My Friend Sophie

Over the course of a couple of stories, I'm going to tell you about my friend Sophie. I need to say straight away that in this first story, she and I don't have sex. In fact, we just talk, or mostly she talks and I listen. But you will still find a fair bit of sex in the story eventually, and I think you'll get more out of the second part if you read this one first. If you really want to skip straight to the sex in this one, scroll down till you find some asterisks. That's where it gets going. But I hope you'd want to do Sophie the courtesy of getting to know her first.

And one more thing - unavoidably, this first part of the story makes quite a lot of reference to a couple of things that I posted on Literotica a few years ago. You'll see which ones if you read on. This probably looks like arrogant self-promotion. It's not meant to be, it's just kind of integral to the situation that arose.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So. Yes. Sophie. Or Soph, rhyming with "loaf". I first met her a few years ago, shortly after my husband and I had moved to London. I didn't know London at all well in those days, and to try to settle in and get to know people, I went through a phase of trying out hobbies and evening classes. One that I was keen to stick with was conversational Italian. As I have a bit of French, I reckoned Italian wouldn't be too hard to pick up, and I thought it would be great to have an idea of the language for when Paul and I went on holiday to Italy, which we were always planning to do without quite getting round to it. So, I started a course of evening classes. After a while, I started to find them a tiny bit frustrating. The teacher - a kindly, enthusiastic middle aged lady called Bianca - was great, but too many people in the class (mostly retired types with a lot of time on their hands) were not all that interested or motivated, and seemed happy to get stuck at a really basic, sub-conversational level, never moving on. I could see Bianca got annoyed sometimes too. There was only one other student in the class who really seemed interested in progressing - a woman called Sophie, the only person there younger than me. We began to catch each other's eyes across the classroom, pulling frustrated faces at each other when the class's progress ground to a halt yet again. We struck up conversations after lessons - just small talk. And as the course went on, we got into the habit of going for a drink after class.

I guess this is as good a time as any to give you a bit of a description.

Sophie is about ten years younger than me, so was 27 or 28 when the events of this story took place. She is a little bit shorter than me (and I'm only 5'1"). I'll tell you more about her figure later. She is very very pretty in an unobtrusive, understated sort of way, with big, rather soulful, grey-blue eyes dominating her small, fine features. A lovely smile lights up her habitually serious face. Her hair is mid-brown, thick and fine, collar length. She tends not to wear much in the way of jewellery or make-up. She speaks softly, quickly and animatedly, with a very slight London accent, accompanying what she says with short, precise gestures of her small hands. Normally when I saw her she was dressed quite plainly, in office clothes. At the time I met her she was working in the marketing department of a software company, and had only quite recently moved out of her parents' home into a rented studio flat. As I got to know her, it took me a while to notice that in all our conversations she never mentioned a boyfriend, girlfriend, any kind of relationship. Which, considering how very intelligent, attractive and likeable she was, did seem a bit odd.

As the Italian course drew to an end, Sophie and I were having our post-class drink one evening and we started talking about maybe doing some different classes or other activities after the summer. Sophie had picked up a flyer from a local gym that was doing some free trial classes the following week - spin, Pilates, boxercise, aqua aerobics. I'm not a great one for gyms, but we decided to give each other some moral support, and Sophie agreed to sign both of us up for an evening of spin (I don't know if that's just a British term - it means intensive cardio exercise using gym bikes). Then Sophie said she'd noticed that the college where we'd done Italian was planning to offer a creative writing course next term.

"I haven't written stories since primary school," she said. "Might be fun, though, eh? Have you ever tried creative writing, Lee?"

Fatefully, I hesitated and stumbled over my answer before coming out with a mumbled "Er ... not really," blushing while I did so. Sophie is very sharp at picking up what people aren't saying - much more so than me - and she takes absolutely no bullshit from anyone, ever.

"That was a strange answer, Leanne. A simple question about whether you've ever written a story, and you get totally flustered. Hmm. I'm going to buy us both another drink, and when I get back you're going to tell me much more."

Damn, damn, I thought to myself. Still - it was strange with Sophie and me. We got on really well, I counted her as a good friend, but our friendship was in a kind of vacuum. She had no contact with other friends of mine, nor did I with hers. So I supposed that gave me a bit of licence as to what I could confide in her.

Sophie reappeared with the drinks. "Right, Mrs Sinclair, have you got your story straight? Take your time ..."

Deep breath. "OK Soph. Nobody else except Paul knows about this. Well, nobody I actually know knows. I think. Sorry, I'm talking crap. Right. Hm. About a year ago I sent a couple of stories to a website that publishes stuff on line. They got published there. Thing is ..." I hesitated again.

"Go on ..." She was smiling wickedly, and I was sure she had guessed at least the essence of what was coming.

Another deep breath. "This site is specifically for ... er .... you know ... adult stories. Erotica."

You need to remember that this was before the whole "Fifty Shades" phenomenon made written erotica more mainstream.

Sophie laughed delightedly and clapped her hands. "Woohoo! Bloody hell! That's made my evening, Lee! My mate Leanne, quiet, level headed Leanne, writes porn in her spare time! That is fucking priceless, babe!"

"Christ's sake, Sophie, the whole pub can hear!" I hissed.

"Sorry, sorry!" She giggled, then whispered. "You've got to admit it's pretty fucking cool, though. You've got-got-GOT to tell me how to find these stories, Lee. I'll die if I don't read them."

I sighed. "Look for a site called Literotica. Like L I T then erotica, no spaces. It's mostly but not completely American. There are thousands and thousands of stories on it. Some really good stuff, better than I could ever do. Mine are called 'New Boss (for Gareth)', parts one and two. They're ... they're in the ... er ... BDSM section. I use my own name, written all together, no spaces. Soph, can we talk about something else now?"

So we did.

The following week was the spin class. I was dreading it somewhat but Sophie and I had promised ourselves and each other we'd give it a try. I arrived at the gym a little late, got changed hurriedly and went into whatever you call a spin room, studio, whatever, to find I was the last to arrive. The other people, including Sophie, were already on the bikes, which were arranged in a horseshoe pattern. I sat on the one vacant bike, facing Sophie across the horseshoe. She smiled and winked at me.

At this point you need some more physical details about Sophie and me. Me first, as a sort of base line. As I said, I'm five foot one. I sort of hover between UK dress sizes 10 and 12, so I am of slim to medium build (UK dress sizes bear little relation to US ones, I should say). It sounds weird, but I look taller than I am, as my legs are long in relation to the rest of me, but my frame is slight. I have a naturally large bust: 34E.

OK, so that's me.

Sophie, as I said, is fractionally shorter than I am. Her frame is broader than mine, with wider shoulders, ribcage and hips, which means that, despite her short stature, she can really carry off her wonderful hourglass curves. She has very very large, full breasts. I don't know her bra size but she must be at the very least two cup sizes up from me. She has a narrow waist, then flaring hips and a round bottom. Her legs taper to small, dainty feet.

I hope that description makes Sophie sound sexy, because she is. Actually, I'm guessing that people might read those two paragraphs and just see "naturally large bust" and "very very large, full breasts". Which, for the purposes of imagining what happened next, is OK. Also for those purposes you should know that Sophie and I were very similarly clad in knee length Lycra gym pants and tight singlets, obviously with industrial-strength sports bras underneath.

I got on the bike and we all started pedalling according to the young instructor's over-enthusiastic shouts. Darren, his name was. To be honest I found the whole thing a bit of a chore, and I caught Sophie's eyes a couple of times with some sardonic looks. "Yes, c'mon guys!" Darren was barking, "Yes! Loving it! Gotta feel it, guys! Gotta push it! C'mon! C'mon, ladies!" I guess he was only doing his job but I found it quite wearisome. At the end of the session he had us standing up on the pedals, pedalling like crazy, as hard and fast as we could.

Now, given what I've just told you about Sophie's and my physiques, you can imagine what we looked like, on opposite sides of the horseshoe of bikes, stood up on the pedals, leaning forward in our Lycra tops, exerting ourselves. Whenever Darren looked to either side he was confronted by huge, jiggling breasts below flushed, sweating female faces. He had this shtick of coming up to each participant in turn and yelling encouragement in his or her face. Every time he got to Sophie or me he stammered and got flustered. Because of our postures he could not look at our faces without our boobs also being in his eyeline. I winked at Sophie. She understood. We both started exaggerating our movements to make our tits swing and wobble as much as possible whenever Darren came up to us, and we looked him straight in the face, very seriously. Faster and faster we went, jiggle jiggle bounce bounce wobble swing went Sophie's and my boobs, despite the best efforts of our bras to control them - poor Darren looked like a rabbit trapped in the glare of headlights. Soph and I started cracking up with silent laughter as he finally called a halt. "Whoa, well done ladies and gents, give yourselves a round of applause, great stuff there, love it!" As we all slowed down, Sophie and I sat very upright in our saddles and pulled our shoulders right back so our big chests stuck out as far as possible, and we both smiled sweetly at Darren. He seemed to want to make a speedy exit.

In the changing rooms, Sophie and I were in tears of laughter. "Oh the poor boy," she said. "He just didn't know where to look! I think we've traumatised him, Lee!"

I could barely speak for giggling. "Maybe he'll look back on it as a formative experience, once he's had a chance to recover! Attack Of The Killer Knockers!" We collapsed into helpless laughter, keeping it together just enough to get undressed and shower. We emerged from the shower cubicles into the open-plan part of the changing room and, as we dried ourselves off, I realised that I was looking at the naked Sophie with a degree of interest that surprised me.

I know that I am, essentially, heterosexual. Which is not to say that I don't appreciate and enjoy female beauty, but it is extremely rare for me to feel any sexual attraction towards a woman. Not completely unknown - like everyone, I had crushes on other girls when I was younger, and in more recent life there have been a few women who have turned my head - but very rare. And up to this point I had certainly never had any real, physical sexual contact with a woman. Also, if I ever had felt drawn towards another female, it was invariably to a certain type - tall, slim, willowy, lithe. Very unlike me. If I want short and busty I can look in a mirror.

And yet ... and yet ... I could not take my eyes off Sophie as she dried herself. I loved her curves. She was fit and toned, yet soft and feminine. There was a sculptural quality to her taut belly and round buttocks. Her breasts, as I have said, were huge, but full, high and firm: she carried them proudly. Her nipples were pale pink, with small buds in the centres of very wide areolae that would have almost covered small breasts. She was fully shaved (waxed, depilated, whatever) - not a fashion that I particularly favour, but on her it looked right. As she lovingly dried her damp pink skin, she put me in mind of a figure in one of those rather overheated, Orientalist, Victorian fantasy paintings of Turkish baths or harems. An odalisque. To my own amazement, I was beginning to get aroused.

She looked up and smiled. Had she noticed that I had been gazing at her? I blushed, muttered "Sorry Soph, I was miles away there," hurriedly dried myself, and got dressed.

We went for a drink.

Italian classes had always been on a Tuesday, but it was a Friday evening now and our regular pub was much more crowded than we were used to. We squeezed ourselves around a small corner table. The pub did a special offer: buy two large glasses of certain wines and they gave you the rest of the bottle free. We went for it. It was so noisy in the crowded pub that there was very little risk of our conversation being overheard. Which, given the course it took, was just as well.

"Right, Leanne," said Sophie. "I think you know what I'm going to say, my dear." I pulled a comic face of resignation. "I read your stories, Lee. Fucking hell, babe, you're a dark horse! They were amazing - way, way wilder than I expected! Forget that quiet, well-mannered, Mrs Sensible image of yours! My mate Leanne the kinky pornographer! Respect, honey!"

(At this point I should say that my powerful and very British instinct for modesty and self-deprecation makes me feel very very awkward indeed as I tell the story of someone else actually being very impressed by something I've done. I'm much more inhibited about that than I am about the sex stuff. But it is part of this story, so I'll carry on as best I can.)

Sophie carried on, more serious now. "I loved them, Lee. I mean it. I really like verbal erotica, written and spoken - there's not enough of it about, I reckon. I read some other good stories on that site, too. In fact it's helped me through a couple of quiet evenings at home in a very pleasant way ..." She blushed. "Leanne ... if you don't mind me asking ... is that really you in the stories, the Leanne character, I mean? Are you into all that, being dominant and stuff?"

I sighed. It was a fair question, if a terribly intimate one, but I had got myself into this situation. And that strangely sexually charged visit to the gym had probably reduced my inhibitions. As had the wine, as it hit my poorly-hydrated brain. "Look, Sophie, Paul and I play games together, sometimes. And sometimes I'm dominant and sometimes he is. We're not, like, into any scene or lifestyle or anything. And I've never actually had a threesome. Real BDSM people probably think those stories are crap. Most of what Paul and I do is more comical than anything else. But we have fun, and I guess that's what counts. I'm glad you liked the stories, babe, really. That's nice, thank you."

"Just one thing, though, Lee. Your husband's name is Paul. You used your own name in the stories. So why is the male character called Gareth?"

Oh God, I thought. I took a big gulp of wine. "OK, Soph. This is gonna seem really weird. When I wrote those stories, Paul was in his old job, travelling abroad a lot. I had a lot of time to myself. And just out of curiosity, one night I ... er .... I went on ... like ... a cybersex chat site. Text only, instant chat, right? No webcams, no logins, just make up a nickname and go. It's like virtual cottaging or something."

Sophie was open-mouthed in delighted amazement. I took another glug of wine.

"Well, to cut a long story short, a lot of what I found there was crap, but some was fun. And there was this one guy I had some longer chats with, and this particular boss-employee scenario was something he particularly liked. His name was Gareth, or so he said. I liked him, took to him somehow, even though I only knew him as words on a screen. We exchanged some e-mails and it became a little project of mine to work this fantasy of his and mine up into a story, just for the hell of it, really. Then I remembered I had read a newspaper article about erotic story websites - 'the literate side of internet porn,' sort of thing. That led me to Literotica and I sent in my stories, they published them, and that was that. I even got some favourable comments. I was quite surprised."

"Fuck ... ing ... hell ... Leanne! Does Paul know?"

"Yeah, I told him as soon as he came home. I even showed him drafts of the stories. He liked the whole thing. I think ... I think he likes me being really sexually confident, which I suppose this showed. And that's kind of nice."

"Lee, let's get some food, and another bottle, and drink to sexually confident women, your cyber friend Gareth, wherever he is, enlightened husbands like Paul, and the erotic power of the written word!"

She went to the bar to order - a little unsteadily, I thought. The wine seemed to be going to her head, too. Still, what the fuck, it was Friday.

As we sat down to some fairly mundane pub food, and more wine, Sophie seemed quiet and thoughtful. After a while, she said, "Thanks for being so open with me about the stories, Leanne. That was really good of you. Really trusting."

"That's OK, hon, I know I can trust you."

"Thanks. Thing is, Lee, I was so interested because the stories really spoke to me. Only ... well ... how can I say this ... and you've been so open with me so I can hardly get all coy now ..." Suddenly she seemed terribly vulnerable.

"It's all right, babe, it's not quid pro quo, you don't have to tell me anything."

"But I want to. Thing is ... thing is ... how can I put this ... I'm Gareth. Oh hang on, no, I don't mean I'm really him on the cyber site, God no, nonono ... I mean ... what he likes, what he wants ... what you wrote for him ... that's what I want, too."

Fuck, I thought. Fuckety fucking fuck. My head swam. "How do you mean, Soph?"

"My boss. I would so love to submit to him, to have him do things to me, really crazy things, anything ..."

"Er ... Sophie, love, you don't need to tell me this, OK? We've had a few drinks. If you want to just change the subject, that's fine, OK sweetie?" I felt very protective towards her.

"No no, it's OK, Lee, I'd like to tell you, it'll be like one of your stories."

And so she began a very long, wine-fuelled monologue in which she laid bare her fantasy and her desires. I think the best way for me to relate this will be in the first person, in her voice, otherwise I'm going to tie myself in knots with quotation marks and reported speech. So there are some asterisks coming in a moment, and what comes between them and the next set of asterisks is Sophie's fantasy, in what I can remember of her words, considering we were both drunk and the pub was noisy.

*******

His name's Mr Marshall. Steven Marshall. Everyone calls him Steve, of course, but when I think of him like this he's Mr Marshall. Masterful Mr Marshall. I mean, you can't really submit to a Steve, can you? He's our Managing Director, my boss's boss. Forty-something, slim, short brown hair, amazing green eyes. Quiet, calm, authoritative. Doesn't need to raise his voice. Everyone respects him but nobody really knows him.