The Witherspoons were at it again. It was a regular nightly thing. Something sets George off. The meat was too raw. The meat was too burnt. His favorite shirt was in the laundry. Why was the weather so hot? It didn't matter what, it always began that way, then escalating to shouting and throwing things. Mary would burst into tears, running next door to me, seeking refuge. She would cry on my shoulder, tell me how badly she was treated, what a shit her husband was, and how she didn't know how much longer she could put up with this kind of treatment.

I would hold her hands, listen to her complaints, and tell her that if she didn't do something soon, it would get physical. She then defended him, saying maybe it was her fault all along, that she would just try harder. I would dry her tears, give her a hug, and she would trudge back home. For it to happen again. Sometimes it would be quiet for a few days. But invariably it would happen again, and she would be back at my door.

I guess I'm the logical person to comfort her. I'm a single woman in a working-class family neighborhood. It took some time after I moved in before the wives understood I wasn't interested in poaching their husbands. Not that it was any action on my part, I just don't like men "that way." Really, never did. Oh, I had boyfriends during my school years, middle through college. Even a few relationships. But sex with men was never stimulating, just messy rutting. I felt like I had all the responsibilities and received none of the benefits. Birth control. Clean up the mess the man made. Have him shoot that nasty stuff in my mouth, my vagina (BUT NEVER MY ANUS!), all over my face. It made me feel unclean. It wasn't until college, when a teaching assistant introduced me to love from a woman, that I finally found what I had been missing. I never looked back.

Every time I watched Mary return to that asshole, I wondered how I would treat her differently if she were mine. She was cute, mid-20s, and had that hard body that comes from growing up doing real work. I kept hoping she would come to her senses and move out before it became too late.

Too late arrived on a Friday night. It was just after dark when the sounds of their fight reached my window. Crashing of things being thrown. Shouting and screaming. Then, something new. A soul-searing woman's shriek. I turned on the light and stepped onto my porch as their door slammed open, Mary dashing across the lawn to me.

As she came into the light's halo, what I saw froze my blood. The left side of her face was bruised dark purple, her eye swollen shut. Her nose was bleeding, the front of her apron stained bright red. Her right eye was wild with panic. She stumbled on the grass, staining her hands and knees, but immediately leaped up and ran into my arms.

"Oh, please, please, Angela, please, you've got to help me. He's drunk and I can't reason with him. Now he's hit me and I'm afraid! Please, please, don't let him get me!"

I put my arms around her, hugged her to me, patted her back. In a hard, low voice that shocked me, I said, "Come inside, honey. You're safe here. He won't get to you."

I ushered her inside as I saw George stagger out their door, looking right at me. He headed for my house.

I sat her in the kitchen, a wet towel for her bleeding nose, an ice pack for her bruised face. I knew I had an imminent visitor.

I have a previous girlfriend who is a policewoman. One of the things we often discussed was how a woman could protect herself. She recommended a billy club for home defense. The one she got me was about eighteen inches long and shaped like a miniature baseball bat. I took it from the closet shelf as he hammered on the door.

I held the club in my right hand behind my thigh and opened the door with my left. There he stood, bent at the waist, hair disheveled, vomit on his shirt, fly unzipped, and it looked like he had wet himself. His left hand on the door casing kept him from falling.

"Where's that useless cunt of a wife? I saw her come here. Get her out here before I give you some of what she got."

A hurricane of blinding rage swept through me, only for an instant. I wanted to smash his face. It passed.

He leaned forward and made to step inside.

"STOP!" I looked into his eyes and, with a voice that sounded cold even to me, said, "If you set foot in this house, I will knock you out. Then I will call the cops and report you for threatening to beat me for helping your wife after you beat her. They will take your unconscious carcass to the hospital and then to jail. You should just go back home now and sleep it off while you can."

I'm nearly as big as he is, but I should have guessed he wouldn't be intimidated by a woman. He stepped into the doorway.

What happened next wasn't exactly like I said. I brought the club out from behind my thigh and raised it. His arms went up to ward off the blow. That's when I kicked him in the gonads. He went up onto his toes, his arms dropped, too late to protect his family jewels, his knees buckled, and his eyes bugged out of his head as he gave a high-pitched, little-girl squeal. After that, yeah, it was exactly like I said.

The police came, took our statements, and photographed Mary's injuries. She declined medical treatment, and the aid car hauled George's unconscious ass away.

After he was gone, I sat with Mary at the kitchen table. "I warned you this would happen. Now that it's gotten physical, you won't be safe staying with him."

She was bawling. "What can I do? I don't work, I have no money, and I have nowhere else to go."

I took her hands. "Look at me." She lifted her battered face, fear, pain, and uncertainty beneath the bruising. "If you do what I suggest, you will never have to see him again. If you don't, there's no one who can help you."

"Okay," she said in a small voice.

The next day, I called a lady attorney I knew who owed me a few favors. Big favors. Don't ask why. She howled bloody murder when I told her what I wanted, but with only moderate arm-twisting, she agreed to help. By the end of the week, George Witherspoon was destitute. Their bank accounts were now in her name alone. His name was off the house deed. His credit cards were cancelled. Everything held either jointly or just in his name was now in her name alone. His employer fired him for missing work (he was being held in jail, with no bond, charged with assault and domestic violence), and Mary collected his last paycheck. There was a small retirement account she couldn't get at, but she would get half in the settlement of the divorce action just filed. And he was still in jail. With no money to pay an attorney for either the divorce or criminal case, he wasn't going to be a problem.

We sat in my kitchen sharing a bottle of pretty good Cabernet, recapping the week. Mary now had a place to live, money to pay the bills, and was safe from her soon-to-be ex-husband. Her nose wasn't broken (thank God!) and the gruesome bruising on her face had been reduced to a small mouse under her eye, mostly covered by concealer.

Refilling our glasses, I said, "You're set for the next few months, but you have to figure out your life going forward. You could sell the house, invest the proceeds, and rent a small apartment until you get things figured out. That's one option. A financial advisor would be a better person to help you."

"Oh God, Angela, I wish I had listened to you before. None of this might have happened."

I took her hands, leaned forward and said, "You're a good person, Mary Witherspoon. Now that you are on your own, you will be okay."

Sobbing, she hugged me, and I kissed her cheek. And my libido flamed up.

Jesus Christ, Angela Morgan! She's a wounded duck, and here you are looking to pluck and eat her! Where are your morals? Where's your empathy?

I cleared my throat. "There's something I have to tell you," I said, holding her away from me. "I'm a... a..."

"Lesbian? That's been no secret for quite some time now. We've been seeing women come and go, but never a man. You're the scandal of the neighborhood, Angela Morgan. And something of a celebrity. All the other women want to meet you, but they're afraid of what their husbands would do. I think even some husbands believe you might try to seduce their wives. You've given us something to gossip about."

Knock me over with a feather. So much for trying to be discreet.

"What about you? Being seen with me this often, won't they think you've gone over to the other side?"

There was fire in her voice. "Well, to quote a favorite saying of my dear departed father, "Fuck 'em! None of them stood by me before you came, so I don't give a shit what they think!" And she kissed me on the lips.

I held her away. "I don't think this is a good idea. You've just had life-changing trauma, and I don't think you're thinking clearly."

"Bullshit. This has lifted the blinders from my eyes and I can see more clearly now than I ever have. I've been submitting to his unloving fucking for so long that I don't know if it ever was good. Just him getting himself off and leaving me frustrated. I want to be held, to be loved, to feel the joy that has been missing in my life. I'm not some starry-eyed teen, innocent in the ways of the world. I desperately crave the attention I know you can give me and I don't care if it's for a day, week, month, or forever. If you want me to say I love you, I will. And I will mean it. For as long as I feel it. I need you to make me feel whole again, to help make Mary Witherspoon the independent woman she is going to have to be to get along as a single woman in the world."

I was stunned. I've had a lot of one-nighters, several affairs, and a couple of relationships, but none of those women ever spoke to me the way Mary Witherspoon just did. I was speechless. The earnest look on her face gave me pause. Our eyes stayed locked as my mind raced. Was she looking for a fling or something more permanent? Was I ready to commit if it were more permanent? The small-minded women in the neighborhood would almost certainly ostracize her. Could she handle the rejection of her erstwhile friends? Lesbian loving is radically different from anything she had previously experienced. Would she reject it as too different? Too distasteful? These, and a million other questions, raced as I tried to read her thoughts. But she did better reading mine. She stood up, came to me and put her arms around my neck, lifting my face and kissing me so tenderly on the lips.

"Let's go upstairs," she whispered.

My mind was numb as she led the way. It had been me often enough, leading my next conquest to my lair. Now I was the lamb. I watched her as she climbed the stairs. Head erect, back straight, shoulders high. No hesitation for what she surely knew was ahead. She walked through the bedroom door, across the room to the bed, and turned to me. I stopped just inside the door. Our eyes met, hers bright and confident. I wondered if confusion showed in mine.

She spoke in a soft, even voice. "I've had more than my share of disappointment in my life. I married young to escape a family living near poverty and discovered it was no escape at all. His words of love proved hollow once we were married. He had his way with me whenever the whim struck him, my feelings be damned. Very quickly I found nothing I did satisfied him, from cooking and cleaning to the sex. If I hadn't kept going to the clinic and getting the implant, I would be a mamma at least five times over by now, and there would be no way out for me. You warned me his words would become physical but I didn't want to believe you. Then when it did happen, I ran to you, hoping you wouldn't turn me away with an 'I told you so.' You sheltered me, you took him on, even though I had no right to hope you would. Now that he's out of my life, forever I hope, I want life to give me those things marriage didn't."

She continued, "I want to be loved. I want to be held and cherished. I have a lot of love to give, but never had the opportunity because the man I married didn't want it. My self-esteem has taken a beating, but I know I have value; I just need a chance to show it.

Her voice became even lower. "I don't know anything about love between women. Sure, when I was in high school, we had sleepovers and played kissing games and maybe a little boob touching, but nothing like what I imagine goes on between grown adults. I'm willing to learn and I can be a good student. This isn't charity or a mercy fuck. I'm starved for affection and I know you can give it to me. If this ends up just a hookup, a one-night stand, then at least for once in my life I will have experienced the love and tenderness I so desperately crave."

She walked across the room, put her arms around me, drawing me to her. "I want you to show me how beautiful love between women can be. I want you to fuck me until I beg you to stop. I want you to make me forget years of abuse. Please."

Then I saw the tears in her eyes. And found them in mine, too. None of my previous lovers had ever come close to eliciting these emotions. She had reached into my heart and opened a window to things I had never felt before. I leaned in and softly brushed my lips against hers. Our eyes remained open as our kiss gained intensity. My arms went around her, lifting her by her ass, and I walked her backwards to the bed. When her knees met the edge, she sat down and laid back, drawing me with her.

I saw the fire in her eyes. My blood heated up. We separated only long enough to remove our clothes and resume our kiss. We soon were both naked, with me crouched over her, seeing both hunger and fear in her face.

"I'm going to make love to you now," I whispered. "If there's anything you don't like, anything at all, tell me. I'm going to show you how wonderful love between two people can be."

I began with her lips, tracing them with the tip of my tongue. I moved to her eyes, then ears, licking inside the cup, nibbling on the lobe. My tongue swirled along the crease of the inner elbow on her right arm, licking her inner wrist (where you take a pulse). I held her hand, watching her eyes as my tongue traced up and down the two parallel lines on her palm. Her building arousal showed as her eyes followed me. Her breathing became deeper as I progressed.

I moved over to her breasts, drawing her nipples in a vacuum, sucking like a straw as the flat of my tongue pressed on them, rubbing up and down. I took those nips between my teeth and gently gnawed them as they became engorged. Continuing south, down to her navel (an innie), tonguing its outline and flicking inside. I saw her brow tighten, concerned. Did she think maybe the next stop was her vulva? But my journey was not done. I raised her right leg and kissed the back of her knee, sucking and licking like a French kiss. This elicited a gasp, and her face beamed with delight. Then to her feet. If you haven't had your big toe sucked, you should put it high on the agenda for your next play date.

But it was time to end the tour. As I moved up between her legs, little kisses and love bites to the insides of both thighs, I arrived at my destination.

She was hot enough to fuck. Literally. Her whole lower pelvis was heated. Her vagina had leaked so much there was a large wet spot on the sheet. She had small outer lips, and I could see the inner ones were red and swollen, seeming to wink at me. Her clitoris was out, looking for attention. Fortunately, most of her pubic hair was removed, so everything was on display and there for the taking.

Dinner was served.

Gentle blowing on her clit elicited a shudder. My tongue traced a line beginning at the bottom outside of one outer lip, tracing from bottom to top, across the clit and down the other side. Then I switched to the inside and reversed. Slow and easy, back and forth, again and again. Her hands moved to my head, her fingers twined into my hair. Her pelvis began a slight undulation, begging for stronger contact.

My thumbs held her outer lips apart as my tongue moved inside, moving up and down over the inner lips. Her breathing became gasping. I started rapidly licking from her perineum to her clit, like a dog at a water bowl.

Her fingers grabbed my hair, pulling my face into her vagina. Her hips were now violently thrusting against my mouth. She was huffing now, chanting, "OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod." I could see between her breasts, her eyes screwed shut, and neck muscles taut. Two fingers into her vagina, up against its anterior wall. Her "G" spot should be right about... there.

It was. Her head and shoulders stayed on the bed, but her pelvis shot straight up, her fingers in my hair keeping my face firmly against her sex. Her orgasm broke in waves over her, her wail undulating like a European police siren. When she finally came down, her face wore the look I had seen on so many other women over the years. Eyes closed, lips parted, a slight smile, face relaxed. The look of a well-fucked, well-satisfied woman.

I moved up and we cuddled, enjoying the after-sex glow. She moved a hand to my breast, looked up at me and asked, "Is it my turn now?"

"Only if you want to. I wanted this to be your special night, and I hope it was."

"It was more than I had ever dreamed it could be. I want to show you how much, but I don't know how."

"If what I was doing felt good for you, it probably will for me too. Just stay with whatever you are comfortable. If I think you need help, I'll offer advice."

She turned out to be an excellent student. Of course, it helped a lot that I was already so overstimulated from pleasing her, I was already on the verge. I think I popped the first time within a minute after she began. She was so eager and had such skill that I finally had to tell her to stop. I couldn't remember the last time I had been so thoroughly fucked. In the end, we laid a towel over the wet spot, turned out the light, and slept.

That was three years ago. Since then, she has sold her house and moved in with me. More scandal in the neighborhood. She took some courses at the community college and was hired as an office assistant at a local manufacturing company. She's now taking night classes to become a paralegal. I never thought any woman could hold my heart like she has. And she tells me the same thing. How long will it last? There's no way for us to know, but that's true even for people in a traditional marriage. We're committed to each other, though, and that's what counts.