tagNovels and NovellasFor the Love of Licia Pt. 01

For the Love of Licia Pt. 01

byangiquesophie©

For the Love of Licia.

A true fantasy.

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Chapter One: Ghosts and Demons -- an introduction.

My name is Alicia. If two years ago someone would have told me I am a slut and a whore, I might have sued them or at least threatened with it. I was a well-behaved girl, conscious of other people's opinions and very well able to keep my darker fantasies a secret. I was a well-respected businesswoman with my own graphic design studio. I also was a self-proclaimed lesbian after my husband of seven years divorced me to live with his secretary. Since that day I decided all men are pigs. So how come that by now I'd welcome any man with a functioning cock to ravage my ass-hole or send his spunk down my throat -- even in that sequence?

The reason is that I am a whore and a slut -- I always was. There have been times when I thought differently, but I guess I was fooling myself. You see, if two years ago someone would have walked up to me and pointed out an anonymous man telling me to suck him off, I would have turned crimson and would have yelled at him to piss off. Today my little heart surges at the mere thought -- and my pussy starts flowing. Or rather my cunt, as I call it now.

One might say I have come a long way, or fallen deep, depending on one's outlook. But I know that isn't true. I have always been like this. I just didn't admit to it until someone pointed it out to me. That someone owns me now, I am her property. She made me her slave and in doing so, set me free. Yes, you'd call that a contradiction. I would too, but right now I know better. It set me free to do whatever she asked me to do. It pleases me to obey. No, it more than pleases me -- I would die if she left me.

***

Before we go on, let me first invite you to the house where I was born and where I lived the biggest part of my life. It was mine, I'd inherited it, but I wonder if it was a house at all. In the darkest hour of the night it felt more like a tall, huge skeleton of shadows -- the belly of a crouching dragon. I stumbled through it on bare feet, feeling my way through velvet darkness, sensing the cool shrouds of familiar ghosts grazing my face. Don't be afraid, to you they would have been perfectly harmless -- I'd be surprised if you'd even have felt their presence. You see, they were entirely mine; they were the demons of my youth.

My house was old. It stood near a lake at the outskirts of a sprawling town in the foothills of a northeastern state where winters are cruel and autumns spectacular. The house creaked with the smallest breeze and there was always a corner where water would seep in when it rained. Sometimes the basement flooded. During daytime it echoed with the sounds of emptiness, only occasionally interrupted by the murmurs of a lonely voice. But at night the ghosts rushed in to fill the void -- and to rob me of my sleep.

Firstly, there was the silent ghost of my father. It was as cold in death as he was in life -- an ambitious immigrant who never allowed his warmth to show through need to climb socially and be accepted in the country of his dreams. But he was gone. And all he left behind for his neglected youngest daughter was this skeleton of a house -- plus the eternal certainty that she was inadequate.

Then there was the ghost of my mother, who always knew how to behave -- outwardly. And more specifically, who knew how her daughter should behave. There was never a question about what I might have wanted, or even what I might have been able to do or be. My small fingers were trained and molded to conquer the piano during endless afternoons with cruel taskmasters who were more interested in my flirting mother than my limited talents. They taught me how to play. I even started teaching others. But after my mother died, I never touched a key again. Yet, her ghost wailed in there every night to keep me feeling guilty of wasting a talent I never had.

Then there was that other ghost, a demon really. In its own seductive way it was more evil, more treacherous than the other two combined. It was the ghost of my older brother George, who forced his hard erection on me, making me suck it. Over time he taught me how to take it down my throat, suck it to completion and swallow its salty essence. More than that, he taught me to like it and in the end, to need it. He warped my mind till I was proud of my skills. He succeeded in turning me into this girl who offers to suck off boys' cocks in school to get the attention she never gets otherwise. He made me into a cock-sucking slut. And then he died in an accident.

One more ghost kept me awake at night and even haunted me during daytime. It was the only one I felt was benign. The one that kept me sane, I hope. It was the ghost of my older sister Barbara, who died when I turned eighteen, leaving me in a sobbing pool of misery. The death of Barbara was the ultimate disaster. I always thought she was the only human being I could share my fears and defeats with, even the dark and embarrassing ones. She was the one who didn't laugh when I bared my pathetic soul.

The death of Barbara was more than just a heart breaking loss. I felt betrayed. It was then that I learned there must be a Power somewhere who needs to punish me at every turn of my miserable life. The memory of Barbara grew in my mind. The loss also grew over the years. It made the ghost, although benign, into maybe the most devastating one to plague me.

It kept reminding me that no one loves me.

Ah yes...then there of course was this other presence. Not a demon, really. Not even a ghost, as its owner was still alive. But it was there and it was evil enough to cause turmoil in my mind. It was the memory of my husband, the man who once lived with me in that huge house. He made it feel less empty for a few years. He made me feel noticed, wanted. And his cock was the most beautiful I ever sucked.

Of course he left me. Everybody leaves me in the end, I now know. Especially the ones who claim they love me. He slept with his secretary for more than a year before I discovered it -- how pathetically cliché. In a powerless rage I threw him out of the house, then fought a long and bitter struggle over divorce. Even when at last the curtain fell, I knew that I would take him back in the blink of an eye -- him and his glorious cock. But in the end all I had left was this skeleton house and the demons that lived in it.

I loved my husband. I guess I still love him. But deep down I now accept that he could not have acted differently. Betraying me is the natural thing to do. Loving someone is like nursing a futile emotion. Eventually it will wither in the garish light of reality.

I deserve what happens to me. I do. I deserve all the things my world has in store for me -- and then some.

After I met my Mistress the silhouettes of a new certainty started to grow in my tortured mind. They were out-of-focus at the start, but slowly solidified. In the end they became an outline of who I really was. A gate to pass through into another world where I would be able to accept who I am and at last -- at least -- be loved for that.

But between knowing and accepting that was a long and arduous road. I longed to take that road and yet I fought every mile of it, until pure exhaustion helped me see how pointless it was to struggle against the blizzard of fate. More so because all the struggling didn't bring me one step closer to where I thought I had to go. To the contrary, like the proverbial lost person in a feature-less landscape I could only admit that I'd been walking in circles.

______________________________________________

Chapter Two: A party in pink.

As she entered the Club's Salon, Angique wondered where most of the women she used to know might have gone -- and why. She'd been away for a year; it seemed she hardly knew anyone anymore. What's more, she hardly recognized the place.

She walked into the huge, chandelier-lit room, looking around with wonder. Salmon-pink curtains were drawn across tall, half-round windows. They formed bays, strewn with white, silver and pink pillows. Sweet girls in pastel colored outfits sat on them, giggling and gossiping, while sipping their pinkish colored drinks. The overall style was dollhouse kitsch -- white furniture on spindly legs, a ceiling lined with stucco decoration and a myriad of pink stucco roses. The room screamed "Girlie" from the pink wall-to-wall carpet to the pink-and-silver striped upholstery. The utter sweetness of it all threatened to crack the enamel on her teeth.

Thirty-odd faces turned in her direction, the omnipresent murmuring dying down for a second. Angique was a tall, slender woman. Her pale skin contrasted with the pitch-black cloud of her bob style hair. Thick eyebrows hid behind bangs. Her eyes were green, shaded by long, dark lashes. A straight nose pointed down to a generous mouth, painted in gothic purple. She loved dramatic contrasts -- like the whiteness of her exposed throat and chest against the black leather of her corset. She also loved its severe tightness, pressing her tits into a provocative cleavage -- the hips flaring out from a narrow waist. Gloves of black satin covered her arms, but her fingers stayed free to show the sparkle of white gold rings and the deep purple of her fingernails. Her ankle-long skirt was black. Its satiny silk showed an ever-changing shimmer as she moved around.

Angique was sure she'd be the only one wearing a corset here, tonight. She wondered if it might even be the first genuine, laced up full-corset any of the present visitors had ever seen. Between the crystal chandeliers and the cotton candy decorations she stood out like a black panther in a hen house. She noted the crowd's startled eyes as she led a half naked slave girl on a leash.

Nervous giggles broke the silence and a murmur of whisperings followed. Ah, she had no illusions. In their opinion she must be an anachronism -- an ancient ghost from times past; times of female oppression, maybe. Or, if that was too highbrow, a very indecent thing to do in public.

"Hi girls," she said, smiling as she tugged her toy along. She'd noted the dark, disapproving gazes, the narrow slits of their mouths. But she also saw the sudden blushes at their throats, and imagined the stealthy glances behind her back.

Angique had mixed feelings about going to lesbian parties. Sure, she preferred women to men. She often used to say: "I like men for what they have, but love women for who they are." And yes, men catered to some of her more urgent sexual needs, but her emotions belonged to the realm of sisterhood. Still, she never felt entirely at ease at all-female parties. "Nothing personal," she would say, smiling. "I feel just as uncomfortable at an all-male sports happening or an exclusively Roman Catholic gathering."

So the party didn't appeal to her, but it was held in "her" Club and as she intended to start visiting again, this seemed a welcome chance to get newly acquainted.

Angique introduced herself on arrival. Most of the women were new to her. Accepting champagne from a girl who was as high-stemmed as the glass, she made polite conversation with a tall blonde who called herself Aura. She was Australian, she said, smiling a smile of sweetest candy between nervous glances at the leashed girl behind Angique. She could have been American for all the big hair and the cut-off denim shorts. An unbuttoned shirt was tied under her breasts, leaving her midriff bare.

"Must be high summer, down under," Angique chuckled, fixing her gaze on the studded belly button. The empty-faced response warned her that this woman's sense of humor was probably not quite the same as hers. The disappearing smile might even announce a whiff of annoyance.

"Lovely sandals!" Angique added quickly, admiring the silver wedge-heeled shoes the blonde was wearing. It was a futile peace offering, though, as the woman murmured an excuse and left.

Ah well, can't win them all, she thought. She gave a tug at the leash and walked over to a very curvy and deeply tanned brunette. She wore a tight dark green business suit that stretched sexily at all the intended places. Her face was pretty enough, although it had to struggle hard to get through generous layers of make up. It also seemed permanently darkened by a scowl that spoiled her amber eyes.

Angique introduced herself and missed the name she got in return. She did understand however that she should call her BB as everyone else did. Can't be because of her tits, she thought. They must be quite a bit further down the alphabet. DD? E? But after her recent experience with Aura, she refrained from making a joke about it. BB, just like the blond Australian, didn't seem the type to appreciate it.

"I am a business woman," BB offered, stretching her five feet four by rising on tiptoes. Before Angique could respond, she explained how successful she was, traveling three weeks out of every month and beating the results of all her male colleagues hands down. Angique murmured a "good for you," but it didn't save her from a ten-minute explanation of activities that stayed a mystery to her, but sounded impressive.

"Are you a domme?" BB suddenly asked. It was a question Angique hadn't expected, as it seemed rather obvious that she was. She tugged her leashed girl closer as a means to explain. There were no traces whatsoever of irony in BB's eyes.

"I'd say that's obvious?" Angique said and shrugged. Then she pulled harder to bring the toy girl to her knees.

"Is she your slave?" BB went on, now staring wide-eyed at the kneeling girl, her face flushed, her mouth half open. Angique yanked the blond girl's face up, making her gag.

"Tell her, please, Bobbi," she said, smiling. The girl called Bobbi swallowed hard.

"I wish I were, ma'am," she said, rather hoarse. "I really wish I could become her slave girl. But there is still a very long way for me to go." She swallowed again. Then she hid her blushing face behind the black folds of her mistress's skirt. Angique laughed and fondly pressed the girl's head into her thigh.

"Good girl, Bobbi," she whispered. "Well done."

"I'll be a mistress too," BB blurted out. Angique looked up and smiled.

"Of course," she said. The woman's face hardened.

"Do you doubt it?" she said. "Do you think I can't do it?" Angique leaned back, yielding from the sudden aggression.

"Of course you can," she muttered. "I'm sure." She took a sip of her champagne. It had turned luke-warm, so she traded it in for a fresh glass on the tray of the long legged girl just passing by. When she looked back again, BB had gone.

"Strange girls here," Angique murmured to herself. "Nice tits though." And she went looking for a place to sit, away from the throng.

She found a chair in a quiet corner. Her hand rested on the short, white-blond hair of the leashed girl, Bobbi, now kneeling by her feet. She felt the girl's surprisingly strong fingers massage her left calf where it escaped the split in her skirt. She smiled, leaning over and whispering. Then she kicked off her left high-heeled sandal, wriggling the painted toes.

The petite blonde smiled up at her. Her eyes were as pale as a winter's sky. She mouthed a silent thank-you and bent down to bring her face to the naked foot. A narrow tongue darted from between her lips. It touched the big toe, curled around it, making the purple polish sparkle. Then it ran up and down the white-and-purple keyboard of smaller toes, moving like the finger of a virtuoso piano player. Angique absent-mindedly patted the girl's raised ass. The tight cheeks were oiled and naked, separated by a narrow strip of sky-blue thong.

A hush descended on the room when most eyes gradually turned to the licking girl. Angique ignored them. Her head leaned back as she stretched her leg, wriggling her toes. She closed her eyes. A soft moan betrayed how much she enjoyed the tongue and the fondling fingers. Maybe it explained why she didn't hear the woman's voice until it repeated itself. Her lashes fluttered open and her eyes reluctantly focused on the face hovering over her. Its contours were blurred by a glaring chandelier.

A long, bony hand stretched out from the silhouette. She touched it with hers.

"I am Sarah," a coarse, breathless voice said. "Sarah Lust." There was a smile at the centre of the haloed head. Angique pushed the licking girl aside and sat straighter.

"Angique," she answered. "Pleased to meet you."

The woman was dressed in a white wraparound top. It obviously was the only thing to hold her breasts together. The nipples were prominent, as was her cleavage. She didn't stand tall, really, but her long, tight skirt seemed to give her extra length. She had an almost gangly frame with wide, bony shoulders, prominent clavicles and visible hipbones where her skirt hugged them. She also looked pale. Her eyes seemed huge under the bangs of her short blond hair.

"May I take this seat?" she asked, pointing at one of the rickety Barbie chairs right next to Angique. Her voice was soft, even tired. She didn't look well.

Angique nodded, pulling her slave girl out of the way.

"By all means," she said, smiling. "It seems I could use a friendly chat." The woman chuckled.

"Ah," she said. "Our wonderful Vanilla Clan has already made its unique impression on you. You are new here?" Angique sipped from her glass, wetting her lips.

"Well, no," she answered. Her right hand pushed Bobbi's head down to resume her service. "As a matter of fact I have been a regular of this club for years, but I lost touch in recent times, being abroad. In the years I remember, though, this Club had bolder women visiting -- with greater wit and better taste." She smiled at the chuckle the blond woman gave her.

"Yesss," Sarah said, almost breathing the word. "I guess that makes us the new ones in here then." She looked around, her skinny fingers fluttering to indicate the room.

"Most of the women you see used to frequent another place, but they didn't feel save there anymore. Let's say we are fugitives."

Angique focused on the blonde's eyes.

"In that case," she said, smiling, "I guess it should be me welcoming you. This has always been a well-sheltered place for women to flee to and be themselves. Let's say it used to be a tolerant haven where no-one disapproved of the other one's lifestyle."

As if to illustrate her words, Angique spread her thighs, opening the slit of her skirt with her free hand. She nodded at her girl, smiling encouragingly. The petite blonde slid like a snake between the pale legs, spreading them wider with her hands. When her face disappeared in the darkness of the crotch, Angique closed her skirt, smiling at Sarah. A wave of surprised whispers from the room told her that the incident had not gone unnoticed. Sarah looked at the telltale legs peeping out from under the skirt. Grinning she said:

"I see what you mean by tolerance." Then she turned her head to the room. "I am not quite sure, though, if my dear friends here honor the same principles."

The two women resumed their conversation as if nothing special was going on. The leash resting in Angique's hand moved in a rhythmic way where it disappeared into the slit. Sarah apologized for not being much fun to chat with, as she felt ill. She suffered from stomach problems that would be operated on soon. She admitted, though, that maybe it was her duty to inform Angique about her friends who had so recently arrived at this club.

Aura, she said, seemed to dabble in submission. It sounded rather haphazardly to Angique's critical ears. She had to laugh out loud when Sarah told her who the mistress was.

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