Teach Me Dirty (13 page)

“Yeah, well, I’m not a baby.”

“You’re
his
baby.” His tone was deep and calm and so mature. “He wants to see you do well, that’s only natural, Helen. It’s a big year for you.”

“It doesn’t mean he has to put me on an evening curfew just so I‘m allowed to paint some scenery in the holidays.”

He led the way out and got the lights as we passed. I waited while he locked up and tried the doors behind us.

“If you can’t paint, I understand. Don’t put yourself under pressure.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I want to be here…” I wrapped my scarf around my neck for the walk home, and suddenly he was right beside me, he pulled a tangle of hair free from my collar, and smoothed it flat with his fingertips. And I couldn’t breathe. He stole my air. Breathed me in until I was just a wisp on the wind. “…with you. I want to help…” I’d checked out the canvases before we’d left, and for all our best intentions we were way behind schedule. This was the job of ten people, not a handful of kids.

“I appreciate that.” He was standing so close to me, blocking my view of the way home, like a barricade, as though every part of his body wanted me to stay, even if his mind didn’t know it. He looked through me, like he could see the boring white bra through my clothes, and I felt self-conscious, like a little kid again.

“I… um… I have to go.”

He smiled and sidestepped. “Sorry, Helen, I was a million miles away. Of course.”

“Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”

“Yes, Helen, I hope so. Enjoy your studying.” He reached for my arm as I passed by, and it startled me enough that I gasped. “I enjoyed yesterday. I haven’t talked, not for a long time. It felt good.”

“That’s ok…” I said. “I enjoyed it, too…”

“I just wanted to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I didn’t move and he didn’t let go, and if my phone hadn’t bleeped with another Dad prompter we’d have probably stayed there forever.

But my phone did bleep, and I was already late again.

He let go of me, and I hurried away before I lost every tenuous scrap of willpower I had left in my body.

***

Mark

Her hair blew in the breeze — catching on the wind like a feather halo — and it was beautiful. I watched her leave, and she dithered at the gates, her dainty little feet dancing along the path in sweet black ballet pumps. My little Helen, so graceful and kind. A sweet soul in a sweet body, and I wanted to taste all of her. It was all I could do to let her walk away.

Her nerves were intoxicating, her wispy breath teasing my face whenever I passed too close. It would have been so easy to kiss her. I could have sent the kids home and pulled her close and touched my lips to hers, and loved her. I could have loved her.

I could have made love to Helen Palmer the way I’d made love to Anna.

And then I’d have taken her all over again, and this time it would have been different.

What I’d give to see the darkness inside her; those deep, dark urges that stir the muse and give it life.

I tried to rein it in, returning to my car only when she was long out of sight. I drove home quickly and stoked up the fire. Poking and prodding until it was crackling and hissing and spitting flames at me.

And then I painted. I painted long and hard, as though I could bleed Helen Palmer out of my veins through my paintbrush. My painting was dark and edgy, a dark blur of colour against the flicker of the flames in the grate. Her legs were spread in invitation, and her eyes were wide and innocent. Her skirt hitched up her thighs to reveal just the softest pair of plain white panties. And she was wet. Her tiny nipples poked through the thin fabric of her blouse, and around them I painted my fingers, gripping at her, teasing her, coaxing those sweet little breasts to life under my touch.

My mouth watered at the memory of her taste, and I was hard. My cock strained and thumped and it hurt.

It hurt to need a woman I should never have.

Anna’s face stared out at me from the mantelpiece and today, for the very first time — the
only
time since I’d met her a lifetime ago — I felt the urge to turn her away.

Mark

I could feel my grip on reality slipping away, bleeding out slowly through every hour I spent in the same room as Helen Palmer. The days danced by in a blur of paint and laughter, and on the third day we started up the radio, blaring out a cacophony of chart music that roused the youngsters to new heights of productivity. The set took on life, vibrant gold temple scenes, and a dusty market, and mock drapes in purples and ocean blues, and my beautiful student came alive too, right before my eyes. Responsibility suited her, she bloomed with the thrill of command, coaxing those who looked up to her for guidance with both grace and skill.

I watched her confidence blossom. Her shoulders rose higher, her chin up, her eyes sparkling as she toiled away the hours.

And she reminded me of the love I’d lost. Helen was unlike Anna in more ways than I could ever articulate, but in others she was a perfect match. Her talent, her dedication, her drive, her intuition.

Her compassion.

The look in her eyes had softened, and I saw less of her raging teenage hormones. They’d been replaced by something much more hypnotic. Call it maturity, or call it pure old-fashioned affection, I’m not quite sure. But I loved it. I loved her for it.

I found myself pondering the world in ways that I shouldn’t. Considering the practicalities of a life with Helen at my side, in some far distant future, when she was a woman with university behind her, and I was just a man, not her teacher. But she was so young, with her whole life stretching out in front of her, and I was reaching the middle of mine. I’d be growing old as she discovered life’s endless possibilities, hooking up with men much younger than me who’d steal her heart from under me, just so long as she’d let me go.

I did everything I could to believe that was ok.

She deserved the very best, and that best could never be here, in this town, with a man like me.

She touched her hand to my back and leaned in close. “Kids are wrapping up soon, we’ll never get the final scene set finished on time.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll cover it, we’ve achieved great things here.”

“I’ll help,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

I smiled. “I think your parents might have something to say about that, Helen. Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

She pulled a face. “It’s the last day, what are they going to do?” She dug around in her pocket. “I’ll text Mum, tell her I’m going to be late.”

“And that will be enough?”

She finished thumbing in the letters and pressed send with a smirk. “It’ll have to be,” she grinned, then pressed the off button. “I’m out of signal.”

I couldn’t help but smile back.

We stood and contemplated the final canvas; nothing but a vast expanse of white space, pregnant with potential. She looked at me and I looked back, and there was such excitement in her eyes at the prospect.

“Together?” she asked. “We could work on it in tandem, see where the muse takes us.”

I pondered it. “Without planning? Just ad-lib?”

“Free.” She smiled. “We’ll be free. Let’s see what happens.”

“I like that.”

“I’ll take the right side,” she said and grabbed up a paintbrush.

The final scene was a mountain range under the stars, with the golds of the desert rich but murky in the foreground. We ignored the faint pencil lines, discarding the brainstorm from earlier in the week altogether. This would be our work, the culmination of our week in perfect brilliance, embodied in paint for the year to come. I went to the radio and switched it to CD, firing up a soundtrack that changed the mood in the hall completely. Brooding instrumentals, with a woman’s soulful wail, void of words capable of interpretation but that didn’t matter. The music was alive.

Helen’s body moved to it, her brush strokes matching both tempo and emotion. Her brush marks became ragged and raw, and so did mine, and the work consumed me, consumed both of us, until we were moving as one joined visionary. It had been a long time since I’d worked in sync with another, but Helen made it easy. I could sense her movements before she made them, feel the natural flow of her brush, of her colours, of her body. I’d paint over her strokes and she’d paint over mine, but we never clashed, not once.

The canvas was alive, the scenery blurred and fluid in its brilliance. The sky was twinkling with stars, yet it was heavy with the promise of the new dawn, and the world outside our real life windows darkened to orange and red and finally to dull twilight blue, but it made no difference, we were in that timeless space, where everything loses meaning, just she and I.

We finished the final strokes with a flourish and Helen was out of breath.

“Phew,” she said. “That was intense… like really intense…”

I took a step back, and the result was spectacular. “We make a good team.”

She beamed from ear to ear. “Yes. We really, really do. That was amazing.”

My jeans were splattered with paint, a smear of violet streaking down my thigh from the explosive brushwork, but it mattered not. I was smiling. Happy.

I felt so alive.

“I love it,” she said. “I really love it.”

She turned to me and she was a beautiful mess. Her hair was wild and flyaway, and her cheeks were flushed. Her old pink t-shirt was stippled with gold and red, and there was a smear of green across her top lip. I smiled at her.

“What?” she said, then patted her face. “Am I dirty?”

“Just a little.”

She wiped her face on her sleeve but it did nothing. “Better?”

I shook my head. “No.”

She looked me up and down, gave me a little giggle. “You’re not looking so pristine yourself, Mr Roberts.”

“A small price to pay for art.” I took a step towards her and saw her breath hitch. She was close, and her eyes widened as I tilted her face up to mine. “Here,” I said, “Let me.”

There was a flash of surprise across her face as I dipped my thumb in my mouth, and her lips parted as I ran it across the dry paint. She closed her eyes, and my thumb brushed her mouth, and there was no paint left to clean, but I kept cleaning it anyway, kept moving my thumb back and forth across her soft lips. My stomach tightened and knotted, and I felt heady.

Helen opened her eyes slowly, and blinked at me, and her eyes were hooded and heavy, her lashes fluttering. She moved her head, just a fraction, her eyes on me as she opened her mouth to meet my thumb. She gasped, and I felt her breath before she sucked my thumb between her lips.

I swallowed and it was dry. And I was spinning. Buckling.

“Helen…”

She kept her eyes on mine as her tongue fluttered around my thumb, and it was so delicate, so soft.

“Helen… I…”

Her fingers gripped my wrist, held my hand in position, and her teeth tightened, nipped me gently.

I pushed my thumb in deeper and she gave a delicious little shudder, and I felt her, pressed my thumb against her tongue. I wrapped a hand around her neck and held her there. Her mouth was so warm, so soft, and she made sweet little suckling noises that set me on fire. The Helen I’d known as a girl fell away from me, and there was another creature in her stead. A creature from the waters, who called me and coaxed me and demanded my soul.

She moaned as I pulled my thumb away, and was still moaning as I pressed my mouth to hers. She was ready this time, opening herself up for me and chasing my tongue with hers. I ran my hands down her body, gripped at her breasts with needy hands, and there was no wad of fabric under her shirt this time, just her, just flesh, and the hard little nubs of her nipples. She reached out for me and her fingers tangled in my hair, and she breathed and moaned for more. My hands slipped under her t-shirt, sought out her skin, and my fingers found the dainty curves of her, squeezed her until she gasped against my lips.

“Helen… are you sure?”

She nodded. “I want you… You know I do…”

I reached for her ass and hoisted her to my waist, and her legs folded around me so perfectly, her arms around my shoulders as I walked us over to the stage steps. I lay her down against the floorboards, my body covering hers, kissing her, feeling her, and she could feel me, the swell of my cock against her thigh. I tipped her head back and kissed her neck, tracing a path to her collarbone, where I pushed her top aside and sucked at her bare shoulder.

“Oh yes…” she whispered. “Please…”

I rose enough to pull her t-shirt over her head, and her creamy flesh greeted me, flawless and soft and perfect. Her tits were divine, dressed in the sweetest white cotton, delicate and innocent and tempting enough that I could feel my pulse between my legs.

“Beautiful,” I said, running my fingers across the fabric. “You are so beautiful, Helen.”

She turned her face away and she was flushed. She bit her finger and screwed her eyes shut. “I should’ve dressed… better… I have better…”

“No,” I said. “This is perfect. Helen, you are beautiful like this.”

I teased down the fabric enough to flick her nipple with my tongue, and I found her hand, guided it to the bulge in my jeans.

Her fingers stroked me through the denim, squeezed around the length of me, and she squirmed. “Oh God… I want to see…”

“Soon,” I said. I kissed my way down her belly, pulling from her grip, and my fingers worked the buttons on her jeans. She sucked in her breath as I pulled them from under her, slipping them down her thighs and off with her ballet pumps. She was wearing white, and in the light I could see the promise of her wispy hair. She was wet. Her thighs were hot and clammy. She was shaking as I hooked my fingers inside the fabric, let out a gasp as I peeled them down. She wriggled until they were around her thighs, and her face bloomed deliciously. I breathed on her, teasing her sweet pussy with nothing but air.

She moaned as I pulled her panties down further, until they slipped from her feet. I pressed my hands against her thighs, kneading her flesh and coaxing her wide. Her hair was darker than on her head, but not by much, leading into dainty pussy lips, swollen pink for me. I spread her with my fingers, and she started then relaxed. Her clit was hard and tender, her pussy glistening. I ran my thumb around her, so gently, touching everywhere but her clit until her breath was ragged.

“Please…” she whispered.

“You have a beautiful pussy, Helen.”

“Please touch me…”

I ran my tongue along her wetness, giving her clit just the lightest stroke. She jolted like she’d been shocked, and her hands reached down and held me to her. And then I kissed her, sucked her, moved my tongue back and forth in slow, wet strokes until she was moving with me. I wet my finger and pushed one inside, but she was tight, really tight. She caught her breath.

“Relax,” I said. “It’s ok. Just nerves.” I looked up at her. “Helen, look at me.” Slowly her eyes met mine and she was beautiful. My beautiful girl.

“Just relax,” I said. “Enjoy it.”

I worked my fingers so slowly, teasing another inside, but she was so tight I couldn’t push all the way in. I used my mouth, tickling and sucking in a steady rhythm until I felt the tension leave her. She began to grind at my face, but I didn’t speed up, just kept my movements steady, enjoying the sweet taste of her, the feel of her soft skin, the tickle of her hair against my nose.

It took a long time, but every moment of it was beautiful. She crested without dramatics, a delicate gasp of breath and her muscles tensed. I could feel the tightness in her belly, her urgent fingers gripping at my scalp. She twitched and arched her back just a little, and her feet pressed against my back, but there was no breathless exclamation, no bucking and groaning and begging for more.

She caught her breath, and she was smiling, and my hands were at my belt, sliding my jeans down. Her eyes grew wide as she felt my cock against her skin.

“Are you on the pill?” I said.

She shook her head. “No… not yet…”

Shit. She must have seen the disappointment in my eyes, and her hands reached for me, snaked between us and squeezed my cock to hold me there. “But I can… I can go to the chemist… there is a pill I can take.” She looked so nervous. “Please…”

I nudged my cock to the wetness of her. “You’re sure? I can stop.”