My secret is a silent one, anyway. You see, I have trained her. I own her completely . . . but she exerts far more control over me than she knows. There is no one else to whom I could ever give this much attention, and no one else I would ever wish to keep as close to me as I do her.
I love you, my pet.
A SLICE OF LIFE
Veronica, Christchurch
My name is Veronica and I’m married to David. Our sex life is good, a little predicable but I’m not moaning because good is good. We have a wonderful grown-up son, Peter.
So there is no excuse.
I’d never been attracted to a woman before the day I met Kate. I can’t put a name to the effect she had on me – speed attraction or involuntary fantasy?
She had a curtain of blonde hair, beautiful lips and the palest blue-green eyes with a look sparkling in them which said, frankly, openly, that, “yes, Veronica, the attraction is mutual”.
The naughty smile on her lips might as well have been begging me to kiss them. In my involuntary fantasy, I did. Sweeping her hair aside, I kissed her lips, and kissed with an urgent desire that shocked me and seemed to please her, in my dreams. She yielded into my kiss, making a little breathless cry which slowed me down enough so that I could feel her lips, and this woke me up.
Back in reality, there I was politely offering my hand, enthralled by the beauty in her eyes yet saying in a voice befitting a future mother-in-law, “Kate, I’m so pleased to meet you. Peter has told me so much about you.”
The touch of her hand made me feel giddy. Kate noticed but neither Peter nor David did. For the rest of the evening, it was a classic son-brings-girlfriend-home-and-announces-their-engagement dinner party.
The odd thing was my attraction to Kate was so surreal and unexpected that it was quite easy to keep hidden.
Peter, my darling Peter, was so in love with her, as she clearly and unmistakeably was with him.
David took to the role of future father-in-law with grace and charm and the evening went well.
I fantasized that what I saw in Kate’s eyes wasn’t mere flirtation but recognition. The thought was as delicious as it was dangerous.
But dreams are safe, aren’t they?
That night I dreamt the fantasy kiss all over again but in greater detail and at a much slower speed.
The giddying touch of her hand was now between my legs, she had a finger inside me, moving gently in and out with a hypnotic rhythm and her thumb was torturing my clitoris with savage gentleness. And all the while my pleasure sky was the exact colour of her eyes.
It wasn’t an alarm clock or a nightmare that woke me but the incredibly beautiful dream climax. I sat up wide eyed in the dark, my finger still inside and David sleeping next to me, his breathing both alarming and calming. I reached for a tissue, my cheeks burning red.
It was the first time I’d pleasured myself since marriage – or so the ceiling told me – my thoughts running across it like the “breaking news” bar on the telly.
I drifted back into a beautiful landscape dream. The clouds were angry. Sod the clouds. The beach was warm and soft and the incoming sea wriggling through my toes was the colour of her eyes.
Next morning I awoke and guiltily shed the last of my night dreams. It was obvious what I had to do next – nothing, absolutely nothing.
Call it denial, call it common sense or whatever, but I made sure Kate and I were never alone. If I was with David or she was with Peter, that was great – I encouraged meetings like that because, well, I did want to see her for all the right reasons as well as all the wrong ones. But I managed to dodge suggestions that we meet for coffee or spend the morning shopping together, always having an excuse ready. I did that for Peter. To spend the morning shopping alone with his Kate would have been selfish and I couldn’t trust myself.
With every phone call the sound of her disappointment hurt me, too. But I was being “strong” and the sharpness of the pain proved it.
To Peter, I always gave her the highest possible praise. It was genuine.
The next time I touched her was at the wedding photo-call.
We were standing side by side, laughing at the photographer’s jokes along with all the others. Her fingers caressed back and forth across the underside of my forearm. The depth of pleasure from that touch made me afraid it would show in the photo – but in the album we just looked wedding-photo happy.
Denial is fine – for a while. In my case, after denial came delusion. I tried to “delude” myself that I just had a “crush” on her and that the pleasure from her touch had been magnified and exaggerated because of it.
But, after the wedding, I couldn’t make that work any longer.
What was denial achieving? We were drifting towards Peter and Kate’s next “big event”, the first wedding anniversary, and in the next blink she’d be pregnant and I’d still be keeping her at arm’s length when all I wanted was to be involved with all of that and her life – as a mother-in-law and a friend.
So, confrontation was the logical next step. We had to talk this through and agree to put this schoolgirl stuff aside.
The next time she phoned, words obviously rehearsed, she said, “Veronica, can you help me? I really need your advice on a top. Please can we get together sometime? I know how busy you are but it wouldn’t take long, promise.”
The silence on a phone between two people is unlike any other. I was “tough”, holding my breath outside of the silence, but eventually said, with all the calm I could muster, “Yes, of course, Kate. Let’s meet at the Jackanory for coffee.”
By the time we met I’d already talked out in my head every side of any possible conversation we night have.
We faced each across the table. She was wearing a burnt orange top which left her arms bare. The colour seemed harsh against the fairness of her hair. “What sort of top are you looking for?” I asked. “Is it for a special occasion?”
“Very special,” she said. Her smile was naughty but even so, when she covered my hand with hers, I was surprised. “You are the occasion, Veronica. How else was I going to get to talk to you – alone?”
Instinctively, I withdrew my hand then wished I hadn’t and although she continued to smile, the moment was chilled and we just looked at each other.
Confirmation: so, it hadn’t been my imagination. The attraction was two way.
I wanted to touch her bare arms. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to touch me. I wanted to be as free of inhibitions as she seemed to be. The want made me ache.
We moved on to the mall, the “chill” forgotten. It was so good shopping with her, not least because I rediscovered how to be silly.
We were supposed to be hunting for something that would match her eyes – this, I knew from the start, was going to be impossible because it seemed as if, all my life, I’d been trying to find something to wear that was the colour of those eyes.
She disappeared into one designer section and I into another. I heard the word “perfect” and looked up to see a zebra concoction held up close to her eyes.
So silly! I remember giggling, something I hadn’t done in years.
When we emerged from the jungle of rails, Kate was empty handed but I had one discovery which I held behind my back.
“You found something!”
I revealed what looked like a simple black top.
Her response was honest. “Oh well, might as well try something on.”
When she emerged from the dressing room she looked as pleased as I was. Black was perfect for her anyway. The material subtly flattered her shape but the discreet beaded threads outlining the scallop neck almost did justice to her eyes in the glint of light.
“Yes!” We said it together as she came towards me. I put my hands on her bare skin and held her at arm’s length as if to inspect the top. My thumbs caressed her involuntarily and in her eyes I saw the “kiss moment” come and go.
“Beautiful,” I murmured and let go of her.
“Thanks
to you.” She went back to the changing room.
I took a deep breath in her absence; I needed it to collect myself together. Was this my best shot at confrontation? Where was Veronica the “perfect” hostess and home maker? The sexy wife who’d kept David interested for years? Where was Peter’s Mum, Peter’s friend, advisor and confidant? Where was Kate’s mother-in-law, for heaven’s sake?
Kate reappeared from the changing room with the top on a hanger and I realized I was still standing in exactly the same spot as when she’d left. Her eyes smiled. “I’ll just go and pay,” she said, adding, “and then can we do lunch? Please say you have time?”
One moment I was telling myself I still had to confront her and the next I was saying out loud, “I’m supposed to be making bread this afternoon. We could go home if you like and eat there – there’s plenty in the fridge – and a lovely white wine. But, Kate, we do have to talk . . .”
The thrill in her eyes touched me in an inappropriate place. I felt lost.
But, once back home in my own kitchen, I became Kate’s mother-in-law again – and I still had a chance. I felt safe. We’d had our giggly morning – now it was time to get serious.
The thing about inhibitions is, they sometimes allow you a glimpse of freedom but, being elastic, spring back into every new situation as if nothing has happened.
We sat down to eat Caesar salad and sipped a very special Chardonnay which had somehow found its way into the fridge even before I left to go shopping.
My voice clear, calm and totally mother-in-law, I asked her, “How are you getting on with Peter?”
“Superb. He’s so lovely, a credit to you. How are you getting along with David?”
The impudence of the question was like a battering ram at the gates of my defences. They survived, just. “We’re very happy.”
The business of eating took over but not before a look in her eyes caressed my lips.
I asked, “Any sign of children yet?”
She grinned. “Nope, just finished my period actually, so that rules pregnancy out.”
“I meant . . .”
Silence between us and a look. How can a look say so much in so little time? How can so much be read in so little time? Fast enough to make a smart phone look stupid.
She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers, adding sparkle to the Chardonnay in my veins, but I pulled it away, again, and stood up, saying, “We really do need to talk, Kate. Fruit and ice cream for sweet or cheese and biscuits?”
“Not much to say about cheese and biscuits is there? Fruit might be interesting though . . .”
“I meant . . .”
“Coffee, please.”
The mischief in her eyes attacked. I wanted her touch. I wanted her lips. But again my defences survived. “Good. I’ll make coffee then we’ll talk and then I’ve got bread to make.”
The immaturity of her attempted indifferent shrug was endearing.
“Yeah, right,” she said. “I’ll go check out my shopping while the coffee’s on the go.” She stood and went off into the lounge with the faintest hint of a flounce.
I took a long breath, cleared away, started the coffee and assembled the ingredients, ready for the bread-making.
I heard the rustling of her shopping bag in the lounge. The “free” version of “me” demanded I go in there and be with her but “inhibited-me” physically held me back.
Manically, I started the dough for the bread. I didn’t have to make bread, it was just an excuse. I watched my hands work the dough. Then, in the reflection of the oven door, I saw Kate in the doorway behind me. The rhythm of the kneading halted as I saw she was wearing the new top and little else. I tried to pick up the rhythm again as if I hadn’t noticed.
She stood behind me, slipped her arms through mine and took my hands from the dough so she could slide hers beneath. I interlaced our fingers and the rhythm resumed.
The hardness of her nipples touched me through my clothes and that wonderfully definite rhythm was pressing me against the kitchen worktop and turning me on. It was so gorgeously inappropriate, I started to cry, tears joining the dough.
My head dipped in anguish, hands pressing hers deep into the dough and keeping them there. “I’m trying so hard to prevent this, Kate. This cannot happen.”
“Can’t it?” She wriggled her hands free and turned me round to face her. “I think it’s inevitable, Veronica – why fight it?” She smiled a kiss-me smile. “This dough – does it go in the oven now?”
“Not yet. It needs time in a covered bowl to let the yeast work.”
“How long does that take?”
“About half an hour,” I said, adding in my best mother-in-law tone, “time enough to talk over coffee.”
“I’ll pour,” she said, padding off barefoot to the percolator.
I set the ladybird timer for the bread as I watched her walk away. The top almost covered her bottom. I watched her, still trying to gear up for an argument, but she was so relaxed in everything she was doing and, secretly, all I wanted was for us to be in a protective bubble and within that space . . . I wanted to close my eyes and just feel . . .
“OK,” she said clattering the cups on the breakfast bar between us. “Now we talk, but here’s the deal – I go first. I think I already know what you’re going say. But here’s my take on it. You want me; I want you and from where I’m sitting it’s your duty, for the good of the family, to let this happen.”
I emerged, protesting, from the labyrinth of her eyes and her words. “Kate, that is nonsense.”
She shrugged. “I love Peter. You love David. We love them and we can love each other. You’re my missing jigsaw piece, Veronica. I am so lucky. I glimpse it in you and feel it deep in me.”
She was exactly right. It felt like she was my missing piece, too. The word “recognition” formed in my head, over and over again. The bubble completed itself around us.
She persisted. “Honest question – honest answer needed. What do you want to do right now?”
Inhibitions will do everything possible to stop you getting to this moment and the reason for that is simple – inhibitions melt only in the intense heat of moments like this.
“Kiss you.”
Her eyes told me she wanted to kiss, too, but she reached her hand over the breakfast bar and covered mine, and her warmth relaxed me.
“But what if,” she said, “I argued against us kissing, saying – no, this can’t happen, because the coffee will get cold, the bread has to be made?”
“Kate, please kiss me.”
“If you take your top off, I will.”
I laughed, embarrassed, as she came round the breakfast bar to “help” me.
In the luxurious linger of the kiss, I felt my bra being undone and for the first time in my life it felt not just sexy but erotic to be undressed by someone else.
She coaxed my skirt and pants down over my hips, took my hand and made me step out of the puddle of my clothes.
I took her top off.
Naked, her eyes shone, confident in her own beauty and in my desire for her. She led me to the lounge. By the sofa, hands resting on her arms, I kissed her.
She touched between my legs and I welcomed her. The more I cried out in pleasure, the harder she kissed me and the more she explored me.
We subsided onto the sofa, content in the ebb and flow of the kiss, her finger inside me and mine, shyly, instinctively inside her. When the kiss eventually allowed us to speak, she was the first to find words, whispered and close. “Don’t be afraid.”
She moved inside me just ever so slightly and pressed her palm, making me wriggle back hard, wanting more.
But I gazed into her eyes and asked the one question stopping me from letting go, “Why me, Kate? This is so dangerous. I could be your mother!”
“Veronica, you couldn’t be my mother if you went on a three-month intensive course! I am just the luckiest woman in the world. I’m married to your son. We plan to give you the
world’s greatest grandchildren. And you and I can guide this family, this future dynasty between us. And, by the way, I have never been attracted to a woman before you. You are so beautiful, not just because of your elegance and your style but because of that look in your eyes. I can feel that look.”
The last of my resistance crumbled.
We kissed again in the timeless luxury of new love, locked together.
When the timer went off in the kitchen it felt as if it was vibrating inside us as we broke apart, giggling in surprise.
But then it got serious. She fixed her gaze on me. I already knew what I thought should happen next and for once in my life I did it without hesitation. I put my finger in my mouth and tasted her and she put her finger in her mouth and tasted me. It was a solemn pact.
She whispered, “That stupid ladybird thing was telling us what?”
“It was telling us the dough should be ready now.”
We padded naked into my kitchen and washed our hands. I removed the cover.
Kate gasped. “It’s doubled in size! So can we put it in the oven now and go to bed?”
I kissed a little patience into her and said, “No. We have to smack all the air out of it.”
She looked puzzled.
I set about the dough – and my inhibitions – as if they were one and the same. Punching, thumping and slapping the air out of it with a rage that shocked me, and it felt right, absolutely right to be doing it in the nude.
When I’d finished I could see by the rise and fall of Kate’s breasts that she was excited and almost as breathless as I was. She bent over, put her hands on her knees and looked back over her shoulder at me. “Smack me.”
I hesitated.
“Go on, smack me”
I slapped her bottom.
“Not like that – do it like you smacked that dough. Go on. I’ve been naughty so smack me! And I’ll tell you now, Veronica, I’m going to be a lot naughtier too, so you might as well get ahead of the game. Do it now!”
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotic Confessions Page 35