by Limey Lady
Or maybe it was just one continuous, glorious cum.
Afterwards we showered and breakfasted together, during which time it turned eleven o’clock. Smiling at me, Ellie suggested beers in the Suburban. Leering at her, I suggested she taught me how to best use a dildo on her.
And, thankfully, she decided back to bed was the healthier option.
Not that we spent all day pleasuring each other with toys. No, we pleasured each other in all sorts of varied ways. We even passed whole hours doing nothing more than kissing and stroking innocent bits of body: arms, legs, backs . . . you get my drift.
(As an aside, kissing and stroking is ridiculously underrated if you ask me. Anyone who classes them as merely foreplay is missing out big-time!)
We got up again around five-ish, showered and got ready for the Saturday night party. The problem of an evening meal was solved by Park Road Fisheries, who readily sold us fish and chips to eat out of the paper.
A blink of an eye later the party was over and, forgoing the late pubs, we were back in Ellie’s bed.
It was, we agreed next day, a weekend to remember. And it’s one I marked in my diary with a very big green tick and a couple of red circles. Thanks to Ellie I’d found a new avenue of fun, you see. Ever since then I have had a thing for dildos and there’s no sign of the novelty wearing off.
No, no sign at all.
*****
Sunday morning always seems appropriate for a lie-in but we didn’t linger. Well, we didn’t linger very long, anyway. Ellie’s parents were due back and she suspected her Dad would make sure they were home in time for the first televised football match.
‘It’s Scum United,’ she told me, using a local term for certain Lancashire rivals. ‘He reckons he hates them but he always watches when they’re on. And it’s a half-twelve kick off.’
I noticed Sara’s text while we were preparing a deliciously calorific fry-up. She wanted to see me in the Suburban as soon as possible. As there was no mention of meeting on the way I assumed it was Confrontation Time again.
No, I corrected myself. Last week it had been a confession, not a confrontation. Not that I could be so lucky a second time.
I texted Sara back without mentioning the exchange to Ellie.
“3 on the dot?”
Her reply was instantaneous.
“CU @ 3”
*****
I took care to arrive early. That time I was the one waiting for Sara with an opened bottle of Pinot and a couple of glasses, one of them already filled and half-drained.
‘Up there?’ she asked, indicating the elevated seating area.
I nodded and led the way, not fancying downstairs with all the football fans changing shifts in-between games.
‘So,’ she began when we were sat with full glasses. ‘Did you have a good time at Ellie’s?’
I nodded again, not liking her overly-cheerful front.
‘Is she as sexy as she looks?’ Sara persisted.
‘We had a good time,’ I conceded. ‘But I’m not going into detail. You wouldn’t like it if I went into detail about you, would you?’
Sara laughed and sipped wine. ‘Everyone’s talking about us, you know? They think we’ve split and I’m now with Ray. And that you are with Ellie, of course.’
‘Everyone will have a shock tomorrow, then,’ I replied, ‘unless you really are with Ray.’
(I added that rider because she had noticeably been “with” him on Saturday as well as Friday night.)
‘He’s shagged me,’ Sara said, blushing. ‘And I’ve shagged him . . . more than once.’
I can’t pretend I was surprised. Well, I was a little surprised about the use of “shagged”; usually Sara was as anti-swearing as I was. There were a lot of worse words she could have used, though, weren’t there? And the actual confession was hardly earth-shattering.
‘I assumed you would have,’ I said coolly. ‘Was it good for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you and Ray an item?’
‘No,’ she assured me, ‘but I would like to upgrade him to my bit on the side.’
It was my turn to laugh and sip wine. ‘Poor old Alan,’ I said, ‘one night of sin and ditched already.’
‘It’s a long time until Easter.’ Sara blushed again. ‘And a bit on the side living over two hundred and fifty miles away isn’t much use, is he?’
‘Not when you’ve obviously found a use for men,’ I said tartly.
‘Precisely,’ Sara agreed.
*****
So, purely by chance, I avoided confrontation a second time. We amended our agreement in that we remained number one for each other and Ray usurped poor old Alan. Otherwise Ellie was confirmed as my official bit on the side and we both remained free to have one-off flings.
Not that either of us indulged in flings. For the next five or six weeks we concentrated mostly on each other, taking advantage of our mothers’ decision to let us “overnight together” on “one or two nights a week”.
Red letter days aside, my diary isn’t very extensive, but I would guess we overnighted ten times in that month and a bit. As far as the extra-curricular stuff went I (sadly!) only had outdoor sex with Ellie twice and Sara admitted to having sex in Ray’s mum’s car three times. And as I just said, one-offs simply didn’t happen.
Then December the twelfth came around and it was time for the Sixth Form Christmas Party . . .
Chapter Twenty-One
We’d been relatively good little girls for a while so Sara and I decided to go to the big bash separately. That is to say she went with Ray and, seeing as Ellie had set up a date with a sporty guy called Fran, I went alone.
(I wasn’t sad about that, by the way. I had no intention of being Billy No Mates. Oh no, my intentions were unspecific but I had mischief in mind.)
The good news was that the Sixth Form Christmas Party was legendary and simply everyone went to it. The bad news was that it was held in our common room and, being on school premises with some of the attendees aged seventeen or less, alcohol was verboten. We got round this by setting out earlier than usual and hitting the pubs down Main Street. All of them. And, needless to report, plans were in place to hit them all again later, on our way back up.
That’s how I found myself sipping Diet Pepsi at quarter to eight, listening to Noddy Holder yelling as loud as ever, “IT’S CHRISTMAAAAS!!’ and playing gooseberry to Jacqui and Roberta.
‘Look at them,’ Roberta said sniffily. ‘Aren’t they pathetic?’
I swapped puzzled glances with Jacqui.
‘I’m not with you,’ Jacqui said. ‘Who’s being pathetic?’
‘All the guys going round collecting Christmas kisses,’ said Roberta. ‘And the girls loitering near those bunches of mistletoe aren’t any better. Desperate or what?’
I haven’t described Roberta yet so here’s a snapshot. Most of my circle were ex-fifth form basketball players and consequently tall. At five-three Roberta was a bit of a shrimp but her figure was stunning and her tits could win prizes.
(All my friends had knockout tits! How unfair was that!!)
Roberta had a lovely ass too, but it was her face you noticed first; her face and her complexion. I had met her parents (a pale guy with ginger hair and a good-looking honey blonde with lovely brown eyes) and somehow they’d produced a compact Sophia Loren. There must have been some Mediterranean ancestry in one of their families, and I suppose Roberta was a throwback.
But flipping heck, she was hot.
I looked at her closely and suddenly my mouth was doing its automatic speaking trick again. ‘I hope I don’t seem pathetic,’ it said, ‘but I’m ready to collect my Christmas kiss off you.’
Maybe it was the self-confidence in my words but Roberta didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look for approval from Jacqui, either. She simply stepped forward and offered up her mouth.
Never mind Christmas, it was fireworks time. I’m not going to wax lyrical about all the sensations that I had; le
t’s just say she was an excellent kisser and preferred it passionate and steamy.
Logical Dave timed that kiss by music: the tail-end of Merry Xmas Everybody, all of I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day and well into Mary’s Boy Child.
‘Nothing pathetic about that,’ Roberta said as we eventually broke for air.
I was desperately trying to contain Fervent Dave, who had designs on her ass, tits and God only knew what else.
‘It was nice,’ I managed feebly.
‘Do I get one?’ Jacqui enquired.
She did; it would have been rude not to. So we snogged through Last Christmas, Do They Know It’s Christmas and only stopped when Lonely This Christmas began.
‘Anymore and I might do something you’d regret,’ she said, grinning at me.
‘I rather doubt that,’ I countered, returning her grin.
Leaving the two of them together (wishing one of them wasn’t there), I headed towards the “dry” bar, doing a mental toss-up. It was heads and a mild cold had kept Jacqui at home. Tails and Roberta had been kept away by a twenty-four hour bug . . .
Then an idea struck me smack between the eyes. If the guys could go round randomly collecting as many Christmas kisses as possible, why couldn’t I?
At this point I am going to enlarge a little. Sara and I were the first lesbians to go public. In our school year, I mean. Ellie had been next, closely followed by Jacqui and Roberta and a smattering of others. The reaction of our contemporaries was, quite frankly, amazingly positive. Oh I’m sure some dimwits slagged us behind our backs, but the vast majority couldn’t have been more supportive.
And inquisitive.
Yes, I’d had all sorts of individual approaches from girls asking scores of different questions, some of them deep and intelligent. But, opening gambits played, they all wanted to know the same one thing:
“What’s it like having sex with a fellow female?”
In the early days I tried to answer objectively. Heck, I even tried to describe feelings and emotions. As time passed and my experience grew, however, I became cocky and flirty. “Fancy a demo?” I’d reply. Or, “I’m game to show you how.” Now this was to supposedly straight girls, you understand. And I had not got my face slapped even once.
So why shouldn’t I chance my arm?
I mean what was the worst that could happen? They couldn’t kill me for it, could they?
*****
It was over an hour before I finally bought my second Pepsi and leant against the bar, taking stock. By then I had made at least a dozen approaches and still hadn’t been smacked. I had had some sort of a kiss on all occasions too, so if I counted a brief brush of lips, I could claim a hundred per cent success rate.
I grinned at that. I’d targeted straight girls only, casting around until I saw someone who was at least momentarily on her own. And then I’d pounced, playing the confidence card, not asking for a kiss but announcing I was “collecting my kiss”. Reactions had been varied but every last one seemed to think I was only claiming what I was due.
And some of them had been more forthcoming than others.
My grin spread as I swigged Cola and realized I’d left a greasy imprint on the can.
How many different transfers of lippy have there been tonight, I wondered.
If I counted girls prepared to snog for at least one of the DJ’s records I reckoned my rate to be around seventy-five per cent. And if I counted use of tongues, it would have been maybe fifty. Okay, so some of those straight girls had flinched at the use of tongue, but none of them had gone storming off. I had taken that as tacit consent.
I also took it to be very encouraging indeed.
I never have used handbags so had to tug a hanky out of my front pocket. A swift examination of the tissue confirmed I’d acquired a blend of at least ten lipstick shades. Not that the combination would win any awards. Even in the iffy light of the disco I could see it wasn’t going to give frosted apricot too many sleepless nights.
Chuckling, I had another swig of pop. My mirror-less wiping must have achieved because the rim of the can was now unmarked.
One-nil to cosmetic-free ladies!
I haven’t mentioned my little red devil, have I? I believe everyone has one but mine is as persistent as heck. He perches on my left shoulder (the one my lovers seem to love to chew) and whispers all sorts of nonsense into my ear.
“Do the rounds again,” he said wickedly. “You know there are curious straight girls out there, wishing you’d try them a second time. And who knows what they might try if you do!”
Accepting that as sound advice, I was trying to decide who to go for first. The permissive tongue girls seemed to be as good an option as any . . . or maybe the song-long kissers. Or perhaps some of the lip-brushers might have reconsidered and seen sense . . .
Then I saw her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lorna was, with the exception of Miss Williams, by far the school’s sexiest creature. She was my sort of height (five-eight) with a body to die for and tits that preceded her by a mile. And she was nice with it; not “up herself” at all.
She was also half of the school’s dream couple. I guess in America she would have been the state’s most prominent cheerleader and her boyfriend would have been the all-star quarterback. In Bingley she was just stunningly gorgeous and her boyfriend captained the rugby team.
I’m aware I earlier spurned “comparisons” but to heck with that; I’m going to make one. Ray, Sara’s new bit on the side, was about six foot, very well-built and as athletic as anyone could ask. His good looks and short blond hair attracted girls like flies round you-know-what.
By contrast Lorna’s guy, Steve, was six-four. His shoulders were wider than a double-decker bus and he must have weighed fourteen or fifteen stones without carrying an ounce of fat. Sporting opponents broke out in bumps and bruises just looking at him. I’m not a big fan of he-man blokes but, if I was in a bar and a fight erupted, I’d make sure I was on his side every time.
Yes folks, Steve made muscleman Ray look like the guy who'd get sand kicked in his face.
Yet suddenly he wasn’t there.
Don’t get me wrong, there were rarer sights than Lorna without Steve by her side. The Fab Four doing a 2008 reunion gig on the studio rooftop, perhaps; or maybe Lord Lucan riding Shergar to his second Derby win.
(For anyone who isn’t British or Irish, read JFK playing Khrushchev, best out of fifty-one at chess, live from Uranus!)
My brain did/does sometime behave like my mouth and go off unprompted. It did back then, seeing Lorna on her lonesome.
‘Hi,’ I said, arriving at the edge of the dance floor unannounced, ‘fancy seeing you all forlorn. Where’s Steve?’
‘He’s out the back.’ The stunner rolled her eyes. ‘Apparently they need to do some work on their set lineout for tomorrow.’
‘Apparently that leaves you free to give me my Christmas kiss,’ I countered.
Now Lorna wasn’t only tits, blonde hair and beauty; she had a real presence about her. I must admit my bravado was forced more with her than with all that night’s other approaches put together.