Comfort food.txt
----- PedoMelissaDa3tYja+6_ylAvEh89P49mCS5v4 ----- 2011.09.26 - 16:15:21GMT -----
Comfort Food (gg, mast, oral, romance, true)
by LesLuv
I found this story in the bottom of a file box the other day, having forgotten I'd written it forty-two years ago. I knew I intended to send it to a magazine or something, but who would have published it back them? I'm glad I didn't. The story is only partly true, some scenes have been dramatised a lot (you can guess which ones). The basis of truth remains, however.
Chapter one
I was nearly eleven when it all began.
My best friend lived next door. We went to school together, played together, went to Sunday school together, and were called the pumpkin pair. Pumpkin because her name was Polina and mine was Patricia. She looked a bit like one, short and a bit round with pumpkin hair - so her mother said - because it was short and brown. And because there was a photo of her taken when she was about six, sitting on an enormous pumpkin in a garden somewhere. I was tall and skinny, with brown eyes and long blond-ish hair. We giggled a lot, experimented with our mothers' make up, wore new creations from our dress-up box, pretended to be movie stars, and had a high old time.
She was learning piano, I was writing stories. I went to ballet school, she went to first aid school. We had no siblings, so we were the sisters each other longed for. Our fights were short and easily resolved, for we instinctively knew how lonely we would be without each other. The only other children in our street were boys who not only went to a different school, but a different church, and who banded together to play football and devise new ways to make our lives miserable. We avoided them.
My father was an engineer, something to do with textile maintenance. My mother was a writer, mostly children's stories, but she'd had some poetry published which I could not understand. She would read her stories to me when I was young, and if I fell asleep or laughed she said they would be successful. By the time I was eight her stories were dumb, because they always involved magic, mice, bees other little creatures, so she stopped reading them. When she was writing she'd get so absorbed that whole days could go by and I would not see her or hear her. I know she made a lot of money from them, and it was in a trust account, whatever that is. I spent a good deal of time at Polina's. My father was wonderful, making my mind work with puzzles, problems to be solved, plots to be devised, and always questions that had to be answered.
Polina moved in to the big house next door to ours three years ago. I was so glad, because my only play-mates had lived a long way away, and I had to be driven, or they had to come to my house. I was not allowed to ride my bike there because the roads were too busy. It was not long before we met, and she seemed really nice, a few months older than me, and also eager to have someone her own age to play with.
My mother didn't seem to care. My father cared, but I could see already that it was in a different way from how he cared about me and Mum. Polina's mum was called Felicyta, which she told me meant 'Good Luck', but that she'd had none of that except coming to Australia and her daughter. And me, now.
Things seemed to be going along nicely until one night there was a screaming match between Felicyta and Paul, her husband. It woke me up about midnight. I'd never heard such yelling from their place before, and because the night was still and their bedroom almost next to mine, on the other side of the paling fence. It sounded to me like someone was being murdered. I knew about murders from my reading and writing, but never thought I'd actually hear one happening close by.
It was a very cold night, and my pyjamas were fleecy and warm; when I pulled the curtains aside and looked out my window I could see frost on the window, and a light on in the bedroom next door.
'Oh, well,' I thought, 'grownups argue. Some of them all the time.' I shrugged my shoulders and was about to get back into my lovely warm bed when I heard a car drive out of their driveway and accelerate away. A moment later I was in bed again and the quiet had returned. But, as I closed my eyes I heard a different sound to the arguing. This was weeping. Not crying, but the uncontrollable sobbing of someone in great distress. And it was coming, I was sure, from the bedroom next door.
I looked at the bedside clock. It said 12.45. I knew Dad would be sound asleep, he always seemed to be tired these days, but I didn't know where Mum would be. If she was in her study at the back of the house it would take more courage than I had to tell her what I'd heard. The once I'd done that had drawn such a sarcastic and demeaning retort that I cried for an hour. But if she was in bed she might be awake, and I could probably tell her without getting into trouble. In the end I couldn't be bothered. If Mrs. Fannell was crying she wasn't dead, at least.
When I woke up in the morning I had forgotten all about it, and it wasn't until I was having breakfast that Dad reminded me it was Saturday, and asked if I wanted a ride to ballet at eleven.
"No," I answered, "Mr. Fannell is going to drive me and Polina, because she wants to see if she'd like to do it too. You could pick us up, though." And then it hit me. Mr. Fannell had driven off in the night. He might be home, but he might not.
Dad must have seen the look of worry on my face, because he said, "Is anything wrong?"
So I told him the story.
"Hmm," he muttered. I'd better go and see if everything's all right."
Mum had come in as he said that, and in her waspish tone said, "Yes, go and comfort the lady. You know how to do that."
She never used to be like that. I remember she seemed to be always cheerful and bright, but I hated it when she went on like that now. It made my father angry too, sometimes. I felt myself blush. Why did she have to belittle him so much? Dad just went out of the room without a word. I followed. Without finishing my breakfast.
We didn't have to knock when we got to the back door. It was open, and we could hear Polina and her mum talking. Dad gently tapped on the door and pushed it open a bit further. "Felice?" He always called her that.
There was the sound of movement and in a moment she appeared, red eyed, an old dressing gown pulled round her short but ample figure. "Hello." There was an eastern European cadence to the word that she would never lose. I liked it. "Oh, Hello, Bill." That was what everyone called him. "You know what's happened?" Her voice was lifeless.
"Only what Pat told me. Big argument, something like that. Is there anything we can do?"
I'd followed him into the kitchen, and as soon as Polly saw me she came over and whispered in my ear, "Dad's gone away. They had a big argument last night."
"I heard the commotion last night. It woke me up. Then I heard your dad's car go. I wanted to come over and make sure you were OK, but it was too cold," I whispered back.
We were running up the stairs when the phone rang. Polly stopped, eyes wide, and said a bit nervously, "Oh, that'll be Dad. I'm sure."
We went back to the kitchen where Felice had the phone to her ear, not speaking, and I saw she had gone deathly pale. Suddenly she dropped the phone onto the table and screamed. Not a scream of terror or fright, but one of anguish. There's a difference, I know. Then another scream, this one quieter, then a wild stare at her daughter, me, and finally at Dad.
Dad picked up the phone, said who he was, listened, said they'd be in touch, disconnected, dialed a number and when it was answered said, "Come over. Please. Now. Paul is dead." There was only one person he would speak to like that. Mum.
Dad looked at us, closed his eyes, shook his head in disbelief, and softly said, "Oh, shit."
A few moments later Mum came tearing in the back door, took one look at the scene, sternly motioned us to get out of the room, sat down next to Felice and put her arm around her shoulders. I heard her say as we walked numbly toward the stairs, "Oh, my poor darling. Oh, my dear."
We sat on the couch next to each other. I took Polly's hand in mine and squeezed. I didn't know what to say, but I felt her loss as though it were mine. Well, I imagined I did.
I looked at her and saw two big tears rolling down her cheeks. I felt like crying too, but it hadn't been my dad, and somehow I couldn't feel as sad as she must have. I put my arm around her and drew her close, but didn't say anything.
Presently she raised her head and looked at me. "I know why he did it."
This was puzzling, as I didn't know what 'did it' meant. "Did what?"
"Drove off like that. Whatever happened, I made him do it."
"But, um, what?" She didn't answer. "What did you do, then?'
Now she looked at me with such anxiety that I knew something was bad. "I told Mama."
This didn't make sense. We both told our mother's things all the time. Well, I told Felice, anyway. I didn't tell my mum much any more. She seemed uninterested. "Told her what?" A writer asks these kind of questions.
Of all the questions she could have asked, this was the least expected. "Oh." This was all I could say at that point. "Sex? You mean..." and an awful suspicion blossomed like a weed. I didn't know much about sex, but there'd been some graphic pictures of aids sufferers and disease riddled babies at school, and Mum had given me some basics about conception, but actual sex was about as real as death. Everyone did it, it seemed, but how and why was a mystery.
This time she shook her head and said, between her tears, "But he said it was. And it was because he loved me, and so it would be all right. And it would make us both feel good. And I was not to tell, because it would be a secret love between just us. Telling would spoil it." She looked at me, wide eyes red, snot hanging from her nose, a picture of misery. I reached over to a table and grabbed a couple of tissues from a box there, wiped her nose, then her eyes with a new one, put my arm around her shoulders and stroked her hair.
Presently she continued. "He made me take off my dress and he stroked my titties. That didn't feel bad, kind of tingly, and then he sucked them, and that felt good too, and he made my nipples stand out, and it was funny, in a way, to see them like that. But then...." she broke off and gulped.
Polly looked at me and whispered, "You are my bestest friend, and I love you, so I can tell you what he did next, but you mustn't tell anyone. Not Mum even. I'm too ashamed."
"I love you too, Polly and if you don't want me to tell, I wont. Promise."
This time I burst into tears. I just couldn't stomach the idea of anyone doing something like that to anyone, let alone his daughter. I didn't know much about love, either, but I knew that this wasn't it. This was rape. This was like murder. I knew about murder, as I said before. And I felt so sad for my friend, and I felt myself in her place, and I shuddered at the thought of that happening to me. And it wasn't fantasy, it was real. It had actually happened.
We suddenly found ourselves clinging to each other for dear life. Rocking ourselves back and forth. Crying together. Sniffling, gulping, shaking and trembling.
Like all things, however, we returned to normal eventually. Red eyed, tear streaked, exhausted, we just sat there with our arms around each other staring into space. The word 'fuck' kept ringing round my head, a word I knew, of course, everybody knows it, but never before used in it's original sense. It was a bad word, but there were many others, and I couldn't say why this one was considered to be one of the worst. Maybe because of the act involved.
My reverie was interrupted by Polly, who said softly, "Thank you for being my friend, Pat. You are my best buddy. I like being with you."
And I saw how beautiful my friend really was, and I could not stop myself from putting my lips to hers and kissing her. I knew about kissing, of course, it was in all the films and TV stuff, but this was for real. This was me saying, 'I love you, Polly, I love you with all my heart.'
I didn't know that some people thought that girls kissing each other was wrong. Polly didn't either, because she kissed me back. And she grabbed me and hugged me, squeezed me until my breath was gone, and it felt right. It felt wonderful.
"I love you," I said. And I meant it.
Chapter two
When we got back downstairs, having washed our faces, combed our hair, and straightened our clothes, the three adults were drinking tea and looking glum. Mum pulled out chairs and motioned for us to sit. We did.
"Like some tea?" Dad asked us.
We both nodded. He poured, and we drank. Then Mum said, "Well, Felice has told us what happened last night, and we are appalled." She looked at Polly, took her hand in hers. And said, "Polly, you are a very brave girl. What happened to you was wrong. Very wrong. What you did was right. Very right. Nothing you did led to what happened to your father."
Polly nodded her head slowly. "I knew I could tell Mum," she said after a moment, "she's a rock."
Felice put her arms around her daughter and began crying. "Oh, my darling. What you do not know, what I have hidden in my mind, away from the light, well, I should have known. And now I have let you be harmed. I am so sorry. So sorry." The tears, the sobs could no longer be held in check .
We were all affected. I was crying, Dad was wiping his eyes, Mum was trying to hold back the flood. In the end she cuddled me. A big, mighty hug. Just like she used to do. And then she burst into tears too. It was a wet morning.
After a time Felice told us her story. It seemed she had begun living with a German officer in 1944 when she was ten. By the time she was eleven she was in a refugee camp, where an Australian Red Cross team came to help them with resettlement. The leader of the team was Paul. He managed to get her into the group that was going to being sent to Australia, and pulled some embassy strings so he could follow her progress. He told her he would locate her when she got to Australia, and he did. Then he took over where the German left off, and when she was eighteen they got married. She didn't care, as survival was the goal.
"When you're being fucked night and day so you can eat and survive, it becomes a small price," she said simply.
Mum looked shocked at the language, but said nothing.
"But we got married because he wanted respecability. I was in his debt, and he was a really nice man, apart from his love for little girls. Then he became a successful solicitor, so the money was nice. And after Polina was born, a miracle indeed, he seemed to lose his sex drive. Became disinterested. So I thought this was for real, and stopped watching him around her. I was too happy to not have him in my bed or in me."
"But I should have watched. The leopard's spots. Then when she came and told me Friday night what he'd done I freaked, I nearly killed him, and he finally drove away. I think he committee suicide, driving into a tram at full speed. Thank God."
Polly and I had ours mouths open in disbelief. At least mine was. Fucking at ten to stay alive? I simply couldn't imagine it. I looked at Felice with astonishment.
"We're just ordinary people, neighbours who care for friends," my father said simply.
"Here, yes. There, there were no friends. No neighbours. Only killers and rapists. So you see, Bill and Loris, I do not leave here, I stay. You will help me do that?"
My mother got up and embraced her. "Yes. Of course we will."
"And I'd die if Polly went," I said, meaning every word.
"Me too," echoed Polina.
*
Several days went by, during which things settled into a kind of routine. Polly and I went to school. She was consoled by teachers and some of the older girls. Most of all, we found it hard to be separated. We were in different classes, so could only see each other at playtime and lunch. Of course, we walked to and from school together. We even held hands. We did not get caught by the terrible boys. They would have made a lot of that.
The next big news was that Felice would receive lots of money. The accident commission, run by the government, was going to pay compensation. Apparently the tram had crossed against a red light, and she was going to inherit everything he had. House, cars, stocks, everything, because that's what his will said. So he must have loved her.
Polly and I continued to go to ballet or first aid, I kept writing, and she continued practising piano. She was getting good at that, and could keep us amused and entertained. It was as though her father's death had not changed anything. I sometimes caught her looking mournfully away, into the distance. But only sometimes.
We continued to be best buddies, doing as much as we could together. We snuggled up together in my bed once, and received an 'awareness lecture' from my mother. We were too old, apparently, to do this. Felice snorted when she was told, my dad just looked away when I told him. Later I heard him telling Mum how much Polly needed every bit of comfort she could get at this time, and what were we going to do anyway? "Don't let your puritanical streak mar a wonderful friendship," he told her.
So we didn't do it again in our house. But we did it at Polly's, and sat on the couch, on the floor and outside. And we kissed. Mum didn't know how much we loved each other, and kissing was better than words.
But it became more than kissing. I mean, we would touch each other, stroke the back of one another's hands, our faces, shoulders, necks, just to show our caring. We both loved the feel of our skin, the smoothness, softness, how it would spring back if we pushed it. Then, about two weeks after the accident, we'd been smooching, (I love that word. Dad uses it when he cuddles me), when Polly began to lick my neck, instead of stroking it. Just running her tongue around my neck and then my forehead.
"That's a superkiss," she said with a grin as she stopped.
She nodded and I did. I had to go further, of course, so I licked her arm as well, then the top of her chest to where her T-shirt came. I didn't want to stop, because she tasted so nice. I hadn't known she would taste nice, but she did. A girl taste, I guessed. Sweet, sweaty, delicious.
I nodded. She sure could.
But not to be outdone, she had to go further than I had. I was wearing an old white cotton blouse with buttons. It was still terribly hot during the day, and I'd only done up the bottom three buttons. Polly started on my throat, then went down my chest to the top button. She did that again, then undid a button so she could go further. I didn't care, it was so nice, she could have superkissed me all over. But she didn't stop there, either. I suddenly felt her kissing my tiny budding breast. Kissing my nipple. And that felt so good I had to take a deep, deep breath.
Then she must have begun sucking my breast. Nipple. All there was, because now I was being washed by waves of excitement. I couldn't help it, I pushed my hand into my shorts and touched myself on the vagina. Outside my panties. They were wet. I hadn't peed myself. But it felt good just to have my finger there, so I pushed and felt my body jerk. Pushed and rubbed, spasmed and jerked. I know I said something, but I only remember feeling more wonderful than I had ever felt before.
I don't know how long it was before I was aware of my surroundings again. Polly said it was only a minute, but it felt like forever. "Oh, Polly," I breathed. "I'm so hot. So shaky." I was, too. "What's happened to me?"
Then she said, more matter of factly, "We have different mothers." That was for sure. "My mother has always told me things she said I needed to know. Like things that would help me deal with the unknown future. Things, she said, that she'd had to learn in a hurry. She's fearful of the future, I know, and with what she went through I can understand it. One of the things she told me was that you cannot survive without some feelings of pleasure. That you cannot go through anything unless you have hope, and that comes from little bits of pleasure that you can remember or experience. Even living with that German, she said, could be made pleasurable and endurable."
She paused, looked at me enquiringly to see I was paying attention, then went on, "So she told me about orgasms. That's what you just had, I think. She said they were the most pleasure a woman could have. And you could get them all by yourself. And she said they were not bad or dirty, they were part of life. The wholeness of life, she called it. And she said my life had been bruised because of what Dad did to me, and that it couldn't be undone, but it could be made easier to bear. So I needed to experience real pleasure but in the right way. From love, not lust. I was growing into a young woman, and some people said you had to wait until you were married or something before you had them, and that was silly. Even then they might not happen. So she showed me what to do. She licked me, sucked my breasts, rubbed oil into my skin and slid her hands all over me. And it was wonderful, and I did exactly what you did. I stuck my finger on my clitoris and rubbed."
I was looking at her, wide eyed and overcome with awe. I had never imagined a mother would tell her daughter about anything like that. But then I realized my mother was an old fashioned one. A prude. I knew that word too. I didn't even know I had a clitoris, though I had seen the word in a book. But if that's what it did, I wanted more.
"It sure is wonderful," I said. "I wish I had a mother like yours."
"Well," she replied, "I do, and I'm your best friend, and I love you, and I wanted you to have what I did. I'll always share everything with you."
I nodded. "I know. And I'll always share everything with you. You know, Polly, I reckon we're like one person. You know, like joined together. Separate, but - "
"Hey, that's right. A lovely thought. But then, you're a writer, you think things like that. It gives me a really wonderful feeling, like belonging. Totally. Needed and needing."
She pulled off her T-shirt and turned to face me. "Please," was all she said.
She had lovely breasts. I said before they were like tennis balls, but they were more like little pears with pink nipples and dark surrounds. Areoles, I think they're called. I put my hands over them and felt their warmth. Gently squeezed them and stroked them. It was so good. Sensuous. They were really beautiful.
I felt myself getting wet again.
So I bent to start licking, but Polly lay back on the couch. I turned around and straddled her, one leg each side. I bent over and began to lick. It was like licking a sherbet bomb, all tingly and frothy, so I began sucking on her nipple. It was so easy to do it was so big, and getting bigger. I slid my mouth down over her breast as far as I could, still trying to suck. Up and down the slope went my mouth, then remembering there were two, I did the same to the other one.
I heard Polly moan. I put my hand on the first one and stroked as I sucked the other one.
She moaned louder.
Then I felt her hand inside my panties. She'd come through the bottom edge and I could feel her fingers on my vagina. That was so wonderful I let out a moan too.
I sucked harder. I felt her put her fingers inside me and slide them in and out.
I gave a little scream, it was so wonderful.
I began pulling on the nipple I wasn't sucking. Polly screamed too.
An electric shock began in my tummy and went up into my head. I felt myself quiver. Then shake. She was doing something so magical that I began shaking all over, and I could hardly breathe. I had to stop sucking. Then I moaned so loudly. I couldn't help it. It just came, and I felt those shocks come bursting through my body. Through my mind, all over me, one after another, over and over and over.
I collapsed on top of her.
"Oomph," she said as I knocked the wind out of her. I rolled off her and onto the floor.
She rolled off the couch onto me, winding me worse, because she was heavier. Not funny. Then she kissed me. Hard. I tried to breathe, to get my breath back, and she lifted her face up a little bit so I could. I opened my mouth to take a big deep breath, and only got half a one before her mouth was on mine again, but this time it was open, like mine was, and I suddenly didn't feel her weight anymore. I was back in heaven.
I felt her tongue in my mouth, so I had to reply. Wiggle wiggle we went with our tongues. I began to smile. This was a really good game. Then she rolled off me, laughing.
"Oh, Pat. This is the bestest day of my life." She looked at me with such adoring eyes that I knew she meant it. "You are so sweet. Want a taste?"
I frowned. "Taste what?" I asked.
"You." She held up her hand and waved her fingers. "Have a suck on these."
She put her fingers near my mouth so I did. Sucked them. There was a funny taste on them. It was a bit sweet, but it was spicy or something as well.
"That's you," she said with a grin. "Not much left, now. Put your hand between your legs and you'll get more."
"Oh," I said in wonder. So I did what she'd said. I was so wet that I was able to get three fingers dripping. It was thicker than I'd imagined. Almost syrupy. I sucked my fingers. I could not believe what I tasted like. It was so beautiful. I can't describe it any better than that. If you've ever done it, you'll know too.
"Want to taste me?" she asked.
Gee. If I tasted good, how would she taste? I had to find out. I started to put my hand down the front of her knickers, but she shook her head.
"This way," she said, as she lay on the floor face up. "Pull my panties down."
I did. Took them right off. She opened her legs.
"Now you can get it straight from the horse's mouth."
I giggled. Then so did she. "I don't think you look much like a horse down there," I said as I looked at her sex. More like something to eat. Something yummy. Beautiful pale fawn lips pouting open to show a Turkish delight pinkness. Soaked in girl topping, pale and delectable. Little folds at the top hiding the afters. I remembered now that it was where her clitoris was. Where mine was, too. Same place, only in me.
I put my face between her legs and sniffed in the perfume. No garden I'd ever seen had flowers that smelled like this. I stared at the wondrous creation before me. No oil painting in any book I'd seen had been as evocative, no poem I'd ever read as romantic. It was more than sensual, it was a thing to love. Part of the person I loved. Loved, I suddenly realized, more than I had ever dreamt possible.
And she tasted just right.
Chapter 3
School holidays came and went. Mum said she didn't feel well, didn't feel like eating, and went to the doctor. Dad looked worried, but went to work so much I didn't see him a lot. Mum shut herself in her study and I spent more and more time at Polly's.
Felice could not have been nicer. It got so I didn't want to go home, and often didn't. Dad said Mum had to go into hospital for some tests. "Nothing much," he told me, she'll be home in a day or two." That was OK then. I had mixed feelings about her, I knew. Loved her, but had been hurt by her too often to want to spend much time with her. But if she got really sick? I sobbed inside.
"You look like a couple of angels caught with their halos off," she said.
We looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Then Polly grinned. "We're in heaven, so I suppose that could be right," she said. Clever girl.
"Look," Felice said seriously, "what you've got yourselves into is OK, I suppose, but it's going to get you into big big trouble if you don't have enough control. Already I have people telling me how in love you are with each other, how you hold hands walking to school, sit looking into each other's eyes at lunch time, and these are friends of mine, people who went through the war too, and can accept a little smut in anyone's life. All girls go through a time when they love their teacher, or another close person, a friend, who is pretty and dresses well, but nearly all of them discover boys and after a while think of nothing else.
"And Pat, if your mother knew what you are doing, she'd have a heart attack. Figuratively, of course. And she's such a kind lady I do not want her upset. But she will find out if you don't start treating each other like bitchy rivals occasionally, can't stand the sight of each other, and refuse to talk to each other for at least a day.
"And so will everybody else. It only takes one rumour. And sooner, not later, we all will be up in court. You'll be in children's homes, we'll be in prison."
"But we are careful," protested Polly. "We really are, aren't we Pat?"
I couldn't answer. The thought of my parents in prison because of me was the biggest shock I'd ever had. The next image was of me and Polly being separated forever. The glow of orgasm had been replaced by a bucket of ice.
"She's right, Polly," I told my love. "It's going to hurt, but we're going to walk to school separately, talk to others at school, play different games, and ignore each other." I had another thought. "And if we go out together, like to the shops or something, we're just a couple of regular kids." Then I had a big thought. "See, Polly, I want us to be together always. I know there's so much I don't know, or what might happen in the future, but I don't want us to get so selfish about being together now that tomorrow we might not be able to. And I don't want to hurt Mum."
I looked at Felice. "I know you are a special person. I know that if anyone at Sunday school found out about us we'd be dead meat. But I don't want to stop being with Polly. I might only be eleven, but what I feel in my heart must be love."
Polly took my hand in hers. I looked at her, and she had tears in her eyes. She looked at me, shaking her head, and, as tears began to course down her cheeks, sobbed, "You are so beautiful. So wonderful. Whatever you say. I'll do it. Beause I don't want to be apart from you. Not all my life." She turned to look at her mother. "I can, can't I? Stay with Pat?"
Felice smiled. A sad, knowledgeable smile. "When I was your age," she said softly and slowly, "I was relieved to get through that day. To be alive at the end of it. To not be starving. To have warm clothes, a fire to sit next to, a bed to sleep in. And I welcomed my officer. My Hans. He saved me. Yes, he took advantage of me, because he could. But he saved me. I will never forget those girls I had gone to school with. Dead. All of them. But me? Here I am."
After a moment, while I was trying not to cry, she went on, "I could not think more than one day ahead. Would he bring food? Would he bring cigarettes? Would I get pregnant? Because I didn't know. But you two. You have a life. You can think of the next week, the next year, the next eternity. I do not mind that you love each other. This is better than being with someone you despise or hate. It may be you are too young to really appreciate what might lie ahead, but does that matter? Not at present.
"So, stay careful. Be discrete. And you are welcome to be with each other in this house as long as you want. And to ask me anything. I will be here for you." She looked at me and went on, "Pat, you are the most advanced girl for your age I have ever known. You reason things through. You will go far. I would like to help you in that journey." She smiled. "I have no schooling. Grade five, I think. But I know what I see in you."
I couldn't help crying. But we learnt discretion and caution.
*
The next big thing was tragedy.
Mum died. She never came out of hospital. Dad said they had found cancer in her body. It had spread from her ovaries. If it had been found six months before they might have saved her, but now it had been too late.
I remembered how she had kissed me the last time I had gone to see her on a Sunday afternoon. She was very pale and thin, but she smiled and said she was getting better and would be home soon. She gave me a big cuddle, kissed me on my head, asked me about school, about Polly and Felice, closed her eyes and went to sleep.
I was too shocked to cry when Dad told me the next day that she'd died soon after my visit. When Felice came I did. Lots. There was a big hole in my heart. The funeral wasn't until Wendsday, and I felt numb the whole time. I couldn't go to school till the following Monday. It was only Polly and Felice who helped me keep my head above the grief. Dad was inconsolable. He tried to look after me, we cried together and clung to each other, but he had to go back to work soon after the funeral. He put on a brave face and smiled.
I knew he was crying inside, the same as me. I loved him, very much. He was my hero, my rock, my fingerpost. And he loved me. He cared. And we supported each other then. And we always will, I hope.
Polly was wonderful. She had something I knew nothing about, empathy. She could reach into my heart and make it less troubled. Perhaps it was this that had brought us together in the first place. She must have inherited it from her mother.
Soon after the funeral Polly and I made a special kind of love. It was totally tender, deep and comforting. She let me suck her to a wonderful climax, and I felt so good afterwards. I didn't feel like her doing the same, which she said was all right under the circumstances. Afterwards I looked at her with so much love. She said, "It's the least I could do. I love you so much, and I wanted to give you the very best comfort food I could."
Dad more or less came to live in with Polly and Felice. He didn't like cooking, he surely needed their empathy too, and his relatives lived a long way away. So did Mum's. In England, in fact. They'd come and gone in a few days. I 'more or less' moved in too. I mean, permanently. We all talked, sometimes till late at night. I could see, romantic that I am, that the two bereaved adults were finding more happiness in their own company than they had with their spouses, and as time went by they began smooching. By the end of the year they were in the same bed.
They told Polly and me about this before it happened, and we were both so thrilled we put on a party for them. Only us, of course, because we were in the same bed too. Not theirs, naturally, Polly's. Dad and I shifted our things in, gradually. There was certainly plenty of room. And money, something I'd never had to bother much about, seemed to be plentiful. Dad and Felice put lots into trust accounts for us. (I now know what one of those is.) They made the attic into my study, which is where I am now.
Dad and Felice are so happy, Polly and I are too, and I think we're going to stay that way for ever.
The End
Postscipt:
Polly and I are still together. She's a nurse, I'm writing the occasional film script and story. We could have had children by artificial insemination, but that was something we finally decided against. Instead we took up volunteering at an outreach centre for kids in trouble. Polly still plays piano, with great feeling and verve. We're both good cooks, like travel, and fret if we're out of touch for more than a day. And, believe it or not, we've never had a relationship with anyone else. We look at pretty young teenagers and envy them their firm breasts and sexy ways, but for nothing else. We've got lots of good friends, even some men whom we go to concerts with.
We've had our quarrels, but nothing that lasted more than a week. We graduated from the simple petting and sucking type of sex to using certain 'toys', but have never given up our wonderful skin on skin contact. Sex is far less frequent now, but still wonderful. We've gone through menopause, so our moods have been erratic, but nothing we can't cope with. We've stayed clear of lesbian events and things, because ours is really a private love, not for public display. But, as I've sent some erotic stories to Leslita in the past, I thought I'd send this one too, because it is so tender and sad. Something there's not nearly enough of.
I changed the actual names when I wrote it, but the events and feelings are pretty accurate. To help you understand some of the terms used, I should mention that this all took place in Melbourne, Australia.
So I send anyone who reads it my love and best wishes. May your lives be as rich as ours.
Patricia (aka Lesluv) and Polina
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