Date: Fri, 13 Nov 2015 15:29:28 -0800
From: Lily Jane <lilyjane21@telenova.us>
Subject: Coming Out-Part One

Coming Out: Part One
by
Lily Jane

©2015 Lily Jane

      Okay, this is my first erotic short story. In fact, it is more of a
diary than a story, since the whole thing is more-or-less happening now
(what I've written here happened this August in NYC. It's now November and
there's more to tell. But I'll leave that until later). Suffice it to say,
it's been less than three months since I came out. So this is the story of
how that happened, and how, as a result, my life got totally thrown upside
down.
      I was working as the receptionist at a place on the lower Westside
that imported pricey kitchen fixtures from Italy. They called me the
receptionist but I was basically a kind of a come-on, an ornament to add
class to the showroom. They wanted a so-called "beautiful" young girl who
looked good in a clingy dress.
      I had done a double major in philosophy and history in Brisbane at
the U of Queensland, but my current goal was to be an actress. So I was
taking night classes in theater arts at Hunter while parading around as a
piece of raw meat at the import place. Not the way I saw myself, not the
kind of job I wanted.
      Then I started prowling the ads in the Times and found a company
called SNAPZ on the Eastside that was looking for an office assistant. I
never saw myself as an office assistant, but this was no kitchen supply
place. It was a trendy agency that represented "art" photographers. And it
was on fashionable East 53rd, a floor above one of those bistros where the
salads start at $20.
      Sure, it wasn't an acting job, but it was a far cry from the dead end
situation I was in (I forgot to mention my "boyfriend" Eric, a wannabe
thespian. Eric and I shared a grungy third-floor walkup in Hell's Kitchen.
We had done a scene together at Hunter. But, for reasons I won't go into
here, I had got tired of doing scenes with him).
      Of course I Googled the company before I responded to the ad. And I
checked out the portfolios of their clients, which included a lot of
provocative photos taken by scruffy Europeans who knew how to make a
beautiful young girl look drop dead desirable, even to a straight girl like
me.
      I gave a lot of thought to what I should wear to the job interview.
Ultimately, I went with what I knew--or thought I knew--about the "art"
photography business. So, that hot, sticky day in mid-August (a day when
everything clings to you like a wet rag) I was headed for the Eastside on a
crosstown bus, squirming around in a skimpy rayon dress with a floral thing
going on and a flirty ruffle at the hem--more or less the kind of "thrown
together" outfit I had seen in the portfolios of the photogs (lonely girls
in hand-me-downs, gazing wistfully out a window with an unmade bed behind
them).
      I somehow knew, that day on the bus, that this was going to be a
life-changing day for me. I had this inexplicable tingling feeling down
there and a kind of "fluttering" inside me, almost as if I was on my way to
meet a new lover (which, as it turned out, I was).
      I began to question that feeling, as well as my choice of apparel,
when I checked in with the receptionist at SNAPZ. She had this haughty "who
are you?" look and was dressed in skin-tight faded blue cutoffs and a baby
tee that barely covered her breasts--a tee that fit her so tight that her
nipples poked out. "Fuck me! I should have dressed down!" I swore to
myself. But by then it was too late. I would see this thing through, even
if it meant riding the bus back to Hell's Kitchen in a state of total
humiliation.
      So I sat in the small waiting room (raw brick walls, bare cement
floor) sneaking occasional looks at the receptionist--wondering what, if
anything, she had on under those shorts--and studying the tantalizing
shots of wispy girls on the walls (innocent young gamins in torn chemises,
one strap off their shoulders, hair spilling down their backs, perfect
little butts staring me in the face).
      "Maybe they'll want me to pose!" I suddenly thought, with a mix of
horror and excitement.
      I must have waited an hour when Jan, who ran the company, finally
found the time to see me.
      She was striking--tall, elegant, maybe twenty years older then me
(I just turned twenty-one). And she was wearing a long slinky dress that
looked like it cost a lot and her pale platinum hair was done in a cute
pixie cut. I felt like running away! Here I was with this really classy,
really beautiful woman--her with her $500 haircut and her $1,000 dress
and me wearing a cheap little nothing that rode way up above my
knees--and I had obviously cut my own hair (which I had purposely mussed
up before I got off the bus, so it would look like I had just rolled out of
bed).
      But Jan didn't seem to mind. She sat me down opposite her desk (an
antique wooden table), and gave me a smile. Then she asked me all the
routine questions, the ones you'd expect. It was all very cool, very
businesslike. But while she was running through the routine list of
questions, I noticed the framed photos of happy-goofy kids on the wall
behind her desk, photos that looked like they were taken out in the
Hamptons or somewhere.
      "I guess those are your kids?" I asked, with some hesitation.
      She glanced at the photos and smiled broadly. "Those? Oh no, those
are Kurt's kids. He started the agency in Berlin, and divides his time
between here and there.
      For some reason--a reason I understand now--a wave of relief
swept through me (did I dare to believe Jan was single, maybe even "between
partners?" And what--I had to ask myself--what did I care? I was
straight. And I was here for a job).
      Then she asked me to tell her about myself. Which I went ahead and
did, giving her a (heavily-edited) version of my college days in Brisbane
and answering all of her questions--some of which startled me, like "Have
you read Rimbaud?" and "If you could hear any song right now, what would it
be?"
      To the last one I answered, "'Close Your Eyes,' Diana Krall."
      She smiled. "You know she is gay...?" she said.
      "No she isn't!" I shot back. "She's married to..."
      "I know," she cut me off. Then she smiled again and said, "I was just
teasing you. It's a good song. But I didn't know she cut it...." After that
she began tapping her gold Mont Blanc on her desktop while staring at the
wall, seemingly lost in thought. Then she looked at me and said, "You know,
sweetie, I've interviewed, like, ten girls for this job, and you're the
first one I've even halfway liked. And it's not just your cute accent. I
love foreigners, as I guess you can see. (she nodded to the photos on the
walls). And it's not just that "dress" you're wearing." With this she gave
me a quick once-over, as if to say, "At what thrift shop did you pick this
up?" Then she went on, "It's the--how should I say it?Ð "softness"
about you...the "fuzziness," if you will.... All the other girls I've seen
for this gig were hard as nails. You know, young and pretty, but already
run over by life, more than once, in fact."
      I tried to explain to Jan (she said I could call her that) how I came
by my air of what she called "insouciance." "When I was at UQ," I said, "I
spent a lot of time at Noosa Beach, surfing and stuff.... I've never taken
things too seriously."
      She glanced at my c.v. "You say you're an actress.... So what have
you done--as an "actress...?"
      At this point I started to blush. She had found me out. All of the
"acting" I had done was to perform in a couple of sextapes for a company in
Brisbane--you know, the kind of thing in which beautiful girls pleasure
themselves for the pleasure of other beautiful girls, who pleasure
themselves by watching them. They paid me a little money so I could keep
surfing the Sunshine Coast while pretending to study philosophy and
history.
      "Okay, you don't have to tell me," she said. Then she got up, put her
arm around my shoulder, and walked me toward the door. It was late by
then--past five--and the receptionist with the hot pants and the baby
tee had gone back to her squeeze, or to the martini bar next door, or
wherever hot, unbearably hip girls like her go when they check off the job.
      "So, you'll get back to me, I guess...," I started to say. But she
stopped me.
      "Let's cut to the chase," she said. "You've got the job."
      I was thrilled, really thrilled! This was going to be my big break, I
knew it. And without knowing why, I threw my arms around her and hugged
her.
      Well, she clearly took that as some kind of a signal, and the next
thing I knew, she took my head in her hands, and ran her fingers through my
tousled hair. Then she stared straight into my eyes and, to my
astonishment, gave me a deep, unbelievably sensuous kiss!
      I had never before been kissed by a woman. Actually, I had never
before been kissed like that by anyone--and certainly not by my
"boyfriend" Eric.
      I made some kind of lame effort to pull away, but it was just a show,
because her tongue was doing strange things to me, terrifying me and, at
the same time, making me want more. And she could tell that. I guess, to a
woman like her, I was a piece of cake. While we continued to kiss, she ran
one hand up my leg, under my dress, and all the way into my panties.
      I was soaking wet. Right through my panties. Drenched, in fact!
      So, how could I pretend? It was obvious that I wanted her (at that
moment I actually wanted her more than I wanted the job).
      You can guess where this was heading. She took her mouth from my
lips, took her fingers out of my panties, and led me to the couch in her
office. I didn't need to be told. I gave a little sigh and just lay down,
resting my head on a big Balinese pillow and sort of spreading my
legs. Then, with my fingers trembling (from fear and excitement) I began to
unbutton my dress. But she took my hand and stopped me. Instead of letting
me undress for her, she knelt between my legs, hiked my dress all the way
up to my neck, and pulled off my (soaking wet) panties.
      After that it was all tongue and clit. A lot of tongue and clit. And,
faster than I had ever come before, I went over the edge, coming with so
much force that I almost fell off the couch. Then, after the spasms had
stopped, she smiled a motherly smile and gave me a gentle kiss (as if to
say, "That's all right. I understand....")
      When I had got to my feet, straightened myself out as best I could,
and was about to go, she took my hand and said. "Sweetie. Come with me to
San Francisco. Tomorrow morning. I'm seeing a new client and checking out
her work."

      ***

Well, that's enough for now. The story goes on--Jan and I went to SF like
she planned, and now, almost three months later, we are in LA, where I'm
lolling around on an unmade bed in a fancy hotel (Eric is history, I guess
you can guess). But I'll explain all of that later, if I have time to write
more (Jan uses up a lot of my energy).

I love a lot of the work that is posted on this site and I have great
admiration for all of you--for your courage and your audacity, which is
something I'm just learning to express. While waiting around for Jan--I
do a lot of that--I've begun writing, and I've now almost finished a
novel. It's called "The Moonflower Diaries," and I hope to publish it soon
as an eBook.

If you want to write to me, you can find me at lilyjane21@telenova.us