The patterns on the ceiling were arranging themselves into all kinds of mystical shapes in the half-darkness of my bedroom. I lay awake, trying to work out what had happened that evening.
The answer should have been, nothing. Because nothing actually happened.
It had just been a simple drinks party for grown-ups, a party put on by Mum’s friend, Brenda. I was there to serve, to be the waitress, complete with a black skirt, black shoes, and a school white shirt.
I was already sixteen, but since I wasn’t in the sixth form yet I wasn’t getting paid very much, but it all helped. A teenage girl needs to have some money.
All the guests were older, like Mum’s age or more, so I was the youngest by a lot, less than half the age of everyone else. I stood out. And not just because of my age. I was the only waitress, the only one in uniform, the only one in a thin cheap school shirt that didn’t really conceal the plain white bra beneath.
So yes, I stood out and was getting plenty of attention. Looks. Stares, even.
And I didn’t mind.
I liked it.
I’d had a bit of a crush on Brenda for a while. She was way too old to notice me, though she was still dark-haired and neat and tidy, and she had that headmistress type of strict bossiness that drew me.
And because she was so much older, and Mum’s friend, my thoughts were totally inappropriate.
My thoughts. They were whirling round in my head like the images on my ceiling were rearranging themselves.
A fantasy started to form, a kind of wishful thinking, allowing my imagination free rein. The naughty side of my imagination.
I knew that Brenda often had women her own age going round. I knew because she lived nearby and I’d seen them on Saturday afternoons. I imagined that they were a kind of secret lesbian group.
I imagined that I’d go round on Saturday afternoon when they were meeting and offer to waitress for her again like I needed some pocket money and she’d ask me what I was prepared to do, and I’d say whatever she wanted.
But I’d be in t-shirt and jeans, not in waitress gear, and she’d be all strict and say she couldn’t have a waitress in jeans, this is in front of all the ladies.
So in front of them all, I’d have to take my jeans off, and I’d enjoy it; the attention, the wrongness, the embarrassment, and they’d all be able to tell because they were experienced women.
I’d have to serve them tea in just my t-shirt and underwear; no outdoor shoes on Brenda’s carpet. I’d find this very exciting, and they’d know, and Brenda would ask me why I’m breathing so fast, and I’d be embarrassed. But I’d find that I liked even that, too.
The other ladies would start commenting, talking about me, saying, “She’s enjoying not wearing any jeans,” and, “she likes being questioned, the naughty girl!” and it would all excite me more.
The more they talked about me the redder I would get and shuffle from foot to foot as you do, and Brenda would tell me off and make me stand up straight.
I’d love that too, and they would be able to tell that I was enjoying being told what to do, which would make me even more embarrassed when they said so, and I would enjoy it more.
And then Brenda would tut over my appearance, my lack of waitress apparel, and ask me what I was wearing. I’d tell her, “My t-shirt, bra, and knickers.” She would ask my bra size which was 32b and ask if I really need a bra at my age.
I’d have to be honest and say, “No,“ so she would ask why I’m wearing one. There would be no obvious answer to that, and I’d have to take it off, right there in front of them all, from under my t-shirt.
Then I would have to serve the cake in just my t-shirt and knickers. My nipples would be pokies showing against the thin cotton.
“Oh look, her nipples are showing,” they would comment, and I’d love it more even though I’d be so very embarrassed, but also I’d be just adoring the attention because I’d not actually be in trouble.
Then someone would notice that I’m a bit damp; she would smell my scent as I came closer. Brenda would ask me, “Are your knickers clean? I don’t want a waitress to be wearing dirty knickers in my house.”
Of course, I’d have to answer in front of everyone, “I’m sorry, no my knickers aren’t clean, and yes, I mustn’t wear dirty knickers in your house.” So I’d have to take them off.
In front of everyone.
And show Brenda that I soiled them, holding them inside out so that the marks were visible.
So then I’d have to get refills of tea in just my t-shirt which would barely cover my bottom and to make everything worse I’d now be dribbling a bit down my legs.
Which of course would be bad. So my punishment would be having to take off my t-shirt, also so that it wouldn’t get soiled like my knickers because then I’d have to explain to mum.
And so finally I’d be naked in front of them all and I’d cum, just like that, orgasming in front of everyone.
Synchronized with my fantasy orgasm I spasmed against my sticky fingers, alone in my bed, staring up at the ceiling, managing to stifle my cries so that Mum and Dad wouldn’t hear.
My urgent needs now satisfied I turned onto my side to sleep, hands tucked together between my legs. I knew I’d revisit that fantasy.
More than once.