I was a typical rebellious teenager when it happened. Just turned eighteen and with a normal teenager's attitude of "adults know nothing." My mum understood, after all she'd been a eighteen year old girl too once, but my Dad and I argued all the time, he just wouldn't shut up about taking responsibility, learning the value of money, taking my education seriously, blah, blah, blah!
His attitude had rubbed off in one area though - I didn't "go with boys". Not that I didn't have plenty of offers. If I say it myself, I was the best looking girl in school. I had long straight blonde hair, large blue eyes and a slim, narrow hipped body. I was just the right side of skinny and my breasts were a nice B cup. I could have had my pick of the boys, and quite a few teachers by the looks they gave me, but I was going steady with Marcus. We'd known each other for years, our parents knew each other well too, and we'd always got on.
Over the time we'd been boyfriend and girlfriend he'd pushed his luck once or twice but we hadn't gone further than kissing and touching each other with our clothes on - except for one time I'd given him a hand job at a friend's party but we'd both been so drunk neither of us could really remember it! No, I was determined to stay a virgin until I got married, hopefully to Marcus.
So I was eighteen, beautiful and still a virgin. I didn't realise it then but that made me very desirable to a lot of older men, especially when I was wearing my school uniform - pleated skirt, white blouse, tie, blazer and, of course, white knee high socks. I'd noticed the looks of course, it was something every girl had to get used to. Men would look us up and down as if they were determining if we were worth anything - like a farmer sizes up a cow they might buy. I'd grown accustomed to the stares but over the last year, when my breasts had become much more noticeable, the stares had become more intense, the men looked at me hungrily now, as if I were their prey. It scared me, and if I'm honest, thrilled me a little too.
We lived in a suburb of a pretty ordinary town in the south of England - me, my little sister, my mum and my dad. To say it was boring was an understatement. I couldn't wait to finish my exams and get away to university.
One Saturday I woke up late, 11am, and my Dad immediately began to have a go at me. He was fed up with me lazing around and not pulling my weight. He banged on at me that now that I was eighteen I should get a part time job - a Saturday job in a shop or something. I got angry too and, after pulling on some clothes, stormed out. Looking back I know now he was completely right - I was selfish and lazy and really didn't appreciate how hard you have to work for your money.
As I stalked down the high street I made my mind up to get even with my Dad. If he wanted me to get a part time job then I would but it wouldn't be something he liked! It was only a few minutes later that I noticed a sign in the window of the local kebab take away. It was a dingy little place which smelt of sweat and cooking fat. The sign said they needed part time help and a plan formed in my mind.
My Dad was an unspoken racist - he never said anything politically incorrect but we all knew he didn't agree with immigration and he especially didn't like the small Asian population that had sprung up in the less affluent part of town. He was quick to criticise them and deemed them all dirty. He particularly didn't like the kebab take away and had said it was filthy and had taken work away from the local fish and chip place - run by whites!
I admit that the thought of working in that hot, smelly takeaway was not appealing but I was still angry and wanted to get back at my Dad. I walked in and up to the counter. A fat, sweating Asian man in his late fifties was standing by the till. When he noticed me I got the familiar appraisal but this time it was done without any hint that it was something wrong. His eyes slowly moved over my body taking in every inch, especially my breasts, before finally meeting my own.
"I'm here about the job." I blurted out.
Slowly, without any embarrassment his eyes moved down to stare at my breasts again - his fat tongue appeared between his lips and licked them.
"Girly want a job here in Mustafa's?" He said with a very thick Pakistani accent.
"Yes, that's right. I can only work in the evenings or at weekends as I still go to school - does that fit in with what you want?"
"You still at school girly?" He asked.
"Yes, St. Catherines."
"Ah yes, the girls with the white socks." He smiled revealing yellow, crooked teeth.
"Ummm, that's right." I felt nervous then, not sure how I was supposed to answer.
"Hmmmm," he said rubbing a fat hand over his bristly, unshaven chin. "I need Thursday and Saturday night six til eleven. Minimum wage. You want?"
I was unsure, he hadn't asked me any questions about my experience or skills. His eyes continued to roam over my body and a look of wanting passed across his face. Despite my naiveté I quickly realised why he was offering me the job! I started to reconsider - I wasn't sure I could bear this old letch leering at me for two nights a week. Then I remembered my Dad - this would really piss him off and with any luck within a couple of weeks he'd relent and probably even increase my allowance.
"Yes, that's fine." I said. He looked very pleased and rubbed his hands together.
"Start tonight, six. Don't be late." He said.
"Ummm, okay." I said, suddenly unsure. I turned and left, all the time feeling his eyes on my bottom.
