Sweet Addiction

For Sheherazade who is "Indisposed," and I am very worried about.
Sorry that this update has taken so long, all the usal terrible excused but I'm trying to get faster. Hope you enjoy! Evie. xx


Perfection.
Generally, I don't believe in it. But right now, speeding down some country road, with the car roof down and some sickly sweet dance music blasting out of the radio, things feel pretty close. Ahead I can see the sun sinking behind the hills, the air is getting cooler, the air smells sweet, of freshly cut grass and flowers and cleanness, it's a million miles away from the heaving metropolis that we escaped this morning. Only, it's not the perfection of the scene that matters, it's the man driving the car that's making a huge grin spread across my face. I place my hand on his on the gear stick and then run my hand up the length of his arms, feeling his muscular bicep under the soft cotton of his light blue Thomas Pink shirt. I seriously can't believe my luck. My incredibly good looking, slightly sadistic boyfriend (ex-teacher but lets put more emphasis on the former not the latter,) is driving us to his (*Massive*) country house for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary.
The fact that we celebrate of the anniversary of the day that he called me into his office and thrashed me as opposed to when we started dating, or sleeping together, is neither here nor there. We turn into the drive and a few moments later, pull up in front of the house. That house still takes my breath away, the sheer size is pretty startling, complete with fourteen bedrooms, huge kitchen, dining rooms, drawing rooms and my personal favorite “The Smoking Room” which women weren't allowed into until the 1920's. The house is perfectly symmetric, white, and covered in wildly rambling ivy. Outside are flat, mowed croquet lawns, walled gardens, two tennis courts, a huge swimming pool and a maze. The last time I was here I was eighteen, still at school and on an illegal 'prison' break, organized by dear, darling Mr Holden. I don't think that I would have predicted today's events, all those years ago.

I turn to see Jack holding my suitcase, “Is everything alright, Darling?”

I smile at his concern, “God yes, I'd just forgotten how beautiful it was.”

He smiles. “I'm so glad you like it. It must be an age since you were last here?”

“Four years” I reply, quietly. “I've missed it. If you can miss somewhere that you barely knew.”

Holden strides forward, drops my suitcase and wraps me up in his arms, where for the millionth time I am consumed with the desire to drink in everything about him from his hard muscles, to his clean, Malbro light and Abercrombie and Fitch's Fierce aftershave (the best smell in the world, ever.) “Let's go inside, I want to show you around.”

“Ok, but I'd actually quite like to see further than the master bedroom.”

“God, demanding much, Bex?”

I pout and then, resisting the temptation to bite him (a very bad habit that I've gotten into, probably part of my refusal ever to become an actual adult) I pick up my suitcase and make my way up to the house.

Later we sit in the kitchen whilst I make risotto on the Aga and talk our way through a couple of bottles of wine. The sort of relaxed, grown up evening that I used to long for in the old days, when Holden would thrash me, fuck me senseless against his study door and then mark my history home work all in the same day. It was a... volatile? Relationship. I'm sure that what we have now is much better emotionally and don't get me wrong, I love it and I love him, but we are slightly missing the huge passion that we used to have before. I'm not sure whether it's Jack's massive house or the fact that this is our four year anniversary but I'm starting to get a craving for how things used to be. And that's the other thing- Jack hasn't laid a hand on me, the last time was years ago. I haven't said anything- I don't want to cause any problems and I have a feeling that he's holding off because he feel a tad guilty about that whole getting married to someone else thing.

I take the risotto pan off the heat and put it on the side for a second, hoping that it wont spoil. I walk over to where Jack is sitting with a glass of wine and perch on his lap, another habit that he's not a huge fan of. “Ja-ack?”

He looks up, he knows that if I make his name have two syllables I probably want something, “What do you want, Rebecca?”

Ooh he's Rebecca-ing me, Yes please! “You know what we're celebrating the anniversary of?”

“The first time that I very philanthropically decided to attempt to correct your behavior?” He says without a trace of irony. Like there wasn't anything in it for him!

“And you remember what I did to warrant that?”

“I recollect that you broke out of school, went to a pub, drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes, kissed a member of the kitchen staff and then drove back under the influence of alcohol.”

“Oops..”

“Yes. I think you rather regretted it later.”

“You don't say! I had it made until you turned up.”

“But if I hadn't we wouldn't be here now.”

“True. Anyway, what if, it being an aniversary and everything, I was to pop out to the pub, indulge in a little drinking and smoking and then get back here after, 'light's out?'

“Well then you'd be in trouble.”

“The kind of trouble that I was in four years ago yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I'm off to the pub.”

“Ok.” He started to reply something else but the stopped himself.

“What were you going to say?” I ask

“Just, well don't drive back drunk.”

“I won't.”

“And don't.. Kiss any kitchen staff?”

I laughed. “Have a nice night, Sir. Don't wait up.”

He smiled.

“Oh and Holden?”

“Yes?”

“I brought my school uniform with me.” and in response to him melting into a pool on the floor, I stepped out the door, my risotto forgotten.


*

The pub was unchanged, cheap and cheerful and full of the kitchen and grounds staff of St. George's. Unfortunately I hadn't really thought about the fact that I used to go there about four times at week, or the fact that I'd barely changed in appearance in the last four years. So it wasn't surprising that when I walked into the pub things went a little bit quiet.

“Eh look- it's that girl off the paper's. That one from up the school.”
“No! What's she doing here?”
“Dunno. That pervy teacher's got a house round here.”
“Not right I call it. Not right.”

Ignoring it I push my way towards the bar and stand expectantly. The bartender is serving a stunningly pretty girl with short dark hair, huge brown eyes and a Kelly Brook figure. Despite her beauty she was very clearly not eighteen, seventeen maybe. Clearly she was a fan of my old trick, if you don't look eighteen, make the bartender desperately want to believe that you are so that he feels like less of a perve for desperately desiring you. I wouldn't have given her a second look if I hadn't caught sight of her skirt. A St. George's school skirt, and glinting on her non regulation, straining over the chest, shirt, glinted a badge, emblazoned with the words “Head Girl.” Bloody hell, she's got my old job.
“Put it on my tab, please darling?” She husks to the bar tender, who simpers and nods. “Anything for you, Jess.”

Jess saunters away from the bar, all smiles and blithely sits down at her own table. The bar is full of men who are looking at her, and yet she sits alone. I can't resist. I go and sit down oppsit her.

“Hi. I'm..”

She cuts me off before I can finish my sentence, recognition fills her face and she breaks into a wide smile, “Rebecca Jones. I know who you are. You're St. Georges legend.”

I can't help but laugh, he recognition might be razor sharp but I can't help but question if shagging a teacher should really qualify for legend status. “Am I?”

“Of course, you got into Oxford, all those A's, all your charity work, and you managed to keep shagging that gorgeous teacher at the same time. It was bloody amazing.” She giggles. “If we had any semi attractive teachers I'd be taking a leaf out of your book.”

I can't help but smile. “Shagging a teacher isn't all it's cracked up to be. Did you see the pictures in the paper?”

“See them? Darling most of the school have them on their pin boards- Tatler did a feature on shaggable teachers and those who've done them. Mind you, those pictures in the field were pretty impressive.”
I blush furiously, the ones when Holden was taking a riding crop to my arse. “Yeah.. those are a little embarrassing.”

“Don't be stupid! They were fucking hot. I wish I had a man who dared to take me on.”

“Well Jess, I've got to get back home, well, back to Jack's home actually, but I'd love to meet up and if you really did find those photos hot, well then you'd always be very welcome to pop round to us- I reckon Jack would probably dare to take you on.”

She smiled back at me. “You're on. What's your mobile number?” She flipped open a pink mobile and took my number. Then she kissed me once on each cheek and looked at her watch. “I'd better be off as well.”

“Going back to school?”

She laughed, “Fuck no, breaking into St Marten's,” the local boy's school, “for a late night booty call.”

“Nice! Ok, well, Bye Jess.”

“Bye Bex,”
*

I found Jack standing in our bedroom when I got back, I was so exited to tell him about my new friend that I totally forgot about the game that we were playing.

“Jack, Jack, Jack, I met the most awesome girl in the pub, her name was Jess and...”

“Miss Jones, whilst appreciate that you have eventually granted me the pleasure of your presence you are incredibly late.”

“Oh.. Fuck. Sorry Jack- I mean, sorry Sir.”

“Need I ask where you were?”

“If I said library, would you believe me?”

He shook his head.

“Actually, Sir, I was just doing some research for my Geography course work, because I'm looking at the effect of house prices on local areas and how local businesses are suffering and one of the local businesses that I've been observing has been the pub.”

“A clever, if somewhat hasty excuse, Rebecca and one that would be more compelling if you actually taking a Geography A-Level.”

I sigh and pout.

“You're study tomorrow?”

“Nine o'clock.”

*

Strangely, just like the first time I did this, I over slept. Actually given my talent for oversleeping this isn't really so surprising, but I like to think that it was fate. Anyway I wake up at ten to nine to an empty bed, so I jump up, hastily unzip my suitcase and throw out everything until I find what I'm looking for, a pair of Mary-Jane high heels, knee socks, my St. George's school skirt and and very tight collared white T-shirt. I peel off my Pj's (Jack's boxers and a Gap vest with secret support) I add a bright pink bra and fluro-pink knickers (very similar to the first time) God I love getting dressed. After my almost head ache inducingly bright pink underwear which makes me look like I'm eighteen all over again, I slide up the knee socks to just over the knee, taking great pleasure in the fact that there is about a mile of tanned, toned thigh between the end of the sock and the beginning of the kilt that I add next. The waist band of the skirt is folded over once to make it almost indecently short (I can't believe I used to wander around like this, like some kind of Alice in Wonderland/Lolita hybrid.) The t-shirt is another piece from my original aged 17/18 collection and is super tight, the pink bra shows straight through. I loosely braid my long wavy hair into bunches, which I tie with ribbons, more for my own entertainment than Holden's arousal. Then I make my way to his study.

The study is easily the scariest room in the house. I knock once, and none to bravely, on the door. “Come.” comes the voice from inside. Come? Bloody hell he's pompous. Couldn't he just say Come in like a normal person? I gently push the heavy oak door open and step inside.

It's not a small room by any means but not the biggest in the house. Two of the walls, parallel to each other, are covered, wall to floor in shelves of books, mostly leather bound volumes with peeling spines and gold lettering. The front wall has a huge window which overlooks the gardens, framed by heavy dark red velvet curtains. The back wall is free from books and has a couple of non nondescript portraits. In front of this wall is the desk. The desk is huge, leather toped and made of mahogany. The very look of it strikes fear into my heart. Other things, the rich, thick feeling of the carpet beneath my feet, the mahogany, wood polish, books smell, they all fade into the back ground as I look at the desk, and sitting in a leather arm chair behind it, the man who, for now, is not my boyfriend but my teacher. He is wearing that blue suit, I can't be sure but I'd guess it was the same one that he was wearing this time four years ago. When he looks at me he smiles, but only for the tiniest split second, then he recovers and his face is blank. “Your late, Jones.”

“I apologise Sir.”

“I'm sure. Sit.”

I do so.

He also sits down and surveys me over the desk. “So Jones. What are we going to do with you?”

“How about slap my wrists and send me on my way?” I smile, cheekily, “I think that being a Catholic school we should try and use a policy of forgiveness.”

He looks as unimpressed as ever. “I'm going to disagree with you Jones on the basis that you saw fit to go out, on a school night, procure alcohol and cigarettes and spend time in a Public house, flirting with young men. And you did all of this wearing a St. George's school uniform so you have been bringing the school's good name into disrepute.”

“I'm sorry Sir.” I gave him that wide, easy smile again, leaning forward in attempt to offer up my clevage
“No you're not, Jones. But you will be. Take down you're knickers and bend over the desk.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Jones. Now do as I say.”

“But you can't”

“I think you'll find that I can.”

“Fuck you! This is fucking sick”

“You're not helping yourself, Jones. If you like I could call you're parents as well. Do you think that would help the situation?”

Miserably I shook my head, defeated.

“Well then I'd advise that you take down your knickers and bend over that desk right now.”

I did as he said, begrudgingly. Even in role play I found it extremely difficult to let him win. I could hear him crossing the room, opening a cupboard and then walking towards me. “For one who is obviously completely unused to any form of discipline, I think that a nice, traditional, six of the best should do.”

I ignored him, it was my only defense at this point. I felt my skirt being lifted, he gently ran a hand over my arse, appraising it's surface. “It seems such a shame to have to mark such perfect skin, Jones. But if you will bring it upon yourself.”

He stood back, pressed the cane gently against my backside to get an aim, the pulled it back and with a sickening swish, brought it slicing through the air, straight down onto my poor, defenseless arse. My grip on the other side of the desk tightened, by whole body seized up and I gasped loudly. It had been four years, and whilst I had by no means forgotten the agony, it was impossible to remember just what a feeling it was. I stupidly lost myself in thought about how long it had been, and so the next stroke was a huge surprise, I cried out and only just managed to stop myself from getting up, this red hot, searing pain, directly underneath the last one. Sadism and perfectionism. What a magical combination. He carried on this way, lining up five perfect, insanely painful, wealts until he reached the last, and I knew that as he always did, the last one would be one to sit on, again he raised the cane and brought it down, on that line where my arse became my thigh, which is incredibly sensitive not to mention kind of vital for sitting down. I cried again at that one, and once more it was only my firm grip on the far side of the desk that allowed me to avoid getting up. But I had taken the whole caning without getting up or kicking Jack, and now he was Jack again. I pulled my my knickers which made me wince, and pulled my skirt back down.

I felt him, running a very gentle hand over my backside, up, under my t-shirt, his hand caressing my breast through my bra, hardening my nipples, sending electric signals of desire to between my legs, then very slowly, very gently running one hand up my thigh, so slowly that I though my desire was going to drive me mad, then he very gently ran one finger over the gusset of my knickers, putting pressure on my clit through the thin mesh material of my bright pink panties. I let out a breathy moan of desire as he did this, desperate for more. This was no time to be playing around with building up my desire, I was already gagging for him, but he was in no hurry, very gently flicking his index finger over my knickers, making me wetter and wetter. I was still bend over the desk and my elbows were about give way, shaking uncontrollably under the weight of my lust wracked body. Jack sensed that wasn't going to be able to hold myself up for much longer and stopped touching me, then turned me around and sat me on the desk that had been the object of all my fears less than an hour earlier. Sitting on my freshly caned arse was not a pleasant experince, and not one that I would have put up with, if Jack hadn't slid off my knickers and then got to his knees, opened my legs and the proceeded to very gently use his tongue to stimulate my clit, starting very gently, the building up the pressure and speed until I was sitting with my legs as far open and I could get them, my head thrown back in the hair, back arched and crying out for sweet mercy because this balance between the pain of my backside, intense pleasure which was almost so good that I was going to pass out, was so exquisitely delicious that I was seriously worried that I might explode. It was then that Jack got up. I undid his belt, pulled it out of it's belt looks and chucked it across the room, undid his trousers and Calvin Klein underwear, releasing his erect cock. My lust making me into some sex started, wanton whore, desperate to have him inside me, I moved to the edge of the desk, opening my legs as wide as I possibly could I stroked his face. “Please fuck me.” I begged. He circled the tip of his penis on my swollen clit, then very gently placed the tip inside me, taunting me with it. My body was begging for him to be inside me and Jack's resolution for teasing was starting to wear thin. I pulled my t-shirt and bra off and he kissed me, biting my neck, my ears, my nipples, I ran a hand over his penis, guiding it towards me again, opening my legs for him again. Then, responding for my craving he rammed himself inside my wet pussy. I cried out with the initial joy of being so filled by him, being stretched by his girth and length. He rhythmically pushed himself into me and I wrapped my legs around his waist with a vice like grip, he used his fingers to gently rub my clit as he pounded into me, reducing me to the brink of an orgasm hundreds of times, only when I was ridiculously desperate did he relent, brining me to the brink again and then pushing himself even deeper inside me, until, like an explosion, I came. Moments later he did the same.

Excused we both lay on the rug in the study floor, as we had done so many times in so many locations, with his arm around me and my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat, fucked ragged.

“So,” he said, “Tell me about you're new St. George's friend. Did she seem like as much trouble as you?”