Lesbian Refugees Need Love and Care

Most refugees came (or were brought) in during the dead hours of the early morning, but it was just after 22:00 and things had been quiet enough that Sarkisian, the woman working the desk, was sitting back and watching the latest chapter of Schoolmistress on her phone.

The Schoolmistress was sitting on the sofa in her office hugging one of her new students. "Oh, thank you Ma'am," the girl was saying, "Until I met you, these feelings I had, I didn't properly understand -- "

"Of course, dear," the Schoolmistress stroked the girl's unruly blonde hair away from her face, "That's the way it always is!" She leaned down and kissed the girl tenderly on her forehead. The girl sighed and snuggled closer.

But then the Schoolmistress slipped her other hand down between the girl's knees, separating them, stroking the crisp white fabric of her stockings, fingertips moving up her thigh.

"But we shouldn't!" the girl said, before the Schoolmistress's hand even reached the girl's garters.

"It's all right dear," the Schoolmistress stopped stroking the girl's thigh and kissed her again, "Whatever you like, some girls move at a different pace than others." She left her hand where it was, though, and the girl made no move to push her away. The two looked at each other for a long minute, and Sarkisian thought they were about to kiss, on the lips this time, but the buzzer sounded and she had to put her phone away.

Sunni was bringing in a girl, just like most of the others: matted hair, dark circles under the eyes, ragged shirt and jeans, sandals not nearly warm enough for the weather. When Sunni helped her to sit in the seat by the desk, Sarkisian did notice that she seemed quite solid. Not fat, of course, but with round hips and good-sized breasts that, even unsupported, stood up firm. Most of the women brought in had a lean and hungry look, some quite malnourished.

"Welcome to the Demeter Centre," Sarkisian said, as Sunni brought the girl a paper cup of water from the dispenser, "Just a couple of questions and we'll get you some food and a bed. What's your name?" Sarkisian realized just then that her left hand had found its way under her skirt while she was watching the video. She removed it discreetly.

"Lynne," the girl said, after blinking wearily.

Sarkisian noted that down, not bothering to trouble her by asking for the spelling and asked, "Age? This facility is only for women (and those identifying as women) of eighteen or older. Don't worry," she said hastily, "If you're underage, we won't put you back on the street, but Sunni here will have to give you a ride to one of the other shelters. Please tell us the truth, we don't want anyone to get into trouble."

"Nineteen," the girl said, without any hesitation.

"I've never picked one wrong," Sunni said proudly, patting the girl on the shoulder.

"Only one other thing," Sarkisian continued, "This is a women's refuge, but more specifically a refuge for women of a certain sexual orientation. I'm sure Sunni explained that to you."

"Yes," the girl said, barely able to keep her eyes open, "The only cocks I've had to deal with are ones I didn't want to deal with."

A middle-aged woman in a white blouse and skirt came out from a door behind Sarkisian just then, looked at Lynne and smiled, "Come on, dear, let's get you cleaned up."

Sarkisian watched the woman in white lead Lynne away, arm around her waist as she walked unsteadily. Sunni leaned over the desk and the two women shared a kiss, then Sunni headed back out to walk the streets. Sarkisian waited for the door to close behind her, then took out her phone again. The schoolgirl's skirt was hiked up now, her legs were open, and the Schoolmistress's index finger, with perfectly enameled pale pink nail, was stroking the girl through her pale pink cotton panties. A damp spot was growing between the little rounded hills of her labia.

Meanwhile, the woman in white, very prim and proper with short hair and high heels (also white), introduced herself as Boeno and brought Lynne to a large tiled shower room.

"I -- I just want to get some sleep," Lynne said hoarsely.

"You can lie down here and rest," Boeno pointed to a long, padded bench, or maybe it was a waterproof massage table, that stood under a showerhead spray attachment on a hose hanging from the ceiling. "Just take off your clothes," she took a grey cloth bag marked "LAUNDRY" from a hook and opened the drawstring at the top, "I'll give you a good scrub."

Leaning against the bench, Lynne unbuttoned a couple of buttons, then gave up and just pulled the shirt over her head. It was grimy from long, dusty travel and sweat, as were her jeans and panties. She wore no brassière. Everything, even the sandals, went into the bag and Lynne, naked, sprawled out face down on the bench.

Boeno soaped up a washcloth and gently ran it over the girl's back, arms, buttocks, legs and feet. She took it slowly, giving the warm water time to soak in and the apple-scented soap time to work.

"That feels so good!" the girl said, surprise breaking through the tiredness a little.

"You're safe here," Boeno said softly, almost in a whisper, as she ran her hands over the muscles of the girl's thighs. She was just as surprised as Sarkisian had been at how well-fed the girl was. When she moved the girl's legs apart and separated her buttocks to wash between them, she found her arse-cheeks were firm and round. The girl squirmed a little, sighed as she felt soap-slick fingers stroking little circles around the muscle ring of her anus.

Boeno began again on the girl's back, scrubbing a little more vigorously, periodically sluicing the girl's back, buttocks and legs with sprays of warm water. Under the grime the girl's skin was firm and healthy. It was time to turn her over.

Her breasts stood up, young and solid, topped with small pink nipples. Boeno put down the washcloth and used her hands only, working up a good lather from Lynne's neck to her toes. The girl's bush was wild and untrimmed, so Boeno ran her fingers through the light-brown hair, inspecting her minutely. If the girl were to protest, Boeno would have to tell her it had to be done for hygiene's sake: some girls had even come in with pubic lice!

Lynne didn't seem to mind. After all, the "inspecting fingers" were caressing her labia and clitoris, sensitive but still hidden quietly under its little pink hood.

"I'm going to wet your hair now, so we can shampoo it," Boeno said. She left Lynne's body lathered up, almost as if the soap suds were concealing something, forming a triangle over her pubis, bubbles covering those juicy pink nipples. Really, though, it was for a good soak: a refugee, whatever condition she was in, always had grime ingrained in the skin, from the lines of her face to the soles of her feet.

Boeno ran the water through Lynne's hair, combing out the tangles with her fingers, then squirted a dollop of herbal shampoo from a dispenser and began to work it in. Lynne closed her eyes, but not a drop of soap splashed on her face as Boeno expertly washed and rinsed the girl's hair.

"I'll give you a washcloth so you can do your face yourself, once we're done with the rest of you," Boeno said, as she took her own washcloth and began to scrub Lynne everywhere she could reach, from her elbows to her inner thighs to between her toes to her firm young breasts. At last, she had the girl sit up and gave her a soapy washcloth for her face.

"Take all the time you need," Boeno said, resting a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder, waiting until she finished, dropping the washcloth beside her and nodding blindly, her eyes closed. Boeno rinsed the soap off the girl's face and had her climb off the bench so she could run the water over her one last time before turning it off.

Lynne leaned against the bench while Boeno toweled her off, spending perhaps a little more time than was really needed to dry her breasts, buttocks and pudenda. Still, it felt so wonderful to be clean, after all these weeks on the road. And she had to admit it was nice to know someone enjoyed touching her body!

Boeno helped her into a robe and slippers. She was worried that her hair was still damp, but Boeno led her to the room adjacent, which had a long counter with sinks. She had Lynne sit in a plastic chair, plugged in a hairdryer -- which turned out to be surprisingly quiet -- and in a little while Lynne felt a comb going through her hair and Boeno was saying, "Maybe we can get you something to eat?"

"No thank you," Lynne was yawning now, "I can't stay awake another minute."

"Just two minutes," Boeno handed her a toothbrush, "Then I'll find you a bed."

The bed was a simple cot in a room crowded with two dozen of them, most occupied by sleeping girls. The lights had been turned down low. As Boeno helped her out of her robe and slippers, Lynne looked for some pyjamas, but saw none. Too exhausted to protest, she got into bed and closed her eyes as Boeno covered her with sheet and blanket and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Lynne dreamed of her first girlfriend, and of better times. They'd had to sneak around, of course, even back then, finding a place out in the woods at night to put a blanket down, hardly even risking the light of a little electric torch. They hugged and kissed, Lynne felt her trousers being unbuttoned, fingers slipping under her panties to stroke her.

Maybe it was the shower that made her dream that? Her girlfriend had never taken it slowly, always wanted to get Lynne naked, her head between Lynne's legs, her arms reaching up to cup her breasts and roll her nipples between finger and thumb.

Lynne woke up then. The lights had been turned up and some of the other girls were getting out of bed. All were nude. In the cot next to hers, an Oriental with long, straight black hair that hung down so far it covered her breasts when she sat up, put her bare feet on the floor and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

The cots were quite low to the ground, and the girl sat carelessly with her knees apart. Lynne could see straight up between her porcelain-smooth thighs. Her labia, almost hairless, opened to display the bright pink of her vaj. Lynne remembered the taste of her own juices when her girlfriend had kissed her, after Lynne was limp and post-orgasmically breathless. Lynne imagined the taste of the Oriental girl's clit, momentarily visible as the girl reached under her cot and pulled out a cardboard box with her clothes.

She was almost finished dressing when another girl walked up and said, "Good morning!"

The Oriental said, "Cherie! So good to see you again!" The two shared a hug and a rather long kiss, "Here to mentor the new girl?"

"Mmm-hmm," Cherie said, sitting down on the cot as the Oriental girl finished putting on her sandals and, giving Cherie another quick kiss, walked off.

Lynne blinked and yawned, pretending to wake up, then realized her right hand had found its way between her legs, two fingers probing her damp vaj. Withdrawing them slowly, savouring the touch of her fingertips against her clit as they slipped by, Lynne turned over on her back and looked up at Cherie.

"Good morning, Lynne," Cherie said, "My name's Cherie." Either she hadn't seen that Lynne had been awake, enjoying her intimate views of the young Oriental, or she was discreetly pretending not to notice.

Cherie was sitting exactly the way the Oriental girl had been, legs open, hands on her knees, so maybe she had seen Lynne peeping? Of course, Cherie wasn't nude. Her clothes were rather odd, in fact. She wore a cotton work shirt over pink yoga pants, so tight Lynne could see the smooth hills of her labia clearly outlined under the thin fabric.

Then she remembered the Oriental girl's clothes had been similarly mismatched and ill-fitting (except for the brassière, a soft bronze coloured sports-bra perfectly matching her skin tone. It might have put her small, high breasts into an advert in a glossy magazine)

"They've put your things through the laundry overnight," Cherie said, somewhat proudly, pulling a battered cardboard box out from under Lynne's bed. She looked in and saw the ragged jeans and shirt, her panties and her sandals, "But I'm sure we can find you some in better condition later." Lynne noticed that Cherie's tongue was flitting out between her lips, as if she knew she'd enjoy watching Lynne dressing as much as Lynne had enjoyed watching the Oriental.

Lynne decided to have some fun, unbuttoning her shirt before putting it on, then taking her time buttoning it up, sitting with her legs as far apart as she could. Cherie must have seen the tension in the girl's thighs as she held them apart, but she had to: her bush was so wild and unruly it was the only way she could display her pink.

She lifted the box onto her cot so she could rummage in it, facing away from Cherie, searching for, "Ah!" she said, holding up her ID card, "I was afraid I'd lost that!" She smiled happily at finding it, but also because she knew Cherie would be seeing her buttocks opening up as she bent over.

Her underwear... then she saw the little white label sewn in the waistband. Her name was printed neatly, along with a bar-code. She imagined a girl working the label-maker, whispering her name, "Lynne" as she ran her little sewing machine, touching the white, cotton crotch of her panties where her pussylips would rub when she put them on.

All the clothes had labels now, even the shirt that was so worn out one or the other of her pink nipples would peek out if she was careless. Everything was clean and fresh, though. Her sandals too, so old and battered, had not a speck of grime on them.

Cherie took her to the cafeteria first, where crowds of girls were sitting at long tables eating soup and bread and milk. Everything was rather shabby. The plates were chipped. The tables were clean, but dented and a bit unsteady. The chairs, while sturdy, were old and worn, no two identical, mismatched the way all the girls' clothes were.

The food was warm and filling, though, and the girls... it was a long time since she'd seen a crowd of people relaxed and cheerful. It was also the first time she'd EVER seen girls happily showing affection to other girls in public, if only with hugs and kisses or holding hands or putting an arm around each other's waists. Lynne fell into easy conversation with them as they ate, though of course none offered to hold her hand.

Cherie looked at Lynne, noticing her left nipple poking out naughtily through a tear in her shirt, "Once we get you some good clothes," she did not say NEW clothes, "We'll start you to work. Plenty of jobs for everyone, what with washing dishes and cooking stew and mopping floors and doing laundry and so on."

Lynne tugged on her shirt, holding it so she wasn't displaying as much of her breasts, but then realized everyone else in the room, though their clothes weren't as ragged, were endlessly revealing a little bit here and there: the curve of a buttock, a snatch of panties, the bumpy skin of an areola. They seemed to enjoy it that their clothes were often so ill-fitting just bending over or sitting down gave Lynne enough of a view that she felt a trickle of juices starting to flow between her pussylips.

"Then later," Cherie continued, "I'll take you to the Director, she wants to meet every new arrival and give her little talk."

"Little talk?" Lynne asked, as they carried their dishes back to the counter. A pale, skinny girl in a thin, white T-shirt, damp with sweat, stacked the dishes and took them back into the kitchen. Lynne savoured the glimpse of her nipples making dark shadows under the clingy fabric.

"She has her enthusiasms about the Demeter Centre and its projects. Just say yes-Mum and thank-you-Mum to everything."

She brought Lynne next to a large room with racks and shelves of clothing and shoes. They spent a good deal of time searching for something to fit Lynne, ("Another job for the girls here," Cherie laughed, "sorting and labeling the donations we get for the warehouse!")

Undergarments were easier to find in the right sizes, even brassières, something Lynne had not expected. All the intimate apparel appeared to be new, in clear individual packaging. She didn't recognize the brand names, and the sizes made no sense until Cherie pointed to a chart on the wall that decoded the letter/number combinations.

Lynne saw a few other girls in the warehouse, accompanied by women she assumed were their "mentors." She saw one pick out a particularly short pair of cutoffs. Her mentor warned her it might get her lots of pats on the rump, but the girl only smiled and bent over a bit, saying, "I enjoy it when women enjoy me. Would you like to?" A great deal of pale skin on her round arse-cheeks showed above her sun-browned thighs and Lynne could not keep from staring, again feeling that tingling warm and wet between her legs. But the mentor only smiled and led the girl away, those beautiful cheeks caressing the small ragged strip of denim sandwiched between them as she walked.

Lynne got lucky, finding almost-new jeans, a pair of shoes and socks, a warm button-up shirt, a couple of T-shirts and some sensible cotton panties. The brassières were a bit of a challenge. Though there were many in her size (once she figured out the odd size notation), almost all appeared to be designed only to support the breasts from underneath, not cover the nipples at all. It took some time before she found a couple of normal-looking sports-bras. She wondered if that was why so many of the women she'd seen, even the woman at the entrance desk, sported such impressively visible nipple-bumps. After she'd picked out a serviceable wardrobe, the two of them walked to the seamstresses, who would attach labels. The seamstress also handed Lynne a small cloth duffel, also with her name sewn in it, next to stamped lettering DEMETER CENTRE. "I'm afraid that's all the luggage some girls have," the seamstress said, "It's our welcome gift!"

Lynne thanked her, noticing how the girl's nipples stood out proudly under her T-shirt as she sewed.

"It's good work," Cherie said as they walked away, "Labels and mending and stuff. You get to sit down at least. Now we got to start you on your own work."

And that was what Lynne did for the rest of the day, with only a short break for lunch. It was often strenuous, but she felt immediately that she was fitting in and making friends. The Oriental girl who had woken up in the cot next to hers even gave her a hug and a kiss when she saw her next. Lynne noticed the girl was forever hugging everyone, as if she'd come from a culture where it wasn't allowed and was making up for lost time. Still, it felt so good to taste her lips and feel their crotches rubbing together, if only for a moment.

Just before dinner, Cherie came back with Lynne's new clothes and then took her to see the Director, whose office turned out to be small and cramped, most of the space taken up by a big metal desk stacked with old-fashioned papers and two laptops that looked much thinner than any model Lynne had ever seen before.

When the Director got up from her chair (which was as worn and battered as the desk) and squeezed around to greet the two of them, Lynne saw the Director's clothes were new and fit well. The outfit didn't look expensive, but it wasn't donated cast-offs either, like everyone else at the Demeter Centre had to make do with. She wore a dark-grey skirt that came modestly down to about her knees and a matching jacket over a crisp, white blouse. Lynne found the style odd, somehow out of place. Was it the cut of the jacket and the blouse's collar? Maybe it was the contrast with what everyone else was wearing?

But what really stood out (literally), was that the Director, just like so many of the refugees in her charge, was wearing one of those brassières that accentuated the nipples, supporting her breasts, even pushing them forward, but leaving only the thin fabric of the blouse to cover them.

Were those nipples stiffening even as she watched? Lynne wondered. But then, Lynne's nipples had been in a constant state of arousal all day, just from being surrounded by all these cheerful, uninhibited women. Lynne speculated the Director must keep her jacket buttoned tight when she left her office.

"So good to see a new arrival safe!" the Director said, giving Lynne (and Cherie too, so as not to have her feel left out) an exuberant hug and kiss (but only on the cheek, or rather on both cheeks). Lynne caught the scent of the same apple-flavoured soap she'd been bathed with last night, and felt a tingle where Boeno's fingers had explored her.

The Director motioned for them to sit in the two comfortable armchairs that were the only other furniture in the office and leaned back, lifted herself up and sat on the edge of her desk. The chairs were rather low to the ground. Lynne was glad to have chosen trousers from the clothing bin. Had she been wearing a skirt, she would have been displaying herself quite indecorously unless she'd pressed her knees stiffly (and uncomfortably) together.

The Director wasn't keeping her knees together, and since she was perched up on her desk, Lynne could see quite a ways up between her legs. Though she tried not to stare, she couldn't help noticing that the Director wore no underwear, and was immaculately clean-shaven. Thinking of her own untrimmed pubic bush, she felt a bit unkempt, perhaps even a trifle primitive, even Neanderthal.

Still, she kept sneaking furtive glances, wondering if she could see some pink, or some wet, from the Director being excited sexually in addition to her general enthusiasm for the Demeter Centre.

"We're working on a grand project here, a project of happiness, of kindness and love," the Director was saying exuberantly, "I hope you'll be willing to pitch in with the mundane day-to-day chores?"

Lynne nodded and said, "Yes, Mum." The Director's voice was oddly accented, an accent Lynne had never heard before.

"I can assure you grander things are coming soon," the Director continued as if she hadn't heard. "We're filling bellies and educating minds as best we can, and doing a good job at it, if I do say so myself." She paused, looking at Lynne as if considering whether or not to go to the next topic, then, "When you have your mind right, and the hunger of the belly is satisfied," she patted her own tummy, the motion making her breasts jiggle, her nipples rub against the fabric of her blouse and stiffen a bit more, "You may find a deeper hunger, a hunger starting a bit lower down," she moved her hand down, touched her skirt just above her pubis, "A more emotional hunger may come to the surface." The Director looked at Cherie then.

"I'm sure we can cope," Cherie said, stroking Lynne's shoulder affectionately.

"Absolutely!" the Director turned to Lynne, "Cherie will see to all your needs for the time being and then, when the time comes, you'll be the one helping the new arrivals."

"Yes, Mum," Lynne agreed, now starting to feel both overwhelmed and aroused at the same time.

After they left (the Director had quite a number of young girls to see that day) and headed in to supper, Lynne asked what the Director meant by "we can cope."

"I'll show you," Cherie took her on a little detour, "So many girls come in so traumatized that after they finally get some sleep and eat a meal and recover their strength they find their anxieties just bubbling up. They need some help coping." She opened a door to a small room mostly taken up by a large bed. It was bright and cheerful, with a large window and two erotic prints by Kay Dorsay hanging on the wall.

"There are a few rooms like these they let us use for new arrivals." Lynne stared at the bed. It was much bigger than her cot in the dorm. "Yes," Cherie said, "You can stay with me, here, if you wish." She paused, "Or if you need solitude, you can have the whole room to yourself for a few days."

Lynne looked at the big, comfortable bed, the golden afternoon sunlight shining through the window. It was so strange and wonderful after weeks of tramping, scratching for shelter, hiding from the Troubles, wondering... why, she could even see, through a half-open door behind Cherie, a private lavatory with a shower!

She collapsed in Cherie's arms, almost in tears, "Oh, thank you, yes, thank you! I would so like to be with you tonight!" She pressed her face into the warm flannel shirt covering Cherie's breasts.

Cherie supported Lynne as the two of them sat on the bed, then stroked her hair as they held each other until it was time to go to supper.

Supper was filling, as all the meals were. There was even a little meat, something that had become scarcer and scarcer as the Troubles worsened. Lynne hardly noticed, so happy she was at the company. The Oriental girl even made a show of sitting with her knees far apart, though Lynne wasn't going to get under the table to look at her, no matter how she smiled.

After supper was more work, of course, but Lynne was still entranced at this little world of women, where one could smile and hug, talk about love and girlfriends, without looking over one's shoulder all the time.

Late that evening, quite tired, Lynne found her way to the room Cherie had reserved for them, and found her stowing Lynne's new clothes under the bed, in a box next to what she assumed was Cherie's clothes. There was also a small basket for laundry.

"Shower?" Cherie asked, the question also implied Lynne could shower alone if she wished, or they could enjoy each other's company.

"Oh," said Lynne, rubbing her left nipple, which had made its way to one of the numerous tears in her shirt again, "I would like to join you, yes!"

Cherie smiled, seeing Lynne's nipple hardening, and decided to plunge in. "Would you like me to undress you?" she asked, taking a step towards her.

"Oh!" said Lynne again, letting go of the shirt button she was starting to undo, "O-oh, of course!" Cherie found the innocent little hesitation so exciting!

Cherie undid the buttons, pulling Lynne's shirt open. Her breasts were round and firm, both pink nipples definitely hard and erect now. "We found you some nice bras today," Cherie said softly, putting her hands under the girl's breasts and gently cupping them, "Not that you actually need any support!"

"Oh thank you, Lynne said shyly, sighing as Cherie pushed the shirt off her shoulders and, taking her time, folded it carefully and put it away.

Lynne's jeans were nearly as ragged as her shirt, but covered her modestly, no inconvenient rips revealing intimate skin or curls of pubic hair -- fortunately, as such immodesty could have gotten her into severe troubles if anyone had noticed her as she'd made her way to the Demeter Centre.

She unbuttoned the fly slowly, then pushed the jeans down, her hands stroking the girl's buttocks and thighs. She remembered to unbuckle Lynne's sandals then, and help her off with them, then pulled her jeans the rest of the way off.

Cherie folded the jeans neatly, one eye on Lynne, standing there, wearing nothing but her panties. "The sunlight," Cherie said, "It makes you look simply lovely!"

"I -- I feel good!" Lynne answered, as Cherie slipped her fingers into Lynne's waistband.

"Yes," Cherie moved her hands around behind, pushing them down until she cupped the girl's arse-cheeks under her panties, "You do feel good!" Then she took Lynne's panties off, as Lynne stepped out of them. The panties went in the laundry basket.

Then Cherie stood up and took Lynne in her arms, kissing her. "Would you like to undress me too?" she asked.

Lynne could feel Cherie's hands on her, one gently squeezing her left buttock, the other stroking fingers through Lynne's pubic hair. Boeno had explored Lynne there too, while washing her. The women here seemed fascinated by her natural, untrimmed bush. Did they all shave themselves bare like the Director? Lynne couldn't have been an unusual sight. The other refugees would hardly have had opportunities for personal styling before arriving at the Demeter Centre!

"Yes," Lynne said, starting to unbutton Cherie's shirt, discovering that Cherie also wore a brassière like the Director's, that didn't tame her nipples. If Cherie's shirt hadn't been loose and oversized, two big brown bullets would have made themselves known even under the warm flannel fabric.

When Lynne reached around behind Cherie, hugging her as she did, their breasts flattened together, warm and cozy. They kissed again. "It's been so long since I've been able to touch another woman, she said, "So long since I've felt safe being intimate!"

"That's what the Demeter Centre is for!" Cherie whispered, stepping back and shrugging her shoulders so her brassière slipped off her arms. Unlike Lynne's, her breasts did sag a little, but they were still so touchable Lynne couldn't resist cupping them, holding them, feeling their warmth. For a few seconds, anyway, before moving down to Cherie's pink yoga pants.

Those were a bit of a struggle, tight as they were, tight enough to display a pleasing cameltoe, tight enough to grip Cherie's buttocks and thighs quite firmly. There was a lot of tugging and pulling and, of necessity, much touching of thighs, buttocks and pudenda, before Lynne had them down around Cherie's ankles (Cherie slipped out of her sandals while Lynne was working).

That was when Lynne discovered Cherie wore something under the yoga pants. She'd seen no lines at all, not even when she'd looked at the thin, tight pink fabric up close, but there it was, a delicate wisp of thong panties. If you'd seen them from across a room (a bigger room than the two of them were now in, of course) you might not even notice it, it was so very, very transparent.

Lynne also discovered Cherie, unlike the Director and her Oriental neighbour (and so many other girls she'd seen getting out of their cots that morning), wasn't bare shaven. Not completely, anyway. She could have been a model for skimpy bikinis or minimalist lingerie: the landing strip of dark pubic hair was trimmed so close to her labia it would have been hidden under the tiniest scrap of cloth -- assuming, that is, the cloth had been selected to conceal, rather than display.

Lynne couldn't resist running her fingers (two, index along the left pussylip, middle finger along the right) through that short fur. So orderly, so proper and sophisticated. "Shower," Cherie reminded her, kissing Lynne, this time with her mouth open, tongue probing. It was a few minutes (they both put up their hair first) before they went into the shower.

Then, when she stepped through the door and saw two toothbrushes by the little sink, two towels hanging on a rack attached to the wall, she almost broke into tears. "Is this really happening? Is this really true? The clean clothes, the meals with enough food to fill you up, the hot water whenever you want it?"

"Yes," said Cherie, stepping in and closing the door behind them. She put her arms around Lynne, her breasts warm against the girl's back, "Oh yes," she kissed the back of Lynne's neck as Lynne watched in the mirror over the sink, "All the necessities, and," she kissed her again, "And much more than just the necessities of life."

Another kiss, then Cherie went to the shower, which was of course spacious enough for two -- or even three? Lynne wondered -- and turned on the water, "There'll still be a lot of hard work, but you know that."

"Yes Mum," Lynne said, and they both laughed. There would be a lot of work. And the Director's Project, what could that be?

Stepping into the shower, she noticed that there were grip bars mounted on the walls. Cherie saw her holding onto one, testing its strength. "Some of our refugees have been injured," she explained, "Some are handicapped."

"Oh," Lynne said, remembering the difficult journey she'd taken to get to the Demeter Centre, "I'm so glad you're here to care for them!"

"We're all here, each one for everyone else," Cherie answered, taking a bar of soap from its little ledge and rubbing it between her hands to lather up.

"That's so nice!" Lynne answered, though whether it was because of the sentiment of Cherie's words or the feel of Cherie's hands on her shoulders, moving down to her breasts...

"It's what I enjoy especially about mentoring," Cherie said, motioning for Lynne to turn around so she could wash her back, "Getting to know all the girls."

"Getting to TOUCH all the girls?" Lynne giggled.

"Of course!" Cherie slipped her slippery hands down and cupped Lynne's buttocks, "Touch is so very important," she gently separated Lynne's arse-cheeks, fingers exploring the cleft between them, "Especially for woman who haven't been permitted to touch; so many of our girls come from environments were touching is shameful, something done only in secret, only by girls who are," she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in Lynne's ear, "Girls who are deviant." She emphasized this by gently probing the girl's tight anus.

Responding, Lynne moved her feet apart and found she had to take hold of the grab bars for support. She felt Cherie's fingers slipping between her open legs to stroke (again!) through her pubic bush. "I've been wanting to trim all that hair," she said, "I see the way you look," she didn't say she'd also seen the Oriental girl's pubis, not to mention all the other girls in the dormitory PLUS the Director, "I feel so... so unCIVILized, being all overgrown like this."

"Nothing wrong with being natural." Cherie made a mental note to tell Lynne that there were at least two girls at the Centre who, in their previous lives, had styled hair, both on the head and between the legs. Cherie handed Lynne the bar of soap, "Plenty of the new girls here are natural." Cherie had obviously seen Lynne looking around the dormitory in the morning, a room full of young women, none of whom were wearing pyjamas. "However you style yourself, you'll always be welcome here."

But less of an object of curiosity as a "new girl," Lynne thought, soaping up Cherie's breasts. She looked down, "You look so elegant, like what a supermodel would look like when she undressed!"

"Thank you so much dear! Am I blushing?"

Lynne moved her soapy hands down, gingerly fingering the narrow hedges of pubic fur bordering her pussylips, "It's true," she insisted, "You look so lovely. But also," she motioned for Cherie to turn around so she could access her backside, "It reminds me of a teacher I had once, before the Troubles."

Lynne so wanted to tell Cherie about an even earlier time, a time when the family had gone visiting and she'd had to share a bed and she and the other girl had explored each other. Neither of their bushes were as full and unruly as Lynne's was now. They kissed (but only on the lips) and touched each other intimately under the covers and in the morning said nothing to anyone about it. Could she work up the courage to tell Cherie?

"You saw your teacher naked?" Cherie took hold of the grab bars and bent forward.

Lynne soaped up Cherie's arse-cheeks, kneading them, listening to Cherie's soft sighs. "She had me over to her house. She was... well, she was so cautious that... no, no, I think she was almost paranoid about --"

"In our world, girl, there's no paranoia about our sexuality," said Cherie in a dreamy voice as Lynne's fingers probed close to her anus, "There's only justified fear and wariness!"

"I guess so," said Lynne, a trifle sadly, as she started to rinse Cherie off, "Ms LaPiere -- my teacher -- she was so skittish she would lock the door and listen for the doorbell, then if it rang, she'd run out of the shower --"

"The shower?"

"She'd tell whoever came visiting that she'd been helping me work out in her basement gym -- she was a physical fitness instructor -- and just got out of the shower and let me get in after her."

"But you --"

"Yes, she had me in the shower with her!" She looked down at Cherie's dripping wet pubis. "It was the first time I ever tasted another woman."

Cherie kissed her, a long, tongue-caressing kiss, "Would you like to taste me?"

Memories came flooding back as Lynne knelt on the tiled floor and Cherie took hold of the grab bars, opening her legs as far as she could. Cherie's lips opened, her clitoris emerged from its little pink cowl. Lynne began with the smooth, hairless skin surrounding all this treasure. She felt like a tease, purposely staying away from the most sensitive areas, but that was how her teacher had taught her, slowly and lovingly.

Cherie had closed her eyes and was obviously enjoying it too!

Then she tasted the narrow stripes of Cherie's fur, up and down, up and down, feeling the close-cropped pubic bristles on her tongue. Cherie gave her first shiver, mouth opening, moaning, "Ohhhhh, Lynne, that feels so -- OH! -- so gooooood!"

From the top, where the two stripes converged above Cherie's clitoris, Lynne traced her tongue down lightly, barely touching Cherie's now very erect clitoris, then slipping in, pushing quickly into Cherie's warm, pink tunnel so deep her nose was nuzzling Cherie's clit and her chin was venturing close to Cherie's gently pulsing anus.

That brought out a satisfying gasp of surprise. Looking up, Lynne saw Cherie's arm muscles bunching as she struggled to hold herself upright.

Now she began her rhythm, pulling out slowly, twirling a tongue-tip around the clit, then diving back in as deep as she could. Her hands cupped Cherie's buttocks, feeling the roll of Cherie's hips as her excitement mounted. Lynne's middle fingers pushed in past the muscle ring of her anus, feeling the contractions, urging her to open up, if only a little.

She changed her pace, giving more and more attention to Cherie's ever-more sensitive clit between tongue thrusts as she sensed Cherie was close to her climax. Then, with a flurry of quick licks, sent Cherie over, screaming, bucking, gasping as her juices splashed out, mixing with the water from the shower wetting Lynne's cheeks.

Cherie's hold on the grab bars and Lynne's hold on Cherie's buttocks just barely kept her upright as she hung her head, panting, heart racing, chest heaving.

"Oh Lynne," -- gasp -- "That was simply the most... simply" -- gasp -- inTENsive!"

Lynne waited a minute or two, then carefully stood up, supporting Cherie as she did. When Cherie felt Lynne's arms around her, she finally let go of the grab bars and hugged Lynne. "That's what you did for your teacher?"

"Mmm-hmm," Lynne agreed, realizing now that her hair, which she'd carefully pinned up, was soaking wet now -- from the shower, of course, only a little from Cherie's pussy-juices, which she quickly rinsed off.

"She taught you well!" Cherie sighed deeply, deliciously as she turned off the water, "And what did she do to reward her star pupil?"

Lynne shook her hair out. "She broke my hymen with a dildo."

Cherie raised her eyebrows. "Did it --" she stopped herself.

"Did it hurt?" Lynne finished for her. Cherie nodded. "Yes, a little," Lynne answered, "But she said it was a rite of passage, something special to be done with a woman who loved you and not by a boy who, well, you know how boys are." She shivered. Cherie shivered too, and nodded again.

"She also taught me, with careful practice, that you could learn to extract some really extreme pleasure from one of those toys." She laughed, thinking of the first time she'd bent over in the shower as her teacher pleasured her with a strapon. "You could have one as big as you liked, and when you did, you realized boys weren't nothing. They were small, they didn't last long, they couldn't satisfy a woman, at least not as hard and as long and as many times as she truly deserved!"

"And she gave you what you deserved?" Cherie took a towel and helped Lynne dry her hair.

"Yes," Lynne answered, after thinking for a couple of seconds, "Got a bit pruned up in the shower, though!" Both of them laughed, imagining what life would be like having to hide in the bath to have sex.

"We have a bed, if you like," Cherie found a hairdryer and plugged it in, "Unless you want to continue in here?"

"Bed is one of my favourite places," Lynne answered, luxuriating in the flow of hot air from the surprisingly quiet hairdryer. "I feel plenty safe being with another woman even without locking myself in a bath. Oh," she ran her fingers through her hair, "I haven't thought of Ms LaPiere in years." Not likely anyone at this crowded shelter would have anything so fancy as a strapon dildo. "You know what? Even though she played with me for what felt like hours, the doorbell never rang!" She smiled, "One of us would have heard it; she insisted that only one of us would cum at a time, so we wouldn't both be, uh, distracted."

The two sat on the bed. "I think I have something that might bring back some memories," Cherie said, bending over and reaching underneath. Lynne enjoyed watching her hair stroking the curves of her back as her body stretched.

"Demeter's Magic Wand," Cherie said, bringing up a pink hairbrush. She held it by the bristle part, showing off the cylindrical handle with a rounded end. It was springy rubberized plastic, sculpted with ripples to massage a hand (or anything else) that might grip it.

On the back of the brush were the incised letters, "A day without men is a day without mess." She showed it to Lynne, who remembered the way Ms LaPiere had talked about boys. "Yes, it's bringing back memories already," she said.

"I always liked giving massages, back in the day, charged a discount rate because I didn't have any qualifications," Cherie said, leaving it unspoken that it was the days before the Troubles, "I would fantasize that the woman lying on the table -- I'd improvise with a thick pad laid out on our dining table -- would sense my arousal and would ask for... well, I didn't exactly know how they'd ask."

"And did they? Lynne leaned back, lifting her knees and opening her thighs.

Cherie slipped a pillow under Lynne's head, then leaned down and kissed her right breast. "Just once," she said, "Sturdy, short-haired woman who worked in construction -- that's why she needed the massage, her sore back -- she was at least twenty years older than me. I think she was so lonely that she was willing to take a risk. Just said flat out that she could tell I liked touching other women. She opened her legs -- I could see her juices flowing -- and said she was up for being touched everywhere!"

They both looked down at Lynne's pussylips, which were glistening wet, and not just from the shower. "I made her cum so MANY times," Cherie thought of the woman's screams, her breasts bouncing, slapping her in the chin, her hips lifting off the table as Cherie rammed one of her favourite dildos (you could still buy them then, since they were also toys for HETEROsexual women) in and out, in and out, in and out, "She was practically in tears thanking me!"

"Oh," said Lynne, with a serious look on her face, even as Cherie licked the handle of the hairbrush and touched the tip gently to the girl's clitoris. "I remember so many times when I was lonely too."

"At the Demeter Centre, no girl is alone unless she wants to be," Cherie pushed the hairbrush handle in, feeling the girl's pussymuscles squeeze its rippled surface as it bottomed out, the bristles tangled with Lynne's pubic hair.

"Bring back memories of Ms LaPiere?" Cherie began to pump the hairbrush in and out, slowly.

Being pushed up against the tiled wall in the shower... her legs over Ms LaPiere's shoulders... the strapon forced into her virgin hole... Ms LaPiere bending over to...

"Oh, FUCK yes!" Then it all came out in a rush: Ms LaPiere sucking so hard on her young nipples, the sharp sensation of teeth biting into the sensitive flesh of her breasts. "She did that," Lynne gasped, "She said it made orgasms more intense -- especially for girls who were young and having a hard time reaching their climaxes!"

"And were your orgasms intense?" Cherie asked, nipping the girl's right breast as she increased the pace with the hairbrush handle.

"Oh YES!" Lynne's hips bucked as Cherie sucked the nipple in between her lips.

"Come hard for me then," Cherie said, as she trailed her tongue over to Lynne's left breast.

"It hurts!" the girl moaned, "It hurts but I love it so MUCH!" The last word was almost a scream as Cherie sucked the nipple in hard and left teeth marks in a neat circle around the areola of Lynne's left breast.

Cherie held the girl then, pumping the hairbrush handle frantically, but not trusting herself to bite down again, only sucking on Lynne's nipples, tonguing them as they slipped between her teeth. Cherie held her until the shaking stopped, which took some time.

Even more time passed before the girl's eyes opened again. "I had to keep my breasts covered up for days -- we BOTH had to cover up -- so nobody would see the teeth marks around our nipples!" Lynne said at last.

"We don't have to hide our passions here," Cherie said, gently extracting the hairbrush and getting up to set it on the sink in the bath. When she got back, Lynne was already asleep, so Cherie snuggled in next to her, flattening her breasts against the girl's back, wrapping her arms around her, holding her tight until morning.

The next day, at lunch, in answer to Lynne's question, Cherie introduced her to Bonnie Jo, one of the Demeter Centre's amateur stylists. "You can use our room if you like," she winked at Bonnie Jo, an African girl with short hair in a labyrinth pattern and a tight, white T-shirt showing off the shadows of large, dark areolae topped by blackberry-nubbled nipples the size of Lynne's thumb. "Just make sure to clean up after your session if you make a mess!"

Lynne liked to hear "our" room, though she knew she'd have to move out soon so Cherie could use it to "mentor" another young girl. Maybe, though, Lynne herself was up for becoming a mentor too? She remembered how it felt, that first day, so desperate for a woman's touch. And the director had said "when the time comes, you'll be the one helping the new arrivals."

Bonnie Jo, it turned out, was quite serious about keeping things clean. She wanted to work on the bed, so she put down a big, clean white towel before they even started. "To catch all the stray prickly hairs," she had said.

Lynne also discovered that Bonnie Jo had her own bush cropped short and shaped into a perfect heart shape, with her clit peeping out rather like the stem-on-an-apple at the top. Lynne discovered all this because Bonnie Jo insisted on both of them being completely undressed before she began work.

Lynne was entranced. At first, thinking of Cherie (and the beautiful Ms LaPiere) she had wanted their almost-naked look, but now...

"Of course!" Bonnie Jo said, "Let me just buzz you nice and short, then we can take our time crafting the perfect pussy-shape!"

As she felt the not-unpleasant vibration of the electric clippers against her labia, Lynne wondered what they would "take their time" doing, but the soothing massage ended abruptly with an announcement.

Neither of them had ever heard the Tannoy at the Demeter Centre before, so they looked up in surprise. No speakers were visible, but the sound quality was perfect, as if the Director was in the room with them, not shouting from behind a closed door.

"Attention, attention! All Demeter Centre," There was a note of urgency Lynne hadn't heard before, even when the Director was getting emotional over her mysterious "project." A quick breath and she continued, "Gather all your possessions. I repeat, gather up every single thing you own. Pack your duffel and report to any dormitory. From there follow all instructions from your mentors. This is an emergency. We are evacuating, but do NOT leave the building. Do not leave your dorm until instructed."

Bonnie Jo carefully stroked off the last of the loose cut hairs from Lynne's pubic region, licking her lips and saying, "Maybe next time, wherever we're going!" Lynne spread her legs as widely as she could, enjoying the way the air was cool on her labia now.

They both dressed quickly, then a last hug and kiss. "You look pretty hot, even without the full styling," Bonnie Jo said, patting Lynne's crotch, "I make a girl look hot, even if I don't have much time to work!"

Lynne agreed. The two kissed again. "Do you think it's another riot?" Lynne asked, looking out the window, "I don't hear anything yet."

"Means we have time to get away," Bonnie Joe sighed. But then she had to run, find her own duffel to pack.

Lynne's possessions didn't amount to much, even with the new clothes and some other things Cherie had put in her little under-the-bed cardboard box. She found a case for her toothbrush and when she went into the bath to get it, she saw Cherie's was still on the little rack. Should she wait for her? No, she decided, Cherie probably had bigger things to worry about than Lynne, right now.

Smiling at the thought of Cherie coming back to pack her things and finding the neat little pile of pubic curls Lynne had left on the pristine white towel, Lynne hurried back to the dorm she'd spent her first night in.

In the dorms, the girls were told to use the cots like stretchers, one girl at each end. Instead of carrying patients, all manner of things were piled on the cots: more of those ultra-thin laptops, cans and boxes of food, books, heaps of clothes and shoes, a first-aid kit, hand tools, etc.

They were told to carry everything to the warehouse, where they found all the cabinets and racks had been pushed away from the long wall to reveal a large set of double doors opening onto a room that looked as if there were a laser-light flashing rave going on, though it was perfectly silent.

"Don't look into the sanitization grid as you pass through," the mentors called out as they filed through the doors, "If there's anything you've forgotten, now's your chance to go get it quickly, because we're not coming back here!"

The Oriental girl with the beautiful long, straight black hair took the front end of their cot. Lynne thought she looked quite nervous, but still she took a step forward, then two, then three and... Lynne watched her disappear into the swirling lights, remembered to look away and stepped forward herself.

Suddenly the violently coloured lights were gone and they were walking into an enormous, high-ceilinged room lit by warm sunlight streaming in huge skylights and windows. The girls from the Demeter Centre were carrying their burdens in different directions following their mentors. There were other people too, people Lynne had never seen before, helping carry and directing traffic.

These new people were no single type, ranging from old to young, European, African, Oriental, different hairstyles (or none at all), but all were women and they all dressed more-or-less the same.

Two skinny spaghetti straps held up a loose garment that was more-or-less a cylinder of thin, loose fabric. Almost all wore white (though some of these "white" dresses verged on the transparent) with a variety of decoration that could have been just that -- decoration -- but Lynne got the sense that they were some kind of labels, like team logos or rank insignia.

When the wearer stood straight, and stood motionless, the hem came down just far enough to cover her buttocks and pubis, revealing all but the far upper reaches of her thighs. At the top, her nipples were just barely covered, though when they stood up, from cold or arousal, they made their presence known as eye-catching little hills. Slippers in pale shades of pastel pink, blue, yellow and green completed the outfits.

Lynne looked around the room, watching as these strange women moved, careless of what they might reveal when they weren't standing straight and motionless. Looking back, Lynne saw the doorway she'd come through. It was lit brilliantly with flashing laser-lights in rainbows of colour. Girls from the Demeter Centre were still emerging, lugging their burdens.

A blonde woman, one of the ones wearing those strange dresses, touched Lynne on the arm. Her dress was entirely white, save for a little blue mark over her left breast that looked like a check or chevron. "Please come this way," she said, pointing to an open door in the far wall.

When she raised her arm to point, the hem of her dress rose, revealing a bush as full as Lynne's had been yesterday. The blonde cloud practically shimmered in the sunlight. Her gesture also crinkled the fabric of her dress so her right nipple peeked out, pink as a gumdrop. Lynne could see now that the girl wore a brassière, one that merely supported her rather large breasts, without concealing her nipples.

Just like the Director wore.

Lynne and the Oriental girl hurried over to the doorway indicated. There were no blinding laser lights, just a corridor. As other women directed them through a maze of corridors Lynne couldn't help staring, catching glimpses of arse-cheeks and panties (some girls did wear panties, some wore nothing at all under their dresses, not even brassières), nipples and pussylips (some girls shaved themselves bare), all so intimate but at the same time so free and easy.

They arrived at last at a room big enough to hold half a dozen cots. One wall of the room was a floor-to-ceiling window looking out on a plaza paved in huge flagstones. There was a statue in the center, surrounded by a pool deep enough to swim in. Women were swimming. None wore swimsuits.

"Good afternoon!" The voice had the same odd accent as the Director's. Lynne turned and saw a woman of about fifty, with curly salt-and-pepper hair and a dazzling smile. But what Lynne noticed first was her dress, practically invisible it was so sheer. She wore nothing whatever underneath, but seemed quite poised and confident, even in a room of completely clothed young women. Her breasts sagged a little, and moved when she talked. Her pubis was trimmed short, almost exactly like Lynne's. Everyone in the room stared at her as she spoke.

"My name is Dr Allman. I've been told that your journey here was an emergency, that you haven't even been told where you are." They all nodded. "This is one of the Demeter Centres," she waved her arms to indicate the building they were in, the gesture lifting the hem of her dress almost to her navel. Lynne could feel a trickle of juices oozing from between her pussylips. "It's a world with no men at all, a happy world."

The Oriental girl who'd helped Lynne carry the cot, and who'd been looking ever more nervous, interrupted, "A world? Have we been teleported to some other planet?"

Dr Allman smiled indulgently, absent-mindedly stroking her left nipple through the sheer fabric of her tunic, "No, dear, though I can see how it might feel that way. You're still on Earth, but the Earth of what you would consider the future. Come by the window and look out."

The statue in the plaza was bronze, a woman in flowing robes or toga. She was majestically striding atop a junk heap made from the symbols of war. Her bronze sandaled feet crushed steel tanks and planes and ships and guns. One breast was bare, the robe falling off the arm that brandished a flagstaff. The statue was so huge they could all read the banner hanging from the flagstaff: "We are all of the body!"

Dr Allman explained, "After the mitochondrial wars, the Plastic Man faction led the reconstruction and gave birth to the modern world. We hope you will find it, if not an ideal world, at least an improvement over the violent place you left behind."

The girls all watched as the sun came out from behind a cloud, illuminating the statue. Her bronze nipple was mirror-shiny, as if millions of people had rubbed it with their hands, climbing up over the artillery pieces and helmets and barbed wire at the goddess' feet, denting and bending the wreckage even further just so they could reach up and caress the sun-warmed metal flesh.

"Some summer weekends the plaza is reserved purely for adult recreation," Dr Allman said, "Children are kept at home, drone flights are forbidden, for the sake of privacy."

The women not swimming in the plaza were strolling about, or sitting in the sun (there were no benches) Some had unrolled blankets or beach towels and were picnicking or sunbathing... but many were engaged in more intimate activities.

One couple, who appeared barely old enough even to be allowed in the plaza that day, had laid out a thick, soft pad to cushion the hard stone. Both girls were muscular, with close-cropped hair -- cropped everywhere. They were nude, as were many of the women there, even some who were just strolling arm in arm with their partners.

One was rather pale. She lay on her back while her partner, a deeply tanned girl with large, round breasts and hips, slathered sunscreen all over her sun-shy companion, who lifted her knees and opened her legs so every square centimetre of her thighs could be massaged.

The Oriental girl was still standing next to Dr Allman. In a small voice, she asked, "Do the straight people have their days where they use the plaza?"

Dr Allman stroked her fingers through the Oriental girl's long hair as they watched the tanned girl get on her hands and knees between her companion's legs, then bend down, her arse in the air, opening up, her anus winking, dripping vaj glistening in the sunlight.

"It was the mitochondrial wars," Dr Allman said, as they watched the tanned girl extend her tongue and run it up and down along her companion's labia, "Many did not survive. Those that did were all women."

"Houston, Houston, Do You Read?" someone in the room murmured.

"Exactly," Dr Allman said as she held the Oriental girl against her left breast.

"How do you produce the next generation?" someone else asked, "Cloning?"

"Oh, no, we tried that, but this isn't science fiction," Dr Allman said as the pale girl began to arch her hips, her breasts bouncing, flashing in the sunlight, glistening from all the sunscreen, "We save the people we can, refugees from the past like you, and we go back then to harvest sperm from selected periods, then separate out the problematic Y chromosome. But that's another story."