by Limey Lady
Her face could weaken knees at fifty paces.
Needless to report, Ellie had guys sniffing around her all the time. In fact that morning was one of the few times I’d seen her without a crowd of sycophant admirers.
And she wanted to discuss Friday and Saturday.
What’s more, she made it sound as if we were going out on a couple of dates!
‘I’m really looking forward to this weekend,’ she assured me. ‘With any luck I’ll be the subject of next week’s rumours.’
That was too much innuendo for me. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but aren’t you a straight girl with a massive collection of male scalps? One who uses and discards blokes like Zsa Zsa Gabor? Or are you a twin sister of Ellie’s I didn’t know existed?’
‘I’m a grown woman who isn’t afraid of her sexuality,’ said she. ‘And I don’t mind admitting it; I’m very jealous of all the admiration you two have been getting. I want my own day in the sun.’
‘Admiration,’ I echoed.
‘Yeah; every girl who’s ever had a crush on her best friend is wishing she’d had your balls.’
That flattered me and almost, but not quite, shut me up. ‘Tell me again what Sara asked you to do?’ I prompted, intrigued.
‘She asked me to be your minder, and to do whatever it takes to keep you out of mischief.’
Ellie’s were the second set of hypnotic eyes I’d been ensnared by that morning (and it was barely nine o’clock!). What was happening to me? And come to that, what was Sara up to? She’d been warning me to watch out for the blonde beauty only yesterday.
Hmmm, I thought. Interesting times or what!
*****
I caught up with Sara at lunchtime and she was, to say the least, evasive. In other words she agreed with Miss Williams’s advice without demur, but hedged like billy-o when it came to Ellie.
‘So define “mischief” for me,’ I demanded. ‘And explain how Ellie’s going to keep me out of it.’
‘Mischief’s anything more than a dance and a kiss,’ she said without hesitation. ‘And Ellie’s got carte blanche to save you from yourself. I trust her with that; she’s very resourceful.’
Getting a Wednesday night date out of Sara was a darn sight easier than getting her to explain why she was suddenly pushing me and Ellie together. In the end I gave up trying and agreed to meet her at seven in the Suburban, by which time we would have both come out of our closets.
Gulp!!!
In theory I had nothing to fear. I’d been telling the truth when I said my parents probably wouldn’t be too surprised. Knowing that and actually confessing to them were, however, two very different kettles of fish.
Going home with my supposedly determined head on, I dithered and dawdled, trying to pretend I had nothing on my mind. That fooled my mum for perhaps ten minutes (she was making a cottage pie and engrossed with carrots and peas; otherwise it would have been more like ten seconds).
‘Davina,’ she said at length, ‘either stop hanging around my kitchen or make yourself useful and pour us some wine.’
I opened the fridge to find three bottles of Sauvignon (which doesn’t officially go with a cottage pie but who cares? The French think we English are food and wine heathens anyway). One of the bottles had already been opened. I emptied it into two glasses.
‘So,’ Mum continued, ‘take a pew and tell me all about it.’
I sat at the pine table, slurped vino and said nothing.
‘It’s as bad as that, eh?’ Mum laughed. ‘Come on Dave, spill the beans.’
I stared at the table top and wondered where logical me had gone. Whatever Mum’s reaction (be it surprise, anger or amazement), I wasn’t going to be physically hurt over this revelation. As one of the lads in my form said whenever someone was in deep trouble, “Chill baby, they can’t kill you for it”.
‘There are rumours at school,’ I mumbled, never once looking up. ‘I thought you ought to know.’
Mum took a seat opposite me and elegantly sipped her wine. ‘What sort of rumours?’
‘About me and Sara,’ I whimpered.
‘Do you mean about you being more than just friends?’
I hadn’t expected her to be so blunt but, still staring at that slab of pine table top, I said, ‘Yes.’
‘And are you more than just friends?’
‘Yes,’ I squawked.
‘So where’s your problem,’ Mum said without hesitation.
I lingered long enough to squeeze tears out of my eyes. Then I finally looked in my mother’s general direction.
‘You really don’t mind?’ I bleated.
‘Why should I mind? Sara’s a lovely girl.’
I slurped more vino and wondered why my eyes were leaking so badly. It had been years since I last cried; years and years.
No, I’m being honest here: I slurped more vino and wondered why I had such a wonderful mother.
‘Does Sara’s mum know?’ she enquired.
I glanced at the retro kitchen clock. It was five fifteen . . . or as good as. ‘She should be baring her all anytime now,’ I said. ‘Hopefully her mum will be as understanding as you.’
Mum coughed at that and, steeling myself, I looked her in the eye. And I saw nothing but kindness and love.
(At this point I must apologize to everyone who has come out to shame and ridicule. I feel for you my sisters. How lucky was I? Okay, my revelation was never going to really shock anyone, but it couldn’t have been easier. And it certainly couldn’t have been more civilized.)
‘I’ll ring Carole a little later,’ Mum said.
I nodded dumbly. “Carole” was otherwise known as Mrs C or Mrs Clarke, Sara’s mother.
‘We’ll need to agree things,’ Mum continued brightly. ‘You are grown women and have needs. I’m not going to come out with “not under my roof” or anything like that, but I’m also not going to let you sleep together every night. Not with A-levels in the offing.’
Did I just say everything was easy and civilized? Mothers, eh? They try to help as best they can but still make you feel as if you are five years old. Or maybe only three . . .
Chapter Twelve
And so we come to Friday evening. Sara’s parents had collected her as school let out and set off in a southerly direction, hoping to make the M1 before the rush hour. I had headed for home . . . after first assuring Ellie that I would see her in The Old White Horse at seven on the dot.
I meant her and half a dozen other girls, of course. Not that she seemed to care about the others. The way she was talking! It was all “us” and “we”!!
Walking down Park Road, passing the end of Sara’s turning, I felt a teeny twinge of guilt. I loved Sara and we’d only just properly got together. How could I be going out, playing while the cat was away?
And how could I have been playing with myself so often over the last couple of nights?
I haven’t confessed much for a while so I’ll balance the books, shall I? Sometime in the early hours of Thursday I’d woken from a very sexual dream. Even though I’d snapped right out of it the details were already obscured. All I knew was that it hadn’t involved Sara.
No, it had involved Miss Williams in . . . and mostly out of . . . her sexy tracksuit.
Well, her and a certain friend of mine.
Still massively aroused, trying to think thoughts about my official girlfriend, I began to masturbate. But it was no good. However hard I tried to picture Sara she kept being superimposed by my form teacher and Ellie. Her face wouldn’t stay in my mind’s eye longer than a few seconds; nor would any other bits of her, not even her tits.
We were not having a threesome. Well, I’m reasonably sure we weren’t. I believe it was more a case of bodies and faces morphing from one lover to the other. That is to say I did my best to picture Sara but the other two kept elbowing her out of the way.
In the end I gave up and focused on Miss Williams. Then, after a simply colossal cum, I did it again and focused on Ellie, eventually cumming ev
en harder. And then, at last, I was able . . . more or less successfully . . . to focus on Sara.
The early hours of Friday saw almost exactly the same sequence of events.
What’s got into me? I wondered as I negotiated Main Street that evening.
As questions go it wasn’t a bad one. Up until Sara’s party I hadn’t seriously, sexually looked at women I saw in real life. I’d never mentally stripped my girl friends or imagined going down on someone I saw across a crowded bar. I’d reserved my baser urges for actresses in videos and some of the models in glossy magazines.
Only fantasy people featuring in my fantasy world, you could say.
But now I was seeing potential in every adult female who crossed my path . . . and sometimes I was bringing myself off in line with that potential.
Especially the kittenish ones in sportswear . . .
How wicked was I!
How wicked and, as I got nearer to the White Horse, how nervous!! My knees were watery and I had that fluttery tummy again.
It’s not a date, I told myself sternly. It’s just another eighteenth with the same old faces.
Isn’t it . . .
*****
Ellie was at the bar when I arrived. She greeted me with a hug and air kisses.
‘You’re looking good,’ she assured me.
I laughed. I was in Docs, blue jeans and a black and white sweatshirt, makeup-free and looking much as always. She was mostly in black: knee-high boots, a short skirt and a teeny-weeny leather jacket over her low-cut blouse. To be fair she’d used minimal slap and lippy. If anyone mistook her for a tart at least it would be an expensive one.
‘You’ve scrubbed up well yourself,’ I replied.
The night’s gang was as good as assembled in various parts of the pub. I spotted a dozen or so gals and four guys, all of them busy doing groundwork. That is to say the guys were doing their best to do the groundwork, with differing degrees of success.
‘We’re sharing a taxi with Jacqui and Roberta,’ Ellie advised me. ‘It’ll be here at half past so time your drinking accordingly.’
*****
The party was at another pub; it was three or four miles out of Bingley and seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Despite its location it had a good reputation and was one of those places that had phases when it was suddenly “the” venue to go to. We split the cab fare four ways then made our way directly to the function room, where celebrations were already in full swing.
‘The place is buzzing,’ Ellie said, taking hold of my hand. ‘Now there’s to be no sneaking off from your minder. And get the drinks in. I’m parched.’
Ellie had bought me my glass of wine back in the White Horse so she was correct in suggesting it was my round. Leaving Jacqui and Roberta in a round of their own I bought our first drinks out in the wilds. Then Ellie bought us our next and on we went.
It was soon clear my super-sexy minder was going to follow Sara’s instructions to the letter. She even came with me when I went to the loo. That was A-OK with me. I might have been seeing some of my schoolmates in a new light just lately, but I had no intention of doing anything rash.
Well, not unless the opportunity arose with a blonde in black.
It was another of those occasions when groups formed, split and reformed. I have no memory of who we chatted with or what we chatted about. Shoes and ships and sealing wax, as likely as not. All I am sure about is that Ellie wasn’t as flirty as usual. Or rather, as far as predatory guys went, she wasn’t in the least bit flirty.
She saved all her flirting for me.
That was how I read the situation, anyway. And who wouldn’t? If we were standing in a knot of fellow students she behaved herself. If we weren’t every other thing she said was a double entendre.
A dance and a kiss, I kept reminding myself. That falls short of mischief, apparently, so why not?
As luck would have it, Ellie was setting off for refills when the music slowed. I caught her arm and told her to ditch our glasses.
‘I’m allowed one dance and a kiss,’ I said, ‘if you don’t mind taking the lead with the dancing part. And assuming you’re even remotely interested.’
She was. Getting rid of our empties in no time at all she took my hand and led me onto the floor. ‘Let me teach you a few moves,’ she grinned.
I laughed and took hold of Ellie’s shoulders while she put one hand on my waist and the other on my lower back. Then she was leading and I was following and she seemed like the best dancer the world had ever known.
Okay, I keep saying things like that about everyone I dance with. But Ellie was exceptionally good. It was easy to move with her, easy to let her hips do all the guiding. It was easy to press my groin tight to hers, too. And it was even easier to kiss her.
Well, I had to take the lead in something, surely, so why not that?
And it was oh . . . my . . . GOD time again. In fact it was oh . . . my . . . GOD time to the nth degree. I had never experienced anything remotely close to it. My head wasn’t so much whirling and swirling; it was on its way to exploding.
The passion was mutual. The harder I kissed her, the harder she kissed back, our tongues going at each other like Errol Flynn duelling at his swashbuckling best.
I can’t speak for Ellie but I came in my panties before the end of the first song.
Well, that was it for us as far as the party went. Yes, I did determinedly stick to the one dance, one kiss rule . . . I just made sure that both went on for over an hour.
Of course that hour flashed by. Before I knew it the smooch music had stopped, overhead lights had been switched on and Jacqui was telling us our taxi was on its way. Then she grinned at me.
‘Pink Afterglow probably isn’t your best colour,’ she said, indicating my lips. ‘Would you like a tissue?’
Chapter Thirteen
We split the fare as usual and the cabbie left us on Bingley’s Town Square, debating what to do next. Jacqui was, I noticed, holding Roberta’s hand. It seemed that somewhere during the evening they had become an item. Or perhaps they’d been sneaking about for ages and I’d been too wrapped up in my own goings on to figure it out.
‘I’ve had enough to drink,’ Roberta said to Jacqui. ‘I want to go for a walk in the park.’
‘Okay,’ Jacqui said without a second’s pause for thought.
‘You’ll get assaulted in there at this time of night,’ I warned.
‘I think Roberta wants assaulting,’ said Ellie, sniggering, ‘if you know what I mean.’
‘It’s Myrtle Park, not Central Park,’ Jacqui said to me. ‘The muggers and rapists here are cowards. I’ll soon sort out anyone who gets in our way.’
I checked the time while the new young lovers walked off towards the Arts Centre. ‘So what’s it to be,’ I asked, ‘The Ferrands or the Mid?’
Ellie pulled a face. ‘What about a couple before last orders in Spoons?’
I had to agree that wasn’t a bad idea. Wetherspoons shut at midnight and the bar staff were notorious for clearing the decks within ten minutes. The other “late” pubs would still be booming when the doors to Spoons shut. And we did have another late night coming up on Saturday . . .
