Chapter 2: Samantha in Charge
On Monday morning I was back at school but was disappointed not to see Jamie or Sam before the first bell. I owed Sam a debt of gratitude, not only for helping me arrange my meeting with Jamie at the end of the previous week, but also for being the one to bring us together in the first place. I checked out the washroom that had been the scene of our steamy encounter but it was deserted.
Jamie wasn't in gym class. The teacher told me there'd been a death in Jamie's family—an aunt—and that she would be gone for the week to attend the funereal in Nova Scotia. The distance explained her lengthy absence but the romantic scenarios that I had been playing out in my imagination evaporated. I wondered if Jamie had been close to her aunt, if she was heart-broken. I wanted to be there for her, if she needed it, or simply to be with her if she didn't.
In the locker room after volleyball, I felt my shyness reasserting itself, as if the wild, carefree me of the past few weeks was nothing more than an inexplicable deviation on a statistical chart. It was remembering what Jamie had said--how she and some other girls had rearranged class schedules so they could steal glimpses of my tits in the shower—that made me feel a bit uneasy. But I surprised myself by laughing off my self-consciousness, realizing how improbable Jamie's statement sounded; she must have simply been teasing. And if some of my lovely classmates wanted to see my goodies, I would put on a show that would leave them wet with desire.
I stripped bare, placing my gym clothes in my locker. Girls were in various states of undress. Often, at bedtime, with my fingers buried to the knuckles in my dripping hole, it was images from the change room that filled my mind. It must have been growing up awkward and timid, I felt, that had factored in the development of my strong voyeuristic tendencies; I loved to take in the small details and distinctive traits of the locker room lovelies: a small gold cross nestled between tantalizingly firm, high tits; feminine backs, with their inexplicably sexy creases, tapering into narrow waists before flaring out again into sensuous curvy hips; the naughty promise of panty-clad mounds, sometimes smooth, sometimes sprouting mischievous, wispy little hairs, nestled against smooth creamy thighs; and taut coloured bra straps bisecting luscious, well-defined shoulder blades that moved with graceful fluidity.
But now, here in the moment, my eyes lingered on Carla Harper, a tall brunette with a classic long-distance runner's body who didn't ever wear a bra her tits were so very small. Most girls teased her about them but I had always found them to be mouth-watering. They were sharp insubstantial bumps—high on her chest and far apart from each other—that tapered to delicate pointed nipples. Even with her undersized breasts, I found it hard to imagine her running long-distance braless without chafing her bare nipples. I wasn't able to avert my gaze in time when she looked up. I was busted, unable to so much as pretend that I hadn't been ogling her pert mouthfuls.
Carla stripped off her green panties, the same shade as her eyes, and walked by me on her way to the showers. As she got closer, I willed her to pass by silently.
Please don't say anything; please don't say...
"Hey Beth,
I
should be the one checking out
your
tits."
I flushed.
"Hey, I'm just teasing. But I do have to admit that I
am
very envious of your perfect boobs. Don't get me wrong though; sometimes I feel like the only straight girl at this school."
I followed Carla into the showers and stood under a jet of water, luxuriating in the warm water trailing down my front and back. I took a handful of body wash, closing my eyes while I lathered up my generous tits. I ran my fingers along their bottoms and over the nipples. I dragged my fingernails between my perfectly symmetrical full globes.
If anyone had gone out of their way for a glimpse, who was I to disappoint?
I swayed my hips to an invisible rhythm as the water cascaded off my exposed flesh. It occurred to me how much my body image had shifted over the past weeks; I no longer dwelled so much on my perceived faults and felt sexy, beautiful.
I opened my eyes to discover at least one pair of eyes following my sinuous, sexy swaying; I smiled at Carla who didn't even attempt avert her gaze. She eventually turned away then looked back at me, over her shoulder, with her lovely emerald green eyes.
"Beth, will you scrub my back."
I grabbed a cloth from the shelves just outside the shower area and moved over to Carla. I slowly rubbed at her taut muscles, caressing her shoulder blades with the cloth, wiping along the curved contours of her sides and then balancing the cloth on my shoulder so I could use my bare hands to gently massage shower gel into her beautiful neck.
I feel I'm a bit of an expert when it comes to neck massages: Mom always gets shivers when I end her massages with a neck rub; I tease her saying, "maybe I'd better stop; you're skin is
so
sensitive today."
Mom would reply using my full name, which I knew meant business: "Bethany, don't you dare . . ."
Carla, it seemed, had the same weakness for my caresses; I felt goose bumps rise on her wet, malleable flesh. I was so extraordinarily aroused by the way she responded to my touch. I ran my fingers through her dark, layered hair. It was reminiscent in style, colour and length to Mom's; only the novelty of its wetness seemed unfamiliar to my touch.
Apparently it was my turn because Carla took the cloth and turned me with gentle pressure on my shoulders. I positioned myself so that the water pounded against my sensitive nipples. My skin craved her touch: shoulder blades, lower back, sides, shoulders, neck and arms; all responded to the wonderful caresses.
I had noticed, in my peripheral vision, that a Chinese beauty named Jiaying had entered the shower area and had been soaping her crotch for an improbable length of time as Carla and I enjoyed our shared contact. In fact, on closer inspection, I saw that the lovely Asian had neither soap nor cloth in her hand.
Carla reached around me to rinse the cloth in the stream of warm water and then, rather than returning to my back, cupped both my tits in her hands as her nude body pressed into me from behind. Soon the cloth had dropped to the shower floor, any pretence that she wasn't simply groping me had evaporated like the little soap bubbles in the drain. Her deft hands rubbed and stroked my tits, frequently brushing my sensitive nipples, which, it seemed, had spent more time erect than not in the past two weeks.
I had lowered my hand to my slit and had started to stroke the doubly wet flesh when Carla abruptly stopped. She fled from the showers. I could just barely make out what seemed to be a stream of muttered apologies as she ran away. Jiaying wasn't sorry. Her steadily building orgasm finally tore through her compact body, her face beautiful as it contorted with pleasurable agony.
For a second, the callous part of me counselled,
to hell with Carla
; I pictured Jiaying on her knees under the jet of hot water, her face pleasuring my sweet, needy honey pot. But instead I wrapped myself in a towel and went over to Carla who was in tears.
"I was just
curious
," she avowed plaintively, more to herself than to me.
Instinct told me that any physical contact, any attempt to touch or hold her was exactly the wrong thing to do. I just make comforting sounds and peppered her with hollow, meaningless reassurances.
"Shhhh... it's okay. It didn't mean anything. We just got carried away. No one saw."
Well, that part was a lie; just ask Jiaying's creamy cookie.
"It was just a harmless little massage," I continued. "Nothing more."
I truly hoped that Carla wouldn't beat herself up over it. I understood the crushing confusion and paralysing vulnerability of teenaged sexual identity. I knew all about doubts, about feeling inadequate. I had experienced depression and guilt and episodes of self-hatred. But I felt I was starting to come out the other side.
Carla finally gave the tiniest hint of a smile. I gave her some privacy to get dressed. After a few days, I told myself, I would approach her to make sure she was okay.
* * *
At lunch I finally tracked Sam down and asked her if she would join me in the cafeteria. She preferred to go to a nearby restaurant, but I let her know that I couldn't afford that.
"I'm
glad
you're not one of those rich little bitches, Juicy. I can't fucking stand 'em. Besides, when a butch asks a femme out on a date, who do you think is supposed to pay?"
I laughed and we started to walk. Sam is a good four or five inches taller than me so I found myself having to look up at her. She was wearing tattered denim jeans, sick scuffed boots and a basic white tee that was so tight you could make out every detail of her taut braless boobs. She is lean but her arm and leg muscles are well defined. I wanted to touch her stomach to see if it was as tight as it appeared.
Sam has an imposing black neck tattoo that starts below her earlobe and snakes down the side of her neck; it disappeared under her shirt at her collarbone. I hoped I would get the opportunity to see where else the sexy Amazon might be inked. As we walked, I pictured myself kissing the tattooed skin: starting at her ear, nibbling and licking its lobe, caressing the skin of her neck with my lips, licking my way down it, tasting her skin. My imagination lingered on the sensuous image of Sam lifting her t-shirt slowly over her head, the dark sinuous tattoo curling under her breast, rising up through the delicious separated cleavage of her apple-sized tits, swirling down again to her hard succulent nipple.
Lost to my daydream, I was startled when Sam announced that we had arrived. When she looked at me with her penetrating, intelligent light grey eyes, with their playful hint of gentle amusement, I felt as if she could read deep into the core of my being, my thoughts laid bare.
* * *
The old Asian lady who came to seat us at the restaurant seemed extremely pleased to see Sam. She took her by the arm and led us to a secluded booth. I pored over the menu and Sam made suggestions as to what to I should order. It turns out she was an expert when it came to Vietnamese food, the foreign words rolled off her tongue with practiced ease.
Although the prices seemed very reasonable, I didn't want Sam to spend much on me. She reassured me, telling me that they wouldn't take our money here; that she was like family.
Her face suddenly took on a sober expression. "That was dumb of me, to let my secret slip. Now you won't feel obligated to repay my generosity with your nubile charms."
I laughed. "Your date is very frustrated today, so you're going to have to beat her off with a stick." I explained how disappointed I was that Jamie was away and told her that a sweet thing had got me all wet in the shower and then left me high and dry.
"Well I wouldn't
beat
