The Lunch Rota

Her new schedule was a shocker.

Despite being just a five-minute walk from home, she would only be able to get home for lunch once a week – Mondays. She had about forty-five minutes free. Other days she had playground duties or meetings, sometimes only fifteen minutes free for herself. Annette sighed to herself as she looked over it. She’d been hoping for better. Simon was working from home now. COVID had shifted his schedule back and forth so many times she’d lost count. But now they had some stability. Her teaching job, his virtual business. She’d hoped to get home more often at lunchtimes. He was the cook. She’d arrive, a set table and a home-cooked meal, a coffee and a kiss goodbye and she’d be all set for her afternoons. Well, a quick fuck now and then would have been good too. It was a kind of unspoken illicit agreement. At the end of last term, she’d come home one lunchtime, knelt inside the doorway as soon as she’d come in and sucked him off, before licking her lips, grabbing a sip of coffee and returning to work, the taste of his cum still in her mouth as she walked back into her classroom.

So this year, it looked like Mondays was the day. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed, she knew he would be too, but maybe the anticipation of just one day a week would make it even more special.

She planned to say nothing, just put up her schedule on the fridge and let him work it out. She’d see what happened next week when she came home for lunch.

Simon had not reacted to the schedule. They had fucked on Sunday night – something he’d normally want to avoid if he was planning something for lunchtime the next day – so she guessed it wasn’t going to happen. It had been good – a very long, very slow fuck. She didn’t come, but she could still feel her vagina tingle at the thought of it as she got dressed in the morning. She had reached down and touched herself as he fucked her and felt the pulse in his cock with her fingers as he came. She'd slept solidly despite a mild frustration, but masturbated hurriedly in the shower in the morning, without telling him, giving herself some relief. After a brief breakfast together, she’d dressed and was about to leave when Simon looked her up and down and shook his head.

‘Not those trousers. A skirt, I think. Something flowing. And no underwear.' He smiled with bravado at the satirical sexism. He knew she liked it in this context. 'Lunch will be served at 12.30 sharp.’

Her vagina gave a ripple of recognition and she wordlessly obeyed. Sexually, she almost always did. Anytime and anywhere, except when they could be seen. He’d often try to take her with the curtains open but something inside her would tighten up and refuse. But otherwise, she would let him fuck her however and whenever he wanted. She often wished it was more often. She even coloured a little at the thought, feeling like a slut, superficial and cheap. She returned to the kitchen and gave him a quick twirl.

‘Will this do?’

‘It will,’ he affirmed, holding her tightly and giving her a tonguing kiss, reaching down with one hand and rubbing her roughly between her legs through her cotton skirt. ‘Don’t be late,’ he said, releasing her.

‘Count on it,’ she smiled at him as she left the house.

School was hard. It was difficult to concentrate. The tingle in her cunt would grow and subside of its own accord. Waves would flood over her, and she’d have to consciously bring herself back to the mundane, breathing deeply to calm herself. She’d berate herself silently – you slut, you can’t wait can you? And then she’d smile at the feeling, actually accepting and enjoying being the slut. And then she'd admonish or encourage a child, re-explain something to the class and occupy herself with the present moment. And out of nowhere, she'd find herself back to savouring the thought of him fucking her, holding her hair and pushing her face against the wall as he fucked her from behind, or holding her down on the bed, one hand at her throat, his cock deep and fast inside her, her breasts rolling up and down as he squeezed just hard enough to scare her, just hard enough that her next breath might not come, just hard enough that she’d get a buzz in her ears and her vision would blur and, as if by clockwork, she’d come shudderingly and loudly, as he released her throat and released himself into her. And now she was wet, and still had over an hour to go before she could feel him inside her. The temptation to touch herself was almost overpowering. The freedom of her skirt as it moved with her, the friction of it on her ass and the feeling of air as she walked were both highly sensual. She settled for texting him.

‘Wet and horny. Lunch had better be good.’

And then she turned back to papier maché volcanoes and stories of Vesuvius with her Grade 4s...