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Category: Erotica/Classic Erotica
Description: Scandalous Classic! Margaret was the spoiled daughter of wealthy parents, condemned to a life within the confines of her bedroom due to an illness for which there was no cure. She did not want a nurse, but her parents insisted and hired a buxom lass not much older than Margaret. It was the nurse who introduced her to the joy of lesbian love. Then Margaret discovered the difference in male anatomy was interesting...
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: June 2008
3 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [191 KB]
Reading time: 125-175 min.
PART ONE: THE GIRL
My mother came into my room and gave me the tortured look that I had come to think was her born expression.
"Good night, dear." She modulated her voice, which my illness had now made constantly softer. "Are you all right?"
I didn't answer her at first, but lay flat under the covers, my thin body a rebuke to all her affection.
"Are you all right, dear?" she repeated, the anxiety trembling in her voice.
"Yes," I said finally and quietly--a sigh more than a word; the Yes really a No--the loud angry No which I meant it to be.
"Sleep well," she implored and soundlessly left my room.
That night I did not want to think. Sometimes I think and then I lose all the voices of the house. I lay still until I could hear her humble tap on my father's door. "Dear," she called, "may I come in a moment?"
First there was no response. Then he answered as briefly as I had and I knew her fingers were on the knob of his door and her slippered feet were saying, forgive my intrusion. Her voice was melancholy.
My father replied deeply, and even separated by the wall, my heart jumped at the anger in its timbre. She stayed only a minute, no doubt telling him I was comfortable and almost asleep. Then I could hear her pushing open the door of the small adjoining room that had been their dressing room before.
Before and after. That was how we dated everything. Before the imperfection of my mother's genes had revealed in my thirteenth year the decaying heart of her family. It was her disease that sank my body into the bed, into the grave, and gently I invited her to share my death.
When the house settled into sleep ... and the house was always last to rest, sometimes dozing only hours after the last tossing body ... I went into my reverie. The reveries of ignorance, although others choose to call it innocence. They talk about my innocence.
I remember three years before the doctor standing over my bed and saying, "She is an angel." And he touched my straight white-yellow hair. "We will do everything to save her, Mrs. Ferdinand."
My mother, her face a cloud, said, "She is so young and always so frail." That was all she said, but my father answered the doctor in his rich indulged voice.
"My wife's," and wife came from the front of his mouth like a breath of air, his lips unmoving, "sister and mother were stricken," and again the sarcasm, the contempt of stricken, "with the same disease. Of course," he added, "they were considerably older, but Adrian has always been delicate." I could feel his hand on my forehead. "She has no fever."
"No," the doctor assured him, "there is never much fever. But she must lie still for a long time, a very long time. If we are lucky, the artery will heal. If another attack follows, and I must warn you that one is almost imminent--there is little we can do."
My mother choked tears back into her throat and my father declared blandly, "Margaret, if you think your tears will accomplish a cure, please do not control them," and with that he left the room.
Mother sat a long time at my bedside. It seemed to me to be days at a time, because I slept and awakened timelessly, and she was always there until the look of pain had spread like a cancer throughout her face and crept into her eyes and stayed there.