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2004 by An Erotic Pet.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
This work is written as adult entertainment and is not intended to be accessed by anyone under the age of 18. All persons and events portrayed are fictional and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely co-incidental.
Perhaps it was Ellen DeGeneres who rekindled my interest in women, but I’d also always loved the music of Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls, and they also provided subtle reminders of the attractiveness of a sexual relationship between women. Everyone goes through passages on life’s journey. I’d always found women to be attractive and more sensual than men. I believe that to some degree, everyone is bisexual. When I think back to my early sexual development, I recall that my first fantasies involved girls, but I think like the majority of people, those flickering sparks were snuffed out, buried under the more traditional images that inundate us on a daily basis. A man and woman in love, a masculine kiss on feminine lips, only the jock can date the prom queen, and the message that if you did not find love with a man and create a healthy family, that something was terribly wrong. Society likes things to run according its accepted script, even though no one’s life does. That was how my life went, I tried to navigate and stay within the script as best I could. I may have been living a lie the whole time, or perhaps I was just working my way through phases. Someone once told me that we change molecularly every seven years. So it may have been a physical or emotional evolvement or it may have been simply because my path crossed Ann’s. Whatever the dynamics, my life changed in a way I could have never imagined, in the course of one extraordinary morning.
My morning schedule is like clock-work. Rise at 6 and put on the coffee, start to prepare the breakfasts and lunches and make sure that the husband and my two daughters leave home well prepared for the day ahead. There is a subtle reward to it all, knowing that you are helping others, and while the contentment is small, sometimes that is all we need to get by. This day was like any other weekday. Cecil was off by 7:15 and the girls and I were on the road by 7:45. The girls’ schools are close by, and by the time I dropped off my youngest daughter at 8:05, I had little in the way of expectations for the day, except to stop by the store before heading home for a morning of cleaning, washing and preparing for the next round of driving appointments and dinner preparation.
I like getting my shopping out of the way early in the morning. The supermarket’s customers are relatively few and there is the early morning energy of employees primping the shelves with colorful flowers and freshly misted produce. While I don’t listen to Muzak at home, its mellow sounds blend well with the morning feel. I grabbed a shopping cart and strolled the aisles, thinking of recipes for upcoming meals, the peculiar tastes of my family and perhaps finding a treat I might enjoy with guilty pleasure later in the evening. I had no reason to think my life was about to change.
I save the produce for last with obvious reason, and as I strolled into that section, I was greeted by the bright colors and scents of the various harvests. I sifted through the lettuce, bagged a few beautifully colored McIntosh apples and then began to idly weigh and sniff some delicious looking cantaloupe. My time honored test is to bring the cantaloupe to my nose and inhale, searching for the sweet scent of a perfect fruit. As I breathed in a nice ripe melon a female voice spoke softly, but firmly;
“How does it smell?”
Standing by me was a tall, well proportioned woman, perhaps in her late 20s or early 30s. I didn’t know her and she didn’t look like a typical suburban “mom”. She was not dressed particularly professionally or in typical casual housewife fashion, and her demeanor was not that of a harried mom or working wife. Instead she wore a smart cashmere cardigan, with a gypsy skirt, tastefully artistic necklace and earrings and hair that was mid-length and well-cut, but not overly styled. Her makeup was light, almost undetectable, but her handsome features were such that she needed little in the way of adornment. She exuded an air of confidence and success, perhaps being a single, successful person involved in something artistic, or perhaps someone fortunate enough to enjoy a life afforded from a generous trust fund. I was a bit startled and at first gave no response. People, particularly strangers, do not typically speak to each other at the supermarket.
“How does your cantaloupe smell?” she said again, her lips moving to a curled smile as she finished the sentence, her sparkling green eyes set on my mine.
“Oh, it smells wonderful. canlı bahis şirketleri They have good produce here.” I replied, still surprised she was speaking to me, but disarmed by the playful, innocent tone in her voice.
I began to place the cantaloupe into my shopping cart, but before I could, she reached out and wrapped her manicured fingers around my hand and the cantaloupe. She brought both to her nose and breathed in, still looking into my eyes.
“Mmmmm, it does smell delicious”, she purred, cupping my hand and the melon close to her nostrils.
I was a bit stunned by her taking my hand so casually. It had also seemed that she could have been speaking of either the melon or my hand or both. She slowly released my hand and I put the melon into the cart, ready to smile a good-bye. However, before I could move on, she spoke again;
“Would you mind choosing a few cantaloupes for me?”
I consider myself a friendly, helpful person, but I also felt a bit put upon by this stranger. “Why don’t you sniff your own melons?” I thought, but then caught myself. In an off beat way she was paying me a compliment.
“Oh, it isn’t that difficult to find a good cantaloupe”, I replied, “Just feel if it is firm and then sniff right on the end. If it has a sweet, fresh scent, then it is ripe and ready to eat.”
I went through the act, demonstrating to her how it was done. She stood close to me, smiling. Her smile seemed to particularly shine as I completed my sentence with my nose pressed close to the melon’s end. My mind went back to questioning whether I was being mocked, but I decided to not be upset and instead found a few nice ripe fruit and handed them to her for her to place in her hand basket.
“I love fruit salad in the morning”, my new acquaintance replied, without giving a word of thanks. “Try this blackberry, it is delicious” she continued.
Without waiting for an assent, she plucked a large, dark, juicy berry from her basket and pressed it to my lips, as if feeding a small child. Torn between wanting to reject the offer and yet not wanting to create a scene, I parted my lips and let her slide the berry between my teeth. However, as the berry set upon my tongue, her finger followed it, touching lightly and lingering on my tongue, before slipping slowly out, brushing against the inner edges of my lips. The berry juice was delicious as it trickled down my throat, but this woman’s smile was almost devilish. “Does she realize she is rude?” I thought, “Or is this a person who has a young spirit, who is playful by nature?” The act had a sensuality to it that could have been seductive had it not taken place so brazenly in the middle of the produce section at 8:30 in the morning.
“Mmm, it is good” is all I replied.
“Yes, it is. Very good”, she said softly.
Her gaze still fixed on my eyes, but seemed to take in every part of me and made me feel the imperfections of over 30 years of life and 14 years of motherhood, particularly since she was so handsome and poised. After an awkward moment, I sputtered,
“Well, I’m going to check-out now, thanks for the berry.”
“You’re very welcome”, she replied, “I’ll go with you”
She moved alongside me as I steered my cart toward the check-out lines. Before I could estimate which line would make for the quickest exit, my new acquaintance spotted a clerk in the process of opening his register and quickly commanded,
“Let’s go here.”
She grabbed the front of my shopping cart and steered in into the empty check-out register, setting her basket on the counter’s belt. As I began to load my items behind her basket, I saw her quickly converse with the clerk, but didn’t pick up on what they discussed. She only had a few pieces of fruit, some cooking oil and a package of batteries. She swiped her card as the clerk began to then ring up my larger selection of items. She idled by the exit aisle as my bill was totaled, but when I went to pay, the clerk stopped me.
“Your friend paid for you” he said, handing her the receipt.
“No! You can’t pay for this.” I exclaimed, looking at her with startled surprise. Again, I was unsure whether to be affronted or thankful for this stranger’s over-generosity.
“Oh please, dear. These things all even out in the end.” She smiled confidently back.
The clerk had begun to check out the next customer, and I realized I really didn’t have an option if I didn’t want to inconvenience others, so I accepted her generosity and thought how one nice act perhaps leads to another. I almost felt guilty about my earlier thoughts of her forwardness and thanked her several times, she waving me off as though money were not a big consideration for her.
As we stepped outside, I prepared myself for the farewell. My black Explorer was parked on the other side of the lane separating the store from the main parking lot. However, her red Fiat sports car was parked just outside the exit door and she clicked her key ring, turning off the alarm and unlocking her canlı kaçak iddaa doors. She popped open her passenger door, set her purse and sack in the back, and then stepped back to me. She moved close, extended her hand and then held onto my hand as I moved to exchange her greeting.
“My name is Ann and I am in town for an exhibit at the college. I am alone at the Hyatt and don’t feel like eating breakfast by myself. How about if we share a fruit salad at your place? I’ll provide the fruit and all you need to provide is the company. Deal?”
Her hand remained wrapped warmly on mine. The feel of her hand was firm, but also very gentle and assuring. Her smile and fixed gaze were the same as she’d had when we first met. I felt sort of sorry for her, although I still felt a bit of the shock from the blackberry incident. Part of me screamed out that this was just too strange, too different from the routine of my day, while another part of me welcomed the attention.
“Oh gosh” I stammered, “I probably shouldn’t. I have cleaning to do today and my house is a mess.”
“It isn’t a worry” Ann quickly replied. Releasing my hand, she then took my shopping bags out of the cart and placed them in the back of her Barchetta. “I’ll just follow you. We will have a lovely morning.” As she set the last bag in her car, she moved close to me and asked, “And what’s your name, dear?”
“Deborah”, I replied.
“It’s nice to meet you Deborah”, and as she said this, Ann wrapped her right arm around my waist and her left along my back, pulling me close enough to her that our hips met. The hug lingered for a few moments, before she broke it and said, “I’ll see you soon.”
My mind raced as I drove home. How had this woman wound up with my groceries and how had I wound up having a breakfast date with a stranger in my own home? The embrace she left me with had also left her fragrance on me, and it seemed to fill the interior of my SUV. She had seemed nice and interesting, but was this really safe? Was she just lonely? Was she a thief? Had she forgotten to take her medicine? Was she a bisexual or lesbian looking for a sexual liaison?
“Just be calm Debbie”, my mind said. I decided that I would have my cell ready to dial 911 in case anything strange happened. However reason also told me that crime and particularly woman on woman violence between strangers in this region was very rare. Things had moved so fast. This whole experience was so far outside my routine and it had me very uneasy. My instincts told me this was not right, but having agreed to it, I made up my mind to entertain this new friend calmly. Her sports car stayed glued in my rear view mirror all the way home and she followed me up our semi-circular driveway.
Ann bounced out of her car cheerfully and picked up one of the bags of groceries from the back of her car. Her smile was infectious and disarming and I began to feel more relaxed about the situation. She handed the bag to me and picked up another along with her purse, and followed me to the front door of my home.
I took pride in my home, a spacious two-story residence in a nice neighborhood. We stepped into the foyer, and while the house was not “guest-clean”, it was still orderly. The warmth inside contrasted with the chill of the early winter morning we had come in from. Ann commented on how nice the house was and part of me wanted to give her a tour but I decided I better just keep this stranger to the kitchen, at least to begin with. I took off my jacket and invited Ann to take off her sweater and make herself comfortable. She thanked me, and smiled as she unbuttoned her cardigan. I saw that she wore a spaghetti strap lace camisole underneath. While certainly not model-thin, she also obviously took care of herself. Her breasts while not heavy were well rounded. The camisole fell short of her smoothly formed hips, revealing a pierced belly button adorned with a jeweled ring.
It was probably obvious that I had been admiring her very feminine form, for I looked up to find her watching me. Her eyes had that same twinkle and playfulness that I’d noticed right from the start. There was just a moment of awkwardness, but she quickly began to make herself at home in the kitchen. Ann washed the fruit, while I unpacked perishables. Our conversation took on a pleasantly light tone. She asked me about my family and life in the community. I rambled on, telling her more than I would typically tell a stranger, but she was a good listener and being able to just keep talking on such familiar topics helped to soothe my uneasiness. I brought out a bowl for Ann to mix the fruit in and then offered to help in the preparation, but she insisted that I relax at the table while she prepared the food.
I sat and watched her ease, impressed at how gregarious and confident she was to be able to make herself at home in a stranger’s kitchen. During the conversation I learned that Ann was single. She was a free-lance artist and writer who resided in Manhattan, but who canlı kaçak bahis also traveled frequently. Her art was part of an exhibit that was to open the next day at our local college and she was in town for the opening. Although she and I were not apparently far apart in age, her bohemian lifestyle contrasted sharply with my settled life that was centered around family and a 14 year marriage to the first boy I dated seriously.
As she finished mixing the fruit, she stopped, and standing at the tile kitchen counter, she looked at me and asked,
“Do you know what I love about fruit?” without waiting for my reply, she continued, “It is completely natural. Almost all other foods are processed in some way, adulterated from their natural state. Fruit not only comes to us as it is, plain and simple, but also with the most exquisite colors, scents and shapes the planet has to offer.”
She held up a pear and asked, “How can anyone say this is not beauty and art?”
I had to admit, I had not quite looked at a pear that way, but looking at the curves in its form, its unique green, blended with swatches of red, I did see how it could be compared with any art created by a master.
“I believe eating fresh fruit helps remind us of purity and truth, wouldn’t you agree?”
Again, without really waiting for my reply, she continued, “I think so many among us live without purity and truth. People live with processed everything, including lies and self-deceptions. They do this everyday until finally they come to accept it as normality. Don’t you find yourself doing that Deborah?”
This time she waited for my response, her eyes gazed into mine, no longer with the twinkle I’d started to be accustomed to, but with a seriousness that probed into me. I had to think for a bit on her statement.
“Uh, yes, I suppose I do live with lies and untruths”, I stammered, “but I do think that is natural. We can’t be honest all the time. It could lead to hurtfulness. Sometimes we need to tell white lies at the expense of honesty.”
“I’m not talking about that level of politeness, Deborah. I am talking about the day-to-day lies we live with. The unspoken lies that hide what we truly think. For example, didn’t you think I was strange to be insisting on coming home with you?”
“Well, yes I did” I had to reply.
“Yet you didn’t say anything. Perhaps you were afraid of hurting my feelings, but you also probably were uncomfortable with everything it might suggest. What did you think of me, honestly?”
I had to squirm a bit. Ann was correct, I was uncomfortable with complete honesty, and I couldn’t quite be truthful in my reply. “Oh, I wasn’t sure if you were not a thief.” I replied.
“Is that all you thought Deborah? What do you think of me now?
“I think you are an interesting person, but I really don’t know you.”
“What did you think when I fed you the fruit in the store?” she asked, continuing her steady gaze.
I really felt uncomfortable with that one, but knew I had to respond at least somewhat truthfully. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it” I hesitated.
Ann walked toward me with the bowl of mixed fruit. “Did you enjoy the berry?” she asked.
“Yes”, I replied.
“I thought so. How could you not? I enjoyed watching you enjoy it.”
Ann carefully selected a nectarine slice and took a bite. She paused for a moment to chew.
“Mmmm, that is perfect.” Ann purred as she plucked out another nectarine slice from the bowl. She had momentarily closed her eyes as she enjoyed the taste of the fruit, but now her gaze turned back on me, her presence almost too close and penetrating.
“What did you think of me feeding you the berry?” Ann asked again as she held the nectarine slice.
“I have to say, I thought it odd and a bit uncomfortable.” I replied, feeling that I was at last being honest.
“I could tell you did” replied Ann, “but you ate the fruit anyway. I knew then that my instincts about you were correct.” She paused, “Don’t you think it was silly that you felt uncomfortable?” Ann continued. “It was a gesture from one person to another, to share a little piece of purity in a simple and pure manner. A way to connect with a person who looked warm, beautiful and that I wanted to know better.”
“Yes, I suppose that is so” I replied, seated at the table, my eyes looking up, uncomfortably trying to return Ann’s ever-steady gaze.
Ann’s fingers lightly turned the nectarine slice, her smile now starting to return. She now stepped right in front of me, extended the slice to my lips and said, “Taste this.”
Was this seduction? Was this a psychological test? I wasn’t sure what to do, but I felt for once in my life, I was going to do the unscripted. I parted my lips and moved to take the bite.
As my head moved forward, Ann also slipped the fruit forward, leaving it set in the tip of her right index finger as the fruit entered my mouth. Again, she gave a soft brush on the underside of my lip as her finger left my mouth.
Ann set the bowl on the table and plucked out a grape, holding it between thumb and finger, seeming to contemplate. I chewed the delicious pulp and watched Ann, my mind racing between thoughts. Ann finally spoke.
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