Giddy Goats

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This story was written for a girl on her birthday. But she never got to see it.

I wanted to drag her out of her suburban prison where everything was placid and ‘nice’ (god, how I hate that word!). I figured I could relight her fires with memories of her wild youth, and lead her down my vicarious garden path on an internet-inspired magical mystery tour.

But then I discovered her life was not so anaesthetised after all. And far from being a spirit trapped she was living the dream. Her dream. And if I thrust this story upon her I would not be releasing her… I’d trap her deeper in something she’d fought decades to free herself from.

I planned on simply sending her a link to a new blog – with a note to say “here’s something specially for you” – and let her work out how to respond. But now I’ll keep it, and let the story ripen. Maybe one day the time will be right, and I’ll send her this link. So feel free to add your thoughts to the bottom, so she knows that others have enjoyed her story too.

Off you go now – it’s unabridged, and still in the first person (if you’ll excuse the pun).

* * * * *

The Tease:

What follows is a somewhat spicy personal memory I have from our past. It wasn’t supposed to be quite such an epic. I just wanted to frame one particular incident for you to let you know you still had something over me. But little incidents kept flooding out and mingling into one, which is ironically the way I’d describe how our relationship played out back then.

I’m sure you’re asking yourself “What is this post? And why am I sharing this?” My answer is – read on! It won’t take you long to recognise yourself in this story.

Just read a paragraph or two and you’ll just how personal this is. But you’re probably the only one who could. It’s nameless and faceless, and I, as author, remain anonymous. To even your closest friends this is just a salacious story among millions of others on the internet. So if you’re caught engrossed in bed at night, or someone finds the bookmark on your computer, your secrets will still be safe. You’d probably raise a few eyebrows as to your choice of reading, but that’s part of the excitement.

If you’re bold enough you can share this with friends. Let them wonder why you’re showering them with erotica. Could you possibly be secretly showcasing your own passionate past, or just sharing a steamy story for modern-day Mills & Boon’ers? Is it just me, or do you also find it pretty hot having other people fantasising over your past?

And last but not least, if you like it, feed the beast! This experience is as new for me as it is for you, and I need to know how you feel about this. We shared so much, and with the right encouragement I might rouse myself (or should I say ‘arouse myself’) to put more on paper. So send me your thoughts – a scene you recall, or even just a saucy picture – this might just stir me enough to produce a sequel!

In the meantime, shut your door… kick off your heels… and find something to grab onto. I hope you’ll get as much out of reading this as I did writing it.

* * * * *

The Story:

Ours was a torrid and passionate romance loaded with salacious memories. You were evolving… no, erupting… out of chaste innocence into lustrous womanhood. You were cheeky… adventurous… yet you never lost your sophisticated veneer. Half lady, half tramp (I loved that). A blossoming rose, and I was entrusted kaynarca escort with peeling back the petals and exploring the core.

Amazingly, although it was decades ago, I can conjure up images like they happened yesterday. And thanks to my… errr… fertile… imagination, far from fading into oblivion, these images grow stronger the more air I give them.

As a birthday treat I wanted to pick one special memory and share it with you. But which occasion should I pick? We found ourselves in so many steamy situations that I have to pay tribute to a few others in passing…

Arguably the most evocative image is of our final swansong. Who could forget that stormy winter weekend at the lake house. I’d gone there alone to chill before exams, as you knew I would. And although we were officially no longer an item, you’d arrived unannounced wearing a sheer pink pants suit and covered in chocolate. When I greeted you at the door I could clearly see that beneath the chocolate and pink you were ‘going commando’ and we barely made it half way up the stairs before my resistance caved in. I took you right on that spot.

Locked in frenzied passion in a drafty stairwell we let the weeks of unconsumed lust explode from us. It was arguably the most uncomfortable tryst we ever notched up, but I don’t think either of us cared. That moment alone was golden… but the rest of the weekend was better still.

With a wintry gale howling around us I was engulfed in two dream scenarios. One moment I’d be on my windsurfer carving off the quivering lips of the freezing wavetops, and the next I’d be in your bed carving off your… well… you know where I’m heading with this, right? I would come in shivering, my frigid body going into panic mode from the cold, and you’d coax me back to full-on thermonuclear readiness using some pretty mind-numbing tricks. Once you’d achieved your ends and I was spent you’d pack me back out onto the waves to ice off and we’d begin the cycle again. I seem to remember there came a time when I didn’t even bother putting my wet shorts back on, such was the isolation of our location and the frequency of those shuttle runs, but maybe that’s just my over-active imagination writing chapters that don’t belong?

Either of those two passions usually exhausted me in minutes. But together, like Ying and Yang, they balanced each other out giving me an appetite and endurance which would put the energizer bunny to shame. Talk about the perfect recovery regime – although I’m not sure which part was the action and which the reaction.

We rocked that weekend, melting in each others embrace, and then we were done. We parted, exhausted, and didn’t see each other again for months or years. There’s no doubt we split on a high note, and that’s how every memorable partnership should end.

But it was not the sunset of our partnership which presents the most lucid memory for me. And it’s not the beginning either, although that’s also worth a shout-out.

You could argue our story started the moment we cast eyes on each other. We were flatmates first – you, me and ‘Cici’ – and you can’t deny we had fantastic chemistry together.

From the day I answered the ad for your flat I was under no misapprehension that I belonged to the two of you. You frowned upon any fraternization I enjoyed with the opposite sex, and when I availed myself on one of your Teachers College friends, it nearly broke up the flat.

Which brings me to my birthday, and another step forward. You and C planned a little orhanlı escort surprise party for me (ironically with that same friend). The only hitch in your plan was that I never made it. That evening I was parked up a country lane with an accountancy major getting a tutorial on double-entry in the back seat of her car.

I came home late that night to find my room trashed and my windsurfer, covered in chocolate cake, stuffed in my bed. You were nowhere to be seen, but there was a lot of giggling coming from one of the bedrooms . And since my room resembled a dessert-bar on a Chinese cruise-ship, I scooped a handful of mousse off my ruffled sheets and jumped into bed with you three girls intent on exacting some payback.

It turned out to be an intimate and vaguely erotic yet (maddeningly, now I think about it) unincestuous night. I quite fancied a romp with three wild fillies, but it seemed none of us wanted to break the spell. That rates as one of my best birthdays ever – our youthful exuberance and the innocent pleasure we derived from that marathon four-way petting session are things I will hold dear forever. And what you did to my room? Touche! No one ever punked me like that again (sadly).

But that night did change things. On hindsight, the searing heat from our warm bodies blazed on in our minds, and so it was probably the next-to-last domino to tumble as we went from being mates, to… well… being ‘Mates’.

It finally happened on a crisp winters day not even a week later, while I was working on an assignment in the kitchen. This was the only part of the room that caught the morning sun so it wasn’t surprising that, when you ambled in dressed in a terry-toweling bathrobe, you came right over to my corner to soak up some sunshine.

I’ve no doubt we engaged in some witty repast while you wiggled into the space between the back of my seat and the window, but whatever we said was lost on me, as I struggled to ignore the different kind of heat which was radiating through me. You were overloading my senses with your intoxicating femininity and, although I knew you were still pure, you were incredibly sexy too. And I was weak.

Finally I capitulated. I put aside any pretense of study, and turned in my chair to face you. You sat wedged on tippy-toes against the edge of the window frame, your hips thrust forward and your body arched back against the glass. I held your gaze momentarily, then slowly lowered my eyes, devouring every inch of your body hidden beneath the robe, and coming to rest on the slight rise in contour where your arched belly met your thighs, mere inches from my face.

Mesmerised, I reached out and pulled on the bow on your robe. Then slipping my hands inside I reached around behind you, pushing aside the fabric, exposing your naked form and releasing your scent. A second seemed like eternity as my eyes burned a line across your belly down through the cleft to the apex of your thighs and, since I’d met no resistance, I drew myself forwards, inching my face towards my point of focus and I lightly planted my first soft kiss among your soft curls.

The rest of that story, like so many others, will have to wait for the right moment to be told. Because this isn’t the memory I want to leave you with.

The most evocative memory was not even risque, and you and I both know there were plenty of occasions which fit that bill. The intensity of our relationship never subsided, and the more dangerous our liaisons the more excited we were by it. I still chuckle at the time tepeören escort your flatmate came home early and discovered us locked in the throes of passion – resembling the scenes immortalised on the outside of hindu temples – in the middle of his house.

And this behavior continued even after we split. We were incorrigible, destined it seemed to bed eachother at every chance. Like the time we found ourselves alone for a few moments in a relative stranger’s house while waiting for mutual friends to arrive – the bell that saved us was the doorbell, but we still had some explaining to do.

Even these images pale next to the seemingly innocuous event which happened during some rare downtime while we were sharing a bath. It was just a leisurely soak and some trivial banter – until you reached for the shampoo… That’s when the thermometer spiked.

Before getting too deep in this story, there’s a couple of precursors which have huge relevance on the scene I’m painting (you’ll laugh at this comment later).

First, you may recall you had very specific tastes in cosmetics back then. You only ever used petite bottles of Goats Milk shampoo and conditioner. I’m not sure if it was the Wedgewood-blue bottle with the sculpted white caps that you loved so much, or if the product really made you feel better. But for me this brand became a personification of you.

And second, you were the first girl who ever admitted to me that you used conditioner to keep things silky ‘down there’. I found that knowledge to be an enormous turn-on, and from that day forward I loved being the one to tend to your grooming needs. I would jump at the chance to lather you up. Reaching around from behind, pulling you into my embrace like a misplaced Heimlich Maneuver. Or face to face, our bellies rubbing against each other, my hands snaking down front and back, supporting you as you sank against me. Or down on my knees in front of you, enraptured, as the water cascaded off your body into my face. All very evocative images but paling compared to what happened next.

So there we were top-and-tailing in the tub, your legs draped over mine, and my feet hugging your hips.

As you kicked your head back to soap your scalp I took my cue and squeezed my feet inwards. Slipping my knees under and behind you, lifting you and edging you forward. I could clearly see your most intimate parts sliding across my tensed midriff as if being dragged in by my hungry gaze. And I in turn slid under you. You came to rest, splayed across my chest, legs dangling over the side of the bath. My head barely above water, arms circling your hips, and fingers spidering across your belly as they closed in on your manicured tuft. I was captivated as I looked on from slightly below – in trepidation – like an artist addressing a blank canvas. Then I reached for my palette – your conditioner – and applied my first brushstrokes.

My artwork wasn’t finished until you had finished… and I had finished… and we had finished. (Sigh!)

And that’s how I remember you. Marooned on my chest in a whirl of conditioner with me oozing out from underneath you, painting a Picasso in Goats Milk between your thighs.

So now you know my salacious secret: I harbour an image so powerful and prescient that the mere mention of Goats Milk anything gives me a rise in my shorts. I even struggle staying focused on a Greek Salad because of the connotations! And any time I squeeze out a handful of conditioner I’m brought crashing back to that day in the bath.

But it’s not the image of us in the bath that I’m “gifting” to you…

…It’s an image of modern-day me in the shower, reaching for the conditioner, and cracking a smile as I smear a smidge across my loins (perhaps a little too indulgently) while my mind drifts over that image of you.

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