CHAPTER TEN
(August 2002)
The first special occasion arose the very next day. After spending a lazy morning sightseeing in Saint-Esprit and both Grand and Petit Bayonne, the girls were approached by two swarthy, good-looking guys. At the time Heather and Ingrid were having lunch late (and mostly liquid). A little bit of male attention wasn't entirely unwelcome. But there was one problem: these guys were local but didn't seem to have much French, only a smattering of Spanish and even less English. Talking them was a challenge, to say the least.
But knickers to talking, thought Heather, how many common words do we need to shag?
Not that I would, of course. Well, perhaps not, even if they are quite cute. Especially the guy in the striped T-shirt . . .
After about an hour of stilted chitchat, during a dual visit to the Mesdames', Ingrid seized her hand. 'Decision time,' she said, 'do we or don't we?'
'Do we or don't we have casual sex?'
'Yeah, they're obviously up for it, and so are you.'
'No I am not . . . am I?'
'Yes you are Hev, very obviously. Everyone else has noticed your nipples even if you haven't.'
Heather was torn. She hadn't had a willy in simply ages. In fact she hadn't even seen one since she'd celebrated sitting her last ever exam. There again, she was perversely proud about having had such a long abstinence from willies. In a strange sort of a way, she was feeling all virtuous.
Still, a nice, big hard one . . .
'Up to you,' she said gallantly. 'There isn't a Viking between them. But if you feel the urge, we can go for it. And you can have first choice . . . as long as you don't pick the one in stripes.'
Ingrid's grip tightened. She was smiling but full of nervous tension. 'If it's up to me I'd rather we played with ourselves,' she confessed, 'just me and you together.'
A bowling ball dropped in Heather's stomach. She hadn't expected that. And what to do? Insist on an as-yet untried-and-tested willy, or meekly go for more interaction with Ingrid? What did she want: real, out-and-out sex or more girlish jilling?
'It's not quite the same,' her mouth said involuntary.
Ingrid's smile faltered: 'Why not?'
'There are all sorts of reasons. I won't get to taste you, for starters.'
'Taste me?'
'If I went with one of those guys I'd get to taste him, wouldn't I?'
Ingrid looked bewildered. 'Is that very important to you?'
'It's part of having sex, isn't it? Along with kissing and various other forms of bodily contact.'
'So you'd rather have sex.' Ingrid said it as a statement, not a question. Her shoulders drooped. She looked dejected and rejected.
'No. No, I would not!' Heather's grip suddenly outmatched her friend's. 'Good grief,' she said hastily. 'What have I been prattling on about? Last night was great and I don't need man-sex anyway. I would rather jill with you every day of the week.'
'Really?'
'Yes, I really, really, would. Are we on then; me and you, alone together at midnight?'
'Jilling it is, then,' said Ingrid, her smile back on full beam. 'Let's rid ourselves of Didier and Bixente. Buy a couple of bottles, get in the mood . . .'
*****
Heather's own nervousness kicked in long before bedtime. It wasn't so much anticipation as the dread of overstepping the mark. Ingrid was clearly up for it. And she was just as clearly expecting their jilling to stay "straight". Heather fully intended to keep it that way, but was afraid she might accidentally lose control. And there was a real possibility she would. Normally her excesses were laughed off . . . but normally they were delivered to fellow lezzies; girls who took excesses as flattery.
Restraint, she warned herself. Go on girl, you know you can do it.
'God,' Ingrid murmured, sitting under a gradually darkening sky, 'I'm shivering.'
So was Heather, even though it was another warm night. She poured the last of their latest bottle of wine, doling out perhaps as much as a third of a glass each, and squeezed Ingrid's shoulder.
'Down the hatch and let's do it.'
The blonde swigged her drink and retreated into the tent. She didn't seem to realize it was hours until midnight but hey, the moon was already out and so, within seconds, were the most noticeable bits of her body.
Heather caught her breath. Their usual nightwear was knickers and bras. Tonight Ingrid was going for nothing at all. It took only an instant to match her. Then they were both on their backs on top of their zipped-up bags, side by side, hand-in-hand. The moon wasn't very high yet, but they could see each other well enough, boobs aquiver with that wonderful, wonderful anticipation.
'Your turn for the story,' Heather prompted.
'Mine are rubbish compared to yours.'
'Never mind that, it's the thought that counts. So tell me about an uncaring Viking with an unfeasibly big horn.'
Ingrid hedged a little before telling the tale of Ernie, the fastest Viking her side of Teddington, who'd been about as caring as Attila the Hun. Heather paid close attention, but not on what Ernie had liked to do to his women. Oh no, she was fixated on what Ingrid was doing to herself. For those precious, lingering moments Ingrid's approaching climax was much, much more important than anything else.
(Although Heather did have something in mind for later . . . on a platonic basis, naturally.)
Well, platonic-ish . . .
Eventually the tale had been told and Ingrid was parading her orgasmic expressions again. Heather paraded a few of her own and they hit the canvas roof together then gently, so very gently, floated back down.
'Nice!' Ingrid half-sighed, half-sniggered. 'Isn't that the word you always use?'
'I rarely overuse a word and never, ever exaggerate. Haven't I told you that a million times already?'
Ingrid laughed and, to Heather's enormous surprise, swung a leg over her, rubbing flesh against flesh before matily hooking ankles.
This was close . . . very, very, excitingly close.
'Friendly bodily contact,' the scrumptious blonde said. 'I still draw the line at kissing, but rubbing legs isn't an offence, is it?'
'Rubbing legs is nice, I must admit.'
'Nice! There you go again.'
