Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets. Литагент HarperCollins USD

against the side of my tits.

      ‘Are you comfortable?’ he murmured. This was my cue.

      ‘Not really, can I sit in front of you?’ I replied, so quietly that the rustling coming from the bottom bunk would almost drown out my whispers.

      He gulped, nodded, and I slid in front of him, so that his back was pressed against the wall and my back was pressed against him.

      With our eyes still firmly on the TV, he’d make tiny, gradual movements to shift his arms so that they were holding me around my stomach. I watched the film, taking in nothing except the feeling of his hands moving ever so slowly towards my tits. The on-screen heroine would scream and flee from the latest danger, and I’d be screaming inside my head, ‘Go on, up a bit.’

      I was dripping wet. Feeling the soft, gentle touch of his hands on my top would drive me mad with lust. That kick-in-the-gut feeling of need was eating away at me, and I willed him to go further.

      He started breathing more heavily behind me, shaking a bit with the heady excitement that a girl was letting him touch her. She was actually, unless he was very much mistaken, shifting slightly to move her tits closer to his hands. Pushing back against him so that she could feel his jumpy, throbbing erection pressing into the small of her back. He wasn’t watching the film, just seeing the pictures. And as the people on the screen grew more terrified of whatever B-movie monster was chasing them, he was getting ever closer to having both of his hands cupped around the soft, jumper-clad, erotic holy grail—an actual pair of tits.

      He wasn’t mistaken. I was doing all of these things. Subtle gestures made way for more direct ones, as I leant back and felt his hard, aching dick pressing into me. My nipples were rock solid and stood out clearly even through a bra and a thin jumper. I wanted him to touch them. I pressed myself against him and shifted to bring them closer to his hands, willing him to feel them, to be determined, to squeeze them nice and hard through the fabric.

      Finally, just before the climax of the film, he’d cup his trembling hands around the actual curve of my tits, and I’d shiver with satisfaction, a wave of lust spilling more wetness into my already soaking crotch.

      As steadily and silently as I could, I reached my right hand behind me to feel his hardness. I felt, rather than heard, the gulp in his throat as he realised what I was doing, and he squeezed my tits harder, clinging to them as if otherwise I’d move away. And I looked down at him running his hands all over them, as I grabbed at his dick through his trousers.

      His cock wasn’t thick, but it was long, and so so hard. It twitched in my hand as I rubbed at it through his thin sports trousers. The fabric was slippery to touch, and I could feel a spreading wetness at the tip as he leaked excitement out through two layers of cotton. He’d grip me harder, using his first two fingers to trap my nipples in his grip. With every touch we’d both get wetter and I’d be willing him to come. I wanted to know what it felt like—to give a guy that feeling.

      Eventually, with a sore arm, soaking wet knickers and a desperate need to feel Rob shoot spunk through his trousers, the film credits would start to roll. Everyone sat up straight, moved apart, and pretended we’d done nothing as Darren got up to change the video.

      Then the whole process would start again.

      I have Rob to thank for a lot of things, but mostly the tit-touching. Having proved to myself that no matter how thick my glasses or how depressingly lanky my hair, some boys would still allow me the pleasure of a mutual grope, I moved on to other boys, to see whether they’d do it too.

      To my unending delight and gratitude, they did. Late at night in the park I’d join in games of spin the bottle, hoping whichever boy I landed in the spin would slip a hand up my top while we kissed. Guys at school would give me friendly hugs, and grab my tits in what I was often disappointed to realise was a joke. One boy, who I sat next to in maths classes, would run a vibrating pager over my school shirt, watching as my nipples got hard beneath it. He’d grin and get hard and then turn it on under the table, sliding it under my skirt and gently over the crotch of my knickers. I was amazed, delighted, and desperately horny to find that if I jokingly suggested to boys that they touch my tits or grab my crotch, they would.

      Unfortunately, the only one who wouldn’t was the one I wanted most of all.

      My First Love was a boy I met in English class. A skinny, witty, Irish boy, who for some reason just didn’t like me at all. I hated him at first too. His wit and his volume were too similar to mine, and I didn’t appreciate the competition. I’d make a joke, then he’d make a louder one and win approval from our giggling classmates. So I’d make a joke at his expense, and get a louder laugh. He’d reciprocate, and escalate, and make me seethe with competitive rage from behind my exercise books. This war continued until he called a truce, and the passion and hatred of our frequent fights developed into a warm reciprocal friendship.

      Instead of fighting, now we’d sit next to each other in classes, making quiet, secret jokes to each other. We’d spend hours on the phone at weekends, dissecting what had happened during the week. We’d open up a bit about our habits and lusts, and what our rampaging hormones made us want to do.

      Not to each other, you understand—despite my desire for him I knew that he’d never be mine. He was slightly cooler than me—not popular, but cool. And with my high test scores and big glasses and ignorance of popular music, I most definitely wasn’t. I settled for simply being friends, projecting an air of calm platonic happiness, while in secret I fell hopelessly in love with him.

      ‘Can anyone tell me what the difference is between weight and mass?’

      I daydreamed during science classes. It was one of the few lessons in which First Love would sit further away from me and I could watch him from my desk, as he laughed and wrote notes to the guy sat beside him, ignoring the teacher until just the moment when he’d be called upon to answer.

      ‘Come on, anyone? Mass versus weight, anyone?’

      It was during a science class that I realised I loved him. I was watching him writing notes, admiring his long, quick fingers, his thick forearms accentuated by a chunky watch. I looked at his hands and was struck by a powerful image, of him pushing me roughly against the wall in an alleyway on the way to school, using both hands to push at my tits as I hiked up my school skirt.

      I felt that deep, throbbing lust and I squirmed on my stool. I could feel myself getting wetter, as I kept my eyes on his hands and wished I could be alone to touch myself. That quick snapshot—the roughness of his grip and the force of him pushing me against the wall—was the first genuine fantasy I’d felt for a real person. I don’t think I imagined us fucking at that point, I just pictured how desperate he’d be to come, how hard he’d rub himself against me, and how his hands would stray from my tits to grab my arse through my knickers and pull me forward against his dick.

      I ran straight home from school that day, not speaking to him, or even to my friends. I waited until my sister was safely settled in the lounge, unlikely to return to our shared bedroom, and I wet my fingers, touched my clit and thought of him, him, him.

      ‘You need to be careful,’ said Dad. ‘I know it might seem like a platonic relationship to you, but boys are different. It’s hard for a boy to stay platonic. He’ll be thinking of you in other ways, so you need to make sure that he knows how you feel.’

      Listening to my dad telling me that First Love wanted to fuck me was almost as painful as hearing First Love tell me he didn’t.

      Both of us would protest if asked whether anything was going on. ‘Oh no, we’re just friends. It’s not like that.’ But I’d watch him during school, I’d speak to him whenever I could, I’d hang on his every word like each one was a magical secret, and I’d go to bed at night wishing he would touch me. ‘Honestly, we’re just mates. Nothing’s going to happen.’ But God I wanted it to. He was as interested in girls as I was in him, but for some reason I could never give him that feeling. We’d play-fight and we’d hug and sometimes we’d sit so close on the sofa that I was scared he’d hear the throbbing of my cunt, but he never touched me.

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