The girl in the mirror showed the nervousness she felt inside. Her eyes shone dark from sockets that were deepened by the stark light from above. Her skin seemed moulded out of pale dough. She sucked the pulpous flesh of her lower lip in to bite it. The elevator hummed. It vibrated through the thin leather soles of her shoes Soft metallic music hung in the air. It seemed suspended by invisible spider webs.
Why was she here? What made her do this? Why hadn't she turned right at the exit of the restaurant where she worked to go home, as she always did? Home to feed the fat cat. To sit down and watch the end of a Cheers' rerun she had seen at least three times? Then take a lukewarm shower, run her hands over her lonely body. Find the damp dark bush on her mound, slip in a finger, two.
She had turned left. She had walked the three wet streets that separated the restaurant from the posh and very, very expensive hotel. She had never been inside it before, although this was her city where she had lived all her life.
After minutes of hesitation she had walked through the brass and glass revolving doors. She knew she must look shabby in her rain soaked coat and dripping hair. But she had decided not to follow the door full circle and back out again. She had decided to walk across the shining marble floor to the night reception. She had asked the pimple faced receptionist the suite number of miss Angelique Jonckers. And then she had walked over to the elevator.
The cotton candy muzak drifted on air-conditioned wings around her head. She shivered inside her wet coat. Then she watched as the metal doors sighed open. The dark hallway yawned in her face. Hundreds of feet of deep dark red rug stretched under rows of dimmed spotlights.
She stood and stared. Then her finger stabbed the zero floor button and the doors closed again. A metal, female voice sang "Going down" in two languages. The tiny tug at her calves told her the elevator started its return to earth – deep, wet indifferent earth. Lonely earth. She ran a pale hand over her face and whispered "Merde."
She knew it was plain cowardice. Fear it was. The same fear that had imprisoned her since she was a child, a teenager in cruel high school, a student in even colder college. They were the years she taught herself to be a nobody. Oh, there had been friends, even lovers. But hardly ever the ones she wanted. And hardly ever the emotions she craved.
What did I crave? Did I even dare to know? I knew what I abhorred, and who I hated. Oh, sure I did, as it was easy: they were the same ones I envied. They were the towering studs with their crude bodies, cruder minds. And their tall blonde girlfriends. They sneered at me, ignoring me. They not even took the trouble to make fun of me.
Were they right? Of course they were. And if they were not, I devoted my life to making them be right. I crawled and shied away. I polished my meekest smile into perfection. I brooded and envied. I cried, silently and in private.
There had been the scrawny, freckled girl when I was twelve. The girl who had taught me how to play my body. She had taught me the miracle of lovemaking. She gave me this shattering feeling that had enslaved me at once. But the girl had left soon and without a word. She left me behind with a craving I could not fulfil. No one cared to share it with me.
Oh, in some circles I was popular. But what's in a word? For the pimpled nerds I was popular. For the shy closet gays I solved a problem. I was the only girl they dared approach. I was the only girl they could muster enough courage for to ask out on a clumsy date.
And there were the overweight, sweaty girls, of course.
But now she was a woman. She was a woman who had taught herself she loved women. A woman who stood in the elevator of the poshest hotel of Quebec. Invited by the most breath-taking woman she had ever met.
How could she believe the woman had been sincere, back at the restaurant? How could she find the courage to meet her again? Why would she once more open herself up to be hurt, ridiculed, humiliated?
Why on earth had she done what the little, perfumed piece of paper told her to? The paper she'd found with her tip? Why had she walked three long streets wearing nothing but a raincoat? Why had she slipped into a toilet stall after work to get out of her uniform, her bra, her panties even? And the most astounding why: why did she feel tiny drops of her juices run down the inside of her thighs? Why did her extended nipples get so achingly hard as they chafed on the coarse lining of her coat, all the way to the hotel?
The elevator doors slid open once again as she reached the ground floor. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the reception area. The damn music made her want to scream, but of course she didn't. What she did was curse yet again under her breath. What she did was walk into the vast open space, ignoring the pimpled nerd at the reception desk. But what she also did, was stop right in front of the revolving doors that led to the street. Beyond the reflection of her body she saw the deep dark wetness of a Quebecois night. Streets gleamed with dripping lights. There was the heavy drone of traffic. She heard a far away police siren.
And she knew.
She knew that if she would step into the well of those revolving doors now and walk out into the rain, she would kill herself. Not in the spectacular sense of heroic suicide. Just in the smothering, anonymous sense of giving up the last remnants of a life that ought to be hers. She would kill herself in the cowardly sense of letting her life slide slowly and definitely out of her hands.
The pale woman waiting for her upstairs might ridicule her, even humiliate her. She and the perfect African model friends that were with her at the restaurant might point at her shabby appearance when she showed up. They might double up with laughter. But that would not be the real humiliation, would it? The real humiliation, the definite one, would be her leaving now, without even trying.
Leave now, she said to herself, and you'll never be able to look at yourself again.
A tear formed in the corner of an eye. Then it rolled down her cheek. Not able to move a muscle she stood there. She looked into the dark night beyond her reflection. Then, slowly, she turned on her heels. She walked back into the cool marble space. She felt her teeth grind under the pressure of hard jaw muscles. But she kept walking – watched curiously by the reception boy.
The elevator chimed its optimistic chime. The doors opened before her. She stepped in. She touched the top button yet again and pushed herself in a corner.
"Going up!" sang the sickening female robot's voice in both languages. She felt the slight pull at her calves.
She prayed. She murmured long forgotten little girl's words. "Avé Marie, plein de grace…" She prayed to hold on to her newfound courage. She prayed to ignore the screaming fear behind her eyes. Most of all she prayed to be wrong for once in her life.
The dark hallway stretched out before her. She had made it out of the elevator. Now she felt her feet sink into the rug. Suite 2301, she remembered. Penthouse, sans doute. Posh penthouse, sans doute. Intimidating penthouse, sans aucun doute. The sign was in brass, of course. There was no bell. Then again, the door was ajar. From within she heard music. It was jazzy, voluptuous music. A hoarse female voice was singing. She knocked.
No reaction, so she knocked again. The merest hint of relief washed over her. Maybe the woman wasn't in. Maybe she now had a good reason to leave? Was it a last legitimate opportunity to cop out? She closed her eyes. Then she pushed the door open and sneaked inside. The hall was big, with doors all around. There was a mirror. A huge bunch of roses stood in a vase on a slender table. The door in front of her was open too. Her heart throbbed against her ribs. She walked through it.
A huge television set flickered without sound. An empty champagne bottle and glasses lay in front of it. There were pieces of clothing. A green leather jacket. A blood red dress. Stockings. Heeled shoes with loose spaghetti straps. They formed a colourful trail leading to the right. Her eyes followed it. Then her head froze.
Stretched head down on the leather of a huge couch lay one of the African models that had been at the restaurant. Her right, endless leg was raised over the backside. The other dangled to the floor. Her perfect ass rose high up into the air. And right behind her was the woman who had invited her here. Angique she had called herself.
She shone pale as the full moon against the darkest night of her lover. She knelt between the smooth shining thighs. Her lower body was pressed against the crotch. One pale hand pushed a leg aside. The fingers of the other hand made fast piston like movements into what must be the black girl's ass hole. But the centre of movements was a large, incredibly fat black shining dildo. It had been strapped to a leather harness around the white girl's hips. With it she was pumping the Negro girl's vagina so fast that her white, high breasts danced on her chest. The dildo became a blur of darkness.
From the pale girl's mouth poured a stream of incredible obscenities. But each one of them was uttered with the softest, loveliest sweetness. She was moaning and panting as she delivered them. It was almost as though she were praying a litany of depraved lust. Sometimes she bent forward. She kissed her black lover's satin skin and whispered into her ear.
The African girl had her eyes closed. Her mouth was open. From deep inside her throat came panting moans. Sometimes they rose to gurgling screams. Her left arm disappeared under her body. It twitched and moved, and betrayed how fast her fingers were rubbing her clit. Her lower body jerked and spasmed. It humped against the fingers in her ass and the cruel black monster that was fucking her.
Both women were deeply engrossed in their activities. They were unaware of anything happening around them. Let alone the entering of a silent, rain soaked Quebecois girl. Brigitte could not take her eyes off of them. She just stared and stared. She slowly ate her lower lip. A deep blush crept from her throat into her face.
Both girls seemed to come almost at the same time. They gasped throaty moans. Their sounds turned into animal growls and long, desperate sighs. Then the white girl Angique collapsed. She spread like a pale blanket over her trembling black lover. They lay together panting. Tiny shivers rippled along the length of their bodies.
Brigitte stood and watched. An intense feeling overwhelmed her. It covered her like a dark, hot cloud. It closed in her vision. The whole world seemed to shrink and turn into a keyhole. It tunnelled her view to the incredible couple before her.
She trembled as much as the girls. Tiny electric currents ran from all her sensitive spots. They gathered and retracted to her crotch. Her mind was numb. Her brain was unable to send even the simplest impulses to her passive limbs.
After what seemed like hours, the girl Angique opened her eyes. A green flash settled on the visitor at once. A slow, mischievous smile split her face. "Brigitte, ma belle putain," she said. "Enfin elle est arrivée."
She rose to her knees. The obscene monster leaked between her thighs. "Deshabille-toi, saloppe. Go strip." She delivered the shocking line with the sweetest timbre and a friendly smile. Brigitte at first didn't even realise she was being spoken to. She stood motionless. She just stared.
The woman Angique slid off the couch. She walked the two steps to the frozen girl. The black dildo swayed in front of her. Her hand rose. Then she slapped it hard into Brigitte's face. It left a pink trace on her cheek. "Dépêche-toi, mon dieu!" she cried out. "Don't make me beg for it!"
More than the words it was the slap that tore Brigitte from her state of frozen immobility. Her hands flew up. First to protect her face, then to undo the buttons of her coat. It sank to the floor. She stood totally naked except for her shoes.
Angique's face cleared. A wide grin washed over it. She reached forward and took one extended nipple between finger and thumb. She twisted it hard. Then she pulled the girl towards her by the stretched morsel of flesh. It made her wince. But she did not resist. She fell against the pale woman. The hard leather monster rode up her belly. It was trapped between them. It felt wet and cold.
Angique's soft lips engulfed Brigitte's. Her hands pulled at the dark blond hair. Then she penetrated her mouth with a stiffened tongue. Their nipples touched. Four breasts rubbed and circled. The tongue was everywhere. It found the deepest niches of Brigitte's wet cave. It sent tingling waves through her body. Her own tongue responded. Soon both open mouths were locked in a dance of fat pink writhing eels.
Brigitte felt her body go weak. Her knees went limp in the pale woman's grip. Her mind turned blank. Then it filled up with shapeless, rolling forms. It felt like a fuzzy basket squirming with clawless kittens.
She was touched from behind. A blanket of slick, hot skin slid over her. She was totally wrapped in writhing flesh. She felt her own body melt into the two women who sandwiched her. Black and pale hands roamed her naked body. They cupped her tits, her trembling ass. They touched the tender insides of her thighs, the leaking fullness of her cunt.
A tongue licked her throat. Another tongue ran through the curving labyrinth of her ear. It slipped in and gave her a wave of goose bumps. All she felt was chaos, sweet soft chaos. She heard the sopping, slithering sounds of sex – the moaning from stuffed throats. She did not know if they were hers or someone else's. All she smelled was the heady mixture of women in heat and expensive perfumes. All she tasted was frothing saliva mixed with lipstick.
Soon all she thought was nothing. In a haze she felt her feet leave the floor. Strong arms lifted her up and carried her. The mouths never left her. She kept her eyes closed. She felt herself fall onto a bouncing, soft silk surface – a bed no doubt, a mattress. And she opened her eyes to look into a flushed face. It was framed in black hair. The dark painted mouth shaped words. She had difficulty to understand them. "Welcome, my little pet," the mouth seemed to say. "Bonjour, ma belle. I am so glad you decided to come."
She tried to concentrate on what was said. She felt her legs being separated. A wet tongue ran the length of her slit. She had to arch her back. She had to allow a deep moan to leave her mouth. Curly hair tickled the insides of her thighs. It made her tremble without control. Then her path of vision darkened.
A hairless cunt descended on her face. It engulfed her eyes and nose. It slid down to her mouth and left a trace of hot juices. Her ears were almost closed by the thighs riding her. She only got a few words from what was said. Some of them seemed to come from the pale woman. Others were of a richer, deeper timbre. They no doubt came from her dark friend, who was starting to slowly fuck her cunt with an expert tongue.
The words were obscene. They were carelessly spoken. And they were all about her. They talked about her body parts as if she were an object, a thing of fleeting interest. But she did not care. She could not care. She was only aware of the incredible things happening to her. She dashed her tongue into the sweet wet slit on top of her. Then she started to fuck back against the tongue that moved inside her own cunt. Long, supple fingers kneaded her tits. They pulled at her screaming nipples. She raised her body off the bed and arched it into a bow of passion.
She came sooner than she'd expected. And she came harder than she remembered ever to have done. She screamed into the wet soft, swollen cunt that rode her. It contracted in response and sprayed hot juices all over her face and into her mouth.
For a while they lay in a panting heap. Then the pale woman climbed off her. A moment later a piece of clothing landed on her body. She looked and saw it was her raincoat.
"Habille-toi," Angique said. She stood in the doorway, sipping champagne from a long stemmed glass.
"You have been a good pet. Now leave."
Brigitte sat up on her trembling elbows. She stared from the girl to the coat. Then she tried to get up. She stood and wrapped the still damp coat around her sweating limbs. Her knees hardly supported her as she walked to the door and accepted her shoes from the smiling woman. She slipped into them, then stood straight again. She hesitated what to do next.
Angique stepped aside to make room for her. She performed a slight, mocking bow. When Brigitte was at the door, halfway into the corridor, she called her back.
Still naked and shining with sweat, she grabbed Brigitte's face and kissed her deeply.
"Au revoir, ma belle putain," she said. She laughed a tiny crystal laugh.