On A Short Leash: Creatures of Servitude

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Chrissie Latimer drove into the car park in her battered pink Mini, aware she was twenty minutes late and her first lecture was with dishy Andy Scates. ‘Get your skates on,’ he might say, which, if she remembered correctly, was an example of a pun. Or was it something else he’d taught the class recently, a metaphor or a simile? She liked his lectures best, which wasn’t necessarily saying a whole lot because most of the teachers were crap.

There was no good reason for her being late.

Chrissie had been out for a few drinks with Anthea the night before and was suffering a slight hangover. She’d just left it late to drag herself out of bed. What little leeway she had before she should have set off, she spent on her toenails and then doing her face, rather than getting breakfast, though she had a swig of orange juice straight from the carton.

She’d already selected a skimpy cotton skirt to wear without stockings, matched with a very tight T-shirt. It was summer but her legs were white, not so much as a freckle to be seen. Chrissie avoided the sun because of her light complexion, which went with her sandy- coloured hair. She had very slim legs which she knew Andy had noticed. She could get away without wearing stockings because her limbs were shapely and unblemished. Her plan had been to sit where he couldn’t miss her cross and uncross her legs and try her damnedest to distract him, but that idea had been thwarted by her reluctance to throw off the duvet.

Chrissie had also chosen a pair of her sexiest frilly knickers instead of her usual thong because there was a good chance the skirt would ride up and her underwear would be exposed. She was annoyed that her own idleness had made it less likely she’d get an opportunity unless they got the chance of a chat at the end of the lesson.

Story of her life. She was always doing things that irritated her so she was constantly at war with herself, minor skirmishing at least.

There were other students drifting in, mostly in groups of three or four, a few on their own. They were mainly in their late teens, re-taking their ‘A’ levels or even their GCSEs. This college concentrated on giving people a second chance. It advertised for mature students but as far as she could see, Chrissie was about the oldest, which caused her some embarrassment. If only she’d made more effort at school…

She waltzed into the classroom, swinging her badge-encrusted shoulder bag in an effort to appear unflustered. She tried hard to maintain a bright exterior in front of the mainly young females in the class, not wanting to reveal for a second her insecurities about coping with the work and being practically middle aged compared with them. She was twenty-three.

Andy was handing back essays and making comments. At the moment Chrissie entered, he was remonstrating with a student who hadn’t handed the work in. He turned to her and said, ‘I didn’t get anything from Miss Latimer, either.’

‘Sorry, Mr. Scates,’ she said, cursing herself for not daring to call him Andrew. She kept telling herself she was going to use his first name but still hadn’t quite plucked up the courage. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good time when he was telling her off.

‘And the reason…?’

‘I just didn’t seem to have time. Sorry.’

She couldn’t admit in front of the smirking faces that it was because she had found the assignment too difficult.

‘We’ve got to get our priorities right. Either we’re serious about the examination or we’re not. I’d like a word at the end of the session, Chrissie,’ he said sternly.

He waited for the last student to leave and closed the door behind her, asking Chrissie to take a seat. She was in the process of pulling one of the cushioned chairs, the posh ones, out of the circle, hoping he’d then sit opposite her and this time Andrew Scates obliged.

At least that gave her a chance to distract him, which seemed even more important now that she was in trouble.

On the other hand, being told off by Andrew might be quite an interesting experience because when some men were masterful with her she responded, if it was the right man. She was not put off by his beard though she didn’t normally like a bristly face, certainly not one of those too bushy beards that looked as though they provided habitats for wild life, nor one of the thin straggly variety that looked patchy and unkempt. She didn’t like stubble either because it was scratchy if you kissed and just looked like the guy was too lazy to shave every morning.

Andrew’s beard was kempt, if there was such a word, trimmed, tidy, made up of very dark hair without a trace of grey. It helped him look the part of the English Lecturer. His hair was so black she guessed he might have a lot of dark chest hair and possibly a hairy back. She hoped not. Normally she hated hairy backs, though she might be able to make an exception in his case.

Andy’s face, with or without his glasses, which he used for reading, looked intelligent and sensitive but not soppy or effeminate or anything. He dressed rather well, not in the patches-on-elbows-of-jacket sort of way beloved by many teachers. He usually wore well-cut trousers and good quality shoes with an open neck shirt but they looked quite expensive.

Knowing that teaching didn’t pay well, she wondered if he made money some other way.

She’d learnt a new word recently that she thought fitted him perfectly, charismatic.

‘What are we going to do with you, Chrissie?’ he asked.

In her thoughts she wanted to reply ‘anything you have in mind,’ but actually said, ‘I know. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t get started on it. My head seemed in a total muddle. Anything I wrote down sounded like crap.’

‘If you handed it in, I could judge for myself and give you some feedback. This way we’re getting nowhere fast. Why don’t you ask me for help when you need it?’

‘Because I thought you’d be too busy to help the likes of me and anyway, if I’m honest, I don’t like to show myself up as a thicko.’

‘Chrissie, I know you’re bright. When we were discussing Sons and Lovers you were right on the button. I said so at the time.’

‘But it’s when I come to write it down. That’s when it goes all to pot which Lawrence didn’t smoke as far as I know, unlike most bloody writers. You see, a play on words, I can do it sometimes.’

‘You are very articulate, Chrissie. Sometimes you have a great turn of phrase.’

She saw him glance down as she uncrossed her long legs then lifted her knees, felt the hem of her skirt slip an inch or two up her thighs. There was a spar joining the legs of the chair; she put her sandals on that and rocked back.

‘Mind you don’t fall backwards,’ Andrew said.

‘That’s exactly what my teacher at school used to say. A chair has four legs.’

‘What was school like?’

‘Crap.’

‘Crap. That word again.’

‘No, that’s not entirely true. I was a s**t student.’

‘In what way?’

‘In every which way. I was a ringleader, bit of a rebel.

‘I’m glad I didn’t have to teach you at that age.’

‘I might have been different with you.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘You never know. You make English lessons interesting.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ she said cheekily. ‘Can I call your Andrew?’

‘You may.’

‘Right, I get it. I shouldn’t say can because of course I can say the word. I should say may because I’m asking permission.’

‘Very well put.’

Chrissie flicked her hair back where it was falling over her right ear, found an itch to scratch on her bare leg and then, while her hand was there, stroked her soft downy thigh a little so he’d take another look.

Chrissie saw his face go just a little pink and he fidgeted in his chair, adjusting himself as men do and there it was, a hard on!

Andrew was usually good on eye contact but his eyes avoided hers for a few seconds, not that Chrissie blamed him. She knew she was being a b***h looking at the bulge in his pants when she should have pretended she hadn’t seen it as she would have done if she’d been a lady, which she wasn’t.

‘Look, Chrissie, why not ask for help when you need it? I don’t mind if you give me a ring or email me or even come round.’

‘You’d soon get sick of that.’

‘I wouldn’t. I’m your tutor as well as your English teacher so I have a responsibility to make sure you’re thriving generally. Come round in the evening if you need to. I’ve got a flat near the Hospital. I’ll write down my address and telephone number.’

‘You really wouldn’t mind?’

Chrissie thought it was probably his prick talking. She always found it flattering when a man got a hard on because of her, but she knew you had to take everything they said with a packet of salt when they were in that state. It wouldn’t be work he had on his mind. She could see in a flash he was potentially another distraction, not a solution to her problem in getting on with it and meeting deadlines, yet Chrissie knew she’d probably accept his invitation.

When she got home there were four messages from Brian on her answer phone, the usual abuse. His speech was slurred and full of hate. She wondered why she let the recordings run their course when she could predict exactly what he was going to say. She just prayed he wouldn’t come round.

They’d divorced because of his drinking and his violence. Acrimonious was the word people used. Divorces were either acrimonious or amicable, with nothing in between. Very acrimonious in their case, so perhaps there should be another word for it. Something to describe all action, hate-spitting, nail scratching, fist-flaying, body-punching splitting up. All that loathing pouring from his lips and yet he was plaguing her with phone calls and stalking her. Why did he want any kind of contact if he hated her that much?

***

Chrissie stood in Andrew’s living-room, lounge, whatever it was called and looked round while he fetched a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

There were bright posters for productions by the National Theatre and Royal Shakespeare Company on the walls, a couple of squiggly abstract paintings and lots and lots of books, many in bookcases and others in piles on the bare boards where the carpet or rug didn’t reach. The furniture was cane or wicker or something, the kind she thought went best in conservatories. There was a rubber plant and some other slightly dusty varieties in a trough on legs. Chrissie thought the room lacked the homely touch, like so many single men’s apartments.

Chrissie told him she wanted help with the mysteries of the apostrophe in a piece of prose Andy had asked them to correct, but it was an excuse. He poured out two large glasses of red wine. Another threat to the whiteness of her teeth, she thought, as she picked it up and tasted it; it was velvety smooth so she guessed it wasn’t cheap plonk. She drank half the glass fairly rapidly, knowing it would relax her.

She had put on flesh coloured stockings with coral-coloured garters, which she thought would meet his approval if they got that far. She was also wearing a coral push up bra from Ann Summers which did what it said on the box, and tiny frivolous knickers. Her gauzy little blouse was sufficiently transparent to let him see the bra and, with most of her top buttons undone, her cleavage was well exposed. She wasn’t certain her denim skirt looked exactly right with the rest of the outfit but she’d chosen it because it was eye-poppingly short. Strappy high heels in gold. She probably looked like a tart but she didn’t know how to do subtle and sophisticated.

They actually discussed punctuation for a time, sitting on the same leather sofa and when he got up to replenish their glasses she edged a little closer each time.

Suddenly Chrissie laughed her rather raucous laugh.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘None of my friends would believe this if they were flies on the wall.’

‘Believe what?’

‘That I’m sitting next to a good looking guy in his flat drinking wine talking about where to put apostrophes and semi colons and things.’

‘Good looking, huh?’ For some reason he adopted an American hoodlum’s accent in the De Niro, Al Pacino mould.

‘I didn’t know you were Welsh.’

‘So what would your friends expect us to be doing?’

‘The obvious, I guess.’

‘Would you like that?’

‘I’ll tell you when I come back from the loo. Where is it?’

‘You’ll see it on the right.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of the door.

The toilet was pretty clean considering it belonged to a man who lived on his own. When she came out after checking her makeup carefully in the mirror, she saw the bedroom door was ajar and couldn’t resist pushing it open. There, lying on the bed, with the shepherd’s crook handle resting on the pillow, was a cane of the traditional schoolmaster’s kind. Chris dodged back into the toilet and locked the door to give her a few moments to think.

Did he expect to use it on her? The bloody cheek! As well as being weird, it was so calculating, the obvious expectation that he would get her to the bedroom and that she would just roll over – literally. She was amazed he just had it there on the bed out in the open as though it had not crossed his mind that she might be shocked, rather than having it hidden away until he found out if she was into such things.

Chrissie knew corporal punishment was a turn on for some people and she’d often wondered what it would be like. The idea of being punished by a forceful man she admired was quite attractive as a fantasy but she was doubtful she could stand the pain, let alone enjoy it.

Then the thought struck her that he might be intending to ignore her feelings altogether and cane her whether she was willing or not.

Chrissie told herself she was getting carried away and would be seeing him as a potential r****t next.

‘Where were we?’ he asked when she sat down again and took another sip of her wine. Then he placed his hand on her thigh. She knew her body stiffened and that he would sense a change in her manner towards him.

She always thought she was a broad-minded person but realised she was seeing him in a different light. Andrew Scates, her English teacher and her tutor, liked to cane girls’ bottoms. He was a man who gained enjoyment from hurting people. It took some thinking about.

‘Thanks for the help, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I think I better get back to work.’

‘Come on, Chrissie,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘You only just got here. We haven’t even finished the bottle.’ He held it up and swished the contents round to make his point.

‘You’re supposed to be encouraging me to work, remember? Teaching me good habits.’

‘All work and no play…’

‘Some work would be a good idea. No, Andrew, I’m really grateful and everything but I must get this piece done and then get on with my essay on The Merchant of Venice. I don’t want humiliating in front of the class again.’

‘I didn’t humiliate you.’

‘That’s what it felt like.’

‘I just asked for the work which was overdue.’

‘Well I don’t want to be overdue again.’

‘Good, I’m glad.’

She made a move towards the door and he followed her, looking quite concerned.

‘Thanks again,’ she said, sounding icy. She hadn’t meant it to sound quite so frosty but that was the way it probably sounded.

***

Andrew Scates grinned broadly behind his desk because she’d caused him to get a hard-on. The lovely lady had just left his office but her perfume lingered and so did her image. Even wearing a smart suit for her interview it was obvious she was full breasted and very curvy in all the right places; she was also tall and had very good legs.

She sounded intelligent and her answers to his questions had been sound enough, but he’d made his mind up to appoint her as soon as she’d taken her seat, or perhaps it was as soon as she’d entered the room. He’d just waited to hear her voice because some women looked gorgeous but when they opened their mouths…

Emma wore glasses and her glossy dark hair was tied back but she made Andrew think of the super heroines who throw off their specs and undo a couple of clips in their hair and become transformed. They whiz round like Wonder Woman or step in and out of a phone box or something; the suit is replaced by something much briefer, the tumbling hair cascades over bare shoulders, the alluring eyes are fully revealed and we see her in all her super-heroine splendour.

Andrew then imagined Emma over his knee receiving a spanking or kneeling on a bed with her bare bum raised for a caning and that was what induced the erection. He did this with any attractive woman he met, thought what would her tightened cheeks look like if she was made to bend over.

He was fixated on women’s bottoms, couldn’t get enough.

It was common to celebrate the breasts and he was far from indifferent to them but a beautiful woman viewed from behind was the quintessence of femaleness. Someone, he couldn’t remember who, advanced the theory that men liked breasts only because they imitated the shapes of the bottom cheeks which our ancestors got good sight of when they f****d in the natural animal way, the position not approved of by the missionaries.

He thought a woman’s back was beautiful too, shoulder blades, spine, tapering lines and he greatly approved of those dresses that displayed the naked back and accentuated the bottom by using material that clung to the contours.

When he lectured on D.H. Lawrence, he thought about Mellors waxing lyrical about her Ladyship’s tail and wanting to f**k her in the back passage between her magnificent cheeks. Oh, to have Emma Holman in that position or Chrissie Latimer for that matter or a host of other students he lusted after.

It was hard to account for Chrissie’s strange behaviour when she came round to his flat. He’d been sure they’d end up shagging, but there was this sudden change of mood. Now, she had a particularly nice ass, the sort you could lay a tray of drinks on. It was a mystery why some women’s bottoms stuck out like that while others didn’t protrude at all.

Chrissie always seemed well aware of her charms, though he wondered if she knew her ass was her best feature and usually wanted to flaunt them, which was why it was so odd she’d suddenly taken fright in his flat when there was an opportunity to do something about it. Perhaps she was a prick tease of the first water.

He wondered if she’d seen his cane.

He couldn’t remember whether he’d closed his bedroom door properly. Perhaps she’d glanced in on a reconnaissance mission and seen it lying there.

The way Andrew planned it was to have plenty of foreplay with the woman on the rug in the living room or on the leather sofa before they ran for the bedroom, unable to hold back any longer. The hope was the girl was so aroused she didn’t balk at the sight of the cane and allowed a few playful taps on the butt (being naked by now) as part of the fun and then…

It didn’t always work. He could remember a few getting quite shirty about it. Fortunately no one had reported him. He supposed they felt too embarrassed to tell the story, but he knew it was risky in this feminist age.

He should have been born in a different century.

It was a much safer proposition once they got down to Septimus Grey Academy in the heart of the Wiltshire countryside. The difficulty was getting them there.