When Sarah took her clothes off for me the first time there was not much that I did not already know. Men don’t realise that women on first meeting weigh up other women thoroughly. Sometimes you can actually see it happening. Their eyes rest on them for just a moment or two longer than man meeting man would allow. I’d say two seconds. No more. Three seconds is a come-on and that is different. A woman at only a tiny bit more than a glance has weighed up a girl’s look, her dress and her shape – in fact everything about her. Living with another girl at school for seven years you have read her, know her, have undressed her in your mind. Seen her in profile, seen boobs ajoggle at tennis, admired curves in her regulation swimming costume. No. I understood Sarah well enough – mostly. She was a wonderful shape. Tall; boobs worth 8 out of ten – a little more droop than I would have liked to see, maybe, but still passable as a Greek goddess double plus, and what I always admire and you never hear mentioned in men’s writing, such hips. Real woman but not quite hour glass shape because her upper thighs were so big. Mind you she had not an inch of fat on her but there is that point at the top of what I judge a really beautiful girl’s thighs where they are almost as wide as her hips. Thighs, hips if you like rather like a dartboard with her fanny at the centre. Yum. “Like it?” she asked. Stupid question. We had gone to her bedroom at her home to help our A level revision. She was so quick in stripping off. She had everything kind of aglow. Everything asking, wanting, almost needing. “Come on,” she encouraged. I had made the first move the day before at the bus stop but she was yards ahead of me. I unbuttoned the three buttons on my blouse I had modestly left undone in public. “Like your bra,” she said. “Better off without it, though.” I have nothing to be shy about in that region. Then skirt and knickers. Come to think of it there’s not much between a girl’s flesh and the outside world in July. If girls did think about it they would feel vulnerable, at the mercy of a gust of wind, a snapped bra hook or an unpopped button. But they don’t. Lucky for you men, eh? She moved backwards appraising me quickly and closely. Then suddenly she said, “Come on, there’s a lot to catch up with. Suck me.” She cupped her boobs with both hands and in a second was lying back on her bed. “No, no – areola first.” They were hard - not just hard but HARD. She managed to push my boobs down on to her so that they rubbed nicely and stretched one hand – left if I remember - down to my crotch and just clutched me tight down there. Now I know that when a girl is really hot too much boob can be just a sensual moment too far. Sarah seemed to know that; she seemed to know that, seemed to know that after a bit all I want, need, is penetration and possession; seemed to know that I was a quick cummer and needed pauses so that I did not go off the cliff top before time. That afternoon I met a double dildo for the first time. She lay above me. Short on upper body strength many women may be but hell some pack a thrust between the loins. For all her efforts to make me last it was not long before pleasure seemed to reach eleven on a scale of one to ten and the safety valve blew. With some girls, and I am one, everything seems to explode: all sorts of noises, cum, shooting stars pour out and I feel like a suddenly punctured tyre; a rag doll with the usually taught muscles of my face all somehow out of control and my hair wrecked. I lay even stupidly crying a little for what had been so wonderful and was lost while Sarah held me and seemed to encompass and surround me as I climbed slowly towards recovery mode. Maybe sometime I'll tell you how our A level revision continued with the inevitable party.