by Limey Lady
And what about inspiring said fellow female in a similar direction?
I had listened to girl friends at school debating the conventional loss of virginity, which didn’t seem to be as straightforward as I’d expected. If they had asked me I would have said “dick in vagina equals loss of virginity”. But no, some of them insisted it had to be unprotected dick in vagina, and it also had to cum in there . . .
That led to arguments about cumming. If a virgin gave her boyfriend a hand job all the way to a spurt was that enough? What if she gave him a blowjob and swallowed his spunk? Round and round they went until I was dizzy.
The best consensus they arrived at was that penetration had to happen but not merely with a finger or two. Protection and cumming remained moot points.
So, I mused, cradling my empty mug and staring into space, what the hell do girls have to do without a guy being involved? Do we have to use strap-ons like those tarts in some of the videos?
Baffled, I went for a shower and applied a liberal amount of shampoo, which I tend to use instead of gel. That’s the benefit of having short hair, you see. I don’t have to bother with shower caps or fixing my locks up into a bun. I just wash it at least once every day and it looks good all the time.
Humming to myself, I began to lather the rest of my body then did my eyes widening trick again when I innocently touched my nipples. Now, I haven’t mentioned them before but, although I’ve got next to no tits at all, my nips belong on someone who’s 34D.
And that’s before I’m aroused!
I must admit I was aroused right then in the shower. One tiny touch of a nip and a white lightning bolt shot directly through my heart and into my sex. Intrigued, I touched my other nipple. It had very much the same effect and . . . incredibly . . . so did the slightest touch of my almost non-existent breasts.
It’s Sara, I thought, she’s flicked some switch in me!
I’m turning into a sex maniac!
Then, sliding a soapy hand between my legs: And isn’t life great!!
*****
Ten minutes and two self-inflicted cums later I was back in my room, smelling of lemons and limes, as per usual. Dressing took no time at all. I went for fresh knickers, a new pair of Levi’s and a plain white sweat. Then, smiling knowingly to myself, I added white ankle socks. Known locally as “virgin socks”, they did seem somehow appropriate.
And they matched my panties and sweatshirt.
Last night’s clothes were in an untidy pile on a chair. I put the jeans back in my wardrobe and slung the rest into my wash basket, taking a moment to examine the knickers. They seemed dry enough but there was a very noticeable stain on them; it covered perhaps fifty per cent of the fabric, mostly at the front.
It’s a good job I do my own washing, I reckoned as I buried them out of sight in the basket. And I’ll do my next load while Mum’s out shopping.
By then it was ten past eleven. Sara answered on my second ring.
‘Hiya lover,’ she said, ‘what’s new?’
‘I dunno,’ said I. ‘I’ve only just got up and haven’t even checked my emails yet. I wanted to make sure you’re still up for lunch before I do anything else.’
‘Wow!’ Sara laughed. ‘I’m more important than your emails!! You bet I’m still up for lunch. Where are we going; the Ferrands or the Suburban?’
‘I thought maybe we’d try the Foundry.’
‘Wow,’ went Sara again, ‘you really must want to get into my pants. Okay then, the Foundry it is. Shall we meet at the end of my road?’
‘Yes. They open at twelve so I’ll see you at ten to. All right?’
‘I’ll be there waiting for you. And by then way, I’ve got news.’
‘Don’t say you’re pregnant,’ I joked (rather weakly).
‘No, it’s good news, not bad. But don’t ask me now, I’ll tell you when we’re there with drinks in our hands.’
Chapter Five
The Foundry was more of a restaurant-cum-wine bar than an out-and-out pub. By Bingley standards it was nice and classy . . . and quite expensive. Confession: I had considered somewhere cheaper but it was Saturday lunchtime with Manchester United on TV. Most of the pubs that did food would be full of football rowdies. I wanted serenity and a cosy chat, not grown men yelling at each other.
Imagine my surprise then when . . . ta-dah . . . the Foundry was also showing the big match. That was the downside. The upside was that the bar area was separate from the dining area. And, as an added bonus, the Foundry’s football watchers weren’t at all rowdy. Well, not if compared to some of the guys in the town’s other watering holes, anyway.
‘Can you hear my stomach rumbling?’ Sara asked as she studied her menu. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’
We’d already ordered and been provided with pints of Foundry-branded pale ale. I sipped mine and tried not to add up the prices. ‘Choose whatever you like,’ I said magnanimously.
Sara did, ordering a starter and main and saying she’d pick her sweet in due course. Then, once I had made my selection and the waitress had gone, she laughed.
‘Don’t worry. I’m paying.’
‘You are not,’ I countered. ‘I . . .’
She put a finger to my lips, restraining me. ‘I’m cash-rich after Wednesday,’ she said. ‘And I need you to do me a big favour. That’s why I’m paying.’
I frowned at that. I always keep my promises and I’d promised her lunch. Her expression was curious, though. She was clearly up to something.
‘We could go Dutch,’ I said.
‘Don’t you want to know what the favour is?’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Do you remember it’s my parents’ silver wedding next weekend?’
I did. ‘The mini-break in New York,’ said I.
‘Yes, that’s the one. And do you remember I’m due to spend the weekend with my aunt because I’m not trusted home alone?’
‘The dreaded Aunt Joan,’ I agreed, chuckling. Aunt Joan wasn’t the ogress Sara painted her as, but she had strong opinions on boozing and partying. A ten o’clock curfew had already been imposed.
‘Yeah, well I had a woman-to-woman talk with my mum this morning, over tea and toast. I said I’d be living on my own at uni before she knew it; that they’d gone away and left Jenny in charge when she was eighteen . . .’
I nodded. Jenny was Sara’s older sister. She was currently at the University of Nottingham, doing her final year.
‘Mum said it was being alone that was the point. When I go to uni I’ll be in halls at first, with hundreds of other girls around me all the time. And she said that Jenny wasn’t alone because she had me there with her.’
‘All true,’ I observed.
‘Yes, all true and playing into my hands. I said in that case, what if I was to get a sensible and reliable friend to be my housemate. One who would promise not to let me throw wild parties and who could be trusted to stick to her word.’
My heart had been doing funny things over the last week or so, mostly pounding and hammering with a bit of thumping thrown in for luck. Now it was at it again, doing something fluttery and alarming. If Dad had been there with us I would have pinched one of his angina tablets.
‘You mean someone like me?’ I squeaked.
‘Mum had to agree you’re my perfect housemate. She knows that you will stick to every promise you make. And she knows that, if we do have any sort of a crisis, your parents are only two minutes away up the road. She said okay, if you and your mum are game, so’s she. So what do you think?’
I thought my mum would say fine. She didn’t know Mrs C very well but they were on more than just nodding terms. And her dad was a member of the same golf club as my dad. Additionally (and don’t ask me why), both our fathers supported Bradford City. The two men had things in common, even if they weren’t very best buddies.
‘How long are they away for?’ I wondered, knowing it wouldn’t be long enough, relishing the prospect of being locked away with Sara for days o
n end.
‘Four nights,’ said she. ‘They set off to fly from Manchester in the early hours of Friday and get back on Tuesday afternoon. I said that meant you’d need to stay Thursday night as well, to account for the early hours of Friday. Seeing as I can’t be left on my own for ten minutes.’
‘I’ll ring Mum right away.’ I got out my mobile just as our starters arrived.
‘My mum’s going to ring her,’ said Sara, ‘after she’s had a chat with you. I told her we’d drop in around three this afternoon, so don’t guzzle too many pints.’
‘I want to run it by Mum first. Clear it in advance, if you know what I mean.’
‘Eat your starter while it’s hot. You can ring her in-between courses; after you’ve had time to plot out exactly what you want to say.’
Machiavelli or what?
Sara was right, though. I put down my phone and picked up my soup spoon instead. My heart was still fluttering but I wasn’t alarmed anymore; no, not at all.
‘Does your mum suspect anything?’ I asked.
‘About last night, you mean? No, why should she?’
‘Because it’s too good to be true; the idea of us sharing your lovely house for five whole nights.’
‘She can’t do, otherwise she wouldn’t have agreed so easily.
‘What are the sleeping arrangements?’
‘Officially, you’re in the folding guest bed in my room. I said Jenny wouldn’t want you in hers because she’s a snooty so-and-so.’
‘And unofficially where am I sleeping?’ I enquired, holding my breath.
Sara smiled as she chewed on a mouthful of lamb meatballs. ‘Five nights is a long time. You could end up sleeping absolutely anywhere . . .’
Chapter Six
The hundred and twenty hours between Saturday lunch and Thursday crawled by. It honestly could have been a hundred and twenty centuries. Ice ages came and went and tectonic plates shifted by a matter of metres. And still it wasn’t anywhere near Friday morning.
Not that it was all bad. After downing a few bracing Saturday lunchtime pints, I assured Mrs C that I’d keep Sara in line. She believed me, rang my (already briefed) mum and they swiftly agreed the deal. I would be a housemate for five nights and we’d all get souvenirs from the Big Apple.
Binny’s party went down well, too. Sara and I attended as an item and subsequently escorted each other home . . . via surreptitious sex at the end of her road, naturally.
Sara was bang on about word being out. The entire sixth form knew about our dance floor antics on both Friday and Saturday nights even before we got there Monday morning. And, of course, the rest of the school knew by lunchtime.
Reactions were, I have to admit, encouraging. Nobody said anything negative to my face and, if Sara is to be believed, everyone was positive with her too. And before you say it, I know! The negativity is all done by keyboard warriors. Thing is though, I didn’t even detect much of that.
I just noticed I skipped Sunday. That’s because I spent it at home, doing A-level coursework. Monday and Tuesday nights I spent behind the counter at the Spar, replenishing my day-to-day coffers. And, on Wednesday, damning the expense, I took Sara back to the Foundry and made sure I got to settle the bill.
(I also made sure I got my hand in her knickers on the way home, and what a thrill that was! She had hardly any pubic hair and a clit that drew my finger like a magnet!!)
Here’s a digression. During those endless centuries of anticipation I did ponder about my sexuality. No, I was certainly not fretting about being a lesbian . . . I was fretting about which sort of a lesbian I should be.
The Internet is a wonderful tool but it can be confusing. I suppose that’s what happens when you let everyone have their say. But even so! The arguments and definitions I read online made the common room virgin debate seem simple and uncomplicated.
On consideration I decided I wasn’t butch or femme but somewhere in the middle. I also decided that, even if I did like “blue jeans”, I wasn’t going to be labelled. I wasn’t lipstick or chapstick or any of the seemingly dozens of other types I found listed.
Well, I did feel an affinity for “gold star”, but as for the rest . . .
No, I was in a pigeonhole of my own. I didn’t prefer giving or taking, I preferred doing whatever gave Sara pleasure. And, to the best of my limited knowledge, the sentiment was mutual.
And here’s another digression. Sara was my first true love (the first of the three I mentioned earlier). I fell in love with her at her eighteenth birthday party and I love her still. We were, however, star-crossed as lovers. Even then, October in our upper sixth year, it was evident we were not to be.
Why, I hear you ask. Well, she was as good a student as I was. She’d already made uni applications via UCAS. Next September she would be out of Bingley, perhaps never to return. I, on the other hand, had no intention of getting buried up to my neck in student debt. I was going to get myself a job the minute I left school, preferably somewhere local and in IT. I was also going to enrol in night classes and slog like crazy to make sure I got some top programming qualifications.
The qualifications I needed to earn big bucks. The big bucks I needed to buy a place of my own.
I had an urge to gain freedom, you see, but not at any cost, and not in the easy, conventional way.
So our association wasn’t forever. I knew that even then. But I was an eighteen-year-old, and so was Sara. Time is a different dimension when you are eighteen. Our A-level exams seemed to be far, far away. Getting that job after school was an abstract concept; and, as for university courses that did not even start until next autumn . . .
I’m amazed more eighteen-year-olds don’t have “carpe diem” tattooed on them. In fact I’m surprised I don’t have it tattooed on me. Not that IT nerds do tattoos. Not unless they’re related to Star Trek or, in my case, Lieutenant Uhura . . .
*****
So, finally it was Thursday evening. I had gone straight home, had “tea” with Mum then collected my pre-packed travel bag and set off for Sara’s.
Then we waited and waited and waited.
Mr and Mrs C were due to leave for the airport at one in the morning. We passed the time in Sara’s bedroom, listening to music. And get this: she not only had a vinyl collection, she also had the means to play it!
The collection was actually her dad’s, mostly dating from the 70s and 80s, but everything was in mint condition as far as I could tell. And I had to agree the sound quality was excellent. To prove that, Sara played me a download of the Beatles’ hard rock version of Revolution. It sounded as good as ever but then she put on the physical disc.
And I was blown away. Billions of dollars of digital technology totally eclipsed by maybe a quid’s worth of vinyl.
Who said you can’t change the world with a plastic platter? That one did it for me all right.
*****
Several real LPs later Sara suggested we got ready for bed. ‘We can still chill,’ she said, ‘and we will look as good as gold when Mum calls in to say farewell.’
‘I thought you’d already said your goodbyes.’
‘Trust me Dave, she’ll call in somewhere between ten and eleven. You can bet the farm on it.’