Princess of Huntington High -- Part 1 of 4 Brenda Patrick was an unattainable object of fantasy for an uncounted number of us in high school. Popular beyond comparison, she was not in any sense afflicted with self- importance, nor had I ever once witnessed an unkindness from her. She smiled at me in the halls and even spoke to me in passing on those rare occasions when she noticed me at all. I was surprised afresh each time she knew my name. I marvelled that she had not been briefed on the proper decorum of royalty in the eminently forgettable presence of a nonentity. She evidenced no awareness that our beings were at antipodes on the continuum of worthiness. Devoid of sinister shadows and dark corners was the Princess, free of those guilty secrets and nasty little cravings kept well veiled by some of us and brazenly flaunted by others. I remember once entertaining an absolutely absurd fantasy about there being a Wilma engram in the otherwise untainted brain of this comely, normal creature of light. I was stricken with a sense of incongruity that within the cortex of such a girl as she there existed the name and face of such a one as I. By what freakish prank of hell's gremlins was my unworthy self given space in the glorious mansion of this lovely girl's brain? She was normal, a girl others seek out and miss when she's not there, a pretty girl with a normal personality, straight and clean and fun to be with. How came my clod of earth midst the golden nuggets and priceless gems of her enchanting mind? Sometimes a well-meaning teacher, coached in high-sounding principles of equality but woefully out of touch with the realities of social psychology, imposes upon her hapless students an intersecting of personalities meant by the gods to remain parallel. Thus did it come to pass one day in physics class that I became a lab partner with the Princess. I held my breath in terror as Mrs. Bartlett read off the pairings. My anxiety rose to paralyzing proportions as the possible combinations diminished. I started tossing around escape plans and tried to will a fire drill to happen. The teacher read the sacred name of the Princess from List A, and there was a brief hush as the Great Egalitarian heartlessly checked the corresponding name on List B. My lips were turning blue for want of oxygen. My vision blurred. Teacher's finger located the name, and an unthinkable diad was spoken into existence. "Wilma," she said perfunctorily with no recognition whatsoever that she had violated Nature and offended the gods. No bolt from Zeus having struck down the teacher for her defilement of sacred boundaries, everyone was soon clucking and flitting busily about as couples came together. Brenda moved a one-armed desk over to mine so the open sides of the desks were nearly touching, facing opposite directions. She smiled brightly as she seated herself. There was a flash of ivory flesh 'neath her cheerleader skirt when she crossed her legs, but I was still in shock and unable to log the event with any focus or pleasure. "I'm glad I got you," she said. "I need somebody smart." She had her hand on my leg and was leaning toward me in her enthusiasm. Our faces had never been so close, our eye contact never so prolonged. My I.Q. dropped a hundred points and my pussy hiccupped. An inarticulate high frequency noise leaked out of my larynx and echoed off the roof of my mouth, emerging finally as a pitiable hybrid of a whine and a grunt. She cocked her head curiously for an unguarded second before blinking her escape from my moronic gaze. She pawed the lab book and found the exercises we were to complete on our own during the week. Oh yes. That was another of Mrs. Bartlett's cute little ideas. Students working with each other on assignments on their own time simultaneously encouraged both social engagement and scholarship. What else it encouraged is CONTINUED IN PART 2. Princess of Huntington High -- Part 2 of 4 We completed our lab tasks, but I was a nervous wreck by the middle of the week. Eye contact with Brenda induced catatonia, and a touch from her redistributed my blood and oxygen flow. I would be explaining something to her and get lost in her lovely eyes. A sentence would begin with full mental competence, and senility would set in before I could reach the end of it. It was so embarrassing. I couldn't look off and recuperate, and I couldn't continue a thought either. Her enchanting countenance would go from alert listening through interested waiting and on through a quick self-checking, a slight squinting of the eyes, and then that cute cocking of her head as my speech center decayed. Out of her overwhelming presence, I found myself breaking down in tears for no identifiable reason. It wasn't sadness, nor was it joy or fear or any other of the usual labels associated with emotional upset. I was a physiological storm in search of a label, a body gone berserk in neurochemical insanity. On Wednesday night of that week, sleep was impossible. Visions of her flooded my sensorium. I pitched and yawed and tried to shake the images out of my head of her voice, her hair, her features, her movements, her touch, her breath, the freshness of her and the way she moved her desirable young body. Yes, yes, yes, YES! I surrendered altogether to the phantoms of my mind and ran my hands over my breasts and stomach and down to my legs and crotch. I masturbated to Brenda Patrick and cared neither for my sanity nor for my soul. My abandon was total and wanton, my orgasm full and body-wide, prolonged and demented, ecstatic, psychotic and violent. It never ended while I was conscious. My loss of contact with reality may have been sleep or mental collapse or an out-of- body experience for all I know. Whatever else it may have done, the chimeric womanquake which released my raging demons left me devoid of care and gave life-saving balm to the tormented soul of an emotionally exhausted teenage girl. Hours later, I floated gracefully into consciousness and sighed the peaceful sigh of the delivered. Then I realized what I had done and was seized by a crippling sense of shame. There was no possibility that I would go to school that day and enter into the innocent presence of the Princess with my filthy little secret about what I had done. I missed school again on Friday, too, and I felt as though I could never again face her or befoul her pure space with my degenerate self. But she called me Friday after school. Ignoring my shock, she wanted me to spend the night with her while her parents were at a retreat. It was more an assumption than an invitation, and there was never a question about whether I would be there. When she hung up, I sat in a daze for a minute or two. The jumble of emotions was real enough, but the conclusion was ineluctable even as I pretended to myself I had a decision to make. Princess of Huntington High -- Part 3 of 4 I stood across the street from her house, worrying as only a young girl in love can worry. I looked up and saw her pretty face in the upstairs window. My body wanted to fly up to her but wanted also to run away. She smiled and motioned for me to come. She wore the cutest, frilliest little shorty nightie and matching blue panties I had ever seen. She had a blue ribbon in her long raven hair. Barefoot, she was, which I have always thought added sexiness to naked legs on a pretty girl, and she wore an ankle bracelet that added an oddly erotic touch. As I followed her up the stairs toward her room, my head moved back and forth watching first one calf muscle and then the other. My brain stored the changing features of her feet as they took turns on the steps. I began to commit her thighs and the backs of her legs to memory. I studied the interplay of muscle and sinew flexing beneath girl flesh of divine texture, the bounce and sway of her hips, the well-appointed freckles on her creamy back, and the way her hair shimmered and danced above me. I kept my face as close as I could to those beautiful ivory legs as I walked up the stairs behind her. Too close, in fact. She stopped abruptly on the stairs. To this day I cannot swear it was mere fortuitous accident and not quick-thinking opportunism on my part that crash-landed my face on the indescribable runway of her leg. I do know I did not hurry to move away, for my point of no return was even at the tender age of 18 reached with celerity. Indeed, I kept my head quite still as she turned slowly and looked down at me. My face toured heaven from the back of her leg across the glorious indentation and around to the thigh muscle as she turned. I swooned and took the leap, kissing her leg passionately and running my hand over her foot to her ankle and heel and up to her taut calf muscle and the back of her leg. My other hand found the foot resting lightly on the higher stair, and I explored the contrasting sensations between the soft curves of her resting leg and the firmness of her standing leg. Brenda Patrick, the Princess of Huntington High, the all-American girl and sweetheart of every good dream, stood there looking down at me and letting me kiss her leg and fill myself with lust. "You're in love with me, aren't you Wilma?" she said softly. I raised my face from her thigh and looked up at her. God, she was beautiful standing above me like that. I nodded numbly. We gazed into each others eyes, I conducting an inventory of my hopes and she no doubt a survey of social conventions antagonistic to her impulses at the moment. "I need to know," she said after a long pause, "how secret this can be." "I won't tell anybody," I promised. Promised? It was more of a plea, I think, begging her to cast off her social concerns and let me love her. "I promise I won't ever tell anybody, Brenda," I assured her again. I waited down there, my visage undoubtedly that of a hopeful supplicant, while she decided whether to send me home in shame or use me for sexual pleasure. She watched me beg. It could go either way. I decided not to over-argue the case for fear of pushing her the wrong way. I waited and looked up at her, kneading her legs gently, praying fervently that she would let me be her secret lover. I rested my face against her leg and implored her with my eyes. "It'll be one-sided, you know," she said. "I know." I tingled with excitement now. "And it'll always be up to me if we do anything. Agree?" "Yes, Brenda." My Bartholin's Gland exuded its rising hope. She took a deep breath. "Ok," she said very quietly. Princess of Huntington High -- Part 4 of 4 On those stairs and at that instant, the word "secret" was added to the fund of words capable of inciting my loins to lust and my brain to fantasy. Two girls with a secret relationship. Nobody would know. We would meet in divers and sundry places for me to perform cunnilingus on Brenda, and it would be a secret. The Princess and the Cortex, our nicknames at school, would never be linked in anyone's mind. She was outgoing and the center of everything at school, and I was invisible. While she would continue center stage in assemblies or leading cheers at the ball games, somewhere in the crowd, usually alone, would be my unnoticed and nondescript self seeing nothing and no one but her. And then we would meet somewhere in secret, some place where no one would see us, and I would get on my knees to her and she would pull up her dress and let me worship her legs and suck between them as she looked around nervously to make sure no one caught us. I remember a picture in the newspaper taken of Brenda being crowned Queen. If you look carefully and deliberately at the crowd behind her, you can see a little blonde standing there with what appears to be a prayerful attitude. The camera caught me as I was applauding my Princess. No one would imagine that just hours before that picture was taken the honored beauty had been in her bathroom at home squatting stark naked on the face of that unknown blonde. It was a secret. Her parents knew only that I had come over that morning to help her get ready for the big day. They could not know that their popular daughter, the Queen, the Princess of Huntington High, winner of the Outstanding Young Woman of the Year Award, needed to have her asshole licked and sucked by a devoted lesbian lover. It was a secret. From time to time, I muse on what Mrs. Bartlett would think if she knew what she had wrought by her random pairing of lab partners. She had equated the greatest and the least of us in her egalitarian innocence, and the least of us had fallen in love and become the secret lesbian slave of a superior girl. But Mrs. Bartlett never knew, of course. It was a secret. It was on those memorable stairs, then, that I first savored the unique and tangy taste of Brenda Patrick's pussy and felt the smooth firmness of her. She placed one hand on the banister for balance as I removed her pretty blue panties. I heard her take a short breath when I moved my face close to her sex, and she exhaled with a little moan when I nuzzled her gently down there. When I licked my way slowly between the lips of her delicately scented pussy, she startled and gasped and grabbed me by the head. I prepared to be shoved down the stairs, and I think she must have considered pushing me away, but she didn't. She held me tightly by the head and face and trembled uncontrollably. I swooned and feared I'd lose consciousness at the unbelievable ecstacy of her taste, the way she felt, and her violent shaking. I buried my face in her and pushed my tongue as far as it would go into her rapidly moistening cunt. She fucked my mouth frenetically and wildly as I tongued and sucked girljuice. I felt her moving away and eased my hold but kept licking until she took it away from me. My disappointment was brief, for she had me now by the hair and was pulling me up the stairs behind her. A good thing, too, for we would surely have fallen mindlessly down the stairs in our lustquake and never known what killed us. Still holding me by my hair, she practically ran toward her bedroom with me humping behind her as best I could, trying not to fall. I didn't make it. "Dammit!" she cursed when I fell. Adapting rapidly to the situation, however, she shoved me over with her knee so I was leaning back on my hands. She straddled my upturned face and pulled me into her slickened crotch and fucked my face greedily and mercilessly as I held on to her legs for dear life. She screamed when she cum, and it all but traumatized me. I thought I had just been struck dead by God. I stopped sucking. "SUCK, GOD DAMN YOU! SUCK IT!" she screamed in frustration, and I resumed sucking and working my mouth and face vigorously in her sexy cunt and crotch. She went insane and she released a surprise into my face and mouth: Brenda Patrick, I discovered to my absolute delight, was a gusher! A deluge of pussyfuck goo flooded into my mouth, and I thought she was pissing at first. It was girl cum! It spurted and it flowed, it gushed and it rushed in a flashflood of female fuckslime which I gulped down like a soul-saving substance issuing from Aphrodite Herself. My entire universe was telescoped into Brenda's orgasm at that moment. She fucked my face and mouth and gushed her lust liquid all over me. I swallowed all I could get and forced my eyes to stay open to bathe my eyeballs in her river of quim. The flow subsided and Brenda went from demented violence through random jerks and spasms to just standing there with her legs tightened against my face as she vibrated and quivered. She sank to her knees with my face still serving her and collapsed off me to one side. Out of my mind with lust, I grabbed myself between my legs and brought myself to orgasm while rubbing my face deliriously in the sticky slick cunt and crotch of the spent Princess. It would not be the last time I drank Brenda's orgasm, but that first time is one of those undiluted memories that never get erased. Neither will I ever forget that school term when I was the secret of the Princess of Huntington High.