Jean had been sulky the whole car trip. Polly stroked her hand that boys back home had always teased for being man-sized, hands that would clench into fists as she slammed them into their stupid noses. Polly thought they were lovely though. All of Jean was lovely to her auburn hair that shone red in the sun and hung over her shoulders to her dark intense eyes, her aquiline nose and thin mouth often smeared with the lipstick they had to wear and Jean hated, rubbing it off with her sleeve.
They were coming back to the hotel from a photo-shoot for some teen girl magazine. The stylist had been particularly infuriating. According to this wrinkled old woman who smelled of talcum powder and had lipstick on her teeth, Jean and Georgette's brows had to be plucked, Jean and Richelle should consider getting nose jobs, Georgette needed "those fangs fixed." She found absolutely nothing wrong with Polly.
"Such lovely hair and eyes and lips," the old bat had crowed with delight. "Don't ever cut that hair of yours my dear. Oh you look like a little Bambi, you darling thing."
"Don't cream your granny panties," Jean had said with an eye roll and the stylist had gasped, scandalized as the other girls burst into muffled giggles.
"All the other bands just put on a suit and they're done," Jean snarled to Brian in the back of the car, her arms crossed. "In Hamburg we didn't wear bloody make-up and daft matching dresses."
"You're the only Liverpool girl band, Lennon," Brian said. "I know, I know the double standard is crap. You don't need to tell me. You wouldn't even get a record deal looking how you did in Hamburg, you know it."
"Gotta get dolled up to sell records," Jean had replied with a sigh. Later after saying goodnight to Georgette and Richelle and retiring to their rooms, Polly watched, with a gnawing concern in her stomach as Jean barely touched the room service they'd ordered.
"She was like Aunt Mimi," she said as she smoked her second cigarette. "Trying to make me a proper young lady. Surprised she didn't say 'the music's good for a hobby but it's far too tomboyish, you need to find a nice man to marry already."
Polly just nudged their feet together.
"Eat your tea, Lennon," she said.
"Why so the next fucking stylist can call me fat?" Jean replied. Still, under Polly's stern gaze, she reluctantly dug in.
Polly's Da rung as Jean ran the bath. He was worried sick of course, he had gotten unbearably protective ever since her mother had passed. Polly reckoned he thought she'd be sexually assaulted a thousand times over or sold into sex slavery the second she stepped out of the house.
To be honest, she'd met Jean at the exact right time. She remembered being a fat little girl in a white dress with a flower in her hair watching the older girl play at Woolton Fete with a bunch of boys. She looked like one of them in her plaid shirt and jeans, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.
It seemed like one second she was a pudgy baby with a crush on the cool older girl, the next second her body had changed. She went from that Paula kid to pretty Polly who every second man leered and wolf-whistled at in the street, trying to look up her skirt and down her blouse. But she had Jean who would run after them yelling insults about their tiny dicks, Jean who would pummel any man with groping hands and wandering eyes. She was never worried with Jean around.
"I don't trust that manager," her Da said, something he repeated many times. "Is he making passes on you? I hear all sorts of things about these perverts in the music industry."
"Brian is completely and utterly uninterested in us, Da," said Polly. Brian had told them he was a homosexual which made the constant snide innuendo that Jean had slept with him to get them a record deal all the more infuriating. She'd sent Bob Wooler to hospital at Polly's twenty-first after he'd joked about it one too many times.
"Someone told me you went to that Bob Dylan's hotel room and he drugged you all," said Jim McCartney, a tone of panic in his voice. Polly covered her mouth to hide the grin. They had gone to Bob's room and he'd introduced them to pot. He'd been a gentleman and was fascinated by their music. Georgette had left the encounter with a schoolgirl crush.
"Just gossip and rumors," Polly reassured her father. "We're all fine I swear."
"You can't trust any of these men, my dear," he told her. "They look at you and just want one thing. And it'll be you with the tarnished image not them. Please be careful."
"I will," she replied.
After exchanging I love yous, she hung up. She stripped out of her dress and stockings, carefully hanging them up. She walked naked into the bathroom, smiling at Jean's dress and stocking bunched up on the tiled floor. The older woman was nearly hidden under the bubbles, her hair wet over her closed eyes. She opened them and they crinkled upwards into a smile.
"Next time we see the stylist, we'll see how she reacts to these," said Polly putting her arms over her head to display her thick dark armpit hair "Need a chainsaw to get through all of it, I swear. Not very ladylike."
Jean laughed. "Bambi was covered in fur as well, what does she expect?"
Polly climbed into the blissfully hot water, slipping into Jean's welcoming arms, Jean's chest against her back. Her hand immediately grabbed one of Polly's tits, making her laugh.
"Better then Bardot's?" she asked.
"Of course," said Jean, tweaking the nipple until it was hard and pointed. "That's the dream orgy you, me, Brigitte and Elvis."
Her sharp little chin dug into Polly's dark head as he her hand skimmed down her belly. Polly sighed as her lovely long fingers stroked the soft skin of her thighs. She pushed back, rubbing her bum against her lap, pressing her back into her firm little tits. Jean hummed a little as she slid higher between her legs.
Polly felt her eyes flutter shut and her lips part at the sweet stretch as her fingers entered her. The pad of her thumb tickled lightly at her hot pulsing clit, her other hand still playing with her nipples. They were oversensitive and it nearly hurt when Jean teased them. A lovely aching pain that made her skin tingle and shiver with heat.
"You reckon Bardot can get four fingers up her cunt like you can?" Jean breathed into her hair making Polly twist in her arms. The hot water surged and dripped down over the rim of the bath.
"Or the hairbrush?" Jean said, mouthing down her neck, teeth grazing her soft skin. "You think her little blond cunt could take it like you?"
"I wan' it," Polly murmured, rocking into her palm.
"Want what, love," Jean whispered, even though she knew already.
"Wan' the brush," Polly said her voice a high whine.
"Then get it," Jean said, releasing her from her grip, fingers plopping out of her. Polly rose to her knees, wiggling her arse a little, reaching for the bathroom sink. Jean brushed her hand down over the curve of her bum as Polly took the hairbrush. The handle was slightly rounded and ridged, the back of the brush decorated with flowers. It had been a gift from some stuffy relative of Jean's, a passive-aggressive gesture towards her unruly hair, which made it all the more delightful that it was barely used for its intended purpose.
She settled back down against Jean's chest and the older woman took her wrist guiding it down beneath the surface of the water. Polly whimpered when she felt the tip circle her clit, then slide up and down her throbbing heat. Jean's other hand stroked the curve of her waist as she began to push in. Polly felt her thighs tremble as inch by inch the brush sunk in. The bottom of her belly felt alight with fire, her inner walls clinging around the ridge of the handle.
"Such a tight little cunt," Jean whispered when she'd finished pushing it all in. "You take it so good, princess."
A breathless moan escaped her.
"Touch your pretty clit for me," she demanded and Polly obeyed, reaching down to stroke herself with her fingertip. Jean wrist flexed, dragging the handle in and out of her, the slurping, squelching sound echoing through the bathroom.
"If you were a man I'd have twelve of your kids already," Polly whispered breathlessly, feeling her release fast approaching.
"If you were a man we'd have no kids cause I'd only fuck your arse and put your little cock in a cage," Jean said.
"If we were both men…we'd be the most famous band in the world by now," Polly said and they both laughed.
"And still be fucking eight days a week," Jean said.
"Yeah," Polly sighed as Jean continued to pump the brush in and out of her. She paused for a second and then began to twist it in. Polly felt herself tip over the edge, felt the heat shoot through her body, her thighs clamping shut and clench down on the handle.
"Don't take your hand off your clit," Jean said and Polly thrashed, water soaking the tiles. She rubbed at herself harder, harder, waves of pleasure crashing over her.
Jean's breath was ragged as her other hand slipped from Polly's waist, disappearing under the water. Polly felt her pressing desperately between her own thighs, bucking into her own hand. Polly bounced in her lap and threw her head back into the crook of Jean's neck as she came, mouth wide open, eyelashes dancing on her cheek.
"Oh fuckin' hell," she rasped into Polly's ear. The handle popped free of her cunt as Jean's body jerked and twitched violently. The handle glistened with Polly's fluids. The two women almost melted into each other exhausted after their shared orgasms.
The water was getting cold and although they both felt like falling into a dead sleep, they climbed out of the bath. Polly moved more gingerly, her core was still throbbing with pleasure. They wrapped each other up in towels, Polly brushing Jean's fox-colored fringe out of her eyes.
When they were dry and Polly had convinced Jean to brush her teeth, they wandered back to the bedroom. Polly climbed into her nightie and Jean put on singlet and knickers before they bundled under the blankets, legs tangled up together. Their goodnight kiss soon turned into a nice slow make out session, Jean cupping her face and tugging Polly's pouty lips between her teeth, her tongue dipping into her mouth.
Maybe if the day hadn't been so exhausting, they would have gone for another round. But they both felt the tiredness hit them in waves and they silently decided to just cuddle instead.
"I fucking hate," murmured Jean into Polly's neck. "How all the lad bands copy our sound and get screaming fans and press for it. And we're still nobodies."
"It's cause we don't have dicks," said Polly. "We're just silly girls."
Jean breathed out hard.
"It's not fair," she whispered.
"I know, love," Polly replied. "But like…y'know the top musicians in the world think we're the best of all time. Bob said he reckoned if we were lads we'd be ruling the world right now."
"Georgette's bloody smitten with Bob," Jean said with a smile. "Bloody celebrity crush."
"You only like me cause I look like a girl Elvis," Polly replied teasingly.
"Naw you have better tits then Elvis, Jennifer," said Jean and Polly squirmed in her arms.
"Don't," she said with a whine in her voice even though she was smiling.
"We're nearly matching though," said the older girl. "Jean and Jenny."
"Okay Winifred," she said and Jean pretended to gag before they both burst into laughter. They snuggled in close under the blankets.
"Where are we going, Polly?"
"To the top Jeanie," she giggled in reply.
"Where's that Polly?"
"To the toppermost of the poppermost," she said.
"That's right, princess," said Jean before leaning over to brush her lips against the younger girl's eyelids.