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In spite of one particular uncalled-for sick comment made to my last submission, I am still going ahead with this narrative as I firmly believe that 99.9999999999% of readers are genuine healthy individuals. This is for them and not the vindictive ones.
That particular comment was so abusive that I deleted it immediately, and I would do so again.
Please note: The events I am describing do not relate in any way to the order in which I wrote my stories. I wrote those when odd recollections caused me to remember these events, and I subsequently composed stories round them.
In my last chapter I said that I had been appointed as a headmaster in a primary school in the South of England. Until then only the largest schools had secretaries, but a new system meant that we were also entitled to have one in the future. Until then, as a teaching Head, I had been able to bring in a supply teacher for two afternoons a week so that I could attend to some of the administration. Most of the admin, though, had to be done after school hours in my own time. But this new post of secretary would also be for two half days per week, and I felt it would probably be easier if we were to make it on the same afternoons so as to be able to communicate better.
I duly advertised, and obviously I received a number of replies. These varied, of course, from completely and obviously incompetent applicants to some who seemed to really fit the bill.
I managed to short-list these applicants, and duly wrote to the others informing them that they had been unsuccessful.
I saw each of the short-listed candidates in turn, explaining to each that they were only one out of the final six candidates, but promising that I would let them know by the end of the week.
I saw these applicants in the evenings, this being the time which suited all of us, and would have been happy with any one of the first three I saw. They were all fairly young, and were all parents of children in the school. The next one I saw was slightly older, but seemed quite competent. Then the next one proved disappointing, and I immediately dismissed her from my list, although I said nothing to upset her at the time.
But it was the last one who really made me say to myself, “This is the one”. She had been a school secretary prior to moving into the area with her husband, and seemed extremely competent. She also made me look at her twice, mainly because whilst we were speaking together she sat quite nonchalantly with legs crossed, causing her wrap-over skirt to fall back until she was displaying far more of her thigh than was usual in those days. (This was well before Mary Quant and her mini-skirt era.)
I could not help looking, and I must have made her aware of my interest there, for she smiled, looked me fully in the eye, and said, “Sorry if I am distracting you.”
She then pulled the material together, but as she remained with her legs crossed a slight movement from one of them immediately caused the same thing to happen again as the material fell away from her thigh, but this time even further causing the stocking top to appear. I was silently hoping for a further movement which might (hopefully) cause it to fall further and reveal her suspender or naked flesh!
Anyway, the interview continued, and as I said, she was obviously the most competent applicant, even forgetting the added interest in her that I now had.
I told her, there and then, that the post was hers, and that I hoped that she could start the following Monday. She was agreeable to that, and so we said good-night, and I got down to writing the letters to the unsuccessful candidates.
On the following Monday morning, therefore, we were all assembled in the staffroom and Mrs. Steadman was introduced to the others. (“Call me Mary, please, while we are in the staff-room at least,” she asked, and we all agreed but also affirming that her full name would always be used outside that room.)
I had already explained to her that we had no separate room for her to use as an office, but she said she would be quite happy to share mine until such time as we could make arrangements for a secretarial room.
Again, we had no secretarial Escort bayan desk, either, and the only furniture she could use was one similar to mine — a table and chair, although her table had on it the telephone and the typewriter which she would be using. So I was able to look across at her and without apparently seeming to do so I could once again gaze at that display of hers, now a little more obvious than in the interview, owing to the fact that without even crossing her legs the split in her kilt allowed it to fall open, so that I was treated to a lovely display of inner thigh and stocking tops when she seemed unaware of having her knees slightly parted, as she used to do whenever she was typing.
Mary was the one I later based my story on called: “My New Secretary”.
She was the obvious model for this story, for she never seemed to care that she was showing on occasions what a previous girl-friend of mine used to call “next week’s washing”. In other words, there were times when she casually sat typing with her knees sufficiently parted for me to be able to see right beyond the suspenders and the naked thigh to where a hint of black or white material offered itself to view.
I was sure that she knew what she was doing, but, gentleman that I was, plus my being aware of my position as headmaster, I never made any insinuation to even make her aware of what I was seeing.
Actually, it came to a head on the day she was leaving, as her husband had once again been posted to another area. We gave her a little party in the staff-room, and then, when all the rest of the staff had gone home I called her into my study again as I wanted to give her a little personal present of my own.
As we stood chatting, and I had given her a present over and above the one the staff had given to her, she handed me a small packet, gave me a quick kiss, and went out to meet her husband who was waiting for her in the car park.
As I waved them off I went back into my study and opened the packet, inside which was another packet and a note, which read: “Thanks for being such a terrific boss. I shall miss you, and I shall miss your searching eyes. I can only hope that my replacement will be as accommodating as I hope I have been for you, and as a souvenir of our time together in your study I am making a small gift which will, I hope, remind you of me and the times you have eagerly stared at what I am now enclosing. Love and kisses, Mary.”
I opened the package, the contents of which I was now expecting after that note, and I was right! It was a pair of her lacy white knickers!
Had I missed out, I wondered? Then I thought again. If she had wanted to go further I am sure that I would have received better signals. No, I decided — she was just teasing me all along.
My next secretary, though, was not as exciting. She was partly responsible for my story about “My New Secretary”, though, inasmuch as she was not happy using a table, and asked if it would be possible to have a proper desk with a front panel. She probably felt vulnerable, I suppose. This gave me the idea of a story (many years later, of course) about a modesty panel.
The idea about the evening class teacher came about a different way. Patricia was now teaching at a college some distance away, and was lecturing on “The History of Dance” to mature students. I had to pick her up after classes. One evening I noticed a very pretty young teacher who was teaching students for O-level English. Her classroom door was open, and I could see quite clearly inside the classroom, where I particularly noticed the way her students were looking quite lecherously at her. But it was her attitude which I noticed most, for she seemed to revel in their scrutiny, and returned their banter with suggestive remarks of her own. It was easy to see how her students were mentally undressing her, and she accepted this attitude with a smile. What gave me the idea for the story, though, was the way that she was perched on the front of her desk. She had one leg carelessly crossed high, her ankle on her knee, and clasping her knee with both hands, and this was causing the higher leg to leave a gap beneath so that her thighs must have obviously Bayan Escort been on view to the entire class. I remember wishing at the time that I had been in that particular class!
As I said before, though, Patricia and I had a high sex drive, and so I had no compunction in telling her what I had seen and the wish that I had been in the class whilst we were driving. In fact, even though it was not one of our special occasions, the possible implications of what I had seen started to make me feel horny, and so I drove to one of our regular secluded spots, where I stopped the car. Patricia looked at me in an amused way, anticipating what was going to happen — and it did.
“I presume you want my knickers off, you randy sod!” she laughed, and promptly jumped out of the car and in the bright moonlight she deliberately unzipped her skirt, following that by tugging off her lacy knickers.
“Outside, or on the back seat?” she asked, as her top and bra followed suit, so that she was now fully naked. I remember this occasion vividly, as the sight I had seen of her fellow teacher was imprinted in my mind for a long time. And so was the follow-up with Patricia as we made violent love in the open air on that moonlit night.
It was shortly after that, though, that I made a decision which was hard to make at the time, but probably was the right one in retrospect. We had been struggling for some time on the poor rate of salary I was getting. Teachers, at that time, were very poorly paid, and as a Headmaster I found myself actually on the lowest salary of the whole staff – that was the way the system was in those days. Because the rest of my staff were much older than me, all I earned was my basic teacher’s salary plus extra increments, and they were higher up the scale incrementally. Just before I resigned as a head, though, a new pay structure came into place whereby there was now a separate Head Teacher Salary Scale. But even this meant that I was still on a rate of pay which compared unfavourably with my contempories in other occupations. I decided to leave teaching and to go into Educational Publishing. Here, starting at the bottom as just an Educational Representative for a large Publishing House I found that I was not only on a higher salary, but also had a company car and expenses!
But it was now, also, that I not only discovered new situations to form the basis for more stories (although these were only written years afterwards) but it also meant that I was away from home for long periods, and with my sex-drive this started me on the road of sex outside of my marriage.
I had been attending a Teacher’s Conference as an exhibitor, as Educational Exhibitions were always part and parcel of these conferences. Staying in the same hotel were two young teachers and I was pleased when they accepted my invitation to be my guests at the Publishers’ Dinner and on the following night the Publishers’ Ball.
It was at the Ball that I discovered that one of them, whom I shall call Morag, was a bronze medal dancer. (Her name was a Scottish one, but I have substituted another Scottish name here for her own privacy). I found later that her mother was Scottish, which explained the name. After the Ball, though, I said that I would run her back to our hotel in my car (the other teacher had decided to accompany a male friend of mine, also staying in the same hotel). She looked at me a little quizzically and said, “Directly back? Or should we have a short ride first?”
There was only one answer to that, and I drove to the next town along the coast, chatting all the time, and finishing up in a deserted car park by the shore. I stopped there, and decided to try my luck — after all she had suggested the diversion — and turned towards her for a kiss. She responded willingly, and I tentatively reached out to fondle her breast over her clothing. Her only response was to intensify the kiss, and I naturally took this as an invitation to explore further. I slip my hand inside her open top, deftly popping open a couple of buttons as I did so, and again found no resistance. Her bra was a little tight, but I did manage to sneak an odd finger down to caress one of her nipples, and again Escort her only response was to continue in the kiss.
“This is my lucky day,” I thought, and removing my hand began to slide it underneath her skirt. Again there was no resistance, until I reached the crutch of her tights. She parted her legs slightly for me to give me better access, but when I attempted to insert my hand down the front of her tights and knickers she pushed me away.
But before I could say anything she spoke first. “If we are to see each other again we must leave something for the next occasion!”
See each other again? She was willing, then, but I had to bide my time? These thoughts immediately passed through my mind as I asked her where she was from. She gave me her full address, actually, and I made a mental note to visit that area after the end of the Easter break. I told her, though, that it was a coincidence that I would be in that area shortly, but I was sure she knew that I had only just decided on that.
To cut the story short, I did visit the area, and at the pre-arranged time that we had set I waited close by.
Shortly afterwards the door opened and she came out, and then chided me for not having knocked on the door. Anyway, she invited me in, and I met her parents, neither of whom appeared in the least concerned that I was almost twice Morag’s age.
In the light inside the house, though, I was able to see her better. Whereas last week she had appeared as a typical infant teacher, although not dowdy as this expression might have implied, she was now very much transformed.
Her hair was neatly set, and whereas last time we had met she had been wearing a kilt of a decent length, as befitted a school-teacher, tonight she had changed for a very short kilt, about half-way up her thighs, and (what I found out later to be) suspenders and stockings.
She kissed both her parents, then took my arm as we left, her father calling out that he hoped she would enjoy herself.
(“Not as much as I hope to enjoy myself”, I thought.)
We did eat, having travelled some distance away to a restaurant which her father had recommended.
Afterwards she directed me to a secluded spot (she must have known the area quite well) where we stopped the car and I obviously started to continue what I had started the last time we had met.
Once again there was no resistance as I fondled the upper half of her body, but when I came to slide my hand under her kilt I found the bare thigh above her stocking with its suspender, and continued to slide upwards. Then I reached her warm silk-covered knickers, and this time there was no opposition when I slowly slid my finger under the edge until it reached its goal.
She broke our kiss then, to say, “I am wearing knickers tonight as it is the first time we have gone out together properly, although I seldom wear any when I am on a date. It’s a habit I picked up from Mom. But if you prefer I can always wear some in future. Which do you wish me to do?”
There was only one answer to that! But I was also a little surprised with her reference to her Mom’s ‘habit’. I decided to say nothing about that, but took her hand to put onto my own hardened cock. To my surprise, though, she pulled her hand away immediately. “Like I said last time,” she laughed. “We must save something for the future. Next time I will really hold it, but if you want to go further than that it will also have to be in the future. I’m no virgin, as you can tell, thanks to my first boy-friend at college, but at least you will have something to look forward to.”
It was a long time afterwards that I wrote the story about her. The story may be a little embellished in places, especially when I describe her mother’s mode of dress when she came out with me, but otherwise it is a true story.
Unfortunately I heard last year that she had suffered from a heart problem, and that she had died on the operating table. I was severely shocked and distressed when I heard, and so was my wife, Patricia, who had met her but thought that we had only been good friends.
Anyway, that was the start of my “straying from home”, as it were. Having to be away from home for a week at a time (my territory covered the whole of the West Midlands and northwards to the far reaches of Scotland) not only gave me some freedom, but also gave me urges by enforced abstention until I was home again. I was about to wander some more.
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