Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Dee Does High School 19 By peregrinf "One last place," Heather announced, heading further out of town after yet another rack choked with chiffon and packed with petticoats. "This'll be the one. I feel it in my bones." She had to have the most optimistic bones in the universe. I gave my new cell another workout, calling Mom yet again with another status report and, ignoring Heather's protests, asking her to set another place at the table. "Thank you," Heather said reluctantly to the dinner invite. She had yet to call home, but maybe her folks gave her a longer leash than Mom gave me. Well, she was older. I sighed. "I suppose I could go to the dance naked." "Not naked. The whole 'naked to the dance' thing has been done to death since Beth Finch. There've been program participants and exhibitionist volunteers in the buff, the near buff, the decorated and over-decorated buff, at every school dance for the last two years. I bet there'll be at least two naked couples at this one. Bor-ring. "And while it may seem contrary to the NiS philosophy for me to say so, it is not necessarily the best look for some people! Wouldn't you like to make a new fashion statement?" "I just want to look good for Greg and have fun at the dance. Anyway, I s'pose everyone's getting kinda tired of seeing my skinny butt around the halls," I admitted dolefully. "No point in inflicting that on the crowd." She threw me a smile. "Not everyone's fed up. Mongo -- I mean Matt -- still enjoys the view." "Matt does?" She nodded. "Oh yeah. And a few others I could name. And I wouldn't say your butt is skinny. Well muscled is more like it." "Thanks, I guess," I responded, worried by what she'd said about Matt and the unnamed others, presumably the perpetually horny jocks. What with Miss School Spirit coming up in a couple of weeks I suddenly felt like I was in fate's cross-hairs again. "But tell me the truth. You kinda like it, don't you," she asked, "the attention and going around naked, I mean?" I shrugged. "I hardly notice the attention anymore. As for going around naked, it's comfortable. I'm comfortable. Isn't that what The Program is all about? Learning to be comfortable in our own skins?" She nodded as she steered around a corner. "If you say so." I thought that was a rather cryptic response and wondered briefly what was behind it, wondering if this whole trip was a mistake. The afternoon had not gotten off to a good start. We'd knocked off "Sal's Boutique," more formally known as Salvation Army, and the Good Will store in about five minutes, total. I hadn't held out much hope for them anyway. The consignment stores and charity thrift shops had seemed more promising, and taken more time with no results. The market was glutted with bridesmaid dresses in colors for which there were no names. I was so sick of taffeta and tulle that I was ready to vomit lace. Fortunately Heather and I agreed that petticoats on me made as much sense as a tutu on a giraffe, while a strapless would require suspenders. I was getting discouraged. I'd never liked shopping for fancy clothes. My casual wardrobe allowed lightning strikes -- in, grab, pay, and out. Good stuff meant changing rooms, where I always felt trapped and vulnerable, afraid someone would yank the door or curtain open exposing me in my tacky underpants. Then I had to drag stuff on that who knew how many others had tried on before me -- talk about cootie-phobia! Then, when I got the frock on I had to display myself to the whole shop floor while people gawked and store clerks tsked about me being too tall or too skinny or both and then I had to retreat to the changing room in shame to repeat the whole ugly process. Mercifully I hadn't had to do that so far. There hadn't been one thing worth trying on. Her "last place" turned out to be a shop run by the SPCA in a small building on the town's outskirts, sharing parking with the animal shelter. I felt bad, hearing the plaintive mews of the cats inside and "pick me!" barks from desperate dogs in the runs. In outside pens there were enough ponies, sheep, and goats for a petting zoo, even a single lonely llama -- I've read they're herd animals and don't do well alone -- sharing a space with two pot-bellied pigs. No chance of bonding there, I'd say. I hoped the baying of the hounds that greeted the bang of our car doors wasn't an evil omen. Inside the shop there was a guard dog by the door, a stuffed Snoopy about three feet tall. His head was drooping, so I paused to scratch his ears in an effort to perk him up. The shop itself was small and cramped, jammed with shelves of knick-knacks, toys and kitchen appliances, open bins of purses, neckties, hats, shoes and CDs, mostly pretty good quality stuff. By the looks of their inventory this shop drew donations from a more upscale crowd than Sal's. The clothes racks held aristocrats' seasonal fashion turnovers instead of working-class retirement or mortality remainders. And speaking of livestock, there were boots and jodhpurs, even some bridles and bits, reins, leashes and collars that might appeal to Mom and Elaine's kinky tastes. I fingered an interesting set of spurs, imagining Mom down on all fours, Elaine on her back wearing the spurs, waving a riding crop. Maybe I should tell 'em about this place -- or would that make me an enabler? Some of the collars were pretty fancy. Overall, I guess the horsy set had the money to spare on their AKC-registered pets. Too bad there's no AKC for snots, I reflected. It might improve the breed. Naughty, naughty, The Stick scolded me. Don't judge a book, and yada yada yada. I felt guilty. I'd started out thinking of Heather in that category. I was getting to know her as a person and liking her when she wasn't with her sycophants. She was bright and interesting to talk with, at least on a superficial level -- I still knew nothing about her family -- and I really appreciated all she was doing for me. She was already flipping through a tall rack of what looked to be very expensive and stylish long gowns, some with glittery tops and semi-bouffant skirts, totally unsuitable for me, of course. As I fingered a long sheath that weighed a ton and seemed to be nothing but sequins she gave a victory cry and pounced. After holding it up a moment, she handed me what looked to be a long length of a sort of velvety fabric. There were no fancy spangles, buttons or bows, not a single sequin, and not enough material to it to fill a bucket. This was a dress? At least the color was nice, a deep, rich red. Sending me into a changing room she continued looking. After figuring out which was top and bottom and back and front I shed my shirt and shorts, leaving me in my skin and ratty sneaks. Slipping it over my head I settled it around my waist. The top was like suspenders, only wider. What there was of it draped softly over my shoulders and molded itself to my bashful boobs. The vee of the neckline, if you could call it that, stopped just short of my navel. I did love the feel of the material, the way it molded itself to my body. The soft, stretchy fabric flowed over my flesh like water. I zipped up what little there was to zip in the back, drawing the lower part closer to my hips. In back my shoulder blades caught the breeze, and it felt like I was bare all the way down to my tail bone. Once I got it on I looked down at myself, trying to decide if I liked it. With all the upper exposure there wasn't a bra in the world that would work with it, but on me that wasn't an issue. The lines were simple, no fancy ruffles or flourishes or pleats, and the shoulders actually worked well with my swimmers' muscles. From the waist down it was a little loose around my hips, then draped smoothly almost to my ankles. There was a slit up one side so if I took one of my usual long strides it would show my leg to above the knee. I finally ventured out to get a look at myself in the show-me-from-all-sides mirrors -- you know, those three paneled things angled to display all sides of the victim. Heather took a long, critical look, and broke into a smile, nodding as I self-consciously smoothed the cool material over my butt. "Wow! It's even better than I expected. You are magnificent!" The overworked ladies who ran the shop took notice, and smiled and nodded as well. That made me feel good as I studied myself in the mirrors. The interesting thing about the dress was that while it hid all the important bits, it exposed parts of me that weren't usually seen -- when I was dressed, that is. I don't have cleavage, only a shallow valley between hills which were exposed almost all the way to my Julie Andrews. The open back ended tantalizingly close to the great divide of my ass, while the slit on the side of the skirt opened as high as my mid-thigh. I felt more exposed than if I were naked. "No underwear," Heather observed. "Uh, I don't have any with me," I confessed. She shook her head. "No, I meant you can't wear any underwear with it, none at all, not even a thong. It fits your bust and your bottom like a second skin, or it will once I get through with it. You don't need underwear anyway. You've proved that at school. It's a bit short, though." "Oh my." I looked down. My nipples were obviously eager to put in an appearance, trying to drill right through the material. Maybe they'd be more bashful at the dance, at least until Greg took me in his arms. "It will go well with these, if they'll fit," one of the women who seemed to run the shop suggested, hurrying over with a pair of sandals. They were simple, like the gown, plain but dressy. She knelt in front of me, helped me out of my worn sneakers, and I felt like Cinderella as I balanced, letting her slip them on my feet. The modest heels added only an inch or so to my height. While she was down there the lady flipped up the hem of the skirt. "There's more than enough here to let it down," she reported. "Piece of cake," Heather assured me, pinching it in a bit at my butt. "We can let it out down there, take it in about an inch here so it fits a little closer. We don't want wrinkles, after all." What did she mean "we?" I didn't know the first thing about sewing! Household ecology was an elective on my list for next year. "And we'll extend the slit up to about here." Heather poked my hip -- very, very high on my hip. "It is a crime to hide legs like yours." "Here's something simple yet elegant to draw the eye to your décolletage," the shop manager suggested loftily, draping my neck with a silver necklace, the simple pendant nestling between my breasts, cool against my skin. The tear-drop "ruby" it sported glowed like fire against my flesh. "And there are these matching, dangling earrings, perfect with your lovely long neck." She held one up beside my ear, looking in the mirrors with me. "You'll need to get your ears pierced." I was probably the only thirteen-year old in the county that hadn't bothered to have two extra holes poked in my head. Even Missy wore discrete little gold studs. Stand tall! The Stick whispered, so I did, one foot slightly forward like I was posing on the runway at the Oscars, showing my leg half-way up my thigh. And Heather wanted to extend the slit how high? Oh my! It was all so simple, no fancy frills and stuff, no satin and lace. Even the jewelry was subdued. Elegant was the word for it. I assumed the "rubies" were glass. Surely they couldn't be real. But was this me? This couldn't be me, could it? I was shorts and tees and gangly arms and legs, or sweats and a hoody, scabs on my knees, bare skin, sunburn and freckles. I was looking at a goddess! Except for the hair. That brought me down to earth with a thud. That was definitely me, a silly dust mop of blond, streaked by chlorine and sunshine, sticking out wildly in all directions. My hands and feet stuck out, too. My morale sagged even as The Stick insisted I maintain my posture. I was an over-dressed truffula tree. "We'll have to do something about your hair," Heather concluded as if she'd read my mind, thoughtfully nibbling on her thumb. "And you'll need a manicure and pedicure." "But is it me?" I asked. "I mean, I'm just a kid." "Not any more you aren't," Heather answered. "You are -- what? -- fourteen?" "Thirteen, for another week or so," I confessed. "You're a woman, going on six feet, healthy and athletic," she argued. "And gorgeous," she added. "That dress is you!" the manager bubbled, and somehow the way she said it -- almost worshipfully -- it wasn't like she was trying to make a sale. "As tall and graceful as you are you are a woman, and probably the only woman in two counties who could carry this look off. And I say that knowing who the donor is, who shouldn't have even tried. And don't you dare repeat that to anyone or it might get back to her! It's a small town." Unfortunately the word was probably already out. Once again I'd drawn a crowd. The shoppers nodded their agreement. I was still swiveling nervously this way and that. I took a step, my leg flashing through the slit. I turned, loving the feel of the fabric, the way that it moved with me, the way the jewelry and sandals worked to complete the ensemble. "It's beautiful! But, I can't possibly afford this," I whispered wistfully, turning back to the mirrors, fingering the price tag on the necklace. That alone ate up most of my budget. "Let me worry about that. They call it a thrift shop for a reason," Heather pointed out dryly. "You must have that dress! If it's not within your means I'm sure we can make some adjustments," the woman who'd brought the sandals over said. "Within reason, that is," the other woman, the manager, cautioned, checking the price tag on the dress. "We'll take it," Heather said before I could open my mouth to protest. The manager plucked the tags off everything and headed for the cash register, Heather bending her ear while waving me back toward the dressing room. Picking up my sneakers I reluctantly went retreated. I swore I heard the whole shop sigh in disappointment, which was ridiculous, of course. The dress came off easily. Greg would appreciate that! Not that it would be necessary, considering how accessible I'd be, given what I would not be wearing under it. On the other hand, it would be a shame to get stains on that material. I came back out an ugly duckling with the dress draped over my arm, the jewelry and sandals in my hands, and nobody even glanced my way. The woman at the register took everything from me and carefully refolded the dress and bagged it. The jewelry went into a nice velvet box which joined the shoes in a second bag. I was feeling a little dazed, looking down at the receipt as I walked out the door. Snoopy's tongue was hanging out. I'd done some mental arithmetic in the dressing room and the amount on the receipt was only half the total I'd come up with. "But I...you haggled them down! You shouldn't have done that!" I whispered to Heather. "That's all part of the game at that shop. The stock is all donations, the staff is all volunteer, there's almost no overhead, no cost to them. It's almost pure profit. They deliberately set the prices high, expecting to be bargained down. The very rich are even more frugal than us peons and love to think they're getting a bargain as much as we do." I'd never thought of her as a peon! She was always fashionable. Her family had to be well-off. "That's why I love thrift shops, especially that one! We should have gone here first," Heather went on, tweeting her car open. "I should have known they'd have just what we needed. It is almost perfect! All we need to do is let out the hem, take a tuck in at the hips and extend the slit. And the sandals and the jewelry! Oh, those are only synthetic rubies, by the way, not all that expensive, and the setting is sterling, not platinum or white gold. I checked. We'll have to pierce your ears. Hardly hurts at all." As I clicked my seatbelt into place she settled behind the wheel and started the car. "With your carriage, well, Mrs. Van Cleef -- she's the manager -- she's right. No one else could possibly carry it off. You'll show those silly snots. But don't you dare tell anyone I helped you!" She snapped her own safety belt on.D "But I...." "Not a word! If they think I had anything to do with it I'd never hear the end of it," she explained, carefully backing out. I wondered what "they" she was referring to, suspecting she meant her entourage. "But you deserve the credit!" She shook her head. "Don't want it, don't need it, don't deserve it. It's you that makes the dress. We just happened to strike it rich." "You don't think it's a bit too much?" I asked. "I mean, it seems kinda -- sophisticated -- for me. Maybe something younger...." She shook her head again. "Like what? A pinafore would look ridiculous on you. You're not a little girl anymore. The fit is perfect, the lines are simple. That's a sign of real quality, by the way. We're just revealing a new, wonderful facet of you. The other girls will be dolled up like Barbies. Some will show more skin, some will have more bling...." "Bling?" "Jewelry, most of it cheap, garish costume stuff. Baubles, bangles and beads. They'll have glitter on their cleavage, rhinestones in their hair, paint on their faces, and totter around on heels like they're on stilts," she went on. "You'll blow them out of the water with your class. This is all you, no distracting buttons and bows and ruffles and frills. The red is dark and muted, not garish, lush looking and we'll easily get your hair tamed and give your hands and feet a bit of polish." I was mulling this all over as we drove home, the sun edging toward the horizon. What would Mom think of it? Would Greg like it? Did I like it? I thought of not having it and it gave me a pang. Oh yes, I liked it. "So, you're dressed and accessorized -- oh, I think I have a clutch purse that'll do -- and all in one afternoon," she mused as she turned down my street. "We can pin you up when we get to your house. I'll take it home and by Friday I'll have the alterations finished and then we gild the lily -- hair, short, simple and feminine -- manicure, pedicure, the works. Then on Saturday, minimal makeup." It sounded like she was outfitting me for a military campaign. Knowing her, maybe she was, but who was the enemy? All afternoon something had been nibbling at the back of my mind, but we'd been so busy chattering I hadn't had the time to analyze it. We pulled up in front of my house. Mom's car was already in the garage and Elaine's filled the driveway. I turned to Heather. "You're coming in for dinner, aren't you?" "Are you sure it's alright?" "Mom's expecting you. But -- uhm -- do you have to go home tonight?" I asked impulsively. I rushed on. "I just thought, why don't you stay here tonight, if you could, that is, if you'd like to. I'd love to have you. It's getting dark, and you don't want to drive home in the dark." After I said that I realized I was really grasping at straws. I wasn't even really thinking. It was one of my crazy impulses, or maybe it was The Stick prodding me. Heather and I had been together all afternoon, talking about this and that, but it felt like she'd been keeping me at arm's length the whole time, talking inconsequentials, verbally deflecting me whenever I tried to get closer to her, when what I wanted most was to draw her into a warm embrace. And I know what you're thinking, but not that kind of an embrace -- conversationally. Oh sure, I wouldn't mind jumping her bones, but I just wanted to draw her in and get to know her, and somehow tell her that it would get better. "Please?" I ventured softly. "We could do our homework together, and just -- talk. Please? You could call your mom." "She's -- out of town," Heather admitted reluctantly. "So's Daddy." "You don't want to go home to an empty house, do you? Please stay." She seemed to think for a long time before she relaxed and nodded, a little warily. "If it's alright with your mom, yeah, I think I'd like that." "Mom won't have any problem with it. Elaine won't either." "Elaine?" "My mom's -- uh -- significant other," I explained grabbing my backpack and the bags as we got out of the car. I hadn't hidden Mom's relationship with Elaine, just never flaunted it around school. "Don't worry, Elaine's cool. She's a doctor -- gynecologist. She took the swabs, after, uh...." "Oh." "But there are two house rules," I warned as we headed up the walk. She paused, looking worried, so I turned back to her, smiling reassuringly. "Rule number one is -- and really applies only to Mom and me and Elaine -- no lying, ever. What we say, we mean, and if we would have to lie, even to be polite, we don't. It is 'I'd rather not say,' or something like that. But that's for us, we don't hold visitors to it. It's just, well, I want you to know that you can believe what we say." She thought this over. "I like that. My house could use a rule like that. What's the second rule?" "This one does apply to everyone." I pointed toward the front door. "Anything that happens in that house, stays in that house." "Sort of like, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?" I nodded. "Exactly. Oh, and one other rule, I guess. That makes three. They're all unwritten, of course. The third rule is to have fun. Okay?" "Oooookay," she drawled, resuming the march to the door. "Really?" "Really. Now, come on in and meet my moms. Please?" Being the classy woman she is, Mom welcomed Heather warmly, even though she'd had to listen sympathetically to me grumble about how the nasty "Queen Bee" had greeted me with "truffula tree" in the lunchroom that first day, and the stinging of the rest of the hive. Elaine was just as welcoming, but I noticed how closely she studied Heather, measuring her. As for Heather, well, she fitted in like she'd been born into the family. I tried to study how she did it, thinking of how self-conscious and tense I was with new people. Heather's attitude was smooth and easy. She was so confident! How did she do it? I wished I could bottle it and then take it out when I needed it. Mom had dipped into the freezer and produced a good spread. As we sat around the dining table Heather talked easily with my two moms like it was the most normal thing in the world. It was the first time she'd met either of them, but it was as if they were old friends. The conversation was light and superficial, how's school, what are you studying, where are you going to be next year, why'd you become a doctor, how's the real estate business -- that sort of stuff. The only odd thing was the looks that Mom and Elaine shared from time to time. There was some special secret being shared there. I got the feeling that they'd been planning on telling me something important, maybe something momentous, but that Heather's presence interfered. I was desperate to know what it was, and they wanted me to know, but we'd have to wait. After supper I had to model the dress and everything, of course, enduring their oo-ing and ah-ing. Mom actually had tears in her eyes. With Elaine it was lust. Heather borrowed Mom's sewing scissors and some pins. As I stood on a footstool she let the hem out before pinning it to the length she wanted, then pinned the waist in. Her last act was to set a safety pin at my right hip where she wanted the slit to stop. It was -- ahem -- very, very high. I won't say waist high but, well, it was high. Then she lifted the dress off over my head, leaving me nude, and bundled the whole thing away so she could make the changes. Later, after we had plowed our way through our homework, which was fairly light for a change, we were lounging around in my bedroom. I was still naked, of course. Lying on my back on my bed, one knee up, the other ankle resting on it, I was tossing a rolled up sock in the air, trying to just brush the ceiling with it, catching it in front of my face at the last instant, while she leaned back in my desk chair, idly swinging it back and forth. "You like your dress?" she asked. "I love it! It is so beautiful, and it feels so sexy. I can't thank you enough. But what about you? What're you wearing to the dance?" I caught the sock. It seemed an innocent enough question, but there was a silence. I flipped the sock up again. "I'm not going." The sock bounced off my nose as I turned toward her. "What?" "I'm not going." Her matter-of-fact tone hid volumes. "Oh!" I didn't know what to say to that. "I'm sorry." "It's complicated," she explained unhelpfully. There it was again, the verbal parry deflecting me. Lying on my side now, watching her, I didn't say anything, letting the silence rest there between us, hoping maybe she'd break it. When she finally did it wasn't any help. "So. Where do I sleep tonight?" She was back behind that veneer of sophistication and false cheer. I had to say this for her -- she wasn't lying, but she sure was good at evasion. Where would she sleep? What should I say? She could have Carl's room, but that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't like thinking of her all alone in a strange house, but I didn't want to scare her away. I wanted her company. Not necessarily her love, just her company, and to comfort her if she needed it, if she'd accept that. "Your choice. There's Carl's room, or you can sleep here with me. Just sleep, if that's what you want, I promise!" I finished with a nervous rush, before I realized that was a total tip-off, of course. Unless..., I thought hopefully, wondering what was tugging at me. It was easy to tell myself that I was sensing a need in her, but was that just an excuse for what I really wanted? "So, your mom is gay," Heather observed, studying her manicured nails. Was that a warning flag? She'd never struck me as homophobic. She had to know my reputation, so it couldn't be that or this whole afternoon wouldn't have happened. "Well, it's not that simple." Somehow I managed to keep volleying back the off-speed questions Heather was lobbing at me. "I mean, well, there's me and my brother Carl, so obviously she's -- uh -- done it with a man. Dad split when I was little, I don't even remember him, but I don't think he left 'cause she was, or is, gay. The only thing I really know about him is that he was tall. Mom says I look like him. "The only complaint Mom ever had was when there was a problem with child support. But she understood that was 'cause he'd lost his job after he moved away. She never, ever said anything bad about him. It hurts to admit it, but I guess he didn't want anything to do with us, 'cause there's no visitation or anything. "We've never really talked about the split, or Mom's relationship with Elaine. I was just so happy she'd found someone nothing else mattered. And personally don't think sexuality has to be gay or straight, an either-or kinda thing. Not long ago I was in love with a girl, and we made love, a little. I still am in love with her, actually, but it's not the way it was. She decided she doesn't swing that way. "Now I'm in love with Greg. I think Mom was in love with my father. I hope so, and then something changed. Then she fell in love with Elaine, at first sight. It was kinda romantic. Maybe it's more a matter of who you fall in love with," I concluded. "What about sex?" she asked. She was asking me? She's seventeen and I'm not even fourteen and she's asking me? How is it I feel so much older? But then I realized, in matters of culture and couture she was my senior, but in matters erotic I had the advantage of a lot of experience. What a team we could be! "What about it? I like it, if that's what you mean, with a boy or a girl, if it's the right boy or girl, the right time, the right place,. But I have to care about who I'm with. Not necessary be deeply in love, but really care," I explained, thinking of John, who I did really care about, and Mike, who I didn't as much. In some ways I still regretted that afternoon with him and Missy. "Is that what you mean?" "Yeah." That's all she said, leaving me hanging yet again. "So. Where would you like to sleep?" I asked her. "Can I take a bath?" Another curve ball, but one I could read hope into. "Sure. Let me get you towels and a washcloth." I tried not to seem too eager as I rolled off the bed. After I gave them to her she went off to the bathroom, leaving me in a quandary. The bath was a hopeful sign, but she's also one of those very clean people. She'd showered after cheerleading practice. Maybe she takes a bath every night before bed, regardless. Unsure what to do I dug into my stock of tee shirts and found the biggest one I had. On her it would do as a nightshirt, and then some. After I folded the covers back on my bed, so it was open and welcoming, I spread the tee shirt out for her. From there I went and opened the door to Carl's room, folded down the covers, and turned on the bedside light. Then I went downstairs to finish cleaning things up. Mom and Elaine had already retired, I guess you could say, though it depends on how you define "retired." They like to get to bed early. As I passed their door I heard Mom's soft soprano harmonizing nicely with Elaine's alto. Elaine likes doing Mom doggy style with a strap-on, talking dirty into her ear, reaching around her to play with the breasts that had nursed me and toy with her clit at the same time. The image made me tingle. I was just finishing downstairs, getting the dishwasher started, when I heard the tub draining. I got to the top of the stairs just as Heather headed down the hall away from me. The towel wrapped around her was a bit short, showing the bottom curve of her firm cheeks. Her hair was still pinned up, a few wet tendrils had escaped and curled sinuously around the back of her neck. She has a beautiful neck. I wanted to kiss it and lick it, and her butt, too, I confess. I deliberately didn't wait to see whether she went to Carl's room or mine as I slipped into the bathroom. Her clothes were neatly folded on the hamper lid, topped with her bra. Her nicely folded soft, lacey panties were the icing on the cake. I couldn't resist picking them up and pressing the crotch to my face, taking in a deep, deep breath of her warm scent, my own petals softening from the aroma. When I went to put them back I first tried to fold them just as she'd left them, then changed my mind, leaving them in an untidy heap so she'd know I'd touched them. A lie can be a lie even if it's not spoken. Then I noticed the medicine cabinet door was ajar when I knew it hadn't been. Lots of secrets, still, but no lies. Just like me, I think she wanted me to know she'd snooped. I gently closed it, so if she noticed she'd know that I'd noticed. After my usual quick shower, and a thorough brushing of my teeth, I padded back to my bedroom, still drying my hair with a towel, trying not to skip eagerly. I was juicing optimistically, I told myself, rather than in anticipation. The door to Carl's room was still open, the light on and -- sigh of relief -- the bed was still empty. My heart, and something else, gave a little hopeful leap and I went in to turn the light out. But I left the door open and the bed turned down, just in case she changed her mind. Heather was in my bed, of course, all the way over on the far side, her damp towel draped over the back of my desk chair. I added mine to it, noticing that the tee shirt was on my desk, neatly folded. She was on her back, her breasts appetizing mounds beneath the sheet she was clutching to her chin. She'd unpinned hair and it formed a halo on her pillow. "Hi," I greeted her shyly, closing the door behind me. "Hi. I wasn't sure whether than shirt was for me...." "It was. You want it?" She thought, then gave a nervous little shake of her head. "I guess not," she whispered. It was so rare to see her suddenly shy and uncertain. I was touched. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, I didn't ask her if she was sure. I turned my bedside light on, turned off the overhead, and slipped under the covers beside her, the sheet cool on my tits, careful not to brush against her, intensely aware of her warmth, so close to me, and her sweet bath smells. Reaching out on my side of the bed I clicked off the light, and we lay there together in the dark, close but not touching. I could hear her breathing. I couldn't help remembering how Missy and I used to share our secrets, and our love, here, just the two of us together in thedark. It seemed so long ago. I felt the covers shift a little, sensed Heather hesitantly relaxing, letting go of her death grip on the sheet, drawing her arms down, carefully avoiding any chance of touching me, probably clasping her hands over her tummy, sighing nervously. I took a deep relaxing breath myself even as I trembled with desire. "Nobody asked me," Heather whispered. I felt a pang, realizing she'd answered the question I'd been afraid to ask earlier, about the dance. Why wouldn't someone ask her? I wanted to ask, but that's me, always wanting to know why, until the only answer left is "because," leaving me frustrated and the person I asked embarrassed. I didn't want to do that to her. "I'm sorry," I responded. It meant more than she could know, and seemed so feeble. "Go to sleep." That was in her no-nonsense, sophisticated voice, the shutters between us closing again. She knew I wanted to ask another question that she didn't want to answer, a "Why?" that would hurt too much. "Good night," I whispered softly, letting the silly, comforting line Mom had used when I was little play itself out in my mind; sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite. Of course I didn't go to sleep, and from her breathing she wasn't having a good night. For a long time we lay there, together, silent, a few tense inches apart, side by side, in the dark, the neighbors' lights shining through the trees, casting dancing shadows on the ceiling. Then I felt the sheet shift a little again, a movement, and the warm back of her hand brushed against the back of mine, a timid excursion. It was a simple thing for me to gently and carefully slide my palm over her palm and interlace our fingers, an electric current flowing between us. Her fingers tightened, and for a moment she gripped me so tightly it hurt. It felt as if she were clinging to a life preserver. "What's it like to make love to a woman?" she asked softly, her grasp relaxing a little. Another question out of left field. I thought for a moment. The truth? Of course, The Stick said. That's the rule. "Well, it depends, on the mood, the occasion, and the woman," I answered. Then I decided to tell an even bigger truth, take a bigger risk. "Right now, with the woman I'm with, well, I'd like it to be soft, and warm, and gentle, and sweet, and caring. So sweet and caring and good that she forgets everything else. I'd like to make love with that woman, with her, not to her, because I find her beautiful and sexy, and because I care for her, I really, really care for her. "But I won't unless she's sure she really wants me to." There was a long, breathless silence. "I haven't let a boy touch me since...." She couldn't finish the thought, and didn't need to. God! It had to have been a year. A whole year without touching, except maybe her parents, and what if they weren't the touchy-feely type? "Do you think you, we ...?" She couldn't bring herself to finish that question, I guess. Oh yes, very, very much, I thought, I do want to. But I didn't dare say that, afraid it might scare her away, at the same time questioning my own motives. I had reasons I thought were good -- she was hurting, and needed to know, that after all that had happened to her, that she was still a good, beautiful, desirable person. But she was terribly vulnerable, and I had to admit to myself that my own desires were driving me, too, my desire to be warm and close with this beautiful person, feel her soft warm body against mine, feel those wonderful waves of pleasure rushing through me. "Could you just hold me?" There was a catch to her voice. "Would you? I just want to be held." "Of course I can, and will." I rolled so I could reach her, across her, my hand on her shoulder to encourage her to roll toward me, so we were on our sides, face to face. I slid my other arm under her head to cushion it, and we came together, slowly, delicately, a little at a time, her arm reaching around me. My lips brushed her cheek with a butterfly kiss before we were snuggling closer, ear to ear. Our naked breasts touched, my bashful AAs introducing themselves to her lovely, generous Cs, warmth and softness to warmth and softness. From her shoulder I slid my hand down the lush curve of her body, so much more womanly than mine, to her waist -- and oh, her skin, her body was so silky! Our feet tangled, my bony knees bumping her more rounded ones as we sorted out whose legs went where, right over left and left over right, squirming our hips closer together, but carefully not letting the sensitive parts touch. I didn't mind, not really. I was just happy she was willing to turn to me for comfort. My heart ached for her. After a moment I drew my head back so I could look into her eyes. "Okay?" I asked. She looked scared, but nodded, and a tear trickled down her cheek, and I drew her head to my shoulder so I could snuggle my cheek to hers again. I felt her tremble as she began to cry, and I held her close, and I cried with her, and for her, and we drew closer and closer together, physically and emotionally, both my arms around her so I could envelop her, shield her from the night and all her fears. One of her arms was tucked between us and I think maybe she was sucking her thumb, or maybe chewing on it to muffle her sobs. The other arm was over me, around me, clinging to me, her body trembling against mine. I stroked her head, feeling the soft silkiness of her hair, the dampness from her bath, her skin soft and cool and moist against mine. Her tears flowed hot and wet where her face was buried in the valley between my shoulder and my neck. Her hair smelled faintly of bubble bath, and soap, and I wanted to taste her, to lick her tears away, but I didn't. I just held her close I don't know how long she cried. It didn't matter. "I'm sorry," she said at last, sniffling. "It's all right," I assured her, pulling away to reach the tissues so she could blot her cheeks. "It's all right," I repeated, drying my own tears. "Is it?" she asked, drawing away, looking at me hesitantly before she dipped her head and daintily blew her nose. "Yes, of course it is," I answered, taking the used tissues and dropping them on the floor, not about to lose touch with her, handing another for her to cling to. "Yes, it is all right. I can't tell you how much or how often I've cried in my mother's arms." "But you're not my mother," she pointed out. "You're another girl." "Why should that matter?" I asked, brushing a strand of hair away from her eye. "I care. That's all that matters. I care." Her lips were right there, so close, full and ripe, slightly parted, and I just couldn't resist it, and gently, every so gently, I kissed them, my hand hovering behind her, not on her, so she could draw away if she wanted. For a moment she almost did, but then she came back, hesitantly kissing me back. When she didn't draw away, I drew her closer, again feeling her satin skin against mine, her rounder, softer breasts against my gentle hills again, her nipples pebbles against mine, and her lips warm and alive against mine. She let the kiss grow deeper, warmer, and my tongue timidly ventured out to brush her lips. When she hesitantly broke the kiss and drew away, I was afraid that I'd upset her. She dipped her head, whispered into my chest. "I -- uh -- used your toothbrush. I hope you don't mind." "Of course I don't mind," I answered, suppressing a soft giggle, relieved when she giggled, too. "I don't mind at all." The next kiss was hungrier, more needy, her tongue tip and mine doing a delicate dance, and she snuggled more closely against me, our legs tangling, tummy against tummy now, and she squirmed, and I squirmed, we both squirmed, just to feel how wonderful it was to be close, so close to another person, warm and soothing, with nothing between us at all. Still kissing we tasted each other's tastes, smelled each other's smells, shared each other's sighs and breaths, the barriers slowly dissolving until we parted so we could look deeply into each other's eyes. "I don't know how," she whispered. "What do I do?" "Only what you want to do. Whatever you're comfortable doing. This, for example," I said, kissing her gently. "And this." The backs of my fingers stroked her cheek, my palm her ear, the side of her neck, her shoulder, her back. "And this," and I pressed more closely to her, cuddling my whole body against hers, skin to skin. "And maybe this." I caressed her beautifully rounded bottom, my fingers tickling the crack, drawing us even closer together down there. "And this." I raised my leg between hers to press against her pussy, feeling the tickling of her soft curls, the warm, humid softness of her pussy against my thigh. "Like this?" she asked. "Yes," I sighed as her thigh pressed against my pussy, her hand cupping my ass. I let my hips move against her leg, my lips brushing her lips as I answered, "Oh yes." "Oh, yes!" she agreed, her breath warm on my face, letting her hips move, rubbing her crotch against my thigh, our mouths again mingling, our lips brushing with every syllable. "Oh, it feels so good. You feel so good." "Yes," I agreed as I enjoyed the way her hand caressed my ass. "So do you. It is good, so good." "I didn't know it could feel so good." It was like a whole new experience, sharing her wonder. I didn't rush her, letting her set the pace, felt my own arousal climbing as her motions slowly became stronger, more urgent. It was like she was shedding her reserve in layers, exposing more and more and more of her inner self, her inner passion. Her breath was hot as her tongue traced the curves of my ear, and I returned the favor, and then she pulled back and her lips found mine, our mouths open wide, so wide, soft cries mingling, tongues and teeth tangling, until we had to break to breathe, gasping in wonder. Our hips were working, our thighs, our pussies painting each other's flesh with scented seepings. "Oh god!" she gasped. "Oh my god. OH OH OH OH." "Yes, yes, yes, yes," I responded to my own wonderful, surging orgasm, feeling her hot juices soaking my thigh as I flooded hers with mine and we strained and strained and strained against each other, crushing our bodies together until the crests rolled on past us, leaving us gasping, limply tangled together, once again our mouths mingling in a series of wet, sloppy kisses. She pulled away. "I didn't know...What have I...?" "Shshshsh," I soothed her, stroking her satin flesh, kissing and kissing and kissing her, tenderly, sweetly, reassuring her, sensing her exhaustion and relaxation. For the first time in who knew how long she was really relaxing. "It's all right. It's good. Sleep now," I whispered, relaxing myself. "Sleep." And we did sleep, for a while, no longer alone, in each other's arms, in the dark, until she woke me from my own bad dream -- the one I'd been having ever since -- you know -- with her own whimpers and thrashings. Reaching back I fumbled and got the soft bedside light on to drive away the dark demons. I didn't give her time for her nightmare to get a grip on her, or mine on me. Instead I stroked her and held her, drew her head down to my bosom, insisted she take my nipple, which she did. I don't know if she was fully awake or not, but she began to nurse from me, and I held her close and tight as she set me aflame, until she relaxed again, leaving my nipple sore and swollen. I drew back, eased her onto her back. The sheet was down to her waist after all our thrashing. I lifted myself on one elbow to look down on her, admire her. Gravity spread her breasts, her nipples were dark and appetizing in the soft light, her curves lush and feminine, her skin like velvet as I caressed her, then moved my hand up to cup the warm mound of one breast, my thumb tweaking her already alert nipple. She caught my wrist, and I thought she was going to move my hand away, but she didn't. Instead she pressed it even more firmly to her bosom. "You are so beautiful," I whispered. "I could just eat you all up!" She looked fearful, until I lowered my lips to hers and kissed her gently, with no tongue, her response muted, too, but warm. "Eat you up," I repeated, looking deep into her eyes, seeing curiosity and trust replacing uncertainty and doubt. "Eat you up," I repeated, and saw what I hoped was a timid nod, her fingers touching my cheek. So I went to her breasts to gently suckle at each of her firm, rubbery tits in turn, my hand curling around the wonderful fullness and softness of her mounds. She combed her fingers through my tangled hair, even drew my head harder to her breast as she lifted it to me, a free will offering that I gratefully accepted. She sighed her pleasure to the ceiling as I left both tits wet and shining and erect. When I began to kiss and lick my way further down her torso she gasped but didn't try to stop me, slowly relaxing her grip on my head, letting it go even though she had to know where I was headed with this. As my tongue was plumbing the depths of the sweet socket of her navel I slid my hand down to comb my fingers through her soft bush. She raised her hands to her head, her fingers tugging through her hair, surrendering the most intimate recesses of her body to my attentions. I scraped the gentle swell of her tummy with my teeth, making her belly muscles jump. Before tracing a tantalizing line further down her body with my tongue I let the tips of my fingers slip beneath the sheet, testing the valley where her thighs joined her body, her legs tight together. For a moment she hesitated, then with a sigh let them open just enough for me to feel the upper edge of her soft, moist folds. Then came the awkward time, the moment when I turned and squirmed around on the bed so we were head to toe -- no, tell it like it is, no lies no equivocation -- head to crotch. I was pushing the covers down and away so she was completely exposed, totally revealed in all her beauty. For a moment her fingers cupped her sex protectively, then shyly she drew her hand away, revealing her last secrets, exposing herself completely to me. The sight of her was enough to make the breath catch in my throat. Her breasts were full and round, her nipples stiff and aroused. She was fit, but not muscular, a nice adipose layer, a gently rounded tummy that dipped to a soft nest of curls. Her thighs were beautifully rounded, smooth as satin, her legs graceful and strong. But it was that treasure between her thighs that made my mouth water and my heart race. I was afraid she'd reject my advance, but I just had to. To my relief it took only a gentle touch and her legs hesitantly parted more for me, and I nosed into the soft, fragrant curls, smelling her rich musk, her fresh arousal, before letting my tongue seek between the roundness of her outer lips to taste the slippery ruffles bashfully peeping from between them. She was sweet, and tangy, very slippery, full of flavor and ripe with her unique, luscious scent, the same scent I'd gotten a faint hint of from her panties. Like gates swinging open to reveal a secret garden her thighs opened wider. She was becoming a more willing, active participant, whimpering softly from my delicate explorations. When I hesitantly raised my leg, hoping she'd accept my invitation to the dance, she shyly guided my knee over her head, my pussy blossoming above her, open to her upward gaze. She steadied me, her hands on my hips, bracing me away from her face. For a long, tantalizing, incredibly exciting moment I felt her hot breath on my crotch as she studied the landscape above her, knowing she was contemplating that last, scary step, to take her first actual taste of another girl. She fingered me delicately. I held my own breath, even as my tongue continued to slither along her petals, tantalizing the opening to her channel, building her arousal. When I let my tongue tip tease the nose of her kitty she gasped, and at last she lifted her head, her tongue timidly tasting my seepings, not yet venturing beyond the slit that concealed my most sensitive secrets. Then, more confidently, more eagerly, she ventured further, one hand cupping first my hip, then my buttock, drawing me slowly down on her so she didn't have to hold her head up, the fingers of her other hand parting the gates to my paradise. I could only draw the conclusion that she didn't find my taste too revolting and my warm affection for her swelled within me, along with my inner tissues. At last she licked my moist gash, her tongue beginning its exploration of my inner folds, tasting me, really tasting me, the last of her reservations laid to rest as my own oral ministrations stirred her lust, further encouraging her. Every swipe of her hot tongue brought a fresh wave of juices to her mouth, much to my own enjoyment, while her cunt flooded, filled my mouth with her nectar. Her last fears gone, she wriggled her tongue as deeply into my cunt as she could reach, her nose buried against my ass. She licked along the inner folds far enough back to lap briefly at my anus before retreating to safer terrain. At the other end of her safari she found the pearl of my clitoris, and I let her know my pleasure with sighs and whimpers as her lips nibbled at the sensitive little berry. She was doing just fine, her instincts making any instruction from me totally unnecessary. Together we abandoned ourselves to each other's pleasure, and our own, drinking deep, deep, deep of the wonderful flows our bodies released. Her hips lifted toward my working mouth, rolled almost as if trying to buck me off, but I rode her and rode with her, licking deep in her hole then sucking and tonguing her clit, my hands clutching her butt, my fingers prying between her buttocks seeking, finding the delicate pucker of her anus, tickling and teasing that rosebud until her thighs clamped convulsively around my head, her cunt clenching, her wails smothered in my gushing crotch. My own orgasm flooded through me -- hot, sweet, exhausting waves that lasted for ever so long, but, as always, never as long as I'd wish, her own cunt contracting rhythmically with her orgasm. Finally, exhausted, we went limp, and I buried my whole face in her steaming pussy, drowning myself in her rich aroma before twisting to plant tender kisses on her hairy labia, the sensitive insides of her thighs, the lower reaches of her tummy. She was breathing hard and hot in my crotch, and I felt the aftershocks still rippling through her abdomen, even as mine slowly faded away. In the end it was all I could do to get untangled and turn myself around so we were again face to face. I reached down to draw the sheet up over us both, over our heads, creating a soft, protective shelter away from the world. Then I wrapped her in my arms, drew her close, and this time I did lick her face, her cheeks, her lips, tasting my own juices mingled with the salt of her tears as she tasted her juices on me, and my tears, until we slept again, in each other's arms, our nightmares banished at least for the rest of this night.