A small tear began to form at the corner of Arlene's left eye and then it slowly wriggled down her cheek, gathering speed from gravity but changing direction at the cheekbone and bypassing the beauty mark. It fell onto her shoulder. Janice's hand lightly touched Arlene's forearm in a signal of consolation. Their eyes met. And suddenly the conversation was over.
Hand in hand, they walked side by side toward the staircase, toward the second level of Arlene's home, toward the unmade bed where each of them would experience, for the first time ever, though neither would learn that fact about the other until hours later, in that post-coital, post-orgasmic moment of confession, the taste, the scent, the wetness and beauty of another woman's loins. And perhaps the addictive attraction thereof.
Neither was a lesbian, obviously, for if they had been, surely they would already have spent satisfyingly lustful hours between another woman's legs. Yet each had known women of the Isle of Lesbos since their widely separated college years, had discussed with those women the sexual differences between men and woman. Neither had any philosophical objections to the sexual proclivities of those followers of Sappho, and both Janice and Arlene, unknown to each other, had gently turned away polite suggestions — even urgings - to 'try it, you'll like it.' But not before each had given the idea serious thought.
Both of our heroines were confirmed heterosexuals, and after their upcoming sojourn to Arlene's bedroom would possibly remain so. Still, each in her own mind believed that a woman's body and its sexual parts is infinitely more attractive than any man's three-piece set, no matter how well hung, and each heroine was sure that she could please another woman — and vice versa - much more than could any man.
But with absolutely none of those complicated thoughts in either of their minds, mother and daughter silently ascended the stairs.
Less than an hour earlier, Janice had stopped in to have a cup of coffee with her mother. Arlene's husband Gary, her second, was still at home, lolling around before heading out for an appointment to hustle a listing for his real estate office.
As they sat sipping, Janice bent down and started to rub her right knee. Gary sat expressionless, watching her lithe body as she repeated the action with her left knee.
"What's wrong with your knees?" he asked. What he really wanted to know, really wanted to see demonstrated in fact, was are they healthy enough for you to kneel down in front of me and suck my cock?
"Nothing's wrong," she said, "Just a little too much time on the jogging track." What she really wanted to say was clear your filthy mind of any thought that I'd ever get on my knees in front of your cock.
With that, Janice stood up and walked toward the downstairs powder room to get rid of some of the coffee. She could feel Gary's eyes on her, peering over his newspaper as if he was a spy or a detective, sitting in some railroad waiting room or hotel lobby, trying to appear inconspicuous as he scanned his surroundings.
Oh shit, he's staring at my ass again, Janice told herself. I can't fucking stand it. Every fucking week.
A casual observer who could read her mind would have been surprised at Janice's reaction, for men had been staring at her ass continuously since she had been twelve or thirteen. She had known it all along; as a teenager and then a young adult, she had actually reveled at the attention. It hadn't taken her very long to be able to feel their eyes burning through her jeans and panties as they stared unabashedly at the only round part of her body.
For she had no tits to speak of and that too was part of her attraction.
Somehow Janice and her husband Claude had gotten into a little routine, picking up an old pun that they used whenever Claude would fuck her in the ass.
I love to fuck you but you're so flat chested.
Get off my back.
Of course, most of Janice's sex with Claude was anal, which gave her nothing but pain. They'd had vaginal sex at least twice, which accounted for the two beautiful children who were in Day-care five days a week, as Janice went about her business as a sales woman in Gary's real estate office. Every time she thought about someone staring at her ass, Janice couldn't help but recall the first time that she'd had company in that orifice. It had been her father, Arlene's first husband, when Janice had been thirteen, but it was a story that she would never tell anyone about.
Arlene knew of course. She had found them, Janice screaming for her life as her father, the first husband, drunkenly punished her anally when he had found Janice half naked with her boyfriend. That was why Arlene couldn't help but keep an eye on her current husband whenever they were with Janice.
And in fact Arlene kept her eyes on Gary even when they weren't with her daughter. Arlene had learned early in her adult life a very old quotation: He who does not study history is doomed to repeat it. After she threw out her first husband, Arlene actively went about finding a replacement. And she realized quite rapidly that the number of available men grew exponentially once she decided to welcome married men into her search parameters. Gary was one of those men, sitting in a hotel bar looking to get laid. Or at least blown. One suck had led to another, and lo and behold, Gary became single and eligible. Arlene was certainly aware that a man who left one wife for another would be quite capable of doing so again. Hence the continuing tension in Arlene's nerve endings.
And so, as Gary's eyes followed Janice's ass, Arlene's eyes followed Gary's eyes.
Janice herself was pretty sure that her own husband Claude had a girlfriend somewhere. It was some twisted situation. Whereas most men would fuck their wives and then go to some other woman for the anal sex that their wives refused, Janice was convinced that her husband got all the pussy and mouth that he wanted from some girlfriend but that the bitch refused him anal, so that he had to get at home.
Finally Gary remembered that he had to go to work. Kissing Arlene and then Janice, the latter a little too close to her mouth, he left. Mother and daughter could open up.
"I hate it the way Gary stares at your ass," Arlene said. "Does he do that at the office too?"
"You think YOU hate it?" Janice countered. "In the office he always gets close enough to rub it. The other sales women are starting to whisper about the two of us."
"These men are all the same shits," said Arlene. "I should have known better than to let Gary leave his wife."
"Claude is no better," sniffled Janice. "He gave me two babies and now he only wants to take me from behind."
"You mean doggy-style?" Arlene asked idly.
"Fuck no! I mean from behind," Janice replied, her tone of voice making it clear what she meant. Then, for good measure, she added, "In the ass, just like Daddy did to me. I think Claude is getting it someplace else."
Arlene was temporarily speechless. Then she spoke weakly. "At least you're getting something. Gary has E.D. and he can't get it up anymore."
Janice inhaled sharply, and then sat silently as she pondered whether or not to speak any more. She soon decided that she must.
"Mom," she whispered, "Gary grabbed my hand the other day in the office and put it on his crotch. He was as hard as any man I've ever known. If he says that he has E.D., he must think it means Enough Downtown."
At that instant, the small tear that started this little story began to form at the corner of Arlene's left eye. The conversation was over.
The coupling copulation (pun intended) of Arlene and her only child had none of the frantic tearing of clothing, the manic touching of hands to body parts that usually signifies the first time ever sexual union of two people who have known each other forever. Rather, it was a scene of two grown women slowly removing their clothing so that they might lie in each other's arms, to tearfully console one another at the latest manifestation of the ancient rubric, 'All Men Are Pigs.'
Janice and Arlene had undressed before each other on numerous occasions, at home as Janice matured and in various boutique dressing rooms as they tried on frilly undies. The scene that evening was quiet until the bras came off. Janice looked down at her boyish nipples, as she always did, and then looked over at Arlene's healthy rack.
"Remember when I was thirteen and asked you when I would have breasts like yours and you told me to be patient, they would grow in?"
Arlene smiled wanly, the interruption temporarily stanching the flow of her tears. Of course she remembered. She knew the answer also. It had to have been due to the genetic contribution of her first husband, because Arlene had been faithful throughout her marriage. Yet she couldn't say that, not out loud, for it would cause Janice so much pain to be reminded of the violation, the pain inflicted by her father. So she lied, Arlene did, just as she had (unknowingly) lied all those years earlier.
"Maybe they just need massaging," she said with a laugh.
Even as she responded with a smile, it suddenly hit Janice that she and her mother were not undressing in order to lie down and comfort each other but that they really, really were going to touch each other sexually. And instantly she felt the wetness in the fuzz of her pubes as her excitement flooded her panties, the plain white sexless panties that bore silent witness to her drab sex life.
Those panties were Janice's last garment and they soon hit the floor, quickly joined by her mother's equally drab panties, though a faded pink, signifying an even less exciting sexuality. Daughter's eyes were drawn to Arlene's pussy, in shock — or at least in surprise — for it was shaven as clean as that of a whore in a porn flick. Arlene saw the look on Janice's face and offered an explanation.
"I had a Brazilian. It hurt like a son of a bitch but I was trying anything I could to get Gary interested in me again. I've been pretty sure that he was fucking somebody else."
More surprise, that was, as Janice heard her staid mother utter that word which she rarely had used in her daughter's presence. But the surprise slipped out of her mind as the bed beckoned, a king sized unit with a noticeable lump running down the middle, indicating a line of demarcation between two people who slept in one bed but rarely if ever met in the middle to enjoy that most wonderful — and necessary - of human activities.
Which was sort of how the two women, face to face, arms around each other, the silence broken only by the occasional sob from Arlene's lips.
With her mother's soft breasts quietly pressing against her own, Janice's mind drifted to her own husband, Claude, and to the crude grunting sound he make whenever he violently plunged and thrust inside her body through her tender anal opening. She shivered at the memory of the painful nights, symbols of Claude's 'real men don't use KY' attitude. And that pain made her curl up even more tightly in her mother's protective arms.
And thus her head dropped down so that her lips might fasten on one of Arlene's nipples, a teat that had nourished her as a baby. As she suckled, though, the teat slowly morphed into a tit, that external — and eternal - unit of female sexual attraction. Janice used her hand to caress her mother's free breast, squeezing, kneading, remembering sadly the times that boys had tried to squeeze hers and had given up. Sometimes with the cruel comments of frustrated teenaged boys.
Janice had never after infancy sucked on a nipple, could not remember the pleasure of when she had drawn milk from Arlene. Nor had she ever felt the softness of a breast, save from the chaste hugs that women often give to each other. Oh yes, she had in the past sucked on male nipples in foreplay. The men had enjoyed it, but it had done nothing for her. Now however, Janice had become a sort of man, feeling up a woman and gaining sexual pleasure from it.