Mum is such a ditz – a total spasmoid, actually. I could see her humming and putting on her face to impress this slimeball from across the way, when anyone could see there was only one thing he was after.

“Writer” – yeah, right. Mum thinks that I can’t find my way round the blocks she’s had set up on our home terminals, but actually my cousin Freddie showed me how to sidestep them a couple of years ago, before the big break-up.

It’s true he made me pay for the information. I had to inhale his gross nerd tubing every day for a week before he’d let me in on the big secret, but it was worth it in the long run. What’s more, he skited so loudly at school about his vacuum-sucker cousin that it gave me quite a rep right up till senior year.

Which is just as well, really, since it isn’t really boys who do it for me. I found that out a few months later, when Miss White was showing us freefall stretches in athletics class. Her body looked so smooth and clean and good enough to eat, not like that wrinkled gherkin Freddie had been feeding me (I’d never let him put it in me, though there had been a good deal of begging to that effect at one time or another). Now Miss
White – Frieda, I found out she was called – could have fed me anything and I’d have come back wanting more. I was fifteen years old.

That was before the divorce (Mum finding Dad in bed with his dance partner, banging her brains out in the middle of a weekday), before the big move out here to the outer domes (full of “wholesome family values” the Real Estate broker claimed – more like terminal settler neurosis if you ask me).

So I never got to proposition Frieda White (I’m still intrigued to know what her answer would have been – if she was bi at all she’d have to have been at least curious to try it out with an adoring younger girl. Dangerous if you’re caught, of course, but so delightful to train them up in the right ways from the get-go).

Dome 98 hasn’t proven to be quite the sexual desert I’d foreseen when we first moved here, though. For a start the kids at school here are basically hicks, so I shine out like a beacon of metropolitan cool among them. Slim chicks with short black hair and an attitude are in short supply in this freeze-dried world of wall-to-wall blonde bimbos, so the local boys were basically at my feet from the beginning.

The only trouble is that I didn’t want any of them. Some of the girls in my class were pretty enough, but unfortunately it seems to be the older, sophisticated women that I go for, and there aren’t that many of them on the staff.

Which is why I persuaded Mum to let me switch to online tutoring. The contacts you make are all electronic, admittedly, which is why it usually equates with social death. But you see I’d made an interesting discovery in the meantime. That some of Mum’s coffee-klatsch friends are pretty cool.

There’s one in particular, Patricia (“Call me Pat.”) I’d call her Pat and she could call me Lez – or slavegirl, for that matter.

Pat’s blonde, too, but kind of fierce-looking. She totally ignored me the first time that we met (usually Mum’s friends make a big fuss of me and try to interrogate me about boys, study, etc. all in a desperate attempt to seem cool). Pat was the real thing – cold as ice and not an ounce of fat on her long, toned, leggy body. She might have been an adolescent boy for all the bits she had sticking out of her, but smoother and sweeter and sexier than any man.

One time she came by when Mum wasn’t in, and I managed to ask her in by pretending that she’d be back any minute. Then I started fumbling around in my bag for my communicator, and “accidentally” tipped all my stuff out on the floor. “Accidentally” because the biggest item of all was a great big metal vibrator, with bum-tickler and ridges and all mod cons, top of the line and guaranteed to please any pussy.

Subtle, huh? I picked it up quickly (the blush was real – I wouldn’t know quite how to fake one, actually. I’d been planning the whole thing for weeks, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous as hell when it actually came down to it), and started to apologise.

“Oh, God, Pat, I didn’t mean for you to see that. You won’t tell Mum, will you? She thinks I’m still a virgin and dreaming of Jesus …” (which is basically true, I suspect – maybe not the Jesus part, but I’m sure she doesn’t credit me with any sexual feelings beyond a mild curiosity about boys’ wee-wees, judging by some of the clothes she wants me to wear).

“I won’t breathe a word, Lucy.” (My God, she actually knew my name! Just hearing it breathed out from between those perfect lips made me want to die). “But, you know, I’m not sure that you should be using one of those things at your age. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I replied, hanging my head.

“If you’re having these kind of sexual feelings, I hope you have someone to talk to about them? Someone at school, perhaps, if you don’t feel you can tell your Mum.”

“I’m doing school online now, and I’d just die if I had to talk about it over a screen.”

I could see that Pat was getting a bit interested now. She was still trying to pretend to be the responsible motherly older woman, but I could see that she got off slightly at thinking about a seventeen-year-old who played with herself so much that she carried her toys round in her purse with her.

“Is this the only thing you use? Don’t you find it a bit painful?”

“No, not really. I’ve never had sex with a boy, except for blowjobs, but I’ve got some other things I use to warm myself up.”

“Warm yourself up! God, girl, I’d never even seen one of those things before I turned twenty-one!”

“What happened then?”

“I’m not sure I should be talking about this – let alone with you, my best friend’s daughter.”

“Oh come on! You can’t start a story like that and then not finish it. I’ll show you all my other toys if you’ll tell me what happened when you were twenty-one.”

That got her attention. I bet if I’d felt between her thighs just then I’d have detected just the first tender buddings of moisture.

“There’s nothing much to tell, actually. On my twenty-first birthday my boyfriend (who’s now my husband) bought me a sex toy a bit like this, and we used it on each other that night in bed.”

“Used it how?”

“I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you! How do you think?”

“Did he rub it over your breasts?”


“Did he tease your pussy with it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did he stimulate you from behind!”

“No, of course not! Why, is that what you do with yours?”

“Would you like to see?”

“Of course I don’t want to see! Who do you take me for? Do you think I’m one of your gym teachers?”

“I think you want to see me naked, to watch me playing with my little pussy in front of you. Don’t you?”


“I want to get naked for you. You don’t have to do anything – you don’t even have to watch. I’ll get off just on doing it in front of you.”

She was silent this time. I could see she hadn’t been this turned on in quite a long while, but something in her was still trying to fight it.

I wasn’t wearing any underwear, and my skirt had a bow at the side, so in a jiffy I was standing stark naked in front of her.

“Your mother …” she muttered.

“We can go in my room,” I said. “There’s a hidden bolt I had a friend install. Anyway, she won’t be back for hours. She has a meeting at the lawyer’s today in town.”

“You fucking little liar! I’d never have come in if you’d told me that in the first place.”

“I lied because I’m in love with you – since I first saw you, actually. Don’t you like me even a little bit?”

“No,” she lied. “Little jail-bait bitches don’t do it for me at all.”

“You won’t mind watching me play with myself, then … that’s all jail-bait bitches do, because they’re too disgusting for anyone else to want to touch them.”

By now my fingers were working away inside me. She watched me with a scornful look on her face. “You little slut! How many times have you done this before?”

“Played with myself, you mean?”

“No, tried to seduce people with this pathetic act?”

“Never. This is the first time. I’ve never even wanted anyone before the way I want you. I want you to order me round, to make me your slave … I’d do anything for you – lick up your shit, anything.”

I don’t care what your sexual orientation is – chances like this don’t come up every day. I don’ know if she felt any interest in me to start with, but there was a cruel streak in her which kind of responded to the idea of a sexslave, I suspect – especially a slutty little seventeen-year-old who whacked off to your image every night but was still technically a virgin. Kind of covering all the bases, if you see what I mean.

Anyway, she eventually deigned to come into my room, and though she wouldn’t remove even the slightest item of clothing, she used a number of sextoys on me, penetrating my arse, my pussy and even my mouth with a variety of machine tools. From that moment on, I suspect, she was hooked.

That’s all a bit beside the point, I guess, which is Mum and her crush on the big writer who’s just moved in opposite, but I guess I had to try and get you to understand that I’m not just talking out of my butt when I say I know a thing or two about sex. More than she thinks I do, anyway.

Which is why I was thinking I was going to have to take this dinner under advisement, if I didn’t want to end up with a new proxy Stepdad. The problem was, you see, that I couldn’t find a single thing he’d written – and I’d looked in some pretty out-of-the-mainstream places ...

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