textfiles/sex/EROTICA/P/princess.txt

Princess of Huntington High -- Part 1 of 4
     Brenda Patrick was an unattainable object of fantasy for an
uncounted number of us in high school.  Popular beyond
comparison, she was not in any sense afflicted with self-
importance, nor had I ever once witnessed an unkindness from her. 
She smiled at me in the halls and even spoke to me in passing on
those rare occasions when she noticed me at all.  I was surprised
afresh each time she knew my name.  I marvelled that she had not
been briefed on the proper decorum of royalty in the eminently
forgettable presence of a nonentity.  She evidenced no awareness
that our beings were at antipodes on the continuum of worthiness.
     Devoid of sinister shadows and dark corners was the
Princess, free of those guilty secrets and nasty little cravings
kept well veiled by some of us and brazenly flaunted by others. 
I remember once entertaining an absolutely absurd fantasy about
there being a Wilma engram in the otherwise untainted brain of
this comely, normal creature of light.  I was stricken with a
sense of incongruity that within the cortex of such a girl as she
there existed the name and face of such a one as I.  By what
freakish prank of hell's gremlins was my unworthy self given
space in the glorious mansion of this lovely girl's brain?  She
was normal, a girl others seek out and miss when she's not there,
a pretty girl with a normal personality, straight and clean and
fun to be with.  How came my clod of earth midst the golden
nuggets and priceless gems of her enchanting mind?

     Sometimes a well-meaning teacher, coached in high-sounding
principles of equality but woefully out of touch with the
realities of social psychology, imposes upon her hapless students
an intersecting of personalities meant by the gods to remain
parallel.  Thus did it come to pass one day in physics class that
I became a lab partner with the Princess.
     I held my breath in terror as Mrs. Bartlett read off the
pairings.  My anxiety rose to paralyzing proportions as the
possible combinations diminished.  I started tossing around
escape plans and tried to will a fire drill to happen.  The
teacher read the sacred name of the Princess from List A, and
there was a brief hush as the Great Egalitarian heartlessly
checked the corresponding name on List B.  My lips were turning
blue for want of oxygen.  My vision blurred.  Teacher's finger
located the name, and an unthinkable diad was spoken into
existence.  "Wilma," she said perfunctorily with no recognition
whatsoever that she had violated Nature and offended the gods.

     No bolt from Zeus having struck down the teacher for her
defilement of sacred boundaries, everyone was soon clucking and
flitting busily about as couples came together.  Brenda moved a
one-armed desk over to mine so the open sides of the desks were
nearly touching, facing opposite directions.  She smiled brightly
as she seated herself.  There was a flash of ivory flesh 'neath
her cheerleader skirt when she crossed her legs, but I was still
in shock and unable to log the event with any focus or pleasure.
     "I'm glad I got you," she said.  "I need somebody smart." 
She had her hand on my leg and was leaning toward me in her
enthusiasm.  Our faces had never been so close, our eye contact
never so prolonged.  My I.Q. dropped a hundred points and my
pussy hiccupped.  An inarticulate high frequency noise leaked out
of my larynx and echoed off the roof of my mouth, emerging
finally as a pitiable hybrid of a whine and a grunt.  She cocked
her head curiously for an unguarded second before blinking her
escape from my moronic gaze.  She pawed the lab book and found
the exercises we were to complete on our own during the week.
     Oh yes.  That was another of Mrs. Bartlett's cute little
ideas.  Students working with each other on assignments on their
own time simultaneously encouraged both social engagement and
scholarship.  What else it encouraged is CONTINUED IN PART 2.


Princess of Huntington High -- Part 2 of 4
     We completed our lab tasks, but I was a nervous wreck by the
middle of the week.  Eye contact with Brenda induced catatonia,
and a touch from her redistributed my blood and oxygen flow.  I
would be explaining something to her and get lost in her lovely
eyes.  A sentence would begin with full mental competence, and
senility would set in before I could reach the end of it.  It was
so embarrassing.  I couldn't look off and recuperate, and I
couldn't continue a thought either.  Her enchanting countenance
would go from alert listening through interested waiting and on
through a quick self-checking, a slight squinting of the eyes,
and then that cute cocking of her head as my speech center
decayed.  Out of her overwhelming presence, I found myself
breaking down in tears for no identifiable reason.  It wasn't
sadness, nor was it joy or fear or any other of the usual labels
associated with emotional upset.  I was a physiological storm in
search of a label, a body gone berserk in neurochemical insanity.
     On Wednesday night of that week, sleep was impossible. 
Visions of her flooded my sensorium.  I pitched and yawed and
tried to shake the images out of my head of her voice, her hair,
her features, her movements, her touch, her breath, the freshness
of her and the way she moved her desirable young body.
     Yes, yes, yes, YES!  I surrendered altogether to the
phantoms of my mind and ran my hands over my breasts and stomach
and down to my legs and crotch.  I masturbated to Brenda Patrick
and cared neither for my sanity nor for my soul.  My abandon was
total and wanton, my orgasm full and body-wide, prolonged and
demented, ecstatic, psychotic and violent.
     It never ended while I was conscious.  My loss of contact
with reality may have been sleep or mental collapse or an out-of-
body experience for all I know.  Whatever else it may have done,
the chimeric womanquake which released my raging demons left me
devoid of care and gave life-saving balm to the tormented soul of
an emotionally exhausted teenage girl.
     Hours later, I floated gracefully into consciousness and
sighed the peaceful sigh of the delivered.  Then I realized what
I had done and was seized by a crippling sense of shame.  There
was no possibility that I would go to school that day and enter
into the innocent presence of the Princess with my filthy little
secret about what I had done.  I missed school again on Friday,
too, and I felt as though I could never again face her or befoul
her pure space with my degenerate self.
     But she called me Friday after school.  Ignoring my shock, 
she wanted me to spend the night with her while her parents were
at a retreat.  It was more an assumption than an invitation, and
there was never a question about whether I would be there.  When
she hung up, I sat in a daze for a minute or two.  The jumble of
emotions was real enough, but the conclusion was ineluctable even
as I pretended to myself I had a decision to make.


Princess of Huntington High -- Part 3 of 4
     I stood across the street from her house, worrying as only a
young girl in love can worry.  I looked up and saw her pretty
face in the upstairs window.  My body wanted to fly up to her but
wanted also to run away.  She smiled and motioned for me to come.
     She wore the cutest, frilliest little shorty nightie and
matching blue panties I had ever seen.  She had a blue ribbon in
her long raven hair.  Barefoot, she was, which I have always
thought added sexiness to naked legs on a pretty girl, and she
wore an ankle bracelet that added an oddly erotic touch.
     As I followed her up the stairs toward her room, my head
moved back and forth watching first one calf muscle and then the
other.  My brain stored the changing features of her feet as they
took turns on the steps.  I began to commit her thighs and the
backs of her legs to memory.  I studied the interplay of muscle
and sinew flexing beneath girl flesh of divine texture, the
bounce and sway of her hips, the well-appointed freckles on her
creamy back, and the way her hair shimmered and danced above me.
     I kept my face as close as I could to those beautiful ivory
legs as I walked up the stairs behind her.  Too close, in fact. 
She stopped abruptly on the stairs.  To this day I cannot swear
it was mere fortuitous accident and not quick-thinking
opportunism on my part that crash-landed my face on the
indescribable runway of her leg.  I do know I did not hurry to
move away, for my point of no return was even at the tender age
of 18 reached with celerity.  Indeed, I kept my head quite still
as she turned slowly and looked down at me.  My face toured
heaven from the back of her leg across the glorious indentation
and around to the thigh muscle as she turned.
     I swooned and took the leap, kissing her leg passionately
and running my hand over her foot to her ankle and heel and up to
her taut calf muscle and the back of her leg.  My other hand
found the foot resting lightly on the higher stair, and I
explored the contrasting sensations between the soft curves of
her resting leg and the firmness of her standing leg.  Brenda
Patrick, the Princess of Huntington High, the all-American girl
and sweetheart of every good dream, stood there looking down at
me and letting me kiss her leg and fill myself with lust.
     "You're in love with me, aren't you Wilma?" she said softly.
     I raised my face from her thigh and looked up at her.  God,
she was beautiful standing above me like that.  I nodded numbly. 
We gazed into each others eyes, I conducting an inventory of my
hopes and she no doubt a survey of social conventions
antagonistic to her impulses at the moment.
     "I need to know," she said after a long pause, "how secret
this can be."
     "I won't tell anybody," I promised.  Promised?  It was more
of a plea, I think, begging her to cast off her social concerns
and let me love her.  "I promise I won't ever tell anybody,
Brenda," I assured her again.
     I waited down there, my visage undoubtedly that of a hopeful
supplicant, while she decided whether to send me home in shame or
use me for sexual pleasure.  She watched me beg.  It could go
either way.  I decided not to over-argue the case for fear of
pushing her the wrong way.  I waited and looked up at her,
kneading her legs gently, praying fervently that she would let me
be her secret lover.  I rested my face against her leg and
implored her with my eyes.
     "It'll be one-sided, you know," she said.
     "I know."  I tingled with excitement now.
     "And it'll always be up to me if we do anything.  Agree?"
     "Yes, Brenda."  My Bartholin's Gland exuded its rising hope.
     She took a deep breath.  "Ok," she said very quietly.
                                                               

Princess of Huntington High -- Part 4 of 4
     On those stairs and at that instant, the word "secret" was
added to the fund of words capable of inciting my loins to lust
and my brain to fantasy.  Two girls with a secret relationship. 
Nobody would know.  We would meet in divers and sundry places for
me to perform cunnilingus on Brenda, and it would be a secret.   
The Princess and the Cortex, our nicknames at school, would never
be linked in anyone's mind.  She was outgoing and the center of
everything at school, and I was invisible.  While she would
continue center stage in assemblies or leading cheers at the ball
games, somewhere in the crowd, usually alone, would be my
unnoticed and nondescript self seeing nothing and no one but her. 
And then we would meet somewhere in secret, some place where no
one would see us, and I would get on my knees to her and she
would pull up her dress and let me worship her legs and suck
between them as she looked around nervously to make sure no one
caught us.
     I remember a picture in the newspaper taken of Brenda being
crowned Queen.  If you look carefully and deliberately at the
crowd behind her, you can see a little blonde standing there with
what appears to be a prayerful attitude.  The camera caught me as
I was applauding my Princess.  No one would imagine that just
hours before that picture was taken the honored beauty had been
in her bathroom at home squatting stark naked on the face of that
unknown blonde.  It was a secret.  Her parents knew only that I
had come over that morning to help her get ready for the big day. 
They could not know that their popular daughter, the Queen, the
Princess of Huntington High, winner of the Outstanding Young
Woman of the Year Award, needed to have her asshole licked and
sucked by a devoted lesbian lover.  It was a secret.
     From time to time, I muse on what Mrs. Bartlett would think
if she knew what she had wrought by her random pairing of lab
partners.  She had equated the greatest and the least of us in
her egalitarian innocence, and the least of us had fallen in love
and become the secret lesbian slave of a superior girl.  But Mrs.
Bartlett never knew, of course.  It was a secret.

     It was on those memorable stairs, then, that I first savored
the unique and tangy taste of Brenda Patrick's pussy and felt the
smooth firmness of her.  She placed one hand on the banister for
balance as I removed her pretty blue panties.  I heard her take a
short breath when I moved my face close to her sex, and she
exhaled with a little moan when I nuzzled her gently down there. 
When I licked my way slowly between the lips of her delicately
scented pussy, she startled and gasped and grabbed me by the
head.  I prepared to be shoved down the stairs, and I think she
must have considered pushing me away, but she didn't.  She held
me tightly by the head and face and trembled uncontrollably.
     I swooned and feared I'd lose consciousness at the
unbelievable ecstacy of her taste, the way she felt, and her
violent shaking.  I buried my face in her and pushed my tongue as
far as it would go into her rapidly moistening cunt.  She fucked
my mouth frenetically and wildly as I tongued and sucked
girljuice.  I felt her moving away and eased my hold but kept
licking until she took it away from me.
     My disappointment was brief, for she had me now by the hair
and was pulling me up the stairs behind her.  A good thing, too,
for we would surely have fallen mindlessly down the stairs in our
lustquake and never known what killed us.  Still holding me by my
hair, she practically ran toward her bedroom with me humping
behind her as best I could, trying not to fall.  I didn't make
it.
     "Dammit!" she cursed when I fell.  Adapting rapidly to the
situation, however, she shoved me over with her knee so I was
leaning back on my hands.  She straddled my upturned face and
pulled me into her slickened crotch and fucked my face greedily
and mercilessly as I held on to her legs for dear life.
     She screamed when she cum, and it all but traumatized me.  I
thought I had just been struck dead by God.  I stopped sucking.
     "SUCK, GOD DAMN YOU!  SUCK IT!" she screamed in frustration,
and I resumed sucking and working my mouth and face vigorously in
her sexy cunt and crotch.  She went insane and she released a
surprise into my face and mouth:  Brenda Patrick, I discovered to
my absolute delight, was a gusher!  A deluge of pussyfuck goo
flooded into my mouth, and I thought she was pissing at first. 
It was girl cum!  It spurted and it flowed, it gushed and it
rushed in a flashflood of female fuckslime which I gulped down
like a soul-saving substance issuing from Aphrodite Herself.
     My entire universe was telescoped into Brenda's orgasm at
that moment.  She fucked my face and mouth and gushed her lust
liquid all over me.  I swallowed all I could get and forced my
eyes to stay open to bathe my eyeballs in her river of quim.
     The flow subsided and Brenda went from demented violence
through random jerks and spasms to just standing there with her
legs tightened against my face as she vibrated and quivered.  She
sank to her knees with my face still serving her and collapsed
off me to one side.
     Out of my mind with lust, I grabbed myself between my legs
and brought myself to orgasm while rubbing my face deliriously in
the sticky slick cunt and crotch of the spent Princess.  It would
not be the last time I drank Brenda's orgasm, but that first time
is one of those undiluted memories that never get erased. Neither
will I ever forget that school term when I was the secret of the
Princess of Huntington High.