Popped (2 page)

Those mean
words from earlier came back to me as Phillip ran his hands over my
body. “
Frigid little virgin.
” Was that what I was?

I turned my
head a little so I could speak. “You said you had a present for me,
Phillip.”

He looked
confused as I interrupted his activities, and leaned into me so
that I had no choice but to notice his hard cock.

“Yes, haven’t
you noticed it?” he asked.

“What do you
mean?”

“A fellow in
the History Department had these blue pills, so I tried one
earlier. That tight skirt you’re wearing Clara
—
I couldn’t help myself.”

“Viagra,” I
said. “Is that what you’re saying? You took some Viagra, and you
want to... what?” This was unbearable. I’d thought he might have a
typical Phillip present for me
—
a book, or a
CD of weird music from a breakaway Russian republic. I never even
suspected this
, i
n his bedroom, in his
mother’s house.

“I want you,
Clara,” he said, breathing heavily, his hands fondling my bum.

“But we said
we’d wait Phillip. Until we were both ready,” I said, lowering my
voice in case one of the guests heard as they passed by on their
way to the bathroom.

“I’m ready now
sweetie. I need to... you know.” He reached a hand inside my jacket
and cupped my right breast, squeezing the nipple and moaning. There
wasn’t much for him to grab hold of as my boobs were barely above
an A-cup. Some days I didn’t even bother wearing a bra.

“Phillip, no,”
I said, moving to pull away.

“Please,
Clara. It’s a new year, time for changes. Why not?”

He unbuckled
his pants and pulled them down a little, exposing his white
underpants, barely holding in his bulging cock.

Why not?

I had reasons,
but were they real reasons or did I just make them up because I
didn’t have a decent boy friend. It’s easy to be a virgin when
you’re alone on a Saturday night, or when the only guy you seem to
be able to land is a nerdy forty three year old who lived with his
mother. I was probably the only virgin in the office
—
all those younger, sexier people who I bossed around
each day had real sex lives. They had boyfriends and girlfriends
and they went to real parties on New Year’s Eve, not old folks
gatherings like this one.

Just then, I
decided that I’d had enough.

Enough of
pretty people like Parker who lived exciting lives while I stood on
tube trains with pervy guys behind me. Enough of a life planned out
and dull days ahead as I turned into Phillip’s mother. I needed to
change things. What was sex anyway? Insert A into B and wait for
the grunting? Why not just get it over with?

I reached out
with my right hand and touched Phillip’s underpants where his cock
was most prominent. It jumped at my touch, moving forwards to meet
my small fingers. I was going to do this
—
get it done with once and for all. No more
virgin
or
frigid
labels that hurt so much.

My skirt
stopped just above the knee. It was trim and black, molded to my
narrow hips. I reached behind to undo the button, and pulled the
zipper down. Then I turned around so that I was facing the door,
presenting my bum to Phillip. I didn’t know what to do, so I
guessed he was going to have to take the lead. I doubted he’d had
many girlfriends before me
—
if
any
—
but I was betting he’d at least paid a
prostitute at some point.

“Pull my skirt
down,” I said, a nervous quiver entering my voice. I raised my
hands so that they were flat against the door from palms to elbow,
ready to support me in whatever happened next.

He didn’t
waste any time, tugging at my skirt until I felt it slide down my
hips, over my white, utilitarian panties, and down the backs of my
legs. He let it fall to the floor as his hands rose again to caress
my bum, mauling it before pulling my panties down and exposing it
to the room. No man had ever seen my naked bum before, much less
touched it, and in all my dreams and fantasies I’d never pictured a
nerdy guy like Phillip as the man who would have that pleasure.

“Step out of
your panties,” he said. I did what he told me, and I heard him
behind me fumbling with his own pants, kicking them off of his feet
and then pushing forwards until he was rubbing against my bare
bottom. His cock was real now, hard and insistent and his balls
tickled my bum. His hands reached around until they rubbed up
against my unshaven pussy. Why would I be shaven, when there was no
prospect of anyone seeing it or playing with it? His fingers slid
down through my pubes, tangling and pulling on them. They were
moist from a day’s sitting down at the office, coated in sweat and
whatever, and his fingers slid through them until they found my
vagina.

I wasn’t sure
what would happen next, but I wasn’t ready for the fingers that
were pushed inside me. First two, then three and then four, opening
me wide while Phillip moaned into my ear.

“That’s it
baby, oh yeah,” he said. “You’re such a slut.”

Was it
possible to be a virgin slut? I didn’t know
—
maybe I was. A virgin slut. Was this what men were
like when they fucked you?

He pushed my
legs open with his knees, and slipped his cock between them,
seeking out the entrance occupied by his waiting fingers. The
fingers slipped out and the cock slipped in
—
into my waiting hole. I had no hymen to worry about. I
may not have had a man before, but I did know how to get myself
off, I’m not that sad and desperate.

Phillip must
have been squatting down to get his cock inside me, as he wasn’t a
small man by any means. And then he thrust into me, forcing his
hard cock deep inside my pussy while his hands held onto my hips
and pulled me backwards to meet him. It wasn’t painful, but it
wasn’t pleasurable either
—
it was as if
something had filled me up when I didn’t realize I was empty, like
a screw tightening in a hole, or a plug being inserted into an
electrical socket. My body must have known what it was doing as
there didn’t seem to be any problem with lubrication. Phillip
pulled out of me and thrust himself forwards again and again,
harder and harder each time until I began to lift up off the floor,
my hands and arms sliding up the door, which shook in its frame
with each movement.

Eventually he
straightened up, and lifted me completely off the floor, his hands
supporting my body by grabbing the inside of my thighs, grunting
and sweating like an animal. This went on for about five minutes,
and then he came inside me. The first indication I had that
something was happening was the building pressure inside his cock,
the furious pace as he used me, until at last something seemed to
burst and there was wetness and heat between my legs, and a great
cry from Phillip.

He let me
slide down the door until my feet found the ground again, his cock
slipping out as I dropped. I stayed lying against the door as he
laid his forehead on the top of my head, panting and breathing
deeply, but saying nothing. After a couple of minutes he stepped
back from me and I listened as he put his pants back on, and
stepped into his shoes.

“You get
dressed,” he said, as he reached out to the door handle, forcing me
to step back. “I’ll see you downstairs.” And then he was gone, the
door closing gently behind him.

Laid, I
thought. Take that, Parker.

I didn’t feel
anything. I wasn’t different, older or wiser. I hadn’t even enjoyed
it, not really. Oh, it wasn’t bad or anything, but there was no
orgasm, no feeling of closeness, nothing. Frigid, maybe?

I walked into
the middle of the room and turned to face the mirror on the wall
next to the bookcase. I stared at myself. Five foot nothing, or
just shy of, pale white thighs peaking out of the top of tanned
stockings, dark brown hair between my legs, coated with sweat and
wet sticky cum. I was still wearing my black suit jacket and white
blouse, still wearing my librarian glasses, still wearing my Mary
Jane’s with their three inch heels, still had my hair pulled back
into a plain pony tail. I thought I looked silly standing there in
Phillip’s bedroom, my skirt and panties on the floor behind me.

I wasn’t a
virgin any more. It was done, finished with.

Could I stare
into this mirror every day for the next forty years? Could I lean
up against a door while Phillip used me from behind and then left,
telling me to get dressed and that he’d see me downstairs? Phillip
with his uncut hair and dirty finger nails. Phillip with his
National Geographic Magazines and garlic breath.

All of a
sudden I couldn’t stand it anymore. Call centers and tube trains,
pervs and frigid virgins. I had to get out; I had to get out now,
and just do something, or go somewhere
—a
nything, anywhere. I rushed over to Phillip’s bed and
grabbed a pillow, using it to wipe my pussy as dry as I could.
Would the rest of it drip out later, or would it stay in? How
should I know? They never talk about that in women’s magazines. I
pulled on my skirt, zipped it up at the back, then buttoned it
tight, before opening the door and creeping down the stairs.

They were all
in the living room, drunk and arguing about nothing
—b
adly fitting people in badly fitting clothes, living
badly fitting lives. I slipped past the living room door into the
hallway without being seen, grabbed my coat and bag and opened the
front door. Would this be where I got caught? Dragged back into a
life of mediocrity and academia and sex up against doors?

Nobody stopped
me or called out. I closed the door quietly behind me and ran down
the street, back towards Chiswick High Road and freedom. There were
sounds of celebration coming from open windows and doors all along
the street. Little crowds huddled outside doorways smoking, talking
and laughing.

I laughed. It
was funny. Life was funny
—
my life and what
it had nearly been. Phillip was funny, with his bedroom and his bad
hair and his poor mother, who gave up her life for her baby boy. It
wasn’t until I reached Chiswick High Road that I realized I’d left
my panties on the floor of Phillip’s bedroom.

I’d never felt
do free.

Chapter 4

Tuesday morning
wasn’t long in coming. I’d had two days off after the messy evening
at Phillip’s over New Years and I’d been busy. Things were
different now
—
no more wallflower, no more
Criddles, no more frigid virgin Clara. I was determined to fashion
a new life for myself that didn’t involve all the dull and boring
things that had filled the past ten years of my existence.

Why should the
Parker’s of the world have all the fun? I asked myself. I’m a woman
too. I have boobs. I could do whatever I wanted, be whoever I
wanted to be. And it was all starting today.

I’d worked out
a plan over the past couple of days, complete with PowerPoint
slides: “
Clara’s New Life
” I’d called it. There were
diagrams and stick figures and everything. Today I would begin
implementing that plan. I was going to have fun, have men, have sex
somewhere that wasn’t up against a door, have alcohol in pint
glasses. I was going to be respected by the pretty people. I was
going to be a pretty person.

It was five
minutes to nine when I walked into the office. Most of the desks
were already filled as the Call Center staff got ready for the
post-holiday rush. I was on time, but I’d never arrived so late
before. My usual routine was to get in at eight o’clock, do some
paperwork before the crowds arrived, then tick them all off as they
came in. Part of
Clara’s New Life
was working nine to five
and not doing anything that I wasn’t paid for. I’d spent the extra
hour in bed earlier playing with the vibrator I’d bought on Monday
in an Ann Summer’s sex shop on Kensington High Street.

I was
definitely not frigid.

Parker was
sitting at her desk putting her headphones on, and I greeted her as
I walked past, making a beeline for the admin desk at the center of
the room. She said something in reply, but I wasn’t listening.

I wasn’t a new
person. I wasn’t planning on making huge changes overnight. My
mother always said that I had a clear, ordered head. I think she
meant it as a vague insult, hinting that I’d be more interesting if
my head were a little more scatterbrained like hers. But my clear
head had its uses. Making too many changes all at once was risky. I
was bound to get something wrong
—
take a
left turn when I should have taken a right
—
and if I bundled all the changes into one rushed week,
it would be hard to correct the mistakes when they popped up. So my
plan was to introduce one or two changes at a time, and adjust
accordingly.

Today’s
changes included arriving on time and dressing a little
differently. I was wearing a textured, cream colored sweater with a
high crew neckline and bracelet sleeves, along with a yellow tinted
pair of pants. I’d seen the outfit on a mannequin in a shop window
on the Kings Road the day before, and I couldn’t resist. That same
evening I’d tossed all my three inch heels to the back of the
cupboard. I was slim and short. Trying to hide that behind shoulder
pads and heels was pointless. I’d kept the glasses because I
thought that the sexy librarian look might work for me, but I’d let
my hair down. It was a deep brunette color, and it reached halfway
down my back. I’d even tried a little hairspray for the first
time.

At nine on the
dot I flicked a switch and the phones started ringing. Then I sat
down and took the lid off my Starbucks latte, content to let the
staff get to work around me.