I don't and never have thought of myself as gay or bisexual. Inwardly I recoil from the very word lesbian, with its albeit outdated connotations of manly clothes and bad haircuts. Nevertheless, I do have to admit that not only do I have a story to tell of an encounter with another woman, but if I’m honest I have to admit that even now, nearly a year later, it is still my sexiest memory and my favourite fantasy all rolled into one.
Samantha had been a friend for two or three years. Not my very best or closest mate, nor an old school or family friend. We had friends and colleagues in common and had met a few times in groups and we generally hit it off. The truth, and I can say this to myself but not really aloud to anyone else, was that we tended to be the two most attractive in the group, the two getting the most attention, both welcome and unwelcome. This gave us a sort of kinship. We could relate, and being really honest, it was also the fact for each of us knew, even if never spoken out loud, that together we made a really sexy pair. That slight stir we caused wherever we went increased fourfold, or tenfold, over that which either of us managed on our own.
Samantha is tall and slim and quite athletic, with just enough curves where they matter to keep the boys very happy indeed. Her invariably immaculate fair hair never goes past her collar but falls just long enough to stay on the feminine side of the line. “Less is more” she says of herself. The fact is, of course, that with that face she could shave her head and tie a potato sack around her and still turn heads. I’m 5'5" and more on the voluptuous side, with longish chestnut hair. I don’t run to fat but I must admit to waging a bit more of a battle with food and the gym just to keep the tummy flat and the bum firm than Samantha will ever need to.
Anyway, when I won a three day trip to Paris from an office party raffle I decided that Samantha was the person who would be most fun to go with. My normal mates are all good for a laugh and a drink and we would have had a great time but it was an unexpected treat and I was attracted by the thought of something different, less familiar, and a more adult time. I thought Samantha was the person to share bit of glamour. The trip included first class EuroStar tickets and a twin room in a five star hotel off the Champs Elysee. I fancied a bit of grace, class and sophistication and some shopping in stylish Parisienne shops. I wanted someone who could carry the fantasy that we were millionaires for a few days.
The weekend started very well. Samantha stayed at my flat the night before we went so that we could have an early start. It was funny, because although we were going off on this holiday together, this was the first time Samantha had ever stayed over at my flat or even been there without other people. I have only one bedroom so she slept on my sofa. We wanted to set off at 6 am and so we went to bed fairly early. Samantha changed in the bathroom into a longish cotton nightshirt and came walking back to the sofa carrying her clothes which she set on the chair beside her. I observed myself, as if from a distance, noticing the straps of her white bra and a little bit of white lace emerging from under her folded t-shirt. Almost instinctively my eyes followed her to where she was settling into the sofa and pulling the quilt over her, and to where the nightshirt rose high up her smooth white thigh.
Listen to me. I sound like a guy! Fascinated by a glimpse of a bit of lace. I have drawers full. But I will admit that as I settled into bed that night I allowed a fleeting fantasy about spending three days and three nights, in a shared room, with those legs; and that underwear.
Now here is a moment to mention my position on lingerie. I have always liked nice underwear, from my early teens looking at glossy magazines. I had suspender belts and lacy briefs and G-strings long before there was any real possibility of anyone other than my mother seeing them.