Rachel slowed to a stop, unable to follow the sharply tuxedoed maître-d’ while her mind was coming to terms with the incredible place into which she was being led.
The restaurant was dimly lit, but each chandelier and candle seemed to sparkle as though the scene were dusted with glitter. The décor was mostly browns and blacks with hints of opulent cream, and the furnishings elegantly tasteful, bringing to mind a Parisian hotel, or perhaps, a palace.
The other diners were mostly hidden in booths or in high-backed chairs around the few free-standing tables, but here and there Rachel could see the shine of silk, the glimmer of sequins, or the softness of skin as bodies moved in carefree sociability. A string quartet gently moulded and encouraged the murmur of conversation and laughter, overlaid with the clink of glass.
Rachel looked down at herself; burned with embarrassment at her strappy top and hot pants, still damp from the storm. She half-turned to retreat; but there behind her was Susan. She wore a long white dress that followed her athletic shape from her ankles to her long neck, beautifully showcased in a stiff vertical collar bordered with lace.
She smiled, and one of her bare arms lifted to encompass Rachel. ‘No-one minds,’ she said gently. ‘Come on.’
Rachel gaped, tried to protest. But no words came, and besides, she no longer knew the way out. Susan took her hand in a way that brooked no argument, and led her on.
As she passed the tables Rachel glanced with awe at the diners, each exquisitely dressed and adorned at their necks and ears with diamonds or pearls; yet all acutely, even painfully feminine. The flash of a black-lined eye, the turn of a delicate wrist, the soft curve of a tightly constrained breast, all added to Rachel’s humiliation. But Susan’s hand in her own was more powerful still, and Rachel padded meekly past.
Ahead, the restaurant seemed to continue to infinity, though curiously distorted like a wide-angle photograph. But then Rachel caught sight of her own bedraggled self, and realised she was looking at a huge mirror that spanned floor and ceiling and curved away to either side behind the tables the booths.
Now the maître-d’ had stopped, and was pulling out a chair from under a small round table right beside the mirror. It was lit from overhead by a glass chandelier of greater diameter than the table itself, and the shards of its light danced on Susan’s dress.
‘Your waiter will be right along,’ assured the maître-d’ as she seated Susan and darted around to also offer Rachel her chair. ‘Will you have champagne?’
Susan inclined her head. The woman muttered, ‘very good,’ as she proffered their menus, leather bound and traced with silver. Rachel could feel the wetness of her clothes soaking the velour of the chair, touches of cold where the cloth had been loose. She shivered; but now that she was seated she felt better hidden from disapproving eyes.
Susan smiled ambiguously, but then dropped her eyes to open her menu. Rachel gazed around, mesmerised by the shimmering highlights that seemed to unify everything she saw, as though the restaurant and its patrons together made up a single living being of darkness and crystal.
Some guests were sipping from glasses, all were talking and laughing. None seemed to be eating. At a table nearby two beautiful women were kissing, elegantly and discretely but with obvious passion. Rachel watched them, forgetting herself, allowing their heat to warm her.
‘Have a read,’ said Susan suddenly, reaching over with a wry smile to tap the menu that lay unopened in front of Rachel. ‘We’re not here just to gawp.’
Rachel felt herself blushing as she lifted the menu. Beside it, a champagne flute had magically appeared; and Susan was raising hers, so Rachel took it in her other hand to meet Susan’s under the chandelier.
‘To the good things in life,’ said Susan huskily as the glasses clinked together, her eyes somehow darkly shadowed but piercing. Rachel began to automatically murmur ‘good things,’ but Susan finished over her, ‘especially the sex.’
She did not elaborate further, but her eyes draped lazily over Rachel face and neck and bosom. Rachel felt a discord catch flame inside her, because the flattery of Susan’s gaze seemed hollow. But the fire could not escape through her own timidity, and the only release was to put down her glass and focus her attention on the menu in her other hand.
She opened it. Inside was a single sheet of yellowish paper tucked in leather pockets at two corners, with carefully arranged text of such lavish calligraphy that it was almost impossible to read. For a moment, Rachel just stared at it unfocussed, trying to compose herself, to slow the pattering of her heart and the rush of her blood. All around, indistinct voices; and here and there a sigh or gasp, as if more of the patrons were now flirting or petting.
Rachel shook her head fractionally to chase away her imagination, and tried to read. But the words made no sense. Lightly dressed freckled celt?
Then Susan’s fingers were tugging the menu away. ‘I’ll choose for you,’ she said categorically, then turned to the waitress who had appeared beside them.
Rachel froze. The waitress was completely naked, except for a thin black tie that hung between her breasts as she leaned in to listen. She was small but exquisite, her professional make-up and tight plait complimenting the bare skin that she seemed to wear more fittingly than any uniform.
‘We’ll start with you,’ said Susan formally; but then she winked at Rachel. ‘The house hors d’oeuvre is enough to share, don’t you think? For main,’ she continued, deadpan, ‘I’ll have the rousse fougueuse; nu I think, to save me the effort. For my guest,’ — she ran her finger down the page thoughtfully — ‘hmm. Perhaps something rich. The local special.’
Rachel had not moved her attention from the waitress. Start with you? But then the meaning, made so incongruous by the setting, was made viscerally tangible as waitress leaned a little further to receive Susan’s lips.
Rachel was paralysed. Cymbals of shock and arousal clashed in her mind, drowning out the tasteful strings of the quartet. Her eyes rested inevitably on the waitress’s perfect breasts hanging pointed around her tie, the nearer lifted and widened by Susan’s palm, her thumb gently pushing against the nipple: back and forth, back and forth.
The waitress turned a little, her bottom coming dangerously close to Rachel, her thigh indented as it pressed against the table. Rachel found her own arm lifting, her hand holding the rounded shape it found. She shivered with dissonance, for while a part of her screamed, another could not help but lean forward to taste the top of the waitress’s hip.
Her skin was silky and fragrant against Rachel’s lips, her flesh a thin softness over bone. Rachel tugged at it with her lips; it was a little too taut for her to hold it, so she tried again with her teeth.
Hunger consumed her, ached in her stomach and loins. She let go, licked the indentations of her teeth, moved her mouth further around, bit again. The waitress was murmuring with pleasure, whether from Susan’s or Rachel’s attention, Rachel could not tell. But Rachel was only following her own suddenly ravenous desire.
Her arm bent tighter; her fingers slipped over the fissure they found, tucking only slightly into the warm depth, then edged slowly downward. Her other hand was holding the top of the waitress’s thigh above the table; and so she was cradling thick muscle with her palms but all of her fingers were reaching towards softness. She moaned through her teeth.
Her own bottom slipped off the chair, and then she was kneeling, embracing the waitress’s knee with her elbows. The changing angle of her hands meant that they could not help but slip deeper, and the warmth they found combined with cool from her damp top pressed between her body and the waitress’s leg.
The appalled voice inside her was protesting louder than ever; but at the same time the waitress was turning towards her, and so Rachel’s mouth and tongue worked further around: to the crease that marked the top of the waitress’s leg, and then, slowly, inexorably, down.
Out of the corner of her eye Rachel saw the shine of Susan’s dress beside her; suddenly it collapsed to the ground, empty. Rachel looked hungrily at Susan’s tall, lean, naked frame as it stepped closer, until her neat pubic hair was inches from her face. She knew the two beautiful women were holding and caressing each other above; she moved her hand from its ambiguous position beside her face to tuck it between Susan’s long legs, to hold her bottom with splayed fingers.
She could see the waitress’s labia so close to her mouth, so inviting, their seal ready to be teased apart by her tongue. But the voice was screaming again, making her head throb with an emotional pain.
The balance was tipping. Her arousal was failing, disgust was rising. This was not love, the love she needed, had always needed. Her head sagged to the side against the waitress’s thigh.
With little strength she pulled herself to her feet. Found that she was surrounded by beautiful naked women: a fiery redhead and a staggering blonde, adorned like a queen of the Nile with blinding diamonds.
Susan interposed into her sight. ‘Are you ready?’ she said. ‘Are you ready for dessert?’
Beneath the mirror behind her, a darkness was rising. Rachel watched it, fascinated. Hands were trailing over her, but she did not heed them; her own hands also seemed to be out of her control, she could feel them touching skin, holding flesh, fingers tucking into warmth.
The darkness resolved: the mirror was lifting into the ceiling. Beneath, a huge silken red bed, spot lit and bedecked with scattered cushions and nubile nymphs, legs spread, beckoning.
Someone’s face was close beside her. Its voice seemed out of place: husky, but gentle, calling to her. ‘No!’ she cried in return, suddenly angry. ‘No more!’
Her eyes opened.
Syn was watching her, concern on her sculpted features.
Rachel felt a hand on her hair. ‘Dreams like that won’t help,’ said Syn softly.
Rachel blinked, fought off the sleep as though it were a predator. She was on a threadbare sofa, in a threadbare room: wooden floor, peeling plaster, dimly lit with the dusk. Nearby, an electric fan barely stirred the clinging air.
She remembered. The storm. Water, everywhere. Falling on her like the draining of the sea, hammering onto the pavement, gushing around her feet. In fear she had tried to find Syn’s house, had failed; had lost hope and sat down on the concrete sidewalk, hugging her knees, shivering. The truck, that at first she did not recognise. Syn.
She coughed. Syn fussed a little with the blanket that covered her. Syn’s sapphire blue eyes were piercing, and Rachel wondered what to say to her. She had tried to warn Rachel about Susan, but Rachel had refused to listen; and now, she had sought her out and taken her in: given her shelter. Syn’s cool and distant façade just seemed to make her deep humanity that much more striking.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel eventually. It did not sound like enough.
Syn’s eyes dropped a little, then hardened. She seemed pained.
‘Susan’s outside,’ she said coolly. ‘She phoned right about when you fell asleep.’
Rachel felt herself shrink into the blanket. ‘Don’t let her in,’ she said reflexively, brokenly.
Syn’s eyes returned to hers. ‘Okay,’ she agreed. Then she pushed down on her raised knee and came to her feet. ‘I need to join a call. Shout if you need anything.’
Rachel nodded dumbly, watched Syn padding away, wondered what she did for a living when not rescuing love-stricken English damsels from hurricanes. The image made her smile a little, and she loosened the blanket. It was warm in the room, and her body had begun to prickle with sweat. Underneath the blanket was a towel, wrapped closely around her. Nearby, her clothes still lay in a sodden heap where they had fallen from her fingers.
The silence and the warmth suggested that the storm was over. Rachel pictured Susan, standing outside. Did Susan know that Rachel had seen her, with Kristen? Did she know that Kim had unknowingly exposed her declarations of love as manipulative lies?
Rachel frowned and bucked herself into a more comfortable position. Susan could go to hell. Rachel had four more days of holiday, and then she’d be back with the airline and putting thousands of miles between her body and Susan’s devious games.
But. She squirmed, felt the vestiges of the dream’s excitement between her legs. Recalled the hours they had spent in each other’s arms. The orgasms. Oh, the orgasms. Rachel was a wholly different person now: a butterfly emerging long-overdue from its cocoon. Susan had done that. And the thought was slow to form: if Susan was only pretending to love her, to make her pant and scream and come; what was she doing here?
Absent-mindedly Rachel had placed a palm onto her pubic mound, resting a finger below to assure herself she was not dripping. After Susan had made her gush spectacularly only this morning, she was a little less trusting of her own body; and now the gentle pressure of the roots of her fingers reminded her of the incredible explorations of these last days. Of responses and abilities she never knew she had.
She glanced towards the door; smirked to herself when she remembered the last time she had touched herself at this house, checking nervously for the onlookers; onlookers who really were there, watching her. She remembered Syn. How her breasts had moved under her T-shirt.
She sighed, slid her hand reluctantly onto her stomach. She would not allow the perversions of Susan’s world to consume her. Sex was the consummation of love, and there was no love to be found here. Could she not lie on a couch for five minutes without feeling herself? Even her dreams had been polluted!
She rocked onto her side, frowning peevishly. The ‘restaurant’ was there, in front of her eyes. Out loud, she muttered ‘brothel’, trying to taint the image. But it refused to be ashamed, refused to fade. It was a fantasy, and not Susan’s fantasy, but Rachel’s. Her own mind had created it. The women there were reflections of herself, representations of the urges that had really followed her for years, only waiting for Susan to give them shape.
Of its own accord, her upper leg had bent and lifted to accommodate her returning fingers. Was the restaurant a message? Could she do what Susan did: make sex a game, skilfully played, elaborately performed; meaningless, but exquisite?
The blush of her loins was not to be denied. She was back among the waitress, the redhead, the bejewelled blonde, and Susan. They pressed closer until she could not tell apart the touches of their bodies. Their hands were exploring her, everywhere, pushing between her breasts and theirs, over her back and shoulders and arms, over the weight that seemed to hang beneath her abdomen. They were all the women she had ever distractedly admired, suddenly close, suddenly attainable.
She slipped one finger inside, wondering if she could replicate the incredible sensation of Susan’s finger against the wall of her vagina — but that left her clitoris unattended, so she tucked the fingertips of her other hand under her palm. Her breasts were warm against her upper arms as she tried to build a rhythm.
She was kissing someone, caressing the flesh of someone else, pressing her body onto another. The images were broken, incoherent. She gritted her teeth, curled her fingers, gripped herself harder. Her arms were tense with the effort of vibrating her hands.
But she would not give up. She called up Syn, and Kim, French kissing before her eyes. Kristen, her vulva wet against Rachel’s mouth. Susan.
Oh, Susan. Elegant, graceful, beautiful Susan. The superb definition of her shoulders, of her neck. The way her breasts hung uncreased against her chest. The champagne flute shapes of her stomach, and oh, her vulva, so soft, its perfect details warm against the tip of Rachel’s tongue.
Rachel was driving hard at her clitoris now; just as Susan had needed, so long ago in the pool. She was fucking, and it was a raw and powerful thing. There was no real love in this room, only sex, and fantasy love to give it life.
She faltered as the insight stole her attention, then rallied, her breath coming in desperate gasps as her back arched away from the couch. She was fucking Susan, fucking her pitilessly.
Even when her loins took on a rhythm of their own, she did not stop. The orgasm rose and fell almost beneath her attention. Susan would not have come so soon. She ignored the burgeoning sensitivity, the crumbling of her fantasy. She would have Susan’s orgasm; and now only her own sweating, dirty, masturbating body was there to make it happen.
The second orgasm was weaker than the first, the third barely a faltering contraction. Soreness and exhaustion made her slow her aching fingers.
For what it was worth, she knew the answer now.
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