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Hello there, I’m Sammy Jo, named after a character in my mother’s all-time favourite TV show, Dynasty. I would like to say I look like the actress who played the part but, apart from having long blonde hair, I sadly do not.

Not that I’m complaining about my appearance. I’m just saying I’m not a star on the soaps, that’s all.

My story is only a short one and is set a few years ago, back when I was twenty-eight and my life wasn’t so complicated. Although, now I come to think about it, that summer was when things took a turn for the worse in a lot of ways. This isn’t a tale of woe, however; far from it.

It was August but the weather gods thought it was still maybe April. It was also the height of the global financial crisis and I had just had the week from Hell. I was in banking, you see, and it had suddenly become apparent my employers were about to go tits-up.

You may wonder why my employers’ failure bothered me. Well, I had invested the first six years of my career with them and promotions were starting to happen for me. And more to the point, I had recently bought my first house, aided and abetted by a subsidized mortgage. The way I saw it I was soon going to be out of a job and my interest rate was about to go through the roof.

So fuck it, I decided. It was Friday night. I was going to go out and get drunk and laid.

Now I’m lucky in that I live in a small town with lots of bars and pubs. It’s the sort of place that is relatively sedate by day but booming on an evening, particularly at weekends. Better still, it’s the sort of place where a girl can go out on her own unafraid and unmolested (unless she wants to be molested, that is!).

Maybe I’ve got a false sense of security but I’ve lived in Bingley all my life. I can’t go in any of the drinking dens without seeing half a dozen familiar faces. And back then, before “settling down” and “kids” interfered with all my friends’ lives, I’d nearly always bump into one gaggle of girls or another.

So off I went, dressed as if I was bound for an evening at a beach bar in Majorca, not out for an evening in a nippy twelve degrees.

Just so you know: I am a dyed-in-the-wool bisexual. My first lover was female and during my (sexually hectic!) three years at uni most of my partners came without cocks attached, rather than with. But I had become more even-handed of late. On the night in question I set out expecting to find me a guy.

(Please note: there aren’t any gay bars as such in Bingley; a girl has to work at it to find herself a female one-nighter. It’s considerably easier for a girl to find herself a male one-nighter. In fact it’s almost impossible not to find one.)

The first couple of hours passed uneventfully. I began at the bottom of town and was soon caught up in a gaggle that held together for three or four pubs before breaking up. Then, alone again in the Suburban Bar, I saw her.

She was also alone, standing perhaps five yards away, leaning on a pillar and people-watching.

No, not people-watching . . . she was woman-watching!

All my guy expectations flew out of the window. I had to have her! Failing that, she had to have me!! The urge was absolutely enormous. Normally I like to do most of the doing but for her I’d make an exception. For her I’d dress as a clown and let her shaft me with a rolling pin!!

She was about my age and even taller than me (I’m five ten in my heels), with a mane of black hair that fell halfway down her back. Her face was the most beautiful I’d ever seen and her body made “to die for” seem like a feeble understatement.

Yes, we had to happen, and soon.

As I studied her she finished her drink. I waited until she’d woven her way through the throng and arrived at her side a nanosecond after she’d got the barman’s attention.

‘Make that two,’ I said to him, ‘I’m paying.’

The black-haired beauty was even lovelier close up. She was very deeply tanned and had simply astonishing green eyes.

‘Why thank you,’ she said, smiling. ‘Er, are you from WYB?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ I said, ‘I’m at B&B. At least I am for the time being.’

She pulled a face at that. Obviously the bad news had travelled fast. ‘Put your money away,’ she said kindly, ‘I’ll get these.’

Ignoring her, I made sure the barman took my tenner before she could get her wallet out. Then I frowned as I realized I’d just ordered and paid for two pints of Saltaire Blonde.

‘Okay then,’ she shrugged, still smiling her dazzling smile, ‘I’ll get the next two.’

‘Do you always drink beer?’ I wondered.

‘I do when I’m out. Shiraz goes down much too quickly.’ So saying, she drained about a third of her beer. ‘That hit the spot.’ Then, pointing at my right arm, ‘I like your tat.’

I grinned at her. I have a few tattoos but the one she was looking at was the classic; the one that has two multi-coloured, interlocked circles with crosses.

‘I got it as my nineteenth birthday present to me,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘My friend from uni gets herself a new piercing every eryaman escort year, usually in a very intimate place. She’ll be up to twenty-seven by now, so I’ve a couple to catch up with.’

To my amazement she was signalling for more drinks . . . already.

‘Make mine a Shiraz,’ I said hastily.

She ordered two super-sized glasses then grinned at me. ‘Did I tell you I get dangerous when I drink too much wine?’


‘Yes, I do rash and impulsive things, especially to girls with that tattoo.’

Within the hour we were in a taxi to mine.


I think the cabbie enjoyed having us as passengers. That is to say I think he enjoyed watching us kiss and caress in his rearview. Then we were in my house and I was tugging her upstairs by the hand. She came willingly enough but stopped me short of my bedroom door.

‘Here,’ she said huskily, ‘I want you here and now.’

I let her push me against the wall and stared into her eyes.

‘Put your arms in the air,’ she commanded.

I obeyed, feeling like a hostage in a bank raid. She immediately took both of my hands in her right hand and eased her left into my short, summertime skirt.

‘You have wonderful eyes,’ she said, bringing her face a little shy of kissing-close, ‘I want to see the look in them when you cum.’

That was A-Okay with me and just as well; her fingers were already inside my panties. Less than two seconds later they were inside me.

I sighed and kept staring into her eyes, my baby blues fixed on her lusty emerald. Meanwhile her left hand had adjusted position. If my judgment was anything to go by, her thumb was on my clit, her first two fingers were in me and the other two were stroking anything they could reach.

‘Let’s see if I still have the magic touch,’ she chuckled.

Then she gently squeezed and I immediately climaxed.

The sensations she caused in me! One little squeeze seemed to affect everywhere. My clit rolled under the ball of her thumb; the most receptive part inside me was compressed by her two intruding fingers . . . Well, it would have been rude not to cum.

‘More,’ she said.

It wasn’t a question. That time I lasted perhaps thirty seconds and still she wasn’t done.


‘Oh my God, yes!’ I gasped.


‘Oh my God, yes!!’

I couldn’t believe it. I’d had four orgasms in less than three minutes. Trust me; I had never guessed I was capable of such a feat.

She switched on the light when we finally entered the bedroom.

‘It’s not dark yet,’ I protested.

‘It will be before we’re done, and we need to see.’

She then ripped the clothes off me . . . and I mean ripped. When I checked next day most of the buttons were missing from my blouse.

‘On the bed,’ she instructed.

I parked my ass and watched as she stripped for me. And compared to her making me naked, it was a slow, tantalizing striptease. At least it would have been if she’d had much to take off.

First went her tight white T-shirt. And wow, what amazing tits! She was bra-less and perfectly in proportion yet naturally in control. And, while her areolae were regular-sized her nipples were not only hard but huge.

Then I noticed the rest of her upper body. She was very, very well-developed without losing any of her femininity. I came for a fifth time simply looking at her six-pack. I’d never been with a guy who had abs like that, never mind a girl.

And yes, I was excited. In fact I was getting more excited by the second. The thrill of being taken against the wall was nothing in comparison.

Her skirt went next, then her shoes and, last but not least, her thong. I sighed at the sight of her. Her tan was every-last-inch with not one white bit at all. Her legs were as well-developed as her arms and just as shapely.

She was getting something out of tonight too. I could see that from the glistening on the insides of her thighs.

‘You look as up for it as I am,’ I observed breathlessly.

‘I am,’ she admitted with a smile. Then it was time for her to issue more orders. ‘Get on your back. Grip the railings. Now relax and enjoy.’

I obeyed. Or rather, I got on my back and gripped the upright bits of the headboard. I didn’t even try to relax; my heart was pounding, adrenalin flooded my veins . . . no, there was no chance of me relaxing.

She got on the edge of the bed on her knees and, taking hold of me by the ass, lifted me up to her face. I was, by that stage of proceedings, rather wet down there. To be honest, I had trickles running in all directions. She lapped them up hungrily but that only excited me more.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I moaned. ‘Oh my God, yes, yes, yes.’

She lapped at me faster. My pussy responded by leaking faster. And wasn’t that the best vicious circle ever! In a way I’m surprised we’re not still at it even now.

Eventually I realized my tits were feeling neglected. She must have read my mind (or some other part sincan escort of me!) because she said no before I could let go of an upright.

‘Keep hold,’ she instructed, ‘this is my show.’

I kept firm hold, my lower body still up off the bed, watching as she hooked my legs one at a time over her shoulders. Satisfied with the balance, she reached out and used her freed hands to rub, squeeze and stroke while her tongue got busy again.

Those sensations were even better than the ones out in the corridor. As well as mauling my tits she was inside me, dabbing at my most receptive part; her nose was on my clit, rubbing, rocking and rolling.

Like I just said, sometimes I’m surprised we’re not still at it.


After I’d been thoroughly eaten out she decided it was time to trib. And guess what, she knew five or six hundred different ways to do it. Now I don’t particularly like scissoring but as I mentioned earlier, I was up for absolutely anything with this black-haired beauty. Scissoring with her was not a chore. And, to be fair, out-and-out scissoring was only a small part of her repertoire. Most of her positions were face-to-face (with her on top) and not at all uncomfortable. I even got to contribute in some . . . although not very much.

Her tribbing finale had her sort of sitting on me, using the mouth of her vagina to stimulate all of my sex. And I mean ALL of it. She did that for a long, long time and made me cum like a chain of volcanoes. The last one (Krakatoa-sized at least) almost did for me.

‘Enough,’ I cried.

‘Enough,’ she echoed. ‘There’s no such thing. And you haven’t shagged me yet.’

‘I need a break.’

‘Okay. Where do you keep your toys?’

Nowadays, as a single-again-woman, I have quite a selection of “sex aids” and don’t mind talking about them with friends. In August 2008 I only had three and was much coyer. But I made the big mistake of thinking she wanted to use something on herself while I rested.

‘Second drawer down,’ I said, pointing with a limp finger (yes, she’d drained me as badly as that!).

‘Hmmm, what’ve we got? One prehistoric Rabbit; one conventional dildo and . . . Oh, I like the look of this!’

She’d picked my least-used toy. It was a nine-inch steel “fun wand” I’d impulse-bought at an Ann Summers party. Between you and me, it was curved with a big bulb on one end and smaller ones on the other . . . and it scared me. I only actually bought it to impress my friends with my bravado.

Then the black-haired sex maniac was back on the bed, easing my legs apart.

‘Oh no,’ I groaned.

‘Oh yes,’ she countered. ‘Laugh if you don’t want me to stop.’

I couldn’t help laughing weakly. ‘Oh go on then. God help me.’

She started with the largest bulb, pushing it perhaps an inch inside me then rotating it. And then, when I let out yet another sigh, she pulled it almost all the way out before easing it slowly back in. She seemed to keep doing that forever: slowly in and (a little quicker) back out, never penetrating more than an inch.

I’m not kidding; the first inch of my vagina has always been super-sensitive. I quickly became a fan of that large bulb and a devout worshipper of the way it was moving. As I might have already

implied, I’d lost count of the night’s orgasms. Whatever number it was, double it and add fifty. That’s how far she took me with the large bulb.

And then she reversed the toy and did it with the other end, penetrating a little deeper this time, immediately finding my G-spot (the one some scientists don’t believe I have!!) and stimulating it, using the curve in plenty of interesting ways.

(Double everything again and add a hundred!!)

Still full of ideas, she began to use the whole length of the wand. Somehow she knew the best way to make the five smaller bulbs rub against all the best bits of me, one after the other; again and again and again.

At that point I really had had enough. The physical and emotional overload was too much. After screaming and yelling and upsetting next door’s dog, I flaked out.


When I woke up she was gone. I experienced a moment of confusion. Was it a dream? That was followed by a moment of panic. Had I fallen for the oldest trick in the book and been robbed?

I was lying on top of the duvet. Even though the cover was a fetching pink I could immediately see last night hadn’t been a dream, not even a wet one. That cover was very badly stained and might even be beyond repair.

My skirt was on the carpet, near my now button-less blouse. So was my bag. I held my breath as I opened it. All as it should be. Thank you God!

A glance at my alarm clock showed it was 10:17. The sun was shining (for once) and my visitor must have turned the light out as she went.

And by the way, who was she anyway? Had I forgotten or had introductions really been so lightly skimmed over?

I hurried downstairs to find everything as it should be. The only thing I could etlik escort see out of place was an envelope on the kitchen table. It looked like more good news from Barclaycard (not!) but there was neat handwriting on the back of it.

“So you’re Sammy Jo, are you? Sexy name or what! I almost wish I’d asked what it was before I shagged you.”

Right, I thought, no introductions after all.

I chuckled before reading on.

“You are one orgasmic babe, Sammy Jo, almost as orgasmic as me. It was an honour and great pleasure to have you. Last night was nice. If I ever bump into you again you’re on a promise. And next time it’s your turn. L Hev.”

And that was it. No phone number or contact details; nothing.

It was difficult to know whether to be happy or sad.


Please jump forward with me to 2016. I’m thirty-six now and my employers did go tits-up. It wasn’t so catastrophic for me, however. I was in Lending and, while all the bank’s profitable bits got hived off PDQ, most of the people in my area were retained. We’re running down the mortgage book, you see, and some of those loans still have twenty years to go.

What else has happened? I lost my subsidized mortgage but interest rates haven’t gone up (not yet, anyway), so I’m seven years nearer owning my own home. And I was briefly married to a guy called Charles. Thankfully, that brief association was childless.

Oh yes, and thanks to Charles I’m almost a hundred per cent lezzie. There hasn’t been a single man since him and (although I’ll never say never) I’ve no immediate intention of ever having one again.

The bastard tried to take half of everything. Can you believe it? Fortunately my dad’s a barrister and he saw him off with a flea in his ear. But fifteen months and he expected half my house! What a twat.

In case you’re wondering, I didn’t catch up with Hev again, even though I often went out and about looking for her. Yes, I’d decided I wanted more. Excuse my French but she’d given me the best fucking ever. Okay, so it took me a month to recover but, as time passed, that didn’t seem to matter. Only I couldn’t find her.

Then, a fortnight ago, I started my new job at WYB.


For many years the West Yorkshire Bank was small potatoes compared to neighbouring Bradford and Bingley (they were two bank head offices standing virtually side-by-side in the same small town, like a whale and a minnow). But since the Credit Crunch the status quo has changed and ex-B&B colleagues have been jumping ship to WYB one at a time.

This lunchtime, two weeks into my (hopefully) revived career, I went to the canteen with a couple of young women from my new team. And who was there before me in the queue!

No prizes for guessing. It was her: Hev. Power-dressed and looking better than ever, she picked up her tray and headed towards the checkout.

Then she stopped and turned to look at me. ‘Sammy Jo,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘I’m the new girl,’ I said, blushing. ‘This is my second week.’

‘Welcome on board,’ she smiled. ‘I hope all goes well.’

It’s fair to say my dining companions were agog when we got to our table.

‘How do you know Heather Hunter?’ they wanted to know.

I fibbed and said through mutual acquaintances from uni, before asking what she did.

‘She’s a main board director,’ one of them told me. ‘And she’s well on her way to the very top.’

‘She’s nice, though,’ the other added, perhaps thinking I’d report her if she said anything less.

My landline rang at one minute past one, sixty seconds after the end of my lunch hour. It was her.

‘I’m assuming you’re open-plan and not in a position to talk freely,’ she began, ‘so just listen and say yes or no as appropriate. Okay?’

‘Yes,’ I said obediently, guessing she was calling from somewhere private, probably her executive suite.

‘You were dead to the world when I left,’ she said. ‘And I had to be in the office for eight.’

‘On a Saturday,’ I said, forgetting the rules already.

‘Yes or no, Sammy Jo,’ she chuckled. ‘Yes, I had to be in on a Saturday. We bankers were busy saving the world back then, remember? I had a lot of balls in the air. And my personal life was, to say the least, problematic. That’s why I didn’t track you down the very next Friday.’

‘Oh,’ I said, still oblivious to the rules.

‘I’ve got things back on an even keel now,’ she went on. ‘And our paths seem to have at last crossed again, don’t they?’

‘Yes,’ said I.

‘Are you glad they’ve crossed?’


‘And are you going to be in the Suburban at nine o’clock tonight?’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Good. Bring that intriguing steel wand with you and I’ll see you at nine. And remember, it’s your turn.’


So there you have it. I haven’t a clue if she’s in a relationship and she never asked about me. And yes, I am a little uneasy about the way she goes at sex. But I’m not uneasy enough to chicken. In fact I can hardly wait.

It’s my turn to go first . . . with the fun wand. And there is every chance of her taking a turn later. No way am I chickening away from that! Who cares if she’s kept me waiting for years! Not me.

As I write these last lines it’s approaching eight o’clock. I’m setting off as soon as they are done. Can’t be late for a main board director, can I?

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