by Diane Wood
And Nathalie was definitely different. She never wore the latest fashions of pretty skirts and dresses, makeup and accessories. She looked like a boy and dressed like a boy. Jeans, shirts and name-brand running shoes were her daily school uniform, her books and stationery thrown casually into an old army backpack.
Expecting Nathalie to be the target of taunting from her peers, Christine was fascinated to watch how deferential everyone was toward her—including the teachers. Behind her back there were whispers but never raised voices. It was as if she intimidated them—not overtly, but purely by her presence.
Nathalie paid Christine no attention at all for the first months. It was during the third month that she first spoke directly to her.
Missing her father and feeling particularly miserable and distracted, Christine had paid little attention during the lesson and had managed to miss the instructions regarding that night’s assignment. Then as the final bell rang and everyone including the teacher exited the classroom, she’d found herself alone with Nathalie.
It was as if the girl knew she had a problem. “You seem so sad,” Nathalie stated in her warm, smooth voice as Christine began slowly packing up her books and papers.
“What do you mean?” she heard herself reply, strangely affected by the intimacy of Nathalie speaking directly to her.
“You’ve been distracted all day and now you look puzzled.”
Gathering her thoughts and stunned at her classmate’s insight, she shrugged. “I missed what homework we had to do for tomorrow. Daydreaming, I guess.”
“Do you do that often?” she asked casually. It had been said jokingly, but the look on Nathalie’s face had been comforting and understanding, and Christine had felt herself warm to this strange creature. Perhaps it was loneliness or perhaps it was the way the girl looked at her, but suddenly Christine knew that she wanted to know Nathalie Duncan better. Wanted her to be her friend—wanted to tell her everything.
“Sometimes I like daydreaming,” she stuttered slightly defensively. “I don’t like being at a new school…and I miss my dad.” Then without thinking, she added, “Not that my mother cares. She just thinks I need to pull myself together and settle down.”
“Well, that’s it then,” the girl replied quietly. “After all, mothers are always right!” The tinge of bitterness that edged the girl’s voice made Christine hesitate for a moment, but her expression hadn’t changed, and straightaway she went on to write down the homework the teacher had set. Handing the neatly written paper over to her, Nathalie said, “I’ve got my mother’s car if you want a lift home? You’ve probably missed your bus by now.”
“You can’t drive a car!” Christine laughed in surprise. “You’re not old enough.”
With a mocking shake of her head, Nathalie replied, “I don’t need a bit of paper to tell me that I can drive. Besides, Mother maintains that if you can get away with something, then why not? I drive well and I enjoy it.” Smiling slightly, Nathalie indicated for Christine to follow.
Without hesitation she did.
“So, do you trust me, Christine?” she asked over her shoulder as they exited the building. “To drive you home, that is,” she finished.
Amused, Christine followed without replying. It wasn’t really her nature to do anything remotely illicit, but she was sick of being obedient and law-abiding, and somehow this felt right.
Together they left the school grounds, heading for a small side street a short distance away.
“I can’t let the teachers see me driving this,” said Nathalie, indicating a late model Mercedes. “The secret of doing things you’re not supposed to be doing is to make sure you don’t flaunt it,” she pointed out, unlocking the passenger door and holding it open. “People can turn a blind eye to wrongdoing while they’re free to pretend it isn’t happening, but if you insist on making them acknowledge it, then they’ll feel they must act.”
Inside the car the force of Nathalie’s personality overpowered Christine, yet she felt comfortable, cared about and fascinated.
Without asking where she lived, Nathalie turned left and left again, heading along the main route to Christine’s house. Nathalie was right—she was a good driver. But why should that surprise her? It seemed that everything Nathalie Duncan did, she did well. It was only when she stopped the car outside their flat that Christine thought to ask how she knew where she lived.
“Oh, I know everything,” Nathalie acknowledged with a nod. “And what I don’t know I’ll find out.”
“What does that mean?” Christine demanded, not sure whether to be worried or not.
“You interested me, so I followed you home one day.” It was a statement with no hint of apology and no expectation that anyone would be upset.
Christine was speechless but also strangely flattered.
“I like you and I want us to be friends,” Nathalie continued, “but you need to know that most people think I’m a lesbian. Therefore, if you become friends with me there’s a good chance that you won’t be accepted into any of the other groups around the school.”
Her honesty took Christine’s breath away. How could this girl, the same age as she was, be so open about such things with a virtual stranger? Was it that she didn’t care, or was it some sort of defense mechanism?
“So, how do you feel about that?” Nathalie prompted, interrupting Christine’s jumbled thoughts and emotions. “Do you want to be with me? Do you want to be friends?”
“I…I don’t know,” stuttered Christine, confused. “I…I mean…well, I like you. At least I think I do, but…”
“But…?”
Blushing madly, she asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d first noticed Nathalie Duncan and heard the schoolyard whispers. “Are you a lesbian?”
“I don’t know…maybe,” she replied nonchalantly. “I prefer having sex with girls than boys and I don’t like girl’s clothes much, but I’ll do it with both.” Pausing briefly, she asked, “Does it matter?”
“I don’t know,” Christine answered honestly. “But, I don’t think I am…lesbian that is. I’ve never…well, I’ve never actually done it.”
“So you haven’t had sex. Is that what you’re saying?”
Looking down at her skinny knees, Christine didn’t answer.
Shrugging and indicating that it wasn’t a problem, Nathalie said, “So what? Everyone has to start somewhere, but the first time would be much nicer with another girl than a man—believe me.”
Looking up, it didn’t surprise Christine to see the invitation reflected in Nathalie’s serious gray eyes. It made her feel like a woman. This conversation wasn’t like any other she’d had about sex. Those had always been secret, giggling, lurid discussions about a particular boy or boys and their anatomy, and although she’d experienced the same curiosity as her friends, the conversations had never made her feel like a sexual being. This conversation was personal and was taking place with someone she hardly knew, yet she was aware of a need building inside her that would have to be satisfied later in her small bedroom—secretly and silently, under the bed cover.
“I have to go,” she muttered, trying to regain control of her burgeoning desire. “My sister will be home from university soon.”
“Then I’ll see you at school tomorrow?”
Christine was aware of Nathalie watching her as she gathered her books and began climbing out of the car. She didn’t know if she wanted to continue with this friendship. It was strange, it was exciting, but she was also just a little afraid. When she failed to respond to her question, Nathalie added, “If you don’t want to, that’s okay too. Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you.”
Without waiting for a reply Nathalie leaned over and, pulling the door closed, headed back in the direction she’d just come.
That night, Christine slept very little. All night she was assailed by images of Nathalie—the intensity of her personality, the boyish attractiveness of the girl and the casualness with which she treated her
sexuality. Did she want what Nathalie was offering? And if so, did that make her a lesbian? In the past, her erotic fantasies had always been about boys, yet at times many of these boys had appeared rather androgynous. It wasn’t the first time that Christine had been confused by her own ambivalence, but it was the first time she’d had to actually confront it.
* * *
Their first time took place in a small flat that Nathalie said was owned by her mother. They’d let the friendship build over those first couple of weeks, spending every spare moment together but never again discussing sex.
Nathalie was intense, humorous and very intelligent, and for Christine it was such a relief to find a friend on the same wavelength as herself. It was hard to ignore the covert glances they received when they ate lunch together, and she felt the eyes of her fellow students burning into her back as she left school each afternoon with Nathalie. Yet while these things bothered her, Christine never doubted her decision to let the friendship take its course.
By the second week Christine had found herself lying to her mother and sister in order to spend time with Nat. Not that it was truly lies. She was going to a friend’s place and they were studying together, but they both knew that it was much more than that. They both knew that inevitably they’d become lovers.
It started with a gentle kiss over coffee, and even now she couldn’t remember who’d instigated it. Christine had kissed several boys and felt their hard young bodies against her own, but nothing they’d done had made her body respond with such desire—such unbridled passion.
Slowly and skillfully Nathalie began to undress her, each movement and touch sending thrills of excitement to places Christine didn’t even know existed. Moving with her to the bedroom, Nathalie had laid her down and, stripping off her own clothes, had stretched out beside her on the huge bed. Only then did Christine begin to doubt.
Sensing her nervousness, Nathalie whispered, “It’s going to be okay, Chris. I promise. You can’t stay a virgin forever and this is the best way. Just trust me, I won’t hurt you and I know you want it as much as me.” Pressing herself against Christine, Nathalie kissed her lips, her neck, then down toward her tiny, young breasts. All the time her hands were wandering, playing a wonderful sensuous tune on every part of her body.
The feeling of flesh against flesh combined with those kisses made all doubt disappear, as Christine’s body’s demand for satisfaction increased.
Moving away slightly, Nathalie whispered, “I have something for you. Do you trust me?”
Barely able to control her need for completion, Christine nodded her agreement.
Reaching down and pulling out a drawer beneath the bed, Nathalie returned to their lovemaking. This time, though, instead of resuming her stroking and touching, she pressed something firmly between Christine’s legs—the pressure making her moan and move to receive its hardness.
At first there was a little gentle pain, but Nathalie was touching her and it was exciting and made her want to open herself more. As she did so the hardness began to fill her and her movements against it became measured and rhythmic—the feeling so much more exciting than she’d ever experienced at her own hand.
Nathalie’s movements mirrored her own, as did her breathing and the whimpers of enjoyment. Desperately they clung together in an erotic dance, allowing their need to dictate the pace. Finally, gasping and moaning at the intensity of her pleasure, Christine felt her passion reach its pinnacle—exquisitely releasing all of that glorious tension. Seconds later, Nathalie followed the same route, clinging to her and groaning her satisfaction.
It had been too exciting, too satisfying to turn away from. Doubts crept in at times, but her physical needs took over and Christine found herself almost permanently aroused when she was around Nat. It was like a drug—the more they had sex, the more Christine wanted it and the more exciting Nathalie made it.
Of course her mother and sister asked questions. They wanted to meet Christine’s new friend—the one she studied with every afternoon after school. But they were busy with their own lives and didn’t seem to notice that she never quite got round to bringing Nathalie home.
It wasn’t the same for Nat. Early in their affair, Nathalie told her about her mother—that she lived in an expensive part of town and was independently wealthy, that Nat had never known her father and that her mother had always been happy to let Nat do whatever she wanted—sex, drugs, underage driving. All she demanded was that Nat bring her lovers home to meet her. When Nathalie spoke, Christine thought she detected a sliver of fear in the girl’s voice. She dismissed it as her imagination.
* * *
“I think your young friend needs more than coffee,” Charlotte whispered to Nathalie, as Christine sat with a stunned look on her face. “Please don’t be offended, Christine. What’s happening between you and my daughter is perfectly natural and rather lovely. I don’t mean to embarrass you. But to the rest of society with its antiquated moral code, you would be seen as ‘perverse’ and perversity fascinates me.”
Unable to formulate any kind of sensible response, Christine simply stared. This woman was so unlike anyone she’d ever met before—beautiful and delicate, but with a ferocious and blatant sexuality that took your breath away. It was hard to take offense at her words. In fact the more she spoke, the more Christine realized that this openness held a hidden promise, something that at once attracted and repulsed her.
“Let’s have something stronger to drink,” mumbled Nathalie, abruptly rising from her seat and heading toward the kitchen. Moments later she returned with a bottle of bourbon, glasses and an opened, half-full bottle of Coke.
Pouring the drinks, Nathalie said, “This will help us relax and enjoy the evening.”
They discussed school and Christine’s family and the fact that they didn’t know about her “friendship.” They spoke of boys and men, Nathalie admitting that her first sexual experience had been with one of her mother’s male lovers. By then the alcohol and whatever they’d put into her drink had Christine in a blissful and erotic haze and nothing being said shocked her.
Eventually they ate, but while the food tasted lovely, Christine could not have guessed what it was she was eating. Her concentration was firmly on the feeling of being courted, flattered and given all the attention any normal fourteen-year-old could desire. The warmth of acceptance by this mother and daughter combination made her feel special. She wanted that feeling to last forever.
* * *
Christine’s mouth felt dry, her body ached and the smell of the bedclothes was strange. Yet she didn’t want to move. Moving was too painful. Slowly she turned her head, trying hard to peer through the gloom of the darkened room.
She was in a huge old-fashioned bed, and she was alone. But where was she? Vague memories flitted briefly through her brain, but as she tried to catch them and pin them down they evaporated, leaving behind only a disconcerting feeling of discomfort—of sadness. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she looked around. There was a strange musky smell that seemed familiar, yet not quite recognizable.
Suddenly, realizing her nakedness, Christine rolled back onto the bed, tears sliding silently down her face. Where was she? And why couldn’t she remember? It was this that frightened her the most—the sheer terror of having no memory to draw from. And why was she so sore?
Then it hit her. The smell was sex—different from when she and Nathalie made love, but definitely sex.
Nathalie, something about Nathalie, Nathalie’s mother’s house? That was it. That was the last thing she remembered—meeting Charlotte Silver.
Rising tentatively and peering through the gloom, Christine found first her underwear, then her jeans and top. Moving slowly, she opened the heavy wooden door, listening for the slightest sound—nothing. The corridor stretched in both directions, but one end seemed to advertise the possibility of a doorway or stairwell, so treading carefully, she made her way toward it. Questions flooded her brain, but she pushed them aside, hoping onl
y to see an open door leading to the outside world, hoping that this was all a dream and that she would wake up in a moment, safe in the warmth and security of her own single bed.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes.” The voice was deep and rich—and male. It came from behind her. Turning quickly, Christine stared. Standing before her was a young man not much older than herself. Tall and lean and startlingly handsome, he wore only underpants, a look of familiarity on his face and a shy smile in his eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded with a gasp. “And where am I?”
“Well, you really did have a good night, didn’t you,” he replied nonchalantly. “I didn’t think I’d be that forgettable.”
Christine started moving toward the top of the stairwell. “I…I need to go home,” she stuttered, panicked that once again her memory was failing her and disliking the inference that this boy/man was making about the night before.
“You were very good, you know,” stated the boy evenly. “Lots of fun. Even Mother thought so.”
She was on the first step now and ready to leap down the rest if he so much as made a move toward her. But he remained where he was.
Suddenly, from the doorway beside him, another figure emerged. She recognized Nathalie’s mother, and the recognition made her feel somewhat calmer.
“Oh, good morning, Christine,” Charlotte murmured, pulling her skimpy robe a little closer around herself. “How are you feeling this morning? Give me a minute and I’ll get downstairs and make us all some breakfast.” Reaching out to the half-naked boy, she pulled him into the room, nodding sweetly and closing the door behind them.
For a moment or two Christine stood staring at the door, unable to grasp why the boy, presumably Charlotte’s son, would be in her room without his clothes. The whole scenario was too bizarre to contemplate. With the closing of the door, her burning need to leave this place returned. Quickly she moved down the stairs.
