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

For a year or two I struggled with my habit, living under a cloud of guilt
pierced by only a ray of hope. And then two things happened which lifted
the cloud for ever.

The Þrst was bizarre, but without it the second could never have happened.

I had entered an end-of-term essay prize competition for a religious
essay. I'd done one on morals and the deliberateness of an action. I had
used as one of my examples a starving person being tempted to steal. That
was what I wrote about, but of course I was thinking of another, quite
different temptation, one which affected me more directly.

About a week after I'd done the essay, I twisted my ankle badly while
fooling around with some friends, and I was sent to the inÞrmary for two
days. The nun in charge of the inÞrmary was a very strict, fearsome old
thing, but she could be kindly. Morning, afternoon and evening she would
take off the tight elastic bandage and examine my ankle. She would pull
back the sheets, sit on the bed and put my ankle in her lap while she did
this. When she had the bandage back on again, she would do what she called
"checking my plantar reþex", to make sure there was no damage. She held my
foot very Þrmly, and told me to keep very quiet, and just breathe deeply
through my nose. Then gently, very gently, she would stroke the sole of my
foot up and down with one Þnger. I had to grasp the side-rails of the bed
with all my force to prevent myself from crying out. I would shut my eyes
to try to blot out the extraordinary feelings. She would do it for quite a
long time, and then she'd suddenly grunt, "Hmph! Seems all right!" and put
my leg back under the bed-clothes with a little affectionate pat. Each
time, after she left, I would experience a Þerce urge to masturbate. The
Þrst couple of times she did it, it felt like torture. But after a while I
found myself quite enjoying it. Because I was alone in the sick-room, I
could let myself go a little. It was easy: I was only wearing a little
short inÞrmary gown which hardly covered my crotch. Besides, I was bored,
and there was nothing much else to do.

On the second day, I had just had a brilliant orgasm and was still hot and
panting when she came briskly into my sick-room, without even knocking at
the door. My hand was still in my crotch. I was terriÞed! She had been
outside, listening to me! Even if she had not, my face was purple, I was
still shuddering. There was no way she wouldn't know what I had been
doing. It was the worst moment of my life.

But she just stood there, grinning at me, looking into my þushed face.
"Well, well. Well, well. You little minx!" She beamed and nodded
knowingly. "I have some wonderful news for you, you little minx! That
essay you wrote for the prize? It has won you not only the prize, but a
scholarship as well!"

The news took a few moments to sink in, but then I was exultant. And the
sister seemed even more delighted than I, and treated me like a little
angel for the rest of the day.

Now for some time past I had been anxiously praying to God to show me some
little sign, to tell me whether he wanted me to continue struggling
against my habit, or whether he was going to forgive me. Every time I
masturbated, I'd wait to see if something good or bad happened. Nothing
ever did, until that day. And it had been like a miracle. The sister had
been so happy about bringing the marvellous news that she had not even
noticed my post-orgasmic glow. I was a little angel who could do no wrong.
And I suppose, if she shared the general prejudice that it was the big,
fat, unattractive girls who masturbated, she would never suspect me in any
case: I was small, spry and pretty. I felt sure that God had given me a
sign that he did not condemn me, and I began to feel better about myself
and my habit.

That afternoon, the foot-stroking was unusually prolonged, and sister
smiled at me as she did it, saying what a good, clever girl I was. Whether
it was the stroking or the praise, or the combination, I don't know: but
my cunt was almost gushing by the time she left. Alas, it was to be my
last, as I was discharged from the inÞrmary after supper. But that
afternoon, I had a wonderful celebratory orgasm, even better than the one
the sister had so nearly interrupted. For the Þrst time since the early
days, I felt as if I deserved it, and completely enjoyed it. But my
orgasms were much stronger now, and without the tempering effect of guilt
it was mind-blowing. I had to have a little doze afterwards, just to
recover.

I often wondered afterwards why she stroked my foot so much, and
particularly after the good news had been received. Did she think she was
rewarding me in some way? Was it a sign of affection?

Thinking about it much later, I cannot quite believe that when she came in
to announce the news she could have been ignorant of what I was doing. Was
that why she had looked so long into my þushed face, and called me a
little minx, when she broke the good news? Perhaps, while my hands were
clamped around the bed-rails, my eyes screwed shut, trying not to scream,
as she held my leg up, with my little short inÞrmary gown up around my
waist, there was nothing to stop her watching my young cunt engorge and
þower, my clitoris descend and peep out under its hood while she stroked
and stroked me. Is that why she took so long over it? Perhaps she knew
very well about my masturbation and deliberately excited me, secretly
enjoying my involuntary arousal as I struggled to stop myself crying out.
Did she creep up and listen to me squirming and gasping in masturbatory
delight afterwards? Sometimes I just can't bring myself to believe it, and
put it down to my own dirty mind. But I think that if I'd been in her
place, that's exactly what I would have done--before scurrying off to
relieve myself in turn, of course.

--- IV ---

I was just Þfteen now, and my breasts were ripening nicely. During the
Easter vacation I began admiring myself in the mirror, and touching myself
to watch my arousal. Now that I felt God was not angry with me, and still
loved me, I began to enjoy my orgasms more and I tried to remember to
thank him for my pleasure, thank him for giving me a clitoris to play
with. I enjoyed holding a mirror to my crotch and watching the entrancing,
supple movements of my clitoris and labia as I tickled, stroked and
rubbed. They looked so strange, but they felt so wonderful that after a
while I convinced myself that they were beautiful.

But the next term brought with it the revolutionary event, the event which
turned my life upside-down once again.

I had slipped into one of the lavatory cubicles to relieve my itching
clitoris--something I did almost daily now. I was having a nice, relaxed
rub, feeling the sensations begin to build, when a girl came quickly into
the cubicle beside me. I'm not normally curious, but there was something
strange about this girl. She was panting, for one thing: it looked as if
she was stripping off more clothes than usual. And then I saw her foot and
ankle underneath the partition. This was indeed extraordinary: her
position suggested that she was kneeling with her top half resting on the
lavatory-seat, facing the back of the cubicle. I heard a good deal of
rustling and heavy breathing. What she was doing was extraordinary, but
the only explanation I could think of was that she was either mad or
masturbating in some strange way. And when she let out some gasps and
grunts, I knew that I had met a fellow practitioner. My heart was
hammering. She had nice slender ankles, from what I could see, and the
thought that they were at that moment experiencing the lovely, tickly
post-orgasmic þutters spurred my own efforts considerably. I couldn't
suppress my own moan, and I think I heard a low chuckle. Then she banged
out of the cubicle, not even bothering to þush the toilet--which I always
did--and the outer door slammed. I waited a few moments to be sure I was
alone. Then I went to it, rubbing uninhibitedly, encouraged by my
erstwhile neighbour. I could not withhold a squeal of exultation as a
particularly pointed rapier of pleasure pierced my quivering womb and
trembled there, excoriating, pinning me in a rictus of delighted anguish,
before insolently releasing my quivering, grateful corpse; and I sank
down, my furious contractions beating a sweet, slowly decelerating tattoo,
and I came to myself, a sweaty, shuddering but very content self. I kept
shivering and shuddering, and withdrew my hand carefully, for even now its
least movement threatened to re-ignite a further cataclysm. My ecstatic,
bestial grunts and gasps echoed in my ears as I waited a few minutes for
my breathing to subside and my þush to dissipate; then I demurely þushed
the toilet and went out to wash my hands. Standing by the door, eyeing me
curiously, was Fiona Blythe-Carter. She knew. She had to.

She had been in my dormitory during the introductory Þrst term and we had
been quite friendly for a short time; but then we moved on to different
houses and associated with very different people. She was in with the wild
crowd in a house which had a reputation for lax discipline. We were more
or less strangers now. I blushed as I felt her staring at me. Was this the
girl who had just masturbated in the cubicle next to mine? It had to be.

"Well, well," she said non-committally, and walked out, leaving me in some
confusion. I hoped and prayed that she wouldn't gossip about what I had
been doing. She was the Þrst person to discover my habit. I had to be more
careful. But then, I knew about hers, too, so perhaps she'd keep my
secret. I was perturbed: there were rumours that she wasn't a
Catholic--these things were supposed to be kept a secret, partly I suppose
because the school claimed not to take non-Catholic girls. Certainly she
seemed on good terms with a number of the prefects in her house, and was
often to be seen drinking coffee in their rooms. Also, her parents were
reputed to be extremely rich. Perhaps that's why the prefects were on such
good terms with her: hoping for an invitation to a society event where
they could meet rich, handsome society young men.

There were also rumours that the non-Catholic girls frigged shamelessly,
the lucky things, because in their religion it wasn't a sin.

After a while I forgot about this embarrassing incident, except when we
passed one another in the corridor. Every time I saw her I would blush,
but she would just smile and say "Hi!" with her rather ugly, lop-sided
smile. There was something fearless, unrestrained about her.

I thought less and less about Fiona and the embarrassing incident. Fiona's
name came up in conversation one day, though, when one of my friends
mentioned a rumour that Fiona had been seen going through other girls'
pockets in one of the changing-rooms. Perhaps because I was mindful of the
power of rumour, particularly in connexion with Fiona, I at once leaped to
her defence, angrily denouncing the tittle-tattle and declaring that even
if there were any truth in it, which I had and still have every reason to
doubt--the correct thing was to report such matters to the proper
authorities, not gossip about them. My friends were quite shocked by my
reaction, I think: they were careful not to spread slanderous gossip in my
presence for days afterwards.

And then, one afternoon when I suppose we were both wandering about idly,
thinking of something to do with our free time, Fiona and I just happened
to bump into one another, and she started talking to me.

"You at a bit of a loose end too?"

"Yes, I suppose I am at the moment. Why?"

"We could go for a walk. I know an interesting place."

"Oh really?"

"Yes," she lowered her voice, "down on the old railway-line. I discovered
it only the other day."

It sounded vaguely exciting. It was a beautiful afternoon. Why not?

She wasn't exactly ugly, but she certainly wasn't pretty. She was
extremely thin, her face pinched and bony, with an over-large nose. There
was something snake-like about her--perhaps it was something about the way
she moved--and something sly, sinuous. She started asking me about my
religious essay. Was I religious? Clearly she didn't know me very well.
Yes, I admitted, I supposed I was religious.

"I don't know, really," she said meditatively. "Sometimes I think there's
such a lot of crap that they teach, really. But I expect some of it is
true."

I didn't want to get into a theological discussion with this girl. I knew
she was not in the academic front rank: I was, and she wasn't in any of my
classes. We had some desultory conversation. She kept asking me questions
about my work, my interests and so on. I think she was going through the
motions of being agreeable and getting to know me, but not really
succeeding. I resolved to be equally amiable and polite, but I could not
deceive myself: something about her manner irritated me profoundly. I
decided that I didn't really like her much at all. There was something
curiously detached about her manner, as if she was studying me for an
examination, as if I were a curio. There was a wall between us. Then she
said something which very much surprised me, and which went to prove how
gossip travelled in our school community.

"I heard that you stuck up for me recently, in a rather slanderous little
conversation. That was courageous and honest of you. I just wanted to say
thanks."

"When? Oh, that..." I remembered. "Well, I don't like gossip."

"It's a substitute for masturbation," she laughed, almost to herself, but
I found it very amusing and laughed with her. She looked at me a little
curiously.

There was something so strange, so distant about her manner, as if she
didn't really like me any more than I liked her. I looked at her hands.
She had really long Þnger-nails. I thought they looked ugly. No scholarly
girl would dream of wearing her Þnger-nails like that. Yet she was
obviously aristocratic--she had just a trace of a drawl, carefully
suppressed, I suspect--and long nails were unfashionable then, except
among the lower classes, who had no taste.

"And they say that masturbation causes moral degeneration!" I said. It was
unusual, using that word "masturbation": the universal term was
"frigging". "Masturbation" didn't sound much prettier, but at least it
didn't have the same sneering connotation.

"Frustration always screws you up, I say," said Fiona in a forthright
manner. "Look at those nuns. They tell you that it makes you ill, saps
your energy, dulls your brains, you name it--and it's all complete
rubbish. Actually my nanny said it was good for you: tones the muscles of
the womb, makes it easier having a baby."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, apparently. You know--when you get the contractions, at the end?"

"Mmm."

"Yeah, I love that bit. Oh God I want to do it... I'm feeling really randy
today. It's such a great feeling, I love it. What about you? Once a day?
More?"

I knew she knew. There was no point denying it.

"Sometimes more," I murmured, and immediately felt a wonderful lightness.
The Þrst time I had confessed!

"Good for you!" she said, not looking at me, not seeming particularly
surprised or interested.

"The way I look at it, humans naturally seek pleasure and avoid pain.
That's how we're made, right?"

"Right!" she said, very categorically.

"And so if God puts on our bodies things which give us pleasure..."

"...And just for that reason!" she interrupted.

"...Yes, that's so, which are specially designed just for our pleasure..."

"Of course there's nothing wrong with it. Those nuns are just jealous.
They can't bear to think of us enjoying our young bodies. If they can't
frighten you out of doing it altogether, at least they can spoil it for
you by burdening you with guilt. OK, I know some girls say that they don't
feel the need or want to do it. Maybe. I dunno. But I need it, that's for
sure, and nobody's going to stop me doing it. It's my body, and I do what
I like with it."

I didn't quite go along with the last bit, but what she said about the
nuns seemed plausible. I didn't argue. I nodded.

While we talked, we reached the old railway--the tracks had been taken up
years back, and now it was just a deserted gravel track, way out in the
middle of the countryside, with a few old lumps and stumps of rusting
machinery lying here and there by the trackside. It was silent, warm and
sunny, and we were refreshingly free, free of the constant surveillance of
the nuns, the prefects, everybody. We walked a good long way. I at least
was rapt in our conversation. I'd never had the freedom to talk about the
secret vice to another human being, and it was a considerable relief to be
able to do so at last. Somehow the fact that I didn't know her, wasn't
intimate with her in school, made it all the easier. Soon she was telling
me all about the crazy places she'd masturbated around the school--even in
the confessionals! I was amazed she'd never been caught, but she assured
me she hadn't.

"I'm pretty careful," she said, with that sly, irritating sideways leer.

Then I told her about my years of guilt and anguish, about how I'd learned
to masturbate silently at night in the dormitory.

"But when you do it really slowly like that, it feels pretty incredible,
doesn't it?" she said knowingly.

"Mind-blowing. If only I'd been able to make a noise, it would have been
better."

And so we prattled on. And of course, talking and thinking about it made
me wet. I could almost feel my clitoris rubbing against my panties as we
walked on and on.

Eventually she stopped me.

"Have you ever done it with someone else?"

"No, of course not!" I cried piously.

"Why not? Remember that time in the toilet? I sort of thought I might get
you going. That's why I waited: to see if you would do it. Admit it: it
drove you wild, didn't it?"

I nodded in silence. It was true.

"See? God! We're going to have such fun! And there's a place near here
where we can do it. Nobody knows about it, only me."

I was blushing furiously. I'd forgotten about Minnie. I had done it with
another girl, many times. And now... my rational self told me I had no
choice but to play along with her, or she could blackmail me; but
physically, my craving for orgasm was approaching pain, and the prospect
of sharing the experience with another girl, especially one who was as it
were a sympathetic stranger, just made it all the more dreadfully
exciting.

"But where is it, this place? Is it far?"

She chuckled as I betrayed my eagerness, my desperation. It was not a
delighted chuckle, such as Minnie might have given, but more cold-blooded,
as if things were going perfectly to plan.

"Look around. Now. Just look around. Do you see it?"

I looked. We were presently in a cutting, just beside a bridge. The sides
of the cutting were deeply wooded. Apart from the birds, there was not
another creature for miles. But I didn't see what she was talking about.
Then she pointed. Yes... sure enough, some thick undergrowth concealed an
old wooden hut, recessed into the side of the cutting.

"Come in and have a look," she said.

It was dark, but reasonably clean. There wasn't much in there: an old,
tatty armchair, a hard wooden chair, a table and a heavy oak bench. There
was a crude broom made of a stick, leaves, twigs and a bit of string,
leaning in the corner. "I cleaned it up a bit," she said, "not too much.
Well, it's three o'clock now. We've got an hour. There's nobody else
around for miles. So we can just enjoy some nice, peaceful sex and nobody
will know a damn thing--except us. Okay?"

She was stripping off her clothes and piling them neatly on the table,
even as she spoke.

"Hardly anyone ever comes out here, and even if they did, we'd hear them
coming a mile off. You'd better get your clothes off too, you don't want
to get them dirty. The table's clean. More or less."

I was in a state of dull shock. I was going to have to strip like a
prostitute before this stranger; it was something which kindled a sense,
not of shame, but of degradation, of worthlessness. And yet it was a sense
of freedom. Our conversation had swept away much of my inhibition. I was
facing the inevitable: I needed this, it was too good to resist, and I was
a complete slut. And yet she was so matter-of-fact, so businesslike about
it, it was as if shame did not exist. Nor was she in the least
self-conscious about being naked. She was so close, I could smell her. She
was not particularly attractive, being so thin, but nor was she repulsive,
either. Actually she had extremely nice legs. It was just shocking being
together with a naked stranger like this. No, she was not repulsive: she
had very tiny breasts, and then I was amazed to see that she had shaved
off all her pubic hair. She saw me staring. Her clitoris and inner labia
were protruding noticeably. She was very ready. Without a mat of pubic
hair to hide in, they looked very shocking, very provocative.

"Do you like it? I love to tickle around my cunt it and it feels so much
better shaved like this. God! I've got to get on with it or I'll go nuts.
I don't mind you watching. You might learn something. Just keep quiet and
don't interrupt, because I want to concentrate. Oh, this is going to be
great!"

With that, she carefully got down on the bench and lay þat on her back;
then raised both her legs up and swung them until her knees were touching
her breasts. My heart was pounding almost painfully at the sheer brutal
reality of it all. I could not have imagined this happening, not in my
wildest thoughts, not if I had fantasized for a million years.

"Actually, if you want to help, you could just hold my feet there," she
said, as if there were nothing at all extraordinary about this. "Saves me
moving the bench against the wall. Thanks."

Then she reached around her thighs and began tickling them with her long
nails. I could hear them swishing along her skin. Sometimes her Þngers
glided slowly, and sometimes they scrabbled and ran about like tiny
animals, all apparently scurrying in different directions. "When you can't
get a hand-shower, this makes a pretty good substitute," she remarked, and
then from time to time, "mmmm!" or "Oh, nice, nice!" as she pleasured
herself with her busy, tickling Þngers. Compared with Minnie's rather
matter-of-fact rubbing, this was searingly erotic. She was tickling
herself, teasing herself, deliberately arousing herself to a pitch of
sexual need, and revelling in it as she did so. My pussy was burning. I
had taken off my skirt and panties, and enjoyed the feeling of nakedness.
I watched her hands like a hawk, listened to her breathing. I was
mesmerized.

Gradually her scrabbling Þngers reached her bottom, where they played a
long while, until I could see the juice welling in her vulva. Then, still
reaching around the backs of her thighs, she began to stretch her vulval
lips, dragging and distorting and þexing them, never directly touching her
clitoris but holding her liquid cunt wide open, teasing and stroking it
with an incredible voluptuousness. I marvelled at the elasticity and
mobility of her labia as she stretched and tormented them. Her Þngers
worked ceaselessly, it seemed sometimes independently and sometimes as a
team, ever stretching those gaping, liquid labia in a new place while an
opposite Þnger would lightly, sensuously tickle the tightly-stretched þesh
with its long, curved nail.

Soon she was sobbing "oh, oh, oh", paddling at the folds of þesh, drawing
them apart, letting them slip together, then parting them again. When she
raked her Þngernail across the very sensitive upper part of the labia, it
seemed to send her into a frenzy. I couldn't take my eyes off the
wonderful, elastic þesh, slippery with aromatic nectar, þexing and
twisting erotically under her titillating, scurrying Þngernails. I was
bewitched. My excitement when she reached orgasm was so great that I felt
contractions myself, and more of my own juice seeped out. It was like a
mini-orgasm, without my even having touched myself.

"Let go now!" she said urgently, and her feet dropped to the þoor.
"There's more, more, another one..." her voice grated, and she began to
rub herself harder now, more like the traditional frigging I was used to,
more desperate, less erotic. "Oh yes, oh yes..." she breathed as her
excitement caught again; her rubbing slowed right down, and she was
trembling on the brink once more, prolonging those searingly beautiful
clitoral sensations just as they mounted to their peak. She did this
several times, her hand slowing to a hypnotically sensuous stroke at the
apex, and then þurrying once more to revive and renew the nervous storm. I
looked on, astounded at this unprecedented display of sexual voracity,
watching her rib cage expand and contract, her scrawny nipples Þercely
erect, her eyes rolling, her tongue þicking madly as she gasped for
breath, until the Þnal orgasm had her drumming her feet on the þoor, taut
as a ship's cable, her face in an agonized grimace; and then she fell back
inert, clutching her cunt tightly with both hands, her legs clamped
together.

By now I was shivering, panting, beside myself with sexual excitement.
Never had I dreamed that masturbation could be like this. And when she had
recovered herself, she seemed full of a new vitality. It was my turn, and
she would help me to have the time of my life.

"We've got loads of time, so make the most of it! It would be crazy to
waste it with just a quick frig. OK?"

She was so cool about it, but my heart was hammering out of sheer sexual
excitement. There was no chemistry between us: it was just pure,
undirected sexual desire. Whatever she had just experienced, I wanted
some.

"Come over here. If I sit down..."--she sat in the musty old
armchair--"you sort of lie across my lap, with your bum up on the arm,
like this, and I can hold your legs."

She helped me into position, not caressing me, not roughly, just efÞciently.

"Is your neck all right?"

It was not ideal, but at least it was more or less cushioned on the arm of
the chair. As it turned out, this enabled my head to fall back, which was
not too uncomfortable at all.