God Bless The Rope

You see them in older style school gyms even today. A row of coarse ropes that can be pulled out from the wall across the entire width of the gym. There’s a metal ferrule at the top and sometimes a knot at the bottom. From almost floor to ceiling, the rest is a hands-burning, opportunity for ecstasy, 

If the Catholic Church could have invented a way of climbing a rope backwards, it would have done so, and our two wizened old crones of so-called PE nuns would have taught us it. But no-one had. Perhaps the good Cardinals, in their (supposed) ignorance of female anatomy didn’t know, or think for a moment that rope climbing for a girl can be…..pleasurable. 

I had one of my first orgasms on a climbing rope, which, I suppose, makes that rope my first ever sex aid! (Hmm. Hadn’t thought of it like that before.) 

Once I had cum on that blessed rope, I wondered how many other girls had cum on it too. Or at least got wet enough for their cum to actually be impregnated into the rope. Now and then….especially if another girl had climbed it immediately before me, I thought I could detect her scent….and it drove me wild! 

Which brings me onto a side story of a girl we shall call ‘Amy’. Amy was one of my panty-flashers, and we gabbled on about how good those ropes felt. Now, one of the after-school clubs on offer was ‘gym club’. Oh, don’t get the idea those two old biddies actually supervised it, or taught us anything. On Tuesday after school, we could set up whatever equipment we wanted as long as an hour later it was all squared away again. And that’s where Amy made a very  painful error. If climbing a rope in regulation school panties felt good, climbing one commando must feel better, right? Amy discovered the tiny, almost microscopic bit of the rope that gray off. As she said later, “it was like rubbing sandpaper over my cunt.’ Two days later she had a terrible inflammation down there requiring weeks of hospital treatment! (Thank fuck I didn’t try it - it was on my to-do list) 

Anyway, from my orgasm onwards,  I watched other girls like a hawk. I certainly wasn’t the only girl to cum in her undies on those ropes. 

Now, I’ve been asked “Did no-one at school realise you were into girls?” The answer to that is yes. Some did. Some of those who did kept silent, but one or two were unpleasant about it, asking me openly “Are you a lez?” To which I would always answer truthfully, “I go both ways.” Two girls in particular sneered at me telling me they don’t believe I’d ever been anywhere near a girl ‘like that’. Of course, I offered to show them. This made one of them back down, but the other…..

Yet another Mary, I’m afraid, we’ll. she didn’t back down. This girl was tall, very full of herself, and could be something of a bully. If you found yourself in her sights, life could be unpleasant. So, one day, we were study-buddies on an in-class assignment. (The nuns did this when they fancied a couple of lessons off. They’d pair us up, tell us to go and find somewhere quiet to work on the assignment, and the next lesson we would all present our work….hence two lessons the nun concerned didn’t have to plan, teach or mark.) Mary and I were paired, and we found ourselves in the corner of the library. Mary was about as pleased to be paired with me as I was with her. The task wasn’t exactly difficult. “Write 500 words on how our Blessed Mother has intervened in human lives.” Mary and I dashed this pointless exercise off very quickly then she turned to me. 

“So. You want everyone to think your a dyke, huh?”

“Mary, I couldn’t give a fuck what people think. I am a dyke, though strictly speaking, I’m bi-sexual. I like boys and girls.”

“I don’t fucking believe you.”

“Well….that’s your problem, not mine.”

“I think the only pussy (it’s amazing how much I’ve always loathed that word) you’ve ever touched is your own.”

“Mary, sweetie, I wouldn’t have a problem slipping my hand between your legs, into your panties, fingering you off and licking my fingers clean afterwards. Come to that, we’re alone in here, and we would hear anyone opening the door, I would have no problem ducking under the desk and licking you out.”

She paused, looking balefully at me, clearly very angry. Mary was used to being agreed with. As I said, she could get physical with people who dared oppose her. Part of me was hoping she’d get physical with me. I was really looking forward to putting some of my dad’s protection team training into practice. 

Instead, she said “You’re so fucking full of shit.” and so saying, she opened her kilt, pushed her hand into her panties and brought it out, two fingers glistening. She was very, very wet. Immediately, I knew where all this anger was coming from. 

“You wouldn’t dare lick my fingers cle…..” 

She didn’t get to finish the sentence. I grabbed her wrist and brought her fingers to my mouth and sucked them clean, making sure my tongue missed nothing. Mary coloured up like a lobster. 

Silence. It has always amazed me how much communication happens in complete, utter silence. There was tension here. Real tension. I knew, knew beyond all doubt that Mary was desperately frustrated. I also knew what I’d do about it. 

We were right at the back of h]the library, and behind the stacks of books. The old door was rattle and no-one was getting in without first heralding their arrival. Yes, we were by a window, but we were sitting down, and the window was at head height. I moved my chair to be slightly sideways to hers, then calmly reached up her kilt, which was still unpinned. Many of us wore the ridiculously large ‘nappy pin’ as we called it only through one layer of material, not the mandated two - another little silent protest. She stared at me balefully as my hand found her waistband and slowly slipped underneath it. I remember being really surprised as my fingertips seemed to keep going and keep going before they found any hair. And what there was was trimmed to almost nothing. Mary was what we unkindly called a “bush monster’. There were a couple of girls whose pubic region looked like a rainforest, and some responded by trimming to the max. 

Mary had obviously made her decision as she leaned against me, and let her head flop onto my shoulder as I found her slippery valley. One finger entered her easily, followed by a second. No pesky hymen here to cause pain and get in the way. A simple ‘come here’ movement from one finger had her moaning.and spreading her legs wider. I used my thumb on her clit. 

“You’re going to make me cum in my panties.” Her voice had lost all its harshness. There was no edge to it, but it was heavy with desire. 

It didn’t take long at all. I felt her vagina suddenly widen, remain motionless, then the rhythmic contractions of an orgasm. Which left me with two very wet fingers.

But I wasn’t finished. “Now, Mary, you get to do me.” I thought for a moment she would refuse, and I think that thought did flick through her mind. I sat back in my chair and she sat opposite me. I spread my legs and she touched me…tentatively at first, but then she pulled the crotch of my panties to one side….something I adore to this day, and slipped two fingers deep up me. She used two hands , one with two fingers in me, the middle finger of her other hand on my pearl. I didn’t take long either, especially since I used her cream on my fingers to both smell and lick her. 

Once I had cum, I struck forward like a snake and kissed her on the lips. Then I whispered, “and now, Mary, you’re every bit the dyke I am.” Never again was she cruel to anyone she thought might have lesbian tendencies, although beforehand, she had been very vociferous in this regard. A simple glance from me was all it took to silence her. 

I think like many girls who suddenly find themselves in a woman’s body, the weight of sexuality…of sexual feelings that bears down can be frightening. I’ve heard guys tell me they felt ‘towering rage’ sexually, and certainly girls seem to go through a similar thing. 

I remain convinced that none of us as 100% ‘straight’. There’s a bit of ‘bi’ in us all. Mary, I think, really wanted to experience another girl’s touch but had no idea how to go about it without gaining the reputation she feared so much. 

About a month after this happened, she did corner me again and said “If you ever breathe a word of what happened, I’ll fucking kill you.” Precisely one second later Mary was on the floor crying and rubbing what I’m sure was an extremely painful shoulder. “No, Mary. You really won’t.” 

Nice to know the training works! As for Mary, she’s now married with the prescribed three children, and not the happiest bunny I ever saw. Mary lived on the wild side. Once….

…but I am certain beyond doubt that she would have liked to have done more. She will be someone who, on her deathbed will say “I wish I had…..”