Short and Even Sweeter

Foreword

I can't believe that it's three years since I opened my heart and described my first lesbian experience in that "Short and Sweet" confession of mine.

Yes, since I openly admitted having lesbian tendencies.

And my ass, listen to me!

Three years on and "tendencies" is a massive understatement. I'm in for the long haul. Guys haven't even had so much as a diplomatic brush off since I crossed the great divide.

No need for men across that divide, is there?

Well, I'm basically a polite person, so I haven't been really nasty about it. Not really. But three years of quite regular approaches have not received one hint of approval and absolutely zero encouragement.

And even less sexual contact.

Indeed I've endured no male-on-female contact whatever since my opening girl-on-girl extravaganza.

Let men all go wish, jerk off, or whatever.

Long as I'm not involved they can entertain themselves, each other or any woman they as like long as she's totally willing . . . and as long as she's not me.

I am, co-incidentally, Chrissie. Up until early 2017 I was straighter than straight. As a recent graduate in English Lit, I was pushing twenty-two, relatively innocent. Most of my course-mates fucked right, left and centre while I limited myself to just five guys over the three years out there in total freedom.

Five guys over three years! Some of my friends did five guys on a Friday night. Don't even ask about Saturdays . . .

We were, however, students. Many of us were openly LUG . . . "Lesbian Until Graduation" . . . while a whole lot more were just horny to the nth degree.

But not me on the LUG front; I never spared LUG as much as a single thought. I graduated with those five pubic scalps on my belt . . . all but one frequent returnees, and all male . . . then cheerfully moved on to the rest of my life.

And then, out of simply nowhere, I met Emerald Eyes . . .

*****

Think back to Teresa May's snap election . . . the one that went dramatically pear-shaped. I was out canvassing for my best mate's mum, who was standing as independent and looked millions of times better than the rest of the local candidates put together.

Okay, okay, the woman was beyond merely attractive, but she put her message across superbly. As a crappy no-hoper she saved her deposit and finished third, only a handful of votes behind Labour (as I probably said in my opening account, a scabby dog would have won our seat, just as long as it wore a blue rosette . . . yet Dani's mum wasn't far behind second place).

Yes, admittedly within one of the UK's weirdest ever election results, she finished the race closer than close.

Coughing politely, I hope my efforts had something to do with her success.

In fact I'm sure they did.

*****

Cutting to the chase, I'd been canvassing up Micklethwaite Lane, which was akin to canvassing in the Alps, or maybe even up Everest. Three years younger as I was at the time, my legs were complaining every step of the way.

My one beacon of hope was post-canvassing drinks in The Potting Shed. That shone brightly enough to keep one foot slogging after the other.

Dani's delicious mum was buying, for Goodness' sake; you bet the prospect shone.

And then, almost at the top of the mountain, on the very fringe of Ilkley Moor, outside a simply divine old farmhouse, I got attacked by a flock of guard geese.

Or should that be a gaggle of guard geese?

Call me pathetic but those geese were scary as heck. By a wing and a prayer I made it up into a tree and stayed there, trembling and shaking as the white tyrants stomped below like Stormtroopers, but infinitely more intimidating.

Adolf himself could have learned lessons from those not-so-little buggers. Think Nazi rallies meant to inspire fear of the obvious might of infinitely superior warriors . . .

Trust me, the toughest guy I know would have swooned at the sight of them. Seven of the bastards, all of them fully revved up, goose-stepping, ready to go.

Ready to kill any and all intruders . . . meaning the likes of me.

Up my tree!

Missing my drinks!!

Then, when life couldn't possibly get any worse, the heavens opened in an almost biblical way. Hardly any rain all winter, T-shirt weather in February . . . now safely into late May . . . and suddenly thunder was crashing, lightning was flashing and I was being deluged in the accompanying downpour.

The tree canopy gave me no shelter at all. There was a big gap overhead and, terrified of slipping and falling amongst those savage white shock troopers, I was stuck there in a most exposed position.

Miserable or what! At one stage I even considered jumping to a certain death, just to end the torment.

Salvation arrived in the shape of what I first thought was the farmer; then, upon hearing her voice, the farmer's wife. And then, when she sent away the geese and finally persuaded me to abandon my very wet perch, dropping into her welcoming arms, I discovered she was all woman.

Like wow; what a woman was she!

Read back on my earlier submission if you want intimate details, but I went from straight to very gay in a matter of moments. Emerald Eyes has that effect on a girl. I challenge anyone to hug her and not go a step or six further.

One catch, a comforting embrace . . . and I was avidly kissing her as if my life depended on it.

That's right; straighter than straight . . . and out of nowhere it was me making all the running.

There again, she was incredibly beautiful and very receptive, as well as the world's best kisser.

Vivid yellow waterproofed clothing or not!

By some black magic (matching her jet-black hair) we ended up in bed together, her on me, giving me a thorough servicing that was beyond belief.

No, she gave me perhaps twenty thorough servicings, each vastly exceeding the last.

(I've always been orgasmic by the way and had long known I could cum several times over maybe an hour or less. But . . . twenty . . . in no time at all! Omigod, how good was Emerald Eyes!! Every slight touch from her had me squealing in ecstasy.)

Then, after her oral master/mistress class and a prolonged strap-on feast, she offered me a drink.

At last!

She didn't skimp, either. Her gigantic glasses must each have held a bottle of chilled pinot.

Only then did I recognize her, as she re-entered the bedroom, as I should have done ages before.

She was Heather Hunter, the Deputy CEO at West Yorkshire Bank.

I'd just been fucked by my boss!

And not a mere line manageress; Heather was up there with gods and goddesses.

Hell, two more promotions and she'd be running the Bank of England!

Like an idiot, I told her I was a clerk at her worthy establishment.

Grinning at me, she said her motto was usually "Don't Screw the Crew". Then, grinning even more broadly, she added that screwing me had been decidedly naughty but great fun.

'Your turn next,' she went on. 'Fair's only fair, isn't it? Drink your drink and let's get on with what most matters.'

Speechless, not really knowing what a girl was supposed to do in such a situation, I slurped my vino.

Chapter One

I'll begin by trying to describe the beauty sat naked beside me, on an extravagantly large bed.

Heather was somewhere in her mid-thirties but didn't look it; she could have turned heads anywhere, naked or nay, passing for early twenties. Tall and perfectly proportioned, she had a mass of black hair and very noticeably dark skin. I guessed she had a touch of Hispanic blood in her then, on first sight, although I now know she was the umpteenth generation of a farming family. In other words centuries of outdoor life had given her a built-in tan.

Yes, even in Yorkshire!

Or perhaps it wasn't a tan; perhaps it was rust . . .

A little earlier she'd flexed her muscles for me, making Charles Atlas seem like an absolute wimp. And how amazing was that! Relaxed she was soft feminine gorgeousness; flexed she became a fearsome Amazonian queen. And, if all of her wasn't made of iron (and therefore liable to natural oxidation), her six-pack of a stomach certainly was.

Washing-board class or what!

(And yes, I know they usually used wood or zinc for washboards. Allow me a little leeway, please.)

As you can possibly tell, I was fascinated by everything about Heather. And I was still in raptures after that wonderfully thorough servicing I'd so recently received.

Moving swiftly on . . .

Here's another admission for you. Deep down I was intimidated by being there with the Deputy CEO and rather worried about having to take my "turn" next. I was a complete novice; I didn't know what I was supposed to do.

Back then I hadn't even watched girl-on-girl videos; I sincerely hadn't a clue.

Well, I guessed I could do to this divinity all the wonderful things she'd done to me . . . if only I could remember exactly what she'd done, in what order, and precisely how . . .

Buying time, I asked where she'd got "Don't Screw the Crew" from, expecting it to be some Hollywood movie or other.

'I first heard it on a management course,' she replied with a chuckle. 'Victoria and I remind each other about it all the time. Not that we always take notice . . . Me and her are rather close.'

Something about the latest grin helped her meaning quickly sink in. 'Do you mean . . .'

'Too true I do. We're not "the crew" so we can screw whenever we want.'

I gasped at that. "Victoria" was the CEO who'd saved the bank from oblivion, returning from extended maternity leave like a knight on a white charger. Unlike Heather . . . who I'd never seen for real before today . . . I had seen Victoria on a couple of office "walkabouts" and, straight as I then was, I had been seriously impressed.

Even taller than Heather, Victoria had Italian blood on her mother's side. Judging by appearances her mother could have been a young Sophia Loren or, maybe more probably, a young Gina Lollobrigida.

Yes, she was as stunning as that.

There and then, only recently "liberated", only recently knowing what life was all about; I thought that Heather and Victoria were supreme individual females.

The idea of them together, wriggling and writhing on this very bed . . .

Excuse me, but it nearly blew my mind.

'You and Victoria,' I heard myself venture, like a numpty.

'We've been lovers from the day we first met.' Heather chuckled again. 'I'm impulsive that way, as I'm sure you've realized.'

'But she's got a young family, hasn't she?'

'You bet she has. I introduced her to her husband. He was a neighbour of mine, before I moved back here to the farm. You could say I passed him on with high recommendations.'

'So . . . so you do guys as well?'

'I'm well on the lezzie side of bi. I only do guys on crazy impulses nowadays, which means just hardly ever. Victoria is the other way around altogether. Leastways she was. Nowadays she restricts herself to her husband most nights and me once or twice a month.'

Revelation or what? And given with yet another cheerful grin!

My already high admiration levels soared.

'How often to you do girls?' I wondered.

'Let's say on every possible occasion. Blame my parents for that. They sent me off to a very exclusive all-girls boarding school. We all came out with an extra A-level in Cunnilingus.'

'All of you?'

'I'm not so sure about Creepy, but I am about everyone else.'

'Who's Creepy?'

'Trust me; you don't want to know.'

I shook my head. 'I don't believe you're telling me this.'

'Have you ever met Vic?'

'Vic?'

'Victoria, I mean. She's Vic to lovers, like I'm Hev to lovers. So have you?'

'I've seen her doing walkabouts, now and then.'

'Spectacular, isn't she?'

'Yes,' I conceded.

'Did you jill later, thinking about her?'

'Jill?'

'Did you masturbate later, thinking about her?'

'I . . . I . . .'

'It's nothing to be ashamed of. Every adult on the planet does it, from time to time.'

'Not all of them thinking about Victoria,' said I, hoping that was the clever response.

'No,' said Hev with another chuckle, 'estimates have it as low as eighty-five per cent who've ever set eyes on her, neck and neck for both sexes. Now, are you going to finish that wine or will I have to do it for you?'

I still had half a glass to devour, unlike my hostess who had already drained hers. Cautiously, after a big swig of the cold stuff, I reached out with my free hand and touched Hev's bare breast. She sighed in a sort of appreciation which couldn't possibly be feigned.

Result!

And perchance "touched" isn't a strong enough word. Hev's tits are big, self-supporting and dwarfed by her nipples, which are simply titanic. Surrounded by glorious dark brown areolae (as I may already have mentioned), seemingly erect already, those nips tangibly swelled under my fingers.

Like instantly!

Just like earlier. Just like my very first girl-on-girl contact.

Or was my memory slipping again. Had I licked her glistening inner thighs before her boobs?

Omigod, I was up for this. The taste of her matched her peerless looks. I think I used "wild honey" as a comparison. But I'd never tasted genuine wild honey. I was only guessing.

And hoping . . .

'Here,' I said boldly, passing Hev my glass. 'If you're in that much of a hurry . . .'

She downed the contents in one and, depositing the glass on her bedside cabinet, lay back and made an irresistible beckoning gesture.

'Take me,' she said. 'I'm yours.'

And so she was!

Chapter Two

I began by concentrating on the divinity's tits. Or rather I kept on at them; my left hand was simply not able to leave them alone, constantly drifting from one to the other. And it would have been rude not to join those dexterous fingers of mine with lips, tongue and teeth too, wouldn't it?

Don't get me wrong; I didn't bite her. But, as her endless stream of encouragement grew ever hotter, I did do some serious nibbling.

At this point I'll confess my early nerves had vanished almost instantly. I still didn't have a clue what I was supposed to be doing, but Hev's words confirmed I was doing something right.

'More, more!' she kept entreating.

'Perfect, perfect,' she said frequently, in-between endless entreaties, moans and groans.

Talk about boosting my ego! Ham-handed amateur as I was, I was undoubtedly getting a reaction and a positive one at that.

Even up there, hungrily attending to her breasts, I could smell her wild honey down below . . . gallons and gallons of wild honey. Oh yes, yes please!

Enchanted as I was, I stayed in place, licking and sucking, kissing, caressing and gently nibbling.

And how orgasmic was Hev! I quickly lost all track of time . . . seconds, minutes and hours blurred into one . . . but she climaxed very often indeed. She climaxed for real, beyond any possibility of acting or over-exaggerating. She climaxed as if her life depended on it.

Yes, I was doing something right all right, boosted ego or not.

Then, God knows when, Hev's hands were on my shoulders, urging me lower. Giving her nips a final, reluctant kiss adieu . . . no, make that a bientôt . . . I slid my mouth all the way down her luscious body and onto her shaven groin.

Omigod, what was she like! Her sex had swollen the size of a honeydew melon and her lady juice had soaked the duvet cover.

How yummy was she!

I know, I know; a mere handful of hours into my new existence and I was viewing her like a seasoned expert. But you really should have seen her. Trust me, whatever other garbage I've come out with, no person on earth would have said no to her after the briefest glance.

She was as scrumptious as that.

No, she made Truly Scrumptious look like Nora Batty.

If you saw her down there and didn't want it, you must have been on life-support. Or maybe you were dead already.

I certainly wanted it.

I wanted it like crazy. The sight even made me forget about her tits . . . temporarily, at least.

*****

Remember I mentioned receiving a tirade of encouragement when I focused higher up Hev's body? I got a whole lot extra down under. 'More, more, more!' was still top of the list but 'Perfect, perfect' was running it close behind.

And so was, 'Yes, yes, YES!!!' every ten minutes or so.

I know I said I'd lost all track of time, but Hev came often. I estimated that her attentions had brought me off twenty times in . . . well, in a short, very acceptable stretch. I must have brought her off twice as often in a similar stretch.

And believe you me; she accepted it with gushing gratitude.

'More, more!' she persisted. 'Yes, yes, YES!!!'

And best of all, 'Perfect, you are so, so perfect!'

As I already implied, my ego is capable of being massaged as much as anyone else's.

But this girl wasn't massaging. Heels anchored in the bed, pussy immensely swollen; she was riding along with every touch of my tongue.

And with every gentle nibble of my lips and teeth.

Not to mention my finger's increasingly regular visits inside her.

Don't ask how I did it. I was mirroring her as best I could, remember? But I obviously did it well.

And I absolutely adored the feel of her creases and folds, the way they moved under my ever-varying attentions.

Swollen as she was, she was still admirably mobile.

Moving enticingly beneath my novice tongue . . .

Still admirably yummy and moreish!

Plunging ravenously onto my eagerly probing fingers . . .

'More, more, please more!' Hev persisted. 'Yes, YES!!!'

Then she was grabbing me by the hair, pulling my head away.

'Inside me,' she gasped/grunted, 'I want you inside me.'

That was a puzzle. I had two fingers inside her as it was. What more did she want?

Never a shrinking violet, she soon let me know.

'That,' she said breathlessly, nodding towards her bedside cabinet. 'I want that inside me.'

I looked and gulped. The cabinet top was occupied by our two empty glasses and a large, wicked-looking strap-on . . . the one she'd earlier used on me. And, needless to report, as an ex-girl-on-girl virgin, I'd never used a strap-on.

Just that hour or so as a grateful receiver, never once as a giver . . .

Fair enough, I did have a dildo and a vibrator, both self-purchased, gifts to myself from my time at uni. And I had used both extensively . . . but always home alone.

Don't get me wrong; when Hev had taken me with that strap-on I'd adored every instant. It was more a case of self-doubt. She had been superbly excellent while I no doubt would be a bumbling buffoon.

'I've never used a harness like that before,' I stalled, omitting to mention I'd never used any variation of a harness before.

As if Hev was to be stalled. 'I'll put it on you,' she volunteered.

Didn't she just! I think I recently claimed to have dexterous fingers but hers were surer than sure. In a matter of moments, standing there on her luxurious bedroom carpet, she had me strapped up.

And I don't know if I should admit this, but the rush hit me like a sledgehammer. I felt so powerful.

I felt ready to fuck every woman on the planet.

Yes, suddenly I had a very serviceable erection that actually felt like part of me, and didn't I just want to use it!

Not that Hev was about to let me loose quite yet. To my utter amazement, she sank to her knees and gave me a blowjob.

Nowadays . . . now I have watched girl-on-girl videos . . . I've seen similar scenarios. But back then I could not believe that she was . . .

Well, that she was sucking me off.

She was incredibly skilled too. She was using her hands as well as her mouth, manoeuvring that blunt end of the dildo on me. Yes, she knew what she was doing. I felt excitement almost at once and then I unmistakably began to build towards another you-know-what.

'Omigod,' I panted, 'what are you doing to me?'

Silly question; I already said that she knew what she was doing, and I'd twigged as well, naturally.