Spice and Vanilla - WIP - a Teaser

Just a small teaser from Spice, which is growing in every direction like a crazy tree... to the point when I needed to take a break or my brain would overheat.

Well, here it is, all unedited of course... I hope you enjoy it.

"Nadia met Lucie at her place that Saturday. Or rather, she was supposed to meet Lucie, but when she got to the door, it was Raphael who opened.

“I am sorry I am so late,” he said, kissing her distractedly on the forehead. Nadia could tell that he was already half into Lucie-mode from the scrupulously chaste kiss. “Something came up, last minute, with work. On Saturday afternoon, can you believe it?”

“It’s ok,” she said. “It’s nice to see you, if only for a minute.”

He gave a slightly strained smile at that, and then kissed her again, on her lips, lightly.

“I’ll be ready in a moment,” he said, hurrying towards the bathroom. Then he stopped and laughed. “No, scratch that. It’s probably going to take a while. Make yourself comfortable.”

After he disappeared, Nadia wondered about aimlessly for a while in the empty flat, and finally opened the fridge. It was a dispiriting experience to open Raphael’s fridge. She honestly wondered what he ate when he was on his own. There was some orange juice, standing rather forlorn in the half empty white glare, and she poured herself a glass before going to look for some music to play on the stereo. Something called The Tempest by a Henry Purcell looked promising and she slipped the cd in the reader before flopping on the sofa.

She was two thirds through the cd before Lucie made an appearance.

“Oh my god,” said Nadia seeing her emerging. “Wow.”

Lucie was like something out of a catwalk. Absurdly tall, lean and ash blonde, beautifully made up, she could have passed for a top model in any clothes, but tonight she was especially elegant and provoking. Thigh-high, soft, black suede boots, nude colored stockings, a short black skirt (one of Nadia’s), and a champagne-colored turtleneck pull, with cut out shoulders. She wore a chunky vaguely tribal black necklace over the pull, and black bracelets at both wrists.

Lucie smiled. “How do you like the Tempest?”

“So so,” said Nadia honestly. She watched Lucie almost forming an answer and then shrugging and smiling. Nadia guessed that Raphael would have launched into a lecture on the topic, but that Lucie was more easy going.

Interesting.

“It is a bit of a bore. It’s not even really by Purcell, most likely. John Weldon’s, in fact.” She switched off the stereo and gave Nadia a hand to get up from the low sofa.

Nadia had to exercise all her self-control, not to touch and stroke her, on her bare shoulders, her stockinged legs, the blond hair that hung so enticingly all around her face, begging to be pulled back from her eyes. It was almost painful when Lucy put a knee-length pale brown coat, soft and drapey and a black scarf (also from Nadia) over all. But when she picked up her black tote bag and keys she was… perfect. A very, very beautiful, very tall, athletic woman, going out on Saturday night with a friend. There was just a hint of some delicious perfume around her.

“So, what do you think,” she said, standing by the door, “will it do?”

“Oh,” said Nadia, smiling, “it will do plenty. You are too gorgeous for words.” She actually felt physically dizzy, lightheaded, just looking at Lucie, and nearly walked into the doorframe while exiting the flat.

My god, I always assumed that only happened in the movies, she thought, trying to walk straight and succeeding only in part.

“You ok?” asked Lucie, with a small frown of concern creasing her forehead.

“Super. Never better,” said Nadia feeling every bit as unsteady as a teenager going out on her first date.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I am going completely hormone-drunk over my own boyfriend (or girlfriend?)as if I had just met him/her for the first time.

Goodness gracious. I am in love with Lucie! I want to do all manner of things to her. And I want Lucie to do things to me.

By the time they got outside on the pavement waiting for their cab she had recovered enough from this realization that she could actually walk without colliding with potted plants and lamp-posts, but she still could not look at Lucie without blushing crimson. Gosh, this is really embarrassing.

Lucie watched her with another small frown.

“Are you sure you are really quite well? I could swear you are coming down with something.” She laid her long, cool hand on Nadia’s forehead and tut-tutted unhappily.

“Jeez, baby, you are burning. You are running a fever. I think we should go back home and put you in bed right away.”

Nadia giggled helplessly for half a minute.

“It is very tempting. But I am not sick. Just … somewhat hot and bothered.”

“Oh?” said Lucie, confused, and then she finally cottoned on to Nadia’s predicament and slowly smiled. “Oh! O-oh! I … oh my god, really?” She began to laugh softly, hiding her face behind her hand, and finally gathered Nadia in her left arm, holding her close.

“Ok, that is … unexpected. But very charming. Hold on to that thought, ok?”

New story underway! With teaser...

Well, after a couple of weeks off-blogging (I needed a rest from the vagaries of Blogger's formatting) I am back in business.

While not blogging I was very busy doing somethin far more important, i.e. sinking into a new story, which started out as a short, light hearted, fetishy story and is slowly morphing into a full-blown, emotional, still fetishy novel!

I have another beautiful, androgynous, cross-dressing hero (sorry, it can't be helped, I developed a thing for men in heels), Raphael, and another somewhat broken heroine, Nadia, but there is also another man in the picture, Hugh, and more than a sprinkle of bdsm and art, and music, and gasp, cats.

Rapahel inspiration is the spectacularly gorgeous German model and actor Paul Boche.
Did you click on the link? Good, then you will understand why I have been somewhat lost in my dreamworld. :)

It would be wonderful to finish this story before Christmas, but I don't believe in rushing the muse, so we shall see.
Here's a tease, now. (completely unedited)

"Because Lucie was essentially a nocturnal animal, her day started at about 8 PM, with a long hot shower and a thorough shave.

Lucie was a creature of long, pale, lean limbs, covered, but not much, in red and black lace.

Long, long, skinny legs in black stockings, with a trim of lace at the top. She had gone creative tonight and added a band of red lace, just under the black. She had cut it out of a pair of red stockings she had loved, until they got wrecked at the knees. Her stockings tended to do that a lot.

The red and black theme was fun and fitted her name. She always painted her lips scarlet (like her fingernails), and made up her eyes in thick black eyeliner and mascara. Because her eyes were of the palest blue the effect was slightly unsettling, and it had been known to stop men (and women) in their tracks. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror and fluffed her mop of ash blond hair in a wild mane that framed her face seductively.

When she stooped to pick up her red chemise her opulent breasts swayed delightfully in her black bra. She put on the chemise, red and silky, definitely see-through, and edged in lace, and a stringy black thong.

She piled a host of bracelets on her slim arms, black leather, and red beads, and strapped on the black leather collar.  She felt a shiver of anticipation as the stiff, silky, cool leather pressed lightly at the nape of her neck and at her throat.

She padded to the bedroom and extracted a box from under the bed. Her favorite boots, black leather, thigh high, with 6 inches stiletto heels, were carefully folded in tissue paper, almost pristine. Lucie didn’t go out much after all. She zipped them up, and almost felt dizzy with expectation when she stood again, balancing skittishly, like a long-legged foal. She was tall enough barefoot. In these she was practically airborne.

Then she walked, like a pro, on her tall heels, to the living room.

Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto n^o 2 was on, as loud as was admissible in a city flat, and Hugh was sprawled on the sofa like a big cat, soaking in the music. He had already taken off his shirt, but he must have gotten cold because he had snuggled under a plaid.

“Took your time,” he said, with a yawn.

That was his typical style.

“Rachmaninov, really?” she asked. “Bloody neo-romantic noise.”

He waved his hands like a cook wafting some elusive cooking smell to his nose. “At least, as classical music goes, it’s got some hair on its chest.” And that was the highest compliment Hugh could pay to a musical composition.

The recording was terrible, crackly and tinny. Horrid. Hugh seemed to divine her thought.

“It is himself, on the piano. In 1929.”

Lucie shrugged, then bit her lower lip and bowed her head. She could taste lipstick on her teeth, which was sexy as hell. Oh well. Rachmaninov would cover the sounds, at least. Mostly.

“Come here then,” said Hugh, throwing the plaid aside, sitting up and patting his knee invitingly.

He was a middle height man with short, fuzzy, dark hair thinning slightly around a widow’s peak and a semi-permanent stubble (greying now) on his chin and jaw. He was neither especially good looking nor in any way unpleasant, and dressed rather shabbily at almost all times. He was in fact an entirely unremarkable man, except for a limited set of small ticks that betrayed a rather more active and nervous mind than most. Which is why most people would have been flabbergasted by the impressive set of tattoos that adorned  his chest, shoulders and upper arms. They were somewhat faded and partly obscured by the rather luxuriant growth of dark hair on his torso, but even so, they gave him a distinctly wicked look, absolutely at odds with his completely harmless everyday manner.

She went and kneeled by the sofa (another pair of stockings would die today) and laid her forehead on his thigh. He didn’t seem to notice. He was still engrossed in the music.

“I find it fascinating that Rachmaninoff, who was known for his huge hands, which could have easily managed the large opening chords, chose to break the chords apart and roll them instead. Why?”

Lucie didn’t answer.

“Maybe he did that so that less, shall we say, well-endowed pianists would not be discouraged from altering the opening chords to suit their capabilities? He did state, purportedly, that the second piano concerto was uncomfortable for him to play.” He caressed her head, sinking his fingers into her hair to massage the back of her neck. “I choose to take it as a reminder, that just because you can do something, it does not mean that you have to do it. Or like it. It’s always a Matter of choice. Just an interesting point for thought.”

Lucie remained quiet through his musings, using the time to collect herself, to find that seam in her mind that allowed her to slip down, through and out...

She took a deep breath, and leaned into his thigh and suddenly his hand was in her collar, pulling roughly, choking her, until she lay across his lap. The first blow across her butt made her squeal out loud. The second and third landed on her thighs and hurt even more. He was laying them down with all his strength tonight, no gentle introduction with small slaps, grabbing, kneading. She panted in the pause after the third blow, bracing herself for the next one..."

Like Lucie so far? Stick around for news of her in the next weeks...