The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 02

Her sensory epicentre became her left boob, her downturned glance revealed the gelled hair of Ray, the image blurred by its close proximity. Regardless of his inapt nipple play, it occurred to her that the hair around his crown was rapidly receding, so forming an undesired tonsure. She found it vindictively amusing to think that he'd be bald in a few years time.

Her amusement didn't last long. Whilst remaining fixated upon Ray's tit sucking and biting adventure, only tangentially was she aware of her body being rotated with her bare ass as a pivot point. Gary hauled on her legs, whereupon her body slid to lie longitudinally along the sofa. Her location upon said settee entailed her butt being lifted to sit upon the shallow arm at the end of the furniture.

It felt to Izzy as if her bum had been raised many feet into the air, such was her sense of exposed elevation. Her resulting disorientation reminded her of reclining in a dentist's chair.

Ray decided to cut his losses after Gary's arrangement of the Latin beauty and opted to kneel on the floor beside her. In such a way, he could work more comfortably on her gorgeous tits that he had already marked as his own with one deep hickey and various teeth marks.

Peering over the receding Ray's head, Izzy watched Gary assume station at the end of the sofa. With her legs dangling disconcertingly in free space, she noticed his eyes peering at her yoni, (as she commonly referred to it for the want of a less derisive term). Only at that point did she fully comprehend what was about to happen to her.

Her cunt (her boyfriend Josh' preferred term by merit of its Anglo-Saxon bluntness and overt sexual inferences) lay terribly exposed, a fact that by rights she should have been tactilely aware of. How often did a girl expose her vulva over the arm of a settee?

In reality, nothing seemed to emanate from that specific intimate area. She could not even feel the omnipresent draught that seemed to be an endemic problem in the open plan studio apartment. Again, her logical mind considered that the room must be a bugger to keep warm during a Mancunian winter. Her entire genital region felt as if it had been anaesthetised.

For a moment, she thought he was going to go down on her before it became manifest that he had decided to go for a straight fuck. The notion that he had declined to lick out her quim, (the epithet she used when being amorous with Josh), she found disappointing, oral supplication not being Josh's strong suit. Her mind accepted without difficulty the promiscuous entity within her that demanded nourishment.

Up until that point her mind had been a convoluted mass of disparate thoughts, reactive rather than proactive in nature. She was now assailed by a sudden clarity of thought as the timeframe of her existence assumed a natural tempo. She was going to be fucked by a guy whose name remained unknown to her. Calling the guy a stranger seemed wholly inappropriate. Stranger was too familiar a soubriquet.

Her understanding of her situation took on a precise reality. Whereas Sybil extolled some metaphysical significance to the sexual act, Izzy saw it as nothing more than a biological imperative that impinged upon life.

As a student of mechanical engineering, she was an empiricist by nature. Sexual technique had to be learnt rather than be intrinsically enacted. After disbelievingly discovering her boyfriend watching porn, she had often dutifully viewed with him as a form of foreplay by proxy. Whereas Josh found the contrived scenes to be climatically stimulating, she found them to be just that, emotionally devoid contortional contrivances as unrealistic as Shakespearean dialogue was in everyday life.

That she felt not a smidge of duplicity where Josh was concerned was of no concern, because what she was doing had nothing to do with her relationship with him. This was a separate, compartmentalised episode, whereby she was helping her friends out in a situation she had played her part in creating. No, that was a lie. Ever since she had known about the Hen weekend, it her been her intention to go out and be screwed.

Only seconds before penile incursion occurred did she sense any carnal appreciation and accepted that she felt incredibly turned on as never before.

The only reasonable explanation she could offer regarding her situation was that of an overwhelming desire for sexual enthrallment to overwhelm her mind. Engrossment with the prospects of sublime escalation was indeed an excellent précis of the enthusiasm garnered by the inevitable coincidence of penis with her vagina.

Gary grasped her thighs as he pressed towards her and encouraged her to wrap her legs around his broad waist. Only as he edged closer and allowed his knob to press down like a rod of warm steel on her bare mons could she lock her ankles around him as she had seen in Josh's porn movies.

She pushed her hips outwards in welcome to the nameless cock. She greeted him as an old friend and her grunted exhalation, expressed as though having had all the air expelled from her lungs, halted Ray's breast chomping endeavours.

Her mind literally did explode with the consequent comprehension that she was being fucked by someone other than Josh.

Ray glanced at the faces of both the girl and Gary before understanding that his friend was inside her. His face puckered up in disbelief. The evening had been like a masturbatory fantasy. This was the first time he had been involved in such a seduction, largely thanks to the drunken, vengeful bachelorette. She would wake up with a sore head, sore pussy, and no doubt intense remorse.

This girl was something quite different, a sober woman who seemed very much up for a good time on her terms and without any emotional baggage.

Ray contemplated offering his cock to her mouth but feared overplaying his hand. At any second, she could back out of the willingly made compact. Instead, he stood up and spectated as Gary screwed the girl. His initial fear was that the southern lass might cry foul, yet she actually seemed to be enjoying the fuck.

"My go, Gaz!" declared Ray after minutes of spectating. His friend showed little likelihood of giving up his cunt pumping soon. "Come on, mate. Let me put it in!

A prod to Gary's arm by the impatient Ray was required before Gary relented and allowed his colleague to put it in, as Ray had put it. For doctors, their sexual vocabulary was as limited as their experiences at gangbanging.

Ray's arrival at first confused Izzy.

She had lapsed into a state of vaginal introspection, her cunt becoming the centre of her world. For four minutes, although the interaction had felt timeless from her perspective, she had allowed the sensations of being diligently drilled to sweep over her.

Gary's was the only penis she had accommodated other than the one bestowed upon Josh. What she had only just grasped via the walls of her relaxing vagina was how varied, and hence most singular, a penis actually was. As a cylindrical shaft, the engineering student had assumed that any imparted sensation would be essentially the same. How wrong the empiricist now admitted she had been.

Guilt never entered into the equation. All she acknowledged was the delightful difference in the coital experience. The man making love was no better than Josh. He simply brought a whole new meaning to the term of being shafted.

The only poor analogy she came up with was of a sandwich made from the same bread but with a different filling. Okay, it was a shit analogy but she was engrossed with being fucked at the time.

Her mind swam in a sea of divine revelation; an insane excitement gripped her, the likes of which she had not experienced since a child when Christmas Eve had dawned. Unlike Christmas, which promulgated exhilaration founded upon anticipation, the delight that assuaged her was of the moment and viscerally physical.

When Ray assumed his place before the pitcher's depilated mound, Izzy's delightful suppositions were only reinforced. The third man she had ever fucked was distinctly memorable. His penis was the broadest and longest of the three ever to encroach upon her and initially it stretched and tested her the most. She was amazed by her vagina's accommodating prowess, for after only a few strokes of his cock, he seemed to fit inside her as if he'd always been there.

Ray's style was abrupt. Unlike Gary's measured stroke, Ray distinctly humped her. His staccato beat sent shockwaves the length of her body, pushing her shoulders deeper into the seat. Her modest breasts were distinct rather than large by virtue of her slim back. Even so, Ray had induced an oscillation within them that only her clutching hands staunched.

Unlike Gary, Ray had decided to hold Izzy's legs as though he were pushing a wheelbarrow. Only his vice-like grip prevented her body shifting away from him and her ass from slipping off the armrest.

Conceivably, it was the burden of supporting her heavy limbs that compelled him to alter positions. Without extraction, he raised her legs to beyond the vertical and held them in place with his forearm.

He never intended spunking when he did.

Deceitfully, he clearly felt the onset of orgasm promulgated by the change of position that facilitated deeper penetration into her cunt. The consequential reciprocal cries from Izzy poured oil on his already raging fire of his libido. He could, arguably should, have pulled out. However, that would have ruined the climatic bliss.

Only he was aware of spewing cum inside her. The first inclination Gary received of the inseminating episode was when Ray halted deeply impaled with his back arched and his head thrown back, his eyes screwed shut in apparent concentration. As his ejaculatory pulsations ceased, he languidly offered three final strokes, allowing his cock to baste in the juices of her pussy and his seed.

"What the fuck have you done?" Gary's cry alerted Izzy, who was only aware of the cessation of pummelling. Ray slipped out and Gary garnered the visual evidence of the seminal discharge on the cock head and the spunk coating the long, rutted shaft. "We agreed not to cum inside her!"

"You did, I didn't?" stated the unconcerned Ray.

"But you don't know that she's protected!"

Ray shrugged apathetically. If the slag was prepared to put it about, it was up to her to take precautions. In his sated state, he literally didn't give a fuck. He might have been a doctor, but at the end of the day, he was just a man. All he now wanted was a cigarette. Hence, after pulling on his chinos the balcony was his destination of choice.

All the while, Sly had been aloofly filming and it fell upon Gary to sit beside Izzy. She had scarcely moved. She lay unconcernedly with her arse still resting on the arm of the sofa and with her arms now supporting her head.

He thought her prettier than on first inspection. The blonde had distracted them all. The girl's full face with her grey eyes and sable hair, styled in a retro bob, looked sultry and exotic. Her flushed skin glowed with an olive hue. Being twenty-five, he was old enough and of sufficient experience to recognise the satisfied glow of coital frisson that enhanced the perception of beauty.

"You alright, luv?" he asked. She considered offering a flippant reply but offered a singular calm nod. "Sorry about that."

"He came inside me."

The rugby-playing doctor was unsure whether she had issued a statement or question. "Yes... He did." She thought he looked and sounded less laddish when on his own. Perhaps he thought the same about her.

Any conversation that might have developed was thwarted when the apartment door opened and five more guys walked in, the key holder being Sly's co-tenant. They halted with expressions of disbelief before the flatmate spoke up. "What the fuck is going on?"

His factual exclamation was more than warranted. They had only come back to the apartment so as to watch the recorded Premiere League match of the opening season.

Chapter 12 -- Sybil's Sapphic Squeeze.

Saturday, 17^th August 2013.

Manchester, England.

Whilst Izzy was preparing to play hostess, Sybil and Jemima slinked into the bedroom.

Although hardly a control freak, Sybil Torricelli generally lived her life along practiced routines. She was no improviser. She liked to plan in advance. Hence, the situation she now found herself in was about as uncomfortable as it got.

Her greatest concern was for Jem, the youngest member of the hen party group. By age alone, Sybil felt responsible for looking after the nineteen-year-old.

Jemima Shackleton was not the brightest spark on the planet but that fact was often overlooked because of her attractiveness of face and personality. She oozed a vulnerability that demanded protecting. Boys wanted to fuck her and protect her. Girls wanted to protect her and to...

The bedroom was little more than a box room. It was amazing how the single bed had been squeezed into it. Piled boxes indeed seemed to occupy the floor space, granting next to no room for the occupants.

"So what are we supposed to do now?" Up until leaving the club, Jem had retained her habitual air of unconcern and easygoing manner. That had vanished, much as had Sybil's manner of inherent self-assuredness. Jem appeared shorter than normal. Even her four-inch heels failed to elevate her stature.

Although she was petite, Sybil thought Jem perfectly formed. The short blonde hair, admittedly coloured, was cut in an endearing pixie cut that feather about her face in a waif-like manner.

"I've no idea what we're supposed to do...," confessed Sybil. She watched Jem cower before her and begin to weep. The image of the youngster crying goaded her own tears. "Hey, none of that!" Sybil unintentionally snapped her response, increasing the intensity of Jem's tearful outpouring.

Sybil's response was unequivocal. She stepped up to the shorter girl and embraced her. Despite being bolstered by her heels, Jem remained a few inches shorter than Sybil, meaning the stooping blonde's hair pressed against Sybil's nose.

Jem smelt divine. By closing her eyes, breathing deeply, and imbibing upon the sublime fragrance, Sybil was able to detach herself from her surroundings. As they cuddled, she was sentient to the diminishing of Jem's sobs as she accepted the succour afforded by the supportive arms.

Together they sat on the edge of the bed and Sybil again offered a comforting clinch. Jem responded, by hugging the older girl. And so they remained indefinitely, each lost in their own thoughts.

Sybil had never held another woman. She was used to hugging, or more precisely, being hugged. Yet never had she been the bestower of solace. She supposed that on the strength of her gender, she had always been the recipient rather than the granter.

A woman's body felt so much different. A man felt overtly so much more solid and angular. Jem felt soft and pliant. She wondered how Jem felt about being held other than by gleaning the obvious moral support. Sybil new knew little about Jem other than her friendship with Izzy and that she had a boyfriend serving in the Royal Navy.

In spite of her reluctance to abandon the clinch, Sybil was reaching the point where she believed that prudence advocated that she should let the youngster go.

At that moment, she felt the hand alight upon her left knee. It lingered hesitantly as though expecting summary eviction. When no such rebuttal ensued, the hand delicately glided higher until it encroached upon the hem of the black leather skirt.

Sybil's skirt was short and fell to mid-thigh. However, when sitting down upon the bed, the skirt had ridden up even higher, the hem now no more that inches from her knickers. For many breathless seconds neither girl moved.

Sybil had dreamt of such a situation so many times. As Isobel had suspected, Sybil harboured Sapphic needs that she had never openly expressed. She was not in denial about her urges. It was more a case of having never been in a situation to explore them. Everyone knew that she was straight.

Was Jem similarly inclined? Was it a possibility or was Sybil simply deluding herself? Sybil concluded that there was only one way she was ever going to find out and knew she had to proceed cautiously, affording them both the opportunity of an honourable retreat.

Almost imperceptibly, Sybil pushed her legs to one side and squeezed them together, so creating a gap between her tight-fitting skirt and thigh. The hand now had the opportunity to advance up the outside of her thigh or deviate inwards. To Sybil's inestimable delight, the hand chose the latter route and slipped beneath the skirt where it encountered clenched thighs. To all intents and purposes, the hand had reached its journey's end.

Their bodies parted sufficiently to allow themselves to peer at each other, the instigation of the manoeuvre as if by prior arrangement. Not a word was spoken; each looked at the other seeking for any hint of aversion. It fell upon Sybil to make a move and she did so by the less than subtle parting of her pressing thighs.

The small hand tentatively probed, the palm hugging the contours of Sybil's inner right thigh. Almost at once, the leading fingernail touched something solid. Only when the following fingertips brushed the warm material did the hand stop.

"I'm not gay..." The words issued from between Jem's barely open lips.

"Neither am I..." Sybil's riposte was issued with a smile. Her entire body tingled in a way that she had never experienced. Every nerve ending in her body juddered with sublime pleasure.

Sybil's plum glossed lips moved towards Jem's pink lustred lips, the latter's mouth parting a fraction before making contact. Sparks did not fly; Sybil gleaned only the supple texture of lips eager to make a connection. Kissing Jem was like no other encounter in life she could recall.

So enthralling, delicious, sensual, and enlightening a kiss she had never known. Adjectives and superlatives failed to do justice to the sublime act. She could so easily have spent what was the rest of her life so conjoined and she would have died happily knowing what heaven would be like when she got there.

The kiss intensified in fervour with a melding of tongues and clashing of teeth. Sybil chewed upon Jem's bottom lip, provoking flinching submission from the youngster, which she countered by pressing her fingers below Sybil's plump mons, intrusively knowing their goal. It was Sybil's turn to flinch as the synthetic material of the gusset of her knickers pressed into her labial crevice.

They beset one other with a feral intensity that bordered on the aggressive. It was doubtful that anyone had witnessed the shy and retiring Jemima Shackleton behave with such untamed eagerness that only Sybil exceeded in impatience. Sybil thought she knew the power of lust and yet had never come close to replicating the scorching hunger that gripped her.

They removed their tops and bras without a trace of inhibition, their need to press skin to skin overpowering any other consideration. As their torsos melded, so they twisted, each freeing their left boobs.

Sybil had never touched let alone groped another girl's tits. Only during masturbatory exploits had she caressed her own as might she another girl's. The revelation of Jem's tit came as just another delightful shock; stunning disclosures simply came one after another.

Jem's body felt so much daintier. Her face, limbs, hands, and body were like a miniaturised version of her own. It was the breast in the singular that provided the first perceptible difference. Sybil was buxom like her mother. Her D-cup tits hung heavily upon her chest, just managing to retain an independent suspended geometry as they splayed laterally across her chest without the dreaded droop.