Mrs. Bamishaad's story

Folusho was trying Mrs. Bamishaad’s patience again. As usual she had not done her homework on time and she was now in Mrs. Bamishaad’s office trying to convince her to accept it. Mrs. Bamishaad leaned back in her chair while Folusho tried to make her case.

“But please ma, this is the first time...” she pleaded.

Mrs. Bamishaad raised a sceptical eyebrow. They both knew this wasn’t true. Sensing that she wasn’t getting anywhere, Folusho put on her puppydog face, widening her eyes, tilting her head down slightly and sticking out her lower lip. The ‘face’ was her last desperate resort. Mrs. Bamishaad had seen it too many times before for it to have any effect this time. Nope, not going to work. You’re going to have to try harder. Her gaze strayed absentmindedly from Folusho’s pleading face to her chest. Her pristinely white, starched uniform shirt was translucent enough for the bright green colour of her bra to show through. Her large breasts swelled outwards and strained against her shirt buttons. One of the buttons had popped open while she exuberantly made her defence earlier, gesticulating wildly as she made up her outlandish tale. Mrs. Bamishaad enjoyed the tiny glimpse of Folusho’s cleavage afforded by the errant button for a moment, and then quickly snapped her eyes back up to her face.

The teacher was silent for a few moments while Folusho batted her eyelids ineffectually at her. I have a class and this girl is just wasting my time. She gave a deliberate sigh of exasperation. “Leave the book on my desk. And take note; this will be the last time I will accept a late assignment from you, Folusho.”

“Oh thank you so much, ma!” She came round the side of the desk and flung her arms around Mrs. Bamishaad’s neck in a one-sided hug, briefly submerging her teacher’s face in the deep curve between her breasts. Mrs. Bamishaad’s heartbeat quickened and her breath came in short gasps; she could feel herself getting warm. When Folusho released her she quickly composed herself and snapped, “Button your shirt properly and go back to your class. I’m sure the next lesson has already started.”

“Ok ma. And thank you ma. Don’t worry; I won’t submit anything late again!” She beamed brightly as she left the office, fumbling with her shirt buttons as she went.

*    *    *

When Mrs. Bamishaad got home she was exhausted. Teaching secondary school children was a stressful, demanding job. You always had to be on the alert, especially with the older ones. The kids were always on the lookout for errors you might make and were unbearably obnoxious when they discovered one. They would gleefully gloat over the fact that adults were not infallible storehouses of information and would become more reluctant than usual to obey simple instructions like “Don’t talk while I’m lecturing”. Mrs. Bamishaad was glad the end of another school day had finally come. She could hardly wait for Friday. She felt sure her anticipation of the weekend far surpassed that of her students.

Dropping off her handbag on a sofa in the sitting room, she strolled to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of chilled apple juice, all the while revelling in the silence and solitude around her. She returned to the sitting room and sank into a chair, sipping from her glass. She watched television for a while, flipping through channels but finding none she could settle on. TV is trash these days. As the bottom of the glass tilted upwards over her open mouth, she caught sight of the wall clock. 6 o’clock already? Christ! Mrs. Bamishaad jumped off the chair and hurried to the kitchen to begin preparations for dinner. Her husband would be home soon, and he did not like to wait for his food. Mrs. Bamishaad tried to swallow down the anxiety rising like bile in her throat as she peeled potatoes. What are you worried about? She reasoned with herself. Dinner will be ready on time. Calm down!

*    *    *

Mrs. Bamishaad wiped her hands off on her apron and started setting out the table for dinner. He would be home any minute now. Fork on the left, knife on the right. No sooner had she finished than the growl of the 1989 Mercedes Benz her husband drove broke the silence. She scuttled to stand by the door and opened it immediately she heard his footsteps on the doormat.

“Good evening sir,” she greeted him as he came in. His ever-present scowl grew deeper as he managed a grunt in reply. She took his briefcase from him and waited for him to sit in his usual armchair. When he did she went and knelt in front of him, pulled off his shoes and socks, and took them to the bedroom along with his briefcase. She brought back his slippers, placed them at his feet and announced that dinner was ready. Then she went into the kitchen and brought out the serving dishes. Her husband took his usual seat at the head of the dining table as she served his meal on his plate. She served herself, and they proceeded to eat in silence. He chewed his food ponderously, staring into space as he did. Every day Mrs. Bamishaad hoped he would say something to her, ask her how her day went. Every day she was disappointed. When he was done he went back to his chair in the sitting room and read the day’s newspaper from the front page to the back, as he always did.

When he tuned in to the evening news, Mrs. Bamishaad took her cue and went into the bathroom to take a shower and freshen up. She used the lavender scented shower gel as always, because she had read somewhere that lavender has a calming effect on the nerves. Even though it never seemed to work, she always used it anyway. She figured had nothing to lose, and nice-smelling skin to gain if nothing else. And at least it calmed her, if not him. Placebo effect? Probably. She slowly towelled dry and then rubbed herself all over with sesame oil. For soft skin. She picked out the midnight blue satin nightdress with spaghetti straps and lace trimming. It skimmed the tops of her thighs. Usually she would skip the matching thong but tonight she opted to wear it. As she pulled it on she wondered why she even went to all the trouble. It’s not like he’d notice even if I decided to wear a sack. Sighing, she put a bonnet over her hair, got into bed and waited.

Mrs. Bamishaad listened as the TV in the sitting room was switched off. Sound carried far in the house, probably because most of it was uncarpeted. She absentmindedly fantasised about having all the floors covered from wall to wall in cream coloured lush carpeting. Except for the kitchen, of course. She imagined herself sinking her feet into the soft, warm material and wriggling her toes in it. She smiled and sighed wistfully, still thinking about carpets as her husband climbed into bed beside her. Carpets were pushed out of her thoughts by the overpowering smell of stale sweat he brought along with him. Mrs. Bamishaad’s mind returned fully to the matter at hand when she felt her husband’s left hand fondling her breasts through the satin of her nightdress; her body stiffened involuntarily. She stayed stock still and let her imagination take her away again as her husband mounted her roughly.

*    *    *

I made Folusho keep her eyes shut as I led her by the hand down a long, dark corridor. My heels clacked a hollow rhythm on the wood floor as we went. When we reached the right door I took her through, shut it behind us and let her open her eyes. We were in a room with a huge bed in the middle of it, laid with silk sheets. The floor was carpeted and dim light was provided by a small chandelier. There was a light scent of lavender in the air. As Folusho looked around I stood behind her at the door. She looked back at me and smiled, opening her mouth to speak, to tell me how wonderful it all was. But I stopped her with an index finger on my lips. I pushed her coat off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground, revealing a midnight blue satin and lace nightdress. I took off my own robe and let Folusho take in my black corset and garter, the fishnet stockings and towering stiletto heels. I went to her, grabbing her firm, perfectly rounded rear in one hand, drawing her to me. I turned her face to the side with the other hand and kissed the exposed side of her neck, sucking at it hungrily. She moaned and I felt her knees weaken a little. I kneaded her butt cheeks, grinding my hips into hers at the same time, and felt the familiar heat emanating from my groin and spreading throughout my body. When I had had my fill of her neck, I pulled away to stare at her lips. I marvelled at how inviting they looked, slightly parted, moist, and full. I ran the tip of my tongue over her lower lip, feeling its irresistible softness. I sucked gently first on her lower lip, then on the other. When I could bear it no longer I covered her lips with mine. The kiss was like a cool glass of water to a thirsty desert traveller. I drank deeply, savouring the light flavour of her lips, wanting more. I went deeper, probing her mouth with my tongue, going where no woman had gone before. The heat source at my nadir grew more intense and the kiss grew urgent. I pulled away abruptly and told her to remove her clothing; she did and then she took off mine. I kept my heels on. When we were both naked, I took her by the shoulders and pushed her face forward onto the bed. I made her get up on all fours.

There was a small horsewhip in the drawer beside the bed. I got it out and flexed it, testing its strength. “You’ve been very bad, Folusho, submitting assignments late, or sometimes not at all. You know I have to punish you, right?” She nodded meekly, a look of apprehension on her face. I rolled my right arm back and brought the whip down on her milky brown, perfectly rounded ass. It slowly gained a rosy tint as I flogged it again and again, with as much force as I could muster. As she cried out in pain, begging me to stop, I felt the blood pounding furiously at my clit. I was getting very, very wet. When arm eventually grew tired I stopped, and listened to Folusho sob quietly. I saw the tears dripping onto the sheets, and I was filled with raw excitement. I was so aroused I felt I might have an orgasm just by watching her.

I threw the whip aside and grabbed her hair, raising her head to face me. I kissed her, tasting the tears and relishing the saltiness of the kiss. I licked more tears off her cheeks, twisting her hair tightly at the same time, making her whimper. Still holding her hair, I pulled her to a kneeling position on the floor. I pushed her head against my groin; she obediently opened her mouth and began to lick me, dipping her tongue in and out and sucking gently. As she worked I leaned my hips into her face, pushing her head against me. When she began to protest, saying she couldn’t breathe, I finally reached a spectacular climax, shuddering against Folusho as I came.

*    *    *

Mrs. Bamishaad lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her pelvis was sore from her husband’s most recent assault. After he had relieved himself of his semen, he had promptly fallen into a very noisy sleep. She turned to look at him, irritated by his loud snoring. It occurred to her that he both looked and sounded like a pig, not to mention smelled like one. Mrs. Bamishaad thought about the last time they had cuddled after sex. It had been ages ago, before the miscarriage. A lot of things had changed after that. Her husband blamed her for losing the baby, and she accepted the blame, believing herself to be at fault. To make things worse, after that she hadn’t been able to get pregnant again. Mrs. Bamishaad carried the guilt with her day and night. She watched as her husband had transformed from the loving, lovable man she had married into a cruel and cold stranger. She was appalled by this horrible transformation, but she made excuses for him, putting up with it and telling herself that she deserved his meanness. Mrs. Bamishaad let her mind drift to happier things, namely her bumbling buxom student, Folusho. She let her mind linger on Folusho’s full, heavy breasts as she drifted off to sleep.