by Judy Jarvie
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgment
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
Scoring with Sir
ISBN # 978-1-78651-027-3
©Copyright Judy Jarvie 2016
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright April 2016
Edited by Sue Meadows
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2016 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Sizzling and a Sexometer of 2.
Sassy with Sir
SCORING WITH SIR
Judy Jarvie
Book one in the Sassy with Sir series
A teacher with secrets meets her strict Sir match. Izzy earns hot bedroom lessons but scoring as Sir’s mistress brings red cards and penalties.
Teacher and football fan turned secret erotica author Izzy Tennant needs full-on steam scenes and real-life experience for her debut novel. Ex-premier league footballer now PE head Will Darby has the moves but his sports pedigree causes friction. Their sass threatens a lust volcano or an ugly fistfight. The sensual tension builds to an inferno when they re-enact erotica scenes at his player mansion.
Scoring items on her X-rated kink list provides Izzy with bestseller spice. But how will her Penalty Master take the revelation that he’s just research? And how will Izzy handle the news that Will’s keeping secrets of his own? Falling for her sex mentor and craving his extreme play wasn’t part of the bonk-buster plan. Nor was reliving past hurts in action replay.
Dedication
Thanks to Ashantay Peters—crit partner extraordinaire, fabulous writer and great friend.
Thanks to Lynn Morgan-Hill who lit the spark for Sir.
Trademarks Acknowledgment
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
iPhone: Apple, Inc.
Game of Thrones: Home Box Office
Betty Crocker: General Mills
Columbo: NBC Universal Television Distribution
Viagra: Pfizer
Tottenham Hotspur FC: ENIC International Limited
Arsenal FC: Arsenal Holdings plc
Emirates Stadium: Arsenal Holdings plc
Riverdance: Bill Whelan and Donal Lunny
A Question of Sport: British Broadcasting Corporation
Debenhams: Debenhams plc
Sparkle: Sparkle Products
National Lottery: Camelot Group
Oreos: Nabisco Division of Mendelēz International
Happy Days Are Here Again: Milton Ager and Jack Yellen
Pride and Prejudice: Jane Austen
Krispy Kreme: Krispy Kreme Doughnuts
YouTube: Google, Inc.
Sky News: Sky plc
Range Rover: Tata Group
Filofax: Letts Filofax Group Limited
Lady Chatterley’s Lover: D.H. Lawrence
Bovril: Bovril Company
Dancing With the Stars: BBC Worldwide
Kindle: Amazon.com
Moby Dick: Herman Melville
Lord of the Flies: William Golding
BBC: British Broadcasting Corporation
Minecraft: Mojang
Channel Five: Channel Five Broadcasting Limited
Poldark: Mammoth Screen
Rothmans: Rothmans, Benson & Hedges
Fiat: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles
Botox: Allergan
Cheshire cat: Lewis Carroll
Frisbee: Wham-O Inc.
Brighton Rock: Graham Greene
Thermos: Thermos LLC
The Fellowship of the Ring: J.R.R. Tolkien
Speedo: Speedo International Limited
Maleficent: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Glee: 20th television
Google: Google, Inc.
Magic Mike: FilmNation Entertainment
The Big Bang Theory: Warner Bros Television Distribution
The Mikado: Arthur Sullivan and W.S. Gilbert
Quasimodo: Victor Hugo
Pilates: Joseph Pilates
Rotary Club: Rotary International
The Witches of Eastwick: Warner Bros.
Cinderella: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Sky Sports: Sky plc
MasterChef: Shine Group
Marks and Spencer: Marks and Spencer plc
Oscars: Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences
Bambi: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Twitter: Twitter Inc.
Creole Lady Marmalade: Bob Crewe and Kenny Nolan
Fiat 500: Fiat Chrysler Automobiles
Harley: Harley-Davidson Inc.
Batman: DC Comics, Inc.
The Wizard of Oz: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
Bonanza: CBS Television Distribution
Spiderman: Marvel Worldwide Inc.
Volvo: AB Volvo
McDonald’s: The McDonald’s Corporation
Comedy Channel: Sky plc
Star Wars: 20th Century Fox
Willy Wonka: Roald Dahl
Barbie: Mattel, Inc.
Sex and the City: CBS Television Distribution
Star Trek: CBS Television Studios
Sharp Dressed Man: Billy Gibbons, Dusty Hill, Frank Beard
Roadrunner: Warner Bros
Zumba: Zumba Fitness, LLC
Troy: Warner Bros Pictures
Moves Like Jagger: Adam Levine, Ammar Malik, Benjamin Levin and Shellback
Little Orphan Annie: Tribune Media Services
Gangnam Style: Park Jae-Sang, Yoo gun-Hyung
The X Factor: Freemantle Media
James Bond: Ian Fleming
Basildon Bond: Dickinson Robinson Group
Toy Story: Pixar, Walt Disney Pictures
Christal: Louis Roderer Champagne
Lycra: Invista
Jack Daniel’s: Brown-Forman
Wagon Wheels: Associated British Foods
Jacuzzi: Apollo Management
Mary Poppins: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Skyfall: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Columbia Pictures
Facebook: Facebook, Inc.
Jim Beam: Beam Suntory
Audi: Audi AG
The Famous Five: Enid Blyton
The Simpsons: Fox Broadcasting Company
Curly-Wurly: Cadbury UK
Revels: Mars, Inc.
Popsicle: Unilever
Private Benjamin: Warner Bros.
Miss Marple: Agatha Christie
Sky Full of Stars: Tim Bergling, Guy Berryman, Johnny Buckland, Will Champion, Chris Martin
Lego: The Lego Group
AA: The Automobile Association
Money, Money, Money: Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus
I Fought the Law and the Law Won: Sonny Curtis
Cagney and Lacey: Filmways Pictures, Orion Television
Hawaii Five-O: CBS television Distribution
Crimewatch: British Broadcasting Corporation
iPhone: Apple, Inc.
Wrecking Ball: MoZella, Stephan Moccio, Sacha Skarbek, Lucasz Gottwald, Henry Russell Walter
Hobnobs: McVitie’s
Taggart: STV Productions
High School Musical: Disney-ABC Domestic Television
Thorntons: Ferrero SpA
Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson
Maleficent: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: Lewis Carroll
Fruit Loops: Kellogg Company
Chapter One
“Dis me and you’re roadkill.”
“You and whose skankwad army, loserboy?”
It’s a gray Monday morning and I can’t miss the yelled swearing across the school car park. My iPhone’s Bruno Mars megamix can’t sweeten the F-bomb napalm by the third years at the tennis courts. I long to flee but I still have hours of teaching torture ahead.
Today will herald a watershed in my life. Because I—Izzy Tennant, English teacher at Netherfield Secondary School in Barnet, North London—have a secret. Over the years, I’ve hidden the real me behind the mask of an oh-so-nice and proper English teacher. But at heart I have dark, private appetites. I may teach the classics of literature to kids that don’t give a stuff by day, but at night I’m an insatiable erotica-holic.
Little do I realize that my fantasies are about to ignite with a man who can liberate these passions.
This is the story of my journey.
With he who must be called Sir.
* * * *
If David Attenborough studied chavvy North London school kids, instead of mating penguins ice-bonking for hours, he’d explain the brawling teenager ritual. I’ve consumed insufficient coffee to try. I beeline for the school’s back door but the yelling mob turns and charges straight toward me.
“Is it true, Miss Tennant?” asks Darren Blackwater. He has the name and look of a repugnantly splendid extra in Game of Thrones. One you hope will get impaled before the ad break. From what his mother said at open day he’s no stranger to sticky ends—he gets a little too much solo bedroom exercise and I don’t mean kickboxing his punch-bag.
“Tell us,” Eddie Childs butts in. “They’re sayin’ ’es comin’ ’ere? We’re askin’ you cos, for a woman and a teacher, you know most about football.”
I yank out my iPhone earbuds, succeeding in thwacking myself in the teeth. I remember not to swear but shouldn’t bother—none of the pupils pay me such regard.
“I’ve nothing to impart. And no time at present, boys.”
But Darren, Small Lord of the Blackwater and perpetrator of much school evil, is not mollified. “Ethan’s brother said we’re gettin’ a new PE teacher and ’e’s famous. Tell us if it’s true, miss.”
My tooth’s throbbing. I’m more interested in calculating if I’ve brought painkillers or my dentist’s number.
“I don’t know anything about a new teacher.”
“Ethan’s bruvver said, miss,” says Darren, “’E ’erd it from Matt Riley. ’Is mum’s a cleaner an’ she reads stuff on the desks. An ex-premier league player as head of phys ed, she says.”
“If Matt’s mum’s so good at surveillance, who is he?”
Always answer a challenge with a question. This is my ‘teacher’s gold’ tactic. “Tell Matt Riley he should employ his mother’s reading habits himself if he wants to pass English.”
I walk away, feeling like Khaleesi in Game of Thrones and pretending I look like her. Then I hear words uttered from behind a hand.
“Told ya she don’t effin’ know. Told ya not ta bovver!”
It’s Mickey Peters. The boy who dented my car bonnet with a cricket ball. I pounce like a cougar.
“Peters!” I yell and his rigor mortis response gives me a delicious trickle of thrill. “Another word and it’ll be detention and Mr. Rogerson’s office. If I hear another curse, I’ll be mentioning Matt Riley’s mother. Then you’ll have Knuckles Riley at your door and he’s only weeks out of detention center.”
They pout at me but I’m already high-fiving myself from atop my high horse.
“If I knew about the school’s latest staff member, do you think I’d tell a car smasher? Disperse now.”
I’m only through the door when Jack Carson, school janitor, corners me breathlessly. Creosote Carson, as he’s affectionately nicknamed, is out of puff.
“Are you still seeing the doctor about your emphysema, Jack? If not, you need to go and get checked out.”
Jack stops me with a hand. “Izzy, love, we’re getting a new teacher.”
I’m more worried about his dicky ticker and the wheeze like my nana’s busted accordion than school staffing. “I know. Apparently he’s a premier league footballer. As if.” I roll eyes.
Jack stares with squished-up eyebrows. “How in feck’s name did you know that, girl?”
Jack has fingered more gossip pies than Betty Crocker—he’s a loveable Columbo with a wood preserver and chutney-stained coat. I hate to see him thus disappointed.
“Heard it from the future prison inmate reserves in the car park.”
“Then you’ll already know the worst.”
“I know the bare minimum, Jack. It’s best with Viagra Rogerson in charge.”
Jack’s jowls wobble at me. “The new sports head—he only used to play for feckin’ Spurs, Izzy. Sacrilege! And us Gunners lifers—a viper in our midst.”
I take this as my cue—Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen, could play this no better. I throw down my bags and breathe deeply, closing my eyes. Then I stare at Jack with the iced fire of Boadicea.
“Oh fuck. Bollocks. Crap. Piss. No!”
In the religion that is Arsenal Football Club, at the cathedral that is the Emirates, I am bishop in training to Carson’s cardinal of fan worship.
Being a loyal season ticket holder for two decades solid does not come without fortitude and sacrifice. Nor does it allow for a high-caliber Tottenham Hotspur ex-striker to come waltzing into our school staffroom without comment.
We’re reeling—and I don’t mean doing Riverdance—as we head past phys ed toward the English corridor.
“Who is it?”
“You don’t wanna know, girl.”
“I do. You can’t not tell me.” Much as I’m dreading the answer, there’s no avoiding it.
“Brilliant finisher—two hundred and five goals in two hundred and fifty games. He joined Spurs juniors in 1994…”
“Naff off, Carson! Don’t play Question of Sport with me at eight-forty-two on a Monday morning or I’m liable to kick you hard. My shoes are killing me, I set fire to the toaster this morning and my key broke in the back door again. Spit it out in the name of Arsene Wenger.”
He pouts but his stare goes soul deep, so intense I see the name before he speaks.
“Darby. Will bloody Darby!” we say in unison.
I take a step backward to hold on to the wall
for support and my ankles feel wobbly. Which reminds me, never buy wedge heels from Debenhams, even in a blue cross sale. Bunions on BOGOF.
“That’s bad. He was good,” I whisper.
“I know. Better than good.”
“Head of PE?”
“It’s a maverick move.” Carson offers me a stick of gum, but I decline. He pops one in his mouth and I’m hit by a minty waft of school days memories. And the recollections aren’t as welcome as I’d wish them to be. I shiver.
“When does he start?”
“Not sure—the copies of his contract are faint but I’ll check again. I ’av my magnifying glass soaking in Sparkle now.”
“Matt Riley’s mother needs dealing with,” I mutter and kick the loose skirting board where I’m standing. The shoes now have a split seam.
Carson pulls me close. “I won four balls on the National Lottery on Saturday and invested the spoils in multi-buy Oreos. Pop by my lair at break. I might ’av it cracked.”
I bite back my professional itch to correct him—it’s a basement dumping ground next to the boiler room with a wasps’ nest in the corner. It isn’t a lair—or, for that matter, a place accustomed to hygiene. But if stinking of something stale and foreboding qualifies as a lair—then a lair it sadly must be.
“Oreos noted. We’ll meet later.” I tap on my nose. “At least Darby was a class player. If he has to come—better that he be top drawer. But why Netherfield? Why teach when you’ve scaled football’s heights?”
“He said, and I quote from the application form, ‘for grass roots experience of an inner-city school and to apply opportunities for social inclusion for youth in sports, specifically football’.”
I’m tempted to ask if Matt Riley’s mother is a code cracker spy in her free time. The woman needs a lesson on the purpose of dusters.
“Why doesn’t he go for club manager or coach?”
“Running a bookies would be better than this game, girl. But his mysteries will be revealed in time.” Jack’s phone blasts a vintage chorus of Happy Days Are Here Again. “Time is a wily mistress.” He walks off to attend to his summons.
The bell sounds and I stride away with purpose for the English staffroom. And that’s when I glimpse him—halfway down the corridor, deep in conversation with Dodgy Rogerson. He’s wearing casual trousers, a waistcoat and an open-necked shirt. I’m grudgingly impressed at how ruddy good Will Darby looks in the flesh.
