Airports live their own reality.
If you'd fly from JFK to De Gaulle you might never know you flew from New York to Paris. Airplanes may take you through the skies for hours and hours. But after you leave a gate at Changi Airport, Singapore and enter a gate at Schiphol Amsterdam, you might as well think you'd travelled full circle.
Sure, the accents differ. The food may differ. Coffee at El Prat, Barcelona is dramatically better than the brew they call coffee at Heathrow, London. But there is so much more the same. There are the corridors, the international ads along the walls. There are the same companies renting cars, the same people hurrying along with the same rolling suitcases. In the shops one finds the same perfume. They sell the same toys and chocolate, the same watches and jewellery. Even the air at all airports smells the same. It is carefully conditioned. But it always carries a whiff of kerosene.
Malpensa, the airport of Milan, wasn't different.
Brigitte weaved her way through throngs of people. She wondered what had happened to famous Italian fashion and design. The only bodies she found wearing anything fashionable were the mannequins in a row of vitrines.
All the rest wore dull worldwide business suits, stewardess's uniforms and Japanese tourists' outfits. And of course there were the unavoidable backpacking teenagers in their international garb of T's, jeans and sneakers.
Brigitte didn't care.
She stopped in the middle of the big arrivals hall and breathed deeply. Kerosene and all, this was the air of freedom. It filled her lungs. It flushed her arteries. It made the ends of her nerves tingle. She wondered if the smile had ever left her face since she boarded at Jean Lesage, Quebec. She was sure it hadn't. She only met smiling people. And she knew they were the mirrors of her own beaming happiness.
Quitting her job at the restaurant had not been difficult. They even assured her they would love to take her back if she decided to return. Of course she knew they wouldn't. But it was great stuff to hear. It had boosted her morale no end. Maybe they were so nice because she already beamed her new smile at them. And maybe she already had this way of standing straighter, talking lighter. She had made a decision and that alone was enough to change her to the core. Oh yes!
There were lots of kisses. There was even a nice good-bye dinner. Of course everyone wanted to know what she was going to do. She made a careful point of being vague. Italy, yes. Milan. And an incredible offer too. That was all.
She could almost taste the envy.
The conveyor belt took ages to deliver her pretty red suitcase. She didn't mind, nothing mattered. It arrived at last. She loaded it on a cart, together with her beauty case and her hand luggage. She wheeled them through customs. As she passed a reflecting window she looked aside. The tall, beautiful woman amazed her. The one with the tight swaying butt.
A chauffeur would be waiting for her. Not a driver, but a chauffeur. Mais oui, comme il faut. It was bye-bye fast food now. It was adieu cheap no good, ugly off the rack blouses and raincoats. The big doors slid open to a new world.
The first thing she saw was her name. It was printed neatly on a white piece of cardboard. And it was held up by the hands of a hunk. That was the only description that came to her mind. He was tall and wide and very fit. He was dressed in the best-tailored suit she had ever seen. His eyes were a soft variety of the steel in his jaws. His hair stood like a stiff, short rug on his round, hard skull. And his smile lighted up as soon as it met hers.
She didn't know why she blushed when he shook her hand. He told her he was here to pick her up. He should take her to Villa d'Este, where her Mistress would be waiting.
He took over her cart. They walked through the bustling traffic into the parking lot. There he loaded her stuff into the trunk of a huge black, shining Mercedes.
She slid into the posh leather seat next to the driver's. He at once started the engine. The whispering machine rolled out of the shadows into the glaring Italian spring.
He watched her from aside. His eyes traced her silhouette from top to bottom. Then he leaned forward and opened the dashboard locker in front of her. He handed a pair of sunglasses to her. They were lovely and fit marvellously. He took a pair for himself out of the pocket of his jacket.
He asked in his strong German accent if she had had a good flight. She answered with a smile. All had been wonderful. His eyes returned to the road. He told her that Mistress was expecting her. She really looked forward to her arrival. Which made Brigitte smile once more.
Malpensa lies to the north west of Milan and right in the direction of the alpine lakes. Lago Maggiore is the biggest of them. They had no trouble avoiding dense city-traffic. Soon the car hummed over empty, wide autostradas. It floated as if on air.
Then the tall German told her to strip naked. At first she didn't know if she had understood what he said. He grabbed her bare knee and repeated what he had said. He apologized. Then he added that he had his instructions.
His warm dry hand was as much of a shock to her as the content of his command. "S-strip…you mean take off my clothes?" she said lamely. "Now?"
He grabbed her blouse. It tore at her shoulder, making two buttons fly.
"Now!" he confirmed.
She looked from his face to the torn, new blouse. Then she looked back at him. He had closed up behind his shades. His jaws pushed hard bulges into his cheeks.
After a long and aching minute her fingers started undoing the rest of the buttons. She slid out of the silk blouse she had bought at one of the most expensive shops in Quebec. Now it was torn at the seams. She lifted her ass off the slick leather chair and unzipped her black linen skirt. She shoved it down. It sagged around her ankles.
A myriad of hot needle-pins bristled her skin. Her hands slid behind her back to open her bra. Her nipples met the cool kiss of conditioned air. She paused with closed eyes and savoured the sensation of the leather seat against the bare skin of her thighs. Then she heard him growl: "Panties." Again she lifted her hips. Her fingers hooked inside the hem. She slid the soft lace down her trembling legs.
She had hoped to show Mistress that she knew how to dress. She wore expensive, sheer stockings. They were strapped to a lovely black lace garter-belt. Never had it dawned on her that a German hunk might make her give away the surprise so prematurely. She looked down on them. She admired the way the black straps framed her carefully trimmed pussy. She knew he did so too. And to her dismay that knowledge aroused her.
She started to undo a garter. His big hand stopped her. It radiated a glow into her skin, right next to her exposed vagina. "No," he said. She let her hands fall idle next to her thighs.
He then bade her to give him her blouse, bra and skirt. He lowered his window and threw them out. Brigitte uttered a cry. Her hand flew to her mouth. Through the back window she saw the textile fly away. The blouse stuck to an oleander bush.
She turned back. Her shoulders sagged. A slow tear ran from under her glasses.
Up to now Brigitte had been mostly busy feeling shocked. It made her forget how open the car was. She might as well have been in a shop's window. It made her feel the heat of her blushing. And she was certain that his hand would pull her arms down if she would try and hide her breasts. She silently blessed the sunglasses. They at least gave her a semblance of privacy.
Happily enough traffic was light. Two young guys in an open sports car almost popped their eyes and craned their necks when they drove by. But most drivers drove too fast to get the action.
That changed after the car left the motorway.
The chauffeur took a lovely winding road into the foothills. They had to slowly creep through numerous small villages. And there she became the topic of the day with old ladies in black dresses and little boys on bicycles. My God, she thought, the embarrassment. But that wasn't all. Real shame was added when she felt how the whole thing aroused her. It made her exposed nipples swell into hard pebbles. A slow fire crept up from between her naked thighs
Not a word was spoken after she had done his bidding. He did not touch her. Nor did he even look at her. But, oh damn, she really must be the slut Angique took her for. Why else was she peeping out of the corners of her eyes to know if she excited him at all? She just had to see if the tight crotch in his classy Italian trousers betrayed him. But no, there was unusual to be seen.
Brigitte wondered at her slight disappointment.
Then a mischievous thought entered her overheated mind. She lifted her hands to cup her tits. She sighed softly. She also started circling her nipples and pushed them out. She licked her fingers and rubbed the saliva on the hard nubs. She rolled them and stretched them between her fingertips. And all the while she stole sideways glances to fathom his reactions. Which were none.
Brigitte moaned now. She did it as much for secretly stolen pleasure as for sheer frustration. She kept working on her left tit. She kneaded it and teased the nipple. Her right hand shifted down to her slightly spread thighs. A finger entered her slit. She rubbed the length of it with increasing ease. The flesh was soaking wet.
Brigitte found her clit and gasped. She closed her eyes. Then she threw back her head. My God, she was so aroused. She totally forgot where she was. Her world shrank into a glowing needlepoint's head. She danced on it as the proverbial angels.
A flash of blind, white pain shot through her existence. His hand had slapped her left breast hard. It left dark red prints on the skin.
"Stop it!" he growled. "Not allowed."
She felt herself torn back from the brink of paradise. Her eyes blinked. They released the single tear that the sudden pain had produced. Then she hugged her hurt breast with both hands. She shivered all over her body.
"Sorry," she said. And she was helplessly enraged of using the word.
The Villa must be near now. The road got narrower. It wound up into the higher hills. They had driven along the shores of the Lago with its beautiful vista's and abundance of spring flowers. She had asked the chauffeur if she could open a crack of her window to smell the air. It had taken her a long time to gather enough courage. When the question came out, it sounded like a little girl's. Which added to her rage.
All of her new found bliss of freedom had vanished in the last hour. The smile had gone first, of course. Then her proud stance had crumbled. And so did the clear ring of her voice. "Bien de nous retrouver, Brigitte," she mumbled sarcastically to herself. She sagged in her chair. All was back to normal.
Then the road took a turn to the left.
A few hundred feet up the mountain she saw the roofs of what must be a large house with additions. The walls themselves were invisible. They were hidden by the dense Mediterranean flora. She also saw the edge of a terrace. It was a promontory that rested on elegant arches and columns.
"Villa d'Este," her driver grunted.
They lost the view after the next turn. Then they arrived at a huge wrought iron gate. It gave way to a lovely shaded drive. She heard the pebbles crunch under the tires. Then her breath stuck. The Villa itself swung into view.
It had been built on the ruins of a medieval farmhouse in the first tender years of the last century. Its design followed the scandalously modern curves of art nouveau. Walls, plinths, roofs and windows had been shaped into a sinuous orgy of organic masonry. There was pink granite, sandstone, marble and glass. There also was wrought iron, hardwood and slate. But most of all, there was elegance. The whole building was a bold statement. It defied all masculine conventions of its time. It oozed femininity in its curved, lustful grace. It was open to nature. It lay open to the vast Italian skies. And it was part of the hills it jutted from.
Brigitte sat frozen as she watched Villa d'Este.
Her eyes drank in the sheer sensuality of it all. Long after the driver had opened her door, she blinked and moved out of the car. Her foot sank into the pebbles of the driveway. The balmy spring breeze hugged her naked form. A million invisible feathers caressed her.
The air was a sweet mixture of herbs and flowery essences. It was laced with the wonderful scent of pine-trees. And of course there were the incessant strings of cicadas.
To her amazement she did not give a damn about her nudity. Traces of her hard won pride seemed to trickle back into her system. She stretched her limbs and straightened her back. She glanced a defying look at the chauffeur. He totally ignored her. Her heels sank into the layer of pebbles as she walked towards the house. It slightly ruined the sway of her hips.
An elderly woman came out of the building. She was short and stubby. She wore a black dress with tiny white flowers. It must be the uniform of elderly ladies in every Italian village. She never acknowledged the naked girl. She just walked over to the car and picked up Brigitte's luggage. When she returned, she carried the suitcase and the rest. She beckoned Brigitte with a shake of her head to follow her inside.
The hall was cool. It made her goose bumps rise. Now it dawned on her that the lady had not at all been surprised to see her arrive naked. She said nothing about it. She not even hinted if she'd noticed. It must be routine around here, she thought and smiled.
The Italian woman told her to stay put and wait. At least, that is what she understood from her gestures and the few words that came close enough to her French.
She stood and waited. She smiled ruefully. Waiting, ah yes, a waitress's speciality.
There was no clock, there was no ticking. There was no measuring of time. Only a shard of sunlight travelled up the wall. But there was the beating of her heart. It cut the time into piecemeal morsels, just large enough to swallow.
If Brigitte knew anything, it was how to wait. How to find a thousand colors in the dullest gray. How to put her brain on hold and watch the grass grow.
She must have stood there for an hour. Her eyes had travelled all the curves and inlets of the Jugendstil ornaments. They crawled and twisted on the wall in front of her. It wasn't difficult for her to become an explorer. She trekked through a wilderness of elegant vines and leaves and flowers. She was a small naked girl in an adventurous labyrinth of green and black.
She lost herself in a world of high winds and whispering heartbeats.
At first there had been the excitement of finally arriving. There was the arousal of new impressions and the sheer beauty of the place. But that feeling seeped out of her. Time went on and nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not even sounds came to her, other than the distant chirrups of a million crickets. The car had left right after she went inside. It took its rumble down the hill. Its sound drowned in the overall buzz of the background. The old woman never returned.
Any other might have got curious. She might have started a private exploration around the house, or even inside it. Brigitte was curious, of course. But she had been told to stay put, so she did. Little stirrings inside her might tease her. But she knew she could not go against the order. She knew it was part of what she was here for.
Flashes of her flight and her drive to this Villa projected themselves on the inside of her mind. She mused on the peculiar actions, or better: non-actions of the chauffeur. He must be gay, she decided. Or otherwise the powers of this woman Angique must be really awesome. She had almost thrown herself at him. He never took the bait. Even his bodily reactions seemed under control.
To think these thoughts and stand naked in the cool breeze made her nipples contract. She cupped her breasts. Their cold, marble quality ran shivers down her spine.
After half an hour her awareness sank below the level of full consciousness. Her eyes just stared. They pulled the world out of focus. Her heartbeat lowered to a slow, lazy whisper.
Her thoughts came to a standstill.
Then the door crashed open. The sudden transfer from total silence into screaming action made her heart skip two, three beats. A black creature jumped her. A bloody-minded fury it was, all clad in black leather. Even its head had been tightly wrapped.
The creature grabbed her hair with blood-tipped claws. It pulled her inside. It dragged her across the sill. She felt squirts of white-hot adrenaline dash through her body. Her throat squeezed closed. She was speechless although her mouth sprang wide open.
The creature dragged her along.
It made catlike strides on towering heels. They were like hooves. Brigitte was pulled through an impressive stone hall and down a corkscrew stairwell. The creature didn't care if her victim was hurt by the cold hard edges.
Deep down in the bowels of the house the cat pulled a torch off the wall. Then it led the way through a long, vaulted corridor, adorned with fearsome gargoyles and chiselled monsters. A huge, iron studded door stood ajar. The black harpy pushed it open. They descended another set of stairs. It led them into a circular, incredibly large, high vaulted hall. It seemed to have been cut out of the Italian bedrock.
Torches burned all around them.
They breathed life into the shadows and played with another multitude of sculpted monsters. Naked human and animals' bodies were intertwined in sensual and obscene intercourse. In front of them iron bars rose out of the stone. They were at least twelve feet high and met at the centre to form a vast circular cage. The bars almost seemed to move with the torches' light. Their shadows centred on a big slab of marble. It rose about half a foot out of the darker granite floor.
A girl lay spread-eagled on the exact middle of that slab. She was naked except for a curious costume of finely mazed leather straps. She had been tied down with short chains. They ran from her ankles and wrists to dull shining iron bolts in the marble.
The girl did not move. Nor did she make a sound.
The black hooded creature turned around. Now Brigitte saw that its full, pale breasts swayed free. The crotch of the suit was open as well. It displayed a smoothly shaven cunt and pubic mound. The nipples were clamped with a delicate chain dangling in between. There was a tiny drop of blood. It seeped from between the silver jaws of a clamp.
Brigitte stood panting. Her breasts heaved as much as the woman's. The pressure of her blood started to sink slowly. The buzzing left her ears. Then the woman grabbed her hair again. She pulled her towards the cage. She pushed her naked body against it and handcuffed Brigitte's wrists to the bars. They were about two feet above and to either side of her head.
Brigitte now stood tightly against the cold iron. She felt it almost cut into her flesh. Her feet were kicked wide. Then her ankles were tied to the bars, much like her wrists were.
"Watch!" the black cat woman growled.
She lapped a slow pink tongue all along the iron bar, right next to Brigitte's face. Then she strode off. The torches' golden light dripped like liquid off her shining curves. She took a few high, rolling steps to the right and opened a heavy door. It was made of iron bars, just like the cage itself. Inside, she returned to Brigitte and faced her. She stretched her arms and planted her gloved palms on Brigitte's. Then she pushed herself forward. Her clamped tits drilled themselves into Brigitte's flattened chest.