Summer School Pt. 01

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I could blame it on my Mama’s one admitted mistake, that was Papa. I suppose children can’t ever quite understand what brought their parents together. Mama, the only daughter of a peer of the realm, had firm ideas of what was right and wrong and who was, and was not, acceptable as a friend. Firmly religious too (yes, Mama is a firm figure), she had, and has, an unbending sense of right and wrong. That is, no doubt why she is prepared to say that marrying Papa was a “mistake”. But, I noted, they have never divorced, so quite what all of that says about her, I have never been able to work out.

It could be said in her defence that Papa seems to have always had an effect on knicker-elastic, to put it crudely. His line is that he cannot help it if women throw themselves at him, and, as he hates to disappoint anyone, he has tended to oblige those women. Quite how this explains his current Mistress, Katerina, who is younger than me, I don’t know, except that even at seventy, he has retained that charisma which has always served him well. I have to say that the first time I met Katerina, I thought to myself that his taste in women was remarkably similar to mine.

I suppose that was what happened with Mama. She was of that generation of women who felt liberated to go to university, and while she might have wanted Oxford and Cambridge, she had ended up in Brighton at what was then the new university of Sussex. It was the only place someone like her would ever have some across someone like Papa.

Papa, Kurt, was an “artist.” His father had been a communist Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany, a jazz musician, and a philanderer; Papa took after him. He was into progressive rock music, and he painted; his paintings sold, and even when he first met my Mama, he was making money to add to what he had inherited from his grandfather, who was a German shipping magnate. Louche, bohemian, rich, charismatic, and handsome, what was not to like? My Mama was neither the first, nor the last woman to fall head over heels for him; she was just the most unlikely.

She met him, he told me, at an exhibition of his work at the University, where he was a visiting professor, and within twenty-four hours they were an item. The beautiful aristocrat and the handsome artist seem to have cut quite a dash – at least according to the scrap book I found when tidying the attic for Mama.

The whole Mama/Papa thing caused me cognitive dissonance, exemplified by some of the photographs. I know it was the late 1960s, but Mama, in a skirt that short? There were a couple of “artistic” ones, taken by a photographer friend where I could see Mama’s bum cheeks. That must have been where Ella, my older sister, got her legs and bum from; a shame it had not passed to me.

Papa, with his long hair and beard, and his cravat, looking like John Lennon, while Mama, in her short skirts, looking like Charlotte Rampling, it was, I thought, no wonder they made such an impression. There was even a portrait of the two of them by Hockney.

Had it been a case of Papa overwhelming Mama? That seemed somewhat unlikely, as she was, and always seemed to have been, extremely fond of her own way. Or had the times, and had Papa, released something in her she had later suppressed? Either way, I couldn’t agree with Mama that it was all the fault of her only admitted mistake.

Yes, Papa had an eye for the ladies – and usually something more for them, and yes, unlike Mama, he cast his net far and wide, and he certainly lacked her class-consciousness, but how my fling with “that girl” (as Mama referred to Tanya) could be down to Papa’s “bad genes” I failed to see. It could hardly be his fault (and Mama certainly thought it a fault) that I was a lesbian.

Ella was everything I was not. Tall (five foot ten to my four foot eight), elegant (the best that could be said of me on a good day was that I was “cute”), and busty (34d to my 26aaa), she had also had a voracious appetite for men from the moment she could satisfy it. Was that I had always wondered, something to be blamed on Papa’s “bad genes”? Oddly, Mama and Ella never mentioned that possibility. She had, in her own words, “shagged her way through uni” until, having secured a job in banking, she had one of the rising stars of that world fall head over heels for her and ask her to marry him. As he was extremely rich, as well as handsome, Ella had said yes, and their wedding had been one of the highlights of the Social Calendar.

Ella had asked if I would mind if she didn’t make me a bridesmaid, and being me, I had accepted the snub gracefully.

“It’s nothing personal, Shrimp, but Laura and Beth are both istanbul travesti pretty stunning, and I don’t think the dresses would suit you.”

Nothing personal? Well, that was my sister for you. “Personal” meant appertaining to her person and her wishes. Yes, she was not simply a chip of the old Mama block, she was a younger version of it. As Mama said, she would not have gone with a girl like Tanya – even if, as Mama put it, “she had been a pervert like you.”

I wasn’t sure what Mama hated most: that I was a lesbian; that I had been a virgin until my mid-twenties; or that Tanya came from a working-class background. It was a good job she did not know what went on it our bedroom, or indeed any other room in the house, when Tanya was in one of her mischievous moods.

Of course, she knew nothing about my boarding school adventure with Tay (for those interested, it’s all on this site in my “How it all began”). She had noticed, how could she not, my pixie-cut and pink hair, but knew nothing of that weekend with Tay when she had dressed me down as a “chav” and treated me as though I were a common, working-class slut. Her taste for men had put an end to that adventure, but it had left me with ample memories for when I needed to masturbate. The thought of eating Tay out, or of having her friend wax my pussy and my eating her out as payment, was enough to set me off.

But that was my secret. The dye faded out and I grew my hair, and went back to being the good “swotty” Pixie who never got laid but got straight As in everything. The apogée of Mama’s admiration for her studious younger daughter came when I got a scholarship to Oxford. Suddenly, for a season, it was “Cynthia” (my real name) about whom she bragged to her chums.

“Oh, shame darling, I am sure Sara will enjoy Durham, they can’t all be like Cynthia and get an Oxford scholarship.”

The number of times Mama said something like this to her friends must, I thought, have made me the most hated eighteen-year-old in her social circle. I had, however, no doubt that in private, they all said what Sara said to me, which was:

“No bloody wonder you did so well. When the rest of us were shagging, you were swotting.”

There was a lot in that; indeed it was more or less the truth, even if not the whole of it.

I liked girls. I had always liked girls. I first realised this when I found myself watching hockey. I hated sport, but there was something about watching girls in short skirts that I liked. The captain of the rugby team took a shine to me, and while it never got very far sexually, it cemented my feeling that I was gay. Then came Tay, who confirmed it.

Oxford was a bit of a celibate desert if I am honest. There were “LGBT” societies, but they seemed full of butch girls with short hair. I have nothing against such girls – and want to keep it that way.

There were the other, “lipstick lesbians”, but all too gorgeous for me. Usually tall, often sporty, fashionable, outgoing, they were gay versions of my sister.

Still, Mama was pleased with what she called my concentration on “what mattered.” When I duly got my first-class degree, I was again, the subject of her bragging, and as that coincided with Ella’s marriage to Richard (always known, appropriately as Rich), it was indeed a golden summer for her. That Papa could not come because he was being exhibited in San Francisco, was simply the cherry on the icing of her cake.

The question of what to do next had bugged me across the year. My tutors, to a man and woman, wanted me to do research, and I was offered a bursary to do one at my college. Research suited me. I love libraries and archives, and the idea of spending three years in them delighted me. It did nothing for my sociability, or my sex life. Then Ms Powers, the admissions tutor, asked if I’d be happy to help with some “outreach” work.

“Like all Oxford colleges, Pixie, we are under pressure to widen access. We need some students to help reach the younger generation, and wondered if you’d like to help?”

“I am hardly a model of social diversity,” I said, in my best upper-class accent.

“No, but you are nice and not intimidating, and that might be a real help.”

Well, I rather agreed with the policy and its aims, so I agreed.

To my surprise, and perhaps that of Ms Powers, it transpired I was quite good at it. Being petite seemed to make me somehow more approachable, and once I got talking to the girls and their mothers, it all seemed to work. I was happy to listen and, according to Ms Powers, never made them feel talked down to.

“At my height,” I joked, “that’s istanbul travestileri hard.”

Inevitably, I was reminded from time to time of Tay and my adventure with her, but I had put that behind me, and I got on with what I had been asked to do. The result was that I was asked to help lead a summer school for girls from disadvantaged backgrounds.

From the moment I set eyes on Tanya, I knew there would be trouble.

We had no set dress code, and of course, that meant there were a variety of outfits, but Tanya stood out – literally. Her white strappy tops strained to contain what I later discovered were 36DD breasts, and she favoured tight short skirts which seemed to grip her hips and bum. She wore her hair scraped back in a ponytail, and, unlike so many of those at the summer school, she seemed not the slightest bit overawed by Oxford.

Their first pieces of work, on why they wanted to go to university, were the usual thing for the most part – get a better job, make money, get on in life – but Tanya’s was different. She had not written much.

“Who the fuck says I want to? I am here because the fucking school insisted, and my idiot mum always does what they say. Can you just say I am not suitable and do me a favour and get me chucked out?”

Well, I giggled to myself when I got to it, you couldn’t accuse her of pulling her punches.

When I handed the work back, I asked Tanya if she could see me at the end of the class. She looked sulkily at me, but agreed.

Once the others had gone, she came to my desk.

“Well, you going to chuck me out then?”

“If you really want, but tell me, first, why the school wants you to come here?”

“They think I’m brainy and could do it, but I don’t see the fucking point!”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Dunno.”

“You must have some dreams, Tanya.”

She grinned.

“Not ones you’d want to know, Miss,” she said, laughing for the first time.

“Thing you want to do?”

“Oh sure, yeah, but why’d I have to come here to do them?”

“Well you don’t, if what you want to do is to stay where you are and do as you Mum did.”

“Fuck that!” She said, suddenly animated, “I ain’t getting knocked up and having two kids before I reach 21.”

Sensing a counselling situation, I asked:

“So you take precautions, Tanya?”

“Ya could say that Miss, I don’t shag boys, which sort of takes care of that!”

I blushed. Had she just come out to me?

“Hope that didn’t embarrass you too much Miss, but I bet this place is full of rug munchers!”

I must have looked startled as she added:

“I went and did it, didn’t I? No fucking manners, that’s me, I just blurt it out. Look Miss, just get me chucked out will ya?”

I looked at her.

“I will, but can we give it a week Tanya, you may settle down.”

“Are there any gay clubs here Miss? I might as well get a bit of fun this week, as classes are boring.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

“Sorry Miss, told ya, no fucking manners. Well are there?”

“You are internet savvy, Tanya, look it up,” I said briskly, recapturing my teacher’s voice.

She looked at me.

“Guess so. So, if I still want out, I get out, yeah?”

“No point in you wasting all our time, Tanya, but give it a go, that’s all I ask.”

“Well, as you’re so fucking nice about it – the others all try to make me do crap – I’ll play along.”

I smiled, glad that my methods worked with her.

“Deal. We’ll give it a week, and if you still feel this way next Friday, you’re out!”

“Thanks Miss, you’re a star!

And with that, off she went.

I leaned back.

Goodness me, that had been a close thing.

What the heck was it with “chav” type girls and me? There was a power dynamic at work, which I was beginning to realise was one of my “triggers.” I belonged by birth and education to an upper class which, consciously or not, looked down on people like Tay and Tanya. They were “chavs,” “sluts,” girls with no prospects who would clean our houses or offices, serve us in supermarkets and bars. As a liberal and a feminist, and as an educator, I wanted to give such girls a chance to escape that, if they wanted. But, and here literally was the rub, part of me wanted to submit to such girls.

When Tay had made me dress like her, and when she had made me eat her out and act as she did, it had excited me beyond measure. There was a freedom, an openness, and an uninhibited enjoyment of sex which was foreign to me. But at base, it was a power thing. Giving up the power my social position gave me to someone like Tay or Tanya made travesti istanbul my knickers wet. Something of which I was well aware when I stood up.

I went to the ladies, and as I have thought, I was a mess. I wanted to bring myself to orgasm, but delayed it until I got back to my flat, when I lay on my bed and frigged myself senseless.

I resolved to put the whole thing behind me. Tanya was going to do what she wanted and reject the chances being given to her – and that was her right. I needed, I said to myself, to stop behaving like Lady Bountiful.

The classes went well, and Ms Powers commended me, telling me she had told the College that I was a “natural” teacher.

“I’m guessing you’ll want to be an academic, Pixie, but you have a gift, and perhaps you might want to use it in this sphere too – even if only in summer schools.”

That was sweet of her, and I promised to consider the matter. But somehow Tanya still bugged me. Part of it was honourable. She seemed bright and lively and could have a better future. But part of it was to do with my fetish. Still, she did come to class, and she did seem to be paying attention.

Then came the morning when she turned up late. She looked as though she’d not slept much, and her clothes, what there was of them, looked crumpled. Without a word of apology, she sat down. One penalty of being late was that her normal place at the back of the class was occupied, so she had to sit at the front. She scowled.

I got on with things, outlining the steps that they would have to take if they wanted to bet into university, and the advantages of doing so. I brought them into it by asking what they thought they might gain from it. We got a good discussion going, and then I came to Tanya.

“And what do you think the advantages of going to uni might be Tanya?”

She leant back in her chair, opening her legs so that I could see right up to the shaved, bare pussy at the tip of her thighs.

“Plenty of posh rug munchers would do it for me, Miss!”

The class, of course, dissolved into giggles.

“That’s a niche reason, Tanya,” I replied, refusing to be thrown.

“They can have my niche any time Miss!”

Which, naturally, produced more giggles.

“Well,” I said, each to their own. Now, girls, any other contributions?”

We got back on track, but I was conscious that Tanya was opening her legs; I was also conscious I was looking – and that she knew it.

At the end of class, instead of being first out as always, Tanya asked if she could see me.

“Miss,” she said, when we were alone, “don’t chuck me out. You’ve been nice to me, and I’ve been a cow. But I think I want to stay.”

“Is that for the rug munching, Tanya?”

“Can’t you take a joke, Miss?”

“I can, and I was joking back.”

“Did you like it, Miss?”

I was not going to play dumb.

“Like what, your pussy?”

“Yeah, my cunt got well licked last night, it’s why I was late. Met this horny mature student and we got to fucking, and the next thing I knew I was late.”

“Too much information, Tanya.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. You’re a lezzer I think Miss?”

“None of your business, Tanya!”

“But you are Miss, and a cute one too. Bet some of the girls love you being so small.”

“Still, none of your business, Tanya.”

“Okay, Miss, I get it. But honest, if I do the bloody work, can I stay?”

“Yes, now bugger off, I have work to do too.”

She grinned at me.

For the rest of the week, Tanya behaved herself, and Ms Powers asked what I had done.

“I think, to be honest, nothing except challenged her not to mess this up because she is scared of success.”

It made for a good Friday night party, and things went with a swing.

To say I am not much of a dancer is the understatement of the year. I have a condition which means, among other things, that not only have I never grown above four foot eight, I also have weak ankles. But I enjoy helping, and was able to help the College staff with the bar and with helping the students.

By midnight, it still showed no signs of stopping, but my energy was certainly heading in that direction. I went to look for Ms Powers to give my apologies, but she was not in either of the first two rooms, so I decided to call it a night. I made my excuses to the staff and headed for the ladies. As I peed, I heard noises, not from the room, but from outside.

“Right you posh cunt, eat me out, come on, do it, you fucking know you want to!”

I wiped, and pulled my knickers up. It was Tanya’s voice. I should, of course, just have gone back to my room, but I did no such thing. Instead, I tip-toed round to the Fellow’s Garden, using my key.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but in the moonlight, I saw Tanya, standing, her legs apart, her back against the wall, with a woman between her thighs. From the noises it was clear what was happening.

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