Chapter 21

We were both a sticky mess below the waist, and sweaty all over, so a shower was an essential next step. Being California, and economy with water being a habit, we took it together.

I asked Mel if I could wash her hair; she seemed a little startled that I’d actually want to do that, but happily agreed when I reassured her that it would absolutely be a pleasure.

There’s a real intimacy to washing someone else’s hair. No, I’m not talking about at the salon, where it’s part of the assembly line of having your hair done; bent backwards over the sink, efficient hands wetting, shampooing, rinsing and parceling up in a towel. Just like they do a couple of dozen other people every day. Oh, I never object to having my scalp massaged; it’s part of the joy of having it styled, rather than the dry cut and dryer conversation of a barber.

But there’s much more emotional connection when doing it for someone you love. I could still remember, some twenty-five years later, how loved I’d felt when Mom used to lean over me in the tub and rub in the shampoo.

I used to do it for Marsha, back in the early days when I thought the two of us had something special together; but then she got all super-efficient with the use of her time, and considered messing about in the bathroom too childish, and risking messing up her lashes and makeup. I suppose, subconsciously, it was another of the factors that told me our relationship was doomed. Not that I made the connection at the time.

Mel’s got beautiful hair. Naturally blonde from her Nordic ancestry, medium length so it can flow around her head like a halo, or be neatly put up. Soft. Ticklish, but who cares when the rest of her is so close the hair is touching you. She’s so tall that I had to reach up and stand on tippy-toes a little to do the top, but it was worth it. It’s more than mere intimacy; with her eyes tight shut against the suds, she was trusting me. Me, I was luxuriating in running my fingers through her tresses, gently massaging her scalp to make her feel good.

I let her operate the dryer for herself, but again I asked to brush it for her. I used to brush Katelyn’s mane sometimes back home; it was relaxing for both of us, a chance for us siblings to connect again. I know how to do it gently, to hold the root end with the other hand so I don’t pull too hard, getting any tangles out and giving the hair the sheen that only brushing provides. Mel was purring by the time I was satisfied; cats and dogs aren’t the only species that enjoy being petted and pampered.

An inspection of the fridge confirmed that we needed to make a quick trip towards Malibu for some more groceries; I offered to take her out for a meal, but neither of us fancied fighting the Saturday night restaurant crowd and wasting all that time waiting to be served.

She drove. There was a reasonable-sized family-run supermarket off Zuma beach; with a little searching we got everything we needed and headed back to the beach house.

I had a question for her about earlier. “Honey, I didn’t hurt you, did I? I’ve never bitten nipples that hard.”

She looked across at me and grinned. “For some reason I don’t understand, my nipples are extra-hot wired. I’ve talked to girls who’ve had piercings, and from what they say, I seem to get the same heightened sensations that they do but without the metalwork. Yes, it can get painful if it’s done too hard, and I sometimes bruise pretty badly, but most of the time it’s just ‘WOW’. The rest of the BDSM scene I can pretty much leave; I enjoy a light restraint but ... Intentional infliction of pain, you can forget it. Needles for STI tests are as much as I can take; I told you I’m such a wuss that I’ve felt faint before now. But no, you didn’t cause any pain, it was all straight stimulation.”

I told her that I was very glad of that, and made her promise to tell me if I ever was causing discomfort. “Like I said, I don’t get off on hurting people, and I like you too much to want to upset you.”

“So you wouldn’t want to tie me to a frame and whip me?”

I had to chuckle. “I guess I could be persuaded. I saw a couple of those clips, I didn’t get the impression that the guy was gonna raise any welts on your lovely hide.”

“Damn, was it that obvious we were only playing? Didn’t you fear for me, all tied up and helpless?”

“First one, yes. Then I realized that he was really pulling the blows, almost dropping the lash onto your skin like he was caressing you.”

She giggled, “I was probably SO trying not to laugh. It wasn’t ever a real flogger, more like one of those horsehair things you wave around to disturb the flies that are settling on your picnic. Flicking more than flogging. It tickled more than anything. Did I look frightened enough?”

I spoke slowly, realizing that I was just about to break the light-hearted mood, “Yeah, honey, you do a good facial expression of being terrified, but it just wasn’t complete, didn’t carry through to your eyes. You still looked too sure of yourself. Uh, I ... I’ve seen real fear in your eyes, that Saturday when you drove away. Please, honey, don’t ever let me see that again?”

It had been more than fear; it had been a mix of a whole lot of negative emotions. Looking back on what I’d read in her face but not understood at the time, her giving me space to make my own decision had been selfless, almost heroic. Doing the right thing because she felt she owed me absolute honesty and a free pass to run away from her.

She turned to me, taking her attention off the road for a few seconds, “I thought ... I thought it was all over, that it was goodbye. I don’t want to have that feeling of ... hopelessness ever again.”

“Nor do I, honey, nor do I.”

We were both silent for the rest of the journey. I’d been upset enough at her leaving at the time; I’d probably never fully understand what she’d had to go through, waiting for me to make my decision about whether or not I could accept her past, berating herself for risking what we had, while knowing that total honesty was the only sustainable choice of action.

When she pulled up outside our borrowed beach house, I picked up her right hand and kissed it. “Mel, honey, I’m so sorry it took me quite so long to work out my feelings. Just so you know, I think you’re an incredibly awesome person, and I want to be so much more than just your friend and your lover, okay?”

She unlocked her seat belt so she could rotate her body and kiss me on the lips; the emotional spark that flew between us gave me my answer.

Our neighbors were grilling in their back yard; from the loud music and the laughter it sounded like the intoxication phase of the party had already started. The waft of burning weed confirmed that; Mel grinned at me as she caught the unmistakable odor.

The welcome we received from the dogs rekindled the holiday atmosphere; it’s impossible to stay serious when tails are wagging so vigorously. A dog is ALWAYS pleased to see you.

We’d decided on a pork belly stir-fry; bulked up by some fresh noodles and washed down with a crisp Pino Grigio, it made for a tasty and satisfying supper. I did set aside three bite-sized cubes of fried pork before I added the spicy sauce; Max, Tara and Kara were part of the family, after all.

Once we’d eaten and cleared away, Mel added the cooled pork to their bowls of dog food as a kind of garnish; you bet that they scarfed up the ‘human’ food first before touching their own stuff.

Mel and I finished the bottle of wine while cuddling on the couch; our making out became even more amorous, and we were both naked before we gave the dogs their bedtime treat. After doing our own night-time routine – and already I was totally comfortable with sharing a bathroom with this amazingly sexy lady – she put up her hair in a loose ponytail using a scrunchy and asked, “Mel or Atlanta?”

Oh my. “I’m not sure I can take another sessions with Atlanta just yet. She’s kinda ... enthusiastic.”

“You’re so wrong there, baby. Atlanta is totally versatile; she can do slow and sensual. Doesn’t always have to be hot monkey sex. Did you watch the house party vid?”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head, “No, don’t think so.”

“Four couples have dinner then swap partners. I was in Part Three. Bedroom with a whole load of candles. Thirty minutes run time. Maybe a dozen changes of position. Slow and sensual. You up for that?”

I thought I remembered the scene – or at least the candles in the background. Problem was, I must have viewed maybe five shorter versions of it; and none of them had been nearly a half hour long. It had been shot in soft light, sometimes well focused, sometimes almost dreamy. I made a guess. “Judy?”