Three Times a Lady

And she had to reschedule anyway, because four were about to become three.

How sad was that, and how unfortunate. Balancing four lovers hadn't been any trickier than balancing three. She'd added Abs into her schedule with hardly a ripple.

*****

As far as school days went this last one was not at all typical. After registration they were ushered to the main school hall and told to wait in an orderly line.

Sandra cracked up at that. 'That's what they said on the Sheffield,' she explained.

Angie wasn't quite with it.

'The HMS Sheffield,' Sandra enlarged. 'It was a warship that got sunk in the Falklands War.'

'And . . .'

'My uncle Frank was on it. Haven't I told you, duck?'

'No, but I'm sure you're about to.'

'Imagine the scene,' said Sandra. 'The ship had just been hit by an Exocet missile. It was on fire and well on the way to sinking. Injured and dying men were on the deck, some of them in absolute agony. Argentinian planes were sweeping above them, dropping bombs, shooting off more missiles, trying to machine-gun anything that moved; rescue ships included. Sounds like Dante's Inferno, doesn't it?'

'Sounds pretty grim,' Angie agreed, actually hearing the explosions and screams.

'Anyone else would have cut and run,' Sandra went on. 'Like the guy on Dad's Army shouting "Don't panic!" But the man in charge wasn't having any of that.'

Adopting a very decent version of a man's voice, Sandra mimicked her uncle, no doubt quoting from an oft repeated script.

'Pull yourselves together, you 'orrible little men. What do you think you're on, Daddy's yacht? And for fuck's sake stop worrying about those fucking Argies. Next man I see looking up will have me to worry about, not a fucking shit Entendard. Form an orderly line.'

'Don't tell me, let me guess. They formed an orderly line.'

'It was the British thing to do, wasn't it?' Sandra laughed. 'Apparently a senior officer got them singing Always Look on the Bright Side of Life. I guess they were more scared of another beasting than being burnt or machine-gunned.'

'Uncle Frank survived,' said Angie, 'obviously.'

'He says it was the worst day of his life.' Sandra shrugged. 'Then he has a few drinks and says it's his best.'

'Never did understand men.'

'No, me either.'

*****

The intent of the main hall ordeal was to hand in all items of school property that had been "borrowed" over the years. Angie got a mild bollocking because (and God only knew how) she had two copies of Julius Caesar. Otherwise she passed with flying colours. Sandra had two copies of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and escaped with a similar rebuke.

Holding hands, they retreated to the sixth form common room where coffee and sandwiches had been lavishly laid on. Quite a few teachers were floating about, laughing and joking with their former pupils, treating them as equals. Somehow that brought it all home to Angie.

This really was the end of the road.

Some of her fellow sixth formers were circulating, hugging and kissing everyone they could, showing the same lack of discretion as those long ago Argentinian gunners. Angie could have predicted who would be circulating without pausing for thought. They were the same guys and gals who went round Christmas parties, mistletoe in hand, lips puckered.

Or was she being unfair? If asked last year she would have said she'd never made friends at school.

But now, at the very death, she realized she'd made hundreds of friends; she just hadn't understood the true meaning of "friendship".

Sandra kept flitting hither and thither. 'I'm getting in my hugs and kisses,' she said, 'seeing as you are forsaking me.'

Finally Angie drew her aside.

'That older woman of mine . . .'

'Yes?'

'She's going away tomorrow. She'll be gone for a couple of months. That's why I can't come with you tonight. It's our last time; perhaps our last time ever.'

'I understand.'

Sandra's instant acceptance melted Angie's heart.

'I wasn't going to tell you,' she confessed, stumbling over the words. 'I suppose I thought I could keep Tuesdays and Fridays for . . . for . . .'

'Too late, duck, I know now. But I'm not greedy. You can keep Tuesdays; I'm having Fridays from now on.'

'What's with Tuesdays?'

'Maybe I've got something going Tuesdays myself.' Sandra's chuckle was deep and sexier than sex.

'Hey,' she added, 'this mystery woman's a teacher, yeah?'

Ange froze. 'No,' she lied.

'Sure she is. Who else goes off for two months right at the start of the summer holidays?'

'Sand . . .'

'Don't fret; I'm not going to start rumours.'

'Sand . . .'

'See you duck; I'm off to bash tonsils with boys.'

Angie drew in a breath as Sandra went off hunting guys . . . or, more accurately, made it apparent she was available for hugs and kisses. Predictably, guys and gals fell over themselves to oblige.

Chapter Six

Forgoing a final school dinner Angie and Sandra went to the Roebuck for a liquid lunch, along with a crowd of contemporaries. There was talk about not going back but it was half-hearted. They were all in their seats for Afternoon Registration. And they were all at an unexpected loose end when they the form teachers told them that that was their lot, they could go.

Once and for all . . . just like that.

Some students piled into cars and set off, horns a-honking. Others returned to the Roebuck or flocked to the bus stop.

'I need a new frock,' said Sandra, 'for the party tonight. The one you're not going to. Will you help me pick something that'll guarantee a pull?'

Angie said she would and they spent the next hour or so in the town centre, going from shop to shop until Sandra at last held up a scrap of blue fabric.

'What do you think, duck?'

'It won't cover much.'

'I don't want it to cover much, do I? Come on. Let's see what it looks like on me.'

Angie went with her into the fitting room in all innocence. When Sandra took off her knickers together with her jeans she honestly thought it had something to do with visible panty lines. But it hadn't.

'Quick,' Sandra whispered. 'We haven't got long.'

'What . . .'

'Get on your knees, duck. I need you right now.'

Normally Angie spent time teasing the area around Sandra's clit. Panicking, expecting to be caught at any moment, she went straight for the target. And she wasn't just exceptionally direct, she was rough and ready. Instead of rhythmic licks she simply applied randomly varying tongue pressure. That is to say she varied between pressing very hard and pressing extremely hard.

Sandra came almost straightaway.

Knowing there was a second cum lurking close behind the first, Angie kept pressing, her hands on the world's sexiest ass, gripping it tight.

Sandra's hips bucked urgently, jerkily. She came again, somehow managing not to yell out.

And somebody knocked on the fitting room door.

'Is everything all right in there,' the assistant asked, her voice muffled as it came through the wood.

'I won't be two ticks,' Sandra said, her own voice unusually high. Then, overcorrecting, speaking in deep bass tones: 'The dress is lovely, by the way. I'm buying it.'

*****

Angie's interview went like a dream. She got the contract and was given a timetable covering the next fortnight: thirty-seven hours a week and most of them during the daytime. She could fit in three lovers around it easy as falling off a log.

Lumberjacks beware! Or should that be lumberjills!!

It was perhaps just as well Angie didn't notice Sandra's cum stain on her T-shirt; at least not until after she'd signed up, when she briefly called in at home.

Thank God she'd been wearing a yellow T. Nobody else had noticed, not even the pub manageress.

She hoped.

Dumping all of her clothes in the wash basket she got in the shower and found herself thinking about Simon. Simon was one of several former pupils who'd asked her for a hug and a kiss. He'd also been the most enthusiastic. She'd actually felt his enthusiasm up against her tummy.

At the time she'd laughed it off, telling him she was sorry if she'd led him on. But she'd been secretly proud. Without even trying she'd got a big, hunky basketball player hard and horny.

Now, closeted away in the shower, she fingered herself and recalled her fling with Bobby. Bobby used condoms for most formats of sex. He had, however, allowed her to give bareback hand-jobs. She had quite enjoyed that, watching as she manipulated him, waiting for the white stuff to spout.

What would Simon be like? He had felt huge against her tummy, twice the size of Bobby. Why hadn't she dragged him into a stationery cupboard and coaxed white stuff out of him?

The answer to her question was fairly obvious but still she kept on fingering and thinking about Simon. It was control, she decided. She got off on control. Other forms of sex with Bobby had been decidedly so-so, but bringing him off manually had been okay.

And bringing Simon off manually might be okay too.

Yet it would be nowhere nearly as okay as bringing Sandra off in a busy dress shop. Focusing on the so beautiful black girl, Angie finished the job. Then, chuckling, she started again, this time thinking of Miss Pearce and wondering what state of undress she'd find her in tonight.

*****

Outside of school Miss Pearce thought of herself as "Ronnie". And thinking that made her laugh out loud.

Outside of school Ronnie wasn't exactly a whore, but she was definitely more daring than most.

And wasn't "whore" such a demeaning word? It was befitting one who put out with mere men.

As if!!!

Her position as Head of Art meant that Ronnie had to be careful with her whoring around. Mostly she restricted herself to girlfriends in faraway places. More local romances were rare and generally with guys, for the sake of appearances. That is to say she was seen out and about occasionally with one guy or another; her trysts with girls were much more frequent and always held behind closed doors.

It was unfair, of course. She wasn't in the least ashamed about her sexuality but had a headmaster and board of governors to answer to. Politicians all of them, they had a version of "correctness" that belonged in the Dark Ages.

If word ever got out about her and Angie they'd burn her at the stake.

After gratuitously whipping her and branding her with hot irons.

Like the bastards they were.

And the female governors were just as bad.

Ronnie laughed again. At one stage Angie had been the epitome of discreet, only calling on her under cover of dark winter nights. Now, as darkness and dusk had retreated, she'd become noticeably bold. Still, she'd had little choice in the matter. Waiting until dark in July was unthinkable. Angie needed to be home before half past three. To get their full eight hours in they simply had to rendezvous at six at the very latest.

With Angie a full eight hours wasn't just a need, it was a necessity.

Yes, wasn't it just!

Even with governors to contend with, Ronnie was a free spirit. Being free was not something she had acquired along the way; it was something that had always been inside her. It was also something that made finishing with Angie a painful thing to do.

Not that she ever really finished with anyone. She was only thirty-something but took care to behave like a child of the 60s. Free-loving wasn't just her first rule, it was her only rule. And she always tried to keep friends as lovers and lovers as friends.

Hopefully that would be the case with Angie. Hopefully they'd have a final night of unbridled passion and agree to meet anon.

Further on down the road, so to speak.

Ronnie was going away because out of term-time she had a second profession. Painting in oils was her one true love. She wished she could do it all the time and one day she would. That was because she had commercial sense as well as oodles of artistic inspiration. She loved to paint but she knew what she had to paint in order to sell. And sell she did. She was currently shifting a canvas a week.

And that's freaking impressive, she thought. Eat your heart out, Vincent. I'm not on your tail, I'm two leagues ahead!

Standard practice was for Ronnie to paint at weekends, most often in the Peak District. During school holidays she'd go farther afield, getting in a few seascapes as well as the usual landscapes. The eight week summer break was her chance to head off to her mecca of Cornwall.

Meaning the mecca of light unparalleled anywhere else in the universe.

In other words, meaning Newlyn.

But Angie couldn't go with her. And, when she came back for the new school year, Angie would be on the verge of leaving for university. Six months of having sex every Tuesday and Friday . . . gone in the blink of an eye.

The realist in Ronnie told her to make the best of tonight. And she was certainly prepared. As always she had wine and snacks ready and waiting in the fridge. And as always, she expected the snacks to remain untouched and the wine to be left until a mid-session break, somewhere around ten o'clock.

That was perhaps due to her provocative dressing as much as Angie's eagerness. For their very first pre-arranged tryst, wanting to signal her lust and no reticence at all, Ronnie had answered the door in sexy lingerie and a see-through gown. That had set a pattern, with her doing her best to never answer in the same outfit. Basques, corsets, nothing at all . . . she had never failed to titivate.

And wasn't it a good job her garden path was at an angle? Opening the door she could be seen from the path but not by passersby on the road.

Tonight she was wearing stockings and a suspender belt, all in bright white; nothing else, no panties or bra . . . just the stockings and a knowing smile.

She regarded herself in the mirror a while. Thirty-something or not, she was hot. If she'd met a chick like herself she'd have fucked her on the spot. And white worked for her. Overall she favoured black but white came a close second. Not that she ruled out other colours: revealing and sexy were vitally important factors, not shades or tones.

Coming from an emerging artist such thoughts were funny.

It was two minutes before six and Angie was nothing if not punctual. If she said she'd be there at six she'd arrive on the dot, not a second before, not a second after. If only the girl's orgasms were nearly so predictable!

Ronnie moved into position. Bang on cue, twenty seconds before six, the latch on her gate lifted. She gave it another ten seconds then opened the door. Sure enough Angie was halfway down the path.

'Well hello,' said Ronnie, using a curled finger to beckon, like a girl in an Amsterdam shop window.

Angie never smiled but could grin. Just then her grin was as welcoming as Ronnie's gesture.

'Hi,' she said, 'you're . . .'

Then the latch lifted again.

'Angie,' a voice cried, 'is that you?'

Ronnie's heart lurched. Freaking hell, it was Liz Johnston from school.

Caught out or what!

Chapter Seven

For a moment in time the three of them were frozen in tableau: Angie most of the way down the path, Liz a yard inside the gate, able to see everything.

Ronnie recovered first. 'Come on in,' she said like a game show host. 'Come in, both of you.'

Angie's face was white. She looked stunned. Ronnie grabbed her by the arm and tugged.

'Get in the kitchen,' she hissed.

Shell-shocked, Angie obeyed.

'Please Liz,' Ronnie went on, 'we need to talk. Come in and share a glass of wine.'

For an awful second she thought Liz was going to cut and run. But then she came toward Ronnie and let herself be bundled inside. Ronnie locked the door behind them and steered her into the best seat at the kitchen table.

'White all right,' she enquired.

'What do you mean, white?'

'I mean white wine. Is that all right?'

'Not for me. I'm driving.'

Ignoring Liz's objection, Ronnie poured three large glasses of pinot.

Her two guests kept mum. Angie was staring morosely at the tabletop; Liz was staring at Ronnie's tits.

Oops!

'I'll just go cover up,' Ronnie said. Then, reverting to Miss Pearce mode: 'Wait right here, you two. Do not move an inch.'

The choice of robes was not immense. No, that was unfair. There was plenty to choose from, but not if you weren't into see-through. Ronnie didn't do flannelette.

Before desperation could set in a tiny voice murmured in her ear.

'Liz likes tits; use it and abuse it.'

Picking a flimsy white gown Ronnie tied it at her waist and left the V open. Well, mostly open. It could be argued that her tits were concealed . . . but only in a school for the blind.

'Still here then,' she said, returning to the kitchen. 'That's good.'

For a driver Liz hadn't half emptied her glass quickly. Struck dumb as she was, Angie wasn't very far behind her. Ronnie topped them up and took a seat.

'No point in denying it, Liz,' she began, 'you've got us in flagrante. What do you intend to do about it?'

Liz did a double-take, as if she'd only just realized what she'd walked in on. 'I'm still reeling,' she said. 'I mean, we all knew that Ange had an older woman in the background. We've guessed at all sorts of possibilities. But you never came into the frame. I'm astonished, if you must know.'

'I've been a lesbian forever,' Ronnie replied. 'I only wish I could be as brave about it as you are.'

'So why aren't you,' asked Liz, frowning.

'I have dinosaurs to answer to,' said Ronnie. 'But I've never denied what I am. It's just that folk rarely ask anymore. The last time I had to fill in a form about sexuality was joining the lesbian society at uni. And then there was only one box to tick.'

'But you're still active?'

Ronnie didn't need to fake a laugh. 'If it wasn't for you I'd be active right now. Angie's just as impatient as I am. And I'm also rather a tart. I'm amazed Angie puts up with me.'

It was Angie's turn to frown.

'Ronnie and I are both over eighteen and consenting,' she said, finally recovering the ability to speak. 'Catching us in flagrante isn't an issue.'

'Miss Pearce is your teacher,' said Liz, as if she was speaking to an imbecile.

'She hasn't been my teacher in three years.'

'She's a teacher at your school, Ange.'

'Not since this afternoon she's not.'

'Girls, girls,' Ronnie said, 'don't bicker. The truth is that Liz's right. I'm a teacher at your school, Angie. If we're formally uncovered I'm toast. And we'll both be front page news. Can't you see the headline?'

'What headline?'

'Wicked Lesbian Teacher Preys on Defenceless Student.'

'That's bollocks.'

'That's newspapers. Make it sound as bad as possible and play up the lesbian angle.'

Liz flinched at that. Ronnie knew she was in a firm relationship with Suzanne Quinn and smiled at her.

'It's the cross we have to bear,' she said. 'Be careful with your words when you spill the beans, Liz. If the reporters find out that you were actually here with us, it'll become a three-in-a-bed lesbian romp.'

'It's the best bit of gossip I've ever had,' said Liz, 'but I'd never sell out sisters. Stuff the story; I'll keep it to myself.'

Ronnie hid her smile. Liz's eyes were still hovering on her chest. She'd rather expected the show of solidarity.

And my, weren't her nipples swollen! This was supposed to be a trade-off, not a sexual come-on.

Or was it?

'What are you doing here?' she wondered. 'Assuming you aren't after a three-in-a-bed romp?'

Liz blushed and looked from Ronnie's tits to Angie's. No doubt about it, Liz was a tit fanatic. Being as subtle as she could, Ronnie widened the V in her robe. Defying gravity, her tits stayed inside . . . well, almost.

'So why are you here,' she persisted. 'Were you dogging Angie?'

'I saw her from up the road. I was coming here to deliver one of these, so I came after her to say hi. I didn't know it was your house, you see.'