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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE CLOSE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004. Please
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Late Admission
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
Stacy comes to the realization that perhaps her mama's
right: there's more to her relationship with her best
friend Robin than simple friendship. Problem is, does
Robin understand this? (FF, bi, rom, 1st)
***
Based on the Short Story:
GOOD TO BE BACK
by Kristina Ward
(kristigirl4@hotmail.com)
I first met Robin in my senior year of high school. Her
family had moved up from Atlanta at the beginning of
August and she lived in a huge house -- a mansion -- in
Potomac. She was very tall and had a beautiful tan. We
hit it off right away and before a week was out, we
were practically inseparable. We did everything
together.
My mom and dad had just gone through an awful divorce
and it was really hard on me. I had become withdrawn
and kept to myself most of my junior year; therefore,
Mom was more than glad that I had made a "best" friend.
I just didn't realize just how "best" a friend Robin
had become.
Because of the distance, Robin and I had fallen into
the habit of spending one, two, even three nights a
week at each other's house. Mom had no problem with
this--she liked the extra pair of hands--and Robin's
mom and dad took to me right away. (Yes, Mr. Boucher
did make a pass at me--sort of, anyway--but that's
another story.) One night when Robin wasn't there, she
talked to me after dinner.
"Stacy?"
"Yes, Mom?"
We were in the kitchen, me putting plates into the
dishwasher and her wiping down the stove. I turned
around when she didn't answer.
"What's going on between you and Robin?"
The question was so unexpected I blinked.
"I've been watching you two together and you are more
than just good friends," she said.
My face was getting hot. "Mom!" I protested. "What are
you talking about?"
She laughed softly. "You know what I'm talking about."
My head felt stuffed with cotton candy. How many nights
had I laid awake in my bed, sometimes with Robin right
there beside me, thinking this exact same thing. "I am
not gay," I told her. "If that's what you mean."
She looked at me speculatively, dish towel dangling
from her hand, head bent to one side the way it does
when she's wondering how I'm getting along. "I didn't
say you were."
"Well, you better not!" I spluttered. "That's...
that's..."
"Ridiculous?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes!"
"Well, true or not, Robin is the best thing that's
happened to you in a long time, dear. You're happier,
you're not depressed anymore and you definitely have
the look of a girl in love."
"Mom, she's a girl!"
She came over and placed her palm against my cheek,
something that would have seemed silly at any other
time. "That doesn't mean much these days," she said,
"does it?"
I shook my head. My insides felt twisted up like a
balloon poodle.
"I just want you to be careful," she said. "You're
barely eighteen and emotionally susceptible. You went
through a lot with our divorce, and--"
"Mom."
"--I don't want you getting hurt."
"I'm fine," I insisted. "And you are totally out of
your head about Robin. I mean, no way, Mom. Not in a
million years."
She smiled at me knowingly, nodded and went back to
cleaning the stove.
* * *
"You want to know what my mother said?" It was week
later, at Robin's house, and we were curled up on her
couch watching a movie on Showtime. The movie was about
two women who meet through a personal ad run in the
newspaper: Kissing Jessica Stein. It was a good movie,
sad, but also funny. It really hit home after my mom's
conversation.
"What did she say?"
"That you and I are like this."
She blinked just as I had blinked. "Like what?"
"Like Jessica and Helen."
She put down the popcorn and sat up straight. "What?"
I told her the jist of the conversation.
"Well, who am I?"
"Pardon?" Though I knew exactly what she meant.
"Don't give me that innocent little smile," she said,
breaking into a smile of her own. "I'm blonde, but I'm
not Helen Cooper."
"I'm Jewish, though," I said.
"Only half," she reminded me, though it's more like a
third.
"Besides, you're a hell of a lot better looking than--"
she picked up the DVD box and read the back. "--
Jennifer Westfeldt."
When I only grinned back at her she hit my leg.
"Bitch!"
"Stuck up."
"I'm not stuck up."
"You are so." The truth, though not as stuck up as my
looks might have suggested.
"You know what?" she said, settling back on the couch.
"What?"
"Maybe she was right." She put her arm around my
shoulder, drew me close to her and kissed me.
For a time, we stayed curled up together on the couch,
her arm around my shoulder, my hand on her right thigh,
not saying a word. The movie came to an end and we
watched the credits roll. I had never kissed a girl
before. Not like that.
"Are you okay?" she finally asked.
"I guess so."
"I kinda freaked you out."
"I kinda freaked myself out." It had not been a kiss of
friendship. We had French-kissed each other.
"Are you angry?"
"Angry? Are you kidding?"
"Then I can kiss you again?"
I inclined my face and she came down to meet it. Her
lips were incredibly soft; her tongue ready. Our
tongues made love.
"I'm so glad you asked me that question," she
whispered.
"I am so glad my mom talked to me about it," I
whispered back. Her hand was on my right breast,
cupping it, caressing it in way no boy ever had. I
wanted her fingertips on my nipple, making it hard. I
wanted the feel of her warm mouth. I went down onto my
back and she came down with me.
"My mother would kill us both," she said, laughing and
breathless at the same time. My hands were inside her
tee-shirt, massaging her back. Her bra was undone. She
undid mine. Her hand found my bare breast and her
fingertips found my nipple. I shuddered lightly.
"I've wanted to do this since the end of the very first
week," she confessed between kisses.
"Me too," I moaned. Her mouth found and enveloped my
right nipple, and then my left. "My mother was
absolutely right, wasn't she?"
"Absolutely."
Straddling my hips, she sat up and peeled out of her
tee-shirt; then her bra came off. I made protesting
noises as she removed my top as well, watching and
listening for any footfalls on the basement stairs. Her
older brothers were home, her younger sister and her
mom and dad.
"Are you crazy?" I asked.
She came down to me again and wrapped me in her arms
and put her bare chest against mine; she kissed me so
hard I ached. Our legs coiled and twisted like mating
pythons. I marveled at the depth of my craving. I
wanted her to be a man and to fuck me until I started
to scream, and was so grateful she wasn't. Her hands
grasped tightly in my hair and I wrapped my fingers in
hers.
"Bed," I grunted. "Take me to bed, godammit!"
This got us both to giggling so hard that it was a
miracle we got ourselves clothed again before Mrs.
Boucher came and yelled at us down the basement stairs.
* * *
"What are you writing?"
I jumped guiltily and looked back over my shoulder. She
was wrapped in her white terry-clothe robe and her hair
was in a towel. The belt let the front of the robe sag
open enough to show me her creamy breasts. Beads of
water speckled her skin.
"Nothing," I said uneasily.
She bent over and read the screen. A grin spread across
her face. "I remember that," she said.
I stirred nervously.
"Why are you writing it down?"
I shrugged. "Writing class."
She straightened up. "You're writing it for your
class?"
"No," I said slowly, then "Yes," then "No," again.
"Stacy, people don't know we're gay." She rubbed my
shoulder to show that it was all right. "You want to
tell everyone in your writing class we're gay?"
"Well, no," I said. "The instructor just said to write
honestly about an important event in my life."
She smiled. "That night was important to you?"
"Well!" I said, "We wouldn't be here now."
Her hand drifted from my right shoulder to my left,
still rubbing. "You know," she said, "I remember that
night as well as you do. I remember that you couldn't
wait until after school the following Monday--" Her
hand slipped down to my blouse and undid the button at
the throat. "--so that you could get me alone in your
bedroom." She put her hand inside and released the
center catch on my brassiere, freeing my breasts. "I
also remember you had on brand new underwear," she
said, fingertips trailing across the skin of my left
breast, "that you couldn't wait for me to take off."
"Stop it," I pleaded. "Stop it or take me to bed."
She took me to bed.
* * *
This story then, in the best tradition of Seinfeld, is
a story about nothing. What I wanted to admit was that
my mother was correct those seven years ago: I was in
love. And if my reflection in the mirror is any
indication of how things are seven years later, I'm
still a girl in love.
I guess mothers really do know best.
THE END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 31