Being a Girl (11 page)

I stood up straight and nursed my poor bum with my palms. Tara avoided looking at me. She was looking at the floor and her voice was just a whisper.

‘I can't see why,' she said.

‘I think you can, Tara,' he said, and he raised his voice, just slightly. ‘Now, don't let me have to ask you again.'

The pause was shorter than before.

She ran her arms up her back and the elastic made a little ping as the clasp parted. She took the straps down one at a time. Did she know this looked really cool, really sexy? She held the bra clutched like a white dove between her palms.

‘There,' he then said. ‘Excellent. Bring it here, give it to me. Now, Tara, tell me honestly, doesn't that feel better?'

‘Yes, Monsieur Cartier.'

He smiled at me. ‘What do you think, Milly?' he asked.

‘Pardon?' I said.

‘She's quite delectable, no?'

I nodded. ‘Yes, yes she is.'

We were standing close. I could hear the electric lights humming, hear the faint beat of my breath. My
breasts were fizzing and I had a terrible urge to ignite Tara's nipples with my own. I bent forwards and, the moment our flesh touched, all her fears and reservations evaporated. Her arms went round me like the coils of an octopus and her lips were immediately jammed against my own, her tongue probing my mouth like a little fish. I slid my hand down her jeans and the moment my finger found its way through the ring of her bottom all the air left her body in one great exhalation and I thought for a moment she was going to collapse.

She was panting for breath as if she had just done those 100 laps around the top field. She whipped down the zip on her jeans and I thought how silly it was for a girl to wear jeans, they are so awkward, so hard to get off, and you just never know when you might want to get naked in a hurry.

I held her shoulders as she pulled down her jeans and knickers in one movement. She was sopping wet and I pushed my fingers straight up inside her cleft, drawn as if by some force outside my control. We were doing what nature intended us to do, two teenaged girls with healthy bodies, ripe and juicy and eager to be touched. We kissed and fingered each other until Tara came in a long rumbling orgasm and I had a feeling that it was just what she needed.

‘Over the desk now, Tara,' Mr Cartier said. ‘Over the desk.'

His voice was soft, so soft, almost a whisper, a chant, a spell. He glanced at me and the faint nod of his head, the shrug of his shoulders, made it clear that it was my turn to spank Tara and it was something I had never done before. I had never done it but now, as she did as she was told and bent over the desk, I understood the attraction.

Her bottom peered up at me, round, tight, quite perfect, the slit down the middle like the entrance to some wonderful place, an unexplored continent. And inside me was a feeling that this pert white bottom needed the caress of my hand, it needed to be applauded with a good hard slap and automatically, almost unconsciously, I brought my palm down upon Tara's bum as hard as I possibly could, so hard it stung my own hand, so hard the sound of the slap almost burst my eardrums. I had concentrated on the little cheek furthest from me and left a perfect white imprint outlined in baby pink where the blood rushed protectively to the surface.

‘Yeooi,' she screamed.

‘Good girl, Tara, don't move,' said Jean-Luc.

I brought my hand down again on the other cheek and the feeling of Tara's soft flesh as it gave way under my palm sent a feeling through my whole body like jumping on a trampoline. The higher you jump the more the trampoline springs you back into the air; the higher you go the harder you come down again. There were two white prints now, a perfect match, a perfect pattern which I slowly obliterated as I spanked her again and again, harder and faster, and she screamed in pain and then she screamed with pleasure as another orgasm burst like an erupting geyser from her drenched pussy. Her bottom was bright red like the flames of a fire with blue tinges around the edge and although it lacked the surreal colouring of the tartan plaid of the Black Watch, I had signed my first abstract and couldn't help being pleased with the result.

After coming so copiously Tara seemed drained. She pulled herself up from the desk and clung to me, pressing her lips to mine, and I soothed the ache in
her raw bottom, stroking and gently squeezing as she rammed her pubic bone into my wet crotch. She slipped as if exhausted to her knees, took my thighs in her two hands and her warm tongue wriggled up inside me, nursing the sharp little nub of my clitoris and draining the last liquids still stored in my body.

When we were both satiated we seemed to awake as if from a dream. I wasn't sure where I was. My head was still slowly spinning from the lunchtime wine and I had the absurd notion that I wanted to rush home and show Mummy my spanked bottom. Tara held on to my thighs and a big contented smile of pleasure played over her lips.

I'd spanked my first girl and it was great.

‘Happy?' Jean-Luc asked, and we both nodded. ‘Was it fun?' he continued and we both nodded more vigorously.

‘Divine,' I said. I loved that word.

‘Good. Stay there, and don't move.'

Monsieur Cartier unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it over the back of his leather chair. He removed his shoes and socks, folded his creased trousers and when he removed his boxers his cock sprang out and bobbed up and down like a little boy arriving at a party. It was pink and sweet, not huge like Hamish but playful and it was fun when he stepped forward and slipped it casually into my waiting palm.

Tara was still on her knees and he placed his hand gently on top of her head to keep her in that position. I started to roll the soft outer skin up and down the shaft of his cock.

‘Slowly,' he whispered. ‘Always slowly.'

I felt like a conductor directing a piece of music, Bach, obviously, slowly, slowly, the notes climbing and building, and it was such a joy to be there in that
office on a warm summer's day, two spanked girls and a naked man with wisps of silver in the brown mat of hair on his chest. Slowly, slowly, up and down, up and down, the skin growing warmer, more solid, more alive with each stroke, up and down, up and down.

‘That's very good, Milly. I think I might have just the right thing for you.'

‘Really?'

‘A short film,' he said thoughtfully. ‘It's a bit flat at the moment. You might be able to give it a bit of oo la la.'

‘Oo la la?'

‘Mmm,' he said. ‘Mmmmm.'

I was so excited I started going faster, my hand moving like a piston, up and down, squeezing as hard as I could, squeezing, releasing the squeeze, and squeezing again. I'd never done this before but it's really quite easy, like swimming or playing the piano, you don't need to think, it's all instinct, all feeling, all so sensual and wanton with Tara on her knees gazing up like a worshipper in a temple. Up and down. Up and down.

Jean-Luc was caressing the back of her head and she wriggled forward. She smiled in such a way that her pink lips opened a tiny distance from the swollen head of his cock. Like me, she didn't need to be told what to do. These things you know without having to be told. Everything that's natural comes naturally, I thought, and this was probably quite profound and I would try to remember to write it down.

I kept a firm grip on Jean-Luc's cock. I could feel it pulsing like something alive in my palm. Tara Scott-Wallace kept her mouth open and her eyes open and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, a great stream of frothy sperm jetted over her face and into
her mouth, over her hair and into her eyes and she leaned forward to take the head of his cock deep into her throat to suck out the last juicy warm drop. Jean-Luc kept his hand on the back of her head and rocked backwards and forwards, in and out, the whole length of his cock vanishing down her throat, and at the same time I nursed his balls in my hand, squeezing gently. He ran his hand down my back, between my cheeks and a finger found its way into my wet bottom.

‘A short film?' I asked.

‘Mmm,' he replied.

He kept Tara's mouth running up and down the length of his cock, his fist gripping a clump of her hair. Her eyes were closed, her head was thrown back and there was a look of deep satisfaction on her finely etched features. I thought he was probably spent by now but Tara made such a good job sucking him off, when he finally slipped his cock from her mouth it was like taking a baguette from an oven, hot, crusty, stiff and hard, totally gorgeous and ready to be devoured. He still had his finger in my bum and when he pulled it out with a saucy little pop I didn't need to ask what was going to happen next. I bent over the glass-topped desk, spread my legs and made myself comfortable.

‘You have an incredible mouth, Tara.
C'est colossal.
Here, here.'

Tara was still on her knees, still praying in the temple, and now she leaned forward to pay her respects to the holy orifice. Her little tongue all wet with Jean-Luc's semen snaked up my bottom and after the spanking it took the heat from my fiery back passage. She parted my bottom, got a good grip on my cheeks and pushed her tongue in and out, in and
out. It was the reverse of taking Jean-Luc's cock down her throat, the same but the other way round, and everything was a pattern, our bodies shaped to enter each other and become one.

‘
C'est colossal.
'

Jean-Luc eased Tara aside and she clung on to my leg as his cock pressed at the fragile ring of my bottom. The sphincter, that timid little muscle at the lip of the anus, is designed for pushing outwards, but by careful manoeuvring, with patience and practice, the sphincter reverses and will entice a lubricated cock deep into the sensitive tissue where a million nerve endings wait to be ignited. It is pure ecstasy. Pure fulfilment. You are flooded with feelings of joy and contentment. Our maidenly chalice, the Holy Grail itself some say, is
a yonic
V designed to be pierced by the
phallic
∧, the male blade, it's all there in the Tarot cards, all so geometric, so symbolic, so precise, the back door to the castle keep holding its own special delights and triumphs. Girls want to get their clothes off, get down to some good healthy sex. They really, really do. Girls will take it any way they can get it, but given the chance, given the opportunity, given the education, girls will take it in the bottom and write poetry in the moonlight.

Men may think of anal sex as some masculine rite of passage but what they don't understand, what most girls don't understand, is that it is a girl's rite of passage, too. It is the pinnacle, the main course, the high point of human relations. When a warm cock slides in and out of your backside you are totally in touch with your inner self. If we have a soul, that's where we will find it, I'm sure.

I pushed up on my kitten heels to try to take more of him, all of him. I wanted Jean-Luc Cartier to
vanish inside me. My bottom was an underground cavern with untold secrets, unknown places. His cock was swelling against buried treasure and, like a finger stroking the trigger on a gun, his cock hit the right combination and the key to the treasure trove turned in the lock. He exploded in another orgasm and I felt my insides turn to liquid.

‘Agh. Agh. Agh. Agh!'

‘Agh. Agh. Agh. Agh!'

My back arched. My knees were shaking. I was coming, I was coming. I was reaching down somewhere deep, somewhere unknown. If before I had been base metal, at that moment I transformed into molten gold. I have been designed to be buggered. Spanked first, of course, but then thoroughly and deliciously sodomised. It's important that a girl knows these things and with this in mind I would set off the following day to meet the director of
Cheats
with new confidence.

THIS IS THE
story.

RICKY SIMMONS
is forty, a copywriter who dreams of being an author or a scriptwriter. Something romantic. He's growing plump around the belly and feels that life is passing him by. What he really wants is to find a young girl for a night of wild sex so he can feel young again. Ricky lives with Amanda.

AMANDA
is an actress, also forty, slender and gamine, feminine in a boyish sort of way. Amanda is not famous, but gets regular parts on TV and in the theatre. Amanda and Ricky have been together for more than ten years and things are dull, dull, dull.

Amanda has a three-day job in Paris appearing in a TV commercial where she plays the English wife of a Frenchman who must learn from her French neighbour that the way to keep her husband frisky over the cooking pots is to buy the correct brand of floor cleaner; an old idea with a French twist.

After dropping Amanda at the Eurostar terminal, Ricky drives to Greens, a Soho wine bar, and hang-out for starlets and media people. He's drinking a beer when a stunning
GIRL
appears at an interior doorway looking agitated.

I was reading the script in a clammy office thick with the exotic blend of scent wafting from eight fretful girls looking agitated and suicidal as they mumbled their lines to themselves. They stopped and glanced up with passing pleasure as a girl with hennaed streaks in her hair left the casting suite with gritted teeth and a tear in her eye. A second later Dudley, the cameraman, poked his head out and grinned like an executioner.

‘Next,' he called, and closed the door again.

As I came to my feet, the weepy girl slid from the building and the rest of the hopefuls studied me with frosty smiles and daggers in their eyes. The film was a good chance for an actress to show her range and they all wanted it so badly the tension was chipping away their self-confidence. I had no long-term plans to make movies, Cambridge was calling, but I do like to accomplish my goals and I had every intention of playing Young Amanda.