Elle's Adventure Ch. 01

[This story is written for a special someone, but I hope you all enjoy it. An unusual perspective from my point of view].

I was bored.

It was the last term at College, and the exams would come soon. My marks were good, and I had already been accepted at uni, and unless I fucked up the finals (which I wouldn't) I would be off to London in September. Amy and Emma, my besties, were also going to London, and we would, we thought, be able to continue our closeness. They were fine with my being a bit different, and I liked that.

We used to have a laugh about the way in which once we all grew tits men moved from patronising us to perving on us. Amy's chubbiness gave her an ample arse as well as a generous cleavage, and she dressed to take advantage of her assets -- when she could. There was a power in knowing men wanted her, and she enjoyed that power. All the more as she had, she said, no intention of giving them what they wanted until she was ready. Emma had similar views, but different assets. She was tall and red-headed, her legs were (in my view) to die for, and she had a wicked sense of humour. It seemed like some men thought redheads were hot, and she got more than her share of looks. The boys at Aylsham next door were always wolf-whistling her; we all loved that. Well, Amy and Emma did.

I sort of didn't mind the idea that boys fancied me -- which girl doesn't? By that last term I had reached my full height, five foot ten, and if I said so (and I was not the only one who did) my legs were kept in good shape (like the rest of me) by exercise and triathlons. I put myself through my daily regime of squats by reminding myself of how good my bum looked. On the tits front, well I'd probably never match my mum's 36 double D's, but who wanted to borrow her bras anyway? At 32 double E, I felt I made a good showing and did not let the side down when we went out on a Saturday night. But where I differed from Amy and Emma was that where they loved attention from boys, I did not want it.

I remember reading in class about LGBT+ stuff in "personal and social development" and at that point something clicked. Some girls liked girls.

I soon realised you had to be careful. In the Ref there would be catty remarks about "dykes" who "couldn't get a boy", and one girl, Beth, who had come out, was teased relentlessly. I didn't want to go there. I was one of the cool girls, the three of us were besties and the centre of a small group of girls who were widely respected; I didn't want to lose all that. There was also the little fact that, and maybe it was because I was an only child, I was a bit of a control-freak. Amy and Emma accepted my leadership, and even when I told them, one drunken Saturday night on Amy's eighteenth, that I preferred girls, they kept the faith.

"Ya think we didn't know, Elle?" Amy smirked.

"How'd ya guess?"

"Could be the way you perve over Hayley Fisher's tits and arse when we are showering, or it could be the way you show no interest in hot guys like Mark who is trying to look up my skirt," said Emma, crossing her legs to tease.

What I had not told them was that I had approached Beth privately, and her first reaction had told me a lot about why I wanted to keep it quiet, even from my friends.

Beth was a little taller than me at five foot eight, slender with dark hair. After lunch, when we both had a free period, I'd asked if she fancied going to one of the study rooms. She had looked at me.

"You sure you want to be seen in the company of a dyke? Or are you going to tease me too?"

Beth looked so hurt, my heart went out to her, even if, in retrospect, my defences went up.

"I don't care what they think. C'mon, let's get some work done."

We spent an hour or so on the essay we were doing for Friday's class, making good progress. I loved the way she would casually flick her hair back behind her ear as it kept falling forward.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," I said.

"Do what?" Beth asked, startled.

"That thing with your hair."

"Oh, this?" She said, doing it again. "Is it annoying you?"

Being on the sharp side, I realised she was flirting.

"Bloody annoying, it's so sexy."

"Me, sexy?" She simpered.

Sod it I had thought, and I had pulled her towards me and kissed her.

Her lips felt, and tasted, good, and I wanted more.

Beth put up no resistance -- at least after I assured her I had locked the door to the carrell.

There was not a lot of room, but I did not need much.

As we kissed, I had unbuttoned her shirt and unfastened her jeans. Her small breasts were held snugly in a white bra which, as I unhooked it, let them fall free for my hands and lips. Beth gripped me as my lips touched her hard, swollen, reddish nipples. When my lips fastened on her right nipple and began sucking, her hands went to her jeans and she helped my pull them down. My hand slid between her thighs and then, pulling her knickers aside, into a warm, gooey mess. It felt good, that first touch of another girl's pussy, and her reaction suggested I was doing something right.

I knew how to bring myself to orgasm, so tried to do the same with Beth, slipping two fingers into that sticky warm wetness, and applying my thumb to her clitoral area, rubbing, but not directly on it. From the way she had pressed herself onto my hand, I knew I was getting it right.

"Fuck, fuck, Elle, oh fuck, I am sooo wet!"

That had made me intensify my ministrations, and when she came, it was hard, her pussy clenching tightly around my fingers as her orgasm swept her away. She had said later that it was the twin pressures of my mouth on her tits and my hand movements, which had brought her off.

"Now me!"

I had told her, pushing her to her knees as I raised my skirt. I was too worked up for finesse, and pulling my hi-cut white knickers aside, I told her to "lick my pussy."

She had replied:

"Yes, Miss," which had surprised me at the time, leaving me wondering whether she had done this with a teacher; it was only later that the truth dawned up me. Did I say I was quick? Maybe on some things, but how the hell did you sort this crap out? Who knew? And even more important, who told you these things?

The touch of her tongue against my pussy sent thrills to my core. She told me later that it had been her first time too, but that she had watched videos and was trying to do what she had seen the women in them do. Frankly, just the feel of another girl's tongue down there was enough to make me gasp, and when her nose found my clit and pressed it, it did not take long for me to moan out an intense spasm of an orgasm.

We cleaned each other up as best we could, and I opened the window to let some fresh air in -- the whole carrell smelt of pussy.

It had been fun, and we agreed we should do it again, but we never did. Beth got cold feet as her parents pressed her to "get help" for her "problem." I was not going there, and with regret, let it go. I did not tell Amy and Emma. They accepted that I was different, but that was as far as it went. I knew that once I got to uni I could experiment as I liked, but for now, there was nothing to be done. That's why I was bored.

Then Fabienne came into my life.

Our last French "assistant" had left before Easter -- pregnant, was the rumour. I wanted to get my French up before going to uni, partly in case I wanted to take a gap year, and mainly because I loved Paris. We were told there was a replacement for Mlle Yvette, which was a relief. I got to College too early, as ever, and went to the Ref to grab a caffeine injection.

I looked round. Amy and Emma did not do "Frog" as we called it, and though I recognised a couple of fellow students, there was no one there I wanted to talk to -- especially not Mark who I know fancied me as well as Emma. I looked over to the table nearest the door where someone I did not know was sitting. She looked a bit shy. She had darker skin, not brown or black, more olive-complexioned, with liquid brown eyes and her hair cut in a bob. She looked kind of cute, small, under five foot I'd have said. What the hell, I thought, why not talk to the new kid?

"Hi, mind if I join you. I'm waiting for the French class and got here a bit early."

"Oh, hi there," the girl looked at me shyly, "yes, sure, do join me. Nice to meet you."

"You too," I said sitting down opposite her.

She really was petite. Maybe, I thought, she was one of those bright year 10 kids who was good at French and needed more advanced stuff than they got at that level? Her accent suggested she was French, which might explain it -- if she was good at French, that was.

"I do appreciate your friendliness; I am new and have not found it friendly so far."

The way she said "eet" for "it" and "'ave" for "have" was so cute, like her smile.

"It's near the end of the year, and peeps have their friends. We liked Mlle Yvette, but we have been told nothing about the newbie, Mlle Fabienne."

"Really?" She smiled. "I heard that she comes from one of the less good bits of Paris, Genvilliers."

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed. We'd been reading about that in our French class -- it was one of those banlieue where the Algerian immigrants lived. How the fuck, I found myself wondering, did a women from there get to be an "assistant"? They were usually students on their year abroad, and I knew we generally got ours from the Sorbonne. Well, maybe they were desperate and there was no one better, I thought.

"You think?" I said, "Isn't one of those shithole places no one goes after dark."

She looked at me.

"So I am told. Sorry, I don't know your name."

"Soz," I said, I'm Elle."

"Ah," she said, "so you are 'She', like in the Aznavour song?"

Typically French, I thought, what the fuck was that? But of course I wasn't going to let on I had zero idea what she was on about and said: "yes."

At that moment the five-minute bell went to warn us class was about to start.

"Excuse me," she said, "I must just go to the toilets before class."

"Hey," I said on the spur of the moment, "if you have a moment after class, do you fancy a drink? I assume you are old enough?"

She smiled:

"I am, and yes, let's have a drink."

With that she dashed off.

It occurred to me that I hadn't actually got her name. I watched the cute butt retreat toward the loo and wondered, for a moment, whether she might share my preferences? She'd been friendly. Oh well, I thought, I'd get her name and number after class.

I took my usual seat, near the front. I said "hi" to Olivia and Beth (yes "gay Beth") and we got our books out.

"Have you seen Mlle Fabienne?" I asked Beth.

She smiled.

"I have."

"I haven't," I said.

"You were having coffee with her," said Olivia, the self-same moment that Mlle Fabienne entered the classroom.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'd only been flirting with my teacher!

I should have bloody known.

That sweater draped casually over her shoulders was too classy for most of my classmates, and I'd swear that was a white cami top she was wearing. She was bloody small up front if she could get away with that. Those black pinstripe trousers she was wearing suited her. How the fuck could I have been so stupid? Looking at her there at the front of the class, it was bloody obvious.

She smiled at me. Was that a wink? I was too flustered to know.

Mlle Fabienne had a way with her. She was a good teacher. She began by telling us, in French, about herself.

Her grandfather had been a "pied noir", that is a French Algerian, married to an Algerian woman, and her father had also married an Algerian woman. That, I thought, explained the colouring. She had been brought up by her grandparents who lived in Genvilliers on the outskirts of Paris. It was clear from her account that life had not been easy. She had not been able to afford to go to University until her late twenties and she was now, she said, to general amazement, thirty-two. So much for me thinking she looked sixteen. I felt a bit relieved, though could not put my finger on the reason.

The class passed with amazing rapidity. She had us all talking French, and somehow not caring if we got it wrong. As we reached five o'clock, she set next week's work, and dismissed us.

What should I do?

Sod it, I thought, I'd said we'd go for a drink, and so we would.

I packed my stuff up and approached her desk.

"Still fancy that drink, Mlle Fabienne?"

She smiled sweetly.

"No reason I wouldn't. You know the place, where should we go?"

"You don't mind drinking with a student?"

"In Paris we always do, is it a crime here?"

"It's not that common."

She gave a cute little giggle:

"Well frankly, I am not surprised, I've not seen a colleague yet I'd fancy going for a drink with."

"What!" I exclaimed. "All the female staff think Mr Lewis is hot -- and he's single!"

Fabienne, as she had asked me to call her, smiled enigmatically.

"Oh, I see, and you are part of the fan club?"

She had raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Me? Well, I'm female, so..."

I could not quite bring myself to lie.

"So?"

Fabienne's dark eyes seemed to lock on mine.

"So ..."

I hesitated.

"Would it help, Elle, if I said I am gay, or would that make you want to skip the drink?"

Fuck, fuck! I was gobsmacked. Bloody French! No equivocation.

"So am I," I blurted out, suddenly wanting to tell her.

"Good. Now, where are we going for that drink?"

I took her down to the King's Head by the river. As it was April, we could take advantage of the long evening. Mum was on a late shift, so she wouldn't be back until at least one in the morning, and I might as well have supper out as eat alone. Sometimes Mum's job got on my tits, as long evenings with a lonely supper were not much fun; but tonight, well it suited me just fine.

Fabienne ordered us a bottle of decent French red, which she insisted on paying for. We talked about school, about where she was living, how she was finding England; in short, everything except the elephant on the patio.

"Do you want to do dinner?" Fabienne asked as the clock ticked past six thirty, or do you have to be home for your mother?"

"Mum manages the big Sainsbury's in town, she's on lates this quarter, so I won't see her til the early hours, so why not? Don't you have anything better to do?"

"What," she smiled, "than have dinner with an attractive blonde? No, I really don't!"

OMG, I thought, did she say what I thought she'd said? Fuck, she found me attractive. Fuck, was that a thing? Could you get off with your teacher? Well, it wasn't like she was a member of staff, not really, she was French, she was cute and, and ...

So my thoughts crowded together. I hoped my face didn't show the confusion into which her words had thrown me.

Fabienne was acute, as well as cute.

"It's okay for me to tell you the truth, you are beautiful, Elle, and I can't be the only one to think so?"

Oh sod this I thought.

"I am not even 'out' yet, Fabienne. It's not like the girls at school get it. If you're gay you're a dyke and a freak."

"Well," she drawled, lighting a Gauloise, "I guess I am a bit of a freak, and a dyke too. So what?"

"You're not a freak," I protested, "and you are too stylish to be a dyke."

"You flatter me. But let's face it Elle, I am nearly twice your age and, well, it's not like I can match you in the beauty stakes."

"Bull shit!" I exclaimed.

"Admit it, when we first met you thought I was younger than you. It is okay to admit now you know I am much older that you don't want to be with some old lady."

There was something going on here I was not getting. She was cute as hell. Could she not see it? Was she just fishing for compliments? It didn't seem like it.

"What if I found the idea of an older lady being attracted to me sexy?" I said, in a moment of inspiration.

"What do you mean?"

I could have sworn I saw her blush; her eyes flashed. Had I hit a nerve of some sort? Fuck, this was where it sucked being eighteen and having no experience. Had I hit a seam of some sort, or was I just flailing in the dark? It felt like it had with Beth, but worse.

At that point the waitress turned up. I knew Lizzie, she'd been in the year above me and was working here while she saved up for when she went to Durham in September. She'd spent the summer and winter in South America on a gap year, now was the time to earn some dosh.

"Hey Elle, what're you having, and who's your cute friend?"

Lizzie was what she called bisexual and what I called greedy; she liked sex and saw no reason to confine it to one gender.

Fabienne giggled.

"I'm Fabienne, the new French assistant."

"OMG, I am sooo sorry! Put my big foot in it again."

Fabienne smoothed it over and we ordered. I recommended the chicken Caesar Salad, and she had the same.

Once Lizzy was out of earshot, Fabienne leant across the table and touched my hand.

"You mean to say you like the idea?"

I thought I knew what she meant, but thought I did not want to put a foot wrong and so, innocently, asked:

"What idea is that?"

"Do I 'ave to say eet?" Fabienne said, her accent thickening.

"Yes you do," I said, wondering what the fuck was going on?

"You like l'idée of an older woman finding you sexy?"

This felt strange, but somehow exciting. It was like she was getting turned on by the idea of me fancying her, but in some weird shit way.

"The idea turns me on."

She took a mouthful of salad as I looked at her. It was almost as though she was squirming in her seat.

"I got to admit that the idea of a teacher fancying me is a turn on."

There was that look again.

"But a girl like you, Elle, you have such a choice of women. You cannot want an older woman who looks like me, surely not?"

There she went again, dissing herself. Sure she was petite and had no tits, but she was cute.

"I do have a choice, but what if I were to like you? It's not like I could do anything about it, you are my teacher. Anyway you're more experienced than me."

Fabienne seemed to gulp.

"You could do anything you wanted Elle, your beauty gives you that privilege."

There was a wistfulness in the sigh she gave.

Yet again I was puzzled.

She was sexy, in a very cute way, and pretty -- well maybe more beautiful than pretty, I liked her rather beaky nose, and she suited that bob, so what, I wondered, was all this crap about my beauty?

"So," I ventured, "if I wanted an older woman, I'd just snap my fingers would I?" I joked.

OMG she really was blushing, I thought to myself.

"Some of us would come running."

I was puzzled.

First she was implying I could have any woman. Now it was "some of us;" what the fuck was that subset? Who were the "us" (and how did I find them?).

"Us," I asked -- well, I thought, don't ask you don't learn.

"I, I think it best to change the topic, Elle, I am sorry, I am being silly."

At that point Lizzy intervened to take the plates and ask what we wanted for dessert. I settled for a coffee, Fabienne persuaded me to join her in a grappa.

Once Lizzy was out of earshot, I asked Fabienne to explain.

"I got carried away Elle, I am so sorry."

"Well," I giggled, at your height I could easily carry you away."

She let out as gasp.

"Oh you like that idea?"

I can be so thick sometimes, I thought. I thought about those stories I had read on Literotica, about women who liked to be told what to do. I loved those stories, and would imagine having a woman like that. Could it be that I had just found one? My knickers flooded.