Title: Curiosity Satisfied
Author: oosh@gmx.net
Keywords: FF,lesbian

Curiosity Satisfied

by oosh@gmx.net

25 March 2000

This story was written in answer to a request from a lovely young pen-friend
of mine. She wanted me to imagine our meeting in the flesh for the first
time.  All you need to know about Kim is that she is small, Chinese, and
currently living in the San Francisco area. She is a writer of lesbian
erotica, and very, very sweet.

---

My heart is pounding. I've never sailed this close to the wind before. I
won't be unfaithful! I won't! I may be a liar; I may be greedy and selfish;
but I won't be disloyal. Huh!

I look in the mirror. This is a rest room, not a lavatory, but mirrors are
mirrors, and in my case they do not lie. I see my rather thin face, looking
a little lost. I look closer. The first grey hairs; no make-up; no scent - I
won't even call it "perfume"! No glasses, no contact-lenses, and just a
plain blue hair-band, because she likes me to wear it long and I hate it
getting in my face. I am wearing my plain grey business-suit. It is almost
graceful, and beautifully cut, revealing my figure - it is still there, just
- but there is no frivolity in it. I look at my face again. I turn my head
slightly.  A slightly pinched nose. A thin, straight mouth, which I pull
into a shrewish grimace. And sure enough, little wrinkles around my
humourless, rather unkind eyes. They look at me piercingly, telling me how
unimpressed they are.

I was mad letting Oosh talk me into doing this. Quite mad. When she first
told me, I thought it would be a lark. But now the gin has worn off - it
wore off days ago - and I feel like the victim of one of Oosh's bloody
practical jokes. Which of course I am.

I emerge into the bar once more, and order another G&T. With just two pieces
of ice. They go mad with the ice here if you're not careful. The lime is a
nice touch, though.

"You from Australia?" asks the barman. Bloody hell.

"Where's that?" I ask frostily. He scuttles away, looking slightly annoyed.
I don't blame him. But annoying Californians is a pastime, if not an
art-form, and I might as well pass the time doing something I am good at.

There she is. I'll bet that's Kim. She sees me looking at her. She looks
down. She's shy. But she approaches.

"You're Kim?" I ask.

She nods.

"She couldn't come. You know that."

She nods again.

"Did she e-mail you? I'm Christine. I was here on business anyway. She said
I was to meet you, get a good look at you. She said you'd prefer someone
younger. But I doubt it, personally. What would you like to drink?"

Fruit juice. I am annoyed - unreasonably annoyed. Most health-conscious
Californians seem to drink revoltingly sweet fizzy drinks, the kind of thing
I grew out of in my teens. But fruit juice is hard to argue with.

Why am I being so disagreeable?

"I'm nothing like her," I say, trying to keep the sneer out of my tone,
trying to let her relax. "I'm afraid we're very different people, even
though we're sisters."

She looks at me with a sort of disappointed longing. I am clearly making her
feel very uncomfortable.

"She used to look like me; but of course she's much older. I'm an
afterthought, actually. When people see us together, they usually assume
that she's my grandmother."

She smiles and then frowns, as if she does not know whether she is supposed
to laugh. I do not help her. What is the matter with me?

"We're alike in some things. For example, she won't wear make-up either. And
we have similar views of men. These days."

I give the barman a glare. Perhaps fortunately, he doesn't notice.

"I have a nineteen-year-old daughter. She's at university. You wouldn't
think so, to look at me, would you?"

She is decent enough to shake her head.

"I was sixteen. Once was enough."

"So... what do you do?"

It is a fair enough question, I suppose.

"I'm an..." Hell! What am I? "an accountant. Specialist in corporate
taxation. Thrilling, eh?"

I give a wry smile, and this time she responds. I feel a little better, and
speak a little more gently.

"I'm really nothing like her. She's kind and silly. I'm..." What am I? "I'm
just focused on my career. She's self-indulgent. I'm organized. She's
nervous in company. I'm anti-social. I like to drink. She drinks and drinks
and drinks. I've tried smoking. When I was younger. Not for me. She smokes
like a chimney. God, she wouldn't last long here, would she? In California?"

Again, she smiles. People here treat smokers the way they treated lepers in
the middle ages. Californians are so weird. They have all these awful
religions and get so terribly worked up about little things. They're so
intolerant. It's nothing, nothing like Europe. Where they bomb furriers'
shops... well, maybe... But she smiles, and I say, "I think I detect maybe a
tiny little streak of something non-Californian in you, too!"

That gets a laugh, a nice little laugh, half-stifled.

"We should get on all right, you and I, Kim. I remember reading in a book
once that in China it is regarded as unseemly to laugh too much. That's
good. I agree with that. You know: Oosh, when she's in company, she gets
very jokey. She's a great joker. It's because she's so nervous. She often
offends people, you know. She has a talent for saying the wrong thing.
Whereas I have no sense of humour at all. I don't like to smile. It makes my
face hurt."

She looks at me, puzzled.

"Some people like to smile and joke. I prefer bitching. It's more my scene.
That's why I enjoy my work. It's almost all bitching. And meeting stupid
people. Actually, it's rather nice meeting someone different. She tells me
you're a writer - of stories, apparently. That's good. All I can write is
business letters and financial reports.  Now look Kim. I'm going to have
another G&T. You've got to have something stronger than fruit juice,
honestly."

She is polite, but firm. Another fruit juice it is. Oh well.

"So how did you come across my sister?"

Oosh? A writer as well? "Bloody hell! I never knew that." Kim seems surprised
I didn't know. "What sort of stories? Romances, I suppose."

She nods doubtfully. Yes and no. Probably more like no.

"Ah... lesbian romances?"

She nods more definitely, but still looks troubled. I have to laugh now.

"I might have guessed. She's sex mad, always was. I remember when she was
still living at home. She was in bed with herself all the bloody time. I was
amazed she ever got to university, let alone got a degree. She was a sex
addict! I'm surprised she didn't get on drugs, really. I suppose sex was her
drug. Still is, probably. I don't like to think of it. Seeing her with that
woman of hers, it's really pathetic. Simpering at one another. Jesus!"

I swallow rather a lot of G&T, and look disgusted.

"I tell you, Kim, she turned me off sex. Right off. Okay, I had an affair
when I was a schoolgirl, but... I couldn't do that... what she did. I
suppose you're a lesbian too. I mean, she practically told me so. Poor you.
I wouldn't be a lesbian for all the tea in... Oh, well."

Kim is looking fed up. Surprise, surprise. I was mad letting Oosh talk me
into doing this in the first place.

"Look, honey... Kim... I'm sorry... I'm just a bit on edge. I mean... I've
never been put in this position before. I just don't know how to behave
with... well, sexual people."

"Isn't your daughter... sexual?"

Blimey! I'd never actually thought of it. "I suppose she _might_ be," I
admitted doubtfully, searching my memory for any evidence of it, and finding
none. I had to change the subject, quickly.

"Look, Kim, she asked me... as a favour to her... could I just look at you,
and describe you to her. She said you wouldn't mind."

"She said that?"

"Yes, Kim, she did. She said I was to book a room in the hotel and ask you
to lie down and get comfortable and... and then she said I was to take a
mental photograph, and tell her about you. What you look like. She said
you'd want to do that... for her."

Kim looks troubled. She is evidently wrestling with her conscience. She
looks at me doubtfully. I'm worried that she doubts my motives.

"Look, honestly, Kim, if you say 'no' it really doesn't matter to me. It's
really a thing between you and her. She's just got me mixed up in it. Don't
think I'm a lesbian or anything, because believe me I'm not! All I care
about is..."

"Corporate taxation," she says, with a slightly ironic tone. God! I am
instantly wet. I try not to pant, but it is difficult. I think she is
just a little angry - with me, with damned Oosh, with both of us. "And your
daughter, and her university career..."

Ouch! It is my turn to look down, abashed.

"I'm sorry..." is all I can say.

There is a long silence; then she says,

"Very well... I'll do it. For her."

I am incredibly touched. And I've been such a bitch. I look at her wonderingly.
Why does she love my sister so much?  I'd never do that, not in a thousand
years.

"You must love her very much. I just... it's none of my business, but... you
make me feel ashamed."

Perhaps because it is the first honest thing I've said, she seems to grow in
confidence. She gets down from her bar stool, leaving half her second fruit
juice. I put the rest of my G&T away with a rather unladylike gulp, and
stand down too. Physically, I am taller, but now I feel small. She has such
dignity, such purpose.

"Take me to the room," she says. Not "your room". "The room". This is to be
some kind of weird ritual of love, a love-at-a-distance that I will never
be able to understand. Yet it awes me.

We say nothing in the elevator. I am happy enough chatting in lifts, but
for some reason elevators upset me. I think it is the Californian
omnipresent piped music, trying to make me feel calm, mindless. It gives me
the screaming hab-dabs, if you want the truth. It's like 1984, with horrible
meaningless subversive messages being crammed into your skull at every
unimportant, trivial moment of the day. Perhaps that's why the Californians
are so strange. They spend too long in elevators.

It is not until we get inside that I am freed from that infernal, trivial
wailing. I turn to look at her.

She seems tired, resigned. She is starting to undo her dress.

I try to cheer her up. "I've something for you. Something from Oosh."

"Oh! What?"

I produce it. It isn't much. A black hair-band. "She told me she had to
wear it at school, to keep the hair out of her eyes. She used to use it as a
blindfold, she told me, when she wanted to be by herself. She said you might
like it."

Kim takes it, momentarily enchanted.

"And she said you could wear it now, if you liked, so you could forget about
me being here."

"Like a blindfold?"

I shrug. "I suppose so."

She seems bolder, now. I look away. It is somehow indecent to watch
her undress. The bed creaks, and then she says,

"All right. You can look now."

I turn.

And I see.

Well, what a pity it is that I'm not a poet. I cannot explain how perfect,
how flawless she is. And so young! I want to cry out: "Oh Kim! Darling!" But
I cannot, I could not. Damn, damn. I want to be reborn this moment into a
new life; but it is too late. I want to tear off my clothes; but actually, I
take them off very slowly, in near silence. I do not think she knows what I
am doing. She is very still. She seems a little tense.

"Kim... I'm looking at you... trying to remember. For her."

"Okay," she whispers. She has the headband over her eyes.

I come close. I look at her close up. I look along her arm. I think she can
feel my breath. I look at her nipple. My lips are only inches away.  I look
down towards her bush. What a heavenly landscape! And then I am careless. My
nipple grazes her skin, and she chuckles, and begins to breathe.  I suppose
I am breathing too. Yes, I certainly am. Her legs are demurely together. I
go to kiss them; but no! No!

"Turn over!" I whisper harshly.

She turns in an instant, nimbly.

I can see how smooth she is. I have to - have to touch.

"She said I was to feel you... to see if there are any patches of rough
skin."

"Go on then."

My fingers are so light; and yes, she is smooth, so thrillingly smooth. I
am losing control, I know it.

"Kim?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't say anything."

"Not anything?"

"No. Not one word."

I am touching her so lightly. She is so deliciously warm, soft and smooth. I
have to touch that wonderful bottom with my lips. I cannot stop doing it.
She eeps.

"Kim?"

"Yeah?"

"Is your bottom ticklish?"

"Yeah."

"Well, try to focus elsewhere. Please, please, Kim. Try not to smile or say
anything."

"I didn't say anything."

"You did! You said 'Eep'."

"That isn't a word!"

"It is. Here in California, 'Eep' is definitely a word. Everything's a word
in bloody California. Please, just be patient. I'm just checking for any
patches of rough skin. Any patches at all."

I check most diligently. There aren't any. It must be all the sun, fresh
air and fruit juice.

"Kim?"

"Yeah?"

"You have no rough skin. Wait a minute. What about your feet?"

I hear her intake of breath. But I am quick. I am there. I check with
my tongue. Firm, but not rough.

"Kim?"

"Yeah?" She answers my whisper with a whisper.

"Try not to moan, OK?"

"Why not?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"Well why are you whispering?"

"I don't know. Just try not to moan, OK?"

"All right."

"All right."

I explore some more. I let her moan. She is such a good girl: she is trying to
suppress it.  But by the time I have worked my way back up to that wonderful
bottom, I can smell her arousal.

"Kim?"

"Yeah?"

"Turn over."

She is so quick! So lively! Oh, God, those lovely little breasts.

I fear I have betrayed my experience on that nipple.

"Er, Christine?"

Who the hell is Christine?

"Yeah?" - We are whispering again.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"I'm an accountant. I count money. Some people wet their fingers... but it's
quicker, with large sums of money, if you just use your tongue. Like this..."

Wham!  The side of my face is blazing. Well, I damn well deserved it. In
the films, she slaps a stupid bloke and he puts the palm of his hand to his
cheek, as if to ask "Did someone hit me? Where did that come from?"

I don't need to do any of that. (In fact, I dared not touch the side of my
face then, nor for two whole days after.)

I just draw in my breath and say,

"Kim, you are so beautifully strong. Darling, turn over."

The wonderful girl. She does it.  I think she is sobbing, a little.

Reverently, reverently, I part her buttocks.

"I'm so stupid." I stroke her. "You're so lovely," I whisper - why are we
always whispering? - "so perfect, so spotless..."

She draws in her breath noisily. Yes, it does tickle; but soon it is
deliciously, overwhelmingly sexy.

Can you imagine how she feels? Your brain just swells and swells, and you
grow and grow like Alice in Wonderland until your whole body fills the room
- hell, the whole universe - and you just keep on quietly growing, wondering
when it will all end. This is how it is for her.

As most experienced lovers know, if you just tickle her for long enough with
your tongue in a sensitive place, gently, she will get very excited for a
while, but then soon she becomes enthralled, very calm and docile; this is
when you must be patient and careful. And then, if you are good and
sensitive and persistent, it all turns golden and she will suddenly go mad
with every little thing you do, and come and come, on and on, until she is
utterly exhausted.

It is the very least Kim deserves. She sobs and sobs. I feel for her: she is
so beautiful and strong. Here she is, filling the whole universe with her
beauty and her strength, and yet there is this little maggot in her bottom
tickling and tickling the whole time. I cup my hand underneath her. There is
so much juice for me.  We are getting to the lovely lovely golden bit, and I
slow down now, and let her enjoy it.  I wish, I wish she could be me just
for one second, so that she can see how beautifully she moves just now. She
does not know how beautiful she is as she comes, how amazed she looks. I
wish I could tell her.  But finally, she begins to shiver and close up like a
sea anemone.  Regretfully, I let her.  But hell! It's late! I have to get to
the airport quick quick.

I grab my bag.

"You bitch." she whispers.

"Lovely Kim!" I say it in my normal voice, softly, fervently. Then I'm off
and out.

I shudder in the taxi, and I'm shuddering all the way home.  I get back just
before it is time to start the dinner.

"I rang your sister," she says accusingly.  "Where the hell were you?"

Oh, Jesus.

"I had to go to California. They wanted to do a film."

She sees my cheek. Her anger melts, and her eye begins to twinkle.

"I... think it's my turn to cook supper," I volunteer. We both know damn
well it's her turn, but she accepts my peace-offering. "I've just got to
check my e-mail..."

"Oh, yes, you and your e-mail." She titters dangerously. But I go and check it
anyhow, rather shamefacedly.  There isn't any.

She is a little odd all evening, but when we get to bed and she finds how
passionate I am, she decides to give me the benefit of the doubt.

Kim! Kim! Don't ever make me do that again!

Kim...
