Free Bianca free porn video

Free Bianca. By Tanya H. Sleepy sex... oh, my favourite. Love that feeling, coming to - warm and heavy - sleep soft, dreamscapes fading to find your body is more awake that you are. Mmmmm... I'm on my side, facing the wall with my back to my lover. Bold, but gentle hands weaving magical patterns over my skin; my waist, the rise and fall of my hips, the curves of my behind. And there, a warm finger edges along the good place between my cheeks with the promise of penetration to come. Do you know this feeling? I keep my eyes closed, maintaining the fiction that I sleep on though maybe my lover has guessed I'm stirring from my quicker breathing. Those hands brush the fronts of my thighs now, pressed tight together as they are, drifting higher (feather light) and skirting, but teasingly close to the few curls I keep down there. What's the time? Who cares! Though I have work this morning and Jay doesn't. Fingertips softly knead my belly, the tip of an index finger lovingly probes the dip of my tummy button before rising to explore the bottom most ribs. Higher, go higher; find my breasts! I want you to touch them, cup them - understand what I feel as my nipples harden with every thump of my heart. You tease. I hate you love you need you. Leaving my breasts' ache those hands confidently follow the smooth wave from rib to waist to hip. My lips part with faster breathing and my lips swell with deeper arousal. How long has this been going on? I'm so hot, I smile with how wet I've become; how wet I've been made - even as I slept. "Naughty." I murmur, but draw my knees up towards my chest, baring my hottest place with unspoken approval. Hands explore my behind, reach for its centre; touch me touch me touch me. "Tease! Stop it." In my imagination Jay smiles, I love that smile. Always have. Lips brush my shoulder, bed settles as Jay moves closer. Twin, stiff points brush my back jolting me further awake. I stiffen momentarily as they press against me. The hands pause their magic, Jay felt my moment of tension and I must make amends for it. "I love you. Don't stop." "You're sure?" Lifting one of his hands, I place it softly, but insistently on my pussy - move his fingers along my slick lips. "How sure do I feel?" Jay sighs, the body laid along me relaxes. When I move my hand, Jay doesn't. Close now. Touch me touch me touch me. Oh! Yes, there. Long sublime sigh as I'm parted, making that finger slick with my own wet. "I'm ready for you now." Smiling, moaning, turning to my shoulder to be kissed as that slim, smooth finger eases inside. Sometimes, before, we'd play a giggly, loving, sleepy game of Find Bianca's Pussy. I'd trap Jay's arms against me, move my pelvis in the slow rhythm of arousal and loved the tantalising touch of his cock tip all around the hottest, slipperiest, poutiest, hungriest part of me. He was always so gentle, never once did he take me hard - even when I'd wanted that, and sometimes, even when he was about to win Find Bianca's Pussy, he'd pull out and start again and I would laugh and sigh and moan with frustration. If Jay was on a rest day or late shift when I was getting ready for work in the morning, I would have a rapt audience as I pinned up my hair, attended to my make-up and covered myself with my uniform. And I knew what he liked, how he liked me, so sometimes I would brush and braid my hair, line my eyes and paint my lips wearing nothing but nylons, stockings or tights, leaning forwards over my dressing table and pushing my bum towards him as I worked. Sometimes, not every day, as I didn't want to make it routine, I'd slip on heels too - enjoying his attention, his arousal as much as he did. Sometimes, while I was still smoothing on foundation or eye shadow I'd feel warm hands resting on my hips while he teased me with his diamond hard cock head, brushing it over my panties and along my bum cleavage, sometimes edging it between the tops of my thighs so it was laid along the pulse in my labia with nothing but the flimsiest panties between my arousal and his. Or I'd climb onto the bed, throw the duvet aside to see where he was happily playing with himself and I'd watch him a moment, perhaps slipping my hand inside my tights to masturbate, or bending to kiss him. He would scoop my hair aside and I'd take him higher and higher and higher with my lips and mouth and tongue until I could run for the bus with the wonderful taste of his fresh cum lining my mouth. Not this morning. I stiffen, cry out, arch my back and subside in Jay's arms too full of regret and what-might-have-beens to cum from the dildo expertly, loving worked inside me. For the first time in my relationship with Jay I have faked an orgasm and I hate it. Worse than that, I think Jay knows what I've done. "You deserve a proper man, Bee," says Rose. I've skipped forward a couple of days, in case you imaged or hoped I shared my bed with Rose and Jay (and the cat too). Rose would be a problem to share a bed with; she's a plus-size girl with meaty arms and hypnotically rolling hips. I love her gorgeous porcelain skin, with milkmaid cheeks, and her shimmering hazel eyes I'd love to make up. "What is a proper man?" I murmur. We're having lunch, in Starbucks around the corner from the department store where I work. With my handbag mirror I'm checking the damage the coffee cup has done to my lipstick; it's a free sample from a brand we're being asked to push, but I'm not sure about its shade or resilience. "You know... A man." Her eyebrows are raised, a smile ready on her lips depending on how I react. "I love you, Rose, but sometimes you aren't lovable." Another coat of suspect lipstick, I rub my lips together and think of kissing Jay goodbye this morning. It felt, cold - pained. I don't know why, or what to do about it. I should talk, but the orgasm-that-wasn't hangs between us (in my head at least). Maybe Jay's work is just shitter than usual. It may be because Jay wears lipstick routinely now and kissing feels different - stickier. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to wear lipstick at all; people I meet away from work are often surprised that the team leader from a department store make-up department doesn't wear much off duty. Apart from my eyes; I love transmitting my mood with eye make up. Jay used to joke that I would put on eyeliner even to get up for a pee in the night. Rose pouts, but she doesn't mean it. "I don't want you to get hurt, Bee." "Jay won't hurt me." "He might not, but other's will because of him. They already have, haven't they. I saw that shit on Twitter." "Rose!" She frowns. Genuinely. The lipstick goes into my handbag, I'm not going to wear it again. "Say it properly. Please." Sigh. "She might not, but other's will because of her." "Thank you." Though I find it hard too - misgendering. To compensate I make my sentences over complex and over use his... (there, you see...) her name, but I've known Jay since I was fourteen and he was thirteen - she was thirteen. And its hard because my mind is wired to see BoyJay. Unpicking eleven years doesn't come easy. "Bianca?" Rose leans forward. We're in comfy leather sofas, opposite a low table on which the remains of our coffee and toastie lunches sit. I lean to meet her, so I can scent her perfume, her musky body, and enjoy the mix. "At some point you'll have to... I mean, you know... finish it." "Dump her?" Bluntly said, a little incredulity. Like I haven't actually considered it. Rose inclines her head. Her uniform jacket has fallen open revealing her watermelon breasts straining at her blouse - her nipples are hard. What would it feel like to kiss one? I've seen them, bared; heavy and full - pendulous. She was shy that I should see her topless, half turned away but in profile she seemed even bigger. I'd told myself I would stop sleeping naked beside Jay when he, when she started wearing a bra, but the other morning - before I pretended I was cumming - I'd felt her nipples brush my back, as hard as mine were. "I'm not a lesbian." A middle-aged, stylish woman sitting a couple of seats away looks up from her laptop, frowning. Rose snorts, covers her mouth with soft fingers. "I didn't think you were." "You did. I can lip read. When you're thinking hard about something your lips move." "They do not!" My mirror go back into my handbag, I snap it closed. What is the tipping point between a chest and a breast? When does one become the other and does it matter? Jay wears an A cup bra now, maybe she'll be needing a B soon. I'm a D. Last week we'd stood side by side in our bedroom, our hips touching, and compared breasts. "I'd love mine to be like yours when they finish growing," she'd said. As much as I like to support my breasts with something pretty, sexy and feminine I definitely look forward to the end of the day when I can strip away my bra. Jay was so amazingly excited to start wearing one I'd almost laughed at first. She'd often nudge me, lean close and whisper, "I'm wearing a bra," in the weeks after that first brassiere wearing and I'd almost grown weary of it, I'd almost told her how she'll come to see the bra as in instrument of torture, but I stopped myself. I'd been the same when mine started growing, when I'd first started going to a school with a bra's outlines showing through my shirt, excited and apprehensive about growing up and becoming a woman. That's all Jay was going through, only she'd had a lot longer to wait. I've suckled her nipples, one after the other, until they've become pointed and hard - I've run my tongue around her crinkling aureoles and kissed the smooth curves of her girlish breasts without recoil or revulsion. Oh, let me tell you I loved it! Because they were Jay's nipples? Jay's breasts? I'm not a lesbian, but I love Jay. I told myself I would stop sharing a bed with Jay when he started wearing a bra. Well, that deadline passed and we carried on sleeping together. I looked into my make up mirror one morning and said I would stop sleeping with Jay when there wasn't enough testosterone left for an erection for me. Two weeks ago I tried my very best, used all the tricks and wiles I knew, to deliver Jay a blow-job and he (there I go again) couldn't stay hard - that blow-job never happened. Perhaps we were both disappointed - his last one should have passed with some kind of commemoration to mark the occasion. Do I love oral sex? The sheer intimate, slutty, heart-racing, loving joy of feeling a cock grow hard in my mouth? Only Jay has ever cum there and I have savoured every drop I teased from him. "What will happen when you need a man?" Jay said to me, the night when I hadn't been able to make her hard. I was staring at the ceiling, holding her hand. "What will happen when you need one?" "I did try it with a girl once, or rather she tried it with me." I say to Rose. Her name was Maya, she was petite and black; I'd loved what she did to me, but couldn't reciprocate. For weeks afterwards I'd felt too uncomfortable even to masturbate. "Now you tell me!" We're on the High Street, heading back to work and anonymous amongst the lunchtime shoppers. She sells tickets and dispenses travel information at the railway station around the corner from my store. "You're not my type." "Too cuddly for you?" "You're not Jay. I mean, I've known Jay for years. Years and years. All that emotional investment, I can't just throw that away when the landscape changes a bit." "Landscape changes a bit! When are you going on some management seminar? Anyway, Bee - he's not just changing his hairstyle, he's changing his sex; hello!" "She isn't changing sex, just living as she wants to be." "Yeah!" She pushes the button for a pedestrian crossing and we stand there waiting for the cars and vans and taxis to be halted. "Jay can be your girlfriend, one of your besties, Bianca, but for everything else you could have anybody you wanted. Look." She smiles broadly up at some tall, suited guy waiting at the crossing with us. He has a preoccupied look on his face, but he's handsome, fair and lean - no ring. "Excuse me, sir. I bet you'd enjoy dinner with my mate here, wouldn't you?" "Rose!" The look of horror and confusion on his face is matched only by the heat in mine. Rose, for her part, maintains a visage of wide-eyed innocence. "I mean look at her; pretty, skinny, tall and her hair looks like polished conker when she lets it down." "Rose!" The traffic stops and Rose's target gets half way across road before we've taken a couple of steps. "That was cruel. And he's run away, how do you think that makes me feel? One look at me and he runs, screaming, for the hills." And he probably wouldn't be very good at sleepy sex, or kissing my toes and making me squeal, or cheering me on when I play hockey, or to come kayaking with me, or any of the other wonderful things Jay does for me. "Bad choice. He's probably been having a string of affairs and somebody at work has found out and is blackmailing the poor bastard." She's still chuckling when we part company a minute or so later. "Think about it, Bee. Take your life back. You've done your bit for him." "Her!" I mutter under my breath and head back to the store as quickly as my narrow skirt and heels allow - my manager can get funny about a minute or so pinched here and there. Can, not will - but she's difficult to predict. Even so, my attention is grabbed by a window display I always stop at for a moment - no matter the rush. The Royal Navy Careers Information Office. Its display centres on a woman. She looks very much like me, though her face is longer, nose a little more pointed and her dark hair is swept back away from a face which cropped by a white sailor's cap with HMS Queen Elizabeth embroidered on the band. Behind her are the grey lines of a warship, beyond that the enticing, blue waters of some ocean. I'm sure her life isn't all sunshine and smiles, but at that moment it looks superficially more fulfilling and worthwhile than mine. "You could do that, Bianca," Jay had said. We'd been watching a documentary about a Royal Navy ship of some kind. "Get out of this shit town, get away from your shit job. It's only a matter of time before your shop closes anyway. People get their make up tips from You Tube now." Join the Navy? Thanks to my pointless job and Jay's encouragement I'm practically there, just waiting for a date to start my training - in Plymouth! (I have never been so far South.) "But we'll be apart if I do," I'd protested, when I'd passed the fitness assessment and was awaiting an interview. And she'd touched me between my breasts, above my heart, and lifted my fingertips so they were resting over her heartbeat. "We'll always be together, Beboh. Here, where it counts." Beboh? Jay's pet name for me. She'd lifted it from my full name of Bianca Bobbie Harris. "When you come home from the sea, I'm going to wait on the dockside and wave like mad as your ship glides past." "I don't think it's a good time. I'll need to be here, with you. You know, helping; your surgery..." "I don't want to hold you back. Besides, I'm a big girl now. I'll do that when you get shore leave." It isn't that I don't like my job. I've enjoyed make up since I was old enough for my big sister to experiment on me and having a job where I help women choose what's best for them is the natural progression of that childhood pleasure. The best days are where I positively influence somebody who's not naturally a make-up user, or who uses just a little and hasn't changed their routine for ever. I get a kick out of showing them something new, a different technique or product, leading them into a small change that can make such a big difference. Still not very fulfilling though; not when many of the people I deal with have more money than style, but I occasionally get a victory where I persuade a girl from the street-whore school of cosmetic application to something more subtle. My last chance to opt out of a naval career will be when they offer me a start date. I'm minded to say no, delay it - a year, maybe two - until Jay has fully transitioned. Surely she needs me more than I need to do something worthwhile with my life. Back to work and my afternoon passes slowly giving me time to think of Jay's coldness, Rose's words and my own fears. Eventually it's time to climb on the bus, switch on my phone to pass the journey with social media and other nonsense until I can get home to thankfully strip off heels, hosiery, bra and slap. A text from Rose pops up - JUST SEEN JAY GET ON A TRAIN. Not in itself unusual. Neither of us have a car, hardly any point when we live in a city, but Jay should have been at work. When we'd parted this morning I had been certain she'd have been off for her late shift at 2pm and I'd have been meeting her with wine, tea and a cuddle when she rolled in sometime after 10 - depending on how the shift had gone. Climbing into a train hadn't featured in any of our conversations this morning. WHERE TO? DIDN'T BUY A TICKET HERE. COULD BE ANYWHERE, BUT THE TRAIN WAS GOING TO LEICESTER. There are no messages from Jay. Nothing unusual there - I keep my phone off when I'm working and she is usually too busy for hers. But if something had happened to take her away from her job, she's a paramedic in the ambulance service, she'd have been sure to let me know. Wouldn't she? EVERYTHING OKAY J? I message. By this time the bus is rumbling off to its next stop and I'm just around the corner from my house, a spill of fear is clenching my guts. I call her name when I step through the front door, but all is quiet. Maybe Rose is mistaken, though Jay is quite distinctive and she's known him, her, as long I have known Rose so she wouldn't make a mistake - surely? But the house is empty. Worse than that, her toiletries are gone like her underwear, medication, a load of clothes, books - all the things that Jay likes to keep around. Left behind was an envelope propped up against a candle on the kitchen table. Beboh was written on the envelope in Jay's scruffy writing, that she always tried to tidy when she was writing something for me. Rose will probably be busy with her girls and husband, but when I'd choked back the tears a little I phoned her. "Bee! Whatever's wrong?" "She's left me. Gone. Just gone!" The slender self control I'd managed crashed away and I broke down again. More tears splashed the notepaper, Jay's letters blurred and my throat clenched shut against any words I might have tried even if I were listening to what Rose was saying. Beboh, I have clearly asked too much... "She asked nothing of me! Nothing!" "Oh, Bee." I find myself slumped, my bum on the cold kitchen tiles, back against a cupboard, my knees drawn up, Jay's letter at my feet, phone pressed to my ear while my shoulders shake and my world is torn open and my heart drops out. ...I can't go on hurting you like this... "I can't talk, sorry. Bye." The phone's blank screen stares at me. A little bit of me dispassionately steps back, folds its arms and sneers at the noises I'm making - ragged lungfuls of hurt; stupid slobbering uh uh uh uh sobs. He's left me. She's gone, walked out, to her sister's - her sister's! In London! Jay always hated London. It gets dark outside, but I don't bother with a light. I should be at hockey practice, but I can't be arsed even to message Lorraine to say I'm not coming. My phone beeps. I snatch it up and stare, hoping it's Jay messaging me. It's only Rose. I switch it off and send it skittering across the tiles without reading her words. Then I crawl, on my hands and knees - most undignified in a pencil skirt - and fixated on that phone. I'll call Jay, message her - demand some kind of explanation. And say what? I love you. Why? I don't understand. What did I do wrong? Why are you doing this to me? (All shit things to say.) What did I do to deserve feeling like this! I'm not a person to flash into a rage - I'm a slow boil. By the time Rose has messaged me three times and rung twice; when I've dropped the phone into a kitchen drawer without getting any further that summoning a blank message line for Jay, I can feel it bubbling. In my bedroom I strip away my uniform, hang it neatly for tomorrow, bundle tights and underwear and blouse into the laundry basket and ignore my pyjamas sitting welcoming on the pillow. Jay's clothes have gone, the bathroom looks bare with just my things around the sink and shower; Jay's left me and I'm not going to sit around in my pyjamas compounding my misery with a tub of ice cream; I'm getting mad. How! Why would he do this to me? Everything I did for him. Held him when his Mum died, stifled his sobs and shakes with my own embrace. I helped him clear her bungalow when his heart was breaking, I did most of the admin around sorting out the paperwork and selling the place because he found it too difficult. I gave him my house, my life, my body, my love and when being his girlfriend wasn't enough, I sat there holding his hands (we shared a bottle of wine too) when he took a deep breath and disclosed his big secret. "Beboh, this is a weird thing to say, I should have brought up earlier, ages ago in fact, but I'm a girl too." I didn't laugh, scream, walk out or go silent. I held him, squeezed him - loved him. Told him I'd be there whatever he decided to do, that he could tell me anything, ask me anything; nothing would be too much. I shopped with him. I helped him decided on his first skirt, painted his toenails, shaved her legs for the first time. I held her hand when we went out together, woman and woman. When her confidence crumbled I stroked it, when she cried I blotted her tears. When people took the piss out of me because my boyfriend was some kind of freak I pretended it didn't matter. I never rejected her when his breasts grew, when she had her ears pierced or grew her hair out; never pushed her away when she went from awkward male to self-conscious female. And it cost me, you'd better believe it! Questions at work, abuse on Twitter, cold shoulders from people who'd been my mates, pity from my family. All of it shouldered, all of it managed, smiled through - for what? For him to dump me. "You ungrateful bastard!" Next day I make myself feel shit. You know why? Because I'm relieved. Jesus, you cold-hearted bitch! You're glad he's walked out, because now when it gets too hard, when the looks you get for holding hands with a man in a dress are too much you won't have to sit him, her down and think of some way of letting her go gently. I don't have to have a trans boyfriend anymore and next time I date a guy I can check he isn't going to be borrowing my hold-ups before I invite him into my bed. "Why shouldn't you feel like that?" Rose asks later. Nothing from Jay. Not even a single text. She makes me a cup of tea, but we should be getting ready for the evening's activity for the Cub Scout pack we run together. She's Akela and I'm Bagheera. Cub Scouts is something I picked to do when I decided, three years ago, my job wasn't fulfilling enough. One rainy November the 11th I watched the town's youth parade to honour our nation's dead and I tried to work out which group I could join to make me feel worthwhile. That's where I met Rose and she's taught me everything about being a Cub leader - I even enjoy it, most of the time. Even though it wasn't enough. "It seems so heartless." "She dumped you. Not a word, Bee. Not a word. That's heartless." Jay isn't heartless. I never met a person with more heart than Jay. Last birthday she got me a new hockey stick, mine was getting well battered. He chatted Lorraine up to make sure he got the one I needed, a top of the range model he could hardly afford on his paramedic wage, but didn't just wrap it up and hand it over. No, not Jay: she hid it in the house and left me a treasure trail of clues and silly little gifts - earrings, chocolate, pretty panties, heart-shaped post-its, a Minion pen, that kind of thing. It took almost a whole, wonderful, laughter-filled evening to work through those clues before I finally found my amazing hockey stick. And when we met, that first time - she was everything but heartless then. There I was, the fourteen year-old girl who'd been knocked off her bike by a woman in a Nissan Micra who pulled out when she should have given way. Jay's Mum! I sat on the pavement near my bent bike nursing a wrist that flopped where it shouldn't, sobbing and staring at a jagged end of ulna that had ripped through my skin and he took me and held my broken arm and said soft things that really did make it hurt a little less until the ambulance came. "Jay's not heartless. She's not like that." "Hello! He just dumped you, chick! After everything you did for her too! Don't you think you deserve better than that, Bee? Because I do." Further conversation is stilled by the arrival of the first Cub and his anxious mother (we're going to show them how to cook a bacon and egg sandwich ready for the upcoming camp and she's worried about his dairy intolerance. No dairy products in bacon, Mrs Peacock.) "So, why has she left you?" James asks next morning. When will it stop hurting? He's caught me by the loading bay at the back of the store having a sniffle. I'm nursing a cooling mug of tea and making a pile of damp tissues while I sit on the concrete loading dock. Its cool and uncomfortable through my skirt. James looks after menswear, particularly suits. As gay as you like, James has been something of a support since word went round the store that Make-Up Bianca's boyfriend was having a sex change. All I can answer with is a miserable shrug. "Bianca, you're no fool. You're one of the most switched on make-up girls I've ever met." I snort. "Thanks!" "So ask yourself why she left." He hands me a fresh pack of tissues when tears stain my skirt, rests his big hand lightly on my shoulder. "Bianca! Look at me. Stop feeling sorry for yourself." He sounds like a teacher now and I want him to fuck off, so I can sort out my face and get back to work before anybody important notices I'm missing. When I turn away slightly he gets the message, but doesn't leave until he'd told me one more time to ask myself why Jay's left. I feel like a bitch again as his footsteps move away, but I don't need lectures - however well meaning - and I shouldn't have to ask why Jay's left me. She should be explaining it. An email from the Navy drops into my In Box on the way home. I read it on the bus and everything else is crowded out. I'm in! They've offered me a date - six weeks! In six short weeks I can stop worrying about my trivial, cosmetic centred existence and start the road to becoming a medic in the Royal Navy. The email I'd been waiting for; the change of my life, the road to worthwhile and fulfilment and I stare at it with the kind of dull indifference I might have saved for some cold-selling communication from a brand I couldn't afford. Maybe I should tell the Navy I'm not interested anymore? Now you can get on with your life. Jay had written that in her Letter of Dumping. How did Jay do such a good job of masquerading as my boyfriend for so long? Maybe I should have seen the signs that he was going to turn into a woman and let me go. For instance: 1. He never left the toilet seat up. In fact, he was so conscientious about not leaving the toilet seat up that I used to leave it up for him. 2. He never forgot my birthday or our anniversary - June the 7th, the day his mum knocked me off my bike. 3. He used to enjoy clothes shopping with me. 4. If I needed tights and tampons and he was stopping by the supermarket on the way home from work he'd get some for me. 5. When he said he loved me I felt it, everywhere. 6. He wrote me poems. Some were silly, but many were beautiful. 7. Sex with him was amazing, like he really cared about what I could feel. Like he cared that I was in my body and wasn't just some porn for him to masturbate over. 8. Or that making me cum was an obligation. Perhaps there are men out there who are like this, who don't want to be women. I wish Jay had told me sooner. Like when he was helping me with my broken wrist, when through the tears I was beginning to think what a good looking lad I'd been knocked from my bike in front of. But you probably wouldn't have gone out with him then, would you, Bianca? So you wouldn't have had those dizzyingly happy months of growing to know him, of hearing his message hit your phone, of hearing his voice, of counting down the minutes until you would see his smile again and hold his hand and embrace his body and let him see yours and... Nobody else but Jay could have made those years any happier. Because Jay loved me as I loved him - as I love her! Revelation slam-dunks me while I'm showing a middle-aged woman, with amazingly blue eyes and the finest skin and prettiest cheeks, how to apply mascara and eyeliner properly - my specialist subject! I am professional enough that as my world changes, again (and I see what I must do with such clarity I almost wet myself) the mascara wand only trembles slightly. Jay loves me! I win her eternal gratitude and a sale before I grab my hand bag and speed to the staff toilet to share the big news. "Rose! Sorry to trouble you, I know you're working, but this is so big and I have to tell somebody!" (The next person I tell will be my manager who is going to give me tomorrow off if I have to hold a knife to her throat.) "Bee! Slow down, what's happened? Has he, she come back?" "She loves me, Rose. She loves me! That's why she left." "I'd have preferred a bunch of flowers and some chocolates! Maybe a big bag of Doritos too, and a meal out..." "Rose! Don't you see, she set me free. To go in the Navy and not to worry about her and..." "Sorry. I don't mean to sound sceptical, but..." I hung up on her. Then immediately range her back, told her I loved her too and hung up again. I'm trembling, a little light headed, when I get of the bus near Jay's sister's and see her neat, suburban semi before me. Nicola is an accountant for a successful TV production company and her husband is middle-management for the London Fire Brigade, so they are relatively well-off, even by the capitol's standards. I've been here a lot, it's a good base for shows and museums, and because Nicola and Pat are laugh out loud good company. And they have both welcomed GirlJay, made her at home. Literally. Hopefully they'll be in - Nicola doesn't work Fridays - and I have no contingency plan for her or Jay being out. I hear the doorbell echo in the house, picturing the mish-mash of styles inside and comfortable warmth they've created in there. A door shuts, footsteps scuff on the wooden floor beyond the door. There's Nicola, neat as a pin as always, eyes widening in surprise when she sees me on he doorstep. "Bee. Oh thank God, come in." Somehow we end up in an embrace, there in her threshold and I know I'm right. Jay loves me. "She's in the shower," Nicola says, holding my hand and pulling me inside. "She'll come down soaking wet and drip on my carpets in a minute, you'll see." "Nik, who is it?" calls a voice from upstairs. A silly smile crosses my face. "I told her she was an idiot, Bee. A proper bloody bastard for... you know, to you. She's been utterly miserable, I'm so pleased you've come. Not going to kill her are you? Ha ha." She turns and shouts up the stairs, "Jayne, you're a putrid arsehole, always were! Go on, Bee, up you go so she can soak your dress, not my furniture." Kicking off my shoes I take the stairs two at a time, in my excitement I call her name and turn to the bathroom and there she is - wild haired and wet, towel wrapped around her lean body and outlining the bumps of her little breasts. Her nails shine dark red, but at that moment she's neither man nor woman, girlfriend or boyfriend. "Beboh! Oh, God! I'm so sorry!" She's just Jay - Jayne; bursting into tears and dashing forward. Her towel falls away and her body makes a damp embrace print on my dress and she's shaking in my arms - he, she, Jay, Jayne? It doesn't matter. Just Jay, the woman I love - who loves me. "I came back," I whisper into her damp, fragrant hair. "I love you."