melanieplayful play (part 1) 
 
 
   
 
The headmaster, Mr Harry Porter, swept into the classroom with a large ledger like book tucked under his arm. He stood at the front of the class and addressed them in stentorian tones. He then began to read from the book, the class results for the previous half-term’s work. There were fourteen subjects for fourteen hundred marks.  
“And lastly, thirty-first, Smith… come to the front, boy, and stand here.” Smith approached the head and stood with head bowed, before him. 
“Smith,” bellowed the headmaster, “you are in the B stream, in the first year, in the thirty-first position out of thirty-one boys. You are therefore, not only bottom of the class, but bottom of the whole school.” He paused for a moment to allow this news to sink in, and then went on, “I hope you will take steps during the next half-term to improve on this performance.” A single solitary tear appeared in Smith’s eye and trickled down his cheek, as he drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket to wipe his face. He looked up into the stern face staring down at him. 
“Yes sir,” he mumbled, the crushing feeling of defeat bearing in upon him, an eleven year old boy. I understood this crushing feeling. I was Smith. 
When Harry Porter left the room I thought my life could not get any worse, but it did; a horrendous car accident… intensive care in hospital with a fractured skull and broken collar bone. This was followed by weeks of recuperation and a term off school. In the third I year contracted whooping cough and missed more time from school work. I never made enough effort to catch up with it. What time I had I wasted and developed a deep melancholic outlook on life, which over the following eighteen months developed into a despair. I did not dare to hope that I would be loved by anyone. I became desperate for someone to take an interest and care for me. 
I phoned Christine… this is very much her story. She wrote it in a journal she kept at the time, allowing me to read it and record it, at a much later date. From the rather faded manuscript, in a neat biro hand, this is the tale she told… 
The phone had been ringing for some time. I woke up, realising that as I was the only one at home I needed to rush to answer it. 
“Hello,” I mumbled and vaguely recognised the voice at the other end of the line. It was the son of a business associate of my father’s. I couldn’t imagine why he was ringing me but as he spoke I had a dim recollection of us talking together about a month previously and agreeing to go out with him, but for what reason escaped me. I had planned to say, ‘yes’ to his proposal that we should meet in town somewhere and then decide what we were going to do together. When I heard his voice, it seemed quite reassuring and I was at a bit of a loose end at that moment. I would be glad to get out of the house and away from my parents for a few precious hours. They had been constantly bickering for a couple of weeks and I was getting a bit depressed with being a witness to their behaviour to each other. 
A few days after the phone call I met him as arranged, in town. He was sitting on some steps, wearing blue jeans, a jumper and what I thought was a rather faded coat, but he seemed okay.  
“Hello,” he said and shook me by the hand. I was a bit taken aback at this rather formal approach, but I smiled sweetly at him and greeted him with a ‘hello’.  
“What would you like to do?” he asked. 
“I haven’t really thought about it. I don’t know. What have you got in mind?” 
“I thought we might go to the pub down the road from here. They have a jazz band playing there… trumpet, piano, bass and drums. It’s quite good. What do you think?” 
“Will we get in? I’m only sixteen you know.” 
“So am I. It’s usually pretty crowded. I think they’re too busy serving drinks to worry about checking on our ages.” 
“So, we won’t be able to get a drink, will we, if we can’t go near the bar?” 
“We might be able to persuade someone else to get it for us if I give them the money,” he suggested. 
“Right, it suits me. Let’s go there then.” 
As we set off he took me by the hand.  
“How are you, anyway?” he asked.  
“I’m very stressed about school work. Our teachers put us under a lot of pressure. Also, my parents constantly argue with each other. There’s a great deal of shouting. Consequently, I can’t concentrate on studying because there’s no peace and quiet.” 
“It sounds awful.” 
“And it’s exam year too.” 
“Yes, it’s the same for me.” 
We could hear the music, traditional New Orleans jazz, as we got close to the pub. We found our way into the dimly lit, low ceilinged, interior and managed to find a seat in the crowded bar, but as the music was pretty loud, we couldn’t really hold a conversation. My companion seemed happy to hold my hand instead and I was happier too. We met someone he knew and so we succeeded in getting a drink. We then stood outside in the rain for a little while and then found some shelter under an archway, near the pub. Some time later we got up to leave. 
“I have to be home by ten thirty,” I told him, which was strictly speaking, a lie. My father insisted on my being home by eleven but I did not want to be too late on this occasion as my parents were in such a high state of tension. We had come along the street by now. 
“I’ll walk you to your bus stop,” my partner said, taking hold of my hand once again. 
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” I replied.  
We were walking side by side when he slipped his arm around my waist. I reciprocated by putting my arm round his. 
Then it happened. I don’t really know what it was that happened but I felt suddenly different. We had walked only a few steps together when it dawned upon me that I was fed up with propriety. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be formal any more. I wanted to break the rules of social conventions between boys and girls. I wanted a taste of licentiousness. I wanted to be unrestrained, act a little bit wildly. As we made for the bus shelter a chilly wind blew in our faces. We turned a corner, the tall buildings now sheltering us from wind and rain. We held each other tightly.  
He whispered hoarsely in my ear. “What are you thinking?” 
“Of how much I want to stay with you rather than go home alone on the bus.” 
“Do you really have to go?” 
“I’m not rushing!” I pointed out. We stood in the bus shelter: I wanted to take him in my arms and smother him with my kisses. I turned to him and pulled him towards me. He responded to my advances and we were soon locked in a passionate embrace. With his cheeks in the palms of my hands I began to kiss him on the mouth, pushing my tongue deep inside his mouth. Again, he responded to my lips and tongue. We surfaced for air, both trying to catch our breath. I hoped the bus wouldn’t come for a long time. It didn’t.  
Each time he stopped kissing me I drew him towards me once more and started kissing him again. I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t get enough of him. At that moment, in that place, that’s all I wanted – to feel wanted by some one else. My licentious feelings had turned into lascivious desires as I held on to him. I was completely overcome with sexual desire for this friend I didn’t know very well.  
I suppose I was in a sort of dream ecstasy, standing there in a bus shelter, with my eyes closed, trying to shut out the drab, horrible, rainy, world that was dominated by my home life. There was nobody else in the bus shelter; the street was deserted.  
“I’m getting a bit warm,” he said, unfastening his overcoat buttons, drawing me close to his chest. 
“So am I,” I replied. I could feel the warmth of his body coursing through me. I undid my own coat, standing back from him, hoping that he would touch my breasts. He did. I felt so excited. I was becoming mad with desire for him. I wanted him to touch my bare flesh. I put my hands over his shoulders and clasped them together behind his neck. His fingers found their way inside my pullover and then my bra. 
“Go on,” I encouraged him, “pull my bra up and my shirt.” He did as I asked. I began to feel the cold night air brushing my breasts, hardening my nipples, as he lifted up my clothing to expose my flesh. 
“Do you want me to …” he faltered, leaving me to complete the question. 
“Suck them? Yes, go on, suck them, please.”  
I was in the mood to experience wanton, intense sensual pleasure. Perhaps it was the drink, I don’t know. He took my right breast between his finger and thumb whilst his tongue made a gossamer contact with my left nipple. The feeling of sheer, potent eroticism shot through every fibre of my being and I gasped in delight.  
I could feel his swollen penis against my thighs as he began to suck my nipple. I sensed that I was becoming very wet between my legs. I imagined my love juices were gently slipping out of me and I had a mad desire for that penis to be pumping inside me. This however, was not the time or place. I was a virgin with no desire to lose my virginity in these circumstances. I had to force myself to wait and anyway, the bus hove into view. When it stopped I got on followed by my companion. 
“I’ll go a stop with you and then get off and go back,” he offered. 
“Okay. I’ll enjoy that,” I replied, turning to smile at him. We pared our fares to the driver and made our way upstairs to the top deck. I noticed that there were no other passengers upstairs. I sat down and unfastened my trousers to allow access to my vagina. He gently put his fingers, one, two, and three, into my juicy orifice, which he manipulated for me to experience my first orgasm. I gasped in excitement and astonishment at how strong the sensation was as the spasm rippled through me. He briefly touched my clitoris with his tongue; this produced another orgasm and an equally strong, if not stronger sensation in my vulva. We could hear the bus slowing down. My friend rose as I pulled my clothes about me. 
“Goodbye,” he said, “and thanks for coming out with me. I really enjoyed it. I’ll be in touch.” 
“So did I,” I said. The bus stopped. The doors opened. He was gone. (To be continued) 
 
 
 Publication Date: February 1st 2012 https://www.bookrix.com/-melanieplayful.pen