Sunday, July 31, 2011
“My god, what a dream…”
Natasha Ivanovich sat bolt upright in bed, clutching the sheet to her chest, as if the thin cotton could provide protection from the demons of the night. As always, the room was bright, pulsing neon light from nearby Times Square.
The city that never sleeps and nor can I!
Natasha slid out of bed and padded across the cold floor of her room. Sighing softly, she opened the refrigerator and flinched as its illuminated white interior dazzled her burning eyes. Trembling slightly, she poured herself a tall glass of mineral water and drank it all in one gasping draught.
Now, what had Madame Helena told her about rats in dreams? That an illness was coming. A dreadful, gnawing sickness.
“Oh what nonsense!”
Natasha thought of the short, rotund clairvoyant, so dearly beloved of all the girls in the corps de ballet. Madame Helena, who dispensed her laconic wisdom from a closet-like apartment near the East River, served up with strong Russian tea. Madame Helena, dressed in peasant black, who was rumored to help young ladies whose monthly flow was overdue…
Vague nausea rose in the young woman’s throat and she shivered violently.
Only two days late and I’m not eating enough. It must be the diet…
She spied her reflection in the glass above her dressing table – a wraithlike creature with large dark eyes and sleek hair falling to her waist. Dainty breasts made little impact on the tall, slender column of her body.
I’m beginning to look like a boy. If I grow any thinner, Alexander will no longer want me…
“Unless I make him my dwarf.”
Dream imagery surged through the young woman’s mind, filling its sleep deprived corners with garish costumed creatures, waltzing, burning … A photograph was taped to one side of the mirror – a beautiful young man with golden hair and the elegant cheekbones of a white Russian.
My only hope is to become his Queen. Or he will be gone like the geese before the winter snow…
“I must get some sleep.”
Natasha took one last lingering look at the picture of her lover, rummaged in the dressing table drawer for her sleeping pills and placed one small white tablet on her tongue. Alex observed her actions dispassionately, aloof and unobtainable as an alabaster god.
The old upright piano in the rehearsal room tinkled tinnily as she dashed through the entrance hall, avoiding the baleful glance of old Maurice the custodian. She could see him muttering “late again!” as he ponderously mopped the ancient linoleum. The entire building reeked of pine disinfectant and her stomach churned, bitter saliva filling her mouth.
It can’t be. I cannot be pregnant.
An odd metallic taste coated her tongue and she swallowed hard, wriggling out of her heavy coat and tossing her hat upon the changing room stand. Bending down to remove her boots, the room swam, the faint acrid scent of sweat and well-worn leather induced another surge of nausea. She would have to call upon Madame Helena.
Oh dear God, help me.
The music was changing, from the rhythmic, familiar notes that marked time for the dancers’ warm-up, to the overture of the next production. Quickly, Natasha slipped on her blocked shoes, crossing and wrapping the ribbons about her ankles with practiced deftness. Her plain wool dress concealed a leotard and tights and her dark hair was tightly pinned up in a stark knot. Few appreciate the draconian discipline which forms the foundation of classical dance. Flushed with shame, she pushed open the door of the rehearsal room and took her place in the chorus, avoiding the fierce glare of the ballet master.
“Alors! Mademoiselle Ivanovich, you will see me after rehearsal!”
Natasha nodded at the short, balding man who fixed her with such a look of contempt that she almost imagined she might be turned to a heap of dust like the creatures of her dream.
“Oui, Monsieur Mortaille.”
Leaning casually upon the bar, Alex smiled at her confusion, at once amused and disdainful. His full mouth blew her the faintest semblance of a kiss, then he turned away, sweeping one arm through an elegant curve before dipping forwards in a theatrical stretch. Natasha watched the muscles of his back, each distinct beneath a thin cotton vest, as she knew he meant her to see him in his taunting, vain splendor. Suddenly, without a shadow of a doubt, she knew he would never again press his sensual lips to hers, nor push his impatient hardness between her yielding thighs. Goodbye was etched upon each haughty angle of the young man’s profile, stark as the inscription on a tomb.
“It may well be a false alarm, my child. You are rather gaunt – do you eat? I am no expert on female troubles but I do know starvation can cause the monthly flow to cease.”
They sat together in the slightly steamy atmosphere of a shabby café, a window table looking out at the cold, damp street. Everything was brown and gray – the tall, narrow buildings, zigzagged with a framework of iron fire escapes, the overcoats of the people hurrying by. Occasionally, a taxi-cab glared bright yellow in the gloom, the unexpected color almost hurting the eye. Monsieur Mortaille removed his hat and enclosed his cup of coffee in stiff, swollen hands.
“I am afflicted with rheumatics in the colder months. There is a herbalist in Chinatown who blends a remedy that helps. He may have an answer to your problem.”
“Thank you for your kindness.”
Natasha huddled inside her coat, the moist heat of the room unable to warm her, painfully aware of the scarlet imprint of her lipstick on the rim of her cup. The table-top was red too, red for blood, red for danger. Two lovers paused before the plate glass window, the young man’s hand briefly brushing his girl’s breast in a proprietary, daring gesture. They were dressed in gray, rain spattered, but the blonde girl’s lips were red. Laughing in conspiracy, they walked away, and, wearily, Natasha looked up into the ballet master’s eyes.
“I have been foolish, haven’t I?”
Monsieur Mortaille smiled, a myriad of laugh lines creasing his clean-shaven face. His eyes were as gray as the sidewalk outside, yet filled with light, the intense quality of a driven, perfectionist man.
“You are very young, Natasha, and therefore more than entitled to your mistake. But try to learn from it, please. There must be discipline in life and self-control. Without these qualities, all is chaos and waste. Discipline!”
Something in the tenor of his voice changed and she felt a strange stirring in her stomach, which seemed to fill with butterflies. With a sudden shock, she realized she was wet between the legs.
Oh please let it have started!
Natasha fled to the washroom, glimpsing her pale, drawn face in the mirror above the basin as she closed the cubicle door. It took her some time to find the courage to tear off a few sheets of toilet tissue and blot the wetness. Bright scarlet blood stained the white paper. Relieved tears ran down her cheeks and she tasted salt. Swiftly, she made herself tidy, for once welcoming the dull ache that began to nag at the small of her back.
Monsieur Mortaille had finished his coffee and was carefully drawing on his gloves. With a start, Natasha realized that he reminded her of the dwarf in her dream, yet it was she who must follow him, not the other way round. She collected her rehearsal case and primly replaced her hat and gloves. The ache in her back grew stronger, she would need some codeine if it did not abate. There was a drugstore across the road. As if reading her mind, the ballet master glanced out at the passing throng.
“I would like you to come with me to Chinatown, child. There are voids in your education that a pretty boy can’t fill. You comprehend? There is another world here. Indeed, there are many worlds, if you know where to look.”
Her name was May Chang and she wore a cheongsam of electric blue, dazzling against the faded bamboo-patterned walls. The room smelled musty, acrid sweat and sweet, cheap perfume, the cloying, stifling oiliness of deep fried food. Her room was above a noodle house, beyond the narrow window endless washing hung limp in a tangled cat’s cradle above the dirty alley below. A peculiarly ugly lamp sat on the night table, its yellow shade matched the high heeled sandals of the Chinese girl who sat on the end of her bed, a slight frown marring her doll-like face.
“She know what you like? She won’ tell?”
“Natasha won’t tell, May. Natasha is mine.”
“Ahh! You take slave, less cost than May.”
The girl began to laugh and Natasha knew that now she was adrift in the strangest dream of all. The ache in her back sent stabbing fingers down her thighs and gloved hands stroked her hair, then pushed her roughly to the floor. The thin, worn carpet offered little padding for her knees and she felt her stockings catch upon its roughened nap. She remembered the thinness of her thighs and the blood between her legs. May Chang’s calves were firm and golden brown before her face, slick with some heavy perfumed oil, and the tawdry straps of the yellow sandals crisscrossed slender feet with scarlet toes. The Chinese girl crossed her legs and leaned back slightly, taking her weight upon her arms, letting her hair slide sensuously down her back to skim her hips with its ebony sheen. Her eyes were closed, her red lips parted, wet and fleshy as the place between her legs. Mortaille’s gloved hands left Natasha’s head and found the other girl’s breasts, rubbing the shiny satin until large, hard nipples pushed against the tightly fitting cloth. May Chang began to moan, as strange and incoherent as if she were drugged. The hands grasped the sleeves of the dress and began to tear with a steady, controlled violence.
“Aaaaahhhh! My dress!”
The spell was broken, the Chinese girl’s eyes snapped open and she tried to wrest Mortaille’s fingers from the slippery cloth. Flimsy seams had parted readily, exposing the soft contours of her upper arms and the sleeves had become opera gloves. She was furious, black eyes bright and hard in her painted face.
“You get new dress for May!”
Mortaille laughed softly, then, to Natasha’s horror, he slapped the girl hard upon one powdered cheek. Slowly, she slid backwards on the bed, kicking her sandals off, clasping her tormentor’s head, drawing him down to kiss her hard upon her mouth, as if such abuse was the customary prelude to their love. Roughly, he tore the skintight bodice from her full, firm breasts and straddled her chest, forcing his swollen shaft between her painted lips. It was then that Natasha noticed the parasol.
Just like the one in my dream!
The cloth was gay, a riotous blaze of scarlet, gold and clear sky blue, depicting a scene of dragons, winding snake-like about besieged pagodas. Natasha almost imagined she could see tiny frantic faces at the windows of the elaborate towers. The handle of the parasol was slender yet intricately carved, repeating the theme of the coiling dragon in ivory. The parasol was propped against an aged dresser, half-opened, its dramatic silk folds drooped languidly in the airless room. Suddenly, Mortaille groaned and the Chinese girl cried out beneath his thrusting hips. He moved away, revealing her ravaged face, streaked and smeared with a glistening blend of lip rouge and semen. Looking down at her, he pressed one gloved thumb against her lips, spreading the remnants of her scarlet mouth onto her chin with a single abusive gesture. Smiling disdainfully, he looked back at Natasha, still kneeling at the foot of the tangled bed.
“This is what I do with whores, child. Now, what shall I do with you?”
Slowly, as if dazed, May Chang sat up, allowing the fine black curtain of her hair to fall across her face, concealing the mess Mortaille had left. Unsteadily, she padded to the sink in one corner of the room and ran the tap full-tilt into the stained, cracked bowl. Shakily, she began to dab at her mouth with a washcloth. Natasha met the girl’s gaze in the glass above the sink, and her heart began to pound as Mortaille gestured to the bed and the rumpled scene of May Chang’s rape. The base of her spine ached dully as she crawled upon the sullied sheets, feeling the sadist’s hands upon her again, turning her so she lay face-up, staring at the yellowed ceiling of the tiny room. Swiftly, he pulled the cotton case from one of the pillows and placed it over Natasha’s head so she could see no more. A white cloud seemed to have descended over her, a cloud which smelled of sweat and semen and cheap perfume. Gloved hands pushed her knees apart and long nails caressed the inside contours of her thighs. There was a faint clicking sound, a silken rustle, then something hard and cool was placed against the expanse of skin above her stocking top.
Her voice sounded impotent in the half-light of the cotton shroud and she bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t spoken. The rigid coolness found the hem of her panties and began to push against it, easing itself beneath the elasticated edge. Deft, warm fingers began to trace the modest contours of her breasts and she thought of her thinness, wished for curves and lush voluptuous flesh. May Chang had large breasts for an Asian girl.
“Master not care if you bleed. He make you bleed anyway.”
The silky fingers reached beneath her sweater and caressed her nipples through her tiny brassiere. It was a ridiculous undergarment, like a twelve year old’s first bra. She could easily go without, but decorum dictated she seek support. Her breasts tingled, almost seemed to swell beneath the girl’s appraising hands. The hard shaft of the parasol handle found her vagina and Mortaille pushed it in, twisting and turning the carved ivory rod.
“Mmm! Bet that feel real good.”
Natasha could not speak and one gloved hand had caught her wrists together, holding them up so May Chang could bind them to the iron frame of the bed. Her sweater was pushed up and over the silly bra, causing a flush of embarrassment to stain the young girl’s neck.
“I think we can do without this.”
There was a harsh tearing sound and the flimsy undergarment was wrenched from her breasts, leaving them exposed to the still air of the room. Warm, sticky lips nuzzled her aureoles. Despite her fear, Natasha felt her nipples harden and she finally cried out as the ribbed carving of the ivory shaft found her clitoris and began to massage it. A hot, wet mouth descended over one nipple, suckling feverishly, and she felt her flesh swell to fill May Chang’s mouth.
“Aah! She like May. She like girls, Master.”
“Better than pretty boys. Isn’t that correct, Natasha?”
She had never had an orgasm before, kept quiet when the girls whispered and giggled of “that feeling”. She had not known what that feeling was until now, had merely lain still and open for her haughty partner’s brief thrustings. Moaning, she ground her gamine hips against the ivory rod, straining against her bonds, thighs wide open for the ballet master as her body finally came to life.
“Take off her hood.”
At the brink of her ecstasy, May Chang pulled the pillowcase from Natasha’s head and Mortaille abruptly tugged the parasol handle from the young girl’s cunt. He smiled cruelly at his captive’s plight, as she squirmed upon the bed, grinding her body in abject frustration, tears beginning to glisten in the corners of her eyes.
Mortaille gestured to the sink in the corner of the room.
“Get her washed, May. I want to take some pictures. You will get your reward when you’ve done some pretty posing, little girl. May has a lovely dress-up box, just you wait and see.”
“Come with me. Don’ make Master wait.”
Numbly, Natasha allowed the Chinese girl to lead her to the sink. Scalding water surged into the cracked basin and she let May Chang undress her, felt the shredded remnants of her bra fall to the floor with her sweater and skirt. Her panties were gently eased to her ankles and she stepped out of them, flushing as scarlet as the blood soaked pad. The Chinese girl hastily bundled the panties to one side and swiftly creamed up her washcloth with jasmine scented soap. Natasha stood in her stockings and garter belt, first flinching at the heat from the steaming cloth between her legs, then relaxing into the intimate toilet session. May Chang’s hand felt good between her thighs and she sighed when the other girl finished her job and began to rummage in a wash-bag by the sink.
“I give you tampon. Much better than pad. There. That better!”
It was inconceivable that she was here in this squalid room, squatting to perform such intimate acts before Mortaille, who merely sat upon the bed and watched, as if it was his right to observe her most private moments. He seemed to read her mind and smiled.
“Suitably humiliated? Good. Then let’s begin. Undo her hair, May, and find her some heels.”
May Chang murmured as she unpinned the heavy chignon which was already partly loosened by the afternoon’s events.
“I brush, make soft.”
It felt so good to let the Chinese girl groom her waist-length tresses to a glowing sheen and she felt her nipples tingle at the voluptuous feel of the deft hands on her hair. Suddenly, completely helpless, she shivered violently, a rich crop of goose flesh creeping down her spine. May Chang giggled and pushed her magnificent breasts against Natasha’s back.
“She like May. Maybe wanna eat May.”
Again, she giggled and, sweeping Natasha’s hair to one side, she pressed a sensuous kiss on the young girl’s neck.
“Oh! Oh, please…”
“High heels, May, and a good coat of lip rouge, then dress off and up onto the bed. You can play later.”
Suddenly submissive, the Chinese girl drew a trunk from beneath the bed and opened it to reveal a tangled mess of gaudy lingerie and shoes. She rummaged for a few seconds then pulled out a pair of scarlet stilettos.
“Put these on.”
The shoes had improbably high, spiked heels, narrow, pointed toes and were fastened with narrow straps about the ankle. To Natasha’s surprise, they fitted perfectly and she tottered to the bed, barely able to stand in the precipitous footwear. She sat on the edge of the bed, letting May Chang paint her lips with thick, scarlet lip rouge. Something had changed, something deep within her. She felt like a woman. Again, Mortaille appeared to read her mind.
“You just needed to be used, Natasha, brought out of that prim little shell. You did not think you were still a virgin but you were, ‘til you met me. Kneel on the bed, girls, and finger one another’s cunts. Arch your spine a little, Natasha, to show off those little tits to best advantage. Don’t be ashamed of them, for they’ll still be pert when bigger girl’s breasts have dropped to their knees. That’s it. Now, rub your tits together, girls, and frig like crazy. Excellent. Stay very still while I get my camera.”
“Yes, yes, yes…”
May Chang’s saliva-moistened fingers had captured Natasha’s clitoris and in response the young girl’s hand cupped the damp place between her Asian partner’s perfumed thighs. What had smelled harsh and acrid-cheap, now seemed alluring, voluptuous, bewitching. Natasha blinked slightly as a dazzling flash illuminated the tiny room. She wanted to taste the dripping cleft between the other girl’s legs. She wanted to suck on those big, bold tits. The flash exploded again and again, catching them in various lewd and libidinous postures, pouting prettily, hungrily kissing one another’s glossy mouths, artfully draped with each other’s hair, nuzzling, suckling nipples, licking the insides of sweat-sticky thighs… Finally, the ballet master laid down the camera.
“Let her come now, May. You’ve both been good girls for Daddy.”
“Spread you legs wide you can.”
May Chang pushed Natasha down onto her back, and she opened herself to the Chinese girl’s mouth, feeling an impossibly delicious hot velvety wetness surround her clit. It was too intensely pleasurable to bear for more than a few seconds. She screamed in ecstasy as her orgasm finally broke, powerful, pulsing, rhythmic waves of bliss fluttering against the other girl’s tongue. May Chang smiled, gratified.
“Sweet pussy. Nice.”
Natasha looked up in time to see Mortaille standing over them. Swiftly, he pumped his swollen shaft, abruptly spurting a shower of creamy droplets over her upturned face.
“No more pretty boys for Natasha. I’m going to rename you Kitten, by the way, because you are such a sweet little pussy. No more pretty boys for Kitten. Just bad girls and wicked old men.”
May Chang laughed and this time, Natasha joined her, happily drenched in the blended juices of the afternoon’s games.
Alex stared at the sensuous creature which swayed dreamily into the rehearsal room the next morning, strangely poised and soignee. What had she done to herself? Her hair was the same as ever, untinted, her make-up unchanged. Yet there was something new about the girl, an interesting quality he must have overlooked. He raised one hand in a languid greeting only to see her glance away, greeting old Mortaille with the sweetest smile. Bitch! He would teach her to pay more respect. What could she want with that grizzled old dwarf? The ballet master was shorter than she was, for heaven’s sake! It was ridiculous, inconceivable. Alex blinked. Gracefully, Natasha crossed the room, taking her place before Alex at the bar. Slowly, thoughtfully, she swept one arm through a perfect curve, casting a brief disdainful glance over her shoulder.
“I hate rats.”
“I beg your pardon?”
But Natasha only smiled and bent down to fasten the ribbon on her shoe.