Message-ID: <1541eli$9706201150@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (BronwenSM) Subject: "Sucker" (teen, oral, m/f, humour) by BronwenSM X-Organization: No, It doesn't stand for sado-masochist Warning: this story contains explicit sex. Do not read it if you don't want to, are forbidden to by law, or otherwise have misgivings. @---->---->----- Sucker by BronwenSM (teen, oral, m/f, humour) Well, it all started after the summer holidays. I mean everyone liked me at school before then, though they were kind of rude - they’d say sarky stuff like ‘lights on, nobody home’ and that sort of thing. But I always used to say that Princess Di only had one 'O' level and that was in hamster breeding or something - and look where she ended up. So I muddled along OK. So what if I’m not terribly academic? That’s how Mummy puts it. The girls at school aren’t so tactful. They used to call me ‘Toosh’ which was short for (well, I expect you can guess) thick as two short planks, but even my worst enemy couldn't say I'm not pretty now. Tall and thin and pretty. At least I was. And before that I was... Now I’m... But I’m telling this all in the wrong order. Last April I got glandular fever really badly. Well, that was a sort of blessing in disguise, because I couldn’t do my exams that July so they had to give me a sort of mish-mash mark for the two years work instead and I’m terrible at exams, so I probably did better. At least I didn’t have to bribe Jilly to break my wrist with a hockey stick (which is what I’d decided was the only thing to do if I actually had to sit those wretched exams). So she was relieved as well. I mean she may be a dyke but she isn't a sadist. Anyway I was officially ill, and I really did feel grim, so I flopped about the garden on a sun-lounger for six weeks and the weight just fell off me. Even though I’m 16 now I never had any tits to speak of - just sort of straight up and down, and podgy with it. Mummy called it puppy fat but it looked more like lard to me. Not only no tits but no proper hips either - just a sort of lumpy straightness. Well, by the end of July about 30 pounds had gone and all of a sudden I had cheekbones emerging out of the blubber and my eyes got bigger and as for the rest of me - well, it was heaven! I was so skinny - and once all the fat had disappeared it turned out I had amazing legs - all slim and curvy and so long too - the length of your legs's not the sort of thing you notice when the rest of you looks like a teenage turnip. Legs right up to your arse, Daddy says (but not about me, about other girls when he doesn’t think I’m listening.) I’d call him a chauvinist if I knew how to pronounce it. I always wonder about that - these frightful words keep coming up - there’s a perfume my dressage teacher likes, Anais Anais, (I saw some in her handbag) and I kept wishing they’d put on a TV advert for it because I wanted to buy her some for a Chrissy present but I didn’t dare because I didn’t know how to ask for it. I thought those frightfully upstage cosmetics department ladies would laugh like drains if I couldn’t say it properly, so I got her Belgian chocolates instead. Because of course if they had had an advert with people actually saying the name I would have known, wouldn’t I? It makes me quiet in company, that sort of thing. I’m always so busy listening hard so as not to miss how people say things. I’ll never forget the shame of calling INXS the Inks - and they weren’t even particularly cool at the time. Anyway, so I was all thin and wobbling round the house because I still felt pretty weak. I felt like Jilly’s pony, Toffee’s, foal - all legs and jellified. I had a lovely tan because of all that lying in the garden and my hair was different. My hair was a sort of mousey brown to start with, but it was a scorcher of a summer and what with sitting in the sun all that time I still had brownish hair underneath but loads of almost white streaks on the top and round my face. When she saw how much it suited me, Mummy sent me to her hairdresser to have some more done. I looked pretty amazing, I have to say. All sun tan and blonde streaks, wonderful cheekbones and ribs and hipbones. Mummy looked at me one morning over breakfast and suggested modelling school. Seriously, she did. I kept looking in the mirror to make sure I was still there. I remember Daddy came home one night from the House and Mummy and I were still up in our nighties by the kitchen table painting our toenails and he looked me up and down and said "Christ, wonders will never cease!" which I still think was bloody rude, though I didn’t say so. He may be tetchy but he is generous if you don't annoy him so I tend to keep my mouth shut. Besides which, Mummy always says that we must make allowances for the pressures of high office which makes him sound as if he works on the 120th floor or something instead of being a government minister. Mummy says it’s not easy being a member of such an unpopular Government so I asked why they didn’t just do something nice and then they’d be popular and she sighed. She does that quite a lot. Anyway, I was still pretty wobbly, as I said, so Mummy said I must go away to convalesce and she sent me to Aunt Dolly in Wales. Aunt Dolly’s rich - well, even by our standards she’s quite rich - and she never married. She always said she'd rather have a cook than the other thing. She has a huge tatty mansion on a cliff with a private beach and spends her time gardening in a terrible hat while listening to the BBC World Service on a portable radio. So she didn’t talk much to me, and I didn’t say much to her. Most of the time she was crouched over a herbaceous border or something. But every afternoon after another delicious lunch she’d sort of grunt and we’d both get up from whatever we were doing and either go for amazingly long walks or get the horses tacked up and hack off inland for a couple of hours. So I got fitter and fitter, and as the weeks went past I realised that I was feeling brilliant. All this stay in Wales would have been really boring, and I wouldn’t have told you all about it if it weren’t for the tits. You see Aunt Dolly’s beach wasn’t overlooked and I took my headphones and piles of Vogue and Jackie Collins so I just used to go down every morning and lie there in the sun. Well, the overlooked bit's not very important, it just explains why I was so surprised later. I mean I really had no idea what sort of effect I had on men until I got back, because I didn't see any men and, more importantly, they didn't see me. Anyway, that month in Wales my tits just sort of sprouted. I went there looking like all elegant like a greyhound - which was marvellous - but by the time I was ready to go back to Surrey I was still skinny everywhere else but I had huge great tits and a high roundy bum and everything. I couldn’t believe it. In fact one day I just lay there on my back on the beach sneaking peeks at them under my sunnies every five minutes to see if I could catch them at it - I was half convinced that if I looked hard enough I’d actually see them growing, sort of like those speeded up flower opening films. But I didn’t, of course. I think they must’ve done it while I was asleep. Well, I was thrilled, as you can imagine, but that was nothing to the reaction I got when I finally went back to school in the middle of the autumn term. I mean everyone liked me before, but now they *really* liked me. Jilly was a bit offish, but everyone else was ever so nice. Sophie and Victoria, who were always so snooty, asked me to go shopping with them. All of a sudden I was the sort of girl everyone wanted to be in with. Great gangs of men on building sites shrieked at me like gibbons, old men slipped off their Zimmer frames when I went into the post office and my terrifying Chemistry master went red all the way up his neck whenever he looked at me and then left a really embarrassing poem in my pigeon hole. It was nice to know other girls and old men thought I looked so great, but the best thing was the boys. They didn’t know how to treat me any more. All of a sudden I was the girl everyone fancied, and most of them seemed terrified of me. But then, two weeks after I got back, Oliver, the best looking boy in the school - if not the world - casually asked me out. Yes, Oliver, who always used to say I should hang a 'Vacancies' sign off my nose, asked me to go round to use his pool at the weekend. I mean we’ve got a pool, everyone has, but his is covered and heated. It’s in a sort of stained-glass house. His father’s in the music business and he was off on tour somewhere, Oliver said. Oliver is utter bliss. He’s drop dead gorgeous with dark brown eyes and hair that sort of flops. He has this truly amazing voice. And he’s got that sort of ‘rightness’ - you know, how some people are just naturally always wearing the perfect thing and if they turn up at a party without an invite they’re never gatecrashers, it just seems like some sort of clumsy cock-up by the people who are giving the party who obviously should have known to invite Oliver in the first place. Well, you know what I mean, don’t you? So when he asked me to go swimming I nearly dropped down dead with delight. I spent the rest of the week thinking he must’ve muddled me up with someone else, but Saturday came and I went and he seemed really pleased to see me, so that was all right. We wandered through to the pool house and he made me a real martini which I hadn’t had before and didn’t like much, and we decided to get ready to go swimming. And I must say it was nice when I was getting changed not to be worrying about whether I looked too awful or whether the tissues I shoved down the front of my swimsuit would float out. Because of course I didn’t need tissues any more. In fact what I really needed was a new swimsuit. Because there wasn’t really enough of this one now. Anyway, I went back out of the little room thing and there he was changed already, standing by the pool with his back to me. I felt a bit silly so I called over "Last one in’s a bluebottle!" and he turned round and when he saw me his mouth opened and he sort of absent-mindedly stepped back and fell in. He made a terrible splash and the worst thing was he was still holding his glass when he went in and it cracked and he cut his hand. Well, I may be as thick as two short planks but I did do a first aid course, so when he came back up the steps with blood everywhere I knew it looked so awful just because of the water spreading the blood out. So I got a towel and started mopping him up. He sat down and I bent over him and the next thing I knew his chin was sort of in my cleavage and then he was kissing me and saying over and over again "God, Kim, you’re so gorgeous" and I kissed him back. Well, things got pretty steamy and I thought I was doing quite well since the only other boy who’d ever kissed me was Alastair who’s in the remedial group and has spots. And Oliver was sort of nuzzling my lovely new tits, which felt all shivery and it was all lovely. But then all of a sudden I felt his finger sliding inside the bottom of my swimsuit and I thought "Babies. That’s how they happen." So I pulled away. And I wouldn’t let him back up there whatever he said. He said he would use something but I said that if that sort of thing worked there wouldn’t be all these single parents Daddy grumbles on about. So I wouldn’t. Oliver went all funny. He wouldn’t speak to me. I’m not stupid, well not that stupid, and I knew what I’d done to him. It was practically bursting out of his shorts. And he was all excited and cross, and I sat there miserably thinking that I’d ruined my first big date. Then he took my hand, sighed, and said "I’ll miss you, Kim. Remember me." "Why?" I said. "Where are you going?" "Don’t you know?" he said. "Didn’t I know what?" I replied, studying his face for clues. "I thought all girls our age knew." he said. "It’s not as if it isn’t serious." "What?" I asked anxiously. My voice was getting higher, but I could tell that I was missing out on something major. Story of my life, but I was determined to be one of the girls who knew her way about from now on. Streetwise, that’s what they’d call me. "Well, if you get a boy - or a man - turned on past a certain point he’s got to have an orgasm or it kills him." "God how awful," I breathed. "How does it happen?" "Well, the frustration sort of clogs up the blood and once it get to the heart it just goes Kerpow and that’s it. One dead Oliver." What a terrible choice. No wonder people made such a song and dance about sex in films and stuff. Either I was going to have to be an unmarried mother (which would kill Mummy and Daddy - especially Daddy) or Oliver would soon be lying stiff and cold at the age of 17. And it would all be my fault. "Oh no," I gasped. "I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can I do that won’t give me a baby?" So he showed me. He told me it might help to think of it as a form of first aid. I must say his thing looked rather sweet once you’d got used to the sort of angry red colour, and it was ever so soft - well the skin was. The thing itself was incredibly hard, like an iron bar, and a dear little teardrop was nestled in the tiny little mouth at the top like a drop of rain on a rose. Quite poetic, in a way. But I couldn’t get the hang of moving my hand up and down. It was like you were constantly rearranging the outside skin on this inner pole, as it were. I wanted to do it properly, but I was frightened of hurting him. I kept having a go and then my wrist would ache, or the position would seem a bit funny so I’d stop and change hands. I was trying to be gentle, but he got a bit tense and said it wasn’t a stick of celery, grip it harder - so I did and then he told me I wasn’t conducting an orchestra and to take care because he wanted to stay attached to it. So I said something stupid like he could do it his bloody self, and burst into tears. Well, it must have been the stick of celery business because he suddenly said "Of course, you could suck it." And of course he was right. So I did. It smelt different from everything else I’d smelt, but it was rather nice. And it was even softer when you licked it. "Pretend it’s an ice cream cone," he suggested, and I liked that idea. I sort of gripped it with my hands and dived in. I licked all round under the head, and I played about with its little mouth with the tip of my tongue and I nibbled up and down the pole bit and I could tell I was doing it right because he was making all sorts of breathing noises and sighing and making little "Ooo" noises. And it struck me how nice it was to have someone sigh at me in a "Oh my God that’s wonderful" way rather than sighing because I’m being a bit of a nuisance. He really was enjoying it, because after only a little bit he suddenly started to sort of flex on his chair, pushing his thing up and down the way I suppose you would if you were actually, you know, doing it, and then he grabbed the back of my head in an urgent sort of way and said "OHMYCHRIST!... OHMYCHRIST!.. OHMYCHRIST!.. JESUS!" (Which is odd, because at school he always made a big thing about being a Buddhist) and all this stuff started spurting in my mouth. My God, it didn’t half spurt. Loads of it. Pump, pump, pump, hitting the back of my throat and spilling out down my cheek. I was half expecting something to come out of the end - I knew my facts of life - so it wasn't a shock or anything - and I was glad it was in my mouth and not down below where all the baby-making stuff lives. But I hadn’t expected there to be quite so much of it. It tasted lovely, a bit sort of seafoody - but I’ve got a passion for all those sorts of tastes, oysters and so forth, and I liked it. In fact I thought the whole experience was lovely. It made me feel clever and it made me tingle. When it seemed to be over I swallowed what was left (even I know sperm don’t travel downwards) and sort of mopped up his damp bits with my tongue and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked up at Oliver who was looking at me as though I was the most wonderful girl in the world. "God, but you’re gorgeous, Kim Nice-but-Dim." he said. "And you suck like an angel." "I’m going to be good at this." I thought, and I am. After that first time with Oliver all the other boys were much more friendly. Loads and loads of boys wanted to ask me out - it must be a form of telepathy. I’m the most popular girl in my circle now. Mummy’s thrilled and Daddy’s upped my dress allowance because I’m always out somewhere nice these days. But that’s only with the boys. The girls all seem to hate me, which baffles me. Jilly won’t speak to me, and the other girls are all a bit frosty, though I can’t get a straight answer about why they’re all so glum. Mummy says it’s just me being so attractive now. She must be right, because I can’t see it’s got anything to do with the blow-jobs (you see, I even know the right words now). I mean other girls have dates, don’t they? They have boyfriends? Well surely they must have the same problem. I must say the number of dangerous hard-ons the boys I know suffer from is frightful, but it can’t be helped. Maybe I’m a softy, but I just couldn’t have the death of another human being on my conscience. Why I cried buckets when a fox got my rabbit, Puffles (and that was only last year when I was quite grown up). Besides which, what on earth would you say to the coroner? But as far as first-aid goes, blow-jobs need doing again an awful lot, it seems to me. I mean only last week I had to go down on both Hugh and Thomas in the back of their father’s Roller on the way to a ball because they said they couldn’t control themselves thinking about what was going to happen on the way home after the ball. What worries me is how boys manage when there aren’t girls about. I mean if they did it themselves they'd go blind or something. That’s what must cause all the homosexuality in boys schools, I suppose. Makes you wonder why they make so much fuss about it in prisons and so forth. I mean looked at properly it’s only a sort of self-defence. The other girls may call me a slut, but they’re just jealous at how excited the boys get when I'm around. Enough to threaten their very lives. Daddy always used to go on about service to others. Well, I’m doing my bit. Not only do I love doing it, but I feel it's my duty as an Englishwoman and a Conservative. Sophie, Victoria and the others will just have to live with themselves if one of their boyfriends suddenly drops dead one day. Heartless cows. ----The End---- I think the adventures of our heroine, Kim Nice-but-Dim, might make a serial. Does anyone fancy the idea? Please let me know. BronwenSM (bronwen@anon.nymserver.com) Accept no substitute @--->--->----- -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /