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Prologue Hello readers, this is Rupali. I know what you’re thinking: if Rupali is writing the foreword for one of Belinda’s “Headmaster” stories then her secret mystery man is no longer a mystery. It’s true; I know his identity. I feel a bit late to the party because her readers knew so long ago but … well I’m one of you now; no more secrets. The story that follows is – Belinda tells me – the second of three on my discovery of her secret. I read the first one: ‘Twisting on the …’ – I can’t say the rest, it feels like bad luck. I can vouch for the first part before she left the dorm, but as for the rest … frankly I think she made some of it up. Belinda also let me read the other stories. I didn’t like the ones with me in them; it was weird reading an ‘I’ and ‘we’ story (ED: We call that First Person Narrative, Roops. BL) where I was getting all of the attention. It’s like having sex with yourself, but not in a good way. To make it up to me, Belinda promised to write me a story where I was the ‘I’ and she was the ‘she’ (ED: A Ghost Written First Person Narrative. BL). “And it will be super hot!” she assures me. We’ll see. This is that story. I haven’t read it yet, but Belinda has been asking me some very personal questions about the day we went shoe shopping, so I guess I know what it’s about. I hope you enjoy it. Please don’t make up too much stuff, Belinda. I love you. R. (ED: Love you too, sweetie. BL)~~~ “Do they do autopsies on heart attack victims?” I asked Belinda. “Depends,” she said. “Maybe if they’re young. Why?” “Because I don’t want my parents to read ‘Evidence of sexual arousal’ in the Other Comments section of my post-mortem,” I replied miserably. In truth, I was feeling anything but miserable; I was only half kidding about the heart attack because my heart really was pounding like a marching band on meth, but I was also excited, apprehensive and so, so horny. “Oh, you poor princess,” Belinda teased. “Have you lost your crown?” “Don’t be snotty, sweetie,” I told her. “It doesn’t suit you. And mind the wind; I think you just flashed your bottom.” That took away some of her sass. She looked around and checked for people behind us – there weren’t any, I had already checked three times – and then smoothed her summer school dress and held the hem casually with one hand. “What was wrong with the last two stores, anyway,” I asked. We were shoe shopping … well that’s what Belinda said we were doing, but we had walked in and straight out of two shops already. What we were actually doing was fulfilling a fantasy for her, but if I got a nice pair of heels out of it then … hey, win-win is still a win, right? OK, that’s a lie; it was a fantasy for ankara travesti us both, so win-win-win if I get the heels. “Um, the creepy old pervs, for one,” she said, “who were undressing you with their eyes the moment you walked in. Don’t you want to flash a hot young guy, Rupali.” “I don’t recall saying anything about wanting to flash anyone!” I lied, because playing up the reluctance seemed to fit with the fantasy. “You make a valid point about creepy old guys, but I’m sick of walking, so promise me you won’t make any excuses when we find a shop with a young hottie.” “Promise,” she smiled. That was a pretty quick agreement; I got my first inkling that I was being set up. There was another shoe shop up ahead and I looked in as we passed the window. Empty: good. Half past three on a Wednesday afternoon in early spring is a good time for shoppers and a bad time for shop-keepers; even the streets were pretty empty of pedestrians. We stepped in the door and looked around for the shop assistant … oh, fuck it! “Let’s go,” I said. “There’s another one down the street.” “Hang on,” Belinda whispered. “He’s pretty young and handsome.” “He’s pretty young and Indian!” I hissed. “You’re being racist,” she said. “I’m Indian!” I glared at her. “I can’t be racist to another Indian.” “You told me you were Australian,” Belinda smiled. “Besides, what’s wrong with Indian? Hot is hot in any package.” “He’ll judge me,” I explained in a whisper. “Indian boys think all white girls are sluts and all Indian girls are chaste virgins. If you flash him he’ll smile and enjoy it; if I flash him he’ll think I just crawled out of the gutter from fucking a wino.” “You’re being melodramatic,” Belinda rolled her eyes at me. “Besides, he could be Pakistani.” “Right! A Muslim with a little statue of Ganesha on his desk?” I asked, tapping one foot and giving her my best ‘Oh, really?’ look. “Hey, don’t get your panties in a tangle!” she teased me. “I’m not wearing any!” I hissed. “And it’s your fault!” “Well me neither, but I’m being a bit more grown up about it,” she shot back. “Look,” she said, suddenly getting all serious and trying on her commanding act; but at 4’11” and three-quarters, blonde elfin features and wearing a green and white striped summer school dress, Belinda looks about as commanding as a Brownie … although I concede she does look a lot hotter. “This is how it is,” she delivered the ultimatum, “he’s hot and you promised. Is any of that untrue?” “You set me up, didn’t you?” I said. “Have you been here before?” “That’s hardly the point,” she defended. “Am I, or am I not, the Queen of Hot?” I sighed. “You are the Queen of Hot, Belinda. And I am but your humble servant ankara travestileri girl.” This was a familiar game. “If I say it’s going to be hot, is it ever not?” She had a point. She comes up with sexy games on an almost daily basis – the girl’s got imagination – and she never strikes out. Ever! “If you say it’s going to be hot, it’s going to be hot.” Sigh. “This is going to be hot, Rupali.” She looked up at me with blonde eyebrows raised. At 6’1”, I’m more than a foot taller than her; why do I let her push me around? I could pick her up under one arm and walk her out of the store myself. “OK. Let’s go.” God, was my heart hammering before? Now it was about to leap out of my throat. The shop assistant – pardon me; the hot, Indian shop assistant – started towards us with a big smile. He looked to be our age or a few years older and he was also about my height – nice and tall – narrow across the shoulders and chest, but with slim hips he still had a very manly shape. His thick, wavy black hair was trimmed to a neat length and his long face was made handsome by prominent cheek bones and a strong jaw. His skin was a lovely coffee and cream brown like mine, so his family was probably from the North, or he might be carrying some British colonial blood and – still my beating heart – he was clean shaven. Why so many Indian men want to go around with a mustache looking like a criminal – or worse, a pervert – is beyond me. “Hello. Namaste,” he said, “Welcome to Sundara. My name is Rajit.” He pointed to his name tag. “How can I be of assistance?” Oh God. How did I get myself into this?~~~ It’s possible Belinda had been planning this for some time – she loves the long game – but the first I knew of this fantasy adventure was the night before when we were in bed together playing Hot Five. We are both in Year 12 at an exclusive private school in Sydney – what Americans would call Senior Year at High School. We live in the senior girls’ boarding house; I am new this year and Belinda has been a boarder for years, so we were a natural pairing for roommates as far as the Boarding House Mistress was concerned. Clearly she overlooked the whole tall vs. tiny, brown vs. pale, brunette vs. blonde, sporty vs. bookish situation, but perhaps she knew something we didn’t because within the first month of school we became lovers and best friends. We’ll never share clothes or shoes or make-up, but we share our emotions, our dreams, a love of sexy games – and on one incredible occasion, we shared Belinda’s mystery boyfriend, although I was blindfolded and still do not know his identity. At least I didn’t at the time; but the day of the shoe shopping fantasy was travesti ankara the day I found out. Hot Five is another of Belinda’s inventions. One person thinks of a topic … OK, Belinda thinks of a topic and then together we agree on the five hottest examples of that topic. Without fail it gets us so aroused that we have to quit the game to make love, which is true of all Belinda’s games and one of the things that makes her so special. We were spooning in the dark in my bed, Belinda’s tiny form folded into mine like a Russian doll; my left arm under her neck and my right hand cupping her breast through the sheer satin of her nightie. This is how we usually sleep until she gets too hot – literally, not figuratively – and sneaks back to her own cold bed. “Hot Five things you do with your clothes on,” she began. “Oooh, good one,” I said. “I know Number One already.” “You just go ahead and think that, sweetie. But remember who’s the Queen of Hot.” “Of course Your Majesty,” I said deferentially, giving her breast a little squeeze. “But it was your royal personage who was the number one hottest thing with your clothes on at the beginning of the year. Do you remember No Panties Tuesday?” I was smiling with the recollection. Trish had dared Belinda to go sans panties all day at school in a game of Truth or Dare, but Belinda had grown out of her school dress over Christmas and it barely covered her pussy. She spent the whole day sitting with her laptop bag on her knees and ended up getting a yellow card to visit the Headmistress. “Remember it? It’s burned into my psyche, from embarrassment though, not hotness!” “Oh, it was hot all right,” I laughed. “You were so nervous and red faced; you just drew more attention to yourself. Every time you twisted in your seat to see who was watching, that tiny dress would ride up. I saw your pussy three times.” “Oh, you dirty perv!” she cried, elbowing me gently in the stomach, the poorly veiled glee in her voice betraying her words. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” “We were just roommates then,” I said. “And afterwards it never came up. I still think about it when you’re not around though.” “OK then,” she said. “In that case, Number Two is you playing netball without your shorts.” From the sound of her voice, I could tell she was smiling in the dark; pleased to turn the tables on me. I was selected for the school’s First Seven netball team at the start of the year and didn’t realise that there was an unlisted item of uniform. The official uniform is a pleated netball skirt worn over the school gymnastics leotard with a netball bib. The leotard is very high cut and – for gymnasts at least – is designed to be worn with opaque tights so that it is athletic rather than sexy. What I didn’t know is that all of the girls buy black athletic shorts to wear under their skirts so they don’t have to shave their bikini line before each game. “Fair enough,” I smiled.
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