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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: REPOST: Kim Nice-but-Dim 1/3 (mf, oral, humor)
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WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1997. Not to be used without permission.
N.B. This chapter has been slightly modifed from the original post to
keep up to date with recent tragedies. Wish it hadn't been
necessary... Well, apart from the new Labour government! <grin>
Kim's Daddy is a Tory minister -- so this story starts in 1996.
--- Kim Nice-but-Dim ---
Chapter 1: "Sucker"
(mf, oral, humour)
(c) BronwenSM 1997
@---}---}----
Well, it all started the autumn before Labour won the election -- I
remember Daddy was still at the Ministry.
I mean everyone liked me at school before then, though they were
kind of rude -- they’d say sarky stuff like ‘lights on, nobody home’
and that sort of thing. But I always used to say Princess Di only had
one GCSE and that was in hamsters or something -- and *she* married a
Royal (not that it did her much good, poor darling.)
At least it proved you didn't have to be brainy to be world-famous and
be loved by everyone. So I muddled along OK.
But even my worst enemy couldn’t say I’m not pretty now, though I
wasn’t always. So what if I’m not terribly academic? "Not
terribly academic." That’s how Mummy puts it. The girls at school
weren’t so tactful. They used to call me ‘Toosh’ which was short for
(well, you can guess) thick as two short planks, but I *am* pretty.
Tall and thin and pretty. At least I was thin. Now I’m...
But I’m telling you this all in the wrong order.
That April I got glandular fever really badly. Well, that was a sort
of blessing in disguise, because I couldn’t do my exams that June so
they had to give me a sort of mish-mash mark for the two years work
instead and I’m terrible at exams, so I probably did better. At least
I didn’t have to bribe Jilly to break my wrist with a hockey stick
(which is what I’d decided was the only thing to do if I actually had
to sit those wretched exams). So she was relieved as well. I mean she
may be a dyke but she isn't a sadist.
Anyway I was officially ill, and I really did feel grim -- so I
flopped about the garden on a sun-lounger for six weeks and the
weight just fell off me. Even though I’m 18 now I never had any tits
to speak of before -- just a sort of straight up and down, and podgy
with it. Mummy called it puppy fat but it looked more like lard
to me. Not only no tits but no proper hips either -- just a sort of
lumpy straightness.
Well, by the end of July about 30 pounds had gone and all of a sudden
I had cheekbones emerging out of the fat and my eyes got bigger and as
for the rest of me -- well, it was heaven! I was so skinny -- and
once all the bulges had disappeared it turned out I had amazing legs
-- all slim and curvy, and so long too -- the length of your legs
isn't the sort of thing you notice when the rest of you looks like a
teenage turnip. Legs right up to her arse, Daddy calls it (but not
about me, about other girls when he doesn’t think I’ve heard him.)
I’d call him a chauvinist if I knew how to pronounce it. I always
wonder about that -- these words that keep coming up -- there’s a
perfume my dressage teacher likes, Anais Anais (I saw some in her
handbag) and I kept wishing they’d put on a TV advert for it because
I wanted to buy her some for a Chrissy present but I didn’t dare
because I didn’t know how to say it. I thought those frightfully
upstage cosmetics department ladies would laugh like drains if I
couldn’t say it properly, so I got her Belgian chocolates instead.
Because of course if they'd had an advert with people actually
saying the name I would have known, wouldn’t I?
It makes me quiet in company, that sort of thing. I’m always so busy
listening hard so as not to miss how people say things. I’ll never
forget the shame of calling INXS the Inks -- and they weren’t even
in at the time. All my heroes seem to dying these days... I was fond
of Mother Theresa too. It's all terribly, terribly sad.... Only last
night Daddy asked if I couldn't get a crush on that nice Tony Blair.
Anyway, so I was all thin and wobbling round the house because I still
felt pretty weak. I felt like Jilly’s pony Toffee’s foal -- all legs
and jellified. I had a lovely tan because of all that lying in the
garden and my hair was quite a lot lighter. My hair was a sort of
mousey brown all the time before, but it was a scorcher of a summer
and what with sitting in the sun all that time I still had brownish
hair underneath but loads of almost white streaks on the top and
round my face. And once she saw how much they suited me, Mummy sent
me to her hairdresser to have more put in.
I looked pretty amazing, I have to say. All sun tan and blonde
streaks, wonderful cheekbones and ribs and hipbones. Mummy looked at
me one morning over breakfast and suggested modelling school.
Seriously, she did. I kept looking in the mirror to make sure I was
still there.
I remember Daddy came home one night from the House and Mummy and I
were still up in our nighties by the kitchen table painting our
toenails and he looked me up and down and said "Christ, wonders will
never cease!" which I still think was bloody rude, though I didn’t say
so. He may be tetchy but he is generous if you don't annoy him so I
tend to keep my mouth shut. Besides which, Mummy always says that we
must make allowances for the pressures of high office which makes him
sound as if he works on the 120th floor or something instead of being
a Government minister. Mummy used to say it’s not easy being a member
of such an unpopular Government so I asked why they didn’t just do
something nice and then they’d be popular and she sighed. She does
that quite a lot.
Anyway, I was still pretty wobbly, as I said, so Mummy said I must go
away to convalesce and she sent me to Aunt Dolly in Wales. Aunt
Dolly’s rich -- well even by our standards she’s quite rich, and she
never married. She always said she'd rather have a cook than a cock.
Mummy says Aunt Dolly's coarse.
She has a huge tatty mansion on a cliff with a private beach and
spends her time gardening in a terrible hat mixed up with listening to
the BBC World Service on a portable radio. So she didn’t talk much to
me, and I didn’t say much to her. Most of the time she was crouched
over a herbaceous border or something. But every afternoon after
another delicious lunch she’d sort of grunt and we’d both get up from
whatever we were doing and either go for amazingly long walks or get
the horses tacked up and hack off inland for a couple of hours. So I
got fitter and fitter, and as the weeks went past I realised that I
was feeling brilliant.
All this stay in Wales would've been really boring, and I wouldn’t
have told you all about it if it weren’t for the tits. You see Aunt
Dolly’s beach wasn’t overlooked and I took my headphones and piles of
Vogue and Jackie Collins so I just used to go down every morning and
lie there in the sun. Well, the overlooked bit's not very important,
it just explains why I was so surprised later. I mean I really had no
idea what sort of effect I had on men until I got back, because I
didn't see any men and, more importantly, they didn't see me.
Anyway, that month in Wales my tits just sort of sprouted. I went
there looking like all elegant like a greyhound -- which was
marvellous -- but by the time I was ready to go back to Surrey I was
still skinny everywhere else but I had huge great tits and a high
roundy bum and everything. I couldn’t believe it. In fact one day I
just lay there on my back on the beach sneaking peeks at them under
my sunnies every five minutes to see if I could catch them at it -- I
was half-convinced that if I looked hard enough I’d actually see
them growing, sort of like those speeded-up flower-opening films. But
I didn’t, of course. I think they must’ve done it while I was asleep.
Well, I was thrilled, as you can imagine, but that was nothing to the
reaction I got when I finally went back to school in the middle of the
autumn term. I mean everyone liked me before, but now they really
liked me. Jilly was a bit offish, but everyone else was ever so nice.
Sophie and Victoria, who were always so snooty, asked me to go
shopping with them. All of a sudden I was the sort of girl everyone
wanted to hang out with.
Gangs of men on building sites shrieked at me like gibbons, old men
slipped off their Zimmer frames when I went into the post office and
my terrifying Chemistry master went red all the way up his neck
whenever he looked at me and then left a really embarrassing poem in
my pigeon hole.
It was nice other girls and older men thought I looked so great, but
the best thing was the boys. They didn’t know how to treat me any
more. All of a sudden I was the girl everyone fancied, and most of
them seemed terrified of me.
But then, two weeks after I got back, Oliver, the best looking boy in
the school -- if not the world -- asked me out.
Yes, Oliver, who always used to say I should hang a 'Vacancies' sign
off my nose, asked me to go round to use his pool at the weekend. I
mean we’ve got a pool, everyone has, but his is covered and heated.
It’s in a sort of stained-glass house. His father’s in the music
business and he was off on tour somewhere, Oliver said.
Oliver is utter bliss. He’s drop dead gorgeous with dark brown eyes
and hair that sort of flops. He has this truly amazing voice. And he’s
got that sort of ‘rightness’ -- you know, how some people are just
naturally always wearing the perfect thing and if they turn up at a
party without an invite they’re never gatecrashers it just seems like
some sort of clumsy cock-up by the people who are giving the party
who should have known to invite Oliver in the first place. Well, you
know what I mean, don’t you?
So when he asked me to go swimming I nearly dropped down dead with
delight. I spent the rest of the week thinking he must’ve muddled me
up with someone else, but Saturday came and I went and he seemed
really pleased to see me, so that was all right.
So we went through to the pool house and he poured me a real martini
which I hadn’t had before and didn’t like much, and we decided to get
ready to go swimming. And I must say it was nice when I was getting
changed not to be worrying about whether I looked too awful or whether
the tissues I shoved down the front of my swimsuit would float out.
Because of course I didn’t need tissues any more. In fact what I
really needed was a new swimsuit. Because there wasn’t really enough
of this one now.
Anyway, I went back out of the little room thing and there he was
changed already, standing by the pool with his back to me. I felt a
bit silly so I called over "Last one in’s a bluebottle!" and he turned
round and when he saw me his mouth opened and he sort of
absent-mindedly stepped back and fell in. He made a terrible splash
and the worst thing was he was still holding his glass when he went in
and it cracked and he cut his hand.
Well, I may be as thick as two short planks but I did do a first aid
course, so when he came back up the steps with blood everywhere I knew
it only looked so awful because of the water spreading the blood out.
So I got a towel and started mopping him up. He sat down and I bent
over him and the next thing I knew his chin was sort of in my cleavage
and then he was kissing me and saying over and over again "God, Kim,
you’re so gorgeous" and I kissed him back.
Soon things got quite steamy and I thought I was doing quite well
since the only other boy who’d ever kissed me was Alastair who’s in
the remedial group and has spots. And Oliver was sort of nuzzling my
lovely new tits, which felt all shivery and it was all lovely.
But then all of a sudden I felt his finger sliding inside the bottom
of my swimsuit and I thought "Babies. That’s how they happen." So I
pulled away. And I wouldn’t let him back up there whatever he said. He
said he would use something but I said that if that sort of thing
worked there wouldn’t be all these single parents Daddy grumbles on
about. So I wouldn’t.
Oliver went all funny. He wouldn’t speak to me. I’m not stupid, well,
not that stupid, and I knew what I’d done to him. It was practically
bursting out of his shorts. And he was all excited and cross, and I
sat there miserably thinking that I’d ruined my first big date.
Then he took my hand, sighed, and said "I hope you'll miss me, Kim."
"Why?" I said. "Where are you going?"
"Don’t you know?" he said.
"Don't I know what?" I replied, studying his face for clues.
"I thought all girls our age knew," he said. "It’s not as if it isn’t
serious."
"What?" I said anxiously. My voice was getting higher, but I could
tell that I was missing out on something major. Story of my life, but
I was determined to be one of the girls who knew her way about from
now on. Streetwise, that’s what they’d call me.
"Well, if you get a boy -- or a man -- turned on past a certain point
he’s got to have an orgasm or it kills him."
"God how awful," I breathed. "How does it happen?"
"Well, the frustration sort of clogs up the blood and once it get to
the heart it just goes Kerpow and that’s it. One dead Oliver."
What a terrible choice. No wonder people made such a song and dance
about sex in films and stuff. Either I was going to have to be an
unmarried mother (which would kill Mummy and Daddy -- especially
Daddy) or Oliver would soon be lying stiff and cold at the age of 17.
And it would all be my fault.
"Oh no," I gasped. "I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can I do that
won’t give me a baby?"
So he showed me. He told me it might help to think of it as a form of
first aid.
I must say his thing looked rather sweet once you’d got used to the
sort of angry red colour, and it was ever so soft -- well, the skin
was. The thing itself was incredibly hard, and a dear little teardrop
was nestled in the tiny little mouth at the top like a drop of rain
on a rose. Quite poetic, in a way.
I couldn’t quite get the hang of moving my hand up and down. It was
like you were constantly rearranging the skin on this inner pole, as
it were. I wanted to do it properly, but I was frightened of hurting
him. I kept having a go and then my wrist would ache, or the position
would seem a bit funny so I’d stop and change hands. I was trying to
be gentle, but he got a bit tense and said it wasn’t a stick of
celery, grip it harder -- so I did and then he told me I wasn’t
conducting an orchestra and to take care because he wanted to stay
attached to it. So I said something stupid like he could do it his
bloody self, and burst into tears.
Well, it must have been the stick of celery business because he
suddenly said "Of course, you could suck it." And of course he was
right. So I did. It smelt different from everything else I’d smelt,
but it was rather nice. And it was even softer when you licked it.
"Pretend it’s an ice cream cone," he suggested, and I liked that idea.
I sort of gripped it with my hands and dived in. I licked all round
under the head, and I played about with its little mouth with the tip
of my tongue and I nibbled up and down the pole bit and I could tell I
was doing it right because he was making all sorts of breathing noises
and sighing and making little "Ooo" noises. And it struck me how nice
it was to have someone sigh at me in a "Oh my God that’s wonderful"
way rather than sighing because I’m being a bit of a nuisance.
He was really enjoying it, because after only a little bit he suddenly
started to sort of flex on his chair, pushing his thing up and down
the way I suppose you would if you were actually, you know, doing it,
and then he grabbed the back of my head in an urgent sort of way and
said "OHMYCHRIST!... OHMYCHRIST!.. OHMYCHRIST!.. JESUS!" (Which is
odd, because he always made a big thing about being a Buddhist) and
all this stuff started spurting in my mouth.
My God, it didn’t half spurt. Loads of it. Pump, pump, pump, hitting
the back of my throat and spilling out down my chin. I was half
expecting something to come out of the end -- I knew my facts of life
-- so it wasn't a shock or anything -- and I was glad it was spurting
in my mouth and not down below where all the baby-making stuff lives.
But I hadn’t expected there to be quite so much of it. It tasted
lovely, a bit sort of seafoody -- but I’ve got a passion for all
those sorts of tastes, oysters and so forth, and I liked it. In fact
I thought the whole experience was lovely. It made me feel clever and
it made me tingle.
When it seemed to be over I swallowed what was left (even I know sperm
don’t travel that way) and sort of mopped up his damp bits with my
tongue and then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked up
at Oliver who was looking at me as though I was the most wonderful
girl in the world. "God, but you’re gorgeous, Kim Nice-but-Dim," he
said. "And you suck like an angel."
"I’m going to be good at this." I thought, and I am.
After that first time with Oliver all the boys wanted to go out with
me -- it must be a form of telepathy. I must say the number of
dangerous hard-ons the boys I know suffer from is unbelievable, but
it can’t be helped. I’m the most popular girl in my lot now. Mummy’s
thrilled and Daddy’s upped my dress allowance because I’m always out
somewhere nice these days.
But that’s only the boys. The girls all seem to hate me, which baffles
me. Jilly won’t speak to me, and the other girls are all a bit frosty,
though I can’t get a straight answer about why they’re all so glum.
Mummy says it’s just me being so attractive now. She must be right,
because I can’t see it’s got anything to do with the blow-jobs (you
see, I even know the right words now).
I mean other girls have dates, don’t they? They have boyfriends? Well,
surely they must have the same problem?
Maybe I’m a softy, but I just couldn’t have the death of another human
being on my conscience. Why I cried buckets when a fox got my rabbit,
Puffles (and that was only last year). Besides which, what would you
say at the inquest?
But from a first aid point of view blow-jobs need doing again an awful
lot, it seems to me. I mean only last week I had to go down on Hugh
and Thomas in the back of their dad’s Roller on the way to a ball
because they said they couldn’t control themselves thinking about
what was going to happen on our way home after the ball.
What worries me is how these poor boys manage when there aren’t girls
about. I mean if they did it themselves they'd go blind. That’s what
must cause all the homosexuality in boys schools, I suppose. Makes you
wonder why Daddy's lot make so much fuss about it (in prisons and so
forth). I mean, looked at properly, it’s only a sort of self-defence.
The other girls call me a slut, but they’re just jealous of how much I
turn the boys on. Enough to threaten their very lives. Saving them is
my duty as an Englishwoman and a Conservative. Daddy always used to go
on about service to others. Well, I’m doing my bit. Sophie and the
others will just have to live with themselves if one of their
boyfriends suddenly drops down dead one day. Heartless cows.
@---}---}----
If you enjoyed this, please let me know at bronwen@anon.nymserver.com.
Remember Celeste's blow-job principle! <grin>
Translations of English English supplied on request! <giggle>
All Bronwen's other stories, plus a wacky tour of the life of her
wicked slut-twin Bikini-Barbie-Bronwen, are at
http://www.cyber-mall.com/Bronwen, courtesy of Joe Parsons. Thanks,
Joe!
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