Dianne put down the phone and stared at her reflection in the gilt mirror. It was an opulent mirror, hanging at an angle off the hall wall, over a semi-circular marble table with curved legs. She had not heard from Brian for five days, and she missed him terribly. She thought when the phone rang that it was him. ‘Brian…' she murmured into the mouthpiece.
But it was the drycleaners, saying her cloak was ready to be picked up.
‘Yes, yes,' she answered, disappointed and distracted. Where was Brian, why had she not seen him since last Tuesday? The mirror had no answer: it showed a small crease between her fine arched eyebrows, reminding her of this week's appointment at the beauty salon she simply should not miss.
She looked at the skin on her neck, her shoulders. Pushing back the fabric of her old soft crossover t-shirt, she regarded the tanned cleavage and smiled. It was a wistful smile.
Oh, how she wanted to bare herself! She desired sex so strongly it was imperative for her to do something immediately. Lust licked at her stomach like red flames. She stretched the neckline of the t-shirt until she could see the swollen suggestion of her bosom in the mirror. Five days without Brian was like torture – she had waited, not wanting to dilute her anticipation by arousing herself, and now she was on edge with lust.
She pulled at the fabric, inching it, edging it until her brown areolas appeared, contrasting with the white cotton of the garment. Closing her eyes and pretending Brian was watching, she eased the fabric further and further, until her nipples peeked over the edge. They were flattened, but starting to pucker slightly at the friction. Where was Brian? Why was he not here to see her breasts, to inflame her with passion? Dianne pouted, her eyes still closed. She imagined him watching. Not just Brian, but his close friend Boris too, the famous musician whose distinct fetish was to watch Brian possess her, fully and wantonly. It was a discovery she took on tentatively, but to which she became passionately addicted. It was heaven, being taken sexually in explicit positions, watched by the eager eyes of the older man.
It had happened regularly – one could say frequently – and she was a sated, satisfied woman, a woman who responded strongly and lasciviously to Brian's mounting desires and increasingly outrageous demands.
‘Bare your breasts, darling,' he would whisper to her as she delicately pecked at dessert, the three of them around an intimate dinner table in Boris's conservatory.
‘Brian!' she would breathe, knowing she only needed another prompt to shrug her straps off and display herself to both men. Her cheeks would blush, her eyes fall demurely, but her crotch would swell and she would shift on her chair in impatient lust, knowing the disrobing would lead to full flagrant sex as the night wore on.
‘Do it, my lovely,' Brian would urge, his fingers pushing suggestively at the satin straps on her shoulders.
Dianne shrugged, not with indifference, but in a positive empowering way. The fabric floated away as if by magic. These days she wore expensive garments designed expressly to show her body off, and they were worth every dollar spent on ensuring they did more to reveal than conceal. The fluted velvet, or crushed brocade, or diaphanous georgette, or simple lawn, would brush her skin and fall aside, remaining only as an enhancing frame to her beautiful breasts. Nipples like dark suede cones rose to her excitement as she felt the men's stares on her skin. It was as if they touched her with fingers rather than eyes. The entire area of dark skin grew puckered and erect, a large area that knew the inside of Brian's mouth intimately, and the feel of his skin, and the moist lapping of his broad tongue.
‘Go on, have another strawberry…' Brian fed her tiny morsels of fruit, something that titillated the older man, who watched entranced, seeing his friend's fingers touch her red lips, place minute particles of food on her tongue, resting momentarily around her mouth, suggesting something other than eating.
She lifted her mouth to Brian, pointing her tongue, knowing she made a tantalising picture to the voyeur who sat with them, taking in every second of their intimate movements. She loved Boris's eyes on her. It was an acquired taste, not one she felt easy about immediately. But it grew on her, especially because she was led to play music to accompany the vision she made whilst naked or partially exposed. She often reflected on what she had taken on, but appeased her worries by stating to her reflection in the mirror that she so enjoyed what had developed with her and the two men; so fully desired to be sexual in their presence, that it was heavenly. Definitely something she wanted for herself.
These days, she was almost permanently aroused. Sometimes it hurt to sit: her vulva was swollen from frequent assails from Brian's cock, fingers, tongue. She used the jade dildo - sent by Boris to her after their first meeting - when she was alone, reluctant to allow herself rest from the sexual heights she had been introduced to. And to think it had all started when Brian had openly caressed her breasts in a restaurant. How long ago was that now?
How long? How long before she would see him again? After the many weeks of virtually uninterrupted encounters, she was now alone. And lonely. And madly lustful.
Dianne opened her eyes, to be faced by the reflection of her breasts, conical and tanned, exposed in the v-shaped neckline of the cross-over t-shirt. She accommodated the edge of the shirt around them, leaving them bare, caressing her skin and admiring her form in the mirror. The shirt's old soft fabric obliged, clingy and worn, reaching only to her navel and showing three inches of flesh above the waistband of her jeans. She smoothed the skin at her waist, thinking of Brian's hands there… Boris's eyes there.
The telephone rang again, and Dianne lifted it quickly, turning away from the mirror and straining to hear Brian's voice. Through the window, she could see the harsh sunlight slanting through trees, and the strident noise of a lawnmower in the vicinity.
‘Hello?'
‘Dianne – it is I.' It was the voice of Boris Petrowski, the violinist: the man who played like Paganini – the same demoniac strokes of the bow, the same virtuosity and energy, even at his age.
Disappointment filled Dianne's heart and she almost exclaimed. But prudence held her silent and she listened to what Brian's friend had to say. ‘Yes, I'll come,' she responded, glad for the invitation, glad for the offered company. ‘Will Brian be there?'
‘Brian is incommunicado, Dianne. He is on business in Las Palmas and cannot be contacted for some time. But please come and play for me, I would love to see you.'
As she dressed, Dianne wondered why Brian had not told her of his trip. Perhaps he had to leave suddenly. Perhaps he missed her too. She put on a matching bra and thong set in lilac lace, slipping over them a linen shift of the exact same colour. It was crisp, elegant yet strangely alluring, because it was high in front but almost backless, revealing the crossed bra straps underneath. Lace and linen brushed her skin, and she shivered, jumpy, desiring sexual release so urgently she almost undressed to masturbate, hotly and hurriedly, in front of her cheval mirror. But there was no time. Fingers withdrew from her hemline and before she creased the dress, hurried to the car for the long drive to Boris's house.
‘I miss Brian dreadfully,' she confessed to the old musician on arriving. The blurted words were not the ones she had meant to say, but the sight of Boris, his greying mane of hair and fine blue eyes, his kindly smile, made her burst emotionally.
‘I know why,' he nodded discreetly. ‘I know why. You two are very well matched. You are incredibly… but let's not analyse the situation now! Let's have champagne, music, some caviar! You must stay the night.'
Dianne had come prepared. The long drive back was not something she entertained gladly after a few drinks and some tiring piano playing. ‘Thank you,' she breathed. A young butler was asked to bring her overnight bag inside. She was to have the yellow room, for single visitors, and not the double “Picasso” suite she had shared with Brian on previous occasions.
Outside, the orange sky preceded a warm sultry night. They ate in the orangerie: a beautiful conservatory full of young citrus trees in large pots. They were all in blossom, and smelled divine. The food too was of the highest order: a flaky vol au vent filled with miniscule prawns in a heavenly sauce, followed by a large dish of exotic fruits cut into extraordinary shapes and sprinkled with gold sugar flakes. Boris watched her mouth as Dianne placed small pieces of mango and pawpaw on her tongue, the flakes clinging to her lips before being licked away by a tiny delicious tongue. She knew he grew excited watching her eat. She felt her nipples tingle under the linen and lace, and again rued Brian's absence. It would be a long night.
Afterwards, they played some Boccherini together.
‘I know this is a piece for the cello,' said Boris, ‘but listen to the low notes on this old violin I inherited from my uncle. They are well suited to this instrument. Exquisite.'
They enjoyed the long piece, Dianne playing confidently on the same white grand piano in the music hall that she had used before, so scantily clothed, or so naked, that the whole event was sexual as well as musical. Now too the notes had the power to fire her up inside, although she was fully and elegantly dressed, to stoke passion and lust so strongly she almost faltered twice.
‘I'm sorry,' she said softly when they finished the piece.
Boris was clapping softly to her performance, and she did the same to his. ‘Dianne – do not worry. This is no public performance. You are extremely accomplished and played that piece very well. But I think you have other things on your mind?' He raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, Boris…'
‘Look – I am tired and must retire. But I am ringing for Astra. She will take you down to the massage room and look after you. Goodnight!'
Dianne watched him disappear behind a hidden door, whose panels were painted to look exactly like the rest of the mural on that side of the room. As if bidden by magic, the severe aspect of the masseuse was in the room. Her tight bun, her spectacles, her large hands were exactly as Dianne remembered.
‘Follow me, please,' she said in a beautiful accent that sounded Russian.
Meekly Dianne went down the broad spiral staircase, entered, took off her clothes and slipped obediently into a robe while Astra washed and warmed her hands, prepared oils and lit some fragrant incence.
‘My instructions were explicit,' she said gravely to Dianne. ‘First a deep fully body massage to make you relax.'
‘Oh, thank you.'
‘… And then the Yoni.'
Dianne stammered, unaware of what the woman meant. ‘I don't understand.'
‘You will see,' Astra said briskly. ‘Please lie on your front.'
Her hands were heaven sent. Large as hams but as light as feathers, they manipulated Dianne's muscles, skin and tendons, making her explode with sighs of relief and released tension. Her shoulders, buttocks, thighs and calves were massaged, kneaded, slowly and firmly, until she lay more pliantly on the warm table. When she was as limp as a rag doll, Astra caressed the creases under her buttocks and the insides of her thighs.
‘Turn on your back please,' she bade.
Dianne exposed her front, experienced once more the superb dexterity of this woman. Her breasts were slickly oiled, massaged, pulled and made to jut upwards like erect cones. Her nipples were stretched and slicked, over and over until groans escaped from between her lips despite herself. The onslaught went on interminably, a protracted hour of pleasure during which she felt her whole body drawn close to orgasm, purely from the nerve endings in her breasts, over and over again.
‘Aaah, aaah,' came from her mouth repeatedly. She could not contain the sensation of utter pleasure that tingled her from head to toe. Finally, she came, her nipples pinched firmly between the masseuse's fingers, pulled upward and twirled until she could no longer contain the wave than she could somehow magic Brian into the room.
Astra covered her with a warmed towel and retreated for a few minutes, returning with a crystal dish of gold coloured oil. ‘Now the Yoni,' she declared, without further explanation. Taking one of Dianne's ankles gently, she parted her legs and raised her feet until her knees flexed and of their own accord, fell to either side of her. This opened and exposed her vulva, which, because of the strenuous massage and stimulation, was glistening with its own private oils.
‘Please place your feet in the hollows at the side of the table – thank you.' Astra positioned herself between Dianne's splayed legs and ever so gently started to introduce the golden oil onto the skin of her inner thighs and outer labia. She commenced a slow pulsating rhythmic massage, her clever fingers and thumbs smoothing, slicking, seeking.
Dianne was stunned by the pleasure. She felt those fingers travel softly, slowly and surreptitiously around her most secret places. Finger and thumb slowly grabbed inner lips, gently rubbing in first a circular motion, then up and down. The channels between her labia were softly explored, stroked, rubbed and pleasured so delicately she almost fainted. With her eyes closed, she rolled her head this way and that, groaning and crying out in ecstasy. For ecstasy it was: Astra knew her way about a vulva, and whatever she called this – Dianne could not remember the word – it was supremely satisfying. Waves of high physical hums played throughout her body, but it was her crotch that was the epicentre of the earthquake that rumbled and threatened to explode.
The masseuse continued, relentless, until the young woman was a quivering body of sexual arousal, loud and wanton in her cries and grinding hip movements. The Yoni proceeded, gently gathering pace and rhythm until it thrummed from Dianne's labia to her whole being. Her clitoris was gently introduced into the play, becoming the centre of attention, frotted, stroked, pulled and pushed expertly to cause gushes of pure sexual extrusions to mingle with the oil. Gold and clear secretions mixed, making a slick environment for finger play. Would it never finish? Dianne wanted it to go on forever, pervading her with this amazing feeling that filled her eyes with grateful tears, her groin with liquid fire, her nub with… yes, with the exploding sensation that came and came, releasing her finally of the pent-up lust she had harboured for five days. She screamed.
The relief was tremendous. Astra's fingers retreated, and the woman discreetly disappeared. The room grew suddenly cooler, and Dianne felt the warm towel spread over her, realising she had lain for minutes without realising where or who she was. Gradually, she summoned her senses and sat up. My goodness, she wanted to exclaim. But there was no one to exclaim to.
She descended from the table, giddy with the glow that overpowered her. Her vulva felt hot, enlarged, but fulfilled. Pulling a robe around her, she tightened the belt and raked her hands through her dishevelled hair, looking in the wall of mirrors to one side. Then she remembered.
That mirror was a double-sided glass through which Boris had watched her pleasure before. Was he there now? She blushed deeply with the hue of embarrassment and discovery, knowing she had been watched experiencing one of the deepest orgasms of her life, one of the most mind-blowing massages she ever underwent. What was it called – Yodi? Yoni? She knew she would always remember it, always want it.
Finally tidy and relaxed, she ascended to her single guestroom, sinking onto the turned-down bed and sleeping deeply and soundly until the next day.The pool was a masterpiece of artifice, built out of massive rocks to appear as if it had always occupied that corner in Boris's estate. Clear mountain water in rivulets fell over boulders and crags, tumbling musically into an inviting crystal clear pool.
‘The water is kept at a constant 24 degrees,' said the old musician, moving to an Adirondack chair and slowly lowering his frame onto its well-designed timbers. ‘I am sure you will enjoy its powers of relaxation. Go – forget about me. Just plunge in and swim.'
Dianne looked at the surrounding palms and luscious succulent greenery. It sheltered them from wind, sun and curious eyes. Private as her own apartment, this pool was the ultimate in luxury. She smiled to herself and blessed the day she met Brian. He had introduced her to a standard of existence that would otherwise have been impossible on her means. A small inheritance meant she did not have to work, but this height of luxury had always been the fabric of her dreams.
Her robe was of the lightest batik, printed with similar greenery as that in which she stood. She indeed forgot about Boris and loosened it, revealing a one-piece bathing suit of pure white, which covered her from a high collar to high thighs. Hugging her form, it was nonetheless modest. Raising her arms, she fastened her hair in a negligent chignon that allowed unruly tresses to adorn her neck and face. She knew she looked a picture, because she had agonised over the bathing suit and her skin for half an hour in her room, finally choosing virginal white and light pink lipstick.
She walked to the edge and without pausing further, dived in a neat enough arc into the water. Opening her eyes, she saw the pool was much deeper than it appeared from the surface. Rocks and boulders gave way to shimmering strappy seaweed. She also fancied seeing a fish. Bursting to the surface, she gasped and dived again, wanting to glimpse what she thought was a small tail and orange fins. Yes – there it was. She was sharing the water with a small school of tiny gold fish. It was fascinating, delightful.
Her head broke the water once more and she swam about lazily, enjoying the feel of water on her skin. Neither warm nor cold, it supported her with gentle buoyancy, her figure gliding in it effortlessly. After a few minutes, she hauled herself out of the pool, not looking Boris's way, pretending she was alone. It was because she knew water rendered her swimsuit quite transparent. When wet, the muslin-like fabric practically disappeared, allowing the dark features of her naked body to pronounce themselves starkly and frankly. The fabric clung wetly to her skin, so she quickly towelled it and draped her robe once more around her, tossing her head and smiling. She had bought the suit expressly for Brian's enjoyment, and owned as an alternative only a bikini that was so brief and provocative it served simply as sexual aid, rather than beach attire. She had that choice today, but was sure the brief glimpse Boris had of her body was enjoyed.
Then she started. Voices – female voices – made themselves heard. Dianne raised her head and wondered who it was. Approaching from the hidden entrance to the pool area, it sounded as if two animated females were making their way towards her.
They appeared at the opening between two palm trees: two beautiful young women, one with dark Latino skin and the other a tall Nordic blonde. Dressed in sarongs, they laughed and chatted, nearing Boris's chair.
‘Hello, Danika – good morning, Rosita!' He half rose to welcome them, then sat back and indicated the pool. ‘Please, enjoy a dip.' He omitted introducing them to Dianne, who watched from her corner in astonishment as the girls disrobed. They wore nothing under their sarongs. Danika, the blonde, was a statuesque woman with long legs. Denuded of any hair except the tresses that softly brushed her shoulders, she was stunning in her nudity. Dianne could appreciate beauty in other women, and even Rosita's form attracted her scrutiny. Small and dark, she had short elfin hair and large breasts. There was not the tiniest sign of a tan line on her body, meaning she always swam this way: naked, unselfconscious, her nipples glimmering. Why did they shine so? Dianne squinted and saw two thick gold rings piercing the long stems of those dark buds. At her pubis, too, a glimmer caught her eye. A third ring protruded between the girl's secret lips, obviously attached to the hood of her clitoris.
Who were these women?
‘Ah – Dianne. Come and sit by me,' called Boris. His voice was barely audible over the laughs and splashes Danika and Rosita made, but Dianne approached.
‘Aren't they beautiful?'
‘Yes,' she had to agree. ‘Who are they?'
‘One is the daughter of an old colleague, Maestro Gallina. The other, Danika, is her um… friend. They often visit to enjoy the pool. And I, of course, enjoy watching them.'
They were arresting in their antics. Diving, frolicking, laughing: they filled the area with a kind of carefree spirit that was irresistible. Their bare bodies rolled and made contact in the water. They were like playful dolphins, slick and utterly confident in their habitat. Dianne watched their legs, their torsos, their breasts and arms as they played. Then a shaft of jealousy pierced her heart, as if Boris in some way had betrayed her.
‘I… er… you…' she did not really know what to say, so she asked, ‘Does Brian know them?'
‘Only very vaguely.'
‘Oh.' Had he watched them frolick nude, like this? But Dianne did not have the strength to ask that question. She looked on as Danika poised herself to dive off a rock. Her toes were pointed and placed close together, her legs were straight, parting only slightly at the thighs, leading optically to her pubis, that flared seductively, showing pink labia within. Her stomach was flat and firm and her breasts… her breasts were pear shaped and pointed away from one another, the pink pointed nipples taut with the feel of water. Her arms stretched over her head, ready for the plunge, pulling her breasts upward provocatively. Then she dived, invisible for a moment, until Dianne saw her body join Rosita's underwater, and they entwined. Breaking the surface, the girls kissed. It was a small chaste peck, full of fun, but it was also unmistakably sexual, and left no doubt as to their relationship. Dianne was aroused in spite of herself. Jealousy erupted in the pit of her stomach. What did these girls mean to Boris, and more importantly, to Brian?
The girls drew out of the water and, ignoring their sarongs, came and fussed over Boris. They dripped water around them, like seals, and smiled showing beautiful white teeth. Dianne was introduced, and they smiled and acknowledged her, not for the slightest instant self conscious about their bodies or the blatant display they made.
Boris smiled like an uncle, patient and sweet, but Dianne knew he was infinitely aroused by the two naked maidens. They sat on either side of him, on matching stools, looking for all the world like damp mermaids. If she were not so jealous, Dianne would have enjoyed the spectacle herself, especially the winking gold rings that adorned Rosita's sexual features.
Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the girls took off and departed, holding hands, their buttocks wiggling suggestively as they were watched parting the palm fronds and making their way to the house, trailing their sarongs behind them.
‘You seem astounded,' said Boris gently.
Dianne said nothing.
‘Have you never seen naked women before?'
‘Of course – but not quite so… I don't know. Not like this.' She pulled the robe around her tightly, and considered what she had said. Then a thought struck her. Her relationship was with Brian, not Boris. This well-meaning, genteel musician was an onlooker, a voyeur of some of their sexual moments. She had no lasting understanding with Boris. Kind and generous as he was, he was doing nothing wrong, and was free to look at whomever he pleased.
Dianne smiled. ‘I was taken aback, that's all.'
‘You are missing Brian.'
She nodded. At the mention of his name, she blushed, wishing he were here.
Once more in the privacy of her single room, Dianne pulled off her moist swimsuit and walked restlessly about, prowling like a lioness. She showered, thinking all the while of the women's bodies she had seen. They were so young, so lovely. They titillated all who looked at them. Still naked herself, she brushed and dried her hair and chose not to trammel her body with clothing. Instead, she spread an even layer of lotion from chin to ankle, and walked about until her skin absorbed its emollient power. The slightly greasy feeling between her thighs was exciting, but she was well sated from last night's massage. Smiling, she put on the long gold chain that held the superb black pearl Brian had given her. It twirled and swung against her body, the chain so long it suspended the gem between her navel and pubis. There – Brian had told her always to wear it alone, to wear it when naked, and she had promised. She looked in the mirror and admired the way its shiny blackness attracted attention to her skin. She felt alive, vigorous, sexual and replete.
Going out onto the small balcony attached to her room, she stood and watched the trees move in the breeze. Birds in threes and fours flew in from the coast, and a small clutch of ducks waddled across the broad lawn in front of the house. In the distance, she saw the miniscule shape of a local boy with a fishing rod, and a tiny red car on the road leading to the motorway. It was a peaceful scene, one that served to ease her tension and fill her with a kind of gratitude.
In the driveway, the sound of hooves made her look directly beneath the house. Danika and Rosita were riding away, waving to Boris on the house steps. Clad in riding gear, they still looked superb as they walked their horses down the gravel drive and away. They did not look up at the balcony, or they would have glimpsed Dianne standing there, as naked as they had been in the pool. She smiled, not ducking behind the curtains or hiding herself in any way. After all, she was wearing her pendant. She gripped the wrought iron railing and watched the horses grow tinier and tinier as they eased into a canter and bore the girls away.
