Foreword

Hello readers, this is Rupali. I know what you're thinking: if Rupali is writing the foreword for one of Belinda's "Headmaster" stories then her secret mystery man is no longer a mystery. It's true; I know his identity. I feel a bit late to the party because her readers knew so long ago but ... well I'm one of you now; no more secrets.

The story that follows is – Belinda tells me – the second of three on my discovery of her secret. I read the first one: 'Twisting on the... ' – I can't say the rest, it feels like bad luck. I can vouch for the first part before she left the dorm, but as for the rest ... frankly I think she made some of it up.

Belinda also let me read the other stories. I didn't like the ones with me in them; it was weird reading an 'I' and 'we' story (ED: We call that First Person Narrative, Roops. BL) where I was getting all of the attention. It's like having sex with yourself, but not in a good way. To make it up to me, Belinda promised to write me a story where I was the 'I' and she was the 'she' (ED: A Ghost Written First Person Narrative. BL). "And it will be super hot!" she assures me. We'll see.

This is that story. I haven't read it yet, but Belinda has been asking me some very personal questions about the day we went shoe shopping, so I guess I know what it's about. I hope you enjoy it. Please don't make up too much stuff, Belinda.

I love you. R. (ED: Love you too, sweetie. BL)

"Do they do autopsies on heart attack victims?" I asked Belinda.

"Depends," she said. "Maybe if they're young. Why?"

"Because I don't want my parents to read 'Evidence of sexual arousal' in the Other Comments section of my post-mortem," I replied miserably. In truth, I was feeling anything but miserable; I was only half kidding about the heart attack because my heart really was pounding like a marching band on meth, but I was also excited, apprehensive and so, so horny.

"Oh, you poor princess," Belinda teased. "Have you lost your crown?"

"Don't be snotty, sweetie," I told her. "It doesn't suit you. And mind the wind; I think you just flashed your bottom."

That took away some of her sass. She looked around and checked for people behind us – there weren't any, I had already checked three times – and then smoothed her summer school dress and held the hem casually with one hand.

"What was wrong with the last two stores, anyway," I asked. We were shoe shopping ... well that's what Belinda said we were doing, but we had walked in and straight out of two shops already. What we were actually doing was fulfilling a fantasy for her, but if I got a nice pair of heels out of it then ... hey, win-win is still a win, right? OK, that's a lie; it was a fantasy for us both, so win-win-win if I get the heels.

"Um, the creepy old pervs, for one," she said, "who were undressing you with their eyes the moment you walked in. Don't you want to flash a hot young guy, Rupali."

"I don't recall saying anything about wanting to flash anyone!" I lied, because playing up the reluctance seemed to fit with the fantasy. "You make a valid point about creepy old guys, but I'm sick of walking, so promise me you won't make any excuses when we find a shop with a young hottie."

"Promise," she smiled. That was a pretty quick agreement; I got my first inkling that I was being set up.

There was another shoe shop up ahead and I looked in as we passed the window. Empty: good. Half past three on a Wednesday afternoon in early spring is a good time for shoppers and a bad time for shop-keepers; even the streets were pretty empty of pedestrians. We stepped in the door and looked around for the shop assistant... oh, fuck it!

"Let's go," I said. "There's another one down the street."

"Hang on," Belinda whispered. "He's pretty young and handsome."

"He's pretty young and Indian!" I hissed.

"You're being racist," she said.

"I'm Indian!" I glared at her. "I can't be racist to another Indian."

"You told me you were Australian," Belinda smiled. "Besides, what's wrong with Indian? Hot is hot in any package."

"He'll judge me," I explained in a whisper. "Indian boys think all white girls are sluts and all Indian girls are chaste virgins. If you flash him he'll smile and enjoy it; if I flash him he'll think I just crawled out of the gutter from fucking a wino."

"You're being melodramatic," Belinda rolled her eyes at me. "Besides, he could be Pakistani."

"Right! A Muslim with a little statue of Ganesha on his desk?" I asked, tapping one foot and giving her my best 'Oh, really?' look.

"Hey, don't get your panties in a tangle!" she teased me.

"I'm not wearing any!" I hissed. "And it's your fault!"

"Well me neither, but I'm being a bit more grown up about it," she shot back. "Look," she said, suddenly getting all serious and trying on her commanding act; but at 4'11" and three-quarters, blonde elfin features and wearing a green and white striped summer school dress, Belinda looks about as commanding as a Brownie ... although I concede she does look a lot hotter.

"This is how it is," she delivered the ultimatum, "he's hot and you promised. Is any of that untrue?"

"You set me up, didn't you?" I said. "Have you been here before?"

"That's hardly the point," she defended. "Am I, or am I not, the Queen of Hot?"

I sighed. "You are the Queen of Hot, Belinda. And I am but your humble servant girl." This was a familiar game.

"If I say it's going to be hot, is it ever not?"

She had a point. She comes up with sexy games on an almost daily basis – the girl's got imagination – and she never strikes out. Ever! "If you say it's going to be hot, it's going to be hot." Sigh.

"This is going to be hot, Rupali." She looked up at me with blonde eyebrows raised. At 6'1", I'm more than a foot taller than her; why do I let her push me around? I could pick her up under one arm and walk her out of the store myself.

"OK. Let's go." God, was my heart hammering before? Now it was about to leap out of my throat. The shop assistant – pardon me; the hot, Indian shop assistant – started towards us with a big smile. He looked to be our age or a few years older and he was also about my height – nice and tall – narrow across the shoulders and chest, but with slim hips he still had a very manly shape. His thick, wavy black hair was trimmed to a neat length and his long face was made handsome by prominent cheek bones and a strong jaw. His skin was a lovely coffee and cream brown like mine, so his family was probably from the North, or he might be carrying some British colonial blood – and still my beating heart – he was clean shaven. Why so many Indian men want to go around with a moustache looking like a criminal – or worse, a pervert – is beyond me.

"Hello. Namaste," he said, "Welcome to Sundara. My name is Rajit." He pointed to his name tag. "How can I be of assistance?"

Oh God. How did I get myself into this?

It's possible Belinda had been planning this for some time – she loves the long game – but the first I knew of this fantasy adventure was the night before when we were in bed together playing Hot Five.

We are both in Year 12 at an exclusive private school in Sydney – what Americans would call Senior Year at High School. We live in the senior girls' boarding house; I am new this year and Belinda has been a boarder for years, so we were a natural pairing for roommates as far as the Boarding House Mistress was concerned. Clearly she overlooked the whole tall vs. tiny, brown vs. pale, brunette vs. blonde, sporty vs. bookish situation, but perhaps she knew something we didn't because within the first month of school we became lovers and best friends. We'll never share clothes or shoes or make-up, but we share our emotions, our dreams, a love of sexy games – and on one incredible occasion we shared Belinda's mystery boyfriend, although I was blindfolded and still do not know his identity. At least I didn't at the time; but the day of the shoe shopping fantasy was the day I found out.

Hot Five is another of Belinda's inventions. One person thinks of a topic ... OK, Belinda thinks of a topic and then together we agree on the five hottest examples of that topic. Without fail it gets us so aroused that we have to quit the game to make love, which is true of all Belinda's games and one of the things that makes her so special.

We were spooning in the dark in my bed, Belinda's tiny form folded into mine like a Russian doll; my left arm under her neck and my right hand cupping her breast through the sheer satin of her nightie. This is how we usually sleep until she gets too hot – literally, not figuratively – and sneaks back to her own cold bed.

"Hot Five things you do with your clothes on," she began.

"Oooh, good one," I said. "I know Number One already."

"You just go ahead and think that, sweetie. But remember who's the Queen of Hot."

"Of course Your Majesty," I said deferentially, giving her breast a little squeeze. "But it was your royal personage who was the number one hottest thing with your clothes on at the beginning of the year. Do you remember No Panties Tuesday?"

I was smiling with the recollection. Trish had dared Belinda to go sans panties all day at school in a game of Truth or Dare, but Belinda had grown out of her school dress over Christmas and it barely covered her pussy. She spent the whole day sitting with her laptop bag on her knees and ended up getting a yellow card to visit the Headmistress.

"Remember it? It's burned into my psyche, from embarrassment though, not hotness!"

"Oh, it was hot all right," I laughed. "You were so nervous and red faced; you just drew more attention to yourself. Every time you twisted in your seat to see who was watching, that tiny dress would ride up. I saw your pussy three times."

"Oh, you dirty perv!" she cried, elbowing me gently in the stomach, the poorly veiled glee in her voice betraying her words. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"We were just roommates then," I said. "And afterwards it never came up. I still think about it when you're not around though."

"OK then," she said. "In that case, Number Two is you playing netball without your shorts."

From the sound of her voice, I could tell she was smiling in the dark; pleased to turn the tables on me. I was selected for the school's First Seven netball team at the start of the year and didn't realise that there was an unlisted item of uniform. The official uniform is a pleated netball skirt worn over the school gymnastics leotard with a netball bib. The leotard is very high cut and – for gymnasts at least – is designed to be worn with opaque tights so that it is athletic rather than sexy. What I didn't know is that all of the girls buy black athletic shorts to wear under their skirts so they don't have to shave their bikini line before each game.

"Fair enough," I smiled. "I think the boys appreciated it more than you, though. I've never seen the front row of the bleachers so full!" If I'm truthful, I kind of enjoyed the attention and did a bit more jumping and pivoting to make the skirt flare out than was probably necessary.

"I've got my Number Three," she said. "But you won't like it."

"I thought that you were the Queen of Hot," I teased. "Do you think something's hot that's not?"

I expected some sassy response like I wasn't refined enough to know it was hot, but she didn't.

"Writing," she whispered. It sounded like she was a bit ashamed, which is strange because she's never backwards about sharing sexy thoughts with me.

"What? Like Christmas Cards?" I asked, trying to lighten the nervousness I heard in her voice.

"No. Erotica," she replied. I gave her a moment but she didn't continue.

"So like pornos for blind people," I asked, trying not to giggle.

"You're not taking me seriously," she pouted; I didn't need to see the pout, I could hear it.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," I said. "Do you write pornos?"

"Erotica!" she corrected me. She sounded less annoyed now; I think she worked out that I was teasing her. "You know that bedtime story I told you a few weeks ago?"

"The one about your Physics lab partner Bob?" I said. "That was very sexy. I look at Bob differently now." This is true; I was masturbating while she told it and it made me come. I'm beginning to see why Belinda has a crush on him.

"IT! WAS! NOT! BOB! FROM! PHYSICS!" she snarled, punctuating each word with a poke to my bare thigh. She is so in denial. "Anyway," she continued, "that's erotica. When I wrote that one out, I had to stop every page to cool off. You might have noticed some weeks I'm a bit needy."

"Well, now that you mention it... ," I said softly, stroking her nipple through the satin. Actually I had noticed; but I would have used the word 'horny'. For about a week at a time – when she's writing, it turns out - she's completely insatiable.

"Erotica is usually just a short, sexy story – or a collection of them broken into scenes long enough to get you good and hot," she explained, beginning to sound more animated as she hit her stride. "Good erotica is pretty hot; it can get your fires burning and keep them going for an hour or more. When you come after that it's... ," she paused, maybe realising she was favourably comparing sex without me to sex with me. "It's just really nice," she finished weakly.

I let her off the hook. "I know. I read erotica too, sweetie."

"Oh, really?" she seemed surprised. "OK. So think about the hottest erotica you've read."

"OK."

"What is it?" she asked.

"Not telling," I smiled.

"Chicken! Anyway, you know how your favourite erotica gets into your head and pings your secret fantasies?"

"Sure," I agreed.

"Well, writing it yourself is about ten times hotter because you use your own fantasies and have perfect earth-shattering sex every time. As you're writing it and editing it, it's like having super hot sex over and over. It's actually pretty exhausting."

Feeling her nipple harden beneath my fingers as she spoke, I began to wish I could trade some of my sports and science prowess for creative writing.

"Would you write some for me?" I asked.

"We'll see," she teased me back. "You need to build up your favour bank, lassie; especially when you see the toy my mystery man made for you."

My heart skipped a beat. I bought Belinda a strapless strap-on dildo some months ago and I wear it to make love to her. She wanted to return the favour but couldn't find one big enough to ... ahem ... accommodate my tastes. Long story short: her mystery man – the one who took me blindfolded – is a very well endowed toy-maker. Belinda called in a favour to get him to make a strapless strap-on modelled on his own cock, but I haven't heard anything about it for ages.

"Oh my God!" I breathed. "Do you have it? Get it now!"

"You need to learn some patience, sweetie," she said. "Not tonight, but soon. I need a special occasion."

"I'm horny," I said. "That's special."

"Not special enough," she said. "What's next? Hot Five, Number Four?"

I sighed inwardly and squeezed my thighs together to quell the fire that had kindled there (it didn't help), but I knew better than to push her. She really is the Queen of Hot and if she says she needs an occasion then it's going to be worth the wait.

"OK, this one is a bit of a cheat," I began, "because you were actually trying to get out of your clothes, not stay in them."

"Oh God, not Spike again!" she cried quietly.

Oh yes, Spike again. We went bikini shopping at the end of last summer and for reasons I don't remember we were wearing one of her mystery man's new inventions: a pair of radio linked vibrating vaginal plugs that we called Ike and Mike; when you switch one on, the other one switches on too providing it is in range. She tried on a skimpy string bikini and – this still makes me laugh - all four knots got stuck! We got Spike the cute shop assistant (yes, that was his real name) to undo Belinda's bikini and while they were alone in the changing room, I triggered the plugs to buzz her to a secret orgasm while Spike was sitting with his face barely a foot from her pussy trying to undo the last knot.

"Yes, Spike again," I said. "You were so hot in that tiny bikini with Spike trying to undress you without staring at your rack, and then at the end you were trying to hold up the halter he had already undone without flashing him or letting him know you were coming. In fact, I'm promoting that one to Number One because he was a sexy stranger and it was in public."

"Alright," she sighed. "I'm not going to argue with you because I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm not as big of an exhibitionist as you seem to think."

"Your turn then," I said. "Number Five?"

"OK, you might not agree with this one," she said tentatively.

"Try me," I was smiling; despite her reluctant introduction, she does tend to save the best until last.

"It might just be me, but... ," she paused, "shoe shopping. You know when..."

"Oh. My. God! Yes! Shoe shopping!" I was instantly hot again. Belinda had stumbled upon a little fetish of mine that I hadn't shared with her.

"You didn't let me finish," she complained.

"You don't need to," I said. "Everything about shoe shopping gets me wet. The kneeling, the feeling, parading up and down with the clerk watching your ass instead of the shoes, the straps, the buckles, the laces ... hell, just everything!"

"Are you serious?" she asked. "How did I not know this?"

"It was embarrassing," I admitted. "I wasn't brave enough to tell until you said it."

"It sounds like you like it a lot more than me," she giggled. "The bit I like is when the guy..."

"The hot guy?" I interrupted.

"Sure, when the hot guy is..."

"Kneeling in front of you!" I blurted.

"Yeah, kneeling in front of you; and you wonder..."

"Whether he's trying to look up your dress!" I finished for her.

"Um, actually, I was going to say, you wonder whether he's thinking about going down on you," she said. "You're a bit of an exhibitionist, aren't you?"

"Maybe a bit," I admitted. I wanted to share my fantasy with her, but I was still afraid that it was weird. "If I tell you something, promise you won't judge?"

"Promise," she said solemnly.

I took a deep breath; here goes. "I fantasise about a sexy shoe store clerk kneeling in front of me, stealing glances at my bare legs and – not that I have ever been brave enough to do it – I open my knees a little so he can see my panties, special ones just for shoe shopping, pale pink with a gauzy gusset so that at first glimpse he thinks he has seen my pussy. Then when I open a bit wider, he realises it was only my panties, but I watch his face and after a few moments he realises that the panties are translucent and he can see my pussy after all." Christ, I was hot! Could Belinda feel my nipples stabbing her through the back of her nightie?

I continued: "He's fumbling with my feet and trying not to get caught looking at my pussy, but he's getting flustered and I can see his erection. He can't adjust himself in front of me and he's trying to bend over more to hide it, but it only brings his face closer to my pussy, and now I'm thinking about him going down on me – like you were saying. Watching his cock has gotten me even more aroused and I can feel myself getting moist, and I know it will soak through my panties and he will see how wet I am and then..."

"And then what?" Belinda asked breathlessly; I could feel her squirming in my arms and I was secretly pleased to be able to pay her back for the sexy stories she tells me.

"And I don't have any more," I said. "I don't know where to take it from there. I don't really want to fuck the store attendant. I'm not being prudish about it; it's just not as hot as having him look up my dress and I think it should finish on a high note."

I could almost hear Belinda thinking and I could certainly hear her breathing. The ring and little finger of my hand on her breast were touching her ribcage and I could feel her heart hammering nineteen to the dozen in there. This was confusing for me; what she said about not being an exhibitionist was true and I was wondering what part of my flashing fetish had her so worked up.

"In your fantasy," she began slowly, "would you bring a lover shopping with you?"

"Um?" I thought about it for a moment. "Is that so I'd have to be more discreet? I don't think so; it's hot because I'm being so brazen, not because I'm frightened of being discovered."

"What if the lover was watching you too?" she asked. "Because they wanted to see your pussy, and..." she trailed off.

"And?" I encouraged her along.

"And maybe the lover's fantasy is to watch the clerk looking up your dress."

"That would be OK," I replied tentatively. Actually, that would be super hot; two people looking at me but the clerk doesn't know he is being watched. I wriggled tighter into Belinda's body.

"And the clerk is watching you, but nobody is watching the lover, except you of course," she went on, more confidently this time. "So she..." she paused, "um, he or she is masturbating behind the shelves across the store, maybe flashing you too while you watch."

Oh my! What had I tapped into here?

"And then you leave the store," she continued, "all hot and frustrated and you go straight home and have explosive sex with the lover." She paused to let that bit sink in. "Is that finishing on a high note?"

Cuddled into me as she was, Belinda's head was right in front of my mouth; so she could certainly tell from my breathing what I thought about it. "Yes," I husked. "That is definitely finishing on a high note."

"You'd only need to change one thing," she whispered.

"What's that?"

"The lover wouldn't be able to see your pussy from across the store," she said. "So you might have to lose the pink panties."

I felt a shopping trip coming on. "Would that... ," I had to clear my throat; God, why was my mouth so dry and my pussy so wet? "Would that qualify as a Special Occasion?" I asked, still wondering when I would get to see the new toy her mystery man had made for me.

Belinda didn't answer. She rolled over and pulled me close, one hand under the curve of my waist and the other stealing beneath my nightie. "We need new shoes for the Spring Ball," she whispered in my ear.

My mouth was so dry now I couldn't even swallow. "When?" I croaked as her fingers snaked under the waistband of my panties.

"Tomorrow after school," she replied.

We kissed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day of waiting.

"Hello. Namaste," he said, his voice was accented with the clipped precise consonants that were so familiar from my parents and their friends. "Welcome to Sundara. My name is Rajit. How can I be of assistance?"

I could feel the cotton of my summer school dress brushing across my bare pussy and felt completely exposed, like I was standing on a mirrored floor. Here goes.

"Namaste," I smiled back at him. "Sorry, but now you've exhausted my entire Hindi vocabulary." Voe-cabb-you-lair-ree. Oh my God, I'm talking with my parents' accent. What's wrong with me?

"No, it is I who should be sorry," he apologised. "This place, Sundara; it means beautiful and charming in Hindi, so I am very accustomed to serving beautiful Indian women." He paused and looked away, realising he had just paid a brazen compliment. Looking back into my eyes with a bashful smile he said: "It is not the worst job I have ever had." Oh, bravo, what a recovery! Aussie understatement from an Indian boy; I could feel Belinda beaming beside me. I was now positive she had scouted this store earlier.

I noticed that Rajit was actually a little taller than me; a nice change from peering down at Belinda all the time. I was surprised at how he set off the Indian mannerisms that I didn't even know I had when I realised I had lowered my eyes and was watching him through my eyelashes. What was more surprising was that I liked the way it made me feel and I found myself smiling and flashing my eyes at him.

"I'm going to browse," Belinda said softly, touching me on the hip with her fingertips as she stepped past and around Rajit. Once she was behind his back, she reached down and scratched the back of her thigh, lifting her dress to expose the smooth curve of her bare bottom to anyone watching, which of course was only me. I remembered why we here and felt another flush of adrenalin course through me, setting off tingles in my breasts and deep in my stomach.

I hadn't said anything since Rajit's lovely compliment and he seemed compelled to save me by continuing as if he was still finishing a thought. "Actually it is refreshing to serve Australian girls," he said. As he was talking, I began walking towards a row of shoes but I kept eye contact so that he would come and browse with me. "They seem..." he paused to think of the word.

"Exotic?" I suggested. Goodness! Did I just say that?

He laughed as if I had made a joke rather than a fool of myself. "I was going to say that they seem less inclined to judge an Indian man who is not a doctor or an IT professional."

I looked down and fingered a lovely black sling back so that he wouldn't see the guilt on my face. I expected that he would judge me because I was Indian and instead I realised that in doing so I was judging him; not by his occupation but by his race. He was right though; many immigrant parents – not just Indians – push their children towards professions that they perceive as being more successful. It made me reflect; as progressive and Australian as my parents behave; I still have not discussed my career with them. They expect that I will go to university next year to study science or IT, but more and more I have been considering applying to the Australian Institute of Sport for a netball scholarship. And everybody says I should do modelling ... what would my parents say about that?

"Rajit, can I ask a personal question?"

"Only if you tell me your name," he said in deep tones that I was beginning to find very manly and attractive. "That way we won't be strangers."

I looked back up into his smiling eyes. "I'm Rupali," I said, holding out my hand to shake.

He took my hand firmly but gently, his skin felt warm and soft and gave me a bit of a tingle. "The name Rupali also means 'beautiful'," he said, "although I'm sure you already knew that."

I did. I thought he was going to say something cheesy like 'a beautiful name for a beautiful girl' – or worse – but he didn't. "Now that we are introduced, Rupali, you may ask your personal question."

I picked up a patent leather lace-up pump (laces are so, so sexy) and continued to browse as we talked.

"How did you explain your career to your parents?" I asked. "And how did they react?"

"I am sorry," he laughed. "I have misled you; this is not my career. I completed a Bachelor of Science with a Physiology major last year and have enrolled for a Bachelor of Podiatry at the University of Sydney next year. I took a gap year to work in a shoe shop; here I will see more feet in twelve months than I will in twelve years of private practice, so I should get a very good idea of whether I want to devote my career to feet."

I felt a little flood of warmth through my core; oh my goodness, a tall, handsome man with a double-degree, I'm such a snob to like him more because he is educated.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean..."

"No," he smiled, holding up a hand. "Again there is no need for apologies." Then changing the subject to save me again: "Those shoes are very beautiful," he said, taking it from me. "Would you like to try them on? I believe they will suit you very well."

"Um, OK," I said. "Yes please." I felt another surge of adrenalin as I remembered why I was here. I saw Belinda smile at me from across the store and give me two thumbs up.

"What size are you?" he said, looking down at my feet. "A ladies size eight?"

"That's right!" I said, more impressed than I ought to have been at such a simple trick for someone with a good eye. "I take an eight-and-a-half in some shoes because the right foot is too snug; I think it's a little bigger."

"Let me get the Brannock and we'll find out for sure," he said, taking a few steps away and returning with one of those stainless steel foot measuring devices. "If you don't mind Rupali, I will take the measurement standing," he explained as he kneeled and placed what he called the Brannock beside my right foot. I was about to kick off my school sandals when he looked up at me (I wondered how much closer he would need to be to see up my dress), "May I help you with your sandals, Rupali?"

"Oh! Uh, sure." I was a little bit charmed by his politeness and chivalry. Unbidden, a lightning flash image lit up in my head; lying naked beneath him in bed as he asked 'May I put my cock in you now, Rupali'. I quickly raised a hand to my mouth to hide the smile and was glad that my complexion wouldn't show me blushing.