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Sort by:. Views Rating Favorite Newest. All Time All Time. Cracked Concrete Just a short little tale. Cordial Relations An unexpected new light on someone from her past.

Mothers in Law Soon-to-be in-laws bond. The Gymnast Ch. The Gymnast Inexperienced girl seduced by older lesbian. Watch Yourself Around the Neighbor Coed is fascinated by the construction worker next door.

Meet Ann Ann explores girl-girl sex with a mature lesbian. The Matrons of Regal Bay Ch. Violetwoods are Blue Ch.

Purity and Punishment Ch. Grayling introduces shy new girl. Momma Bird Ch. The Rescue Ch. Show Stopper Girls sneak away for first lesbian tryst.

Miranda and Geraldine Ch. Casey's Night Out First lesbian experience for two young brunettes. Lost In Translation Ch.

A Conversation Online with Jeannie A college student wants online sex. A Well-Learned Lesson A young woman in high school gets "tutored". Caught Coach Ch.

Caught Coach High school volleyball coach is enslaved. The Young Widow Ch. Professor Kale Kelly gets a leg up in her teacher.

Free Birds Ch. I returned to my inferno and attempted more home improvement projects as the time passed before the girls came. The sonogram proved two little gems.

I nearly lost my head. I had very unfairly longed for a boy to help with my responsibilities. When we parted ways, I even sent her an excel spreadsheet with her income and expenditures.

She was not aware of how much money she made. I thought I did it all because I loved her and wanted to make our family work.

Maybe this is the best life had to offer. Maybe this is the best I could hope for in having someone love me. How awful of me to wish to share that responsibility with a little boy.

God had finally done me something right. She allowed me to pick the names for the girls. The long and boisterous one was named after my mother and the smaller one was named after an Amazonian jungle spirit.

I had started sleeping on the sofa after she threatened to abort them and never shared a bed with her again. I was scared that I would start cutting myself again to tolerate the pain.

I scratched my skin, pinched myself, and pricked little holes and lines to remind myself that I was alive. I wrote to the friends I had made on my trips and confided in them, but otherwise, I was completely alone.

I continued to buy the girls little things, to create the baby registry for any showers we might have, and to organize the house as best I could.

There was no denying that I was overcome with depression and longed to just stop my little heart from beating.

As I sanded the floor in their nursery, I scolded myself repeatedly for staining the fresh pine with my tears over and over again.

Once a crying fit started, I could not control myself. I nearly sanded that floor down to the spikes. The day that the girls were born, I ran to the hospital to greet them for their first breaths.

For more than six hours, she and her mother reminded me that only one person could be in the delivery room because the girls would be born in an operating room to be prepared for any complications associated with a multiple pregnancy.

When I could take it no more, I asked what they wanted and she told me that she preferred her mother be in the delivery room. Who is going to fight with a pregnant woman in the middle of delivery?

I conceded. Her mother was to video tape their births for me. The nurse was thrown by the question, stumbled, and returned a response that alluded to all babies being red when they first come out.

I was appalled, but scolded by her mother when I asked if she had actually said that because there had been complications and she required a blood transfusion.

She should be the priority at the moment. Not my feelings. She had commented to me that she would be unable to raise white babies.

I certainly was not black — creamy, at best. Their donor was Hawaiian, Puerto Rican, and Filipino. Had she hoped that they would develop her skin tone in utero?

Would she be able to raise my children after all? They could not take my parent bracelet away from me, so I was able to stay a few hours with my precious girls in the pediatric intensive care unit.

The younger one had difficulty warming up and I sang to her, brushed her hair, and reminded her that she would never be alone.

The one named for my mother was comfortable and I dressed her with the nurse and fed her when the time came. They would never be mine. My life was always going to be wondering about them, praying for them, and begging them to forgive me.

I loved my girls even before they came into this world and they would be stolen from me forever. I was born with a broken heart and it will stay that way until I leave this place.

You cruel fucking bitch. I wish I could slap her face. I wish I could take the coffee cup from her hand and splash the wine across the cream colored walls.

I wish I could grab those shards and cut open her thick skin, make her human again, show her that she could still bleed.

I hate your fucking ass, too. She talks of her long legs — none finer on a giraffe. She bends slightly to show the curve in her hips — none rounder on any childbearing woman.

She puckers out her breasts like a child her lips — non suppler on a cow. I look at her ugly soul every day of my life and try in vain to trade it in to the devil.

Mother says no one will buy the cow if you give the milk away for free. The clock is ticking. And then what?

At least this way, I might be able to convince her to let me keep going to school and I can get a scholarship to college.

She tells me dreams are for little girls who can actually see butterflies. She makes me do pelvic exercises every morning.

She still leaves me some privacy. Not that ma ever tries. I had fallen onto the pole hard as hell and she nearly broke my head. I thought she was going to lift me up and make me feel better.

She had seen the Lifetime depiction of Sybil. Who is inspired by a schizophrenic? I want to come out of this alive. We live off of welfare. She was waitressing and they mugged her in the back lot.

Anyway, she convinced them that she would never recover. She even found a doctor to say that her back injuries would constantly hamper her possibilities of holding down a job.

She was popping pills way before that incident and she still moves around enough to keep up with her OCD. We take the pictures. I have no grand illusion of Richard Gere climbing up my fire escape after he samples my goods.

I sleep on the couch in the combination living room kitchen. Ma would probably trap him in her bedroom and hold him hostage until he agreed to maintain her habit.

Just two more years. I could survive two more years. I had nearly sixteen under my nickers. She should have just put up a Christmas calendar — the daily countdown was that momentous.

I stopped eating. I threw myself into my books and created a parallel universe. I was a huntress.

I ran with coyotes. I had a coffee colored horse named Bandit. I was free. Is there something special you would like?

Not like an Xbox, but something manageable? I wanted nothing from her. I wanted to rescind my birth and choose another canal to travel through.

This would be the last night that my body would be completely mine. When she went to bed, I laid down and took off my pants.

I explored each little hair. I touched my clitoris, followed the soft grooves. I tried different fingers, savoring the sensation I could give myself.

When I was happy that I knew myself well, I followed the contour down to my juicy hole. I put one finger in and then two. I tried different combinations.

I moved slow and then fast. I went deep and pulled my fingertips up towards my navel. This would be the last time that my body was mine. That morning, I went to the bathroom before she woke.

I took some of her painkillers and hid them in my panties. She had left me a new set, bra and all.

We went to a hotel by the railway. She checked in as mother and daughter. I swallowed all of the pills.

I think I fell asleep because his hands were upon me before I could say a word. I looked up. He moved my eyes away from him and told me not to try to look at him again.

He moved me onto my side. I had known him since the first grade, before Charlotte was moved to private school. I imagined his hands were the wind and his wetness was a summer rain.

I concentrated on riding Bandit, on brushing her long mane, on cooking a summer trout that I would catch in the river.

The hours passed. Finally, there was a knock at the door. You have fifteen minutes. I dressed myself already knowing what my destiny would be.

Maybe I had always known. I never saw ma again. The lining of her robe is tattered and she tugs at the strings. She rubs them between her thumb and her middle finger.

They used to yell at her for these nervous ticks. She looks at the scars on her thigh. The longest runs down the center of the right. It oozed and changed colors and smelled all kinds of awful.

She hid it for days. She tried to take care of it on her own. She never wanted to cause more problems for anybody. They finally found it and she got beat good.

She learned then that whether she said something or not, the result would be the same. She thought about him then.

Could she have changed his mind? He was leaving. He was in love with someone else. Are there words that hurt more? Sure, she thought. She thought about cutting herself.

It would help assuage the pain. It would ebb and dull. The situation would become a distant memory and the scar would last forever. She was tired of feeling endless pain.

She was finding herself wanting to die more than she had days when she wanted to live. She lit another cigarette.

Her fingers smelled of ash. She liked it. Sometimes, she touched herself and let the smells mesh into her own perfume. It was her scent. She inhaled slowly.

The plan manifested with each deep exhalation. Each detail materialized into a perfect scene. Someone else would pay this time.

They wanted to be together. They would die together, too. She sat down at her computer and wrote him a long email.

That she appreciated his honesty and wanted to remain friends. They had been together for five years, two abortions, three lost jobs, one eviction, and two temporary assistance applications.

They loved each other and that love should make it okay to be friends. She was, after all, his best friend in the world and he missed her.

After several email exchanges, it was as though they were friends again. She feigned coolness and made up interested beaus to throw him off.

He began confiding in her about his new relationship. They were, after all , friends. She was becoming an expert at having no feelings and wearing the facade of perfect composure.

Inside, she burned with rage. She fumed at the thought of another woman on top of him, of the secrets they shared when they were exhausted with passion, of the tender embraces — kisses and hugs that were hers.

It will be over soon. It was bizarre — the waiting. It required patience that she did not know she possessed. Months passed and the winter returned with a thunderous homecoming.

It reminded her of his words just one year ago. The pain was as fresh as the first snowfall. She began to drink from her misery, to imbibe herself into oblivion, to sustain herself emotionally and physically from the contentment of knowing that she would be redeemed.

She had kicked him out and he was returning to the only thing he knew. How many times did he do this before? How many times had she phoned him when they had a big fight to find that he had returned to his ex?

Are we just animals? He came over with a few beers and a box of wine. Thoughtful and kind. Beer bubbles made her a little sick. They ate and drank and laughed about memories that seemed to be invented just then.

All she could remember was pain and heartache and loneliness. We are together, but I am alone. She continued with all of the motions until he began to get playful.

He was nearly there. He removed the pillows that stood between them. She moved slightly more to the corner of the couch. He liked a challenge.

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