To SIr, With Love

To Sir with… Love

James Maynard stared out the window, idly watching the drips of rain running down the glass. The older James got the easier his mind wandered. Tonight was the night ! His once-every-two-months visit to Mistress Kelli. Mistress Kelli was a young single mother who lived on the local council estate. At about 24 she was a lovely dark, powerful West Indian woman. In 10 or 15 years she would probably run to fat, but at the moment she was at the very peak of feminine sexuality. Young black women seemed, James mused, to be naturally dominant. Confidence, indeed arrogance, seemed to define them from a very early age. James could certainly testify to that. He had enough of the young minxes in his class, if you could have enough of such a good thing !

Tonight would be special. James had saved his hard-earned money and had agreed to pay Mistress Kelli double, as she had promised to bring along a new young domme she had recently taken under her wing. James let his imagination run free, trying to anticipate what this new domme might be like. All James knew was that she was black and she was younger than Mistress Kelli.

“Sir !” Suddenly James was brought back from his reverie.

“Yes, Dionne ?” he said, outwardly conveying the calm, slightly bored, I’m-in-charge-here demeanour he deemed appropriate for a 53 year old teacher addressing his 18 year old pupil. That was outwardly. Inwardly James was already on his knees, his thoughts crying “yes, Mistress Dionne”.

“Like, is you alright, sir ? You was like, day-dreaming an’ that”. James knew that Dionne was exaggerating the ‘street’ voice when talking to him. He knew she could speak perfectly reasonable English when she wanted to. It had always slightly concerned James as to why she did that. After all, she couldn’t know what that black slang street voice did to him… could she ? No, of course she couldn’t. It’s just that he never heard her using that voice to any other teacher. But man, she was fine ! She would grace any hip hop video on MTV Base. Yes, James regularly watched the music channels. They were a great source of visual gratification for James. He just loved black girls; especially young, proud, bubble-butted goddesses like those he often beat his meat to on MTV.

His appointment with Mistress Kelli hadn’t come round a minute too soon. He was so horny he thought he might explode !

“I’m sorry, Dionne, where was I ?”

Ignoring his question she simply smirked back at him in a disconcertingly knowing way.

“Doing something nice this weekend, sir ?” she giggled.

James felt himself blush, even though there was no way she could possibly know what he’d been thinking about. Despite his embarrassment James felt the familiar stirring in his pants.

At that point James was saved by the bell.

“Ok class, off you go, have a good weekend and see you all Monday”.

“Bye, sir” said Dionne as she strutted towards the door swaying her hips and accentuating the swelling globes of her proud buttocks which threatened to push their way through the straining fabric of her bottle green school skirt.

James watched as the last few pupils slowly left the class room, too intent on chatting amongst themselves to pay much attention to James, but he waited and made sure they had all gone. Still watching the door, he moved slowly towards the back of the class room. Reaching the chair which, only a scant few seconds before, had been Mistress Dionne’s seat, (for that was how James always thought of her), he pulled the chair towards him and slowly sank to his knees. Now, James was an intelligent man. He was self- aware enough to know, intellectually, that what he was about to do was strange; no, not strange, down-right weird. Had he seen someone else doing what he was about to do James would have thought them perverted and disgusting, but the urge impelling him to worship the seat that had so recently supported THAT arse was just too strong to even think about trying to resist. The chair was no longer an inanimate object of cold metal and plastic, but was an avatar for the object of his veneration. In a way which, he supposed, was similar to that in which those with a religious conviction venerated icons and idols of Christ and his saints, James Maynard imbued the chair with the status of relic. This chair had touched Her bottom. In so doing it had taken on a significance infinitely beyond its mundane functionality. It brought James, through the workings of his fevered imagination, closer to the idea of Her; of Mistress Dionne. He knew he was not worthy of touching his Mistress herself, but somehow the chair and James shared a bond. The chair had held the weight of his Mistress, asking no favour but to serve; seeking no acknowledgement, only use; craving no thanks beyond having fulfilled Her need. The chair and himself were near equals; James could share a small part of Her divine presence through paying homage to this object which, had it a consciousness to register such a fact, had known the sheer bliss of servitude beneath an earth-bound goddess. As if seeing himself from outside his own body as a detached but interested observer, James felt himself close his eyes and push his pursed lips towards the seat of the chair. He kissed. He pushed his nostrils against the roughened plastic and inhaled deeply, hoping against hope to experience some residue of her divine fragrance. Finally, he tentatively extended his tongue beyond his dried and cracked lips. He moved his tongue around, trying to put some moisture back into those desiccated lips. Then, in a culmination of this at once sublime and humiliatingly ridiculous act, James ran his moistened tongue along the surface of the chair seat. In his mind he was not imagining his tongue rasping along the magnificence of his Mistress’s buttocks, but rather, that she could see him abasing himself in such an abject way and all because of the residual influence of her wonderfully feminine presence. If she could see him now, and know the full depth of his devotion to Her, oh how she would mock him, losing whatever tiny shred of respect she stilled owed her class teacher.

At that point James was wrenched forcefully out of his reverie by the sound of the class room door opening. He jerked his head up. Regardless of the dreamlike imaginings of Her finding him in this position and his enduring the exquisite barbs of her contempt, his reflexes took over. He jumped back, but had no time to rise. He found himself kneeling dumbly like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car staring at Her. Mistress Dionne had put her head round the door and was openly staring at him. “Sir…. ?” she said unsurely. “What are you doing down there ?” James tried desperately to pull himself together; “ah, Dionne, I was just looking for a coin I dropped… ah, there it is. Was there something I could do for you ?”. As James said this he started to regain some semblance of composure. The sheer ordinariness of the dialogue helped dim the memory of what, only 20 seconds before, were the sordid thoughts coursing through his head. He stood up. Only then did the sensation of his trousers stretching tautly at his crotch draw his conscious attention to the fact that he was sporting a raging hard-on. The direction of Dionne’s gaze and the knowing smirk which started to spread across Her face showed James that she too had noticed his excitement. “Was it an exciting coin, sir ?” she asked with mock innocence.

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James stood at the top of the twelfth flight of stairs and struggled to regain his breath. It wasn’t all down to his being out of condition, though he most certainly was. No, it was down mostly to the excitement and sheer terror of what lay just feet ahead of him behind the seemingly innocuous door to flat 76.