Lingering Perfume

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The mystery of being helpless.
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4.39
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angiquesophie
angiquesophie
1,320 Followers

Margot knew she'd made a fool of herself.

She'd blushed like a teenager, stuttering like an imbecile. It only took two gray eyes, set in a silent, smiling face to turn her into a helpless puppet. She, a thirty-seven-year old woman, an experienced, professional waitress had stood frozen in the mocking headlights of a flirty customer.

It should have annoyed her, shouldn't it? But it hadn't. She'd been... captivated. She kept circling the woman's table, although she had no business there -- it was another girl's table.

There were two burning candles on that table, it seemed -- one real, the other the woman's gaze, drawing her like the moth she'd become.

What was wrong with her?

Customers watched her all the time, didn't they? Some overtly, others on the sly. Many flirted, either playful or rude; mostly men, sometimes women. She was still attractive, even at thirty-seven with her auburn hair and well-shaped legs.

It also didn't hurt her tips, did it?

So, why this teenage-like rush whenever the gray eyes found her? And why the pang of disappointment when she saw the woman had suddenly left, not even greeting her? One moment she'd been there, smiling, staring; the next she was gone without a word while Margot had been busy elsewhere.

It left her dizzy with confusion.

Why?

What was so special? There'd been just this middle-aged, well-preserved, no doubt wealthy woman in a gray business suit, short, slicked back hair. Just another anonymous dinner guest.

And anyway, nothing really happened, did there? It must be all in her mind; her silly, overheated, incurable mind.

When would she ever learn?

Then Mandy, the girl whose table it had been, handed her a small note. It had the size of a folded business card, but it only held a few handwritten words and numbers; and it smelled of expensive perfume.

Margot stared at the card, feeling the world slip away from her while her heart jumped into her throat. Waves of inexplicable relief crashed over her, leaving her stretched out like a scrubbed beach after a tropical storm.

All kinds of debris and jetsam were washed out into the ocean. And somewhere behind this haze an irrational certainty rose that she'd been offered something important.

If only she had the courage to grab it.

"Aaaah," Margot mused an hour later, sitting in her car in front of her apartment building, "courage..." And with a groan she crawled out, walking the few steps to her front door.

The cat meowed at the sound of her key.

***

Of course, Margot knew what was going on with her. She recognized the buzz and the tingling; the mindless need and the animalistic lust. The emotions just weren't... welcome, were they?

Not now, not ever again.

She hated falling in love.

To most people, falling in love has become such a sugared and honeyed idea that we tend to forget what a mind-fucking experience it can be -- cruel and destructive.

As Margot drank a glass of cold water at the sink, still wearing her coat, she wondered why it had always been like that with her, almost since the first time she touched her little girl's clit and had an orgasm.

She didn't know it was called that. She not even knew it existed; her finger just followed the urge the little button radiated.

She was so young then.

The climax took her with surprise, but she knew at once she needed more, ever more. She wouldn't want to live without that hot, deep feeling again. Hooked, she grabbed every free and secret moment to drown herself in the steaming sensations.

She masturbated in bed, in closets, in showers. She did it on her bike, even in classrooms. She used fingers and fruit, sticks and even bottles.

Then she found this incredible buzzing wonder they call a vibrator.

Somehow it took Margot ages to see sexuality as a social thing. The clumsy way boys came on to her did not agree at all with her idea of sex. To her sex was a soft and overwhelming thing -- such a private sensation that it excluded other people, any other people.

Then she met the freckled girl.

She was what people called a tommy girl -- quick and funny and cheeky. She had orange hair and her entire skinny body was ablaze with freckles.

She looked as if she'd been dipped and rolled in them.

One afternoon, Margot changed into a swimsuit to join the school's swimming lessons. She stood naked in the tight enclosure of one of the pool's antiquated bathing boxes, when the door behind her suddenly opened. A freckled girl let herself in. She giggled and pressed her finger against her mouth to urge Margot to be silent. Margot was stunned by the girl's easy ways. She did not move at all when quick little hands tore down the top of her suit, cupping her small, budding titties.

"Shhhhh", the girl whispered and closed her hot lips around a nipple.

Margot felt her knees weaken; a hot bolt flashed through her body as heat spread from her assaulted nipple into her chest and belly.

A soft moan escaped her mouth.

The freckled girl looked up with quick blue eyes. Grinning, she said: "You like this, don't you?"

Then she sank to her knees and pulled off the rest of the bathing suit. She pushed her freckled face between Margot's pale thighs, forcing them to spread.

It was the first time ever that Margot felt something penetrate her down-covered pussy which she didn't control. A hot, wily tongue stabbed into her body. A busy finger rubbed her clit. It did not take the girl long to push Margot into an orgasm.

She screamed her ecstasy into the knuckles of her fist.

In the weeks that followed, she met the girl almost daily. They made love in every way two women can. The girl educated her with an authority beyond her age. She finally taught Margot how the pleasures of sex were infinitely more satisfying if consumed with someone else.

Someone you fell in love with.

Ever since those weeks with the freckled girl, falling in love became a reflex for Margot. But it soon turned from marshmallow sweetness into scary, helpless routine. Soon, her soul wore scars and bruises -- the first one from the freckled girl that had left her after a few weeks without a word.

Each scar was the remnant of a reckless love dearly paid for.

Since the day in the bathing box she collected crushes like other children would collect dolls or stamps. Her green eyes were wide open doors. It took years for her to realize that most people just walked into those doors without wiping their feet, plundering her store, taking all her precious things, then leaving without a word.

***

From the moment Margot let herself into her apartment, words rushed out like a torrent. It was her usual, but decidedly one-sided conversation with her feline companion.

After feeding the animal, she shed her work clothes and slipped into the shower, letting herself drown in the hottest possible mixture of water.

Ah God, this was good.

She treated herself to rich layers of fragrant soap and shampoo. Then she scrubbed each tingling inch of skin until it shone brightly, blushing like a sunset. And when, at last, she made the shower stop, she heard herself sing.

It was a name.

Stopping right in the middle of it, she blocked her mouth with her hand. Then she shrugged. Grinning, she wrapped herself in the huge terrycloth bathrobe she'd stolen from a hotel on her last holidays. Feet in slippers, hair in a towel she flip-flopped to her small pantry, putting on a dented kettle. She selected her mail, while she waited for the water to boil.

All she found were two bills and a lot of advertising junk.

Armed with a giant mug of herbal tea, she sank into the one, big easy chair, automatically grabbing the remote control. Her zapping was even more thoughtless than usual, creating a carnival of colors. She stared without seeing, listened without hearing.

My God, she thought she'd grown out of this.

Was this her? Some unknown middle-aged woman stared at her from a table in the restaurant and she felt like a moonstruck teenager. Her heart beat like a jackhammer each moment she thought of her.

Nice!

Margot shrugged and tried to concentrate on a news broadcast. Somehow tonight's shipwreck off the coast of New Foundland could not muster her interest at all. Sorry, poor drowned fishermen, but this girl's head is too cramped with other thoughts to let you in.

She emptied the mug and killed the TV set.

The muffled, eternal drone of the city around her seeped into the room. Fresh memories took shape in the theatre of her mind, projecting disturbing images on the invisible screen.

Her left hand opened the top of her robe.

She touched and weighed her soft right tit. Its texture felt so familiar, its warmth. The stiffening flesh on top of it was sensitive, so easy to please.

She closed her eyes and let out a little moan.

Then her other hand slipped between her thighs. It softly pressed the damp patch of pubic hair, cupping the pulsing roundness.

A slow finger slid up and down her slit.

Images of rich, female bodies careened through her mind. She saw sparkling gray eyes and juicy lips. There were scents and fragrances, sounds and touches. She felt the weight of bodies -- of wet, tightening muscles.

Two of her fingers slipped past her swelling lips, finding the pink flesh inside. Two other fingers pinched and rolled a reddened nipple.

They forced moans from her mouth.

Margot's head lolled back on her arching throat. She found her little guardian of lust; it swelled into fullness under the pressure of her wet fingertips. She increased the speed, using her nails as she scratched greedily through pain and numbness until new flames were kindled, a new blaze grew.

Her hand became a blur against the paleness of her skin. Her muscles tightened to focus on her probing hand. A hot flash seared through her, spreading from the center to find the shivering ends of her nerves.

Her breathing increased, becoming shallow.

She arched her back in the chair and spread her thighs, inviting her fingers to the most intimate niches. She bucked against the hand and felt her release lurk right over an invisible edge. It beckoned her. It whispered to her.

Then it commanded her to crawl closer.

Her hand popped out of her flushed vagina. She started slapping herself, hitting the flesh between her spread thighs. She tortured her nipples with cruel nails. On and on she beat herself, pushing up her hips to meet the punishment. She stretched her nipples like chewing gum.

And she came.

She screamed an unabashed climax to the silent room. Hot juices squirted against her slapping hand, wet sounds splashing their rhythm. She milked her pussy for the last spasms and went over the edge.

She soared like a bird, a soul without a body.

Circling higher, ever higher on the thermal spirals of lust she opened her eyes wide to watch the incredible country below. She looked into the pulsating sky above. She saw places she had never seen before.

And, burning at their center, she saw a set of calm gray eyes.

Crying out, Margot tried to grab the vision, but it a darkening tunnel swallowed it. She moaned with disappointment, as reality tugged at her. It pulled her down with feathery hands, cradling her in arms of fluffy down.

Opening her eyes again, Margot stared into the steady, golden gaze of her cat.

Oh my, she shuddered.

She cupped her cunt as if to protect it, wincing at the tenderness of the beaten flesh. 'Cunt' she thought, 'my cunt.' Her whole body seemed to ache. She shivered with the afterglow of what happened.

Her nipples were all red and angry.

My God. She'd masturbated all her life. She loved to start her day with the reassuring warmth of release. And she loved to relief her tensions after another day of hard work and stress.

But this.

She tried to retrace what happened. The vanilla sweetness of her caresses had turned into stimulants of an entirely different nature. She recalled when the urge arose to slap herself, to torture her nipples. She remembered the face she saw; the words she heard in her mind the moment she changed her play. A shiver ran like a thousand-legged spider over her spine.

She winced and cupped a sore nipple.

What's happening, Margot?

***

She woke up well into the day, the next morning.

She felt the familiar weight of her cat against her legs. And she noticed the just as familiar vague cramps that announced her period. Since she was on the pill, their intensity had diminished. They hardly ever intervened with her activities.

It had taken her at least an hour to fall asleep, the brutality of her newfound feelings keeping her thoughts to roll and roil inside her skull. And as problems go, they grew on her in the dark of the night. They made her sweat and kept her from falling asleep. Her body ached for sleep, but her mind kept churning fruitlessly.

So, when Margot awoke, her skull harbored the meanest of headaches, and her tits still throbbed.

With a groan, she slid from under her moist blanket. She went to the bathroom to look into the mirror, squinting against the tube light. She opened the little cabinet with shaking hands and swallowed two painkillers, chasing them down with a huge glass of water. Then she sat down on the toilet.

Her head hung forward so her hair fell over her eyes.

My God, was this her life? Sad solo sex, poor sleep and a splitting headache, followed by the droning duties of serving lunch and dinner?

She could hardly stand straight. Her head pounded, her muscles ached. And most of all: her mind was in total disarray.

She rose and moaned, making herself stumble over to the shower. There she stayed for a quarter of an hour praying for the headache to flush down the sink.

Bye-bye, to never be seen again.

Margot would have breakfast at the restaurant. So, the only thing left to do after drying herself was to brush her teeth and feed her pussy a slim tampon. Then she slipped into her uniform.

Finding the woman's little card on the table made her pause. She read it again, the name, the number and the scribbled words: "Je t'embrasse, petite putain." I embrace you, little whore."

Margot lingered at the table, her head dizzy with confusion at the sudden rush of her heart. She shouldn't feel like this. She should be offended, hurt, shouldn't she? Calling her a whore, what did she think, the arrogant bitch?

Faint perfume reached her nostrils, making them flare.

She fed the cat and rushed off into town.

The sun had come out to glare on her receding headache.

***

Four days went by.

Each outdid itself to be an exact boring copy of the day before. At the restaurant, everything was as always. The most exciting thing to happen was the cat turning over a vase of flowers.

The arousal never abated, nagging at the fringes of her mind, leaving her body in need; a need she tried to strangle every night, every morning...

On the fifth day, Margot had lunch with her best and maybe only friend.

Her name was Justine.

She was a girl she knew from the few years she spent in college. When Margot entered the tearoom where they usually met, she didn't miss the shock on the face of her friend who'd already arrived. But after they kissed and Margot sat down, Justine was back to her normal expression. She started at once to talk -- about herself, as usual.

They drank their tea and ate a muffin, Margot only part of it. Then she decided to break into her friend's endless flow of words.

"Do I look right to you, Justine?" she asked.

She had to repeat the question before her friend even noticed there had been one.

"Oh, but of course, Margot, darling. Why? You're not ill, are you?"

Margot smiled. No, she wasn't ill. Not in a sense Justine could even begin to understand. Justine was Little Miss Vanilla if ever there was one. Or maybe even vanilla was too spicy.

At school Margot often tried to make love to her -- slowly, carefully, hoping for innocent kisses to blossom into more. But Justine came from ancient stock. Even too much straight sex was frowned upon in her family. It made Margot wonder how they could have survived all these centuries.

She knew, however, that her friend was lying.

One late evening in their shared rooms, Margot almost accidentally touched Justine's breasts and decided to linger. The girl went rigid, but she didn't pull out. Both had been drinking quite a bit. They were naked and on the bed before Justine understood what was going on. (At least, that was what she said afterwards.)

It never happened again.

Margot left college after a while and Justine went on to finish it. Then she married Cédric. He was her male counterpart of similarly ancient stock. But the girls kept seeing each other. Margot was certain that their short encounter still ranked high in Justine's meager list of memorable happenings, even if she'd never admit it.

"No, I'm not ill," Margot answered with a tired smile. "I'm not." Then she told Justine she met this older woman, who'd invited her to meet her. Wealthy woman, she fantasized, big house no doubt, rich neighborhood.

Justine's gaze went blank. Only her lashes blinked, twice.

Margot nodded.

"You're right, Justine," she went on. "I look bad. And it hasn't been because of sickness or even my period."

She stirred the crumbs of her uneaten muffin with a dainty little fork. Then she looked up.

"I slept poorly these last nights, and I know why. You see, I ache to go and see that woman, Justine. She called me a whore, but I'm dizzy with excitement. She'll treat me badly, but you know me: it's a magnet. It fills my head with images that make me shiver. It is crazy, but it also is so intense it scares me.

"It makes me forget about my job, my life. It's stupid, but I don't care a damn thing about anything anymore. Everything has turned dull and gray... My whole life is..."

My God, she thought. Why am I telling her this? She must be the last person to understand.

Justine sat like a rigid stick.

The only sign of life was in her left pinkie. It made tiny drumming sounds on the table. Then she blurted:

"Don't tell me, stupid girl! You know I'll lie and tell you not to do it, like I always do; to be wise and sensible and proper and things. But it's a lie, it always was. My own shitty, scared lie.

"I always lie and look where it got me. Do you want to end up like me? I never dared to be you and do what I wanted. I pushed you off when I really loved you. I married Cédric, mon Dieu, le salop! The bastard cheats and lies to me. He spends his time on gambling and whores, not even cheap ones!"

A high wailing sound escaped her neatly painted lips. Fat tears ploughed their way through layers of powder and foundation.

Margot jumped to her feet. She took the crying woman in her arms, mumbling words of consolation. She shushed her and told her everything was right.

And so, they ended where they started. Once more it was all about Justine -- her pains and ailments, her bruised little ego.

But such a different Justine she was.

Margot took her to her flat and at last they talked about the things they'd been hiding. They drank and they kissed. And they made love in Margot's chair, in Margot's bed and in Margot's shower.

When morning came, they kissed one last time. Then they both went their way. One with a tired, smiling face. The other with a freshly painted smiling face.

Nothing had changed; but everything.

***

Margot knew she stalled.

She'd put the card into the lower drawer of her pseudo-antique little cabinet, but it didn't collect dust there. She took it out regularly, especially at night in those bleary-eyed hours; the ones we number three or four, when the first hard-earned sleep has worn off and the second seems to elude our tired grasp.

angiquesophie
angiquesophie
1,320 Followers
12