Sticky Fingers


“This feel good Trix?” she whispered in my ear.

“Fuck yeah, don’t stop.”

“Is it the best ever?” she asked as she licked my cheek, her nail dragging over my clit as she did so.


She lingered over my clit once more with her fingernail and carried on, down, between the wet folds of my cunt lips, and pushed her finger inside me. She scratched over my inner flesh, back and forth, inching further into me. I suddenly gasped, my eyes widening in shock. She groaned her approval into my neck as my body tensed, I struggled for breath. She was right on the button, scraping her nail gently over my G-spot, licking my neck. I tried not to move, not wanting her to be shifted, not wanting her long, bony finger to miss a stroke. My heart felt like it would explode. I could sense her hand between my legs, covering my cunt as her middle finger mechanically worked inside me. I could sense it there, between my legs, but I could no longer feel. My legs were numb, tensed against the foot of the bed but bereft of sensation, my nails digging into her back without me even realising. Then a rush, a spark, an explosion deep within me. And I was cumming all over her.


Sandra moved in three months ago. Helen and I had not had much luck in filling the room and were starting to get desperate. Another week and we would have been liable for the full rent of it, which there was no way we could afford. So Sandra was introduced to us by a friend of a friend. She seemed OK. A little too sassy maybe, but we got on with her and she seemed happy enough with our basic house rules.

So in she came, into our boring little world: our 9-till-5, TV drama in the evenings, boyfriends at weekends, pasta-and-wine existence that we were sleepwalking through in our cosy apartment in north London.

She wanted a party to mark her arrival, which was fine. It quickly became apparent that she knew some characters. More pertinently, it also quickly became apparent that she liked girls rather more than she liked boys. Greg thought this was great news. His lasciviousness was obvious, however, and she delighted in throwing it back in his face. She didn’t have much time for Greg, and if I ever said he was coming round she always had a sarcastic quip to throw my way.

But she liked me, that was for sure. To the point where, when Helen was not in the apartment, she could get quite suggestive. At first, it was easy for her to make me blush – and she seemed to enjoy it. I wasn’t shocked per se, but I’d never knowingly been around a lesbian or bisexual woman, let alone had one telling me I had perfect breasts, or asking what noise I make when I cum. I was on unfamiliar ground. Allied to that, I was unsure of whether she was just gently teasing me or genuinely coming on to me. Either way, it was nice to be flattered. I liked being around her and I looked forward to our time together.


I was running late. Work were throwing a dinner for a group of clients who were over from the States and, desperate to make a good impression, they’d decided the best five-star hotel in London would be the way to go. I had my Little Black Dress on – it was really the only thing I had that would do for a function like this – my heels, my hair was done, my make-up… I was dithering over jewellery. Sandra heard one of my cries of exasperation. A knock on my door.

“Yeah?” She poked her head round the door.

“Wow! Where’s the party?”

“Urgh… it’s a work thing. I could do without it really.”

“Well…. You look great.” She gave me her standard wink, and pushed further into the room. She was wearing her flannel shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I dunno what to wear for earrings, necklace and what have you… What do you think?” I held up two of the chains I had been deliberating over.

She looked at them both for a moment, then at me. “Be right back.”

When she returned she was holding a clunky-looking slightly gothic-looking necklace. It was very Sandra. “Here, try this,” she said, turning me to face my mirror and fastening it on behind my neck as I lifted my hair. “What do you think?”

I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t very me at all. It was very, very her. It was all silver and dark stones. It spoke of mystery and dark arts and secrets.

“Look, with that dress, and some simple stud earrings you’ll look knock-out,” she said, turning me round. “This will draw subtle attention to your cleavage, won’t it?” She looked down at me. “Is that the best bra you have?”

I nodded meekly. She cupped her hands around my breasts and my mouth opened, ready to gasp but too embarrassed to actually carry it through. She gently gripped me through the material of the dress and the lace of my bra.

“What size are you? B? 34B?”

I was still agape, blushing under my freshly-applied make-up, unsure of what to say, wanting to think of something cool to say, confused as to whether I even wanted her to let go.

“Are you going to tell me or am I going to have to squeeze them all night küçükçekmece escort till I get it right?” she grinned.

I laughed, the sexual tension evaporating. “Um, yeah. 34B.”

“Same as me. Perfect.” She danced off and returned with a satin bra, heavily underwired by the look of it. “Need any help getting it on?”

“I think I can manage.”

“Suit yourself Prudey.” She had taken to calling me that whenever I decided to draw line.

As I slipped back out of my dress and changed the bra, I could hear her pouring a glass of wine and walking back down the hall to position herself outside my door. She made a bit of small talk, asking what the point of the dinner was, who was going. When I had finally re-dressed, I had to admit the bra made a heck of a difference. I still wasn’t sure about the necklace, but it was striking and went with the dress well enough. I decided to go with it. I put on my heels and went out to show Sandra.


“Yeah you look great. Aren’t you putting on some stockings, babe?”

“Ummm, well I… I don’t think…”

“You do own some stockings Trix don’t you? Do I need to fish some out for you?”

“Yeah, I just don’t think… Look it’s work, it’s a short dress, I’m not going to be comfortable if I’m flashing stockings at my boss. It’s a step too far for tonight.”


“Yeah whatever.”

“Nice G-string by the way.”

“Huh? How did you…?”

“Watched you change through the crack in the door you fool.” And off she trotted to the lounge with her wine, leaving me as usual floundering in her wake, wondering what to say, how to stand, where to put myself, where to look.


“Nooooooooooooo! Shhhhhhhhhhhhh”

The cackle pierced the air again, affirming that it wasn’t part of my dreams. I checked the clock: 4.30am. Sandra was home with a friend. They were drunk. The fridge opened and I heard the corkscrew drop on the floor. More cackling. It was Sandra’s regular Friday night blow-out, though this was only the second time she had actually made it home before Saturday dinner.

I buried my head under the pillow. Let them get settled in the lounge or her bedroom, I thought, and then things will quieten down. Which they must have done, because I nodded off again.

At 7.10am I awoke needing to pee, a consequence of the wine I had drunk the night before with Helen. I quietly opened my door and padded down the hall, my attention drawn into the lounge by the TV, which was turned on but had the sound right down. Then I saw the couch. And on the couch was Sandra and her buxom friend engaged in a fully naked 69.

Clothes were strewn across the floor and coffee table, all I could really see of the lovers was a mop of curly brown hair bobbing slightly between Sandra’s knees. I occasionally heard Sandra, on her back and squirming on the couch, moan and grunt from somewhere in the midst of all the smooth, warm flesh. There were lots of slurps, and squeaks when bare feet and calves shifted against the leather of the couch. I was transfixed.

I watched and listened for a few minutes, frozen in the doorway in my T-shirt. Suddenly Sandra’s friend looked up, like she had felt me watching her, or that she had heard my heart pounding. My eyes were immediately drawn to Sandra’s open, wet, neatly shaven pussy. I looked back up at the woman’s face, her mouth wet with juice. She smiled a drunken smile at me and, with her right hand that was hooked under Sandra’s right leg, she raised her middle finger at me, smiling even wider as she did so.

I was about to run away in abject embarrassment when I noticed she was moving the finger towards Sandra’s cunt, watching me as she slid it and her index finger inside. Sandra let out another muffled groan, her hands simultaneously reaching along her friends back to up to push the head back down between her thighs, forcing its grinning mouth back to her clit. I was left with the scene of a bobbing mop of brown curly hair again, with the addition of the slight movement of her right arm, doing unseen work inside Sandra.

I suddenly realised how desperate I was for a pee and tiptoed to the toilet, racing back to my bedroom afterwards with only a cursory glance into the lounge. They were still at it, but the moans were certainly louder. I lay on my bed and listened to them, cranking it up gradually until they both came in a crescendo of cries and growls, my finger gently pushing myself to my own silent climax.


The following Friday: she was getting ready to go out. I’d finished work a few hours early but was staying in alone, what with needing to be up at the crack of dawn to catch a train to my parents’ house. She took forever in the bathroom. I heard her pad through to her room, the door shut, her dark music filtering through the walls. The hairdryer temporarily drowned out the soundtrack to her wardrobe rifling.

I was watching the news but not really taking it in. I’d had a week of flashbacks to the sight of that woman küçükyalı escort on top of Sandra, and that glimpse of her pussy. I’d been masturbating almost every night, thinking about it, imagining what it would be like if only… if only I had the courage. I was half-wishing Sandra would realise I was going to be home alone all night and offer to curl up on the couch with me. But I wasn’t holding out too much hope. She seemed to live for these Friday blow-outs.

This was the first time I’d been in the apartment when she actually ‘got ready’ to go out. I was curious to see what she wore to her mysterious Friday nights out. She worked as a set designer for a theatre company, so her clothes during the day were often run of the mill to say the least. I’d never been home in time to witness her grand departure.

Around the apartment she would normally wear jeans and a T-shirt, or her PJs. Sandra is taller than me and it is all in her legs I’m sure of it. She has fantastic long legs that I would die for. Always smooth, waxed and silky. Her arms and fingers are long like her legs, almost like she has a “long” gene deep within her DNA. From the glances I’d had of her boobs I had decided that they looked sort of normal, not unlike my own. She has a nice shape to her, a lovely curve at her ass where those legs finally give up and let the torso take over. Her blonde hair is dyed and goes perfectly with her blue eyes, she has a long nose to match her long arms and legs.

The weatherman was droning on when her bedroom door finally reopened. She clicked into the kitchen, spike heels on the floor’s cold tiles. I crawled off the couch, taking my empty coffee cup with me by way of excuse. She was bent over, looking in the fridge, wearing an incredibly short skirt, black tights, leather boots. Her ass looked amazing. Guys would kill each other to get a piece of it (given the chance), I was sure of that.

She stood up when she realised I was in the room with her.

“Oh hey Trix,” she said with a smile, turning to face me. “I think I must’ve drank all my wine.”

“Yeah I think you did. Have one of Greg’s beers if you like.”

“And owe him…? No I can wait, thanks chick.”

“You, erm, look nice.”

“Thanks babe,” she winked at me. “I need your help actually – can you do the top few fasteners on this top? I nearly broke my arms trying to do them in the mirror.”

She turned round lifting her loose, tousled blonde locks out of the way to reveal bare shoulders and a black satin-finished corset-like top that clung tightly to her milky skin. The top four clips were still apart. I carefully fastened them, looking at the tattoo on her neck in front of me.

“So where are you going?”

“Girls’ club. Wanna come?” She turned round as I gave her an “all-done” pat on the shoulder blade.

“It would no doubt turn my hair white Sandra. I’ll mind the fort here.”

“It’s a place called Sticky Fingers. Pretty girl like you would draw them in like bees.” She flashed me her best wicked grin. She’d done her eye make-up but not yet applied her lipstick.

“I think I’ll just let you report back this week if that’s OK,” I smiled back, trying to be as cool as she.

“Really Prudey? Wanna hear all about it, huh?” She gave me a playful prod on the shoulder. “I knew you had it in you somewhere. You just need someone to drag it out of you.”

“You sound like Greg.”

“Yeah but dickhead doesn’t know what I know – that you saw me last week with Melissa?” I blushed. I knew full well she would have been told, and I had been waiting for her to just spit it out and get it over with. “Did you like what you saw sweetie?”

“I was just on my way to pee, I didn’t know you were in there making out!” I wandered out to the lounge, wanting to bring an end to the conversation.

She called after me: “Yeah yeah… so you didn’t stop to watch at all?”

“It was all a little tame to be honest,” I shouted back.

She laughed, and that seemed to end the analysis. We sat in the lounge and watched a quiz on the TV, made small talk. She texted a few people on her mobile, put her lipstick on, had a pee and then blew me a kiss as she breezed out of the apartment. Sticky Fingers. I searched for it on the net. A “girls-only hedonists’ heaven every Friday night”. There were pictures of clientele. Most of them were dressed provocatively to say the least, to the extent that Sandra’s attire this evening looked quite sober. I sighed, partly at the mundanity of my Friday night while everyone else was having fun, but mainly because I wanted to have fun with Sandra.

An hour later Greg called. He’d been blown out by his brother, could he come round. Sure you can, love.

Later as we kissed in bed, I imagined the beer on his breath was the wine on Sandra’s breath. I imagined the hand tugging down my panties under the covers had morphed into Sandra’s long, soft fingers. I imagined the tongue wrapping around mine was Sandra’s, the leg intertwining with mine Sandra’s, maltepe escort the hair I was gripping with my hand Sandra’s, the cock pushing between my legs…

“Greg suck me, I really have the urge to be sucked.”

“OK,” he paused. I realised making a demand like that, while not drunk at all, was a little out of character and searched for an explanation.

“I just want a big one, to help me sleep better babe. Got a long day tomorrow.” I kissed him and squeezed his cock, giving it a little tug to let him know I would see to him when he’d serviced me.

“OK. My pleasure babe.” He gave me a last kiss on the lips and moved slowly down my naked body under the covers, kissing every few inches until he was tracing over the top of my pubic hair.

I opened my legs wider, silently willing him to delve straight into me with his tongue, but he teased a little, gently kissing around the edge of my crotch before finally planting one straight on pussy. His tongue slipped out and into my slit, seeking out my clit and teasing it gently. I sighed and pushed my head back into the pillow, sinking back into the bed to enjoy the ride. Normally I would kick the covers off so that I could occasionally look down and watch. Tonight my eyes would remain shut, my hands instinctively reached down to grab Greg by the hair, but I was silently wishing for much longer hair, pigtails even, to hold, to use as I pulled Sandra’s hungry hot mouth right into me. I wanted her mouth to fuse to my hot hole, stuck there forever, drinking up all the juice I could muster.

As Greg licked and sucked and nibbled between my legs, his tongue often sliding down to dart in and out of my hole, in my mind I was precisely 20ft away, lying on the couch, with Sandra hungrily lapping between my legs. Her corset-top, tight black skirt, leather boots and make-up all still perfectly in place, her blue eyes piercing the darkness as she watches me writhe on the couch, totally under control of her mouth. I see her tongue hungrily lapping at my soaking pussy, I see a flash of her white teeth in the gloom as she closing her mouth around my clit once more to suck, suck ,suck…

I came with a sudden scream, holding Greg’s head against my clit under the duvet. I bucked against him as my mouth sent desperate gasps and groans out into the cool night air before eventually, I lay still, feeling a new warmth creep over me. After a few seconds Greg made a move to escape from my hold, and I realised the poor guy would be half-suffocated under there. I dutifully gave him a thank-you kiss and went off to sleep happily, entirely forgetting about his needs. For once all I cared about was my satisfaction.


“Haha! Perfect!”

Helen had gone out, left me in alone with Sandra. I was feeling a little put out that I hadn’t been invited along. Sandra could tell and was trying to cheer me up. It wasn’t necessary, though – I was secretly thrilled that she was about to keep me company.

“It’s almost tooooo perfect,” she giggled.

She had spent the past five minutes scouring the TV guide to find something for us to watch. It sounded like she had succeeded.

“OK, we’ve got 10 minutes before it starts. You pour the wine, I’m just gonna change out of this stuff.”

I padded into the kitchen and poured two glasses of rosé, sitting myself on the couch just as Sandra returned in her nightdress and socks. An image of her gaping, empty pussy flashed into my head again. It always did when she bent over or smiled or wore anything revealing or spoke or when I masturbated.

“What we watching?” I asked.

“The perfect movie for us to watch.”

“Thelma and Louise?”

“Haha! No, even more perfect than that.”

It was ‘Bound’. I gave a small, knowing laugh as it started. Sandra wanted to watch me get embarrassed – or, better, turned on – when the girl-girl action started between Gina Gershon and Jennifer Tilly. I had seen it before, years and years ago with an ex-boyfriend. My memory was hazy but I knew it was an OK movie – with that all-important lesbian scene.

“Seen it before?” she asked, smiling at me over her wine glass.

“Yes Sandra.”

“Well it’s a great film. Let’s watch it again.”

“Yes Sandra.”

Just minutes in, when Jennifer Tilly pushed Gina Gershon’s finger into her, Sandra groaned to herself next to me. Except of course she was groaning for my benefit. She turned to me and we smiled at each other.

Shortly afterwards, when the women began making love, Sandra shifted towards me, placing her hand on my thigh. She was watching the film. I was mostly watching her, out of the corner of my eye.

Suddenly she turned to me. “Is this getting you wet at all Trix?” Her face was just inches from mine.

I let the question hang in the air, my heart pounding. The naked bodies writhing on the bed in the film were neither here nor there – Sandra was getting me wet. My eyes toured her face as best they could in the dim light of the room. Her mouth was slightly open, dying to be kissed. Her eyebrow was still slightly arched, as if waiting for an answer to her question.

“Yes it is,” I whispered, holding her gaze, my mouth dry.

She began moving towards me. I watched her lips part even more as her head tilted. Her hand slid further up the taut denim of my thigh towards my crotch as she leaned closer. I closed my eyes and waited.

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