My Precious Angel

This is a reworked story based on one I had previously written, but for some reason, it doesn't seem as good. Comments and critiques are welcome.

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    There was just the slightest hint of fall in the air as I descended the granite steps of the New Orleans Museum of Art into the late September evening.  Darkness had already begun to fall and I nervously tucked a strand of stray hair behind my ear, a bit uneasy about making the walk to my rented room on Desaix Boulevard all alone.  This area of the city, around City Park, was not the safest.  Of course, it was nothing compared to downtown or the lower ninth ward.  Still a young woman walking alone was an easy target; and, although I had made this trip many times before without incident, I wasn’t comfortable tempting fate.

    I was in my first year of graduate studies in art history at the University of New Orleans, and I considered myself lucky to have found a room for rent where I did.  It was centrally located between the museum, where I spent a lot of my time, the funky little art gallery on St. Bernard where I worked part time, and the University up on the lake.  Plus it was cheap, never a bad thing when you were a college student on a tight budget. The little apartment was over a garage and had everything I needed, a full bathroom with a tub, a tiny kitchen and a space in the garage underneath to park my beat up Honda Civic.  I really hadn’t intended to stay at the museum so long, and regretted not taking the car. It was times like this that I envied the girls who had boyfriends to walk home with and not worry about being assaulted, but alas, that would never be my fate.  From as early on as I could remember, I had always preferred the company of other girls and that never changed as I grew older. In fact, my first real crush was on my middle school teacher, Miss Ann.  From that point on, as much as I cursed it and tried to fight it, I knew deep down that I was gay.

    As I walked, I considered my options. Normally I would have strolled along the boulevard on the west bank, taking in the views of City Park, and crossing Bayou St. John at Desaix. At this hour, that no longer seemed particularly wise, so I decided to cross on Esplanade and head up the street on the other side of the bayou.  At least on that side I would pass a by police station which would hopefully discourage anyone with criminal intent. Of course, it would also entail walking by the cemetery, but then it wouldn’t be New Orleans without a little spookiness thrown in. 

    I crossed my arms, wishing I had brought a sweater and as I rounded the corner at Moss, passing in front of the Esplanade Apartments.  Further down, just past the police station, I passed a row of houses fronting St. Louis Cemetery #3 and the chill grew stronger.

    “Beth?” the voice, a feminine voice, came out of the darkness between two houses. My initial instinct was to run, but the tone of the voice was not threatening in the least, in fact, it was more questioning. “Beth is that really you?” The voice repeated.  Clearly, whoever it belonged to knew who I was, and at this point I couldn’t have been more relieve … even though I didn’t quite know who it was. Gradually, a pale face emerged from the darkness.  Frustrated, I tried to put a name with the face – gosh she looked so familiar.  “It’s me, Grace … Grace Brandt.”

    “Oh my, God, Grace … Gracie … I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s just that …”

    “Oh, it’s alright,” she responded quietly as she stepped further into the light from a nearby streetlamp.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

    I had first met Gracie over two years ago when she was a freshman.  I had been jogging along Lakeshore Drive on a cool, misty November morning and I noticed a figure huddled in a jacket sitting on a bench by the lake.  As I passed, thought I heard a sob, but dismissed it and continued on my way. I was feeling the effects of the cold and the sweat and rain soaking through my fleece sweats. I wanted nothing more at the moment than to hit the locker room and dry off, then grab a cup of coffee at the student center … but I couldn’t.  Stopping, I turned around and walked back to the bench.  I didn’t really know what to do.  I didn’t want to intrude, but if someone was in distress, it wasn’t in my nature not to try and help. “Excuse me,” I said as gently as I could and touching the person on the shoulder.  A young girl of 17 or 18 turned to face me.  She was cute, if a little on the overweight side with fine, curly blonde hair and very fair skin.  Her face was streaked with tears and her eye liner had begun to run.  Other than the coat, she wasn’t dressed for the weather with a lightweight cotton blouse and knit skirt. “I’m terribly sorry, “I began, “and I don’t want to intrude, but you sounded like you were in distress … and I’m a bit worried … I mean I wouldn’t want you to get sick out here. Can I… can I maybe buy you a cup of coffee, get you out of this rain?” She just looked at me for a few moments before flashing a hint of a smile and nodding. I walked back to the student center with her, otherwise allowing her to be alone with her thoughts. 

    Bypassing the locker room, I led her to the café and grabbed a table in one corner of the room. “I’m Elizabeth Melencon, but most people just call me Beth,” I introduced myself, offering a hand.

    “Grace,” she replied in a fragile, tiny voice. “…well I prefer to be called Gracie.” 

    “Well Gracie, I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee … or tea, or soda. Which do you prefer?”

    The offer of coffee was accepted and I took the opportunity to watch her as I ordered two coffees at the counter.  She sat stock still and had made no attempt to remove her jacket.  I was no psychologist, but she was clearly in need of some help and the nurturer in me couldn’t leave well enough alone.  I returned to the table and offered her a smile in an attempt to cheer her up.  “I don’t know quite what to say,” I offered.  “It’s just that you looked really unhappy, and, well, I’m an insufferable busybody,” I said trying to lighten the mood.  “But really,” I continued seriously, “I’d like to help, if I can.”

    She looked at me, apparently trying to gauge my trustworthiness, so I put on my best big sister face and waited for her to open up to me. As it turned out she was an incoming freshman from in-town and had just found out she was pregnant.  Her boyfriend had promptly dumped her, calling her a “fat whore”, and now she had to tell her parents who were staunch Catholics and would certainly be less than supportive when they found out.  Well, that was certainly more than I had planned for when I offered my help, but I found myself irresistibly drawn to the young girl.  It wasn’t a sexual thing, though I did find her physically attractive.  It was something else, something I sensed about her.  We ended up talking for hours and found we had a lot in common; she even ended up talking about her boyfriend , and we both agreed that she was better off without that abusive rat.  I told her what her options were in regard to her pregnancy.  She was determined to have the baby since she didn’t believe in abortion, but decided that it was probably best to put it up for adoption so he or she could have the best life possible.

    We sort became buddies during that last year of my undergraduate studies, she would drop by and we would have a cup of coffee and she would tell me how things were going with her and her pregnancy.  Her attitude was great and she was doing well in school.  We lost touch over the summer and someone told me she had been sick and dropped out of school.  They weren’t able to provide any details and I hoped things had turned out okay. 

    Now here she was.  “Gosh, it’s great to see you,” I said.  “You’ve lost some weight.”  Truth was, she looked rather too thin, and I wondered if she was still ill.  She was wearing loose, thin, white cotton dress with short sleeves; I couldn’t believe she wasn’t cold, standing there like that in the chilly air.

    “Yeah,” she admitted non-committally, looking down at her feet.  “I had some trouble with the baby. It was pretty scary, but fortunately it – she – turned out fine.”

    “Oh, I’m so glad,” I replied.  “So you went through with the adoption?”

    “Yes, and I know I made the right decision,” she smiled.  “She is going to be so happy with her new parents.”

    “I’m so happy things turned out well for you.  So, do you live around here now?” I asked.

    “Uh, yeah,” she replied, gesturing over her shoulder. “Listen, I’d like to talk … if you have the time.”

    “Sure, I guess,” I answered.  I really wanted to get home, but I couldn’t resist Gracie’s fragile little-girl-like enthusiasm. I allowed her to lead the way, between two of the houses. From the fragile moonlight that filtered through the trees, I could make out a freestanding garage with a room above, I could only assume that’s where she was living, although no light shone from within.  She continued on, however, toward a line of trees separating the lots from the cemetery.

    “Uh, Gracie, where are we going?” I asked in a quiet voice, as if the sound would truly wake the dead.

    “It’s alright,” she replied lightly. “I come back here all the time. It’s quiet and it lets me think. You don’t need to worry. People are always coming through here, even at night. I guess it’s sort of a thrill thing, like the ghost tours in the Quarter.”

    I followed her reluctantly.  Graveyards were never my thing, even though I’ve never believed in ghosts, per se. They were spooky anyway, especially at night. Besides what if there were robbers or rapists around? Of course, it didn’t occur to me that robbers and rapists probably considered cemeteries just as spooky at night as I did, and they could certainly find more comfortable locales to commit their crimes. Gracie had walked only a short way before she came upon a concrete bench and sat down, gesturing toward me to do the same.

    “Kinda, weird,” I whispered, looking around as if I expected to be attacked by the undead at any moment.

    “Relax,” she soothed.  She paused briefly, and then looked at me with her big innocent blue eyes. “I always wanted to thank you,” she began, “but I really didn’t know how.  At first I guess I was just afraid, and then … well, I got sick and I never did get the opportunity.”

    “Afraid?” I asked. “Afraid of what?”

    “Well,” she looked down at the ground. “…I just … I just,” she sighed as if struggling with some great inner turmoil. She looked determinedly at me, apparently having resolved to come clean. “I’m in love with you, Beth. I have been since the first day I met you. God, I knew it was wrong, so wrong to love another girl but I couldn’t help myself. I … tried. I tried and tried not to, because I knew God would punish me if I did … and after getting pregnant … well, I had already made him mad enough. And then when I got sick, well, I knew why, of course.” The words had tumbled out like a great dam had been breached, I couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise, even if I had wanted to; but I was too stunned by Gracie’s admission that I was at a loss for words anyway.

    She just looked so … so …meek, so innocent, almost angelic. I tried to sort through the wreckage of my own feelings. I was as if a bomb had exploded in my brain and fragments of my emotions were scattered about. I felt myself suddenly very attracted to the fragile young woman seated beside me, while at the same time arguing with myself that this was wrong. I had long since left any qualms about my own sexuality behind, but the truth was that I hardly knew Gracie. Other than the one year we’d had together as friends, I didn’t know much about the real Gracie at all. But God, she looked so beautiful now, the loose dress she had on hung over her slender frame like a celestial robe and moonlight reflected off the wispy curls framing her ivory complexion. Her deep blue eyes stared at me, searching for some indication that I had been able to process and her admission and come to some sort of conclusion.

    Without waiting for a response, she leaned forward and kissed me delicately, like a butterfly alighting on a flower. She drew back and apparently taking my continued silence as a sign of assent, she wordlessly began to unfasten the buttons on my blouse with her thin childlike fingers. Dumb with shock, and by this point, mounting desire, I simply sat there and watched as she intently focused on her task. I felt the chill of the night breeze as she pushed the blouse from my shoulders and gently began to nibble at my neck at just the point it sloped down to the shoulder. I knew I should probably have stopped her, but it had been a long time, far too long, since I had felt another woman touch me in that way. I surrendered to the sensations as I felt her arms around me searching for the clasp on my bra, then effortlessly releasing the catch. She briefly leaned back to remove the interfering garment before recapturing me in her embrace. She seemed far more practiced at this than I would have expected. I obviously knew she was no virgin, but I never would have pictured her in the role of the skilled lesbian seductress she was turning out to be.

    Gently she pushed me back on the bench, the cold concrete on the bare skin of my back raising goose pimples. I was hot and cold at the same time, an unexpectedly unpleasant sensation. Her lips were all over my breasts and stomach, devouring my flesh with her gentle kisses and love bites. My hands went to the back of her head, my fingers entwining myself in her fine blonde curls, directing her to spots most in need of her attentions.

    She detached herself from me, a frustrated whimper escaping from my lips, but it was only to slip the dress over her head.  She was wearing nothing underneath and her pale alabaster skin positively glowed in the bright moonlight, once again drawing comparisons to an angel. Her hands moved almost automatically to the buttons of my jeans, which she quickly had unfastened. Frantically I grasped at her hands, suddenly worried that we would be seen by some casual passers-by. “God, Gracie,” I stuttered, suppressing an urge to giggle at the kinkiness of it all, “what if somebody sees us?”

    “Nobody will see us, silly; it’s after dark,” she explained.

    “I thought … I thought you said people walk through here all the time.”

    “I was a little dishonest about that,” she admitted, “but what could I say? Would you have come back her if I didn’t?”

    “Um, probably not,” I had to admit.

    “See,” she said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Then she smiled a big smile as she bent down to slide my jeans down, taking my panties along with them.

    I felt very vulnerable just then, lying naked on my back on a concrete bench in full view of anyone who might pass by, light chilly breezes tickling my bare skin, my clothing lying crumpled on the grass around us. Yet I somehow felt safe, as if Gracie were my own personal guardian angel, there to keep me from harm.  Then, I willfully surrendered myself to her, opening my thighs to allow her access as she crouched down placing her tender mouth on my most sacred place. Her lips tongue flicked along my inner thighs, causing me to shiver, before delving into my moistened slit. Skillfully, her tongue probed the inner folds of my labia and alit upon my throbbing clit, drawing a surprised yelp from the depths of my throat.  I sighed deeply as I finally felt the tip of her tongue slip past the outer boundary of my pussy. A finger soon joined in, exploring ever deeper, my gentle sighs turning to deep, pleading moans. God, how could she be so good?

    My climax came upon me almost unexpectedly, like a big cat silently stalking its prey and then pouncing with incredible force. An incredible feeling of release washed over me, and an overpowering warmth suffused my entire body.  Muscle contractions wracked my cunt and my fingers clutched frantically at the top of her head, still firmly planted between my legs. I realized I was crying her name over and over, “Gracie, oh Gracie”.

      Overcome with emotion, I sat straight up and grabbed Gracie’s emaciated shoulders and pushed her up against the wall of a nearby marble crypt, completely covering her mouth with my own, kissing her desperately, probing every corner with my tongue. I could not get enough. I suddenly wanted her more than I had ever wanted anyone in my life. I wanted to possess every inch of this young woman. “Gracie, oh Gracie,” I moaned between kisses, “why didn’t I see this before?  God, you are so beautiful. You are my angel, my precious angel.”

    Suddenly, she grasped my head with such force that my eyes snapped open. She was staring directly at me with a look of abject terror in her eyes. Before I realized what was happening she shook herself free from my embrace and dashed around the corner of the tomb. Not realizing what possibly could have happened I followed in the direction in which she had disappeared. As I rounded the corner, she was not there.  Ignoring my nakedness, I called out for her, “Gracie … Gracie … where are you? What’s wrong? Gracie?”  I desperately searched the pathways around the nearby mausoleums, half expecting to see her hunched over and sobbing for some unknown hurt I had caused her.  She was so vulnerable and perhaps I had come on too strong, but she was gone, and a deep sense of loss settled upon me as I retrieved my jeans and blouse. I slipped back into my jeans and as was buttoning my top, I wandered over to the tomb against which I had recently held Gracie and absentmindedly read the engraved  text.

    Thomas Lee Guillory Sept. 3, 1931 – Aug. 12, 1985

    Annette Willard Guillory May 21, 1935 – Jan. 8, 1999

    The next entry made my blood run cold and my cheeks flush.  My vision began to blur as my mind absorbed what I was reading …

      Grace “Gracie” Guillory Nov. 6, 1992 – July 27, 2010 “Rest in peace, our precious angel.”