Even then, weak from pleasure, I still managed to stay in control. I turned around, never quite letting you out of me. This way was dirtier. It wasn’t a position I could ever ask if you wanted - imagine saying ‘reverse cowgirl’ out loud and not feeling ridiculous. However, it was certainly a position that made me feel wanton, especially doing it out there in the open. I could bump and grind like the lap dancer I was pretending to be. You would have seen the rudeness of my bottom sliding back on forth upon you, the slap of my cheeks on your thighs as I rode your lovely stiff cock. The sensations inside were different, new parts of me touched, and you were so deep. I wanted to tease you forever with my wriggling, coming over and over, but I was running out of steam and didn’t have the crush against you to bring about my finish. That’s when you took control.
You put your arms around me and eased me back so that I was leaning into your chest. Your kisses were at my neck. My nipples were aching and swollen between your fingers. I was wide open, the sun hot on my throbbing clit. You held me, restricting my movements to the slight but rapid back and forth of my hips. It kept me gasping, kept the tingling buzz running through my puss, but it wouldn’t lead to any explosions and you knew this. Your hand slipped down over my belly and between my thighs. Your fingers closed against my lips and trapped my clit, pinching inwards so that you must have been able to feel its hardness through the fleshy protection, a constant pressure kept up as I jerked and writhed. I wailed aloud and I didn’t care who heard me.
With the rapture came a sense of victory. I had been your private dancer, your naughty exhibitionist. I felt free, rude, and fabulous. Which of those other girls would have done this for you, out there on your boat? Jacqui would but then she would do anything. Still, this would go down as a time to remember, one that none of the others could take away from me. I knew from the way you held me that such moments would make it hard to ever let me go. I didn’t even make you come that time. I was there for ages on your lap and you let me stay still, slowly softening inside me.
‘We’ll save it for later,’ you said with a big smile. Then you were lifting me and hugging me, as naked as I was, and I felt protected and ecstatic. I knew I had done something special for you and for the rest of the day I was all you would have on your mind.
You don’t know how much the bliss of these memories jars with the misery of this grey place in the incessant dull drizzle. I will never feel the heat of the sun again without you. My bones are too frozen. How could you have done what you did, fucking off into the night like that with nothing about me, about us, able to change your mind? Reverse that rashness, I’m begging you. Go back to that time and say you will stay with me. We were warm together. We were good together. Things would only have got better, I had proved that. Don’t think of me as selfish. Think of me as the girl who would do anything not to lose you, who would give you everything - and yet you wouldn’t even give me just a little more time to convince you not to go. Remember, please, all those promise that you made and that you could yet un-break, and then come back to me.
The Jacqueline Effect
Lord knows how you counter her. I certainly had no defence. She came from a different mould to the rest of us. She lives within a bubble of indifference, speaking and acting as she sees fit as if consequences didn’t exist. She can leave you high and dry without apology or explanation one minute and be disarmingly loyal the next. One time, the school nutcase Caitlin McCredie had been having a go at me over something and nothing. Jacqui, who was new to my class and hadn’t spoken a word to me in those weeks, came out of nowhere, smacked Caitlin round the chops and put her on her arse. We bonded right then and I’ve had no trouble from Ms McCredie since. For a clever girl, Jacqueline certainly has something of the street fighter about her.
She knew how to get me through my mad days just as well as you. She is vulgar but shares my sense of mischief. No one makes me laugh like she does. In the space of a minute she can have you pulling your hair out with frustration or exasperation and then rolling around the floor crying tears of joy. I have always been somewhat in awe of her, a little daunted by her bouts of reckless spontaneity, but helplessly drawn nonetheless. I always thought she was the more attractive of the two of us, if only for her dark looks and petite frame. Against her I never expect to come out on top in anything. When you told me that time that I wasn’t what you thought your type to be, I never pressed you on what you did think your type was because I felt sure you would describe her.
She didn’t really do boyfriends. She saw no point in making a pretence of commitment at our young age. She thought she should do what she wanted with whoever she wanted. She never saw you as territory not to tread upon. She didn’t think anyone was the property of anyone else. Although she never said as much, I think that from day one she always expected to end up in bed with you at some point, regardless of what I thought on the matter. I know you liked her. If you fell for me there was no way you could avoid liking her at least as much or more. And she had ways to keep herself at the forefront of your mind - tactics I couldn’t begin to compete with. Even if you had set out to hate her she would have turned your opinion on its head inside ten minutes.
She never gave any sign of animosity or jealousy that I was with you. If she wanted to invite herself into our midst then she would, unashamedly. If not, she would be elsewhere and I never got the sense that I was leaving her at a loose end. During our friendship it had always been me dragging along in her wake as she embarked on her next bizarre adventure. For someone who claimed this place wasn’t big enough for her she sure found lots to keep her entertained. One day she would have us serving tea to the old dears at the Methodist church with, it transpired to my incredulity, no ulterior motive whatsoever. The next day and she’d spend the whole morning carving the cylindrical wooden post at the entrance of Slitneck Alley - the one Dewi Nance bust his knee on that time he was being chased by Clemmo - into the shape of a giant erect penis, using the knife she had stolen from the chandlery.
She never had any qualms about touching you. She would catch you unawares, grabbing your be-jeaned behind and saying ‘Nice butt!’ in her John Wayne voice. This became her catchphrase. Anyone, however venerable, would have it shouted in their direction if they were foolish enough to bend forward or wear too-tight trousers in her presence. She even had us saying it. If ever you kissed me she would ask for one too. Once, as you smilingly refused her and made to leave, she tackled you by the ankles to the floor, then climbed along your back and licked your face like a demented woman whilst you giggled helplessly. Another time, whilst you were lying on your back reading the paper, she came in and without further ado she straddled you, pretending to ride you like a porn star, dirty slut-talk and all. It made me laugh, but in my belly there was a twinge of jealousy, and down below there was a twinge of another kind. For some reason it had turned me on, so heaven knows what it did for you.
She even invited herself to our jagged Special Place out on the cliffs. I remember you landed a bass and as you hauled it in you swung it her way, as if making to slap her round the face with the wriggly blighter.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ she said to the fish. You almost fell into the sea laughing. She got to share our secret boathouse with us. If ever I wasn’t around and you were, she’d have known where to find you. She had us on the alcohol, since her presence there stopped us doing anything more romantic. She installed her funky music and got us up dancing in the most ridiculous ways possible, twerking around a good year before Miley Cyrus got the word into the dictionary.
One time she even ended up in her undies and had you drunkenly swaying to the beat with your trousers round your ankles. I sight I won’t quickly forget is her, leaning out into the night, the handle of the window the only thing keeping her from spilling from the boathouse as she yelled up towards the huge cliff-top dwelling above us, demanding of Mr Branwalather that he should immediately check his bad self
and come down to shake his fishy old booty. She had that long rectangular vase in her other hand, from which she had chosen to drink the hastily invented “Big J cocktail” that she had mixed for us. One half of her red lace undies was disappearing into that neat little crack of hers, leaving us both with a view of one perfect, smooth, pale pert bum cheek. I’d have said that her antics around you were a flagrant attempt to steal you from right under my nose if it wasn’t for the fact that she had always behaved in this same devil-may-care way, even before you were part of the scene. It was how she always was: deeply, inescapably infectious.
Effectively it was she who formulated my Big Decision for me, way before I actually put it into practise. Towards the end of my first year at uni I went up to visit her. I thought I was the one studying in the most glamorous location but she had ordained I come to her, so I did. Maybe it was because she had ascertained that I only had a single bed in my room. I considered myself to be all mature and worldly-wise now I was a student. She wasn’t much changed - she simply had all those around adoring her and dancing to her tune. How anyone can come from a backward little place like this, complete with full-on pirate accent, and still make a splash amongst folk from the big city is unfeasible.
I’d missed her terribly - perhaps even on a par with how much I missed you, although for different reasons. The best bit about that first day was that she made sure she told all those new people around her, whatever fabulous times they had shared together, that I was her best friend, the one she would always put above all. I knew she would never put anyone above herself but it still made me glow all warm inside. The second day we were chatting alone. She wanted to know all about my recent conquests. I didn’t want to talk about any of this stuff. I didn’t want her to have any excuse to think my focus on you was changed at all, and that she might have a chance to step in. I told her instead that none of the guys there were a patch on you.
‘Well, he has got a lovely big cock, hasn’t he?’ she said.
The shock of this almost knocked me out. The lurch inside was sickening.
‘And how would you know that?’ I asked with noticeable desperation.
‘Cos I gave him a nice long grope that night we had our first kiss off him, didn’t I? Got him right hard, I did.’
She smilingly drew in her breath and shivered at the fond memory. This was said as if I knew all about it and I felt ridiculous that I hadn’t been aware. I had a lot to thank her for, she reckoned. No guy forgot any girl who got his cock stiff for him, particularly at the first time of asking. If I was ingrained in your mind it was all down to her. She said it like it was normal, like it was what any girl would do for her best friend. And she said ‘our first kiss’, not ‘your’. It turned everything on its head. Those nights I had spent pining, thinking that I had miraculously managed to turn your attention my way, that I had actually got you wanting us to be an item, it would have been completely different if I had realised it was because of Jacqui. My dreams wouldn’t have been so fanciful, so optimistic. The fraud inspector within me would have prevented my heart aching so much.
If this revelation was a calculated effort by my best friend to connect with the hugest of body punches then she didn’t show it. There was no sense of victory in her eyes. It was just matter-of-fact for her and not something on which to dwell or expand upon. Whilst my head was still swimming she had moved the conversation along. She told me, with the same unembellished frankness as before, that she had slept with three girls that year. Perhaps the whole conversation had been engineered for this next revelation and it left me even more stunned because she had never before given even the slightest hint of having leanings in this direction.
‘What did you do that for?’ was all I could manage in reply.
She said something about life being there for the taking. She made it seem like it was a crime against oneself not to and was incredulous that I hadn’t given it a go.
‘University life is about experimenting,’ she affirmed.
I’m doing Business Studies, not Chemistry, I thought. I didn’t say this. I merely mumbled that I wouldn’t even know what to do with another girl. So she told me.
‘Girl on girl,’ she said, borrowing a hollow term from the world of porn so that I could be in doubt that it was selfish pleasure and not any kind of sexual politics behind her views, ‘is essentially about kissing. It is just about lips and tongues and little else. If a girl kisses another girl’s mouth or pussy for long enough then it becomes so soft and wet it feels like it might melt. There is nothing in this world so silken or delicate and more wonderful.’
It was not about toys or positions or kinkiness, she told me, despite my theory that she had taken all her pointers from dirty internet sites. It was instead the ultimate tenderness. Men couldn’t provide this because they were too hard, too bristly and too genetically driven to want to stuff you.
‘That is why there can never be anything wrong with two girls making love,’ she said, and put her hand on my bare arm as I sat on the bed beside her, just to make sure my weakening limbs were completely turned to jelly. ‘It’s not about lust or procreation. You cannot even begin to compare it to being with a man; it is a unique brilliance. Always remember: a girl cannot cheat her man by going with another girl - that is just the truth of it.’
So there she was, looking earnestly into my eyes. For a long time we had been friends and nothing like this had ever previously been threatened between us. It had just dropped out of the sky. It was a moment of fancy which could have spoiled everything, but Jacqui works on a different plane to everyone else, one where such things are not considered. It takes a special kind of selfishness for that: one done with such disregard for consequences that she actually has you believing that there cannot be any. In my head I had already predicted her next words. I could have written them on a card to be presented in triumph as she spoke them exactly. I also knew I would have no defence against them; I always acquiesced to all her ideas.
‘Let me show you,’ she said, and that was that. In fairness she hadn’t lied. The difference was immediately absorbing. Once I had got over the fact it was her I was kissing, and let myself go, it became every bit as glorious as she had said. There was no hurry for one thing; no rush to strip me and expose me to the starkness of the afternoon sunlight; no demanding hands prising me apart. The lack of haste meant that those body-issue fears, that only you have properly helped me to conquer, never even began to surface. There was no sense of having to perform, of working towards a formulaic end. It seemed like we had all the time we wanted. There was evident passion and desire but it was patient.
I wanted to keep kissing her because the compulsion is always there with me anyway, just as it must be in everyone. That look she gives you, with those large eyes, always brightly alive, and those soft lips, always threatening to break into a mischievous smile. It was a look I feared because I knew it had to be irresistible to everyone, and that included you. It made you feel that if you could get in the closest contact with her it would fill you with that magical energy she exuded - and it did. I had her down as a sexual firecracker, a ravisher. I had visions of being ridden around her bedroom like a dumb mule and left in a confused, exhausted heap, but nothing could be further from the truth. I hadn’t guessed her sexual personality would be so different to the “her” that I knew. The patience, those teasing, gentle caresses made it seem like she loved every inch of my body. I wanted to love her back, intensely.
She spoke during it too, which is something I have never been able to do.
‘I love your titties,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to suck on them and have those gorgeous pale nipples go all hard in my mouth.’
It wasn’t raucous and never became overly gratuitous, the way she spoke. It was soft, little more than a whisper. It was always a little ruder than what we were actually doing, adding an ever-growing erotic expectation. I have always been too
embarrassed for words during lovemaking. As soon as you start with silence I can’t imagine then breaking it. I knew that talking was the key to understanding your partner but I just didn’t have it in me. She wasn’t scared to educate me.
‘Put your finger inside me, darling, and slowly move it in little circles,’ she said breathily, right into my ear. ‘Now curl it upwards and just, like, tap it against that spot right there - you feel how wet that’s making me, sweetie?’
Her talking made us seem so close. It felt so personal and special. If she used it on anyone it would slay their heart in an instant. She is so small too - all this strength and confidence oozing from such a tiny, perfect frame. Hers is a killer body. I knew as I was breathing in its sweet fragrance and stroking the warm porcelain smoothness that no one could fail to yearn for it. She is perky and taut, the flesh springy yet still so, so soft. She is lithe and tight, hot and silky wet. There are no marks or flaws or skinniness, just perfection in miniature. One look from her, one suggestion of a look, would have had you over a barrel. I wanted you far away from her, even now I was falling head over heels, but she wanted you there - if not in body then at least in our minds.
‘Do you think he will ever have us at the same time?’ she asked when her fingers were moving inside me. I knew she meant you. Who else? Even though I feared her intentions I couldn’t stop the clench upon her, the trickling escape down her wrist. ‘I’d love to suck his cock after he has been inside you.’
So although it was just the two of us you were there too. Once she had put you in mind there was no pushing you out again. As things got wetter her words and my visions intensified. With her down between my thighs I couldn’t help but picture you behind her, thrusting against that delightful, squashy little rump. Although it scared me witless, knowing I would be the one ultimately to be left out in the cold, I still wanted it. She deserved it; you deserved it. Everything she said made it sound like an unmissable dream.
Come Back to Me Page 4
