Saving Primrose Ryan

All persons involved are over 18 years of age at all sexual liaisons.

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Author's note: Section 28 was a legal measure introduced in 1988 by Britain's Conservative government stating that local authorities 'shall not intentionally promote homosexuality or publish material with the intention of promoting homosexuality,' or 'promote the teaching...of the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.'

Primrose Ryan, 33 years old - Rosie to her friends - peered blearily at the street sign: Wim...no, Great Windmill Street. She stumbled on, supporting herself against walls and shop windows with one hand, oblivious of amused or scornful passers-by giving her a wide berth. Shit, that bloody awful song Windmills Of Your Mind had lodged itself in her head now, it'd be stuck there all bloody night. Angrily she swiped at her eyes, smearing her already tear-damaged mascara across her cheek.

The day had started so well: Steve had met her off the train, they'd met up with dozens of others going to the Anti-Section 28 march, it had been chilly but sunny, tens of thousands of protesters had marched, there was music, colour, a really gay atmosphere (no pun intended, Rosie thought with a sniffle)...she'd even managed to get Ian McKellen's autograph. God knew how many hours they'd spent pub crawling, but she'd drunk way too much Chablis, then Steve had told her not only that he'd applied to buy his bloody council house, capitalist git, but that he'd actually just taken a well-paid new job with a firm of solicitors well-known for suppressing trade unions and workers' rights. He'd been very pleased with himself until Rosie had thrown his pint of beer over him and stormed out.

She seemed to have been wandering for ages, sobbing and cursing all bloody men, telling a couple of the bastards who'd asked if she was all right to sod off. Now she was lost, pissed, cold and...bloody hell, the heavens had just opened. Instinctively she reached to pull her leather jacket over her head, then remembered she'd left it in the last pub. She checked her bag for something, anything, to cover her head, and realised with a shock that her purse wasn't there: she must have left it in the sodding pocket of the sodding jacket. Huddling herself into a doorway she took a deep breath and tried to clear her head. This was London, whichever way she walked she was bound to come to a tube station sooner or later; and then what, with no money, no cards, at this time of...what time was it? She squinted at her watch, but in the flashing red neon light nearby the face was too small for her to read in her boozy state. A shadowy male figure approached her and grunted "How much for a half-hour love?" Shocked, Rosie balled her fists at him and told him squeakily to fuck off.

As the rain seemed to be easing, she took a step onto the street, and was instantly drenched by a taxi speeding through a deep kerbside puddle. She screeched "Baaastaard" after the disappearing taillights, then stumbled across the road. Startled by the blaring horn of another taxi rushing towards her, Rosie threw herself forward and landed in a heap in the opposite gutter. Her hip burning with pain, she stared down her length: she'd lost one shoe, her white sock and blue jeans were soaked and filthy, and the white 'F☹ck Thatcher' T-shirt she was so proud of looked like a disgusting oil rag. Bile rising in her throat she rolled over and retched wine and kebab into a blocked drainage grill. Feeling utterly defeated, she rolled onto her back, let her head fall into the stream of putrid gutter water, covered her face with her hands and sobbed afresh.

Not for long though: after a few seconds, or maybe hours for all Rosie could tell, she felt hands, soft but strong, curling around her wrists and pulling her upwards. She scrambled her feet under her and tensed, terrified but ready to try and fight off an attacker, but found herself looking up into...a pair of purple eyes! They were surrounded by improbably long lashes and pale skin. An arm reached around her and a soft female London accent purred, "Come on love, that's no place to sleep on a night like this."

Rosie felt herself being sat on a low shop windowsill and looked up at not one but two tall figures, silhouetted by a streetlight behind them. One crouched, a hand on her knee, and Rosie saw those same unearthly eyes, set in an angular pale face framed by long silver-blonde hair. Glancing down for a moment Rosie noticed a deep cleavage, emphasised by a push-up bra and a plunging neckline. Her seeming rescuer smiled with pouting rouged lips and murmured, "Oh dear hon, you are in a state aren't you? What we gonna do with you?"

The other figure, a curvy female, seemed to be leaning forward and staring at Rosie. After a moment she said, in an inquiring tone, "Miss Ryan?"

Rosie was stunned. The woman also crouched and gazed at her with concern. She was Afro-Caribbean, dressed in a red boob tube barely able to contain her heavy bust, and a low-slung silvery-blue ra-ra skirt far too short for a cool, damp night like this. A silver ring pierced her navel. Hazily Rosie tried to peer through the gold eye shadow and blusher and the glossy plum lipstick which adorned her face and, recognition dawning, mumbled "Sarah Fergus?"

Oh great, just cunting great. If there was anything better than being dragged out of a sodden gutter, looking like shit, pissed and with puke on her chin, it was that one of her draggers was a former pupil at the school where Rosie taught; no doubt the story would be all round the place by Monday. But what was a girl from Wellingborough doing in Soho close to midnight dressed like a prostit...? Ahh, Rosie might not teach Maths but she did realise that sometimes one plus one really did equal two.

The blonde spoke again. "Look babe, we'll flag down a cab and put you in it. Where are you going?"

It was too late to get a train back home, and going to back to fucking Steve's place and grovelling was out of the question. Feeling as miserable as she looked, Rosie shrugged and replied "I have absolutely no idea."

Her rescuers exchanged a look, then, her eyes still on Rosie's face, Sarah said, "It's okay Purdie, I'll take care of her, you can get off."

The blonde didn't need telling twice, and with a "Okay Ebony, take care doll" over her shoulder she sashayed off. A hand resting lightly on Rosie's shoulder, Sarah pulled a paper tissue from her cleavage and gently wiped flecks of vomit from Rosie's face. Then she was eased to her feet and, arm in arm, Sarah led her down an alleyway, with flashing neon doorways on either side, and out into another street. Rosie was only five-feet-two and Sarah seemed to tower over her.

Sarah stopped a few yards along this street and, as she fumbled for a key, Rosie noticed a piece of cardboard pinned to the doorframe, which read 'Ebony, Model'. Confused, Rosie queried the name. With a grin Sarah explained "It's my working name. Like my friend back there, Purdie, she's really Deirdre."

They climbed a steep, narrow flight of stairs then Sarah opened another front door. To the left Rosie noticed a half-open door to a room containing a mattress and, good grief, was that a pair of manacles bolted to the wall? Sarah reached to close the door and eased Rosie through the entrance to the right. The first thing Rosie saw was a large pencil and paper drawing of a reclining male nude, with the head and hooves of a goat and, unless Sarah had exaggerated in her work, a startlingly impressive dong.

Grabbing a towelling bathrobe off a hook inside the door Sarah handed it to Rosie and said "Change into that while I make us some coffee."

Even Rosie's undies were sopping wet - she had a nasty feeling she'd peed herself at some point - so she shyly stripped them off under cover of the robe. The garment was far too big for her slight frame and she used the sleeves to dry her springy hair before rolling them up her arms. She then sat nervously on the edge of a Futon sofa and thought about the Sarah she used to know. An extrovert, sporty girl, captain of the netball and basketball teams, a bit rowdy and pretty mouthy, but an outstanding student and the star of Rosie's art classes. She'd been forced to leave school before her A Levels, just after her 18th birthday, when a particularly creepy male teacher had been caught screwing her in a cupboard at the back of his classroom. Rosie had lost touch with her, but now here she was two years later, still obviously pursuing her art, among other pastimes.

"Here we go Miss," Sarah said, pressing a mug of steaming coffee into Rosie's hand. Rosie was startled to see that she had stripped to a very brief pair of tanga pants. Sarah grinned at her former teacher's expression and said "You don't mind do you? I like to get comfortable at home." Rosie pretended she was cool with it and the younger woman sat on a sofa-chair. Noticing Rosie's glance at the drawing she said "Oh that's Jason, do you like it Miss? And in case you're wondering, yes, the proportions are accurate."

To fill the ensuing silence Rosie said "I think we can dispense with the 'Miss' now Sarah. So how did you get into, erm, your occupation?" and immediately cursed her own crassness.

Sarah didn't seem at all fazed though. With a smile she replied, "Well, Miss, it's just part-time, and temporary, but a girl's got to pay her way through art school, hasn't she. Of course, creepy Carpenter was my first, let's say, client."

That was the teacher with whom Sarah had been caught in flagrante delicto. Astonished at this revelation, Rosie gasped "He paid you?"

Sarah laughed at her reaction. "Yeah, £50 a time, do you really think I'd have shagged that slimy, sweaty bastard for nothing?"

Silence fell again and, after a minute, Sarah rose. Without the wedge stilettos she'd been wearing she was probably only six inches taller than Rosie. Her rasta-style hair fell to her naked shoulders, her magnificent boobs, with their long mahogany nipples, stood proud. Casually she sat on the arm of the Futon, one arm stretched along it for balance. Her milk chocolate hip rested millimetres from Rosie's hand, one breast inches from the teacher's cheek. Her intoxicating perfume filled the other woman's head, a mix of something floral and something much earthier and musky. Rosie sat as stiffly as if she'd been frozen.

Looking down at her with a smile, Sarah murmured, "You know Miss, all the boys in your class were terrified of our dyke teacher, but half the girls had the hots for you, me included."

Finding she had to clear her throat to speak, Rosie croaked, "What, erm, what was is that made you think I was a, um, a lesbian?"

Sarah chuckled silently. Rosie shuddered slightly as a hand began to smooth her hair. "Well, just little things like your punky orange hair, your dungarees and DM boots, the Tom Robinson band blaring from your car stereo..."

Knowing she was burbling, Rosie trilled, "So are you gay? I mean, in this job I imagine..."

"Yeah," Sarah nodded, "most of the clients are blokes, and he who pays the piper calls the tune. But I do have one or two generous regular ladies I really enjoy." She adjusted her position slightly, and Rosie was conscious of a nipple hovering close to her lips. Sarah's soft, hypnotic voice continued. "I actually used to get wet when you leaned over my shoulder to coach me, your warm breath on my cheek, your body pressed to mine." Her spongy nipple brushed Rosie's lips. She inclined a little forward and the insistent bud pressed between those lips; involuntarily, or so it seemed, Rosie's mouth opened to admit the warm, stiffening nipple.

In truth, although within her circle she had been offered opportunities, Rosie had never so much as kissed another woman, or wished to. Yet now, intoxicated and feeling downtrodden, here she was with her former student's nipple laying on her tongue, Sarah's hand behind her head pushing her on, the fingers massaging the back of Rosie's head. She didn't want this, not really, but Sarah had been so kind to her this evening...meekly Rosie pressed the tip of her tongue against Sarah's nipple, her teeth gently grazing it.

In response Sarah groaned, and her free hand slipped inside Rosie's bathrobe, closing over a small pale breast. As she began to massage it, despite herself, Rosie felt her stomach begin to boil, her lower labia to spread. Sarah released Rosie's tit long enough to grab one of the teacher's hands and insert it into her tangas. Rosie felt a smooth, hairless mound, then Sarah pushed her back on the Futon, pulling the hand back out of her pants, and raised her mouth to Rosie's. She didn't so much kiss the white woman as devour her mouth, her tongue raking deep into Rosie's mouth, exploring every inch of it, both hands kneading Rosie's boobs, fingers plucking her nipples. Overwhelmed by passion, Rosie pushed her chest at Sarah, responding as best she could to the ravaging of her mouth.

As Sarah finally came up for air a thought occurred to Rosie. She mumbled, "Sarah, I don't pay for, I mean I can't afford..."

Sarah chuckled and, her voice deep and lustful, husked, "This one's on me Miss, for old time's sake; living the dream you might say." With that she raised herself on her knees, tucked her broad shoulders under Rosie's knees and lowered her face between the older woman's legs.

Ohhh shiiiiiittt, Rosie was certain her head was about to detach itself from her body and fly around the room. None of the three men who'd gone down on her before had come even close to creating the feelings Sarah's long tongue and stroking, tweaking, pressing fingers were creating in her. Rosie's clit was usually a little shy but her sweet lover had captured it and clearly had no intention of surrendering her control. Sarah's probing tongue seemed determined to lap up every drop of the juices Rosie was squirting, and her belly was boiling like a kettle. She wailed as Sarah lifted her bum, her hips off the bed and ate and agitated her to the wildest, hottest, most gasping, bucking, thrusting, kicking climax of her life. As Sarah lowered her drained frame back onto the Futon Rosie felt she might actually expire, but at that moment she knew it had been worth it.

As her breathing and heart rate returned to something close to normal Rosie gazed along her length to Sarah, sitting between her feet, hardly believing that she could feel such depth of erotic lust towards another person. Now entirely naked, her own pale-soled feet flat on the Futon, legs spread wide, the ebony beauty pointed between her thighs and, in a little girl wheedling voice, said "Pleeeaasse Miss." Less than an hour earlier Rosie would have been repulsed by the very idea of performing cunnilingus on another woman. But now she moved onto her knees, bottom sticking obscenely into the air, and, using her elbows as hands, growling in her throat, she walked her way towards the giggling Sarah.

She had never seen another woman's slit before; Sarah's was a scarlet gash, surrounded by puffy purple-black lips, her pearly clit shining like a star. The aroma of her arousal made Rosie giddy with lust; gripping Sarah's meaty thighs in her hands, she ground her face into her lover's pussy. She soon found that what worked best on Sarah was licking and nibbling her sweet clit while finger-fucking her and tweaking her pussy lips. Rosie grew in confidence as Sarah rolled her head, sighed, wriggled her hips, whimpered, even cried, and, finally, screamed "Oh fuuucckk yeeessss."

After a sleepless night they travelled together to St Pancras. Rosie's pants and bra had dried, but she was wearing way-too-big sweatshirt and jeans borrowed from Sarah. As they sat side-by-side in dazed silence Rosie reflected that Sarah even fucked her better than any man, although to be fair none of them could match up to her 8-inch vibro strap-on. At the train they hugged and Sarah whispered "So was I right Miss, are you a dyke?" In answer Rosie slipped her hand into her lover's jeans and stroked her through her silky thong panties. Sarah gasped, chuckled, and kissed her former teacher deeply. Her final words were "Next time you're in town you look me up, promise?"

Rosie sank back dreamily into the train seat. At that time on a Sunday morning there were few passengers, and the only other person in the carriage was a Chinese girl. She was wearing a summer dress with bare arms and bare legs up to mid-thigh. As the train jerked to life the girl moved closer and said, "Hello Miss Ryan, I thought that was you I saw at the Section 28 rally yesterday. Remember me, Linda Yu? That was Sarah Fergus wasn't it, I was in your class with her."

Rosie replied that of course she remembered Linda. The girl shifted seats again, sitting next to Rosie, their thighs touching. Linda smiled, "You don't mind do you?" Rosie turned her head to reply, but any response was smothered by the younger woman's spongy lips pressing against hers, Linda's tongue seeking access to Rosie's mouth. After a full minute of kissing Linda pulled back and, cupping Rosie's breast in her hand, whispered "I can smell Sarah on you. The train doesn't stop until Bedford, so we have a full half-hour alone, together." Rosie smiled and slipped her arms around Linda's neck.