Melissa Won t Let Go Chapter 4 Eliza
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Melissa Won't Let Go. Chapter 5, Melissa. free porn video
Melissa Won't Let Go.
By Tanya H.
-5-
MELISSA.
Hello knees.
I said that a lot, on the train to York - but only inside my head and
only every time I looked down and saw my knees bared by that dress.
Bared knees didn't really sit within my lexicon of smart, or even
smart-casual; which man would wear shorts to something where a smart
dress code applied? Though my knees weren't actually bared - in case
you disapprove of bare-legged women - they were demurely concealed by
the fine weave of smooth Marks and Spencers (accept no substitutes)
opaque tights.
Walking from the taxi into Plymouth railway station that morning made
me regret my two-fingered, defiant gesture to Melissa. Firstly, she
wasn't there to see and fully experience the force of me in a dress;
secondly, it was a little windy and I was terrified the flared hemline
would go fully Marilyn Monroe. When you have one hand towing your
overnight bag and the other resolutely clutching your shoulder bag's
strap, thanks to Lora reminding not once, but three times that muggers
and thieves will be having your bag away, there wasn't a third hand for
keeping your hem down and modesty intact.
But nobody stared at me, nobody laughed and I didn't expose my
knickers. As far as the travellers at Plymouth Railway Station were
concerned, I was one of any number of women going about their business
who had chosen a skirt or dress when they'd got dressed. Weird for me,
numbingly normal for everyone else.
"You look great, more than great. Lovely," Lora had said when I shyly
presented myself to her inspection - she had helped me with the back
zip. "Do a twirl, go on."
"If you make me do a twirl, I'm going back to bed."
"I think you're really brave."
"Brave because I look daft?"
"Silly cow!"
"The new normal?" I wondered, looking critically at a stranger in the
mirror.
"You don't have to wear skirts if you don't want to. My rule is that if
somebody tells me I have to wear a skirt, I won't."
"Has anybody ever said that?"
"This is the twenty-first century!"
I decided I looked okay; I looked like a young woman in a smart, but
casual dress. All I needed to do was convince myself that's what I felt
like. Early days, small steps, James - Eliza!
Lora sat beside me on the train. Her knees, modestly shaded with black
tights, were bared by a floral skater skirt that would have clashed
royally with her hair had she acknowledged the idea that colours could
clash. Quite often our knees brushed together and I enjoyed the calming
tangle of her fingers with mine. I wasn't yet unconsciously complete
in my new gender to feel uncomfortable with people thinking Lora and I
were lovers; unless I really thought about it I was just holding hands
with a girl - not another girl.
And we weren't lovers, for all the depth of our kisses the night
before. Though Lora had spent the night with me in the flat over the
bookshop, we had taken separate bedrooms. In the morning I had wondered
if there would have been a little awkwardness between us, after the
night's unconsummated passion, but Lora had been as warm as ever.
Perhaps that was her defence mechanism; she must have developed some
coping plans as she made the visible changes to show the world she was
a woman.
Mrs Singh, in a sari of sunset shades, sat like an excited schoolgirl
in the seat opposite mine, her cheek practically pressed to the window
as she watched the world streak our express. Amongst the coffee cups
and paperbacks cluttering our table was a mapbook of Britain's railways
showing all the lines, stations, tunnels, junctions and depots; she
kept it open on the right page to follow our progress, as though she
was a stranger to this route.
"I'm Indian," she'd explained not long after the train left Plymouth.
"Railways are in my blood. About the only good thing your people ever
did in India!"
Our train ran from Penzance, way out West even by Plymouth's standards,
through to Newcastle meaning we didn't have to change anywhere between
Plymouth and York. It was my first experience of the wide seats and
spacious layout to be found in the first-class carriages. Mrs Singh
liked to travel in style and we did just that, with passable meals and
welcome drinks brought to us at our seats.
Even with the company, and the brilliant English countryside spread out
alongside us, I was left with a lot of thinking time and sometimes the
thoughts were difficult. Like when the train snaked through Bristol,
laying before my stinging eyes the places I'd known as a boy. The house
where Dad still lived couldn't be seen from the railway, but the
Henbury tower blocks marked the area where I'd grown up and gone to
school. Mum was gone, cancer, but my sister was a primary school
teacher down the road in Lawrence Hill and now I'd never see my niece
and nephew again. Stolen from me by a clinging bitch.
"What will happen about James?" I asked Mrs Singh, hoping I'd picked a
moment when she wasn't too enthralled by the railway outside. We were
somewhere North of Gloucester at the time.
Her calm, brown eyes watched me levelly for a moment or two. "The
police will start a missing person's enquiry. James will never be
found. I'm sorry."
Something warm covered my fingers and squeezed them. Fingertips brushed
my thigh through my tights, just under my hem - intimate and very
welcome.
"There must be a way to let them know I'm safe. Like I've run away." I
made a chill, dead laugh. "From Melissa."
Mrs Singh considered this while a waitress poured more coffee. "I think
so. I will think on it, when we get home."
Which was better than nothing, better than them having to imagine my
murder and disposal in some lonely spot.
Our train resolutely made its way North; Birmingham, Derby and
Sheffield passed without incident. Though I had gone to uni in York and
subsequently made my home there, I hadn't used the train to get between
there and Bristol very much - Dad had bought me a car, a blue Ford
Fiesta, which had clocked up the motorway miles when I'd felt the need
to go home to see them. But I knew the route vaguely and after
Doncaster, with the reality of going back to York getting claws into
me, I'd been getting more anxious.
I'd been awarded my degree in York, got my first job there and started
working my way up through the department store. I'd met Melissa in a
gym there and North Yorkshire Police detectives had put the case
together against her; York Magistrates Court had imposed her
restraining order. I'd loved the city with its history, the tangled
streets, its happy mix of cultures; I'd found friends here, made
memories in pubs and theatres, along the river and on the nearby moors;
now I was practically trembling at the thought of being back.
"Okay?" Lora asked as we waited in line at the ticket barrier to get
out of the station.
"That guy there, the ticket inspector. Not him, the shorter one. I was
at uni with him, we did cycling together, and hockey. His name's Richie
Smith."
As if he'd heard his name, Richie looked up - looked right at me -
before going back to the people ahead feeding their tickets into the
automatic gates.
Of course he didn't know me now - he knew James. As the machine read my
ticket I stared at Richie - thinking of the time we'd spent together -
and now beyond a glance at my chest, then another for my legs, he
didn't see me.
I'd died and become a ghost. My Dad, my sister, family and friends -
gone, taken from my life by a cruel, manipulative bitch who couldn't
take no for an answer. And I was supposed to be here to help her.
Mrs Singh went to find the hire car she'd booked while Lora must have
sensed the tension in me for she took my hand and squeezed it tight -
so I wasn't alone, that was something. Wasn't it? My only friend in the
world was a pink-haired ex-Dennis.
"The full size of the world Melissa has stolen from me has just hit me.
James gets reported missing, never seen again. Everyone who knows me,
people who love me, will have a hard time over it - hopefully - and I
learn to live like this!"
She looked at me a moment. "Shit happens."
"Is that it? Shit happens?"
"Well it does. What's to be done? Curl up in a ball on the floor and
wait for it to be unshit or say 'fuck it' and move on?" She opened her
hands in a 'that's it' motion.
I scuffed at the pavement with a toe. "Floor looks uncomfortable."
"If you curl up down there all these people will see up your dress."
"Why am I wearing a dress?"
"You're moving on. Being yourself, setting free."
Mrs Singh might have travelled executively by train, but she obviously
didn't care about cars. We must have made an interesting sight, three
women and a superficial clash of cultures climbing into a compact,
three door Nissan. As the shortest I had to get into the back seats;I
may have bared my bum, but Lora told me she'd obscured most of it.
"She'll be at work," I said, when I realised we were heading West, to
the suburb where Melissa and I had shared a house, rather than South
towards the conference centre where she worked as an event manager.
"She called in sick this morning, at eight-thirty," said Mrs Singh,
weaving confidently through the school-run traffic. "Not a good sign, I
think."
I pressed my knees and lips tight together, staring fixedly from the
window until we turned into that familiar close, with the bland homes
ringed around it. There in the corner stood the nondescript semi she
and I had shared. Her Mazda sat on the drive, a Post Office van waited
outside and the front door was open. All very ordinary.
"Nice," said Lora, without feeling.
"I used to mow those lawns, parked my car there. The whole nine yards
of domestic bliss. Our bedroom was there, under the gable end. Melissa
was really house proud, she kept it looking good."
"Did she iron your pants?" Lora asked, innocently.
"Everything had its place," I said with a sigh.
Quiet fell on the three of us, until Mrs Singh clapped her hands -
startling us. "Shall we go in?"
"We're just going to walk in?" I said.
"The postman's been in there a while," said Lora.
"Special delivery?" said Mrs Singh, with raised eyebrows.
The last time I'd walked up this path, alongside her gleaming car, had
been with a police escort to pick up my things. I'd expected my clothes
in bin bags, having been scissored into uselessness, but she'd neatly
folded and packed them. I had thought she would be screaming and
posturing, but she'd been quiet and demure - very helpful, but that was
her manipulating the two bored cops into imagining I was the problem.
She'd tried that a lot.
Compared to the sunshine outside, what I could see of the hallway
looked dark - a lair to trap us. Movement came towards us, from inside
- feet scuffed the carpet. I drew back, but the shape loomed too big
for Melissa. A man appeared, a big lad in a red polo shirt - the
postman.
"Nothing happened!" he snapped on seeing us outside the front door, we
made way for him and his embarrassment. His cheeks looked flushed, his
brow glistened and his flies were undone.
"Very special," Lora agreed as the postie slammed his van's door and
roared off, over fast, out of the close.
Mrs Singh raised her eyebrows and inclined her head towards the door.
"I'll go first then?" I suggested, sourly, and she beamed.
The door swung open smoothly, without the kind of tortured groan you'd
expect from The House of the Living Dead. My eyes took a moment to
adjust to the relative gloom in the hall. I crossed the threshold with
the air of one who has just passed the notice, 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who
Pass This Way'.
Nothing happened. The hallway looked just as I remembered it - stairs
going off up to the right and the living room room to the left.
"Hello? Melissa?" I called.
A choked off whimper came from the living room.
With heart racing, holding my breath, I eased open the door and slowly
peered around, gradually opening my view from the bay window, past the
TV, an easy chair and coffee table. Then feet, obviously from somebody
sitting on the settee - but not Melissa's feet. Her feet had been small
and delicate - milk white with perfectly pedicured and varnished nails.
These were a bottle bronzed colour, tendons standing so clearly they
could have been etched - above them, calves that looked as if they had
been carved from metal so tight was the muscle definition.
"Hello? I'm looking for Melissa?"
The woman on the sofa looked up and croaked a harsh laugh. She might
have been 30, though it was hard to tell. Her face was all angles
accentuated by the harsh drawing back of her silver-blonde hair into a
fine ponytail. The chords of her neck stood out, rising from broad
shoulders and a clearly muscled chest upon which a pair of high,
pointed breasts, covered by tiny triangles of a gold bikini, were
almost an afterthought. I had never seen such a muscular woman; her
tightly crossed legs looked scary, her waist moulded.
Tears streaked her cheeks, she sniffled sadly and wiped her face.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Eliza, I'm looking for Melissa, is she about?"
Another crow laugh, more sniffles.
I twisted to see Mrs Singh just out in the hallway. "She's not here."
Mrs Singh pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure?"
I looked again and the penny dropped. Quite heavily. "Melissa?"
"Go away," said the woman on the sofa. She bent forward, pressing her
face to her hands and her hands to her knees.
"Melissa?"
"Get out of my house!"
Mrs Singh swept past me in a silken rustle, commanding Lora to watch
the front door - though she didn't specify against what. She sat beside
Melissa and motioned me to the easy chair. Almost open mouthed with
shock, I lowered myself to the cushions, self-consciously trying to
pull my hem over my knees while staring at the muscles on my ex-
girlfriend.
"Always read the small print, Eliza," Mrs Singh said softly, examining
Melissa carefully. "Keep an eye on her a moment, I need to speak to
Lora."
Before I could make some protest she swept from the room and shut the
door behind her, in case escape plans were bubbling in me. Melissa wept
silently into her knees, but I had nothing for her.
The room hadn't changed much, just some new photographs in a row along
the mantelpiece - different women smiling at the camera, the last of a
shy looking pale girl in school uniform. My reeling brain finally
pieced together a link between her, the plump nurse and busty business
woman. I clenched my fists; there must have been room for another four
of five women along there. The crazy gloating bitch!
I made myself sit tall, like I wasn't scared of this bodybuilder
snappping off my arms and legs. "Not quite what you planned, is it? How
do you like turning instantly into some poor guy's wet dream, Melissa?
How many times has it happened now?"
"Twice" she murmured mechanically. Then a flicker of interest lit her
eyes. "Who are you?"
Revelation slapped me. Who was I?
More to the point, what was I?
I'd never really had an idealised fantasy woman - I'd found many women
beautiful and had fantasised about sex with any number of made up or
real women. If things had been reversed and I found myself the man
alone with somebody afflicted with this awful, pervasive curse, which
woman would it have dragged out from my subconscious? The postman got
this bodybuilder, but who would this cursed Melissa have been made into
for me?
Was that why Mrs Singh had made the point of leaving me alone with
Melissa? To make a point? To show how much I'd changed? To reassure
that I wouldn't go through the same turmoil the pre-Lora Dennis had
endured?
"I asked you a question. Who are you?" That sounded more like the old
Melissa.
"I'm not surprised you don't recognise me, not after what you had done
to me."
She screwed up her angular face. "James?"
"Hello, babe. How's it been? Missed me?"
"Every day." She stared, straightening up while blank incomprehension,
then satisfaction and finally slumped defeat took their turn through
her features. "It shouldn't have finished like this."
"I know how it would have ended up."
Melissa shook her head. "No you don't, all you had to do was come back
to me - move in again - then it would have stopped. I did it for you,
James. Just to get you back."
"How's that working out for you?"
"What happened to you? Why are you...?" she unfolded her arms and waved
them at me.
"What do you think of my dress? Picked it myself, I had some help
putting my hair up though."
"No! You can't, not you. Not like that." More tears ran over her stark
cheekbones.
"I kind of like it. It's cool being a girl."
"Stop it! It's not true, you're not James. He's mine, always mine! Get
out, leave me alone!"
The door opened again and Mrs Singh peered around - nodding when she
saw me still on the easy chair. "How are you two getting along?" She
walked in and stood beside me.
"I don't think she believes who I am."
"All of you get out!" Melissa shrieked, balling her fists and rising to
her feet. The muscles in her magnificent legs bunched as though she
were about to leap across the room.
"Sit down, Melissa!"
Melissa sat. If I had been standing I would have done too, such was Mrs
Singh's tone. Then I realised Melissa's wide eyes weren't fixed on Mrs
Singh anymore; she stared fixedly at the door. Her face drained of
colour so quickly I thought she might pass out.
"Keep very quiet, Eliza. Things are getting complicated," Mrs Singh
advised conversationally, though she watched the door warily too.
From somewhere outside I heard Lora make a high, surprised squeal. Mrs
Singh stilled me with a touch to my shoulder. Melissa whimpered and
shook her head in terrified denial. I blinked stupidly when I looked
her way, because Melissa had transformed back to herself. She hunched
miserably in the pink pyjamas and blue dressing gown I had bought for
her last Christmas.
"No, no, no, no!" she muttered, her voice now as soft and familiar as
her body, shaking her head obsessively, still pale - eyes wide.
"What's happening?" I asked.
Lora jerked through the door, like she'd been pushed, head tilted back
and neck extended. She looked as scared too, but outrage weaved through
the fear. It took me a moment to realise why her skirt was rucked up at
the front, but somebody had thrust their arm up it - a girl I'd never
seen before. Her other hand tugged on Lora's long plait.
She could have been any teenager hanging around any of the parks or
shopping centres across the county. Chest high to Lora, she wore a
baggy, branded hoodie, skinny jeans with trendy tears at both knees and
bright yellow trainers. A baseball cap was worn back to front and dark
blonde bangs hung above the adjuster strap over her brow. A wide grin
livened her pretty face.
"Everybody stand very still, or Pinkilocks here gets a gender
reassignment they'll be talking about in medical schools for decades to
come.
"Oh, Angela. What are you doing?" asked Mrs Singh, quite
conversationally I thought.
"Don't 'Oh, Angela' me! You interfering old cow."
"What are you doing? What's the point?"
Angela, whoever or whatever she was, had a quick check around the room,
as if there might have been an ambush. Her bright green eyes settled on
mine for a second, until I glanced away.
"Hiya, Jodie," she said. "Boy, did you miss out, I had some great plans
for you."
Mrs Singh squeezed my shoulder, though my mouth was way too dry for
speech.
"I think you should let Lora go now."
"I am protecting my investment, Ashika. You've already ruined Jodie, at
least let me keep that one."
Melissa whimpered and tried to make herself an invisible ball on the
sofa.
"Bugger off. Quickly," said Mrs Singh. She didn't sound so
conversational now.
"I'll rip her balls off if you don't get back in that car and bugger
off yourself!"
"Really?" Her voice sounded suddenly deeper. She let go of me and I
glanced up at her. I would have run, but fear made a statue of me as a
shimmering haze boiled the air around her. In that ordinary front room
Mrs Singh became more mirage than human; shadows flowed from her
shoulders until it seemed she possessed many arms - insubstantial as
smoke, but tipped with clawed hands each one intent on Angela.
Angela dropped Lora like she blazed white-hot. Lora took one step and
spun to rocket a punch into Angela's cheek - knocking her back, almost
into the hallway. I could have cheered when Lora dropped into a
fighter's stance, clenched fists lifted to protect her face.
"Did you see that!" Angela shrieked, rubbing her cheek, pointing at
Lora while appealing to Mrs Singh - as though she was some kind of
referee.
"Oh just bugger off, Angela," said Mrs Singh - as ordinary as garden
peas again, just a woman; whatever she had bared for that moment had
been locked away.
"You're being disproportionate, Ashika - overstepping the mark. I'll
complain, you'll be sorry, you'll see." With an aggressive tilt of her
chin Angela stepped out. The front door slammed. Through the window I
saw her scooting a skateboard towards the main road, her hair
streaming.
"She won't complain," Mrs Singh sighed. "Silly girl. Lora, are you
okay?"
Lora relaxed her stance, haughtily checked the drape of her skirt and
forced a grin. "She took me by surprise. Friend of yours?"
"We go back. Eliza? Okay?"
I nodded stiffly. "What just happened?"
"I'll explain later. Let's go, we're booked into a nice hotel down the
road."
"What about her?" I waved towards Melissa, still balled up and
trembling.
"She'll be fine. No lasting effects. The curse is all gone now."
"No anti-tamper things?"
"All clear. She'll be fine. Say your goodbyes, we'll wait outside."
But I had no more to say to my ex. I did never want to see her, think
of her or say her name. Standing, I smoothed my dress and turned my
back on her.
"You were the one, James," Melissa said, dully. Part of me wanted to
walk out, the Eliza part I suppose. But I was still growing used to
being her and the vestige of me that had once loved Melissa turned me
around; the part that had once made excuses when her behaviour
deteriorated.
"I have nothing, no real friends, no real life. There was only you.
That's why I did it, for you, all of it - fighting for you, to get you
back here, with me; where you belong. I love you, James."
"Keep him," I said. "Good bye."
Outside, I blinked a moment as the afternoon sunshine bleached out my
vision. The circle of houses surrounded us, uncaring of what had just
happened. Mrs Singh waited in the hire car, chatting on her phone while
Lora stood under the porch, leaning casually on its post. Words weren't
enough to describe seeing her; slipping an arm around her waist I
rested a cheek on her shoulder, then kissed her neck.
"I'd fight to keep you too, Eliza," she murmured. "But I'd use love and
laughter and wine." I felt her fingers run along the curves of the
plait she'd wound for me this morning and I trembled. "If you'll still
have me."
As my world continued its evolution into a stranger, more wonderful
thing, Lora's exotic warmth, her strength and cheer promised joy,
comfort and an anchor. Everything I needed; teacher, friend,
companion...
Lover?
And I saw quite clearly that nothing had been written for Eliza Mackie.
My future was not made of anything as ordinary as preconception and
tradition. I stood with my old life behind me and a blank page of
possibilities beckoning with a sparkling smile and pink hair; love and
laughter and wine.
"When can we start?"
Chapter 6 (Such as it is)
ELORZA.
Now I've started I never want it to finish. There aren't enough days,
years - time even for me and Lora. A moment away from her drags like
torture, I wish I could stay awake and never even miss her while I
sleep.
On tropical beaches we have run under a harvest moon so big you could
almost reach out to touch it, we have danced in stilettos in the snow,
dived for coral and marched with penguins. I love, and am loved, have
laughed and cried in her arms, sat serenely happy on a sofa sharing
cocoa with her. I have created cosy shops for people who love coffee
and cake, I have staff, a living, responsibilities; I can ski, scuba
dive, fly a glider.
My back aches as I finish this, my breasts feel sore - I rub my hands
over my ripe tummy and in six long weeks I will be a mother. Lora leans
over to see what I have written, tickles my cleavage with the tip of
her plait then reaches under my blouse to run her hands over our baby.
"She's kicking."
"I'll kick you constantly if you do this to me again."
"Don't write that. People will think she's an accident."
"There, 'I Eliza Lora Mackie honestly-promestly swear I got pregnant on
purpose'. Happy now?"
"Always."
"And forever?"
"Forever."
As if forever could be long enough to love Lora.
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