Being a Girl Read Free Page A

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Are you a virgin, Milly?’ His voice was a whisper, almost breaking the spell.
    â€˜No,’ I gasped.
    Even this was shameful, humiliating.
    â€˜You are, aren’t you? You must tell the truth.’
    I sniffed back another tear.
    â€˜Yes,’ I admitted.
    â€˜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