I've started writing a series of accounts about my life in London; mainly true accounts, with just a little embellishing here and there. They're about my sex life to be precise, but then what other type of life is written about on Lit?
A biography I suppose, but a short one and an unfinished one. Is it arrogant for a, nearly, twenty one year old to write a bio? Probably, but then, hey, what the hell, I want to tell my short story so let's see just how many want to read it.
How many want to read about how I lost my virginity when I was eighteen, had an affair with a thirty something man just after that and how since then I've been strongly attracted to older men. About my time at university, learning about girls and how male lecturers ignore the no fraternising with female students rule. How I became a glamour model, part-time and my conflict over what goes on in the studio when there's just the model and the cameraman there.
The accounts flow naturally and are intrinsically linked. I strongly urge you to read them in the sequence I wrote them. Whatever way you do read them, though, enjoy them, leave whatever comments you wish and e-mail me if you'd like to discuss anything.
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Getting Started – Part Two.
Chapters 1 to 5 were previously published in A Sexual Bio of a Young Woman, Getting Started Part One
Chapter 5
I had no idea how uncomfortable a suspender belt was, how tight it had to be and how it pinched the little excess flesh on your hips. But as I stood in front of the wall to ceiling mirrored doors of the wardrobes in my bedroom I could see why women wore them and why men love them.
The black lace complimented the slight tan I still had. It was like a slash of black sex round my middle. The two suspenders, that I spent ages altering, hung down my thighs like stark reminders of what was between them. There was that little patch of fleshy excitement between the black, silk, French knickers and the tops of the black fishnet stockings that the sussie belt was holding up so high.
I'd enjoyed myself in Agent Provocateur buying all this gear, although I did keep feeling that suddenly a sales assistant, or even worse, a policewoman would suddenly appear and tell me that schoolgirls shouldn't buy such stuff. And of course they shouldn't really should they? Not unless they're really a mature lover with an older boyfriend who's going to spend the whole night making love to them, as I was.
"Hi, thanks for coming," I said in the huskiest voice I could muster up as I opened the side door to Rick.
I'd left the door to the three car garage open so he could drive straight in and not risk being seen by the neighbours as he parked his car and knocked at the front door. His entrance and my greeting were both I felt, full of romantic subterfuge; I liked that.
Mum and dad had left early after enquiring what I was doing.
"Studying," I immediately lied adding, when they both raised their eyebrows, for they knew I hardly did much of that now I was accepted by Bristol University, not that I'd done much before being accepted, "and going shopping."
"Good idea Samantha," mum said, "you'll need a new wardrobe when you get to Bristol."
I'd tried explaining several times that students nowadays only took their jeans and sweat shirts off to sleep or make love, and often they slept in them as well. But she seemed intent on kitting me out just as if I was going off to boarding school. That was a little tedious but it had its upside.
"Give her some money, David," she told my dad.
Smiling he handed me a hundred pounds.
"Don't be daft, she needs at least two," my mum chipped in quite fiercely.
I enjoyed my Saturday morning spending the money allocated for uni clothes on clothes that could only be intended for one thing, getting laid in. I was surprised, though, that the slither of silk they called French knickers, the wispy lace sussie belt, the gossamer thin bra and the fishnet, seamed stockings cost more than dad had given me. Ah well, you have to make some financial sacrifices now and then for great sex, don't you?
I spent all afternoon getting ready and day dreaming. I do that a lot. I get an idea in my head or start pretending I'm someone else and I'm off on another planet.
As I bathed and washed my hair, did my nails, pampered my body with stuff of mine and even more that was mum's, I imagined the six bedroom, mock Tudor pile we lived in was mine. That I was famous, a writer or stage actress, nothing as vulgar as a pop star, even though Kylie did keep popping into my mind; hasn't she got just the cutest bottom of all time?
I could hardly believe it when I saw the clock and that it was past six. Richard was due to arrive at seven and I was still naked. Laughing to myself I thought maybe I should say sod the sexy lingerie and open the door to him naked.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he asked as I let him in the door, not naked but in one of my mum's long, black silk, peignoirs as she called them, sexy dressing gowns to most people.
"Just me darling," I cooed putting my arms round his neck and moulding my body to his.
We kissed, hard, deep and long. Lip squirmingly hard, tongue probingly deep and mouth wateringly long.
His hands were everywhere. On my boobs and bum, up and down my legs, all over my back and in and out of my hair, that in an effort to look more grown up and vampish I'd put up; his hands made it fall down almost immediately. I was no slouch either, for I quickly had his shirt open and was running my fingers through the hairy mass and then down his back to squeeze the delicious cheeks of his gorgeous bum.
