Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 1 - Sex Stories

Goodbye, Miss Granger - Part 1

... been a plan which there wasn’t, so there! We both collected half an armful of my books and stood up, looking at each other for what might have been the first time and still not saying anything. C’mon Rick, meet me half way! “Here you go,” he smiled and gave me a ‘happens all the time’ kind of look. Well, it was a start. “Thanks,” I whispered, looking back down at my shoes, “… Rick,” I finished belatedly, looking back up to accept my stuff as he handed it over; my battered copy of Goblet of Fire on the top. Way to go, Miss Cool! “You’re reading Harry Potter?” he asked, fingering the dog-eared edges of the paperback. “Mmmm,” I affirmed. The jobs of the debate team were under no threat from us for the time being. “That’s kind of funny,” he said tentatively, as if to suggest that it was only funny in a very austere kind of way, and that he would cease to find it funny at very short notice if I told him it wasn’t in the least bit funny. “Because of the whole,” I gestured roundly at my face and hair, which Emma Watson might have been interested to see if she was ever curious what she might look like in three years’ time. “Yeah,” he said, brushing away some tremendously persistent invisible lint on his sleeve. “And because of the name, you know?” “Jean?” I asked, frowning with mock confusion. “Huh?” he looked confused too. “No. Um? Granger. You know, like Hermione.” “I’m pulling your leg, Rick,” I smiled at him. “Oh!” he smiled back. “Yeah, good one Jean.” He tried out my name for ...

... the first time, pausing as if tasting it, seeing if he liked the feel of it on his tongue. It seemed that he did because he smiled again, wider this time. “I read them too,” he said. “They’re good.” Who said the art of conversation is lost? The exquisite torture of our first exchange – if that’s what you can call it – was mercifully snuffed when some more students arrived for class and we fell back into our gender roles of pretending each other didn’t exist. But with the ice broken, we talked freely for the next week in five minute snatches before class, and not always about Harry Potter. We tried the usual conversational gambits: teachers, other kids, pop stars, TV shows; but it was when we started telling each other about our families that I realised we were in a relationship of sorts. It was the last period before lunch and we were just about to lose our privacy outside the classroom by the arrival of some more kids when Rick looked at me with a panicky desperation in his eyes. “Jean,” he whispered urgently. “Do you want to (gulp) sit on the oval at lunchtime … with me, I mean.” He took a few dry swallows trying to get that out and now the other kids were right there, so I couldn’t answer without breaking some rule that existed only in my head. I licked my lips a couple of times, looked at him with wide, excited eyes and nodded. He smiled, relief washing over his features as he took a step away so that he could concentrate more fully on the task of straightening his cuffs. ...