My name is BethAnne. This story is about my relationship with a girl named Linda. I am not ashamed to admit that I am a lesbian. I wasn't always a lesbian, but I have been ever since Linda came into my life. My life will never be the same, and I can't see ever returning to the "straight" life again. I am too much in love with Linda to do that. I don't care what others may think, I just want to have the freedom to make my own choice about my sexuality.
I am 23 years old. My friends, both male and female, tell me I am pretty. I am a natural blonde. I prefer to wear my hair perfectly straight, hanging down to my shoulders. My eyes are as deep a blue as there can be. My figure will not put Marilyn Monroe to shame, but my breasts are not smallish by anyone's standard. I exercise often and watch my diet carefully; there is little, if any, fat on my body.
Like Linda, I am a fashion model. In fact, that is how we met. We were both auditioning for a magazine centerpiece on sexy lingerie. I was immediately taken by her exquisite beauty--long strawberry blonde hair, classic facial features, sexy green eyes, and one of the nicest bodies I had ever seen. Actually, on our first meeting, I saw just about all of her body since we shared the same room to change into the several items of wispy wearing apparel we were required to wear in order to audition. I still wonder, after knowing as many men as I had, and the deep sexual enjoyment that I shared with so many of them, why I felt a strange sexual attraction to this breathtakingly beautiful woman. I guessed her to have just turned 20, which she confirmed right off by telling me she had only graduated from high school several months ago. She was a non-stop talker who didn't mind spilling her soul to the right listener. She was forthright, sincere, and amazingly blunt. She told things as they were.
As I opened the door to our shared dressing room, Linda was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing the first lingerie she was scheduled to model. The outfit looked perfect on her. As I entered the room, she turned to me, somewhat startled. The skimpy bra and panties she was wearing didn't cover much of her supple body. Her breasts strained against the white lace of the pretty bra, nipples pointedly pouting from the center. The mini-panties barely covered her pubis; through the embroidered lace I was sure I saw a light-colored, curly triangle.
I think she noticed how awe-struck I was about her. She smiled broadly, "Oh, that's o.k. I thought it was the photographer. He's a typical dirty old man--already made two passes at me. I told him to fuck- off, so I don't think the job is mine. I'm Linda Reynolds," she continued, holding her hand out straight to shake mine.
"Hi, Linda, my name's BethAnne Hoffman. Pleased to meet you. The photographer's assistant said there was some lingerie in here for me to change into."
Linda laughed a little, taking her hand away from mine. "The assistant's name is Martha. Be careful--she's a butch dyke who would do a number on her own sister if she had the opportunity." This girl didn't pull any punches. I was shocked, but laughed anyway.
"Here are some more frillies," she said, pointing to a drawer filled with lacy underwear. "The matching pieces are pinned together. With these kinds of outfits, one size usually fits all. What do you think of this one?" she asked, looking down at her own petite bra and panty combination.
"Very sexy!" I replied in all honesty.
She smiled. Her gleaming white teeth were perfect, as was her complexion. A few freckles dotted her cheekbones, but freckles seemed to be in this year. They made her look even younger.
"Here's a hanger for your things," she said, handing me a wooden hanger. "I'm going out there and face the music!" As she walked past me, I was enchanted with the strong smell of what must have been rather expensive perfume. She carried herself extremely well with her long, girlish legs.
"Good luck," I said as she closed the door.
For the next hour or so, we paraded back and forth in some rather daring and provocative outfits. Martha "accidentally" touched my breasts more than once as she helped position me for the camera. The photographer propositioned me every time I came out. I had been doing this for three years now, so I was used to it. Linda wasn't. She complained bitterly.
To no one's real surprise, I got the job, probably because I had the will to put up with the photographer's philandering without telling him off. I called it "holding him off". It always worked-- keeping the lechers at a safe distance long enough to get the job. I promised myself when I entered this business that I would never trade my body for a modeling job, and I never had to. Yes, I've been to bed with some of the photographers, but I never did so to wiggle my way into work like some of the girls did. I guess that's what turned me on to Linda. She never did either.
By the time the modeling session was over, it was supper time. I asked Linda if she would like to have a bite to eat with me at a local restaurant. She said she was a little low on funds, but when I offered to treat, she readily accepted, but only on the condition that when she got her next pay check she could reciprocate. So we had dinner and got to know each other better.
That evening, she invited me back to her apartment. We chatted most of the night about everything and anything, except, strangely, she did not once mention anything about men. It was several days later, when I invited her to my place, that I brought up the subject.
"Do you have a boyfriend, Linda?" I asked.
I thought I saw her blush slightly. "Not really," she answered. "I am too darned busy for that right now. I want things to settle down a bit first. How about you?"
I told her about my last short-lived affair with a rich married man. I didn't tell her he was the best lover I had ever known, but I told her that I still missed him. That was the extent of our conversation about men for the rest of that evening.
The night of June 14th I will never forget. Linda phoned me at one of my jobs and invited me over. She told me that she was feeling a little low and needed some cheering up. I happened to be wearing one of my shorter miniskirts that day, a pretty red one that I was afraid to sit down in, lest I show the world what I was wearing underneath. But I felt comfortable when I arrived at Linda's, and did not worry about my demeanor with my skirt because we were of the same sex and we had already seen about all there was to see of each other.
She answered the door wearing a quite pretty outfit consisting of a light blue skirt, hemmed at mid- thigh, and a matching long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater. I could see she was not wearing hose, but her exquisitely tanned legs made up for the lack thereof. She smiled as I entered and immediately remarked that she liked my sexy miniskirt. "It looks perfect on you," she said. "You have just the right legs for it! Come on in, there's a seven and seven already on the coffee table for you. I'll be right back."
She returned to the living room about a minute later with two aspirins in her hand. She chugged them down along with her dry martini. "I've had a headache and a slight fever all day long," she said as she fell into the chair across from the sofa where I sat, quickly folding her legs beneath her and sitting on her feet.
"It's not like you to be sick," I said. "This isn't the same Linda I know."
She laughed. "Well, it's near that time of the month. I usually run a low-grade fever a couple days before it comes. In fact, the doctor suggested that I keep an accurate check on the exact temperature every few hours, but I'm afraid to do it."
"Afraid, why?" I asked.
She blushed profusely. "Because he said to do it, uh, you know, in my bottom! I don't think I like that idea very much."
