People call me BC. Big Cat. A nickname I've had since I was a boy. However, during my years at art college I was known as 'Fluffer'. These are the stories of that time. Fluffer's tales.
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"Sorry, but I refuse to be one more sordid, oral Fluffer story." Charlotte planted herself right beside where I lay (growling) in the tiny hotel's tiny bed. She was naked and next to me but might as well have been dressed in a hazmat suit a mile away. She pulled on her t-shirt, a fitted black woolen thing with a zip on it, and left me to pine over the plump, pink puckers between her legs, all soapy-fresh from their shower and inches from my kiss. She'd even waxed before our holiday for fuck sake, a promising detail that, now, seemed designed to torture me.
She yanked the sheet off my bobbing erection and frowned at it. "Come on. Up." She rifled her bag. "I want to see the Venustemple."
Charlotte was another of Sara's friends: a polite and neat sculptor with a sixties, Twiggy vibe--a big-eyed Bambi amongst the trustafarian lions in her year. We'd been together one whole week and though we fucked every day of it-- even on the plane on the way to our (so called) dirty weekend in Amsterdam--she had a real bee in her bob about the Fluffer thing. She simply would not let me near her vagina with anything other than my cock.
Only meddling, mischievous Sara would have put us together. Worse, we were feeling the pressure of what to tell her. The only thing my lustily satanic little BFF enjoyed more than hooking me up with her lonely friends was grilling us on the gory details after. Half the time it was like she was in the room with us, scrutinising with the expression she reserved for watching porn: Narrowed eyes, chewing the inside of her cheek.
She certainly wouldn't be interested in the vanilla sex Charlotte and I indulged in. It was sensuous (the lights were off) and sensitive (neither of us said a word) and we came together (both remembered condoms). Don't get me wrong, it was gorgeous. I loved it. Charlotte loved it. But even she remarked it was nothing that Sara would "squirm over". Even our quick fuck in the plane's toilet was just that, no more, no less--Charlotte gripped to me like a baby monkey, gasping into my neck. It was wonderful. But you kind of had to be there.
Meanwhile, right at that moment, Charlotte's naked bottom was presented to me as she stooped and rummaged. Underneath her bum cheeks, between her thighs and lovely bald lips, was a surprising, but distinct, glistening. It was as if her pussy secretly begged me--begged me--to kiss it. I lunged.
Our 'lips' touched and Charlotte screeched and spun, whacking me in the face with her knickers.
"Asshole!" She grabbed her things and darted to the other side of the room where, crimson-faced and jaw grinding, she hurriedly dressed.
"Sorry," I said.
She flapped at my bouncing cock. "You stay here and have a wank. I'll see you later."
Then she was gone and it was my turn to get narky. Embarrassed and sorry for myself, I glowered at my reflection in the ornate mirror above the bed. That was another thing. Charlotte had booked this hotel, famously decorated like a bawdily kitsch Victorian brothel... but why?
This was not working. Sara was going to catch such shit for this. I was going to shower, dress and fuck off. After breakfast.
That's when the phone rang by my bed.
"BC?" Sara. I hadn't even said the demon's name three times.
"What."
"I'm not..." Stifled cackle. "Interrupting anything?"
"No."
"Oh."
"I'd suggest you call back later if you wanted to hear us at it, but to be honest--"
"Stop talking. I'm in Amsterdam! Just up the road. Rubbish Alan's got a stag do and he brought me along. Do you and Charlotte want to meet for lunch?"
"Jesus you can't wait can you?"
"Sorry?"
"To hear all our dirty doings."
"OK, you're in shitty mood. Charlotte there?"
I let my silence scream in her ear.
A long sigh. "Oh BC. Has she dumped you already?"
"She's gone to some gallery." Above the bed my still-hard reflection goaded me. "Told me to stay here and have a wank."
