Well hello, dear reader. Here we are then. Gosh. You know how it's always hard to make small talk with a stranger and start a conversation off? Well, imagine...that's me, here, right now. Not quite sure where to begin this...what? Memoir? Confession? Guilty little secret, I suppose. Except not really so much of a secret any more, I guess. But more of that later; I'm getting ahead of myself.

Introductions. As good a place to begin as any. My name's Charlotte Waverly, and I'm a pervert. At least, that's one of the things I've been made to call myself in the last few months. One of the nicer ones, if I'm honest. I've certainly been called far worse.

I'm not sure I can really put my finger on exactly how or when it started; when it moved from what I imagine are fairly normal, common fantasies and a little kinky bedroom play to something more...involved. It's difficult to draw a line and say "this was the point it happened." It's a bit like asking "when does something stop being damp and become genuinely wet". Hmmm. Interesting metaphor. I wonder if that's Freudian at all. I digress. I do that when I'm nervous, it seems.

I don't suppose it really matters a great deal when it started, though. I know I've always had certain, shall we say 'inclinations', right from as far back as I can remember. Someone close to me suggested it might have been instilled during my schooling; like a number of my friends, I went to quite an exclusive all-girls boarding school in the Scottish mountains not too far from Edinburgh, all old grey stone and high vaulted ceilings, and due to the oddities of Scottish law and the fee-paying school sector corporal punishment was still, at least officially, permitted. I must admit it was never administered to anyone whilst I was there, at least not to my knowledge, but the threat was certainly there, running through the fabric of the ancient classrooms and traditions like the letters through a stick of rock; in the dour personage of our fusty old-school Headmistress (known to all, teachers and pupils alike, simply as "The Warden"), whispered in hushed, fearful tones by the more nervous girls in response to suggestions of misbehaviour or "high jinks", or obliquely referred to in the copper-plate italics scribed by long-since-retired hands in the academic almanacs of years gone by: "Summer term 1936, Buchanan House: three ladies of house (lower school), six strokes of the tawse each; house docked six house-points in total", or "Michaelmas Term 1952, Gladstone House: two ladies of house (upper school) accepted ten strokes each of birch upon bare (in preference of exclusion) for lewd and drunken behaviour; house docked ten house-points; all weekend exeats revoked for month of November".

I think putting the blame for my kinkiness on my strict schooling is pushing it a bit though, personally; after all, the school turned out hundreds of what the prospectus describes as "fine, well-brought-up young ladies" over the centuries, and I'm sure not all of us have turned out to be raving masochists. Then again, maybe they are. I guess I wouldn't know. In my opinion though I think it's more likely that these stood out to me at the time because of my existing predilections, rather than being the cause of them. I do know that my reaction to some of these was different to those of my peers though. I remember when we found those entries in the almanacs, in a dusty corner of the senior library; it was pretty much all we talked about all that evening after supper. But my friends' comments were of the usual well-to-do liberal "corporal punishment is barbaric, it's like something out of Victorian times", "I'd never hit MY child" persuasion. Me, I remember, I tutted and nodded along and let them get on with it, but I took that image to bed with me that evening, imagining the girls in their nineteen fifties uniforms, knee socks and pleated skirts, blazers and shirts and ties in my slightly fevered coming-of-age masturbatory fantasies that night, my "watershed moment", curled up beneath the starched sheets and heavy wool blankets, in the dark, holding my breath and trying not to make a noise in case I woke up my dorm-mates and they figured out what I was doing...I imagined them, sitting at their desks, heads bowed in shame and waiting nervously before being called to the front of the class (and yes, I know, there was nothing in the ledger about it being a public punishment, but even back in my formative fantasies I guess the idea of public humiliation really got to me. Nothing ever changes but the shoes, and all that); the hush in the room as the first girl's name is called, her standing trembling, head down, smoothing her skirt as she walks to the front, trying to calm her breathing. I remember sliding my hand into my nightgown, teasing my nipples erect as I thought about her turning her back to the room, bending over the desk, the whole class watching as she's made to raise her skirt to her waist, exposing her milky-white thighs and white panties tight over the cheeks of her behind, sliding my fingers down over my belly under the heavy covers as I thought about the teacher tugging those panties down to her knees, exposing everything to her peers before taking the evil looking birch to those soft cheeks, reddening them, my fingers working away at my wet pussy as I visualised her sobbing and squirming there in front of everyone under each stroke. I still vividly remember biting on a big bunch of the sheet as I came that night, trying to keep that silent shuddering orgasm a secret lying there in the dark, drifting off to an exhausted but satisfied sleep imagining the looks her friends gave her the next day, those knowing glances, little giggles and whispering amongst groups as she walked past, laughing at the way she winced as she walked and blaming her for the loss of their weekend freedom...

I'm sorry. I'm rambling again. It's that "nervousness" thing. Lost in my own little world for a second. So...I imagine you want to know all about me. I know I would, in your position. I'm 27 years old, and I'd like to think if you saw me in a bar you'd stop and take at least a second glance. You might think that sounds conceited; it's not meant to, just an honest appraisal. I'm 5'7" tall with straight naturally blonde hair, shoulder-length and choppy around the fringe, big brown eyes which I'm told mean I can't hide my emotions; apparently, whatever I'm feeling is all too clear right there on my face. My skin's lightly tanned pretty much all year round, one of the benefits of money, I suppose, with a few freckles on my nose. I used to hate those when I was younger, but I'm told they make me look "cute". To be honest though, I used to hate being described as "cute" too, but it doesn't seem to have done me any harm so I guess I've learned to go with it and use it to my advantage.

I keep myself pretty fit; I run, I swim, I ride horses, so I'm toned and trim without being overly muscular, and I have curves and soft bits where there should be curves and soft bits. Not fat though. I mean, I've got the same hang-ups as any girl - 'does this make my arse look big?", "are my thighs dimpled?", you know, stuff like that. But not fat. That's important. We'll get to that. I'm a UK size 10, maybe an 8 on a really good day, with a fair wind and a lot of holding my stomach in.

What else? 34C boobs, and as far as I'm concerned they're my best feature (depending on my mood. Sometimes, it's my eyes). I learned to use them to my advantage too, if I'm honest. Firm-but-soft, "perky" I'm told; I've had my fair share of compliments in my time. Pale, smooth skin, still firm and definitely pert (and again, that's important. You'll see why, trust me), nice round undersides and soft, concave curves to the tops. "Ski-slope tits", I'm told. Go figure. Small nipples, pink and not too dark, but definitely sensitive. Oh yes; I discovered that early on. Flat tummy, you can make out my muscle-tone if you look but I've still got a tiny little swell of belly over my waistband. Not too much, but soft enough to bury your face in and not have those rock-hard abs you see on dancers and those weird body-builders. Let's leave the looking macho to the men, shall we ladies?

Definitely good legs, though. Toned and shapely (if I do say so myself), again it's the riding and running and swimming we can thank there. I do get compliments on my thighs. At least I used to. These days, 'comments' more often than 'compliments'. You'll see why. Calves look good in pair of heels too, you know, the way they elongate the leg and make everything just that bit slimmer looking. And I do so love a good pair of heels. Shoes and handbags. One of my downfalls.

Oh, and my bum. Yes, mustn't forget my bum. "Spankable" apparently. Like most women, I always used to worry it was too big, too round, you know, all that riding (horses. I know what you're thinking), but I'm assured not. Men told me, often, that it's perfect. But then they would say that, I suppose. Still, a couple of my girlfriends said they're jealous of my arse, too, so who knows. We don't see ourselves the same as other people, do we? Anyway, firm, round, and pert. Yes, that word again. It's one I've heard applied a few times. And who am I to argue, really?

There are other things I could tell you, too. About my tattoo, for example. And where it is. And...other stuff, too. Stuff I'm sure you'll enjoy, and are just itching to hear about. But I decided it made more sense to do it all in chronological order. Patience, dear reader, is a virtue. Let's see where that takes us, shall we?