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Introduction:

This story was inspired by the Olympic Games in summer 2012 and the first part of it was written whilst they were in progress, but it has taken until now to get it finished. The story is entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real persons or places is purely coincidental.

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2013


I was too confident. I was so pleased with myself, so full of myself, that it made me careless. However, it was understandable – for the third time in the space of only ten days, I had run better than ever before, and attained a new Personal Best. And what a time to do it, as well! – for the selectors were in the process of choosing the British team for the greatest event of any athlete’s career – the Olympic Games – which in just six weeks’ time would open in London, my own home town!

I am a medium-distance runner: my main event is the women’s 800 metres, although I do sometimes compete in 1500 metre races. Today was one of the last important athletics meetings before the selections for Team GB would be announced, and soon the chosen few would begin their final pre-Olympic training. I had just comfortably won my qualifying heat in a really fast time, and with my other recent races this was probably already enough to secure my place, but I wanted to win the final convincingly when it took place – which was in about fifteen minutes’ time – and I was so sure that I would.

I was brim full of electrifying energy, almost bouncing off the walls, and I was taking little notice of anyone else who was in the locker room – which was quite bustling, as women athletes came and went from their various events. I was vaguely aware that someone had sat down on the bench next to me and was changing out of her tracksuit into running gear, but it was at least thirty seconds before I realised that it was none other than Tamar Johnson, who for many years had been the dominating figure in British women’s running at my distances. However, she had missed most of last year – which had been my first at the highest competitive level – due to injuries and then recuperation from a knee operation. In consequence, I didn’t really know her – we had spoken at a couple of events, but only briefly, as I had been unusually shy and intimidated in her presence (after all, she had been national champion six times in the last ten years, had won gold at Commonwealth and European championships, and had an Olympic silver to her name as well – not from the last games, when she had been fifth in the final, but from 2004). Tamar had run in one of the first qualifying heats, earlier in the afternoon, and I knew that she had also secured a place in the final. A couple of years ago, before her long absence, that would have made me assume that she would beat me. However, having recently turned 30, she was entering the final stage of her top-level competitive career, whilst I – a full decade younger – was just coming into my prime, as my current streak of form testified, and I had the comfortable knowledge that the best was still ahead of me.

I was leaning forwards to tie the laces on my running shoes, when a quiet cool voice spoke from above the lean-muscled legs that were in my peripheral vision:

‘So, that was a fast time you ran – another PB, was it?’

I straightened up and looked at Tamar, who was sitting with calm composure, still wearing her sweatshirt and outer jacket over her racing outfit.

‘Yep, sure was!’ I said, pleased with myself.

The older athlete looked at me with a faint quizzical smile, and continued:

‘So – think you’ll win the final then, hmm?’

Something in her expression or tone of voice piqued me, and, together with the euphoria resulting from my current form, this led to my unusually assertive and boastful reply:

‘Yeah, I do – yes, I will!’

Tamar paused for a second, and her smile became more apparent, even a little predatory.

‘Really? I wonder – well then, if you’re that confident, want to bet on it?’

I thought her superior attitude was uncalled for, whatever she had achieved in the past, and the feeling of being condescended to irked me. Without stopping to think, I blurted out the fatal words:

‘Yeah – sure, yeah, whatever you like!’

Of course, I expected that in reply she would name an amount of money. It would not be a lot, as female athletes do not earn much, especially the younger ones like myself who have yet to make their name. Although I had given Tamar the initiative, I knew that she could not make it a large sum, as that would get talked about and it would be bad for her reputation if it looked like she had used her position and status to take unfair advantage of a junior. She might say as little as ten pounds, but more probably it would be twenty – fifty was just possible, but a hundred would be considered excessive. In any case, as I reminded myself after my momentary twinge of doubt, I wasn’t going to be the one paying up – she would be, so, yeah, let the bitch name a higher amount if she wanted to, I would be the one having the last laugh in that case.

But she didn’t. Instead, she looked at me appraisingly for a moment, with a curious gleam in her eye, and then her smile broadened into satisfaction, and she nodded:

‘Yes, indeed, fine – whatever I like.’

That caught me off guard, and my mouth hung open in surprise. Partly puzzled and partly vexed, as I felt that she was laughing at some inner private joke, I responded:

‘What? Whaddaya mean? No, like – how much, how much is the bet?’

The mature athlete shook her head, setting her short bob of brunette hair swinging.

‘No, no – you said, “whatever you like” – so, that’s the bet.’ Then she pinned me with a shrewd glance, and turned the screw: ‘Unless you aren’t up for it, of course – unless your word isn’t good?’

She had me there – I had made the foolish offer, and I couldn’t unsay it. Amongst sportswomen in particular, the worst possible thing was to get a reputation as someone who wriggled out of a bet, who was unreliable; it was the very essence of being unsporting, and was viewed with contempt. I stiffened my back, stared the snotty cow in the face, and said coolly:

‘Of course it is! I just meant ... anyway, well – OK then, that’s the bet! So, if I win, then I get to say afterwards how much the bet is for? Is that the deal, that the way you want it?’

After all, I reminded myself again, with my current hot form I was faster than anyone else in the final, and certainly faster than Tamar’s recent times or what she had done in her qualifying heat. Shit, if she wanted to play mind games, well – let her dig her own grave. This was only giving me more of an incentive to win the race – as if putting the seal on qualifying for the Olympic squad wasn’t enough – and, I thought with only partly-concealed ferocity, when I did win, well, I might make it a hundred pounds. The bitch could afford that, and I would dine out in celebration – or, actually, given the needs of training and diet, put it towards a new pair of top-quality racing shoes. All this flashed through my mind in the second before Tamar replied, closing the agreement with a handshake, and (which I did not really register) confirming it in slightly different words:

‘Yes, exactly – if I win, then whatever I want; if you win, then you get to say.’

It still seemed to me to be rather unsatisfactory, somehow unfinished, but I couldn’t press her any further as it was time to get ready for the race, and we said no more to each other after that. I left the locker room first, glancing back over my shoulder to see Tamar peel off her jacket and sweatshirt, revealing her tight-fitting two-piece running outfit – the part like a sports-bra covering her upper chest, and the short tight pants around her hips, below her midriff. I had to admit that she still cut a fine figure, not only as an athlete in the pink of health and fitness, but also as a woman. The decade of age that she had on me had given her more pronounced curves, and she had always had a bit more in the bust department than most women athletes – curiously enough, that was one thing we had in common. Most female athletes are A cups (the Asian women, double-As, almost flat chested), whereas my breasts are size 30B, and I thought Tamar’s were a couple of sizes bigger still, probably 32Cs. She seemed cool and composed, and glanced in my direction, almost as if she had felt my eyes upon her. Slightly discomfited, I turned on my heel and trotted down the short dingy concrete corridor that led underneath the grandstand and out onto the floor of the stadium itself, and began my routine of warm-ups, ready for the final of the women’s 800 metres.

Whether it was gamesmanship or not, she must have got under my skin. I didn’t run a sensible race in the final – I was too keen to put her in her place, and of course instead the outcome was the opposite. I set off much too fast in the first 200 metres, trying to burn off everyone else: the pace was too hot for some and they faded away, but Tamar and two others took up my challenge and kept in contact, running about a dozen metres behind me. My form and fitness were so good that I was able to maintain a rate not much less than this through the middle 400 metres of the race – but Tamar and one of other two, a woman just couple of years’ older than me, maintained their distance, and then started to close in during the last fifty metres of that section.

As we entered the decisive final 200 metres, I realised to my chagrin that I had misjudged it – that my strategy had been lousy, the stupid headstrong stuff of an amateur. I was determined to try and hold them off and win through to the tape, but I could feel my strength ebbing as we approached the final straight. Tamar, on the other hand, had run a superb tactical race, letting me burn up the track, keeping within striking range, but settling into an easy rhythmic lope and husbanding her strength. She had enough left that during the final fifty metres she overhauled me and then went past, and I had nothing remaining with which to respond. I just managed to hold off the slightly-too-late challenge of the woman in third place – the rest of the field were well back – but Tamar crossed the line about four metres ahead of me.

Spent and gasping for breath, I collapsed to my knees, furious with myself for my folly, and only barely consoled by the fact that I had forced it into being a fast race for all of us. In fact, I had posted a time only fractionally below the new PB that I had established in the qualifying round, whilst Tamar – having used me as her pacemaker and stalking horse – had run her fastest time of the year. Both of us were well within the times needed for selection for the Olympic team, though of course we would have to wait for confirmation of our standing in relation to the others seeking a place, and the official announcement. Still, it seemed certain that I would be heading to the Team GB training camp in a week or two, and then to the Olympic Village in July for the London 2012 Olympics! That I would have Tamar as a colleague – and rival – did not bother me; it was getting there myself that counted.

These thoughts were churning through my mind, with joy at the prospect of being an Olympian pushing aside my vexation at having so misjudged both the race and the competitor who I had too glibly written off as past her prime, when Tamar came up to stand behind me, placed a proprietorial hand on my shoulder, and said quietly:

‘Thanks, babe – that was just the extra spur that I needed, and a good fast race! I’ll see you in the locker room later, and then, when the others have gone, you can settle your debt!’

Shit, I’d almost forgotten about the stupid bet! Oh well, I thought, I don’t care if she wants to take me down a peg or two (like she hasn’t already, beating me in the final!), and makes it fifty pounds or more – I’m gonna be in the Olympic team, I’m gonna be an Olympic athlete, and at my own country’s home games! Who cares about anything else!

I was quite weary from two hard 800 metre races, especially as my qualifying heat had been the last one to be run, and so, after removing only my running shoes and socks, I was content to slump for a while on the bench in the locker-room, accepting congratulations from friends and other athletes who I barely knew, and letting them get on with showering and changing. After nearly half an hour, when the shower area was no longer in much use, I rose to my feet and started to take off my running vest – but before I could do so, my eye was caught by Tamar, who was sitting further down the same bench, and she gave me a quick shake of the head in negation.

Oh well, I thought, as I shrugged my shoulders and sat back down, let her make me wait, if that’s what she wants – I’m in no hurry anyway, I’m not doing anything after this except going back to my small rented one-bedroom flat for a light meal and an early night, before training again tomorrow morning. Perhaps, I considered with some apprehension, she is going to make it a hundred pounds, and doesn’t want anyone to hear. Well, if so, I would have to bite the bullet – she might get some stick for setting such a steep amount, but I would get much more if I didn’t honour my bet, however foolishly it had been worded.

After another fifteen minutes, there was that sudden exodus that so often occurs in a changing room – one moment it seems boisterously full and noisy, and then moments later it is nearly empty, echoing and cool. I felt an unexpected degree of tension as I realised that everyone else had gone, and that only Tamar and I were left in the locker-room, both of us still wearing our running outfits.

Tamar walked towards me as I started to open my mouth, intending simply to ask ‘how much?’, but she shook her head again, and placed a single finger across my lips to silence me. Then, standing very close in front of me, she pulled her top over her head and in one motion stripped both her running shorts and panties down her legs, so that in an instant she was completely naked. For a moment she stood there, with her hands resting on the swell of her powerful hips and her jutting breasts pointing directly at my face. I was speechless, unsure of where to look or what to say. Then Tamar reached across to where she had been sitting, rummaged in her equipment bag, produced a plastic bottle of liquid soap and another of combined shampoo and conditioner, and handed them to me. Before I could react to this, she turned on her heel, and walked with slow swaying strides across to the entrance of the large communal shower area. When she got there, she turned back to face me, leaning her spine against the door-frame, with her breasts slightly swaying and her cunt fully exposed to view.

‘Whatever you like – remember, that’s what you bet, whatever I like,’ she said with an anticipatory smile. ‘You can begin working off your debt by helping me in the shower – so, get your kit off, babe, and bring those bottles.’

With that she turned away, and strode like a lioness into the steam-filled shower room. I was struck dumb: what did she want, what did she mean? I was just beginning to have a faint, disturbing idea of what I might have let myself in for. I didn’t know much about Tamar’s personal life, for, despite being well-known in athletic circles, she wasn’t really a celebrity and she kept things quite private, so there was little in the press. Was there a husband or a boyfriend? I couldn’t recall any mention of either, but equally she was not – as quite a few athletes were – known within the sport as a lesbian, certainly not of the kind that likes to prey upon the younger and prettier girls at the start of their careers when they are vulnerable or easily flattered by the attention. Either Tamar was much more discrete and less promiscuous than the other lesbians, or – most likely – she was bisexual (which is the case with the majority of female athletes), and only occasionally indulged her sapphic side.

I was not that way inclined myself, not at all, of that I was quite sure. The truth was that since the age of eleven I had been so taken up with my athletic ambitions that there had been little spare time, and even less spare energy, for much of a sex life at all. When you are training for several hours every day after school, summer or winter, and also every Saturday and Sunday, varied only by travelling to different cities to take part in athletics meetings and competitions, there is little scope for anything else. I also had to watch my diet very carefully and get regular sleep, so that ruled out drinking in bars or going to parties. My parents, quite rightly, had insisted that I did not skimp on my schoolwork, and so I had left school with grades high enough to get a place at a top-ranked university. There had been no room in my life for boyfriends before I went to college, and in fact I was still a virgin when I arrived there, although a quick fling in the third week had relieved me of my cherry. In the twenty months since then, I had had a few brief stuttering relationships with male students, but they never lasted or amounted to everything – the guys could tell that they came a long way second to my training schedule, and usually their pride didn’t let them stick with that for very long. I had probably had had going-all-the-way sex less than a ten times, most of which had been brief and none especially inspiring.

From this brief reverie, I came down to earth again in the empty locker-room. Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions, I told myself, maybe there was not anything more in this than met the eye. Anyhow, compliance was the only option, whatever it was that I ended up doing. I broke out of my brief frozen hesitation, quickly stripped naked, and picked up Tamar’s bottles of toiletries. With a nervous fluttering in my stomach, I trotted after her into the enveloping misty warmth of the shower room.

We had it all to ourselves, which I now realised had been her deliberate intention. Tamar was standing directly under one of the shower-heads, enjoying the feel of the deliciously hot water streaming down her body. Her short but thickly-layered bob of dark hair was now plastered to her skull, and I could see the water running over her pert breasts and down her flat stomach, after which, disconcertingly, it trickled from the clean-shaven groove between her legs. Tamar took one step sideways to stand just outside the jet of water, beckoned me over, and then, as I approached, turned her back towards me.

‘Soap me, sweetie, soap my back’, was her brief instruction.

Oh well, I thought with relief, I can do that. I uncapped the bottle of bath oil, poured a libation into the palm of my right hand, and then applied it to the older woman’s back – starting at the base of her neck, and working across her shoulder blades and down her spine. Like any athlete, I have plenty of experience of being massaged, as muscular stiffness and minor injuries are a constant part of one’s life, and the sports physiotherapist is a regular port of call. I applied that knowledge now, kneading Tamar’s shoulders and pressing my thumb across beneath her shoulder-blades and her ribs. Of course, it did not take long until I had soaped her back into a nice lather, and my hands paused at the top of her butt.

‘Mmmm, nice ... yeah, that’s good – don’t stop now, keep on – keep going!’

I swallowed, and then more tentatively began to rub a second portion of the liquid soap over her ass, but avoiding going into the cleft between her buttocks. In a weird way, it was actually kind of pleasant – of course, she had a very trim ass, finely muscled and without an ounce of flab or fat, but it was the sweeping circular motions that I could make which were somehow soothing. Without realising it, these circles had become wider and wider, and my hand was almost slipping into her crevasse, although only at the top, not down near her ass-hole and – gulp – the base of her pussy, both of which were fully visible.

I was just about to stop again, when Tamar turned round to face me. Her face looked a little flushed, but then the shower-room was hot and very humid. She held my eyes for a moment, and I had a brief insight into how a rabbit feels when caught in headlights.

‘Now do my front,’ she purred.

What? I shrieked mentally, without letting my face show my uncertainty and panic. Oh, shit! ... I’ll have to do it, have to do it, was the thought bouncing around in my empty echoing skull.

With a shaky breath, under Tamar’s keenly watchful and anticipatory gaze, I tipped the bottle and poured some of the liquid soap in a line across the top of her chest, just below her collarbone. Then, taking my courage in both hands, and ignoring as best I could their slight tremble and the tightness in my throat, I began to spread this out and lather it up. I swallowed nervously as I tentatively smoothed the creamy bubbles over the curves of her upper breasts and then – unavoidably – I stroked their lower part, feeling the curious mixture of muscular firmness and soft femininity. I nearly jerked my hands backwards, as if I had received an electric shock, when the palms of my hands brushed across her nipples – they were hard, and stiffly erect.

Like a little girl, I was unconsciously nibbling my lower lip in concentration, as I slid my hands down a little further and cupped her breasts from underneath, lifting them to be rinsed clean in the spray of water, and then smoothing around them. To my puzzled surprise, as I fell into a rhythm I found that stroking her breasts was almost hypnotic, and in a curious way quite satisfying. It was strange, but it was as if Tamar and I were isolated together in a separate world – some limbo away from reality, away from normality, in which the usual inhibitions and prohibitions no longer applied. Of course, the combination of euphoria and exhaustion from my races played a part in this, as did the warmth and humidity of the steam-enveloped shower area, and even the now quiet and deserted locker room felt as if it was a mile away.

Through all of this, Tamar’s eyes were half-closed, as she revelled in the sensations that my attentions to her breasts were producing. Then, she shook herself a little, looked at me directly, and gave the most alarming and shocking instruction of all, beginning with one simple devastating word:

‘Lower ... go lower, mmm, yes, honey ... go down ...’

I gave an involuntary gasp, followed by a slight splutter as some of the water from the shower sprayed between my half-parted lips. Perhaps, if that had not happened, I might have uttered words of refusal or at least of protest ... but perhaps, too, I might not. I felt quite detached, almost as if I was standing outside myself, as much an observer as a participant in this unfolding scene, and I lacked the willpower to contest the inexorable unfolding of Tamar’s ingenious strategy of seduction.

The older athlete gave me a smile tinged with hungry anticipation, as she moved a little aside and leaned backwards against the wall. With her shoulder-blades settled against the tiles, she shifted her stance so that her legs were further apart and her pelvis was thrust out towards me. I was transfixed, mesmerised by the presentation of her naked smooth-shaven cunt, with its puffy jutting labial lips and the already-parted deep pink slit between them.

Feeling strangely flushed, I was almost on auto-pilot as I put some more of the liquid gel into the palm of my right hand, and then rubbed it across Tamar’s lower stomach, postponing for a few seconds touching the minefield lower down. I knew, with an unbidden certainty, that when my hand descended below the slight curve of her pelvis, I would be crossing a Rubicon from which there would be no return – that it would be a life-changing moment. And yet, strangest of all, that prophetic vision did not stop me. Slowly my hand drifted downwards and gave a first tentative pressure around the top of her cunt, and then up and down on each side. I still held off from letting my fingers stroke her actual genitalia, from either touching her labia or even slipping down the furrow between them. But it was inevitable, it was bound to happen – this moment had been coming, I realised now, from the moment that she had stripped naked and led me into the shower area ... no, I thought with a quick flash of understanding, it had been ordained from the moment when I had uttered the fateful words of my naive and boastful bet.

As this passed through my mind, as if of their own volition my trembling fingertips smoothed down to the base of her cunt, and then slid upwards and traced the edges of her inner labia, before teasing them apart and probing into her moist vagina. Tamar gave a throaty moan and pushed her pelvis even further forward, thrusting against me so that my finger slid into her for about an inch!

I jerked it back as if I had been burned – but the damage was done, and the seed then sown sprouted with sudden intensity. Without any conscious decision, my right hand was joined by my left, and together they began a more purposeful massaging of Tamar’s pussy, rubbing the remaining soap bubbles around, first clockwise and then anti-clockwise, and then kneading up and down her slit, feeling the slippery rubbery smoothness of her labia and dipping in and out of the valley of desire that they enfolded.

After a few moments of this, Tamar’s breathing began to quicken and to break up into short shaky gasps. Her eyes were wide open and locked onto mine with riveting intensity – she held me in thrall by sheer willpower, and I could no more have resisted or desisted than I could have flown to the moon. Drawn in to her vortex of desire, my nipples hardened into aching erection and I felt my own vagina flush with wet warmth. With an involuntary moan of my own, I increased the pace and pressure of my pussy-massage, squeezing Tamar’s fleshy folds and digging my fingernails into her labia. Her nostrils flared, she gave a soft cry, and my hand felt a quiver shake her vulva, after which came a sudden loose openness of her vagina. Such was her commanding presence and self-control that it took me a moment to register that she had just had an orgasm, and I felt a tangled mingle of scandalisation and achievement as I realised that I had just made another woman come – something that I had never dreamed that I would ever do; indeed, I didn’t even ‘make’ my boyfriends come, but just lay supine on my back and let them thrust into my hole until they effectively jacked themselves off.

As Tamar breathed unevenly for a moment, I began to wonder if I had now done what she wanted – that I had paid my dues for my bet in giving her sexual pleasure, and would be sent on my way. Strangely, crazily, this thought instantly made me feel rather flat and disappointed, as if that would somehow be a let down.

I should have had more faith in the stamina of the medium-distance runner! The older athlete tossed her head slightly, reminding me for an instant of a thoroughbred filly in the starting stalls before a race, and then she whispered in a silky tone:

‘Remember, sweet thing, “whatever you like”, that’s what you offered – that’s what you bet ... well, now you know my secret ... and THIS ...’

as she spoke that word, she reached forward and – before I realised what she intended – her right hand cupped my Venus mound and squeezed my pussy in a firm, possessive ... and, mmmm, arousing ... oh, my! mmm, aah! ooohh! yessss! ... grip. My eyes went wide with shock and a shudder ran through me from head to toe as she caressed my cunt, her middle finger pressing into my vaginal groove, and continued with scarcely a beat of a pause:

‘... is what I like ... and you, you sexy little bitch, you – you’re what I want! ... and you’re bound by your word, yeah, to give me “whatever I like” ... and that’s your hot body, your cute bouncy tits, your bubble-butt ass, and – most of all – this sweet fuckin’ pussy, that’s all so wet and dripping ...’

At that, I gave some sort of feeble yelp of denial – it was just the warm water from the shower running down there, I was sure ... and then, suddenly, I wasn’t sure, as I felt a pulse of excitement at her touch. It was far, far more arousing than any boy had ever been, and it set my pussy glowing with an inner fire! My labia curled open, my pussy lips parted, and a hot surge flushed through me, a split second before Tamar’s long forefinger split my hole and thrust into me, sinking with slick adroitness and lubricating wetness into my vagina and invading me deeply, until the only thing that stopped it was the bump of her knuckles against my pelvic bone.

Tamar knew then – if she had not been fully certain already – that I was hers, hers to seduce, hers to play with, hers to use and hers to fuck, and that I would do so willingly, whatever she desired. Somehow she knew, even before I did – or before I could accept it – that I am a lesbian, that my attempted boyfriends had been a feeble and futile pretence to avoid this truth: that what set me on fire was the sensual touch of another woman, and preferably an older, experienced, powerful woman.

‘Oh! ooaaah, help! Oh, Tamar ... mmm, no, you shouldn’t ... aaakk! ... do that, mmm, yes ... mm, that ... fuck, yeah! ... do that, mmmm, oh, yeah, do that, please ... oogghh, like that! oh shit, yeah! do that! do me, do that!!’

There was no doubt now that she was taking me, that she was fucking me with unbridled sapphic passion and lesbian lust ... and, yes, also no doubt now that I wanted this, that I was giving myself up to her, body and probably soul as well.

I learned afterwards that Tamar was also (shit, what a word to use in this context, also!!) completely 100 per cent lesbian, but she had been very discreet about it throughout her career, taking her lovers from outside the world of athletics, and generally in long-lasting relationships – the most recent of which had ended about five months ago. Now she exploited all of that experience, and played my body as if it was a musical instrument.

Tamar gently swung me around to take her place against the wall, and a good thing too – my legs were suddenly afflicted with the jelly-fever, as my joints went all loose and floppy, and I might otherwise have fallen over or at least collapsed into a kneeling heap. My head went back on my shoulders, and it was my turn to thrust my cunt out at her, so that she could abrade and penetrate it more easily. Her long forefinger was now sliding in and out of my lubricated hole with ever increasing pace, force and fluidity, as my pussy flushed hotly loose and wet.

With an appreciative murmur, Tamar stretched my labia apart, and then slid her two longest fingers into my vulva, making me gasp in shock at the intrusion. The older woman began to piston her digits in and out of me in an ever faster and more forceful rhythm, and a tremor ran through me, thrilling in both its intensity and its novelty. Tamar was relentless, and that was just what I wanted and needed then. She had no hesitation as she took my lesbian cherry, as she completed my initiation into the all-girl sisterhood, as she turned me into her eager sapphic slut. My eyes closed as all of my being became centred in my cunt, and I began to pant for breath. From somewhere, someone was whimpering and groaning, and then a hoarse strangled voice was begging with desperate insistence and intensity – and it was ME, it was me that was beseeching a woman I barely knew, a woman ten years older than me, to fuck the living daylights out of me, to shaft me and screw me and fuck me to pieces!

With a wild cry I climaxed, my whole frame juddering against the tiled wall behind me and my hips jerking with electrified ecstasy. It was far and away the best orgasm that I had ever had –rising within me and then breaking over me with the shattering power of a tsunami, leaving me as it ebbed with a feeling of rich fulfilment. It was a revelation in every sense of the term: it was both astonishing and exciting in opening my eyes to what it was possible to experience, and also shocking and sobering in exposing what really lit up my lights – sex with another woman. It seemed that in reality I was a lesbian, and although I wasn’t quite ready to work through the consequences of this, it did not occur to me to try to reject it – my response to Tamar’s caresses had been too real and too profound to be deniable.

The older athlete slid her fingers out of my hole and lifted them to her face, sniffing my aroma and then licking the traces of my cum-juice. As I leaned against the wall, gasping for breath and dizzy with discovery, Tamar gazed at me with a warm smile, her eyes shining with relish at my response to her seduction. She let her fingers fall to cup my breast, and I moaned again as her thumb rasped across my incredibly-sensitised nipple. I didn’t know what to say, and still more what to do, but I was in capable hands – very capable indeed.

‘Mmm, nice, very nice’, purred Tamar softly, and then she added – with a squeeze of both my breasts for emphasis: ‘as a starter ... but you’ve got a way to go yet!’

Clashing emotions warred within me, of both alarm and yet a strange relief, as if I knew deep down that it could not just be left at this point, and that to stop after such intense intimacy would be the worst thing of all. Tamar saw that acceptance in my eyes and she nodded twice, and then she moved closer, sliding her hands behind my back to cup my buttocks and drawing me against her so that our breasts were pressed together. Her lips brushed mine, and suddenly I was kissing her passionately, our tongues entwining. After a moment, she was the one to break away, but she put out a hand and led me back into the coolness of the deserted locker room.

‘You’re coming with me, babe’, she stated with incontrovertible assurance, and I felt an anticipatory tingling flush in my pussy as she told me that she was going to collect on the rest of her bet at her own place, ‘where there’s plenty of time and no interruptions’. She added that I was to stay the night, but that in the morning she would consider my obligations discharged, and I could then leave and, if I wished, this would never be spoken of again. I was too locked in the here and now to be able to think that far ahead, but as some response was needed I simply gave a dazed and mute nod.

Tamar swiftly dried herself with her towel and began to put on her everyday clothes – an attractive set of pale blue bra and bikini panties, a light camisole top and a neat dark red pencil skirt that tapered just above her knees. To this was added a matching wasp-waisted jacket, and then a pair of smart black leather boots. I was slower, due partly to physical tiredness, partly to the confusion of my emotions, and partly to stealing glances at Tamar’s lithe body as she slipped into her stylish outfit. I also had to take particular care as I dried around my crotch, where my labia were still puffily aroused and so sensitive that even the gentlest rubbing sent electric shocks running through my pelvis. Tamar arched an eyebrow and watched with amusement as I tentatively dabbed the towel at my pussy, my teeth nibbling my power lip to prevent me from moaning aloud with pleasure. Once I was dry, I reached into my bag for a pair of fresh panties, but she stopped my motion with a touch of her fingers on my wrist.

‘You won’t be needing those – leave them in the bag, I don’t want you wearing anything under your skirt.’

With her other hand, Tamar scooped up from the bench the panties that I had worn during our race, and she gave them a sniff before she tucked them away in a pocket of her own sports bag, adding with a smile:

‘I’ll keep these – I always like to have a souvenir!’

I swallowed, but it never crossed my mind to object or refuse – and not just because of the terms of the wager. That had become almost irrelevant to me now, and what was drawing me on and ensuring my compliance was my need to know more, to discover more, and to be taken further down this road. Even so, it felt very strange as I finally stood there in the locker room, apparently fully dressed but with no panties and a naked pussy beneath my short black pleated skirt. I had never before in my life worn a skirt or dress without panties, and I felt nervously vulnerable but also deliciously naughty. As we walked through the building and out into the parking lot, we passed several people who smiled or nodded their congratulations to us both. Hopefully they ascribed my flushed and mumbled replies to a charming modesty, when in truth it was because some part of me was convinced that they could see right through my clothes and somehow knew that my just-fucked cunt was panty-less beneath.

My knees were almost ready to give way by the time that we reached Tamar’s vehicle, a smart metallic silver Mercedes which at any other time I would have admired and envied (I had no car of my own, and had arrived at the event by train and bus). Tamar took my bag from my unresisting grip and tossed into the boot along with her own gear, as I slid gratefully into the passenger seat. Taking her place behind the steering wheel, Tamar slid the key into the ignition but paused before starting the engine, looking over at me. With my mouth suddenly dry, I reached for the seatbelt and drew it across my body, acutely aware of how the cross-strap slid between my breasts, parting them and pushing them into prominence. As I clicked the buckle into place and the belt-strap cinched across my fluttering stomach, it felt as if I was putting myself into bondage for her – which was an alarming concept, and even more alarmingly it was somehow a tantalising one as well.

Fastening the seatbelt seemed to be taken by Tamar as a definite acquiescence on my part of her sexual intentions and an acceptance of my own lesbian desires – and so, I suppose, it was. She gave me a wide vivid grin that sent a warm glow through me, reached across to squeeze my nearest knee both comfortingly and possessively, and then engaged the starting motor. As we drove away with a spurt of gravel, she forestalled conversation – not that I had any, in fact my mind was almost blank – by switching on the CD player. It turned out that she was a fan of Bruce Springsteen – as I am – and the comfortingly familiar power chords of ‘Badlands’ blasted out as we whisked through a couple of suburbs and then roared down the slip road onto the motorway.

There was not a lot of traffic at this time of day, and Tamar settled into a steady cruising speed of 70 miles an hour in the middle lane. Then, as the CD (clearly a compilation of her favourite Bruce tracks) shifted to ‘The Rising’, her left hand slipped across to caress my right knee, gently but firmly easing my legs apart. I needed no encouragement, and with alacrity I spread myself as wide open as the confines of car would allow, my left knee pushing against the soft leather of the door and my right knee pressed against the gear stick. Tamar glanced down with an appreciative chuckle, and then her hand deftly flicked my skirt up to my waist, completely exposing my naked cunt. Her fingers quested for my gash, rubbing around and beside it, and then probing into my moist and quaking hole. As the powerful car purred along, its experienced lesbian driver finger-fucked me to another climax. As my orgasm built, my back arched and my buttocks left the car seat, my pelvis straining upwards against the restraint of the seatbelt. The back of my skull pressed against the head-rest and I closed my eyes, whimpering with my fierce need for release, until I gave a shriek as my climax exploded.

I slumped back in the seat, gasping for breath and with a puddle of sweat and cunt-juice pooling at the juncture of my thighs. I shivered as Tamar withdrew her questing finger and lifted it to her own mouth, licking along it to taste the flavour of my cum. For a few moments I remained half-lying and half-sitting in a lascivious sprawl, my legs still wide apart, enjoying the tantalising thrill of exposing myself to this assured lesbian, and enjoying still more the knowledge that I was arousing her, that I was the object of her sexual desire.

The journey was not a long one, or at least for me it passed in a hazy blur, and after about forty miles we left the motorway – by now, several songs further on, to ‘Tougher Than The Rest’, which seemed somehow appropriate. We circuited the edge of a small town and then took turnings onto country lanes, passed through a pretty little village, and then shortly afterwards pulled into the driveway of a long low building of old yellow stone. It looked as if it had originally been two separate cottages, but clearly had now been converted into one.

Tamar parked the car in front of a garage that stood separately to the right of the main building, and there was a sudden hush as she turned off the engine. I was momentarily unsure of the next move, but she had no such hesitation. She released first her seatbelt and then mine, and then she shifted sideways in her seat. Her right arm came across and plunged between my legs, two long fingers pushing up inside me and her thumb pressing against my clitoris, whilst her left hand gripped the back of my neck and drew my mouth towards hers for a devouring kiss. It is not in my nature to be passive in any situation, and I responded by squirming my right hand between her thighs, pushing my fingers around and behind the crotch of her panties to feel her wet pussy, and then probing with amateurish skill but evident enthusiasm at her warm enclosing flesh.

I thought that Tamar was going to finger-fuck me again then and there – and, believe me, I had no objection at all, for all my inhibitions had slipped away during that sex-fuelled drive, and were littered behind me somewhere along the motorway. Instead, she stopped short, leaving me aching with desire, my nipples so stiffly erect that they were thrusting through the fabric of my bra and my figure-hugging lambswool sweater like miniature missiles, primed to detonate. Tamar got out of the car and came round to my side, opening the passenger door and extending a hand to help me out. I appreciated the gesture, partly for its combination of elegance and assured possessiveness, and partly because my legs felt like jelly and I was not sure that I could walk straight on my own.

Twining our fingers together, my new friend ... no, let’s be frank, my new girlfriend ... in fact, let’s be completely honest, my new lover ... led me to the front door of the cottage, and then inside. I liked it at once: the timber-beam ceilings were low and the leaded diamond-pane windows small, making it feel secure and sheltered, whilst the comfortable furnishings and curtains had a cosy and cheerful effect. It was separated from the nearest habitation by several hundred yards, and had a large secluded rear garden in which Tamar had laid out a small running track; between this and the conversion of an adjoining barn into a well-equipped gym and a medium-sized swimming pool, she had everything that she needed to do most of her training at home, and I was suitably admiring and quite envious. If this is what success brings – well, I thought, bring it on, bring it on!

‘You know,’ Tamar said quietly, her hands resting upon my shoulders, ‘I’ve wanted this ... been hoping for this chance ... for quite a while, ever since I first saw you run, at the start of the year. You are the sexiest, hottest little piece out there on the track, did you know that? That ass of yours, especially – d’you know how you wiggle it, you tease, huh? And, yeah, I’ll admit it, you’re the most talented of the young runners at our distance ... and you’ve got the grit, the determination, to take it all the way, Olympic medals too – maybe not this time, too soon, but someday. Yeah, bitch, when you’re on fire, you’re hot, you’re fucking hot ... and I’m hot for fucking you!’

I blushed and modestly looked downwards – which was a mistake if I wanted to keep my cool, because it meant I was gazing straight down her front, at the cleavage of her alluring rounded breasts. Her words gave me a warm flush, and not just in my pussy from her admiration of my body and her lust for it – even more, it was her compliment of my ability, her confirmation of my future in the sport. Coming from Tamar in particular, it was an incredible boost to my self-belief, and I could almost feel myself relaxing inside.

I didn’t have time to say anything in response – I started to mumble something, I don’t know what – because Tamar’s hands moved unerringly to my breasts, cupping each one and squeezing it, rolling my suddenly firm and so-sensitive nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, and my words turned instead to a moan of desire. It was my moment of surrender, and she knew it, as I gasped:

‘Fuck me! Oh, God – fuck me, please fuck me! I’ll do anything, anything you want – just show me, show me how – take me, do me, please – make me, anything, just fuck me, fuck me hard!’

Tamar’s lips curved in a wide smile and her eyes gleamed, making her incredibly alive and attractive.

‘Oh, yes, babe – that is just exactly what I have in mind, and I will, I will – I’m gonna have you, I’m gonna take you there, all the way, so you’ll never ever want to come back again!’

There was a desperate pleading tone in my voice, such as I had never used with any male lover ever, as I replied:

‘God, yes, Tamar – I’m yours, I’m yours, please – anything you want, whatever you like, just take me, just do me!’

Then and there, in the hallway of her cottage, she pulled my sweater over my head and swiftly undid the side buttons and zip of my black skirt, letting it tumble down my legs. At once she reached for my bra, tugging the straps from my shoulders and jerking the bra-cups down so that I spilled out of them. For a moment she groped and mauled my breasts, sending shivers of arousal down my spine, and then she undid the clip at my back and discarded my bra altogether. I stood before her, rigid with desire as her eyes roved over my body, now naked apart from my hold-up stockings and low-heeled shoes. Once again she asserted her claim upon me by thrusting a hand between my legs, and I arched my hips apart in surrender as she cupped my cunt and gave it a firm proprietorial squeeze. Tamar’s nostrils flared and there was a hard edge of need in her voice as she rasped:

‘This ... is mine, all mine – yeah, bitch, your pussy is mine!’

I swallowed and wordlessly gazed back into her lust-filled eyes, my acquiescence evident from my flushed face, half-open mouth, stiff pointy tits and, most of all, my dripping, oozing, gaping vagina.

Tamar took my hand in her commanding grasp, and towed me behind her up a short staircase and into the main bedroom, which nestled beneath the steep roof with two dormer windows, one facing the front of the cottage and other looking down onto the back garden. My seducer pulled the drapes on the front window, but left the private rear one as it was, with the setting sun sending soft warm rays across the bedroom ceiling. There was a large – really, an enormous – double bed at one end of the room, and Tamar whisked the colourfully-patterned duvet to one side, revealing the pale yellow sheet beneath. I made half a step towards the bed, assuming that she meant me to lie down on it, but Tamar checked me with a hand on my arm.

‘Eager, ain’t you, babe?’ she laughed, and then added: ‘good – I like that in a girl. And for a beginner?’ ... here she gazed at me questioningly again, and with a blush I looked down at the carpet and sheepishly nodded ... ‘yeah, for a newbie, you’re doing real good. But – first things first, honey, first things first. Undress me!’

I gasped at the command, thrilled at the prospect. Tamar stood confidently in the middle of the bedroom carpet, a vision of mature athleticism in her smart and stylish outfit. Carefully I undid the two buttons of her elegant burgundy-coloured jacket, my palms brushing across her breasts as I slipped it from her shoulders and slid the sleeves down her arms. As I removed the jacket, Tamar nodded towards a nearby chair, and I placed it neatly over the back of it as she gave an approving smile. Her camisole top was next, and obligingly she raised her hands above her to facilitate its removal, after which it joined the jacket on the chair. For a moment I paused, admiring the sight of her rounded breasts in their lacy sky-blue bra. She was definitely bustier than almost any woman distance runner that I knew, although her mounds were no more than average by other standards. To me, however, used to a world of almost flat-chested women, in which my own modest B cups were a cause for comment, Tamar was Aphrodite, she was Venus, she was a love goddess personified.

I cupped her breasts in both my hands, for a moment lost in wonder as to how I had come to be here, to be doing this, and not just with any attractive woman – but with Tamar Johnson, who had been a heroine admired at a distance when I had been a coltish young teenager making my ascent through local running teams and county championships. I wanted her now in ways that I had never dreamed of then, and I could not resist the fascinating allure of her firm ripe bust. Reaching behind her – a motion that brought me so wonderfully close that my naked tits brushed against the fabric of her bra-cups – I unclasped her backband and peeled the pretty lingerie away from her chest. Then I stooped forwards and brought my lips to each of her nipples in turn, kissing and licking around the aureole and then sucking the tit between my lips. To my delight, this produced an audible gasp of arousal, and Tamar lifted her breasts with her own hands, thrusting them into my devouring mouth. I spent a moment sucking on each in turn, worshipping at the altar of mature femininity, before the light pressure of her fingertips on my shoulders eased us apart.

‘Mmmm, nice’, she murmured; ‘do the rest, babe, undress the rest of me!’

With her hands planted on her hips, Tamar was a vividly arresting vision – nude from the waist up, but so sexily attired below with her sharply-tailored pencil skirt and shiny black leather boots. She looked so sexually-charged that my breath caught in my throat, and my fingers trembled with anticipation as I fumbled at the fastening of her skirt. At last, the button came loose and I jerked the side-zip downwards, so that the skirt peeled apart at her waist sufficiently that it could be pulled down over her powerful hips and thighs. I have to say that she looked even more magnificently amazonian when reduced to just the boots and a tiny pair of thong panties, lacy and light blue in a matching set with her bra.

Released from the restriction of her tight skirt, Tamar shifted her stance to place her feet about a yard apart. Then she hooked a finger around the miniscule gusset of the thong and yanked it aside, exposing herself to me once again.

‘Do you want it, bitch? Do you, yeah?’ she said, as I stared transfixed at her pussy. ‘Well then’, she continued, ‘actions speak louder than words – so show me, babe, show me right now!’

I almost collapsed onto my knees, sinking down in front of her with hot lust raging through my young body. My eyes were riveted on the sweet prize of her parted slit, and I leaned forwards to place a series of delicate but probing kisses along its length, teasing my tongue into the crevasse and for the first time experiencing the musky aroma and the texture and taste of another aroused female. ‘God, it’s good, so good’, I thought to myself with amazement, ‘I don’t care how I got here, I’m here now – this is what I want!’

I took a grip of the narrow waistband of her panties and rolled them down her thighs, over the top of her boots and then descending their smooth leather length to her ankles, after which Tamar lifted each foot and I quickly removed the skimpy garment. I don’t think that I had even a momentary hesitation before my mouth latched onto her cunt like a vacuum cleaner, sucking her juices and probing my tongue deep into her feminine folds. Tamar began to gasp and then to grunt, and she gripped my head in her hands and ground her pussy against me until her hips jerked in the spasm of her orgasm, and her cunny-juice sluiced across my cheeks and chin in a sudden sweet-and-sour shower.

The imposing older athlete took a few seconds to recover her breath, and then she gestured towards the bed.

‘On your back, bitch – and spread!’ she commanded.

I scrambled to obey, and lay there, admiring the powerfully erotic sight of Tamar in nothing but her black boots, their outdoor smartness all the more emphasising our indoor nudity. My mistress knelt between my legs for a moment, running her hand over my cunt and then licking it, but this was just a preliminary. After a moment, she swung around into what I knew – from theory, never before from reality – to be the 69 position. She positioned her knees at either side of my shoulders and then lowered her pussy onto my face, whilst her own mouth descended again upon my vagina, her fingers teasing my labia apart so that her agile tongue could delve deeply into me.

Soon I was moaning incoherently, but my voice was muffled by the fact that I was eating her out as avidly as she was devouring me. I wrapped my hands around her waist, pressing her pelvis down upon me so that I was almost smothered, and lashed my tongue around her gash. I soon found her clit and concentrated upon that, making her whole body tremble as I sucked and nibbled upon her nub. As she felt her climax coming, Tamar lifted her head from between my legs and gave a shuddering moan, driving her cunt back down against me. However, she was too experienced a lesbian to let herself get swept away entirely, and she gripped one of my legs with one hand and speared two long fingers of the other into my hole like a battering ram, slamming in and out of me. Her timing was close to perfect, and we gave the broken plaintive cry of orgasm nearly in unison, although she was fractionally ahead of me.

With a satisfied sigh, Tamar rolled over to lie on her back beside me. Without even thinking about it, I cuddled up next to her and nestled in her enfolding arms, with my cheek pillowed against the side of her soft breast. I was amazed at how my world had changed so suddenly and so completely, and how I could feel so quickly so contented, so secure, so – there was no other word for it – so grounded. It was as if I had at last got in touch with my real self, had understood at a deep level what I needed to be happy, and – most of all – had accepted the truth. I knew with profound certainty that this was not that I was bisexual, for that word just didn’t fit, it didn’t feel right or comfortable at all, and instinctively I shied away from it. No, I thought with a swift luxuriating flush of happiness, as if my unconscious self had been allowed in from the cold and like a cat (mmmm, a pussy cat, at that!) was stretching and purring in pleasure in front of a warm hearth fire, no – I’m a lesbian. I’m a girl-loving-lover-girl, a woman-wanter, a cunt-caressing, labia-licking, slit-sucking, dildo-drilling sapphic slut – I’m a lesbian, and I love it!

Tamar was somehow on my wavelength, for as these astonishing self-revelations flooded through my mind and sent salacious tingles through my body, she stirred, holding me closer and stroking my hair and shoulders, and murmured:

‘I meant what I said, you know ... when we got here, I mean.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ I teased in reply, ‘what was that then ... about me being hot and sexy?’

‘Well, yes, that! ... you sure are ... but, I mean about your running, your talent. I know you didn’t run a sensible race in the final, not like you usually do – you’re good at tactics, and seeing the right moment to make a move – but I’ll admit it, I goaded you, quite deliberately. I’d been hoping for a chance to get to know you – well, to seduce you, of course – but our paths didn’t seem to cross as much as I’d hoped, and you were always rather shy and reserved, so I took the chance today to stir you up a bit – and then when you offered that bet, wow! it was almost too good to be true!’

Tamar chuckled, and then turned slightly so that she was looking into my eyes. More soberly, she continued:

‘But it was more than that – I needed that too, I needed the motivation to do my best, and I needed the challenge from running against someone really good, someone I’d need to pull out everything to beat. And, you know, I wasn’t really sure that I could – you’re strong, you little bitch, and you’re fierce, and even running the daft way that you did, right to the end you nearly held me off – I only just made it. Anyway, apart from thanking you for helping me qualify for a place in the Olympic squad – and, believe me, I am so happy about that, as this’ll be my last one – it made me realise I really need a training partner, that training here on my own, it’s just not challenging enough, I’m doing fine physically but I’m not honing my competitive edge, I’m not training psychologically. It would have to be someone first-class, someone I could never take for granted and have to try my best every time we run ... so ... mmm ....’

She stopped and looked at me with a sudden shyness, a vulnerability that allowed me to see the young woman inside the accomplished athlete, and then she popped the question, the real question:

‘... well ... would you consider it? Would you be interested in the idea? It could really benefit both of us, you know, and we’re going to be in the squad together. You’d be welcome to use all the facilities that I’ve got here, we would share them, and there’s a spare room you could use if you ever needed to stay over ... or, of course, we can use somewhere else, a gym and a club track, if you’re more comfortable with that.’ Tamar paused, and then concluded with a strange wistfulness: ‘Anyway, would you think it over ... us being training partners?’

The new me didn’t need to think about it for a moment, but there was one thing that I wanted to make quite clear, and I replied:

‘I would love that, if we were partners ... I mean partners, really partners, not just for training, for everything. If you want that, I’ll move in tomorrow, and – you goose! – I don’t need your spare room! This is where I want to be, this is my bed now ... isn’t it?’

Tamar looked at once so shocked and so happy, like someone who had just won the jackpot in the lottery with the only ticket they had ever bought. We were both so delirious, our hearts so full of promise and love, our cunts creaming with our juices and trembling with desire, that with sudden fervour, as tears of joy streamed down our faces, I rolled on top of her, sliding between her suddenly parting thighs, and we mashed our pussies together. Tamar gave a vibrating moan, releasing months of tension and unrequited longing, and she clutched my sweet ass in both hands as we ground our vaginas against each other, until with a simultaneous shriek we both climaxed, blessing our new life together in a fountaining spray of cunt-juice.

I slumped on top of her, as we both gasped in the aftermath of orgasm – my best one ever, and later she told me it had been the same for her. After a few moments, catching my breath, I settled at her side again – where I want to be, now and always. Tamar looked down at me with affection shining in her eyes, and then she reached down and took my hand. Lifting it to her lips, she kissed it softly once and then placed it between her thighs with my fingers paralleling her slit.

‘Whatever you like ...’, she murmured with a satisfied smile, and so of course I had to show her what I now did like: uninhibited lesbian fucking with fingers, tongue and then pussy itself!


If you enjoyed this, check out my other all-girl lesbian stories ... you might like them too ... (to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story)

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