by Judy Jarvie
His hair is dark and curling at his collar. He’s bronzed as a gypsy prince who’s spent time aboard a pirate ship. The hairs on the backs of my hands prick up and I stand gawping, not wanting to move yet. I’d blame the shoes but I’d be lying.
I’m expecting him to notice me but he’s avidly attending to Rogerson’s spiel. Not that I think planets will collide or he’d recognize me from the stadium crowd at past matches or anything. I mean, at over five feet seven I’m no pocket Venus, but I think I’ve nice eyes, decent legs in heels and wavy brown hair that can behave when I remember to condition and drag a brush through it. I continue to stand, and still not a glance comes within a meter of me.
He’s starting to make me feel like Lizzy Bennet at the Assembly when she’s not pleasing enough to tempt Mr. Fancy Buns Darcy. I can’t muster a demi-glance here.
Will Darby—post young playboy footballer days—looks eerily like Sebastian Silver in The Guy with the Silver Tie. The book that started me reading erotica—my secret hobby. Shit, this is bad.
“Oh, Izzy. The very person. Can you help me with these?”
Our head of department Dibian Hicks barrels toward me with a tower of Krispy Kreme doughnut boxes. It’s been many a year since Dibian bent down to clip her toenails. I can’t see Krispy Kremes saving her on pedicures or assisting slimming aspirations. She’s way too generous with her snack donations.
“Be a doll and open the door. My hands are like fly paper from a breakfast doughnut on the north circular.”
“Course.” I nod toward the new PE teacher. “Have you spied the sex god in our midst? Sports head’s in the building.”
Dibian flutters her eyelashes like a flapper girl. “Yes, darling. And I read that he loves a woman with curves! My ship might be in. Before I forget, Izzy—special teaching staff meeting in the staffroom tomorrow lunchtime. Food will be provided. All must attend.”
I push the door then rush to decant my stuff and grab my room keys. The mental horror of envisaging Dibian and Will in flagrante delicto derails me from quizzing her on the purpose of the meeting.
Will Darby at Netherfield—it’s like finding out George Clooney tap dances. In a tutu and a fez.
In such moments, I find myself asking how one of my favorite literary heroines would react. Lizzy Bennet would grab her bonnet, take a bracing walk then sew a voodoo curse into a sampler. I’ll have to be content with thirty hormonal second years and Muriel Spark in ten minutes.
This morning’s revelations and seeing Will Darby in the flesh have unsettled me. And put me right off Dibian’s haul of sticky Krispy Kremes.
Chapter Two
I’m standing in the car park at lunch break and I’ve done it again. Lost my keys in the mayhem of mess that is my handbag. It would be funny but it’s the fourth time in two weeks.
I’m losing my patience as, no matter how hard I root around, I cannot locate them and my lunch is in the boot while my stomach rumbles a lonesome love-call.
“Effin’ gimme a break. Oh bollocks, hide then if it makes you happy!” I say aloud because venting feels helpful. In all honesty, it’s a temper hangover from a morning where the kids have been hormonally charged and acting up in my classes.
“I didn’t think I was hiding.”
There’s a pause—I don’t turn around. Mainly because I already know who’s behind me. I see Will Darby’s reflection in the car window.
“Step away. Mad woman talking to her car keys. Nothing to see. Move on without a caution.”
Which only makes me jump fifty steps up the nutter scale toward unadulterated lunatic.
“You okay?” he asks. His voice is both deep and soft. A combo made in heaven for chocolate advertisements on TV. Should I suggest he sideline? Then again, now’s not the time for incidental chat with a man you’ve vowed to hate at all costs.
I want this not to be happening but it’s too late. So I look over my shoulder and don a waxwork smile. Fate is being an evil bastard, waving its knob at me today.
Will’s wearing shorts, a running shirt that reveals the kind of defined pecs breastplates were designed around, and his feet are in track shoes. I can’t help but notice his hair-dusted, muscular legs, yet doing so makes me breathe rapidly. A heavy duffle bag is slung over his muscular shoulder and concern flashes in his green eyes.
“I’m Will, by the way. I don’t usually do Samaritan but I’m intrigued about talking keys. If it’s true, I want to see them with my own eyes rather than on the news or YouTube.”
“I know who you are. I’m Izzy, I teach English.”
“Now back to the keys.” He straight-talks better than Jon Snow on an election night special. “What words did they say to you? Did they talk in unison, or nominate a spokesman?”
I pause for a beat. “That would be silly. And there was no spokes key.”
He dead-pans and furrows his brow. “Good point—never tangle with an English language expert. Should I call Sky News or leave you to write the press release while I capture the runaway keys with ninja moves?”
Will’s teeth are so white. I think it’s his five o’clock shadow—at lunchtime too, what a man—that highlights the contrasting dazzle.
I can tell he’s enjoying my circumstances. His eyes are twinkling more than a drag queen’s tiara. Pishy fate, I damn thee.
I shrug. “I don’t have talking keys. I’m in need of sedatives. Or a sword to fall on.” God, I do say the most riveting things.
“You work with Dibian. Tell me if I’m wrong but I think she’s a bit of a handful. The kind of woman restraining orders were invented for. I saw her grope the janitor in the dinner queue. He didn’t seem to mind but that’s not the point. I’ve known football managers that way and it needs to get handled. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
This is all rather unexpected. I did not bank on Will Darby having a ready wit and a fetching sense of humor.
“She should face a tribunal but there would be so many names, it would take years. It could go back to the Middle Ages—given her witchcraft heritage.”
He grins. “I’d pay to watch.”
I want to smile but I resist. He is the enemy. I shall not succumb.
“You locked out?” Will motions to the car.
His hair—dark and the kind of curly bobbed hair that many women would kill to have, let alone go daft to run their fingers through—waves in the light breeze. “You can empty your bag in my boot and have a rummage?”
“You often invite women to rummage in your rear?” I can’t believe I’ve said that. I can tell from his face I have and he’s embarrassed for me.
He shrugs. “If it works, use it.”
“Came out wrong, the thing about your rear,” I ramble. “It’s been a long morning—had second years from the abyss and one can long-distance spit on my whiteboard.” Again. Why am I telling him? Has verbal diarrhea and its nonsensical shabby colostomy baggage taken up an attic studio flat in my brain?
“Bloodthirsty pupils are reason enough to drink in the day. Do you have moonshine in your car boot?”
“Just a hummus and tomato bap. I’d break the glass if it was moonshine.”
He nods like a sea captain changing course. “Can’t have you hungry. Let’s get to it.” Will walks toward the enormous ice-white Range Rover by the fence. It’s a pop star car, a pimp-my-ride wagon. Big bumpers, big extras, big price tag. Sex guaranteed with random pedestrians. “My boot has room for CSI on your bag. I’m improvising in an emergency.”
He deserves points for being gallant. Really, he should’ve walked off and locked himself in the car.
“Thanks. Sure you don’t mind?”
“Mind? I’ve always wanted to know what English teachers have in their handbags.”
I don’t know how to reply. I think I’ve run out of the worst comments I’ve ever made. Which is a blessing. Silence is hugely preferable. I stare at him as I open my satchel’s straps. “There are things in here… Maybe look away now?”
The edge of his
mouth quirks up, revealing full dusty brown lips. “Is this a game and you’re going to produce a blindfold? Unless you have a machete in there, nothing will daunt me.”
“This could offend,” I warn.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I played with Vinnie Jones. I can handle scary.”
I laugh out loud and my subconscious is mad that I’ve been such a pushover. I unlatch my bag, tip it up and a plethora of junk spews forth.
“Christ on a bike!” Will’s face is priceless.
I pick up my phone case. Its Arsenal crest is resplendent in gold and red.
Will has his hand braced on the side of the boot—I notice long fingers, a brief sensual note my brain bites on to like a rabid vampire. His lemony body wash isn’t half bad either.
He’s staring at my card wallet now. My credit card holder too is Arsenal FC embellished—a gift from last birthday. Then my Filofax—it’s covered in player pic stickers. They’re my hot squad heroes of legend—Thierry Henry, Freddie Lundberg and Robert Pires.
Will gently puts his hand to the back of his head. “Shit, woman. You need major detox. Ever consider a makeover at the taste academy?”
I put one hand on my hip—provocative and petulant in response. “I’m considered a gourmand with a fellowship.”
The keys appear in the midst of the mess from my bag. They are on their Arsenal cannon key ring. Will picks them up, using the end of a pen he’s taken from his pocket. As if he’s found a missing finger in the woods and he’s retrieving it with a stick.
“There you are. Bad keys. You made Mummy worried,” I say with droll, sarcastic voice fully employed.
Will’s answer weighs heavy for his soft tone. “You need a bag organizer. Or a change of teams.”
I bite my lip. “Only an ex-Tottenham player could specialize in organizing handbags.”
Will straightens to his full six and an almost half feet. Wow, he’s big. His wave of offended testosterone nearly causes my wipeout. He pulls out a pair of sports wraparound sunspecs and dons them.
“Fighting talk.” He’s close—his voice a threat-coated challenge.
“You set your stall out with the top league, you play hard rules,” I bluster but inside my heart is revving and my nerves are jiving under his watchful scrutiny.
Will’s bristling so much he could have his own broom factory. “I don’t know about handbags. But you’ve backed the losing side.”
“Nice specs, Mr. Shady. But you’re going home in an Arsenal ambulance.” It’s a famous line—sometimes the old chants are the best.
Will picks up my Arsenal baseball cap. Then my Arsenal sunglasses. The miniature picture of Tony Adams is, I believe, my coup de grâce. He shoves them into my bag as I’m piling the other paraphernalia back. Thank God I hadn’t got my Gunners spare knickers there but I used them recently as a whiteboard duster. I turn and flip my hair—what else would Beyoncé do? The hair thing and a pivot always win.
“You’re something, Izzy the English teacher.” Will raises the shades and watches me. He inspects the name on my staff pass that he’s pinched and kept in his hand without me noticing.
“Give that back.”
“It’s been illuminating.” He returns it.
My inner rampaging football hooligan is still AWOL. “The pleasure’s yours.”
I watch him ascend into his pimp wagon and start the engine. He rolls down his window and starts a loud bass anthem. I walk to my rusty but trusty car and click the key fob. I’ve scored a small Arsenal goal for womankind by proving myself immune.
But Will purposefully curb crawls past with an inch to spare. His tone changes to turbo charged. “Consider this a warning. In future, you’ll call me Sir. Unless you pull your Arsenal socks up.”
His tiger smile flashes as he passes.
He got the last word. But, next time, vengeance will be mine.
* * * *
By six I’m dog tired, but as I pry off my bunion master shoes, I realize we’ve brought forward our book club to tonight. This lifts me from my funk.
“You having your porn night?” My flatmate Flo has a long auburn mane of curls that look like it last saw a paddle brush in the nineties. She doesn’t deserve the peaches and cream, lightly freckled complexion of a model because I’ve never seen her wash. She’s a local paper photographer and we’ve flat-shared for five years.
“It’s not porn. It’s a book club.”
“Sleaze club, more like.”
“Erotic women’s fiction appreciation group is more accurate.”
She’s stirring her mug in a clunky way that dings my nerves. “Panting for porn. Salivating for sleaze.” It’s like playing tennis with Federer—she just keeps returning.
“Some of what we read is sensual romance without any erotica at all. It’s no different to Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Nabokov or Emile Zola.”
With such a closed mind on my home turf, I wonder why I bother.
“Panting, groping. Bodice ripping and big members.” Flo takes a deep slurp from her mug. “It boils down to filthy books about dirty bits.” I can smell her hot Bovril. To think she criticizes when she drinks beef-flavored tea—it’s positively medieval.
“Janey, Fi, Mo and me. Join us if you fancy.” I know full well we’d tear her arguments to shreds in seconds.
“Too much hanky panky. I’m teaching salsa classes for the senior citizens. They need hip action—I need cash. One of my oldies slips me tenners if I pick him for demos.”
“Dancing with the Stars for octogenarians. Gripping. Hope you’ve read up on heart attack response technique.”
Flo flounces off, her shoulders dangerously close to her ears but she always walks like that, though I never get used to it. I can only hope the elderly dance stars like meat breath and body hair issues. Flo’s not called Sasquatch for nothing.
I go to inspect my preparations for the evening ahead. It’s the second anniversary of the Dirty Girls’ Book Club and nothing is going to spoil our sauce with all the trimmings.
* * * *
Janey’s on my doorstep freshly spritzed in her favorite fruity perfume—we’re both wearing silver ties as a nod to our fictional hero’s bondage antics and we squeal full tilt.
I love Janey Woodside—she’s the sister I never had and she works as a support worker in the special education unit at Netherfield. She’s blonde, lithe and can get away with an Alice band without people taking the piss and setting it on fire. She’s funny and she swears, and she’d be the perfect woman if she liked football and supported Arsenal.
Janey can barely keep still and her eyes are as wide as a drugged-up raccoon’s. “I have a good feeling about tonight. The book we’ve read has been amazing. Can’t wait to discuss it.”
“I wasn’t sure at the start but it got better the further you got in.” I recognize my double entendre from Janey’s loud snort of approval.
Janey waves her bottle of wine and Fi knocks on the door with Mo behind her. We’re all wearing ties. Fi teaches biology and her bonkers dad was our headmaster at primary school. Mo runs her own vegan chocolate shop and makes book club night complete by bringing choc contraband.
She hands me large boxes of chocolates then shows me her phone. “I’ve downloaded an app. Random Hot Cocks. Look at yesterday’s! I nearly died.”
I have no time to answer before Fi pushes her face to mine. “I’ve brought an old flogging cane from Dad’s study. He found it during a clear out. Thought we could have fun with it.”
We all gather around and touch Fi’s cane with mock reverence. Mo’s face is ruddy with delight. “We could punish the naughtiest club member?”
I try to enforce some order. “Ladies, please be seated. Pour the wine and grab a pew. As lady chairman I must keep things in hand.
Mo cackles and her ample chest jiggles. “Good luck with that. I’ve seen what’s in Janey’s bag.”
Tonight Janey is sharing findings on online BDSM supplies’ stocklists. Restraints, straddle bars a
nd nipple clamps are featured in the array of brochures Janey hands me. I wouldn’t mind but currently none of us has a man.
I seize firm control. “Now may I please draw attention to agenda item one—cock rings.”
Chapter Three
Janey’s eyes are dilated orbs as she reads from our book of the fortnight.
“We need to find another submissive.”
“I’ve tried, it takes time to put such things in place, Sir,” Salvador replied, taking a sip from his goblet.
“Not good enough,” Dominico snapped, taut agitation discernible in his features. “Find her. You know the spec. And this time I want the special girl. The woman we saw in the restaurant. Did you find out where she lives, where she works? The brunette? I want her.”
Dominico turned in his black leather chair, his eyes fixed on the door to the pleasure chamber. He caressed the leather-topped desk, then moved swiftly beneath to press the button. The chamber’s doors sprang wide.
“Find that girl, Sal. I’ll wait no longer. She must be mine. Tonight.”
* * * *
We bask in the glowing aftermath of Dominico Blackstar’s story—a tempestuous and sensual rollercoaster of a tale. The Submissive’s Journey has had us raving for the last hour. It is book number forty on our erotica book reading list.
The Guy with the Silver Tie was the book responsible for this campaign. It’s two years since that book—part romance, part titillating intro to the heady world of BDSM, part mystery—changed our tastes and sparked an adventure where the Dirty Girls’ Book Club covers all the juicy erotica we can find. From the kinky, to the downright stinky—from perv to ménage. Our Kindles have never been so busy, or so steamy. If my fourth year class knew its Cloud contents, I’d be banished from the school library forever, amen.
