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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 tokat escort 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 yozgat escort 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 zonguldak escort 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.
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