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Dottily in Love


By LimeyLady




Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2019

Distributed by Smashwords





All characters and events in this publication,

other than those clearly in the public domain,

are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.





Table of Contents



Chapter One - Meet Dotty

Chapter Two - Michelle

Chapter Three - Finding new digs

Chapter Four - Getting ready for the weekend

Chapter Five - Getting together

Chapter Six - Getting to know each other

Chapter Seven - Making the leap

Other Books by LimeyLady




Chapter One



Image this! Me, writing a love story . . . no, a goddamned romance!!


How crazy is that?


As the youngest of three siblings I’ve always been the least likely to get involved in a love affair. If in need of a likely suspect you’d never need look further than my big sis. Erika has “romance” tattooed on her heart. Six years older, she used to mother me as if I was her personal, lifelike doll. At least ten times a day I’d be changed, bathed, wrapped up in swaddling clothes . . .


Okay, “Exaggeration” maybe my middle name, but emotionally and practically me and Erika have always been chalk and cheese. I loved her and I loathed her. As soon as I was old enough to protest about her endless attentions I begged her to leave me alone.


For maybe a year she ignored my protestations.


Then, very grumpily, she finally obliged.


Erika spent her formative years reading the Famous Five, absorbing them all word for word before moving on to the Secret Seven. Then, as she aged like a fine old wine, she soaked in every word ever written by the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen.


Trust me, never mind “a truth universally acknowledged”, that particular young lady could quote a girl anything from Agnes Grey to Pride and Prejudice, and woe betide anyone who put even a comma out of place.


Cue tons and tons of awesome admiration from me. As far as Erika is concerned Ms Austen is the best, end of. If Ms Austen says Mr Perfect is Captain Wentworth then all other competitors can simply fuck off.


Not that Erika would ever succumb to uncouth language in any way.


Not even when she’s right and all doubters are at the wrong end of a donkey’s ass.


Please excuse me if I seem less than convinced! So far as doubters are concerned I’m up there with big sis. Ms Austen rules okay. Nobody else come close, not even Emily B.


Well, Emily does come close, but not quite close enough.


Here’s a little more detail about me: my personal teenage reading focused more on Martina Cole and, as I matured rather than aged, Mandasue Heller. Yes, I did take a detour via Agatha Christie but mostly I wanted “gritty” and “real”. If I ever needed a digression I’d go read an article in one of Dave’s classic collection of magazines.


Failing that I’d front up with personal experience.


I was good at fronting up, so why not?


Dave is my “middle” brother, by the way. He is barely two years older than me in reality but in fact he is mentally at least a decade younger. That said, his collection of glossy porn is second to none.


Leastways in my very limited understanding of porn, it is.


Note to Dave: Find a better place to hide those antique mags; right there under your mattress!


As if!!



*****



Enough of the beating about the bush, let’s get down to it. I’m basically at heart a ballsy go-ahead girl who relished every last minute of the sixth form. And I headed off for university determined to add to my sex education in every last way. Okay, I was pig-headed, belligerent and thought I knew it all. But I did really believe that I was in control of my emotions.


Wrong!


Two terms of spreading it around and I fell in lust with a guy who was, to say the least, athletic.


All I can say in my defence is that he was stacked. Not that size is everything but trust me, he had enough to always make me smile myself off to sleep.


Did I just say size isn’t everything! Try combining size, technique and a fair measure of experience and then tell me I am mistaken!!


Not that being stacked is the be all and end all . . .


Cutting to the chase, I had two semesters playing the field before falling in lust with Mick. Then, in lust deeper than I’d ever believed possible, I had wasted another seven months being totally faithful to him.


Meanwhile he was increasingly less than faithful to me.


I know it’s the same old story but, supposedly “together” although with Mick off AWOL more often than present,’ I found myself unaccompanied at a Christmas party; unaccompanied and entranced by a well-built black guy with the world’s most attractive grin.


I’m not going to explain myself in any great detail. At that moment in time my alleged regular lover had been less than attentive for several weeks and I‘d never really cared for him in the first place.


Okay, I’m over-elaborating (or else making excuses), but the diminished attention wasn’t a figment of my imagination. We’d gone from five times a night, every night, to once or twice a week.


In other words I was missing out, big-time.


Being caught underneath an enthusiastic, very well-built black guy wasn’t exactly a disaster.


And please do not for one instant imply anything to do with me and skin colour, I didn’t succumb to the guy purely because he was black . . . Well, I did, but only to the extent that he looked good in his skin and he looked good on me . . .


And he felt good on me because we were human beings and our bodies worked together ever so well.


Yes, yes, he pleased me. Yes, yes, he pleasured me. Maybe I got off on his blackness sliding on me, over me, but only in the nicest of ways. In all honesty I soon forgot all about our colour-clash and perceived differences.


Far as I am concerned, different toned skins look good together. End of. There’s nothing kinky or perverted about it. On the contrary, it’s natural.


Opposites attract and all that.



*****



I guess we’re overdue introductions. My birth certificate says “Dorothy” and I would much prefer to be known as “Dot” but I’ve been “Dotty” ever since my seventh birthday; nothing to do with me and not of my doing. Best I can say is my primary schoolmates realized I didn’t have a dog called Toto and didn’t resemble Ms Cotton off Eastenders.


(|’m not so bothered about missing out on the Emerald City, but can’t help being glad I wasn’t ever taken for Nick Cotton’s mum.)


As background I’m just gone twenty-one and currently a final year student in a university up in the north west of England. I am five ten in height, not in the slightest overweight and, with longish, straight blonde hair, I have never struggled for dates.


Yeah, yeah, I’ve struggled with being known as Dotty . . . implying that I’m halfway insane . . . but I have long since come to accept that arguing only makes folk more intransigent. In other words I’m just stuck with it and moaning isn’t going to do me any good.


A girl has to know her strengths and weaknesses, no?


So Dotty I am. And nowadays I take it as a significant strength.


But enough of all that. Let’s get on with the tale and drop back a couple of months in time.




Chapter Two



For my sins I am an undergraduate in Mathematics. And yes, I know what horror that inspires in a lot of right-thinking folk. But I just happen to have a logical mind. I sailed through all my scientific A-levels and saw Maths as the easiest course for the future.


Ask me, most people are afraid of Mathematics. They’re beaten before they even begin. Take off the blinkers, follow logical steps . . .


Okay, okay, I’ll ditch the sales pitch. As I said a moment ago, I have a logical mind and Maths was an obvious choice for me.


The coursework was logical, too. Our entire first year was an amalgamation of everything that had supposedly been already ingrained into us, quickly running through a zillion or more disparate A-level subjects, pulling everyone up to speed before going boldly beyond.


(Rather like Star Trek!)


Back in those early days we used the largest lecture theatres, mostly on K Floor and above, filling them with at least a hundred students at a time. Back then it was tricky to get to know everyone; there were simply too many faces to link names with.


That all changed with the start of my second year. Suddenly, instead of a zillion disparate subjects we were obliged to pick six each. Consequently we were left with different groups of up to say twenty, meeting in much smaller theatres or tutorial rooms. And just as consequently, we all got to know each other much better.


My third year followed the same pattern. That is to say we were supposed to remain in our second year groups and press on for our finals. In reality nothing is set in stone so there was a certain amount of chopping and changing, but only in a superficial sort of a way.


Theoretically it was, anyhow.


In other words I was surprised to arrive at my opening tutorial . . . the dreaded Numerical Analysis . . . to see three unfamiliar faces.


Three in twenty was a big proportion, no?


Told you I was good at Maths!


As per always I arrived at the last second, barely one pace ahead of our tutor, a notorious political incorrect who was one of the university’s best-loved. Somewhere in his fifties, cranky as heck, the guy could say simply anything without fear of criticism.


Criticising him would be like criticising John Lennon. It was not allowed to happen.


Grabbing the nearest available place, I sat and did my utmost to look as if I’d been waiting ages in eager anticipation.


Mr Wooller grinned at me, fooled not at all.


‘Order,’ he said, using considerably more authority than Black Rod, and getting considerably more respect.


‘So new beginnings,’ he went on. ‘And a few new faces too. Let me make some introductions. Mr Clark, please stand and address this learned gathering.’


A guy on the back row stood up and awkwardly bowed.


‘Mr Clark loved his final year so much he’s doing it again,’ Wooller said. ‘God only knows what his total indebtedness will be when he finally waves us farewell.’


I laughed along with everyone else. Avoiding repayment of student debt was a hot topic. And now I looked again, I recognized “Mr Clark”. He was the sort who’d stay in higher education forever if at all possible, and then only apply for low-paid jobs, avoiding repayments indefinitely.


Not that I blamed him. I just personally wanted a highly-paid job. Sooner I settled my student debt the better.


‘Mr Smith,’ said Wooller, ‘please take your turn.’


A very sporty guy stood, self-confidence personified. I recognized him too. He wasn’t only one of the university’s leading sportsmen, he’d played cricket professionally for Lancashire.


Okay, so Lancashire weren’t all-conquering Yorkshire or even Surrey, but they were probably next best after the two giants of the county game.


‘I caught one with my right eye,’ he said without being prompted. ‘I was keeping wicket and the so-and-so of a ball came up off of the stumps.’


‘Mr Smith was lucky not to lose that eye,’ Wooller added. ’Fortunately he was very well insured as a cricketer. So ladies, all of the drinks are on him.’


More laughter ensued.


‘Last but by no means least is Ms Fisher,’ Wooller continued. At that the girl beside me waved in a very embarrassed sort of a way.


I looked at her with surprising interest. At this point I must explain that I had never had a same-sex thought in my life . . . well, hardly one thought. Okay, so I was capable of admiring another girl’s looks, but doing something about it . . .


Like no way José.


Something about Ms Fisher attracted me, though. She was as tall as I was but somehow seemed to be petite; short, jet-black hair and a face to die for. And no, at that moment in time I didn’t spare a glance at her tits.


No, I saved that for at least 24 hours.


And they were glorious in every way.


‘Ms Fisher has relocated from Bath,’ Wooller enlarged. ‘Please make her welcome.’


That was about as much as she got. I kept looking askance at Ms Fisher, wondering why such a southern superstar would head north and coming up with zilch as an answer.


Every time l looked at her she looked better.


How dotty was that!



*****



Way it turned out Ms Fisher’s six courses matched mine spot-on. With a zillion options to choose from that was a miraculous enough coincidence. So was my urge to find out more about her. Already I had a great need to be her friend.


Don’t ask me why; it’s just how it was.


Yes, not one hour after setting eyes on her I needed to be her friend. And it wasn’t an urge, it was a craving.


On our way to our second tutorial I found out her first name was “Michelle”. And, after that second tutorial I suggested coffee. She dithered. Then I suggested beer or wine and she rewarded me with a coy smile.


‘I’m not exactly looking for a confidante,’ she said, her voice soft and sexy.


If that was meant to alienate me it didn’t work. ‘I’m not cut out to be a confidante,’ I replied. ‘But I am intrigued as to why you’re here. Isn’t Bath supposed to be one of the best universities in England, if not all of the world?’


Cue a weighty hesitation, followed by a reluctant nod. ‘I had a major break-up,’ Michelle admitted in almost a whisper. ‘I’m not really ready for any sort of a relationship yet.’


‘I beg to disagree,’ I said sincerely. ‘I’m not going to force myself on you, but I reckon you need a good old chinwag, whether you realize it or not. So what’s it going to be, beer or wine?’


‘It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.’


‘It’s actually just past. The Union has been open two minutes already. Come on, I’m buying.’


We looked at each other and something audibly clicked.


‘You’re a bad influence,’ said Michelle, ‘but go on, twist my arm.



*****



So I twisted Michelle’s arm and we stood there at the bar for over an hour, swilling dry white wine and becoming closer by the second.


Trust me; I had no idea about her orientation right then.


And trust me further; innocent as I was, fully informed, I wouldn’t have changed anything, not even as much as one second of anything and everything.


Michelle attracted me in ways I had never previously imagined. Come to that she attracted me in a lot of ways I did not at all understand.


Craving is right. It was inexplicable but I simply had to be her friend. Ninety minutes of small talk only added to her allure.


Talking about small talk . . .


I set off by expounding about classmates in the two tutorials we’d already had, then moved on to expound about classmates she’d not yet met. And I was honest and accurate with it. Covering males and females, I gave Michelle my best opinion on everyone’s characters, good and bad.


‘So,’ she said when I at last stopped for air,’ ‘nearly everyone’s footloose and fancy-free.’


‘Apart from the ones I’ve described as committed,’ I corrected.


‘What about you?’ she replied. ‘Are you committed?’


Wincing internally, I gave her a brief recap of my affair with Mick and its somewhat abrupt ending. Michelle laughed. ‘Way to go, girl,’ she said, but otherwise didn’t comment.


I soon realized that I wasn’t going to get any feedback about her broken relationship. Not at that very early stage in our budding friendship, anyway. So I didn’t press her at all. Instead I told her that I had appointed myself as her next-desk-mate for the foreseeable future.


‘We’re in all the same classes,’ I said, ‘so why not?’


‘Why not indeed,’ she replied, perhaps succumbing to my enthusiasm if not my charm.


Where do you go after?’ I persisted.


‘Where do I go after what?’


‘I mean after our academic day is over and done with. Where do you eat and drink?’


‘So far I’ve been eating in the refectory and drinking in my room.’


‘Boring,’ said I. ‘Cheap and practical, I agree, but why run up all those vast, mighty mountains of debt without enjoying yourself? I know a dozen different eating places and thousands and thousands of watering holes. Let’s make an evening of it.’


Michelle rolled her eyes, looking all the more alluring.


‘You,’ she began, ‘you’re . . .’


‘Twisting your arm again,’ I finished for her. ‘So what’s it gonna be girl, yes or no?’



*****



Quite late at night we strolled back towards halls, our arms hooked casually, the way girls do, in no way meaning anything,


‘I can’t.’ Michelle said as we drew to a halt twenty yards from the main entrance.


By then we were both tipsy and full of vindaloo. ‘You can’t what?’ I asked, bemused.


‘Kiss you goodnight,’ she explained. ‘I want to, but I just can’t.’


I gave her a matey peck on the nose. ‘There,’ I said, ‘goodnight to you and thanks for giving me a day to remember.’


Michelle flinched at that. ‘I want to give you a day to remember,’ she said mysteriously, ’I really do. But I can’t. Not yet.’


Then she pecked me on my nose and exited rapidly, stage left (as if pursued by a bear).


It took me nearly an hour to fully appreciate what she meant. Then, for the first time in three years or more, I went to bed alone and jilled . . . and rather vigorously at that.




Chapter Three



By Thursday lunchtime I’d spent an awful lot of time with Michelle. We’d sat side by side for every last lecture/tutorial, we had swigged coffee, vino and ale together more often than was strictly healthy and we had eaten snacks, curries and Chinese in half dozen local venues.


And I’d jilled every night without fail.


Straight as I supposedly was, I had it bad.


Cards on the table; that urge, the craving to be Michelle’s friend had only got stronger. And it had been very powerful to begin with. By Thursday I was prepared to do absolutely anything to further that aim.


Yes, absolutely, utterly everything . . . even if I didn’t quite understand what I really wanted.


For once, as we scoffed cheese baguettes and swigged Marston’s in the Union Bar, Michelle was subdued. When I asked if she had a problem she shrugged.


‘It’s being in halls,’ she finally admitted. ‘I’d forgotten how primitive they are. There are rules and regulations everywhere you look, but it’s still a zoo. I hardly got a wink of sleep last night. Some nutter played The Last Post on a trumpet every five minutes.’


‘What are you doing back in halls anyway?’ I wondered.


‘As you know, I left Bath in a hurry. I was offered a package that included halls and I snatched at it. Now I wish I hadn’t been so eager.’


My heart sank. The idea of a disillusioned Michelle quitting was horrendous. It couldn’t be allowed to happen.


‘Find somewhere else,’ I urged. ‘The town is full of student accommodation. In fact . . .’


At that moment my housemate Martha arrived at our table.


‘Girlfriend,’ she said, punching me medium-hard on my shoulder, ‘and you must be Michelle.’


Michelle smiled back at her. ‘You must be Martha.’


‘Yes, guilty as accused. I’m only surprised Dotty has mentioned my name. Lately whenever I have spoken to her she only ever goes on about you.’


I rolled my eyes at that. Martha never has spared time for tact of sensitivity. I love her to death but regularly have to keep from strangling her. Like maybe ten times a week. Fortunately Michelle took to her instantly.


‘Girlfriend, we have a problem,’ Martha said. ‘Get me a pint and I’ll reveal all.’


It did happen to be my round so I bought three more beers. And, while I was being served, I had a glance back at our table and almost died. Martha and Michelle had their heads together, laughing and joking like lifelong buddies.


Already, faster than the speed of light!


The stab of jealousy was immense. And no doubt about it, it was directed at Martha. Loving her as much as I did, she was invading my territory.


The strangling impulse was more mightily in me than ever. Somehow I overcame it and shipped three pints back like a perfect little barmaid (meaning a busty German blonde one, dripping suds and full of promise).


‘So what’s the score?’ I demanded, ruining the blonde barmaid impression by slamming down the glasses and glaring at Martha.


What followed was one of those coincidences that would never work in a book.


‘Our darling landlord rang,’ Martha told me, ‘he said our summer deal is over. Carole has to stump up for this month by next Wednesday or she’s out on her ear. And he will be looking to us to cover the shortfall if she is.’


I groaned at that. Carole was our third housemate. While Martha and I had stayed put for summer she’d swanned off as a tour guide, supposedly learning new lingos while downing gallons of ouzo and screwing dozens of hapless holidaymakers. She’d been expected “home” a fortnight ago but hadn’t as yet showed. Not that that was a shock. Carole and timekeeping were not compatible. If she said she’d meet you somewhere at eight you might as well turn up at ten the day after.


Not that I didn’t love her like a sister; she was just utterly unreliable. In all honesty, when Michelle had mentioned her need for new digs, the idea of offering her Carole’s room had only been fleeting. It was only two weeks: by Carole’s standards she could turn up tomorrow and be relatively punctual.


‘That bastard irked me,’ said Martha, referring to our darling landlord, ‘so I rang that landline that nobody ever answers. And I got this French girl who spoke English better than you. She said Carole was supervising water polo and went to fetch her.’


That was a massive leap in the right direction. Usually if anyone answered that number they could only speak Serbian . . . or at best Egyptian.


‘And,’ I prompted.


‘Do you want the long version or the conclusion?’


‘Cut to the chase.’


‘She ain’t coming back anytime soon. She said maybe after Christmas, but her putting money into anybody’s account isn’t going to happen.’


‘I thought she was quids in.’


‘Yeah, and apparently she’s staying that way.’


‘What about her course?’


‘Trust me, Dotty; she’s more interested in the next hard tourist dick than her course. Ask me, she won’t be back in years, if ever.’


‘So we need a new housemate,’ I said flatly.


‘How much?’ asked Michelle.


I’d almost forgotten she was there. While I gaped at her Martha told her the monthly rent.


‘Cheap at twice the price,’ said Michelle. ‘Count me in.’


‘You haven’t even seen the place,’ I objected, not knowing why.


‘I’ve seen dozens of student digs, from all ends of the scale. And cheap as your place is, I’m sure that you don’t live in a dive. I only have to look at you both to see that.’


‘But . . .’ I said uselessly.


‘You need to see ours before we agree anything,’ Martha interrupted, ‘but if you ask me we are a marriage made in heaven. Where are you living now?’


‘I’m in halls . . . and hating every second of it.’


How fast can you get out?’


‘I haven’t actually paid them a penny yet. I’ll speak to the powers that be tomorrow. And with a fair wind, I’ll move in with you two on Sunday.’


The speed of all this staggered me. Don’t get me wrong, from fearing Michelle might quit to having her as a housemate . . .


Well I was scared in a way I can’t begin to explain; scared, aroused and in urgent need of another prolonged session of jilling.


‘How about this for a plan,’ said Martha, taking over as per always: ‘you can speak to the powers that be tomorrow and then call round at our place; we’ll prove we don’t live in a dive and then go out and have a night on the town. I bet you have little experience of the local pubs and curry houses. No?’


‘I’ve been in one or two nearby, but I’m sure there are many more.’


‘So is that a deal in principle?’


‘Too right it is.’


As for me I was ignored. Nodding donkeys had been paid more notice.




Chapter Four



Lots of Friday passed me by in idle speculation. I wanted to be Michelle’s friend more than ever but I had developed a paranoid fear that she would favour Martha. In a way I wanted Michelle to be in halls forever. Yet I also wanted her to live in the bedroom next to mine.


Except that was the bedroom between mine and Martha’s. And I didn’t want her to be sleeping in a bed anywhere near Martha.


Crazy I know; dotty, even. Martha was straighter than straight. And so too was I, come to that! Yet suddenly I was seeing my best friend as a rival.


Come to that suddenly I was seeing simply everyone as a rival, male or female. As far as I could tell, everyone on earth had to want to fuck Michelle. By that I mean every man and every last woman; leastways every last woman with half of a brain cell.


I certainly did.


And what a confession was that!


I spent most of that day in a funk, worrying over the implications of Martha’s idea of “a night out” and the rest worrying if I might make a fool out of myself. In explanation I’d say that Martha is straight but not at all averse to group sex. Blushing furiously as I write this, I have to admit that, since Carole went off abroad, we had occasionally brought home two, three or even four guys at once.


That’s right; just the two of us.


And yes, we’d fucked with all of them, ensuring all present were involved, swapping partners from time to time but without ever doing anything outrageously “lezzie”.


Trust me; that was not easy. Guys like to watch girls don’t they? Not least when they’ve gone all floppy and are in need of a little revitalization.


Most me and Martha ever did was kiss and cuddle. That felt good and never failed to revitalize our latest two, three or four visitors . . .


It was an act, though. Yes, our parts were pleasant to play, but we only ever performed before an audience. We never got carried away when we were alone together. Apart from once when we’d been very drunk and woke up in Martha’s bed, unsure about what may or may not have happened.


Well, I was unsure; Martha only sniggered if ever I mentioned it.


And omigod, I hope my mother isn’t reading this! She almost murdered me when I lost my virginity at . . . ahem . . . a legal but young age. If she learns I’ve watched Martha being penetrated doubly and even trebly . . .


And that Martha has watched me following suit. . .


Casting motherly fears aside, it was fair to say I was in two minds when, after yet another day in close company with Michelle, more enchanted than ever, I went home, showered and waited for her arrival.



*****



At seven on the dot she knocked at our door. Making sure I got there first, I opened it to meet her with a rather sloppy kiss. That seemed to surprise her but she didn’t object. In fact her hands closed on my buns and I laughingly pushed her away.


‘Save it for later,’ I said cryptically.


Her right eyebrow went up like Roger Moore’s, in best James Bond mode.


But she said nothing.


Encouraged despite myself, I led her into our digs. And she whistled appreciation. ‘This is no less than a palace,’ she said softly. ‘Bloody hell Dotty, are you sure you quoted the right price?’


I laughed. ‘It was Martha who gave you the price, but she wasn’t making it up. And amazingly, she didn’t try to overcharge you. I think she really wants to have you as a housemate.’


Michelle’s silence lasted maybe as long as a minute.


‘I like Martha,’ she said finally, ‘but I like you more.’


The surge inside me almost split my heart. How happy was I to hear that! How absolutely, totally happy and how still unsure as to where I was going.


No, as to where we were going.


Doing the full estate agent bit, I showed Michelle all around. The one room we missed out on was Martha’s . . . protected as it was by a DO NOT DISTURB sign, stolen from a nearby hotel.


‘Usually that means she’s on the job.’ I explained, ‘but this is early, even for her. Right now it only means she’s busy putting on her face.’


‘I meant it,’ said Michelle, surprising me, gripping my hand tighter than tight, ‘I like Martha but I like you even more.’


What did I just say about being straight? The temptation to kiss her there and then was massive. Being superhuman, I fought it off.


Or maybe it was pure luck.


Whatever it was, we exchanged meaningful glances. And, total innocent as I was, I knew only too well that from that moment on I really would do anything for her.


Yes, I’d do anything.


No qualifications, I’d do anything at all.



*****



Martha emerged from her pit while I was sharing a bottle of rosé with Michelle.


‘She’s convinced,’ I said in greeting, ‘and you’ve been downing shots, haven’t you?’


Martha was dressed much like the two of us: exceptionally short skirt, tight blouse and a cut-off leather jacket. And yes, she’d clearly had a Sambuca or six in the privacy of her own room. That was her trait, you see. Sunday to Thursday she was a model student. Then, Friday evening, she would do her werewolf impression, transforming from studious and benign into an extreme party animal.


I already mentioned the games she liked to play. Fridays and Saturdays were her fun-time. Those times she enjoyed herself to the full and who could blame her?


Not me, obviously. I’ve confessed I played the same games.


And I’d take opportunity to stress that everything we did was voluntary. I never for one second felt as if I was being used. No, even with two men pounding into me at the same time, I invariably was in control. In honesty I sometimes believed that I used the guys; that they were fulfilling all my fantasies rather than the other way around.


That’s one for a crazy-doctor though, not a mathematician like me. And it was definitely not one I wanted to run by the likes of Michelle. Not at this early stage of our steadily blossoming friendship.


‘I’ve had one or two small shots,’ my housemate told me, lying through her teeth, ‘and they tasted better than that pink crap you’re supping. So are we hitting the Green or not?’


The “Green” was away from the university, right in the heart of town and named after the ancient “Church Green”. All I can say is that those long-ago parishioners must have had a thirst. There on and around the Green was one (admittedly impressive) church and no less than seven public houses.


Yes, it was possible to get totally pissed in an area of maybe a hundred square yards.


Being good UK citizens and diligent students, the Green was a Friday night must.




Chapter Five



Not that we made it straight to the Green in a matter of mere minutes. There were several pubs lying in wait between us and there, and we stopped in three of them. And, in the third, Martha’s antennae twitched.


‘Lookie, lookie, lookie,’ she crooned, ‘her comes nooky.’


I’d heard that before and wasn’t exactly astonished to see a group of guys at the bar. It didn’t take Einstein to class them as rugby players.


Yuk, I thought. Not tonight of all nights . . .


Martha (as per always) had other ideas. ‘Over here, boys,’ she called, ‘let the dogs see the bone.’


I nearly convulsed at that. Calling us “dogs” and mentioning “bones” . . .


Typical frigging Martha!


Within perhaps two seconds our table for four had eight clustered around it. In other words it was exceptionally cosy if not downright crowded.


One of the five keen guys (the one with a flat nose, cauliflower ears and shoulders wider than the Titanic) focused in on Martha. He was obviously the leader of the pack and quite rightly saw her as a sure thing. For her part Martha smiled, simpered and as good as splayed wide her legs.


Nothing new there, then!


To my chagrin three of the rest of the mob were slavering over Michelle. Okay, so I couldn’t blame them but I was envious. And the one remaining guy who’d homed in on me . . . clearly seeing me as a last resort . . . was barely nineteen with acne and halitosis.


Okay, so perhaps I’m doing him down. But fuck me . . . my right hand would be preferable to him every time.


Somehow my glass had got empty. Martha’s and Michelle’s were still half full so, extracting myself from my bad-breathed admirer, I went to the bar. Ten seconds later, with no sign of any attention from any serving bar-staff, a hand closed on mine.


‘I want to get out of here,’ Michelle said into my ear, almost hissing.


‘You and your three new boyfriends,’ I replied, hardly thinking.


‘It’s them I want to escape from. I want out of here and now.’


Her urgency was infectious. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let’s do one.’


‘What about Martha?’


‘Martha can look after herself. Trust me in that.’


The indecision in Michelle was only too apparent. ‘We can’t leave her outnumbered five-to-one.’


‘Let’s give her the choice,’ said I, clutching Michelle’s hand tighter than ever, drawing her back to our table.


‘We’re leaving,’ I told Martha, ‘places to go, people to see.’


Martha sniggered. ‘I guessed that was the way the wind was blowing. Go forth and multiply.’


Coming from anyone else I’d have punched her. Coming from Martha I told her to take care. She cast a glance at her cauliflower-eared suitor and laughed.


‘Don’t warn me, warn him.’



*****



Our four would-be suitors didn’t approve of our early departure. Like we cared! We left the pub in a hurry, took a couple of turns and were soon lost in a maze of backstreets.


‘I hated that,’ Michelle told me, ‘gross men staring at my tits.’


I laughed. Scantily dressed as we were, men were always going to stare at our body parts. That was the name of the game, wasn’t it?


‘Men aren’t always gross,’ I said in a throwaway sort of a way.


‘They are to me,’ said Michelle, ‘I can’t believe Martha allows them have their way with her.’


Stunned, I stopped in my tracks. I had hoped and prayed that Michelle might tend to like girls, but I had never suspected she was militantly anti-men.


‘Oh,’ she said, staring at me, ‘I’ve dropped the bombshell and you’ve reacted. Now you’ll want me to fade and disappear,’


As if!


‘Your relationship . . . the broken one . . . was with a girl?’ I hazarded.


Michelle nodded. ‘Please feel free to jump ship,’ she said.


I didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Your ex must be mad to let you go. No, she must be stark staring bonkers.’


Michelle’s brow creased but she didn’t storm off.


‘I have my bad points,’ she confessed. ‘And you don’t have to be so very understanding about the way I am. I’ll look for somewhere else to rent tomorrow. As you said, there’s plenty of accommodation to be had in these parts.’


‘You will do no such thing,’ I said sternly. ‘You’re moving in with us on Sunday, end of.’


‘Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have a problem with lesbians.’


‘Michelle,’ I said as seriously as I possibly could, ‘I have no problems at all with lesbians. In fact I am delighted that’s how you are. It’s the best news I’ve had in ages.’


That put her back a step. ‘Really?’ she murmured.


Instead of answering I kissed her properly, using my tongue. She didn’t object in the least, sucking on my invading organ of taste, pressing her body tight against mine. Let’s just say we went at it avidly.


And let’s also say it was a heavenly experience. Everything about her was good; her perfume, the feel of her tits on mine, the grip of her hands on my ass . . .


Heavenly, heavenly, heavenly!


Perhaps half an hour later we broke for air, my knees weak and my knickers decidedly damp.


‘Was that evidence enough?’ I gasped.


She nodded. ‘You bet it was. And I was wrong. It’s not too soon. It’s been far too long.’



*****



Still short of the infamous Green I steered Michelle into a pub I’d never previously frequented. It was, you see, a notorious lesbian pub known as The Pride. And before you ask, I was aware of it because I had eyes in my head and had seen all the fliers littering the campus. According to the fliers The Pride was very much “girl friendly” and had “live acts” every weekend.


Even so I was quite startled as we went in. The place was packed with women of all sizes, shapes and descriptions and, as far as I could tell, men were barred. Everyone present, including the bar staff and bouncers, was female.


And those bouncers were a sight for sore eyes. Not that my attention lingered on them long. No, it swiftly focused on the night’s live act, happening on a stage off to our right, beyond the bar. Currently clad in fishnet stockings, a sliver of a thong and a basque, an extraordinarily well-put-together young lady was singing and gyrating.


Except on closer inspection her basque was either unfastened else cut off. Said young lady’s bare breasts were juggling about like a stall full of luscious ripe melons.


My but she was spectacular. Usually an excess of pale makeup and black kohl revolted me but for her I made an exception.


Oh me, I thought, gazing at those wondrous perpetually moving melons, one kiss and I’ve turned 180 degrees!


‘Bloody hell,’ Michelle said into my ear, shouting over the blaring music to be heard, ‘I don’t need this much evidence.’


‘We’re here now,’ I shouted back at her. ‘I’d be rude to leave without having a drink.’


Michelle laughed and ordered two large pinots, served up by a punky, tattooed and multi-pierced barmaid who quite openly ogled our cleavages. Not that she did so in an offensive way. And not that Michelle seemed to mind.


Neither did I mind when Michelle put her hand on my ass as we turned to watch the diva on stage. The Pride was that sort of a place. Girls obviously went there to ogle and be ogled and, in a few rather obvious instances, to exceptionally thoroughly grope and be groped. Trust me, one friendly hand on a pert and eager bum was nothing compared to some of the goings-on around us.


It would have taken a bucket of icy-cold water to separate some of those couples.


And the night was still young. What on earth would the atmosphere be like later on?


Come to that, what would the diva be like later on? By then the basque was gone altogether. As we watched the thong also went west. Then the music changed and everyone was singing along with her.


“Sisters are doin’ it for themselves!” cried a hundred voices, louder than loud, probably using more decibels than AC/DC ever could.


Without hesitation we both joined in, staring at the singer’s increasing rapidly moving sex, possibly salivating (I was, anyway!) and automatically, instinctively part of the sisterhood.


‘That was great,’ Michelle told me as the song changed to You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, (even more voices at it now, few of them sounding remotely like Dusty) ‘but I can’t hear myself think in here. Let’s go somewhere where we can chinwag.’


I obediently finished my drink and, casting a final lusty glance at the suddenly naked songstress, we made for the exit.


Just in time to bump into Jade and her date of the night.


‘Dotty,’ she screeched, ‘out at last, hallelujah and thank the Lord.’


Never one for conventions, Jade kissed me smack on the lips. Then she evaluated Michelle and gave approval. ‘Thought you’d go for butch but hey, your taste is excellent. See you both later. And do not do anything I wouldn’t.’


‘That narrows the field down not at all,’ I replied smartly. But too late; she was already gone.


‘Who in hell was that?’ Michelle wondered in the relative peace and quiet of the street.


‘That was Jade. She’s been trying to convert me for yonks.’


‘Has she had any success?’


‘No, she hasn’t. You’re the first who’s going to succeed.’


It was Michelle’s turn to come to an abrupt halt. ‘You go in places like that and you’re a virgin?’


‘I’ve messed around a bit,’ I said, blushing furiously. ‘Kissing and cuddling, I mean. I don’t think that really counts.’


Michelle responded by taking her turn to kiss me. My response was to say the least, enthusiastic. Indeed it wasn’t hungry, it was downright ravenous.


‘I can’t wait,’ she said, nuzzling me, her hand on my buns again, squeezing me, pleasing me and (if I’m sticking to honesty) making me cum beyond control.




Chapter Six



I won’t bore you with the next few pubs, some of them actually on the Green, but we steadily carried on getting to know each other. And, even if she flatly refused to discuss her ex, Michelle was open enough about her other lovers.


Exclusively female, she said she had never had a positive sexual impulse towards a man. No. she didn’t actively “hate” men, she simply had no desire to ever “succumb” to one. Succumbing to a fellow female was different altogether. She had no fear of penetration when it came from a fellow female. In fact she relished everything which came from a fellow female. It was just men who did nothing for her. Far as she was concerned, every last woman had something going for her. She could see redeeming features in all of them, whatever colour, shape or size.


I hedged when it came to my sexual experience, making it sound like I admired every woman I’d ever met without ever doing anything about it. It’s fair to say that Michelle saw straight through me.


‘I don’t think I’ve been with a virgin before,’ she told me. ‘Leastways not one who’s ever admitted it. And between you and me, I can’t wait.’


So much for her reticence and uncertainty!


Then my doubts set in. Not emotionally or sexually, I hasten to add. I was as impatient as Michelle was. But I hesitated to invite her back to mine . . . or ours, as it soon would be,


What would we find there? Would Martha have limited herself to just Cauliflower Ears or may she have indulged in two lovers . . . or four or five!


‘I need to talk to my housemate,’ I said awkwardly. ‘We need to agree ground rules.’


‘Is she anti-lezzie?’


‘No, she is absolutely not. We just need to clear the air, if you know what I mean.’ I gulped before going on. ‘I want to share at least a few nights in your bed. Martha needs to know that. And she needs to control some of her bad habits. Trust me; it’s not a conversation you’ll want to be involved in.’


‘The sort of conversation best held over the breakfast table.’


‘Yes, got it in one.’


‘And is Sunday on the cards for our first bed-sharing session?’


‘It’s already in my diary, triple underlined.’


‘Okay, I can live with that. Are you going to walk me home?’


By then it was approaching midnight. Lots of pubs would be open for hours yet but we’d downed a few. Going home was the sensible thing to do. But hey, we were students!


‘Isn’t it early?’ I asked.


‘I still need to catch up on my beauty sleep after that moonlit trumpet player.’


‘Sleep works for you,’ I observed cornily. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. Not in real life.’


Michelle took her turn to roll her eyes, and very fetchingly too. ‘So what happens next?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I mean that it is ages until Sunday. Don’t you want to see me tomorrow?’


Her question took me aback. Cosily, I’d got so used to seeing Michelle all day and just everyday that Saturday hadn’t come into the equation.


‘Yes I do,’ said I hastily. ‘What have you got in mind?’


‘I’m into ladies football.’


‘Are you really?’


‘Yes, they play on the pitch next to the men and it’s much more fun when they kiss after scoring a goal. And they score more goals, so you can’t lose.’


‘I think you’re trying to turn me into a perv.’


‘I think you want to be turned.’


‘Fair enough, I can’t argue with that!’



*****



Because we had ended up at “that side of town” again, I walked Michelle back onto the campus. And I wondered about another kiss every step of the way. Why not, the devil inside me prompted.


Turned out Michelle’s devil was a mile or two ahead of mine.


I’m not going to describe the north side of campus. Let’s say it had been constructed maybe ten or less years ago but in a style which instantly looked old-fashioned. You know what I mean; developers pour out a million tons of concrete and it looks 1960s before it even sets.


Yes, two decades into the new millennium and those modern geniuses were still three light years behind the Romans, Vikings and Normans.


Call me radical but fucking hell! I’ve as much idea about architecture as I have about origami, but I’d do a far better job.


Pick some homeless blind person off the street and so would she or he.


Excuse me while I get off my soapbox.


So there we were, strolling through concrete city, arms hooked again, me wondering if and when a kiss might be appropriate.


And suddenly Michelle tugged me off the beaten path.


‘Down here,’ she said, ‘I have to show you something.’


By now you’ve probably realized I’m a “woman of the world”. Mischief was clearly intended and no way was I about to resist. So I eagerly let myself be drawn away into the dark shadows, along several side tracks, all ever-increasingly murky.


Then, not fifty yards from that original beaten path, Michelle kissed me.


Excuse me for diverting to Fantasy Island. In my (retrospective but considered) opinion, girls are much better at kissing than guys. Okay, so I didn’t realize it at the time (or even remotely think about it) but to me it’s a fact. Just messing around with Martha was better than kissing any bloke.


Yes, it was as simple as that.


But messing around with Michelle . . .


God help me but it was marvellous.


Locked away from the world, outside but in an oasis of privacy, I gladly let her kiss me. To expand on that, it was suddenly her tongue in my mouth and I was the one doing all the sucking.


Then her hand edged up inside my skimpy blouse and I came like a volcano.


Call me impulsive but you had to be there in my shoes. Or rather, you had to be there shaking and quaking in my ridiculous heels.


One touch on my tits and off I went!


I didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed.


Not that Michelle waited for me to make up my mind on trivialities.


Arbitrarily abandoning my chest, her hand slid down then up again, inside my skimpy skirt.


Did I protest?


Heckers like I did.


‘Oh yes,’ I endorsed, briefly breaking our delicious mouth-to-mouth contact, ‘oh yes, more, more, more.’


Michelle certainly got the message.


God in Heaven, didn’t she just!’


Don’t ask me how she so easily accessed my panties. At the time I didn’t care. All I wanted was for her to be on me, in there and on me.


And in me; most of all I wanted her in me.


At this point I’m going to repeat myself. Girls really are infinitely better than guys. Okay, so some guys aren’t half bad at sex, but girls really know, don’t they!


And Michelle seemed to know more than most. Right then all I wanted was for her to thoroughly feel me inside and out.


Call me a slut and ask me if I’m bothered.


Orientation had just hit me big-time.


So I stood there, ever widening my legs, permitting access to invasive fingers and cumming twice, if not thrice . . .


Or maybe six hundred and seventy-thrice . . .



*****



Maybe an hour later Michelle decided I’d had enough. Leastways she did after very showily licking her fingers and telling me I tasted divine. With rubber bands for leg muscles, leaning on her for support, I let her lead me back to civilization in the shape of her halls.


‘I’ve half a mind to smuggle you in,’ she said. ‘There are so many things we could do.’


I had half a mind to be persuaded but there was an uncompromising security officer to get past: a big ugly one at that; the sort who took no prisoners.


‘Let me sort out Martha,’ I suggested. ‘Then let’s sleep together at mine tomorrow night. Bugger waiting for Sunday.’


Michelle nodded and kissed me one last time. ‘Football in the morning,’ she said, ‘drinks for lunch and sex in the afternoon. Then a night out followed by more sex. Then I’ll move in and we can sleep together anytime we like.’


‘Sound like a plan,’ I endorsed.




Chapter Seven



My legs fortunately recovered, I left campus and went home, encountering groups of drunks here and there but not being molested in any way. Opening the front door I wondered how many pairs of shoes I’d find on the mat. To my surprise there were only two: Martha’s outrageous stilettos and size twelve Reeboks.


Lucky old Cauliflower Ears’ footwear, if I wasn’t very much mistaken.


Sure enough, the DO NOT DISTURB sign was back on Martha’s door. Unable to resist, I put my ear to the wood and listened. Yes, that was definitely the slap, slap, slapping of human groins. And, in Sherlock Holmes mode, I swiftly deduced Martha was enjoying herself on top. Her favourite rhythm was a dead giveaway.


‘Sweet dreams,’ I called before heading off to my own pit.


Not that I went straight to sleep. My excitement level was still off the scale. Cue extensive use of my trusty right hand. And oh my, the fantasies I indulged in!


Being blunt and to the point (if that’s not an oxymoron), I have always liked having attention paid between my legs. Up until then the attention-payers had all been male. And yes, I could get off on the feel of a guy’s fingers, lips and tongue. I was, however, much more skilful when I did it myself.


Or so I’d believed. Right then my opinions had changed dramatically. Michelle had been so, so brilliantly good. She’d pleasured me in ways I hadn’t imagined possible.


She was so supremely superior!


And so far she’d only used her hand! What on earth was her mouth going to feel like!!


My God, what would it be like to have her tongue inside of me!!!


Ignoring a sudden chorus of squeals from the neighbouring bedroom (reckoning Martha wanted me to know she had just orgasmed again), I wondered if all females were as skilled as Michelle. Well, if all lesbian females were that skilful. And, although my immediate plans centred very much on my favourite black-haired beauty, I decided I had to find out at some stage.


Jade would probably renew her attempts at seduction now she knew for sure. I could easily give her a try. I pictured her naked, her head bobbing away at me down there . . .


Then I remembered the singer in the pub. A woman like that had to be very experienced, if hard to ever actually pull. She probably had fifty indecent proposals to choose from after every gig.


Cue images of jiggling melons and real-life clenching muscles!


Hard to get but even harder to forget!!


Next into my imaginings came the bouncers, swaggering, looking tough and sexy as heck.


What had Jade said; something about me preferring butch? Maybe she was right. Maybe that was another voyage of discovery I needed to undertake.


But, fantasies aside, I wasn’t ready to experiment, not quite yet. Michelle mattered too much. As soon as my fantasy uniformed ladies made me erupt I switched back to my memories (forsaking the inquisitive if a tad punky barmaid), recalling every step of that diversion into the shadows and striving hard to relive every second of everything.


Finally, who knows how long later, I slowly drifted off to the land of nod, as contented as any girl ever had been.


And yes, my dreams were sweeter than sweet.



*****



Eight thirty was early for me on a Saturday morning but I had agreed to meet Michelle at quarter to ten. I also desperately needed to pee. Consequently the sound of the shower in the bathroom didn’t deter me. Far as I was concerned it was my house and my bladder took priority. Whoever it was in there, Martha, Cauliflower Ears or both of them . . . it didn’t matter one whit.


As it happened it was Cauliflower Ears in there on his own. Comfortable in my nakedness, I just strutted in and told him to excuse me. It’s fair to say he gaped as I sat and relieved myself. It is also fair to say he was extremely excited by the time I went to brush my teeth.


Not that I could think of any particular use for him at that moment in time. Still, it was nice to know I appealed to guys as well as gals.


Shifted environments and all, why burn bridges?


‘See you around, Big Boy,’ I said in parting.


Suddenly aware of his hard-on, he flushed and turned away from me. But by then I was as good as back in my room, examining my knickers.


How ruined were they! I hesitated to class my outflowing as “divine” but there certainly had been lots of it.


Dumping last night’s togs in my wash basket I selected suitable autumnal clothing: tight blue jeans and a figure-hugging sweater. Yes, the weather thus far had been warm, but I was more interested in looking good than anything else.


No bra and eager tits . . . that was the ticket.


And oh, if only my tits were as splendid and eager as that singer’s in The Pride!


Still, I was on my way to watch girls scoring goals and kissing each other. There had to be worse ways to spend a morning.


Leastways they were after I got through my showdown with Martha.



*****



I found her downstairs sitting at the kitchen table, swigging coffee and wearing her usual X Certificate dressing gown. How to describe it! Martha was, to say the least, voluptuous. And her gown was at the best inadequate. If she pulled the top together to cover her tits it rode up, exposing her ass. And, if for some reason she tried to cover her ass (an unlikely event in itself), out popped her chest.


Needless to report, guys like Cauliflower Ears loved that gown.


And I did too . . . even if I hadn’t realized it until that very moment.


‘Sweet dreams my arse,’ she said in greeting. ‘I haven’t slept a wink.’


‘I’ve just seen Big Boy having a shower;’ I countered ‘He seems to have a little left in the tank.’


‘Have you been flashing again?’


‘I needed to make water; he just happened to be there.’


‘And he’s got more in the tank?’


‘Yes, maybe as much as eight inches more.’


Martha swigged more coffee but didn’t bite. ‘So why come home so soon?’ she said instead, ‘Did you get cold feet?’


‘Whatever do you mean?’


‘I mean you and your chick were all over each other. And I’m prepared to bet she has been there before. So did you do a runner or what?’


‘She did things to me,’ I said, feeling my cheeks heating up. ‘No, she did things for me. Trust me, Martha; if we ever role-play again I’ll have a million new ideas.’


Martha didn’t seem in the least surprised. ‘What happens next?’ she asked.


‘Next we have sex. Me and her, I mean,’ I added hastily. ‘This afternoon has been proposed.’


‘Want to borrow my DO NOT DISTURB sign?’


‘No, I just don’t want to fall out with you. And Michelle . . . she’s rather anti-male.’


‘In other words you don’t want me to let on about some of the games we’ve played. And you want me to bring guys home one at a time in future.’


How well did Martha know me! ‘Something along those lines,’ I admitted.


‘No problem.’



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