My name is Polly, I am a twenty-five-year-old post-graduate University student at University in Leeds, researching the behaviour of electronic systems under a variety of stresses. Not the sort of subject that gets the boys either entertained or interested, but which should eventually lead to a profitable career in the IT industry.
That is my plan, at least.
I am still officially unmarried but have been engaged to my long-term boyfriend Ian for over a year. Until all this happened, we planned to get married next April. He is four years older than me and also works in IT, in his case for a large corporation in Manchester.
I guess you would probably call us both Geeks. Well, I used to be one.
We have to live apart during the week; me in student accommodation in Leeds, Ian in his modern Manchester flat -- the place in which we eventually intend to live once my PhD is finished. It's not a great way to keep a relationship going, but when it started, we told ourselves that it was only temporary. And anyway, it wasn't as if we had been living together beforehand.
I have only had three lovers in my life. The first was the drunken one-night stand at University in which I lost my virginity, the second nearly a year later with the man to whom I am now engaged.
And the third? Well' that's who this story has been written for.
I have to be up front and say now that although I have quite a nice figure and a fairly pretty face, for most of my life, I haven't been one of those girls who could stop conversations when they enter a room. I just didn't seem to have the sex appeal that other girls find so easy to project; I could go in and out of most places without men noticing my presence at all, let alone giving me an appreciative glance.
These days however, things seem to have changed.
I'm average in height, pale and skinny with very dark hair that falls midway down my back when I don't keep it tied tightly back as, until last year, I invariably did.
I have very small breasts too, but my nipples are large and dark; so dark that without a bra, they used to show through my school blouse. This earned me the horrible nickname, 'Polly Pimples' at school and made me even more self-conscious than I already was.
As you would guess from my current study, I was bookish throughout school and University. Not possessing the self-confidence of other girls my age, I used to dress in darker, less revealing, less noticeable clothes to match my less noticeable personality. I wore little if any make-up and often let my straggly hair fall however it wanted.
It didn't help that I'm an only child. My school was an All-Girls Grammar too, so for years I had absolutely no regular contact with boys and the few I did come into contact with, simply did not seem to notice, let alone fancy me. To be fair, I wasn't really into them either; noisy, dirty, smelly creatures who told each other rude jokes, leered over girls and had only one thought on their minds.
If I had listened more carefully to my friends, I would have seen that girls had much the same wicked thoughts too, but in those days, I was too naive and too focussed on schoolwork to see this.
Thrown into University life after seven years in an all-girls school, I was unnerved by the overwhelming majority of boys on my nerdy course, and had little idea how to behave in their presence. So, while my course mates and friends were enjoying the sexual freedom that being away from home brought, I remained steadfastly unattached and with my hymen very much intact.
I was so underconfident that even masturbation seemed a daunting and dirty prospect.
Fortunately, I did make a good many female friends; enough to have enough innocent fun in my first year, and to have a group of close friends to share a house with in my second and third. We got on well in an undemanding way, me often being a friendly ear into which their various trials and tribulations could be emptied.
Most of those tribulations involved boys. I was poorly placed to advise in such matters but listening seemed more important than advising, and I could do that well.
Boys however do not appreciate this quality in a girl, so while my housemates were all having their boyfriends (or on occasion, other girls' boyfriends) to stay overnight, I either studied in my room, or watched TV or went out with the other single girls for a drink or to the cinema.
I have to say that seeing my bleary-eyed, tousled friends and their scruffy, unshaven lovers the morning after a night of noisy copulation did nothing to encourage me to join them in this messy pastime. Neither did the pervasive smell of stale sweat and sex that clung to their rooms afterwards.
Eventually my housemates became so fed up with my attitude that in my final year, they decided that my virginity had overstayed its welcome and needed to be shed. I must not be allowed to leave both University and my teenage years in the same unsullied, inexperienced condition in which I had arrived.
They began to secretly plot my defloration.
I of course knew nothing of this, going along with their various plans for visits to pubs, parties, gigs and other events, not noticing that I was being deliberately placed alongside one boy or other who they thought I might fancy, or who they thought might make a move on me.
Several moves were apparently made, but I missed most of them completely. The few I did recognise as attempted pick-ups came as such a surprise that I had no idea how to respond and made a mess of the opportunities provided.
After a couple of months of this, one of my friends -- I never did find out which -- thought of David, or Dave as he was universally known.
Dave was what I would now call a predatory male. Impossibly good looking and completely unscrupulous, he studied medicine, played rugby for the University First Fifteen and had a physique to match. Tall, dark and muscular, he was rumoured to have a remarkably large cock and was the cause of much giggling among my friends after a few drinks.
He also had an attitude towards women that made James Bond look like a serious matrimonial prospect. For Dave, sex was like rugby; every encounter was a tough physical battle, getting himself over the line was the most important thing and at the end of the day, numbers counted.
And if there had to be a few casualties on the way, so be it.
More than one of my friends had experienced his technique during the time were at University. Fortunately for him, the University provided a steady stream of potential female victims who either did not know about his caveman attitude or knew all about it and simply didn't care.
I fell firmly into the first category. I had literally no idea that boys as predatory as Dave existed, still less that they would be attracted to a girl purely by the idea of taking her virginity, however plain, dull or unprepossessing she might be.
The setup was simple; a party in the shared house in which Dave and four of his friends lived. Invite half a dozen more good-looking boys and if possible, more than the same number of girls to allow for a few dropouts on the way.
The boys were to be in jeans or shorts and tight T shirts -- anything that showed off their physiques. This was easily managed -- that was how this group of sport-crazy boys liked to dress anyway.
The girls were to be dressed sexily in short skirts, dresses or short-shorts and equally tight tops to show off their boobs -- if they had any, of course. This was harder to arrange, but with considerable pressure from our more forward housemates, I and the other shy girls were eventually persuaded to wear clothes much brighter, much shorter and much more revealing that we would ever have dreamt of choosing ourselves.
To this sexually charged mix, add liberal doses of alcohol, a little weed, too little food to offset it, a constant stream of loud music and you had the ideal terrain in which predators like Dave could hunt, especially if they were in the market for naive, inexperienced prey like me.
No doubt briefed by my housemates beforehand, Dave got me in his sights early on, flattering me, paying me far more attention than any boy had done before, making sure my drink was always topped up and dancing with me whenever the crush of bodies in the house parted enough to allow it.
Unused both to flirting and to all the alcohol, I must have been one of the easiest conquests in his rather thick black book. By midnight we were kissing in the corner of the lounge. By half past, we were in the furthest corner of the garden, our mouths pressed together while the improbable number of hands he apparently possessed roamed freely all over my body, under my skirt and for a short time, inside my panties.
Drunk, dazed and in awe of this drop-dead gorgeous boy, still tingling and highly aroused by his expert fingers, I accepted his offer to walk me home, accompanied by a bottle of red wine. On the way, we held hands and stopped several times for long, deep kisses in the shadows.
The house was empty and in near darkness when we arrived, my housemates all still at the party. I unlocked the front door and turned on the hall light, expecting to go unsteadily to bed after perhaps a goodbye kiss and cuddle in the doorway.
I was simply not prepared for the speed and determination of Dave's assault on my virginity.
Not pausing in the doorway as I had expected, he went straight into the house and to the kitchen to open the wine. I followed him, accepted the large glass of red that he immediately poured then after barely two sips, found his arms around me once again.
We kissed long and deep in the kitchen, me finally getting the hang of how to breathe with my mouth pressed hard against someone else's while Dave explored my skinny, bony body.
If I had suspected he had extra pairs of hands when we were in the garden, I became certain of it now.
From my thighs to my ears, my fingertips to my nose, I don't think there was a single part of me that he didn't stroke, tweak, pinch or fondle as we made out in that kitchen, paying extra special attention to my tiny boobs with their large nipples before turning his attention to my already-highly stimulated vulva.
His fingers inside my knickers, Dave showed me a masterclass in fingering, within seconds producing the first orgasm of my life induced by another human being. It was only a small one, but it was completely unexpected and the effect on me was profound, making me tremble in his arms.
The second was much stronger and shook me to the core.
By the time he led me to my bedroom and closed the door, every single part of me had been kissed, touched or otherwise aroused. My mind was in such a spin that I followed him without question, drunk, highly aroused, so far out of my comfort zone that I might as well have been on another planet and had no idea what I wanted to happen next.
