Odds and Ends

The waitress. 

My height, (poor thing) and equally small boobed, and oh dear, that uniform…the mid thigh-length black dress and the pathetic little white apron that almost screams “This is to cover my sex”. And yet……oh yes…and yet! 

And yet there was something about her face and her large round green eyes in particular that gave her and ageless quality. 23?25? Or 14? I doubt her face has changed much since early teenage. Something about her radiated sexuality as she walked. A gently, barely perceptible sway of her hips, perhaps, and the fact that her uniform dress was slightly too tight on her, revealing visible panty line, and a little spreading of a button between her breasts, even though she barely had any breasts to speak of…and that little spread revealed no bra. 

Suddenly, Miss Brain quite simply stripped her naked…well, down to her panties, anyway. I saw her carrying a little puppy fat still, and her panties….oh dear….the image Miss Brain gave me of her panties almost made me chuckle out loud. They were basically white, but had little kittens on them. She probably had these since she was a schoolgirl, and was still wearing them now. 

They certainly weren’t new. In my mind, I seemed to simply know that they had been worn and washed so many times now that they were beginning to look a little faded and shabby, and the crotch was permanently slightly yellowed. No amount of washing would ever restore it to its pristine whiteness. This panty-crotch had been creamed into, peed into and perioded into for year…and I loved the thought. 

She placed my coffee and snack in front of me and….was I imagining the slightly sharp tang of sweat? No, I think that was real. It’s always warm to hot in this part of the mall, and she works in a cafe. 

Miss Brain followed her as she walked back into the premises. Miss Brain followed her as she walked past the counter, and into the restroom. Miss Brain stood silently observing as she pulled her dress and apron up and pulled her panties down to her knees, looking in the crotch as girls always do. She sat and peed, Miss Brain giving me the sound in glorious Dolby 5.1 cinema sound. She reaches for some toilet paper and dabs at herself before dropping the sheets between her legs. But she doesn’t get up. 

Instead she leans backwards against the cistern. She spreads her knees wider and her right hand disappears between her legs. She begins to masturbate rapidly, hurriedly. Her face scrunches up and an almost silent “oh fuck” escapes her full lips. She leans far over to the side, and her left hand reaches under her thigh. I don’t know where it’s going. Bum or cunt. It doesn’t matter. As awkward as she looks, whatever she’s doing is working. She inhales, holds it and her face turns a dark red. Almost soundlessly she exhales in a series of “Ohh…..ohhhhh….ohhh”s. 

She pulls her left hand back. The tips of two fingers glisten. She looks at them and smiles. She stands quickly, pulling her panties up and smoothing her uniform back into place. She walks swiftly out of the restroom, not bothering to wash her hands. 

Behind the counter, she glances up at an order ticket and reaches for a piece of shortbread with her left hand. There is the ghost of a smile on her face as she puts it on a plate and sets the plate down in front of a middle aged man. He thanks her. She says “I hope you enjoy it.” 

As she turns away. The ghost of a smile broadens widely. 

The Man Who Noticed Me. 

It’s true. I do dress to be noticed. I also dress for utilitarian purposes as well. I like to dress in a way that turns me on, and/or that I can masturbate quickly without having to bother with buttons or belts or anything cumbersome. This usually means I don’t wear much. Yes, it can be cold at times, but that’s something I’ve learned to live with.

Every morning, it’s clear Miss Brain runs some kind of system diagnostic, because she knows, way before I do, what kind of day it’s going to be, sexually speaking. I guess this is why today, I found myself wearing a fairly short pleated skirt and a plain white top. I also had no makeup whatsoever. Anyone looking at me would have a really hard time at guessing my age. 

Although I have a lovely car, I’m on the train. I like trains. I like their smell, and I like the way people check each other out without being obvious. 

He sat diagonally opposite me. I was right by the window in a block of four seats. He was right by the aisle in a block of four across the aisle from me. I knew, because I saw him checking me out as he walked up the aisle from the door that his choice of seat was quite deliberate. He shook open his copy of the Financial Times, but I noticed he never turned a page. Now and then, his eyes would glance across at me. I wonder, what was he thinking? Was he imagining me naked? Or maybe he was wondering if I play with myself at night? If only he knew! 

I decide to change position slightly. I hook my left leg under my bum and let my right knee stray outwards. This gives him a perfect view right up my skirt to my white panties. Then Miss Brain reminds me of the ‘boobs ‘n’ pubes’ years. When pubes come in, girls feel itchy down below. They often idly scratch themselves which gives rise to a lot of teasing. “Hey! No wanking!” This is followed by the poor girl who has been caught desperately trying to convince the others that she was doing no such thing…”I was itchy” Immediately a chorus of “Yeah! Right!” Follows. Girls can be utter bitches to one another. However, he wasn’t a girl, so I pretended to be engrossed in my book, reached up my skirt and ‘itched’ myself. 

The Financial Times was long forgotten and his attention was fixed firmly between my legs. Time for phase 2. I gave myself another couple of itches before furrowing up my brow as if something was wrong, pushing a finger inside the leg hole of my undies and rummaging around a little. Then I pulled the finger back. Looked at it for a second, before holding it under my nose and sniffing it! All the time, I studiously ignored him. Peripherally, I could see his face though. He was mine, body and soul at that moment. 

Only one more thing to do. I looked at the finger once more before popping it into my mouth, giving it a quick suck before letting that hand drop carelessly onto my inner thigh again. 

Then I looked up from my book, looked around the carriage as if for the first time ‘noticed’ him and gave him a lovely, innocent smile which he immediately looked away from. 

I wonder what he did with the eye candy I gave him? Did he get to the first restroom he could find and rub one off? Maybe he waited until the evening. Maybe he had sex with his wife that night, but in his mind he was slowly peeling my panties down and having me on the floor of that train. 

Whatever the truth of it, I knew, beyond doubt, that I was firmly inside his head.

Daniel.

There was a rumour about Daniel when I was at school. Daniel, so the rumour went, had the biggest cock anyone had ever seen. Far from being boastful about it, Daniel was the shyest, nicest guy you could wish to meet. He never threw his weight around, he treated the girls he encountered with the utmost respect, and was bullied mercilessly by his male peers.

Like all the girls, I wondered if the rumours were true, and also I wondered exactly what the definition of a ‘monster cock’ was. 

By this time, I had not only seen, but held a couple of boys cocks. I was by no means an expert, but I felt I had a reasonable standard for comparison. The question was, how would I ever get to find out if Daniel was worthy of his nickname, “donkey’. (As in hung like a..) 

I’d tried chatting him up, but he was, as I said, way too shy. There was no way I was going to get into his pants, and anyway, a great many girls tried, and Daniel was intelligent. He knew we were only after his cock and that we weren’t really interested in him. (Fuck, but we really were evil little bitches back then.) 

I have always been super-observant though, and I wondered why Daniel always took a route from school that led away from the part of the village he lived in. Maybe it was just to get away from the teasers, but I simply had to know. I tried following him, but he caught on. I clearly had to be smarter. 

I knew he left the school through the field, and took a bridle path to the north. So, one day, I was out of school like an Olympic runner and scampered along the path unto it branched off to the riding stables. I figured he wasn’t going that way, so I took the simple expedient of climbing a tree. (I had discovered the delights of rope climbing only recently, and now I discovered having a tree with its rough bark between your legs wasn’t without its pleasures also.) safely hidden in the canopy, I could see where Daniel went next. Then I could hide myself further down the trail next time. 

In due course, Daniel came walking down the bridle path, right under my tree, past the turn off to the riding stables as I predicted, and he walked on for about 20 metres, before turning off the path. There was no route that way, but after about 15 minutes he reappeared and walked the rest of the way down the path. I climbed down (almost cumming in my panties on the way) and went to the point he left the path.

I could see where he had pushed through the undergrowth, and I followed in his tracks. There wasn’t a clearing or anything, just a space, of sorts, surrounded by wild privet hedges and, as I say, the small trodden down area he had made for himself.

I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I’m nothing if not persistent. 

A few days later, I ran for this spot and settled myself down among the wild privet. I waited….and waited….and waited. 

And I waited some more. Then I heard footsteps and Daniel arrived in his little spot. He didn’t hang around. He simply undid his pants and let them and his boxers slip to the floor. From where I was I got the full frontal Daniel, and I almost yelled out in….in what..shock? Horror? Awe? 

Remember, girls of my age were by and large virgins. We were all to some extent scared of letting a boy push his cock inside. We had all heard the horror stories of how much it hurt, how much we would bleed, and for those of us who had actually held a cock before, well, we still couldn’t quite work out how something so big would fit inside a place with felt tight around a finger! 

But here, I was looking at something truly immense. Daniel was fucking enormous. At a conservative guess, I would say he was at least 9 or 10 inches when soft! It hung down over his balls like a sleeping Python. But then he started to play with it, and it grew! Fuck me, but it grew. Both in length and girth. It was so fat, he couldn’t close his fingers around it. 

I didn’t feel in the least sexy, not even when he came, and there was plenty of that…easily more than I’d seen a boy cum….he got a tissue from his pocket, cleaned up, sorted his clothing out and walked off.

I sat in my little hidey-hole and felt only the most immense sadness for his guy. The rumours were, if anything, understated. Daniel, I though, is never going to have a normal sex life. He is way too big for most girls to accommodate anywhere….vaginally, orally and certainly not anally. Poor fucker. 

I made a point of being super nice to Daniel whenever I saw him from that day onwards. He seemed to grow progressively more and more sad though, until by the time we left school, he was a very isolated figure. Of course the insensitive nuns loved this. “Daniel stood alone in the lions den - he had Our Lorde beside him.” As if our Daniel needed reminding of how alone he was. 

By the end of the upper sixth year, the other boys had stopped the teasing and had descended into calling him a ‘fucking freak’, and the physical bullying got worse. 

However, I have a Brain that can be seriously perverse at times. So it is no surprise I’m sure to you, my lovely reader, to know that I have masturbated thinking about being fucked by Daniel and his monster cock on many occasions. I imagine myself being stretched to almost tearing point as he fills me like no man has ever filled me before. And yes, I’ve fantasised about him fucking me anally too! 

Sometimes, I really enjoy the thought of s cock hurting me, and Daniel has provided me with the perfect image set to go along with that. 

Two Gay Choir Boys Sitting On A Wall.

And fortuitously, one was named Peter, but the other wasn’t named Paul, but for the sake of keeping the title, I’m going to call him Paul. 

Like girls, boys experiment. Of that I have no doubt. Circle jerks, the interesting sounding biscuit game….peeing competitions…and I’m sure there’s much more that I haven’t been told about. Anyway, Peter and Paul were different. Two choristers, certainly, but while the other boy choristers were something of a handful discipline wise, Peter and Paul weren’t. They were gentle, and, while ‘effeminate’ would be too strong a description, they were…hmmm…..soft. I don’t know…that’s the best word I can use. 

At this time, I was also in the school church choir. I was there for two reasons. First, choir practice happened during double Latin, and second,, I really had the hots for the choirmaster. Oh, alright, reverse those reasons. I would sit there, listening to him, staring at him, nodding my head wisely while not having heard a word he was saying, and spending a whole hour gently creaming my panties. 

Peter and Paul were inseparable. They always sat next to one another and I noticed how often their hands would touch when they sat down, or stood up. I also noticed….well….wondered really….what they wore under the red cassocks the boy choristers had to wear for choir practice. They would arrive in church, some from the state school down the road, some from our growing number of boy students, go into the vestry and emerge in these red cassocks. Sometimes, I saw bare ankles, which indicated Peter and Paul had done away with their pants. 

One day, I hung around after everyone else had gone. I saw most of the boys dive for the door the moment they were changed, but of Peter and  Paul there was no sign. 

I walked as silently as I could around the church but couldn’t find them anyway. Then I spotted them. They were outside, sitting on a brick-topped flint wall, just side by side in the sunshine, holding hands. As I watched through the window, they just turned to one another and kissed. They kissed deeply and Paul raised his free had to hold Peter’s cheek. 

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I admit, it made me cry. 

Oh, Miss Brain got hold of it of course, and developed it into a more erotic encounter. For ages, I imagined Peter sucking Paul off. Blow jobs were the ‘thing’ at that time. I imagined them naked in bed together, wanking each other off, or going down on each other. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Miss Brain never gave me an image of them fucking one another. I think that soft, tender kiss I witnessed somehow wouldn’t allow that fantasy to develop. 

I’ve known other boys who experimented during their teenage years, and I’ve written about it here, but I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful as that kiss.