My Stupid Clit
Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Magic, Lesbian, Fiction,

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - My clit is big. I mean enormous and freaky. I make sure nobody sees it, so I'm still a virgin at 22. Then on a skiing holiday I meet that special person. She'd think it was horrid wouldn't she? (A story mostly written by my daughter, which is why there are no teens in it)

I was standing right behind her, so I could hear she was French. No surprise since I was in France! Though there are loads of Brits in Val D’Isere so you can’t take it for granted. Her voice was melodic, making the language sound more beautiful than ever, so perhaps that’s why I was interested. She looked early twenties, like me, and a similar average height too, as she talked to her companion in the ski-lift queue.

He didn’t seem like her father, or her boyfriend, but they were close somehow; he was older, like in his late thirties. He was only a little taller than her but he had that confidence of a ski instructor in a ski resort. Nice guy. She held a lot of eye contact with him, listening and responding to him, reacting all the time.

I saw her jacket said she was she was in the ski club, while her companion would be a coach in his dark red jacket. Was she a ski racer? She looked strong and confident, with a lot of energy. A bit more slender in her frame than me; she had thick, glossy brown hair, slightly wavy, flowing out from her woolly hat and down a foot below her shoulders.

Anyway so, a bit intrigued, when we arrived at the front of the queue I lined up with them to take the next three-seat chair, instead of waiting and going up with some of my friends. The girl sat in the middle so I was sitting next to her.

Sometimes you exchange a word or a smile with somebody on a ride up the mountain, and sometimes you don’t. I am quite sociable so it came naturally to me to glance sideways and half smile at her, and she caught my glance and smiled back. She was gorgeous in that special French way: a few hints of perfect makeup, glowing tanned skin, and that French awareness that girls are supposed to be sensual. Her sunglasses were stylish, but I wished she’d take them off.

I took mine off and smiled, and she took the hint and did too. Her eyes sparkled at me, dark green with long lashes and a very direct gaze. They were set quite wide either side of her Gallic nose, which was quite big but didn’t stop her being beautiful. I was grateful that I happen to be quite pretty too; even with girls it makes a difference and I wanted to talk to her.

“You are English?” she asked, speaking English in a delicious French accent, her voice low and with a throaty timbre.

“Yes,” I replied in my French, “I’m on holiday for a couple of weeks, until after Christmas.” I’d done a student exchange with a French girl when I was seventeen and my French was still pretty good. Clearly I still had ‘Brit’ written all over me though! Well, I suppose blonde is more Brit than Gallic, as a generalisation, and I hadn’t much of a tan yet.

“Oh your French is perfect!” she said in French, exaggerating good-naturedly, “have you spent a lot of time here?”

I told her about my exchange and we chatted on about the great snow for the time of year, where I was staying and other trivialities.

I found I was drawn to her. I was gazing into her dark green eyes with their big pupils, and she in her direct, communicative way was looking directly back into my blue ones. She smiled all the time, her face alive, mobile and so ... interacting with me. I realised I’d been attracted to her in the lift queue by the way she could relate: she was open about her own feelings and also interested in others people’s feelings. It made me tingle, which was wonderful and at the same time slightly scary.

In most ways I’ve been pretty lucky with the genes I inherited, and in fact lucky with my parents altogether. I’m reasonably clever, quite pretty as I said with a good face, cheekbones, eyes, teeth and everything, and a body that carries quite a bit of muscle but is a feminine shape. A distinctly feminine shape in fact with quite big calves, thighs and hips, then a reasonable waist, broadish shoulders and narrow neck. My D-cup tits finish this off so that I could almost be called voluptuous, though in a lean, sporty kind of way. So far so good.

There was just one reason why at twenty-two years of age I was still a virgin:

My giant, ridiculous clit.

Almost the size of my little finger, it squashed in my panties with not the slightest chance of my hood covering it. It had plagued my schooldays, making shared showers a nightmare and needing all kinds of taping and padding to wear shorts or go swimming. I didn’t actually get bullied about it, because apart from being quite strong I always had friends who’d jump on anyone who took the piss; but still, I was always feeling it was being noticed, and talked about when I wasn’t there.

I knew, rationally, that it wasn’t SO bad really. I’d seen various professionals, I knew it had a name – clitoromegaly – and I’d been on forums and discovered it wasn’t only me. I’d been told over and over that the right person wouldn’t mind and might even like it. But still I couldn’t bring myself to believe that. Not deep down, where it mattered. Clitoromegaly is ‘a condition’. The idea of being intimate with someone and then it being revealed - and even bigger being aroused - was a nightmare.

So sex for me was strictly a private thing, and full of tension because although I hated it clits are VERY sensitive of course and not easy to ignore. I could squeeze it, carefully, but any dry rubbing was painful. Then when it was juiced or Vaselined it could get me off in a minute, or even several times in several minutes.

The chair reached the top station and I was both sad and relieved to say goodbye to the French girl and her coach. I’d never thought of myself as lesbian but the girl – we hadn’t swapped names – was having an effect on me and my clit was in danger of acting up. Luckily I was wearing a fairly loose ski suit so it wouldn’t really show as long as I adjusted the stupid thing not to tent my panties (which was its natural vindictive tendency) but it would rub and get sore I knew. And there was a distinct tingle growing.

Anyway they skied off and I turned to wait for my friends - I’d come to Val d’Isere in a group of people I’d been friends with all through the University that we’d graduated from the previous summer.

They didn’t appear though. An empty chair arrived, then one with other people on it, and then another and a few more. I hadn’t noticed anything at the bottom, probably with being absorbed in the thing with the French girl, but I guessed that one of my guys had probably fallen trying to get on: not all of them had skied much before.

Without thinking too much about it I skied off, reckoning I could catch them at the bottom or during the following run down, if I went for it: I’ve done quite a bit of skiing and I really am not too bad for someone who only gets to ski a few weeks a year.

I took the steep Black run that the French girl had taken and went hard, passing pretty much everyone else as I zipped down. It was cool to be able to just go for it instead of going slow and waiting for my group every couple of minutes. It was a bit of an excuse, I had to admit. Then I found I was looking ahead for the girl: it was a bit of an excuse to follow her, too...

I was almost down to the lift when I saw them, stopped at the side of the piste with the coach talking and gesturing to give some advice. I thought about pulling up, but it was too awkward, with their being busy and my hardly knowing them at all, so I skied down to the lift and joined the back of the queue again.

Then a few seconds later someone skied up next to me, and it was her!

“Hello,” she was smiling at me again, “your skiing is really good as well as your French!” She gave a little laugh and nudged into me as she shuffled forwards with me in the queue. I smiled at the coach guy on the other side of her, trying to shift my awareness and protect myself from my clit.

I had to look at her though; had to smile back and ask her if she was a racer, and then listen, a bit rapt, gazing into her face while she told me she was trying to get into the giant slalom team but wasn’t quite good enough...

I could see the coach really wanted her to be in the team as well! And never mind randy coaches, my clit was misbehaving. Christ, I’d never reacted to a girl like this - up to now my reaction to girls had just been, at the most, passive appreciation. I mean, everyone knows if a girl is pretty, right? It doesn’t mean you want to jump into bed with them. But this time, something was different.

With my left hand in my pocket I faked bending down to adjust a ski boot, and managed to rearrange my clit to at least go down one leg of my boy-style panties as it grew. God how I hated it. I tried to ignore it after that, but I could feel it starting to tingle and rub as her presence threatened to take control.

At least my carefully chosen panties were tight enough to hold the sodding thing pressed up against my leg and stop it waving around, so I was able to keep chatting, which we did for several minutes in the queue and then another ten or so on the chair. I found out that her name was Chloé, and his was Henri; and I gave them my name: Jamie.

“Oh that’s a very beautiful name Jamie!” Chloé said immediately, touching her hand on my arm. Our hips were already more or less touching, with being on the chair, and the extra contact finished my clit off. It was huge. Huge and going to go mad, I knew, as soon as I stood up and started moving. Christ.

I tried to concentrate on the conversation with Chloé and Henri, which in itself was effortless and lovely. I found I couldn’t even remember what we’d said for a minute, because it was just them being nice to me and me being nice to them, the interaction being on another level from the words, if you see what I mean. People generally are pleasant with me, but there was an extra plane to it this time; even, to a slight extent, with Henri.

After ten minutes of this we arrived at the top again and prepared to ski off. Normally that would have been on our separate ways of course, but Chloé reached out and touched my arm.

“Are you doing the Black again?” It was an invitation.

I could only nod and grin.

“See you at the bottom!” she called, pushing off with a challenging grin of her own.

So, friends forgotten, I chased her and Henri down the run. In skiing it really helps to have someone good in front of you that you can copy, so I pretty much kept up, though after a while I started to suspect they were doing a few more turns than they’d have done on their own. Still, I wasn’t far behind when they joined the back of the lift queue again and Chloé was waving me forwards to join them. I was puffing and grinning like an idiot with the thrill of having skied so fast; and the thrill of this person.

“You are really good Jamie!” she said, smiling at me and nudging into me with her arm as we shuffled forwards, “Henri thinks so even and he is a team coach!”

“You are very good, “ Henri agreed, “when did you start?”

So we chatted again all through the queuing and the ride up, and I just put up with my clit’s itching and tingling, and tried to concentrate on the conversation.

When we arrived at the top this time it was clear Chloé and Henri meant me to ski with them again, so I just naturally set off following them, trying to keep in Chloé’s tracks, enjoying the rush of speed and balance and the view of Chloé. Then when we all stopped part way down I even found Henri was giving me some coaching! I could see it was a complete habit with him.

“Jamie, you are very good,” he sugar-coated it effortlessly, “strong legs and very courageous, you ski without fear, that is good. Good balance. But sometimes your left arm is a bit behind, see ... like this ... which gived you little twist, so, so try to bring it forwards.”

They were both smiling at me, making me feel like a million dollars. I’ve always been competitive-sporty and being good at things is important to me, and how here I was with these ski racers!

It occurred to me I’d better touch base with my friends so I called them and said I’d see them for lunch in the mountain restaurant we’d used the day before. At that point I’d tell them I’d been skiing with a local racer and her coach!!

We skied on down, then took a different chair up this time and ended up on a different run. Chloé was full of fun, always smiling and laughing, and I forgot my clit even though it wouldn’t go right down. We skied down again, super-fast by my standards, and went straight back up.

I thought their skiing was amazing and they were flattering me about my French and my skiing, and the whole thing became a complete mutual admiration society. I was, frankly, hooked. Especially on Chloé who, I couldn’t help realising, had set her sights on me. I’d had a fair few pickup attempts over the years and this was one; by a very confident girl who was being more and more open about it.

But even while being hooked I was also becoming more and more anxious. I wasn’t too bothered about the prospect of discovering that I was lesbian or bi, because after all you just are or aren’t and it’s best to find out what makes you happy, but sex, with The ClitStick lurking in my panties, was not on. The prospect of the beautiful, stylish, perfect Chloé coming face to face with my weird thing didn’t bear thinking about.

So when lunchtime came I suddenly ran out of courage and copped out; made my excuse about joining my friends, didn’t invite Chloé and Henri to join us, and left them, with a few vague words about seeing them later or tomorrow hopefully. Chloé’s face fell and I could see Henri looking disappointed for her too. It dawned on me that Chloé was probably exclusively lesbian, and Henri understood that and was a real friend to her, while nevertheless enjoying her looks and charisma.

So, feeling bad about that, I rejoined my friends, who are all couples these days with their intimate relationships, and realised I was a bit lonely underneath my cheerful exterior. I was the one singleton in our group; a friend among lovers. There was a contrast with how I was with my friends and how things had been with Chloé, even though I’d only just met her.

Now I’d just dropped her.

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Story tagged with:
Fa/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Magic / Lesbian / Fiction /