Campus Cutie 2
Returning to college was, as you can imagine, something of a let-down after my uninhibited weekend in London. The boyfriend was definitely on the way out, as he just lacked anything approaching imagination. I had experienced more in two visits to Com and Maddie than in a whole term at college, and I wanted more of the same in my everyday life. The question was, where would I find it. Having dumped my boyfriend, I sought adventures as discreetly as I could. On one occasion I was taken by all four members of a band which had played the Student Union, receiving their attentions successively with my arse against the outside wall of the building while my classmates drank on inside, never suspecting my lascivious activities. Though the idea of becoming the college slut turned me on – it had indeed aroused my carnal desires ever since Com teased me with the suggestion during my first ever role-play – I knew that in a small and isolated community such a thing might cause undue problems in everyday intellectual as well as social life. There was one occasion, though, when I broke the rule and did seek out experience with a fellow student, and it was an encounter that neither of us ever regretted.
In an attempt to find a likely source of sexual partners I joined a naturist group in the locality. Quite frankly, it was disappointing. Most of those who attended the group’s discreet gatherings in rented fields and secluded gardens were merely interested in the Health and Efficiency of nudity, rather than the eroticism. I found many of the bodies I saw on display at naturist barbecues and meetings attractive, to be sure, and I had no prejudice with regard to age (as I may well demonstrate should I tell another story after this one), but accountants and bank managers inclined to naturism seem seldom to be inclined to swinging as well. Maybe pampas grass will become extinct in the future, and another emblem of open marriages take its place. I digress, though. One thing I did enjoy was the chance to swim nude, this producing a whole-body sensation more caressing and pleasurable than when encumbered with a bathing costume. A local swimming pool had been booked once a month by the naturist club, and to there I regularly resorted to spend an enjoyable but non-sexual evening among like-minded swimmers. It was on one such visit that I encountered the only student I ever knew to be a naturist, a girl reading for a Bachelor in Education degree called Jennifer, whom I knew vaguely through a friend. We met in the area outside of the changing rooms, these being the old fashioned type where you enter through a door, bolt it, and exit through the door on the opposite side of the individual cubicle. She was embarrassed – it was her first time, she told me – but I reassured her that it was a friendly environment and no one would laugh at her or betray her trust, least of all me. We entered adjoining cubicles, and after bolting the door, I shed my dress (I was wearing no underwear) and prepared to exit the poolside door. At this point it became apparent that something was amiss with Jennifer. She caught my attention through a crack in the door and beckoned me in. The bolt had broken on her door, and it wouldn’t close. I told her I would put her clothes with mine, and bid her get undressed and hand them to me. She turned her back and disrobed from her skirt top, before removing her thick tights and underwear. She was palpably embarrassed, and had not made eye contact with me while I stood naked before her. When she turned she could not do anything other than take me in head to foot, and she gasped at my lack of pubic hair. I turned quickly and took her clothes to my cubicle, locked the door and put the key on its elastic band on my wrist. When I turned back, Jennifer had entered the water and begun to swim.
We swan separately, of course, and I had had enough at 8.45, a quarter hour before the whistle was to second that ended the session. I left the pool, showered, and walked back to the cubicle, letting myself in quickly. While towelling myself dry I heard Jennifer tap on the door, and reached back to let her in. I mumbled something about getting dressed quickly so that she could have privacy, thinking her embarrassed, though she said not to worry, there was space enough for us to both dry off at least. She then apologised for looking so shocked earlier, and admitted she had never seen a depilated adult before, female or male. I laughed, but said a lot of naturists do it for hygienic reasons (not my reason, of course!). ‘It looks particularly funny on the men’, I joked, ‘with all their bits dangling outside … or standing, if they are ogling the women’. We were now facing each other, both naked, towels in hand, and the atmosphere in the cubicle was friendly at last. Jennifer, though, could not take her eyes off my pubic area, though, and asked me how if felt to be naked down there. I laughed, and invited her to feel the smoothness of my delta, never thinking she might. But she did. Gingerly, her small hand touched my mons pubis, appreciating its silky surface, and lingered there. She was flushed, breathing heavily. This had clearly been a struggle for her, for she was facing something within her, and I had given her the chance to face it. Still her hand brushed my hairless mound, and hesitated at the external ripple that indicated the folds of my womanhood. ‘Go on’, I invited her. ‘It’s all right’. Timidly, she placed the fingers of her right hand on the outermost fold of my sex, pausing before the tips of her digits began to explore me. It was now my turn to breathe heavily, and as she fleetingly touched my clitoris, making me quiver with anticipation, the whistle blew. Her hand shot back. I put a finger to my lips, and began to dress by simply pulling my dress over my naked and still aroused body. I had to wait for her more elaborate process of donning knickers, bra and tights, and struggling into her skirt and top before I could open the door into the foyer. ‘I think we need a drink’ I said. Jennifer nodded numbly.
We found a small and quiet pub which neither of us had visited before, and occupied a secluded corner. I thought I may as well be direct: ‘You like girls, don’t you?’ She nodded, shamefaced. ‘So do I’, I said, ‘though I like boys as well.’ That statement broke the dam of her reserve, and she began to tell me that she had never had a boyfriend, found male company off-putting and boorish, and could never imagine an encounter with a man that could match her own masturbatory fantasies. In her head she enjoyed intimacies with women that were delicate, imaginative and erotic, but she had never had the courage to put her desires into any active form – until, that is, chance brought me naked and depilated in front of her. She was, at nearly nineteen, a virgin. In her late-fifties now, incidentally, she still is virgo intacta, by her own choice and preference. She had tried to meet with women, but found college feminists off-putting and masculine, their lesbian tendencies being political rather than pleasurable. The visit to the naturist swimming session was really a final attempt to find a kindred spirit, and if not that, to stock up on masturbatory images. She had certainly managed both of those in sharing a cubicle with me! I gave her a somewhat toned-down account of my own awakening, leaving out any references to photography, and instructed her in my developing sexual philosophy, which was based very much on my Chelsea experiences. Having finished our drinks, I suggested that we might continue the conversation in my room, a space that was both private and comfortable.
We let ourselves into my room, and closed the door behind us, locking it. The curtains were closed and I had left the side light on, creating a cosy, warm, and intimate atmosphere. We stood and faced each other, seemingly silent with embarrassment. We might have stood there all evening so, to break the ice, I reached my hand behind my neck, eased the zip of my dress open, and pulled it over my head, just as I had in the cubicle. Jennifer began to breath heavily. ‘Your turn’, I said. With trembling fingers she disrobed, removing her plain blouse and functional bra first, then her skirt, which she unclipped from the side. This left her in those awful grey tights and her Doc Martin shoes. She kicked off her shoes and rolled her tights down awkwardly: believe me, there is no sensual way in which a girl might remove a pair of tights. Blushing, she lifted her foot from the floor and off came the cotton knickers, revealing a thick, dark bush that (I correctly suspected) had never been trimmed since the day of its appearance. Again, we stood looking at each other, taking in the contrast between two bodies which were, remember, of the same sex. She was shorter than me, a little more plump, and would probably be described as plain. I, though, saw her ostensible plainness as an affectation, a way – perhaps – of deterring the unwanted amorous attention of others, a disguise that cloaked an essential person who was suddenly desperate to get out. Jennifer’s round, metal framed glasses, gave her an owl-like appearance, very teacher-like I am sure, but intellectual also. I saw through the disguise. Gently, I took her in my arms, and we stood, breast to breast, skin to skin, and then for the first time I kissed her. It wasn’t her first kiss, I was sure, but it was certainly the first time she had been kissed by another woman, and a woman hungry for her body at that. Our mouths met, and she closed her eyes, and I felt her lips yield as my tongue sought the inner surface of her mouth. Her tenth were small, her tongue mobile, and I knew that her response was genuine, that on this night she wished to give herself to me as her first real lover. I felt honoured that she should trust me so, incredibly turned on because of her virginal status, and determined to give her an introduction to same-sex love that would not deter her from seeking lubricious joy in the future.
I led her to the bed, and surprised her by simply lying down next to her. We lay silent for a few minute, and then I took her left hand and laid it upon my denuded sex. She sighed quietly. I then placed my right hand upon Jennifer’s bushy mound, and with nothing more than its own natural weight applied gentle pressure to her clitoris. For an hour we lay there side by side, exploring the moist intricacies of the most private place at the sexual centre of each other’s bodies, fingertips gliding between delicate ridges of girl-flesh, fingers prying into opening orifices and teasing the bud of pleasure that lay above the whorl of delight. It took time for her to master a technique to make me cum, though her attempts brought delight to my body in a series of little peaks of sensation. My experienced hand had more success with her body, and she succumb to a series of shuddering releases, the first she had enjoyed by another hand than her own. When she had subsided, I asked her what it was she really wanted from me. She told me that she wished she had my confidence, my sense of selfhood, that she wasn’t so plain and dowdy. At this point we were lying facing each other in our nakedness, with me occasionally running my hand along her smooth contours. After a while she began to caress me familiarly in the same way. ‘You’re none of those things, Jennifer. You just think you are, and what’s inside is ready to come out.’ ‘But look at you body next to mine’, she wailed. I made her stand next to me facing the long mirror on the wardrobe door. ‘Start at the top’, I said ‘Hair – clean, lovely dark colour, and long too. Nothing wrong with that. Face – with a smile, beautiful rather than plain. The glasses make you look intelligent and sexy in my opinion. You’ve a nice long neck, too – wasted in polo neck jumpers.’ ‘But look at my breasts’, she wailed. I stepped behind her and cradled those pale orbs, revelling in their exquisite softness and admiring the dark circles of their large aureoles. ‘Watch’ I said, and by simply lifting them and bringing them closer together I gave Jennifer a cleavage which could squeeze a hard cock dry. ‘You need a new bra! I’ll bet you’ve never been measured for on, just guessed your size and got on with it’. She nodded ‘And my bush and hairy legs?’ It’s up to you how much hair you have on your body, not anyone else. But if you want I’ll get out the Immac and make your long legs as smooth as mine. As for the bush, I wouldn’t go all the way and lose it like me: trust me and I’ll give it a shape that will remind you how sexy you are every time you look in the mirror’. With my nail scissors I trimmed her bush back to a length which would permit the sensitive skin beneath to receive the caress of loving fingers. Then I removed all of the hair around her glistening pussy lips, rendering them as sensitive as my own. Finally, I trimmed and shaped her bush, so that she and a playful heart rather than a simple triangle to demarcate her womanhood. She was impressed, and ready for the next enhancement of her underappreciated attributes. The Immac was applied and removed, and she was surprised by the new and delicate texture of her silky smooth pins. ‘While I’m at it, ditch those awful grey woolly tights: they make you look old! Legs as good as these need sheers.’ I slipped across the room, found an unopened pack of white stockings and told her to close her eyes. Stretching them first, I rolled them down and slipped the first stocking around her right foot, easing it slowly up her smooth calves to the softness of her thighs. I could feel her thrill at the coolness and softness of the garment. ‘Keep you eyes closed’, I instructed her. Then I began to caress her smooth, pale legs with the soft caresses of a lover, holding her feet in my hands, tracing the outline of her soft calves and lingering over the curve of her knees. I could feel Jennifer’s reserve melting under my caresses, and I transferred my attentions to her thighs, stroking and touching the outside of her upper legs before placing myself between her legs to massage the softness of her inner thighs, and to take my seducer’s fingers across her stocking tops to the pale skin between there and her receptive pussy. She sighed in utter submission as I again brought her to orgasm with my fingers, and as her spasms subsided I moved my head closer, inhaling the wonderful odour of her femininity, before applying my tongue to her most private place. When she came, she cried real tears of release, and then wept in my arms as if I had been the man who had just taken her precious cherry with care and love. It was only after this that she perceived how I had dressed her, and how well she suited the sheer stockings which I pressed on her as a gift. I warned her that on Saturday we would be going into town, to buy her some new clothes at Etam and Top Girl, because she was now a woman rather than a sexless being, and a woman who could be attractive to other women, to boys as well, but most important to herself. She stayed the night with me, and before she left in the morning she had taken her first drink from the fountain of another woman’s body. I had taken my first lesbian cherry, and had opened up Jennifer’s sexual life just as Maddie had done the same for me.
|
