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Chapter 1: Debbie

It was as cold as a witch's tit out there. I was wearing my big fluffy green sweater with the big white P on the front. Matching green gloves with white trim covered my hands and my head was protected by a similarly colored wool cap with white Mickey Mouse type fluffy ears. My eyes were tearing from the bitter wind sweeping across the open field. What hurt most, from the cold, were my legs, bare under the short white skirt covering those green silk panties which gave me modesty but little warmth for my bald snatch. The lucky males get to wear slacks in cold weather.

The wide swath of grass was neatly trimmed, as befits the football field of a private school. The stripes marking the yards were geometrically true. The end zones were marked with diagonal stripes. Someone 'up there' had decided that it would be a waste of money to have our logo painted in there, the way the colleges and pros do. The goal posts held mostly steady despite the bitter wind.

The zebras were just coming out of their dressing room. The referee wore his white cap, the others their usual black. My guess was that they were early in order to acclimate themselves to the bitching cold. They had on gloves and earmuffs, to be sure, and I don't know what they wore under their clean white shirts with the black stripes. Or is it a black shirt with white stripes? Ah, who gives a fuck? The crowd booed them, just on general principles, hardly anyone forgetting that stupid call one of their predecessors had made a year earlier that had cost us the game and thus the entire season.

The weather had been pleasant, as befits a late summer afternoon, when I had shown up to try-out for the St. Peter's Cheerleading Squad. St. Pete's is an upscale private high school. There is no Saint anyone in the school's history. The name derives from the section of town where it's located, and has no religious background at all. It caters to bright students from all over town as well as the close-in suburbs. It has great snob appeal because our graduates test well and are welcome at all the Ivy League schools.

Because of a comparatively small enrollment, they – whoever the fuck 'they' might be – decided that Pete's couldn't support both football and basketball at the same time. The decision was made to go with football, because it brings in more revenue than basketball. Hence the cheerleader try-outs; if we're going to compete with the big public schools in town, we might as well go all out.

You may have noticed from your high school days, and certainly from the pro teams if you watch them, that cheerleading is almost always reserved for the good looking guys and girls. Handsome or pretty, as the case might be, well built, round and firm as appropriate, sexually desirable. I've been told that I fit into that category, and yes, I believe it. Despite all the yelling of 'go team go' and all that other bullshit, Ms. Elliot, our cheerleading coach, she of that classic dyke look, has made it clear that our main function is to give the male fans hard-ons, and for the handsome guys to get the female fans wet.

As you can imagine, with only one coach for both genders, this created some very loose situations during practice. But I digress.

Our main rival is Concord High, also named for its own part of town. I like that a lot better than having schools named after dead or retired school principals, those whose claim to fame was pure longevity. The game is always the last one of the regular season. Like the Army-Navy game, or Michigan-Michigan State, Ohio-Ohio State, USC-Notre Dame, etc, etc, it is THE game. In other words, whichever team wins considers that it has had a successful season, even if it has lost every other game by a lopsided score.

As you may have intuited, the weather here is not like St. Petersburg in Florida. Rather, it is more like St. Petersburg in Russia. And Coach had us out on the field a full half hour before kickoff. The ground crew had done a reasonably good job of clearing the snow, but I feared a number of injuries on both sides from the rock hard frozen earth. And to hell with the players; I was worried about the cheerleaders.

The stands were filling up slowly. At that early point, the crowd was mostly adults, parents who showed up to cheer on their children. They sat bundled under heavy blankets, passing a flask of the hard stuff back and forth to help fight the cold – or to make them forget it. The students for the most part were still in their cars, motors running, windows cracked just enough to avoid dying from carbon-mo. A lot of them were no doubt getting it on, the younger ones feeling each other up and the older ones fucking or eating each other. Shit, I envied their few hours of a head start.

As we went through our jumps and twirls, my eyes were on the players going through their pre-game warm-ups. Our green and white quarterback, Billy Lewis, was taking snaps from the center, stepping back a few paces and heaving long passes to Clyde Waters. Billy was six foot two, devilishly handsome and was already being courted by big time colleges. Clyde ("Hard-cock") was one of the school's token blacks, short, stocky but fast as hell and with dynamite hands that never dropped a pass.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself as the Linda meat in a Billy and Clyde sandwich. As I opened my eyes, I was glad the Ms. Elliot couldn't see the dampness staining my panties. In her mind, no doubt, a girl getting wet over the thought of a cock was a total waste. But more about that shortly.

Though it was still early on in my Junior year, I was already the Captain, the lead cheerleader of the squad. (See prior paragraph.) Part of my job, in conjunction with Ms. Elliot, was to pay attention to the other team's cheerleaders, to see if they had some innovative cheers that we could quickly steal. Though Concord was our last regularly scheduled game, we were already assured of moving up into the State playoffs, and we might benefit from stealing some good cheers.

My eyes were therefore constantly in motion, not only looking for cheers but also checking out the individual cheerleaders – and the opposing players – for anyone who might be interested in satisfying my carnal urges. Though their orange and black outfits gave me a headache, beneath them could be found curves and bulges to entertain the crudest and lewdest thoughts.

Fifteen minutes before kickoff, the Concord place-kicker looked relaxed as he boomed the ball through the uprights from college lengths. I wondered what that leg would look like if it was unfettered by pants and pads. Ten minutes before kickoff, their wide receiver loped easily around the track, the bulge in his crotch seemingly larger than that protected by the usual athletic cup. That gave the impression of being a tasty morsel.

Kickoff. Shiver. Cheer and yell. Debbie! Touchdown! Cartwheels. Fantasize. Crowd. Noise. Pass. Half-time. Coach Elliot. Black cock. Hard! Fucking cold. Quiet. Two minute warning. Oh shit! Locker room. Debbie!

Ah yes, Debbie, my BFF ever since middle school, the first person with whom I had ever rubbed body parts other than my own. I use the word 'rub' in the broadest sense, as in my make-believe dictionary.

'Rub - verb def. The touching of two or more things together with motion. Includes rubbing (as breasts), sucking (as cock), fondling (as genitalia of all sorts), humping (as pussy or cock against firm surface), kissing (as mouth or labia), fingering (as cunt or asshole). I left out tonguing, but you get the idea. What I also left out was the do-it-yourself kind of relief, male or female.

And for the record, my anus was cherry until after I married Miklos, but that's a different story. (See A Visit to the Doctor--And his Nurse, on this website.)

Debbie and I had done a number of sleepovers, probably once a week. She lived two houses down from me, or up from me, depending on who was doing the walking. It was called Maple Avenue, for obvious reasons, most beautiful at the four or five days of foliage time. Both of our houses were old monsters, five steps up to a wide front porch, complete with rockers, wood frame, needing paint jobs, two stories plus an attic, back stairs for the hired help, rickety old boilers for the hot water heat.

Each of our fathers was able to afford a better and more modern home, but Deb's mother and mine had grown up in those homes and had inherited them before our fathers had hit it big. Each family had decided to stay and spend the big bucks on private schools for us. Alas, when Deb was about ten, her mother took off with some professional athlete, leaving her dad, Keith Reid, to fill both roles. Debbie thought that it was hysterical, her father having to take her to buy bras and panties and fumbling his way through a lesson on menstruation and tampons.

Especially since she had such a fantastic body!

Her room was upstairs, in front of the house, as was mine. Hers was bright yellow with white carpeting. The only thing you in it that you wouldn't expect to find was a photo of her mother with the new boyfriend. Keith didn't like it, obviously, but he was too classy to make a fuss about it. Debbie once told me that she had the hots for mom's new fuck toy.

One night when we were each about twelve, I was sleeping at her place. That was the location for about two-thirds of our sleepovers. After lights out and all the usual giggling, I rolled over and closed my eyes. Before I fell asleep though, I heard the slightest creak of bedsprings and the slightest rustling of bed clothes. Then I heard Debbie's rapid breathing.

"Debbie, are you... ?" I was pretty sure but I didn't want to embarrass her, just in case I was wrong.

"Sure," she said. "Don't you?" At that point, she didn't need to complete the question.

"Of course, but..." Now I was the embarrassed one.

"But never with anyone around, you mean?"

"Right," I admitted.

We were quiet for about a minute, a minute that seemed like an hour. In that minute slash hour, my mind raced back to that first time, when my fingers found my clitoris yet I had no idea what I was doing, to the time when my mother walked in on me and gave me Chapter One of The Talk, to the pictures of whores fingering themselves on a DVD, to the way I taught myself not to moan if the folks were in the house when I had my daily orgasm or three.

Debbie broke the silence, not with her voice but by the rustling of her covers and the patter of her feet as she left her bed and walked to mine. She sat on the edge of my bed, still wordless, as her hand caressed my cheek. Then she broke the silence again by lifting up my cover and sliding into my bed. Our bodies touched chastely, pajama top against pajama top, pre-pubescent nipples growing, while inside me my heart pounded.

She raised herself on one elbow. Her head was over mine as her talented fingers gently opened the buttons of my top. I listened hard to be sure that Mr. Reid was not awake around the house, lest we be caught and then I would be forced to kill myself if he told my parents.

And suddenly I didn't care anymore. My arm reached up and pulled Debbie's mouth to mine while my other hand reached under her top to caress her nipples, to squeeze her breasts as I willed her to squeeze mine. She jumped up to free herself from my hands, quickly removing top and bottoms of her pj's. In a brief second she had me naked also, her hand curling my black pubic hairs. We didn't know at the time, but it would be a full two years, at age fourteen, before we found a shop willing to give Brazilian shaves to two young girls.

We rolled onto our sides, lying face to face, tongues intertwined, hands to tits, thighs against pussies. And then our fingers were inside each other, exploring virgin territory. Until I realized that Debbie was no longer the proud possessor of an intact hymen.

"Debbie?" She knew instantly what I wanted to ask.

"Hush, Linda. Someday I'll tell you about it. You might like him too," she added coyly.

Quickly her body twisted. A leg swung over my head and a sweet pussy sank slowly on to my face. At the same time, her own mouth touched my nether lips, and my clit felt the soft caresses of her tongue.

We licked, we sucked, we munched on each other's little girl cocks. We gummed each other and even did a little biting and fingering. We gushed, or at least Debbie did, my first ever experience at being squirted upon. Of course, it was my first experience with anyone or anything except my own fingers.

She was back in her own bed when her father tapped on the door in the morning on his way out to play golf. He stuck his head in, for whatever reason, and found us chastely covered up in two separate beds. The minute he left, though, she was back under my covers for round three, or maybe it was four.

The following weekend she was at my house. It was more of the same, except that my bedroom is pink and my parents are still together. This went on for quite some time, but one day my mother found us together in my bed. We were still asleep, and fully pj'd, but still, every mother remembers what she did when she was growing up.

"Linda, I have to talk to you," she said one day.

"What's up, mom?" I was pretty sure what she had in mind.

"You and Debbie are getting to be such grown up young ladies. Your father and I don't think that the two of you should be sleeping in one bed."

I should have been an actress. My clit was quivering but I kept a straight face. "Oh no, mom, you must be kidding. I like boys!"

Which of course was true but totally unrelated to the subject, since my only sexual experience until then had been with Debbie. Once burned, twice shy, as the saying goes, so we made sure never to be caught again in one bed. Well, not quite 'never'.

Chapter 2: Ms. Elliot

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglee – however it should be spelled. But it wouldn't be for a couple of years, and it wouldn't be my mom. Deb and I were in high school by that time, on the cheerleading squad. She and I were in the locker room, showering after everyone had gone home. Or so we thought. Debbie was leaning back against the tile wall, supporting herself in a corner with one leg thrown over my shoulder. I was on my knees on the tile floor, with my mouth fastened tightly on her clit. Warm water cascaded over us.

"Just what do you young ladies think you're doing?"

It was our coach, Ms. Elliot, and she fucking well knew what we were doing. I turned my head toward the sound of her voice, my mind racing to think up some believable – or even unbelievable - lie. But she had us en flagrante and I was ready to die.

"Didn't you realize that my job is to make sure that all the girls have left before me?"

Neither Debbie nor I knew what to say. Then the old dyke smiled.

"If you can't wait to get home, my house is much closer than yours. And you might like some variety," she added.

As it turned out, that kind invitation was really a command performance, for when she finished with the words "Saturday at noon", she did so in a tone which said that we'd be up Shit's Creek if we weren't there.

Now you may be thinking that, what the hell, it would be just one more clit for a horny teen like me to suck on, one more tongue to bring me over the top. But Debbie was my best friend and I enjoyed being in bed with her as we got each other off. And we were doing that often enough that we didn't need a third person, much less an unattractive dyke, horning in on our pleasures. Alas, Ms. Elliot was the boss, the coach, to one who could fuck up all our cheerleading hopes. And if she wanted one or both of us to lick her pussy, we'd damn well better lick her pussy.

She lived in a third floor apartment in an old six story elevator building. The building was as unwelcoming as the old bitch – she was then in her late thirties - herself. When we rang the doorbell, she welcomed us wearing an old bathrobe, even though it was already noon. Both Debbie and I intuited silently that under that robe we would find nothing but sagging flesh.

All I could think of was, is this what it's like to be a prostitute? She has to agree to have sex, something that is supposed to be totally pleasurable, with someone who disgusts her, in return for money. And she has to make believe that she enjoys it! In our case, we wouldn't even be getting money, but unfortunately something even more important to us, the chance to co-lead the cheerleading squad. As I said, I certainly felt like a whore at that instant.

Ms. Elliot's apartment was, strangely, short and squat, just like her body. Straight ahead, there was the shortest of entryways and then a bathroom, door ajar, old small hexagonal tiles on the floor. The one bedroom was off to the left and to the right a living room ran from the building's hallway wall all the way to the outside window. In the far right corner to the living room was an archway to the breakfast nook and through it to the kitchen, which likewise came back to the hallway.

The place was furnished in early second-hand style. It gave the impression that our captor – for that's what I thought of her – had resigned herself to an old age without a man or woman in her life and was trying to save as much money as possible from her salary.

She greeted us with what to her was probably a warm smile but which gave me the chills. She sat us on the old couch in the living room, offered us soda water and attempted to chit-chat. All we could give her was monosyllabic answers, mainly yeses and nos. She knew that we were uncomfortable and finally gave up on trying to be sociable. When she stood up and beckoned us to follow, though, we could see genuine excitement in her tone and motions. Well, why not? She was about to get her rocks off by two young and attractive teens.

In addition to bed and dresser, her bedroom also featured a stuffed chair, something good for reading or watching television. She turned it to face the bed and flopped down in it.

"Why don't you two young ladies show me what you like to do to each other?"

How interesting. The old lez liked to watch two girls go down on each other but she was either too cheap to rent a DVD or too ignorant to find it on her computer. Forgive the bitterness of that last statement; I knew full well that she just preferred to see it live rather than electronically.

But it also laid out the schedule. She wanted us to put on a show for her and then Debbie and I would be invited to munch her carpeting, either each in turn or both together. What I couldn't figure at the moment was whether this was going to be the price of the co-captainship or just – oh shit, I hoped not – merely the first installment.

Well, we really had no choice. I got behind Debbie and put my arms around her torso, my hands resting on her tits. I began to squeeze them as if I was a boy. (Oh yes, by then both of us had dated boys and had been felt up more than once, though I had never 'gone all the way.' (Debbie apparently had, or maybe her missing hymen was the result of a date with a cucumber.) She leaned back against me and sighed. My fingers fumbled for the front catch of her bra and finally found it, opening it up to allow Deb's tits to breathe fresh air. Her nipples were hard against the palms of my hands.

On the other side of the bed, I could see Ms. Elliot's hand under her robe, between her legs, caressing her sex. It wasn't so much of a masturbation motion as it was more of a gentle wake-up call to her clitoris. Her eyes were fixed on Debbie's breasts, her breathing becoming more rapid, more urgent. She stood up.

"Finish stripping, both of you. Quickly please." There was urgency in her voice that told me our coach needed a quick orgasm. We complied and then stood side by side, arms around each other's waists, facing Ms. Elliot. I expected, Debbie expected that our hostess couldn't wait to see the two of us mouth to snatch, munching, licking, sucking each other, inspiring her fingers to bring her over to that metaphysical void where nothing exists, where nothing matters save the indescribable throbbing of her loins. We could see her eyes in that thousand yard stare, unaware of our presence, her mouth doing the breathing for her, our naked bodies quickly forgotten in her quest for orgasmic release.

And then she shrugged and her robe fell off her back, exposing her nudity.

Debbie and I stared at each other and then at Ms. Elliot's skin, her breasts, her loins. In the brief moment that it had taken her robe to submit to the force of gravity, to accelerate to the floor at the rate of thirty-two feet per second per second (yes, that per second per second is the correct rule of physics), in that instant the ugly duckling that we expected from those baggy coaching outfits she wore had morphed into a beautiful elegant swan. Her skin glowed, her round breasts stood firm without assistance. Her pussy glistened in her lustful juices, fully exposed, shaven bald. Our mouths opened, unable to utter a sound. She smiled.

"I had a bit of a problem with a couple of the girls at my last position. I thought it better not to advertise my looks and my preferences here at St. Pete's."

There was no question in our minds that the 'bit of a problem' she mentioned had been one hell of a severe understatement. I stepped around the bed and fell into her arms, our lips locking, our breasts squeezing against each other. Debbie pushed her head between our waists, her mouth dropped down to nibble baby kisses on this brand new clit in our relationship.

And then it was like an atomic blast. Three female rods of highly energized fissionable sexual material, kept partially apart by the control rods of Ms. Elliot's baggy hide-the-sexuality clothing, exploded into a steaming, writhing jumble of heat and the sounds of moans, grunts and screams. Like magnets in a junk yard, the positive poles of three pussies, six breasts (and three asses) attracted and drew to themselves the negative poles, the fingers, arms, elbows, thighs, tongues, noses, all the elements that combine to form that incredible, beautiful, wondrous and yet fleeting thing that we call the orgasm.

Picture if you will a three-way game of Chinese Checkers, starting with three separate and distinct groups of differently colored marbles that then merge bit by bit into a beautiful mosaic in the middle of the board. But in this game there is not just one winner, standing alone at the end, but a three-way tie for first place, the players' pieces no longer moving but still all mixed together.

It was an awesome hour of three women melding, one stepping away after a screaming orgasm while the other two continued, then all coming – and cumming – together again and again. I could never be sure whose clit was between my lips, whose nose and tongue were entertaining my pussy, whose sphincter was clamped on my finger.

But should I have cared? Of course not. Debbie and I welcomed this brand new member into our sorority, just as Ms. Elliot welcomed us into her private circle. No, we had no doubts that there were others in that circle; we just didn't know who they might be.

At least once a week our trio would meet to recreate the rituals of our ancient sisters of the Isle of Lesbos, and at least once a week each of us would meet with one of the other two for the same purpose. There was no jealousy in these one-on-ones, for true love has no jealousy, and a healthy woman can produce an almost inexhaustible supply of orgasms.

Chapter 3: Clyde

But while this country has become more accepting of those women who prefer the touch of others of the same gender, nevertheless the vast majority of females prefer the heterosexual lifestyle, a good hard cock, that is, and prefer to date boys, or men, as the case may be. I'm one of the majority, favoring phallus over clitoris, though obviously enjoying the latter from time to time.

And so it was that I enjoyed the overtures of those boys who found my face and form pleasing to their eyes and, yes, to their erectile organ. None of the boys in school had any idea how much I savored the taste of vaginal secretions, nor do I think that any of the girls realized the Ms. Elliot, under her sweats, was a sex maniac. Those girls who suspected that Debbie and I were 'a couple' likely thought of it as a teenage experiment.

As a result, I dated some of the boys who ventured to ask. Some I turned down because they were dorks, others because it was obvious that they wished to spend the 'first date' inside my panties. And that was a problem, for while I lusted for cock, I was also afraid of it, afraid of the pain it would cause in my pussy, more afraid of the sperm that might find an unsuspecting egg inside me, and mostly afraid of being thought of as a slut.

Those I dated always took me to a movie, for where else could a couple find privacy when neither had a driver's license? Yet while I might succumb to a kiss, none of them got tit, neither bare nor covered. Still, I heard all the stories from my friends, some of them probably true. So I finally resolved that the next date that I chose to accept would feel the thrill of my breast.

Wouldn't you know it? The next one who asked was Clyde Waters. Remember him? He was the token black in school. Now don't get the wrong idea, he was no 'scholarship kid'. He lived in one of the fanciest homes in town and his parents had a pied a terre in Center City. My parents knew of him, for they had often been to football games at St. Pete's. Still, they would have had a shit hemorrhage if they knew that a black kid had asked me out, much less that I had accepted. And with dishonorable intentions, no less.

And why not? Clyde was handsome as well as being a great athlete, and everyone knows the reputation about the size of black cocks. Not that I was planning for cock involvement on a first date, but every relationship has to start on a first date. So I told my parents that I was going to a movie with Debbie. In fact, she was going on a date with Billy Lewis, star quarterback. I went to her house, Billy picked us both up and they dropped me off at the Twenty-Plex to meet Clyde.

No joke – twenty screens in the middle of one huge parking lot. We had our choice of real drama, stupid comedy, cartoons for the kiddies, chick flicks, war movies, science fiction, real drama, some award winners. Clyde suggested the horror flick. Even then, I was kind of sure he didn't really care for it but was just looking for a screen with lots of noise and not too many patrons.

We wound up in the back row, quite alone. Clyde bought me a huge tub of popcorn and I had it on the seat in front of me, held tightly by my spread legs. Oh man, I really warmed up my pussy that way, especially when he first bought it. Every time he reached into the tub for another handful, I couldn't help but imagine him reaching down there with no tub to act as my chastity belt. Clyde sat on my right with his left arm politely around my shoulders, his hand on my left shoulder. No problem,

The movie really was a stinker. It was about a high school boy who killed any girls who rejected him, cut them up and drank their blood. All I could concentrate on was the idea of Clyde's mouth between my legs, licking up blood from my pussy that way Debbie does when I have my monthly 'friend' visiting. And so I kept turning my face away from the screen to look at Clyde, who sure enough kept turning his head to look at me. I put the popcorn tub on the empty seat next to me.

Damn it, I knew what I wanted but still I was afraid to take the first step. Finally I just laid my head back on the arm he had around me. I felt Clyde's hand tighten on my shoulder but that was it. There was nothing to see on the ceiling so I closed my eyes. Then I couldn't wait any more. My right hand reached across my body, lifted his hand off my left shoulder, and moved it down onto my left breast. The instant that I felt him there, my nipple began to harden. He could probably feel it right through my sweater and bra.

He twisted in his seat to face me and pulled me around to face him. His free hand went immediately under my sweater to knead each tit. Our faces moved toward each other. It seemed to take a long time for our lips to meet, like in some chick flick, but it was likely immediate. His lips were soft, gentle, and his tongue was almost polite as it touched my lips, silently requesting entry into my mouth.

Without planning it, nor even thinking of the possibility, my hand was in his lap. In the dark, I couldn't see the tenting of his jeans but I could certainly feel the hard presence of male flesh, something I had seen in porn films (apparently from Debbie's father's collection) and fantasized about. Without a baby brother who needed diaper changing, I had never seen a real one, nor touched one before that evening, but I was ready.

I pressed down on Clyde's cock and began to rub it through the still stiff denim of his jeans. In retrospect, I guess that I was trying to make him cum while his cock was still hidden, to make him cream his jeans, if you will. But he had other ideas. Gently, but firmly, he took two fingers of my hand, thumb and pointer, and led them to the slider of his zipper. I understood, grabbed the slider and opened the zipper completely. In the ambient light of the theater, I saw nothing but some white cloth at the open fly.