The sun fell in streaks, grass soft beneath me and tree behind firm. Curled in my lap, Tina lay; in her lap, bambino. I loosely encircled her with my arms and rested my chin atop her head. Warm, a cool breeze brushing past now and then, feeling her curl up more whenever it did.

I softly smiled, content. What a queer life I lived. It hadn’t really sunk in before that, the last couple of years, I had basically accompanied my pregnant friends, helping them ease into motherhood. For all our moments of intimacy, there were times where I massaged their feet or tender breasts, where I looked after baby to let them nap, where they apologised for being too tired, but asked if I could stay with them.

Well, I loved them. Not the same way they loved me, but I loved them, separate to my desire for intimacy. To mia gattina, maybe this moment was romantic. Maybe it filled her with feelings of safety and warmth and joy—like books spoke of.

As for me, I felt relieved bambino had fallen asleep, glad that Tina could close her eyes for a bit, the position comfortable enough, weather pleasant, landscape pretty, a pond not far from us with some flowerbeds around.

Honestly, I was now happy they loved me. I was happy that I could bring them such joy just by being with them. A joy greater than friends could give.

I sometimes still thought of the life I could have had. A life in the city, finding companions I liked and spending every night with one or two, where I would visit my friends as friends, barely knowing their precious children. It made me lonely to think about, like losing my “family”.

Not that “losing” my actual family had hurt much. No, this new family I had found meant so much to me.

Subconsciously, I squeezed Tina and she stirred, stretching out. I tried to pat her back to sleep, but it was futile. “Did I sleep long?” she softly asked, natural to whisper ever since bambino was born.

“Not at all, so pray continue,” I whispered, stroking the back of her head.

However, she had something else in mind. Reaching out, she beckoned the nanny and handed over bambino, then snuggled up to me.

I waited with a wry smile for the nanny to leave before asking, “Does mia gattina need spoiling?”

Instead of answering with words, she tilted back her head and left a quick lick on my chin, quickly hiding after.

Chuckling, I squeezed her tightly. “Is mia gattina feeling playful?”

Her hands slid down my back, settling on my bum. “Let’s retire,” she whispered, punctuating her seductive words with a peck on my neck.

I didn’t need any further motivation.

Inside, as soon as we closed the door behind us, we were kissing. I knew how she liked to get there. A deep kiss, my one hand on her bum and the other stroking up and down the back of her neck, feeling her shiver through my lips, my eyes naturally closed. She held my waist, her hands clenching now and then as the feelings inside her swelled just right.

Little by little, I warmed her up, gradually moving to the bed, having her sit “side-saddle” on my lap.

Just that, as I started tugging down her dress, she stilled my hand. Pausing to look at her, she showed me a mischievous smile.

“You have been so generously indulging me, so please, allow me for a change,” she whispered.

My train of thought didn’t so much derail as launch off a cliff, taking until the explosion when it hit the ground for a single word to make it through my lips: “Okay.”

Instantly, she pushed me down, lying on me in a very different way to earlier, her kisses working along my jaw to my ear where she gently suckled on my ear lobe. Her electric lips sent tingles down my spine, my hands clenched, bunching up her dress, a slight tearing sound—our fancy clothes were rather delicate.

It had been half a year since we were last entirely intimate, and even then she had been pregnant, so I hadn’t asked much of her. But it was like we had both bottled up our feelings. She was almost desperate in her touching, pushing all my buttons. And all my switches quickly flipped, easily turned on, yet not rushing her, wanting to enjoy this moment. A dry well thirsty for the rainy season.

The only way I could think of to slow her, I kept pulling her in for kisses. She liked kissing. Well, all of them did, but Tina especially. I had thought that was part of her childish side at first, but there was nothing childish about how she kissed me now. It wasn’t little pecks and shy smiles and fluttering eyelashes. No, it was a deep smooch, light bites, and her tongue felt unbelievably long, playing with mine.

Not a romantic kiss, but an erotic one. Oh she had such an erotic mouth.

For a good while, I kept my clothes on, but the building desire ruined me, my control slipping until I begged her.

“Please.”

I didn’t need to say what I needed. She straddled me and shimmied my dress off, rough, a few tears to my clothes to even us out. The sort of nightie I wore underneath didn’t slow her down, her hands pushed it up as they slid to my breasts, pushing off the bra.

“Gattina,” I moaned.

She gently kneaded, a steady warmth spreading inside me, not so sharp. The haziness started, my thoughts slipping away as soon as they came. I touched her, stroking up and down her waist, breaths heavy, deeper. I had to touch her.

Her fingers moved to my nipples, rubbing them at first, then pinching and rolling. Jolts through the haze, making me gasp, the sharper feelings reaching deeper inside me, my hips trying to roll, thighs trembling.

Gradually, her touching and teasing moved down, her kisses landing all over my skin. I was full of frustration, burning, but not melting, and I loved it, and I hated it.

“Gattina,” I whispered, pleading.

Her hand stroked my thigh, an electric tingle making me clench up. “Bella, you are so beautiful,” she whispered, then kissed my flower. A light touch, feeling less erotic than her last one, yet the sight of her down there, head tilted and hair brushed to the side, kissing my petals so earnestly—a throb of desire choked my heart.

This wasn’t her simply repaying a favour. No, she looked like she wanted to be there. Her little kisses, lightly sucking on my lower lips, tongue slowly exploring my creases like she was mapping out my intimate shape—it reminded me of how she kissed my mouth.

My friends were excellent, in their own ways, of making me feel desired.

Hands desperate to touch her, I gently stroked her head as she continued to tease me. She could have rushed me to finish. She could have, but didn’t. Stoking my flames, driving me crazy, my whole body desperate for a release she kept just out of my reach.

“Gattina, please,” I murmured, mewling.

Her hand idly stroking my waist now drifted over, brushing through my bush. The gentle rubs and strokes around my quim sent quivers through my legs, losing the last of my strength. Desperate for more, my hips rocked, pressing into her touch.

Then she said, “Tu godi,” before sliding her tongue inside, fingers moving to my nub.

And she said it so assertively, I did. So close for so long, her words pushed me to the edge and her touch sent me far beyond. Her tongue wasn’t deep, but I felt so sensitive there, adding fuel to the sudden explosion from her fingers.

Fireworks and lightning and a waterfall, feeling free and constrained and alive. Worth the wait. I writhed and cried, overwhelmed, then settled into the bliss I craved, masturbation good, but not good enough. She returned to her gentle touches, hand on my waist, lapping my nectar, helping me reach a few more tremors as I came down. I gently touched her back, stroking her head.

After a few more minutes like that, she moved to start working me up again. I softly chuckled.

“Please, mia gattina, let me bring you some… enjoyment,” I said, the euphemism hardly subtle.

She didn’t stiffen up, but I felt her hesitation even before she spoke. “It is fine. Today, let’s focus on you,” she said.

Although I was still fairly out of it, I picked up on something being wrong. While I thought through what to say, I carefully sat up and, with both hands, cupped her cheeks, turning her reluctant gaze up to me.

“Is something the matter?” I bluntly asked. Post-orgasm wasn’t when I was at my most clever.

She tried to look away, but my hands stayed firm, my worried eyes beseeching her until her resolve collapsed. “I, I worry you shan’t find my body pleasing,” she whispered, afraid.

I naturally smiled, understanding her. “Please do not think me uncouth to speak of others in our bed, but you are aware I am with them and they have gone through the same trial as you, no?” I said, my hands coming down from her face to settle where her bump had been and even now slightly lingered.

She lowered her head, leaving me unsure of her reaction.

“You are not a statue chiselled, every chip a flaw,” I said more softly. “You are different now. I understand if you think you look less beautiful. However, I still find you very attractive. If you do not believe me, I am more than happy to show you—as many times as it takes.”

After a few seconds, her face tilted up to show a shy smile. “Really?” she asked, sounding just a little convinced.

“Truly,” I said and drew her into an embrace. She liked cuddling. Sure enough, she clutched me tight, nestling her head against my neck—where she whispered, “Then… please show me.”

—

“Announcing—”

“No need, she is family,” Mattie said, cutting off the butler.

I gave him a sympathetic look, then turned to not just Mattie. She had a son, Lorenzo (we called him Enzo), and a daughter, Joanna (Anna for short, but almost like Hannah with a touch of a H at the start).

Now, Enzo as a boy of six was supposed to, well, be his father’s son. Start walking in his father’s footsteps and endlessly chasing that ideal.

That didn’t include greeting his mother’s lover. The thing was, I had ten “nephews and nieces” and rather knew how to get on with children. Besides that, I had loosely raised him for a quarter of his life, so knew him well.

All things considered, him being here wasn’t exactly a surprise, but, knowing one day he wouldn’t be, I rather took it as a welcome surprise—much to Mattie’s and Anna’s annoyance as they shortly pestered me for attention.

My arrival routine, the servants handled my luggage while we went out to the garden for afternoon tea. Looking over both children, I smiled and said, “You know, Enzo once shouted at me.”

Anna’s eyes widened as was only natural for a young child hearing gossip. “Really? He did?” she asked, staring at him.

Her reaction was rather grand, but she was only four—not that Enzo understood that, scowling. “I never,” he mumbled.

Mattie laughed, freely, hiding behind her cup.

After waiting for their attention to return to me, I shared the story. “This was shortly after Anna was born. To give Mama a break, I took Anna outside, but Enzo saw us and banged on the window, shouting that bambina would get sick. After all, that was what the nanny had told him to keep him from playing in the snow all day.”

Enzo ducked his head, his ears surely hot—I couldn’t see his embarrassment as he took after his mother. As for Anna, she endlessly giggled as four-year-olds did.

And Mattie, she gave me a loving look, full of warmth. A look she had given me so many times over the years and verbalised her feelings until I learned what it meant. She knew I didn’t love her romantically, but I loved her like family, loved her children like they truly were my nephew and niece.

“Such a kind brother, I took Anna inside and showed him she was warm and dry. That was the first time you played together. Well, as much as one can play with a baby a few weeks old,” I said, knowing that every teasing needed to end with everyone smiling.

And everyone did, Anna turning to give Enzo a “hug”—such displays were unsuited to children of their father’s standing, so Mattie and I had taught them, in public, to give each other’s hand a squeeze. It was very cute, especially when Enzo looked away as he squeezed her hand back.

Oh Mattie and I wanted to laugh, but knew not to “shame” him for displaying emotion. One good thing about her husband, he had an honest mind about parenting as long as manners and appearances were kept, even when the suggestion came from me.

We spent the long afternoon as a “family” and Mattie’s husband warmly welcomed me at dinner, sitting beside his “good friend”—a little sensitive about being called lovers for some reason. None of my business, no need to pry.

Over the hours, I had noticed Mattie becoming needy, more insistent on holding hands and sitting closely. So it came as no surprise that, when the children’s bedtime approached, she left me to accompany them, returning to her bedroom.

Nor was I surprised upon later entering her room to find her lounging on the bed in negligée, freshly bathed.

Chuckling, I didn’t keep her waiting, undressing as best as I could on the way over. The moment I sat on the bed, she was touching me. Not intimately, just skin to skin, like a plant finding precious sunshine.

I had to remind her, saying, “You do remember I was here just a fortnight ago?”

“That was only for a night,” she mumbled.

“Unfortunately, there is only one of me,” I said wryly.

She took a moment to snuggle me more before replying. “You are inventing complaints, none coming from my lips.”

“Okay, I shan’t pester you,” I said.

She rewarded me with a kiss—not that it meant much for me. Deep kissing worked for foreplay and that was it. However, this wasn’t foreplay, even her hug innocent. Well, her hands were firmly planted on my butt, but that was innocent for her standards, not usually staying still.

I sort of understood this moment. After all, I had missed her too. I had wanted to hug her the moment the door opened too. Similar, but different. And that was okay.

I often thought back to my old life, how it had been similar, but different. I wondered if being beautiful really was the main difference in how things had turned out. I wondered if the strange world was why.

However, those questions were practically impossible to answer, and I knew that. I knew that and I knew something new, an answer I didn’t want to consider.

It probably did help that I was beautiful. Even if my lovers would have loved me regardless, being beautiful helped with everyone else—and that included me. I had found my confidence in my old life, but it had been a confidence in spite of my appearance. Armour that helped me get through meeting someone new, knowing they’d like my personality or that I didn’t need them to like me.

It probably did help that this was a “queer” world. My lovers had children to distract them, didn’t have to come back to me every day, my seasonal rotation making sure they never grew tired of me.

But, more than that, there was empathy and communication. We knew what the situation was and did our best to understand what each other needed.

In my old life, I had given up. My ex-girlfriends were probably right. I hadn’t really tried to give them what they’d needed, hadn’t talked it through with them, used to being thrown away for being ugly. As if I’d taken aromantic literally, allergic to doing anything romantic.

Then these women came along and tried to understand me, and I tried to understand them, not wanting to hurt them.

It didn’t matter if hugging or kissing didn’t make me feel butterflies or make my heart race or fill me with possessiveness. Making them happy made me happy, and they felt the same way.

What more did we need?

mialbowy

This marks the end again. I probably won’t continue this series any time soon. I started it to practise writing smut and I’ve done a good amount of that. Thank you for reading, I hope my little stories were enjoyable and sexy.