A Game Of Consequences Ch 07

Chapter 7. Passing the Test

Author's note

: For the benefit of non-British readers, universities in the UK offer places to students based on the grades they are required to get in their 'A'-level exams, taken around the age of 18. These are normally stated as 'Three As' or 'An A and two Bs', as most students specialise in just three subjects at this level. So a student might say 'I've had an offer of three Bs from Bristol', for example. (Nowadays, A grades are much more common than they used to be, so there's the added component of 'with Merit' or 'with Distinction'). If a university really wanted a particular student, they would make an 'unconditional' offer - the place was there regardless of grades achieved. Oxford and Cambridge colleges, and some other prestigious establishments, also had their own entrance exams and interview process.

*****

My interview was scheduled for 11:15. I arrived for breakfast around eight and sat with Phoebe, who was already there, looking a little dishevelled but still, in my eyes, pretty. We kissed.

"Yolanda doesn't seem too happy this morning," I remarked, looking across at the curvy blonde.

"Yes. She told me she took two of the rugby types back to her room last night," Phoebe replied.

"Two? Wow! That's adventurous."

"Yah, but she said it didn't live up to her expectations," Phoebe replied with a smug smile on her face.

"How so?"

"She said they both fucked her, but they couldn't make her come. It was only when one of them ate her pussy that she had an orgasm, and then not a strong one. She said his moustache kept tickling her and put her off. Meanwhile, both of them came in her mouth, and she said the taste was nasty."

"Whereas mine was delicious, according to my local cum connoisseur," I smiled back at her.

"Well, 'delicious' might be taking it a bit far, but yah, I told her. And that we'd both come three times."

"What? You told her about us..."

"Of course! Just because she's pretty, she seems to think she's entitled to great sex. I wanted to show her that she was wrong about you, and probably about me too. I think she thought I was just a virgin geek. I guess she might be a little disappointed that she swapped with me last night."

I would have found the look of self-satisfaction on Phoebe's face somewhat irritating if it hadn't been put there by my success in giving her - and myself - significant sexual pleasure. I smiled back.

When she was called for her interview at ten, I pondered some more on what to say when I was called. I'd lain awake until about two AM, alternately grinning like an idiot, remembering my impromptu sexual adventure with Phoebe and then agonising about the upcoming interview. Now I applied a technique Jill had taught me - and the whole class - called 'Mind Mapping'. It was a great way of summarising your thoughts, playing the game of consequences that led to the ultimate revelation. This aspect of the problem (or solution) leads to this, leads to that - and so on. By eleven, I realised I had the makings of a coherent answer to the question "Why do you want to come to this college?"

The panel comprised two of the people I'd heard speak the night before and one or two I hadn't previously seen. There were several crusty old men, and also a couple of middle-aged women. They had name-cards in front of them but they didn't bother to introduce themselves. I scanned the panel to see who I should focus my answers on; obviously the chairman, or whoever asked a question, but I felt one of the ladies might appreciate my boyish charms and slightly rakish look.

They asked me about my background, why I'd chosen History as a subject, my interests and hobbies. Finally, they got to the question I'd been anticipating. I glanced down at my mindmap, looked the chairman in the eye and started.

"I won't insult you by quoting Santayana, but a sound understanding of history is crucial for anyone capable of shaping the future of their employer, their country or the world - even shaping themselves. It's not sufficient to

know

history. If we don't

understand

it, we can never really learn from it. Every action is that proverbial stone dropped in a pool of water; if you like, one move in a game of consequences. The ripples will go out and on to affect things that were never meant to happen, and only by having a firm grasp of not just what happened but

why

it happened and its full consequences can we hope to shape the future."

So far, the reaction seemed good. I next looked at Professor Edmonds.

"And shaping the future is what this establishment, and every other one like it, is about, isn't it? You, sir, Professor Edmonds, said last night that the college was ready to enter the 21st Century. But while

you

will shape

us

, it is

we

, the students, the next generation, who will ultimately seek to shape the century ahead of us. Right now, I'm eighteen. I currently have no clear idea of how I could best employ a History degree from Oxford. I'm hoping that, over the next three years, that will become much clearer. But I do know that whichever path I choose - politics, journalism, the civil service, the diplomatic corps, academia, teaching - I will, in some way, shape the future, if only by influencing others. That's a powerful responsibility, and one of which I'm acutely aware."

I was watching for the body language. The odd contemplative pout, the slightest nod of the head. Yes, I felt I was getting there. One of the women I'd identified earlier seemed to be looking at me with interest, so I directed my gaze toward her and continued.

"My wonderful History teacher helped mould me with care, but I'm still a blunt instrument, lacking maturity and edge. I'm hoping this college, with its excellent reputation for producing great historians, effective politicians and above all

thinkers

, will give me that edge. I would like to sharpen my skills to the point where I can cut a way through the future with knowledge and perception, and not have to beat a path through sheer perseverance. And in so doing, I hope to carve a legacy that both I and this college can be proud of." I felt I could see a few nods and the odd expression that seemed to say 'He's thought about it and appears to understand what this is about.'

When I left the room, I was confident that I'd done as well as I could. I sought out Phoebe.

"Oh, I'm worried," she said. Her face bore a rather concerned expression.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"When they asked me about my ambitions, I started stammering. I mean, I'd done all the preparation, and I felt confident going in there, but I got the impression that they didn't like me. Maybe I just talked too much."

I thought that there was a distinct possibility that she could be right, but I wanted her to win her place as much as I wanted my own. What we'd done the previous evening felt not only special but something we both wanted to repeat. I liked her. She was fun, and also a spectacular fuck - not something I would have thought when she'd appeared beside me at the meal on the previous evening. Any disappointment I may have felt at having been unable to test my charms on the sexy Yolanda was washed away on a tide of Phoebe's pussy juices as her ankles bounced on my shoulders. Any doubts I may have had about this entitled, upper-class geek, were removed when she screamed 'Fuck my slutty cunt!' (Or, to be phonetically accurate, 'Fack may slatty kant!') Frankly, I wanted more.

"Hey, Phoebe, you aced the entrance exam, I'm sure you did well enough in the interview, and they'll make allowances for nervousness. You just need your grades now, and I guess that'll be a formality."

"I guess so. Can we - can we go somewhere?"

"OK. Just let me change my clothes. I feel overdressed in a suit and tie."

I changed into a t-shirt and jeans and joined Phoebe at the gatehouse. She still had on the same short summer dress she'd worn at the interview (I guess as a tactic to interest the panel's male members' male members). We left our bags with the porter and headed out.

The 'somewhere' we found was a punt-hire place on the Cherwell, just down from Magdalen College.

"Come on," I said. "Let me be a gentleman and punt my lady friend along the river." She smiled. I smiled back.

And then we were drifting down the river, with me occasionally dribbling river water from the end of the pole onto my jeans and trainers, while she lay back on the cushions in the bottom of the shallow craft, stretching out her long, skinny legs for me to admire. Her cute mini-dress just seemed to accentuate the length of those legs.

And then - and then she reached under the skirt and pulled down her panties, sliding them off. She lay back, lifting the hem of her skirt to her waist. "Cunt in a punt?" she said, looking at my expression, which must've been one of undisguised lust.

I found a spot to beach the punt, avoiding the side with the footpath, and scurried up the bank, slipping behind a tree and some bushes. It was a Tuesday afternoon near the end of term, so there were fewer people around than we might have expected. My back was against the tree as she came within a hair's-breadth of sucking me off. Then she stood as I knelt, holding her skirt up as I again demonstrated my vaginarian skills. There's something unbelievably sexy about licking a bald pussy that you don't get from pushing your tongue through a mat of hair. Phoebe certainly felt the benefit of all that plucking.

And then she did something that few girls could do. She lifted her leg so it was vertical, her face pressed against her shin. "Fuck me like this," she breathed, hoarsely. I retrieved my last condom, and moments later, I slid into that tight, wet little hole. Maybe it was my fingers rubbing her clit, maybe it was her whispering filthy expletives into my ear, maybe it was the position or the risk of discovery, but neither of us lasted very long. I was palming her nipple, rubbing her clit and thrusting as deep as I could in that weird, standing position, my cock going in at almost ninety degrees from the normal angle, and she was moaning and gasping. And then she sighed "Oh yes, I'm coming!" And I let go, pressing my body tightly against hers.

At the station, a couple of hours later, we exchanged phone numbers, addresses and a lot of kisses. This was long before everyone had a mobile or even an email address, so our only way to communicate was by post or landline. Our trains took us in different directions, but we again kissed and embraced in the doorway of her train carriage until the station master blew his whistle.

"Fucking write to me!" was her parting comment as the carriage door closed.

*****

"How did it go?" my Mum asked me as soon as I walked through the door.

"Well. I feel pretty confident. I think they liked me." I gave them a brief resumé of the induction and interview process.

"Did you meet anyone you might be friends with if you get in?" My Dad seemed determined that I should make social contacts, especially female ones. I saw no reason to avoid talking about Phoebe.

"She's nice. Her dad's rich. He used to be a Tory MP." My Dad made a noise. He'd always voted Labour. "But she hates his politics. She might even be a Communist for all I know. But she's bright and fun."

"Is she pretty?" Mum wanted to know.

"Perhaps not conventionally," I replied after a moment's consideration. "She trained as a ballerina, and she's very skinny. But I like her, and she seemed to like me."

I could almost hear my father's swallowed enquiry about whether we'd had sex, but I just smiled at them both. "Anyway, folks, I need to have a shower and chill a bit. I have work in the morning."

Dad laughed. "Work? I'm not sure you know the meaning of the word! Standing behind a counter in W H Smiths isn't exactly taxing."

"Oh, Jim, give the boy a break," Mum said. "Go on, Richard. Don't mind your Dad. He's just jealous."

"Jealous?" Dad snorted. But I headed upstairs before getting involved in any further discussion.

*****

"So, posh boy; how did it go?" Sharon, one of the permanent staff about my age, was quite attractive in a 'curvy' way, if rather rough. I felt that she'd been flirting with me a bit on and off since I'd started at Smith's and I still couldn't work out whether she fancied me or if she was just winding me up.

"Oh, hi Sharon. Yeah, pretty well, thanks. I think I may have passed."

"So are we gonna see you on University Challenge or in the Boat Race?" I guessed that University Challenge wasn't Sharon's usual viewing fare. East Enders was more her style. But her tits looked impressive in her tight W H Smiths uniform shirt, and she appeared to be flaunting them at me, as the top two buttons were undone.

"Who knows?" I replied. It felt like she was just cock-teasing but she looked like she could be the kind of dirty girl that Phoebe was playing (very successfully, I might add) at being. I just smiled back at her and, for the rest of the day, we exchanged glances that could've meant we were sharing a joke - or that we were sizing up to fuck. It felt like fun.

It also felt strangely like a bit of a betrayal. I'd told Jill I loved her, and although she'd told me not to be silly, I still felt a deep affection for her. But if I did love her, what was I doing, fucking Phoebe and now flirting with Sharon? So I reminded myself of what Phoebe had said; that Jill was married and would undoubtedly have been having sex with her husband, and she'd rejected my professions of love, so why shouldn't I fuck other women? But then if I'd taken Jill's rebuttal to heart and decided, at least emotionally, to move on - probably to Phoebe - then, again, why flirt with Sharon, who was never going to offer more than a quick, dirty fuck? Because with Phoebe, I thought I'd found a connection and one that wasn't solely through my cock. But my cock seemed to have a will of its own; something that afflicts eighteen-year-old boys and makes them lose sight of rational and reasonable behaviour. (In many cases, the affliction is life-long).

Now Phoebe's parting words were 'Fucking write to me!' so I 'borrowed' a Basildon Bond writing pad and a nice (demonstration) Parker pen from my employer and, during my tea break, I started composing a letter.

Dear Phoebe

It was so special to meet you at Oxford, and I'm glad we got to know each other so well (!). I hope you had a safe and pleasant journey home on Tuesday. Life here has returned to normal; I have a part-time job at W H Smith to fill in until (hopefully) I go up to Oxford in late September. I get Sundays and Mondays off, although I may have to make up the day I took to go to Oxford for our interviews. Maybe we can meet up again sometime soon - at least before Freshers' Week.

Please reply soon. I'd like to say more, but I'm not sure whether anyone will be opening your mail for you. Call me if you like - I'll be around most evenings this week. You have my number.

All the best

Richard

I wanted to say to her how much I'd enjoyed our multiple fucks, that she was sexy and I rather desperately wanted to find another opportunity to fuck her brains out. But I had no idea whether she opened her own post or if her rich family had a butler or housekeeper to do that for them.

The day dragged on, despite the intermittent flirting with Sharon, but I posted the letter that lunchtime and then spent a boring afternoon tidying shelves and selling pens and refills. (Don't forget, in 1989, for most people, home computers, mobile phones, email and texting were all in the future, and people actually

wrote letters

, by

hand

, with

pens

!)

That evening, the phone rang. "Richard, it's for you!" my Dad called up to me. I didn't think it could be Phoebe, as my letter wouldn't have arrived, but as I got downstairs, Dad clarified as he handed me the receiver.

"It's Mrs Dawson," he said, and then went into the lounge, leaving the door open. If he could hear me, I had to remain formal. And if I closed the door, he'd know something was up.

"Hello, Mrs Dawson. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you, Richard. I was calling to find out how the interview went."

"Oh, thanks. I think it went well. I prepared thoroughly, I used the mind-mapping technique you taught us, and I think I found a form of words that impressed them. The offer letter should be here by the end of the week, I hope. How was your weekend away?"

"Oh, it went well. I think - I think things are working out. My husband has applied for a job in Edinburgh. It's a significant promotion. His boss says the application is just a formality and he should get it, so I've handed in my notice. I'll do some supply teaching when I get there and network until I find a school that suits. And if the Edinburgh move falls through, I can always do supply here for a while until I find another position."

The shock left me almost speechless for a moment. "So you're - you're leaving the school?"

"That's what I said, Richard. Yes, I know you and some of the others have said nice things about me, but as I said in Rome, it's time to move on. And anyway, you'll be in Oxford for the next three years, assuming you get your grades, or Durham if you don't, so whether I stay at the school or not will be somewhat, er - academic to you." She gave a short laugh at her pun.

"But - but..."

"So I meant to ask if you intend to go to the school dance on Friday?" As I said before, we didn't use the American word 'prom' back then. "Tony and I have drawn the short straws and will be the responsible adults, charged with preventing actual sexual congress on the hall floor, though we won't be able to police the bike sheds. I don't know why I chose a job that involves keeping hormonal teenagers from ripping one another's clothes off. It's not like it's something I'm eager to do." I could sense the sexual undercurrent but guessed her husband might be within earshot. "So will you be coming?" Ooh! Was that a double-entendre?

"Yes, Mrs Dawson, I'd very much like to

come

on Friday. I'm looking forward to seeing you then."

On Friday morning, just before I left for work, a letter arrived from Oxford. It contained an offer of three Bs. I stared at it in disbelief. Back in those days, 'A' grades were hard to achieve - only around 10% of all students got an A. The top universities usually demanded three As, ensuring that they only took the best of the best. My offer from Durham, my second-choice university, was a seemingly generous A and two Bs, so the grades I needed to get into Oxford, my first choice, were

lower

than those I needed for my second choice! It seemed to say 'The place is yours as long as you don't fuck up.' On my lunch break, I went to the nearest phone booth and rang the school, asking to speak with Mrs Dawson.

"Richard, that's amazing! That's the lowest offer I've ever heard of from an Oxford college. They must want you. In your case, that's almost an 'unconditional' offer. I don't doubt that you'll get an A in History, and if you don't get at least a B in your other subjects, I'd be astonished. Well done! You must've interviewed well."

"It's all down to you, Mrs Dawson. Your - er - interview practice was inspiring. I've learned so much from you. I'd like to learn more." I hoped that, with the receiver against her ear, nobody else would hear my suggestive comment.

"Thank you, kind sir. We'll talk about it this evening. The 'A'-level results will be published in a couple of weeks. We need to organise a little celebration for you - and your classmates." I noticed the slight pause and smiled.

Sharon seemed to want to flirt with me some more during the afternoon. We were working together in the books department, and she pulled a couple of titles off the shelf. They were from the 'Black Lace' range - the most explicit erotic literature you could get in a high-street bookshop in those days.