A STORY OF JANE (IN THE FIRST-PERSON SINGULAR)
Chapter Six
MONDAY, the 21st of SEPTEMBER – THE AUTMNAL EQUINOX
As I write this final chapter, I am sitting in one of my favorite places in the whole world: Mama’s library, at the big table in front of the window overlooking Lake Michigan. As little girls, Jean and I would come in here and try to imagine what marvelous spells were contained in the old volumes that line these walls. Women in centuries past have been burned for possessing such books. Today, with freedom from persecution and the freedom of curiosity born in my generation, Wicca is one of the fastest growing religions in the country, though I guess most people consider it more of a curiosity than a religion.
It’s time, I guess, to tell you what really happened that night, exactly six months ago, and the incredible events that have taken place in my life since. It’s best, they say, to start at the beginning. I, of course, do things the hard way; so I’ll start at the end (though I consider it a beginning, of sorts).
I told Molly as I sat in that motel room that two separate souls could not occupy a single body after the moon was full. That was true. I also told her that, with her help, I would transfer her consciousness into the body of the kitten. That was also true. My lie was actually one of omission.
As I read and reread each of the spells (actually a continuation of the spell my sisters had used to bring me back), my mind kept going back to something that Jo had told me when she gave me the book. She said that Mama “knew I would do the right thing.” That struck an unsettling cord in my mind. Mama had never approved of ANYTHING I did. She saw me as wild, impetuous, rebellious, untrustworthy, selfish, and a whore. And she was right, of course. I was all those and more. Did she really think I was going to change now, even having just returned from the dead?
As Molly read her little Latin phrase, all that remained for me to do was to utter a single, closing word, and she would be transferred into the body of the cat for the rest of her days. I had KNOWN she would say those words! I knew her type. She was Jean’s type! Hopelessly romantic, unbelievably innocent, unselfish to the very end. Just one word, and I would have been rid of her forever. What I had omitted to explain, of course, was that, in the event no spell was cast at all, our souls wouldn’t occupy the same body separately; they would merge and occupy it TOGETHER! With Mama’s words echoing in my mind, for the first time in my life, I did not act at all. Call it a moment of faith, I guess.
And now, at last, it’s time to remind you of the strange little statement I made at the beginning of this rambling missive. I said that the most difficult aspect of writing this was its tense. I’ve done it (up until now) in the first-person singular. But to do so, I have had to completely disregard half of the sum total of my knowledge, my experiences, and my beliefs. It has been, quite frankly, the hardest thing I think I’ve ever written, in either of my lifetimes.
Oh yes. One final point before I tell you the rest of the story of that night. It is, by far, the most amazing aspect in the merging of myselves. I find that I marvel at the concept even months later, but I swear it’s true. Submissiveness is a dominant trait! Perhaps the truth is that “submissiveness” is not the trait at all, but only an aspect of many traits, that include an overwhelming discomfort for all those things I told you Mama didn’t like in me. At the moment of my merging, they simply lost their importance to me, and all those things that make me Molly became the most important.
All I know is that the first thing I did that night (after I stopped laughing at Jean’s question) was to throw myself into my husband’s arms and kiss him. The second thing (after becoming cognizant of the growing number of people flocking to our room to see what the commotion was about) was to ask him for his jacket so I could cover my nakedness.
The hotel security guards arrived in less than a minute, and Herman (always a sharp guy, my Hermy), concocted a spur-of-the-moment story about seeing me choking on a piece of my salad and he broke down the door to administer the Heimlich maneuver. This, plus his credit card to charge the damages, seemed to be sufficient to placate the motel administration, and we were soon established in another room, complete with carefully drawn window curtains and a working door.
After assuring them that both of me were inside me, I refused to answer any more questions until learning how they had found me. As it turned out, it wasn’t so hard after all. Jean had given the other sisters the slip at a gas station outside of town and had gotten a lift from a trucker back the other way. (That was amazing! To my knowledge, Jean had never done anything so bold in her life!) She had entered the house through the garage door, which I had left open, and finally roused Herman from his little “nap” and told him everything about the spell, and what she suspected that I (Jane) was about to do to me (Molly).
Jean was a computer major in college, and she spent some time with my PC and finally located my credit card number through something called a “cookie.” (I had used the credit card to buy the silk robe from an on-line lingerie store.) Then Herman called a private investigator in Chicago that he had used once, and gave him the card number. Within an hour, they knew about the purchases I’d made at the mall. In Herman’s pickup truck, they used his cell phone to stay in touch with the PI, and tracked the me first to the gas station where I’d filled my car’s tank, and finally to the motel.
Jean had fallen instantly in love with the kitten (she’s named it Equinox; “Nox,” for short), and after chatting with me for a few more minutes, just to make sure in her own mind that both the women she loved were still around, she took it in its carrier, along with my car keys, and headed home to Chicago. I told her we’d meet her there in a few days, after my husband and I had gotten “better acquainted.”
This, as it turned out, was quite literal. I couldn’t stand being with Herman again unless I came clean about a few things. Before, in our married life, I had never really been bothered by little things like a conscience. But I was now; and even though this first night should have been one of pure romance, the “Molly” side of me demanded that it first be one of confession.
I had cheated on him – twice (well, twice with other men, anyway): once before we were married, with the bartender at my “bachelorette” party (I’d been flirting with him mercilessly all evening, and after everybody else had gone home, things just got out of hand), and once with a piano tuner a couple months after the wedding while Herman was out of town on business for a week (I’d met that guy for a “re-tuning” session the following two days at his single-wide home in a trailer park in North Chicago). Neither of these little flings was serious, and both had been brought to a quick end before Herman could find out. I may have been a wild, cheating whore, but I always knew that nothing must ever come between my husband and me.
And then, of course, there was Jean. Not only had I made love to Jean as Molly, but Jean and I had been having an incestuous relationship since we were teenagers. In fact, it was Jean I had been going to see when I had been killed by the truck.
As I explained all this to him, I had been sitting next to him on the edge of the bed in the cheap motel, but I had been looking down at my bare feet, afraid of what I might see in his eyes if I looked up at him. After confessing this about Jean, however, he made a strange sound, and glancing up at him, I saw an intense mixture of emotions in him. I had been wondering if I should really tell him just yet the whole story about Jean, but now he was clearly excited. There was a sparkle of curiosity in his eye, and glancing lower, I couldn’t help but notice that he was hard. I had often caught Herman giving Jean a sidelong glance, but I certainly hadn’t faulted him for that; Jean is an exceptionally pretty girl. But more than just beauty, Jean had an aura of innocence that attracted men like flies. I had never been worried about him and Jean, of course. Jean was a lesbian, she was my lover, and she told me everything; literally everything. You see, it wasn’t just an aura ... Jean really WAS innocent. But now, seeing this reaction in him, I decided to press on with my night of confession. I took a deep breath and continued.
Jean and I had always been more than just sisters. We were best friends. We played together when we were kids, and when we moved into the big house by the lake, we insisted on sharing a room. Papa had died when I was eight and Jean nine, and from that time on, the house was always in flux. But while we changed bedrooms twice as Jo, and then Jill and Jan left for college, we always share the same bedroom. I think the thing that kept us so close was the fact that we were such opposites. Yin versus yang. Bad versus good. Wild versus subdued. And finally dominant versus submissive.
Sometimes, we would argue, just as all sisters do, but she would always give in. What really ticked me off was that in the long run, she would usually be proven right after all! But she never said “I told you so,” never acted smug or condescending, as I always did. At the time, I didn’t even know the meaning of the word “submissive,” but eventually, I got the gist of the concept, and I always capitalized on every advantage.
She was always very shy; painfully so. She was forced into the dating scene by just about everybody, including Mama and especially me. As a high school sophomore, I was already dating, and I felt threatened by an 11th grade sister who was not. Mama too often told me: “Why can’t you be more like Jean?” and the more promiscuous I could make her appear, the more leeway I could argue for myself.
And then, on the third date she had ever had, she was raped.
She told me about it, of course. She told me everything. But at this particular time in my life, I had fixated on cheerleading. It’s all I could think about; all I could talk about. I didn’t notice anything was wrong at first (though, looking back on it, the signs were all there), and Jean kept the terrible secret bottled up inside her for almost a week before I realized she was in pain about something. By then, it was too late to talk her into going to the police, or the principle, or even Mama. She wouldn’t even consider it. She had ME to talk to, and that’s all she seemed to want, so I held her as she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.
She never dated again. (Well, there was that one disastrous evening the following year when I forced her to go on a double date with me, my latest fling and his older cousin. She absolutely refused to go at first, but as usual, I eventually got my way. I’ve never seen a girl so nervous in my whole life. She got half way through dinner and threw up. “Okay, sis,” I said as I drove her home, “you win.”)
I wanted to cast some spell on the creep that had raped her, but he was a military brat, and before I could find a way to turn him into a mealworm, he had moved away. I still fantasize about getting even with that asshole.
Midway through the next school year, I began to notice the way she looked at me sometimes. She had become more introverted than ever, and I had long since lost patience with her. We were still best friends, of course, and we still told each other almost everything, but lately, it was me doing most of the telling. And all my adventures seemed to be sexual. I had lost my virginity at fifteen, and by my junior year, I was already getting a reputation. I’d use a guy until I was tired of him, then dump him for someone that was his exact opposite. In this way, I was an equal-opportunity fucker, switching indiscriminately from basketball player to debate team captain to football lineman to nerd. And I’d tell Jean every gory little detail; every feeling and sound and smell. She would listen, enraptured, chiding me, telling me how naughty I was; but mainly she’d just listen. I slowly realized that my tales were sort of a sexual substitute; that I wasn’t just a source of fantasy, but a surrogate in a forbidden realm.
I could tell she was sexually excited; but not by my stories. She was excited by me.
As I said, we had no secrets, so finally I just came out and asked her: “Are you a lesbian?” And once the question was out in the open, she had to think about it. And the more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that she really didn’t know. It didn’t matter anyway, she said, since she had no intention of going out with ANYONE in the foreseeable future.
Now, if you haven’t already figured it out, I like sex. I like it a lot. But looking back, I have to admit that it wasn’t really the sex; it was the amazing amount of power I had over others when sex was involved. I could manipulate, cajole, coax, and demand things I had never before thought possible. Every experience was still new; and, good or bad, it was the number of new experiences I was after. As long as I relied on my sexuality, I felt I could do almost anything by controlling almost anyone. I had never been with another girl, but I was a little curious; and, after all, it was just another experience.
But now I realized I was about to take an extraordinary step in my life by controlling my best friend: my sister. I looked at her in a whole new light, and in it, I could, for the first time, see the way she was looking at ME. She didn’t even realize it herself. If I did this, nothing would ever be the same. That made it all the more exciting. I decided to make it a very long, deliberate process, and I decided that I would have a lot of fun as the task progressed.
I began by “dressing down” a little. I had never been a shy one, and being in the bedroom with Jean while wearing only my panties and bra was no big deal. Jean almost always wore a robe when she wasn’t fully clothed, but now I stripped to my underwear whenever we were in the room together. If she questioned it, I told her I was more comfortable like that, and I began berating her for being prudish by covering up all the time. And then, more and more often, I’d go topless, wearing only my panties. I started noticing her staring at me then, and that sort of confirmed my hypothesis. Now, I really started getting on her case, telling her that best-friend-sisters shouldn’t be afraid to show a little skin while relaxing in their own bedroom. We fought. She avoided the room for awhile when I was home. We fought again. And finally, as always, she gave in and started lounging around the bedroom in her underwear. She was nervous and dreadfully shy. Fortunately, she didn’t get so nervous that she threw up, but she never did feel comfortable like that in front of anyone; even me.
I started complimenting her on her figure. She shyly reciprocated, telling me she envied MY body. This, of course, made it easy to demand she remove her bra, as well, for a little comparison. The argument didn’t last as long this time, and ended in us sitting side by side in her bed, arms touching provocatively, talking about breasts in general, and hers and mine in particular. She blushed beautifully for the hour or so before bedtime, and I realized that we had reached some pinnacle in this little exercise. I could either retreat or push her over to the other side. Full speed ahead!
Over the next week or so, I demanded often that she remove her bra when we were alone in our room. I had started removing my panties, as well, and while I was always nonchalant and matter-of-fact about the whole thing, I saw her staring at me more and more often. I began touching her a lot more, as well, both in and out of the bedroom. I’d hold her arm while we were walking around the neighborhood and at school, and sometimes I’d even hold her hand. She never pulled away, but I could tell that the public show of intimacy was embarrassing to her. In our room, I’d often sit very close to her, sometimes perched on the arm of her chair, butt-naked, my arm around her bare shoulder, reading an e-mail on her computer screen along with her. Sometimes, when I caught her staring at me instead of her textbook, I’d smile knowingly, and she’d blush crimson and quickly look away.
It was early spring, and the first thunderstorm of the year was the excuse I was looking for. The week before, I had demanded that she start sleeping naked, just as I had. By this time, she had almost stopped arguing with me about everything. She still saw my demands as outrageous, but she simply began relenting to everything I suggested. When the thunder was near that night, I feigned fright and got into bed with her. She didn’t try to stop me, but rolled away from me, facing the wall next to her bed. I snuggled up to her, holding her closely, even though her skin was uncomfortably hot from embarrassment. After a long ten minutes or so, I could tell she was crying, probably from nervousness and confusion about her feelings, but I pretended to think she was scared of the storm, too, and made her roll over and put her head on my chest while I held her and told her that everything was going to be alright. After the storm ended, she asked if I was going to get up and go back to my own bed. I asked if that’s what she wanted me to do, but she couldn’t make herself answer; so I stayed, and eventually we went to sleep like that.
The next night, I got into bed with her again. She never questioned me. For the next month, we slept together, naked in her bed.
Now, this didn’t stop me from dating (and screwing) one or two links in my long chain of high school sexual suitors. When I came back from an especially hot date, often reeking and dripping from the encounters, I’d crawl right into bed with her and make her listen to all the little details. She was obviously repulsed, but aside from our constant closeness, it was still the only thing sexual in her life.
She was uncomfortable and nervous, but she had by now begun submitting to my every demand and suggestion. At my insistence, she was always naked in our bedroom. I’d make her go into the kitchen to get us milk and snacks wearing only the minimal dress ... a thin robe or a long-sleeved shirt. When I knew Mama was already in her room for the night, I’d have Jean go to the kitchen wearing nothing at all. She’d beg me not to make her, but she’d stopped arguing completely, and she’d always wind up doing as I commanded, no matter how uncomfortable it made her.
The next logical step in the process was to start stroking her with my fingertips when we were in bed at night. For about a week, I just stroked her hair, idly, as if I were doing it absentmindedly. The next week, it was her back. The next, her stomach and breasts.
All this time, I became more and more demanding of her. I had her doing my home work, as well as her own. She had been accepted, with a scholarship, to Princeton. But I made her apply to U of I, and tell Mama that she intended going there. Mama threw a fit and Jean cried. In private, I commanded and Jean obeyed. I hadn’t even had sex with her, and already she was my greatest personal conquest to date.
By the end of the school year, I’d worked the situation up to the point that I was almost making her cum with my gentle touches, but I’d never quite go all the way, and she’d never be so bold as to ask me to take her to the peak. By now, I was as frustrated as she was. I made some pretty strenuous demands on my boyfriends, but even after making them bring me to some heart-stopping orgasms, I would still find myself wanting her. At times, I wondered if I could keep things at this level forever. But, of course, neither of us could stop the inevitable now.
I decided to tell her that I would make her my lover on her 18th birthday, two weeks away. Each night, as I touched and petted her, I’d tell her that in the morning, there would be one less day until she became mine, body and soul. She’d never have a reply to that, but in the middle of the night, I’d wake up and find her hugging me like she was sleeping with a teddy bear.
When the big day arrived, Jo and Jan and Jill surprised us by all arriving to have a real birthday party. It was nice to see the whole family together again, but it seemed to go on forever. It was 10:00 at night before we could get away, but as soon as the bedroom door was closed and locked against sibling intruders, Jean stripped off her clothes and surprised me by falling on her knees at my feet and hugging me around the waist.
She was crying, saying “Please, Jane, please make me yours!” and professing her undying love for me. I made her get to her feet and take my clothes off, piece by piece, each at my command, and folding things neatly before stacking them for the hamper in the morning. At long last, I had her put her arms around my neck, and for the first time, we kissed. It was the softest kiss I’d ever had, even though it was also, without a doubt, the most passionate. When it was finally over, I made her stretch out on the bed on her back, and then I lay beside her and kissed her again. Often, in fact. I finally bent down and sucked a nipple into my mouth (another first experience!), and stroked her gently between her legs. She came hard as soon as I touched her. I’d met several guys with an extremely short fuse, but I never imagined a girl could have the same problem. No, I mused, not a problem. Not a problem at all. She came twice more before I finally relented to her pleas and let her touch me. I had to instruct her where to touch, how hard and how fast. She’d never even done this to herself before, and the orgasms I had given her were her first, other than a confusing wet dream or two. As we held each other and waited for sleep, she cooed over and over again, “I’m yours now! I’m really yours!”
My problem, of course, was that I had become just as hooked on her as she was on me. I knew I could never give her up; never give up the sheer thrill of uncompromising power I felt whenever I was with her. She would do ANYTHING for me. What a rush! I not only loved her, I loved what I could do with her.
The next year, she returned home every weekend from college. We would stay in our room almost constantly, laughing and talking and loving. The year after that, she had already found an off-campus apartment for us, and we were “roomies” for the next four years. When she graduated a semester early, I insisted she stay and earn her Masters, which she did, of course. I only let her leave school when I graduated, and then we moved in together in a Chicago apartment. I dated around, just as I had in high school and college, had sex with guys once or twice a week, and my submissive lover would still be there, waiting patiently, when I got home. She still thrilled to hear of my escapades with my men, but I always figured that was just another aspect of her subservient personality.
We would have lived like that forever if it hadn’t been for Herman. I knew just as soon as I saw him, working with a spade in a huge hole in the ground, that I had to have him; had to make him mine. The idea of taking a common laborer home to meet Mama was especially intoxicating (I hadn’t realized at the time that he actually owned the business and was just getting a little exercise). I went after him as if I was one of Arthur’s knights and he was the holy grail. He was my mission. My goal. And finally, my one true love. My one true male love, that is.
In Mama’s library there have to be literally thousands of spells covering just about every emotion, situation, and natural occurrence you can think of. But more than half of those are love spells. Definitely the most popular recipes in the old cookbook. I’ve studied an awful lot of them, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the most powerful of these were the joint spells that my sisters used on Herman and me (as Molly). This was the one that I chose last year after I knew, in my heart, that he was the man for me. The problem, of course, was that I had to get someone else to cast half of the spell on me. Jean was my obvious choice, and you can imagine how she must have felt when I commanded her to do it; but do it she did. I promised her, on my honor, that I wouldn’t forsake her after Herman and I were married. But she’d have done it anyway. Her love for me was that strong. The spell was consummated the next time Herman and I had sex, and my love for him soared. We were married the following month.
True to my word, I returned to Jean’s apartment once every week or so. Just like old times, I’d make her listen to a recap of all the sexual encounters Herman and I had had most recently. I delighted in making her uncomfortable, and these little orations of mine were extremely graphic. Of course, we’d both be naked and holding each other while I subjected her these talks, so I could keenly observe how she reacted. It surprised me. Before, in high school and college, she would squirm and blush as I told her of my escapades. But when I was talking about Herman, she listened raptly. It also turned her on more than my earlier “talks” with her, though at first I chalked it up to the fact that absence had increased her need for me. But finally I began to wonder if she might be jealous. Was she interested in Herman sexually? Romantically? Of course, we had no secrets, so I just asked her. Her reaction was exactly the same as when I’d asked her seven years before if she was a lesbian. She had to stop and think about it. And finally, she admitted that she didn’t really know. She confessed she wondered about heterosexual encounters from time to time. She did really like Herman. He had always treated her like a lady. And while he couldn’t help but be attracted to her (as I’ve said, ALL men are attracted to Jean), he never came on to her, never used innuendo, and always treated her with utmost respect. The idea of my lover being attracted to my husband was a real turn-on.
But before I could give it much more thought, I was killed.
That was what I told my husband, sitting on that bed in that lousy motel on the most momentous night of my life. I fervently hoped that my confessions wouldn’t turn him away from me, but now that both of me were one, I found that I simply couldn’t go on in my relationship with him without his knowing the truth. But would it drive him away from me? Would this knowledge that his love for me (for BOTH of me) was the result of a witch’s spell turn his heart cold?
I looked up at him. His eyes were burning with pure lust. I had never seen him look at me that way. Before I could utter another word, he reached out with both hands and literally ripped the jacket from my body. With a sort of animal roar, he attacked me; that’s really the only word for it. My body was thrown back, naked, onto the bed, and he was on me. He kissed me violently, and I wondered if my lips would be bruised in the morning. He pawed my breasts, my sides, my back, then backed off of me for a moment and struggled upright, frantically trying to get his belt undone and his pants down. I tried to help him, but four frantic hands only got in the way with results that seemed, for the moment, comical. I barked a laugh, but suddenly the offending garment was down around his knees, and my mirth was cut short by another overly-aggressive kiss.
He fumbled between us for a moment, lining us up, and slammed into me. I’m afraid I screamed as he did that. I didn’t want to make too much noise and disturb others in the motel, but he began pounding into me with a regular rhythm, and certain sounds just seemed to come out of my mouth on their own each time he filled me so violently. My breasts, constantly in the way of almost everything I do, ballooned between us, mashing my nipples into the hair of his chest. He was holding me so tightly I thought I was going to explode.
I was finally getting raped, I thought. But this wasn’t rape, of course; it was nothing if not completely consensual. But it was very, very HARD sex. Oh God, I loved it! It was everything my fantasy had been and much, much more. His cock began making a sort of slurping sound as it hammered in and out of my drooling cunt. He would pull out relatively slowly, but then ram into me with such force that it was quite impossible for me not to make some sort of sound.
After a minute or so, I sort of lost interest in the sensitivity of others in the establishment, and quite frankly, the fact that I was in a motel at all seemed to slip out of my consciousness. There was only him, and me, and this wonderful feeling that was bubbling up inside of me. He came first, but he didn’t beat me by much. I’m afraid I screamed again. Half of me, you see, has always been a screamer.
We lay together then, holding each other, gasping like two fish out of water. When he’d calmed down enough to speak, he apologized for being so rough, but I kept insisting that I thought it had been wonderful. Herman had very rarely done it to me twice in a day, and I felt a little like I’d just won the triple crown today (though he had actually done it with three different women, if you stop and think about it).
Exhausted, we slept.
The next day was Easter Sunday. We called the front desk to tell them we would be staying another night, then we called room service for breakfast (and later lunch and dinner), put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, and spent the whole day in bed. It was necessary. He had to get to know me. I had to get to know myself, as well, and the picture of me that eventually emerged was, I think, pleasing to us both. When I was only Jane, I was definitely the one in charge of our marriage. I was demanding and adventurous, and Herman had his hands full just trying to keep up with me. But now I wanted HIM to be the one to make the decisions, and instead of seeking new adventures, I wanted him to reign me in and control me. It suddenly seemed incredibly romantic to me. The idea of being a “kept woman” thrilled me.
I was sore after yesterday’s “workouts;” sore between my legs; sore all over. Don’t forget, my body hadn’t had sex in a couple years, and there were some aspects to romance that I had to get used to again. Even so, I just couldn’t tell him no when he began making love to me again after breakfast. He sensed my discomfort and was extremely gentle with me. It made me frustrated. I wanted him to take me like he’d done the night before, and as the coupling progressed and my passion blossomed, I finally wound up thrusting my body up at him frantically. He laughed. I blushed. We both came.
We talked afterwards; talked a long, long time. He told me that he had suspected me of having an affair at about the time of my death, and had hired the private investigator to try to find out who my lover was; but no one had ever imagined that it was Jean.
And now, as he grew to understand the nature of our new relationship, he began to take advantage of it in surprising ways. He announced that we would go back to my little town tomorrow (Monday) just long enough for me to quit my job. Then it would be off to Vegas and a quickie wedding. He wanted me to be his wife before we moved back into our Chicago home together. The only problem I foresaw was how to tell my parents. Mom had always hoped to see me in a big church wedding, and I doubted if I’d ever be able to explain to her that I’d already HAD one (but in the body of another woman). Oh well. She’d get over it. She was absolutely going to LOVE Herman!
Jean! What was I going to do about Jean? She was much more to me than a best friend and sister. I told Herman that I would always be faithful to him now, but oh, I was going to miss loving Jean! That’s when Herman hit me with the second surprise of the day. He said that he didn’t WANT me to give Jean up; that he could live with the idea of sharing me with her, as long as I was honest with him. We could work up a schedule of some sort, and even let me spend the night with her sometimes. I couldn’t believe he was so understanding! I cried (another Molly trait that turned out to be dominant). But talking about Jean had made him hard again, and I couldn’t help but wonder if his extreme ardor last night had been a direct result of my telling him of Jean’s secret desires.
The third shocker came just after dinner, while we were taking a bath together and he was playing idly with my nipples. Are you on the pill? he asked. I told him about the three I had taken the day before, and the reasons why. For some reason, that gave him yet another erection, but he didn’t use it; not just then, at any rate. Instead, he told me that I was not to start taking them again. The implications took a little while to sink in. A baby! He’d told me a year ago that he wanted a family, but I wouldn’t even consider it. Not for the next few years, at least, I’d said. But now he was making it a demand, and of course, that meant that he really intended to make me pregnant. Soon. My head spun.
His hard-on didn’t seem to be going away by itself, and so he made yet another demand on me.
The next month was a blur. After the wedding, we came back and moved my Molly belongings to Chicago. Herman entered some sort of business deal whereby he sold his business to a corporation that took it public, but somehow he remained as CEO. The result was that he kept the same job, didn’t work as hard as before, and we somehow wound up very comfortable financially. I took him to meet my parents in Iowa, and, sure enough, Mom DID just love him! Dad could talk business with him, and he thought that was a great trait for a son-in-law.
The reunion with Mama was different altogether. As soon as we walked in the house I broke down completely, ran to her crying, and threw myself into her arms. She knew all about the merger of souls, of course (Jean had told her the outcome), but this behavior really threw her for a loop. We walked into the library for a little mother-daughter chat that turned out to last two hours. She wanted to know Molly, of course. Everybody wanted to get to know Molly. I had to patiently explain several times that Molly didn’t exist anymore, just as Jane did not. She did get to know the real ME better, and she finally, finally seemed to like what she saw.
With Herman’s approval, I invited Jean over to our house one night to join us for dinner. She was nervous, overly polite, and horny (I can always tell when Jean is horny – there’s just a certain look about her). Over spaghetti and meatballs, I told her that I had confessed to Herman all about the two of us. That REALLY made her nervous, but before she could puke, I went on to explain our little “agreement.” She was flabbergasted. It took her a long while (with Herman’s help) to really believe it, and then she said that she had to think about it for awhile. But I knew what her answer would be. Like I said, I knew she was really horny.
By the end of April, we were seeing each other twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays. By the end of May, I was staying all night every Thursday.
The “Jane” in me still had a trick or two up her sleeve, though. When I was with Jean, I would still go into every detail about my lovemaking with Herman. She still hung on my every word, and now demanded to be told even more. You see, before in our relationship I was strongly dominant. But we were now equals in our lovemaking. I think she really missed being forced into submission, and now the closest she could come to it was hearing me tell how I was being dominated at home by my husband. Herman had discovered my love for bondage (through my confessions about my asshole drug-pushing former lover), and talk of that drove Jean toward jealous fantasy. By demanding more and more information, SHE was slowly becoming more dominant in our relationship. And when I went home from my rendezvous with Jean, I made sure to tell my Herman about every little thing we did to each other. In no time at all, I had them drooling over the very idea of one another.
In early July, I started inviting Jean to our house for dinner once a week. Knowing that they knew each other’s bedroom secrets was a real turn-on for me. Everybody was turned on. When Jean left, Herman would always take me violently, and Jean could hardly wait for our next little session. Her jealousy only heightened in late July when I found out I was pregnant. Lesbian or not, Jean’s biological clock was ticking pretty hard, and while she was delighted, she was also terribly envious.
That’s when I started hinting at a permanent solution to Herman. He wanted to build us a huge new house on Lake Geneva, and had, in fact, bought the land and started clearing the construction site. What if I were to invite Jean over for a preliminary heterosexual encounter with Herman? There was no doubt that he liked her, and it was obvious that she liked him more than any MAN she had ever met. He could certainly be gentle if he wanted to be. If things really worked out well, perhaps she could move out to the lake with us. Well, it was like trying to talk a kid into buying the candy store. When he had finally stopped screwing me, he readily agreed that he was certainly willing, if I could talk Jean into it.
It was yet another of those little episodes in which she, not having seriously considered such a thing, said she didn’t know if she could do it. She’d think about it, she said. But I knew right away what her answer would be.
The night it happened (another dinner at our house), Jean was almost too nervous to eat. She’d had two weeks to work up her courage for this, but she only seemed to get more anxious as the night approached. The thing that made it all bearable for her, I think, was seeing how nervous Herman was. It was almost comical, and we all wound up laughing in the middle of eating our lasagna.
I called a halt to the meal by getting up, making Jean get up, and then kissing her passionately. We’d never actually done that in front of Herman, and suddenly everything seemed to be alright. I motioned to my husband, who walked around to us and sort of took over from me, kissing her gently, then more urgently. He picked her up and carried her into our bedroom, but I only went as far as the doorway, where I stood watching them as she submitted totally to him.
He was infinitely patient and gentle with her. He never stopped kissing her for more than a second or two, as he slowly, slowly undressed her. This kept her completely off balance, which was just the way she longed to be. All of the weeks of frustration with me, seeking earnestly for the dominant-submissive relationship of old, were being swept away; and now she just seemed to give her soul to him. His kisses finally shifted to her throat, her breasts, her tummy, and finally, finally, to her sex.
He was surprised at how quickly she came, and then by how quickly she built to another orgasm, even though I had told him in great detail about that particular trait of hers. After her third orgasm, I watched, weak-kneed and rapt, as he rose above her, positioned himself, and finally began pushing into her sopping cunt. She gasped loudly, threw her arms around his neck, grasped his body with her legs to draw him more fully inside of her, and began whispering little exclamations into his ear, calling him by name, clutching at him, and then throwing her head back and giving a long shrieking orgasmic moan.
He had won her heart completely. And only now did it dawn on me that “lesbian” was not the sexual proclivity that best described Jean at all. “Submissive” was the one word that said it all. It didn’t really matter if it was a man or a woman. She simply needed to be dominated by whoever loved her.
They did it once more before falling asleep, and only then did I tiptoe into the room and join them in the king size bed.
As I finally bring this volume to a close, I have to admit that I have never been happier, in either of my lifetimes. Without gaining in age, I have gained greatly in experience and knowledge. I am no longer constantly dissatisfied on the one hand, or filled with perverted longings on the other. When Jean joins Herman and me in the big house on the lake next month, I will be with my husband, my friend, my sister, my lover, and our children. Jean found out she was pregnant this week, and our daughters will grow up as close as cousins (and half-sisters) can be. Girls seem to run in our family.
I know so much now. I know Latin. I know the Dewey Decimal System. I like classical and country (and vintage jazz, though neither of me really did before).
And when we lie down at night, Jean and Herman and I sleep like three spoons stacked in a drawer.