“Don’t go!” the girls cried. “Stay here! Stay with us!”
Nikki ran for it, the girls doing likewise, racing after her shrieking with hysterical love and devotion.
Nikki managed to dive on the bus as it pulled away, leaving the sixteen year old schoolgirls shrieking on the pavement, tears streaming down their faces.
“What the hell was all that about?” the bus driver wanted to know.
Nikki was still breathing heavily after her run. “They wanted my body,” she managed to gasp.
The driver looked at her with shock, disgust and righteous moral outrage.
“What?!” Nikki snapped in irritation. “I didn’t give it to them!”
Chapter Four
Nikki made it into the office finally, having had to shake off several more female admirers (stalkers) in the meantime.
“I want to see Fae and I want to see Fae now!” she practically screamed at the scientist’s secretary, Dawn.
“She’s expecting you,” the lithe redhead pouted seductively. “And when you’ve finished, I have a little something I’d like to do... talk to you about.”
“Oh, Christ,” Nikki walked past Dawn’s desk without giving her a second look and barged into Fae’s laboratory.
The tall, slim blonde was pottering around with some test-tubes and didn’t look up at her entrance. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” Nikki seethed.
“Who?”
“Nikki,” Nikki hissed. “You know, the girl you turned into the Pied Piper of Lesbianism.”
“Oh,” Fae rose up, looking at her finally. “You’re here.”
“It’s a wonder,” Nikki snapped, “given that I had to avoid being molested by everything with breasts in this city! What do you have to say for yourself, hmm?”
“I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you,” Fae said dourly, but with a hint of a twinkle in her eyes.
“Oh no,” Nikki paled. “Don’t tell this is... permanent?”
“Non, non,” Fae indicated a vial of potion. “Easily fixed. Drink up and you’ll be back to being completely ignored by all prospective romantic partners in no time.”
“I should think - what?” Nikki snapped.
“Nothing.”
Nikki approached her warily. “So what’s the bad news then?”
“I checked and re-examined the potion we gave you yesterday, looking for what might have gone wrong, you know?” Fae began.
“Ye-s,” Nikki nodded, with her so far.
Fae shook her head. “The thing is... nothing did.”
Nikki gaped. “I beg your pardon?”
“The potion works perfectly,” Fae informed her with an icy smile.
“Perfectly?” Nikki stared at her incredulously. “You promised me it would get guys to notice me and it did the precise frickin’ opposite! How is that working perfectly?!”
“I promised you no such thing,” Fae reproved loftily. “Actually, if you recall correctly, what I promised you it did was to increase your physical attractiveness to those to whom you are attracted.”
“And?” Nikki pressed. Fae said nothing more, merely raising an eyebrow as if waiting for her to understand what she was saying. Then she did. “What?!” Nikki cried, practically apoplectic. “I’ve had schoolgirls chasing me! My geriatric neighbour practically mauled me in the lift! Are you saying I wanted that?!”
“Well, perhaps not specifically those people. The potion may have been a little too strong in that respect,” Fae acknowledged.
“I should say so!” Nikki fumed.
“The point is, I think it attracted the right gender, however,” Fae smiled.
Nikki blinked. “What? No! I’m not gay!”
“The potion seems to indicate otherwise,” Fae’s smile grew wider. The woman could clearly barely conceal her glee at the humiliation Nikki was enduring.
“The hell with you!” Nikki roared. “All that potion proves is that you’re as lousy a scientist as you are a boss and a human being! Now give me that!” Nikki grabbed the neutralising potion and drank it down. “How long till it works?”
“It should neutralise the effect of the original potion within ten minutes,” Fae purred, moving behind her.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Nikki shook her head. “You’ve no idea what it’s been like. It was an absolute nightmare.”
“Really?” Fae lightly touched Nikki’s arms from behind, making her jump. “There wasn’t even one moment you found... stimulating?”
The memory of Lana’s kisses, her friend’s weight on top of her and the feel of her hands on Nikki’s breasts flooded through her mind. “No,” she denied stubbornly.
“Liar,” Fae whispered in Nikki’s left ear, sending shivers down her spine. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
“I don’t...” Nikki began.
Fae put her arms around Nikki’s waist from behind, preventing her from leaving. “I think you enjoyed all that female attention a lot more than you’re letting on.”
Nikki shivered, a thrill running through her entire body that emanated from between her legs. “What...what are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing,” Fae began licking Nikki’s neck, every flick of her tongue making Nikki’s eyes roll back in her head as the sexy French woman raised her hands and began massaging the younger girl’s breasts through her shirt.
“I...I can’t...this isn’t what I want.” The words sounded fake even to Nikki.
“Is that so?” Fae turned her around, replacing her arms around Nikki’s back and drawing her closer. She leaned in for a kiss. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”
“I...” Nikki tried to formulate a rational argument, only for any attempt at thought to be driven from her mind when Fae’s lips met het own and kissed her hungrily. A wave of lust unlike anything Nikki had ever experienced swept through her and she returned Fae’s passion with an equal fervour. From that moment on Nikki was lost. Nothing existed except Fae, her mouth, her lips, her tongue, the warmth of her body, her hair, her hands roaming all over Nikki’s body, the breasts that felt so good under her own hands, even if they were covered up...
Nikki tried unbuttoning Fae’s shirt, wanting complete access to what lay beneath as she and Fae kissed and kissed. In between sweet, hot kisses, Fae complied with Nikki’s wishes, unbuttoning her shirt and casting it to the floor, practically ripping off her own bra a moment afterwards.
Fae’s breasts were small, much like Nikki’s own, but they were supple and tender and they felt so soft and pliable and good under Nikki’s fingers as she fondled and kneaded them. Finally, unable to resist any longer, Nikki bent down and began licking the other woman’s breasts, moving between them and gorging on them like a starving man at a banquet, sucking on the erect nipples of each breast even as her hand continued to play with the other.
Finally, Fae broke the kiss, pushing her away, flushed and smiling broadly. “My turn,” she said, and set about tearing Nikki’s own clothes off. Nikki was only too willing to help her to achieve this objective, of course, ripping off her own top even as Fae went for her jeans.
It was probably less than a minute, though it felt longer - agonisingly so - but finally they were both naked, Fae pushing Nikki to the ground. The floor of the laboratory was cold against the younger girl’s naked back, but she simply didn’t care. The gorgeous French vixen above her gave her no time to concern herself with such trivialities, kissing and licking and running her hands over her body with the kind of delicate but knowing expertise that suggested this was by no means Fae’s first time making love to a woman.
By the time Fae made it down her body, pausing to suck on her breasts and slide her tongue along her stomach as she did, Nikki was already in ecstasy. When Fae’s tongue finally descended on her clit, circling around it
in a manner that almost seemed anatomically impossible, Nikki came and came and came again, orgasming and shaking so hard the French woman had to clutch Nikki’s buttocks harder to avoid being thrown off of her. Fae probably spent mere minutes with her face buried between Nikki’s thighs, but it felt like hours, hours of ceaseless, unimaginable pleasure before she finally left Nikki exhausted and trembling and panting like a dog.
Fae wiped her mouth with her hand, beaming all over her face with sheer delight. “You taste every bit as good as I always thought you would,” she said.
Sometime later, the two young women had dressed, though Fae still had her younger employee in her arms, kissing her tenderly. “Dinner tonight?” she asked. Her tone indicated that she already knew the answer would be in the affirmative, yet there was an uncertain, even vulnerable, look in her eyes that Nikki had never seen before. Nikki nodded, still somewhat dazed by everything that had happened. “I’ll pick you up,” Fae told her, kissing her one last time and then releasing her.
Nikki stumbled out of the laboratory half-stoned, when she cast an idle glance at her watch, and paused. It had been a full hour since she had drunk the neutralising potion. Dawn was paying her no mind at all as she passed, but yet Fae was clearly still interested in her, still attracted to her. Indeed, her behaviour seemed no different at all, and nor had she seemed in any way surprised by their lustful encounter.
Nikki stopped, gaping as the implications became clear. Fae had wanted her the whole time. More to the point, she had clearly wanted Fae too. Maybe that was why she had always been so antagonistic toward her, professing dislike for the French goddess when really it had been desire she had felt, the possibility that the feelings Fae provoked in her could have been sexual or even romantic in nature never even occurring to her until...
...The potion.
The potion had forced her to face the fact that she liked women. That she liked Fae.
The whole thing had been a gigantic set-up. Fae must have known what Nikki’s true feelings were and convinced her to take the potion in order to force her to face them.
Fae had wanted her and she had been thoroughly Machiavellian in the way she had gone about making she’d sure got her.
Nikki shook her head, a smile spreading across her face, the slight outrage she felt at being so thoroughly manipulated mitigated by amusement, affection and even admiration at how far Fae had been willing to go to secure her affections.
“That bitch.”
The Orchard
Vina Green
A young woman learns to unlock her own pleasure and fulfil the desires of another when she enjoys her first lesbian encounter - with her employer. Their forbidden romance reaches an unexpected climax in this short coming of age story set within the sweet confines of an apple orchard.
Apples were the first fruit that I couldn’t have.
When I was growing up, we always had apples. We didn’t have any apple trees, but there was no shortage of apples. My mother bought them from local orchards, and road side stalls, or picked the ones that fell on the ground from our neighbour’s trees and carried them home in her apron. The apples sat in baskets, or in buckets in the corners of our kitchen, or in empty ice cream containers on the bench, catching the shafts of light that fell through the window and casting strange, mountainous shadows onto the kitchen walls.
During one particularly hot summer’s day I crept into the kitchen while my mother was sleeping, in search of a snack. We didn’t have sweets in the house unless she had baked them, and the pantry held only a sweaty looking fruit cake, too brown and heavy for my greedy child’s eyes, and rows and rows of baking ingredients, tins of golden syrup, spices in boxes, and half a dozen different sorts of flour and sugar standing side by side in thick glass jars with cork lids.
My eyes settled on a pile of apples sitting in a silver colander on the bench next to the kitchen sink, nearly, but not quite out of my reach. They were Granny Smiths, my favourite variety at the time, largely because I loved the colour green, and these glowed like kryptonite in the midday sun. My mother had procured them from our neighbour earlier that day, and I had watched her rinse them one by one under the faucet, checking each apple for rot, tossing the bad apples into a bucket and placing the good ones into the colander, ready to be peeled and sliced and put into a pie.
I stood on tip-toes and stretched, grasping the brightest, most luscious looking orb with the tips of my fingers, and bringing it to my mouth in one swift movement. I regretted passing up the fruit cake in favour of the Granny Smith with the sharp fright of my first bite. Not only was the apple horrifyingly sour, but when I peered closer at something moving within, I saw a fat worm, it’s long body gently probing at the new pocket of air my bite had left. My mother came running when she heard me scream, and said that these were ‘cooking’ apples, not ‘eating’ apples, and it served me right for taking something from the kitchen without permission.
Despite the shock associated with my first fruity memories, I went on to pick apples for two summers during my University holidays at an orchard just outside of a very small town on the East Coast of New Zealand. I had planned to move there with a friend who had grown up in the local town. She arranged an interview for me, and rooms for us both to rent with her Grandmother, but then ended up taking on summer classes, so I went alone. I loved the orchard from the moment that I set eyes on it. You couldn’t see much from the road, but as soon as you turned onto the long bumpy track that lead through the orchard and up to the staff offices and break room, the apple trees fanned out like an ocean, waves and waves of them in rows, swaying in the breeze. I always wound down my window for that part of the drive, to feel the air, filled with the fresh scent of earth and the energetic pull of new things busily growing.
On my first day I met the orchard manager, and I was jealous of her immediately, because she had spent her life doing what I wanted to do but probably never would - work with my hands. I was studying law, and commerce, and most likely would spend my life in an office on a reasonable, perhaps even good, income, but what I really wanted to do was sit spread eagled astride a red 4x4 utility quad bike, wearing ripped stone washed jeans and a white cotton singlet, skin brown and weathered too soon from spending days in the sun, thick steel-toed boots on my feet, good for stomping, and my hands wrapped firmly around the bikes handlebars, revving the engine. Her name was Tessa, a soft name for a strong woman, and she owned that orchard.
Tessa cast her eyes over me, evaluating most likely from the paleness of my skin and the softness of my hands that I didn’t have a lot of (nay, any) experience with outdoor, physical work. She told me that I could work a day unpaid if I liked, by way of interview. I did, and I got the job.
I was a very poor apple picker, but inexplicably, Tessa kept me on, though most other apple pickers who were as productive as I was, which was not very productive at all, were sacked. I suppose it was because I agreed to be paid by the tree, rather than by the hour, which sometimes meant that I earned only enough to fill my car with petrol each week and buy lunch, but I suspected it was also because she knew that I loved picking apples. I loved absolutely everything about it. I loved the slow, early morning drive through the countryside, I loved the handsome sweep of the trees across the field, I loved the very slight scent of apple in the air, I loved standing at the top of the ladder and leaning precariously over the branches, I loved the press of an apple, the firm curvature against my palm as the weight fell away from the tree and into my hand. I loved choosing which apples to pick, learning how a tree will elect one fruit to feed, and give that apple everything, so that it balloons whilst the other apples wilt, like berries next to a balloon. If you thin a tree in just the right way, then the apples grow evenly, just the right size, none too large and watery, and none too small and sour.
I was thorough, but I wasn’t quick. By the time I finished with a tree, it was a work of art, a p
erfection of symmetry, just the right number of apples removed and the remainder hanging like jewels in a posh shop window. But the other apple pickers were ten trees ahead. The most successful were tall, with big hands, all of them were men. Some were sacked for being too rough. The ones who got it just right swept through the trees plucking half a dozen apples in one cavernous hand where I could only pluck one at a time. They didn’t get under all the branches of course, and they missed the apples at the top, which I painstakingly repositioned my ladder to retrieve.
The most skilled workers, those who were both quick and gentle, with a real eye for spotting which apples to thin to give the rest of the bunch the best chance to grow, were assigned to work with the Golden Apples, the most expensive of the produce we exported. These apples, I learned from the ‘new employee induction pack,’ were sent to Asia, where they were not eaten, but offered at Buddhist temples, to the Triple Gem. They were grown especially for this purpose, and were rumoured to be the crispest, sweetest apples of them all. Stickers were put on the fruit when they were young, in the shape of characters symbolising ‘rebirth,’ ‘enlightenment’ or ‘truth’. The stickers were placed on the youngest fruit, and removed when the apples reached maturity, leaving a symbol on skin which had never seen the sun.
Tessa spent most of her time working with the Golden Apples, away from my section of the orchard, so I didn’t see her often. When I did, it was usually flying through the rows on her quad bike, her back as firm and upright as the trunk of a tree, and her hands gripping the throttle so tightly that the bike never dared misbehave. When we ate together in the lunch room, and she walked in, the other staff would fall silent. Her second in charge was John, ten years her senior, but he called her ‘Miss’, and didn’t seem at all affronted by the fact that she’d been promoted to manager ahead of him, though he’d worked at the orchard longer. I’d worked in male dominated professions before, my gap year spent working on the checkout in a timber yard and hardware store. The place was run by men, most of the customers were men, the vast majority of the DIY experts in each department were men, and the girls just beeped hardware items through the register and made cups of tea for customers who lingered longer. It was full of winks and smiles and innuendo.
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