Chapter 5

Watching

Yvonne La Roux stood very still in the doorway as her two employees stared at her in horror, suddenly aware of just how naked they both were. Violet, mortified, began to reach for her nightdress, but her boss saw the gesture and whispered, “Leave it where it is...” Then she very quietly shut the door and came over and sat beside them on the bed, her small pale hands neatly folded in her lap, her flawless face like a Venetian mask. Just like in that climatic last scene in Hearts of Honour, when she told a distraught Leslie Howard that she was dying.

“You girls are dykes?” she asked quietly, her big sad eyes eating up their naked bodies, but they shook their heads, no ma’am.

“Then why this?” she asked, indicating the tableau of depravity that was spread out before her.

Violet spoke. “We don’t have husbands, Ma’am, and we already got children from the wrong side of the bedcovers. We can’t rightfully go get ourselves men in our situation, so we do what we can to get by...”

Yvonne La Roux considered them both carefully. “You know that I can have you both fired,” she said finally, her voice low. “So, in return for my silence anything said within these four walls doesn’t go any further than here. Is that understood?”

And she looked from one frightened face to another and laughed a sad little laugh. “It’s alright, I’m not going to tell on you,” she whispered. “I just need to be sure that I can rely on your discretion...”

“Whatever it is, Ma’am,” Violet said in a low voice, “you can trust us. We got far too much to lose to go talking carelessly.”

The movie star smiled her sad smile again. “The thing is, girls,” she whispered, “is that I’m a dyke. My marriage to Brett is a sham for the studio publicity office. He’s been a bachelor too long and I need to be seen in public with a man on my arm. The baby’s from an orphanage. That’s why we needed someone to feed him till he builds up his strength and can be weaned onto formula...”

Her voice tailed off and Lizzie finally spoke. “We’ll keep your secret till the day we die, Ma’am,” she whispered passionately. “But why have you told us?”

Yvonne La Roux regarded them both again with her big limpid blue eyes, her alabaster face like a beautiful china doll. “Because,” she said in a tiny voice barely audible above a whisper, “whatever it is you’ve got going up here, girls, I’d be grateful if you’d cut me in...”

***

There was a long silence, and then Lizzie finally spoke. “You want us to fuck you, Ma’am?”

But Yvonne shook her head, her long red hair like a shimmering sheath in the soft yellow lamplight. “No,” she said in her quiet voice. “I want to watch you fucking each other...”

Violet sighed ruefully, like a trapped animal, but Lizzie shook her head and faced her employer. “No deal,” she said flatly, and to Violet’s horror. “We’re not whores, we’re not performing for you. Your secret’s safe with us, but if you want to be a part of what we have here then you’re a participating member, not a spectator.”

Yvonne La Roux stared her famous stare. The stare that had melted the hearts of a million movie goers in The Agony of Sister Mary, the stare that had stared down Joan Crawford in The Wrong Woman. “The thing is, girls,” she whispered. “The thing is that I’ve never been a practicing lesbian. I could never risk the scandal. I’ve only ever looked at pictures and, you know, touched myself...”

Violet whispered, “Lizzie, remember what the Mistress said...” in a warning tone, but she knew it was useless as she saw Lizzie reach out for Yvonne and kiss her very softly on the lips.

“We’re going to form a midnight sisterhood here and now,” she whispered very softly in the redhead’s ear. “First Violet and I are going to strip you naked while you milk us. And then we’re going to lick your cunt until you come, and then you’re going to do it back to each of us. And while we’ll still call you Ma’am and do your bidding all day, we’ll be Sapphic sisters together in this room at the witching hour each night, and we’ll show you such bliss that you’ll wonder why you ever waited so long to get started. So, Ma’am, do we have a deal?”

Yvonne La Roux looked from one face to the other, looked at their naked bodies and big full breasts. “I’ll show you how to unfasten my dress,” she said quietly.

***

Yvonne La Roux slid out of her tight black evening gown like it was water, and stood almost naked save for a pair of tiny black panties and her long black evening gloves. Her skin was milk white and her long red hair like a flame as she stood before them, basking in their adoring gaze. She was a tall slim girl of about twenty-two, with long tapering legs and slender arms, minuscule hips and a trim petite waist, and the most beautiful little breasts that anyone had ever seen. Small and pert, like a pubescent’s first showing, but with large adult nipples, sugar-pink and up hard, like rubbery pink jelly-gums on two iced fairy cakes.

“I’m not as big as you two...” she began apologetically, peeling off her panties to reveal a cunt that took both of the other girls’ breath away. Depilated smooth as silk it nestled snugly in the vee of her thighs, a little fat mound with a deep slit, labia like a soft marzipan rose bursting out like forbidden fruit, desperate to be plucked.

“I think I’ve just come,” Violet breathed as they watched her, mesmerised. Watched her long white body, still with the gloves on, glide over to the bed like a fairy princess, sit down beside them and tentatively start to touch.

“You’ve both got such big tits,” she whispered, fingers gently exploring. “When I was a teenager I used to clip advertisements for brassieres out of magazines and keep them in a secret scrapbook, fantasising about how I was going to have tits like those someday. But I never did...”

“But yours are beautiful,” Violet said softly, very softly, as she reached out a shy hand to feel, feeling a thrill in her pussy as Yvonne’s nipple quivered and got harder at her touch.

“And you’ve got a cunt like a confection,” Lizzie added, getting her fingers wet. “And it’s so smooth. How do you manage to shave it so close?”

“A girl from makeup does it for me with wax. It hurts like hell but I love it, feeling her fingers all over me as she removes every last bit. She even does my ass...”

Lizzie groans and lets her fingers slide in deep. And Yvonne’s wet and ready for her, slippery as hot wet tunnel, ready and wiling to be fucked.

“Steady, tiger,” she gasps, clit like a swollen macadamia. “You promised me milking....”

***

She’s taken the gloves off by now as she massages Violet’s giant breasts while Lizzie kisses her neck and shoulders, her own hot tits rubbing into the redhead’s back. “That’s the way to do it,” Lizzie whispers. “Massage first and then start to milk her at the teat, squeeze her big black olives and watch her milk flow...”

And Yvonne lets out a little squeal as Violet’s huge tits begin to dribble milk, hot and thick, and sweet to the taste. Like the opaque white nectar that they used to spread on buttered bread, straight from the tin, back when she was an ordinary girl in the San Francisco suburbs, riding the streetcar to the school of drama every morning with the early shift workers and shop girls, her little straw hat with the wax cherries on it perched precariously on her head.

“Go down on her, suckle her straight from the nipple,” Lizzie urges, but Yvonne has other plans.

“I want to touch her pussy first, feel how wet she is... But I’m afraid...”

“Here, let me show you,” Lizzie coaxes, taking the pale white hand in her own and leading it down the huge slope of Violet’s belly. “Her skin is as soft as buttermilk and her fur is like an old sheep dog, coarse and wiry like a boy, but her pussy is as slippery as an eel. And look, see how she shows, all her crinkly petals out on display just like yours, not buried and secret like the Mistress...”

“You’ve fucked the Mistress? Played with her cunt?”

They both laugh. “Droit de seigneur,” Violet manages to utter as two sets of nimble fingers explore all her slippery wet flaps and flanges. “Mistress tries out all her girls before she buys...”

“Now,” Lizzie says seductively, moving down the redhead’s marble white body, tongue flicking at the upturned nipples, the little breasts where the skin is so pale that all her fine blue veins show. “Now why don’t you have a good suck on Violet while I go down and do some licking at your baby-smooth pussy and make you big stiff clitty sing?”

And Yvonne groans, moans, nods, feel herself being taken like a child into Violet’s big strong arms while Lizzie’s hungry mouth travels down her body, steadily downwards, like an elevator going down a mineshaft. Then she feels Violet’s big swollen nipple in her mouth, tastes the warm sweetness of her yield, feels Lizzie’s tongue in her own slit, feels Lizzie’s fingers pulling her crack open like the girl in the photographs from Paris that the studio had bought for her when she agreed to the public union with Brett. Lizzie’s tongue darting like an insect in a tropical flower, Lizzie’s whole mouth eating her pussy, that long tongue circling her clit, flicking at it, Lizzie’s fingers sliding deep inside her, in-out, in-out... And all the while Violet’s strong arms hold her head to her breast, and Violet’s milk is sweet and intoxicating, and she knows that she is coming, screaming, yelling, but it is happening in some other room, to some other girl, and so she surrenders herself to her bliss and lets the ecstasy take her, throwing her up into the air, tossing her upon the seas of her own lusts. And she is lost. Lost forever on the Sapphic seas and she knows, deep down, that there will never, ever, be any going back.