Conflicted by white-hot desire and self-loathing, I knew God was watching with disapproval the moment Marcia Levy and I shared mutual orgasms for the first time behind the bleachers. We were both seniors, and cheerleaders, no less. I couldn’t stop staring at her during practice, with her long legs, pug nose, and silly grin. Her voice wafted over me like a cool afternoon breeze.
When it came time to perform our routine, my hands shook and a lump swelled in my throat when I touched her. I couldn’t let the other girls down, so I quelled impure thoughts and concentrated on the intricate (and athletic) movements of our routine until tears streaked down my cheeks.
“Honey, what’s the matter?” Mrs. Laughlin, our PE teacher, asked.
“Nothing, ma’am.” I sobbed, head lowered, eyes cast to my feet. “It’s just that I don’t want to fail the team,” I lied. I couldn’t tell her what an unnatural beast I was, how much I was in love with Marcia, and how my pussy throbbed whenever she was nearby.
“Oh my god, Jenny,” she hugged me to her small, firm breasts. Her skin smelled of sandalwood, fresh sweat and sun. “Relax, you’re doing fine.”
Mrs. L. lifted my chin so that my face met her gaze. She gave me a peck on the cheek before patting my butt, sending me back out on the green with the other girls.
“Keep the faith!” she shouted, open hands on either side of her mouth as I turned to wave. It wasn’t until years later that I would fully understand that phrase.
I so loved Mrs. L. and her strict, but fair, nature. She was exceptionally fit and lean, and at a distance, she resembled a tall boy, especially after she bobbed her dark brown hair. More shame washed through me when I found myself fantasizing about her as well. I was so innocent at sixteen, little did I know of my teacher’s true orientation, despite her being married to Lindeville’s postmaster for many years. If I had, I might have been more open and honest with her.
“Ohhh, fuck, Jenny,” Marcia gasped as she drew up a knee. We had retreated to the most secluded corner we could find. Still, stripes of sunlight filtered through wooden benches above our heads, highlighting our bodies. There we sat, side by side, legs parted as we masturbated each other furiously. With our short, striped skirts pulled up, it was easy for me to slip my hand inside her lacy, white panties and she did the same to me.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” was all I could say, breathing into her ear, receiving as much pleasure as I was giving. Still, I kept glancing up and around, lest anyone discover us. I knew I was going to Hell for what we were doing, and I knew my soul was sick, but dear Lord, I couldn’t help myself!
Our hands worked quickly, but silently, slender fingers blurring against engorged rosebud slickness, hidden by downy ladyfur, until she cried out gently, body jerking as I guided her through one climax, then another. Of course, watching her come, along with her expert hand, soon forced my own juicy release. For a delicious minute, we writhed and whimpered on that lovely spring afternoon as the Devil possessed us. We licked our fingers and kissed passionately, madly, as if trying to devour each other’s faces.
That was only the beginning. For the rest of the school year, we met surreptitiously, almost daily, doing everything lovers do, and I DO mean everything! To distant birdsong, the season blossomed as a time of life and renewal, and in sweet memory, our moments together blurred with caresses and moist kisses, slick wetness, urgent rhythms, the pearlescent white of bared teeth, turgid, red tips, and tingling, blood-engorged pink.
In my young mind, I reasoned that whether I committed one or one thousand sins, I could still ask God for forgiveness. Late at night, in the silence of my bedroom, I’d kneel at the foot of my bed, look upward, and pray to the Lord to rescue me from this wicked addiction, but deep in my heart, I didn’t want to be cured. God, Marcia’s touch, her kiss, and how my body sang each time we were together… how could this be wrong? Somehow, according to my family and my religion, it was. Who was I to question our Creator?
Despite a few close calls and hastily-stammered explanations, we managed to hide our perverted relationship until graduation. After that, things changed. In retrospect, my biggest mistake was to live in the moment, one day at a time, and not think about the future. I was too busy loving Marcia to think about the inexorable mechanizations of the world set in place when God created Heaven and Earth.
I don’t understand how we drifted apart, but in the days surrounding graduation, I sensed something was off with Marcia, nothing I could identify, but merely the feeling a woman gets when things aren’t right. There was no official end to our romance; she just stopped showing up, and calls to her home went unanswered. She virtually vanished from the face of the Earth, and the result was like a bomb exploding in my gut. Surely the Lord was punishing me for my indiscretions!
Not wanting to be too obvious and reveal our secret, I tried as I might to find out what happened between us. Then, one hot day in July, I sat underneath the bleachers, sweat forming under my breasts and armpits, masturbating alone to memories of our many secret meetings in that sacred spot. Silently weeping, I came, the surge overtaking me. I cried out her name, then looked around, hoping no one heard my anguish. Licking my fingers, savoring the heady odor, I decided to get on with my life and put things in the capable hands of our Lord.
Months passed, and well after I had made peace with God and myself, word came to me Marcia was engaged to Brad Peevy, one of the hulking football heroes of the Tiger Class of ‘68. The next (and last) time I saw her, she was three months pregnant. She gave me a very quick hug, only our shoulders touching, and talked of her life as if nothing between us had ever happened. As she spoke, I so longed to remind her of our illicit love and the time we shared in a world now so far away, but her wall had gone up. After a few minutes, she made a polite excuse to end the conversation, her face smiling, lips curled up, but I read her eyes like an elementary school primer. There was no joy in her soul.
But that was so very long ago, over twenty years, in fact. Like many women goaded by her “normal” peers, before I knew it, I was married to a fine young man with the usual fanfare and pageantry of a typical middle-class American ceremony. Despite my inclinations, never would I hurt Don, so I played along, not wanting to ruin our marriage and, in addition, incur the disdain of my very religious family. Seems I wasn’t that much different from Marcia.
A year of married life passed, and I worked hard to atone for past sins, dutifully serving as wife, friend, and lover to my betrothed. Still, I could sense other women who had that certain siren “energy”. There were times I knew they could read my thoughts, either by words, actions, or just the look in their eyes. I kept my distance, although my body cried out for their kind of loving.
Another year passed and Millie was born. Carrying her to term was very difficult and both of us almost died in childbirth. She was underweight and required a great deal of care, but in time, she began to grow and thrive. I thanked the Lord for allowing us to live, and for Millie to gain health. Surely this was a sign from Him that I was meant for motherhood and straight, married life. Her birth locked it down for me and I parked those ungodly desires in the back of my head once and for all.
Or so I thought…
Don and I had a good marriage for eighteen years, then, suddenly, he was gone. His heart gave out and we found him in the garage. My husband had been cleaning up his work area, and the heavy lifting must have done him in. He was only forty years old, but the autopsy revealed an undetected cardiac problem.
Through the aftermath, I existed in a haze; his passing was so very unexpected. Immediately, relatives and friends from church gathered in our home, other women taking over housekeeping duties, cooking, and cleaning, all while I fought not to drown in sorrow. There was always a kind face and a shoulder to cry on. God had provided in my time of need, and while I was truly grateful to everyone who helped out, the physical transition into widowhood seemed all too easy.
Millie and I were inseparable during this time. She had just turned sixteen and, while she had pretended to be somewhat independent of her parents, her father’s death revealed a frightened child beneath the veneer. That first night, we slept together in her bedroom, something we hadn’t done for years. In the dim light, we clung to each other under thick blankets, talking through tears, weeping on and off, merely trying to make sense of this sudden tragedy. Sleep was not an easy option for either of us, despite the day’s exhausting emotional toll.
“Mom?” Millie whispered, her cheek resting on my breast.
“Yes, love.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know.”
I took a deep breath, wiping away a tear. The pressure of her head and the nearness of her body reminded me how good it felt to touch my loving daughter.
“But not to worry. We have lots of friends and things will work out.”
I inhaled the scent of her raven-black hair. Thankfully, she inherited all of her good looks, her olive skin, dark eyes and hair, and her defiant nature, straight from Don. Now, she was a slim-to-medium five feet, 4 inches tall, and many times I thought I was looking at my high school lover, Marcia.
As for me, I was no slouch. Nearing forty, my body still held up. I was a few inches taller than Millie, with decent-sized breasts that only drooped slightly, and a nice enough figure to sport an elegant dress on occasion. I tried different colors with my hair as the grays started to appear, settling now on a dirty blond/light brown combination.
“One day at a time?”
I felt her breath on my skin.
“With the Lord’s help, yes.”
Millie sighed and clung even tighter to me. As she drifted into sleep, her breaths becoming deep and rhythmic, I desperately tried to hold back tears and think of the good things that had happened in my life. There was, of course, my daughter, but also lots of memories of good times with my husband. Thank God I had kept meticulous scrapbooks of our life together, in addition to numerous photo albums and, of course, our daughter’s baby book, all on the bookshelf next to the family Bible.
Millie resting against me brought back even deeper memories. As I slowly drifted into that semi-conscious state before sleep, my thoughts traveled back to high school and Marcia Levy. My daughter’s form and features matched Marcia’s startlingly well, but until now, with my fully-grown young lady’s body melding with mine, did I realize how much. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but envision those lovely, innocent days of forbidden love.
As I gazed at a row of sports trophies high on one of Millie’s shelves, I thought of the time, one of many, Marcia and I met in the woods behind the school. Escaping the summer heat, we sheltered beneath thick, old-growth trees, hidden from the world, with only God and his creations as our witnesses. At the base of an ancient oak, my lover rested on a thick, cotton picnic blanket, skirt pushed up around her waist, panties slung down by an ankle. Propped on an elbow, she looked down at the top of my head, her free hand caressing my dirty blond hair.
“Ohhh god, Jenny.”
I heard Marcia’s voice as clear as ever. It gained an indescribable quality when my mouth tended to her heady sex, somewhat airy, as if in a dream state. As my tongue stroked up and down her dark, thick pubic floss, my hands slid up under her blouse. With her bra loosened, accessing her sweet breasts was easy.
“GodDAMN,” she growled, gently grinding her hips against my face.
Although I didn’t like her using the Lord’s name in vain, I persisted. Gently teasing her thick nipples, my tongue pushed between slick folds, coming to rest underneath her swollen clit. From there, I slowly dragged the tip up and over her swollen, pink bud. Something I would never tire of was the size of her clit when she was fully aroused. Easily the size of the tip of my little finger, and I couldn’t get enough of how it felt against my tongue.
“F-fuck, yesss…” Marcia hissed, “Right there, girl.”
She couldn’t see my wide grin as my face was buried between her thighs. Massaging her small breasts, I started lapping at her wetness with a steady rhythm before tracing out the alphabet with the tip of my tongue. The result was delicious for both me and my love.
“Jen…oh, fuck, yeah, it’s…”
Marcia bit her forearm, trying not to scream as waves of ecstasy wracked her firm teenage body. Juices gushed all over my face, dripping down my chin as I tried hard to lap up every drop. The next moment, I slid up between her open thighs. Our mouths locked together as we kissed deeply and passionately, my lover tasting her own juices, reveling in her musk.
“Fuck me, please,” she whispered, gazing deeply into my eyes.
Clothes were discarded, and with dappled sunlight playing across our nude bodies, I began to rub my fur against hers. Slowly, at first, but soon the fire ignited and, before we knew it, we shared an intense climax together, then another. Oh, dear Lord, if someone had come upon us, they would have gotten an eyeful!
Afterward, we satiated the hunger created by our athletic lovemaking. She always brought a basket with fruit, sandwiches, and Cokes. We gobbled down the food like savages, our eyes devouring each other. Stretched out beside each other in nature’s realm, we would talk, kiss, love, then go at it again and again until light faded.
“God, Jenny,” Marcia looked at her watch. “We gotta go. My Mom will freak.”
Although deep in dreams, the nearness of Millie’s body didn’t escape me. While my fingers dug into her tender flesh, a montage of scenes from youth flitted through my brain, all of them including Marcia. Our first kiss, our first shared orgasm, the countless clandestine places we’d meet and revel in our love. All of that. I could smell her sweat and the lavender scent of her long, curved neck.
I awoke with a gasp back in my daughter’s bedroom. All hot and bothered, I tried to keep still, not wanting to awaken my girl. After taking a deep breath, I smiled, savoring the images of sapphic love fresh in my memory. Millie still clung to me, her sweet breath wafting across my skin. Her knee had risen and nestled against the inside of my thigh.
God, I was wet! It was a rare, strange feeling, being both devastated and aroused at the same time. Grief for me felt like someone had cored out my torso. I kept on living, but where my heart and stomach resided was now gone. But dammit, my daughter’s leg was pressing against my throbbing pussy, something Marcia had done so long ago as we lay together in afterglow.
Of course, I knew the girl pressing against me wasn’t my lover! Still, I wanted to masturbate, but instead sobbed gently, hands clenching soft bedclothes repeatedly, longing for a woman’s sexual touch. God would surely hate me now, in bed with my daughter, aching with lust, all less than twenty-four hours after my husband’s death!
“God, why are you doing this to me?” I mouthed silently, gazing at the round, opaque light fixture centered in the ceiling. “Why do you make me like this? Why am I so perverted?” No response came, so I lay there, confused, until sleep overtook me again.
That morning, my daughter sat at her baby blue vanity table, surrounded by fluorescent glow, gazing blankly into the mirror as I braided her long, beautiful hair. It was straight and black, so lovely to touch and look at, and so very much like Marcia’s.
“Mom, what’s going to happen today?” She looked at me in the mirror, eyes dark and resigned.
God, that look! My mind was still mulling over the night’s dreams and it was like Marcia had joined us in the room. My hands shook, distressing me. I tried to convince myself it was due to grief, but I knew some of it was desire and longing, for exactly what, I don’t know.
“We’re going to the funeral home to see your father,” I choked. “It will be for the last time before God takes him to Heaven.” I gave a sad smile, gripping her bare shoulders and pulling her back against my breasts, cheeks touching as tears streaked down our faces.
I showered, a mix of sorrow, arousal, and guilt churning within. While the warm spray caressed naked flesh, fingers slipped between the folds of my sex and I rubbed out a quick, shuddering orgasm, ass tensing against white tiles, face distorting with grateful release.
I slipped on a demure black dress worn only a few times for special occasions. It was perfect for church and Don loved it, so naturally I thought it appropriate. Wobbling a bit in a pair of low black pumps, I made my way downstairs to a busy house, where I was introduced…
