Phoenyx: Flesh & Fire (3 page)

All through Friday night and the following Saturday, I worried. Even while wandering around the big high street stores with Olivia and buying clothes that would have inspired my mother to throw me out of the house, I couldn’t get the anxiety out of my head. It started off as a niggle, like a little itch, but the more I tried to forget about it, the bigger, heavier and more oppressive the fear became. Something was going to go wrong, I knew it. My first night would be my last. Things had been going so well until now – everyone liked me, I’d had everything done for me and I was made to feel not only at home, but as part of a family – it
had
to be too good to last. Nothing great or amazing ever happened to me, no matter how hard I tried: school exams, competitions, relationships, all went
pffft
as they wafted past me like leaves on the wind and took my hopes and dreams with them.

And now this wonderful woman, Olivia, was trying to help me to become as exciting and classy a public performer as she? It was so ridiculous it just had to fail.

Olivia tended to wear white lingerie, satin opera gloves and a long cream evening dress when she was performing, so she had the bright idea of dressing me totally in black as a striking contrast. I agreed, because I liked black, and we shopped for black underwear – a deep-cut bra which opened in the front, a satin Basque with six garter straps, and stockings.

“Your own boots will be just fine, with a bit of polish,” she advised me as we toured yet another large department store in search of the sexiest stuff we could find, “if you’re used to them and they’re comfortable, that is. Besides, Bruno’s allowance probably wouldn’t stretch to a new pair, yet.”

“Does he buy you things as well?” I asked.

“Now and again, yeah. He’s so sweet; he cares for all of us. You know, I’ve performed in a few places here in Berlin and in Holland, and I’ve never met anyone as nice as him before. We’re very lucky to have him.” She held up a pair of black velvet hot pants against my waist. “These’ll look fantastic. Get in the changing room and try them on, darling.”

Olivia called everyone ‘darling’. It was as though she loved all people, and seemed incapable of getting angry with anyone. I skipped in behind the curtain with the pants and the rest of the outfit, my fingers trembling now at the thought that this was what I’d be wearing that night – in less than ten hours – when everything was going to go to hell, a horror film with me as the star and prime victim. I wanted to give Olivia the clothes back, kiss her and tell her she was wonderful. And then run for it, all the way back to the railway station before I let everyone down and suffered the worst humiliation of my life. If I was this shaky now, how could I ever survive five, six, ten minutes on stage, in front of a packed house, and a demanding, expectant audience?

I wriggled my jeans off over my boots, kicked my panties off too and pulled the velvet hot pants up to my hips. They fit perfectly, tight and snug and they definitely looked good on me. I allowed myself a crooked smile of appreciation at the mirror. At least if I could
look
all right, the evening’s exhibition might not prove too cringe-making, and I might still be in with a chance.

I sorted through the other things that I’d placed on the stool – a couple of tops and a really short skirt which probably was illegal in some countries.

I was just about to stand up again from bending over when I felt a warm, damp hand on my ass. The fingers tightened a little and I found myself being groped, grabbed gently, and an appreciative sigh drifted past me.

I glanced up in the mirror and nearly squealed aloud at the sight.

I squirmed around to find Olivia bent over me, face stretched wide in a big grin of forbidden delight.

“Darling, I love your bottom,” she whispered. She leant in over my back and breathed in my ear. “I told you that you’d look fantastic in these.”

The shorts were very tight and were cut high, exposing my heavy cheeks.

“Thank you,” I gasped, and then squeaked as I felt her hand between my legs.

“Olivia...” I started, to find her looking at us both in the mirror, her chin cradled on my shoulder. I was that bit taller than her in my boots and she looked rather stretched, and somehow even more vulnerable than usual, with her swan-like neck pressing against mine.

“Yes, dear?”

I shut my eyes as I felt my moisture begin to seep out of me and into the soft furry velvet which clung to my creases and curves like a tight glove.

“Hmm, keep doing that.”

She touched me harder, parting my labia through the material with her teasing finger. I pushed back against her, arching my back. Watching that beautiful woman stroking me in the mirror was almost indescribably erotic. I slowly opened up the bra and let my breasts fall out for her.

“I think I’ve just found our routine for Saturday night, Phoenyx,” she said. “I want you – the black queen – to seduce me, the innocent in white. Strip for me, corrupt me. Make me yours. And take me, in front of them all. Make them want to join us, to share in our pleasure.”

“Yes,” I sighed, “that sounds perfect.”

“You remind me so much of that English girl, what’s her name – Fiona. Fiona Redmond or something. Long and red and absolutely luscious.”

I had no idea who she was talking about, but I didn’t care as she buried her mouth in my neck, behind my ear, blowing hot excited breath onto my skin. I shuddered.

“I love having my hair pulled,” she said. “You can do that to me – it’ll look so sexy. And make me feel so excited too. A good performance needs that kind of edge, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I squeaked. The way I felt at that moment, if she’d asked me to help her rob a bank that afternoon, I would have agreed to it without another thought.

“You can be a little bit mean with me too, it’s okay,” she went on, her breath dancing all over my nerve-endings. “I like it that way.”

She brushed a tide of that beautiful shimmering hair over me. But I couldn’t bear the thought of tugging on such finery – it felt like she was asking me to rip a beautiful piece of antique lace. I ran my fingers through it, rubbing it against my bare chest, feeling it wash all over me, tickling, teasing.

“Pull on it, darling,” she urged me. “Go on. You won’t hurt me. I’m not as weak as I look. I spent five years at ballet school – that’s a physical regime as tough as the army, I’ll tell you.”

Her laugh was beautiful, a gentle tinkling sound like a distant little teacup landing on a ceramic floor. I didn’t know what to call the feeling which battered inside my ribcage and squirreled madly around inside my guts.
Love
, perhaps, but surely that was silly – a woman couldn’t love another woman in
that
way, could she? My mother didn’t seem to think so, but it felt an awful lot like what I got when I saw my favorite heroes on television or in magazines. Perhaps I’d find out for sure now.

I turned around to face her, looking her up and down. I was startled to find that she’d slid out of her dress and stood naked there, smiling at me, those neat and silky curves just as wonderful in bright shop lights as under the soft spots of the Kitty Klub.

She chewed on her lip as I gathered a handful of hair, winding it around my knuckles. She was waiting, expecting, and so I gave her a little tug. Her head slid into her shoulder, her eyes closing and lips parting with a gasp of excitement. Her hands landed on my breasts, holding them, pressing them. She pushed herself hard against me, and I pulled her hair again, drawing her face towards mine. She smelled of fruit, and of rose water – reminding me of summer mornings at my aunt’s place out in the country in West Baden. Her delicate fingertips closed around the peaks of my tits, now so thick and hard they almost hurt. I was totally lost. If a store assistant had pulled the curtain aside at that moment, I would have yelled at her, ‘Get lost, we’re busy!’

She squeezed my nipples gently, and then I did cry out. Except that my throat was too dry from the thrill, and it came out more as a croak. Her thumbs hooked in the stretchy waistband of the hot pants and slid them all the way down to my knees. She knelt in front of me and looked up.

“Phoenyx darling,” she whispered, “May I please your beautiful pussy? Make you cum?”

I didn’t quite know what she meant but I nodded anyway. Pleasure always sounded like a good idea to me. She placed her palms between my legs and pushed my thighs apart. I drew one leg up to get out of the fallen pants and pushed my hips gratefully towards her, standing back with legs parted. She pulled apart my red bush, revealing my glistening pinkness which had never been seen or touched by any other hand before – although mine had spent plenty of time down there, usually whilst in the bath or in bed with my mother deeply asleep downstairs.

The moisture Olivia had teased out of me before was now running freely onto her tongue. She lapped it feverishly, worming deep inside me. It looked a bit odd – seeing another woman down there, but it felt so divine that it didn’t matter. I didn’t even care that I was doing something my mother usually criticized when she heard about it on the television: whenever any mention of homosexuality or gay rights came up, she would look at me threateningly as if to say, ‘Don’t
you
ever turn out like that’. She had sometimes hinted that she expected grandchildren, but nothing had ever been further from my thoughts. I was twenty-one and had still never even been with a guy properly, beyond a few awkward dates and some uncomfortable, desperate fumbling that had to end prematurely in order to adhere to my mother’s regime of being home before ten o’clock.

And now here I was, naked and moaning with pleasure over the tongue of an older woman in a big department store – I could never have imagined such a scene in all my life and I had to fight the impulse to laugh out loud at it.

“Oh yes,” I urged, feeling my breath catch in my throat. I grabbed Olivia by the hair and pressed her face against me, sliding my eager pussy back and forth across her tongue.

Then I felt her finger trigger something, and I was gone. Sliding down the wall, chewing my own knuckles so I wouldn’t scream out, and gushing all over Olivia’s face. She rose back to her feet, groping my tits on the way, and sucked my mouth with hers, letting me taste my own juices. The idea didn’t disgust me, as I thought it might – I was still too deep in the afterglow to be bothered by anything. Finally, after teasing my tongue with hers the same way she had tickled my clitoris, she stepped back and wrapped herself in her dress again. She picked up the velvet pants and ran her tongue along the inside of the crotch, looking up at me with a dark grin through my glistening fluids and her slightly smudged-up make-up.

“Better buy the pants now that you’ve cum in them,” she said with a hearty slap to my ass. “I need to rush to a hairdresser appointment, but you enjoy the rest of the day, darling. Come back to the Klub after five if you need anything else.”

“That...was incredible,” I croaked, barely able to think.

“The feeling is mutual, darling. We must do this another time. I can’t wait to have you straddle me again tonight. I’m going to be so hot and bothered.” Her body fluttered with a little shudder and she crushed a fifty mark note into my hand. “Remember – nine o’clock for ten. I’ll need to show you the intimate backstage details first.”

“Nine for ten,” I repeated, mechanically. It meant nothing to me. I was too busy staring after her irresistible wiggle as she shook her velvet dress and disappeared through the heavy curtains back out into the real world.

I just stood there, trying to gather my thoughts but they kept scattering away from me like frightened sparrows. I couldn’t grasp anything. My body was still surging with the waves of excitement, desire, pleasure and other warming, thrilling sensations I couldn’t even describe. I wanted to cry and scream and laugh all at once. I turned to the mirror again, imagining Olivia creeping up behind me once more, and my hips convulsed as I felt another climax on the way. I squeezed the swollen tip of my clitoris and heard my girl cum drizzle on to the carpet in little spitting spatterings.
What the hell had she done to me?

I didn’t know, but I wanted more of it. But first I had to return to reality, as dry and unwelcoming as that concept was.

Back home in the apartment, I could barely control my actions. I tripped and stumbled up the stone steps to the front door, nearly fell before I reached the landing, and needed four attempts to get the key in the lock because my hands were shaking so much.

I bashed the front door shut behind me and flattened myself against it, my chest heaving and my heart stampeding like a herd of rhinos. That hadn’t really all just happened to me, had it?

A little black shape formed itself out of the shadows at the other end of the hall and moved cautiously towards me.

“Aww, Boris,” I sighed, and crouched down so that the cat could launch himself into my arms, “I’m sorry I was out so long. Did you miss me?”

The way his claws sank deep into my arms told me that my absence hadn’t been appreciated, and I was now being made to suffer – but just a little bit, enough to remind me who the boss really was.

I had found him as a kitten in the street one night and asked my mother if I could keep him. She reluctantly agreed, on the condition I looked after him. I called him Boris after Karloff, the horror film actor, because he had strange big bulging eyes – and one was blue and the other green. Well, it made sense to me at the age of thirteen, anyway, and when it came time to move out, Boris came with me without any need for coercion. He knew I was his mother, and he would go wherever I went, even if it was to the ends of the earth. As it was, three hours’ train journey into the big city was far enough for the pair of us at that time. The reason I had chosen this apartment in the more grimy, 19th-Century quarter of the city was because Boris made himself at home in the middle of the bed and went to sleep immediately, the first place I’d looked at where he hadn’t seemed spooked. My landlady, Mrs. Groenenberg, wasn’t keen on animals but I had managed to persuade her, due to him being so quiet and also quite good at keeping the rodent population down, as proven by his years with us back on the farm.