Author's note: Thanks as always to kenjisato. How he puts up with my drivel, I don't know! If you need a really good and helpful editor, he's your person!
********
Once a Wag!
I'm Lydia. I am 26. I have golden-red hair down to my waist, and a face which no one has ever said is ugly or lovely. 'Cute' gets used most because of my button nose. I have really big tits--forty-four-plus; I'm average height, so they stand out. I've got wide hips and a relatively big bum. This is my story.
My aunty, Mrs. Amy Bentley, has persuaded me to write it for Literotica. We both read the site, and Amy especially gets fed up with the poor writing and American focus; she wants more well-written British stories and thinks I can do that.
I'm writing this in one of the two spare bedrooms in Amy's house, which she has converted into an office. It's just after 9:00 in the morning, and I've got my second cup of real coffee next to me. It's January 2nd, 2023. The house is a big four-bedroom detached pile in the Redland area of Bristol. Redland is a posh area in the city, with houses like this selling for hundreds of thousands, if not millions. I moved in here four years ago, having left London with my fantasy life wrecked, and no idea what to do with my life.
I take a sip of my Kenyan coffee, and start to think of what to write. Sitting at the desk, I'm wearing a loosely-tied silk robe. Under the robe, I can feel the pussy juice on the insides of my thighs starting to dry, as is the cunt-sap on my face. I can smell it clearly, and it's a smell I love. Amy's was the first pussy I ever tasted, and no taste since has compared--sweet, tangy, and musky; it is the aroma of all of those.
Amy is still in bed. I left her sprawled on her back, legs spread from where I had climbed out from between them, gently easing my plastic cock from her gaping twat. My cunt-slicked face is from the five minutes spent eating her out, to get her wet enough for my cock. We were going out for lunch later that day with another couple--a younger-older-dyke combination like us. Not aunty and niece, though, as far as I know. Thinking about it, no one knew--that was us.
And thinking about that, was what led me towards what you are going to read. I realised that fantasy wasn't needed. My own life story of how I have gone from a desperate, wannabe wag to rug-munching dyke would be interesting and erotic enough. So here goes.
_____
I was born in London. I had one sister eighteen months older than me; my mother was a stay-at-home mum, and my dad a taxi driver. We didn't have much money, but from the very start,my mother did her best to bring us up like the girls in the celebrity magazines she read. She was captivated by fame and money, and getting it--without having to work.
Both she and my dad had very traditional, white, working-class views. They voted Tory, loved the Queen, and did not like communists, Blacks, gays, and Europeans. By the mid-1970s in Britain, many working-class, white people were turning to the Tories away from Labour, heavily influenced by papers like the Sun.
I didn't know any of this then, of course; Amy opened my eyes to this, much later.
I grew up enviving all of this. By the time I was 18, I was a demure princess done up to the nines, oozing subservient sex appeal for any man with a wallet. I knew the celebrity-and-reality world off by heart. I followed all the fashions to make myself attractive--I was as thin as I could be; I did all the treatments; I had a full wax, even though it hurt like hell.
Although I didn't read anything outside celebrity magazines and websites; I hated all foreigners, especially blacks and asylum seekers, and mercilessly hated gays and dykes. I was especially vicious about dykes in school, leading the bullying of anyone we even slightly suspected of rug-munching tendencies.
Like most young women of my ilk, I saw being a wag as the solution to my life. For non-British readers, a wag is a wife or girlfriend of a Premier League footballer. There were lots of us who hung around the stadiums, bars, and clubs we knew they frequented.
Hundreds were disappointed. I struck lucky straight away. On only my second weekend looking, an Arsenal player bought me a drink at the bar. As we talked, he couldn't drag his eyes away from my tits. At the end of the night, he invited me to his hotel room for a nightcap. Following the advice of all the sites and magazines, I gave him a blowjob just as we entered the room. He fucked me straight after. There was no foreplay, and no cum for me. To be honest, it was a pretty un-romantic way to lose one's virginity. But, at the time, I didn't mind--I was on the way.
Over the next year, I got fucked many times by different players. There were a couple of gangbangs and partner swapping. A lot of the time, I felt a bit used, but the money was pouring in. My mother and sister were over the moon. They loved the posh clothes and stuff I bought them--and the gossip.
Finally, I got together with a Chelsea player and we became an item. The sex was no better than all the others, in that he just got his rocks off, either from a blowjob or pumping inside me for a few minutes. He never waited 'til I came and wouldn't go down on me. He also liked sharing me with his teammates. The gossip writers picked up on it, and I became famous as a wag.
For two years, I lived the life I wanted. Expensive clothes and jewellery, fame and fortune. I got a bit of controversial coverage, when I made my views on lesbians known to a journalist, but a lot of my Twitter followers agreed with me.
By this time, I had realised that social media, and the world of the wags were pretty nasty. All the back-biting and slagging-off that went on was shit. But as I wasn't the target of it, I didn't mind. I even joined in sometimes.
Then it all went pear shaped. I had always struggled to keep my weight down, and despite almost stopping eating, I began to put the pounds on around my waist and tummy. It began to get comments on social media and on the websites. Worst of all, my mother, sister, and my boyfriend started commenting on it. This made me panic, and I began to take pills to make me sick and throw up my food.
Nothing helped, though. So eventually, I went to see a doctor. After lots of tests, they told me I had a metabolic issue that meant I would always put weight on, no matter how much I tried to control it.
I told this to my family and my boyfriend, but they didn't listen. They just put it down to me eating too much. So, I began to drink even more. I'd always liked my alcohol, so I drank more to literally drown my sorrows. This didn't help the weight, or the mental stress. So soon, I got on to cocaine, which was easily available in the celebrity world.
I was getting out of control at public events--the sites and tabloids had a field day. Then in an interview, when I was wired on coke and booze, I went off on an racist tirade.
My boyfriend and so-called friends used this to do the dirty. He dumped me and they went in for the kill on Twitter and everything else. A fat, racist cow was the mildest bit of it. Worst of all, my family told me to fuck off. They had no problems with the racism--I had let them down by getting kicked out of the world they valued.
So there I was! 22 with a drinking and a drug problem, a social pariah, and literally nowhere to live, as my boyfriend had kicked me out of our flat. Luckily, I had some money in the bank, although at the rate I was doing coke, not for long. I found a cheap hotel and crashed there. For two days, I got totally wrecked on coke and booze.
When I woke up on the third day, I felt as shitty as I ever had. Not just from the after-effects of all the coke and drinking, but I was really sad and angry. Without knowing why, I burst into tears, lying in bed. The message alert on my phone went off, as I was crying. When I stopped, I checked it. I didn't expect anything good, as all my so-called friends had stopped contacting me. The number was one I didn't recognise.
When I clicked on it it read: Lydia, it's Amy your aunt. If you need someone, you can text me. love xxx
Amy was eleven years older than my mother. She was the only person in our extended family with any brains. She had gone to university, although my mum and dad had not wanted her to. She had married a scientist and ended up working in the health service. She had visited a few times, when I was growing up; I think she was living in Bristol. My mum and dad had always been horrible when talking to or about her, especially that she didn't wear modern clothes, was definitely overweight, and that she had no interest in the celebrity world. She always, though for some reason, spoke to me more than my sister. She tried to get me to talk about things other than celebrities. Of course, I ignored her!
