body quiver. My orgasm is building and, ever conscious of time, I rub harder.
A sudden hush downstairs makes me freeze. I listen, scarcely breathing… Jim’s turned off the news and all is quiet. Then the Star Trek theme tune breaks the silence and Emma, squealing, hammers downstairs to join her father. I breathe freely. I’m safe, for now.
I need release and I want it before further interruptions thwart me. I rub hard and fast with my right hand; the left I move from my breasts to grasp the cotton sheets, twisting them while I groan and pant. My muscles are twitching, losing control. The burning need to come barges out romantic notions, replacing them with lewd images of Romilly, naked, sitting astride me, plunging her fingers into my wet snatch. I thrust deep, hips grinding against my fingers. I’m close, so close… I feel her breath on my skin, see her gaze meet mine…
“Ahh…” My body convulses and my thighs snap together trapping my hand. “Romilly!”
I’m not surprised to cry out her name, I’ve done it many times before. But never this loud. I sit up, heart racing. Did anyone hear? Sick to my stomach with fear of discovery, I scramble to dress and straighten the bedclothes. When no one comes, no one calls for me, I lean against the wall, breathing hard.
***
The morning after my drink with Romilly, I worried like a love-struck teenager. I didn’t know what to say to her or how to act. Play it casual or bulldoze in and ask her for another date? It bothered me, got me all flustered to the point that I could barely keep my mind on teaching. Torn between seeking her out and hiding from her, I chose the latter. I stayed in my classroom all day. Didn’t see her at all. School was over when I finally plucked up the courage to look for her. I clearly recall the nausea that sent me crashing to my knees when I learned she’d gone back to France.
During the early days of the pandemic, I thought the whole situation blown vastly out of proportion, something we’d look back on and laugh. So for Romilly to drop everything and return to France was preposterous. It wasn’t until the schools were instructed to close that I understood the severity of the pandemic and Romilly’s seemingly rash actions. Even then, her departure, without a phone call or text, cut like a knife. Did our kiss mean nothing to her?
***
Now I stand in a daze. What am I doing? Romilly’s lack of communication should have changed the way I feel. She doesn’t want me so I shouldn’t want her. But that’s not how I feel. If anything, her apparent rejection has intensified my desire for her. It’s ridiculous. Silly. Sighing, I gave myself a good talking to. Romilly’s dominated my thoughts enough. Time to stop. This is Emma’s birthday and I need to be with her.
Resolved, I creep to Lucy’s room and find her still asleep. I’m on my way to the stairs when I hear the beep of a text alert. My phone’s on charge in my bedroom and, not wanting to disturb Lucy, I tiptoe back to silence it. My heart skips when I read the text.
I hope you are well, ma chérie. I’m thinking of you. Romilly x
Blinking, I read it again then clutch the phone to my chest. Romilly. I want her so badly and to know she’s thinking of me fills me with hope… but hope of what?
I’m trembling. I mustn’t. I mustn’t do any of this.
Putting the phone down, the text unanswered, I steady myself until I feel like ‘Mum’ again. Then I head downstairs. Today’s about Emma, not me. And not her.
