Just when I was about to turn 17, my school played a shitty trick on us. Up to 17, we had to wear the official school uniform. Blue blazer, white shirt/blouse, checked skirt. When we turned 17, we would be allowed to wear our own clothes. When I turned 17, they changed the rules. Uniform and only uniform until we left. This was the idea of the new Principal, and most of us were sure he just liked girls in uniform. He had a creepy way about him, and although no one ever reported that he had behaved inappropriately, he did always seem to be staring at us, especially if we were sitting in a way that allowed him the chance of a glimpse of panty.
0h, girls will be girls, and we did rebel. The skirt would be rolled up at the waist way above regulation height. The more brave of us would also sit in the most undignified positions, daring him and some of the other men on staff to look up our skirts. The monks and nuns hated this, of course, and their anger was awful. (As was the paddling some of them would dish out.) This is more a “connected memory” really. I joined a group of teenage rebels who really protested this fucking uniform. So, most lunchtimes I could be found with others, lounging around on the field, or in classrooms if it was raining, legs spread, and just waiting for a patrolling teacher. The ringleader, a very clever girl called Sam had worked out that the more precocious we acted, the sooner a teacher would realise the risk of being accused of staring up our skirts, and the uniform rule would be dropped for the older girls. Clever strategy and it was to work, but back to the story. Sitting there, showing our panties had another effect. It made us horny. We knew we were being stared at, we knew too that sometimes a Male teacher would be uncomfortable. Knowing there was just a thin strip of material between our pussies and their gaze was erotic. I noticed damp patches on one girl in particular. Kathryn had long, elegant legs. She was a keen objector to the uniform and would someday wear non-regulation panties. They had stipulated horrid dark blu panties to go with the uniform, but Kathryn thought they were too boring for words. She would often wear white, almost transparent panties. If a nun challenged her, she would claim she had to change because of her time of the month. More than once, I saw her pussy clearly through the material, and more than once I realised she must either shave, or be real late growing pubic hair. We called puberty “boobs ‘n’ pubes”. So, this day, Kathryn was being really antsy and aggressive. She could be so awfully self-opinionated, and would often argue Black was white. But today was worse than ever. She was sitting on a desk with her feet up near her ass and spread wide enough. I was sitting on the chair of that desk. I was so close that I could smell her. She kept dabbing at her crotch with one hand. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but some adolescent girls do this a lot. Kathryn did it more than most, especially on this day. I remember liking the musky scent that was coming from between her legs. I also stole glances up there. I couldn’t not, really. She would put her hand there, itch around, and then take it away, but it seemed to stay longer each time. Then, like a thunderbolt, I knew. She wasn’t itching herself. She was masturbating. And she was deliberately winding one girl up. The other girl’s language was already pretty ripe, but Kathryn pushed the button even harder which sent the other girl off on a massive name call. “You fucking bitch. You fucking big headed CUNT!” Kathryn gave a little shudder, and I saw wetness spread over the crotch of her panties. At the time, I really didn’t put two and two together, but now I realise what I saw. Kathryn had brought herself off. I do recall the scent though. It was suddenly, more flowery, heavenly. Lesbianism was outwardly criticised. What, at a Catholic school? Are you kidding me? The very gates of Hell would swing open for us if we even thought about heterosexual sex, let alone masturbation, or homosexual sex. (Why is the Catholic Church so shit scared of sex, I wonder? Maybe it’s because those who run it aren’t getting any). But, that said, thinking back, I guess masturbation was rife. It wasn’t unusual to hear a moan coming from a restroom cubicle, and in the showers after games, just looking round showed the girls who would dash in and out, and those who would really take time soaping themselves up, especially their boobs or between their legs. One girl who we nicknamed “Soapy Mary” would always stand with her back to the rest of us. If she could, she picked a shower at the very end, almost in a corner. She took ages in there, but again, I remember that she would have one hand down and one hand up. She would work at herself until you could see her ass muscles twitching. Nearly every time Sister Angelique would turn off the hot water, leaving Soapy Mary squealing as jets of freezing water cascaded over her. There were many girls who claimed they had “done it”, although “done it” often turned out to mean played with themselves. I do remember desperately wanting to kiss Kathryn’s boobs though. Although small, like mine, they were absolutely perfectly formed. Leonardo da Vinci could not have sculpted them more perfectly. I also thought, back then we’ll, further back, really, around 15 or so, that being touched by another girl would be better than being touched by a boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Many girls talked about their boyfriends by saying “He cums too quickly! I’m just getting going, and he’s done”. Another girl said “six months we’ve been going out, and he still doesn’t know where my fucking clit is.” So, slowly, I transformed from a girl who only ever masturbated under the covers with the light off, to one who wanted someone else’s touch (but didn’t want to get a reputation as a “fucking lesbo”) Sometimes, my monthly visitor would strike during swimming lessons. That would leave me alone in the changing rooms. Sometimes, I admit, I would hunt out other girls’ underwear. I liked bras, especially the underarm. But yes, there were panties too. I soon learned that some girls didn’t pay as much attention to feminine hygeine as they might, while others always seemed to have a panty liner in. Kathryn, though, well, she gave me my first ever scent of another girl up close. My heart was hammering in case someone walked in, but I remember having the fastest cum in history with a pair of her panties clamped to my face, and me squatting down on the floor, panties aside and going for it. The first time I had any kind of sexual contact with a boy, well, it was like the other girls said. He was done before I was really going, and it took a while for us to get in sync. Today, I still enjoy the “emergence into sexuality” feeling of my old school uniform. I still have the skirt, and now and then, well, I like to dress up in it. It doesn’t take much imagination for me to back there. I've even been known to go out, skirt rolled up, attracting the stares of men and women, and loving every minute of it. I do enjoy my body being stared at, eyes roving over me, undressing me mentally. I love role play too. Some days (and nights), id love to live out an “Oh Sir. Stop....you mustn’t” kind of fantasy. Which brings me to my final thought for today. (Yes, I know. This has rambled on a bit, hasty it?) I was ready to explore sex when I was 15. I really was. I knew exactly what I was doing, and, law or no law, I wanted the touch of another. I could have given fully informed consent. If a man had made a pass at me, I would have gone along with it willingly. It wouldn’t have been right to say I didn’t know what I was doing. I know girls who were ready at 14, and some who still weren’t ready at 20. It’s very much down to the individual, I think. I know of one girl who regularly went to nightclubs at 14. She was tall....taller than me....she would wear the sexiest dresses and underwear. She went out with one purpose in mind, to get laid. I often imagine her getting ready, already wet with anticipation at what is to come, and, later that night, the groping exploration followed by her on her back being fucked. She. Was. Ready. If you saw her, made up, ready to go out, I defy anyone to guess her true age. I was equally ready a year later. I wanted, craved, needed someone else’s touch. In fact, I wanted, craved and needed an older man’s touch. You see, I’d worked it out that an older man would know exactly what he was doing. My ideal would have been an older, married man. Here’s why. Older...knows what he’s doing. Better able to control himself. Married...reduced risk of diseases, and most likely, if he has kids already, possibly vasectomised. Also, won’t be blabbing it around that he’s sleeping with me, especially if I’m under age. Plus, I can end the relationship with no risk of him becoming a nuisance. Yes, I was ready. My cunny was ready, oh God....some nights, you have no idea! I would lie in bed crying,,,,,aching to be touched....aching to feel someone else’s hands on my body, in my bra, in my panties, and in me. I wanted to squat over a man’s face and have him lick me to orgasm. I wanted to impale myself on his dick. I wanted to feel dominated by him, to have him hold me down on the bed and fuck me vigorously. It happened, but not until long after 15 came and went. Yes, I think we are all different. We all need different things at different times.
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