I wondered if she’d done this on purpose, but catching sight of her clumsy legs as she pulled off her socks ready for bed negated any suspicions whatsoever. She didn’t know.
The laptop was moved to another point in the room. It landed with a thunk. The light switched off after five more minutes, and instinctively my palm pressed against the length of my swelling cock.
Fuck. No. Please, no.
But yes.
The rustling of bedcovers. Helen’s little sigh of relaxation.
And then more, so much more.
Short breaths. Little hitched moans. Rustling.
Fuck. God, no. No.
But I could hear her. I could hear her excitement. Her soft little murmurs as she played with herself.
My cock twitched and pulsed. My fingers were at my belt.
I was there, in my head. Watching her, listening to her gasps in the quiet, working my cock as she played with her sweet, sweet little *.
The rustling grew more agitated in line with her breathing, and I worked my cock.
Close, so close.
So fucking wrong.
She came in beautiful little gasps, and I came too. A violent orgasm. I came so hard my ears rang, muffling my grunts with the back of my hand.
I was splattered with my own spunk, and so was the tablet. In desperation I smeared it with the cuff of my shirt, and the screen turned to standby.
My own dark reflection stared back at me through the filthy glaze, and I looked filthy, too. A filthy, dirty man who should know better.
I knew better than this.
I should be better than this.
I was losing my fucking mind.
***
Helen
I dropped my cutlery onto my plate with a clatter. “But I thought Katie was going to School’s Out club over the holidays? She always goes to School’s Out club over the autumn break.”
Dad stared at me from across the table, expression teetering on the edge of exasperation. I knew the look well. “Yes, she is going to School’s Out club, the same way she goes to School’s Out club every autumn holiday, but I won’t be around to pick her up at two every afternoon. We’ve got a new driver starting, I’ve got to show him the ropes. It’s just a couple of hours, that’s all. Until your mum gets in.”
My stomach dropped through the floor. “But I’ll be busy until five… We never finish up until five.”
He put down his fork. “Christ, Helen, you’re a couple of months from your exams, you must have a million more useful things to be doing than flouncing around painting some silly panto set.”
“It’s not flouncing, I’m helping out… I like helping out.” I met his eyes. “I like painting the set, Dad, it’s important to me.”
“Work is important, Helen. Actual work. What do you expect me to do? Shirk my responsibilities and book time off so you can go paint Aladdin’s bloody Cave in the holidays?”
Mum placed a hand on Dad’s arm. “Don’t worry, George, I’m sure I can arrange something with Claire. Brittainy’s in School’s Out, too, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having Katie for a few hours afterwards.”
“Yay! Brittainy’s!” Katie shrieked.
Thank God for that. Everyone’s a winner.
But no.
Dad shook Mum off. “That’s not the point. We all know what this is really about.”
Now it was Mum’s turn to drop her cutlery. “George!” She shook her head. “Don’t start.”
“Well, someone’s got to say it.” His eyes fixed straight back on mine. “It’s about that bloody teacher again, isn’t it? Every year the same, every single holiday. Set painting, open days, art juniors club, it’s always something, some excuse. It’s got to stop, Helen. You’re at uni in a few months, you have to get your feet on the bloody ground and start preparing.”
As if I needed reminding. “I am preparing. And it’s not about Mr Roberts. It’s about art.”
“Then you won’t mind missing it this time, will you? You can do your pretty pictures at home, I’m sure there are plenty of other people to help with the panto.”
My heart pounded. “No, there aren’t. I’m one of the main painters! And it’s only next week! They won’t have time to replace me!”
He scowled at me. “Well, they’re going to have to cope one way or another, aren’t they? You aren’t even going to be here next panto. You’ve done more than your fair share.”
“But Dad…” I struggled for the words. “… it’s my last time…”
“George,” Mum said. “I can ask Claire, at least let me ask her.”
He shook his head. “No, Angela, we’ve asked Helen to do one thing and help out in the holidays. She’s got all morning to do her art, it’s not unreasonable.”
I looked at Mum. “But I already told Mr Roberts I was helping…”
She looked sad, but Dad didn’t. “Well, you’ll just have to untell him you’ll be helping, won’t you? I’m sure he’ll understand.” He picked up his cutlery, resumed shovelling mashed potato into his mouth. “He’ll probably be grateful of the break.”
My eyes flew wide. “What did you say?”