An Innocent Conversation

Eighteen years old. What a heady age. I really miss those days.

Back when high school was something to be escaped, when the future looked bright, opportunities endless. Nothing locked in, very few decisions made worth regretting. Hell, a world where someone else buys your food, washes your clothes and keeps a roof over your head can't have been all that bad, surely.

And yet like most sullen teenagers, somehow I found a way to be miserable. Typical unprovoked teenaged angst, whole world against me, fuck them all, and so forth. There were a few bright bits which still make me smile, though. I have always been a rather hirsute fellow and during my final schooling years I embraced as much; to celebrate as much, I once stuck a bone in my impressively bushy beard, stood nonchalantly before an assembly of seven-hundred-and-then-some of my peers, and suggested they elect for their School Captain the guy with the seven inch bone.

That brought the house down, and they voted in their droves. I ended up attaining the rank of Vice Captain due to the frowning principal's five-hundred-point deciding vote for a less-bearded peer (Democracy? In high school? Move along, yon starry-eyed fool), but I didn't mind as it allowed me to introduce myself as the Captain of Vice. Definitely one of my finer moments, the Cry of the Guy with the Seven Inch Bone.

Another of my finer moments from my final year of higher education? It would have to have been that conversation with Justine. Twas an innocent conversation; innocent enough, at least at first...

Justine was always That Girl, of whom the guys spoke in hushed tones. She was the girl everyone wanted. She was also the girl who almost definitely knew as much, and yet she didn't seem to let it go to her head. Which, of course, only made her all the hotter.

We were all gobsmacked, and sometimes we were given to wonder why. She wasn't exactly super pretty; her face was fair but not striking, tending to moon-shaped, though with a naturally clear tone and complexion which must surely have vexed ninety per cent of her teenaged peers. She wasn't terribly statuesque either - she had boobs but they weren't the biggest, she had legs but they weren't the longest, she had curves but they weren't by themselves heart stopping in any justifiable way. She was one of those girls who was very much more than the sum of her parts; all of it put together, topped off by a wonderfully cheeky, challenging personality made her The Girl To Want, The Girl to Lust After, and The Girl You'd Never Get.

Well, not strictly. Guys did manage to get with her, though me and my merely-mortal friends could never figure how. She had boyfriends here and there, from time to time, all of them undeserving and unremarkable deadshit dropkicks who couldn't hope to be deemed worthy of her affections by the hordes of her admirers. Myself included, again.

Upon hours of reflection, my mates and I reached a consensus on the Question that was Justine's Inexplicable Hotness. It was the look in her eye. She always had about her something of a look, a crooked eyebrow, a twinkle of the iris that suggested a certain liveliness, a simmering sexuality, a girl who knows what she wants and gets it when she wants it, with no qualms or compunctions. No man nor woman would dare tar her a slut; this was a girl in control of her sexuality, open to it, awake to her desires and never abashed when it came time to satiate herself.

Or so I assumed, anyway. I was a friend to her, nothing more, and one of a great many friends, fans and well-wishers throughout the student population. She was unflinching in her friendliness, our Justine, always full of genuine warmth and approachability. For a great many junior years in high school I admired her from afar, nerdish and hesitant, uncertain of my own worthiness for even a few seconds of genial conversation with her.

But as the aforementioned bone-supporting beard kicked in good and thick, I found myself the designated "obtainer of alcoholic refreshments" for the never-ending round of senior year parties. This happy circumstance saw me invited to soirees on a weekly basis and with open access to as much booze as I cared to ply from my grateful, smooth-faced friends; through the miracle powers of liquor, my boldness kindled and I spoke more and more with our Justine at said parties, and I was even able to carry on this newfound geniality into the more sober surrounds of school.

Twas one such school day, one of those coolish-to-warm spring days in Australia where the weather is still deciding whether it should be hellishly hot or unreasonably cold, where I found myself shooting the breeze with our Justine. Hell if I can remember how the conversation started, but so long as my arse points south I shall never forget how the conversation turned as, seemingly absent-minded, Justine attempted to adjust the underwire of her bra through her shirt and - with a loud and painful-sounding THWACK - she accidentally let it twang back against her body.

I blinked, and she blinked. It was the first time I'd ever seen Justine wide-eyed with genuine horror. There she had been, just having a normal conversation with regular old me, and without even thinking she'd gone and played bra-cello right in front of me.

Her embarrassment was plain and painful to see, and my first instinct was to set her at ease with a dumb joke. "Underwire cutting in, eh?"

She nodded, still wincing with combined under-breast discomfort and more general mortification.

"Yeah, mine slices me up like a bitch," I lamented sympathetically, miming as I adjusted my own imaginary underwire.

And she laughed, long and loud, warm and appreciative as the awkwardness between us vanished on the breeze. "Terrible, aren't they?" Justine agreed, still smiling as she finished fixing the underwire, this time without any hesitation - she wore a bra, I knew it, most if not all girls at our school wore bras too, so why be backwards about adjusting it?

"Bloody shocking. A terrible man-made affliction," I declared, channelling my inner feminist. "Still, it's the price we pay for possessing such awesome pillows like ours, eh?" I added with a wink, smooshing my own (assuredly flat and featureless) bosom together in a big show of self-regard.

She laughed again - music to a young admirer's ears, to be sure. "Thanks, Martin," she added, with warmth and gratitude.

"No worries," I shrugged with a smile. "Though honestly Justine," I added, as an intriguing possibility occurred to me, "I'm not really sure why you bother with a bra. Surely you and your young puppies aren't all that desperate for shaping and support - can't help but imagine you'd still be pert and perky even without the bra, no?"

Justine grinned hugely at that. "Well, that's as may be," she allowed, all mysterious and beguiling, her words giving away nothing but her eyes suggesting volumes more. "But Martin, look at our school shirts - they're as thin as tissue paper," she declared, pinching her fingers within her shirt sleeve to demonstrate the paper-thin quality of our white uniform shirts.

"So?" said I, feigning ignorance to her point.

"So?" she echoed. "So if I were to go bra-free, my boobs and nipples would show through this shirt as clear as day!"

"Still not seeing why that's a problem," I informed her, managing commendably not to leer as hard as I dearly wanted at the very thought of our Justine's fine bust on display.

"Yeah, I'm sure you don't," Justine grinned at me. "You smooth talker, you."

I revelled quietly at her final comment for a few short moments - it was framed as a jibe, but there was a hint in her tone and, again, more than a hint in her eye at the genuine sentiment behind it. I felt I was doing well in this conversation, so I pursued the matter further.

"Okay, granted: we're not all gripped by an exhibitionistic need, not all the time anyway," I allowed. "But what about on a cooler day, when you can get away with wearing a sweater over the paper-thin shirt? You could go bra-free then. You'd be all comfortable, and as close to tits-out at school as you might ever get. Imagine the secret kinky thrill!"

There was a moment - barely an instant, but a moment nonetheless - where I saw Justine consider my proposal with a genuine intrigue. Somehow I knew, it was the prospect of a 'kinky thrill' that provided the greatest appeal. I'd struck a chord with her, a quasi-sexual chord too, and I rejoiced even as she quickly formulated a negatory response.

"Maybe," she voiced, with what I was sure was an affected disinterest in the idea. "But what if I went into a classroom where the heat was on and I needed to strip down?"

"No one would dare stop you," I assured her.

She pulled a wry face and struck me in the upper arm, playfully and not a little flirtatiously. "Yeah yeah," she deadpanned.

"Hey: all's I'm concerned for is your comfort, Justine," I assured her, not troubling myself to sound entirely genuine. "Don't dismiss the idea entirely. I bet that you could try it any day - ditch the bra, put a sweater on top, and no one would be able to tell by looking at you. You perky little thing, you," I added, teasingly.

She rolled her eyes at that, but her grin betrayed her continued amusement. "Sure thing, Martin," she told me.

And so the conversation rolled on to other topics, the bell rang for the next class, and we went our separate ways. Life continued on for a few days, very much as before; sharing a few words, jokes and smiles with our Justine from time to time, rousting about with my mates inbetween times, classes and hometime and new days rolling on each after the other, much as they always had done.

With a good number of days having passed by in that fashion, and with all the cares and troubles of a young lad in his prime, my intriguing little conversation with Justine passed pretty much forgotten. We did have chemistry together though - Chemistry class, that is; and on one particularly vicious and cold late spring afternoon, our Justine approached my table in the back row of the room.

"Hey Martin! Mind if I sit with you? Sharon-" her BFF, with whom she usually sat during class "-is away today."

I managed to stop myself from crying "oh Justine, please do sit with me!" and took a moment to frame a more suitable reply. My mate Brad usually sat in the chair Justine was eyeing off, but he was late to class and I was pretty sure he'd get over any perceived slight on this occasion. And if he couldn't get over it: fuck him.

"Sure," I told her, with a subdued smile.

Such was the thrill I got from her simply asking to sit with me during class that I paid little heed to her outfit for that day: a knee-length navy blue school skirt down below, and the collar of another thin white cotton school shirt could be seen poking out from beneath a warm woollen school sweater - navy blue, to match her skirt. The significance of as much is probably immediately apparent to you, dear reader, but me being a dopey teenaged male with the aforementioned conversation far from my mind, I had absolutely no idea what was going on.

After a few minutes of genial conversation, exactly as much must have been clear to our Justine. "So..." she hazarded. "Good thing it's not too warm in here, eh?"

I blinked hazily, a million other things of zero consequence on my mind. "You reckon?" I frowned. "Bit nippy in here, actually."

"Nippy, you say?" she grinned hugely - and again, the big obvious hint sailed clear over my dozey young skull.

"Parky. Chilly. Fucking freezing - however you'd care to describe it," I frowned, taking the jibe as her teasing me over my choice of phrase. "Quite honestly, I wouldn't mind if we put the heat on..."

As a bell rang quietly in my mind and I stopped dead in my tracks, Justine sat and watched me with an ever-growing grin. The ball took a goodly while to drop, but when it did, my jaw dropped along with it all the way to the floor.

"Have you... are you..." I wondered how to phrase the question least stupidly, and eventually I simply gave up and went with stupid. "Have you got the goods out under there, Justine??"

She laughed at me, but again it was a laugh full of good nature, warmth and cheer. "That's one way of putting it," she allowed.

I took a moment to regather my senses, perhaps unwisely also taking a moment to survey her bosomish region at the same time. "Well I reckon I was right," I told her. "If you hadn't told me you weren't wearing a bra, I would never have picked it - they look as good and perky as ever they do. Well done!" I added somewhat lamely, otherwise unsure how to punctuate my praise for the perkiness of her tits.

She simply grinned at me. "Thanks," she said.

"How long have you been doing this?" I went on, sotto voce as the teacher arrived and conversation in the room died down - this was a secret for me, I realised; Justine's daring act, her brazen bralessness and the risk of being caught out by all and sundry was a dear and precious secret for me to. It was something I cared not to share with any man nor woman and probably something that should not be discussed within the confines of a near-silent classroom, but I simply had to know more. Chemistry lesson be damned - I had other things to learn. "How long have you gone without the bra?"

"I've been tits-out and bra-free all day," she informed me breathily, and I could see from the light in her eye that she was enjoying herself exactly as much as I had jokingly, wishingly foretold. "I didn't even pack a bra in my bag. I looked at it this morning and I just said 'fuck it - Martin's right. I can do it. No one can stop me, and if anyone realises: who cares?'"

"Justine, that's just a whole bunch of awesome," I confessed to her. "Has anyone said anything?"

"No one has even looked twice," she said, somewhat boastfully.

"Well done indeed," I praised, whispering now as the teacher launched into a lesson we were set to ignore. "How does it feel, to be out and free?"

"By God I'm so comfortable, Martin," she told me. Whether she realised it or not, she had actually laid a hand near my knee as she turned to speak - and the close contact, the way it heightened this new intimacy between us, only added to the strain on my pants caused by the 'as close to erotic as my young self had experienced' topic. "So, so very comfortable. I was a bit put off by the bouncing and jiggling as I walked," she confided, which must surely have made my eyes bug out at least a little, "but you get used to it," she finished off, as though it was a word to the wise.

"But of course," I nodded, sagely. "I learned to compensate for my own jiggle years ago," I added, cupping beneath an imaginary handful on my own chest for emphasis.

Justine giggled at that, earning a baleful eye from our teacher before he continued on with the lesson I hadn't a hope in hell of absorbing. "I just hope nobody turns the heat on," she murmured in a wonderfully low, sexy voice. "That'd put me in a spot of bother."

My erection was by now straining so hard I thought it was trying to reach out and introduce itself to her. Pretty much instantly, a dastardly plan had hatched in my mind, and I could feel it spilling out onto my face most unsubtly.

Her eyes went wide as she beheld my expression: it was a look of guile I had, guile seasoned with sudden gumption, wanton wickedness and gleeful cheek.

"No..." she breathed, wide-eyed; but the very idea she had guessed at, which surely presented an unwanted terror, also held for her its own perverse amusement as she battled down a smile.

I didn't even stop to think about it, to mull the possibilities, to consider the consequences of the action - I just went ahead and raised my hand, and when hailed I said "Sir? Could we please put the heater on back here? Bit cold, y'see."

Having gained the teacher's unknowing, uncaring acquiescence, I turned to quickly take in Justine's reaction: a mixture of stunned rage, aghast and mortified, but again, a grin fighting its way through to show a surprising hint of appreciation for my bold cheekiness. And her grin grew ever-stronger as I got on up, fired up the gas-powered heater, and sat on back down next to her, having to hobble somewhat crablike in an attempt to conceal my straining arousal.

"You bastard," was all she said.

"Oh Justine. Can you really blame me?" I fired back in reply, all admonition, as though there had been no other possible course of action. It earned me another punch in the arm.

We sat in silence for a while as I tried to catch up for a few minutes with the class notes. Even as I scribbled furiously and to little effect, I'd glance to Justine every now and again, unable to conceal my glee at her own growing discomfort as the temperature rose.

"Did you have to put it on its highest setting?" she groused after a while.

"Hey: some of us are cold here," I told her.

"You fucking bastard," she rumbled again, though still unable to hide that grin. "You know I can't take my sweater off!"

"Why not?" I shrugged.

"Cos I don't wanna flash my boobs at everyone!" she hissed, barely audible.

I looked her dead in the eye. "I dare you."

She froze, and returned my fixed look.

"Go on," I told her. "You know you want to."

And I had the truth of it: she did want to. It was written plain as day across her face. I knew now, she'd spent the whole day romping around braless in public with no one the wiser. And there was a part of her, a small but significant part that was secretly disappointed at not having been caught; she must have been waiting, expecting someone to turn around and call her out, to declare her a wild and wicked bra-free woman. And by this late part of the day, that tension within her, that simmering broiling excitement must have built up to an incredible high - a high that my own arousal had surely matched in only the space of these few minutes.

"You do want to!" I couldn't help but crow, quiet yet triumphant.

The admission was clear in her eyes: shameless and proud, she truly did want to do it, to whip off the sweater and put herself out there for all to see, nought between her and the world save a tissue-thin slip of cotton. She was still hesitant, though. "I'm gonna get busted, for sure," she murmured.

"Nah," I told her. "Who's looking back here? Teacher's three-quarts blind, check the thickness of those glasses," I observed. "He ain't gonna see a thing."

"What about those guys?" she asked, nodding to our classmates in the row immediately before us.

"Come on. What are the chances of one of them turning around to specifically try to catch a glimpse of your goods?" I pointed out.

I could tell she was warming to the idea. She wasn't entirely glad about it, about the control I seemed to be exerting over her as I called her out for her desires and goaded her into acting against her better judgement, and there was a look thrown in my direction that spelled out exactly what she thought of me at this point. But her face was pink and flushed in the growing heat, and also with her growing excitement - and I knew, somehow I knew, she was resolving to do it.

"If I get busted," she told me, as she sat up and reached for the bottom of her sweater, "I will fucking kill you, Martin. And that..."

And with one glorious movement, she whipped the sweater over her head - and there they were, just as prophesied, two perfect and fine orbs straining mightily against the may-as-well-not-have-been-there translucent sheerness of her school blouse with large, surprisingly dark nipples placed like oversized chocolate drops in the perfect centre of her breasts.

"...Is a promise." And the look she held for me, as her eyes somehow dragged mine away from the sight on display, carried another promise: she was going to get me back for what I had somehow, unbelievably, miraculously convinced her to do, in plain sight at the back of our classroom.