Even Better Than The Real Thing

By | August 15, 2006

Parts of what follows are true, parts are pure fiction, what might have been perhaps. Either way the names have been omitted to protect the guilty. The name of the nightclub has also been omitted for obvious reasons too.

What’s better than a six-form disco? A sixth-form disco when you left the year before. You’re out in the real world, well higher education, man of the world, enigmatic sophisticated, randy as a sex starved dog.

I should remember the music but cider had dulled my senses to the point where I wasn’t even aware of the inevitable vengeful hangover I would wake with in the morning.

We had been friends at school, she was two years younger than me, well 18 months as I was at the lower end of the year, age-wise. We had been friends, nothing more. She was wearing a white blouse open to reveal a black bra, black leather skirt, fishnets and pixie boots. Her face was painted, not made up. Too much make up.

If I saw her now I would say as much. You know “Hey Suze, look at that girl, doesn’t she know that less is more?”

But this was then, my reaction was, well predictable, trouser-stretchingly predictable. Thank Wranglers for strong zippers.

Her hair was naturally curly and mid brown, she never coloured it. Her eyes were still that friendly grey I remembered. But in the year since my last sixth-form disco, they’d developed a come-hither quality that stunned me into awe-struck silence.

“Lager and black.” She yelled as she leaned in towards me to make herself heard over the music.

“What?”
“Seeing as how you asked.” She grinned.

I hadn’t but I bought her a glass anyway. “You’re too young.” I pointed out.

“You’re confusing me with someone you used to know. A good little girl”

And she had been a good girl. Not sickly sweet, but conscientious in her studies, kept out of trouble. The sort you’d feel comfortable taking to see your parents but wouldn’t want your friends to meet, too perfect. Now the tables were turned, she was the one your friends would try to chat up behind your back and your mother would have told you, “She’s a bad sort, nothing but trouble.”

She moved towards me, looking up. “You look different, your hair’s longer.”

She had some need to talk. Little Miss “Butter Wouldn’t Melt” had turned into a hot young woman. And my hair was longer, granted, much longer. Student life 🙂

I could see down her blouse into a cleavage that I had genuinely never attempted to sneak a peak of before. It looked awfully inviting. I looked away, the good girl thing was still haunting me. Then I realised, she knew. In the 12 months since I saw her last she had metamorphosed. And she knew what power she had.

The once sweet face turned to mine and indicated with its eyes that its owner would like to sit in a booth. Me and my half drunk pint of west country nectar followed her to the dark and slightly quieter booth. We could talk more easily and my cock would be straining less at the denim of my jeans.

The words spoken were irrelevant. Yes we caught up on things but that wasn’t the point. We manoeuvred around each other verbally. Attached? No I wasn’t. Her, yes, kind of. She didn’t look attached, or if she was, she looked like she might be looking to move on. Music yeah, we liked the same thing, always had. We kept getting closer, so we could hear each other speak, or that’s what I think we told ourselves. Until she was virtually on my lap.

“You look, well, wow!” I felt bold enough to say it now, shit I can be so backward about coming forward sometimes.

It was what she’d been waiting for. She leant in so I could feel the heat from her cheek, millimetres from mine “Thank you.”. I turned my head towards her, the peck she was about to place on my cheek landed awkwardly on my lips. He mouth opened slightly, she kissed me again. No tongues, just a soft sensuous kiss.

My hand slid around her waist, over the studded belt it found there and onto the soft leather covered rump below.

Another kiss, then another, this time my tongue invaded her mouth, tasting the blackcurrant and lager.

She slid onto my lap, one hand now on my shoulder to steady herself, the other sliding between my legs rubbing the bulge she found. My free hand spent time massaging her breasts through her clothing, the angle precluding any deeper exploration.

I don’t know how long we spent like this, but by the time we came up for air my leg was moist with precum and her cheeks were flushed.

She reached to the table for her glass, as did I. I swiftly downed most of the remnants of the pint, she drank the whole half in one go. “Don’t look so disgusted!” she scolded, smiling. “Come with me.”

I was led by the hand away from the throng and down a black painted corridor. “That sign said Staff Only'” I pointed out. “And?”.

Her destination was the female staff toilets, better than the public ones in innumerable ways, primarily that the floor wasn’t wet and they didn’t smell of beer and urine. There were two stalls, empty and a hand basin.

She unbuttoned her blouse. Slowly. Her breasts were a revelation. She had always been a friend to me, never an object of desire. She was firm, full-chested, wrapped in a lacy bra that served to emphasise her femininity. Standing hands, on hips, head cocked to one side she said “Show me what you’ve got.”. She was staring at my crotch.

I was frozen to the spot.

“Come on, that’s what you wanted to hear isn’t it?”

It was, so I showed her, feeling a little stupid with my trousers around my knees, my cock waving in front of me. She liked what she saw, apparently. Then again she’d made a thorough assessment of my package while we were getting acquainted earlier. She wiggled out of her panties and tossed them into the hand basin.

My mind did summersaults. Panties off, fishnets on, therefore stocking, not tights. She pulled me the two steps to the hand basin, causing me to adopt a lame penguin style of walk.

She hitched up her skirt and bent over the basin, grabbing the taps. They were hold-ups, no suspenders, I wasn’t complaining.

Her neat black bush stuck out from between her legs as she pushed her ass towards me. The aroma from her pudenda and the soaking wet panties in the hand basin assaulted my nostrils and hence deep into my primitive brain.

It was no virginal snatch, but then I didn’t expect that. That would have belonged to the girl I’d know at school, not the smouldering young woman bent over the wash basin.

“Aaaaah.” She released the syllable that said more than a volume of words could ever do. An appreciative ejaculation loaded with need and desire.

We ooed and aahed our lust while my cock plunged in and out of her. My hand grasped her waist sometimes as much pulling her hard onto my cock as I was thrusting with my hips. My fingers left marks in her waist as I angled her hips this way and that.

The view of her face, half visible in the mirror above the basin, and me framed, pumping away behind her would have sold for a king’s ransom on the web. Real passion, spontaneous, powerful and when the moment came we were on the ragged edge of reality. Alcohol in our veins, the deep bass of the club thumping through the soles of our feet and ringing in our ears.

We straightened ourselves up and she pushed her wet panties in to my side pocket saying “you can keep these for later”. We then left the room with expert timing. Halfway down the corridor a bouncer told us we were “In a fucking staff area”.

We both had a little more to drink and exchanged numbers. Then the night got more blurry and I only remember me and the lads playing last man standing. I didn’t win.

Then it was morning. I had somehow walked/been carried back to my bedroom in the house I was sharing. Pale yellow sun leaked into the room through gaps in the badly hung lime and sage green curtains casting the roughly patched plasterwork on the ceiling into deep relief. There was a moment of joyful remembrance for the night before, a song thrush let lose with a few notes.

Then the four horsemen of the Hangover Apocalypse began riding around my bedroom and trampling on my head. Their horses had put on a bit of weight too. And Dr Marten’s boots.