Being a Girl

by Chloë Thurlow

  ‘Mr Cartier . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I just can’t.’

  But my voice had weakened with my resolve.

  ‘Milly, I think you can. And I think you want to.’

  What did he mean by that?

  ‘I don’t. Honestly.’

  And it was true. Almost true. I didn’t want to, yet while I felt nervous and self-conscious, my body was tingling with new sensations. After the months of study and stress I wanted to cast off everything, be naked, run naked through the streets, exhibit myself to the world. I liked being on stage. On show.

  Mr Cartier had moved back to the chair. He picked up my blouse and held it towards me.

  We were silent. The computers were blinking. The lights were bright and I thought about Binky in her pink suit. My breath was beating so fast it was as if I was running a relay race. Mr Cartier held the blouse pegged in his fingers, waiting for me to move towards him and put it back on.

  I tried to move but I was rooted to the spot. My knees trembled and the slope of my tummy was knotted against the roll of material at my waist. I opened my throat to suck air into my constricted lungs and his eyes remained on mine as I angled my arms awkwardly up my back to unfasten the metal clasp. I heard the snap. It was loud in the silence.

  He nodded and I felt ashamed as I lowered the thin white straps from my shoulders, first one, then the other, being provocative without meaning to, sliding the straps over my elbows, and cupping my breasts with my palms. I continued clutching the bra, but Mr Cartier put the blouse back where it had been hanging and came towards me, his eyes never leaving mine. I dropped the white tangle of cotton in his outstretched hand and he tossed it over the chair.

  As he approached me again, I moved back instinctively, my legs knocking against the glass coffee table.

  ‘There, that wasn’t so terrible, was it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, come along then, let’s have a proper look, shall we,’ he said and he sounded like the biology teacher before we peered in turn down the microscope.

  It wasn’t really a question or a suggestion. Now that I was exposed so fully it was as if my will had left me. I dropped my hands, arched my back, and the most incredible thing happened. As I looked down, the soft plains around my nipples darkened from pink to cherry red, the little buds had sprung out rigid and were prickling. The beat of my breath hastened. I lifted my hands to cover my shame but mechanically took those erect nipples between my thumb and fingers and rolled them hard. I had thrown back my head and although I tried to control it, I realised I was panting.

  ‘Très bien. There, you didn’t need that little bra at all. They stand up so nicely on their own.’

  He placed his hand flat on my ribs, below the undercurve of my breasts, and it was true, they were round and full, the little teats on fire beneath my fingers. His touch was firm, and the awful thought flickered through my mind that I wanted him to cup my breasts in his hands, take them into his mouth and bite me hard. The vision sent shivers up my spine.

  The bend of my legs was level with the edge of the table. As Mr Cartier put his free hand against my shoulder, I folded as if the bones of my body were soft rubber and lay back, propping myself up on the glass surface. He drew back the hem of my skirt and we both gazed spellbound at the rising mount pushing up from my white knickers. He looked into my eyes. I think I smiled. Everything was happening so fast it was hard to catch my breath.

  When he placed his hand on my knee, I locked my legs together and it was like seeing a car drive uncontrollably towards a cliff edge, his hand moving up my thigh, across the plump muscle at the top. I had stopped squeezing my nipples. My breasts were bobbing about. The heel of his hand brushed against my sex and he slipped his fingers over the band of my knickers.

  He pulled at the elastic as if to peek into a closed box, lowering the front and revealing a wisp of dark hair. My mouth was open. I was observing what was happening as if it had nothing to do with me. I wriggled but his hand was firm. The white cotton material was bunched up. He pulled again, just softly, staring into my eyes and, I don’t know why, but for the briefest moment I lifted my bottom from the glass table and watched him lower my knickers slowly down to my knees.

  We both gazed in quiet astonishment at the dark curly patch of pubic hair. It was lush and silky, an unspoiled lawn. I knew I was to blame for allowing this to happen. I had lifted my bottom from the glass surface of the table. I was wicked and shameless and felt oddly vibrant, totally alive, as if school had been stifling me, drowning me, and I was breathing freely for the first time. I squeezed my nipples and the pressure pushed out a dewy dribble from the lips of my vagina. Nothing like that had ever happened before. It was humiliating with the scent of arousal in the room, and I couldn’t understand why I was all wet between my legs.

  Mr Cartier placed the palm of his hand on my stomach, warning me not to move, and ran my knickers down my legs and over my shoes. I felt so ashamed as he studied the yellow stains in the gusset, and my mouth literally dropped open when he held the cotton to his nose. I had no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing and I watched in a trance, this strange man with my damp knickers pressed to his face while he inhaled.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said.

  He nodded with approval and it was a relief when he put the knickers to one side. He looked back at the wayward patch of my pubic hair. I could feel myself leaking. After drinking all that water I wanted to go to the lavatory but didn’t dare say anything. I was sweating. The lights were hot. My underarms were wet and my breasts seemed to have grown huge, billowing out like sails in the wind. I cupped my breasts to still them.

  Gently but firmly, like the nurse checking for sprains after hockey, he wedged his hand between my knees and eased my legs apart, just a little, and it was as if my will had gone as I watched. I had no idea how this had happened, how it had gone so far, and I couldn’t help wondering if Mr Cartier had tested Binky in this way and, if he did, just how far he had gone. How far she had let him go. She had already gone further than me with her boyfriend. Much further.

  He now took my hand and slid it from my breast, over my ribs, my tummy and down to the sticky bush of my pussy. He folded my fingers into the moist pink opening, and I couldn’t have stopped myself slipping them inside even if I had wanted to. I peeled back the inner lips of my vagina and the warm pad of my fingertip caressed what the girls call the magic button, the little hot pulsing point that no one but me had ever touched.

  I was moaning, swirling my hips, unsure how I had come to be masturbating like this with Mr Cartier watching, and pushed back, raising my legs from the floor and resting the soles of my feet on the surface of the table.

  ‘Are you a virgin, Milly?’ His voice was a whisper, almost breaking the spell.

  ‘No,’ I gasped.

  Even this was shameful, humiliating.

  ‘You are, aren’t you? You must tell the truth.’

  I sniffed back another tear.

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

  ‘That’s lovely. That’s why you’re so wet.’

  He ran his hand under my pussy and showed me his fingers slicked with juice. Below me there was a puddle of drool and Mr Cartier did something so weird I would remember it always. He scooped up the creamy liquid on a fingertip and rubbed it over his teeth. I was truly mortified and flushed a shade of crimson.

  I had brought myself to a state of terrible excitement but it ebbed away when Mr Cartier sat on the edge of the table and pulled at my hand. I thought it was over. I had shown I could obey. I had got the job and felt pleased that for once I’d got one over Binky. I scrambled to my feet, my skin squelching on the glass. He swung me round in front of him, his hands running under my skirt to the globes of my bottom. He smiled and I felt – I don’t know – safe, confident in being me.

  ‘We don’t need this, do we?’ he said, and fanned the air under my skirt.

  I shrugged and shook my head. Was this the last
test? I unrolled the fabric at my waist, lowered the zip and he removed his hands from my body to allow the kilt to fall to the floor. I stepped away from it. I was naked, completely exposed, my breasts warm and full, my pussy wet and smelly. A few hours ago I’d been a schoolgirl taking an exam and I couldn’t even remember what it had been about. I looked around the room, at the old TV star staring from the computer, the water fountain, the skirt on the floor, my knickers on the table.

  Mr Cartier held my thighs and looked up at me with a small smile.

  ‘Now, Milly, over you go,’ he said.

  I didn’t know what he meant. Over where? He was turning me sideways, a hand on my stomach, another on the small of my back. He applied pressure and my bones turned to sponge as my thin body folded over his knees. I spread my hands flat on the floor and realised that I was revealing myself in a way I never imagined I would reveal myself to anyone.

  He stroked my bottom for a long time. It was terrifying but it was nice at the same time. He dipped the tip of his finger into my pussy, not far, just enough to make it wet, and then he did something so rude I can’t believe I let it happen. I wriggled and squirmed but not so much. I didn’t scream out. I felt new things, new sensations. He was making his finger wet and pushing it against my bottom, right over the hole, pushing just softly back and forth and I heard soft popping noises and fidgeted with shame.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Shush,’ he replied.

  And he kept on, dipping his finger into my pussy, then tapping it against the hole in my bottom. I would never in a million years have imagined anything like this happening, being stark naked, stretched over a man’s knees, my breasts full and swinging, my pink nipples tingling and hard. I had gone beyond remorse or embarrassment. My body was singing. I pushed myself up and out. The golden key turned and I sucked his finger inside my bottom.

  He moved in a spiral, round and round, back and forth, slowly, smoothly, teasing all the nerve endings, the pressure touching my magic button and bringing me back to that oozy feeling that had ebbed away. I panted for breath, his finger greased with my own juice running up inside this dark exquisite place, in and out, in and out. I was naked, naked, my breasts pounding, my bottom in the air. I was coming. I could feel contractions. I could feel a wave inside building up, rolling through my body . . .

  Then, just as I was on the point of making it, he slid his finger out, clean out of my bum, and I just wished he’d have kept going for another few seconds. The wave retreated and Mr Cartier now did something that shocked me more than anything else.

  He spanked me.

  He removed his finger from my bottom, lifted his hand, and brought it down on my soft skin. I screamed and wriggled. But he was strong and the more I wriggled the tighter he held me. He lifted his big hand back in the air and brought it down with a thunderous clap that made me gasp.

  ‘No, no, no,’ I cried.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he replied, and smacked me again, three hard smacks one after the other.

  I was panting. Tears were streaming from my eyes, snot fell from my nose. His left hand was pressed down on my back. I writhed and yelped as his right hand came down again and again, spanking my soft cheeks and sending tremors of unknown pain and unexpected pleasure coursing through me. I could feel the heat in my bottom spreading down my thighs and up my spine.

  He stopped to massage the globes of my bottom, pounding the cheeks like dough and, when the smarting began to ease, he smacked me again, and it didn’t feel so hard now. The pain had gone. I was numb. I was all sensation. I was alive. I gasped for breath and waited for the next one, a loud hefty wallop, and as he lifted his hand from my burning flesh the wave inside me started to rise again. The heat on my poor bottom was warming all the liquids inside me. It was like all the taps in a house had been turned on and the juices rolled and tumbled through all the channels and passages of my body, building in volume, and I started to gasp for breath. The gasp became a scream. I screamed and kept screaming, and as another great spank came scolding across my bottom I screamed through the tide of an incredible orgasm.

  My first.

  And it was glorious. It was better than anything the girls at school had described because it is really indescribable. It is as if you have lost your physical form and become pure essence, pure feeling. You are one with the universe. For just a moment it is like you are flying through space on your way to heaven.

  That big wonderful orgasm, my very first, pulsed down through my loins and reverberated through my body like an echo. I rocked and quaked. I shifted and squirmed across Mr Cartier’s knees. I pushed out my bottom and I swivelled my hips and felt ashamed, so ashamed, and so pleased with what I had done. I was naked on a strange man’s lap and I loved it. I had let him spank me. I had wriggled and writhed and, although my first impulse had been to try and get away from having my backside spanked, a deeper instinct yearned to feel the weight of his hand on my bare flesh. That first spank had been painful and shocking, but with each roaring thunderclap across my bottom the pain just became pleasure and the pleasure just grew and grew until it all erupted in that bounteous climax.

  I was still wriggling like an eel and slithered slowly to a stop. I hung over Mr Cartier’s knees, spent and exhausted. My breasts were hanging heavily with their own weight, and I raised my two hands from the floor to give them a good hard pinch. I groaned. I was wet and warm and my bottom was like the mouth of a volcano pulsing with hot lava. Mr Cartier stroked my back from the nape of my neck, down over my waist, over the rising hill of my tender bottom and I kept thinking: I’ve done it, I’ve had an orgasm, I’ve had an orgasm, and I was dying to tell Binky I’d got the job.

  Now it was over I did feel ashamed. I dragged myself shakily to my feet and Mr Cartier held my bottom, pulled me towards him, and I felt so embarrassed as he rubbed his face over my drenched pussy. He then stood and really smiled for the first time.

  ‘C’est colossal. Magnifique,’ he said, and I wanted him to kiss me, but he didn’t.

  He retrieved my knickers. I rested my hands on his shoulders as he pulled them up. He pulled at the front to take a last peek at my drenched pussy and let the elastic snap back. He did up the bra at the back and then watched with what I thought was a look of encouragement while I buttoned my blouse right up to my throat. I zipped myself into my skirt and grabbed my blazer. I was waiting for him to tell me that I’d got the job but even when we walked upstairs he didn’t mention it. He lifted my backpack for me and I slid my arms under the straps.

  ‘Did I, you know . . .’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d already promised the job to, what’s her name . . .’

  ‘Binky?’ I gasped.

  ‘No. No. No. The other one.’

  ‘Virginia Ward?’

  He nodded. ‘She’ll be perfect around the office.’

  ‘But what about me?’

  ‘I’d never get any work done,’ he said. ‘Once a girl has been spanked she is never satisfied. She just wants more and more and more.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

  Mr Cartier went to a drawer and took out a business card which he tucked into the top pocket of my blazer.

  ‘Just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’ I said impatiently.

  ‘The right part comes along for a young actress.’

  2

  Men in Kilts

  I SUPPOSE BINKY and I have always had a strange relationship. My mother died shortly after I was born and her father died shortly after she was born. Our two stray parents getting married and Binky taking our family name must have seemed like the perfect solution, but Daddy I’m sure had no idea Binky was going to shoot up like a tree with killer legs and the shortest skirts in London. We were born to be rivals and, in our race into the adult world, she had taken the lead. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think.

  Added to her
porcelain skin and classic good looks, my step-sister had the self-confidence of those who always get their own way. She was a real cutie. That’s what her driving instructor said when he called her and spoke to me by accident. I thought she was an awful driver but she had managed to pass her test first time after only five lessons and had acquired a pink VW beetle with ‘African violet trim’ from a friend of the driving examiner. The plot thickens.

  Anyway, she hunted me down in Notting Hill one Saturday when I was supposed to be looking for a summer job and almost crashed into an elderly gent in an electric wheelchair. Binky zoomed into a vacant parking spot, gestured hopelessly towards the poor old gentleman and rushed me into the King’s Head for a buck’s fizz, her latest discovery.

  She strolled up to the bar in her pink Doc Martens and behaved as if she wasn’t enjoying the heads turning to watch the sway of her perfectly round bottom. If anyone was a little tart it was my sister Binky.

  She turned her shoulder to one side as she cast her green eyes on the barman.

  ‘Two buck’s fizz, please,’ she said in her plummy accent.

  ‘Here, you old enough, darling?’ I heard the barman say.

  ‘What a cheek,’ she replied, and the barman grinned as he added orange juice to the champagne flutes.

  Binky since the start of the summer hols had gone retro with her gelled hair, a slashed T-shirt and a little skirt that would have made our poor matron turn in her grave, if she were dead of course.

  ‘You’re becoming such a slut, Binky,’ I hissed as she set the glasses on a vacant table.

  ‘You can talk,’ she said, and I blushed.

  I had told Binky everything that had happened that day in Monsieur Cartier’s office and I wasn’t sure whether she believed me or not. When I looked back, I didn’t quite believe it myself, although a rosy glow had stained my bottom for ages and when I closed my eyes and pictured myself wriggling naked on his lap my insides went all watery.

  While I was squirming on the hard wooden seat, Binky was pressing a finger to her lips and I could almost visualise all the little cogs whirring around in her mind. She leaned forward and looked deadly serious.