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From: cmndr@nym.alias.net (Commander Jameson)
Subject: {ASS} RP "Kim Nice-but-Dim" aka "Sucker" by Bronwen (humor) (Celeste 10, 10, 10, Piper's Top 12)
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Subject: REPOST: Kim Nice-but-Dim 1/3 (mf, oral, humor)
From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
--------

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!


Subject: REPOST: Kim Nice-but-Dim 2/3 (mf, anal, humor)
From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
--------

WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1997. Not to be used without permission.

N.B. This story has been slightly modifed from the original post to
keep up to date with recent political events in the UK. 


                              --- Kim Nice-but-Dim ---
                             Chapter 2: "Oh, Bugger!"
                                (mf, anal, humour)

                               (c) BronwenSM 1997

                                        @---}---}----

Well, you prob'ly heard how I became blow-job queen of the Home
Counties after Oliver spun me that tale. You remember, the one that
says once you get a man past a certain point he's got to come or it
kills him? Well, of course, it was a load of bollocks. You must have
thought me a total nana.... Oh, you fell for it once too, did you,
darling? That makes me feel better, though I was mortified when I
first found out.

And I have to say I loved cock-sucking. Still do, come to that. Not
only did it make me popular, it also filled those awkward silences. I
can chatter away to you, no problem  --  I mean friends’re different,
aren't they? But get me alone with a boy I fancy and I can’t think of
a thing to say. And of course while I was blowing them I didn’t have
to think of topical topics or remember to ask interesting questions.
So all in all it worked out for the best, I suppose, though I’ve moved
on quite a bit since then....

I’ll tell you the whole story, but first things first. Let’s order and
then I’ll explain how Daddy made the Nice-but-Dim’s family fortune and
I learned about bottom-fucks....

                                        @---}---}----

Wasn’t the election a scream? Can’t believe it’s been nearly a 
year already. Daddy was frothing on the night itself but once 
he’d calmed down ‘bout losing his seat (that does make me laugh  --  
as if anyone *could* lose Daddy’s seat  --  however hard his tailor 
tries there’s no escaping Daddy’s majority in the backside 
department).  God, here I am getting sidetracked again.....

Anyway, like I said, he was frothing the night Labour got in, but only
a day or two later he popped up to town for lunch with a couple of
chaps at his club. When he finally waltzed home at four in the morning
he woke us all up to tell us we were quids in. "Bloody red buggers..!"
he kept roaring. "Fucked ‘em! Fucked the bloody buggers!"

Mummy told him to shut up, the new au pair may be Italian but parts of
her English vocabulary are quite extensive enough already. "I’ll
extend more than her fucking vocabulary," Daddy bellowed. "Fuck her,
fuck them and fuck the European fucking Community! I'm going to be
rich! I’m stinking!"

"I can see that," Mummy observed dryly. "You're blootered. What’s 
happened, Henry?"

Well, it turns out the little sidelines Daddy’s been running ever
since Maggie first got in (God -- d'you realise that was before I 
was christened!) -- you know the sort of thing -- cash for questions,
consultancies -- weren’t absolutely strictly legal.

I must admit I once tried to work out how he fitted it all in but gave
up. It made my head hurt. I mean Daddy advised dozens of different
companies as well as being an MP. I s’pose it explains why we never
saw much of him. Mummy used to mutter something about him being off
exercising his right honourable member, but even I know an honourable
member is something you are, not something you use, so she must have
got mixed up somewhere.

At the time Daddy said all this extra work was his duty -- helping the
economy and so forth  --  besides being the only way a public servant
could make ends meet. But it turned out that if he *had* kept his seat
in the election it wouldn’t have been a very comfortable one. The next
items on his agenda would’ve been a government enquiry and a media
expose. But of course as soon as he wasn’t an MP any more the tabloids
couldn’t give a stuff about him so the Select Committee lost interest
too.

"And because I know where whole graveyards full of bodies are buried,
not only can the bastards not get me for the past, they can’t bollocks
me in the future either. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow and dollops and
dollops of beautiful jam today!" Daddy sang.

I was just thinking what a wonderful way with words he had when he was
very sick in one of Mummy’s dried arrangements. Spoilt the effect
somewhat.

When he sobered up Mummy got him to explain it all properly.
Apparently the bods he lunched with were something in the City of
London, wankers he said, but that can't be right. Anyway, they had a
number of rather good ideas. So nowadays, as Daddy says, life’s all
one long profitable loophole with no dreary ministering to clog up the
works.

He missed his government chauffeur for the first few weeks, but now he
can afford his own driver. I’ve never seen him in such a good mood. He
says the new chap’s much more civil than the civil service one anyway.
He keeps telling people that -- thinks it’s ever so funny. They’ve
threatened to ban him from the golf club if he repeats it one more
time.
                                        @---}---}----

Getting filthy rich meant we saw even less of Daddy than before, so
Mummy wisely found herself a hobby. Polo. Bit like golf on horses.

I couldn’t understand it at first. I mean Mummy doesn’t even like
horses. And although the riders are mostly real hunks, they’re miles
too young for her. Most of them are foreign anyway, and they can be
terribly casual. Sometimes they change their shirts -- and even their
breeches -- in full view of the spectators. They scratch 
themselves. Some of them even spit. Gross....

Mummy’s always been stuffy about manners. But she doesn’t seem
to mind these horsey types. She’s really kind to them, especially the
Argentinians. She even collects their dirty kit from the horseboxes
and takes it home for Pia or Maria to wash. "Poor lonely boys," says
Mumsie. "So far from home and its comforts."

I expect she’d like another baby really  --  but even if she wasn’t 
past her sell-by date Daddy’s never around to do the business  --  so 
fat chance. Poor lonely Mummy. If polo fills a niche, then good luck 
to her!

But the attractions of polo were still a complete mystery to me until
I met Greek Eddie. I was mooching about by the horseboxes one
afternoon, kicking the heads off daisies in the long grass and
thinking about what I was wearing to some bash later when I tripped
over some loose boots and sat down in a heap. When I looked up all I
could see was this utterly beautiful dark brown man with white
breeches and bugger all else on.

The sun was shining directly behind him, so I couldn’t see his face.
"Fuckin’ dozy Inglish bich!" he screamed viciously. "You could’ve
broken my ankle. As it is you ‘ave prubbly ruined my boots!"  And
then  he stopped, and stared at me. I must’ve woken him up when I
tripped, because he was rubbing his eyes.

Well if my own ankle wasn’t actually broken it was badly sprained, and
I hate being shouted at. So I burst into tears. Immediately he
crouched down by my side, tilted my face up with one finger under my
chin and said "poor pritty Inglish butterfly" in the most gorgeous
accent I ever heard.

"Are you broken, Keem, my baybee?" he asked. "Eddie will rescue
you." And before I could ask him how he knew my name he scooped me up
in his arms and strode off towards the first aid tent. I was cuddled
up to his bare brown chest. He was probably the best looking man I’ve
ever seen  --  like a Greek statue  --  all in shades of brown apart 
from his teeth. Which isn’t that weird really, because he was.... Not 
a statue. Greek. Otherwise why would anyone call him Greek Eddie?

And as well as being a total hunk he was incredibly sweaty. That was
amazing. I mean everyone’s so clean aren’t they? The only time I’ve
ever come across someone who didn’t smell of shower gel was a cleaning
lady we once had who had damp patches under her arms which smelt of
onions. The patches, that is, not the arms.

Eddie didn’t smell of onions. He smelled of brand new sweat distilled
entirely from male hormones. It was seriously good news he was
carrying me. My legs went so weak I’d have fallen over if he hadn’t
been. Who’d’ve thought sweat could be sexy?

The first aiders were thrilled to see us at first, especially as I
knew a couple from my course. They lost interest a bit once they saw
there wasn’t any blood. I heard one volunteer grumbling that the ankle
she’d had on the mock-up had had splinters of bone sticking out,
whereupon the bolster-in-charge told her to shut up and be grateful
she had a real accident instead of a Boy Scout and some Plasticine.

They patched me up and Eddie kept stroking my leg in a comforting sort
of way, though as his hand advanced up my thigh I couldn’t help
wondering how he was going to convince me and a whole tentful of first
aiders that he was stroking my pussy in a comforting sort of way.
Luckily they’d finished bandaging my ankle before Eddie got that far,
and he helped me to his car as I hopped rather clumsily on the crutch
I’d been lent. "Pieces of eight," I squawked, and Eddie laughed. It
was love.

He insisted on escorting me to the ball. I couldn’t dance, so he
wouldn’t dance, he said. It was only fair. He dropped me back at the
house and said he’d come round to collect me later.

I showered with my foot stuck outside the cubicle to keep the bandage
dry. It seemed a good idea at the time, but while I was washing my
hair standing on one leg with my eyes shut I fell over. Maria, our
housekeeper, heard the godawful crash I made and came to rescue me
muttering under her breath. She seems very religious -- always prays
whenever I have anything to do with her.

Of course the carpet was absolutely soaked and worse than that, I’d
given myself a dreadful whack on my top lip. I looked like someone had
started injecting stuff into it to give me a Kim Basinger pout and
forgotten to stop. It was bleeding too -- claret everywhere.

Well, I couldn't go to a party looking like that but I couldn’t ring
Eddie either, because not only did I not know his number I didn’t even
know which team he was in, so I just had to wait for him to arrive and
break the bad news then. Maria helped arrange me on one of the little
sofas in Mummy’s pretty sitting room and I sat there feeling cheesed
off about our ruined evening.

Eddie turned up half an hour early with a bottle of Bolly and Maria
showed him in. He didn’t seem a bit fed up that I wasn’t going. "You
do not go, so I do not go," he announced. "I spit on their balls." I
watched him nervously but he didn’t. Thank God. The drawing room
carpet’s what they call ‘important’.

"A chance to know each other" he said. "Better" I added automatically.
God, my lip hurt. He smiled. "A chance to know each other better. Is
exact."

So he sat on the carpet leaning against the sofa gazing up at me like
a Labrador I once had. Such wonderful brown eyes. So loyal... And we
drank the champagne and he started feeling me up. He couldn’t kiss my
mouth, but he soon got my tits out and started snogging them, which I
love. And all that other stuff, you know.....

Very soon I was wearing nothing but tiny white pants. "Like Elle
Macpherson, but far more sexy," Eddie murmured. He did most of the
talking, which was great. I’m no good at small talk at the best of
times, but with a split lip it was a total nightmare. So it was lovely
Eddie talked so much. Most of it was blush-making stuff about how
beautiful I was, and how the saints must’ve been smiling when I fell
over his boots and into ‘is ‘eart... I was pretty sure our vicar would
object to that. Sacrilege or something  --  except our church doesn’t 
go in for saints much anyway.. Well, apart from St. George  --  but 
he killed things.

And then I remembered. "Eddie," I asked. "How did you know my name
already?" He shifted a little and looked away as though he’d got
something in his eye. Then he cleared his throat and smiled up at me
like a happy spaniel.

"Keem, Keem -- who on the polo circuit does not know the daughter of
the warm-hearted Madame Nice-but-Deem? Keem, my little dove, you 
and your mother are much-loved, believe me. You have qualities few of 
your sex share."

The sincerity of this tribute made tears well in my eyes. And I was
just about to unzip his trousers to show him how moved I was when I
realised my mouth was completely whores de combat. I couldn’t suck my
top teeth let alone a handsome Greek’s column. "Oh bugger!" I cried,
rather spoiling the beauty of the moment.

Because of course in those days I still believed the no b.j. means
death legend, and the full horror of our situation had only just
dawned on me. What in heaven’s name were we to do?

It’s easy to see that Daddy’s had a huge impact on my life. Ever since
I first came on I’ve been obsessed with not becoming a one parent
family. I mean he starts going a nasty colour when he even talks about
them. So I’m still a virgin.

Family planning isn't reliable. Can't be, stands to reason, or they
wouldn't call it family planning, would they? I mean, it assumes a
family. I once told a girlfriend the only thing I trusted to stop me
getting pregnant was not doing it at all. "It’s foolproof," I said. "I
can see why that might appeal," she said. Cheeky cow.

Mummy doesn’t like unmarried mothers either but she’s not half so
hard-line. In fact she once said something about how in her day a
well-timed pregnancy was a girl’s best friend. But then she said she
hadn’t said it, so I don’t know what she was on about. I think it’s
her age.

In fact it must be, because after she’d said what she said she hadn’t
said, Daddy piped up with "Some women would never have got themselves
a husband at all without a shotgun," in a meaning sort of way and she
went bright red and said "I haven’t had any complaints recently!" and
Daddy said "Only because the customer’s always right, you raddled old
biddy" and she ran upstairs and shut herself in the bathroom.
Sometimes I think those two talk in code.

But here I was with Eddie, no immediate first aid to hand, and no idea
what to do next.

"Oh Eddie, you’re going to hate me," I mumbled. "I can’t suck you off
with my mouth like this -- look at me! And I’m useless at hand-jobs!
What in heaven’s name are we going to do? Would it help if I got Maria
to call you an ambulance?"

"What is this?" he looked at me blankly. "I am confusing. I hear of
the English taste for costumes. You wish to play doctors and nurses,
per’apps, my cherub?"

Clearly he had no idea how serious his position might become. So I
explained our looming emergency to him, and my virginity, and he
started laughing, and then he stopped very quickly. It was good of me
to be concerned of 'is ‘ealth, he said, but ‘e ‘ad a solution. Daddy
would have told him to take an aspirate, but I hadn’t the nerve.

"Let us, my angel, try my country’s speciality," he suggested. Well,
I’m no expert but I couldn’t see what possible use taramasalata could
be in our predicament. I must’ve been looking totally baffled because
he smiled very patiently and said "I will fuck your bottom, yes?"

You will fuck my bottom, no, was what I was thinking, but it seemed a
terribly selfish attitude so I kept it to myself. "OK, then," I said.
"Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." But that set off this
crazy mental picture of someone fucking a hung sheep’s bottom and I
got the giggles.

Which was a good thing, because Greek Eddie didn’t hang about. If I
hadn’t been giggling I think the next bit might’ve hurt. As it was he
had his hand inside the edge of my knickers and a finger right up my
bum before I had a chance to tense up. And it felt OK. A bit full and
shy-making, but OK.

He jiggled his finger in and out a bit, and kissed my tits and my 
neck hard for what seemed a long time. I was beginning to rather 
like this. I wondered whether this felt at all the same as fucking. 
Then he slipped his finger out of my still rather surprised little 
bottom, wriggled my knickers down and off, and started putting me in 
a better position.

"Come, my little angel, move like this for Eddie," his voice caressed
me. Propping my bad ankle up carefully on some silly little cushions
we’ve got, he swivelled me round until I was kneeling on the rug with
my tummy resting on the sofa and my arms braced against the back. I
would’ve liked more of the stroking and kissing bit myself, but men
are always in such a rush aren’t they?

I heard him preparing to spit behind me, and feared the worst. What
the hell would make him want to spit now? God, I’m thick. Of course he
must’ve used the lick to grease his tadger  --  I mean I expect some
people have proper lubricants hanging around the drawing room but
we’re just not that sort of family. Apart from butter, sometimes, but
that’s only for scones. Not buns. Jesus, I made up a joke. A real
joke! On purpose! Golly.

So I was kneeling as if I was worshipping the sofa and thinking all
these jumbled thoughts when all of a sudden I felt this presence at my
arse. He was sort of looming  --  I could feel him rubbing the soft 
hot purply end of his dick up and down between my arse cheeks like a 
warm plum. His movements were slow and lingering, stopping completely 
for a moment every time he touched the actual hole itself.

It was nice. It was very nice. I could actually feel my bum hole sort
of yearning. It was trying to open outwards. And then he very gently
pushed the round hot tip of his cock into my bum. I gasped and tried
to relax, but I was grateful when he withdrew a little to let me
adjust. It was a very sexy feeling, but a bit tense-making. I focused
on letting him in, and maybe it would have all gone smoothly if he
hadn’t got impatient.

But he did. Without any warning, Eddie suddenly grabbed my hips and
thrust his full veiny length slam into my unsuspecting arse. I let out
the most awful shriek, which didn’t do my poor lip any good at all,
but this didn’t stop him. Having rammed it home he went straight into
a frantic driving rhythm, pumping in and out of my helpless little
arsehole like a fucking pogo stick.

Either he thought I was screaming with delight or it didn’t bother him
that I wasn’t. Whatever he was thinking, his cock kept up those huge,
hard, unforgiving thrusts. Shit, it hurt. Hurt like buggery. Oh, so
that’s where the expression comes from. Ah...

It seemed like forever, I felt like that poor blonde girl only with
King Kong up her jacksie instead of just sitting on his hand, and the
tears were falling down my cheeks. Finally his grip on my hips got
really painful and his cock became even more rigid, if that were
possible.

Later I found out he had a nice sort of penis -- nothing very unusual
-- but as it pounded mercilessly into my battered young hole it felt
like a monster. But at least I could tell he was going to come
soon. And the sooner the better as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t 
liking this.

Eddie grunted once, twice, three times and then let out a sort of
outraged bellow. He slammed his cock in right to the hilt and I felt
the spunk blurting its way into my guts. With my arsehole so sore
each soothing jet of creamy cum felt like a blessing. A few seconds
later, as he moved slightly and let his damp little customer slip
slickly out into the air, I welcomed the soothing coat of semen that
covered my sore bruised tissues. Buggery, I decided, was the living
end.

Eddie thought I was God’s gift, that’s for sure. I mean it was
perfectly clear he thought he was God’s gift, but he definitely felt I
was a pleasing little trinket too. He kissed my forehead, and praised 
me, ruffling my hair. "Oh Keem, my beautiful special lady," he 
sighed. "Eet was wonderful for you too? No, do not answer me -- I 
can see you have tears in your perfect blue eyes. For you also it was 
a fuck of magic..." On and on he went. I felt like a pet. I started 
to wonder if he was going to offer me a sugar lump. I was more than 
prepared to roll over and play dead. Anything rather than more bum 
fucking.

I must have the wrong sort of bum, I thought. I was just getting
seriously miserable about the whole depressing evening when it struck
me that if I did have the wrong sort of bum there wasn’t much I could
do about it really. I mean I could hardly pop into Harrods and put a
nice new stretchy one on Mummy's account, could I? Or pray for one in
church, for that matter. It was the thought of asking God for a
replacement arsehole, "One more suitable for sexual purposes, please
Sir," that finished me off.

Better laugh than cry, my old Nanny used to say, so I did.

Anyway, by the time Eddie left he was quite convinced I was as happy
as he was about wrecking my poor old bum. He thought I was madly in
love with him. The sad thing is I expect I really was, or pretending
very well. Why I’m always so desperate to please I’ve never
understood. But before we delve into the mysteries of my single brain
cell and get hopelessly boring, I’ll tell you what happened next  --  
and how I finally found true happiness....

                                        @---}---}----

Are you going to have a pudding? I am. Let’s order profiteroles, then
we can throw them at Daisy’s cousin  -- you see him -- the fat 
chap over there with the Leander tie. It’ll be just like old times...

                                        @---}---}----


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!


Subject: REPOST: Kim Nice-but-Dim 3/3 (Mf, oral, 1st, rom)
From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
--------

WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1997. Not to be used without permission.

                              --- Kim Nice-but-Dim ---
                            Chapter 3: "Revelations"
                          (Mf, oral, fucking, humor, love)

                                        @---}---}----

Well, I went on seeing Greek Eddie - though I s'pose he saw more of me
than I saw of him. He saw the back of my head, and I saw
upholstery.....

He was wonderful for impressing my girlfriends - he must have been a
lot richer than some of the other polo players because he sent flowers
every day and once a whole bouquet of orchids, which luckily arrived
while a particularly bitchy friend of Mummy's was over for lunch. That
was a bit of a coup. Though I don't much like orchids. They look
spiteful to me.

He told me that he lived for our meetings, and naturally he expected
to "fuck the bum, yes?" every time we saw each other. I spent ages in
the kitchen every day with a little pack of frozen peas on my lip
trying to make it heal at record speed. I mean I adore sucking cock,
but this buggery lark was simply not my cup of tea. And also, though
this bit's rather embarrassing, I hated not being able to poo, and I
simply couldn't. It hurt too much.

By the evening of Saturday fortnight I was not only fully recovered
but we had an invite to the Cartier thrash to celebrate their polo
sponsorship. Happiness. Two delectable outfits and being able to go
back to blow jobs again. No more buggery. Praise the Lord.

It was one of those moveable feast nights you get in the country. I
had a new short dress for the drinks do beforehand at Lord Emsworth's
lovely old place, and my ball dress was already hanging up at the
house we were going for dinner so I could nip off at half-time, so to
speak, do my quick change act and turn up at the ball itself within 20
minutes. It should've gone like clockwork.

I felt wonderful. My hair was extra glossy, my eyes were shining. I
might not get the thrills other girls described out of sex (in fact
the whole business was beginning to seem a bit one-sided to me), but I
knew I looked ravishing and I felt sure that as soon as I'd displayed
my blow-job skills to Greek Eddie he'd never look a bum-fuck in the
face again. Or something like that. It was definitely my night.

                                        @---}---}----

At least it was my night until I went to the loo. I knew nearly
everyone at the drinks party and, as Lord Emsworth's butler said
wistfully, that night the blaze of lights, the smell of wines and
perfume brought back the old days. Days when the country house set
ruled the world.

Buffy and Margot Emsworth were genial and carefree. Their son and
heir, Jonty, was flushed, pop-eyed and jubilant. He looked as happy as
a moronic 22 year old with thinning hair can. With the dosh his
parents were making out of polo he had every right to be happy. Owning
a polo team is one of the ways whimsical billionaires make holes in
their fortunes. Supplying the whims of said billionaires, on the other
hand, can be unbelievably lucrative.

I left Eddie chatting polo with some team mates and nipped off for a
pee. I chatted to a couple of girls I knew, combed my hair and touched
up my lippy. On the way back I decided I'd circulate a bit and grab
the chance to chat to various old school enemies I'd spotted on the
way in. Nothing like looking your best to bring out a mean desire to
re-introduce yourself to girls who used to look down on you.

So I swanned about feeling gorgeous until disaster struck. You see
Eddie didn't spot me coming back to join him because I went back a
different way. I was just in the alcove leading to the billiard room
where I'd left him when I heard Eddie's voice, clear and happy.

"Yes, I know she's a silly leetle tart, my friend -- not two brain
sticks to rub together. She believes any bloody thing you tell her.
When I hear all that about She still thinks I am called Greek Eddie
because I am Greek. Everyone else knows I am French.  But Oliver, you
must admit she has the face of an angel. For that and for her tiny
tight little arsehole alone she is worth a sea of red roses."

As I stood there, stunned, a dear, familiar voice replied. "Yes,
Eddie, you've got me there. Even if Kim thinks a long sentence is
something you can appeal against, she's still the sexiest toy on two
legs. A living Barbie doll -- and so desperate to please. I've never
known a piece of totty so undemanding. I don't think she's even heard
of foreplay -- let alone the female orgasm. " Oliver was laughing.
Eddie was laughing. I wasn't laughing.

All I could think of was escaping. I staggered around the corner into
a cool corridor and collapsed. It was suddenly clear to me why people
talk about feelings being hurt. I hurt so much I felt something
cracking in my chest.

Ever since I was little people've teased me about what a fool I am. I
mean I've always been the first to admit that I'm a bit of a dipstick,
so them thinking I was a mug wasn't the worst of it. No, the worst
thing was that I'd been pootling along thinking they liked me, and
they didn't, they didn't give a shit and I'd never noticed. They liked
what I did, but who I was didn't really matter at all. I wished I was
dead -- or at least invisible...

I was slumped on this stupid little gilt chair, wailing my heart out
as quietly as I could, when I felt the satin lining of a d.j. warm
from someone's back being wrapped gently around my bare shoulders.

"It's my little Kim. I've been looking for you, and what do I find?
Crying again, sausage? Surely you've stopped at some point during the
past decade? A bit more serious than a grazed knee this time, eh? Come
on, poor old girl. I'll take you home and you can tell your uncle
Barnaby all about it." It was Barny. I hadn't seen him for ages, but
here he was when I was in the pits.

I sobbed even harder now someone was being nice to me. Have you ever
noticed that? It's bad enough having something full tilt horrible
happen but then if someone comes along and is sympathetic that's just
too much to bear. I really howled. So he came round in front of me,
wrapped his big chunky arms round me like a father (not like *my*
father. He's no one's fantasy Daddy. No, I mean like a *real* daddy)
and lifted me up. We were near the hall already, and it only took a
second for him to slip into the cloakroom and find his overcoat.

So with me wrapped in his dj and then tucked up under his huge coat he
made our farewells "Poor little thing... only a migraine... family
friend... safely home..." Muttering reassuring platitudes, Uncle Barn
shepherded me invisibly out through the press of people without an
atom of fuss, across the rain-swept courtyard and into his battered
four-wheel drive.

Just like Uncle Barn -- turn up at a party, after years in the Middle
East, wearing a bespoke dinner jacket and driving a filthy farm
vehicle. Not that he is my uncle really. He's an old university mate
of Daddy's from Oxford. He's known me since I was little and I've had
a hopeless crush on him since I was eight. He was right too. Last time
he saw me I *was* crying and it *was* a grazed knee. Man must have a
memory like an elephant.

I felt so safe in his car as we drove away through the village. It was
a proper country Range Rover -- muddy and smelling of dogs, and it
felt so homely. Horses and dogs and kind men who loved me. And of
course that made me think about Greek Eddie and Oliver again and I
started blubbering louder than ever. Because nobody loved me and it
wasn't worth being so beautiful I could piss off all the girls I knew
if I was still so stupid that everyone was laughing at me.

Barn stopped the car in a lay by. "Hold hard, old lady," he said.
"Save the tears until we get to my place. You tell me all about it and
if you've got a good reason I'll let you cry as hard as you like. You
can flood the bloody cottage as long as you give me time to put the
furniture up on milk crates. But no more howling until you've spilt
the beans."  That made me giggle, and he gave a little nod of approval
as we drove off through the rain.

His farm wasn't far away, and he must've left the lights on to put off
burglars. It was probably rented -- Uncle Barn's constantly in debt
and, as Daddy so sweetly puts it, "hasn't got a pot to piss in".
Rented or not, it looked ever so cosy on that wet night. He jumped out
and strode round to the passenger door. I was too busy mournfully
comparing the rain on the windscreen to the deluge in my heart to
notice the huge puddle in the yard between the car and his front door.
But he thought of me and my lovely expensive shoes. He's that sort of
man. Hard to see what he and Daddy ever had in common, really.

Barnaby scooped me out of my seat and carted me over the puddle. He
unlocked the front door and set me down gently just inside. He looked
down at me under the lamp and smiled. "Kim you're the eighth wonder of
the world. You're the only girl I've ever known who can wail like a
banshee and end up looking no worse than a bit dew-drenched. You were
like that as a baby, too. Whatever happens to all the snot? It's got
to be some form of genius, like autism."

"I don't know why you're saying that," I sobbed. "I can't even drive.
It's just waterproof mascara." Looking at Uncle Barn's coat, I could
see where some of the snot had gone, but I wasn't about to tell him.

His front door opened straight into a huge low-ceilinged kitchen with
a real fireplace and some easy chairs. He plonked me down in one of
these, built up the fire again, and set about making coffee. He
brought a tray over with the coffee and two huge glasses of malt and
sat down in the chair opposite, looking kind and scuffed and
concerned.

Well, Daddy would just go mad, and Mummy would say something light and
tinkling and God's honest truth was I'd lost nearly all my girlfriends
through showing off. I'd been a bit of bitch since I suddenly turned
into a swan. It had to be faced that there simply weren't a lot of
people I could talk to any more. And I had to talk to someone, even if
the whole thing was so dreadfully shaming.

So I took a huge gulp of the malt and told Barn all about Greek Eddie
and the buggery and Oliver and the sucking. The only bit I left out
was the bit about it hurting to poo. I couldn't tell even Barn about
that.

It took me a while to explain everything. At first he stood up and
just sort of screwed up his mouth and went a funny colour. And then he
started strolling about and making little snorty noises. I could see
he was trying to control his disgust, and my eyes filled with tears.
Then his did as well, real tears in his shattering blue eyes in his
rather weather-beaten face.

Then, just as my heart was breaking, he flung himself down on the sofa
and started howling. But he wasn't angry or disillusioned. He was
laughing. Laughing incredibly loudly, pounding his fist into a
cushion. He roared with laughter, he rolled on his back and held his
stomach. His voice went all squeaky... "Kim! Oh Kim, you holy
innocent! You mean to say... Oh, darling..." he whooped, and he didn't
finish his sentence but went off into another gale of giggles.

"So what happened tonight, Kimmy-kitten?" he asked tenderly, when he'd
stopped laughing. He used to call me that silly name when I was tiny,
and he was still using it even though he knew all these terrible
things about me. So I told him the rest. He didn't laugh at this bit.
"Miserable little shits!" he growled. "Heaven preserve teenage girls
from teenage boys, that's all I can say."

God, I was relieved. In fact I was so relieved that when he kneeled
before me and took my face between his hands I still thought of him as
a relative. But then he kissed me. The only way I can describe that
kiss is that it was very concentrated. Like cordial.

The words "Uncle Barn" teetered in my brain. There was a sort of short
anquished struggle between how long I'd known him and the fact that he
wasn't any sort of relative, and what Daddy would say and how much I'd
always fancied him and the overall effect of that kiss. And I opened
my eyes and looked at Barn. He was the same, but he was different. Or
maybe I was different. And I kissed him back.

When we paused for breath he looked at me and struck an actory sort of
pose.

"How dare these little pricks mess with my best girl?" he declaimed in
a school play voice. " In fact what I'd like to know," and Barn took a
deep breath, "is how dare the bloody bugger bugger my battered baby?"

And then he was hugging me and we were slipping down on the rug in a
pile of sofa cushions and I was laughing so hard my tummy hurt.

All the pain was fading away. Barn gazed deep into my eyes and set me
off again when he said "Holy cow, Kim, how did you ever get to be so
totally gormless?"

When he rolled over again and buried his face in my lap I didn't think
much about it. I was wearing that lace cocktail dress that stops just
below my bum. Weren't you with me when I bought that? Oh, maybe not.
Anyway, just that -- no tights, just brown legs and cream Janet Reger
knicks.

And I was so screwed up -- what with having my heart broken and then
worrying about how this old family friend would take my dreadful
confession and then pissing ourselves laughing and so on -- that I
suppose my guard was down. Because in no time Barnaby wasn't laughing,
he was kissing my forearm, and running his tongue up the skin against
the grain. It made all the hairs on my arms stand on end and it made
my eyes sort of dither. I felt hypnotised with pleasure. Slowly he
moved on, and soon he was licking my thighs just under the hem of my
dress and taking deep sniffs under there while did so. I remembered
him doing that just inside restaurant doors to make me laugh when I
was little, so I knew it was a compliment.

The licks were lovely. My thighs were looking particularly nice, all
pale tan with tiny golden hairs, so I didn't have to worry about that.
Besides which, Barnaby's ancient, at least 45, so I knew he had all
sorts of lumps and bumps himself. He wouldn't be expecting me to be
perfect. All of a sudden, for the first time in my life, I stopped
fretting. I was inside my skin instead of watching it from the
outside.

Anyway, what with one thing and another, I just sort of relaxed and
Barnaby went on kissing my legs and licking me, little cat licks,
inside my thighs and even down towards my knees. I'm used to stopping
men going too far but not to men sliding away from my naughty bits
without being asked so this kissing and nibbling down towards my knees
was a bit of a novelty.

I leant right back and closed my eyes. He never stopped moving. His
tongue or his lips were sending shivers through me while one of his
hands constantly stroked or very, very gently tickled me using the
tips of his nails. God, it was delicious. I made a sort of
half-hearted move for his trouser button but he whispered "Forget it,
sweetheart. It's your turn tonight."

I went into a sort of blissed-out coma and then I felt his nails
grazing my ankles. He very delicately undid the straps on my party
sandals and bent to take them carefully off and put them to one side.
Then, as I lay there with the fire making my skin glow, he sucked each
toe in turn, running his tongue between each one and even taking a
tiny playful bite at one big toenail. I felt cherished, like a little
baby, and excited at the same time. All this was new to me. Time was
stretching out like chewing gum. It was all for me, and there was no
rush, we were weightless and time vanished...

Tenderly his big, safe-feeling hands moved up my thighs again. He
leant up to kiss me thoughtfully, as if he planned to take an exam in
me, and the very tips of his fingers just grazed against the crotch of
my knickers. Christ, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Wow. What was
going on? I'd never felt like this - nothing even vaguely like this.
Ripples were coming from inside me, I was in a trance but I couldn't
be passive any longer. I needed something urgently. But what did I
need?

"Why don't you let me take these wet clothes off for you?" Barn
whispered, and that seemed a good idea. A wonderful idea. I was about
to say they weren't wet when I realised some of them were. Very. I
just nodded. So he peeled off my soaking panties and very delicately
planted a single kiss on my pussy. He kissed a place no one else had
come across. It took my breath away.

I was shy for a moment but then I started wondering if I hadn't
completely missed the point before. With sex I mean. I mean I used to
get tingles, and I used to get damp. But I never had my whole body
threaten to fly off in different directions before. Everything was
fizzing gently.

"If you'd just turn round I could unzip your dress," Barn pointed out
tenderly. I knelt up and obediently offered him my back. He unzipped a
few inches and started kissing the back of my neck. If it was heavenly
delight before, now it felt even nicer. He blew and nuzzled along my
hairline, he whispered in my ears, and when he started gently biting
the nape of my neck I felt something I didn't recognise at all. My
tummy filled up with hot syrup, my inner thighs just sort of gave way
and my pussy started to throb and shudder as if it was trying to say
something. I couldn't help but gasp with the sheer blissful shock.

"Wow," breathed Barn when I'd stopped shaking. "That was a lovely
surprise. How come no one ever noticed before, poor baby?"

"Never noticed what?" I asked, in sudden fear of some unnoticed
failure.

"Just how easy to turn on you are. Christ, youth is wasted on the
young." His head came over my shoulder. "Look at your chest, Kim."

I thought he meant my tits, but when I looked down he said "Look at
that red flush. Left over from your first orgasm of the night, baby
girl."

And he was right, I could see it. "That was an orgasm, Barny?" I
asked.

"Only a little tiny one, Kim" he replied mischievously. "Just a
taster. Now where was I...?"

He leant forward and licked my neck again. I shivered. Then he backed
off a little, but only to get at a better angle so he could run his
tongue slowly down the groove in my back. He unzipped me with one hand
at the same time so his tongue sort of followed the zipper. My whole
body was melting.

He slid the dress off me and snuggled up behind me with his hard cock
pressing into my back through his trousers. He was still wearing all
his clothes... I ought to be doing something for him, I thought
guiltily, but his touch kept saying 'relax'.....

Barny slid his hands slowly up the front of me from my waist to my
collar bones. His big warm hands gradually took the weight of my tits
from the underside, then cupped them, his palms pressed against the
pebbles of my nipples and slowly moved onwards letting my breasts
slide back down into their natural place on my rib cage. There was
something good about the wholeness of his touch. Most of the boys I'd
got to know grasped my huge high tits as if they were being asked to
field them. I thought feeling like an assortment of body parts was
normal until I made love with Barny.

"Why don't you lie down, sweetheart?" Barny suggested. "Nothing so
exhausting as high emotion. Let me take care of you now."

And I did, simple as that. Not like me at all. He fussed about
arranging the rug and the cushions to make me really comfy and then I
stretched out, bare as bare and relaxed. I felt free for the first
time in my life. Being clever or stupid wasn't what mattered here.
Barny loved me, every inch. He'd loved me when I was an ugly duckling
and now he knew my nastiest secrets not only did he still like me but
he was really enjoying being nice to me.

But I was still a bit worried about the whacking great tent in his
trousers. "It's not going to kill me, Kim, you daft bat" said Barny
gently. "It's not even going to inconvenience me. My erection is not,
repeat not, your responsibility. If you want to suck it, or just look
at it, later I'll be delighted but you can just as well tell me to
fuck off and have a wank. It's my cock and I can look after it
myself."

I had my doubts, but I put them to the back of my mind. He knelt over
me, smiling down in the firelight, and took off his shirt and tie.
Then he took off his shoes. Then he leant forward with his weight on
his hands and started kissing my mouth.

I'd never been kissed before. That was the only conclusion I could
manage. The velvety softness and intensity of this experience was a
whole new world. Somehow I found my mouth and my tongue doing things I
hadn't thought of myself. He ran the tip of his tongue along the
inside of my bottom lip. It made me screw up my eyes while stars spun
round my head. Our mouths met and melted and explored. It was like sea
anemones dancing. It was just so good, so warm. I felt that syrupy
feeling start to build up all over again. He was tickling my cheek
from the inside. Even my teeth liked him.

But then his kisses moved away down my neck. For a moment my mouth
felt lonely but when he took one of my nipples in his mouth the shock
of excitement that shot straight to my pussy made me leap like a
salmon. "Like that, do you?" he murmured. "And what about this?"

Instead of moving really slowly down my tummy he darted straight
between my legs. His tongue snaked inside me without hesitation as his
face came down. For a tiny moment I was too impressed by the sheer
excellence of his aim to react. How many pussies must he have kissed
to get that good? His tongue was inside my labia as if drawn by
magnetism. He licked up and then flicked his tongue over the top of my
clit. Saliva was pouring out of his mouth -- and I was already
dripping juices.... He was using his tongue, his nose, his fingertips,
even his breath to give me pleasure....

I was so wet between my thighs it crossed my mind that there was a
real risk darling Barn might drown. With his whole face buried in
liquid pussy, anything might happen... A dippy image of him down there
with a snorkel on tickled me and I snorted with nervous laughter.

Barn slowly moved up and gazed down at me, his face glistening.
"Feeling a bit lonely up here?" he asked.

"No, of course not," I said. "Well, yes... I was."

"Poor old girl. You *have* been in the wars. I'm here, you know. I'm
here for you. You don't need to be nervous. If you feel better I'll
stay up close, face to face with you..." Feeling deeply wimpish, I
nodded and snuggled up to him.

He wrapped his arms around me and continued thoughtfully, kissing
along my jaw. "About that virginity business. It may not have occurred
to you, sweetheart, but some of us oldies have a secret weapon... It's
called a vasectomy."

Well, Barn explained it, and I wouldn't have believed it from any
other man -- not after what had happened -- but if you can't trust the
man who gave you a bicycle with trainer wheels who can you trust? And
I'd been dying of curiosity for so long and I suddenly thought how
miserable trying to hold on to my bloody virginity had made me, so I
said, very, very quietly, "Yes, please."

He heard me all right, because he slowly got up and took off the rest
of his clothes, grinning at me. His cock was a nice shape, but not
particularly ginormous though he was bigger everywhere else than
anyone else I'd been with and miles hairier in all sorts of places
(and some of the hairs were white). At first sight I was a bit
disappointed to see he didn't have a proper hard-on. I mean it was big
but it wasn't sticking straight up. Apparently that's how it works
when men get older. It may not get as huge as fast but, believe me, it
gets just as huge eventually and older men -- well Barny, anyway --
last for hours and hours.

It's a sort of hare and tortoise thing -- we did that at junior
school, did you? Well, then, it's like the difference between popcorn
and a proper roast dinner with vegetables. Far, far more satisfying.

And it was. He lay down beside me and showed me his vasectomy scars.
That got us giggling, because what with him being so hairy and the
scars being so small and the firelight it took us about five minutes
to find them. So I forget about being nervous, and he started all that
stroking again. But this time it was less comforting and more
exciting. He pressed harder and used his nail tips to stand my hairs
on end. He sucked my nipples, my ears and whispered all sorts of nice
things. Just nice things -- about what a sweet little girl I'd been
and how I'd make a wonderful grown-up and how I deserved better than
Eurotrash and... Well it shouldn't have been sexy, but it was. Because
he made me feel so good, so special... And then he bent his head to
the opposite side of my neck and moved himself over me. My moment had
come.

I screwed my eyes tight shut. He stopped dead. We both froze for a
moment. "Why doesn't he get it over with?" I was thinking. Slowly I
unscrewed one eye... He was grinning down at me like a fox.

"You're wondering why I don't get it over with, aren't you?" he said,
and winked.

Well, I burst out laughing, and his face sort of sparkled and then
with one long thrust he was inside me, like two hands creaming each
other. It didn't hurt, it felt totally fucking gorgeous and it took my
breath away. An orgasm was building in me like a thunder cloud before
he'd even started moving. I started to make strange little gasps. I
couldn't recognise the woman I was becoming, but she was definitely
me. This was the real stuff.

Everything that happened after that was deeply educational and lush.
It turns out the movie cliches we used to giggle about are all true.
The waves do pound on the beach, the pistons piston, fireworks go off,
rockets are launched. I recall strongly identifying with Liz Taylor
during the race in National Velvet, except I didn't have to cut my
hair off.

God, it was astonishing. We changed positions a couple of times, but
mostly we just shagged the arse off each other. We fucked to a
complete bloody standstill.

When we finally came down to earth for a glass of juice it was over
two hours later and my whole body was wet with sweat. My hair was
plastered to my head and my thigh muscles were trembling. At one point
I remember my whole body felt full of sequins, glittering and loose. I
lost count of how many times I came... It was amazing. Women don't
work like men at all, you know. Men often just climb up and up their
single steep hill and then fall off the cliff. Women have a whole
landscape to explore -- and we went over the hills and far away....

So now Barnaby and I're going to live happy ever after. We'll see you
on Saturday -- you are coming, aren't you? I've just had my final
fitting, and the wedding rehearsal's tomorrow night. No, of course I'm
not nervous. What's to be nervous of?

                                         @---}---}----

Let's take one last lingering glance at Kim among her guests, a very
English bride in the sunny courtyard. The chink of crystal and mutter
of voices, with the occasional peal of laughter, the sounds and scents
of a lavish garden party.

And Kim looks as Pamela Anderson might look were she as fresh as a
daisy and had breasts built of country air and good food. Her curved
golden shoulders and her long neck rise out of the low-cut lace of her
gown. Only the upper slopes of those magnificent tits can be seen. Her
thick, platinum-streaked tawny hair is piled up under a crown of
fresh flowers. Today she is wearing the first pearl necklace of her
life that won't wash off....

Further pearls stud her ears and a single carat solitaire winks on her
hand. Billows of vanilla satin make up the skirt that falls from her
unfeasibly small waist and trails on the centuries-old flagstones of
the Emsworth's ancestral hall.

The Emsworth's flagstones? Oh I see. Yes, of course she's marrying
Jonty Emsworth, Viscount Blandings.

You didn't really think she'd marry Barnaby did you? God, you're such
a hopeless romantic. After all, what's ground-breaking
emotionally-synchronised ecstasy and lifelong penury compared to a
multi-million pound town house and most of Berkshire? Remember, Kim's
her mother's daughter. And possibly her father's too.....

Sshh....! She's coming over... she wants to introduce us to someone.

Kim is smiling bewitchingly up at us. "Darling, how lovely to see you.
Have you met Barnaby Rufus? He's my trustee and a very old family
friend. It was so kind of your mother to remember Jonty and I like
Wedgwood."

Dear old penniless Uncle Barnaby. Nothing more natural than that he
should be invited. And nothing more natural than that a married woman
of property should need frequent private meetings with her trustee. To
discuss her position.... In some depth....

Kim winks at us over her shoulder as she takes centre stage again.
It's time for her and her groom to cut the cake. Goodbye,
sweetheart....

Dear Kim. She may be dim but she's no longer anybody's fool.....

                                        @---}---}----


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!




Author: Bronwen <bronwen@anon.nymserver.com>
-- CJ
I don't write any stories. I'm just a reader, and sometimes a reposter.

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