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Angie Baby

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 - Silent Witness

Chapter Two - Bobby

Chapter Three - A Friendly Drink

Chapter Four - Coffee for Two

Chapter Five - A Lift Home

Chapter Six - Car Sex

Chapter Seven - More Car Sex

Chapter Eight - A Commitment

Author’s Note

Other Books by LimeyLady

Chapter One

It was the first sixth form disco of 1997 and Angie had spent the last half hour in the ladies’ toilets. Not that she was some sort of perv . . .

Well, not that she classed herself as some sort of perv. No, if she classed herself as anything, “perv” would be last on the list; even if some of her so-called schoolmates did judge books by their covers.

And even if book covers were sometimes a fair guide.

Angie did her best to smile at her reflection in the long mirror above the line of hand basins. As always her best effort went unrewarded. Smiling wasn’t her thing. No matter how hard she tried she ended up looking like she was glowering or snarling . . . or ready to rip some poor innocent’s heart out.

Why oh why did she have to take after her dad! Her mum was a tall five-ten, slender and slinky with a natural tan and the ability to eat like a horse without ever putting on an ounce. Dad was an ex-rugby player with an oft-broken nose, cauliflower ears and the loudest voice in Christendom. He was also a touch over six-five and at least the same again across his shoulders. Even now, well into his forties, he turned out for “The Vets” and regularly smashed much younger opponents into the muddy turf.

If only she could have had half of Mum’s genes!

Okay, so she did have a straight nose and her ears were all right. Thank heavens for small mercies!

Struggling to be uncritical, Angie assessed herself.

She was tall; a shade over six feet. Her shoulders were slightly narrower than Dad’s. And, while she’d inherited Mum’s eating ability . . . never putting on a gram, never mind an ounce . . . she still tilted the scales at thirteen stones four.

If she wanted she could have rocked The Vets’ opponents out there on the rugby pitch as easily as Dad did. She could have rocked the much younger First IV’s opponents too. And deep inside she’d probably have enjoyed doing that.

Yet deep inside lurked a warm, sensitive person; it was a shame that very few people had ever seen past the face she showed to the world.

Her deliberately makeup-free face, topped off with a number one skinhead; that was what people saw and reacted to.

Yes, people reacted to the scary face of her.

Dad had always called Angie “big-boned” and he might even have been right. She’d always been a lot bigger than other girls her age, as well as most of the guys. Sadly though, she’d never been remotely voluptuous. Those thirteen stones were muscle; not ugly muscle, but definitely not pretty muscle. She didn’t do pretty. All said and done she was large, solid and not in the least bit shapely.

Well, from some angles her face was surprisingly good-looking (her bone structure worked just fine up there!), but the rest of her body was extraordinarily curve-free. It was hip, ass and waist-wise, anyway.

How unfair was that! A girl of her height should naturally stop conversations whenever she entered a room. Her conversational-stopping abilities were for other reasons altogether.


Aged twelve naughty (not-so) little Angie had fallen out of a tree, landing mostly on her head and, by all reports, being lucky not to break her neck. A few days in hospital had seen her right again but, not a week after her release, she’d woken to find all of her hair lying loose on her pillow. That had been bad enough but worse was yet to come. When her hair grew back it wasn’t its original blue-black, it was an awful mousy colour and it grew in a straggly sort of a way.

For a while she had tried to live with what she had, trying umpteen different styles and dyes of every colour under the sun. Then, aged fifteen, arriving for one of her frequent hairdressing appointments, asked for the millionth time what coiffure she wanted that visit, she’d snapped.

‘Off,’ she’d said. ‘Shave it all off.’

After considerable objections her stylist had obliged, charging an arm and a leg for quickly doing the deed with a number four guard.

Her reception at school had been, to say the least, mixed. Yes, mixed . . . but overall favourable.

They were a tolerant lot, her schoolmates. Okay, so there were a few wearing blinkers, but most of them believed in live and let live. Or maybe they were all scared of her new appearance. Folk either came up to pat her on the back else avoided her altogether.

And nobody but nobody questioned her sexuality; not within hearing distance, anyhow.

Perhaps a month later, too straggly-mousy again for her liking, she had gone into town, into a barbers’ shop supposedly for men, and asked for a number one. The guys in the shop had made her welcome and charged her a mere two quid. She had been paying regular return visits ever since.

How welcome did those barber guys make her. At first she’d wondered if they thought that she was a bloke but her tits ruled out such suspicions. Her body was unshapely and masculine but her breasts were big, round and noticeably unmissable. She rather liked the way the barber guys took great care not to touch them as they tucked in her protective cape.

Yes, the barbers’ shop was better than any hairdressers’: two quid and a load of banter else twice as much and gushy crap about horses, soaps and celebrities? Angie went for the banter every time.

She’d abandoned makeup even earlier in life. Apart from not seeing the need for it she had never had either patience or talent. Her best efforts always looked like warpaint and she was intimidating enough in the first place.

So why bother?


Secured away from the real world as she was, Angie could still hear music from the disco. Except the sixth form part of the night was now as good as over and so was the faster disco stuff. It was time for the slow, close dancing. Couples would be out there cheek-to-cheek, some of them long-established items, some of them established for minutes if not seconds.

And rash decisions would be being made. Was it to be home to mummy and daddy or into town to the pubs and clubs? And failing pubs or clubs, was something else in the offing? Did tonight’s new pickup warrant more than a few kisses? Had relationships lasted long enough to progress?

Footsteps were approaching, clearly audible over 2 Become 1. Angie didn’t want a conversation right then and certainly wasn’t ready to go back to the disco. She went swiftly into one of the stalls, sitting on the closed lavatory seat and holding the door shut with her foot.

Hurry up with it, she silently urged.

Then she frowned. There had been two sets of footsteps but no voices. And, apart from the sound of the door to the ladies’ opening, there was no evidence of anyone using the facilities in any way.

Curious by nature, she removed her foot and let the stall door come ajar. Practically tiptoeing, she put her eye to the gap . . . and sharply inhaled.

There were two girls in there, one up against the tiled wall, the other busily eating her mouth.

Liz and Suzanne, she realized, fascinated by the spectacle.

Liz and Suzanne were the school’s best-known lesbian couple. They had come out early in the lower sixth and had been accepted and even applauded for their bravery. Now, well over a year later, they’d been together so long that they had become part of the furniture. Nobody commented when they held hands in the common room or passionately kissed at parties or discos.

But this wasn’t just a kiss; Liz’s hand was inside Suzanne’s short skirt. She was . . .

No two ways about it, Liz was fingering her girlfriend.

Angie felt excitement rush through her. She’d always assumed Suzanne was the dominant one in that pairing but there she was, back to the tiles and taking it.

And good God, she could hear Liz’s fingers squelching as they went in and out of Suzanne! Suzanne, eyes closed, mouth open, was grunting approval through her nose. Then her face changed and Angie just knew she was cumming.

Not that a trifling orgasm stopped Liz. If anything she redoubled her efforts.

Angie’s head was spinning. She’d often wondered what these two got up to together. Now she knew and didn’t it look like fun!

Her own body was reacting too. Her nipples were hard rocks and the soft fabric of her sweatshirt was rubbing them so, so teasingly. More noticeably, she had a ball of liquid fire in her pussy. Her panties were wet too. Wet? Make that drenched. She could feel juice on the insides of her thighs.

Suzanne’s face was changing again. She’d gone from ecstatic bliss to deep concentration, the sort of concentration she’d been in before cumming only moments earlier. Her grunts of approval were even louder, the gaps between them ever shorter.

Angie felt herself building along with Suzanne. This was the most amazing sight she had ever seen. It was beyond magical, almost miraculous.

Chapter Two

Suzanne was going for her third climax when more approaching footsteps caused Liz to hastily back off. Angie, going for her second climax, somehow managed to stifle a groan.

Bugger, she thought, getting a last eyeful before reclosing the stall door.

By then Suzanne was straightening her clothes and stepping away from the wall. Liz was already at a basin, rinsing her hands and splashing water over her face.

‘Hello, hello, hello,’ a voice called out, ‘what’s all this, then?’

‘Caught you in the act, have we?’ another added.

There sounded to be three or four newcomers but Angie failed to recognize the voices. That is to say she couldn’t positively ID them. She guessed it was Melanie and her crowd but couldn’t be sure. She recognized Liz’s voice when she spoke, though.

‘You lot couldn’t catch a cold,’ Liz said smartly.

That produced a chorus of laughter. There had been nothing nasty in Melanie’s greeting (if indeed it was her greeting) and nothing too defensive in Liz’s reply. There again, those two lesbian lovers really were loud and proud. If they had been caught they’d have laughed it off in no time.

The door to the ladies’ opened and closed again, presumably as Liz and Suzanne left to find another place to make out. Still laughing, someone went into the stall next to Angie’s and pulled the bolt.

‘Did you see Abigail and Bobby?’ that first voice asked in the ensuing silence.

‘You bet I did,’ a new speaker replied. ‘I kept expecting Miss Pearce to throw a bucket of water over them. You know, like you do get a dog off a bitch.’

‘It was more like getting a bitch off a dog if you ask me. That girl is insatiable. And the way she looks is criminal. She shouldn’t be allowed out looking like that. Poor old Angie never stood a chance.’

‘Poor old Angie,’ the new speaker agreed.

Poor old Angie said nothing. She stayed where she was, half-listening to inconsequential chatter, the flush of a toilet and the general sounds of more people leaving the restroom. Giving it a minute to be sure she was alone, she unfastened her jeans and inspected the damage below.

Which was worse? Soaked, sodden or drenched? Whatever it was, that was the current state of her knickers. Mopping up as best she could, using plenty of toilet paper in the process, she came out of the stall and returned to her mirror.

Frigging Bobby, she thought. Why did they have to mention him?


Up until the previous November Angie had never kissed anybody, not romantically, anyway. Come to that she hadn’t had designs on anybody, male or female. At least she didn’t think she had.

Her schoolmates had her tagged as a lesbian. She knew that, even if nobody dared say it to her face. In truth there could have been something in their suspicions. She’d never once fancied a guy but she had admired several girls. Hell, she’d even admired Abigail at one stage . . .

She’d never done anything about her inner desires, however. In all honesty she hadn’t known where to begin. Should she have followed Liz and Suzanne’s lead and outed herself? What good would that have done? So far as she knew those two were the only lesbians in school. There had to be others, of course, but she didn’t know who they were or how to ask.

And who’d want a girlfriend that looked like her in any case?

Surprisingly, the answer was that Bobby would. Bobby was possibly the most popular guy in the sixth form and had never been short of dates. Angie had been gobsmacked when he’d approached her to ask for a dance.

They’d been at yet another eighteenth birthday party. That one had been Mark’s and, being held off school property, it had had a bar. Not that Bobby had been drunk when he asked her. No, he’d been very sober and his usual handsome, friendly self.

Angie had always got on well with the lad and agreed straightaway.

It can’t hurt, she told herself as they went onto the dance floor. And it’ll give the gossips something to chew on.

At that very moment the music had switched to slow. Grinning at her, Bobby said, ’How about that? I couldn’t have timed it better.’

It had been in for a penny, in for a pound. And Angie couldn’t dance fast or slow, so she’d let him take her in his arms and did her best to follow his lead.

To her amazement, dancing had been good. She had liked the way their bodies moved together, his hips sort of guiding hers. She’d liked the feel of her tits on his chest too, and the feel of his hands as they held her close. Giving away state secrets, she had even liked the feel of what she assumed to be his very hard erection, pressing against her groin.

After two records she’d made to return to her pint of Guinness.

He’d begged another dance which turned into another five or maybe even ten.

And he’d kissed her.

Suspicious, unshapely girl that she was, Angie had wondered if Bobby was dancing with her for a bet. Kissed by him, she rapidly decided she didn’t care about his motivations. Romantic kissing was great. Why hadn’t she tried it before? For all her doubts and fears, when it came down to it, guys weren’t so bad.

And his erection was rather flattering, in a way. She’d turned him on. Glowering front or not, there had to be something about her after all!

At the end of the night Bobby asked her for a date. She’d said yes without hesitation. She didn’t object on Tuesday either, when he homed in on her at the school youth club. And, when he came to Friday’s youth club in his mother’s car, eagerly asking her out “for a drink afterwards”, she’d decided to fuck him.

Stuff fellow-female attraction, this was the school’s prime male showering her with attention. And even if he was doing it for a bet, if she took the lead she could claim she’d had him every bit as much as he’d had her. In fact she took care to personally buy the condoms.

Was that a great strength or a weakness? Was she bothered either way?

That first time had been . . . well, not earth-shattering but far better than Angie had expected it to be. There hadn’t been any pain, tearing or bleeding and Bobby couldn’t have been more of a gentleman. He also made no attempt to cut and run once he’d had his way. If anything their dates became more frequent.

Ten weeks they’d lasted together; ten weeks and twenty jumps or so. They’d exchanged cards and presents at Christmas and . . .

And then Abigail had clicked her fingers and off he went.


Eyeballing her reflection once more, Angie remembered an old saying: it takes seventeen muscles to smile and forty-two to frown. Unsure if she’d got the numbers right, she wondered how many muscles it took to glower.

A hundred at least, surely!

And what was the matter with her facial muscles, come to that. Had she been born without any of the seventeen smiling ones?

Cynicism like that actually did make her lips twitch upward. Not a lot, but enough to suggest a trace of wry humour, and better by far than nothing.

Angie couldn’t really blame Bobby for dumping her. Not in her heart of hearts. If Bobby was “possibly” the most popular guy in the sixth form then Abigail was certainly the most popular girl. Angie could think of a couple of better looking females . . . and quite a few nicer ones . . . but when it came to popularity Abigail ruled the roost.

Hell, her and Bobby getting together seemed inevitable. It was like the head cheerleader copping off with the all-star quarterback. The only puzzling thing about the liaison was why it had taken so long to happen.

The big breakup had taken place a week ago. Bobby couldn’t have been more apologetic. And Angie couldn’t have been more sympathetic.

Meanwhile Abigail kept clicking her fingers and hey, run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!

Allowing herself a measure of self-pity, Angie concluded she’d handled it well. She was a lot bigger than Bobby and could have physically crushed him with one hand tied behind her back. Never mind The Vets or the First IV; Bobby couldn’t have held his own in the Girls’ Under Twelves.

Or was she being bitchy?

Disregarding loss and jealousy, the big question just then was: Why? Why had Bobby been unable to make her cum in more than a score of attempts? And why could just a few minutes watching Liz and Suzanne instantly transport her into another dimension altogether?

Chapter Three

The music had stopped. It took Angie a while to realize how late it had got. Stirred into life, she exited the toilets and glanced left. The common room-cum-dance floor was deserted apart from the DJ. The DJ was busy unplugging speakers and turntables while his mate carried them off, presumably to stack them in some sort of van. Looking right she saw the cloakroom was even more deserted. She could see her coat hanging on a hook and no other sign of life.

Sighing, privately glad everyone was gone, she shrugged on the jacket: Docs, sweatshirt, jeans and matching denim top . . . that was her all over. And who needed anything more?

Who needed Bobby or frigging Abigail?

Well, having watched Liz and Suzanne in action, maybe she could think of a use for Abigail . . .

Making to leave the sixth form centre, Angie’s sole aim was getting home. Pubs and clubs involved people and she didn’t want to socialize. All she wanted was a solitary mile walk into town, cut price fish and chips and the last bus.

And perhaps an hour alone in bed, recalling Liz with those pistons for fingers . . .

Two figures blocked the doorway out of the building; two quite familiar figures. Miss Pearce, otherwise known as the Head of Art and Design, was unmistakable. As tall as Angie but more slender by far, her dress-sense was, to say the least, Bohemian. Although still in her early thirties she resembled a child of the 60s . . . and a hippy child at that.

Miss Pearce had drawn the short straw for the evening. She was the “responsible” agent of authority who had to ensure tonight’s disco passed without major trauma. Not that she looked like an agent of authority.

Angie took a moment to study the older woman. Her skirt was multicoloured and voluminous. Higher up her abbreviated blouse (equally multicoloured and gypsy-style) covered a lovely pair of tits and left most of her tummy exposed. Her glasses were small, round and very likely stolen from John Lennon.

And the extras she wore! Her wrists were adorned with dozens of bangles and bracelets and she had multiple rings on all her fingers. She had a silver nose piercing as well, and some sort of gemstone in her navel; a hazel-brown one which matched her eyes.

The other figure wasn’t nearly so appealing. Mr Gilbert was the school caretaker and stood at maybe five feet three. Perhaps fifty, stocky and overweight, he looked ridiculous talking to Miss Pearce.

It was akin to seeing Jerry Hall talking to a diminutive Mr Blobby.

Well, it would have been if Miss Pearce hadn’t been more like a younger, much taller Brigitte Bardot.

Seeming to sense her presence, Miss Pearce turned.

‘Ah, there you are, Angie. I was wondering where you’d got to. Hold on, won’t you. I need a word.’

Angie couldn’t have got past Mr Gilbert’s bulk anyway. She obligingly stopped, impressed by the arts teacher’s memory. Angie was a good all-round student but worse than useless at anything involving paint, flair and creativity. She’d ditched Art as soon as she possibly could, before the end of the fourth year, when it was obvious that entering her in any level of exam would be pointless.

Yet Miss Pearce remembered her name. Two thousand students and she’d remembered her name.

How crap had her work been to make an impression like that!

Miss Pearce turned back to Mr Gilbert. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right from here?’

‘Aye, lass,’ he said. ‘I lock up every night, day in, day out. One more won’t do me in. You get off. I’ll see you Monday.’

Grinning inwardly, Angie watched him waddle away. Mr Gilbert was not immune to the arts teacher’s charms. A blind person could have seen that much.

‘You wanted a word,’ she prompted. ‘I’m sorry if it’s because I’m last out. I . . . I . . .’

‘I think we should have a chat in the Roebuck,’ Miss Pearce cut in. ‘You are old enough to drink beer, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I was eighteen last September.’

‘So what are we waiting for? The pub’s only two minutes away and I’m buying.’


It was more like half a mile to the pub, but walking there didn’t take long. Angie, still wondering what on earth this chat business was all about, enjoyed talking about trivialities as they went. Miss Pearce’s mind was so agile! She could flit from one topic to another at lightning speed, taking her along as she went.

‘So what’s your poison?’ the teacher asked when they reached the bar. ‘I drink Worthington’s in here.’

Angie had noticed local barflies greeting Miss Pearce; mostly male but females too, obviously friends of hers. She must have said half a dozen hellos in the ten seconds since they come through the door.

Mind, blatantly bra-less, with tits like that and yards and yards of bare, flat stomach . . .

‘Worthington’s sounds good to me,’ Angie said.

Two minutes later they were sitting at a small round, copper-topped table near an unused darts board, frothing pints before them.

‘I’m worried about you,’ Miss Pearce began. ‘More specifically, I’m worried about you and Bobby Hill.’

Crap, this was the sort of conversation Angie had been lurking in restrooms to avoid.

‘There isn’t anything to worry about,’ she said as politely as she could. ‘I had a relationship with Bobby and now I don’t. It’s over and we’ve gone our separate ways.’

‘Bobby seems to have gone the way of young Abigail.’

‘Yeah; that’s how it seems to me, too.’

Miss Pearce reached across the table. Her fingers were long, artistic and Angie had been wrong: she had multiple rings on all of them except the third one of her left hand.

And try thinking about that without hearing Martha and the Vandellas in the background!

Miss Pearce’s touch was soft and reassuring, though. Angie didn’t object when she gently squeezed her own shorter, sturdier fingers.

‘Did he take advantage of you?’

Surprising herself, Angie readily answered the question. ‘Not really. I went into it with my eyes open. I bought condoms as often as he did. I wanted sex as often as he did.’

The art teacher frowned at that. ‘Sharing the cost of condoms doesn’t prove anything. Are you sure he didn’t pressure you?’

‘If anything I pressured him that first time. I needed to know what it was like.’

‘So he was your first?’

A brief pause then: ‘Yes, yes he was.’

‘And was he good for you?’

After a big slurp of beer Angie shrugged. ‘We did it regularly enough, so it got better. I’d say it was like us dancing; the more I did it the less clumsy I became.’

She was telling the truth when she said that. Having sex with Bobby had been like dancing with him. The body contact had been nice and she’d liked the feeling of fullness, the steady rocking of his hips and hers. And yes, it had got better . . . but not ever enough to bring her to orgasm.

God knew why that hadn’t happened. She could orgasm efficiently enough alone in the privacy of her bedroom. That was a cast-iron fact.

Somehow Miss Pearce seemed to deduce the unspoken part of Angie’s reply. ‘There’ll be other boys,’ she said kindly. ‘More pebbles on the beach, as they say.’

Angie shrugged and swigged more beer.

‘Outside of school I’m Ronnie,’ the older woman went on. ‘It’s short for Veronica, which is awfully past its sell-by date, if you ask me.’

‘Bringer of Victories,’ said Angie. ‘It sounds okay to me, but if you prefer Ronnie . . .’

‘I do.’

‘Ronnie it is then. I’m Angie in and out of school, by the way. According to my birth certificate there is no choice in the matter.’

‘You might get Ange or Angel. And I’m prepared to bet someone at uni will call you Angie Baby.’

Angie couldn’t help her brow creasing into its usual scowl. ‘Wasn’t that a song way back when?’

‘It was a hit when I was about ten. But it’s got something, hasn’t it? It stays in your head.’

‘Angie Baby,’ Angie muttered, managing a rare wry smile. ‘I could live with that.’

Chapter Four

Ronnie insisted on buying a second round of drinks then talked about uni in more depth. She had, she said, successfully completed the first year of an Economics degree at Warwick, taken a gap year and never gone back.

‘I went to Loughborough and did Art instead,’ she said. ‘Then teacher training and here I am. What uni are you targeting? Please don’t say Nottingham or Leicester. It’s best that a girl gets as far away from home as possible.’

Angie’s targeted three universities were well-scattered throughout the land and consequently met with Ronnie’s approval.

‘You’ll soon find a new circle of friends,’ she said confidently. ‘There’ll be pebbles everywhere.’

‘I’m not sure I want another pebble.’ Angie blushed (an unusual occurrence for her). ‘I’ve been once bitten, if you know what I mean.’

Squeezing her hand again, Ronnie smiled. ‘You should never discount opportunities. Life at uni is one great big learning curve. By the end of Freshers’ Week you’ll understand what I’m saying.’

Angie pictured Liz and Suzanne, wishing she’d had a clearer view of Liz’s fingers.

What would Ronnie’s fingers be like? Would all those rings hurt? And they’re so long; they could reach absolutely everywhere . . .

Conscious of the state of her panties, she thrust the image away.

‘It’s my round this time,’ she said determinedly.

‘Fine by me,’ said Ronnie, ‘I’m into equality in all its formats.’ Then, frowning again: ‘Don’t you live at the other side of town?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘When’s the last bus?’

Angie checked the clock behind the bar. ‘Ten minutes ago. The walk will do me good.’

‘How far is it, three or four miles?’ Ronnie’s hazel-brown eyes flashed. ‘I’m not letting you walk that far at this time of night.’

‘I walk it all the time. There’s even a kebab shop en route. I’ll be all right.’

‘What will your parents think of you getting home at all hours?’

‘They won’t even know. Dad works nights and won’t be back for ages. Mum works at Caesar’s; she runs the bars and won’t be back before half past three.’

Caesar’s was the main nightclub in town. It was rumoured to have hostesses. To be running the bars was about as respectable a position there as could be. Angie always took care to describe her mum’s role when explaining where she was employed.

Ronnie sighed, her disapproval only too evident.

‘I’m eighteen,’ Angie reminded her. ‘It’s hardly Home Alone 3.’

‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

‘No way; you’ve already paid for my beer.’

‘Okay then, I’ll give you a lift.’ Ronnie drained her glass. ‘I’ll have to sober up first, though. I can’t drive over the limit.’ She glanced towards the bar then back at Angie.

‘I shouldn’t invite a pupil into my house, but I don’t want you spending valuable beer money on coffee. It’s hardly the student thing to do, is it? And I only live up the hill. You could have a glass of wine while I get some caffeine inside me.’

This time the imagery was picture-perfect; Angie could actually see Ronnie’s first and second fingers piston in and out of her, rings and all.

This time she didn’t need Liz and Suzanne at all.

In her overactive imagination she could almost feel Ronnie inside of her.

‘I haven’t been your pupil in nearly three years,’ she said. ‘And I won’t tell if you won’t.’


”Up the hill” turned out to be most of the way up Everest. Well, up a hundred yards of the steepest bit of the north face. Their course led further uphill when they took a right turn at the top, but the gradient there was much less severe. Their legs even thought they were going downhill.

‘This is mine,’ Ronnie soon announced.

Angie reckoned the house was late Victorian. It was the left of a pair of semis, a couple of stories high but, taking into account the mountain they’d just scaled, it was probably three or four stories round the back. While its neighbouring property had a decent stretch of front garden, Ronnie’s had been paved over.

She blinked. Ronnie’s paved area was jam-packed with pottery items, all sorts of pottery items: jars, gnomes, toadstools, chimneypots and frogs. It was hard to be sure in the orange streetlight, but she reckoned that everything had been finished off in brightly coloured paint, making the area into some sort of wonderland.

‘Did you make all these?’ she asked.

‘Of course I did.’ Ronnie laughed gaily. ‘I’m an oils girl at heart, but that doesn’t exclude ceramics.’

She unlocked the front door, clicked a switch and ushered Angie inside.

‘Blimey,’ said Angie, confronted with a large hallway and an elaborate nude, just about covering her modesty with one gracefully poised hand.

‘It’s a Titian,’ Ronnie enlarged. ‘Well, to be precise it’s my copy of a Titian. The original is in Florence.’

Useless as she was at creating works of art, Angie had always been appreciative of finished articles.

‘It’s incredibly good,’ she said, mirroring her feelings. And it was. Angie could easily lose herself in any halfway decent gallery . . . especially if female nudes were being exhibited.

‘Titian did have a certain eye,’ Ronnie agreed.

‘No, really, this could be our blockbuster film,’ Angie gushed, enraptured by the brushstrokes. ‘Maybe we’ll be millionaires. Think along the lines of The Italian Job. A beautiful English artist makes the ideal copy. Then the loveable Cockney rogue has to swap it for the original against all the odds. And it ends up in a car chase through the streets of the biggest city in Tuscany. Maybe we could even get Michael Caine involved . . .’

‘I think he’s retired,’ said Ronnie, ‘but thanks for implying I’m beautiful.’

Angie blushed for a record-breaking second time in one day.

‘Right then, coffee,’ Ronnie went on. ‘Or are you taking me up on the offer of wine?’

‘I’ll join you with coffee.’

‘In that case I’ll set the percolator going. The living room’s through there.’

The living room was tastefully furnished but Angie took little notice of the décor; she was enthralled by the paintings on the walls. Oils with brushstrokes aplenty, they were mostly landscapes, with the odd seascape and portrait thrown in for good luck.

Brilliant; they were all brilliantly executed.

‘This is sort of a dumping ground,’ said Ronnie, re-joining her. ‘Painting in oils is a side-line of mine. I might never be good enough to copy a Titian with any great accuracy, but I’ll always be able to shift a few landscapes.’

‘Do you mean these are for sale?’

‘Most of them will be. I hang them in here and stare at them until I’m sure they’re as good as they’re going to get, then I ship ‘em off.’

Angie was impressed. ‘Do you sell many?’

‘I’m moving at least one a week. But that’s making me sound better than I am. I don’t sell direct to the public; I have a number of shops and small galleries who take my work. Then it’s not my problem, is it? Some are sold straightaway, some stick for weeks.’

‘Is that one the Peak District?’ asked Angie, indicating a vaguely familiar scene.

‘Yes, it’s Snake Pass. And it’s headed for a shop in Buxton, even though it’s not so local. Most of my outlets are in touristy areas. I’m a mercenary, you see. I paint the Peak District for Buxton, the Lakes for Bowness and so on. I’m away most of my weekends in the Peak District. During longer breaks I go further afield. That sea storm over there is Whitby in October.’ She laughed. ‘Summer holiday-makers like to see late October in Whitby, even if they do make sure they’ve headed for home before the end of August.’

‘I see your grounding in Economics shining through.’ Angie laughed with her. ‘But how did you make the jump to Art?’

‘I’ve always been arty. That gap year I mentioned was so I could go down to Newlyn and make use of the incredible light they get there.’

‘Where’s Newlyn?’

‘It’s in the far west,’ Ronnie said, ‘next stop Land’s End. Most folk prefer St Ives for the scenery and cobbled streets. But Newlyn is the real deal, light-wise.’

Not a lot wiser, Angie followed her into the kitchen and accepted a mug of finest Tanzanian.

‘It’s a lot harder for an unknown to sell her paintings in Cornwall,’ Ronnie continued. ‘The competition is relentless compared to everywhere else. Before I knew it I was living with a crowd of other young women, most of us failed fellow-artists. I suppose you’d call it a commune, or maybe a collective. We grew our own food, baked our own bread and made trinkets for tourists in our spare time: beads and rings, talismans, wicker baskets and so on. That’s what really gave me the idea of my latest side-line; not Economics but the need to have money so we could buy meat to go with our home-grown veg.’

Angie picked up on the “crowd of other young women” but chose to let it go . . . for now.

‘So you are a carnivore,’ she said instead.

Mea culpa,’ grinned Ronnie. ‘And you’re not the only one who knows Latin.’

Chapter Five

According to Ronnie, her bathroom was “the door at the top of the stairs”. When she got there Angie found she had a choice of three. The first opened into an artist’s studio. The enormous windows at the far end of the room were north facing and there were easels and canvasses everywhere.

Even in the darkness of nearly midnight she could see give-away outlines.

The impulse to snoop for more nudes was too much. Clicking on the electric lights Angie looked at the nearest canvas and wasn’t disappointed. It was of a naked woman on her back, her legs spread wide, a seductive smile on her lips. The next canvas featured a different woman in a similar pose, this time with two hands between her legs . . . but not to cover her modesty. No, that particular young lady was shamelessly parting her labia.

Was that a very forward model or the artist’s imagination? It was impossible to tell.

Clicking off the lights, suddenly wondering what she’d got into, Angie tried the second door. It opened into Ronnie’s bedroom. “Red” was the initial impression. She saw crimson covers on the double bed; fields of scarlet for the walls and curtains. In contrast the carpet and ceiling were white. That is to say the bit of ceiling that wasn’t mirrored was white.

Frigging hell . . . a mirrored ceiling!

There was another painting there too, hanging on a boxed-in chimney breast directly opposite the foot of the bed. Unable to stop herself, Angie went for a closer look, getting two nudes for the price of one; both female and in the classic sixty-nine position.

And they were so, so sensual.

Not much could be seen of the girl on top. She had a lovely curvaceous body, a mane of auburn hair and alabaster skin. Sadly, her face was obscured by her lover’s groin but even so she radiated beauty and sexuality.

So did the girl underneath. She also had a lovely curvaceous body but her long hair was straw blonde and her skin was nicely tanned. She was familiar-looking as well.

In fact she was Ronnie!

And how good must it feel to be tongue-lashed by her!!

Shocked and intrigued, Angie reverted to thinking of “the girl underneath” as “Miss Pearce”. It was her for sure; there was no doubt about that. She was unmistakable even with half of her face obscured by the pussy she was so avidly licking.

And her right breast, somehow escaped from the action and totally visible, brown nipple erect . . . well it was heavenly.

Head spinning, Angie located the bathroom and relieved herself.

‘Ah,’ said Miss Pearce when she finally made it back to the kitchen. ‘Back at last. And just in time; I’m ready to go.’

‘I could stay here,’ Angie said in an uncharacteristically timid voice. ‘Assuming no significant other is likely to drop in.’

‘I’m in loco parentis,’ Miss Pearce said with an air of finality. ‘Let’s get you home.’


The Head of Art drove a reasonably new Escort Ghia. Yet again she went from one topic to another at lightning speed, but this time not quite taking Angie with her.

Angie’s head was filled with a roaring sound. Her body was doing weird things. Having a conversation was not a realistic possibility.

Well, okay, so maybe she made interested noises in some of the right places. And maybe she put on a show of being attentive.

The roaring inside her head resembled gigantic waves crashing onto a beach, California most likely, but wasn’t there a seasonal monster in Newquay; one that ranked up there with the world’s best surf. A real freak of nature . . .

Miss Pearce would know, wouldn’t she, as a latter-day Cornish hippy.

As a woman who very obviously had sex with women.

Putting two and two together was easy to do. Half the school reckoned Miss Pearce was shagging her arty colleague, Mr Mills. Mr Mills, who insisted that his pupils all called him “Daz”, had all he looks of a Newquay surfer. Come to that, he wouldn’t have been out of place in Santa Barbara, Hawaii or maybe even Queensland.

Angie was certain most of her female schoolmates masturbated thinking about Mr Mills. She hadn’t done that herself because . . .

Well, because.

But if she’d ever been forced to masturbate thinking about a man, he would have been on the list.

The crash of incoming waves was growing ever louder. Angie could no longer hear Miss Pearce as she flittered hither and thither. Visual images replaced auditory input: Liz’s fingers in Suzanne; her current chauffeur under a pale, auburn-haired beauty, a delightful right breast escaped from the action and totally visible, brown nipple erect.

Oblivious to the fact it was already “tomorrow”. Angie couldn’t let the evening end so soon.

Oh no, no way, José.

Angie’s home was in a village about three miles from the centre of town. Bisecting the older woman’s one-sided chitchat, she asked her to pull over perhaps eight hundred yards from civilization. Frowning yet again, Miss Pearce did so.

‘Turn off the engine.’

‘Hey, who’s driving this thing?’

‘You are. You are totally in control. So turn off the engine, please.’

Miss Pearce turned off the engine.

Heart in her mouth, Angie moved in to kiss her one-time teacher.

Bugger, she’d reckoned without the seatbelt.

Hastily un-clunk-clicking, Angie moved in again.

Miss Pearce accepted her kiss but responded minimally.

Angie kissed her anew, putting more into it.

This time Miss Pearce responded warmly.

Suitably encouraged, Angie stuck her tongue into a hungry mouth.

Miss Pearce met it with bold tongue-thrusts of her own.

The enormity of what she was doing did and did not sink in. Most of Angie’s brain concentrated on the sensuous, swirling sensations of kissing. A tiny bit of it registered the fact that Miss Pearce was only the second person she’d ever romantically snogged.

And that Miss Pearce was, coincidentally, female.

Angie dimly supposed the racing feeling in her veins was an adrenalin surge. Whatever it was, it was hotter than hot.

Tongues squirming together . . .

Oh yes oh yes!

With trembling yet somehow effective fingers, she unfastened the few buttons holding together Miss Pearce’s blouse. A pair of big, bouncy and beautiful tits spilled out into her hands. It felt like catching a surge of pound coins after hitting the world’s biggest jackpot.

‘Oh my God,’ Miss Pearce gasped, ‘oh yes, oh yes!’

Kissing and licking those gems was better than winning any lottery. And sucking hard nipples was as big a thrill as . . .

Well, Angie was in no state of mind to make comparisons. Vaguely, she was aware that an eighteen year-old sucking on a woman in her mid-thirties . . .

Vaguely she reckoned it ought to be a comfort thing. Not right then, however. Oh no, right then it had nothing to do with comfort. Right then it was erotic, hot and the best thing to be doing in the universe.

Or universes, if there were more than one.

‘Oh my God,’ Miss Pearce sighed, her long, elegant fingers stroking through Angie’s short bristles (the almost non-existent stubble that passed for her “hair”). ‘Oh my God, Angie Baby, that’s so good.’

Suitably encouraged, Angie Baby stuck to her task.

Chapter Six

Twenty or so minutes of Angie’s enthusiastic tit-play and any reservations the older woman may have had vanished.

‘In the back,’ she said half-asking, half-commanding.

Angie made a clumsy attempt to clamber between the seats. Miss Pearce simply opened the driver’s side door and got in through the rear passenger door, naked from the waist up and patently not caring about any other road users. Not that there were any about. Cheeks flushed, Angie made to copy her.

‘Jacket off first,’ said Miss Pearce primly, before she could get in.

Shrugging off the denim jacket was easier than shrugging it on. Heart pounding, Angie tossed it into the back and joined her one-time teacher inside.

Miss Pearce kissed her immediately. Angie kissed back as though her life depended on it.

And she didn’t resist in the slightest at an upwards tug to her sweatshirt. In fact she raised her arms in compliance, rapping her knuckles on the padded car roof as she did so.

Shit, she thought, realizing she was wearing a very plain, very unsexy bra.

Miss Pearce didn’t seem to even notice the lack of lace. She deftly unhooked the clips and grasped Angie’s obligingly spilling breasts.

‘I’d love to paint these,’ she said before applying her mouth in a thousand and one interesting ways.

Being rational was becoming rather abstract for Angie just then. Before slipping into a trance-like state she did briefly ponder the word “paint”. Did Miss Pearce want to pose her as a nude and depict her as a big-breasted, mannish woman? Or did she want to physically paint her tits?

The idea of being physically panted was awesome. All those brushstrokes . . . the idea of dozens of individual, oil-laden camel hairs moving over her skin . . .

Worshipping Miss Pearce’s breasts had been a lifetime best. As well as sucking nips she’d ran the tip of her tongue just everywhere; over, under and all around.

Fancy having oil-laden camel hairs doing the same!

Oh yes, yes please!!

Except weren’t they really made out of squirrel hair?

At that moment in time Angie didn’t particularly distinguish between camels, squirrels or anything else. Miss Pearce’s tongue was darting about her as fast as her ever-changing chitchat, and the effect was nicer than nice.

Then, startling her, Miss Pearce took hold of Angie’s right wrist and pulled her arm up straight.

Shit! Angie had only ever shaved her pits once, and that had been years ago. Parts of Australian bush were better cropped than she was just now.

Not that Miss Pearce seemed bothered.

‘Lovely, lovely, lovely,’ she murmured.

Angie yelped as Miss Pearce’s tongue made contact low down her side, well below the hair level, and then slowly and sensually moved upwards, into deep undergrowth.

Good God, her brain yammered, that’s infinitely better than imaginary brushstrokes!

Why didn’t I do this to her!!

And why didn’t I lick her gemstone!!!

That was her last bit of rationality for a goodly while: wondering why she’d nuzzled the undersides of Miss Pearce’s tits without straying lower, investigating that chunk of agate or opal or whatever.

That oh-so sexy gemstone right in the heart of her!

It took perhaps a minute for Miss Pearce to make Angie cum by slathering her right armpit. Less than a minute later she came again, when Miss Pearce repeated the treatment on her left pit.

Then she attacked her tits.

And then, when utopia was beckoning, she pushed the tip of her tongue into Angie’s belly button.

Cue screams and a frantic bucking of lower body!

Nothing had remotely felt so good, not ever. The fullness of having Bobby’s cock deeply inside her seemed puny and of no account in comparison; not of any account whatsoever.

Not that she wasted a single brain cell on the male of the species. Not at a moment like that.

Miss Pearce’s hands were busy: unbuckling Angie’s belt, adroitly undoing the stud button and deftly tugging down the zip. Angie sighed yet again. She hadn’t ever been so aroused, not ever.

Still murmuring ‘Lovely, lovely, lovely,’ Miss Pearce decided it was time to progress.

Given her sturdy body, Angie had never bothered with figure-hugging pants. Not that she did baggy. No, she’d always done loose-fitting. Consequently, when ordered to “lift your bum” her denims were almost immediately around her knees.

So too were those wrecked and ruined knickers of hers.

Bugger them, though. Unlike her pits, she had shaved down there, but only to the extent of a number one guard. The resultant bristles seemed to meet with Miss Pearce’s approval.

‘Oh yes,’ she cooed, ‘how delightful.’

The feel of her nose nuzzling through stubble was unworldly. Angie wasn’t sure exactly how strongly she’d cum during the pit-licking episode; it had been a pale shadow of now, however.

‘More, more, more,’ she yelled.

Now she erupted like Krakatoa East of Java . . . except ten times more violently. If the earth didn’t move for her it must have moved for everyone else.

Tidal waves across the Pacific or what!

Falling down from her highest ever plateau wasn’t an option. Miss Pearce’s so-busy tongue wouldn’t allow it. No, it kept her up there in the clouds, stimulating and stimulating.

Suddenly Miss Pearce’s extremely long, extremely elegant fingers were inside her. Suddenly Angie had more to think about than a deft tongue tip.

Could life possibly get any better!

Angie had known all along that opinions about her had been valid; she was “that way inclined”. Bobby had been an experiment, now she had what she’d always really wanted.

Now she knew what “good” really meant.

Now she had the real thing.

And oh my, the length of those fingers!

Without being crude, they went in the full way, far, far beyond Angie’s G-spot. Then they withdrew, oh so slowly, the soft pads at the tips eventually finding her, stimulating her before reluctantly moving on.

And then, when the loss was at its greatest, when the emptiness physically hurt, they returned, their course as sure as before, those soft pads retracing their route.

As if that wasn’t enough Miss Pearce’s free hand traced rings around Angie’s clit; tight little rings that would have been mind-blowing in themselves.

Angie had already lost count of the cums. Indeed she’d forgotten what even counted as a cum. Being up and excited was enough, wasn’t it? And wasn’t she up!!!

Mere moments ago she’d thought life couldn’t possibly get any better but suddenly, incredibly, it did. Keeping two beringed fingers deeper than deep inside a defenceless pussy, her tongue going every which way, Miss Pearce grabbed Angie’s tit with her free hand. And squeezed it . . . hard!

Angie had been beyond dribbling, into oozing. Suddenly she was flowing like the River Trent.

And still the pleasuring went on. Miss Pearce’s mouth was sucking on her clit. Two of her beringed fingers were delving ever deeper into her and . . .

Angie’s all-time record was three self-induced orgasms in one solo session. Without building, without any noticeable warning, she came three times at once: bam, bam, bam . . . just like that.

Still breathless, it happened again: bam, bam, bam! Harder this time, much harder than anything in her wildest dreams.

And, when it happened a third time, lights exploded in her head and the whole world went blank.

Chapter Seven

Back in the front, redressed by Miss Pearce and almost in control of her senses, Angie giggled. And giggling for her was such a rare event that it made her giggle even louder.

‘That was so fantastic,’ she finally said. ‘Talk about a baptism of fire!’

‘You’d better not talk about it at all,’ the older woman replied, ‘not unless you want to get me out of a job.’

‘Miss Pearce,’ said Angie, ‘I will never, ever breathe one word. Even on the rack and tortured with red-hot irons, I won’t jeopardize your career.’

‘I’m Ronnie, not Miss Pearce.’

‘Ronnie, ditto and likewise; I’ll deny everything and dream of you every night. And I’m not regretful, by the way. I wish I could shout out about us. I wish everyone could know.’

‘So do I,’ said Ronnie. ‘But resist the temptation, please. ‘You’ve got six months of school left. I hope to have another thirty years.’

The half of a mile drive to Angie’s family home only took a couple of minutes. Angie directed Ronnie to a parking area perhaps fifty yards past her front door.

‘Baptism,’ Ronnie said, her engine safely switched off. ‘Anyone would think that I was your first girl.’

‘You were.’ Angie could feel her cheeks heating up as she confessed.


‘I honestly do not believe it.’ Ronnie held up a hand, blocking Angie’s protest. ‘You’re sexier than sex,’ she went on. ‘And you’re dangerously good, with it. I could easily get addicted.’

‘I want to try that sixty-nine with you,’ Angie blurted.


‘Like on that picture in your bedroom. I want to try that. I want to watch us doing in again and again in your overhead mirror, too.’

Ronnie laughed. ‘So I have a spy in my midst, do I?’

‘I got the wrong door,’ said Angie, more or less truthfully, ‘luckily for me. You can paint my tits as well, either way.’

‘What do you mean “either way”?’

‘Either on canvas or for real; for real would be best.’

‘Do you mean painting on your . . . your breasts?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘My word,’ said Ronnie. ‘I’ve created a monster!’

‘You’ve helped me find myself,’ Angie hurried on. ‘Tonight’s been life-changing.’

‘You heard what I said about my career.’

‘And you heard what I said about racks and hot irons.’

Angie unfastened her seatbelt and leant in for another kiss. She was dimly aware it was close to three in the morning but didn’t give a fig. Not about getting inside her home, anyway.

This time Ronnie’s tongue was in Angie’s mouth, thrusting vigorously. Angie sucked on it and, aware she’d been very much the receiving party so far, put her hand on Ronnie’s thigh.

Ronnie didn’t even begin to object so Angie walked her fingers inside those voluminous skirts, tracing a line up the inside of a smooth if rather clammy thigh.

Oh yes, she thought. Oh yes, yes.

The teacher’s panties were possibly as wrecked and ruined as hers. They felt flimsy, too. There was a narrow strip of warm flesh between them and the skirt’s waistband. If it had been cramped in the back of the car now there was even less room for manoeuvre. Not that lack of space could stop Angie.

Still sucking fiercely on Ronnie’s tongue she slid her hand down, easily defeating the knickers’ elastic. She was completely hairless under the soggy fabric. Angie could feel her contours; she had swollen up like a ripe peach.

Although she would have dearly liked to use her mouth it simply wasn’t possible to get her head down there. She could clearly remember Liz and Suzanne, though. And her hand was already in position.

Wishing she wore lots and lots of rings, Angie found Ronnie’s entrance and gently pressed.

And instantly the first two fingers of her right hand were inside the woman.

‘Oh yes,’ Ronnie moaned, momentarily breaking their kiss, ‘oh Angie Baby!’

Angie couldn’t believe the baking heat of her. She’d never noticed anything like it when she fingered herself. And the flow of her was tidal; never mind rivers, Ronnie was like oceans!

The angle of her hand made it hard to piston in and out, the way Liz had been doing. But never mind. Ronnie had been slow and tender and supremely fantastic. Glad her fingertips were turned the right way, Angie searched for the G-spot, quickly locating a slightly rougher area and trying to replicate the sweet attentions she’d been given.

Ronnie broke off from kissing again and wailed.

‘Oh Angie,’ she went, ‘oh Angie Baby!’

Not so very long ago Angie had assured her older lover that she had been treated to a life-changing experience that night. Wrong! The life-changing experience was right now, when all Ronnie’s intimate muscles contracted around her fingers.

Bright lights filled Angie’s head, scales fell from her eyes. She’d just made a fellow-female cum! The feeling was even better than having a fellow-female make her cum!! It was immense. It was the grail she had unknowingly been chasing all of her life.

‘Oh Angie,’ Ronnie groaned, ‘oh Angie Baby . . .’

Angie kept working away at that G-spot, being slow, tender and taking care to course up it, tantalizing it by leaving it a second before coursing back down, brushing it before leaving in the other direction.

And all the while Ronnie was clenching and clenching as if the contractions would never end.

Hopefully they never would.

Chapter Eight

The new lovers parted ways around three thirty, moments before Angie’s mother got home from work. Angie left with assurances she would never tell and that she was up for more. Miss Pearce said she didn’t do “tied down” and had a career to worry about.

‘It would be a week of scandal for you,’ she said, ‘the end of the world for me.’

To Angie’s credit, the thought of blackmail never crossed her mind. ‘I only want to physically tie you down,’ she’d said, ‘not emotionally. And I still want to go under that wonderful mirror of yours.’

‘Tie me down physically!’ Miss Pearce laughed. ‘You’re even more of a monster than I thought.’

‘I’m only joking.’

Okay, but let’s go softly, softly. Know what I mean?’

Angie managed softly, softly through the weekend but cracked Tuesday lunchtime. By then she’d had little else but Veronica Pearce in her mind for the last eighty hours; something needed to be done.

Forsaking her right to the coveted “first dinner sitting”, Angie made her way to the arts rooms, arriving around ten past twelve. The arts rooms were in a remote part of the school, as far away from the sixth form block as possible. In fact they were as far away from civilization as possible. Waist-high internal windows in the corridor allowed her to see into the school’s most creative area.

On first glance the rooms were deserted.

Then Angie caught a glimpse of a tall woman in voluminous skirts and John Lennon glasses, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, a tea cup in the other, flitting about in the background.

No sign of any of the other art teachers. But there wouldn’t be. While Mr Mills spent lunchtimes in the gym Roz and Zack had been an item for ages, only ever to be found in Zack’s car at that time of day, hungrily eating each other’s mouths for dinner rather than good old school meal stodge.

Even non-arts students knew that.

And not that Angie wanted to find them . . . or Mr Mills, for that matter.

She let herself into the room and, seeing a key in the lock on the inside, impulsively turned it.

‘Oh,’ said Miss Pearce, her sandwich gone, cup still in hand, ‘it’s you.’

Angie advanced on her without speaking and mashed their mouths together. Miss Pearce allowed her maybe ten seconds then pulled away.

‘We can’t,’ she said earnestly, ‘not here.’

That only encouraged Angie. She took hold of the tea cup and deposited in on a nearby desk. Then, somehow remembering the geography of the arty place from years ago, tugged the older woman into a storeroom, closing the door and pressing her up against it so it wouldn’t easily reopen.

The storeroom smelt of paint and Swarfega but hardly registered. Neither did the shelves filled with all manner of creative materials.

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