The last day of school

In one of my stories, I touched upon the theme of my school years, and now I want to continue in that direction and tell another entertaining story.

The last quarter is the shortest in terms of class hours, but the longest in terms of feeling. It's already hot outside, we're 18, we're young and full of hopes and dreams, the green grass, the sun, and we don't want to sit at a school desk—fortunately, there's not much time left—but to walk around, have fun, and relax. In short, to live! And when that long-awaited moment arrives, when the homeroom teacher hands out the report cards with the final grades, a crazy, deafening wave of happiness crashes down

on you like a tsunami.

Already a week before the magical Friday, conspiracies, negotiations, movements, purchases, and other actions aimed at preparing and implementing the plan—"We are graduates!"—had begun.

The venue was initially chosen to be the dacha of one of our classmates, but then it turned out his parents weren't opposed to spending the weekend there themselves, so everything had to be moved first to the outdoors (fortunately, we live on the shore of an amazing lake and the evenings are already warm), and then to an apartment free of parents. Naturally, with the change of venue, the initial menu also underwent changes, giving way to salads and chicken in favor of shashlik and sausages. But the main content, so to speak the "wine list," remained unchanged.

After quickly changing clothes following the final class hour of the school year, we gathered as a whole class at the agreed-upon spot and went to retrieve the hidden "magical liquid." It must be said that in those days, a teenager couldn't move freely around the city, especially in a group, with liquor and vodka products in hand. The cops worked very efficiently in that regard back then. And so it was this time; we hadn't even turned the corner before we were stopped by a patrol squad. A cheerful sergeant and a very stern warrant officer demanded an explanation for our gathering and to present our bags for inspection. Ha-ha! Nothing but bottles of lemonade, meat, loaves of bread, and vegetables were found in the bags. A superficial pat-down of our bodies also yielded no results. Not hiding their surprise and disappointment, the police officers got into their UAZ van and drove away.

Waiting until the rattling tin can disappeared around the corner, we started laughing loudly and praising each other for our quick thinking. But the main heroes of this incident were Igor and our girls. It was his idea to play it safe and hide the containers with the "magical liquid" under the long skirts of our female classmates. The thing is, last time, he and two other guys got caught by a police patrol with bottles of port wine and were detained. Then came the parents, the teachers' council, and other unpleasantness. Not to mention that we all were left without a refill. Although the latter was probably for the best. So this time, Igor insisted on such safety measures. The girls initially refused, but we presented and organized it all so cheerfully that it started to resemble a spy game, and they agreed.

It was very interesting and quite erotic to attach the containers with vodka and wine between the legs of our female classmates, while they lifted the hems of their skirts, terribly embarrassed and blushing. Squeaking and cursing when we "accidentally" touched the delicate skin of their lovely legs, supported by approving shouts, the girls meekly waited for the procedure to end. When everything was ready and we left the apartment and headed down the road, everyone diligently joked and teased the girls, whose gait had changed. Naturally, the jokes were of a very sexual nature. Everyone tried to say something witty and maximally vulgar. The laughter and jokes instantly ended when the police patrol spotted us. Everyone quickly became serious, especially our "smugglers." It seemed they might faint from fear. Their faces became so white and expressionless. When the police inspection ended and the officers left empty-handed, the laughter and guffaws doubled. "I almost pissed myself!" Valya shouted, laughing, and her girlfriends echoed her. "I thought, now he's going to say: 'And what's that under your skirt?' and there I have this, and I'm done for immediately!" the girls began their revelations. "How scary it was, awful!" Natasha shared her impressions with tears in her eyes.

So, discussing what had happened, we reached spot X. A stressful situation always brings people closer. Even such a trifle as a police patrol had already made us all feel even more like family. We hadn't even drunk the "magical liquid" yet, but we already felt impossibly drunk and cheerful.

Then there was shashlik, then fried (or rather, burnt) sausages, port wine and vodka were drunk. Then it was just vodka. Everyone was very merry and feeling good. When it got dark, and our faces and figures began to disappear in the night gloom, and it became somewhat chilly, and we still had THAT in reserve, then, as planned, we went to Nikita's apartment. Laughing loudly, cheerfully discussing events from our school and non-school lives, we reached the warm, bright room. Only we lost more than half the crew along the way. Some went home because their parents would "tear them apart if they didn't come home," some were already against continuing the banquet because they were tired and wanted to sleep, some left as a couple. In the end, six of us remained: Me, Stepan, Nikita, Natasha, Dasha, and Olya. Which didn't upset us one bit, as there wasn't that much vodka left anyway, and we six were the ones having the most fun.

Going up to the apartment, we quickly, trying not to make too much noise, set the table, laid out the leftovers from our outdoor feast, took something from the fridge, and continued pouring the intoxicating drinks into ourselves. It wasn't that we really wanted to drink so badly, but the walk in the fresh air had practically evaporated the alcohol from us, and we wanted to plunge back into a state of complete, unrestrained merriment.

Thanks to the alcohol, the friendly interaction between Nikita and Olya quickly grew into a sudden love, which they shamelessly demonstrated to us in the form of kisses and hugs. Olya had never been a particularly inhibited girl, and rumors about her exploits had been circulating since the seventh grade, so the male contingent of our class always considered her a girl of easy virtue, but now, apparently, that didn't matter fundamentally to Nikita. Judging by the bulge in his pants, he was more interested in the girl's body than her moral qualities. Olya, apparently, wasn't against such a development, as she unconditionally allowed Nikita practically everything. The guy, no longer embarrassed, groped her butt and, thinking we couldn't see, or not caring that we could see, reached under the girl's skirt. Olya smiled blissfully and continued to kiss the guy self-forgetfully.

Stepan, who desired tenderness and affection no less than any young man, watching Nikita and Olya, decided to show persistence towards Natasha. Under some pretext, whispering something in her ear, he led the girl to the kitchen, where he disappeared with her. As a result, I was left practically alone with Dasha. Dasha was Natasha's friend; they spent almost all their time together, so, having lost her friend's shoulder, the girl became a little sad. I moved closer to her, but not shamelessly closing the distance so as not to scare her. "Why are you sad, Dashul? Missing school?" I started searching for a topic of conversation. "Nooo! I'll never be sad or miss it! So glad the holidays have started!" the girl answered me. I always liked Dasha. She was quite pretty and very shapely. She didn't have big breasts, more just an indication of their presence, but I never attached much importance to that part of the female body. I liked how she smiled, how she talked, and how she moved. I liked her voice and laugh. I probably would have tried to "hook up" with her, but the constant presence of Natasha next to her, both at school and on the street, didn't give me that opportunity. Now, finally, I had a chance to test my fate.

We started talking about today's events, discussed the adventure with the police again, then funny situations at the picnic, then remembered something from our shared stories. We got so carried away in conversation that we didn't notice Nikita and Olya disappear from the couch. Our conversation with Dasha turned to relationships between men and women. She expressed her point of view on it, and I expressed mine. We started cheerfully arguing and proving our points to each other. At the same time, I didn't forget to pour more "intoxicating liquid" into both my glass and Dasha's. Left alone, and enjoying the conversation and interaction with each other, we got drunk quite quickly to a very intoxicated state where your head is buzzing and your tongue doesn't obey. The conversation turned into a playful fight, during which we tried to poke each other's bodies with our fists as painfully as possible. I, of course, only indicated the blows and playfully flinched from Dasha's pokes. This amused the girl greatly, and she got so carried away that she decided to push me off the couch and started grabbing my neck and shoulders, pulling me to the floor. I gave in, but managed to grab the girl by the waist, and we both crashed onto the carpet together. Dasha ended up on top and started pummeling my chest with her little fists. I, pretending to be a defeated warrior, playfully begged for mercy, but then, maneuvering, arched my back, grabbed the girl's legs, threw her off me, and ended up on top myself.

— Aha! Now you are my victim and prey! I've captured you!" I shouted joyfully and triumphantly. Dasha started to struggle, but where could she go with her 40 kg against my 70. Realizing the futility of her resistance, Dasha began to beg me to let her go, acknowledging her defeat: "Okay, okay, you won! Come on, get off, you fat elephant!" "Nooo! I won't let you go just like that! Give me a ransom!" I demanded. "What ransom?! I don't have anything!" the girl said, surprised. "And I don't need a material ransom! I demand a kiss!" I replied, and without letting Dasha answer or object, I immediately pressed my lips to her mouth and sank into her lips. The girl, from my audacity and speed, didn't even have time to do anything and was forced to moan and shake her head in protest, but I clung to her like a leech and enjoyed her warmth and taste. Even during the playful fight, I had managed to get aroused, and now, getting the chance to enjoy the girl's lips, my arousal grew even more. My member began to grow rapidly and strain to get out, bulging my pants. Since I was practically lying on Dasha, the girl immediately felt that something very hard was now pressing into her stomach. Quickly realizing what that thing was, the girl began to struggle and resist more actively, transitioning from a state of semi-playful resistance to a real battle. Strong blows to my cheeks made me recoil, and her screams and curses at me forced me to get up and sit on the couch. The girl got up from the floor, straightened her clothes, and said: "You jerk! Do that again, and I'll tell my brother, he'll smear you, got it?!" I wasn't afraid of her brother, but her tone and fierce look made me feel slightly ashamed of my actions. "Come on, Dash. Why did you get so mad? So what, I kissed you. I just like you, and have for a long time, so I couldn't help myself!" "And between your legs, it couldn't help itself either?" the girl continued angrily. "And I'm not the commander there!" I parried, smiling: "It's on its own!" "Well, then sit here with it on your own, and I'm going home!" the girl answered angrily and headed for the hallway. I hurried after her, wanting to change her mind.

Dasha first decided to call Natasha from the kitchen, where she was stuck with Stepan. She turned towards the kitchen and froze in shock. Through the glass, semi-transparent door panel, it was clearly visible why Natasha hadn't come out with Stepan for so long. The girl was half-lying on the kitchen table on her stomach, her skirt was pulled up onto her back, her panties were pulled down to her knees, and behind Natasha stood Stepan, also with his pants down to his knees, clearly trying to push something between Natasha's buttocks. Frozen in surprise, we clearly heard Natasha say: "Styopa, no, don't, it'll hurt! Let's do it next time!" "Don't struggle! It won't! I've done it before! I'll insert it now and everything will be fine, you'll start to feel good!" Stepan answered impatiently. The guy fussed a bit more with Natasha's butt and, apparently, finally, spreading its halves and finding the entrance to the cave, inserted his organ. Natasha started screaming and struggling: "Fuck! It hurts, bitch! Get the fuck...!" But Stepan, having reached his coveted goal, was deaf to the screams and insults and, continuing to hold the girl pressed against the tabletop with his strong hands, sharply thrust his pelvis forward, driving his weapon all the way into Natasha's body. Natasha howled and thrashed like a wounded fawn, plaintively and shrilly. "Quiet, you'll wake the neighbors!" Stepan demanded, stopping his forward movement and enjoying the sensation of his sunken member in the female body. The glass panel heavily distorted what was happening on the table, but even so, it was clear the girl was trying to break free. "Let go! Faggot! Let go, I said! It huuuurts!" Natasha continued to moan. Apparently angered by the squeaks and wails, Stepan didn't wait any longer and started pounding the girl. The table shook under his thrusts and began tapping against the wall, clinking with tableware and squeaking unpleasantly. In time with these sounds and Stepan's thrusts, Natasha squeaked, experiencing the pain of losing her virginity. At that moment, Dasha, who had been watching the scene spellbound, turned and went into the room, and I followed her. From the sight I had seen, I became even more aroused. It seemed my member would now rip the zipper on my pants and burst out, searching for a crevice to copulate. My groin ached, and my ears were ringing.

— How could she?" was the first thing Dasha said, sitting on the couch. She was very surprised by what had happened in the kitchen. She never expected such an act from her friend. She was always against sex without a long-term relationship and was a proponent of the first time being after marriage. And then this. "Stepan doesn't even like her! She said herself he's a jerk! How could that be?" she asked again, this time addressing me. And I, well, I knew exactly what the matter was: "Wine, port, vodka! And Stepan knows how to handle girls. An experienced Casanova! You wouldn't have resisted either." "No! I can't do that! That's, ugh! Only with love!" Dasha objected to me. "Well, of course, with love! Only it suddenly came unexpectedly and quickly!" I argued, moving closer to Dasha, not losing hope of "taking care of" her today. Dasha noticed my advance and wanted to fight back, but I quickly indicated that the goal of my movement was to get closer to the bottle with the remaining vodka. I took the container and poured full shot glasses of the clear liquid for myself and Dasha: "Let's relieve the stress! To the new couple in love, Natasha and Styopa!" Dasha wanted to refuse, but then, reluctantly taking the shot glass, tossed it into her mouth. I immediately followed her example and emptied mine. "No! She's a fool! Got drunk and gave herself up like a whore!" Dasha suddenly uttered. "I don't respect her anymore!" "Well, that's a shame! You can't decide like that! She's still your friend and the best! Who knows what happened between them," I expressed disagreement: "What if the opposite had happened, and you were there with me doing that, do you think she would stop respecting you?" A complex logical process was happening in Dasha's drunken mind, but the final conclusion wasn't formulating. "Probably yes, because we're the same!" Dasha finally answered: "Although you're right, vodka brings people together!" And she smiled with an idiotic grin. "So let's drink to us getting closer!" I suggested: "As a pledge of friendship!" "Okay! But no kiss! Or you'll get aroused again! And that's ugh!" Dasha answered. We linked our arms with the shot glasses filled to the brim and drank. The intoxicating liquid again flowed into our stomachs, poisoned by previous consumption. Even though I remembered Dasha's condition of no kissing, I still quickly hugged her and kissed her. Dasha weakly snorted something but didn't start struggling or pulling away, which allowed me to continue caressing her lips.

After about thirty seconds, I had already slipped my tongue between her little teeth and started searching for a partner. Dasha, finally feeling the pleasure of a kiss, gave herself up to the new sensations with delight. I kissed the girl more boldly and persistently, while activating my hands, which began to hug the girl and stroke her. Dasha was very warm and pleasant to the touch. My fingers delightfully traveled over her back, shoulders, waist. When I, emboldened to the impossible, placed my hot palm on her chest, Dasha pulled away and blurted out: "Well, you're getting bold! Getting carried away! A pledge of friendship is just for kissing!" Dasha couldn't even pronounce "pledge of friendship" clearly anymore, which made us both laugh. I filled our shot glasses again and we drank to the new street name "Bluedenshaft." I started kissing the girl again, this