Paid In Full

School days, I was always led to believe, are the happiest days of your life. With that in mind, I spent the summer after leaving school feeling pretty short changed. My school days hadn’t been all that great, so if they were the happiest, the rest of my life was looking pretty grim. Then I started university and realised that I had been deceived. Everything about university was better than school: the sense of freedom; the feeling of adulthood; the girls. Mainly the girls, in fact. I know many grown men would pay good money to be surrounded by girls in school uniform all day, every day; but after thirteen years of it, it was a blessed relief to see girls freed from the uniform, expressing themselves in their choices of clothing. Of course, being of a similar age, they all wore the same types of clothes anyway, but that wasn’t the point.

Having chosen to study computing, however, you would naturally expect that my class consisted entirely of awkward, quiet boys in glasses, and you wouldn’t be far wrong. There were two girls in the class, though: Susan and Kirsty. The remainder of the class was divided into two camps, depending on which of the girls they fancied more.

Most of the class favoured Susan. She was the more conventionally good-looking of the two; shortish, but with a nicely proportioned figure, attractive face, long blonde hair, and – inconveniently from our point of view – a boyfriend. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he was in our class as well, so the Susan fanciers had to be extra careful not to drool too obviously in front of him. In our opinion, of course, Craig shouldn’t have been there – a bloke with a girlfriend had no place in a computing class. They were both destined to drop out after first year.

Conveniently, I found Kirsty more attractive. She was pale, freckly and a tiny bit kooky looking, but she had a mass of flaming red hair and an innate sense of fun which won me over. What she didn’t have, unfortunately, was any kind of aptitude for computer science, although as it turned out this wasn’t too much of a problem. I spent a lot of time getting to know Kirsty well as a friend without finding the courage to actually make a move on her, while she spent a fair bit of time flirting with various class members in exchange for help with her coursework. By the end of first year, however, she had worked out that I was the most receptive to her flirting, plus – without wishing to sound big headed – I was more likely than most to give her answers that were actually correct.

This particular event took place near the end of first year. We had been set an essay on something particularly dull but important, the point of which was to demonstrate how much – or how little – we had learned during the year. Being a bit of a swot I had completed the essay with time to spare and was relaxing in the union bar after another arduous day of doing very little when the doors swung open and Kirsty bustled in. Attempting to play it cool as usual I pretended to be engrossed in a magazine and she spotted me and came over. “Hi!” she gushed.

I looked up from my magazine and nodded casually in her direction. “Afternoon.”

She came closer, which I was quite happy to let her do, and adopted her coy pose. “Dave...” she began.

I lifted my head to meet her gaze. Damn, she looked cute, but I had to play it cool. “Mmm-hmm?” I replied, as nonchalantly as I could manage.

“You know that essay that’s due tomorrow?”

She tilted her head to one side and began to twirl her hair around her index finger in an attempt to look even cuter. It smacked of desperation, but I was finding it hard to resist. “Let me guess, you want me to help you with it.”

“Well, yes... you could say that.” She sat down beside me, allowing her leg to come into contact with mine. If she had been as proficient at computing as she was at flirting, she wouldn’t have had to go to all this trouble.

“Okay, okay,” I sighed, with a smile. “Let’s see what you’ve got so far.”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing. I haven’t done anything. I don’t even know where to start.”

I dropped the magazine. “What? You want me to do the whole thing? In one night?” No wonder she was flirting so hard. At least she had the decency to look sheepish.

“Dave, I’m desperate,” she pleaded, batting her eyelids. “Please? If you do this for me I’ll do anything you want.”

I pondered this for a minute. Helping her out was one thing, but doing an entire essay for her? The fact that it was all-out blatant cheating didn’t worry me as much as the fact that it meant I would have to do twice as much work. Not only that, but it would have to be completely different from my own essay so as to avoid suspicion. Hang on, what did she just say?

“Anything?” I repeated.

A tinge of doubt crossed Kirsty’s face. “Well, within reason...”

Of course, I knew exactly what I wanted her to do, but I couldn’t possibly ask her. Could I? As it happened, I wouldn’t have to.

“I mean,” she continued, “what do you want? Money? I’m a bit skint at the moment, but I could borrow...”

“No,” I stopped her. “I don’t want money, that wouldn’t be right.”

“Well, what then? Humiliation? Do you want me to beg? Lick your shoes clean? I could go and jump in the swimming pool or something...”

“Hmmm!” I raised my eyebrows thoughtfully as if the idea had never occurred to me before. “Talk me through that last idea.”


“Well, you know, there’s nothing special about jumping in a pool per se. People do it all the time. In fact, just about everyone who goes swimming jumps in the pool, unless they’re the kind of wimp who sits on the side for ages and eases himself in slowly...”

Kirsty sighed. “Look, the last swimming class of the day ends at 4 o’clock. On a Tuesday there’s an evening swim class at 7, which gives us three hours when the pool isn’t being used but isn’t locked up. If you get that essay to me tomorrow morning, next Tuesday we can both sneak in there and I’ll jump in the pool with all my clothes on. You get to humiliate me and I don’t get thrown off the course. Everybody’s happy.”

I was becoming a bit suspicious. How did she know so much about the pool’s opening times? And why did she keep mentioning humiliation?

“Tell you what,” I said, checking my watch. “Today’s Tuesday. It’s half past three now. I’ve got a completed essay in my bag. I’ll give you that now if you jump in the pool today.”

I was pushing my luck here, but I strongly suspected that this wasn’t going to be as much of an ordeal for Kirsty as she was making out. My guess that she wanted to jump in the pool and had even taken the trouble to work out when she could do it without being disturbed. The question was, did she just want to it for fun, or did she secretly want to be humiliated?

“Today?” she repeated. “But I’ve no other clothes to change into.”

“That’s right, you’d have to go home in your wet clothes. Imagine the humiliation! Everyone staring at you as you walk home, soaking wet...” I watched her face; I was sure she was trying to hide her excitement at the idea. It could be an embarrassing walk home; her white long-sleeved t-shirt was sure to go see-through. “Of course, if you wanted to take the easy option I suppose we could wait till next week.”

“No, no, it’s fine, let’s... er... let’s get it over with.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out the essay. Kirsty reached out to take it, but I withheld it for a moment. “Dressed just as you are now?”


“Shoes and all?”

“Yes, just give me the damn essay!”

I handed it over. “See you at five,” I grinned, walking out.

It took a few seconds for my brain to snap out of self-congratulatory mode and register the possibility that I’d just been duped. I’d given Kirsty the essay before she’d completed her part of the deal. Arse. Now there was no reason for her to jump in the pool – she had what she wanted, why would she put herself through it?

Unless, of course, she wanted to.

Even if was up for it, she only lived five minutes’ walk away, so she had plenty of time to go and get a change of clothes. The bit about walking home soaking wet was just a spur of the moment addition on my part, there was absolutely no reason for her to do so.

Unless, of course, she wanted to.

More through hope than expectation, I dutifully turned up outside the pool area at five o’clock, expecting to be stood up. I needn’t have worried. To my surprise, Kirsty was already there, waiting for me. She looked pointedly at her watch. “What kept you?” she grinned. “We haven’t got long!”

This threw me slightly. “We’ve got two hours,” I reminded her.

She shook her head. “They start setting the place up for the evening class at six. Factor in the time required to make a successful getaway and that gives us, at best, half an hour.”

“Wow.” I stared at her. “No wonder you didn’t have time to write that essay. How long have you been studying the comings and goings here?”

“Long enough,” she shrugged. “Come on!”

With a cursory glance around to make sure no-one else was in the vicinity, she disappeared through the door to the pool. Feeling like I was in a dream, I followed her through the changing area to the pool itself, carefully stepping over the foot bath which Kirsty had just splashed through, wetting her shoes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to do this,” I mused.

Kirsty walked to the edge of the pool and gazed down into the water, then tossed her hair back and threw me an innocent look. “Whatever makes you say that?” she asked sweetly.

Before I could reply, she took a few steps back, then ran forward as if to launch herself into the pool. Somehow, though, she managed to stop herself right on the edge, her arms flailing as she fought the momentum and regained her balance. “Whoopsie!” she laughed. “Not like this, it’s too easy. Anyway, I haven’t tested the water yet.”

With that, she sat down on the side of the pool and began to swish her left foot through the water. At first she allowed only the sole of her baseball boot to breach the surface, but with each swish more water crept over the sides until the whole shoe was immersed. She then proceeded to do exactly the same with the other foot, leaving her sitting with both shoes submerged and the water lapping around the hems of her jeans. After a few moments she retrieved her feet from below the surface and stood up, clearly enjoying the feeling of her socks squishing inside her sodden baseball boots as she walked towards the steps to the diving board.

The diving board? Bloody hell, she was really going for it. Wordlessly she climbed the ladder, her shoes squelching with each step, until she reached the board. Somewhat unsteadily she edged out towards the end of the board, her arms outstretched to steady herself, while I watched on, open mouthed. There was no doubt about it, this was no forfeit, Kirsty was as keen to jump in as I was to see her do it. It was certainly more than I had hoped for, to see the lovely Kirsty standing at the end of a diving board, ten feet above the deep end of a swimming pool, fully clothed and ready to jump in.

Slowly, carefully, she began to bounce. As the board gathered momentum, Kirsty just had time to call out, “This essay had better be bloody fantastic!” before the flexing of the board forced her to jump.

I can only imagine how Kirsty felt as she passed the point of no return, but for me time seemed to slow to a crawl as she leapt into the air, almost as if she had momentarily achieved the power of flight, before gravity suddenly noticed what was happening and pulled her down towards the glistening water. I watched, mesmerised, as her already soaked boots hit the water and disappeared below the surface, then her jeans, her white top, and finally her glorious red hair.

A second later she reappeared above the water. Her hair was plastered to her head, and more importantly, her white t-shirt was plastered to her chest, clearly displaying her white bra through the semi-transparent cotton. She bobbed around for a while, treading water as she came to terms with the realisation of what she had just done. For a second she looked as if she might be regretting it, then she saw me staring and grinned. She swam towards me and hauled herself out of the pool, allowing the water to stream out of her clothes and leave them clinging to her body like a second skin. I took a good long look as she stood before me; after all, I’d been longing all year for this to happen and it was unlikely to ever occur again. Then I remembered why we were here. “You shouldn’t be smiling,” I scolded her, with an equally large and uncontrollable grin on my face. “This is supposed to be a forfeit!”

“That’s right,” she agreed, before launching herself at me, enveloping me in an enormous wet hug.

I gasped, not because of the cold water soaking through my shirt, but more because I was cuddling the girl I’d fancied all year, and she was soaking wet. Opportunities like this didn’t come along very often, so I took the initiative and wrapped my arms around her. Damn, that felt good. I ran my hands up and down her back, peeling the clinging material away from her shoulders and making sure to get a good feel of her bra straps underneath.

Perhaps Kirsty objected to my wandering hands, or maybe she felt my growing excitement elsewhere, but she pulled away at this point, still smiling, took a step back and began to primp herself. She wrung the excess water out of her hair, leaving it hanging limp and dishevelled around her face, which was now decorated by trickles of wet mascara running down from her eyes. Then she pulled her clinging shirt away from her waistband, inadvertently presenting me with a brief flash of her tummy as she did so, before letting it fall and cling again, running her hands down over her chest to smooth out the air bubbles. Next she turned her attention to her jeans, again using her hands to push out the excess water and leave the shiny denim plastered to her legs. Finally she crouched down to untie her boots, providing me with a glorious view of the gleaming wet denim stretched across her bottom. She removed each boot in turn, pouring out the excess water and wriggling her toes, which were now visible inside her drenched white socks, before replacing the boots and tying them up again.

“Right then,” she said, standing upright and brushing her wet hair away from her face. “We’d better go.” With that she squelched off back towards the changing room, again splashing through the foot bath on the way in. I brought up the rear, making sure to get a good view of Kirsty’s shiny wet rear into the bargain.

After sticking her head around the door to make sure there was still nobody about, Kirsty made a bolt for the exit. I trotted after her. Outside it was rather gloomy and drizzly, and Kirsty shivered a little, although the smile never left her face as we began our walk home. A couple of passers-by looked on in puzzlement as they noticed Kirsty’s wet clothes, but this being Britain, nobody said anything.

We stopped outside Kirsty’s flat. “I have a bit of a confession to make,” she admitted.

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah. You’ve probably guessed anyway, but... I’ve been looking for an excuse to jump in the pool for ages. I just get such a rush from it, being so naughty.”

Not for the first time that day, I was surprised. “Have you done this before then?”

“Once, on holiday. Mind you, it was a lot warmer then!” She shivered again.

“You’d better go in,” I told her. “You’ll catch your death of cold out here.”

Kirsty nodded, then paused. “Do you... want to come in for a coffee?”

I was tempted. I was exceedingly tempted, but... Ah, the perils of turning friendship into something more. “I’d better run. I’ve got an essay to write.”

This drew a giggle from Kirsty. “See you tomorrow then!”

She slipped inside. Through an open window I heard her flatmate gasp. “What happened to you? You’re all wet!”

“It’s raining out,” came her reply. I couldn’t see, but I imagined she said it with a shrug and a grin.

The next morning I stumbled into the union bar, bleary eyed, with a nasty case of writers’ cramp and an essay that I hoped was different enough from the original for us both to get away with it. I spotted Kirsty chatting to Susan and Craig and went to join them. Susan was saying something about how difficult the essay had been to write, at which Kirsty gave a wry smile. My arrival gave her a chance to change the subject. “Hi Dave!”

“Morning all.” I looked at Kirsty, in her pristine white t-shirt, neatly pressed jeans and baseball boots which appeared to be ever so slightly damp. “Weren’t you wearing the same clothes yesterday?” I asked, innocently.

“Was I?” Kirsty was capable of looking just as innocent. “Possibly. But don’t worry – they got washed last night.”

We shared a meaningful look as Susan and Craig looked bemused. They would never know.