Losing Her Grip Ch. 01

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Angela considers paying another woman for sex

I. Flirting with the Internet

My alias is Angela, and this is a confession about something which I have originally meant to publish anonymously in a blog online. As it happens, I was going through a bad divorce with my husband when I first began to flirt with the thought of seeking pleasure in other women.

After eight years of failure in a marriage that it seemed only I had tried to save, I was so disappointed that I refused to ever love again. Sadly for me, I was only thirty-two at the time, still attractive and still quite capable of giving and experiencing sexual pleasure, and that did not make things any easier.

The sexual interest in other women did not come as a direct result of my marriage gone sour; I think it came as a side-effect of my sudden loneliness mixed with my fear to love.

In short, I didn’t start finding other women attractive from one day to another, but I rather worked very hard to force myself into it, because I thought it would be the better, more painless option for my heart. I would certainly never fall in love with another woman, and therefore, with men out of the picture I could never get hurt again.

I finally found a hidden entrance into my so deeply-desired same-sex attraction when one day, as I sat in a lounge waiting to meet a client from our company, a strange, long-forgotten curiosity resurfaced. I sat there drinking a mug of coffee, when suddenly it happened.

The woman sitting across from me on the leather couch was wearing a short, cream-coloured miniskirt, very prone to visual accidents. It was tight around her hips and a bit looser around her thighs.

She was very absorbedly reading a newspaper article, when she crossed her legs and I got too good a look at her black knickers. The sight was as short-lived as it was enjoyable. It must have made me involuntarily bite my lower lip with delight.

Had there been a man in the room, I guess she might have been more careful, but seeing that I am a woman too she felt no need to not be careless. If she only knew how her obliviousness had given me a sight to obsess about! Shivers went down my spine as I drank my coffee and thought about the sight of her knickers, over and over again.

It had been years since another woman had flashed me her panties, and my mind started to work as I realised how much I had always enjoyed such unexpected sights despite my heterosexuality. I then began to remember past experiences: When had a woman flashed me her knickers for the first time?

I didn’t have to try too hard to remember and immediately knew that the first had been Ms Downs, my Maths teacher. I still couldn’t forget the sight of her knickers that day when she sat at her desk wearing a miniskirt and I accidentally dropped my eraser on the floor and saw them. Her knickers were white, and that became my favourite colour then and there.

I went to an all-girl school near my childhood house in Belfast, so looking up another girl’s skirt was an accident that happened often and which nobody worried about. Of course, during those years I never felt the desire to sleep with another woman, which is why I always wondered about the delight I found in looking up other women’s skirts. I never understood that about myself.

I remember back in the 90s women wore the colour white under their clothes a lot more often, and otherwise light blue, ivory or pink, as I remember, at least that was my case. Now it’s mostly dark tones they wear, I think. White is the colour that I personally prefer, but these days everyone wears only black, and white is very rare.

The first time I saw someone wearing dark-coloured knickers was during my last year in school. Cäcilia, our German exchange student revealed us her black slip and brassier in the changing room, and I had to try very hard not to look.

Up until that day in the lounge I had led a normal life, but the sight of that woman’s black knickers changed everything. I had not seen another woman’s panties for a couple of years.

Later that day my thirst got the best of me and I experienced my first contact with internet pornography. Anxious as never before to see another woman’s underwear, I typed in the keywords “beautiful women, knickers, skirts” in the search engine and found a great variety of sites to visit.

Page after page my eyes feasted on the alluring up-skirt pictures of countless gorgeous female models, photographed from under their skirts in every position.

That day I spent at least three hours looking at sinful pictures on my screen and the more I looked the more obsessive I became and the more I needed to see. Finally, at around midnight, I came upon a poker oyna site with not only images but mostly videos.

I typed in the key words “lesbian, upskirt, panties” on the site’s search engine and, not knowing whether I could find something of my liking, the page refreshed and showed me over one hundred options. Feeling somewhat guilty about what I was doing, I clicked on a video starring a couple of Japanese lesbians.

It was the first pornographic video I had seen in my life, and as it developed it began to arouse me in a very new way. Dressed in white blouses and plaid skirts, the two Asian women were making out on a bed. A few minutes into the film, one of them uncovered her counterpart’s torso and began to suck on her breasts and her nipples.

This wasn’t what I had been looking for at all, but it was incredibly arousing. Then, the girl that was doing the licking knelt on the floor in front of the other girl. My heart jumped as she lifted the other woman’s skirt, under which she wore a pair of standard, white knickers.

I was embellished by the sight and felt the video was starting to awaken strange desires in me. Staring was inevitable as the camera zoomed in and focused on the girl’s white panties, which were being stroked by the kneeling girl’s fingers.

The sight of this began to drive me mad. Then, the woman who was kneeling began to brush her tongue across the other girl’s white knickers, and as she continued, an inexplicable sexual madness came over me and I began to become humid between my own legs.

The scene continued and I lifted my own miniskirt and began to rub my own vagina through the underwear, suddenly wishing it was me kneeling before that pretty Japanese woman and licking her knickers like that. A few minutes afterwards the video made me climax and scream with delight.

As I got ready for bed a few minutes later, I felt confused and uneasy. My mind raced until very late that night and I almost missed the sound of my alarum-clock the next morning. I went to work a different woman, hardly myself anymore, a lot more timid with other women and less talkative than I usually was.

I always greeted Anna, our young receptionist when I walked past reception, but that day I said nothing and tried hard to avoid looking at her. As I walked towards my own office my imagination terrified me like never before.

I was actually wondering what knickers Anna would be wearing and what it would be like to look up her miniskirt. What was that all about, and how had my mind suddenly become so filthy? I had surrendered to the temptation of internet porn and now it seemed I was paying the price.

I took a deep breath and started working to distract the mind. Suddenly, that week I became a lot more productive than usual, but every afternoon when I got home I succumbed to the temptation over and over again.

Classic lesbian pornography soon made me a great fan of stars such as Hyapatia Lee and Nina Hartley. Then, stars from the 90s such as Jenna Jameson, Rebecca Lord, and Felecia made me drip with arousal. However, it was the delicious performance of modern stars such as Taylor Vixen and Dani Daniels which made me a true lesbian, along with Maria Ozawa and countless anonymous Japanese lesbian stars.

At one point, I finally realised that I was going down the deceitful path of voyeurism and that I should best stop, but getting back on track was difficult.

II. The Struggle Continues

After only a few weeks of fighting my desires to go online, I realised that I had overcome my addiction to online lesbian pornography to some degree. The obsession with lesbian sex had dwindled, but as I remained alone my wish to find a female lover had become more intense.

This soon got to the point of affecting my attention span and my concentration. Whenever I went shopping I noticed beautiful women on the street and I would unwholesomely admire their female shapes wishing I could fall in love with them.

Back in my flat I began to read more after work to avoid going online, and it was working. Reading helped me distract the mind and normalise it, but whenever I wasn’t reading I would think about women all the time and I couldn’t control it.

If I let my imagination run I would see nothing other than beautiful women and I felt like kissing them and making love. When I greeted the receptionist at work, I would imagine looking up her skirt and then making love to her too.

This happened on a daily basis, and soon it became very frustrating, as I never found any real consummation to my desires.

I was desperate to experience something with another woman, but how would I ever get around to it? Where did such women meet?

I would never meet canlı poker oyna anyone in my same walk of life, and browsing lesbian porn in the internet would only make me go mad. Besides, I also felt shy and afraid to actually take a first step and make my desires come true. I now began to regret my quest for satisfaction in the same sex.

I soon found the perfect topic to distract me from my dark desires: I began to read a textbook on religion. Despite my initial success, I soon came across an illustration of the goddess Diana and the unwholesome thoughts resurfaced.

She was depicted wearing a short Roman gown down to slightly above her knees looking like a skirt, her feet wide apart from each other as she aimed at something with her bow and arrow.

I then imagined lying on the forest floor between her feet, looking up her skirt and finding that she wore modern-style underwear.

It was historically inexact, but it was a sexy thought. Besides, who could ever know for sure that Roman Women hadn’t worn panties? Perhaps they had them and we wouldn’t know because it hasn’t been documented. Not everything has to be written down to be true.

That night I dreamt a very strange dream that made me realise the extent of my obsession with other women’s panties. In my dreams I knelt before the Blessed Virgin Mary, who stood just a few feet ahead.

With her merciful eyes fixed on mine Mary then began to float before me towards the Heavens. She was beautiful, dressed in blue and white, wearing a veil and a halo. I was filled with reverence and respect.

However, suddenly she was floating directly over me and, as I struggled to keep my looks focussed on her merciful eyes I accidentally looked up her robes. As she rose towards the clouds, looking up her robes was at this point almost inevitable.

As she ascended, the good Lady unwillingly revealed to me her immaculate white knickers, woven by angels, as I shamelessly stared at them with astonishment. In the dream I was overwhelmed by the rareness of the view, and, as I looked up at the Virgin’s knickers, I wished I could show her my devotion by kissing them.

Cherubs then intervened and grabbed the edges of her robes to cover the view and conceal her secret.

I woke from this dream feeling great guilt and realising how my ridiculous fantasies influenced my dreams and even had the power of becoming blasphemous. I was raised Protestant and never cared much for Mary, but I still respected religion and I felt very ashamed of my dream.

I then decided I would eventually need to see a psychologist if this went on. If not, there was but one solution: to meet someone and finally end my loneliness; only then would I be sane again.

III. An Exploitable Beauty

A few weeks later, things had gotten better. I was sent to Hamburg on a consulting project with a German company. The street in front of my flat in that city was in a nice neighbourhood, but with a lot of walking traffic. O

n summer evenings I would watch people on the pavement walk to and fro in groups, usually whole families, and watching them from my sitting room entertained me as I drank my tea. There seemed to be a lot of foreigners there too, very colourful people, but I barely saw any of them laugh.

On a Saturday morning, the bell rang.

-Housekeeping… -said a kind voice in English at the other end of the speaker.

In came a beautiful, very solemn-looking woman I had never seen before, wearing a long black skirt, a white blouse and a black lace veil on her head. I also noticed she was wearing an oriental Christian depiction of Mary around her neck. I was expecting my housekeeper from the previous time, the elderly, cheerful, and good-humoured Nadine.

-Hello, Madam, I’m Maryam, new housekeeper. -she said in imperfect English.

-Nice to meet you, Maryam. -I replied. -Where’s Nadine?

-She gone. -Answered Maryam. -She been deport to Yemen. -She explained.

I felt bad for Nadine, but I had no problem with having a new housekeeper. Maryam showed me her working permit and told me that she was an Iraqi refugee. She also said she felt very lucky to have found work near her flat. I welcomed her and asked her to begin working on my room. I showed her where the brooms and mops were and then I went back to the sitting room to continue working on a report.

I tried to work, but instead I went online. One after another, I visited sites with so-called “upskirt shots” and lingerie modelling, which had been my obsession during my free time a few weeks back. Since the lounge incident I hardly ever thought about men anymore, just women: Women in their underwear.

Now and then, Maryam would turn up and I would gaze at her beautiful, internet casino solemn, seemingly mournful figure as she silently swept and mopped the floor in my house. Something about her was seeped in sadness. I was filled with unwholesome curiosity, and inspired by her, I looked up “Arabian upskirt” online but found nothing.

Why was there no such Arabian shots? I guess not too many people were interested in staring up an Arab girl’s burka, but I was. I most certainly was. There are such beauties among them, it’s unbelievable, like Maryam.

I surfed a little longer and the best I found was a Turkish video in which a hidden camera looked up a beautiful Turkish girl’s denim skirt at an airport in Istambul. I was mesmerised. The woman was very pretty and was wearing white knickers under her skirt and a colourful veil on her head. White knickers!

I imagined looking up Maryam’s robes and seeing the same thing. Would she be wearing white, or was she so mournful that her underwear was also black? Finding out was now my dream!

I realised I was wasting valuable time by fantasising so I closed my internet tabs and continued to work on my report instead. It was difficult to concentrate with beautiful Maryam around, but I managed.

After a while, the sky became heavy with rainclouds and the flat became very dark, darker than twilight. Suddenly I saw Maryam’s feminine figure emerge from within the shadows, her white blouse and her pale face soon recognisable from within them. The sight was gloomy, but she was still beautiful.

-I’m finished, Madam. -She said politely.

It then began to rain and, as she had no umbrella with her I invited her to stay for tea. She sat down in the couch before my seat and respectfully kept silent until I decided to address her. I poured the tea as we remained silent.

Her seriousness made the mood in the room very heavy and somewhat awkward, but her incredible beauty earned her my forgiveness for it. She struck me as very reserved and quiet, but when I asked her to tell me about her life she began to talk very openly about her misfortunes and at times almost broke into tears as she did. I could not but listen to her.

She told me she wore only black because it is a mourning colour, and she chose not to wear any other. Married to an Iraqi soldier, she had lost her husband in the war against the Americans, one son in a post-war conflict against the Kurds and her other son in the new war against the terrorists. A Babylonian Christian, she and others had been forced to flee her home town and suffered horrible hardships which she didn’t describe to me in detail.

Eventually captured by Kurdish militia, she had been taken to a camp in Turkey where she was coincidentally reunited with her sister and her sister’s family and then she had been sent to Germany to live in a shelter for refugees fleeing the war and was now living with her sister. She had lost it all and didn’t know what to do or what her future would be like, but she had no choice but to continue her struggle.

No story had ever touched me as much as this one did and I felt the desire to help her. I stopped thinking about her panties and finally put my brain to good use. She then told me that she made very little money, barely enough to live well and that she intended to seek independence from her sister and perhaps start a new life, but she still spoke no German.

There were times, she said, when she wanted to “end everything”. Although I was supposed to pay her 10 Euros an hour for cleaning my house, I paid her more. In the end, instead of giving her 30 Euros, I gave her one hundred and asked her to keep the change.

Her face lit up with gratitude and she offered to stay longer and do anything extra that I might need. She said she could also polish and that she would polish my shoes if I wanted to or even do the dishes for me. I declined but asked her to come back the next day and clean up again. She left with a smile on her face.

Once I was alone, a dark temptation began to seduce me. I thought of Maryam and thought about what she would be willing to do for money. Would she go to the German police if I offered her money in exchange for a little peek under her dress, or perhaps something more?

I had enough money to make her do anything I wanted, but she seemed to be very loyal to her principles and beliefs. Could I manage to tempt her? Maybe I failed, but it was worth a try. And if she decided to go to the police, I could always lie and make her look like the dumb foreigner, as my German is almost perfect.

As I thought about this I got a call on my mobile phone that I ignored completely. It was only Dan, a friend from England who I knew just wanted to sleep with me. I was sick of him and the others too; they all just wanted to enjoy me without sentiment. If only they would have known that at this point I would rather sleep with my chambermaid than with any one of them…

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