The Blue Guide

by Carrie Williams

  Then suddenly she’s quiet, flopped over me, my hand still inside her, feeling the pulses of her orgasm die away like a ship’s beacons as it travels out into the night, bound for strange shores. Her breath is ragged, ruined, in my ear. I hold her to me, like a child in need of consolation. I think she may be crying, and I wonder if I will too.

  We’re subdued, afterwards, in the club lounge of the hotel, where a complimentary afternoon tea is laid on. I was all for rushing away, but Carlotta insisted we talk about what has happened between us. And she’s right – if I ran home and avoided the issue, I’d spend all night worrying about facing up to her again. Far better to get it all out in the open, set out our respective stalls.

  I’m expecting Carlotta to tell me it was all a big mistake, that it mustn’t happen again, especially given her serious expression as she toys with her plate of fancy little cakes and fiddles with her teaspoon. And all considered, that would be the sensible thing to do. She’s married, and I’m her husband’s employee, for the time being. The fact that I’ve been fucking her husband is an extra complication she doesn’t need to know about.

  ‘Listen,’ she says, avoiding my eyes for a moment, looking everywhere but at me, then suddenly fixing me with an almost pleading gaze. ‘I think I need tell you this, but Paco is not to know what happen. He – he more vulnerable than he seem, and I think my infidelity will be a knife through his heart. I fear what he do.’

  I nod dumbly, heart pounding both at the irony of what she’s said and my doubts over my ability to keep myself from breaking into hysterical laughter. But then she surprises me, both by what she says and the way she says it, a little shyly, like a nervous teenager trying to summon up the guts to propose a first date.

  ‘I want to see you again, Alicia. Not – not just as my chaperone. I mean as we are just now. I want you.’

  My belly lurches, and I realise there’s no chance I’d turn down the offer of re-experiencing a little of what Carlotta and I had in the steam room. If I’d known it could be that much fun with a girl before, I wouldn’t have waited this long.

  And then of course there’s the flattery of it, of this bronze goddess actively wanting to fuck me, wanting my breasts, my pussy, my arse. Bestowing hers on me, like the most precious of gifts. A jewel box concealing rare and priceless gems, glittering beneath my touch. All those men who look at Carlotta’s body in the streets, in the bars, in the galleries, as it oozes out of her clingy little dresses. And it’s mine for the taking. All mine. And Paco’s of course.

  I’m thinking all this, and Carlotta must take my dumbstruck silence for a refusal, or at least a hesitation, for in a few moments she leans forwards and whispers, plaintively, like a lost little girl, ‘Please, ’Licia.’

  I grasp her hand over the table, lean forwards. ‘Of course,’ I say, smiling. ‘You just try keeping me away.’

  At home, a handful of messages await; in among them there’s one from Daniel. I tut as I hear his voice; Carlotta has more than distracted me from thoughts of that little rat and his no-show.

  ‘I’m so sorry about earlier, Alicia,’ he says. In the background I can hear flight numbers being called. ‘My jacket went missing at lunch, and with it my cellphone with your number on, not to mention all my credit cards, passport, etc. It was a bit of a panic. Eventually they found it – a long and boring story to do with a cloakroom attendant who’d gone off duty – but when I called your cell it was just going through to messages, and I guessed you must have been with your afternoon client by then.’

  Yes, I think bitterly. I was otherwise engaged. In all likelihood I was flat on my back with superstud flamenco dancer Paco Manchega between my legs. Either that, or I was in the spa with his blonde bombshell of a wife, his nubile new bride, feeling the spread of her pussy lips on the small of my back as she climaxed for the second time. So don’t worry about me, Daniel. I had more than my fair share of fun. I’m in demand – maybe not by you, but that’s your loss.

  He’s winding up his message with some trite comment about still wanting to do some more tours next time he’s in town, and promising he’ll take me out to dinner to make up for what happened today, but I can hardly bear to listen and I press the delete button and go on to the next message and decide, once and for all, to forgot about Daniel Lubowski. He hurt me before; he won’t do it again.

  It won’t be hard to forget, I think – not with Carlotta Manchega in my life. It’s funny, I muse, that it is her I am falling for and not Paco, given that I’ve always thought of myself as hetero. Given how gorgeous Paco is. But I feel somehow detached from Paco, whereas I have begun to consider Carlotta a friend, of sorts. Perhaps that’s what made the sex so intense.

  But soon enough, it occurs to me now, I’m going to have to face up to the fact that she and Paco are going to be heading back to Madrid. I’m hoping, given what she said over afternoon tea, that we’ll stay in touch. They’re bound to come back to London before long, and when they do I will want to see her. But I won’t press her for now: let’s see how it goes over the next week before making any plans or promises.

  I decide to go to bed early: Carlotta wanted to venture east tomorrow, to see some of the small commercial art galleries such as Victoria Miro and White Cube2. After that, she’d said with a roguish twinkle, we should find somewhere cosy.

  I pull my duvet up, think of that mass of blonde hair descending on me, of that mouth on me, of those breasts pressing down against mine and that groin – rubbing, rubbing, desperate for me. Bloody hell, I think, I fucked a woman, and not just any old woman, but this amazing creature Carlotta.

  I think guiltily of Jess: she left a message too, wants to ‘catch up’. I don’t even know what happened with her barman yet. But I can’t call her now, can’t tell her that not only have I broken my promise to her but I’ve actually been frolicking with both Paco and his wife. She’ll go mad, come round to my flat and read me the riot act (albeit wanting to hear all the titillating details about the spa, no doubt). I start to drift off, fingers caressing my pussy, thinking about Carlotta. Jess will have to wait for another time.

  In the morning, I wake with the remnants of an orgasm rippling through me, and I know I’ve just come in my sleep. I sit up, feeling all warm and beatific. I must have been dreaming of Carlotta, I think, and then I have a moment of panic: what if the whole thing in the spa was a dream? What if I never had Carlotta, can never have Carlotta? How will I go on?

  But the phone rings, and as soon as I hear Carlotta’s voice, the new edge to it, I know that what happened was no dream.

  ‘Let leave the galleries for tomorrow,’ she breathes. ‘Paco going out in half an hour, for all day. Come here.’

  I dress rapidly, tucking my still-damp pussy into a pair of nearly-nude Lejaby knickers that I team with a matching bra. As it doesn’t seem we’re going to be leaving the hotel at all today and I don’t need to look particularly smart, I slip on my skinniest jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt, with a tailored black cord jacket over the top. I’m in too much of a hurry to bother with a bath or shower, especially when I know my pants will be soaked through with excitement by the time I’ve got to the hotel. But I take a little time over my hair, brushing it carefully before folding it up into a loose chignon. Afterwards, I feel confident adding the barest hint of mascara and Kiehl’s lip balm – my complexion is glowing with health and vitality, unsurprisingly given all this strenuous activity.

  Tripping down the stairs in a pair of spike-heeled black ankle boots that I’ve chosen in favour of the flat pumps I usually wear when working, I rush out into the street and hail a taxi, which takes me across Marylebone and to Carlotta’s hotel in five minutes. Asking the driver to pull up on the opposite side of Langham Place from the hotel entrance, I climb out and stand outside the Nash church looking up at the windows of her semi-circular drawing room. I breathe in, savouring the moment, the anticipation. What pleasures await me inside? What new raptures will be mine today?

  Suddenly I se
e Carlotta step up to one of the windows. I gasp. She’s naked – at least what I can see of her, from the waist up – palms pressed up to the pane of glass, staring down at me. She brings her hands to her breasts, starts circling her nipples with the pads of her thumbs, smiling. Then she beckons me with her head.

  I start running, weaving across the street between lines of oncoming traffic, then dash up the steps into the hotel and through the lobby. In the lift I stand panting, my hand on my heart, fearful that it’s going to burst. Nothing I’ve ever experienced has made me behave like this. Is Carlotta some kind of witch? What has she done to me?

  As I approach her suite, the door opens and Carlotta is standing there, framed, resplendent, blonde mane cascading down over bare shoulders. Her nipples are still all bunched up like walnuts from where she was playing with herself. There’s a soft white towel around her slender waist, tumbling down to her calves.

  ‘Come in,’ she says, taking my hand and drawing me inside, kicking the door to behind us. I go to kiss her but she holds me at arm’s length, both hands in mine now, just drinking me in with her eyes. ‘This way,’ she says at length, and we walk into the drawing room hand in hand.

  Straight out she leads me over to the cream couch, where she indicates that I should sit down. As I do so, she arranges a few of the scatter cushions into a pile behind my head and gently pushes me back. Not taking her eyes from mine, she reaches down and unzips my ankle boots, slides them off my feet together with the cashmere socks I had on underneath. Taking my feet firmly in her hands, she begins to massage them, pressing into the soft flesh of my soles, up and down their length. Still looking into my eyes, she brings her face to my feet and takes my toes into her mouth one by one, making me giggle and wriggle as her tongue slides and darts between them like a little fish.

  I’m rubbing at my pussy through my jeans, more than ready for her, but she’s determined to string me along, I can tell by the slow deliberation of her movements as she stands up and saunters across the room. Beneath her towel her buttocks swell invitingly. I want to get up and chase her across the room, tear off the towel and push her roughly to the ground, then mount her. The only reason I don’t is that I know she has something in mind and I don’t want to miss out on whatever treat she’s got lined up for me.

  She disappears into the master bedroom, and I hear her open and shut a drawer. Then she calls back, ‘Close your eyes, angel,’ and I obey, offering myself up to blackness, to uncertainty. My pussy tingles.

  I hear her move back across the drawing room, towards me, and I’m reminded of some big cat moving stealthily in on its prey. The thought excites me, and I squeeze my cunt again through my jeans. Even through the thick denim I can feel my wetness. I can’t help but let out a moan. I am so horny I could scream.

  Suddenly she’s kneeling beside me; I can feel her breath on my neck, and I know that she’s turned on too because it’s coming fast and irregular.

  ‘Don’t open your eyes,’ she whispers, her voice choked in her throat, and I feel her hands about my head. Something is being pulled across my face, and the darkness behind my eyelids becomes inkier, a deeper indigo blue.

  I feel like I’m falling backwards in space, and I submit myself to the sensation, to the delicious fear of putting myself entirely in the hands of another person, of renouncing myself entirely. At this moment I am just a body, a body that wants, ardently, but that is being controlled by another body, a body being driven by a mind. I shiver with desire: I am Carlotta’s plaything, and I have to trust her. I suspect she is going to take us to places neither of us has ever been before.

  Her hands are behind my head now, securing the tie, which I suspect to be the scarf I wore around my neck when posing for the drawing, in place of Victorine’s slim ribbon. She does it gently but tightly, so that not a chink of light shows through when I manage to open my eyes a slit. Then she moves her hands down my body, to the lapels of my jacket, which she uses to pull me up towards her. Our mouths touch fleetingly, and I try to kiss her more fully, but she’s moved her head before I can plunge my tongue into her mouth in search of hers. Her face is against the side of mine, and I can feel the slightly angular curve of her prominent cheekbone as she jabs at the peach-fuzz lobe of my ear with her tongue, as she snacks on it with her teeth. At the same time, she’s slipped my jacket off my shoulders and, pushing up my T-shirt, is rubbing my nipples through my bra, brushing their nut-hard tips with her thumbs just as she did her own in the window not fifteen minutes ago.

  I’ve never been blindfolded before, and I’m thrilled by how much more intense everything feels when you can’t see it, by how your senses are reawakened to familiar textures when you are rendered blind to them. The fluffy towel at Carlotta’s hips feels ephemeral as a wisp of cloud beneath my palms, and when I yank it away from her, the skin of her buttocks reminds me of the padded little cheek of a well-nourished baby. I bring my hand round to the front of her, entwine my fingers in the scant tendrils of her bush, fine as spun sugar. They grow slick at once with the dew I can feel seeping from her core.

  ‘Oh God, Carlotta,’ I say. ‘Nothing . . . has ever . . .’

  ‘Shhh,’ she says, placing a finger across my lips, then slipping it inside my mouth. I suck on it like a newborn at a teat. She’s moved her other hand down to my crotch, where she pops the button flies one by one, then pushes my jeans and knickers down over my hips. I start as I feel a finger shoot up inside me, pull her closer to me. I want to engulf this woman, somehow take all of her inside me, eat her up whole. The sudden cannibalistic urge surges at me from nowhere and scares me with its wildness.

  ‘Not yet,’ she says as I try to pull her in, and she draws her finger out of my cunt. She’s sitting beside me on the edge of the sofa, I can tell, but I can’t know what she’s looking at – my face, desperate with lust, my tits, my pussy, smouldering away for her, oozing all over the place.

  ‘Please,’ I murmur. ‘I can’t –’

  She leans forwards now, strips off my T-shirt and then reaches round to unclasp my bra. When she does so, I feel her breasts graze my belly, and more juice leaks out of me. I can’t help but reach down now and start working at my clit. If Carlotta tries to stop me, I may end up wrestling her off the sofa and onto the floor and taking control of this. I’m finding being at her mercy more difficult than I could have imagined.

  She moves down my body, pulls my jeans over my legs and feet, then my knickers. ‘Mmmm,’ I hear her say, and I feel her grow still.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Licking your panties,’ she says with a dirty little chuckle.

  ‘Give me yours,’ I say, straight out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your knickers,’ I say. ‘It’s only fair.’

  I hear her jump up, cross the room. In a moment she’s back, and I feel her sliding something down over my head, over the blindfold, to the bottom half of my face. On my cheeks I feel the sheen of the material, but across my nose and mouth she’s positioned the undies carefully, so that the cotton of the gusset is right against them. All at once my nostrils are filled with the scent of her, a musky, sour-honey aroma similar to that I smell or taste on my own hands when I’ve been wanking, or that I taste on a lover’s penis when I go down on him after we’ve fucked. I probe it more, sniffing hard to bring more of its essence to the receptors inside my head, and I’m surprised by a sudden manly odour, the sharp salty tang of semen, mixed in with it. Carlotta must have worn these knickers after screwing Paco. I inhale deeply, as if snorting some powerful drug. The two of them at once – now that really would blow my mind.

  Carlotta has grown silent, and I wonder what she’s cooking up in that filthy little head of hers. ‘Where are you?’ I say, and I realise there’s an almost plaintive note to my voice.

  ‘I’m here,’ she says, from an indeterminate point in the room. ‘Come and find me.’

  I sit up and am immediately disoriented, probably partly because the smell of Carlotta
and Paco’s melded love juices are still coursing through my brain. I reach out, find only empty air in the immediate vicinity.

  ‘Carlotta,’ I say.

  ‘Over here, baby,’ she says.

  Given what I know of the room layout immediately surrounding me – namely, the large square central coffee table with its hard, sharp corners – I have no option but to slide down to the floor and start moving forwards on my hands and knees. Otherwise, I just know I’d trip over and do myself a serious injury. I giggle slightly as I envisage being tended to by ambulance men on the floor of the suite, naked and blindfolded. How fucking embarrassing would that be?

  I kneel up, reach out my right hand and feel the smooth polished surface of one of the ceramic eggs in the middle of the table. Drawing back my hand, my fingertips brush the glossy cover of one of Carlotta’s art books. I inch forward on my knees, confident of my direction, if not the whereabouts of Carlotta. When I’m sure I’ve got beyond the table, I dare to rise to my feet. Like a ghost in a clunky old horror movie, or like Frankenstein’s monster, I walk slowly forwards, arms out before me.

  I run up against the rounded wooden edge of the dining table with my belly and grasp it with both hands, as if I’ve found a port in a storm. Fingertips graze the back of one of my hands, then fingers wrap themselves around it and coax it forwards. The pads of my own fingers meet something frilly, something with almost the texture of young, unspoilt flesh. There’s a soft meatiness about it. I open my hand, allow the array of petals to tickle the underside of my palm. Then Carlotta is pushing me gently forwards over the table, and as I inhale the heady scent of fresh roses, her fingers play at my own furled little bud between my buttocks, flitting at it like a hummingbird seeking flower nectar.