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Oh good grief I cannot believe I’m doing this. Normally I’m supremely calm, cool and collected. Right now I’m shaking like a leaf. I honestly cannot remember being anywhere near this nervous, ever, ever, ever.
When I fought my first UK inter-university karate final I wasn’t even a tenth as tense.
Standing there, facing a potentially lethal opponent, neither of us prepared to give an inch . . .
Standing there, prepared to do or die . . .
Well back then I wasn’t really scared at all. My nervous system was cucumber-like.
At least it was until I won and emotion tinged with immense relief flooded through me.
Otherwise I can’t remember being apprehensive about anything. Not up to now.
Pause for a sharp intake of breath.
Rats; that helped not at all.
I am, by the way, Heather Hunter. It’s quite possible you might have heard of me before, but you’ll never have heard words from my lips. Not directly. No, this is very much a first.
Hence all that shaking and trembling.
Losing my virginity wasn’t nearly as scary as this. In fact losing my virginity was fun. This doesn’t even start to qualify as fun. It’s not even close.
Second pause for a bigger, deeper intake of breath, lungs sucking in seemingly oxygen-free air, all of my body quaking.
Okay, that’s as good as it’s going to get. Let’s quit the build-up and get down to brass tacks.
I never had any intention of opening my heart to the world. I am in my way a very private person. I usually don’t mind all the hearsay that’s been published about me and have never before wanted to respond. No, up until now I’ve never felt the faintest inclination. Most of what’s been written has been accurate enough, if somewhat sensational, so why bother?
Insatiable Hurricane Heather, exposed for all to see. So long as the essence of truth was told why should I care about that?
Except just lately accuracy has tended to sway. By my reckoning I’m beginning to seem like a bit of a tart. Maybe I’m getting sensitive in my old age. Maybe the essence of truth is really still there and it’s me overreacting. Whatever it is, for some inexplicable reason I feel it’s my duty to set the record straight.
Don’t worry, I’m not about to launch off on a crazy diatribe. And I’m not about to bore you with my autobiography. If you have read about me before you’ll already know I am a girl who loves sex. If you’ve never heard of me before, you’ll soon get the general idea.
Others have described me as being tall with a mane of jet-black hair and an athletic body fit for an athlete/supermodel. But stuff that. I don’t care about my appearance. I’m only glad that, thanks to my relentless daily sessions in the gym, I can eat and drink just anything I want without rueing the consequences.
Not that I ever rue consequences. Rueing consequences could disrupt what little sleep I ever get.
If you know what I mean!
Still in “setting things straight mode”, I’ll give you my opinion of me. I was (literally) born on a farm in West Yorkshire. My childhood was idyllic. As a very young girl I was physically superior to all of the local boys. And, as most of them were off farms too, that meant I was exceptionally tough and exceedingly fit; Calamity Jane was a wimp compared to me.
Running, fighting, shooting rabbits and climbing trees . . . I was always far and away the best.
Then Dad sold the farm and sent me to the best private school in Cheshire (the one that boasts a reputation second to none). And guess what? I wasn’t necessarily the best at quite everything at that school, but I was better than the rest at most things.
To be more precise, I particularly excelled on the running track, the hockey field and in all forms of self-defence.
Educationally I was always right up there . . .
And listen to me bragging!
Apologies for that; it won’t happen again.
However I label it, that so-very posh school suited me down to the ground. And, being all-girls, it strengthened feelings I hadn’t previously realized I had.
Or had I? Who really knows how she feels until she’s grown up and tried things for real?
Anyway, I’ve now reached the (almost prehistoric) age of thirty-six and I have been describing my sexuality in the same way for the last two decades.
I am well on the lezzie side of bi. And furthermore, I’m proud of where and what I am.
Full stop and that’s how it is. I might possibly make mention of men later on in this confession but I tend to doubt that. As far as I am concerned men are like Gillette razors: handy to use and easy to dispose of.
Girls are something else, though. Even in my wildest days at uni, ravaging my way through all the lesbian societies, I found it tricky to let go of certain young ladies. And by that I mean emotionally, not just with my hands.
In other words I often set out to have fun, strings-free sex and ended up forming an attachment, but only ever with girls.
No, scrap that. I have had a couple of long-running casino oyna boyfriends as well as a dozen or so long-running girlfriends. But I will always love every last one of the dozen girls. And I never for one second fell in love with either of the guys.
By the way, please don’t think I fall for every girl I sleep with. For modesty’s sake I’m not going to estimate what percentage “a dozen or so” is out of the grand total. Let’s just say I fell for a lot less than a half of my conquests.
Hastily moving on, I’m going to tell you a story. This is from my perspective, remember? It is not a “he said, she said”, it’s the truth. And it is not hearsay in any way.
This is a tale of what really happened.
Snuggle up and listen. You know you want to.
I’d been given the business card by my regular Wednesday night lover, Katrina. Kat had as much use for manicurists as I had . . . virtually zero . . . but had passed it on as a sort of a fop.
Or maybe she’d passed it on as sort of a challenge.
Kat had reservations about Lizzie. According to Kat she was too mouthy and possibly too flighty.
According to me she was tall, lesbian and shapely. Being mouthy and flighty hardly mattered.
Well come on; why should it? I was ten times as flighty as anyone I’d ever met, and being mouthy wasn’t incurable, was it?
Besides, Lizzie had an ass that could have launched a thousand ships.
She was bold with it, too, openly introducing herself as “Lizzie the Lezzie”. I liked that sort of self-confidence in a girl. I liked it a lot.
And I liked “a bit of new” as well. I always have and always will.
Should I or shouldn’t I, I wondered over a period of maybe twenty-four hours.
As if I was ever really in any doubt!
Lizzie is blonde, tall (as already advertised) with very fine, very straight hair flowing down to that sexy ass of hers. I do tend to prefer black hair but have been known to go for brunettes every now and then. And the original love of my life is an annoying redhead.
No, that particular redhead is way beyond annoying, well into infuriating.
Blondes are okay, though, especially ones with spectacular hair down to their just as spectacular asses.
Not to mention a pair of three-mile-long legs . . .
Her card was business-like when seen from the front. The real info was hand-written on the back.
The real info was Lizzie’s personal mobile number.
Friday morning, secure in my office, I finally gave in to temptation and dialled.
‘Hello,’ she replied on the third ring. ‘I’m tied up right now . . .’
‘Hold that image,’ I said, chuckling, ‘and ring me back when you’re free to talk.’
‘Who is that?’
‘It’s me, Heather Hunter. We met the other day in the Busfeild Arms.’
There was a short hold while Lizzie checked she could redial.
‘Give me ten,’ she said.
‘Ten? I’ll give you as many as you like.’
She laughed with me. ‘Ten,’ she said, ‘wait right there. I’ll be back.’
She was as well, although it was more like twenty minutes than ten. Maybe her client’s nails had needed an extra buff.
Not that she was apologetic. No, she didn’t waste any time on that. And Kat was right; that girl could talk for England.
‘Heather Hunter,’ she began, ‘wherever did you get my personal number?’
‘Kat seems to think there are sparks flying between us,’ I replied more or less truthfully. ‘As she’s off for the weekend she gave me your card. In a way I guess that’s why I’m calling. To see if you want to meet up for a drink or three tonight.’
‘When the Kat’s away the girls will play,’ sniggered Lizzie. ‘What the hell. Just tell me where and when.’
Yes, getting a date with her was as easy as that.
Because they had the full range of Taylor’s ales, including the award-winning Landlord (which I’d have running through my veins if I could), we met up in the Brown Cow early that evening. And if the venue was my choice, the timing was Lizzie’s. I’d expected her to say seven or eight o’clock at the soonest, but she was keen to get on with it.
Ergo so was I.
Five thirty though! How decadent was that!!
These days the Brown Cow is far and away Bingley’s smartest pub. That is to say it’s the one that older married couples go to, to dine as well as to drink. Believe you me, Bingley pubs cater for all ends of the scale. There are smart youngsters’ wine bars and hole-in-the-wall dives. Bingley can always deliver, no matter what tickles your fancy.
Smart and trendy or work-boots and foul mouths, Bingley caters for the lot, and sometimes all at once.
But not in the Cow, I hasten to add.
Anyway, I got there punctually and Lizzie was already at the bar, sipping dry white.
Pretending disdain, I ordered a pint and “another one of whatever that is,” for my companion. The barmaid filled my order with professionalism that would have shamed bar staff at the Reform Club (not that I’d ever go to such an elitist establishment).
Not canlı casino nearly as nervous as I am compiling this confession, in fact decidedly excited but not nervous at all, I escorted Lizzie to a table.
‘It’s forecast bad weather up in The Lakes tomorrow,’ I said conversationally, ‘Dave and Kat might get snowed in.’
Lizzie grinned at me. ‘Dave isn’t really a factor in my weekend,’ she said. ‘Well, she’s a very good friend, of course, but her being stuck in a snowdrift doesn’t matter.’
‘Ditto with me and Kat,’ said I. ‘But I guess you already know that.’
And with those few words we arbitrarily discounted the topic of last weekend’s bed mates.
Just like that.
Tommy Cooper would have been proud of us.
Lizzie obviously wasn’t one to waste time. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I’m a single girl and I’m ready to play.’
I looked at her closely, wondering exactly how smart she was, and wondering exactly how sincere she was, too.
‘I don’t play games,’ I said, my voice earnest and low. ‘Not out of bed. Get my meaning?’
Lizzie nodded, her baby blues holding mine. ‘I honestly do not have ties,’ she said, just as earnest and low.
Perhaps the burning intensity of our shared gaze was too much. Whatever, Lizzie gave in first.
‘I really mean it,’ she went on, breaking eye to eye contact. ‘I’m single, footloose and fancy-free. I did have my middle-range sights set on Kat, mostly because I thought you’d clicked with Dave.’
I laughed out loud at that. Dave was, at a first glance, very mannish (she was really “Davina” and by all accounts held a gold star). At a second glance she was drop-dead gorgeous. No woman in her right mind would ever have denied her.
Lizzie clearly hadn’t denied her. Oh no, Lizzie clearly hadn’t denied her anything at all.
Yet complicating matters, Dave transpired to be Kat’s ex. And anyone with 20-20 vision could see that fires still burnt.
Hence their jaunt this weekend up to The Lakes!
And wasn’t their relationship complicated. Up until the previous weekend I hadn’t been aware that they knew each other. On the Saturday, partway through a three day sex session with Kat, I had taken her out for what I intended to be a classy, almost romantic pub lunch, and . . .
And we’d bumped into Dave and Lizzie, partway through the same sort of sex marathon.
Next thing I knew the four of us were sharing a table and buying rounds, Lizzie the Lezzie deep in conversation with Kat, me and Dave reminiscing on a joint business venture we’d once both been involved in.
If I said Kat and Dave studiously avoided each other I’d be guilty of a gross understatement. After the frostiest of acknowledgements they sat as far apart as possible, ignoring each other.
That is if covertly watching every last move counts as “ignoring”.
Twenty-four hours later, during a second chance meeting in the same pub, they set up a date.
Yes, fires definitely still burnt.
‘So,’ Lizzie said back in the here and now, sexily sipping from her glass, ‘Kat gave you my card.’
I (deliberately) slurped beer. ‘Does that disappoint you?’
She laughed and used a swearword I won’t repeat. ‘I am far from disappointed,’ she added. ‘If I’m anything I’m thrilled. And believe me, Heather,’ I’m not playing games, not tonight; not outside of your bedroom, anyway.’
That seemed to satisfy all my terms and conditions. Well, for an agreement in principle it did. Or did it?
‘Can I assume a long-term courtship is not required?’ I double-checked.
‘No it is not. Not unless you call three or four drinks long-term.’ Then, as I got to my feet to go for more drinks: ‘Hey, I’m paying my way. This is my round.’
I gazed back into Lizzie’s baby blues rather ardently ‘Like to share, do you?’
‘Inside the bedroom and out,’ said she with a coquettish giggle, ‘as you will soon discover.’
‘That sounds good to me,’ I said, sitting back down. And, seeing as our cards were well and truly on the table, I leant in and kissed her. She kissed back with a will. Then, perhaps disturbed by an elderly couple’s “discreet” coughing from away to our left, she got up and headed bar-wards.
I do my best not to objectify women. Believe me; some of my girlfriends have not been classically good-looking. Indeed some of them have gone out of their way to be not good-looking. But I like a pretty lady as much as anyone.
And sometimes my best intentions cannot survive temptation.
In other words my eyes were fixed on Lizzie’s sexy, slinky rear every step of the way.
As I admitted in my intro, I’m shaking, quaking and terribly nervous. I’m also very much a virgin as far as written confessions go. Consequently I failed to describe the way Lizzie was dressed when we hooked up in the Brown Cow.
Well, she was quite simply amazing.
Forgive me if I seem vague on how manicurists generally tend to present themselves. I’ve always trimmed my own nails and never bother with kaçak casino lippy or make-up. I sunbed as often as I work out . . . at least five times every week . . . and my “natural”, all-over tan means I need little assistance as far as that famed appearance of mine goes.
Fair enough, that doesn’t explain my lack of professional nail-care. And it’s not as if I couldn’t afford it. All I can say in my defence is that I can’t see the point. Plus (grasping at straws) as a senior banker, perfectly painted nails could be potentially inappropriate.
Can you picture me calling in a loan with star-spangled talons?
Or explaining a hike in interest rates on local TV, pointing at lines on graphs?
Forget me and my nails; I have to admit Lizzie’s were awesome: all ten of them immaculate in shape, each featuring a different glittery design yet all somehow fitting together, as if there was a logical progression to them.
Imagine those talons raking my back, I thought, instinctively.
Mmmm, yes please!
The rest of her was well-presented too. Her tight-fitting denims were fashionably ripped countless times, showing hints of tattoos on countless exposed bits of leg. Her tight white T-shirt had a low V in it that left very little to the imagination. Even her trendy leather jacket couldn’t . . . or maybe deliberately wouldn’t . . . hide her quite magnificent chest.
Yes, she was hot all right. And, aware she’d as good as agreed to shag with me already, it was a pleasure to drink her in with my eyes.
Me? I was in my everyday work clothes: short black skirt, matching jacket and a shirt tailored for a man in brilliant white. And no bra, naturally; my breasts aren’t as lusciously large as Lizzie’s but they aren’t small and they are very, very firm. Up until now I’ve never needed a bra outside of role play. God willing, I never will.
(Told you before I’m lucky in being able to eat and drink what I like. Or maybe it’s all that time in the gym. Can’t see me giving up food, alcohol or exercise anytime soon, so here’s hoping I stay lucky.)
Anyhow, shaking only with anticipation, I at last got Lizzie into my bedroom. By then we’d had a few drinks but were both relatively sober. And, by then, we were both keener than mustard.
Kissing her properly, without a disapproving elderly audience, sharing our first soon-to-be-lovers kiss . . . well it was simply exquisite. Her mouth was so soft, so surrendering. And her body shape fit into mine like a hand into a glove.
From soft and surrendering that kiss gradually got hotter and hotter.
‘You,’ she gasped an age later, when we finally unlocked lips, ‘it’s your house. So it’s you.’
I was in no mood to argue. I was, however, in the mood to tease. Don’t ask me where that came from. Inside of me excitement and anticipation were scrapping like WWE divas. You know the two I mean. The two who used to use wooden brushes, baseball bats, ironing boards and God knows what else on each other, all in an effort to win.
Not that I understand why they store such weapons beneath a wrestling ring!
And not that Lizzie and I had any interest in scrapping . . .
I am quite good at teasing. I’m also (I sincerely hope) quite good at making love to a woman. And I have an abundance of patience. Even when I am desperate to get on with the action, I have the ability to hold back.
Yes, I have the ability to hold back and torment.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m also renowned for flipping into Hurricane Heather mode, in which I can’t answer for my vigorous . . . although always non-violent . . . behaviour. Apparently when I flip like that I’m a genuine force of nature.
Between you and me, I’m not sure if having that reputation makes me proud or ashamed. Losing control is inexcusable, no?
But on the other hand, none of my hurricane victims have ever complained.
And before you ask, they have all always survived, only ever in danger of grinning themselves to death.
Where was I?
Oh yes, I was teasing and tormenting Lizzie. Meanwhile she was rabbiting on like it was going out of fashion, saying all sorts of things I heeded not at all.
Well, I heeded some of them, vaguely, in passing.
I was brilliant. I was excellent. I was going to make her cum . . .
You know what I mean. The sort of string of pleas and compliments that make a girl think that she is quite good at making love to a woman.
The sort of things a girl might repeat herself, a little further along the road.
Getting Lizzie’s kit off was an experience and then some. She had tats just everywhere. Now I am not the tattooing kind but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to see them on others; beauty in the eye of the beholder and all that. If asked to describe all of hers I’d be struggling. She had lots and lots of tats. But the two I do recall are totally unforgettable.
A broken love heart low down on her abdomen, only inches above her clitoral hood and slightly to the left.
And better still, the outline of a very shapely woman on the front of her right thigh, taking up all of the available space.
Trust me, I kissed, licked and nibbled both very, very ardently. I hungrily kissed and nibbled a lot of her other bodily symbols and designs as well.
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