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Good Morning Little Schoolgirl	By : Linda_Linda Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Led Zeppelin Views: 4197 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is unfortunately a work of FICTION (the OC is, uhm, high-school me). I do not know Jimmy Page or Led Zeppelin. I make NO money from this. Pairing: Jimmy Page/author.

Chapter List
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SETTING: Winter in London. 1967?

~ PROLOGUE ~

It’s just another day at high school. I could tell without a calendar that it’s December. The metallic green and red and gold decorations, six-inch Christmas trees and occasional mistletoe hanging from the ceiling speak volumes.

But regardless of the bright and cheerful decorations, there is little joy to this world of study, cramming, semester exams and bubble sheets that won’t erase. At least the average teenager who goes to this school doesn't get much. They don’t have what I have to look forward to at the end of the day.

Let me explain. On the first day of school the original music teacher, a 132-year-old fossil of a man, died. Despite his kindness and goodwill, the poor fellow passed away of natural causes during a lesson on Beethoven. They needed a replacement quickly, and who should they hire but Mr. James Page, my fellow guitar player and newest subject of my fantasies.

We hit it off immediately. I was the only one in the class and, as I later learned, the entire school who could play a certain difficult song correctly. Later that day when I was about to leave, he tapped my shoulder and told me how good I was at playing guitar. He did too, a touch better than me, and we had lots in common. Not to mention our astrological links (my Ascendant conjunct his Sun, my Moon conjunct his Ascendant, etc. This is true in real life, too.) and hobbies, astrology being one of them. We talked almost every day.

One day he finally told me. He didn't do it all directly and in-your-face. We were alone after school, in an empty and little-used rehearsal space. He sat down next to me while I practiced one of my own songs for the holiday concert. I knew he had been looking at me for quite a while by the time I got to the bridge. When I was done, I glanced up and feigned startling as if I hadn't been aware of his presence.

For lack of anything clever to say, not to mention that my brain turned to goo, I could only ask, “What’re you doing here?”

He smiled and told me the sweetest words I have ever heard in my life: “Just lookin’ at you. You’re beautiful, you know.”

Cue my blushing and usually-misunderstood-as-vanity Thank Yous. “Aw, gee, Mr. Page, you don’t have to flatter me.”

“Mr. Page is my father’s name. Call me Jimmy.”

Eventually one day we went to the filing room, under the pretext of sorting and carrying student records, and asked – asked, like a perfect gentleman – “May I kiss you?” I couldn't say no. In fact, I couldn't say anything. I just turned around and kissed him. His lips were like cherries and his hair thick and luxurious. I told him how much I liked him. He held me for a long time.

“I like you a lot, Linda. I really do.”

My heart melted. I was in shock. How? How could he of all people want me if no one else did? The thought was an oxymoron. My legs began to tremble and I nearly fell. Jimmy stopped me with one arm around my waist. “Calm down.” It took a while, but I did.
He gave me some money to go buy a lipstick after school. “Make it red. For me,” he told me. “It doesn't come off easy. And I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’d love to look in the mirror when I get home and know exactly where you kissed me.”

Those words sent a shiver of desire through my whole body. I nodded and kissed him again, slipping one hand up to twine my fingers in his soft, thick hair.

A not entirely new feeling warmed me where the sun doesn't shine. Or I thought it did. It was, and still is, hard to be sure of anything when in Jimmy’s arms. I groaned at the sensation of his warm realness so close to me. I wanted, at the same time, to get closer and to get away. But eventually the urge to run left me and I laid my head on his shoulder.

We remained there for at least ten minutes more, whispering and kissing. Little did I know that I would return there almost daily, same hour, same room, and kiss him many times more?
Our embrace was suddenly broken by the sound of footsteps in the hall. We pushed each other away as if our lives depended on it and returned to our filing work. In my mind’s eye I could see him going home tomorrow and taking off his coat, looking in the mirror and running his fingers over the places where I kissed him...

And so it went, for two months almost. I wore that lipstick every day. During lunch break we’d sneak off to the filing room and make out like mad. We were unstoppable, catching each other’s eye during class, impatiently watching the clock, trying to make it reach the magic time of 3:30 when school ended and “music practice” began. Well, it wasn't all smooching. He worked something out where he’d teach me a new riff and when I played it correctly, he’d reward me with kisses.

In retrospect, I’m surprised we could restrain ourselves to kissing and the occasional full-body embrace as long as we did. I wanted him, and he wanted me. It was undeniable.

Every day, I’d go home and dodge the airborne toys my little brothers threw, grab a sandwich and a soda and lock myself in my room to eat my dinner and do my homework, away from my parents who misunderstood my every word as a confession of guilt to some wrongdoing.

Eventually I’d slip out to take a warm bath and lie there amongst the bubbles and slowly wash up, thinking of Jimmy’s hair and sexy voice and lovely mouth, imagining it was Jimmy’s hands doing it. His nimble guitar-playing fingers, not mine, on me, in me. Sometimes I couldn't get no satisfaction from this, but it was an attempt nonetheless to take the edge off until the day came when I could have him for real.

Call me teacher’s pet, teenage whore, whatever you prefer, but I must say I loved it. And I still do. So there.
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Good Morning Little Schoolgirl