Message-ID: <45770asstr$1070975403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <20031209095708.81055.qmail@web12203.mail.yahoo.com>
From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 9 Dec 2003 01:57:08 -0800 (PST)
Subject: {ASSM} I Taught Her That (Alexis S.) {FF}
Date: Tue,  9 Dec 2003 08:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2003/45770>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, RuiJorge


This is a work of adult fiction and should be read
only by adults. It is also my work. Although I receive
no compensation other than your comments, it is still
my work. Please respect this and do not repost it
somewhere else without talking to me first about it.
If you are not allowed to read works with sexual
content, either due to your age or by virtue of the
laws in the geographical location in which you reside,
please do not continue.

Enjoy, and if you're so inclined, please let me know
what you think.

A special thanks to Ruthie's Club, where this story
first appeared and to Nat for his editing and
polishing skills -- without which I end up rough-edged
and poorly put together.

Alexis.





__________________________________
Do you Yahoo!?
New Yahoo! Photos - easier uploading and sharing.
http://photos.yahoo.com/

<1st attachment, "I_Taught_Her_That ASSM.txt" begin>

I Taught Her That
By Alexis Siefert
(c) 2003

I could feel her breath. She leaned in close, lifted up on her
toes to reach his ear, and whispered something naughty. I
couldn't hear what, but it didn't matter. I could tell it was
naughty. Whenever she whispered like that, with her fingers
fluttering at his waist and a hint of the almost-but-not-quite
embarrassed blush that started right at her collarbone, I knew
whatever she was saying was meant to excite her enthralled
listener.

I should know. I taught her that.

She used to do that to me. When we were together, in the
beginning, she'd stroke my side when we were together, just like
she's doing to him now. It was easy for her to do that in public.
No one had to know how intimate that touch really was.

And then she'd giggle, lift up on her toes, and whisper something
salacious and suggestive guaranteed to make me shiver. Then she'd
blush. And I'd melt. It was a cheap trick, and it worked every
time.

I should know. I taught her how to do that.

Not the blush. The blush is all hers, and she gets a lot of
mileage out of it. Some endearing little traits come naturally,
but others definitely take work. Like a pre-teen schoolgirl
practices putting on her eye shadow and lip gloss and blush in
front of her vanity mirror, a young woman practices her laugh and
her hand movements so they look and sound casual, yet lilting.
She sits at her dressing table and practices looking up from
under lowered lashes and giving just the right delicate shake of
her head to make that errant lock of hair fall 'casually' over
her left eye. After all, what better way to get Him to feel her
perfect skin and to gaze deeply into her perfect eyes, and lean
close enough to smell the delicate scent of her
thirty-dollar-a-bottle shower gel and sixty-five-dollar-a-box
after-bath talc, than to give him a reason to brush that lock of
hair back behind her ear?

The men love that, the hair thing. Somewhere they've been told
that it makes them seem more 'romantic,' and they're convinced
that we women will get completely butter-kneed and unable to
resist their frighteningly transparent efforts to get in between
our legs.

But no one tells girls that they're supposed to practice, to
teach themselves how to be charming and sweet and sexy and sultry
and innocent all at the same time. So most of girls go through
their teen years desperately longing for a clue. Desperately
yearning-as only teenaged girls can yearn-for The Answer,
searching for the thing that will make the boys look at them like
they look at Carrie Newell, head cheerleader and all-around
favorite girl.

Then, if they're lucky, somewhere at the end of our miserable
teen years, the penny drops, and the girls Get It. Carrie Newell
wasn't born like that. Carrie Newell doesn't roll out of bed
looking like God's gift to wet dreams. So, they sit at their
mirrors and take stock of their good points. They experiment with
honey-blonde rinses and Cover Girl blusher, they stop eating
Mom's mashed potatoes, and they start practicing. They wink and
giggle and flip their bangs back until they, too, know that the
boys will be slavering and sniggling, and although they protest
and stomp their pretty feet, inside they're thrilled to find out
that their name is included on the "girls we'd do" lists that the
boys pass around.

I was even luckier. I'm Carrie. The perky breasts and blonde hair
and blue eyes and peaches-and-cream skin are God-given. I
couldn't figure out what the big deal was. I couldn't understand
why the girls got all giggly and silly around the boys, but it
seemed like an important thing. But since it wasn't all that
important to me, the pressure was off, and I could develop those
feminine wiles, using my desperate, unsuspecting high school
classmates as test subjects.

That was before it was "in" to be a lesbian, or to have lesbian
experiences. That was back when lesbians all had to have short
hair and tough-looking tattoos and no breasts. Perky blonde
pretty cheerleaders couldn't be lesbians, and in rural Iowa, the
only 'experimenting' that gets done had best be with a member of
the opposite sex.

So I figured the liking-guys thing would come with time. 
Meanwhile I taught myself how to be attractive, and I tried to
make myself want the boys. I had my sexual experiences under the
bleachers of the football stadium like all of the other perky
blonde cheerleaders. Fumbling, awkward experiences. There's
nothing at all magical about two teenagers having sex. They're
not smart enough about their own bodies to truly enjoy it. And
what teens understand about the opposite set of genitalia would
fit on the tip of my perky little teenaged nipple. So, I let the
boys feel my breasts and I put my hand down their Levi's, and
everything was as it should be.

It wasn't until I left small town high school that I was able to
figure out what sex was supposed to be like. Actually, it wasn't
until after I left small town college. After two years of
flitting around majors and departments, and trying to find lust
and love amongst the graduate student TA's responsible for giving
me a passing grade in Chemistry 105 lab, I came to the
realization that I didn't know who I was. And until I figured
that part out, shelling out tuition money each semester was a
waste of resources.

So, I left and went west. I kept going until I hit blue water and
warm beaches and an entire state full of employers awestruck by
anyone who got to work before 10:30 in the morning. I never
thought that growing up in farm country would turn out to be an
advantage, but there's something to be said for the Midwestern
work ethic. I signed on with a temporary agency to do office jobs
and discovered that I liked it. I worked when I wanted to, and
since the jobs were temporary, I could take off and travel around
southern California.

And I explored. Not only were the employers awestruck, the men of
Southern California were all-too-willing to be part of a young,
relatively innocent, pretty farm girl's West Coast education. I
dated men from bars, from my apartment building, from the offices
where I worked, from the corner grocery store. I went to dinner,
and I went to clubs and, with some of them, I went to bed. Men
who were charming and smooth and confident at dinner or on the
dance floor, I figured would be charming and smooth and confident
during sex. If a man could move my body to the beat of the music,
I hoped he'd be able to move with my body in a sexual rhythm that
I knew I had somewhere inside.

I discovered that even grown up men don't really understand a
woman's body. I knew I was missing out on something. I watched
the electric connection between couples on the boardwalk and I
longed to feel what they were feeling. I dated. I dated and dated
and dated. Men from bars, men from offices, men from the club.
Professional men, surfer boys, older men, father figures, and
grandfather figures. They'd lie over me, or beside me, and thrust
their fingers into my KY'd pussy in their obligatory foreplay
attempt. Then they'd spread my thighs, and push and pound and
grunt and groan for five minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to
make it feel good.

Then I found out that men may not understand a woman's body, but
another woman does. Beautifully.

The first time was a surprise. I was nursing a vodka-on-the-rocks
and eating chips and salsa on the veranda of a Tex-Mex café,
watching the sun set over the ocean when Anita joined me. She
didn't ask, she just sat down without saying anything, drank her
drink, and ate my chips and salsa until all that was left were
corn-chip crumbs in the plastic basket, melting ice in our
glasses, and red streaks reflecting on the water.

Then she spoke.

"I haven't seen you around before. Why not?"

And, despite my attempts to be California-cool, Iowa-cheerleader
answered her. "I've only been here a few months. I'm still
getting my bearings."

California-cool arched eyebrow. "Oh? Tell you what. Come back to
my place and I'll help you get your 'bearings.'"

I could have feigned ignorance and left, but I didn't. Had a man
used that line, I'd have picked up my purse and walked out. But
this was a woman, and a beautiful woman. Where I was perky blonde
American Beauty cheerleader, she was exotic Like Water for
Chocolate sensual. Ebony hair, tanned skin, chocolate brown eyes,
and a voice that reached between my thighs and did very
pleasurable things to my insides.

So, I threw aside the Iowa small-town reservations, and I went.
And her voice wasn't the only thing that did pleasurable things
to my insides.

Her name was Anita, and we stayed together for the next six
months. She opened herself up to me, and she was so patient. She
let me explore her body as I'd only previously explored my own.
We spent whole weekends in bed together tracing erotic pathways
over each other's breasts and thighs. She touched me the way she
wanted to be touched, and I imitated her finger strokes. We'd lie
on top of the cotton sheets next to the open window and let the
salt breeze wash over us as I learned what it was like to have an
orgasm brought only by someone else's tongue. Gone were the
painful and fumbling pokes and jabs and thrusts that I remembered
from under the stadium bleachers.

She took me dancing, and introduced me to places I'd only
imagined. Bars full of women, openly admiring each other. Clubs
packed with women of all shapes, sizes, colors, butch and femme,
dancing together, holding each other, sharing drinks and secrets
and strokes and kisses. Gatherings where no one was furtive.
Where being a lesbian wasn't being "different." I felt as though
I'd finally come home.

It didn't last. First romances rarely last. We drifted apart,
congenially, but there was a finality to our parting. She was my
first, and I'll always love her for that. She taught me how to be
with a woman, and I'll always love her for that.

~~~~~~

I spent the next year wandering from casual relationship to
casual relationship. It was easy. There were women all over the
place. Tanned women, fit women, bikinis and sarongs and
sunglasses and breasts and lips. I never lost the look of my Iowa
Farm Girl naïveté, and I reveled in the attention of the women
ready to help me explore the delights of their body. They all
taught me something new.

Bekka taught me how to wrap my lips around her clit and suck ever
so gently, delicately drawing the moans from her throat until she
whimpered. Lori taught me to listen to her breath come in gasps
and starts and not to stop my tongue until she tightened her
thighs around my head and collapsed in a quivering heap on the
bed. Chris taught me that men are bedroom simpletons and all of
the wonderful, flirty poses and giggles and sighs that I'd
perfected were transparent to the women who had also perfected
the same poses and giggles and sighs. Holly taught me that
there's no way to equate the rough thrusting of a single, thick,
stiff cock with the gentle brushing, twirling, flicking and
fluttering strokes of two flexible moving fingers.

 From them all I learned how to finally let go. How to discover
my own rhythm with another person. From all of them I learned
that sex is amazing.  I had always been beautiful, but now I was
beautiful and confident. I fell into Southern California with
fervor.

It was so easy. Falling in and out of love, falling in and out of
lust. I was enthralled with the smooth skin and soft bodies. So
different from the sharp angles and sandpaper-rough chins. It was
easier to click with the women. The bullshit back-and-forth that
is so fundamental between men and women was pushed aside. They
knew when I was full of crap. And it really was enough for a long
time.

~~~~~~

I met Chloë at the office. I had stopped working temp jobs and
settled into a secretarial position at a California steel
building company. Construction workers and project managers and
designers and contractors. It was a big firm with enough
employees to keep the workplace from becoming too cozy. We were
all friendly, and there were the occasional Friday night, just
won a big bid celebratory drink bashes, but on the whole we did
our jobs and went our separate ways when the workday ended. With
the exception of baby showers and divorce announcements, I
couldn't have told you much about the personal lives of any of my
co-workers.

Until Chloë started.

She was a project engineer. A project manager brought in to help
oversee a massive office/hotel/convention center job we'd just
successfully bid. She looked like a construction project manager.
She had graduated from actual construction work, but from the
wonderfully defined lines of her shoulders and the delicately
sculpted muscles of her biceps it was obvious she'd paid her dues
working with a welding torch and she also knew her way around a
set of blueprints and specs. There were the initial, obligatory
passes made by the men-it was a sort of initiation-and Chloë held
her own. She gently, but without question, made it clear that she
was the boss, and not to be trifled with.

The week after she started, some wiseass left a trashy pinup
taped to her wall of her cubicle, some black-and-white spread
beaver shot from a cheap magazine. Chloë didn't blink twice when
she saw it. She pulled it from the wall, glanced at it
appraisingly, and muttered, "nice tits" before wadding it and
tossing it casually in her trash. The guys pretty much left her
alone after that. She knew her job, she called bullshit on the
men when they deserved it, and, once they saw her leave for
lunch, arm-in-arm with  an engineering consultant, the dyke jokes
pretty much stopped also. That's also when I stopped looking
seriously. She was beautiful, but not charming. She had beautiful
eyes and great lips, but there was awkwardness in her demeanor
that kept people from flocking around her. She laughed too loud
at the big boss's jokes during project meetings, or she didn't
laugh enough at the jokes told by everyone else at the water
cooler on Monday mornings. She wore jeans and sweatshirts that
hid the curves I suspected were longing to be exposed. But she
apparently had her man, and I had enough female friends. So, I
took her off the possibilities list and put her out of my mind.

Until the day I found her in the Ladies Room. I heard crying. I
could hear it from the hallway and it's not something you can
ignore. If it's bad enough to be bawling at work about it,
someone needs to do something about it, and construction
firms-even large ones-are critically lacking in the compassionate
female category.

Chloë was in a closed stall, but I could see her shoes under the
door. I knocked gently-I wasn't sure if she'd be open to my
overtures.

"Chloë? It's Carrie. Can I help?"

The door pushed open and I stepped back against the sink. She was
a mess. Her eyes were puffy and swollen. Tears left black
mascara-tracks down her cheeks.

"I don't understand men, Carrie. I just don't get it."

"Fuck, Chloë. Men aren't that complicated. Give 'em the remote,
and a beer, fuck 'em, and compliment their skills at the grill.
What could be easier?"

She burst into fresh tears. Okay, it wasn't the right moment for
smartass.

"Oh, Chloë. I'm sorry. Tell me what happened. Maybe we can fix
it."

"He found someone else, that's what happened. And he told me
today. Over lunch. I was happily enjoying my soup and, out of the
blue, he asks for his apartment key back. He's got my stuff
packed up, and he'll bring it by tonight, and could I have his
stuff ready for him to pick up? Damn it, Carrie. He didn't give
me any warning. I thought things were great. I don't know what
happened."

"I don't know what to tell you, Chloë. Men are pigs. Do you want
him back?" I ran a paper towel under the cold water and handed it
to her.

"Here. Dab, don't rub, you'll only make it worse. You're a mess."

More tears, but with less heart behind them now.

"I don't know if I want him back, but I want to know why there's
always a someone else they're leaving to. What is it, Carrie?"

I thought for a moment. I knew what it was, but there was no nice
way to tell her. Especially not right now, as she stood
appraising her streaked and puffy face in the hideous florescent
lights of the Ladies' room. Men left her because the penny never
dropped for her. She never learned how to play the games. She was
an intelligent, capable woman, and although men think that's what
they want, pretty soon they start to wonder if it wouldn't be
better to have flirty and giggly and perky instead. The trick,
the lucky girls learned early, was to get that perky thing in as
bait, then hook them with the intelligent-capable combination.
She didn't have the bait. But it was the wrong time to mention
it. I figured it was girlfriend time. Female bonding in a
male-dominated building.

"Chloë, look. You and I both know that it's his loss and that
he'll get tired of whatever bimbette he dumped you for-or she'll
get tired of him and leave him the same way he dumped you. So
here's what you do. Pack his stuff in a grocery bag and have it
ready for him tonight. Let me bring over dinner. We'll be happy
and cheerful when he gets there, and he'll realize that you're
none the worse for him leaving. It will drive him nuts, and
you'll feel better."

She thought for a minute.

"You'd do that for me? Why?"

I didn't know why. It was a girl thing.

"Because that's what women do, Chloë. So, we're on? Your place.
I'll bring dinner and wine, you supply music and candles, and
we'll make him regret ever setting eyes on the bimbo du jour."

"Thanks, Carrie. I appreciate it."

I got directions, she washed her face, and we both went back to
work.

~~~~~

She was still a mess when I got to her place. It was obvious
she'd been cleaning and rearranging-there's no quick way to get
rid of the sofa-leg marks in the carpet when you move things
around-but I figured she was nervous about her now-ex showing up,
not about having me there. She'd taken some care with her hair
and her makeup, although there was still a telltale red tinge to
her eyes from what I figured had been an all-day,
on-again-off-again crying jag.

She'd dressed carefully also. I could tell. A man might not have
noticed. Her jeans were a little tighter than what she'd wear to
work and her blouse showed a bit more cleavage than would be
appropriate. Nothing obvious, just care. I wondered for whose
benefit the cleavage was intended. My interested piqued, and I
felt a stirring in my belly. I forced myself to concentrate on
dinner. A woman freshly scorned is no woman to get involved with.
Especially a repeatedly scorned straight woman. This is friends
only, Carrie. She's not a date. Be a girl, not a Prospect this
time. Damn hormones.

Dinner was awkward at first. We didn't know each other and there
were a lot of pleasantries to work through before we could figure
out if we could be friends. Childhood, growing up, where, how
fast, other jobs, music, movies, the surface images of our
lifetimes exchanged over spaghetti and garlic bread and so-so
white wine.

We had moved the dishes into the sink and opened the second
bottle of wine when the doorbell rang. Chloë nearly dropped her
glass when the chime sang through the apartment.

"Damn it."

She dabbed at the wine stain spreading above her left breast.

"I'm such an idiot. Answer the door, will you? Let me change real
quick before I see him."

"No. Stop. This is perfect. Trust me. Follow my lead, and I
guarantee he'll be regretting his decision before he's back to
his car."

She was skeptical, but when the doorbell rang again, she stood
and looked at me.

"Okay. Tell me what to do."

"Answer the door. Hold your wine glass in your hand and smile.
Like you mean it. Like you forgot he was coming. I'll be right
there." I went into the kitchen as I heard the door open. I
couldn't hear his words, but I didn't like his voice. He wasn't
nice. I hurried, grabbed a dishtowel, and ran it under the
faucet.

In my sweetest, didn't-know-anyone-was-here voice, I called out
in the direction of the living room.

"Chloë? Don't rub your blouse-we don't want it to stain. I'm
coming. Who rang the bell?"

Mr. Steel Worker was standing in her door, dumbly holding a
cardboard box. Chloë stood just as dumbly, holding the door open.
I walked to stand between them.

"Hi. I'm Carrie. Chloë, let me see that stain." I slipped my hand
beneath the open collar of her blouse to push it away from her
skin and began to dab at the spilled wine. I could feel her pulse
pounding under my fingers and her skin was hot. She was starting
to blush and I was afraid she'd stammer if she tried to speak,
which, of course, would ruin the game.

"You must be...?" I let my voice trail off, but I didn't stop
dabbing to offer either my hand or my assistance with the box.

"Matt. I brought Chloë's things."

I pretended to think, letting the silence build a bit. I could
hear him breathing in the doorway behind me, and I wondered how
long I could make him stand there. I let my hand linger and
brushed my fingers obviously over her collarbone before I turned
to face him.

"Oh. That's right. Shees, it sure took you a long time to catch
on, didn't it? Chloë did mention you might be dropping by. You
can just set that box over there,"

I gestured vaguely at the dining table.

"Chloë? Where did you say you put Matt's things?"

"What? Oh. Um. There."

Not the smoothest chocolate in the box, this girl. No wonder men
weren't exactly falling over themselves to keep her around. She
pointed to a paper grocery bag. Good girl. I was afraid she'd
have his things neatly pressed and on hangers for him. I picked
up the bag.

"So, Matt," I added an emphasis to his name, dropping my voice a
half-octave as I spoke. "If there's nothing else?"

I handed him the bag and reached behind Chloë to start closing
the door.

"Look, Chloë," he said, full of bravado, "I'm really sorry about
this, but you know how it is."

I could hear her breath hitch, and I knew she'd break if I let
her talk, so I jumped in.

"Matt. Thanks, really, for stopping by. If there's anything you
forgot, you can call the office and Chloë will put it in the mail
to you. Or if she's not there, feel free to ask for Carrie. I'll
make sure she gets the message."

I put my hand around Chloë's waist and pulled her back gently
before shutting the door. We waited a ten-count before we heard
his footsteps heading away from the door, and I could feel her
relax against my shoulder.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? And I guarantee you he's
fuming about how delighted you were to be getting rid of his
things."

"Carrie? What do you think he thought? I mean...about you and me
and you being here and the wine and your arm and..."

I was wondering the same thing myself, and I wasn't sure I was
comfortable with my thoughts.

"Chloë, relax. He'll think all sorts of things., Which is exactly
what you want him to do. He's an asshole, and there's no point
wasting any more energy on him."

We were still standing at the door, and she was still leaning
against me. My hand tightened a bit around her waist and I
started to realize just how much of the wine she'd had. I
wondered if I was talking to rational-Chloë or to drunk-Chloë. I
figured someone in between the two.

"Carrie?"

Her voice mushed slightly on the r's.

"Carrie? You're not interested in men, are you? There are rumors,
you know, the men, how they talk? They say that you're a, well,
you're...you know."

Truth or consequences time. I wasn't in hiding, but I wasn't
"open" at work either. I didn't flaunt, because it still worked
to my advantage sometimes to be able to smile and flirt. I wasn't
sure I wanted to deal with the bigotry that was rampant in
construction firms. Hot chick-on-chick action is big with the
burly guy crowd-but only in stag films.

"I'm what, Chloë? A lesbian?"

"Right. A lesbian."

It was the wine, it had to be the wine. She flushed from her
collar to her ears, but it was cute. Damn-adorable-cute. It was
the first time I'd seen her relaxed since she came to work, and
it took away the awkwardness that always made her less than
approachable. I pulled her closer to me, experimentally, my hand
tracing circles on her lower back. She could pull back any time
she wanted to. I wasn't pushing, and I wouldn't push. But if this
was what she wanted...

I stroked her hair, brushing it back behind her ears. Her hands
came up to wrap around mine, our fingered intertwined. I brought
our hands to my lips and kissed her fingers softly.

"Tell me to stop, Chloë. Tell me to stop and I'll stop and we'll
leave it at this."

"No. I don't want you to stop."

I didn't.

~~~~~~~

For the next three months I didn't stop. She wanted to explore
and discover, and I reveled in it. It wasn't
perfect-relationships never are-but it was close. She was warm
and gentle. In bed, she was tenuous and hesitant, and it was
irresistible. I thought about Anita and how she had introduced me
to her body. I tried to be loving and sensuous like Anita had
been, and I found my new role-as teacher instead of
student-confusing and liberating at the same time.

We were professional at workand neither of us wanted to answer
questions about propriety in the work place. But nights were
different. Nights were ours. We left work at work, and closed our
world in around us like a cocoon. In the heat of the California
summer, we'd lie on her balcony, staring up at the sky as we
shared an ice-cold bottle of wine. She drew languorous
illustrations on my belly, tracing invisible lines as she'd trace
the lines of a blueprint, then with the tip of her tongue, lick
away her artwork.

She became beautiful. She found comfort and confidence in her
body. I realized she was watching me during the day, imitating my
gestures and mannerisms.

We talked about it once, about how beautiful she was. She didn't
believe me. I'd whisper to her, telling her how much I loved her
breasts and her cheeks and her eyes and her lips.

"Beautiful Chloë," I'd taken to calling her, "with lips like
roses and eyes like the sky. A face to drive men mad." She
laughed at me when I'd say it, brushing aside my compliments with
a flick of her wrist and a giggle.

"Stop, Carrie. Don't tease."

She didn't see it, at first. She didn't see that the more she
loved me, the more she allowed me to love her the more beautiful
she became.

She may not have seen it, but the men noticed. I saw them take
surprised second looks as she walked by. They watched her bend
over to retrieve dropped pens. She knew they were watching, and I
think she dropped her pens on purpose. She no longer cared, and
because she didn't care, they watched her all the more.

Saturdays were ours. Only ours. I tried to introduce her to the
social life, to the world of being comfortable with being a
lesbian, but she was reluctant to take that step. She was afraid
of being seen, afraid of having to explain. So, we stayed in.
Then one day Chloë cried.

"Oh Carrie. I don't know anymore. I don't know if this is who I
am, really."

I should have listened. But I didn't want to be. I wanted her to
be part of me. I wanted to show her how happy she could be, how
happy I was with her. But it didn't last. It wasn't my first
relationship with a woman, but it was hers. And first
relationships never last. It was sudden. Friday night she was too
tired to go out, and she didn't want to stay in. I found out
later that she wanted to stay in, but not with me.

His name was Roger and he was one of our contractors. He noticed
Chloë-everyone noticed Chloë now-but the difference this time was
that she noticed him back. I didn't want to believe it. I told
myself that she was just flirting, trying out her new look, her
new bag of tricks. She was a beautiful woman, and she had learned
how to use her beauty. I saw it coming. She told me about it the
next week.

"I'm sorry, Carrie."

She cried. Big tears, real tears, turning her beautiful face
puffy and streaked. "This just isn't who I am. I thought I might
be, and you were wonderful, but it's just not me."

What could I say to that? So now, as I watch her flirt and
giggle, I know that she's happy and she's beautiful. And I know
that she knows it, because I taught her that.

There's another woman. She's in my building, and she's been
acting interested, but I'm staying away. I saw her boyfriend move
out last week, and it's not a good idea to get involved with a
woman who wants to explore her sexuality. I know this now.

Chloë taught me that.
<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

------- ASSM Moderation System Notice--------
This post has been reformatted by the ASSM
Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+