Sarah's Story

I said I would write you a story from me to you. And so I am writing a story, one which means so much more as it is a means of communicating my feelings and thoughts to someone too far distant.

There are hundreds of ‘erotic’ scenarios I could concoct in which you and I might be lying in the topaz-lapped surf of Seychelles blonde beaches, or wrapped in tiger-rugs before a blazing fire in an Alpine retreat, sampling Mayan chocolate syrups from one another’s perfectly turned collar bones. This is not the story am going to give you. In stead of all this fantasy, I believe I shall write something more solid, something which is based firmly upon my own memory and experience of you and of what it is for me to be with you.

Although I had secretly flirted with you upon occasion throughout the five years we have been aware of one another’s existence – indeed most strongly last-Summer-but-one when I believed you might be paying me a surprise visit – it was only after I had made the huge commitment to my course in Manchester last Spring and Summer that I really started to be more aware of you as a person than as a friend of friends. Nervously I arranged to meet you for an evening in Town during a time when I was feeling really vulnerable, staying in a Youth Hostel in a strange city. It was a pleasant evening and a real treat to spend time with someone with whom I had connections traceable to a time when I was at the happiest in my life; that is to say, when in my undergraduate years at university. Serendipity introduced itself in the form of the ten-year re-union of our Alma mater’s amateur dramatics society and I made the brave decision to offer you a bed to stay in. Moreover, this meant offering to share a bed with you which is a very brave thing for someone such as I – scared to smile at girls lest they think I am a freak – to do.

Well, as it turned out the re-union was a most enjoyable affair. Staying in that Hostel in Manchester, with mixed-sex dorms, had brought me a wonderful sense of community and peace and sharing my sleep with you so close gave me that feeling again, though multiplied tenfold. I even managed to not make advances towards you, advances that would have been inappropriate towards someone in whom I had put myself in such a position of trust. As things turned-out we got-on increasingly well throughout the extended weekend and I woke-up on your final night here to find myself uncontrollably kissing you. And, far from the accusations of, “rape”, that I might quite easily have expected, you pinned me to the bed that morning with an impish grin upon your face and kissed me back. Hard.

I felt a stirring I had not felt in years. Literally in years. An adolescent tension of, ‘does she like me or not… When you arranged to come back to stay soon after on some flimsy pretext of breaking your journey I was in such a tizzy. I need not have worried, methinks.

Whilst I might seem old fashioned, backwards even, for saying it, I considered you as, ‘girlfriend’, from the moment you kissed me back that night in August. I realize it is very easy for me to put across a version of myself that is easy to fall in love with, and I do not think this to be a false side of me in any way shape or form. But I would like you to realize something that I have not told you before and that is that I am aware that, whilst I am far from being the perfect individual I should love to be, I am easy to admire and I took this into vast consideration for, at the time of the re-union in August, I was tentatively dating two other girls. And you must know from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, that when I mean, ‘dating’, I do indeed mean such innocent things as coffee and walks and visits to the art gallery. I had not even kissed anyone but you. But it tore me asunder not wanting to ‘two-time’ anyone. It took me at least a week to come to a solid decision. And not a logical decision at that – the other girls lived here in Edinburgh whilst you live two hundred miles from my arms. But I made the decision based entirely on who would understand me best. Who would challenge me most. Who would run to my rhythms. And most of all, who would be worth the two-hundred mile gap – those other girls would, I think, not have been. You are worth any distance in order to be with. And I love you.

I do not remember kissing again until in the dark, up some horrifying crevasse in Arthur’s Seat, looking at the fireworks through early September drizzle, although you say it was earlier, in the street. I do know that when I got you home I owed you a massage and I was not going to lose-out on the opportunity to take you my way. I quite innocently got you to remove your top. In fact I don’t think you had even revealed your breasts to me at this point. And there I was, working my magic on this new back. This new back of this new and magical girl whom I had the opportunity to touch. I worked at the massage with all-genuine attention to muscles and tension-relief; but then I had my pièce de résistance: I offered to go lower, onto your white – from tan-line – buttocks. I know myself how good a bum massage can feel, so I was not surprised when you acquiesced to the removal of your lower garments. However, I used this to crank-up the action somewhat. Ripping your knickers down with your trousers I made a few passes at those milky mounds of delicious flesh before going-in for the kill and burying my face deep within the crack of your buttocks. Licking fervently your, to me, virgin pussy and perineum and arsehole I finally tasted Sarah, something I had been wanting to do ever since we went to the cinema together those several months before.

Since that night I feel I have gotten to know you even better; and I can honestly say that even though I do occasionally get psychologically low about our separation from one-another and question if it is wise to love someone so very far away in a foreign country – for, though it might seem superficial to someone who has lived in both countries, England still seems just that: an alien world to me. The instant I set eyes upon you at the train station my heart skips over itself in joy at being able to wrap you in these arms and smell your hair and kiss your lips and say over and over again how much I love you. It is a reflex reaction that is better than any drug. I am sorry if I sometimes find it difficult to communicate verbally – I really have lived most of my life in reading rather than in talking and I think this shows – but please be aware that I am here to do the best by me, and I keep-on realizing that you are the way to do that.

I do however find your breasts very distracting. You’re gorgeous!