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I had what many or, even most would call a privileged upbringing. My dad was a property developer which basically meant he would buy cheap buildings alter them around a bit then sell them at a much higher price. Just how his scam worked so well that he and mum always had great cars, we lived in a succession of lovely houses and had holiday homes in Spain and Florida, I have no idea, but it did.
So, I went to a private school, always had loads of toys and gadgets, wore great clothes and was, I guess, essentially, a spoiled bitch and a daddy’s girl. And I loved it!
Dad was extremely street wise, but uneducated and mum was quite intelligent, had gone to uni, was always reading books and loved the theatre, ballet and opera. Luckily, I inherited most of those traits from both of them along with mum’s tits, figure and looks and dad’s eyesight as from about twelve I had to wear glasses. I also inherited both of their morals and standards, especially sexually as both of them frequently had flings and affairs. Surprisingly, I hung onto my virginity until I was eighteen but quickly made up for lost time by bedding far too many guys over the next few years.
Finishing the rather strict all girls’ school I had a gap year where I fucked my way around America and Canada before going off to a rather good university in the West of England.
There were only three things I enjoyed at university. The drama club, Mr Bancroft and Emily Gordon’s tits; actually that’s four isn’t it, if you include both of her tits, which I most certainly did?
So, I didn’t last. I made it through the first year and a little way into the second, but that was it. I left. Mum and dad went absofuckinglutely ballistic. They tried to persuade me to go back, threatened to ground me, cut off my allowance, send me to Coventry and also, probably, looked into the possibility of having me flogged or hung drawn and quartered, fortunately that sort of sport has declined in London in recent years. I didn’t care, well I did care for I badly needed the allowance, but there was no way I could go back.
It was the childishness of my fellow students and the way we were still really treated as kids that mainly got to me. I felt so much older than them all, other than Emily. I related much easier to the lecturers and even their wives in social situations than I did my fellow students, I hated having to continue studying and the typical night out, pints of beer in a grotty pub did little for me. So, I was miserable, demotivated and unhappy.
I tried to suffer it for a while but during the holidays at the end of the first year I tested the water with my parents.
“Thinking of leaving, what the hell you talking about,” my dad almost screamed looking angrier than I’d ever seen him. Angrier that is other than during the first week of my hols when they came home early and found me in, shall we call it, a compromising position? Well, I guess lying on a hammock in the garden, topless with the zip of my shorts undone in the arms of the near naked aroused boy who cleaned the cars could be called compromising, couldn’t it? So, when I made my announcement, I was already in everybody’s bad books, especially mums for I think she quite fancied him herself. After all the way the lingering glance she gave him as he put his shorts and tee on was far from the disapproving look of a parent!
“You can’t just bloodywell leave. It’s sodding university not a tennis club, you know,” dad roared.
Mum joined in along the same lines but with more emphasis on what her golf and bridge club friends would think. I tried with her alone knowing that if she wanted to, she could persuade dad to do anything; probably by rationing her favours with him, I always thought.
She was, well is, an amazingly attractive woman. She’s only nineteen years older than me, so now and then we’re taken for sisters, although as that’s usually by waiters or men such as golf or tennis coaches or pool attendants when we’re on holiday, I have my suspicions that they’re may be a degree of flattery involved. And I’m by no means certain that the flattery doesn’t sometimes work. Anyway, whether their flattery works on them getting into her knickers or not, mine didn’t work on persuading her to try to get at dad.
“I’m afraid he’s totally made his mind up. You know how he so much wants you to have the education he didn’t, there’s no way he’ll agree.”
So that effectively ended that little plan. So there I was in mid-September bowling down the M4 in my new MINI Cooper, going back to studying English, attending as few lectures as possible without being sent down, attending the drama club, fancying Mr Bancroft and learning more about Emily’s tits.
*
I couldn’t understand it. I had no comprehension. I just couldn’t see why the other girls I hung out with during that first awful year thought a man of just over forty was ancient.
“Far too old,” one said. “Makes my skin crawl,” said another. “Can’t see how any girl of our age could want Ankara escort a man old enough to be their dad,” chimed in yet another. They all seemed to agree that older men that went with girls of our age must be some sort of perv and that the younger girls that went with them were, at the least, odd.
Sitting sprawled around in the house I was renting with five other female students I said nothing. I said nothing for even as they all talked about David Bancroft I was almost wetting my pants for him.
He was a lecturer, in History actually, and one of the four or five who gave their time and services to the university drama club. That had become the only place in the entire uni where I felt comfortable and where I enjoyed myself; I hadn’t got to know Emily very well at that time so the other place where I felt the same, in her arms, hadn’t yet been experienced.
As we lay around drinking beer and smoking, Marlboros not dope, well mainly, so I’d said completely innocently.
“That David Bancroft’s really dreamy isn’t he?”
To say the least no one agreed so I kept quiet. See the juvenile attitudes I had to contend with?
I’d somehow, probably because I had more time than anyone else as I hadn’t bothered to start studying yet, given that I thought I wouldn’t be returning, been elected the 2nd Year’s Drama Club Representative, a bit like being a school prefect I suppose, but without the silly blazer. All that meant was that I represented the 2nd year on the uni’s Drama Club Council and acted as the gofer on events put on by the 2nd year. Largely that meant getting agreement on the plays we would produce at Christmas and end of the year and then liaising with the lecturer who would vet what we proposed and then help us produce it. And would you believe who I had to liaise with? You got it, Mr Bancroft! I also did most of the writing and adapting of the plays, which I really enjoyed.
“You really want to do What the Butler Saw?”
“Yes we do?”
“Hmmm,” David mused as I sat across his kitchen table from him almost quivering with excitement at being alone with him. “You’re aware of its reputation?” he asked referring to the furore that greeted its staging in the late sixties when it was booed by some audiences and condemned by many critics as being obscene.
“Of course,” I beamed, looking as coquettish as I could before adding softly in what I thought was a you can have me voice. “That’s why we want to do it.”
“What to shock?” he asked not seeming to realise my availability.
I explained that it was a lot more than to shock and with the seriousness that university applies to such topics we had an hour or so discussion on the merits of Joe Orton’s rather risqué play.
“Well, I’ll put it to the council, as I have to but I can’t see they’ll turn it down so I guess you can carry on with the casting and all the other arrangements.”
“Great, thank you er,” I paused before saying, “David,” as I stared rather intently at him.
He held my gaze. He held it for just that second or two longer than was necessary. That very brief time that tells a woman so much; those moments when she thinks she knows what’s going through the man’s mind.
Although, I’d only got one more notch on my gun handle of sexual conquests during that first year at uni I felt so much more a woman than I had when I arrived. Why? I’ll tell you that soon, but I’ve given some clues already. Anyway, with my new-found worldlywisewomanliness I could tell. I knew now what men were after and how they went about getting it and so often that began with holding a girl’s gaze for just that few seconds longer. And that’s exactly what DB was doing right now. He was undressing me and thinking. ‘Would she?’ He was imagining having me in his bed and considering, should he try? He was fantasising about us having sex and conjecturing, ‘what if I try and she turns me down?’
As he was doing that and I was clearing up my papers I was trying to silently say. “Yes.” Trying to convey to him that my answer to whatever he wanted from me was affirmative. Yes, to can I see you, yes to can we go out and yes to can I kiss you, caress you, undress you and take you to bed? And of course, yes to can I fuck you?
But somehow ten minutes later I was outside his house, the door shut behind me with none of those questions asked or answers given.
Most of the girls I was friendly with, and some of the guys come to that, were amazed at how close to us the lecturers and even the professors were. We’d all heard stories of affairs, quickies and one-night stands between students and the teaching staff, mainly female students but some men with female lecturers. Actually, come to that there were stories of male students with male lecturers and girls with women who were on the uni staff. But then so what? That’s life and in fact it was one of the few parts of college life that actually appealed to me, for in that aspect they did treat us as adults.
So that Ankara escort bayan gave me some assurance that my fancying of Mr Bancroft wouldn’t necessarily end up as a finger job, alone in my bed.
He was married, but as his wife had some high-powered job in the Civil Service she lived in London and he went there most weekends, not all, though, I noticed, encouragingly.
“So, you’re not playing the female lead then, Geraldine something isn’t it?” he asked as I leaned forward in the rather low-cut top to pick up the tea he’d made me. I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Yes Barclay, the doctor’s wife, I’m playing the secretary, Lisa Emery.”
“Why’s that?”
I looked at him and noted that as I did he turned his head away from where he’d obviously been staring at my chest. I smiled.
“Well, you’ve read Joe’s notes to the script haven’t you?” I asked again leaning forward a little.
“Yes, yes of course I have,” he replied, speaking rather, maybe too, quickly, I thought as he looked away and out of the window.
“Then you’ll know, won’t you, that I don’t quite have the build for that part?” I sat up straight pushing my breasts out and smiling as he laughed.
“Oh yes I see what you mean, she’s supposed to be quite large in that area isn’t she?”
I paused. I thought a moment. I actually considered taking my top off and making some smart-ass remark, but I didn’t.
“Yes, not like mine,” I said as a compromise.
David seemed to somewhat blurt out his reply as he stared at my chest.
“Well they’re not that small Jayne.”
“No, I suppose not,” I replied plucking up my courage and actually crossing my fingers as I, probably croaked as I was so nervous? “Some men prefer smaller don’t they?
“Yes, yes they do.”
I didn’t have the nerve to say what I was thinking and that was to ask what he preferred. That, I felt would have been too much, too soon.
He went on. “So, who’s playing the wife?
“Emily Gordon,” I told him.
Smiling he responded. “Oh well yes that makes sense.”
I smiled back as I stared right at him, with my vampish look on my face.
“Well she has got the right equipment hasn’t she………” I asked, pausing before adding softly, “David?”
He looked to be getting wonderfully flustered as I verbally flirted and duelled with him.
“Er yes, yes, she has got, er um, er,” he stumbled.
“Big tits,” I blurted out.
“Well exactly.”
On something of a roll I went on. “Do you like that David?”
“What?” he said sharply.
“Big tits?”
“I don’t mind either?”
“What big or small?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll have the best of all worlds in the nude scenes won’t you then?”
“Are you actually going to be naked in them?”
“Yes of course that’s how the play was written wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but the scenes are in bed so there’s hardly any bare flesh shown.”
“But Joe’s notes say that’s what he wanted and the scenes were censored weren’t they?
“Yes, they were, remember the play was first produced not long after the outcry about Lady Chatterley’s lover; things were so much different then.”
I was very aware of the situation then and how society’s views had changed. I was also aware of what Joe Orton had wanted from the play, for I’d studied him at some length.
“It’s rumoured you know that he wanted the wife and the secretary to have a full-on lesbian scene,” I told him.
“Yes, I’ve heard that and it is strongly implied in the script.”
“Well, we’re going to do that?”
“No,” he, almost, gasped.
“Wel,l if Brookside, can have girl on girl kisses, we’re sure the uni can, can’t we?”
“I suppose so, but maybe I should check first.”
“You mean the university might censor it?”
“No not censor.”
“Well, what then?”
We discussed it for a while and he agreed that he wouldn’t mention it but reserved the right to ask for changes if he felt it was out of character for the play.
I crossed my legs knowing full well that the short denim skirt would shoot up my thighs and I lit a ciggie as I mulled over what to say next. Sitting there with him in the kitchen of his house talking about sex had got to me, as I hoped and felt it would have done to him as well. Lifting my head and blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling caused my top to be stretched across my breasts and as I lowered my head, I caught him again looking at my tits. ‘Hmmm, it’s got to him,’ I thought, feeling pleased, but still unsure how to proceed, after all I’d never really tried to pull a guy before? But I knew that it had to be down to me to, at least, show him a very green light. It was just too risky for a member of the university to chance it.
“Well David,” I started hesitantly. “You could always have a preview of any of the scenes that you have a concern over. Shall we run through the script and decide them now?”
“How do you mean a preview?”
“A private showing, I suppose.”
“What Escort Ankara just us and Emily?”
“Yes, where she’s in the scenes, but where she isn’t it’ll just have to be me, I suppose.”
I moved round the table and sat next to him the one copy of the fairly dog-eared script in front of us. My leg was almost touching his and our shoulders brushed several times as I turned over the pages.
“I guess this is the first scene you might need to preview,” I told him opening the script.
His eyes dropped to the script and I watched him read.
Her hands slid the panties down her legs and she stood before the mirror naked. Her hands went to her small breasts and cupped them as she stared at her image in the mirror.
“I’d forgotten that,” he said croakily.
“I hadn’t,” I replied looking at him, our arms touching our faces close. I took the bull by the horns. “Would you like a preview of that scene David?”
He simply stared at me for a while. And then magically, just as it happens in the movies, our heads moved towards the other and we were kissing. As we broke for air, I heard his magical reply.
“Yes Jayne, I rather think that I would like a preview.”
And that’s how my affair with Mr Bancroft, a, nearly, forty-year-old lecturer began.
*
Ok so let’s get onto Emily’s tits shall we? Mmmmmmm what a proposal?
We met through the drama club. We didn’t see each other much at college, because she was studying economics and I was doing English, and nair the twain shall meet on those subjects; so, it was only at rehearsals or club discussions that we had met.
We hit it off immediately. We shared the same sort of humour, had similar likes and dislikes, were both spoiled, rich bitches and we were both sexually adventurous, and she even liked older men!
Were we flirting with each other? Did we come onto each other? Were each of us exploring our sexuality? Questions I often asked myself later, but didn’t even consider at the time it was all happening. How did it start? How did we start? How did Emily and I both take that same step at the same time? That step that took us both outside the conventions on sexuality. Bloody easily actually.
Lesbianism was quite a fad at the time. Remember this was the nineties. Anna Friel had her infamous ‘lesbian’ kiss before the TV watershed timing, girls were coming out, there were les scenes in lots of films and it was nowhere near as frowned upon then as it had been earlier and maybe was later as well. And of course, the example set by rock and film stars trickled down to the impressionable masses of fans. It was then as good as impossible to go to a club, certainly in London, and not see girls dirty dancing together very intimately, holding hands, cuddling and even snogging; what they did after the club is for the imagination to fantasise about. And of course, university students are always at the forefront of such fads and fashions, particularly if they are sexually driven. So, if clubs and society in general were accepting women being together then university life was positively embracing it, almost insisting on it.
Of course, with most of us, it wasn’t real lesbianism. Not many of us cut our hair short, wore dungarees and let the hair grow under our arms. Few of us developed penis aversions and hardly any of us became out and out man haters. No, we were sexual pioneers, free thinkers, erotic explorers, or so we thought. So, we were examples of what the media termed lipstick lesbians, basically good lookers that admired the beauty of other women and wanted to experiment; descendants of the free love hippies of the sixties and seventies, I guess.
Having said all that, it was still pretty frightening admitting to it and even more so doing something about it. It wasn’t for everyone, not all girls could accept the idea. Maybe there’s some genetic thing that makes it easier and more palatable for some females than for others; if so then I had, and have still got, that genetic thing in quite a big way.
I’d first noticed it at school. I found other girls more attractive than probably I should have. I remember when I was in the lower sixth having the most luridly sexual dreams about girls in the upper sixth, older, more experienced and grown-up girls. I also remember one of them coming on to me, but I backed away, mainly I think because she was overweight and unattractive. Now had it have been Pauline Alexis, the upper sixth beauty that would have been a completely different story. I also realised at school that I liked women like kd Lang, Sharon Stone in that wonderful film, Basic Instinct, Kylie and Madonna and others who had a bi or lipstick les side to them. I was intrigued and attracted by it and was, I suppose, what I later learned on the net is termed, bi curious.
University gave me the arena to explore my curiosity; Emily and her glorious tits the opportunity to satisfy it.
I suppose it started just before the end of my first year, Emily’s second. We were at the drama club’s end of term party which was quite a big do held off campus at a restaurant cum bar in the centre of town. We were all having drinks prior to dinner and she came up to me. We’d got to know each other quite well by now, although there had been no hint of anything between us.
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