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My Old Flame

By: Pussyrider



It was at the village fete that I saw her. I had just emerged from the main tent, after judging the sponge cake competition -- a solemn duty for the parish vicar's wife -- and there she was, 20 yards away from me, paying for a go at the coconut shie. She looked even slimmer than I remembered her as a teenager. I thought at first that her short, spiky hair had turned prematurely grey; then I realised, with little surprise, that she'd actually dyed it silver, with the odd darker streak for contrast. She was wearing a black T-shirt with the ugly motif of some heavy metal group on the front, a denim waistcoat which flapped as she threw, and skin-tight black leather trousers tucked into biker boots, silver buckles at the side. A silver skull and crossbones glinted in her ear lobe. Every inch the diesel dyke. Feeling faint with shock, I nearly turned away, ducked into the crowd, joined the audience milling around the country dancing stage. In some ways I wish I had -- I could have just gone on with my nice simple life, and perhaps everything would have stayed the same. No, of course it wouldn't: it's a small village, we'd have met up sooner or later.

Instead, I stumbled towards her, hardly believing my eyes. I paused a foot from her as her arm pitched forward and a coconut fell to the grass with a soft thud. Almost whispering, I said, "Jack? Is it you?"

She turned and gave me her old familiar, self-confident grin, pinning me with those mesmerising grey eyes of hers. I realised they matched her hair. A jewelled stud glinted on one side of her nose. If she was surprised at seeing me, she didn't show it. "Hi Suze, I wondered if you were still around. God, you've hardly changed." Of course I've bloody changed. Christ, it's been 25 years, more than half our lives. She must have seen the irritation pass across my face. She lowered her eyes, and murmured, "Well, I still recognised you straight off, anyway." Unintentionally, my gaze drifted down her body. She still had perky breasts. I felt my face flush at the unbidden thought. In the middle of the village green, among all the noise and hubbub of the fete, we stood in a small bubble of silence, our eyes meeting, both awkward, unable to think of a thing to say to each other all this time. Ernie Rossan, who was running the coconut shie, approached oblivious of the atmosphere between us, brandishing Jack's coconut. She took it from him, her eyes not leaving my face. She shrugged her bony shoulders, self-consciously. "So, how are you?" Her voice was huskier than I remembered -- sexier.

At that moment my daughter same running up, my beautiful 20-year old daughter, home from university for the summer. She grabbed me by the arm, laughing. "Mum, come on, they're waiting for you to draw the tombola." 

Then she sensed there was something odd here and quietened, staring curiously at this strange woman standing so close to me. Giving myself a mental shake, I forced a smile. "Hannah, this is an old friend of mine, Jackie Frankham. It is still Frankham, isn't it? Jack, this is my daughter Hannah. Anyway, you'll have to excuse me, I've got this raffle thing to draw. Unless you want to come and watch?"

I felt my heart sink slightly as Jack brandished two pink cloakroom tickets, the ones we'd been selling for weeks for the tombola. "I've bought these, I wouldn't miss it for the world." Her fingers were tipped with long nails, painted midnight blue.

I made my way across the grass, feeling Jack's eyes boring into my back. Hannah walked beside me, her arm still linked through mine, still stealing intrigued glances over her shoulder at our smiling pursuer. I entered the marquee and made my way through the throng, to mock cheers and a smattering of applause. When I climbed onto the small stage I searched for Jack. She hung back by the entrance, half hidden behind a big ruddy-faced farmer. Trying to concentrate on the task in hand, I manufactured a plastic smile and began to roll the big drum containing the tickets. "Okay, first out, yellow 62." When I finished I looked for Jack again. There was no sign of her; she must have slipped out at some point during my 'performance'.

That evening, Hannah pumped me for information about Jack: who she was, where she'd come from. Clearly she'd picked up that there was some story there. Trying to conceal my annoyance, I pretended to be concentrating on NCIS on TV and said, "I told you darling, she's an old friend. We were at school together. She moved away years ago. I haven't seen her since, and I don't know a thing about her."

Hannah persisted. "She looked pretty butch to me. Do you know her Dad?"

Roger looked up from his Guardian newspaper, taking his unlit pipe from his mouth. "No, I don't think so. Must have left before my time. Point her out to me if she turns up at church tomorrow."

Profoundly wishing I could shut them both up with just a hard stare, the way Mark Harmon does to his team, I sighed. "I doubt that. She's not really the churchgoing type." I went to bed trying not to think about Jack. She didn't figure in my dreams -- at least, if she did I didn't remember. But the next morning, sitting in the pew at St Mark's, as Mrs Driver played the organ while the congregation slowly ambled in, I stared blankly at the list of hymn numbers hanging on the wall and allowed my mind to drift back a quarter of a century...

Millgate Crossing is one of those quaint Olde English villages which overseas tourists visit by the bus load to snap pictures, have refreshments in the pretty little tea rooms, maybe a ploughman's lunch in the traditional village inn, then move on and leave us in peace until the next lot show up. Awarded a Royal Charter in 1392, voted the prettiest village in the country numerous times, featured in calendars, once the setting for a BBC historical drama series. We have picturesque streets of old thatched cottages, a large village green, a river with an old stone bridge and swans, a duck pond complete with Aylesbury ducks, a celebrated romantic poet buried in the churchyard, the whole works. God, it was a dull, stifling place for a young girl to grow up in the early 1980s. Especially the daughter of the local Church of England priest. 

I was a good girl. Naturally. I wasn't like the rather common children growing up on the new housing estate the council had imposed on the edge of the village 30 years earlier, 50 or so ugly, nondescript houses which those of us in the 'old village' tried to pretend didn't exist. The original families there had been resettled from the slums of London, and nothing much had changed. My father referred to the residents as "working class oiks" and "reject scum". I didn't like my father very much. I was also genuinely quite intimidated by him. He was a big man in a flowing black cassock, long after that look had become unfashionable among Anglican clerics. He was an old style Christian, with a great belief in hellfire and damnation, and freely shared his views on who among the local populace and the wider world merited that fate. (Socialists, feminists, trade unionists, 'queers', the usual suspects.) My mother was a small woman, very quiet and rather grey. She tended to go unnoticed alongside my father. I always told myself that the first chance I got I would flee his influence and never have anything to do with the bloody Church of England and its nasty phobic views ever again.

I was never a great beauty. I had a pretty enough face, with good bone structure and rosy cheeks, and light brown hair which dangled halfway down my back. In terms of build, though, I took after father. I was 'big boned', as they say: I reached my current height, five-feet-ten, by the age of 16, I had wide shoulders, wide hips, long sturdy legs and size 11 feet. I was quite embarrassed by my feet, but then I read Britt Ekland's were 11s too, which made me feel a bit better. I wasn't fat -- that's what big boned is taken to mean these days -- but I had big boobs and a large bum. Lord knows where Hannah gets her beauty and her divine, slim figure from.

I wasn't the type of girl boys chatted up at discos and that kind of thing; them knowing who my father was couldn't have helped. I didn't come into contact with the opposite sex at school, either. I attended the fee paying girls' grammar school in the local town. Every morning I would get on the bus and quietly sit in a front seat reading a novel -- Jane Eyre, Rebecca, I had quite a taste for dramatic heroines in my youth. A couple of stops later, the kids from the estate would start getting on. They all went to the scummy comprehensive school. The noise on the bus would rapidly increase, with screams of laughter, swearing, satchels being thrown around, and I would tuck my head into my book and hope they didn't notice me. Then, one day, one of them did.

I had just turned 18 at the time. I was happily ensconced in the world of D H Lawrence, part of my A Level English Lit studies, when I felt the bus bench seat I was sitting on sag slightly as someone flopped heavily down beside me. I looked up, surprised -- and saw a pair of dove grey eyes staring at me. I had never seen such unusual eyes before. They were surrounded by a mop of spiky yellow hair, mischievously arched blonde eyebrows, high cheekbones in a thin face, with a long, pointed nose, a small mouth with thin lips, and a rounded, dimpled chin. The mouth was extended in a lopsided, rather cocky grin. She wore a school uniform, not dissimilar to mine; but whereas mine was freshly pressed and gleaming, hers was rumpled, grubby, and somewhat askew. I hadn't seen her before; but then, I tried not to look at the estate brats, for all I knew she could have been getting the same bus as me every day for five years. She nodded at my book. "'Ello mate, watcha readin'?" The accent was what I thought of as Cockney.

Irritated by the interruption, I replied, "It's called a book", and returned my gaze to it, hoping she'd take the hint. She was completely unfazed by my sarcasm. A moment later I gasped as my novel was whipped out of my hand. I was convinced I'd never see it again, that it would get tossed into the scrum of yobbos at the back of the bus. I felt tears springing to my eyes as I wheedled, "Please, it's not mine, give it back."

She looked up at me, apparently astonished at the panic I was displaying. Seemingly trying to reassure me, she said gently, "'S all right, I'm just lookin' at it -- Susannah. You'll get it back." She'd seen my personalised bookmark. "Don't you hate being lumbered with a poncey name? I'm Jack by the way -- short for Jacqueline." She pronounced it with an exaggerated French accent, rolling her eyes as she did so. She glanced at the cover of my book. "Sons and Lovers -- any good is it?" I shrugged, unsure what to say, and feeling timid at this intrusion on my privacy. She started flicking through the book, reading passages.

After a minute or so, during which I sat in tense silence, staring straight ahead of me, a couple of the other estate girls crashed onto the seat behind us. They had wicked grins, and a nasty gleam in their eyes. I jumped as one of them ran her fingers through my long ponytail. "Watcha doin' with this stuck-up cow Jack? Oi darlin', d'you fancy a snog?" The newcomers cackled.

My new companion whirled round to face them as if she was sitting on a turntable. She stabbed a finger at them, and hissed, "You! Shut it!" The viciousness in her voice was unmistakeable, and had an immediate effect. The other girls didn't move away, but they slumped back in their seat, one of them staring sulkily into her lap, the other suddenly developing a fascination with the passing scenery. I felt even more nervous now. The girl sitting next to me was petite -- probably six inches shorter than I was, and skinny -- but the others were clearly scared of her. What the heck was she?

As if nothing had happened, Jack handed the book back to me with another smile. "Yeah, it looks interesting, I might give it a try. I like reading. Books, I mean." She gave me a cheesecake grin. "Have you heard of Jane Rule, Rita Mae Brown? No? How about Radclyffe Hall? You ought to read some of them, broaden your horizons." She gave me a wink. "Anyway, cheers Susannah, this is our stop." Giving her sullen friends a brooding look she rose and swung off the bus. I glanced back at her as the vehicle pulled off. She gave me a little wave, and I quickly turned back in my seat, feeling my face flush.

Despite my initial irritation at the intrusion, I was intrigued by Jack. She was odd, not like anyone I'd ever met before. Common, but so pushy, so self-confident -- so unlike me. I scribbled down the names of the authors she'd mentioned. I checked the school library at lunchtime but couldn't find anything by any of them. After school I went to the municipal library. I found a battered Rita Mae Brown paperback, the cover half-obscured by a clouded plastic sleeve. It was called Rubyfruit Jungle. I had no idea what the term meant, but the cover called it 'a novel about being different -- and loving it'. Well, I thought, we're all different, in our own way. I sat down and started flicking through the book. When I realised what it was about, and read a couple of particular passages, I shot to my feet and hurriedly tucked it back onto the shelf. I actually glanced nervously over my shoulder, to see if anyone had noticed me looking at it.

On the bus home, my head was spinning. We didn't have exotic things like lesbians in Millgate Crossing -- the last ones were probably burned at the stake in the 16th Century. Yet, that was what this girl Jack was reading about. She called herself a boy's name too. Did that mean she was, well, one of them? And she'd come and sat next to me on the bus, and chatted to me. Chatted me up? If she was attracted to other girls, did that mean she...that I...the bus doors sighed as they opened at the final stop, my stop. I rushed home and buried myself in homework, trying to think about the climatology of South East Asia, the post-war rise of West Germany as an economic force, anything but Jack, and what...those sort of women...might do to each other...

"Mum...mum!" I felt a sharp tug at my arm. Blearily I glanced up -- to see Hannah pulling at me. She was standing -- then I realised everybody in the church was standing, except me. From the pulpit, Roger was staring at me, a look of pained irritation on his face. I leapt to my feet and back into the present day, and launched into song with everybody else. "Oh God our help in ages past, our hope for years to come..." That afternoon, while Roger was sleeping off the Sunday roast and Hannah was visiting her friend Alison, I relaxed on a sun lounger in our conservatory. I had intended to read a magazine, but I felt too drowsy for that. Instead, I just let my mind wander where it wanted to. I hadn't meant to think about any particular subject, but I suppose it was inevitable that one came springing back into my consciousness...

The morning after Jack introduced herself to me for the first time, I sat nervously on the bus, staring out of the window as it approached her stop. There she was, standing slightly apart from the other kids boisterously pushing each other and passing a cigarette between them. Jack was gazing intently at the bus, and I saw a smile break out on her face when she spotted me. This time she immediately came and sat next to me. The two girls she's snapped at the previous day stalked past her, pointedly ignoring her. As the bus moved off, Jack said, "Mornin' Suze, how are you? How's Paul Morel getting on?"

Her reference to Sons and Lovers threw me for a second; so did her use of my name. Nobody, at home, at school, anywhere, called me anything but 'Susannah'. It seemed strange to be called Suze. I said I was fine and, being the politely brought-up girl I was, asked in return how she was. She gabbled away for a few minutes. I didn't really listen, I was still trying to work out where this strange, exotic creature had suddenly sprung from into my existence. I realised she was holding something out to me. "Here, you should read this if you like proper literature. It's a truly beautiful book." Dreading seeing Rubyfruit Jungle in her hand, my eyes dropped. It was a volume called The Well Of Loneliness. The cover featured an illustration of two women, I thought in Edwardian costume, one apparently passing the other a bouquet of flowers. The author was Radclyffe Hall. Then I noticed other words on the cover: 'The classic story of Lesbian love'. I looked up at Jack -- she was watching me intently, as if gauging my reaction. Feeling slightly faint, I thanked her and tucked it hurriedly into my bag.

I had no intention of reading the silly book. While my father's poisonous homophobia sickened me, I could imagine what these women did together, I didn't need to read about it. But that evening, in bed, I thought I'd better at least have a glance at it, out of politeness, in case in case my new self-imposed friend asked me about it. I finally switched my bedroom light off at about 2.30am, tears streaming down my face. It wasn't a great work of literature; there were no embarrassing sex scenes in it at all; but the story was heartrending, and I ached with the pain of the central character. I don't think I'd ever read a book that so moved me. When I went downstairs for breakfast the next morning my head still swirled with the characters and the twisting plot. I felt faint and distracted, and my mother actually asked if I was unwell and wanted a day off school.

I returned the book to Jack on the bus that morning. She gave me an odd look, and said, "Oh, don't you even want to give it a try?" I assured her I had read the whole thing from cover to cover, and tried to convey the effect it had had on me. Jack was silent for a moment when I finished speaking. Then she placed her hand on mine -- the first actual physical contact we had ever had -- and said, in almost a whisper, "Yeah, it affects me like that every time I read it."

After that, Jack and I sat together on the bus every day. She started hanging around in town after school so she could get the same bus home as me too. In all those weeks, we never once met anywhere but on the bus. I didn't think of her as a friend, just a travelling companion. But as the days went by I began to learn about her life: the fact that she was three days older than me; how much she'd hated it when the family had moved from their home in South London to "nowheresville" a year or so earlier; her drug dealing pig of a skinhead brother; her slutty mother, who'd moved for a man, had quickly lost him, and who I thought worked as a prostitute, although I was never entirely clear on that point. It sounded like the family from hell, and I began to understand why Jack was a bit 'different'. Like me she was in the sixth form, studying for A Levels, but unlike me she had no intention of going to university. "Nah, once I've done my exams I'm out of here. I wanna travel, see the world, live a real life." She told me one day that she'd lost her virginity at the age of 14, to a truck driver of about 30 with whom she'd hitched a lift. She laughed at the memory, but I was too shocked to say anything. She glanced coyly at me and asked, "What about you? Have you ever done it?"

I blushed furiously. "Yes, of course", I lied. She asked me for details, but I umm'd and ahh'd and said I was a bit embarrassed to discuss it. The truth was, the nearest I'd come had been more than a year earlier, after a Christmas party for the kids who made up the choir at St Mark's. Fuelled by an illicit glass of sherry, I'd had a rather sloppy snog with a short, chubby boy a year younger than me, in a corridor of the church vestry, but lost my nerve when he slipped his hand up my skirt and started groping me outside my pants. God, I'd hardly ever even touched myself 'down there' at that time!


My Old Flame



Synopsis: My Old Flame... I just can't remember her name!

Sex contents: Some Sex

Genre: Flash

Codes: Humor, Horror, Outrages, Necrophilia, Beheadings & Arson

Originally Posted at SOL: 2009-07-19

******

I suck at doing Flash stories, but here is one last try!

I'm badly behind this week so I didn't have time to get this story edit. Hopefully the inevitable typos and errors are minor.

This story is based upon the classic Spike Jones version of the song. The original Billie Holiday version is pretty darned good too!

*******

"Fascinating... you say?" Detective Archer muttered, more to the ceiling than to the suspect, who was cheerfully seated on the other side of the table and being enthusiastically cooperative. He was also quite barking mad, a sick but dangerous predator who had kidnapped, raped and murdered at least two dozen young women over many years. This case was going to earn everyone in homicide a citation and Archer hoped maybe even a promotion.

"Oh, Yes, yes, yes, indeed! They all had such a fascinating way about them; that certain gaze in their eyes! They wanted me to collect them! To keep them save and protected!" The earnest short man declared sincerely.

"Protected... you say? You kidnapped twenty-three women that we know of so far, twenty-one of which you kidnapped, raped, strangled, raped their dead bodies again, cut off their heads and then buried their bodies in a shallow grave. You then shrunk their heads and used them to decorate the inside of your ranch house."

"Exactly! I tended their lovely shrunken heads and their graves with great care. I even put out flowers every Sunday!"

"Quite so. That made it easy for us to find most of the graves, but why hadn't you strangled the two girls that we found manacled in your barn? You'd kept Mary Milligan alive for over two years!"

"Jenny I'd only had for a short time and I liked the way she screamed at me. I was going to strangle her soon! Mary... well, she had been a Catholic school girl and she discovered that she enjoyed being raped... and that took most of the fun out of keeping her. I couldn't strangle her either; she kept telling me no, so I didn't know what to do with her!" Our mass murderer showed remorse at this, that his victim had told him, rather firmly apparently, that she most definitely did not want to be strangled... and he had conceded.

"There is still one old grave we found without a headstone that we don't have a name for. You burned and buried this body at least twenty years ago, my coroner thinks. Who was she? What was her name?"

"Ah, my old flame... I've never met a girl as magnificent or elegant as my old flame. She was my very first love and I've been wondering what became of her for years! She's been in my thoughts for over twenty-four years... wondering what had become of her. Now, if I could only remember her name!" He let out a long wistful sigh and began counting off the names of young ladies, all murder victims we had recovered, before collapsing in a crying heap on the table. He just couldn't remember her name.

"Think back to when you were together with her long ago. Did she have a fascinating gleam in her eye as well?"

"The Eye!" He shouted, standing up and raising his fists in fury. "I saw that eye! The one that kept winking and blinking at other men! I think I put it into a jar in my bathroom closet. What was her name?!" He sobbed for awhile with his head on the table. I took a brief break to check with the inspector that had the complete listing of the seized evidence. It was a long list, but it did include a single human eye preserved in a small jar found in his bathroom.

I borrowed this jar from the evidence room and placed it on the table in front of my suspect, hoping this would trigger his memory and it did. His howling fits quieted down and his eyes appeared much more lucid, as if he'd become, for just a few moments, once again quite sane.

"My... old flame!" He cried. "She always treated me mean, so covered her in gasoline and... I struck a match!" Once again he fell back into a crazed fit of crying and his brief moment of lucidity was gone, perhaps forever.

Yes, clearly she was indeed an old flame, and quite a hot one as her small pile of burnt bones clearly showed.

*******

With a confession in hand, we would have no trouble getting a conviction for the 21+ counts of murder and rape, but I was sure for years that this case would haunt me. Specifically, what was the name of his old flame so that she could rest under a proper headstone?

Putting the last of the evidence away to await his trial and inevitable life term in a mental institution, I thought I could hear a woman's laugh coming from somewhere... but I was quite alone. Alone now in the evidence locker and I'd be alone also once I reached home. Unlike my demented suspect, I knew the name of my old flame... and I knew where my little curio box on the fireplace mantle was that had an old torn piece of paper with the name and phone number. I'd had many other lovers in the years since our petty quarrel and parting, but all of those attempts at love were only an imitation of my own lost old flame. It was still, years later, not quite too late. Like me, my old flame still lived a life of solitude... waiting for something, like perhaps a long overdue call to say simply "I'm sorry." The fault had been equally ours, but we were each too proud to lift the phone to make the first motion towards a reconciliation.

Grasping the number tight in my hand I cried in misery for more than a half hour, before with trembling hands, I reached for the telephone to make the call. 



My Old Flame Ch. 02



I had an uncomfortable few days after I ran into my former lesbian lover out at our village fete. I hadn't seen her for 25 years, I hadn't heard a peep from her in all that time, since I was 18, in fact. I'd married and raised an adult daughter, become a respected pillar of local society -- and then one day she turned up out of the blue! I tried to tell myself it was just coincidence; after all, she must have been in the village a few days, and she hadn't exactly come and sought me out. So I pretended to myself I wasn't interested in why she was back, and tried to simply forget I'd seen her at all.

The trouble was, in a place like Millgate Crossing it wasn't that easy. When a strange woman turns up in a small, conservative, rural community like ours, dressed in a style that screams 'Yes folks, I'm a raging dyke from the big city', people tend to take an interest. Ernie Rossan, the local fruit and veg merchant, had heard me tell my daughter Hannah that Jack -- that's what she's always called herself -- was an old friend of mine, and within days the whole village knew. I got casual enquiries as to who she was. I became aware of animated conversations between locals abruptly stopping abruptly as I entered a shop, or the library, as people I'd known for years avoided eye contact with me in obvious embarrassment.

What made it worse was the discomfort I felt about the whole situation. I had always told myself I was in a happy...well, a stable marriage, and that what happened between me and Jack was just a teenage aberration, the sort of experimentation all kids get up to. I mean, my husband, Roger, the local Anglican vicar, was the only other person I'd ever slept with, and since the day Jack had left the village, and me, behind, I hadn't so much as looked at another female in that way. Not really. There was a teacher at Hannah's infant school who I was certain was attracted to me, but I never encouraged her and she moved away after a couple of years. But even though I'd tried to, through all the years of my marriage I'd never managed to forget Jack: how happy I used to be in her company, the way it made me feel when she touched me, the warmth of her lips on my skin, how it felt when she slipped down my body and buried her face in my...oh God, I felt so confused.

Of course, a few days after that first time, I met her again. It had to happen, in such a small place. I was behind the counter in the charity shop where I help out for a few hours a week when the bell over the door tinkled and there she was. She stood in the open doorway for a moment, silhouetted by the bright sunlight outside, as her eyes adjusted to the weak electric light which illuminated the shop. It took her a moment to notice me, then she gave a start of surprise and walked over with a smile. She was wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt, cropped to reveal her flat, skinny stomach, black jeans and a pair of yellow Doc Marten boots, which matched the colour of her short spiky hair. She had a sort of barbed wire tattoo running all the way round one bicep. I was vaguely aware of a couple of old ladies in one corner clucking to each other about a middle-aged woman dressing like a teenage punk.

I had previously noticed the piercing which adorned Jack's nose, but now I saw another: a small silver ring in her navel, to which was attached a silver chain, which extended under the waistband of her jeans. Just as I realized, with a shock, which part of her anatomy the other end of the chain was probably attached to, she spoke. "Hello again Suze" -- in my entire life, only she had ever called me anything but Susannah -- "I didn't realise you worked in here." She paused, then, as if feeling the need to justify her presence, she added, "I'm just finding my way round the village again, just browsing, you know. I can't believe how little the place has changed in all this time. I suppose just about every building's got a preservation order on it." She smiled. It was probably true -- Millgate Crossing's that sort of place.

I returned the smile weakly. "So, what are you doing back here after all these years?" I was desperate to know the answer, but I strived to keep my enquiry casual.

She shrugged. "Well, I had a couple of weeks free, and I thought it might be nice to come back and see the old place again. I never expected to see you though. I thought you'd have spread your wings and flown from this dump long ago." Jack and her slutty mother had lived for a while on the council estate which is attached to Millgate Crossing -- the bit the hordes of tourists who visit us never see. I asked if that was where she was staying now. "God, no, mum hasn't lived here for years. I think she's in Manchester now, but we haven't spoken in ages. No, I'm renting one of the little holiday cottages in King's Passage." The street Jack mentioned, with its row of quaint whitewashed thatched dwellings, is one of the most photographed in the country. "So how are you?"

It was my turn to shrug. I gave the standard "I'm fine" response, then we stood gazing at each other awkwardly. Apart from the weather, we'd exhausted the usual range of polite small talk. I became acutely aware of the old women in the corner pointedly not looking at us, their ears swivelled in our direction like radar dishes. I cleared my throat self-consciously. "Look, you should come round for a cup of tea sometime, and we can have a proper chat."

Jack responded almost before I'd finished speaking. "That'd be lovely Suze. When would be good for you?"

Shit!, I thought. Why the hell had I suggested that? I mentally debated whether it would be better to make it a time when Roger and Hannah were going to be around, as a safe buffer between us -- or whether it would be better for Jack and me to be alone, whether we had real things to say to each other. Taking a deep breath, I suggested the following afternoon. Jack whipped a tiny Filofax out of her shoulder bag and noted down the appointment. Then she wandered round the shop for a few minutes, her friendly smile to the two old biddies being rewarded with suspicious frowns. She bought a couple of tatty Ursula Le Guin paperbacks, then left with a cheery "See you tomorrow." As she left, I saw another tattoo in the small of her back, just above her low-riding jeans: a large blue butterfly surrounded by curly black lines with smaller butterflies flittering between them.

It felt as if I spent the entire next 24 hours cleaning and tidying the house. You know how it is -- someone's coming round to see you, not your home, but you'd feel mortified if they found a speck of dust. I employed a cleaner at one time, but it didn't last long because I used to spend the entire day before she came brushing and dusting, so she wouldn't find any dirt! Hannah could tell at breakfast the next morning that I was nervous. She'd already displayed an unwelcome curiosity about Jack. I guessed she suspected my hyper state was something to do with my old friend, but I ignored my daughter's unsubtle probing as to whether I had any plans for the day and so on. She was home from university for the summer, and was heading into the local town for the day with friends to shop and see a film.

At two o'clock on the dot the front door bell rang and, my heart in my throat, I admitted Jack to my home. My father had occupied the vicarage before my husband, so Jack knew it well, but she'd never before been inside. She was dressed in a simple white sleeveless dress, with bare legs and platform rope sandals. I reflected that if she'd just dressed like that normally every gossip in the village wouldn't be talking about her. I guided her into the front room and she perched on the edge of an armchair -- the one Roger normally occupies. When I offered tea, she replied, "I'd prefer coffee if you've got it -- black, no sugar."

I took my time grinding the beans and making the coffee -- we normally just drink instant at home. Then, placing our cups on a tray, I took a deep breath and returned to Jack. She was standing by the mantelpiece, studying the family photos. She turned and gave me a warm smile. "Your daughter's beautiful -- just like her mother."

I snorted as I sat in my chair. "Rubbish, I was never beautiful. I don't know where she gets it from." I had had a pretty face but I was a big awkward girl, with a large bust, substantial bum and sturdy legs. The long chestnut hair I'd had when Jack knew me before was now cut sensibly short, with the first strands of grey beginning to appear.

Jack sat opposite me and lifted her coffee cup. She shook her head slightly. "You're wrong Suze. You still are beautiful. You were -- and are -- the most beautiful woman I've ever...known. On the outside and on the inside." I had never got used to receiving those kinds of personal compliment, and I felt my cheeks turning red. Jack chuckled. "You always used to blush when I said things like that. But I always meant it Suze -- I've never lied to you, about anything."

God, she was being up-front with me. My English sensitivities weren't used to that sort of thing. As she gazed at me with her beautiful dove grey eyes it was as if the past 25 years had never happened. My mouth was dry, my heart racing, and my pussy twitching, exactly like it had been all those years before -- when Jack looked at me just the way she was looking at me at that moment. Dragging my eyes away from hers, I tried to change the subject. "So what are you doing back here Jack -- really? I mean," I added hurriedly, "you said you didn't expect to see me here."

She sat back in her chair and sipped her coffee, staring at the ceiling. "No, I didn't expect to see you. But I hoped I might. I had what they call a life-changing incident a year or so ago. I was diagnosed with the big C." I couldn't help gasping at that -- she'd had cancer. Oh my God. She smiled at my reaction and continued. "Oh, I'm fine now, thanks to modern medical science, but for a while it looked like touch and go whether they'd caught it in time. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes when you're drowning, and I suppose in a way that happened to me. I reflected on my life, and started to think about what had been important to me, what really mattered. 

"I tried to contact my mother, through a relative, but she still doesn't want to know me. And the other thing that really mattered to me, that always has -- was you. I had no way of knowing where you were, but I thought if I came back here at least the place would remind me of the times we had together, and maybe I'd hear something about how you were, what you were doing, and where you'd gone."

My stomach felt as if it had dropped through the floor. Jack had almost died, and now she'd come looking for me. She'd asked me to go with her once before, and I'd chickened out. Was that what she was leading up to again? My mind whirling I asked, as much for something to say as anything, "When you left here -- where did you go?"

She gazed into the middle distance, her mind somewhere else. "I went to London at first. I hooked up with a German chick there and followed her back to Bremen. It didn't last, and eventually I wound up in Hamburg." I smiled. Jack had always wanted to travel. "I was in a band for a while -- we actually had a couple of minor hits in Germany. Then I blew it by seducing the guitarist's wife. It was his band, so that was that. I had some bad times after that. I ended up in prison for a few months for possession. Pot."

She noticed me gaping at her in shock, and laughed softly. "Oh, I was never a dealer, and I stopped using once they let me out. These days, since the cancer, I don't drink, I don't smoke...I hardly indulge in any vices." She flashed me a suggestive grin, then her face faded back into her recollections. "Anyway, I met a woman in the nick who set me up hooking on the Reeperbahn. Eventually, me and a few of the other girls bought a place, and we set up as a sort of collective."

My head was reeling. "Jack -- are you saying you were a prostitute? But I didn't think you had any interest in men." Jack used to hint to me in the old days that her mother was 'on the game', and Jack had seemed to despise her for it.

She grinned at my naivety. "I was a high class provider of executive relief services. My being English was a big selling point. I adopted this poncey upper class accent and called myself Lady Susannah." She grinned at my reaction to her having used my name. "As for the blokes, you're right, I'm 100 per cent dyke. But I didn't make love to them, I just fucked them. Fucked 'em and sucked 'em."

I just stared at her. I heard myself ask, "Are you deliberately trying to shock me?"

She looked crestfallen at that. "I'm sorry. You did ask, and I thought you wanted to know. Like I said, I've never lied to you. Do you want me to go on?" I nodded feebly. What Jack was describing was so utterly alien to me, so totally removed from my cosy little middle class life as a country parson's wife, that I couldn't even begin to really comprehend it. I couldn't help wondering what road I would have been led down if I'd gone off with Jack all those years ago. Would I have ended up selling my body in some squalid red light district as well? Or, if we'd been together, would her life have been radically different, much better -- in my eyes, at least.

I realised she was speaking again. "Okay, well, I carefully put my pennies away, and got lucky with some property investments, and eventually I decided it was time to get out. So I took my son and tried to build a new life for us."

Jesus Christ, I thought, what's she going to say next? Feeling faint, I asked, "Your son?"

"Yeah, Marc -- Marcus, really. He's 17 now. He's a really good kid, and so bright -- Christ knows where that comes from. He was a mistake, I couldn't even say for sure who his father was, but I decided to go through with it and I've never regretted it for a day. Anyway, I found I enjoyed the property stuff, so I cleaned myself up, used a few contacts and got a job with an estate agent. Three years of that, then I was on holiday in Nice and got chatting with an English property broker there, and he offered me a job, selling luxury villas to ex-pats and rich Yanks. Then, about five years ago, he retired and a colleague and I bought out the business. I live in a place called Grasse, in the hills above Nice. It's a lovely little town, with tiny old streets and a shaded piazza with open air cafés. You'd like it." Strangely, I'd actually heard of Grasse. I'd read about it in some women's magazine, because it's a renowned centre of the perfume industry.

Jack added, "I actually haven't worked much since my illness, but my partner's been very good about it." Something must have flashed across my face, because she qualified the statement. "My business partner. I haven't been...close to anyone...for three or four years now. I discovered a talent for painting while I was recuperating, sort of post-Impressionist. A gallery owner in Villefranche likes my stuff, and I've sold a few works. That's how I've been spending a lot of my time here -- sitting beside the river at the back of my cottage, painting."

We sat silently for a few minutes after that, sipping our coffee, both lost in our own thoughts. Mine were of a beautiful French village, and how nice it would be to stroll to a shady café in the heat of the Mediterranean sun. Jack finally broke the silence. "Well, what about you? I said you'd end up marrying a vicar, but I didn't think you really would! As I remember it, you didn't even believe in God." I still don't: I supported Roger's work, but he was always aware I couldn't share his faith. Jack carried on, "I expected you to have shaken the dust of this place off your feet years ago." I tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. A look of pain crossed Jack's face. "Oh Suze. Are you happy? Truthfully?"

I gave a sigh, but it somehow came out ragged, almost like a sob. Summoning all my strength, I forced on my best professional vicar's wife smile, and said, "Roger's a good husband, a good provider, a good father to Hannah. He's very popular in the community." 

Even to me it sounded pathetic. Jack stared intently at me, looking as if she wanted to cry. She half-whispered, "But does he make you happy? Does he love you? Do you love him?"

What was I supposed to tell her? That I'd never loved him, he'd just been kind to me when my parents were ill and she, Jack, had left me? That my 23-year marriage had been a sham, a waste of my life? That my older, balding, bespectacled, pipe-smoking husband was a cold, passionless man who didn't understand the real meaning of the word love? That we hadn't made love, if you could call it that, for over two years? That even on my wedding night, after Roger and I had had sex for the first time, I lay in the dark with tears rolling down my cheeks, wishing it was Jack lying beside me? That not a year had gone by when I hadn't thought of Jack, and what we'd had together for those few precious months so many years ago? I felt attacked and cornered, and I'm afraid I snapped at her. "I lost any childish fantasies about the existence of happy ever after long ago. Look, I've got a comfortable, settled life, I have lots of friends, I'm very involved in the community, I've got a daughter I love with all my heart, and...yes, I'm happy, thank you very much."

I felt quite drained after that. I was carefully controlling my breathing, because I knew if I didn't I would lose it and start crying. Jack just stared at me in silence. Then she slowly shook her head, leaned towards me in her chair, and whispered, "It's not enough. Not for you Susannah. You deserve so much more than that. You're the sweetest, loveliest person I've ever known. You deserve someone who cherishes you, who dotes on you; who loves you with all the passion they've got."

I couldn't stop the tears then. As big drops trickled slowly down my cheeks, I snivelled, "Is that what you came here for? To tell me what a crap life I've got? That I've thrown it away while you've been gallivanting around Europe getting high and screwing half the population of the continent?"

Jack edged closer to me. I thought she wanted to come and hug me, but was unsure how I'd react. Her voice still barely audible, she said, "That day, when I asked you to leave this shithole with me, and I told you I loved you. I'm not sure if you knew just how much you hurt me when you said you didn't love me, that you didn't think it was possible for girls to really love each other. Even after that, I still thought you might change your mind and come with me. I sat outside this place for half an hour the day I left, waiting for you. When I did go I had to stop the bike just up the road, because I was crying too hard to see. I felt as if my heart had been wrenched out, and was lying in the gutter back in Millgate bloody Crossing. I tried to hate you for a while, but I never stopped loving you Suze. Never. If you'd said you loved me too that day, I might not have gone. I might even have come to East bloody Surrey with you, and watched you trot off to university every day while I sat on the checkout at Woolworth's or something."

I stared at her mortified, the blood draining from my face. We could have stayed together -- had I not been such a coward, terrified to admit even to myself that I had what my hateful father would have called unnatural feelings for another girl. I started crying harder, but still Jack didn't come to me. She continued, her eyes locked on my face. "When I was lying in hospital believing I'd got days to live, the one face I wanted to see, apart from my son, was yours. The reason I've always been shit at relationships is that I could never give myself completely to my lovers. They always knew that they were coming off second best to the girl in my past that I'd never talk about." She paused, chuckled humourlessly and shook her head. "You know, I went to the East Surrey campus one day, a couple of weeks after you started there. I hung around all day, and just as I was giving up hope I spotted you, chatting with some of your friends. I very nearly went over to you and got down on my hands and knees and begged you to come with me."




My Old Flame Ch. 02



"I wish you had!" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. The floodgates opened then, and I buried my face in my hands as my shoulders heaved, and I released my pain and anguish in huge, gasping sobs. In a moment I felt Jack's arms circling me from behind my chair, holding me, her cheek pressed to mine as she shooshed me, and stroked my hair, and kissed the tears from my face. 

It took me probably ten minutes to calm down; then I felt more embarrassed than anything else. I snatched a paper tissue from the box on my side table, starting to apologise, but Jack shooshed me again, then squatted by the side of my chair, holding my hands in hers. "It's not too late Suze. We've both made mistakes in our lives, done things we regret. But if I've learnt anything, it's that you can reinvent yourself. I've started over loads of times. It's never too late to start again. We've got a chance now to repair the biggest mistake either of us ever made."

I pulled one of my hands from hers and wiped at my eyes again. Then, with a deep, shuddering breath, I replied, "Your wrong Jack. It is too late. We split up back then because I was a bloody coward. And I'm still a bloody coward. I despise myself for it, but there it is. I've never had your strength. I know my life's shit, but I've got Hannah and I rejoice in her every day, even now she's away studying for months at a time. I can't just give up what I've built here over the last 23 years. I love you, I truly do, and I always did, but...I'm just not brave enough for what you're suggesting."

She turned, still in her squatting position, and stood with her back to me. Then she made her way to the door. When she turned back I saw that she was crying now. Her voice choked with emotion, she said, "Suze, I love you and I've always known you love me -- I was just too proud and stupid back then to ignore your lie. We belong together. You wouldn't lose Hannah, not necessarily, and you wouldn't be leaving anything else behind that really matters to you. I'll be leaving here in a couple of days, and I won't be coming back. I'm asking you to come with me. Please Susannah, don't do this to us -- not again." With that she fled, and I heard the front door bang shut. I slipped to the floor and lay on the carpet, in a foetal curl, sobbing into my hands. 

I had barely pulled myself together when Hannah got home two hours later. My eyes were red-rimmed with crying, and she could see something was badly wrong, but I tried to dismiss her concern. Roger didn't notice a thing when he arrived home. He left again barely an hour later for a parish council meeting. The moment the front door closed behind him, Hannah stood up and switched off the TV. Then she pulled me gently to my feet and sat me beside her on the sofa. Holding both my hands, just as Jack had a few hours earlier, she said, "Mum, I know something's the matter, and I won't leave you in peace until you tell me what it is. It's something to do with that Jackie woman isn't it, the dykey one. Has she done something to upset you?"

I shook my head, my throat too clogged with emotion to speak. Hannah looked close to tears herself, and there was a note of despair in her voice as she said, "Mummy, please, you're worrying me. Please tell me what it is." 

She hadn't called me 'mummy' in years. Even as my tears started again, I smiled at my daughter and stroked her hair. Croakily, I said, "It's all right darling, I'm fine, really I am." Then I started to tell her about Jack. I hadn't meant to, not really, but once I started it all came flooding out: how Jack had befriended then seduced me, how we'd made love, the way we split up, my thoughts about Jack over the years, and some of what we'd said to each other that afternoon. The only bit I left out was Jack asking me to leave Roger for her. I would have expected to shrivel with embarrassment at discussing such intimate things with Hannah, but somehow it felt cathartic discussing it with a third party, even one who was my own offspring.

I'm not sure how I expected Hannah to react. Maybe incredulity and revulsion at her mother's secret lesbian past. Perhaps derision at the idea of two sad middle-aged losers mooning about each other halfway across Europe for years. Possibly even outrage at the fact that I'd been thinking about Jack when I should have been giving Hannah's father my love and devotion. I certainly didn't expect what did happen. Hannah's cheeks were damp with tears, and, in a very small voice, she said, "Mum, that's such a sad, beautiful story. How does it end?"

I stared at her, slightly bewildered. "I told you Hannah, it has ended. Jack's leaving for home in a couple of days. We're never going to see each other again."

She shook her head vehemently, lips pursed like a little girl ordered to eat her greens. "No, it can't end there. There's another chapter to be written." I looked at her uncomprehendingly. What on earth could she mean? She spoke to me slowly and carefully, as if explaining to a small child why the injection it didn't want would be good for it. "Mum -- you and Jack obviously still love each other. I love you and I love dad, but it's equally obvious that you don't love each other. You're like two people who exist in different dimensions that just coincide occasionally. There's no emotion between you -- I mean, you don't even argue, at least that would be something! I sometimes wonder whether you even notice each other when I'm away at uni."

As Hannah's voice steadily rose I couldn't disagree with anything she was saying, but I couldn't see where she was going with it. She smiled and her voice softened as she said, "From a purely selfish point of view I'd hate it if you and dad split up, I want you both to be here for me when I come home. But you only have one life, and I'd hate it even more if I thought you were going to spend the rest of yours unhappy because you weren't with the person you really love, especially if it was for my sake. I'm still young and uncynical enough to believe in romantic love, and that's what you and Jack have. At the moment you're making two people in this story desperately unhappy -- three, if you count me. If you and Jack got together that number would be reduced to one -- dad, and my guess is he'd get over it, and I'd help him. Please Mum, don't do the sensible, responsible thing this time. Do the thing your heart tells you to, like you should have done before."

I couldn't believe it. My own daughter was sitting here, giving me permission -- in fact begging me -- to desert her father in favour of my lesbian lover! I didn't point out to her that if I had done that before we wouldn't be having that conversation, because she wouldn't exist. Instead, I hugged her and told her I loved her, and that I would think about what she'd said. That night, as Roger lay beside me in bed snoring, I felt very confused. I knew what my heart was telling me to do. Jack had said it was what she wanted. Even my own flesh and blood had told me to do it. To be honest, I thought, Roger would probably barely even notice my absence. So what the hell was stopping me? After all, all it meant was tearing up the last 20-odd years of my life, abandoning my marriage, and leaving my friends and the village I'd always lived in to move to a country I'd only ever once visited on a day trip, as the lover of a woman I had only spoken to twice since I was 18 years old!

I barely got a wink of sleep, but I finally reached a decision as the local birdlife greeted the dawn. I chose my prettiest dress, a cream cotton one with a button top and a pleated skirt. I avoided Hannah's questioning looks at breakfast. I was on tenterhooks in the charity shop all morning. At the Women's Institute lunch I attended I drank a rare second glass of wine to steady my nerves. Then I made my way up King's Passage and tapped lightly on Jack's door. There was no response, and I couldn't see her when I peered through the lounge window. I quickly looked behind the cottages, but she wasn't painting on the riverbank. There was a hire car parked outside, but no sign of Jack. I nearly backed out at that point, but I was determined. I was going to speak to Jack once more, and try to convince myself that going away with her was a stupid idea.

There was a recreation ground at the end of the street, with a set of kids' swings. Listlessly, I sat on one of the swings and gently propelled myself back and forth, attracting the odd curious glance from dog walkers and mothers with toddlers, while I kept watch on Jack's home, assuring myself that she couldn't be far away, not if she'd left her car. After perhaps ten minutes I saw her -- but she wasn't alone. Walking beside her, her arm linked with Jack's, was Alison, Hannah's closest friend in the village. Short, a bit chubby, and ruddy faced, Alison looked as if she might be slightly tipsy. 

Before I thought it through I tried to attract my friend's attention, but she didn't see me. As they turned up the short path to the cottage I started to hurry towards them; then I stopped as if I'd run into a brick wall. Why was Jack taking Alison into her cottage in the middle of the day? With their arms intertwined. Oh my God, surely not! I walked slowly towards the cottage debating with myself. If the two of them wanted to fool around together it was none of my business. But Alison was Hannah's best friend, and her mother was a good friend of mine. She wasn't the brightest bulb in the room at the best of times, and she definitely looked as if she'd had a drink or three at lunchtime. Whatever else she was, I was quite certain from the string of boyfriends she'd had that she wasn't gay. If Jack was about to take advantage of her...so much for her tearful declaration of undying love for me, the conniving bitch! 

With no idea what I intended to do, if anything, I found myself trying the knob of the cottage door. It swung open -- clearly Jack had had other things on her mind than locking it behind her. I could hear Alison snivelling from a room on my right. Even as I continued to tell myself it was nothing to do with me, I found myself tiptoeing down the hallway. The door to the room was ajar, and there was a mirror hanging on the wall, at a perfect angle for me to see Jack and Alison settled on a couch, Jack with an arm around the young girl's shoulder and stroking her hair as Alison wept quietly. Then she groaned, "Fucking bastard! How dare he call me that? How can it not be my business what he's doing with Julie Cowan at one in the morning?" I guessed that Alison has had yet another row with her latest bloke. He was a bit of a yob from the council estate, and I had little time for him.

Jack continued to stroke Alison's hair, and nuzzled the girl's cheek, glancing down her blouse at her substantial cleavage. Soothingly, she crooned, "I know love. I've been there, men are all the same. They're all shits. A beautiful, sexy girl like you shouldn't have to put up with that."

Alison turned her face to Jack's. Their noses were actually touching. Nervously, she said, "Do you really think I'm sexy? I think you're nice too. You've been very kind. Is it true what folk say about you, that you..."

The rest of Alison's question was cut off as Jack's lips adhered to hers. Alison's eyes widened and her jaw dropped, and for a moment her hands bunched as she tried to push Jack away. Then she began to moan as Jack, I thought, slipped her tongue into her conquest's mouth, and wrapped a hand around one of the big boobs. Alison's hands uncurled and her arms stole around Jack's back. I fell back against the wall of the hallway, squeezing my eyes closed against the tears which were forming. And I had actually thought of leaving my marriage for that cow! I heard Alison murmur, "Look, I dunno about this," but her voice faded as I heard another sloppy kiss.

I wanted to rush in there and stop Jack seducing Alison -- just as she had seduced me. I knew I should leave -- I had no business there. Instead I stood rooted to the spot, an uninvited voyeur, watching their reflection through my tears. Alison had clearly abandoned her token resistance, and was straining her body up into Jack's. As my former lover began to unbutton the girl's blouse, Alison's hand slipped under Jack's T-shirt, and edged up towards her bare unfettered breast. With her other hand, Alison wrenched down a cup of her bra, exposing herself to Jack.

Then Jack sat up and dropped her face in her hands. I was as stunned as Alison by the sudden turn of events. Jack mumbled, through her hands, "I'm sorry, this was a mistake. Can you go now please?"

Alison struggled half upright, staring at Jack. "But I was just starting to get into it. Come on, no-one knows." She tentatively cupped a hand around one of Jack's boobs, outside her shirt.

Jack sighed, detached Alison's hand and, turning to the girl, began to button up her blouse. "Look, Alison is it? You're a nice girl, but this isn't right for either of us. You need to sort things out with your bloke, one way or another, and having a quickie with a dyke old enough to be your mother isn't going to help you do that. Now go on, be a good girl and just piss off, okay?"

A curtained alcove containing coat-hooks was behind me, and I ducked into it as Alison rushed from the room, her face reddening in humiliation. As the cottage door slammed Jack sank back into the couch, her hands covering her face again. I jumped as she screamed, "Oh fuuuuck!" then burst into tears. I knew I should leave, but I couldn't. I still wasn't sure what had just happened, but my heart ached for the anguish my friend was so clearly feeling. I edged into the room, and said her name. It was her turn to jump then. Wiping angrily at her face, she said, "Oh Christ Suze, you nearly made me shit myself. What the fuck are you doing here?"

Instead of answering, I posed my own question. "What was all that about, with Alison?"

She stared at me, mouth agape. "Oh God, you saw that, did you? What that was about was a stupid old cow making a complete fool of herself. You haven't answered my question yet."

I placed my hands on my hips, angrily. "I came to talk to you, about what you said to me yesterday; but I can see now I shouldn't have bothered. Have you been thinking much about me, between seducing drunken kids? Kind of a habit of yours, isn't it."  

A look of total misery formed on Jack's face. I turned to storm out, but the pain in her cry of 'Suze! Please don't go like this" stopped me cold. I turned and, glaring at her, sank slowly into an armchair across the room from her. I raised my eyebrows in silent enquiry. She was crying again, and gulped in an effort to be able to speak. "Suze, I am so, so very sorry you saw that. I have never felt so stupid in my entire life. What it was about was that I've been wallowing in misery since I left your place, and I felt old, and lonely, and unloved. I went to the pub today for lunch, and I wanted a drink, a real drink I mean, so bad it was like a kick in the guts. She" -- Jack jerked her thumb after the long departed Alison -- "was having a huge row with some shifty looking bloke, and I started listening in to take my mind off the idea of booze. He went off in a strop, she was in tears, and I genuinely thought she needed a shoulder to cry on. Well, one thing led to another, and...look Suze, I haven't been with another woman since I got ill, and if I couldn't get drunk I decided I might as well get laid."

She peered at me eagerly, as if she was trying to see whether I was buying the story. Coldly, I asked her, "Why didn't you go through with it then? You couldn't have known I was watching, and Alison seemed up for it."

Jack took three deep gulps of air, then cried, "Because I didn't want her! I only did it because I was so miserable because I thought you'd rejected me -- again. I don't want anyone anymore -- except you!" She fell sideways on the couch, her entire body racked with sobs. I didn't even think about it: I was beside her in an instant, cuddling her body to me, holding her, rocking her, making soothing noises, stroking her hair, as I used to do for Hannah when she was small. I knew then that I had made my decision. Gradually, Jack's crying eased to no more than a whimper. Her face pressed into my shoulder, she mumbled pitifully, "Suze, I can't bear the thought of going away from here and never seeing you again. I don't know what I'll do."

I kissed her hair, and whispered softly, "Oh my love, you don't have to. I'll come with you."

Jack froze for a moment, as if she'd been turned to stone. Then tearful grey eyes swivelled up to meet mine. Barely whispering, she said, "What? You mean it? You'll come back to Grasse with me?"

I nodded, tears forming in my own eyes again. "Yes Jack, I'm coming with you. Oh Christ, I've wanted you so much, so very often." Laughing and crying at the same time, Jack raised her face awkwardly to mine, and we kissed, hard, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. I responded eagerly, feeling as if I was finally being honest with myself, and the rest of the world, for the first time in my life. 

We sat, both laughing, both crying, kissing and cuddling, for I don't know how long. Then Jack rubbed my nose with hers, and said softly, "I don't suppose you'd like to..." The words trailed off, but her eyes swivelled upwards, towards the ceiling and the bedroom above it. Wordlessly, I nodded and, hand in hand, we climbed the stairs of the cottage.

Sitting on the bed we undressed each other slowly, reluctant to break off for log from kissing each other. Jack's boobs were still small and pert, her nipples very erect. Mine are the same size as they were when I was 18, but they've surrendered to gravity a bit over the years. When Jack lifted each of them in her palms, and sucked and nibbled my nipples, my stomach began to flip-flop in aroused anticipation. She breathed, "Oh Christ, your body's even more beautiful than I remembered." Still kissing my breasts, she lifted her backside from the bed as I slipped her black thong panties down her legs. The tufty orange pubes I remembered were gone, and in their place on her pubic mound was a tattoo of an Egyptian symbol, an ankh. I winced inwardly at the thought of having that done to such a sensitive part of the anatomy. I saw I was right about her navel chain -- it was clipped to another silver ring piercing one of her labia. She carefully removed the chain, stood and placed it on a cabinet, while I studied her slim buttocks and that butterfly back tattoo.

Jack returned and pressed me back into the bed, then I rested my weight on my shoulders and heels as she pulled at my sensible Marks & Spencer briefs. Then she lay full length on top of me and we kissed again, her hand brushing across my pubes. She giggled, "Mmm, I'm glad you don't shave, I always loved your fur." I tensed in anticipation as she began to kiss her way down my body. My husband was a strict missionary position man who would never have dreamed of kissing my pussy. My most vivid memory of Jack had always been the ecstasy I felt as her tongue probed my insides, and I was desperate to feel it again. When I pressed my hand to the top of her head and pressed it downwards she chuckled, and squirmed into position.

I almost came just at the feel of her warm breath on my gash. Then she dabbed at my pussy with the tip of her tongue, teasingly. I squeaked and wriggled my hips, trying to push myself onto her. She whispered, "Okay, tiger", and a moment later I groaned loudly as her sweet tongue pressed into me and began swirling the length of my snatch. I stretched my legs as wide apart as I could on the bed, giving her maximum access, as her hands joined in. With one she stroked my insides around her busy tongue; with the fingers of the other she tweaked my clit and caressed my labia, driving me wild with lust. Within moments stars burst before my eyes and I felt my pussy flood as I experienced my first real orgasm in a quarter of a century.




My Old Flame Ch. 02



Jack wasn't finished, and neither was I. I struggled into a sitting position and, without ever losing contact with my yearning vagina, she twisted onto her back, so that by shuffling forwards I was effectively sitting on her face. She continued to lap at me, and I leant forward, stroking her tits, rubbing my hands up and down her tummy, easing a finger into the top of her pussy and jabbing her clit. She moaned at that, and twitched her hips to encourage me. Then I felt her tongue leave my pussy, work across my perineum, and into my bum crack. Before I knew it, Jack was gripping my buttocks, pulling them wide apart and thrusting her tongue into my bumhole, licking hard at me. Even she had never done that to me before. It was something I wouldn't have expected to enjoy, but in fact the muscular wet warmth felt wonderful inside me and I heard myself whining like a small dog begging for a treat. Jack ran her tongue back into my pussy for a while, then back to my bum again.

With the combination of Jack see-sawing between my love holes, and my fingers exploring her pussy, I naturally started to incline forwards, until I was effectively lying on top of her, my face inches form her tattooed Mons Venus. When we had been lovers before, when I was just a scared little girl, I had never been able to bring myself to give Jack the oral pleasure she gave me. Now I ached to take her to the same level of joy I was experiencing, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to drop my lips to her pussy. I kissed her tattoo, and I felt her stiffen slightly, probably in surprise. Then I stretched out and took a good look at her pussy itself. I thought it was really pretty, bald, pink and pouting invitingly, drops of moisture glistening between her puffy lips. I gently blew on it. Jack was so surprised that she actually momentarily stopped what she was doing for me, and murmured, "Suze? You never...oh God, Suze!"

I stroked my tongue firmly along her slit, from back to front, then wiggled it past her lips and into her boiling, sopping pussy. She moaned with pleasure and began slurping at me with renewed vigour. I slipped three fingers inside my lover, and began reaming them around while with my tongue I flicked her clitty, occasionally nibbling lightly at it. I had only ever tasted my own pussy, second-hand on Jack's tongue. I revelled at how much I loved the full flavour of her on my own tongue, somehow sweet yet sour at the same time. We rolled onto our sides, and happily continued to feed on each other, our thighs locked to each other's heads. After probably no more than two minutes of me probing Jack with tongue, teeth, nose and fingers I sensed an increase in the amount of liquid flowing onto my face, and a richer taste to it. I increased the pace with which I was caressing her, and she screamed into my pussy, her slim thighs tensing on my cheeks. Moments later I felt as if my entire body had caught fire, every nerve ending vibrating, as nuclear explosions erupted in my head and I threw my arms around Jack's thighs, pulling her to me with all my might, cumming over and over for what seemed like hours of ecstatic release.

We were both a bit exhausted after that, and lay holding each other, kissing lightly and giggling like the teenagers we had been when we had last made love. Jack stroked my face tenderly, and whispered, "God Suze, that was the best ever. It was worth waiting half my life for! Thank you so much -- I didn't think you'd actually eat me out like that, not the first time at least."

I smiled tiredly. "I didn't know what I was missing. I loved it. Your cunt's going to be exhausted from now on, I'm going to lick it so much." She giggled with pleased anticipation and held me tightly to her, tears forming in her eyes. 

I slept for a while after that, but I quickly woke at the feel of Jack's tongue in my pussy again, and one of her fingers squirming deep into my bum. When we finally, reluctantly, left Jack's bed it was early evening. We returned to the front room, but my departure was further delayed, as I ended up pulling her jeans down and going down on her again, thrusting my head hard against her while she sat in her armchair stroking my hair and whimpering, feet from the uncurtained windows onto the street.

I told Roger that evening that I was leaving him, and exactly why. I felt shocked at his reaction, although I don't suppose I should have. He simply sucked on his pipe, nodded sagely as I explained the way I felt, wished me well, and went to his study to work on his next sermon. For all I know, he fell to the floor weeping there, tore the place to shreds, attempted to cut his wrists with a letter opener, or wrote an old-fashioned fire and brimstone address about Jezebel and the whore of Babylon; but I doubt it somehow. When I told Hannah she burst into tears, then hugged me, kissed me and told me how happy she was for me. Then I packed an overnight bag and returned to Jack's cottage.

I love living in Grasse. It really is such a beautiful place, with the cool breezes altitude provides to temper the Mediterranean heat, and distant views of Nice and the azure sea on which it stands. Jack is back at work now, four days a week. She drives down into Nice every day, and I go to my job as a waitress at one of the pretty cafés in place aux Aires, with its flower market, and artists displaying their works. I've brushed up on my schoolgirl French, and pirouette between the tables flirting with the old men sipping their espressos and their pastis. I've shed more than half a stone in weight, I'm dressing younger and sexier, and Jack and I have a circle of close friends. There's even one American movie producer, who bought his house through Jack, who wants us to let him make a film of her life story, well, our life story I suppose. Jack's son, Marc, is very sweet, and drop dead gorgeous. I know he's three years younger than Hannah, but even so I can't wait to introduce them when she comes over to stay. You never know...

In the evenings Jack and I sit in our conservatory talking, sipping wine, and enjoying the late Autumn sun as we gaze out across the town laid out below us. Then we got to bed and make love. Jack's introduced me to a toy of hers. It's a huge strap-on leather dildo, decades old, and when we're not sucking, fingering and licking, we can spend hours screwing each other. Marc's bedroom is at the other end of the house to ours, but I'm sure we must still keep him awake some nights! At weekends we often go to the naturist beaches of Nice. They're pebbly, like the one back in Brighton -- but they don't let you take your bikini bottoms off here!



My Old Flame



One day, Jack wasn't on the bus. I assumed she was ill or something, but she wasn't there again the next day. I told myself it didn't matter, after all, she wasn't even a friend; but I felt a slight emptiness, and I missed her constant rabbiting away. When she failed to show up for a third day, I took my courage in my hands, walked back into the lion's den of the estate kids, and asked one of her former friends if she knew where Jack was. The girl looked at me as if she'd just wiped me off the sole of her shoe, rolled her eyes then turned away from me again without a word.

That evening I found out why Jack hadn't been around. I was walking out of the school gates, nattering with friends, when I heard a sound like a cross between an extended fart and a lawnmower engine. I looked round for the source, and Jack rolled to the kerb in front of me astride a Lambretta motor cycle, looking very pleased with herself. She called, "Hi Suze, d'ya wanna lift home?"

I gaped in astonishment, and walked slowly over to her. She had a graze on her face, and one of her wrists was bandaged. I asked her what had happened to her. She grinned. "Oh, just a few teething troubles getting used to this thing. So do you want a ride home?" I was aware of my friends standing bemusedly a few feet away, wondering who this weird creature was that I was speaking to. I began to explain I had my bus pass, but Jack interrupted me. "Well, it's up to you. You can either sit on the bus, toiling through every village on the county for over an hour, or I can have you at your front door in half an hour. Your choice."

She had a good point and, reluctantly, I agreed. As my friends watched in open amusement, I swung my leg over the bike. Then a thought occurred to me. "Don't I need a helmet? And anyway, should you even be riding this thing if your wrist's still bandaged?"

Jack laughed. "It's fine. And no, you don't need a helmet as long as you hold on tight. You need to put your arms round my waist. Tighter than that Suze, if you don't want to fall off and break your neck. That's better." My friends were in hysterics now, and cheered as Jack revved the engine and pulled away. That ride was the most exhilarating experience of my entire life up to that point. Once we got out of the town centre Jack opened up the throttle, and we whipped along the road, my hair streaming behind me in the wind. My adrenalin was pumping, and when Jack took a hill too quickly and we flew into the air for a moment I actually whooped! I had never known excitement like it. I got Jack to drop me some distance from home, so my parents wouldn't see me. As I walked home I rapidly dragged a brush through my tangled hair. After that, I pretended every morning that I was leaving home to catch the bus, but instead I rendezvoused with Jack and she drove me into town, then took me back again each evening. Each day I clung tightly to her waist as the powerful little machine throbbed between my legs. I insisted on wearing a helmet, which Jack kept for me.

One afternoon, as I got off the bike, Jack placed her hand on mine, stopping me. "Suze, I'm taking the bike on a run down to Brighton at the weekend. I wondered if you fancied coming along?" Brighton was quite a distance from Millgate Crossing, especially on a little motorbike. But there was a look of appeal on Jack's face. She was giving me these lifts every day, we never met up apart from that, and she wouldn't even let me give her petrol money. I smiled and nodded. She grinned delightedly and, as she accelerated away, called out, "Bring yer cozzie!" 

On the Friday night I told my mother a friend and I were taking a train down to Brighton for the day. She was interested to know who this friend was, but I bluffed my way through that. In my bedroom I debated with myself which swimming costume I should take: the standard one piece I wore for school; or the more daring blue halter-neck two-piece I had bought in a moment of madness, but never had the courage to wear outside my room. After fully ten minutes of indecision, I thought, "Oh to heck with it, I bought the ruddy thing, I might as well get some use out of it." After all, it was quite modest, as bikinis went. 

Jack and I met early on Saturday morning and had a fun ride down to Brighton. On the way we stopped at a transport café where we had a disgusting, greasy, wonderful fried breakfast, and we giggled to each other pretending not to notice truckers from halfway across Europe ogling us. When we arrived in the South Coast resort Jack parked her bike alongside a hundred others, and I slipped off the jeans and sweatshirt I'd travelled in to reveal shorts and a vest top, beneath which I had on the bikini. Jack's eyes roved up and down my body, and she murmured, "Cor, you've got great legs Suze. I'm envious." Chattering happily, we made our way towards the beach. 

As we approached the seafront I vaguely noticed one or two middle-aged men with binoculars pointed towards the sea, but it didn't really register until I got onto the shingle itself. Then I glanced around me -- and did a double-take. I turned to my friend and squeaked, "Jack, you have got to be joking!" I'd heard of Brighton's infamous nude beach, of course -- but never in my life had I thought I would ever actually stand on it. Jack gurgled with laughter at my reaction and started whipping off her T-shirt, beneath which she was nude. Moving her hands to her tracksuit trousers, she said, "Come on Suze, Reverend Daddy's not here now. Live a bit." I glanced away in embarrassment as she stood before me entirely naked, stretching out the blanket she'd brought for us to lie on on the rough, pebbly beach. I was torn by indecision. Finally, seeing Jack settle herself, I blurted, "Oh...fizz!" and, angrily ripped off my outer clothing, as Jacks snorted with laughter and started to sing David Bowie's Rebel Rebel. 

I threw myself down on the blanket beside her, determined to be angry with her. The beach wasn't very comfortable, even through the thick wool. Jack, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, leaned up on her elbows and said, "Is that it?" I whirled to face her. She inclined her head toward a public notice, and said, "This is a nudist beach, as in not having clothes on. They don't allow you on here unless you are nude, otherwise every perv in Brighton'd be down here." I allowed myself a suppressed scream of rage. Next thing I knew, Jack was sitting up and fiddling with the catch of my bikini bra. "At least take your top off. I'm sure they won't mind if you keep your knicks on." Before I could stop her my bra swung loose and, seeing little choice, I reluctantly shrugged it off. Jack stared openly at my big swinging boobs and chuckled, "Bugger me, I'm jealous again!"

I lay back on the blanket self-consciously. Gradually, though, I allowed myself to relax. The feel of the warm sun on my skin was nice, and everyone else on the beach was at least as bare as I was. As for those horrible dirty old men with their binoculars, well, it wasn't as if any of them knew me. After a while, I glanced over at Jack, who appeared to be asleep, one knee raised. Her skin seemed almost deathly pale. Feeling slightly like a voyeur myself, I took in the sight of her. She really was skinny -- her ribs stood out under her skin, as did her hip bones, and there wasn't that much of her arms and legs either. Her boobs, although small, stood up perkily, even though she was lying on her back. Her nipples were round, like berries, and they and her small areola were very pale pink, not much darker than her skin. The little tuft of hair in her groin area was more ginger than the yellow of her head. I turned my head away from her, feeling myself blush. It was really nice of her taking me to Brighton, I thought. She could be a good friend to me, I really should start seeing more of her than just twice a day on that bike, when we couldn't even talk properly. Suddenly feeling very warm towards Jack, I stroked my hand lightly down her arm. Her lips curled in a smile and her hand scrabbled, intertwining her fingers with mine.

I'm not sure how long after that I feel asleep, lulled by the rhythmic sound of the sea, and the heat of the sun, but I was probably out of it for a couple of hours. I awoke to a shadow falling across my eyelids. I opened them slowly to find jack leaning over me, smiling down at me, no longer wearing her shades. The tip of one of her conical breasts pressed lightly into the flesh of one of my boobs. She half-whispered, "Welcome back to the land of the living, beautiful dreamer." I smiled back at her and yawned. Then, feeling the need to stretch, I splayed out my arms. That was the moment she chose to kiss me.

She crushed her lips hard onto mine, sliding her body so that she lay half on top of me, her boobs, slick with sun tan lotion, pushing into mine. Instinctively my arms jerked back in, and settled around her, as if I were pulling her to me. She lifted her face from mine, gazed at me for a moment, then kissed me again, more tenderly, her teeth gently plucking at my lower lip. I wasn't particularly alarmed at what was happening, or pleased, or anything really. Still slightly dopey from my sleep, I was more confused than anything. I mumbled, "Jack, what are you doing? Should we be doing this?""

Barely breaking the kiss, her lips still brushing mine as she spoke, she whispered, "Ssh, it's all right, all we're doing is snogging, there's nothing wrong in that. It's just friendly, snogging is. I only want to show you how much I like you." At the time (this is how naïve I was in those days!) I thought what she said seemed reasonable. Kissing was innocent enough, and it was very nice, and we were friends. My brain chose to ignore the fact that my nipples were stiffening as her breasts slid against them. When she started snogging me again, I returned the kiss, and I left my arms around her warm, bare back. Within a couple of minutes I'd allowed her tongue to slip between my lips. Another minute or so, and I felt a small, warm hand stroke my breast, the palm pressing against my straining nipple. My body was beginning to heat up with much more than solar power. As she squeezed my boob my shoulder lifted, pushing my tit hard against her hand. I felt her knee slip between my legs, her thigh rubbing at the V at the top of my legs. Acting entirely on their own, my hips began moving back and forth, sliding my heated pussy against her thigh muscle.

If we had been in a private place, she might have tried to have me right there -- and I might very well have let her. As it was, I suddenly remembered we were on a busy beach, among dozens of other people. I pulled my head away from hers and started to slide from underneath her, muttering, "Time's getting on, I think we need to start getting back." I glanced around me. A few people were staring at us, one or two smirking at the free show they'd been enjoying. Jack looked a little crestfallen at first, but as I stood, reached down and helped her up a slow smile spread across her face. I think she knew right then she hadn't been rejected; that the inevitable had just been postponed.

I walked on shaky legs back to the Lambretta, feeling the gusset of my bikini pants sticking to my pussy. We drove directly back to the village, and all the way I thought about what had happened, and what on earth I had been doing on that beach. When we arrived I leapt off the bike with a mumbled farewell and hurtled home like a scared rabbit, before Jack had a chance to say a word to me. In bed that night, though, and all day Sunday, I continued to think about it. I knew my father regarded homosexuality as a heinous sin. But did just letting Jack kiss me -- all right, kissing her back too -- did that make me a homosexual? Even if it did, her kisses felt so good, not to mention her hand on my boob and her thigh between my legs. And anyway, now I was beginning to get to know her I liked her; I liked her a lot. At least a girl couldn't get me pregnant!

On the Monday she didn't refer to what had happened between us, other than asking how I'd enjoyed the day out. In the evening, as I swung my leg over the bike and removed my helmet, she caught me by the wrist and gave me a kiss on the cheek. The next day she went further. She got off the bike as well, pulled my face down to hers, and kissed me on the lips, slipping her tongue between my teeth as I gasped in surprise. I panicked slightly, in case anyone saw us and word got back to my parents. As she released me I turned to rush away but she clung onto my hand. "Hang on Suze, I wanted to ask you something. My mum's going to be away tomorrow night, and my brother's moved back to London. I wondered if you fancied coming round for the evening. We could have a burger, a few drinks, watch a bit of TV, listen to music, whatever. We've never really had much of a chance to get to know each other properly. What do you think?"

It all sounded perfectly innocent. But I knew it wasn't. Not meeting her eyes, I told her I'd think about it and let her know. Yet less than an hour later, over our evening meal, I told my parents I wouldn't be home for dinner the next night. I'd agreed to meet up with a friend from school to work together for our exams. My father looked annoyed -- the family sitting down together was a big thing to him. But my mother just nodded and carried on with her meal. When I met up with Jack the next day, the first thing she asked me was whether I was on for the evening. Concentrating on buckling on my helmet, I murmured, "Er, yeah, okay." I tried to sound casual; I failed miserably. 

I had butterflies in my tummy all day, and I couldn't wait for school to end. As I clung to Jack's waist on the ride to Millgate Crossing I could feel my heart thumping against her back. She swung the bike up the hill into the estate, and pulled into the driveway of a rather dingy looking semi-detached house, the lower half pebble dashed, the upper half painted a sickly light green. Jack swung open a cheap looking grey front door and led me along a threadbare hall carpet to a comfy looking sitting room with a plump two-seater sofa and armchairs, all covered in a cream material patterned with big red flowers, matching the wallpaper. She switched on a couple of table lamps and drew the curtains, leaving the room subtly lit. Shooting me a nervous smile, she said, "Make yourself comfortable and I'll cook us up some burgers." She took my coat and school blazer and draped them over one of the chairs. I lowered myself onto the sofa, removing my tie and undoing a couple of buttons on my blouse, trying hard to relax.

We kind of chatted, me perching uneasily on the edge of the sofa, Jack calling comments through the open kitchen door as she worked, over the sizzle of frying onions. In about 10 minutes she re-appeared, carrying a tray containing two plates with burgers in buns, complete with the onions and lettuce, accompanied by plastic bottles of ketchup and mustard, and two cheap wine glasses containing a pink liquid. I was quite impressed -- it all looked very professional. Jack giggled happily when I told her that, and placed the tray on a low coffee table in front of me. Then she squatted in front of a stereo unit in the corner, selected a CD called '70s Love Ballads, and slid it into the machine. 

As Could It Be I'm Falling In Love by the Detroit Spinners began to play she flopped down on the sofa beside me and nodded at the tray. "Well, tuck in." The burger was a little more well done than I'd have liked, but she'd inserted a Kraft cheese slice in the bun as well, and it was delicious -- I suddenly realised I was starving. We munched away in silence, letting the music drift over us and sipping our wine. It was a rosé, quite sweet and slightly fizzy. I hardly ever drank alcohol, and I quickly felt it warming my cheeks and forehead.

The combination of the burger, the wine and the heat emanating from the three-bar electric heater Jack had switched on made me feel much more relaxed, and I leaned back into the sofa. Jack tucked her legs under her and angled her body towards me. Smiling, she said, "This is nice, isn't it." Not very subtly, she slipped an arm around my shoulders. I turned my head to look at her -- then we were kissing again. Quite softly at first, but gradually she upped the pace, nibbling at my lower lip, licking her tongue along my teeth. As we melded to each other a hand closed over one of my boobs, and she started to gently squeeze. Not sure what to do with my hands, I sort of put my arms around her and placed them lightly on her back.

We snogged for several minutes before we finally came up for air. Jack smiled at me, and with a finger she stroked a strand of my hair off my face. She whispered, "I fancied you from the first moment I saw you on that bus. I kept trying to catch your eye, but you always had your nose buried in a book. It took me months to pluck up the courage to come and talk to you." I wasn't used to such talk, and with that and the wine I felt my face blushing furiously. I lowered my eyes shyly. Jack caught my chin in a hand and raised it, then we were kissing again.

Even though she was smaller and lighter than me, she bore down on me and I gradually slid down the sofa, beneath her, my skirt slipping up my backside to reveal my big grey school pants. I bent my knees to accommodate my height on the short sofa. Between kisses Jack started whispering again. "And when I did come and sit next to you that day, and talk to you, you were so scared of me!" Kiss. "Last week, in Brighton, I couldn't believe it when you agreed to stay on the nude beach, you know!" Kiss. "I thought you'd stalk off in a strop." Kiss. "When I saw your tits," kiss, "I wasn't sure how long I could keep my hands off you." As she said that, she used one hand to undo my blouse, one button at a time. I just watched, slightly dazed. Then I shuddered as I felt her fingers stroke the skin of my stomach, just below my bra.

We kissed some more, then Jack said, "Sit up a minute." I was so under her spell I didn't think twice, simply obeyed. She reached her arms around me, inside my blouse, and I felt my bra snap open. Then she bore me back down, and as her tongue entered my mouth again I felt her hands close over my bare boobs, her palms rubbing my nipples. I had never felt so scared in my life, yet at the same time so excited. Uncertainly, I pressed my hand to one of her little boobs, outside her blouse. She moaned encouragement into my mouth, and pushed hard against my hand. Then she released one of my tits, and grabbed my hand, thrust it between the buttons of her blouse and straight into her bra. Her boob felt warm against my hand, the nipple a hard nub against my skin. Unsure of what to do, I moved my hand in small circular motions. I felt a tremor of shock as Jack ducked her head and took one of my nipples between her teeth. She bit gently into it and I moaned involuntarily, and my hips bucked against her weight on top of me. As she ran her tongue across the skin of my breast, I heard her murmur, "We can go upstairs if you like, to my bedroom."

I froze. I don't know what the hell difference I thought it made -- after all, we were all alone in the house wherever she was seducing me -- but to my confused 18-year old mind there was something different about going into another person's room with them: it felt like crossing an invisible line. What we were doing at the moment was just 'necking', as they said in American teen movies. I think I really believed that. Lifting my hand from her boob I said clearly, "No, I don't think we better had."

I thought for a moment Jack would overrule me -- in the state I was in she could have done, easily. But she just mumbled, "Okay, not this time", and sucked my boob back into her mouth. She pressed her own boob back against my hand, and I began gently squeezing it.




My Old Flame



I got a little scared when I felt her fingers slip beneath the waistband of my pants. I scrabbled at her wrist and grabbed it. She paused her hand for maybe 30 seconds, just holding it there. She increased the pressure of her mouth on mine, then subtly started slipping her hand down again. That time I let her. I felt her fingers trail through my bushy pubes, then it felt as if a tongue of fire shot through my body as she touched my pussy. Whether by luck or design, her finger had landed straight on my clitoris. She slid several fingers into my tight slit and began to stroke me. I heard a sort of whining noise, and realised it was coming from me.

I'm afraid I completely forgot about stroking Jack's boob, or doing anything else for her, at that point. I felt guilty about that later. I clung to her shoulders with my hands, pulling her down on me, my whole body pushing up at her, desperate for her to continue to give me the unbelievable feelings of ecstasy that she was creating in my pussy. I felt as if I was burning up. I was aware of a building sensation, almost like a kettle boiling. Then suddenly my whole body spasmed, nearly throwing Jack off me, and my thighs locked together, trapping her hand inside me, as the most incredible waves of electricity flared up me, over and over. My hips jerked at her time after time, and I buried my face in her shoulder and screamed.

Afterwards I started to feel very tired, and I suddenly wanted very much to be at home, in my bed. Jack seemed to understand that instinctively. She kissed me gently, stroking my hair and wiping tears from my cheeks, then stood and, rearranging her blouse, said, "Come on I'll walk you back down the hill." I was glad of that -- I had never walked around in the council estate during daylight hours, let alone at night. When we got close to the vicarage, Jack pulled me into the shade of a tree and gave me a full-blooded French kiss. Then, looking slightly worried, she whispered, "We will do that again, won't we Suze?" Biting my lip I nodded, not sure if I meant it, then I ran into my home. I tucked my head around the sitting room door to say hello to my parents, then dashed up to bed. Later that night I slipped my hand between my legs, and tried to re-create the feelings Jack had given me. I managed only a pale imitation.

We did do it again, of course -- two days later. On that occasion Jack didn't give me the slightest choice where we went. A tension crackled between us the day after that first time, and as I got off Jack's bike in the evening, she simply said, "Tell your folks you're studying with your mate again tomorrow night." After that she took total control. She met me out of school the next evening as usual, and I meekly followed her to a greasy spoon café where we both had sausage, egg and chips. Then Jack rode back to her house, took my hand and led me straight up the stairs to her bedroom. She briskly stripped me down to my pants, then took all her clothes off. My head was in a whirl, and I just stood and raised my arms and legs when instructed to allow her to do it.

Finally, she knelt in front of me and slipped my drawers down my legs. I jumped as she reached around me and clutched my buttocks in her hands, and buried her nose in the top of my pussy and inhaled deeply. Then she stood and, giving me an encouraging smile, eased me under the covers of her narrow bed and got in with me. We went through much the same stages as before -- the increasingly passionate kisses, Jack sucking my boobs while I stroked hers, her fingers tickling around my pussy lips, although she didn't actually enter me at first. I had seen her naked before, but never really held her. It felt strange at first, then increasingly enjoyable, her cool flesh pressing against mine, her little boobs rubbing mine, her pubes tickling against me.

After she had given both my boobs an extensive suck, I felt her squirming further down my body. I suddenly felt scared and a little confused. I asked, "Jack, what are you doing? What...oh heck!" Jesus, that's what I actually said the first time someone started to eat me out -- heck! It took me totally by surprise. I suppose I had sort of worked out that girls kissed each other there, but I had never thought about it happening to me. If I had thought Jack's fingers swirling about in my pussy was lovely, I was totally unprepared for the combination of her tongue licking at my raw flesh while her fingers stroked my clit and labia. The skin of my entire body tingled, and I felt levels of joy I hadn't dreamed it was possible to experience. I writhed and squirmed under her, Jack holding me down as I bucked to my second screaming, sobbing orgasm.

I lay temporarily exhausted as she tickled my boobs with her fingers and planted butterfly kisses on my face. Then she whispered, "Suze, it'd be nice if you did something for me." I knew that was coming. I rolled on top of her and tried to give her the same pleasure she'd given me, twice. I kissed her deeply, and sucked her boobs. They felt harder than I would have expected, her nipples like peanuts. I enjoyed the sensation though. She murmured, "Bleeding hell" when I slipped my hand between her legs. I pushed two fingers inside her and began to pump them in and out, kissing her and squeezing her boob with my other hand. As she started to heat up her pale face turned red and her knees rose, her legs doubled up. She grabbed my wrist and started pushing my hand into her deeper, faster. Then she yelped, and I felt her pussy lips tighten around my fingers and an increased intensity in the warm wetness inside her. 

She smiled at me, her eyes shining, and gave me an almost sisterly kiss on the lips and a hug. Rolling me onto my side, she lay facing me and said, "Thanks Suze, I...really like you. I think you're so lovely." Feeling a mixture of pleasure for the joy I'd given her, and my usual embarrassment at receiving any personal compliment, I told her I thought she was lovely too. We kissed and cuddled for a while longer, and I ended up rubbing myself to another small orgasm on Jack's thigh. Then we dressed and returned downstairs. I was shocked to see a woman, several years younger than my mother, sitting at the kitchen table smoking. She had blonde hair with dark roots, and glanced at me with dead eyes. Jack flushed and said, "Oh, mum, I didn't think you were coming back tonight. This is my friend, Susannah. We were just, er..." The woman stared at me without speaking. I knew with terrible certainty that she had no illusions about her daughter; that she knew exactly what we 'were just'.

Jack and I both finished school shortly after that. I had four good A Levels and my secure place at the University of East Surrey, Jack had one A Level and no intention of ever studying again. That summer the weather was glorious, and we spent as much time in each other's company as possible. We went down to Brighton again -- I still refused to take my bikini bottoms off on the naturist beach -- and we went on other trips. We made love at every opportunity. It was usually in the open air, so the most we could do was, kiss, suck each other's boobs and frig each other, without removing our clothes. But a few times we slipped into Jack's house when it was empty and went to bed together. I loved those times. She sucked my pussy until it ached, and I became quite skilled at making her come with my hands.

The one thing I never did was lick her out, the way she so lovingly did for me. I did try once -- my face was within inches of her slit, the pale pink lips peering out between her ginger hairs -- but I just couldn't bring myself to press my face to her. I rose back up the bed with tears running down my cheeks, and whined, "I'm sorry Jack, I just can't, I really can't."

She gave me a brave smile, and kissed me. "That's okay Suze. I love you letting me do it to you, and I love what you do for me."

We never talked about what would happen when the summer was over. Neither of us wanted to think about it. Three weeks before I was due to leave for uni, we did finally discuss it, in a café on the way back from a lovely day out. I tentatively suggested that Jack could get a job near the university, and we could get a flat together. She snorted in derision. "I told you once before Suze, I want to travel -- see the world. I don't want to be tied down for years while you ponce around with your student friends." She gripped both of my hands over the table, and stared intently at me. "Don't go to university -- come with me." I stared at her as if she was mad. I had known for years I was going to get a degree, and really make something of my life. I had no idea what, though.

We dropped the conversation at that point, but we both knew the discussion wasn't over, and things started to get tense between us. Finally, after we'd made love one day in Jack's bed -- for the last time as it turned out -- we sat at her kitchen table, and she said, "I've decided. I'm going up to London on Saturday. A mate's agreed to put me up, and she'll let you stay if you want to as well."

I shook my head, not understanding. "I couldn't commute from there to uni, it's too far."

Jack sighed in exasperation. "Suze, I'm asking you not to go to university. Come with me instead. We can get away from this stuck-up little community, and live together without anyone calling us names and shunning us, like they would here, or in East bloody Surrey."

I was stunned by the very idea. "But what would I do if I didn't go to uni? How would we live -- toss burgers in McDonalds?"

Jack looked at me bleakly. "We'd get jobs to tide us over at first, but...it'd only be temporary Suze. I want to travel, and I want you with me. We'll have fun. God, you're so conventional -- go to uni like mummy and daddy want you to, become a fucking lawyer or something, or maybe marry a nice young vicar just like Daddy..."

I shook my head vehemently, "I won't be marrying any bloody vicar."

Jack waved her hand, irritated at the interruption. "Whatever! Suze, I...I love you. I mean really love you. And I want us to be together. Please. I know you love me too."

I had never felt more confused. I had always wanted to get a degree; suddenly I didn't know what I wanted any more. And I didn't understand why Jack was being so selfish, why she wouldn't be happy to live with me while I studied. Without really thinking what I was saying, I blurted, "Jack I love...what we do together, and I really like you, but I don't love you. Girls can't love each other, not in that way, not really."

She looked as if she was about to cry. I'd never seen Jack like that before. She gazed at me as if I was the biggest idiot on earth (which I was!), and slowly stood and walked to the kitchen door. Then she turned, and said, "Well, that's it then," and walked out. I let myself out of the kitchen feeling as if someone had torn a huge hole in my stomach. As I walked down the garden path I heard her call me. She said, in a voice trembling with emotion, "I'll be leaving here on the bike at nine a.m. on Saturday. I'll have your helmet ready. Please come with me. I meant it Suze, I'm in love with you." Then she closed the door. On the Saturday morning I lay in bed, tears streaming down my face. Shortly after nine I heard a motor bike of some kind revving its engine in the street outside my bedroom window. Then it roared off.

I never did get my degree. Three months into my first year, I got word during a lecture that my father had had a stroke. I was surprised how devastated I felt. I really didn't like him, but -- well, he was my father, and I suppose deep down I did love him. Mum didn't cope very well, she just withdrew into herself. I ended up pretty much looking after both of them, in the tiny cottage we moved into. I helped the new vicar too. He was a nice chap, quite a bit older than me. We increasingly spent a lot of time in each other's company, and we laughed a lot together, and...I cursed myself on my wedding day. After years of promising myself I would have nothing more to do with the Church, I was only ending up marrying a sodding vicar -- just like Jack predicted, damn her.

I was deeply, hopelessly in love with Jack, of course I was. I was just too much of a stupid little prig to admit it, even to myself; too scared, when push came to shove, of breaking out of the conventional strait-jacket I'd been brought up in, and actually starting to make my own decisions. I cried for weeks after she rode out of my life. Over the years I've worked hard at forgetting her, but I never really did. Especially in recent years, not a month has gone by when I haven't thought about Jack, even shed a few tears, recalled the feel of her hands -- and her mouth -- on my body, wondered where she was, how she was doing, how it would have been if I'd just got up and gone with her that sunny Saturday morning. What might have happened if I'd told her I loved her too, instead of denying it, even to myself. And now, suddenly, I know exactly where she is: back in my old village, living five minutes walk from my home. I don't know how she feels about me, after so long, and the way I abandoned her. But I know now that I'm still in love with her, at least, with the Jack I knew 25 years ago -- and it scares the shit out of me.