A Town Called Lucky: Brooke

% A Town Called Lucky

Author's notes:

- This follows on from the prologue, 'A Town Called Lucky: New School Yr.'

- All sexual activity or interest is between 18 year olds and older.

# Chapter 1

*First semester; third week.*

Three weeks had passed. The new school year got into its groove. The town didn't get any more attractive, but it might have gotten a bit colder.

My assistant Jess didn't miss her period, which I'm sure secretly bothered her more than me, though she feigned otherwise. Me, I enjoyed the trying. She enjoyed getting mad at me for trying and liked to remind me she had a husband. Talk about providing a motive.

Meanwhile the classes settled in. A bit. There's only so settled the young denizens of Lucky can manage and I still thought there must be something in the water that year, the amount of side eye I was getting.

I managed to avoid early amorous entanglements with my students in any case. Happily I had been more than sufficiently distracted by the mother of a 9th Grader I happened to pass in the corridor after hours, about a week into the semester, who had been waiting in a plastic bucket seat outside the deputy principle's office to find out just what her hell-spawn had done this time...

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*First semester; second week.*

She couldn't have been more than thirty, which was Lucky through and through. She was plump with ivory white skin, an oval face framed by hair so blonde it was almost white.

She wore a too short red skirt and white blouse, which let a lot of soft white skin spill out in every direction you might have hoped for. It suited her just fine in my view, but it did make her look rather more like yet another rebellious would-be strumpet of a student, testing her teachers patience, than a parent of one of said students.

She also wore what I thought of as bovver boots (I don't know if that would mean anything to my adopted countrymen), bright red lipstick, brighter red nail polish, and had a jittery, high energy, eager to please manner and expression.

Even more Lucky-esque than being a young mom, she was a kinda-but-not-really-single mom. There was a man, but he was away from town more than he wasn't. This I ascertained through the usual small talk I rolled out for pretty, flustered mothers on school grounds.

Just you come in today? He's working long hours, huh? Long weeks too I bet; some weeks so long he never comes back at all. No, not at all. I don't judge. In fact I admire you. So strong, for managing on your own, when they're this age. Such a terror, I should know, ha ha.

And so on. The Irish charm, the suggestion they come by the office when they're done, if they want to. Then, when you're leaving, the backwards half glance with a fleeting blink and you'll miss it smile, kind of wistful and longing

Don't worry. I'm not some boorish pick up artist. Its not a script, not deliberately so. But a man can be self conscious enough to know when he's got a natural rhythm with these things in these circumstances that he cannot help but follow.

I'm not bad, I'm just drawn this way.

She was in my office-office half an hour later, her freshly chastised daughter told to go wait for her in the car.

Speaking of waiting in my office-office, before we go any further you probably want to know more about my wife. Last known location: The prologue, waiting patiently for our lunch date whilst I was having my despicable way with my hot assistant in the discreet second office down the way...

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*First semester: First week.*

After I left Jess to clean herself up and write me some history hand outs, the wife and I went on the lunch date in one of the less crummy Italian joints in town.

It was all very pleasant. And maybe there really was something in the water, and she'd been drinking from it just like my students, because as we drove back, me stopping the car half way for a hopeful smooch and grope (a reputable lawyers firm somewhere in Cork, I imagine), she gave back more than I'd banked on.

Usually she's fairly coy in the day, and maybe --- maybe not --- warming up by about midnight, just when I wanted asleep. But that afternoon as I was kissing her in the car seat in a quiet lay-by a couple miles out of our way back, she reached down and gripped my cock through my pants.

"When was the last time I sucked this?" she asked me in a whisper so quiet I wondered if I'd forgotten we'd left our elderly priest asleep in the back-seat and she was afraid to wake him.

"Barely a day goes by, love," I said, in my own hoarse whisper.

"Liar." She nibbled my ear. "I can't even remember when I last. I've been neglecting it." She kissed me again then went back to whispering in my ear, so the priest couldn't hear. "Or maybe you've been neglecting to make me. Don't you want to make me suck it? Don't you get all pent up and just want to make me? But you just let me get away with it, your disobedient wife. What kind of man let's his woman get away with that? Disrespect him like that. For month after month" --- she was gripping and releasing my cock, gripping and releasing --- "without taking matters into his own hands?"

I fumbled with my belt and waist-band as my other hand took a manic, shaking grip on the back of her neck and bought her head down into my lap with a jerk, like a lion pinning his mate, as though she might fight back.

Whatever had gotten in to her, it hadn't been me, not for about a week. And she was right; the last blow job I'd had (from her, at least) must have been three months ago, or more. I made up for lost time...

Like most guys I had always been somewhat awkward about really letting rip with my sexual appetites on my wife. She was my wife, after all. So --- whilst Jess, and the mothers at school, and my pet students, all of them sooner or later learnt to take my my full length into their throat, or at least to give it a damn good try, then gather themselves and try and try and try again --- my wife I'd never really pushed, literally or figuratively.

As such, as she bobbed up and down licking and sucking the cock in the front seat of our car, never getting far beyond the head, I kept my aggression limited to the pistoning pace I set with my hand gripping her neck and my pelvis thrusting up to meet her lips, refraining from forcing myself deeper.

It had occurred to me even as she began whispering her filthy sweetness into my ear that she'd taste Jess on me. And so she must have, but didn't react. Whether she knew with certainty what she was tasting I doubted --- Jess was a delicate flavour, and I'd wiped myself off on her skirt before getting dressed --- but even if she didn't know the thought must have occurred to her. As a possibility.

What had he been doing? Am I competing for him? Am I better than her, whoever she is? Maybe she couldn't satisfy him, as he's so hard for me. I made him this hard. Maybe the taste wasn't that; maybe he'd been masturbating, thinking about all those pretty, easy, slutty girls around him every day. Maybe that's just what he tastes like when he's been masturbating. In that case he got worked up for those little whores but I got him off. Does that make me mad? Jealous? Does that mean I won, that they're just slutty props for me and my man, teasing him and working him up, for me? Or do I only ever really want him when I know younger women want him too, maybe even have had him too? Jealousy, again?

Just me musing, you understand. I couldn't read her mind.

I don't know about you, but tempting as it is to think that's what was going through her pretty head --- along with the first third of my cock --- her head is, in fact, not only pretty but probably a fair bit smarter than mine. As likely, therefore, if not more so, is a less appealing possibility. She might have her own thing going on.

It would explain her studied ignorance of my dalliances. Or, then again, maybe she really was just less interested in sex than she had been, which is certainly the impression she gave off. In which case it might be an acceptance that I'd find it elsewhere. Anything for a peaceful life.

Hmm. It had been a mystery I had been picking my way around since even before leaving Dublin, where I'd also had affairs that had hardly been state secrets. A mystery I wasn't sure I really wanted to know the answer to.

I certainly didn't need to know the answer right then. I turned my mind back to the moment, before thoughts of our potentially mutual adultery threatened my erection.

And what a moment. I might not have ever stretched her throat but she had a way with her tongue and her lips that was special all of its own, even after almost a decade of marriage. The sensation was of constantly shifting and changing pleasure, and she wasn't ever interrupted or thrown off her rhythm in the slightest by my enthusiastic unrelenting face fucking.

We'd built up a sort of blow job understanding, over the years, you see, which survived even periods of drought: I set the pace and held her in place, she worked her tongue like a demoness.

Then for the second time that day I floated high above the Earth, this time as my beautiful wife felt my load emptying into her mouth. They way she sucked in those moments always prolonged the leap, the weightlessness; I held her head still across my lap --- her lips a seal across my glans --- for maybe thirty seconds or maybe more as I savoured the slowly retreating orgasm, until I let her up again.

We didn't talk after that. We kissed again, we looked out at the unremarkable landscape for a little while, then I drove us back to the school.

All the way back I considered, as I often did, what was really going on.

Did she know? Did she care? Was she seeing someone herself? Did I even mind if she saw someone else?

Did I want her to know and to accept? She wasn't exactly bi but she wasn't the straightest girl you've ever met. So did I actually want to hook her up with Jess, as I found myself imagining in the marital bed? Or would that in fact spoil the purpose of cheating in the first place, to get away with something?

Did I even more want to hook her up with some of my more fleeting and sordid student flings? The ultimate fantasy. My wife on a bed, surrounded my hot teenage female flesh, melding together, writhing with her, with me. Or was that just that, another fantasy, best left as such?

Were we in fact, much more likely, losing sight of each other, after all these years, and heading for... for what? Divorce? Could I take that? In this foreign land, surrounded by trailer parks and dysfunction and arid grasslands, without my talisman.

She hopped out in the school parking lot, gave me a peck on the cheek, got into her car and drove home. We still hadn't said another word.

Marriage. It's complex.

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*First semester; third week.*

Skipping back to where we started this chapter, which was three weeks later, and I was in my office with a very different woman. Did I mention her name? She was a Savannah. She looked like a Savannah, too.

I had checked the school records on her troublesome daughter (whom I didn't know; not my Grade thank God) to see if it bought up anything about the mother.

I was surprised to see that she had been the registered guardian of a student of mine, a girl in my advanced History seniors' class the previous year.

The girl was Brooke; Savannah was her aunt, younger sister of Brooke's wild mother, who had upped and left without a by-your-leave when Brooke was fifteen, and Brooke went to stay with her aunt, Savannah, who wasn't more than eleven or twelve years older. She still lived with her and her daughter, according to the records.

A bit much detail for school reports, you say? Well, some students you write more notes on than others, and in this case the only reason the guardianship had been sorted out by the county at all is because one of her teachers had noticed something being up and got it looked in to. They had found Brooke living on her own in a condemned property, left $100 by her mom for groceries.

I couldn't say the resemblance between aunt and niece was striking.

Brooke was slight for starters. She had a Kate Moss figure and bone structure that was going to serve her well, if it hadn't already. To be honest she reminded me of my wife.

Her aunt, meanwhile, reminded me more of Jess.

Hmm. My wife and Jess. Brooke and Savannah.

As Savannah came through the door, looking like an easy kind of good time, with her nervous eager manner and pretty plump white skin --- and as I recalled Brooke's lithe figure, and everything else about her from her eye lashes to her taste --- my sordid mind started whirring and plotting. As it always did.

I remembered Brooke well. She had been my student only a few months before, before the school broke up for summer and she had graduated. But I would have remember if it had been twenty years ago. Some small moments live large in your mind.

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*Previous school year.*

Brooke had acted out no more or less than the average girl in an optional class at the end of their school life. She was pretty, popular enough and smart. If her mom running off had left a dent --- and it had to have --- I hadn't seen it.

She was actually quite interested in history, when not distracted, and had a thing for the French Revolution; there had been some surprisingly insightful essays on the topic.

And she flirted with me like hell, whenever she thought no-one else would see; there had been some surprisingly inciting expressions up from under the lashes.

I didn't do anything about it though because... because I wasn't quite sure why, actually.

You'll recall from the prologue that in the previous school year, Brooke's year, whilst I hadn't been exactly chaste, I had curbed my more got-to-fuck-them-all tendencies. That was part of it; simple restraint.

The other thing, thinking back, is that her similarity to my wife unnerved me. I never looked at her as a daughter figure. Not my daughter at least. But maybe I unconsciously regarded her as my wife's daughter, if that makes sense. No, it doesn't really, I suppose.

Anyway, come the last day of the year and that vague reservation got broken down, as it often is, by booze.

The last day of school in Lucky is always a rowdy one for seniors. There's an understanding that drinking will be done and a blind eye will be turned. Maybe some drugs. If there are empty classrooms in a quiet part of school then just maybe they'll be repurposed for day-time partying.

The teachers aren't much better.

And, in that spirit, any unconsummated passions should probably be dealt with, and often were.

Even male teachers who I knew kept their shirts tucked firmly into their pants the rest of the year had been known (known to me at least) to take a chance or two with students on that last day.

I been teaching my last Advanced History class of the year, in the last scheduled lesson of the year. Maybe a quarter of the class had shown up, which wasn't bad given how much had gone on at lunch time. I'd had something like four beers myself with a friend from the science dept. and was fighting down the urge to kick back and call the last lesson off. No-one would have cared. But I'd never skipped a lesson, not in all the years I'd been in Lucky.

Most of those who turned up were, naturally, the squarer ones.

I'd had two affairs with students that year, full blown affairs that is.

It's always important to wind it down before the last semester ends though, to avoid scenes and last minute heartbreak that spills over into the summer and spoils everyone's vacation.

And wind them down I had, so Alice, who I'd been seeing, who had been in these history classes, wasn't there on the last lesson.

She would be in town finding another older boyfriend. Probably one with less brown brogues and Fiat hatchback, more tats and Harley-knockoff metric cruiser. None of the other girls I'd had small time things with ("Jesus Jess, it was only a couple of them; fuck and forget, what's the problem?") were there either.

But Brooke was there. A bit tipsy from lunch time, it was obvious. But that touched me even more; she *was* a party girl, I had known that, but she came to the last class anyway.

I'd given Jess Colston the afternoon off and proceeded with the standard "write up the most important thing you learnt this year" lesson.

As everyone attending were of the sharper and more studious variety we finished with ten minutes in hand and I let them go early.

Brooke stayed behind.

She just stayed at her desk and I stayed at mine, looking at each other.

She didn't have an expression; she just looked at me.

I moved first.

I got up and walked around my desk and leaned on it, still looking at her.

She stood up, walked around hers, and leaned on it, likewise.

I straightened up.

So did she, hands clasped together in front of her.

I crossed half way and stood.

She didn't move. Her expression hadn't changed a millimetre.

I moved forward again until I was stood in front of her.

She let her arms fall to her side but still didn't move.

I thought I saw a flicker of a smile, suppressed. Yes. Definitely.

I grinned. Wolfishly, I like to imagine. But I don't practice in mirrors, you understand. She gave it up and grinned back at me. It was like a year's tension being unwound on the floor between us.

"Who said of Napoleon that is was a pity so great a man should have been so badly bought up?" I asked.

"We never did Talleyrand, how am I meant to know that?" she said.

"And yet you did, smart-ass," I said, as I closed the last couple feet. "You're wasted on this town Brooke,"

"You can talk, you moved here---" she said looking up at me. I held her cheeks tenderly and kissed her.

It was intense. Her mouth was hot, it tasted like cherry coke and vodka. She left her arms by her side but let her hands rest lightly on my hips.

I broke it off and said, "Do you know why we didn't do this before?"

"No. Because of Alice?"

"No, not that."

"Then I don't know. Why didn't you, if you knew?"

"I really have no idea." I kissed her again.

I pushed her back, gently, against her desk again. When she felt the wood against her thighs she lifted up her dress and pushed down her panties to her knees. I lifted her up onto the desk. She spread her legs and put her arms around my neck as I worked between her legs her with fingers.

"Oh---" Her head went back.

"You remind me so much of my wife," I said, pushing the first finger in.

"That is so wrong," she said faintly.

My cell, back on my desk, rang. It might as well have been an air-raid siren. She jumped and her head snapped back in alarm.

"So wrong, yet so much wrong left undone," I sighed, stopping.

I knew the call would be a retiring colleague, Ben. He was expecting me for a goodbye thing in one of the teachers' lounges. It was no use pretending I forgot and spending the rest of the afternoon with Brooke; he would likely come and look for me.

I stood totally still, one finger buried in Brooke. We looked at each other --- another intense expressionless moment as we waited for the phone to stop ringing.

It stopped ringing.

I pushed a second finger into her that second. She gasped, then cried out as a started pumping them in and out, all build-up abandoned.

Twenty heartbeats or so of this and I tried to fit a third finger, but she was too tight. Instead I started to shift the angle, reduce the depth, and moved from a rough digit fucking to hooking her, my fingers a claw inside her, clenching against her g-spot. Releasing, clenching, releasing, clenching.

Her head went back again and her arms came down and she grabbed at her tits through her blouse as she shook in a silent orgasm.

I didn't stop, neither did she. She came again, and again.