Odette Ch. 01

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shaunreagh
shaunreagh
1,245 Followers

"Listen to this," said GW, opening the book at a pre-marked page, trying to sound like Orson Wells, "Her nudity was as natural as though she had been long wont to run along the shore of his dreams." Looked up. "Isn't that something!" Eyes down, back to the book. "There was something slightly acrobatic about her bed manners. And afterwards she would skip out and prance up and down the room, swinging her girlish hips and gnawing a dry roll left over from supper." He closed the book, took off the glasses, handed then backwards to Lens, positioned behind him like a baseball catcher. "Can you do that, be Margot?"

"Certainly," gushed Odette, bubbling with enthusiasm.

(While I glared angrily at Albinus.)

The audition followed: she the innocent Margot, he the lecherous Albinus. So convincing was she while reading her lines that at times I no longer saw Odette, I saw Margot. Odette was not yet twenty, and I have no idea how old Margot was supposed to be, but when she was reading the lines and playing the part, she was no longer the Odette I'd watched growing up. Instead she became this vibrant, savvy, sexual muse called Margot. But as soon as she stopped, the Odette I knew flowed back, into the sassy yellow dress.

Then it was time for 'bed work', whatever the hell that was!

After our brief exchange in the bathroom – Odette changing, me escaping to the bedroom before she took off too much – I found myself a position in a corner of the bedroom, out the way. I started to consider my position.

Whose interests was I protecting here?

Was I on the side of the parents, whose concerns were the reason I was here? Or was I on the side of their daughter, who had explained her position, and wanted me to act on her behalf while I was here?

Did I remember what THEY wore when they first used my pool?

(Had they ever used it, other than at barbecues?)

If I acted against Odette's interests, she would know it: she was here. I would suffer, so would she. If, on the other hand, I failed to comply to the letter with her parents wishes ... who would tell them?

Odette?

Hardly likely!

Odette, having changed into her 'chic Parisienne shirt dress' – as GW had described it – glanced at me briefly as she came from the bathroom. She was noting where I was: unspoken message: Okay, remember our agreement, remember that I love you ... or something along these lines.

Her dress was pale cream with a pink pin stripe, open collar, short sleeves, grey buttons down the front. It was loose around her waist but tight across the hips and breasts – as if it was something she had worn when younger, but now had grown out of. The tightness of the fit and the lightness of the cotton announced, none too quietly, that she'd taken off her bra. She stood still as Lens prowled round her with his light meter. GW entered the room. Then the Albinus sack of shit, looking smug. GW briefed them, It was Paris in the 1930s. She and Albinus would come into the bedroom after an intimate dinner. He was smitten by her, desperate to get her into bed. She was happy to encourage his attentions, knowing the potential if all went well: impoverished youngster to spoiled mistress of a man of means; deprivation to a life of luxury for her, loneliness to ecstasy for him.

Out they trooped, the two of them.

The door closed. Three of us left in the bedroom – me, Lens, GW.

"Not a sound, understand?" said GW, to me.

"I understand," I said, but found the prospect harrowing.

"Lights."

And up they came.

"ACTION!" he called loudly, so they could hear beyond the door.

Odette entered first, her expression one of urgency, gaiety, appearing out of breath as if they had run up the stairs to get here as quickly as they could. He too seemed out of breath. The hair of both was roughed, as if they had done something outside the door. I wondered what. Had he pawed her? Had they kissed? Had the hands of each been in the hair of the other, angling heads so their mouths could meet? Quick try out – test run sort of thing, to see if they liked it?

A necessary start to a shoot such as this?

She was pulling him into the room. Once through the door she turned and pushed him hard against it, slamming it shut, pushing herself against him. Closing her mouth on his as her hands reached high and flattening on the door either side of his head. His hands went quickly round her. One closing over a buttock, the other on the small of her back, pulling her close. Then the room was filled with the sounds of laboured breath, saliva meshing with lips, her little grunts and groans, the rasp of skin against her dress as she moved, and his hands moved over her.

I could make out the moving bulge in her cheek, like a mouse within, where his tongue was exploring her mouth. Then the transfer of movement, from her cheek to his, as she did the same, to him. How could she do that? She'd never even met him before? He wasn't even pleasant. Torsos pressed hard into each other. Each with a thigh between their own, pressing hard, starting to grind as the heat of the kiss was ratcheted up.

Where had she learned to kiss like that?

She'd kissed me on the lips, but never like this.

The first time we'd kissed, at one of her birthdays – thirteen, fourteen, somewhere there – and after that, quite often. She had the most kissable lips: sweetly shaped and plump, in the shape of a heart. She was always the initiator. I was usually off guard, doing something else. She did it, I sometimes thought, to show her independence. Or maybe to tease or embarrass me, for it usually did both. But these had been light, chaste, quick, fun. Brief punctuations on her way someplace else: to the pool to swim, or from the pool, off home. But here, against the door with this stranger ... this was different. Totally different. This was raunchy, urgent, hungry, hot.

Had I ever imagined my Odette would kiss like this?

"Turn her round, we want to see her front," GW barked.

Lens was adjusting a camera, three of which seemed to be running.

The instruction was greeted by the couple with minimal change. As if the kiss was important, the instruction less so. Odette's thighs, I noticed, had closed round one of his, and his knee had climbed. The top of his thigh was between her legs, pressed hard against her pudenda. From the tightening and curling of her buttock it appeared she was riding the curve of his leg, as if arousing herself a final few times before co-operating, by turning around, so that the camera, and all of us, could 'see her front'.

We'd already seen her front. Without the bra, and with the tightness of the bodice of her dress: we knew her front was fine. Just fine. Her breasts were as plump and assertive in her chest, as her lips were impressive in her face.

As Odette turned in the circle of his arms she kept the break of kiss 'til last. As if he was her lover. As if she disliked the idea of bringing the kiss to an end, or letting his thigh from between her legs; surrendering the pressure that was bringing her arousal and delight.

The final parting of lips, the sad breaking of the link between their eyes, the trailing of her fingers down his cheek, reluctantly turning away, still in the circle of his arms, and finally, once round and facing the room, leaning her back against his chest. Her hands reached for his and guided them to parts of her she felt he might enjoy.

There was a wantonness in her dreamy, yet eager expression. The way she deliberately placed his hands on herself and encouraged him to feel what they were put against. As if she wanted to project a desire: a desire to be wanted, coveted, used. The fact that it was Odette projecting this desire had the uncomfortable effect of releasing, in me, what I can only describe as a dammed up torrent of confused and suppressed emotions. I suddenly wanted to be him, doing that, to her.

Excruciatingly arousing, yet so damnably forbidden.

I should look away, I knew, but somehow wasn't able to.

I had to watch.

I had to watch, as she moved his upper hand onto her breast, naked within her dress, and pressed it against herself. Flattening the breast within, parting her lips, letting out a throaty groan as she arched her back and raised her knee and lifted her foot off the carpet. Her knee climbed high and her thighs came tightly together.

I felt I was there, in his shoes. The feel of her imagined breast in my hand. Making her react, as he was. Making her excited, as she was becoming. To conclude that it was anything other than genuine arousal she was feeling, was impossible. She was too good, too convincing.

I turned away.

When she was in her mid-teens, she was already painfully attractive. So much so that on week-ends, when we were together at the pool, and my awareness of her became too much to bear, I would take myself off to the far reaches of the garden and find something useful to do. In the early years I think she thought of me as a rather boring old accountant, always happy to see her, but who disappeared a lot, late afternoon, to clip the hedge, or trim a border, mow some grass.

Had she known what was going through my mind now, in that room, turned away as I was from what was taking place against the door, how it would have changed her good opinion of me!

"Feel her, explore her, enjoy her. Princess, this is great. Lens, get the Hand Cam, move closer. Say whatever you want to each other, we'll put the sound in later."

"Get hot, you little fucker," whispered the man with the girl in his arms.

I could feel the simmering arousal by the door. One of the spots was turned up, a fading of floods. I turned. His hands were on her breasts, delighting in their size and shape; the way they filled his hands, the way they moved and felt, the way she gasped and squirmed as if her breasts controlled her mood, her excitement, how aroused she became. He fondled them roughly, then warmly, then softly. His mouth was on her neck, his tongue against her skin, licking her, as he squeezed her, and she arched her back and thrust her rear into his groin.

How hard he must be, by now, I thought. The movement of her backside against him like that. Hard then soft against his groin. Tensed then arched, then curled then stretched, as she responded to his touch like a cat that adored to be petted, would eagerly respond to the touch of her mistress. An inexhaustible appetite of wanting more, appreciating every slightest touch, gasping with excitement at the faintest caress, moaning with arousal at his kiss. Animal, lewd, so obviously vulgar – yet the animal body, but angelic face, of the Odette I'd known for all these years, seemed the perfect vehicle to convey the transformation: purest angel to lustful vixen, all from the touch of a man.

"Magic, Magic, Magical," chirped GW, happily, bouncing lightly up and down on the soles of his feet. "Now open her dress. Slowly, like a strip tease. Expose her to the cameras. Feel her. Make US feel her. Princess, this is hot. Hot. Hot!"

As if praise was itself an aphrodisiac, she stretched her neck and arched her back and thrust her chest into the hands that were around her ... prompting her responses, causing her distress ... spirited arousal, animal groans.

I watched the first grey button loosed. The pull of the material across her breasts widening and deepened the V at her neck, driving it closer to her waist, opening an arrowhead of skin, headed south. A second button loosed, and then a third. The arrowhead a growing band of flesh. Fourth and fifth buttons released and now the arrow of skin was from chin to the neat little navel I had seen, so often, round my pool. His hand moved into the gap, fingers inside, angling upwards, moving, then finding, then closing around the breast within. It caused her eyes to roll, her head to angle upwards, as from her opening mouth a guttural, animal, groan escaped.

"Great. Really great. Lets see that look, princess." GW's voice had leapt an octave. "Desire. Arousal. Animal lust. You have a man who is so hot for you it's agony for him. But you know what he wants. He wants you. And you are going to give him what he craves. You're going to give him you ... your body, inside and out. To do with as he pleases! And this arouses you, excites you, is driving you mad! SHOW US, SHOW US NOW, WHAT YOU FEEL!"

The briefest hesitation – during which she seemed to regather herself – then her hands stole back to his. His left she moved lower on herself, fingertips over the bulge of her pubis inside her dress. Keeping her hand on top of his she moved his hand against herself, a circular pressure that drove it lower, fingers between her legs, pelvis curling backwards, out of reach. Out of reach to what her actions were enabling, as if she wanted to feel the touch of his fingers in her intimate parts, but other parts of her were less convinced.

His other hand worked warmly on her breast, inside her dress, against the skin. Hers, outside the dress, bore down on his. And as she used her hands on his to arouse, excite herself, so her body moved against the motion of the hands. Mouth nervously open, eyes carefully closed, her expression sometimes ecstatic, at others filled with surprise, as if in awe of what was happening to herself. Creating sudden thrusts, pulsing spasms, groans and whimpers, gasps and sighs.

"Open her dress, let the camera see what you're doing," GW prompted.

But nothing changed. The Odette I knew, it seemed, had left. And the animal Odette was busy.

How much of this was acting?

"Albinus. For God sake, open her dress!" GW growled. But the animal Odette was running things. It was she who moved and pulsed and groaned and made it real. Odette the excited queen, Albinus the boring bishop's pawn. "Feel me!" she groaned. "Take off my dress," she urged. "Kiss my ears," she begged, as her youthful body moved against him like a landed trout against an oilskin on the bottom of a boat.

Albinus the oil skin.

"Cut! Cut! Cut! Christ all-fucking-mighty. CUT!"

GW's slippered footsteps across the carpet sounded like approaching thunder. Odette was hauled roughly from his grasp. Twirled around so Albinus and she were face to face, GW behind. His arms shot roughly round her. One hand cleared the dress from her chest and brutally grabbed her naked breast. The other lifted the hem and went to work between her legs, so hard it looked to hurt. "She's hot," he growled at Albinus. "You want her. She's going to be your mistress. Cost you a fortune. You are going to lose everything because of your lust for this woman. So show me LUST!" He harshly pushed her back at him. Odette, looking startled, one hand beneath her dress, readjusting her thong. The other closing her dress.

He had been pretty rough.

I took a step towards her, "You want to leave?" I whispered.

The hurt on her face, became shock. "You're joking, right?"

I hadn't been.

But ...

Whatever.

"Tell him!" shouted BW, back in the gloom, out of the shot.

I had no idea who he was talking to, or about, but Odette seemed to. She turned to Albinus – the star, the leader, the seasoned pro, (the useless, lousy, sack of shit) – and said to him, as if speaking to a child, "You know you want to touch me. So I'm letting you. I'm saying its okay." Her hand gently stroked his cheek. "I want you to touch me. Understand. You can do whatever you want to me. I'm telling you it's fine. I'm saying I like it." She gave an encouraging smile, leaned forward, kissed him softly on the lips, then cupped the front of his trousers with her hand, and gave it a squeeze, then turned away from him. Faced back into the room.

She would say that, of course.

Without being told, she again leaned back against him, reached for his hands and drew them round herself, bared her left breast and place his right hand over it. His other hand, this time, she guided beneath her dress and placed it there, ensuring his fingers were curled between her legs. She kept her hands on top of his, encouraged him to feel her. The lights, switched off during GW's demonstration, had not yet come back on. The filming not yet restarted.

"Get used to the feel of her," said GW.

"Do whatever you want to me," said Odette, pressing her hands over his, making them move over her.

"Are we ready?" GW enquired, sarcastically, as if it was all a stretching routine before some strenuous sport, and the stretching was taking too long.

"Just a sec," said Odette, and twirled around to face him, placed her right hand over his trousers, gripped the length of what was there, leaned into him and whispered in his ear as she caressed what was in his trousers, then closed her teeth around his ear lobe, and bit. He jerked, and his mouth opened – perhaps to voice objection – but no sooner had, than her mouth closed over his. She kissed him deeply. When she was done, she gave the erection in his trousers a final squeeze, patted his cheek with her other hand, turned around, and replaced his hands on her.

"Right," she said, "we're ready

The lights came on.

"Action," snapped GW.

I found it impossible to rid my mind of the image of Odette calmly grasping the front of his trousers. I had difficulty reconciling the gentle image I had of the lovely girl, happily growing up, cleverly becoming a woman, displaying the skills she learned, each day.

Where had she learned to do that?

shaunreagh
shaunreagh
1,245 Followers
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5 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago

nice story but it should be "capiche", not "caprice".

Laura

AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago
Great so far: *****

Thanks for writing again. tom anon

shaunreaghshaunreaghover 10 years agoAuthor
Why is it in non con?

To the anonymous - why anonymous? - writer who asked, good question. Partly because the second part may tell you, and partly because the non-consensual genre is the place I see my stories. Fully consensual sex, to me, seems non-erotic; enjoyable, yes, but only for those involved. I prefer when the urge and the reason are in conflict, which is where nc comes into play.

AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago

I don't get it. Why is this in non-con?

MaynessMaynessover 10 years ago

Very enjoyable and unusual start, looking forward to the next chapter.

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