Sylvie watched as the girls dragged themselves half-heartedly around the field. It was Thursday afternoon, last lesson of the day and even she was struggling to summon any enthusiasm for hockey. She shivered a little as she tried to keep warm, waiting for the girls to complete their circuit.
"Come on, girls. Warm up properly, you don't want to pull any muscles."
Sylvie moved slowly, stretching and bending her body. She was proud of her appearance. Her face was smooth and wrinkle-free, with green eyes, button nose -- which had been described as cute by a former lover -- and plump, rosy lips; she had the features of a woman at least 10 years younger. She kept her figure in good shape - curvy but toned - and she knew she was attractive. Unfortunately, since her divorce had been finalised three years earlier, she'd had nothing but trouble with men. Every guy she'd met had seen her as a quick conquest; a few nights of hot sex and before they moved on. Her last attempt at a relationship had been a disaster. Perhaps her luck would change in her personal life like it had in her professional one?
She'd been at the school 7 months now and she was really starting to feel at home. It had been a dream job to get; a private, mixed sex school with a fantastic PE department, long holidays and a great wage structure. These kinds of job didn't come up very often and she couldn't believe her luck when they offered her the post. The previous incumbent had left for what the headmaster had termed 'personal reasons' and she'd been only too pleased to fill the void at short notice. The kids all came from very rich families and although there were a few who could do with being brought down a peg or two, most were ok.
Despite that, she hated taking senior girls for their weekly games lessons. The girls felt they were far too mature to get hot and sweaty chasing a ball around a hockey pitch and spent most of their time trying to catch the eye of the senior boys who were on the adjacent field for football training. And the boys didn't help matters either. They would stop and watch the girls, occasionally wolf-whistling, causing consternation among the group.
As Sylvie looked over, she spotted two of the young bucks sprawled on the grass, eyeing the girls as they went through their warm up; they whistled and cat-called and she could hear the girls giggling at the immature flirting. Then she saw a third male, standing separately. But he wasn't watching the girls. He was staring at her as she stretched and warmed her muscles. She turned away to continue her routine, but when she turned back, his eyes were still fixed on her. Sylvie carried on stretching, watching him from the corner of her eye. She didn't recognise him and the attention was making her a little uncomfortable.
The girls completed their circuit of the pitch and then joined her in the centre circle, distracting her. She took them through the end of their warm up, encouraging them to bend and flex, stretching the muscles in preparation for the game. Then she split them into teams and sent them off to play.
Blowing the whistle to start the game, she glanced back at the football pitch. The two coarse lads had gone back to play their game but the quiet third remained, staring at her blatantly.
Even from this distance, she could feel his gaze assessing her body, his eyes sweeping over her curves. Sylvie flushed, embarrassed at this obvious appraisal. She turned back to the game, studiously ignoring him as she put the girls through their paces; every so often she would feel suddenly warm and she knew that he was there again, watching her.
Forty-five minutes later, flushed and sweaty after an exhausting game, the girls returned to the locker room. Sylvie followed, hustling the stragglers; she didn't want to stay any later than necessary now school was effectively over for the day. Crossing the football field, the last few boys were trudging back to change too. Among them was the dark haired young man she'd caught watching her earlier. She walked past, determined to ignore him.
"You look very...fit...Miss."
Sylvie whirled round to confront him. She couldn't stop him watching her, but she sure as hell wasn't going to take any cheek from him.
"What's your name?" she demanded.
"I'm Paul, Miss. Paul Davies."
As he responded, he walked closer to her. Sylvie stood her ground as he approached, taking in a pair of emerald green eyes, set in a young but well moulded face. His body was buff, defined by exercise and his arms looked muscled and strong. Sylvie inexplicably imagined those arms wrapped around her and felt heat bloom in her stomach. She was momentarily flustered, shocked by the feelings that he had unknowingly aroused. Composing herself, she took him to task.
"Well, Paul Davies," she said, "I don't know what you think you're up to, but I'd appreciate it if you kept your comments to yourself in future."
Paul smiled and Sylvie felt the heat spreading. His smile was devastating; he was far more attractive than any eighteen year old had the right to be.
"Well, Miss," he responded, "I'm not up to anything. I just appreciate the female form and I think yours is fabulous." His eyes swept her body.
Sylvie gasped, shocked at his boldness. "I think you should direct your attentions elsewhere. There are plenty of girls your own age around," she snapped, acutely aware of her nipples stiffening under his gaze. Warmth bloomed in her cheeks. She brought her arms up and folded them across her chest, embarrassed by the way her body was responding to this young man.
"They're not a patch on you, Miss," he said. "I much prefer your sexy body to those stick insects."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Sylvie standing alone, dumbfounded.
She knew she should go after him and warn him off, but her mind was reeling. She couldn't believe what had happened. He was eighteen years old; she had no right to be attracted to him! She knew she had to avoid him at all costs before she lost control of the situation.
***
Despite her intentions, it was easier said than done. Everywhere she turned, it seemed Paul was there; his eyes caressed her body in a way that made her cheeks flush and caused arousal to trickle between her legs. For weeks, she tried to ignore the feelings he aroused in her, thinking he'd get bored if he thought she wasn't responding to him.
Then things changed. One day he passed her in the crowded hallway, and in the crush of bodies he brushed against her. She felt his fingers caress her bare leg beneath her gym skirt for a second and it was like a jolt of electricity racing through her, raising goose bumps on her flesh and making her heart pound. Again, she tried to ignore it -- perhaps it had been accidental -- but the following day, as he stood in front of her in the cafeteria queue his hand crept behind him and stroked her leg, brushing lightly over her inner thigh and causing a flood of wetness in her groin.
As each second passed, his fingers stroking her skin, she knew she should stop him, move out of reach; she felt powerless, every part of her was aching to feel his hand reach higher and stroke the very centre of her need. When he finally moved away, it was all she could do to walk to the table with her food. She was sure everyone must realise what had just happened and she picked at her food, her appetite gone, but nobody rose from their seat to proclaim her a harlot.
