Floral Designs (F/f)

Have been musing about this one for a while. Could stop my healthy hits at a stroke. Lesbian story with very little bottom smacking. Hang on, I hear you say, isn't this a story site where nice male bottoms, preferably bare, get whacked by authoratitive figures, preferably female? Well, yes it is but Floral Designs came about as the result of a challenge. One of my CP friends reckons I am a good writer but equally reckons that my stories are based on personal experiences or personal fantasies. A good test of my creative abilities, he said, would be to see how I got on creating a story outside of my own experience. I took up the challenge. This is it. Posted here in spite of my doubts. My only rationale is that if I was an 18 year old Jilly I would quite like to have met a 35 year old Laura. But as my profile says, I like kinky. If you don't grab it show it to your partners, especially those who fantasise about female knickers falling in the moonlight for moments of the bizzarre. Alfred Roy

 

 

 

I suppose I should have realised something at the time of our first meeting. Should have known that she wasn’t exactly as she seemed. But you don’t think, do you? At least not along those lines. Not along the lines that say, hang on, take it easy. This woman isn’t all she is cracked up to be. She don’t play with a straight bat, or any sort of bat for that matter. And certainly not straight. I know that now. But at the time, well you don’t think do you? You just go along with everything and it is only when it is too late, only after the train has left the station with you on it, do you begin to regret the journey. And I did regret the journey, or at least I think I did, and am glad to be back home. In every sense. I have changed my mobile number and my e-mail address and if I never hear from her again it will be too soon. I think.

I met her when I went for an interview for a job. Well, actually, we met before the interview. In a café across the road from the offices where I was hoping to land the post of temporary PA to the Marketing Director of a small, but growing and innovative, company. A bit ambitious really. I was after a summer job before going to University, and if my head said go for a checkout girl job at Sainsbury’s my heart was aiming much higher. I told this woman this over coffee. Finding no free places I had asked her if she minded if I sat at her table. She seemed very nice and very smartly dressed. Over coffee I discovered that she was thirty five and her name was Laura. She wished me luck when I left for my interview and when I came back, convinced that I was not going to become the youngest temporary PA on the planet, she was still there.

Thinking about it now I can see that she had stayed in the café deliberately, waiting for me to come back. I hadn’t said I would. In fact I think I told her that I had two more interviews. But I had found her interesting. She laughed at my attempts at a joke and gave me a couple of pointers to help me impress prospective employers. And she exuded warmth. All over a quick coffee before we both, I thought, went our separate ways. But thinking about it she must have hoped that I would return. That is why she had waited. Not that she said so. All she said was ‘So quick, how did you get on?’ And I told her. And that is what was so strange. It was almost as if I was talking to a lifelong friend rather than a woman, twice my age, who I had only just met. I told her about the rather pompous secretary who eyed, and disapproved, the slip of a girl seeking a job beyond her powers. I told her about the self important Marketing Director who, amusingly, considered that this was one interview that was wasting his precious time. It was the amusingly bit I didn’t like. And I told her about the Human Resources robot who took my prosaic details with the disinterested air of someone who knew that all were destined for the dustbin of this small, but growing and innovative, company. I told her all this and when she said that if it didn’t work out maybe she could help, I could not have been more thrilled. She passed me her card and, exuding a beautifully warm smile, rose and left. I drank my second coffee of the morning convinced that a job was in the offering. The door of the small but growing and etcetera company may have closed but, unexpectedly, another was about to open.

I phoned her midway through the following week. None of my job applications had hit the bull’s eye. Too young, too inexperienced and, in one case, too ambitious. How can you be too ambitious when you are only eighteen? I needed work and I needed it soon. With each rejection I took another look at Laura’s card. It hadn’t particularly appealed when I first studied it after she left the café. ‘Laura Mowbray – Floral Designer.’ Posh name for a florist, or so I thought, and I didn’t fancy selling pansies or petunias to old ladies or geeky young men. I wanted to be a PA in a small and innovative something. But they didn’t seem to want me so, a week and three days after I met her, I gave Laura Mowbray a call.

It all went very well at the start. She was delighted to hear from me and immediately offered me a trial. Three days a week in her shop and, more interestingly, extra days assisting her on floral displays. I didn’t much fancy the shop but the promise of visits to large corporations and up market hotels appealed. And the money was so good I couldn’t afford to turn it down. Looking back I suppose that should have rung some alarm bells. Why was this stranger offering someone she knew nothing about a PA proportion salary? For selling and arranging tulips? But if bells did ring I didn’t hear them. I had the offer of a well paid job and all those vinegar faced robots who had ditched my carefully worded applications could go to somewhere hot and constricting. This Jilly girl had arrived. That’s my name. Well it’s Gillian actually, or Gill for short. But I never liked the G so I changed it to J when I was fourteen. The Y came later, probably because of that Cooper woman, and seems to have stuck. So I am Jilly to my friends and Jilly to my family. Except for my mother who insists on calling me Gillian all the time. And I was Jilly to the woman who had offered me a job. And two days after my call to her I embarked on my unexpected, and ultimately brief, career as a florist. Correction, Floral Arranger.

My first inkling that she saw me in more than the role of trainee florist came the day she came back from a spectacularly successful local business conference. Me and this other girl who worked in the shop, a quiet mousy thing, had helped her with the display the previous evening and were in the process of closing. Myra, that’s the mousy girl, rushed off to catch her bus and Laura, clearly high on business and alcohol, chatted endlessly about her day. I was standing by the counter finishing off a late order, twelve peachy pink carnations being collected at six o’clock, when one of them fell on the floor. Laura, still in a stream of recollections, bent to pick it up and, as she did so, lifted it to my face. I turned to take it as it brushed my cheek and that was when she said a strange thing. ‘It’s just like the colour of your skin’, she said, ‘Peachy Pink.’ She paused for a second and then it came. ‘God, I should love to see you naked.’ And then she laughed, gave me the carnation, and disappeared into the back of the shop. ‘Ignore me’, she said, ‘I’m drunk.’ But I couldn’t ignore her or what she had said. Before she laughed, before she handed me back the flower, I had seen the intensity in her eyes.

I am going too fast. It wasn’t the first inkling or it shouldn’t have been to anyone with half a brain. What is it the clever folks say? You have to be awake to smell the coffee. Well in some matters I was definitely comatose. But there was something else, something that a couple of weeks before should have started those bells clanging. Something that should have told me that one day the genie would come out of the bottle. And even drunkenly wrapped in carnations it should not have shocked. A couple of weeks before, mousy Myra and me were having a well earned tea break. Well it might not have been well earned but we were having it anyway. I had been working at the shop for about two weeks and whilst Myra would never become a close companion, far too quiet, she was fine as a colleague. And she enjoyed cooking and kept us all in a plentiful supply of unfriendly calories, disguised as cakes. She asked me what I was doing at the weekend. As she knew that Laura was taking me with her to a big wedding reception she was doing in Doncaster I considered it a peculiar question. But I answered it anyway. Be careful she said and, taking a bite out of a crumbly piece of flapjack, gave me what I can only call an adult look. The quiet ones are so maddening. She never said anything else, even when pressed, just be careful. But as we were locking up I asked her what she meant. Doncaster may not be everyone’s idea of heaven but it is hardly New York, or even London.  All she said was ‘Lock your room. Assuming you have your own.’ And that was it. Nothing else was said and we didn’t see each other the rest of the week. On Saturday morning Laura drove us to Doncaster, very early, and we spent three hours arranging flowers in an enormous tent. The bride’s father was a friend of hers and she had arranged for me to attend the reception. In the evening we went to the small hotel she had booked for the night and, two drinks later, we went to our separate rooms. After breakfast on Sunday a tired but contented Laura drove us back home. It was an uneventful weekend and until she brushed my cheek with that flower I had not given it, or Myra’s warning, a single thought. But I thought about it a lot afterwards, especially what Laura had said. But it didn’t stop me going with her again on another weekend trip. Another wedding reception but this time in the more glamorous Georgian town of Bath. It was halfway on the journey that she told me that the hotel she had booked only had one available room.

I still wonder why I agreed to go after all those signals. Myra had told me to be careful and hinted that hotel rooms with Laura usually came in ones. And a couple of weeks later the woman told me that she would quite like to see me in the buff. And I had thought on these things and other bits and pieces. Not least on how I had landed the job. It was becoming crystal clear that the refined, thirty five something, Laura had designs other than the floral variety. Innocent comments made in the café, in the flower shop, even in that Doncaster Hotel started to take on significant meaning. When someone tells you that they would love to see you naked you start to examine everything they said. And she had said she thought I was pretty, she had said I had lovely hair, she had said that she liked young girls in business. And, in Doncaster over an evening drink, she had said that men did nothing for her. I thought she meant that she’d had a lousy marriage but, no, she meant it literally. She didn’t like their shape. And as I rose to go to my room she said, distinctly and clearly, that she very much admired mine. And in spite of everything I still went with her on the weekend to Bath and heard what I half expected to hear just as we passed Reading.

She did see me naked. In a funny sort of way I thought it was the least I could do. The woman had given me a job and accompanying her on her floral displays was more interesting than I had, at first, thought. And her designs on me didn’t really faze me. I was no quiet, repressed, Myra. I was in your face Jilly, young and pretty and ripe for adventure. Once the seed was sown the idea, but only the idea, of being pursued by an attractive middle aged woman had an appeal to my adventurous side. I liked boys but had yet to experience them, too dangerous and messy, and a predatory and temporary employer in a fleeting summer experience had a certain charm. I wasn’t excited by the prospect of sharing a room with Laura but neither was I repulsed. I liked her, she was fun. And having a warm cuddle could be nice as long as her hands kept away from my knickers. A couple at school had tried that with no success. I wouldn’t hide from her when I showered but my body was definitely mine. So we did the reception and, with no invitation this time to join the party, toured the sights of Bath. At five o’clock Laura had to go back to the reception to finalise some business arrangements and she dropped me off at the hotel and left me to book us in. She said she would be back about seven so I arranged to shower just beforehand. I wanted to get this bit over with prior to drinks and dinner. See me naked, see it is no great shakes and let’s have a pleasant weekend. And it worked. She laughed when she saw me walk out of the shower with a towel round my head and the rest of me as bare as the day I was born. ‘So I get my wish’ she said as she took off her coat and went to the bathroom I had just vacated. I dressed quickly, satisfied that if one barrier had been taken down another, more subtle, had been erected in its place.

It must have been about two or three in the morning. I knew that because I vaguely heard a church bell chime and I didn’t hear four. Besides it was still dark and the light comes early in summer. But I was not conscious of the distant church or of the darkness pressing on me in that hotel room. As I awoke, confused at the strange surroundings and windows in the wrong place, I was first aware that my duvet had fallen off my bed. My first befuddled instinct was to lean out of the bed and pull it back but, a second from this instinctive action, a sickening fear stopped me. A hand was caressing my right leg, gently running down the lower thigh to my ankle. My senses came into crystal clear focus and it was only that heightening that suppressed the scream. A scream which, in other circumstances, would have filled the room. In the space of a couple of swirling seconds I realised three things. My nightdress had been pulled up to my waist, the hand was Laura’s, and I would relax and stay asleep. I was no longer afraid, but equally I wasn’t excited. I suppose intrigued was the best way of looking at it. But whatever happened I was not going to respond. Only time and the morning which must surely come would show the wisdom or otherwise of that.

The hand continued brushing my right leg for a few moments and then, imperceptibly, moved nearer to the top of my thigh and the elastic edge of my knickers. A second hand, as smooth and gentle as the first, joined it in caressing my left leg and both massaged a warmth to my skin which was not unpleasant. And then the hands joined across my waist and continued to explore the lower part of my body. They weaved gently across my waist and tummy and lightly played with the top of my knickers. I could feel both palms urgently pressing into this private covering and then, briefly and lightly, drawing themselves across the centre of my sex. I held my breath and kept perfectly still. After a few moments the long, well manicured, fingers of those hands inserted themselves inside my knickers and gently pulled on the clinging sides. This was it I thought. This was what the silent and anonymous Laura wanted. A revealing of her personal, compliant, Jilly. Let her do it, I said. It matters more to her than to me. Let her see me, touch me. I shall stay still and quiet. And I shall remember.

I felt the private cloth coming down, peeled off with no help from me. I did not lift myself but I did not reach out a hand to stop the progress. A few gentle tugs and the knickers were down my legs and over my feet. A layer to my inquisitive innocence had been removed. And still I lay motionless. I was conscious of my lower nakedness and could feel the air on my skin and cool cotton sheet under my bottom. And as I lay, the searching hands lifted my nightdress almost up to my breasts and then continued the gentle and minute exploration of my lower body. Not an inch of me remained untouched but not an inch was violated. The most benign was the light squeezing of my toes, the most invasive a playful twirling of my pubic hairs. It went on for only a few minutes and while it lasted I absorbed each feathery touch and examined each sensation. And when she turned me over and lightly spanked my bottom, gentle smacks mingled with equally gentle explorations, I thought this was a small price to pay. I heard the church bell chime the quarter hour as her palm smacked my cheeks for about the twentieth time. And after those few minutes I heard a wistful sigh, felt my nightdress being lowered and the duvet replaced, and sensed the owner of the searching and inventive hands return to her own bed. I lay awake until the morning light came through. By which time Laura was fast asleep.

If I was a sensible sort of person I suppose that was the point when I should have given in my notice. Lovely job Laura, but flowers aren’t for me. I want marketing and PA not marigolds and petunias. That type of thing. A quick smile, a friendly handshake and a limp goodbye. Knickers intact. But any sense I had was negated by an adventurous spirit attracted to the unknown. And besides, unlike boys, women weren’t dangerous. And also, shame to admit, I had not totally disliked what Laura had done. I had not got excited but after the initial fear I had relaxed into a passive acceptance. Her hands exploring me had released an unknown tension, enhanced by the knowledge that a shameless nakedness in the dark let me deny any culpability. And that gentle spanking had been surprisingly pleasant. You learn a lot about yourself when your pants are peeled off. I could almost hear myself saying that I ain’t a lesbian but I do like women. Or at least this one. Which is why I never said anything about the previous night over breakfast. And which is why I didn’t give in my notice.

It was Myra who first mentioned the weekend. We were making up some funeral wreaths the following Wednesday and funeral wreaths were Myra’s speciality. I reckon that’s why Laura kept her on. That and her cooking. It certainly wasn’t for her conversational skills or bedroom possibilities. But mousy Myra was a dab hand at wreaths and her immersion in this mystifying joy occasionally loosened her tongue. Well not exactly loosened, but unclamped it enough for her to speak before you did. A bit of probing whilst she wired some white lilies elicited from me that yes, we did share a room, yes, Laura did make a pass at me and no, nothing serious happened. Two truths out of three was as far as I was prepared to go. Not that the nocturnal fumblings were that serious, but I suspected that supplying details to the enigmatic Myra would be akin to confessing that I had been raped. So the knicker lowering moment remained unsaid. It didn’t stop Myra from giving me a reprise of that adult look and a re-iteration of the need to be careful. And as we were tidying up and tucking into another of her freshly made cookies she told me something else. About a year before there had been another girl, very much like me. She liked Laura very much and stayed in hotels with her. She knew Laura fancied her and, like me, was amused and intrigued by the situation. Then one Monday she came into the shop early, collected her few belongings, and left. Six weeks before she was due to start at University. Nobody had seen her since and Laura never referred to her. Never mentioned her name, never mentioned their last weekend. And never mentioned the fact that both of them had scratches on their faces.

We were driving to Alderley House, an imposing mansion in Cheshire, when Laura first referred to the weekend in Bath. Three weeks had elapsed since that significant weekend, at least to me, and for half of the time since I had been holidaying with my parents in France. Ten days of sun and beaches. And on the few occasions our paths crossed, she rarely came into the shop, the conversation was pleasant but light. I can only recall one slightly oblique reference. Myra went off sick one afternoon with a mousy migraine and Laura called in to see how I was coping on my own. She had just returned from a London trip and was pleased with the new contacts she had formed. Good for business she said. Means more weekend trips. And, looking intently at me, she said ‘And I have enjoyed taking you with me. Especially to Bath.’ I think I blushed. I am not sure if I did but I ought to have done, but I know that when my mouth opened I heard myself saying that Bath was nice. Nice. This woman had peeled off my knickers and played with my bits. I should have hit her with her floral arrangements. But I couldn’t. I liked her and I didn’t totally dislike what she did. So I said Bath was nice and, the following day, agreed to go with her to Cheshire. And it was on that journey that she asked me why I had never mentioned the fact that I went to bed in Bath wearing knickers, and when I woke up they were on the floor.

I need to take a pause here because Alderley House in Cheshire was both the real beginning and the end of my relationship with Laura. I wasn’t stupid. Laura had lit up when I agreed. Alderley House was a regular and lucrative commission. An imposing hotel, five stars and more Michelin rosettes than you could shake a stick at, and set in grounds that you could willingly die for. Myra told me all that. In addition to a substantial fee Laura got the use of one of its upmarket rooms for the night. She stayed for free and more to the point, following her invitation, so did I. Oh yes, all right, there was a cost to me and I wasn’t blind to it. A little more of the Bath experience but, in my naivety, in seemed a small price to pay for a super posh weekend in a super posh hotel with a woman I both admired and liked. And, in addition, I was being paid. A no-brainer as they say. And this is why I am pausing. I couldn’t see a downside. I was not revolted by what Laura did to me in Bath. Perhaps it was the dark, perhaps it was the early hours, but when she pulled down my knickers I realised that it was not unpleasant. That is why I stayed awake until the church bell rang for six o’clock. A woman can be so much gentler than a man. It was only when Laura asked me about my discarded underwear that I remembered that Myra had said that the girl who left suddenly the previous year did so after a weekend at Alderley House. Thankfully, I didn’t need to answer because, as she posed the question, we arrived at our one and only stop.

The big confrontation came when we were having drinks in the Alderley House lounge after a hectic but wonderful day. Laura Mowbray certainly knew her flowers and how to arrange them and, if I hadn’t guessed from other venues, the eulogies to her skills flowed as easily as the wine. She had earned an abundance of kudos and, one supposes, a serious amount of cash. And her eighteen year old assistant came in for her own bit of praise. The compliments, the surroundings, and the early evening alcohol must have softened me up. I didn’t blanch when she said that I must have known that my knickers had taken a downward journey at her own hands. I didn’t flinch when she said that a repeat was very much anticipated and desired. And I merely nodded, in an attempt at maturity, when she informed me that her Alderley House suite’s central feature was the most sumptuous and accommodating double bed. If I did not know it before I knew now that the predatory Laura was in sight of her intended goal and the target was me. I heard myself tell her I was willing and, as she smiled, I saw for the second time that intensity in her eyes that had, weeks before, stilled the peachy pink carnations.

If the evening could have ended with the dinner which followed our drinks and intense conversation my memories of Laura would not have turned from a golden glow to a miserable ash. If it had ended after our first few, tantalising minutes, in that awesome suite then the glow might have tarnished but the memory would still be positive. A reprise of our night in Bath was a passing pleasantry I could desire or accept. But nothing could prepare for the intensity of a passion I neither wanted nor expected. ‘Be careful’ Myra had said and those words mocked me as I struggled to retain an element of sanity and, simultaneously, to resist a violation of my body I both hated and rejected. And it had all started so well. We had gone to the suite after dinner, Laura had studiously kept me away from it when she deposited our overnight bags, and I changed into bedtime attire that I knew would not remain in place too long. I deliberately wore some non sexy cotton pyjamas on the basis that if you make the goods uninteresting the buyer might lose interest. It mattered not a jot. Within five minutes the pyjama top was over my head and, light mercifully extinguished, the bottoms very quickly found themselves at my feet. I was naked and waiting. So far I didn’t mind too much. As the pyjama bottoms drifted down my body I was reminded of the sensation in Bath when my knickers took the same journey. But here the similarity ends. In that distant hotel I had experienced the sensation of subtle hands fluttering across my sex and lightly raising my anticipation of sensual delights. Featherlight touches and gentle spanking. This was full blown. Laura was as naked as I was and, stripping in the dark, she was intent on fulfilling a passion I could neither imagine nor wish to experience. She clawed my breasts with a violence I found disturbing. She scratched her fingers down the side of my body with an intensity that both hurt and frightened. And as her breathing rose to a volume that unnerved me, she thrust her fingers into that part of me that should welcome an instrument of release. I could not resist. I did not want to resist. I hated what she was doing but the juices of one’s body has its own agenda. As she scratched and clawed at my nakedness, pressing her own body against mine I clutched at her ample buttocks and allowed myself to be taken. I allowed her to fill me with her perverse desires and, as I came for probably the first time, I hated myself for it.

Myra has a wonderful way of putting things. For someone who doesn’t say very much she certainly has a knack of finding the right words to dispel or illuminate a situation. She reckons that anyone who cooks can face all that life has to throw at them. Nothing can compete with four pans on the boil and a grill refusing to heat to order. Face that and you can face anything. She would make a wonderful PA for some snotty nosed, unamused, director. She said it all as I was packing my few things and preparing to leave the shop for the last time. ‘The Laura’s of this world don’t realise that life is a marathon not a sprint.’ That is all she said but I knew what she meant. Laura had ruined everything for both of us. Just like she had for that unknown girl, scratches and all, who had departed a year ago. I could cope with any number of nights of gentle lowering of my knickers or pyjamas and a fleeting touch of lesbian spanking or feminine love. But the rest was too much. I wasn’t ready. And if I ever am it will be no thanks to Laura. But I shall miss Myra’s cookies.

 

 Alfred Roy (c) 2008 Revised 2012