tagLesbian SexCharley Torn Pt. 02

Charley Torn Pt. 02

bytiggerlilly©

PART 2. EPISODE 6 OF THE CHARLEY MATTHEWS STORY

The story so far. Charley and Georgia have been lovers for twelve years. They have a son and Charley is carrying their second child. Georgia has always been wild and has cheated with her own brother. She became pregnant and suffered a ruptured ectopic pregnancy and nearly died. Charley is bereft.

1.

CHARLEY

The hyperventilation business was becoming a pain. I had read all about the changes in blood chemistry, during pregnancy that makes you feel a little breathless and up until then I had been only mildly troubled. Discovering that your, supposedly lesbian, lover had been conducting an on-off affair with her own brother was a shock to say the least. Then she nearly bled to death. I looked such an idiot puffing in and out of a paper bag, but I suppose it was better than fainting every ten minutes, plus the sense of overwhelming panic precluded any rational thought. A part of me did not want to engage in rational thought, but that was a luxury which I could not afford. We drove through the heavy London traffic, the paper bag inflating and deflating like the pouch of a tropical frog, or maybe a frigate bird. People stared. At least it gave me an excuse not to speak to Gordon. I suspect that he was grateful.

When we arrived at the Clarke family home, Gordon opened my door like a gentleman.

"I'm OK!" I snapped. He stepped back like I had slapped him.

All I could think about was Thomas.

"Mummy," he shouted and rushed to me, tripped, picked himself up, tripped again and then I was upon him, grabbing him and crying like a baby. He's a boy so wasn't overly concerned and giggled when I started to kiss him. At least my whole world had not descended into madness.

Monica, Georgia's mother and my erstwhile mother-in-law, smiled at me nervously.

"He's growing so quickly. He's missed you. Will you stay and have a cup of tea?"

"Yes. We have some things to discuss."

Thomas looked over my shoulder, concerned. "Mummy George?"

"No sweetheart, Mummy George is poorly." My voice cracked.

I sat down in the kitchen with Thomas on my knee, a talisman of normality. The excitement of my return lasted about a minute and Thomas wriggled out of my grip and set off in pursuit of Ferdie, the unbelievably tolerant Labrador.

Monica handed me my tea.

"I don't know what to say to you, Charley. I am so ashamed."

"You knew."

"Girls talk to their mums, Charley."

"I don't."

"No, you poor thing. I didn't know who the father was, honest."

My face started to burn.

"Why was I so stupid? It makes sense now. The moodiness, the puking, the tender boobs. Just like the last time. Oh yes, Mike really unburdened himself. They fucked to celebrate me getting knocked up. Sorry to be crude, Marion but I feel like a farmyard animal. Then she was suddenly alright. The termination obviously. I still feel guilty about my own termination, when I was eighteen. She's had three and now this. She works for these battered and abused women for free. I thought it was because she cared, but I think it's just a guilt thing.

"You have been so kind to me, especially after all the hate from my mum. I thought it was because you were enlightened and tolerant but no, I am just another fellow pervert to you lot. You know that she asked me to let Mike "do it to me properly"? She said she would hold my hand. Join in more like and post the event on YouTube. She's not even really gay. How could she?"

We were both crying by then.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"I'm going to take Thomas home and give him a bath, then have a long one myself. I can't face talking to her just now. Will you? I will not go public if she agrees to whatever I decide to do, including annulling the Civil Partnership and a suitable financial arrangement. I can't face living without her, Monica but she can't skate away from this. Will Mike confess to Helen?"

"I doubt it. He is assuming that you will tell her."

I confessed.

"I don't really like her. She has always looked down her nose at me. Tell him that his secret is safe for now. For now, mind you."

We got a cab home. Gordon paid the outrageous fare. The house was deafeningly quiet. Spot, our tabby was out, no doubt doing her bit for endangered species. By keeping them endangered. She had a cat flap and would return in her own sweet time. Thomas expected her to be waiting for him and made his displeasure known.

We had a typically enjoyable bath. The relief of being able to laugh was immense.

Thomas was tired and it only took a single reading of "the Hungry Caterpillar" to ease him into that serene dream world, which only the very young inhabit. Spot helped by arriving half way through, sniffing Thomas carefully, then curling next to him and applying her most soporific purr. Spot always treated Gorgeous and I with complete contempt, but viewed Thomas as her surrogate kitten. If Thomas ever cried, Spot would come to alert me. This usually involved sinking her needle like teeth into my ankle.

Leaving Thomas in safe paws, I went to the spare room which was our little gym. I stripped and did half an hour of free weights and sit ups. My bump would soon make those impossible. The endorphin rush was soothing. I had increased my exercise considerably, after Thomas' birth and lost all my pregnancy weight. I did it for Georgia; it was clearly not enough. I choked back a sob, determined not to wallow in self-pity. I went into our bedroom and sat naked in front of the mirror, in full Lotus. I have always been flexible, thanks to all those years doing gymnastics and then diving. Georgia had cured me of my fear of being seen naked. I was actually quite content with my image in the glass. As always I turned my head slightly to hide the scars on the right side of my neck and face.

I needed to think and now was the time to use a technique that I had copied from a book. I had put a tiny dot of red nail varnish at the bottom left hand corner of the mirror. I consciously slowed my breathing and focussed on the dot and I was drawn into it. An hour later I emerged from my trance and went and had my bath, a plan formed in my mind.

I shaved my legs slowly and carefully. Accelerated hair growth was one of the many joys of pregnancy. I needed to get to the hairdresser as I was turning into a blonde Donna Summer. A few years back, Georgia had obtained a slightly dodgy discounted deal, whereby we had our armpits and pubes lasered, so they were spared the blade.

I got out and Spot joined me in the bathroom. What woman doesn't enjoy the sinuous, sensual pleasure of a cat wrapping around freshly shaved legs? At that point Spot was definitely my favourite pussy. Next she threw herself onto my feet and I had to tickle her ears with my toes. The final part of the game was for her to roll on her back and turn up the purr volume. Many a visitor had fallen for this apparent invitation to rub Spot's belly. They never did it twice as the capricious cat would, in a flash sink all her sharp bits into their arm. Thomas excluded of course.

Once dried and fairly relaxed I took Georgia's toy drawer out and rested it on the bed. I had honestly never explored its contents before. It was another symbol of our trust. Well we were beyond that. I was of course surprised at the collection of dildoes, vibrators and a few mystery objects. Yes, I was sexually naive still and I had been stung by Mike's recounting of Georgia's frustration at my apparent frigidity. I quite liked sex and I thought that we had a good love life and I did not love Georgia for her sexual prowess, but for her sheer loveliness. I did not quite blame myself for driving her into Mike's arms, but still felt a strong pang of guilt. I have only ever had one lover and one true friend and she was lying in a hospital bed. I sniffed a couple of the devices. Nothing. Clean girl, my Gorgeous. I actually did not know the difference between a vibrator and a dildo.

There were straight devices of different sizes and shapes; some powered and others (presumably) manual. I lined them up in descending order of size. There was a little pink cone shaped thing and a plastic egg, with a little lead attached to it. I put these side by side in a mental category of "miscellaneous".

Then there were the two double ended soft plastic penises. One had a slightly bendy mid section; the other flopped almost in half, when I lifted it. From my limited experience of heterosexual sex, they felt much too big. Finally there was the blue thing with the long bit, the short, squat handle like bit and the strange thin beaded bit at the back. I turned it in my hand and then dropped it, as I figured out what went where. I could feel myself blushing. These three objects were clearly designed to attach one woman to another. Or to be precise, to attach Georgia to another woman, or women. How could she? I of course, knew the answer to that question. Or maybe they were souvenirs from her younger, friskier days. Maybe she was still waiting for me to demand that she take me like a man.

I pondered how little I knew about sex. Being married to a sex goddess, it felt like we were at it all the time. I never really discussed sex with my girlfriends. They considered me a bit of a prude. I had not felt the need to masturbate, after meeting Gorgeous as she provided me with more than enough orgasms. She liked to watch me do it to myself, with my fingers and I had no difficulty coming, under her intoxicating gaze. It had always felt like the height of kinkiness. At least to me.

I put Georgia's erotic tool kit back into its drawer, all except the smallest piece. It was white and smooth; a bit longer and thicker than my middle finger. I was reminded of the white asparagus, which was such a delicacy when I lived in Germany. I twisted the base and the thing sprang into life, jumping and buzzing. There was clearly a rheostat in the base, which controlled the amount of vibration. I set it about half way and then pressed it against my lips (the upper variety). That felt weird. Then my nipples. Mine, compared with the Goddess are fairly modest, but the sensation was pleasant. Not enough to make them stand up. Tentatively I placed the shaking wand against my scarred right cheek. I dropped it, as it felt like I had been electrocuted. The thing could obviously only hold a tiny amount of current. The damaged nerves clearly did not like the vibration.

Even more nervously I placed the tip of the vibrator against my humble clitoris. That felt good. I spread my thighs and started circling my vulva. I was becoming wet. Then I stopped.

Shit. Tarquin. What was I thinking?

I grabbed a long T-shirt out of the drawer and scooted downstairs and put the kettle on, whilst the PC booted up. I sipped at a cup of camomile tea (vile stuff, but supposed to be calming) and typed "vibrator, pregnancy, safety" into Google, expecting the worst. I was pleasantly surprised to find that they were safe. I discovered a few more things about sex during pregnancy. I had not realised that I was likely to be quite dry, in my delicate state and that orgasm could cause contractions. That had certainly not been a problem in my last pregnancy, nor thus far in this one. "Don't mix orifices," I was warned. Curiouser and curiouser. To be on the safe side, I popped the vibe into a beaker of Milton for 20 minutes and then rinsed it five times. Who knew where it had been.

Happy that I was not going to give Tarquin brain damage, I went back to bed and lay on top in the dark, my trusty new weapon in my left hand. I hitched my T-shirt up a bit and set the thing to battle speed (thoughts of Ben Hur in my head. Funny, not sexy).I thought of Gorgeous and became wet again. I pictured her face, the first time we met; that sardonic smile, those golden eyes, feline and knowing. She looked into my soul and I ran the vibrator up and down my labia, and back to my clit. I turned the little knob on the base.

Attack speed.

I remembered our first kiss and how she took my breath away. I remembered the first time I touched her private parts with my tongue.

Ramming speed.

It was the first time that I had made love. She made me come with her tongue, then her fingers. Oh God, yes, here it was again.

"Oh God, Georgia, I love you." I gasped.

I could hear her coming, panting and growling, but in my head I saw Imogen, her busty older sister, riding her; wearing the blue plastic dong from Georgia's toy drawer. I gasped and pushed the vibrator into my fanny. It slipped from my grip and vanished.

Oh, shit. I had visions of an embarrassing trip to hospital and I started to cry. The accursed sex toy was shaking like a cartoon Tasmanian devil and was transmitting most of its energy into my rectum. It would not be long until I messed myself. I jumped off the bed and ran to the toilet. Fortunately this caused the thing to fall out. Phew.

My bowels quietened and I washed the vibrator thoroughly, and then dropped it back into the weak bleach solution.

Usually an orgasm left me sleepy and we would spoon, always a perfect fit. I usually like to be on the outside but, when I was pregnant Georgia liked to go to sleep cradling Bump in one hand. When Thomas had been Tarquin (I have never wanted to know the sex of my babies; I just called them both Tarquin, whilst they were in the womb) he seemed to sense the hand of Gorgeousness upon him and would tap out messages to her in Morse code. The bed was far too empty and sleep eluded me. I put the bedroom TV on low, so as not to disturb Thomas and watched the time pass, my sense of unease increasing. Even Spot could not settle, prowling about looking cross. At two a.m. the cat flap banged, followed shortly by much screaming and howling, as Spot vented her frustration on her feline neighbours.

Spot bit me on the nose at 7 O'clock. Hard. Thomas was awake and they were both ready for breakfast. It was a bright Saturday morning. Thomas loved going shopping.

I walked around Sainsbury's in a dream; partly due to tiredness and partly anxiety. I started wondering how much food to buy. For three, or just two? I had forgotten to put my contacts in and the welling tears meant that I could not read half the labels. I had been doing the Saturday shop alone for months. Gorgeous had never really helped and had finally got out of it by being more of a child than Thomas.

I cringed at the memory. Georgia liked to flirt with the girls at the checkouts. Outrageously, most of the time. She had hit on a pretty little thing, who could not have been older than sixteen. Every week I would load and Georgia would pack, whilst chatting to the girl. I usually paid more attention to Thomas, until the week Georgia leaned over and whispered something in the girl's ear. I have never seen someone blush so quickly and I turn red in seconds. Georgia leaned back and licked her lips. The girl put her hand to her mouth and burst into floods of tears. Georgia looked the picture of innocence. I could feel my own face turning crimson with embarrassment, then anger.

So followed our first real public row. I pushed the trolley hard into Georgia's leg. She yelped and turned to glare at me. I could feel a few hundred pairs of eyes boring in to my head. The poor checkout girl had her head on the glass plate thing, which they use to scan your shopping. She was bawling.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," I spluttered. I wanted to put a hand on her shoulder, but my British reserve got the better of me. I assumed, correctly that Georgia had made some obscene suggestion to the poor kid and I thought that touching her would only compound the insult. A supervisor was looking in our direction and I waved my arms like a demented windmill. Georgia shrugged and gave me a "What did I do?" gesture. Thomas blew a few raspberries. Georgia was wearing heels as usual, whereas I was in trainers. Her six inch height advantage did not lessen the force of my wrath. I saw a brief flicker of fear as I thrust my face into hers.

"Go and get in the car," I hissed, "Now. I will be out presently. Just wait 'til I get you home."

I heard giggling somewhere behind me. My face grew hotter and a wave of fire descended down my neck. I wanted to run. Thomas blew another raspberry, reminding me why I had to stay and face the music. By then three supervisors had appeared. Two led the distraught girl away, whilst the third sat down and fixed me with a stare that nearly turned me to stone.

"Do you need any help with your packing, Mzzzz?" she bellowed.

"No, I'll be fine," I muttered, "I'm so sorry, she's never done that before." as though Georgia was some misbehaving dog. A very naughty bitch.

The woman glowered at me again. Thomas pitched in with another salvo of raspberries and a few phrases in his own language. The woman could not hold back a smile.

"Way to go, little man," I said under my breath.

Eventually we escaped into the cool April air, my face slowly cooling. Georgia was flirting with the man who had just washed our car. She popped the boot and helped put the shopping bags in, as if nothing had happened. I put Thomas into his car seat and then snatched the keys off Georgia. She knew that I cannot drive and talk at the same time. I can sing however and I launched into "The wheels on the bus." Thomas joined in, singing a different song as usual. Georgia sulked.

My mood had lightened on reaching home. I was still cross enough to sit down and write a grovelling apology, to the girl at Sainsbury's and have Georgia sign it. Her name was Lauren apparently and Georgia had been chatting her up for at least a month.

"What on earth did you say to her?" I demanded.

"I was just telling her how pretty she was looking today," she replied innocently.

"And?"

"How I find fireboxes a real turn on."

"What?"

"You know, red pubes. Sorry, I forgot how pure you are Charley."

My face was on fire again.

"Georgia, you didn't? That's sexual harassment and probably grooming. She's just a baby."

"She's eighteen, Charley and clearly gay. I asked her when she was going to come out. Obviously not for a little while."

Yet again Georgia's assumption that everyone was as sexually liberated as her had left a young woman in tears.

I was by then distracted. "So why have you never asked me to dye my bush? And why did you shave it off on our first night?"

"Oh, I shave all my lovers. I only like licking smooth pussies. I used to keep a few curly lower locks, as souvenirs. Redheads are a bit mysterious. Some are red down below, some brown and some blonde. Your bush, as I recall was a shade darker than your eyebrows. So it is with natural blondes. With the ginger, you just can't tell, but it's such a joy finding out. TomTom looks tired and ready for his nap. Let's both take him up."

Georgia flicked her chestnut mane, winked and licked her lips. The bitch. She was turning me on. That was Georgia's answer to life's little problems. Shag your way out. Well it wasn't going to work that day. Then I was tucking Thomas in and stroking his head, as he dozed off and Georgia was slowly peeling off my jeans. I was twelve weeks and my jeans were getting seriously tight. I turned around and marvelled at Georgia's toned tanned body. She was just wearing a purple La Senza bra and brief set. Her gorgeous breasts heaved (I wished mine would heave, even a tiny bit) and her belly button winked as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She turned and I followed; dirty blonde mortal in thrall to the tawny goddess.

Once inside our bedroom, Georgia put up her hand and I dutifully stopped. She indicated that I should remove my T-shirt and there I stood hands behind my back, resplendent in plain white cotton bra and thong. Her amber eyes fixed on my pregnant belly, which had become quite evident. I am still at a loss as to why some people are so turned on by pregnant women and I don't buy the theory that we are demonstrating our fecundity and hence desirability as a mate. I have never understood what Georgia saw in me, pregnant or not. She came over to me, smiled and attached her gorgeous mouth to mine. Ginger Rogers, my tongue, already had her dancing shoes on and ambushed Fred Astaire, Georgia's tongue, whilst he was still fastening his bow-tie. Slightly surprised he gave her a little nudge. Ginger tottered on her high heels and then fell forward to be swept up by the now sartorially prepared Fred. They set about a slow deliberate Tango. Fred always dipped low.

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