Sex in the City

Yes, every last atom. I was left totally drained if totally grateful. And it happened again and again and again.

Five, maybe six supernovas in and Sinead withdrew, replacing my strapless device with her tongue. I was, by then, exceedingly wet. And her tongue was exceedingly skilled. Mistakenly believing I'd been given chance to at least partially recover both my breath and my dignity, I wished my hands were free to run through her hair.

Then it struck me that my excitement levels hadn't really dropped one iota. And I experienced a sort of supernova chain reaction.

In other words I started and simply couldn't stop.

Total bliss and total abandonment ensued. How good was this? Had any girl ever been as lucky as I was in those glorious, lengthy and lingering moments?

My arms were beginning to cramp and my shoulder-blades felt peculiar when Sinead's tongue finally stopped weaving its magic. Not that she was pooping the party, not her. Swarming up my completely defenceless body like a pirate boarding a treasure galleon, she proceeded to take me in a missionary sort of a way.

Make that she took me for ages and ages in a missionary sort of a way.

What did I say about depth, speed, rhythm, strength and intensity? Forever keeping me guessing, not knowing what was coming next from one glorious stroke to another, she fucked me far, far better than I'd ever been fucked before. Perhaps the different angle of penetration helped. Or maybe I had lost all sense of rationality.

Whatever the reason, I screamed the house down as she went on and on, getting better and better all the time.

And get this: somewhere along the line she really had ditched the harness. Suddenly she was using it strapless, as its makers had intended their marvellous product to be used.

Joy, joy, joy!

Having her there on me, in me, our bodies pressed together . . .

Normally I would have clutched her with my arms and legs, pulling us tighter than tight, bucking under her as she pounded her ever-varying tunes into me. Bound as I was, that wasn't an option. I did try to fasten my legs around her back but she glared down at me, not missing a stroke.

'Let go and open up. You're mine, right?'

Not wanting her to stop or even hesitate, wanting this to go on eternally, I obeyed her command.

And wasn't the feel of her on me stupendously good? Kneeling before me was not one patch on this. I now had downward pressure on all of me, and delicious downward pressure at that.

Legs brushing legs, hot groins regularly bumping (if that doesn't go without saying!), our flat stomachs in close contact, Sinead's lovely tits rubbing on my virtually non-existent ones, her large erect nipples moving against my even larger erect nipples . . .

Best of all was the proximity of our faces. Sinead was over me, sometimes breathing on my glasses, deliberately steaming them up; sometimes kissing me everywhere she could; sometimes running her shapely nose over my snub. Her gorgeous hair curtained us off from the world, falling as it did all around my head.

Not that we needed to be curtained away; I just thought it was a nice effect.

Sinead's facial expressions were great too. When she wasn't misting my specs or kissing various bits of me, she was practically snarling as she gave me her all.

'Feck, feck, feck,' she'd intermittently cry, 'here I go!'

And off I'd go with her, like every time.

And it happened again and again and again.

Joy, joy, joy!

*****

Don't ask me when, exactly, but Sinead eventually called a timeout. That was, however, by no means an admission of defeat. Oh no. Vacating my still eager kitty again, she repositioned herself of the bed and thrust the strapless affair towards me. At this point I should admit that came as no surprise. Doing blowjobs had been part of our routine forever . . . well, forever over our one week together, anyway.

Normally, with the pony end of my strapless in Sinead, I would really go to town on her. In other words I'd play the grateful slut, using both my hands as well as my mouth, delicately twisting and turning the object of our mutual affection best I could, making sure she was as thoroughly stimulated as possible.

Now, hands-free, I was restricted to mouth movements. And, without blowing my own trumpet, I did it well. Leastways, judging from Sinead's reactions, I wasn't half bad.

(Did I just say "blowing my own trumpet"? Please forgive me for that! It was a slip of the keyboard and no more . . . honest it was!!)

Losing track of all the positives, I was dimly aware of her pulling away, preparatory to going down on me again.

'Oh yes,' I gasped, 'yes please.'

Sinead's tongue is staggeringly proficient. I challenge anyone, anywhere to endure (endure!) three or four minutes with her without going supernova. Trust me; I know it's not possible!

That time was different. Although she kept her scrummy tongue-tip fully focused on my clit, her fingers were circling my asshole.

No, not merely circulating, lightly penetrating.

Up until then ass play hadn't even been mentioned. We'd had a thousand other games to enjoy, all of them good. Truth be told, I had taken Sinead as straight but inquisitive; the sort of girl who was up for fun but drew lines.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I drew lines myself.

Snag is my lines were like Stirling Lines, based on ultimate desert warfare and slashing the enemy's unwitting throat from behind.

Well, maybe not as extreme as that, but I was a daring girl.

Leastways I was so far as other girls were concerned.

As if reading my mind Sinead fully inserted a whole finger.

'Oh my,' I gasped, not protesting in the least.

Keeping her tongue firmly on my clit . . . and every other part of my so eager pussy . . . Sinead slowly explored my Khyber Pass. Then she replaced one finger with no less than three.

Did I previously mention a vertical take-off?

Goodness me, the effect those three fingers had!

Yes, yes, yes!

More, more, more!

Chapter Seven

Sinead finally unfastened those restraining scarves somewhere around eight o'clock, by which time my arms were painfully cramped and my shoulder-blades belonged to someone else. Even so, I was just as happy as a pig in you-know-what.

Five hours of being totally, extensively pleasured gives a girl a fresh complexion on life, the universe and everything. Leastways it does when I'm the girl being pleasured.

'That was beyond belief,' I said, stretching some life back into my extremities. 'You can have another go later, if you like.'

'I very well might, assuming you're up for it after your first night in Dublin's fair city.'

'You mean we're going out?'

'Too feckin true we are. It'd be rude not to.'

'So what's on the cards?' I asked as we walked through streets broad and narrow, with me doing my best not to start singing Molly Malone.

And believe you me, that wasn't easy. That buzz was much stronger by night than it had been mid-afternoon. I was intoxicated on fresh air long before we got to our designated pub.

Alive, alive, oh . . .

Alive, alive, oh . . .

'Where are we going?' I wondered as we passed countless eating and drinking dens. And I'd thought Keighley did all right for watering holes; now I knew it flattered to deceive. The old industrial town had nowhere near the abundance of welcoming hostelries as there were in this small part of Dublin.

Not that now was the time to complain. Now was the time to relish and savour.

'I thought we'd kick off in the Flounge,' said Sinead. 'We can neck couple of beers then move on to a curry house. Then a few more beers and who knows.'

'What's the Flounge?'

'It's as close to a lesbian bar as you can get in these parts, and it's officially "The Front Lounge".'

'You don't have to officially come out on my behalf,' said I, most sincerely.

Sinead laughed. 'Dublin's not like that. There aren't any out and out gay bars because nobody cares anymore. It's Party City these days. Everyone is free to do exactly what he or she wants to do.'

That surprised me. I knew homosexuality had been a crime in Eire until the nineties and divorces had been banned even longer. Strict Catholic beliefs had weighed heavily . . .

Sinead soon took me out of that train of thought.

'Up until 1993 you could go to jail for being queer,' she told me. 'I think that applied more to men than it did to women but now, as I said, absolutely nobody cares. The change has been dramatic. Ireland was one of the first countries in the world to allow same-sex marriages. That was back in May. But the gay revolution has been going full steam ahead for over twenty years. This really is Party City. And all flavours are allowed.'

'Yet this Flounge is . . . "close" to being a lesbian bar?'

'Just about everywhere is open to just about everyone. But certain places are renowned to be full of one persuasion or another, if you know what I mean.'

'I know you were remorselessly straight until last week.'

'Maybe I was, but I've been in the Flounge often enough, and must have had a million girly come-ons. It'll be good to go in there without being on the defensive for once.'

'Anyone gives you a come-on tonight and I'll bash them on the nose,' I declared, only partly joking.

Sinead grinned at me. 'Anyone gives me a come-on and I won't even notice. Tonight we're joined at the hip.'

I grinned back at her. 'Maybe we can be joined somewhere more interesting than just the hip . . .'

*****

Secretly I had already decided that tonight Sinead was mine. I dearly wanted to tie her with two black scarves, and tightly at that. I also had half a mind to fuck her ass with more than my fingers.

Assuming she wasn't a virgin that way, of course. I would never assault her helpless self like that if she was.

Not unless she begged and pleaded for it.

How can I describe the Flounge? Okay, so it was my kind of place. Everything obviously went but the music was beyond ace. As we entered, passing unusually amiable, friendly door personnel, the DJ's magic words were clearly audible.

Well, not his magic words, but the words he was currently playing.

They were Bowie's words.

Ziggy played guitar . . .

Call me older than my years but that gets me every time. Tears are in my eyes even as I write this.

Then it got better still.

As we shoved our way to a very crowded bar Annie Lennox belted out.

Fuck me; she was only walking on broken glass!

No doubt about it, if she'd been there on stage I would have ripped off my clothes and thrown myself at her.

Sadly, there wasn't even a proper stage.

Maybe just as well.

Anyway, more or less controlling myself, I accompanied Sinead to the bar and told her I'd have a pint of Guinness.

As if I had a lot of choice! There wasn't any Timmy Taylor's anywhere to be seen. Seemingly dozens of beer pumps only advertised the black stuff else Harp lager.

Not that I was bothered. If I'd wanted a week drinking Landlord I'd have stayed in my little bit of West Yorkshire.

At last, armed with pint glasses, we withdrew to a relatively secluded spot . . . like not. That particular boozer didn't do secluded. It was packed to the rafters.

'What do you think?' Sinead prompted.

'Lots of beautiful people,' I replied carefully. 'Are they all . . . you know . . .

'Nobody really knows,' Sinead cut in with a girlish giggle. 'That's part of the thrill. It's a place where we lezzies can hang out . . . maybe hook up . . . but meanwhile we can feast our eyes and wish.'

'So you're a lezzie, are you? You've become certain about it?'

'Ask me a month ago and I'd have said not likely. Ask me a week ago and I'd have been evasive. Ask me now and the answer is a big yes.'

'I've been a lezzie forever,' I announced truthfully. ''I don't dislike guys per se, but I couldn't ever have sex with one. It just wouldn't be me.'

Sinead nodded then changed the subject. 'What do you make of the talent?'

I looked around the very crowded bar and sniggered. It wasn't difficult to spot who was there on the pull . . . nearly everyone was. Dublin's young people crowd was, to say the least, out and dressed for the warm autumn evening. We were dressed for it too, in short skirts and T's designed to show off our tans.

Yes; me in a frigging skirt! We'd alerted the guys at The Guinness Book of Records earlier. They had promised to send a qualified verifier.

Well, it was the decent thing to do wasn't it? People bet big money on unlikely events.

Maybe we should have alerted Ladbrokes too.

Realistically we were dressed to show off Sinead's incredible tan. Trust me, a week in Lanzarote and she looked like a red-headed Beyoncé, except even more attractive. (As if, I hear you all say. But you honestly should have seen Sinead. Was she amazingly hot or what!)

Attendance-wise the Flounge was maybe eighty per cent filled with females. Sheer gut instinct made me doubt the other attendees were gay men. Or perhaps it was the way they were leering at the girls. Small knots of three, four or more guys were scattered around, all of them ogling female flesh.

As Sinead had told me, Dublin was Party City. This was the place where just about anything went and just about everyone was keen to watch.

No, to tell the truth, everyone was keener than mustard. As far as I could tell there wasn't a single gay male in there.

There were, however, an awful lot of gay females.

Not that I'm very experienced when it comes to lesbian bars; we don't have many of them in my part of the world . . . sadly. And forgive me for sniggering. The idea of a gay bar in Bingley . . . well it ain't gonna happen any time soon. Not that there is unreasonable prejudice; it's more a question of supply and demand. The small market town has maybe ten pubs . . . with some closing down and re-opening on seemingly a monthly basis. Competition for regular customers is fierce. Theming a pub to cater for a small minority just isn't feasible.

Worst luck!

There again, lack of experience didn't mean I couldn't spot a kindred spirit when I saw one. My eyes lingered as I took in our fellow drinkers. There were lots of couples in every combination imaginable, some of them predicable, others bizarre . . . and several interesting all-girl threes and fours.

'Plenty about,' I began.

Only to have my words shouted over by a strong, assertive voice from behind me.

Chapter Eight

'Hey Shinny,' the strong voice said. 'What's going on? I thought you were saving yourself for me.'

Looking at Sinead as I was, it was impossible to miss the shock on her face. Just then she was back as a schoolgirl; one who had been caught red-handed, up to no good behind the metalwork shop. And she did not know how to react.

Well, she struggled to know how to react.

I turned and took in the new arrival. Tall with short, very spiky hair dyed bright white. She was punky, and butch without a doubt. Indeed her combination was more predictable than many others'; tight at her side was a blonde straight out of Baywatch, except with even bigger tits.

(Yes, yes, I know! Me and tits!! Let's just call it an inferiority complex and leave it at that.)

'Hello Aileen,' Sinead said cautiously. 'It's good to see you again.'

'Not as good as it is to see you out with a delicious babe.' Aileen cackled like one of the three witches in Macbeth.

Her companion snickered and thrust out her impressive chest. 'I'm Cait,' she announced. 'I guess I'm Aileen's date for tonight. We always do Fridays. Hope that isn't a problem.'

'Not with a chest like that,' I said automatically. Then, clapping a hand to my mouth, 'Oops, sorry. I'm not normally so crass.'

Like really! How good a liar am I?

'This is Davina,' "Shinny" expanded on my behalf, 'my girlfriend from England. She's hotter than hot and prefers to be called Dave.'

I had had a few reservations about being from England. Not so very long ago being from England was a cue for concrete wellies across the water. But not now, apparently; Aileen and Cait took turns to hug me as if I was a long lost cousin.

'Dave is a proper girlfriend, I presume,' Aileen went on, 'you being in here all lovey-dovey, staring into each other's eyes. And not before time, I hasten to add.'

'Yes,' Sinead admitted softly, 'she's a proper girlfriend.'

'And I believed you were saving yourself for me! I believed I was on the ultimate promise!'

'What can I say?' Sinead spread her hands in a helpless gesture. 'We went on holiday together and situations developed.'

'In that case we'd better join you and hear all about it.'

Aileen was nothing if not relentless. She took a seat next to Sinead and wheedled all sorts of intimate confessions out of her. Cait took a seat next to me and we sat and listened to the merciless ongoing interrogation.

No doubt about it, Sinead and Aileen had a strong connection. It was easy to reckon Aileen had been after a more meaningful relationship and Sinead had been fobbing her off with vague promises.

Except she wasn't fobbing off now, was she? Oh no, her initial shock had been replaced by a grin as she readily confessed to a plethora of "sins". And her body language was, to say the least, interesting.

Hmmm, I thought, taking opportunity to more closely study the interrogator.

On first sight Aileen was the sort of woman who always wanted to go on top. Not that I had a problem with that. I preferred to go on top but hey, horses for courses! If a super-sexy dyke like her wanted to make me happy all night, who was I to protest?

Hmmm, her taking me in a rough and ready way, like a man. Would I be able to say no?

More relevantly, would Sinead be able to say no, now she'd taken the plunge?

At this point I will confess I know sod all about male/female sex. Way back, in the mists of time, I once danced with a guy and felt his hard-on against my tummy. To be frank, it didn't feel totally, absolutely awful; I wasn't offended. There again I wasn't exactly transfixed.

I wouldn't mind being transfixed by Aileen, though. I wouldn't mind at all.

As for me and Sinead necking a couple of quiet scoops . . .

No chance!

My three lovely Irish hostesses fell over each other to buy round after round, flatly rejecting my efforts to stand my corner. And I did try, truly I did, I just got shouted down every time.

'Irish hospitality,' Aileen told me, taking advantage of Cait's latest trip to the bar to sit beside me. 'Now tell me; how did you really bring Sinead across? I've been trying for ages.'

'She's been trying ever since we were in the Lower Sixth,' Sinead put in, quite possibly suffering from a surfeit of hospitality herself. 'That's like centuries ago.'

As if! Those two were still in their late twenties; the Lower Sixth might have been a while ago now, but it certainly hadn't been centuries.

I shrugged, umpteen pints of Guinness starting to get to me. 'Because of our jobs we speak regularly on the telephone. I'd say we've bonded over a period of years.'

'Not as many years as I've been knocking on her door.'

'She sent me a snap of her all-time hero,' Sinead put in, 'a porn actress with a gold star, just like her.'

'Dave's a porn actress!'

'No, she's got a gold star, you eejit.'

'I suspect I know the actress in question,' said Aileen, staring deep into my eyes. 'But the world's most sexy glasses don't feature in any of her films. Not the ones I've seen, anyhow. She hasn't got a patch on this girl.'

I shrugged again. I fancied Aileen enormously but wasn't in a position to do anything about it. Be fair; we were both out with different girls. And I'd never betray Sinead; not on a night when we were meant to be joined at the hip . . . or wherever.

Yet Aileen had seen me for who I was. She had not for one second taken me for a guy. Not her. She had been paying me compliments right from the off. And even now, even though she had paid most of her attention to "Shinny", she was sending out very direct signals.