Shadow Girl (13 page)

‘I know it sounds like the start of one of those fluffy fairy tales, but please don't laugh.'

There is no chance of that happening for Sandra is too busy sighing in delight. Still, she wonders vaguely if she heard right. Did Jenny say ‘a long time ago'?

‘I loved the ocean with all its creatures, and I was the prettiest girl in the land. All the curves in the right places, unblemished skin, cute nose and ruby lips. Just like you, come to think of it, except with jet-black hair and larger boobs.'

Prettiest?
thinks Sandra through her superb sensations. No, she has no difficulty believing that after what she's just seen.

‘My father was the doting kind — in fact he had a soft spot for me the size of all the European kingdoms put together. So I pressed him to build a city. Just for me. Cute, spoilt little me. And not just any city. Not just by any boring old river. No ma'am. Right in the sea. A mighty city that would rise in the heart of the bay. One bristling with elegant towers and defended by walls formidable enough to keep out the storms.'

Jenny's fingers have moved to a delicious spot between her shoulder blades. They are busy extracting whatever potential for bliss is lodged there.

‘To tell the truth, he found the idea utterly daft but you know me. I don't stop talking when I'm in the mood. So I pursued him day and night. I knew that, with a bit of perseverance, I could twist him round my little finger, even though he was quite a portly gentleman. And indeed I got there. In the end, I did get my city, with its towers. Its soldiers. Its countless traders bringing in countless wealth. It was dotted with luxuriant parks and trees taller than its walls. Believe me, it was the most wondrous city in the world. I called it Ys. Home in the sea.'

The hands are kneading further down Sandra's back. Fussing over her waist, sheeting her hips in caresses. Jenny is silent for a while, seemingly deep in thought.

‘For a few moons, I was happy as the proverbial clam. I would watch the sun rise and set over the sea. I would gaze at the seagulls from my chamber in the highest tower.'

She pauses again, though her fingers do not.

‘Then I got bored. I began to thirst for some fun.'

Her palms are hindered by Sandra's shorts.

‘You don't mind if I take these off, do you?'

The question seems purely rhetorical, for before Sandra can say anything the last of her clothing is being whisked down her legs. The fabric brushes her feet, which makes her wiggle her toes — and giggle like a bottle blonde.

Oh my, raves Sandra. This whole thing feels so fuzzily delectable. There she is, with her butt in the air, being given the royal treatment by her very own dazzling masseuse in a state-of-the-art medieval chamber in France. Life could be worse after all.

She gives another giggle. She must be more tipsy than she thinks. Or maybe that scent is seriously getting to her head.

The hands are back with more oil which they expend upon her legs, squeezing and spinning as they go, unleashing new waves of tingles from toe to thigh.

As they knead back and forth, a thought floats across her mind. Wasn't this supposed to be a back massage? Or maybe she heard wrong. Maybe Jenny just said
home-made
massage. Whatever. The argument seems very abstract. Pointless. For this is simply, simply divine. She would be a fool to pass on that.

She abandons herself to the clever weave of the palms.

‘Being a pretty, spoilt princess gives you a claim on fun,' resumes Jenny. ‘And a clear edge over the competition. You can pick and choose. It also gives the whole notion of slumming particular appeal. So I set my sights on a handsome young buck, a baker by trade. Before you could say hot cross buns we were screwing like beasts all over the blessed city. He was the first of a long line of lovers.'

The hands have slowed their pace and begun to work Sandra's left thigh, feeding her more of that opulent smell.

Screwing like beasts?
The phrase dangles like bait before Sandra's mind's eye and she suddenly feels very hot. Deep within her, something soft and sleek and terribly thirsty is stirring, breaking free from its slumber. Relishing the chance to rise again.

Oh dear. Oh no. No, no, no, no . . . She cannot give in to the pull. Not while she is being massaged by her girlfriend. Not with Jenny doing all those sensational things to her thigh.

She tries to think of something else but her thoughts return — like lust dust to a lodestone — to the vision of Jenny and her lover fucking hard. She grinds her hips slowly into the pillow in an effort to squash her urges. To nip them in their torrid little bud.

This only excites her more.

Holy waffle! She cannot afford to be turned on. What if Jenny caught on? It'd be so mortifying. Oh why, why does she get herself into these impossible situations? It was bad enough at the café, but this . . . This would be . . . No, absolutely not. She must keep a lid on her demon wants. She must not move. This will be over soon enough. Surely she can hang on.

But the hands keep surfing, switching smoothly from one thigh to its twin, trapping her in a mesh of delight. Grooming her. Winding her up inexorably.

She thinks about asking Jenny to stop. Thinks about getting up and thanking her for a wonderful job. But the notion dissolves as soon as it has formed. This is too damn good. The fingers have woven such a luscious web. She cannot pull away. Her creature will not let her. It is begging too hard.

She does not have the strength to protest when Jenny's charmed hands spin up her buttocks.

Soon, her cheeks are being moulded with the same lascivious care as her thighs just before. Moulded and preened and baited and roused.

The thirsty thing within has awakened fully and crawled right up to the source of pleasure. It uncurls one avid tentacle. Uncurls another. Latches onto her legs and forces them to shift. Forces her to think dirty thoughts in anticipation. Thoughts of the bread man shagging her from behind. Of Jenny eating her to distraction from the front.

Her heartbeat goes into strong staccato mode, sending the blood pulsing to her head.

God no, please. Not now, not here
, she pleads to her creature.

‘Shall I tell you how I first seduced my handsome baker?' asks Jenny, returning to her tale. ‘You'll love to hear this. And what are best friends for if you can't share an intimate detail on the odd occasion? I cornered him alone one day at the back of his shop. Told him I loved the bread he was making. Told him I wanted to see for myself how well I could work his dough.'

Jenny seems equally determined to see how well she can work Sandra's pulp. Her fingers twist and spin across the skin, making oily forays between the cheeks.

And Sandra submits with soft gasps to the glorious little tugs. To the perverse figure-of-eights. She has started to buckle under the caresses.

‘This is not hurting, is it?' asks Jenny mischievously. She palm-spreads another dose of oil into the no-go zone.

The rasped answer is almost inaudible.

‘I'm . . . I'm fine as a fiddle.'

This is ridiculous. She
has
to stop moving. Jenny mustn't know how horny she is. She begins to plead with her demon again. She feels like a dieting girl who, hypnotised by a scrummy-looking cake, knows she will take a nibble, and a bite, and will end up pigging out.

Jenny's voice is purring above her.

‘My tale, I was saying. Forgive me, it is so easy to get distracted. Almost as easy as it was to get my way with Baker Boy. So there he was, in his back room, carrying some fresh loaves on a tray. A most appetizing sight. Rugged good looks, rippling muscles and smoking buns. I snuggled up behind him without bothering to apologise for breezing in uninvited and ordered him not to move an inch, on pain of death. Then I wrapped myself around his sexy bum. I slipped a hand under his work apron and unbuttoned his trousers. And I began to stoke his fire. The lightest of touches to begin with. His beast cheered up in no time. Oh, it gave me such a buzz to see him squirm as I soft-played his swollen tip. He began to seep profusely, so I took to teasing back the skin. To torment him. I wanted to see that tray wobble properly. I kept him dangling for God knows how long. The poor boy was gasping like a mountain trekker on his last legs. And leaking so much he was more slippery than a lubed-up dildo.'

She pauses. ‘Do you know what I'm talking about, Sandra?'

Sandra has never seen a lubed-up dildo up close but exhales in agreement anyway. Her imagination has been fired by the saucy details, her body wound up by those pernicious hands.

She bites her lip as more oil is dripped on her, glutting her, adding fragrance to her own juices. And barely notices when her legs are nudged wider apart, to expose her fully.

The fingers. All she can think of are the fingers on her skin, spreading her, exciting her into a breathless knot.

Like tireless artists, they continue their brazen dance, widening their scope, overstepping the mark. Impinging on her glebe. Blurring the lines of propriety.

Sandra undulates in frustration with every breath she takes. Swells up like a wave.

No, I mustn't. I can't let her know
,
she repeats like a hollow prayer.
Oh my God, I beg you
. There has never in the past been the slightest ambiguity between her and Jenny. Not once. And she is not like that, is she? She is not into girls. Not really. Not in that way. The nude was just a fantasy. A figment. A mirage. Nothing more. No, she can't let that happen. She just can't.

But her demon couldn't care less about her feeble pleas and has trapped her in its grasp. Forced her to roll on her hips in consent. To show how badly she wants this.

The fingers abandon all pretence and narrow down their waltz to work her folds like paste, to flush them with yearning.

Sandra brings up one hand to her shoulder. She puckers up the towel in a tense grip, then buries her face into the bed, stifling a whimper.

Oh God, she knows.

She knows she has again lost the fight with herself.

‘When I had toyed with him long enough, I dropped to my knees, turned him round and took him in my mouth. But I did not want him to come. Not just yet. Not for a long time. I worked him not too deep to begin with, just the tip, keeping it nice and slow. Nice and slow. He was finding it very hard to keep a straight face, I could tell from the noises he was making. As for his tray, it had stopped being straight a long time ago and all the loaves had spilt to the ground.'

Jenny falls silent, though her hands keep moulding, teasing, dabbing, fondling.

A moan. Grainy, unequivocal.

Sandra has surrendered to the invaders. To those shameless fingers which, without asking for permission, have made themselves at home. Taken possession of her soil. Provoked her and inflamed her.

Without breaking pace, the slippery devils are pushing their advantage. One goes for a cheeky probe, followed by another. Then they become bolder. Sandra's moans thicken as they to and fro, returning each time for a deeper raid. Their motion is so fluid, so perfectly rehearsed, and her flesh responding so strongly to their sport, that she cannot doubt their right to be there. To claim and subdue her.

She bites her knuckles but cannot suppress another drawn-out whimper.

‘You seem to be enjoying this massage rather a lot,' coos Jenny, her fingers warping in and out of Sandra, widening their range with each push. Her left hand is being just as impudent — glazing Sandra's clit with oil, running rings around and over it.

Sandra has lost all sway over her rolling hips. Her heaving chest. Her moans. Her rasps.

‘I'm impressed. Your dough is rising fast. Faster than Baker Boy's.'

Still deep-fondling her, Jenny turns and sits on the bed, facing its foot. She leans over and bends Sandra's restless leg, giving the hips a slight tilt. Then, having pinned down the massage girl with her chest, she reaches under the thigh to resume her clit-work.

The hands are working in perfect unison from both sides of the hips, their captive trapped in their double snare. Jenny increases her tempo, her face glowing with a rakish smile.

‘Being fae has clear advantages,' she breathes. ‘It helps you see beyond the obvious. I can sense something in you. Something beautifully wicked, and desperate to bloom. It is sucking hard on my hand, do you know? With its soft, velvety lips. And growing fatter with every draw. Let's up the ante, shall we? To keep it happy. To help it mature. Let's give it a proper fisting. You're loose enough. Loose and pliant, like your soul. Easy to knead and shape as required.'

She slows her pace and eases her thumb in. Then begins grinding, without haste, almost lazily. Sandra is groaning feverishly.

‘There, you see, that decadent little monster is loving it. I perceive its delight. Its greed. Its ardour to please. There are such libertine cravings in you, darling. Who would have thought, given your previous impeccable record? Oh dear, oh dear. Goes to show you cannot go by appearances alone.'

The words hardly reach Sandra. The fist is crushing her into a wheezy mess. The fingers on her clit are driving her mental. Her quivering fingers are locked on the towel, her legs shaken by spasms. She has a vision of Jenny bending her over a chair then spanking her for being so feckless. Of Jenny forcing her to take her spunky lover in her mouth. Ordering her to suck him off. To suck him dry. Then something tears in her head. She soars on a spurt of high-pitched yelps and explodes with a strangled cry.

She lies lifeless on the bed, her hair looped over her flustered cheeks. Shaken, shattered. Moaning weakly. Jenny has withdrawn from her and sits by her side with a victor's smile.

‘Now be a good girl and turn over,' she commands. ‘We are not finished.'

‘Please, please. I need a momentary no touchy.'

‘I think not. I'm quite sure you're up to it.'

To prove the point she reaches for Sandra's clit and begins to stroke it gently.

‘Please don't, Jenny. This was a baddy boom-boom mistake. We shouldn't have. I shouldn't have let you. You caught me off lifeguard.'

But Sandra's hips are taking no notice of what her mouth is clumsily saying. They are responding to the tease with surprising verve. Rolling to the baiting fingers.

Sandra closes her eyes.

‘A mistake?' echoes Jenny with a smug smile. ‘I'm not sure your horny kitty agrees. Turn over.'

Sandra does not have the strength to go against Jenny. The fisting, she realises, has fattened her demon and hollowed her resolve.

With a defeated sigh, she rolls over onto her back.

‘Good girl,' approves Jenny. She pushes Sandra's legs wide apart. ‘Now let's see how that cute arse of yours responds.'

She squirts more oil on her hands and proceeds to lubricate Sandra with methodical care.

‘Jenny, don't. This is not right-ho.
Il ne faut pas.
Please.'

‘Which is exactly why we should be doing it.' Jenny traces a teasing path between Sandra's butt cheeks. ‘Girls like to have fun, don't they?'

Sandra gasps in delight as half a finger is eased in, then withdrawn. Though the probe is shallow, lines of dark pleasure have already scattered deep inside her.

The finger returns with slow, vicious deliberation.

‘Have you been screwed in here?' enquires Jenny, entering deeper.

A moaned assent from Sandra, who has dropped her head on the towel.

‘Good. Your beast will swell all the more easily.'

Jenny oils her hand again and inserts a second finger, turning each time she intrudes.

A sound of gratitude issues from Sandra.

‘Beg me to be fisted in the arse,' says Jenny, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

Sandra's hips twist off the mattress and she tucks her face into her shivering arm. Sucks her skin in excitement.

Her swollen creature is rising to the promise. It remembers the rank bliss of the butt-fuck in the hotel, the divine palpation in the shower. It purses its lips greedily, eager to swallow all of Jenny's fingers.

This is hopeless. Her demon has to feed. She will probably die of shame with Jenny gloating. But she has no choice. Not a jot of jiggle space.

‘
Je t'veux
. . .
Je t'veux en moi
,' she moans, reverting to French.

‘Oh puh-lease. I want you in me? Is that the best you can do? That's far too polite.'

‘
Fiste
. . .
Fiste-moi dans le derrière
. . .'

‘Still too polite. And you're not begging.'

‘Oooh . . .
Je t'en prie, Jenny.
J'ai le cul en feu
. Fist me dumb-crazy. I need this baddily, desperatically.
S'il te plaît.
Please.'

‘That's better. The deep option it is, then.'

‘
Oui
. . .
Profond
. Deep-poky. All the in-way. Fuck me hard-all.'

‘Excellent. I'll be happy to grant your wish. Take you on a proper mind bend. Feel how easily my fingers are going in? You're loosening fast — and I don't mean just your sweet rim. You're giving in so easily to your cravings. It's very gratifying to see you so pliable. So malleable. I expected you to put up a fight.'

She brings more oil to her slippery task.

‘Yaouen has been an excellent tutor, though he didn't mean to. He has trained you well for what is to come.'

What is to come? The thought echoes through Sandra as she succumbs to her addiction. She has no idea what Jenny is talking about but is too far gone to care. That fat devil is too busy sucking. It wants this all too much. She has to indulge its greed.

Her demon reaches out with a lustful limb and snares her wrist. Pulls her hand to her clit. She starts a compulsive
pas-de-deux
.

‘See how keen you are?' mocks Jenny, wedging in her fingers all the way to the palm. ‘You cannot help yourself. You are falling so fast. Absolutely no self-control.'

She maintains her torrid pace — eases back, moves in, gaining imperceptibly.

Sandra is lurching. Floundering like a sinking ship.

She gasps for breath. Sheds a string of stricken notes. Licks the air in blessed agony. Oh Christ! Oh please! She is about to splinter. Jenny's sap-work is destroying her.

Then one more lascivious push and she yields to the fist with a harsh groan.

Her guts do a fantastic flip.

Oh God, oh God! The wind rushes from her lungs. She feels so crushed, and so close to bursting, and so exquisitely vulnerable.

And so fucking ecstatic.

The intensity of the pleasure slicing through her fogs her vision.

The probe invades her, stretching her to gagging point, and she comes on the spot, bucking hard, her brain in a spin.

Through the blur that follows, she sucks in a few manic breaths, drowning in her turmoil. Her body begins to quake.

Then, impelled by forces she does not understand, she plunges two fingers deep into herself and buckles off the pillow, rubbing hard to match the pulsing in her guts. The urgency is flushing her face, beading her brow with sweat, scorching her cheeks. She keeps kneading, her unseeing eyes compelled by some image of endless concupiscence. Her fingers have gone feral.

Fattened by its wanton spree, her demon has spawned voracious mouths in every part of her. It is feeding on her lush tendrils, lapping every drop of pleasure on her skin. It has fastened itself around her nipples to suck her to distraction. Around her throat to squeeze out scales of rapture. Around her brain to pump all thoughts and sanity from her. This is more than she can take. More than anyone can take. Every atom of her being is splitting apart. She has been stripped of all agency, all clarity. She is a mass of pure mindless need.

‘Beautiful,' gloats Jenny. ‘Your lust is consuming you. You cannot fight it. There's nothing you can do.'

Sandra cannot hear a thing. She is on fire. Her guts have taken on a life of their own. The fist is working her relentlessly, wrenching ungodly noises from her lips.

And then there is a surge of blinding light, and her body snaps into a desperate arc. She high-noons with loud moans, squirting in strong quick bursts, her flesh racked by tangled delights.

But Jenny has no intention of letting go. With a perverse little smile, she waits till Sandra's hips have dropped back on the bed. Then she resumes her slow pumping and sends Sandra tumbling head over arse into a vortex of tortured blasts which leave her shaking and rasping uncontrollably.

And crying tears of surrender.

And wanting more.

‘Your demon is gorging itself. I can feel it getting crazy. I can feel its bloated belly swamping you, claiming every part of you. It's going for your soul. It is such an insatiable devil.'

A twisted groan from Sandra and her hips buck as another spike of weird bliss blows her mind. Caught in an infernal loop of gratification, she has lost control of her spasming body. She contorts herself like a woman possessed, spurred by her tormentor, by her own hand, by those ruthless instincts that are boiling her blood.

She arches back and explodes again, squirting hard between spurts of short, frantic breaths. She does not know where she is anymore. She does not know who she is.

When at last the fist withdraws from her, she lies there winded and defeated, her brain shrivelled, one restless forearm twitching against her temple.

She is drenched from all the sweat. From her crazy needs. From the helpless gushing.

But her loins have not settled. Her fingers are still thirsting. Scavenging her folds. Refusing to leave.

Jenny runs a lazy tongue from her belly button to her breasts. She flirts with her nipples for a while, then deftly mounts her and sits on her chest, trapping her shoulders with her thighs. She grabs Sandra's ankles and forces her legs up, bending her like a stuffed toy.

‘Now suck me,' she says. ‘While you finger yourself.'

Shattered and exhausted, Sandra tries to say something.
Please, have some mercy. Do not make me do this.
She looks up, searching for Jenny's eyes, but a hand grabs her scalp then tucks her firmly into the darkness of the crotch. She is almost smothered. Smothered, and intoxicated. And in the blink of an eye finds herself turned full on.

‘Don't make me repeat myself.'

This is hopeless. She is drowning in Jenny's scent. Her brain is half fried but pulsing with fiendish desire. She takes a tentative lick and likes what she tastes. A lot. Far too much. Then her urges engulf her like an instant tide and she buries herself into that night, tongue lapping, senses spinning. Never before has she tasted woman. Never before has she lost herself in such heady sweetness.

And her demon is loving it. Going berserk. Demanding more, always more. And she submits to its dictates with muffled moans. For nothing else matters. Nothing exists in the world but the licking and the sucking and that hot juicy clit. Nothing but the lapping and the gorging. Her mouth, her brain, have fused in this oneness of want. And she keeps going in shameless abandon, euphoria flushing down her throat to the pit of her stomach.

The hips above her have begun to rock, grinding her into the mattress. She claps one fevered hand on her lover's thigh while still kneading herself.

‘You're . . . You're doing great,' moans Jenny. ‘You're a fast learner. Anyone would think you'd been doing this . . .'

Her voice trails off into a long, hollow moan.

‘. . . for years,' she concludes, her hips bursting into tremors.

Sandra too is convulsing under Jenny, with harsh rasps. Not that this does much to appease her. Her demon is not the slightest bit sated. She clasps her lips on Jenny's clit again.

‘Not so fast, sister,' croaks Jenny, breathing hard. She forces Sandra's head back on the pillow. Then releases one captive ankle, reaches for the wrist behind her and brings Sandra's hand to her own thigh.

‘Don't you move your twitchy fingers an inch,' she commands.

‘Please . . . Please . . .
Il faut
. . .
Il faut que j'me touche. Que j'te suce
,' begs Sandra. ‘
J'en ai besoin.
'

Jenny is keeping her clit just out of reach of Sandra's tongue.

‘Of course you need this. The question is, how badly?' She smiles, dipping one finger in Sandra's mouth and stroking her tongue as you would a well-trained pet.

Sandra begins to pump like a ravenous animal.

‘Yes, you can suck all right,' chuckles Jenny.

She pulls out her finger.

The bottom drops out of Sandra's world.

‘Please, oh please,' whimpers Sandra, ‘I'll do-or-die anything you want.'

‘Anything?'

‘
J'ai ces affreuses pulsions.
Those horrible urgentings.' She looks up at Jenny with imploring eyes, then strains for the dark lips before her.

‘Perfect. You look delightfully fidgety. I think you're ready to fulfil your calling. To suck on command like the obedient slut you are.'

Something of the old Sandra flickers in an obscure corner. An after-image of resistance. The faintest whisper of appalled
denial. A slut? Surely she is not a slut? She has not sunk that low, has she? She whimpers again. She is not sure. All this feels so hazy. And she is hurting with want. She finds it impossible to put a coherent thought together.

‘Poor Sandra. I can detect a trace of conflict in that lovely head of yours. Let me make this easier for you.'

She reaches for the bag she left earlier by the bed, recovers a golden collar from it then slips it on Sandra. The ornament appears to be magnetised, for it locks into place with a slight buzzing sound. Jenny cocks her head, appraising the effect.

‘You look absolutely divine,' she compliments.

Her finger brushes against one of the gems encrusted at the front.

For a moment, Sandra hangs in frustrated suspense. Then the collar begins to pulse and something leaks into her. Something sweet and spicy and horribly satisfying. Soon, the throbbing has gained in strength, firing shots of pure pleasure to her core.

She starts shaking her head and before she knows it has imploded in a warp of delectation so intense she is left gagging like a hooker on her first blowjob. This is a brutal, overpowering rush, as if her brain alone had bucked and climaxed. And she has been flipped inside out, left quivering in Jenny's grasp. Flung wide open to be pillaged, bled of her grimmest desires.

Jenny smiles. ‘I'm willing to bet you'll be completely amenable to my suggestions.'

She offers back her finger to Sandra.

‘Let's play mind games, shall we? Imagine your incredibly handsome but incredibly arrogant new boss wants to test your commitment to teamwork. He locks his office door while his equally gorgeous and equally arrogant personal assistant removes her panties and puts on a strap-on dildo. He orders you to kneel before him and points to the bulge in his trousers. It's this or you get the sack. Do you accept?'

Sandra can only manage a stifled moan.

‘Do you?' repeats Jenny, pulling out her finger.

‘Oh . . .
Oui
. . .' gasps Sandra, reeling with an image of herself sucking off the bastard in the business suit, while being enjoyed from behind by the bitch in black-lace stockings. They are going hard at it. Taking no prisoners. The man is deep-throating her and the woman plumbing her depths, her face shadowed by a triumphant scowl.