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Hello, there. How are you today? My name is Jocelyn Winston. I’m a young woman living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I was born in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, but have lived in Canada for the past eight years. I am twenty six years old and hold dual American/Canadian citizenship, which isn’t as cool as it sounds come tax time. I study business administration in the Sprott School of Business at Carleton University and I like my school just fine. It can be a tad bit boring sometimes so I make my own fun. You see, I am a student by day and a dominatrix by night. I’m really good at it, too. I look terrific in shiny ebony leather outfits and I do mean business. Pleased to beat you, ladies and gentlemen.

When people first meet me, they tend to assume that I am soft and sweet. I stand five feet eight inches tall, slim and fit, with long blond hair, alabaster skin and pale green eyes. People say I look like that not so brainy chick from American Pie. The one with the drinking problem. I think I’m way hotter and definitely smarter than her but whatever. Carleton University is the most diverse school in Canada in my honest opinion. A lot of our students come from places like Africa, the Caribbean, the Middle East, Southeast Asia and Latin America. There are a lot of Arabs at Carleton University and they’re really into white chicks. I don’t find them attractive because no matter how cool they seem, underneath it all they’re deeply entrenched in the Islam thing and believe men are masters and women are slaves. As a dominatrix, I believe just the opposite. Women are the stronger sex and men should obey. Any Arab guy who disagrees should be smacked.

I enjoy dominating all kinds of people. Men and women, young yozgat escort and old, Black and White and everything in between, they come to me. And I have my way with them. Last weekend, I had a lot of fun with this plump chick from Yemen named Fatima. She’s forty, unhappily married to a Turkish-born Canadian banker, and she’s the mother of three daughters. Fatima the Yemeni matron is a lesbian. She admitted as much to me. I almost felt sorry for her. Even though she wears really expensive clothes and drives a Mercedes, she lives in a gilded cage. Fatima was born and raised in Yemen, where women have few rights since they live under Islamic law and homosexuality is outlawed. Gays and lesbians living in Muslim countries have to hide otherwise they would be slaughtered. Fatima spent her whole life hiding who and what she was from her family, from her friends and from herself. I really don’t understand the Arab women and the Somali women that I run into in the Ottawa metropolitan area. Why subscribe to a religion and way of life that treats women like shit and elevates men to the status of decision-making gods? I don’t understand them any more than I understand all those British women of Caucasian descent who convert to Islam and marry Arab guys. A lot of women living in the western world are pampered and they have no idea how wicked Arab guys can be to women living in predominantly Muslim countries. To them, the woman is property. Pure and simple. No matter how charming they seem, it’s what they believe. And I’ve seen their victims firsthand.

I’m referring of course to Fatima, the middle-aged, hijab-wearing Yemeni Canadian lesbian and secret BDSM enthusiast who came to me to fulfill her desires. yozgat escort bayan I happily strapped her down on my bench after stripping her naked. Fatima had an okay body. Firm breasts, curvy body, wide hips, thick legs and a nice round ass. I smiled at her. I could definitely work with what she’s got. I spread her legs, and had a look at her pussy. That’s when I saw a sight which I will never forget even if I live to be a hundred years. Fatima’s pussy was…different. Just looking at it I knew that there was something missing. Upon taking a closer look, I knew that my worst fears were confirmed. Fatima, a native of the Islamic nation of Yemen, was one of those circumcised women we heard about on the television news. I was speechless for a moment. I looked at Fatima. I had so many questions. Why did she let someone do something like this to her? Was the doer of the evil deed male or female? Why does Islam permit to this be done to women living in Arab and sub-Saharan African countries? I feared I wouldn’t like the answers. So I kept my questions to myself.

I looked at Fatima and willed myself to shift back into full dominatrix mode. I am a dominatrix after all and this lady came to me because she wanted to experience domination at the hands of a strong and beautiful dominant woman. I definitely meet the criterion. Fatima was paying a pretty little penny for my services. And so I delivered just like I always did. She wanted to be smacked. I smacked her. She wanted to be called every dirty name in the book. And so I called her by those names. Towel head. Submissive Islamic slut. Dumb desert broad. Filthy Yemeni whore. You name it, I said it. All this I did while whipping her thighs, belly escort yozgat and even her face with my slim but wicked leather whip. Although I had to hide my revulsion, I put my entire fist inside her ‘altered’ pussy and thoroughly fisted her. She really screamed as I stretched her tight hole, one finger at a time until I worked my entire fist in there. She was tight but stretched nicely with very little prodding needed.

To really top things off, I squatted over her and pissed all over her face. I smacked her face repeatedly and called her every filthy slur I could think of while pissing all over her. This I did after fisting her aged pussy. Then I donned my strap-on dildo, lubricated it and inserted my plastic cock into her anus. Yeah, I raised the older Arab woman’s chubby legs in the air and thrust my dildo into her asshole. This I did slowly, inch by inch until her hungry, well-lubricated asshole could take most of my dildo. I fucked the Yemeni matron real good, and made her scream passionately before I pulled out of her asshole. Then I undid her bindings, ordered her to dress and get the hell out of my property. This she did expediently and obediently. Like a woman used to following orders. Like every Arab woman out there.

As soon as Fatima was gone from my Orleans townhouse, I went to the shower. I felt unclean for some reason. I couldn’t shake the sight of her modified pussy out of my brain. Hot damn. The brutal things that Arab men do to women in their countries have got to stop. Oh, well. Not my problem because we here in America and Canada know better than to allow Sharia Law to be implemented anywhere in our proud, democratic and female-friendly nations. If women like Fatima refuse to stand up to the brutish excuses for men in their countries of origin, that’s their problem. I’m proud to be an American woman with dual citizenship living in Canada. I’m proud to be a feminist, a university woman and a dominatrix. Long live the power of woman. And may certain woman-hating desert nations go the way of Atlantis. Amen.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

The deafening roar of water. It swallowed her every sense, filled her ears to bursting. Cora didn’t know if the surface was above or below her, but she knew she had to swim, it was her only chance.

The Grand Dame clipper ship had made it safely from England, ’round the tumultuous Horn and onward into the vast Pacific Ocean to bring Cora to meet her betrothed, a colonel in the Royal British Navy and a man as unknown to her as the vast stretches of sea between them. He had been posted to guard the fledgling breadfruit plantations of Tahiti, and he had written to her and her family, promising a secure home and prosperous existence there.

As her pale legs kicked toward the surface, Cora’s racing mind grappled between instinct and the unbearable sensation that she was destined to die just as she reached the threshold of her future. She’d not set foot on land in months and now she would she never smell the exotic flowers or touch the swaying palms promised to her in so many letters.

After three months at sea, just as the sunset silhouette of the Tahitian Islands came into Cora’s blue-eyed focus from the creaking bow of the great ship, the looming clouds that had followed them for days and rumbled far in the distance seemed to grow ever larger. A wind picked up and tangled Cora’s brown curls — pricking her skin with goosebumps and thrusting her nipples into the silk lining her corset. But it was the first drops of rain that had sent Cora to retire in her stately room below deck.

Late in the season for a cyclone, it proved furious nonetheless. While Cora lay dreaming of redeeming the tomboyish ways of her youth and proving to her father she could make a fine wife, waves transformed the ship’s gentle rocking into something increasingly violent. It was when a servant shook her awake that the reef suddenly tore through Cora’s sleeping quarters and her world went black, senseless but for the rush of water.

Though seconds seemed to drag into hours and the pressure of the current seemed an anchor that threatened to pull her ever downward, Cora knew she must keep kicking. With one, last thrust of her finely muscled legs — legs honed from climbing the gnarled oak trees of her family’s country estate — Cora broke the surface and gasped for air as the driving rain stung her face. Then, as if van escort by miracle, an arm grasped her waist and held her aloft the waves.

Some merciful mermaid, some sea angel it seemed, was pulling her along. When Cora felt the sand dig between her toes, she let her mind drift back into unconsciousness. She was alive. She had found Tahiti.

Indeed, it was rather Tahiti that had found Cora.

It was the smell of some strange wood burning that awaked her, and then the feeling of a warm poultice that had been set on her shoulder. How many days had it been? Had her husband found her and set her in a fine bed?

But the softness upon which she rested her head was no pillow. For when Cora opened her eyes, she saw only smooth brown flesh. Thighs. They peeked from a palm frond skirt. And another smell, something muskier than the fire crackled her senses. It all became alarmingly clear.

“My God,” Cora thought. “Have I been thrown from the frying pan into some savage’s fire?”

She jerked fully awake with the realization, flying off the lap and scuttling to a corner of the small hut. Catching her breath, she surveyed the heathen before her.

But this creature was no fierce warrior as the books she’d read mentioned. Instead Cora beheld a soft, coffee-brown, doe-eyed girl of perhaps 18 or 19 years of age with a mass of luxuriant black hair that tumbled in waves to just below the youthful tips of her bare breasts. Cora’s eyes lingered perhaps too long there, whether from shock at the savage’s indecency or memories of girlhood curiosities, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Cora didn’t have long to ponder this before the girl tentatively moved toward her, offering the split half of a breadfruit. Hunger before fear, Cora greedily dug in. But within a few bites, Cora bent and heaved outside the hut. Nausea swept her and she felt a fever like none she’d ever experienced. Her shock had masked the pain from the infection blooming in her shoulder where the reef had torn her flailing arms.

She slumped back against the floor. Delirious, helpless and alone with this savage girl, Cora had no choice but to submit to the pull of a deep sleep.

When she came to again, it was to the taste of some warm, honeyed substance dripping down her throat. She turned her escort van cheek, still sleep-dazed, and again the musky smell, the warmth of flesh on her face. When Cora opened her eyes, she saw where the palm fronds parted to reveal only darkness between smooth, tawny thighs. There, the smell was strongest. A woman’s smell, now Cora was certain of it. Had she recalled her modesty she would have blushed, but she was too weary to care.

Her hazy eyes scanned upwards to survey the tiny, femininely-rounded belly, the rhythm of inhaling and exhaling ribs, and those breasts. Strange that a savage would have such a fine bosom, like the Roman statues at Bath. But these breasts were more beautiful than stone, their molasses-colored nipples stood on soft mounds of the areola. And then, something more: a droplet of translucent white at the tip.

As the remembrance of the honeyed taste rushed back to her fevered mind, the sweet-faced savage sensed Cora’s eyes, and she cast a gentle smile, flashing her even white teeth down at the strange, pale woman. Then, in a wordless gesture, the heathen girl gathered Cora to her breast and pressed a nipple to her parted lips.

“Roman Charity from Roman breasts,” thought Cora. Who was she to deny it, even from a savage. She was thirsting, starving. She wanted to live. She was no ordinary, weak-willed woman, she had none of the softness of her sisters growing up. She would do anything to satisfy her will, especially her will to survive. Even if it meant swimming through a tempest or nursing from a savage.

Cora suckled the sweet peak between her rosy, chapped lips. But even as the vital fluid began to trickle down her throat, Cora could not tear her mind from the sensation of the nipple growing fuller and firmer in her mouth, the sensual brush of a breast against her cheek.

Feeling Cora’s vigor grow, the girl spread her slender thighs and urged Cora closer to her body. It was between the palm fronds, through the tattered remnants of her night shift, Cora felt the sticky moist heat of the girl’s womanhood pressing into her side.

Sucking with more enthusiasm and emboldened by her delirium, Cora pressed her hipbone into the girl’s sparsely-furred mons. As though possessed by some primitive fertility goddess, she began to rotate her van escort bayan hip more firmly until she could feel the wetness soak her skin through her shift, until she could feel the stiff nub of the clit rising to meet her grinding thrusts. Ever wordless, the girl’s breath began to quicken and beads of sweat emerged from her rich brown flesh, soaking Cora’s hair and nightdress.

But for Cora it was though the girl was no longer there, just a moist cunt to pound, a full nipple at which to feed her furious lust. How often had she dreamed of doing such things to her childhood friends? Her comely governess?

Suddenly, Cora was pulled from her frenzy when she felt the nipple withdraw. Ashamed of her behavior, Cora froze in the girl’s lap and for the first time, held the gaze of the girl’s large, knowing eyes with their sooty lashes. And as one unfamiliar word tumbled from the her voluptuous mouth, Cora felt the small fingers thread through the downy chestnut hair between her own thighs, the first touch from any other save herself.

“Nemai’i,” she’d said. A name? A request? Permission? Cora didn’t know, but she decided it would be the girl’s name. A word to call into the night as the delectable savage spread her nether lips apart, tested the firmness of her clit, tugged at the pink folds of her labia and then thrust her searching fingers inside, breaking the barrier of her womanhood.

But the cry of pain was stifled when Nemai’i’s mouth covered Cora’s, tasting of some unknown fruit. Tentative at first, Cora parted her lips as she’d parted her legs to let the delicate tongue explore within while Nemai’i used her fingers to probe Cora’s spongy interior as she played her thumb at the very root of her clit –pressing and flipping it to and fro.

Struggling for breath as under the sea, only drowning more sweetly, Cora broke the kiss to cry out into the balmy air as wetness flooded Nemai’i’s hand.

Still weak, Cora pulled herself up from the matting of the hut, sand sticking to her back. In one fluid motion, Cora discarded the remains of the shift and smiled at Nemai’i as the girl playfully backed away into a corner; she crawled toward her and reached a pink hand out to the quivering thighs.

“Long, pianist’s fingers,” her governess had once said. “I’ll put them to good use now,” Cora thought as she slipped them under the palm frond skirt to where moisture gathered along the crease of Nemai’i’s inner thigh. So long she’d dreamed of touching paradise, and here she was, with fingers slipping into the damp heat, exploring it at last.

To be Continued…

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

How I Learned to be Proud of My Breasts

Background: The Trainer

I hate men, passionately. They’re hairy, ugly, and all too often, dirty. I can’t stand the feel of their stupid faces against my skin. They’re either unshaven, therefore tickle, or poorly shaven, therefore scratch. Their bodies are hairy and ugly and misshapen, too. They have no soft places to kiss and caress, unless they are disgustingly fat and wobble when they walk. Their sex organs are downright ugly, slightly reminiscent of crocket mallets waiting to pound on something. Their scrota resemble those stress-exercise balls used to firm up one’s grip. That actually is one pleasant image, grasping their balls in one hand and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing as hard as possible.

However, I am a romantic, and a somewhat attractive woman, though I do wear “a few extra pounds” here and there. I enjoy sex, even if only at the behest of a vibrator. I try to limit orgasms to one per day, though I have occasionally exceeded this goal. Every time, I do imagine the feel of a man inside me, filling me, stimulating me.

Since my early twenties, I’ve presented myself as a male. I wear my hair short, not a buzz cut but about an inch long. This leaves me with no hassles involving tangles or combs or brushes. Ten seconds is enough to ensure my hair is completely in place. I do not wear makeup. I hate makeup. It’s gooey and smelly and never goes in the right places, based on the few times I tried it as a teenager. I do not wear nail polish. It’s even smellier, and loves to climb onto my cuticles and skin. I do not wear jewelry, except for one garnet necklace given to me by a close friend. I especially do not wear earrings, for the thought of poking holes in my body gives me the shivers. I dress in sweatshirts and hoodies one size too large, along with plain old denims and tennis shoes, to hide my curves as well as I can. I do wear bras, usually sports bras one size too small so they compress my admittedly generous breasts against my chest. And my panties are as plain as can be, gray cotton things. I do find my monthly maintenance chores to be annoying, but push through them as quickly as possible.

So, in short, I make believe I am a man, trapped in a woman’s body. Though my given name is Margaret, I accept, gladly, the nickname of Bobbie. I’ve been doing this for twenty years, and I am happy. I have no desire to change.

This has led to some stress at work and with family. Men, against all reason, ask me out for dates. “No way” is the most polite answer I offer, when I’m in a good mood. Women wonder if I’m gay, and glance at me when they think I’m not looking. Maybe I am, I sometimes think, then banish the thought. My siblings often ask annoying questions about my love life, and get nothing but a glare in return.

At one office holiday party, I did get a wee bit drunk. I’m sure I could have stood up if I really tried, but I didn’t want to try. One of my co-workers, I forget who, got into a discussion of gender-bending stuff, like “should boys who feel like girls be allowed to use girls’ bathrooms at school?” I didn’t pay much attention, for the whole topic seemed silly (boys are boys, just see if anything’s hanging between their legs) and I had a hard time following the discussion. But I do recall someone mentioning “The Trainer”, as a friendly expert on gender stuff.

A few nights later, with nothing else to do, I got to thinking about my gender preferences. It dawned on me that maybe not everything was aligned as well as it could be. Up came Google, with a search for “The Trainer”. After the inevitable movies and plays and other garbage, I did find a reference to a woman in my area whose web site offered “private consultations about one’s role in the modern sexual marketplace”. I know, this is not impressive, but I did give in to an unexpected urge to make contact. I sent an email from a semi-anonymous account to The Trainer. It contained a variation of the summary I’ve presented here, along with my pointed question of the form “So what can you do for me?”

She responded quickly and very politely. She admitted that she’d need to meet me to properly answer my question. She added some detail, stating that her goal was to help people find comfort in themselves, acknowledging reality and shedding pretense. Her preferred method was role-playing. She’d meet with a client, work out a way to experiment, with an emphasis on emotional safety, with different presentations. She was clear that she is not prescriptive and she is non-judgmental. Her only goal is to find the most comfortable self-image for her students.

Normally I avoid feel-good advisors who only feel good when they receive a check from me. But The Trainer seemed more sincere, and more humble, than other quacks I’ve encountered. I decided to give her a chance, just one.

I made an appointment to visit her the next Wednesday, from noon to 5PM.

Preparation: Making the Plan

I showed up at The Trainer’s apartment precisely at noon. She let me in, and immediately offered uşak escort me a seat and a cup of tea. She was a mature and rather dowdy woman, but clearly energetic and intelligent. Her apartment was small, containing a single living/dining room and a hall leading to a bathroom and, I assumed, a bedroom. Two cats lounged on the floor, but seemed quite elderly, as they barely moved when I entered.

We talked about innocuous things as we got to know one another. We both hate sports, and the men they attract. We both enjoy history and music, though I’m more into engineering, and she into art. It was easy to open up to her, for she was quite open with me.

Then we got down to business. She clearly understood that I visualize myself as a man, biology notwithstanding, and am happy with that. She was very supportive of this, emphasizing that one should find a role in which one feels comfortable, and stick with it, regardless of outside opinion. She even asserted that I was handsome, though I wrote this off as the kind of pandering that comes with professional client relations.

The crux came when she asked me what alternative roles I had considered. I blushed. I do have a secret fantasy. So secret it’s known only to me. I thought long and hard about whether I should reveal it to her. She waited, silently, knowing that I was struggling internally. She was patient. She seemed sincerely interested in my thoughts. I gave in.

“I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to live life as a real woman, provided we could get rid of all the men”, was my current thought. “I don’t think I want to be a lesbian, but I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to be Cinderella – without Prince Charming.”

She was silent. I was silent. We looked at each other, and she smiled a bit and nodded slightly. “I know exactly what you mean” she spoke, softly. I believed her.

“Would you be interested in a simple experiment to help clarify your feelings?” she asked.

“What kind of experiment?” I wondered. I liked her, but was not about to yield control to her.

“Let’s just go for a ride. Go to a mall, perhaps. Let’s find a place not far from here, but where you won’t be known. In the process, let’s do some simple role-playing. Let’s just fix you up to be a bit more feminine, and see how you feel about it.”

“What do you mean by fixing me up?” I had to know.

“I suggest we keep things simple. I can put some light makeup on you. I can loan you a simple wig, not big and long, but something down to your shoulders, perhaps. I have some discrete jewelry. But mostly, let’s show off your breasts a bit more.”

I was seriously taken aback, especially by her final clause. Repeat: I don’t like makeup. Repeat: I don’t like long hair. Repeat: I don’t like jewelry. Repeat: I don’t want other people staring at my breasts. But I do like having breasts, and sometimes, late at night, I stand in front of a mirror and…whatever.

However, I did feel a surge of interest, maybe even excitement. A warm feeling grew in my crotch. Something sexually significant began. I became modestly aroused, and this does not happen outside my bedroom.

“Think about it for a few minutes”, said The Trainer.

I did. I imagined walking down the aisle of one of the nearby malls. I imagined wearing those self-forbidden items: makeup, earrings, bracelets, and wig. I especially imagined allowing my breasts to show. The warmth spread. Arousal grew. I went further, and imagined adopting the arched-back posture used by exotic women, pulling my shoulders back and pushing my breasts forward. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to do this, to let myself go, to appear as a woman, sensual, erotic. Damn the men. I formed the idea of competing with other women: “Mine are bigger than yours, now what do you say?”

To this day, I don’t know what I desired more at that instant: a climax, or to go on with The Trainer’s expedition. I was so aroused that judgment failed me. I acceded to her suggestion.

But then cold feet set in. I wondered why I should bother at all with this silly idea. I was sure no good would come of it, and the next day I would simply revert to my normal, comfortable life. Why take any risk at all? I still didn’t know The Trainer very well, though I was beginning to like her. Besides, I’m happy being male, at least in concept.

Fortunately, it was winter. I could contemplate a compromise: I could wear my winter coat, which I had left in my car. This would hide my breasts, to some extent, if things became to embarrassing. I did not want men to be glaring at me, under any circumstances.

Also, I wanted an escape path. I didn’t want to give The Trainer more control than necessary, but I did think her presence could give me confidence. I asked her for a piece of paper and pen, and scribbled out the following caveats:

1. I wear the entire setup, including my winter coat, as we leave your home, and I drive us to the Mall

2. We walk into the Mall, and promenade around it, with my coat buttoned, window-shopping, as I adjust uşak escort bayan to the wig, makeup and jewelry

3. You signal me to unbutton my coat, revealing the shape of my breasts, and we continue walking

4. We find a seat in the Food Court, and you signal me to remove my coat entirely, exposing the shape of my breasts to all who would look

5. After some time, we resume our walk, with me carrying my coat on my arm, again window-shopping, breasts clearly on display

6. If the weather permits, we return to the car, you unlock it and tell me to put my coat in it, then we return to the mall, removing the psychological safety net that the coat had provided

7. We continue our promenade, and as we pass each store, you ask me to identify an item we might examine in each one

8. You select one store for us to enter and contemplate a purchase, where I must talk with a sales person (preferably female), my breasts directly in front of her.

The Trainer took no issue with these suggestions. We had a plan.

Transformation: From Bobbie to Maggie

The Trainer took charge. “Stay here, I’ll be right back”. Sure enough, a few minutes later she returned, arms full of stuff.

“Let’s start with the basics. Take off your sweatshirt, please.” This gave me no pause, as my sports bra is a very utilitarian thing, not likely to excite anyone, especially The Trainer.

“Thank you. Now, here’s a more appealing bra. Put it on. Would you like me to leave while you do so?” This was an interesting combination of authority and sensitivity. Again, I gave in.

“No, you may stay, of course.” I examined the bra she had given me. It was lacy, but well constructed, as the back panel included four clasps. It also had an underwire, the purpose of which I had long forgotten. I put it on, and almost gasped. I discovered the reason for the underwire, as it rounded my breasts. Being of the proper size, the cups forced them to protrude more than I’d ever experienced. The lace was semi-transparent, and my nipples showed clearly, both in color and in shape. I looked bustier than I ever had. I did not enjoy the concept. I do not show off my breasts. Yet here, I did. Something again stirred between my legs.

The Trainer said nothing. She handed me a turquoise knit sweater, obviously wishing me to put it on. I did. It covered the bra, and hid the color of my nipples, but not their shape. I protruded. They protruded. I felt as though an alien had overtaken my body. Unconsciously, I arched my back, slightly. I protruded more. I became more aroused. My nipples protruded more. This was not me! But it was fun.

She handed me a wig. I somehow figured out how to pull it over my short-cropped hair. It fit snuggly. As promised, it was not too long, not quite coming down to my shoulders, with bangs almost reaching my eyebrows. She pulled out a comb, combed the wig quickly, and then stepped back.

“Go into the bathroom, and take a look at yourself.” I did. I gasped, for real. For that was not me in the mirror. It was a busty woman, with simple yet feminine hair. Was I that woman? “Put these on”, she said, handing me a pair of dangly, somewhat tacky, earrings. The pressure of the clips on my ear lobes was quite surprising. “Turn and look at me” was her next instruction. I did, and she deftly dabbed eye shadow, eyebrow pencil, and lipstick on me. “Look again.” I did, and could not believe the transformation. At least from the waist up, I was no longer my own comfortable tomboy. I was a full-fledged woman. It made me very, very uncomfortable, for this was an entirely unfamiliar concept. It was arousing, though, for inexplicable reasons. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see a woman, a real woman. She is not me. I would be embarrassed to be seen like this in any other circumstances. I am embarrassed now. I do not want to be this woman. She defies major parts of my personal self-image. Let’s stop.”

“Can we compromise, and just take a break? Please, come take a seat in the living room?” She led the way, and I followed. Somehow I had fallen into a subservient role, accepting her suggestions, though still feeling free to offer my own opinions. She offered, and produced, another cup of tea. It was Earl Gray, I think.

“This is just a role-playing experiment. I’m not trying to change you at all. You will be the same person tomorrow morning as you were when you woke up this morning. The only thing that will change is your experience. Please, stay with me, let’s do this, so you can go home knowing, in more detail, what you’ve chosen not to include in your self-image, yet.”

I remained silent. She had a good point. Her offer was to try something new, like bocce or skydiving. I would not change. Or if I did change, it would be my choice to do so. I would be embarrassed in the process, just as if I were to take up bocce, having no skill in it. I would learn something, though, and I do appreciate the value of learning. “Ok.”

We left her apartment, and walked to my car. Nobody was in the hallway, escort uşak so nobody saw me. We got to the car, opened it, and I immediately put on my winter coat. I almost never wear it, because it has a somewhat feminine cut and fur collar, but now it served as a savior. Buttoned tightly, it effectively hid my breasts. I again felt comfortable. I didn’t even think about the other parts of my transformation. I relaxed.

However, I could not escape the realization that I was no longer Bobbie. I was back to being Margaret, or perhaps Maggie.

Experience: At the Mall

We headed to the mall, and I concentrated on driving, nothing else. I focused my attention on traffic, signals, and other wild and dangerous drivers. She chatted about her cats, the decorations in her apartment, and her enthusiasm for medieval English history. No thoughts of the coming activity complicated our thinking.

We arrived at the mall, and I parked somewhat near one of the main entrances. Feigning nonchalance, I got out, sure that the coat was completely buttoned. I helped The Trainer out of her side, locked the car, and we proceeded to the mall entrance.

Somewhere between the car and the entrance, it hit me. I was now a different person. I had long hair. I was wearing makeup. I was wearing earrings. And despite my self-delusion, my breast-mounds clearly filled out my coat in a way I’d not experienced in many, many years. I was Maggie. I was exhibiting femininity, not hiding it. The Trainer was silent at my side, inscrutable, letting me come to grips with the new reality.

As we approached the door, two or three scruffy men stood outside. They were smoking, and they were gaping. They weren’t gaping at The Teacher, since she was dressed very conventionally, and comported herself with a deliberately lackluster demeanor. No, they were gaping at me. To them, I was a well-made-up busty woman, despite the jeans and sneakers, and they barely restrained their leers. Embarrassed though I was, I held their eyes, knowing that this would increase their interest, but refusing to be intimidated by them.

We got to the door, and went inside. We entered on the second floor. A short way ahead of us was an escalator down to the first floor. We were in a light, airy lobby, and I felt as though I had just stepped on stage. Everyone in the lobby could see Maggie, even though I was not really Maggie.

At the base of the escalator, two mall handcart vendors accosted us. “Hello, ladies, would you like some mumbledygook?”. I didn’t even pay attention to what they were selling. I instinctively don’t like being called a lady, for I am Bobbie, and I am a male. Except then, I was not Bobbie, I was Maggie, and I was female. I became very confused.

The Trainer led us into a gem shop. It was very nicely set up, with sales staff that clearly valued customers. One saleswoman came over to me, and asked about what I was interested. At any other time, this would have been a pleasant experience. But now, The Teacher had brought us directly to the 8th step of the 8 step way I had insisted upon, and I became severely disoriented.

Here I was, big-busted woman with breasts enhanced by an underwire bra, wearing makeup, earrings, and long hair. This image was far from the masculine Bobbie to which I was accustomed. I put my hands deep into my pockets. I hunched over to hide my breasts. I shifted my shoulders up so that my coat collar would cover my neck. I tried to hide. The Trainer ignored me, pleasantly gabbing about this and that. I left the store, found a corner in which to stand, and pretended to be invisible.

Eventually The Trainer emerged from the shop. She immediately recognized my distress. She led me over to a set of chairs in the lobby through which we had entered, and gestured to me to sit down. “What’s wrong?” she asked, kindly.

“I wanted to ease into this situation. I provided you with a list of incremental steps by which we could do this. You took us right to the end of the list. I am feeling extremely uncomfortable. I simply do not know how to comport myself when I’m in this position.” Those were the nice words. The less nice thoughts included no small amount of anger, for I felt she had violated the implicit compact we had made when she accepted my amendment to her plan.

“You are absolutely right. I got carried away. I am so sorry. Would you like to go home now, or figure out a way to proceed?” Such compassion and humility surprised me. Anger fled. Now that I was in her scene, I did want to go forward. But I wanted to slow down.

“There’s a food court in front of us. Can we find someplace to sit, as far out of sight as possible?” I asked.

“Sure, that’s a good idea”, she said. “Lead the way.”

I led us to a half-booth near the ground floor entrance. She offered to get us slices of pizza and soft drinks. I acceded, and she went off to do so. Left alone, I thought about my situation. The good news was that I was in a position where I really could try on a new personality. The bad news was that it was one with which I was completely unfamiliar, and therefore completely lacking in self-confidence. An interesting element of fun remained, however. I was a new person, Maggie. I could project a distinctly feminine image. And with The Trainer’s support, I could readily avoid normal irritations. I resolved to try, but at my own pace.

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This short story is not for readers who check to see if there is any “action” without having to scroll down. It is a first time for one of the girls, so it takes a while before each of them discovers that the other one is also just as eager to enjoy what two girls can do together. Of course, they are both at least eighteen years old.

* * *

“I am curious – if you don’t mind? When did you start to shave? You know, down there.”

Chris blushed at the question of her college freshman roommate. She and Pat had only met a few days before. When they were undressing the first evening, she had suddenly remembered that her shaven pussy could surprise Pat. They weren’t facing each other, so Pat couldn’t see that she blushed as they were taking of their last clothing, but it would have been awkward for Chris to try to hide her bare pussy, since Pat seemed to assume that they would be as unconcerned about nudity as all the girls in high school had been after sports.

Pat must have noticed, but to Chris’s relief she hadn’t said anything, and also didn’t the following days, even though it was obvious that they were seeing each other naked. Chris thought they both had similar figures. Blond Pat’s nipples were pink with larger areola than her own smaller, almost brown ones around her tight little nipples. Chris anticipated, however, that eventually Pat would ask something about her shaving, when they became better acquainted. She didn’t want to call attention to it, but her dark pubic hair was growing, so finally Friday evening, when she was alone in their small bathroom, she shaved again.

Had she anticipated that her freshly shaven pussy would elicit Pat’s question:

“When did you start to shave? You know, down there.”

Chris blushed, despite her knowing that one day she was going to have to explain. Pat’s question was at least easy to answer:

“This summer,” she replied with a slightly wry expression.

“Don’t know anyone else who does; just had to ask.”

“That’s all right; I knew you must have been wondering.”

“I sure have been!” Pat replied, looking like she was relieved that Chris hadn’t been upset by her question.

Chris was also relieved that Pat had finally asked and found herself wanting to say more:

“Not all at once. I bought a new bikini in the spring, trying it on over underpants. You know the kind of cotton ones Mom used to buy for me.”

Pat nodded with a grin, enjoining:

“Like my mom did, bigger than any bikini bottom.”

“Exactly! The first time I put on the bikini – luckily at home – I discovered that my hair showed at the top; had to quickly grab my razor and scrape it off. That was no problem, but then at the pool I saw woman with a few hairs curling out between her thighs. Shit! Mine could do that! I have a lot – before I shaved. You’re lucky; not so much and just light tan; they wouldn’t show like mine would.”

Pat nodded. Inadvertently her fingers passed over her pubic hair that was so sparse that Chris could recognize her slit – not for the first time. Softly, unthinkingly she murmured:

“Couldn’t have seen mine.”

She then blushed at the realization of what she she had said, that she had admitted that she had been looking at Pat’s pussy. She tried to deflect from that:

“Yeah, so at home I checked if my hairs down there could slip out. They could, so I trimmed them with my nail scissors.”

“They hadn’t at the pool, I hope.”

“Not as much as I do!”

“And then? You shaved them all off,” Pat remarked.

“Hmm? Yeah. My girlfriend’s older sister had been to Europe and seen that some girls do.”

“They do, and she saw them?!”

“In France, I think, somewhere were some people don’t wear anything.”

“Bet she didn’t tell their mom that she went there.”

“I doubt it, but she told her sister, . . . and, well, she didn’t have the problem I had, but . . . well, she thought it was a good idea, so we both did.”

“Shave it all off?” Pat asked.

“Um-hmm, thought it would be more difficult than it was, than it is.”

Pat smirked and replied:

“I didn’t ask that, but thanks for telling me.”

“You don’t need to. I like that I do – not need to, but that I do it.”

Chris’s hand unconsciously rubbed over her smooth mound. Pat smiled slightly and replied:

“A couple of girls at school had too much, well, I thought so; didn’t look girlish. Hm-hmm! Even though the rest of them did.”

Pat raised her hands under her breasts, gesturing that those girls had had bigger ones. They both chuckled, and Chris agreed:

“Like a couple in my class, more there and sooner than the rest of us. Can’t remember about their hair.”

They both smiled with shrugs. Pat used the bathroom, and they went to bed. That was the first night Chris ventured to start to masturbate in the darkened room with Pat.

She thought Pat wouldn’t notice, and she didn’t seem to, but then Chris noticed suggestive noises from Pat’s bed, making trabzon escort her wonder if she had heard her first and tacitly agreed that now they were intimate enough to do what they both had been wanting to do since they met. Chris thought so and let a soft moan escape, delighted when she heard one from Pat. A couple of more moans were exchanged. Then Chis was surprised to hear Pat murmur:

“I’m glad that you want to, too.”

“Me too, that you do.”

“Uhmmm! And how! Almost a week without.”

“Me too. Enjoy!”

“You too!”

They both did with then open moans, exchanging encouraging sounding chuckles, when they heard the other’s aroused moan. Then they were each too aroused by what their fingers were doing to be conscious of the noises of the other’s pending orgasm. When they had had them, they both giggled uncontrollably and then agreed that they had never thought they would do that with each other, pleased and then sleeping soundly.

In the early morning, Chris recalled what she and her girlfriend had done together, but that didn’t diminish her delight about what she and Pat had done; it just suggested what else they might do together. Would Pat want to, she wondered, hoping that she would. When Pat woke up, she cheerfully remarked:

“Oh that was good! I needed that, better than most times, knowing you were too.”

“It sure was, same way, with you too,” Chris agreed grinning to herself as she silently thanked someone for making them roommates.

They got up, chuckling and exchanging smirks as they both openly perused each other’s body. When Pat’s nipples popped out, she just smiled and rubbed them. Chris nodded, tempted to say something about them, but didn’t.

Alone in the bathroom, she wondered what she might have said: just that she liked them; even suggest that it was good that Pat had rubbed them before she did? If she did that – got to do that – she wouldn’t want to just rub them; she knew that she would want to suck them like she had her girlfriend’s. And that wasn’t all they had done! Would Pat also want to? Had she done anything with another girl? At least, she hadn’t been shocked that they both wanted to masturbate. How did she do it? Good, from the sounds of her moans, however she did it.

Saturday morning they had lectures and went their separate ways, meeting for lunch. When Pat smirked slightly, Chris did, liking that Pat had and wondering if she had also been wondering about her experience, what she had said about her girlfriend, that they had both decided to shave their pussies. Could Pat have wondered about that, envisioned that they had helped each other the first time? Chris hoped so. If Pat decided she wanted to shave hers, she would be more than willing to help, hoping the intimacy would lead to more, like it had with her girlfriend.

Suddenly, for the first time, it occurred to Chris that maybe that hadn’t just happened, that her girlfriend could have been the one to want it to. Had her sister told her more than just about shaven pussies, something she had done in France, not just told her, shown her?

That all went through her head while she and Pat were standing in line to be served. Chris gave her another little smirk and shrugged at all her own questions, Pat winked with a shrug. She couldn’t know what Chris had been thinking, but to Chris it seemed like she could have been reading her thoughts.

During lunch, they talked about their new courses and then about how to spend the afternoon. They agreed to look at the stands for extracurricular activities that older students had set up for freshmen. They found them interesting, especially the ones that didn’t just hand out information and forms to register: the theater group in costumes and others that could display their activities. One stand was about the freshmen mixer that evening, reminding them that they had seen an announcement for it in college newspaper that had been distributed to the freshmen dorms. Of course, they wanted to go.

After dinner, they worried about what to wear, but then found the announcement and the line: “Come as you are.” They chuckled that someone had anticipated their question. After quick showers, they found something more attractive to wear. When Pat struggled a little to pull her polo shirt over her breasts, Chris joshed her, saying that she really want to put her best points forward. Pat excused herself, explaining that the shirt was a couple of years old. Chris’s blouse was, however, just as form fitting.

At the mixer, they were surprised that beer was being offered. It wasn’t sold directly to freshmen. An older student stood in front of the bar and asked what they wanted to drink. When freshmen asked for a beer, he ordered it, collecting the money and paying, then handing them the beers. It wasn’t the first time the girls had drunk beer, so they had one and joined the crowd and talked to girls they had met in their dorm, then with the boys who joined them. They had another beer, more trabzon escort bayan chatting. There was music, and some girls began to dance, then some of the boys. Chris and Pat finished their beers and also danced, pleased that a couple of the boys they had been talking with then danced with them.

They were upperclassmen and then offered them another beer, able to buy them themselves at the bar. After a few sips, they all returned to the dance floor with their beers. When the music got a little wilder, their dancing also did, flirtatious, sometimes hips moving suggestively. The girls grinned at each other and let the boys see them dancing with each other that way. When Pat raised her beer, almost toasting Chris, they both drank. That was when it occurred to Chris that the best part of the evening could still be ahead of them; not with the boys, of course, not before a few dates – at least three.

They turned back and danced with the boys, showing no preferences. When the music stopped, they all drank and the boys said that they had liked the way the girls danced. They finished their beers and exchanged names and cellphone numbers, calling each other to get them in their lists of contacts. That was enough suggestion that they might meet again, and the girls walked back to their dorm, chatting about the evening and their impressions of the boys. When Chris said that she had been a little surprised at how they had danced together, Pat agreed with a sly smile.

Back in their room, while they were undressing, Pat gave her another sly smile as they both were taking off their bras. Chris returned it and saw Pat’s nice nipples pop out, disappointed that her little ones weren’t so evident, although she felt that they were also erect. Had Pat still noticed? She hummed softly with a nod and circled hers with her fingers and murmured:

“I’m going to again. Beer, the boys, the dancing; I want to.”

“Me too,” Chris agreed and returned her hum – more like a soft moan – and added: “the dancing.”

Pat nodded with a sighing hum. Then they both had to hurry to use the toilet, Pat first, Christ crowding in, while Pat washed her pussy, the first time they had been together in the small bathroom. Pat’s ass was right in front of Chris’s face. Nice round ass, she almost stroked it, recalling having been like that with her girlfriend. When Pat was finished, she washed her pussy, surprised that Pat stayed in the bathroom with her, more surprised, when Pat murmured:

“I’m so glad that we get along so well. I was worried, apprehensive. It didn’t have to be this good, but – you know – well, this is this is even better.”

“It sure is. I was worried too. What if my new roommate had been completely upset that I shave it, some girl from a very conservative background?”

“Don’t want to think about what she would have thought of you. I don’t; I like it,” Pat replied.

“That’s good. I do too,” Chris replied.

She had been prolonging her washing and drying, not to interrupt their conversation. Pat’s last words let her wonder if Pat just liked that that her pussy was shaved, or if she was implying that she liked her shaven pussy. She wiped it again with her towel; it had gone moist at that thought, and she felt her nipples tighten again. She turned and hung up her towel, surprised to see that Pat was holding her breast and that the fingers of her other hand were cupped around her pubic mound.

Chris liked the way it swelled out between her thighs, wishing her own also looked like those in paintings and the pictures of classical statues she had seen. Hers did a little, better than those of some of her high school classmates. Her girlfriend’s didn’t as much as Pat’s, but when it was shaven, it looked very attractive, better than the paintings or statues, her slit showing.

Pat gave her a smirking grin and said:

“You have a nice figure, nice bottom.”

“You do too,” Chris replied, returning her grin and adding: “Almost wanted to touch yours, right there in front of my face.”

“Hm-hmm! Would have been funny, but I wouldn’t have minded. Let’s got to bed.”

They turned out the lights and did, both chuckling as their fingers found their pussies. For a minute or two, they were silent, except rustling of the covers on their hands. Chris was wondering if it would be different than the previous evening. She didn’t have to moan yet, but did, hoping to hear one from Pat. It was more just a quizzical hum, and then Pat asked:

“What do you think about?”

Chris was thinking about what she and her girlfriend had done, envisioning that she and Pat would, but after a surprised “hmm?” she replied:

“About a guy.”

“You did it with him?”

“Yeah. Have you?”

“With one. And you?”

“Two.”

“Good?”

“Not really, but, well, that’s what most girls say.”

“Yeah, where I come from too.”

After a short pause, Chris suggested:

“I hope it was better for you.”

“Better escort trabzon than with your two?”

“I hope so.”

“Maybe it was then.”

“Want to tell?”

“Want to hear?”

“If you want to tell?”

“If you then do, even it they weren’t so good.”

“Okay. I don’t think they were,” Chris replied.

She heard Pat’s rubbing for a few moments, and then her response:

“I think we were lucky. We’d been making out, his hand under my bra. Don’t know what got into me, but I asked if we really wanted to do it. Oh, of course, it had sounded like everyone did senior year.”

“Like in my school,” Chris enjoined.

“Yeah. That was how it was. I guess he was surprised – oh, he was! People expect the guy to be more forward, and we were just good friends. Maybe that was good, better than thinking we were madly in love. We weren’t.”

“Don’t have to be to want to make out as much as one can.”

“Yeah, like that. Hm-hmm! And I guess I wanted it to be that much.”

“Nothing beyond that. And . . .? You did.”

“Yeah. Oh, it was easy. Kids tell about having to do it in the dark in a hurry, scared to be caught.”

“You didn’t?” Chris asked, now more interested in Pat’s story than in trying to have her orgasm.

Pat paused for a moment, then continue:

“Nope. It was easy. His parents both worked. I just had to say that I was going somewhere, and then we there, in his house. Oh, it was quite strange. We had talked about it more than just that once and admitted that it would be the first time . So there we were, agreed that we wanted to do it, but then by the light of day, just taking off our clothes …?”

Got to see more than I did,” Chris suggested, adding: “We were in the dark. Hmm! Also about what we were doing.”

“We sure weren’t in the dark, in his sunlit room. I think he was more embarrassed than I was, when we took off our clothes.”

“Doesn’t sound romantic,” Chris interjected. “

“It wasn’t; we had just agreed that we wanted to. He had held my boob, so seeing it wasn’t any problem for me. Hm-hmm! I wanted him to.”

“Your nice boobs,” Chris interjected again.

“You think so too, like them?

Chris nodded in the dark. Pat continued:

“He did, but, of course, he was embarrassed that his dick – what do you call it?”

“Cock.”

“That his cock was already aroused, not like it later was. Of course, he couldn’t see that I was already.”

“Except for your nice, aroused nipples.”

“So there we were in his room, all naked. You want to hear all this?”

“Yes! Arousing me, if you want to tell?” Chris replied.

“So there we were, on his bed, and I held it. It just seem to fit in my hand so perfectly.”

Chris moaned and murmured:

“I didn’t; they just stuck it in.”

“He did too, but not before I made him cum. Gosh! It shot up all over him! I had to help him a little about what to do for me, but he didn’t mind, and then he thought to suck my breast. Oh, that was good, our fingers and that too! His bigger fingers in me, and mine doing what else my pussy wanted. Oh, hope you don’t mind my using that word!”

“No!” Chris replied, her own fingers trying to emulate what his and Pat’s had been doing, who then continued:

“That was better than when we really did it. I couldn’t tell him, of course. We did it a couple of times after that. The last time, I sat on him. Before, he had been on top. That was better, being able to move him in me. Mmmm! I wanted to rub like I am now – would have made it even better – but I didn’t want to suggest that his dick wasn’t all I needed.”

“Hmmm,” Chris groaned, aroused both by what her fingers were doing and by Pat’s story, who then asked:

“And you? With two guy?”

“Not nearly that good. We just did it; they just did it, in the dark, like I said, and just sticking it in, had to go home and do this.”

“Oh, sorry about that, but it sounds like what others have said.”

“Better than for some,” Chris agreed, then took a deep breath.

Could she say it? She took another deep breath and murmured:

“It wasn’t really better like this, until we shaved.”

“But then it was? That’s good,” Pat replied evenly, adding: “It was better for me – I could do it better – after being with him. Then I was sure that I was having orgasms. Mmmm! Hm-hmm! Before that, I only rubbed. Why didn’t I put my fingers in? Guess I thought a virgin shouldn’t do that, but then I wasn’t one. Well, technically I wasn’t one before; he didn’t deflower me.”

“Nor the first boy, me,” Chris agreed.

“Oh, we were lucky! We talked about that afterwards, that it was probably better that we both just wanted to do it, that it was an experiment, not all messed up with thinking we were madly in love, that we were doing it maybe to stick together forever.”

“We didn’t either, but it wasn’t like that, unfortunately.”

Chris wanted to get back to suggesting that she and her girlfriend had done more, but Pat was moaning, obviously more interested in arousing herself. When Chris moaned, Pat murmured: “Yes, let’s do it now.”

They did. This time they didn’t giggle afterwards, just agreed that it had been good and that they liked that they had done it together. They said good night and fell asleep.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
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Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Megan was about to begin her Freshman year at a State University in the Upper Midwest. She chose this campus for a lot of reasons. It was located on a big, beautiful lake. Megan loved to canoe and here she could canoe every afternoon, if she wished. The psychology department was said to be outstanding and Megan intended to be a psych major. For as long as she could remember, that was always one thing she liked to do, to try to figure out human behavior, all the things that made people tick. So she figured she’d turn this inclination of hers first into a major, then maybe into a profession.

And last but not least, this school was said to be lots and lots of fun. It was big and diverse and easy-going, liberal and open-minded. And the students here were reputed to know how to enjoy themselves, something Megan herself was devoted to doing. For a Megan always regarded herself as a sensualist, a hedonist, and somewhat of a party girl!

Every new Freshman, Megan learned from her orientation packet, would be assigned either a Junior or a Senior as a mentor. That mentor would help orient the new student to campus life, and be available for the duration of the first year of college to advise and give support to the Freshman when needed.

Megan just met Valerie that morning. Valerie was a Junior and was to be Megan’s mentor. The moment they laid eyes on each other, they breathed a sigh of relief. Megan had already spoken to a couple of new students like herself and learned they were none too happy with the mentors assigned them. And Valerie dreaded mentoring some dull, bland, unpleasant first year student. But right away these two young women, one twenty, the other about to turn twenty-two, could see they would get along very nicely. Maybe it was the way they dressed, sort of casually hip and stylish. Lots of students here were very straight, very square. But Megan and Valerie could see right away they were of a mind. These two were hip babes and they knew it too.

They said hello to each other and then Valerie suggested taking Megan out for a late morning breakfast at a joint she liked a lot. Megan liked it too and the food, she saw right away, was great. That was a good start. Her mentor could have taken her to some plastic fast food joint, which Megan hated.

They talked. Valerie filled Megan in on where she was from, what college life had been like for her these last two years. Valerie already knew a bit about Megan from the material she got from the admissions office. She was aware Megan had taken a year off to work as a model in New York before enrolling for her Freshman year. That of course made Valerie curious. This was unusual route, spending a glamorous year as a young fashion model in Manhattan, then deciding to begin her Freshman year at a large Midwestern university. Valerie wanted to hear what it was like for Megan, taking a year off after high school to do something like that.

And Megan of course had loads of questions for Valerie which Valerie was more than happy to answer. Almost immediately these two began to feel as though they’d known each other a long, long time, rather than just having met.

“You got a regular boyfriend?” Valerie asked Megan.

“I did,” Megan said. “A guy in New York, this photographer. But I busted up with him before coming here. I didn’t want to drag a long distance relationship with me to campus, you know what I mean? Hey, I’m starting school now, a whole new scene. So I want to meet new people, go out with new guys, have myself some new lovers when I’m ready.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Valerie said. “So many students, they bring their relationships with them to college, with all those pressures and stuff. It rarely seems to work. All the phone calls and letters, the arguments, the heartaches, the split-ups. Who needs all that shit, right? Plus, someone as cute as you are is going to have no trouble attracting suitors.”

“Why thank you. You’re pretty cute yourself, Valerie,” Megan said. And she meant it. Valerie was tall and slender, an auburn haired beauty with a picture perfect face and a sleek, graceful body. “In fact, you could be a model yourself if you wanted to.”

“You really think so?” Valerie asked, loving to hear this from this young woman who actually had herself recently been working as a professional model.

“Absolutely,” Megan said.

They sipped their coffee.

“How about you? You got a boyfriend?” Megan asked Valerie.

Valerie shifted in her chair a little and coughed.

“I’m sort of seeing someone now, actually living with them,” Valerie said.

“Oh? That’s nice, maybe I’ll meet him someday,” Megan said, as Valerie looked down and took another sip of her coffee.

“Maybe.”

“As for me,” Megan continued. “For a while I’m just going to stay away from guys. I don’t plan to date for a while. In New York, I was going out every night and stuff. But here I’m just going to mellow out.”

Megan took a bite of her Danish.

“And when I get horny, I always have these,” Megan said, waving her urfa escort fingers. Valerie perked up, a little amazed that this Freshman was being so frank with her new mentor. Then she smiled.

“Yes, fingers can be a girl’s best friends,” Valerie said.

“Ain’t that the truth!”

“Do you masturbate a lot?” Valerie asked now that Megan had broached this subject, wanting to know a bit more about the intimate life of this Freshman she’d be advising.

“Yeah, when I’m not with anyone, just about every night,” she said. “And often in the morning, when I wake up.”

Valerie smiled to herself. She expected to know a few things about Megan after this breakfast of theirs, though she didn’t think she’d so quickly be privy to knowledge of Megan’s masturbatory habits!

“How about you, if you don’t mind my asking?” Megan asked her mentor. Maybe if she were just an ordinary eighteen year old Freshman she wouldn’t be as brazen as this. But after working as a model in Manhattan for a year, having lived with three other models there, Megan was somewhat precocious for her age, and for her status as a new college Freshman. Plus, with her insatiable curiosity about human behavior, it was no surprise that she was asking probing questions about the sexual behavior of her mentor.

“Oh, I beat off all the time too,” Valerie confessed, surprised at how easy it was to ‘fess up like this to a younger woman she hardly even knew. “I love getting off like that. You know yourself down there better than anyone. My orgasms that way, they’re the strongest.”

“Mine too,” Megan said. “Anything special about how, when, where you like to beat off? I’m kind of curious. I hope you don’t mind. I’m going to be a psych major and I guess I’m just fascinated by all aspects of human behavior”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all. That’s what a mentor is supposed to be for, right? To answer questions, all sorts of questions. So to answer your question, lately I’ve been doing it a lot when I take a shower. Or when I’m out somewhere and I start to feel horny? I go take a leak and then, before I pull up my panties, I get myself off.”

They looked at each other and then started laughing.

“Listen to us, the way we’re talking!” Valerie said, rather amazed at their openness, their frankness about these intimate matters.

“Let’s keep talking, then,” Megan urged. “Tell me more. Give me the low down on how you masturbate. Got any special tricks, techniques?”

There she was again, Megan always being curious about the behavior of others.

“Naturally I use my fingers, and I got a vibrator I sometimes like to use. How about you?”

“Same thing. Mainly my fingers, but like you, I got a vibrator.”

They described their vibrators to each other, and talked a little about how they liked to use them. Valerie’s was one of those massage-type units you press against your pussy, against your clit. But Megan’s was the type that’s shaped like a cock which you can stick inside yourself if you want.

“Do you like to do anything special when you beat off?” Megan asked Valerie.

“Once in a while I look at dirty videos, but mainly I just fantasize. How about you?”

“Oh I fantasize a lot, too,” Megan told her. “And sometimes I like to look at myself in the mirror when I do it. And play with my nipples. I guess I must be a narcissist or something. That’s what being a model must’ve done to me.”

“I know what you mean about looking at yourself. I like to beat off in my bathroom, because there’s a mirror on the bathroom door, opposite the toilet, and I can sit there and look at myself while I strum my clit.”

“Oh yeah,” Megan said. “Me and my clit are best friends.”

“That’s the way I feel about my clit!” Valerie said, chuckling.

“Did you ever get caught doing that? Beating off?” Megan asked her.

“Oh yeah, once my older brother walked in on me doing it. I was so into it, so close, that I didn’t even hear him come to the door. He just stood there and watched me get myself off. Only afterwards did I look up and see him standing there.”

“That must’ve been wild.”

“I mean I was so embarrassed at first,” Valerie continued “But then, looking down at his jeans, I could see he had himself a hardon. So I made Richard jerk himself off in front of me while I beat off a second time in front of him, this time knowing he was watching.”

“That’s pretty freaky.”

Valerie took another sip of coffee.

“You know, I don’t share such intimacies with just any old Freshman.”

“I should hope not,” Megan said as they both laughed.

“How about you? Were you ever caught?” Valerie asked.

“Nothing like what happened to you, with your brother. Just my mom walked in on me once. I was real embarrassed too. But my mom was so cool about it, saying she used to masturbate all the time when she was younger. And still did. Especially since she wasn’t getting it enough from my dad. I was shocked, my mom admitting that to me.”

“I have a confession to make,” urfa escort bayan Valerie said. “I masturbated just before I came to meet you this morning.”

“No shit! I meant to, but I was running late,” Megan said. “And now all this talk, it’s making me hot. It’s making me feel like beating off right now.”

“Well, there’s the Ladies Room,” Valerie said, pointing to it.

“I think I’ll wait until I’m back in my dorm.”

The waitress brought the bill and Valerie paid. Then she suggested they walk around the campus and Valerie would point out different spots to Megan.

“And this is Greek Row,” Valerie said when they got to a street lined with old elm trees and big mansions which were now fraternity and sorority houses. Greek letter flags were blowing in the wind.

“Greek Row, huh?” Megan said. “Do they call it that because this is where you come to get fucked up the ass? Where co-eds come to get cornholed?”

Valerie laughed.

“I should’ve figured you’d know that meaning of ‘Greek’,” she said. “And it’s funny you should mention that because I have a little story to tell you, Megan.”

They walked a hundred feet and Valerie pointed out a sorority house to Megan, a big, old Victorian building.

“I heard from someone that they do a really kinky initiation over there for the new pledges,” Valerie said, piquing Megan’s interest.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about it.”

“Well it seems they bring the new pledges into this room and make them take off all their clothes,” Valerie said, lowering her voice even though there was no need to that here on the street. “Then the members of the sorority march in, all naked. And each one has a dildo strapped to herself. They line up all the pledges, making them get down on the floor on elbows and knees. Then each of the sorority sisters makes her way down the line of pledges and fucks every one of them first in the cunt, and then right up the ass, too. That’s when they tell them they’re now officially ‘Greek,’ when they have the first of those dildos buried up their butts, when those pledges get cornholed. And most of those pledges have never even been fucked in the ass until then. Some have never been fucked at all, they’re still virgins!”

Megan’s head began to spin as she heard this outrageous piece of campus gossip. Valerie was amazed at herself, amazed that she’d be sharing this with a Freshman, one she hardly even knew. But there was something about Megan that made her want to open up.

“Wow!” Megan said. “That’s really something. I’d never join a sorority, that just ain’t my thing. But this initiation sure sounds pretty wild. Almost makes you want to pledge.”

Valerie looked at Megan with intrigued eyes.

“It’d almost want to make you pledge, huh?” Valerie said, probing.

“Yeah, sure seems like it could be fun,” Megan said.

“Are you bisexual by any chance?” Valerie thought she’d ask, figuring Megan sure didn’t seem like she’d want to keep any secrets.

“As a matter of fact I am,” Megan said, looking Valerie straight in the eye, a frank and meaningful look. “How about you?”

“Yep, I am too,” Valerie said.

“Then that’s another thing we have in common,” Megan said with a sassy smile. “We both masturbate all the time, and we’re bisexual.”

“Hmmmmh,” Valerie purred. “Very interesting.”

They walked a little longer, then Valerie turned to Megan.

“I told you I don’t live in the dorms,” she said. “Me and my roommate got us an apartment at the end of last semester. It’s just about a block from here, from where we are. Feel like going over there and seeing it?”

“Sure,” Megan said, looking straight into Valerie’s eyes. “Maybe I can even excuse myself and use your bathroom. And finally beat off like I’ve been wanting to all morning.”

Valerie laughed, loving Megan’s uninhibited frankness.

“Hey, you don’t have to lock yourself in the bathroom if you want to beat off,” she joked, taking hold of Megan’s elbow. “In fact, you don’t have to beat off at all. I can think of better ways for you to get off, if that’s what you feel like doing.”

“Really?” Megan smiled, knowing exactly what Valerie was hinting at. “That sounds very interesting indeed.”

A few minutes later they were inside Valerie’s apartment. The moment the door was closed Valerie turned to Megan and the two of them wrapped their arms around each other, pressing their bodies close, looking into each others’ burning eyes as Valerie brought her lips to Megan’s. The two, Megan, the new student and Valerie, her mentor, kissed now with an instant, scorching passion, lips opening, hot breath fusing, tongues entwining.

There was a couch next to where they stood, and they fell back on it, their lips never parting, hands now drifting all over each others’ bodies, exploring.

Finally they pulled their lips back to catch their breath.

“I guess all that talk about masturbating and stuff had an effect, huh?” Valerie panted.

“And telling me about that initiation,” escort urfa Megan said, sliding her hand under Valerie’s skirt, up her thigh, to feel that the crotch of her panties was thoroughly soaked!

“How about we undress?” Valerie whispered breathlessly.

“Let’s,” Megan said, sliding her fingers under the elastic of Valerie’s drenched panty crotch, feeling her pussy. Valerie closed her eyes and sighed deeply when she felt Megan’s fingers dig into her private parts.

Staring at each other, they quickly took off their clothes, keenly eyeing the exposed bodies. Megan had the figure of a model, slender and tall with subtle curves and ver modest, though exceptionally well-formed breasts. Valerie was built not so differently from Megan, though her hips were rounder, her breasts fuller. Both had stunning bodies, and they knew it too, happy to expose themselves to one another like this.

Then they fell back of the couch, naked now, the smooth, warm skin of one pressing against the smooth, warm skin of the other. Fingers drifted between legs, grazed over stiffened nipples as they resumed their passionate kiss.

“Never thought this would be part of being a mentor,” Valerie said, pulling back, smiling at Megan.

“And I never expected to be mentored in quite this way,” she said as she slid a finger up into Valerie’s moist, creamy vagina. Just then she felt one of Valerie’s fingers probing her down there, inside her body. Inside her young, aroused not yet quite twenty year old body! She’d been feeling turned on since she woke up. As she had told Valerie, she wanted get herself off before meeting her but saw she was running late. Then the talk with Valerie drifted to the topic if sex. That only heightened her arousal. And when they confessed to each other that they were bi, and Valerie suggested Megan come up and see her place, Megan knew it would lead to something like this, to something like the two of them tearing off their clothes and anxiously digging their fingers up each others’ pussies as they kissed breathlessly.

Suddenly Valerie pulled her lips from Megan’s and dropped her face to Megan’s breasts. Megan may have had very modest breasts, but each was topped by a big, stiff nipple. Valerie wanted a taste of those nipples now, sensually licking and sucking them in turn as Megan played with Valerie’s tits with one hand while never letting up on the probing of her cunt with the other.

“What’s your favorite number?” Valerie asked suddenly, with a sexy, knowing smile.

“My favorite number is definitely sixty-nine,” Megan said, an excited smile lighting up her own face.

“Here, you stretch out on your back,” Valerie told Megan, getting up off the couch and tossing aside the big cushions so Megan would have more room.

Then Valerie got on top of Megan, Megan spreading her legs wide as Valerie dropped her face between them. And looking up, Megan gazed at a lovely panorama, Valerie’s pussy inches above her face.

“Dig in and enjoy!” Valerie said, looking back one more time at Megan.

And that’s just what Valerie and Megan now did. They both dug in and enjoyed. Megan ran her tongue all over Valerie’s pretty, damp vulva, then slid that tongue inside, where she had just been probing with her fingers. Down below, Valerie was doing the same to Megan in this perfect act of reciprocity. Megan didn’t really like doing sixty-nine with guys that much. The groove was different, a pussy responded differently than a cock. But she loved performing the act with other babes. And Valerie here sure knew what she was doing.

As she licked Valerie’s pussy, Megan couldn’t help staring at what was so vividly exposed right above that pussy, Valerie’s pretty little anus. With all that earlier talk about ‘Greek,’ the exposed wrinkled jewel was now deeply alluring to her. And so she moved her tongue away form Valerie’s vulva and brought it an inch higher, licking her asshole now, wondering what Valerie would think of that intimate caress.

“Yes!” Valerie hissed, obviously enjoying the sensation of Megan’s tongue pressing against her sphincter.

It was a little more difficult for Valerie, with Megan being below her, but she, too, managed to wedge her face between Megan’s buttocks so she could have a taste of the Freshman’s anal morsel.

For the next minute they licked each other’s asses as they fingered one another’s cunts.

“Mmmmmmh, I love Greek food,” Valerie said, finally pulling away and bringing her lips back to Megan’s pussy.

“Me too,” Megan said. “And now I know they happen to serve real tasty Greek food at Chez Valerie.”

The cunt lapping resumed in earnest now until Megan began to feel Valerie’s thighs quiver against her cheeks, could hear a deep, muffled moaning begin to rise from her chest. This told Megan that Valerie was close. And she too felt she was close, very close.

With a sixth sense for this sort of thing even though they had never made love before, until this morning been strangers, they now licked each other’s clits in precisely the right way, with just the right amount of pressure, the right tempo. That’s one reason both of them had become bi. Not because they had this deep yearning for women as opposed to men, but for the smooth intimacy and pleasure one woman could so easily feel at the hands — and lips — of another.

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-5-

Conference champs! And a berth in the nationals, but only making through the first two rounds of play before being defeated by a west coast team. Still, Sami and the rest of the team thought, as well as the Coach, a season to build on.

Sami was chosen as MVP of the season, an honor which both surprised and pleased her, making her feel, more than ever, that her choice to come to school here was the right choice.

And as quickly as it had begun, the spring semester was coming to an end and finals were around the corner. Sami had already registered for the summer semester, deciding to stay in N’awlins over the summer months. She would turn 19 in a few weeks and her plan was to try to graduate by her 22nd birthday, if not before.

T wasn’t going to be at school during the summer; instead, she’d intern with one of her father’s businesses, getting paid of course, but more to learn the business. Like Sami Toni was an only child, and would inherit the family businesses someday. Unlike Toni, Sami would inherit virtually nothing, except for the good looks that her parents provided with their genes.

That was fine, Sami didn’t bother worrying about the fortune of others; she would make her own way in life, confident that she could, and would.

Sami continued to sit for Marcia, once or twice a month, and playing along with the sham and pretense of ‘sitting for Marcia’, she and Marcia always, but always, made love afterwards. And, as with the first time they had slept together, Marcia always slipped three, one-hundred dollar bills into Sami’s shirt or hand, afterwards.

Sami took the money, gladly, adding it to her ‘freedom fund’, and not worrying about the morality of the situation one bit, at least, not for a while. Besides, Sami enjoyed fucking Marcia and would have done it just for the thrill of having sex with this forty-something. But, no doubt, the money massaged her conscious, at least for a while. Did Sami think of herself as a prostitute? No, of course not, but it is what it is.

As has been said before, the remorse would eventually come from this, but for now? Sami posed, Sami fucked Marcia, and Sami banked the coin.

Billie and Sami developed a relationship much like Sami had with Toni, ‘fuck buddies’ through and through; the difference was that with Billie and Sami, it was all about the sex and, with T, the friendship transcended the sex.

__________________________________

Finals were finally over and most of the students, those not continuing with summer classes, were packing to go home for the summer. Bonnie had chosen to take summer classes as well, so it came to be that she and Sami stayed roommates.

For Bonnie’s part, she seemed to be coming into her own, her demeanor much more confident since her breakup with Roy and her standing firm against her parents regarding the ending of her engagement to Roy.

She looked to Sami for practical, common sense advice and solutions to problems, loving Sami’s ‘country-girl’ sense. She also thought of Sami as much older, definitely much wiser than herself, though they were of the same age, separated by only two months. She and Sami seemed to be talking more and enjoying each other’s company more than in the first semester, often breakfasting together on the weekends.

“Sami, there’s a package for you in the mail room; I forgot the tell you, sorry,” Bonnie said when she had remembered the notice in the mailbox they shared in the dorm.

“Cool,” Sami said, a bit excited that someone had sent her something. Probably some more CDs from Charlene, Sami thought as she went to fetch the package. Charlene was obsessed with ‘mixing’ CDs with her favorite music and often sent Sami copies.

But not this time, the package was from Germany. Bev? Sami wondered as she brought the somewhat hefty, small package back to her room. Bonnie was curious as well and watched Sami open the box, and watched as Sami just stared at the contents, seemingly astonished at whatever it was inside the box.

“Well, Damnit Sami, what the hell is it?” Bonnie asked impatiently. Bonnie’s language had become somewhat saltier this past semester, undoubtedly a result from the increased interaction with Sami; Sami had a ‘potty mouth’ her mom used to say when Sami forgot and uttered curses in her presence.

Sami slowly, almost with a reverence, lifted from the package a Nikon SLR camera, along with a couple of extra lenses. Sami recognized it immediately; it was Bev’s camera, one that Bev had let Sami use for art projects in high school sometimes.

Bev had pointed Sami towards photography as an art-form, and while Sami had good technique with brushes and pen and ink, she really loved photography.

One of the things she was saving for with her ‘freedom fund’ was to buy a SLR camera, much as this one.

Sami saw the small envelope with her name on it, but decided to wait for some privacy before she opened and read it. Bonnie admired the camera and when Sami told yalova escort bayan her it was from her Art teacher from high school, Bonnie thought that cool as well.

“Do you have to work tonight, Sami?” Bonnie asked as she dressed to run over to the sorority house for a meeting.

“Nah, I’m off, why?”

“I don’t know; I’d like to celebrate the end of the semester and all but don’t really feel like going out,” Bonnie said.

“Too bad we’re not old enough to buy liquor; we could have our own end of semester party here and not worry about having to get home,” Sami replied, the thought of getting a bit hammered suddenly inviting to her for some reason.

“Ooooh, you know what? I bet there’s a bit of liquor left over at the ‘house’; want me to see if I can snag some?” Bonnie asked conspiratorially.

“Sure,” Sami eagerly agreed, “and we could order in some Chinese or something if you’d like and, you know, kinda’ having a ‘girls night’ of our own.”

“I like it!” Bonnie agreed with a big smile on her face at the thought of ‘hanging’ with Sami.

“Well, wish me luck with the liquor search, and I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Bonnie said, then leaving for her meeting.

“Good luck with your thievery,” Sami joked and as soon as Bonnie closed the door behind her, Sami retrieved the envelope from the box, opened and sat on her bed to read it.

My precious Sami,

 I do hope this early birthday present makes you smile; you didn’t think I’d forget your birthday, did you? I finally did it, Sami, I finally bought one of the new digital SLR cameras, this one, a Canon. I love it, Sami, almost as much as I love you, but of course, it can’t compete with you for my heart.

 I miss you so terribly much, my darling, I miss our times together, both in bed and out, and wish you were here, with me. Perhaps next year we can plan on meeting somewhere, during the summer? I’d love that.

 Enjoy my, now your, camera Sami-girl; Make me proud! (tee-hee) and please write or email when you can, it always makes my day.

 I love you sweetie, and pleasure myself often thinking of our times together. But, remember, above all, that I love you.

      Loving you,

      Bev

Sami read and re-read Bev’s letter several times, her heart swelling with loneliness with each reading. She brushed the trickle of tears from her eyes and hiding the letter in her private place, she could feel the loneliness pulling at her innards.

_________________________

“Look at what I snagged,” Bonnie said, all proud of herself; and fishing into her backpack, Bonnie pulled out a bottle of Bacardi 151 and some limes in a baggie. The rum was about three-fourths full, Sami noticed, and wondered why it was called ‘151’.

It wouldn’t be until the next morning as they nursed horrible hangovers that they would read the bottle’s label and understand that it meant 151 proof, hence, 75% alcohol.

But the hindsight would serve their hangovers little good.

Knowing that they were going to have a grand time, Bonnie offered to grab some cokes from the machine and some ice from the maker down the hall. Sami said she’d shower up, since she hadn’t yet that day, and wouldn’t be long, saying over her shoulder that Bonnie could choose which Chinese restaurant to order from.

Standing in the shower, Sami’s sense of loneliness seem to wrap around her soul as she ‘re-read’ Bev’s note over and over, in her mind. Finally, Sami came to embrace the thought of getting a bit drunk with Bonnie; maybe the rum could bury her loneliness.

Bonnie took her turn in the showers after Sami returned to their room, saying that she had worked up a bit of a sweat helping her ‘sisters’ move some furniture at the house. Glancing out of their dorm window, Sami noticed how empty the campus seemed as students departed, as if the quiet of their normally noisy dorm wasn’t enough of a reminder.

Showers taken, food ordered and eaten, they lit a couple of candles for ‘ambiance’ they both said jokingly as the Summer Sun was below the horizon now, dusk coming on quickly to the campus.

“Music, movie or TV,” queried Bonnie as Sami made their first round of Cuba Libres, following the directions from the bottle of 151; squeezing the lime over the ice in their mugs, and throwing the squished lime into the mugs, Sami ‘guesstimated’ the proper amount of rum and then, added the cola. Stirring them both with a pencil, Sami handed Bonnie her mug and they smugly toasted each other, both taking a long pull at their drinks.

“Movie” Sami answered, “You choose which one.”

Bonnie chose a comedy, one of the National Lampoon movies which, while funny for the most part, didn’t really need to be watched for plot developments.

It took very little time for the 151 to show its strength to the girls, both feeling the buzz before they had drank half of their first drink. Both of the girls kinda’ liked the ‘high’ the yalova escort strong rum was providing. Sami thought the high was very much like good weed, ya’ know?

Finishing their first drink, Bonnie quickly jumped up from their girl-talk and movie watching to make them each another, following Sami’s directions as she did so. For Bonnie, this opportunity to spend this kind of time with her roomie, made her happy; it made her feel that she had, somehow, been accepted by Sami as a friend. Bonnie really admired the confidence that Sami exuded, finding it both refreshing and worthy of emulation.

They were sitting on Sami’s bed, backs against the wall, pillows added for comfort and neither was particularly invested in the movie. Both of them were tipsy, to be sure, 151 being the devil’s brew when it comes to strength.

“Ooh, Sami, Sami, Sami; I think I’m a little bit drunk,” Bonnie said after letting her head fall onto Sami’s shoulder, almost spilling her drink when she did so.

“Fuck, Bonnie, I think I’m a whole-lot drunk,” was Sami’s reply, both of their voices betraying the alcohol’s effects.

“Good! Now you can fill me in on your love-life, or sex-life, or whatever you call it,” Bonnie said, then adding before Sami could protest, “You said if I ever got you drunk enough, you’d fill my ears about your boyfriend or whatever.”

“Yeah, I know I did, but Bonnie, I’m not sure you really want to know all that stuff.”

“Yes, I do!” Bonnie exclaimed, “You promised,” her voice changing into a bit child-like and whiney.

“Tell you what, I’ll start and tell you something you don’t know about me, okay,” Bonnie offered as a compromise.

“Okay, but remember I warned you, okay?”

“I’ve never had an orgasm from sex with a guy,” Bonnie said with a bit of redness creeping up the side of her face, “Okay, your turn.”

“I’ve never had an orgasm from sex with a guy either,” Sami honestly answered.

“I would fantasize, sometimes, when Roy and I had sex,” Bonnie offered as her next tidbit.

“I’ve fantasized while having sex, also,” Sami answered honestly.

“Yes, but I’ve fantasized about what it would be like with a girl or a different guy than Roy,” Bonnie said, sure that she had one-upped and shocked Sami.

“I’ve fantasized about a different girl when I’ve had sex with another girl,” Sami honestly said and wishing immediately that she could take it back.

Shit, shit, shit, why the fuck did I say that, Sami thought, not daring to look at Bonnie, and keeping her eyes glued to the TV.

Had she looked at Bonnie, she would’ve seen Bonnie’s mouth opened and her eyes wide at Sami’s statement.

“You’ve had sex with a girl?” Bonnie asked as her tipsy mind tried to get itself wrapped around what Sami had said.

Taking in a deep breath, Sami turned to face Bonnie and sitting cross-legged in her bed, she did just that.

“Okay; you asked for it and I’m drunk enough not to give a shit, I guess, so here goes,” Sami said, her words slurring just a bit.

“Bonnie, I’m gay; at least, I’m reasonably sure that I am. I’ve had sex with a guy only once and have sucked dick only once, that same night, but it wasn’t so great for me, so I haven’t been back for seconds.”

“Mostly, Bonnie, I have sex with girls, or women; there it is, you wanted to know, so there it is,” Sami said matter-of-factly, “and if you want to get another roommate, I understand and wouldn’t blame you, okay?”

Bonnie was a bit shell-shocked but when Sami said the thing about getting another roommate, she snapped out of it.

“What? No, what are you saying? I’m not that shallow, Sami, it’s just that, well it’s just….” Bonnie’s voice growing quiet.

“It’s just what, Bonnie?”

“Well, the only lesbians that I ever knew about were all boyish-looking, you know, kinda like a…., looking like a…”

“Like a butch? Or a dyke?” Sami finished her thought for her.

“Yeah, like that; but, you don’t look like that at all, not even remotely so,” Bonnie protested, “I mean you’re pretty, well, fucking gorgeous, and not boy-like at all.”

“Thanks for the gorgeous thing,” Sami said, inwardly pleased that some people thought her so.

“How old were you when you first, you know…” Bonnie pressed, her curiosity aroused now, never having been around a ‘dyke’.

“The summer before high school, with a very good friend,” Sami said not wishing to identify her first fuck as her cousin.

“Just like that, out of the clear blue?” Bonnie questioned further.

“No, no, it started with innocent kissing games and it felt good; so good that when it escalated to touches, and feeling each other up, I didn’t feel like it was a bad thing. I mean, truthfully, it felt really good and still does, if you want me to be honest.”

“I’ve played kissing game with friends and all but it never went further than that,” Bonnie offered to Sami.

Laughing a bit tipsily, Sami said, “Well then, you escort yalova haven’t kissed the right girl.”

“Don’t you ever think about trying it again with a guy?” Bonnie asked with true curiosity.

“It’s crossed my mind, from time to time, and who knows? I might yet, but for now, it’s just not high on my list of priorities,” Sami answered honestly.

Turning to face Sami, with her legs crossed as Sami’s were, Bonnie just looked at Sami as if she wanted to ask her something.

“What, Bonnie? There’s something else you want to know?”

As if searching for the right words, Bonnie didn’t respond right away and finally she said, “In a minute; I want to ask you something in a minute but I think we need another drink first.”

Getting up from the bed, Bonnie grabbed their mugs to fix them another drink. When she returned, she resumed her position across from and facing Sami, handing Sami her drink.

“Not sure we need this, but fuck it; here’s to you,” Sami said as she raised her mug towards Bonnie.

“Fuck it! I’m with my friend, sharing secrets, and it feels fucking great,” Bonnie replied as she raised her mug back to Sami, her words slurring slightly.

“So what’s it like to, you know, kiss a girl and make love with a girl,” Bonnie asked with honesty.

“It’s soft; softer than with a guy, and easier, because you already know where all the parts are,” Sami answered, laughing afterwards.

Bonnie laughed along with Sami, remembering the first few fumbling attempts she and Roy had with sex.

“Especially kissing, especially kissing another girl, that’s where you really notice the difference,” Sami continued, “with guys, there’s beard scratching and guys just kiss harder, like the harder it is, the better it is, you know?”

“I do know,” Bonnie admitted, “Roy has a heavy beard and sometimes I’d get a rash from his beard when we were making out.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have that when you kiss another girl,” Sami agreed.

Silent for a few heartbeats, Bonnie looked up from her mug, looked at Sami full in the face and asked, “Show me?”

“Show you what?” Sami replied.

“Show me how it is to kiss a girl, you know, properly,” Bonnie answered.

“Oh, Bonnie, I’m not sure you want to go down that road, do you?” Sami asked.

“Why? Aren’t I pretty enough, or hot enough for you?” Bonnie asked, pressing her request.

“Yeah, sure, you are; you know you are, but Bonnie, I mean, we’ve been drinking and if my horny motor gets to running and all, well, I’m just not sure that you really need to see that.”

“How ’bout if you promise to stop, if I ask you to,” Bonne pressed further, “I really want to know how it feels to kiss a girl that knows how to kiss.”

Thinking about it for quite a while as Bonnie just kept looking at her, Sami said, “Okay, but just kissing.”

Then, putting their mugs on the end table by her bed, Sami told Bonnie to scoot a bit closer; when she did so, Sami placed her hands on the side of Bonnie’s head and slowly pulled it towards her own.

Sami pressed her lips against Bonnie’s, softly, tenderly, surprised at just how soft Bonnie’s lips felt to her own. They kissed like that for almost a minute or so, no tongue, just soft lips kissing soft lips. Breaking off the kiss, Sami saw that Bonnie’s eyes were closed, and her lips pursed for more kissing.

“Want some more?” Sami asked in a soft voice.

“Yeah, that really felt nice,” Bonnie said, closing her eyes again and leaning towards Sami.

Sami kissed her again, soft and tender, but this time she slowly worked her tongue across Bonnie’s lips, and when Bonnie’s lips parted ever so slightly, Sami slowly slid her tongue into Bonnie’s mouth. Bonnie’s response was to open her mouth wider to accept Sami’s tongue, soft moans coming from her throat as she did so.

Bonnie raised her hands to Sami’s arms as Sami’s hands held her head, barely touching Sami’s arms, as if unsure if she should do so.

Dropping her hands to Bonnie’s arms, their kiss became heated and more passionate; Sami’s experienced hands rubbed tenderly up and down Bonnie’s bare arms, the sounds from Bonnie increasing as she became, obviously, turned on by Sami’s kissing of her.

Sami was now becoming turned on as well, as Bonnie explored Sami’s mouth with her own tongue, loving how it felt so different than with Roy. Breaking their kiss, Sami kissed Bonnie’s face, here and there, the whole while moving her hands along Bonnie’s arms. Putting her lips to the side of Bonnie’s neck, Bonnie rotated her neck in concert with Sami’s kisses, tilting her head back as Sami’s lips and tongue explored her neck, and her upper chest where it was exposed in her scoop-neck blouse.

Bonnie’s hands were running through Sami’s hair, as she moved her head around to accept Sami’s kisses. It felt so good, so fucking good, thought Bonnie, the heat in her crotch now a roaring fire.

Bonnie felt herself being pulled along with Sami as Sami fell back onto the bed and Bonnie went willingly, her desires now controlling her very being. She and Sami stretched their legs out as Sami rolled Bonnie onto her back, their lips locked in another passionate kiss, their tongues rolling together in the hottest kissing and make-out session that Bonnie had ever had.

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Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

This is my Oscar moment, don’t worry though, the music will rush me off quite soon.

This story is continued from the first chapter which you really should read to appreciate the story but what the fuck, it’s your life, right? (If you haven’t read the first chapter, this’ll just be an empty, shallow & meaningless fuck, so turn right around & march your cute perky little ass back to the start & read chapter one.)

This is a work of autobiographical fiction. Characters are not intended to resemble anyone living or dead, fictional or real.

The uncited quotes are from songs that add meaning they’ll add seasoning, garnish the rewards well worth it. (In his wildest imaginings, Leonardo da Vinci would’ve given his life for the tool available to you. Just imagine what he might have accomplished with the Internet so effortlessly at his disposal.)

By the way, I’m aware I break rules & convention in how I frame my dialogue. I’m an auditory & kinesthetic reader, so hear & feel dialogue rather than visualizing it. Sorry, but that’s my particular kind of dyslexia. If it bothers you, try to live dangerously, stretch a little. If it really disturbs you, read something else, like T. S. Eliot or Gertrude Stein, Kurt Vonnegut or E. E. Cummings. (Never claimed I wrote literature.)

From time to time a muse becomes gale force, battering the padlocks of our most shuttered prudish selves. I am unsettled by this story & the desires made manifest, but sometimes a story is transformative, becomes more than what the writer intended. Life may be a river, where one thing leads & flows into another, but life is also the pebble tossed skimming the surface, perhaps life is the ripples a pebble creates as it skips across parts of creation. Perhaps life isn’t the river at all.

Thank you, HeartnSole, “The Last Time We Fucked” woke me, spoke to me. Your poems conspired to become my muse & left me helpless & gasping at their raw, brutal honesty & stark intensity. Sometimes, the divine chooses to speak through someone’s words, & if we’re fortunate, we open our arms & let their beauty overwhelm us…

Colleen Thomas passed away before I ever read her stories on Literotica. She enriched my life with her splendid prose. She helped me more fully embrace my femme-dyke self; helped me know & love the world & myself a little bit more. What generous bounty from a master storyteller! She never knew how deeply she graced my life. If angels exist, she is their soul & their heart’s inspiration.

If you can’t legally buy booze or porn then you should probably not read this. If romance between two women in love is not your kink, wow, I guess I feel really sad for you.

Not as much sex this installment. (Oh, don’t pout.) More plot & character development in this chapter. (What? There’s no need for plot, this is porn, goddamnit!) Trust me, there’s plenty of hot sex, they’re just not thumping like rabbits right from the get-go.

This chapter isn’t as polished as I’d like. But enough of you asked for another chapter & touched my heart with your kind words, so enjoy – I mean that with all my heart: Cherish the wonderful life you’ve been given, because ultimately that is really all that matters – whether you have been loved & cherished even once in your life, & whether you have truly unselfishly loved another.

No teenagers or strap-ons were harmed while writing this story.

In defense of equal rights for split infinitives, I offer this from a master wordsmith:

“I don’t care if he is made to go quickly or to quickly go, but go he must.” – George Bernard Shaw

“We can redream this world and make the dream come real. Human beings are gods hidden from themselves.” – Ben Okri, “The Famished Road”

*****

(Continued from the last paragraphs of Chapter 1)

“Please be careful, Erin.”

I took Jillian’s almost too pretty alluring face in my hands, brushed her lips with my tongue and kissed her hard, as if it was the last time we would. I stroked her cheeks softly with the backs of my fingers. She smiled wistfully. Her impossibly blue and emerald-flecked eyes desperately clung to mine.

The cold wind picked up strength, gusted, and Jillian shivered. From the winter chill, or fears for my safety? I sighed. I love my work, but it is a home wrecking vocation. I reluctantly let her hand slip from mine and turned toward the waiting vehicle.

The wailing warble of the siren ringing my ears, the cruiser leapt forward, hurtling me into the foreboding gloom of the foggy San Francisco winter morning.

*****

A Bakery, Ruminations & Fucking… Ch. 2

Seventh Part: “She can take the dark out of the night time and paint the daytime black…”

(In which Erin goes to work and death doggedly pursues seeking revenge…)

One of my gigs is working with the tunceli escort police to supervise crisis situations and when things get really crazy I take over. I’m on-call for a straight 72-hour stretch, day and night, which totally sucks when the phone rings while eating pussy. I’m a shrink not a cop, but I can hold my own in a fight pretty damned well and pack a pistol as well as a strap-on. I use ’em both masterfully and have a carry permit for the Glock.

I’m usually not armed because there’d be too big a trail of bodies in my wake; at my worst I’m a control freak: selfish, aggressive, ruthless, impulsive, judgmental and mercurial, but I embrace those parts of myself and when tempered a bit (okay, tempered a lot), they complement me. I’m an adrenaline junkie. I’m pretty relentless, especially when stalking pussy. I’m trained to empathize and understand human nature at its most vile, repugnant and violent, but I’m not obligated to like it. My faith challenges me to love those who are most disgusting and to embrace those who are most morally distasteful, but it doesn’t require me to make Sarah Palin, or Adolf Hitler, or Mike Huckabee my BFFs.

I love San Francisco. I’d barely escaped the violence and degradation of my youth, and found comfort here. The City sheltered me, lovingly adopted me, and I was caressed by her serenity and felt at home.

San Francisco’s Chinatown is deservedly renowned; beautiful, glamorous and glitzy. Well hidden from sightseers are the SRO’s that house the impoverished citizens of this beautiful golden city by the sparkling bay. The seamy ugliness is destructive to tourism which funds the economy of this complex part of The City.

The crime scene was a frenzied partially contained chaos when we arrived at the intersection. I waded towards the crowd, into a gaggle of microphone-laden journalists and their camera-bedecked cronies. They shouted their rote queries and danced their reporter-asses into a tizzy, demanding their pieces of silver. Screw the Fourth and Fifth Estates, they could wait – lives were at stake. I pushed my way through, none too gently, and spotting a familiar face, make my way to Chief Inspector Grasse-Tyson.

“Nell, what’s the situation?” (What can I say, her parents are both astrophysicists.)

“It’s bad, Doc. Really bad. He knifed her baby, then threw the kid off the roof.”

“I need to get up there fast, Nell. But it’s got to be discreet. Can’t freak him out and start a bloody rampage.”

I looked around. “I need coffee, like now.” Please, let it be strong and hot. “Who’s your second in command?”

“Lt. John Monroe. Up on the roof.”

“I need him to pull everybody back. He can stay, with six that he hand picks. If any sniper takes a shot against my order I’ll kill ’em myself.” I gulped the steamy coffee she handed me. Damn, it was good!

“How the fuck do you get Starbucks at a crime scene?”

Nell smirked. “It’s San Francisco, Doc. They’re everywhere!”

The hook and ladder deposited me on the far side of the roof in a matter of seconds. (Aha! That’s the other reason for the fire engines being here.) I hate heights. The thought of my body splattering from 12 stories up made me nauseous, so I didn’t dwell, consciously uncoupling from vertigo. I cautiously wound my way towards the ledge, taking cover behind HVAC fixtures, assorted plumbing pipes and utilities panels as I made my approach. When I reached the outer ring of police officers I spotted the only one not in Kevlar and gestured for his attention.

“You the shrink?”

“Wow, you’re a clever bastard, Monroe. Are you invincible too? Where’s your fucking body armor?”

“Probably keeping yours company down on the street.” He smiled a beguiling grin. I like this guy.

“Keep back unless I signal you. I may call a risky strategic maneuver, but if I can use it to my advantage, we do it, okay? Don’t challenge my audible.”

He looked wary but voiced no objection. “It’s your ball game, Doc. Call the plays and we’ll back you up.”

Good. Didn’t need to get sidetracked by jockeying for power right now.

“I’m wired, Monroe. Switch to my channel but keep the chatter to essentials, and only you. Grasse-Tyson is online. Say hello, Nell.”

“Hello Nell.” Her voice laughed softly in my ear. Humor, beauty, sex and danger all around me. My life rocks!

When I got within range of the ledge I spotted the Unsub. Looked Hispanic, young, maybe mid-twenties, crude amateur ink, and sweating, twitchy and wild eyed, widely dilated pupils, probably a druggie. That was going to complicate things, but if he was a tweaker I could use that to my advantage. (Difference between a crackhead and a tweaker? A crackhead will steal your shit and bounce – a tweaker will steal your shit and then help you look for it.)

I quietly made my presence known.

In tunceli escort bayan my friendliest voice, I ventured, “Hey, Asshole. You want some coffee?” He jerked his head my way as I offered him my Starbucks.

“Get away, Puta! I’ll kill her.”

Not unkindly, I said, “Go ahead, dude. Don’t care about her and I care less for you.” Charm him with nonchalance, I hoped.

He looked confused. Good, not dealing with an Einstein. “What did she do that pissed you off?” I needed to buy into his delusion that she was the cause of his pain, then use it to defuse this before they all ended up dead.

“She’s a slut man, fucked my best friend.”

“Not much of a friend. Must have hurt. I’d have killed the prick.” He dropped his eyes and looked away. I quietly moved closer. About 15 feet from them. And the ledge.

“I know, right?”

I didn’t respond, just offered the coffee. “What’s your name?” I shuffled a few feet closer and put the coffee down nearer to him.

“Don’t need no friend, Puta, not a pig anyways.”

“Yeah. A pig for a friend would seriously fuck your street creds, I imagine.” I edged a bit closer. About 10 feet separated us now.

Regardless of the circumstances, working my therapeutic toolset is a conscious effort and takes more time than I had. In flicks and television, meaningful resolution is accomplished with a few timely, clever and insightful lines; in real life, if it happens at all, it takes months, years, of grueling work.

“Drop your piece, Puta!”

Wow! He’s observant, too. I released the mag and unshelled the Glock’s chamber. “Here, take it.” I offered it, handing it closer, tempting him with a real gun. That piece of shit pea-shooter he had was an embarrassment.

He released his hold on the woman and moved in to take it. I took the opportunity. Planting my left foot, I leaped up, tackled him, and launched us over the edge of the roof. He was screaming as we plummeted towards the ground. “You crazy Puta…I kill you…I kill you…”

He sounded like Achmed the Dead Terrorist. I wrenched the revolver from his hand and trapped him below me as we fell; knew he could kill me if I didn’t restrain him. I only had eyes for the air bag on the ground. If we missed it, hopefully he would break my fall.

The impact hurt like you’d imagine a 120 foot dead-drop fall to hurt. My body was horribly shocked. I felt ribs crunch, muscles tear and bones grind. It stunned me, knocked me unconscious.

At least I was spared the press conference.

Eighth Part: “And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad, The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had…”

(In which Jillian frets and ponders Erin’s questions from last night, and we learn a bit more about them…)

“Damnit! She’s such a fucking bitch, thinks she’s the goddamned Lone-fucking-Ranger!”

No one was there. I was nervously pacing the floor and talking out loud. I do that sometimes, it helps me focus, especially when I am really, really pissed, or distraught. It’s been over 18 hours and Erin is still unconscious. The doctors say it’s not unusual considering the severity of the concussion. They want to operate, cut open her skull to remove the pressure. The bastard she took down in the fall was still alive, barely. I hoped he was awake and in excruciating pain, the fucking prick! I want him writhing in sheer agony, right before I claw his fucking eyes out and rip out his still beating heart! Then I feel ashamed for hating him and wanting vengeance.

I walk to the bedside and look at Erin’s beautiful sexy face. She’s got naturally tanned skin but lightly so, and a sculpted face with Slavic features, and her eyebrows arch up fixed in a coy teasing manner that kinda promises something really delicious and decadent is about to be revealed. Oh, okay, that’s possibly a bit of a stretch. She looks a lot like Euphrat Mai, the Czechoslovakian porn star, although Erin is much more cut and muscled, but she’s so feminine too. They both know how to wield a strap on. Erin is a harness sensei.

But right now she looks pretty god-awful, pale and drawn. The bruising is mostly on her torso. It’s going to be ugly and hurt much worse than it looks, and it’ll take weeks to heal. Thank God there’s no internal injuries other than a few bruised and cracked ribs. On top of the cancer, the last thing she needs is a complicated recovery from the lunacy she calls a career. I’m proud of her, admire her dedication and devotion but she dances at the precipice of life, right to edge of what’s safe, always courting disaster; one day she’s gonna crash and burn. Ironic, huh? I wonder if cancer will kill her before her goddamned career does.

I start pacing again, restlessly prowling the perimeter of the room.

When she told me about her sister, I was too escort tunceli flummoxed to answer her when she asked what I wanted to do, what I wanted from her, what I wanted to do next. It wasn’t until my friend Jasmin knocked some sense into me that I realized I’d dropped the ball and failed to respond when Erin had been most emotionally vulnerable. Shit, I’m such an idiot! I should have taken her in my arms and held her, tightly, so very tightly. I should have told her how deeply I loved her, how proud I was of her.

I desperately want her to forgive herself.

I should’ve told her I wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. How much I admired her for daring to live a life of purpose and meaning. I should have told her.

I wish I could have told her.

Before starting grad school for her doctorate, Erin worked for Child Protective Services. She was a mixed bag type, a psychologist in social-worker/cop garb, called in by the police to mitigate volatile situations. They’d call Erin when situations had escalated to a critical point and required skilled and delicate crisis intervention. She’s been shot several times, twice critically, and stabbed a number of times.

Those people that whip kids, abuse, neglect, exploit, molest, rape or sodomize them? Erin got those cases. She investigated, collected the evidence, and removed the kids when necessary to protect life. Domestic violence calls escalate rapidly. They’re dangerous, explosive and responsible for most emergency responder deaths.

Erin was responsible for presenting child abuse cases to the Court, and for making recommendations about treatment, custody and disposition; she drafted the conditions that became the Court’s Orders. She had no training as a litigator and faced experienced defense attorneys, but out of many hundreds of cases, she never lost a single damned one. She saw too much death through her work and the images of those bruised, broken and bloodied little bodies haunted her.

After suffering so much harrowing abuse in her own childhood, her work was a way to get some sense of payback, not revenge so much as a sense of justice, and of healing herself by proxy, I think. What I do know is that Erin saved hundreds of lives. She told me that specializing in domestic violence intervention was penance for her sister’s death. I don’t know the circumstances leading to it but Erin feels culpable in the death of her sister.

Her clinical specialty is family therapy. Erin’s training was anchored in Strategic and Structural theory and treatment, but she’s a Jungian at heart. She works magic as a therapist and a teacher. She teaches graduate school classes in clinical techniques. I’ve watched some recordings of her lectures and in-service trainings and she is remarkable, dynamic, and simply an awesome presence. Erin changes lives for the better. She is a healer. The world is a bit better because she lives in it.

The rustling of starched hospital bedding crept into my restless reverie, then I heard coughing.

“Jillian? You look exhausted, Sweetness. When did you last eat?”

I thought I would burst with joy. My heart began beating again and I dashed to her bedside. My head was a puddle of words and feelings but my mind drew a blank. I fell into her arms and cried. I felt like Scrooge on Christmas morning: Giddy as a schoolboy!

Erin winced and squirmed a bit and I realized I was hurting her bruised ribs. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry.” I cradled her cheeks and tenderly stroked her eyebrows with the pads of my thumbs.

What’s troubling you, little Yoda? You look a bit pensive.”

Shit! She’s suffering a concussion, battered, barely conscious, and she can still read my mind.

“I don’t want to burden you with my shit, Erin. You’ve been unconscious for nearly 20 hours, and you’re in pain.”

She snorted a muffled laugh and coughed. “Did you get the license plate of the truck that hit me?”

“You tackled the truck, honey, and then it fumbled just shy of the end zone.”

She smiled seductively, winked and giggled.

Yay! I have my Erin back.

“Erin?”

“What is it, Sweetness?”

“Remember last night? When you asked me how I could possibly love you?”

She cocked her eye expectantly and sighed. “I remember…”

“I was feeling so much, so many thoughts. I couldn’t find the words. And I was kind of embarrassed, because what I wanted would have sounded silly…” I trailed off, still pensive, considering my words.

“Erin, why can’t you forgive yourself?”

Erin looked deep in my eyes, thoughtfully expectant. An apprehensive smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

She shook her head. “I’m trying, Jillian. I’ve been trying every day for almost 15 years…” She looked at me helplessly.

“Erin Alexander, I think I loved you from the moment I first saw you. I can’t imagine my life without you and I don’t want to.” I took her hand in mine, couldn’t help the tears springing from my eyes. My voice trembled, hoarse and smoky from heartfelt emotion. “My love for you grows deeper each moment we’re together. Please let me take care of you. Marry me, Erin. Please let me be your wife.”

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Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

A comment from an anonymous reader to my story ‘An Erotic Odyssey’ (from which this follows on) said it had way too many words and the dialogue was archaic. That’s just how I write, so I guess he’d have the same reaction to this story, which tells of the potential complexities of a nearly-new relationship between not-so-young lovers. Comments welcome. If you don’t want to comment in public please go to the author page and click ‘contact’.

“For Christ’s sake why do you always have to be so bloody reasonable? Don’t you care?” Sophie rarely raised her voice, but this was a shout.

“If you don’t know now you never will. You are the most important and precious thing in my life bar only my children. I don’t just care for you, I adore you. But a knee-jerk reaction to what you just asked me isn’t going to get either of us anywhere. We will both end up saying things we don’t mean or things we regret.”

Sophie looked me straight in the eyes, put her hands on her hips, paused a moment, but then dropped them to her side, walked over and threw her arms round me.

“I’m sorry. Many times I’ve exploited your reasonableness; I can’t turn round now and complain. It’s just that it was so difficult to ask and I suppose I had hoped for a reaction that would clarify my own mind.” Sophie’s voice was now calm and conciliatory.

“It’s o.k. I understand why my cool response might be inflammatory. What do you know about his present circumstances?” I asked.

“He’s got some kind of high powered City job playing with other peoples’ money and earning himself squillions. He was married for a time but says it’s over. No children, and he lives on his own in a £3 million flat in St Katharine’s Dock by Tower Bridge.”

Stuart Newton had been Sophie’s lover when he was a post-grad student in Oxford. They had parted, at Sophie’s insistence, when it became obvious that the relationship was too fraught with difficulties to continue. Just recently he had sent her a message via their college, asking if she would meet him in London. It was the first time she had heard from him in 13 years.

“I’m struggling to find a reason for him contacting you. Curiosity? To show off his fantastic sexual prowess? To boast about how well he’s done? To screw up any relationship you may now have and carry you off as a trophy to demonstrate the amazing power of all these wonderful things?” I was interested to know if Sophie had any better explanation.

By now Sophie was grinning. “That’s better. I’m much more comfortable when you get sarcastic. It feels as if you’re becoming defensive, instead of just sitting on the wall and watching the flowers grow. The answer to your question is that I don’t have a better explanation. Maybe he’s bored?”

“Are you happy to alleviate his boredom? What do you think you might get out of it? Apart of course from gymnastic sex with someone more than twenty years younger than me.” (A bit more sarcasm from me since that appeared to be appreciated.)

“Whey-hey! You’re jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you? Who said anything about having sex with him?” Sophie was calling me to account. O.K.

“Well it looks like a bloody great pink elephant in the room to me, and it’s got its tusks painted bright red as a warning. Do you think that he is inviting you up to take you out to an exotic meal and stay in his palatial flat, just so that he can show you his stamp collection?” Careful, don’t lay the sarcasm on too thick.

There was silence for a minute (60 seconds). Quite long, as silences go.

“O.K. let’s address the bright pink jumbo with flashing red tusks: how would you react to him screwing me?”

“If you go up there to meet him I will have factored in the possibility of him screwing you. I would hate the idea, but I would not try to stop you – just as you told Eleni that you didn’t own me, and it was up to me to decide if I wished to pleasure her bottom. The thing that would trouble me most is the possibility of you and he deciding, explicitly or by default, to start up a relationship again. So if it was one fuck I can take it, any more would be cruel to me, and I don’t react well to cruelty.” I hoped that was not too obscure.

“You’re a good man, and you have reacted like one. I completely understand your position and thank you for reminding me of the Eleni incident. I won’t start a relationship, and I may not fuck either.”

“The other thing I would ask is that you give me a full account of what happens. I am old enough and experienced enough to deal with it, but not knowing is corrosive to a happy relationship.”

“That’s completely reasonable. Agreed. And thank you.”

* * * * *

We were in Oxford. It was July 2020, and we had been together for a year since our return from Greece. We had three homes between us, but in their ways they were all necessary, and they were all used by our families as well as ourselves. My son Ben was sivas escort in the Dulverton house most of the time: he works with the Exmoor National Park Authority. The house is ideally placed for him and enables him to live on his modest salary and save a bit for buying his own cottage.

In London the flat was occupied by my daughter Jo who works for a publisher.

Sophie’s daughters were away: Beth was near Bournemouth on the south coast and is a specialist nurse, married to a paramedic; Tanya is living with her wife in Faringdon and they are both teachers.

Last, but certainly not least, is my son Phil who is a scientist working for a drug company in Germany. He is a committed Triathlete and competes regularly across the globe.

The Covid-19 lockdown had restricted our movements, and we had spent the previous four months in Oxford. Now it was possible to move around a bit more I was anxious to go to my own house in Dulverton. I missed it, and all the things that made Oxford potentially special — music, theatre, bookshops, restaurants and pubs and specialist food shops — had been shut up, so the rural option seemed even more attractive.

The lockdown had been stressful for everyone, but we were trying to establish a comfortable way of living together and attempting, at the same time, to preserve elements of our separate lives. The first five months were good, because we moved freely between our three residences. While we were in Oxford I had access to wonderful libraries for my work, as well as the other delights I describe above. From Sophie’s point of view there was her natural affinity for the countryside, and her happy relationship with Ben. She also enjoyed the museums and libraries of Bloomsbury, for the odd days we spent in London.

Now though we had just endured 4 months of frustration, and I suppose that my indulgence – if that’s what it was – towards Sophie and her lover from 17 years ago, was at least partly due to acceptance that a bit of freedom would be good for both of us. We walked to the station together, hand in hand as usual, and I tried to put aside potential misgivings. Trust was everything, and I needed to show it if I wanted it affirmed by her actions.

* * * * *

Hello, I’m Sophie. Tom’s told me that the ‘full report’ he has asked for could be written as a section of our story that he has been chronicling since we met. It has been a full and frank record and only names and a few details of location have been changed. Tom has been honest in his record, so I will continue the same way.

I felt such a debt of gratitude to Tom that I was determined to behave myself! I say that, but since I met Tom I have not been tempted to indulge in the misbehaviour that has been part of my history. If I have been lonely on occasions in the past I have to say I have often had only myself to blame.

We said goodbye at the station. I squeezed his hand and whispered “You have no need to worry”. Why was I doing this odd thing? Partly through guilt, because it was me that ended my relationship with Stuart; partly through the need to get out and do something potentially slightly wild; and partly out of curiosity to see how this young man had turned out.

The train from Oxford to London Paddington took just under an hour. From there I caught an underground (tube) to Tower Hill and took a 10 minute walk into the Katharine Docks complex, where Stuart’s flat was on the third floor, looking across the river and the marina.

The timing had worked well. It was about 5.30pm. The evening started quite comfortably. We sat in the beautiful flat and I drank tea while he drank coffee and we talked about mutual acquaintances, some of whom he knew as fellow students, some had been colleagues of mine. I think that Tom has recorded that Stuart was 22 when we came together, and that there was a 17-year difference in our ages — I think actually he was 23 and I was 42, so there’s 19 years between us. I suppose because of the closeness of our past relationship there was no awkwardness now. We all experience sometimes the feeling that a suspended relationship seems never to have stopped. We just pick up enough threads to rapidly rebuild the pattern.

What was his appearance like: how had he changed after 13 years? Well this is where the gap was very discernible. He hadn’t started to shrink (yet) so he was still six feet tall. He was, however, a lot heavier. I had known him as a barely-mature young adult, quite skinny and weighing not much more than 10 stone. I guessed that he had added at least another 2 stone to that.

With the extra weight his face was fuller. I disliked the fashionable stubble that covered his face, and one discreet wedding ring is all that a man needs, not a whole set of digital decorations. He wore the standard uniform of his kind: dark single-breasted suit and white open-necked shirt. sivas escort bayan He wasn’t, in any way, the man that I had tossed around with in bed all those years ago. Nevertheless he still had charm, and even glimmerings of that spark that had attracted me in the first place. By the time we had finished character-assassinating our peers and remembering a few choice bits of our times together it was time to set off for dinner.

We walked across the bridge to reach a pleasant French restaurant on the other side. After we’d placed our orders and there was a bottle of wine, a basket of bread and a bottle of water on the table I said to him “Are you going to tell me what this is all about Stuart? I’m a bit puzzled.”

“I’m at a sort of crossroads. I’ve cleared up all the mess from the divorce and I’m trying to decide whether I want to continue this lifestyle and this high-adrenalin, exhausting way of earning a living.”

“Do you still get a kick out of it?” I asked.

“Oh yes. When it goes well I can’t imagine anything better. The trouble is that I find it very difficult to manage relationships that last: the job and the type of woman whom it attracts are not made for a permanent attachment. I could attract any number of women ten or fifteen years younger, but the attraction is so superficial that I’m bored with them after two or three fucks, and it’s probably mutual.”

“Poor lamb,” I cooed. Must be careful not to be too sympathetic, I told myself.

The first course arrived.

“I still think the City world is exciting, and I might try to find some other niche within it, to hang on to the excitement. But that still leaves the problem of how to find a companion.” Stuart continued to relay the story of his present life.

“Do you ever think about an academic life again?” I asked.

“Good God no! It’s full of ageing weasels, waiting to chew each other’s balls in an effort to prove who’s right, who’s best. After the City it would seem like an early death.”

There was a pause, but as I refrained from commenting on that gross generalisation (which admittedly contained an element of truth) he went on: “I’m looking for someone with a bit of maturity, who can bring some stability into my life.”

I could scarcely believe my ears. “So where do I come into the picture?”

“Well, you brought stability and maturity into my life once before. I’ve often thought about that time with gratitude — why couldn’t we do it again?”

I stared at him and after a suitable pause I said “I’ll tell you why: because I don’t want to. There’s not even a tiny flicker of interest stirring in me. I’m now 57, not 42; I don’t want to live in London; I am not in the business of supporting a guy to do a job that I despise; I doubt very much that I would like your friends or what they get up to; and I can’t bear to think what life would be like when I’m 70 and you’re 51.”

The next course arrived. There was silence for a while, then “Why do you despise the job I do?” he asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

“Because you’re parasites. You move vast amounts of other peoples’ money around the world, and in the process cream off a large chunk which you use to pay yourselves obscene salaries. Your principals bribe politicians or become politicians themselves, and if you screw up it’s us, the general public, who pays. After the crash of 2008 who paid the price? Not the bankers or the financiers. The austerity which followed affected the poorest disproportionally. You don’t produce, design or sell anything. You provide no useful services for the general public. Yes, you pay a lot of tax, but even that is arranged so that you pay, through dubious schemes, less than you ought to.”

“So you have become a socialist?”

“No. I don’t believe in state ownership of everything. I do believe in levelling down as well as levelling up; but the present government is unmatched for incompetence in the 50 years that I have had any interest in politics, and stands as much chance of ‘levelling’ as I do of swimming the Channel.” I had become quite worked up, as you will have detected, but I managed to keep my delivery calmer than I felt.

“What we do is essential to a capitalist world,” was Stuart’s self-satisfied but rather feeble response.

“I think it best to abandon this line of conversation. We both know we are never going to agree. Tell me about your children. I assume that they live with their mother?”

“Yes, there’s an older girl, 13, and a boy of 11. They are now at an independent school in Essex, and my wife lives with her boyfriend nearby. I see them on alternate weekends, and it’s quite easy because I have lots of space, and there’s plenty to do up here.”

I nearly said ‘well that’s alright then’ but instead “Thank you for the supper: it was delicious. I suppose they were closed escort sivas for ages?”.

“Yes, it all got noticeably quiet around here through the lockdown. Quite nice in a way. Shall we wander back over the river then?”

I took this as a rhetorical question, as he was waving the waiter for a bill.

Parts of London look their best after dark, and this was one of them. The sparkle of the lights reflected in the surface of the Thames disguise the murkiness of its waters, and the towers around it have sufficient lights to avoid being dark oppressive shapes. We walked in silence. I hoped he wouldn’t try to take my hand.

As we walked I struggled with the next decision I would probably have to make: would I let him fuck me? Pro was the thought that dear Tom had sort of given me a pass; that I still owed Stuart something from a long ago (according to my conscience); and he had done his best to give me a good evening, which deserved more than a slap in the face. Against was the thought that I would be swapping one guilt for another because, despite Tom’s pass, it would feel like a disloyalty to him. Added to which Stuart no longer attracted me physically, so it would be a lust-free fuck. Neutral was the fact that my persistent curiosity wanted to know what it would be like.

Further thought suggested that the fact it would be lust-free could make it easier and reduce the guilt quotient. Clutching at plastic straws.

We had got back to the flat. I think I had only drunk one glass of wine with the meal, and I hoped I might get offered a bit more alcohol to fortify my resolve.

“I think we could have a glass of something, don’t you?” he asked. “What would you like?”

“If you’ve got it — which I am sure you have — I’d like a single malt scotch with a dash of water.”

“Not much of a lady’s drink, but yes, can do.”

The heavy glass tumbler, a bottle of Tobermory, and a small jug of water appeared in due course. I poured and sipped. Immediately I felt myself relax into the stylish, but slightly uncomfortable armchair.

“I’m sorry I got at you Stuart. Even without the pandemic I feel we are not living in happy times. I’m 60 soon, but I can’t draw my state pension for another 7 years, and at the moment I feel as if I will want to withdraw from the world when I get to that point.”

“What on earth will you do with yourself then?”

“Live in the countryside, grow things, cook and bake, make love, read a lot and help with some local charities.”

“On your own?”

“No, I don’t fancy making love to myself for twenty or more years, and I’m not going to be buying a blow-up doll.”

“Perhaps that’s when I can appear and draw you back into the real world!?”

I didn’t answer that one. I rather wanted to keep Tom to myself as long as possible. I smiled my Mona Lisa smile — enigmatic.

“Will you stay the night Sophie?”

“If you’re asking will I go to bed with you, the answer is probably yes. But I can’t promise to stay all night.”

“Where will you go, if you decide to push off?”

“I have part ownership of a little flat in Bloomsbury. I’ll get a taxi up there.”

There was a pause. I suppose he was wondering if this was the moment to invite me into his bed. “Tell me about working at Brookes. It must be quite different from the University?”

I had abandoned my job at the University, largely catalysed by Stuart himself, who at that time was going to be around for another year or more. I went to Oxford’s other University, called Brookes, where I had been ever since.

“It’s been a liberation. I recognise that I am a teacher rather than an academic producing original works. I think I do that job rather well. I have managed to keep a fresh outlook and not be intimidated by pushy, opinionated and highly intelligent students. Mutual respect is vital and difficult to acquire in today’s climate of instant reaction and amplified views.”

Having written that down it sounds slightly pompous — the sort of statement my students would have had a go at. No matter, I am who I am. Stuart didn’t seem to mind. “Well I’m certainly glad you got out of the ‘World’s no.1 University’ to the sanctuary up Headington Hill. Good move, I thought.”

“Oxford Uni for sure didn’t need me, and the feeling was mutual.”

We nattered on for a while; I poured myself another drink, and felt very calm about what might come next. It turned out to be very mundane. For all his suave charm Stuart still demonstrated a slight deference towards me.

He came over and took both hands and pulled me to my feet and into his arms. He kissed me on the lips but didn’t attempt anything with his tongue. I put my arms round him to trap his hands and prevent them wandering. I wanted this to be as low-key as possible.

“Will you come to bed with me?” he asked.

“Show me the way. I need a bathroom first.”

We moved towards a passage off the open-plan living area.

“You can use this bathroom,” he said, opening the door for me to see. “There is an en-suite bathroom, but I’m afraid it’s a bit of a tip. The bedroom is up here.” He pointed to the door facing us at the end of the corridor. “See you in a minute.”

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“Manuel- this is pretty robust code. From the looks of it we should be on schedule to launch the customer frontend next week. I’d appreciate it if you could also get around to reviewing the API docs and ensuring everything is current. Other than that, great work. Have a beer and flip on the game.”

I finish typing out the last email for today, or the last one I have any patience to write. I raise an extra large mug to my lips and take a swig of cold coffee. Four hours old, brewed after coming home. It holds up fine. Manuel, one of the guys under me at work, had no doubt already begun drinking and/or watching the game. I was nearly a teetotaler myself these days; nonetheless I had a reverent respect for alcohol and sports alike.

Despite sitting in front of a computer, I reach across the desk and pick up my phone to check the time. 5:27PM. I’m due at Anne’s in half an hour. Are modified t-shirts good dinner attire? Likely not. I could stand to change into a collared shirt and some slacks.

Put on decent clothes. Brush teeth. Deodorant? Deodorant. Anything else? Probably nothing else. What could Anne be wearing? Is it the same grayish top and gray sweats she had on this afternoon? Surely she wouldn’t dress up for me… so but I feel like she’s the kind of woman who would look stunning in anything. Jeez, what if she just answers the door in her underwear?

Wait. I explicitly told her it was a date. That means… Anne could be wearing something really nice. I should jazz the shoes I wore to my high school mate’s wedding. Is cologne too much? A spritz will do.

I check my phone again – 5:53PM. Reclining listlessly on the single stool in my tiny sink/bar area, I abruptly stand up and appraise it, the stool. It’s sturdy and balanced with four wooden legs, well-braced. It’s around three feet tall. It’s a good stool. I’ll bring it with me.

I leave my phone on the counter, lock the place up and begin walking to Anne’s. Although it’s dusk, the air is meek and dewy. Sideways spires of clouds layered irregularly turn to indigo on the absconding skyline. Somewhere or other, a man wheezes like a horse. I pass by someone non-binary I’ve exchanged small talk with and give them a warm “How’s it going?” while raising the stool in salutation.

Upon arriving at

27, I realize that I’ve been grinning like a kid this whole time. I decide to sit on the stool before alerting Anne to my presence.

Knock, knock, knock…

Anne answers the door in a short black dress, exposing her shoulders and chest. It tapers down to a V from her collarbones, expertly framing subtle, braless cleavage above the terminal point. She’s wearing black wedge sandals – the straps wrap around her dorsum and give her lovely naked toes the spotlight. Her long hair is arranged in a high bun, secured with a small band of pearls and skewered by a single ornate chopstick with a large ruby diamond on the wider end. She has circular gold earrings and the scantest amount of foundation. Her already beautiful features appear nothing short of otherworldly.

I’m slumped forward now, absolutely speechless. My smile has all but disappeared as I stare in bewilderment. If you happened to take my pulse, you’d be forgiven for mistaking my heart for a sputtering engine on a freezing morning.

“Eric? What’s wrong Eric, are you OK?”

“Uh-uh-,” I stutter. “You look amazing, Anne.”

She coquettishly covers her mouth. I see white teeth as her lips part in a wide smile.

“You did say it was date, no? So I thought I look nice for you… on our first date.” Anne glances to the well-braced stool. “Why you sitting on that?”

I leap to my feet. “Oh, this. Oh, yeah. I’ll show you in a second. Do you mind if I hug you?”

“No, you can do that… but first you come inside. We not eat right here at door, silly boy!”

Anne stepped aside to let me in. I brought in the stool and placed it on the landing as she closed the door. When I turned around, she was toying with her fingers and looking up at me with the same anticipation I had seen earlier that day. Something came over me, seeing her like that. I gently embraced her hands, leaned down to meet her at height, and pressed my lips to her cheek.

I half-expected Anne to exclaim in protest. But she was quiet as a mouse. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms tightly around me.

“Eric…”

I held her close, resting my face in her hair. She smelled like chamomile and roses. I felt her chest shakily expand and contract against mine.

“Ssshh,” I whispered, “let’s just stay like this for a while.”

Usually during such an event, amateur writers would liken the passage of time to an eternity or some comparable eternity-esque duration. Seasoned authors might emphasize the phenomenology of interpersonal histories dancing and weaving about, coming to fruition at the exact point in which two lovers finally join each other in romantic bliss. Still others would opt to describe it as “being in a dream,” or “not seeming quite real.”

As for myself, tekirdağ escort I couldn’t begin to characterize or comprehend what was happening. Mentally, I drew a complete blank. It was the same feeling I had while struggling to breathe after coming back from yesterday’s run, now under circumstances that were serene and invigorating instead of life-force-draining. And just like yesterday, my body was on fire.

In short; I eventually came to my senses.

“I have another surprise for you, Anne.”

Her head was still against my chest. “You surprise me enough already today… what is it this time?”

I give her tiny frame a tender squeeze, then slowly pull away. Her hands caress my hips as she follows suit.

“It’s this,” I say, picking up the stool and carrying it to the area where her lonely TV was piqued up on the floor like an itinerant canine. I moved the TV aside, replacing it with the stool. I picked up the television and squared it on the wooden seat, then placed the R_ box neatly on the surface of the its flat plastic stand.

“There. Now you don’t have to crane your neck to watch TV.”

Anne observes all of this in silence. After a few seconds, she explodes with laughter.

“Hahahaha, oh Eric, is that why you bring a stool all the way here?”

She runs over and jumps into my arms.

“I like it. You so thoughtful, concerned about something like that. Thank you Eric. You go sit at dining table,” she says as her hands not-inconspicuously inspect my pectorals. “I serve you big mouth-watering meal, OK?”

“Sounds great!”

I take the seat facing the kitchen and rest my chin on my palm while watching Anne open stainless steel pots with glass lids, steam billowing upwards in vaporous poofs ascending beyond her concentrated eyebrows and radially mushrooming outwards upon hitting the ceiling. She scoops things into large bowls from several pots and one behemoth of a rice cooker, then brings them to the table. There’s white rice, beef curry, and dumplings of some persuasion.

“You drink wine Eric?” she asks.

Hadn’t expected that. If I start drinking, I’ll really need to check myself. But Anne went through all this trouble tonight just for me. A glass or two… couldn’t hurt.

“I do tonight, Anne. Special occasion. Very special occasion.”

“Ooh, I see. You not big drinker. In China, my family always drink wine with dinner. Mother opens bottle, father empties it. Ha!”

I roar with laughter, definitely not expecting that. In addition to being kind and generous, Anne is quick-witted with a lively sense of humor.

“Sometimes shot of baijiu too,” she continues, “if you up to it!”

“What’s bye-joe?” I ask a bit hesitantly. Spirits?

Anne places an empty bowl before me and another on the opposite end. And then two saucer plates. She brings four glasses to the table; two for wine, two for baijiu. She places a spoon and fork on the aesthetically folded cloth napkin to my right.

“Ba-ee-j’yo,” she enunciates. “Chinese ‘white wine,’ but really distilled liquor. Very strong. Very popular in China. America not so much. I search everywhere to find this stuff!”

“I’ll see how I feel after the wine!” I say as jovially as possible, trying not to betray any feelings of apprehension.

However, I felt as if I might be in over my head here. I mean it’s not like I can’t hold my own or anything; as I said, I have a reverent respect for alcohol. I threw down a fair amount with the college roomster, sometimes staying up until 3AM taking shots and solving partial diffs and barely working through algos just to stumble into class at 9:17AM and toss my homework in the general direction of a paper pile that was probably a homework pile, eyelids fluttering arrhythmically as my pupils lost the war against daylight and fluorescent tubes.

But those were the good old days. Since starting work five years ago – right after making a grand total of nothing dollars and nothing cents at an internship for two years while still in college, it was rare that I’d touched liquor.

An undulating scarlet fountain of wine spills into my glass, then hers. Anne puts the bottle aside and sits down, raising her glass in an elegant show. I raise mine as well.

“Cheers, Anne!”

“Cheers, Eric!”

As I take a swill and swish it around in my mouth, I instantly forget any misgivings I’d just had.

“You help yourself, take as much as you want!” Was she talking about the booze, or the food?

Ah, the food of course. I fill my bowl with rice and drown it in beef curry. Anne smiles approvingly before loading up her bowl and picking out a dumpling with chopsticks, placing it in her saucer. I ask to borrow the chopsticks. She skeptically hands them over and I deftly manipulate a dumpling into my own saucer.

“Ooh, you can use chopsticks? Impressive!”

I feign nonchalance. “Hah, oh that- I’m a pro with chopsticks.”

“There so much I not know about you Eric,” Anne coos, “tell me what tekirdağ escort bayan else you ‘pro’ at?”

“Well, the only thing I’m really good at is computers,” I say through mouthfuls of curry and rice. “I’ve been messing with them since I was a child – now it’s my living, and not a bad one.”

There’s so much I don’t know about Anne, either. Not wanting to talk too much about myself, I ask about her life before coming to America.

“Where did you grow up in China,” I start, “mainland, or-?”

Anne answers as she drinks. “Mmh! Ah,” she exhales in a nostalgic way. “Yes, I born in mainland south China, in province called S_. I live in small village with sister and two brothers, mother and father and grandmother, all under same roof.”

“Wow, big family!” I drink as well, trying not to lag too far behind Anne – she might be through her second glass already. I feel the wine filling my brain and subduing my inhibitions. “Do you ever visit them?”

“I visit when I can. Sister and brothers also move out long time ago, so we take turns…”

She coyly oscillates her glass within her middle and ring finger, causing the dark liquid to splash from side to side. “But you try to change subject, Eric. Obviously you not sit in front of computers all day. What else you enjoy?”

I wore a dumb grin now, becoming more buzzed by the minute.

“I enjoy you, for one.”

Anne purred and lowered her chin, looking at me sweetly, almost too much so. “But you not ‘pro’ at me… not yet. What else?”

Damn – she was good. I could tell Anne wasn’t going to be seduced so easily.

“Hmm…” I attempt to tally my interests, if you could call my various diversions anything like ‘interests.’ “I like to read. I like learning about stuff. At school, my best subject was math- pretty nerdy, right?”

“You like reading learning and math huh? You have such like… gym body…” she says as her eyes comb my arms and torso. “I not expect that from… nerd.”

I take the offensive now. “There’s probably a lot of things you wouldn’t expect. And what does a gorgeous ‘older’ woman like you spend her time doing?”

Anne laid her palms on the table and excused herself like a princess. She grabbed the clunky wine bottle by its stem, cattily meandering to my side of the table. She stood next to me as she poured another libation. It felt like there was an absence of space between us; we could get sucked into each other at any moment. With tipsy confidence I ensconced her thighs and pulled her close.

“Mmmmh…” Did she just moan, or was I imagining things? “I read too. I paint. I write poetry, but not in English. When I younger I play tennis. I try to stay in shape but it’s hard when always so hot outside…”

“You really paint and write poetry?”

“No I lying, I write tourism pamphlets for clueless foreigner.”

“Have you ever made up attractions to visit, like ‘Hideous and improbably deformed squirrels can be found in the trees of this city?'”

“Yea but not too often. They catch on when they search for ugly squirrel but only find cute one.”

I had long ago stopped trying to judge how much wine Anne and I drank by counting empty glasses and eyeballing amounts with each refilled glass. I stopped pretending I could be in control of everything all the time. And the magnum-size bottle was more than half empty, anyway.

“God- you’re so sexy, Anne.” I bury my face in her side, massaging her thigh beneath the stretchable fabric.

“You mean that Eric?” There’s a thud as Anne puts the bottle down without looking. She drapes her pale arms across my shoulders.

“I really and truly mean it.”

“Say it again…” Her voice is abstracted, interwoven with longing and enigmatic sadness like a minor seventh chord.

“You’re really, really sexy, Anne. You’re fucking hot…”

Anne’s forehead rests against mine. It’s warm and soft, like her.

“Again.”

“Anne…”

“…”

Anne closes her eyes. Her mouth is agape. I feel her heated breath against my face. I hear her heartbeat in each heady gasp.

I close my eyes and match lips with hers, kissing her deeply. Her tongue shyly explores my mouth. Her lips feel like velvet. Her breathing grows more labored and intense.

I draw both hands upwards along the subtle contours of her body and affectionately cradle her head in my palms, pulling back ever so imperceptibly as I successively fail to stop kissing her for long enough to speak.

“I like you a lot, Anne.”

Anne’s chin shines with a lustful mixture of sweat and saliva. Her countenance has transformed into halfway between like a slutty cat and the inscrutable heroic resolve of Russian revolutionary Sophia Perovskaya.

“Eric.”

“…”

“Don’t stop kissing me…”

I run my hands down her breasts; now her thinly frail rib cage; now to her ass. Anne’s fingers lock behind my neck. She lifts up her right knee and wholly roundhouse kicks the air as she mounts me. Her escort tekirdağ elastic dress has hiked up her creamy thighs to the bottom of her ass. I finish the job, swiftly yanking it above her waist before grabbing sumptuous handfuls of her sweet, perfectly proportioned cheeks. Anne gyrates her pelvis as she grinds my abdominals, her spine alternately arching then relaxing. I guide her downward and slowly pump my hips, seeking out her defenseless pussy with the rousing titan in my pants.

Anne receives the memo. She drops into my lap with such momentum that it would make Newton proud. Her sandals slip seamlessly from her narrow feet and fall to the ground. Her movement is electric.

Words are too slow; we talk with our bodies, thrashing like wyverns. Anne tugs roughly at the collar of my only casual dress shirt, almost tearing the buttons clean off. I rapidly lift it up my chest and over my head, somehow sloppily melding with her mouth all the while, then carelessly fling it across the apartment.

She’s absolutely moaning now, there’s no mistaking it.

In one continuous motion I swiveled to my right, shoved my heels into the floor and bolted up, supporting her in my hands as I sauntered to the camouflaged couch, undershooting its cushions and slamming into an arm. We toppled down together like a sinking ship.

I’m laying on my back with one leg swooped over the side of the couch, Anne now on all fours, her limbs bending and slanting in every direction as she forces herself against me. I kick my shoes off quickly, recalling the faux-leather heel backing that was loose or defective or something was the reason I never wore them again after tripping over my feet several times at the wedding.

The sharp V of Anne’s dress folds outward and I can almost see her nipples hanging underneath as she pulls her shoulders together, riding me forcefully. I drag my lips down her jaw and to the salty nape of her neck, easily doing a slow sit-up while slipping the straps off. She tastes like an apple out of Eden; forbidden sweetness and unbidden filthy degenerate sex, a universe of new delights. We work perfectly in tandem; Anne lifting her arms out of the straps before I take charge again and lower her dress rest of the way, freeing her luscious A-cup tits once and for all. The sight of her totally naked torso is a shunt in my perception, an ineluctable visual stimulus that excludes everything besides. ‘Animistic’ didn’t begin to do it justice. Straight away my hands fondle and knead her tits as I roll her nipples between thumb and forefinger, now licking and sucking, now groping and pinching again.

I struggle with the button of my slacks, hastily ripping the zipper in twain. As I force them down my legs Anne sits up and I reach around her, just able to pull out my left foot before kicking them over the couch arm. One foot ought to be enough for anybody. She looks at my bulge in astonishment and doesn’t waste another second as she falls back into my lap.

Without warning Anne slaps a palm on my pecs just below the manubrium, her fingers outstretched and unevenly parted. She pushes me down, not exactly physically, but with a telepathic suggestibility that I’m powerless to disobey.

We’re both heaving and gasping and sweating madly. Anne’s bangs have escaped the bun and stick to her skin in cute strands.

“Baijiu.”

“Huh- should we take shots?”

“If you really like me, we drink baijiu. Then I do anything for you-“

“Yes.”

“Let me finish-“

“Yes, Anne. Let’s do it. I’ll go pour-“

“Eric! You not listening! If you really like me, we stop and take drink now. I pour. Then…”

“And then what?”

“Then… you learn exactly how older I am than-“

“Anne, you don’t have to-“

“Shush, Eric! If you still like me, then I yours completely, but if not…”

Anne’s face was now 100% Russian revolutionary. It’s like she wasn’t drunk or tipsy or anything at all. Although my slacks were hanging impossibly contorted from my right ankle like a Calabi-Yau manifold and she was baring her incredible puffy dark brown nipples that adorned her perky breasts dripping with sexually charged condensation and sitting on me but more like idly pleasuring herself with my cock while I achingly twitched and jerked beneath the pressure of her mischievous pussy that was pathetically protected by little more than one or two thou of textile, Anne was deathly serious.

I propped myself up on an elbow I don’t know which as blood rushed to my head and I kind of rocked to the side in a manner I drunkenly thought must have looked fucking cool like James Franco cool but actually was the kind of inebriated gypsy waltzing you see on reality cop shows right before the guy gets arrested for failing a breathalyzer or taking 2 minutes to stumble through 1/6th of the alphabet while reciting it backwards, so that’s Z Y X V- no, W, and then the guy is in the fucking back of a cruiser. Anne kept staring at me with her really intense serious face and not knowing what to do to reassure her I just planted my lips firmly on hers without like sucking face or tongue dueling, it was just a sincere genuine dumb drunk kiss. I didn’t have my eyes open but if I did I probably would have seen her scary serious face relax a bit because her body drooped and she just kept rubbing against me.

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So now we’re back in another lockdown and it’s one which I don’t think we’ll properly emerge from until summer, or possibly later, I thought it was time I wrote down some of the details from my life, certain things about which I think I will have to sadly kiss goodbye to forever. By the time it’s going to be totally and absolutely safe for me to have one of my lovely sexual adventures again (and judging from my recent photos), I’m going to be far too old, fat and dried-up for any self-respecting young and well-endowed black man to even consider sticking his cock inside me.

So, facts first. My name is Laura, I’m sixty-two years old, I’m married (my third husband) and I’ve been a slut since I was twenty-eight years old. I like big cocks. I like black cocks and I love sex with men in their twenties.

As I said, I’m now sixty-two, so over the last two years it’s been getting noticeably less easy for me to get those initially willing young men into a big and hard and eager state to fuck me. Blessed as I am with my libido and my unstoppable sex-drive (and it is a blessing, but it’s also a curse), I am more than willing and able to use a huge range of techniques to encourage really good performances from men, especially young men, who can readily give repeat performances. And, of late, I’ve had to use lots of those techniques.

Not that long ago, I could strip off and watch men’s cocks getting hard and standing up to attention as those men inspected my naked body. Not any longer. I have to do some serious work now. Standing naked is no longer enough. I’ve not had any failures yet, but I know they’re imminent. The first time it happens; that was going to be the day I was going to consider retiring.

Obviously I don’t mind putting the work in because the rewards are many, besides, new experiences are always useful. And I know my body. I know what it can do and what it can take. Less than it used to, although it still craves more. My numbers game has never been about numbers at all – it’s about the experiences. For me it’s always been about experiencing what I’ve never experienced before. That’s why I have my bangles. That’s why I mark the experience with something tangible immediately after having it. The jewellery is a reward to myself for having had the experience, even though the experience itself is the real reward.

I look back over those thirty-plus years to the summer of 1986 at my twenty-eight-year-old married self and congratulate myself on taking that first bold step off the beach and going to a hotel room with two young black men. If I could go back in time, I’d do it all over again, but I’d make sure I did it better than I did in my young, very inexperienced, and very naïve way back then. I pretended to know more than I did, which was probably, at the time, very silly of me, but also sensible, as it turned out, because god, they really, really used me well. It was a total awakening for me. It was my moment of discovery regarding sex – sex was truly phenomenal! I hadn’t known it until that afternoon in that hotel room. I made a decision in that room – I told both men they could do anything they liked with me. My heart was hammering when I said it, but it was absolutely the right thing to say because they did so many things I may not have experienced otherwise – and I’d definitely not have been confident enough then to have asked for them. In that room, once those men started using me, my core lit up, or came alight, or started burning, I don’t know the word – ignited is nearest, but it’s not that – and it’s never stopped or dimmed, or cooled since. It is burning hot inside me as I write this and I know it’ll only stop burning once I’m dead.

Those two young black men were very confident, very energetic, and very well-endowed. At the time, I’d never seen cocks as big, although I’ve had bigger and fatter ones inside me since then. But at the time, I was young, naïve, and sort-of-but-not-quite innocent. However, big black cocks were totally new to me. Two men at a time was totally new to me too and it was very, very exciting and very, very satisfying to have two cocks in my body at the same time. They did every permutation of cunt/mouth/anus double penetration there is. And I absolutely loved every one of them. Those two men knew what they were doing; they got me to do what I thought of as every depraved, perverted sex act imaginable, and quite a few more that I hadn’t imagined too.

And it was delicious. Lovely. Totally perfect. I responded very positively with my body and with my mind. My body thrummed like a lightning sinop escort rod. I was instantly reborn a natural whore. And I loved it. I totally embraced being a whore. That’s how I labelled myself then. ‘Whore’ is a bit of an out-of-date word now, but I still think of myself first and foremost as a woman and a whore. I fully identify with and adore my whore status. I love being called ‘whore’ by dominant men.

I also lost any notion of shame on that day. I’ve not been ashamed of anything I do or have done for over 35 years. The moment those men pushed their cocks into my mouth, both at the same time and both of them telling me to suck their cock first, one calling me ‘slut’, the other calling me ‘bitch’, I felt as though I was in heaven. And I didn’t make a choice. Instinctively, I sucked them both off simultaneously. And they absolutely fucking loved it. They thought I was something special. Which I obviously was. I learned a lot about myself that day. And how did I know to do that? I just did. It was my instinct to ignore their orders and do what I wanted, which was to suck both of their cocks at the same time. So I did. And I gargled with their come. And looked at them the whole time. No one told me to do those things; I just did them because my inner voice told me to. After that, I knew exactly who I was.

When it was time to leave that hotel room, the whole place smelled heavily of the men’s sweat and spunk and of my well-used pussy. I don’t know why but that heady scent was really turning me on. And even though we’d been fucking for over four hours and I’d had about seven or eight huge orgasms and was absolutely worn out, I suddenly wanted more sex. Lots more.

Obviously, I was very reluctant to leave, but I knew I had to. So I left that hotel in my skimpy bikini. I had my lightweight dress in my bag, but I didn’t want to wear it. I decided I’d put it on outside my house. I wanted people to know what I’d done, even though they wouldn’t or couldn’t really know. So I walked through the town in my bikini, flaunting my body, flaunting my whore status. In my mind, as I walked, in time with my steps, I was mentally saying: I’m a whore, I’m a whore, I’m a whore… I’ve heard that the walk back home after an affair is called a walk of shame. Mine was a walk of pride. I could feel spunk dripping onto my inner thighs and I was incredibly proud of everything I’d just done. I knew I’d done something significant; something that was far more than just sex; something that was far more than just a threesome. I’d done something that had changed my life forever.

To my credit, I knew it and accepted it on that very day, July 19th, 1986, aged twenty-eight. And, on accepting it, welcoming it, I knew what I was. And what I was going to be. No man would ever dictate anything to me about anything. Ever. I’d let them think they were in charge, but they’d follow my script. I also promised myself that every sex act I did from then on would be photographed. I wanted a record of my development. I bought a polaroid camera and my first five rolls of film. I was ready.

After that first two-man experience I tried two black men again, then again. I got addicted very quickly to big black cocks. I divorced my first husband, because of his penis size. He was not big. I had thought it’d be okay, but once I’d experienced proper-sized cocks, his lack of size bothered me. He was a nice, decent, kind man, so I’m not going to disparage him to make myself feel better. There was nothing wrong with him apart from him having a small penis. Due to my lack of any real sexual experience, I didn’t know he was small. It was only after those two lovely black men had fucked me that I knew what size I needed for my gratification and satisfaction.

Which brings me to my cunt. When I reached puberty it stopped growing. It stayed the same size. It was shaped like an f. Later in life, I affectionately thought of my cunt as my f-hole. Aged 18, I had it checked out by a gynaecologist and he said it was just one of those things that happened to some young women. Some vaginas stop growing at puberty. He suggested I use a ‘marital aid’, by which he meant a dildo or a vibrator, to stretch myself a bit, if it bothered me. It did bother me. So I bought quite a big vibrator and stuffed it into my cunt at every opportunity. I found that my fanny stretched out for about a day, sometimes two days, then it went back to its usual size. Small. Girl-size. That was fine when I was a girl, but as a woman, I wanted my own woman-sized cunt. So I set to work stretching sinop escort bayan it. Daily workouts with toys that got bigger and bigger. I soon found that the bigger they were, the harder I’d orgasm. And I started to gush when I orgasmed properly. And I drank it and I really liked how I tasted. By the time I got to the age of 19, I’d managed to stretch it a bit more. It was still small, but it wasn’t that small.

So when I met the man who became my first husband, I didn’t really notice he had a small penis. His cock fitted inside me and he said I wasn’t loose.

However, after my experience with various men with big cocks, his lack of size eventually upset me and angered me to the point I knew we needed to go our separate ways. He’s now married to a woman who clearly doesn’t mind his lack of length or girth. Apparently, not all women are size queens. Anyway, I celebrated my divorce by getting two black men to fuck me double-vaginally, double-anally and double-orally (in that order) as their white friend took photos with my Polaroid camera. I bought six rolls of film for that weekend. They were all used. So was I. I have every photo in my archive.

I didn’t limit myself to black men, but they were more to my taste. I loved my skin against theirs. I loved being sandwiched between two black men. I learned I was ‘white meat’. I learned I was an ‘Oreo-girl’. I let them ‘train’ me, but I simply did what my body told me to do. I discovered I liked men to be dominant and aggressive and rough. I loved being flung about and bent into shapes. I loved being submissive, a slave, being whipped, being led around on a collar and lead, being made to go naked in public places, being tied up, handcuffed, forced to do anything and everything sexual.

I found that I really loved the taste of hot spunk. Cold too. I quickly discovered I could orgasm from anal sex, which I didn’t know, and I became an anal sex addict. I still am. My poor bottom. The men said I learned fast, but I already knew the lessons. They were there inside me, waiting. I quickly learned to pretend to be totally submissive. I ‘learned’ to beg prettily. I became a very willing black cock slut. I got given a card identifying as this which I was told to give to any black man I met in order that I could be used for that black man’s sexual gratification. The card stated that I was a black cock slut for use by any black man in any way he wanted. I carried that card with immense pride and I used it a lot. (I still have that card with my first (ginger perm) slutwife photo on it and a list of what I would do, which was pretty much everything.) I also got a list of 30 ‘rules’ of being a black cock slutwife which I loved and ‘obeyed’ (and still love and still live by). Here they are:

30 black cock slut rules

1. A black cock slut will never say no to sex with any black man. She must always serve every black man with her full body and mind, making sure all of her orifices are always available for black men’s use.

2. A black cock slut’s function is to please and pleasure black men to the best of her ability. She understands that any and all sexual activities can be performed by any black men at any time and she will be a willing and eager black men’s living spunk receptacle (cumdump).

3. A black cock slut will immediately obey every order given to her by a black man. Once she has followed the order, she will thank the black man for giving her the order.

4. A black cock slut will sexually serve her black master’s friends and anyone he designates, as enthusiastically and as skilfully as she serves him.

5. A black cock slut must walk, talk, act, dress, and wear make-up and hairstyles in the ways that are chosen by any black man she’s with, to show the world she is his property.

6. A black cock slut must always accept black men’s spunk bareback as often as possible in all of her holes. Black men will not be required to wear condoms when fucking her.

7. A black cock slut is to keep her pussy shaved or trimmed very short at all times, unless ordered differently by a black male.

8. A black cock slut must willingly sexually serve all legal-aged blacks at any time, whether they are short, fat, tall, thin, rich, poor, young or old.

9. A black cock slut must strive to get fucked by black men as often as possible, anywhere, anytime, in cars, on picnic tables, on the grass in a park, in alleys, hotels, marital beds… anywhere that a black man wants her.

10. A black cock slut must willingly serve escort sinop as party entertainment for blacks when ordered to, including Super Bowl parties, card games, bachelor parties, in short, anywhere there is a gathering of black men who want to party.

11. A black cock slut must answer all phone calls from black men. Once she has established that it is a black man calling her, she must say: “I am your white slut, how may I serve you?”

12. A black cock slut must always carry several of her ‘black cock slut’ business cards. The card must be the standard card with a photo of her naked, her slut name, her phone number(s), and a short list of her sexual specialties. She must hand a card to every black man she meets.

13. A black cock slut must keep all of her holes clean and fresh for black men to use.

14. A black cock slut must use only black dildos and vibrators for training purposes, to get her holes loose and prepared to better serve black men.

15. When a black cock slut orgasms from a black cock and/or black fingers, she will thank the black man responsible by saying, “Thank you for allowing me to orgasm, Sir/Master,” using whichever title the black man prefers.

16. A black cock slut must always be submissive to black men and must love and actively encourage being called whore, slut, and/or bitch by all black men.

17. A black cock slut may be chained, collared, whipped, caned, humiliated at any time for the enjoyment, amusement and pleasure of any black man.

18. A black cock slut will wear either a temporary or permanent tattoo that announces her black cock slut status.

19. A black cock slut must be naked most of the time. Revealing clothes may be worn in public, but must be removed once the slut is in her own home or in the home of a black man.

20. When she does dress, a black cock slut must at all times wear skimpy/revealing clothes, and she must always be as provocative as possible. She must always be naked underneath her outer clothes, for the visual enjoyment and for ready use of all black men.

21. A black cock slut must never wear panties, except as lingerie to arouse black men.

22. A black cock slut will readily and eagerly accept all black men fingering her under her dress or skirt wherever and whenever a black man wants to. When the black man has finished with her, she must say: “Thank you for fingering me, Sir/Master,” using whichever title the black man prefers.

23. When wearing swimwear/beachwear, a black cock slut must always wear the tiniest bikinis it is possible for her to wear. She must do this even if she is not with black men, for example, if she is sunbathing or holidaying or at the pool. She will do this to show the world she is a black cock slut.

24. A black cock slut will wear ankle chains, bracelets, thumb rings, nipple rings, in short, all types of jewellery that advertise her black cock slut status to the world. She will also wear coloured jelly bracelets that announce her sexual preferences and skills.

25. A black cock slut will train hard to be able to take many black cocks at once. She will become proficient at double, triple and quadruple penetration, will take part in pulling trains and will eagerly participate in gangbangs.

26. If a black cock slut begins a relationship with a white man, she must inform him of her black cock slut status and persuade him to let her continue being fucked by black men whenever they order her to do so.

27. If a black cock slut begins a relationship with a white man, and she has photographs of her fucking black men, she must show the man those photographs as soon as possible. She must always keep all of her black cock slut photos.

28. A black cock slut will make sure to have all of her sexual encounters with black men photographed.

29. A black cock slut with have sex with her husband’s friends if they request it. By doing this, the black cock slut will be showing her total respect for her husband and for his choice of friends. While fucking his friends, she must eagerly do everything without reservation that the husband’s friend(s) demand. After she has pleasured and satisfied the husband’s friend(s), the black cock slut will express her gratitude to the friend and thank him (or them) for fucking her so well. She will let it be known that she will be available for fucking at any time.

30. A black cock slut will use a range of social media platforms to announce to the world she is a black cock slut. She will post photographs, diary entries, notes, and anything else about herself so that everyone can see at a glance that she is a black cock slut.

Those were the rules I lived by. Obviously, I got fucked a lot. I sucked a lot of black cocks. A lot of black men used me as their cumdump or fucktoy. My collection of Polaroids grew.

To be continued…

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