How It Started Pt. 01

Was she really expecting me to change my sexy silk French knickers for those! Golly, they looked so cheap and nasty. Did anyone really wear nylon knickers with a tiger-stripe pattern? She gave me that look, so I pulled the ghastly things up, shivering as the cheap nylon pressed into my sensitive lips. She told me to look in the mirror. I could see what I also felt, which was a blush rising from my tiny breasts to my face.

"You really are the titless wonder, aren't you, Pixie?"

The blush got more crimson. I was, and she knew just which buttons to press. The fact that she had, as she called them, "bazooka tits", just intensified my feelings of inferiority. It was bad enough to have no tits, but to have it rubbed into my face (well to have them, her big, heavy breasts, rubbed into it actually) was almost sensory overload; the usual effect was a short-circuit in which my will froze.

"You are beginning to look like the little tart you are!"

How, how, how did she know just which buttons to press? Was it something to do with the cheap knickers or was my pussy even squishier than usual? I could feel the ache in my nipples.

"I think that tee and that little denim skirt will complete the outfit!"

She knew I hated tee-shirts, my nipples were sensitive and needed a chemise or something soft between them and the fabric; I was bound to end up with pokies. But, being a good girl, I put it on. She smiled. When she said "Good girl" I was not sure if she was praising my obedience or the resultant pokies; did it matter?

I pulled the cheap denim skirt up and buttoned the front. I hated denim. I hated showing so much leg, I was sure that my bum cheeks would be visible if I bent even slightly. She giggled.

"Sorry Pix, but you look so like you are pretending to be a big grown up! Without make up, heels, and that padded bra you hide away, you just look cute. Good job we are going to a party where there will be real women for me to fuck. Maybe we should send you to the youth club? You'd fit in nicely on their 18-21 nights."

I shivered. Would she really do that to me? It was a fancy dress party, and she was going as "Barbie" with added wondrous boobage. She'd decided I could go as Barbie's "little sister."

"Fiona's eldest, Kim, is going tonight, maybe I should drop you off there and enjoy the party myself? Don't want my little sister cramping my style."

"But Miss, there will be boys there, please don't."

"Oh how could I forget? Little Miss Gold Star lesbian, sweet thirty-six and never been kissed."

She laughed. It was a game, one we had played before. There was just something here, a dynamic, a tension, which got me tingling. She never asked where this need of mine came from, being happy to oblige it. But I knew just where it came from.

It went, as so many things did with me, back to boarding school. It was one of the smarter ones, and although there was an admixture of foreign girls and some of the nouveaux riche, most of us came from upper-class backgrounds, and I was not the only "Hon" even in my class. My size and shape would, in other circumstances, have singled me out for the "mean girl" treatment, but there was a code of honour, and anyway, one of the senior prefects rather liked me and acted as my protector. As she was also captain of the Women's Rugby team, no one argued with her or wanted to cross her, so I was accepted as almost a mascot.

But if my height (four foot ten) and lack of womanly "development" marked me out, there was another sense in which I did not fit in. We were situated on the edge of town, and in years 12 and 13 we were allowed to go into town for lunch - and after hours if we wanted. There, we often encountered girls from the "Comp" as the State school was known, and our "mean girls" would sneer at them, mocking their accents and their clothing. The "proles" as they were called, were a reliable source of bitchy gossip. I did not join in, partly because I am not a bitch, but also because, secretly, I rather fancied one of them.

Oh, did I forget to add that from my earliest consciousness of such things, I always liked other girls? Indeed, given my lack of "development" up top (28A at 18) the only thing that reconciled me to communal showers after Games on Wednesday afternoon was the sight of some of the other girls! Being a girls' boarding school, lesbian "pashes" were common enough for my tendresse with the Captain of Rugby to be written off as one, but the fact was that I adored her. Being swept up into her strong arms and taken to her study where she and I would make love was the highlight of every Wednesday afternoon; that was a set of "games" I could enjoy - and did. But my eye, like hers, sometimes roved.

I met Taylor one afternoon in town. We had a free afternoon, and those of us who were cramming for "Oxbridge" were excused some lessons, which allowed for a leisurely lunch at the cafe on the pier and then a stroll along the promenade. Hatty and Polly, my partners in crime, had spent time at lunch commenting on the "proles" sitting across from us at window seats. I stayed silent. I felt rather drawn to the bottle blonde in the short skirt who was holding forth.

Hatty got a text from school saying that she was wanted back on campus, so she and Polly went, but I said I fancied a stroll and would come back under my own steam. So they left and I sat there pondering the upcoming exams and wondering if I would really get the grades I needed for Oxford, or whether, like my older sister, I'd end up having to settle for Durham? Mama was a terrible academic snob (she'd been to King's London but had wanted to go to Oxford) and as the repository of her last remaining hope of having a child at Oxford, I got considerable leeway. My rather obvious lack of any boyfriends was written off as the product of my being a "swot", with Ma even saying how sensible I was to avoid the diversions which had cost my sister the place she had deserved. Mama was less pleased when she later discovered that I was, as she put it, "one of those ghastly perverts".

I was sitting pondering these things, and the legs of the bottle blonde, and so lost in thought that I was startled to hear a voice. It was the blonde.

"Hiya, I'm Tay, and you are?"

Startled, I blushed.

"I'm Cynthia, but everyone calls me Pixie!"

Her giggle was lovely.

"I can see why. How come that unlike your mates you weren't making snobby comments about us? Would that be because you were too busy checking me out? You like girls, don't you? I've seen you checking me out before. Wanna walk?"

And that was how it began. Tay (short for Taylor) chatted merrily as we walked along the prom and out into the sand dunes beyond. She rather towered above me at five foot eleven, but she was kind and considerate, if a little bossy.

As we wandered into the dunes, she held my hand and looked down at me.

"Here do you, Princess?"

I blushed, knowing what she meant, but not wanting to admit it.

"I thought a posh bird like you would want a bit of privacy, and my house won't give you it. Okay here luv?"

I felt myself moisten. Was she really going to?

I soon had the answer. She was.

in the lee of the dunes, hidden from the sea shore and the pathway, but still, of course, it occurred to me with an erotic shiver, visible to anyone straying, as we had, from the main path, Tay sat, and pulled me to her. My knees in the soft sand, I leaned in and she kissed me. she was forceful, her lips pressed against mine, her tongue pushed in, meeting no resistance.

After kissing for a blissful time which seemed like ages, Tay lay back, her legs open. Her school skirt had already risen up to reveal some distinctly non-regulation knickers. I could smell her.

"Get them off, then get me off, you posh girls are supposed to be good rug munchers, let's see, little one."

I was lost in the fire of the hottest lust I had felt in my eighteen years. Her words added petrol to the embers, being called her "little one" sent shivers to my core which radiated out to my pussy and nipples. I had never felt this wet before. She was igniting a fire which I was powerless to extinguish. I wanted her.

I had never felt a pair of nylon knickers before, and the tiger-print pattern made them look cheap and slutty, but somehow they aroused me. Tay lifted so I could pull them over her arse and down and off. She opened her legs wide.

"Want!" That was all I thought.

Her dark bush contrasted with her hair, and fumbling to find her lips, I made her moan. Parting them, I eagerly plunged my face into her rather smelly pussy; it neither tasted nor smelt like she had washed recently. But rather than revolting me, the scent and taste, the tones of pee mixed with her lust, made me even wetter. Want!

I gripped her rather ample arse to get more purchase for eating her out. The only exerience I had was with Aly, the Rugby captain, but I made up in enthusiasm what I lacked in expertise.

Her hairs rubbing my cheeks red, I lapped upwards, finding what I took to be her clit, though it was much larger than mine (which I had spent some time studying with the aid of a mirror and a video), or Aly's. When I flicked it, Tay moaned, when my lips sucked on it she moaned louder and grabbed my hair, pushing my face into her wetness and grinding her pussy on my face.

As she did that, I felt her spasm. Suddenly my lips and face were wet with her goo. She pressed harder.

"Get your fucking fingers in there you posh bitch," she screamed.

I thrust two into her, meeting only a warm wet welcome. I curled them in, fucking her as she gyrated her hips and thrust herself onto me. She pulled my face up to where her big breasts were hanging over her bra.

"Bite my nipples you little slag!"

So I did, and being inexperienced, harder than I meant to. The combination of that with my fingers touching just that special place inside her, made her explode once more, clenching against my fingers as she came.

Instictively I put my face back down there to clean her up. She was hot and sweaty and stank of sex. There was sand where sand ought not to have been.

Eventually she stopped moaning and pulled me up.

"Fuck, you really are a good little cunt muncher aren't you little one? Always though you posh bitches were really sluts like the rest of us. You wanna get off tiny tits?"

It was the silliest of questions, and there was only one answer.

"Okay, hands down your knickers and wank off for me!"

I had only ever heard that vulgar word used to describe the disgusting thing boys were said to do, but somehow its very vulgarity turned me on.

As Tay watched, smiling, I jilled myself to the edge of orgasm.

"Stop!"

I must have looked as disappointed as I felt; but stop I did.

"Beg to cum, slut!"

I almost came.

"Oh please, please Tay, may I cum, pretty please?"

She smirked.

"What, a posh tart like you begging a pleb like me for an orgasm? Tell me why I should let you?"

Catching the spirit of her game I responded:

"I am a good, obedient little cunt licker, but you have made me so wet and horny Miss that I will explode if I can't cum. I will do anything to cum Miss."

Tay smiled.

"Oh I think I like my posh tart calling me Miss. As a reward I may let you cum. But when you say 'anything' does that include kissing my bum?"

I almost came. I somehow didn't, but panted that of course it did.

She turned and got onto all fours, poking her sexy arse out. She parted her cheeks, exposing her dark star hole.

Part revolted, part turned on ubelievably, I knelt and sniffed then just did it, kissed her cheeks and then rimmed her musky arsehole.

"You dirty little bitch. Do you like licking my sweaty arsehole?"

"Yes Miss!"

Pulling away, she turned.

"Cum for me!"

And I did, and I did.

As my eyes recovered from the blurred vision, Tay pulled me to her.

"Fuck, Pixie, you are such a hot little bitch. You are quite a find. Wanna be my girlfriend?"

"Oh gosh, yes, yes Tay,"

And that was how it started.