Chapter 1

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...