Her long, pianist’s fingers were stroking my labia. Her mouth covered mine and we were dancing as the band played a number we loved. The crowd effectively concealed our lovemaking and the fact my skirt buttoned from waist to knee meant one button popped and she was in. She loved that. I didn’t think it was too shabby either although it had taken me a while to get over the ‘almost-exhibitionist’ thing that Val loved. Her fingers were slowly bringing me off which is what she wanted; she loved me to cum when we danced and then, when we got home, it was my turn to get her off. She simply loved having to wait for her orgasm. She held me as it washed over me and I groaned and sighed an orgasm into her ear.

“Fuck,” she said. “That’s so, so hot. If I were wearing any knickers, they’d be sodden. Bet you can't wait to get your tongue down there, can you?”

Val was really talented. She played violin and piano and seemed to be in work most of the time doing session work and quite often theatre pit orchestra stuff. She was also hot and my girlfriend. Thanks to her I got to see loads of shows and gigs and meet up with her friends and colleagues. They were a bohemian crowd and for someone from a very reserved background, they were intoxicating company. Her work often took her away, sometimes for weeks if it was a tour but I was able to get to her sometimes. Her groupie, she called me. They tended to stay in cheap guest houses and often to share rooms and I never asked what went on because, well, Val didn’t like questions.

“Trust me or leave me. Up to you.”

I caught the train from Bristol to Manchester late one afternoon. I’d finished work (librarian – I know, boring but it was a stepping-stone to being an archivist which Val thought would be like a slow death but it was my thing) and got a cab to the pub where she’d told me to meet her. They’d had a matinee performance that Saturday and were between shows. They were doing Chicago which is one of my favourites and Val loved it too so I hoped she’d be in a good mood. She was. They all were and it always surprised me how musicians, especially brass sections seemed to be able to get as drunk as you like and still perform.

As I arrived at the pub, rucksack on my arm, I saw Val’s back at the bar. She was talking to a very tall blonde (Val’s hair was, for a while anyway, blue) and the blonde looked up at me and tapped Val’s shoulder. Turning, smiling warmly, she broke away from her colleague to greet me with a big hug, a kiss and a stroke of my face.

“Rhonda, this is my bird, Cass. Cass, meet Rhonda, room-mate and trombonist.” We did the hi, nice to meet you stuff and I joined the conversation as much as I could. Rhonda was aloof and I got the impression she was not best pleased that I’d turned up but what did I know? She was rather too good looking for my comfort and her body was basically long legs, fabulous tits and a face that could launch a spaceship without fuel. Okay, I confess she was hot but to know she was my woman’s room-mate was not comforting to a lonely librarian. Why couldn’t Val have pretended she was sharing with the drummer who looked like a lumpy mattress with acne?

We went to the theatre and I had a great seat and could actually see my woman which wasn’t always easy. She was keyboard for this gig. I could also see and hear the trombonist and I wasn’t entirely pleased about that. Do I sound insecure? Too fucking true.

More drinks after the show and then to a night club near Canal Street where some wag had removed the C from the street sign in a quiet acknowledgement of the area’s gay concentration and into the club where we danced and, as I described earlier, I orgasmed quietly into her ear.

“Can we go back to your digs now?”

“One more beer first.” Right, whatever.

Rhonda was sitting at our table, leaning back superciliously in her chair, those fucking amazing legs crossed and a sort of constant sneer on her face.

“Rhonda’s a brilliant musician.”

“You all are.”

Val kissed my ear. “Of course we are, but she can play almost any brass instrument, can't you?” Why did I feel like she was sort of proud of Rhonda?

She, Rhonda, leaned forward and said as quietly as the circumstances allowed and, it seemed to me, directly AT me, “The only thing I don’t blow,” dramatic pause, “is men.” Then she leant back with a satisfied look on her face and she fucking knew I hated her and I knew she hated me. Which probably meant she was fucking Val when I wasn’t around. Thank God, she’d agreed to change rooms for the night.

“Trust me or leave me. Up to you.”

We got back to the grizzly guest house about 3 in the morning. I was exhausted and both of us were drunk. I just wanted to sleep but needless to say, Val wasn’t having that so it was a quick strip for Val as she pulled off her black jeans and sat on the edge of the bed while I knelt between her feet and buried my face in her cunt and tongued her. She had that all-day taste and her hands were in my hair as her excitement, that had been boiling all evening, welled up and she held it back as long as she could, enjoying the anticipation and the sheer power of it until she came, messy and loud. We went straight to sleep, too tired now to shower and anyway she loved being dirty in bed – in more ways than one.

In the morning we made love. The night before had been a release for her, a fast release just as Val needs but this was making love and I felt my insecurities evaporate as we stroked and kissed and ground our bodies together. We showered together in the small cubicle in the room’s corner and that was fun because it was barely big enough for one, never mind two and I may have cum when she washed me. No, I did cum and she did too which was nice. Our day was spent in bed. With Val working evenings and clubbing until the small hours her days were her sleep time. Not that there was a lot of sleeping.

I trained back to the South West and resumed my life as a librarian. Every moment that I wasn’t busy I was seeing Val and Rhonda sharing that room. I saw Val watching Rhonda undress. I saw her, them both.

“Trust me or leave me. Up to you.”

Have you ever had an earworm? When a song or a phrase won’t let you go? That was mine. “Up to you.”

It was the message from a phone I didn’t recognise that did it. A selfie of a woman who couldn’t have been anyone but Rhonda despite her face being side on. The angle of the picture suggested it had been taken using one of those phone pole things. Her tits were in glorious profile and, even to my eye and despite my loathing the cow there was no denying how bloody marvellous they were. There was also no denying the blue hair on the head between her thighs. I cried. By that I mean I cried a cataract of tears and it would stop and then restart until I simply had no tears left. Then I’d sleep and then cry some more. I should have deleted the picture but I kept looking at it, tormenting myself and crying again.

So, I left her. There was nothing else I could do. I packed up my stuff and went back to live in my own home.

Now, here’s a thing. When I am in a relationship, I’m faithful. My life has been a succession of cycles. The faithful-commitment cycle, the post commitment promiscuous cycle and the post promiscuity celibate cycle where I get fed up with feeling disgusted with myself and vow never to have sex again. I embarked on the promiscuous cycle about a week after I’d left Val. It was glorious liberation, like going on a drinking spree after being denied for a long time. I went to bars, clubs, anywhere where gay women hang out in my city or a nearby, bigger city. I had quite a few one-night stands. One stands out.

She was Asian, a little heavy for her height which was only an inch or so taller than I but she was deliciously butch (I have phases where butch really does it for me). Her hair was short and black. She wore a pair of well-cut trousers and a white silk shirt with black oxfords on her feet. I was in pale blue, a short dress with sheer sleeves and a sheer v-shaped panel in the bodice. I had tied my hair back and my legs were bare. I noticed her as soon as I walked in. She was with a group of three other butch girls, they being more what I think of as ‘rough-butch.’ She had class. I caught her looking at me a few times and pretended on the first occasion that I hadn’t but on the second I gave a small smile before turning back to the bar and ordering myself a gin and tonic. She came over and did a bit of space-invading in pretence at getting to the bar so I shuffled aside, smiling at her and let her through. She turned so she was facing me.

“Thanks. Have I seen you here before?”

“No, I doubt it.” She offered her hand and I took it and in that instant, we both knew what was going to happen. This was the moment I craved and would later despise myself for. I told her my name.

“I’m Sue.” She pressed herself closer to me. A little surprised I looked down where her pelvis was touching my thigh. Her voice was a serpent’s seductive whisper in my ear. “Yes, I am. You like that?” Her strapon wasn’t obvious under the beautifully cut trousers but our proximity had made it more apparent.

“Come with me – I’m going to the loo.”

‘Please.” I stood my ground. “Please, not the toilet.”

She smiled and took my hand. With a nod to the doormen, she led me out of the club, down a side alley, then into another. She kissed me hard, very hard and ran her hand over my tits.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” I didn’t say anything. She knew, she’d been there probably more often than I. She kissed me again and then said, “Get it out for me.” I fumbled with her fly and felt the dildo tight under her pants. I worked it out and knew from the way she made a little groan that she had at least some of it on her clit, inside herself, or both. Truth to tell I don’t think either of us was thinking about the other’s needs. Take and take.

She turned me, placed my hands up on the wall, pulled my hips back and lifted my dress. She pulled my knickers down to my knees and then she was in me, her mouth at my ear. “So ready. You’re a real little slut, aren’t you? All femme and proper until someone like me flips your switch.” Thrusting ever harder by this time she continued her monologue. She gathered pace, her pelvis slamming into me, her finger on my clit, her voice constantly in my ear until I heard her release, just a groan and she was still, deep inside me. She paused. “You don’t look so fucking prim now, bitch.” The dildo was pulled out. “Next time I’ll do your arse. Stay here for two minutes and don’t you dare pull your dress down.”

About four months later, well into the celibacy cycle, I was in a wine bar with friends, including a married couple, Sonia and Serena, known in our circle as the SS. We were celebrating Sonia’s birthday and the previous year we’d done the same except on that occasion I’d been hanging off Val’s arm. We’d got to the stage where I was thinking of going home when a group of women came in, some carrying musical instruments and there, with the unmistakable trombone case, was Rhonda. I gasped. Sonia asked what was wrong?

“It’s her. She’s the girl who sent me the picture.”
“What picture?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I was a bit drunk and I picked up an empty bottle by the next.

I started to move but Serena grabbed my arm. “She’s the one, right? The one who Val went over the side with?” I said it was and I was going to shove the bottle in her face. Serena’s grip tightened. “No! no, you’re not. You’re not going to prison because of that tramp. Get a grip.”

By this time Sonia had grabbed my other arm and taken the bottle. “Don’t you dare ruin my birthday,” she said and somehow that made me laugh and laugh until the tears came and Sonia held me. “Well, that’s cheered us all up. Let’s get out of here before we all start enjoying ourselves again.” But it was too late. Rhonda was walking towards us and she looked intent on confrontation. The SS and others formed a guard around me.

“You’re Cass?” I nodded mutely. “How’s Val? I haven’t seen her for ages.” That fucking did it and I tried to get at her but the girls restrained me. “Whoa!” Rhonda lifted her hands, palms forward in the gesture of keep back, I mean no harm. “What the fuck?”

“You sent me that picture!” She looked astonished, confused. I fumbled in my bag, found my phone and opened the offending picture. “This picture. How could you?”

Rhonda became very calm. Her demeanour somehow calmed me. “I didn’t send you that picture.”

“Well, who the fuck did then?” There was a shout from the bar asking us to ‘keep it down, ladies,’ that was obviously directed at me.

“Check the number of the phone that sent it. It won’t be mine. That’s a certainty.” She got her phone out. I checked and she was right. “We had a fling, I won’t deny it. But I didn’t send you that so the only person who could have was Val.”

I hissed, “You bitch.”

“It takes two, Cass. Tell me you never fucked a woman who was in a relationship. Well?”

To be fair she had hit me well below the belt. Why is the truth so fucking unkind? I couldn’t speak so instead I grabbed my bag and left. I went home and got even more drunk.

The following morning I got a text. Cass. I know you are hurt and angry but I promise you I didn’t send you that picture. I may be a cow but I wouldn’t do something like that. If Val sent it to you, perhaps you need to ask yourself why. As far as I was concerned, sex with her was a good way to pass the time, not a relationship. I don’t suppose that helps at all. Rhonda.

It didn’t help at all, she was right. But what it did do was make me go straight from the celibacy to the promiscuous cycle without the customary intervening faithful period. ‘Go directly to Jail, do not pass Go, do not collect £200.’

Six weeks later and I’d been good for the last two. No late nights, no casual sex, no hard drinking, just concentrate on work, sleep well and eat well. My skin looked better, less sallow. My eyes were bright again. Even my self-esteem was better. Time to find the elusive relationship.

The club was noisy. There were the unmistakable smells of bodies and some of them were good. There she was, Sue, the Asian butch. She completely ignored me as if she’d never met me, never taken me down that alley and fucked me like a whore. That was so, so good for my ego even though I wasn’t looking for the humiliating fuck in a litter-strewn alley. Maybe she had recognised that in me. I wandered through the mass of bodies carrying my drink and eying up the women. A hand suddenly arrested my arm and I turned, surprised and a little alarmed.

“What the……” Rhonda, large as life and twice as beautiful.

“You didn’t answer my message.” Her face was close to my ear, her hair touching my skin, her hand firm on my arm until it slid down and held my hand. “Let’s go somewhere a bit quieter.” I was too stunned to resist as she led me by the hand to the quiet area’s bar. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m sorry about Val but I promise you I didn’t send you that picture. If I’d wanted to steal her from you, I’d have told you to your face in Manchester. I know how it must have hurt you to see that pic, but that is not my style. So, before you try to maim me again, believe me.”

“I believe you. I believed you when you told me. I knew it must have been Val.” I was talking to myself more than to her. Then I looked up into her eyes. “I’m sorry I was so aggressive.”

Rhonda pushed my hair back behind my ear. Now, I don’t know about you but when a woman does that to me I tend to go a bit sticky in the knickers. Call me a slut but I am absolutely the opposite of immune (whatever that may be) to what I call the possessive gesture. Vulnerable? Anyway, I tried to pull myself together.

She smiled. “I forgive you. Forgive me?” There was something in her face, her eyes, the tilt of her head that made it seem genuine.

“Why were you so vile to me in Manchester?”

“Because,” she sort of sighed like she was explaining to a kid, “I wanted Val. Have you never been jealous? We’d been fucking all the time we were there and I didn’t even know she had a girl until the day before you turned up. When she asked me to let you have the room together I was totally pissed off.”

“I forgive you.”

Her face came still closer to mine and for a moment I thought we were going to kiss. I was wrong. She didn’t kiss me, she assaulted my face with her mouth. She ravished me. Her tongue pushed past my teeth, searched every corner of my mouth and, as that happened, so her hands stroked my arms. It stopped as quickly as it started.

“Right,” she said. “We seem to have forgiven each other. So, tell me, what brought you here tonight? Are you with someone?”

“No, I came alone.”

“Looking to get fucked?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t imagine I am quite what you were looking for am I?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, our history and so on.”

I ordered two more drinks. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Why does a woman normally kiss a woman that way?”

So, we sat and drank and talked. I was beginning to like her, despite myself. She was obviously beautiful but she was also funny, direct and interesting. But, and it was a big but, I didn’t want to look like I was having a revenge fuck for Val so, after a while, I left. We said we’d call each other but I knew we wouldn’t. I regretted my decision to leave as soon as the cool air hit me but I can be a stubborn bitch and so I went home and, in the bath and in my bed, imagined those musical lips playing me.