Lizbeth's Lesbian Collection

Chapter Six-1

Chapter Six

“Here.” Peach points to a tiny spot on the map. “It’s a place right in this cove. “The Edge”, it’s a women’s retreat. You’ll love it. The beach is so secluded we can sunbathe nude. Skinny dip, if you want.” Her eyes twinkle because she knows I’ll like it. I listen to her excited exposé, wondering if she thinks she has to make up to me for the day with the leather dykes.

“When were you there?” I ask.

“Few years back, but I know it’s still there. Christine, I told you about her, she was there just last summer. Said the food was wonderful, and the gardens more beautiful than ever. But I can hardly imagine that, Miriam always kept them perfectly.”

“Miriam?”

“She runs the place, and she’s a “peach” of a woman, if I’ve ever known one,” Peach says, the blissful expression on her face is hard to ignore.

It sounds innocuous enough, even restful, which is exactly what I need right now. Peach, pushing me into these dangerous reminders of Elizabeth awakens things in me that are best put back to sleep. But, I think I got my point across the last two days, refusing to talk about her spanking me, or the leather dykes.

“We can stay as long as we like,” Peach tells me, “I called, and they said there were rooms open for the summer. At the very least, we have to stay for the midsummer madness. Even your tender sensibilities will appreciate the fest.”

“And what’s that about?” I ask.

“Miriam celebrates pagan rituals, but they’re nothing threatening, just very seductive.”

Pagan rituals are a frightening thought, except for the way Peach says it, making it sound like some glorious erotic fun. I should be scared, but oddly I’m not.

There are storm clouds threatening, a rarity this time of year along the Northern California coast. I don’t trust the weather, but Peach drives on confidently, refusing to stop and put the top up on the Jeep. “We’ll be there in no time,” she says. “Besides, it takes too long to get it on. I’m more worried about the road getting into the retreat than our getting a little wet.”

We finally turn off the main road and head directly towards the ocean. We’re on a narrow dirt road that winds its way through coastal woods, finally breaking out onto the sandy cliffs above the beach. It’s already nine o’clock and quite dark for a summer evening. The thick clouds overhead block the light of the moon and stars, giving the warm night an ominous feel, almost as if it were a spooky autumn night. Halfway down the road, it starts to pour, taking just seconds to drench us to the skin.

“Don’t worry,” Peach shouts, as she wipes the water from her face. “It’s just beyond this rise.” But once over the hill, I can’t see a thing for the driving rain and wind. There’s not a single light in sight. We can be thankful that the Jeep has four wheel drive when the mud begins to gush across the road.

“Just a little ways,” Peach says, though she doesn’t sound nearly as confident as she should be. Rounding one last curve, however, we see lights burning in a massive three story house.

“God, this had me going,” Peach exclaims relieved. We park beside a front stairway and race to the top, giggling all the way.

We shake ourselves off in the foyer of the grand old Victorian mansion. I’m thinking immediately that it’s awfully spooky, with the dark colors surrounding us. The light in the foyer is dim, and I can barely see any more than I can outside. I’m sure it’s quite pretty in the daytime, but now I’m reminded of haunted mansions, dime story suspense novels, and Freddie Kruger on stormy nights. I could almost imagine lightning and thunder roaring outside the house, though that’s even more a rarity than summer storms in California.

The phantoms in my head seem rather silly, as we’re soothed by the proprietress: a stately woman with a fine long nose, black hair pulled back into a bun, and layers of grey black clothes that make her look like some Hungarian gypsy. Despite the sternness of her aquiline appearance, her eyes are soft and motherly.

“I’m Tasia,” she says offering her hand. I see that she’s younger than I would think on first glance, her graceful hand is flawlessly smooth. On further inspection, her attire reminds me of the tattoo parlor where I got my cunt ring. Her dress is long, flowing almost to her ankles, and she’s draped with silk scarves around her shoulders that lend some color to her otherwise dark bearing. Her ears and hands drip with dozens of gold rings with large gemstones. And yet, she’s not over stated for her bearing. There doesn’t appear to be a single thing out of place. I’m impressed by her warmth and the nurturing smile that puts me at ease. This time, Peach has hit a pleasant jackpot with me.

“I’m Cassidy.” I take her hand graciously and smile. “You must know Peach? Or perhaps you remember her as Samantha Sykes?” I turn to Peach, who’s staring dumbfounded at the woman.

“No, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Peach says, extending her hand. “The Retreat must have changed owners since I was here.”

“Yes, and no,” Tasia says. “I’ve always owned this place, though there have been others who have managed it for me. I lived in Portugal for ten years, and am just recently returned.”

“Where’s Miriam?” Peach asks. “I told Cassidy so much about her, she’ll miss not meeting her.”

“Miriam, yes…” Tasia hesitates. “She chose to leave when I returned. You can’t have two bosses of a place so small.”

“No, I suppose not,” Peach answers. I can tell she’s disturbed though I don’t know why. The place is beginning to feel like home to me. The phantom cobwebs in the corners disappear as I get accustomed to the glowing lamps and lit candles, and fine dark hues of the beautiful interior.

Tasia shows us to a living room.

“You were Miriam’s lover,” Tasia says to Peach, so casually it takes some moments to sink into my brain. I’m shocked by the assertion, I’ve heard nothing of this, and I wonder why this woman would know.

“Yes, we were lovers,” Peach confirms, while I sit beside her beginning to tremble. I’m reminded of how angry she was over letters from my former lovers. I’m also reminded of her contention that she sometimes doesn’t tell the whole truth. I wonder now, did she come here wanting to re-acquaint herself with her old lover? Has she been as devious with me about this trip, as she was the afternoon at Gram’s? This worries me as much as our relationship has already been shaken in recent weeks.

“Miriam is a fine woman; you might even see her while you stay here. She has a cottage up the main road a piece. She’d be delighted to see you, Samantha Clarisse, I suspect that she still has a great love for you.”

Peach blushes. I hope she realizes how uncomfortable I am listening to this. Why would this woman speak this way? And why does she call her Samantha? How did she know her middle name, Clarisse? The woman is as mysterious as this place on a stormy night.

“So will you be staying a few days?” Tasia asks.

“We plan to stay the summer somewhere tucked away. Cassidy is reeling from the LA smog.”

“And the traffic and the people. I’m a small town girl at heart,” I add.

Tasia nods. “LA’s a putrid place. I’ve been there just once, and hated it. There’s no way to feel anything ghostly there. All spiritual things must hide away and that only tends to distort them. It’s why there are so many horrible things happening in that city. Too much of the dark side becomes skewed, there’s no celebration in it anymore. So sad.”

I’m uncertain what her vague discourse means, and I wonder if she’s being purposefully obscure.

“You’ve come to the right place here at The Edge,” she tells us. “You’ll find lots of privacy and peace, and of course, the ocean—there’s nothing more effective at cleansing a clouded soul. Then of course, Samantha Clarisse knows what a special place this is, after the summers she spent with Miriam.”

We retire to our room. Peach is so exhausted, she doesn’t want to talk, but I think she’s just hiding from a confrontation. I can’t go to bed with these things on my mind, the woman, this place, and of course, the ghost of old lovers creates a commotion I can’t ignore.

“You never told me that you and Miriam were lovers. Is that why we came here?” I start.

“Don’t do this,” Peach warns.

“Don’t do what?” I remain calm though I’d like to explode. “I think you owe me an answer, or should I blister your butt the way you did mine for lying to me.”

“Can’t do it, Cass,” she smirks sarcastically, “I live by different rules than you do.”

“Just a simple explanation would do,” I suggest, not really wanting a fight.

“I’d like to see Miriam, but not to make love to her. She’s like a mother in a way, older than both of us and very stable. You’ll love her too, I know that.”

I say nothing, watching a look of consternation on Peach’s face. “What bothers me is that woman, Tasia. Don’t you think she’s kind of spooky?”

“Maybe a little, but this place is a little spooky. You didn’t tell me it was like this. I do like it though.”

“That’s what’s amazing. When Miriam ran it, it looked totally different. The rooms are so dark now. With Miriam they were bright, all kinds of flowers, very festive. Maybe I’m just shocked with the transformation. But I can’t for the life of me figure why Tasia would change the place so much. And all that weird spiritual talk, I think she’s nuts.”

“She obviously has a different temperament than your friend.” It seems odd that Peach is so disturbed with this place and I’m so comfortable. Usually in matters like this, it’s the other way around. Though I’m not surprised by her appraisal of Tasia’s “spiritual talk”. She does have curious ideas, that unlike Peach—who abide “mumbo jumbo” as she calls it—only intrigue me.

“I guess I just need to get used to the place. It doesn’t help, this rain tonight. Look at it.” Peach stands at an enormous bay window looking out to the black beyond. I join her there, seeing beyond the reflecting candle light to what appears to be a beautiful garden leading to the ocean cliffs.

“Tell me one thing,” I ask, “did you make love to her in this room?”

“Miriam? No,” she replies. “Her room was on the first floor, I always joined her there. I worked here the summer that being a lesbian started to make real sense to me. She made it make sense.” Peach is not often reflective like this. Seeing the faraway look, I know this is her sacred ground, this Miriam. “I’m not like her, though,” she continues, “Miriam agreed with my decision to leave, she said I could figure things out for myself. She said I had to learn it on my own.”

“And what have you figured out?” I ask. I allow my arm to rest lazily around her waist.

She turns to me. “That I need to play with fire, with the things that scare you so much.” I know she’s referring to the leather dykes and much more. Her eyes look like molten caverns, sultry and exotic. Peach told me once that she has Native American and African in her blood. I see it now.

I can’t answer her, because she’s scaring me. It’s ironic how we’re alike and different. I like to talk about, think about and write about the things she refers to, while she only wants to explore them with her body. I know I’m not ready for it.

We make love fitfully; this place stirs us both.

“Good morning, ladies,” Tasia greets us with a lush hello. There’s bright sunshine pouring through the windows as it begins to bake the air. The shadows of the previous night have been adequately replaced, as gold light dances off Tasia’s glittering rooms. The color, no less dark, doesn’t seem so somber now.

The morning delights me, the ocean air makes me breathe easier.

We sit down for a lovely breakfast of steamy muffins and juice, just the three of us. This surprises me, in a place so large—there has to be at least a dozen guest rooms on three floors—I expect more women enjoying the tranquility of this place.

“Did you make these?” I ask. “They’re delicious.”

“I cook much of what you’ll eat here, though I do have some help,” she says, as if she’s trying to hide something. I wonder if she’s so obscure about everything.

Peach sits next to me, uncharacteristically subdued.

“Perhaps you’d two like to sunbathe,” she suggests. “The beach is lovely this time of day. You’ll find the sun less harsh and there’s a perfect spot to catch the rays, just to the south of the stairway.”

“I remember it,” Peach says. She sounds annoyed with our hostess.

“I’m glad I can offer women the opportunity to do things here they would not be able to do elsewhere,” she says. The more I’m with this odd woman, the more I see a quixotic spirit, with facets to her personality beyond those that first appear. I’m not sure what to think of her.

After breakfast, Peach and I make a trek to the beach, passing through a vast garden of well manicured wildflowers, perennials, and more than a dozen varieties of roses. I could remain here forever just drinking in the beauty against the backdrop of the ocean, and the windswept cliff-side trees.

“Miriam created this garden,” Peach tells me. “I was here when these roses were planted.” She shows me a row of bright blooming wild roses that entwine like lovers along a split rail fence.

“They’re wonderful, and so fragrant.”

“Don’t think that woman had anything to do with this. This place belongs to Miriam, whether she’s here or not.”

“You don’t like her at all. In fact, I’d say you resent Tasia being here.”

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps we should see your friend, maybe she’s not so unhappy to have been replaced.”

Peach pouts, then pulls me along with her to the rickety stairs. I can’t believe how far above the beach we are, and how dangerous the descent. Our trek moves slowly as the stairs are in need of repair.

“We’ll go up another path on the way back,” Peach comments, obviously knowing of some route I cannot see.

Finding the spot Tasia mentioned, Peach and I remove our clothes. I’m hesitant, self consciously thinking that someone might spy on us here, even though I’m aroused by the indecency of public exposure. The truth is, it’s really quite safe, with so few to discover us naked. I lay down on the heavy quilt we’ve brought with us and let my body get used to the freedom.

The sun never fails to ignite me sexually; it only takes minutes before I feel the sensuous heat on my skin. I reach out for Peach with a fondling hand. We must be on the same wave length, for we fall into each other’s bodies easily. Everything seems perfect now, especially the way the sun warms our skin so that it feels prickly when we caress each other. I’ve missed this effortlessness with her.

She runs her hands between my legs where it’s wet and sticky. She pulls at my ring so I let out a tiny “ouch”. She smiles at me, and I think that everything that was raw between us is healed. I c*m easily. Peach doesn’t need to do anything but fondle my clit and labia for a few seconds, it’s so alive.

After my climax, I roll her over on her back, and climb between her legs, finding her clit with my tongue. Looking up at her as she lies back drinking in the sensations, I watch her expression change. She rocks against my face with her groin. Her brow wrinkles, then relaxes. Her muscles tense and her breasts bob, the soft flesh jiggling. Her n*****s are erect, and I lean forward to take them between my teeth and bite them lightly.

She gasps, the harder I bear down on her n*****s. I suck them hard, and she cums as my hands play between her legs.

When Peach is conscious again, she rolls me over and spreads my ass wide towards the sun, letting the warmth bake my rear. I wave my ass like a beckoning slut, and she slaps it to make it burn all the more.

“I’d love to see this ass of yours whipped,” she says. I don’t pay much attention to her “love talk”, as I’m lost in the crude sensations that rise as she tortures my ass with her hands, slapping, pinching and scratching the surface until I’m sure it’s raw. She reaches down and penetrates my cunt with at least two fingers; I’m so sloshy I can’t tell.

I roar something nasty when I c*m again. She slaps my ass as I finish, then rolls me over to kiss me as a satisfied smile appears across her face.

I let the sun beat down on me again as Peach covers my t**s with suntan lotion. “I don’t want to burn you that way,” she says slyly.

It’s quiet, except for the ocean’s sonorous roar. I could fall asleep to the rhythm.

“You two have quite a wicked way of making love,” a voice interrupts our peace.

We open our eyes and look up to see Tasia staring down at us, just steps away from the blanket.

“I see she’s marked with a devil’s ring, did you do that to her Samantha Clarisse?” the woman asks.

“What? You watched us?” Peach says, sitting up. She’s pissed; I know the intonations in her voice well.

“I’ll likely get off to the memory,” Tasia says smiling.

So nonchalant she is. I don’t know whether to be offended or aroused. I let Peach take the lead.

“You plan to mark her more, Samantha? I’d be delighted to watch,” the woman says, referring to me. She seems to ignore me, in favor of Peach. And why the hell does she call her by her right name? This annoys me.

“If she were willing there are lots of things I might do,” Peach tells her, “but that’s hardly a devil’s ring, just tiny insignificant roses.”

“Roses? They’re never insignificant,” she says.

I’m annoyed with Peach now, too, making vague statements about our private lives to a woman who is yet a stranger. I immediately flash on something sinister about this place, about the woman, and her eyes, which are now nothing like they were the night before and earlier this morning. They have a distinctly carnal quality to them that makes her look as if she’s sprung from the dark, dank earth itself. Her comment about my cunt ring irritates me as much as it does Peach.

“Perhaps this vacation away from that other world will give you both the opportunity to explore your more substantial selves. I can see you two just simmering. But I’ll let you be, I have things to attend to. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed this beach so much already.”

We watch her walk away.

“Damn! Can you believe that she deliberately watched us?” I vent.

“Yes,” Peach replies. She looks as if she’s lost, her mind having drifted far away.

“And what’s this about my ring?”

“Perhaps she knows something you don’t,” Peach says with a haughty twist to her words.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like what you really want.”

“Don’t press me,” I tell her irritated with the turn of events. “I’m here to rest and recuperate. The last thing I need is more s****l adventures.”

“Oh,” Peach sighs despondently. She turns over on her stomach and rests her head on her arms.

“Besides, I don’t like the way she calls you Samantha Clarisse.”

“Why not?” Peach replies sleepily. “It is my real name.”

“You don’t like me calling you Peach?” I ask.

“Stop before you make a fool of yourself, Cassidy, I never said I didn’t like your term of endearment.”

Duly admonished for my pettiness, I say no more, even though I’m uneasy with sweet Tasia turning into a witch in my imagination.