Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 3 - Sex Stories

Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 3

... wasn’t like she was dancing around the table, pointing at me and singing “Nyah-nyah-ne-na-nyah” like a primary school kid. Even so, I couldn’t put words to it; I just made a resigned, shrugging expression with my mouth that probably looked pretty funny behind the cold-cream. “One more question,” she asked seriously. “How did you keep his hands out your knickers for that long?” “I didn’t need to,” I replied, a bit surprised she would ask. I thought it was nice that he didn’t take liberties. “Not even …?” she cupped her own breast suggestively. “Nope,” I said proudly. “Perfect gentleman.” “So Kev’s a virgin, too?” she raised an eyebrow and sat back thoughtfully. “What? No!” I blurted. “I mean, I don’t know. Why would you say that?” “There’s only two plausible reasons why a guy would pash for five hours.” “Four and a half,” I interrupted. “Whatever, for four and a half hours without copping a feel. Either he’s never done it before,” she paused. “Or?” I asked. “He’s a gentleman?” “No,” she smiled. “Or you cuffed him to the bedposts.” “Funny girl,” I smiled ironically. “One more question?” “You said that about five questions ago,” I observed. “Do you want to?” she asked. “Want to what?” I asked obtusely, knowing exactly what she meant, but prolonging the admission. “Boff him, you dope,” she said. “Let him park his car. Slip you the sausage. Get the mad-milkman to make a special delivery down Pleasure Lane …” I had to hold up a hand to stop her; I sensed she could go on like this ...

... for a while. I still didn’t answer though. “Well?” I sipped coffee, making an “Mmm-hmm” affirmation into the cup that I hoped sounded non-committal. Belinda looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments. “Will you let me do something for you?” she asked in her serious voice. “You’re not going to break him in for me. Not even if you beg,” I said in the best deadpan I could muster. “I’m being serious,” she said, still quite seriously, and two such statements in a row is close to a record for Belinda. “How many women have you heard say their first time was a wonderful experience?” “Heaps,” I answered. “Not counting erotica,” she stipulated. “None at all,” I confirmed. “Not one.” The logical implication – that I was building myself up for a big disappointment – was coming through loud and clear. “There’s a reason for that,” she went on. “Most women have their first time as a teenager, and it’s usually with a teenage guy, and often he’s a virgin too.” She took a sip of coffee while she assembled the speech in her head. “Here’s the thing: teenage guys are the worst lovers in the world, and virgins are even worse. Put them together …?” she made a mock explosion gesture with her hands. ”They don’t know where anything is, they don’t know what you want, they can last longer than about thirty seconds; and worst of all, they don’t care.” “But Kevin’s not a teenager,” I defended his unproven sexual prowess. “He’s in fourth-year; he’s got to be at least twenty-one or two.” “Doesn’t matter,” ...