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.
