Such a Little Thing Ch. 01

Nis 15, 2024 // By:analsex // No Comment

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This is part one of a lesbian romance. I’ve split the story into three parts to keep each one a reasonable length but it is a continuous story. Many thanks must go to EarthlyRose for her help editing this story. Additional gratitude and thanks to Winterreisser for his further editorial comments and suggestions.

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CHAPTER 1 — Endings and Beginnings

When I think back, it was such a little thing that started it all: she slipped her hand under mine and held it as she placed the money in my hand… That was all: the feeling of her soft, warm hands enfolding mine as she placed the cool, hard coins into my outstretched palm. Everything changed from that point on.

Of course, someone looking at my life, some mythical biographer (as if anyone would ever be that interested in me!) would no doubt contend that my life had already been full of changes immediately preceding this mysterious hand-holding. I had, six weeks previously, crashed ignominiously out of my Fine Arts degree at the end of the first year — a failure to submit a single piece of coursework completed to an acceptable standard does tend to get noticed and acted upon.

I had my reasons, of course. Or rather, one large reason: Maxwell Thomas, six foot one of all round waster and utter, utter bastard as I now know him to be. However, over most of the last year I believed myself in love with him; stupidly, soppily, blindly and girl-away-from-home-for-the-first-time in love. True, he was fit and good looking and could be devastatingly charming when he tried; true, he was pretty good in bed and yes, he always had an idea of something fun to do — or at least, something more fun than my coursework. So I thought myself the luckiest girl in the university (or so people kept telling me) and I spent the year letting him leading me astray, occasionally making love to me, distracting me, charming me… until Jeanette — the girl who had walked out on him eighteen months earlier — walked back in and, with a little pout and curl of her finger, I was dumped without so much as a “Dear Amber, I’m really sorry but…”

Perhaps I should have done a Tracey Emin and channelled all of my pain, hurt and anger into some searing artwork… but I didn’t: I became a damp, miserable, reclusive wreck for three weeks. After that, my future on the course was settled: I didn’t have one.

My parents alternated between concern, upset and fury over what had happened, the chance I had thrown away and my future. However, it was my Uncle Graham who eventually offered a solution. He was Mum’s older brother and was definitely in the ‘favourite uncle’ class. He was unmarried and, without wishing to boast, I knew I was his favourite niece. He and Mum, along with their two brothers and sister, were from Yorkshire but unlike Mum, whose years living down South had greatly softened her accent, Uncle Graham still had a broad accent that I loved to hear.

He owned a chain of shops that undertook picture framing for customers’ paintings, photos and the like, as well as selling pictures, and that went by the slightly cheesy name of ‘In The Frame’. He was opening a new shop in a small town and offered me the post of ‘Branch Manager’, which sounded impressive until I realized that I was the only employee in the new branch, so I would be doing everything!

“Come on, Amber, lass,” I remember Uncle Graham coaxing me, “Tha’s nowt else to at t’ moment and it’ll give thee a chance to do summat new. Tha’s a good head on tha shoulders and a good eye for drawings and t’ like. I can teach thee how t’ do the framing easy enough.” I was still unsure until he added, gently “And there’s a little bit of a flat over the shop too; nothing grand like but comfortable enough for one. Tha could stay there no problem and tha wouldn’t have t’ live back at home. I know things ‘as been a bit narky, you know, a bit moody there of late.”

Well, that sold it to me, what with home being a place I’d rather not be; not only because of my parents but also repeatedly encountering old friends over the summer and having to keep admitting just how badly I’d screwed up.

So three weeks later, courtesy of Uncle Graham, I found myself stood in the little flat over the shop: a sitting room, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, all newly refurbished and decorated, and my worldly possessions in two suitcases and half a dozen boxes. From the new paint smell, I guessed that the pristine condition of the flat was another gift from Uncle Graham, along with the job and my newly acquired skills at framing, glass cutting and mounting.

I spent that Saturday afternoon unpacking and getting sorted before taking an early evening walk through the town. The framing shop — my framing shop — was located at the end of a parade of shops on the edge of the town, next to a coffee shop. Beyond that was a hairdresser, a betting shop and, finally, one of those gaziantep escort 24/7 small shops that sold sweets and newspapers, bread and milk and well, whatever else people tended to need at odd hours.

The centre of town was nice enough with a reasonable range of shops, several restaurants and take away outlets, a couple of pubs, a cinema and a small theatre should I ever get the urge to watch the local amateur dramatic society’s efforts. I completed my brief orientation tour before raiding the supermarket for essentials and toiling home with three heavy bags.

Sunday was taken up with getting the shop ready and set up the way I wanted as well as trying to allay my worries about what I’d taken on. The practical skills didn’t worry me too much (though I found cutting glass scary) and neither did the artistic side of advising customers on frame styles, mount colours and the like. It was the responsibility and, above all, keeping accounts that gave me a cold, sinking feeling in my stomach. I looked at myself in the mirror I was hanging (art deco style, bevelled glass, £75) and saw a slightly frazzled looking twenty-year-old girl and fell to studying myself.

Pale blue eyes in a heart-shaped face with a fair complexion that still sported a few freckles, though far fewer than when I was young, surrounded by the curly pale reddish-blonde hair that had inspired my name: Amber. Attractive enough overall, I supposed, but nothing exceptional. Much the same for my body: moderately sized boobs, reasonably trim waist, and a bum and legs that were, according to several people, my best assets — and that praise was why I jogged regularly. So: Ms Not-bad-but-nothing-exceptional, university dropout and dumped girlfriend, who was about to start running a shop single-handed. No wonder I looked frazzled! However, Uncle Graham was trusting me, so I had just better just woman-up and deal with it!

I slept surprisingly well that night, all things considered; I suppose eight hours of arranging supplies, moving shop fittings, hanging pictures and general cleaning and tidying is tiring. Three bottles of beer that evening probably helped too.

CHAPTER 2 — The Little Thing

Monday, the grand opening day, didn’t have me exactly rushed off my feet but there were people popping in during the morning and I even took three framing orders: go me! When there was a lull I decided to pop next door to grab a coffee — instant coffee’s okay but it can’t compare to a decent skinny latte.

The coffee shop had only one customer, sat at a table in the corner, so I went up to the counter where the barista had her back to me.

“Hi,” I called and she turned to me. “Could I get a skinny latte to go?”

“Go where?” she asked.

“Er, next door actually. Does that matter?”

She smiled, “No, I’m only messing with you. I’ve not seen you in here before, are you just passing through?” she asked as she began making my coffee. She was tall and slim, without being bony, and very pretty. She was also a few years older than me I guessed. Her long dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and her olive skin suggested a Mediterranean heritage. I have to admit I envied not only her smooth, tanned skin but her also her great figure, clearly visible in her white tee shirt and black leggings under her apron.

“No, I’m new in the town; I arrived here at the weekend. I’m running the new shop next door and today’s the opening day so I desperately need a caffeine fix! Um, my name is Amber, by the way, Amber Taylor.”

She looked back over her shoulder at me. “Hello, Amber. I’m Milla; it’s actually short for Camilla but if you call me that I might just have to kill you!” she laughed as she poured the steamed milk into the cup. She brought the cup over and I saw that she’d poured the milk to make a leaf-like pattern before she clipped the lid on.

“Very impressive,” I honestly admired as I placed money on the counter.

“Thank you,” she replied, picking up the money. “However, this is on the house — consider it a neighbourly welcoming present.” She slipped her hand under mine and held it as she placed the money in my hand and the feel of her soft, warm hands enfolding mine as she placed the cool, hard coins into my outstretched palm made me tingle.

I looked down at my hand in hers, mesmerised by the feeling and almost expecting to see little sparks. Suddenly I came back to myself and managed a tongue-tied “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“I hope we can be friends as well as neighbours, Amber.”

“Me too!” I responded, making myself cringe at the desperate excitement in my voice. “I, er, better get back,” I added in a more normal voice and awkwardly left the coffee shop. I glanced up at the name of the shop: Caffè Carluccio and I wondered briefly who Carluccio was.

I sipped the coffee as I sat in my shop; it was very good. I could still feel her hand touching mine, its warmth and softness, her skin against my skin. What was the matter with me? Perhaps it was just my loneliness and that she’d been the first person I’d really met in a new town where I knew no one. Yes, I decided, that was it. However, that didn’t stop me thinking seriously about going back for a second cup as soon as I’d finished the first one, just to see her and be able to talk to her some more. In frustration at my silliness, I headed out to the workshop at the back to begin work on the orders that had been placed that morning.

I worked steadily with occasional interruptions from more customers. They were just browsing, though, and there were no more orders or sales. I still caught myself several times cupping my hand as Milla had or just thinking about her touch but on each occasion, I shook my head and went back to work.

Late in the afternoon I had just glued up a frame and was clamping it to hold it together whilst the glue set when I heard another customer enter. “I’ll be with you in just a minute,” I called as I continued tightening the clamps carefully, keeping the corners square.

“Knock, knock!” a voice from the workshop doorway made me jump. I looked round to see Milla, now without her apron but holding out another cup of her delicious coffee.

“For me?” I asked, wiping the excess glue from the frame with a rag. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s nothing. I close at four o’clock and, as you hadn’t come back sooner, I didn’t want you to miss out.” She smiled and accepted my offer of a seat; I sat too and we got chatting. She was twenty-four, hadn’t done particularly well at school and college but always greatly enjoyed working in the Caffè. I asked where the name Carluccio came from. “Well, my surname is Carluccio, but the original Carluccio is my Nonno, my grandfather. My Papa — his son, of course — rejected working in the Caffè and became an architect so Nonno was really pleased that I liked working there. He’s virtually retired now and so I’m in charge, which I love.”

In return, I surprised myself by telling her my unabridged life story and the sad sequence of events that had brought me into the picture framing business. She put her hand over mine as I told her of the dumping by Max and when I’d finished she gave me a little hug. “Well at least something good came out of it all,” she said, “I got to meet you,” which I thought was such a kind thing to say. We carried on chatting like old friends until I noticed that it was gone six o’clock and I hadn’t shut the shop. Milla jumped up too.

“Oh, crap!” she swore gently, “I need to go; I’m going to Nonno’s for dinner.”

“I hope you won’t be late,” I replied and she shook her head. “Thank you for making me feel so welcome, Milla and I’ll see you tomorrow,” I called after her as she hurried out, waving goodbye. I locked the door and turned the sign to ‘CLOSED’ before heading upstairs. As soon as I walked into the empty flat I felt lonely; I had really enjoyed those two hours chatting with Milla. As a distraction, I changed into my running kit and ran for nearly 50 minutes, through the centre of town and out the other side, then back by the same route to avoid getting lost in what was still a strange place.

Back home and hungry, I had to resort to one of the few things I could reliably make: a ham and cheese omelette and salad. I wasn’t in catered halls of residence any more so I really was going to need to learn to cook more than omelettes and muffins, my other speciality. I watched some telly, tried to read, checked my emails and surfed the web but just couldn’t settle. I wanted to chat with someone; actually, had I been more honest with myself, I’d have admitted it was Milla I wanted to chat with. I again found myself remembering the little hand holding of our first meeting. I thought about how pretty she was — no, not just pretty, she was gorgeous, and I had spent enough hours in life drawing classes to appreciate female beauty. Eventually, I went to bed where the stresses and excitements of the opening day caught up with me and I went out like a light.

CHAPTER 3 — Confessions of an Incorrigible Exhibitionist

Having gone to sleep early, the normal consequence followed and I woke early, though being summertime it was already light outside. I couldn’t recall what I’d dreamt but I felt as horny as hell. The tee shirt I was wearing had ridden up so my hand easily found its way over the tiny trimmed triangle of hair on my pubis and my hairless outer labia to my inner lips, which were swollen and puffy. Two fingers slid easily into myself and I gave a little moan of pleasure. I really was ridiculously wet given that I’d just awoken and I could now smell my arousal — wow, that smelt really nice. I couldn’t resist doing what I’d always thought of as a bit kinky: I withdrew my juice-coated fingers and put them in my mouth, savouring the taste of myself. I had done this only once or twice before over the years when I was close to orgasm but I found the taste amazingly delicious and arousing that morning so I repeated the process — dip and suck — several more times, each time trying to get as much of my pussy juice on my fingers as possible. I found myself wishing that I could lick my own pussy and with that idea in my head, two fingers deep inside me and my thumb rubbing my clit I gave a stifled cry as I climaxed, my back arching off the mattress and the wonderful, magical sensations sparkling all through my body and brain.

I gradually came back down, a wonderfully relaxed afterglow filling me. Usually, when not in the throes of passion, I found the thought of tasting my pussy juice a little, well, unpleasant and distasteful. Not so today. I realized that my fingers were still buried in my pussy and I slowly pulled them out. They were sopping and I surprised myself by putting them in my mouth again — instead of wiping them on my shirt as I would normally — and enjoying the taste just as much as I had before the orgasm. More than that, it was turning me on again.

I rolled onto my side, still sucking my fingers, and fumbled in the bedside cabinet drawer with my left hand. After a few moments, my questing fingers found their prize and I took out a small, silver bullet vibrator. I traced the point along my slit a few times before pressing the button on the back. The tingling vibrations on my sensitive lips were delicious. I raised my knees and spread them wide as I ran my little vibe up and down my pussy slit. Despite having had an orgasm already, I found myself building fast once more as I slid the tip lower, across my perineum to gently rub my little anal pucker. The sensation was intense and I realized that I was moaning loudly and, not knowing how soundproof the walls were, I bit my lip to quieten myself. It helped: I was now just making a continuous low growl.

I was getting close now. Without volition, three fingers of my left hand plunged into my pussy and the thumb knuckle ground against my clit. That was enough and I was racked by my second glorious orgasm of the morning.

When I came back to earth I felt wonderfully satisfied and content: I really had needed that! It occurred to me that this was the first time I had masturbated since Max had dumped me. Without hesitation, I licked my fingers clean and even sucked the vibrator as I wondered if all girls tasted the same. Whoa, Missy! Where did that come from? I quickly put the vibrator back in the drawer and headed to the kitchen for a no-nonsense cup of tea and some toast. A quick shower and by half seven I was back down in the workshop.

By the time I opened the shop at 9 o’clock I had completed two of the framing orders (even cutting the glass, which I still found quite nerve-racking) and the third was underway. I had a couple of early customers: one wanted a frame for a family photograph and the other was more challenging. It was the repair of an existing frame and while the replacement glass and remounting would ordinarily be no problem, even for a relative novice like me, the issue was that the frame was oval so some challenging glass cutting would be needed. However, I didn’t feel I could turn down work on day two as this would not help the shop’s reputation, so I accepted the order with some trepidation and just prayed that I wouldn’t end up covered in cuts.

The early ‘rush’ over and two new orders taken, I felt that I had earned my coffee and so hurried next door. My heart gave a little skip as I saw Milla wiping down a table in the otherwise empty shop. I was glad she was on her own so we could talk, even though I knew I couldn’t stay long.

She looked up as I pushed the door open and her delighted smile as she saw me was a mirror of my own. “Hi, neighbour,” I said, “How are you?”

“Buongiorno mia amica! I’m very well, thank you. Amber, do you know how amazing your hair looks with the sun behind it? You look like your head’s on fire!” I was both flattered and embarrassed and felt my cheeks get hot. “And now your face has caught fire!” she teased.

I responded easily to her bantering tone and I stuck my tongue out at her. “Do all your customers get teased for their hair colour? Their perfectly natural hair colour, I might add!”

“Only the ones who are close friends,” she smiled.

I became even redder and had to swallow hard. “Thank you,” I managed, “though we only met yesterday, so we can’t really be close friends yet.”

“Can’t we?” She looked disappointed and I felt guilty for spoiling her mood. I remembered how I’d missed being able to chat with her last night.

“Maybe; but if we’re not yet then we definitely soon will be — tomorrow at the latest I should think.” I smiled at her.

“Excellent!” she laughed. “And I wasn’t just teasing you: your hair is a lovely colour. Much nicer than my boring black.”

“I like your hair: so long and sleek and elegant. At least it doesn’t look like a dandelion ready to tell the time — or like you’ve a bonfire on your head!” I told her with mock sternness. I grinned as she finished the table, straightened up and put her tongue out at me. “Now, if I order a coffee, will you let me pay today, please?”

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