How does one give up their true love?
How does one follow that love? Hoe does one follow them along all the myriad paths their spirit takes?
How does one give up life for love?
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A bittersweet goodbye. Shannon had known it when she smiled and kissed Molly. The two women had known, and loved each other for a decade, and their pact had held. Through bad marriages and abusive boyfriends; through the first tentative explorations of their 'other side'; and now through this.
"Never leave your side." Shannon whispered as she caressed Molly's hair. A single tear fell to splash on the bridge of the other woman's nose, but she paid it no notice. Shannon swallowed.
Her love was gone. Now she must follow. It was their pact.
Weak, Shannon slumped backwards into the chair behind her. Silence hung in the room as if Molly's spirit waited, holding her breath.
She had been so beautiful and full of life. Even now, after losing one breast-and thinner than she had ever been-she was still beautiful to Shannon.
"I won't do it again." She had told Shannon when the cancer had returned, "Fuck the hospital. I'll take it as it comes, and die at home if I have to."
She'd had to. There, just this morning on their couch. They'd both known it was coming today. You could feel it in the way Molly woke up-in how weary she was.
Weary of sickness, but not life.
"Fuck me." She'd whispered that morning as the two lay in bed, "Now."
Shannon could still feel the pleasure of the morning like a dim after-taste of a half-remembered delicacy. She could almost taste Molly on her lips.
"Fuck me." Molly had whispered afterwards, "This afternoon. Promise?"
Shannon had promised. It was afternoon. Molly lay waiting.
Her lover lay as if asleep on the couch. Only the stillness of her chest betrayed her true state. After breakfast she'd gotten dressed in her favorite suite. Molly was nothing if fashionable-and ironic. She had dressed all in black, from her bra and panties, to her black heels and matching stockings.
Shannon moved to the couch and sat beside her love. There was a mild ammonia tang in the air. Molly's bladder had released its contents when she died. A tentatively curious hand slid up Molly's inner thigh, across the silky stockings to her now damp crotch. Shannon felt herself grow wet as her fingers pushed Molly's panties aside and probed her lover's vagina.
Molly was still warm, and wet not just with piss. Shannon smiled. Molly must have been imagining this moment. A bittersweet goodbye.
Shannon stood and undid her bathrobe. The scars that Phil had left with his cigarettes were slight mottles on her shapely abdomen and thighs. She'd never felt comfortable in her nakedness except with Molly. It was only right for her to sleep with Molly-now and forever-in the manner that Molly preferred.
Slowly, gently, Shannon unbuttoned Molly's blouse to reveal her black silk bra beneath. Practiced fingers undid the clasps, and the garment fell away to reveal the bountiful curve of one breast, and the scarred lump of a mastectomy. Shannon gingerly touched the scar. Molly-had she been here-would have laughed and pressed her lovers hand to the missing breast.
"See, nothing to hide." Molly would have joked. Shannon, choked with tears, lay her head on Molly's chest and wept.
"Hurry." She thought she heard Molly whispering, "I'm waiting."
Shannon smiled and kissed Molly's breast. Soon they would be together.
"Hurry." Molly whispered, "We need a good fucking."
Shannon giggled and kissed the dead woman's breast again. Her tongue caressed the nipple and played along the bottom curve of Molly's one good tit. She could almost hear her moan.
Her hands were groping again. She pushed Molly's black clad legs apart and placed one finger in her cunt. The other hand was busy with Shannon's own clit. Her juices were flowing now, running down her leg in little rivulets and dripping onto Molly's skirt.
With a fire burning inside her, Shannon grabbed Molly's skirt and hiked it up over her hips. Pulling down the dead woman's panties she exposed her beautiful blonde bush. It glistened with moisture, but Shannon didn't care. She lowered herself to press against her loved, gyrating and shifting her hips. Ever contact between their mounds was ecstasy, and Shannon could feel the orgasm building.
Thrusting her hips against Molly's she curved her back and pressed her mouth to her lover's. Her tongue could taste Molly's last breath, but Shannon was beyond caring.
"Fuck me." Molly whispered.
Shannon's fingers were deep inside both of them. She loved Molly. She would follow Molly.
"Fuck me." Molly whispered.
Shannon fucked Molly like only another woman could.
#
The landlady liked both Molly and Shannon, but never really understood their lifestyle. Her husband called them 'fucking dykes' and would laugh at his own joke. She thought they were nice ladies who'd had bad experiences with men. A woman couldn't love another woman the same way a woman could love a man.
It wasn't possible. It wasn't natural.
The landlady found them lying together in their bed atop the sheets. Molly was arranged peacefully, dressed in her very best black suite-with a few conspicuous stains-and Shannon lay beside her, wearing nothing but a contented smile. The two were holding hands.
A woman can't love a woman the way a woman loves a man.
It may be different, but its still love.
And it was more powerful than life or death.
