Long time, no see. I return with yet another story about infidelity. I know, I know—at this point, it’s to be expected of me. What can I say? At 26 years old, I was a fiend and a reprobate. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, and all that jazz. Onto the story.
For the curious among you, the visuals for the two players in this scene. Myself: 5’2, dark hair, green eyes, olive skin, mixed race (Anglo-Arab, for those wondering) and what’s known as a Phat Ass White Girl (think big enough for people to ask me if it’s real). Rachael: 4’10, Anglo-Indian, slim but with an arse so peachy you could bounce a coin off it. Skin a shade or two darker than my own; hair so long she could sit on it; beautiful, big, brown eyes.
Before we get to the fucking, we have to go back in time. It’s a Thursday afternoon in big glass-fronted office in the City; inside, I’m on my lunchbreak, curled up in an armchair and reading, as always. I’m a new starter—I’ve only been at the job two weeks—but, even if I did know any of my colleagues more intimately, I probably wouldn’t spend my lunch with them. I tend to keep to myself at work regardless, but I could tell that these weren’t the type of people I could be pally with. Fine by me.
All of a sudden, someone shouts my name across the office. I nearly drop my book in surprise, because it’s not just my name being called—it’s my *nick*name. *Nobody* at the office calls me that.
I look up, and Rachael is walking towards me with a huge, disbelieving grin. I can hear the disbelief in my own voice as I exclaim, “Rae?!”
We embrace, laughing. You see, Rachael and I went to university together. More than that: we took the same classes, moved in the same circles. We had shared countless drunken nights together, where she’d earned her nickname—we dubbed her Crazy Drunk Rae, with all the innovation and originality of a bunch of 19-year-olds—and in which, several times, I’d had to guide her home, fearing for her ankles’ safety in the battle between her 6-inch heels and the city’s cobblestone streets. She’d once made me throw up with a shot of Bell’s whisky that I absolutely did *not* need. She had always been, however, more of an acquaintance than a friend, and had gradually distanced herself from our friendship group as time went on—assisted, undoubtedly, by the arsehole boyfriend she’d acquired. As these things go, we’d lost touch, and she hadn’t really crossed my mind since.
We caught up over the course of several lunches and after-work drinks, during which I learned—to my suppressed dismay—that she was still with Arsehole Boyfriend (let’s call him Krish). Not only that, but they were building a house together. *Shame*, I thought—I had once overheard an unpleasant exchange between the two of them back in university, and hadn’t liked him since. Still, maybe he’d changed?
Turns out he hadn’t. He had a habit of calling her if she spent too long in the pub, or if we had changed locations in the evening and we weren’t where she’d originally said we’d be. I thought this oddly prescient, until she told me he’d installed a tracker on her phone. Well, other people’s relationships aren’t any of my business, but my eyebrows must have shot to the back of my head at that one. There were other things, too. Krish was Rachael’s one and only; in an effort to help her explore her untapped bisexuality, they had opened up their relationship, which was causing problems. I could empathise, but certain aspects of their arguments she had shared didn’t sit right with me. Still, it was her problem, not mine, and I’m sensible enough to not go meddling where I’m not wanted.
Rachael and I quickly became each other’s work wives. We had a shared past; I was glad to see a familiar face in a strange environment; I think she was happy to have a female friend in our male-dominated workplace. She introduced me to her team, and a great dynamic was sparked. Her and I went to drinks, dinner, gigs. A bunch of us barhopped at least twice a week and did the thing that journalists do best: get absolutely shitfaced and have many conversations that were definitely *not* safe for work. We were true denizens of the City: loud, obnoxious, hedonistic, and in love with our own glamour.
One of these barhopping expeditions was the fateful night in question. A huge group of us had descended on Shoreditch, and—with the sales and marketing people tagging along for the evening—we were all more loathsomely obnoxious and drunk than usual. By the third location, I’d already kneed one guy in the balls (drunken hijinks and a case of mistaken identity), dodged a kiss from a girl in Marketing (she was scarily predatory—even *I* was afraid), and gotten Rachael to help me adjust my top to show the right amount of cleavage.
Unfortunately, my cleavage had gotten me in trouble, and I was consequently trapped in a dull conversation with an equally dull colleague. Rachael was sitting next to me, but was engaged in a far more entertaining exchange with someone else and showed absolutely no indication of wanting to help me escape. I was plotting my bid for freedom—*should I go to the toilet? But I went ten minutes ago… I’d have to climb over everyone* *again*—and making distracted noises of assent when I felt the lightest, feather-like touch on my leg. I glanced down into my lap and, lo and behold, Rachael’s hand was sneaking up the inside of my thigh. My face must have been a picture. I shot a look at her, but her face was averted—even in profile, I could tell, however, that the little bitch was smiling.
I would love to tell you I swooped in for the kill, like the Smooth Sapphic™ I am. In truth, I didn’t know *what* to do. The colleague was still droning in my ear on one side; on the other was Rachael, gently running her fingers up and down the seam of my jeans. I could feel her nails teasingly scrape through the denim. My pussy was tingling, almost throbbing, with all the sensation in my body concentrated in the single spot between my legs. But we were at work drinks, for Christ’s sake. There was a table shielding my lap from view, but I wasn’t that crazy. We were both very, very drunk. She had a boyfriend—a boyfriend that I knew, however superficially. They were in an open relationship, sure, but I was pretty certain that their agreement didn’t encompass old uni friends and new work colleagues. Nope. Not tonight, Satan. And so, I gently—but firmly—moved her hand away.
To her credit, she took the hint. Unfortunately, I was a horndog that didn’t know when to quit. She’d roused the Sapphic serpent in me, and it wasn’t going to lay itself to rest anytime soon. So when I announced my departure from the gathering and she chirped up to say she’d join me, I have to say I was internally sporting one of those hot, filthy, deeply satisfying grins. We were out of the bar before anyone had the time to properly roast us—“You two lovebirds getting some alone time?”—and into a taxi before the momentum could be lost.
I honestly couldn’t tell you how we ended up at my place, but suffice to say my drunken self must have come up with some sort of pitiful excuse for a sleepover, which her equally drunken self must have accepted. The next thing I know is that we’re in my bed, caught in that awkward stage where both parties know what’s going down but nobody wants to make the first move. We lay there, facing each other, lips barely a few inches apart. I can feel the warmth of her breath on my mouth. My heart is beating so hard it’s making my hands shake. All I can see from the light spilling in from the window are her beautiful eyes.
“Are you tired?” I ask. Oh yeah, real smooth, Casanova.
“No…”
That was all it took. Within seconds, we were devouring each other. She had a full mouth that you could absolutely sink into, and gave one of those deliciously feminine, high-pitched whimpers when I pushed my tongue past her lips. She gave an even louder one when I pinched her bottom lip between my teeth and gently pulled. We were writhing around in the bed and pawing at one another with the kind of frenzy that only two people that are desperate for one another feel, those who know that this opportunity won’t come around again. Clothes littered my bedroom floor, and it wasn’t long before she was climbing on top of me. She was very light, a refreshing change from the type of person I was accustomed to sleeping with. I was the bigger one for a change, and I was certainly planning to take full advantage of that later.
For now, however, I let her take control. She was surprisingly assertive for someone with little lesbian experience: she straddled me with confidence and began to slowly and deliberately grind her hips to rub her pussy against mine, moaning as she did so, running her hands up my body to pull and rub my stiffening nipples between her fingers. Her pussy was getting slick as she rubbed against my mound; I could feel her lips opening and slipping as she moved back and forth. I took my time exploring her body with my hands as we kissed, reaching down her smooth back to finally grab a handful of that perfect arse. The only way I can describe it is ‘peachy’: it was perfectly round, taut and smooth, an amazing addition to her slim frame, sitting high against the small of her back. I dug my fingers in—we’d had enough girly chats to know she liked it rough—and she rewarded me with another one of those cute, breathy, high-pitched whimpers, muffled against my mouth, that I was already such a fan of.
Rachael moved down my body, trailing kisses with those full lips as she went. However, she wasn’t trying to take her time: she pushed open my thighs and practically dove inbetween them, the sudden warmth and wetness of her tongue against my clit making me gasp. She got to work with that surprising confidence, switching between swirling and flicking with the tip of her tongue. Several times she ran her tongue down my slit to slip it inside me, and I gasped and bucked against the wet, slick pressure of her against my hole each time. She moved back to lavish the attention on my clit, replacing her tongue with probing fingers: slipping one inside at first, testing the waters; obviously encouraged by the tightening of my cunt, she gradually pushed in another. Her fingers moved unhurriedly, letting me enjoy the delicious slowness of her strokes.
She raised her head to breathe, “You’re so tight,” before diving back in. I don’t think I said anything in response—nothing coherent, anyway.
It didn’t take long for the combination of the luxuriant stroking of her fingers and—a sharp contrast—the furious lashing of her tongue to get me exactly where she wanted. The pressure was building in my clit, the pleasure quickly swelling to the point of no return. I was fighting in vain against it, not wanting to be *that* person, but couldn’t help beginning to grind my pussy harder against her flattened tongue, feeling my wetness oozing out from around her fingers as I gripped them. She began to whimper again as I increased the pace and pressure, and I took that as my cue to push her head down, forcing her face fully inbetween my lips. In response, she screwed her fingers deeper inside me, her moan muffled against my cunt. The vibration of it through her furiously lapping tongue was enough to tip me over the edge: I came, near-silent and intense, on her face, moaning out her name through gritted teeth as I shuddered through my orgasm. She was louder than I was, letting out a deep, stifled groan of appreciation as I convulsed around her fingers.
I was still panting, coming down from the high, when I told her to sit on my face. She crawled up my body and gave me a slow, sensual kiss, pushing her tongue deep into my mouth so I could taste myself, before positioning herself over me. The view was glorious: her tiny tits, sitting high on her chest and topped with brown, prominent nipples, heaved as she gasped at the feeling of my tongue along her slit, moving from cunt to clit. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, her long hair swaying against her lower back as she moved above me. I let one of my hands travel up her toned stomach as it hitched in response to the swirling of my tongue against her clit, fastening onto a nipple; the other moved to roughly grab and knead her arse. Her pussy tasted delicious: that characteristic sour, musky tang, bordering on sharpness, that makes you want to dive in face-first. In fact, I did just that, gripping her by the hips to push myself deeper between her spread lips, flattening my tongue so she could grind on it. My enthusiasm was met with a long, deep groan of satisfaction, and she reached down to grab my head to steady herself as she slid back and forth on my tongue. In response, I grabbed a tight fistful of her hair and pulled hard, keeping it taut to force her head back as she rode. Her tits jumped as I yanked back her head, and she moaned loudly. Her pussy was slick by this point, my face slippery with her arousal.
I could tell from the urgent pace of her movements, her hurried and breathy gasping, that she was getting close. She was pressing her cunt down harder and harder, forcing me to furiously work my tongue to keep up the momentum. As much as I was enjoying the view, the muscles of my jaw and tongue were on fire, and I needed a break—plus, if I have the opportunity to choke the air out of a cute girl, I’ll grab it. With both hands. Pun definitely intended.
I gave her the tap to let up, and she got the hint. As she was dismounting, I gave her a push that sent her sprawling on her back. She had a flickering, ambivalent expression on her face as I reared over her—something between the drugged, slit-eyed hypnosis of near-orgasm and skittish, giggly excitement. I think she could tell what was coming. I remember smiling as I placed my hand around her throat and began to slowly raise myself on my knees, pushing my weight down through my locked elbow to her neck. Rae’s eyes rolled back in their sockets as she eagerly pushed her body forward to meet my grip, her hands grabbing fistfuls of the sheets. A high, strangled whine escaped from her as I pushed one, and then two, of my fingers into her slick pussy. She was tight, as I’d expected, but so soaked I slid right in, almost without resistance. She was moaning as loudly as she could manage and writhing, almost bucking, against my hand, but I continued to take my time, flexing my fingers and gently easing in and out of her cunt, stretching her out. When I eventually placed my thumb against her clit, the bucking movement of her body nearly threw my hand off. In a tone so high she was almost keening, she gasped out, “Please…”
No need to tell me twice. I began to fuck her furiously with my fingers, keeping a firm pressure on her clit with my thumb, using the grip I had on her throat as leverage. She stiffened underneath me and threw her head back, eyes closed, toes curling. Positioning my hand against my pelvis, I used my hips to set the pace, plunging into her fast and hard. With every thrust, her body jerked and shuddered, breathless little squeaks forced from between her lips. Her wetness was oozing out around my fingers from her hole, down into her taint—I could see it glisten in the streetlight through my window. She was so slippery my thumb was sliding as it circled her clit, and her pussy squelched as I rammed her hole.
All of a sudden, Rae’s body arched violently off the bed, her toes pointed and splayed legs shaking. Just in time to feel her pussy clench and tighten around me, I forced my fingers as deep as they could go, working her clit furiously as she rode the crest of her orgasm. She grabbed the hand around her throat, as though urging me to grip her tighter. I pushed down, hard, into her neck, and was rewarded by a high-pitched, breathy, “Oh God, *yes*,” her voice shivering and trailing off as she came.
She collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed, her chest heaving with the effort of catching her breath. I gave her throat a final, gentle squeeze and released her, slowly easing my fingers from her pussy’s grip as I did so. She caught my eye and smiled to see me lick them clean, relishing the sour, citrusy taste of her on my tongue. I grinned back and moved to lay down beside her, closing my eyes. We quietly came down from the orgasmic high, the only sound our breathing as it slowed and calmed.
I was beginning to drift off into a satisfied, slightly drunken sleep when Rae suddenly blurted out into the silence, “So, um… I’m guessing this shouldn’t be something we share with the group at work on Monday?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Not unless the conversation at lunch gets particularly dry.”
“Yeah. Shaun would never let us hear the end of it.”
There was a pause. I waited for what she was about to say next—what she had *really* wanted to ask.
“And…” Here it came—so predictable I almost smiled. “If you see Krish… you won’t…?”
“It’s between us. University reunions are awkward enough.”
>Hello again! It’s been a long time, I know. Inspiration has been thin on the ground recently. However, I managed to dredge up another War and Peace-length story from the archives. As usual, constructive criticism and suggestions welcome. Enjoy!
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/jd3wmp/fucking_an_old_ffriend_the_story_of_the
Amazing.