Letters Around Midnight (2 page)

I don't think people realise how hard it is running your own business. It involves long hours. You can easily end up by yourself for long periods and I can't remember the last time I had a relationship. It's why Marco and I hit it off so quickly. I was lonely because of work and he was homesick in a strange country. We each had our own seclusion to escape from.

One day last week, things were quiet. I was in the storeroom at the back of the stall and had finished all the orders I needed to do that day. To be honest, I was daydreaming about Marco. He was a welcome distraction whilst I had my hands around an arrangement. I noticed someone at the front of the stall, so I went out to serve them.

I got a pleasant surprise. Marco was standing amongst my displays, looking at the flowers. We smiled, exchanged greetings in Italian and kissed cheeks. He told me he was over from the family's home town in Umbria and wanted to buy flowers for his grandmother to say thank you for looking after him in London. We talked prices and blooms and browsed the buckets on the display together. He picked up individual blooms and held them up to the light as if they were something precious. A couple of times he stopped and cupped bundles of blooms in his hands and inhaled deeply with his nose amongst the petals. The ones he chose he handed to me saying,

“Belissima.” To see him enraptured by my flowers was wonderful; it was a real turn-on. I had never seen a man take so much time over choosing flowers before. They normally grab a bunch and go, hoping it's the thought that counts, even though there had been no thought at all.

When we had all the blooms for a decent-sized arrangement, I said I would hand-tie them for him if he wanted to wait. He asked if he could watch, so I took him into the store room. I hoped something was going to happen and had an expectant buzz in my tummy.

Immediately we got in to the store room, Marco spun me around and pressed me to him. I didn't resist. He held back but only long enough for our eyes to lock and acknowledge each other's desire before he kissed me deeply. It was all so quick, but I knew I wanted him the instant our lips met. I kissed him back, tasting strong coffee on his breath; our tongues, like our hands around our bodies writhed with passion. He slipped his hand under my skirt cupping my sex. I gasped. He kissed my neck and left my tummy in knots as the insides of my thighs went to jelly and we stumbled back further into the storeroom. We crashed into the table; flowers wrappings and water went everywhere; but we were too engrossed in each other to care or notice. The world outside the storeroom had ceased to exist.

We rolled around the table and I ended up falling back into the big armchair where I sit with my coffee. Thank heavens it is well padded. It was going to get the mother of all poundings. Marco knelt down in front of me. He kept his eyes locked on mine and put his hands on my knees and slowly spread my legs apart. I closed my eyes as I felt the scrape of his stubble up the inside of my thighs. He took a deep draft of my scent as he had done with the flowers.

“Belissima,” he breathed. I felt him murmur the word right into me. I entwined my fingers into his hair and pushed up against his face. He eased down my panties and used his mouth on me slowly at first, drawing intricate patterns and shapes over my bud with his tongue. Each lick and pull of his mouth as he sucked in my lips and rolled them between his was driving me crazy. There was nothing but his tongue as it circled around inside me.

Marco was sending me deeper and deeper into that sexual place I go when I make love. Everything else was blocked out. I felt the tingle of my skin and heard the sounds of our lovemaking and although I could still smell the scent of the flowers all around us I could no longer tell the difference between the scent of the flowers and the scent of me. He was bringing me closer and closer to the edge and as I was going to come, he rose up and pushed himself into me. I felt myself stretching open to take him in and craned my neck back to gasp in as much oxygen as I could. My breasts heaved as I panted in time to his rhythm. He moved powerfully into me with deep, staccato thrusts, forcing the breath out of me with each one; driving me on.

When I come, I have a habit of holding my breath. Sometimes I hold it for so long I practically pass out. It can feel as if an eternity goes by before I let myself breathe again, but it makes my orgasm so much more intense. I felt myself building up, took a deep breath and buried my face into the wing of the armchair, feeling it chafe against the fabric. I clung to the top of the chair as I came, wave after wave, squeezing harder and harder around Marco as he pumped faster through the entire length of my orgasm. He didn't stop, but ploughed on harder and faster riding me through it. I felt him arching his back, and saw his face turned to the ceiling, mouth open. The muscles in his neck stood out like great corded vines as he supported my legs on his forearms. I thought I was going to burst for want of air, and then he came inside me in short, hot spurts. He remained arched for a time, suspended there above me, his face running with sweat. I let out a long sigh as he relaxed and dropped his face to mine and smiled. We had both needed it.

I grabbed the back of his head in both hands and pulled his face down to me to kiss him again. The sweetness of me had mingled with the bitter taste of his coffee. Our tongues stirred together again and I wrapped my legs around him to pull him as deeply into me as I could. I wanted to claim every last drop he had left in him.

Both of us knew we had to get back to work; a customer could turn up at any minute, so we hurried to get dressed, and he shot off back to the deli. I dropped the flowers off to him after work. Although I have the business to run and he has family commitments at the deli, we do get together occasionally. I am learning to enjoy myself again and have realised I can have some me time as well as running the business. It's not all work and no play. Marco brings my coffee to the shop each morning and I give him the best of my flowers.

 

***

 

So now, Aleisha makes time for her friends as well as Marco. Although she is still focused on her business, she has learnt that some “me time” can lead to a good time all around.

 

 

Jean sat across from me as the waiter cleared the lunch plates. He bussed the table casting furtive glances at her breasts. Despite being fifty-five she was still attractive. Laughter lines framed her eyes but her neck was as taught as many women twenty years younger. I reckoned she must have been an absolute stunner when she was younger. She flicked her hair away from her face with a practised movement of her hand. She was enjoying the attention of the younger man. He was getting bolder and leaned across the table pausing in line with her cleavage, making small talk. Jean and I caught each other's glances under his chest; the flicker of a smile passed between us. Cougar or kitten? I thought to myself; and then as he leaned over further, I saw her glance at his bum jiggling as he wiped the table energetically. She raised an eyebrow at me, smiling all the while. Cougar, I made up my mind.

The waiter headed off
to
the bar to get the dessert orders as Jean fanned herself with the menu in a faux swoon.

“You know” she said,

“I would never have thought of myself as a woman who goes for younger men.”

Not a cougar then I thought. The confidence was whispered to me from behind the same menu. She had a delightful voice, a gravely brogue but still soft; a French Madame hooked on Gauloises. I wasn't surprised at figuring her wrong. I have learned, over the years, that my first impressions are usually way off the mark.

“Really?” I said; worried I was sounding judgmental.

“Oh God no. I'm a teacher.”

“I have to be in the company of boys all day.” You had to see her point when she said it like that.

“The last thing I want to do is to start seeing them as... distractions.”

She re-crossed her legs as the waiter came back with the ice cream, making sure she shimmied her short skirt down with her hands as she did so. I saw immediately she had an extra scoop. She smiled at the waiter who turned scarlet and hurried off back to the bar.

“I think he fancies you,” I said, kicking myself for not flirting enough to get an extra scoop as well. The restaurant produces the best home-made ice cream I've ever tasted.

“Do you want his name?” She stared straight at me. Her eyes didn't flicker for a moment. I stumbled over what to say.

“I taught him maths ten years ago,” she leaned forward; her breasts pushed her dessert ahead of her across the table towards me.

“All the girls in the school fancied him.” She paused to pull a spoon of ice cream from between her lips. The gesture left a bulbous smear clinging to the bowl of the spoon. It hung there melting from the heat of her mouth.

“Why is it teachers can always remember your name? Even years after you've left school?” I asked. She sat back in her seat, pondering the question.

“You get to spend more time with kids than their parents. Especially these days.” She introduced another spoon of ice cream to the same treatment, placing it on her tongue and enfolding her lips around it. I found myself mesmerised by the sheer sensuality of such a simple moment of pleasure. She swallowed; her eyes tight shut. I could imagine the sensation of cool cream flowing down her throat The essence of vanilla suffusing her mouth. She opened her eyes. There was an expression of regret in them. Whether it was for the children or finishing her ice cream, I couldn't say.

“For most of them, you are the only adult they spend any time with. Over the years, you build up a strong relationship with them. Then one day, they leave school and it all ends. Gone. It can be heartbreaking sometimes. You are the one person who has cared for them and then, they are out of your life forever, and the two adults who probably cared about them the least get to see them for the rest of theirs.”

A shadow passed over her. The conversation wasn't going to plan. I was there to record a story for my blog and the discussion was headed in completely the wrong direction.

“But, then occasionally you get a pleasant surprise.” The playful Jean was back, smiling at me around another spoonful of ice cream. “Phew” I thought to myself.

 

***

 

I've taught at the same school since leaving teacher-training college. I joined back in the early seventies. I had a much better figure then; much slimmer.

I taught the older classes. A levels as they were then. Sixteen to eighteen. I remember a lad in one of my first ever classes, John; he wasn't great at Maths. He was shy, but nice: thoughtful, you know. The girls never bothered with him. They were all too busy looking for the “bad boys”.

Well, anyway, he left and went on to college and I forgot about him. I never saw him again. A few years ago, I can't remember how long, I was holding a parent-teacher's evening. I didn't have many appointments. I had this one kid for his GCSEs who would try as hard as he could but didn't have a head for Maths. He needed a lot of help. I had sent a letter to his parents suggesting we should meet that evening to suggest ways the lad could improve his grades.

I worked it so it was my last meeting of the evening, to spend extra time with them if necessary. I felt the lad was worth the effort. He had potential to do well, it was only his Maths holding him back.

Imagine my surprise when John turned up. He had a common surname so I had never realised I was teaching his son. Of course I saw the resemblance straight away when I saw them together. It was great to see John again. I could tell straight away he was still the shy, thoughtful guy I remembered. The wife, however, was a real pain. Extremely offhand, demanding to know what I was going to do to improve the lad's bad grades. She talked over John and made her son feel embarrassed. I made suggestions, offered extra classes. He wanted to go on to college so he needed to up his grades.

John wasn't saying much. His wife was doing all the talking so I talked more with her; but I could tell John was eyeing me up. I found myself wondering how such a great guy could end up with such a Harpy. I was unnerved by John staring at me but felt flattered, when I would usually be defensive. Over the years you get used to husbands ogling you, talking only to your breasts and giving you the come on when they think their wives aren't looking. It's such a turn off. In John's case, I think it may have been because I felt sorry for him; thinking back, I felt protective of him all over again. You feel that way with some pupils; but this was more than protection. To be honest, I fancied him straight away and to see this woman going at him, well, it got me all the more interested in him. His silence was also intriguing me.

I want to make it clear, I have never, ever thought of pupils or ex pupils sexually before. You can't afford to; but, I have to admit, John had grown up handsome. Dark hair, greying at the temples. Well-cut suit, he had obviously done well for himself; except in the marriage stakes. I felt a familiar tension in my tummy and found myself inadvertently squeezing my thighs together to keep the feeling going. I tried to engage him in the conversation as much as I could and our eye contact was direct. I have a habit of sitting on my hands and leaning forward. I had a dress with buttons all the way up the front. I knew the buttons were feeling the strain. The dress would gape open when I leant forward. I caught him looking a few times. His son was too embarrassed by his mother to pay any attention and spent most of the time staring at the floor. She was too into herself to notice anything and stared over me at the back wall as she mouthed off. I don't like talking to people who avoid eye contact when you speak to them. I got the occasional look at John. He was mirroring the way I was sitting and we exchanged smiles.