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Dave and I walked into the Busfeild Arms ten minutes late. That is to say we had been supposed to be there at high noon and we went through the front door just after ten past.
To me, the “late Heather Hunter”, the timing meant nix. Dave wasn’t saying anything but, as Miss Punctuality, she was probably seething.
And tee-hee to that!
Why should we feel guilty about being a tad tardy? Only a couple of hours earlier we had planned to not turn up at all. But we had promised, hadn’t we? And we both always kept our promises.
Dave was, coincidentally, officially known as Davina. But she hates that name and insists that her friends and lovers use the shorter, masculine version.
Not that she’s masculine.
Well, maybe she is on first sight but trust me, in bed she’s all girl.
So am I, by the way. Nowadays I’m thirty-something and still well on the lezzie side of bi. I’m also still very much footloose and fancy-free by inclination. This new-fangled “No Label Dating” isn’t so new to me; I’ve been No Label Dating for years. Blushing as I admit it, I have a string of ex-lovers as long as your arm, a handful male, most of them very much not.
Pause for reassessment.
Okay, let’s tell it as it is. Although I am often described as being an alpha female, I reckon I can share as even-handedly as anyone. Or rather I can unless I get totally carried away. When I get totally carried away I often forget all about even-handedness.
Trouble is; I very regularly get carried away.
Make that nearly always.
It’s something to do with perfectly shaped female bodies and willing smiles. No, skip the perfect bodies; I love female bodies whatever their shape; it’s those willing smiles that get me.
Like every time without fail, world without end.
One of these days I’ll probably shag someone to death and get carried away for good. Sentenced to life imprisonment for a sexual murder, fed only bread and water, sharing a cell with three nubile young lifers with long blonde hair and . . . and . . .
And what an intriguing image is that!
Not that I ever would, of course. Kill anyone, I mean; I only ever want girls to die the little death; actually pegging out on the job is so not on my agenda.
Moving swiftly on . . .
When Dave and I went into the pub we were, to say the least, noticed. On one level I assumed it was because we were relatively young, perky and attractive. In reality I knew it was because we’d been in there the day before.
That is to say the day before I’d walked in hand-in-hand with Lizzie, and Dave had walked in with Kat. And an hour or two later we’d walked out hand-in-hand in different combinations.
If there has ever been a more blatant wife swap I’d like to know about it.
As an aside, decades earlier, East Morton was renowned as the wife-swapping centre of all of Yorkshire. Formerly a farming village, it had become a bit of a yuppie paradise. And the yuppies brought with them wife-swapping as a way to spice up otherwise boring Friday nights.
The choice was Julia’s Chippie or back to the pad and swap.
Hmmm . . . tricky one!
That’s hearsay, obviously. I wasn’t even a twinkle in my dad’s eyes in those days and, being from Micklethwaite, Dad had no truck with strangers who’d arrived in East Morton from afar. The idea of ladies in pearl necklaces appalled him, if you get my drift.
(He is a man, however; the idea of ladies in pearl necklaces and little else probably did appeal. It was more likely the idea of undeservedly rich yuppies that bugged him. Why couldn’t the so-and-sos work hard for a living, like everyone else; get a few calluses on their fancy, over-manicured hands?)
Personally I like the idea of ladies in pearl necklaces and little else. But, very sadly, as far as I am aware, those long-ago gatherings/re-pairings/get-togethers had been snootily exclusive and, even more boringly, strictly male-female.
How unfair was that . . . and how come none of the ladies ever objected!
I’m all for swapping partners, but being passed on from man to man . . .
Why on earth would any girl with half a brain settle for that?
Surely some of the girls could have caught a pearl necklace or two, in-between?
As we waited to be served Dave patted my bum. Being not-at-all reticent, I kissed her sexy snub of a nose.
‘Later,’ I whispered.
‘Here’s hoping,’ she agreed.
Furnished with two bottles of extremely chilled white wine and four large glasses we selected the same table we’d occupied the day before, Dave taking the gunslinger’s seat with her back to the wall. Not that I sat across from her. Oh no. In the absence of our fellow wife-swappers I went for the place directly beside her.
There was a message to convey and I was determined to convey it.
And, under cover of the table, I immediately put my hand on Dave’s crotch.
Okay, okay. I could have subtly, discreetly put my hand on her thigh but I wasn’t feeling so subtle. Twenty hours of sex with konak escort the girl and I still wanted more.
For the record Dave wasn’t complaining in the slightest. The shameless so-and-so even opened her legs in a sly and undercover sort of a way, knowing as well as I did that we were both panties-free.
Not half past twelve in the Busfeild’s extremely smart “best room” and I was as excited as I’d ever been.
Dave, by contrast, was coolness personified.
But please don’t think that she made any effort to remove my hand from her fanny. She seemed to be quite content to let it stay where it was.
That made two of us.
I didn’t really attempt to do much under-the-table work on Dave. I was in teasing mode, happy to feel her only-too-cosy warmth, unwilling to go too far too soon.
‘You’re not afraid of attention,’ she said out of nowhere, surprising me a little.
‘Do you mean by that lot in there?’ I laughed, indicating the middle bar with a casual nod of my head. ‘They were all watching your ass, not mine.’
‘In your dreams,’ Dave laughed with me before persisting: ‘You’re really not, are you?’
‘You’re not afraid of anything, anywhere.’
‘I am what I am,’ I replied sincerely, ‘and I’ll never deny it.’
‘When did you come out?’
That question gave me pause for thought. ‘I’m not sure I ever have,’ I said eventually. ‘When Dad sold the farm I was sent away to an all-girls school and we all experimented, sooner or later. Well, almost all of us did. Some were too coy to try and some pigged out on experimentation. I was one of the ones who pigged out.’
This time Dave’s laughter was richer and not at all forced. ‘Lucky you,’ she said.
‘I got even luckier at uni,’ I went on. ‘I couldn’t believe there were so many lesbian societies and clubs. I joined all of them on the very first day of Freshers’ Week. And trust me, I never looked back.’
‘What did your mother say?’
Knowing what she meant, I shrugged and told the truth. ‘Not a lot. She went on a bit about having grandchildren . . . or rather not having grandchildren . . . but overall she was supportive.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘Dad’s was cool as you could ever imagine. And he still is. He’s a sixth generation farmer, so he has no illusions about anything. In a way I think he was glad. Like happy no male so-and-so was routinely sticking a hard willie inside his darling daughter.’
That earned a chorus of mutual laughter.
‘Has a male so-and-so ever done that?’ Dave asked as our composure made a hint of a return.
‘Do you mean has any male so-and-so ever stuck a hard willie in me?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘On numerous occasions,’ I admitted, doing my best to forget one male so-and-so in particular.
‘And you liked it?’
Dave’s expression was earnest. She deserved an honest answer. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I never have.’
‘So I heard,’ I gushed, ‘and I’m so, so impressed. Gold stars are few and far between.’
Dave looked at me, her thick-rimmed glasses sexier than ever, oozing appeal and firing all sorts of pheromones in every direction imaginable.
‘I am impressed,’ I went on softly. ‘I wish I had your powers of self-control. In the first place I only did it to find out. But I did like it so it kept on happening. I just sometimes wish I’d held back.’
‘I kissed a guy once,’ said Dave, looking me in the eye. ‘So maybe my gold star is undeserved.’
That was a revelation. Scenting a front page story, I closed in.
‘Kissed,’ I said, mock-scoffing, ‘tell me more.’
‘It was at his eighteenth birthday party,’ she confessed. ‘I was a week or two older than him and he asked me to dance. Well, I couldn’t say no, could I? Not on his big birthday.’
‘So you danced?’
‘Yes, we danced and I let him kiss me. It lasted for three or more singles; Lily Allen, Shakira and I don’t know who else. And I felt his hard-on up tight against me, without ever protesting.’
‘Not the Scissor Sisters?’ I wondered helpfully.
Dave sniggered and agreed they could have been on the play list.
‘Did you enjoy the kiss?’
‘Yes, but I hadn’t properly kissed a girl at the time. A week or so later, when I did finally kiss a girl for real, I saw the light once and for all.’
I accepted that as true. Dave’s orientation was, after all, patently obvious. My only wish was that I had been the one to get that first kiss.
‘How did your parents take it when you told them?’ I enquired, as innocently as could be, correctly assuming that she’d told them almost straightaway.
‘Like it was only to be expected,’ Dave laughed yet again. ‘Mum hardly turned a hair and Dad was much like yours sounds: as if he preferred me to keep as far away from hard-ons as possible.’
‘And you really do have a gold star?’
‘But of course.’
Dave’s nod was unmistakably certain.
Well, more or less. Pure as she was, self-doubt still visibly lingered.
‘I manisa escort really do,’ she said, ‘unless a squeezed bum counts against me.’
‘Not in my books,’ I said. ‘Not apart from making me jealous as heck.’
By quarter to one we had mixed feelings about Lizzie and Kat’s continuing absence. I thought that it was a good sign, that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Dave thought they had had a big bust up and would never be seen again.
Then . . . at last and halleluiah . . . they showed up.
‘You’re a freaking disgrace,’ Kat said to me in greeting. ‘How could you do that to us?’
‘Bloody geese,’ Lizzie added, sniggering.
They were both grinning and taking seats opposite me and Dave so I wasn’t overly alarmed. They obviously hadn’t been severely damaged by my guard geese and, if not holding hands, they were clearly in tune.
In other words they were two girls who’d without doubt enjoyed each other’s company.
Better yet, they showed no objection to my close, possessive proximity to Dave.
(Message successfully sent and received! Yippee!!)
‘Please tell me you haven’t spent the night in the Premier Inn,’ I said, more or less sincerely, only slightly worrying about the efficiency of my security force.
‘Have we heck,’ said Kat (“heck” being a much more polite version of the word she actually used), ‘they let us in no problem, but then they wouldn’t let us out.’
I smacked my palm on my forehead.
‘Sorry,’ I said sincerely, ‘I forgot. They’re under standing orders to keep girls in Hunters Farm.’
Lizzie sniggered again. ‘And why would that be?’ she asked, as if she couldn’t guess.
‘To stop girls running out on me,’ I said, sniggering along with her. ‘Before I’m done with them, if you know what I mean.’
‘You’re lucky we’re here at all,’ said Kat, swilling wine from the glass Dave had thoughtfully filled for her.
‘I’d have stayed in your bed for another week or more,’ Lizzie added, ‘but Kat insisted we got here by hook or by crook.’
That raised fears in me. My hand was still on Dave’s fanny and I wanted it to stay there for hours and hours. In fact I wanted to be done with all the under-the-table stuff. I wanted to get on with it in depth and properly.
‘How did you get out?’ ever-practical Dave asked while my mind eddied and swirled.
‘Our first taxi driver gave up,’ Lizzie giggled. ‘He sent us another who drove right up to the front of your house. And he got the angle just so, so that he could open the passenger door and we could both pile in.’
I felt another stab of anxiety. ‘Please tell me he didn’t run over anyone.’
(Yes, I did refer to my geese as people; to me they really are precious.)
‘Never even came close,’ Lizzie enlarged, ‘I reckon he’s done it before. He’s called Mick, by the way. He said to say hello.’
I nodded. Thanks to my habit of drinking after work and not driving after even one large wine, I knew all of Bingley Taxis drivers. Not intimately, I hasten to add. I only knew the female ones in any way intimately.
And, sadly, not all of them quite intimately enough . . .
‘How are you getting back?’ Dave enquired. ‘Will they let you in a second time?’
I was impressed by her directness. Between us we’d already agreed that swapping back was not an option. And here she was, presenting our decision like a fait accompli.
Or was she blowing it before we’d even started?
Hiding my sudden concern, I looked at Kat.
Kat had reservations about Lizzie who was, by any standards, ridiculously talkative. Kat was in a few ways the same. Not that she was quite so massive a chatterbox; but she could still gossip for England . . . or Europe . . . maybe on behalf of all the third rock from the sun. My biggest fear was not that opposites attract, it was the other way around.
No, my brain stammered, please no.
To my immense relief Kat smiled.
So did Lizzie.
‘I’m not running that gauntlet again,’ said Kat. ‘You two get your asses off to Hunters Farm. We’ll make do with Dave’s cottage. After she’s got more wine in, that is.’
Dave slid the keys across the table.
‘Red or white?’ she asked.
Kat laughed and said, ‘Both.’
Up until now I have used a take-it-as-you-see-it approach. Now I’m going to switch a little. Now I am going to take a brief break and tell you what Kat told me the following Wednesday night.
More or less I am, anyway.
Okay, I’m not going to use the foul language and wild exaggeration she tends to employ, but I do intend to quote her as literally as possible. In other words I’m going to tell you that tale as if I was there, watching. I wasn’t, obviously and, just as obviously, I’m going to have to tell the tale mostly from Kat’s perspective.
I’m going to add in personal knowledge, though. They’re both my lovers after all. I know them well enough and I know how they work, mind and body.
Don’t I just, especially as far as bodies are concerned!
So menderes escort here goes . . .
This is Saturday afternoon, remember? This is their first time together.
And this is an experience worth sharing.
On we go.
The taxi ride from the pub to Hunters Farm was punctuated by Lizzie’s endless chatter. And could that girl chatter! Sharing the back seat with her, holding her hand tightly but as yet still innocent of any form of sexual contact, Kat listened as she went on about this, that and simply everything.
Yes, slightly tipsy, extremely horny, Kat let her have her way.
I’ll show her, she secretly thought, I’ll show this gushy little girl what’s what.
The cabbie (who from the description Kat gave me was probably Ali, a guy who likes his pints of Landlord almost as much as I do) said nothing. Assuming it was him, he was well accustomed to girls heading for my place in pursuit of sex. And he was a nice guy; far too polite to ask where on earth I was when there was sex to be had.
Getting past the geese that first time wasn’t a problem. Bashful emerged from the reeds around the pond, took one look at the visitors and apparently recalled my instructions.
Hardly even hissing, she went back to her nest. The approach to my front door was not impeded.
Perhaps as long as two minutes later the dynamic duo were in my bedroom, sharing a kiss.
Yes, they were sharing their opening mutual sexual sensations in the purest way possible.
This is my opinion, right? I’m not swearing that it’s gospel; I’m only saying it as it is for me.
That first kiss with a new lover is so, so revealing. Like me, dear reader, you have probably heard men say that girls all feel the same in the dark.
And a sad indictment on male intelligence, come to that.
Girls aren’t just different, girls are unique. I very rarely allow darkness, preferring to see as well as to feel and taste, hear and smell. And take it from me: every girl is different in every respect.
Consider the sense of smell. Every female has a favourite shampoo, a favourite body wash and a favourite deodorant. She also has her perfume of choice. The number of potential combinations is mathematically mind-blowing. A supercomputer would struggle to come up with the odds. Even Ladbrokes’ experts would hesitate before giving a price.
Just think about it. Twenty zillion shampoos, times ten squillion body washes, times many millions of deodorants and simply billions of perfumes . . .
Then add in the essential scent of the lady herself.
Oh good grief, Heaven!
Trust me; I have slept with a lot of women. “All the same” isn’t in the equation and anyone who insists otherwise is at best misguided. And anyone who persists in being misguided is in danger of annoying me.
So be warned!
Using imagination and Kat’s hearsay version of events, the brand-new and eager couple kissed for a long, long while until Kat at last started to unfasten Lizzie’s deliberately too-tight blouse.
Maybe stopping Lizzie’s chatter was a factor; or maybe kissing her was just nice. Having kissed both participants I have an open mind. Kissing either of them is a very, very nice experience.
Imagine kissing them one after the other!
I can only too easily picture Lizzie’s top coming off, closely followed by Kat’s and then the breast-to-breast contact. That’s Kat’s opening course of choice: rubbing breasts together. She is very good at doing that and her endurance is beyond belief.
Take my word for it, if Kat ever rubs breasts with you, you will climax sooner or later.
Make that probably sooner and most likely more than once.
Finally, satisfied but not sated, Kat stopped, possibly because, with her mouth free again, Lizzie had resumed her endless commentary. Ignoring her flattery, compliments, thanks and streams of encouragement, she pulled off the blonde’s jeans.
Believe you me; pulling off Lizzie’s jeans takes some effort. They are so tight! Personally I do like tight denims but hers are practically painted on.
Kat got them off, though. And she sank to her knees in my bedroom, semi-naked herself, Lizzie only clad in an already rather wet thong.
Initially Kat ran to tip of her nose up along that thong.
Bliss, bliss, bliss! Take it from me, I know!!
Kat is brilliant at all forms of lovemaking and, even if her breast-to-breast interplay is exceptional, she more than excels when she’s toying with a still semi-covered fanny.
Not that she’d have left Lizzie semi-covered for long. Knowing her she’d have been tugging fabric aside in no time at all. Then she’ll have been in there, tongue first, aiming for just everything and instantly succeeding in her quest.
Kat always succeeds in her quests.
Why else would I have block-booked her for Wednesdays?
Here’s a major confession: I’m writing this latest passage with only one hand. The very idea of Lizzie on her back, staring up at her reflection in my overhead mirror . . .
Well, I bet you know where my free hand is and what it’s doing.
That image is just too much! Lizzie flat on her back, eyes and mouth all Os of approval with Kat’s head rhythmically bobbing between her widely spread thighs.
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