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es it take to get a few bottles of wine?

"If you don't tell me I'll make something up to tell your mates," he warns. "And it'll be you being rogered by the gym mistress or something."

I take another mouthful of punch to give myself some thinking time. I'm not sure what's in this stuff but I'm starting to feel -- well, maybe a bit horny. Come on, I haven't had sex in -- jeez, months. I'm entitled to have an itch, ok? But this guy is not the one to scratch it.

"Ok, ok! The maddest thing I've ever done was -- well, it was a few years ago. I was younger. More naive." I pause, drink some more, and remember.

It's August, the hottest it's been for years. Two of my friends and I have a Saturday free from chores, and we pack sandwiches and cans of soda and wander down to the river for a picnic.

We've got the river-bank to ourselves, and we stretch out underneath a willow tree. We dangle our feet in the slow-moving tepid water; we can look up and see leaves and the sun, and feel its warming touch on our arms and legs.

Holly silently suggests her idea by shrugging off her t-shirt and shorts and lying back on the grass in her white cotton bra and knickers. Susie and I follow suit, equally silently, all of us in quiet agreement that this is certainly a sensible idea, given that it's really too hot to wear too much.

Susie grabs a can from the cool-bag and holds it between her breasts, gasping at its cold steel against her skin.

"That's delicious!" she says. "Here, you two try it." So we grab a can each, and find that she's right. We lie back again, rolling the cans over our freckling chests.

"Oi, try this," says Holly. Susie and I roll over and watch as she hitches off the straps of her bra and pulls the cups down to expose her raisin nipples. She smoothes the can over them, and we watch, fascinated, as they harden beneath its caress. So we try that too, lying on our backs underneath the tree.

I don't know about the others, but strange sensations are starting to pulse between my legs. I don't know what they are, but I daren't ask. We're mates but -- this is totally unreal. I went to a really strict girls'-only school, and I've only recently gone beyond first base. I stroke my breasts with my free hand, and my nipples are just as hard as Holly's, and just for a minute I think of asking her if I can touch hers.

Silence hums for a few minutes. I sneak my can down over my stomach, then hold my breath as I press it into my knickers. Droplets of condensation soak into the cotton, making them wet, making them cling to my skin. I press the can more firmly, stroking it up and down, feeling the round hardness against my own wetness. Something is pulsing harder and harder, I want something but I don't know what it is -- not then.

I bite my bottom lip as I drop the can. It rolls down the bank and plops into the water.

"Shit!" I scramble down after my drink. Too late. It's lost in the mud and weeds. We have to share the other drinks, and whatever mood is in the air vanishes like a wraith.

"So, you sunbathed with your mates in your underwear," Stuart says. "That's it? I've done that since I was five years old. It's hardly mad, is it?"

I blush.

"Was for me," I mumble.

Stuart stares intently at my burning face.

"There's more, isn't there?" he says. "I can tell." He moves in close so I can feel his breath on my cheek. I can smell beer, and cigarettes, and aftershave, and sweat, and damn -- I suddenly want to lick his bare chest. I want him to --

"I bet that if I touched you now you'd be wet," he says.

I bite my lip.

"That's one thing you'll never find out," I say.

Without a word he picks me up, hands around my waist, and sits me down on the kitchen table. He hitches up my skirt and gently, firmly, opens my legs. He starts to stroke my thighs with his thumbs. I'm so in shock I forget that I don't want him to touch me.

"Mm, lovely," he breathes. His thumbs roam higher. They reach my panties, and begin to stroke my lips through the thin fabric.

"Stop it," I murmur. Yeah, I really sound like I mean it.

He doesn't he