And as he makes the next stroke she cries out in pain, and one of the other men steps forward, tilts her head back by grabbing a clump of her hair, and forces his dick into her gaping mouth.
Thwack.
She’s flagging, the strain of keeping silent, of not making choking noises, is hard for her to cope with. Her breath catches and spit runs from her mouth to her chin to her chest. The guy with the belt pushes down on the small of her back, bending her further, pressing her to the table, squashing her tits against the cool smoothness of the desk while from the other end his friend takes grunting pleasure from her mouth. He draws his arm back ready for another stroke.
Thwack.
At that stroke the leader moves in, using his free hand to rub his already rock-solid dick. She bucks and writhes as he forces it into her, choking out a moan against the cock that’s already in her mouth.
‘That’s it. Take it. Good girl.’ He raises his stroke hand. ‘Are you ready for one more?’
She tries to nod; she wants to nod. She knows that this will be the final stroke of the onslaught, the last fresh wave of pain that might push her through to orgasm. But she can’t nod, her hair’s held tightly in the grasp of the other man, and the leader has her pinned from behind, holding himself and his thick cock still, teasing her cunt while he waits for a response. The guy at the front starts thrusting harder, pushing her back onto the other man’s dick. Making strangled grunts in the back of his throat. She knows he’s going to come, can feel him start to come, can feel his dick twitch deep in the back of her throat as she makes a muffled cry.
Thwack.
So this is what I did through my teenaged years. In between trying to pass exams and not get too bullied at school, I wanked. Frantically, furiously, and with a passion and commitment that the world tried to tell me was just for boys.
I’d sit in lessons and think about wanking. I’d eat dinner on my lap in front of EastEnders and think about wanking. I’d get into the car to visit my dad and spend the twenty-minute journey thinking about wanking. How much can I get done between now and Sunday night?
Perhaps the world’s not yet ready for the slick and desperate wanking power of teenaged girls, but I wish it were. I wish it had been when I was young. Because although it occupied most of my waking thoughts, actually doing it made me feel weird. Not like an excited explorer stood on a cliff-edge of opportunity, but like a lonely hermit in a cave, scared of what the outside world would think when she told them about her discovery.
I’d learned how to wank, which made my life immeasurably more fun. It gave me something interesting and free to do with my spare time, and let me explore the disgusting things that went on inside my head. But I’d also learned to keep as quiet as I could about it. I’d learned not to talk about it or dwell for too long on the things that I did in the dark. Every other thing about me was normal—tediously so. But this secret thing I did was a bit unfeminine, a bit abnormal, and certainly not something I should openly discuss.
It took me a good few years to unlearn that lesson.
2. Sometimes it is necessary to give someone crisps so that they’ll grope you
The problem with adult men is that they just don’t touch my tits enough. I’ve never met a straight man who says he doesn’t like tits. And yet as grown men they miss out on a million opportunities to touch them up. I can think of no occasion when I’ve been relaxing with a guy on the sofa that wouldn’t have been immeasurably improved if he’d had one hand idly exploring the inside of my shirt.
Teenage boys were fantastic, for countless different reasons, but the most fantastic thing of all was their obsession—their pure and complete satisfaction—with touching my tits.
I wasn’t particularly popular at school. I was the geeky kid, the one who did well in exams but badly with the boys. The ‘good’ one, for whom detentions were so unthinkable that the one time I did get one my mum reacted as if there’d been a terrible miscarriage of justice:
‘Oh, you poor thing. Is there an appeals process?’
But despite the surface impression of being a good girl who’d pass all her exams with flying colours and have little time for boys in between, I was burning up with lust, with heat, and, above everything else, a desire to have my tits touched by boys.
Many of my girlfriends were the same. To greater or lesser degrees, all of us wanted to find someone with whom we could retire to a quiet alleyway and experiment with a bit of tit-touching. When you’re young, the jolt of electric surprise when a hand brushes a nipple—even through the bra—is as powerful as a passionate fuck might be to someone older.
And yet none of us wanted to be the one who suggested it. No girl could actually say, ‘Hey, guy who is one of our friends but who I don’t technically fancy, would you mind just rubbing my tits for twenty minutes or so until I slick my knickers?’ So we made things happen. Stealthily, subtly, without ever suggesting we might be ‘up for it’, we made things happen.
One summer, my friend Amy and I went on a mission to get our tits touched. We didn’t discuss it but we both knew that was the plan. As reasonably unpopular girls, we understood that no matter how short our skirts or how much make-up we inexpertly applied, we’d never hit the teenaged jackpot of an actual boyfriend. So we settled for the next best thing—we lowered whatever expectations we’d been foolish enough to have and headed straight for the guys who seemed most willing.
At school there was a group of boys rather cruelly known as the ‘untouchables’. These were the guys who would never get slow dances at the discos, the boys who were a bit pervy or nerdy and were generally given a wide berth. The bullied kids always stuck together, so we gravitated towards this group, and would spend countless hours swigging cheap cider with them in parks, swapping the right answers for our homework, and occasionally getting them to touch our tits.
That summer, Amy and I picked a pair of them who were quite good friends, and spent our time engineering situations in which we could get them alone. We didn’t want to shag them, and weren’t even bothered about snogging particularly—an activity which I’d found to be relatively unsexy and to require far too much post-snog facial wiping. So, no shagging, no snogging, as little conversation as we could get away with—all we wanted to do was get their hands on our tits.
Darren had his own bedroom, furnished with a bunk bed left over from the days he’d shared with an older brother, and a cheap TV/VCR in the corner on which he and his friend Rob would watch endless shit B-movies to pass the time until evening. Every morning for a couple of weeks, I’d walk to Amy’s house, knock on her door, and we’d set off to Darren’s.
Plastered with more make-up than was realistically necessary for a day spent sat in a darkened room, we’d knock on Darren’s door and ask him if Rob was around. He usually was.
‘You watching films today?’
‘Uh … yeah.’
‘Can we watch them too?’
‘Umm …’
‘We’ve brought Pringles.’
‘Come in.’
Eagerly, we’d rush into Darren’s room, where a poorly scripted horror film would be playing on the TV and Rob would be reclining on the top bunk of the bed. Even when our visits became routine, he always looked surprised to see us.
By unspoken agreement, Rob was mine, and Darren was Amy’s. I’d swing up into the top bunk, she’d settle into the bottom one, and we’d all sit in silence and pretend to watch the film.
An hour and a half was never quite long enough. It would take half an hour for Rob to get over his nervousness and make a move on me. Long after all of the movie characters had been introduced, and thrown into whichever perilous yet implausible situation the film required, he’d shift slightly towards me and brush against me with his arm. I’d