Love Is A Drug. Part 1 free porn video

Love is a Drug. Part 1. By Tanya H. Chapter One. One week after I turned twenty four, Lennie McGovern came into my life and my railway station on the 0837 terminating service from Manchester Piccadilly. The 0837 was one of those unregarded services the travelling public might have referred to as a trundle train. Its crew, a driver and conductor, got a 40 minute layover at my station, waiting for a path back to Piccadilly between other, more prestigious services. Usually they would wander down to the ticket office to pass the time with my kettle and comfy chairs. The driver I had met before, a huffing and puffing, blubbery lad with a neat beard and slick hair who could hardly drag his eyes from my legs while lurking impatiently for any opportunity to glimpse the mysteries under my skirt. In summer, if the temperature ever rose above shivering on our side of Manchester, he would often wonder loudly why I didn't go bare-legged. Tights were passion killers, he would declare with the weary regret of a politician announcing more tax rises. While restraining the obvious retort about how his slovenly shape was unlikely to inspire passion in womankind, I once commented about the fresh feel of hold-up stockings on warm days. This only increased his fascination with my legs, though it took the intervention of a union rep, a conductor crewed with him one day, to actually stop him asking if I was wearing stockings every time he saw me. This time, the dirty bastard brought along a fresh conductor for me to meet - Lennie. I'd seen this gangling beanpole of a lad passing by on through trains before, but this was my first opportunity to see up close his dark, tousled hair, trendy glasses and nervous stoop. The driver introduced us, while looking pointedly at the tin where I kept my chocolate digestives. "Lennie, this is Clover Tilney; Clover, Lennie - the depot new-boy. Clover's the station master here and has the best legs on the network." He made a clotted, wheezing chuckle to affirm his little joke about me being the only employee at the station rather than anything so grandiose as a Station Master and waved towards my legs in case anybody had forgotten where they were. "Now put the kettle on, love. I'm gasping." "Clover?" said Lennie, cautiously - like he'd never said the word before and wasn't sure how it would work out. "Nice name, where did it come from?" "My Dad, mostly. I didn't suit the one he gave me originally." As I boiled some water, Lennie looked around my office like a cat peering into the corners of a new space. There wasn't much; two easy chairs, a tiny kitchenette, a coffee table and a desk. On the other side of the desk was the actual ticket office and the two ticket windows opening into the booking hall. As I was only ever there on my own I never opened the right hand window and used the space for some shade-loving house plants. Then his whole body language became intent, focused on the two framed prints I'd placed on a spare shelf in the kitchenette. On the left were Olivia Thurlby and Karl Urban, him with characteristic grimace and half-face helmet, playing Judges Anderson and Dredd in a still from the excellent Dredd movie. The other photo was Chester Barrington looking intense and incredible on the stage in Frankfurt, where I'd gone to see him sing. The picture bore a handwritten inscription in gold pen, One More Star. "Who left these here?" he said. I laughed. "They're mine. Like them?" "Yours!" He sounded dismissive now, looking me up and down, like my lean body was a suit disguising some kind of teen, geek boy. "Something wrong?" I wondered, innocently, still smiling. Ever notice how some geeks get uncomfortable when they find a girl who's into what they presume to be 'boy' stuff? "Bit unusual," he muttered, looking at the floor. "Never met a girl who'd been reading 2000AD since she was ten? I'll read anything set in Mega City One, but Anderson PSI Division is my absolute favourite, Cassie Anderson's the tough, self reliant woman I wanted to be when I was little." His eyes narrowed. "I always thought Anderson was too much the free spirit to be a proper Judge," he said. "She lacked the discipline and single mindedness Mega City One needed." "That's because you're male." "What are you two on about?" the driver rasped. "Science fiction comics, Mac," I said, pouring boiling water into my tea pot. "Like the newspaper you read, only more plausible." In case you aren't a fan, 2000AD is a comic and Judge Dredd it's most famous character - a brutal, no nonsense lawman from a radiation soaked, dystopian future. Karl Urban played him with style and grit in the 2012 movie while Olivia Thurlby played alongside him as my hero, Cassie Anderson. In my mind the film was really about her development from hopeless recruit to warrior, but you'd have to see it yourself to get it. Chester Barrington was the lead singer of the band Linkin Park until he took his own life. The best voice I have ever heard, I lit a candle for him on his birthdays. "I have every edition of 2000AD going back to June the 8th 2000 when I started reading them," I told him. "Be still my heart!" said Lennie, with a shy smile. "That's pretty cool." Unspoken at the end were the words, 'for a girl,' but that may just have been my cynicism talking. The conversation moved more mainstream after that, bouncing between the usual messroom topics of management (crap), public (needy) and pay (derisory). All the way through I found his eyes on me whenever I looked his way, though he'd always drop his gaze when he realised he'd been noticed. Perhaps if I'd been a bit more positive about myself I'd have realised what that meant, but I wasn't so I didn't. I learnt that Lennie was a year into his job as a conductor and had just been signed off to operate the route into my station. He lived at Guide Bridge and aspired to be a driver. You get used to men telling you all about themselves if you look at them from under your lashes and adopt an expression of polite interest. On top of that I'm told I have one of those faces that people find easy to open up to. In all the time I've spent before a mirror applying makeup or dressing my hair, I've never noticed where that quality sits, but people do like to talk to me about their lives or whatever opinion they decide I should be interested in. Lennie came across differently to that, he seemed a little more curious about me. When the time came for him and Mac to get their train ready for a steady trundle back to Manchester, I walked with them onto the platform where a few sunbeams had been allowed through the overcast to spotlight the window boxes and hanging baskets around the booking hall. "Have you got one of those station adoption groups who come and do the flowers for you," he asked. "I do them. I stay after work a few days every week to do the weeding and tidying up." He looked openly surprised, as if a girl couldn't be interested in gardening and sci-fi comics at the same time. "You're a woman of many parts," he said. "Thanks for the tea, hopefully I'll see you again." I hoped so too. After watching his bum as he wandered down the platform to his train I decided I liked him. The day passed ordinarily after that. I sold tickets, passed on travel information and registered two complaints about late running trains. Even when those customers were a little off with me I remained polite and friendly, they even got smiles. My clocking-off time drew closer and, without any customers in the booking hall, I went out with a mug of tea to see the last Sheffield-bound train before I went home. I got a wave from the driver, and a little girl sitting with her dad in the lead carriage. Maybe a dozen people got off before the doors shut and the engines revved ready for departure. As it accelerated away a drama unfolded at the rear carriage, where a smartly turned out woman hurried alongside the train in a clatter of heels trying to attract the guard's attention. "Oh, shit!" she cried out, with exasperation, her pretty face heavy with anguish as the guard shrugged helplessly and she could no longer keep up. "Something wrong?" I said, adopting my most helpful smile. The woman looked, but didn't really see for a moment - absorbed as she was in her own problem - then she noticed my smart uniform and staff lanyard. That induced a big sigh of relief. "I've left my phone on the train!" her brows came together and her mouth went down at the corner, which I thought a shame for she was very attractive in an understated way. Coincidentally I'd have put her at my sort of height, five foot six, and about my age. Her hair was a shade lighter than mine and if it weren't a natural blonde it had been skillfully coloured. Where I'd been steadily growing mine down my back since being old enough to have a choice, hers was around collar length, if I was any judge of her ponytail's length. Her eyes shone a lovely hazel colour from behind glasses that, if I weren't mistaken, were the same round style as mine. In a mid-grey skirt suit, a couple of inches longer than my uniform skirt, she looked very professional and I envied her mid-height heels. I thought it more appropriate to wear flats to work at the station. "It's got my bank cards with it and everything!" she groaned. "Let's see if we can find it for you," I said and invited her to take a seat while I went into the ticket office for a chat with Signaller Andy whose signal box sat in Victorian isolation beyond the road bridge at the Sheffield end of the station. I rarely saw him, but I liked to phone him every day so he didn't feel too lonely. After explaining the problem, I asked if he could get onto the radio to the driver who could, in turn, ask the conductor to find the missing phone. "Bit, irregular, Clover." You could practically hear him sucking his teeth, like a mechanic about to explain, in a child's vocabulary, how difficult it would be to fix a girl's car for anything less than a king's ransom. "But it's the lass's phone, Andy. Her phone, you know what we're like. Her cards are in the case, and she's got to be able to take a phone call from her fiance, he's in Kandahar with the Army. Come on, the poor lass is crying on the platform." "You're too soft by half," he said, with a laugh, but agreed to give it a go. "My boyfriend is a retail manager who could barely find his own bum with both hands if you put a gun to his head," she said, having moved to the ticket office door to check up on proceedings. Her voice had a light, Liverpool lilt to it. "Nobody needs to know. In his words 'it's a bit irregular' so he needs a little colour for encouragement. He'll phone back in a mo." "Fingers crossed," she said, tapping her foot on the platform. She stared nervously at the place in her hand where her phone would have been while I pottered about closing down the tills and dropping the blinds ready to lock up for the day. When the phone rang I was able to give her a thumbs up while Andy confirmed the conductor had found the phone. Did we want it putting in lost property at Sheffield when they got there, or Manchester when they got back? "I'll meet him here when he comes back," I offered. "You're going off now, aren't you?" he said. "I'm going to stay and do some gardening." Something about the sparkle in her eyes when I passed on the good news made me offer to drop off her phone on my walk home. She'd have none of it, weighed up the length of time involved in waiting and decided to pop back. "If you can't make it, I'll be back at six-thirty, to open up in the morning." "Oh, I'll make it. I have to phone my boyfriend in Kandahar, remember!" She gave me such a brilliant smile that I whistled contendly as I started tidying the flower beds, then realised I hadn't asked her name. Returning about fifteen minutes before the train was due, she presented me with a Starbucks latte and a chocolate brownie. "I guessed what you'd like," she said and I decided there and then a latte with a chocolate brownie was my favourite. We sat in a last pool of sunshine on the platform bench where experience had told me the guard's door would rest when the train came to a stand. "You know we actually haven't been introduced," I said. She put down her coffee immediately and offered a slender hand, her nails were varnished a pretty, pearlescent pale blue. "Tamsin Lillian Moretti, of the Liverpool Morettis. Only Mum, Dad and anybody trying to suck up to them actually call me Tamsin though." Adopting a rich, plummy tone, and putting her nose in the air, she went on. "Oh, Tamsin, where have you been? Dear oh dear, Tamsin, you needn't think you're going to be seen wearing a skirt like that." "I see," I said, with a picture in my mind's eye of her mother. "My friends call me Tammie, with an I and an E, not Tammy with a Y." With a welcoming grin she touched the back of my hand and invited me to call her Tammie. "Honoured," I said, by way of acceptance. "Tamsin Moretti has the air of a tough Chicago detective about it," I said. Her face lit up beautifully. "Really? Nobody ever said that before, though I'm probably a bit ditsy to be a tough cop anywhere." "Probably be better to be a nice cop. There must be a place for ditsy cops." "Wherever that place is I'd like to live there, even if I'm not a copper. Do you have a tough, Southside cop name?" "Clover Viola Tilney." She tried my name out a couple of times, looking to the cloud speckled sky for inspiration at the same time. "I love it, what a rhythm it has. Clover Viola! Like Dora the Explorer! Next time you see your Mum and Dad congratulate them for their choice." Actually all three of us, me, Dad and Stepdad, had contributed, amongst much laughter and over a very good Indian takeaway, but she didn't need to know that. "And you're from somewhere up in the Northeast, aren't you? I love the accent, it sounds so solid, so capable. Everybody assumes I'm some kind of heroin-soaked car thief when they hear I'm a Scouser." "Gateshead, over the river from Newcastle," I confirmed. "My Dad's a firefighter up there." "Ooh, a fireman. Is he handsome? My Dad runs an Italian restaurant and isn't handsome at all." She made hand gestures suggesting Mr Moretti might be a bit round around the middle, but that was probably a good sign in a restaurant owner. Tammie was an optician working for Boots, and I couldn't think of a cheerier person to test my eyes. She lived in the town, not too far from me, and mainly did locum work around the area. She liked to use the train, when possible, hence our very pleasant coffee together. Commendably on time, the train from Sheffield squealed to a stop allowing a reassuring exchange of passengers and a grinning conductor to scurry over with the missing phone. She thanked him with sparkle, to which he replied with some comment about it being well worth it for two lovely lasses. Corney, yes, but when I'm feeling good about myself I read such comments as affirming rather than cheesy. "Can I submit some kind of employee of the month thing for you?" Tammie said. I waved off her idea passionately. "Please don't, thanks for the thought, but it's a bit irregular using the radio net for that kind of thing. The drink and cake were wonderful and enough, thanks." And the warm feeling I got from seeing her smile, but I kept that bit to myself. Good customer service should go to everyone, not just the ones with smiles I liked. *** Early the following week Lennie got himself rostered onto the 0837 terminating train again. He wandered into my office, looking pointedly at my Dredd picture, as though it had only been some kind of bait to lure him in and subsequently removed. While I was bustling about making tea for him and the driver, Cath Brigstock, he followed me closely, almost in the way, and then, looking nervously at Cath, got to the point. "What's your opinion on Mad Max?" "Charleize Theron or Mel Gibson?" "Don't you mean Tom Hardy or Mel Gibson?" "Mad Max Fury Road is about women, having Tom Hardy playing Max is all about getting the investment money together and people to watch it. It's a feminist film; Tom Hardy was great, but Charleize Theron made it brilliant and I love it." "Oh." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of it like that." "That's because you're a man." "Right on, sister," said Cath. "The reason I asked," Lennie went on, a blush just pinking his cheeks, "is that the Apple Celler Cinema is doing a special showing of Mad Max Fury Road in black and white on Saturday. I have a couple of tickets and I wond -" "The Chrome Edition? That would be shiny. I'd love to thank you." He coloured up some more at my rapid acceptance, but flashed me a quick grin then hurried to the toilet. As I handed Cath her tea she beckoned me close. "You've made his day, Clover. He's been telling me all about asking you out ever since we signed on this morning." "It's not a date, only a movie," I said, looking to the toilet door, half expecting to hear him spewing with relief. "I'd have thought an experienced woman like you would realise it's never just a movie with boys," she said and tapped the side of her nose wisely. "I'm just a country girl who doesn't understand your city ways," I said, without explaining my upbringing on the cosmopolitan side of Newcastle. If I had she would, not doubt, have mocked up a shocked expression to discover Newcastle had a cosmopolitan side. "What time will we meet then?" I asked Lennie when he resurfaced. "Should we get something to eat first?" Cath raised her eyebrows and looked over her glasses at me. In the end we agreed to meet at a popular Chinese buffet restaurant just around the corner from the Apple Cellar and I had a date. How exciting! When the evening finally arrived, I decided a smart, casual look would be in order and chose skinny, white jeans to show off my legs. I matched them with a purple top whose scoop neck was wide enough to almost slip off a shoulder and gave a little tease of my black bra's shoulder strap. As I enjoyed heels and didn't often get the chance to show off in them, I went full stiletto with towering, black court shoes subtly enlivened with a sprinkling of glitter. A short-waisted, black, leather jacket went over the top in case the night turned chilly on me during the trip home. Having long since embraced makeup as part of my routine before leaving the house each day, I went for a subtle, fresh look of a little eye shadow, mascara and eyeliner- obviously - and some rose-pink lipstick. After a working week caged in buns or plaits I decided to unleash my hair's thick, tawney-blond waves down my back, then looked at the wind blowing the tree tops around and pushed it back from my face with a pair of combs Mam had unexpectedly sent me the week before. Critically examining my reflection I wondered if the occasion warranted a skirt, then decided time was short and the jeans looked good - after all, it wasn't a full date, just a movie with a lad I quite liked. After walking down to my railway station, a pleasant train ride and walk into the city centre, I arrived fashionably early. The Chinese restaurant lay in a pleasant pedestrianised precinct just outside the city centre and a short walk from the arts cinema. I claimed a bench opposite the restaurant and waited for Lennie to show. Commendably five minutes early he strolled up, looking anxiously at the restaurant door as though it had, Abandon Hope All Ye Who Pass This Way, scored above it in damnation script. A chill ran up my back, just a slight tickle of little, icy feet. Enough to make me call up our family WhatsApp group and send the following to my Dad, Stepdad, Baby Brother and Baby Brother's girlfriend. [Is a Chinese and an arts movie a date?] "Hiya, Lennie," I called from my bench when his eyes had passed over me without recognition. "Clover? Wow, you look different. Amazing!" "Very kind of you to notice." "I mean, like... Amazing!" We all like a compliment, maybe me more than most as part of my self- affirmation process, but one amazing was probably enough. "You scrub up pretty well yourself, Lennie," I said. He'd gone for a mid-blue shirt, with a Grandad collar and a discreet pattern, over grey cargo pants and smart, brown walking shoes. He looked fresh and clean, the kind of guy I'd be happy to be seen with. "Shall we?" I suggested into the space left by his loss of words. He blinked furiously and nodded. "Ladies first." Well, I don't get tired of that either. I gave my best smile and clicked my way inside with my most elegant, short stepping, stiletto- induced walk. "How does a girl who loves Dredd and Mad Max ever get so good at amazing shoes like that?" he enthused as we sat. "I was born to wear heels like this." "I've only ever seen you in flats." "The railway is an unforgiving environment for beautiful shoes." "But you work in the ticket office, not the trackside," he pointed out brightly. "You should wear them every day." During the excellent meal I received judgement on the question I'd posed on the family WhatsApp. Yes, from Dad. Every day of the week, Clo - that was Maia, my brother's girlfriend. Yes, from Stepdad. Is she cute, from Baby Brother Fred. So I replied with, [He's a he.] Shortly afterwards I got this from Dad. [ Is he cute?] I like to think I'm a modern girl, but to have your Dad asking that kind of question is very flamboyant. In summary; my Mam struggled so much with postnatal depression that she turned to vodka the way a runner turns to water. I used to carry guilt for this, but I was only a baby at the time. In a flawed, IT style method of 'turn it off and turn it back on again and see if it works now' she and Dad decided to try for another child. The result of this had been my Baby Brother, Freddie Tilney, needing so many meds to combat the behavioural problems gifted him through his Foetal Alcohol Syndrome, that his dream of joining the Army had been ruined. The other result was the remaining Tilney's shunning of alcohol; Dad wouldn't have booze in his house at all and because I loved him neither did I. When Mam finally took her problems to alcohol anonymous, she met somebody there she liked more than Dad and ran away to Hartlepool leaving a distraught Dad with me and Fred to manage as well as his job. Eighteen months later he surprised us all by introducing us to Gary, a police officer he'd met at a fire and fallen for. With Fred and I going through some problems of our own, this had been something of a shock, but when we all moved in together it worked very well. I had a gay dad, so what? After some gentle, curious pressure Lennie got the edited highlights of the Tilney family's unconventional structure, which he summarised in the following way - without sounding scandalised - which boded well for the future. "Your mum ran off with somebody she met at her alcoholics anonymous meetings leaving your Dad to fall in love with some guy?" "Are you cool with that?" I asked, with a sweet smile, giving nothing away. If he realised he was now under exam conditions, he didn't show it and he seemed so wonderfully incapable of hiding his emotions. "It sounds like one of those happy rom-coms set in some trendy part of London with actors who all went to uni in Cambridge," he said. Which I decided was okay. Not only because I'm very cool with Dad being gay, but because it was sweet way of describing my family and I had a sneaking suspicion this was really becoming a date. You see, there was something very attractive about his earnest openness. Something that made me think actually going on a proper date with him would be worth considering. After a good meal we walked around the corner to the cinema to be whirled up into Mad Max Fury Road. To be honest, the monochrome didn't do the film justice, but there was something graphic about seeing the action play out in shades of grey. If you want a better review, Google it; this story is about me and Lennie. And Tammie. "That was a good evening, really good, thanks," I said as he walked me to the station afterwards. "Thanks for coming, for saying yes." He'd offered to drive me home, but I'd politely refused. Then he said he'd wait and see me safely onto the train. Sweet again. The station display told me I had five minutes to wait, the evening had turned cool, I folded my arms and tapped my heels. "I can't believe a girl like you is single, never mind happy to go out with me." "Maybe I'm a crazy, high-maintenance psycho chick." "I thought you'd have loads of boys all wanting to have you." "I'm not here to be had." "Sorry, I didn't mean -" I shushed him. "No harm done. I'm picky, that's all." "Well, I think you're amazing. And I really had a great time. Do you think we could do this again?" "A Chinese and Mad Max?" He coloured up again and gave a little laugh. "Not exactly, but..." "Here's my train." "Next Sunday?" "Busy. Stop by the station some time and we'll chat over a brew." "Can I message you?" he asked as I stepped on the train. "Sure, that would be good." The doors swished shut and as the driver whisked us smoothly homewards I gave him a cheery wave. I messaged the family group when I got back. [Is it a date if we meet up again?] *** The following Tuesday when I was just closing up for the day, planning to change out of my uniform skirt and do some digging along the platform flower bed, I heard a knock on the 'staff only' door from the platform. Curiosity gave way to delight when I opened up to find a smiling Tammie there with coffee and cake. She looked as good as last time with her hair down, wearing a flowing trouser suit and standing tall in gorgeous high-heeled boots. "I didn't see you get off the train," I said, sitting her down in my little rest area. "I had to visit a branch in Bakewell today and had to use the car, but as I passed the station on the way home I thought, I know a girl who'd like a latte and chocolate brownie around now." "Am I so transparent?" "Every girl needs somebody to bring her coffee and buns," she said, flashed a glance at me then looked to the carpet. "I wish!" "You don't have anyone to do that?" I shook my head. "I'm young, free and single." "That is such a shame." "I'm used to it. I should bring you some next time," I suggested, slowly. Was that a quick smile? "Or you've got somebody to bring yours?" "Do you like Shakespeare?" she asked suddenly. "I was forced to endure The Merchant of Venice at school, if that's what you mean?" "Yuck, we did Hamlet. Soooo dreeeary! Forget that school shit, I'm talking about an open air performance of a Midsummer Night's Dream at Haddon Hall. Picture my roomie chauffeuring us, a posh picnic basket, wine, good company and an entertaining play." She went on, arching her eyebrows innocently "Of course, Viola is a Shakespearean name." "Twelfth Night," I confirmed. Mam's favourite, which was why Dad and I picked it, but I didn't tell her that, finding myself in that awkward place where I didn't want her to dislike me because of my past. Which contrasted strangely with my openness to Lennie. That was how I found myself being taken out for the second time in as many weeks, all very exciting as I hadn't really done much in the way of dating since I'd moved to Manchester. Never having experienced outdoor theatre, I was completely unsure of the etiquette, expectations or dress for the experience. It all sounded incredibly middle class to a Gateshead girl like me. After some time researching Google, I hoisted from my wardrobe a dress I'd found in a Joules' sale last autumn, but had never worn. A classic, summer style in raspberry pink, it had a gorgeous, long and full skirt, a delicately printed daisy pattern, short sleeves and a bold, V-shaped neckline that showed off a little of my cleavage. Anticipating the day would cool as the performance drew on I decided on a thick, cream coloured cardigan, with an intricate, feminine weave. Then, very carefully, I drew over my legs a practically invisible pair of nude tights. I had terrible luck laddering sheer nylons and almost always dressed my legs in more robust opaques, but I thought an extra, insulating layer under my dress would be useful, while being discreet enough to match the event's summery feel. Anticipating a steady walk through the grounds, I put on some white, low-topped converse shoes speckled with a pretty floral pattern. Contrasting with my usual makeup routine, I only wore lipstick, found some very long, beaded earrings, popped a ruby coloured stud into my nostril and donned a heart shaped pendant, which might have drawn the eyes towards my cleavage. Adding a quick mist of perfume, I felt I'd found the perfect summer theatre look. Only five minutes late an old Volvo saloon drew up outside my house. As I glanced through my living room's net curtains I saw Tammie waving energetically from the front passenger seat, grabbed my bags and hurried out. "I love your dress!" she enthused, stepping back on the pavement to admire it. Warmed by a life-choice affirming glow, I gave her a twirl so the skirt flared out majestically. Then she admired the two surgically neat plaits I'd woven my hair into and finally came close to lift her glasses and peer at the detail on my earrings. "I wish I'd worn a dress. Robbie, have we time to go home so I can get changed?" Robbie, the man she shared her house with, emerged from the Volvo's driving seat with some difficulty for he must have been 6'6 and a well-built man. With training and an exercise regime he would have looked fearsomely handsome, but had gone to fat around the waist and carried his size with a weary, stooped look. His dark hair was combed away from a neat side parting and his brown eyes were partially hidden behind tinted glasses. He shook my hand with a limpid, affected style. Clearly thinking a lot of himself, he explained on the journey that he did the accounts for a New Mills based plant hire company, but made it sound as vital as running the Bank of England. "He's from the Burnley Morettis," Tammie added, "But otherwise he's okay." In between hearing about the critical national infrastructure work Robbie did, we chatted amiably around the relative advantages of being an optician, accountant or booking clerk. Robbie assumed a slightly oily air of moral superiority at the supposed professional credentials of the former two occupations, while just stopping short of dismissing selling tickets as a working-class occupation. Tammie comfortably extolled the virtues of my role, and my station - describing the flower beds I'd created, but even with her support I don't think Robbie allowed himself to be convinced. As much as I wanted to see the best in him, I decided he was a pompous tool. However, the weather held and the hall itself looked lovely under the sunshine. Arriving in plenty of time and leaving Robbie to guard our picnic blanket pitch with a good view of the stage, Tammie and I stretched our legs through the gardens. Even though it was clear she could hardly tell a rose from a hydrangea, she asked such earnest and lively questions I found myself drawn into the plants and describing some of the plans I had for the station gardens, the things I thought would grow there and the disappointment I felt that some of my favourites that probably wouldn't. Even the play was well done, forcing me to revise my opinion of the great bard. The small number of actors, who enthusiastically and light-heartedly threw themselves into the many roles, reduced me to tears of laughter at times. "I have never seen anyone look so stunningly gorgeous when they are practically wetting themselves laughing," Tammie said after one scene, where laughing at Nick Bottom transformed into an ass actually gave me cramps. Robbie didn't look so keen, like a girl rolling around in mirth, clutching her dress to her legs to avoid flashing her knickers, was way beneath an accountant's contempt. "You should meet her boyfriend," he said, very pointedly, when Tammie went to find drinks during a break. I should have gone with her, I know I should, but he'd determinedly engineered the moment alone with me. "He's a branch manager for Boots, in the city centre," he told me, nodding back towards Manchester as though my female, working-class brain had forgotten where Manchester was. "He'll be an area manager soon, really nice man - dotes on her. Tamsin's Mum and Dad really like him too." "I hope I get chance to meet him," I said, very brightly and feeling, once again, very much put in my place. "Have I got the air of a predatory lesbian about me?" I asked Tammie, when we got a moment together - queuing for the ladies' toilets after the final curtain. That surprised her. The surprise morphed into a frown. "Robbie? What's he said?" "How wonderful your boyfriend is and how much your parents like him." She pursed her lips. "Oh, him. Don't mind Robbie, he's over protective." "Okay. But I'm not really that predatory, more of a bunny rabbit really." Tammie laughed and very fleetingly touched the back of my hand where I was holding my handbag's strap. "Did you enjoy the play?" she asked. "I loved it." "Tim hates stuff like this, but I love it too. Thanks for coming with me." I presumed Tim to be the perfect boyfriend. Robbie talked more about accountancy on the way back, I fell asleep and woke up at a roundabout not far from home to find Tammie had dozed off too. Her head rested very comfortably on my shoulder and I wondered about boyfriends some more. Chapter Two. Even though I'd had a long, passionate kiss with Liam Whitaker at school, and given him a hand job - which we both felt a little awkward about afterwards - I had never dated a boy. I'd had a couple of girlfriends, only one had been serious, but hadn't ended well. That limited, but painful experience had encouraged me to create a Clover shaped wall around myself, through which I could be open, friendly and respectful, but not allow people through. Until Lennie. Not only did I let him through the wall I let him kiss me, then kiss me passionately. Not being such an experienced kisser myself, I didn't have much to go on. However, I decided he wasn't as nervous as Liam Whittaker nor was he as aggressive as Casey Guttenburg, my last girlfriend. Perhaps I'd decided, deep down - below thinking - that being Clover Alone wasn't acceptable any more. I found Lennie refreshing, open and endearing company which is how I felt it easy to open up and let him kiss me. We dated maybe three or four times before the first kiss. Then another three or four. We saw more movies, none as memorable as Mad Max Fury Road, ate in some pleasant restaurants and he tentatively introduced me to cricket. Lennie didn't play, but had a passion for the dusty statistics that weave through the sport and would happily explain all kinds of niche information while I tried to work out what was actually going on on the pitch in front of me. He wasn't as encouraging when I revealed one of my passions. In fact his eyes practically burst from his skull when he saw me nimbly dismount from my motorbike when I turned up at his house for a movie and pizza night. "You rode here on that?" he exclaimed, standing in his socks on the driveway outside his house and scratching his head. "You just saw me get off." I patted the saddle. "This is Liam, a Honda CB600 Hornet which I have owned from new and is the perfect thing for getting about the city on." "Liam?" "The first boy I wanted to get my leg over," I said lightly. That made him frown. "Fancy a go, I brought a spare helmet. You can be my pillion." He shook his head so vehemently I might have suggested swimming with sharks with a nosebleed. "Those things are lethal. Deathtraps! I am not going on that!" So I shrugged, trying to remain casual in the face of his rejection of something that brought me proper, adrenaline fuelled happiness. I didn't ride over fast, didn't take risks and though I'd had my share of breathless moments, thank you blinkered car drivers, I didn't see my Liam as any more dangerous than riding the tram. He admitted, after deigning to kiss my glowing cheek, that I looked good in my leathers, leaving me to classify his acceptance of my riding as a work in progress. Things got a little more serious between us when he carefully asked if I'd like to go and see a live band with him. I'd already been exposed to his appreciation of folk-rock and acoustic music on the few times I'd been in the car with him, but this night would be a full-on folk music session. The venue was close enough to his house that I agreed with his coy suggestion that I stayed over with him. Staying over was a big step, but one I felt ready to take. Aside from his frequent suggestions I give up my motorbike before I ended up under a lorry, he'd become an easy going boyfriend and I was considering the logistics of getting him across the Pennines and Up North to meet the Dads, my brother and Maia. Having been so resolutely celibate an excitement was growing in me to try myself out on an actual man. Sessions of self-love with my loyal vibrator had blossomed into proper fantasies with Lennie as my dynamic and creative lover. Maybe I was setting my expectations high, but I already knew he was interested. A very breathless and extended kiss we'd enjoyed the last time we'd met up had resulted in that interest pressing very warmly against my thigh. He'd tried to pull away, but I hadn't let him and I was ready to let events take their course. With a couple of exceptions. Having never been to a live, folk evening before I wasn't sure of what to wear. Asking Lennie just made him suggest something short with heels. Lennie liked high heels. That night when I wore my glittery, black stilettos, I caught him sneaking a look several times. Next time he saw me at work, just a few days later, a profound disappointment clouded his face after his gaze flicked to my feet to find only my lace-up work flats. "You promised heels," he'd said, affecting a pout and a light tone, for the driver's benefit, but his brows had come together into a moody look. Repeating my line about railways and beautiful shoes, a little more defensively than was proper in my own booking office, only induced the driver to side with Lennie. "It's not like you have to go on the trackside, Clover. I bet you haven't got a track safety certificate anyway." I didn't, such training was deemed unnecessary for station staff like me, but that wasn't the point. He went on from the sensible area of railway safety into mild misogyny. "Besides, love, you'll get more good reviews from your passengers if you turn out in some girly shoes." I got a smile to show he meant nothing by it, but Lennie frowned again at my flats and I found myself missing that lovely sparkle in his eyes. Next time he visited for tea and biscuits, he seemed to be rostered onto the 0837 more and more often I got the sparkle again, which gave me a lift for the rest of the day. I hadn't gone full stiletto either, a more modest pair of black Mary-Janes with just 3 inches of tapered heel did the trick. It did feel good to wear some prettier shoes as well, and Tammie liked them when she stopped by with a latte and a cookie later on. Rain was sheeting steadily down by then, we had the platform to ourselves, but it was refreshingly cool on the platform under the canopy. "Where did you find those shoes," she said after a couple of minutes of companionable conversation covering our days at work. "Smart, feminine and elegant - just what I need." As I stretched out my legs to let her have a better look she lifted her legs too. Her feet looked professionally smart in mid-heeled, black, leather court shoes, though her sheer, nude tights looked better than my more robust, black opaques. "I think we're the same size," she said, holding one of her feet against mine. "And I think you're right. You can try them on." "Oh!" Her surprise slipped out and I looked away, down the line towards Sheffield and bollocked myself, internally, for overstepping. An elbow prodding my arm brought me back from a hurried consideration of conversation changers to find Tammie had slipped off one of her shoes and was reaching for mine and snapping her fingers with mock impatience. So we swapped shoes, complemented each other on the colour of our toenails (teal for me and royal blue for her) and a warm, comfortable glow spread through me to see her dance a few steps along the lonely platform in my heels while I wriggled my toes in hers. "You can have them back next week," she promised and we laughed. "I hope your boyfriend likes them as much as mine does," I said. Announcing I had a boyfriend to the person rapidly becoming my best friend felt good too. "You have a boyfriend?" Tammie sat down and crossed her legs. "Let me see." I showed a picture I'd snapped earlier, with him leaning casually on his train. "Nice," she said. "Quirky. Doesn't look like he's up himself," Tammie sighed. "Quirky's a good word," I said, oblivious. "Quirky suits him." Anyway, I did wear high heels for the concert, and not Cuban-heeled cowboy boots either, but taper-heeled ankle boots in a black suede effect with a slightly flared, denim mini-skirt and a white, long sleeved shirt. With my hair down and artfully windswept, then the minimum of makeup - lipstick and eyeliner - I thought I should be okay. "Olde Worlde folk, not country and western," Lennie commented when he picked me up in his little car. "There's a difference?" I wondered innocently, climbing in beside him and offering a cheek for him to kiss. "Your legs look fantastic, love the boots," he said, smiling and reaching to touch my knee. Had I worn a longer skirt I might have treated myself to hold-up stockings, but sheer, natural-tan tights were the modest legwear for night. No matter how passionate things got, under my skirt was out of bounds. To assist with boundaries, I'd been promised exclusive use of the spare room at his house. I say his house, but he still lived with his parents - I'd met them a couple of times and found them slightly tubby, unassuming people who both worked for Manchester City Council. He blamed his living with them on house prices and the need to save for a deposit which reduced his available cash for renting. I just assumed he enjoyed having his Mum looking after him and wondered how she'd feel when our relationship blossomed to the point where I'd ask him to move in with me and share my rent. They'd made it into a cosy, if bland sort of Marks and Spencers kind of house; warm, comfortable and forgettable. Lennie had a big, back bedroom like a teenage boy's bright with movie posters, bookshelves laden with graphic novels and a long work bench loaded with the makings of a model railway. The only thing missing from its teen arrangement were the discarded clothes, coffee mug eco-systems and stench; he either kept it obsessively clean or had made a massive effort on my account. When I met his parents next, they'd gone to a sister's in Bangor for the weekend, I'd get the definitive answer. "Not very cool, but it's home," he said, bouncing invitingly on the bed. "You have some cool books," I said, admiring some of the titles. The Sandman series and a well read copy of The Crow stood out, along with my favourite, Anderson PSI Division. "My brother loves The Walking Dead series, but I don't like zombies." "Ooh, you're cutting yourself off from a whole world of excellent writing there." "They give me nightmares." "Seriously?" I nodded. "I always have a machine gun and I'm firing until the barrel glows and none of them will go down. Very scary." "You need a pump action shotgun," he said, wisely, as if this could solve the problem. "And lots of shells. Maybe two shotguns, and somebody to reload them for you." "Moving on. You promised me a night of line dancing, remember?" He called me a philistine and we walked down to the concert's venue, a church hall beside a large, brick built Catholic church. The evening had grown cooler and I drew my shawl around my shoulders and wondered if I should have chosen a longer skirt. Inside, the band was setting up instruments at one end, looking surprisingly young and trendy in an affected, rustic way. It looked like there would be a capacity crowd, such as it was for the hall, made up mainly of the middle-aged; pot bellied men in sloganed T-shirts and greying women with a lean towards tie-dying and tinted hair. A knot of younger people by the small, well-stocked bar greeted Lennie warmly. Their names passed me by as I was introduced, but they seemed a genial lot, four or five lads, sporting Viking beards and hanging bellies, along with a couple of girls. I got the impression they were a regular clique of folk enthusiasts and smiled to see Lennie at home with other people. My currency with them probably wasn't helped when Lennie played gentleman at the bar and I ordered sparkling water, but I wasn't going to explain why. Lennie started drinking something dark and mysterious, with a crafty name like Crinkley Bottom. The seating arrangement was around circular tables, one of which Lennie and I shared with his mates. I sat, crossed my legs and adjusted my hem, sipped my water and found myself drawn into the music. The lead singer was my age, petite and blonde with a perfect complexion and cute dimples, but her voice really stood out - light and breathy, but with a range that could follow the tin whistles or fiddles, even the mandolin and hammered dulcimer (I had to ask Lennie what that was, having never seen one before, but it made such beautiful music.) I wished I could have trained my voice to sound so wonderful as hers; she had depth for the ballards, the skipping liveliness for reels and jigs - captivating. "That was our best date ever," I said happily as we wandered back to his place afterwards. "Really?" He sounded surprised. "She was so beautiful, such a voice. I wish I could sing." "You've a lovely voice." I put a finger to his lips to shush him. I'd never manage to sound anything other than a strained alto. "I prefer a woman with some depth to her voice, not all squeaky." "It's very kind of you to say so." Putting an arm around his waist I pulled him close, enjoying the feel of our hips bumping together as we walked. Fuelled by the music and good company a mellow warmth had been growing in me, which became an urgent heat with Lennie's proximity. I managed to keep it under control until we were safely behind his front door where I caught him a tight embrace and let myself go into him with a deep and tongue twisting kiss. I tried to lead him to the lounge, where a deep settee already had been earmarked for kissing, but he pulled back and muttered about not going in there with our shoes on. That brought a giggle, so I offered him a foot. Without much more encouragement he knelt before me and I let him unzip and pull clear its boot before presenting the other. With both boots removed he caught my left ankle and oh so sensually ran a hand along my calf and up towards the knee, lingering deliciously over the shape of my lower leg, every movement amplified and electrified by the sheer nylon between us. It didn't matter that he looked up and under my skirt, his touch came so intimately I enjoyed his expression when he saw my black panties, even through passion killing tights. Falling into the settee together modesty and hemline were forgotten in my need to kiss and hold him, as if all my suppressed passion had surged from its hiding place to overrun my sensibilities. In a silence broken only by our heavier breathing and rustling of our clothing we fell into a rush to touch each other. My skirt rode right up and his hands followed, along my thighs to the curves of my bum. They went under my shirt, excitedly exploring my waist and skin over my ribs and only a sudden cool rush made me wonder how far this should go when I felt a fingertip on a breast's undercurve. He gasped, as if surprised to have found breasts under my shirt, before rapidly moving that hand to fully cup my left breast. Part of me sang inside to be where I'd dreamed of being with a man I liked. A smaller, cooler, more rational part wondered if he'd like them. I'd had some work done, not much - enough to boost them from B to C cups, but perhaps he'd know enough to feel the difference between me and the silicone. Inside my bra, uncaring of my fear, my nipples went almost painfully hard making stiff points he must have felt as he went for them. His enthusiasm to squeeze and explore them overrode any kind of pleasure I might have found, I broke from the kiss and trapped one of his hands against my breast. "Slow down," I said, kindly enough, but he looked troubled by the intervention. "They're really sensitive, less is more for me." "I knew that!" Was that very defensive? He bent to kiss me again, but at least gentled his puppyish enthusiasm for my breasts so some of the tension went from my shoulders. Perhaps these were the first breasts he'd handled, as much as his were the first man's hands to enjoy mine. That thought brought electric tingles with it, helping me find the confidence to unfasten his trousers and open them as best I could until I could lay my fingers through his boxer shorts onto what felt like an impressive and very hard cock. I had a little, internal, laugh of pleasure to find a slick, wet spot in the cotton - 'You did that, Clover!' I sang to myself - I'd turned him on, made him hard. Pulling his boxers down I wrapped my fingers around his cock, and as best I could considering his state of undress, I started moving them up and down his shaft. It felt as wonderful as ever I'd imagined it would be. He shifted our position slightly and I took the opportunity to fight his trousers down and away, stripping his socks too - nothing looks more undignified than a man almost naked and still in socks. His cock looked impressive, to my inexperienced eyes at least, proud and twitching to his pulse, drooling a little with excitement. With a coy smile I unbuttoned my shirt, while desperately fighting a Victorian urge to pull down my skirt (which had become completely irrelevant as an item of clothing). Underneath I wore a pale pink, lace-trimmed bra which drew his eyes. He hardly blinked as I reached behind and deftly unclipped my bra, took a deep breath (In for a penny, Clover) and let it fall away, baring my breasts to him. He stared hungrily for a moment, then reached for me. I distracted him a moment by stripping away his T-Shirt, but he really needed my bare breasts, covering them with his hands, finding and rolling my stiff nipples, lifting and squeezing them, always on the edge of being a little too keen, but not so much that I felt like slowing him again. Maybe he'd settle down when he got over the initial passion of having breasts to play with. I did my best to distract him with hands to his cock, pushing his thighs apart so I could play with his sack and delight in having a real, aroused man of my own to enjoy after all those lonely fantasies. I wanted to press my chest to his cock, to wrap in the warmth of my cleavage and caress him there, but his hands were too busy for that - I promised myself that would be next time. Then he must have remembered my legs and that there was more to a woman's body than just her breasts. Primly I kept my thighs together as he spared one hand from my chest to enjoy my legs. His touch still felt good through the tights, much more expensive than my usual choice of hosiery, but he kept edging for my inner thighs and as hot and excited as I'd become between them I wasn't ready for that conversation yet. He became more insistent and even when I was fully running a hand up and down his cock to give the hand job I'd been missing for so long, even when I played with his balls at the same time, his fingers still edged down between my thighs. I felt his fingers scrabble at my skin and wondered what he was doing, until I felt my tights tear. He pulled a hole in the nylon, close to my pussy and pushed fingers hard between my legs so I left his cock and pushed him away. "Clover? What's wrong?" "I'm not ready, not there." "You're so hot, I can feel it." "Not there, not yet." His shoulders went down and his bottom lip pushed out. "But, you're so beautiful, your body's so hot. I want you, Clover. I want you right now." "Let's not rush," I said, softly, trailing my nail tips along his thigh until I could brush the edge of his sack again. "I want you all." "I'm yours, Lennie," I murmured, leaning forward to kiss him, needing to reignite the heat in him. "Just not there." "Not tonight." I wondered if he might assume a period was keeping my pussy from him, having already decided I'd never lie to him about that, but he didn't seem interested in my reasons for keeping him clear. My fingers found his cock, still stiff and I restarted my hand-job with long, slow pulls. "Doesn't that feel good?" He nodded, his face relaxed and his lips parted as I went a little faster, holding his balls with my other hand. "It feels fantastic," he gasped. "Your cock feels gorgeous, Lennie. It really is beautiful." Shifting my hips slightly let me sit on the edge of the settee so I partially faced him, watching his face as I played with his cock, enjoying the sight and feel of his clear pre-cum leaking over my fingers and making him wonderfully slick. He panted faster, hips pushing to match my rhythm. Then his eyes opened and he stared right into mine. "Clover? If I can't, you know..." He glanced towards my panties and ruined tights. "Would you... suck it? Please?" My mouth watered at the thought. Of course I'd imagined doing that, taking a lover's cock into my mouth and delivering a perfect blow job - or as perfect as my virgin mouth could manage. I licked my lips and looked at what I was being asked to suck. "I've never done that before." A smile flickered over his face. "Me neither." I nodded. "But you'll have to hold my hair out of the way." Kneeling between his thighs, the carpet soft under my knees I laid my forearms along his thighs as he smoothed my hair away from my face. Up close he smelt salty and male, but not unpleasant. "You can do this, girl," I said to myself and moved forward enough to kiss his tip. His precum tasted salt when I swirled my tongue around his head. He moaned at that, which encouraged me, I must have done that bit right (thank you internet guides) so I parted my lips and took him into my mouth. A surge of pride and pleasure went through me as I started giving him a blow job - I was doing it! Sucking a man's cock! When I looked up, my lips stretched around his shaft and a couple of inches inside my mouth being worked by my tongue, his face was lit in a rapture of pleasure. I suppose it was a big moment in any man's life, as much as it was for me, and the happiness of being able to do that for him made me want to do the best I could for him. I decided there and then I wanted to make him cum in my mouth and when he did I would swallow it - I wanted him to remember this night. At first his hands held my hair back as I moved my head to take him deep or just tease his tip. My jaw started to ache, but I'd expected that and didn't mind. Then I realised he'd stopped just holding my hair, his hands were spread on the back of my head, moving with me as I sucked him. The next moment I felt him trying to pull me closer to his body, pulling on my head to get his cock deeper into my mouth. When I resisted he pulled harder, forcing my head down until his cock head touched my throat and I retched. Not that he noticed, his breathing had become rapid grunts, his thigh muscles were rigid under my arms and his hands behind my head. I made some whimper of protest and he pulled out a few inches and I thought he'd realised what he was doing. Another grunt and he pulled my head back onto his cock, this time it went into my throat and I gagged again, felt his pubic hair brush over my nose and I panicked about him suffocating me. As hard as I could I pushed back against him, moaning with the effort, desperate to get him out of me. For a second he resisted, his hands relentless to keep me in my place before they relaxed and I broke away gasping for air. In the same moment something thick and wet spattered my brow. Fluid punched into my eye making it sting. Another splash hit my chin, some of it drooled down onto my right breast and trickled from its nipple. I scrabbled away backwards, falling onto my bum, trying to rub the gloop from my stinging eye and seeing him sprawled on the sofa, the last his cum pumping onto his leg and then the sofa itself. "Ug, it's in my hair," I groaned seeing the sticky strings webbing my fingers. I tried to brush it from my breast and just smeared it over my skin. Heat rose in my cheeks as I realised what I must look like - ruined tights and pushed up skirt, bare breasts, face and hair streaked with his cum. My lips curled with disgust. Lennie's eyes opened, fluttered a moment and finally looked at me with a frown. "Clover?" "Pass me my shirt!" "What?" "Oh! I'll do it." I darted forward, grabbed it from the end of the settee and settled it around my shoulders, fumbling a couple of buttons closed so it covered my disgusting, sticky breasts. My skin crawled as I wriggled my skirt down. "What did I do!" That stopped me in my tracks, surprise must have burned from my face. "I thought you were enjoying it!" He spread his hands as he said, like one of those prima-donna footballers trying to persuade a sceptical referee they should be let off a red card. "Is that what you thought? Holding me down like that? Jesus!" "Isn't that the right way? I didn't know. I'm sorry!" It sounded like the kind of sorry that was too angry to be sorry. A defensive, this is somehow your fault kind of sorry. Well I didn't want to be part of that, I smouldered with humiliation and disgust, needing to wipe the sperm from my face but not wanting to touch it. He finally closed his legs and cupped his hands over his genitals, like I might claw for them "I'm going in the shower." "Clover, please!" "Don't 'Clover' me at the moment. Put the kettle on or something, I need to get cleaned up." A great petulant huff of indignation followed me from the room as I hurried for the stairs, not wanting to drip onto the carpet, but at the same time not caring if his mess stained it. Fortunately I'd unpacked and sorted my overnight stuff before leaving the house so it wasn't long before I was steaming my body clean under water as hot and powerful as I could stand. It took ages to get congealed clumps of sperm from my hair and even after scrubbing my face red I could still feel it there leaving my left eye bloodshot. Even so, the soothing water calmed me down and by the time I'd towelled myself dry I felt a little more benign towards him. He'd just got carried away, lost in the moment. Maybe it was some kind of compliment that for his and my first time I'd managed to lift him to such passion he'd lost a little bit of himself. It wouldn't happen again. Then I washed between my legs, the mechanical business of cleaning and the folds and tucks of my pussy, the opening to my vagina I'd become long accustomed to, and I thought about what a next time might look like. Sitting on the side of the bath, my legs spread in a way Lennie would have loved to have seen, I looked at my body under my neatly trimmed, dark curls and knew I'd have to tell him. First we'd have to find some way to manage what had just happened and move on. Perhaps I had overreacted, behaved like some naive girl instead of a grown woman. Even so, I decided there would have to be some humble pie eaten before I started being conciliatory about that blow job. The only nightwear I'd bought with me was, considering what had just happened, a rather out-of-place, wine red, satin nightdress Mam had unexpectedly gifted me on my twentieth birthday. Though its lace trimmed hem nicely brushed my calves, an exotic side split that reached all the way to the outer edge of my left thigh and it's daring cut over my bust made it quite clear the kind of effect it was supposed to induce. Lots of stuff Mam had done since she ran off made me wonder, 'What was she thinking?' But the gift was well meant and I had looked forward to making Lennie stare when I approached him and his bed with it to disguise and enhance my body. Now as I shrugged it on I immediately covered it with my dressing gown and belted it tight, not wanting even the tiniest glimpse of satin to give Lennie the impression I wasn't pissed-off with him. Every part of him moaned sulk at me when I found him at the kitchen table, a clearer illustration of teenage moodiness had never been made. He barely lifted his sunken face to acknowledge me, though he had made me a cup of tea. "How am I supposed to get rid of that mess on Mum's best sofa," he muttered. Even though I had gone down intending to be the conciliatory girlfriend I immediately bristled, feeling the blame for not having given a blow job properly. "Google it," I suggested, coldly. Sitting opposite, I picked up my steaming tea and blew on it. "Thanks for the brew." "Clover, I'm sorry. About what happened." He wouldn't look at me though, just stared at my mug and my fingers cradling it. "Thank you." "I just. You know, I thought, that was what to do." "Porn isn't reality," I said softly, not wanting to sound preachy. "But it didn't feel good for me, at the end at least." "Oh, thanks! That's a bit savage. I said I was sorry! What more do you want?" Now he glared at me, until I held his glare with my own and he went back to unhappily staring at the table. I reached for his hand. "I suppose it was new for both of us, we just need... I just need a little more consideration." "Consideration?" He used the word like the idea pained him and I started to wonder where we were heading. Then he told me exactly where. "I know about you." "What do you know about me?" I asked, calmly. I knew the answer though, it came with a cold certainty and hot flush or betrayal. Though I couldn't think of anybody who could have told Lennie. "You're transgendered." There it was, that word hanging in the resentment between us. One word and a million subjective meanings. What did it mean to Lennie? How would Lennie's understanding affect me? Based on previous experience, I decided to try and reform the conversation on my terms. "I'm not transgendered, this is not something that has been done to me, it's who I am and I am transgender." "You're a man." "Do I look like a man? Did I feel like a man earlier when you couldn't wait to get your hands on my tits?" "Clover! It's not like that!" "Then what is it like?" "You should have told me." "Really? Oh, hi, I'm Clover. I used to have a penis? How does that work for you?" "I thought we were closer than that." An edge of something harder than mere sulking in his tone washed a chill over my skin. Where his hands were clasped together on the table his knuckles shone white. His brows were cramped together. "Maybe I should," I offered gently, "I wanted to find the right moment." When I reached for his hands he pulled them away. Instead I pushed up my dressing gown sleeve to bare my left forearm. "See that?" My painted fingernail made a clear marker against a short ribbon of white scar tissue near my elbow. "The last person I thought I was close enough to tell. And here, look." Leaning forward I showed him a slight scar against running down under my bottom lip. "And she said she loved me!" "She!" "What difference does it make? People can be shit, that's all and that's why I didn't tell you." "Don't you think I have a right to know?" "No. I don't." An edgy silence fell and I wasn't sure of a way out of it. I turned different combinations of words around in my head and gave up trying to make sense of it - everything felt too heavy, too weary. It must have been way past midnight. "I thought you would have trusted me by now?" he complained. "Then I'm sorry." Was I? I couldn't tell. I wondered about phoning for a taxi. A question rose through the tired, soggy mush my thoughts were dissolving into. "How did you find out?" Lennie shrugged listlessly. "Open source research." "I don't do social media." Then I pressed my lips together. "Casey Guttenburg? I thought she'd taken all that shit down. It was her wasn't it, she did this you know?" I said, pointing to the mark on my arm - she'd used a ballpoint pen, the closest thing to hand when she flew for me, screaming about betrayal and pedophiles in dresses. Lennie nodded. "I suppose I was curious when you didn't come up on Facebook or Instagram, so I poked a little deeper." He snorted. "She was really pissed off with you." "She's a crazy, messed up bitch. You know the police gave her a restraining order? Did you read that?" He shook his head. "How long have you known?" "Over a week." That changed things - during that week when a screaming ghost from my past had outed me we'd met for coffee twice and enjoyed a long, breathless kiss where I'd felt his arousal pressed against me. Perhaps this wasn't goodbye for Clover and Lennie. While I tried to get my head around this development, Lennie changed tack. "That's why you're single then?" "If you like. I'm cautious." "Must be hard for a person like you." That didn't sound so good. Was he showing some empathy for me and my kind? Was he one of those who had the hots for women like me? My eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" "You and me are good together, Clover. We've had some good times, good nights out. It must feel good when somebody wants to be with you." "Yeah, it does. I've enjoyed going out with you." "You're kind of lucky that I'm so cool about your past." If I hadn't looked up right then, hoping to see some of that Lennie sparkle I loved so much I would have missed the superior sneer his mouth curled into as he told me how lucky I was. Lucky that he should still be interested in me? Clover who used to be a boy? Goosebumps raced across my skin. He reached for me over the table, touched my hand and when I didn't pull away he took hold of it, tightly. "I need you Clover, you're mine, my girlfriend, don't care about your past. You're what I need, you're right for me. We belong together, you belong to me, you know that as well as I do." He stood, moved around the table towards me, looming over me as I sat and turned to face him. I could see the passion shining in his eyes, the flush of his cheeks, the intensity making his body taught. He'd grown hard again, it showed clear through his jeans. I'm not a passive sort, but something in the way he came towards me, touched me inside. I was almost as tall as him, but the way he towered over me as I sat there felt deeply attractive. At that moment I didn't have to do anything, just ride out the moment, not make decisions, think about anything other than the sheer pleasure of not being me, of being the object of his desire - the woman he wanted. His hand came under my chin and tilted my face towards him. He kissed me, hard, pressing himself to my lips until I parted them and let him in. His hand dropped onto my shoulders, squeezing me, then pushing down my dressing gown and baring the fine, lacy straps of that nightie. Sight of that red lace, then the satin over my breasts brought a growl from his throat, his hands found my breasts again, squeezing and fingering them, even harder than before if anything and the sudden discomfort closed that awful, passive switch in my head and let Clover back in. With both hands on his hips I pushed him back, pushed him again so he had to take a couple of steps, still looking down at me, cheeks blowing, eyes wide, fists clenched. "Now what?" "I'm not ready." "Course you are, you put that nightie on. You want it as much as I do!" He took a step towards me and I put my hands onto his chest, standing, kicking the chair away to clear my escape route. Where? Up the stairs or out into the street? Surely it wouldn't come to that, it's Lennie - sparkly Lennie, my boyfriend! "Not now, please. I don't want to." "What do you mean you don't want to? Haven't you got... Have you still got a cock?" Now he recoiled, as though my reluctance could only be based around his revulsion by my genitals. "Don't be like that." "Like what? You teased me, led me on! I've got feelings, urges!" I closed my eyes, stepping back again. It felt like Casey all over again, just a different response to the same problem - me! Me and my fucked up body. "I'm sorry you feel like that. I'm going to call a taxi." "What! What are you talking about? Taxi! You're spending the night with me, you said!" "Please let go of me." "Clover, you're not making any sense." "You're hurting my hand." He dropped it like I was burning him. "I'm going to go upstairs, call a taxi and then I'll wait for it outside. Please don't do anything, just leave me alone. I don't think either of us are in a really good place for talking to each other at the moment -" "You're supposed to be here when my parents get back tomorrow. You said you'd be here!" "We'll talk: later. Okay? Not now." For a moment I thought he was about to come after me. His body tensed, I watched him in case I should have to pull the door closed in his face and run for the bedroom hoping I could somehow wedge the door closed against him for long enough to dial 999 and get the police down on him. As I stepped into the hallway from the kitchen he just seemed to sag until he looked like the nervous lad I'd first seen looking into the corners of my booking office. My determination wavered then, I didn't like to see him so dejected, but my breasts gently reminded me of why we were leaving. Five minutes it took me to pack and get dressed. When I softly said my goodbye and promised we'd talk he'd gone back to the living room and was half-heartedly rubbing at a sofa cushion. He looked up and threw his cloth down and paced across to the door while I shouldered my bag and backed into the door. Locked. "I love you, Clover," he said, halting just inside the kitchen. "And I know you love me too." "Please, Lennie. Let's talk about this another day." "You're perfect for me, you like everything I like, you're really hot and it doesn't matter about being a boy - nobody over here knows. You'll be my girl, I'll look after you, show you how much I love you." "Can I just go? Please." I hated that tone, the way I just passively accepted everything he just said. Clover Viola Tilney would be nobody's girl, but I wasn't ready for that fight yet. It was over between me and Lennie, but he didn't know it yet. That was going to be the hard bit. The door key lay on the worktop, just by him - probably where he'd put it when he locked us in. He made some dismissive noise, then threw it across the room to me - out of reach, I stretched for the catch, but it tinkled to the floor tiles just out of reach. As I squatted to retrieve it I thought he was going to pounce on me, grab my hair and drag me into the living room to finish what we'd both started. He just stared though and I felt his eyes down every step on the garden path. Thankfully the taxi was already there.