Frances and Morgan
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Chapter Five
“Then kiss me here.” The touch of Morgan’s mouth on her inner thighs was almost as comforting as it was sensual. Frances sighed deeply. Three weeks on and she was beginning to feel a little smug about the decision she’d made, and the agreement to which Morgan had given her word. She was sitting in the armchair by the window of her bedroom, leaning back against a cushion. Her skirt lay on the floor – an unusually careless measure – and her shoes had been kicked off earlier still. Morgan knelt in front of her. Frances eased forward in the chair, to allow Morgan more thorough access. It was Friday and a little past ten. Morgan had arrived on time, comparatively neat and tidy and very tired.
It had been a long and busy week at the café; though Victoria was back, she no longer carried her fair share of the work. Kaye and Morgan kept the café going while Victoria shifted in and out, pale and ghostly. Whatever had been wrong with her, and it was clear that something had been, hung over her like a pall. She no longer joined in the tired and careless conversations that carried the others over to the end of shift, but scrubbed her hands when she had finished cooking and left. The kitchen was always tidy, the preparations for the following day were always completed before she went, but there was little heart in what she did, and Morgan and Kaye were aware of the change.
“Wait a moment.” Frances put her hands on Morgan’s shoulders and pushed her gently away. “On the bed.” She moved purposefully across the room and made herself comfortable. Frances had retained her blouse, while Morgan had shed only her boots and jacket. “Now.” She slid her legs over Morgan’s shoulders so that the girl could touch her as deeply as possible. “Not just your tongue. I want to feel your fingers inside me at the same time as your mouth.”
Their weekends together had developed a certain pattern: Morgan was coming to know what was expected of her. She was an enthusiastic lover, and if Frances had cared enough to notice, she would have seen that something far more intense and emotional than pay motivated Morgan. But Frances was content with the superficial right then, and she hadn’t noticed.
Morgan had been hearing too much from Katie on the subject of Frances. “You realise that it is a power thing, don’t you?” Her voice had rung in Morgan’s ears the previous night, as she sat, her eyes shut, travelling home on the underground, too tired even to read. “She gets to fuck you. That’s a power thing. She thinks she’s in control.”
“She is in control,” thought Morgan. She knew better than to speak her thoughts out-loud on the underground. “She tells me what she wants. Or she shows me…” She had been taken by surprise the previous weekend: Frances had grabbed her the moment she came through the door, and although a cold supper had been waiting, Morgan didn’t get to eat until after two, when Frances had dropped into an exhausted sleep. Morgan had been fit to drop, too, but she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and she was actually too hungry to sleep. It had felt strange to sit alone and dine, though in some ways rather pleasant. She had eaten her meal in the kitchen, seeking a degree of comfort that the austere dining room simply did not offer. She ate her food and spritzed her wine, and afterwards even made herself a cup of coffee, taking it through to Frances’s nice study where she stood at the window to drink it, staring out toward the city. She’d stayed awake for hours.
The insomnia was no new thing, but it had only become an issue when she didn’t sleep alone. Now of course she ran the risk of bothering the person who lay beside her. Generally it was Frances who fell asleep first, satiated, content. Morgan felt that she had to stay alert until she knew all potential demands had been met. She didn’t feel confident enough to turn the light and read. Sometimes she slipped her earphones in and listened to music, the volume set so low that Frances never knew or woke. The music also served to drown out Katie’s remarks. She had stopped telling Morgan that her new relationship would break her heart, probably in part because it already had begun to do so. But Morgan didn’t know.
It hadn’t occurred to Morgan to tell Kaye (she would never have dreamed of confiding in Victoria) about her new relationship, aka her new job. Kaye wouldn’t have seen the arrangement as moonlighting; Victoria might have done. It doesn’t matter, she told herself, it’s not affecting my work; I can still wash dishes and make sandwiches, even if I am sleep-deprived… Twice Oliver had driven her home on Sunday evening, and once Morgan was told to leave early, as Frances had a prior engagement. She was entirely dismissible and a little resentful of the fact. But there was no room in the deal for resentment: Frances had told her how things would be and that was final. If Morgan didn’t like the deal she could quit, and she didn’t want to do that. Frances never asked about Morgan’s weekday job, but she suspected that that was simply another bullet point on the agreement. She would have been, in any case, reluctant to talk about her life at the café, and the only subject she actively feared arising was that of home. Frances said nothing about her own family history (though Morgan supposed she must surely have had such a thing), and of her friends she only ever named Jessica. Morgan was intensely curious about Jessica. She sensed that there was a deeper connection between the two of them but she didn’t believe it was rooted in romance. She’d responded so eagerly to the woman because Jessica was immediately and gently kind. She was attractive to Morgan, too, which helped. But she wasn’t going to ask Frances about her friend, or Oliver, or the gallery, or her past relationships. If Frances’s word was to be trusted, this was the first time she’d ever hired someone for sex. Sometimes she wondered too whether she was trusted around the place, or if Frances got Oliver to count the teaspoons once she had left.
It was always Frances who initiated their encounters. Morgan simply accepted this, though she would have been dumbstruck had she known that Frances had begun to fantasise about taking orders instead of giving them. Now, her hands on Morgan’s soft hair, Frances shook her head. To give way to that fantasy would be to relinquish the control she valued so deeply. She did her best to concentrate only on the sensations she was feeling, but even the orgasm on its way could not quite eclipse the image that had come to mind – of Morgan seated on the bed, her hands buried in Frances’s hair, and not the other way around.
They were in the process of establishing a pattern of behaviour. Because of that, Morgan was anticipating the second stage, and that was why she was disconcerted when Frances told her that she could undress and get into bed. “Have a bath first if you’d like,” she said, adding another twist. Morgan was tired and her neck ached a little and she couldn’t deny that it would be pleasant to stretch out full-length in the big bath and soak for a little while. So she accepted the offer and left the room.
In the bathroom she stripped off her clothes while the water ran. She glanced at the various oils and made her selection. She swirled the water with her hand until the temperature was right, and then stepped in. The heat of the water made her gasp and she only slowly stretched out to full extent. When she had acclimatised she closed her eyes and held her breath and slid beneath the surface of the water. Here for a moment she was as close to actual content as she ever came. She soaked for a long time, certain that Frances would be asleep by the time she’d returned to the bed. She wrapped herself in a towelling robe and went back to the room. She hesitated for a moment at the door to Frances’s room, seeing that though the light had already been turned off, a candle was burning. Morgan wondered if the pattern of their time together was about to change, and hoped that she wouldn’t screw up.
Morgan made her way to the bed in the candle’s flickering light. The quilt had been folded back for her, another first, and Frances was lying on her side, facing away from her. Morgan settled herself as quietly as she could. She listened to Frances’s breathing for guidance, and then sighed and waited. She tried to count sheep, though some of them balked at the gate. Morgan was beginning to drift when she was jolted into immediate wakefulness by Frances saying, “So far it’s always been me fucking you,” her voice pitched so low that Morgan had to strain to hear the words. “Tonight I want you to fuck me.”
Absolute silence followed. Morgan waited for her heart to climb back into her ribcage, and for her pulse to slow to the low hundreds. “I want you to really fuck me. The way… The way I do you.”
Frances hesitated, suddenly embarrassed, and began to speak again when Morgan placed a finger lightly over her lips and whispered, softly but with unmistakable fierceness, “Not another word.”
If Frances had been about to give way, to pretend she’d been talking in her sleep or to grab and fuck her, the time had gone. The touch of Morgan’s fingertips against her lips had felt electrical. Then Morgan was moving in the bed, lying over Frances and for the first time Frances realised that their heights were not as disparate as she had thought; Morgan’s body covered hers. “Lie on your side,” said Morgan, and Frances obeyed, moving so that her head rested on Morgan’s left arm. She kissed Frances’s neck then ran her hand lightly down her side, skimming over her skin and coming to rest between her thighs. Frances was so wet she was embarrassed by the fact, but Morgan made no comment. She concentrated on stroking the soft, damp skin lightly, pressing her fingertips to the mouth of Frances’s cunt, feeling her turn to make access easier still. Frances’s heart was beating so hard that she was surprised it wasn’t audible. And just when she thought that Morgan was simply going to tease her for ever, the girl slid her fingers inside Frances’s cunt. The motion she set up then was steady but gentle, and it was good but it was soon not enough, and after a moment Frances whispered, “I need more. More.”
Morgan had fantasised a time or two about how it would be if their roles were reversed, but she had known it would never happen. And now that she was gently rotating her hand, easing further and further inside, until she had in three fingers, then four, disbelief was as much present as desire. As twisted her wrist and slid her entire hand inside, Morgan heard Frances gasp, and felt her muscles contract. The sensation was both frightening and awesome. Morgan withdrew her hand and waited, listened to the woman’s ragged breathing and soft moans, and pressed her lips to the pulse beating so hard in Frances’s throat. She stayed as she was, one arm round her, holding her close, until Frances whispered, “Go on,” and then Morgan began to move again. She began again with one finger only, circling the mouth of Frances’s cunt, pressing just inside, the contact slight but constant, until Frances relaxed, and suddenly it was easy to slide her hand inside.
For some time Morgan let the quality of Frances’s cries determine how hard she fucked her. It was impossible not to get caught up in the intensity of the moment, and Morgan wanted so badly to impress her own desire upon Frances that she came close to losing control. She drove in her fingers, over and over again, until Frances’s moans became cries and she suddenly came, afterwards collapsing into Morgan’s arms. Morgan lay back against the pillows, her own heart thumping, her mouth dry. She had neither need nor desire to touch herself; it was enough to hold Frances, almost soothing her, whispering her name over and over until the myriad of sensations had subsided.
*****
The day was grey and overcast; the café had needed all its lights on straight away. Morgan tapped on the glass and waited, surprised and wary that Victoria wasn’t there to let her in. After a moment Kaye opened the door to Morgan and said, “You’ll never believe it. She’s off again. Poncy fucking little fuckwit waste of space. Catch me getting away with all the stuff she does. Catch either of us.”
“Oh, no,” said Morgan. “Not again.” And it felt as though she really couldn’t cope. Her legs, which hadn’t been too steady to begin with, nearly let her down. She slumped onto one of the chairs and dropped her head into her hands. Eyes momentarily closed, it struck her that she was tired enough to sleep on one of the tables: it had been a demanding weekend. After the adventures of Friday night, Frances had slept like the dead. Morgan, for her own part, thought she might have clean passed out. She had known instinctively that the unusual events of the previous night were not to be spoken of, and she suspected that Frances would quickly re-establish the usual balance, and this was exactly what happened. Morgan had woken early to find Frances leaning over her, lustful and determined. Breakfast was very late on Saturday morning, and she had been kept on in the apartment until late Sunday. This had surprised Morgan, who had half expected to be kicked out early after the changed roles of Friday night. But Frances had woken up in such a state of desire and shame that such an action never crossed her mind. Desire for the girl carried them through the whole weekend.
So it was a tired and reluctant Morgan who set off in the direction of the kitchen on Monday morning. Kaye was busy out front – Morgan could hear the roar of the coffee machine – and when she glanced up from the fridge, a bowl of eggs in one hand, there was Katie sitting on the edge of the work-surface, swinging her feet. “Look,” said Morgan, “You can stay if you’re going to help. Can you cook? I never knew.”
“I can’t,” said Katie. “At school they wouldn’t even let me take Home Ec.”
“I wish that I’d been allowed. Then I might know what I’m doing.”
“I remember. Home Ec wasn’t sufficiently intellectual for Rebecca. She wouldn’t let you take it.”
“Which was probably why I wanted to take it. Actually, I wanted to do it because it looked like it might have been fun. I thought then that it might have proved useful. Bearing everything in mind, it would have proved useful.”
“Something else to blame her for.” Morgan glanced up at her, surprised by the venom in Katie’s voice. “Oh, don’t look like that. If she hadn’t been the psycho cow from hell you’d still be in school. Studying something useful. You know that. And going to college in due course.”
“To be honest,” said Morgan, who was trying to be so, “I never think about what I’d have been doing if I was still there. I left. I’m never going back. End of story.”
“What about your sister? What about Cathy? Have you done anything about getting in touch with her? I know you weren’t all that close but she must be wondering what the hell happened to you.”
Morgan ran a hand through her hair in a gesture of dismissal and regret. “I know… I do think about her. And I do wonder what she’s doing. I was so… disappointed when she went to Italy. I felt like I’d been dropped without a parachute.” A stray thought hit her. “Do you know? Can you see what she’s doing now?”
Katie shook her head. “I only haunt you.”
“What?”
“The only person I know anything about is you. And of course, what’s immediately around you. And what the hell happened at the weekend? I got the impression you didn’t want me around so obviously I left, but that Frances… wow.”
“I am not discussing that with you. Not now. Not ever. Haunt me all you want but stay out of the bedroom, okay?”
She meant every word. Kaye, coming into the kitchen, said “Are you alright? I thought I heard your voice.”
“Just talking to myself.” Morgan glared in Katie’s direction: Katie examined her nails and ignored her. “Just reminding myself about all the stuff I need to do.”
“Well, can you make a fucking start? It’s already seven thirty. I’ve got to open up.”
“Oh, no.” When she looked back, Katie had gone. Morgan concluded that it was just as well. She started work, one eye on the clock, and she performed all the actions required of her. But Katie had made her think, and now while she worked in a rather lonely kitchen in the heart of the city, all her thoughts had gone… home.
Oh, hell, was that how she saw it still? Had she come such a little distance? Cathy… She didn’t want to think about Cathy. Any attempt at getting in touch would mean the risk of contact with Rebecca, and Morgan couldn’t withstand that. In a nightmarish way she believed that speaking to Rebecca, even momentarily, over the phone, would somehow ensnare her, force her back. Maybe Rebecca’s hand would come clutching out of the receiver, ready to strike. But Morgan was seventeen, after all, and there surely wasn’t anything legal that Rebecca could do. Not that Morgan thought she would ever want her back. Dead and buried, maybe. Back, never. No. That world had ended. The bare room in which she lived now mattered a million times more to her than the orderly, fairly spacious, organised room in which she had once slept. She might miss the central heating; the views from the living room windows; the broad and meandering garden; her sister – but that was all. Life was more pleasant without bruises, without being forced to watch what she did and what she said, in case she inadvertently lit the touch-paper.
Rebecca couldn’t always have been that way, she thought. But when she looked back over the years all she could see was the growing distance that separated the two of them from Rebecca. Cathy seemed careless of the situation; she’d argue black from white with Rebecca every time but they never came to blows. Come to think of it, Rebecca had never once hit Morgan when Cathy was around, and it would have been shamed Morgan to have to tell her sister what was going on. Rebecca had never once hit her older daughter.
“Cathy would have hit her back.” Katie was back in the kitchen. Morgan rolled her eyes. “I know. I know. You’re really busy and I’m in the way. Look, I’ll sit on the stool and be quiet. Fairly quiet. Alright, alright. I won’t be quiet at all. I know you want to talk, though. I always did. I always do. Hell, Morgan, what is it with the staff here? There’s you, totally off the wall and doing god alone knows what in your space time; your friend with Tourette’s, and Victoria the invisible woman who’s apparently dying of consumption. If anyone still does… If this keeps on, they’ll have to raise your pay.”
“I can’t see that happening,” said Morgan.
“But it’s not fair. You’re doing stuff you never signed on to do.”
“I never signed on for anything. I’m grateful for being simply legal. And paying tax. And I’m hardly likely to turn around and leave Kaye to deal with all this shit alone.”
“Her Tourette’s is rubbing off on you.”
“Is it fuck.” Katie finally grinned. “Now bugger off: I’ve got work to do.”
“Frances surprised you, didn’t she, this weekend?” Now Morgan looked positively murderous.
“OK. That’s it. Enough. Keep out of the bedroom. In fact, keep out of the apartment. Be a ghost somewhere else when I go to see Frances or I’ll get you exorcised, or laid, whatever the expression is. No. Don’t laugh: I’m serious. Now go.”
Katie muttered sulkily, “Oh, alright then. Please yourself,” and was gone. Without her Morgan felt lonely but relieved: it had been a very intense weekend, and she needed space and privacy in which to think about it.
That she hadn’t been too clear on what to do that first time with Frances had probably been obvious. Morgan was a quick learner, and she really wanted to get things right, but whether or not she was sufficiently talented to please Frances was something she could only work on. Frances’s whispered words, that Friday night, had been a revelation. Whether there would again be another such night she had no way of telling. But the hope that there might be excited her tremendously, and thinking – even vaguely – about the sex nearly overwhelmed her, and colour washed across her face. Her heart was also beating very hard and a little strangely, but she guessed that another eight hours of cooking, washing up and preparation for the day to come would bring desire to heel. It wasn’t a cold shower, but it would do as well.