"Scales and Arpeggios" Part 3 (ff 1st)

"It's OK," I grunted as I squirmed a little. She brought my legs up into
the position she'd used earlier. I was able to reach around and position
my Þngers either side of my clitoris, and begin a nice, slow, leisurely
side-to-side roll. And then, without any warning, her amazing Þngers went
into action. There was nothing affectionate about her touch. It was just
the way she touched herself: designed to produce a barrage of tantalizing
erotic stimulation.

"Aaargh! Ohoho! Oh my God! Oh my God! I gargled, my head falling right
back, the blood pounding in my ears. I couldn't see her or me or anything
now, but she was doing the most incredible things to my rear.

"Don't rub so fast!" she yelled so sternly that my Þngers stilled, but the
incredible sensations soon robbed me of all my self-control. I was in
absolute heaven. This strange girl was intently, deliberately giving me
the most wonderful sensations of my life. I've enjoyed some wonderful sex
in the years since, but I have the sneaking suspicion that the coruscating
sensations I endured at her Þnger-tips was the greatest experience of all.
It felt like a totally new kind of orgasm. I was screaming with pleasure,
literally screaming. My mind had relinquished all control over my body,
which was now usurped by a torrent of incredible voluptuousness. I thought
I would go mad with pleasure. It would be worth it.

"You're about to come, aren't you? I can feel you! Stop! Stop! Hold your
legs and let me do it! It seems I'm going to have to teach you."

She was being very bossy and Þrm, but despite my craving for orgasm I had
learned to trust her: I already had impressive proof of her expertise, so
I meekly relinquished my throbbing clitoris and hooked my arms around the
backs of my thighs, hugging them to my chest.

For a while she just tickled the backs of my legs and my buttocks. It was
a new and exquisite experience, and my vulva trumpeted its approval with
tears of joy. Then she began slowly, oh so slowly, to torment my clitoris.
She was inÞnitely tender and so knowing. She could tell exactly what she
was doing to me, what I was feeling at each particular moment. I wonder
that she didn't get bored, but I suppose she was like a piano-tuner,
trying to get me wound up to exactly the right pitch. She was unhurried,
calm, dispassionate and deadly competent. The furious tickling had
stopped, now, and she was just gently cuddling my clitoris between the
Þngers of one hand, not digging her nails into me, while with the other
she began very slowly and gently to þex and stroke my inner lips with
those wonderful long nails. I could feel everything, every slightest move
she made, and I began to scream again. This seemed to satisfy her, so she
did it a great deal more. I do not know how long this went on: I knew
nothing but these searingly beautiful sensations. Gradually they slowed,
and she retracted the hood of my clitoris, pulling it back really tight,
stretching it and my labia as far as they would comfortably go. Then, with
extreme delicacy, she began to touch with one Þnger-nail. I kept
screaming: she was burning and prickling me, but I wanted this to go on
for ever. My clitoris is not large, but it felt about the size of a
hockey-pitch. Her Þngernail wandered about unpredictably, Þrst hunting out
the most sensitive places, then tickling them, Þrst one and then another,
making me yell every time she switched from one set of maddened
nerve-endings to another. Again, I don't know how long she kept this up,
but when I felt those wonderful Þngernails begin lightly stimulating my
anus, the Þrestorm began.

I expect you know how it goes: there's this wonderful, growing pleasure,
and then it crests and the contractions start, and gradually the pleasure
ebbs away until you feel really sensitive and peaceful and þuttery. Well,
it was early on in the contractions--and believe me they were wrenchingly
powerful--she started to do what she had done to herself--she þurried her
Þngers really fast on my aching, Þzzing clitoris. It was unbearable, but I
could not stop it; it was maddening, my body was going into a kind of
panic, but it was overcoming me again, and--oh God! I was weakening, I was
crumbling, oh! sweet surrender!--and at once it blossomed into more of
that searing, ravishing, intoxicatingly sweet clitoral sparkle which young
girls Þnd so impossibly addictive; and I was back on the climb again, the
tension was mounting excruciatingly, and wicked, wicked Fiona slowed down
and held me there, so cruel, so patient, and I was quivering... yes...
no.. yes, yes... a little scream, I just had to... and then crash!

I went over the top once more, and all the terrible Þerce pleasure
dissolved into those lovely, warm, squeezing contractions where you feel
so safe and cuddly. Yet time and again she would not let me rest, but
would begin again to þutter my outraged clitoris, and at Þrst it was like
a shock of mains electricity, and I would incoherently beg her to stop,
and then it would tickle so mightily, until I wanted it to tickle, I
wanted to scream and die again, and die I surely did.

I don't know what decided her to stop; whether it was simply her own
fatigue, or whether she took her cue from the lust-raddled, debased,
cackling laughter which she Þnally evoked by her furious tickling of my
blazing clitoris as she roused me from yet another exhausted stupor. When
the tickling turned to hot, jolting, maddening ecstasy and my exhausted
muscles cramped in that Þnal, painful rictus, my screams no more than a
tortured croak, she suddenly relented: just pressed down and stilled her
hand, and I fell, plummeted into the abyss.

And a huge, bird-like monster seemed to þay my body open--thighs, arms,
belly--and lick my sinews and my entrails with a big, soft, loving, silly
tongue, and I was laughing and laughing as on and on this crazy licking
went, shooting up my vagina, round and round my lungs and oooh! ha! ha!
all around my heart, on and on, hee! hee! around my womb and ovaries, on
and on, slower and slower, and I was crying and giggling in high-pitched,
bubbly, little-girl laughter, an innocent little girl again, and I was oh,
so safe--how it makes me cry to feel so safe!--and that tongue so tickles
my kidneys--and my tight little infant womb again--oh my God! and
again--what a tongue!--and then the monster is gone, and I am miraculously
sewn up, whole again, shivering, shuddering. Lord Jesus!

And there, looking down at me in cool appraisal, was Fiona Blythe-Carter.
Finally she released the pressure on my satiated cunt.

"That's how you do it properly," she said with just a trace of
self-satisfaction.

And I'm helpless with laughter again, laughing until my ribs hurt, my face
sore with tears. Eventually I calm down and my breath comes back with
deep, contented sobs, and I lie still, breathing normally, a good girl
again.

"I suppose we'd better be going back now," she remarked, ever prosaic,
ever practical.

I struggled to get up and into my clothes. I almost fell. My head was
whirling. There were spots before my eyes. Dear God, was this reality?

She didn't make any move to help me. She seemed to like my swaying and
stumbling. It proved that she had done a good job. Eventually, we
struggled out into the blinding bright sunshine. I was still involuntarily
giggling, intoxicated by a mixture of inexplicable happiness, the fresh
memory of astonishing genital pleasure and utter, blissful satiation.

"Oh, that was wonderful, wonderful..." I babbled. She smiled cheerily at me.

"Yes." she said, pleased that her skills had produced a satisfactory
result, but otherwise unmoved. She behaved exactly as if we had been
working together on a Latin unseen, and done a fairly good job of it.

At the time I could not understand, only accept. I was humbled, awestruck.
But not guilty. Guilt somehow just didn't belong. I was freed from my
burden of lust, totally asexual, þoating like a disembodied angel.

Had I really done all those things? And as for her--was she not on the
face of it the most perverted, abandoned person I could possibly meet? And
yet she was calm, detached, in control. There was nothing driven about her
behaviour. There was I, still quietly struggling against the ghost of
guilt and shame about sex; yet her quiet, determined competence--manifest
even in the superb technique of her masturbation--seemed to invest her
with dignity. It was as if she mastered sex by being good at it, whereas
most of us tried to hide from it.

Gradually, during the long walk back, normality began to impinge upon my
euphoria, and I began to think about the time. It was Þve o'clock (which
meant that if we had spent Þve minutes dressing, and she had spent--what?
twenty minutes masturbating, maybe half an hour, then she had had me on
cloud nine for over an hour and a half)! Meanwhile, I had missed a lesson,
and so presumably had she. We spent most of the way back discussing a
suitable excuse, and by the time we were back in the school grounds we
were fairly conÞdent--and, as it proved, rightly--that we could avoid any
unpleasantness. Just before we parted, she said,

"We could have another walk some time, if you feel like it."

"I... I'd love to," I stammered. In fact, I'd do almost anything.

"If we met on a Sunday, we could have more time. I could perhaps teach you
a few things."

"That would be great."

"Well, thanks for the company. See you around."

"Yes, er... see you around, Fiona."

That was the Þrst time I had used her name.

That night, as I drifted off to sleep, God looked down on me and loved me,
clad as I was in my virginal white baptismal robe. I did not masturbate
for three whole days, and I was as pretty as a picture, and as good as
gold.

And then my naughty guardian angel began to tickle me, gently, whenever I
wasn't watching. I blushed, and my nipples got hard, and my hips kept
swaying as I walked, and my clothes touched my skin, and I rushed down the
corridor, collapsed in the toilet and frigged myself over and over and
over.

Gradually, over the next few days, I got myself straight again.