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.
“, 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!

1 comment:

  1. I'm loving this series and can't wait till the next!
    The mix of dirty knees and elegance leaves me choking on my oysters ;)
    You create such powerful, lovable characters and I'm intrigued by your continued relationship with the streets of France.
    Thank you Fridayam. As always, delicious and down right dirty! -x-