Sid Devonshire, Ju Dai, and lacrossbyshaunreagh©
She was a new girl. Trying out for the freshman's team. Right wing. She had a face like a cherub, lips like a whore, and a body like an angel. She was from Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, somewhere like that. Somewhere foreign. She arrived last week. Her name's Ju Dai. Like all the freshman year she was eighteen, or nineteen, somewhere there, but unlike most of the others -- I blame the college diet -- Ju Dai was absolutely, mouth wateringly, gorgeous. (Though right now, it has to be said, she wasn't at her best. She was lying, face down, in a quagmire of mud in front of goal.)
I didn't move. Not a muscle. This is exactly what I'd been praying for since the game began. (Somebody up there loves me!) I waited. She didn't get up. Two teachers were around her. One was kneeling on the pitch getting her tights wet. The other was standing over her, talking to her, cautioning her -- pointing out that she was getting her tights wet, perhaps? I waited. I said another prayer, Please, whoever is up there, if anyone is, make the luscious little sweetie have to leave the pitch. Make her injured, just a little bit. Somewhere interesting, preferably. Pleeeeeeeease.
The teacher with the now-wet tights came to her feet and shook her head.
Pleeeeeeease, I continued my supplication to any important being who was listening. I'll do anything!
Well, almost anything.
Next thing I know they're helping her off, and I'm heading off, to cut them off. Waddling round the touch-line like it's the hundred meter sprint. Me, Ben Johnson! Whoooaaay!
My name's not really Ben Johnson. (That's just my little joke.) Name's really Sid Devonshire. I'm the groundsman at St Jennifer's Advanced Catholic College for Girls. It's in Suffolk, South West England. Teaches Domestic Science, Secretarial Studies, Flower Arranging, How to snag a husband, Say prayers, Stuff like that. Nice College. Very genteel sort of young lady you get here too, in the main. And sometimes, just sometimes, you get a drop dead gorgeous little honey like Ju Dai. She was an absolute scorcher!
Next thing I know I am waddling at breakneck speed round the back of the goal, so fast I am threatening to slip and land in the quagmire of mud myself! Miss Shepherd has an arm around the injured girl and is heading her towards the changing shed. They've replaced her with another on the team. Twenty minutes to go in the half. "Miss Shepherd!" I call out, breathing hard. "I have the key." I hold it up, to prove it. My waddle, and her cautious tights-sodden gait, and the lithe long legs of the drop dead gorgeous bit of slightly-injured crumpet in her arm, are taking the three of us in the direction of the changing-shed. It is perched at the edge of Blayers Wood. But I have the key ... as I've explained.
Miss Shepherd is coach to the team and so -- or so I am figuring here -- she will want to get back to her game to see how her team fares. It couldn't be better, really.
"I've called Miss Frere," I say, out of breath by the time I catch up. "Should I call the doctor?" I add, going the other side of the shapely piece of injured crumpet and slipping my arm round her waist. "I'll take her. You get back to the game." I gasp this out, trying hard to catch my breath, while trying equally hard to look as if I am something more responsible than I appear: an overweight, underfit, drooling, lusting, grounds-person who is waving this key in air, as if it's a badge of rank. Or something.
I fully expect Miss Shepherd to tell me to piss off; that she will handle things until Miss Frere arrives; that I should get back to the game, in case the goalposts need moving, or something ... but she doesn't. She merely glances over her shoulder at the game, the other team attacking the line rather threateningly. "Well ... I suppose ... if Miss Frere ..." she says, haltingly, eyes on the game, seeing where her team is going wrong.
"Called her already," I lie, again.
But I will.
"Okay, Mr Devonshire. If you're sure ..."
And with that she relinquishes her delicious charge into my care. I have one hand with the key aimed at the lock to the changing room shed mere paces away, the other around her incredibly cuddly right wing. I am staring at the lock as hard as I can so that neither of the ladies, young or old, can see how red my face is, or how big my eyes have become, or how much my hand is shaking.
I can hardly get the key in the f***ing lock!
"Thank you, Mr Devonshire," says the coach, unaware of the upheaval in my soul, (there are prayers, you see). And she goes on to say, in a softer tone, "Ju Dai, Mr Devonshire will look after you until Miss Frere arrives. You'll be fine."
"Merci, Miss Shepherd. But I fine, I think," the little cutie says, accent all mangled and foreign-like. "No prob," she goes on, the voice more music than utterance. "I sure I feel better already."
"No, no, no, Ju Dai. Best you go in with Mr Devonshire. You should rest. Wait for Miss Frere. We don't want to take any chances."
"D'accord," or something, the little filly answers. And with that the teacher takes off. "Come on, St Jennifers!" she shouts, returning to the fray.
I get the door open at last. I kick it wide with my foot and ease Lu Dai inside. My arm is firmly round her waist. Once we're inside I kick the door closed. I hear the lock click too. I wonder if she did? (Seems that she didn't.) I head for the treatment table -- massage mainly, so they say. I've never seen it used. It is over by the entrance to the showers. Speed is of the essence here. Speed is what this is about. Speed and keeping the luscious young thing off balance. "On the bench. Face down. Chop! Chop!" I snap, as if I am really important.
She doesn't know me from Adam, of course. She may have seen me around, know my face, but doesn't know who I am. All she knows for sure is that I am MISTER Devonshire, for that's what Sister Shepherd called me. Shepherd and her flock. One little lamb cut out. Wolf in sheep's clothing and all that good stuff. "That's right," I say, as the shapely little dreamboat hops up on the table and my eyes slowly strip her spectacular rump. Jeez, but she has a beautiful Ass! Next thing I know she is face down on the table and I have my right hand wrapped casually around one of the world's most firm, most pert, most shapely buttocks that may ever have existed, even since the dawns of time!
It is all about speed.
"Right," I am waffling away, explaining what might be the trouble when she fell, why it should be treated right away, how Miss Frere always relies on me to do the first-phase-damage-limitation, as I call it, though where the hell I got the expression from I have not the faintest idea. My right hand has started, of its own accord, to caress the girlish buttock in my hand: the one within the muddy pleats of her lacrosse skirt. "Just breath deeply," I am saying, "and tell me if it hurts." What the heck I am looking for, I cannot even guess. I hope she can't either.
Both my hands have slipped down her legs and are now cupped over them, just behind the knees, just above the top of her lacrosse stockings. After some 'medical evaluation' of that part of her body, my hands move up her legs. They head towards the pleats of her short lacrosse skirt. The smoothness of her skin is quite awesome. Like warm silk. Smeared here and there with mud. Coated there and here with sweat. My hands are at the hem. "To tests the reflex curvature ..." I am saying, not knowing what that means as I lift the pleats of her skirt out the way.
Just like that!
I take the hem of her short lacrosse skirt between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, lift it, draw it over her lovely pert derrière, and lay it above her waist.
Just like fucking that!
Her gluteus maximus (you got to know the names to do this stuff) fill her cotton panties better than anyone could possibly imagine. My eyes almost bulge out my head. Fortunately her own are angled at the floor of the showers, beyond the head of the table. She cannot see what is reflected in my eyes. Just as well.
She would leave if she did!
I am keeping up a constant verbal stream of the most utter drivel imaginable. I am also slipping my fingertips under the leg band of her panties and onto the skin of her gorgeous ass! "You look hot. Are you hot? You seem hot?" I am waffling away. "Just lower these. Shall we? A little. See if we can find ..." I would hardly have guessed it, but I have the bare-faced gall to draw her cotton panties off her rump. I grip the waistband in the same official-seeming way I grasped the hem of her skirt, and draw them off. Just like that! They clear her buttocks to thunderous applause, (although that may have been a goal, outside at the lacrosse).
Having bared the incredible globes of this gorgeous girl, left them high and dry as it were, naked, proud, and pert, I ease the panties further down her thighs until a naughty gash of pink winks up at me from secret parts between her legs. I slip her panties off. I hold them up and think to fold them once. I think to smell them. Twice. (But don't.) I toss them nonchalantly over the prostrate form of my delightful oriental nymph on the treatment table to see them land and curl up in a small white ball by the curtain to a shower stall. I pat her buttock lightly as if to say, 'There there, that wasn't so hard now, was it.'
In fact, that's what I do say.
My mouth moves into auto-pilot mode. (That at least is my excuse.) My face is an inch from the nearest of the buttocks on the table to my front. I see the little indentation of her pores on the nearest proudly rounded mound. The surface fluff of tiny hairs. The film of wet, or sweat, across the cusp of flesh. And I am saying, "Salt's important, must have salt in sweat," and before I can think of a good reason not to, my tongue is out, and I am tasting the skin on the assertively convex surface on this oh-so assertive hillock of girl. "Mmmh," I say, lifting my tongue from the girl's smooth rear, tasting her sweat with my lips, feeling that now I have done it!
I will be arrested. Thrown in jail for the rest of my life.
Her head has angled back. Dark almond eyes are aimed at me.
"Quick test, is to test it," I explain. "Taste it," I hurriedly amend, attempting to explain what I am doing; attempting to come up with a reason why I licked that part of her -- that particular, rather private part of her. We hardly know each other, after all. And I certainly had no invitation. She doesn't even like me, I warrant -- I wouldn't, if I was her! I wait for the explosion I am sure is sure is about to come.
But nothing comes. Her expression is merely curiosity. Not anger, not outrage, not fury, resentment, objection, alarm. It is merely ... curiosity. 'What are you doing?' seems to be the question in her eyes. "C'est ..." she starts, then stops. Poor little lamb doesn't even know the words! "C'est ... okay?" she asks, gingerly.
I make a face that says, 'not sure,' and, throwing caution to the wind -- and playing on the language barrier that seems to be growing between us -- I lick her other buttock! This time it is a more leisurely broad-tongued taste, starting just over the cleft and finishing high on the tasty mound. The two, a perfect pair. She has an eyebrow raised. "C'est ... Okay!" I announce, acting the wiser, professional, older man. Giving her a smile, but half expecting her to sit up and slap my face.
But she doesn't. All she does is turns her head, albeit with a slightly perplexed expression on her rather lovely face, rest it on arms that she folds at the head of the bench, and stare at a point on the floor of the showers, someway ahead of the bench.
Unable to credit my luck, or properly swallow my heartfelt relief, I brazenly reach for a pile of folded towels on a nearby bench. "Just dry you a little," I say, taking the top one, figuring the drying will let me handle her more than I can with the reasons I am currently giving her, none of which I'd even remotely believe if I looked like her, and she looked like me. "Stop hypothermia," I add, as if I know what it means.
With a towel in my hand I ease out the tails of her lacrosse blouse from the waistband of her skirt and push both hand and dry towel underneath. The towel pushes the blouse up her back, clears the skin, brings a funny-looking bra strap into view. I add a second hand to the job. I haul the blouse out from the restraining waistband all the way around. I get a sudden jolt of electricity, or that, at least, is how it feels, when my hand goes under her. How unfairly firm and flat these youngsters' stomachs are!
"That's better," I say, drying the skin around her waist and heading north. Easing my fingertips ahead of the towel. Then I must lick her again! Her buttocks are addictive. They should come with a health warning -- like a packet of fags. With a hand easing high on her front, as the other does the same on her back; with my fingertips toying with the bra strap, figuring out how it's fixed, (a Velcro patch at the back); I lower my face to the cleft of her lovely butt, and stick my tongue inside.
Sometimes I do this to the wife; when she's asleep, you understand. It is like slipping the tongue between two limp and formless lumps of undercooked blancmange. Floppily loose, no grip at all. But doing the same thing now, to the appetising form of the lovely Miss Ju, was like slipping one's tongue into a dangerous crevasse between two youthful, silk-smooth slabs of muscled power. It was a sensation like no other.
I felt her buttocks clench as the tip of my tongue hit the puckered little access to her anus. It was a wake up call for me to speak. For me to explain what I though I was doing in a way that would convince her of my probity. Not that I was sure what that meant, but it sounded responsible, adult, Good (with a capital 'G'). "Salt ..." I started, speaking again. "Gotta taste salt, or there's a problem, see?" I went on. I chose not to wait for an answer. I pushed my face back between these heartbreakingly gorgeous globes, found her puckered hole again, tested the tip of my tongue against it. I give another lecture, on salt, this time speaking where my mouth was, letting my tongue annunciate all around her pretty little ass-hole. Then I slipped it further in.
My towel was thrust high on her back, near her shoulders. My hands had pushed her blouse there as well. I reached for another towel, brought it to her, my face still pressed between her buttocks, tongue sliding preciously close to her private pussy parts. I draped the new towel over her head and told her to dry her hair. Why I did this I have no idea -- didn't want to move my face, perhaps.
But I had to, in the end. I could hardly mine her ass with my tongue forever. It was not as if she'd said it was sore. (She'd not even mentioned it was there!) I reluctantly removed my mouth and slavering tongue from the cleft of the sweet thing's behind, to find that my obedient little kitten had my second towel draped over her head and was obediently drying her hair. I could not believe what I was seeing. Her head in a towel. Her body partially bared. Her buttocks and pussy fully exposed. I had one hand drying her side -- pretty high up on her torso -- while the other rested on her back, where the bra strap patch of Velcro lived.
I dropped into motor-mouth mode. I abandoned my towel across her shoulders, leaving it there, reached for the Velcro patch of her bra and pulled it loose. Just like that. Pulled the sucker apart! But that's not all I did. Having done that -- having risked an international incident by baring the breasts of a sovereign member of a friendly nation (at least I think where she came from was friendly, otherwise what was she doing here at the college?) -- I then reached for the waistband of her skirt, unfastened the catch, ran down the zip, and began to ease it over her hips, and thighs, and down her legs.
All the time I am doing this, as my well-behaved little cream pie is lifting her hips to help me get her skirt off, I am babbling away with my, "Bla-de-bla-de-bla," about salt, and restricture, and loosening, and relaxing, and drying her head as a form of therapy, and not speaking unless she feels pain ... and my obedient little temptress, all body and curves and pulsing arousal ... with the face and the manners of an angel ... continues, uncomplainingly, head draped in towel, to dry her hair.
I slip off her skirt.
I reach beneath her and start to unbutton her rucked up blouse. I explain, as I am doing this, the problems of concussion of the sternum. The sternum is a bone, I explain. Somewhere round the front. (I think it is, at least.) Of women, mostly. Though men have them too. Four buttons loosed. The sternum is in the chest, I say, as it comes flooding back: all the sweat I have spilt over books to prepare myself for a situation precisely like this. The sternum is in the middle of the chest, I announce, with a tinge of pride. Five buttons gone, then six. The sternum is the bone between the breasts! What heavenly thoughts that conjures up. The breasts on someone young, and fresh, and ripe, and healthy At their peak ... as it were. Her blouse is open. I am about to draw it off -- practically starting the manoeuvre, in fact -- when I find, to my surprise, that in one hand -- the left as it happens -- there is now nestled, inadvertently, a staggeringly firm, generously plump, and agreeably warm young female breast.
It is one of hers.
I take a deep breath. I mention Sternumitis: its problems, the pitfalls, the need to take care. I cannot move my hand. It is as if it would be sacrilege to do so. What it contains, what it is around, what nestles so trustingly in my unworthy mitt is the sort of thing they build religions around. I stare at the smooth expanse of her back, the opened bra, the stockings to her knee, the lacrosse boots on her feet -- muddy still. I stare open mouthed at the middle bits. Especially the twins. Smooth and soaring high like the topmost peaks of a notable range. The valley within. The gorge between the taper of her legs, and all the succulent bits that lie between. Good God, but what could one do with all this. What to do now?
I keep my hand lightly cupped around the breast she has so trustingly placed in my care; the breast that has inadvertently found its way into my clutches -- I can feel her heart beat through it; the breast I may even, in some small way, have helped arrive where it now has ... to lie there almost contentedly, nuzzling gently at my palm like the friendly muzzle of an affectionate horse. I lean to her and lick her back. I lick it all the way from waist to shoulders. "Salt ..." and stuff, comes onto the menu again. I slip my other hand around the curve of her; slip the tips of fingers under bra and ease her off the bench by the simple expedient of cupping two lovely breasts, naked, and lifting her up. Just like that. And to my amazement, she lifts.
Her head, in towel, remains, in towel. But her fingers have ceased their drying.
"Keep drying," I tell the girl, not relinquishing my hold on the freshest, firmest, most luscious-feeling breasts I have ever had in my hands, (either in this life or any previous, going back as far as you want). At this point, of course, the bliss being far too heady to be allowable, I expect my game is up and she will scream. Or kick out. Or do something counter-productive to my driving lust. But she doesn't.
She doesn't do a thing ... other than keep her back curled tight around her chest, on the other side of which my hands have her surprisingly generous breasts warmly clasped in my sweating palms. Noting my hands aren't moving (perhaps?), she starts to dry her hair again. Slender fingers in white cotton curl and probe and rub, massaging the scalp beneath the towel. And as they do, and almost in time with her fingers, I start -- with the utmost respect, tinged with lashings of caution -- gently to fondle the youthful breasts that fate has placed in my hands.