I was given the name Candice and I'm happy with it. Anyone who calls me Candy gets what's coming to her. Unless it's a boy. Boys I forgive everything.

I love boys. I knew it long before I left St Ursula's, even though I'd hardly spoken to one and had never seen one at school. If the teachers had their way, we'd be taught there was no such thing as a boy. 

But I just knew, lying in bed, that the cosy, tingly sensations and honey moisture I woke up to had something to do with boys. After all, the feelings were in those places where boys are supposed to be different. (Except the boys from St Dominic's, destined for celibacy and reputed not to have 'boys' bits.' I'm also not talking about those other times in the month whose feelings happily lie far outside the scope of this story).

I longed to know what boys' different bits were like and just what their connection was with my own deep-inside tsunamis. Soon my fingers learned to tend and grow those primitive feelings into sophisticated and fulfilling bedtime experiences. As my fingers explored, I suspected I might be nurturing blossoms that a boy's fingers might bring to even juicier fruition. If I ever knew the right boy, I'd share those feelings lavishly without reserve. I wondered if I'd be able to divine which boys felt the way I did. Would I instantly recognise my counterpart?

Three weeks into college I did.

Frank was everything I wanted. And he wanted everything I yearned to give. My imagination had prepared wonders for him, and he, at his boys' school, was just as sex-starved as I'd been. Funnily enough, it was another four weeks before we had full sex. We'd both been so used to fingers. Now we'd found willing fingers, and those willing fingers had each found their way to just where we wanted them to be. So we perfected, and lingered over, every exquisite manoeuvre and exploration our fantasies had devised. Frank said a big part of a boy's excitement was to see his girl naked. Who was I to argue? Showing him everything became a big part of my excitement too. I persuaded him to show me his 'boy's bits' (nothing like I'd pictured, but big, hard and beefy) and his lovely, tight ass and masculine muscles. Then after four weeks, we began all over again, his fingers now replaced by a hungry, sex-starved penis.

I soon thought myself a woman of the world, well-versed in every kink and byway on the sexual map. 

Until I took my job at Ye Olde Cocke and Bulle. A barmaid gets to hear things, and when she leans over a table to collect glasses, she is often invisible. When she leans over a table of four devastatingly gorgeous male students, she is invisible except for her cleavage, but still assumed to be deaf, or at least indifferent.

Every time I encountered these four they were discussing sexual exploits, probably invented ones, and mostly rather crude. You know the phrases. "Legs up to her armpits", "Knockers to die for." I shan't list any more. They talked of foreplay, climaxes and positions, all of which I knew to be far more romantic, intimate and wondrous than their blokeish bluster gave credit for.

But one of them mentioned something that stopped me in my tracks, glad that the glass I almost dropped was empty. Now this I hadn't tried. Would I want to, though? It sounded a bit revolting but this lad (did I mention, they were all four pantie-wetting good-lookers?) was enthusing about it with missionary zeal.

I couldn't imagine Frank liking it. Not at first. But mulling over it as I dropped off to sleep (after a satisfying but conventional romp with Frank) I began to imagine some of the sensations it might arouse in him. I wasn't at all sure what my feelings would be, but a girl can only find out by trying. So I resolved. If there was any pleasure in it for Frank, who was I to withhold it? And if he didn't like it, I could soon make it up to him by devising some special treat for 'Dickie'.

I had to wait a few days to pluck up courage and choose an opportunity. In fact, courage-wise I let several opportunities slip. I can also say that not a single college class from those few days has stayed in my mind. 

Two naked people, standing in the bath beneath the shower head. When I turned off the shower and motioned Frank to kneel before me he thought I wanted him to lick my pussy (understandable, bless him). Gently I leaned him back and placed his hands on his thighs. I stood over him, placed myself above his belly, half standing, half crouching.

I'd had to prepare this moment so carefully. My little reservoir of liquid gold could so easily have burst its banks before I was able to anoint Frank's precious secrets. On the other hand, it could simply have run dry.

At first, it was difficult to relax, so unsure of Frank's response. But as I leaned over him and the first rivulets trickled from their source, deep in the Mountain of Venus, I saw his smile of surprised delight. The streams sprinkled delicately over his navel and dallied in his secret hair, tangling the curls before they disappeared into sensitive places either side of his shaft.

Yes, he liked it. Eyes closed, his smile registered total contentment. My confidence rose, I relaxed and the stream of love released itself into a torrent. I heard its splash over Frank's hardening cock. I couldn't control where it flowed, but Frank, writhing in his pleasure, exposed every sensitive part in turn to its ministrations. 

Thank goodness I'd stored up so much of this precious liquor. Frank's ecstasy was obvious, and my own insides were being turned on in most peculiar ways.

When the flow ebbed, instead of reaching to clean myself I stood Frank up. I pressed his wet belly against mine. I wiped my pussy by riding it over Frank's hard dick. He moulded himself sensuously into my tight, slithery embrace. I took the shower head and played it to ripple gently over my breasts and down onto both our navels. 

I retreated slightly, to direct the water onto Frank's penis, still hard, erect and golden with my wetness.

He steadied himself by grasping my bum with his two powerful hands, then, holding me even tighter, slid his cock where it always wanted to be. After the novel foreplay, our stand-up thrusting and gasping was passionate and short. All that was left was to commit the wetness, stickiness and sweat to the shower, and to agree, satisfied, that we shall never stop learning new ways to enhance and perfect those cosy little feelings that began in convent school beds.

I promised him I'd continue keeping my ears open at the pub. Who knows what I might learn next?