Devoutly to be Wished Ch. 03

Sara was thinking about Bijou's question, too. What is Will supposed to do next? And she found, amidst all the confusion in her mind, that she knew exactly what she wanted him to do. There was no way to tell him; he would have to guess, because there was no way she could force it out of her mouth, aloud. But yes, she knew what she wanted Will to do. There was no avoiding it.

A hot red silence coalesced within her, and she felt as if her skin were on fire for the man that was waiting in the next room, the one she had been waiting for, the one who was waiting for her. It was just like it had always been, at that moment; knowing he was right there, almost within reach, nearly tangible, and yet still invisible.

Bijou watched her, and thought fast.

And Will was indeed trying to decide what to do.

***

He'd let himself in quietly, expecting to find the two women still chatting in the living room, since Sara's car was still out front. It was obvious the moment he walked into the living room what had been happening. Bijou's dress in a heap on the floor, what must have been Sara's skirt and a blouse, and

oh oh god

hanging off the edge of a bookshelf, the hot pink lace brassiere, (never saw those much around bijou's place, his mind said idly, desperate to find something rational to do) that had to be

jesus. Hers. Sara's. He'd never been a fetishist, never had more than a normal straight man's interest in women's lingerie, but it was suddenly all he could do not to just... walk up, pick it up, perhaps (christ, get ahold of yourself, man) bury his face in it, breathe in. It was tangled badly, and far from the rest of the clothing. That would mean what, about the scene that had happened. Had she (Sara, my god, Sara) walked over, wearing nothing but... and where were the underwear? Did she not... or were they... suddenly I'm goddamn Sherlock Holmes, he thought wildly. Christ, I'm going insane.

He didn't touch the bra. And he tried not to think about the fact that it had taken all his strength not to do so. To pick it up, to imagine it shaping those breasts he had tried not to notice at breakfast the other day, those stunning curves. But he didn't trust himself to touch it, because the way he was feeling right now god only knew what he'd end up doing with it. He turned deliberately and walked toward the coffee table, his mind racing. Sara and bijou had been drinking this wine, here, holding those two glasses, still on the table, still with their lip prints on them. Two pairs of shoes had been kicked off. A tray of grapes, a corkscrew. Then they had... and then they had...

God. Perhaps even right now. For the first time, he listened for noises. Bijou was noisy. There was no missing it if she was involved in anything sexual. (He didn't know about Sara. Yet, his mind said. Yet.) What did Sara sound like, aroused, coming? Dammit, stop that right now. Focus.

But there was no noise, nothing at all.

They were asleep. They'd forgotten about him. He should just quietly leave. He couldn't resist peering down the hall a slight distance, and saw that the light was on in the bedroom. And in fact he could hear a low conversation, though he couldn't make out the words.

The words would have sent him completely over the edge, had he been able to hear them.

"What do you really want, Sugar?" Bijou's voice was half maternal, half tease. They were curled together on the bed, talking in low tones. Obviously a decision had to be made. "If you were Will's best friend now, what would you tell him to do?"

"I don't know," Sara breathed. It was confusing, putting it like that. What she wanted, what he should do. It was just that her whole body throbbed, her pussy beat like a hungry heart, her hands nearly shook for desire to feel skin, muscle, rhythm underneath them. Real. Him.

And of course her. Bijou. She looked over, still astounded by where she was and what had happened, which, mind-bending as it was, now seemed only a preamble to this next moment. For a moment she felt guilt-soaked. What was she thinking about, fucking another woman's lover, in her own bed, in her own house? But there was no escape there: this was Bijou. Obviously, she'd be more than fine with that.

Sara surrendered. She sighed and leaned back into Bijou's embrace. "I want him," she said simply. "I have, for so long. I've always wanted him." Her mind tried to go all sorts of places, old places. He couldn't really want her. He was just being polite. She didn't know what to do, where to start. All the old terror tried to insert itself into the odd, wild peace she'd been feeling. But she didn't let it. I don't care anymore, she thought. I'm so hungry. I've been so hungry for so long.

Bijou had had her on the edge, so very close, and then had brought her back down, and her body was throbbing with a low hum of need. Every little thought of Will in the next room made the heartbeat in her thighs a little more intense. She balanced on a primitive edge of complete opposites. She was overwhelmed with the pure need to be taken over the edge, by someone, anyone. And she was equally overwhelmed by the specific idea of Will, that unimaginable creature she'd desired for so long on a level that was almost purely intellectual and theoretical.

It was just too much. And what it came down to, really, at this moment, was whether or not she trusted Bijou to tell her the truth, to push her in the right direction, toward joy, toward what she truly, secretly and most deeply wanted. If Bijou said that Will wanted her, that he was just as self-conscious as she was, that he felt as she did, then it must be true; what reason would she have to lie?

Bijou watched the internal war, and crossed her fingers that she was doing the right thing. "He has always wanted you too, sweet," she said simply. "You know that. You can tell. You just keep talking yourself out of it. But you know it, don't you? I mean, here?" she tapped on Sara's heart, then slid her hand lower. Sara wriggled and gasped. "Yes," she admitted. "I know. At least, I think I know." She trailed off.

"You know," said Bijou. "Of course you know. You just can't admit that you could be, that you are, just that fabulous." Sara relaxed for a moment, and knew the truth of it. She was bright, she was hot, and she was worth a great deal.

But I'll go a step further than that," murmured Bijou, now trailing her fingertips over Sara's thigh, smoothly and infuriatingly. "I'll tell you that giving Will a way to get to you, like he's always wanted to, would easily be the nicest thing I could ever do for him. And I'm very, very fond of that man." Her eyes were shot with threads of steel for a moment, at that last phrase, and then she focused. "I want to give you to him like the best present ever. I want to wrap you up in a bow, in fact. That's what I want. But you tell me."

Sara already knew the answer, but she said, "Wait. You're talking about going away, aren't you? You wouldn't be here? I wouldn't want to..."

"This is not martyrdom," interrupted Bijou firmly, "and you know it. This is simply how it's supposed to be. Don't you think?" Sara nodded. Right now, her thoughts and her body were so focused on Will, even Bijou lying next to her, and the memory of the last hour or two, faded by comparison. "I'm sorry," she said, knowing it was an odd thing to say.

"Stop that this instant," commanded Bijou. "That's ridiculous. You're supposed to be completely preoccupied right now. That is exactly as it should be." It was the last piece of permission Sara needed. But she had needed to hear that. It seemed so strange, to switch focus so quickly. But there was also a part of her that knew that sooner or later, she could have them... both. Both. Her mind bent at the thought; the two of them, working together, playing, with her... God. Oh god. But before she could really think about that, Bijou's voice was in her ear again.

"Let me wrap you up. Like a present. Like the best birthday in the history of time. And here's what I'm thinking, here's my idea. You have absolute control over what happens next. "

"But I don't want..." Sara blurted, and stopped. Bijou grinned. "I know. Trust me. Just see what you think of my idea." Sara was already learning to recognize Bijou's domme voice, the friendly, edgy little series of casual suggestions, the insistent, hypnotic patter. "I'm thinking this, and see, I'm just brainstorming, so tell me what you think, and oh, look at you, just look at you at the moment. I wish you could see what I see," and she slid up alongside Sara and pressed her back against the pillows, so that she was half-sitting, languid.

Bijou sat back and looked at Sara through narrowed eyes, holding her thumb forward and squinting in a parody of a preoccupied portrait artist. "Hmmm," she said. Sara giggled. Bijou leaned in and arranged Sara's legs, out and relaxed with one knee slightly bent open. Then she made a huge production out of arranging the various folds of the kimono, a stunning Chinese red embroidered jacket that hit Sara at about mid-thigh. Sara began to chuckle, occasionally punctuating her soft giggle with a surprised little yelp or a sigh as Bijou purposefully grazed her fingers over a nipple or an inner thigh.

Lastly, Bijou went to a dresser drawer and pulled out a long black scarf, a length of satin only a few inches wide. She knelt on the bed next to Sara, and very gently drew Sara's arms up until her palms met at her heart. She slid the silk around and wound it, length after length, beginning at the wrists, and then down, so that Sara's forearms were pressed closer together. Sara's hands were now pressed together near her face, her forearms bound in a single slick gauntlet. "Here," she said in a quiet, electric voice, "I give you complete control." She didn't tie the fabric at all, but rather looped it up and slid the ends through Sara's joined hands.

"Simply let go, and you're unbound. You're only there as long as you choose to hold this in your hand. So it's your choice. Stay there, just like that, or move. It's entirely and completely up to you."

She leaned forward, grinning, and whispered in Sara's ear, "If you were Sara's best friend, what would you tell her to do?" And despite the rolling boil of panic and arousal that consumed her, Sara giggled again. Yes. Yes I'll stay, and she knows that. I've got nothing, nothing, nothing to lose except this endless ache, this raw hunger. Something will happen. Something good. She leaned her head back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her fingertips were now against her lips, held in place by the silk, and her forearms pressed down against her breasts.

Bijou looked down at her, thinking to herself that Sara would never believe it if she tried to express what an astounding picture she made at the moment, like a bouquet of red roses, like a feast. "Close your eyes, sweet one," she whispered. Sara let her eyes drift shut, and went deep inside her body. She heard Bijou's voice, next to her ear, just a breath. "Don't think, sugar. Don't think. Just breathe and dream. I'll be back in a little while." And she was gone, silently. Sara breathed. And waited. Not thinking. But wanting. Oh, yes. Wanting, so much.

***

That was definitely a giggle, thought Will. Sara. Giggling.

It is wrong to eavesdrop. It is wrong. I should leave, or at least go back to the living room and wait. Will's mind was absolutely clear on this, but he couldn't seem to make his body move away from the hallway, where he could hear the low murmur of voices. Sounds made him insane; for him, there was nothing more arousing than the auditory aspect of sex. In truth, if forced to choose, he'd rather listen than watch.

Was that a moan? He took another step. Bijou's low voice, saying something. Silence again. Then again, a laugh from Sara. Something physical, something silent, that made Sara laugh.

I should not, absolutely should not, be doing this. He strained to hear anything familiar, moaning or gasping, or the sharp yelps and coos he had come to expect from Bijou when she was playing. But again there was silence.

Before he could argue further with himself about the ethics of what he was doing, he was suddenly too late. Bijou stepped out of the bedroom, looking back, almost walking backwards, and then turned around toward the hallway. She seemed unsurprised to see Will there.

He was very surprised, however, that she was fully dressed. Maybe he'd been wrong about the whole thing. Except that that had definitely been Sara's bra he'd seen. His mind whirled again, and he had no jurisdiction over his expression -- part guilt for eavesdropping, part amazement, part confusion, and not a little hunger. Bijou was attractive dressed like this, in a large white button-down shirt that looked like it had been stolen from a man of reasonable taste, and a pair of ridiculously torn jeans. She was a bit tousled, her hair unruly, her face a bit flushed. When she saw him, she grinned, walked quietly toward him, and steered him back toward the living room.

"Well now, here you are at last," she said, the mischief in her look telling him that Sara was indeed back in the bedroom, and things had definitely been going on. There was a faint scent, sweet and musky, that he caught as she'd walked next to him in the hall. Was that, perhaps... God. He was uncomfortably hard thinking about it. Bijou's face, her hands, scented with that singular perfume, with Sara...

"I suspect everything you're thinking is true," she said, "but you're welcome to ask, if you like."

Will turned red, acutely aware that his cock had been tenting his slacks for what now seemed like hours. Seeing, and smelling, Bijou hadn't helped at all. "I wouldn't know where to start," he said. "How about, should I leave?"

She laughed. "Dear god, of course not. Quite the opposite. You should most definitely stay."

Will gestured to the stereo, which was playing the last strains of Lakme, "And interrupt the Flower Duet?" He knew exactly why Bijou had chosen that particular opera. She referred to it as 'classical hot girl on girl action.'

"No baby. Not an interruption. We've moved to the second act. In which Tristan is summoned by the servant girl with an urgent message from Iseult. Or something to that effect. God help me, don't you like anything with a happy ending? It makes operatic metaphors so much more difficult."

"I'm sure Trent Reznor would have some really upbeat metaphors at this point," Will said dryly. He was inclined to be flip when he was nervous. He was relatively sure where this was heading, at least in the abstract. It was the particulars he had to worry about. And about those, he was both terrified and aroused beyond description. "So tell me. What happens next?"

"They sing their famous duet, 'Je te veux a la folie; il me blesse mon corps entire'."

"Duet?" Will was genuinely surprised. Surely Bijou wanted - and my god, needed, to be here for whatever was about to happen. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to deal with this monumental moment all alone.

"Yes," said Bijou firmly. "Duet. I want to offer you to her, as a gift." She prepared herself to tell a tiny, useful lie. Or perhaps just a slanted truth. "At this moment, I am not quite what she needs. I'm good, I'm skilled, but I am a girl. And well," she narrowed her eyes, smiling just slightly, "right now, you're more her style."

Will saw something, though, that made him stop. Bijou was actually blushing. He didn't think he'd ever seen that before, in all the time they'd been together. And unfortunately for bijou, he remembered at that moment what she'd said when the subject came up at one point. "Only when I lie," she had confessed. "That's why I don't lie; I can't. If I feel like I'm lying, I turn beet red. Nothing embarrasses me, but lying gets me every time."

What was the lie? That he was what Sara wanted at that moment? No, that wasn't it. Bijou wouldn't be sending him in there otherwise. It had to be something else.

That she wasn't enough for Sara. That had to be the lie. Sara wanted Bijou just as much, and they had to be compatible, as alike as they were in so many other ways. Perhaps it was that she, or Sara, or they (they. thinking of them as a pair sent him into a frenzy. He didn't dare go there right now) perhaps they both, actually wanted him there. Perhaps they had been waiting for him. Impossible, but maybe...

But Bijou was implying that she would not accompany him. He was about to ask, when she said, "And I actually have to go, for a little while. There's a... well, it's not important. But I'll be back, in a bit." Again, the deep red. It was strikingly obvious on Bijou's pale skin.

That was the lie. She was making an excuse to leave. So he could, they could... god. As if his cock hadn't been embarrassingly hard for at least the last fifteen minutes, it got even harder. This actually hurt.

So he and Sara could be alone. That moment, with all its potential pitfalls. Sara couldn't possibly want him. But as impossible as it seemed, all the signs were there, even the obvious ones that he had ignored for years. Why had he not wanted to know, when it was staring him right in the face all that time?

Because he was afraid he was not that person. That in reality, she would be disappointed. It was easier to tell himself she was being polite, even that she was lying, than to tell himself that he wasn't everything she thought.

Bijou interrupted his endless circles. She spoke very deliberately. "Will," she said, holding his gaze till he focused on her. She had very demanding eyes when she wanted to. "Will, she is as terrified as you are. And, I suspect, for the same reasons."

His mind was balanced between hysterical arousal and complete terror. Failure, some sort of failure, was possible here. He was not, couldn't be, what something as amazing as Sara really wanted. Not the real him. Words on a screen, yes. He'd studied words all his life. He was good with them.

But over the intellectualizing was a voice that had begun, very quietly, to believe. What it all boiled down to, really, was whether he truly trusted Bijou to tell him the truth. That Sara wanted him, that she was, god help him, waiting right now at the end of the hall, expecting him to walk in. For his part, he understood her for what she was; he wasn't making her into anything idealized or deified. He knew that she was human, imperfect as everyone is, and knew that he would adore every imperfection he might find. Why, after all, couldn't he trust Sara to be wise enough, loving enough, to do the same? Why couldn't he trust that what Bijou said was true?

And ironically, Bijou had, in fact, just told him a lie. But he thought he understood why.

"Are you going because you need to go, or because you want the two of us to be alone?"

"Duh, Will," she smiled. "Would I miss this if it weren't terribly important?" Only later would Will realize that she hadn't actually answered his question. Or perhaps she had, and truthfully. He was too distracted at the moment to notice.

"I, uh," Will's throat was dry, and his voice cracked. "I have no right to ask, but."

"Anything. What."

"Is there a third act?" Jesus, I'm greedy, I must be a bastard, but I need to know.

Bijou's smile was genuine. "I certainly hope so. I suspect there is. I'm just watching this opera, same as you are."

"Sometimes I think you're writing the libretto," he said as she began to unbutton and untuck his shirt.

She grinned, silently opening his shirt and carefully rolling up his sleeves. She was arranging him, getting him in costume perhaps. He already had his shoes off; very few people wore shoes around Bijou's place. She pulled his socks off, and then ran her hands up his torso, curving her fingers through his short-cropped beard, looking him in the eye. Her face was affectionate but somehow masked. What was she thinking? He didn't have the power to ask, or try to deduce. He felt a bit like he might actually pass out. She left his slacks on, but deliberately unbuckled his belt, slid it off and folded it aside. His skin seemed to be feverish; even the feel of air on his bare chest was turning him on.