Heather's Busy Wee

CHAPTER FIVE

(Saturday, 20th April 2002)

'It was Carrie.'

Heather stared at her equally naked companion on Rita's settee, unblinking. 'What was Carrie? Your subconscious trigger? Or was she your tutor?'

Alex gulped, wondering why he was confiding in this black-haired beauty when he hardly knew her. 'Both,' he murmured.

Heather's reaction surprised him. She didn't scream, laugh or dive out of the window. Instead she squeezed his hand and got to her feet. 'Wait here,' she said. 'This calls for chilled Pinot.'

He watched her pad into the kitchen and return with two bottles, one of them half-empty. Even then, nervous and embarrassed as he was, he found himself admiring both views, front and back. The girl was sheer perfection.

'I've never told this to anyone,' he began as she refilled their glasses.

'I bet you haven't. And before you go any further, let me give you my solemn vow. I will never, ever breathe a word to anyone. Not even Rita. I'm taking it she doesn't know.'

'As I said, I haven't told anyone. Rita doesn't have a clue.'

'Then she'll hear nothing from me.'

'You're not disgusted or outraged?'

'No, I'm intrigued. Go on, tell me more.'

*****

On the face of it Ingrid and Rachael were unlikely friends. Ingrid had been born in London but had a Swedish mother. She was tall with hair so blonde it was almost white and eyes as blue as a fjord. She was also as straight as a die. Always had been.

Well . . . maybe she was an incy, wincy bit curious.

Rachael was petite and punky with Mohican-like blue hair. She wore dozens of bangles and had plenty of visible piercings, with probably loads more under her loose-fitting, vivid yellow NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS T-shirt and torn jeans. Most of her visible flesh was tattooed in one way or another. She wasn't at all straight and shouted so from the rooftops.

Appearances and tastes aside, the two girls had known each for other nearly all of their lives. Without being particularly friends, they had gone to the same schools and moved in roughly the same social circles. After A-levels there'd been little reason to see each other and Ingrid had forgotten all about Rachael. Then, one night in the Union Bar, her drinking partner had nudged her. 'Look at those two. Get a room or what!'

Ingrid hadn't been surprised to see two girls snogging. Neither had anyone else; not in there. It was the passion that had drawn the comment, not the gender of the young lovers. 'Bucket of water time,' she'd agreed. Then gasped.

Up until that moment she hadn't known Rachael was at the same university. And, although she'd had her suspicions, she hadn't known the girl was a lesbian. Not for sure.

Rachael must have realized she was being stared at; she rounded on them angrily. Then her eyes widened. 'Ingrid!' she'd cried, grinning broadly. 'Fancy seeing you here!'

It transpired that Rachael wasn't just "out", she was in the process of taking over the world. By then, just a month into her first term, she'd launched her very own "Girls' Society". Members didn't have to be lesbian or bisexual, she explained, but it certainly helped. Her concept had been to create an organization that stuck up for women's rights . . . with everyone having a good time while they did it. Now, two and a half years later, the Girls' Society had grown into a powerful force. Membership was such that a petition for any deserving cause was guaranteed at least fifty signatures on the morning of issue. And, if the Girls' Society backed a cause, LGBT were sure to follow. Given Rachael's support, a petitioner nearly always won her fight.

Ingrid had become one of the few straight members. She'd also become Rachael's closest friend; much closer than she'd ever been in their schooldays. Secretly, Ingrid was thrilled by the idea of women having sex with women. She found that very sexy indeed. But, although she often went out on "dates" with Rachael (and although she knew she was widely known as "Rache's bit on the side"), she had always maintained she was too much of a scaredy-cat to ever do anything lezzie.

Well, nearly always.

Today, the twentieth of April, was Rachael's twenty-first birthday. Ingrid had almost missed it, what with birthdays being ten-a-penny amongst students. In fact, if Rachael had had anything to do with it, everybody would have missed it. Ingrid had only remembered as recently as last Monday. Not a little peeved, of the opinion it was an occasion to be celebrated, she'd made a call, wanting to know where the party was and why she hadn't been invited.

'Not having one,' Rachael had replied.

'But you must be doing something special,' persisted Ingrid.

'Bah, humbug.'

Arguments wouldn't sway her but, in the end, she'd agreed to let Ingrid cook her a meal. And Ingrid had done her proud. She'd produced home-made French onion soup, followed by steak and chips, followed by profiteroles and cream. Petite Rachael had wolfed it all, indulging in a second portion of profiteroles while her hostess sat back, stuffed to busting.

'More wine?' she enquired.

'Wine not?' Rachael grinned at her. 'You can open my Lambrusco if you want.'

Ingrid had to smile. She'd got in four bottles: two white, two red and all expensive. Her guest had turned up with a litre-and-a-half bottle of Co-op own-brand. So far they'd had a glass of white and half a bottle of red each. Driving was no longer a possibility, even if they had had a car. After the Lambrusco, walking was going to be tricky too.

They retired to the lounge and, sitting side by side on the settee, began to watch a DVD. As it was her birthday Rachael had the choice. Surprisingly, she had brought Saving Private Ryan. Not having put her friend down as a war-film-sort-of-a-girl, Ingrid did her best to show interest. To be fair, the opening twenty minutes had her horrified but enthralled. Then, when things had eased off a little in Normandy, Rachael clinked glasses.

'Top up time,' she said. 'If you can tear your eyes away.'

'I don't like violent films,' Ingrid confessed, reaching for the outsized bottle.

'So won't you be visiting the landing beaches on your world tour?'

'We're doing all five. Heather's dad has visited one. I can't remember which. Heather wants to outdo him, though.'

'Surprise, surprise!' Rachael chuckled. 'I don't know how you're going to last with her.'

Ingrid frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'The sexiest, most sexual woman on the planet. Sharing your tent for months on end. What do you think I mean?'

'I think you're exaggerating. We have an agreement.'

Rachael chuckled again. 'I'm sure you do. And I'm sure Heather will keep to it. You might be the one to crack, though.'

'I'm not like that. As you well know.'

'More's the pity. Seeing as you'll be with her 24/7. Breathing the same air, eating all the same food and drinking the same vino. And washing and shaving each other, of course.'

'I think we'll be washing and shaving ourselves, actually.'

'Spoilsport.'

'Rachael!'

'It's the self-abuse that intrigues me,' Rachael went on mischievously. 'Months on end and no self-abuse? Sorry. Not going to happen.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean you're regularly going to be watching each other making kitty purr.'

'I don't believe you just said that.'

'Come on, Ingrid, everyone plays with themselves. And Heather's so highly sexed . . .'

Ingrid scowled. 'How do you know?'

'Take a wild guess.'

'Oh, I see.'

Blushing, Ingrid looked back at the screen. Tom Hanks' team had just wiped out a machine gun nest. One of his colleagues was in a bad way, jetting blood. She knew it was tomato ketchup, more likely than not, but winced all the same.

'We got together before Easter,' Rachael continued. 'When you left us to pull that all-nighter. It didn't take long to click. Not even by my standards. I'm not sure about hers.' She laughed. 'I might have been a bit of a pushover.'

'I hope you're not about to spill secrets, Rachael Brown.'

'No, not me. "Confidentiality" is my middle name, isn't it?'

'I did wonder what the C stood for.' It was Ingrid's turn to grin.

Rachael rooted in her bag and produced more DVDs. These were unmarked and immediately aroused her hostess's suspicions. She somehow doubted Steven Spielberg had directed this latest selection.

'I think we've had enough bloodshed,' said the Mohican. 'Let's watch folk enjoying themselves instead.'

The first of the replacement DVDs didn't have much of a plot. It featured a well-built man and a redhead with an impressive chest. As far as Ingrid could tell, the bloke had come to fix the redhead's plumbing. Not that he needed a spanner. His client was ripping his clothes off almost as soon as he arrived.

'Look at the ballcock on that!' Rachael giggled.

'Enormous,' Ingrid agreed. Then, giving her friend a curious glance, 'I wouldn't have thought you liked this sort of action.'

'Luck of the draw,' said Rachael. 'The others are all girl-on-girl.'

'Put one of them on if you want. It is your birthday, after all.'

'He's started so let's let him finish.' Rachael giggled again. 'I brought this one because he's a Viking-type. And I know how you are about Vikings.'

Ingrid shrugged and said nothing. Rache was right; she did have a thing about Viking-types. Sadly, the ones she'd hooked up with had all been savages out of bed as well as in. And that didn't work for her. She loved getting the sort of seeing-to the redhead was currently getting, but out of bed she expected at least a modicum of respect.

Eventually, after fucking the girl from all angles, the guy withdrew his truly enormous cock and ejaculated copiously over her bright red landing strip.

'Very soggy,' Rachael said gleefully. 'Serves her right for not shaving properly.'

'If you ask me she enjoyed it,' said Ingrid.

'What, getting jizzed? I can't see the fun in it myself.'

'You wouldn't, would you?'

'Hey! I have had sex with guys, you know. Not so often, granted. But enough to know what's what.'

This was the first time Rachael had ever mentioned guys. Ingrid seized on the opening. 'How many guys?'

'Two one-nighters here at uni. And a sort-of regular boyfriend back at home.'

'You've got a boyfriend back at home?' Ingrid was stunned.

'No, I had a boyfriend.' Rachael held out her glass for a refill. 'It ended before I came here.'

'Anyone I'm acquainted with?'

'Jem,' Rache said after a pause. 'Jem Morrison.'

Ingrid had to laugh. Jem was a male version of Rachael. He was small, skinny and modelled himself on Johnny Rotten. Leastways he had all the way through school. By now he probably had outrageous hair and multiple piercings as well.

'What's so funny?'

'You two together. I'm picturing him dyed bright orange and you magenta.'

'I was mostly cerise at the time, not magenta.'

'Whatever, Rache. Whatever.' Then, as laughter subsided to chuckles, 'You certainly kept Jem secret.'

'I didn't have to try. We only clicked on A-level Results Day. Delia had arranged that lavish barbeque, remember?'

'To celebrate and commiserate. Yes, I remember.'

'Well I did all right. I got the results I wanted, if lots of others didn't. Jem did okay too. Neither of us fancied a dramatic afternoon . . . packed with gloating and weeping . . . so we decided to go to Siouxsie's Bar and get hammered instead.'

'And?' Ingrid prompted.

'And his parents were away on holiday. We spent the night shagging in their bed. He was my first, by the way. Before you ask.'

'So that was it? A summer romance?'

'We went out about five times. And that's all you're getting.'

'One last thing. Did you let him cum on your landing strip?'

'I don't have one. Not then and not now. Ms Clean-Shaven, that's me.'

'How boring. I've got one.'

'Have you? Let me see.'

'No chance,' said Ingrid. Then, surprising herself, 'Ask me after another couple of drinks.'

'Don't worry,' Rachael grinned, 'I will. In the meantime, let's watch some real sex.'

The next DVD was accompanied by more Lambrusco. It was also very much girl-on-girl and, Ingrid had to admit, it excited her. First an exotic Hispanic woman laid siege to an extremely tanned blonde. Both actresses had been surgically enhanced but that didn't stop them from being beautiful and athletic. And the things the Hispanic did! Suffice to say, no man had ever provided Ingrid with such skilled service.

Oh my God, she thought, I bet that feels good!

She topped up their glasses as the blonde took over the leading role. She too was skilled to a high degree. The Hispanic received her attentions gladly. Come to that, they were frequently laughing; both of them, and not in a bitchy way. Doubting they'd been trained at RADA, Ingrid concluded they really were enjoying themselves. Watching them was definitely no hardship.

Rachael swapped DVDs again but paid no attention to the new "storyline". 'It's time for a big, sloppy birthday kiss,' she said.

'You and me, you mean?'

Rachael's sharp blue eyes gleamed. 'It'll have to be you and me, won't it? Unless you've got Halle Berry hidden in your bedroom.'

'I've never kissed a girl before,' Ingrid said nervously.

'Yes you have. That time we were dancing together at the New Year Bash.'

'That was only a peck.'

'A peck!' Rachael laughed. 'Do all your pecks last quarter of an hour?'

'It wasn't as long as that.' Ingrid's cheeks were on fire. 'And that was different. There were lots of girls kissing.'

'Safety in numbers, eh?'

'Something like that.'

'It'll be more exciting now then, won't it? Come on, girl. See what it's like without numbers to back you up.'

Ingrid was frozen to the settee. Unable to move, she realized she was also unable to refuse the request. Not that birthday girl had made a request. She'd announced it, sure it was going to happen. Talk about self-confident!

Still, it was her twenty-first . . .

'Okay,' Ingrid managed. 'But you come to me. Come help yourself.'

She had (pretended she'd) forgotten about New Year. That had been wonderful but this was even better. Being kissed by Rachael was incredible and totally unlike necking with blokes. It wasn't at all sloppy. New Year had been tentative and, on her part, a little clumsy at first. And then she'd got in the groove and enjoyed it. Tonight she was prepared to be passionate from the off but Rachael was coolness personified. Her lips were soft, gentle and irresistibly sweet. Guessing her friend was deliberately controlling herself, Ingrid thanked God that somebody could. Left to her own devices she'd have lost it altogether.

It's her birthday, she thought. And whatever happens, I won't wake up a different person. I'll still be me.

Time ceased to exist. The kiss could have lasted a minute or maybe an hour. When Rachael finally stopped Ingrid was dizzy and gasping for air. "Happy" couldn't begin to describe how she felt.

'Happy birthday to me,' said Rachael, perhaps reading her mind. 'And thank you.'

'I liked that,' Ingrid admitted.

'So did I. So much so I want more.'

Their second kiss was better still. Rachael set off cool again but responded immediately when Ingrid injected a bit of zing. This time they both used tongues and their hands explored each other's bodies, but not too intimately.

Not yet, Ingrid thought. Part of her brain wanted to scream: What are you doing! It was easy to ignore it, however. The much larger part of her brain wanted the kissing and touching to go on forever.

'Drink break?' Rachael suggested, another unquantifiable time later.

Ingrid was surprised to see that the Lambrusco was nearly all gone. 'I think you're trying to get me drunk, Rachael Brown.'

'I think you're doing that quite well yourself.' Rachael grinned then grew serious. 'I'm not out to take advantage, you know.'

'I know. It's more a case of in vino veritas, isn't it?'

Rachael's grin was wider than ever. 'So you've been wanting another close encounter, have you?'

'I'm not sure.' Ingrid shrugged. 'I've thought about it from time to time. And you've featured in some of my dreams.'

'Snogging? Or was I more ambitious?'

Ingrid was blushing once more. She had a quick slurp of wine, hoping it would help. It must have done because she then confessed she'd been dreaming about piercings and tattoos. Intimate piercings and tattoos.

'I'll show you my most recent.' Rachael was back in announcing mode. Before Ingrid could offer an opinion she'd whipped off her T-shirt. 'It's in my bellybutton,' she went on. 'The one lowest down.'

The Mohican was bra-less and had big tits for a petite, skinny girl. She also had lots and lots of piercings and absolutely acres of tattoos. Those tattoos! Ingrid had been aware of the ones on her arms (a full sleeve on the left, a relatively modest array of red and blue flowers on her right) but she hadn't been prepared for this. The girl had multi-coloured ink everywhere.

'Ahem,' said Rachael. 'You're supposed to be looking at my piercing, not my tits and tats.'

'The one lowest down,' Ingrid said distantly. 'Oh yes, I see. It's nice. What sort of stone is it?'

'It's Blue John. I got it when I went for a dirty weekend in Castleton.' Rachael laughed. 'I mean Castleton in Derbyshire, not the one near Rochdale.'

'It goes with your eyes. And your hair, of course.'

'It's time for another kiss.'

Still topless, Rachael closed in. Ingrid willingly submitted and didn't object when the other girl took her hand and drew it up to her bare breast. This third kiss set off as passionate and soon got hotter and hotter. Unprompted, Ingrid's free hand moved up to join its buddy. Now she was touching three of her friend's many piercings: the vertical one in her tongue and both the horizontal ones that were threaded through her nipples.

No, the ones threaded through her large, erect nipples.

Rachael wasn't the only person with hard nips. Ingrid's felt like throbbing pebbles. She was as good as sure she had just wet herself. Not that she had any intention of backing out. Not now she was getting the hang of this.

*****

For some reason Alex knew he could trust Heather. It wasn't a hunch or intuition, he just knew he could trust her. He took a deep breath and began.

'You might think that I hate my twin sister but I don't, not deep down. Back in the day we were inseparable. Apparently, when they first brought us home from the hospital, our parents tried to put us in separate cots. Big mistake! We screamed and screamed until they relented and put us together again. That did the trick. We held hands and nodded off immediately. It was the same the next day, and the next. In the end they gave up trying, so we slept together, holding hands, for . . . well, donkey's years.'

'Weeks rather than days?'

'I honestly don't know. It was probably months rather than weeks. Anyway, eventually they did manage to split us up at bedtime. But we were still together all the time by day. And believe it or not, although we aren't identical, we were impossible to tell apart, even when we were old enough to play out in the garden.'

Heather smiled. 'I'm thinking of that old Danny DeVito film. The one where he's twin brother to Arnold Schwarzenegger.'

Alex raised a weak laugh. 'We were much more alike than them. And our clothes didn't offer many clues. Mother tried her best, but Carrie had her own dress sense from a very early age. Not that she did dresses if she could help it. We had a big garden with trees in it. Dad fixed us up football goalposts at one end of the lawn; permanent ones. The outdoor possibilities were endless. Carrie wasn't going to miss out by wearing frocks. She wore shorts or jeans and a T-shirt, just like me.'

'Hmmm.' The black-haired beauty was frowning at that. Maybe she wasn't so insightful after all.

'She wasn't copying me,' Alex explained. 'Her stuff was always in different colours to mine, so we were dressed alike but not exactly the same.' He laughed again. 'Those football posts saw plenty of use, I can tell you. And Carrie got very good at football as a result.'