by Limey Lady
Good God, her brain yammered, that’s infinitely better than imaginary brushstrokes!
Why didn’t I do this to her!!
And why didn’t I lick her gemstone!!!
That was her last bit of rationality for a goodly while: wondering why she’d nuzzled the undersides of Miss Pearce’s tits without straying lower, investigating that chunk of agate or opal or whatever.
That oh-so sexy gemstone right in the heart of her!
It took perhaps a minute for Miss Pearce to make Angie cum by slathering her right armpit. Less than a minute later she came again, when Miss Pearce repeated the treatment on her left pit.
Then she attacked her tits.
And then, when utopia was beckoning, she pushed the tip of her tongue into Angie’s belly button.
Cue screams and a frantic bucking of lower body!
Nothing had remotely felt so good, not ever. The fullness of having Bobby’s cock deeply inside her seemed puny and of no account in comparison; not of any account whatsoever.
Not that she wasted a single brain cell on the male of the species. Not at a moment like that.
Miss Pearce’s hands were busy: unbuckling Angie’s belt, adroitly undoing the stud button and deftly tugging down the zip. Angie sighed yet again. She hadn’t ever been so aroused, not ever.
Still murmuring ‘Lovely, lovely, lovely,’ Miss Pearce decided it was time to progress.
Given her sturdy body, Angie had never bothered with figure-hugging pants. Not that she did baggy. No, she’d always done loose-fitting. Consequently, when ordered to “lift your bum” her denims were almost immediately around her knees.
So too were those wrecked and ruined knickers of hers.
Bugger them, though. Unlike her pits, she had shaved down there, but only to the extent of a number one guard. The resultant bristles seemed to meet with Miss Pearce’s approval.
‘Oh yes,’ she cooed, ‘how delightful.’
The feel of her nose nuzzling through stubble was unworldly. Angie wasn’t sure exactly how strongly she’d cum during the pit-licking episode; it had been a pale shadow of now, however.
‘More, more, more,’ she yelled.
Now she erupted like Krakatoa East of Java . . . except ten times more violently. If the earth didn’t move for her it must have moved for everyone else.
Tidal waves across the Pacific or what!
Falling down from her highest ever plateau wasn’t an option. Miss Pearce’s so-busy tongue wouldn’t allow it. No, it kept her up there in the clouds, stimulating and stimulating.
Suddenly Miss Pearce’s extremely long, extremely elegant fingers were inside her. Suddenly Angie had more to think about than a deft tongue tip.
Could life possibly get any better!
Angie had known all along that opinions about her had been valid; she was “that way inclined”. Bobby had been an experiment, now she had what she’d always really wanted.
Now she knew what “good” really meant.
Now she had the real thing.
And oh my, the length of those fingers!
Without being crude, they went in the full way, far, far beyond Angie’s G-spot. Then they withdrew, oh so slowly, the soft pads at the tips eventually finding her, stimulating her before reluctantly moving on.
And then, when the loss was at its greatest, when the emptiness physically hurt, they returned, their course as sure as before, those soft pads retracing their route.
As if that wasn’t enough Miss Pearce’s free hand traced rings around Angie’s clit; tight little rings that would have been mind-blowing in themselves.
Angie had already lost count of the cums. Indeed she’d forgotten what even counted as a cum. Being up and excited was enough, wasn’t it? And wasn’t she up!!!
Mere moments ago she’d thought life couldn’t possibly get any better but suddenly, incredibly, it did. Keeping two beringed fingers deeper than deep inside a defenceless pussy, her tongue going every which way, Miss Pearce grabbed Angie’s tit with her free hand. And squeezed it . . . hard!
Angie had been beyond dribbling, into oozing. Suddenly she was flowing like the River Trent.
And still the pleasuring went on. Miss Pearce’s mouth was sucking on her clit. Two of her beringed fingers were delving ever deeper into her and . . .
Angie’s all-time record was three self-induced orgasms in one solo session. Without building, without any noticeable warning, she came three times at once: bam, bam, bam . . . just like that.
Still breathless, it happened again: bam, bam, bam! Harder this time, much harder than anything in her wildest dreams.
And, when it happened a third time, lights exploded in her head and the whole world went blank.
Chapter Seven
Back in the front, redressed by Miss Pearce and almost in control of her senses, Angie giggled. And giggling for her was such a rare event that it made her giggle even louder.
‘That was so fantastic,’ she finally said. ‘Talk about a baptism of fire!’
‘You’d better not talk about it at all,’ the older woman replied, ‘not unless you want to get me out of a job.’
‘Miss Pearce,’ said Angie, ‘I will never, ever breathe one word. Even on the rack and tortured with red-hot irons, I won’t jeopardize your career.’
‘I’m Ronnie, not Miss Pearce.’
‘Ronnie, ditto and likewise; I’ll deny everything and dream of you every night. And I’m not regretful, by the way. I wish I could shout out about us. I wish everyone could know.’
‘So do I,’ said Ronnie. ‘But resist the temptation, please. ‘You’ve got six months of school left. I hope to have another thirty years.’
The half of a mile drive to Angie’s family home only took a couple of minutes. Angie directed Ronnie to a parking area perhaps fifty yards past her front door.
‘Baptism,’ Ronnie said, her engine safely switched off. ‘Anyone would think that I was your first girl.’
‘You were.’ Angie could feel her cheeks heating up as she confessed.
Again!!
‘I honestly do not believe it.’ Ronnie held up a hand, blocking Angie’s protest. ‘You’re sexier than sex,’ she went on. ‘And you’re dangerously good, with it. I could easily get addicted.’
‘I want to try that sixty-nine with you,’ Angie blurted.
‘What?’
‘Like on that picture in your bedroom. I want to try that. I want to watch us doing in again and again in your overhead mirror, too.’
Ronnie laughed. ‘So I have a spy in my midst, do I?’
‘I got the wrong door,’ said Angie, more or less truthfully, ‘luckily for me. You can paint my tits as well, either way.’
‘What do you mean “either way”?’
‘Either on canvas or for real; for real would be best.’
‘Do you mean painting on your . . . your breasts?’
‘I certainly do.’
‘My word,’ said Ronnie. ‘I’ve created a monster!’
‘You’ve helped me find myself,’ Angie hurried on. ‘Tonight’s been life-changing.’
‘You heard what I said about my career.’
‘And you heard what I said about racks and hot irons.’
Angie unfastened her seatbelt and leant in for another kiss. She was dimly aware it was close to three in the morning but didn’t give a fig. Not about getting inside her home, anyway.
This time Ronnie’s tongue was in Angie’s mouth, thrusting vigorously. Angie sucked on it and, aware she’d been very much the receiving party so far, put her hand on Ronnie’s thigh.
Ronnie didn’t even begin to object so Angie walked her fingers inside those voluminous skirts, tracing a line up the inside of a smooth if rather clammy thigh.
Oh yes, she thought. Oh yes, yes.
The teacher’s panties were possibly as wrecked and ruined as hers. They felt flimsy, too. There was a narrow strip of warm flesh between them and the skirt’s waistband. If it had been cramped in the back
of the car now there was even less room for manoeuvre. Not that lack of space could stop Angie.
Still sucking fiercely on Ronnie’s tongue she slid her hand down, easily defeating the knickers’ elastic. She was completely hairless under the soggy fabric. Angie could feel her contours; she had swollen up like a ripe peach.
Although she would have dearly liked to use her mouth it simply wasn’t possible to get her head down there. She could clearly remember Liz and Suzanne, though. And her hand was already in position.
Wishing she wore lots and lots of rings, Angie found Ronnie’s entrance and gently pressed.
And instantly the first two fingers of her right hand were inside the woman.
‘Oh yes,’ Ronnie moaned, momentarily breaking their kiss, ‘oh Angie Baby!’
Angie couldn’t believe the baking heat of her. She’d never noticed anything like it when she fingered herself. And the flow of her was tidal; never mind rivers, Ronnie was like oceans!
The angle of her hand made it hard to piston in and out, the way Liz had been doing. But never mind. Ronnie had been slow and tender and supremely fantastic. Glad her fingertips were turned the right way, Angie searched for the G-spot, quickly locating a slightly rougher area and trying to replicate the sweet attentions she’d been given.
Ronnie broke off from kissing again and wailed.
‘Oh Angie,’ she went, ‘oh Angie Baby!’
Not so very long ago Angie had assured her older lover that she had been treated to a life-changing experience that night. Wrong! The life-changing experience was right now, when all Ronnie’s intimate muscles contracted around her fingers.
Bright lights filled Angie’s head, scales fell from her eyes. She’d just made a fellow-female cum! The feeling was even better than having a fellow-female make her cum!! It was immense. It was the grail she had unknowingly been chasing all of her life.
‘Oh Angie,’ Ronnie groaned, ‘oh Angie Baby . . .’
Angie kept working away at that G-spot, being slow, tender and taking care to course up it, tantalizing it by leaving it a second before coursing back down, brushing it before leaving in the other direction.
And all the while Ronnie was clenching and clenching as if the contractions would never end.
Hopefully they never would.
Chapter Eight
The new lovers parted ways around three thirty, moments before Angie’s mother got home from work. Angie left with assurances she would never tell and that she was up for more. Miss Pearce said she didn’t do “tied down” and had a career to worry about.
‘It would be a week of scandal for you,’ she said, ‘the end of the world for me.’
To Angie’s credit, the thought of blackmail never crossed her mind. ‘I only want to physically tie you down,’ she’d said, ‘not emotionally. And I still want to go under that wonderful mirror of yours.’
‘Tie me down physically!’ Miss Pearce laughed. ‘You’re even more of a monster than I thought.’
‘I’m only joking.’
Okay, but let’s go softly, softly. Know what I mean?’
Angie managed softly, softly through the weekend but cracked Tuesday lunchtime. By then she’d had little else but Veronica Pearce in her mind for the last eighty hours; something needed to be done.
Forsaking her right to the coveted “first dinner sitting”, Angie made her way to the arts rooms, arriving around ten past twelve. The arts rooms were in a remote part of the school, as far away from the sixth form block as possible. In fact they were as far away from civilization as possible. Waist-high internal windows in the corridor allowed her to see into the school’s most creative area.
On first glance the rooms were deserted.
Then Angie caught a glimpse of a tall woman in voluminous skirts and John Lennon glasses, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, a tea cup in the other, flitting about in the background.
No sign of any of the other art teachers. But there wouldn’t be. While Mr Mills spent lunchtimes in the gym Roz and Zack had been an item for ages, only ever to be found in Zack’s car at that time of day, hungrily eating each other’s mouths for dinner rather than good old school meal stodge.
Even non-arts students knew that.
And not that Angie wanted to find them . . . or Mr Mills, for that matter.
She let herself into the room and, seeing a key in the lock on the inside, impulsively turned it.
‘Oh,’ said Miss Pearce, her sandwich gone, cup still in hand, ‘it’s you.’
Angie advanced on her without speaking and mashed their mouths together. Miss Pearce allowed her maybe ten seconds then pulled away.
‘We can’t,’ she said earnestly, ‘not here.’
That only encouraged Angie. She took hold of the tea cup and deposited in on a nearby desk. Then, somehow remembering the geography of the arty place from years ago, tugged the older woman into a storeroom, closing the door and pressing her up against it so it wouldn’t easily reopen.
The storeroom smelt of paint and Swarfega but hardly registered. Neither did the shelves filled with all manner of creative materials.
‘No windows in here,’ she said. ‘And we’re doubly locked in.’
‘Angie, we can’t . . .’
But Angie wasn’t listening; she was lifting the latest voluminous multicoloured skirt, exposing smooth bare legs and flimsy red panties. For some reason the sight of those panties inflamed her anew . . . amazingly so, seeing as she was already blazing like a forest fire.
She pulled the damp fabric aside.
Miss Pearce’s labia were peach-like again. It was easy to imagine hot blood pumping down there.
Although she desperately wanted to kneel and worship with her mouth Angie realized she hadn’t got nearly enough time. And eating Miss Pearce would be a first, an experience not to be hurried.
Eating her could wait.
She ran her index finger up Miss Pearce’s slit, feeling the wetness of her.
Miss Pearce stopped objecting and sighed.
Angie ran her index finger up Miss Pearce’s right labium, over her folds, around her clit and then ran it down her left lip. Then, conscious the clock was ticking she circled her opening and gently pushed.
Two fingers slipped in as easy as could be. It was baking hot in there . . . again. Not concentrating on the G-spot to any great degree she began to move, going for depth and rhythm as much as anything.
Miss Pearce’s groin danced to her tune, immediately falling into step. Two seconds later her muscles contracted violently and hot liquid flowed over Angie’s hand.
Angie didn’t stop. Doing this was so empowering! Doing this made her recognize her vocation.
Pleasuring a fellow-female was all.