Elle

This erotic short story is not intended for minors or for anyone offended by such writings. Please exit this story if you are underage.

* * * * *

I can't sleep. My penis is a stiff rod, sticking up above my supine body, tenting the covers.

How could this be happening to me? Has fate no justice? I roll onto my side away from her hot young body—where I would, if I could, be buried for eternity.

I'm no virgin; I've fucked women before. After all, that's what people do when they sleep together, isn't it? I want her so badly; I really need her tonight—more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, but I can't. I just can't. She'd kill me if I tried. But I wouldn't anyway, would I? Could I live with myself if I abused her trust so vilely?

It feels so very strange to be here—not six inches from her nude body—with her, my very best friend, sleeping so soundly, so trustingly. Her breathing is smooth and regular. And I know her wild hair is temptingly spread across the pillow beside me.

Elle.

She is so bright, so beautiful, so interesting, so wanted . . . and so gay. A lesbian. In my bed. Isn't that a crock? It's so weird. It took a long time for me to get used to it—how different she is from other women I've known. And how she doesn't want me as I want her. If in fact I have gotten used to it. I remember how it all began, just like it was yesterday . . .

* * * * *

It was early fall; the leaves were turning, but the colors that appeared in October or November weren't there in September, when Columbia opened its aged doors to us. We were the young and the restless, flocking in those doors. The cream of the crop, so some said. The intellectuals of the future—or at least, that's what we thought we were at that time. It never crossed our minds that while some us would make it—many others would not. I know I never thought I'd be one of those who didn't.

The first time I saw Elle, she was striding up a hill toward the university and she looked so beautiful in the early fall light. Her red hair flounced as she walked, tendrils of it falling in front of her face. With a well-manicured hand, she tossed them back out of her eyes, stuffed them behind her ear. She wore coveralls over a T-shirt and clutched her bag—a small one I was sure was no use at all—under her arm. Her breasts—like her hair—seemed to bounce freely inside her loose costume, unfettered and proud. She walked right by me and didn't even glance my way.

"Wow," I murmured—hopefully, only to myself. "Now, that's for me."

But she wasn't. It just wasn't meant to be and although it hurt my pride, I learned to live with it. When she first told me she was a lesbian and that her lover was a girl—well, it really hurt, you know? Somehow it made me feel insufficient, but I thought it hurt more inside than it really did. I'd put a lot into pursuing her—but, as I said, I learned to live with it.

Of course, I'd known lesbians before, but they'd been nothing like Elle. She was a lusty, vibrant woman with a laugh that warmed one's soul. She was beautiful beyond my wildest dreams and sensual beyond anyone's desires.

At nineteen and in New York City, the fresh fall air could make you think the world was new. And that's what I felt on that morning when I first saw Elle—that the world was new and that the future was spread out before me like gold and jewels on a Thanksgiving Day platter. At the time, I looked forward to the future and whatever it might bring with a jaunty, wanton eye.

As it so happened, Elle was seated beside me in three of my classes and I couldn’t have been more overjoyed. After she discovered that I too was a bright and enterprising student, she started giving me the time of day. As time went on and we ran into each other in various ways, we got to know each other better.

I can be funny when it's useful—although many don't understand my humor. Elle did and I pursued her with a vigor and determination I'd never exhibited with any other girl I'd known before. I began finding out things about her. She was from Maine and from a wealthy family. In high school, she'd been a cheerleader and the valedictorian. And she was very smart—maybe even sharper than I was.

Slowly, she began to trust and confide in me. After knowing her for about two weeks, she confessed that she was lesbian, that she had a lover who she lived with, and that she was in love with her. She also told me that her lover was older and worked for the New York Times—which was scary as hell to someone like me. The New York Times? How could I compete with that?

Over the next few months, we became friends. I'd never had a woman as a friend before. It was odd. You know, it's not only in spring when a young man's fancy turns to love. No, at nineteen, it turns throughout the year. And I found I really couldn't talk very much about that to a friend who was a woman—even a lesbian friend. It just didn't seem right—like a discordant cord played on a bad piano that kept playing in my mind. But somehow, I retained that friendship and it became stronger at every turn.

Over time, I became accustomed to our unfamiliar friendship and she became used to me—and we became the fastest of friends.

Those days were blissful. School was new and we studied hard. I got lucky and got a job with New Yorker magazine—another scary cornerstone of New York's publishing scene—doing odd jobs. Eventually, I worked my way up to copyboy, then researcher. It kept me pretty busy.

I was so busy between school and my job that I thought I'd gotten over my simple little crush on Elle. But I'd actually settled into some sort of unthinkable, but deep, fascination for her—puppy love I think. To this day, I'm sure I was really deeply in love with her, but somehow instinctively knew there was nothing but heartache in it for me.

It was seven weeks into the semester when things changed. And they changed so very quickly they made my head spin and led to my current state of discomfort.

For me, it all began after a very busy weekend, when Elle told me she'd just discovered that Mother Dearest was coming to New York for a month to check up on her darling daughter.

"Jules, I have to ask a favor." Elle had arranged for us to have lunch together and we were sitting in a quiet corner of a small café. "It's going to be a strange favor, too," she said with an uneasy laugh.

I tried to fathom what a strange favor might be, but the possibilities were too plentiful to grasp any single one, so I asked, "What are you talking about, Elle?"

She blushed—I'd never seen her blush before and thought it was really cute on her. "My mother is coming to town."

We'd spoken about her mother before—Mother Dearest we'd called her—but Elle wasn't calling her by that nickname now. She seemed frightened and my heart went out to her. Mother Dearest had always seemed like a mother hen to me—protective while her chicks were in the roost, but once they were gone, they're gone. I knew her mother loved her, so I didn't know what the problem was—but I soon to find out.

"I've never told her about Sam," she confessed.

Sam was her lover—a sweet, intelligent, but I felt, dangerously tough lady I'd met once.

"You're kidding." I knew my mouth must've been hanging open with surprise. "You mean . . . you haven't told her you're a lesbian?" I'd learned the terminology from the streets, so I was on safe ground at the time.

Hanging her head, she nodded. Then she looked up and explained, "I tried, but I just couldn't. I don't think I can tell her now either."

She sniffed and I offered her a tissue from the small pack I carried in my shirt pocket.

"Elle, what did Sam say?"

"She's mad as hell. But she'll go along with whatever I decide to do."

"And you're telling me this because you need a favor from me, right? You're not simply looking for me to bless whatever it is you're going to do. It somehow involves me, right?"

She almost smiled, but not quite. "Yes, Jules, you've got to be my savior."

* * * * *

So, that's how Elle came to be living with me for—as it turns out—an indeterminate time. At first, it was thought that Mother Dearest would only be here for a few days. Then a week went by, then two, then three. It has now been three weeks and a day and I'm going crazy. There is no sign that Mother is leaving. I've been out to dinner with the two of them—Mother and Daughter—every night for three weeks and a day, posing as something I can never be, but would certainly love to be—Elle's lover.

Sometimes I want to scream with frustration, "Mother Dearest go home!" And then sometimes—at more insane times—I hope she stays forever. How else can I torture myself like this?

It doesn't help that Elle's somewhat of a baby at times.

"I guess I just don't know how to sleep alone anymore," she said as she crawled into bed with me.

What do you say to a beautiful girl who wants to sleep in your bed with you instead of on the daybed in the study? No, we can't sleep together? She'll cry. I'm certain she has no ulterior motives. Not Elle, she's as honest and pure as the driven snow. At first, it was truly uncomfortable, because I've always slept in the nude and I felt—in all decency—I had to wear pajamas. But it's still stifling hot in the city, where the temperatures don't go down just because it has become dark and my flat has no air conditioning. Eventually, Elle confessed she just couldn't wear her really awful nightdress anymore, so we decided we could be nude—as long as we didn't touch.

Anyway, just the thought of having her there nude beside me—well, I thought it would be enough. But that had been two weeks ago.

I finally manage to fall asleep—the dreamless, exhausted sleep of the innocent person I am

. . . and obviously will continue to be.

* * * * *

Her giggling wakes me. It's very disconcerting—a girl giggling in your bed in the middle of the night. I'd had women in my bed before—some had even spent the night—but not one of them had ever giggled.

Oh my God, my mind screams quite loudly.

As I become fully awake I find I'm cuddling with Elle, my hard-on nestled between her ass cheeks while I hump against her buttocks!

I jerk away from her and jump out of the bed, the bed covers falling around me. It's pitch black and I have to go to the bathroom, but Elle is still giggling. In the pale glow of the half- moon, I see that she has rolled over and is looking at me, observing my erection. Is she smiling or laughing?

"I have to go to the bathroom," I mumble and without looking at her again, I pull on my robe and rush into the bathroom. After I pee, I sit down on the toilet and wonder what the hell she was giggling about? I'd almost raped her and she's giggling?

Finally, I get up, wrap my robe around me again, and walk back into the bedroom. She isn't there, so I go looking for her. To apologize? I don't know. Anyway, I find her in the kitchen getting a glass of juice.

She's donned her robe too, but it does nothing to hide her succulent lushness and I find myself drawn to her beauty. Embarrassed, I avert my gaze.

When she turns to look at me, she isn't giggling anymore, but there's a rather broad smile spreading across her face.

She holds up the glass of juice and asks, "Want some?"

I shake my head and watch her sip her juice. Then she starts giggling again.

"What are you giggling about?"

She guffaws, spilling her juice on the floor. Placing her glass on the counter, she grabs a paper towel and turns to bend over and wipe up the spilled juice. This view of her covered ass reminds me of the embarrassment in bed. Why the hell was she giggling?

I cross to the countertop where she placed the glass of juice, pick it up, and sip from it.

Looking up from where she's kneeling and wiping the floor, she laughs anew. "I thought you didn't want any juice."

I stare at this giggling, sexy—somehow humiliating—woman and say, "Men can change their minds, too."

Standing with the wet paper towel in her hand, she breaks up again and this time I join her. Her shoulders still shaking with humor, she throws the paper towel in the trash.

Calming, I say, "It's three-fifteen in the morning, Elle. Are you rested enough? No more sleep?"

She calms too. "No, I'm going back to bed."

She takes the glass from me, finishes the juice, washes the glass out in the sink, and turns back to me. Then she takes my hand and leads me back into the bedroom.

Once there, we climb back into bed, but before she can go to sleep I say, "You never answered my question. What were you giggling about?"

She'd lain down on her side away from me, but now she rolls over onto her back and looks at the ceiling for a minute. Stifling a yawn, she says, "You never apologized to me for almost raping me." Giving into the yawn, she giggles lightly.

I rise up a little on my elbows, enough so I can see her face. I'm sure I had apologized. A thousand times it seems. But now I realize I hadn't.

Her eyes close again as I say, "I'm sorry about that." I wait, but she doesn't say anything and I wonder if she has gone back to sleep. But after a long moment, she surprises me and says. "Okay." Then she opens her eyes and looks into mine.

Lying back, I continue, "I was asleep." Pointing to my penis, I add, "Sometimes he sort of has I mind of his own." In the dim moonlight, I know she can see where I am pointing, but I can't tell if she's looking or not.

There's complete silence in the room for another long couple of minutes. I turn to face her, being sure to keep a distance between us, and she turns to me and opens her eyes.

"It's okay, Jules. I've heard talk about that—with boys, I mean. That they can't hide when they're attracted to someone. I guess it's kind of a compliment. I didn't mind it that much—not as much as I thought I would. It made me feel something I've never felt before, really."

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything.

She takes a deep breath and her breasts swell with the richness and fullness of it. After a moment, she speaks very quietly, so I have to strain to hear. "The reason I was giggling—" Suddenly, she giggles again. "Am giggling . . . is that it reminded me fondly of my dildo."

"You're dildo?"

You could hear a pin drop in the stillness. In the dimness of the passing moon, her face turns not red, but darker—like her hair doesn't appear red, but dark. She's apparently embarrassed, but she seems determined to educate me. "Haven't you ever heard of a dildo?"

"I've heard of condoms."

"Not at all the same thing. You've never heard of a dildo, have you?"

It's my turn to blush, but I'm sure she can't see it since what little light there is seeping in is coming from behind me. "No," I admit.

She sighs and rolls onto her back again. Without thinking, I reach over and touch her arm. She looks at me and I see her teeth flash in the dimness. Somehow I know she's smiling at me, but I remove my hand just in case.

She looks back up at the ceiling. I guess she doesn't want to see me as she explains.

"A dildo is an imitation penis—made of rubber, jelly, a type of pliable plastic, or whatever—that we lesbians sometimes use on each other during sex . . ." She pauses and I think she's through, but then she continues as if she's decided to really explain for my benefit. "We fuck each other with them usually. Girls can fuck themselves with them if they want I suppose, but I like having Sam there. It's a part of our ritual and sometimes quite stimulating and satisfying."

I feel so ignorant. Why didn't I know this? "Does it vibrate?"

I see her lips curve and her teeth flash again. "Sometimes," she says. "It depends on what you buy. The vibrating ones are more expensive. Some have vibrators. Some don't. Often, it's economics, I suppose, but in my case I don't need it to move. Sam moves it inside me."

"That's very vivid," I say, truly blown away by her honesty and the subject itself.

She looks at me. "I didn't mean to upset you, Jules. Or offend you."

"Oh, you aren't offending me," I say, forcing a smile.

Then—from somewhere inside me—I draw strength. I get braver and more curious. "That gets you off?"

"Not always. Not just that. But it's a definite turn on."

I wonder if I'm treading on dangerous ground here—or just being too nosy—but I go on. "I've heard that lesbians do other things, too."

"Yes," she says in a soft voice.

There's another long pause. I don't want to ask if she and Sam do other things. Somehow it's easier for me to keep the conversation on a more universal level.

After minutes, she says, "Sometimes, Sam kisses me down there."

I can't help myself. My voice getting hoarse with emotion, I ask, "Do you kiss her, too? Down there?"

"Sometimes. I have, but Sam does it more."

We're both silent for a long time.

Finally, she says, "I think that's enough conversation about this for awhile—maybe forever."

I laugh. "Yeah, I understand that."

I'm wide-awake and Elle suddenly sits up in bed. "I'm hungry, dammit."

Laughing, I get up. When you're as tired as we are, everything is funny. We go into the kitchen where Elle makes us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which we take out onto the balcony to eat. Since my apartment in on the top floor of the tallest building in SoHo and my balcony wall is high, we are confident no one can see us sitting side by side, eating our sandwiches in the nude. I polish mine off before she does hers, but I do that all the time with women.

"I need milk," I say and rise from my chair.

"Good idea," she says, smiling up at me. "Will you get me a glass too?"

"Sure," I say and then walk back into the apartment and to the kitchen. Once there, I pour us each glasses of milk and carry them back out to the balcony.

I hand Elle a glass and sit down beside her again. We both sip our milk while Elle continues eating her sandwich.

In case some of my neighbors are up and eavesdropping, I say quietly, "Elle, what I don't understand is . . . what's the difference between Sam shoving a dildo in and out . . . and a man—like me for instance—pushing his penis in and out."

Elle laughs very low and very warily. "I thought we were through with that conversation."

"I'm just curious. You don't have to answer."

She thinks a minute. "I will though—or at least I'll try. It's an attraction. I've always known I was attracted to women. I think I was born with some different gene. I think it's the way some of us are born. Anyway, when I was a young, I thought of men as these hairy, pushy, half-ape creatures with ape-like dialogue and ape-like manners."

I smile at that.

"I don't know," she continues, "I've spoken to others who are so inclined—and even spoke to a psychiatrist about it once . . . and that may have had something to do with it. If so, I think a very small part. My father had a hairy chest and arms and was so over-confident and so commanding. When I was small, I remember my mother screaming out during the night. It was so scary. But the way I understand it—and what I really believe—that really has nothing to do with my being a lesbian. It isn't a revulsion that drives me, but an attraction."

Pointing to my chest—my nearly hairless chest—I say, "I'm not hairy or pushy."

"Oh, I know that, Jules. I know you're not one of those. Probably—had I not been a lesbian—you would have had me in a flash." She laughed heartily and stuffed the rest of her sandwich in her mouth.

For some reason, her stuffing the rest of her sandwich in her mouth and downing her glass of milk after it touched me deeply. I know that's weird, but it made her seem more real to me. That night, I'd advanced my understanding of Elle—and lesbianism—a lot.

"Well," I say in jest—but not really, "if you need to use a dildo while you're here, then use me. I wouldn't mind at all."