Message-ID: <46994asstr$1078265408@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: by_jane@literotica.org (jane) X-Original-Message-ID: <80045de.0403011949.1082a3bd@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 2 Mar 2004 03:49:39 +0000 (UTC) X-Spamscanner: mailbox7.ucsd.edu (v1.4 Oct 30 2003 22:20:52, 0.0/5.0 2.63) X-MailScanner: PASSED (v1.2.8 1483 i223nden010440 mailbox7.ucsd.edu) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 1 Mar 2004 19:49:38 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} Glimpses 24/94 by jane Lines: 286 Date: Tue, 2 Mar 2004 17:10:08 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: hoisingr, dennyw Author: jane Title: Glimpses 24/94 Summary: Libby bars the door to save the day. Keywords: none Length: 1242 words Copyright: c. 2004 *17 January 1997, Friday part two* _marsha sent an email thursday ..._ Dear Jane, Remember me? She says I cheated when we cybered. She's ultra ticked. It's awful. I need a friend to talk to. Please? :-( , Marsha _what was i supposed to say to that ... i mightve only made things worse ... i was busy and it was getting awkward ... i didnt send an answer ... i crossed her off ... i didnt have solutions ... toronto ..._ *§* "It's your father, isn't it?" Libby blocked the door, arms folded soberly across her chest. "Not." Marsha set her jaw against the argument. She sweltered in her winter running gear. "You're full of anger. You're blaming me. Everything goes back to Jim. _Trust_ me, baby," Libby begged. Marsha tapped her foot. Clay spattered from her running shoes onto the hardwood floor. _Trust? Please. You'll never see me cry._ "We talk. I'm going to run, is all." "No." Her mother balled her fists. "It's freezing rain out there. Getting sick won't bring Rebecca back." "Cold doesn't make you sick. Who said it's Bec? I'm going." "You're not." They glared. Then Marsha sank onto their foyer bench. _Stupid! What? You're gonna hit me? Fuck, I wish that I was twenty. When I get the money, the insurance, I'm out of here, you bitch. You look so serious. I'm not your 'baby'. Daddy, help me._ "'Kay, I trust you," Marsha muttered. "We'll talk later." "It's been a week, sweetheart. You've hardly slept or eaten. Tell me what the fight's about?" "I eat. It's not Rebecca." "Marsha, please. I saw the way she left last Friday." Her arms unfolded. "I know how bad you're hurting." "Just let me run." Libby looked beyond the stained glass entry window. She paused, then blurted, "You think I haven't been in love?" The accusation silenced them. Once said, it couldn't be retracted. It left them stunned, bound suddenly together in fear of what might follow. Marsha slipped the bow that held one shoe. _I lose._ "I'm going to my room." _No tears. No matter what. No tears._ "Marsha." The hallway floor was chilly. "What?" "Talk to me." "I can't." "Then let me talk. You listen." Libby settled near her on the bench. "I always knew I'd tell you someday. This is hard. Don't interrupt. I might not start again." Then words poured out like flood upon a tableland, too fast for sandbag barriers or orderly retreat, too sudden for her daughter's comprehension. Libby's phrases bumped against her, jetsam in a swirl of sound. "On the ferry ... Alice ... holding hands in Kensington ... azalea beds ... my Alice ... in your arms forever ..." "Alice?" "Before I met your father. At the university." "He knew?" "He knew her. Not that we'd been lovers." A trembling finger found its way to Marsha's lips. "Please. Let me say it all. Just get it out. I've tried. I always chickened out. By now, she's in New Zealand. She's with a friend, a woman. We met when I was twenty. I don't know how we fell in love. I do know where. First time we kissed was in a Veteran's Cab." She laughed. "Your mom is crazy. Love doesn't always make much sense. First time that we were brave enough, was out in public, coming home from some outrageous party." "Wow." _Ours was in the change room on the Islands._ "We shared a flat: Spadina Road. Two years. Two very happy years. I miss them. Still miss her. 'I want to wake up in your arms forever.' That's what she said that morning. The first time that she spent the night. No one ever said a thing more perfect. Two years later, we had some silly argument. Your father came along and swept me up. There. It's out I did it." "Mom?" "You and Rebecca. Tell me what went wrong. Some things don't happen twice. Some things need fixing right away. Or else you'll always wish you had." Marsha's head relaxed on Libby's shoulder. "Awesome, Mom." She smiled. "We were so careful. I underestimated you." "What was your fight about, baby?" "It's hard. I ought to see her, first." "Then, do it." "Okay. But then, we'll talk? At least, I'll try." "It's a promise. But first, clean off those running shoes and get this mess up off my floor. Then make your call." They hugged. *§* Four hours later, Rebecca, skeptical, bedraggled from the storm, sat at Marsha's desk, her leather jacket zippered, ready for retreat. Incredulous. "You _told_ her? _True?_" "She told _me_. She said it first." "How'd she know?" "Right from the start this fall, she says. Go figure." "Tell me what you said. Exactly." She stared directly at the sleeping monitor as if some "jane" sat waiting in the dark. A single word, misplaced or mispronounced, might send her back into the night, thought Marsha. Perhaps this time forever. "I said that we were lovers." "Lovers? Your _mom_? And if she outs us?" "She won't. She understands." "So now there's three of us in this? That's it?" "There's more. She's bi." "Your mom is bi?" "I'm glad she knows. Sometimes I hate her. But I'm glad. You were right about your dad. Tell him. 'Kay?" "And _if_?" "Bec, please. This week was shit. I never felt so bad since Daddy died. I need you. I just don't care about the rest." "The kids at school don't matter now?" "Nothing matters. Only you." "Simple." "Prob'ly not." "Tell everyone? You're sure." "Whatever. Yeah." Rebecca stood and shrugged the coat onto the waiting chair. "We might be dead without the Code." "Nothing's worse than losing you." Marsha pulled her near and kissed her. Open mouths and tongues mixed words and sentences in streams of free form verse. Lumpy snatches of their week apart got caught in playful tugs along a lip, and probes at teeth, and breaths of air against an ear. Their hands wrote odes to breast and thigh and nape of neck and where the buttocks curl into the leg. They carved each other's flesh like it was paint, as rich and thick as bas-relief. They worked with pallet knives, describing muscle masses they had dreamed about all week. They closed their eyes and felt the shadows of each other's body, the darker smudge below a straining nipple, the subtle contour of a hip or quadriceps. They sketched each other's clitoris, cross-hatched and stippled. They spoke of dares. They talked of toys. They called each other, "Slut!" They clawed their fingers deep inside each other's slits, and writhed, and rode their hands, and rocked the bed and broke the reading lamp and didn't even notice. They lost all track of time. They finally lay exhausted, head to toe, and noodled one another's soft brown pubic hair to dry it. "I could shave you." "Now?" "Sure." "It's late, I think." "I love you." "I know." "Bec? I heard about this web site." "Yeah?" "Everybody's got a cam." "Live?" "Yeah. Like they can see each other when they chat." "And?" "Imagine someone watching us right now? If they could only see me comb your curlies." "You're insane?" "Yeah." "You want the world to see us. Weren't we hiding everything? The Code? Remember?" "Yeah." "You don't have a cam." "I could get one." "You're nuts. Post a sign at school to tell them when we're on?" "Hmmm." "Marsha! Stop!" "I'd stop ... except for ..." "What?" "This. Her palm pressed firmly on the tender mound. "Just the thought of it has got you wet again." This story cannot be reposted or published without the author's permission. All comments and queries can be addressed to by_janeNO@SPAMliterotica.org by deleting the capital letters before sending. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+