'You certainly started with a bang!' I said. 'Don't be coarse,' said Gwendolen, 'or I shan't tell you all about them.'
'Oh, that would be so cruel,' I answered, 'For you know how I have always loved to talk of such things. You simply must tell me every last detail. See, I am already quite beside myself with excitement.' With that, I squeezed my thighs together, trapping Gwendolen's hand as it teased and petted my pussey. I should explain that we were sitting together on the top of a London omnibus.
As luck would have it, we were all alone except for the driver up at the front who was far too busy guiding the horses through the traffic that seemed to come at us from all sides to have time to pay the slightest attention to what two fashionably attired young ladies might be doing snuggled together on the back seat. I had met Gwendolen by chance two days before at a private dance arranged by my aunt. At once we had flown into each other's arms with great squeals of recognition and joy for whilst we had been at school together, we had not seen each other for two full years or more. I, the older by a year, remembered Gwendolen as the sweetest little minx I had ever shared a bed with. Indeed, during the last year at Miss Bradshaw's Academy for Young Ladies we had truly been the most intimate of friends. But, alas, she had been forced to stay on for one further year to complete her education whilst I, heartily glad to escape from the damp glooms of Somerset, had been living in Town with my dear aunt. So upon that chance meeting, we had rapidly made plans to see each other again and to exchange confidences for we both had much to tell and many adventures to recount. So thus it was, on this fine day in late Spring, we were journeying along the Bayswater Road with the intention of attending a private viewing of paintings by my cousin Algernon. As soon as we were discreetly settled and it had become apparent that we were alone, Gwendolen's roving hands made it clear that she wished to resume that same loving closeness that had marked our last year together at Miss Bradshaw's Academy. Pleased though I was to receive her attentions, truth to tell, I was also a little alarmed at her disregard for any proprieties. 'Suppose someone should see us,' I had asked anxiously as I first felt her fingers begin to unbutton and burrow their way into my clothing. 'Do not worry, Cecily,' she had answered. 'Here, I have had the foresight to bring with me a good-sized travelling rug. We can tuck this round our legs and laps and anyone who notices us will simply think that we are taking sensible precautions against the chills and breezes attendant on top-deck open-air travel.' With that, she wrapped us up firmly with a plaid rug (featuring as I recall the pattern of the Black Watch tartan) which neatly concealed the hand that now began to slip into my underclothing, sliding through the opening of my drawers and gently stroking the curls of my pussey hair. I turned my head and kissed her warmly as she for a moment, lowered her head so that it was pressed against the swell of my right breast. 'How I wish I could set your pretty titties free here and now,' she said. 'Oh, to see them spill out of your bodice. Those lovely, big titties that have given me such pleasure in the past. Oh, I do so wish I could kiss them and squeeze them and nibble at those delightful little cherries this very moment!' 'I would indeed love to feel your mouth sucking at my nipples.' I answered as a flush of desire warmed me and I could feel my nipples swelling and standing up in response to her urgings. 'But that must wait for later. Meanwhile…' And I eased my thighs apart and felt her fingers seeking and then finding the already damp entrance to my secret cave. Suddenly she touched upon my eager clitty.
I must have jumped at the thrill that shot though my whole body as Gwendolen giggled and continued to rub it firmly. 'Now, now Cecily, try to be still for we must be discreet as you so rightly said. Besides, I have so much to tell you. Let us sit here, hand-in-glove, so to speak while I begin, for as I said before, today is a very special anniversary…' 'It all started in the washplace outside our dormitory,' she began. Here I must explain that at Miss Bradshaw's Academy for Young Ladies (situated near Petherton in the Quantock Hills), the headmistress had been particularly concerned that her charges should not be tempted into committing what she regarded as the Sin of Vanity. Consequently, she had arranged that there should be no mirrors above the washbasins where we might have been tempted into spending valuable time in such frivolities such as arranging our hair or admiring our fresh, youthful complexions. All that was needed, Miss Bradshaw had decided, were a few pier-glasses at the doorways so that we could ensure that we were neat and tidy before going out of doors. To this day I can remember the rows of basins with chocolate brown shiny tiles behind them and the small windows which were set so high up that we could not see out of them without climbing up on the basins. Add just three baths in cubicles and a set of lockers where we kept our washing materials and our nighties and you have some idea of the spartan, indeed almost prison-like surroundings that Miss Bradshaw considered suitable for her girls. 'Oh, Gwendolen, we did have such fun, though, didn't we, all girls together,' I said, as I recalled those times of illicit evening pleasures. It will be readily understood, I am sure, that being all of the same sex, shut up in a large and gloomy establishment in the heart of Somerset without a single member of the male species to be found anywhere on the premises, with the exception only of the old school chaplain, we explored amongst ourselves, so to speak for our pleasures. It was hardly surprising that there were many friendships of the most emotional kind flourishing amongst the young ladies and it will be further understood that within such an establishment there were many formal school rules laid down by the Headmistress and other unofficial rules created by the pupils, not written of course, but obeyed with much more care and to the very letter, far more so in fact than the official ones. Thus, only girls who were in the upper form could walk across a particular strip of grass outside the main boarding house.
Senior girls were allowed to wear a plain ribbon in their straw boaters. Junior girls had to avoid looking into the prefects' day room and disobedience meant being shut up in a dark little cupboard. Such customs seem to grow up in all schools and many of them when looked on later in life appear to be very silly indeed. However, at least in my boarding house, we did enjoy obeying one most delightful and entertaining rule. As I have said, there were no mirrors behind the washbasins in the big room where, morning and evening, we performed our ablutions. I have already touched upon the fact that, amongst two hundred and seventy girls, deprived of any contact whatsoever with the opposite sex and subject to the most repressive regime where such matters are concerned, many very intimate friendships grew up. Such passions and crushes abounded freely and many were the sighs of unrequited love and great was the gossip and whispered rumour about so-and-so and such-and-such. Many too were the intense conversations conducted quietly in corners or on staircases and many were the sly touches, the gentle pressures of hands on hands that ached for an answering response. Many an arm was slipped casually around a slim waist in the expectation of a quick smile and an equally swift hip-to-hip rub as a signal that other and greater intimacies might be enjoyed in the near future. Yet in all these hopeful, approaches and longing caresses there was as well the fear and the pain of possible rejection. Oh, the shame and embarrassment when the pretty object of one's utmost desires brushed away the half-hearted embrace or worse still, laughed and tossed her head in a gesture of scorn. And then the mortification of knowing that soon you would be the victim of giggling tales told in the dormitory or the subject of scornful notes passed between desks during lessons. Indeed, I have always maintained that one's most private pain becoming the subject of ribald public comment is without doubt one of the most humiliating things that can happen to a human being. So, in order to lessen the chances of such unfortunate and painful occurrences, a convention-one that in my experience was always complied with-had grown up at the school. If the object of one's desire was bending down at a washbasin having her before-lights-out wash, it was accepted as permissible to approach her from behind and, without a word being said, to touch and to stroke her. A finger could be gently run down her spine or the hands were allowed to cup themselves over her hips. If these advances were not checked, one might then slowly run one's pussey against the swelling cheeks of her bum. She in turn was honour bound neither to cry out nor turn round to see who it was who had thus approached her. She could then respond, either by silently accepting or rejecting her unknown would-be friend. She might, for instance, remain quite still and make it clear that she did not welcome a continuation of this encounter. She could, if need be, gently reach back and remove the clasping hand and relieve a too insistent pressure. There are many subtle ways by which one can quietly yet firmly refuse an unwelcome attention and women are far more expert than men in expressing this unspoken language. However, since we were for the most part a high-spirited and healthy collection of girls, it happened more often than not that this same silent language was employed to accept and even to urge on such welcome, delicate contact. In this case, still without a word being spoken or a head being turned, a simple touch could be followed by a loving, exploratory caress. How many times, whilst busily splashing myself with water or carefully soaping my face and neck, have I sensed a warm presence behind me and felt the delicate touch of soft, unknown hands running the length of my body and massaging my flesh through the thin cotton of my nightdress. Ah, and then to press and nestle against the smoothness of the unseen adventurer, to wait in thrilling anticipation for those same hands to reach round and cup one's breasts, squeezing and rubbing the titties until one's nipples rose proudly erect with swelling excitement.