Confession: I’ve never not loved school uniform. I am thirty six years old and I’ve been watching middle aged women flash their thigh highs and Head Girl badges since I should have been revising for my A levels (All B’s, thank you for your concern).
There’s just something about the perception of innocence hiding confidence and experience. I feel more myself in a pleated skirt and a sweet expression, I’m not going to explain it further.
So I seek out ‘School Discos’. That mainstay of the British university experience. I drag my husband to gay bars and grotty pubs that still smell of fag smoke and spilt beer and I grind my cunt against his thigh as BoyzIIMen play for the zillionth time and get wetter knowing every postgrad and Fresher in that room is gawking at us, desperate for their own mature schoolgirl slut.
We snog in that tongue-heavy, close fashion we did when we were just learning to control our arousal. He pulls the buttons of my blouse apart and feels me through the cheap white lace of the bra I know will be useless by the morning. Once someone walked past and drunkenly dared him to slip me a cheeky finger and he didn’t even break his concentration, just ran his hand up my thigh and bypassed the leg of my knickers, diving in with three and I came seconds later, looking that twatted third year in the eye as I bit into my mister’s white shirted shoulder.
The bouncers came over and asked us to leave. Sometimes that happens, too.
Doesn’t matter. We can still play at home.
After half a decade of relationship, he’s learned to read the signs.
He came home from grocery shopping and I was sat on the sofa, braiding my hair. Two fat little plaits with tails that curled cheekily over my chest. A Best of 90s Pop playlist hummed through a list of terrible, cheesy hits on Spotify. My blouse was half ironed on the board.
He put the bags on the counter and tweaked the nearest handful of hair.
“Detention at midnight.” He said firmly, and went to put the kettle on.
At five past midnight, I knock on the bedroom door. I have a well-thumbed, broken-spined copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover held against my chest. We do love a cliché.
“Come.” He calls. I haven’t seen him all afternoon. Rugby match, dinner with colleagues planned months ago and then he hid himself upstairs when he got in, first in the bedroom, then in the box room-cum-study. I had to change in the bathroom.
When I open the door to the small room where I try to do paperwork, he has his back to me, stood at the far end of the room with his fingers drumming on the desktop. He’s wearing a suit, which means I immediately know what will happen. The knowledge of future pleasure drips down my spine like ice.
“You’re late.” He says without turning around.
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
”Really? I don’t think you are.”
At last he turns around, his expression harsh, surveying me and checking for flaws and uniform violations.
“It seems you’re learning at last. Your skirt is knee length, your blouse is buttoned and your tie is knotted properly this time. Your legs are not bare and your shoes look sturdy, not those precarious things your peers are wearing.”
We’re the same height; sometimes he hates it when I wear heels. I try not to smile.
He looks up to make sure I’m looking suitably demure. Sees the book.
“I’m referencing it in my essay.”
“Do you think it’s a suitable subject for academia?”
“Well I don’t.” And leans over to take the volume from me, and his fingers brush my own.
“Well I do.” I say cheekily, my tongue sticking out only for the briefest moment. I lick my lips in anticipation.
“Tardiness and unsuitable reading matter and insolence? Is this really acceptable behaviour young lady?”
“No, indeed. Come here and face the window.”
I do as I’m told, and now his hand is on the small of my back. Wordlessly he pushes forward as the hairs on the back of my neck flinch and I sprawl out across the wooden desk til my fingers grip the edge and my lips are pressed to the polished surface.
He reaches up under my skirt and I feel my flesh snap against his palm.
“For your tardiness,”
“For your choice of reading matter,”
One… two… three.
“And for your insolence.”
He yanks my knickers down for the final set. One…two…three…four. I moan against the desk, trapped, and arch my back to his touch.
There are only the soft sounds of our ragged breath for a little while. He leans over me, his chest to my back and takes hold of my wrists, turning me over and perching me on the desk before him. My skirt falls back smoothly over my thighs. You can barely tell I’ve been tampered with, apart from my squirming as my sore bottom supports my weight, and my nipples are suddenly very prominent through my thin shirt.
He smiles at me smugly, and reaches down to grab my ankles. He passes his hands up my knee socks and under my thighs, pushing them as far apart as he can so he can stare at me, exposed, I can feel the chilled night air taunting the spread, sweet flesh of my cunt. I want him to fuck me. I want to feel him inside me but it’s not up to me.
“Have you learnt your lesson, young lady?”
Now of course, I could say yes, and he’d turn me over and smile and strip and slide his cock inside me and the sex would be the great sex we’re usually having. But tonight I don’t want to be the good girl.
I smile, too. I spread my pussy like a bad girl does, and he nods approvingly. He nods when I slip two fingers from my other hand into the slippery wetness. My fingers shimmer in the harsh bedroom light as I stick my hand out and smear my come over him, massaging his erection through his dress trousers. Seeing the marks make me twitch.
I watch his smile fade away and his brow furrow.
“Oh dear. I think you need something more correctional for this poor display of behaviour.”
His fingers are gentle as he moves his hands up to my hair and loops them around my pigtails.
The first yank is harder than usual, this is to get me upright. Then he pulls my hair again and I’m on my knees, my hands fumbling with his belt.
“Oh you’re a very bad girl, aren’t you? Almost desperate for your punishment.”
I can’t reply. I have him in my mouth already, willing him to pull my hair harder and control me the way we both ultimately want. He knows it makes me suffer more if he doesn’t do it straight away, though. So I have to play up, leaning back to look him in the eye with the tip of his erection resting on my lower lip, my tongue tracing the head. The worst of teases.
“Am I doing it right, Sir?”
“No. You haven’t learned anything at all, have you?”
He rams his cock back into my mouth and continues.
“It’s almost like you enjoy acting stupid because you like being punished.”
He pulls my hair harder and it’s as if he’s fucking my cunt as well as my mouth. I know he’s watching me shift on my knees, bouncing in excitement as the plump flesh of my pubic mound rubs against my thighs.
“At least you’re an enthusiastic girl.” He muses, but his voice is quieter now, and his head is back and his eyes are closed because soon he’s going to come and I’m going to be heavily rewarded for being a stupid slut with a hairstyle that makes me a serviceable toy for his cock.
He fucks my mouth harder, faster, my hair looped around his fists like reins as he shoots deeply down my throat, and I gag, but he holds me against his abdomen until he’s spent, one of his hands now gently cradling the back of my head. He withdraws slowly.
“Good girl. But you know that tease has earned you another detention, don’t you?”
I look up, the slightest dribble of come coursing out of the corner of my mouth, my eyes smarting with tears and my chest heaving. I smile obediently.