Art For Art's Sake Read online

  Art For Art’s Sake

  By LimeyLady

  Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2017

  Distributed by Smashwords

  All characters and events in this publication,

  other than those clearly in the public domain,

  are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - A Liberated Lady

  Chapter Two - A Secret Assignation

  Chapter Three - Getting to Know Each Other

  Chapter Four - Ade’s Party

  Chapter Five - Sandra

  Chapter Six - Easter Holidays

  Chapter Seven - The Big Sleepover

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by LimeyLady

  Chapter One

  As a responsible member of the upper sixth Angie didn’t have to wear a uniform. She had, however, settled on a sort of uniform of her own. Consisting of Doc’s, jeans and a sweatshirt or a T, it wasn’t a million miles away from the way she dressed out of school.

  Face it: with a build like hers she wasn’t going to wear anything girly, was she? A little over six feet tall and weighing in at thirteen stone-odd, Angie wasn’t really cut out for dresses and skirts. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body but there weren’t many feminine bumps and curves either. Her legs were strong, mannish and definitely not made to be publically exhibited.

  For her dresses and skirts were right out.

  Going by the book, sixth formers weren’t supposed to wear jeans but a girl could get away with smart ones. Angie ensured that hers were always pristine, never slashed, patched or frayed and not in the least tight-fitting. And she always got away with it.

  Today, the most important Friday in living memory, she’d varied her outfit in two ways. Although it was late January and she’d normally be wearing a sweat, she’d gone for a white T. And more significantly, for the first time in years and years, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Tight white T and no bra . . . whatever had possessed her!

  Tight T or not, the feeling of freedom was nothing short of exhilarating. Her body was unshapely and masculine but her breasts were definitely redeeming features. They were large round and, unfettered as they now were, they had a life of their own. She felt like those brave bra-burning sisters of the 60s must have felt: daring, defiant and above all, liberated.

  Oh yes, that liberation: the gentle bouncing at even the slightest movement; the sensation when she suddenly turned and her tits kept going a moment before springing back and jiggling up and down.

  And better still, the thin fabric of her T-shirt constantly rubbing against her nipples.

  Make that rubbing against her rock-hard nipples . . .

  Angie’s journey in to school passed uneventfully. There again, she was wearing a jacket which more or less held everything in place. It wasn’t until she’d got to the sixth form centre and ditched the coat that folk started to take notice.

  Suzanne and Liz commented first. They were the school’s prominent lesbian pairing and were almost inseparable. Even at quarter past eight in the morning they were holding hands in the cloakroom.

  Holding hands and, in Suzanne’s case, gaping open-mouthed.

  ‘Blimey Ange,’ she said, ‘what’s with you?’

  Angie shrugged, inadvertently setting her chest in motion, giving Suzanne visible palpitations.

  ‘Hands off, you,’ said Liz, dragging her girlfriend away.

  Not sure who exactly Liz had been talking to, Angie made her way into the common room. And, while her entry wasn’t quite like a gunslinger walking into a saloon, there were similarities.

  (If they’d had a piano player he would have stopped playing, for sure!)

  Conscious of several sets of eyes on her, she went to the coffee bar and bought a cup.

  Men, she thought dismissively. They have no use for a girl in eighteen years and then, when she has a tiny nip erection, what are they all suddenly like!

  Personally, Angie had no use for men anymore. She’d never really been interested but had tried one to make sure she wasn’t missing out. After that disastrous experiment she was convinced she wasn’t missing anything at all. As she’d suspected all along, girls were much more fun.

  What a pity Suzanne was already committed.

  And how could she be thinking of Suzanne with the night she had ahead of her!!

  Sipping her hot drink Angie noticed that the sixth former currently on coffee bar duty (a guy known to pupils and staff alike as “Treacle”) was trying to look down the top of her T-shirt. How pathetic was that! It wasn’t low-cut and he’d never even spared her a glance before.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘keep your eyes to yourself.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Treacle replied with a grin. ‘I’m seeing you in a whole new light.’

  ‘You’ll be seeing me in the casualty ward if you don’t watch out.’

  Angie drained her cup and set of for Registration, arriving there miles ahead of anyone else. Her form room was a sixth form classroom and therefore small. Taking the backmost seat to the left she let out a sigh.

  Unbelievable! Me an object of male lust!

  Sandra arrived while Angie was still laughing at the mysterious workings of the world.

  ‘Angie Baby,’ she crooned, ‘just look at you! Are you hot or what!’

  “Angie Baby” struck a chord. Only one person had ever used that before; one very significant person.

  In fact she’d been a same-sex lover sort of a person.

  Not that Angie was in a position to name names. Not even in confidence to the loveliest person she’d ever met.

  Tall, black and beautiful beyond belief, Sandra was in Angie’s opinion the best-looking girl in school. Come to that she was the best looking girl in town and very possibly the best-looking girl in Europe. It was mystifying why she wasn’t widely classed as “popular”, but there again maybe she was too nice to be “popular”.

  Maybe she wasn’t nearly bitchy enough.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ Angie replied. Then, to her own astonishment, she added: ‘You always look hot.’

  ‘Why thank you, kind lady.’ Sandra had West Indian roots but, like two generations of her ancestors, she’d been born in England. The words, accents and inflections she used were pure East Midlands.

  There was still a lot of husky promise in her, though. Her low, tuneful voice ran her appearance close for sexiness. Smitten with another as she was, Angie couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have Sandra whispering sweet nothings into her ear . . . very naughty, very exciting sweet nothings.

  No woman should sound so good.

  Nonsense: scrap that . . . every woman should sound so good!

  ‘I’m wondering, duck,’ Sandra went on, ‘was it last night or is it tonight?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m talking about luck, duck. It either happened last night or it’s happening tonight. Never mind your hard nips; you are a girl with gladness in her heart. Lady Luck is on your side, that’s plain to see.’

  Angie glanced down. Sure enough her nipples were poking out of her T . . . again.

  ‘It’s the cold,’ she said.

  Sandra hooted. ‘It’s the hot,’ she said, ‘cold isn’t involved. So come on and tell me: who’s the lucky guy? And where and when is it going to pass? Are you off to Brian’s eighteenth?

  Angie hesitated. She’d already told white lies about Brian’s eighteenth and didn’t want to tell more.

  ‘Trust me,’ Sandra persisted, ‘I keep secrets safe, yeah?’

  Lying to Angie’s mum was a precarious occupation. Mum had an inbuilt bullshit detector strong enoug
h to rule out presidential hopefuls. Tricky Dicky would never have made it as far as Watergate if she’d had half a sniff at him.

  Before seven o’clock was a different matter, however. Mum managed the bars in a local nightclub. If she ever got home before three in the morning they’d been raided. After she had worked a normal night updating her at seven while she was still mostly asleep was as safe as it got.

  “I’ll not be home this afternoon,” Angie had said (truthfully), speaking through a half-opened bedroom door.

  “It’s Brian’s party tonight,” she’d added. (Also true.)

  “There’ll be a spread on.” (Reasonably true; she’d been to parties at that venue before and there had always been a buffet.)

  “It’s an early start so it’d be madness to come home first. I’m going to get myself straight off.” (Utter bollocks: school ended at half past two and Brian’s party started at eight.)

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be snuggled up and snoring long before you get home.” (True enough . . . hopefully!)

  Sandra’s bullshit detector wasn’t too far behind Mum’s. And Sandra was wide awake.

  ‘You’re not, are you,’ she said. ‘You’ve better things to be doing. Who is he?’

  Angie’s silence must have spoken volumes.

  ‘Omigod it’s a girl!’ Sandra’s body was supermodel-good. Her eyes were even better; “magical” didn’t even begin to describe them. Long-lashed, deep brown and invariably glowing, right then they were flashing.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ she half-whispered. ‘So are you going to Brian’s?’

  ‘I’m probably not. I’ve . . . Like you said, I’ve got something else on.’

  ‘What a pity, duck. I’d love to slow-dance with you. I’d saved you ten slots on my dance card.’

  Other students arrived before Angie could answer. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad. As the room filled up she had another look at Sandra.

  Was the girl just being her effusive, naturally warm self? Or was she actually flirting?

  A girl like that couldn’t possibly be interested in me, Angie thought. What could she possibly see in an unattractive supersized skinhead?

  But Sandra smiled back at her.

  ‘Have a great night,’ she said, ‘but save something for me.’

  Chapter Two

  Friday afternoon was the worst afternoon in the whole week as far as Angie was concerned. She liked Physics as a subject but didn’t like Friday’s teacher. The other Physics teacher was witty and capable of making the dullest subject interesting if not exciting. Friday’s teacher couldn’t have made bungee-jumping exciting.

  And Friday’s was only a triple lesson!

  A triple flipping lesson!!!

  Being positive, almost two hours of sheer, unadulterated boredom could not fail to make the weekend shine alluringly, filling it full of possibilities. Being negative, watching grass grow was more entertaining than listening to that boring old fart.

  Somehow Angie survived and, stowing her books and stuff in her locker, cheerfully made the mile or so walk into town. Even more cheerfully, she found a café and treated herself to a large, very greasy all-day breakfast then walked back towards school.

  Not that she was paying a return visit to academia. No, ignoring the everyday turn-off she kept going along the bottom road and finally wound up at the Roebuck, her lover’s local pub.

  By then it was nearly half past four. The sun may or may not have set; thanks to a blanket of dismal cloud it was impossible to be sure. In any case darkness was setting in and, for Angie, darkness was a friend.

  The Roebuck wasn’t too busy when she arrived. And her lover wasn’t there. Not that she’d supposed she would have been there. Her lover was expecting Angie to discreetly show up at her place at six o’clock . . . and in that she wasn’t going to be disappointed.

  Angie had never been up for anything as much as tonight. She was determined to present herself at six on the dot. Not one second sooner or later.

  She smiled as she sipped her first pint of Worthington’s. Thus far she’d only had two close encounters with the delightful Miss Pearce: one in a car, the other in an art storeroom. Tonight was destined to be much less cramped and totally free from time restraints.

  Assuming Miss Pearce hadn’t had second thoughts.

  A scowl creased Angie’s brow, creating familiar frown lines. Miss Pearce was in her early thirties and already Head of Art and Design. She had more than once maintained that having an affair with a pupil was not the way to behave. Indeed she’d suggested that her career would be toast if word got out.

  For her part Angie wanted word to get out. Everyone thought she was a lesbian anyway, so why not be loud and proud? And it wasn’t as if Miss Pearce was actually one of her teachers. She’d ditched art years ago. As far as she was concerned they were consenting adults over the age of eighteen, so why shouldn’t they fuck?

  She did, however, see Miss Pearce’s point of view. The Headmaster was a martinet who probably did not approve of Bohemian, arty people and would jump at the chance to sack one. It wouldn’t be fair to give him the opportunity.

  Limiting herself to two pints and a small Coke, Angie somehow made it to quarter to six. Then, after a quick pee, she climbed the hill opposite the pub and was at Miss Pearce’s bang on time.

  It was completely dark by then; she was completely anonymous.

  And ya boo sucks to everyone in so-called authority!

  The door opened before she could knock.

  ‘At last,’ Miss Pearce said in greeting.

  Angie’s eyes nearly popped out. Normally Miss Pearce was to be found in voluminous, multicoloured skirts and abbreviated gypsy-style blouses. Tonight she was wearing a see-through robe, lacy lingerie and stay-up stockings . . . and all in tasteful black.

  Miss Pearce obviously wasn’t having second thoughts. She was also seriously seductive. Even in her usual clobber she resembled Brigitte Bardot in her prime, except taller, and with round John Lennon glasses perched on her sexy nose. Now, dressed very much for the bedroom . . .

  ‘My God,’ Angie murmured.

  Miss Pearce ushered her inside then closed the door, letting it lock itself before further securing it with bolts and chains.

  ‘There’s no escape,’ she said, kissing Angie lightly on the cheek. ‘You’re mine for the duration.’

  ‘Let’s go to your room,’ Angie replied breathlessly. ‘I’m happy to be yours.’

  ‘Not as happy as I am. But where are my manners? Would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘Not right now. Let’s go straight to your room. Do not pass “Go”.’

  ‘Okay, if you insist.’

  Angie felt less than perfect as she followed the older woman’s amazing body sashaying up the flight of stairs. Miss Pearce was usually bra-less but not tonight. In all honesty Angie herself was bra-less in a sort of tribute to her. Well, a tribute and a reluctant acceptance that her own selection of bras left a lot to be desired in the way of sexiness.

  She’d been so embarrassed last Friday when Miss Pearce took off her sweatshirt, exposing her plain and very unsexy undergarment!

  Miss Pearce’s room was as seductive as the woman herself. The double bed had crimson covers and the walls and curtains were scarlet; the ceiling and carpet were white. Dressed (or mostly undressed) as she was, she certainly went with the décor.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ she said to Angie, stroking her cheek, staring into her eyes. ‘I’ve been dreaming of this moment all week.’

  Nobody except Miss Pearce had ever complimented Angie’s appearance. The words didn’t quite ring true. Intensely aroused as she was, Angie snorted.

  ‘No, really,’ Miss Pearce went on. ‘Just wait until I paint you. You’ll see.’

  Then she was tugging off Angie’s T.

  ‘Goodness me yes,’ she sighed as Angie’s tits spilled out. Then, reverting to teacher mode: ‘Take off your boots.’

  Angie sat on the edge of the bed a
nd took off her Docs and white ankle socks.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Miss Pearce said again, shrugging off her robe, ‘now take of your jeans.’

  Fingers trembling, Angie took off her jeans.

  And she thanked the gods that, although she didn’t have a sexy bra in her wardrobe, she did possess a couple of decent pairs of panties. Tonight’s pair was red silk and positively her best. They were wet too, but Miss Pearce didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Knickers off,’ she commanded.