Angie Baby

by Limey Lady

  That first time had been . . . well, not earth-shattering but far better than Angie had expected it to be. There hadn’t been any pain, tearing or bleeding and Bobby couldn’t have been more of a gentleman. He also made no attempt to cut and run once he’d had his way. If anything their dates became more frequent.

  Ten weeks they’d lasted together; ten weeks and twenty jumps or so. They’d exchanged cards and presents at Christmas and . . .

  And then Abigail had clicked her fingers and off he went.

  *****

  Eyeballing her reflection once more, Angie remembered an old saying: it takes seventeen muscles to smile and forty-two to frown. Unsure if she’d got the numbers right, she wondered how many muscles it took to glower.

  A hundred at least, surely!

  And what was the matter with her facial muscles, come to that. Had she been born without any of the seventeen smiling ones?

  Cynicism like that actually did make her lips twitch upward. Not a lot, but enough to suggest a trace of wry humour, and better by far than nothing.

  Angie couldn’t really blame Bobby for dumping her. Not in her heart of hearts. If Bobby was “possibly” the most popular guy in the sixth form then Abigail was certainly the most popular girl. Angie could think of a couple of better looking females . . . and quite a few nicer ones . . . but when it came to popularity Abigail ruled the roost.

  Hell, her and Bobby getting together seemed inevitable. It was like the head cheerleader copping off with the all-star quarterback. The only puzzling thing about the liaison was why it had taken so long to happen.

  The big breakup had taken place a week ago. Bobby couldn’t have been more apologetic. And Angie couldn’t have been more sympathetic.

  Meanwhile Abigail kept clicking her fingers and hey, run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!

  Allowing herself a measure of self-pity, Angie concluded she’d handled it well. She was a lot bigger than Bobby and could have physically crushed him with one hand tied behind her back. Never mind The Vets or the First IV; Bobby couldn’t have held his own in the Girls’ Under Twelves.

  Or was she being bitchy?

  Disregarding loss and jealousy, the big question just then was: Why? Why had Bobby been unable to make her cum in more than a score of attempts? And why could just a few minutes watching Liz and Suzanne instantly transport her into another dimension altogether?

  Chapter Three

  The music had stopped. It took Angie a while to realize how late it had got. Stirred into life, she exited the toilets and glanced left. The common room-cum-dance floor was deserted apart from the DJ. The DJ was busy unplugging speakers and turntables while his mate carried them off, presumably to stack them in some sort of van. Looking right she saw the cloakroom was even more deserted. She could see her coat hanging on a hook and no other sign of life.

  Sighing, privately glad everyone was gone, she shrugged on the jacket: Docs, sweatshirt, jeans and matching denim top . . . that was her all over. And who needed anything more?

  Who needed Bobby or frigging Abigail?

  Well, having watched Liz and Suzanne in action, maybe she could think of a use for Abigail . . .

  Making to leave the sixth form centre, Angie’s sole aim was getting home. Pubs and clubs involved people and she didn’t want to socialize. All she wanted was a solitary mile walk into town, cut price fish and chips and the last bus.

  And perhaps an hour alone in bed, recalling Liz with those pistons for fingers . . .

  Two figures blocked the doorway out of the building; two quite familiar figures. Miss Pearce, otherwise known as the Head of Art and Design, was unmistakable. As tall as Angie but more slender by far, her dress-sense was, to say the least, Bohemian. Although still in her early thirties she resembled a child of the 60s . . . and a hippy child at that.

  Miss Pearce had drawn the short straw for the evening. She was the “responsible” agent of authority who had to ensure tonight’s disco passed without major trauma. Not that she looked like an agent of authority.

  Angie took a moment to study the older woman. Her skirt was multicoloured and voluminous. Higher up her abbreviated blouse (equally multicoloured and gypsy-style) covered a lovely pair of tits and left most of her tummy exposed. Her glasses were small, round and very likely stolen from John Lennon.

  And the extras she wore! Her wrists were adorned with dozens of bangles and bracelets and she had multiple rings on all her fingers. She had a silver nose piercing as well, and some sort of gemstone in her navel; a hazel-brown one which matched her eyes.

  The other figure wasn’t nearly so appealing. Mr Gilbert was the school caretaker and stood at maybe five feet three. Perhaps fifty, stocky and overweight, he looked ridiculous talking to Miss Pearce.

  It was akin to seeing Jerry Hall talking to a diminutive Mr Blobby.

  Well, it would have been if Miss Pearce hadn’t been more like a younger, much taller Brigitte Bardot.

  Seeming to sense her presence, Miss Pearce turned.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Angie. I was wondering where you’d got to. Hold on, won’t you. I need a word.’

  Angie couldn’t have got past Mr Gilbert’s bulk anyway. She obligingly stopped, impressed by the arts teacher’s memory. Angie was a good all-round student but worse than useless at anything involving paint, flair and creativity. She’d ditched Art as soon as she possibly could, before the end of the fourth year, when it was obvious that entering her in any level of exam would be pointless.

  Yet Miss Pearce remembered her name. Two thousand students and she’d remembered her name.

  How crap had her work been to make an impression like that!

  Miss Pearce turned back to Mr Gilbert. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right from here?’

  ‘Aye, lass,’ he said. ‘I lock up every night, day in, day out. One more won’t do me in. You get off. I’ll see you Monday.’

  Grinning inwardly, Angie watched him waddle away. Mr Gilbert was not immune to the arts teacher’s charms. A blind person could have seen that much.

  ‘You wanted a word,’ she prompted. ‘I’m sorry if it’s because I’m last out. I . . . I . . .’

  ‘I think we should have a chat in the Roebuck,’ Miss Pearce cut in. ‘You are old enough to drink beer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was eighteen last September.’

  ‘So what are we waiting for? The pub’s only two minutes away and I’m buying.’

  *****

  It was more like half a mile to the pub, but walking there didn’t take long. Angie, still wondering what on earth this chat business was all about, enjoyed talking about trivialities as they went. Miss Pearce’s mind was so agile! She could flit from one topic to another at lightning speed, taking her along as she went.

  ‘So what’s your poison?’ the teacher asked when they reached the bar. ‘I drink Worthington’s in here.’

  Angie had noticed local barflies greeting Miss Pearce; mostly male but females too, obviously friends of hers. She must have said half a dozen hellos in the ten seconds since they come through the door.

  Mind, blatantly bra-less, with tits like that and yards and yards of bare, flat stomach . . .

  ‘Worthington’s sounds good to me,’ Angie said.

  Two minutes later they were sitting at a small round, copper-topped table near an unused darts board, frothing pints before them.

  ‘I’m worried about you,’ Miss Pearce began. ‘More specifically, I’m worried about you and Bobby Hill.’

  Crap, this was the sort of conversation Angie had been lurking in restrooms to avoid.

  ‘There isn’t anything to worry about,’ she said as politely as she could. ‘I had a relationship with Bobby and now I don’t. It’s over and we’ve gone our separate ways.’

  ‘Bobby seems to have gone the way of young Abigail.’

  ‘Yeah; that’s how it seems to me, too.’

  Miss Pearce reached across the table. Her fingers were long, artistic and Angie had been wrong: she ha
d multiple rings on all of them except the third one of her left hand.

  And try thinking about that without hearing Martha and the Vandellas in the background!

  Miss Pearce’s touch was soft and reassuring, though. Angie didn’t object when she gently squeezed her own shorter, sturdier fingers.

  ‘Did he take advantage of you?’

  Surprising herself, Angie readily answered the question. ‘Not really. I went into it with my eyes open. I bought condoms as often as he did. I wanted sex as often as he did.’

  The art teacher frowned at that. ‘Sharing the cost of condoms doesn’t prove anything. Are you sure he didn’t pressure you?’

  ‘If anything I pressured him that first time. I needed to know what it was like.’

  ‘So he was your first?’

  A brief pause then: ‘Yes, yes he was.’

  ‘And was he good for you?’

  After a big slurp of beer Angie shrugged. ‘We did it regularly enough, so it got better. I’d say it was like us dancing; the more I did it the less clumsy I became.’

  She was telling the truth when she said that. Having sex with Bobby had been like dancing with him. The body contact had been nice and she’d liked the feeling of fullness, the steady rocking of his hips and hers. And yes, it had got better . . . but not ever enough to bring her to orgasm.

  God knew why that hadn’t happened. She could orgasm efficiently enough alone in the privacy of her bedroom. That was a cast-iron fact.

  Somehow Miss Pearce seemed to deduce the unspoken part of Angie’s reply. ‘There’ll be other boys,’ she said kindly. ‘More pebbles on the beach, as they say.’

  Angie shrugged and swigged more beer.

  ‘Outside of school I’m Ronnie,’ the older woman went on. ‘It’s short for Veronica, which is awfully past its sell-by date, if you ask me.’

  ‘Bringer of Victories,’ said Angie. ‘It sounds okay to me, but if you prefer Ronnie . . .’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Ronnie it is then. I’m Angie in and out of school, by the way. According to my birth certificate there is no choice in the matter.’

  ‘You might get Ange or Angel. And I’m prepared to bet someone at uni will call you Angie Baby.’

  Angie couldn’t help her brow creasing into its usual scowl. ‘Wasn’t that a song way back when?’

  ‘It was a hit when I was about ten. But it’s got something, hasn’t it? It stays in your head.’

  ‘Angie Baby,’ Angie muttered, managing a rare wry smile. ‘I could live with that.’

  Chapter Four

  Ronnie insisted on buying a second round of drinks then talked about uni in more depth. She had, she said, successfully completed the first year of an Economics degree at Warwick, taken a gap year and never gone back.

  ‘I went to Loughborough and did Art instead,’ she said. ‘Then teacher training and here I am. What uni are you targeting? Please don’t say Nottingham or Leicester. It’s best that a girl gets as far away from home as possible.’

  Angie’s targeted three universities were well-scattered throughout the land and consequently met with Ronnie’s approval.

  ‘You’ll soon find a new circle of friends,’ she said confidently. ‘There’ll be pebbles everywhere.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want another pebble.’ Angie blushed (an unusual occurrence for her). ‘I’ve been once bitten, if you know what I mean.’

  Squeezing her hand again, Ronnie smiled. ‘You should never discount opportunities. Life at uni is one great big learning curve. By the end of Freshers’ Week you’ll understand what I’m saying.’

  Angie pictured Liz and Suzanne, wishing she’d had a clearer view of Liz’s fingers.

  What would Ronnie’s fingers be like? Would all those rings hurt? And they’re so long; they could reach absolutely everywhere . . .

  Conscious of the state of her panties, she thrust the image away.

  ‘It’s my round this time,’ she said determinedly.

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Ronnie, ‘I’m into equality in all its formats.’ Then, frowning again: ‘Don’t you live at the other side of town?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘When’s the last bus?’

  Angie checked the clock behind the bar. ‘Ten minutes ago. The walk will do me good.’

  ‘How far is it, three or four miles?’ Ronnie’s hazel-brown eyes flashed. ‘I’m not letting you walk that far at this time of night.’

  ‘I walk it all the time. There’s even a kebab shop en route. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘What will your parents think of you getting home at all hours?’

  ‘They won’t even know. Dad works nights and won’t be back for ages. Mum works at Caesar’s; she runs the bars and won’t be back before half past three.’

  Caesar’s was the main nightclub in town. It was rumoured to have hostesses. To be running the bars was about as respectable a position there as could be. Angie always took care to describe her mum’s role when explaining where she was employed.

  Ronnie sighed, her disapproval only too evident.

  ‘I’m eighteen,’ Angie reminded her. ‘It’s hardly Home Alone 3.’

  ‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

  ‘No way; you’ve already paid for my beer.’

  ‘Okay then, I’ll give you a lift.’ Ronnie drained her glass. ‘I’ll have to sober up first, though. I can’t drive over the limit.’ She glanced towards the bar then back at Angie.

  ‘I shouldn’t invite a pupil into my house, but I don’t want you spending valuable beer money on coffee. It’s hardly the student thing to do, is it? And I only live up the hill. You could have a glass of wine while I get some caffeine inside me.’

  This time the imagery was picture-perfect; Angie could actually see Ronnie’s first and second fingers piston in and out of her, rings and all.

  This time she didn’t need Liz and Suzanne at all.

  In her overactive imagination she could almost feel Ronnie inside of her.

  ‘I haven’t been your pupil in nearly three years,’ she said. ‘And I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  *****

  ”Up the hill” turned out to be most of the way up Everest. Well, up a hundred yards of the steepest bit of the north face. Their course led further uphill when they took a right turn at the top, but the gradient there was much less severe. Their legs even thought they were going downhill.

  ‘This is mine,’ Ronnie soon announced.

  Angie reckoned the house was late Victorian. It was the left of a pair of semis, a couple of stories high but, taking into account the mountain they’d just scaled, it was probably three or four stories round the back. While its neighbouring property had a decent stretch of front garden, Ronnie’s had been paved over.

  She blinked. Ronnie’s paved area was jam-packed with pottery items, all sorts of pottery items: jars, gnomes, toadstools, chimneypots and frogs. It was hard to be sure in the orange streetlight, but she reckoned that everything had been finished off in brightly coloured paint, making the area into some sort of wonderland.