In a world of her own, Hyacinth carefully dusts around the pretty things each girl has left at their backstage work-station. Some girls keep their gear in Tupperware, others have left it loose. Mascaras, nipple tassels, lube, eyeshadow and deodorant bottles are all piled up lifelessly. She cleans their makeup mirrors and afterwards, it's an extra effort to remove caked make-up stains from the long, black bench top.
The small, narrow room smells of face powder, latex and cheap perfume. Hyacinth is tired now, midway through her shift, having cleaned the performance area and it's low hanging mirror balls and glass-topped stages. (She uses special hypo-allergenic spray for the poles and chairs.) Normally her brother would be helping. Today he is despicable; hungover, lazy, absent. She sighs.
Looking about her, Hyacinth knows the warmly lit little dressing room is something other than a wonderland. Often it's a place of smoke and hot, tired girls no older than herself trying to gather their wits (or further scatter them). She imagines the bustle and noise but it's early morning, no one will be about for another few hours.
Hydie bends over to empty a small bin into a larger plastic sack at her side. It rustles in the quiet, airless room. She props the door open, finding a lavish feather boa, hanging on a hook by the door. It's a fine garment, much longer than any boa she has seen, red, rich, real and scratchy. Hydie wraps it around her neck and winds it around her arms, admiring herself playfully in the mirror. She looks a dream, it hides her skirt and slacks and clusters around her neck in a cloud of feathers.
Hydie takes it off. She looks about the room for other dress ups, eyeing a thin, silk tie with an elastic collar and matching emerald green heels.
Who would see?
She folds her own clothes neatly out of habit, draping them over the back of a vinyl chair. Once strapped onto her ankles, the shoes are heavy and they make it hard to walk, elongating her calf, making her feel gazelle-like. She keeps her legs straight, bending low to retrieve a waste basket, playing. Her tie scrapes the carpet. Hydie catches a glimpse of her ripe arse in the mirror. She grins to herself, about to reach for blood red lipstick from the table-top to complete her look.
Hydie stops dead. All mischief drains from her movements. The atmosphere in the room thickens.
In the doorway, a man in a day suit also admires her striking reflection; a half-girl, half-woman, playing, as grown women so often don't. The stranger is sorry to see her sparkling smile replaced by a wary, blank look. Only now he hesitates, a portion of his body already inside the room. Hydie takes in his expensive grey, polished, business shoes. He sports a flashy watch where his hand grips the door. Inwardly she groans, a quick glance reveals her cleaning products and kit supplies are strewn about the room.
“I appear to have stumbled on a private show?” A wry, open smile to punctuate his words.
He searches her features desperately for signs of the nymph from moments before. He's tall, good- looking in a European sort of way, bristled chin and thick lips off set by flawless olive skin. An unwelcome emotion unfurls like honey on her insides. Hydie blushes. Curiosity and something else shines in the stranger's eyes. She has seen that look before, recognises it for what it might be. It helps take the edge off her mortification.
“Would you like a wrap?”
Suspended in hyper-reality, Hydie feels herself open and close her mouth like a goldfish. No words come.
“Then I'll get you one.”
His body disappears from the doorway. Hydie hears the sound of coat hangers tinkling from the hall. Her stranger passes a silken slip of material from the costume rack. She takes it, and covers her assets, just. It's impossibly short and red. Her long, slender legs accentuate its briefness. She knots the sash nervously. Her black eyes are pools of shock, full ripe breasts strain at the material across her chest. To rest her shaking legs, she perches on a chair. She begins divesting herself of her stolen, silly, daringly high shoes.
The stranger's voice is soft. From the doorway he observes her slow progress, unbuckling the stilettos, hands clumsy with mortification. Hyacinth abandons her task in a rush, standing suddenly and propping her trembling bottom against the bench-top. It feels as though she ought to try and reassert herself, she places her hands on either side of her hour-glass figure, grasping the bench, unconsciously provocative. Darkness deepens in her observer's rich, brown expression. He takes a step forward.
“Who have I found today?” His tone is light. “I know most of my girls, but you, I don't seem to have come across before...?”
Hydie purses her lips in defiance, standing her ground. Fright is written across her features. He can't be the owner? His eyes now seem overtly predatory, it awakens her bravado. Hydie's next breath is a big one. The air is cool. It helps.
“It is my sister who dances for you.”
She holds her head proudly, trapped; facing an unseen challenge.
“And your name?”
He seems undaunted by her unorthodox antics, a lot of his attention has deferred to the split in her tiny gown and her creamy thighs.
He raises an eyebrow.
“My... my friends call me Hydie”
His manner is gracious, though the strange fire continues to flicker in his brown eyes. She rolls her hips and the slippery material gives away a little more. Hydie doesn't say anything, fighting the urge to glance down. She can feel how the fabric has shifted, knows she is being difficult, provocative. He makes his way further into the room, closing the door at his back, legs slightly parted, watching her with interest. All of a sudden Hydie isn't sure of what to do.
“You're very beautiful”
It's as though a breath of hot wind has blown apart her inhibitions. Hydie holds his gaze.
“Patrick.” Her stranger offers thoughtfully. “My name is Patrick, since you asked.”
Hydie merely licks her lips.
“And Patrick, why are you here so early today?”
His hands drop to his sides. He's tempted, mesmerised she thinks, wickedly.
“I came to meet with my accountant.”
The thought makes Hydie cold.
“He's gone.” Patrick adds quickly.
“Were you here the whole time?”
“You failed to notice the building was un-alarmed when you entered? ”
A catch in her breath, Hydie's only concession to the realisation that this man truly is the boss.
Mystified, she looks at him in a new light. Through work his tawdry establishment, he must have seen hundreds of women in varying states of undress. Yet Patrick is utterly charming, attentive, Hydie has trouble digesting the idea. The girl/woman is immune to the picture she has created, adorned as she is now in borrowed showgirl rags, brought to life by her startling aristocratic complexion and flaming, dark hair. Patrick drinks in the sight of her.
“I've never met anyone quite like you.”
“Is that so?”
“Might I kiss your shoulder?”
Hydie giggles. It is all so absurd.
Patrick caresses warm skin at her shoulder with the ball of one thumb and then unabashed, lowers his face and connects his lips with hers. It's a leading sample of his talent as a lover. Rich, hot and decisive.
Early warning unravels and pools in the heat of Hydie's belly. Before she can reach up and curl her slender forearms around his neck, he drops to his knees. The weight of her round thighs presses into the palm of his hands. Hydie watches lazily as he removes more of her tiny wrap, baring her shoulders and altering how the liquid fabric covers her hips. Her vagina steals focus, peaking from the red material, a tiny patch of delectable darkness on her milky skin.
“Oooh” Hydie tells him, in something like dismay.
Her shoulders arch. She presses the budded tips of her breasts closer to him, constrained by cloth.
Patrick's eyes rove, eating up the sight of her in her half aroused, half shocked state. When at last his mahogany gaze rests upon her face, he implores her, openly questioning. She isn't sure why. In turn, Hydie admires his thick, dark lashes and well kept skin until he ducks his head, stooping to embrace her sweetness, licking languidly along her slickness with a practiced, flat tongue.
Hydie burns hot and cold, she relaxed her knees. His thick hair brushes her thighs, adding to the cavalcade of unexpected sensations. Patrick settles into his task, drawing more from her, lapping and sucking. Hydie hazily scrutinizes the fine bones in her idle hands. She sinks them into his hair.
“Ooh” she says. Again. Only this time it's with more conviction.
Leaning heavily on the bench, enthusiastically parting her thighs wider to allow him access, Hydie admires her new suitor at his task, white-hot heat growing in her crotch. He draws her musky moisture into his mouth, nibbling as though she were fruit. After a time he groans, licking around the flesh of her labia, plunging an eager tongue into her passage. Hydie bucks enchanted.
But the question never comes. Patrick withdraws.
“Perhaps you think I'm a bit forward” he asked thickly, punctuating his words with a wicked grin.
His lips are slick. Hydie only nods. Her pussy pulses, aching. It's a treacherous fine line, just before the point-of-no-return. Her need dictates her next move. Soundlessly she takes one of his broad hands, keeping eye contact, sinking one calloused digit into her moist mouth, sucking, emulating, teasing. After a moment she withdraws and then re-envelopes his delicious finger into the warmth and wetness of her mouth. His fingerprint tastes of leather and fleshy salt. Her dark eyes blister with lust. Patrick stands, a thick bulge in his tailored trousers, his finger still in her mouth.
His lids are heavy, He watches her lips. For Hydie's part, she makes no attempt to cover herself, languishing in his arousal. She finishes her assault on his fingers, lightly kissing their tips.
“Go now. I have to finish my work.”
As punctuation, Hydie's shaking hand traces the outline of his manhood through his pants. Patrick nods, closing his eyes a moment too long. The door clicks behind him as he steps away.
A cheap clock on the wall gives away seconds. Hydie's heart pounds, her breasts ache. She fumbles with them in her hands, cupping and smoothing the flesh. It doesn't help. Their encounter has taken a lot from her, more than she would like to admits. Very slowly, rolling the weight of each number around on her aroused lips, Hydie counts to ten, trying to slow her pulse and clear her head. She sways her knees, tantalisingly aware of her arousal. Her hand strays to the thatch of triangular hair. Perhaps if she worked quickly to rid herself of desire? Engorged sweetmeat between her legs beckons her attention. She slides fingers in.
“Oh” she said, retreating.
Her fingers caress her flesh at her pubic bone and into the valley of her thighs. Inhaling deeply she rummages within swollen flesh, seeking relief from the dark fire. Still perched on the bench she runs one palm around the smooth skin on her rump. Hydie shuffles her hips, thrusting forward for better access to her lushness. With an index and forefinger she rubs and cajoled her clitoris eagerly from the front, at the same time pushing helpful fingers into her sex from behind. She makes little thrusts.
Hydie's own reflection mocks her, parted lips and wild hair, enjoying the pressure, needing release, her sopping fingers dancing on over-sensitised wet flesh. Hydie switches to her knees for better access. Naked, leaning over a chair for support, she continues to guides herself ever closer to orgasm, her surprise at this mornings events intensifies too.
And then, she notes a pair of grey, Italian shoes in what used to be the closed doorway. Hydie pumps her digits, clawing for breath, her lush arse spread, facing the door. She looks up. A deep flush touches her cheeks as she makes eye contact with this man who has made her crazy; a sex-charged uninhibited minx where there used to be a voluptuous, controlled employee. She isn't at all sure she likes it.
Patrick doesn't give her a moment to decided either way, as she eyes him with a glazed expression, he helps her up, closes the door and draws her to him. Skin so close she can make out the sexy shadow of regrowth on his jaw in individual detail. He smells of promise and paperwork but Hydie wants to lead. She leans her body against his, tracing the cut of his lips with fingers that smell of her own sex. Patrick watches her, unsmiling. His own hands fumble with the belt between them and the zipper of his trousers. His cock, drawn from his navy boxers, grows as she closes her hands around it.
He kisses her on the lips and btushes a caress lightly on the palm of her musky hand. Details and location vanish. Patrick picks up the naked woman, aligning her arse with the bench, still facing him. Hydie's hands sweep clutter out of the way from either side, scattering trinkets and possessions.
Hydie's moistened palm grasps the velvet skin of his cock, urging him towards her folds. At the entrance to her pussy ittle waves of heat pulse through her cervix. Though she tries, he won't let her guide his pole into her. Patrick holds himself in reserve, offering no respite from sharp pangs of desire.
Long arms either side of her body, keep her in his arms. Urgent breath, stubble and wet, clumsy lips, Hydie pushes his shirt out of the way, with rubbery, clotted fingers. His chest hair makes their tips tingle.
“Oh. Please.” Into his mouth.
He's swivelling her hips. Their mouths disconnect and Hydie faces her reflection, her skin glows. Behind her, Patrick caressed her arse, rubbing his shaft up the column between her ripe cheeks. Hydie stiffens. Patrick teases the sensitive flesh of her pussy. The moments stop, they are suspended. She is ice cream dessert and fiery need; Christmas morning and dark, molten heat. His cock head teases her folds.
She watches Patrick in the mirror as he briskly lowers himself and sucks on her sex once more, a precursory, lavish lick that sends arrows of need into her belly. She pushes her arse into his face. She barely recognises the full-figured, wild-eyed woman with her flanks parted, waiting to be reamed. Patrick stands. He catches her indecision and steals it from her. He surges behind her and disbelief comes closely followed by carnal pleasure.
“More.” He slides more of his length into her.
Patrick stops watching the progress of his cock and meets her eyes in the mirror. Tension in his jaw reveals his grip on restraint. He inches his impressive meat first out and then smoothly back into her, bending forward and closing his lips on the tender skin of her nape. The motion rocks their hips together deliciously. She is full, his cock enclosed within her.
Patrick withdraws and impales himself. Again. Her slickness is audible. He accelerates towards a punishing rhythm, Hydie leans on her elbows and holds on.
She creeps a cheeky finger between them into her cunt, toying with her pleasure-zone as cock meat slides relentlessly in and out. And still his cock grows in size.
“OooOOH” She adds helpfully.
Hydie concentrates the bulk of her attention on her sex, dark hair falling in waves around her, obscuring her eyes. He grips her hips, mahogany eyes roving over her body. She's impossibly full of cock one minute and craving more in the next instant.
“That's good. That's so good.”
He jams into her. Their fucking is frenzied, hard. They both climb for release. Hydie faces the desk, inches from her own face. She closes her eyes, unable to look. Darkness intensified her tension and she bursts into orgasm. Patrick follows, at last, grunting.
He relaxes his grip on her thighs.
“Oh” He says and turns her body toward him..
Before he can speak, Hydie covers his mouth with her finger.
“Don't break this moment.” she says, breathless.
She releases his lips from her finger, kissing him quickly.
“You fuck like a man, a very playful man. I enjoyed it. I think even, we should do it again...?”
His nymphet kisses his nose on tiptoes and goes silently about the business of beginning to dress. It's as if occurrences like this take place every day. Patrick knows they don't. He can tell by the way her body trembles.
“Next time, bring someone to watch. And please, let's go somewhere without mirrors.”
Hydie leaves him there, dumb, semi-naked. She slips from the room, taking a moment in the quiet corridor to decide on a plan for the next few minutes.
When Patrick opens the door to make his way back upstairs, she is gone.