Tuesday, 31 May 2011


Keats, Chapman, Homer all flood into my mind as I
spread the delta of your thighs to begin my
Amazonian exploration of the
rich effluvia of your interior,
each tributary adding
enticing scents—O Orinoco!-
leading my leeching tongue towards its
El Dorado where
pussy seems too tame a word for
such wild splendour.  

Saturday, 28 May 2011


He said he'd warn her but the
things she was doing cut his
tongue from his brain so his
flood startled her.

Saturday, 21 May 2011

All that Girlhood Gone

Who didn’t matter really, it just
felt like time and the less
personal the better so that bar seemed
a good place to offer herself with
plenty of takers as she wasn’t
shabby and hormones were sharpened to a
fine point by Friday night so
it wasn’t difficult to be easy.

Of course it hurt at first and there was
a heaviness in her belly like lead or
stones she’d swallowed that slowly
broke up and effervesced and she
concentrated on one big bubble which
rose through her and burst as she thought of
all that girlhood gone and if
she was now a woman.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011


The petty annoyances of work, the
mindless repetition, the
sweaty journey home: all were forgotten
the moment she saw the items
laid out like sacrifices on an altar--
collar, cuffs, blindfold, all
in neat array.

Heart accelarating, she mapped out her time
-enema, douche, shower, checking her
delicate pudenda for hair, anus
amply lubricated--so that at
8 o'clock she would be naked and kneeling,
cuffed, collared, blind and ready for
whatever, whomever he brought her.


Her knickers decorated the doorknob
and were damp so he
followed the trail of
carelessly shed clothes to the
rumpled bed and his
rumpled wife smiling
at both ends.


Seven dead sisters flee rape by the Hunter
–towards Aldebaran’s dead red eye.
Europa had just escaped him,
dripping, confused, pregnant with nations:
but below the horizon
the bull’s pizzle twitches afresh.
Scared girls seek sanctuary between those
huge horns but forget that
whatever we may think on Earth
in the Heavens bestiality is rampant.

This is one of my series of Zodiac poems, of which I have completed 9. The rest can be found here: http://fridayam.wordpress.com/)

Monday, 16 May 2011


I watch you accept each syllable--
on your outstretched tongue.

Saturday, 14 May 2011

A Girl with a Maid (Part 2)

“Edouard, I don’t fuck but I will suck you off.”

I don’t often know the boys names, but he told me it straight off when we started dancing. Despite his name, Edouard was a very black boy from Senegal, very handsome and very well-spoken and he had a lovely dick which I was admiring as I spoke.
I was lucky because his apartment was nearby—I wasn’t sure if my knees were up to regular use in carparks! But he was insistently trying to get my knickers off from under my short skirt, and I was definitely weakening in my efforts to stop him. OK, plan B. A girl has to have plans!

I slid off the narrow bed and took off the fairly wet panties. He looked ravenously at my bare slit.
“Fair’s fair, OK?”
Before he could move I mounted his face. To give him credit he started licking straight away, grabbing my bum as if to save his life. I sighed and leant down to that ebony 6 inches that had been making my mouth water. His balls were fairly hairless and I started there and did a detailed tour. I tried to tell him with my tongue what I wanted his tongue to do in my pussy, but I knew it wasn’t going to work so I started grinding my crotch on his face as I swallowed that lovely cock. We needed to come at about the same time if I was going to stay cherry!

“I made breakfast. I hope Mademoiselle will forgive the intrusion.”
Of course I was naked in the bed, and my tits popped out as I sat up suddenly, still half asleep. Madame Fleurie’s eyes naturally dropped to my exposed chest and I hurriedly pulled the sheets up to cover myself.
“Madame, that is too kind.”
“Mademoiselle must be tired to sleep so late”, she said as she propped the tray on the bed next to me.
“Yes, I’ve....”
Dear God, I remembered Edouard’s last ejaculation on my face and how I’d been so tired I didn’t wash when I got home. I was aware of a slight crustiness on my cheeks and I faked a yawn to hide myself in the sheet.
“ ...had a busy week at Uni, I’m sorry.”
“Mademoiselle must relax and enjoy her Sunday. I will do some laundry while you enjoy your breakfast.”
And she scooped up the clothes that littered the floor and went. I took a deep breath which smelt of coffee and warm croissants. It was on the second croissant that I remembered that she would find no knickers in my laundry: Edouard kept them as a souvenir.

The note under my door just read “Tonight. 2000. Yr name is at the box office. Come see me after. Stage Door. A x”. It was an English opera, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by Benjamin Britten and Alienor played Titania, Queen of the Fairies. I was entranced—by the whole thing, but particularly when she sang so gorgeously to poor Bottom:-
“So doth the woodbine, the sweet honeysuckle,/gently entwist the female ivy so.”

The man at the Stage Door was expecting me and I was escorted along dim corridors and up stairs, surrounded everywhere by half-naked fairies and sweaty stage-hands. There was laughter from her dressing room. Alienor was still dressed as the Queen of the Fairies when she opened the door.
“Darling, welcome! Come in, come in. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes, it was wonderful, really wonderful. Thank you so much.”
I was so swept up in her effusiveness and that stunning costume that it took me a moment to realise there were two men in the room.
“I’m so glad you liked it. Now—champagne!”
She poured me a glass as she gestured to the two men.
“These are old friends of mine. That is Tito...”
She waved her hand at a tall, dark-haired man sitting by her dressing-table.
“..and that is Xavier.”
This was a shorter, stocky black guy with hair greying at the temples.
“This is my lovely neighbour Béatrice. Here we are darling. Santé.”
We all raised our glasses and drank. The men were both dressed in dinner jackets and bow ties, and I felt gauche in my little black dress, though they were all charming. Alienor chattered away thirteen to the dozen. I suppose it was her way of getting rid of the adrenalin of performing. The men were mostly silent, but always pleasant and courteous.
“Tito owns one of the clubs on the docks and Xavier is one of his partners.”
“Oh, which one? I like dancing at the clubs!”
“Le Belgrade. Do you know it?”
I could still feel the grit of its carpark in my knees!
“Yes, I love the Balkan sound! It’s a great place.”
“Thank you.” His voice was as gritty as the carpark, but deeper, more soothing. “Let me know next time you want to come, I will arrange drinks for you with my compliments.”

Alienor shooed the men out.
“Go! Off with you. My neighbour and I will walk home together.”
She kissed their cheeks, bundled them out and blew a huge sigh.
“God! Men, admirers, hangers-on—they never know when to leave! Let me change and then we can go.”
She began to strip the costume from her body with an unselfconscious grace.
“This is beautiful but it is as stiff as hell—I can’t breathe sometimes when I get hot.”
She was naked under it, her long slender body perfectly proportioned. Her little tits bounced as the dress finally came off.
“I’m sorry, I sweat a lot when I sing under the lights. I probably stink.”
I was more aware of the fact that she was totally hairless below the neck. Her pussy spread open as she stretched to hang the dress up. I was uncomfortably aware of how beautiful it looked.
“I usually shower here but I can’t be bothered tonight. I’ll have one at home. You will come in for a drink won’t you?”
“Of course! We’re neighbours!”

Bordeaux looked beautiful that night. We walked arm in arm down the riverbank, chatting away like old friends. She was so lovely—I felt astounded to have such an accomplished friend. I had watched her throw on a woollen wrap-around dress, boots and a fur coat, but I knew she had no underwear on and I thought that was supercool.

Architecturally, her flat was the mirror of mine, yet it couldn’t have been more different. It was so modern! But warm, all reds and burgundies and creams, big brash paintings on the walls, high-tech equipment out in the open, not hidden away like in my flat. It was weird, like being in a spatial warp. Alienor threw the fur coat on one of the sofas.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Oh, anything. Whatever you’re having.”
“Come on then.”
I followed her into the space-age kitchen. She poured out two glasses from a dusty whisky bottle and handed me one.
She took a slug of the whisky, gave a little moue of pleasure.
“Gaelic. It means ‘good health’, santé.”
I chinked my glass with hers and took a sip. I nearly choked: there were so many earthy tastes in one small glass. Alienor winked at me.
“Tastes good doesn’t it. God, I need that shower. Come and talk to me.”
And in a moment the dress was lying on the worktop and the boots kicked off and I was following her lovely ass as she shimmied into the bathroom. She gestured to a big wicker chair by the window.
“Take a seat. Sorry, I need this!”
The shower was large and open. I sat and watched as she clipped her hair up and stepped under the spray, a sigh escaping her lips as the water hit her. She began to soap her body as she chatted, and I was mesmerised by the streams of bubbles that slithered down her long torso into that smooth valley.

Ok, I know what you want to ask: am I bisexual? Um, nope. I was starting to wonder though.

“What did you make of Tito and Xavier?” she asked as she soaped that perfect little ass. And then she washed down to her feet keeping her legs straight. I gulped as I looked right at her open pussy and asshole.
“They seemed nice.”
Was my voice trembling like my body was?
“Nice? Hah. They are far from nice, but they are good friends.”
She turned to face me, washing her naked little Y and up to her small breasts with their bullet-hard nipples.
“They help me with my voice.”
I must have looked flummoxed because she laughed as she rinsed and reached for a towel.
“Haven’t you heard of Nellie Melba and her vocal exercises?”
She wrapped the towel about her damp torso and led me back into the salon.
“Do you know who Nellie Melba was?”
“An opera singer? Oh, Pêche Melba!”
“Bravo! And Melba Toast, too. She was Australian, a very famous opera star.”
She poured herself more whisky, offered the bottle to me but I declined. She took her glass and reclined on the sofa, gesturing me to join her.
“She liked to suck men off before a performance.”
I nearly spilled my whisky.
“Seriously! My teacher used to aver that, and I quote, ‘ the intromission of the erect penis in the throat, the caress of the uvula by the member and the bathing of the area with warm sperm—these are wonderfully relaxing to the singing muscles.’ Mind you, she was Russian! Oh I haven’t offended you have I?”
I kicked myself: I must have reddened. Well, I was already turned on enough by her before she started to talk about cocksucking.
“No...no, of course not! So, Tito...?”
And Xavier! Yes, they both provide some healthy sperm to loosen my vocal chords before performances. Just as friends of course—I’m not going out with either of them! One, or the other, sometimes both if I’m nervous.........”
I realised I could smell her arousal and I wondered if she could smell mine. It hung in the air like the silence.
“Do you?”
“Like it?”
I was dry-mouthed suddenly.
“Like what?”
“Sucking cock?”
I could feel my heart thumping.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Thump, thump, thump.
“Good, I’m glad it’s not just me!”
And she giggled, and that set me off too, the tension getting too much for me.
“Now I must sleep! But you must come again to see me next Friday night—we are doing ‘Alceste’ and it’s going to be fabulous. And I have the weekend off, so we will have dinner after.”

It was only as I slipped into bed, thinking still of her naked body, that I placed the scent I had sensed on her that first time we had met. It didn’t have a place amongst the exotic perfumes of my mother’s dressing-table, after all. Someone---Tito? Xavier?—had recently ejaculated on her pretty face.

As I ate my breakfast the next day, I thought I could hear Madame Fleurie humming as she stripped my bed. I sniffed my fingers and wondered if she could tell how many orgasms I had had. Well, fuck the old bag. I still felt wet and engorged and aroused. I’d imagined Alienor on her knees sucking cock all night, and when she wasn’t sucking I was, and she was between my thighs, gorging herself.
Madame Fleurie crossed the kitchen with an armload of my bedding.
“Is Mademoiselle enjoying her weekend?”
“Yes, Madame, thank you. I went to the Opera last night.”
“Ah, to hear Mademoiselle Montesagne?”
“You know her?”
“Of course. I do for her too.”
“Exactly as I do for you, Mademoiselle, clean and tidy.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, before Monsieur Bernard bought this place it was one big house. I was the maid. It made sense to carry on and serve the new tenants.”

She went into the bathroom, leaving me feeling deflated. Not only was she spying on me here, but she spied on Alienor too. I couldn’t escape her. I hated her!

A Girl with a Maid (Part 1)

Ever since I was a young girl I preferred older things, older places. Oh I liked the beach (and boys!), and I loved to dance and stay in bed doing nothing sometimes, but unlike most children my heart didn’t sink when an excursion to a castle or an old house was proposed: in fact I would get excited. The moment I set foot in such a place my mind, my imagination, would be let loose. Example: in Blanquefort, near where my parents live, is the Chateau of the Prince Noir, the Black Prince (White Fort, Black Prince—I always thought that was funny). As a child I wandered about the ruins, seeing myself as the young French virgin who humbled this haughty Englishman. I stood where the main hall would have been and imagined the speech I gave that night (when he would have ravished me), the speech that saved my honour and the honour of my country and was written down by the chroniclers, written into history. I was an ardent medievalist when I was 10!

In my early teens I discovered the 18th Century, and Heaven. Maybe I was a throwback to my royalist grandparents? (My parents were never quite forgiven for marrying on the anniversary of Louis XVI’s execution—as though that had crossed their minds!) Whatever—I was taken by my aunt to visit a friend of hers who lived in this totally amazing 1770’s apartment on one of the Quais of Bordeaux. I don’t remember a word that was said throughout the visit—I don’t even remember my aunt’s friend (except as a source of jealousy): all I can remember is the palatial interior of the apartment, with its high ceilings and its view onto the river; the huge doors; the beautiful works of art; the Persian carpets; the—well I could go on forever. I was just in love—with a period of history, with a way of life I had no hope of ever experiencing. Except.....

OK, I should tell you about Bernard and my Mother. He....God, where to start? He was rich, Chairman of some big Franco-American conglomerate, travelled a lot, was married to this impossibly glamourous Romanian Princess (or ex-Princess—I don’t know what you’d call that?), was an old friend of the family, and he was totally in love with my Mother. Please don’t get me wrong: my Mother was a very faithful woman, but she liked to flirt and she loved it if men paid court to her. She was careful though. When we’d had a couple of glasses too much one night she talked about Bernard—“I’ve spent 20 years keeping a table between the two of us”, she told me, laughing, but I did wonder if she was ever tempted.....

Anyway, Bernard would come to dinner a couple of times a year, when he was back in the area, and one of those nights, just after I had started at University in Bordeaux, my Mother began to speak of my love for the antique and my distaste for the modern. Of course I was as embarrassed as hell!
“My poor Béa hates anything modern!”
“Whereas my wife can’t stand anything old!” Bernard rumbled, turning his charming smile my way. “You should see our place on the Riviera—new build, open-plan, white goods everywhere, nothing older than the start of the decade. You’d hate it.”
I smiled back but to be honest I was dying for dinner to be finished so I could get away and back into town—there was a hot boy I had my eye on and the itch between my legs was distracting me, so I zoned out a bit and tried to forget that they were talking about me.
“Béa has a very modern studio at the University,” said my Father as he topped up the glasses. “I think she spends as little time there as possible—don’t you?”
“All the student flats are modern, Dad!”
“OK, OK, I hate it! It’s like a rat-cage!”
“Oh Béa, don’t exaggerate!” My Mother was quite heated. “ It’s perfectly alright—I helped you move there.”
“Yes but you don’t have to live there, Maman! It’s just a box....”
“You’re ungrateful, you have......
“Paulette, excuse me for butting in.”
OK, I was grateful that Bernard had stopped that. I hate being criticised!
“If Béatrice wouldn’t be offended, I would like to suggest she uses my old apartment in rue David Johnson.”
“Bernard, don’t joke!”
“I’m not joking, Paulette. It’s empty. My wife won’t contemplate staying there—it’s too old! And I was going to rent it out, but your daughter sounds like a better tenant than some banker.”
“But we couldn’t afford it, Bernard.....”
“Stop! If Béa likes it and agrees to look after it I won’t charge a sous.”
My Mother went to object again, but Bernard held up his hand and looked straight at me.
“Will you meet me there, Monday 8 a.m.?”

My Father has a dog called Jolie, and he is so exuberant about everyone and everything: I sometimes think that every day is like Christmas to him.
That’s how I felt when I saw Bernard’s apartment.
It was on the first floor (he owned the whole building, and the ground floor was occupied by an opera singer!). He showed me into a pentagonal hallway with doors off every angle. We went left into the bedroom, with a real 18th. Century boat bed set opposite windows that looked out over the courtyard garden. Another door to the right led into the bathroom: it had a swan bath! With gilt taps! And the loo was in its own little turret off the bathroom, with stained glass windows.

Another door and we in were in the enormous kitchen, windowless but with a huge rectangular skylight. Bernard showed me how each side opened with cords. A door led back to the hall and another door opened into the main room.
Oh my God, I had died and gone to heaven!
If the kitchen was enormous, then this room was humungous! It had to be 25 square metres: there were two trees in it! In pots, admittedly, but they looked fully grown. There were four sofas! The dining table with eight places looked small under the huge windows. And the fireplace!....have you ever seen Cocteau’s “Beauty and the Beast”? Fuck, go and find it and see what I saw in that amazing room.
I suddenly realized that my mouth was open and I hadn’t said anything for ages. I caught Bernard’s kind smile.
“I think you like this apartment.”
“Are you seriously offering it to me?”
“Yes. Would you like it?”
“Fu.....Of course! I would love it. But it’s too much!”
“Why so? You like this place; it is empty; I would like you to have it. Voila! And I owe your family for their many kindnesses to me. So. That is the end of the argument. I will not charge you rent, but you will be responsible for the household bills. OK?”
“OK, but...”
Bernard’s hand stopped me.
“I won’t hear another word. Can you move in on Saturday? Good. I will get my people to clean the place thoroughly and provide you with keys. Now, I have to go to Vladikavkaz, would you believe, and you must have lectures.”
“I don’t know how to say thank you enough.”
“You can thank me by making this place live again, Béa. Now, come.”
We went into the pentagonal hall again. My mind was all over the place.
“Oh there is just one thing.”
“Yes?” I was thinking.....all sorts of stupid, unworthy things.
“The apartment comes with a maid.”
“I.... well I inherited her when I bought the house. I didn’t like to get rid of her, and she has been very useful, keeping this place up while it’s been empty. She won’t get in your way. She comes in once a day...to sort things out....Her name is Madame Fleurie. A nice woman.....”
I don’t remember what else he said. All I could think was that I was an 18 year old student with an outrageous apartment..... and a maid.

“Moving in” sounds so grand, but it felt a bit pathetic to me as I lugged my suitcase and a hold-all into the apartment the following Saturday. I was 18 and what I carried was pretty much my worldly possessions. As if I were in a hotel I went straight to the bedroom and deposited my bags on the bed. There was fresh bedding and a gorgeous rose-embroidered coverlet that hadn’t been there before. I looked about at the ornate dresser and the linen-chest and the drawers and the large closet, and wondered if my things would take up any space at all. I had clothes and toiletries and books and....clothes. Oh and some CD’s. Damn, was there anything to play them on?
OK, I was daunted! It really took an effort to leave the bedroom and venture into the vast space of the living room. There were fresh flowers....everywhere! And gorgeous flowers too, the smells so wonderful I could almost forget it was misty cold February outside. And I realised it was warm—the heating was on, and it was balmy in the apartment. The light through the windows grew as the sun finally overcame the mist, making everything radiant. There were rainbow patterns appearing randomly on the walls. I looked up to see the sunlight catching the crystal teardrops of the chandelier
I suddenly felt a thrill go through me like nothing I had ever felt before. This was my dream and I was living in it! This beautiful historic apartment was mine, for now, and I was bloody well going to love it. I hugged myself. I started to move to imaginary music. I closed my eyes and started to twirl on the Persian carpet. I twirled and twirled and twi....
“I hope Mademoiselle is happy with the arrangements.”

I was dizzy with all that twirling and suddenly stopping. I was red and my heart was pounding and my breath was caught in my throat. As my sight steadied I could see a slender middle-aged woman in a black uniform with a white pinny and a starched white cap. Christ!
“I hope I didn’t startle you Mademoiselle. I am Madame Fleurie and I am at your service.”
And she did a little curtsey. I swear it. Fuck, I was sweating and trying to control my breathing. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck. What did you say to a maid? She was my Mother’s age! I had to say something!
“I...wasn’t expecting you today, Madame.”
She had a little thin smile permanently on her pale lips.
“I will be here every day, Mademoiselle, just for an hour or so, to make sure you have everything you need and to clean. M. Bernard was very insistent that I should ensure your comfort here.”
“M.Bernard is very kind. Thank you, Madame.”
“I will do my best not to discommode you.” Was there a little change of expression? “Please feel free to make this your home, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
“May I show you what preparations have been made for your arrival, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes. Yes, please do, Madame.”

Madame Fleurie briskly showed me the basic provisions that had been purchased on my behalf (coffee, bread, milk, eggs, cheese); how to light the oven and the grill; how to work the heating and the hot water; where to find oodles of towels; where the TV and the sound system was artfully hidden (Yes!); where to dispose of my rubbish and where and how I could wash my clothes—“Though Mademoiselle must leave anything troublesome to me. It is my job.”
She pulled on a black astrakhan coat with a collar that buttoned across her neck, hiding the uniform. The cap seemed to live here, though I didn’t know where.
“I will see you tomorrow, Mademoiselle. Enjoy.”
As the door closed, I realised I had been holding my breath.

There were shops nearby. I felt giddy again as I shopped for myself for the first time. I bought a thick steak and lettuce and gaudy tomatoes, a bottle of good wine, a baba au rhum, smelly candles, incense sticks, a packet of cigarettes: shit it felt good to be bad!

I unpacked and quickly forgot about my lack of belongings. There was so much to explore about the apartment. I could hear my neighbour practicing her scales and singing some opera numbers. I waited until she had finished before I tested the sound system with one of my burnt CD’s: I didn’t want to piss her off straight away! I also found a dock for my iPhone, so I needn’t have bothered with the CD’s, sigh.
I danced around that huge space as I put my things away, my mind wandering around the potential histories of the house. Did Girondins meet here, planning the next push of the Revolution? Was Napoleon praised or criticised within these walls? Were Wellington’s troops saluted from the windows, or were they firmly shut? On and on I thought---and got hungry!
And once my stomach was full I got horny. I was a bit tipsy from the wine, cigarette smoke wafted, my music played and I wanted to dance again. But it was Saturday night and I wanted to dance with boys.
Even in my strappy heels it was only a short walk to where the best dance-clubs were, on the riverside. They were all heaving, but that’s when they are best. I loved the closeness of the bodies, the sweatiness, the constant interchange of partners, the loudness of the music. I was intoxicated and sober at the same time. I felt more than one stiff cock rub against my ass or my belly (or my hand, lol), but one guy, just a bit taller than me, seemed to fit nicely against me.
I love kissing, and kissing him in a dark corner of the club seemed so right. Kisses that seemed to go on and on in a turmoil of tongues, arms grabbing, hands exploring back and ass (he had a nice tight one!), his stiffness rubbing against me, drowning in sound—I loved it! I wanted so much to......

Wait, stop, shit. There’s something really important I’ve forgotten to tell you. I’m glad you can’t see me blushing—I’m a virgin. Honest to God. Am I the only 18 year old virgin in Bordeaux? Quite possibly. Does that make me feel weird? Well....yes and no. So why, I hear you ask? Am I prude? Hell no—I know I have a good body (I’m only 5’ 3” but it’s all in the right places!) and I like showing it off. I’ve been to nude beaches and love being naked in public. Am I moralistic about it? No—in fact I approve of sex before marriage: how else do you decide what is good for you sexually? Am I religious? Hell no—I’m French! What did we have a Revolution for?
So why am I still a virgin? OK here is my big dirty secret. I’m ageist. You’ve heard me talk about boys here, and they do get me wet and horny (like this guy tickling my tonsils with his tongue), but do I want to give it up to them? No way! I want my first to be experienced: older, mature, refined—a bit like the buildings I like. And if he has the money to treat me like a lady and buy me a good dinner at a proper restaurant (rather than McDo’s and a beer), then so much the better. Am I wrong to want the finer things in life?

So you are probably thinking I’m an awful cocktease, snogging this guy in the club. I’m not at all. I know that, one way or another, I will release that terribly erect tension I can feel against my belly. I just won’t fuck him. But I was thinking of a million ways to make him happy.
Then he took his tongue out of my mouth long enough to shout words in my ear which changed everything: he wanted to go back to my place.
My room at the Uni dorm was hardly palatial but at least it was carpeted, for which I was grateful as I spent quite a lot of time on my knees there sucking boys cocks, and I swallowed a lot of sperm there. If the boy was particularly cute and desperate I would let him come on my face, and if some of it got on the carpet, well it was a shit carpet. Now, I had a Persian rug, a stupendous flat full of antiques and a maid with a nose made for looking down. Cumstains were suddenly out of the question. Hell, boys were out of the question!
My sisters, I have read some of your stories about blowjobs in carparks and after my first I felt I had a lot to learn. My knees hurt like hell, feeling every bit of gravel under them biting into my flesh and laddering my tights. I couldn’t stop worrying about CCTV and whether my performance was being enjoyed elsewhere, recorded and rebroadcast to the world. To say nothing of potential passers-by! But I had got this boy hard and I meant to leave him soft and satisfied and when he held my head and soughed his seed into my mouth I swallowed with a sense of a job well done. Of course he wouldn’t kiss me after, just hoped he would see me again. Well, maybe.
I walked home contentedly, happy to have the taste of him in my mouth still but glad that I had dodged that particular bullet. My flat seemed warm and cosy. I slept well and alone, again.

Brewing coffee on a Sunday morning is an unremembered act: you realize you’ve done it when you taste the delicious result, but how you got there is a bit hazy, don’t you think? Lol. I was dunking yesterday’s bread in it when I just knew I wasn’t alone.
“Good morning Mademoiselle. I trust you slept well?”
I was so glad I had slipped my big t-shirt over my nudity when I woke: nevertheless I was conscious of how thin it was, and how my breasts swung as I turned to look at her.
“I slept very well, thank you, Madame.”
She gave that funny little crimped smile.
“Good. I will make the bed.”
“Madame!” I jumped up and followed her through the door. “ It’s not necessary, really.”
But she already had the folded down sheet in her hands. She seemed to pull it back, looking at the sheet, before she pulled it up and began settling it. God, she was looking to see if I’d been fucking there, if there were any stains, any odd pubic hair, I swear it. I blushed, even though there was nothing there.
“Please Mademoiselle,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she tucked the sheet in, “it’s my job. Enjoy your breakfast.”

The next day I got up early and made the bed myself, but it didn’t matter.
“Mademoiselle should always sleep in clean linen. I will wash it.”
And the bed was stripped and examined and I blushed again. I got my bag, said goodbye and went to University.

And so the week went on. I’m a good student and I want to do well, so I was buried in my course all week. Madame Fleurie’s visits often coincided with my leaving, so I can’t say I was “discommoded”. I just knew, though, that she was checking for signs that I was sexually active, and I hated that because—well I wasn’t. I had too much to do. I only played at weekends during term time. And anyway, what was it to her? I hated her snooping on my bedsheets!

But hey, she was only there an hour or so a day, and most of the time when I wasn’t there anyway. I told myself to chill and I did, because the rest of the time the apartment was my heaven. As the days got longer and warmer I grew to appreciate just how beautiful it was and how lucky I was to have it. The space, the proportions, the layout—everything was just perfect.
And I met my neighbour! And she is gorgeous!
“Please, I’m Alienor,” she beamed as I tried to ‘Madame’ her. We met in the hall one morning. I was just going out to class and she came in, looking rumpled but amazing. She’s much taller than me, maybe nearly 6ft. in her heels, blonde hair in a scruffy chignon, fabulous bones, slender....anyway.
“I’m exhausted. Rehearsals went on all through the night. We open next Thursday, and it’s always a mad dash. You should come and see it!”
“Oh I’d love to, but I’m only a student, I don’t know whether I could afford it.”
“You are my neighbour, I think I could put you on the guestlist. Please come.”
“Mada...Alienor, that’s too kind, really!”
“But not opening night, OK? That’s already full, but later the following week?”
“Yes...yes. Thank you, really....”
“Nonsense, nonsense. When the performances are done, I hope we will get to know each other better. Now I must sleep. Ciao!”
And she leant in and kissed my cheeks and was gone. There was a faint familiar scent as she kissed me. I kept trying to place it, mentally going though my mother’s extensive perfume collection, but I couldn’t quite work out what it was.