Let’s Twist Again

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Chapter One

(Wednesday 16th October 2002)

The university surroundings were, to say the least, student-friendly. Most retail outlets within a couple of miles of campus were happy to give discount on sight of a current Students’ Union card, regardless of the goods being purchased. Canned curry, carrots, carpets, computers and crayons; they qualified all without question. So too did meals at most restaurants. Penniless or not, students comprised a big part of the market; one that couldn’t be ignored. If a vendor wasn’t prepared to play ball he was going to lose out.

Or she was.

Or whoever called the shots was.

End of.

The local pubs had a different take on the same scenario, perhaps because knocking twenty percent off a pint for some but not others would cause riots. Avoiding “favoritism” a lot of them went for happy hours instead, some of which ran from midday to four or five in the afternoon. Others went for cheaper drinks over the teatime and early evening period, between four up until six, seven or even as late as eight o’clock. Good, reasonably-priced meals were also commonplace, usually in the form of pie and peas or sausage and egg butties . . . and usually for little more than a pound.

Growlers with gravy were almost as popular as meat ‘n’ tattie. And some of the chip shops tried hard to compete.

Come to think of it, it was a miracle your average student in those parts didn’t have a record-breaking gut.

In fact it was a miracle the girls weren’t as obese as most of the guys. But obviously they weren’t, girls being cleverer, more appearance-conscious and all that.

Like everywhere else in the land, Wetherspoons had the cheapest tariffs in town, but even they didn’t go to war with all the limited-time promotions. As a result it was quite possible to trawl the streets from sunrise to sunset, downing the most reasonably priced beer in venues determined solely by the tick of the pub clock.

Not that any student would drink all day. Heaven forbid! They were all there at university to learn, and not just the ins and outs of barroom economics.

Well, weren’t they?

Heather’s favourite boozer off campus was Ye Olde John of Gaunt, an outlet that really did know how to entertain a thirsty academic. But it didn’t feature on tonight’s map. Tonight she wanted somewhere completely different, preferably with no students in it at all. And being seen didn’t matter one whit. She never did have qualms about being seen out with a date of any gender or description. The difference tonight was that she needed to talk.

Spectators would only get in the way.

So, dragging Viola out of the Union Bar, away from curious eyes and waggling ears, she escorted her somewhere well off the beaten track.

And The Star was certainly off the beaten track. Buried as it was in a vast maze of red-brick terraces it was a large, stand-alone building that seemed to belong in two different worlds. First through the door was the lounge (commonly called “the best room”) which was thickly carpeted in red, ram-packed full with oak tabletops and flaunting shiny horse brasses on its walls.

To be fair the best room was magnificent. If teleported down from (say) the USS Enterprise a drinker might have supposed she had landed in one of the better, parts of northern England; the Lakes or the Yorkshire Dales, even. One of those well-to-do places where Whigs and Tories still held sway and the Labour Party was no more than a distant rumour.

Tony Blair? Wasn’t he some sort of tap dancer?

Well, maybe not (to some points of view the tap dancer was better looking and infinitely less gay), but the very idea was interesting.

At least it was in variously localities, if not The Star.

Of course Tony wasn’t gay. If he’d been gay he’d have been a Tory, wouldn’t he . . . Or more likely, a Liberal.

Like in the good old days: Vote for us or we’ll shoot your dog.

Speaking of which . . .

The Star’s taproom was rather different. Separated from the lounge by a very open, open-plan bar it was all bare, unvarnished floorboards, crudely chipped Formica tabletops and had sketches of a few pre-historic champion whippets on the (patchily) whitewashed walls.

Or were they greyhounds?

Country lass as she was, Heather struggled to decide. She knew dogs. Greyhounds ran on tracks and were extensively reported on in the T&A, sometimes accompanied by blurred photographs. Whippets ran anonymously on Sunday mornings in Myrtle Park, Bingley, down in the bottom meadow, often as not with hordes of men in wet raincoats cheering them on.

After-the-race drinks in the Ferrands Arms were not unknown. Come to that they were de rigueur.

Well, in a wet-raincoat, doggy-smelling sort of a way.

Entering The Star via its front door the two girls found themselves in the lounge.

‘Oh look,’ cried Viola, speaking for the first time since they’d left the Union, ‘They have the Cream of Manchester. It must be my round.’

Without pausing for endorsement she headed for the bar, casino oyna her aim unwavering, the very definition of a determined, single-minded woman.

Heather shrugged. She was as determined and unwavering as anyone on the planet, male or female. But sometimes even leaders had to become followers. Leastways, they did when they had Viola’s so-sexy ass to follow.

Still early Wednesday evening, the lounge was about halfway full. The male-female split was roughly even apart from a crowd of guys at the bar. Judging from their attire and demeanour Heather classed the guys as white collar, mostly office workers. She supposed they had stopped by for a quick one on their way home. And hey presto, here they still were, two hours and five “quick ones” later.

Not that she frowned upon them. Guys were off her current agenda but stopping off for a drink was a human nature thing, wasn’t it? She regularly did it herself.

Not so often in here, though. This time of an evening she was more of a Union Bar girl.

Tonight’s barman looked to be, in Heather’s considered opinion, maybe twelve. Seeing as he had to be eighteen to be employed here, he was probably a sixth-former, earning himself some beer money. Up until Viola’s arrival he’d seemed cool and in control. But something about the tall, beyond beautiful black woman distracted him.

Suddenly he didn’t seem cool at all.

Heather tittered. Because she was on a date she’d ditched her usual student gear for low heels and a short denim skirt, which revealed her tanned, athletic legs and a white and mostly unbuttoned gypsy-style blouse, which revealed a lot of her tanned, firm and very attractive breasts.

And Viola looked even better. Her white, gypsy-style blouse was off-the-shoulder and far sexier than heck. Her simply divine ebony skin shone under the overhead lights, sending out signals which were unmistakable. Like Heather, she hadn’t bothered with lippy or makeup. Like Heather, she needed no help at all.

Good grief but she was a sight!

‘Hello,’ the barman stuttered, ‘c-can I h-help you?’

‘Two Boddies please,’ Viola replied easily.

The barman nearly died and the crowd of guys sniggered around him.

‘Go on,’ some indistinguishable individual prompted, ‘give the girl what she wants. You give her your body.’

‘As if he could,’ said a second, equally indistinguishable person. ‘He wouldn’t know where to begin.’

‘I bloody-well would,’ another added, cuing storms of laughter.

Shameless as ever, Heather laughed along

Blushing, his eyes seemingly controlled by external forces, the hapless barkeeper shifted his attention from Vi’s chest to Heather’s and back.

‘Two Boddingtons,’ Viola said helpfully, ‘pints in straight glasses. And I’ll have a packet of scratchings as well, if you please.’

By now crimson-faced and dithering the youngster fulfilled her order. Still laughing, Heather pointed to a secluded table by a window. ‘Let’s sit there,’ she said. ‘Let’s be girly and talk.’

Chapter Two

The window seat was as secluded as it got in the lounge of The Star. Heather took the cop’s seat, her back to frosted glass advertising a long-gone brewery, facing the barroom, and was pleased when Viola took her place beside her. And she was even more pleased when a very hot palm landed on her bare leg.

Under the table dealings did have a lot going for them, after all.

Not to mention quite a bit of history.

Resisting a powerful strong impulse to reply in kind, Heather swigged beer.

‘You wanted to talk,’ Viola reminded her.

Heather scowled. She wanted to do all sorts but talking wasn’t right up there. Not just then.

But Vi was correct, as per always. They did need to talk.

‘I’m afraid I might be rushing you,’ she began awkwardly.

Viola guffawed.

‘No, honestly,’ Heather persisted. ‘This time last week you were straighter than straight.’

‘And then you happened,’ Viola returned. ‘And I’ve never been gladder about anything.’

‘I am too,’ Heather admitted, ‘but I think we’ve gone beyond . . .’

Viola’s hand closed around Heather’s upper thigh . . . hard. No, very hard and very, very excitingly.

‘Having sex with you is brill,’ she said, keeping her voice low enough not to be overheard, her eyes soft, brown and magnetic. ‘Don’t worry about going beyond any barriers; trust me, I’m on board all the way.’

Heather nodded but her treacherous mouth wouldn’t let lie.

‘Everything seems to be happening so fast,’ it blurted.

‘Trust me,’ Viola replied, ‘it’s more like five days, not a whole week. But I meant what I just said; I’m on board all the way. Coincidentally, that’s coming from little old me, a little girl on a big promise. I reckon Hurricane Heather is well overdue her first visit. Sorry to have to remind you and all that.’

Heather scowled again, caught in two minds. On one hand she never, ever broke a promise. And on the other she sincerely wanted to give Viola a proper seeing-to, hurricane style. Face it; that was what canlı casino Viola wanted, wasn’t it?

Damned right it was. Only too obviously! How much clearer could the girl make it!!

Except enticing as the prospect was, there was a hitch. Or, being more precise, there was something between her and Viola; something well out of the ordinary. Other than her feelings for Mary Rose, she had never felt anything like so strong a draw before.

In her heart of hearts, she suspected she might be falling in love.

Fortunately, perhaps intuitively, Viola dispelled the notion.

Assuming she wasn’t kidding herself even more convincingly than Heather was . . .

‘I suppose you’re still worried about me, Leanne and Debbie,’ she said levelly.

Heather shrugged, fooling no one.

‘I did wonder,’ she said as neutrally as she could.

‘Having sex with you really is out of this world.’ Viola held up a restraining hand, as if Heather might have been about to demur.

‘But I know we’re on a no commitments basis,’ Viola went on.

Crap, me and my big mouth! Heather thought, but held her tongue.

‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you,’ Viola continued, smiling becomingly (as if everything she ever did wasn’t always becoming). ‘All Monday morning I couldn’t get you out of my head.’

‘Me either,’ said Heather, truthfully. ‘You out of mine, I mean.’

Without seeming to hear her, Viola went on.

‘Being no commitments is simply awesome,’ she said. ‘It’s so adult! Guys either want too much or else disappear altogether. All I’ve ever had afterwards is the Invisible Man or a stalker.’

‘Yeah,’ said Heather, ‘you and the rest of the universe. Although I bet most of yours were stalkers.’


‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it?’

Viola considered a second then laughed. ‘It’s not such a bad deal though, is it? With guys, I mean.’

Momentary hesitation, followed by: ‘No, I suppose it isn’t. For me once is usually more than enough. With a guy, that is.’

‘But with girls . . .’ Viola rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. ‘Like I said, I simply couldn’t stop thinking about Saturday through Sunday. And, because we’re no more than occasional . . .’

Crap, thought Heather again. Why oh why did I suggest “occasional”!

‘Well,’ Viola continued, ‘I got thinking about what you said about the girls on The Corner.’

Heather gnashed her teeth at that.

‘I wanted to believe you,’ Viola enlarged. ‘I wanted to believe that other girls might fancy me.’

‘Hardly a massive stretch of the imagination,’ Heather observed, with feeling.

‘And I couldn’t stop wondering if I’d be accepted.’ Viola laughed self-consciously. ‘Okay, I knew they’d accepted my little announcement on Sunday, but I . . . well . . . a girl wonders, doesn’t she?’

Viola’s “coming out” declaration had been excessively good. It’d received a round of applause and no way was it likely to be forgotten anytime soon . . . if ever. Given opportunity Heather would have said all the things that Vi had said.

Loud and proud or what!

Not that Heather had ever needed to make announcements. For some strange reason her card had been marked all along.

Biting back unfamiliar emotions, she asked, ‘So what did you do? On Monday, I mean.’

The blunt question made Viola smile. ‘I skipped my last lecture and went to the Union Bar,’ she said in a modest, reserved sort of a way.

‘And . . .’

‘And it was almost empty. So I bought a pint and sat at a free table on Lesbians’ Corner. Two seconds later, before I could even start to be nervous, Rachael appeared at my side. Do you know her?’

As if Heather did not!

‘Let me hazard a guess,’ she said. ‘She’s small and looks a lot like Siouxsie Sioux. Always wears Sex Pistols Ts and is as sexy as heck. And oh yes . . . she’s the driving force behind the Girls’ Society.’

‘Too right she is,’ said Viola. ‘She as good as recruited me.’

‘And . . .’

‘And she was very civilized about everything. She never mentioned me and you until she was leaving, and even then she wasn’t direct. “We’re for girls,” she told me. “Okay, so lesbians are all girls, but girls aren’t all lezzie. My society doesn’t discriminate. My society is all-inclusive.”‘

Heather let that sink in before replying. ‘She was telling the truth,’ she maintained. ‘Rache is as lezzie as you can get, but she would not ever impose. Not ever.’

‘Do you know for a fact?’ Viola asked after another sinking-in pause.

‘Do I know what for a fact?’

‘That she’s lezzie.’

‘I’m one hundred percent. And she really is desirable. Like off the scale. Everyone else on The Corner . . . all seventy of them . . . will have been green with envy. You together with her . . . Is that a dream team or what!’

‘There was more like seven of them there, not seventy.’


Viola laughed lightly. ‘And who would they’d be jealous of, precisely?’ she wondered.

‘They’d be jealous of both of you; who wouldn’t be?’

Viola just stared kaçak casino back at Heather.

‘Five days and you’re a superstar already,’ Heather grinned, ‘call for the man from Guinness; the one with a notebook and stopwatch.’

‘I don’t feel like a superstar.’

‘Well you look like a cross between Whitney and Naomi, so don’t worry too much about how you feel. It shouldn’t be the case but it is. Around here it’s appearance that matters.’

‘My ass,’ said Viola.

‘Exactly,’ said Heather.

Chapter Three

Heather had intended to indulge in additional beers and chat but Viola had other ideas. Even the offer of a Gandhi’s curry didn’t sway her. As far as she was concerned the time had come to shag.

Or, as Viola put it in her own words, “Bugger food and drink, I need to reap the whirlwind.”

“Don’t you mean the hurricane?”


So they went to Heather’s place, stripped each other and got on the bed. That is to say Heather took all the clothes off Viola, picked her up and threw her onto the mattress. And Viola stayed there on her back, giggling encouragement as Heather slowly got naked.

Then she squealed even more encouragement as Heather hungrily went down on her.

And then she practically wailed as Heather climbed on board, positioning herself between very wide-spread and accommodating legs.

With the benefit of hindsight Heather doubted that she reached hurricane levels. Viola was simply too nice. And usually she needed a few more drinks to banish every last reservation. Even so, she really gave it some, tactically using her fanny, sometimes going for equal shares, more often going for all of her on a very limited part of Viola. In other words she generally used all of her very hungry groin on a very limited section of her only too willing victim’s.

Not that Viola seemed to class herself as a “victim”. Not in any way at all.

Tribbing always had been one of Heather’s favourite activities. She had never found self-lubricating to be a problem and already knew that Viola was out of the same stable. If anything she was even better at it. Although there were gallons of hot sweat running between the rest of their urgently wriggling and writhing bodies, down there was like skating on ice.

Well, assuming the ice in question was slippery, slidy and close to boiling point.

And Vi’s encouragement was endless. When it came to female conversational skills she was as good as peerless.

‘Come on, come on, come on,’ she urged. ‘Yes, yes, yes . . .’

Cumming violently herself, she’d then add, ‘More, more, more, that’s how I like it! Yes it is; it really is. It really, really is. Oh yes, yes, yes, more, more, more!!’

On she went, on and on as Heather moved intimately over her. Their bodies gliding almost poetically, both of them cumming at very, very regular intervals, sometimes simultaneously, sometimes in some sort of sequence . . . controlled but not too controlled.

Controlled but not controlled at all.

It was bliss personified.

No, it was better than bliss, it was perfection.

And still Heather never quite let go. Viola really was too nice. She really, really was. It was an honour to be shagging with her and too much would be . . . Well, it would be too much; far, far too much.

So Heather hung on to restraint with her fingertips, occasionally rubbing herself off on Viola’s smooth, silky-satin thighs, more regularly teasing her magic button with as many parts of her own lower body as she possibly could.

Not counting the cums other than to be sure Viola was ahead in the race.

Only counting to make sure Viola was well, well head in the race.

Eventually, after maybe three hours of fun, fun, fun, Viola called timeout.

‘It’s all true,’ she gasped. ‘I love it and it’s all true.’

Uneasy at the use of the word “love” Heather rolled off Viola, positioning them side-by-side on their backs on the decidedly soggy bedcovers.

‘I was just getting into the swing,’ she said, mostly joking.

That is to say mostly, but not entirely.

‘I need to take five,’ Viola replied. ‘Then you can swing at me as much as you like.’

‘Take ten,’ Heather said generously. ‘Then I can swing at you twice as long.’

Chuckling, Viola took hold of her hand, squeezing it meaningfully.

‘I feel a certain urge coming on,’ she said mysteriously.

‘Feel free,’ said Heather, ‘you’re in the right company.’

Viola chuckled some more. Then, surprising Heather, she said: ‘Thank you for dressing up.’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘Yes you did, you were in a skirt. That’s more than Katie got on Monday.’

Heather had as good as forgotten about Katie. Now, reminded, she shrugged. ‘Me and her met up after last lectures. There wasn’t time to dress up.’

‘Would you have dressed up if it hadn’t been after last lectures?’

‘Well no, probably not.’

‘Did you dress up for Tuesday’s date?’

‘Vi, this conversation is . . . is . . .’

‘So end it. Did you?’

‘No, we had a fight first, so there wasn’t time then, either.’

‘You had a fight?’

Viola sounded horrified. Heather laughed.

‘Me and Jenny practiced karate as an encore. Dressing up wasn’t an option.’

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