Heather Falls in Love Pt. 04


(February 2004)

Heather and Ingrid arrived in Perth, Western Australia, almost twenty months after they’d started their world tour. Up to that point they hadn’t done too badly with their travelling budget, walking incredible distances, using the cheapest forms of transport if they absolutely had to . . . and only ever flying as a last resort. But Down Under had always been expected to be an exception.

The plan was to travel west to east around the coast, making a mighty inroad along the way to visit a few must-see places like Coober Pedy, Ayers Rock and Alice Springs. That way they would take in all the mainland state capitals and Canberra before reaching Cairns, where the big decision needed to be made.

To do the north coast or not to do the north coast: that was going to be the question.

And they intended to debate it at leisure, over lots of ice-cold beers.

Walking those sorts of distances wasn’t an option, not even for them. After they’d done all the usual tourist things in “the world’s second most remote city” (seeing Australia II in the Maritime Museum; watching black swans stop traffic by crossing busy highways; sunbathing in Kings Park), they made a bid to get themselves wheels.

Getting mobile should have been easy but, typically, Ingrid insisted on “doing it right”. Consequently they spent three days scouring the city’s used vehicle outlets before buying a blue campervan with guaranteed buyback. Next morning, overloaded with provisions, they set off south. Stopping a day in Albany (“the last port of call for ANZAC troops en route for WW1 Europe”), they then headed towards Esperance, clearing the reputedly dangerous beaches, eventually finding an expanse of brilliant white sand that looked as if it had been waiting for them since time began.

By then they were as tanned as they were ever going to be. Ingrid’s hair had bleached with the sun and her skin had gone a dark golden brown. Heather reckoned that, whenever they finally reached Rio, her friend wasn’t just going to look like your typical Brazilian beach babe: she was going to look like an utterly outstanding Brazilian beach babe, top class Copacabana. As for herself, she wasn’t complaining. Her naturally dark skin had gone the deepest mahogany and that, together with her long, jet-black hair and flashing green eyes, made her look like some sort of Amazonian princess. During their exploration of Perth she’d caught sight of her reflection in a shop window in Murray Street. Wow, she’d sincerely thought, who the hell is that? Then she’d realized she was gazing lustfully at herself.

So the tans were working just fine. At first sight they were both perfect. Their only regret, shared and discussed at length, was that theirs were not truly every-last-inch tans. While there had been zillions of opportunities taken to keep their boobs matching, their thongs and G-strings had left them with tell-tale white bits below.

This beach was where the white bits were going to meet their Waterloo. The theory was that two full weeks and lashings of sun cream would get them through the pinky-red sunburn stage, leaving them plenty of chances to finish the job off later, especially on their foray into the Great Australian Bugger All.

‘Naked and windswept on the roof of the campervan,’ Inga had said. ‘I can hardly wait.’

‘It’s a bit rickety up there,’ Heather replied. ‘I’ll try not to drive over too many bumps.’

They parked their camper in a rough turning area at the end of an even rougher track and, mindful of tales of freak waves back closer to Albany, pitched their tent at the base of a low cliff, where it was protected by rocks on all sides.

Then they went for it.

For the first day or so they sunbathed naked and nervous. After that, sure they weren’t going to get disturbed, they relaxed. And relaxed and relaxed and relaxed. By the afternoon of the third day they started to make out under the blazing sun, taking turns to have each other on the hot dry white sand or the cold flat wet stuff closer to the tideline. Best of all, they would make out in the Southern Ocean itself (or was it the Indian Ocean? Nobody seemed able to agree), splashing and laughing and not minding the taste of salty water. Heather honestly believed that would be the coolest, most fun sex she ever had; completely alone with a truly loyal friend in beautiful blue water, waves breaking around them, spuming and foaming.


The days soon merged into one. After their fifth, a Saturday, they stopped keeping count. In fact they only knew it was Saturday because in had been pencilled in as “Inspection Day”. Not that they really needed to inspect each other; not when they’d been practicing nudists ever since they arrived. Still, it had been pencilled in so the inspection had to take place.

‘You are so lucky,’ Ingrid exclaimed, her nose perhaps an inch away from Heather’s fanny. ‘You’re naturally tanned to start with. Now you’re getting darker by the second.’

At that moment Heather wasn’t interested in her skin tone. She orhangazi escort could feel her friend’s breath on her sex, pitter-pattering over it. The result was quite predictable. ‘While you’re down there . . .’ she began.

‘Not yet.’ Ingrid kissed her just once then moved away, taking her turn to lie on her back on one of the more even stretches of dry sand. ‘You have to inspect me first.’

Okay, thought Heather, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad . . .

She knelt between Inga’s widely spread legs and, after the briefest of glances at her “white bits”, ran the tip of her tongue down her clitoral hood. Hearing a sigh but no objection, she did it again.

‘Trust you,’ said Ingrid. Then, when the invading tongue started to circle her actual clit, ‘Oh Hev, that’s so, so good.’

Heather hoped it was better than just “good”. She’d been focusing her attentions on Ingrid and no-one else for a long time now; from that night on the road to Guadalajara, to be precise. Her friend’s tastes and preferences had become as familiar to her as her own.

‘So, so good,’ Inga purred. ‘I’m getting close already.’

The grin came automatically but wasn’t enough to impede Heather’s circling. She never let her sense of humour stop her when there was work to be done. And Ingrid needed doing there and then. Good grief, didn’t she just! During their travels she had grown exponentially orgasmic. And she’d been hot enough when they were no more than jill-friends. Nowadays the girl really could cum for England.

There again, she had had a highly-skilled, highly-experienced teacher . . .

Using three fingers, still circling cheerfully away, Heather penetrated Ingrid, settling straight in to the rhythm she liked most. Cue another automatic grin. Ingrid didn’t know it, but she’d stolen that rhythm from Rose Royce’s “Car Wash”.

‘My God, Hev, I’m cumming!’

That wasn’t a particularly newsworthy announcement. Heather knew the signs. She also knew there would be many more cums to follow. And best of all, she knew she would soon start cumming as well. Yes, incredibly, she had found the ability to cum unaided. Simply making love to Ingrid was enough to bring herself off. In what now seemed like another lifetime, Heather had shagged with a whole host of other partners. And not one of those others had had such an effect on her.

She frowned but kept up with the beat. Perhaps love was the clue? Mary Rose aside, she hadn’t felt a whole lot of love for anyone else: she’d felt attraction, lust and sometimes friendship, but not real love.

Love was a tricky emotion, though. Love was a powerful thing. It was capable of making a free, often self-indulgent girl forsake all temptation . . .

Ingrid climaxed a second time, even more vigorously. ‘I’m going to erupt,’ she gasped. ‘Oh my God, Heather, what are you doing to me? This is going to be huge!’

Heather reckoned Inga was about a minute away from her hat-trick. And that was newsworthy. A cum of huge proportions just had to be shared, didn’t it?

Ingrid’s legs were doing strange things, trying to lift her ass off the sand. When Heather’s one-handed grip on her hip held her down they switched tactics, trying to wrap themselves around her neck instead. Then her hands joined in, plunging deeply into Heather’s hair.

‘Fucking hell, Hev, here I go!! Here I go!!’

It was easy-peasy to go with her. Heather had been building and building and could have cum first. In the spirit of companionship she held off, waiting for Inga’s genuinely huge eruption before joining in all the fun . . . and joining in massively, if the truth be told.

Keeping her wits about her, sensing no relaxation in the girl’s death grip, she inched her mouth away from Ingrid’s still quivering fanny.

‘Let me go,’ she said.

‘I can’t. Everything’s tensed up.’

Despite her words, Ingrid unhooked her ankles. Heather immediately grabbed her legs and pushed her knees up towards her chest.

‘I just have to drink this,’ she said, ‘before sand starts sticking to it.’

Ingrid didn’t seem to mind being in a classic whore’s position. And it did quite suit her. Heather swiftly reapplied her tongue, this time avoiding clit and aiming for the bountiful wet bits. Then, satisfied she’d lapped up all she was going to get, she straightened Ingrid’s legs for her.

‘Fancy a dip to cool off?’ she suggested.

‘Not yet. I’m utterly whacked.’

‘You’ll feel better when you’re in the water.’

‘I’ll feel better when I get my breath back . . . sometime next year.’

Sex always energized Heather. No, it never failed to invigorate her. Leaving Ingrid where she was, flat out on her back, she bounced over to the campervan and extracted four cans of Swan lager from their precious cool box.

‘Here,’ she said, passing over one of the cans. ‘I opened it for you, just in case.’

The cold drink restored Ingrid even before she had a mouthful. She jumped up into a sitting position and took a mighty swig. ‘Bonzer,’ she said with an unladylike nilüfer escort belch. ‘A few more of these and I’ll be doing you a favour.’

‘You just did.’ Heather pointed to a steadily drying damp patch on the sand.

‘Another hands-free job?’ Ingrid raised an eyebrow, a la Roger Moore. ‘I don’t know how you do that, Hev.’

‘It’s a God-given gift,’ Heather said smugly. ‘Not that I’m turning down your offer of favours.’

‘I said “favour”, not “favours”.’

‘Don’t play with words. I’ve got better things for you to play with.’

Ingrid laughed and held out a hand for her second can. ‘Got to drink it quick, before it gets warm.’

‘You’re becoming more Aussie by the hour. God knows what you’ll be like when we’re mixing with people again.’

‘Do you miss it?’

It was Heather’s turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘Do I miss what?’


‘I certainly don’t miss the weather. Apart from the Union Bar and pints of Marston’s, I don’t particularly miss anything else.’

‘What about your never-ending string of lovers?’

‘I miss Mary Rose a bit. I’m not planning on seeing any of the others ever again. Well, apart from Naz; I want to make sure she’s not been married off to someone she hates. What about you? Who or what do you miss?’

‘I miss the Union Bar and Marston’s. And sometimes I miss Rachael.’

Heather picked up the nuance instantly. ‘Ingrid Cooper,’ she crowed, ‘I do believe you are blushing. Is there something you need to tell me?’

Ingrid shook her head but was blushing even more furiously.

‘Come on Inga, smile if you’ve slept with her.’

‘That’s not fair. It’s impossible not to smile at a question like that.’

‘It’s impossible when you’re guilty as charged. Are you going to fess up or am I going to have to tickle you?’

‘Promise you won’t be mad.’

‘I promise. Now spill the beans.’

Ingrid took a deep breath. ‘It was her birthday in April. I made her a slap-up meal. Then we had a lot of wine and I let her shave off my landing strip.’

Heather didn’t even know Inga had had a landing strip. She’d always been immaculately shaved.

Trust Rachael to get in there first!

‘Now that’s what I call forward behaviour,’ she said out loud. ‘Did she take full advantage?’

‘Well, it was her birthday . . .’

Heather chuckled. This was intriguing and she wasn’t at all angry. So Ingrid hadn’t been as straight as she made out . . . so what? She’d enormously enjoyed their awkward, meandering courtship. The only thing even remotely annoying was the fact she hadn’t come clean ages ago.

‘I must have played Scheherazade for five hundred nights by now,’ she said. ‘And I’ve featured Rache at least a dozen times. You could have let on.’

‘I thought it would . . . complicate things,’ said Ingrid. Then, looking alarmed, ‘Where are you going?’

‘To get us more cans.’ Heather grinned broadly. ‘I want to hear all the nitty-gritty details. Then, when you’ve got us both in the mood, you can do me a few of those favours.’


(March 2004)

After Inspection Day time ticked by unheeded. For great chunks of daylight they would do nothing but lie there on the sand, their CD player blaring out golden oldies but bothering no-one, watching as the Australian summer slowly headed towards autumn, not noticing a lot of a difference. And talking; even after being together so long, they still always had plenty to say to each other.

One of Ingrid’s regular topics was her sexuality. Bemusing logic aside, she had an orderly sort of a mind; being unable to categorize herself bugged her.

‘Rachael seems so easy with it,’ she began one afternoon. ‘She’s tried men and doesn’t like them, so that’s it, full stop. And according to you, she fancies herself as a stud when girls are concerned. I can get along with that. It’s clear-cut and simple.’

‘She usually says she’s soft butch,’ said Heather, ‘and she’s probably right.’

‘Does that mean she’s happy to take but prefers to give?’

‘Very charmingly put . . . but accurate enough, in its way.’

‘Why do you sometimes call yourself “straight”, then? The only difference between you and Rache is that you do men as well. Shouldn’t you be a soft bisexual or something?’

‘I don’t call myself straight,’ Heather said reflexively. Then, frowning, ‘Do I?’

‘Yes, Hev, you do. I must have heard you say it ten times in ten different countries.’

‘There must be something in it, then. I can’t have said it so often without good reason.’

‘In that case please explain yourself.’

‘I’m in a pig-headed mood,’ Heather said, staring up into a cloudless sky. Back in their early days she would have dodged a question like this. Now . . . now Ingrid was doing anything and everything on a daily basis . . . she felt free to be honest. ‘So,’ she went on, ‘seeing as I’m pig-headed, today’s theory is that everyone’s bisexual; therefore being bisexual actually makes you straight.’

Ingrid laughed at that. ‘I’m probably türbanlı escort going to regret asking, but would you care to expound?’

‘Sure. The last time I looked in a dictionary, sexuality was defined as “physical, emotional and romantic attraction”. Does that sound about right?’

‘Yes. If the attraction is same-sex, you’re lesbian or gay.’

‘Correct. And I would say that all boils down to love, wouldn’t you?’

‘You don’t have to be in love to have sex.’

‘Very true, so let’s save sex until last. Let’s start with the simplest, purest love: the love of a new-born baby for his or her parents. Wouldn’t you agree that a baby loves both parents and will keep on loving them both endlessly?’

‘Forgetting the obvious exceptions of abuse and the likes I’d say yes, in most cases that’s going to be true.’

‘Okay then, we’re in agreement. It’s normal for a perfectly innocent human being to sincerely love without regard to gender.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘No buts when I’m expounding, thank you,’ said Heather. ‘Carrying on from there, our innocent baby is going to find more people of both sexes to love: brothers and sisters; two sets of grandparents; uncles and aunties; boys and girls at school . . . teachers, even, and all purely and sincerely, of course. Do you still agree?’

‘Yes I do. But that’s before sexual awareness kicks in.’

‘Be patient. I’m coming to the sex bit soon. I need to do attraction and romantic love first.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Okay: attraction. A lot of do-gooders are against same-sex couples adopting. They say our innocent baby is going to be set a bad example; that he or she will be unnaturally influenced in sexuality. Apart from being a staggeringly unfair indictment on the same-sex couple . . . whose intentions are almost certainly going to be not to influence their child in any such way . . . that takes no account at all of the massive influence society is going to have on the poor little thing. What chance have any parents got when they’re up against TV, Hollywood, glossy magazines and whole country-loads of people?’

Heather waved a hand in the air. ‘I believe society does ninety-nine per cent of all the influencing on everyone,’ she continued. ‘Our innocent baby starts being conditioned straightaway. She’s made to believe it’s unnatural to be attracted to anyone of the same sex. When she does feel it . . . because she’s still innocent and unbiased . . . she’s told it’s wrong or that she’s mistaken. It’s not attraction, it’s admiration or friendship. And that it’s okay to admire a friend, so long as that’s as far as it goes.’

Ingrid rolled onto her side and held Heather’s gaze. ‘I don’t half admire you,’ she said. ‘And it doesn’t feel wrong at all.’

‘That’s because you’re resisting the conditioning. Like me, you’ve realized sex is a wonderful thing . . . and criminally misrepresented. There are more taboos about sex than there are about anything else. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps the people “in charge” thought they could keep it all to themselves. Or perhaps it was men, trying to keep women in slavery forever. All I know is that I like it whoever my partner is, and always will. Not that I’m intending to be looking for new partners anytime soon.’

‘I’m glad you’re not.’ Ingrid laughed prettily. ‘I’m still confused about me though. I love the things we do together. I really do. And I fancy other women now more than ever. But . . .’

‘But . . .’

‘But I still have this thing about guys.’

‘About Vikings, more like.’

‘Okay then, about Vikings. How can I be resisting the conditioning when there’s a certain type of man who can have me at the click of his fingers?’

‘That’s just particular taste,’ Heather said. ‘I’m the same with brown eyes. But being a pushover for a girl with brown eyes doesn’t stop me enjoying shagging a guy with horns sprouting out of his helmet. Or from holding my own when I’m at it. You have to consider these things more generally. Make sure you put yourself first. And always remember, society has ulterior motives.’

‘Just who is this society you hate so much?’

‘I don’t hate it; I just refuse to obey its rules. And by society I mean almost everything, particularly the media. Although I guess it started with the Church. They created a status quo that suited them, then set up the Inquisition to keep it that way. In this day and age, instead of a holy tribunal, we have all these faceless pressure groups telling us what to do. Pressure groups that only really exist in some news editor’s puritanical imagination.’

‘Free the masses!’ Ingrid giggled. ‘Abolish thought control!’

‘Thought control is exactly what it is. These faceless power freaks want us to have one partner each. We girls are supposed to find ourselves a man for life and be happy . . . and to back their ideals, of course. If their modern-day Torquemada was here now, you and I would be straight for the rack. Well . . . you’d be headed for the rack. I’d probably be immediately burnt at the stake.’

A cloud crossed Ingrid’s face. ‘You do know all this will end sometime, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. But our love won’t end; our pure and sincere love. That’s the best kind. It really is. If you ask me, romantic love doesn’t exist anyway, it’s just a cover for lust. And lust isn’t much more than a passing fancy.’

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