MARBLE & SALT (Lesbian)

Chapter 12 (Part 1) WHO'S YOUR DADDY?

We dress in silence. I'm wearing the blouse that she's offered me and her black ankle-length trousers that happen to be almost my size. Turning away from her, I keep on fasting small buttons, obviously, trying to play for time. A few minutes ago, I was like in the epicenter of a great tornado: in the exact "safe" middle part where any minute could be fatal.

***

"And you believed her? What does your blood have to do with it?!" Hebe's indignant.

"Guess what? She was very convincing!" I exclaim in despair.

Hebe's robe falls from her shoulders to the floor, but she doesn't even think to pick it up. Usually people look a little strange to me when they are completely naked but not this damn witch! Hebe looks like a proud amazon woman, only her noble stud is missing: she's strong, flexible, her abs are clearly visible as if she never leaves fitness clubs. It can be seen that she is tired after the injury: her shoulder still seems a little swollen and for some reason her "snakes" avoid spinning on the skin where she was wounded. I gulp. Compared to her and her beautiful naturally tan brown skin, I seem to be like a plump piece of white marshmallow, slightly charred by the fire. I put my hand first to my chest, then to my neck, as if trying to calm myself.

"Do you really think that virgins' blood is so necessary? Well, maybe for such lunatics as Alba, who constantly practice necromancy and all sorts of old-fashioned spells, that make sense..." Her voice trails off, as if she's trying to calm her anger, "...  pfff... virginity and virgins' blood is a relative concept: it has nothing to do with the first penetration. All is here," the witch taps her forefinger on her temple, "long ago everything was tied to traditions that were strongly intertwined with the emotions of impressionable medieval god-fearing damsels. Most of them fearfully believed that if a man fucked you (especially when not on your wedding night), that made you dirty, unclean, impure. And I know witches have taken advantage of that: virgins' shyness, shame, insecurity, strong sense of sin when they think about physical desires – the perfect mixture for a perfect, terrible spell, uhm, for example, summoning ghosts and dead shadows from the looking glass reflections. And now... pffft, judge for yourself! Do you really feel so inexperienced now, do you still feel like a virgin?" The witch furrows her brows and lifts her chin, her resilient breasts give a little jump, "I bet you don't feel innocent anymore. Especially after I played with you in the log cabin."

I blush, feeling tight between my legs: she was right: for a long time I've been feeling different from what I used to be. From the moment she squeezed me with her strong body against the mirror on our first day... the moment I felt her skin against mine; the moment I realized how I needed these kind of sensations. But I didn't tell her about it, I just stare at my shaking fingers.

"Mmm... Maybe you were not as pure as I thought... What's your friend's name once again? Masha? Dasha? So many "sh" in these pet Russian names! I bet she already tried to get at you, court you maybe?"

I give her a frightened look, as if she caught me in bed kissing my best friend, "Dasha is my..."

"Riiight... Dasha... how could I forget?! Such a "rare" name!"

"... friend! She's straight. She has a boyfriend. Well, she used to have, but she's straight. You saw her boyfriend. In the kitchen. She's just my friend!" I'm obviously speaking very fast, being almost out of breath, and I don't know whom I'm trying to convince more: Hebe or myself.

***

I can still hear the pulse beating in my temples. Hebe asks nothing more about Dasha, but it seems to me that the conversation is not over. I haven't done anything wrong, but the nasty feeling inside my chest is getting bigger and deeper. Dasha is my best friend nothing more. Why did Hebe spark this conversation at all; why did she decide to question me about her? I only mentioned Dasha's name once when we first met.

When I finally dealt with all the buttons, I turned to the witch, carefully tucking the blouse into the trousers. She has been ready to leave for a long time; there's a possibility she was shamelessly watching me. Just look at her! Such a classic Hebe: light blue jeans and lose, misshaped, sleeveless shirt.

"I smashed the mirror you fell out of," I say, trying not to show how scared I am, but my trembling voice probably gives me away. "It seemed to me that this was the only way to stop the pursuer. There was someone else in the mirror. I'm sure of that, but I only saw something blurred."

Hebe is blinking quickly, as if trying to get rid of something, "There are other portals here, but not so convenient, unfortunately." Her countenance seem to soften a little when she watches me trying to fix the naughty button just over my bare breasts. "You did everything right. It's a pity we can't get here directly from izba and back anymore. But we are not looking for easy ways!" she summed up, humorously saying something that is resembling an old soviet slogan.

She confidently and imperiously takes my hand and leads me to the balcony. I reluctantly obey her, taking one last look at the beautiful view behind: a spacious room with a large white bed, and pretty wicker chairs, and soft cushions, and my languid night memories. It makes me very sad: what if it's the last time I see this place? What if I'm losing my paradise?