Lingering Perfume

She knew she was acting as immature as Justine, who spread a blanket of silence around her since their last eventful meeting. Maybe Margot lost her. Maybe the shame was too great to meet the cause of it again. Whatever, Margot thought. She shrugged.

Who was she to moralize?

Who was she anyway, sitting every evening with the little card in her hand while holding her cell phone in the other? The perfume on the paper became fainter, but by now its scent had become like a mocking comment on her indecisiveness -- or shitty fear, to be more precise.

She shirked in her overstuffed chair.

"Putain," she whispered, reading the word and tasting it. She looked at her phone and saw that she had mindlessly typed the number. Her thumb hovered over the green button that would establish the connection. She closed her eyes and pressed, feeling her heart race. Then she took the phone to her ear. Her jaws worked. She heard the beeps and tones inside the little metal box.

"Hello?"

The voice sounded low, misty. It had a throaty quality; a lilting accent.

It must be hers.

Her heart's pounding blocked the air, turning her voice, into a groan. She coughed, then said: "Good evening, madam, I... I hope I don't disturb."

She allowed a pause, but there was no response.

"I...," she went on, sending the lonely syllable into the void, "I am Margot, the girl from... from the restaurant... I, I have your card." Another pause.

"You... you remember me?"

There was more silence. Then there was a repeated 'hello?' Damn, a bad connection. When it rains, it pours.

Margot repeated her line. Now she spoke louder and more articulate.

"Ah, ma belle putain, c'est toi!"

The voice had a light quicksilver quality now, maybe because of the French. It at once sent shivers down her spine.

"Oui, madame," she continued. "I am, well, I am she, I suppose."

The phone produced a low chuckle.

"Ah, yes, you suppose, ma petite. How are you?"

When you have ached for days between fear and hope, lying awake at night and dreaming at day, reality has a hard time to deliver.

Never in her sleepless nights had Margot for once expected to hear the woman ask her how she would be doing. The banality of it shocked her; or was it lack of interest? It must be. Of course, what did she think?

"Allo?" she heard.

Her silence must have taken too long. So, she stuttered she was fine. Then she asked for the wellbeing of the woman, appalled with the absurdity of it all.

"This is not what we should be talking about, is it, my lil dripping whore?" the voice said. "This is not how you dreamt it."

A small chuckle danced across the line to pour into Margot's ear. It wiped away her thoughts and reservations.

"No, madam", she agreed.

"So, tell me, greedy little animal, where is that sweet pink tongue behind your swollen lips? How I'd love to dance with it."

Without thinking Margot's tongue slid out. It travelled the length of her moist lips.

"And how are your gorgeous nipples doing right now?" the breezy voice continued. "They must feel alone. I imagine how lovely they'd swell in the curl of my tongue... Mmm. Would you please roll them for me? Will you take them between your fingertips and squeeze them?"

A hot flash set Margot's face on fire. What was she doing; why did she do it? Why was it so... normal... so easy?

Her fingers slid inside her robe to find a tiny nub of swelling flesh. She pinched and pulled, breathing into the phone.

"Aaaaah, mais oui, ma belle...mmmmmmm, c'est formidable, non? So hard, so sensitive. You are such a sweet, dirty slut. Now show me what you need..."

Margo groaned. Then her hand left the hard nipple. It found its way down to her belly and into the trimmed bush over her cunt.

"Oh, but you are bad, ma fille, oooooh!" the voice said with a tiny chuckle. "You must by now be very busy indeed. Did you find your sweet little clit yet? Please rub it for me. Rub it fast with the wet tips of your fingers. Now bring them to your lips and taste yourself. Mmmmm, si délicieux, non...? Dee-licious."

Margot ran her fingers across her clit with crazed eagerness. She arched her back against the pillows and gasped into the phone.

"Oh my," said the voice with a mocking chuckle. "You are such a nice little hot number. Who'd have thought that, seeing you so prim and proper in the restaurant?

"Now come for me, darling. Be my slut and come for me. Slide your pretty little phone into your cunt. Fuck yourself with it. Feel how it fills you up. Please imagine that it is part of me inside you. Mmmmmm, yes, how I long to be inside yououououu..."

The long-drawn word seemed to drown when Margot slipped the cool slick metal into her cunt. She started to fuck herself with it. Her head lolled on her neck. A tiny metal voice twittered like a bird. With eyes closed she bucked against the instrument. She felt her cunt lips contract around it. Her whole body tightened, preparing her for the huge crash that would take her away.

Then it came. As did she.

Her body uncoiled, relaxed. It felt as if all hinges came undone. She gasped and panted. The insides of her thighs shivered uncontrollably. Then she took the moist phone out of her pussy.

Metallic beeps announced the woman's absence.

Margot felt abandoned again, the beeps mocking her stupid expectations. Her dark room felt empty. Should she call again? Did she dare to?

She uttered a moan of frustration.

***

The next evening, she saw Justine's husband walk into the restaurant.

He had a very slutty girl on his arm. She was tall and platinum blonde. Her tits were twice the size her tube top could handle. Her face was cute in a Barbie kind of way, but heavily made up. Her mouth screamed cock, Margot decided; her eyes begged: fuck me.

Margot hid her face not to embarrass the man.

Through him she might hurt Justine, although she doubted that he would recognize her. She'd been at their wedding. She'd even been Justine's bridesmaid, but that was a few years back now. And Cédric was, well, let's say not the type to remember faces he saw outside a mirror.

"How's your phone, honey? Did it survive?"

Margot turned, looking straight into the chuckling face of a woman -- the woman. She recalled the slick brown hair, the intelligent face, and the gray calm eyes. She also remembered the muffled cloak that descended on her, making the world a tunnel and her mind a dim, hollow place.

Finding her voice at last, Margot assured it was right, feeling the heat of a blush.

The woman smiled. Then she nodded in Cédric's direction.

"You know that man? And the slut clutching his arm?" she asked with a throaty chuckle.

Margot nodded. She added he was the husband of her best friend. This made the woman click her tongue, producing a soft oh-la-la. Then she asked if this was a place for men to take their mistresses to. Margot thought about this, fighting to keep her panic down.

"No," she then said. Although she knew it was a favorite hangout for corporate types, she didn't think so. But yes, she had to admit, this definitely wasn't Cédric's wife.

And she surely wasn't his secretary or business partner either.

The woman chuckled her throaty laugh at this again, closing and opening her eyes. She reached out to lay a hand on Margot's arm, asking her if there was any special dessert she might want the two of them to share.

The hand sent little pulses through her skin.

Margot immediately understood what she meant. But she took the menu, dwelling on the fresh délices du marché while her mind spun. She noticed how her body started to respond to the cool and easy gaze of the woman, like she'd done before.

The husky voice tightened its control with every new word.

It caught her in a soft web, a subtly woven cocoon of intimacy. So, Margot didn't even blink when the woman told her to go to the restroom and wait for her in one of the stalls.

"And please get rid of your soaked panties."

Margot knew only minutes had passed, but every touch and every whisper of the woman had made the short hairs in her neck rise. They'd made her nipples tingle and her crotch swell, stimulating them with the memories the woman's voice conjured up. When she walked to where the toilettes were, her knees trembled.

The wetness of her panties made her thighs squish.

In the restroom two lady guests were checking their faces. They gossiped in flat Canadian English. Margot smiled at them. Then she went to the first stall.

She got out of her panties and sat down on the bowl. Staring at the closed door, she felt a throbbing pulse in her throat. The scent of the balled-up panties in her fist started to permeate the air.

My God, Margot, she thought, now who is the whore here?

But she didn't move. She just sat there and heard the ladies leave. She waited for the woman to visit her. She was ready to do whatever she was supposed to.

Even if she didn't know why.

Then she heard the door to the restaurant open. She noticed the clicking of heels. They hesitated for a second; then they came in her direction. The stall's door opened.

The woman stood silhouetted against the cream tiled background.

"Margot," she said and smiled. "My obedient slut. You are so sweet and patient."

Then she stepped forward. Pulling up her gray business skirt she exposed strong, athletic thighs framed in black garters. She wore no panties. Her nicely trimmed crotch was a perfect triangle.

"Eat me, whore," she whispered.

Her words were like steel darts dipped in honey. Margot never even wavered. She leaned forward to press her lips against the slit, opening it with the tip of her tongue. She rested her hands on the woman's hips and pressed forward, tasting the slick pink inner lining, her nose filled with a familiar perfume.

Then she moved upwards to search for the clit.

"Fuck me with your pointed tongue, cheap whore."

The words seemed to float high up in the air, not touching her as she started to bob her head. She drove her tongue into the moist, narrow cave.

My God, the heat of it.

"Faster, deeper, aaaahhh..."

She felt the woman's cunt hump against her face. The nicely trimmed hair filled her nose. A low, soft moan rose. It blended with the hoarse purring of a cat. Her own pathetic gasps for air mixed with the sloshing sounds her tongue made.

Yet again she speeded up.

Two insistent hands pulled her hard against the crotch. All air seemed to vanish. Margot became a machine, her tongue a piston. Every thought left her mind.

Consciousness fled.

She pushed and pushed her stiff tongue to greater depths. Her movements started to synchronize with the woman into a devastating rhythm of one, two, one, two, in, out, in, out. The lack of air made her choke; her body got limp. Only her tongue held its dutiful rigidity.

It pumped and darted. It fucked.

The woman's moans grew louder.

She tightened her strong thighs even further. Then she started coming, holding her pet like a vice. Her shrieks followed the rhythm of her increased motions. She shook with rigid spasms, buckling against her whore and crying obscenities -- calling her the worst of names. Then she sank down to her knees and pulled the ruined face of her toy up to her searching mouth.

For a while, the woman lay panting against the door, hugging her unconscious plaything. Then she at last came down from her high.

Kissing Margot on her brow, she let her slide to the tiled floor. Straightening her own skirt and blouse, she stepped out of the stall, closing the door behind her. Then she walked over to the mirrors, retouched her face and hair and went back into the restaurant. There she asked for a cab.

Two minutes later she slid into the back of the car, pointing out the directions of her destination.

Her fuck toy took longer to change back into prim Margot -- or what was left of her. They were minutes of gasping, gagging, almost throwing up. Then there were more minutes of muffled sobbing, and a low, sad repetition of no's.

At last she grabbed the top of the toilet bowl. She dragged herself up to her feet. Her head throbbed. Her jaws ached. She tried to focus her eyes, struggling to stand on her feet without help from the walls.

Then she pushed at the door and stepped into the tiled space outside.

At the dainty china wash basin, she dabbed her hot face with cold water. She redid her ruined hairdo and restored her make up as far as she was able to with only her hands. Seeing herself in the mirror made her wince. Then she lowered her gaze and saw green notes peep from her crumpled blouse's opening.

Fishing the money out, she knew it was at once too much and never enough. Tears ran down her face; she wiped them away angrily.

Then she turned to leave.

The door opened and in walked the platinum Barbie escort. Her signal red lips curled into a knowing smile.

She winked a long-lashed eye.

***