Drunk

Present day, geography classroom.

He was buried in her slender thighs, fingers tightly woven around her soft skin, thrusting in and out without any ounce of control. His face pressed into her collarbone, her scent surrounded him, her arms roaming his back, digging into his hair, her head thrown back as she took him.

And God, it had been a long time since he had known such pleasure, such passion. His mind had fled through the window, his body driving him like a wild animal. More, more, more. He just couldn't stop. Pleasure was building up fast, and he wondered how long until he exploded altogether. She deserved better, but he was desperate to have her at least once. Regrets, remorse and shame would come later, albeit they already lingered at the back of his mind. For the moment, her muffled moans filled his senses, her touch alighting his body with trails of fire, her hips meeting his with as much fervour. She was a goddess to take, a delight to lick and nibble at, a safe haven for a lost man.

Her balance slightly shifted as she caressed his shoulder, climbing across his collarbone, all the way up to his nape. A tender gesture, shaking for his frenetic movements caused her whole frame to buck. Fingers cupped his cheek, calling him, coaxing him into lifting his face. Tristan paused, mesmerised, as her eyes trapped him into a gaze darkened with desire and … something else. Her swollen lips caught his, giving him the sweetest of kisses, causing his hips to stutter.

— "I love you", she whispered, caressing his cheekbone tenderly.

Tristan's eyes widened; fear, awe, heartache mingling in his chest.

I have to divorce.

For a moment, he thought he was going to drown in the realisation until Frances' body arched into his, calling him in; the answer was instinctive. His movements slowed then, as he set one of her legs down to the ground. A different position where he towered over her once again, the full length of his body in contact with hers. Her chest rose and fell in anticipation, her breath short as she watched him in the barely lit room. There was fear, too, in her eyes when he dipped his head to kiss her languorously. Their tongues danced once again as his manhood buried itself deep inside. Her arms circled him, tightening as he worked her body.

The frenzy gone, a slow, sensual dance took over. Deeper, stronger, a connexion that caused him to bury himself to the hilt while he watched her hooded eyes respond to his passion. She loved him… loved him. One of his hands trapped hers against the wall, fingers burying in between her long, elegant ones. Sweat mingling as they enclosed her tightly; she held on to him with such strength.

This wasn't fucking anymore. This was making love to a beautiful, tender woman whose body welcomed him heartily, with such passion that the build up nearly caused his heart to stop. God. He was going to…

Frances's head suddenly shot backwards, banging on the wall with a thud, her lips slightly parted. A deep, heavy moan bubbled in her chest, her pleasure reverberating into his. She bit her lip, whimpering, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her anew when his muscles started to spasm. Pleasure shot up from his lower belly to his spine, unmistakable, unstoppable. No time to blink, or think of the consequences before she tumbled over the edge in his wake.

— "Oh my… Tristan !"

The sound of his name on such lovely lips caused his loins to clench, pleasure so intense that he felt faint. Dizzy. His conscience fled; it was painful to keep his hips from tearing her apart. Tristan grunted, his fingers tightened their hold on hers just as much as her walls clenched around him. Her body shook and arched, thighs tightening as he clung to her, sound of pleasure mingled as he buried his face in her neck. Again and again, slow and deep thrusts, relentless. Tristan tried to ride the massive peak that took his breath away. She welcomed him to the very end, unwilling to let go until, at last, he stilled. They both remained against the wall, panting and trembling, breaths mingling, his forehead resting against hers. For a long time, he relished in the soft caress upon his nape, deft fingers dancing with the fine hairs and sensitive skin.

So when reality crashed down upon his drunken mind, Tristan could only stagger, his pants nearly tripping him down. He hastily pulled them up and sank into a chair.

— "What have I done ?", he moaned, head buried in his hands.

A teacher banging his student, without protection ! What a fucking fool he was ! All because she fit so well in his arms… His inebriated mind was now running so high on shame that he felt like puking his guts over. Frances approached him and knelt beside the chair on trembling legs. Her little hand found his. Warm, soft, caressing.

— "Relax, I'm an adult, and on the pill. I wouldn't have allowed it if not"

Tristan nodded, content that his instincts had at least chosen a reasonable woman before he took her against the wall of his classroom. What had he be THINKING ? The answer was simple; no thinking, no, not with his brain at least. But then… he had never felt such pleasure, such completion with a woman. Not even his wife, not even when he was in love with her. His visions swayed in the darkened room, the realisation eventually sinking in.

— "I won't tell anyone, and none will be the wiser", she said gently.

Tristan nodded once more, unable to do better than that. His mind was in such a state of disarray; his heart was going to burst. On a whim, the teacher grabbed Frances' hand and kissed it. The young woman gave him a sad smile, a lonely tear escaping her misty eyes as she retrieved her fingers from his grasp. This was it; the moment he had dreaded those past weeks. The moment she would walk out of his life.

— "Goodbye, sir."

— "Don't…"

How did she guess, his little minx ? How did she guess what he meant ? That he didn't want to be 'sir', to her, not his teacher. The hierarchy had been abolished between them the moment he had buried himself between her plush thighs. Perhaps before that, when her soft lips had welcomed him. Sweet, beautiful lips…

— "You know where to find me, right ?"

Yes, he knew. Frances' face came close, her breath fanning upon his face. Then she kissed his lips, very sweetly. Softly, like a caress.

— "Goodbye, Tristan."

Her graceful figure disappeared in the darkness, the clang of the door closing echoing like a token of doom. Damoclès' sword had fallen upon his neck. Leaving him alone, not so very drunk, and totally bereft in his classroom. What now ? She would probably be ambushed by her friends. Perhaps she would have the sense to tell them she had been drinking too much; it would explain her state of disarray. Would her eyes seek him before she went home ?

Tristan sighed.

He needed to man up. Pack, and go home to his wife.

Yet, half an hour later, he had not moved an inch from his chair. Head still buried in his hands, knees trembling, stomach rolling and heart… splitting. The noise of the door caused hope to swell in his chest; she was back ! Back, perhaps for a second, or a minute. But in this moment he couldn't care. He wanted to see her again, to make things right and see clarity before …

But it wasn't her face that greeted him when he lifted his head. For in her place stood Alain Tebrus, the French teacher, his features worried in the darkness of the room.

— "Are you all right ?", he asked cautiously.

Tristan's brain exploded when he sprang from his chair like a devil out of a box.

— "No ! No, no, I'm not allright. I'm… despicable"

Swaying on his feet, he realised how the alcohol still affected his self-control. He felt… dirty. Alain took a few steps forward, probably wondering if he was going to topple over. The French professor was a good deal shorter than himself, and probably twenty pounds lighter.

— "Calm down, Tristan", he told him, his voice soothing. "Tell me what is wrong"

Alain was… the typical father figure than one could trust. Fifteen years older, and a good friend. But right now, Tristan didn't seek acceptance; he didn't deserve it. The plea came out of his mouth before he could think of filtering it.

— "I slept with a student, this is what is wrong !", he shouted.

Then he sank upon the desk, his grey eyes meeting Alain's narrowed ones.

— "What kind of monster am I ?", he whispered.

A hard slap at the back of his skull caused his vision to swim and his brain to ache.

— "Ow…"

By now, Alain had grabbed his forearms and shaken him out of his self-induced haze.

— "Tristan… Which student ? How old ?"

The geography teacher understood his colleague's concern there; any student underage would send him straight to a trial. At least he had the sanity to lust after a woman, even if she was way too young for him.

— "Not high school, frankly, Alain. I'm not a pedophile !"

— "How old ?"

The tone was insistent.

— "Twenty, I guess."

Understanding dawned upon his colleague's features.

— "Frances ?"

Tristan bit his tongue; was it even worth lying ? No, you don't lie to friends.

— "Yeah."

Alain straightened, then walked a few feet away, shaking his head.

— "It's not as bad as it seems then."

Not as bad as it seemed !? Was this absolution for his horrible behaviour ? He had fucked a student, for god's sake ! And so, loosing every sense of control, Tristan sprung upon his feet once more and pointed to the spot where, half an hour earlier, he had cornered Frances against the wall.

— "What do you mean, not that bad ? I fucked her brains out against that fucking wall, Alain!"

The French teacher winced; he didn't want that image to stick in his brain. But there wasn't much to be done to calm Tristan down; he was rambling now.

— "Gosh, those parents confide their children to us, hoping they will be safe and I take advantage…"

— "Did you ?"

Tristan blinked, taken aback by this very valid point. His pacing stopped as he considered Alain's words. Given how Frances's body had reacted to him, given the word she had graced him with… he had been forcefully passionate, but she had not attempted one second to push him away. She had welcomed him like a starved woman and found joy in the act; this was the only clear certitude of the evening.

But this was no excuse.

— "No, but I'm the teacher, and 11 years older."

His colleague nodded, acknowledging that, yes, he should have known better. But his words caused him to pause in his self-pity fest.

— "It's 11, Tristan. Not 15, not twenty. Think about it. Less than a generation here. It's not… so unusual. And you know what they say about us men."

The jab didn't even call a smile to his lips, but he appreciated the effort at levity.

— "We mature slowly, yeah, I am a great example of that. I'm thirty-one…"

And he felt as lost as an empty shell in the Ocean's currents. Alain waited, the prefect picture of composure, that his younger colleagues regained his bearings.

— "Still… I was her teacher."

Another nod, and a glare were his answer.

— "I'm not impressed with you, Tristan. I expected better."

The geography professor sighed deeply, the consequences of what had transpired eventually settling in. If Frances had been found out… this would have consequences over her future. He needed to find a way to fix the mess before he left.

— "So did I. How… how do you know it was her ?"

Alain sat upon a table, levelling him with a serious look; he looked pleased by his line of inquiry. As if, at last, Tristan was thinking straight.

— "First, I saw you dance together. There are feelings, there, are you aware ?"

It felt horrible to be interrogated thus, but he needed Alain's help, and trusted him.

— "Yes, she told me. I hope… I hope she doesn't get in trouble"

The French professor pursed his lips, watching as Tristan's hand passed over his face, fingers trembling slightly.

— "People might speculate, but since you are leaving … no one knows but me."

— "Then how ?", Tristan asked.

The million-dollar question.

— "She sent me there, you damn fool ! To make sure you are allright."

His breath caught in his throat, eyes misting over. Damn, he hated those emotions he couldn't control, blame the alcohol ! Still, he had trouble believing the young woman he'd just banged against the wall would take such a risk just to make sure he made it home safely.

— "She did ?"

He must have looked a frightful mess indeed. Or perhaps Frances was just very soft hearted.

— "Yes. She was worried, she cares for you a great deal, more than her pride. So I'll drive you home, and you'll sort that mess out like a man."

Tristan nodded, feeling his adrenalin crash and the need for a good cup of tea. Or three galleons of water. Or whichever sobered him before he fell into fruitless dreams.

— "I need to get back to my wife."

Alain gave him a look that left him trembling in his boots. Damn, for such a short man, he could be intimidating. He understood why they got along so well, and why Frances had chosen to confide in him. A good choice; the father figure to kick his ass. Tristan grabbed his arm, humbled by the consideration he was shown.

— "Thank you, Alain."

— "You're welcome", the French teacher grumbled.