Heather Falls in Love Pt. 03

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(August 2002)

The first special occasion arose the very next day. After spending a lazy morning sightseeing in Saint-Esprit and both Grand and Petit Bayonne, the girls were approached by two swarthy, good-looking guys. At the time Heather and Ingrid were having lunch late (and mostly liquid). A little bit of male attention wasn’t entirely unwelcome. But there was one problem: these guys were local but didn’t seem to have much French, only a smattering of Spanish and even less English. Talking them was a challenge, to say the least.

But knickers to talking, thought Heather, how many common words do we need to shag?

Not that I would, of course. Well, perhaps not, even if they are quite cute. Especially the guy in the striped T-shirt . . .

After about an hour of stilted chitchat, during a dual visit to the Mesdames’, Ingrid seized her hand. ‘Decision time,’ she said, ‘do we or don’t we?’

‘Do we or don’t we have casual sex?’

‘Yeah, they’re obviously up for it, and so are you.’

‘No I am not . . . am I?’

‘Yes you are Hev, very obviously. Everyone else has noticed your nipples even if you haven’t.’

Heather was torn. She hadn’t had a willy in simply ages. In fact she hadn’t even seen one since she’d celebrated sitting her last ever exam. There again, she was perversely proud about having had such a long abstinence from willies. In a strange sort of a way, she was feeling all virtuous.

Still, a nice, big hard one . . .

‘Up to you,’ she said gallantly. ‘There isn’t a Viking between them. But if you feel the urge, we can go for it. And you can have first choice . . . as long as you don’t pick the one in stripes.’

Ingrid’s grip tightened. She was smiling but full of nervous tension. ‘If it’s up to me I’d rather we played with ourselves,’ she confessed, ‘just me and you together.’

A bowling ball dropped in Heather’s stomach. She hadn’t expected that. And what to do? Insist on an as-yet untried-and-tested willy, or meekly go for more interaction with Ingrid? What did she want: real, out-and-out sex or more girlish jilling?

‘It’s not quite the same,’ her mouth said involuntary.

Ingrid’s smile faltered: ‘Why not?’

‘There are all sorts of reasons. I won’t get to taste you, for starters.’

‘Taste me?’

‘If I went with one of those guys I’d get to taste him, wouldn’t I?’

Ingrid looked bewildered. ‘Is that very important to you?’

‘It’s part of having sex, isn’t it? Along with kissing and various other forms of bodily contact.’

‘So you’d rather have sex.’ Ingrid said it as a statement, not a question. Her shoulders drooped. She looked dejected and rejected.

‘No. No, I would not!’ Heather’s grip suddenly outmatched her friend’s. ‘Good grief,’ she said hastily. ‘What have I been prattling on about? Last night was great and I don’t need man-sex anyway. I would rather jill with you every day of the week.’


‘Yes, I really, really, would. Are we on then; me and you, alone together at midnight?’

‘Jilling it is, then,’ said Ingrid, her smile back on full beam. ‘Let’s rid ourselves of Didier and Bixente. Buy a couple of bottles, get in the mood . . .’


Heather’s own nervousness kicked in long before bedtime. It wasn’t so much anticipation as the dread of overstepping the mark. Ingrid was clearly up for it. And she was just as clearly expecting their jilling to stay “straight”. Heather fully intended to keep it that way, but was afraid she might accidentally lose control. And there was a real possibility she would. Normally her excesses were laughed off . . . but normally they were delivered to fellow lezzies; girls who took excesses as flattery.

Restraint, she warned herself. Go on girl, you know you can do it.

‘God,’ Ingrid murmured, sitting under a gradually darkening sky, ‘I’m shivering.’

So was Heather, even though it was another warm night. She poured the last of their latest bottle of wine, doling out perhaps as much as a third of a glass each, and squeezed Ingrid’s shoulder.

‘Down the hatch and let’s do it.’

The blonde swigged her drink and retreated into the tent. She didn’t seem to realize it was hours until midnight but hey, the moon was already out and so, within seconds, were the most noticeable bits of her body.

Heather caught her breath. Their usual nightwear was knickers and bras. Tonight Ingrid was going for nothing at all. It took only an instant to match her. Then they were both on their backs on top of their zipped-up bags, side by side, hand-in-hand. The moon wasn’t very high yet, but they could see each other well enough, boobs aquiver with that wonderful, wonderful anticipation.

‘Your turn for the story,’ Heather prompted.

‘Mine are rubbish compared to yours.’

‘Never mind that, it’s the thought that counts. So tell me about an uncaring Viking with an unfeasibly big horn.’

Ingrid hedged a little before telling the tale of Ernie, the fastest Viking her side of Teddington, who’d been about as caring casino siteleri as Attila the Hun. Heather paid close attention, but not on what Ernie had liked to do to his women. Oh no, she was fixated on what Ingrid was doing to herself. For those precious, lingering moments Ingrid’s approaching climax was much, much more important than anything else.

(Although Heather did have something in mind for later . . . on a platonic basis, naturally.)

Well, platonic-ish . . .

Eventually the tale had been told and Ingrid was parading her orgasmic expressions again. Heather paraded a few of her own and they hit the canvas roof together then gently, so very gently, floated back down.

‘Nice!’ Ingrid half-sighed, half-sniggered. ‘Isn’t that the word you always use?’

‘I rarely overuse a word and never, ever exaggerate. Haven’t I told you that a million times already?’

Ingrid laughed and, to Heather’s enormous surprise, swung a leg over her, rubbing flesh against flesh before matily hooking ankles.

This was close . . . very, very, excitingly close.

‘Friendly bodily contact,’ the scrumptious blonde said. ‘I still draw the line at kissing, but rubbing legs isn’t an offence, is it?’

‘Rubbing legs is nice, I must admit.’

‘Nice! There you go again.’

‘Okay, so maybe I do overuse that one word. It doesn’t stop me liking friendly bodily contact.’

‘I like it too,’ said Ingrid. ‘Let’s go again, really, really slowly.’

Heather struggled to take in air. Her friend’s fanny was inches away from her own and “going again really slowly” seemed to be the best idea on earth.

‘What,’ she more breathed than said, ‘with hooked ankles?’

‘I will if you will.’

So they did and the friendly bodily contact made it at least fifty times better than before. As for the proximity of their fannies, with Ingrid now on her side, her hand bumping Heather’s every so often . . .

Good grief! Good grief!! Good grief!!!

Sternly controlling her impulses, forcing herself to be a good little girl, Heather did some bumping of her own against Ingrid’s hand, doing it whenever she could, imagining but never actually going groin-to-groin, her thoughts not in the least platonic. And when they finished . . .

Well, they finished with their legs locked together, straining against each other like proper lovers. In Heather’s considered opinion, it was best-ever with a zillion exclamation marks.

No, make that a million zillion!!!

‘This next story’s about you,’ she whispered, ‘but it’s more of a fantasy.’

‘I’m still a scaredy-cat,’ Ingrid replied, a shade shakily.

‘Oh sure, rubbing up to me like that.’

‘I was only being sisterly.’

‘That’s what I call sisterhood.’

‘We’re friends . . . right?’

‘Of course we’re friends. Best jill-friends.’

‘Do you really want to go again . . . again . . . so soon?’

‘You bet I do.’

‘Go on then, fantasise for me.’


One story led into another, and then another. In truth Heather was enjoying herself so much she didn’t want to stop.

‘Next up,’ she said, hardly pausing to draw breath, ‘I’ve told you lots about Mary Rose. My soulmate from that ridiculously expensive, decadent school I was bundled off to.’

‘Your friend, lover and muse; the twin sister you never had.’ Ingrid didn’t seem to want to stop either. Still breathing heavily from Heather’s vivid imaginings, she was locking legs yet again, leisurely jilling.

‘Yep,’ Heather went on comfortably, ‘that’s her. Not that she’s my twin. She’s two days older than I am and looks completely different.’

‘Different in looks but similar in nature, if I remember correctly.’

‘You do and she is.’ Heather chuckled. ‘Do you want to hear more about her?’

‘Yes I do. I’m well in the mood.’

‘Right then, here goes. Once upon a time she sprained her ankle playing hockey. We were in the Upper Sixth at the time and, of course, she blamed me, even though I was nowhere near her. Good grief, did she carry on! Okay, it was a bad sprain, but you’d have thought her foot had snapped off. Emergency ambulances were called and special prayers were prayed. There was even talk about giving her the last rites, but nobody knew the words.

‘Anyway, the doctors soon sent her back, wrapped in bandages and acting like a dying swan. She got two or three nights in The Manor’s infirmary out of it, milking every last second. Needless to say, she expected a constant stream of visitors, along with tons and tons of grapes and chocolates. And I was expected to show my face morning, noon and night.’

‘Is this a sex-in-a-hospital-bed story?’

‘No, it’s an unexpected twist in the tail story.’

‘In that case please continue.’

‘We’d just had our eighteenth birthdays and Mary Rose had a boyfriend . . .’

‘A boyfriend!’

‘From the boys’ school next door. Or rather, one of many boyfriends she had from the boys’ school next door. She dropped him on me during a lunchtime visit. Richard was cute, she assured me. canlı casino He was also on a Friday night promise. And, seeing as I’d made her unlikely ever to walk again, it was up to me to make sure he didn’t miss out . . .’


(August 2002)

After the latest story ended the two jill-friends lay together, Ingrid’s right leg tangled with Heather’s. The moon was now directly overhead, probably looking very romantic, if not seen through canvas.

‘Well,’ said Ingrid, ‘you made a meal out of him, didn’t you?’

‘I hardly ever went with guys in those days,’ Heather said truthfully. ‘It was too good an opportunity to miss. And it was my mission for the night. You could say I was only obeying orders.’

‘And Mary Rose really wanted you to do it?’

‘We were sister witches . . . still are sister witches . . . of course she wanted me to do it.’

Ingrid didn’t seem wholly convinced. ‘I don’t know how you remember it all,’ she demurred, ‘you just described every last thrust in the finest detail.’

Heather smiled to herself at that. She’d described the sex acts but held other details back. Richard’s sudden (unfounded) fear she was underage. His subsequent (way too late) guilt over the absence of condoms. His panic when he realized she’d kept him out beyond midnight.

His lack of skill but abundance of energy . . .

‘I have a good memory,’ she said. ‘And I had to tell Mary Rose all about it at least ten times.’

‘So she really did give you orders?’

‘I swear she did. I’m many things, but I’m not a boyfriend thief. Well, not if I’m reliably informed in advance. Girls and boys both lie, sometimes.’

‘I’m not sure which of your stories are best.’ Ingrid chuckled softly. ‘The ones about insatiable girls or the ones involving hard willies.’

‘I prefer the girl ones,’ said Heather. ‘Although I must confess, I do like a hard willy now and then. If you had one right now, I’d be begging you to put it in me.’

‘Oh sure,’ went Ingrid, ‘after you’d had an hour or two on top first.’

‘You’d enjoy it with me on top. I can assure you of that.’

‘I’m sure I would. What red-blooded man wouldn’t?’

Encouraged by the drift of conversation, Heather decided to go for a platonic-ish kiss after all. A kiss was, in normal circumstances, no big deal. But sad to say, to Ingrid it still seemed like the biggest deal ever.

‘No,’ she said, turning her head away. ‘Not yet.’

Heather was puzzled. She could appreciate and even understand the straight element in her friend’s thinking. But she hadn’t untangled her leg yet. And at one stage this evening they had sucked each other’s fingers, like shameless porn queens, exclaiming about the exquisite tastes and tangs.

‘I told you I needed more than touch and smell,’ she’d said. ‘And so did you, even if it took you a while to realize it.’

Ingrid hadn’t complained about finger-sucking . . . in fact she’d been the one who suggested it . . . but she was really, really reluctant about kissing.

And then another surprise!

‘Here,’ she said, pushing Heather’s head toward her boobs, ‘kiss these instead.’

Puzzlement changed to astonishment and mounting gratification. Heather fastened her lips around a nipple, bringing it (even more) erect before starting to chew, making Ingrid moan with pleasure.

I’m going to have you, Heather thought. One of these days I’m going to have you, and it’ll be best-ever for both of us.

‘God yes,’ Ingrid sighed. ‘Be my friend.’

‘Just you bet I will.’ Heather slid her hand down the other girl’s tummy, swiftly removing it when she felt the immediate negative reaction.

‘I know how you’ll like it,’ she whispered.

‘I know you do. That’s what scares me.’

‘Just one little kiss . . .’

‘Kiss my tits instead. Nibble them and bite them while I jill.’ Ingrid’s chest heaved as Heather, relieved she hadn’t blown it altogether, complied.

‘Tits don’t count,’ Ingrid went on, gasping. ‘Tits are like jilling, aren’t they?’

Aged not quite twenty-two, Heather had had wide experience of lesbian sex. She’d come across a lot of odd preferences and opinions. At that moment she wasn’t about to debate the oddest take she had yet encountered. Extremely aroused, she drew Ingrid’s nearest nipple back into her mouth and began to nibble . . . hard, simultaneously squeezing her other boob.

‘Fuck me,’ went the blonde. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’

It was easy to oblige. Right then Heather didn’t want to fuck anyone else on earth.


(Ingrid’s Interruption III)

Hello, it’s me again, Ingrid, still trying to salvage my tattered reputation. Or am I too late? Hmmm, you may well hesitate. I’m not sure either. Anyway, we all know what is said about faint hearts and fair maidens, don’t we? With that in mind, I’ll have a go.

Okay, by this stage of the story I’m probably seen as mixed up at best. And a few less charitable folk might consider me to be an out-and-out tease. The truth lies somewhere in the middle. I was mixed up and kaçak casino I did want to further my relationship with Heather but, deep down, I really was afraid. Heather was famed for getting bored and moving on, remember. And she was vastly experienced compared to me. How quickly would she lose interest in my crumby lovemaking?

Let’s jump back to my sexuality for a moment. Before that first night outside Bayonne I honestly didn’t class myself as “lesbian”. I didn’t even class myself as “a woman who has sex with women”. No, I was “a woman who has sex with Rachael”. I’d admired other women, true, but apart from one or two sessions of dirty dancing, I hadn’t particularly let anyone know. Rachael aside, the rest of the world thought I was a straight girl with a penchant for hairy Vikings.

I had, however, made a secret vow to get that ball out of my court, into Heather’s. And, scaredy-cat or not, I can be resolute when it comes to honouring my vows.

Here’s an admission for you. I lied when I told Heather that first night was a “first”. For me jilling in the tent, I mean. It was actually the third night I’d done it in a row. God only knows how she hadn’t caught me before. She was certainly supposed to!

Just as she was supposed to join in . . .

Jilling! That’s a classic Heather-ism. For someone prepared to indulge in the most explicit of sex acts, she doesn’t half mind her language. Maybe it’s a legacy of that posh school of hers, but she tends to use words that are either clinically correct or downright quaint. When talking smutty, that is. Swearing is taboo for her and she’s rarely crude. I noticed this habit early on in our travels, somewhere between Bayeux and Rennes. I even started to compile a list at one point.

But enough of all that. Onwards and upwards! While I wanted Heather to jill with me, I didn’t intend to go much further; not so early in our romance.

Yes, that’s how mixed up I was! I was confusing friendship and lust, tingeing it with fear and calling the outcome “romance”. I was also committed to my “straight” front and reluctant to let on about me and Rachael.

(Twelve times, by the way. Rachael and me, that is. We slept together on a round dozen occasions. I haven’t kept diaries or anything, but doubt any ex-boyfriend stayed over nearly as often as her. No, I know for a fact no-one got anywhere near.)

So that’s how we were then, outside Bayonne. I know I’ve put it clumsily, but it was a clumsy sort of situation. Heather walking on egg-shells, determined to keep things platonic but eager to play my little games. And me, pretending to be something I no longer was, enticing her a little more each day.

Yes, I know what you’d call me if I’d been taking that line with a bloke. And you’d be right. I couldn’t help myself, though. I was already halfway in love with her. The way I saw it, she needed ever-so-delicately pulling in the same direction.


(September 2002)

By the time they crossed into Spain Heather really did love Ingrid like a sister . . . albeit a very pervy, slightly incestuous sister. Although their adventures had barely begun, she couldn’t believe they would ever end. She wanted them to go on forever.

As for their bedtime relationship . . . well, it was good. And, apart from the nightly serial jilling, it was virtually innocent, so long as Ingrid’s version of straight was taken as gospel.

Yeah, right!

Heather’s views on sexual activity had always been simple. Sex was there to be had with anyone of any gender. And, while there was obviously a pecking order in degrees of activity, sex was, after all sex. Why differentiate between a kiss, a grope or actual penetration? As long as everyone enjoyed it, who cared what lovers actually did?

Ingrid’s version was less simple. Constantly asserting she was straight, Ingrid was by now addicted to nipple-chewing. Curiously enough, in her opinion nipple-chewing was permissible, probably because she liked it so much.

Good grief! Did she like nipple-chewing!

Otherwise the ever-more scrumptious blonde’s reasoning was bemusing. According to her, mouth-to-mouth kissing was out-and-out lesbian. Kissing was only straight (and only allowed!) from just under the chin to the underside of boobs. Touching and stroking was okay in those areas too, but physical contact anywhere else was verboten. Except for leg-wrestling, that was. Leg-wrestling wasn’t merely okay, it was an absolute must.

Heather couldn’t help but think of her early days with Mary Rose. There had been structure and logic in that adolescent relationship. Talking it through years in advance, they’d agreed they would one day become lovers. Initial kisses and caresses had slowly but surely led to more intimate gropes. It had taken ages and ages to progress to nipple-chewing and, maybe an hour after that, below jobs.

They had been very young, though, so perhaps it had been a naturally steady progression. And they had been in total agreement about their ultimate destination. But with Ingrid . . .

Well, Heather hadn’t been inclined to argue tosses or rock boats. She’d set out happy just to be with Ingrid. Sharing cums and locking legs were pleasures beyond her wildest dreams. And as for sucking fingers and nibbling boobs . . .

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