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My weekend after the Aberdeen trip was a quiet one. I got back to Skipton early Saturday afternoon and, due to my nerdish nature, went straight in to work. And worse confessions are yet to come: on Sunday I was swotty all day as well as nerdish.
My excuse is that by then I was into the final furlong of my academic career. Yes, my blitzkrieg tactics had paid off; by taking courses end-to-end (without any of those long summer breaks fulltime students take as their due) I’d got to the point where there weren’t any more courses left for me. By Christmas I would be done, with the equivalent of a BSc packed into two and a half years of spare-time studying.
Needless to report, I was determined that my last few grades would be every bit as good as the ones I had been getting all along; hence my swotty Sabbath.
Omigod, I was so much of a goody-two-shoes I didn’t even self-abuse!
Leastways, I don’t remember it if I did.
A regular, run of the mill Monday was brightened by countless attempts to diagnose the problem with that faulty component (I’d brought it back with me from the Granite City). Everybody in IT must have looked at it and run tests, trying to establish why the flipping thing wouldn’t work. They all ended up scratching their heads. And if I had a tenner for every time someone said, “These things are meant to be unbreakable” . . .
Well that one wasn’t. Even though nobody could find anything physically wrong and it passed all of the tests, it simply wouldn’t function when asked to do its job. I finally gave up and sent it back to the manufacturers, never to be heard of again.
After an uneventful night class I decided a few beers were in order. But I was reluctant to go into The Woolly Sheep on my own. The place had too many memories, you see. So instead I made my way to another of the many touristy pubs, getting there around half nine and finding it full. Not that the lack of empty tables bothered me; I wasn’t there for food and there were vacant stools at the bar. Selecting a position to the far left, I ordered a pint of Copper Dragon.
The barmaid gave me my change with a smile and the instruction to “Enjoy”. I covertly watched her as I worked my way down the glass.
In my part of the world barmaids are renowned for having big chests and well-developed biceps. The theory is that both attributes are acquired through constant use of the big hand-pumps (the ones you see in just about every pub in Yorkshire). As a fully-fledged member of the flat-chested club, I tend to doubt the truth of that. I believe a girl only gets the job in the first place if she’s got a nice pair of tits. But there again, I might be spiteful and jealous . . .
Sally definitely qualified on both counts. The rest of her looked good, too. She was mid-twenties and about five foot five, with a well-shaped body, bright blue eyes and a dusky complexion. She also had the other essential barmaid ingredients: a quick mind and a ready answer for any nonsense that may be thrown her way.
I grinned as I listened to her shooting down a guy off to my right. I didn’t hear his no doubt suggestive comment but I certainly heard her politically incorrect reply. So did the guy’s mates. While they hooted laughter he actually blushed, probably wishing the ground would open and swallow him up.
As I watched the busty barmaid serving a new set of customers I noticed she was using both hands; first she would pull a pint using her right, then she’d pull the next using her left, and so on. I chuckled inwardly at that. Perhaps there was some truth in that old theory after all . . . at least so far as a girl’s biceps was concerned. Perhaps she did that to avoid getting “developed” lopsided.
Sally lingered a moment after giving me change for my second pint. There was a brief lull at the bar and she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to move away.
‘Excuse me for asking,’ she began, ‘but where’s your girlfriend?’
I realized at once that she meant Kat. While the Sheep was our local we had gone in other pubs often enough; she’d have seen us together lots of times in lots of different venues.
‘She’s left me,’ I said, smiling ruefully. ‘She’s gone travelling. We won’t be seeing her again.’
Sally’s eyes radiated sympathy. ‘You’re upset about, it, aren’t you?’
‘It wasn’t a surprise,’ I said with a shrug and an unexpected sting in my eyes. ‘I knew it was coming.’
A middle-aged couple arrived at the other end of the bar. Before going to serve them Sally patted my hand.
‘You poor thing,’ she said. ‘Let me know if you need a shoulder to cry on.’
That took me unawares. As you’ll have realized, I have black belts for taking opportunities but she’d gone before I could start to think about pouncing.
Now some readers might be wondering if I’d been mistaken for a bloke again. I did consider that as a possibility, but not for long. As I have said before, Skipton is not London or New York. Even the locals who had never been introduced knew each other by sight. And I must have bumped into Sally poker oyna on my way in or out of the ladies’ half a dozen times: she knew I was a girl, all right.
Thing was, when I’d seen her out and about, away from her place of employment, she’d always had a bloke on her arm. Rarely the same one, though . . .
That dodgy gaydar of mine had had her down as a straight girl who was playing the field (meaning her very own field; one that was full of men). But she must have known I’d been in a “lesbian” relationship with Kat. And still she’d offered me a caring shoulder.
When I bought my next beer I asked her if she’d like one as well.
Her face scrunched up attractively. ‘Sorry, I can’t drink when I’m on duty.’
‘I thought it was only policemen who said that.’
‘The landlady’s an ex-policewoman,’ Sally replied. ‘Or was she in the Gestapo? I forget just which.’
‘Okay then,’ I went on. ‘I’ll have to buy you one when you’re not on duty. When’s your next night off?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I echoed, ‘it must be destiny. It’s my night off tomorrow, too.’
(That was true, by the way. My last few courses didn’t run to as many as five whole nights a week; I was down to three, and Tuesday was one of the two I now had off.)
‘If it’s destiny I’ll have to say yes.’ Sally laughed.
I hope nobody was expecting a slow, sizzling courtship, because I reverted to form. After agreeing to a date on the Tuesday I told Sally I was coming over “all weepy” and needed that comforting shoulder sooner rather than later. Sally told me she didn’t finish until half past eleven. I said that sounded soon enough to me and . . .
Well, just before midnight we were in my bed.
And wasn’t she obliging!
She was strong too. Those biceps of hers weren’t just for show. I made sure I kissed and nibbled at them for ages before moving on to her tits. Then, after maybe half an hour of tit-play, I kissed, licked and nuzzled at every last square inch of her tummy. And then, all the muscles in my body twanging with excitement, I ran my tongue down her intriguingly thin landing strip.
And along her hood, bypassing her actual clitoris and attacking her outer lips instead.
She shrieked at that. Merciless, I moved on to her thighs, licking and kissing them, making sure that I did them inside and out, steering away from the two big you-know-where areas.
Her shrieks became wails.
At last showing a little compassion, I re-attacked her outer lips.
She showed every sign of cumming like Krakatoa. That fireworks display only encouraged me (well it would do, wouldn’t it?).
Even less merciless than Ming, I homed in on her engorged clit and repeated my lips attack with a lot of added vim.
Sally immediately came at least mega- . . . possibly giga- . . . titanic.
Having her flood most of my upper body was better than any present I’d ever had.
I didn’t stop, though. Oh no, mega and giga weren’t good enough just then; I wanted tera and maybe whatever came next.
Here’s a rare non-nerd confession for you: I haven’t a clue what time we took our “mid-session break” that first night. It was still dark outside, I remember that much. And I can remember that we could see each other; I hadn’t wasted any time closing the curtains; a nearby lamppost semi-lit my bedroom in an orange sort of a way.
I guess it might have been three in the morning, but Logical Dave is sniffing at the very suggestion of a random “guess”.
Anyway, as you may have noticed, I like to spend my timeouts side by side with a lover, our hands on each other’s groins, cupping in a slightly un-sexual way. Well, perhaps it is sexual. Whatever it is, I’m not going to argue the point. All I will say is that it’s cosy and intimate and not demanding. Palms light on hot and wet pussies, breathless gasps dying away before excitement builds and we prepare to go at it again . . .
But not that first night with Sally. Oh no. I was much too intrigued. She was flat on her back but I was still halfway on top of her, my leg over hers, my hands flitting between her biceps and tits.
(Okay, so I’m a tit-aholic. I admit it. I have never denied that allegation.)
And I liked her muscles too. Omigod, how strong were her arms! How they had gripped me as I drove her from one sweet orgasm to another!!
‘I suppose that’s my drink up the Swannee,’ she observed, surprising me.
‘What do you mean,’ I said reflexively.
‘You’ve just had what you wanted,’ she replied with a carefree laugh. ‘I gave it away for free.’
I stopped stroking her tits and put my hand against her cheek. ‘I haven’t finished with you for tonight yet,’ I assured her. ‘I’m not even remotely close. Tomorrow night is still very much a must.’
‘Isn’t it tomorrow already?’
‘Who cares? I want more and more and more.’
That seemed to answer Sally’s question. She stayed as she was and let me maul her chest a goodly while longer. Then, as I moved my mouth back to her well-muscled arms, canlı poker oyna she spoke again.
‘I know I’m out of practice, but will you let me have a go?’
Oh, I thought, so I was as overwhelming as that, was I?
‘I’ll let you do anything,’ I said aloud, ‘but don’t think you have to. If you have . . . preferences . . . I will be only too happy to play along.’
Absolute silence met that little gem. After at least two minutes Sally tried again: ‘I really am well out of practice; I just don’t want to let you down.’
‘Hey,’ I said, switching into coach mode, ‘I honestly do not care who does or does not do what. Just having you here with me has made my night. And honestly, I’m very versatile. I’ve got a drawer full of toys over there but, if that’s not your scene, then forget I ever mentioned them. All I want is for us to find ways to enjoy ourselves. Anything that lights your fire will definitely light mine.’
‘Wow,’ said Sally, chuckling. ‘I’m motivated!’
‘Thank God for that,’ said I. Then, abandoning her tits, caressing her upper arms again, ‘I’m not at all out of practice and you seem to be keeping pace just fine. Cast every last doubt out of your head and go with the flow. And remember: whatever will be, will be.’
‘Spoken like a hippy.’ Sally laughed another carefree laugh. ‘Believe it or not, I’m not just badly out of practice, I’m quite inexperienced when it comes to sex.’
‘I must have seen you out with ten different guys,’ my mouth said, blurting as always.
‘I meant I’m inexperienced with girls,’ she corrected. ‘I’ve only had two female lovers. And they’re fast disappearing into my murky past.
‘In that case you’d better tell me about them before they disappear altogether.’
‘There isn’t a lot to tell.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said I, smiling into her eyes. ‘Go on my darling, I just love bedtime stories.’
‘It seems like another lifetime,’ Sally began, ‘back when I went away to college. After the first year in halls I moved into a flat with a girl I’ll call “B”.
‘To protect the innocent,’ I said.
‘Yes, something along those lines. Anyway, we got on like a house on fire. We went out together like students do, boozing and chasing guys. And we always compared notes about the guys afterwards as well, even more so when we’d had the same guy, if you know what I mean.’
‘I haven’t been there or done that,’ I said (slightly smugly), ‘but I do get the drift.’
‘Well, it got to November in our final year and it was B’s twenty-first. We couldn’t afford a big party so I made her a slap-up meal instead: my most special homemade mushroom soup and fillet steak with all the trimmings. And I got in litres of wine, naturally. B had been given a double-sized bottle of Bacardi as a present. And . . .’
‘Don’t tell me, this is a drunken lapse story, isn’t it?’
‘Yes and no. I woke up next morning, naked in bed with B and without the faintest clue about anything that had happened.’
‘Happens to me all the time,’ I exaggerated.
‘B was awake,’ Sally went on. ‘She was grinning at me and I just knew we’d had sex. That was before I examined the bed-sheets, of course.’
‘Were there tell-tale concentric circles?’
‘No, these were interlocking; more like Venn diagrams. And I could see at a glance that I’d made a big contribution from the positions of the circles.’
‘So what was B grinning at?’
‘Me,’ said Sally, ‘me and my loss of memory. She said she could remember everything but refused to go into details. She kept dropping unsubtle hints about how much she’d enjoyed herself. And she kept on saying I didn’t know what I’d missed . . . I’m sure you know the routine.’
‘Did it get to you?’
‘Yes. I thought about nothing else all day. Then, that very next night, we did it all again . . . without the soup and fillets. We settled for fish and chips, wine, Bacardi and lots and lots of sex. And that was a night I will never forget; you can trust me on that.’
I could see in her eyes that she was telling the truth. ‘Was it a big step for you?’ I asked. ‘Committing when you were relatively sober, I mean.’
‘I was nervous as heck but, like I said, I’d been thinking about nothing else all day. I set off worrying, afraid I’d somehow ruined myself by having “unnatural sex”, and other such ridiculous things. Then it occurred to me that I was still the same person; I hadn’t grown an extra head or anything. And I hadn’t been physically hurt in any way; that was for sure. Before very long I started to regret being too drunk to remember. I’d always been a bit curious, you see. It bugged me that I’d gone and taken the plunge without properly experiencing the . . . the experiences.’
‘Was B already experienced?’
‘No. Not according to her, anyway. According to her she was just good at ad libs.’
‘Was it B who suggested that second night?’
‘No, that was all of my own doing.’
‘So you fancied her all along?’
‘I suppose I did, without realizing it. There was no disgust or revulsion internet casino or anything; quite the opposite, in fact. And once we started we could hardly keep our hands off each other.’
‘Are we talking sex every night ever after?’
‘Hmmm, maybe not every single night . . . ‘
I chuckled before asking my serious question: ‘Is there a happy ending to this romance?’
‘Only sort of,’ Sally grimaced. ‘I let myself get seduced by a girl on my course. She was just about as much of the polar opposite to B as you could ever imagine . . . butch instead of soft and sexy. But my eyes had been opened. I was intrigued by the contrast. I wanted to know how a butch girl went about it.’
‘So you fucked with her,’ said I, instinctively wincing at my use of the swearword.
‘It was a lot better than that. I expected to get fucked but we actually made love. I’m not going to do comparisons, but it was all so different to being with B. I got addicted and kept going back for more.’
‘And B found out?’
‘Yes. I didn’t cover my tracks well enough and B found out. And she wasn’t a happy bunny. She didn’t seem to mind me going out with blokes but couldn’t hack me seeing a fellow female. There was a big three-way confrontation and both of them finished with me within seconds of each other. And that was that. I’ve been focusing on men ever since. They are much easier to understand.’
‘But are men enough for you?’ I asked, sure I already knew the answer.
‘Let me look in that toy drawer of yours,’ she countered, smiling at me. ‘I’ll answer your question later. No, make that much, much later . . . ‘
Hard to believe, but Tuesday night was even better than Monday. Indeed it was so good that we fell in to a Tuesday routine. Always dating, always going Dutch and always going back to mine for sex, sex, sex and yet more sex.
Now, I would like to pretend that the rest of that autumn found me chaste and virginal. I’m only telling the truth in this account, however, so here goes . . .
That “one-off” reunion with Margot turned out to be just our starter for ten. She repeatedly emailed me with messages which swiftly contracted from admissions of being naughty (laced with requests for me to “discipline” her), to the simple:
“9:30 @ BH?”
I invariably replied with: “Yes”.
Sex aside, I also got back into rock climbing. Sadly, Kelly was still away at uni. Less sadly, my place of work had a (mostly male) crowd of climbers and I was welcomed aboard. And even less sadly, the wilds of North Yorkshire had a zillion venues where we could test ourselves to the limit.
Let’s go back to sex for a moment, or two or three! By sheer good luck, Margot had got in the habit of screwing her (supposedly wealthy) boyfriend’s mistress on a Tuesday evening. She tended to contact me for you-know-what on Wednesdays or Thursdays . . . or both. I tended to be free and played along with her whims.
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t beyond turning up in “Sally’s pub” when I had a night to myself. Sally was always pleased to see me and took it as read that, by simply turning up, it meant that I wanted her in my bed.
As in reality it did.
At a conservative estimate I was sleeping with either Margot or Sally four nights a week. In my opinion that was like being in a nunnery, compared to screwing Kat 24/7 and rarely sleeping a wink. But hey, I couldn’t burn candles at both ends forever, could I?
(Not that I’d necessarily waste candles by burning them!)
Back in truth-telling mode, I have to admit that I had other adventures away from Margot and Sally . . . but not by preying on tourists for one-night-stands. Oh no, I did much better than that.
In October I headed north again, to Aberdeen. Having worked extra hours I wangled it so my “holiday week” became ten nights. Flying up late Friday morning, I arrived in time for Sue to drive me off into the quite amazing Highlands. Staying in wonderful, warm and friendly pubs and inns we drank and ate like landed ladies, then shagged the nights away.
And yes, Venn diagrams were very much in evidence.
During the days we walked, sometimes hand-in-hand . . . and laughed and joked and made evil plans for the hours of darkness.
All too soon it was Tuesday and Sue needed to be back in Aberdeen for the first of her two meetings. I loved the vast open spaces but didn’t want to stay up there without her and . . .
Well, after that I hardly ever got out of her bed, our frequent trips to the curry house and The Bonnie Prince aside, of course.
November heralded the return of Meryl, eager to celebrate her mother’s birthday. She was eager for something, anyway. After spending one night in her own bed (a night she wined and dined her dearly-loved mum) she spent three nights in mine.
And omigod, hadn’t she changed!
If Meryl’s social skills had marginally improved her sex had come on in leaps and bounds. Take into account the fact that she was brilliant to start with, and . . .
I’m far too prudish to tell you what Meryl did to me (honest!) but I must advise that she had festooned her body with tattoos and piercings. From just one or two when she’d been eighteen, by then she had dozens and dozens . . . or maybe hundreds and thousands.
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