Chapter 4 — Twylla
I was doing pretty well in my first year of college. A few of my classes were boring, and some were hard, but I was learning a ton of new stuff, and I discovered I liked it. More importantly, I was learning to really think for myself. (Cin-dy! Cin-dy!)
My love life was going pretty good too, despite my being a semi-submissive, not-quite lesbian, with an obsessive thing for sucking cocks—and a history of inciting strangers to cum in my mouth.
Yeah, I know...
Fortunately my room mate Lonni was a semi-dominant dick-girl, a she-male with long silky hair, soft breasts, and a really pretty cock that I couldn't keep my mouth off of—everything a girl like me could want, pretty much.
Lonni loved to bury her cock in my pussy while we cuddled, and that was nice too. It wasn't romantic, really—after the first dizzy weeks, that is—and that made it easier for both of us, but it was delicious. We were cozy girlfriends, who usually ended our nights in bed together.
We had only a few rules, to keep from hurting each other: I wanted to be Lonni's only girl, and so I was. Lonni wanted hers to be the only cock that was welcome in my pussy, and I was fully content with that. If we had been a normal couple, that would have pretty much sewn things up.
But we weren't normal. We were two free spirits, sister cum sluts.
Lonni was still discovering what she liked. She was fully into the shemale-on-female thing with me, but like most women, she also had yearnings for cock to suck and be fucked by. I have a thing for cocks myself, so I understood her need. And since I couldn't fill it, I gave her my blessing to find her own.
Lonni could enjoy all the cocks she wanted, without hurting my feelings, as long as I was her only girl—her only girl-girl, that is (I didn't mind other dick-girls). Some nights she'd come in late, smelling of male sex, and we'd snuggle under the blankets and squeal about it together.
And Lonnie understood my near-insatiable need to suck cocks. So if I found something extra to suck on from time to time, well, that was all right with her, as long as I kept it out of my pussy. What I did with my mouth was my own business, unless I felt like talking about it with her afterward, girl-to-girl.
I guess when two cum sluts get together, that's how it has to be. And Lonni was actively encouraging me to explore my inner cum slut, to find out what I really liked, to experiment and test my boundaries.
Isn't that what being young is for?
So that's basically how I got involved with Twylla, and also how I ended up naked on the floor of the Delta Pi frat house.
But I'm getting totally ahead of myself.
Twylla Van Dyke wasn't exactly what her name suggests: she didn't drive a van. The night I met her, I'd walked into town to pick up a few things at an art supply store after class. The sun set on my way back, and I stopped in at a little bar that catered to the U crowd. (In my state the drinking age was 18. I pitied kids who lived where it was 21.) It was early on a Friday night, so it was busy, but not really crowded yet.
I ordered a beer, leaned on my daypack, and was idly checking out some trouser bulges—speculatively, but not very seriously—when Twylla walked in front of me, putting her crotch directly in the sight line between me and the bulge I was admiring at the moment.
Twylla didn't have a bulge, just a mound, with pussy lips shaped like a camel's toe, clearly outlined against her tight black leather pants—did I say tight? It looked like they were spray-painted on. It looked so slutty, and so good! I took a nice long look, getting a little tingle in my pussy. Then I looked up, and there she was, looking right back at me. It was obvious that she knew exactly what was going through my head.
I blushed. She didn't. She gave me a knowing, evaluating look.
"You like what you see," she said, by way of introduction. It wasn't a question.
She maintained eye contact, then broke it to look me up and down. In that moment my eyes were drawn back to that yummy-looking mound of hers. Our eyes met again and it was as if we had felt each other up. I blushed again. She didn't.
She had dark red hair that looked exotic but natural, a strong face—more handsome than pretty—and smallish, upturned breasts. She was lean, but with well-defined curves. Her lips and fingernails were painted a dark red shade that matched her hair and she was dressed, neck to ankles, in skin-tight black leather. I didn't see her tattoos until later.
She was so hot. Everyone in the place was looking at her, men and women, secretly or openly.
But she was looking at me.
She took the beer out of my hand, put it on the bar, took my arm, and walked me right out into the parking lot. The night air was damp and cool, but her lips were hot as she pressed me up against the brick wall of the building. Her tongue didn't twine with mine, it came into my mouth and took over. Her face and breasts pressed into mine. She stood against me with her legs wide, straddling my own legs.
She took my hand in hers and cupped it under her pussy, pulling my wrist upward. To someone passing by, it would look like I had grabbed her crotch and was lifting her up by it.
And I was. I hadn't initiated it—it wasn't something I would do!—but I found myself doing it anyway, under her wordless direction. She squeezed my hand with her thighs, and I squeezed back, compressing her pussy lips through the thin leather of her pants. She gave a short gasp of approval. I was passionately groping her sex now, and completely under her control.
I realized just then that I was going to do whatever she wanted—I was overpowered by my desire to please her, to satisfy her. It didn't completely surprise me—I knew I had submissive tendencies. But it caught me off guard. I had always fallen under someone else's sway gradually. No one had ever taken immediate, total control of me like this. It was disconcerting.
It was also arousing. It was actually making me wet. But at the same time, my newly developing independence and confidence drove me to rebel. I found myself giving her whatever she indicated as her desire, but doing it forcefully, not passively.
She nipped at my lips. "Oh! A tiger! I like pussycats. Come with me, pussy." So much for my rebellion.
I followed as she led me by the hand to a shiny black SUV in a dark corner of the lot, chirped it open with a fob hanging from a small chain on her jacket, opened the back passenger door, and hustled me inside. The interior was dark—no cab light came on—and roomy. She gently shoved me down into a sitting position on the thickly carpeted floor, with my back against the far door. She stepped inside, standing with her slender body directly in front of me, her legs straddling my body, her back to the still open door. It was clear she had done this before with others. But I didn't care. I wanted her to do it to me.
She took my hand and put in on a zipper that started at the top of her ass, running under her crotch and up almost to her belt. "Open me," she grated, her breath coming harder. I pulled open the zipper, exposing her pale shaved pussy through the opening of her now crotchless pants.
