Chapter One

Her name was Sophie and her legs were longer than a Derby winner’s.

Slim and shapely, they ended under the short black skirt that clung possessively to her tight little bottom. A white T-shirt clung tighter still to the rounded fullness of her breasts, its lower edge not quite meeting the waistband of the skirt and revealing enticing glimpses of a narrow waist and flat tummy. The gentle, fluid movements within the material were yet more enticing, and her nipples poked proudly against the soft cotton.

She was pretty in the extreme. Her eyes were baby-blue, her hair a golden blonde draping her shoulders, and her shy half-smile betrayed a nervous vulnerability that was breathtakingly arousing.

‘Fucking hell,’ breathed Simon, and you could see his point. And a lot more besides, as she glanced nervously around her, then sat on the edge of the black leather sofa, exposing more slender thigh and the faintest glimmer of pale underwear under her skirt.

She seemed shy, embarrassed, and unsure.

She looked to one side, as if seeking inspiration or instruction - and found it, nodding her head then shifting her limbs quickly, the small jerky movements combining with the wide eyes to make her look like a frightened gazelle.

‘Fucking hell!’ whispered Simon again, as she turned towards us slightly, one elegant leg swinging away from the other so we could see into the gap between those delicious thighs, beneath the hem of her skirt to where white knickers stretched tightly over her intimate secrets.

She looked anxiously beyond us, seeking approval, nibbling her lower lip; a gesture hugely appealing in its innocence. Then, acting in response to an unseen prompt, she brushed her hands along her thighs, a light movement with fingers elegantly outstretched, and spread her knees wider, revealing the plump fullness of the material nestling between her outstretched thighs.

You couldn’t hear a sound, except the ragged breath tearing in half-a-dozen throats. We were transfixed, unable to speak or move; we couldn’t even turn our eyes away. Nor did any of us want to.

She looked off towards her right, seeking approval, and the quick half-smile as she received it was replaced even more quickly by a look of consternation. The look vanished almost as quickly as it appeared and she seemed to nod her head slightly, acknowledging a command and her obedience to it. Her hands were trembling as she lifted them and cupped her breasts, one in each palm, fingers searching until they found the hard tips beneath the thin fabric, squeezing and plucking, the little pinching movements making her whole body twitch and start. Her eyes were still wide, her gaze fixed on one point in the room, but the nervous nibbling of her full lower lip had become a softer, gentler response.

She still seemed unsure, as if she didn’t know what to do or whether she should actually do it, but obediently followed the guidance of her invisible prompter and raised the hem of the T-shirt with one hand, pulling it out and over the curves of her body, so two full breasts sprang into view. They were perfect, and defied gravity with their youthful firmness.

The finger and thumb of one hand twitched, and she nodded slightly, acknowledging her instructor as she did his bidding, first brushing her fingernails lightly across the curve of a breast, around and over the cherry tip as it grew hard, then plucking it, squeezing and rolling, her tongue darting into view, licking her lips in timid movements.

There was utter silence in the room. I think we had all stopped breathing completely, frozen still with our eyes locked on the same spot, much as Sophie’s eyes were fixed in one place, as if listening intently to a voice we could not hear. She nodded almost imperceptibly and released her grip on the T-shirt. It stayed in place, a white blaze tucked up under her arms and across the tops of her breasts.

Now both hands were cupping those breasts, lifting them like an offering. The forefinger and thumb of each hand rolled and pulled the nipples. The supporting fingers caressed, and there was a long gusting sigh in the room as six sets of lungs released the breath they’d been holding and we admired the firm thrust of her breasts as she caressed herself.

We had seen nothing like her. Without a trace of make-up she was as beautiful as an angel, but she was behaving like a whore. It was a blindingly erotic combination.

Young, pretty and innocent, she should have been running in slow-motion through sun-kissed fields of corn to meet some stalwart country boy with a check shirt, a cheeky curl of hair and a manful glinting eye that promised long lusty nights ahead - but only after they’d been to the courthouse and the judge had made it right.

Instead she was sitting half-naked on a black leather sofa, legs wide and breasts offered, arousing herself and all who were watching.

And we were watching.

We were watching her face, that fearful expression still in place, the arousing innocence in such utter contrast to the obedient lewdness of her actions. Her head moved slightly in acknowledgement, though nothing changed, and she continued to caress herself as before. Then she nodded more firmly, as if the instruction had been repeated, and her right hand slowed, stopped, and the fingertips released their hold on her nipple. The hand slid aside, dropping to reveal the luscious curves and swollen tip in plain view.

We watched and waited while her hand hovered indecisively. The left continued its gentle movements, but for the first time since she’d sat down her eyes moved, darting around the room like a frightened animal looking for an escape route, before returning once again to that same fixed point. She nodded again, and this time the suspense was ended as her hesitant hand began to fall, dropping into her lap, until it came to a gentle rest on her thigh.

Our eyes followed its path all the way till it landed on that smooth tanned flesh, pulled tight because her legs were still wide apart, stretching the sinews and shaping soft hollows either side of her groin as they made taut bridges that disappeared into the white panties.

Ah, the panties.

Skimpy, tight and almost see-though, they curved and swelled, filled with a softly bulging promise that was already divided in two, a darker furrow appearing as her body responded to the continuing caress of her left hand on her breasts.

But it was the right hand we were watching.

Slowly, reluctantly, Sophie stroked upwards along the inside of her thigh. Her palm was the only part of her hand in contact with the warm skin, leading the way as she eased her wrist upwards and the fingers trailed behind. She flinched slightly as the ball of her thumb brushed across the white material just at the point where the curve was fullest. She hesitated before moving again, slowly, the gentle pressure of her hand tugging her knickers even more snugly against herself until her palm rested on the bone of her mound and her fingers began to curl inwards, closing together until she was cupping herself protectively.

She sat like that for several seconds, looking down at the floor as if avoiding the instruction from above. But it came anyway, some signal only she could see or hear, but we could see the effect as she jumped slightly, shoulders tensing, making herself smaller, almost cowering away. Gradually she relaxed and looked upwards, staring at her invisible mentor. As she looked for some sign of approval or encouragement, a small tear formed in the corner of one eye, and her hand began to move.

The protective fingers began to open and unbend, revealing glimpses of the material beneath, and then her fingertips curled, pressing, softly at first and then more firmly as her wrist began to move slowly, fingers spreading the softness underneath, searching for the opening and pushing into it.

We stared as she stroked herself, her hand arching and spreading till just the middle finger pressed deeper, bunching the material and pushing it into a deep cleft that was slowly darkening at its centre, shadow mingling with the juices that seeped from her body. As her wetness grew and her finger delved, Sophie seemed to relax, the gentle touch clearly sending waves of sensation into her tense body, the pleasure overcoming her anxiety.

Suddenly her eyes, now soft and hooded, flicked upwards as if she’d been drawn back to reality by a sound or a command, and the anxious expression reappeared on her face, her stroking fingers slowing and stopping. We saw the now-familiar nod, and waited expectantly to see what command had been given and what she would do next.

It was a long wait. Her hand withdrew slightly, hanging in mid-air, quivering.

‘Fucking hell, will you look at that,’ exclaimed Simon. Sophie’s skirt was pulled up around her waist, her thighs were wide apart, and the narrow slash of white that had once been a perfect taut curve between them was pulled unevenly up into her tender body, dampened and darkened by her juices and clinging wetly to each fold of soft flesh.

Finally, she moved.

The hesitant hand dipped between her legs and her fingers curled around the cotton, lifting and pulling. It was like a magic trick. One second it we saw wonderfully wet, clingy knickers, the next we saw a plump pussy, pink and shiny, glistening wetly, soft lips open and inviting.

‘Yes!’ said Simon.

When she let go of her panties they were still pulled aside and we could still see her secret places as her fingertips brushed across the opening, making her quiver. More firmly now they stroked and teased, settling into a leisurely movement up and down, slowly moving towards the centre until that middle finger was between her lips, slithering between the folds of flesh, coating her fingertip with sweet juices.

Infinitely slowly that finger began to bend, and as it bent, so the tip and its sleek nail pushed deeper into the opening between her lips, sinking into her body. She slid it out almost as slowly, then eased it back in.

‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Simon as Sophie began to masturbate, her finger moving deeper and faster.

She sank back on the sofa, relaxing against the cushion, the movement tilting her pelvis towards us, exposing more of her vulnerable body to our greedy eyes. Her eyes, almost closed and distant, flickered open as she looked up, hearing the command again. Her finger slowed, halted and withdrew. The room grew colder in an instant, but there was more.

Sophie used two fingers to caress and open herself while we stared, speechless with lust. Small glinting pearls clustered in the fringe of blonde hair around her pink flesh, and the soft lips were swollen and puffy, slick with wetness spread by the caressing fingertips.

Then the two fingers came together and straightened as she angled her wrist. This time her pelvis swivelled to meet them, her body lifting as she pushed them firmly into herself, spreading her lips wider as they slid in as far as they would go. She sighed quietly, the first sound she had uttered. Then her wrist flexed as she circled her fingers, slowly and luxuriously, before beginning to masturbate again, firm and steady. The soft lips clutched around her fingers as they slithered in and out, and the puffy folds of her pussy were squeezed wider by the thrust and pull of her knuckles.

A trickle of juice ran down and vanished into the cleft. Her fingers bent and straightened, and her pussy spread and narrowed around them.

Her thumb swivelled and searched, delving around until it found the little nub of hardness. Her head was thrown back, her breasts thrust upwards, nipples straining as she caressed first one and then the other with her left hand.

Her thighs stretched as wide as they could go and her pelvis was circling in time with her thrusting as her breath began to catch in her throat and cute moans escaped her lips.

Her head turned and her eyes opened; she stared and we knew she was receiving further orders. She nodded again, decisively, and her pretty cupid-bow mouth said, ‘Yes,’ although we heard no sound. There was no hesitation now, nor any sign of anxiety, as if her body had taken control of her mind and was answering its own needs - needs which were stronger than almost any other and overpowered her fear, embarrassment and shame. She obeyed now because she wanted to, because she could not stop.

But her fingers withdrew for a moment, she reached out to one side, and returned delicately grasping a shaft of shiny black plastic that filled her dainty hand. At least eight inches long it was moulded into the shape of a stiff penis, with a bulbous head and corded veins along its underside. And as its snub end came to rest against the soft warmth of her body she jumped - perhaps from cold, perhaps, we preferred to think, from want, from lust, from greedy need.

‘Go on,’ pleaded Simon, but he needn’t have. She was going to anyway, not because Simon had asked or the rest of us were mutely begging, or even because she’d been ordered. No, she was going to because she wanted to feel it opening her and sliding solidly inside. She wanted to be fucked and she no longer cared that she was so exposed, so vulnerable and so lewd; she no longer bothered about what people saw or what they thought. She wanted to come, and nothing short of nuclear holocaust could have stopped her now.

But first she teased herself, pressing it lightly against the lips of her pussy, enjoying the feeling as it spread them smoothly, wider than her fingers, thicker and stronger. And then she’d relax and pull it away, gently tickling and pressuring her clitoris until her hips were circling and her pelvis was moving forward and up - begging. And then she’d push it more firmly against herself, let it slide a little further - but not too far - and ease it out, teasing herself some more.

Finally she eased it in and her pussy spread wider, stretching as the rounded knob crept deeper and deeper. She paused until she could stand it no longer, and eased it the last tiny fraction so the mouth of her pussy was past the bulbous tip and gripping the shaft itself, and she sighed deeply, a moan of contentment.

But not for long. Almost at once she pushed it in, steadily and firmly, a sliding thrust that buried it right inside her body.

After a long pause she reversed the movement, slow and steady.

We watched, transfixed, as Sophie fucked herself with the shiny dildo, thrusting and twisting it, her body writhing in response, hips lifted, pelvis grinding, mouth open as she gasped for breath. Her wrist was a blur, the black shaft pummelling in and out - and then she froze, completely still, the tip of it still inside her. Soft moans filled the room and her hips began to circle slowly. Incredibly, the lips of her pussy began to clutch at the shaft in rhythmic spasms, and we could see the muscles in the flat plane of her tummy stiffen and contract in perfect timing.

‘Oh, yes!’ she screamed as she collapsed on the sofa, still gently moving the thing inside her as gradually her hips ceased that luxurious rotating thrust only women can do.

She shuddered and sighed deeply.

Even Simon was lost for words.

And then she began to caress her pussy, dreamily feeling where the shaft, slippery and wet with her juices, spread and opened her.

We still watched, hungry for more, but it was over, and after a minute or so she relaxed and gently pulled the dildo out, leaving glittering trails along the inside of her thighs, and her swollen pussy shining wetly, as if still ready for more. But she wasn’t. In fact, she’d changed completely; a shy and startled creature once more. Demurely she pulled the skirt down, and then the T-shirt, transforming herself back into a sweet young virgin. Except now we knew she wasn’t, and we’d always know. None of us would ever forget what we’d just seen.

‘I think she only stopped because her arm got tired.’ Simon of course, but much later, in the bar of the Crown.

And it was more or less the last remark on the subject, because we’d talked about it endlessly since Sophie’s last agonised shudder, and the main topic, of course, had been how Hugh got her to do it.

‘She was all right once she’d got going,’ he said, and he was dead right about that. ‘But she wasn’t happy about it at first.’ He could hardly pretend otherwise, since it was plainly obvious to all of us that Sophie had been an extremely reluctant film star, although she had been all right once she got going. ‘She said it was different to when we’re just messing around. Not spontaneous. I can’t see the difference, myself,’ he said, slightly puzzled.

‘You mean, she does stuff like that to herself all the time?’ Simon asked the question we all wanted the answer to, even if we were too polite to ask it.

‘Oh, yes.’ Hugh was enjoying himself. Having a rude girlfriend gave him the kind of superiority among his mates he could never have earned by sporting prowess or sheer personality. Not that there was anything wrong with him, exactly. In fact, on first sight you’d say quite the opposite. Good looking, polite, well-spoken, cheerful; all of those things. But he’d never win a popularity contest. Didn’t need to. He already liked himself more than enough to make up for any lack of friendship from those around him. Always looking out for himself, there was something slimy about him. You’d never trust him with your pint, never mind your wallet, car keys or girlfriend. And now it seemed he couldn’t be trusted with his own.

‘Been doing it since she was in the sixth form,’ he was telling Simon - and the rest of us. We all groaned inwardly at the thought of Sophie at seventeen, doing what she’d just been doing, but in white socks and a blue pleated skirt.

‘Copied it off her sister,’ he added, and we almost cried at the thought of the two of them doing it together. ‘No, not like that. Susie got caught by her mum and there was a big row, and it sort of made Sophie curious. They talked about it, like girls do, and Sophie tried it and liked it.’ He beamed smugly, the self-satisfied bastard. If his parents weren’t rich he’d have no friends at all.

‘Mind you,’ offered Dave, ‘if you had something like that in your pants you’d never leave it alone, would you?’ It was a long speech for someone making his first conversational sally of the evening, and a very good one at that. We all thought about it for quite some time, remembering those pin-sharp pictures of Sophie’s elegant fingers slithering around on the pink softness between her legs.

‘She does have a very pretty little fanny,’ breathed Simon, demonstrating once again his gift for the obvious.

‘Juicy, too,’ agreed Hugh, with a smarmy smile that almost concealed a very powerful state of arousal, and for the first time it became obvious that showing us the video had turned him on even more than watching it had got to the rest of us.

Reading magazines had told me that loads of men get hard at the thought of watching their wife or girlfriend having it off with another man - or men, preferably. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to find Hugh was one of those who enjoyed it, and that for him showing us pictures of his girlfriend diddling herself was the most fun he could have. In fact, it wasn’t that much of a shock; it was the idea of Hugh having any kind of sexual fantasy that surprised us. Good-looking and rich - yes. But so devoid of personality you couldn’t imagine Mr Android actually wanting to have sex or being aroused by it. Except to prove ownership and demonstrate ability. That’s why it wasn’t a video of him and Sophie together; he wanted to be part of the audience, not part of the act. He wanted to watch her being fucked by someone - or something - else.

‘So was it her own, um, thing?’

That was Gavin, normally quiet and reserved, but obviously so interested in the answer that he’d overcome his usual reticence.

‘Nah, I got that when I was in London.’ Spending his parents’ money, of course. None of us could afford weekends away, certainly not in London.

‘How did you get her to... I mean, what did you say to her?’ asked Gav.

‘Just wrapped it in a pink bow and left it on her pillow, did you?’ sniggered Alan. Good on the ball, hard man in the scrum, crap with women. Just grunted at them and made signs. Don’t think he’d had a proper girlfriend in his life.

‘She was quite surprised,’ Hugh agreed, his smile oily. ‘But she soon got used to the idea. As you saw. Much better with a proper one than the sort of things her sister used.’

‘Things?’ Simon, naturally, asking on behalf of all those not brave enough. And Hugh had been expecting the question. It was his way in these situations to dribble information drop by drop, making us quiz him so he could lord it up all the more.

‘When she was younger. Stuff lying about the house. A lot of girls do, don’t they?’

‘Do they?’ Simon was clearly stunned by this intelligence. I think we were all a bit taken aback. Well, you are a bit naive when you’re only just twenty-one, aren’t you?

‘Course they do. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’

It did, when you thought about it, but most of us never had. We thought of girls as being above all that - oh, they did sex all right, but only with blokes, and never in the same way. And they certainly never wanted it or needed it like a chap does, so you couldn’t imagine them doing - well, doing what we’d just been watching Sophie do.

‘Things?’ said Simon, clearly still puzzled.

‘Things,’ said Hugh patiently. When Simon still didn’t get the picture, he added, ‘You know - bananas, chocolate bars, hairbrush handles. Anything that’s the right size and shape.’ He sniggered in his unappealing way.

‘Blimey, I never knew that,’ said Simon, still not embarrassed to display the degree of ignorance the rest of us were scrupulously concealing while we conjured up mental pictures of Susie experimenting with bananas. Peeled, or unpeeled?

‘Everyone else knows,’ sneered Hugh, absolutely in his element; he knew our collective silence for what it was and was loving his moment of glory as the fount of all knowledge on such a vital topic. ‘I mean, deodorant bottles aren’t that shape by accident, are they?’

We were temporarily silenced, partly by the mental images his words had produced and partly by the idea that large international corporations might deliberately package their products in conveniently shaped plastic bottles to increase sales among teenage girls and young women too embarrassed to buy the real thing, even by mail order.

‘So Sophie... she, when she was... um...’ Even Simon was lost for words now.

‘No. She’d never tried it with anything before. That was her first time. You could say she lost a kind of virginity.’ Hugh smirked obnoxiously.

‘And S-S-Susie...?’

Gary was older than the rest of us by a couple of years, old enough to remember Sophie’s sister as the lust object of an entire fifth form, and he stuttered like that all the time. But the expression on his face was a clear indicator of how deep an impression she’d made.

‘Couldn’t leave herself alone. Sophie told me all about it.’

Gary went into a private trance as he tried to picture Susie with a hand in her knickers, and by the look on his face he obviously succeeded. Though legend held that Susie’s legs were longer, her bottom more rounded, and her breasts just that little bit firmer and fuller, the rest of us were happy to think about Sophie, since we’d all seen more of her - in every sense of the word.

Finally, Alan broke the appreciative silence with the obvious question. ‘So how come she doesn’t mind? Sophie, I mean. That we’ve all seen it - her?’

‘I haven’t told her.’ Hugh looked slightly off-guard for the first time.

‘You didn’t tell her you were going to show us the film...?’ Alan was lost for words, pretty much as usual.

‘No. I didn’t tell her I was making a film. I hid the camera.’ He sounded as smug as the Cheshire cat with a bowl of cream.

‘Jesus!’ Simon expressed the enormity of our response in a single word.

‘S-s-s-so she th-th-thought... th-th-th...’

‘So she thought that was just a private little moment in your love life, is what Gary’s trying to say.’

‘God, yes,’ said Hugh. ‘You saw how hard it was to make her do it at all, never mind filming her as well.’

‘What will she say? She’ll go loopy when she finds out, won’t she? Absolutely fucking loopy.’

‘She won’t find out, though, will she?’ Hugh was now clearly less pleased with himself than he would have liked. ‘Because no one’s going to tell her, are they?’

Of course they weren’t. The idea was stupid. Just wandering up to her in the pub and casually saying, ‘Hi, Sophie, love your work. Smashing tits, beautiful fanny. Great wrist action.’

Who’d do a thing like that?