Lesbian, Passionate, College, Romantic
In college, my BFF was Meg. Megan Thomas and I did everything together. In the end, we did too much in tandem. How now I wish again for that too much which I rejected in its vulnerable first offering.
I drift back to when we were listening to music on her bed one Saturday afternoon in our final college year break: we lay back in that close, I thought, totally innocent girly way we always had. Close bodies adjacent, in each other's intimate space, but nothing sexual or arousing. God, we were both eighteen and unashamed cock chasers then: doing what was expected by our peer group, giving hand jobs in parked cars and letting guys get excited, touching our titties under our bras. The randy pricks kept on hold till our college formal, known worldwide as virginity parting night.
This particular Melbourne suburban Saturday afternoon will always be locked clearly in memory. We were hetero girls snuggling, my head nestled on Meg's thigh, the music was relaxing, and we had just related our Friday night hand jobs with Pete and Joe, respectively. We did the usual giggle and nestle burrow, the girly best friend brushing. We were women seeking men. We knew our cock focussed aim in life. We were sharing our guy exploits together, and we were primed to lose our virginity on the same night at the November formal—a BBF pact.
We were our usual close, comfortable and inseparable.
So why did Meg lean down, not so impulsively but so assuredly and frickin French kiss me? And why did I initially embrace her lush mouth? I know now. I surrendered to the moist sensuality—the unexpected, more arousing than any guy had ever been in my mouth. I felt uplifted. A strange, stirring high surged through me. Heart heaving.
Then: God, I can't be a lesbian, and what were we doing?
I pulled back and jerked upwards because, at that point, Meg's fingers touched my breast softness on the edge of my bra cup, and I knew she was waiting, getting ready to move deeper on a murmur from me. I knew I wouldn't stop there.
"Hey, Honey, it is okay. Please, please don't back away," she said softly as I jumped off the bed.
Moving swiftly, over by her bedroom door.
"Sweetie, stop," she implored; "You'll always regret it. I know this is right for us."
Her eyes close to tears. She would never hurt me. She was confused, too.
I hesitated. My mind jumbled mixed feelings. I was hetero. My pussy existed to hold cock.
Meg was my best friend. My close friend and she couldn't remain my bestie if we kissed and we went further.
Yet, I sensed lovers risked everything, and I could lose her.
Still in that instance, I felt she had crossed the line; was our closeness or trust stretched, broken and unrepairable, or was I feeling guilty for not letting go myself?
My head swirled, muddled, and Meg didn't help as I still hesitated.
She eased off the bed.
I thought she would say sorry. She would apologise and build a bridge back to me.
My BFF, however, came closer and pinned me against the inside of her bedroom door.
Her body melded against mine, pressing sensually and delicately into mine.
She touched my face softly and said, "You know this is you, Melody, and please, for me and yourself, don't fight it."
And I didn't want to in my body, but my mind was perplexed. I was sexually bamboozled because I felt her feathery press, the moment of packaged togetherness, the skeining sexual stir of press.
She brushed her lips, velvety light but moist against my dry lips, and I nearly exploded with pleasure between my legs. Still, my damnable mental reason held sway, and I pushed her away.
I pushed my BFF away as droplet rivers drowned my eyes. And I saw equally the pained soul lost expression in Meg's eyes as she reluctantly slumped her shoulders, inches from me, as a chasm of imposed values holding passion in check detoured me, and I resisted traversing the divide.
A journey of mere centimetres but one in the instance of my upbringing, unfathomably far.
I ran down her stairs, out her front door, and across the street to my house. Up the stairs, into my bedroom, locking the door and collapsing onto my bed.
Sobbing; my immediate world, my mind and my pussy, complete turmoil.
We didn't speak after that, anywhere. We drifted apart from this Saturday. I avoided her in the third-semester elective choices. I chose options I knew Meg wouldn't like, and then Meg moved away.
I had the October blues, strange for Spring because the season of love held no appeal. I heard on the rumour mill that Megan's parents availed themselves of a surprise fast no contest divorce. My bestie, yes; I missed her now that she had been seemingly spirited away to live with her dad before the end of college. I wandered numb, in body and mind.
I played interested in boys, as I gave few hand jobs, approaching our college formal; however, it was like a chore. I edged away from jocks on a Friday night. I compressed into alone.
For a long time after, I drifted through to the end of college, even avoiding the formal, empty without Meg. Then, I started university and watched my deeper conscious self eventually stir.
Then, strangely, here I was eighteen months later, back across the street. Not for Meg, though now I wish she was here and I could kiss her.
A lot had happened in my mind and body since that dominating college kiss.
I was at Uni and needed money, so I was babysitting for a remarried Mrs Thomas. Mrs Field, now, and God, a stepbrother to Meg, twenty years apart.
No wonder Megan never came home these days.
I engaged in the mandatory sex with guys at Uni a few times, yet Meg loomed. The dudes were enjoyable, but the thrill, the taste of my first kiss with Meg, dominated.
In any sly encounter, I sought Meg. Inside any kiss, I craved Megan—her press, her press on me. When I touched myself, I wished my BBF caressed me.
When I looked furtively at other girls, I realised I was focused on long brunette hair or a particular body shape in a crowd; I was seeking Meg and the sensation crushed.
And as often happens in life, a passage from a novel; in my case, compulsory reading in my European Literature course; hit my heart with a pounding resonance that brought a nearly unstoppable flood of tears, and it was as if Collette in The Vagabond had written directly to me with what I came to learn later is probably the most poignantly melancholy reflection on lost first love ever composed:
Love, if you can; no doubt this will be granted you, so that at the summit of your poor happiness you may again remember that nothing counts, in love, except the first love, and endure at every moment the punishment of remembering, and the horror of comparing. Even when you say "Ah, this is better!" you will feel the pang of knowing that nothing which is not unique is good. But Love is not so merciful. "You, who have found me once," he says, "you shall lose me for ever!" Did you think, when you lost him, that you had reached the limit of suffering? It is not over yet. In striving now to be again what once you were, you will realise the height from which you fell; and the first, the only love will instil its poison into each feast of your new life, if you do not stem its flow."
Meg and I were BBFs once, but I hesitated to be her lover, and I can't stem the flow of tears now. All I want is her body pinning. Her lips and mine, compressing. Our bodies fused and merged. Being in the moment when the interface of our souls combined, when our lips grazed and glazed in unison. To always have: loves first ever sensual converge rippling in our forever as soul mates.
The babysitting presented a dream. The nipper, Jake, had been fed and changed before Mrs Field and her new husband departed. The babe lay soundly asleep. I had the place to myself.
I stroked that moment when I knew where I wanted to be, back in time on a Saturday afternoon in Meg's room.
So, I drifted with no fixed purpose after checking Jake, along the upstairs to Meg's door, and looked back at the stairs I had hastily run down so quickly those months ago.
I pushed her door. Her room opened unlocked. I was in her bedroom. The room engaged me and invited me, ready for Meg. I expected she would walk through the door behind me.
I saw the photo frame by the side of her bed.
The image, us!
Surely, she didn't think of me like I thought of her. She probably had a regular boyfriend or a hot, steady girlfriend. The latter made me tremble with painful loss.
Still, I held the picture frame, looking into her eyes, seeking to touch what I would never touch again: her body. Her press, her press into me. I can recall her touch so easily. Her press. Other sexual experiences, prior or later, fled meaningless. I held Meg's press at the forefront of my mind. Desired only her smush into me.
I move to and lay on her bed, thinking of our girly closeness that Saturday so long ago. I put my fingers to my lips to recapture her searing, defining kiss. I recalled it but couldn't replicate it myself. In frustration, my hand wandered under my t-shirt and bra to my nipples.
I imagined it was Meg touching me. The edge of my bra, then, yes, I let her under; to my nipple, to my breast softness.
Meg's fingers crowded into my flesh. This time, I let her smoosh, nudge over and under, shaping and enfolding my breast with her press.
My other hand flexed tight in my jeans, but I didn't care about comfort. I was imagining Meg seeking my cleft of wetness on that faraway afternoon. Her fingers pressed my opening as I accepted all of Meg's giving. I imagined letting her cradle and frame my pussy; my mound shaped outwardly and inwardly by her hustling weight.
God, I was so aroused on Meg's bed, and as I fondled my girly bits slowly, I started to moan: "Oh Meg, Oh Meg, mmm, yes, touch me, touch me; Meg."
Then, in an unimagined tangible reverie, the ultimate fantasy as reality: lips wetly slid over mine. A flesh snozzle nibbled my lips. I didn't open my eyes because as our tongues swept into each other's mouths, as a body pressed mine, the surge of bliss rekindled in me. All my senses roused and heightened, and my body exuded sensual response from every pore.
My pants nimbly unzipped and slid blow my thighs, and I still didn't open my eyes. I was keen for the touch, which expanded wonderfully soft to start. A sole finger caressed my labia. A single digit pressing into and feeling me up. An exclusive nail rimming my butthole. Tactile, carnal and cute. Followed by the warmth of her breath and sweeping wet tongue, and tickled delightfully too by the long strands of her loose hair as her tongue tip engaged with my sensitive now slightly parted flapettes.
Then Meg, as I finally opened my eyes, shaped my desires for her with her tongue. She knew how to lick a girl, not just because she was a girl. She knew how to lick another girl, not as she wanted to be licked, not as she had her preference, as we all do. But comprehensively sensually.
So frickin slowly, so teasingly, so perfectly pressing and releasing the pressure in turn; and letting my pussy wetness mix with her tongue moisture in joy, and allowing my aroused clit to enjoy the building sensation.
Each lick she imparted was separate, yet they all were blending; deft, tender and caring of my private bits and my inner self exposed. Body and soul pleasured together. Meg for me and us joined.
When I moaned repeatedly because it was so intensely, stirringly, powerfully given, she ramped it. She took me with her on a whirling flesh ride of mutual self-discovery. Her butt naked self: given to me as an equal; as a lover, my lover, her lover.
We clinched and clenched flesh in the lovers crushed and submersed sixty-nine. The delight of giving and taking at the same time, tongues probing in unadulterated acquiescence, consensual happiness and bodily bliss and arousing primal avaricious avatars in us both. Yet overlayed by combined genital fellowship.
As Meg climaxed under my tongue, she squealed with pleasure.
"Ooh yes, ooh, yes, ooh yes!"
Her body withdrew and pushed into my face in basically the same instance. Her body slid up, pressing mine, her legs spreading wider, her clit wanting release from my focused over sensitive tongue flicks but knowing if it held, if it met my tongue tip, the explosion of pleasure would be concentrated, super intense.
Then her head was again lowered between my legs for me, ready to equal in me her spasms of delight. Friction was given, friction was received, simple enough, but the equation was WOW.
"Oh Meg, yes, Meg, more please, oh yes, yes, yes!"
Concupiscent paramours. I, too, was lost in her love, given through her flicking tongue.
Tingly filaments, more rewarding than any I had known because I was excited by the presence and soul of the giver, my climax concertinaed through me till I collapsed in inner happiness.
There only remained the canoodling caresses, our moulding softness, and the adoring joint love gazes as we held each other in fondling happiness. Our limbs huddled and bonded.
We held that moment when the relationship we have with our genitals expands beyond self when privates combine in love. When you have more than another's body. You insert pleasure and belonging into their mind. Without needing words, we gave stewardship of our hearts to another.
Megan held my face and explained how she had repeatedly avoided a trip home, scared she would have confirmed what she believed the truth. I was with a boy or, worse, another girl,
Then, afraid I was gone forever.
However, she had gritted her teeth and made the journey home to see her new half-brother and well, unreal; I was in her room, on her bed, and it was like it was still that Saturday eighteen months ago.
Meg finished. "Now, time lost doesn't matter; nothing matters because you and I are together here and now."
We kissed consumingly as lovers do and pashed in mutual captivation.
Best friends and lovers forever.
But positioned in the real world, we bounced up in sync and headed out of her room as Jake stirred along the hallway.