Pisscilla's Girlfriend - Sex Stories

Pisscilla's Girlfriend

I had been an on-and-off member of SLUT for the last half year, sometimes attending a few evenings in a row, sometimes doing my own thing for weeks, but I felt that this, somehow, didn’t sit right with Angie, my roommate. She had introduced me to Wetwood High’s most secret of clubs after she had caught me red-handed - or red-cheeked - one night, with my face buried between pretty redhead Lizbeth Stroker’s thighs behind the gym. Lizbeth had her reputation. Nobody was ever granted the pleasure of tonguing her honeypot twice in a row. Recognizing me for what I was - lesbian and horny - Angie had dragged me to the first meeting of SLUT, and it had been a revelation. I found it curious that I hadn’t heard of SLUT before. Usually, at an all-girls’ school, the most secret things are the first you learn about. But SLUT - Secret Lesbian Union of Tarts - had never crossed my radar in the half year I had already been there. It was actually fun. They had that secret society thing down pat, complete with a stone walled meeting room with a vaulted ceiling in the cellar, swearing a naked oath of confidentiality (and readiness for any pussy in need of a good honey-licking) in flickering candlelight and surrounded by equally naked but hooded pretty girls. You surely can imagine that hormones run high at a school whose population consists solely of seventeen-and-eighteen-year-old girls. At Wetwood, it may even be a little higher than usual. For one, there were no boys in the vicinity, and ...

... leaving school grounds was a no-go, and for two, Wetwood only took in the crème-of-the-crop - or better, all those misbehaving, incorrigible daughters of the money-stuffed and important crème-of-the-crop. If you got booted from High School for the third time because of drugs or indecent behavior and daddy’s checks weren’t able to fix it this time around, chances were good that you got shipped off to Wetwood, an old castle in the middle of nowhere. That had been my fate too. I swear, until sixteen, I had been the perfect daughter and completely satisfied with my life, but then that cute punk girl, Cassie, joined our class. I had only been curious about her, so I visited her at her home for some studying. The next thing I knew was that my pants were across the room and her head buried between my thighs, and god, that punk’s tongue was gifted! From there on, it was all downhill. My grades dropped as fast as my horniness spiked. Cassie and her dyke harem - that’s what she called us, though not everyone was happy with that - were my downfall. I found myself more fascinated with toned thighs, pretty boobs and soft, wet snatches than algebra, and somehow it became my mission to taste every honeypot my age and upwards I could wiggle my tongue into. There’s something so satisfying in these short, high-pitched gasps that announce the upcoming release, and the feminine taste of absolute pleasure, to me, was addictive. If we had managed to keep our activities to after school, nothing much ...