Chapter 1

No one could fault her upbringing, Kindly and attentive father, supportive mother who if anything, erred on the side of conservatism. She got on well with her siblings - an elder sister and younger brother. Neither of whom had set a foot wrong in their journey through adolescence.

She dressed tastefully, mixed in acceptable social circles and was altogether a credit to her parents, not to mention Braidwood High that she attended in Boulder County. She was jusr weeks away from graduation now.

The only vague disquiet on the Western Front were those infuriating little hormones. Having turned eighteen now, Kirsty was “hot” 24/7 - it was a real curse. Waking up with her hands in her panties was now a regular event as was her newly-found propensity to trawl porn sites on her home computer - erotic story posts especially. Problem is, it just made her hotter. Reading about young girls making out with their brothers, their brothers’ friends, just made her want to experience such things first hand ... as it were. She knew boys at school found her attractive, it was just a matter of orchestrating her own little sex-ed class.

Her first foray into the realms of the erotic was not entirely fulfilling.

Eric Lander at nineteen was something less than Rhett Butler let’s say. As keen as her to encroach upon the hitherto unexplored playing fields, his modus operandi left a lot to be desired.

“Ouch ... take it easy,” Kirsty implored as the boy’s hand groped her right breast with raw enthusiasm rather than any sense of respectful gentility. Wedged beneath the moveable stairs in the main hall wasn’t without its discomfort either.

“Sorry Kirsty,” he muttered, almost perspiring in the confined space. Attempting then to balance his amateurish kissing technique with some less invasive breast therapy, he became aware of needful changes taking place in the area of his crotch as might any schoolboy handed such sexual latitude with so apparently willing a teenage girl.

The sensation of having her breasts touched for the first time almost made up from Kirsty’s perspective at least, for the indelicate treatment being meted out to them. She could feel her nipples hardening all the same and at the point the boy summoned up the courage to slip is hand down her top and actually inside her bra ... she gave a small yelp of semi-pleasured surprise.

“I didn’t say you can feel me up under my clothes,” she giggled, yet making no attempt to dislodge his fingers from their tour of duty. It was at the point both of them discovered the pleasures inherent in nipple manipulation that things took a turn for the better.

The kissing became more impassioned, the groping more daring, she even let him undo a couple of buttons of her school-dress which bringing the visuals into play additionally, decidedly upped the ante for young Eric.

Able to see what he was now molesting with what you might term ‘committed’ vigor, quite stirred the lad’s fantasies. Crotch-wise, things were on the up and up - Eric needed more!

Initially embarrassed as all hell, far from regretful at allowing her classmate to extricate her undeniably sexy breasts from their padded restraints, she rather liked the sensation of having them fully on show as they now were, and very obviously stimulating her young partner’s arousal. She had an overwhelming urge to slip her hand into her panties but retained the presence of mind to recognise that such might not be the most appropriate of actions. Besides - surely Eric himself would make that his own game plan, sooner rather than later?

Whether the boy lacked the necessary confidence to engage any up-skirt action or he was gripped suddenly by a fear of the unknown is anyone’s guess. All Kirsty knew is that despite wriggling her hips invitingly, even to the point of parting her legs just enough to ensure that the hem of her dress rose enticingly up her thighs - Eric’s hand remained a no-show. “This never happened to any of the girls in those stories,” she thought to herself, bitterly disappointed by the turn of events ... or rather lack of events.

Calling time-out from what amounted now to little more than Eric’s primitive lip suction, she pulled the boy’s hand out from her bra, manoeuvered her breasts back on-site and doing-up the buttons of her school-dress, told her disbelieving partner that she “had to go home.”

“Definitely time for Plan B,” she told herself.

As is the case with most eighteen-year old girls, dressed-up to the nines and with some professionally applied mascara, eye-liner and lipstick, no-one would doubt they had reached the age of legality (21 in the US, so far as drinking is concerned at least). Being in possession too of her older sister’s ID, put the issue firmly beyond question. Exactly what the doorman at the Regency Club on Dorchester was thinking as he handed Kirsty back her ID, was made clear as his eyes took in every rearward curve of the young girl, as she navigated the stairs to the reception area behind him. So sure was she that he was watching her, she swung those sexy little hips with exaggerated tease.

Walking with what might have appeared to be entrenched confidence to the nearby Victory bar, she ordered a diet Coke and seated herself at one of the small tables along the far wall. Inside, she was anything but ‘together’ almost trembling with the knowledge she was placing herself in a situation way beyond that which an eighteen-year old schoolgirl was realistically equipped to handle. Still, she reasoned - that was Plan B wasn’t it?

“Hello Miss,” interrupted her reverie. “Don’t suppose you’d like some company by any chance?”

Looking-up at the speaker, she rather liked what she saw. A clean cut young man in a business suit - most likely in his early twenties. She smiled at him, “Well actually I was just waiting for a friend.” She replied.

“Male or female?” he asked tentatively, his preference quite obvious.

“Just a girlfriend,” she giggled.

The young man looked relieved. “My name’s John,” he said holding out his hand.

“I’m Kirsty,” she replied, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Look, I’m just here with a few guys from work,” he indicated a table the other side of the lounge area, where four men of a similar age were sitting and chatting animatedly. “Would you like to come and sit with us for a while - just till your friend arrives anyway,” he added hopefully. “They’re all nice guys Kirsty - you’re really quite safe.” He reassured her.

She looked up at him. “Might this perhaps be pushing my luck?” she wondered, though with little intent of declining the invitation.

Four pairs of eyes appraised the well-defined attributes of the young girl as she drew nearer the table. The low-cut top, well fitting skirt (brief as it was) stockinged legs and subtle make-up, merely enhancing the overall appeal. There was at once, a mad scramble to find her a chair. Introductions completed, all present wanted to know where she lived, worked etc.

“Just in my second year at College actually,” she lied effortlessly. Knowing sufficient details of her sister’s syllabus, she was able to field questions about her courses and University life with ease. Inevitably, the question of her having a full-time boyfriend arose. She bypassed that one with a coy “No special person yet” admission. You could have heard the collective sighs reverberate around the table.

“Can we get you a drink Kirsty?” enquired the young man who had introduced himself as Mark a little earlier. Agreeing to a bourbon and Coke, she watched bemused as he tried unsuccessfully to carry an armful of drinks back to the table, before accepting an offer from the barman to take a tray.

Well behaved the group certainly was, though what thoughts they must have been harboring as Kirsty negotiated her third bourbon and Coke can only be guessed at. A couple of the men had dragged their seats either side of her and the rest were performing their very best puppy-dog imitations.

Though far from drunk, the alcohol had greatly lowered Kirsty’s inhibitions whilst heightening her flirtatiousness. Not a man there could wrench his eyes from her cleavage - nor would she have wanted them too if the truth be known.

Once the likelihood of any ‘girlfriend’ turning up became suitably remote, the group became even more attentive. Mark even seized the initiative at one stage, touching the girl on the arm one or twice for emphasis during the conversation. Her acceptance of such familiarity was doubtless noted by the other four.

Halfway through her fourth glass, Kirsty was, if not partially inebriated, then ‘happy’ by anyone’s standards, giggling at the slightest provocation and with a severe list to port.

“Think I’d better be on my way home,” she semi-slurred. “Had way more than I should,” at which point she generated a spontaneous little ‘hic.’

“Hey, we can drop you home Kirsty,” chorused three or four offers simultaneously. Mark’s the most poignant.

Wedged between John and Charles in the back of the Town car they helped her on with her seat belt. If the momentary contact with the underside of her breasts by the back of Charles’ hand was anything but ‘accidental,’ he carried it off well. She felt a blush rising but said nothing. Suddenly she felt the mere schoolgirl she really was, the imminency of so many young males, exciting her as much as the risky situation at hand.