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It was the first sixth form disco of 1997 and Angie had spent the last half hour in the ladies’ toilets. Not that she was some sort of perv . . .
Well, not that she classed herself as some sort of perv. No, if she classed herself as anything, “perv” would be last on the list; even if some of her so-called schoolmates did judge books by their covers.
And even if book covers were sometimes a fair guide.
Angie did her best to smile at her reflection in the long mirror above the line of hand basins. As always her best effort went unrewarded. Smiling wasn’t her thing. No matter how hard she tried she ended up looking like she was glowering or snarling . . . or ready to rip some poor innocent’s heart out.
Why oh why did she have to take after her dad! Her mum was a tall five-ten, slender and slinky with a natural tan and the ability to eat like a horse without ever putting on an ounce. Dad was an ex-rugby player with an oft-broken nose, cauliflower ears and the loudest voice in Christendom. He was also a touch over six-five and at least the same again across his shoulders. Even now, well into his forties, he turned out for “The Vets” and regularly smashed much younger opponents into the muddy turf.
If only she could have had half of Mum’s genes!
Okay, so she did have a straight nose and her ears were all right. Thank heavens for small mercies!
Struggling to be uncritical, Angie assessed herself.
She was tall; a shade over six feet. Her shoulders were slightly narrower than Dad’s. And, while she’d inherited Mum’s eating ability . . . never putting on a gram, never mind an ounce . . . she still tilted the scales at thirteen stones four.
If she wanted she could have rocked The Vets’ opponents out there on the rugby pitch as easily as Dad did. She could have rocked the much younger First IV’s opponents too. And deep inside she’d probably have enjoyed doing that.
Yet deep inside lurked a warm, sensitive person; it was a shame that very few people had ever seen past the face she showed to the world.
Her deliberately makeup-free face, topped off with a number one skinhead; that was what people saw and reacted to.
Yes, people reacted to the scary face of her.
Dad had always called Angie “big-boned” and he might even have been right. She’d always been a lot bigger than other girls her age, as well as most of the guys. Sadly though, she’d never been remotely voluptuous. Those thirteen stones were muscle; not ugly muscle, but definitely not pretty muscle. She didn’t do pretty. All said and done she was large, solid and not in the least bit shapely.
Well, from some angles her face was surprisingly good-looking (her bone structure worked just fine up there!), but the rest of her body was extraordinarily curve-free. It was hip, ass and waist-wise, anyway.
How unfair was that! A girl of her height should naturally stop conversations whenever she entered a room. Her conversational-stopping abilities were for other reasons altogether.
Aged twelve naughty (not-so) little Angie had fallen out of a tree, landing mostly on her head and, by all reports, being lucky not to break her neck. A few days in hospital had seen her right again but, not a week after her release, she’d woken to find all of her hair lying loose on her pillow. That had been bad enough but worse was yet to come. When her hair grew back it wasn’t its original blue-black, it was an awful mousy colour and it grew in a straggly sort of a way.
For a while she had tried to live with what she had, trying umpteen different styles and dyes of every colour under the sun. Then, aged fifteen, arriving for one of her frequent hairdressing appointments, asked for the millionth time what coiffure she wanted that week, she’d snapped.
‘Off,’ she’d said. ‘Shave it all off.’
After considerable objections her stylist had obliged, charging an arm and a leg for quickly doing the deed with a number four guard.
Her reception at school had been, to say the least, mixed. Yes, mixed . . . but overall favourable.
They were a tolerant lot, her schoolmates. Okay, so there were a few wearing blinkers, but most of them believed in live and let live. Or maybe they were all scared of her new appearance. Folk either came up to pat her on the back else avoided her altogether.
And nobody but nobody questioned her sexuality; not within hearing distance, anyhow.
Perhaps a month later, too straggly-mousy again for her liking, she had gone into town, into a barbers’ shop supposedly for men, and asked for a number one. The guys in the shop had made her welcome and charged her a mere two quid. She had been paying regular return visits ever since.
How welcome did those barber guys make her. At first she’d wondered if they thought that she was a bloke but her tits ruled out such suspicions. Her body was unshapely and masculine but her breasts were big, round and noticeably unmissable. She rather liked the way the barber guys took great care not to touch them as they tucked in her protective cape.
Yes, the barbers’ canlı bahis şirketleri shop was better than any hairdressers’: two quid and a load of banter else twice as much and gushy crap about horses, soaps and celebrities? Angie went for the banter every time.
She’d abandoned makeup even earlier in life. Apart from not seeing the need for it she had never had either patience or talent. Her best efforts always looked like warpaint and she was intimidating enough in the first place.
So why bother?
Secured away from the real world as she was, Angie could still hear music from the disco. Except the sixth form part of the night was now as good as over and so was the faster disco stuff. It was time for the slow, close dancing. Couples would be out there cheek-to-cheek, some of them long-established items, some of them established for minutes if not seconds.
And rash decisions would be being made. Was it to be home to mummy and daddy or into town to the pubs and clubs? And failing pubs or clubs, was something else in the offing? Did tonight’s new pickup warrant more than a few kisses? Had relationships lasted long enough to progress?
Footsteps were approaching, clearly audible over 2 Become 1. Angie didn’t want a conversation right then and certainly wasn’t ready to go back to the disco. She went swiftly into one of the stalls, sitting on the closed lavatory seat and holding the door shut with her foot.
Hurry up with it, she silently urged.
Then she frowned. There had been two sets of footsteps but no voices. And, apart from the sound of the door to the ladies’ opening, there was no evidence of anyone using the facilities in any way.
Curious by nature, she removed her foot and let the stall door come ajar. Practically tiptoeing, she put her eye to the gap . . . and sharply inhaled.
There were two girls in there, one up against the tiled wall, the other busily eating her mouth.
Liz and Suzanne, she realized, fascinated by the spectacle.
Liz and Suzanne were the school’s best-known lesbian couple. They had come out early in the lower sixth and had been accepted and even applauded for their bravery. Now, well over a year later, they’d been together so long that they had become part of the furniture. Nobody commented when they held hands in the common room or passionately kissed at parties or discos.
But this wasn’t just a kiss; Liz’s hand was inside Suzanne’s short skirt. She was . . .
No two ways about it, Liz was fingering her girlfriend.
Angie felt excitement rush through her. She’d always assumed Suzanne was the dominant one in that pairing but there she was, back to the tiles and taking it.
And good God, she could hear Liz’s fingers squelching as they went in and out of Suzanne! Suzanne, eyes closed, mouth open, was grunting approval through her nose. Then her face changed and Angie just knew she was cumming.
Not that a trifling orgasm stopped Liz. If anything she redoubled her efforts.
Angie’s head was spinning. She’d often wondered what these two got up to together. Now she knew and didn’t it look like fun!
Her own body was reacting too. Her nipples were hard rocks and the soft fabric of her sweatshirt was rubbing them so, so teasingly. More noticeably, she had a ball of liquid fire in her pussy. Her panties were wet too. Wet? Make that drenched. She could feel juice on the insides of her thighs.
Suzanne’s face was changing again. She’d gone from ecstatic bliss to deep concentration, the sort of concentration she’d been in before cumming only moments earlier. Her grunts of approval were even louder, the gaps between them ever shorter.
Angie felt herself building along with Suzanne. This was the most amazing sight she had ever seen. It was beyond magical, almost miraculous.
Suzanne was going for her third climax when more approaching footsteps caused Liz to hastily back off. Angie, going for her second climax, somehow managed to stifle a groan.
Bugger, she thought, getting a last eyeful before reclosing the stall door.
By then Suzanne was straightening her clothes and stepping away from the wall. Liz was already at a basin, rinsing her hands and splashing water over her face.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ a voice called out, ‘what’s all this, then?’
‘Caught you in the act, have we?’ another added.
There sounded to be three or four newcomers but Angie failed to recognize the voices. That is to say she couldn’t positively ID them. She guessed it was Melanie and her crowd but couldn’t be sure. She recognized Liz’s voice when she spoke, though.
‘You lot couldn’t catch a cold,’ Liz said smartly.
That produced a chorus of laughter. There had been nothing nasty in Melanie’s greeting (if indeed it was her greeting) and nothing too defensive in Liz’s reply. There again, those two lesbian lovers really were loud and proud. If they had been caught they’d have laughed it off in no time.
The door to the ladies’ opened and closed again, presumably as Liz and Suzanne left to find another place to make canlı kaçak iddaa out. Still laughing, someone went into the stall next to Angie’s and pulled the bolt.
‘Did you see Abigail and Bobby?’ that first voice asked in the ensuing silence.
‘You bet I did,’ a new speaker replied. ‘I kept expecting Miss Pearce to throw a bucket of water over them. You know, like you do get a dog off a bitch.’
‘It was more like getting a bitch off a dog if you ask me. That girl is insatiable. And the way she looks is criminal. She shouldn’t be allowed out looking like that. Poor old Angie never stood a chance.’
‘Poor old Angie,’ the new speaker agreed.
Poor old Angie said nothing. She stayed where she was, half-listening to inconsequential chatter, the flush of a toilet and the general sounds of more people leaving the restroom. Giving it a minute to be sure she was alone, she unfastened her jeans and inspected the damage below.
Which was worse? Soaked, sodden or drenched? Whatever it was, that was the current state of her knickers. Mopping up as best she could, using plenty of toilet paper in the process, she came out of the stall and returned to her mirror.
Frigging Bobby, she thought. Why did they have to mention him?
Up until the previous November Angie had never kissed anybody, not romantically, anyway. Come to that she hadn’t had designs on anybody, male or female. At least she didn’t think she had.
Her schoolmates had her tagged as a lesbian. She knew that, even if nobody dared say it to her face. In truth there could have been something in their suspicions. She’d never once fancied a guy but she had admired several girls. Hell, she’d even admired Abigail at one stage . . .
She’d never done anything about her inner desires, however. In all honesty she hadn’t known where to begin. Should she have followed Liz and Suzanne’s lead and outed herself? What good would that have done? So far as she knew those two were the only lesbians in school. There had to be others, of course, but she didn’t know who they were or how to ask.
And who’d want a girlfriend that looked like her in any case?
Surprisingly, the answer was that Bobby would. Bobby was possibly the most popular guy in the sixth form and had never been short of dates. Angie had been gobsmacked when he’d approached her to ask for a dance.
They’d been at yet another eighteenth birthday party. That one had been Mark’s and, being held off school property, it had had a bar. Not that Bobby had been drunk when he asked her. No, he’d been very sober and his usual handsome, friendly self.
Angie had always got on well with the lad and agreed straightaway.
It can’t hurt, she told herself as they went onto the dance floor. And it’ll give the gossips something to chew on.
At that very moment the music had switched to slow. Grinning at her, Bobby said, ‘How about that? I couldn’t have timed it better.’
It had been in for a penny, in for a pound. And Angie couldn’t dance fast or slow, so she’d let him take her in his arms and did her best to follow his lead.
To her amazement, dancing had been good. She had liked the way their bodies moved together, his hips sort of guiding hers. She’d liked the feel of her tits on his chest too, and the feel of his hands as they held her close. Giving away state secrets, she’d even liked the feel of what she assumed to be his erection, pressing against her groin.
After two records she’d made to return to her pint of Guinness.
He’d begged another dance which turned into another five or maybe even ten.
And he’d kissed her.
Suspicious, unshapely girl that she was, Angie had wondered if Bobby was dancing with her for a bet. Kissed by him, she rapidly decided she didn’t care about his motivations. Romantic kissing was great. Why hadn’t she tried it before? For all her doubts and fears, when it came down to it, guys weren’t so bad!
And his erection was rather flattering, in a way. She’d turned him on! Glowering front or not, there had to be something about her after all!
At the end of the night Bobby asked her for a date. She’d said yes without hesitation. She didn’t object on Tuesday either, when he homed in on her at the school youth club. And, when he came to Friday’s youth club in his mother’s car, eagerly asking her out “for a drink afterwards”, she decided to fuck him.
Stuff fellow-female attraction, this was the school’s prime male showering her with attention. And even if he was doing it for a bet, if she took the lead she could claim she’d had him every bit as much as he’d had her. In fact she took care to personally buy the condoms.
Was that a great strength or a weakness? Was she bothered either way?
That first time had been . . . well, not earth-shattering but far better than Angie had expected it to be. There hadn’t been any pain, tearing or bleeding and Bobby couldn’t have been more of a gentleman. He also made no attempt to cut and run once he’d had his way. If anything their dates became more frequent.
Ten weeks they’d lasted together; ten canlı kaçak bahis weeks and twenty jumps or so. They’d exchanged cards and presents at Christmas and . . .
And then Abigail had clicked her fingers and off he went.
Eyeballing her reflection once more, Angie remembered an old saying: It takes seventeen muscles to smile and forty-two to frown. Unsure if she’d got the numbers right, she wondered how many muscles it took to glower.
A hundred at least, surely!
And what was the matter with her facial muscles, come to that. Had she been born without any of the seventeen smiling ones?
Cynicism like that actually did make her lips twitch upward. Not a lot, but enough to suggest a trace of wry humour, and better by far than nothing.
Angie couldn’t really blame Bobby for dumping her. Not in her heart of hearts. If Bobby was “possibly” the most popular guy in the sixth form then Abigail was certainly the most popular girl. She could think of a couple of better looking females . . . and quite a few nicer ones . . . but when it came to popularity Abigail ruled the roost.
Hell, her and Bobby getting together seemed inevitable. It was like the head cheerleader copping off with the all-star quarterback. The only puzzling thing about the liaison was why it had taken so long to happen.
The big breakup had taken place a week ago. Bobby couldn’t have been more apologetic. And Angie couldn’t have been more sympathetic . . .
Meanwhile Abigail kept clicking her fingers and hey, run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!
Allowing herself a measure of self-pity, Angie concluded she’d handled it well. She was a lot bigger than Bobby and could have physically crushed him with one hand tied behind her back. Never mind The Vets or the First IV; Bobby couldn’t have held his own in the Girls’ Under Twelves.
Or was she being bitchy?
Disregarding loss and jealousy, the big question just then was: Why? Why had Bobby been unable to make her cum in more than a score of attempts? And why could just a few minutes watching Liz and Suzanne instantly transport her into another dimension altogether?
The music had stopped. It took Angie a while to realize how late it had got. Stirred into life, she exited the toilets and glanced left. The common room-cum-dance floor was deserted apart from the DJ. The DJ was busy unplugging speakers and turntables while his mate carried them off, presumably to stack them in some sort of van. Looking right she saw the cloakroom was even more deserted. She could see her coat hanging on a hook and no other sign of life.
Sighing, privately glad everyone was gone, she shrugged on the jacket: Docs, sweatshirt, jeans and matching denim top . . . that was her all over. And who needed anything more?
Who needed Bobby or frigging Abigail?
Well, having watched Liz and Suzanne in action, maybe she could think of a use for Abigail . . .
Making to leave the sixth form centre, Angie’s sole aim was getting home. Pubs and clubs involved people and she didn’t want to socialize. All she wanted was a solitary mile walk into town, cut price fish and chips and the last bus.
And perhaps an hour alone in bed, recalling Liz with those pistons for fingers . . .
Two figures blocked the doorway out of the building; two quite familiar figures. Miss Pearce, otherwise known as the Head of Art and Design, was unmistakable. As tall as Angie but more slender by far, her dress-sense was, to say the least, Bohemian. Although still in her early thirties she resembled a child of the 60s . . . and a hippy child at that.
Miss Pearce had drawn the short straw for the evening. She was the “responsible” agent of authority who had to ensure tonight’s disco passed without major trauma. Not that she looked like an agent of authority.
Angie took a moment to study the older woman. Her skirt was multicoloured and voluminous. Higher up her abbreviated blouse (equally multicoloured and gypsy-style) covered a lovely pair of tits and left most of her tummy exposed. Her glasses were small, round and very likely stolen from John Lennon.
And the extras she wore! Her wrists were adorned with dozens of bangles and bracelets and she had multiple rings on all her fingers. She had a silver nose piercing as well, and some sort of gemstone in her navel; a hazel-brown one which matched her eyes.
The other figure wasn’t nearly so appealing. Mr Gilbert was the school caretaker and stood at maybe five feet three. Perhaps fifty, stocky and overweight, he looked ridiculous talking to Miss Pearce.
It was akin to seeing Jerry Hall talking to a diminutive Mr Blobby.
Well, it would have been if Miss Pearce hadn’t been more like a younger, much taller Brigitte Bardot.
Seeming to sense her presence, Miss Pearce turned.
‘Ah, there you are, Angie. I was wondering where you’d got to. Hold on, won’t you. I need a word.’
Angie couldn’t have got past Mr Gilbert’s bulk anyway. She obligingly stopped, impressed by the arts teacher’s memory. Angie was a good all-round student but worse than useless at anything involving paint, flair and creativity. She’d ditched Art as soon as she possibly could, before the end of the fourth year, when it was obvious that entering her in any level of exam would be pointless.
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