Chapter 9

FFhen Roul De Fonseca told Joanna her Husband was with Aimee he lied. Joanna proving more difficult than he'd anticipated, he had used a trump card, had pushed the infallible panic button. And Joanna had fallen for the gambit hook, line and sinker; she had responded with a pagan amorality which, at times, astonished the seasoned lecher.

After Aimee had consented to call Joanna, she'd offered no explanation as to her whereabouts and activities while he was seducing the stupid American woman. He assumed she'd worked out a relationship with Mayo by then, but he had no proof. She might be with someone entirely different, another man, a stranger of whose existence Roul was ignorant.

What did it matter? So long as he had Joanna, so long as she was at his mercy-Aimee could accommodate a half dozen men simultaneously; he couldn't have cared less.

Thus it was, at that same moment that Joanna was so dissolutely attempting to revive her lover, in Aimee's bedroom at their Faubourg-St. Germaine address-

The girl's name was Ayesha Saleem. She was a full-blooded Algerian, a dusky beauty of singular and warped tastes. She was 31, a calloused, practical female who had come to grips with herself-and the world. If she was a Lesbian, she was proudly so. This was the way she was made-the world contributing to that mutation in no small degree-society could accept, or reject her, on her own terms.

And if society chose to turn up its nose at Ayesha and her peculiar inclinations-

Well, there was a French word for that too.

There were always other Lesbians, there were always free-thinkers like this thrill-hungry Mme. Aimee De Fonseca. There were the bisexuals, the possible converts.

Which was, to some small degree, the light in which Ayesha regarded Aimee. As a possible prospect.

And in the meantime-

There were always the financial considerations, the pretty clothes, the expensive trinkets Mme. De Fonseca showered on her. As did those others among Mme. De Fonseca's high-society friends who indulged themselves in exploratory sex. And if they enjoyed themselves, lent themselves to deviationary thrill, who was getting hurt?

Didn't she, Ayshea, of humble North African beginnings get hers in the bargain? Didn't she get to love these Paris socialite wenches, achieve her own joy in the process of making them squirm, gasp and yip their own pleasures?

The trade was profitable. As well as educational.

And more important: Balm to her own deranging lusts.

Ayesha still counted that night, when Mme. De Fonseca had discovered her doing her tawdry belly-dance in one of the disreputable clubs fringing Montmarte's fun center, had invited her for a drink, had fostered their most incongruous friendship, as the luckiest night of her life. Recognizing Ayesha for what she was, the fine lady had subtly inaugurated the relationship that had lasted to this day.

Thus the beautiful Algerian emigre was content, more than happy to hover over Aimee at this moment as the grande dame lolled in her tub. She loved to wait on her hand and foot, bathe and cleanse her for the impending love session. She thrilled at the contrast between her dusky flesh and that of Aimee as her hands laved and caressed those ivory breasts, that white, soap-slippery belly.

"Lovely, lovely," the aristocratic sensualist purred as the brown hands rippled over her, ignited torrid fires inside her belly. "That feels so wonderful, darling. Mmmmmm. Lower, lower. Wash me there now. Get your mistress ready."

Lower then. Carefully, maddeningly. Ayesha didn't need to be told a second time.

Ayesha's wanton attentions drove Mme. De Fonseca completely wild. And now, moving into the first phase of her homosexual involvement, Aimee let her hands drift from the tub, she caressed Ayesha's honey-toned breasts, teased those poppy-sized nipples. With a thick giggle she let her hands drift elsewhere on the Algerian's body as well.

Temperatures rose very quickly in that steamy bathroom.

Until, shortly, at Aimee's insistence, Ayesha was climbing into the tub also. Trembling, like a dependent child, she let Aimee gather her in her arms, kiss her full, ripe lips, she let Aimee run her hands over her body.

Not too much later the mistress-servant roles were reversed. And Ayesha was lying in submissive repose, was allowing Aimee to bathe her. A bathing that became infinitely thorough and intimate before it was finally concluded.

They made a great show out of toweling each other off. Ayesha derived a fanatic pleasure from powdering her mistress' body, from massaging her muscles, spreading a musky, aphrodisiac perfume on her throat, breasts, tummy-even her inner thighs.

Then they were hurrying into that darkened bedroom, they were opening the bed, baring the pristine sheets. In preparation for the sweet joys as yet untasted. But first:

"Will you dance for me, Ayesha, darling? Just a little bit? I love to watch your body when you dance."

"I would be honored, Madame," the girl replied in that liquid, singsong French the Algerians affect. "You are kind to ask me."

Aimee reclined on the bed, her head braced on her hand, watched with lazy pleasure as the lithe-bodied woman moved to the center of the room.

And there, sans the usual gilded, fringed trappings she wore at Le Algerienne, the voluptuously-endowed female, her body a golden-brown, began to dance.

As always Aimee was enraptured by that chocolate flesh, by the darkness of those nipples, by the proud aureoles that ringed those stone-hard nibs. She thought the black-haired pagan the most noble of female creatures, marveled again and again at the serpentine glide of those hips, the grace of those legs, the tautness of that belly.

Yet, revealed totally as her tummy was, there was lushness also, a convexity that tantalized and taunted. For, Aimee mused, after all, what good is a belly-dancer who has no belly? Her eyes glittered, lingered on that revolving, undulating bowl, slid lower, to that freshly shaved area. An occupational exigency, she smiled.

Now her eyes rose to those large, firm breasts, she delighted in the way they bobbed and rolled in direct reaction to Ayesha's revolving hips, to the waggle of her luxuriant buttocks. Sexual stirrings made themselves known within her. Aimee felt an overwhelming pride as she thought that-in a few minutes-this luscious creature would be groveling before her, wanting her, loving her. Merely because she'd been lucky enough to be born a woman. It was a thought to make a much stronger woman squirm.

The dance became more frenzied, Ayesha threw back her head, arched her long, lovely throat, she let her long, black hair sail behind her like a plume. Her knees bent, her legs were spread wide. And now, her breasts throbbing and swaying in perfect time to the singsong tune she hummed, came the highlight of her dance.

As, with perfect muscular control, the Algerian began drawing her stomach muscles tight, seemingly contracted her whole stomach, drew it up high, almost into her diaphragm. There was a serpentine bunching there, an almost hypnotic quivering. Then, slowly, inch by inch, Ayesha let the contracted mass slither downward, seemingly pick a path of its own behind that dusky skin.

Her breasts continued to bob throughout, her hips ground and swayed in light throbbing. And again and again she made those stomach muscles rise and fall, rise and fall.

Finally, sweat beginning to glisten on her upper lip, Ayesha, with a last thrust of her pelvis, brought the exotic dance to an end. Aimee clapped lightly, gleefully, summoned the dancer to her bed. "Wonderful, wonderful," she praised. "Whew! I get all worked up just watching you."

"That is good, Madame. I am glad I still have that power. For when you are worked up-" She fell softly onto the bed, she agressor now, Aimee the dependent novitiate. She took Aimee into her arms, began to embrace and kiss her. Almost instantly Ayesha was inflamed, she began to tremble, her breath came in harsh, quick puffs.

"You are so beautiful, Madame. So white, so clean. I enjoy making love to you. I am sad when we are apart."

"Do you really love me, Ayesha?" Aimee fished, the vocal adoration by this lovely pagan as important to her as the physical. "Do you really enjoy me? Is it because I am white?"

"Perhaps," Ayesha said, raising Aimee in her arms, bracing her with one knee, dropping her head to her crinkled nipples. "Perhaps it is because you are a quality lady. Because I feel like it is an honor to love you...."

Aimee's eyes closed, she relaxed, savored the incredible softness of Ayesha's lips, the unique, tender way she attended her. A manner so entirely different from that in which men treated her. "That's exquisite, darling," she sighed. "You know how to love me so well. Oh, ohhh ... Your lips set me on fire. Your tongue ... Oh, my God!"

Aimee's legs began to flex, her knees began to compress in rhythmic cadence, indication of the urgent desire mounting deep within her. A reaction Ayesha was well aware of. And letting her lips and tongue work faster, she let her free hand caress that velvety tummy, she let her fingers skitter and tickle, inflame her mistress all the more.

Then, when her hand became more bold, demanded greater hedonistic rapportAimee surrendered almost immediately, squirming and whimpering at that tandem arousal.

Shortly it was Ayesha who couldn't control herself further. Her teeth becoming gently sadistic, she pulled away from Aimee, looked at her with imploring eyes. "Now, Madame," she husked. "I cannot wait any longer."

"You really want me?" Aimee teased, enjoying withholding herself at these moments when Ayesha became aroused beyond endurance. "You must have me now?"

"Now," the girl hissed. "Yes, now. I ass, I must have you...."

"You burn? How badly?"

"Very bad, Madame. Please. I can't wait."

"Say please," Aimee giggled.

"Please, Madame...."

"Please, Madame, what?"

"Please, Madame, let me love you. Let me have you."

"Shortly," Aimee simpered. "Bring me some more absinthe first. I am thirsty."

Quickly the sex-addled woman scurried to the dresser, brought the two small glasses of the dark, murky liquid. "I like this, you know," Aimee said, sipping hers lightly.

"This makes me wild, lets me enjoy you-everything, that much more."

"Qui, Madame. The absinthe does the same for me. Now, Madame? Please?"

Aimee smirked broadly. "Yes, now." She dipped her fingers into her glass, coated her nipples with the potent liquor. "But first, a little more absinthe. Come, Ayesha."

Docilely the Lesbian leaned her head, laved the pink buds clean. Again Aimee's fingers dipped, painted a patch of flesh south of her breasts. The head ducked once more.

Now on Aimee's belly, on each hip. Ayesha followed like a hungry puppy following a trail of meat scraps.

And finally Aimee's fingers dipped a last time.

Ayesha whimpered, came over her. Aimee giggled, sucked in her breath loudly as that first hot touch was conferred. She adjusted, made Ayesha even more welcome.

"Magnifique," Aimee gloated as the abnormal rite went on and on. "This is unbelievably good. I'm sure if more women knew how good this love is ... " She snickered, sipped more absinthe. "We'd certainly put the men out of business wouldn't we, Ayesha, darling?"

"Yes, Madame," came the muffled reply. "Certitude."

Now Aimee's body began to lurch and twist, she let her hips rise and fall in mock lovemaking. Her cries were more pinched, more agonized.

"Yes, Ayesha, yes," she chanted. "Like that, like that. Don't stop. Oh, darling, this is the most exquisite of loves, the love a woman gives another woman. This is so restful, so peaceful, so gentle. None of your crude, impatient stallions. Only one woman taking care of another, desiring only the other's sublime joy. Divine, oh divine."

Which praise drove Ayesha to even greater efforts. And as she worked even more assiduously:

Aimee lost control. And for the first time in her life-

Now she arranged pillows beneath her head, she drew Ayesha's legs toward her. And when her hands fumbled, when her meaning was clear-

Ayesha was quick to accommodate her.

There were no more words. Only those dull moans, the whistling breaths. Aimee swung into the aberrated love as though she'd been a practitioner all her life.

Ayesha responded in kind, laughed to herself. Convert? she mused. Here is the first step. Who knows? Someday I might be paying the niadame. She growled hungrily, made Aimee moan and twist the more abandonedly.