I’ll call him Paul. He was my first real boyfriend.

I grew up in the States and my father worked for the US military. Dad, my mum and me would live in numerous countries around the world. I was use to it. I wondered it was so cool that we had just moved to London and I was to go to college there. Because my schooling was interrupted, I was 18 when I went to the private girls college. Having single-sex schools is something they do a lot in England. We also had college uniforms, which I wondered hilarious when I found out about it. Dark skirt, white blouse, black stay-ups, black shoes. Real Harry Potter stuff.

They do that a lot in England too — in the private schools anyway. Next door, there was the boys’ college. That was the original college. That is where I met Paul.

Well, I didn’t meet him in college. But we Americans talk loud and it wasn’t long before we found each other. His Dad worked in the military too.

Paul and I also got to know each other because we were American and also because we were older than the other students. We both missed bits of schooling because of travelling with our families. I had my 18thbirthday on the first day of college. Paul was 19. This was frustrating for both of us. I found it embarrassing. Here we both were, dressed in college uniforms. Yet we were old enough in English law to get married or to go into a pub and drink alcohol. Go figure.

I say that Paul was my boyfriend but we didn’t actually do anything. I had a strict Christian upbringing. Kissing was OK, but anything more than that was for marriage — or at least that is what I was taught.

The first term went by in no time. I LOVED being in London. The history and the art galleries and the museums. And I fell in love with Paul. At the end of the term, on the last day, Paul and I met up. I was staying in London, but he was going back to the States for the vacation break. How could we cope being aside? We walked back to my place, knowing that we only had 90 minutes before we parted. Before he went back to his parents. To fly out of the country the next day.

We got back to my place. We would be alone in the house for about an hour before my Mum got home. Not something she actually encouraged, or discouraged, but I could just tell she didn’t like it when I was alone with boys.

I would normally have a shower straight away when I got home and change into ordinary clothes. I hate wearing the black stay-ups, but I didn’t have much of a choice. You know what stay-ups are? I never saw them in the USA. They are like stockings, but only go above the knee, or mid-thigh. There is a sticky stuff that wraps around the thigh, which holds them in place. They are a lot more comfortable than tights. Stay-ups don’t make you sweat between the legs, and you don’t have to pull them up several times a day.

The material of the stay-ups was never quite thick enough, so that my feet ended up smelly at the end of the day. On hot days, the stay-ups seemed to hold all the heat on the inside of my thighs, so they became itchy. But as Paul was there, I didn’t shower or change. I kicked off my shoes — I hope my feet didn’t smell. Paul took off his college tie — he hated college ties. I just loosened my tie — I had learnt from hard experience that if I took it off, it would take AGES to discover it the next day when I had to go to college again.

I made us both a cup of tea. We didn’t normally drink tea, but felt that we kind of should as we were in England.

Then things moved fast. I’m not saying it was unwelcome or anything, but it was just fast. Paul was not the most tactful of young men. I don’t remember his exact words, but he used the word ‘legal.’ It was something like ‘at least you are legal.’ He wasn’t pressuring me into doing anything, but he was just talking about stuff a lot. I had a horrible wondered. I wondered that if I didn’t do something with him, that he might forget about me when he went back to the States.

I pointed out to him that he knew ‘the rules.’ Like, we could kiss, but anything else was for my future husband. He told me about guys he knew whose girlfriends were giving them blowjobs. I knew what blowjobs were, of course. I started to feel a bit inadequate. I really loved Paul and didn’t want to be mean to him.

He suddenly got the message that even a hand job was out of the question. He said that he understood that, but that there was something he would really like. It wasn’t a blowjob or a hand job, so that it didn’t break any rules.

He said he loved me. One thing led to another but I was nervous. We went up to my bedroom and I closed the door behind us. He wanted me to take my college uniform off but I said that I couldn’t as my mum could come home any minute. He said he understood but that could I PLEASE take off my underwear, just so he could see my bits. He said he hadn’t seen any bits in real life before. I wanted to, but didn’t want to get into trouble. I figured that if mum came home, and I had my panties off, then I could just walk out of my room straight away. She wouldn’t know that I wasn’t wearing underwear.

When I did the calculation of being caught or not, I acted kind of confidently. Paul sat on my bed and I just stood and pulled down my panties. They wrapped around my ankles, and then I shook my legs skillfully and let the panties fall off one foot, and then bent my leg up so that I could take them off my other ankle. He stared at them. I reached down quickly to pick them up.

I kind of put my hand at an angle so he couldn’t see them properly. There was a small stain in the gusset — the groin triangle or whatever you want to call it. It wasn’t anything for me to feel embarrassed about, I would just rather he didn’t see it. He asked me what color I would say they were. I said they were salmon. I instantly regretted using the name of a fish to describe the color of my panties. All girls bits smelled of salmon, or tuna. Everyone knew that. I walked over to my laundry bin and lifted the lid and dropped them inside.

I walked back to the bed. Paul watching every step I took, just staring at my college skirt. I guess he was thinking about what was underneath. I sat on the bed and put my legs up, just the way I lay on my bed normally. I bent my knees, so that my skirt rode higher up my thighs. I had never done this before.

‘Oh, you don’t wear tights?’ he asked. I explained the whole thing to him about stay-ups.

I reminded Paul he could look, but there was no touching.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

I covered my eyes with a hand, and opened my knees aside. I pulled my skirt up, so that he would be able to see in between my legs. I knew that I was smooth as I had shaved the day before. I was glad I didn’t look like a monkey.

‘It’s gorgeous’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

There was a silence and I dropped the hand from my face. He was still focused on my slit. I’ve at all times been self-conscious about it. It doesn’t seem really ordinary. I look like a Barbie doll. No actual identifiable anatomy. Just a slit.

He was glaring at my slit. Not a move. I kind of guessed what the next question would be.

‘Can I?’

‘OK’ I said.

He undid his zip. He tried to get his penis out, but it was difficult for him. I didn’t know he was fully hard, so he had to move it around to get it out.

‘That feels so good,’ he said, as he masturbated. He was doing it slow so as not to cum quick.

‘Do you masturbate?’

‘Sure, it’s ordinary,’ I said.

‘Cool. How often do you masturbate?’

‘About twice a week,’ I said.

‘You?’

He said he masturbated every day.

‘There is a way you can make me cum without using your hands,’ he said.

‘How?’

He undid his trousers (see how English I have become!) and his belt. Before I could stop him, he pulled them down, with his underpants, and he was naked below the waist.

I really hope my Mum doesn’t come home! My calculating mind started calculating. If Mum came home, I could leave my room straight away, without stopping to put my panties on. She wouldn’t know anything was wrong. And that would give Paul time to get dressed properly before pretending to come from the upstairs toilet.

Paul sat cross-legged on the bed.

Facing me.

Facing my open cavern. I still kept my knees aside. I hoped that he could see at least something of a hole. But I was probably just showing a slit.

His erection was hard and….throbbing? Was it actually moving in rhythm to his heart beat? Is that a thing?

‘Just relax,’ he said.

‘Relax,’ he repeated.

My legs were almost straight, being held on either side of him. He asked me to bend my knees a bit and then he started pushing my feet together on his lap. My feet, still wearing stay-ups, were closer to him. I really hoped my feet didn’t smell.

The soul of one of my feet hit his penis. I said I was sorry. No, he said, that is what he wanted me to do.

He held one foot on one side of his penis, and one foot on the other. His penis was in between. He told me to move my feet up and down.

Well, this wasn’t a blow job or a handjob. So I guess it didn’t count.

I knew what he wanted me to do now. I shuffled a bit down the bed so that my legs were at 90 degrees, between my lower and upper legs. My vag was way exposed now. I wondered I would be self-conscious about opening my vag crack. He asked me to pull up my skirt further.

It wasn’t easy at first, nothing is the first time. But I got into a rhythm of moving my feet up and down. The secret is to make sure that the toes and the heels touch. Then you build a hole in between in which the guy can have his penis. I’m not sure that I was brilliant at it, being my first time and all. A couple of times he held my feet, as if he was moving them up and down faster. But then he would hold his hands away, as if he had this big internal conflict which was between touching my feet and not touching them.

I wondered it would feel better for him if I took my stay-ups off. I told him to wait just a sec. He must have been near to cumming or something, because he kind of moaned as if he were in pain. I stood up and took off my stay-ups and was now bare-legged. I got back on the bed and started giving him a ‘foot-job’ again. But this time, my skin was against his penis, just bare skin.

He kept saying over and over again that my slit was gorgeous. I’m not gonna lie. I was pretty turned on. I guess he meant that my slit looked pretty because it was now wet and a bit shiny. He said the inside of my legs were beautiful. He actually said the word ‘beautiful,’ like they say in old black and white movies. I think he meant the muscles on the inside of my thighs. He then looked down to his lap. My feet moving up and down, bringing him closer and closer.

I’m not sure if he made another moan. I *think* he did. But he saw my painted toenails as if he had never seen such a thing before. They were a sort of brilliant red. They looked pretty. I am useless at painting nails, so I at all times have a nail salon person do it professionally with shellac.

This time, he really did moan. I brought him off with my feet. I wondered he would cum and that it would dribble down his penis and onto my feet. I already wondered about my stay-ups, I could use those to wipe the cum off. But he ejaculated high in the air. I actually put my hand up because I felt he would hit me in the eye. Then he did it again and again. I held the stay-ups and collected as much of the cum that I could. Some drops got onto my bed, but that wouldn’t matter.

Then it happened.

I heard the front door crash open and my Mum called out my name. I got up and shouted back while walking towards my bedroom door. I was still fully dressed, except for my stay-ups and panties. Mum wouldn’t say anything about that. I said that Paul had come home with me. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. She then asked where Paul was, but then she heard the upstairs toilet flush. She just smiled and turned around to put shopping in the fridge.

Both Paul and me acted ordinary in front of Mum till it was Paul’s time to go home. I behaved like a perfect Christian, and didn’t embrace him too much when I said goodbye at the front door.

I could say that was the end of the story, or at least till Paul came back from the States. But, the real end is that I could never discover my panties or the cum-marked stay-ups again. Paul said he didn’t take them. I never really worked out what happened to them.