Treasure of the sea |Lesbian story|

From the diary of Delise Shelley

From one moment to the next, our relationship turned morbid and unhealthy. Sometimes I thought I still loved him, at other times I realized I was only deceiving myself, in order to tolerate more the life Laurence had imposed on me. It wasn't the Laurence before me that I longed for, no, it was the Laurence I had created in my imagination, the man who had only existed in my head from the beginning.

Now he was rich, had been forgiven, and had the chance to create for himself the life he had always dreamed of. He bought land, slaves and a mansion in New Hampshire, Portsmouth. He became interested in trade, more specifically the slave trade, which brought in a good income.

The villa we moved into was immense. I had never been in such a big house, and I was intimidated by all the luxury.

Because Laurence couldn't stand that reluctance of mine, that indignation I was constantly flaunting, he tried to change my mind, to make me doubt.

"You don't know what it's like to live this way, Del. You don't know luxury or comfort. You don't realize what I'm offering you, because you've never experienced it. You'll soon get used to it and thank God you're here and not at sea."

For a while, I believed him. I thought he was right. It was true, I had been born poor and had always worked to survive. He told me I would never go hungry, cold or thirsty again. He told me I would no longer make any effort in my life. He told me there was no more need to fight, to kill. He told me he would offer me an existence of peace.

And I tried to get used to it. He gave me a personal maid, a young woman with ebony skin who did everything for me. She dressed me, combed my hair, filled the tub with hot water whenever I wanted to wash, did my makeup, filed my fingernails and toenails, entertained me when I got bored, brought me breakfast in bed in the morning, washed my clothes and carried my bags when they were too heavy.

Her previous master had named her Anne, but the name her mother had given her was Jahzara.

At first she was very distrustful of me. She didn't even dare to look me in the eye and when she had to speak, she would just utter short, hurried sentences, as if she had the urge to go back to being quiet. She was afraid of me. She hated my white skin and what it represented.

As time passed, however, things changed. Jahzara had realized that she had no reason to fear me. I never punished her, and even if she didn't do her job properly, I didn't care. I thought all that attention she had to give me was absurd anyway. Every time I called her, she was surprised that I called her Jahzara and not Anne.

"Names are important," I'd explained, when she'd asked me one day why I called her by her real name. "Names define us. You despise it when someone calls you Anne, I can clearly see that. You want to honour the name your mother gave you and I understand that."

Jazhara surprised me. There was something about her I admired. I admired her strength and wit, her skill at practical things, her irony and the way she carried herself, always so thoughtful. I could read desire in the sores at the corners of her mouth, I could feel it in the way she looked at me, often surreptitiously and covertly, as she braided my hair or tightened the laces of my bodice. She desired me and I desired her, but neither of us did anything about it; the very idea of starting something that went beyond the inherent morality we had been taught since childhood and which had become so well ingrained within us terrified us both.

I don't know how we found the courage, and yet it happened. Perhaps it was one look too many, or perhaps a touch that had lingered too long. My lips pressed against hers, so soft and warm. Her body smelled of soap and talcum powder...