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Omigod, has it really been over two years since I last put pen to paper? (Or, more accurately, fingers to keyboard.) Back then we were all still afraid of a bird flu pandemic, and nobody had even heard of frigging coronavirus.
COVID-19 my ass.
Hell, back then bastard Brexit was bagging headlines well ahead of pigging bird flu.
Happy days indeed!
Except I cut off mid-story, which is unforgiveable when there is so much more to tell. So here I am, back like a bad penny, or good old Arnie, but not to drive cars in through police station windows.
Even if they do sometimes deserve it.
Only joking, obviously. Let’s progress.
Previously I have submitted three accounts of losing my girl-on-girl virginity, each one progressing as my horizons widened, so to speak. This then is going to be the fourth. And oh my, haven’t I widened a whole lot more.
Not least when it comes to widening my legs.
Enough of that, we can focus on my more detailed sex life a little later.
To save anybody backtracking I’m going to outline the principal players and places before I begin in earnest. Not that I don’t want folk reading or re-reading the old stuff, all three with titles beginning with “Dottily”. If that is your fancy then please, please feel free.
And please feel free to jill while you’re at it.
Dotty: Me, your humble narrator. Two years ago, I was twenty-one and a final year Maths student up in Lancashire. I was (and still am) five feet ten and curvy with long blonde hair and often wish that my tits were just a little bit bigger, although nobody else has ever complained. Before I found myself, I spread it around a lot. Hey, I was away from home and everyone was into free love, fifty years past the 1960s sell-by date or not. Until I met Michelle, I had been mildly bi-curious but seriously believed I was straight. In other words, I had fucked an awful lot of guys, mostly on a one-off, one-night-stand sort of basis.
Martha: My housemate who I love like a sister (in fact I love her a lot more than my real-life, far too-clingy sister). My earlier same-sex experiences had exclusively been with Martha, but we controlled ourselves and had never gone all the way. Yeah, I know how it sounds but we’d brought guys home in twos, threes and even fours. As often as not, after we had tried all possible combinations, me and Martha would put on a girly floorshow while the exhausted menfolk recovered a little zest. But we honestly had never gone all the way. Not until a very drunken twosome when we were home alone and, going by Ms Unreliable’s notoriously dodgy memory, we’d 69’d as if our lives depended on it. A little more recently, as recently as Friday night, Saturday morning, we’d (more or less) soberly fucked as if our lives depended on it. Heavenly experience or what! And not going all the way that time had so not been an option. That time it had genuinely happened for real.
Michelle: Only recently transferred “north” from the University of Bath, this girl converted me into the noble art without trying. We’d first met on day one of our final year, compared timetables and realized that we were doing all the same course modules. And we clicked almost instantly. Within a week she had moved in with me and Martha and since then (until she got a call about a serious road accident), we’d spent virtually every second of every day together.
Ronnie: Michelle’s ex and the reason she left Bath in the first place, albeit a mysterious one. Prior to that phone call all I knew was that there’d been a big break-up. I hadn’t even been aware of Ronnie’s name until the call late that Thursday. But news arrived of her car crash and off Michelle scuttled to be with her, post-haste.
Claire: Ronnie’s new love and, coincidentally, one of Michelle’s exes. Or maybe not so much of an ex. When she’d returned from Emergency Ward 10, Treliske, I discovered a massive love-bite right there on Michelle’s shoulder, complete with very visible teeth marks. Michelle cheerfully confessed that it “must have been Claire”, as if our own relationship was as open as a golf or tennis tournament.
Robin: A female bouncer/doorperson at the local lesbian pub who’s got the hots for me. She is tall with short blonde-white hair and with shoulders that John Wayne would have been proud of. She’s also got muscles on her muscles. Robin insists she is my “number two”. Additionally, she insists that Michelle is “trouble” and doesn’t deserve to be my “number one”. I don’t agree with her about that claim but fuck me, she is amazingly fitter than fit. And, having betrayed the briefly absent Michelle Saturday night as well as Friday, I can say without a fear of contradiction that “Rob” (as I think of her now and will forever more) can fuck better than a rampant rabbit. No, make that far, far better.
Liz/Lisbeth: A denizen of the university Union Bar, this young lady resembles Rooney Mara and has a rather interesting-looking stud in her tongue. As this episode commences, maltepe escort I’d exchanged words with her a couple of times but nothing physical had happened. Yet. And how sad is that! The fantasies I’ve had about that silver stud on my eager than eager clit . . .
The Pride: That local lesbian pub of ours. I’ve never seen any male in there. All the bar staff are very female and so too are the bouncers on the door. As well as being a good place to hook up, they have a wide range of “turns” that can be mind-blowing. Tiger Lily is my personal favourite, but I’ve still got plenty of time for a girly version of Ziggy Stardust and great look-alikes of Joan Jett and Suzy Q.
The Union Bar: The best watering hole in Lancashire, if not the known universe. Situated on the uni’s D Floor it features the infamous Lesbians Corner, uneven pool tables, tatty darts boards and almost prehistoric video games. It also features Gloria who knows how to pull a perfect pint and has run the bar since God was a lad. More about her shortly.
Our Monday morning chat had cleared a few of my reservations. Michelle still wanted to share my bed while retaining the right to roam (cunning vixen as she was, her fingers had roamed both on and inside of my pussy as she came out with her sales pitch). Not that I’d have disagreed with much of it, anyway. What she proposed happened to fit in with my own feelings . . . well more or less. According to her version of life we could sleep together on a very regular basis but with a once or twice a week loophole, during which we were free to fuck around elsewhere.
Cool though I was with such an arrangement . . . I was in lust, not love . . . I did have issues. I wanted to have sex again with Martha as often as possible and I desperately needed to share Rob’s bed once more. No, make that umpteen million times more.
And Lisbeth had to be fucked as soon as physically possible.
Not just on a one-off basis, either. She clearly wanted it almost as much as I did.
Yes, yes, yes!
Once or twice a week? I needed at best three loopholes a week, maybe even four.
Not that I’m playing down Michelle in any way. Her lovemaking is beyond brilliant. Sleeping with her is an utter delight. I don’t do comparisons but . . . if I ever did . . . she’d be up towards the top of the list.
Fuck porn heroines Lisa Ann and Kennedy Leigh, Michelle is drop-dead, end of.
Not that I wouldn’t fuck Kennedy or Lisa Ann, preferably both of them in a three, right here and now.
Girl oh girl, yum, yum!
In fact, bring along Bonnie Rotten and make it a four.
Double yum, yum!
Yeah, yeah, excuse me. A girl can have her fantasies, can’t she?
Well, can’t she?
But fantasies aside, how to get three or four free nights?
Even then, back in the coronavirus-free world, when the world made sense and crazy-doctors hadn’t come into unlimited power, a la Victor Frankenstein but with less good intentions, it was a problem.
Please excuse me but I genuinely believe that most “specialists” have a craving for absolute thought control. Give them any degree of what they covet and off they go, banning everything right, left and centre.
Pubs, restaurants, hairdressers, there’s no end to it, is there?
As for smoking, drinking and the likes!
For fuck’s sake don’t smoke in public, not even a cig. If caught you will be beheaded or transported off to Australia.
Well, not with my luck. If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. If caught dragging on any cig or, God forbid, reefer, I’d be stuck on a spacecraft to Mars. Or even Uranus. Botany Bay would be beyond my wildest dreams.
Even in conditions of semi-slavery.
Okay, so I’m being over-dramatic. But a zillion news bulletins a week, all saying the same old thing.
Who really listens anymore? Who in her right mind?
That morning was a first in that we so very naughtily skipped our nine o’clock tutorial. And it was all my fault. An outline agreement having been arrived at I felt an urgent need to fuck Michelle several times. And after all, she’d been too tired after travelling most of yesterday, hadn’t she?
Overcome by the familiar urge, I slapped her hand away from my pussy, deftly rolled her over onto her back and fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.
Not that I was in any way violent, of course. As far as sex goes that was utterly, entirely consensual. If I’d had my way, we’d still be hard at it right now. But real life always intervenes, doesn’t it? After ages of pure bliss Michelle hauled me off her, insisting we showered and got in to uni in time for our tutorial number two, the dreaded NA (Numerical Analysis for anyone unfamiliar with that particular trial/ordeal).
Maybe needless to report we showered together, this time with my lover in “Shelly mode”, eager to do all the doings but gently, oh so very gently.
Yes, yes, yes!
Getting there with wet escort maltepe hair, one fraction of a second before being late, we took seats close beside each other, occasionally exchanging touches under cover of our desks but otherwise behaving.
What was that old joke? Something continental and way before my time. In Denmark (or was it in Germany?), “behaving ourselves” has a double meaning, one of the meanings extremely sexual.
Anyhow we got there in the nick of time and, both of us being (usually) model students escaped any inquest into our earlier absence. And, in the blink of an eye, it was time for drinks in the Union.
That is to say it was time for beer and baguettes, our habitual lunchtime diet. Abandoning me as we went in, assuring me it was my round, Michelle headed for the ladies’ rest room. Assuming she was
probably correct, I headed for the bar, shaking my tits to attract Gloria’s attention.
And what a futile gesture was that. Gloria has to be fifty and (like so many tax-dodgers) has spent all of her life behind bars. In fact, she must have spent three decades behind the one in The Union and has the well-developed biceps to prove it.
She additionally has a well-developed chest that would have put Babs Windsor in the shade.
(Trust me; Babs might have been petite but there was nothing petite about her breasts. And her list of lovers is impressive if not downright scary. Do a Wiki search and you’ll see what I’m getting at.)
‘Hiya babe,’ Gloria said in greeting, fishing out two pint glasses and effortlessly filling them with best bitter. ‘You’re looking better than ever. I wish I were thirty years younger.’
That surprised me. Gloria ruled The Union like an iron fist in an iron glove. She’d shooed off literally thousands of would-be admirers, male and female. And, as far as I knew, nobody had ever got into her knickers.
Yet here she was, as good as calling me “girlfriend”.
That thought hit me deep inside. Martha always called me “girlfriend” and I was still wimping out of admitting it was now a true description. How the fuck would Michelle take a confession like that?
Not well, I feared.
‘Bugger thirty years younger,’ my stupid mouth replied on autopilot, ‘you’ll do as you are. Anytime.’
Gloria laughed as she expertly topped the second pint without killing the head. ‘You remind me of a certain girl with all your obvious appetites,’ she said, snatching a fiver from my hand. ‘Best customer I have ever had, come to that. Doesn’t look remotely like you, but she has the same inner passion.’
I pointed to the charity box as Gloria made to hand me a few pence change. ‘Who was this person?’ I asked.
‘Tuesday’s my night off,’ Gloria replied. ‘Meet me at eight in The Pride and I’ll fill you in.’
I must have gulped because the glorious barmaid laughed again. ‘Tuesday at eight,’ she repeated.
‘Okay,’ my mouth said treacherously, not considering Martha, Michelle or anyone else. Well, maybe I was thinking of Robin but no-one else. ‘Make it eight in the Royal Oak,’ I replied, naming a pub two hundred yards or so away from The Pride and therefore (I hoped) safe.
‘Yes, really. It’s a date.’
And it was as simple as that.
Arranging Tuesday “elsewhere” was surprisingly easy, even if I blatantly lied about the reasons why. Michelle was possibly of the opinion my “latest conquest” was due another fucking. Whatever, she agreed with a degree of alacrity and very few questions, so she clearly had her own irons in the fire.
Me? I was glad I’d made the opening gambit and it had been received so warmly. Maybe I’d work up to those three or four weekly loopholes after all.
Setting off early I “accidentally” bumped into Rob who was back on outside duty and wearing a bow tie.
Intimidating yet sexy with it.
‘Out alone?’ she began, somewhat belligerently.
‘I’m out on a date,’ I countered. ‘Or I will be in ten minutes’ time. Circumstances have changed, and for the better. You’re pencilled in for Thursday, assuming you’re still up for clashing groins.’
‘I’ll have to swap shifts,’ she replied without a pause for thought, ‘but yeah, I’m still up for it.’
‘I’ll bell you Thursday morning, set up a proper rendezvous and what have you.’
‘Sounds good to me. And remember to bring your toothbrush.’
Ten minutes later I was sitting with Tuesday’s date in the Royal Oak, drinking her in as well as lots of beer.
As I may have implied already, Gloria was about fifty (she never did give me an exact number) and as fit as fuck. It was a privilege to let her entrance me with tales of that blast from the past, Heather.
According to Gloria, Heather was beyond gorgeous, just like me (not!) and had the sexual morals of a rattlesnake. Given a glimpse of pussy she’d be in there like Flynn.
Come to that, given a glimpse of an interested cock and she’d be in just as enthusiastically.
Not that anyone had ever protested; Gloria insisted maltepe escort bayan it had been an honour to be taken by her.
Yes, back in the day there had been no higher mark of respect.
Way she told it, some folk even wore badges, along the lines of “I’ve Been Done by Intasun”.
(Apologies for that; ask mum and dad, they’ll explain what I mean.)
‘Did you?’ I wondered.
‘Course I did,’ Gloria chuckled. ‘Dozens and dozens of times. I can’t think who did more. Call it a dead heat with the uni’s top seductress. Who was the lady herself, obviously.’
‘You do girls as well as guys?’
‘Mais naturellement. Heather had a part to play in that, although I did relapse from time to time. But not recently. Not since 2008.’
‘You’ve been off guys since 2008?’
‘Arguably 2007, but I never recorded the exact date. 2008 definitely accounts for it, though.’
I shook my head in admiration. ‘Heather was as good as that, was she?’
‘She was the best. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still looking for even better.’
‘Was she a lot younger than you?’
‘She was much nearer my age than you are, here and now. Are you chickening out?’
‘No way. I was about to ask if you fucked on a first date.’
My gross language didn’t faze Gloria at all. ‘You bet I do. Why agree to a date in the first place if you don’t want to wriggle and writhe together?’
I looked back into Gloria’s clear, cloudless blue eyes, noting her absence of wrinkles.
And noticing her tits as well. Call me predictable but there was no sign of wrinkles or flab in that area at all. No, she was springiness personified, all over.
‘I don’t do chickening,’ I said convincingly (as if either of us needed convincing!)
‘Brilliant. Sup thar drink lass. Let’s go get horizontal.’
Yep, she was as up for it as that.
And fuck me, didn’t Gloria know how to go about it. Two minutes under her tongue and I was totally enraptured.
Three minutes and I wanted to die.
But only in the most wonderful way.
Yes, yes, yes.
More, more, more!
Expanding on our opening sexual encounter I would explain that I’d gone out dressed to impress in a short leather skirt and a mostly unfastened blouse. And who cared if autumn had started knocking at the door.
For her part Gloria was dressed for being behind a bar. Yes, date or no date she’d been working most of the day, only calling it quits at seven thirty. Not that I kicked up any fuss about her appearance. As far as I was concerned, she looked good as ever. And those tits!
I’d say they shouldn’t be allowed but scrap that; every female should have a chest like hers!
Turned out Gloria’s home was a through-terrace in back streets quite close to the Royal Oak. We got there in no time at all and she got me undressed even quicker. Don’t ask me how she did it but one kiss and there I was, stark-bollock naked. Then I was on her settee, legs wide apart (naturally!) and she was tonguing me and tonguing me as if there was no tomorrow.
I must have blinked after my dozenth orgasm because suddenly we were in a bedroom.
‘Strip me,’ Gloria commanded.
I had no problems with that. Well, I wasn’t as efficient at undressing a willing woman as she was, but I got there in the end.
And what a body had she! More than twice as old or nay, she put me in the shade. I saw at once I’d been right about springiness and the lack of wrinkles. There was also a total lack of body fat; biceps weren’t the only perfectly developed part of her; she was divinely shaped and proportioned.
Admission time again. I was overawed by the sight of her. In fact, I was so overawed I almost passed out.
Have I mentioned her honeypot? I think not so let’s cover it now, literally if (sadly) not for real.
My other female lovers all thoroughly shaved themselves. Going down on them was close to going down on a snooker table, meaning a decent one, not one of those wonky pool tables found there in The Union.
And not that I’d ever gone down on any actual table before, be it pool, snooker, billiards or dining.
Girls on tables, yeah, actual tables themselves? No way.
Gloria broke the trend. She looked as if she’d never shaved in her life. What a wild, untamed bush had she! The compulsion to dive into it face-first was irresistible.
So, dropping to my knees before her, in I went.
In case you are wondering I did have reservations about lapping up an older woman’s juices. Well, I was wrong in every respect. Gloria tasted different, the way all females taste different (that is to say, the relative handful I’d savoured up to then). But trust me, there was nothing wrong about Gloria. If I had subconsciously expected her to be beyond her prime, I was woefully wrong.
Wasn’t I just!
I hate myself for making this comparison (as per always) but what’s that belief about vintage port? Even if times do change, fifty years is supposedly the prime for a good vintage. In which case Gloria was very much at her prime.
Maybe she’ll be even better-tasting now, or a few years farther down the line.
Message to self: Go back and check it out, preferably on a regular basis.