Heather's Busy Week Pt. 03

'I know,' said Heather. 'I play for her team.'

'You do football as well?'

'I'm a happy soul,' she said, grinning. 'I'll give anything a go.'

'We were still inseparable when we started school,' Alex resumed. 'Mother told us we'd make new friends and find new interests. I suppose we did, but the teachers still always sat us next to each other. We still went for school dinners together. And we still played football together at playtimes. Not just me and her, I hasten to add. There was always a massive game going on, taking up most of the schoolyard. Twenty-a-side, if not more. Carrie usually made sure she was on the opposite team to me, so we could exchange heavy tackles. And boy, could she tackle! She was the only girl who played in those games, because they could be rough. No one got too rough with Carrie, though. She was the best player, as well as the roughest and toughest. When it came to picking the school team her name was first on the list.'

'Was that when she started to get bossy?'

'She's always been bossy. But that's when I noticed how competitive she was. The day she made the school team and I didn't. She mocked me for a year until I finally got selected. By then she'd been made captain and become extremely bossy. Then Dad died.'

'Oh,' said Heather, 'I didn't see that coming.'

'Neither did anyone else, doctors included. We were seven years old, going on eight. While we knew Dad had been ill, we'd been told he was getting better. But that was just a cruel twist of fate. It was cancer, you see. He seemed to have beaten it, made it through the chemo and everything . . . then it came back and turned our little world upside down. Mother tried all sorts to comfort us but she was devastated herself. And money was tight, what with her on a career break and Dad no longer around. There was some insurance, but not nearly enough. He was only in his early thirties and hadn't really given insurance much thought.'

'Alex, I know it sounds empty, but I'm really, really sorry.'

'We got through it,' he said, smiling as best he could. 'After the funeral Mother said her career break was over. She'd been in touch with her last employers and they'd welcomed her back with open arms. They were even happy for her to work mostly from home, which she does to this day.' The laugh felt bitter in Alex's throat now. 'Whoever invented home PCs hit the spot with my mother. She's a high-flying architect. Demand outstrips supply in her case. Before we could say Jack Robinson, she was working twelve hours a day, six days a week.'

'What happened to you and Carrie?'

'We carried on as normal. Mother took us to school and picked us up every day without fail. If she ever had to go in to the office, she'd time it in-between school runs.'

'Twelve hours a day, though . . .'

'She burnt a lot of midnight oil.'

'Did you get neglected?'

'We didn't particularly feel neglected, probably because we started sleeping together again. Holding hands and comforting each other. That went on for donkey's years too. And Mother never found out because she only ever checked on us when we went to bed. She spared us a final visit when she was turning in herself.'

'Still,' said Heather. Then abruptly shut up.'

'Anyway,' Alex continued, 'our homemade cure worked. We gradually dwindled down to sleeping together every now and then, rather than every night.' He sighed. 'That's primary school almost done. Before we move on to secondary school I'm going to tell you about the link between us. I'm sure it's not psychic or telepathic, but there is something there. Ever since we could speak we've been saying the same words at the same time, always finishing off each other's sentences, that sort of thing. I know that happens with people who grow close without being actually related, but we did it a heck of a lot. We really did think the same thoughts at the same time.'

'I've heard that sort of thing before.'

'What about lumps and bruises?'

'What about them?'

'Right from the start we'd both cry if one of us got badly hurt. And if Carrie bumped herself, I'd bruise too. Most bizarrely of all, she once got crunched in a tackle. We must have been ten or eleven at the time, so the tackling could be fierce. The ref thought she'd broken her ankle but she hadn't, it was just a sprain. So was mine, and I'd been on the other side of the pitch, well out of the way of crunching tackles.'

'Are you saying you came out in sympathy?'

'Yes. Same ankle, same moment in time. The bruises afterwards were identical too. Some folk reckoned I'd co-incidentally gone over on it, but I hadn't.'

'Spooky,' said Heather, topping their glasses.

'There were two big shocks at secondary school,' Alex went on. 'Mother got a letter before we started. It said the school was divided into four houses, each named after a famous person and associated with a certain colour. She needed to know this so she'd get the right colours when she bought us ties and rugby shirts and what have you. I was down for Cheshire House so I'd need white things. Carrie was going to be in Britten and needed blue. As if that wasn't enough, it also said that the intake into each house would be split into two forms. I would be in Cheshire's first form, known by the abbreviation 1C1. In my second year that would become 2C1, and so on up to 5C1 in the fifth year. And, the letter said, "first form" was not to be taken as an indication of ability. Streaming would happen, but not until the third year, and then only within the separate houses.

'I just stared at Carrie while Mother read the letter out again. Nothing had changed. We had a five year sentence in different wings of the same prison. Mother tried to put a positive spin on it, but we were aghast. There was no chance of sitting next to each other in different wings, was there?

'We slept together for a few nights after that, and again the night before we actually started. When we got there we were herded into different rooms and reality sank in. Mother was right! This was exciting and new and very, very grown-up. Fortunately, Carrie was impressed too. I saw her briefly in the yard during morning break and she'd already made lots of new friends. She'd even stopped complaining about having to wear her uniform skirt.

'The second big shock was more of a bombshell. I think it came on our third day. The games masters had their own noticeboard and they'd put up signs announcing trials for the various teams. The football one had an underlined footnote advising that girls could not try out for the boys' team. Adding insult to injury, it also said they "hoped" to run a girls' team that year, but it was dependent on levels of interest. Someone told me that Carrie had already confronted one of the masters. Backed up by half a dozen boys who'd played with and against her, she'd got precisely nowhere. Girls her age got womanly bumps and curves, she'd been told. The latest government didn't deem boys' changing rooms to be appropriate places for them.'

*****

'I can't believe I agreed to this.'

The blue-haired Mohican laughed. 'Too late,' she said. 'You agreed and I'm classing it as my birthday treat. Now, get your jeans off.'

Rachael had raided the bathroom before they came here, to Ingrid's bedroom. She'd brought towels with her as well as a bowl of hot water and shaving kit. Both of them were now topless and erect nipples were very much the order of the day.

Ingrid stepped out of her jeans and stood there in frilly pink knickers. 'I'm shaking,' she said, holding out a hand in evidence.

'I'm not,' said Rachael. 'Which is just as well seeing as I'm handling the razor.' Then, feeling a burst of compassion, 'Will it help if I strip off as well? Do you want to see my spring collection in its entirety?'

Taking Ingrid's nod for consent, Rachael divested herself of her own jeans and a rather damp thong. 'Here,' she said, sitting on the bed and parting her legs. 'Get a load of that little lot.'

'Wow,' Ingrid murmured. 'I'm amazed you don't clank when you walk.'

'I do.' Rachael rattled her bangles. 'Now come on, let me see the job in hand.'

Rachael covered a patch of duvet with a folded bath towel while the blonde self-consciously took off her panties. She was, as expected, tat and piercing-free. She was also sumptuously beautiful, even if her landing strip was a bit overgrown around the edges.

'I'd have tidied up if I'd known,' Ingrid said. 'That we'd . . . you know . . .'

'Park your bum on that towel. I'll have you respectable in no time.'

The shaving foam delighted Rachael. It was the sort that came out of the can as blue gel and had to be rubbed in a little before it lathered. Rubbing it into Ingrid's surprisingly brown strip was a thrill. Rubbing it onto her stubbly, supposedly clean-shaven areas was even better. And as for the girl's series of small sighs and groans . . .

And she keeps saying she can't believe it!

Rachael had come here with zero expectation. The New Year Bash aside, Ingrid had given her no encouragement at all. Yes, they regularly went out together and yes, the blonde was curious . . .

But all signals were ignored. Holding hands and exchanging air kisses was as far as it usually went. Tonight's game plan had been to eat, drink and make merry. Getting more than a peck on the cheek as she left would have been a bonus.

Except right now . . .

Ingrid's razor was an expensive Wilkinson Sword affair. It was a pleasure to use compared to cheapo multipack buys from the supermarket. Rachael started on her friend's strip, working her way in from relatively bare flesh, carefully going with the grain. Overgrown or not, Ingrid kept her actual strip short. Even after a few days without a trim there wasn't much of it. It would be gone in no time.

Rachael grinned as she shaved. She'd brought two "proper" DVDs, Saving Private Ryan and Bridget Jones's Diary. The others had gone in her bag as a last minute impulse. Maybe, just maybe, she'd thought. All right, it's my birthday . . . and a landmark one at that . . . it can't hurt to be prepared, can it?

Not that she'd built her hopes up. She'd fully expected to end up watching Renée and Hugh and sod all else. The evening had been going well, however, so she'd put on the sex DVDs on another impulse. And demanded a kiss also on impulse. Her T-shirt had come off as a natural progression. So too, a few minutes later, had Ingrid's.

The landing strip was no more. Taking extra special care, Rachael now concentrated on the stubbly areas. Doing that involved a lot of "accidental" touching of hair-free areas and produced a fresh series of sighs and groans.

My God, where is this going to end?

Rachael really hadn't set out to take advantage and they weren't really that drunk. In situations like this, she decided, it was best to let events take their own course. Given a choice Ingrid might decide to opt out. Writhing in semi-ecstasy, as she currently was, she needed protecting from herself. That meant not giving her choices to make. If she stopped enjoying herself she could always say so, couldn't she?

Keep quiet, she urged silently. Keep quiet and I'll have you squealing for more.

Her task completed, Rachael used a damp flannel to wipe away the last of the shaving foam. Then she made a show of checking for missed bits, stroking Ingrid's mound and, meeting no complaint at all, edging ever lower. The sighing and groaning continued so, pressing her luck, she ran a finger along the outside of her (promisingly swollen!) labia majora, right side and left.

'Feels smooth,' she said softly.

'Feels like I'm going to cum,' Ingrid moaned.

Normally Rachael would have laughed and said in that case she'd better not stop. But "stop" wasn't a word she wanted to use and laughing didn't seem appropriate. Re-examining Ingrid's labia did seem to be the decent thing to do, though. She did it again and again, paying equal attention to each side.

'I am,' Ingrid gasped. 'I really am going to cum.'

Rachael knew that already. She was up close and personal with a very aroused pussy. As she watched it began to pulse, opening and closing, opening and closing. Perhaps premature but very pleasing on the eye. So too was the tiny trickle of creamy cum and the way Ingrid's photogenic ringpiece pulsed in harmony.

Judging her friend to be finished, Rachael dabbed up the trickle and consumed it. She then traced a line up Ingrid's sex, staring on her perineum, crossing the mouth of her vagina and ending just shy of her clit.

Ingrid didn't object and surprised her when she attempted to repeat the exercise, thrusting her lower body, capturing Rachael's finger and engulfing it.

'Oh yes,' Ingrid cried, 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!'

Rachael didn't even have to try. The sumptuous blonde was powerfully pistoning away. All she had to do was hold steady and let her frig herself on a rigid finger. Well, it was for a while, anyway. Eventually the temptation to make beckoning gestures was just too much. Three or four of those and Ingrid took off vertically.

*****

'I bet Carrie was steaming at being cut.' Heather's grin faded. 'Come to think about it, I would have been too.'

'There's truth in the womanly bumps and curves,' said Alex. 'She was only eleven and a half but she'd already got a fair pair on her. I'd noticed before, of course, but she'd kept them away from me in bed.' He coughed into his hand. 'I have made it clear that sleeping together is all we did, haven't I? You haven't been taking anything biblically?'

'Clear as day. Up until now no biblical sleeping whatsoever.'

'There was nothing biblical that night, either. Except she wanted a hug and I could feel her . . . her breasts and . . .'

'I see,' said Heather. 'Willy got frisky, did he?'

'Not exactly, but I did feel uncomfortable. And Carrie must have noticed because she stopped hugging me. And later . . . I don't know, maybe half an hour later . . . she went back to her own bed. No big fuss or scene or anything. She just said goodnight and went. That seemed to be it for bed-sharing. We never spoke about it afterwards and her visits stopped altogether.

'After that, for quite a few years, if anything shockingly bad happened we did our comforting fully clothed and in daylight. Not that we had much bad news. Carrie soon found out that the local youth club had a football team that didn't discriminate against girls. And interest levels provided the school with a girls' team after all. She was playing twice as many games, just not at the standard she deserved. And she did deserve to play with the best boys. Playing for the lesser teams was too easy for her. She scored umpteen hat-tricks. And a double hat-trick at least twice.'

Heather was wondering when the scandalous behaviour was going to begin. She topped up their glasses yet again and carried on listening.

'Anyway, time marched on. Before we knew it, it was the summer holidays. We were sixteen and between GCSEs and A-levels. This particular day was sunny and hot. Mother had started trusting us home alone and was away somewhere, doing a presentation. I'm not so sure what Carrie was supposed to be doing, but I was going swimming, with mates from school. Except there was far too much chlorine in the water. It even stung my eyes, and I don't usually have a problem with chlorine. Bill wasn't so lucky; he suffered even worse than usual. He had to get out with rivers of tears running down his cheeks. My other mate volunteered to see him home and that was it for the afternoon's entertainment.

'Being a thrifty schoolboy, I'd gone into town on my bike. I could have gone for a ride but that wouldn't have been much fun on my own. And I knew there were cans of Pepsi in our fridge, so home it was. I chained my bike up in the garage and let myself in through the connecting door; the one Dad always used to use. Then something strange happened. Out of nowhere I suddenly felt incredibly excited. I mean really, really excited without knowing why. Trying to ignore all sorts of trembles and flutters, I went into the kitchen. And, before I could grab a can, I felt a wave of . . . of pure, exhilarating joy.

'I said earlier that our link isn't psychic, but I knew for absolute certain that that exhilaration was coming from Carrie. When we're together we've always been able to read each other's mood at a glance. Five years at secondary school had added a new dimension. I could sense strong mood changes without needing to see her at all. And, of course, we were still bruising in sympathy, although I had managed to cut out the shared crying.'

Alex checked his watch. 'When's Rita due back?'

'Her train gets in at seven. She's getting takeaways somewhere between the station and here.'

'I'll hurry it up, then.'

*****

'What are you grinning at?'

Ingrid stopped grinning and laughed instead. The idea of women having sex with women? The reality was so much better than the idea. Rachael had just made love to her three times. Three times! In-between they had endlessly kissed and caressed. It had been the most fun she'd ever had with a lover. She only wished she had the courage to do something in return.

I will do something, she thought. I have to . . .

Realization sank in. DVDs aside, she hadn't a clue what lesbians did together. Well, yes, she knew what they did in the videos, but in real life? Didn't some of them want to do all the giving while others only ever wanted to receive? That seemed terribly unfair. Most men expected their girlfriend to muck in every now and again. Shouldn't most women expect the same?

'I asked you what you're grinning at.'

'Life and all its complexities.' Ingrid rolled her head on the pillow, attention transferring from the bedroom ceiling to Rachael's cheeky face.

'You're not full of regrets, then?'

'Not at all. I'm a regret-free zone.'

Rachael grinned back at her. 'Aren't you going to tell me how wonderful I was?'

'What, and boost your personal esteem?' Ingrid laughed some more. 'You're self-confident enough. I'm not going to indulge your ego.'

'You enjoyed it, though, didn't you? I could tell.'

'Did my body language give me away?'

'Not half.' Rachael chuckled. Then, more seriously: 'We can do this again sometime. I mean, we can shag with each other again sometime. If you want to. If you don't want, I'll understand. As long as we're still friends.'

'I do want. But you know I'm leaving soon. Going travelling . . .'

'While I stay here for another five years, if I can drag it out so long. Yes, Inga, I know you are. I'm proposing casual sex, not a meaningful romance.'

'Casual!' Ingrid's grin was wider than ever. 'If that's how you do "casual" I can't wait to have a bit of "passionate".'

'Tell me that after a year in a tent with Heather.'

Oh yes, Heather. Hmmm . . .

Slightly nervous but unsure why, Ingrid asked, 'Is she as amorous as everyone makes out?'

'She ten times as amorous as anyone I've ever met. And she has to be the best tribber in the universe.' Rachael frowned. 'I shouldn't have said that. I never go into detail.'

'Too late. You've already made me scared of her.'

'Scared? There's nothing to be scared about. She's just experienced and highly-sexed. It's a good combination. Being ravished by Hurricane Heather is an experience to treasure. Not that I'm going to tell you exactly why, of course.' Another frown. 'And not that you'll be getting that experience. Not if you've got an agreement.'

'Rache . . . I know you're not allowed to tell me, but does Heather always have to play the man?'

Rachael sighed heavily. 'Forget Heather a moment,' she said. 'Can't you remember all those conversations we've had about girl-on-girl sex?'

Of course Ingrid could. Her friend had often railed about the way lesbians were perceived. In fact she had several set speeches on the subject.