Yes It Is For Real

Introduction

Hi, it's me again, Heather Hunter at your service, for a second time speaking for myself, telling a tale as it really was, without any misleading third-party opinions.

That much said, I have noted a couple of things about my earlier effort (Is It For Real): there was not enough sex in it, and what little there was took an awful long time to happen. So, this time I'm going to make up for both those oversights. This time I'm going to balance the books.

Keeping the prelude as brief as possible I'll remind you I was on a management course in Hathersage together with two workmates and a dozen other girls. Breaking protocol, I'd been screwing the crew on our very first night. Or, rather, Rebecca had been screwing me well and tirelessly, hardly stopping for breath, never mind sleep.

Last time I broke off early doors next morning, with her dragging me towards the shower, saying she wanted me to scrub her back. We still had perhaps an hour before breakfast and scrubbing her back seemed like a good idea . . .

Chapter One

In case anyone has forgotten I'm just shy of five foot eleven and Rebecca has a couple of inches on me, at least. She also has the most gorgeous, long auburn hair and was stark-bollock naked, unlike myself; I'd been persuaded to keep my suspender belt and nylons on.

All night long.

By that earlyish stage of Tuesday morning, those were pretty soggy nylons.

Soggy mostly, but not entirely, with the fruits of my loins. Bex had contributed fruits of her own.

Remembering I was now supposed to be the girl in charge, using my superior strength, I dragged her harder than she was dragging me and bundled us both into the tiny en-suite. Not that being at close quarters was an issue. No, being at close quarters was pretty much the plan, wasn't it?

And not that I bothered undressing before clicking on the shower head. How much wetter could my few remaining items of clothing get, anyway?

So, with Rebecca in obliging mode . . . for the time being at least . . . I soaped her back. Purring, she didn't object when I moved behind her to soap her impressively flat stomach, pressing my own six-pack and groin against her so-sexy ass.

Yes, pressing tighter than tight.

(And I know, I know I'd been invited to scrub. But a scrubber I am not, however outrageous I can be when the occasion demands.)

Didn't Bex squeal out loud when I shifted my attentions lower, using less gel, rubbing her fanny in an increasingly urgent way.

Harder, harder and harder still.

At that she came in a matter of moments. I know for sure because her running commentary kept me right up to date. How good she felt, how great I was . . . and how she was building like Krakatoa must have built before finally erupting, back in the 1880s.

Not that she was east of Java or (more accurately than Hollywood described it) actually west of Java.

And not that she blew whole islands apart. No, she counted me down much as she'd counted down our first tribbing orgasm.

Ten, nine, eight . . . seven, six, five . . . bursting to go for it the instant we passed one.

Yes, that groin-to-groin cum was mutual and bigger than big, but not out of control.

Not completely, anyway.

Nice, nice, nice!

By that I mean mutual had been great and having her from behind in a hot shower was better than superb.

Sorry to admit it, but a few relatively tiny islands might have perished under that spraying water.

Satisfied with my results, I paused a moment.

'No, no, no,' Bex immediately squealed, 'give me more, more, more.'

Who was I to argue? I resumed my left-handed attentions down below, using my right on her lovely boobies, doing my best to share and share alike. That time she lasted longer, but not much longer.

That time she lasted perhaps five minutes.

Hey, she was nearly as trigger-happy as me!

And forget about Krakatoa, be it east or west, that time she went off like the one in Colorado, maybe forty million years ago. The super-volcanic one; the one which's output covered tens of thousands of square miles.

(Please excuse my know-it-all attitude. My Dad paid squillions to get me the best education and facts have always stuck in my brain . . . especially obscure ones.

That's why I'm a black belt at Trivial Pursuit as well as karate, judo and most other martial arts.

It's why I'm barred from appearing on Pointless, too.)

'Oh my god, oh, my god,' Bex gasped when the earth stopped crumbling underneath her. 'That is as good as sex can ever get.'

My ass.

Taking her words as a challenge, I slid my body sexily (I hope) around her, before sinking to my knees on the wet ceramic tiled flooring.

'Yes, yes, yes,' she sighed as I took stock of the targeted area.

Got it in one. Last night she'd been the girl totally in charge but now I had taken over. And her tactic had been to focus on the clit, the whole clit and nothing but the clit.

Well, no need to change a winning formula, was there?

*****

As an aside, having sex under a shower is invariably exquisite. On the rare occasions I indulge in men I enjoy it still. But there is a downside, particularly when having sex with girls.

The flipping tastes and smells are all washed away, aren't they?

How unfair is that!

Well it was when we hadn't been taking fair turns in the first place.

Like that memorable Monday night, for instance.

Way I saw it, Tuesday morning, Bex had sampled the taste of me to the nth degree and I was getting a meagre mouthful of diluted dishwater in exchange.

Okay, so I'm overstating things as always. Still benefiting from her endless running commentary, I did know precisely when she was going to cum. And I did feel the temperature change when she gushed hotly onto my tongue . . .

But the pure, intensely magnificent tastes weren't quite there.

Holding her sweet buns, having her body bucking against my face, hearing her words becoming more and more urgent, sensing that tension growing inside her, desperately wanting to help release it . . .

Yes, release it like 1200 cubic miles of built-up passion . . .

Back in Colorado, I mean.

Personally, I'm prepared to admit that I am overly orgasmic. Playing the girly-girly role, Bex is as bad as me, if not even more so.

Or should that be as good as me?

Maybe we're equally as trigger-happy. Maybe we should have an OK Corral-style shootout.

Or maybe we should keep on shagging as often (and for as long) as humanly possible.

Yes, keeping on shagging was the solution.

Less than twenty-four hours after getting together I was convinced of that.

*****

Leaving the shower at virtually the last moment, after a brief one-way fingering episode (me in her, naturally) I had a labour of Hercules getting out of those by then drenched nylons. No problem with the suspender belt, but did those stockings want to come off without a fight?

Make that a no.

Aided and abetted by Bex I made total nakedness at last. And somehow we managed to resist urges to go back to bed. Instead, we dressed, this time with me going for the general student theme. And no, I didn't put on any office clobber, I really did fit myself out like the student I once was . . . and like the majority of everyone else there on the course.

Please don't think my T-shirt had old uni logos on it . . . logos such as "Ban The Bomb" and "Solidarity Sister". Yes, I still agree with both sentiments, but I no longer saw the need to plaster the fact on my overly bouncy, bra-less chest.

Face it, I was out louder than loud. Leastways there in Hathersage I was.

And the news would spread back to Bingley, sooner if not later.

If it hadn't already.

As if everyone didn't already know.

I looked at Bex, inwardly grinning as she was wearing yesterday's clothes. Girls notice things like that don't they? No way was she going to escape the obvious conclusions.

No way was I, either.

But did I care?

Make that yet another big no. Right then all I wanted was my full night of being the girl in charge.

And, clumsily stealing a title from Rod the Mod, Tonight was going to be The Night.

Chapter Two

To my secret delight the other "office dressers" had also gone student. We were as one with nothing to hide.

All fifteen of us.

As if I'd ever hide anything. Without being outright confrontational, I'd only ever hidden my packets of crisps back in primary school, and that had been secreting them away from predatory older kids.

Leastways it had been until I was eight and threatened by the cock of the school, an eleven-year-old who thought he was God's gift. Leastways he did until I sparked him, and his reputation took a bit of a dive.

Afraid of a boy with straggly hair and hardly any muscles?

Me, a farm lass, well accustomed to wrestling with genuine, real-life beasts?

Far as I'm concerned he was a fool for taking me on. We circled each other for thirty seconds or less, he swung a fist at me . . .

And I roped-a-dope like The Greatest got Big George, albeit in a Bingley playground rather than a hot Zaire jungle.

Not that I took my time and let the "cock" wear himself out. I could see at a glance his timing was as good as useless, so I just waited for the first opening and took it.

And that was that.

Goodnight Irene.

Needless to report, after that my supply of crisps was safer than safe. In fact older kids gave me their own packets of crisps, without even being asked.

*****

'How are we going to play this?' Bex asked as we were about to leave my room.

'We brazen it out,' said I. 'We hold hands and sit together in our . . . lectures or lessons or whatever they're called. I'm not ashamed and I hope you're not, either.'

'I'm well up for tonight,' she replied, reassuringly.

'Thank Goodness for that. I'm up already. If I was a guy you'd see the evidence for yourself.'

'Heather!'

'I'm Hev now, so stop whinging.'

'You and me . . . We're really on for an encore?'

'Try selling me short and you'll get abducted. And maybe sexually abused and white-slaved into the bargain.'

'Maybe I'd best play along,' she grinned.

'Clever girl. Keep it that way and we'll all be happy.'

'Just keep it the way you were in the shower.'

'Babe, that was nothing. That wasn't even your starter for ten.'

*****

Perhaps unsurprisingly we were among the last to arrive for breakfast. Curious eyes landed on us but most of the other attendees seemed to have paired off to some degree or other, not least Lottie and Helen.

Forget holding hands and banging tonsils, they were together like Romeo and Juliet, except infinitely more intimate. Mind you, I knew that from last night's next-room soundtrack, didn't I?

Just as she no doubt knew about me and Bex.

'Hey,' I began, going for outrageous and totally unashamed, 'can a girl get a beer with breakfast?'

Turned out a girl could, although wines and shorts were prohibited until eleven o'clock. So, I used my magic card and bought a full round, getting a kiss from that beautiful brunette in the process.

Worth it or what! She went mouth-to-mouth and didn't seem to give a fig about Bex.

Come to that, right then Bex had escaped my memory banks altogether, much as she still had to be bedded good and proper.

'Just let me know,' the brunette whispered in my ear. 'I'll be game for anything.'

Bex grabbed my hand in response. I'm certain she couldn't have overheard but I knew that she had understood the intent of the murmured message.

'You're mine tonight,' she whispered back at me.

'No, I countered, 'tonight you are mine.'

'Is that a promise, ahead of everyone and everything else?'

'Cross my heart, hope to die.'

'Hey, the only death's gonna be the small one. Acted and re-enacted by me, a hundred times over, or more.'

'Sounds good enough,' I agreed, my head still swimming from the brunette's luscious kiss.

*****

Nobody would let me buy drinks to accompany our lunches. Even though I stressed the magic card had no impact on me personally, consensus seemed to be that they all had "expenses" of their own to spend, and that the load should be shared more equally.

'If I don't spend anything at all,' one girl explained, 'the next colleague they send here will only get a fiver. And my boozing reputation will be trashed for ever.'

That brought nods of agreement from a lot of likeminded, management quality females.

Me? I nodded and didn't contradict. I was busy anticipating the coming night and trying not to drool over that oh so lovely brunette.

She was giving me the eye, too, keeping her distance but constantly sending out signals.

'The first round's on me tonight,' I announced as we went back into class. 'No arguments.'

'The second round's on me,' the brunette obliged. 'Are we kicking off early again?'

Turned out we were.

*****

Our afternoon was humorously led by a paid of lady tutors who just had to be an item. The way they bounced jokes off each other was beyond compare. And having Rebecca's hand there on my denim-clad knee only added to the occasion.

Under cover of the desktop, naturally.

(Even if it was a shame it wasn't the brunette's sexy mitt. Her so shapely fingers softly squeezing me, edging and exploring, wantonly promising more and more.)

And forgive me for sounding like a shameless whore.

Back to the plot.

Yes, those lady tutors were skilled in all directions. Perhaps early fifties, they'd obviously been in the noble art of teaching for three decades, at least. You know the sort; probably met at teacher training college and clicked instantly.

Slept together that very first evening . . .

Inseparable ever since.

Not that I'm knocking them in any way. Back in those days same-sex relationships were difficult were they not? Unlike today when they're ten-a-penny.

And thank God for that!

I only wish I got ten for a penny myself. Nowadays I dump all my "copper" in a drawer and forget it.

There must be several pounds worth of slush in there, but I can't be assed to bag it up and change it. I even tell barmaids/barmen to "put the penny in the box" when the price of my pint ends in a nine.

Not that I've anything against charity boxes. Sometimes I will empty my pockets and deposit loads of five, ten and twenty coins in the spirit of co-operation. And, as an avid reader, I source paperbacks at Bingley Co-op's book recycling point, always contributing much more than the expected fifty pence.

God knows how all that copper builds up when I avoid it like the plague.

Enough of that. Let's join our Tuesday night tour of Hathersage watering holes.

Doing my utmost to steer clear of Ms Brunette of the Century, I duly held Rebecca's hand and acted like a devoted lover.

So too did several other pairings. Seemed to me like just everyone was into the spirit of girl-on-girl, if only for those five days.

Five days during which long-established stances could be changed. Five days when interest mingled with imagination and when misguided, misinformed heterosexual stances could change forever.

As if I was going to argue with that. I'd been into girl-on-girl for the best part of twenty years without losing interest in said activity. Far as I was concerned, the more like-minded sisters the merrier.

And please, pretty please, let "more" include that brunette.

How to go about it was problematical, even to a witch like me.

But, where there's a will . . .

Chapter Three

Breaking the SOP, I only bought one round that evening, in the Little John, the first I'd been allowed to buy all night. After swiftly swigging it down, avoiding the glamorous brunette's attention, I took a hold of Rebecca's hand and it was my turn to whisper into an ear.

'We need to get horizonal,' said I. 'Like yesterday. Let's go for it.'

She went for it in a flash and, abandoning our course-mates, leaving them to self-inflict liver damage and serious headaches, headed back up the hill.

What did I say before? Downhill seems like nothing but uphill can seem like mountains?

Well, that was an exaggeration. We soon got into the grounds of our lovely, temporary home and, in a matter of moments, the urge came over us.

In other words, I pushed her down onto the grass verge (hopefully not a patch anyone'd peed on the night before) and very efficiently removed her bum-hugging jeans.

Note to self: how could I strip her like an expert and struggle with my own stockings? Had I messed up with my soaked fingers earlier or was it some strange nylon reaction. Nylon absorbs, doesn't it?

Or maybe my legs had swollen.

And listen to me, off like a mad scientist!

Shagging Bex there and then wasn't particularly mad. Well, the idea was totally okay, but I controlled myself more than usual.

There we were . . . incredibly civilized by my standards . . . having sex on a grassy bank next to a drive which anyone could have used, anytime.

Except darkness had already fallen and that driveway was only used by teachers and students, up to the old manor house. It was too late for teachers and we students were too canny to drink and drive.

Well, weren't we?

No way was I taking that sexy green Jag down into town. Prominent or what! I'd have been copped in less than one shake of a lamb's tail.

Maybe even sooner.

So we had sex and we had sex, moving on in fifty-yard increments, Bex carrying her jeans as we went and never once protesting when I decided it was time to stop for more.

Again.

And again, and again.

A mile covered in fifty-yard stages . . . interspersed by sex . . . takes a while, doesn't it?

All told we probably got back to base half an hour before the lock-in crew, supposedly trailing far in our wake.

But stuff them. By then I'd had a proper (totally undiluted) taste of Bex. By then I just wanted more and more.

Forgetting the brunette, temporarily, anyway, by then I wanted Bex every way possible.

That turned out to be not a bad desire at all.

*****

'It has to be in my room,' she insisted as we went inside, seeing no nosy receptionist, or anyone else come to that.

Still, it was quite late. Most sensible folk were probably already knocking out the zeds.

'Why?' I wondered, referring to her assertion, not the deserted building.

'I fucked you on your home turf, you get to fuck me on mine.'

I hate the "f" word but didn't object. 'Okay,' said I, 'but we'll need to call in my room on the way. If you know what I mean.'

I meant to collect my "monster" dildo and Bex knew that only too well.

'Suits me,' she crooned. 'Especially with Lots tonguing her new best friend back down the driveway.'

'On the verge, like I did you?'

'Doubtlessly. And I dunno about Helen, but Lots isn't a patch on you. And she's really, really good, I hasten to add.'

Suitably reassured, I collected my toy and accompanied Bex down the corridor, three doors away from mine.

And yes, I was aware enough to flush away Monday night's unused condom and grab replacements. Repeating the old refrain, a girl can't be too careful, can she?

Once secure in her room I did my utmost to snog her face off.

In all fairness, she gave back as good as she got.

She kept her hands to herself, though. The delicious encroachments were all of my making. Aware of her role, Bex wriggled and writhed, moaning and groaning in all the right places.

What a babe was she. Obedient and appreciative. Who could ask for anything more?

Breaking off who knows how long later, I smiled at her as seductively as I could. 'You've already had lots of tongue,' said I. 'And much as I fancy another go at your lovely boobies, I think you're ready for a dose of this.'

I was holding up the dildo as I spoke. Bex nodded and slowly, sensuously stripped for me before lying on her bed, legs akimbo.

(That didn't take her ages; she was still minus her jeans and panties. And thank Goodness there had not been a late-night receptionist. Never mind Bex's bare nether regions, he/she would have surely noticed the din we soon made, not a million mile away from the main entrance.)