01. Sara and the Origins of Fluffer - Sex Stories

01. Sara and the Origins of Fluffer

People call me BC. Big Cat. I have had this nickname all my life except for a period of 3 or 4 years at Art College, where I was known as ‘Fluffer’. These are the stories of that time. Fluffer’s time. 01. Sara and the origins of Fluffer Imogen, a long-term girlfriend, had dumped me. With a lack of pride that shames me still, I continued chasing her like some desperately loyal puppy for months. In the end, she went to work abroad for a while, with her big sister’s boyfriend. Naturally, I called her the very day she got back to see if she wanted a drink. Well, she met me, but only to lay it on the line with a brutality that crushed all hopes of us ever getting back together. She spent the whole evening marveling at what great sex she’d had with her sisters (now ex) boyfriend. I had a very good female friend; a fine-art student in my college called Sara, who rang me the next morning demanding to know how I’d got on with Imogen. She was brilliantly upset and angry on my behalf when I told her, then demanded that I come and stay with her that weekend. Her boyfriend, in her words, was, “getting on my tits” and had been chucked out. This happened often and was never as big a deal as it sounded. His place was the only other flat in the converted house, downstairs form hers. Sara really was a very good friend, and very sexy in a kind of pocket-Cleopatra way, but we had just never clicked romantically. We would often joke about it, not quite understanding why as we both thought the ...

... other was attractive. (I heard her describing me on the phone once, “You know, the tall beefy guy, with the buns?”) Whenever our relationship had the chance to blossom into something else, we got the giggles. Simple as that. Also, we both really valued having an uncomplicated friend of the opposite sex when it came to bitching and talking about sex, which to be honest was pretty much all we did. Sara was unusually uninhibited for a girl but, even so, I was surprised when she answered her front door naked. Well, except for a bath towel hanging down in front of her. This caused much hilarity as she let me in, explaining she was just about to have a bath. She twisted and yelped as I attempted to peep under it, and she tried to re-arrange it toga style. “Well this is making me feel much better already!” I said as she led me up the stairs to her flat, her hands clasping the towel to her bottom as we went. She stopped at the bathroom door on a half-landing and pointed me up to the kitchen, then gave me a cheeky flash of buttock. I lunged and she squealed, slammed and locked (!) the bathroom door. One hour later found us in her kitchen drinking peppermint tea and complaining. She had not stopped moaning about her boyfriend in all that time and I listened and enjoyed the break from my own misery for a while. Inevitably the subject got round to my ex. Sara, as usual, was, way more interested in the sordid details than in my proclamations of undying love; cutting me short and bringing me ...