Project Pandora: Part One

She lives with this pressure inside her chest that never eases. Isadora plays the role: good wife, blonde, proper, quiet. But her body keeps a different tally. She hears the old talk about women turning lesbian from one taste and feels her stomach tighten. Her husband spits his usual venom about fags and dykes, never knowing the word lands under her skin like a lit match. Bath night returns like a ritual she cannot escape. After he leaves she drags the locked box from under the vanity, the one no one else touches. Inside sit photographs, folded letters, the proof she keeps trying to bury. She reaches for the small cloth bag at the bottom. Kitty's panties are still there, balled and crusted with that summer's scent, sharp and female. The smell hits and her resistance snaps. Isadora spreads her legs on the closed toilet lid, drags the damp fabric across her shaved cunt and shudders. Slick heat answers at once. She rubs the cotton slowly between her folds, eyes shut, letting the memory surface: she is twenty-one again, on her back in Kitty's narrow bed, thighs trembling, mouth full of the other girl's musk and tongue. She had licked her first pussy that week, felt it pulse, tasted it, loved it. Kitty laughed at her fear and said she would never be the same. And she never was. Each pass of the fabric pulls her closer to that edge. Her husband's voice echoes from the next room and she bites her lip to stay quiet. The panties keep sliding, wetter now, dragging across her swollen clit in steady, greedy strokes. She cums hard, teeth sunk into the heel of her hand, Kitty's name locked behind clenched jaws. The bath water continues to run, forgotten.