Elle's Adventure Ch. 10

It had been interesting to see Elle with Penny. She moved from nervous incredulity, through slightly clumsy domination to, I thought, some understanding of what a domme should be. Well, my version of what she should be. That, after all, was all I had to go on.

After Elle had left, I had talked long into the night with Penny.

She told me she'd been impressed at the teenager's confidence. Yes, I thought, I bet you were. I knew what Penny needed. Even if I had been staying in the UK, what she wanted was not what I could provide.

Like other submissive women I had met, she lived with an image of herself which, to those who did not understand, could look self-destructive. That was not to say it could not, in the wrong hands, become that; but it was to say that without some understanding, it could look as though she hated herself.

I'd seen the way she'd reacted to Elle's use of the words "old" and "cunt", as well as the effect on her of Elle's youth. There were things Penny wanted that a "good girl" could not own up to wanting. It was, she told me, Albert, her late husband, who had "made" her a "submissive." He it was who had spanked her, tied her up, made her beg, made her please him orally and used all her orifices. It was an interesting use of the word "made."

We are brought up to be "good girls." Good girls are straight. They serve many uses in a man's world; they can even, now, be allowed to run parts of it. On our backs, legs open, taking, receiving, procreating. These primary, social, aspects of sex are hard-wired into us. Of course lesbians are "perverts" and "unnatural," to quote just my mother. We enjoy sex. We love women. We enjoy sex with women. But sex with another woman is entirely recreational - to a surface view.

In fact, as I explained to Penny, it serves the same function in a lesbian relationship that it does in a hetero one; it deepens the bonds of love.

Love, yes, I reflected, as soon as I had used the word with Penny, that was the thing.

Penny told me about how Albert had loved dressing her in sexy outfits, how he got excited by other men looking at her with desire, and how, after an outing when this had happened, she would be "punished" for being a "slut." She loved that, she told me.

Yes, the power of being able to attract another, the thrill of being desired, and then the expiation of any guilt through a good spanking, followed by a hard fucking. She loved Albert. She loved being attractive. She loved being punished. It was an interesting gloss on being "made to" do things for him. I suspected he'd understood her better than Penny seemed to understand herself.

"Do you think, Miss, that Elle will want to see me again, or will this be a one-off?"

Penny's concern was genuine.

"If I thought the latter, I'd never have brought her here. She likes older women. She likes being in charge. She has a lot to learn, Penny, but I think you are an ideal lover for her - as long as you can put up with the texts" - I giggled.

The conversation made me reflect when I was alone later. But how could I explain to Elle? I could see that it puzzled her that I was not taking the chances she offered me to orgasm, and seeing her and Penny, as well as Anne and Amy, reminded me of how different I was.

People see what they are used to seeing. They do what they are used to doing. What they are used to they regard as normal. That is natural. So, they see a woman like me, and they wonder: 'is she a child?' She is very petite. She has no breasts. So I am asked: "where is your mother?" Or "are you old enough to be here?" And for some I am an object of illicit desire, for others, a flat-chested midget of colour. But for me? Well I am "normal", but not the normal others experience.

How could I explain that to Elle? It was my burden, not hers, or indeed, anyone else's; it was hard enough for me to explain myself to me.

So, where I had been seen as "normal" in primary school, after that the gap grew. By the time we were all eighteen, I had not developed, my classmates all had. They had become objects of desire, which enabled them to fulfil their desires; and their bodies had developed to facilitate the fulfilment of their needs. But not me.

So slow had I been to menstruate that my mother had not bothered to tell me about it, assuming that "the syndrome" was to blame. I shall never forget that day in class. The feeling of sticky wetness. The smell. The standing up. The laughter. The comments: "Ooh, la salope, t'es une sale conne crade." I cried. I was bleeding and they were mocking me. My teacher, a man, told me to go to the nurse and get out. So I walked down the corridor, to more mockery.

The nurse was brusque. Unimpressed by my ignorance of the basic facts of female life, she offered me some paper knickers and a tampon. The attempt to get that latter in caused excruciating pain. I was referred to the doctor, who took no interest. So pads it was.

It was the first sign to me that the dissonance between my body and my desires would be greater than that of others.

Eventually, a kind female doctor explained to me when I was working at the university that the effects of the "syndrome" in denying me the usual developments puberty brought, included not just the irregular periods I was used to, but other, physical consequences. My want of breast tissue, pubic hair, and height were only the outward manifestations of the distance between my "normal" and normal. The vagina becomes more accessible with puberty; it remains less so without the hormonal changes. If I shied away from penetration, there was a reason for that. Some fool once told me that the fact I enjoyed anal penetration was just another sign (along with my want of boobs etc) that I was hardly female. Well, when one orifice is painful because the nerves endings there tend to close rather than open, it's a moot point. Anal always needs lubrication, my pussy on the other hand? Well, absent the effects of oestrogen, the tissues are not ready for penetration.

Watching Elle and Amy, at the start of their sexual lives was wonderful. Their bodies were perfectly adapted for what they wanted. To see Penny revitalised, and Anne in her prime, reminded me, again, how wonderful the female form was. But with that was something else. It reminded me of the gap between my desire and the ability of my body to perform in a way that would fulfil it.

Like my periods, it was erratic. My mind, on the other hand, was not. It was complex. It was the interaction between it and my body, between the intention and the act, between the vision and the pain, the feeling and the strain that, once again, would remind me I was not the same as others. But that was not their fault, and it could not be made their problem.

That, again, was where my mind came in. I could, somehow, feel what my partner wanted, nay, needed, and in satisfying that came fulfilment, such pleasure that I had been known to climax with it. But of course, my lover, if she was (as they tended to be) caring and thoughtful, sought to give me what I had given to her. How then to explain, I thought, what I had just explained to myself? Was it better to understand, as I did, or did that just make it worse? It was, I reflected, what it was.

Easier, by far, to blame the syndrome, if pressed (after all that was, at bottom, the truth), or to turn the action back to pleasuring her. It had baffled Mme Duclos. It baffled my birth family.

To my mother I was just plain perverted. Women liked "cock". I was, in her eyes, simply making excuses. But as she said on numerous occasions, "what man would want you anyway? They want women shaped like women. Only perverts would want you." Alas, she was not wrong about the last point. If I had a Euro for the number of times I had been hit on by men who thought I was younger than I was, I could probably have paid for an expensive holiday.

My dumb brother, Didier, thought that I simply needed to be fucked. "How," he had said, on one occasion, "do you know you don't like cock? You've never tried it. You know old man Leclerc upstairs likes the look of you. He'd pay to fuck you. Why don't I arrange it?" He'd seemed genuinely surprised when I had told him to fuck right off, right now, right away, and when he had fucked off as far as he could, he could keep fucking off until he reached Australia!

I wasn't about to tell the dumb fucker about my problem, or about Mme Duclos' well-meaning attempt to see if I was bisexual.

One afternoon, towards the end of our relationship, I had turned up to find her with a man. Embarrassed, I'd offered to leave, as she was on her knees giving him oral sex. She'd turned to me and asked:

"Why don't you come and try, Fabienne?"

I had looked. My vagina contracted painfully. It felt as though it was clawing itself shut, the physical pain was that sharp. Being me, I thanked them both, but made my excuses and left.

Since the end of that, and even during it, what else was there for a woman like me? There had been the odd pick up in a bar - some odder than others.

There was the older woman who saw me as a putative daughter, which was fine until I discovered that she wanted me in diapers and with a pacifier; thanks, but no thanks. Then there was the biker dyke with muscles who could pick me up with one hand. She was fun, but needed to fuck her lover, and I was not much use there. Still, she said she'd never had so many orgasms in her life. Then there was the older lady from an aristocratic background who enjoyed the idea of my being a working-class woman of colour; she liked me to spank and abuse her. These were not quite ships that passed in the night, no, the better metaphor would be they were icebergs to my Titanic, only they dented and bruised the hull rather than piercing it. Again, I giggled to myself wryly, the penetrative verb.

Ah, such late night, early morning reflections! Maybe they were responsible for the "mood" Penny attributed to me over breakfast, asking indeed whether it was because I regretted what had happened the night before? Smiling, I reassured her that was not the case. I was, I said, simply tired. She accepted it. I gave her more "homework" in terms of lesbian videos and then left for work.

Elle texted me. I texted back a big red heart emoji. Words, usually my friends and allies, were not springing up as they were wont to. I'd been thinking too much. It was one thing to know oneself, as the philosophers advised, but quite another to do anything about it. Was one meant to be satisfied with who one was? Was that "normal?"

I got a few texts from Elle when I was teaching. Unusually, I ignored them. Indeed I switched my phone off.

When I switched it back on at lunchtime there were multiple texts.

"Where the fuck r u?" Was the latest.

"Sorry, Miss, very busy morning, had to stand in for a sick Teach. When are you free?"

"Now, Teach," came the immediate response, "meet me in the carrel, u kno where."

I did "kno".

Damn, damn and damn, I thought to myself as I walked upstairs, This was not fair on her. I liked to keep the past where it belonged, in lead-lined boxes in my memories. Last night and this morning there had been leakages.

Elle was cross with me. She wanted to know why I had not knocked. I didn't feel like explaining. Indeed as she interrogated me, I felt less and less like explaining, which baffled her. I hated baffling her.

Sure, there was a point to be made about not being so demanding sometimes, but it wasn't worth the trouble I took to make it. Then it kicked in.

Almost contrite, Elle turned those big baby blues to me:

"I thought you might want an orgasm. When did you last have one? I am beginning to feel like a selfish bitch."

I melted. That was the Elle I was coming to love.

"That's why I love you," I told her softly, my alienation vanishing like the morning dew when the sun heats up. "That's why you are going to be a great domme and a great lover. You are not selfish. But let me explain."

But how to?

Elle took care of that

"Can we make love first?" Her smile was like the noonday sun.

She pulled me to her as she kissed me again, sliding her hand under her dress to squeeze my arse.

"You," I said, smiling, "are a persistent girl."

And with that, I melted into her loving arms. If I was lost, I was content to be lost. Where I had been was arid; where she took me was an oasis.

As she pulled my dress down, exposing my hard nipples to the attentive care of her lips, I felt anxieties slip away. She was loving and careful. I felt her pulling my knickers aside so, kneeling, she could lick me. As her tongue worked up and down my puffy lips, it was as though my clit was connected to every nerve ending in my body.

Elle looked up at me. Those big blue eyes alight with passion and lust. It felt like the dawn sky, a new day, full of possibilities. Her confidence, her power, her vigour all shot through me. I felt it. What? I thought, so soon. Surely not?

"I love you, Fabienne!" That was all she said before burying her face between my thighs again. Oh my! The feel of her tongue as it slid up between my lips was sending me somewhere that... and then coherent thought vanished in the primal orgasm which overwhelmed me.

For a few moments I was lost to the world and it to me. I did not care.

Elle looked up as I looked down.

"Yes, Teach?" That was all she said.

"Yes, my love," was all I said.

Elle stood up. I could see how satisfied she was, which warmed my heart.

"Was that really okay, Teach? I wanted you to have fun too."

I smiled warmly. I wasn't going to try to explain, but there was no need. The love that had inspired her had been palpable; it was that which had lit my fire and caused the unexpected explosion.

"I did," I giggled, but I think I am going to be spending the afternoon in sticky knickers."

"Unless I tell you to take them off, of course."

There was a naughty look in her eyes. But then she seemed to remember.

"But as this is work for you, I will let you keep them on."

"Too kind, Miss," I giggled. "But seriously, thank you darling."

I leaned it and kissed her, tasting myself.

"Do you like?"

"Yes, darling, I do."

"Good, well I better let you have lunch, but later, perhaps?"

I loved that mixture of certainly and uncertainty in her, the girl she was and the woman she was becoming struggling together. There was something utterly sweet when that girl appeared. I kissed her harder. Our eyes locked briefly. Pulling away, I said:

"Yes, of course, your place or mine?"

"I'll text!"

Adjusting my knickers, they felt wet against me. I was rather hoping they would not smell too badly.

We kissed once more.

As I walked away, very conscious of the cooling wetness against my pussy, I reflected on how utterly, and unexpectedly, wonderful that moment had been.

I grabbed a sandwich and went back to the classroom to prepare for the afternoon's sessions.

I was enjoying my teaching. English students seemed less regimented than the ones I was used to. But one thing which did strike me came up in the class which had young Amy in it.

She blushed when she caught my eye in class. Like most of the others, she was very reluctant to speak French, and when she did, she was apologetic about it. As it was my last class of the day, I asked her to stay behind if she had time. She said she did. I asked her to come to the Ref for a coffee.

"Am I in trouble, Miss?"

"No, silly," I said, "I just wanted a coffee and a chat to see how you found class."

I got her a cappuccino and a mocha for myself.

"I notice," I said, "that you don't talk much in class."

"Sorry, Miss," she said, suddenly feigning an interest in her feet, "it's coz I am a bit thick."

Not being familiar with that use of the word, I assumed she was talking about her weight and responded accordingly.

"Well, I find your physique attractive, Amy, but what's that got to do with class?"

"Sorry, Miss, I meant to say I know I am a bit stupid."

And there it was, again.

It was a trope with her, and other girls.

"Why do you say that Amy?"

"Coz I am, Miss. I am a bit slow on the uptake. Girls like Elle and Emma are much better. I can't even believe you are wasting your time on me."

I felt a surge of anger, not with her, but with a system which had led to an eighteen-year-old writing herself off.

"It's my time, Amy, so let me decide what to do with it. Who told you that you were thick?"

"I ain't quick on the uptake Miss. It's okay, I know my place."

I looked at her.

"What place is that?"

"Well, not like where you are, Miss or where Elle and Emma will go. I'm gonna get a job at the supermarket when I leave, Mum's got an in there, it's where she works."

"What," I asked, "like Elle's Mum?"

"No, Miss, Elle's Mum's management, mine works the tills like I will."

"Where do you think I came from Amy?"

"France Miss," she said, trying, I thought, to prove she was right about her intelligence.

"What sort of background?"

"Well like Elle I expect Miss, nice middle-class home, not like our pokey little council house."

"What if I told you I was brought up in a slum area of Paris where the police refuse to go, and my Mum works as a cleaner?"

"You, Miss? But you're brainy!"

"Nothing to do with where I came from Amy. I was written off. I'm small, not very pretty and half Algerian, in France that's enough to write you off. I used to clean houses too."

"You, Miss? Really? No! You're havin' me on."

I assured her I wasn't and told her a little about my background.

"So why did you wanna teach Miss?"

I looked her in the eyes.

"So that girls like you wouldn't write yourselves off. There's nothing wrong with being a cleaner or working the tills; there is in taking some idiot's view that you are stupid."

"Can I ask you a question Miss?"

Amy's eyes seemed to glisten a little.

"I'm gay. I don't like boys. I did like what Elle did and what you did. Can you teach me Miss?"

"Teach you?"

"Yeah, how to be a lezzer."

"Well, I will if you like, but stop using that horrible word. I'm a lesbian, you are a lesbian, and I'll be happy to show you the, what's that phrase, 'the ropes,' yes?"

She giggled.

"Elle likes tying me up Miss, so I know about ropes."

I felt a sudden affection for Amy. I wanted so much to help her be the woman she could be, not the one she'd been led to believe she might be.

"Well let me talk with Elle," I said, as we left.

"Thanks Miss," she said.

I looked round. We were at the back of the building, overlooking the sports field. There was no chance of being seen by others. So I stopped. I turned to her and stretched up to kiss her.

"Oh, Miss! What was that?"

"A start," I giggled.