DOMESTIC FRICTION

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2009

Low grey storm clouds were scudding across the sky above the slate roofs of the ‘New Town’ district of Edinburgh. They matched Veronica’s temper, as she paced the living-room floor of the two-bedroom apartment, in a foul mood which she was working up into an even fouler one. The flat was very well situated, occupying the top floor of a converted 1820s town house in an elegant street near Charlotte Square. Veronica had been renting it for just over two years, since graduating from Edinburgh University and getting a job with a company which had its head office in the city. She was now nearly twenty-four years old, and had begun to feel that she was stuck in a rut, that her life was passing by without actually going anywhere. Even the view across the rooftops to the ancient castle on its rocky crag, a sight which usually she enjoyed, was having no ameliorative effect today.

Veronica had originally rented the flat with one of her closest university friends, and had continued a kind of student lifestyle. Even though they were both working in quite demanding jobs, they still went out a lot with their former university friends, many of whom also remained in the city. However, her friend had been offered a promotion too good to refuse but which entailed a transfer to Glasgow, and so had moved out. Veronica had passed around the word that she was in need of a new (female) flat-mate amongst her social circle and work colleagues (a better and safer method than advertising and taking in a complete stranger). There were two or three enquiries, and, after considering these, she had offered the empty bedroom to Kyla, who was the friend of a woman at work. Veronica did not know Kyla well, having only met her in fleeting encounters at a few parties, but she seemed to be cheerful and pleasant.

They had now been sharing for a couple of months, and Veronica was coming to regret her decision. At first, they had got on really well, taking turns on the weekdays to cook an evening meal and sitting together in the small kitchen for several hours, chatting and laughing. However, during the last three weeks the atmosphere had slowly changed, tension had been mounting, and they were getting on each others’ nerves over small and silly things. Veronica was becoming both cross and depressed about it, wondering what had gone sour after such a promising beginning, and alternating between blaming herself for being dull and boring, little Miss Stay-at-home, and Kyla for being pushy, condescending and – yes, let’s say it, slutty.

One of the first points of irritation for Veronica was Kyla’s habit of wandering about the flat with very little on – often just bikini panties or a thong, combined with a bra, a skimpy halter-neck or a cut-off T-shirt, in her ankle-socks or barefoot. She would also wander back and forth between her own room and the bathroom (which she occupied for annoyingly long periods of time, and then had the cheek to suggest that Veronica was slow!) in the nude, or with a towel slung loosely around her hips and bare breasts. In her more honest moments, Veronica was prepared to admit to herself that some of her resentment was due to Kyla’s better figure, and a probably unjust feeling that she liked to show it off.

Kyla had the much curvier shape, with quite large breasts (swaying in a naggingly eye-catching way as she walked around half-nude or – worse – in a push-up bra, as if her ripe mounds needed any further prominence!) above a surprisingly narrow waist, and then the flare of her hips and an ass that jutted as if to balance the fullness of her chest. Kyla was a brunette, with very curly hair which she kept in a neatly-shaped short style, and this framed an attractively-proportioned face with laughing brown eyes and slightly-pouting full lips. Her height, which Veronica guessed was about five feet nine inches, was accentuated outside the flat by her penchant for high heels on her shoes and boots – and Veronica reluctantly had to admit that the bitch did look good in the combination of boots, a short skirt and a tight top. No, actually, Veronica corrected her own thoughts, she looked slutty – an easy lay; Veronica vexedly imagined that Kyla was probably spreading her legs several times every night for men who casually chatted her up in the bars or clubs that she frequented on Saturday nights – Veronica didn’t know exactly where, because Kyla often disappeared late on Saturday afternoon and didn’t return until Sunday evening, and never once invited Veronica to accompany her. Now that was downright rude and unfriendly, fumed Veronica, whilst simultaneously determining that of course she would not have gone to such low and sleazy places anyway! Of course, Kyla’s long absences were directly due to Veronica having made it clear at the outset that there must be no bringing of lovers back to the flat; she had recently reaffirmed that, saying rather crudely that she had no desire to wake up and find herself in a bordello.

It was likely that an unconscious prompt for that catty remark (as she rather guiltily knew that it had been) was something which Veronica had noticed with surprise a week or so after Kyla first moved in – that her new flat-mate kept her pussy shaved. It was one of the first times that Veronica had seen Kyla naked, when the well-endowed brunette had emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her hair, and no other covering at all. Veronica had been shocked but intrigued; she knew that she was rather obviously staring at Kyla’s cunt, but somehow couldn’t stop herself. Kyla had stopped in her tracks, as Veronica was partly blocking the way. With an effort, Veronica had dragged her eyes upwards, to meet a curiously bemused expression on her flat-mate’s face. At once, Veronica had blushed and turned swiftly aside, discomfited and somehow unsettled. From the corner of her eye, she had seen a cross-looking Kyla push hurriedly past her and dart into her own room, firmly closing the door.

Veronica was by no means unattractive herself, but she knew that she was just nicely average in all departments. Her hair was dark blonde or light brunette depending on how you wanted to describe it, but neither really the one thing or the other. It was the same with her body: average height (five feet five inches), nice breasts but nothing amazing (she took a 32B bra size), reasonably slim body, an ass that looked good in a tight pair of jeans (but not so much that guys constantly turned for a second take after she walked past), and quite trim and shapely legs. Her hair was straight and medium length, coming down level to the second button of her shirt, in a plain and standard style of cut. For work, and for reading or watching TV in the flat, she wore glasses, and felt that they made her look rather prim and academic.

Veronica knew that she could look quite hot if she took time and trouble over it – but then, any youthful woman who was not overweight or had bad skin could do so: all it took was a visit to an expensive hair stylist, careful application of not too much make-up, a tight and skimpy low-fronted outfit, good boots, a hip-swaying walk and a bold look in the eye. She had used to get herself up like that quite often, but for the last couple of years she had bothered less and less – work took up so much time and energy, she was often just tired on the weekend and wanting a quiet rest. She had no current boyfriends, in fact she had never had a great deal of activity on that front: one boy at school (who had taken her virginity, which neither of them had actually enjoyed very much), two separate spells at college (but most of the time without one), and one rather desultory affair with a work colleague which had petered out by mutual consent about six months ago. So part of Veronica’s frustration was due to her own unsatisfactory love-life, and the desert she thought that it was in comparison to her lurid imagining of Kyla’s wild and carefree couplings. However, Veronica just couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm to doll herself up and hawk her pussy around the singles bars, whether for a one-night stand or something longer lasting – somehow, it all seemed tawdry and unsatisfactory. Even so, her solitariness was getting her down, and she felt that Kyla was rubbing her nose it, flaunting herself and her physical superiority.

There had been an embarrassing incident just a few days previously, when Veronica had been in the bathroom and, out of curiosity, had taken down from the drying rack one of Kyla’s black under-wired bras for a closer look – as she thought, it was three sizes bigger than her own, a 32 double-D. She had held it against her chest for comparison, and of course just at that moment Kyla had swanned into the bathroom looking for it, wearing only the matching pair of skimpy lace-decorated string panties. Veronica had been mortified to be caught in this way, and had stammered something about thinking that it might be one of hers – and she had felt that the slight smile which Kyla had given her as she removed the garment from Veronica’s frozen fingers had signalled as clearly as if she had spoken it: ‘in your dreams’.

Following this, there had been a series of niggles on both their parts, made worse when – partly from her shame about the bra incident – Veronica had passed some catty comments about Kyla walking around the place as if auditioning to be a stripper. The busty girl had gone white, then crimson, and had stalked angrily from the living room into her bedroom, loudly slamming the door behind her. In her turn, Kyla considered Veronica to be controlling, bossy, frustrated, and generally coming on as an uptight snotty bitch. Just because she had the flat first doesn’t make her the Queen, fumed Kyla; after all, they each paid half of the rent and bills.

The breaking point came on the following Saturday.