Angie Baby

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 had 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.

'Did you make all these?' she asked.

'Of course I did.' Ronnie laughed gaily. 'I'm an oils girl at heart, but that doesn't exclude ceramics.'

She unlocked the front door, clicked a switch and ushered Angie inside.

'Blimey,' said Angie, confronted with a large hallway and an elaborate nude, just about covering her modesty with one gracefully poised hand.

'It's a Titian,' Ronnie enlarged. 'Well, to be precise it's my copy of a Titian. The original is in Florence.'

Useless as she was at creating works of art, Angie had always been appreciative of finished articles.

'It's incredibly good,' she said, mirroring her feelings. And it was. Angie could easily lose herself in any halfway decent gallery . . . especially if female nudes were being exhibited.

'Titian did have a certain eye,' Ronnie agreed.

'No, really, this could be our blockbuster film,' Angie gushed, enraptured by the brushstrokes. 'Maybe we'll be millionaires. Think along the lines of The Italian Job. A beautiful English artist makes the ideal copy. Then the loveable Cockney rogue has to swap it for the original against all the odds. And it ends up in a car chase through the streets of the biggest city in Tuscany. Maybe we could even get Michael Caine involved . . .'

'I think he's retired,' said Ronnie, 'but thanks for implying I'm beautiful.'

Angie blushed for a record-breaking second time in one day.

'Right then, coffee,' Ronnie went on. 'Or are you taking me up on the offer of wine?'

'I'll join you with coffee.'

'In that case I'll set the percolator going. The living room's through there.'

The living room was tastefully furnished but Angie took little notice of the décor; she was enthralled by the paintings on the walls. Oils with brushstrokes aplenty, they were mostly landscapes, with the odd seascape and portrait thrown in for good luck.

Brilliant; they were all brilliantly executed.

'This is sort of a dumping ground,' said Ronnie, rejoining her. 'Painting in oils is a sideline of mine. I might never be good enough to copy a Titian with any great accuracy, but I'll always be able to shift a few landscapes.'

'Do you mean these are for sale?'

'Most of them will be. I hang them in here and stare at them until I'm sure they're as good as they're going to get, then I ship them off.'

Angie was impressed. 'Do you sell many?'

'I'm moving at least one a week. But that's making me sound better than I am. I don't sell direct to the public; I have a number of shops and small galleries who take my work. Then it's not my problem, is it? Some are sold straightaway, some stick for weeks.'

'Is that one the Peak District?' asked Angie, indicating a vaguely familiar scene.

'Yes, it's Snake Pass. And it's headed for a shop in Buxton, even though it's not so local. Most of my outlets are in touristy areas. I'm a mercenary, you see. I paint the Peak District for Buxton, the Lakes for Bowness and so on. I'm away most of my weekends in the Peak District. During longer breaks I go further afield. That sea storm over there is Whitby in October.' She laughed. 'Summer holiday-makers like to see late October in Whitby, even if they do make sure they've headed for home before the end of August.'

'I see your grounding in Economics shining through.' Angie laughed with her. 'But how did you make the jump to Art?'

'I've always been arty. That gap year I mentioned was so I could go down to Newlyn and make use of the incredible light they get there.'

'Where's Newlyn?'

'It's in the far west,' Ronnie said, 'next stop Land's End. Most folk prefer St Ives for the scenery and cobbled streets. But Newlyn is the real deal, light-wise.'

Not a lot wiser, Angie followed her into the kitchen and accepted a mug of finest Tanzanian.

'It's a lot harder for an unknown to sell her paintings in Cornwall,' Ronnie continued. 'The competition is relentless compared to everywhere else. Before I knew it I was living with a crowd of other young women, most of us failed fellow-artists. I suppose you'd call it a commune, or maybe a collective. We grew our own food, baked our own bread and made trinkets for tourists in our spare time: beads and rings, talismans, wicker baskets and so on. That's what really gave me the idea of my latest sideline; not Economics but the need to have money so we could buy meat to go with our home-grown veg.'

Angie picked up on the "crowd of other young women" but chose to let it go . . . for now.

'So you are a carnivore,' she said instead.

'Mea culpa,' grinned Ronnie. 'And you're not the only one who knows Latin.'

Chapter Five

According to Ronnie, her bathroom was "the door at the top of the stairs". When she got there Angie found she had a choice of three. The first opened into an artist's studio. The enormous windows at the far end of the room were north facing and there were easels and canvasses everywhere.

Even in the darkness of nearly midnight she could see give-away outlines.

The impulse to snoop for more nudes was too much. Clicking on the electric lights Angie looked at the nearest canvas and wasn't disappointed. It was of a naked woman on her back, her legs spread wide, a seductive smile on her lips. The next canvas featured a different woman in a similar pose, this time with two hands between her legs . . . but not to cover her modesty. No, that particular young lady was shamelessly parting her labia.

Was that a very forward model or the artist's imagination? It was impossible to tell.

Clicking off the lights, suddenly wondering what she'd got into, Angie tried the second door. It opened into Ronnie's bedroom. "Red" was the initial impression. She saw crimson covers on the double bed; fields of scarlet for the walls and curtains. In contrast the carpet and ceiling were white. That is to say the bit of ceiling that wasn't mirrored was white.

Frigging hell . . . a mirrored ceiling!

There was another painting there too, hanging on a boxed-in chimney breast directly opposite the foot of the bed. Unable to stop herself, Angie went for a closer look, getting two nudes for the price of one; both female and in the classic sixty-nine position.

And they were so, so sensual.

Not much could be seen of the girl on top. She had a lovely curvaceous body, a mane of auburn hair and alabaster skin. Sadly, her face was obscured by her lover's groin but even so she radiated beauty and sexuality.

So did the girl underneath. She also had a lovely curvaceous body but her long hair was straw blonde and her skin was nicely tanned. She was familiar-looking as well.

In fact she was Ronnie!

And how good must it feel to be tongue-lashed by her!!

Shocked and intrigued, Angie reverted to thinking of "the girl underneath" as "Miss Pearce". It was her for sure; there was no doubt about that. She was unmistakable even with half of her face obscured by the pussy she was so avidly licking.

And her right breast, somehow escaped from the action and totally visible, brown nipple erect . . . well it was heavenly.

Head spinning, Angie located the bathroom and relieved herself.

'Ah,' said Miss Pearce when she finally made it back to the kitchen. 'Back at last. And just in time; I'm ready to go.'

'I could stay here,' Angie said in an uncharacteristically timid voice. 'Assuming no significant other is likely to drop in.'

'I'm in loco parentis,' Miss Pearce said with an air of finality. 'Let's get you home.'

*****

The Head of Art drove a reasonably new Escort Ghia. Yet again she went from one topic to another at lightning speed, but this time not quite taking Angie with her.

Angie's head was filled with a roaring sound. Her body was doing weird things. Having a conversation was not a realistic possibility.

Well, okay, so maybe she made interested noises in some of the right places. And maybe she put on a show of being attentive.

The roaring inside her head resembled gigantic waves crashing onto a beach, California most likely, but wasn't there a seasonal monster in Newquay; one that ranked up there with the world's best surf. A real freak of nature . . .

Miss Pearce would know, wouldn't she, as a latter-day Cornish hippy.

As a woman who very obviously had sex with women.

Putting two and two together was easy to do. Half the school reckoned Miss Pearce was shagging her arty colleague, Mr Mills. Mr Mills, who insisted that his pupils all called him "Daz", had all he looks of a Newquay surfer. Come to that, he wouldn't have been out of place in Santa Barbara, Hawaii or maybe even Queensland.

Angie was certain most of her female schoolmates masturbated thinking about Mr Mills. She hadn't done that herself because . . .

Well, because.

But if she'd ever been forced to masturbate thinking about a man, he would have been on the list.

The crash of incoming waves was growing ever louder. Angie could no longer hear Miss Pearce as she flit hither and thither. Visual images replaced auditory input: Liz's fingers in Suzanne; her current chauffeur under a pale, auburn-haired beauty, a delightful right breast escaped from the action and totally visible, brown nipple erect.

Oblivious to the fact it was already "tomorrow". Angie couldn't let the evening end so soon.

Oh no, no way, José.

Angie's home was in a village about three miles from the centre of town. Bisecting the older woman's one-sided chitchat, she asked her to pull over perhaps eight hundred yards from civilization. Frowning yet again, Miss Pearce did so.

'Turn off the engine.'

'Hey, who's driving this thing?'

'You are. You are totally in control. So turn off the engine, please.'

Miss Pearce turned off the engine.

Heart in her mouth, Angie moved in to kiss her one-time teacher.

Bugger, she'd reckoned without the seatbelt.

Hastily un-clunk-clicking, Angie moved in again.

Miss Pearce accepted her kiss but responded minimally.

Angie kissed her anew, putting more into it.

This time Miss Pearce responded warmly.

Suitably encouraged, Angie stuck her tongue into a hungry mouth.

Miss Pearce met it with bold tongue-thrusts of her own.

The enormity of what she was doing did and did not sink in. Most of Angie's brain concentrated on the sensuous, swirling sensations of kissing. A tiny bit of it registered the fact that Miss Pearce was only the second person she'd ever romantically snogged.

And that Miss Pearce was, coincidentally, female.

Angie dimly supposed the racing feeling in her veins was an adrenalin surge. Whatever it was, it was hotter than hot.

Tongues squirming together . . .

Oh yes oh yes!

With trembling yet somehow effective fingers, she unfastened the few buttons holding together Miss Pearce's blouse. A pair of big, bouncy and beautiful tits spilled out into her hands. It felt like catching a surge of pound coins after hitting the world's biggest jackpot.