From the Top Shelf - First Girlfriend

This is an extract from the story First Girlfriend by Ben Richfield, which appeared in Janus magazine many years ago. It appeals to me because it is set in England during the swinging 60's, It is an enjoyable journey along a young man's discovery of domination and submission.

This story is the truth. If it is not the whole truth and nothing but the truth, that is as much due to the vagaries of my memory as any self-deception on my part. Whichever, I cannot pretend that I do not have the advantage of hindsight.

I left school in mid-term, in March 1966, in circumstances I shall not recount here. Suffice it to say that I was accepted by a major firm for an engineering apprenticeship, but told I could not start until June, along with the general run of school-leavers. In that month I would celebrate my eighteenth birthday, and... as far as I was concerned that was when the 'Swinging Sixties' really began. It was the greatest time of my life.

To pass those three months before taking up my apprenticeship I took on temporary work in a supermarket, stacking shelves. I had attended a single sex grammar school and this was my first experience, as an adult, of the society of females. Not only had I never kissed a girl, I had never so much as asked one out.

It was not that I was scared of girls. Rather I was scared of my own feelings of lust towards them, mistakenly regarding them as demure, innocent creatures. I felt certain that if ever I spoke to one, my eyes would betray the lasciviousness of my thoughts...

There were a number of girls just a year or two older than me who worked in the place. The one I fancied most was a little Irish lass called Ann with a thick mop of glorious red hair and startlingly clear green eyes, and the most sexy, shapely figure I had ever seen in real life, as opposed to in those magazines we lads weren't supposed to know about. She was not beautiful in the conventional sense, but had a very lively face, a neat, straight nose and an endearingly lopsided smile which she treated everyone to as often as she could.

One day she cornered me alone. "Do you like Linda?" she demanded in her pretty southern Irish brogue. I was stunned for two reasons. Firstly I have always been fairly affable, so of course I liked the girl she mentioned - I liked everyone there. But, naive as I was, I knew there was something deeper behind Ann's question. Linda was such a quiet girl, even shyer than I was, so I had barely noticed her. I struggled in vain for a coherent reply.

Ann pressed on with determination. "Why don't you ask her out?" she persisted. "Go on - she fancies you!"

I can only speculate as to the incredulous look on my face at this piece of news only from Ann's reaction to it, for she continued to persuade me as to the veracity of her statement. She confided that Linda had told her this herself and was too shy to follow through so Ann had decided to lend a helping hand.

What choice did I have in the face of all this? The girl was attractive enough I suppose. She was very quiet and blushed a fair bit, with the colour of hair they used to call 'mousy' but is now, I believe, referred to as 'dark blonde' She was taller than Ann, about 5'6", slim and quick in her movements, with wide blue eyes that had a perpetually guarded expression, and a little snub nose that, in time, I found incredibly appealing. The following day, a Saturday, I took her to the pictures after work...

The trouble now was that I hadn't the least idea what was expected of me. On the way to the cinema I walked awkwardly by her side, not knowing whether putting my arm around her would be considered too forward. I did at least know it would be rude to put my hands in my pockets, so I let them dangle at my sides like two big ugly hams. I have never been so embarrassed in all my life.

For the first half hour or so in the cinema, things did not improve. Having done the gentlemanly thing and helped her off with her coat, I had no idea what to do next. I sat there stiffly, miserable, my mind a complete blank. Finally Linda turned to me and, in a voice redolent with impatience, remarked "My boyfriends usually put their arms round me!"

It was news to me that I was Linda's boyfriend, but very welcome nonetheless, for by now I had become more than somewhat drawn towards the softly fragrant form beside me and longed to touch it. So I obeyed her order - it was not subtle enough to be called a hint - and that marked the last time Linda ever had to take the initiative in our affair, for she was a very traditional girl.

As I put my arm around her, a tremor ran right through me, for - in the reflected light from the screen - I saw a look on her face that said she was begging to be kissed. I understood that immediately, and the shock of recognition was thrillingly stomach-churning. It was not that she had closed her eyes, for she didn't do that until our lips met, but there was, about her face and her lips such a yielding softness that I bent my head slowly to hers until we were locked in a kiss.

That girls liked to be kissed I already knew. In fact, I had been told they were 'dead soppy' about kissing. So much so that they might allow you 'a bit of tit' - as schoolboys so delightfully expressed it - in return. It was also school folklore that if their nipples got hard they were getting 'worked up'. To my delight, Linda allowed me 'a bit of tit' on that first date, the very first time I had felt a female breast, and very nice it was too. Hers were rather on the small side, a little to my disappointment at the time. But they set my tastes for the future for that's how I prefer them now. Better still she had large nipples which went rock hard!

Emboldened by my progress, I found the nerve to put my hand up her skirt after the intermission. We were still engaged in kissing, of course, and I regarded this as part of the 'bargain'. All the while expecting Linda to stop me, I slid my hand up her stockinged leg, over the softer texture of her stocking tops and on to the warm bare flesh of her thigh, exploring her suspender straps. I even managed to stroke her through the thin material of her knickers but I over-reached myself by trying to slip my fingers inside, whereupon Linda promptly shut her thighs tightly. That had the effect of trapping my hand there and I had enough movement left in my fingers to continue tracing the contents of her gusset.

Afterwards, outside the cinema, I put my arm round her in masterful fashion. How easily the male ego is boosted. In less than two hours I had been transformed from a rabbit into a lion. I ran my hand down her hip, outside her coat, and onto her flank enjoying the feel of her rippling buttock as she walked.

"You're a fast worker!" Linda gasped in a voice rich in admiration and pride. I puffed out my chest like a peacock and thenceforth I never looked back.

Wednesday afternoons was early closing and of course I wanted as much of Linda as I could get. My mother worked, hers didn't, so I took her back that next Wednesday to my parents house. After taking her coat, I practically lunged at the poor girl. Having plonked her down on the sofa, I shot my hand straight up her skirt. Linda squealed, clamped her legs together and cried 'No!'. In surprise and frustration, I blurted out "What's the matter with you?" My tone was unforgivably aggressive but before I could regret my crass insensitivity, Linda had submissively murmured "Sorry." and, to my surprise, obediently opened her legs again - and what legs they were!

Her skirt was not as short as many to be seen in those days as Linda's parents were far too strict to allow such a thing. Nevertheless it was short enough to display as good looking a pair of pins as I have ever laid eyes on. Her calves were firm and round, and her thighs - Oh God, her thighs! Warm, firm, rounded, beautiful. In her stockings she was the sexiest sight imaginable. I have always admired a nice female bottom and Linda's arse was magnificent. With two such fine columns to support it, how could it have been otherwise?

Once she had surrendered and opened her legs for me, Linda complied immediately with all my unspoken demands. When my fingers went to the waistband of her knickers, she lifted her glorious bottom to allow me to pull them down. I played awhile with the moist furry creature between those heavenly legs, then pushed her skirt up further demanding that she display herself fully before me. I had my first ever sight of a girl's most intimate treasure and I was not disappointed either at the sight or at the warm, musky, bitter-sweet smell of her.

I looked up at Linda's face and she wore a look of shy pride. With fumbling fingers, plus some help from Linda herself, I stripped off the rest of her clothes until she was down to just suspender belt and stockings. I made her parade and pose for me, dimly aware that she was gaining as much excitement from her exhibitionism as I was, as her trim figure strutted and swayed erotically to and fro in front of me. What had happened to the shy little girl from the canteen who couldn't say boo to a goose?

One day things changed. She wore tights (pantyhose) to work and I took an immediate dislike to them so boldly told her never to wear them again. Despite her obvious embarrassment at showing her stocking tops in public (for I had persuaded her into shorter skirts despite parental disapproval) she never wore tights when she was with me again. I disliked too much mascara and thick eye shadow too, so told her not to wear too much make-up. She complied totally and uncomplainingly with all my instructions. So, without thinking, I learned to make demands of her, demands she wanted to hear and to obey.

It was not long before Linda's masochism took on a physical, as well as mental, side. Then, and only then, did I realise it for what it was. It would not have dawned on me at all had I not been an avid reader of the works of De Sade and Sacher-Masoch.

It started one afternoon when she turned up in jeans. She began to tickle me, laughing mischievously, wordlessly inviting me to do the same to her. Naturally enough she was more ticklish than I, and was soon convulsed with helpless giggles. I stopped so she started again. This time my retaliation didn't stop until her pleasure became so intense it actually seemed to hurt her. "Give in?" I asked as I pinned her down.

Suddenly I wanted to hurt her, have her beg for mercy. I wanted to demonstrate power through pain. She was lying on her right side, her right leg straight out and her left leg drawn up so that there was a contrast in the shape of each buttock. The one nearer to me was held in a beautiful long curve, whilst the other bulged at its underside - the tight material of the jeans distorting their overall shape to very pleasing effect. I had both knees pressed down at her waist, between her ribs and hip, and now I began to rock up and down making her gurgle and splutter; my hands free to poke her flesh and fondle and grope her wherever I wished.

For a while I stroked her neck and played with her lovely little breasts, before moving my increasingly urgent attentions lower down. I squeezed and pinched at her right buttock before sensuously running my hand over the arc of her bent left buttock, tracing the centre seam of her jeans with my fingertips where it had sunk deep inside the cleavage of her bottom.

Linda giggled nervously as I did this. Perhaps there was not an entirely pleasant glint in my eyes. The urge to smack my hand down on that left cheek was becoming irresistible. Why should I resist the temptation? There were no constraints to my behaviour. Whatever I did, Linda forgave - enjoyed even. She told me that she endured it only for the kissing and making up afterwards, but she was not entirely convincing.

"I think I'm going to have to smack your arse!" I announced imperiously.

"Oh, why?" Linda pleaded, her pretty face puzzled yet flushed and very excited.

"Because I want to!" Linda watched warily, and not a little fascinated as I raised my hand high.

"Don't." she whispered, but her voice lacked any conviction.

I leered at her, then smacked my hand down on the exposed target as hard as I could. There was a satisfying loud smack, and my palm stung as I gave her drum-tight buttock a really hard spank. Linda yelped and cried out, "Don't!" again, in a little whining voice that sounded to me more of an invitation than a protest.

I smacked her there again, and again, and again. Linda whimpered, "Don't, you're hurting me," each time my palm struck her bouncing bottom. I paused, my determination to make the spanking hurt redoubled by the submissiveness of her response.

Suddenly I unleashed a flurry of spanks as hard as I could, so that Linda's whines turned to high pitched squeals. The only thing that stopped me was the smarting in my hand. I would have needed to be a bigger masochist than Linda to have kept on spanking her through those jeans because by now it was hurting me more than it was her!

Linda complained in her usual wheedling fashion when I let her up. I gruffly told her to take her jeans down so I could inspect the damage. She eased them to her thighs, frowning and pouting in mock resentment, until both her lovely mounds were bared to my gaze. The flesh of her left buttock was satisfyingly red, so I kissed it better - and of course one thing led to another!

Later, basking in the afterglow of love, I whispered to Linda, "Next time, I'll spank you properly. Over my knee. Your skirt up and your knickers down. Good and hard - on your bare arse!"

She blushed and giggled "You won't, you know!" I just grinned smugly for we both knew it was as certain as night following day.

Wasn't he a fast learner!