Ron Taylor: High school hot pants

"It really isn't fair, you know," Jill said, wiping her leg dry. "I mean, Mom doesn't enjoy it. She's more or less told me that, and whenever Daddy starts getting over friendly, she comes up with a headache. Sometimes I can even hear them at night. And she never moans and whimpers and cries aloud with the ecstatic joy of it, the way ladies do in books and movies. But I know for a fact that Daddy makes her do it two or three times a week, at least. And here we are. I want to do it, and you want to do it, and we can't. If it wasn't so pathetic, it'd be funny… How does this look?"

She stood up and did a slow turnaround for me in her new bikini. The effect was dynamite. I really envied her that suit, not to mention parents who'd let her buy it in the first place. Strings and patches – that's ail it was, and the strings were stretched tight across the smooth reaches of bare skin between patches. Jill's nipples were primly covered, but not the rounded curves of her boobs, and the fabric was clingy enough to let her nipples stand out visibly against the taut material. Under it, I knew, she was creamy, tanning flesh with delicate blue veins rimming her pale brown nips. Her belly was long and flat, the navel puckered and demure; below that stretched the bottom half of her new suit – what there was of it.

In the back, the bikini was cut low enough to show off the upper third of Jill's ass crack, and in front – well, if she took a deep breath and made her tummy suck in just a little bit, everyone on the beach would know by the slippage that her beaver was just as fluffy auburn as the hair on her head. Long legs below, slim and tight and young, not to mention freshly shaven because I'd made a little joke about them just a few minutes ago.

"It looks good," I said, swallowing my jealousy, "but you kinda forgot something." I pointed to her crotch. On either side of the narrow strip of cloth which ran between Jill's thighs and protected her cunt from undeserving eyes, there were bits of that auburn beaver poking out – and more whenever she moved. Jill had a full bush, and the bikini pants were too skimpy by far to contain all of it.

"Oh, shit!" Jill griped, sitting down. She eyed the hairy exposure. "It really looks gross, doesn't it?" I didn't think so. I thought it was cute. But I knew what she meant. She picked up scissors from her vanity and started to snip away at the offending hairs.

"You'd better let me," I volunteered, slipping off the bed and onto my knees beside her. Jill surrendered the scissors, then untied her bikini pants to give me better access.

I pulled softly at the clumps of tufted fuzz, dipping where it seemed necessary. She felt like spun silk to my fingers and I had a hard time taking my eyes off the center of her auburn delta, where a very ripe, very pink ravine peeked vertically through the curls. Once upon a time I'd have touched her there. I'd have tickled her gash with my index finger, tracing up and down the puffy outer works until the tight space between them was just beginning to dew over with a coating of mist, and then I'd have started to work my way inside while she chewed on her lip and squeezed her boobs and patted my head once in a while, and I'd hear her purr and make sudden little groans that could have been anguish or joy-groans that made a matching dewy moisture spring out of my own depths and coat the lips of the love trap I carried between my thighs.

And in another moment Jill would have her hand in my panties, petting me as I petted and played with her. But where I was always so soft and gentle, she was usually frantic and frenzied, and she'd have her middle finger jammed up me before I'd even finished the preliminaries on her clit. As if it mattered. Because when she thrust up me, I'd go all glassy-eyed and round-mouthed, and I'd giggle, and then I'd start giving her pussy bloody hell. Once upon a time.

Jill is Jillian Cynthia Pettit, which I think is a beautiful name. She's my best – just about my only – friend. For the record, I'm Diana Dawn Sayers, Didi for short, and we've been tight since fourth grade, when we got into a hair-pulling, kicking, biting fight about something neither of us can recall, exactly. While we were waiting for the principal to give us a reprimand, we started chatting and found out that we had the same birthday. It was incredible. I'd never met anyone born the same day, same year as I, and neither had Jill. From that time forward, we were inseparable. Together we set out to discover life.

We did discover a lot together. All the usual growing-up things. I found a lost joint on the school bus and we shared it in the girls' toilet that day. It wasn't as much fun as the gin that Jill was able to sneak out of her daddy's liquor cabinet. We had brief acne scares which fizzled out, and we both got our periods and started blossoming body-wise in sixth grade, and once we didn't speak for two or three days because we both had crushes on the same boy at school, only it turned out he didn't like either of us.

During that difficult time when our bodies were growing faster than we could keep track of, and unusual urges, with them, one of us lucked onto masturbation. Which? I can't remember. All I know is that for days we didn't do anything else. We'd go to Jill's house, up to her room where no one would bother us, and we'd take down our panties and sit on the bed gasping and sighing as we fingered ourselves to shivery-sweet orgasms that left little buds of wet juices on our just-thatching beavers. My titties were bubbling up then, and after a couple hours of frigging my pussy, the nipples would ache like crazy, and I'd have to rub them to make the sore go away. But it seemed the more I rubbed, the more oozy and shuddery I felt all over, and I felt a gnawing inadequacy, too, a sense that surely there was more to it than just this.

We were about twelve then, and surprisingly innocent, in retrospect. The first time we did switch-about masturbation, it was unplanned and unexpected as could be. But Jill's fingers on my cunt were fantastically more satisfying than my own had been, and I couldn't wait to return the compliment. She agreed in full, and our relationship entered a whole new phase. Instead of each girl watching the other play with her cunny, we'd get into freaky twists and postures and do it to one another. Jill was more inquisitive, and she initiated the lip-to-nipple aspect, which I really got off on.

We never actually got up to eating one another, because at the time we'd never heard of such things. But we did every thing that one girl can do to another with hands and fingers. Jill even invented the technique of using her stiff nipples to tickle the lips of my gash. That felt good, no matter whether I was giving or receiving.

But it was only a phase. Both of us shied off from it about the same time. It was really amazing how much alike Jill and I were. Sometimes I'd be at home by myself, thinking something, and I'd realize that Jill was thinking the very same thing at the very same moment. Or at least it seemed so. Anyway, during the summer between eighth and ninth grade, we quit playing girl games with each other. I still did myself, when I was alone, and I knew darned well Jill did, too, but we didn't make parties out of it any longer. Why, I don't know. For a while it seemed very embarrassing even when I only thought about it, and I wondered if maybe I shouldn't quit hanging around Jill so I wouldn't have to remember how sweaty and excited we'd gotten rolling around on the big bed in her room.

But we didn't drift apart. We had other things to keep us together. Jill's parents had plenty of money, unlike mine, but she didn't act rich and conceited the way some kids at school did. In a lot of ways, we were like sisters.