I woke up at midday with a mild hangover and my face burning from third-degree pash-rash. I pulled on my robe and trudged to bathroom, and as I sat on the toilet, I jerked in surprise at the crazy-woman looking back at me in the bathroom mirror. God help Emma Watson if she ever looked like this; I had bloodshot eyes, hair in a crazy tangle, and my lips and chin were glowing red and swollen. I looked like a meth-addict’s mug-shot.

Stretching for the medicine cabinet while I peed what felt like an entire case of Victoria Bitter, I gobbled a couple of paracetamol and smeared cold-cream over my face without rubbing it in. By the time I flushed the toilet and brushed my hair, I was thinking about Kevin again and was on the slow path to recovering some of the previous night’s good cheer.

Belinda was in the kitchen making coffee.

“Please, please tell me you’re making one for me,” I pleaded, squinting as I shuffled into the bright daylight of the kitchen.

“Regretting our actions of last night, are we?” she chirped, way too cheerfully. “Good God!” she squawked, turning around and seeing me for the first time. “What happened to your face?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I groaned, sitting at the counter. “At least not until you’ve finished making me coffee.”

She ignored me – as usual – and came over to inspect the damage. “Ouch! That hurts just to look at!” she sympathised, going back to work on the coffee machine. “I hope it was worth it. Do you want two coffees? Is he still in the bedroom?”

“What? No!” I clipped back, probably a bit more vehemently than was warranted. “He didn’t stay … we didn’t …” I left the sentence unfinished, my cheeks burning with colour to match my lips and chin.

“Bullshit!” she giggled. And then she called, “Kev! Get yourself decent and come out! Otherwise you’ll miss out on coffee.”

“I’m not bullshitting,” I smiled at her playful presumption. “He’s not here.”

“I’ve seen that kind of beard-burn before,” she leaned against the kitchen bench and studied me. “In the mirror, no less. It comes from an all-nighter of hot sex. Are you telling me you boffed him and sent him packing? ‘Cos that’s harsh, Jeannie.”

“I’m certainly not telling you that,” I shot back, trying to get annoyed, but still blearily blissed-out with new love and wanting to share. “I’m telling you we kissed and then I sent him packing so I wouldn’t be tempted to boff him.”

“What? When?” she sounded confused, but I think she was starting to believe me. “It’s midday now. What time did you go to bed?”

“About six,” I said. “If you’re going to grill me, can you at least do it over coffee?”

“But …”

“Coffee!” I demanded. “No more details until I’m caffeinated.” She quickly finished frothing the milk; I could see her almost bursting, dancing from foot to foot like she was busting for the toilet.

“Details!” she blurted, plonking the coffee in front of me and slopping a bit on the counter. She pulled her stool close and stared at me expectantly.

“What, no chocolate sprinkle?” I pouted, enjoying my little bit of power, relishing the anticipation of sharing and a bit frightened at the same time. Belinda jumped up so fast I had to catch her stool before it fell over. She came back with the chocolate shaker and pounded out two brown clouds, some of which settled over the foam on my coffee.

“Details!”

“Have you considered a career in waitressing?” I asked, suppressing a smile.

“Have you considered a career in comedy?” she shot back. “Details, Jeans. You have five unaccounted hours from when you left the party to when you went to bed. You say you didn’t boff him. Or are you using the Clinton definition? Don’t make me run that red dress under a black-light?”

“There are no details,” I laughed in spite of myself. “And no, there are no cum-stains on my dress, thank you so much for the imagery,” and then in a pretty bad Texan drawl: “Ah did naht have sex with they-at may-an!”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she looked at me sideways. “You had a five-hour pash-fest with Kev.”

“Four and a half,” I said. “We walked around the block to warm up for the pash-fest.”

“Four and a half hours of pashing?” she studied the red gaps beneath the cold cream with a pained expression.

“Uh huh.”

“Clothes stayed on?”

“Yep.”

“Undies too?”

“They’re clothes, aren’t they?” I smirked.

“The Clinton impression cost you some credibility,” she quipped. “And no coming whatsoever?”

“With Kevin?” I asked, knowing she would get the implication.

“Bullshit!” she blurted, eyes boggling. “You sent him away with blue-balls and then went and finished yourself off with that jackhammer you keep in your drawer?”

“Oh!” I blushed again, sipping my coffee and looking away. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was that noisy.”

“God, don’t throw it out!” she said earnestly. “It makes Andrew super horny. Rhinoceros-horny. In fact if you could throw in some moaning, you’d be doing me a favour.”

“Oh my goodness,” I blushed redder still. “I’d love a way to salvage some dignity from this conversation. I’d tell you I didn’t bother with it last night,” I sniffed my fingers for effect; trying to appear brazen and unconcerned about my masturbation to hide my embarrassment, “but I don’t think it would help.”

“Yeah, over-sharing, Jeans,” she frowned. “There’s just one thing still unclear.”

“And that is?” I was feeling more confident now, I could see that Belinda wasn’t going to judge me. I probably should have known that all the time.

“Why?”

“Why what?” I didn’t understand.

“Why not get him to finish you off?” she asked simply. “You didn’t kiss him for five hours and decide you didn’t like him.”

“Four and a half.”

“Whatever,” she waved it away. “It’s not like you’re saving yourself for …” Belinda fell silent with her mouth open, the question unasked. The silence spun out for a few seconds while I watched the results of an internal dialogue play out on her face. “You’re a virgin,” she said finally.

I wasn’t as embarrassed as I thought I would be. I wasn’t really embarrassed at all, in fact. It wasn’t like she was dancing around the table, pointing at me and singing “Nyah-nyah-ne-na-nyah” like a primary school kid. Even so, I couldn’t put words to it; I just made a resigned, shrugging expression with my mouth that probably looked pretty funny behind the cold-cream.

“One more question,” she asked seriously. “How did you keep his hands out your knickers for that long?”

“I didn’t need to,” I replied, a bit surprised she would ask. I thought it was nice that he didn’t take liberties.

“Not even …?” she cupped her own breast suggestively.

“Nope,” I said proudly. “Perfect gentleman.”

“So Kev’s a virgin, too?” she raised an eyebrow and sat back thoughtfully.

“What? No!” I blurted. “I mean, I don’t know. Why would you say that?”

“There’s only two plausible reasons why a guy would pash for five hours.”

“Four and a half,” I interrupted.

“Whatever, for four and a half hours without copping a feel. Either he’s never done it before,” she paused.

“Or?” I asked. “He’s a gentleman?”

“No,” she smiled. “Or you cuffed him to the bedposts.”

“Funny girl,” I smiled ironically.

“One more question?”

“You said that about five questions ago,” I observed.

“Do you want to?” she asked.

“Want to what?” I asked obtusely, knowing exactly what she meant, but prolonging the admission.

“Boff him, you dope,” she said. “Let him park his car. Slip you the sausage. Get the mad-milkman to make a special delivery down Pleasure Lane …” I had to hold up a hand to stop her; I sensed she could go on like this for a while.

I still didn’t answer though.

“Well?”

I sipped coffee, making an “Mmm-hmm” affirmation into the cup that I hoped sounded non-committal.

Belinda looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Will you let me do something for you?” she asked in her serious voice.

“You’re not going to break him in for me. Not even if you beg,” I said in the best deadpan I could muster.

“I’m being serious,” she said, still quite seriously, and two such statements in a row is close to a record for Belinda. “How many women have you heard say their first time was a wonderful experience?”

“Heaps,” I answered.

“Not counting erotica,” she stipulated.

“None at all,” I confirmed. “Not one.” The logical implication – that I was building myself up for a big disappointment – was coming through loud and clear.

“There’s a reason for that,” she went on. “Most women have their first time as a teenager, and it’s usually with a teenage guy, and often he’s a virgin too.” She took a sip of coffee while she assembled the speech in her head. “Here’s the thing: teenage guys are the worst lovers in the world, and virgins are even worse. Put them together …?” she made a mock explosion gesture with her hands. ”They don’t know where anything is, they don’t know what you want, they can last longer than about thirty seconds; and worst of all, they don’t care.”

“But Kevin’s not a teenager,” I defended his unproven sexual prowess. “He’s in fourth-year; he’s got to be at least twenty-one or two.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Belinda waved me off. “It’s the virgin-factor. They only get better with experience, not age.”

“You understand that I’m not sending him off to Belinda’s better-boffer boot-camp, don’t you?” I said, only half joking.

“I’m taking this seriously,” she said. She sounded a little hurt that I wasn’t. “I’ve been working on a set of instructions – kind of a recipe – for girls to use on their first time.” She paused, waiting for that bit to sink in. “I want you to try it.”

It felt a bit surreal having someone take such an interest in my sex life. I was feeling mixed emotions: a little bit of embarrassment, some lust from thinking about sex with Kevin, some apprehension because Belinda was almost certainly right about the disappointing sex with virgins, and finally, a sprinkling of excitement at the possibility of a fairy-tale first time. Or maybe just one that was memorable for the right reasons.

Even if I didn’t use her crazy-girl Kama Sutra, it couldn’t hurt to listen, right?

“Make me more coffee,” I said. “And then tell me.”

~~~
Kevin called a little after 3pm. That probably sounds desperate to normal people, but by 1:30pm I’d showered, eaten, and applied four different types of soothing balm, anti-inflammatory gel, topical steroids, and finally concealer to my chin. By 2pm I was a graduate of Belinda’s school of virtuous virgins and had begged her to get Andrew to send me Kevin’s number without telling Kevin, and saved it into my phone. By 3pm I had been staring at it for an hour and had begun silently swearing at it for refusing to ring.

“Does he have your number?” Belinda asked as she walked through the lounge room, seeing me cross-legged on the couch, frowning at my phone.

Shit!

“Um, Belinda!” I called after her. “Could you … um …?”

“I sent it thirty seconds ago!” she called from the bedroom.

And then it rang. I nearly dropped the bloody thing.

“Hello?” If he didn’t care about calling me less than twelve hours after he’d left, then I sure as heck didn’t care about answering on the first ring. But I wasn’t going to advertise the fact I knew it was him; a girl’s got her pride.

“Jeannie? It’s Kevin,” he said tentatively. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. “From last night,” he filled in the silence nervously. I almost snorted with laughter; it broke the ice for me.

“Hmmm, Kevin?” I mused, using humour to cover my own trepidation. “Which one were you again?”

“The geeky one with the beard,” he said, picking up on my joke straight away.

“I went to a Harry Potter fan club last night,” I laughed. “You’ll have to be more specific. Were you the fat one, the smelly one, or the good kisser?”

“Oh God,” he moaned good-naturedly. “The last one, I hope.”

“Good,” I said primly. “The other ones were terrible kissers.”

“I … um … had a really good time last night …”

“Me too,” I agreed eagerly. I was smiling to myself, thinking about the previous night and all that tension, wondering what was going to happen, and then our first kiss. And then more.

“… and I wondered if you wanted to go out to dinner tonight? Or maybe drinks later? Or coffee earlier? Or …”

“They all sound good to me,” I interrupted quickly, thinking it might be awkward if I let him keep going as far as breakfast tomorrow.

“All of them? Um? Okay then, I’m up for all of them,” he stammered, misunderstanding me. But I’d already started thinking about what it would feel like kissing him again, and I discovered that I was up for all of them too. “So coffee first, I guess,” he said. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said dreamily. I felt all princessey getting picked up from my house by my gallant knight.

“Okay,” he agreed brightly. I just have to change my jeans, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. See you then.”

“What? Um … okay … bye.” The line went dead. Shit.

“BELINDA!” I yelled, jumping off the couch. “CLEAR THE BATHROOM!”

Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit! Ten minutes to pick out clothes, five to get dressed, five for make-up, ten for hair, no time for nails, another five to pick shoes and ten to reject them because they don’t match my bag … how much does that leave to pick out jewellery?

I bolted into my bedroom in a panic and skidded to halt when I saw Belinda in there.

“Settle, Gretel,” she said calmly, coming to me and holding me gently by the forearms. “I’ve picked out your clothes already, they’re on the bed. You get dressed while I find the right shoes and load up your bag, then I’ll do your hair and earrings while you do make-up. You’ll be ready and still have time for a nervous pre-date wee.”

“What? You knew this was going to happen?” I didn’t know whether to be thankful that she’d saved me or offended that she didn’t let me in on what was happening. Right now I was reserving judgement, but leaning towards offended.

“I knew it was a possibility,” she said. “But I didn’t want to get you all worked up just in case; plus I need to keep you calm so you can road-test my plan.” She took a breath and looked at me meaningfully. “Now are we going to get you ready? Or do you want to talk about it some more?”

“I love you, Blin,” I kissed the corner of her mouth, making her smile. Turns out I was thankful after all.

I started to strip while Belinda pawed through the thirty or so pairs of shoes in the bottom of my closet, and then I quickly inventoried the clothes she had laid out: a cornflower blue, above-the-knee, A-line skirt; a white, sleeveless peasant blouse; and a nude, strapless bra.

“You picked out my bra?” I challenged, still thankful, but beginning to think she might be over-stepping.

“I offer a complete service,” came the muffled reply from the bottom of the closet. It was hard to get mad at Belinda.

“Strapless?” I asked. “Really?” The blouse wasn’t off-the-shoulder, so the strapless bra was completely unnecessary.

“My mistake,” she shot back, poking her head out of the closet again. “Just give me fifteen minutes with Kev when he gets here so I can teach him how to unhook a bra. Do you mind if we use my bedroom?”

Note to self: Belinda doesn’t like her decisions being questioned.

“But I … um … don’t …?” Not only didn’t I understand, I couldn’t finish a sentence either. The clasp on the strapless bra is at least as tricky as any other. There was a principle here that I was missing.

“You untuck your blouse, pull the bra down to your waist, and voilà!” With her head buried in the closet again, Belinda gestured grandly with a pair of red pumps to underscore her point. “You’re completely gropeable and still dressed for polite company. It’s good for getting felt-up in secluded car parks, movie theatres and on late-night public transport … it’s the versatile bra!”

Oh my goodness! My forebrain wasn’t thrilled at the idea of letting Kevin touch my breasts in a semi-public setting, but my nipples thought differently and immediately firmed to rigid peaks as I felt a shiver run down my spine. I quickly put on the strapless bra before Belinda could turn around and see how easily she had aroused me.

“I’m surprised you didn’t pick out my panties as well,” I muttered ironically, quickly stepping out of my jeans and pulling on the skirt.

“No need,” she emerged from the closet still holding the red pumps. “You won’t be wearing any.”

She stood for a moment regarding my shocked expression, frozen in the act of straightening the skirt.

“C’mon. Take them off,” she said, snapping her fingers at me, letting me know there would be no discussion.

“I already did,” I lied.

“Show me,” she challenged, raising a blonde eyebrow sceptically.

“I’m not showing you my … bits!” I was flustered. God, I don’t know why I couldn’t say ‘pussy’ in front of her after the stunningly detailed virgin-buster tutorial she’d provided earlier.

“Flash your bum at me then,” she smiled. “Or you could just stop fibbing and take them off.”

“I can’t go without panties in this,” I pleaded, holding out the skirt. It flared airily out from my hips and made me feel really exposed; it was really designed to be worn with tights, not bare legs, and it certainly wasn’t designed to be worn without panties.

“This is why women don’t have orgasms during unplanned sex,” Belinda instructed me with a waving finger. “They put up too many barriers. If you do all the foreplay with your undies on, then you give him a head-start. If you let him squeeze your tits and rub your pussy through …”

“Language!” I interrupted.

“… through a layer of fabric, then don’t expect him to come back and start over once you both get your gear off.” I must have looked like a rabbit in the headlights, because she sat me down on the bed and used a kinder voice. “Virgin foreplay is done with clothes on because no-one is brave enough to undress until you get to at least third-base, and it can last for an hour of more until someone gets up the courage to make the next move.” She took my hand. “With undies on, you’re going to miss out on the longest, sweetest, skin-on-skin foreplay of your life. With undies off, the worst case is you come before he does.”

Belinda smiled at her own joke and kept holding my gaze in an attempt to convince me of her superior wisdom, and it worked. I reached under my skirt and peeled my panties off.

“Satisfied?” I said, tossing them in the hamper.

“Nope,” she chirped, turning to raid my jewellery box. “But you will be!”

I put on the red shoes and looked in the mirror. It wasn’t an ensemble I would normally choose. With my hair in a pony-tail, the skirt and blouse looked kind of prim and innocent, but the red pumps somehow made it coquettish and sexy.

“It’s missing something,” I said, turning back and forth, trying to work out what it was and also trying to get used to feel of the skirt swishing over my bare bottom.

“These!” Belinda presented a pair of red pendant-earrings and a broad, bright red hair-ribbon. She held up the earrings to my ears and looked at me in the mirror. She was right (of course), they tied the shoes in and emphasised the whole virgin-sexy vibe that had begun with the skirt-without-tights combo.

I started applying makeup while Belinda worked on my hair, though I don’t think it saved much time because she had to stop brushing for the fiddly bits – lipstick, eye liner, mascara. She re-tied my pony-tail higher than I normally do, making it point up at an angle before dropping down. It looked kind of … Perky? Playful? Instead of practical, which is the only reason I ever tie it up.

Belinda put the earrings in and tied on the red hair ribbon just as I finished my makeup and I was ready with three minutes to spare.

If I was going to be seeing more of Kevin then I hoped this wouldn’t set unrealistic expectations about how long it takes to get ready to go out.

I looked at the final product in the mirror. It was me (of course), in my clothes, with my hair and makeup … but it looked like someone else entirely. Someone really sexy. It was the juxtaposition, the demure skirt versus the bare legs and sexy shoes, the school-girl hair-ribbon versus the sexually suggestive red lipstick and earrings. Those combinations created a tension – a frisson – that was somehow sexier than a flat-out slinky dress and come-fuck-me boots.

“Oh, wow!” I whispered. “That’s different.”

“I call it ‘Slutty Sunday-School Teacher’,” Belinda said, smiling at me in the mirror. “You still have time for that nervous wee. I’ll go watch for Kev.”

I turned to face her and felt a lump rising in my throat. I was so excited about seeing Kevin again and so thankful for the way Belinda was playing mother-hen; all of the urgency and emotion was building inside me and coming to a head. I wanted to thank her but I would probably start crying, so I just hugged her instead.

“Thank you,” I mouthed in her ear, squeezing harder; I don’t even know if she heard.

Chapter 5 – Needs a Man’s Touch
Kevin was a few minutes late. Not that I was holding him to his fifteen minute promise, but I felt kind of proud on Belinda’s behalf of what she had achieved in so little time. I was also keyed up and excited, I ended up peeking out the front window waiting for him.

Like a doting mother, she made me bring him inside and tried the old ‘Have her home by ten o’clock, young man’ line. We both laughed at her; it must have been the nervous tension because it really wasn’t very funny. She also made me show off my outfit, twirling to make the skirt flare up and causing me to blush, even though I knew it couldn’t flare high enough to see I wore no panties. Then she started to grill Kevin mercilessly about how pretty he thought I looked, making his ears go red. I finally put a stop to it and dragged him out the door to the sounds of Belinda’s musical laughter.

“I won’t be here later,” she called after us. “I’m spending the night at Andrew’s.”

Good to know.

We left his car and walked to the train station, then we caught the train in to Circular Quay, holding hands all the way and sitting close enough for our legs to touch.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked as we walked down from the train platform, my hair and skirt bouncing playfully with every step.

“Do you want to know?” he replied. “Or do you want it to be a surprise?”

“Surprise,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze. I’m a sucker for surprises.

He made me stand away from him while he went to the ferry terminal and bought tickets, which kind of narrowed down the possibilities for a surprise; the ferries go to a lot of places in Sydney Harbour, but not all of them are date-worthy. Twilight at Taronga Park Zoo was my guess, and that was fine with me; the red pumps only had a two-inch heel so I could manage a bit of walking, and walking meant holding hands, and stopping at exhibits meant touching, maybe some hugging. Hopefully not too much kissing though, my lips still hurt from the night before.

“C’mon, let’s go get coffee,” he said, tucking the tickets into his pocket and taking my hand again. We walked around the quay-side to the Opera House, stopping for take-away coffee along the way, which we then carried up to foot of the steps.

“Do you want to sit down here?” he offered.

“Um … this skirt isn’t ideal for sitting on the ground,” I said, wondering how many tourists’ cameras would appear if I began flashing my pussy to the entire Sydney Opera House forecourt. “It’s a bit …,” I didn’t finish the sentence, I just held the hem out on both sides, demonstrating how short and open it was.

“Mmmm,” he mused thoughtfully, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “It could have been worse.”

“How?” I asked, sensing a joke.

“You could have forgotten to wear panties,” he laughed.

Blush! Oh my goodness, I was burning up.

“I didn’t forget,” I said, gathering my courage. “I didn’t wear any deliberately.”

That silenced him. I wonder what he’ll be thinking about for the rest of the afternoon now!

“Let’s go stand at the railing,” I suggested.

We walked out onto Bennelong Point and watched the ferries come and go under the Harbour Bridge, leaning against the railing and sipping coffee while the breeze nipped at the hem of my skirt, threatening to expose my bottom. I put an arm around Kevin’s waist and pulled close so that our hips were touching. He turned to look at me, his eyes dark shadows behind his sunglasses, and I craned my neck up to give him a coffee-flavoured kiss – just a soft one, lips only.

Kevin put his arm around me, his fingers resting lightly on the curve of my waist and his thumb a scant couple of inches beneath the support of my bra. Suddenly I wanted that hand to head north; I was glad we didn’t get more intimate the previous night, but now – after all of that talk of first-time sex with Belinda – I was curious, and I was so ready.

He kissed me back, more deeply and insistently.

“Ow!” I pulled back, just an inch. “I’m still sore. From last night. Pash-rash” I smiled, indicating the skin around my lips and my chin, still heavily made up.

“Oh!” he said, the disappointment obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, and then smiled. “Well, not entirely, anyway. You just have to be gentle with me.” I gave him another kiss, soft, dry, lips only. “Like that,” I whispered, our noses still touching.

He kissed back again, more gently this time. “Is that better?”

“A bit,” I said. “Maybe you need to practice. Here, hold this.” I gave him my coffee cup and now, with his hands full, I turned him to face me and embraced him with both arms, pecking at his lips with short, gentle kisses while I explored the contours of his back, following the lean lines of muscle under his shoulder-blades, down over his kidneys, and finally sliding my fingers into the back pockets of his jeans, feeling the shape of his backside until he tensed the muscles deliciously beneath my fingertips.

“That’s not fair,” he murmured through my kisses, his hands full and using his forearms to hug me ineffectually around my bra-strap, yet still managing to press by breasts deliciously into his chest.

“Let’s walk back through the gardens,” I said, letting him go and taking my cup back. We crossed the forecourt again towards Farm Cove and through the gates into the Royal Botanic Gardens, where we binned the coffee cups and took the steps up to the low bluff that overlooks the Sydney Opera House. There’s lots of little paths and thick, shady trees and not so many tourists, so it feels kind of private. We walked slowly with arms around each other, his on my waist and mine in his back-pocket, feeling his backside though the denim. It was slow progress because we stopped at regular intervals to hold and kiss, his hands occasionally straying down to cup my bottom, making me wonder whether he was checking for a panty-line that wasn’t there.

~~~
Back at Circular Quay, Kevin led me to what might be Australia’s most recognisable water-craft: the Manly Ferry. So much for a surprise. I wasn’t disappointed though, I like Manly; nice cafes and restaurants, nice beaches, and the ferry ride is romantic – it’s quaint and old-fashioned like a vintage train ride.

We went straight to the seats by the port-side railing on the upper deck where we could sit in the sunshine and look out at the Harbour Bridge. A few minutes later the ferry got underway, the massive engines turning Wharf 3 into a vicious, white washing machine, and before long we had rounded Bennelong Point and were motoring at something close to full speed, which we found out later is only a stately eighteen knots on the old ferries.

Most of the other passengers were either downstairs or inside and we had the port-side rail to ourselves. Looking out over the fancy North Shore houses, we laughed and joked about which one would be best to live in. Would it have room for our yacht? And what about our vintage car collection? We settled on the one next door to Kirribilli House, just so we could drop in on the Prime Minister and ask to borrow his lawnmower. In other words, we were being immature, but we were having fun nonetheless. The combination of sunshine and laughter had me feeling frisky and holding hands wasn’t doing the job for me anymore.

“Oooh, look at that one over there!” I pointed past Kevin, and when he turned around I quickly hopped into his lap with an arm around his neck and folded my bare legs into the seat I had just vacated.

“This is new,” he smiled happily.

“My seat was uncomfortable,” I said, kissing him. “But this is better.”

Conversation suffered after that. I undid one of the buttons of his shirt and slid my hand in to stroke his chest, combing my fingers through the hairs while his hand gradually grew bolder (and my seat grew lumpier!) as he first cupped my bottom over the skirt and then slid it beneath the hem to explore my smooth upper thigh. By the time the ferry crossed into North Harbour my lipstick was mostly on Kevin, and his other hand – ostensibly supporting my back – had migrated upwards to measure the modest swell of my breast through the bra cup. It surprised me not-at-all that Belinda was completely right about the unsatisfying nature of being felt-up through a bra.

“I need to freshen up my lipstick,” I said as the ferry decelerated coming into Manly Cove.

“How’s mine?” Kevin asked, leaning back to let me look at his lips.

“Smeared,” I laughed, wiping off the worst of it with my thumb. “You could use a touch-up.”

“You go ahead. I’ll mind the seats,” he said enigmatically, although his reluctance to get up might be informed by the bulge in his jeans that I had been wriggling around on, trying unsuccessfully to seat it between my legs where it seemed to belong.

Walking off to the toilet, I knew that Kevin was watching my bottom so I took longer strides to make the skirt bounce and swish, but it had the unexpected side-effect of making my engorged pussy lips rub together with wet friction, sending a shiver of desire through me that raised goose-bumps all over my body. As I fixed my lipstick in the mirror, I noticed the flushed cheeks, the dilated pupils, the hard nipples poking through my bra and felt the burning warmth between my thighs, and I wondered whether I was going to make it all the way through this date, or maybe I should just rent a hotel room in Manly and get Kevin to finish me off then and there.

Dinner was sweet and romantic in its simplicity. We walked across the neck of land between Manly Cove on the harbour side to Manly Beach on the Pacific Ocean, and found a bottle-O – where we bought a bottle of South Australian champagne (oops, je suis désolé France, I mean Sparkling White Wine) – and a discount shop where we picked up two plastic champagne flutes for a dollar each. With drinks sorted, we ordered a seafood basket from a take-away fish shop and took it across the road to eat and drink and watch the waves as the sun went down behind us.

Like a couple of idiots, we replayed the Lady and The Tramp spaghetti scene with a crumbed calamari ring, nibbling into the middle and then stealing a greasy kiss and laughing when our lips met. As the darkness slowly deepened and the bottle slowly emptied, our sense of privacy and intimacy grew out of proportion to the situation, which was essentially a very public – though sparsely populated – city beach.

Lying on my back with Kevin propped on one elbow beside me, I conspired to untuck the front of my blouse per Belinda’s instructions. I was trying to work out how I could discreetly pull down my bra when his fingers left my naked thigh and crept beneath the white cotton, making my stomach muscles flutter nervously as they moved inexpertly but eagerly up to stroke across the satiny cups.

Fuck decorum, it’s overrated. Without breaking our kiss, I reached under my blouse and hoiked my bra down from under each arm, my breasts popping free on the second try and giving me enough slack to pull the entire thing down to my waist and out of the way.

Thank you Belinda! I will never question your choice of underwear again! Oh God, and she was so right; Kevin’s first tentative touches to my breasts sent out ecstatic shivers through my entire body, making me squeeze my thighs together as the fire kindling there flared hotter. I heard his breathing double as his gentle fingers found my areola and traced the little bumps there that rose to his touch. Hearing his arousal only served to heighten mine, and I whimpered and arched my back, pressing my breast more firmly into his hand, desperate for more.

I couldn’t believe I had made it to twenty-four years without being touched like this. I’m no prude; I touch myself to masturbate, and I thought – wrongly as it turned out – that a man’s touch would be not so different. I even considered that it would be less satisfying because masturbation gave me more control.

Kevin’s first touch to my nipple burst that bubble. It was stiff and hard and resisted as he brushed across it, leaning but not yielding before snapping back like a bowstring and sending miniature shockwaves of pleasure through my breast. His fingers returned unerringly, gently pinching and shaping it, feeling its hard, excited texture and making me moan into our kiss.

I cried out a little louder when he moved to my other breast, not expecting the renewed surge of pleasure as fresh nerve-endings responded explosively to their first touch, dumping adrenalin into my system and raising my heartbeat to an excited pounding that I could hear in my ears.

Kevin shifted his weight on his elbow, moving more of his upper body over mine as he bent one knee to rest on my naked thighs. The movement down there set off a passionate reflex; without meaning to, I arched downwards with my hips and relaxed my legs, allowing them to part and his knee to slide between my thighs. I was immediately conscious of my naked pussy, now vulnerable and unguarded with his leg holding mine apart, my aching sex now covered only by the flap of my skirt. I could tell how wet and open I was with the night air cooling against my glistening lips; I felt exposed all the way to my core.

I felt a moment of loss when his hand left my breasts, but it was forgotten in a breathless rush when his palm closed around the side of my thigh and slid sensuously up to my hip, finally getting the chance to search more thoroughly for the panties that were never there. I rolled towards him and as his hand rounded my naked bottom, I felt his fingers brush smoothly over my tailbone – the last possible bastion for a high-cut G-string – and I felt a thrill of excitement again when I heard his breath whistle through his nose as he realised the implications of my state of undress.

“Did you get dressed in a hurry?” he whispered, amusement and horniness obvious in his voice as his index finger traced the cleft of my buttocks.

“Actually yes,” I giggled. “Take a memo, girls need more than fifteen minutes to get ready for a date.”

“Noted,” he said, kissing me again and closing his palm over my lower buttock, his fingertips perilously close to my wet opening. “But I feel a compelling case for fifteen minutes notice right now,” he finished, giving my bottom a gentle squeeze, his fingertips stroking and circling, edging closer to my sex. Surely he could feel the heat pouring out of there, enticing him forward, begging him to come in.

I lifted my knee so our legs were scissored together and my pussy opened even further, my juices now flowing freely and trickling onto my thigh. Kevin pulled back his hand to explore the shape of my naked bottom before stretching between my thighs again, brushing across my swollen lips and coming away leaving a slick trail, causing both of us to gasp in shared excitement. Reaching again, he touched me a second time, just two fingers resting either side of my opening, not pulling away this time, but scarcely moving, testing the pillowy softness of my most intimate place and the texture of the sodden hairs plastered to my skin. It wasn’t exactly the Black Forest down there – my bikini-line was waxed for summer – but all of a sudden I felt so very different from those clean-shaven girls on the internet; it was a distinction I kind of liked.

Tentatively, Kevin traced the edges of my sex with his fingertips, keeping them just on the outer curve of skin where it angles in to my pink centre. Down to my perineum and then slowly back up to the limit of his reach, either side of my clitoris. I wriggled up to give him better access and his fingers met at the beginning of my slit, teasing the cleft just there, using the lubrication he had collected from lower down to stroke smoothly down over my clitoral hood and then back up.

Belinda’s voice rose unbidden in my memory from that afternoon: “He won’t know where anything is; either give him a good, long look or give him instructions.”

“A bit lower,” I breathed nervously, my passion and horniness overriding my embarrassment to be giving directions, and then, “O-o-o-oh!” as his fingertip slid over my clitoris and into the hot, pink opening of my sex. He stroked slowly and wetly over my inner folds, no doubt sensing this was the source of the heat and moisture, teasing me and spreading me wider, my pussy all-but-begging for his cock to come and plug the hole that was so wantonly open and needy.

He slid one finger inside me – just up to the first knuckle – and my pussy sucked down tightly on it as if I had never had my own fingers up there. And this was so wonderfully different, so utterly unlike my own touch or that of a vibrator. It occurred to me to savour and remember the moment as another in the progressive loss of my virginity that for so many girls happens all at once, at eighteen when I first penetrated myself with my own finger, at twenty when I broke my hymen with a vibrator, and now when I first let a boy touch me down there.

And would tonight finish that progression? Would I finally come to the moment when I had no more virginity to lose? How could I not? There was no backing out now. Belinda had been right about everything, the bra, the panties, the fumbling fingers. For all of her instruction, it really boiled down to just one fact: that even with the best of intentions, he will come quickly and that ‘first-time’ moment will be over before it begins. Belinda’s school of better-boinking was all about prolonging that moment.

Kevin slowly pumped his finger in and out of my pussy, pausing to swirl it around my clitoris and causing me to gasp and cry out, my body stiffening in his arms as I became his puppet, controlling all of my muscles from my core with a single finger while he kissed gently at my gasping lips.

“More,” I cried quietly in his ear, wriggling again to improve his reach behind me and between my thighs. Goodness knows why I didn’t just roll back and let him have at me from the front.

“Yes!” I begged as he touched a second finger to my steaming entrance, and then I wailed softly – aware of the possibility of others in the darkness – as he stretched me wider, sliding thickly into my steaming pussy with both fingers, fucking me with a slow, sensuous rhythm while he kissed my lips in gentle, loving pecks.

Straining deeper with his first two fingers brought the bent knuckle of his ring-finger to my clitoris. “O-God-O-God-O-God!” I cried in a panicky contralto as I felt a fire spread out and engulf my loins; it was the beginnings of an orgasm. “Again!” I begged in his ear.

He kept fucking me with both fingers but straightened the ring-finger, sliding its length over my clitoris like a violin bow. “Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh,” I gasped in time with his thrusts, heat and pressure building inside me, the muscles in my thighs and down my back tensing for the moment I knew was almost there.

“Please! Please, just a little more,” I gasped in his ear. He strained again with his arm while I arched my back, driving his fingers into me all the way to the webbing, flicking wetly back and forth over my clitoris as he held his ground deep into my core.

I couldn’t breathe. “Yes!” I squeaked, my eyes pinched shut and lips peeled back from my teeth. And then I was there; an electric heat burned white-hot in my centre for a moment and then exploded through me. Back arching and legs straightening, I involuntarily clamped shut on Kevin’s hand, trapping it in my clenching, spasming pussy while the climax racked my body in powerful waves. Finally I could take a breath and I gasped hungrily, trying not to spit on him when another surge coursed through me, making me shiver and moan through clenched teeth in his ear, bucking my groin against his leg and wishing it was his cock trapped inside me instead of his fingers.

“Oh! Thank you. Thank you,” I gasped in his ear as I slowly came down from the last contraction and released his hand, feeling his fingers slide wetly from my pussy. “Sorry about that,” I grinned as he shook some feeling back into them after being crushed between my thighs.

“Are you ready to go home now?” he asked, kissing me softly as I rearranged my skirt.

“Uh huh,” I said. “I don’t want to do it here.” Just to let him know that – oh yes – we absolutely were going to do it. “How long until the next ferry?”

“Not long,” he answered, fishing out his phone and looking at the time. “How fast can you move in those heels?”

“Fast enough with the right motivation,” I grinned, boldly squeezing his cock though his jeans. Oh my goodness, it was hard and thick and I felt it surge powerfully beneath my fingers. I couldn’t wait to have it inside me.