Probability by Rollinbones

Probability by Rollinbones

Explore a thrilling adult sex story filled with twists and turns. Discover the probability of what happens next in this captivating tale.<br/>
This came to me this morning and I’ve only had an hour or so to get it into words. There may be mistakes. Everyone is eighteen.

……………………..

I wasn’t gifted but I possessed an aptitude for Math. Certain types of math in any case. I loved Boolean math for instance. Somehow it just clicked into place with my ‘slightly on the spectrum’ mind. Probability formulas though, could go suck a weenie.

It’s as clear as yesterday that I remember. Stace had been in my year all through primary school and we shared a few classes now in high school.

One of those classes was Mrs Murphy’s advanced Math class. She was one of those sweet older ladies who had the class wrapped around her little finger by way of sheer empathy and kindness. Mrs Murph, as she liked us to call her, was a believer in snap revision tests. Especially on days when she looked a bit tired or distracted.

It was one of those days.

Stace sat opposite me at the big table we all sat around. Mrs Murph believed in us teaching each other so always pushed the desks together to make one large table so we could collaborate on the snap tests. Stace was good at math too. We had a friendly rivalry going with grades over the years.

“Question twenty-two is just bullshit.” She shook her head and lifted her green eyes to mine. “Do you get it, Philly?”

“Yeah nah, Stace. Probability can go suck a weenie.”

The problem went something like this. “W” is the winning outcome decided on the other side of the equal sign by a complex fraction of “N” being the number of variables and ‘n’ being a constant equivalent to a confusing algebraic network of symbols and aardvark droppings dipped in Voodoo blood chicken feet scratching.

Like I said, Probability math can go suck a weenie.

Stace nodded and smiled in agreement then turned to speak with Nancy Carter who was sitting next to her while I studied the confusing pile of symbols and tried to get my mind to arrange them in some sort of manner that made musical sense. That’s kind of how I clicked with math. It was kind of a music of numbers that made a harmony when you arranged them correctly.

“So…” I spoke my thoughts aloud, “It would probably be ‘n’ over this mess to the “N”. Something like that but we have to get “W” to this side.”

“That’s it!” Stace exclaimed and gifted me one of her beautiful buck-toothed smiles. She was going to break hearts if she ever started dating. “But this salad of symbols doesn’t mean shit.”

Mrs Murph didn’t mind swearing so long as it was situationally valid and not the ‘F’ or ‘C’ words or their variants. It did however get her attention.

“Question twenty-two, guys?” She looked up from her phone. “Try thinking of the probability that a gun fired at a random elevation might hit a stationary target.”

“Click!” I could almost hear the moment the gears in my head started meshing.

“So,” I leaned over and passed my work into the middle of the table. “I don’t really see the algebraic solution yet, but these parts, ‘n’ and “N” are constants and this mess defines a parabolic equation.”

Stace, who’d risen to fetch her water bottle, looked at me like I was a genius and came to sit on the desk beside me to look at my working. She’s a runner and her long legs have always fascinated me. There they were though, right beside me almost touching my arm. The way she sat was modest, but the warmth of her proximity was challenging for an eighteen-year-old virgin with the usual trouser consequences. Sure, she was a sweet friend but I was also a swamp of swirling teenage testosterone.

In leaning over to point at one part of my working as we collaborated, my arm brushed across her thighs and my breath caught a little as I spoke. She smiled warmly at me and put a hand on my arm. I didn’t know what to do.

Her skin was warm and her fingers cool on my arm. The contact was overwhelmingly delightful so I gathered what courage I could and left my arm on her legs as we battled the problem. My mind swam with all sorts of probabilities but none of them had anything to do with math.

“She’s probably just being friendly. I’m probably making too much out of the innocent contact. She’s probably not really into me like that, we’ve been friends forever. She doesn’t even date.”

It swirled around and around for the lifetime it took for that brief contact to take place. Ultimately, it was sweet comfortable contact for just a minute or two until we collectively decided as a group that question twenty-two could go suck a weenie.

No one seemed to notice the familiarity of the contact of my arm and her thighs.

But I did.

I also really noticed Stace for the first time. I’d always known she was pretty. She was tall like me, with long hair that she always braided. I watched her lips as she spoke and I’m sure she caught me staring them. She didn’t seem to mind, just smiled and continued talking with the group.

My heart was beating strangely by the time she moved her hand to my shoulder and used me to steady herself as she stood and returned to her seat.

Mrs Murph tried to help with the problem and joined us but admitted defeat herself and turned to the back of the workbook to show us the answer.

“Sometimes, you have to see the solution to understand the problem.” She said.

I looked across at Stace who chose that moment to look straight back at me and wink.

She held that eye contact just a little too long with the most mischievous smirk painted on her lips. The bell rang for lunch and the moment was gone in the bustle and noise of students hurrying this way and that.

“Come with me, Philly.” I felt a hand grab mine before I even realised Stace was standing beside me at the lockers. “Library.”

My voice was stuck in my throat somewhere as I navigated the feel of her cool fingers entwined with mine, pulling me along through the throng of students. It was too loud for talking anyway, so I followed along silently. Stace looked back a couple of times to smile reassuringly at me.

“Afternoon Miss Grace, Mister Thompson.”

“Afternoon Miss.” We chorused to the elderly Miss Watson, the librarian.

“This way, Philly.”

“Where?” It seemed my voice had returned.

“Back here, I want to talk.”

She led me to a reading corner where we’d sat sometimes before to share quiet company in our own books away from the hustle of the school yard. Then she flumped down like only a gangly teen can, into a big bean bag and slapped a spot beside her.

I took my place in the moving sea of beans carefully, trying and failing at keeping my arms and legs to myself.

“Relax, Philly. I like it.” She bopped me with her shoulder. “It’s what I want to talk about. Touching you. Your arm on my legs. Why did you leave it there?”

“Um.” Shit… Do I make something up or play it down or wait, she liked it? I gathered every shred of courage my young heart could muster and told her the truth. “It felt nice. It felt nice to… Your skin was warm and… I don’t know. I’m sorry Stace if…”

“It did feel nice.” She smiled kindly and danced her eyes on mine. “But..”

“But what?” I asked as she dropped her voice and chin shyly.

“But it made me want to touch you more.”

“More?”

“Like a hug. I wondered how it would feel to really hug someone. You. Not just anyone. You. Do you… Oh this is probably just silly.”

It turned out that my body knew the answer to the nervous moment. Instinctively, I reached to hold this girl I’d known most of my life just to reassure her and comfort her through this awkward moment. One moment I was quietly shitting myself with nervous energy then the next my arms were full of pretty friend and warm skin.

Have you ever seen two magnets just spin to fall perfectly into place? We came together just like that. All of her warm body moulded to mine and it was a moment I will always treasure.

We didn’t speak, just sat like that for an eternity.

Her head nestled into my neck. Her arms wrapped around me and mine around her. I was aware of breasts pressing into my side and chest but not sexually. It was just her fitting properly.

“Mister Thompson… Miss Grace… Perhaps holding hands is a more appropriate demonstration of affection for a school setting please.”

We didn’t jump apart, just reluctantly untangled and laughed in embarrassment as we stood and straightened ourselves out.

“It took you two bloody long enough.” The old librarian laughed too loudly.

So, we held hands.

People noticed and we ignored them. Conversation flowed as it always did between us although I couldn’t tell you a thing we spoke about. We were just soaking up this new realisation of ourselves.

“Walk me home, Philly?”

“Sure Stace.” We lived a block apart in the same part of town. We’d walked to and from school together many times over the years and we fell straight back into step, into our familiar cadence of footfall and sporadic speech; comfortable silences broken by snippets.

“Remember when I beat you up for calling me Bugsy?” Stace laughed and pointed to the patch of grass near the gully where that exact punishment had been dealt.

“Sorry.”

“You should be, jerkface. I hated that name. Everyone called me that. Not my Philly though. Not you.”

“I was what ten? Ten-year-olds are jerks.”

“You weren’t. Not to me. Stop.” We stop on the footpath and she turns my chin toward her, searching for the scar she gave me then. “Here.”

Then she kissed me.

A quick peck, right on the scar. Then another right on the lips.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to look at me like you did today?” She smiles and takes my hand again as we walk on. “I think I was about twelve. All the other girls were talking about boys and love and you weren’t the only one I ever beat up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anita, Belinda, that girl that moved away in year ten. You were always going to be mine. Filthy whores.”

“Is this the bit where you tell me about killing neighbourhood pets and…”

One of my favourite things growing up was to find a joke to tell Stace in case I walked her home. Watching her laugh is like watching the sun come out.

“Shut up jerkface!” She bops my shoulder, “You’re mine.”