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Curiosity Satisfied/Satisfied Curiosity -- A Two Part Invention by Lotuseater and Oosh

Curiosity Satisfied/Satisfied Curiosity -- A Two Part Invention

Curiosity Satisfied

This story was written in answer to a request from a lovely young pen-friend of mine. She wanted me to imagine our meeting in the flesh for the first time. All you need to know about Kim is that she is small, Chinese, and currently living in the San Francisco area. She is a writer of lesbian erotica, and very, very sweet.

My heart is pounding. I've never sailed this close to the wind before. I won't be unfaithful! I won't! I may be a liar; I may be greedy and selfish; but I won't be disloyal. Huh!

I look in the mirror. This is a rest room, not a lavatory, but mirrors are mirrors, and in my case they do not lie. I see my rather thin face, looking a little lost. I look closer. The first grey hairs; no make-up; no scent - I won't even call it "perfume"! No glasses, no contact-lenses, and just a plain blue hair-band, because she likes me to wear it long and I hate it getting in my face.

I am wearing my plain grey business-suit. It is almost graceful, and beautifully cut, revealing my figure - it is still there, just - but there is no frivolity in it. I look at my face again. I turn my head slightly. A slightly pinched nose. A thin, straight mouth, which I pull into a shrewish grimace. And sure enough, little wrinkles around my humourless, rather unkind eyes. They look at me piercingly, telling me how unimpressed they are.

I was mad letting Oosh talk me into doing this. Quite mad. When she first told me, I thought it would be a lark. But now the gin has worn off - it wore off days ago - and I feel like the victim of one of Oosh's bloody practical jokes. Which of course I am.

I emerge into the bar once more, and order another GandT. With just two pieces of ice. They go mad with the ice here if you're not careful. The lime is a nice touch, though.

"You from Australia?" asks the barman. Bloody hell.

"Where's that?" I ask frostily.

He scuttles away, looking slightly annoyed. I don't blame him. But annoying Californians is a pastime, if not an art-form, and I might as well pass the time doing something I am good at.

There she is. I'll bet that's Kim. She sees me looking at her. She looks down. She's shy. But she approaches.

"You're Kim?" I ask.

She nods.

"She couldn't come. You know that."

She nods again.

"Did she e-mail you? I'm Christine. I was here on business anyway. She said I was to meet you, get a good look at you. She said you'd prefer someone younger. But I doubt it, personally. What would you like to drink?"

Fruit juice. I am annoyed - unreasonably annoyed. Most health-conscious Californians seem to drink revoltingly sweet fizzy drinks, the kind of thing I grew out of in my teens. But fruit juice is hard to argue with.

Why am I being so disagreeable?

"I'm nothing like her," I say, trying to keep the sneer out of my tone, trying to let her relax. "I'm afraid we're very different people, even though we're sisters."

She looks at me with a sort of disappointed longing. I am clearly making her feel very uncomfortable.

"She used to look like me; but of course she's much older. I'm an afterthought, actually. When people see us together, they usually assume that she's my grandmother."

She smiles and then frowns, as if she does not know whether she is supposed to laugh. I do not help her. What is the matter with me?

"We're alike in some things. For example, she won't wear make-up either. And we have similar views of men. These days."

I give the barman a glare. Perhaps fortunately, he doesn't notice.

"I have a nineteen-year-old daughter. She's at university. You wouldn't think so, to look at me, would you?"

She is decent enough to shake her head.

"I was sixteen. Once was enough."

"So... what do you do?"

It is a fair enough question, I suppose.

"I'm an..." Hell! What am I? " accountant. Specialist in corporate taxation. Thrilling, eh?"

I give a wry smile, and this time she responds. I feel a little better, and speak a little more gently.

"I'm really nothing like her. She's kind and silly. I'm..." What am I? "I'm just focused on my career. She's self-indulgent. I'm organized. She's nervous in company. I'm anti-social. I like to drink. She drinks and drinks and drinks. I've tried smoking. When I was younger. Not for me. She smokes like a chimney. God, she wouldn't last long here, would she? In California?"

Again, she smiles. People here treat smokers the way they treated lepers in the middle ages. Californians are so weird. They have all these awful religions and get so terribly worked up about little things. They're so intolerant. It's nothing, nothing like Europe. Where they bomb furriers' shops... well, maybe... But she smiles, and I say, "I think I detect maybe a tiny little streak of something non-Californian in you, too!"

That gets a laugh, a nice little laugh, half-stifled.

"We should get on all right, you and I, Kim. I remember reading in a book once that in China it is regarded as unseemly to laugh too much. That's good. I agree with that. You know: Oosh, when she's in company, she gets very jokey. She's a great joker. It's because she's so nervous. She often offends people, you know. She has a talent for saying the wrong thing. Whereas I have no sense of humour at all. I don't like to smile. It makes my face hurt."

She looks at me, puzzled.

"Some people like to smile and joke. I prefer bitching. It's more my scene. That's why I enjoy my work. It's almost all bitching. And meeting stupid people. Actually, it's rather nice meeting someone different. She tells me you're a writer - of stories, apparently. That's good. All I can write is business letters and financial reports. Now look Kim. I'm going to have another GandT. You've got to have something stronger than fruit juice, honestly."

She is polite, but firm. Another fruit juice it is. Oh well.

"So how did you come across my sister?"

Oosh? A writer as well? "Bloody hell! I never knew that." Kim seems surprised I didn't know. "What sort of stories? Romances, I suppose."

She nods doubtfully. Yes and no. Probably more like no.

"Ah... lesbian romances?"

She nods more definitely, but still looks troubled. I have to laugh now.

"I might have guessed. She's sex mad, always was. I remember when she was still living at home. She was in bed with herself all the bloody time. I was amazed she ever got to university, let alone got a degree. She was a sex addict! I'm surprised she didn't get on drugs, really. I suppose sex was her drug. Still is, probably. I don't like to think of it. Seeing her with that woman of hers, it's really pathetic. Simpering at one another. Jesus!"

I swallow rather a lot of GandT, and look disgusted.

"I tell you, Kim, she turned me off sex. Right off. Okay, I had an affair when I was a schoolgirl, but... I couldn't do that... what she did. I suppose you're a lesbian too. I mean, she practically told me so. Poor you. I wouldn't be a lesbian for all the tea in... Oh, well."

Kim is looking fed up. Surprise, surprise. I was mad letting Oosh talk me into doing this in the first place.

"Look, honey... Kim... I'm sorry... I'm just a bit on edge. I mean... I've never been put in this position before. I just don't know how to behave with... well, sexual people."

"Isn't your daughter... sexual?"

Blimey! I'd never actually thought of it. "I suppose she _might_ be," I admitted doubtfully, searching my memory for any evidence of it, and finding none. I had to change the subject, quickly.

"Look, Kim, she asked me... as a favour to her... could I just look at you, and describe you to her. She said you wouldn't mind."

"She said that?"

"Yes, Kim, she did. She said I was to book a room in the hotel and ask you to lie down and get comfortable and... and then she said I was to take a mental photograph, and tell her about you. What you look like. She said you'd want to do that... for her."

Kim looks troubled. She is evidently wrestling with her conscience. She looks at me doubtfully. I'm worried that she doubts my motives.

"Look, honestly, Kim, if you say 'no' it really doesn't matter to me. It's really a thing between you and her. She's just got me mixed up in it. Don't think I'm a lesbian or anything, because believe me I'm not! All I care about is..."

"Corporate taxation," she says, with a slightly ironic tone. God! I am instantly wet. I try not to pant, but it is difficult. I think she is just a little angry - with me, with damned Oosh, with both of us. "And your daughter, and her university career..."

Ouch! It is my turn to look down, abashed.

"I'm sorry..." is all I can say.

There is a long silence; then she says,

"Very well... I'll do it. For her."

I am incredibly touched. And I've been such a bitch. I look at her wonderingly. Why does she love my sister so much? I'd never do that, not in a thousand years.

"You must love her very much. I just... it's none of my business, but... you make me feel ashamed."

Perhaps because it is the first honest thing I've said, she seems to grow in confidence. She gets down from her bar stool, leaving half her second fruit juice. I put the rest of my GandT away with a rather unladylike gulp, and stand down too. Physically, I am taller, but now I feel small. She has such dignity, such purpose.

"Take me to the room," she says. Not "your room."

"The room." This is to be some kind of weird ritual of love, a love-at-a-distance that I will never be able to understand. Yet it awes me.

We say nothing in the elevator. I am happy enough chatting in lifts, but for some reason elevators upset me. I think it is the Californian omnipresent piped music, trying to make me feel calm, mindless. It gives me the screaming hab-dabs, if you want the truth. It's like 1984, with horrible meaningless subversive messages being crammed into your skull at every unimportant, trivial moment of the day. Perhaps that's why the Californians are so strange. They spend too long in elevators.

It is not until we get inside that I am freed from that infernal, trivial wailing. I turn to look at her.

She seems tired, resigned. She is starting to undo her dress.

I try to cheer her up. "I've something for you. Something from Oosh."

"Oh! What?"

I produce it. It isn't much. A black hair-band. "She told me she had to wear it at school, to keep the hair out of her eyes. She used to use it as a blindfold, she told me, when she wanted to be by herself. She said you might like it."

Kim takes it, momentarily enchanted.

"And she said you could wear it now, if you liked, so you could forget about me being here."

"Like a blindfold?"

I shrug. "I suppose so."

She seems bolder, now. I look away. It is somehow indecent to watch her undress. The bed creaks, and then she says,

"All right. You can look now."

I turn.

And I see.

Well, what a pity it is that I'm not a poet. I cannot explain how perfect, how flawless she is. And so young! I want to cry out: "Oh Kim! Darling!" But I cannot, I could not. Damn, damn. I want to be reborn this moment into a new life; but it is too late. I want to tear off my clothes; but actually, I take them off very slowly, in near silence. I do not think she knows what I am doing. She is very still. She seems a little tense.

"Kim... I'm looking at you... trying to remember. For her."

"Okay," she whispers. She has the headband over her eyes.

I come close. I look at her close up. I look along her arm. I think she can feel my breath. I look at her nipple. My lips are only inches away. I look down towards her bush. What a heavenly landscape! And then I am careless. My nipple grazes her skin, and she chuckles, and begins to breathe. I suppose I am breathing too. Yes, I certainly am. Her legs are demurely together. I go to kiss them; but no! No!

"Turn over!" I whisper harshly.

She turns in an instant, nimbly.

I can see how smooth she is. I have to - have to touch.

"She said I was to feel you... to see if there are any patches of rough skin."

"Go on then."

My fingers are so light; and yes, she is smooth, so thrillingly smooth. I am losing control, I know it.



"Don't say anything."

"Not anything?"

"No. Not one word."

I am touching her so lightly. She is so deliciously warm, soft and smooth. I have to touch that wonderful bottom with my lips. I cannot stop doing it. She eeps.



"Is your bottom ticklish?"


"Well, try to focus elsewhere. Please, please, Kim. Try not to smile or say anything."

"I didn't say anything."

"You did! You said 'Eep'."

"That isn't a word!"

"It is. Here in California, 'Eep' is definitely a word. Everything's a word in bloody California. Please, just be patient. I'm just checking for any patches of rough skin. Any patches at all."

I check most diligently. There aren't any. It must be all the sun, fresh air and fruit juice.



"You have no rough skin. Wait a minute. What about your feet?"

I hear her intake of breath. But I am quick. I am there. I check with my tongue. Firm, but not rough.


"Yeah?" She answers my whisper with a whisper.

"Try not to moan, OK?"

"Why not?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"Well why are you whispering?"

"I don't know. Just try not to moan, OK?"

"All right."

"All right."

I explore some more. I let her moan. She is such a good girl: she is trying to suppress it. But by the time I have worked my way back up to that wonderful bottom, I can smell her arousal.



"Turn over."

She is so quick! So lively! Oh, God, those lovely little breasts.

I fear I have betrayed my experience on that nipple.

"Er, Christine?"

Who the hell is Christine?

"Yeah?" - We are whispering again.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"I'm an accountant. I count money. Some people wet their fingers... but it's quicker, with large sums of money, if you just use your tongue. Like this..."

Wham! The side of my face is blazing. Well, I damn well deserved it. In the films, she slaps a stupid bloke and he puts the palm of his hand to his cheek, as if to ask "Did someone hit me? Where did that come from?"

I don't need to do any of that. (In fact, I dared not touch the side of my face then, nor for two whole days after.)

I just draw in my breath and say,

"Kim, you are so beautifully strong. Darling, turn over."

The wonderful girl. She does it. I think she is sobbing, a little.

Reverently, reverently, I part her buttocks.

"I'm so stupid," I stroke her. "You're so lovely," I whisper - why are we always whispering? - "so perfect, so spotless..."

She draws in her breath noisily. Yes, it does tickle; but soon it is deliciously, overwhelmingly sexy.

Can you imagine how she feels? Your brain just swells and swells, and you grow and grow like Alice in Wonderland until your whole body fills the room - hell, the whole universe - and you just keep on quietly growing, wondering when it will all end. This is how it is for her.

As most experienced lovers know, if you just tickle her for long enough with your tongue in a sensitive place, gently, she will get very excited for a while, but then soon she becomes enthralled, very calm and docile; this is when you must be patient and careful. And then, if you are good and sensitive and persistent, it all turns golden and she will suddenly go mad with every little thing you do, and come and come, on and on, until she is utterly exhausted.

It is the very least Kim deserves. She sobs and sobs. I feel for her: she is so beautiful and strong. Here she is, filling the whole universe with her beauty and her strength, and yet there is this little maggot in her bottom tickling and tickling the whole time. I cup my hand underneath her. There is so much juice for me. We are getting to the lovely lovely golden bit, and I slow down now, and let her enjoy it. I wish, I wish she could be me just for one second, so that she can see how beautifully she moves just now. She does not know how beautiful she is as she comes, how amazed she looks. I wish I could tell her. But finally, she begins to shiver and close up like a sea anemone. Regretfully, I let her. But hell! It's late! I have to get to the airport quick quick.

I grab my bag.

"You bitch," she whispers.

"Lovely Kim!" I say it in my normal voice, softly, fervently. Then I'm off and out.

I shudder in the taxi, and I'm shuddering all the way home. I get back just before it is time to start the dinner.

"I rang your sister," she says accusingly. "Where the hell were you?"

Oh, Jesus.

"I had to go to California. They wanted to do a film."

She sees my cheek. Her anger melts, and her eye begins to twinkle.

"I... think it's my turn to cook supper," I volunteer. We both know damn well it's her turn, but she accepts my peace-offering. "I've just got to check my e-mail..."

"Oh, yes, you and your e-mail." She titters dangerously. But I go and check it anyhow, rather shamefacedly. There isn't any.

She is a little odd all evening, but when we get to bed and she finds how passionate I am, she decides to give me the benefit of the doubt.

Kim! Kim! Don't ever make me do that again!



Satisfied Curiosity

Oosh is my editor, my inspiration, my friend. And here is my version of events...

She's in the rest room.

I saw her from the back. She's in a smart grey outfit, conservative but with an undeniable flair (like its wearer). Her figure is feminine, deliciously busty and with the flaring hips I love to see up close.

My pulse throbs in my temples, and my mouth is dry. What am I doing here? It's not even she, from our correspondence. She can't make it, she's sending her sister. Her 'terminally straight' sister.

I should know better. First there was my seduction at the hands of my married classmate, now this. After that unforgettable experience, I'd sworn never to become involved with someone already in a relationship. What am I doing here?

The front door beckons to me, my old buddy, my protector. Blindly, I go out into the warm sunshine once more. Shall I bolt and hide in my nice safe, empty bed?

She's flown thousands of miles just to meet me on Oosh's behalf. I'd better go back in. You don't treat friends this way, I tell myself. Or family of friends.

Now she's at the bar. I recognize the blue hair band from my glimpse of her back, earlier.

She sees me staring. I feel my blood singing.

I want to run away. I want to dash up to her and have her right on the bar, her legs up over my shoulders while I bury my face. I don't know what I want.

My legs carry their unwilling owner to her. They feel unsteady.

She is taller than me, and I want to melt from her queenly gaze. Her regal bearing makes me more excited than I've felt in a long time.

"You're Kim?" She has a lovely contralto, reminds me of the nuns from school. Her cultured tones are soooo sexy...

I can't look her in the eye and look down. Big mistake. My eyes are glued to the front of her jacket. Does she notice?

My head involuntarily nods.

"She couldn't come. You know that."

My eyes can't leave her chest. What's that pin? Looks like a sterling silver "O" in Old English script.

Again, of its own accord I feel my head bob. I am ogling, I know it.

She could ask me to crawl over broken glass and I would, but only after first nodding like an idiot.

Her words break through my fog of arousal and politeness. Must focus...God, she's beautiful...


Have to force myself to look at her face.

Another mistake.

I feel myself getting lost in her presence. Time slows, stands still, runs backwards.

Her fine aquiline nose, so unlike my pug. Those eyes, just beginning to crinkle at the corners. I watch for her to smile so I can see that beautiful tracery appear. What delicate lips. I wonder how they taste?

She's not wearing any makeup. The thought of that makes me shiver. Does she - did she plan on something more than a meeting?

"I'd like a cranberry juice, please. With sparkling water."

She arches an eyebrow.

"You Americans. Clearly this bar is wasted on the likes of you," she observes drily. The famous British irony. It is delicious.

I want to sink through the floor.

How do I explain? I live in Asia, I promised my parents I wouldn't drink, that I'd return home right after graduation. That's why I'm meeting another woman, the sister of another gay writer in a bar in America...

Shut up, Kim.

."..nothing like her," her marvelous voice was saying, "...very different... though we're sisters..."

Now I am openly gaping.

She makes my mouth water (and other parts, besides). She can't help but notice my hungry look of lust.

I don't hear any words at all, but the sound of her tone soothes me.

My desire is overwhelming me, I am fidgeting. My thighs rub together like two cats in heat. I'm desperate to do something, anything to get past this moment. This is crazy.

Not knowing what to do, I smile politely.

That feels wrong. Seized with panic, I try to look serious. She must think I'm a prize imbecile.

Better try to make conversation.

"Soooo." Has any human ever sounded more stupid? "What do you do?"

My eyes are glued to that pin. Is she who I think she is?

"I'm an..." she smiles kindly. I want to die... " accountant."

The corner of her mouth twists ironically and I feel myself pulled to her. Despite my best intentions to keep it platonic, I am losing my head.

I smile nervously.

She softly continues to tell me how unlike her "sister" she is. If she was quoting futures of armadillo testes, I couldn't have been more attentive.

The sweet smell of cigarette smoke on her breath is making me crazy. It's so rare nowadays to taste the lips of a smoker, it drives me wild...

We chat. I'm three years older than her "daughter."

"Look, Kim..." I can't believe my ears. Is she saying what I think?

I blink. Listen carefully to every syllable. Now she has my undivided attention.

"She said that?" I am incredulous.

"Yes, Kim, she did." Her voice is curiously without inflection. That famous British erotic. "She said I was to book a room... for her..."

What is happening to me? Now I have everything I've been dreaming of for months, and I haven't a clue what to do next, or what I ought to think.

I have to say something. Shall I ask her who in hell she really is, "Christine" or Oosh? What if she's some kind of nut, a religious fanatic cyber stalker? A serial plagiarist?

"Look...all I care about is-- "

"Corporate taxation," I say brightly. "And your 'daughter,' and her university career." See? I was paying attention after all. I am grinning like a moron.

She looks down.

"I'm sorry--"

I look for the right words. Like Mae West, I can resist anything but temptation.

Carefully, hiding behind my nearly full glass, I try, "Very well. I'll do it. For 'her.'" as casually as I can manage.

We get up. She tosses off the last of her Dutch courage. What a turn-on!

I wonder how the gin and tonic will taste on her tongue...

The walk, the elevator ride, all blurs like sidewalk chalk drawings in the rain. There is only she, and my wanting her.

Her voice startles me. How did we get to the room so fast?

"I've something for you. Something from Oosh."

"Oh? What?" I sound like a little girl.

It's a simple hair-band. I immediately love it.

"...wear it now...forget about me being here..."

I can't wait.

"Like a blindfold?" my voice sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. I am hoarse with desire.

"I suppose so," she shrugs nonchalantly.

My sex is afire. I unbutton, unzip, slip off, shed. Her head modestly turns from me, and I am aroused even more from this simple act. I blush and put the black band over my eyes.

She softly whispers. My ears are full of the sound of a dull roar. I just say, "Okay," and hope for the best. Past thought, past reasoning. My head spins, or is it the whole room? Just the bed, I decide.

Clothing rustles. What is she doing? I'm in an agony of lust.

I smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke on her and it makes me dizzy. In my darkness, I can sense the heat of her breath on my naked chest. It tickles.

Her nearness exerts a magnetic pull on my erect nipples. I shift, my breasts straining to touch her.

What's that? It feels like...she's nude! Her breast grazes my belly. A pig's grunt sounds, unbidden, from deep in my throat.

Breathe! Remember to breathe!

The heat from her is tantalizing, mesmerizing.

"Turn over," she grates. I love it.

Complying, I suddenly don't know what to do with my arms.

She asks if she may touch me. Is she joking?

"Go on, then," I whisper tentatively.

Her tongue is like the key to paradise. She sends electricity through me, and leaves me shaking. I can smell my juices, my musk fills my nose and the room. I feel hair, hands playing over me.

I know it's she. That must be Oosh. She plays with me, tickling me with her words and her fingers, her mind and her questions. We banter.

Play along.


She becomes still. Silence drops on us like a blanket.


Our voices are intimate, conspiratorial.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.

"I'm an accountant. I count money," I could climax just listening to her voice. But her remote, so faraway. The surreal aspect of her subject matter diverging wildly from her sexy!

."..just use your tongue, Ahh Ah..." She must have been illustrating her point, with the tip of that wonderful tongue.

Oh! Every nerve blazes. Explosively, my entire body convulses in a spasm of ecstasy and I must have nearly taken off her head with my knee.

My heart thudded wildly in my chest and my face burned from mortification. What had I done? Was she all right?

I want to weep, to sing out 'I'm sorry!' My unspoken apology lies on the floor between us like a dead bird. The moment for speaking had passed.

"Kim, you are so beautifully strong..."

My eyes are tearing from emotion and the tremendous orgasm I've just experienced.

She bids me turn over again, and I feel her part my cheeks.

I gasp at her touch, start to whimper like a bitch in full rut. Mindlessly I suck the fingers of my left hand while my right finds her head and its fingers claw those full tresses.

Oosh's tongue is everywhere at once. I am like a canvas, and she is drawing from a palette I've only just begun to learn.

Again and again, she pleasures me. Dear God, how can I feel this good?

My fists clench, knot the bed linen. I am covered with perspiration, my breath is hot and my mind fevered.

How many? I've lost count. So has she. My knees bend, I prop myself up, still blind.

Tears stream down my face as I hear my own voice begging this wonderful lover for more and more. I feel her between my legs, lapping and sucking noisily. My palms stroke my breasts, my fingers roll my nipples.

Wave after wave of ecstasy washes over me and I fall back from sweaty elbows, my spine arced like a bow, toes bunched. My voice cries out incoherently as I shudder for what seems like hours.

Afterwards, I roll up like a fetus. I can barely move. I hear a zipper being pulled.

What is she doing? She can't be --

I pull the hairband from my eyes. She's thrown on her clothes and is clutching her purse.

Wait! Wait! There's so much I want to say, so much to explain! I want to--

Her hair is a fright, the side of her face bright red from my clumsiness, and half her brassiere dangles from beneath her blouse. She is the most sexy thing I have ever beheld.

"You...bitch..." I whisper, falling helplessly back on the bed.

She gives me a look, almost regretful. She winks, blows me a kiss.

"Lovely Kim," she says.

She's gone.

I then realize I knew nothing at all about making love to other women, didn't even suspect anything. But my education started tonight...


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