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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Dearest, most beloved reader,

Please believe me when I tell you that I mean this with love: fuck off.

Seriously, off you fuck. This is not for you. You don’t want to read this. You’ll hate it. Seriously, I hate it. The beta-readers hated it (thank you two – I won’t name you to avoid tarring you with this brush, but I appreciate it massively).

Go read something else. Go read some Robin Watergrove or SophiaY. Go and read everything by proseinagarden and Two21b instead. Honestly, you’ll thank me for it, because they are awesome and the latter two will be relevant for a future story.

Not this one though.

Because you aren’t going to read it, are you?

Are you?

No… don’t. Please.

*sigh*

Look, why do you think it took over a year after Chapter 3 for me to produce Chapter 4 when every third piece of feedback I’ve received has been asking for more Samantha? (Be careful what you wish for folks!) It’s because the only story arc I could think of for Samantha was this one. It was the only outcome that made sense for her. And you are going to hate it. Truthfully, I spent a year trying to think of something different, but Samantha wouldn’t cooperate. I deliberately distracted myself from it with the whole Ramona and Liz story sequence – that’s 114,000+ words of avoidance strategy! I even thought about not writing this, but by then my mind had slotted it into the overall story arc and I can’t write “Happiness” until I’d written this, so, here it is.

Doesn’t mean you have to read it. So don’t.

So, again, with love and with due care for your emotional well-being, I implore you to fuck off.

Why are you still here?

Really?

I can keep this up all day.

Look, have you even read Love is a place chapters 1, 2 and 3? Because if you haven’t, what are you even doing here?

Also, this story will make no sense if you haven’t read Eve & Lucy. So, stop wasting time here and go and read that. It also happens after the two Clara stories. Yeah, I know they aren’t in the lesbian category, but trust me, you’ll like them.

So, off you go. Bye. Take care now. Have a nice day.

*sigh*

Alright, fine. You were warned.

__________________________________________________

They would probably have time for sex tomorrow, Samantha thought, though probably just a quickie.

If not, this would be the last time she and Sarah would make love.

Surrounded by the citrus sounds of Sarah’s sighs, Samantha slipped again between her lover’s thighs. She had already brought Sarah to one massive, meringue-flavoured, mouth-given orgasm, and she wanted to give Sarah more. Normally, as had been her habit for years now, she would use a vibrating wand to bring her girlfriend of these last six, perfect years to a screaming and shuddering climax. She still intended to do so. But she wanted more first. More of her honey taste, more of her tangy trembling, which seemed to sound even more lemony when Samantha’s ears were between her lover’s legs than when she lent above her.

Samantha felt Sarah stiffen with surprise as her tongue traced the delicate sides of her labia once more, lapping at the liquid there. Her fingers flexed inside her love’s slippery walls that felt like sunshine.

“Oh, God, baby,” Sarah moaned.

Samantha winced a little at that, felt her chest begin to fold, fought it, fought it hard, the way she’d learned to over the years. She refocused.

Nipping lower lips between hers, she tugged lightly, as her fingers wormed and squirmed within Sarah’s tunnel.

Sarah flexed against her bonds, blind behind the scarf Samantha had tied across her face. It was a first for them, a rare novelty in the bedroom that Sarah had been only too happy to try out. Samantha was delighted at how it prevented Sarah now from interfering, from reaching down to pull her up for a kiss as she often would. Not that she minded kisses, of course, which always sounded like salted caramel after cunnilingus, but she loved having Sarah’s body all to herself, with unimpeded access, allowing her to tease that swollen bud that tasted of Magna, Samantha’s favourite joke. It had taken her a while to think of the joke, but she was very proud of it, even if Sarah had insisted she could not share it with anyone else, not even Amanda and Carrie, or Kate and Priya.

“Sarah, did you know you taste like Magna?”

“Don’t you mean “Magnum”, beautiful?”

“Oh, no, not the ice-cream. You taste like graduating Magna Cum Laude!”

Smiling at the thought, she pressed the flat of her tongue against Sarah’s clit, which twitched and pulsed. adana escort Her fingers stroked up inside, finding, as she always seemed able to, that supple, subtle spot inside that felt like rain on window panes. She slid her other hand over Sarah’s clenching core, keeping the pressure firm, as her palm dragged over Sarah’s ribs up, up to her beautiful breasts, bringing jasmine scented mewls from her bucking girlfriend.

Samantha meant to enjoy all of this and was actively making memories, recording it all, so that she could recall in the future. Whether such times would be a torment or a balm remained to be seen.

Because though Sarah was oblivious to the fact, Samantha was acutely aware of their rapidly diminishing opportunities for physical intimacy. She needed to make the most of those little that remained. It was all that was stopping her chest from collapsing.

For what had started as a Puzzle had become an insurmountable Problem, one that required Action and Change and the end of this place called Love.

* * *

The Puzzle first came to Samantha’s attention at Kate and Priya’s wedding. Many years of friendship and working closely together on Samantha’s PhD, which Kate has supervised, had finally transformed Dr Summers (or Dr Patel-Summers as she was soon to be) into Kate in Samantha’s mind. Both Samantha and Sarah were invited, as were their friends Amanda and Carrie. Samantha was also pleased to see her friend Clara working there as the photographer.

“Well, of course,” said Sarah, when Samantha pointed this out, “we recommended her to them.”

“Oh, yes. But I hadn’t realised that they had booked her.”

The ceremony had been lovely and, despite the many musical interludes, Samantha had coped well with it. Sarah had been very moved, and had clutched her hand throughout, the shifting pressure fluctuating from a subtle cinnamon to a powerful ginger.

Yet, after the ceremony, things had become challenging for Samantha. The wedding breakfast was noisy and raucous, the orangery at Goldney Hall creating strange echoes. The weather had not been great, thus guests all piled inside, rather than enjoying the gorgeous gardens, which was rather a shame. Samantha found herself having to use the ear plugs Sarah had suggested she bring with her. Amanda and Carrie, and also Mike, Carrie’s dad, had been very attentive to her, but she still found it very hard to engage fully in conversations.

Things had only gotten worse for her at the party afterwards. Naturally, there had been a live band and lots of dancing. Samantha had managed to stay for the first dance, and then allowed herself to be held by Sarah for one song, before insisting Sarah stay, and withdrawing to a small side room before her chest collapsed.

Pleasingly, Sol was there assisting Clara, so Samantha was able to chat with Dawn for a while. Their discussion of the varying merits of base e versus base 10 for representing the data from Samantha’s laboratory results had been entertaining and enlightening. But then Xīyáng had wanted to go dancing, so they said goodbye. Sarah, Carrie and Amanda had checked on her regularly, while Kate had brought her parents to meet her at one point. Yet she could not help but feel extraneous, forgotten, like a shrivelled grape left on the stalk, wilting in the fruit bowl, when all the rest had been plucked.

It made her wonder if she would ever be able to give Sarah a wedding that both of them would enjoy. She was aware that a wedding was not the same as a marriage, yet it had been the start of the Puzzle that Samantha would later, her chest tight and the stench of epoisses in her ears, formulate thus:

Puzzle Sub:Sarah no. 234

Given our disparate likes and dislikes, especially as regards our free time, how can I be the wife that Sarah both needs and deserves?

* * *

“May I use the wand on you again, Sarah?” Samantha whispered, her lips lightly kissing Sarah’s neck as Sarah pressed and squirmed her body, no longer twitching but still humming, like freshly-baked pain aux raisins, against Samantha.

“Uh-uh,” replied Sarah, grinding her thigh between Samantha’s legs, “it’s your turn.”

“But I do so love giving you orgasms,” Samantha said, as her lips moved up Sarah’s throat to her mouth. “They sound so buttery and make me feel so extra.”

Sarah’s mouth opened to welcome Samantha’s, and they hummed into their kiss.

“Mmmmm,” Sarah sighed, “I love you giving them to me. But it makes me feel extra too to give them to you.”

They kissed some more, little bursts of orange blossom and allspice.

“Please,” Sarah said, ankara escort her voice laced with cream, “please Samantha, please sit on my face.”

Carefully, aware as always of her inherent clumsiness, always worried about hurting her lover, she straddled Sarah.

Sarah’s eyes, laden with love, threatening to crack open her rib cage, gazed up at Samantha. Her mind was furiously photographing this, filing this delightful sight, this peach singing portrait, away in her memories. For it might be the last time Samantha would see it.

She slipped her hands into Sarah’s hair and shuddered and shook as her girlfriend’s tongue slipped inside her. Her chest swelled many times beyond its physical limits and she soared on candy clouds as Sarah sucked sweetly on her clit.

“Oh, Sarah,” she sighed, “I love you so much.”

* * *

It had been on a bus where Samantha first got a sense of the shape and scale of the Problem behind the Puzzle, still hazy yet, but looming and inevitable on the mental mountaintops of the future. She felt then, instinctively, in her bones, where the scent of saltpetre permeated, that it could lead to Disaster.

It should have been a moment of joy. They – she, Sarah, Priya and Kate – were returning to Bristol from London. They had spent the night at Carrie and Amanda’s, while Louise and Jim had stayed with Lydia and Keith, who they were going to spend a few days with. They had been to see the National’s revival of Caryl Churchill’s Top Girls. Samantha had been indignant on behalf of Amanda at first, as she spent the whole of the first act mutely serving the others as the nameless waitress, while Carrie and Suzy had shone as Isabella Bird and Pope Joan. But in Act Two, in the roles of Kit and Shona, Amanda had stolen scenes, in Samantha’s estimation anyway, and her chest had swelled with pride for her friend.

Yet, after the pleasant buzz of it all, the petrol scented shrieks of small children on the busy bus back to Bristol had threatened to spoil the whole event.

And when Sarah had reached for a snotty and snivelling girl, to the grateful relief of a harried mother struggling with a baby at the breast, dandling her on her knee and grinning at her as she did her best to cheer her, Samantha’s chest began to fold. Not because of the toddler’s grizzling, which smelled like an unwashed cheesegrater. Not because of the looks from other passengers when she covered her ears, to blot out that hideous smell.

No, her chest began to bend inwards because she realised then that Sarah was born to be a mother, and she most certainly was not.

This would be a Problem.

Luckily, her PhD research on coding pluripotent stem cells occupied a lot of Samantha’s mental space, but the Problem hovered there, an emotional event horizon, glowering and growing in her mental landscape, the consequence clouds bubbling up, anvil shapes offering clues as to the siren-scented storms to come. She threw herself into baking and research and sex, anything to keep her focussed in the now, to avoid confronting and preparing for the doom approaching.

Finally, at Christmas, Samantha realised that she could not ignore the flood warnings any longer. The pressure on her chest was too much, the fight to keep her head above the feelings pressing in her, threatening to drown her in the stench of muddy pitches and dentist drills.

The Problem was here.

They had been on a rare visit to Sarah’s parents. Samantha knew she wasn’t exactly persona non grata – Sarah’s parents had accepted the fait accompli of their relationship and knew that there was no point trying to push them apart. They barely bothered with Sarah. Samantha strongly suspected that it was only really her sisters, Jenny and Molly, that Sarah cared about seeing.

Both were there that day, Molly, two years Sarah’s junior, bearing a new baby girl, Milly.

Sarah had gushed over this tiny creature, cooing over her as she cradled her. The sounds had felt sticky to Samantha, like too much honey, and her jaw felt stuck together. The brief seconds she had been forced to hold this newborn bundle had been among the most awkward in her recent memory. She had sat stiffly, feeling loud and sharp, as this minute human being dozed in her rigid arms, a grimace plastered on her face.

“Lovely smile, Samantha,” Sarah had said.

“She sounds of ammonia,” Sarah had replied, unthinkingly, the stress of the situation bursting through those politeness strategies she’d painfully learned and rehearsed over the years.

“Does she?”

To Samantha’s shock, Sarah had buried her nose in the baby’s stomach, adıyaman escort sniffed hard and then pronounced that Milly needed a change and that Samantha was a natural.

“Ooops, better give her a fresh nappy then! Come to Mummy, sweetness,” Molly had said as she retrieved her child from Samantha’s wary grasp.

“You relax! I’ll do it,” Sarah had offered.

“Yeah, let ‘er, Mol,” Sarah’s Mum had interjected, “might as well let her get a taste of being a Mum. ‘S not like she’ll get much chance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mum?” Sarah had replied, hotly, her voice like wet dog.

“Well, look at the pair of yuh. Something’s missing if you want kids Sarah.”

“Errr, Mum, we’ve got two wombs between us? All we’d need is a donor: I could ask Stuart or Samantha could ask Steve.”

The idea of her womb being filled, being offered up so casually, had brought the sound of bile to Samantha’s ears. The crushing pressure on her chest had spread up her neck and down her sides, causing her to twitch. She fought the desire to cover her ears, her arms shaking. The taste of being walled up, brick by brick, into a living prison, rolled up her body.

“Yer right. Will you look at that? You’ll never be parents.” Sarah’s mother’s sneers squeezed Samantha’s stomach like a hydraulic press.

“Oh, piss off Mum! For God’s sake, you’ve got enough bloody grandkids, what the hell does it matter? Come on Samantha, let’s go.”

It had taken Sarah’s firm, velvety grip to help Samantha throw off the rigid mortar-flavoured terror and pull herself from the sofa.

She was shaking by the time they got back to Samantha’s parents’ house. It had been a long time before her chest finally unfolded.

Days later, when Samantha could finally think about the Problem without feeling like she was being buried alive, she began to review her notes.

It did not take long.

Problem Sub: Sarah No. 17

Sarah would like to have children. I would not.

Actions:

At that stage, there was nothing there. Samantha had not been able to bring herself to consider what Action she might need to take and what Change that might cause. Yet, even as her ribs bent and flexed along their hair-line hinges, she realised with salt-scented certainty that she had to act.

She opened her email and wrote to Dr Alison.

Seconds later a reply popped up.

Thank you for your email. I am currently on maternity leave for the rest of the academic year. Please therefore direct any inquiries regarding Special Educational Needs provision to…

Samantha stopped reading. Dr Alison would not be able to help her here. Quite apart from anything else, Samantha realised that, as a new mother, Dr Alison would not be able to give her impartial advice.

On further reflection, as she ran through a mental list of her friends and family members, Samantha realised that none of them would be able to give impartial advice. All of them were just as close, if not more so, to Sarah and, it seemed to Samantha, they were all strangely invested in her relationship with Sarah. This was something Samantha struggled to comprehend: why other people seemed to find happiness in her own happiness.

It took Samantha several days to conceive an idea for where she might seek advice to solve her problem.

The internet.

Deciding that, as she could not verify the qualifications of those giving advice online, she needed as broad a sample as possible, she posted her query to a variety of forums and message boards, including Literotica, as well as asking several AI programmes. She formulated the Problem as the following question:

“I love my girlfriend deeply. We have been together for over 5 years now. I would happily spend the rest of my life with her. However, although we have mutual friends, we do not have many shared interests. More importantly, I have come to realise that I do not, under any circumstances, want children and believe that I would be a terrible parent. My girlfriend, however, adores babies and children and would make a wonderful mother.

What should I do?”

It was fortunate that Samantha had chosen to post the question on a weekend when Sarah was away (at an old school classmate’s hen-do in Magaluf). The responses were unequivocal and near unanimous and left Samantha shaking and choking on the floor, her chest pressed under the weight of a mountain of PE changing rooms.

She was being selfish. She needed to end things with Sarah.

It took her seven hours to get up from the floor.

* * *

Now that Samantha knew what Action and Change was required, her focus kicked in. With her mental blinkers engaged, she did not consider what this meant for herself, how she would feel, what the consequences would be. She was doing this for Sarah, which brought a comforting taste of satisfaction, for all that it was laced with lemon (not the zest, nor the flesh, but the pith).

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