Note: this story contains British English, bisexual behaviour, and lots of booze. If any of those offend you, other authors are available.
*****
Matthew's voice on the phone pleaded, "I really, really, need a favour."
"What is it?"
"Make sure I don't fuck Steve."
I thought for a moment, an achievement in itself at 8 am, and recalled the relevant context.
I'd gone out with Matthew for over a year while at university. He was very tall, lean to the point of skinny, curly black hair and small wire glasses; quiet, with an amazing sneaky smile that lit up his whole face. His smiles were rare but worth the wait. When he grinned at me, it was clear I was exactly what he wanted to be seeing.
I'd been your typical nineteen-year-old: white female student version, with long, straight, brown hair. Average-looking. Mistaken daily for someone else. Or, as Matthew put it, lovely face, gorgeous arse, and a whole body of curves including absolutely lush, fantastic, wonderful, beautiful tits. Which was also true. I was far from overweight, but my breasts were larger than you'd expect from the rest of me. They were nice breasts I supposed, but they did bulge out of clothes that fit elsewhere, buttons straining across my chest if I didn't just put a baggy top over them, making me feel too fat. I'd confessed this once to him after a drunken evening - we were undergrads; almost every evening was a feat of intoxication visiting American exchanges would boggle at - and he'd snorted at me.
"Karina, love. You've got curves. You've got fabulous tits. I love 'em, and so do half of Chemistry One, when you wear something that let's them see. Just because you're a skint student and can't afford more flattering clothes doesn't make you bad-looking. Cos you ain't, petal. Blame the cheapskate clothes designers that can't cope with variation in size. It's not you, love!"
This was possibly the longest speech I extracted from him during our whole relationship.
He continued, "Let's face it, if you were skinny like me," - he gestured self-deprecatingly up and down - "and we got it together, sex would hurt!"
"Huh?"
"Imagine all the bones! Crunch, clunk. Be like elbows, everywhere. See? It'd hurt, in a bad way."
He had me there. Basically, the sex between us had started good, and with much practice and youthful energy had become fucking brilliant. Especially after that time when he'd proved that my being a stone heavier than him didn't prevent him giving me a fireman's lift up the stairs.
I'd screamed blue murder, much to the entertainment of the other students in my hall, but he had carted me up three flights without injury, my hair falling loose and trailing along the cork floor tiles, a perfect damsel in distress if damsels had ever worn jeans, before he'd flung my helpless body - I'd kept rigidly still, desperate not to over balance him - down proudly on his bed. That incident had led to discovery of a whole wide new range of scenarios that turned me on, after the determined ravishment had proved more successful than we'd imagined.
Even before engaging parts of my brain that previous sex had never reached, the act of sex itself had been most satisfactory. I'd been concerned about that at first - his cock was long and thin, matching the rest of him. Very comfortable to suck for ages, admittedly. A perfect size for fitting between my jaws and slurping and sucking for an hour or two - or speeding things up, depending on what we were in the mood for. And had time for. A ten-minute break between lectures reduced to five minutes of actual privacy in the theatre before more students came in and might come down our row, for example. Despite the temptation, we were very good at paying attention in lectures. Except for that particularly boring Phys week where half the students had vanished by half an hour in... Anyway, I built up a good repertoire of cock-sucking skills practiced on that cock! I needn't have feared it not being enough to satisfy - from the first time, he effectively ensured my pleasure, getting me practically shaking from everything he did with his mouth first, before sliding in frustratingly slowly, then supplementing his cock with a couple fingers.
A thick dick is great in its place, don't get me wrong, but any guy who thinks about giving pleasure to his partner, that's a jewel beyond price. And maybe it turns out I have a thing for knuckles pressing into my cunt... As well as for being swept up and romantically ravished. There was another bonus activity where a slimline cock scored, sliding into my other hole in a most satisfying way... And many other things we experimented with, not all successfully - don't mention the yoghurt and the cleaning after - but I digress.
We broke up after fifteen months, but stayed close friends, almost forced to by sharing lectures and seminars and our mutual friends. Despite the sex being great and imaginative, his being a strong silent type, combined with my own issues, forced us to conclude we didn't work as a couple. He couldn't explain when anything was bothering him; I wasn't nice enough - I needed someone who would talk back at me, not shrink back, going more taciturn when sad or offended. We had ourselves a special splitting-up meal, with many hugs and a few tears and an excellent last shag that had nearly defeated our resolve to part. I'd still end up in his room after nights drinking, though, and we'd chat long into the night.
One night, when he'd drunk enough to actually be on speaking terms with his emotions, I was the first person he ever told he was bisexual - somewhat unfortunately, I'd been similarly plastered at the time, and merely replied, "No shit, Sherlock!"
Well, if you're going to lend your girlfriend your paperbacks of sexual fantasies when she's staying at your parents, her in your single bed, you on the couch, then it becomes fairly obvious where the books fall open, and even more so if there's yellowing spatter marks on the pages. Clearly he'd never noticed my turning down corners on many of the same pages, the unobservant twit.
Actually, what he'd technically confessed that night was, "I've always wanted to be fucked up the arse," and I suspect my follow-up question was in fact helpful to him, as I'd asked, for clarification you understand, not only prurient interest, "So, do you want to be fucked up the arse by a man, or do you just want to be fucked up the arse?" He'd said nothing - exasperating git! - but looked very thoughtful.
Over the next few months I extracted from him the data that yes, a man was certainly the first option to be considered, and that there was a reason he'd been able to teach me so much about sucking cock. I had wondered, but now could legitimately picture Matthew on his knees, some hot guy's prick in his hand, bringing it to his lips...
The next summer, I enticed Matt to come attend a bisexual convention with me. We stayed off-site to save money; a dire B&B, with nylon sheets and many mystery stains, but we dropped our bags anyway. As it turned out, I didn't come back for two nights until it was time to check out - I'd got better offers elsewhere. But that's another story. It was only then I found out that Matthew hadn't been back at all either since checking in, much to the huge confusion of the landlord. Matt never told me the details of what - or who - he'd been up to, but had a huge smile. I was very happy for him, but I wanted the gory details! Ideally, actually, I'd have been there. Pretty boys are an interest of mine...
