Date: Fri, 31 Jul 2009 15:13:00 -0700
From: Rachel Stevenson <rachelfrizz@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Rachel's Story 11

[Rachel sent this final chapter to a friend before her death.]


I went home.

I went to bed and stayed there.

I just stayed there.

Sometimes when I awoke, the gap between my curtains would show the sodium
yellow of streetlights. Other times, there would be the blue/grey of
morning or the golden glow of evening. I stayed in bed and didn't think
about the passage of time; I tried not to think at all.

Mum would come in to try and cajole me forth with bright conversation and
optimistic phrases, but I wanted none of that and would not respond. Toby
and Robbie just left me alone.

I'd venture out of my room when the house was quiet -- day or night. When
they were out or while they slept, the downstairs were mine. But
inevitably, I'd venture forth for food and drink, sort of lose my nerve and
scurry back to my room for comfort. My world had shrunk to the dimensions
of my room and there I stayed; not happy but at least surviving and
unchallenged. This was the place I knew, the space I could control.

Time passed.



Another morning dawned, no brighter than any of those it followed. I pulled
my head beneath the covers to avoid hearing the sounds about it me, and
waited till they went out.

But here came another sound; unfamiliar footsteps. The door to my room
opened and I shrank deeper into my shell.

"Oh now, look at you. What are we going to do about you, then?" Those soft
tones were like a comforting balm on my spirit. It was Bernadette, and I
started crying again. She sat on the bed edge and peeled back the cover
slowly and gently to peep in at me. I couldn't resist, I just reached up
for her, hugged her and carried on crying. She rocked me like a child,
crooning soft `there, there' words to me. Just as sweet and gentle as she
could be. I cried my soul out.

She held me, stroked me and loved me, pushing the hair away from my damp
face and simply being there for me. I must have presented a terrible
sight. I hadn't washed or showered for days; my body was dirty and fetid,
but it didn't worry Bernadette, she just comforted me. Hours must have
passed as I cried, never seeking to hide my emotions from her, but at last
I was done.

"Well, let's see about getting you more comfortable. I'll run the shower
while you get yourself up and then I'll find some clean clothes."

She was back in seconds.

"The shower's lovely and warm; it'll make you feel better, so let's get you
up."

She turned back the quilt and held it from me so that I could get up. I
swung my legs slowly over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment,
before letting my toes touch the carpet. Difficult, touching the
carpet. Different textures, pressure points, feelings. A big step in more
ways than one.

Bernadette was wearing a polo shirt beneath her apron; it must be warm
outside. She stood before me and held out her hands to help me stand, I
reached out and pulled myself up off the bed. She smelled of the energetic,
fresh outside; part of me recoiled but another part of me yearned to rejoin
the world. Bernadette smelled like freedom come into my self imposed
prison. She would be my way out.

She led me by hand across the hall to the bathroom where the shower burbled
warmly away to itself. She kicked the door closed behind us.

"Arms up!" I complied like a five year old, and Bernadette swept my stale
T-shirt up and over my head.

"And you can get those off yerself!" She nodded down at my knickers.

I knew they were disgusting. I'd finished my period in them without towel
or bung; they were stained and matted: revolting. Ashamed, I pulled them
down, gathered them in a ball and tried to think of what to do with them
next.

"Here. I'll soak them." And she held out her hand for my blood-soiled
pants. I hesitated, but then passed them to her gingerly.

"Right, in yer go!" She span me round and all but pushed me into the hot,
stinging shower, before bustling out of the door again. I let the water
drench me. I opened my mouth and hoped it would drown me. I wanted it to
wash me away like soap bubbles. If I stood there long enough, I could
dissolve and never have to care again. I longed for oblivion.

"Right. Let's get you soaped-up, then" and Bernadette was back, clad in an
apron from the kitchen. She reached past me and turned the shower down a
couple of turns.

"Turn around." She commanded and I turned and presented my back to
her. With sponge and soap she lathered me up and washed me down.

"Turn again!" And I did. With the impersonal equanimity of a nurse, she
soaped my breasts and belly, before playing the shower head over my body to
rinse me clean. I stood before her and lifted one thigh to clean my
pudenda; she watched, impervious.

I stood again on two legs in the perfect rainfall of the shower and angled
my head back, something cooler landed on my hair.

"Wash that through, now. It says it's got `jojoba oil' in it, whatever that
is!"

It smelt like ordinary shampoo, and I rubbed it into my hair and washed
off.

"Have a soak there, for a minute and then dry off come back to yer room."



I followed orders. Glad of the direction and unable to think on my own,

Bernadette said soak for a minute, so I did.

Bernadette said dry off, so I did.

Bernadette said come back to my room, so I did.

The open windows fed clean, fresh air into the room. It was chill on my
skin and I got goosebumps immediately. B stared up at me in surprise "Put
something on yer silly cow, before you catch yer death!"

She'd been stripping the bed and paused to fling a sweatshirt and pair of
knickers towards me.I scooped them up and straightened, looking over her
shoulder and out of the opened widow. Miles away down river, between the
castles, the sun lit the sea in an effervescent silver boil. It looked like
freedom.

I pulled the sweatshirt over my head; the image of freedom was still
there. I picked up the pants and automatically stepped into them still,
intent on the shimmering silver at the end of the river.

"And yer jeans, if yer please!" She held them open for me and I stepped
into the trousers with my hands on her steadying shoulders. I slipped in
and stood upright with her. Face to face with my liberator. I couldn't say
anything. My focus flicked nervously from her eyes to her mouth and back
again.

"Bernadette, I-"

"Now just hush will yer, I want to get you something hot inside you. Build
yer up a bit! Let's get downstairs."

She led me down into the kitchen where the most welcoming pot of chicken
and potato soup burbled quietly on the stove.

I wept. Wept for the warmth and love of it all.

With unfocussed gratitude in my heart I ate and filled the aching void
inside me. The sticky soup almost glued me together again.

"Now. You just stay there in the sun for half a mo' while I busy!"

I sat as I was told and gazed at the sparkling water. Only two things
existed: me and the sparkle. Joined by an invisible tunnel; everything else
was just irrelevant.

The sun moved around the sky and waned in power, turning from blue-white to
pale then golden yellow. The day was dying and I had hardly moved all
afternoon.

B was bustling about in the kitchen and upstairs as I sat contemplating the
infinity of the tides and sunshine.

"Yer room's ready." She announced. "All clean and fresh!"

I stood, climbed the box stairs towards that welcoming prison again.

"Yer don't have to go now! Wait and see your family at least."

I stopped and thought about the possibility for a few moments. Too many
people, all at once.

"Think I'll just go to bed."

I continued climbing.

She'd changed the sheets and opened the windows wide to freshen the
room. On the sill was a pot of daffodils. The lowering golden sun shot
yellow light through them and all around the room. There was a future here;
an optimism. But at that moment all I wanted was to cocoon myself again
against the world, just for a few more hours, till I was stronger and
ready.

Time passed, and the sunlight dimmed to evening. She brought me shepherds
pie on a tray and I fiddled around with it before she took it away again,
tutting.

When it was late and dark, I heard her enter the room again. The rustle of
her clothes told me it was time for bed and she slipped in beside me,
snuggling in to warm herself behind me. Laying on her side and against my
shoulder, she played her hand across my breasts.

"No. Not tonight."

"Ok, sleep well. Just remember I love yer."

As I lay on my side the tears welled in my eyes and the impossibility of my
isolation became apparent to me. Bernadette loved me, Mum loved me and so I
think did Toby and Robbie. How could I deny them all, but how could I face
them again?



The next morning I heard them all get up and go out, all except B, of
course. She brought me breakfast and blustered me out of bed and into the
shower.

"You've to come down as soon as yer ready!" She called over her shoulder as
she clonked back down the stairs.

Down the box stairs and open the door to the day at the bottom. Look out
over the estuary towards the very center of freedom in the sparkling water
more than a mile away.

There on the breakfast bar lay an open book showing The Annunciation by Fra
Angelico. I stopped and gazed into the picture plane, I stroked the paper;
looking into the colonnade behind the foreground figures. I wanted to walk
there, I wanted to stroll in the anonymous woods beyond the fence. I wanted
to share the peace of these frozen figures. I wanted to dissolve into the
painting.

I wanted a pencil.



She made me a fried egg and bacon sandwich for breakfast. One earthy,
gluey, soft-yolked egg with sharp and salty, fatty bacon between buttered
bread. A mountain of cholesterol and indulgence, and absolute enjoyment at
the same time.

It was a memory too of when B first stayed the weekend with me all those
years before. I remember we had bacon sandwiches for breakfast; this was a
restatement of that event, we were beginning again.

That sandwich and a glass of orange juice made me feel a bit better about
things.



"Right then! Let's get you out!"

"Hm?"

"We need to get yer out into the air. You've been far too long in the
house, y'know."

"Oh no, I can't. Not today."

"Yer can, so yer will!" And she knelt before and pushed my feet into my
unfamiliar shoes.

"Up and out now!"

We walked up the hill away from the town, onto the ugly flat hilltops above
the river valley. It was still cold even though I bundled up in my mum's
borrowed windcheater. B marched ahead and bellowed around to me to hurry
up, her words whipped away by the wind.

By the time we reached the road junction and turning to the south, I was
exhausted and chill. I must have presented a pathetic figure in the
blustery sunshine because Bernadette relented.  "That's enough for one day;
let's go home."

And she grabbed my arm and steered me back down the hill towards refuge. As
we descended we escaped the wind and I was able to walk upright and
unaided, Bernadette kept hold of my arm.

"Buds on the trees."

"What?"

"There's buds on the trees. Those one's, back there. Soon be Spring!"

"Mmm."

"You've got to leave it behind Rae, carry on with life and stuff."

I didn't reply.

"Supposin' it was you. Y'know; you that died. What would JJ have done, eh?"

"Dunno."

"Gone out and got pissed, and then found someone to fuck as well! An'
that's the truth of it!"

Rarely, rarely indeed did Bernadette ever swear. Two rude words in one
sentence indicated the passion in her. I looked across; her jaw was set and
she looked straight ahead. I knew she had never liked JJ and always felt
intimidated and uncomfortable in her company. But I had needed JJ, I
allowed myself to relax and be a bit `girly' in her company, relying on JJ
to look after me. Now she wasn't there, I'd have to find my own way. I
thought I'd have to look out for Bernadette too, but B was already
demonstrably more life-confident.

B looked across at me. "She would too! And good luck to her."

I knew B was right, but that didn't help either.



She fed me love and calories. Vegetable soup for lunch with cheese and
crusty bread.

"We've to go soon."

I looked up questioningly.

"You're having yer hair done. I've booked it!"

She led me down to the town on the flat. Down the stepped streets too sheer
for traffic, around the tightest bends between the nestling cottages. Down
to the flat land jammed between the river and the surrounding hills. Along
the crowded street and into the pink-fronted salon.

"And what are we doing for you today?'

I didn't know how to answer, I just gaped into the mirror.

"Needs a tidy, all around. And she wants it straightened, too."

"Straightened?"

"With highlights." Benradette nodded to herself in certainty.

And that's exactly what they did over the ensuing hours.





"Hello Rachel."

I looked up into the mirror as a figure walked through my narrow filed of
vision. She carried something to the back of the salon and walked back to
the reception desk. God, it was Cathy! I panicked. She knew about me!

But then I remembered the last time I saw her, when she knew all about me
and Maggie, and she still touched my hand.

Cathy looked at Benradette sitting, waiting behind and then back to me. She
smiled at me in knowledge and acceptance. I smiled back; she was a
friend. I felt happy that there was someone local whom I could count on and
from whom I did not need to disguise. I was pretty sure that Cathy was not
a homosexual, but the fact that she was sympathetic and understanding gave
me strength.

At last I was done and the stylist and Benradette `oohed and aahed' about
my head behind me. The stylist was building up her tip and Bernadette was
rebuilding my self-confidence. I wanted to go home and examine myself in
private.

Bernadette paid a frightening amount of money to Cathy at the desk.

"Nice to see you again; are you staying long Rae?"

Bernadette shot a look at me; she hadn't expected anyone to know me.

"Well I sort of live here now, but I think I'll be going back to London
soon. But I'll drop in later."

Bernadette's back stiffened when I said I was going back to London and she
remained silent until we got outside.

"Yer feeling better then."

We turned the corner and the breeze fanned out my straightened hair over my
shoulder. I loved it. I ran my fingers through my fragrant, straight
hair. The late afternoon shadow showed my hair moving in the light air, I
felt renewed, uplifted.

We climbed the stepped lanes back up towards Prospect.

While I'd been `being done' Bernadette had stepped out to do some shopping
in the street behind the salon. Now I carried the bag for her in the last
two hundred metres or so of the climb.

"Fish?"

"Mackerel. With parsley sauce and new spuds. Ok?"

"I didn't know you could cook that."

"I'll learn!"



And learn she did.

She had bought five large Mackerel and sent me away `to rest up' while she
busied herself in the kitchen. I climbed the stairs back to my room and
just sat at the open window looking at that simple patch of water between
the Castles shimmering in the sun.

As the sun dimmed, I heard them all come home. Toby first, then Mum and
finally Robbie. I could hear them talking, but not what they were saying,
although I knew they must be talking about me, or rather carefully not
talking about me.

"S'ready!" Mum shouted up the stairs and I duly peeled myself away from the
still open window and opened my bedroom door to go downstairs. At that
moment, Toby opened his door too. He stopped and looked at me.

"You look great, Rae! Glad you're here!" And he hugged me briefly before
skating down the stairs before me.

I had to sit down for a moment. Here was my baby brother as tall as me and
actually pleased to see me. Down there, there were people who loved me and
would be pleased to see me; I couldn't let them down if I loved them at
all.

I went down the stairs slowly and carefully, I knew they'd all be waiting
for me and careful to disguise the fact from me, but still they'd be
waiting. I didn't want too make a grand entrance, in fact I didn't want to
go in there at all.

At the foot of the stairs, I sank down and sat huddled in nervous humility;
I could not open the door and join the people I loved. I just couldn't do
it.



The door before me flew open and the direct evening sun assaulted my eyes
as I sat there.

"I thought I heard yer descending." Bernadette lied.

"C'mon now and have supper."

She led me to my place and I sat down quietly, anxious to avoid attention
and enquiry.

Bernadette still wore the apron she had worn to wash me in. Now that she
sat at the head of the kitchen table apronned she looked like the
earth-mother-cook and provider. I'm not sure if she intended the effect,
but it worked for me.

Lovely fresh fish and earthy steamy potatoes, served with a buttery parsley
sauce and green beans. I ate a grateful mouthful and glanced at the faces
around the table. They were all busy with inconsequential chatter,
carefully avoiding the subject of me. I looked around at the view out
through the river's mouth. If I needed it; freedom was always there in the
water.

I turned back to the table and smiled at them all. I put down my fork and
knife and touched the hands next to me; Toby on the left and Bernadette on
the right. The room quietened as Mum and Robbie looked at what I was doing.

I looked into their faces; each and every one.

"I love you."





That evening I felt as though something stirred in me again, but that
something was imbued with a little more experience, a greater depth of
ability.

We sat in the lounge after dinner, watching some silly show on the telly. B
fell asleep in the armchair across from me and I just felt myself just
itching to draw her. I filched Mum's crossword biro and used the back of a
letter to start scratching away at my portrait of B asleep. It wasn't
great, but it wasn't bad and I turned the armchair into a sort of endless
divan of pillows with a moonlit sky behind her. That bit didn't work so
well in biro, but the rest gave me heart.

I tossed it to one side as the programme finished and Bernadette stirred.

"What did I miss?"

"Everything!"

"I wasn't asleep, just had my eyes closed."

We clonked our way up the uncarpeted stairs to my room.

That night I brushed my hair. I brushed my hair, I didn't fight a brush
through it trying to untangle the frizz. I brushed my straight and lovely
hair. And I looked at myself in the mirror; shiny, blonde(ish) straight
hair. It made me feel valuable; it gave me back some idea of self worth. I
wiggled my shoulders and loved the languid wave of my hair drifting about
my neck in sensuous waves. Hair long enough to swish.

"You look great, y'know"

I smiled at myself in the mirror.

B came and kissed me upon the shoulder.

"Come to bed."

I put down the brush and followed he across the room, but before I lay down
I opened the curtain just a few inches and looked at the dark water out at
the river mouth. Escape was still there.

I slid into bed with B and we wrapped our arms around each other and slept.



Late morning, the next day B whisked me back up to my bedroom.

"I've sorta planned this" she whispered as she closed the door behind her,
half turning to look at me over her shoulder. "Yer mam and Robbie are out,
so's Toby. So it's just us."

She took a step towards me and wrapped me in her arms, kissing me hard on
my lips.

I was a little taken aback, but I regained my composure and opened my
mouth, admitting her wriggling tongue and kissed back.

"I went shopping" she breathed into my ear. She wriggled away from me and
crossed her arms in front of her lift and take off her lamb's wool
sweater. She smiled hopefully at me; hoping that I would approve and
appreciate whatever she had bought.

Her pale lithe body emerged from the pale blue wool. A new bra; red and
stitched with gold. She looked at me as she undid the zip of her skirt and
let it fall to the floor.

Matching red and gold briefs with a semi-clear panel to the front, plus
charcoal grey self-hold-up stockings. She looked fine, but it didn't excite
me. Through the front panel of her pants, I could see the black fan of her
pubic hair climbing her stomach.

"What jer think?" she breathed.

"I think you're lovely."

She swept back into my arms and I kissed this sinuous lissome body about
her face neck and shoulders. We sort of half fell and half reclined onto
the bed with Bernadette grappling hard at me.

I knew what I was all about of course, Bernadette was reintroducing me to
the physical world. First love and care, then food and drink, now
sensuality and sex. She was almost reminding me of reasons to live.

She pressed me down upon the bed and slithered down my body, pushing my
sweater up and above my breasts. She kissed me hard on the mouth and shoved
my bra up without unclipping it to reveal my breasts below.

"I want you," she breathed in my ear and her soft hand excited my
nipple. "I want you now!" And she pinched me lightly, rotated my button
slightly between thumb and forefinger and thrust her tongue into my mouth
again.

She licked around my breast and then sucked my nipple up, lifting her head
away from my boob as she did so. I nearly screamed as she did it again.; my
nipple was being elevated by erotic suction, and as she did so, her fingers
played my other boob like a musical instrument. How much was a girl
supposed to put up with? I was being overloaded with sexual stimuli.

But just as I got used to B's attention to my breasts, she wrenched her
hands down an unclipped, then unzipped my jeans. She gave me no
`exploratory caress', she just pulled my jeans and knickers straight down,
exposing me to her attentive passions.



Her head came back to my breast and she began to lift and suckle my nipple
again as her right hand played through my pubic hair and wrestled my mons
vernis back and forth.

While I craved it, lusted for it, but it still made me cry out as she
pressed her fingers into my vagina. Four fingers tight together inside me,
shoving quickly and sharply. In and out she moved her hand, exploring and
expanding me.

I wanted more. Bernadette sensed as much and slid off the bed giving me a
smirk as she did so. I lay there and listened; there was a zipping noise
and a sharp sort of a fumble. I half sat up to see what she was doing.

"Just wait right there." She grinned at me. I was none the wiser. I lay
down again, but lifted my head to see a few seconds later as I hear a sort
of quiet tearing noise.

There was Bernadette on her knees at the end of the bed rolling a condom
onto the monstrous girth of a cucumber.

"Just wait, it'll be fun."

I could not believe the size. The cucumber was at least 50 mm in diameter
and the condom covered about 200 mm of its length. She couldn't hope to use
all that on me, could she?

Bernadette glided up over me again, smiling as she lowered herself upon me
and kissed my mouth. "Ready?"

I must have nodded or smiled or something as she moved her hands and I felt
something tickly at my lower lips. It pressed up and between them and I
gave a little gasp.

"Let it come"

I spread my thighs wider and angled my pelvis up presenting my pudenda like
an offering.

The chilly cucumber entered a few millimetres at a time, and with each
penetration I nearly screamed. Bernadette withdrew the cucumber entirely
and played it around my lips as she kissed me.

"Watch this," she commanded. And she wormed her way down my body and
brought the cucumber up. With her head on my stomach, she opened her mouth
and let the condom-clad cucumber slide into her mouth. She looked up at me,
it was totally pornographic; it was supposed to be.

Now she brought the cucumber back to my entrance. Wetter now, my lips
accepted the intrusion more readily and the thing entered me shallowly at
first, now deeper.

Oh I moaned and stretched as millimeter by millimeter B worked that thing
into me. It felt cold and knobbly inside its latex sheath, but it served
the purpose of intruding into my introverted world; it burst my personal
bubble. She worked it in and out of me slowly, gently, but with purpose. As
she worked away below, I massaged my breasts, pinching my nipples just
lightly, lifting and rubbing my boobs.

"That's all there is, y'dirty cow" B whispered to me as she slid her way up
my body and kissed me again on the mouth.

"It's all inside you!"

I ran my hand down to my crotch, there was Bernadette's hand holding the
vegetable in; there was the thick rolled rim of the condom just outside my
lips; the rest was inside me. I wanted to be still and filled forever, I
could feel this powerful intrusion controlling me. There was nearly 20 cm
of vegetable inside me.

I tightened against and forced it out a centimeter or two. B watched me,
smiling, put her hand down and pressed it into me again.

Back and forth she worked it, just an inch or so at a time, but gosh was it
good! I felt replete, stretched and almost fulfilled. This was why I was
made a woman; I love being full down there.

She lay between my thighs and holding the cucumber with her right hand
pressed it into me and she shoved her hips towards me. She was simulating
fucking me, and I wished I hadn't smashed the strap-on vibrator I bought in
London.



There, that was the first time I had dared to think back to London with
anything like regret. I felt sort of queasy, but better for it.



Now she smiled again and slithered down my body, still working this green
dildo in me. Now as she pressed and withdrew it rhythmically her mouth
connected with my clitoris. I lifted my head from the pillows and gazed
down at almost in incredulity as she started to lick. A stroke of her
tongue as the green dildo withdrew just slightly. As this welcome invader
returned, Bernadette would lick me again. The rhythm worked it's magic on
me and I began to come.

Still inside me, and just gently moving back and forth the cucumber was my
friend and lover. I lifted my hands over my head and pushed back against
the headboard as Bernadette and the vegetable pushed me relentlessly up the
bed.

She lifted her mouth away from my clit but continued to work the dildo
inside me.

"God. Make me come!" I whispered to her.

"How and why?" She smiled and demurred.

"Lick me!"

She smiled a self satisfied and self-confident smile.

Now she dipped. Now she bent towards me. Now her mouth rustled my pubic
hair again; I breathed in sharply; now her tongue found my clitoris and
Bernadette's eyes blinked open and up into mine as I lay before her and
experienced my supreme sexual climax.

She stared fixedly into my eyes as I wriggled, stiffened, flexed, moaned,
gasped and came. I stared back at her. She gave me this orgasm and I gave
it back to her.





Now I wanted to send her to heaven. So I rolled her over, as she grinned
and smiled at my involvement. It was mission accomplished for Bernadette as
she had managed to restore me to the sensual world of self, food and
sex. With my head locked between her thighs I snuffled my way into the very
nexus of her being and luxuriated in the perfume of her sex. I loved her
lips; angular and sharp as they spread before my invading tongue I loved
her hood; delicate and soft. But most of all, I loved her taste. Musky,
sharp and metallic all at once and impossibly delicious.



It can't be beyond chemists now to make a perfume, or even a drink that
smells and tastes of female sexual juices. I think it would sell by the
barge load to both sexes, call it `Clit' or something equally provocative
and it would fly out the door. Are you reading, Jean-Paul Gautier?









The next night we strolled down into town and went to one of the many pubs
for something to do.

We went into one of the fast-disappearing `cider pubs' in the town and
tasted both the horrific and the wonderful in a very short time. As we
left, I realized that my tongue had become numb and their innocuous-tasting
apple juice was horrifically alcoholic.



We strolled back through the town and we dared hold hands whenever we
thought we were unobserved. On the Market Square, I stopped before an `arts
and crafts' gallery.

"Look at that! I could do better than that. I mean, fifty quid for that
crap!" The watercolour was truly awful with poorly executed linework,
pathetic perspective and sickening colours.

"Well go on then! Do it and make us a bloody million!" And she closed up
right behind me and pinched my bum - hard.

"Ooh! You bitch!" But she'd already run off giggling, so I ran after her
and caught her by the arm in the dark corner at the foot of the steps. I
pulled her into my arms and we kissed.

"Just wait till I get you home!" I breathed.

"Can't wait." She whispered back and pinched me again.

We started running up the steps, but we soon tired as the steep sloping
lane wound its way up the hillside before us, and we were reduced to
breathing heavy and climbing step at a time with burning lungs and thighs.

It gave me time to think as we ascended, and I realized I could do a lot
better than those pathetic watercolours they sold in the tourist shops, and
at £50 or so each, I could be absolutely rolling in it in no time! I
resolved to get working the very next day.

Back at Prospect, we arrived slightly breathless from the climb and
definitely tired, but still I chased her up the box stairs and into my
room. I closed the door behind me and as she turned towards me, I breathed
"Now. You pinched me didn't you!"

She grinned over her shoulder "So? What yer gonna do `bout it?"

I darted forward and gave her backside a mighty backhand slap.

"Ow! Ow, that hurt!"

"It was meant to. Bend over, I'm not finished yet", I didn't know if I
meant that bit or not, but it seemed too easy to call one slap
`punishment'.

She turned and looked at me; I gave her a stern face and I think she half
believed me.

Very slowly and hesitantly, she turned away, placed her hands on the
dressing table and began to bend over. Very slowly, mind. And looking into
the mirror to see how I'd react and what I'd do. Her slim body angled
forward over the dressing table and her straight arms held her torso
above. Her hips were clad in thick denim jeans with a roll-neck sweater
tucked in; I'd have to go some to make her feel anything through that lot.

"Take them down."

"What?"

"Take them down!"

She straightened up slightly and undid the button of her jeans. I heard the
rasp of her zip as she began to wiggle her jeans down over her hips. Her
white pants nearly went with her jeans, but she pulled them back up over
her buttocks. Faint shadows showed me where the cleft of bottom was and
where my target would be.

"Stay exactly there and do not move." I spoke firmly, before turning away
and lifting my dressing gown from the back of the door. I lay it carefully
across the half inch gap between the bottom of the door and the carpet. It
wouldn't make the room soundproof, but it would muffle the sounds a bit.

"Now."

I moved towards her and she watched me in the mirror.

"Now."

I stood to her left and rubbed my hand over and around her bottom. Over her
pants, and her bare thighs below.

"Let's get properly ready" I breathed, and carefully slipped my hands
inside her pants on each side of her hips. Down went her pants onto the top
of her trousers around her knees.

I caressed her lovely buttocks with my hand, moving each delicious cheek
independently. Now she was ready and I was resolved. I swept my right hand
forward with a sharp smack on her right buttock and then a matching blow to
her left. It stung my palm and fingers; Bernadette bent her knees slightly,
but straightened again quickly.

Another rub of her buttocks, then four more blows.

And another four.

I loved the crisp crack of my hand on her flesh. I loved the way her knees
gave way to the pain just slightly. I looked carefully at her rear; it was
more than slightly flushed already. As I gently rubbed her bottom, I could
feel the rise in temperature beneath her rosy skin. I pressed myself
against her buttocks and wished again for my strap-on dildo. Like this, all
warm and tender, I could fuck her until she exploded, I was so aroused.

Even B's tiny and tight buttocks were a big enough target for me as I
spanked her. I spanked away my disturbance, my dislocation. And I spanked
away my fury with JJ for having died without telling me.

Bernadette's bottom was magnificently pink with the occasional stripe of
deeper, angry magenta.

I was so turned on.

I stood to one side again and swatted another quartet of blows onto her
again, while watching and relishing her grimace into the mirror. Now her
cheeks were truly red, hot and florid, and she was crying.

Crying quietly in pain and humiliation while I found pleasure in the same
scenario. At this very personal watershed I gasped and gaped that she would
let me feel pleasure while she felt pain. This was how much she loved me;
she could endure the pain if it gave me pleasure. Her tears ripped the
passion out of me and I broke down on the floor behind her. How could I
have done this? How could I enjoy her pain and subjugation?

I loved her; I should respect and even worship her, so how could I hurt her
and oppress her?And how could she endure this gratuitous punishment? How
could she allow me to use her body for my own perversion?



Passion has consequences, perversion builds up debts and I owed much to the
one I loved.



She curled around and held me as I quaked with guilt and remorse upon the
floor.

"It's all right. It's all right. It's okay." She comforted me between
sobs. "I know, I understand, it's okay."

She coaxed me to bed and we lay together while I tried hard to come to
terms with what had happened. I had defiled her, indulging my disgusting
lust at her expense, whilst she accepted and acquiesced. My very spirit
collapsed; this had nothing to do with JJ. This was about me as a lustful
spirit and how destructive I could be and how badly I could harm those I
loved. This was worse than ever; this was me stripped bare of every conceit
and pretension and compared to some vile, hateful beast. This was me as
unreasoning lust. I loathed myself.

I think I slept but woke at about five am. Quietly I dressed and slipped on
my trainers before leaving the back door quietly.

I walked around the back of the slumbering town in the continuing darkness,
and then south in the lightening road towards the sea.

At W* Cove I made my way down onto the rock and towards the sea. This was
it; this was the point at which I had focused from Prospect; this was my
shining sea. I sat on the rocks for a few minutes and then very
deliberately took off my shoes and placed them neatly on the weed-gripped
rock beside me.

It was getting lighter as I sat and the pressure increased on me to seize
that twilight moment and to claim that day that increased. So I stood and
quickly unclasped and struggled free of my jeans, Stepping carefully over
the uneven rocks I made my way into the incoming tide.

This was it. No second thoughts, no regrets, no misgivings. This was
it. Now. There could be no 'later'.

Now.



I took a step backwards. And another, shrinking away from the uncaring
tide, but still bewitched by its force. I sat down on that selfsame rock
and put my trousers on again. I clambered awkwardly back to the road, the
stopped and climbed back down to retrieve my shoes.

Here was the road, coarse and rocky beneath my feet. There was the sky,
lowering and contrasty. The trees writhed and yawed as I passed, the
cottages recoiled and shrank.

I walked back into town as it started to wake up; milkmen and paperboys,
shop deliveries and roundsmen. I passed them all in my state of heightened
awareness and they appeared as grotesques before me.

I climbed the paved hill back towards Prospect.



"Where have y'been! Yer Ma's worried half t'death and yer Da's gone out to
look for yer."

"He's not my father."

"He loves yer, so it doesn't matter.  Christ Jesus yer cold! She's here!
She's here!"

I heard thumping footsteps.

"Oh Rachel! I was so worried. Thank god your back!"

Arms wrapped around me, I smelled the special aroma of my mother; that most
particular perfume familiar to all of us, the aroma of the women who bore
us. I smelled my mother. I felt this comforting, reassuring body around me
and allowed myself to be weak and small again.

Hot bath. Wash away those feelings. Start again. Wash it all away.



I started drawing again. I sat at various locations in the town and started
sketching the more distinctive and prettier bits of my adopted home.
Taking them home, I refined the scribbles to a set of seven outline
drawings that I then traced and added colour too. Not difficult, colour
wash and then Rotring ink to define the outlines. Didn't look bad, after
all.

I took them in my folio to the art/gift shop on Market Square.

Success. They would display them at £35 pounds each and pay me half the
selling price, and as I left I saw the manageress placing two of them in
the windows. I wandered home still trying to do the arithmetic `Seven times
thirty five, divided by two.'

"That's one hundred and twenty pound -- odd! Yer silly cow, that's a bloody
fortune!" Exclaimed Bernadette.

The next day we walked past the gallery and looked at my pathetic paintings
in the window.

"Looks great!"

"They're awful. Hate them."

B went back to uni the next day and I trudged back through the town lost
and depressed without her. My random path took me past the gallery. One of
paintings had been removed from the window and replaced by some garish
crap. I trudged on feeling rejected and alone.

Two days later I walked down to the town again. I needed to visit the
library to see if they had anything about Lorca and his `Cruel Garden'.

I asked the librarian for Twentieth Century Spanish Poetry, and she just
looked at me blankly. In those days, librarians were expected to unhelpful
and forbidding, keepers of the arcane knowledge of their collections,
deriving power from the impenetrable nature of their collections. This one
was no different.

"No. We haven't. What did you want it for?"

"I'm trying to write some stuff about him" I floundered. "What about. Have
you got anything on Claude Cahun?

Her meandering attention fixed on me.

"Why do you want this information? It's not generally available." And her
gimlet eye fixed me with a severe and unblinking stare.

"I just want to. I saw a photograph by him in a magazine, and I was
interested in . . ." my voice tailed away pathetically before her
interrogation. She was about forty, I suppose, with neck length black hair,
a thin pinched face with brown eyes above a short and slightly rotund
body. She wore a plain white blouse and a grey herringbone skirt.

"Come with me."

And she turned quickly on her heel and marched away into the library as I
gathered coat and bag and struggled after her. I caught up and followed her
ample bottom. Inside her strict skirt, her thighs made swishing noises as
she strode before me.

She led me through the body of the library and towards the `staff only'
area.

"Here. Reference works covering Cahun. You can't take them away, just study
them here, and leave them on the table when you're finished."

She stood taut and repressive before me with her feet in their sensible
shoes neatly together, calves and thighs clad in dark tights touching, they
disappeared beneath her tweed skirt. The white blouse was buttoned to the
neck and showed nothing. No jewellery around her neck, no bangles, just a
plain gold band on her wedding finger. She looked at me with something
approaching disgust and clasped her hands together about her waist. She
nodded quickly, meaning `there it is, get on with it' and clattered away
leaving me there with these books `not generally available'.

I pulled out the book she had indicated and took it to the table. It was on
surrealism in Europe -- all Max Ernst and Man Ray, so I looked up Claude
Cahun.

Which is when I learned that this wonderfully surreal photographer was not
Monsieur Cahun at all, but a woman from the eastern part of France who had
settled with her lover on Jersey. And her lover was also her
half-sister. Together they had fled from the incoming Nazi army from Paris
to the Channel Isles where they thought they could remain unmolested. My
mouth gaped open as I read; it hadn't been so long ago that I had
encountered the old lady in Finchley Road. She and her lover, Miriam, had
fled in the same way. But they had found safety. Cahun and Suzanne had
found only terror as the Channel Islands were occupied. Bravely, they
fought back with what weapons they could invent before being captured and
sentenced to death. The sentence was never carried out.

Cahun survived in poor health until 1954 and her partner Suzanne survived
her by eighteen years. But they survived. How many others had perished?

I scrabbled away at the other books on the `not generally available' shelf
and ruffled my way through Beardsly and Schiele and De Sade. If they
weren't generally available, what were they doing here at all?



"Have you finished?"

"Oh. Yes. I suppose so."

"Then I'll show you out!"

I gathered myself up and followed her swishing thighs back to the public
area again.

I plonked myself at a study table in the main library as the double doors
clanked closed behind me. What a woman! Strict and straight, but with a
luscious, even corpulent exterior; quite formidable. Idly, I wondered what
it would be like to fuck her.

Deep in thought and fantasy, I wandered back towards Prospect via the
Market Square.

"Rachel!"

The sharp voice called out behind me and like a punishment. It reminded me
that I hadn't intended to be there in the first place. It was the
manageress from the gallery that had taken my paintings.

I turned towards her, ready for the tirade of abuse.

"I need more. We've sold all your paintings!"

Sold them all? This didn't make sense, it was less than two weeks. They
couldn't have sold them all. But here in her office, Jean wrote me a cheque
for one hundred and twenty two pounds and fifty pence saying "we need more
of the same, but more of the riverfront and the boats, they went
first. Forget the bandstand, why not try one of Middle Street or Bayards
Cove, we could sell loads of those!"

I just stood dumbstruck and managed to gasp out `yes' and `no' at what I
thought were appropriate points.

When I left the gallery, it felt as though I was walking on cotton
wool. Nothing felt real or logical. I'd been mucking about with paints and
here they were paying me real money for it. It didn't seem moral, decent or
legal.

I laid the cheque on the kitchen table.

"How much?" Exclaimed Mum when she saw the amount.

I phoned B back at uni

"Damn and great and bloody hell! I told you'se w' bloody good! Do loads
more and knock `em dead!"

So I did. Another set of seven for the Market Gallery, plus two more sets
of traced and coloured six for other locations.

I walked down to Newcommen House at the head of Bayards Cove and showed my
wares. This time I upp'ed my price a bit as Bayards Cove was the really
touristy bit of town.

Next I took the ferry across the river and placed the other set of six at
XX gallery, right by the ferry.

On the way home, I juggled the money in my purse and bought a half bottle
of vodka to keep me company while I painted more.

I loved it and painted in series crap as the summer progressed.

I'm sure real artists experience the same; you hit upon a style and your
audience laps it up, and so you vary the subject a bit but stick with the
style. Well, with me, the audience kept arriving on holiday, bought the
style and went home. So I never had to alter the style or subject matter of
the pictures.

I made hundreds, and would have continued mindlessly, but the summer
declined towards autumn and the crowds thinned, which is when Robbie
cleared his throat and said to me

"I've got a friend -- someone I went to school with actually -- who runs a
publishing firm in Town. Seems their art director is going on short time in
a couple of weeks and they need an assistant."

Robbie looked across at Mum and then back to me.

"What do you think, Rae?"

Mum nodded slightly and B smiled. They were all in it together. They all
knew.

They all knew I could never go back to College to complete my degree. They
all knew I would hide myself away forever, given half a chance. And they
all knew I had some talent and ability. What else could I do? I agreed to
go to a sort of interview and see what was what.



It was just a fortnight after the August Bank Holiday that I arrived at XX
Publishing near Islington tube in London, but one would have been forgiven
for thinking it was deepest December. The weather was vile and it made me
want to contract into my shell like a hermit crab in search of shelter and
comfort.

This archetypal, blank office block in dreadful London seemed the least
appealing place on earth to me, and the prospect of coming here every
working day made me shiver with alarm.

But then I arrived at the fifth floor offices to meet Sheila. She kept me
waiting in Reception at least twenty minutes and I began to think about
leaving. But at last she came flying in, all apologies and shouted
instructions to the Receptionist. Sheila was in her early forties, I
guessed, mousy haired and of average height. She wore a totally
unfashionable orange, woolen poncho, white blouse, short tartan skirt and
black tights. But the most outstanding visual feature was not her costume,
but the fact that she was at least six months pregnant.

"Come on through Rachel, meet the team and the rest of the idiots!"

She shoved the door open with her behind and beckoned me through with her
head while she clutched an armful of paperwork above her ample tummy.

The offices were terminally untidy; piles of paper occupied every surface
and scrap of floor space. Between them were enclaves of cheap white desks
and work surfaces covered in more paper, cardboard and general
rubbish. There were drawing boards on high metal stands, desks with phones
and faxes, but every workstation was empty. I looked ahead and saw a tight
knot of backs -- male and female- bent and engrossed over something on a
desk, Sheila tottered towards them, "It works, then?"

"Fucking amazing!" called someone from the huddled group.

I hurried after Sheila and strained to see what they were all looking at so
intently. There was an off-white box at their midst. It was a computer
monitor, and on the display I could see lines of type and a photo of some
sort. As I stared in disbelief, the display moved and changed scale. Around
the operator, the huddled audience gasped in awe, and I was hooked, sold
and totally captivated. I stopped to gaze in awe.

"Over here, Rachel!"

Sheila held the door open for me and I dutifully scurried into her
office. The chaos behind me paled into insignificance as I looked around
me. There were piles of rubbish, paper and artwork boards absolutely
everywhere.

"Sit! Put that pile of crap on the floor -- anywhere."

I did as I was told and placed the pile of manuscripts carefully on the
floor before me.

"Now Rachel. What I need from you is time! Time for me to get rid of this,"
and she gave her expanding belly a wriggle "time in the office to help me
sort out this," and she spread her arms wide to encompass the morass about
us "and more than a bit of critical intelligence."

I opened my mouth to launch my sales pitch on how I could save the
publishing industry, but the bloody phone rang. I closed my mouth, utterly
deflated as Sheila reached for the phone. She listened for a few seconds.

"Fuck. I'm running late. Send her through."

She threw the receiver towards the cradle and miraculously it rattled into
place.

"Got an illustrator here. Need you to take a look."

Almost at the moment she finished the sentence, the door opened and there
stood the most striking figure. She had long, wavy brilliant red hair that
I would have said came out of a bottle, apart from the fact that her skin
was incredibly fair and bespattered with deep pink freckles. She was
probably well over six foot tall and wore a fly away chiffon dress with
enormous orange flowers on it. Her dress was totally unsuited to the
weather and the occasion.

She stood framed in the light of the doorway.

"Here I am! On the seventh day, as requested and with all the illustrations
finished!"

I gaped at her. As she stood there in the doorway, I could see straight
through her dress, beneath it she wore stockings, bright red suspenders and
red, lace knickers.

I had never seen anyone wear auto-erotic underwear like this before. In my
stupid, insular understanding, I had thought I was the only one who wore
underwear for her own gratification. Mentally I was rocked back on my
heels; I had a lot to learn from these women.

"Jenn, darling! Throw all that crap on the floor and sit. This is Rachel
who will be dealing with the day-to-day while I'm away" Jenn, the newcomer
smiled and nodded in my general direction. I smiled back.

"Jenn is doing work for a series on Virginia Wolfe. Y'know, the writer?"

Yes, I knew. I did two of her books at `A'level.

"Ok, sweetie. Show us what you've got!"

"Well, it's not easy brief to get into. But I think I've found the centre
of the proposition."

Jenn opened her slim portfolio and produced a piece of Bockingford with an
illustration on it.

"Good, good." Muttered Sheila as she peered over her bump at the
artwork. Jenn cast another piece on the table; and another.

"What`jer think Rachel?"

"Well."

This next thirty seconds would be my entire interview. If I flunked it and
praised Jenn I would fail. But I needed to find a valid and critically
acceptable standpoint.

"Lovely characterization here and here." I swept my fingers vaguely over
drawing one.

"But Virginia Wolfe killed herself in March, so we wouldn't see the trees
in full leaf as you have it in this illustration. And I think we could make
more of the storming clouds -- think in terms of Masefield's `Butting
through the Channel in the mad March days'. That's when she died. We should
emphasize the tragic -- the village would have been huddled against the
wind, not bonny and blooming as we have it here. And we need to be
consistent with Virginia herself; there's a lot of difference between these
two faces."Jenn fixed me with a glassy smile. In her eyes I read `You
bitch'.

"Hmm. I think you may be right. What do you think Jenn?"

"Well of course I put these together as stage one, if you like. They need
more work, as always."

Jenn looked at me. This time her look said `help me out'.

I continued "I think we should persevere with this overall effect as it has
immediate off the page appeal, but look for increased tragedy in this one
and a bit more drama here as well. Ooh, but I like this, and this."

This allowed Jenn to preen herself and re-inflate her ego.

She whittered on about how this tiny detail was the way she wanted to go,
and if we supported her, it would be the greatest series of editorial
illustrations they had ever published.

Rubbish!

Jenn was selling and Sheila was buying. Me? I just happened to be there.

The meeting concluded and we all said our goodbyes, Jenn opened the office
door and the daylight flooded in, offering me another chance to look
straight through her dress at her underwear and shapely legs.

"Well, that went well. You certainly have got the critical eye!" Sheila
stood and stretched her back, shoving her bump ever outward.

"She's a formidable artist -- and quite a woman."

"She's that all right!"

Sheila went all embarrassed, fiddling things about on her desk for a few
moments.

"You'll meet these women." She looked up at me, then down again.

"Hmm?"

"Jenn doesn't like men. She prefers other girls; understand?"

"Oh."

"Yes, precisely."

Robbie obviously had not divulged my sexuality any further; he hadn't said
"My probable step-daughter, who is a Lesbian . . . ". For which I was
extremely grateful.

Sheila lifted a piece of paper nervously and tried to find another pile on
which to organize it. She gave up and let the sheet rest again on her
chaotic desk.

"I think you've got the job."



I hadn't realized the depth of the connection that Robbie had with the
publishing company. I should have guessed by the resemblance between he and
Sheila that they were brother and sister, and Robbie's `friend from school'
was in fact his brother in law. Anthony ran the publishing, and Sheila his
wife, ran the art and illustration side.



Anyway, I was confirmed as Assistant to the Art Director. My salary was in
my eyes, ludicrously large and Robbie's sister even put me up at their
house in Islington.

The deal was that I would work six months part time and full time as Sheila
had her baby and then returned to work in the Spring. In reality it meant
that I would fetch and carry stuff from the office to Sheila's home and
manage the tyranny of rubbish as well. It still seemed like good fun.



On my first morning I worked through all the piles of art and paperwork on
this side of the desk. On the other side I worked in terms of project
deadlines; in the middle the two areas met in Chaos. I organized and
categorized projects and suppliers and tried to set up a card index.

Tap on the open door.

"I bet Sheila didn't even show you where to get coffee."

He smiled at me around the doorframe. Dark haired and disarmingly handsome.

"No, she didn't! And I never thought to ask either."

"C'mon, I'll show you. I'm Hugh, by the way. Paste up artist
extraordinaire!"

"I'm Rachael, filling for Sheila -- as you know!"

Hugh gave me a tour of the offices; the kitchen, Anthony's office, the
editor's offices the accounts office and the fire escape.

Fire escape?

"Well we use petroleum based adhesive and lots of paper, so smoking is
banned in the offices and studios. So if you need to puff," he raised his
eyebrow conspiratorially "this is the place."

I didn't smoke but logged away the fire escape as a good place to find
people away from the work place and relaxing.

Over the next two weeks I reclaimed order from the all-consuming chaos. I
sorted art into chapters, chapters into projects and projects into
publications. From the opposite perspective, I sorted publishing dates into
production dates into `finishing' dates. By the beginning of the third week
I had a card index and master calendar that made sense of every event. And
I could accurately locate any piece of artwork for any publication we
had. It wasn't me being picky and anal-retentive; I had to sort all this
out to be able to understand it and what I was supposed to do with it.

I had become a consummate harridan, going around with clipboard and
demanding to know what everyone was working on and where on earth their
time-sheets were for the past three months, but after three weeks, I
thought I knew where each product and each worker was. Hugh had been my
key. After work, or after all the others had gone for lunch, he would drop
a careless line such as "Have you got XX Complete Cookery on track?" And
that would be enough for me to search the progress and sticking points of
said book before it came back to bite me. Hugh knew what was going through
the studio and he made sure that I knew too.



I was kneeling on the floor stacking the art for `Twentieth Century Korean
Ceramic Review' when the door was pushed wider and Hugh's feet were visible
on their way in.

"Need to talk to you. Want some coffee?"

"No but talk. Let's go to the kitchen."

We followed the corridor round to the tiny, fetid kitchen.



Hugh pushed the door closed behind me.

"Did I tell you I was leaving?"

"No. Why?".

Hugh leant back against the coffee stained kitchen unit in the staff
`relaxation room'.

"Why?" I was a bit taken back and rather offended that Hugh, my chief ally
in the publishers should dare to leave.

"Been offered a job at GBWA."

I raised an eyebrow and shook my head slightly. If it had been intended to
impress me, it failed as I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Award winning ad agency in Berkley Square. They've asked me to head-up
production." He turned towards me slightly. "No bloody silly computers
there. It's all top quality typesetting and proper art."

I was impressed, even though I tried to look impassive. I had never know
anyone who actually worked in a real advertising agency; it sounded
terribly exciting -- and lucrative! Hugh was going to be paid about half as
much again as he earned at the publishers.

"Last day next Friday, so we'll all go out and get pissed!"

And we did.



We sauntered back to his flat, arm in arm in the autumn warmth. I felt this
could be the start of something wonderful; here I was with a man, the like
of which I had never encountered. Knowledgeable and confident, yet
inquisitive about me. Relaxed but attentive, kind and considerate. I was a
little bit drunk, but not that much; I thought he might be the one.

He kissed me and I melted into him, just loving the surrender of self into
a stronger whole. He opened the door and flicked on the light.

He kissed me again and again as we waited for the kettle to boil. I felt
his lips peck from my ear down my neck, over my collarbone and onto my
breast as the kettle boiled, and so did he, I simmered.

He intended his mouth to continue its searching kisses downwards, but my
clothes were in the way.

"Lift!"

Hugh lifted my top at the waist and lifted it up over my head, casting it
aside as his hands swept around me to unclip my bra.

Hugh bent his head and loved my breasts, licking and sucking my nipples
until I wanted to scream. I wasn't convinced about the feel of his stubble
on my boobs, but I was inquisitive enough to allow him to continue. Still
flicking his tongue over my left breast, I felt his right hand fiddle with
and undo the top button of my jeans. I breathed in as he unbuttoned and
eased the zip down. I wanted him to do it. I wanted too feel a man's hand
on me. I wanted to see what on earth this heterosexual sex had to recommend
it. I wanted it to try it on like a dress and cast it away if it didn't
suit.

Inside my pants, he stroked me from perineum to clitoris and back again;
several times. I wriggled involuntarily and between kisses he parted my
lower lips and inserted his finger in me. Not since Guy, when I was sixteen
had a male penetrated my vagina, and now I was going to let Hugh fuck me as
well.

He pulled my jeans and knickers down, laid me on the bed and while I waited
breathless in the dark I heard him remove his trousers and underwear as
well.

Now, here it would come. The monstrous ravaging beast, bringing pain and
humiliation. I was scared and excited at the same time. He moved towards me
and I parted my legs beneath him.

I was the target: he was the arrow.

He kissed me again as his body descended onto mine. I felt his penis long,
hot and powerful upon my stomach, he arched back and presented the tip at
my entrance. He thrust with a controlled viciousness that almost took my
breath away. His penis skidded away over my clitoris but the power, the
lust, the strength was foreign to me.

I couldn't guess how large his penis was; it felt enormous there on my
stomach, but more impressive was the power; the power.

He arched himself back again and thrust at me. I felt his penis hit my lips
and nudge them apart, forcing a passage into the entrance to my vagina. I
gasped. He withdrew and gently thrust again, between my lips and deeper
into me; he collected my lubricant on his glans and shaft, withdrew and
penetrated me again. I almost died as he split me apart; it hurt!

"Oh!"

He was in me, and I wasn't ready for this. I could feel the very rim of his
glans plunging in to me like a ramrod. There was a pressure wave in front
and a vacuum behind as he thrust himself deeper and deeper into me. The
shaft of his penis brushed the walls of my vagina and sent mixed signals to
my brain. Part of me wanted to repel the invader, but the rest of me craved
this continuous stabbing to the very pit of my being. The fullness forced
my thighs apart and made me open my mouth in sympathetic reception of his
penis.

Now I was properly lubricated and Hugh's penis moved more easily inside me,
the pain had disappeared replaced by desire and expectation. I raised my
hips higher and spread my legs further to admit him as deep as I could. I
could feel him press the very length of himself into me and the sack of his
testicles slapped against my perineum. We fucked for ages and I began to
worry that somehow I wasn't stimulating him sufficiently. I was about to
say something, ask him what I should be doing when I began to notice a
difference.

Now as he thrust I could feel the tip of his glans at the very neck of my
womb.

His mouthed locked to mine as we fucked, licking and sucking and wrestling
tongues back and forth. All the while his mammoth penis split my very being
in half as he thrust into me.

But now the flavour changed and he ground himself deeper into me, his
breathing deepened and became more ragged.

"Haven't got a condom. Coming out; hold me!"

Quite suddenly Hugh withdrew his penis from the very center of me and
deprived of that essential stimulus, I wanted more.

He hung above me and I dutifully grabbed his penis as he excitedly thrust
into my hands with astonishing force. His slick penis slid between my palms
and I looked down at the deep red head pointing at me.

"Now!" and he thrust again with a guttural cry; suddenly there was
additional wetness in my clasped hands as he ejaculated.

"Mmmmm!"

My hands were covered in the extra warmth of semen. Forced between my hands
jets of semen hit my stomach, breasts and up onto my neck.

"Oh!"

His thrusting movement buckled and like a collapsing bridge, he fell upon
me pinning my disgusting hands to my stomach.

And there and then I knew that I was a lifelong lesbian. For all the
excitement and explosive sex of a man, I wanted the sensuality and
satisfaction of a woman. Really, it had taken me nowhere.

Now that Hugh had achieved orgasm, his desire for me disappeared and he
just wanted to sleep, whereas I wanted hand and tongue satisfaction, with
continued deep penetration from penis or plastic; I either needed three men
or one woman.

Hugh slipped towards sleep and I turned away from him to replay the events
of my defloration in detail. I loved being entered; the feeling of his
penis parting my lips was priceless, but I hated the position of
subjugation beneath the tirade of his hips and I hated the hair on the
shaft of his penis. And I loved the pounding assault to my womb; Hugh's
penis reached the very end of my vagina and filled my desires completely,
but not for long enough. I could have done without his stubbled chin
scratching my cheeks. Oh, and semen was disgusting.

I slept too, but unsatisfied.



I awoke to a warm and sensual feeling. Hugh was rubbing my bottom.

I lay on my side, facing away from him and he was gliding his large, strong
hands down my back, over my hips and buttocks. As he did so, I would
wriggle slightly and I could feel his penis rubbing in the cleft of my
buttocks.

I knew what he wanted of course, I could have angled my hips slightly and
allowed him to enter me from behind. But I couldn't quite face passive
submission: it wasn't in my nature. I rolled over towards him and smiled.

"Good morning!"

I stretched out my hands towards his groin and fumblingly encountered his
penis. I wanted to know my assailant. It seemed enormous as I tried to
measure it with my hands. I kissed him and pressed him back on the sheets
as my hands explored his body.

Hard and bony; not soft and comforting as a woman's. I ran my hand across
the rippled muscles of his stomach and down to his erect and waiting penis
again. He groaned and flicked his pelvis up involuntarily. His stomach
muscles flexed as he did so and the power in his body was clearly evident.

I measured him with outstretched fingers; from the tip of my ring finger to
the tip of my thumb was the distance from his body to the rim of his
glans. This thick, hairy tree trunk was surmounted by a bell-shaped glans
with a mushroom rim standing well out from the supporting shaft. Lying with
my head on his chest, his penis was pointed towards me like a purple headed
missile. Carefully I encircled it with my fingers and lifted it away from
his body to get a better view.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing! Just playing."

"My turn to play."

And he slithered out of my arms and lay me down where I had been deflowered
the night before, but this time he gathered lower down the bed and placed
his head between my thighs. Hugh was going to perform cunnilingus upon me.

I held my breath as his mouth approached my lower lips and flinched just
slightly as his tongue nestled between labia before finding my
clitoris. The roughness of his unshaven cheeks scratched the delicate skin
of my inner thighs.

I hoped I didn't smell; and that was the first time I had ever had that
kind of thought. With another girl it was all natural, but with a man, I
felt I had to be squeaky clean and presentable.

I lay back and tried to concentrate on him, but I knew I was comparing his
licking and loving to Bernadette's. Maybe it was just because he was a man,
maybe women know about women's bodies better, but he didn't compare to her
delicious tongue.

And as he licked and slurped away, I realized there was something more
pressing on my mind.

I needed a wee.

Although I was confident in the efficacy of my bladder, I couldn't
guarantee my ability to retain control of urine under orgasm. If I came, I
might piss on Hugh; not exactly the `done thing'.

And so I resorted to a gambit proven by my sex for millennia before and no
doubt for millennia to come.

I faked an orgasm.



Gradually, I began to contract my stomach muscles and flex my hips outwards
to him. Next I gasped rhythmically and grabbed his shoulders. Lastly I
placed my hands on the back of his head and pulled his willing mouth hard
into my crotch as I thrust against him.

Performance over, I slumped back against the pillows. Hugh kissed his way
up my body to my mouth. I tasted myself upon his lips and tongue before I
slithered out beneath him.

"Stay there" I whispered. "Back in a second."

I slipped into the bathroom and peed mightily.

Hugh was lying in bed as I returned with the duvet partly covering his
loins. I wasn't sure what was expected of me and I wasn't sure how far I
could go. But I curled up on the bed alongside his prone body and pushed
the quilt away from his giant penis.

I held it and marveled at its girth; to think that all this had been inside
me last night and I didn't even feel sore this morning. I pulled the skin
towards the glans and Hugh grunted, I kissed his stomach. Did I dare? Did
I?

I kissed closer and closer.

His glans brushed my cheek and he grunted in pleasure and expectation.

I decided to try it.

I kissed the very crown of his glans and he groaned again. I opened my
mouth and admitted the violent purple head into me. My tongue explored this
unfamiliar surface and swept around the sharp angular rim of his glans. It
felt hot and powerful, it tasted vaguely sweet and salty at the same time.

`What if he wees?' I thought. What if Bernadette wee'd when I was licking
her; that was far more likely.

I took as much cock in my mouth as I could and ran my hand up and down the
rest of the shaft whilst sucking desperately. That's what I was supposed to
do, wasn't it?

I remembered watching a porno film in art school and the girl moved her
mouth in time with her hand as she fucked the man's penis into her mouth;
so I tried that.

Hugh grunted moaned and gave every indication of enjoying it.

Could I let him come in my mouth? Would I choke, or worse, be sick?

There were hairs sparsely along the shaft of his penis and when I moved the
wrinkled skin, they moved too. Inside the elastic envelope of skin, his
penis was as hard as rock and extraordinarily hot. Gently I pulled the skin
up and down and moved my mouth in rhythm.

I tried to avoid catching him with my teeth, but he was so large,
inevitably his thrusting penis hit my teeth a few times. I took it out of
my mouth, looked up to Hugh's face "Sorry!" He half smiled and looked down
at me. I looked up at him as I lifted his penis and licked around the
glans. Now I parted my lips around it and pulled the skin of the shaft up
towards the head, still I looked at him.

Hugh moaned and wriggled.

I sucked and tugged.

Now Hugh became rigid beneath me. His penis safe in my mouth, I observed
him carefully. Now he began to thrust a little into my mouth; now stronger;
now intensely.

He was coming, what would I do? I still didn't know.

Too late, Hugh pressed the back of my neck, forcing my head down onto his
penis as he came in my mouth. He moaned out loud and thrust his hips
upwards. A jet of semen, followed by another, then a thrust and another
jet. More thrusts, more jets and the volcano subsided into mere
after-shocks. Hot semen in my mouth, bruised lips, a very full mouth.

I slipped off the bed and away into the bathroom and spat quietly into the
basin. I had let him come in my mouth; the previous night I had let him
enter me. There wasn't anything I hadn't experienced! I rinsed out and
tried to look myself in the eye in the mirror. I looked awful.

And I felt ashamed of what I had done, guilty for my experience. I tried to
look myself in the eye, but kept missing and examined my hair, my cheek,
anything but look myself straight in the eye and acknowledge precisely what
I had done.

I sat on the loo and just thought. Beyond that little room, I could hear
Hugh moving about in the tiny flat.

I sat a few minutes more and then recognized that I would have too face him
and my actions (and their consequences), opened the door and scooted back
into the bedroom. Hastily I scrambled on my blouse and tiptoed out towards
the sounds of breakfast in the kitchen.

"I've made you tea. Sugar's there." He gesticulated towards a bowl of white
granuals.

"S'fine without, thanks."

"I'm making toast, ok."

"Mmm."

"Let's go out today! How's about Brighton. Day by the sea and all that!"

"No! I can't."

Hugh half turned and looked at me inquisitively.

"I've got to help Sheila. She's nearly due and needs help taking care of
the house. And the kids . . ."

Hugh looked at me carefully. He knew it was just an excuse. He knew I was
lying, but I hoped he didn't guess why.

"Ok. Another time perhaps" he said slowly and carefully, still watching me.

I nodded and went to get dressed without waiting for the toast.



When I got back to Islington, I quite literally ran into Anthony on the
steps of Number Seven.

"Christ! Thank god you're back. Sheila's started! Kids are indoors. Off to
the hospital!" He looked scared, in all honesty. Behind his round glasses,
his eyes were wild and his face was flushed unnaturally red. He was
frightened, but I didn't know why.

And he tore past me into a waiting taxi where I glimpsed Sheila's pain
wracked face in the first stages of labour. The cab disappeared and I was
left gazing after it and wondering what on earth I was supposed to do now.

I gathered them to me. Jack, aged seven and Daphne, just five and we played
silly games with the telly turned up loud to drown my fears. I fed them
lunch and we settled down for a Disney movie. Daphne fell asleep on me as I
played with her angel hair. She looked perfect as she laid across the
settee with her head on my lap. Her deep auburn hair curled and waved about
her shoulders and hid her pretty face. She was pretty then, and I knew she
would become beautiful as she grew. Alabaster white skin and delicate
features, Daphne looked like a Raphael cherubim come to earth, and now
asleep on me. I didn't dare move for fear of waking her from her innocent
slumber.

I waited in vain for a call from the hospital.

As the movie ended, I gently wakened Daphne and we crossed the road to the
gardens in the square and played in the weak autumn sunshine. They bowled
around the neat gravel paths between the well clipped shrubs as I sat and
worried, and waited. I took them home as the light started to fade. I
checked the answering machine as soon as I had got their shoes and coats
off; no calls, no messages.

We played more games; lego and potty putty.

Evening.

I fed them again. No calls.

Bathtime.

Bedtime.

Jack fell asleep easily; beautifully. He had very proudly and determinedly
got himself ready for bed without my help or interference. This was a young
gentleman clad in traditional striped pyjamas in total equanimity. He was
superb.

Daphne didn't settle. I heard her moaning on the edge of tears several
times. I almost felt she knew that something was happening; Mummy wasn't
home and something must be wrong.

She started wailing, half asleep but upset and worried. So I wrapped her in
her favourite blanket and gathered her up in my arms. I carried her up to
my bed, stripped off quickly and lay with her nestled in to me.

I dozed, not daring to disturb this angel in my care, nor miss any phone
call from Charring Cross.

But none came.

My room was on the top floor of the house in what had been the servants
quarters, well it still was in some ways. In the architectural style of
things, the dormer window was set behind a decorated false
balustrade. Standing in the road before the terrace, one could not see the
servant's windows as they were behind the solid balustrade; from the
servant's windows, one could not see the ground -- only the sky.

And so, I had never bothered with curtains, indeed I loved the open sky and
the arrival of the dawn unobscured by curtains.

And here came the dawn. As Daphne slept deeply upon my breast, here came
the dawn.

I awoke but lay still in the early grey light, in the distance beyond the
balustrade I could see the concrete grey city towers catching the first
rays of the Autumn sun. Daphne lay sleeping on my left breast, and quite
literally there. Her mouth was less than an inch from my nipple.

I wished she would suckle; I wished I had milk. I wished she was mine.



Sunday in London is wonderful. Before midday when the tourists take to the
streets, London is beautiful. The serenity in the Square must have been
disturbed though by the squeals and screams from the bathroom.

I made Jack bathe first and washed him all over before squirting him with a
water-pistol just for fun. Screaming with laughter, he tried vainly to
splash me before I hoiked him out and wrapped him in a towel. Pretty boy;
keep him warm, love him. Wrap him up, dress him.

Now it was her turn.

I put scent in the fresh warm water, and added a bath oil capsule just for
fun.

Daphne reacted just as I hoped, and expected. A bath was not a method of
getting clean, it was method of enjoying one's sensuality and for loving
one's self conscientiously.