between my tits, rocking backward and forward like a rower in the Henley Regatta. He finally fell off me and knocked the tent over before shooting his stuff all over my favourite flower power cotton caftan.
“Fran, all this shagging is divine dear, but I do so want to watch the acts on stage.”
“Huh…what?” he spluttered.
“I want to see some of this festival, and I’d like to join all these glorious hippies…smoking grass and swigging from flagons of cider. But of course I also want you to keep doing what you’ve been doing to me.”
“OK…let’s think about this then,” he said somewhat grudgingly, as he fixed himself back into his trousers.
We came up with a solution of sorts. I wasn’t exactly able to dance around, but I could watch the stage while sitting on Fran’s lap…with his thing inside me. My cotton caftan covered our naughty bits, and I wiggled whenever I wanted to feel him deeper inside me, or tease him until he begged me to stop moving. It was my first time shagging, and already I’d learnt the power of sex to get a man to do my bidding.
Leonard Cohen was OK, especially when he sang Bird on the Wire . Jimmy Hendrix was sensational, The Doors were spectacular and Joan Baez blew me away. But Fran Cooke made me climax again and again.
I told the girls back at Cheltenham Ladies’ College everything that happened at the festival, and they were green with envy. But when my period didn’t come I nearly died. We’d taken no precautions, and the thought of getting pregnant hadn’t crossed my mind. When I was a week and a half late full panic set in. I skipped netball practise after classes, cycled into town and telephoned Fran at work.
“Fran, sweetie…I think we have a problem.”
“What are you talking about? What problem?”
“Well what sort of problem could we have now? Five days, four nights and NO PRECAUTIONS!! What do you THINK could be the problem?!” I screamed down the phone at him.
“All right, all right…I’ll come up to you at the weekend. Don’t panic…everything will be OK.”
“Let’s hope so!” I said, before slamming down the phone – as any panic-stricken teen-age girl would do.
Fran drove up to Cheltenham first thing Saturday morning in his yellow Citroën 2CV with its torn canvas roof and daisies painted on the bonnet. He arrived half an hour after my period started, but I didn’t tell him immediately. I wanted to know what he’d say about me being pregnant.
“Let’s get married,” he suggested. So I received my first offer of marriage at the age of fifteen – from some bloke I’d been shagging for a few days in a muddy field!
Fran had it all worked out. He told me he was going to visit my parents in Buckinghamshire on his way back to Brighton, and he’d explain that he couldn’t live without me. He would tell them he’d been offered a better job with a Fleet Street red top newspaper, and that he wanted to marry me as soon as possible.
The fact that he had technically committed statutory rape didn’t seem to occur to him….Or, I suppose it’s fair to say, he didn’t quite realise that yet.
“Fran darling, Daddy isn’t actually living with Mummy. Nevertheless, one must remember that he is still a Queen’s Counsel…trying zealously to guard his only daughter’s virtue. Even though he’s managed to miss the mark completely on this particular issue, I’m almost certain he’d brief one of his juniors to issue writs against you,” I informed him.
“I see. Oh boy…well…um…I never even thought of that. You mean you’re telling me you’re not even sixteen?!” he said, sounding more than a little alarmed.
“I will be soon, but don’t worry about that. All is not lost, darling. Fortunately for us, Mummy doesn’t believe much in the holiness of virginity. She thinks it’s something best got out of the way, and frankly, the sooner the better as far as she’s concerned.”
We went for a walk, and I decided he deserved to
“Fran, all this shagging is divine dear, but I do so want to watch the acts on stage.”
“Huh…what?” he spluttered.
“I want to see some of this festival, and I’d like to join all these glorious hippies…smoking grass and swigging from flagons of cider. But of course I also want you to keep doing what you’ve been doing to me.”
“OK…let’s think about this then,” he said somewhat grudgingly, as he fixed himself back into his trousers.
We came up with a solution of sorts. I wasn’t exactly able to dance around, but I could watch the stage while sitting on Fran’s lap…with his thing inside me. My cotton caftan covered our naughty bits, and I wiggled whenever I wanted to feel him deeper inside me, or tease him until he begged me to stop moving. It was my first time shagging, and already I’d learnt the power of sex to get a man to do my bidding.
Leonard Cohen was OK, especially when he sang Bird on the Wire . Jimmy Hendrix was sensational, The Doors were spectacular and Joan Baez blew me away. But Fran Cooke made me climax again and again.
I told the girls back at Cheltenham Ladies’ College everything that happened at the festival, and they were green with envy. But when my period didn’t come I nearly died. We’d taken no precautions, and the thought of getting pregnant hadn’t crossed my mind. When I was a week and a half late full panic set in. I skipped netball practise after classes, cycled into town and telephoned Fran at work.
“Fran, sweetie…I think we have a problem.”
“What are you talking about? What problem?”
“Well what sort of problem could we have now? Five days, four nights and NO PRECAUTIONS!! What do you THINK could be the problem?!” I screamed down the phone at him.
“All right, all right…I’ll come up to you at the weekend. Don’t panic…everything will be OK.”
“Let’s hope so!” I said, before slamming down the phone – as any panic-stricken teen-age girl would do.
Fran drove up to Cheltenham first thing Saturday morning in his yellow Citroën 2CV with its torn canvas roof and daisies painted on the bonnet. He arrived half an hour after my period started, but I didn’t tell him immediately. I wanted to know what he’d say about me being pregnant.
“Let’s get married,” he suggested. So I received my first offer of marriage at the age of fifteen – from some bloke I’d been shagging for a few days in a muddy field!
Fran had it all worked out. He told me he was going to visit my parents in Buckinghamshire on his way back to Brighton, and he’d explain that he couldn’t live without me. He would tell them he’d been offered a better job with a Fleet Street red top newspaper, and that he wanted to marry me as soon as possible.
The fact that he had technically committed statutory rape didn’t seem to occur to him….Or, I suppose it’s fair to say, he didn’t quite realise that yet.
“Fran darling, Daddy isn’t actually living with Mummy. Nevertheless, one must remember that he is still a Queen’s Counsel…trying zealously to guard his only daughter’s virtue. Even though he’s managed to miss the mark completely on this particular issue, I’m almost certain he’d brief one of his juniors to issue writs against you,” I informed him.
“I see. Oh boy…well…um…I never even thought of that. You mean you’re telling me you’re not even sixteen?!” he said, sounding more than a little alarmed.
“I will be soon, but don’t worry about that. All is not lost, darling. Fortunately for us, Mummy doesn’t believe much in the holiness of virginity. She thinks it’s something best got out of the way, and frankly, the sooner the better as far as she’s concerned.”
We went for a walk, and I decided he deserved to
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