This is my first Lesbian story. I would be very grateful to receive feedback.
If you are looking for
explicit sex
this story may not be for you, I am more concerned with the erotic and sensual in my story telling.
Thank you for reading, please do not forget to vote.
In the early grey light of dawn, my eyes travel over her as she sleeps, wispy strands of hair trace patterns on her cheek, a damp spot on the pillow, the saliva of slumber, freckled shoulders naked as the breaking day. We passed the point of turning back; hands held we crossed a bridge, felt its heat as it burnt in the darkness of the night lighting our future.
I felt I had known her for years, in a silly way that was true, though it paled beside the truth she uncovered of herself, and me. My mind wanders down the path of our discovery, replaying encounters, wondering just when it was that she entered my soul, bestowing a sense of fulfillment that I had never before had the courage to accept.
We take the same train into the city as we have done for many years, eight, possibly nine; each day we lined up on the platform with the rest of the cattle, squeezed into the generally late train, rejoiced at the rarity of finding a seat and tried to ensure the decorous parts of our anatomy are steered away from prying hands and eyes. In the true English tradition, each traveller erects a personal barricade pretended the others are elsewhere. Books and magazines the favourite refuge, newspapers having long since become unmanageable in the confines of our transport.
Travelling is an essential chore, unless of course one is lucky enough not to need the income, or by a bizarre stroke of good fortune, find rewarding employment, financial and cerebral, within driving distance of home. It takes years to be on even nodding terms with ones fellow passengers, talking generally is frowned upon, except of course on the mobile, I swear, if I hear 'I'm on the train' one more time I'll rip the damn thing from their hands. What happened to the plan for mobile free carriages? Probably went down the same track as punctuality, why do we accept it, this daily ritual of torment. Summer is worst, why cannot men change clothes occasionally? Men wear the same piss stained trousers day in day out, 'Hey guys, just because the materials dark, it doesn't mean they are not dirty, dicks drip, urine smells, and I fed up with you thrusting your urine stinking trousers in my face.' I'm sorry, I'm ranting instead of telling you the tale that you want to hear, got carried away; honestly, you should try it sometime, then you would know what I'm talking about.
We got onto speaking terms when her carrier bag broke and spilled its contents onto the wet platform. It was Manga or another of those new stores, nice bag, crappy handles, takes something major like that to break the ice. The men ignored her, smirked, and turned heads away. She probably intimidates them, tall, always impeccable with a slight 70's air about her style, flowing tweeds skirts in the winter, calve length dresses in the summer, I can never recall her wearing trousers. Ever the practical one, I whipped out my 'just in case bag' and passed it to her.
"Here, let me help, you can use this."
"No it's ok, I'll be able... are you sure? That really is very sweet of you. I'll let you have it back tomorrow."
That was four years ago, since then we have exchanged smiles, said the odd word about the bloody English weather, cursed the latest cancellation, and looked.
Our eyes would meet at the oddest moments, a hole formed by an arm thrust into a jacket pocket, across the shoulder of a suit intent on the latest Tom Clancy, brief glimpses often averted as quick as they formed. Sometimes, you know that feeling, I could feel her eyes upon me, that curious prickly sensation on the back of the neck, and I would search her out between the twisted contortion of limbs and bodies, she would hold eye contact for the briefest second before looking away, turning to stare out of the window, tempting me with her profile, the faintest blush on her cheek. I often wondered why she looked at me. Curiosity? Nothing odd about me, I'd noticed she always seemed to catch me when I was feeling vulnerable, staring bleakly into space, fed up with my life and what my future might hold; maybe that was it, she saw the emptiness that only females seem able to touch and recognise for what it is.
In all honesty, I admit I sought her out each morning. She is one of those people that you cannot fail to notice, it wasn't just her stature, it was something about her eyes, her smile, almost hypnotic in the way she drew my gaze; she challenged my perception of self, making me squirm with the discomfort of secret desires suppressed from University days. You know how it is at university, Katherine, my best friend at Manchester, expounded the theory that boys only went to university to perpetuate boyhood, girls went to try to find a man. We were continually disappointed in the shallowness of the boys we met and one night tripped over the boundary of convention sharing my bed because of an overflow of unwanted party guests, and experimented.
When I say experimented it was Katherine that undertook the exploration, I lay supine and let her hands and lips rove pretending to myself I was too drunk to care, all the while relishing her touches and kisses. For Katherine it was just that, a one-night experiment, she soon returned to her quest of sorting the men from the boys. Letting her touch me that night shocked the root of my beliefs, I can feel her hands now, when I need to, different from a man's touch, more concerned with giving than receiving. It has been my one and only diversion, for six months I hoped we might revisit the night, I'd lacked the courage to touch her, to prise open her emotional core, and yearned for the opportunity, I was mildly heartbroken when Katherine found a boy who wanted to be a man and set about training him. I'm digressing again, but you see what this woman on the train does to me, where her look takes me.
The day we became lovers, I was in a seething fury at being stood up once again. It had planned weeks ago, theatre tickets, restaurant booked; he called to say he wouldn't be able to get back in time. I don't recall the precise phrasing of the latest excuse; I had long since stopped listening. He had become proficient at trotting them out; I really don't think he felt any shame at all. In truth, our marriage had finished long ago, we rushed in, swept on a wave of passion, and when we paused for breathe, found more to dislike than love could conquer. We remained bound together by the bricks and mortar of our mortgage. We both knew that the recovering property market had made possible our escape, it wont be long now, each wanted the other to take the first step, to admit defeat.
Exactly when my plan formulated itself I couldn't say for sure, if I were being completely honest, she was my first thought after he made his excuse. I was on the platform early, nervously looking around, waiting for her arrival. She swept onto the platform wearing a leaf green silk dress that giddily danced around her legs, as fresh and bright as the June morning. I smiled in her direction, noting the stares that followed her across to where I stood.
"Beautiful day," She said, aware of the effect her dress was having, "I wanted to thank the sun for delivering this glorious day."
"Well you have certainly achieved that." I replied, she smiled and blushed in the inimitable way that I had come to savour.
Watching the approaching train, I knew it was now or never. "I hope you don't misread this, (why did I say that!) I have a spare ticket for the theatre tonight my partner had to cancel at the last minute, (why did I say partner? she must have seen my wedding ring, know I'm married) would you like to join me?"
She turned her face to me, no hiding the blushes now, and said, "That would be wonderful. What are we seeing?"
"Titus Andronicus, at the National," I could see her slight frown, "maybe you should have asked what the play was first."
That was all it took and we dissolved into laughter.
She took my hand, "I'm Jenny, and you are?"
"Claire. Look the trains here, you know how it is, let's meet on the Lyttelton balcony at about seven."
It was one of those journeys where we barely caught a glimpse of one another, Jenny (I feel strange using her name) always got out at Waterloo while I travelled on the Charing Cross, she waved to me from the platform as we parted.