Belle became the sweetest thing in the joint. Her costume bristled with shiny silver bells that gave a shimmer and a tinny jangle to her strip. Where Sylvie was all brashness and big tits, Belle was ice-cold, like some sea siren, beckoning and dangerous. When she peeled the heavy costume off, slinging it ringing through the air, the room sighed to see her small breasts so pink and exposed. She showed them all she’d got, exiting naked with a backwards pirouette that revealed her most secret seashell pinkness, but somehow it was still the most innocent thing I’d ever seen. There’s men might object to their girl taking her clothes off in a bump-and-grind shop, but I loved to see Belle dance. When she moved the trembling bells caught the light, glancing against the mirror balls, sending the room full of sparkles, like my sweetheart was shining in the starlight. And at night she was all mine.
“Give it to me hard. Like that, yes like that. Fuck me! Let me feel the full length of your cock.”
Perhaps it’s no surprise Belle and Sylvie didn’t get on. I tried to let the big doll down gently – giving her a final jump for old time’s sake before I broke the news – but she took it bad. She hit me a left and a right, so hard I might have been concussed, shoved me out of her apartment in the raw, flinging my boots one after the other from her third-floor brownstone. I stood in the half-light of the back courtyard begging her to throw the rest of my clothes after, trying to ignore the catcalls from other apartments, but she called me every bad name I’d ever heard and a few more beside, then slammed her window shut. I raided a washing line and made my way to Belle’s place in some giant’s work overalls. I didn’t hold it against Sylvie. It’s well known dolls are hard to understand.
It was about this time Al went to Vegas. He called it a fact-finding tour, but from what he told me it was a chance to try out new talent, if you get my drift. He said Vegas had nothing to match our girls, but what they did have was a new style of act, the double act.
“Like Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin?”
“Only in that there’s two of them. I’m talking double titty, Dumbo. Two girls on stage, stripping together. It’s a winner.”
I could see how the audience might go for it. I thought it might be something I could get into myself come to that.
“So who you going to pair up?”
Al winked and said, “Who do you think?” Usually Belle kept her cussing to the bedroom but she stormed in a way I’d never seen before when I told her Fat Al’s plan.
“You’re fucking kidding, right? You want me on stage with that elephant? No fucking way!”
Sylvie wasn’t any happier when she heard the news.
“Me and the Midget Germ? I’d rather fuck your monkey, Al.”
This last she said nodding towards me. But in the end it was Al who decided things. He offered a ten per cent pay rise if they did and a boot out the stage door if they didn’t. Times were hard, joints were closing, and there’s always plenty girls willing to shake their tush inside when it’s chilly out. Al didn’t have it all his way though. Belle and Sylvie refused to rehearse together. It was Belle who started it. Arms crossed, sweet face sour, she pressganged the nancy dancer who puts them through their paces, and confronted Al in his office.
“Ben can choreograph us separate. You can force me to perform with her, but I’m not getting close to that buffalo a second before I need to.”
And that’s what they did, Ben in his seventh heaven, a bra fastened over his tight T, playing Sylvie to Belle and Belle to Sylvie. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, but a man stripping is for a select taste. So after a while Al and me’d go down to Roxy’s, put a shot of whisky in our coffee, and talk about how this show just might make our fortune.
On opening night Le Chat Rouge was as packed as a Joe Louis fight. Word had got round and guys had travelled from as far as Queens to see the show. I was serving drinks double quick and Al’s smile flashed on and off as his thoughts slipped between the loot we were raking in and how much the girls hated each other. He wasn’t the only one worried. They’d both been fierce as firecrackers all day. The clock tick-tocked towards Show Time, but no sound came from either dressing room and Al and me were too chicken to check. Eventually he gave me the nod. I dimmed the overheads, cranked up the music and a spotlight settled on the stage. It lingered three beats beyond time. The audience shuffled and I knew the girls had bailed. Al made a move to raise the lights, then out they slinked from opposite wings, looking like they wanted to kill each other and sexy as Hell.
Sylvie was packed into a red-sequinned sheath that brought out the madness in her eyes. Belle was in ice blue, cool as a killer. The crowd let up a roar and I knew I’d served the last drink for a good while. You’d never know those dolls hadn’t rehearsed together – they moved so slick, feet and hips keeping pace. Lordy, even their bazoomas jiggled in time. They teased the crowd, luring them with lowered eyes then turning their backs and walking upstage, swaying their seats to the jazz-time beat. They were the perfect pair, one as small and slight as the other was curved and ripe, and I began to wonder if there was any way that I could have them both. A saxophone cut in, low and sexy, and the girls each teased off one long evening glove, finger by slow finger. When they flung them into the audience a guy got a black eye in the struggle to grab them.
A second glove followed the first, tugged off by teeth that looked like they could nibble you good. A couple of trophy hunters hit the deck, and were nearly trampled by boots. Guys were starting to shove each other, hustling for the best view, shouting for the girls to show them more.
The crowd might be getting wild but Belle and Sylvie were still frosty. When the tall doll slipped her hands round her partner’s neck, I thought she might strangle her. But all she did was unclasp the sparkles that dripped down Belle’s cleavage and throw them to the crowd. Belle returned the favour then, after a long liquid move of her hips, shifted her attention to her partner’s zip, unfastening it, dropping Sylvie’s dress to the floor. Belle “Ooohed” at the big girl’s cleavage, drawing the crowd into her delight then ran her tiny fingers round the large nipples that peeked over Sylvie’s too-small corset. She bent towards the crowd, exposing her tits, allowing Sylvie to free her from her dress, so now both girls were reduced to high heels, stockings and barely there underwear. They high-kicked, moving with the music. Down in the bull pit some guys lost their hats and a scuffle broke out.
Al squeezed behind the bar.
“There’s gonna be a riot if we don’t watch out.”
And suddenly I saw he was right. The girls were whipping the crowd to frenzy.
Sylvie tugged at the front of Belle’s bra with her teeth and a chair hit the gantry, shattering whisky and smoky glass. Belle put her mouth to Sylvie’s cleavage and a gorilla in a suit smacked a weaselly-looking guy in the mouth. Sylvie licked her lips and put the point of her tongue to Belle’s nipple and a shot rang out.
Al shouted, “Stop them!”
I didn’t know if he meant the girls or the fight, but I knew I was powerless. Both were in full swing, guys throwing punches all over the joint and Sylvie, naked now save for her high heels, snapping Belle’s panties off with her teeth. Then both girls bent over to give us a naughty last glimpse, before running, breasts bouncing, from the stage.
By the time New York’s Finest managed to stop the riot, there wasn’t even a drop of bourbon left to console us. We sweetened the cops with a donation to the usual fund slipped between some girlie pictures and eventually they sloped off, grumbling half-hearted threats against our licence. Al began pushing a broom around the floor and I went to check on Belle.
In truth the wrecking of Le Chat didn’t worry me. We had a dynamite new act that would soon make our money back. No, what I was wondering was whether I could persuade both dolls back to my bed. Belle’s dressing room was empty. I made my way to Sylvie’s. I put my ear to the door before knocking; then I realised that all my plans were sunk.
“Oh yes, do it like that! Yes, you know how to! Oh,
squeeze my tits! Oh, you’re a filthy whore to do that! Yes, touch me there, oh you’re naughty. You like it like that don’t you? You dirty slut.”
I stood listening, wondering if they’d let me join in, but knowing in my heart that the game was up. Not long after, Belle and Sylvie moved to Vegas and opened their own joint. I hear it does a bomb.
Me? I’m still tending bar, but these days I stick to dolls of medium height.
SUMMER
Katie Kelly
Former contributor to the Erotic Review and secret writer of rude stories, Katie Kelly is currently lurking in the rolling Pennines. When she isn’t spending time thinking and writing about things she probably shouldn’t be, she distracts herself by making nutritious family meals her children refuse to eat, gambolling through rain-sodden, cow-pat-strewn hills and persuading her friends to join her in her pledge to discover the perfect gin dry martini.
I look back on that summer as the beginning of my education. From a more literal perspective, it was also the end. I’d finished my degree three months earlier and was helping out at my aunt’s hotel in Koufonissia, a tiny isle off the better-known Naxos Island. I’d been spending my summers at Aunt Alena’s for as long as I could remember. She was my father’s sister. We shared the same black hair and creamy skin, and fought the same battle to keep the infamous Fotopoulos eyebrows under control. The rest of me was a gift from my English mother, eyes as blue as the Aegean sea and a small slim frame. As much as I loved my aunt and all my Greek relatives, I’d never coveted the expansive bottom all females of the line seemed destined to inherit. Bum cheeks so wide and welcoming you could have comfortably parked a Hells Angel’s reunion in between, let alone a single bicycle.
The hotel itself was hidden away from the frenetic activity of the main town. There were only ten rooms, all decorated individually and featuring their own little quirks. Room 9 was dominated by a magnificent antique roll-top bath, which stood imperiously at the bottom of the bed. Room 7 would render guests speechless as they took in the view of the sea from the floor-length wall-to-wall windows. My role during my annual visit was to help prepare the rooms for guests’ arrivals in the morning and then don my apron to undertake waitress duties in the evening. The hours in between were my own. This time of year, as the season slipped into late September, was my favourite. The dazzling sun and excited ice cream-fuelled screams of children which characterised August had faded into long lazy days warmed by a gentler heat. Families were replaced by couples seeking a haven, some precious time to themselves. I liked to watch them as they strolled around hand in hand, imagining the lives they’d left, the relationship they had.
That week’s most recent arrival was a couple from London. My aunt had been busy in the kitchen as they arrived, so I took down their details and led them to their room. Just a few minutes spent with them and I was intrigued. To me they were reminiscent of the film stars of the 50s. Blessed with an understated glamour you couldn’t help stealing a look at. Her face was mainly hidden by a huge, fabulous pair of Jackie O sunglasses, and her blonde hair was protected from the sun with a gingham headscarf. Her husband was wearing a simple linen shirt with loose cotton trousers and, of course, the obligatory shades. They said little but smiled warmly as I showed them around the room, pointing out the extra towels and giving them a quick demonstration of how the shower worked. Room 6’s special feature is a wet room, one side of which is completely transparent. As the room faces out towards the sea, no one is likely to peek at you, with the exception of the occasional fisherman – though it’s the thought that someone could which has always made this particular room my favourite. Judging by the intimate look that flashed between the two as they took in the power shower and the array of accompanying complementary oils, they liked it too.
Over the next couple of days I saw the couple infrequently. At breakfast they’d enjoy fresh fruit and yoghurt before slipping away, only to be spotted again close to midnight, sipping a cocktail. My eyes were automatically drawn to them whenever they appeared. They didn’t fawn over each other like the honeymooning couples we often look after here. I guessed they were in their mid-thirties and had been married for a few years. Each touch seemed assured, almost measured. One morning I saw him return to their table with fresh juice and snake a leisurely finger down her spine as he passed. She arched gracefully, like a cat. Later that morning my aunt asked me to grab a few ingredients from town. As I made my way back, big fat tomatoes jostling with the basil in my bag, releasing a heady scent, I saw my couple again. They were making their way carefully down the steep slope which led to the hotel’s small, private beach. To follow them seemed the most natural thing in the world.
The beach is a secluded cove, scattered with large, sun-weathered rocks that stand proudly in the sand. They headed for the shelter of the largest of these. Hidden from the eyes of anyone who might wander down for a swim – but not from my eyes. From my vantage point, ten metres above them, hidden by a stretch of spiky phrygana shrubs, I could see them clearly. A throw was laid carefully down first, sandals discarded and then his shirt and her kaftan. She reached into her bag, pulled out what I presumed to be sun oil, handed it to her husband and stretched out languidly on her front, deftly undoing the clasp of her bikini top as she did so. He knelt between her legs, edging them further apart with his own, poured a liberal amount of oil into his hands and began massaging it into her calves. He was meticulous in his application – it took at least ten minutes before he even reached the firm swell of her buttocks.
He must have spoken then, because she looked over her own shoulder and nodded a response. My eyes widened as he slowly pulled her bikini briefs down, past her thighs and knees until they were abandoned with the rest of their beach debris. More oil was dripped into the dent at the base of her spine where it pooled for a second before being worked into her ass cheeks with firm, deep strokes. I watched entranced as his fingers worked at the glistening supple flesh of her buttocks, sliding occasionally and deliberately into the deep divide in between. As his fingers delved, I could see her writhe slightly. He edged her legs further apart still and then, with both hands, splayed her ass cheeks wide and ducked his head between. Even with my 20-20 vision I couldn’t see exactly what was happening – but still I knew. I closed my eyes and imagined his tongue flicking over her excited little pink ass hole. I kept them closed and imagined his tongue sliding into my own. Within my own limited experience, that was an area unexplored. I looked up again. In my seconds of inattention, he’d flipped her over and was greedily eating her cunt. I was impressed by how, even with her legs spread open as far as they were, she still managed to emanate an air of languid elegance. Her fingers were digging into his hair as he sucked her clit into his hungry mouth (or so I imagined) and with a cry, lost to my ears amid the crash of the waves and the shriek of the gulls, she threw her head back and screamed her satisfaction
I nearly shrieked too. Not thanks to such glorious attention, alas. No, my scream was provoked by fear. I was sure that in that split second, as she’d thrown her head back with such abandon, her blue eyes had stared straight into mine.
*
It was with some reluctance that I undertook my waitressing duties that evening. My aunt commented on how flushed my face looked, but presumed it was due to my excursion in the midday sun. I hardly heard her. Perhaps they won’t come to dinner, I thought frantically; they never have before. If they do come, mocked a gleeful voice in my head, that’ll prove that they saw you spying on them. My face reddened further, then further still as I let the image of his head between her legs flood into my thoughts once more. Furtively, I looked out from the kitchen on to the candlelit veranda where we served the meals. Only two older couples there for now. I scurried out, flung the barbecued prawns down on their tables then beat a hasty retreat back to the kitchen. As the hour pushed nine, I began to relax. They weren’t coming. I hadn’t been seen after all. All was well. I hummed as I went to see if our guests would like dessert.
> “We’d love something,” came an amused voice from behind me. I froze. And turned slowly. There they were, sitting at the corner table closest to the pool. Both looking at me, both smiling. I approached them slowly.
“What can I get you?” I asked briskly, determined that my professional demeanour would see me through this embarrassing moment.
“I’m very warm,” she murmured, looking me up and down. “So I’d like something cool and creamy. Whatever ice cream you have will be lovely.”
“And for you?” I said, turning my attention to him.
“I am hungry,” he mused, “I’m not sure for what though. I think I’ll share whatever my wife’s having.”
“Very good,” I trilled, becoming ever more Prunella Scales-like as the exchange went on, and scarpered back into the kitchen.
“Bollocks!” I hissed – which is “arhedia” in Greek, incidentally – as I feverishly heaped the ice cream into a bowl. I’ll just take them their dessert, plead a touch of sunstroke to my aunt and go and hide in my room. I was sure the couple were leaving the next day anyway. Calmed slightly by my plan, I headed back to their table and placed the icy bowl carefully in front of her.
Her hand reached over the ice cream and rested on mine.
“Would you be a darling and bring it to our room?” she asked sweetly. “I’m in desperate need of some air con.” Startled, I looked at her husband. He was leaning back in his chair, watching us both closely. I glanced back up at her and she stared back boldly, a half smile curling her lips.
“Of course,” I heard myself stammer. “I just need to let the chef know there’ll be no more orders tonight.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” came her teasing rejoinder as they left the table together. Leaving me contemplating the melting scoops of vanilla in my hand.
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