Such a Sweet Surrender

Chapter One

(Saturday 12th October 2002)

What's that saying about the best laid plans? Katie wondered. Well, I'm obviously neither a mouse nor a man, but I guess tonight they've gone awry.

Lying there alone in her bed, she chuckled. It was after four in the morning, her big birthday bash was over and she should have been knocking out zeds for England. But she couldn't sleep. And it wasn't a short-term sort of a thing. Oh no, she felt as if she'd never be tired again.

Maybe it was those plans of hers. As hostess with the mostest she had intended to stay sober and in control. She had also intended to stay chaste (for a change!) and to thoroughly tidy up after all of her guests had gone.

To quote Meat Loaf, "Two out of three ain't bad".

Staying sober had been surprisingly easy. Katie had limited herself to one small glass of wine an hour and kept it at that. She had also restricted herself to "birthday kisses" and no more, heroically turning down quite a few bawdy propositions. But, as for the thorough tidying . . .

Her guests had started to drift away around two o'clock, most of them in pairs, no doubt heading off with bawdiness in mind. That is to say, the majority of her guests had started to drift away. Sadly, a handful of stragglers were still in her lounge even now. She blamed that on her housemates who both had boyfriends with them . . . and short-notice boyfriends at that. The rest of the stragglers had sort of adhered to the housemates, clearly intending to keep on partying until the cows came home.

Or, failing the arrival of the dairy herd, until the very last drop of booze had been consumed.

So that was Katie's Saturday morning lined up: vacuuming carpets and washing hundreds of glasses.

Katie wasn't really bothered about the aftermath. Her party had gone as well as possible; there hadn't been any fights, fallouts or overdoses and everyone present had enjoyed themselves. What did a bit of housework matter following a major success like that?

Right now she only wished she'd had a drop more to drink and accepted a bawdy proposition or two.

No, she wished she'd accepted Heather's (relatively) bawdy proposition.

Shit fire and save matches, Heather had propositioned her!

Well, she had as good as.

Sighing, Katie wondered what had come over them in so public a situation.

"I'd rather go for it with you," the black-haired beauty had said, not really proposing anything, leaving her hostess to jump to conclusions. "The yes or no is up to you."

Like on the spot or what!

And what had sweet, innocent Katie said in response? Conscious of her other guests yet tempted in a way she'd never before been tempted . . . tempted in spite of her world-famous straightness . . .

Well, she'd only gone and set up a date with the most rapacious lesbian on campus!

If not the most rapacious lesbian in Europe!!

And the speed with which she'd reacted was even scarier still. Anyone would think that she'd been bi-curious for ages.

Katie sighed once more. If she was being totally honest she had been bi-curious for ages. She'd been hiding it, though, even from herself. She had only ever shared her most secret thoughts with her trusty right hand. Speaking of which . . .

She gently rubbed her groin and, not for the first time alone in that bed, pictured the one female she'd ever let in to her dreams.

If her reputation was anything to go by Heather really was rapacious. She was stunning to look at and fun to be with as a common-or-garden boozing buddy. But there was always a sense of danger about her. And, in Katie's most covert imagination, there was always a sense of the unknown.

Make that a very, very exciting sense of the unknown.

What will she be like on a date? Katie wondered. And who was I kidding when I said we could chat if nothing else? The girl is sex on legs; how could I possibly resist?

Chatting was not an option. Katie knew that. Accepting a date was a statement of intent.

End of . . .

Everyone in the university approved of Heather. Katie firmly believed that. Females were all in awe of everything about her; lots of avowed straight girls openly admitted temptation. And, with the exception of a handful of conscientious gays, the rest of the male student body wanted a tumble with her.

Or two or three . . .

As lucky old Dwayne was no doubt tumbling with her right now.

Katie smiled and kept on rubbing. Heather didn't do relationships; she always made that quite clear. Relationships were out; she had played the field and had had loads of partners, although somehow she avoided the horrid names that a lot of other girls acquired. That was probably because she was relatively hard to get.

Well, she was hard to get as far as guys went, anyway. Legend had it that dozens of guys asked her out on a daily basis but very few got positive answers. Too evidently in a position where she was able to be selective, she seemed to go for a handful of the few, most choice, handsomest men and politely declined the rest.

That was why Dwayne was where he presumably was tonight, of course. Without the slightest trace of doubt Dwayne scored high in the "choice" and "handsome" stakes.

In fact he'd scored in Katie's bed more than once.

Shame he isn't here now, she lamented. Shame they aren't both here now . . .

Not that I'd know what to do if they were!

Rubbing a little more vigorously, Katie mused on.

If Heather's preferences for men were easy to suss, her taste in women was baffling. Katie had seen her out and about with women of all shapes, sizes, colours and ages . . . and, of all appearances, too. She seemed to do the whole range from mannish to drop-dead gorgeous.

And there was nothing reticent about Hev on a date. The difference between being out with a boozing buddy and a soon-to-be bedfellow . . .

Well, it was plainer than plain. Heather was no less than sexually addicted. To her kisses and cuddles were there to be exchanged with abandon. Regularly Katie had heard suggestions that applications of buckets of water were urgently required, to cool Hev's ardour before she lost it altogether.

Not that so many observers really wanted to stop her. No, everyone seemed to be equally as eager to watch as Katie was herself.

Having only ever fantasized about one female, Katie was puzzled by Heather's taste in women. It was only too easy to masturbate while thinking about her wildly flashing green eyes and that super body of hers, but she couldn't begin to imagine having sex with some of Hev's more extreme girlfriends.

Maybe she was missing something.

Maybe she was missing something that Heather knew only too well.

No, almost certainly she was missing something Heather knew only too well.

Monday night, Katie thought, easing two fingers inside her pussy, pretending they were Heather's and delving ever deeper.

Monday night . . . and it seems like aeons away. Why oh why didn't I go for it tonight? Why oh why did I push her towards lucky old Dwayne?

Chapter Two

At that moment in time Dwayne wouldn't have argued about his luck being good. He'd wanted to get it together with Hev for ages and she'd already impressed him with her skill and insatiable appetite. Not that he was merely impressed; he was staggered. No, he was starting to suffer from shell-shock.

Where on earth did she get her energy from?

He hadn't timed their session in Katie's spare room but reckoned they'd been screwing there for two hours at least. And Heather had limited him to a couple of cans when they had gone back downstairs. Before he could reach for a third she'd grabbed his arm and was pulling him outside and into a taxi.

'Enjoy,' his cousin Sam had called after them, 'and keep your . . . er, chin up.'

The big fat bastard had obviously known what Dwayne was in for. He was grinning more broadly than ever. Even by his larger-than-life standards he was having a laugh.

Twat had been there himself, hadn't he?

Dwayne supposed he must have suspected the ordeal that lay ahead. Thing was, it was impossible to say no to the girl. Before he knew it they were at her place and, without offering him any sort of drink, she was dragging him up to her bed.

'Naked,' she'd commanded as she whipped off her tight T-shirt. 'You've turned me on. I want a repeat stroke-for-stroke performance. No, I urgently need a repeat stroke-for-stroke performance. And I need it right now.'

So did he; who wouldn't have? She was bra-less and her tits were perfectly round and firm. As a life-long tit-man he was slobbering at the sight.

Not to mention the physical perfection of everything else about her.

So he'd got naked with her and shagged her slowly again, using his dick an inch at a time, doing it the way she seemed to like most. And he'd been quite masterful he had to admit, treating her to precisely fifty strokes at nine different levels of penetration . . . fifty very, very slow strokes.

Heather had moaned and groaned her appreciation, cumming more than seemed humanly possible, without a shadow of a doubt relishing every second.

And doubtlessly exaggerating in every way, shape and form.

Later, when he was under the impression he had finished the job, she'd rolled him onto his back and given him a female version of a repeat performance . . . Except she did it for far, far longer. She also did it from a multitude of different angles as well; a multitude of new and very different angles.

And then, as if that wasn't conclusive enough, she did it all again . . .

*****

'That was great,' Heather said later, much later, when she finally took a timeout. 'I can't remember the last time a man turned me on as much as you do.'

Dwayne was grateful he'd survived her master class and reached another climax. A lengthy timeout, a few hugs and a lot of pillow talk seemed like a good idea just then.

'You have good skin tone,' he said, trying to start an innocuous conversation. 'Have you ever checked your family tree?'

'My ancestry has been queried before,' Hev chuckled. 'But I'm a seventh generation Yorkshire farm lass.'

Dwayne wasn't convinced. Okay, so Hev was clearly not black, but it was easy to imagine her having a dash of the dark and exotic in her veins.

'Anyway,' she went on, perhaps reading his mind, 'all of our ancestors came out of Africa, didn't they; all of us, every colour there is going. It just happens that most of mine settled somewhere where there was no proper sunshine. If I'd had any say in the matter they'd have stayed where they were.'

Dwayne grinned at that. His most immediate ancestors came from Jamaica. And yes, if given any say in the matter, he'd have stayed there too. Bugger Africa; it was too hot. And not enough choice of rum punches, if the truth be told.

'I like you as you are,' he assured her. 'I think we complement each other.'

'I think my hand looks good on your you-know-what,' she replied. 'And stone me, we were supposed to be doing a stroke-for-stroke repeat! I forgot your below job!!'

She pushed herself up and off him then frowned. 'Dearie me, Dwayne, I didn't know you did "floppy".'

He wasn't surprised to see his dick laid out flat on his inner thigh. 'Nothing personal,' he said, not sure who exactly he was trying to kid. 'I'm still catching my breath.'

'Don't worry; I've at least ten cures for floppiness.'

Heather bounced off the bed and walked across the room to a chest of drawers with a lamp on it; the one lamp she hadn't switched off. Its bulb was dim but bright enough for lovers to see what was what. Dwayne watched her as she went. Even now, with a sweat-slicked body and her hair all mussed, she was a sight for sore eyes. Wide shoulders, slim waist and lovely, shapely long legs . . . she was utterly magnificent in every respect.

And the arse on her!

Dwayne realized she was rooting about for something and his dick twitched reflexively. What had she said about having drawers full of sex toys? He gulped silently. His head wasn't into the idea of using sex toys quite so much as his dick was.

To be more precise, he'd never used sex toys; not ever.

Then Hev turned away from her set of drawers and his heart lurched dramatically. No man could look at a creature like her without wanting to swoon. Even with streaks of juice on her legs she was no less than a vision. And the streaks on her legs only added to her allure.

Fuck me, he thought, floppiness isn't a concern; not anymore.

Heather was carrying something bright red. As she returned to the bed he saw that it was shiny fabric of some sort. And, as she got closer, he realized it was a couple of long silk scarves.

'I have ten cures,' she said, grinning at him. 'But this is by far the easiest. Give me your hand.'

'What are you going to do?' he wondered.

'I'm tying you to the bed, what else?' Hev laughed. 'It's guaranteed to rekindle your interest. And after that . . . Well, just you wait and see.'

Chapter Three

Katie wasn't the only young woman who couldn't sleep. A little way across town Viola also lay awake, wondering about life, the universe and everything. Why had she such a massive void inside her? Why was there no chance of her dropping off? And above all else, why couldn't she get thoughts about a certain person out of her head?

She sighed softly. It was almost five in the morning; she should have been able to fall asleep just like that. She'd stayed at Katie's party until two o'clock and there had been plenty to drink. And when they had got to her place, there'd been plenty of energetic sex . . .

It was too dark in her bedroom to see, but she could hear Kris's regular breathing beside her. Before flaking out he'd fucked her three times. And, considering that it was the first time they had ever slept together, he'd done so with bags of gusto and style. A seeing-to like that should have left her purring and spent, hardly able to keep her eyes open.

Sadly, though, facts were facts. She was wide awake; wide awake and unfulfilled. Lack of sleepiness aside, she should not feel like this. She'd fancied Kris for ages and he'd courted her with tact, humour and restraint. He'd fucked her well too; there was no question about that. She had gratefully cum with him on all three occasions. In her opinion that was almost sexual perfection. She'd only had a handful of lovers before, and none of them had been remotely as satisfying as Kris.

Most of them had been unable to make her cum at all.

She quietly got out of bed, found her gown hanging on its hook on the back of the door and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Giving up on the idea of slumbering anytime soon, too impatient to wait for the percolator to do its thing, she clicked on her electric kettle and spooned instant coffee into her favourite mug.

(The one with Law, Best and Charlton etched on it, red on white.)

Men and orgasms were a great mystery to her. Not that their orgasms were even slightly mysterious. All the guys she'd been with had been very similar when it came to cumming. Okay, so their timings were different, but the rest of the procedure was much of a muchness.

No, the mystery was why they all found it so difficult to make her climax. They had all excited her and she'd liked every last sensation of sex, particularly the feels, the smells, the tastes, the sounds and all of the sights.

The snag was she didn't like them as much as she ought to.

It would have been easy to conclude that there was something wrong with her, but there wasn't. Self-inflicted orgasms happened easily (and regularly!) enough to confirm everything was in working order.

The kettle clicked itself off and Viola poured boiling water into her mug, adding a small splash of cold from the tap to help it cool. Then she sat at her breakfast bar and pondered some more.

Before university she had considered herself to be 110 per cent straight. Now she was less sure. Now she entertained ideas she would have previously dismissed with a laugh.

Viola's schooldays had been, in her eyes at least, much the same as anyone else's. Her crushes and games of Kiss Catch had all involved boys. There were several boys who sat the games out, claiming they were "gay" but she couldn't recall any girls making excuses. And outside of the childish games, although there had been a handful of "very best friends", she honestly couldn't remember any female claiming she was "lezzie".

Not ever.

Not even in jest.

Fresher's Week at uni had amazed her. The events had been all in-your-face; so too were the various student associations' attempts to recruit new members. Like really! After the first couple of days she'd started to believe she was the only non-lesbian on campus.

And the thought of what her determinedly old-fashioned mother would say about that . . .

Well, it had left her breathless and strangely thrilled.

Deep into her first year, Viola's next-door-neighbour in halls had rocked her boat, big-time. According to Jane, she had just discovered the best society in England, the EU and quite possibly the cosmos.

'It's The Girls' Society,' she'd gushed. 'Rachael Brown's founded it; she's that tiny punk who looks like Siouxie Sioux; the one who only ever wears Sex Pistols T-shirts.'

Viola had instantly known who she meant. Rachael was exactly as described yet ten times larger than life. She might as well as have had "LESBIAN" tattooed in red on her forehead but was still the sort of girl everyone wanted to be associated with.

Pressed further, Jane had assured her The Girls' Society was similar yet infinitely superior to LGBT.

'It's not about a lot of minorities', she said. 'It's there for womankind; fifty per cent of the world.'

'You mean it's not full of lezzies,' Viola had queried, dubiously

'Of course it is,' Jane replied, 'that's what makes it even more exciting.'

At that point it occurred to Viola that her friend suddenly seemed to know a lot about LGBT. And she'd believed they told each other everything!

'So are you going to,' she'd prompted, 'or have you already?'

'Not yet but you bet I am,' Jane had replied, 'maybe not tomorrow, but definitely manana, if not in the next day or two.'

Over a stretch of little over a week Viola had listened to Jane as she edged ever closer to becoming a "woman who has sex with women". And, maybe it was vicarious, but she had enjoyed all that edging. When she at last heard that the inevitable had come to pass she'd cheered out loud.

She was too reticent to try it herself, though.

Or so she'd kept on telling herself.

Jane's confessions continued long after halls. The two of them never considered sharing a flat but did keep in touch. And that was how Viola learnt about that "certain person".

According to Jane, gals were much, much better at lovemaking than guys. Indeed, as her experience grew and grew, she had often maintained that a gal who knew what she was doing could make any other gal immediately and just about endlessly cum.

'We all know how everything feels when you're a girl,' she'd say. 'We all know what's good and what's absolutely mind-blowing. What chance has any guy compared to that?'

Also according to Jane, that tiny punk Rachael was the second-best lover in the world.

'I only have this by hearsay,' she told Viola. 'She's far and away the best I've ever had. But there is a girl on campus who everyone says is beyond compare.'

Jane was referring to that "certain person". And by then, purely by coincidence, that certain person had become an acquaintance of Viola's.

And by now she'd almost become a best friend.

Or did co-incidence really come into the equation?

Viola sipped her coffee and scowled. Why didn't water cool the bloody stuff down as fast as milk? And come to that, why had she let herself run out of milk in the first place?

The idea of becoming a "woman who has sex with women" had been in Viola's head for some time. It was as scary as it was intriguing, and attractive as heck. She'd even watched videos on-line, wanting to get a handle on the things girls actually did in bed together . . . becoming increasingly fascinated by all the possibilities.