We Can't Stop Ch. 01

The first time I laid eyes on Alex McGuigan was in September 2010. We were moving in to our university halls of residence together. There were four of us moving into a flat, all with en-suite bedrooms to embark on our first year of undergraduate study. Moving-in day was awkward, with various sets of parents running to and fro up the stairs, down the stairs, talking to the accommodation staff, unloading cars and seemingly trying their best to show us all up in front of the others.

I remember coming out of my room, closest to the kitchen and communal living area, and looking down the hallway. Stood there was Alex. She introduced herself and I didn't quite catch her name. Embarrassed to ask for her to repeat it, I explained I was Louise. We made small talk about what courses we were doing and the usual ice breaker material. After a short period of silence, I made my excuses to retreat into my room and begin unpacking.

I used the alone time to ponder my encounter with the girl at the end of the corridor. She was attractive. She had blonde dyed hair, perfect high definition eyebrows, a clear complexion and was fairly petite. It was however, her eyes that captivated me. A mixture of blues and greens, I felt myself being drawn into her mind when I looked at her. But she was clearly straight. She was very well spoken and polite, and judging by the amount of suitcases and boxes she had stacked outside her room, she was something of a hoarder. I smirked to myself; at least I'd sort of made a friend.

We hit it off that night, getting extremely drunk and making friends with others in our halls of residence. I had been fairly anxious about moving to university; I'd always felt myself as being a bit of an outsider, l'etranger, if you will. I'd been a tad overweight in my early teenage years, didn't have much of a fashion sense as I was obsessed with sport, and when I was forced out of the closet I found myself subject to bullying and harassment. I'd fallen into a depressive state, self harming and chasing after any girl who would give me the time of day. My school took the approach that as I'd come out at a young age, it was my mistake and they couldn't do 'much' about the bullying. Coming from a small town, moving schools wasn't an option either. I was forced to adapt myself. From years of being ostracised by my peers, I'd developed intense observational skills. I could analyse most social situations and figure out someone's motives easily. I pride myself in this ability, yet I accept I'm probably not as good as I'd like to think when it comes to reading people.

I was able to plateau in my GCSE years, I had a sound group of friends who accepted me and I became somewhat popular amongst the underdogs. Queen of the Rejects, I excelled in sport and relished in the new attention from my peers. I got involved with a straight girl in the year above me when I entered lower sixth form, which ended in tears. I ignored my schoolwork and inevitably failed my exams. To get onto the course I wanted to do in university, I had no option to repeat the year I had failed. This meant starting over; the happiness and contentment I had worked hard on for so many months was irrelevant. Meaningless. It meant nothing anymore. I had another depressive episode and struggled for a few months trying to make new friends. But by Christmas, with the help of antidepressants, counselling and admittedly, alcohol, I had risen to the top once again. I had a sound group of around seven or eight close friends in the all-girls grammar school. With my one-year-older age advantage, I could drive before the others, which earned me more respect from my peers.

I was reasonably successful in my chosen sports; swimming, hockey and football. I worked part-time as a lifeguard, I played for my town's 1st XI hockey team, I played for my schools 1st XI team and had done since I was fourteen. I enjoyed playing football, had even played for my country's under-16 team, but had to give it up to pursue my hockey career; which ended with a sudden blow when my school coach and I had a blazing argument at the side of the pitch during a cup match.

I'd been involved with my coach; nothing physical had ever happened apart from the innocent brush of hands or a glance too long in either person's direction. It was common knowledge that there was something going on with the coach and myself. Looking back now, I know I was infatuated with her. I looked up to her and wanted to be like her. She'd discovered that I had been getting around the hockey team, and maybe she was attempting to 'groom' me. She'd offer to see me out of school hours, drive me to places if my parents needed the car, give me special treatment over the other girls and allowed my various girlfriends to attend my matches during school-time. My mother grew suspicious, and questioned me on several occasions about my coach. I found it darkly amusing that I was in no danger, rather, my coach was the one I was planning to seduce in due course. Of course, that ended dramatically in true teenage lesbian dramatic fashion when I pushed the boundaries too far that morning on the hockey pitch. I haven't played hockey since.

I had a reason to be big-headed. I usually got what I wanted, even though I considered myself average-looking. I had come out as such a young age that I was accepted by my peers by the time university came around. I looked forward to getting to know the girl at the end of the corridor and my course mates over the first few weeks. Nobody knew my past. I could portray myself in any way I wanted to. I'd moved over 200 miles and knew a few people in the city already, so I could keep my distance yet still have support if I needed it. I'm somewhat of a manipulative bitch, you could say. But I'm far from being a horrible person.

As the months went on, I started going out to gay bars and occasionally bedding someone. I was still raw from a different break-up prior to university, and I missed the consistency of having someone who thought the world of me. I'd quickly sussed out that Alex was not an appropriate candidate to fill this position. I couldn't help it when my feelings for her began to grow, and stayed with her during many hair colour and style changes. She added a few piercings to her collection and would often get drunk and ended up with a tattoo on a few occasions. She was the free spirit I longed to be, or be a part of as I battled with my inner demons.

In May 2011, I'd lost interest (and financial funding) in going out to gay bars and attempting to get off with strangers. So when a troubled younger girl began to express an interest in me online, I swiftly invited her over (despite being terrified) for a date. The date ended rather well, with the 18 year old slipping two fingers inside me sensually. I made a point of flaunting my accomplishment to Alex, who seemed somewhat bemused. She disapproved of my plaything, judging her on her age, low level of intelligence and social background. The girl was a train wreck, in fairness. But with regular sex on the cards, I continued seducing her and we entered a relationship within a fortnight. We were together for eighteen months, a decision I deeply regret. Yes, the sex (when she obeyed) was moderate in quality, she was open to playing with new concepts and whatever pleased me. Alas, I grew bored and it got to a point where sex wasn't a good enough reason to stay with her. I had no feelings for her at all, yet she begged me to stay with her. She would often get angry, we began arguing more often and I found it increasingly difficult to leave. My relationships have never been successful (obviously), and I assumed this was the norm. Alex stood by me every step of the way, supporting me in whatever choices I made. However, she made it clear that she thought I'd be better off without the girl. I got rid of the girl, blocked and deleted her, told her she was no longer welcome at the house I shared with Alex and two others and that was that.

Alex and I had moved into a house after our first year together with two others, who are naturally irrelevant to my world with Alex. Alex and I spent a lot of time together without the other housemates. We'd begun smoking weed (a habit we'd both dabbled in before uni) on the weekends when I'd finished my placement for the week, and during these times I felt intimately close with Alex. My skin would tingle if she accidently touched me, I found myself trying desperately not to be caught 'looking' at her, I laughed at most of her jokes and I took an interest in her life. But I couldn't find the confidence within me to broach the subject of girl-on-girl; a topic I regularly discussed with my other straight friends. Alex had told me about a few boyfriends, I'd overheard her once with a one-night stand with a friend, and she'd confessed to still occasionally sucking the dick of her ex. Naturally, I hated the ex with such unfathomable scorn that Alex would question my dislike of him at any given opportunity.

"So you're going out because Jay's coming up for the weekend?" asked Alex sternly.

I was in the living room, packing an overnight bag to go and stay with a friend whilst Jay was here. I was planning on going to see a friend from home, getting incredibly drunk and staying over.

"No. I'm going out because I want to get drunk tonight, and I don't want to have to worry about coming back here at 3am. Plus, I'm taking the car." I replied shortly.

I wasn't too enamoured with the fucking arse-wench 'Jay'. He was a slimy git. And if the two of them did end up getting it on... well. That wasn't something I wanted to hang around to see or listen to.

"Get drunk with us?" Even Alex wasn't entirely convinced by her own request, and I could tell she was only asking to be polite. I reckoned she didn't want to be seen as happy that she'd have the house to herself.

I shook my head and gave a sheepish smile. There was no way in hell I'd be in our house as long as Jay was here. Yes, it may seem drastic, and dramatic, and typical. You, as a reader, may even see it as me flouncing off in childish anguish that I'd been inadvertently pushed to one side to make way for a blast from Alex's past. Yes, I was jealous. He was in perfect position to entangle himself in her (what I imagined to be) delectable folds and probably get another fucking blowjob for himself in the process.

"Is it Jay?" she asked, still standing in the doorway.

I shook my head again, still silent, busying myself with rearranging the contents of my bag. I did not want to have this conversation with her. I'd timed my departure so that I'd be gone by the time he got here. I wouldn't be returning to the house until I knew he was gone. Yes, I felt cheated, but I had no right to feel that way. But it still fucked me off.

"Right. Well I'm going to go get him, his train gets in shortly".

In a moment of madness I offered to bring her to the train station in my car and leave both of them back to the house. I thought this would qualm any reservations Alex had about the results of her failed interrogation. Perhaps it did. I've never found out. You can be the judge of that one. Jay was polite, thanked me for the free ride and they both got out of my car and walked up to the door. I checked my mirrors, spun the wheels of my car in a burnout and floored it out of our street. The slimeball had been in my car. Ew. And was probably going to use his slimey fingers to attempt to pleasure Alex later tonight. Ew.

When I returned to the house the next day, hungover to within an inch of my life I found Alex in the living room. We shared stories from the night before; she'd been to a gig with Jay and they'd stayed up smoking all night watching music channels on the TV. I didn't ask if anything happened with her and Jay, and she didn't ask for details from my night, either. I retreated to bed, in an attempt to deal with the hangover before starting my final placement as an undergraduate student. My mind, rife with harbouring impure thoughts about Alex, caused me some restlessness as I lay in bed. I turned on my laptop, put some music on, reaching for my iPad and began my nightly search for some decent porn that would help me achieve orgasm and help me relax.

My first week was stressful, but I found the caseload to be lacking in challenges. My knowledge and skills in my area of work were renowned, and I was popular amongst the staff. But I was looking forward to chilling with Alex come Friday night. Alex had taken up pole dancing at some point throughout the year. I had tried to adapt a certain air of ignorance about her hobby so that she wouldn't grow suspicious of my feelings for her. But when she returned from pole dancing that Friday night, she was complaining of a pain in her hand.

As a physiotherapy student, I was the first port of call for most of Alex's pole-dancing and non-pole dancing related injuries. I washed my hands, found some moisturiser in case she had any muscle spasm or tightness, and returned downstairs.

"Gimmie your hand" I muttered, placing a cushion on my lap and inviting her to place her hand near my crotch. She gave me a funny look, but we both knew I could probably help her hand. She placed her hand on my lap, sat back, put her feet up on the coffee table and lit a joint.

I got to work on her hand, paying extensive detail to the intricacies of her small palms, her delicate tiny fingers and tiny wrists. She had a beautiful way of moving her body on a global scale, she strutted around the house in high heels regularly, and being learned in the art of human movement I found her fascinating to watch. She was very refined in her movements, muscles contracting and relaxing in perfect poise, even if she was just playing on her phone. I inspected her forearm, feeling for evidence of soft tissue lesions. I couldn't cross the line between seeing her as a normal patient and seeing her as Alex. I was frustrated. I stumbled upon a possible cause of her pain, set down her hand on the cushion and put some moisturiser on my hands.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked.

"You've got a bit of muscle tightness, it might be restricting your movement. If I can release it, then I can do some mobilisations on the joints in your hand. If you're pain-free, we know what the problem is" I replied calmly.

"Is it permanent? Am I gunna die?" she asked dryly.

"Not for a while yet" I purred, as I began massaging her hand gently. I glanced up at her, our faces no more than a few inches apart. She was still looking down at her hand, allowing me to move it and care for it. I moved my head back a bit, as she looked up and our eyes locked. The drug-induced grin faded from her lips, and the corners of her mouth returned to their neutral position. Feeling a pang of desire, I broke off the staring contest and sat back to watch TV and continued working on her hand.

We stayed like that for a while, watching TV as she got her hand and forearm massaged. She finished her joint, cut our treatment session short and went upstairs to bed. I wondered if she had been freaked out by our little 'moment'. We'd had several questionable moments during our three years together, the most memorable being when I was trying to practice a treatment technique on her and ended up pinning her to my bed, before we both burst into fits of giggles and she jokingly accused me of trying to get it on with her. We laughed and shouted accusations at each other in front of the other two housemates, who knew their place beneath us in the house.

Frustrated, annoyed, and hurt, I lit up a joint I'd previously rolled. As the heaviness seeped into my eyes, I found myself searching for porn on my iPad. This was a side to me that I wasn't too open about. At times I've even been concerned that the amount of porn I watch has had an effect on my sex life; or rather, the sex life I wish I had. I've pleasured myself to fantasies of submission to women and men, and the drunken one-night stands I've had haven't been...vanilla. I'd recently discovered lesbian wrestling, enjoying the thought of it being a win-win situation regardless of the real 'winner' or 'loser'. I wanted to believe that these women were empowered, able to express their sexuality truly without the repercussions of judgement. I found the actual matches to be more entertaining than the post-match submission. I can't deny that I've often fantasised about dominating girls, either. Naturally, Alex regularly featured in these fantasies. A serial masturbator, Alex's face always plunged itself into my mind as I felt orgasms building, and with my nightly released I imagined her lapping up my juices with a cheeky grin.

I found a tag-team video that was an hour long, and began to watch with the volume turned right down. The women were stunning, displayed astounding levels of fitness and stamina and oozed sexuality. Bikini tops came off and bikini bottoms came off as the girls fought for points and domination. I felt a tingling sensation around my crotch as I began applying a little bit of pressure through my sweatpants on my mound. I knew I was wet, as I could feel my lips caressing each other without friction. I imagined my pussy glistening in moisture beneath my sweatpants, as my hips joined in with the rhythmic movements of my hand. At the same time, I was becoming increasingly aware of my breasts. At a 32C, I was quite fond of them. I'd experimented a lot with nipple play with my last girlfriend, and had discovered that my nipples were nearly as sensitive as my clit when it came to foreplay.

I placed the iPad on the coffee table, widened my legs a little bit and lay back. One of the girls on the blue team was having a really rough time, as she had one of the red team sitting on her face and was being fisted by the other girl on the red team. The girl appeared to still be attempting to resist the attack as the seconds counted down. I reached a hand up to my left nipple and found it easily beneath my t-shirt and bra. I moved my other hand upwards to above my clit and began applying different pressures to the area. My body responded, almost without my consent, by pressing back up into my hand. My poor little clit had a mind of its own. It wanted attention.

The girl on the blue team no longer seemed to be struggling to close her legs. In fact, she had opened them to allow her conqueror a deeper angle inside her. I felt my own opening twinge with excitement; I'd only been fisted once and I was completely at the mercy of the girl who had been so lucky enough to do it to me. I had been somewhat embarrassed that she'd managed to do it, as that clearly meant I wasn't as tight as I would have liked to have been. But allowing the girl to do that to me was exhilarating, intimate and kinda fucking hot.

In the video, the girl being dominated was close to orgasm. I knew that if she came, the red team would get more points. I got the impression she was past the point of caring. I continued to zone in and out of the video as I finished my joint. I was relaxed, but my whole body was tingling. I was too horny to deal with life.

I reached a hand into my pants and felt my wetness. Keen to make the most of it, I gathered some of my moisture to lubricate my middle finger so I could attend to my clit. I drew lines up from my opening to my clit as my nipples began to fight for freedom. Resisting every temptation to slip a finger inside myself was difficult, but I knew as soon as I went upstairs I could fuck myself all night with my vibrator.

The choice of video was fitting for my current state of arousal, as I was visually eased in to the domination world. As my breathing quickened, sweat beads erupting on my hairline, I easily got two fingers inside of myself. I don't enjoy the feeling of being penetrated as such, rather, I feel satisfied when I'm filled up with fingers or dildos or vibrators. My poor clit gets all of my attention usually, as that's how I can quickly achieve orgasm. I could feel my orgasm approaching gradually, and I knew it was going to be powerful. I wanted to stop, take the show upstairs into the privacy of my own bedroom where I could find a toy or two to play with as well. But I couldn't move, the losing blue team were getting dominated on my iPad and the squeals and moans of them made my pussy feel even more fiery. I was close. Those bitches were such fucking sluts. I'll get off when they get off. I'll get off when they get off. I took my t-shirt off quickly and brought both of my breasts out of my bra and began bouncing up and down. The red team were fucking the blue team violently, pulling on their respective slaves hair and forcing them to make out as they got fucked doggy style. I imagined how Alex would look on all fours in front of me, taking a strap on as I pulled her hair with one hand and slapped her arse with the other. With the image in my mind, I closed my eyes and imagined myself licking around her asshole. In my fantasy she was reluctant, but her moans reassured me to keep going.