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| Giselle, Clarize - a Love Story | Back to B | Back to main page |
Collected by Djian
updated july 15 - 2008
Index | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 |
Giselle, Clarize - a Love Story
by angiquesophie
Chapter 1
"Can love be orchestrated?", the young woman mused. She set off one sparkling eye with careful lines of darkest black. The mirror reflected a pale face. The black shining hair was slicked back to reveal a porcelain brow.
She pouted. The mirror's vanity lights gleamed on dark, wet lipstick. A chuckling giggle escaped her throat. "Oh yes, it can", she whispered. "I proved it. Didn't I?"
She rose from her chair. Her body passed through the mirror's frame. Her white throat followed her face. Then came the pale flesh of her chest. Her breasts lay almost exposed on a balcony of finest black leather. Her tightly laced waist and flaring hips came next. They were followed by a shock of pale skin. Her bare thighs contrasted with the straps of her garters and the sheer black tops of her stockings. A tight silk triangle hugged her crotch at the centre.
Love was an emotion she had often pondered. But she had never really understood. It was an emotion she had read about and had studied around her. She knew there were myriads of people who claimed to love or have loved. Girls had told her how love changed their lives. Men assured her they were head over heels in love with her. Women swooned when she only gazed in their eyes. She watched them mist over.
But she never understood what they meant. And certainly she had never experienced it herself.
She knew why that was. How it had come about. And she knew she should regret it. But how does one regret the lack of a feeling that one never felt? Should the blind regret their lack of vision? Or should they revel in the heightening of their other senses? The intensity of taste and touch, of smell and sound?
So many other feelings had taken its place. So many emotions had substituted this fabled thing called love. They were emotions that made her head spin. They made her heart race and her vagina drip with aroused heat. "Lust", people said," it is only lust". But how wrong they were with that simple word "only".
Her lust was a many faceted diamond at the centre of her existence. It was a shining jewel, so dark one moment, so brilliant the next. Lust was a deceivingly simple word for a never exhausting well of inspiration. It was an oasis of the lushest green. Lust lured many aching hearts her way. Through dry deserts of bitter loneliness they crawled. They stretched their parched bodies wholeheartedly on her palet of pain and pleasure. They offered their flesh and soul to be punished and humiliated. They grabbed her hand and followed her through ordeals of utter passion. They submerged themselves in seething oceans of wanton... lust.
She smiled at her reflection one last time. A long red nail touched the upturned corner of her lips. Her mind remembered the echo's of moaned whispers, of panting breaths. Whimpering groans were punctured with cruel cracks of endless lashings. She remembered the wet sucking of dripping flesh, the desperate begging for release. And she kept hearing the screams of utter abandon in climaxing orgasms.
Above all she remembered the quiet sobbing when all was spent. The throaty, exhausted whispers of "I love you..."
"Love", she mimed and smiled. She turned her body with the liquid flow of a feline creature.
Kristie.
The lobby was empty, so was the reception area. Her steel pointed heels clicked their rhythm on the shining floor. When she stopped, her ears picked up the distant sigh of air conditioning. It was cool in here, almost chilly after the humid heat outside. The artificial breeze made her black hair flow. Her flimsy summer dress clung to her skin. It enhanced the flowing curves of her body in motion. Little nubs rose from the center of her swaying breasts. They responded to the change in temperature, as did the goose bumps on her naked arms.
The young woman stopped at the centre of the lobby. She was unsure what to do as nobody seemed present. Then distant, repetitive sounds reached her ears. She turned her attention to the tall glass doors that gave out on an adjacent hall to the right. They were closed, but through them she saw something move.
As she reached the doors, they slid open with an automatic sigh. They revealed a large room with a high ceiling. It was filled with innumerable machines. Rows and rows of them stood on an immaculate shining floor. They were reflected in high mirrors which ran the total length of the walls. The far side was all milky glass window.
She stepped forward, amazed at the infinite number of replica's of herself in the yellow and red flowered cotton dress. Un vrai palais de crystal, her mind whispered. Narcissus' paradise. And she slowly moved into the direction of the sounds. They were much louder now, after the doors opened. Creaking sounds they were, punctured with sighs like heavy breathing. And before she really saw the source, she knew they were the product of human exertion.
The girl seemed to not have noticed her visitor. She sat on a bicycle-like machine. She was silhouetted against the white, milky windows. She worked out hard in a lycra outfit. It left her arms, shoulders and belly free. Her thighs were tightly wrapped in the same material. The bare calves of her long, toned legs showed the play of her muscles.
Her skin was deeply tanned. It shone with perspiration. The sky blue lycra showed dark spots. They grew while she looked. Ah, the girl was strong and dedicated. She panted and even now accellerated, although her legs already seemed a blur of motion. A pretty blonde pony tail danced on her head. It followed the frantic rhythm of her body.
And still the girl seemed not aware that she had a visitor. An attentive visitor too. She watched her every move, every sensuous roll of muscle. She saw the trembling of her breasts, the way her tight, well-trained little ass slid and moved on the narrow saddle.
The visitor held her breath so long that her ears started to buzz.
Ever so quiet she tiptoed forward until she was behind the exercising girl. And ever so slowly she reached out a pale hand to touch the shining lycra on her rolling hip. Ah, the heat... the deep glow radiated into her palm. She touched and cupped first the right cheek, then the left. A bolt of sweet electricity ran through her arms. It sank straight through her body and in to the centre of her lust.
"I stood shivering. My eyes were closed for what felt like minutes. Then I looked straight into the wide gaze of the girl. She looked at me from inside the mirror. It was the sweetest face I had ever seen. Open, vulnerable. Greenish hazel flashed from under lovely arches of wonderment. She had sun-flushed skin. She had a pretty small freckled nose and a generous mouth. It hung half open with exhaustion. And it trembled."
The visitor held her breath. Her hands started caressing the girl's behind. Her emerald eyes never flinched. They bored into the other's eyes, keeping them captive. A shiver ran through the soaked lycra under her touch. She knew she held the girl in thrall. Slowly, softly she allowed a smile to curl her lips. And she felt her heart flutter when a wide smile rose in response on the blonde's face. It was a smile like the morning sun rising.
With a long, long sigh the woman's captured breath escaped. She whispered: "Hi, sweet girl... I am Angique. What is your name?"
The girl flashed her lashes twice. She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Kristie", she croaked. Her voice was still hoarse from exhaustion. It trembled with tenseness. She had risen on her saddle. The mirror showed her panting chest. It reflected her sweat soaked belly and strong athlete's thighs.
The woman who called herself Angique started roaming the blonde's hips and thighs with pale, red nailed fingers. She paused on each new found spot, then traveled on.
"You look marvellous, Kristie", she said. "You have a great body."
And, oh God, was it possible? Could things be more perfect? A slow blush rose from the girl's chest. It climbed her throat and found her adorable face.
Maybe it was the blush. Maybe it was something in the coy fluttering of her eyelashes as she watched the woman Angique from under her brows. The caressing hands now rose to Kristie's tightly bound breasts. They cupped them and pressed them against her rib cage. The woman stood closer now. She pushed her own breasts into the blonde's back. She felt the sweat soak slowly into the cotton of her dress. All the while her steady emerald eyes watched over the girl's shoulder. She grasped her gaze in the mirror and held it. She did not allow her to escape even for a second.
Her moist lips were close to the girl's ear. She whispered something inaudible. The blush deepened. Almost unnoticed the girl Kristie nodded. The red nails of the right hand travelled down her belly. The girl spread her thighs only inches. But she also pushed herself forward. She gave the searching hand access to her crotch.
At the same time she turned her face. She closed her eyes and opened her weak mouth slightly. The woman Angique smiled. Then she opened her own mouth. She pressed her soft lips on the blonde's. A fat pink, wriggling tongue appeared and dashed between white teeth. It roamed wildly until it met the girl's tongue. It started a hungry dance half in and out. It darted, snaked, strangled. They filled the quiet hall with wet noises and stifled moans.
The other hand now found a moist, warm crotch. It rubbed slowly up and down, forcing the thighs ever wider. Kristie slumped back against the woman. She pushed her cunt into the invading hand. Her own hand covered it. She sped up the motion. Her other hand slid into the black shining hair of the woman. It intensified the long, deep kiss. Then Kristie moaned. It was a sobbing sweet sound. It rose with passion, then sank into a throaty animal's purr.
Angique let go of her mouth. She allowed the girl to gasp. Then she slid her fingers from under the girl's hand. She watched her start rubbing herself. She took the flushed face in both hands and pushed her head against Kristie's. Her fierce emerald eyes were only an inch away from the misted gaze. She kept silent for quite a while. The only sounds were the fast breathing of the girl and the steady rubbings against the slippery lycra.
At last a deep, misty voice broke the tension. It was sweet but strong like silk clad steel.
"Get naked for me, little thing."
The rubbing hand stopped at once. So did the girl's breath. The eyes flew open in a terrified flash.
"Here?", she asked. It sounded as if the word had to pass through a passage that was far too narrow.
Angique just kept staring in silence.
As if in a dream the blonde's hands rose to the hem of her outfit. She pushed the tight elastic fabric over a well filled sports bra. Then she slipped it over her head and let it drop to the floor. The woman with the black shiny hair had taken two steps back. She watched the blonde in the mirror. She smiled as Kristie again met her eyes. Now it was with shy wonder. Angique nodded. The blonde's hands slid behind her back to undo the clip that held her bra together. Almost with a pop the full firm flesh spilled from its imprisonnement. Rich, gold tanned tits swung free in front of her.
Involuntarily Angique stretched out a pale hand to touch them, but she stopped midway. She bit on her lip. She again stood back to watch. Her eyes returned to the girl's nervously wandering gaze. She smiled and nodded encouragement. Kristie sighed. She slid her thumbs under the waistband of the tight pants, starting to slip them off. She stood on the pedals of the machine as she peeled the fabric down her thighs and calves. It got stuck in sweaty wrinkles. She sat down again. She bent forward and moved the lycra over her cute pink sneakers. First she freed the left, then the right.
The material whispered to the floor like a sky blue butterfly.
Kristie sat up, now only clad in a lacy pink thong. It hugged her pouting cunt lips tightly. But it disappeared between her ass cheeks only to return at her waistband. The cheeks were wonderfully tight and smooth. They had the perfect shape of an inverted heart, flaring out from a narrow waist.
Kristie sat for a minute. She restlessly moved on the saddle. The front of her thong was in full sight in the mirror. Angique saw with a smile that the pink was decidedly darker where the entrance to her little garden lay.
So shy, she thought, yet so eager. So sweet to watch her dilemma.
To help her decide, Angique stepped into full sight of the mirror. She started to undo the buttons of her own summer's dress. She began right between her breasts. Then she moved slowly down to the hem. But she did not bend down to reach them. She pulled the cotton fabric up to bring the closed buttons to her fingers. That way the mirror slowly disclosed more and more of her legs and thighs for the naked girl to watch. Inch after careful inch the woman's white alabaster body came into sight. The shadows kept their secret until the third button. But when the nimble fingers undid the fourth, the hem rose above a spotlessly shaven pussy. It showed that she wore no panties at all. When the last button was opened it became clear that she wore no bra either.
The yellow and red cotton opened like a flower. It showed a tall, slender, almost translucently pale woman. Her legs were too long for her frame. Otherwise she was very well proportioned. Her young tits stood firm, with amazingly dark nipples. The sheer whiteness of her skin gave her the cool appearance of a marble statue. The tender, porcelaine lucidity made her almost float like a cloud. The contrast of her black hair, thick eyebrows and dark set eyes gave her the drama of old black and white photographs and silent movies.
Angique turned her head towards the girl on the bike. She saw that Kristie's hand had returned to her lace clad pussy. She rubbed it as if in a trance. Angique walked to her. Her heels gave her tits a lovely rythm. Then she again pulled the girl's face towards her. She kissed her in the same hungry, passionate way as before. The glowing body melted against her.
"Be naked with me, darling", she breathed. "Don't make me beg."
Kristie's eyes widened. Over her arched brows danced tiny, spidery wrinkles. All movement froze in soundless hesitation. Then Angique's gaze darkened to a deeper jungle green. Her mouth closed till it was a thin line. All memories of her sweet smile had vanished.
The blonde girl felt a shiver ride the length of her spine. It was like a frozen insect running from the curve of her neck down to the very end of her backbone. She felt confused, lost. Her seeping pussy still glowed. But in her heart an icy breath seeped in.
She moved nervously on the tiny saddle. She knew something had gone wrong. And she knew the wrongness was of her doing, her fault. She had let this amazing woman down. She, the clumsy, stupid little girl, had brought this woman of the world almost to a point where she had to beg for a favour. Insignificant Kristie made her beg for a favour. My God, Kristie, she thought, what are you doing? Or worse: what have you done?
She crinched under the stern green gaze. She tried to find words. She tried to force her trembling lips to form a sentence that would explain. Fresh sweat formed on her brow. Her mouth didn't know how to shape the words.
But her hands knew. Her busy, trembling fingers knew. Her thumbs hooked into the hem of her thong. They pulled it down her thighs as she rose from the saddle. Her eyes kept sinking into the green bottomless pools. Her brain kept racing in ever smaller circles. But her body knew. Her body obeyed.
The thong was now around her knees. She pulled it free by slipping her left pink sneaker through it. She left it to dangle on the other foot. Her eyes closed. She sank back on the slippery saddle. She felt her swollen lips suck in the soft suede leather as she sat down.
The pressure of the saddle made her curly haired mound rise. It displayed a sweet little hill of golden circlets sprayed with starry drops of sweat.
Angique smiled.
A deep warmth flooded her eyes. It sent rays of sympathy to the trembling girl. And Kristie felt the glow invade her when she opened her eyes cautiously. With it an incredible sense of relief flushed her body. All the awful frost had gone. All was right again. She melted completely. A sigh escaped her chest.
A white hand cupped her mound. Red tipped fingers dug into the pretty trimmed bush. Again Angique stood closer. She hugged the blonde girl. She made her slump against her. Soft pillowy lips touched Kristie's ear. They sucked in her lobe. Two fingers slid down on each side of her tingling cunt lips, making them pout. And she whispered.
"Will you be mine, little girl?"
A sob rose in Kristie's throat. God, what was happening to her? Who was this woman? She did not know her, did she? They'd never met before, had they? Really? Why then did she ache with the need to submit? Why did she want to melt until all of her self drowned in these emerald pools of deep, deep destiny?
Her face blushed crimson. She nodded, then nodded again.
"Tell me, honey, say it out loud", the dark haired woman insisted. Her slender fingers now invaded the wet, tight slit. They searched for the pearl on top.
Kristie swallowed. Her head seemed to float in clouds of fuzzy heat. She felt dizzy. The voice she heard seemed somebody else's. But oh yes, it was her own.
"Please," the voice said, "Please let me be yours..." She pushed her hips up hard to meet the probing fingers.
Quebec.
The people looked up from their food. A hush seemed to descend. It always did, she knew. It happened whenever she walked into a restaurant. The hush seemed to spread away from her in slow, widening circles.
Of course this time it wasn't only her entrance that made people stop and stare. Her exuberant outfit took no doubt a share in the effect. But it was also caused by her companions. And their theatrical entrée.
Angique was in Quebec for a show. And so were Esther and Tasha, her two spectacular African girl friends. They were world famous fashion models of Massai descent. Both were way over six feet in height, slim and willowy like ebony reeds. One was wrapped in tight salmon latex. It hugged her purplish black skin like paint. Although it covered almost all of her body, she might just as well have been naked. The other girl wore blood red silk. It was tightly wound around her waist and hips. It flared out at her shoulders, like a flower. The petals cupped a wide cleavage of oiled ebony. They hardly covered the swellings of her tits.
Angique herself was dressed in simple, seagreen leather. It was a sweet nothing dress that only reached halfway down her pale thighs. And it just about covered her white chest. She was like a ghost. Her emerald eyes were set in kohl, her mouth bloomed in deep dark purple. Short shining black hair framed her intense stare. She was tall in her own right (and heels). But she looked almost petite between her two companions.
Then, as if someone snapped a finger, the enchantment was lifted. The usual bustle returned. The woman who took care of the reservations approached. She hugged a set of menues against her starched blouse. A sweet smile lifted years from her face. It turned her into a stylish, elegant brunette. Angique gave her name and they were led to a round table. It was set back in a candle lit niche, slightly elevated over the rest of the room. A young waiter hurried to help them sit. He was not at all able to keep his hungry eyes off their bodies. He slid Tasha's chair under her, and felt giddy as her red silk decolleté opened right before him. It showed one dark purple nipple. A quite erect one too. He gulped. His face turned red when all three girls giggled.
Tasha winked at him. She pouted her full moist lips in a mock kiss. With a crooked, red nailed finger she begged him closer. She took his lapel to pull him even nearer to her whispering mouth. Flames flared out of his collar. He drowned into the perfumed presence of the woman. He was hardly able to concentrate on her question.
Once freed, he turned and walked off. He felt an embarrassing tightness in his trousers. The silver laughter at his back convinced him that the effect must have been quite visual.
The three girls seemed to have cause for celebration. The pink champagne they had ordered was sparkling in tall, elegant glasses. They toasted. They talked loudly and seemed in the highest of spirits. Until the waitress came.
She wasn't the Hollywood approved beauty. Still she would stand out in a crowd, given the right styling. She might not stop a conversation or make heads turn. But whoever would take the time to really look past her modest bearing, would discover a deeper layer. She was like smouldering coal under gray ashes.
At a party she would be the quiet type. She would stand aside in any circle of animated talkers. She would listen, nod, smile. She would exude an air of calm loneliness in the most unobtrusive way.
She had wonderful hands. They were slender and elegant. Her skin was clear and spotless. She wasn't tall, maybe 5ft6. Her legs were not very long. The white blouse over her black tight turtleneck did not hint at all at the shape or the size of her breasts. Her uniform prescribed a calf length black skirt and modestly heeled pumps. It indeed would have given any model a hard time to look her best.
Angique saw it all at one glance when the girl approached their table. A waitress as waitresses go. 27-ish, dark blonde, efficient. A small sign pinned to a lapel. Brigitte.
Nothing extraordinary about Brigitte. For the blind and the blunt, that is. Angique could not keep her eyes off of her. It was something in the way she moved. There was something in her slow, crawling smile. Her blue eyes brooded under the arches of her brows. It was definitely her mouth. The fat, sensuous lips looked swollen as if stung by an insect. They crawled like sleek, red caterpillars.
Her voice gave her away, when she asked if they had chosen. It was a light voice, yet slightly hoarse, misty. And it had the most delicate of French accents.
Angique greeted her in French. She made a sweet compliment of her while she wrapped her own voice in a veil of intimacy. At once the girl's eyes flew open. Her lashes fluttered like little bird's wings. And like little birds her eyes were captured, caged, emprisoned. A small stutter made her response stumble in the most endearing way. A lovely blush blossomed from the severe black collar encircling her throat.
They had chosen oysters and an expensive bottle of white Loire wine. Angique did the ordering. The tall black girls not even bothered to look at the waitress. They were busy gossiping together in a totally foreign African language. When Brigitte collected their menues, she had to come up close to Angique. She almost had to touch her.
Her heart rose with a hot rush. A soft hand closed over hers. It immobilized her. She was bent over the pale, black haired woman. In whispered French she heard the most incredible remark. It made her face flush with deep crimson.
The woman let go of her and she hurried off, back to where waitresses live. The woman called Tasha watched Angique with high arched eyebrows. Angique smiled. She pouted her lips in a kiss. They resumed their gossiping, now in English. Their conversation was laced with giggles and loud, careless laughter.
All through the meal Angique's eyes kept following Brigitte. She hadn't returned to their table. She had left the serving of their food and wine to the young waiter, who had the undivided attention of Tasha and Esther. The poor guy had a hard time keeping the unruly bulge in his pants a secret to the world.
Before coffee Angique rose. She clutched her tiny leather purse and walked to the back of the restaurant. She picked her way carefully on stiletto heels. Reaching the end she stopped and looked around with questioning eyes. Right then Brigitte passed by. She carried a full tray.
Angique blocked her way. She fixed her eyes on the girl's. "Les toilettes, s' il tu plait?", she asked. Her voice hardly rose over the room's murmuring. Brigitte nodded to a set of doors to the left. Then she started to walk off with her burden. But the black haired woman laid a hand on her arm to stop her. She leaned forward and whispered into the girl's ear. Brigitte froze in half step. The blood drained from her face. Then it returned with a darkening flush.
Before she could move again, Angique had already gone. The last she saw was the closing of the bathroom's door. With shaking hands she resumed her task.
Only then she saw the narrow slip of cream paper with the black, spidery writing on it. It was tucked between the glasses on her tray.
The girl she saw in the mirror showed the nervousness she felt inside. Her eyes shone dark from sockets that were dramatically deepened by the light from above. The face around it seemed moulded out of pale dough. The lower lip was a thin line. She sucked its pulpous flesh in to bite it. Soft metallic music hung in the air. It seemed suspended by invisible spider's webs. The elevator hummed. She felt it vibrate through the thin leather soles of her shoes.
Why was she here? What made her do this? Why hadn't she turned right at the exit of the restaurant to go home. Just to feed the fat cat. To sit down and watch the end of a Cheers' rerun she had seen at least three times? Then take a lukewarm shower, run her lonely hands over her lonely body. Find the damp dark bush on her mound, slip in a finger, two.
She had turned left. She had walked the three wet streets that separated her from the posh and very, very expensive hotel. She had never been inside it before, although this was her city. She had lived here all her life.
After minutes of hesitation she had walked through the brass and glass revolving doors. She knew she must look shabby in her rain soaked coat and dripping hair.
But she had decided not to follow the door full circle and back out again. She had decided to walk across the shining marble floor to the night reception. She had asked the pimple faced night receptionist the suite number of miss Angelique Jonckers. And then she had walked over to the elevator.
The cotton candy muzak drifted on air-conditioned wings around her head. She shivered inside her wet coat. Then she watched as the metal doors sighed open. The dark hallway yawned in her face. Hundreds of feet of deep dark red rug stretched below rows of dimmed spotlights.
Suddenly her finger stabbed the zero floor button and the doors closed again. A metal, female voice said "Going down" in both languages. The tiny tug at her calves told her the elevator started its return to earth. Deep, wet indifferent earth. Lonely earth. She ran a pale hand over her face. She whispered "Merde."
She knew it was plain cowardice. Fear it was. The same fear that had imprisoned her since she was a child, a teenager in cruel high school, a student in even colder college. They were the years she taught herself to be a nobody. Oh, there had been friends, even lovers. But hardly ever the ones she wanted. And hardly ever the emotions she craved.
"What did I crave? Did I even dare to know? I knew what I abhorred. And who. Oh, sure I did, as it was easy: they were the same ones I envied. They were the towering studs with their crude bodies, cruder minds. And their blonde towering girls. They sneered at me, ignored me. They not even took the trouble to make fun of me.
Were they right? Of course they were. And if they were not, I devoted my life to making them be right. I crawled and shied away. I polished my shyest smile into perfection. I brooded and envied. I cried, silently and in private.
There had been the scrawny, freckled girl when I was twelve. The girl who had taught me how to play my body. She had taught me the miracle of making love. She gave me this shattering feeling that had enslaved me at once. But the girl had left soon and without a word. She left me behind with a craving I could not fulfil. No one cared to share it with me.
Oh, in some circles I was popular. But what's in a word? For the pimpled nerds I was popular. For the shy closet gays I solved a problem. I was the only girl they dared approach. I was the only girl they could muster enough courage for to ask out on a clumsy date.
And there were the overweight, sweaty girls, of course."
But now she was a woman. A woman who had taught herself she loved women. A woman who stood in the elevator of the poshest hotel in Quebec. Invited by the most breath-taking woman she had ever met. How could she believe the woman had been sincere? How could she find the courage to meet her again? Why would she once more open herself up to be hurt, ridiculed, humiliated?
Why on earth had she done what the little, perfumed slip of paper told her to? Why had she walked three long streets wearing nothing but a raincoat? Why had she slipped into a toilet stall after work to get out of her uniform, her bra, her panties even? And the most astounding why: why did she feel tiny drops of her juices run down the inside of her thighs? Why did her extended nipples chafe at the crude inside of her coat, all the way to the hotel?
The doors slid open on the ground floor. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the reception area. The damn music made her want to scream. But of course she didn't.
What she did was curse yet again under her breath. What she did was walk into the vast open space, ignoring the pimpled nerd at the reception desk.
But what she also did, was stop right in front of the revolving doors. Beyond the reflection of her body she saw the deep dark wetness of a Quebecian night. Streets gleamed with dripping lights. There was the heavy drone of traffic. She heard a far away police siren.
And she knew.
She knew that if she would step into the well of those revolving doors now and walk out into the rain, she would kill herself. Not in the spectacular sense of heroic suicide. Just in the smothering, anonymous sense of giving up the last remnants of a life that ought to be hers. In the sense of letting it slowly and definitely slide out of her hands. In the galling sense of giving up.
The pale woman Angique might ridicule her, even humiliate her. She and her perfect African model friends might point at her when she showed up. They might double up with laughter. But that would not be the real humiliation, would it? The real humiliation, the definite one, would be her leaving now, without even trying. Leave now, she said to herself, and you'll never be able to look at yourself again.
A tear formed in the corner of an eye. Then it rolled down her cheek. Not able to move a muscle she stood there. She looked into the dark night behind her reflection.
Then, slowly, she turned on her heels. She walked back into the cool marble space. She felt her teeth grind under the pressure of hard jaw muscles. But she kept walking, watched curiously by the once more ignored reception boy.
The elevator chimed its optimistic chime. The doors opened before her. She stepped in. She touched the top button yet again and pushed herself in a corner.
"Going up!" sang the sickening female robot's voice in both languages. She felt the upward tug in her calves.
She was praying. She murmured long forgotten little girl's words. "Avé Marie, plein de grace..." She prayed to hold on to her newfound courage. She prayed to ignore the screaming fear behind her eyes. Most of all she prayed to be wrong for once in her life.
The dark hallway stretched out before her. She had made it out of the elevator. Now she felt her feet sink into the rug. Suite 2301, she remembered. Penthouse, sans doute. Posh penthouse, sans doute. Intimidating penthouse, sans aucun doute.
The sign was in brass, of course. There was no bell. Then again, the door was ajar. From behind it she heard music. It was jazzy, voluptuous music. A hoarse female voice was singing.
She knocked. No reaction, so she knocked again. The merest hint of relief washed over her. Maybe the woman wasn't in. Maybe she now had a good reason to leave? Was it a last legitimate opportunity to cop out?
She closed her eyes. Then pushed the door open and sneaked inside. The hall was big, with doors all around. There was a mirror. A huge bunch of roses stood in a vase on a slender table.
The door in front of her was open too. Her heart throbbed against her ribs. She walked through it. A huge television set flickered without sound. An empty champagne bottle and glasses lay in front of it. There were pieces of clothing. A green leather jacket. A blood red dress. Stockings. Heeled shoes with loose spaghetti straps. They formed a colourful trail leading to the right. Her eyes followed it. Then her head froze.
Stretched head down on the leather of a huge couch lay one of the African models. Her right leg was raised over the backside. The other dangled to the floor. Her perfect ass rose high up into the air. And right behind her was the woman who had invited her here. Angique. She shone pale as the full moon against the darkest night
She knelt between the smooth shining thighs. Her lower body was pressed against the crotch. One pale hand pushed a leg aside. The other made fast piston like movements into what must be the girl's ass hole. But the centre of movements was a large, incredibly fat black shining dildo. It had been strapped to a leather harness around the white girl's hips. With it she was pumping the Negro girl's vagina so fast that her white, high breasts danced on her chest. The dildo became a flash of darkness.
From the pale girl's mouth poured a stream of incredible obscenities. But each one of them was spoken with the softest, loveliest sweetness. She was moaning and panting as she delivered them. It was almost as though she were praying. Sometimes she bent forward. She kissed her black lover's satin skin and whispered into her ear.
The African girl had her eyes closed. Her mouth was open. From deep inside her throat came panting moans. Sometimes they rose to gurgling screams. Her left arm disappeared under her body. It twitched and moved, and betrayed how fast her fingers were jilling her clit. Her lower body jerked and spasmed. It humped against the fingers in her ass and the cruel black monster that was fucking her.
Both women were deeply engrossed in their activities. They were unaware of anything happening around them. Let alone the entrance of a silent, rain soaked Quebecian girl. Brigitte could not take her eyes off of them. She just stared and stared. She slowly ate her lower lip. A deep blush rose from her throat into her face.
Both girls seemed to come almost at the same time. They gasped throaty moans. Sounds that turned into animal growls and long, desperate sighs. Then the white girl Angique collapsed. She spread like a pale blanket over the trembling Negress. They lay together panting. Small shivers rippled along the length of their bodies.
Brigitte stood and watched. An intense feeling overwhelmed her. It sank over her like a dark, hot cloud. It hemmed in her vision. The whole world seemed to shrink and turn into a keyhole. It tunnelled her view to the incredible couple before her.
She trembled as much as the girls. Tiny electric currents ran from all her sensitive spots. They gathered and retracted to her crotch. Her mind was numb. Her brain was unable to send even the simplest impulses to her passive limbs.
After what seemed like hours, the girl Angique opened her eyes. A green flash settled on the visitor at once. A slow, mischievous smile split her face.
"Brigitte, ma belle putain... enfin elle est arrivée."
She gathered her body. Then she rose to her knees. The obscene monster leaked between her thighs.
"Deshabille-toi, saloppe. Go strip."
She delivered the shocking line with the sweetest timbre and a friendly smile. Brigitte at first didn't even realise she was being spoken to. She stood motionless. She just stared.
The woman Angique slid off the couch. She walked the two steps to the frozen girl. The black dildo swayed in front of her. Her hand rose. Then she slapped it hard into Brigitte's face. It left a pink trace on her cheek.
"Dépêche-toi, mon dieu! Don't make me beg for it!"
More than the words it was the slap that tore Brigitte from her state of frozen immobility. Her hands flew up. First to protect her face, then to undo the buttons of her coat. It sank to the floor. She stood totally naked except for her shoes.
Angique's face cleared. A wide grin washed over it. She reached forward and took one extended nipple between finger and thumb. She twisted it hard. Then she pulled the girl towards her by the tiny, stretched morsel of flesh. It made her wince. But Brigitte did not resist. She fell against the pale woman. The hard leather monster rode up her belly. It was trapped between them. It felt wet and cold.
Angique's soft lips engulfed Brigitte's. Her hands pulled at the dark blonde's head. Then she penetrated her with a stiffened tongue. Their nipples touched. Four breasts rubbed and circled. The tongue was everywhere. It found the deepest niches of Brigitte's wet cave. It sent tingling waves through her body. Her own tongue responded. Soon both open mouths were sealed in a dance of fat pink writhing eels.
Brigitte felt her body go weak. Her knees went limp in the pale woman's grip. Her mind turned blank. Then it filled up with shapeless, rolling forms. It felt like a fuzzy wool basket squirming with clawless kittens.
She was touched from behind. A blanket of slick, hot skin slid over her. She was totally wrapped in writhing flesh. She felt her own body melt into the two women who made love to her. Black and pale hands roamed her naked body. They cupped her tits, her trembling ass. They touched the tender insides of her thighs, the leaking fullness of her cunt.
A tongue licked her throat. Another tongue ran through the curving labyrinth of her ear. It slipped in and gave her a wave of goose bumps. All she felt was chaos, sweet soft chaos. And all she heard were the sopping, slithering sounds of sex. She heard the moaning throats. She did not know if they were hers or someone else's.
All she smelled was the heady mixture of women in heat and expensive perfumes. All she tasted was frothing saliva mixed with lipstick.
Soon all she thought was nothing.
In a haze she felt her feet leave the floor. Strong arms lifted her up and carried her. The mouths never left her. She kept her eyes closed. She felt herself fall onto a bouncing, soft silk surface. A bed, a mattress. And she opened her eyes to look into a flushed face. It was framed in black hair. The dark painted mouth shaped words. She had difficulty to understand them.
"Welcome, my little pet", the mouth seemed to say. "Bonjour, ma belle. I am so glad you decided to come."
She tried to concentrate on what was said. She felt her legs being separated. A wet tongue ran the length of her slit. She had to arch her back. She had to allow a deep moan to leave her mouth. Curly hair tickled the insides of her thighs. It made her tremble without control.
Then her path of vision darkened. A slick, hairless cunt descended on her face. It engulfed her eyes and nose. Then it slid down to her mouth. It left a trace of hot juices. Her ears were almost closed by the thighs riding her. She only got a few words from what was said. Some of them seemed to come from the pale woman. Others were of a richer, deeper timbre. They no doubt came from her dark friend, who was starting to slowly fuck her cunt with an expert tongue.
The words were obscene. They were carelessly spoken. And they were all about her. They talked about her body parts as if she were an object, a thing of interest.
But she did not care. She could not care. She was only aware of the incredible things that happened to her. She dashed her tongue into the sweet wet slit on top of her. She started to fuck back against the tongue that moved inside her own. Long, supple fingers kneaded her tits. They pulled at her screaming nipples. She raised her body off the bed and arched it into a high bow of passion.
She came sooner than she'd expected. And she came harder than she remembered ever to have done. She screamed into the wet soft, swollen cunt. And she felt it come in response. It sprayed hot juices all over her face and into her mouth.
For a while they lay in a panting heap. Then the pale woman climbed off her. A moment later a piece of clothing landed on her body. She looked and saw it was her raincoat.
"Habille-toi", Angique said. She stood in the doorway. She sipped champagne from a long stemmed glass. "You have been a good pet. Now leave."
Brigitte sat up on her trembling elbows. She stared from the girl to the coat. Then she tried to get up. She stood and wrapped the still damp coat around her sweating limbs. Her knees hardly supported her. She walked to the door and accepted her shoes from the smiling woman. She slipped into them. Then she stood straight again. She hesitated what to do next.
Angique stepped aside to make room for her. She performed a slight, mocking bow. When Brigitte was at the door, halfway into the corridor, she called her back.
Still naked and shining with sweat, she grabbed Brigitte's face and kissed her deeply.
"Au revoir, ma belle putain", she said. She laughed a tiny crystal laugh.