Three in a Bush

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All right, I will admit we got carried away that “girl’s night”. The chatting and the laughing and some tears spilled from one bottle of wine to another and then a third such that our laughter became a little wilder, our chatting a little more slurred, and our inhibitions, well, they were tossed aside with a relief similar to that which we felt when we removed our bras from under our tops.

Each of us giggled as we gave a quick shrug of the shoulders to allow the “girls” to swing free, as they were meant to, and felt that frisson of excitement with the brush of fabric against nipples, reveling in breasts that jiggled and swayed with our movements rather than were trapped still by the constriction of a bra.

Getting together and talking about intimate moments is what bonding between female friends is all about: sharing the good, the bad, and the ugly memories and experiences without reserve. Up until this point, however, the intimacies the three of us had shared did not extend past chit chat and wine, although each of us, at some point along the way, had felt an undercurrent of sexual tension drawing us in, opening us up, and inexorably lessening the need to keep anything hidden whether that be secret desires or our bodies, naked and unashamed.

C, J and I had begun a career together in a very remote location in our province. The remoteness meant that, outside our jobs, we had time on our hands to socialize and drink at house parties, but not much else for it was a scuzzy one bar town, with no museums, or art galleries, certainly no night clubs, and the lone restaurant in town closed down at 7 pm so its owner could go home and take care of her grandkids. More often than not, then, we ended up at one of our three places and, most frequently, C’s izmir escort bayan as she owned her own home which was comfortably and beautifully decorated and on a large private acre farther out in the bush than the small apartment block J and I lived in.

The closer we got to the dregs of wine bottle three, and the more we leaned toward opening number four, the more relaxed and splayed out each of our postures got. I can remember hooking my right leg over the arm of the easy chair, slip-on dangling loosely off my foot, and slumping down so my left shoulder and head were half propped up on the other arm of the chair, only partially aware that my slumping and dangling had ruched my sweater up and my pants down. J was half sitting, half lying on the floor with her back propped up against another chair, her shirt barely buttoned and her pleated skirt gaping at the thighs. C, our hostess, was fully reclining on her couch, head on a pillow, one knee crooked up in the air, the other stretched down onto the floor so that her tee shirt was off one shoulder and her hand was hooked into the waistband on her pants.

It was J who suddenly exclaimed, breaking the comfortable pause in our boozey conversation, that a) she was drunk (we all laughed at the too obvious statement) and b) that she had to pee. Like, NOW!

And with a start, each of us realized that, yup, it was imperative that we hit the toilet running, unless running would break the fragile control we each had over too full bladders. It didn’t help that we giggled all the more as each of us tried, tipsily, to get up from our reclining positions and that we crashed and stumbled into each other as we rushed to the one bathroom down the short hallway. J made it first and with a quick flip of the hand escort izmir her panties were off and her skirt pulled up to her waistline, although a damp spot on each revealed she hadn’t quite made it in time. But the sound of her pee streaming into the toilet and her look of contentment as she relieved her overly full bladder were too much for C and me and I heard C mutter “Oh, fuck” at the same time I groaned “No” and with that each of us was gushing a stream of hot pee.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” C giggled out the epithets with a barely suppressed amusement and then, again, said, “Oh, fuck it,” and peeled her sopping wet pants and panties off in one quick swoop. There was no point in staying wet and uncomfortable, so before my stream of pee had even finished, I, too, peeled off my shorts and stood there with my legs slightly akimbo and finished emptying my bladder right there on the floor. There really was nothing else I could do.

The three streams of urine gradually slowed to a slow drip and the three of us stared at each other for a second before bursting into slightly hysterical, definitely drunk, giggles.

Each of us was naked from the waist down, each of us had urine soaked clothes, each of us was feeling the slight arousal in our pussies that occurs with the emptying of a bladder, and each of us was getting an eyeful of each other’s bushes, glistening still with the drops of pee. Ever the eloquent one, again, C said “Oh fuck it,” and with another quick grin, grabbed her tee shirt by the hem, and whipped it over her head so she was standing stark naked, her expression challenging us to do the same. We did.

The old towel C offered me to clean up, somehow found its way, along with her hand, between my legs, and I sagged a little with izmir escort the utter enjoyment of having my pussy rubbed by another woman. She angled me slightly so that I sat back on J’s lap – J still being perched on the toilet – and could I could feel her breasts rubbing softly against my shoulder blades and her prickling bush tickling my ass. C’s hand began to rub more vigorously and with a longer reach found its way back and forth between my labia and J’s. Of course each of us was groaning with the pleasure of the entire situation and we pulled C closer so she could continue her ministrations while we both sucked and stroked.

First, her breasts and then her clit.

It did not take long for C to suggest her bed would be more comfortable and so it was that the three of us fell in a tangle of naked limbs onto that bed, stroking and sucking, variously, each other’s pussies and breasts until first I, then J, and then C began to shudder with that delightful release that is the female orgasm. The rest of the night is an odd blur in my memory, but I do know we dozed and fucked, and fucked and dozed until the very late hours of the next morning when, finally stated, we slept.

I wish I could say we repeated the night of debauchery, but that is not so. For a variety of reasons the three of us never did get together for another hen session: J left the remote community to return south to tend to an ill family member not too long after, and a couple months later, I, having had enough of life without the big city delights, also returned south, but a fair distance from J’s home. C remained up north for several more years, but seemed to deliberately break contact with both of us. Last I heard though, she had finally found a way out of the north, to a small community a ferry ride away from me and a new female colleague of mine who had also worked with C, suggested we travel to see her at some point.

“I hear she throws a great “bush” party,” my new colleague said with a wink and a grin.

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