And so a new pattern was established between us, based on my unquenchable need for her cunt. Even aside from her age and size and experience and rank in the household, it gave her the upper hand over me – and I soon became her little slave, eager for any possible chance to prove my devotion. She still felt guilty, true, speaking of it often – all too often to suit me – but that no longer stopped her from taking advantage of my willingness.
During the day, whenever my father wasn't around, she didn't even wear panties any more, just a loose housedress with a wide skirt, wide enough for me to get underneath it. All she had to do was put one foot up on the rung of a chair and utter an order – or even beckon me in silence – and I never hesitated to obey. Even her posture was exciting, the arrogance of it, the way she towered so high my crouched body. And then when she he hem of her skirt over me, it was like a sex-redolent tent compressing and enhancing ail the various sensations as I turned my face up into her crotch, the hairy nest between her plump thighs. Oh, how I loved being Bernadette's darling little cuntlapper!
Sometimes, often, I would sit in school and think of her, almost feeling those big soft legs around me, encircling my cheeks. It was always inside my head, the memory of that hot woman-cunt, available whenever I cared to bypass some dull class work and slip away into a delectable daydream. Now and then, too, quite deliberately, I would recall the more trying moments in our relationship, the times when she made me wait for my pleasure. Like the nights when she might lie naked on her bed, all limp and lazy, letting me just stand there and stew awhile. Watching her like that, it was all I could do to keep from undressing and throwing myself down alongside her. But I didn't dare, not without specific permission, and had learned to control my impatience the hard way. Yes indeed, she had taught me to wait and suffer until I was told what to do. It was always better to play safe and just look hopeful – and maybe lick my lips a little – until the invitation came. Or the command, more likely, direct and to the point, since that lazily relaxed attitude of hers was seldom more than sham. For someone who made her living as a servant, she was sure dictatorial, a bossy bitch if ever there was one. But that too was part of the excitement and I always seemed to wind up adoring her all the more for it. As if it was in my nature to be dictated to.
(Wasn't that the submissive side, the "Eloi" side of my nature already showing itself? Oh, but I was too young to understand, too young for such a psychologically complex concept!)
Anyway, I was Bernadette's obedient little angel and loved every minute of it. Whatever she wanted was fine with me. I worshipped at the shrine of her cunt and was ever so pleased to give her access to mine – anytime, anywhere, just a happy little girl. Those years with my favorite maid were good ones. The best, perhaps. Too bad they had to end so abruptly.
I never knew how or why it happened, not even whether she got fired by my father or quit of her own free will. Nor did it matter, actually, not to a heartbroken child – and I didn't even dare show the degree of my heartbreak! I just had to grin and bear it, the pain, the emptiness, truly aware for the first time in my life of a lesbian's need for secrecy…
Eventually, of course, the wound healed over. A succession of maids came and went, none more than mildly appealing, none clever enough to see my overture of affection for what it really was. I gave up hoping in time, turning almost, normal as past memories began to blur. Almost but not quite. My interest in the opposite sex just wasn't as pronounced, comparatively speaking, as it should have been. The girls at school talked about boys incessantly; we were at the awkward-but-eager age now, out of childhood and into adolescences too young to date but old enough for parties and dances. And like any normal youngster, I too became one of the flock. Only I couldn't quite feel comfortable playing that game, always vaguely-conscious of something amiss – like a black sheep trying to disguise myself under a snow-white fleece. An off-color sheep, anyhow.
Not that it showed. Oh no, it was buried in my own mind, never rising to the surface. I saw only admiration in people's eyes, even envy in some, a genuine tribute to the beauty that was blossoming from within me. As foretold long ago, my garish red hair had deepened to a rich and attractive auburn. I was still a bit gawky, with coltish legs and a bosom that hadn't yet filled out, but the old predictions weren't far wrong: little Loi Morlock was developing into a beautiful young woman.
Nor was my popularity ever in doubt. At our parties and dances there were innumerable would-be swains vying for my favor. I partied and danced with them all – small boys, big boys, polite boys who stayed within the bounds of propriety, and politely sneaky boys whose notion of fun was to "cop a feel" and then brag about it. All of whom I handled with finesse, if not exactly a flair. And yet, deep down inside, I knew that the proverbial knight on the white charger wasn't for me. Or at least I sensed it, puzzled but not overly pained by this rather strange discrepancy in my character.
Funny thing. For some extra pocket-money, I had been doing a lot of weekend and holiday baby-sitting – and even in that, somehow, my instinct was to avoid little boys whenever possible. With the exception of one brother and sister pair, all my kids were little girls, all easy to take care of. Easier for me, anyway, even though there wasn't much difference in the actual work. I just naturally leaned in that direction, feeling more relaxed and self-confident with girls. And there was no thought of anything sexy, either, I had long since swept all that childish foolishness into a dim and dusty corner of my mind. Oh no, baby-sitting was just a job to me, pleasant but usually pretty dull. Or so I figured – until little Jackie Quigg upset my applecart…
The kid was no stranger to me. I had stayed with her before, although never overnight. For that matter, overnight sitting was something new for me, and Jackie's parents had even called my father to get his okay. It was a gala occasion for them, an anniversary or some such, and they had made reservations at a classy country-style hotel. For the first time, then, I was left in complete charge from Saturday evening until late Sunday afternoon. Oh sure, I had a list of instructions about food and the like – along with a phone number to ring in case of emergency – but it was still pretty exhilarating to be the boss of the house. And I rather enjoyed the way the little girl fawned over me, practically catering to my every wish.
She had permission to stay up late and watch television, a change in routine that a baby-sitter might find objectionable, but I really didn't mind. After all, I was being paid for this night's work. Then too, Jackie herself was good company, cute and cheerful and never one to complain, a cute little elf with dark hair and big blue eyes and a shy but sincere smile. Even the dimples in her cheeks seemed to light up when she laughed. She was ready for bed, too, freshly bathed and wearing only her nightie, so I would have no trouble tucking her in when sleep time came. Not that I anticipated any trouble at all actually, not from a child who had practically put me on a pedestal. The kid truly liked me. Although I didn't expect her to say so with such girlish enthusiasm.
"You mean it, Loi? I can stay up for the late movie?"
"Uh-huh. It's a jungle picture."
"You're so nice to me. Oh, I love you!" She reached out and grabbed my hand. "I'd rather have you than…"
Only her voice faded, not the gesture. She was lifting my hand to her lips. Mildly embarrassed, I permitted the impulsive kiss but went on looking at the TV screen. And then I was too flabbergasted to pull away when the kiss turned into a prolonged caress. What the hell was the crazy kid trying to do?
It wasn't just her lips now, that squirmy wet sensation could only have come from a tongue. It was licking the hollow of my palm and dabbing between my fingers every so often, moving slowly, daintily, sending hot and cold chills through me. She did it like a finicky kitten testing a bowl of cream for texture and freshness, hungry enough but still taking time for a preliminary appraisal. And meanwhile I couldn't do a damn thing but sit there and stare blankly at the television set, feeling almost feverish as those shivery thrills raced up and down my spine.
Then the word sex popped into my mind. Followed closely by another word that I refused to confront consciously, it was just too ugly. Certainly too ugly for a baby-sitter entrusted with the care of a child. It jolted me out of my daze, though, and I managed to end the weird moment without creating a fuss, pulling away quite casually to stand up and go tinker with the TV knobs. At least I hoped it appeared casual, shaky knees and all.
The picture didn't need readjustment, but it was easy to make the pretense, knocking the colors out of kilter and then starting from scratch with the flesh-tones. Easy to stay there until I felt calm again, anyway. And I returned to my seat with a sense of relief, glad to see that Jackie had evidently gotten over her burst of affection. She had moved to the corner of the sofa, all curled up in a ball now, with only her tiny bare feet visible outside the nightie. All settled down to watch the jungle flick, no doubt – no more hand-kissing, no more childish declarations of gratitude, no more problem for me.
Or was I being unduly optimistic? I couldn't tell. Maybe the kid was just stretching her legs. Oh well, it wasn't as bad as that kiss – only the contact of her feet, one barely touching my thigh and the other behind me in the sofa cushions, snuggled against the sunken curve of my hip. Just keeping warm, perhaps. Only it wasn't exactly cold there in that cozy living room. Far from it, in fact. I could almost feel myself breaking out in a sweat, another attack of chills and fever coming on. And it got immeasurably worse when the pressure on my thigh increased and the toes in back of me began to wriggle around in a kittenish manner. Oh, she was some kitty cat, my little friend Jackie Quigg. I just didn't know what to make of this new development, this new and rather frightening facet of someone so familiar to me, familiar as an old shoe and usually just as pliant. Nor could I blame it on my imagination, either. One way or the other, I had to call a halt here.
"S'matter, honey? Not enough room for you?"
She giggled. I rose and sidled over a step – the sofa wasn't all that long really, just soft and deep – and then plunked myself down again. Only to find a lump under me, a very lively little lump that seemed to cleave my buttocks apart like a wiggly wedge. Its warmth penetrated my skirt and panties, her toes jabbing, right up into me – it could have been a hot coal down there, that was how fast I scrambled back up out of the cushions. While her giggle rang in my ear once again, rising almost to a shriek of laughter…