Once a Wag

Author's note: Thanks as always to kenjisato. How he puts up with my drivel, I don't know! If you need a really good and helpful editor, he's your person!

********

Once a Wag!

I'm Lydia. I am 26. I have golden-red hair down to my waist, and a face which no one has ever said is ugly or lovely. 'Cute' gets used most because of my button nose. I have really big tits--forty-four-plus; I'm average height, so they stand out. I've got wide hips and a relatively big bum. This is my story.

My aunty, Mrs. Amy Bentley, has persuaded me to write it for Literotica. We both read the site, and Amy especially gets fed up with the poor writing and American focus; she wants more well-written British stories and thinks I can do that.

I'm writing this in one of the two spare bedrooms in Amy's house, which she has converted into an office. It's just after 9:00 in the morning, and I've got my second cup of real coffee next to me. It's January 2nd, 2023. The house is a big four-bedroom detached pile in the Redland area of Bristol. Redland is a posh area in the city, with houses like this selling for hundreds of thousands, if not millions. I moved in here four years ago, having left London with my fantasy life wrecked, and no idea what to do with my life.

I take a sip of my Kenyan coffee, and start to think of what to write. Sitting at the desk, I'm wearing a loosely-tied silk robe. Under the robe, I can feel the pussy juice on the insides of my thighs starting to dry, as is the cunt-sap on my face. I can smell it clearly, and it's a smell I love. Amy's was the first pussy I ever tasted, and no taste since has compared--sweet, tangy, and musky; it is the aroma of all of those.

Amy is still in bed. I left her sprawled on her back, legs spread from where I had climbed out from between them, gently easing my plastic cock from her gaping twat. My cunt-slicked face is from the five minutes spent eating her out, to get her wet enough for my cock. We were going out for lunch later that day with another couple--a younger-older-dyke combination like us. Not aunty and niece, though, as far as I know. Thinking about it, no one knew--that was us.

And thinking about that, was what led me towards what you are going to read. I realised that fantasy wasn't needed. My own life story of how I have gone from a desperate, wannabe wag to rug-munching dyke would be interesting and erotic enough. So here goes.

_____

I was born in London. I had one sister eighteen months older than me; my mother was a stay-at-home mum, and my dad a taxi driver. We didn't have much money, but from the very start,my mother did her best to bring us up like the girls in the celebrity magazines she read. She was captivated by fame and money, and getting it--without having to work.

Both she and my dad had very traditional, white, working-class views. They voted Tory, loved the Queen, and did not like communists, Blacks, gays, and Europeans. By the mid-1970s in Britain, many working-class, white people were turning to the Tories away from Labour, heavily influenced by papers like the Sun.

I didn't know any of this then, of course; Amy opened my eyes to this, much later.

I grew up enviving all of this. By the time I was 18, I was a demure princess done up to the nines, oozing subservient sex appeal for any man with a wallet. I knew the celebrity-and-reality world off by heart. I followed all the fashions to make myself attractive--I was as thin as I could be; I did all the treatments; I had a full wax, even though it hurt like hell.

Although I didn't read anything outside celebrity magazines and websites; I hated all foreigners, especially blacks and asylum seekers, and mercilessly hated gays and dykes. I was especially vicious about dykes in school, leading the bullying of anyone we even slightly suspected of rug-munching tendencies.

Like most young women of my ilk, I saw being a wag as the solution to my life. For non-British readers, a wag is a wife or girlfriend of a Premier League footballer. There were lots of us who hung around the stadiums, bars, and clubs we knew they frequented.

Hundreds were disappointed. I struck lucky straight away. On only my second weekend looking, an Arsenal player bought me a drink at the bar. As we talked, he couldn't drag his eyes away from my tits. At the end of the night, he invited me to his hotel room for a nightcap. Following the advice of all the sites and magazines, I gave him a blowjob just as we entered the room. He fucked me straight after. There was no foreplay, and no cum for me. To be honest, it was a pretty un-romantic way to lose one's virginity. But, at the time, I didn't mind--I was on the way.

Over the next year, I got fucked many times by different players. There were a couple of gangbangs and partner swapping. A lot of the time, I felt a bit used, but the money was pouring in. My mother and sister were over the moon. They loved the posh clothes and stuff I bought them--and the gossip.

Finally, I got together with a Chelsea player and we became an item. The sex was no better than all the others, in that he just got his rocks off, either from a blowjob or pumping inside me for a few minutes. He never waited 'til I came and wouldn't go down on me. He also liked sharing me with his teammates. The gossip writers picked up on it, and I became famous as a wag.

For two years, I lived the life I wanted. Expensive clothes and jewellery, fame and fortune. I got a bit of controversial coverage, when I made my views on lesbians known to a journalist, but a lot of my Twitter followers agreed with me.

By this time, I had realised that social media, and the world of the wags were pretty nasty. All the back-biting and slagging-off that went on was shit. But as I wasn't the target of it, I didn't mind. I even joined in sometimes.

Then it all went pear shaped. I had always struggled to keep my weight down, and despite almost stopping eating, I began to put the pounds on around my waist and tummy. It began to get comments on social media and on the websites. Worst of all, my mother, sister, and my boyfriend started commenting on it. This made me panic, and I began to take pills to make me sick and throw up my food.

Nothing helped, though. So eventually, I went to see a doctor. After lots of tests, they told me I had a metabolic issue that meant I would always put weight on, no matter how much I tried to control it.

I told this to my family and my boyfriend, but they didn't listen. They just put it down to me eating too much. So, I began to drink even more. I'd always liked my alcohol, so I drank more to literally drown my sorrows. This didn't help the weight, or the mental stress. So soon, I got on to cocaine, which was easily available in the celebrity world.

I was getting out of control at public events--the sites and tabloids had a field day. Then in an interview, when I was wired on coke and booze, I went off on an racist tirade.

My boyfriend and so-called friends used this to do the dirty. He dumped me and they went in for the kill on Twitter and everything else. A fat, racist cow was the mildest bit of it. Worst of all, my family told me to fuck off. They had no problems with the racism--I had let them down by getting kicked out of the world they valued.

So there I was! 22 with a drinking and a drug problem, a social pariah, and literally nowhere to live, as my boyfriend had kicked me out of our flat. Luckily, I had some money in the bank, although at the rate I was doing coke, not for long. I found a cheap hotel and crashed there. For two days, I got totally wrecked on coke and booze.

When I woke up on the third day, I felt as shitty as I ever had. Not just from the after-effects of all the coke and drinking, but I was really sad and angry. Without knowing why, I burst into tears, lying in bed. The message alert on my phone went off, as I was crying. When I stopped, I checked it. I didn't expect anything good, as all my so-called friends had stopped contacting me. The number was one I didn't recognise.

When I clicked on it it read: Lydia, it's Amy your aunt. If you need someone, you can text me. love xxx

Amy was eleven years older than my mother. She was the only person in our extended family with any brains. She had gone to university, although my mum and dad had not wanted her to. She had married a scientist and ended up working in the health service. She had visited a few times, when I was growing up; I think she was living in Bristol. My mum and dad had always been horrible when talking to or about her, especially that she didn't wear modern clothes, was definitely overweight, and that she had no interest in the celebrity world. She always, though for some reason, spoke to me more than my sister. She tried to get me to talk about things other than celebrities. Of course, I ignored her!

And here, she was texting me. I didn't even know she had my number. Without thinking I rang her.

"Hello Lydia," the soft posh voice said. "How are you?"

"How do you know it's me?"

"I put your number in my phone, when your mother gave it to me."

That answered how she got my number.

"Oh Aunty, I feel like shit!" And burst into tears. Again, I didn't know where it came from. She let me cry, until I calmed down.

"Where are you?" she asked.

I told her.

"I'm coming to get you. You need a break. See you in a few hours."

I spent the next few hours thinking, what the fuck was I doing? I had nothing in common with my aunty, except we both had tits and a pussy. She and I lived in very different worlds. And I had spent much of the last few years, sneering about her world.

And yet, I felt so like crap and alone. It looked like she was the only person who wanted to have anything to do with me.

The Amy who stood at my hotel room door, was exactly the Amy of my memory--overweight and dressed with no thought at all. Part of me was disgusted. The other part of me fell into her arms and cried again.

We didn't say much driving to Bristol, or when we got to her house. It was a big detached house in a quiet, posh area. When I asked about her husband, she said he had left a few years ago. The room she showed me to was lovely, with nice, quiet decoration and overlooking her lovely back garden. She made us something to eat and then suggested I go to bed.

I did, and slept really well. I still, though, woke up wanting a drink and some coke. I texted my London coke dealer and he gave me a name and number. I got through and by 7:00pm, I was well wasted on coke, and a couple of bottles of red wine.

I floated down to dinner. Amy had a worried look on her face. I was wired, so spoke 'sixteen to the dozen' at dinner, asking her about herself, but not really listening to the answers.

"You take drugs, don't you?"

The question came from nowhere, as we were sitting in the lounge after dinner.

"Yes," I answered, a little aggressively. "Is that a problem?"

"Yes, it is," Amy said, quietly. "I want to help you come off them and stop the drinking."

I sat there gob-smacked. Here was a woman I hadn't seen for years, telling me what she wanted.

"Fuck you!" I shouted, getting up from my seat. "Who are you to tell me what to do!"

Even as I shouted, the really angry half of me wanted to cry, but not out of anger. Someone wanted to help me because I was me, not because of anything else. I was crying when she came to me, and put her arms around me and held me. I cried, and cried, and cried.

She found and booked me a place in a detoxification-and-rehabilitation centre, she also got me counselling. It took three months for the detoxification and the rehabilitation. It was a residential place, and Amy visited me every day.

For the first couple of months, I was out of it. Then, as I got myself together, I asked her about who was paying for the place. I knew I couldn't afford it. She said she was, and that it was no problem. She had money. She also said I could stay at hers, while I got myself together afterwards.

So I went back to her place, after the treatment. It felt great to be clean. It was a month before I steeled myself to go back onto my social media accounts. It immediately felt like a different world, one that I wasn't part of anymore. No one knew what had happened to me, and after a few messages to try to find me, there was very little contact. I closed all my accounts that day.

I told Amy this, when we were eating that evening. Amy always cooked an evening meal, or got us a take-away. She smiled warmly, and told me how brave I was.

From there, I began to get more involved. I offered to cook the evening meal, as Amy was working a full-time job. My first efforts weren't great, even though Amy was very polite about it. So I got onto the web, got some recipes, and practised. It worked. I also helped around the house cleaning and stuff.

I knew I would have to get a job. Amy was still paying for everything. I had lost all my stuff when my boyfriend had kicked me out. I had very little money. I amazed myself by agreeing with Amy to go to have a look at clothes in charity shops. Six months ago, I would have shot her for suggesting that. I found quite a bit of stuff, lots with designer labels. I think I amazed Amy by ignoring that, and just getting stuff that looked nice on me.

I had been there about six months, when I made the discovery that changed my life.

I was bored one afternoon, and started hunting through Amy's DVD collection. At the front of the cupboard were a mix of foreign language films and chick flicks. It was clear to me, that Amy was a very intelligent and educated woman. When we spoke and chatted, I got the impression she was very gently trying to broaden my knowledge and views. The first time I said something homophobic or racist, she went quiet, then gently challenged me on it. We had some difficult conversations, but slowly, I began to realise I was just parroting stuff I had been told. There wasn't really anything wrong with anyone different from me. They were just different, nothing else.

I was about to close the cupboard, when I noticed some DVDs right at the back. I pulled them out. They were all in plain cases with nothing written on them. I was intrigued. I took one and put it in the player. I grabbed the remote, sat down, and pressed play.

Amy had one of those players that remembered where you were in the DVD, and started playing from there. As I hit play, the surround-sound speakers, which were part of the home-cinema system, came alive with deep breathing and sighing.

The two people on the fifty-inch screen were kissing, long and deep. Clearly, it was with tongues, but very sensual and passionate; their hands roaming around, their naked bodies intertwined on a bed. It was all very slow and lingering.

"I love you!" The younger of the two breathed, as she pulled her mouth away.

"Are you sure?" the older asked, a look of nervous excitement on her face. "What about your husband and family?"

"He doesn't give me what you do. He can't. We've no children yet, so splitting up won't be bad."

The head of the younger woman went down to the chest of her older lover, and her mouth fastened gently around a nipple, while the other nub got the attention of gentle fingers.

"Oh that's lovely, sweetheart. Please eat me."

As the younger woman moved down slowly, the older woman spread her legs. She was overweight and a bit hairy on her legs, almost as much as the huge thicket between her legs.

I watched frozen, until the film ended. Each of the women brought the other off with mouth and fingers, had enjoyed a sixty-nine, and ended with the older woman fucking the younger one with a strap-on. But between and around all the sex, was lots of talking; with all of the sex being very gentle and passionate.

When the film ended, I sat there. I hated dykes. Amy was a dyke. I must leave right now, in case she molests me. And...my knickers were wetter than they had ever been, and my nipples were so hard, they were painful.

It had been Amy in the film.

She didn't look much older than she was now, so it could not have been filmed long ago. The film had been shot in this house. I remembered recognising all the decor. It had been of a higher standard than an amateur video. Clearly, the cameraperson knew what they were doing.

As well as being more aroused than I had ever been in my life, I realised two other things. I was aroused so much because Amy cared for me very much--she probably loved me. And I loved her, and wanted her because I loved her, not just because I wanted to fuck her.

Of course, one would be saying that this was bollocks. How can you go from having no feelings for anyone at all, to saying you are deeply in love with someone after watching them getting fucked by someone else? Especially if they were gay, and you had hated gays all your life. And let's not even go there, about her being your aunty.

The answer was easy. It's called love. When you know you hadn't really been loved before, and you always wanted to be loved, finding someone who loved you, just did it.

I had no idea, of course, about how to make love with another woman, and was really nervous about not being any good at it. I also immediately doubted whether Amy really wanted me. When you hadn't thought a lot about yourself all your life, self-doubt was easy.

I was going to give it a go, though. Amy usually got back by 6:00pm; it was now 3:00pm. I tried another couple of the DVDs. They were both of Amy and her lover. Ten minutes into the first one, I had my first cum; I came another four times, before both films were done.

It was 5:45pm, when I went upstairs and got ready for a shower. I was gently washing my cunt when I realised I was hairy again. I hadn't done anything down there since my boyfriend kicked me out. I knew Amy was very hairy. Suddenly, I didn't find it that unappealing. After all, it was the natural look, so I didn't get a razor out.

After drying after my shower, I put on my robe. When I went downstairs, Amy was in the living room. She had a glass in her hand, and was slumped in an armchair--she looked knackered.

"You okay?" I said asked quietly, walking up to the side of the chair.

She smiled weakly. "A bit of a shit day. We've got real problems in the hospital; too many patients and not enough beds, and consultants behaving like bastards!"

Amy really swore. I knew things must be rubbish. "You need to relax." I realised my hand was in the top of her blouse, massaging her neck, before I knew I was doing it.

Amy glanced up at me, then smiled. "I like neck massages. thanks."

I carried on for another couple of minutes, before taking the gamble of my life. "I think you need a proper massage. I've had lots, so I think I could help a bit. Why don't I give you one?"

This phrase, of course, in modern slang had another meaning. I thought Amy with her middle-class background wouldn't get it. The frankly amazed look she gave me, told me something different.

"Okaaay," she said, slowly. "Where should we do it?"

"Up on your bed," I croaked, trying and failing to make it sound normal.

Amy grinned, and got up from her chair. We walked in single file up the stairs to her bedroom. It was large and airy; very feminine. Without a word, Amy stripped down to her bra and panties, got a towel, then lay on it. I stood there, stunned at her ease and casualness.

"There is massage oil in the bedside draw," she said, looking at me and smiling again.

I opened the draw. There was oil there, and there was lubrication, and--a rabbit vibrator.

Amy had her head in her pillows, so she couldn't see me. My gown was off and around my feet. I climbed onto the bed, then slowly raised a knee to put it and my leg over her bum. When I had both knees in place, I very gently sat on her bum--she would be able to feel my naked, hairy cunt on her arse.