The Dreams of the Succubii Page 7

She stood up, so that she could pull the wet strip of her knicker material back into the stinging, salty cleft between her big, loose cheeks. Amelia also stood, and Connie reached out one strong, alpha female's hand and gripped the girl by her insolent jawbone. She pulled the non protesting girl towards her, and kissed her smeared lips, revelling in the taste of fresh sperm in the girl's mouth. She released her, after their tongues had twirled a minute's hot, eager contact and said, 'Your customer service is exemplary now, Amelia. I hope you have learned your lesson?'

  Amelia's hand crept round to grasp one of Connie's big cheeks, groping blindly for her wet cleft, around the slick, yielding meat.

  'I expect that Amelia will do her best, Madame,' said Cheveaux, idly squeezing Connie's other buttock, 'but she is young.'

  He sighed meaningfully. 'They take much correction.'

  Before she left, Mister Cheveaux insisted they have a glass of wine together. Oddly, none of them thought it necessary to put on their lower clothing, and they supped the wine while flirtingly groping at each other's exposed hips,and groins.

  'Alas, Madame,' said Cheveaux finally, when the small glasses they used had been drained of the sweet red cordial he had poured for them, 'With regret, I must return to my work.'

  'Of course, Mister Cheveaux,' said Connie, guiltily looking at her watch. In truth, she was not eager to return to her home. The boys would need collecting, and she looked forward to that, but it was the thought of enduring another evening of dreary old Geoff that made her reluctant to go.

  And so they dressed, slowly and with much giggling gropes, until she was as she had been, and nothing remained but to say goodbye.

  As her hand closed on the door handle, ready to twist and open the door, she was slightly startled when Cheveaux's slight brown hand closed over hers, preventing her from opening the door.

  'Will I be kidnapped?' she thought, half delirious from the fucking and the wine. 'The boys will miss me so.'

  The idea was only half horrifying.

  'Madame,' said Cheveaux, staring intently into Connie's eyes with an intensity intended to convey high seriousness. 'Remember. There is magic here, and should you ever wish to return, there are certain, ah, invocations that must be performed. Certain formulas.'

  'I think,' said Connie, 'I should leave it at this, and keep this beautiful memory to myself.'

  Then you will not be returning?' he asked, moustachioed mouth making a little moue of disappointment.

  'I think not, Mister Cheveaux,' whispered Connie, 'I am a married woman.'

  'Then this has been just a dream,' replied Cheveaux, 'And I am just a figment.'

  Connie caught her breath in wonder, as the dapper form of Cheveaux seemed to flicker and fade a little.

  'Perhaps,' she said, and taking one last glance at Amelia, who also seemed less real than moments before, Connie swiftly opened the door and stepped in to the dingy corridor, closing it behind her with a soft, but firm pull.

  Months passed, in which the episode and the normality it contradicted became increasingly unreal to Connie. Her family again consumed her, but distantly, so the moment Geoff left, when it came, was not so wrenching as it might have been.

  'We've grown apart,' he said, standing with his suitcase in the hallway, as the boys clung to her and wept.

  Her arguments barely rose before they were crushed by his aura of indifference.

  'I'll make arrangements for support,' he assured her, 'and to see the boys.'

  She nodded, sure at least that in this he would be as dutiful as ever. And then he left, completing the void that had been growing between them. The weeks that followed were hard, but eventually the sense of thinking through cotton wool left her, and Connie was herself again. She stayed away from the supermarket where she had met Cheveaux, distantly aware of it's dangerous pull, but her dreams at night, though unremembered, often woke her to the scent of cinnamon, and wine, and sex.

  Then one day, perhaps a year after Geoff had finally closed the door on her and their life together, she felt the sudden urge to go again, and see if it had all been a dream. The thought of walking into that dingy corridor and knocking on the other gleaming door set a pulse beating in her loins, The boys were back at school, old enough to walk alone, and to return. She would not be long, she told herself, and snatched her car keys from the table. She went to her bedroom, now only hers, and plucked a pair of filmy panties from the drawer. White and ivory, trimmed with tea stained lace. She slipped her mundane pants off, running fluttering fingers along the the lips of her slit. Shaved and plump, as Cheveaux would like them. She drew the fresh knickers on. And glanced at the clock. Only ten. 'Was it too early?' she wondered to herself. Or too late?

  The strange thought, that she might get there and the door would be gone, galvanised her, and she rushed from her home, to the car and started the engine in a flurry of low level panic. The feeling of loss deepened as she drove the five minute route to the store. She parked, haphazardly, and forced herself to take her time and do it right. She became strangely convinced that if she did this right, if she parked the car perfectly square, the door would be there, exactly where she wanted it to be. Her heart was thumping as she crossed the car park to the automatic entrance doors. She hardly dared to look, and forced herself to walk the few yards to where the door would be as if she had some business there. She turned, and looked. It was gone.

  The sense of loss was overwhelming. It was as if all she had with Geoff, all they had made, was summed by the absence of that portal.

  She remembered Cheveaux's last words to her. 'There are invocations.'

  Her eyes filled, tears dangerously close to spilling. She trudged away from the door, feeling the tightness of the panties, and cursed her stubbornness. Most of all, she cursed her clinging to the real, which had proved such an illusion in the end.. The silliness of thinking he would wait. She knew now that she had met a spirit, perhaps a deity. A God of wine, and sex, and life. He had called to her, and for a moment she had answered. He had offered her interludes, episodes of spectacular lust, and she had spurned him, clinging to her husk of a marriage as if it had ever really made her happy. At least she had the boys, she thought, and that was indeed a comfort. The only comfort, as her lusty heart wept for the things it had lost, and she found herself at the end of the aisle of checkouts, with nowhere left to go, but back.

  She sensed the girl's scrutiny, before she had looked up to see who was observing her. She had not bothered to look for Amelia at the checkouts after the crushing disappointment of the absent door, for she knew it was a waste of time. Her chance had passed, like the love that cemented her marriage.

  The girl who was now staring at Connie, was an entirely different creature from Amelia. Even in the mists of her pain Connie felt a frisson of annoyance at the way the girl stared. She was mechanically chewing something, probably gum, in a way that managed to be both insolent, and blameless at the same time. Her dark hair was bound up into a messy ponytail that even she seemed to find irritating, for she continually tossed her head as if it was tickling her broad shoulders. Connie noted the way the girl stood, in a hip cocked nonchalance entirely at odds with someone who was meant to be at work. Her skirt was just on the right side of too short for the workplace, and it gave Connie a good view of the girl's brown, trim-muscled lower thighs, and the intricate dimpling of her firm knees. She wore black stockings, that ended at the top of her large calves, and her shoes were of a height that should surely be not allowed at work. She continued her aggressive chewing, as she challenged Connie to look away. To drop her gaze.

  Were it not for the insistent way the girl was tapping a black lacquered fingertip against a small box that was the solitary item on the checkout before her, Connie felt that she might easily have stuck her tongue out at the insolent bitch to see what she would say. Suppressing the childish impulse, Connie looked at the package the girl was tapping. Formula something or other. Probably washing powder. She glanced up to meet the girl's gaze again, s
tarting towards her, as a heat rose in her chest.

  'Are you staring at me,' asked Connie reasonably.

  The girl, who had extremely pretty green eyes, held her gaze, chewing ever more slowly and loudly, pausing only long enough to say, 'No!' before continuing to both stare and chew.

  The tapping of her finger, though it was the smallest of movements, seemed to set a drum beating in Connie's temples.

  'You are staring at me,' said Connie, in a slightly more forceful voice, 'You are staring at me now.'

  The girl drew back, puffed out her firm chest, and said, in a saucy drawl, 'What. No one's allowed to look at you, is that it?'

  Connie was astounded, both at the challenge in the girl's posture and the impertinent question. She looked around for a witness to the girl's astonishing cheek.

  They were alone.

  It was as if some invisible line separated them from everyone else. A barrier which other people could not cross. Connie raised a hand, and pointed an indignant finger at the saucy little tramp.

  'You, young lady,' she said in a voice that rasped with anger, 'need some correction.'

  The girl raised one black, immaculate gull's wing of an eyebrow, but said nothing. Her finger continued to tap provocatively at the box beside her. The eyebrow stayed up, as the girl glanced down at her own tapping finger, then back to Connie in that cool, green stare. Connie's eyes were once again drawn to the box, and with a start she realised the possible significance of the writing. She looked up at the girl again, suddenly knowing that her impertinent bottom would be encased in tight white panties, and that she would look delicious bent over a desk.

  Perhaps a leather topped desk?

  'There are formulas,' said Connie, hoping against hope.

  'Invocations,' the girl corrected her, with something that looked like a smile flickering along her beautiful, gum chewing scarlet lips.

  Connie was aware of a heat at her seam, where the slightly over-tight panties she wore bit in to the swelling cleft of her mons.

  'I would like to make a complaint,' she said finally, as her heart thumped and thumped.

  The girl stopped her insolent chewing for a moment, before turning her head so that the elegant cords of her tendons stretched across the smooth column of her throat. She jerked her chin towards the entrance to the store, up the long aisle of checkouts. Connie turned her head to follow the direction of the sexy little bitch's gesture. At first dimly, but then as sharp and clear as she could have wished, she saw the outline of a door appear on the wall across from the aisles at the top of the store.

  She blinked, for her eyes were suddenly full of water, and searched again, sure that it would have faded by the time her eyes were clear, but it clung defiantly to reality, as if it had always been there.

  She looked back at the dark haired young woman, suddenly noting the little grinding movements the girl's hips were making under the inappropriately short skirt.

  'Up there,' said the girl, blatantly scanning Connie's trim figure before fixing her with a cool, knowing look in the entrancing green eyes. 'Customer complaints.'

  The end.

  AnonymAss.

  Ghita O' Connor sat in the reception of AnonymAss wondering if she had gone entirely mad. The plush interior was muted as if to calm, and the soft hush of the air conditioning was pitched at just the right low hiss to induce sleep. Ghita alternated between a semi-somnolent, head-nodding torpidity, and occasional bouts of sharp panic that had her darting her bright blue eyes for the exit like a trapped bird.

  'Calm yourself, Ghita,' she told herself, 'you can always back out at any time.'

  Not when you have a cock in your bottom, her mind shot slyly back at her. She smiled ruefully to herself, the ruined side of her mouth refusing to mimic the pretty bow that the other side made. It gave a cruel tilt to her smile that belied her actual nature. Not for the first time, Ghita regretted coming to this institute, and seriously considered leaving now before things went too far.

  She had seen the advert online many times, but yesterday evening had found her in that peculiar, angry mood, drawn on by one too many glasses of solitary red wine and a period of brooding over her ruined face. She had sat, staring at herself in her dresser mirror, alternately turning her head from side to side and looking at the good side, then the bad. It was like playing with one of those Victorian toys that had an image of a bird with its wings angled down on one side, and angled up on the other, When you spun the disk about it's central stem, the flickering panels gave the illusion that the bird was flying.

  Her wings had been firmly clipped, Ghita had decided, by the car crash that had taken her parents, and left her with a ruined, 'Medusa' face. She called it that because seeing it turned men to stone. It was particularly noticeable when they had been admiring her figure from the rear, and she turned around quickly and caught them. The flicker from smiling admiration to pity was another drip of acid on her soul.

  One side good, one side bad. The accident was a brief and sudden as these things almost always are. She hardly remembered it. One moment the car was progressing normally in the middle lane of the motorway, and the next it was swerving to avoid a load of scrap that the lorry in front had suddenly shed. She remembered her father cursing and hauling at the wheel. She remembered a sudden loud bang, and the oddly painless blow as a piece of plastic from the dashboard, cracked sharp by the impact with another blameless vehicle, sliced vertically into her face at one side of her nose. The rest was a confused mess of spinning, tumbling images as their car flipped and tossed them into oblivion. She awoke in hospital, numbed and already sure of her loss. The damage to her face was almost an afterthought. The last minute gift, of some malign God, to complete her misery. At first she was too anguished with the real loss of her parents to count the cost of her disfigurement, but as weeks turned into months, and the months turned in to years, the raw line that ran down the left side of her face from her temple to her strong chin turned from cruel afterthought to the defining fact of her short life.

  She had always been pretty growing up, and t the age of seventeen, when the accident happened, she was on the point of blooming to beautiful. Her skin, the product of an Anglo-Indian marriage, was of a vellum-like smoothness and texture. Her eyes, one of which she had nearly lost, were of a clear sea blue that came from her dead father, and her mother's slightly hooked, classically Sikh nose, had given a hawk-like strength to her looks that was, at one time, very attractive to boys. Her forehead had a hint of her mother's Indo-Aryan hairline, and the glossy blackness of the hair above it was unusually dark for one who had such fair skin. Black, and pale gold. Blue eyes floating above firm red lips.

  Flick to the good girl in the mirror, strong smile showing the even white teeth. Flick to the bad girl, fissured across her staring blue eye, and the violent twist of the full mouth. Flick to the good, beautiful bone structure showing in the clean high plane of her cheekbone. Flick to the bad, where the damage to her face muscles had left a slightly pouchy droop to the dusty gold flesh.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the receptionist popping her head around the blank, blameless door of the waiting room to say, 'Your assistant will see you now, Miss O' Connor.'

  Ghita was slightly thrown by the strange choice of 'assistant' instead of consultant or contact, but she stood quietly and walked over to the door where the cheery blonde head of the receptionist waited.

  She thought back to her arrival, barely half an hour ago, where this same girl had looked up as Ghita emerged from the rotating doors in to the foyer of 'AnonymAss.' The same doors which had smoothly plucked her from the high street and deposited her in on to the glossy marble floor of the building which, according to the directions she had down-loaded to her phone, held the offices of the firm that offered to sell her ass for the highest price.

  'AnonymAss,' thought Ghita, stifling a snort of laughter at the ridiculous name. The receptionist, avoiding staring too obviously at the ruined side of Ghita's face, gave a smiling,
enquiring look as she sensed the giddiness of Ghita's mood.

  'Are you alright?' she asked, holding the door open so Ghita could follow her in to the corridor beyond.

  'Fine,' said Ghita, wondering if the thoughts behind the pretty, blond face included the question of why a girl as well bred and wealthy as Ghita was here in the first place. Probably not, she decided, as the girl must have seen many different types pass through these doors, with Ghita's odd twisted countenance being only one of the more memorable ones.

  'Yes, my face is memorable,' thought Ghita bitterly to herself, as she followed the neat bobbing from of the receptionist down the wide and well kept corridor to the middle two of the six doors that punctuated it's cream painted walls at regular intervals.

  'Your assistant is Miss Fay,' said the receptionist, smiling reassuringly at Ghita as she gave a brisk knock, and opened the door to Ghita's left.

  'Your appointment, Miss Fay,' she called into the room, and stood aside to let Ghita pass her. She was briefly aware of the woman's light fruity scent, and then she she was past her, into the bright, slightly medical looking room the door was a portal to.

  A handsome, severe looking woman of about thirty-five rose smoothly to greet her, and they shook hands, as Ghita studied her, mind temporarily made sluggish by the incongruity of the situation. The woman was dressed in a figure hugging white coat that was belted with a red band and clasped at the dead centre of the woman's trim waist with a plain silver buckle. The uniform was short, stopping at mid thigh, and the woman's shapely brown legs drew Ghita's eyes. She had no inclination towards women, but she recognised the neat musculature as belonging to one who took exercise seriously, having spent many hours per week at the gym herself. This woman had the trim, muscular frame of the aerobics addict. Her small feet were in black pumps, and the complex, shapely ankles above them flexed with sinew as the woman turned this way and that to look at Ghita's marred face.

  'That's a nasty scar, alright,' she said plainly, getting the fact out of the way, and Ghita was glad, for one of the things that bothered her most about her scar was the way people squirmed away from mentioning it, even as their eyes flicked guiltily back to inflamed fissure that ran like a lightening bolt down the right side of her otherwise handsome face.