Memories

I am standing at the window in one of our reception rooms. It overlooks the rear courtyard and has panoramic glass doors that can be fully retracted along one wall. They are triple glazed and draft proof. Even so, I’m wearing my favourite Christmas jumper over a t-shirt, and a skirt and panties. 

Clasped between my hands is a mug of hot chocolate, and I'm gazing out over a vista of white as far as the eye can see. It’s snowing (again) which hampers the view somewhat. For example, I know the wrought iron gate to the orchard is there, but it’s barely distinguishable through the silently swirling flakes. 

A breeze causes the snow to swirl, and with that eddy comes a deep, profound sadness. A feeling of immense loss as I remember a lovely friend from school called Rachel. (Not her real name). Rachel was so full of life, vibrant, exciting and we were close. We were that type of friend who you can tell anything to. Rachel was the first girl I told that I was attracted to other girls. I knew my confidence in her would not be misplaced. 

And yes, there were some experiments between us. A little touching, initially over bras and panties, but then….oh yes….then there was that glorious afternoon when I felt her hand move up from cupping my crotch. Up and over my mound and down into the waistband of my panties. I hardly dared breathe! Especially when I mirrored her actions, expecting at any second to be stopped, but no….she permitted me to slip my hand down her tummy, through what felt like thin, immaculately trimmed pubes, and my finger found the moist furrow between her thighs. 

I recalled how we just stood there, in that fusty ancient flint-built old barn. We weren’t masturbating one another, just, what would you call it….copping a feel?

Oh but it seemed Miss Brain was ahead of the game. She had made me use my left hand. I had Rachel’s wetness on my left hand middle finger, even though it had not been inside her. And she had mine. Even then, I got prodigiously wet when I was sexually aroused. 

Rachel had moved in close, so our boobs were touching through our shirts. She had said…and to this day, I have no idea how she got so much lust into just a few words….”Look at us….a couple of dykes.” 

Once home, I masturbated furiously, smelling her on my hand. Since I knew it wouldn’t last, on my third orgasm, I licked her off my finger, desperately hoping that Rachel was doing exactly the same in her room a few miles away. 

We goofed around like that until we both left school nothing heavy….I don’t think we ever made one another cum, and I was doing far more with another girl anyway, but Rachel was special. Rachel was…..Rachel. 

It was exactly a year later that she died of pancreatic cancer. She used to complain of back ache now and then, and no-one really cared…just over-exuberance in the gym or on the hockey field, her doctor had said. By the time it was diagnosed it was already too late. This fucking cowardly disease hides. From diagnosis to her passing was three weeks. Three fucking weeks! 

The snow outside is thicker now, falling more heavily, and I think, and not for the first time, that with each passing year, Rachel gets left further and further behind. It’s like she is more difficult to see in my memory. 

I think the people we grow up with and forge memories with are so special. Something singles them out from all the others. We never ate one another out. We never made one another cum, but we were close.

I’m crying softly as I type this, as I was while standing watching the snow fall and remembering her.

I miss her.