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Brandy Anne Koch
Copyright © 2017
On an impulse, I got up from the bed and hurried to my desk, where I'd already hidden my stash. Possession wasn't encouraged at this school, but there was no automatic expulsion penalty, so I didn't feel too paranoid. I unzipped the leather pouch and took out one of the joints I'd rolled yesterday afternoon on the plane ride down. The first toke reminded me of how good this special Colombian really was, and I savored it all the way down my tubes. The air started growing pungent with the smell of burning grass and I sniffed appreciatively between hits on the stick.
"Mmmmmm, okayyy," I drawled lazily, sipping the reefer.
I smoked it fast and I swallowed the roach. The little residue in that would get into my bloodstream sooner or later, too, and I could count on a delayed buzz.
"I think I can feel it now," I said aloud, rubbing my bare stomach until it tingled from the outside in as well as the inside out. My hand was itchy, too, and I pressed it against my abdomen, just above the waistband of my low-riding panties. I stood there a moment, shivering, allowing the good stoned feelings to ride up and down my body. It seemed to hit the back of my head and the tips of my toes about the same instant, and I felt good. Very good.
I lifted my hand and gave it something to scratch. One finger extended itself lazily and began to strum across the soft nylon cup of my bra, tickling until my left nipple was visibly erected punching out the clingy wisp of fabric that encased my cunt. I closed fingers upon the nubby erection and squeezed it till it throbbed. So did I. All over. My nipples are very sensitive. I can almost come from having them played with, if they're played with right.
"HI, there," I told the stubby prominence, tweaking it with my thumb and index finger. I squirmed where I stood, and the nip pushed out a little further, fat and squiggly, eager to thrust itself into the pinching grip I had on it.
My other hand came up of its own will and cupped the other tit. The nipple here was only a little behind in the race; one good squeeze and it was fully as stiff and punchy as the left one. It was all hard and eager, hot against the palm that covered it, pressed it down, made it stand up that much faster. Why not? I thought. There's nothing on the radio and I don't feel like watching TV. Releasing my breasts, I reached behind myself and unhooked the clasp in the middle of my back. The cups fell forward, sliding off my tits, and the straps eased down my shoulders. I let the bra swirl to the floor, immediately cupping my hands over my now bare tits.
They were warm and damp with a faint sheen of perspiration, almost like oil. I worked it into the small conical titties, working my hands in circles on them until the flesh was hot and the nipples even harder and my knees beginning to sag where I stood, ass up against the edge of the desk.
I went to the bed again, pulling down my panties as I walked, and I stepped out of them just before turning round to look at myself in the makeup table mirror. It was made for close-up work, but I was far enough from it that I had a good, overall, up and down look at Barbara Gifford in virtually all her naked glory.
For eighteen, I'm not built badly. At least, that's what people like to tell me. Five-foot-five, 105 pounds, wavy hair that's almost classic platinum blonde. My tits are on the small side just right for fashion modeling shaped like, small cones and set high up on my chest. When I stand erect the nipples stick straight out. They're large nipples, considering the size of my boobs, like big pink smears spilling over the tips of the two cones, and the teats extend almost an inch when they're fully excited. Which they were right now, and my hands on them certainly weren't helping matters any.
My legs are long and smooth, firm from ankles to wherever you want to get, climbing my legs. I don't have much of an ass, in terms of fleshiness, but it sticks out nicely, thanks to the natural curvature of my spine, and there's enough wiggle to draw attention when I wear my favorite French jeans. All in all, it's a good body and a young body and a firm body and a tight body, and I wouldn't send it back to the factory for readjustments even if I could.
I flopped onto the bed, parting my legs as I landed, and then I rolled over so that I was lying on my back instead of my belly. My legs were still spread, and I lifted the knees slowly, keeping them wide apart I looked down my belly, past the twin peaks of pinkness, and sighted in on my fluffy bush.
My beaver is almost white -- it's that blonde -- and it only grows on the swell of my pubes. There are just a few stay wisps and curls flanking my slit, and no hair at all around my asshole or in my crotch itself. Natural blondes don't have a lot of body hair, and I'm as natural a blonde as you're ever going to run into.
I cupped my titties and made them jiggle a bit, the nips wobbling around as if they were trying to evade the quick flicks and pinches of my fingers.
Each time I closed fingers on my paps, little spurts of pleasure shot through me and my uplifted knees wavered from side to side. Down there, where my body was sliced open between the legs, I could feel a growing heat and arousal. I made my thighs squeeze together, and there was a pleasant sticky feeling around the lips of my cunt.
"Do it now," I suggested to myself, and one hand began to crawl down my body. Over the flat, firm stomach, taking time out en route to do a little finger work on my navel, and then covering the final stretch in one quick darting lunge, as my ass began to bounce on the bed.
My fingers skimmed through the puffy hedge of hair and down, onto the bare crease of my pussy. I surrounded it one finger on each side of the slash and I worked my fingers up and down quickly, rubbing and squeezing and pinching off the opening until it misted over with a watery leakage of girl cum.
I could feel the stuff seeping from my cunt, and I rubbed again, harder, drawing more of it from me. A gasp caught in my throat, like a piece of hastily swallowed food, and I didn't know whether to gulp it down or let it out. My fingers slid over, onto my cunt, and I couldn't hold the urge back another second. I let it go, a long, quivery-throated sigh that seemed to be coming, not from my upper mouth, but from the one down below, the one that was even then being parted widely by my nervous, trembly, but oh, God, so eager fingers.
There was a squish sound, my hand squashing and toying with the ever-sloppier lips of my cunt, and then I was split, the tight clingy inner labia pulled open, room air flowing into my pussy. And along with that air, the tip of my middle finger. While thumb and index held me open, I stuck my middle finger inside, scratching about as if I'd never been there before.
The entry way was tight, and I moaned aloud as I started to make penetration. "Oooooooohhhhh." Again that strange husky sound, not at all like my normal voice tones, and again I could fantasize that it was my pussy whimpering and not my mouth. Relishing the way the cry seemed to echo off the walk of the room and bounce back into my ears time and again, I let my finger push a little deeper.
Inside, I was slick and moist, nearly all the way up. My finger straightened out, the nail scraping delicately at the sensitive inner lining of my cuntal tube, and suddenly I was gulping again. My tight cooze had melted round the finger, constricting itself automatically around the intruding object. I'd been fucking for over a year, but not enough to make my puss all sloppy and out of shape. The muscles will yield, if they're given enough stimulation, but they're very tight naturally, and right now, I felt as if I were being screwed by a mule, with only the slender stiffness of my middle finger actually inserted in me. My hips began to rock on the bed, and my pussy was alternately humping to meet the finger, bumping to jerk away from it. "Aaaaahhhh," I cooed happily, feeling more of the finger jabbing inside me.
I pulled my knees up a little higher, rocking in rhythm now, and I got my other hand into action. I reached from beneath my lifted thigh, fingertip tickling its way through my crack and onto my pussy from the underside. The index finger was pointing straight out, and it scratched the base of my middle finger as it too fought its way into me. There was a momentary resistance from my cuntal muscles, but it was only momentary. The fingertip prodded, the muscles relaxed, and sucked up that second finger as wetly as they had the first.
Now I had two hands in action or at least, the active fingers of two hands and I could get into some kinky and delightful experimentation. Poke with one finger pull back with the other. Then vice versa. Middle finger stabbing into my depths then jerking out and making room for the index finger to do the same thing but from a different angle. My hips kept twitching, and my knees lifted higher and higher, till they were pulled right against the long, hot stiff nipples or my lust-swollen tits, and my index finger hid that much more room to get in there and do its thing.
To be honest, I'd rather do it this way than go to the bother of meeting a guy and observing whatever social amenities he wanted to get out of the way before asking me for a fuck. I had fucked three different guys and none of them left me satisfied or even very much impressed. They were in a hurry to get their cock in me and their cum squirted up my snatch, as if the insertion and the squirting were all that really mattered. With my fingers, I could take things at my own speed, arouse myself, really enjoy it. So, I hadn't fucked anything except my fingers since the Valentine dance at the last school I went to. And hadn't really wanted to, either.
Of course, I made up for it by masturbating a lot. And I mean a lot. I spent most of the summer just ended at a riding school in Virginia, and what with bouncing around in the saddle all day and finger fucking myself all night, there were days I thought I'd be bowlegged the rest of my life. Oh, well, I'd been on the wagon for the last couple of weeks, and it seemed an appropriate way to break in my new dorm room. I punched again, sliding both fingers up my cooze in one swift, hard pass, and I felt the walls of my cunt beginning to respond the way they ought to.
"Better, baby," I told myself, in a hoarse whisper, and I was just pulling back to do it again, my thumb swirling around the exposed, glistening nub of my clit, when I heard knocking on my door. "Oh, shit," I growled softly, fingers popping out of my cooze with reluctance. I sat up on the bed, coughed as I tried to regain normal speech and breath patterns, and asked, "Yes, who is it?"
"Just me Dierdre can I come in?"
"A minute, huh?" Dierdre was the dorm proctor, a senior helping us new girls get oriented to the school. As I hopped off the bed and wrapped myself up in the bathrobe I'd already set out for later, I found myself wondering if she'd heard me talking to my cunt as I played with it. "Come in," I said, walking around the bed. Maybe she'd smelled the marijuana. Christ, the room smelled like Mexico was on fire!
The door opened and Dierdre came inside. She was wearing her school uniform-jumper, blue, with the school insignia on its front, in gold-white blouse knee socks. Her long, almost black hair was tied off in pink ribbons on either side of her attractive, tanned, healthy-looking face. She closed the door behind her, then turned to me, nose curling up. She sniffed. I prepared myself for a lecture, at the very least.
"Colombian?" she asked. I nodded. "Do you believe in sharing, by any lucky chance?" I grinned, then nodded. Dierdre strolled further into the room, stopping beside the bed on which I'd just been diddling myself. And what, I wondered, might she be sniffing at there?
The buzz from the first joint was starting to wear off so I took a good sized take myself before handing the fresh one to Dierdre. "Mind if I sit down?" she asked, indicating the bed. I didn't, so she planted her bottom on the edge of the mattress, facing me, and she put the joint to her lips, savoring it as she inhaled. Her eyes closed dreamily, and I felt pretty good too, because I had a fair idea of the way management here felt about students and dope.
She finished her hit and passed the joint back to me. I took it, leaning toward her, and I felt the front of my bathrobe come open, baring me from neck to knees. As I straightened up, I made to close it, but Dierdre caught my hand. "Hey," I said.
She looked up at me, and our eyes locked in. Hers were large, heavy-lidded as if she'd just awakened from a deep sleep but the green eyes themselves were fully alive, staring at me intently, almost hypnotically. Her fingers were still on my wrist and there was a subtle rhythm to the way they squeezed and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed. I tried not to look, concentrating instead on the joint. I hit it hard, sucking smoke all the way down to my belly, but when I looked down, she was still staring up at my face. Abruptly, then, she let go of my hand and I pulled my robe shut, far too late for any illusions of modesty.
"Here," I said, offering her the joint. She took it.
I pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down carefully, making sure my robe didn't open up again.
This wasn't the first girls' school I'd ever gone to remember. I'd been around, enough to recognize the look in Dierdre's eyes when she got a flash of my nubile little body. It was nothing new. There's an active dyke on every floor of every dorm in every girls' school in the country. At least one. It's not unusual for them to be proctors, either.
Dierdre didn't look quite like a girl-queer, though. There was a tangible femininity about her, in the soft flutter of her green eyes, in the moisture of her lips, in the way she held herself as she sat loose limbed, like a cat in relaxation. No, I thought, she can't be a lesbian. Even if she did all but have her tongue hanging out while she was eyeing my tits.
We passed the joint back and forth, smoking in silent appreciation, making the room foggy with the sweet smoke of burning Colombian. Even when I wasn't taking, I had only to breathe if I wanted a fresh hit, and I felt the delightful old buzz taking hold of me.
"How do you like it here?" Dierdre asked, attacking the silence with her soft, low-pitched voice. "It's okay," I coughed put between puffs. "Last school I was at, you got expelled automatically for doing this. That is, if they caught you. I was always lucky."
She nodded. "When I was a freshman here, it was the same way. So we had a smoke-in one day. Half the girls in the school toked up at headmistress' office. We all lit up, and presented our demands, and a day or two later, they dropped possession to a misdemeanor. There are some places on campus where you don't smoke, though. Your roomie can tell you where. Mmm, this is really good stuff. Where'd you get it?"
"Is that where you're from?" I nodded. "Me, I'm local. I don't sound it, but I'm from just across the river. Good old Kentucky girl. You have a family?" she asked.
"Just my father. My mother..." She'd been gone for three years but I still found it hard to talk about her.
Dierdre seemed to realize that. "What does your father do?"
"He makes money," I said. "That's all he cares about. Making money, then using it to make more money. I think that's his picture on the makeup table. Haven't seen him in so long I kinda forget."
"Don't sweat it," she said. "I didn't mean to pry. Just thought I'd stop in and see how you were adjusting, be friendly, you know? This is a friendly school. Really it is. And I saw you today at orientation, and I thought she is such a pretty thing, but her eyes look so awfully sad and lonely. Are you really? Sad and lonely? You still kinda look that way."
I blushed. "Of course not."
Dierdre laughed, then leaned toward me. She put her hand on my knee and our eyes locked in again, and I found myself wondering if I'd been wrong in dismissing her lesbian potential. Maybe I'd found a new kind of dyke. "You don't have to be," she said. "You really don't have to be lonely at all."
She moved off the bed in a graceful crouch, and onto her knees in front of me. I looked down at her, and she was staring up at me. Carefully she opened the lower part of my bathrobe, baring my knees and calves. She smiled, then kissed one of my kneecaps. There was a loud smacking sound, and I felt her small wet tongue graze me. Her hands stroked down to my ankles, then back up to my knees and I shivered. This was a new brand of seduction, I thought, which was only appropriate if I'd discovered a new brand of lesbian.