Susie Learns the Hard Way

 

SUSIE LEARNS THE HARD WAY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By

Roger Quine

 

 

 

Susie Learns the Hard Way published in 1999 & 2002 by Chimera Books Ltd. Published as an eBook in 2011 by Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Chimera a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

 

Digital Edition Converted and Published by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

 

New authors
are always welcome, or if you're already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to
hear from you
.

 

This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex

 

This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The characters and situations in this eBook are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

 

Copyright Roger Quine. The right of Roger Quine to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 

 

By the age of seventeen Susie was a mature young woman living in the body of a teenage girl, and the frustrations that caused were sometimes difficult for her to understand – still less to control.

Her senior student friends had parents who seemed more relaxed than her own, and their clothes, make-up and freedom of movement at evenings and weekends meant they soon attracted the attention of boys. Dressed in a ‘suitable' manner by her mother, Susie was usually left out, and grew used to watching the boys clustering around her older looking friends like bees around honey. But to begin with she didn't feel too upset by the lack of attention. Not only was their behaviour so obvious as to be almost funny, but they appeared to have little idea about what had brought them salivating around the girls in the first place, and the girls certainly had no idea what to do with them once they'd arrived. The real joke was that Susie knew it all and was ready for it all too, and if the stupid boys had ever taken the time to talk to her, they'd have discovered that make-up, hair-dos and designer labels didn't mean that much. And they would have found exactly what they didn't know they wanted so badly lurking in a plain old school uniform.

In the showers after gym she'd look at these girls flaunting their bodies in the way that all women of all ages flaunt their latest trinkets at other women in order to assert status and wealth. In years to come they'd be doing the same thing with clothes, jewellery, cars and children, but right now it was tits, and they were busy feeling superior to poor Eileen Wilson.

‘She's just a late developer,' was the shower room standard. ‘It's probably your diet,' they'd say, eyeing her flat chest and proudly patting their own with a towel. ‘Or lack of it.' They may have been pretending to joke but the remarks were always delivered in a tone of voice that indicated the purpose of the remark was not to make Eileen feel better, or even to sneer at the smallness of her breasts, but to underline the magnificence of their own.

It was not an activity Susie chose to join in with. Though her own breasts were full and firm, with the taut arrogance of youth, she was slightly embarrassed by her nipples, which were perfectly formed and a lovely cherry-red colour, but invariably erect. This had often provoked sniggering jokes in the past and so she chose to keep quiet when the girls were comparing breasts or laughing at Eileen.

‘Rub some cream into them,' advised Cheryl one day, proudly massaging her impressive breasts with a fluffy towel, right under Eileen's nose. Susie felt sorry for the poor girl, not for the first time.

‘That's probably what made them all scrawny in the first place,' said Joanne. ‘Rubbing herself too much.'

‘Come on you lot, get a move on,' bellowed a strident voice.

Miss Piggy, as the gym mistress was unkindly known, was a large red-faced woman who favoured cropped hair and a tracksuit. From behind she looked like an old bloke with a fat bum. From in front she looked like an old bloke with a fat bum and fairly substantial tits. It was her habit to patrol the shower block after each lesson, presumably to keep order. Presumably, too, it was the steam from the showers that caused her face to get redder still, and her voice to grow harsher, her sentences shorter.

She was always stricter with some girls than others, and only recently had Susie realised they were the same ones the boys all clustered around after school and at Youth Club. And only recently Susie had found herself included in that group.

It started after the day she fell, bruising the inside of her thigh quite badly. Miss Piggy had rushed across and self-importantly done her first aid routine, checking the damaged limb for broken bones with large hands that were quite rough on Susie's soft skin. Missy Piggy had grown redder in the face than usual as she squeezed and pulled the flesh from Susie's knee to the top of her thigh, right inside Susie's shorts so her stubby fingers were almost touching her panties.

‘No harm done,' she boomed. ‘Back to it, you lot,' and the class scattered.

She was still massaging Susie's leg, her gaze returning swiftly to where her hand rested on the inside of her thigh. She seemed to be looking up the leg of Susie's shorts for some reason, and Susie hoped her panties hadn't slipped between her sex. On the other hand, the light white flimsies she always wore were virtually transparent anyway, so Miss Piggy could probably see more through them if they hadn't slipped up. She felt naked and exposed.

‘Cut along then. Early shower.' Miss Piggy patted Susie's thigh surprisingly gently and rose swiftly to her feet, raising her whistle to her mouth as she brought the class back to order.

In the shower Susie noticed a fine bruise appearing on the inside of her leg, and by the time she was drying off it had become pretty tender. Sitting in a cubicle, she put her heel up on a wooden bench and dried the bruised thigh carefully. Sure enough, it was high up on her leg, and must have gone up inside the leg of her shorts. In fact, another fraction and she'd have damaged the soft skin that rose from between her thighs to form the mound of her pussy. She pressed her fingertips into it gently to make sure, but all she felt was the familiar warmth as the movement pulled the outer lips slightly apart. She dabbled a fingertip lightly on the edge, just to be sure, the warm wetness already making her skin slippery with anticipation, and the fingertip just kept on sliding deeper, all by itself.

The sounds of the girls at work in the gym faded; the shouts and yells and the stampede of feet across the wooden floor receded into the distance. It was warm in the changing room, and the air was thick with the smells of sweaty bodies mingled with the scented steam of the shower room, but Susie was hardly aware of any of it. Indeed, she was hardly aware of anything outside the rippling waves of pleasure. One knee high, the other thrown wide, she added a second finger to the first, wriggling the two of them about inside herself; something that always brought the breath panting in her throat as she rose to her climax.

There was no noise, but something made her look up. There was Miss Piggy, five feet away, eyes popping from her head, mouth open, face a deep crimson flush. Fear churned in Susie's belly, though she didn't know why.

Yes she did.

It was because Miss Piggy hadn't just arrived at that moment, as noisily and rapidly as usual. She had crept up, quietly and deliberately, and could have been watching for some time...

‘Susie.' It was a hoarse whisper.

‘I was just, er, checking...'

She realised her hand was still there, two fingers actually
inside
...

‘As long as nothing's broken and you haven't pulled a muscle.'

Susie wondered if there wasn't unnecessary emphasis on that last word. Muscle.

‘No... no, I don't think so.' She withdrew her fingers with a soft and embarrassing sucking sound.

There was a long pause while Miss Piggy stared at Susie with an expression that made the student feel deeply uncomfortable, and then the door to the changing rooms banged open as the other girls spilled noisily in from their lesson.

‘That's fine, Wills, perfectly fine,' said Miss Piggy, louder than was necessary. ‘Stop making such a fuss.' She span on her heels and marched sternly away, and the matter was never mentioned again. But from that day onwards she was as strict with Susie as she was with the girls who normally got all the attention from the boys, as if she now grouped her with them. Susie didn't like to think why, although she only had to remember the look in Miss Piggy's eye, and that she had never once addressed her as Susie, before or since, to be pretty sure of the answer.

There was no doubt that Susie was pert and pretty, but the fact that her parents made her stick to the school uniform largely concealed the firmness of her lithe and shapely body. The white school blouse was always loose and full, and Susie had to wear it, unlike some of the other girls whose parents let them shop for well cut and tighter fitting blouses. The school skirt was a pleated affair that came down to her knees, while the others seemed to have tight skirts that hardly made it to mid-thigh. So while they got admiring glances for legs Susie privately thought too fat or skinny, her own long and slender thighs were seldom seen and always ignored.

The only way she could express her true self was in her choice of underwear, and she always wore pretty high-cut, high-fashion thongs and G-strings, tiny scraps of lace that she loved wearing. She knew attractive underwear was a vital part of her sexual armoury, and it made her feel rude and sexy.

Because she'd already decided on her future career as a journalist, Susie paid little attention in class to any subject other than English. She read and wrote with committed enthusiasm while ignoring everything else, and apart from the odd occasion when something mildly exciting was the subject of a history lesson, she would daydream her time away in almost every lesson.

Almost all of those daydreams ended up being about sex. She would find herself lost in a make-believe world in which she was rescued from a fate worse than death at the hands of an evil villain by a handsome hero. As soon as the rescue was dealt with, which never took long, she would then reward him with unlimited access to the very goodies she had earlier been willing to die to defend. As her tough but considerate rescuer laid her gently on the ground she'd feel the insistent heat growing between her legs, so that by the time his hand brushed lightly between them, his fingertips skimming the rounded softness of her knickers, they were already soaked with warm juice.

She seldom got much further than this in school; all else aside, it was simply too risky. Twice she had moaned softly but quite audibly in willing surrender. Once in geography and once during the dishy Mr Hancock's history lesson, prompting him to ask if she was all right, little knowing that he bore a startling resemblance to the swashbuckling rescuer who had just thrust a finger deeply into her.

‘Just a headache,' she'd muttered, blushing furiously and looking down into her lap, her action and demeanour prompting everyone to believe she was suffering period pains and embarrassing poor Mr Hancock into blushing even more deeply. Luckily her classmates were sufficiently amused by his plight not to notice Susie withdraw the hand which had been under her skirt at the time and caused all the trouble. It had found its own way there while she daydreamed, and as her fingertips wriggled into her pants and one slim finger slipped easily into her yearning body and drawn forth the moan that had alerted the others.

But inevitably the day came when she was seriously found out. It had to be a maths lesson, when she was more bored than usual with a subject in which she had virtually no interest and even less ability, and might never have happened if she had not read a story in the previous day's Sunday newspaper.

The Sultan of somewhere unpronounceable had been assassinated on a golf course, according to ace reporter Harry Anderson. The killing took place on the seventeenth hole, and his country rejoiced at the end of a tyrannical rule. His behaviour – and this is where the newspaper started to go into much more detail – had also been characterised by his habit, while out shopping, of dragging any woman he fancied the look of into his limousine and ravishing her while the chauffeur drove on. Almost always they were white women, mostly tourists, their accusations denied by the Royal Palace and hushed up by a British Foreign Office anxious to buy more oil at a preferential price and sell more armaments at an extortionate one.

The story had grabbed her attention, especially the graphic descriptions of the ordeals allegedly suffered by the three women brave enough to voice their accusations.

Safely tucked up in bed that Sunday night, she was relaxing gently, still glowing after a prolonged bout of rewarding yet another handsome rescuer. Her fingertips had brought her to a first soothing climax, and then her faithful hairbrush had given her a muscle-wrenching series of spasms that jerked her knees high and wide as her teenage body had clenched and unclenched around its stubby wooden handle, while her mind saw images of an altogether more human nature. Deep inside, her body ached for the feel of something hard and warm; something alive, that moved with a life of its own. She wanted that feeling, whatever it was. She wanted to feel it and experience it for herself, more and more every day, especially more and more every night, when she brought the hairbrush to bed with her and became increasingly aware of its limitations. She just wanted the real thing now, and given that she was never likely to be rescued by a handsome hero, she wasn't really too bothered who it was attached to as long as it worked.

Relaxed, but still somehow not satisfied, she struggled to fall asleep. When sleep did come it was light and fitful, her dreams unusual and unusually realistic, her body active under the quilt as her arms and legs moved as if she really was living through everything her mind had conjured up. One part of her really was burning up in anticipation as the swarthy and moustached Prince forced her back against the soft leather of the stretch Mercedes' rear seat, trapping her arms together behind her back with one hand as he forced her knees apart with the other.

Fear gripped her body, bringing with it the sudden rush of wetness and warmth, and she felt the petals of flesh unfolding, felt the juices begin to exude, and didn't want him to find her like that and mistake the effects of fear for those of desire.