Zodiac Girls Ch. 10bydr_mabeuse©
Zodiac Girls, Libra: Stephanie
I learned about Libra women from a girl named Stephanie Bendennick. She'd tell me all about astrology while we lay in bed beneath her open window during the cool October nights, the window cracked so we could hear the rustle of the dead leaves in the trees outside. Stephanie was a Libra so I suppose she knew. Most people refer to Libra as the Balances, but Stephanie also called it the Great Pivot of the year: the time when summer yielded to autumn and we said goodbye to the sunlight and prepared for the darkness of winter.
Stephanie would wear a very glossy lipstick at night, because she knew I liked to see her lips glisten in the candlelight as she opened her mouth to go down on me, and often she would pose like that for my benefit, her lips trembling slightly as they approached the drop of clear fluid crowning the head of my prick. She would press her lips against the dome of my cock in a soft, lingering kiss and just leave them there, letting me feel the warmth of her mouth and the slick greasiness of her lipstick, and letting me feel her eager impatience. She would wait until I moaned or swore out of impatience of my own, and then she would slowly lift her head, expertly stringing out the drop of my lubricant into a shining strand, seeing how far she could go before the web of fluid broke. Then it would be her turn to groan herself at her own whorish behavior. She'd toss her hair back and look at me, her lips glistening even brighter now that my own sexual juices adorned her mouth, but not as bright as her eyes, which positively glowed with a lewd satisfaction.
This was when we'd first started sleeping together, and it was a constant wonder to me how she could be so composed and businesslike when she went off to work, and yet be so sensual at night, even wanton. She laughed when I mentioned it to her and told me that Libras were reconcilers and balancers, that they could incorporate the most outlandish opposites in their natures, but I just took it as the usual bar-level astrology talk. People are always reading wonderful things about themselves into astrology. I see now that she was trying to tell me something, but I didn't appreciate it at the time. As I said, we'd just started sleeping together. The sex was great, but there was a lot about her that I didn't know.
Stephanie worked in a gallery on the near north side in a very chic neighborhood that had originally been industrial but was now being gentrified, a lot of lofts and smart, refurbished store fronts. A lot of nice cars and a lot of new money. On those mornings when I'd spent the night I was always amazed at the way she looked when she left for work. Her clothes were impeccable, her make-up perfect, her jewelry just right. She looked, in fact, just like these women I saw from my cab as I cruised Michigan Avenue looking for fares, the ones who wouldn't look twice at me, wouldn't look twice at anyone because they instinctively knew that they wouldn't see anything worth their attention. Not so much perfect in beauty as they were perfect in their attitude and demeanor: icy bitches, self-possessed, confidant, and remote. That's the kind of client base Stephanie worked with, and she'd learned to blend in with them, to mirror their own perfection.
She was very good at what she did, and it was always a thrill to see her emerge from the bedroom in the morning in her crisp, sharp clothes, her hair arranged just so, or have her look at me with eyes that were so perfectly lined and made up that they could hang on a gallery wall themselves, eyes that just last night I had seen closed in pleasure as she arched up at me during sex. She looked so good that it always made me feel especially shabby and brutish. It turned me on.
It turned me on so much that we began to make a game of it. She loved for me to be rough with her, to almost rip those perfect clothes from her body, throw her up against the wall when she got in from work and devour her. We talked about doing the same thing in the gallery where she worked, about me coming in off the street pretending to be a client, then pouncing on her right there, amidst all the potted plants and expensive art work. She liked the idea. The night I first mentioned it she got very excited; so excited that she actually pushed me down on the bed, pulled me pants down and rode me like a wild woman. It was the hottest I'd ever seen her.
But it wasn't for a week or two that I actually decided to do it, and then it was more on impulse than anything else. It had been a shitty Friday. I was rejected for yet another job and spent all Friday night and Saturday behind the wheel of the damned cab. I took it out again on Sunday too, but I was just fed up. I couldn't handle it anymore. I turned the cab over to Artie, the owner, paid my nut, and drove over to Stephanie's gallery.
She smiled when she saw me come in, but it took just the slightest effort on my part to cue her that the game was on. I was already in a rotten mood, so it wasn't hard to brush off her greeting and slip into the role of some rich asshole who was interested in buying some art. This was Sunday afternoon near closing time and Stephanie was alone in the gallery. She tumbled to the game immediately and effortlessly put on her professional face. She didn't even crack a smile, or not much of one.
I was wearing my cab clothes: jeans, a turtleneck and a leather jacket. Stephanie had on a bunch of designer stuff. I couldn't tell you who made what, but she wore a charcoal gray skirt, a blue blouse and a kind of velvet jacket over it. She wore a bunch of African beads as a choker around her neck. They were small, black, and shiny, and strung on thin silver chain. Has she known I was coming she couldn't have dressed better. Gallery Bitch in all her chic, drop-dead glory.
"These are by Milos Januszak," she told me, leading me into the rear of the big room. "He's very hot right now, especially in Germany. We were lucky to get these ahead of his New York show, which won't open for another three months. After that, you won't be able to touch anything of his for under several thousand dollars."
The paintings she was showing me were intentionally schizophrenic. On the surface they showed the kind of flat, postcard realism of David Hockney, but wherever there was a doorway or window in the paintings, weird, surrealistic images intruded. The impression was one of a drugged stillness inside, a world gone mad outside, as if the artist had taken thorazine or some other intense, anti-psychotic medication in the middle of a bad episode. I liked them a lot, and so apparently did Stephanie. There was an actual glow beneath her make-up as she showed them to me.
Or maybe it was the excitement of the game. There was a definite feeling of sexual menace in the air, and I didn't mind it in the least. I was frustrated and angry about things in my life, and Gallery Bitch seemed to be the perfect target to let it out on.
"This one is nice," I said. It showed a picture of a woman at a table peeling potatoes, looking like a madonna of the kitchen. Everything was done in flat and tranquil pastels, until you looked out through her window. Outside was a childish representation of a devil painted in a livid red, making a threatening gesture with his pitchfork. It was kind of comical, in a disturbing sort of way.
"That's 'Potatoes Again'," Stephanie said. She strolled over and turned on her heel to face the painting. It was almost a runway model's turn, only not as affected. She did it very well. She held a pencil in one hand and her glasses on her nose, and she looked over them at me as she said, "Milos usually doesn't work in that size, portrait size. That makes this one especially valuable. And it's quite affordable, ideal for the entry-level collector."
She was into her role now, and she was very good at it. Her tone was cold, just slightly superior, and I didn't miss that condescending little dig at the end. I could see how she was so successful at this: wonderfully feminine yet knowledgeable and intimidating at the same time.
"But what does it mean?" I asked. "Ms... " I looked at her name tag, which identified her as Stephanie Bent. Her real name was Bendennick. I imagine this little ploy allowed some awkward jokes at her expense, a way to make the customers feel more at ease. "Ms. Bent."
She allowed herself the slightest hint of a smile. "In works like this, we don't really ask what the artist intended to convey. Very often the artists doesn't even know himself. What's important is whether it speaks to you, Mr...."
"Dick," I said. "Seth Dick." It was the best I could come up with. "The third," I added.
"Mr. Dick." She didn't even crack a smile. She was good. "Tell me, what does this painting mean to you?"
She turned her back to me and faced the painting, standing so close I could smell her perfume and see the wispy hairs at the back of her neck where they'd escaped her French twist. It had been a full day for her, but she still looked fresh. The sight of the clasp on her choker inexplicably excited me. I wondered what underwear she had on. It occurred to me that I rarely saw her in her underwear when she dressed. Only when I undressed her. She hadn't known I was coming today. What sort of underwear did she choose for herself?
"To me, it's the picture of a woman with demons in her life. Demons she doesn't even know about." I said.
Outside the Sunday traffic was very light, there were only a few cars in the street. The mid-October afternoon light was softening and already had that golden melancholy autumn slant: Edward Hopper light. It was very still in the gallery, so quiet we could hear the ticking of the big antique clock on the wall. Somehow I could tell that Stephanie was getting excited. There was something a bit forbidden about letting me see her professional self, a part of her I'd never seen. It excited us both.
"What sort of demons would a woman like that possibly have, I wonder," she asked, her back to me.
"I think they're sexual demons." My tongue felt unusually thick. We were inches apart. "I think the woman has sexual urges that aren't being satisfied. I think she's waiting for that devil to come in and fuck her."
I heard Stephanie inhale, but it wasn't a gasp. She shifted her weight but didn't lose her cool. "Is that right?" she asked.
"Yes. I think she's waiting for that devil to come into her house and throw her down on that table and shove his big hard cock into her. She's waiting for it because she knows she's a whore, and all whores need to be fucked. No. They don't just need it,. They want it. It's what she wants."
She was going to say something and started to turn, but I took hold of her arms and held her there, facing the painting. I felt her jump when I touched her.
"Surely not all women, Mr. Dick?"
"All women," I said.
I put my hands on her shoulders and pulled her back against me with such force that she dropped her pencil.
"What else is going to happen to her?" she asked me.
"He's going to make her suck his cock. He's going to make her put down her little paring knife and lie on her back on that table and spread her legs while he shoves his prick into her mouth, and he's going to finger fuck her while he's doing it." I was holding her so close now that I was speaking into her hair, her dark, fragrant hair.
"Yes," she said. "Tell me more."
"He's going to shove his finger into her pussy but she's going to try and ignore it. She's going to pretend that she doesn't want this, but he's the devil and he knows how to treat her, and before long she's going to start moving, and moaning a little, and he's going to see that she loves it, that she likes being treated that way, and he's going to know that she's hot for it, but that's okay. She wants him to know. She wants to be his whore. She's tired of fucking peeling potatoes, and she wants to be his whore. She wants to be dirty."
I could feel her chest rising and falling as I said this. Her breathing was deep. She was forcing herself to be calm.
"Why would she want that?" she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper.
I let go of her shoulders and ran my hands down over her breasts. I flicked her velvet jacket open so that only her bra and her blouse were between me and her flesh. Her bra was very sheer and I had no trouble finding her nipples; they were already starting to harden. I took them between my fingers and squeezed gently and I spoke into the side of her neck.
"She wants it because sometimes a woman wants a man to treat her like a slut. Sometimes she wants him to make her do all the dirty things she really wants to do but can't do herself. She wants to be made to do them."
When I turned her around and kissed her she didn't respond, not at first, but as the kiss went on I could feel her starting to melt against me. Anyhow, it didn't matter what she did, because I was hot for her now. I could feel her expensive velvet jacket under my hands and the warmth of her body beneath that. I could feel the strap of her bra beneath her shoulder blades, that little gate of privacy, and for some reason the thought of her nakedness beneath her clothes suddenly inflamed me.
"Lock the door," I said. "You're officially closed."
"Jeff, not here." she said. "Let me close up and then we can..."
"Lock the fucking door," I said.
I watched her walk over to the front door and shoot the bolt. There was a decorative shade on the front door and she pulled it down. She walked over to the bare brick wall and turned off the lights, first the lights in front, then the lights in back, and finally the can lights than shined on the paintings. There was just a little glow from the office in back and the red emergency exit sign, though the front of the gallery was still bright from what sun worked its way down between the big buildings. Where we stood it was dim and filled with interesting shadows.
I'd never seen her walk the way she walked now. She wasn't the gallery bitch and she wasn't the girl I knew in private, but someone in between. She walked like a woman going to meet her fate, a woman who knew she was about to be fucked.
"Really, baby, someone might still come in," she said, but she didn't mean it anymore.
"No one's coming in. It's dinner time on a Sunday night. You told me yourself that this was the deadest time of the week. And let them come if they want. They're not getting in."
"You're crazy," she said. "This is where I work. Why should I let you..."
"Because I'm bigger and stronger and because I want to," I said, grabbing her wrists and pushing her back against the wall. "Because you fucking drive me crazy, Ms. Bent, and because I want to fuck this tight-assed little superior cunt who works in this gallery."
I pushed her up against the wall and leaned against her, letting her feel the weight of my body and the hardness of my cock against her thigh. She arched back at me and made a pretense of struggling, wanting me to work for it. But that was okay with me. I was willing to work for it and I like the feeling of using my strength against her. Maybe I'm a caveman, but that turns me on.
The game had gone better than I'd ever imagined, and I was seriously on fire for her. Not just to get my rocks off, but to turn her into a slut for me, here in this art gallery with all the finer things of life around us. Seeing her all dressed up like this with her jewelry and her glasses and her public face on was like catching her with another lover and I was actually jealous. I wanted her to be mine again.
Besides, she's so damned sexy when she struggles. Her wrists are thin and she's got beautiful fingers, and I liked feeling them twist around in my grip. She grunted and pushed back instinctively but that only drove herself against my cock and got me hotter.
And I wasn't alone. The game had gotten to Stephanie too. We'd talked about a lot of fantasies but rape hadn't been one of them, but now she was really into playing her part, writhing against the wall and testing my strength. I let her fight until it was clear to her that she didn't have a chance against me, and when I felt her give up that made me even hotter still.
"Don't move," I said as I backed away from her. She was leaning with her shoulders against the bare brick wall and when I let go of her wrists she let her hands fall uselessly to her sides. "Don't even lift a finger, understand?"
A lock of hair had fallen in her face and she watched me from beneath it as my fingers went to the buttons on her blouse. She started to raise her hands when I unbuttoned the top one but I just growled at her and she stopped. She whimpered once in protest as I unbuttoned her blouse and roughly pulled it open, but her eyes were on me all the time, enjoying the look of desire on my face, and by now I must have looked like I was possessed
Impeccable as always, Stephanie wore a blue bra that matched her blouse almost perfectly: very feminine, and very sexy. I took her wrists again and kept them pressed against the rough brick wall as I lowered my face to her tits and began to lick and bite her, pushing my tongue down inside her bra, trying to find her nipples. She started to twist around again, so I let go of her wrists and reached down for her skirt, which I began to gather up around her hips. My fingers felt the slickness of her slip.
"No," she moaned. "Don't! Please!"
I couldn't tell if she was still playing or not, and worse, I didn't know if I was either. I wanted her desperately now. To me she was some rich, stuck-up, gallery owner and I felt like some grimy hoodlum from the streets, desperate for a taste of her classy body.
She pushed uselessly at my shoulders as I got her skirt up around her waist. I held her hips and got down on my knees to where her slip was stretched tight against her thighs, then grabbed the slick fabric and slid that up too. What a hot bitch she was! She was wearing stockings and a garter belt. She must have guessed I was coming today. I couldn't believe she always went to work this way without my knowing it, so she either dressed special for me or she dressed this way for herself, just to make herself hot. Either way she inflamed me. My jealousy against her other life surged in my veins.
I pulled the slip all the way up and pressed my face to her crotch, smelling her perfume, studying the sexual architecture of the dark tops of her stockings, the garters against her tanned skin, her matching blue panties. She grabbed onto my wrists as if she needed to hold on for what she knew was coming, and as I stuck out my tongue and licked her between her legs she drove her nails into my skin.
"Oh God!" she wailed.
"You're just a hot pussy, aren't you?" I whispered into her crotch. "You're just like the woman in the painting too, right baby? You want it just as much as I do, right here at work. You want my big cock fucking up between your legs just as much as I want to give it to you."
"No," she breathed, "No..."
But I could smell her own arousal by now, and I could feel her thighs shiver as I screwed my tongue around in the little cleft between her labia, pressing the fabric of her panties up against her.
I pushed her panties out of the way with my fingers and began to lick her naked pussy, kneeling in front of her like a supplicant. Stephanie raised her hand to her mouth and bit her knuckles to keep from screaming as I found her wet flesh and slid my tongue over it., and though she might be scandalized by what I was doing to her here in her place of employment, she reflexively thrust her hips out at me, begging for more. I held her skirt and slip up over her stomach with one hand but the grinding of her hips brought the edges down on either side, framing her pussy between hanging curtains of charcoal gray. I ran my middle finger into my mouth to wet it and then worked it up into her cunt.