"Scales and Arpeggios" Part 5 [last]  (ff 1st)

I had two more outings with Fiona that summer, and six the following term.
But from Þrst to last, the only contact we had in school was for the
express purpose of making our arrangements. More than once we left the
school grounds independently and met on the old railway, not wishing to
attract even the most casual attention. I often think it strange that even
with our shared secret, our co-conspiracy, there was no real rapport
between us. Ours was like a business relationship, but our business was
pleasure.

I didn't Þnd myself liking her any the more, despite the wonderful,
thrilling hours she spent studiously pleasuring me. But I began to enjoy
the look and feel of her body more, perhaps because of its capacity to
receive and show pleasure.

On the other hand, something about Fiona frightened me. There seemed
something almost psychopathic about her. You hear of these people:
impulsive, dangerous, violent, with no conscience, absolutely no feeling
for the rest of the human race. It just pleases them to torture, frighten,
or whatever. In some ways Fiona was like that. Perhaps she had a
predilection for the reaction to extreme pleasure, which I'm told
resembles that of extreme pain. Perhaps she enjoyed the sense of power, of
being able to reduce an intelligent girl to a mindless, writhing,
cavorting animal for hours at a stretch. Or perhaps all she really cared
for was physical pleasure, that everything else, personal contact
included, was just a means to that end. Perhaps, as you often hear about
very rich families, there was never any affection between parents and
children, just a succession of nursemaids and nannies; and so perhaps
Fiona found a substitute in sex. For there was no human warmth at all in
her. And yet she was civil, always respectful, never in the least
spiteful, let alone violent. She seemed to have almost no sense of humour.
She would never caress, kiss or hug. She was nothing like Minnie, with her
smiles and giggles as she watched me succumb to her sweet seduction. Fiona
was bright-eyed, determined, deadly efÞcient and totally impersonal. So I
would just retreat into my inner world of sensation and become totally
absorbed in it. I think perhaps that heightened and intensiÞed the
experience for me: sex with Fiona was the ultimate masturbation; and I
think that is what she wanted for me, too.

Of course, we chatted as we walked the three or four miles to our little
hut. She was quite interested in science. I wasn't, but talking about
chemicals was mutually preferable to gossip. Oddly enough, she was
particularly interested in stain removal, and taught me several useful
things. Usually I found her opinions rather objectionable, although I
didn't show it, preferring to remain as non-commital as possible. Once or
twice, though, and particularly when it related to matters sexual, she
could be very interesting. One time, for example, it went something like
this:

"I reckon more than half the girls in my house masturbate."

"As many as that? I don't believe it. I'm sure it's nothing like that in
my house."

"Ha! You wouldn't know!"

"Well, how do you know?"

"Michelle C--- and..."--here she named three of the prefects--"they frig
like rabbits themselves, so they don't try to stop the girls in the dorm
when they're on duty. They just watch and listen, and they see who does it
and who doesn't. Pretty well all the prefects do."

"Wow!"

"Some of the girls in the dorm are pretty sneaky about it, too. Like you!"

I laughed.

"But quite often there's something to give it away."

"Like what?"

"Like if you hold your breath, or move very suddenly. Ha! Ha! And some
people just completely lose control, and don't even know what it is
they're doing."

During the summer holidays, I grew my Þngernails long, though nowhere as
long as Fiona's. They were long enough to make piano-playing impossible,
however. I wasn't particularly good at the piano anyway, and as I said, I
was more interested in playing a very different instrument. The feelings I
could give myself by gently scratching with those nails on my bald cunt
would have justiÞed far greater sacriÞces than my piano-playing. There was
some unpleasantness about my giving up, but I was adamant.

The Þrst few sessions I had with Fiona that autumn term don't stand out so
clearly in my memory. Partly that may have been because by now I was
becoming more used to what we were doing; and besides, my masturbation was
beneÞting from Fiona's lessons. But Fiona didn't have quite the same
sparkle, and I suspect there was some inner sadness, some personal matter
which was weighing on her mind. About three sessions in a row, we
contented ourselves with warm, lazy sixty-nining, during which I practised
my tongue-þuttering to fairly good effect. We probably came more times
between us, and certainly stumbled away almost drunk with sexual
satisfaction. There were no complaints, but the Þzz seemed to have
deserted her. I guess we all have our off periods.

And then I spotted an eye-bolt in the heavy oak beam of the roof of our
little hut. I conceived a new and creative use for my new-grown talons
which proved immensely distracting for Fiona. I tied her wrists and hauled
them high above her head, stretching her so that her skinny ribs were
thrown into even greater prominence. The ribs of a very skinny girl,
especially when she is stretched like that, can provide hours of amusement
for both donor and recipient. I think it was on our fourth tryst of the
autumn that I Þrst did this, and it became a favourite ingredient of our
sessions thereafter.

Whereas Fiona was very focused on the crotch area, I knew instinctively
that there were many other regions where great pleasure is to be had, and
we discovered that the mere experience of being titillated from head to
toe makes the Þnal orgasm that much more liberated, more total: you can
thrash in complete abandon, like free-fall.

Up to that point, it was always Fiona who had taken the lead. But once I
had her helpless, it was I who suddenly became inventive. I stood behind
her, watching her body swaying, considering what would be the best way to
start. She became a little nervous, and asked me what I was doing. So I
reached around to her mound, where I knew she loved to be tickled, and
started my play. But to her initial disappointment, and increasing
outrage, I worked my way upwards, not downwards, and soon was teasing her
ribs and sides and underarms. She didn't really like attention on her
upper body, but despite her initial protests, my sensuous rib and tummy
tickles instantly turned her areolae into hard, red little pointy cones.
And even though I didn't fancy her at all, the way she moved, squirming
and twisting, was so beautifully erotic that I began to go a little mad.
When I Þnally let her come, it was a whopper, and I know she was only
pretending to be angry.

I was, and thank the Lord I still am, attractive, with a nice body, which
I keep in good shape, both for my own pleasure and my lover's. I know I
was beautiful then.

(During the holidays, whenever I found myself alone at home, I would strip
off and admire myself in the big bedroom mirror, stroking and teasing
myself. And then I would put my bean-bag at just the right angle so that I
could continue to admire myself while I embarked on that delicious
self-pleasuring which Fiona taught me, and which I called the "accordion":
I'd raise my Þne, shapely legs up in the air and, reaching around, sweep
my long nails around the backs of my thighs (practising my scales and
arpeggios), then stretch and relax my inner labia. It would have looked
really weird if they'd been fat and ugly, but the sight in the mirror of
those smooth, lanky limbs slowly bicycling in autoerotic bliss made my
cunt gape like the beak of a hungry þedgling in the nest, and I'd just
have to feed its voracious appetite with light, Þngertip pecks and
twitches until the juice ran all over me, and I'd have to give in and
erupt in a storm of frantic, ecstatic cunt-stretching.)

So I was not entirely surprised, when it was Fiona's turn to tie me up for
a torso-tickling session, that she betrayed a sign of physical attraction.
I was squirming and jerking as she worked on my sides and underarms, but I
was loving every moment of it.

"I love the way your breasts bounce. They're really pretty." And she gave
them a little suckle, which was almost a kiss. This thrilled me as much as
the wonderful sensations from those fantastic, swirling Þngernails of
hers, and I think we were both surprised when I turned to gooseþesh and
started to orgasm spectacularly. And then, shuddering and hyper-sensitive
as I was, she gave me the longest and most spectacular cunt-tickling of my
life. It drove me crazy, all the more so as I could see that she was back
to her usual cool, detached self again.

And apart from that one incident, she never kissed me, hugged me or showed
any sign of attraction: just a determination to give and receive searing
pleasure. I don't know in retrospect whether that lack of personal warmth
really detracted from the experience, as I used to think, or whether in
fact it enhanced it. Perhaps neither. Perhaps pleasure just is.

On what was to be our last rendezvous, Fiona confessed that I had taught
her something, Þnally. And I feel that I did actually achieve a little
piece of artistry which impressed even her. I tied her to the bench, and
then gave her a dual attack: Þngernails gently on ribs, sides and belly,
while just resting my tongue between her labia and giving it the
occasional little shiver. I tantalized her for ages: the tickling
distracts from the orgasm, but takes the arousal, the need, to
excruciating heights. She blacked out after that one; but was civil enough
to return the compliment. Maybe that was the best time. I don't know. Too
many superlatives to choose from.

It was early November, and just starting to get chilly. The weather was
turning against us--we had been lucky with an incredibly long Indian
Summer--and the prospect offered by the trackside hut was becoming just a
little daunting. We settled for separate pleasures over the winter months,
but continued coolly to greet one another when we met in the corridors or
in the refectory. But I could never forget those wonderfully intense
experiences, and when the next spring bloomed warm and radiant, I raised
an eyebrow at Fiona one day in the corridor.

"Sorry... I've got a play on at the moment," she told me, "and I won't be
free for a few weeks yet."

A few weeks, and again I raised my eyebrow at her. This time, she just
shook her head and avoided my eyes. I suspected that someone else was
having lessons from this walking, talking sex manual.

Consumed with curiosity, I made my way alone to the hut one Saturday
afternoon. I had been right, by heavens! I crept as stealthily as I could
until I was just outside the window. Although it was heavy-built, in the
stillness of the countryside I could even hear their panting inside that
resonant box. I could hear kissing, too, low endearments being uttered.
Gradually the groans and moans began as they excited one another. I felt a
twinge of jealousy, but in another way I was slightly relieved. I had
learned enough by now to keep myself awake until dawn, shivering and
bucking with sweet self-stimulation. Perhaps I'd Þnd someone more
interesting to frolic with, someone who would be a companion in satiation
as well as in lust. I withdrew to a safe distance, concealed by
undergrowth, and relaxed, my panties over my face, my lovely long nails
scrabbling exquisitely over the sensitive backs of my thighs. God! I loved
this feeling, and I hadn't even got close to my cunt yet! I was still
tickling myself silly when they emerged a couple of hours later. They had
been pretty loud: apparently Þerce tickling had taken its place in Fiona's
repertoire. I was glad I'd left my mark.

When they stumbled out, they seemed giggly and drunk.

"So if I left the monastery and took my mother's þat, would you come and
live with me, Fiona?" her new companion was asking.

"Of course not, you daft bitch. I'd rather join the monastery myself! An
endless supply of pretty girls..."

"Oh, Fiona, you are dreadful. Do you think we could Þnd a nice ticklish
little fourth-former to bring down here one day, and..."

I looked lazily out after them as they stumbled out of earshot, dreaming
of the mischief a popular young nun and a randy schoolgirl might get up
to, if they were suitably discreet and prudent in their choice of victim.
And then the feel of those lovely long Þngernails of mine on my inner lips
was just so fantastic, I just couldn't hold it in any longer. It was a
damn sight better than playing the piano, this virtuoso ten-Þnger exercise
on my gaping, ecstatic concertina.

And that sealed the end of our relationship--if you could call it a
relationship. Often still I recall the Þerce excitement of it: not just
the phenomenally exhilarating tactile excitement, but the heart-pounding,
dry-mouthed, gulping anticipation of gloriously secret, forbidden fun. But
I also puzzle about Fiona as a person, her extraordinary cool detachment,
her amazingly straightforward pragmatism about giving and getting the
maximum pleasure. I also wonder why, out of all the girls in the school,
she had chosen me for an affair. She obviously wasn't particularly
attracted to me--or was she? I cannot believe that it was my physical
attributes: there were plenty of very pretty girls among her immediate
associates, and I have little doubt that a girl like her would have
seduced every one of them, and enslaved most of them. And she was not
dispassionate about everything: I could tell that she loved the excitement
of carefully plotting our secret escapades just as much as I did. She was
extremely good at thinking up new excuses for missing lessons, which
happened more than once when we got particularly carried away; and she
seemed to glow with pleasure if I complimented her on their ingenuity.

Sometimes I wonder if she held herself back from me because she didn't
feel worthy: after all, I was widely perceived as one of the most
intelligent girls in the school, and also one of the most devout, the
darling of the nuns, a shining example, always being chosen to take
prospective parents on the school tour. Perhaps, too, she sensed that I
didn't really like her very much. Is it possible that in some wholly
unromantic way, she had worshipped me from afar? And then, two things
bring us together: Þrst, she Þnds me masturbating in the lavatory like a
slut. And then, second, she hears on the grape-vine that I defended her
reputation in the course of some slanderous gossip among my olympian
friends. And I wonder if it was her way of thanking me, of paying tribute
to what I was. There was only one thing she had to offer me, and it was
something I badly needed: to come to terms with my sexuality, with my need
to masturbate.

And when I think of that, I begin to wonder whether it was my manner
towards her that prevented any real intimacy between us. I know that from
the moment she Þrst stripped naked before me in that little cabin, I was
in a way just as detached as she was, absorbed in my Þnal struggle against
sexual guilt. I think she would have understood that: although she did not
feel it herself, we discussed it at length on our walks down to our little
trackside hut.

This explanation seems improbable on the emotional level, but it does Þt
the facts. I am uneasy with it, though, because it doesn't explain the
extraordinary conÞdence with which she proceeded to ravish my senses. It
was as if she saw it as her duty to seduce me.

After pondering this for many years, I think I understand. For most
people, the false shame they associate with sexual pleasure leads them to
satisfy their own needs, and in due course their lover's, in the
shabbiest, most parsimonious way possible. But for this girl, sex was
natural, just an ordinary part of being human. It was like the pleasure of
eating food. For her, there was nothing different, let alone deviant,
about sex. She liked it, she took it seriously, she did it well. Her
attitude to sex was exactly like a chef's to food. And to pursue the
analogy: she saw that I was hungry, and she fed me not on scraps, but on
the Þnest food she could Þnd. She saw that I was naked, and she clothed me
not in rags, but in the clothes she herself would like to wear. That was
how she treated a pretty, popular, intelligent, devout and morally
courageous girl who had somehow been forced to frig herself ignominiously
in a toilet.

There is one last thing which puzzles me today as much as it did on my
Þrst afternoon with Fiona. And in her turn my beloved burns with curiosity
to know how it was that I learned to play the wet accordion with such
virtuosity--she was once my þat-mate, but having once inadvertently
interrupted my practice she became in turn a captivated spectator, a
willing student and a life-long devotee. Although they are as delightful
for the audience as for the performer, solo serenades are apt to become
duets or even concertos. But such sweet music should stay as music, and
not be reduced to mere words. And although I often wonder how Fiona came
to acquire those precocious skills, I enjoy my vivid speculations all the
more for not knowing the truth. And, not wishing to destroy for my sweet
love what I so enjoy myself, I'm not going to show her this memoir: after
all, I am able to satisfy her in so many other ways. And curiosity does so
tickle the imagination, doesn't it?