Fur

by Vanessa de Sade

  “You have it?” the Princess gasps, wolfing down the forbidden food - bacon, scrambled eggs, buttered croissants - with an animalistic ferocity.

  “I have it,” the Girl replies, thrusting the package into the other’s long tapered fingers. “It’s the best I could do at short notice. I hope it fits.”

  “Let’s see,” the Princess giggles. Yes, giggles. Sliding off her robe and standing unashamedly naked before the gaping Girl, her long thin body like an alabaster statue, white marble skin flawless and everything waxed to a sheen. “Pass it to me...”

  But the Girl is too busy staring, drinking in the ethereal beauty of the Princess whom she has loved for years in the velvet darkness of downtown movie theatres, imagining herself looking into those pale sea-opal eyes and hearing the three little words that every girl wants to hear.

  “Seriously, K-Mart?” the Princess laughs, reaching for the package and reading the label before stepping into cotton panties and pulling the simple print dress over her head. “If this ever gets out they’ll become poverty chic overnight.”

  “We haven’t much time,” the Girl urges, shaking herself and peeling her whites off and picking up the dress she has brought for herself. Semi-naked, she lacks the manicured composure of her fellow conspirator, round hips barely contained in the bright yellow pants that hint at the dark bush beneath, her heavy white breasts straining against the white under-wired brassiere that doesn’t match her underpants.

  “Come, then, let us be gone, my beauty,” says the Princess, having said it in her first picture - and the reference is not lost on her companion, who is also aware that they have both looked when the other was undraped. And like brashly coloured fashionistas they don chunky plastic sunglasses in unison and take the service elevator down to the rear entrance and the boulevards, walking through the milling ranks of paparazzi completely unobserved as they board a bus to the boardwalks and Venice Beach.

  3

  The setting sun is huge red ball in the purple sky when they finally return, their faces sticky from cotton candy and mouths tingling with the yellow mustard from the last hotdogs purchased on the sea front while the stiff breeze flirted with their skirts and teased lounging boys with tantalising glimpses of brightly coloured panties and long tapered white thighs.

  “I declare that I have never enjoyed a day so much in my life,” the Princess cries, flopping down onto the big bed. “And I swear that I shall never shower again so that the scent of it will always be with me, and I’ll taste the sea air on my skin and lick mustard and sugar candy from my lips...”

  “Then maybe you should keep me in a jar by your bed,” the Girl replies, slumping down beside her and lying so close that she can inhale the other’s musk. “Keep me like your very own bottle imp to remind you of your stolen day of freedom when you come home tired of your celebrity lifestyle...”

  And the Princess turns, the laughter all gone now, their faces so close that they can feel each other’s breath on their skin. “You’ve saved me, you know. What can I give you in return?”

  “I think you know,” says the Girl, so low that it’s scarcely a whisper. But the other hears and knows what is being asked of her.

  “It’s not my first time,” she begins. “There was another girl, once, years ago, in another life. But I left her for what I thought was my dream, and, later, when I became An Asset, they went out and found her and paid her off so that she would never come back and spoil the pretty portrait they had painted of me...”

  “I’ve touched myself watching your pictures, right there, in the movie theatre, slid my hand down my panties and squeezed as I watched you on the screen,” the Girl suddenly confesses as though she hasn’t heard, a cautious hand on the other’s flawless flank.

  The Princess nods. “I saw you looking at my cunt this morning,” she whispers, her fingers tangled in the wind-blown bird’s nest of the other’s chestnut hair. “It made me feel all warm inside.”

  “Yessss...” It comes out like a hiss, a satisfied sigh, and, suddenly, their lips have met and they are kissing, mouths hungry and, somehow, confident, as though they are old lovers who know each other contours so well that they could recognise each other in the dark, inquisitive tongues duelling deliciously as they devour each other.

  “Naked,” the Princess moans, breaking the embrace like an oxygen-starved diver clawing her way to the surface. “I need you naked. Now!”

  “You too,” the Girl whispers, clawing at the Princess’ dress and dragging it off, the flimsy little panties quickly disposed off as the other denudes her in turn, leaving her gasping like a landed fish in just her big reinforced bra, her big breasts heaving like a melodrama heroine about to be ravished.

  The Girl is moaning now, fuck me, fuck me, like a voodoo chant and the Princess obligingly runs her hands roughly up her flank and squeezes her hairy pudenda impatiently, desperate to possess her.

  “I’m too horny,” she apologises, mounting the Girl and rubbing her smooth pussy - hard - against the heat of the other’s thigh. “I can’t wait, I need to come now!”

  “Come as often as you like. We’ve got all night,” the Girl moans, luxuriating in the feel of the Princess’ slippery wetness on her thigh as the other grips her tightly and threatens to come. “Oh, yes, that’s nice...”

  “Stick you finger up my ass!” the Princess gasps, her orgasm welling up inside her like a caged beast, and she gives a final powerful thrust as the Girl’s finger finds her puckered little orifice and enters it, hard, tipping her over the brink and plunging her into the abyss of oblivion.

  ***

  They are ravenous for each other now, and the Girl throws the Princess onto the bed and smothers her with kisses as she writhes like a butterfly on a pin, sucking hard on the pale pink nipples that swell up like hard-jelly sweets, kneading those kissable little tits with desperate hands as her mouth moves downwards to the glacial white flesh of the Princess’ cunt. And it’s more lovely than she ever dared dream, all peachy pinks and strawberries and cream inside, soft puffy lips that pout like spoilt girls in party frocks, everything wet and slick from her recent climax, the taste of her like afternoon sun on wet sand.

  “Split me open like a fig,” the Princess moans, parting her legs wide. “Put your tongue into my slit and lick my clit...”

  “Like this?” the Girl asks, two fingers easing open the fleshy oyster while her quick cat’s tongue quickly finds the pearl.

  “Oh yes!” the Princess groans, pushing her pussy into her lover’s face. “Eat me up like a starving woman...”

  “I am a starving woman, I’ve hungered for you for years. And, oh, what a big clit you have...”

  “All your own work, lover girl, but I’m awfully lonely up here. Why don’t you bring that nice fat cunt of yours up here so that we can both play.”

  “Sorry about all the hair,” the Girl says, scrambling round so that they can both lie mouth to pussy. “I’d have shaved it for you if I’d know we were really going to do this...”

  “Don’t you dare, I love it,” says the Princess, burying her face in the dense jungle and inhaling. “And I’m going to kiss every inch of this delicious furry beast before I’m done with you.”

  “Promises,” the Girl groans through gritted teeth, feeling the tension in her partner as the Princess gently parts her bush and admires the deep gash, pushes her tongue inside and finds nirvana.

  “Is that your clit? Fuck, it’s huge,” the Princess pants. “And you’re so wet. Do you squirt when you come?”

  “Sometimes...”

  “Try to do it tonight, try to come in my face and wet me with your salt-sweet spendings...”

  “Alright, but I think it’ll be soon...” And it’s no longer a groan or a moan, more like a cry of agony as the climax inside wells up like a coiled spring or a geyser ready to burst through rock and shoot jets of boiling liquid high into the summer air. “I think I’m coming!”

  “Me too, shove your finger up my ass again and reall
y ram it in!”

  And maybe they said more, did more, but none of them remember it, lost as they were in their mutual ecstasy, their two writhing bodies one pleasure-hungry animal that roared its satisfaction out loud as they came, and came, and came...

  4

  When the Girl woke the sun was already streaming through the big bay windows and the bed was strangely cold and deserted as she fumbled with the silken sheets, finally walking desolately through to the huge en suite bathroom that was bigger than her own apartment and inhaling all the cut glass lotion bottles before finally masturbating with a towel that smelt vaguely of the Princess, a last gesture of defiance before she departed this life and went back to her below-stairs world. Little Sapphic Cinderella after the ball, except there would be no handsome prince and no tell-tale glass slipper to seek her out. Fairy tales are beautiful stories, she knew, but in real life the rich and famous have their fun with you and then, having strutted and fretted their hour upon the carnal alter, are seen no more.

  So she went back to her duties in the heat of the kitchens and the long luxurious afternoons in the matinee theatres down town, big tears running down her face as she watched silent heroines put upon by their lovers and left lonely in the cruel snow; a young Garbo uttering her first words and early two-colour Technicolor melodramas about ruined women from Douglas Sirk.

  And she had just about resigned herself to this solitary life of quiet desperation when she found herself summoned to the hotel manager’s office and unceremoniously let go, the only tiny ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak sky being an offer of re-employment at a deserted beach house on the coast, the owners perpetually away on film studio business and her duties negligible. It was a reprieve of a sort, she thought, letting her apartment go and moving into the tiny attic flat provided, but the days were long and slightly depressing with only the whirling gulls for company, and she longed for the sound of a human voice to inject some tiny modicum of warmth into her enforced solitude.

  July slowly became August and August had become September when the phone finally rang and announced the arrival of the owner that weekend, and she breezed through the silent rooms throwing open the drapes and liberating the furniture from its long enshroudment under the copious dustsheets, letting the cold sea light caress the pale carpets and white silk sofas as she found herself humming some half-remembered melody.

  “Lara’s Theme, seriously?” said a voice, a voice so well remembered from the fleshy delights of half-waking erotic dreams, a voice like cream liqueur over crushed ice, running streams over peaty gravel.

  “You?” she said, not daring to turn. “This is your house?”

  “It is...”

  “And you let me believe that you didn’t love me for all those months?”

  “What can I say? My life is not my own and I didn’t want any keen as mustard little studio flunky luring you away with veiled threats or promises of cash...”

  “And this is for ever?”

  “On weekends for now. Until I’m thirty-five and play my last fuckable role before they consign me to the Mom department. Then for ever and ever. Amen.”

  “You mean that?”

  “I do. And now, I only have until Monday morning, so turn around and fuck me.”

  And slowly. Oh, so slowly. The Girl turns and sees her Princess radiant in the last setting glow of the September sun as it sinks into the limpid Pacific and dyes the azure waters blood red, a halo of sunbursts around her golden-blonde head like an erotic Madonna, Our Lady of the Clitoris, Patron Saint of Pussies.

  “I’ve let my bush grow in for you,” the Princess whispers as she fumbles with the zipper on the back of her dress. Smiling.

  Cold Kisses

  1

  Despite everything she knew about him she was still shocked when she found the photographs tucked away at the back of a seldom-used drawer like broody brown eggs. Yet she had known when she married him five years ago - enchanted by his eyes, blue, like robin’s eggs - that he hadn’t always been the sought-after New York attorney that he was today. And yet, these photographs, these photographs... They demanded an explanation. Context at the very least. So she decided to tackle him with them when he came home late that night, heady from wining and dining clients, as always a little drunk but still sharp as a razor. Left them laid neatly on their bed for him in their tatty brown envelopes. Exhibits A and B.

  “So, my little nun has found the prayer books?” he laughed, seeing them laid out like gloves in a drawer, more amused than vexed, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes, two thousand dollars worth of Calvin Kline suit already halfway to the floor. Certainly not the body language of a man caught with lipstick on his collar.

  “Yes, I found them,” she repeated. Half annoyed, half aroused. “Do you want to tell me all about them?”

  “Ah, the wronged wife requires full disclosure in order to still her restless imaginings,” he smiled, naked now, his cock already half erect. “Well, I suppose you’ve already opened Pandora’s Box so you might as well know the full story. Come along then, get undressed and come to bed and I’ll tell you everything you want to know...”

  “What, I need to be naked to hear this?” she remarked tartly, eyeing his rapidly rising member and trying not to let it turn her on. Knowing how much he liked to fuck her when he was in this mood.

  “Absolutely, I need to be sure you’re not wearing a wire,” he grinned, his cock like a lighthouse in the turbulent sea of his nakedness, pointing at her like an accusing finger.

  “Don’t be facetious,” she snapped, but complying anyway, deftly unfastening her jeans and sliding them down under the cover of her long sweater, her little blue panties quickly following; pointedly not pulling her soft angora jumper up over her head until she was safely under the bedclothes. Still annoyed - okay, jealous - and not wanting to be giving him any gratuitous thrills. Not yet, anyway.

  “Now,” she said firmly, slapping his hand away as it snaked up her thigh in the way that he knew that she liked. “Now, I want to know everything.”

  And, not replying, he picked up the first envelope...

  2

  Envelope One

  Contents: Four dog-eared Instant-Camera Photographs. Two show Caleb, aged about nineteen and looking uncomfortable, completely naked, flaccid in the first, erect in the latter. The other two are of an unknown man, about the same age, likewise naked, but erect in both instances.

  They had saved up a more than a month’s wages to buy the Polaroid camera and have it shipped out to the compound. Because, though they were going slowly crazy, messing with the local women was a total no-no and an offence that got you fired on the spot, not to mention the possibility of being thrown in jail by the district authorities, or worse, killed by the lady’s brothers. But there had to be American women out here, Caleb argued, an operation of this size just had to use women. Nurses, cooks, school teachers, secretaries. A few wives even, for fuck’s sake, living in the big mansion houses where the brass resided, basking topless or even nude behind the high walls of private pools.

  Not that Caleb believed in any of those stories, of course, dismissed them all as the idle jerk-off fantasies that they were, in fact, but it was the whispers about a clandestine contacts magazine for the base that really piqued his interest and had him buying drinks for unsavoury characters at juke joints and pit stops all over the goddamned desert. And, with the doggedness that was to make him extremely rich in later years, he finally tracked down a copy, a small smudgy Gestetner-printed pamphlet, barely ten pages in total and changing hands for obscene sums of money. But, as he held it in his hands, almost salivating at the blurry naked photographs and the delights they promised, he knew that he had stumbled through the doorway to a place of enchantment.

  They’d pored over it in their bunks all that evening, and Caleb had been all for applying to some of the adverts straight away, but Jeff had reasoned that it was the wrong way to go about it. Men outnumbered women by about thirty to one in thi
s hellhole, he argued, and all of the women who were brave enough to bare their white naked bodies in the “Men Wanted” section - their faces obscured by voluminous veils or heavy sunglasses in the fuzzy photographs - would be besieged with replies. And probably from guys on much higher pay grades too. No, Jeff reckoned, the only way that they were going to succeed in ever hooking up with a woman on this compound was to place their own ad and see what happened.

  So they saved up and sent off for the camera, and tonight it was sitting there in the space between their bunks, ready, waiting. An impartial voyeur in the intricate patterns of their lust.

  “Well, guess we’d better undress then,” Jeff finally said, toying with a button on his polo shirt.

  Caleb nodded. “It’s not like we haven’t seen each other before or anything...”

  “Sure... Well, here goes,” Jeff grinned with fake bravado, pulling his shirt off and stepping out of his jeans, whipping his boxers down in one fluid movement, his cock already big and heavy against the darkness of his pubic hair, the big bare head swollen and lazy, threatening imminent erectness.

  Caleb swallowed. “I’ve seen you naked a hundred times, but never, you know, looked at you before...”

  His voice trailed away as he looked down at himself self-consciously, then quickly undressed, standing nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot as he felt his friend look over his naked body.