Something Completely Different

Introduction

Hi all. It's me again, Charley the (almost) full-time lezzie. Well, I've been full-time for ten years now, so perhaps discount that "almost". Do minor, childish slips really count? Isn't there a statute of limitations on just everything nowadays?

What's the odd youthful admission of taking a cock or three when a girl was on the lowest slope of her very first learning curve?

Okay, make that a cock or several . . . or maybe one or two more . . .

Excuse my instant familiarity. I've recently been posting tales of my Lanzarote exploits. You know how it is; a quick airport confession about a string of "holiday romances", meant to take only thirty minutes, but somehow dragging on for nearly forty thousand words . . . stretching a happy fortnight into blissful aeons.

All of them etched in ecstasy.

And all of them deliciously girl on girl . . .

Forget that. I haven't quite finished my "holiday" recollections . . . even if I have given readers a pretty fair idea exactly where they are going (meaning mostly towards pre-arranged, girly threesomes), right now I'm veering off on a tangent, very much like Monty Python.

Now it's time for something completely different.

Ignore that dead parrot sketch, (the lovely Norwegian Blue that just happens to be demised, devoid of life and nailed to its perch.)

Sod holidays in the sun, now it's time to go back to my teens and tell you how I properly found myself.

That's right, meaning me as an excitable eighteen year old.

Oh yes, yes, yes!

Eighteen years old; isn't that the best time ever!!

Isn't that the era when a girl truly can find herself?

Well it certainly happened for me. And here's how . . .

Chapter One

Okay, first things first. In the UK the "age of consent" is sixteen, same as the USA and many countries around the globe, British Commonwealth or not. And, as in many countries around the globe, girls and guys don't always abide by the rules.

Early activated hormones, no?

That much said, I got to eighteen and was still a virgin by any definition. Or so I believe.

In explanation I'd become besotted with Carole, my BFF.

Yes, yes, I know I earlier indicated that my first girl was a blonde who seduced me over two sixth form discos, but Carole was definitely a precedent. And now the time feels right to talk about her, painful as it is.

How to begin?

For years we'd often slept over, her at mine, me at hers, sharing a bed. As we gradually matured we talked incessantly about boys, who had done what and how far he'd been allowed to go. Get my drift? The confidences we girlfriends have shared forever and always will, until Judgment Day and beyond.

Fingering and hand-jobs very much included.

Lots and lots of fingering and hand-jobs . . .

Yes, we'd steadily gone further and further. Self-proclaimed virgins as we were, we'd both had our fair share of "close encounters".

Indeed we had discussed personal merits of the local so-called studs, giggling breathlessly, trashing a dozen or more over-exaggerated reputations.

"Six inches my ass! He hasn't got five, maybe not even as much as four!!"

"Three strokes of my trusty left hand and he was gushing like Mount St Helens; hair-trigger or what?"

Confidences were easily exchanged, up to and including confessions about our (numerous) individual and very solitary exploits in the depths of night.

Well, we were best buddies after all. If we couldn't tell each other, there wasn't much hope for the rest of humanity, was there?

Then, one day down by the river, Carole kissed me.

Out of simply nowhere, she kissed me.

I objected not one whit.

Fireworks or what!

Think Michael Corleone in "The Godfather", being hit by the thunderbolt, his world turned on its axis in only an instant.

One fleeting glimpse of Apollonia and he was lost forever.

Carole's kiss ignited the same reaction in me. It was past all reason and out of any sort of control.

As if I'd ever thought about her like that before!

Was I stupid or what!!

And did I care about conventions anymore?

Did I fuck!

Trust me, one touch of her lips and the effect wasn't just electric; it was as good as awesome. Those horrendous, despicable WW2 A-bombs couldn't have been more effective.

No word of a lie, I came in my panties within perhaps as long as five seconds.

And me accusing guys of being hair-triggered!

Never mind that, I came like an express train.

Bliss, bliss, bliss!

If kissing Carole was sweet caressing her was infinitely better. That short stretch of river bank became ours for weeks and weeks, if not months and months.

(Well, our notoriously dodgy British weather permitting, naturally. Sometimes we had to sneak indoors somewhere or other. In fact we quite often had to sneak indoors . . .)

Don't get me wrong; initially we just did a lot of kissing and cuddling. And we did so for a goodly while; weeks and weeks, months and months, growing closer and closer, tender touches and caresses more intimate by every passing minute.

Not that we ever had sex . . . I don't think. There again, I struggle to define girl-on-girl sex. Ask me on Monday I'd say "merely" kissing is the sweetest sex of all. Ask me on Tuesday and I might say fingers and tongues are essentially required.

And for God's sake don't ask me on Friday . . . by then I would want whips, handcuffs and vibrators, if not a big, fuck-off strap-on.

But, in our late childhood/early adolescence we were simple in our desires. We liked to randomly kiss, caress and rub each other's tits . . . and paying light attention to each other's pussies was better than best.

Masturbating side by side, watching each other, picking up on individual tastes, habits and fantasies was good too.

Why call it same-sex when everything felt so good?

Why call it anything?

Why suppose what we did together was in any way "wrong", "immoral" or "unnatural"?

Why when everything in the garden was rosy?

Believe you me; over that short span of sheer delight I had no use for any guy whatsoever.

Well why should I? Half a dozen hand motions and an overly dramatic squirt.

Compared with hours and hours on end, kissing, cuddling and caressing.

Go figure.

Carole was better by miles.

Carole was ace. As we took increasing liberties with each other my admiration only grew.

Then she fell in love with Tony.

*****

Fortunately, as far as my ego was concerned, Tony was a bloke. He was also very fanciable, even if I hated him with every fibre of my being.

Arrogant twat, stealing my girl . . .

Licking her so inefficiently, when I could lick her at least ten times better . . .

Not that I'd properly had chance of using my tongue on her that way, not yet . . .

Nipples yes, frequently, you-know-where not quite yet . . .

Worst luck!!

Tell the truth and shame the devil; I've only ever once wanted to kill someone.

Tony was that one.

And I'd have done it with glee.

Needless to report, I didn't give the slimy git the long, painful, drawn-out death he so richly deserved. I didn't even castrate him.

Wish, wish, wish . . .

Maybe next time!

As a word of warning, I haven't ever murdered anybody.

Yet!!

Tony is top of my list, though. He always will be, current circumstances or not.

*****

I guess it's time to summarise.

At the age of eighteen I'd had perhaps six boyfriends without going all the way. Carole had completely outclassed all of them. But she'd become enraptured by freaking Tony and rarely spared me any time anymore.

Okay, so we did occasionally play around a bit, as girls do, but I was being rationed. Tony was getting the lion's share while I went by and large hungry.

Oh yes, Tony was getting his end away four or five times a week. Carole told me, so I knew. She had taken the "man plunge" before me and taken to it like a duck to water.

Then, as my bitterness increased exponentially, after I'd "experimented elsewhere" and just after she sat her last A level exam, Carole was involved in a head-on collision up near Dick Hudsons, on Ilkley Moor, high above East Morton.

Tony was driving his mother's aged Ford Escort, taking Carole out for drinks in wayside pubs. The car was mashed by a massive truck that had no logical right to be up there on the backroads, killing both of them instantly.

I was still crying every night a year after getting the terrible news.

And I wished every night that I really had castrated Tony, slowly, so very slowly.

He'd taken her away from me twice, if you see what I mean.

Never mind respecting the dead; I wanted to resurrect him so I could have my wicked way with bolt-cutters and make him truly suffer.

Yes, suffer like he deserved.

Like he still deserves and always will.

Dead or not . . .

Chapter Two

I'll skip over that tearful first year at university. Let's just say that I soon lost my "boy-girl" virginity and took a modest handful of casual lovers of both sexes, unlike most of my contemporaries, who were all at it like kids let loose in a sweetshop.

Pineapple chunks, anyone?

Or maybe Turkish delight fits the bill?

And just look at Judy Barrett's humbugs!

More, more, more!!

Yes, that first year I behaved like a nun (well, one who probably needed to spend a lot more time with her rosary) and kept the numbers relatively modest.

Then Martina exploded into my life.

Think tornadoes and typhoons. Think earthquakes, landslides and tidal waves.

Martina's arrival made those ancient A bombs seem like ten-a-penny firecrackers.

Fuck me but she was nice!

Want a description? Want to know how it all unfolded? Here goes, I'm going to tell you, like it or not.

That's the sort of girl I am, by the way; I'm gushy and talkative . . .

And I'm laughing as I write this. "Gushy" for Goodness's sake! As if anyone truly cares about the state of my knickers!!

Martina was tall, brown-haired and stacked. At the time I was black-haired with an awful lot of blonde streaks. Hair-wise I have always swapped and changed; one time I even went maroon. Crazy, I know. Beautiful, natural jet-black hair and what do I do? Eff about with colouring, length and style!

I guess I take after my mum. She was well into New Wave back in the '70s. Nowadays she appears to be an ideal mother, but in those old snaps of her . . .

Put it like this: Debbie Harry would have died to look as good as she did.

I say that with sincere apologies to Chrissie Hynde devotees. Those two, Debbie and Chrissie, stood out loud, proud, whistling and waving. I just happen to slightly prefer Debs.

Not that Siouxsie, Toyah and the rest weren't exactly unattractive . . . I'd never say no to any of them.

Look their '70s versions up; you won't regret it. My top pair were both maybe a little older than most of the other New Wave goddesses, but they are still easily, obviously the best of the best.

As was my mum, shamelessly bleached hair or not.

And so she still is.

Not that I'm perverted enough to fancy my own mother, I'm just saying . . .

*****

Let's move swiftly on to Martina.

Aged nineteen, going-on-twenty, I'd never really ogled girls. That may sound strange since I'd had as many female lovers as male, but that's how it was. Indeed in those days I never hunted out a lover.

No, I let them come to me.

Lucky or what! More likely word got around the bi-curious community that I was keen as mustard for a commitment-free bit of same-sex. Let's just say I was in demand.

Guys came on to me forever. Ninety percent of them got short shrift. But girls always got a yes.

Don't ask, I can't explain it. Truth is, during that brief spell of my life I more or less waited to see what happened next.

Girls will know what I mean. Guys are at you all the time, trying to be funny, trying to be charming as well as trying to get into your knickers. Their hit rate with me was well less than ten percent.

Girls' hit rate was invariably one hundred.

I simply couldn't say no. Tastes and appearances mattered not at all. As I hope I implied, a girly offer of sex was irresistible to me. I honestly didn't care if the girl was fat or thin, butch or femme.

Truth be told, a guy had to be film-star quality but any girl was good enough for me.

With the benefit of hindsight, I have never really liked guys. Okay, so the feel of a real-life cock in me is very appealing. I can't possibly deny that. And, in many ways, it's better than an artificial substitute.

That sensation of skin skimming on a rock hard core, outside and inside of me . . .

A decade of abstinence and I can still revel in memories of that sensation.

Call me mixed-up but here I am!

And please do not imagine I'm going for even a one-off repeat performance anytime soon.

I don't think. Hopefully I'll never get that drunk ever again.

All said and done, I noticed girls but didn't ogle them. I never thought "cop the ass on that" or anything even more untoward.

But then Martina burst onto the scene . . .

*****

All right, all right, she didn't exactly "burst onto the scene". She more gently walked in my direction.

Remember me maintaining I didn't ogle girls?

Well there's always a turning point, isn't there? Fuck me but I ogled her!

Lifestyle change or what!!

We officially met on the Wednesday during the first week of the new semester. Normally I was late for lectures/tutorials. By a minor miracle I was early for the last lecture of that particular morning, taking a place in the middle of the backmost row.

Cue the thunderbolt.

There I was, dutifully re-reading notes from last year, and the world's most beautiful woman arrived.

Sod my notes, I was transfixed. My eyes flickered relentlessly up and down her, taking in everything while an elevator dropped unrestrained in my stomach.

What a vision!

At that moment in time I knew the vast majority of my course-mates. I'd screwed a few of them too but Martina was completely new. Trust me: I would have remembered her from across a crowded airport departure lounge, never mind virtually face-to-face in a relatively small lecture theatre.

How to describe her?

As I gaped the lady in question took a seat three rows down from me and a tad to the left. Seen full on she was long-legged, large chested and way beyond goddess level.

Okay, okay, forgive my raving. Let's get down to detail. I can't remember what module that particular lecture was supposed to cover, but I have perfect recall as to her appearance.

Fashionably slashed light blue jeans, elasticated and showcasing her perfect figure. White, office-like shirt with a collar, unbuttoned two from the top. Thin, dark blue V neck jumper, much like the ones we wore as "uniform" back at Greenhead Grammar (or whatever fancy title they favour it with nowadays).

Without one measure of a doubt, nobody could have looked more appealing. My "most beautiful in the world" is a gross understatement. I'm only surprised the other attendees didn't stand up and applaud.

Seemingly oblivious of my admiration, she sat and I cursed my angle of view. Her staggering features were cut off. All I could see was the cascade of medium-brown hair falling down her back. Well, that and the outline of one sumptuous breast that obviously tested the strength of her shirt and jumper.

No bra there, I reckoned. And no clear end to my fantasies.

What a vision!

Talking about breasts, my nipples had never been so swollen and hard. I'd flooded my panties as well . . . almost certainly.

No, sparing my blushes, I'd flooded myself down there without any doubt whatsoever.

What a vision!

I had to have her.

Or she had to have me. Bugger mating dances, we just had to get it together.

And we had to do it sooner than soon.

Ten minutes ago would have been half an hour too late . . .

Chapter Three

I took no notice of the lecture at all (and I was usually a good student, honest!) but eyed Martina all the time.

As I keep saying, what a vision!

Disregarding notes, I stampeded out of the theatre at the earliest opportunity, positioning myself in the corridor outside, ready to intercept the goddess whichever way she turned.

I wanted her more and more, second by second.

And, by the grace of the gods, she came out alone. I as good as barged into her, stopping her dead in her tracks.

'I'm Charley,' my loud gob blurted, 'who are you? You're new, aren't you?'

As crappy opening lines go, that has to be the worst. Like I recently said, I was used to being picked up. The role reversal was evidently too much for my grossly addled brain.

Fortunately Martina didn't run away.

Fortunately my charm (as if!) held sway.

'I felt you looking at me,' she said with disturbing openness. 'I was glad.'

Omigod, her voice was just as sexy as the rest of her: husky yet tuneful, low yet melodic.

And like wow, my first ever pick-up attempt and I'd hit the jackpot!

'You must have good intuition,' my increasingly dumb mouth countered.

'I do,' she said, holding out a hand. 'I'm Martina. And I'm very pleased to meet you.'

Touching her flesh was akin to discharging 240 volts. We both widened our eyes and gasped.

'Fuck me,' said Martina.

'Oh yes,' I replied, 'oh yes please!'

*****

Being a social sort of a girl . . . and Wednesday being lecture-free "athletic afternoon" . . . I suggested drinks in the Students' Union Bar and Martina frowned.

'Isn't it a bit early?'

'Sun's over the yardarm somewhere in the world,' I replied, more casually than I felt, 'and I'm buying. So where's your problem?'

She scowled in indecision. 'It really is early for me . . .' she began.

'I'm buying,' I re-assured her, touching her hand again, reigniting that superb shock.

'A quiet pint or three,' I persisted after more mutually ecstatic gasps. 'Let's talk and become friends.'

*****

Finding a relatively secluded table we sat and chatted, rapidly becoming friends, exactly in line with all of my cunning plans.

(Excuse me Blackadder, but stick tails on them and call them weasels!)

Turned out Monica was and wasn't "new". She'd done her first year veterinary at Nottingham uni then taken time out to travel. And, when she returned to the UK, she'd transferred here. In other words she was a tad older than me but kicking off her Year Two from the same position.

'I haven't noticed you in any other lectures,' I observed.

She shrugged and flicked her so-sexy hair. 'I've been there,' she said, 'usually long before you turned up. And yes, by the way, I've noticed you. I noticed you first thing Monday.'

My heart raced at that. Didn't it just! Noticing Monica's nipples pointing out through her jumper added to my excitement. Impossible though it was, they looked even bigger and harder than mine felt.

And I hope I've already adequately hinted how big and hard mine felt!

'Sorry about being oblivious,' I mumbled, secretly wondering about the state of her panties.

'No worries. I knew you'd eventually twig.'

Massively encouraged but still on uncertain ground, I asked her about her travels, wanting to buy time in advance of making a definitive bid to bed her.

'We more or less followed natural disasters around the world,' she said with a carefree laugh. 'Maybe they followed us. We were in New York for the tornado. Then we were in Christchurch in time to catch the earthquake. And then we went to Australia for the Queensland floods.'

Laughing with her, I asked if perchance she'd been swallowed by a whale en route.

'No,' she replied instantly, 'it was a giant fish. Luckily enough, it spewed me out at Sydney Airport and not on some remote beach.'

Our glasses were empty so I rose to get refills. Monica stayed me. 'Equality,' she said, 'it's my round.'

I watched her ass slink its way to the bar and drenched myself all over again. And those nips of mine were harder than at any time in recorded history. By then they had to at least match Monica's.