Your erotic stories

Too many erotic stories. Erotic stories free to watch. Only the best porn stories and sex stories

Wonderland: Evening, Night, Morning

Category: Lesbian Sex
BadFairGoodInterestingSuper Total 0 votes

Last year when I told Andrea that I would be passing through London after attending a conference in Paris, it had not even crossed my mind that we would have an opportunity to meet. But we did meet, and this is the story of how the meeting happened and what we did together.

I hope you like it. It’s long, and the sexy parts, if they’re what you’re looking for, don’t really start until about half-way through the second page. There are plenty of them after that, though.

If you do like it, it would be lovely if you gave it a star rating at the end, or left a comment. I think most of us who write these stories like to know what readers think of them. I certainly do.

I have tried to set down what happened as accurately as I can. Obviously I wasn’t taking notes at the time, but I think that I’ve remembered what happened reasonably well. Some particular moments I can remember as clearly as if I were still there, but at some points I have only been able to remember bits and pieces and I’ve had to use my imagination to try and recreate the complete picture. I’m sure that in places I’ve mixed up the order in which things were said and done, and I’ve probably completely forgotten some things as well. One thing I have done deliberately, in order to protect our anonymity, is alter or simply omit some of the facts about our personal lives. My real name is not Wanda and Andrea Peterson’s real name is not Andrea Peterson.



Memories of that day return to me often. Sometimes, when I lift my eyes from my work and look through the window at the hard blue Queensland sky and the sun beating down on the tired street below, I remember suddenly the freshness of that morning in London. I remember the golden sunlight streaming through the window on Andrea and me and warming us as we sat and ate and talked, the morning after we had met and made love, knowing that we would very soon part forever.

And sometimes I lie awake in the night and think of that moment when Andrea’s hand first touched my naked body between my legs and a sharp shock of desire took my breath from me.

But most of all I return to the image in my mind’s eye of Andrea naked in the shower standing cradled in the crook of my left arm, with the water streaming down on her and her head thrown back, her back arched and small cries escaping from her open mouth, at the moment when I brought her to orgasm with my right hand between her open legs, my fingers loving the soft, silky, slippery wet smoothness inside her cunt.


I’m an ordinary woman. My life has been more or less entirely normal and middle-class, and I have to say that mostly it has been a very good life. I have been happily married for twenty-five years to the father of my two children, both now grown up and no longer living with us. For the last twenty years we have lived on the Sunshine Coast, north of Brisbane in the state of Queensland in Australia, where my story Peregian Beach is set. You will have worked out that I am middle-aged. I work part time as a Certified Practising Accountant and my husband is a senior partner in a law firm. He and I live in a large house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. No doubt it sounds idyllic. It really is rather idyllic, actually.

In my everyday normal life I am just like any other professional, middle class woman. I shop in the supermarket and my husband and I have dinner parties and barbecues with friends and I swim in the sea and I watch TV. Most people think that I’m very conservative and rather prim and proper, probably because I don’t swear and I don’t flirt and I don’t talk constantly about sex. I suppose it’s got something to do with being a boring old accountant as well. But I can’t quite understand why people look at the fact that I don’t behave like a tart and then leap to the conclusion that I’m a puritan and I rather wish they didn’t, to tell the truth. I don’t really think that I’m a puritan and I wish I didn’t give that impression.

There’s definitely one way in which I don’t quite fit the mould. So far as I know, most women in my situation don’t secretly write erotic stories. I do. I write them and I publish them on the internet under the name of Wanda. If my friends and neighbours knew about that they certainly wouldn’t think I’m a puritan, but I’m not planning to tell them any time soon. Or at all. When I am writing those stories I think of myself as being a different, secret world. It’s a world I love. Sometimes I think of it as Wanda world. Nobody in my every-day life knows anything about Wanda world and that’s one of the things I love about it.

That part of my life has grown to include much more than simply writing my own stories. I read other people’s stories. I meet other people. I meet them on line, I mean: Wanda world exists entirely in cyberspace.

That’s how I met Andrea Peterson. Andrea’s also a writer, a much more prolific one than me as a matter of fact, and more popular too. She’s published nearly 100 stories. A couple of years ago, just after I’d published my first story, I came across one of hers that I read and liked. I sent her a feedback message telling her that I liked it because I love getting feedback myself. (Even the negative stuff I don’t mind. It’s better than nothing.) I always include my Wanda email address when I send feedback, and she replied overnight.

Andrea lives on the other side of the world in London. I’m rather orderly in my habits (not much of a surprise, I suppose, coming from an accountant) and I still have all of our emails, sent and received, in my “Andrea” folder on Yahoo. Looking back through them I can see that we seemed hit it off from the very beginning. We were soon writing more or less every day and quickly came to trust each other. I learned that she had been married for fifteen years but had divorced some years before. She had a daughter in her late teens who lived with her.

When I say we trusted each other, I don’t mean that she told me absolutely everything about her life, and I certainly did not tell her everything about mine. What I mean is that when she spoke of her feelings and her reactions and her opinions she told the absolute truth. I was equally frank with her. There was no reason for either of us to be anything else. We didn’t know each other’s real identities at first or for a long time, so neither of us had anything to lose by saying exactly what we felt. The anonymity of the internet gives the ability to lie without fear of any consequences, but it also gives the liberty to tell the truth without fear of any consequences.

We talked about anything and everything. But the fact is that both of us were writers of sexually explicit — to be honest, pornographic — stories, and we had met because of that fact, so most of all we talked about sex. You have to admit it’s a fairly interesting topic.

One form of sex that both of us had written about was sex between women. I have written two stories about women making love, one before and one after I met Andrea in London. I’ve had several comments about how realistic they are. The truth is that when I wrote the first of them, which is called Jan’s Story, I had never myself made love to a woman. Throughout my youth and young womanhood I was very much a heterosexual. I recognized female beauty when I saw it, but it never crossed my mind to think of another woman in a sexual way.

That all began to change when I was about 35 and I can remember very clearly exactly when it began. I was at the hairdresser. My hair was usually done back then by a girl called Maria who was very nice and all that but nearly drove me insane every time I went there. She talked constantly about a whole lot of things in which I had zero interest, and I would try to smile and join in with her when all I really wanted was for her to be quiet for a while and get on with doing what she had to do and let me have a bit of peace.

Thankfully, on this particular day, Maria was away and the replacement girl was different. She greeted me when I arrived and asked me what I wanted done, but from then on she worked in silence. It took me a little while to realise that I wasn’t going to have the usual discussion of Brad Pitt’s love life or whatever it was back then, and when I did I said a silent thank you and settled down to relax completely.

What happened, though, was that I found myself after a few minutes studying this girl in the mirror. There was an air of something sad, even tragic, about her, something in her manner and her eyes. I guessed she was about 24 or 25, although that melancholy air made her seem at first somewhat older. Her body was thin and her breasts, like mine, were small, and she was dressed in a sexually provocative manner, verging on the tarty, in a very short skirt, black hose and high heels. Her skin was pale and her features were flat and her eyes were almond in shape. I guessed that she was of eastern European background. She was not beautiful; she was not really even very pretty. She was striking, though, with her face heavily made up and very pale, almost vampire-like, and her wide mouth and her full lips were coated with thick, glossy, scarlet lipstick. Her hair was bleached almost white.

Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, I found I was thinking about what those lips would feel like to kiss, about what that dry, bleached hair would feel like under my hand. I seemed to feel my hand move to her chest and stroke her small, soft breast. I had to catch my breath.

Her name was Wanda, and those images of her would not leave my mind. I would close my eyes and it would be as if she were really there; I could see the texture of her skin and the makeup coating it. Those black-clad legs under that tiny skirt.

From that time on I became more and more fascinated by the thought of sex with a woman. I thought about what sex with a woman would physically involve, what I would actually do to her and what she would do to me. I was aroused by the thought of the softness and I wanted to experience it. Touching another woman’s breast. Touching her cunt. Kissing her cunt. I began to write about those things. I masturbated to those thoughts. When I needed an identity under which to publish my first story, Wanda was the only name I thought of.

I used the word cunt a moment ago. That word is another thing that changed for me at about that time. For over half my life the word had made me almost physically sick. It seemed so filthy, so degrading, that I could not bear to hear it. I never, ever said it. I don’t really know why or what provoked the change, but now I respect the word; I admire it. It is the plain name for one of the things that makes me a woman. I am proud to have a cunt.

I should also admit that the word arouses me. When I write “my cunt” there is a stirring down there. My cunt begins to moisten. One of the things that Andrea and I admitted to each other was that writing our stories was sexually arousing. Andrea also loved using the word cunt. I had used it in my stories and she used it in hers; it was one of the things that helped to establish the intimacy between us.

Unlike me, Andrea actually had sex with a woman, with more than one woman in fact. I asked her about it and she answered my questions. We began to use our emails not just to converse, but as a form of erotic chat, stimulants to masturbation. We would write about making love to each other. I still get a sexual jolt at the memory of receiving from her an email which she ended, “From Andrea, your moist cunt in London.”


Meeting in London.

Andrea was the one who raised the possibility. At first I could not bring myself even to contemplate it: every part of me shrieked that it was a bad idea. I liked and had become very fond of the Andrea that I had come to know, and I believed that she had become truly fond of me. She certainly said she had. But that was in Wanda world, not real life. I still didn’t even know her real name.

I was also nervous about what she might think of me. I am not pretty, not at all, and I had told her that, but that didn’t really mean anything at all. I also knew that what I had told her about myself had been presented to her in the most favourable way, not really for the purpose of misleading her, but knowing that it would probably lead her to form a more favourable impression of me than I really deserved. I feared that she would be very disappointed when she saw me.

I guessed that to some extent Andrea had done the same thing. I didn’t really think I’d be disappointed in her, but I kept telling myself that I might be. I also knew that regardless of what we had said to each other, a relationship formed over the internet was not like one formed face to face, and that when we met we might simply not like each other at all.

Those things were important, but the main thing was the sex. We had written to each other explicitly about kissing each other, touching each other, fucking each other. I had described to Andie how much I would love to feast on her cunt and she had written to me about flicking my clitoris with her tongue. But writing about something is very different from doing it. I was a person who went to my office every day and did reasonably sophisticated and responsible work. I swam in the Pacific Ocean and ran on the beach four or five times a week. I loved my husband. I was not a person who had lesbian sex with a woman she had never previously met. In fact I was not a person who had lesbian sex at all. I was scared of it. This woman, Andrea, had said she wanted to put her hand between my legs and her fingers inside my cunt. I did not know whether I could cope with meeting her in real life.

One aspect of it all that did not trouble me was what it would mean for my marriage. No doubt some readers will think that what I did was immoral. I know that because of the reaction to Peregian Beach. That’s a story in which two married women made love and if readers look at the comments on it they will see that it outraged some people. The women in that story were fictional characters and I am a real person. But I hadn’t written that story back then and all I can say is that it didn’t occur to me at all that if I met Andrea I would be doing anything wrong. I wasn’t going to leave my husband to live with Andrea and even if I did spend the night with her I wouldn’t be having sex with another man — that’s something I’ve never done and never will. Rightly or wrongly, I never thought that making love with Andrea, or with any woman for that matter, would be the same thing. I loved my husband then and I love him now. I still don’t feel that I have done anything wrong. I ask readers not to judge me harshly.

One thing I can say quite definitely is that my meeting with Andrea and what we did that night have had no implications at all for my marriage. My husband knows nothing about our meeting and I have no intention of telling him.

I said that I just didn’t think about those things at all. Perhaps if I had thought about them I would have remembered that my husband had been unfaithful to me at least a couple of times. I also said that my life was almost idyllic. I did not say it was totally idyllic. Nobody’s life is perfect. My husband travels quite a lot and we have spent many nights apart over the years. He is sexually attractive and sexually active. Twice, when he’s come back after a night or two away, I have noticed little things that told me quite clearly that he had been with a woman during his absence. I admit that both times I was shocked and hurt and had a little weep to myself, but I didn’t say anything about it. I knew both times that it was an isolated incident. I know that he loves me, and I couldn’t see any purpose in making an issue of it on either occasion. Other women might have done that, but I didn’t. They were things that happened and I accepted them. But if I’d been thinking about implications for my marriage when I was thinking about perhaps meeting Andrea, I might have thought that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander.

What I did do was write Andrea a very long email. I started with the easy part first and explained that I thought that a meeting in real life might end with disappointment for both of us. I was honest, though, and said that if that was all there was to it, then I would be willing to run the risk if she was.

Then I moved to the hard part, the sex. I told Andrea that if we did decide to meet, it would have to be on the basis that we had not agreed to have sex with each other. I reminded her that my life had been totally heterosexual, not that she needed any reminding. I said that although there were things that aroused and stimulated me about the thought of sex with a woman, I was far from sure that I would ever actually want to do it. So I said that our meeting would have to be as friends, not lovers.

I asked her to be completely honest with me about what her own thoughts were, and she was. It turned out that they were virtually identical to mine. She said that she too had been thinking about the sex question ever since the possibility of meeting was first raised, and that it was her wish as well as mine that our meeting should take place with us having both accepted that we were agreeing to do no more than meet; that we were not agreeing to have sex.

So we fixed the date. It was easy enough to “steal” a day. My conference was due to finish on a Wednesday evening in June with a big formal dinner, and my flight from London didn’t leave until the Friday, so I was free to do what I liked in the meantime. I booked myself on the Eurostar the next day, Thursday. We agreed to meet outside the champagne bar at St Pancras International Station at 4 pm. We would have a drink there and then she would drive me to my hotel, and when I had checked in we would go out for dinner. I had to be at Heathrow by 11 am on the Friday and Andrea said she would drive me there. It was all fixed.

Smart readers, and maybe some not so smart ones as well, will have noticed one other thing about this arrangement. Both of us were very well aware of it too, though neither of us had mentioned it; it was the elephant in the room, as they say. Andrea and I had acknowledged explicitly that there was no agreement between us to have sex. What we had not mentioned was that there was also no agreement that we would not have sex. I had deliberately avoided ruling out sex entirely and I was absolutely certain that Andie had done the same. When we met we would know that making love was a possibility.

The possibility of making love with Andrea came to dominate my thoughts about the meeting completely. The truth is that I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it more than anything in the world. I dreamed that it would be a moment outside my ordinary life. A moment in the world where I was Wanda. A moment in wonderland.


I went to Hermès on my last morning in Paris and bought a silk scarf as a present for Andie, guessing about the colours from her photograph and what she had told me. I wasn’t even sure that I would give it to her; it would depend on how things went, but I wanted to be prepared if things went well.

I prepared myself in another way as well. Underwear is not something I usually bother much about: except on special occasions, I wear what is clean and comfortable and fits. For my meeting with Andrea, though, I had bought specially a matching black silk bra and panty set, so light and fine and sheer that my nipples and pubic hair were clearly visible through them. My breasts are small, so I can wear bras that are next to nothing. As I put the diaphanous things on that morning I wondered whether Andie would ever see them, whether she would remove them from my body and make me naked.

I had never before been through the Channel tunnel on the Eurostar, but I hardly noticed the journey as we sped through France and southern England. My mind was in such turmoil that I felt almost physically ill. I wondered whether Andrea would even show up. I told myself that what I was doing was insane and that I should just walk straight out of St Pancras and take a taxi to a different hotel from the one I had told Andrea about. I didn’t, though.


The huge railway station was confusing and the turmoil in my head did not make it easier, but eventually I asked at a news stand and obtained directions to the champagne bar.

A sign pointed to the Ladies. I was surprised by how clean and new it was, so I used the toilet, but I had gone in mainly to check how I looked. I re-applied my lipstick and checked my hair. I try to make the best of some fairly ordinary raw material. My body is not bad, speaking honestly: I’m 5 feet 9 inches tall and I have been a regular runner and swimmer for most of my adult life so I am quite slim and my muscles are hard. My hair is very dark brown, almost black, and my eyes are also brown. My skin is clear and I tan easily. I know how to use makeup to my best advantage, giving some definition to my rather flat and stodgy features, and I know how to dress to suit my build and colouring. That day, over my black silk underwear, I was wearing a black silk and wool blend tunic-style outfit with long sleeves and a high neck and fitted trousers. For some colour there was a pink silk scarf around my neck. (You may have guessed that I love silk.) My shoes were black with medium heels. The reflection in the Ladies-room mirror reassured me that I was looking as good as I could.

It is difficult to describe my thoughts as I walked towards the bar. All around me was the real world, full of people, noises, shops, trains; and yet at the same time I was walking towards an encounter with a woman with whom I might make love, a woman from Wanda world. I felt as if I were somehow apart from all that normality, existing in some separate kind of space.

I knew Andrea immediately when I saw her. She was standing outside the entrance, alone, wearing a blue skirt and a white shirt with a brown jacket over it as she had said she would. I can picture her in my mind’s eye in every detail. The skirt fitted her closely at the hips. She was an ordinary woman standing and waiting to meet another ordinary woman.


It all began to go terribly wrong.

I felt myself stiffen as I walked towards her and recognized instantly what was happening. I am shy. I’m not shy in Wanda world — that’s one of the reasons I love it so much — but I’m shy in real life. Readers who are shy themselves will know what that means, but others may not. What it means for me is that in an unfamiliar situation, when I am not sure of myself, my reaction is to withdraw within myself. I find myself completely unable to show myself properly to whoever I am with. Conversation is reduced to small talk; communication becomes formal; boredom follows.

As a kind of defence mechanism I have developed a set of manners and habits, a kind of artificial personality that takes over and says and does the things that are required. It allows me to avoid exposing my vulnerable inner self.

The use of this artificial “me” is as automatic for me as the shyness that makes it necessary. It kicked into operation automatically as I approached Andrea. I could feel it happen and I hated it but I was powerless to stop it. My artificial smile appeared on my face and I walked directly towards her. I even began to extend my arm to shake hands, but at least I was enough in control to stop myself in time. I said her name.

Only I did not say, “Andrea.” I used her real name. She used my real name in reply. It was so wrong. Our real names had no part of this. This should have been a meeting between Wanda and Andrea. It was the Wanda part of me who was Andrea’s friend and who might become Andrea’s lover.

I really can’t remember much about our the time we spent in the bar and I have no desire to remember more. It had for me the quality of a nightmare. We were there, I was there, because of an intimacy, specifically a sexual intimacy, that had been established through six months of frank and explicit communication; but the fragments of conversation that I can recall from that afternoon were about the weather in Paris, my trip on the Eurostar, what I wore to the closing dinner of the conference I had attended, the weather in London.

Despair consumed me. I wanted to cry, but the false smile remained on my face and my stream of small talk continued to flow. God only knew what Andrea was thinking. Even the champagne I drank was no help. Eventually we finished the bottle and it was time for Andrea to drive me to the hotel. We paid for the champagne and left the bar. It was chilly and drizzling outside the station and we walked to where her car was parked in almost complete silence. We said almost nothing on the short journey to the hotel. I was as miserable as I had ever been, completely at a loss as to what I could do to retrieve this disaster, to make Andrea know that I was here, that I was Wanda, and that I wanted to make love to her.

For despite my mental paralysis, I knew that that was what I wanted. It had been what I wanted from the moment the possibility of meeting was mentioned. There had never been any doubt about that at all.


At 6 pm Andrea handing the keys to the parking valet, then we walked through the automatic doors to the reception desk. I signed the credit card form and took the card key from the reception girl and we walked together to the lift and went up to my floor. One or the other of us may have made some remark about the efficiency of the hotel but I really can’t remember whether we said anything at all. I found the room, the card key worked, and we went inside.

It was warm in the room. It was a typical anonymous hotel room, slightly larger than most and comfortably fitted out, but with nothing in it to offend anyone and therefore nothing to give it any distinction. Immediately inside the door was an inner door leading to the bathroom. I looked in and saw with relief that the bathroom was large, bright and clean, with a huge walk-in shower. In the main room the dominant item of furniture was the king-size bed. I tried not to look at it. Opposite the foot of the bed was a cabinet on which sat a large flat-screen television, a CD player and a tray on which were things to make tea and coffee. Beyond the bed was a small sitting area with two armchairs with a small circular coffee table between them. In a corner there was a narrow desk with a smaller chair in front of it.

“Shall we have a cup of tea?” I asked.

“Lovely,” said Andrea.

There was a knock at the door while I was making the tea and I let the porter in with my suitcase, then gave him a pound and he left satisfied. I opened the suitcase and took out my bathroom things and took them in there.

Then Andrea said, “I’ve brought you a present.”

I was puzzled. I couldn’t think what present she might have brought, or why she would want to give it to me now, when everything was so awful. I thought of the Hermès scarf in my suitcase, but I didn’t feel like bringing it out.

“It’s not much,” Andrea said. “Just a CD. I’ll put it on while you finish making the tea.”

As I fiddled with the tea things I watched her at the CD player. I could see her searching for a track, but I could not see the title of the CD. She made sure the volume was right and pressed Play.

I recognized the music and understood immediately why she had done this. It was the Flower Duet from Lakmé, the opera by Delibes. We had written to each other about it. It is an exquisite duet between the princess Lakmé and her beautiful handmaiden, Mallika, and it had been used in a film we both knew called The Hunger. It’s in a gorgeous, intensely erotic scene in which Catherine Deneuve seduces Susan Sarandon — two beautiful women making love.

I knew exactly what to say.

“That sounds like a love song,” I said.

“Then I guess that’s what it is,” Andrea replied.

I paused a moment. We were playing out the scene from the film.

Then, “Are you making a pass at me, Mrs Peterson?” I asked. I called her for the first time by her Wanda world name.

She gave the answer I expected: “Not that I’m aware of, Wanda.” And she did call me Wanda.

We both laughed then. For the first time, things felt right. I was looking directly into Andrea’s large, green eyes, feeling that I was seeing her properly for the first time, seeing the makeup on her skin, her pale blue eye shadow. Her lipstick. Her head was tilted slightly upwards; she was also inspecting me, seeing the me that I had until then hidden. She reached her hand forward and touched me on my arm. I could not move. She took a step towards me and I bent forward slightly. Her lips touched mine. She kissed me. I kissed her.

I was conscious simultaneously of so many things. The incredible softness of her lips. The slight slipperiness of her lipstick against mine. The roundness of her body, the swell of her full, soft breasts against my own flat chest. Her warmth; the sweetness of her perfume. Her breath, scented with the sip of tea she had drunk and behind it the champagne. Her waist was narrow; I placed my hands gently on either side of it, feeling its slimness, feeling the swell of her hips below it, used as I was to the hard straightness of a male body. I felt her hands on my waist, then sliding around to my back and up my back to my shoulders, feeling my body beneath the black tunic. I felt her bra through the cotton of her blouse, and then my hands were on the back of Andrea’s neck. Still holding me, she ended the kiss. I could not think of anything to say.

Andrea spoke. “Are you all right, Wanda?”

“I’m nervous,” I said.

“We’ll take our time,” she said. “I’ll be gentle.”


Andrea’s arm was around me as she led me to the bed. I could not suppress a nervous giggle, feeling like a schoolgirl who had just had her first kiss. We stood by the bed facing each other, our hands still on each other’s waists; then Andrea took hold of the bottom of my black top and lifted it over my head. I raised my arms and leaned towards her to make it easy for her. I stood there then in my black silk bra with my nipples making little points in the sheer cloth. Without hesitating, Andrea reached her arms around me, found the fastening and slipped it apart and removed my bra. I went to cross my arms over my chest but stopped myself and stood there bare-breasted, my nipples as hard as bullets, shivering slightly with nervousness. Partly to hide my nakedness I embraced her, feeling my bare skin against the roughness of the jacket she was still wearing, feeling her caress the bare skin of my back. She kissed me again. This time our mouths opened and our tongues touched and my legs almost collapsed beneath me. Her hand slipped between us and covered my left breast. I sighed deeply. The touch of her hand was infinitely comforting, fulfilling.

We drew slightly apart and I felt her hands at my waist then, at the fastening of my pants. She’s stripping me, I thought, and giggled nervously again. My pants were undone had fallen around my ankles before I had realised what was happening. I stepped out of them and my shoes at the same time. I was naked except for my panties. Naked in front of this pretty woman with long red-brown hair. I did not know what to do next.

“Undress me, Wanda” said Andrea. I loved hearing her call me by that name.

Obediently I took hold of Andrea’s jacket as she slipped out of it. I put it down and began to unbutton her shirt. I felt her breasts beneath my hands but I could not bring myself to cup them; I was trembling and I had trouble undoing the buttons. Andrea had to help me.

“It’s OK, lovely,” Andrea said. “Don’t be nervous.”

She took her blouse off and stood before me, her full breasts heavy in her bra, white lace, under-wired to support her bust. Her nipples, like mine, were erect. She turned her back to me.

“Take it off me,” Andrea said, and stood patiently until eventually I got the hooks free. Carefully I removed the bra from her body, freeing her magnificent breasts. They were not the high, firm breasts of a girl, but the softer, lower breasts of a mature woman, a mother. Her nipples were pink and set in large, coral-coloured areolae; her nipples were as hard as mine. Now that she was half naked I reached out my hand without thinking and placed it on her left breast. It was softer than I could have imagined. Andrea put her hands on my arms and held me still. She moved against me so that her bare breasts and hard nipples pressed against me. I felt for the first time my naked skin against the naked breasts of another woman.

Andrea sat down on the bed and removed the boots she was wearing. She stood again and turned her back to me. I undid the buttons on the waistband of her skirt and pulled down the zip; then I eased the skirt over her hips and it fell to the floor. She was wearing a white g-string and her buttocks were naked. Her bottom was large: she was a full-built woman and I felt skinny and meagre next to her. She turned to face me.

“Take my knickers off,” she said. I took hold of the tiny strings at her hips and pushed them down. I saw her patch of pubic hair. I had to bend my knees to push her g-string low enough for it to come free from her buttocks and fall to the floor. She stood before me then, fully naked. My eyes were drawn to that place between her legs. Her pubic hair was dark, but with a touch of auburn that proved that the colour of the hair on her head was real. I wanted to touch her there but I was unable to move, except to tremble.

“Wanda,” said Andrea, “Lie down on the bed.” I lay down.

Andrea sat down next to me and took hold of the waistband of my panties. As she began to draw them down I raised my hips to let her pull them past my bottom, then I raised my knees to allow her to remove them completely.

“I’m going to touch your cunt,” she said. I nodded. She touched my cunt.

I felt my stomach and the muscles inside me contract violently; the shock made me gasp. She gripped my cunt then and squeezed it; again I drew my breath sharply. Andrea smiled at me. “You’re aroused,” she said. “I can feel your clitoris, how hard it is.”

It was her turn now to lie down on the bed as I shuffled my body towards its centre to make room for her beside me. I turned to face her, so both of us were lying on our sides, facing each other, very close, naked.

“Andrea,” I tried to say, but it came out in only a whisper.

“You are beautiful, Wanda,” she said. I knew it was not true and it made me want to cry.

“Andrea, you are so lovely,” I said. “So lovely.”

She raised herself slightly then and leaned over me and kissed me, a full-blooded kiss on the mouth, our bodies entirely naked, touching down their entire lengths. Our feet touched and entwined themselves. I was overwhelmed by sensation: the warmth, the softness, the roundness, the sweetness; I was in rapture. Our tongues touched and the electric thrill again jolted my body. I felt her hand move over my breast and cover it and squeeze it gently. Again I was able to slide my own hand to her wonderful heavy breast and feel her hard nipple against my palm. I pressed my own breast against her hand as hard as I could.

Then her hand removed itself from my breast and I felt it slide to my stomach. Moving lower. Moving to my cunt.

I felt myself gasp and my body again contract at her touch. Her hand rested there as she raised her head and kissed me on the mouth, both our mouths wide open. Our tongues were touching as her hand pressed my cunt and I felt two fingers slip inside me. I was completely wet, right on the edge. Her fingers found my clitoris and I almost came immediately, and then, as she pressed it and pushed it, I did come. I came with her hand in my cunt and her mouth on my mouth and her tongue touching mine. My hips ground against her hand; I grunted as my hips bucked and jerked, and my spirit leapt into space. Then I was done, all that longing and anticipation and desire was released from me in that glorious moment, and I burst into tears and buried my face in her shoulder.

“My darling, darling girl,” she said. “How beautiful you are.”


I lay flat on my back, legs apart, arms by my sides, completely spent. Andrea’s hand still rested on the inside of my thigh, close to my cunt, but no electricity emanated from it. Andrea was on her side, propped on her elbow, gazing at me and smiling.

“How did you like that?” she asked. Her voice was deep and musical, with a faint Estuary accent, the words slightly slurred. For the first time I was really listening to her, hearing what she was saying, acting as if she were a real person rather than some kind of embodiment of my ideas about her.

“I’m done,” I said. “I was so on edge, you just had to touch me and I came. It was unbelievable.” I reached out and caressed her arm.

“I’m so glad,” Andrea said. “I wanted it to be good for you. It was fantastic watching you. Your face was bright red. You made me jealous.” Her smile had become very broad.

I was recovered now and I raised myself and turned towards her.

“Would you like me to do you?” I asked.

“What do you think?” she answered. “Doesn’t one good turn deserve another? You got me good and horny coming like that. Pinch my nipple and then let your instinct take over.” She grinned at me.

I was rather hesitant as I took her nipple between my thumb and index finger and pinched it lightly several times. I felt it hard under my touch.

“Lovely,” said Andrea. “Kiss it. Take it in your mouth.”

I bent my head to Andrea’s breast and licked her hard nipple, then took it between my lips. I sucked it.

“Put your hand on my cunt,” she said. Satisfied as I was after coming, hearing her say that word still thrilled me. I had never heard it said like that. My hand was resting on Andrea’s waist. Tentatively I began to slide it over her hip, over the front of her thigh. Her nipple was still in my mouth and I licked it and sucked it. I felt her pubic hair rough against the back of my fingers, but at the angle at which I was lying I could not get at her properly. I raised my head and looked at her. She looked back at me, still smiling, and turned so that she was on her back. She opened her legs and I raised myself on my elbow and looked down at her naked body. Her skin was slightly freckled in the parts that sunlight touched, browner at the neck and on the legs than on the parts of her that were normally clothed, which were pure white. I noticed the excess weight around her waist and hips. She was not an ideal. She was a woman who had lived. She was beautiful.

I placed my hand firmly on the mound between her legs, my fingers covering her opening. I pressed it and immediately felt her lips part and my middle finger sensed the wetness inside. I did not want to hurt her and I was careful. I eased my middle finger inside her, feeling the soft, slippery smoothness inside her cunt, so like mine, yet different because it was not mine. I heard her sigh as my finger entered her. She was very wet. I slipped my index finger in then and I felt around inside her cunt, exploring it. I felt the ridge that was her clitoris, and as I touched it Andrea sighed again. I moved my finger slowly from side to side over her clitoris and her breathing became faster and harder. I rubbed my two fingers more quickly now over her clitoris and I looked at her. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed, and she was breathing quickly with her mouth open.

“My fingers are in your cunt,” I said. I said it just because I wanted to say the word. I had never said it before to another person.

Andrea opened her eyes and looked at me, still breathing hard.

“Fuck my cunt with your fingers, Wanda,” she said. “Make me come.” She gave a short laugh. “It won’t take you long, honey.”

Her hips were pushing back against my fingers as I rubbed her clitoris. Without stopping, I put two fingers of my other hand inside my mouth to wet them, then reached them down between her legs. I found her opening and worked them gently inside her. Her cunt was wet, warm, smooth, sticky. As the fingers of my right hand continued to rub her clitoris from side to side I moved the fingers of my left hand in and out of her cunt. Her breath came faster and faster, louder than before, and each time my fingers thrust inside her she moaned softly. Her hips pressed harder and harder against me. I bent and kissed her breast again, taking her nipple in my mouth and sucking hard, pushing my fingers deeper and deeper inside her cunt. They were beginning to ache with the pressure. And then I felt Andrea come. She gave a deep-throated grunt and her cunt closed around my fingers; her thighs gripped my hands and held them still as she whimpered softly and exhaled deeply several times, making small noises of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” She jerked her hips against my hand twice more, then a third and a fourth time, and shuddered as her orgasm worked its way through. She was still breathing quickly but the urgency had disappeared.

After a moment Andrea opened her eyes and looked at me.

“Whoo,” she said. “That was a good one. You didn’t seem to have much trouble knowing what to do.”

“Well, I’ve been practising for quite a while,” I said, and felt myself grinning at her. “I should have got it right by now. I figured that if it works for me it would probably work for you.”

“You’re not wrong there,” she answered. We lay quietly for a moment.

“We should get up,” Andrea said then. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

“That’s a viable alternative in Paris,” I said. “I think I’d rather stick to something more conventional though.” I looked at the clock radio by the bed. “7.27,” I said. “Definitely time to for a bit of a feed.”


Andrea knew an Italian place in easy walking distance of the hotel. It seemed very expensive to me, but I’m always amazed by the prices in London and the food was very good. We both ordered lasagne and a salad and a bottle of red wine: good hearty fare.

Dinner was very different from our nightmarish drink in the bar at St Pancras. My shyness had disappeared; nothing startling there, I suppose, considering that Andrea and I had just lain naked together on a bed and brought each other to orgasm. Instead of the weather we talked about the things we talked about in our emails, i.e., mainly sex. The language got rather hot, too, and a couple of times we had to remember to keep our voices down. We drew a few glances from other diners, but I hoped that we weren’t making a spectacle of ourselves. The bottle of wine disappeared without difficulty, and we had a Cointreau each with our coffee. As we clinked the tiny glasses before we drank, Andrea leaned towards me and whispered, “I think we should go soon, darling. There are some things that Andrea wants to do to Wanda when we get back to the hotel.”

“That sounds intriguing,” I replied. “And it’s funny, but Wanda was thinking the same thing.”

It was quarter to ten when we left the restaurant. The drizzle had dried up long ago and the cool, still night air was refreshing after the crowded room and the hot food and the alcohol. I was grateful for the chance to sober up and reflect as we strolled slowly back to the hotel. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes, but our silence was comfortable now, free of any strain. We walked close together, our shoulders occasionally touching, and after a few moments I slipped my arm through Andrea’s. I couldn’t see any reason not to.


Even so, I removed my arm as we walked back into the hotel foyer. The thought crossed my mind that I had said there would be only one person staying in the room, and I also wondered what Andrea had said to the parking valet about when she would be picking up the car. I was vaguely troubled for all of about three nano-seconds, before my mind returned to other, more interesting, thoughts. Andrea and I were going to make love again.

We were the only people in the lift on the way up to the fifth floor. As soon as the double doors closed Andrea turned to me, a big smile on her face, and pushed me back against the lift wall and kissed me full on the mouth. She put one hand on my left breast and the other between my legs and she squeezed my cunt. She is a strong woman and I could not have resisted if I had wanted to. I managed to disengage my mouth though, and with my lips against her ear I said softly, “When we get up there, honey, I’m going to kiss your cunt and make you come.”

We disengaged as soon as the lift slowed and were standing demurely side by side when the doors opened. There was nobody in the corridor as we walked to the door of my room, neither touching nor speaking. As I walked I could feel how moist I was inside. I wondered if Andrea was the same.

Inside the room we stood for a moment facing each other. I was studying Andrea’s face, trying to absorb the fact that she was really there, that I was in a hotel room with this woman, that several hours earlier we had had our fingers in each other’s cunts and that we were shortly going to be naked in bed together. I reached out my hand and touched her hair, just to confirm that she was real. Then, simultaneously, we moved towards each other and embraced, and kissed. The softness of her lips and skin were no longer the novelty they had been that afternoon and I found myself concentrating this time on the sensation of her slippery, nimble tongue against mine. I touched her teeth with my tongue and I traced my hands lightly from her shoulders down the sides of her back to her hips. The kiss ended.

“I’m going to go into the bathroom and make myself nice for you and then get into bed,” Andrea said. “How does that suit you?”

“I think that’s acceptable,” I answered. “While you’re in there I’ll make us a nice cup of tea. I think I’ve had more than enough alcohol for tonight.”

“Great minds think alike, ” she said.

I filled the electric jug from the tap in the bathroom before she went in, taking her handbag with her. While I had put the teabags in the cups and was waiting for the water to boil I opened my suitcase and found my nightie. I looked at it, then left it there. I heard the toilet flush. I went to the door and hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, then folded back the bedspread. To my surprise I saw that the bed had sheets and blankets rather than a duvet; it was ages since I had slept in sheets and blankets, but trust the Poms to stick with tradition. Andrea was still moving around in the bathroom, so I began to undress. I put my shoes neatly under the bed and folded the pink shawl that I was still wearing. Then I removed my tunic top and trousers and hung them on a hanger in the built-in wardrobe. I was now dressed only in my sheer black silk underwear and stockings. I decided not to take them off, and instead sat down at the desk with my bathroom kit and began to remove my makeup.

I had second thoughts as my plain, middle-aged face began to reveal itself and almost began to reapply my makeup, but I continued with the removal. “I am what I am,” I thought to myself. “I’ve never said I was anything else.”

The last of my makeup was off as Andrea emerged from the bathroom, and I stood up. We faced each other, me in my silk underwear and stockings, Andrea in a short, loose, sheer pink nightdress. She must have brought it in her handbag, in preparation. She had brushed her hair back from her face and drawn it into a pony tail behind her head and also removed all traces of her makeup. Her imperfections, like mine, were there to be seen, without disguise. I saw the heaviness around her waist and hips under her transparent nightdress. I saw the slight roughness of the skin of her cheeks. Her lips were pale. I knew she was looking at me in the same way I was looking at her, noticing the flatness of my nose and the lack of definition of my lips, the skinny awkwardness of my body, the blemishes on the skin of my face and body.

I spoke without thinking, but I can remember my exact words. “I like you like that, Andrea,” I said. “You’re real.”

I can remember her reply, too. “Me too,” she said, and smiled. I knew what she meant.

“The jug’s boiled,” I said. “I’ll make the tea.”

I took my tea into the bathroom with me. As I closed the door behind me I saw Andrea beginning to get into bed. I was quick in the bathroom as my makeup was already off. When I had brushed my teeth and used the toilet I removed my stockings and my black silk panties. The bath had a detachable shower head on a hose, I was glad to see. I got into the bath and squatted down and used the shower head to wash myself thoroughly between the legs. I had noticed that the bath was wet with drops of water and I guessed that Andrea had done the same. We had prepared ourselves for mutual cunnilingus, I thought as I replaced the shower head in its rack. The thought made me swallow.

I walked out into the bedroom. The lights were still on. I was wearing only my black sheer silk bra. Andrea was sitting up in the bed supported by pillows. She had folded back the sheet and blankets so that her legs were bare and her body was covered only by the flimsy transparent nightie. Her heavy breasts were clearly visible and her nipples stared at me.

“Get that arse of yours over here, Wanda,” she said. I went and stood by the edge of the bed, looking down at her, then leaned forward and took the hem of her night dress in my hands and began to lift it over her head. She lifted her arms and allowed me to draw it from her. She was naked then, free of clothes, free of makeup, a naked woman. She reached out her hand and placed it on my cunt, making me gasp.

“Lie down now,” she said.

I lay down beside her, facing her. Before I got settled she reached around me and removed my bra so we were both naked. We began to kiss each other, gently and thoughtfully, and I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to the situation. Her mouth was fresh from brushing her teeth. She had applied a little scent, faint; I thought I recognized Chanel No. 5 but I never found out for certain. I felt Andrea’s hand on my breast, taking my nipple between her thumb and finger and pressing it softly. The sensation was exquisite and sent small waves of pleasure spreading through my body and I realised I was humming softly. My own hand was stroking Andrea’s body down its side, feeling the curve of the chest into the waist and then more sharply kicking out to her hip. I caressed her buttock while she pressed my nipple.

As we continued kissing I drew my hand from her buttock, over her hip and down to her cunt. It was the same as it had been earlier: I could not get my hand properly between her legs, so Andrea turned on her back and parted her legs. I raised myself on my elbow and looked down at her, seeing her smiling up at me; she reached her arms up around my neck and pulled me down to kiss her. I placed my hand properly on her cunt as we kissed and drew my index finger up along the slit. Her lips parted easily and my finger slipped inside the warm, incredibly soft and smooth wetness that I remembered from the afternoon. A small, breathy grunt escaped from her as my finger touched her clitoris.

“God, darling, you do know how to find the spot,” she said in a strained voice. “You won’t need to do that for very long to make me explode.”

“Do you want me to?” I asked, my finger still on her button.

“I was thinking of something a little bit different really,” Andrea said.

I knew what she meant. I swallowed. “OK,” I answered. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“Just lie there, Wanda.”

I realised that Andrea was going to do me first. I lay back on the bed as she raised herself from it, supporting herself on one arm, and leaned over me. She bent down and kissed me, and I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to the kiss. Andrea’s hand found my breast as our tongues touched and small shockwaves of pleasure pulsed through my body. Then Andrea lifted her mouth from mine and began kissing me down the length of my body: my chin, my neck, my shoulders, my two small breasts, then down the centre of my abdomen, pausing to dart her tongue into my navel, then further down. I found it hard to breathe as she approached the point at which I knew she’d stop. There was a break for a moment as she moved herself around to lie between my legs, facing up at me. I drew up my knees to my chest and opened them as wide as I could and she slipped her hands underneath my buttocks to lift them slightly.

Then Andrea planted her mouth on my cunt. The firmness of the movement again took my breath away. I struggled to regain it as I immediately felt her tongue lick up the length of my slit parting my lips, and then again, beginning at the bottom, again moving upwards but this time inside me, inside my cunt and pausing at the top, on my clitoris, playing with it, teasing it. I felt as if there could be no greater pleasure, but then I felt her withdraw her hand from under my bottom and she gently slipped a finger inside me. Then another. Her tongue was on my clitoris and her fingers were moving in and out of me and I felt my orgasm suddenly building. I heard myself emitting a small, jerky cry with each thrust of her fingers, and then the dam broke and my orgasm erupted. I squeezed my legs together to stop her moving as my orgasm worked its way to the end; Andrea sensed what was happening and released all pressure from me as I shuddered and groaned to peace. “Oh, God,” I said. “God. Fuck.”

I was done then and I relaxed, breathing heavily. Andrea hauled herself up beside me, a huge smile all over her face.

“Enjoy that?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” I answered. “Not at all. Not one little bit. Couldn’t you tell?”

“I thought not,” she answered. “Why don’t you see if you can do better on me? Do you fancy that?”

I had recovered by then and we were both giggling. “Oh, if I must,” I answered.

Despite the lightness of my words, my heart was pounding as I wriggled myself down the bed and between Andrea’s legs and found myself with my face just six inches from her cunt. She had drawn her knees up and her thighs were on either side of my head. I could see the individual pubic hairs, the sides of the triangle of hair sharply delineated and the hairs obviously trimmed. Her outer lips completely covered her inner lips almost to the top, where I could see the beginning of the ridge that housed her clitoris. Rather awkwardly, as I was supporting the weight of my upper body on my elbows, I brought my hands in front of me and placed one thumb on each of her lips, gently parting them. I saw the glistening, pink skin inside and her tiny, delicate inner lips. Very slowly, I bent my head and placed my lips on her cunt.

I paused for a moment as I heard Andrea sigh, thinking about what I was doing. I was kissing the cunt of another woman. Then I slipped my tongue inside her, feeling the slippery slick smoothness of the skin in there and at the same time the prickliness of her pubic hair against the sides of my tongue. I licked slowly and lasciviously upwards and heard Andrea emit a small squeak as the tip of my tongue came to rest against her clitoris. I licked again up inside her from bottom to top and this time left my tongue on her clitoris. I moved it from side to side and was rewarded by hearing Andrea gasp and feeling her squirm beneath me. I kept moving my tongue on her clitoris and her moans became louder and more continuous.

I remembered what Andrea had done to me. Still keeping my tongue on her I shifted my weight so that I could move my right hand. My fingers felt very dry and I was anxious not to hurt her, so I put my index and middle fingers in my mouth and got them very wet with my saliva. Then I licked her again, and this time as my tongue touched her clitoris, I carefully and very slowly inserted my middle finger inside her. Andrea moaned again and raised her hips to press her clitoris hard against my tongue and lips. I slid my index finger in her as well.

Andrea’s hips were rising and falling rhythmically now, pressing against me and then releasing. I began to move my fingers backwards and forwards in her, finger-fucking her, while I kept my tongue on her button, not too firmly, teasing it from side to side and round and round. Her breathing became urgent; her moans became small, rhythmic cries, faster and faster. I tried to keep my own movements regular and even, thinking of how I liked it myself. My fingers moved in and out, penetrating as deeply as they would reach; my tongue continued tormenting her clitoris; her hips thrust and withdrew; then she exploded, her body bucking twice, hard, almost hurting me, uttering a loud, sharp “Ah!” as she came, violently, beneath me.

I had made Andrea come. I felt so proud. As her body subsided, still trembling and clenching, but less violently, I rested my head on the base of her belly, on her pubic mound, tired myself from the effort of the previous few minutes. I smiled to myself.


At last she was still, except for her deep breathing as she recovered her breath. I extricated myself from between her legs and joined her at the top of the bed. We looked at each other and smiled.

“How was my technique?” I asked.

“Oh, reasonably promising,” Andrea replied. “For a first-timer, Wanda, you’re not bad at all. You need more practice, of course.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder where I’m going to get that.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” she said.

We were silent then and our smiles gradually disappeared. I was gazing into Andrea’s eyes, thinking of the wonder of it all, that I was here with this woman whom I had never previously met, having made love with her as thoroughly as two women can make love; how different it was from my normal life; wondering for a moment if what was happening was real or merely a dream; knowing of course that it was completely real. We moved simultaneously towards each other and kissed deeply, our mouths open and out tongues touching lazily, satisfied. Happy.

“Darling,” I said, “I’m going to go to sleep. I’m tired. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Andrea said. “So am I. We’ll let the morning worry about itself.

I got up and switched off the lights while Andrea pulled up the bedclothes. We settled beside each other in bed and kissed goodnight.

I fell into sleep immediately.


I awoke once during the night, in need of a pee. I knew exactly where I was. The digital clock by the bed said 2.14. I looked at the mound that was Andrea’s body; I heard her very softly snoring. Careful not to wake her, I eased myself out of bed and found the door of the bathroom. With the door closed behind me I switched on the blindingly bright light. I felt the tiles cold against my feet. As I sat on the toilet I remembered what had happened earlier: not so much Andrea’s mouth and tongue between my legs, but my own mouth and tongue on Andrea and inside her. I had done it. I was regretful and proud at the same time.

I went back to bed and back to sleep.


Andrea awoke before me. She had got out of bed and put on the jug to make tea, and what woke me was her drawing back the curtains so that bright sunlight streamed in through the window.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“7.30,” she replied. “Not too early, not too late. It’s a perfect day outside, much nicer than yesterday. Did you sleep well?”

I had slept marvellously. I felt full of energy and life. “Mmm, yes, I did,” I answered. “How about you?”

“Like a top,” she said. “Bring on the day, I say. Shall we go out and see if we can find somewhere nice for breakfast? There used to be a place near here that was fantastic, but I don’t know if it’s still there.”

“That sounds great,” I answered. “This time it’s my turn to feel like eating a horse. I think I’ll do the full Pommie eggs and bacon thing.”

Andrea had brought my tea over to the bed and sat on the edge of it. She was wearing the thin nightie she had worn the night before; she must have put it back on when she got up. I sat up to drink my tea. I was still naked and I saw her glance at my breasts.

“I told you they were tiny,” I said.

“You told me you had long nipples as well, and you haven’t let me down there either. I love them. Did you have a nice time last night?” she asked.

I looked at her directly.

“Do you really have to ask?” I replied. “You must know that I did.”

“So Wanda has no regrets?”

“Wanda doesn’t have a single one.”

Andrea leaned forward and kissed me. I smelt toothpaste on her breath and hoped that mine wasn’t too bad. We sipped our tea and I thought about what I had to do that morning.

“I’m going to get up and have a shower and get dressed and everything packed up ready to leave before we go out for breakfast,” I said. “I don’t want to have to rush things later on. What time will we have to leave to get me to the airport by 11?”

“10.15 will give us plenty of time,” Andrea replied. “It’s quite a direct route from here. There’s no rush. The place I’m thinking of is just around the corner and if that one’s gone there are plenty of others.”

She paused for a moment, then said, “I haven’t had a shower either yet. Shall we have one together?”

I hadn’t even thought of that, but I could feel myself breaking into a grin.

“Why waste water?” I asked. “Shower with a friend.”

We finished our tea quickly and I climbed out of bed. “Just let me have a pee first,” I said. “I’ll call you.”

I went into the bathroom, shut the door and sat down on the toilet. I believe that some things are best done in private. When I had finished and brushed my teeth, I called out to Andrea, opening the door of the shower cabinet and entering. It really was enormous; it must have been designed for two people. The shower head was fixed but the angle was adjustable. I had had experience of English showers and I prayed that this one would have decent pressure as I turned it on. I needn’t have worried. The pressure was excellent and the water took only a moment to warm up. I left the tap full on as I heard Andrea entering the bathroom and I stepped under the water. I love showers. The shower we have at home is just about perfect, and this one was every bit as good. I turned to face the open door where Andrea was standing naked, smiling at me.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked.

“If it won’t disturb you too much,” she replied.

“Oh, not at all.”

Andrea edged her way in. Despite the size of the cabinet, we bumped against each other as she closed the door behind her.

“Mmm, good shower,” she said. “Not too hot for you?”

I had been worried that it might be a bit hot for Andrea.

Andrea turned to face me directly and we looked at each other. I was hesitating, but Andrea put her two hands on my waist and pulled our two bodies together down their full length, right in the middle of the streaming hot water. Even the fronts of our thighs were touching; her wet skin felt slippery. The water continued to pour over us. Andrea reached a hand up to the back of my neck and pulled our two heads together, taking the full force of the shower on our scalps. We kissed in the stream. I opened my mouth wide; hers was wide open too and our tongues kissed and twisted and played as we kissed, and pulses of pleasure passed through my body.

I had my hands on Andrea’s back and I let them roam all over her body, her back, her neck, the back of her head, down the curve of her side to her hip, her buttocks, feeling the water coursing over her. My right hand caressed her buttock all over, slipping into the cleft between her cheeks, the side of my index finger boldly passing over the opening of her anus. I did not attempt to enter it. My hand continued its downward journey between her thighs, finding the lips of her cunt and gently pushing between them. Andrea’s hand had found my nipple and was squeezing it quite hard, not enough to cause me pain but enough to make me gasp.

“I’m going to do you first this time,” I said. I knew what to do now. I had served my brief apprenticeship.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “Anything you say, sir.”

I was taller than Andrea and strong enough to support her. I put my left hand around her back, just below the shoulders, and stood her so that my arm was against the shower wall and she was leaning back against it. I had to adjust the angle of the shower head with my right hand a little so that it was playing directly on her, the stream hitting her on the chin and the tops of her breasts. I made her part her legs, then leaned towards her and simultaneously took her left nipple in my mouth and placed my right hand on her cunt. I felt her shudder and whimper softly.

Carefully I slipped two fingers inside her. She was very wet inside, but how much was the shower water and how much was Andrea I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care much, either. I began to move my fingers in and out, making sure that as my index finger moved it rubbed against her clitoris. I sucked hard on her nipple. Andrea began to make little sounds of Oh! again in time with my movements, and I felt her hips move in rhythm. I took her nipple between my lips and squeezed it while I pressed upon her clitoris and heard Andrea exclaim, “Ach!” quite sharply, and press her cunt hard against my fingers. I kept my fingers moving regularly in and out of her, a little faster now, and I licked her nipple. The water was pouring over my head and down her body and in between the lips of her cunt where my fingers continued to fuck her, faster and faster. I lifted my head and watched her as suddenly she came, giving two loud sharp cries while I felt the walls of her cunt contracting around my fingers and her hips somehow pressed and withdrew at the same time. Andrea gave more little pulsing cries as the orgasm worked through her, but the urgency and tension had disappeared now as she was done. I lifted my head and released all pressure from my hand. I caressed the outside of her cunt.

“Better now?” I asked.

“God,” she said. “I’m completely fucked. You’ve done me good and proper, darling. I won’t forget that one for a while. Just give me a minute to recover.”

I let Andrea go and she rested against the wall of the shower. After a moment she raised herself, lifted her head and put her face under the stream of the shower, running the water through her hair. She rinsed the water all over her body, raising her arms to allow it into her armpits, running it between her legs.

She pushed her streaming hair back from her face and looked at me.

“Well, that was nice,” she said. “What a way to start the day. Now may I offer you the same service, ma’am?” She pronounced it Mahm, the English way.

“Why, thank you, dear, that would be very nice,” I answered, smiling at her.

She drew me to her and kissed me. I closed my eyes. I allowed Andrea to manoeuvre me so that she was holding me in the way I had held her, with water streaming down on my face and breasts. Large parts of Australia were in the midst of a severe drought at that time and under restrictions about how water could be used, and the thought passed through my mind that I would feel guilty if I wasted this much water at home. The thought did not long remain in my mind, as Andrea’s hand moved over my stomach. I parted my legs for her.

Andrea had put her left arm right around behind my back and somehow she managed to take hold of my nipple between her thumb and forefinger. She squeezed it and kissed me and put her right hand on my cunt and worked my lips apart. The combination of sensations on so many different parts of my body was so intense I could hardly breathe. Her fingers entered me and found my clitoris. I had become fully aroused while I was making her come, and I knew that I would come myself any moment. Andrea did not fuck me hard with her fingers this time; she teased me, touching her index finger against my clitoris and circling it, then pressing it lightly, then rubbing it up and down; I never knew what she would do next and each change of movement produced a new pulsing shock of pleasure. I could hear myself grunting quietly with each pulse and my knees were bending and getting wider apart; I was going to come standing up. Then I did come, with my legs almost giving way beneath me so that Andrea practically had to hold me up while my hips ground against her hand.

I heard myself making the same relieved, whimpering, sighing sounds that Andrea had made minutes before. I got my legs back under me and Andrea released me from her hold. Like her I rested against the shower wall, breathing heavily. I could say nothing. The shower wall felt cold against my back and after a moment I hauled myself upright and cleaned myself off under the shower.

“Thank you, my darling,” I said. “That was just amazing. I’ve never come standing up before. I nearly fell down. You seemed to be much more stable than I was.”

“It’s a special skill,” she said. “You need to practise frequently. Then there’s the easy option, which is to impale yourself on a cock for support.”

“The problem with that one is that you might both end up falling over,” I answered.

“True,” Andrea replied. “It has its compensations, though.”

I turned off the water and we got out of the shower, giggling stupidly. The towels were beautiful, large and thick and white, and I was dry in no time. The bathroom was full of steam. There was a digital clock in there: 8.43.

“Golly, I’d better get my skates on,” I said.

Andrea had to dress herself in yesterday’s clothes, but I got fresh underwear from my suitcase, and a different outfit. I didn’t fancy a 26 hour flight in yesterday’s clothes. I put on dark green pants and a lighter green long-sleeved top, with a black jacket on top of that. After inspecting it carefully for cleanliness, I recycled the pink scarf. While Andrea was drying her hair I quickly packed my suitcase and flung on a bit of lipstick and eye shadow. I took the scarf from Hermès, the present for Andrea, out of my suitcase and put it in the large handbag that I would take on the plane with me. I had decided that I would give it to her at the airport, but when Andrea emerged from the bathroom with her makeup on and fully dressed I changed my mind.

“I’ve got a present for you too,” I said, and held out the package.

“Oh, lovely, you shouldn’t have,” she said. “But thank you. Can I open it now?”

“Of course,” I said.

Andrea undid the packaging carefully, unfolding the tissue paper inside which was the scarf. She held opened the scarf fully and held it up. It was a thing of exquisite beauty.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said. “Absolutely gorgeous.” She kissed me on the mouth. “Wanda. A gift from Wanda. I’m going to wear it now.”

The colours of the scarf went perfectly with the clothes Andrea was wearing and the colours of her skin and eyes and hair. She looked wonderful wearing it.

“It suits you,” I said. “I was worried about that.”

“This doesn’t compare with what you’ve given me,” said Andrea, “But I did get it for you.”

She went over to the cabinet where the CD player was and put the CD of Lakmé back in its cover. She held it out to me, and I took it and put it in my handbag.

“Oh, it’s just as memorable,” I said. “I’m never going to forget this. Not ever. Until you put that on I just wanted to crawl into a corner and die. You made me a magical night.”

Andrea smiled at me.

“Come on. It’s probably best if you check out now so that when we get back we can just get in the car and go.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” I answered.


Andrea insisted on wheeling my suitcase to the lift and then to the reception desk. Paying the bill took only a few moments and I left the suitcase at the porter’s desk, saying we’d be back for it within an hour, and that we’d want the car then too. We walked out into the London sunshine.

London can be an awful place, but it can be a beautiful one as well. That Friday was perfect, as Andrea had said it was. The sun shone; the air was clear and still; I heard birds singing in the trees; even the traffic noise seemed somehow muted. I breathed the fresh air deeply.

Andrea led us about 100 metres along the street and around a corner to the left. The street we had entered was busier, a shopping street. We walked past several shops and stopped in front of a café.

“I think this is it,” Andrea said.

“Worth a try, anyway,” I answered, and opened the door and led the way inside. The café was busy, but there were several tables free including a small one by the window in the sun.

“Let’s grab that,” I said, and we sat down. A waitress came over almost immediately and we ordered tea. I told her that we wanted breakfast and that we didn’t have an unlimited amount of time, and she left and returned with menus.

“I’ll take your order when I bring your tea,” she said.

She was very efficient and brought the tea in less than two minutes. We were ready with our orders. As promised, I went for poached eggs and bacon; Andrea contented herself with toast and jam.

The food arrived very soon and it was very good. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was; it was later than the normal time I ate breakfast, and I’d had a full-on orgasm and lovemaking session. We both ate quickly, saying little. I looked at my watch when we had finished and saw that it was only twenty to ten. I poured us both another cup of tea and we sat silently looking out the window for a minute or two. It was all going to come to an end.

“What will you do now?” I asked Andrea.

“After I’ve dropped you off? Go home I suppose. I might go to the club and play a round of golf this afternoon. I hadn’t really thought.”

She had told me she was a golfer but I had forgotten. I was silent for a moment.

“Back to mundanity,” I said. “Same for me, after the bloody awful flight. At least I’ve got something to think about.”

“How do you feel about it exactly?” Andrea asked.

“A whole mixture of things,” I answered. “I don’t feel as if I’m a different person. Proud, in a way. Proud that I’ve done it, I mean. Certainly not ashamed or guilty. It’s been wonderful. More than I could have imagined it would be. It will be like some warm, secret treasure that I can bring out and think about occasionally when I’m by myself.”

I drank some more tea. “What about you?”

“Oh, something similar,” she answered, and fell silent. I wondered if that were really true. After all she had done this before.

I looked out the window at a car making its way cautiously along the narrow street. It came to a stop to allow a woman to walk across in front of it.

Andrea said, “We’ll never see each other again.” Her voice was flat.

I turned my head and met her gaze.

“No,” I said. “We won’t.”


We left the hotel a little after ten and were at the drop-off bay outside the terminal at Heathrow just before eleven. Andrea got out of the car with me and helped me take my case from the boot.

We were on the pavement in front of the terminal, about to part. Around us people milled, cars backed and filled, buses arrived and departed. We looked at each other, neither of us smiling.

Then there was one last thing.

In full view of everyone, not caring about any of them, we put our arms around each other and kissed long and deeply. When the kiss had ended we stood for a moment, still looking at each other.

“Good-bye, Andrea,” I said.

“Good-bye, Wanda,” she answered.

We parted then. I hooked my handbag over my shoulder and took hold of the handle of my case, then turned and walked away from Andrea. I sensed her watching me as I passed through the automatic doors and back into the world in which I live.

Leave a Reply* Marked items are required