by Mael d'Armor
She seems surprised. Seems not to recognise the place. Hesitates. Looks up and down the shopfront. Glances over her shoulder — and then walks in.
Her face lights up as she goes through the door, for the small store is a shrine of delicacies and a crucible of gorgeous, if rather heady, scents. It is pure bliss for the eyes. The meats, salamis, patés, condiments, spices and cheeses of all colours and sizes are cocooned in leaves of fresh lettuce or sheltered in delicately woven baskets, and laid out against a backdrop of exotic fruits.
‘Est-ce que je peux vous aider?’ says a voice, startling her.
The woman behind the counter is plain-looking — shoulder-length brown hair, jaw erring on the wide side, pug nose and nonexistent chest — but her eyes glow with a strange intensity.
Jenny stands there with a frown. Maybe because the shopkeeper looks remarkably like the lady who gave her directions — except she is a lot younger.
‘Euh . . . J’ai besoin de . . .’
She is faltering. She stares at the smorgasbord of gourmet foods, looking lost. Then rests a hand on the counter, perhaps in an attempt to anchor herself to something solid. Her expression goes off focus. The smells must be proving a little overpowering.
‘Essayez ce fromage, vous m’en direz des nouvelles.’
She picks up the piece of herb-flavoured cheese offered to her on a spatula. She wavers a moment, then brings the food to her lips with unsteady fingers. Her dreamy expression deepens as she swallows the sample.
Her eyes float up to the painted beachscape on the wall, behind the counter. The frame shows a group of curvaceous girls dancing in the nude in knee-deep water. Laughing, the maidens are enticing a man into the sea, to his doom.
‘Elles sont superbes ces filles, n’est-ce pas?’
Jenny nods weakly. She does seem quite taken with those voluptuous girls, because her eyes are not moving from the picture.
‘Vous voudriez être aussi belle?’
She does not answer.
The woman steps around the counter and stands right behind her. Then places her palms on her shoulders.
‘I know you,’ she whispers in Jenny’s ear, switching to English. ‘I can read your soul. You’re dying to become beautiful again, like those fairies on the wall.’ The woman pauses. ‘Beautiful and irresistible.’
She unzips Jenny’s jacket then slowly removes it.
‘Please, don’t,’ begs Jenny, who is frozen to the spot. Her eyes flick down to her chest, in search perhaps of the opal pendant on her neck. But her hand is unable to reach for it.
The woman’s lips curve into a predatory smile. She drops the jacket onto the floor, then in the same unhurried manner proceeds to peel off her captive’s top. And then unclip her bra. Jenny has closed her eyes.
The shop’s shutters have inexplicably rolled down, plunging the room in what low light is leaking from a wall lamp.
‘What’s this?’ The woman smirks as she removes Jenny’s necklace. ‘A charmed gemstone. How delightfully pathetic. Did he really think this would be enough to stop me?’
Mumbling something, she drops the necklace to the floor and it vanishes in a hiss of smoke.
‘I knew you people had arrived the moment you set foot on that tower. My ladybug scouts are a model of efficiency.’
She slips a hand under Jenny’s arms and begins to play with a nipple. Coaxing it. Making it hard.
‘Do you remember what gorgeous breasts you had?’ she whispers, before nibbling Jenny’s earlobe. ‘Luscious and perfectly shaped,’ she adds between tongue flicks. ‘The sort that turned men’s heads a half circle wherever you went. And you attracted quite a long string of those. Men, I mean.’
Delicately, she brushes Jenny’s ponytail to one side, then leaves a trail of kisses on her neck. Jenny’s lips are parted, held hostage by their gasps.
‘And do you remember what a curvy waistline you had?’ she continues, her right hand leaving Jenny’s breast to explore other pastures. ‘The sort of hourglass figure that could make deep-dyed monks renounce their vows. What happened to those charming assets, I wonder. Not enough sex, perhaps. Or not enough of the right kind.’
The woman’s fingers have strayed below Jenny’s belly button. They unzip her capri pants, lift the lacy rim of her panties and slip inside.
‘Would you like to have all that back? To have every man at your feet again? Every woman admiring you? Secretly desiring you? Would you like to be worshipped as you once were? As you deserve?’
The unseen fingers must be doing something ineffably wonderful, for Jenny’s lips have bloomed into a pout and her whole body has started to quiver.
‘Please . . . Please,’ she moans. ‘I cannot go back to that life. I must not.’
‘You cannot? You must not?’ mocks the woman, pursuing her distractions. ‘How cute. You have learned your lesson well. But I told you. I can read you like an open book. So can my fingers. You’re dripping hard. You’re desperate for the old ways.’
Jenny is seized by a strong shudder and drops her head between her shoulders. Between moans, she starts sucking in her breaths in fits.
‘I can help you,’ says the woman. ‘I can restore your glory to you. I have that power.’
She makes a point of emphasising how much influence she has, for Jenny collapses over the counter.
‘And by the way, I don’t usually look like a plain Jane. Look into the mirror before you.’
Opening her eyes seems to require a great effort from Jenny. But she does so and stares at her reflection, beyond the counter. Above her, she can see a woman’s face brightened by a naughty smile. A face quite unlike the shopkeeper’s.
Jenny’s eyes widen in wonder. ‘Viv . . . Viviane. What on earth . . .’ Her mouth strives to finish the sentence but fails. She moans again — a long, uneven whimper. The fingers in her panties have turned her world upside down.
Then, slipping off the counter, she subsides to the floor.
‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ husks her seducer, still working her with affection. ‘This is for your own good. You will be eternally grateful to me by the time I’m through with you.’
19
‘Where were you been-gone? I was starting to be a bit frizzle-brained.’
Sandra is sprawled on the couch, reading a book she picked up on a shelf. A five-step guide on how to master fractious dragons. She is wearing one of Yaouen’s shirts but has not bothered covering her legs. She glances at the clock on the wall.
‘It’s semi past one.’
Jenny has just waltzed out of the lift carrying a tray and a shopping bag. ‘So sweet of you to worry about me.’ I bumped into an acquaintance and we had a friendly chat.’
She dumps the bag on a chair, moves over to the coffee table and puts down the tray. Then whips off the towel covering it, to reveal a mouth-watering platter of charcuterie.
‘Your private catering service,’ she says, smiling. ‘Spiced saucisson, prosciutto Parma, sliced baguette, oven-roasted tomatoes, sweet fennel pickles and an olive medley. Last but not least, a bottle of the finest sparkling rosé to cleanse the palate. Did you take a nap, by the way?’
‘I did do. Wooke up a bisected hour ago. And had a drizzlewash upstairs before that. I’m quite refreshed but peck-famished.’
She wraps a slice of prosciutto around an olive and takes a bite. Delicious. Her taste buds have gone into a glorious flutter. She closes her eyes.
Yes, she had a nap. A good sleep in fact, with no dream. She needed it after that shower. But she has no desire to give Jenny details of her time upstairs. For it was not the kind of wet moment she had in mind when she stepped into the cubicle.
She had fully intended to have a quick rinse and then hit the pillow for a well-deserved rest. And not trusting herself anywhere near her pussy, she had been careful to lather her shoulders and chest only. But even that, it turned out, was enough to set her off. The spray on her skin felt too bloody wonderful and her soapy hands lingered over her breast
s more than they should have, spreading an odd brand of delectation.
Before she was even aware of it, her chest was tingling all over and long rivulets of pleasure had trickled down to her belly button. Her creature pounced on the opportunity and began to beg hard, priming her for more.
Within seconds, she was hopelessly aroused.
Before the first languid sigh had escaped her lips, the covetous devil had taken control of her hand. She could only watch herself unhook the shower head and bring it swiftly to her itch. Could only watch herself fiddle with the tap and increase the pressure, select the right kind of hot and then start playing heavenly games with herself.
She crested in less than a minute, mewling hoarsely, flooded with unspeakable pleasure and dirty flashbacks of being shagged like an animal in the hotel room.
But that only whetted her creature’s appetite. So she kept going, narrowing the spray to a jet, fine-tuning its angle and its strength. And toyed alternately with her clit and butthole while her other hand was busy adding fire to the heat from the nozzle. She climaxed half a dozen times, in sharp bursts and alarmingly quick succession, yet realised with a shock she was aching for more.
Enough, she chided herself. This was enough. Her devil was still grovelling hard though, so she curled forward and crossed her legs. To calm her spasms. To lull the flush in her cheeks. To catch a much-needed breath. Then she cut the jet with a reluctant, shaky hand which no longer seemed to belong to her.
This only drove her demon wilder. The horny thing flushed her with a longing so intense that, before she could think of stepping out of the shower, she was desperate again.
She hastily lubricated her hand with liquid soap and slipped a finger in the crack of her butt. Then pushed it in. Teased herself for a bit then eased in a second finger. Pushed and pressed and twisted. And then went all out, yielding to those insane demands. Her other hand flew to her clit and she worked herself from both sides. Sank to the floor, twisting her hips so she could keep going, harder each time, her lips dribbling raw noises. She worked herself into a frenzy.
And when she thought she had groaned and cried and convulsed all she had, all of it till she had nothing left, nothing, her demon begged and pressed for yet more of her mind. And she submitted to its crazy needs. And more clusters of hoarse mewls came spilling out of her because she was a puppet in its voracious grasp.
And she grabbed the showerhead and manoeuvred it into herself. Just a portion at first, then all the way. All the freaking way.
And she started to slow pump.
And that arched nozzle with its tiny rubber pads pushed all her succulent buttons again. Hit all her yummy spots. Her A spot, B spot, G spot, all the way to flipping Z though in random order. She didn’t know she had so many. But she honestly didn’t mind and abused them all in unholy ways. And flung herself up to more wicked heights. And in no time at all she became an expert at how to twist that diabolical little tube and tilt it and revolve it in fantastic, addictive combinations.
She lost all notion of how long she spent breathless and bucking on the shower floor — on her back, knees wide apart, feet straining against the shower glass, her hair tracing wild spirals on her skin. Gasping. Rasping. Groaning. Using all the ecstatic notes her lusting throat was capable of.
And she pictured herself in that hotel room tied up and helpless. Tortured by her lover. By her faceless master. And she wanted him to take her as he had back there. To slam his cock deep inside her. To bend her to his will. To flush her with his might. Without a care for her feelings, without a smidgen of compassion.
And through the hot daze of her thoughts she saw the nude temptress coming to life, watching, smirking, fingering her while the man entered her. Extruding yet more nectar where she was sure none was left. The nude fondling her, the man thrusting on remorselessly. Both joining in a dark alliance to inflame her to new spikes, to feast on her fire.
And she exploded at the thought, and exploded some more, gagging on her bliss. And between peaks her need drilled into her with such intensity she had to bite her knuckles then suck them blindly through her tears. Like she had been starving for months. And she sobbed in joy and surrender, and then cried more tears as the nozzle went berserk and fucked the rest of her brains out.
And she could sense her creature getting fatter and bolder. Sense it looping tighter volutes around her thighs, her breasts, her neck. Shackling her, clogging her with pleasure.
And when she emerged spluttering from her drunken bliss, she rallied herself at last and, with a giant effort of will that seemed to split her brain, she pulled out the nozzle from her demon’s lips. And managed to flip the switch to cold. Turn an icy blast upon herself.
Then her hips bucked strangely and she felt something retreating within her.
And she crawled out of the shower. And she stayed there on the mat on all fours, still dripping with her stark desires. Still reeling with fantasies of submission. Of being taken. Overruled. Tamed and dominated. Forced to her knees to please her lover — both her lovers. To lick his balls and blow when told. To clasp lips on her scented fruit. To cede these heartless rulers her arse and soul.
Then slowly, like bay waters after a gale, her mind settled. Her breath recovered. And she collapsed there and then into deep slumber.
‘Sandra, are you listening?’
Sandra snaps back from her reverie.
‘Sorry, I tuned out for a momentary.’
‘I can see that.’
Jenny is smiling.
‘Now try that spicy saucisson. You’ll never taste better.’
She cuts a bit off one of the slices, then brings the sliver to Sandra’s lips.
‘Here. Tell me what you think.’
Sandra opens her mouth obediently.
Twenty minutes and three glasses of rosé later, they are both reclining on the couch with satisfied smiles.
Sandra can almost hear herself purring with contentment. The meal has appeased her stomach and the wine mellowed her thoughts. She is floating in a pleasant haze. And whatever is curled up in her seems at last fast asleep.
She keeps still, listening for a telltale sign. Nothing. Not the slightest rustle. Not the faintest breath. Perfect. With luck, and in time, she may yet recover some of her peace of mind. Look back on all this as a weird dream.
She gazes at Jenny through her new-found poises.
‘I hope you don’t high-mind me saying this, but you look-like absolutely resplendiferous.’
‘Thanks. Being here always has that effect on me. Something in the air around here makes me bloom, I’m sure.’
‘The air-bloom even seems to have had an effectiveness on your bra size. I don’t memorise you having such grand bosom curves.’
Jenny answers with a cryptic smile.
Even her lips, it seems to Sandra, have blossomed — and her blue eyes got larger and more intense; her cheekbones more defined. And didn’t her chin grow smaller? As for the shine in her hair, she had not noticed that before either. She can’t remember Jenny ever being such a sleek, striking ravenhead.
‘Sorry, I’ve had too much to scoff-drink. I don’t know what I’m drivel-boshing.’
‘Then it’s time for you to stop talking, move over to that bed behind us and enjoy dessert.’
Sandra is intrigued.
‘And what sweet-afters would that be?’
‘A home-made back massage.’
A massage? Sandra hesitates. This sounds indeed very tempting but her mind flits back to what happened in the shower. Perhaps she shouldn’t. Perhaps she should play it safe.
She considers a little more.
But this is different, right? No water to drown her defences or awaken awkward desires. And this is her long-time friend Jenny. And she is feeling so relaxed. Perfectly composed. And it’s only a back massage. Surely she can trust herself for the next half hour.
‘Come on,’ insists Jenny. ‘You’ve totally deserved it after that bumpy ride through the warp. And sin
ce we’re stuck here, unable to see the sights, I think some pampering is in order.’
The argument, after all, has great merit and Sandra offers no resistance when she is pulled off the couch and led around the mantelpiece.
‘Off with your shirt,’ laughs Jenny as she positions a thick pillow on the middle of the bed. ‘You can keep your shorts on.’ She retrieves her shopping bag and pulls a bottle of massage oil from it.
‘I came prepared. Essential extracts, to restore balance to mind and body.’
Sandra looks down at the bed and wonders if a pillow is needed for a back massage. But she is too woolly-headed to argue the point. She unbuttons her shirt and lets it drop to her feet. Then watches Jenny spread a towel on the bed, kick off her shoes and slip out of her pants.
The G-string her friend is wearing underneath barely hides a band of trimmed black fur, and no longer does so once removed with a casual pluck on its hip knot.
This gives Jenny no cause for pause. Calmly, she peels off her top in one fluid move, releasing a pair of splendid breasts that could have been sculpted by the hand of a lewd god. The tiny waistline and curvaceous hips she is flaunting below those, and the perfect legs she is standing on, do nothing to detract from the visual impact. She is quite a sight.
‘My oath!’ giggles Sandra. ‘You are taking this Swedish chop-job very vital-serious.’
‘Easier for me to work like this,’ explains Jenny.
The rationale is lost on Sandra but she says nothing. She is finding it hard to pull her gaze away. Honestly, she cannot remember her friend looking so stunning. Perhaps her perspective has been skewed when they jumped through that worm hole. Everything has been so bizarre lately she is prepared to take quite an elastic view of the plausible.
‘You’ll have all the time in the world to admire my figure after the massage,’ says Jenny. ‘For now, just lie face down on the bed.’
Sandra gives an embarrassed titter, then spreads herself over the towel, positioning her hips over the pillow, as instructed. It is quite a plump little thing and she realises that her butt is sticking up rather higher than modesty would require. But there is no time for misplaced prudishness for Jenny is already applying lavish amounts of oil to her back.