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GIRLS IN THEIR BEST DRESSES
Dearest Tiggany,
Thank you for returning my letter. I hope this one reaches you safe and sound, and I hope that the night shifts you had to do weren't as gruesome as you anticipated. The Federates seem so full of happenings, when our old England is silent and simmering.
You asked what my last memory of you was. It has only been five years since we last saw each other. You wore a blue cotton dress with frilly sleeves that ended just over your elbow. At times your bra strap would run there as well, when you were drunk and elated. I still remember your quip at graduation, that the world wasn't ready for what would come next. Now I wonder if we weren't ready for the world. The things that we thought possible then, didn't turn out to be so easy to reach.
Still! I count myself very lucky. I have a fun life and a very fine profession, if just a tad boring at times. But as mother used to say, the world will never run out of need for accountants. I have fun at my book club and I date boys. Men? Do we ought to call them men at this age? They do much seem like boys.
I remember our days together with such fondness. How joyous were the days when we wanted to just learn and think and talk, until every subject under the sun had been exhausted twelve times over a bottle of wine? I miss it.
I miss you.
Yours,
Marre
Dear Mar,
I can only tell you this about those night shifts: I hate cowboys. Hate them, hate them, hate ‘em.
How did you remember the color of my dress? And yes, I spell it color now. Please forgive me, I am undoing my English breeding altogether. After all, I’m just the daughter of a farmer who wanted a fancy British wife, and as I remember you teasing me about, mom never taught me the accent.
If I really try my hardest, I do remember the color of your dress as well. It was a pale yellow, like the shade of lemon zest in a very lovely pie. It went so well with your freckles and red hair.
It’s true that the world is a lot more difficult than I anticipated. There was much ease in just thinking and pondering how it may turn out, as opposed to actually doing the work of it. But we ought to enjoy the work, as we power through it, isn’t that right? What else is there to life but work, the cruel reality of it.
As for my work, the less said the better.
You said you dated boys, men, whichever. How is it going? Found your beloved yet? I am eager to know. As for myself, far too busy to do such things. What with the farm and everything, as I detailed in my last letter.
Tell me all the news you know about our best gals at school! I must know!
With love and kisses,
Tig
Dear Tig,
Well, the last I heard Sonia had found her match and has now married on three continents: here in England, Hindustan and Aoteroa. Can you imagine! Three weddings. How is she still breathing, I have to wonder. But her husband Karan is so very handsome, and very nice based on our brief conversation at the wedding. The songs they danced to, Tig, went on all night. Nothing like the other weddings I’ve been to.
As for Gady and Lucie, well, they moved back home over the mountains to Burgh and are working at the university there the last I heard. I should write them a letter as well. I don’t know if you knew that they dated during our study years, but they did – I actually, oh, this is true gossip, but I did walk in on them once. You know, kissing.
I have never flushed so red in my life, Tig. But I trust they are probably married now as well.
Of the others, I’ve not heard much. Johanna I’m sure is thriving at work, she was so studious. Frelly, who knows. She must have moved abroad, what with her language skills in French, Flemish, Livonian and goodness knows what else. Perhaps she was hired as a spy. What fun that would be. Do you think there are spies in the Federates? Perhaps one of the cowboys is one?
I ought to not get so melancholic, you are of course very right that work is how we live. But if work tires us too much to enjoy the rest of life, what point is there to work? This I wonder.
With health and healing,
Mar
Dear Marbar,
Gady and Lucie, kissing! Tell me all about this. With the level of detail of your creative writing class efforts, which you know I still think of fondly. You were - are? - a hell of a writer.
I went to Sonia’s wedding in Hindustan, since I was working my practicum at the time and was allowed some time off. What a great time it was. I should hope she’s happy after having three weddings, if most gals are told they’ll be ecstatic after just one. But you know me, I was always skeptical of that nonsense.
I don’t imagine there would be spies here in Georgia, it’s so goshdarn boring. Apart from the bar fights and shootouts. You know, same old, same old.
Tell me what you get up to after work, then. Do you enjoy your books with a glass of wine, like we did at university?
I’m eternally sorry for my short letters but I must haste again.
Love you lots,
Tig
Dear Tig,
Marbar! Have not heard that in a while.
Gady and Lucie, oh dear. Let me muster up my writing quill for this. It was at one of our philosophy nights, where we ate a ton of cheese with water biscuits, grapes and prunes. I was absolutely sloshed that night, wonder how I ever made it home. Gady and Lucie were giggling in the kitchen and I figured I’d join their discussion, but then I got busy picking up a thick piece of stilton onto my cracker, balancing a walnut carefully on top of it and scarfing the whole thing down. What a philosopher I was! Such a glutton. Regardless.
In the kitchen they were indeed giggling but in each other’s arms. Gady had her brand new sunflower print dress and Lucie was wearing trousers, as she was wont to do. Her hands were wrapped around Gady’s neck and Gady’s hands were drawing figures in the small of her back, beneath her shirt. Lucie’s long blond ponytail had come undone. Their mouths were dancing upon one another’s with such lightness and playfulness, I had never quite witnessed anything like it. I felt so shamefaced to have walked in carelessly on an intimate moment. I left as soon as I came, I hope they never saw me.
So that’s the story, in all its glory, I do hope it was satisfactory. I mean, my writing that is.
You never wrote stories as I did but even to this day you have such a way with words. What is the same old about shootouts? I felt breathless just reading the very word. Allow me into this world of yours, Tig.
I enjoy my reading with water, wine gives me a headache nowadays. I talk to my friends on the phone and call my parents occasionally. I go out with a boy once a week or so, but it hardly ever goes anywhere. I haven't found anyone to call my own, for longer than a night or two.
I hope you are fine and good.
With embraces,
Marbar
Dear Marbar,
Wow.
I can imagine the scene exactly, your gift with writing is truly spectacular. You need to write more!
As for Gady and Lucie, I daresay I knew it. They seemed very sweet on each other.
You really wanna know about shootouts? Well, they happen in highway saloons and dance bars (the dreadful things with the boys and girls shaking tailfeathers). Two men get annoyed at the way one is looking at the other, words get exchanged, then bullets. Look, this kinda thing never happens anywhere but the Federates. We just live with it.
How did it turn out this way? I’d tell you, but you know they don’t teach us much history over here. I had to read all about it when I went to England.
Remember that night I told you about the Founding Fathers, the naughty things they got up to? How was this place founded by such loose men? I suppose any place under the sun will have such men, though, and for some reason they always happen to be in power, too.
You, an innocent, having one night flings! I can hardly believe it. You were always so precious and shy during university. I mean, yes, you had your thing with Tomasz but he hardly counts.
Hope you find your man/boy/person.
Love ya,
Tig
Dear Tig,
You knew about Gady and Lucie? I suppose I was an innocent for I never caught on before I saw them in the kitchen that night. I know such girls exist, I may even be half one myself, but I just. Oh, I am rambling.
I would like to visit such places, Tig! Your Federates sound so incredible and adventurous. And I remember the Founding Fathers well, how you leaned in close to tell me of Alexander Hamilton. It was exciting.
Tomasz is married now. To a lovely lady, some years older than us. We have luncheon when we can on Saturdays, but Tomasz is very busy with his work studying the Siberian languages, he travels there and is then gone for months.
No, I haven't found my person yet. I had a bit of an infatuation with a manager of mine at work but he really is just an older cad, not sure what I was thinking.
I suppose I ought to confess something to you, Tig. I always liked you in university, as more than just a friend. I thought your brown hair looked soft and wanted to reach out and touch it. It feels so silly to write now! You were with James and I was with Tomasz. It was just one of those things, I suppose.
Oh, that was embarrassing. Nevermind that.
Hope all is well with you.
With grace,
Marre
Marbar, my cutiepie,
I haven’t gotten a blindfold, have I? I knew you had a big ol' crush on me, but we were stuck in a weird place, weren't we? What with our sweethearts and me knowing I would have to return to the farm as soon as I graduated.
I may have felt the same but I never said or did anything because, ya know.
You should find your person, Mar. You should search for them far and wide. And you really should keep writing, and allow me to read your writing, too.
If you visit I won't let you see a single shootout! But we can visit the dancehalls, have a grand time together.
Love you,
Tig
Dearest Tig,
Forget I wrote that last letter. I feel heat rise to my cheeks just thinking about it.
Anyway, I am still writing. I shall send something to you once I have tamed it into a readable enough shape.
What is the difference between dance bars and dance halls? The Federates are a different world, I remain in awe.
I am searching, Tig. It's just.. the process of it wears me down slightly.
I apologise for my melancholy. I shall drink tea and be rid of it.
Hope you are splendid.
With friendship,
Marbar
Dear Mar,
You shouldn't feel embarrassed. Did my last letter not make it clear enough? I also liked you. Your freckles were a delight to look at. In my drunkest moments I even wanted to get under your dress.
Timing just wasn't on our side, I guess.
Dance halls are decent. The dance bars are very much not. That's the difference.
Don't wear yourself out by searching, my friend. Maybe if it is to happen at all it will happen by happenstance and you need not even look for it.
I don't know how to fix your longing, or my own.
I leave you with a number, my farm's. If my annoying brother picks up, tell him to stick an acorn up his ass and go to hell and get me on the horn instead.
Miss you,
Tig
Dearest Tig,
Attached is the story we talked about on the phone last night. I wrote it in a fever so I don't consider it my best work. But I thought I should share it as the idea was yours and yours only.
How lovely it was to hear your voice again!
My friend Barnaby advised me not to fax my feelings again but I cannot wait for the length it takes for a letter to reach me any longer.
Here is my work fax. I will sleep at the office to hear from you if I must.
Hope you enjoy the story.
With love,
Marbar
Two girls are studying in their best dresses. The girls must be of age by now, since one of them, the one with the red hair, is thirsty for wine. The dark maroon sort, that gives off taste of earth and berries, the deepest of tastes that will stain her tongue for days. But she tries to study still, and not look at her friend in the dark green frock, reading the book about anatomy. Our heroine is doing so well, focusing, but her gaze just keeps slipping. She must control herself.
No, she cannot.
She reaches over and brushes her friend’s face with a pen, the lightest of touches. Her friend looks at her, so disapproving. They ought to study. But our heroine cannot help herself, can she. She is lighting up with mischief, the very thought bringing blood to her fingertips and lips.
She tickles her friend, a touch so innocent, yet with purpose.
“Oh, stop,” her friend breathes, giggles.
It should transpire that she soon finds her on top of her friend, tickling away through the fabric of the dress.
Her friend has blushed, breathless and eyes crinkled with delight. And indeed how beautiful her friend is, our heroine thinks. Her brown hair, plaited in three plaits on top of her head, mussed up nicely as she lies on her back. Her light brown eyes, her mouth. Her chest as it moves with her breath beneath her dress.
“We ought to be studying,” her friend reminds her, admonishes her. But how can she, with her friend looking like this beneath her weight.
“We are studying,” she says, and places a finger on her friend’s nose. “What is this?”
“A nose,” her friend tells her, laughing. “What is this you are doing?”
“No, you must use the correct anatomical term,” our heroine insists. Of course, she is being silly now, and her friend knows it too. But her friend doesn’t know where this is headed.
Her name says the Latin name of the bone, the tissue, and they go on like this, naming body part after body part.
“And what of this,” our heroine says and lightly cups her friend’s chin in her hand.
“You’re so strange,” her friend tells her.
“And what of this,” she asks and cups her friend's breast over her dress.
"Why, I don't know what you mean," her friend breathes, blushing further. She has already been caught in the web, that has been laid out just for her.
"I will demonstrate," our heroine says and pulls off her own dress, over her shoulders and onto the floor next to them.
She then takes the delicate hand of her friend and brings it to her own tit, covered only by a layer of ivory satin. Her friend gasps at the touch. A hard nipple rubs against her palm and our heroine finds the feeling sensational. It sets her aflame.
"Have you ever touched another gal like this?" our heroine asks, pink in her own cheeks.
"I would not dare," her friend says.
"And if she wants the touch, the other gal?"
"Then I should ask what more she wishes," her friend says, an invitation, a welcome.
"If she wanted a kiss, would you oblige," our heroine asks.
"Why, I could never deny–" the friend begins but is met with a soft mouth against her own. A breathless kiss that starts chaste and develops. A softness, a playful lick that opens lips. A giggle that disappears between tongues. A touch that lights up the brain.
Our heroine pushes her friend up to a seated position. Their hands find new ground, her friend our heroine's small breasts beneath the thin satin, and our heroine, the nape of her friend's neck.
A sound fills the room, frantic and light, a moan, a sigh, a slip of tongue against the wet of the lips. How hungry they get for more, the feast in their fingers, the lips that will not part from one another.
"Your dress," our heroine says and undresses her friend, until she is nude all over, her beautiful chest flushed with arousal.
"I have never been touched," her friend tells her and oh, how our heroine loves to hear the words. She pulls her friend to her lap, and her fingers find the space between her legs dripping with anticipation. Her fingers slip in, exploring, and her friend moans with delight.
"But how will this change us?" her friend worries.
"I will always be your best gal," the heroine says, and slides her friend's lip between her teeth. Her friend moans, the sweetest sound, and her hips move against the press of the fingers.
Her friend wants so much more, our heroine understands.
"Lay down once more, I must kiss you down there," she tells her friend.
The friend obliges, so lovely in her state, heated and wet and ready.
Our heroine opens the legs wider, kissing the inside of the thigh gently, teasing at her friend's depth. She finds the pearl within and kisses, licks and her friend melts against the soft of the floor they started studying on. The pearl is big, swollen with fever and she licks and she rubs with two fingers. She listens to her friend moan. And how she moans.
"It feels so good, I'm going to," her friend manages.
"I know," she tells the friend, kisses the pearl, focusing tongue and lips around it, sucking. Her fingers push into her friend's wetness, the endless cave. The sweetness she longs to drink empty.
"You're beautiful," she tells the friend. "How I have wanted this, how I have dreamed of it, touched myself to the dream."
"Like this?" her friend asks. "I thought we could only– with boys."
"No, it is better this way," our heroine tells her. "I'll show you."
And she laps at the nub at the core of her beautiful, vivacious friend, and her friend cries out. She doesn't stop, her fingers curling inside. Her friend pleads, wants respite, but her climax comes again, and she trembles beneath. She pulses around the fingers within and she is truly the most wonderful treasure just then. A prize. A joy unlike any other.
Our heroine claims her and is still hungry for more.
"I don't know if I know how," her friend tells her and our heroine smiles, guiding fingers, guiding legs, until they are close again. She kisses her friend, desperate and needy. Her hands moves her friend's fingers against her own most precious point, the hard nub of it. Her friend inhales at the feel of it, for she knows what precisely it means, that drenched state of her femininity.
Our heroine is so wet, she has never been this wet and she must not think of anything but her friend's moan against her mouth. Then she too can crash on touch, die by the touch. Her body bends toward her friend, like a flower toward the sun.
But it shouldn't be over so quickly, and she remembers the little toy she got for her poor shoulders.
She reaches into the table where she keeps it, pulls out the wand. Her friend opens her mouth in shock.
"What does it do?"
The electrical device gets turned on, pressed in the space between them. It moves on its own, creating sound and her friend rubs against it, open mouthed.
"That's right," the heroine tells her. "Let the waves arrive."
"It's too good, how did you discover such a thing" her friend says, moaning once more.
"Lonely nights thinking of my best gal," our heroine says and her friend crashes against the wall of sound that her own mouth makes. They are one, and the device stops its whirring noise. Through the pulsing that remains, their bodies exhausted, our heroine kisses her friend once more.
"I would like this again sometime," she says, begging.
"Every night," her friend whispers. "Every day. But we can't neglect our studies."
"Why, of course," our heroine agrees. "But I didn't even get to kiss your beautiful breast. We have so much more to learn of each other."
And they vowed to continue learning.
From: [retracted]
To: Bellings Accounting Ltd
Ohhh. Marre! Your story has me gasping for air. I'm in awe of you. Please write more of these girls without their dresses!
With delight,
Tig
From: Bellings Accounting Ltd
To: [retracted]
Dear Miss Powers,
If you could be so kind as to leave this fax machine for missives from our paid clients, as it is intended. This is a business fax for business matters, not girls without their dresses. I have instructed Miss Marre Victusi similarly, though we both know she does not always follow instruction.
With kind regards,
Barnaby Rheaw
Lead Accountant
Bellings Accounting Ltd
To: [redacted]
From: Bellings Accounting Ltd
TIG! I am so happy you liked it!
Please ignore my grumpy friend Barnaby, he is so old fashioned about these things. And he wishes he had a cutie he could fax as well.
Keep the faxes coming! I will call you on Saturday as we agreed!
With love, Marbar