A 'B' or not a 'B'bytarkatony©
She is the least appealing girl I know, not that she's ugly or anything, she's just ... sour-looking, that's the only word for her, sour — she appears sour about everything, not that I know her very well, even though she's been around for most of my life. She has this small round mouth that she always puckers and purses like you do when you're tut-tutting or when you bite into a lemon. I've always thought the pinched lips make her look one part angry, one part anal but, like I say, I don't know her very well.
"Oh, just take the fucking thing off."
She slouches against the back of the couch with that puckered look of hers and it looks like she isn't going to budge ... but she does because no one disobeys Hardy.
Hardy is down to her panties now and they are just about to come off.
At first I didn't know why they asked me along. Just like pucker-puss, I've never been a part of the group. How could I be? I've never slapped a puck or tossed a baseball or punted a football, not with any success. I'm a geek, pasty white, skinny and gangly. But I'm a smart geek. Unlike Pucker I figured it out right away. I am here with The Beautiful People because I am part of their entertainment. Pucker is supposed to be the other part.
OK. When you're as far out of the in-crowd as I am you have few aspirations. But I'm not about to be going along here to get along. I've decided to go along because I'm pretty sure I will never ever get another chance like this for the rest of my life and I don't really care how it turns out. I just want to get everything I can out of it. That's why I stay.
At first, I thought I was asked here for the usual reason: he wanted me to fix a computer problem or something. But that was before their clothes started coming off. Hey, what did I have to lose? I take my shirt off soon after they do and my pants and underwear and it doesn't matter a tick to me that I look like a dweeb when I'm buck naked, a dweeb with a hard-on, which, I notice, is a head taller than those of the two football studs, Biff and Buck as I think of them, aka John Mason and Billy McLean.
To be fair I measured Biff's only a split second before Marion Yara swallowed it. And I mean swallowed. How she did that I have no idea. The laws of physics say you can't put something that size into some place that small without it going somewhere and where that had to be seemed far to painful to contemplate. Anyway, Biff's glance tells me I'd better not spend too much time trying to figure this out so I turn away and try a surreptitious, drive-by glance at Buck who has his face buried deep between Hardy Wiley's legs. But I am forced to quickly move on from them, too. "She's yours," says the naturally bitchy Hardy, taking her fingers off her breast long enough to jerk a thumb towards pucker lips.
So here I am in an entirely unpredicted, curiously kinky predicament for which I have no experience. But, while I've never given even a flicker of thought to group sex I am a great believer in the old adage: 'in for a penny in for a pound.'
I am on my knees, naked, my hard-on throbbing when I turn and look up at the most unappealing girl I have ever known and she is staring down on me with a pursed grimace that, if I'm reading it right, is saying something like: if you so much as touch me I'm going to kick the living shit out of you. And I don't doubt she could do it. Pucker is about three inches shorter than me but a hell of a lot more robust and solid.
So I don't touch her. Instead, I sit back on my heels and take the opportunity to study her, well, not her, I've seen all I ever want of her, I study the slightly pink bra that seems to iron-clad the breasts which I've been watching develop since she was, maybe, 13. I am surprised that she doesn't have nipples, at least any discernible nipples and I am surprised by the butterfly-like embroidery between the two mountainous cups. A butterfly is way too dainty a symbol for her, too feminine. Her mother must have bought the thing for her.
"Take her pants off, fuckhead."
Biff has a way with words, not that he has ever really spoken to me before. And, like with Hardy, his voice tends to stir people to action. I sit up and slowly shuffle forward noticing that she isn't looking at me, she is looking slightly away from me, meaning to me that she isn't going to defend herself, she is resigned to her fate.
And she doesn't defend herself. When I reach for the button on her jeans she is as still as a statue but as I accidentally brushed my fingers across her belly I know she is a whole lot warmer.
The button is one thing, the zipper is an entirely more advanced level of invasion. I look up at her. Hey, I admit it, I've always been a little afraid of Pucker so I'm not surprised that my fingers are trembling a bit. She is still looking away, still giving me a little implied consent but it isn't enough: I am only going to do this if she wants me to do it — I've never given a shit about Biff and Buck and Hardy and Yara. They couldn't make me do anything I don't want to do ... well, except spend countless hours working on their computers. So I just hang there for a bit with my fingers pinching that little pull thing.
The pursing, pouting mouth doesn't change, it's the eyes that change. When they look into mine there seems to be a slight flicker of approval, nothing you could take to court or anything but it seems to be there so I take it tooth by tooth, slowly, terrifyingly slowly because I'm always half-expecting a right hook to land on the weakest part of my jaw. But it isn't coming so I carry on doing something I have always wanted to do: I am in the process of taking off a woman's clothes. Too bad they happened to be on Marta Glock.
Did she know what this little party was supposed to be about? Did she come here dress for it? Maybe. Her panties are the same light pink as her bra — they are a set, and everyone knows that girls only wear sets on special occasions.
She's starting to rise. I am about to back away, well, admit it, I'm about to flee, but then I realize she is only rising up on her left elbow, it is pressing deep into the padded arm of the chair so her buns are coming off the couch. I pull down on her pants, hard, they are really tight, it's a struggle but she pushes a bit as I pull and we finally get them off, well, down far enough so she can sit down again. And then the real work begins.
OK, so I'm not too good at it, I've never done it before. If you pull one leg too far it makes the other harder to get off. Once I figure that out it's easier and it's easier still the lower on the leg they are so eventually they slide off. But she doesn't look pleased: she has the same sullen look she's had since the get-go, well, since I've known her. Trouble is, she's also looking pretty sexy, what with her big chest, lovely white belly and her nice pink panties.
But Marta Glock is a cold, cold fish. I don't know what the others are doing behind me but they are making a hell of a racket. Does she care? Not a bit. She never once looks at them, never even peeks. Instead, when she isn't almost scowling at me she is fixed on the middle distance, which, near as I can figure, is dull grey carpet.
Screw it. I've taken in every inch of her fabulous bra, now I'm going to take a few moments to study her wonderfully sexy panties and I don't much care if I'm a little too obvious about it — I'll get out of this what I can. Why not? Opportunity knocks once, right?
But in a couple of minutes I've almost had my fill. I love the unbelievable femininity of her panties: the narrow waistband that bites into her flesh; the sexy sheen of the material; the wonderful rounding of her hips, but that's about all the variables there are because she's clamping her legs shut. So, pretty soon I exhaust all potential and I think, screw it, and I take my prick in my hand meaning to stroke it a few times and be done with it when her legs begin to open, slowly at first, so slowly that it's almost imperceptible but then she opens them faster, more noticeably and I let myself go and I look up at her.
She's wearing the same puckered pout she always wears but the eyes behind the oblong framed glasses seem a bit glazed, almost dreamy and her body is much more supple now, more relaxed, more alive. She is feminine and sexy. This thought kind of shocks me. Pucker puss has desires.
Her legs are open now. I can see the fabulous contour of her mound and there's a wet spot about the size of a quarter and tuffs of her hair are poking from the elastics pinching her legs. She wants me to see this, she has opened herself to me, not to them, she has never once looked at them. Only I am here. It stuns me a little when this enters my head. Pucker pout wants me to be looking at her.
My head is swimming while my cock is throbbing. This is the closest I've ever been to sex. I'm so still I'm almost catatonic but just for a minute then I lean in and boldly press my face into her fabulously soft belly and when I do I can feel her fingers run through my hair and I can feel her sag, her knees press my arms to my sides. I can hear her moan.
And I can feel the audience behind me.
Not here. Not now. Not with them.
I pull away, grab her shirt and pants from the floor and throw them to her, then I gather up my own clothes and quickly put them on. "Thanks, guys," I say, cheerfully getting to my feet. I reach down, she is lying on the couch, pulling on her pants. When she finishes she takes my hand and I pull her to her feet where she zips up, slips on her shoes and puts on her shirt. We leave to cold stares without another word.
Her hand is in mine when we reach the street; I don't know why. And I don't know why I say what I say, except that I'm unbelievably horny. "Do you want to finish what we started?"
"Yes," she says, through her usual pout.
She seems anything but convincing. "Do you really?" I press.
"Do you?" Her eyes are searching mine.
"Ya," I said, instinctively, as if it's a no-brainer, which, the way I'm feeling, it is.
"Ya?" She's still looking hard into my eyes. "You've never once looked at me. You've never once talked to me. You've never once shown any interest in me."
"Ditto," I say, not really getting her point.
She harrumphs. "If I had you'd still be running."
That's when it dawns on me. "You're interested?" This has never occurred to me.
An awkward silence between two awkward people. "Really interested, Mike. Have been for years." Her severe pout is even more pinched. "I'm desperately interested."
"You're kidding me, right?" This absolutely shocks me. "In me?" No girl has ever been interested in me.
"My parents are away."
I've never thought much about girls, only when I jack-off. Why would I? They've always been a totally negative experience to me, except for my mum, of course. Anyway, I don't know any girls very well, and don't pretend to understand them.
We start walking and I ask what I have been turning over in my head. "Would you have let me ... screw you back there?"
She's looking at the street like she looked at the carpet back in the house. "If you tried it would have meant you didn't have any respect for me. So no."
I glance over at her and chuckle at the memory. "You took it pretty far."
"Me?" She shoots a glance at me. "YOU took it pretty far."
I chuckle again and find myself saying, "You've got a pretty nifty body on you."
She's back staring at the sidewalk. "I wanted you to see it, not them."
I have no idea what she means by this and don't pursue it, instead, I try to find out what she's thinking. "So what does the next step mean, I mean, if we go back to your house?"
She isn't losing focus on the sidewalk. "What do you want it to mean?"
I'm thinking this is pretty obvious. "I want to see you. I want to have sex with you."
She shrugs. "OK. I'll give you that ... but I want you to know who's giving it to you. This isn't about sex for me, Mike. This is about you and me."
I get a warning bell clanging in my head. "What do you mean 'you and me?'"
This sounds to me like a dirty word. "Us? What? You're expecting ... a commitment or something?"
"No, no. You can fuck me and move on." She says this as if we'd be trying out a new game. "No, I'm just telling you that I'm not that type. I'll use my body to try to get you, and I'll use everything else I have, too but I just need you to know that I want you." She throws a punch at my shoulder, the first playful thing I've ever seen Ms Pouty Puss do. "But hey," she adds, "don't let that influence you."
I'm looking at her through the window as I buy the condoms. She has dark brown hair that falls straight to her shoulders and frames an oval face, like her glasses, with a high forehead and a slightly upturned nose that somehow over-powers her mouth which is scrunched in her usual puckering pout. When I walk out with the bag I reach for her hand in some atavistically instinctive way and she effortlessly takes it as if we've been holding hands for years. Why Not? We're heading for a fuck.
"Did you know I was coming ... to that party?" I say, after a few strides. I couldn't figure out why we were both there.
She doesn't answer me right away but she eventually explains. "Hardy owed me one. I suggested it. It was my idea. They jumped at it. They probably thought of us as a side show and it was going to be the only chance for those guys to see me naked."
It isn't easy making sense out of this and it isn't easy walking with a girl's hand in yours. "You knew they have those group fucks?"
She definitely shrugs this time. "Everyone knows."
I didn't, but I am just now understanding what she is getting at. "You got them to invite me there so I could see you naked? So you could get me interested in you? Is that it?"
It sounds a bit like a snicker and shrugs and I think I feel a little squeeze from her hand. "What can I say?"
Somehow I'm impressed with this. "Took a lot of courage."
She's still staring at the pavement, still holding my hand like it's an entirely natural thing to do. "I looked on it that it was no worse than wearing a bathing suit to the beach. I was never going to get naked in front of them."
"So I was never going to see you naked. You expected me to pull you out of there then head for your house?"
She stays quiet and watches the pavement pass by.
I remember my observation about her underwear. "Do you always wear a matching set of underwear?"
She gives my hand a little jerk and I detect, more than see, her smile. "Just when I'm trying to land you."
This all seems like it's out of some cheap novel, a novel I'm having a hard time placing myself in. "What would have happened back there if I went for it? Started ripping off your clothes?"
She answers immediately, obviously she has thought this part through. "Then you wouldn't have been the guy I thought you are and I'd probably have slugged you."
"No," she squeezes my hand again, "lucky me."
I drop her hand when we got near her street and we walk in silence, more quickly now. When we get through the door I follow her up the stairs, down a hallway and into her room.
"The moment of truth," she says, turning to me.
"Or lust," I say, expressing my honesty. But I'm really, really confused. "Is this really so important to you?"
Her hands are down at her sides now and she's looking not very confident and a little vulnerable. I've never seen her look this way. I feel a little pity for her. "Vitally important, ya."
God, we're on entirely different wave lengths. "Why?" I say, noticing my own exasperation.
"Because you're the one for me, Mike. You're exactly the man I want ... I know I have to work hard to get you but I plan to, you just have to give me a chance."
"But why me?" She isn't making any sense.
She laughs, but it's nerves, I can easily see that. "Let me count the ways." Then she seems to get a bit bolder. "Why I want you shouldn't matter to you, only to me. What should matter to you is what I can bring to you. I'm smart, Mike, but then you know that. I'm determined and sensible, but you know that, too. And, obviously, you know I'm not particularly attractive. Too bad for me. What you don't know is that I'll do anything I can to get you and when I do I'll be unbelievably supportive and loyal to you; I'll always be a hard worker; I'll be fun and I'll always be your best friend. But most of all, you have to know that no one will ever love you as much as I'm going to," she pointed to her bed, "in there and everywhere else."
I've always been a calm and cool guy, good under pressure, unflappable. "Do you know me so well?" I shake my head. "I don't think so. You sure don't know me well enough to love me."
Her laugh has a lot of joy in it and there's a lot of relief, too, as if she has said what she has wanted to say and the worst is over. "Don't you worry about me, Mike. I'm a big girl in more ways than one. I know who I love and why. We're not here to deal with me, we're here to deal with you. Worry about yourself."
"Fine," I say, feeling a little like I'm back with Biff and Buck, and vowing to make the most of a gift opportunity. I take a step back. I can feel her watching me as I look around her room. At first I do it passively, I just absently look at her things, then I try to get her going a bit by poking around, re-arranging some knick-nacks on her dresser, then I open her closet, start opening her drawers a bit, just like I'm sleuthing the place out. But she isn't a bit bothered; I see in the mirror she has the same pouty look but there's a hint of a smile on it and in her eyes. "So if I'm such a hot property where are all the pictures of me?"
"On my computer," she says, matter-of-factly, her eyes never leaving me.
"Can I see them?"
"Sure, eventually." The smile grows on her pout, a kind of mischievous smile and I have no idea what's going on here.
But I'm getting tired of always being off-balance; I want to gain some control over the play — because that's what it feels like, so I try to shock her. "If you know me so well do you know about my fetishes?"
"No." She has the same smile, a little more mocking now, I can see it in the mirror.
"Do YOU have any?" I'm eyeing her.
When she shrugs I can't help but focus on her nifty chest. "I sure hope so."
I'm trying to be really casual but I'm trying to be a little off-putting, too. Yes, I'd really like to get laid but, at the same time, I'd like to scare her away, too. I'm confused, to say the least. There is a hamper beside her dresser. There is a pair of her underwear crumpled on the top. "I have this panty fetish, I go online all the time."
She's still looking at my reflection in the mirror. "Top drawer, left or, if you prefer, belt level, just beneath my jeans ... but then you know that." There is no doubt about the mocking now, it's glistening in her eyes. And the pouty mouth is grinning.
I should feel a bit silly but I don't. It doesn't seem like I can do anything wrong here. "So what makes you think this can work?"
The humour is gone in an instant. She is deadly serious now. All business. "Three reasons. One, I want it really, really badly; you have no idea. Two, I have a whole lot to offer you. I think I'm the best deal you're ever going to get. Three, I'm smart and I'm hoping I'm smart enough to pull this off ... the hardest part is to convince you to give me a chance."
Smart? That's not the way I've been reading it. "How smart was it to use Biff's place as a rendezvous?"
"It worked, didn't it?" She waits a moment for this to sink in. "I wanted you to see me naked, or near naked. I wanted you to see what's on offer here, physically. How else was I supposed to do that? Call you? Wait for you to stumble into my bedroom? Invade yours. Invite you to a Turkish bath? Jump out nude on a trail? Email you pics of me? Hardly. If I so much as hinted at a move in your direction you'd have started running and you know it."