months…
“Please — don't go, Monique', she urged the girl. “Come in, I must talk to you”. Jean took her wrist and led Monique back into the room. She pushed the door shut and walked quickly to the chair where her dressing gown was draped. She got into it and fastened the cord around her waist.
“You mustn't go away like this, thinking all sorts of terrible things about me', she said. “I want to be frank with you, Monique. I couldn't bear you to feel embarrassed for the rest of your stay — so let's be sensible and grown-up about what you saw me doing”.
The French girl was staring down at the floor, unable to meet Jean's eyes. “I was playing with myself — there's nothing so very terrible about that, is there?” Monique was silent. “It's a perfectly normal, natural thing to do, you know”.
Jean smiled, surprised at the cool way she was dealing with the situation. “Why on earth should either of us be ashamed or disgusted? I'm sure every girl — and every boy, too, come to that — has done such things. And if someone walks in and sees them doing it: well, so what?”
Monique still didn't reply. She stood there, nervously twisting her fingers, looking uncomfortable and disconcerted. Her short, almost boyish, blonde hair was cropped in an urchin cut, her slim young figure lissome in a form-hugging grey sweater and pleated skirt. She wore no make-up but her pretty face with its high cheekbones and pale blue eyes looked rouged as her colour deepened at Jean's frank conversation.
“Why don't you sit down, Monique?” Jean suggested. “Mr. Cameron is away and Cathy's school holidays don't start till the end of the week, so there's no great rush to get the housework done. And, besides, I'd like to get to know you a little better. This seems like a good opportunity, don't you think?
Rather reluctantly, Jean thought, Monique moved to a chair and sat gingerly on the very edge of he cushion. “That's better”. Jean stepped a little nearer to the girl and helped herself to a cigarette from the box on the bedside table. “You don't use these, do you?
Monique shook her head. Jean smoked in silence for a moment, then: “What do you think of us, Monique? I mean, what do you really think of us?”
The girl looked up at her in surprise. “What do you mean, Mrs. Cameron? I'm very happy here, of course — ”.
Jean wagged a finger at her. “It's Jean', she insisted. “I told you when you first came — you're to call me by my Christian name. You're not a servant, you're one of the family.” She looked at her cigarette with distaste. “These are foul first thing in the morning!” she grimaced. And stubbed it out quickly in the ashtray.
“No,” she continued. “I can't really expect you to answer that question, can I? Besides, in three weeks you hardly ever get to know people really well. Not English people, anyway”. Jean regarded Monique thoughtfully. “But I would like to know you better, my dear', she said softly. “I hardly ever meet people, apart from the neighbours — and they're so stuffy, most of them! Retired colonels or businessmen commuting to London — like Michael”.
She was conscious that she had put a faint but distinct sneer into the words “like Michael”. Monique evidently noticed it, since the girl at last looked up and met her eyes.
“Aren't you happy here, Jean?” she asked. And Jean was gratified to hear concern in the girl's voice. “I thought you had everything you wanted: a beautiful house in the country. A husband, a child”.
Jean broke in impatiently. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “I've got all the trappings of a good life — I have the house, I eat well, I have quite a few clothes… And it's all as empty as hell!”
She reached out for another cigarette and as she put it between her lips realised that her fingers were trembling. “You must have seen for yourself that Michael is hardly ever at home! To keep us in all this — ” she waved her hand contemptuously around the room — “he has to work almost round the clock. And when he could be here with us he prefers to — ”.
Jean stopped, realising that her voice was growing hysterical. She waited a moment, controlling the panic which was welling up. Softly, she finished: “He prefers to sleep with other women! He treats me like a machine, an object!”
The tears were running down her cheeks before she was aware that she'd started to cry. Jean brushed them away angrily. “I'm sorry, Monique', she said. “I shouldn't burden you with my problems — it's not fair. But I've kept this bottled up for so long…”
“It's all right, Jean'.' Monique was at her side, her arm stealing around the woman's shoulder, drawing her face against her stomach and stroking Jean's hair tenderly. “Cry — it's the best thing to do!”
When Jean's sobbing subsided, Monique gave her a handkerchief and helped her to dry her tear-stained face. “There, there', she soothed gently. “I'm sure things aren't really so bad. You're just upset, you'll see — in a moment you'll remember all the good things and the bad times will disappear…”
Jean managed a rueful smile. “I am a big baby, aren't I?” she said. “I'm sorry, Monique — I'm sorry about everything. Especially about your seeing what I was doing to myself!”
Monique shook her head. “No', she told her. “Let me tell you something that will make you smile!” Jean listened, fascinated as always by the liquid sound of Monique's French accent. “The reason I was so embarrassed was that I was doing the very same thing this morning! And I already felt so ashamed! Then I came in to wake you… It was the shock, Jean! To see you doing what I had been doing! It startled me so much!”
They both stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. Jean clutched Monique around the girl's waist and giggled helplessly.
“How silly we are!” she gasped. “Oh, Monique, to think that we both had the same secret and we were both so stupidly ashamed of it!” Jean could feel the French girl's body shaking with laughter against her face. Through the thin sweater she could smell the sweetness of Monique's perfume — a subtle and fresh bouquet which blended wonderfully with the girl's feminine scent.
She drew Monique down until her ear was level with Jean's mouth. “Tell me', she whispered. “Did you enjoy touching yourself, Monique? Tell me what it was like…'
The girl stiffened slightly, then Jean felt her body relax again. “I was in the bath', she replied, lowering her voice to a husky, breathy whisper. “And suddenly I felt this desire to — to feel myself. Do you know what I mean?”
Jean nodded, keeping her lips close to Monique's ear, her face only scant inches from the French girl's.
“I pretended to myself that it was another girl who was touching me', Monique continued. Her voice was so low that Jean had to strain her ears to hear what she was saying. “I put my fingers between my thighs and…”
“Yes?” Jean felt breathless, a curious constriction in her throat as she waited for the girl to go on.
“I touched myself, very intimately', Monique whispered. “Right inside… I put my fingers right inside myself — just as you did, Jean. The hot water made me feel so sexy…
“Then, afterwards, I hated myself for being so weak and for having such awful thoughts — ”.
“Awful?” Jean murmured. “What was so awful about them?”
Monique's eyelashes fluttered nervously. “To imagine another girl touching me? Don't you think that is awful, Jean?”
“Why, no', Jean said slowly. “I don't really think so. Has it ever happened to you, Monique? Have you ever been caressed by a girl?”
“No…” Monique's voice trembled. She breathed the word out and managed to make it sound more like an invitation than a denial. “Have you, Jean?”
“Once', Jean told her. “A long time ago — at school. Why do you think it's so awful if you've never experienced it, darling?” The endearment was spoken before she realised what she was saying. And Jean knew that even if, at the start, she had only intended to tease the girl, from this moment on she was deadly serious in her flirtation. The hairs' breadth between playfulness and seduction had been crossed — perhaps without either of the girls realising it.
Before Monique could reply, Jean slipped both her hands down until they rested on the girl's buttocks. She began to rub them gently and softly, making no attempt o disguise what she was doing.
Slowly, Monique turned her face around until her breath mingled with Jeans and her eyes looked into the woman's. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Jean — you mustn't! You mustn't!”
But Jean's hands were already lifting up the pleated skirt, twitching it steadily over the girl's thighs. Monique's legs were bare and as Jean's fingers finished their work of raising the short skirt over them she could feel the firm flesh tightening as the girl's muscles contracted in protest.
Monique put her hands on Jean's shoulders and tried to push her away. “Don't fight me, darling!” Jean
