Chapter One

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 Inwardly I recoil from the very word lesbian, with its albeit outdated connotations of manly clothes and bad haircuts.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.

It wasn’t as if I was having saucy fantasies about sexy underwear. Well not many anyway. But I guess that at some level it probably boiled down to making me feel sexy or confident, and so I tend to take notice when the subject of underwear is ever touched upon. I already had it in my mind that Samantha was not really a lingerie girl. One of her friends had teased her once with a little throw away remark about thick white cotton pants and I had noted the fact that her defence was something about practicality in sports locker rooms and netball skirts and that she made no attempt to actually deny the accusation.

I set out my position now because otherwise the extent that underwear seemed to be involved in the next three days may seem a little of a fixation. I think that it really was as much my general propensity to open magazines at the article or advertisements for a new style bra or knickers as it was the events of the previous night playing in the back of my mind that resulted in me raising the subject before we even reached the Channel Tunnel. We had bought Cosmo and Red and one or two other girly mags for the journey and before breakfast was served I was flicking through the magazines and glancing at early morning Kent flashing by the windows of the Eurostar train. I found a questionnaire claiming to reveal what our choice in underwear says about our inner woman. Samantha was fairly disinterested at first but we were both enthusiastic about the trip and I guess that although I wasn’t actually paying, the fact that it was my prize that was treating us made Samantha feel a little like my guest and so keen not to seem ungrateful. In any event, seeing my enthusiasm for the game, she entered into the spirit, admitting on most questions to a fairly conservative choice out of each list. Mostly white. Next most common colour black. Mostly cotton. Comfort the highest priority followed by practicality and versatility. Mostly department store bought. Rarely spent more that £35.00 on any item.

I teased her remorselessly on every answer. Tiring of making the same joke every time, I found it easier to embarrass the seemingly conservative and rather shy Samantha by picking up on the items where she wasn’t quite choosing the most conservative choice. Red silk lacy knickers from KnickerBox, which she had once bought for herself and worn three or four times.

"Harlot! Scarlet woman!" I cried in mock disdain. Does she have the whip and handcuffs to go with it I asked. Actually, the survey ended with questions about that sort of light "Fifty Shades" sort of thing and it was I who admitted to having some of them. Samantha grew red and rocked back and forth a bit on the question about a dildo but it turned out she has a vibrator that a girlfriend gave her and she got confused over the difference.

I had to admit that half an hour talking about Samantha in her underwear and watching her squirm with embarrassment was rather stimulating.

Hmmm.

As breakfast arrived I told Samantha that our first task in Paris was going to be to find her a full outfit of the sexiest, most expensive lingerie we could find her. She was a bit non committal but did not refuse outright or wholly count it out. I love lingerie shopping and what an exciting challenge this was. I knew she had had enough and wanted relief from my teasing. I knew, too, that our relationship, and our three day break, was not about infantile teasing and that now was the moment to drop it and talk about the other shops and galleries we were planning to visit. But I just couldn’t miss one last comment as we raised our glasses of Bucks Fizz to toast the next few days.

“I can’t wait to see you modelling a few selections. Communal changing rooms in Paris too you know.”

She bit her lower lip and reddened slightly, and while I wasn’t consciously thinking it through at the time, I was glad I’d pushed that last step forward. It wasn’t so much an infantile tease as just a hint of sexy spice.