This story features nobody under eighteen.
My childhood was a mess. The daughter of a career serviceman, I was flitted from airbase to airbase until I was thirteen, when my dad, whom I had worshipped, upped and left. It dawned on me then, as had clearly been discovered by my father, that my mother was a slut, and little more than the 'camp bicycle.' Before then, the succession of 'uncles' who had appeared whenever dad wasn't home had seemed a friendly sort of arrangement. Dad went to his Section boss, and requested a posting elsewhere, and we were left in our rented house in a nearby fenland village, my mother working as an admin. assistant on the camp. My 'uncles' continued to pay us visits. One day, mum had been given unexpected overtime, and Uncle Tony (a bit like my idea of a fifties 'cad'- all ginger moustache, Brylcreemed hair and a shiny Jaguar) showed up to find just me in the house. I won't go into the sordid details, but I lost my cherry at that point, and mum came home to find me crying and bloody on her bed. She wouldn't (couldn't?) press any charges, as 'Uncle Tony' was her boss – great!
As soon as I could, I left home, scraping through 'A' levels, and going to a second-rate university, more for the escape than for any burning desire to study. I graduated with a crap degree in sociology, and had two highly unsatisfactory affairs along the way, one with a fumbling nerd of a geology student, the other with a married tutor, who could only get it up if he was half-pissed.
This story really starts, then, when my grotty degree got me a job as trainee buyer in a large department store in the city, where I found (with difficulty) a bedsit, up three flights of stairs, with a shared bathroom.
The work I was given, as a new recruit, was intensely boring, checking off numbers of household goods, for the purpose of ordering. But the store's uniform suited me, a navy blue suit, with either a straight skirt or a pleated one, and a sky blue blouse with a bow at the neck. With my long dark blond hair brushed out straight and shiny, nicely made up, I thought I looked nice. My legs, too, benefitted from the heels I now wore for the first time in my life. I suffered agonies every evening when I had been walking around in them all day, but I gradually got used to them, and they certainly made my slim ankles look good. Jason thought so, anyway. He was a junior Departmental Manager, all charm and gelled hair, and I accepted when he asked me out. On the way home from the disco-pub we went to, he was all over me in the taxi, pawing my firm young breasts, and, simultaneously it seemed, sticking his hand up inside my short skirt, so I had to push him away, but not without feeling that nice tautening of my nipples. 'Not now,' I said, and he lapsed into a sulk in the corner of the seat. I felt sorry for him then, and asked him up for the ubiquitous 'coffee,' when we arrived at my flat. If truth be known, I wanted him to fondle my breasts again – men seem to think you are doing them a favour when you let them play with your tits, whereas I, for one, love to have my nipples tweaked and my breasts kneaded.
Once inside the flat, he looked disapprovingly around my cramped room, but I let him kiss me and responded with my tongue, feeling his hardness against my stomach when he pulled me close. Perhaps it was going to be alright after all.
Jason was panting with urgency as he unfastened my blouse, and I helped by reaching behind me and unclasping my little black half-bra, so that he could massage my breasts.
I found myself rubbing the bulge in his chinos, and he moaned, 'Oh Sara, go easy, or I'm going to have an accident!' I took him to mean he was close to spurting in his trousers, and took my hand away to give him time to recover.
I shrugged off my blouse and bra, led him to my little bed, sat down and unzipped his trousers, while he stroked my hair. He was really quite sweet, and I now wanted him inside me. His erection was nice too, even if he lacked a little in length, I thought – though my experience was very limited. His cock was hard and straight, and I fondled it gently, mindful of his warning – I didn't want him to cum just yet.
I swung my legs onto the bed, shoved a pillow under my arse, and arched my back enough so that he could pull down the white silk panties I had put on for the evening, without – honestly! – thinking about losing them.
He scrambled hurriedly and awkwardly onto the bed between my legs – it dawned on me that he wasn't far away from being a virgin – and equally awkwardly pushed his prick into me. It hurt, not because of his size, more due to the lack of preparation, and I think he took my groan for one of ecstasy instead of the pain I felt. Two thrusts and then he stiffened - and it was over. I resisted saying, 'Was that it, then?' as he rolled off.
'How was it for you?' he asked, as he pulled his pants up.
'Very nice,' I lied.
'When can I see you again?'
Oh shit! 'Well, I'm starting a new post graduates' course next week, so I'm not going to have any free time, between lectures and studying,' I said, quite proud of my on-the-hoof invention. He was quite a nice guy, but there it ended. No coloured lights going off in my head, and the sex, well, I ought to invest in a nice vibrator, I thought.
I spent the next few days trying hard to avoid Jason, which wasn't too hard, as my boss, Helen, a statuesque forty-something brunette, kept me busy. The other two girls on my floor were an item – one a moderately attractive blonde, the other as masculine as anyone without a cock and balls could possibly be, crew-cut and given to wearing trouser-suits with a shirt and tie – ugh! I couldn't imagine what Clara, the blonde, ever saw in the butch Jean, the sight of whom made me shudder, but they were all over each other whenever they thought nobody was watching.
Little did I know, my life was heading for a change – and what a change!
I came in one winter Monday, to find Helen waiting for me, when she usually arrived later than I did. She was in her store uniform, but looked somehow better groomed and made up than normal, and wore higher heels than was her habit, I thought.
'Surprise,' she said, 'we're going to a fashion show, today, tomorrow and Wednesday. Mr Goldstein says we must go in uniform today, but we have to go dressed up for the last two days, when its
haute couture
.'
'Wow,' was all I could say, then as an afterthought, 'but what will I wear tomorrow? I haven't a thing.'
'Oh, I suppose we can find you something this afternoon,' she said dismissively.
I was instantly captivated by the atmosphere when we arrived at the Mayfair hotel and sat two rows back from the catwalk, and the models were utterly gorgeous – so slim and elegant, even though today was devoted to sportswear and business suits. To say I had stars in my eyes was an understatement, and one platinum blonde seemed to be looking at me personally as she spun on her five inch heels, her long hair in a pony-tail, her pink-glossed lips in a sort of ironic pout. She modelled a soft leather suit with a tight skirt, and when she held back the sides of its top to reveal a peach organdie blouse, the outline of naked breasts underneath was an erotic statement. I could never have believed that a business suit could be so sexy.
Back at the store, I was desultorily marking up some boxes of clothes which had to be returned to the supplier when Helen came up behind me.
'Hope you like what I've found you,' she said, and laid a black dress across the boxes, 'if it doesn't fit, we've got it in some other sizes. Why don't you go and try it on?'
I picked the dress up – it was as light as a feather, and there wasn't much of the silky material. I could hardly wait to try it on. Once in the changing room, I took a good look at what I had been handed. Christ! I'd never worn anything like this. It was a halter-necked, backless dress with a loose bodice. Because it was backless there was no question of wearing a bra with it, and the loose top would allow my breasts to jiggle around as I walked. The skirt was mid-thigh length and all narrow pleats. When I tried it on in the little booth, it felt soft and sensuous against my skin. I walked out tentatively to show Helen.
'Shit, I wish I were young again,' she said, 'I'd love to wear something like that. But you need stockings and heels, my dear.'
'I don't have any high heels.'
'Don't worry,' she said, and I found out that she took my size, and had a pair of stilettos to lend me. I had some black stockings and a little satin garter belt, so I relaxed, still a bit worried however, that I was going to look like a tart in that dress.
Next morning, after a night which contained very little sleep, I made up with great care, and picked out pair of outrageously long silver ear-rings I had worn for a disco. I debated with myself for a time about my hair, and finally decided to simply brush it out, and leave it, a heavy mane down my back. I put on a pair of black stockings, cinched to the garter straps, and stepped into the unfamiliar height of Helen's shoes. I pulled on a pair of white silk panties. When I slipped the dress over my head, smoothed it around my hips, and tied the bow at my nape, under my hair, I turned this way and that in front of the mirror.
'You look irresistible,' I said to the mirror, 'You should be attractive to
her
.' Christ, I was getting an obsession about the platinum blonde – what was happening to me?
I hardly dare take off my heavy coat when I arrived at the store, but Helen was ready to go anyway, so she called a taxi and we went down in the lift to await it.
The hotel was alive with journalists, television cameramen and photographers, but we were early enough to get a seat on the front row, and we had to wait, Helen, still rather formally dressed in a black cocktail dress, chatting with a buyer from another store, before the loud music announced that the show would begin.
I was immediately enthralled. The day was dedicated to designer dresses - the pinnacle of
haute couture
, said Helen – and it was very different from the day before, the models strutting in fine silks and filmy, transparent gowns, many showing more than a glimpse of their invariably firm, pointed breasts. I wouldn't have wanted to explain why, but looking at these glorious creatures was affecting me in an unexpected way – I was getting distinctly moist down below, and squirmed in my plush seat, a little worried I might be making a damp patch. This can't be, Sara, I thought; you're 'straight,' aren't you? Whilst I was preoccupied with this thought, though, on walked the platinum blonde who had so impressed me in her leather suit the day before. But now she wore her long, pure white hair loose, framing her lovely face, and falling in a cascade down her naked back. For she wore a shimmering, backless gold dress, tight around her knees, then flared out to ankle level. The bodice was filmy, translucent, and her breasts jutted proudly against the material. As the day before, she seemed to be looking directly at me, and when I returned her gaze, I could have sworn she lowered her incredibly long lashes a fraction. The small paces she was obliged to take by the tightness of her skirt meant that she was in my sight for a good long time, and it must have been my imagination, I thought, when she turned just before slipping through the red velvet curtain, and looked back at me. My pussy was now not just damp, but soaking wet. I was lost. Lost to a dream, an image of beauty so fantastic that, had she asked, I would have gone anywhere with her – and I didn't even know her name!
