Gift From The Islands

I'd like to extend a big thank you to my editor, GentWithHandcuffs.

*

I grew up in New Orleans, bathed in its hedonistic atmosphere. There is a permissive attitude that allows for eccentricity. I always felt free to be my natural self and was utterly without guile. My brother lived in the French Quarter. I would visit on Saturdays to bum around so I saw a great deal of diversity. Everything had a sort of film of sexuality that is hard to describe. I, however, was an innocent. I lived in this ocean of sensuality and somehow stayed untouched. I was never prudish, just unawakened and oblivious of much that went on around me. My brother's friends laughed at my naivety good-naturedly.

When it came time to choose a college, I wanted to expand my horizons and see someplace new. I finally settled on a small Catholic college in the northeast. My parents approved of the college, imagining me safe in the hands of the Jesuits. I was excited about going "Up North." I had always thought that was where real life, big city living happened. New Orleans seemed small and I wanted to be somewhere big.

I had to fly there. Plane fare being what it was, I couldn't go home for weekends or holidays. For freshmen, the semester began with a "welcome weekend," then a week-long break before the official beginning of the term. An odd lot of us were stuck there for the intervening week, students who could not go home. A man from Nigeria, myself, a girl from a small island in the Pacific Ocean, a few Latin American students. The Latin American girls were a closed group, sticking to themselves.

I took to the island girl, Sylvie. She was from American Samoa. Her figure was slender and graceful like a tiger lily, with exotic almond eyes, tawny skin, and a cloud of fine black hair. She was the opposite of me; I had transparent fair skin, Irish blue eyes and blonde-white hair.

The second day, we sat on a knoll overlooking the imposing brick buildings that formed the quad. Sylvie told me about her island (boring, according to her) and I told her about New Orleans. We compared notes on boyfriends. Hers was named Joe and apparently they spent the evenings driving in circles around the small island. I didn't like to say so, but I agreed, her island did sound very boring. In turn, I told her about my many boyfriends. I could never settle on one guy. They all were fun but none were special.

The dorm rooms were small and apparently unheated this early in the year. We were both freezing the first night there, although it was only August. It hadn't occurred to either of us to bring blankets and we had no warm clothes at all. So we were happy when we discovered that as a group event the foreign students were to be bussed to the mall. We could buy appropriate clothes at last!

My heart lifted when Sylvie paired off with me to explore a department store. The men's section attracted me. I was continually stealing clothes from my older brother. Men's clothes better suited my figure, more slender than curvy Sylvie.

I chose a blue-green sweater. It was fuzzy and touchable.

"Sylvie, feel this, it is so soft!"

I held the sweater up to my body.

She rubbed the sweater in a strange way, so that her hands were on my breasts.

"That looks good on you, Hannah," she said. "It's very soft."

More rubbing. I whipped the sweater away from my body in great embarrassment. Surely, she didn't do that on purpose?

Throughout our shopping trip, she stayed quite close to me, our arms and shoulders rubbing, hands sometimes brushing. Personal body space varies from culture to culture. I knew some guys from Madrid and they had very different comfort zones. Sylvie was a bit extreme, but I figured that was the cause here.

She and I threaded our way through the glittering displays to the women's section. Sylvie had more pocket money than I, so she chose several pairs of pants in different sizes, a skirt, and some sweaters to try on. She called me over to the dressing rooms to get my opinion on her selections.

She came out in a pair of wool trousers in a deep blue.

"Those are great, Sylvie."

"But," she said, "maybe they are too formal?"

"I guess so, " I answered. I knew less about these things than she. Fashion was not my forte.

There was a pause while she went back to the changing room, then she displayed a suede skirt in rust. She looked great in that too. I said so.

"What do you think is best here, is college more casual in the US?" she wanted to know.

"I can look, if you want," I said although I doubted my opinion would be useful.

She brought me back into the changing area so I could see the different choices. Jeans, more wool trousers, and a couple of sweaters in addition to the skirt were hanging on the slatted door. I approved of the warm clothing choices. It was cold at night even in August. If I was cold, she must be an icicle, Samoa having no real winter at all.

"Sylvie, show me the sweaters. Like that cream one with the skirt."

The place was deserted so she didn't bother closing the cubicle door. I looked on complacently while she pulled her shirt over her head and exposed a lacy bra. I was quite unembarrassed by the human body, so Sylvie's semi-public disrobing didn't faze me.

She seemed to take a long time putting on the sweater, arms raised so I could see her shaved underarms and her breasts thrust out. Once on, she smoothed it against her body, turning to look at it this way and that. It emphasized her full bust.

Then Sylvie was taking off the skirt to try the jeans.

"Hannah, what should I try with the jeans?"

Off came the cream sweater. She now stood in her underwear.

I looked at Sylvie's slim torso, full breasts, browned legs. I noticed her nipples were hard and that she had a triangle of dark pubic hair under her transparent aqua panties.

"Try the red sweater," I suggested.

This went on, one outfit after another. I sat and admired her beauty. This seemed entirely natural to me too. I had always admired the female body. Beauty was beauty. I never attached much importance to my enjoyment of beauty in women. I looked at sunsets, flowers, paintings, women. It was all the same to me.

But then, as she bent to gather up another pair of pants, something about her bottom made a secret part of me inside shift a little.

We had to rush to make it back to the van on time. When it arrived, Sylvie and I squeezed past the other students and levered our parcels into the back seat. Sylvie's wide variety of bright shopping bags took up most of the seat. It was night by now and once we exited the lighted parking lot of the mall it was quite dark in the van.

Sylvie was more sophisticated and mature than I was, despite her tiny island background and my city history. She must have interpreted my reactions as those of a wide-awake young lady, not the result of the strange mixture of innocence and worldliness I actually possessed.

She put her hand on mine. All of Sylvie's actions, up to now, I had accepted without thought. But now, in the darkened van, her hand on mine made me think. It made me think all kinds of interesting things... How soft her skin was, the supple thinness of her fingers. How I liked the sensation of her hand now stroking mine. It made me think of my female hairdresser in New Orleans, who had a girlfriend. I had seen them kiss. They were beautiful. Like Sylvie. The jolting of the van caused us to rub against each other, shoulders, thighs, knees. I turned my hand palm up, to accept Sylvie's hand in my own.

* * * * * *

Several more days remained of our break. Bright and early, the day after our trip to the mall, Sylvie met me in the cafeteria. In the striped morning light, she was radiant. Walking towards me in a cotton wrap skirt and snug white shirt, my heart beat a little faster. The night before, I had turned things over in my mind as I lay in my narrow bed. Lesbians were totally unacceptable here in this little college. I knew that. Buy they were not unacceptable everywhere. My brother had lesbian friends. I decided it was this college that had the wrong ideas about lesbians. I didn't actually use the word, "lesbian," in my head. But that was what I meant.

Having decided this, I felt quite excited at the prospect of holding hands and maybe kissing Sylvie. We would have to find somewhere private, as this was a relationship that we could never admit to. But I had made a habit of seeking out private places to spend time with my boyfriends in New Orleans. I had noticed a very large bush behind the campus maintenance building. It grew much the way a bush in my old neighborhood grew: the outer branches reaching all the way to the ground, and under the umbrella of foliage an open space. Clean and dry, it was quite large enough for two people.

I suggested a stroll to Sylvie. We were surrounded by the overwrought architecture favored by Catholics at one time. I casually guided us past the more modern square buildings, into the far side of the campus, then to the blocky maintenance building. She didn't question my deviation from the manicured walk beneath the cherry trees. We ended up in a sheltered spot, in front of my bush.

"Look Sylvie, it's like a little house in here."

I drew her in. The ground was soft and the sharp scent of the woody stems filled my nostrils. I unfolded the sheet I had secretly brought along in my backpack. My heart was bounding inside my chest. What should happen next, I did not know. Sylvie knew.

"Come here, Hannah."

Apparently she had been thinking last night too.

She was gracefully kneeling on the corner of the sheet. I came to kneel in front of her.

"You know, on my island we have hibiscus trees. They have big flowers. Do you know the hibiscus?"

I did. They grew in New Orleans also. I nodded.

"When a woman wants to show she is looking for someone special, she puts a hibiscus flower in her hair."

I looked at Sylvie steadily.

"If I had a hibiscus flower, I would put it in my hair now. Like this," she said as she smoothed my corn-silk hair behind my ear. "Right here."

I felt her fingers in my hair. She touched my neck and drew me closer. Her lips were so soft against mine. We sank slowly onto the sheet. Her arms were smooth under my touch. As we kissed gently, I allowed my hand to nestle between her elbow and waist. Her smell, spicy and delicious, rose from her bosom. I felt compelled to run my hands over her curves, from flank to hip. I broke our kiss and looked into her eyes, unafraid. This was what had been missing from all those boyfriends. The secret part of me that shifted a little last night opened up and I found my way from her hip to her bottom. I pulled her against me. I caressed the spot my eyes had fixed on last night. Through her cotton skirt, it felt smooth and full. Sylvie pressed her mouth hard against mine. My breath caught as her tongue moved, demanding, silk against my own. I explored more. Her ribcage was fragile and slender. Then my hand traced a line up to her breast. Her breasts were round and heavy against her slim torso. One filled my hand and satisfied an unknown need in me.

Sylvie undid the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on her blouse. My stomach flip flopped. This was more than I had expected. She revealed the same lacy bra. The same hard nipples. I found I had a hunger. Unthinkingly, as my boyfriends had excited me, I turned to excite Sylvie. I cupped her breast and traced her nipple with my thumb, then circled it with my finger tip. Through the lace, I could see her areola clearly, a dark pink against her creamy fawn skin. She deliberately pushed the bra strap off her shoulder and pulled down the cup to expose her breast. I put my mouth on her tentatively. I sucked in her nipple, gently flicking it with my tongue. I nipped it with my lips. Slick with saliva, my tongue circled her nub, feeling the texture of her areola, different from the surrounding skin. I tried grazing the tip with my teeth. I fastened my hand on her other breast, now massaging the firmness, now teasing the nipple. Sylvie was stroking my hair, murmuring something, not in English.

But that exhausted my repertoire. I'd never gone very far with the boyfriends I'd had. Earlier, I would have been happy to lie here like this forever, snuggled against her. Now, though, I was awake to sensation, but at a loss as to what to do next. Unlike me, Sylvie had definite intentions. Her body was moving restlessly against mine. She breathed heavily on my neck, suckled my ear lobe, and ran her hot tongue down my neck. I caught her urgency. I helped her remove my top. Whereas I had been tentative and gentle, Sylvie was decisive and bold. She pushed me onto my back. Straddled my waist. That secret part of me took over again. I avidly stroked my hands up her thighs, I felt the lithe motion of her muscles beneath the fabric of her skirt, then I went back to her bottom, that wonderful smoothness and delicious shape. The vee between her legs rubbed against me. Both her hands were on my breasts. She bent down, flicked my nipple rapidly with her tongue, hungrily sucked it and quickly switched to nipping and teasing it. Then her mouth covered mine again, her hands devouring my body. Her tongue was on my collarbone, her breath in my ear, her mouth on my breast. It all flowed together, her kisses, her insistent touch, her body sinuously sliding against mine. Then her finger was on my lips suddenly.

"Shhh, Hannah. We mustn't be heard."

I was not aware I had been making any noise.

My bra had been discarded. Sylvie began kissing my torso. I trembled as she licked the undersides of my breasts. Kissing the curve of my belly, she single-mindedly pursued a goal. She reached my navel. I never knew it could be so sensitive. She spent a long time there, sucking, pushing the tip of her tongue in, bathing it with the flat of her tongue. When her tongue was hard against me there, it excited a strange dark pleasure. One hand was inside my shorts leg, rubbing, fondling, stroking. I had never let any boyfriend move his hand this far up my bare thigh. My skin was sensitive and the sensation made me open further. As I shifted under her sexual onslaught, my wet panties moved, rubbing against my lips. I bit my knuckle, stifling moans. Now her mouth moved down to the waist of my shorts. I raised my hips a little and we skimmed them off. I had never undressed with another person like this, in a sexual way. I was radiating heat.

Her hand progressed up my thigh, touching my silky, tender skin. In a dual maneuver, her fingers found the center of my panties as her mouth found the top of them. Her touch was very gentle, the lightest teasing caress. She was now breathing on my pelvis. The heat of her moist breath was indescribably arousing. I moved against her hand, and her pressure increased. She rubbed her fingertips against my panty-covered lips. Her thin fingers stroked and explored, drawing muffled sounds from me. Her fingertips delicately brushed the sensitive skin between leg and panty. A thumb found the top of my slit and massaged so close to my clitoris my breath stopped. The movement set off stars of pleasure. She licked under the waistband of my panties.

I wanted more, I wanted her to stop this light-fingered torment. I thrust my pelvis against her hand. She responded with a firmer thumb over my slit, easing her fingers under my panties. Touching, lingering kisses, on and on. I was lost in in my body when she yanked down my panties as if in a sudden frenzy. I spread my legs, ready for her. Her mouth was on my pubis, her fingers caressing my outer lips. One finger entered my wet cleft, probed gently, and found my clitoris. Her mouth was now down almost to the top of my outer lips. She kissed my pubic mound just above my split, teasing me more. Her wet tongue explored that tender edge of skin, the delicious border between exterior and interior lips. My wetness filled our shelter with the distinct smell of sex. She lingered there, on the edge, finally dipping in to taste my juices. Her tongue went soft against my inner lips. She drew it up, from my anus almost to my clitoris where her finger stroked impossible sensations, incredible waves of pleasure. Her dextrous tongue now replaced her finger's motion. The soft probing and licking and lapping was beyond my experience, indescribable.

My fist was in my mouth, I was breathing short and sharp. As the silk of Sylvie's tongue gently caressed my clitoris, her fingers moved down to touch my inner lips. She stroked my incredibly wet entrance. I was so aroused her two fingers slipped in easily. Their gentle friction was overwhelming me. I kept feeling I had reached my height of pleasure, but then it would go higher. Her tongue was working my clit, enlarged and hard, her fingers gliding in and out in a slick of moisture. I lost track of time, living in the now of pure sensation. Then she turned her fingers, reoriented them so they could rub against a sensitive place I never knew I had. I came. And came. And came. My pelvis was shoved up against Sylvie and she continued rubbing and tonguing me as my orgasm blazed on and on, pure fiery white-hot pleasure. Then I collapsed.

My solitary night time touching was nothing like this. All the fumbling of my various boyfriends was nothing like this. This was a whole new world. I started crying. Sylvie was there, all concern.

"Hannah, why are you crying?"

"That was so beautiful," I whispered.

Sylvie gathered me up in her lap, stroking my hair.

"You've never been with someone who made you cum?' she asked quietly.

I shook my head.

"You've never been with a woman?" The question was full of compassion.

I shook my head again.

"But Hannah... you brought this sheet with you. Didn't you plan this?" She sounded honestly confused.

I sat up and faced her a bit sheepishly.

"I thought you might like to kiss me," I confessed.

Sylvie said something in her own language. Stoked my arm. Shook her head.

"What am I going to do with you, Hannah?"

I had ideas.