She got out of the dress. Margo had gotten out of her own leotards and tunic in the meantime, and was left with bra, half-slip, panties. Margo’s figure looked even better now, April noticed. Margo looked feminine, warm, ample.
“Want to help me with the bra, April?”
She fumbled drunkenly with the clasp, finally got it open. Margo turned then, and she saw how perfect Margo’s breasts were, how large and well shaped.
“See anything interesting, honey?”
April blushed.
“You really shouldn’t have to stare at me,” Margo went on. “Not the way you’re built. God, I wish I were young again. Although I never shaped up that perfectly, not at any age. You look good, April. You really look wonderful.”
She sat silently while Margo took off April’s own undergarment. For a moment April was embarrassed. But then Margo told her to lie down on her stomach, and she stretched out and closed her eyes and the embarrassment vanished.
“Now just relax,” Margo was saying. “Just relax, honey. This will feel fine.”
Margo began to massage her back and April felt the tension draining from her body. Her eyes were closed and her muscles began to relax, to lose the feeling of insufferable tightness that had plagued her ever since she had seen Craig leaving the bedroom with Sue Maynor. She felt nothing but the terrycloth beneath her and Margo’s hands on her, on her back, rubbing her neck, stroking, touching, helping her to feel better.
“Got to make you feel good,” Margo said. “You’re so beautiful, April. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
Hands that did wonderful things to her naked flesh. Hands that rubbed her back, pressed the small of her back, came around the sides to massage her ribs. Gentle hands yet strong hands, almost masculine hands, yet so soft—
“Craig Jeffers is an ass,” Margo said. “Any man who could pass up something like you for a slut like Maynor isn’t worth the powder to blow him to hell. You’ve got a nice behind, honey. Did anyone ever tell you what a sweet little rump you’ve got?”
Hands that touched her buttocks now, patting and caressing, touching bare flesh. Hands that stroked her thighs, squeezing and patting the tired muscles and making her feel much better, much looser, much happier.
“So beautiful—”
She felt Margo’s lips at the back of her neck, kissing her. Now why on earth would Margo want to kiss her? Yet it felt nice. Margo nibbled at the nape of her neck, spread a row of glowing kisses down the center of her back. She felt Margo lower herself upon her, felt the weight of the woman, felt two firm peaks of flesh that were Margo’s breasts pressing against her back.
Margo’s breasts were so warm.
Margo lay upon her, holding her, touching her, massaging her. And kissing her. And the whole world was light and airy, light and dreamy, light and lovely, and she was floating high in the sky on a terrycloth cloud.
“April—”
She sighed softly, happily.
“Roll over, April.”
“Why?”
“So I can do you in front.”
The explanation was a fine one. She rolled over, her eyes still closed, and she heard the sudden and worshipful intake of breath as Margo saw the full beauty of her naked body. Margo’s hands touched her now, holding her at the waist, massaging her flat stomach and stroking her hips.
Then, suddenly, Margo was holding her breasts.
The contact was electrifying. All at once the edge of the drunkenness was broken and all at once reality returned. She knew, now. She knew that this was not a massage, that it was not friendship, that it was in fact nothing more or less than lesbian love.
And she didn’t care.
Margo’s voice: “April, they’re awful. Men are awful. They take a girl and they ruin her. They make a slave out of her. But I won’t ruin you, honey. I’ll be good to you, honey.”
Margo kissed her. Margo’s mouth was soft, incredibly soft, and kissing Margo was not at all like kissing a man. Her mouth opened to admit Margo’s tongue, and then she felt Margo’s good woman’s body coming down on top of her own body, breasts against breasts, belly against belly, loins against loins. She put her arms around Margo, holding her close, and with her mouth she accepted the full intensity of Margo’s kiss.
The world was swimming now. No, not swimming-floating, floating on its back with its eyes closed, floating in a blue-green sea of cool molten lead. April North was drunk. April North was naked as a jaybird in the great outdoors, with the air cool on her warm bare skin. April North was lying under a lesbian, was kissing and being kissed by a heavy-breasted sweet-mouthed woman. April North was enjoying all of this.
Margo’s lips: leaving hers now, moving to kiss her cheek, to drop kisses on her tightly shut eyelids, to drink at her throat and move gently downward.
Margo’s hands: on her breasts again, flexing the taut flesh, tugging hungrily at the firm nipples, cupping the mounds of female softness and teasing April into a desperate response.
Margo’s mouth: Moving downward into the valley between those breasts, and now she could feel Margo’s cheeks between her own breasts, soft and cool, and then she could feel Margo kissing her breasts, kissing the flesh, kissing the nipples, kissing and kissing and kissing with lips and tongue and
and
and
and
now the world was inverted, and Margo was inverted, over her, holding her. And now April was caught up in passion, alive with passion, thrilled by a passion unlike anything she had ever known before. Now the world was rocking in a motion older than Adam and Eve...
Faster.
Faster.
Faster—
Then, at last, peace.
Dawn awoke her, sending shivers of light beating against her closed eyelids, and April opened her eyes to blink and shuddered violently. There was a moment during which she was quite uncertain where she was or how she had gotten there. Then memory came in a flash, and she recalled everything, and she sat up shaking.
She was still naked. She was still on the terry cloth-covered chaise in Craig’s garden.
Margo was gone.
Well, she thought, thank God for that. Waking up alone under this particular set of circumstances was impossible enough. Margo’s presence would have made the morning even harder to take.
She stood up, and then all the drinking and all the everything else caught up with her. Knees buckled. She fell to the grass and heaved. She lay there and retched uncontrollably for several minutes.
This time she was even weaker when she stood up, but the nausea had vanished at least for the time being. Outdoor nudity was far less romantic when you were sober and when the sun was shining. She fumbled around for her dress, got into it, and slipped her shoes on. The dress was slightly damp from the dew. She wished she had been a little less dramatic and a little less sexy and a little more practical. Bra and panties would have helped now, and she should have worn them in the first place.
She needed a cigarette.
The back door of Craig’s house was open and she went inside, taking a cigarette from a crumpled pack in the living room. She found a match, lit it, and took a deep drag. The living room was a shambles with empty glasses, empty bottles and overflowing ash trays scattered throughout the large room. The smell of dissipation, compounded of alcohol and vomit and sex, pervaded the atmosphere.
A wall clock indicated quarter to seven. In the morning. And she had still not come home.
God, she thought.
What explanation would satisfy her mother? None, probably. She was up the well-known creek in a lead canoe, and she didn’t even have a paddle. No lie she could possibly dream up would work this time. She had gone to a party after dinner Saturday night and she was coming home on Sunday morning, and that had a funny smell to it no matter how you embellished it.