Chapter Three

Yvette

 

From the time she was five years old, Ondine’s greatest wish was to become a ballerina.

Dance was her destiny. Her friends, those dear copines she’d known from childhood, called her Ondine la ballerine. But it was not until age fifteen, when a promising young ballerina was transferred to Madame Beaudoin’s studio, that she encountered her best and closest friend.

Yvette had such an air of maturity about her it was impossible to imagine she’d ever been a child. Her hair the colour of straw became a favourite plaything of Ondine’s. She loved to brush and braid it, as girls were known to do, and feel its satin length between her fingers. Yvette’s features were sharp, with a chin somewhat pointed and a nose dotted with faint freckles. Sometimes more grey than blue, sometimes more blue than grey, hers were the eyes of an old soul.

By the time she entered adulthood, Yvette’s maturity had become unmistakeably apparent. She had far more experience with lovers than Ondine did. In fact, Ondine had no practice at all. Listening to Yvette’s accounts of trysts with admirers thus became a favourite activity. She often wondered if everything her friend told her was true. Did Yvette really fume a professor’s cigar in the university library? And she claimed to have doigté Madame Beaudoin’s own niece in the wings before their production of Raymonda! Could that truly have happened? It was all so forbidden.

As ballerinas-in-training, they never lacked admirers. Whereas Yvette went to dinner with any young man who asked her, Ondine felt embarrassed by her own beauty and opted to stay home every time.

Though for many years she’d viewed theirs as an innocent amitiée, Ondine worried her inexperience with young men was perhaps owing to her mild obsession with her lovely friend. It seemed the more time she spent with Yvette, the more she grew afraid of herself. What were these impulses that drove her to visit with her friend so frequently, to touch her arm while they spoke, to hug her when they parted and kiss her cheeks when they met?

Nothing seemed perfectly innocent when they were together. Lingering after each soft kiss, she absorbed the scent of honey on Yvette’s hair. The sizzle of longing heated her body and mind as confusion simmered just below her consciousness. How long could she hope to keep her desire secret?

“Mes pieds me font mal,” Yvette once complained as the girls walked through the park on their way to Ondine’s small apartment. Not surprising. Foot pain was a common grievance among ballerinas.

Resting for a moment in a patch of wildflowers, Yvette looked her up and down with a keen glint in her eye. Her shoes came off as she persuaded Ondine to join her for a quick foot rub between friends. Though it was perfectly obvious her copine’s intentions were less than innocent, she quickly slipped her shoes from her feet.

Yvette extended her right foot, lying back in the fragrant violets. A sweet, feminine aroma rose from the disturbed flora as Ondine propped her bewildered body against the trunk of a tree. She pressed her friend’s little toes between her fingers and thumbs.

When Yvette took hold of Ondine’s foot, a bolt of lightning travelled her body, warming her core. Pleasured sighs escaped her lips without permission as Yvette ran slender fingers up and down her sole, increasing the intensity with each stroke.

Was it wicked to feel this good in a public park? Mais non, a simple foot rub could hardly be immoral.

Nimble fingers ran across the pads of her feet. Her chest swelled. Fingers down the side and back up again, down and back up. Her lungs filled with the park’s perfumed air.

She didn’t mean for her chatte, her pussy, to salivate as Yvette pressed the palm of her hand to her heel. It just happened. She could feel the moisture building between her lower lips, and she prayed her wicked nectar wouldn’t soak through her satin panties and cotton skirt. How embarrassing that would be! But Yvette’s tender touch felt so good that she imitated it, running her fingers along those smooth calves.

Another unanticipated gasp slipped from her lips as Yvette ran her hands up the ridge of her foot, all the way to her ankle. When Yvette squeezed Ondine’s toes, her head went soaring above the clouds. When she pressed the pads of her feet, her chest filled with oxygen.

A tight grip on her arch warmed her internal organs, but when Yvette grasped her heels in both hands and gave them a squeeze, her chatte opened like Pandora’s box. Throbbing with anticipation, her pussy begged for the magical fingers that had seduced her entire body simply by touching her feet.

Her friend’s legs parted ever so slightly, and Ondine’s gaze fell between them. Why would her eyes not look away? Look away! Look way! You embarrass yourself, Ondine! But, no, her eyes were adamant. They wanted to stare and there was nothing she could do about it. Yvette’s blue skirt was so thin the sunlight filtered through to illuminate her thighs. Beyond her thighs, there was only darkness.

Propped up on her elbows, Yvette looked Ondine straight in the eye. Bon sang, could her friend tell where her gaze rested?

She must have known. A cunning smile poured across the naughty girl’s face. There was something frighteningly arousing about that smile. Yvette’s eyes glinted like wolves’, like she might swallow Ondine whole.

Ça suffit! Ondine tried to think of something to say to diffuse the stifling tension, but the moisture between her thighs rendered her mind a tabula rasa.

Extracting her feet from Yvette’s adoring stronghold, she leapt into her shoes and ran off without saying a word.

They were spending far too much time together, weren’t they? That was the problem. It was nothing internal. It wasn’t Ondine’s fault. This awkwardness was purely situational.

And, if anyone was to blame, it had to be Yvette. Ondine had always defended her dear friend when the other girls called her Yvette la gouine salope, the lesbian slut, but they were right, weren’t they? Her intention seemed to be to seduce everyone—not only women, but men also—in a ten-block radius! Even if that meant seducing her dearest friend…

Ondine would have to put an end to the constant flirtation. She would make a point of meeting new people, finding new friends. Perhaps she would finally take up Rejean Choquette, her childhood friend and long-time admirer, on his dinner invitation.

Dancing used to help rid Ondine of excess energy, but not anymore. All those frustrated feelings of anger and suppressed sexuality would flow out her fingertips and up into the sky, out through her toes and into the floor.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

Madame Beaudoin demanded her dancers line up at the bar in order of height. As Ondine and Yvette were nearly the same height, and the one girl separating them had just left the class pregnant, they now stood next to each other. There was no escaping her hunter. With Yvette always at her side, ballet class only heaped exasperation on top of frustration.

When they warmed up, Ondine felt Yvette’s eyes burning into her back. The sizzling sensation of eyes descending to her hips and ambling along her outstretched leg felt tangible as touch. She tried to shake it off as one shakes off the winter’s cold, but nothing worked.

They turned face to face, and Yvette raised one leg, straightened it, and rested her calf on Ondine’s shoulder. Where to look? She couldn’t bring herself to look at Yvette, but when she cast her eyes downward, she found herself staring at her friend’s breasts. Sadly, her bodysuit flattened them out. Naked, those lovely little tits took more of a conical form. Seeming to come forward equally in all directions, they concluded in nipples pink and soft as her luscious lips.

Since they always changed clothes together before and after class, she knew those small tits very well. At least, she knew what they looked like. How did they feel?

Ondine, c’est assez! Enough already!

How could she think about her best friend’s breasts? Yes, it was shameful, but the tender pink flesh of those nipples preyed on her mind. Oh, to strip Yvette to the waist and simply look at the fine breasts hidden under that brown leotard. No, not just look. Touch. Fondle. Kiss.

“Echangez,” Madame Beaudoin called out, shaking Ondine from her reverie.

Horrible, to think about a friend that way. Why couldn’t she cast away those persistent fantasies?

Setting the first leg down, Yvette placed the second on Ondine’s other shoulder. This time, she looked to the side, into the dance studio’s mirrored wall. She concentrated on the other young women whose poses echoed theirs, but her gaze soon returned to Yvette’s lovely form.

Although ballet slippers were a tool of their trade, she found them incredibly alluring on Yvette’s feet. They gave her a doll-like appearance, like a music box dancer. Though her long legs were very strong, they remained lean and feminine, not bulging with hideous muscles.

Like most girls in class, Yvette wore into adulthood the narrow hips of a child. Perhaps that was the reason Ondine found her so enticing: Yvette’s body was modestly androgynous. Boyish, even. Was it so terrible to be attracted to a boyish girl? It was almost the same as being attracted to a boy—an assuaging thought.

“Echangez encore une fois, les filles,” Madame instructed.

This time it was Ondine’s turn to stretch. When she rested her calf on her friend’s shoulder, Yvette grabbed her waist as if to steady her. Of course, Ondine hadn’t felt unsteady until those experienced hands clung to her hips. Now she felt dizzy, like she would fall if Yvette weren’t there to lend support.

Finding herself locked in position, she realized there was nowhere to look but straight ahead. Yvette held her gaze with frightening ferocity as she slipped one mischievous hand slipped down from Ondine’s hip, resting it firmly on her posterior.

Was it normal for a person’s heart to beat ten times in one second? She could feel Yvette’s hand swimming up her thigh, warming the flesh beneath her leggings.

In the confines of those slender arms, Ondine was a caged animal. A chaud-lapin. She would collapse if Yvette weren’t holding her in place, firm fingers massaged her yielding buttocks, cupping and squeezing them. Piercingly conspicuous, like the creaking hinges of a disused gate, her entire body opened up. A strange force drew her in, toward the heat of Yvette’s lean body. All that kept her from surrendering a kiss was the brick wall she forced herself to visualize between them.

When the ballet mistress commanded them to switch legs again, Yvette loosened her grasp. Ondine could have sworn she was falling into a deep, dark abyss. She had to leave, to escape from Yvette. This might be her only chance to slip away.

“Je ne me sens pas bien,” she told Madame Beaudoin as she ran from the studio.

Leaving without waiting to be excused would surely warrant discipline, but better to suffer through pointe exercises later than to remain in the same room as Yvette right now. Something regrettable might happen.

Concerned Yvette might follow her, Ondine only changed from slippers to street shoes, leaving on her chiffon skirt, tights and bodysuit. Struggling into her cardigan, she sprinted from the building. She ran faster than Zazie, ignorant of her surroundings, unaware of the people she all but knocked over as she them passed by.

Her throat burned with desperation. Sure, she’d managed to escape Yvette, but that did nothing to destroy her desires. Her eyes welled, making vendors and shoppers a blur. If she ran fast enough, maybe she could outrace the oncoming tears.

When she ran past the church on the corner, her legs seized and she had to stop running. “Pardonez-moi,” she cried to the heavens. Forgive me, please!

In response to her little prayer, the solution to her predicament revealed itself in the form of a young man seated in the Café des Etudients. It was Rejean Choquette, her admirer and schoolyard chum. Ondine tore off her cardigan and pranced over to him garbed in a bodysuit, ballet skirt and tights.

“Rejean! Comment ça va?” Ondine asked, plastering a smile across her face as she crept toward him. How’s it going?

Rejean beamed at the sight of her. “Très bien maintenant que vous soyez içi,” the boy flirted, eyes sparkling. Much better now that you’re here. He indicated the text in his hands, explaining, “I am learning myself the English. Please sit.”

Ondine glided like a swan into the extra seat at Rejean’s small café table. “Il est difficile d’apprendre un nouveau langue soi-même,” she informed the young man. Teaching yourself a new language isn’t the easiest route. “I will speak English with you. I am not so good, but it might help. I learn from the TV and from English music.”

“Bonne idée!”

“I also visit L’Angleterre with my parents when I am young. I learn there to speak a bit of English.”

“Ondine, I am happy you are here,” Rejean confessed, flipping through the glossary for English terminology. “I think about you every day. I write you letters. Do you read them?”

“Of course I do,” Ondine assured the young man.

In truth, Rejean was a bit of a nuisance. They’d been friends in the early days of their schooling, but around the time of puberty, he became obsessed with Ondine la ballerine. He started by religiously attending her recitals, but even that wasn’t enough for the besotted boy. Doe-eyed, he came to watch her at rehearsals until Madame Beaudoin expelled him from the studio.

Devoid of his outlet for worship, Rejean sent love letters. His tender words painted her as a great talent and tremendous beauty. He professed his honour of and respect for her, and ended every note by declaring his undying love. At first, Ondine had to check to make sure the adoring letter had been delivered to the right person. The woman Rejean described seemed so unlike her. Her devotee seemed to see only what he desired her to be, not what she truly was.

After the initial read-through, she always handed his letters to Yvette. Together, they mocked Rejean’s hopeless romanticism.

“…Votre beauté, votre coeur amant, votre charme infini…”

Yvette would recite the most pathetic phrases and laugh. Of course Ondine pretended to be embarrassed by Rejean’s obsession, but she actually found it quite flattering. In the back of her mind, she always knew she would put this boy to good use some day. Now it was clear how he could be of use to her. He would become her husband.

“Ondine, would you eat dinner with me… eu, ce soir?”

“Tonight?” Ondine corrected the student. Parfait! That was precisely the question she’d been waiting for.

“Oui, c’est ca. With you in front of me, I forget everything I learn,” Rejean confessed.

Ondine smirked and bowed a coy head, trying hard to blush. Cornering Rejean into an engagement would be too easy. Was it cruel, what she planned to do? Maybe she could learn to love him.

Strutting home to shower and dress for dinner, she considered his floppy hair and puppy dog eyes. Rejean was an adorable young man, and boyish enough in form and face not to be threatening. Her parents had known him since he was a boy, so there would be no trouble with them. Rejean was a trustworthy man, and highly intelligent. He would make for a suitable husband.

At dinner, he engaged her in pleasant conversation. Flattery abounded. Why had she always laughed at the overstated compliments Rejean paid her? It was sweet of him to tell her how creamy her skin felt as he traced his fingertips across the back of her hand, and how the tea lights brought out the midnight tones in her silky hair.

Rejean hadn’t changed his methods of seduction in all the years he’d worshipped her, but she’d never responded positively until now. Walking her back to her apartment, he dug out that old standard of comparing her eyes with the stars above. The beauty of the night sky left her drunk with romance and, charmed by his gentle approach, she invited him into her home.

The boy couldn’t hope to hide his eagerness behind those sparkling eyes. Though clean-shaven and neatly attired for their rendezvous, his hair remained a casual mess. What an adorable little nose sprouted sweetly between cherubic cheeks. And his lips were the perfect shade of pink.

Ondine ran her fingers through the boy’s floppy hair—golden brown, the same colour as Yvette’s. Pulling him close, she searched for love in his clear blue eyes. When he placed his soft lips against hers for a long moment before finally removing them, an expression of pure bliss washed over him.

“Incroyable,” he whispered, his mouth hanging open in ecstasy.

Ondine felt nothing.

Maybe lack of chemistry could be resolved by practise. She tried kissing him again. This time, she cheated. Closing her lids, she visualized Yvette’s blue-grey eyes flecked with mauve, as they were on cloudy days. She pictured her sharp freckled nose, her glossy pink lips, and her petite breasts as they bounced out of a leotard in the change room.

When she kissed Rejean again, a slow burning passion overtook her. She held the back of his neck while he ran his fingers through her hair. As he swept his hands across her back, pressing her gently, Ondine ran hers along his thighs and up his stomach. When her roving hands discovered a flat chest instead of the small breasts she’d anticipated, she was so surprised she broke away.

It was Rejean, of course. She’d imagined Yvette’s female form so urgently, she’d managed to convince herself that’s who she was kissing. An easy mistake, one might say. Rejean’s kisses were soft and languorous, like a woman’s kisses must be.

Ca suffit, Ondine! No more of this! The time had come to cure her affliction once and for all.

Hopping from the sofa, she tugged on her admirer’s shirt to bid him follow. Her apartment was quite small. The bed was only four steps away, but Rejean was a dead weight. It was no use to pull on his arm; the student stayed put on the sofa.

“I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a good idea,” Rejean said, looking down at her feet.

“I think it’s a very good idea,” Ondine pleaded, still pulling at his shirt.

She’d convinced herself the only way to stop those wicked desires for Yvette was to be intimate with a man. Her misery was obviously the result of always having been more interested in ballet than boys. It made some sense, did it not? She loved ballet; of course she would become infatuated with another ballerina.

Just because it made sense didn’t mean it was right. The Church and her parents would agree her desires were wrong, wrong, wrong. She pledged to put an end to her wicked fascination by submitting to the obsession of reliable Rejean. If she offered herself to the boy, how could he refuse?

“Ma chère Ondine,” Rejean began, holding her hand the way men in films do when they have something very important to tell a woman. “I have been your greatest admirer for many years now. In my letters, I vowed to honour you and protect you, and I will do no less tonight. You deserve to be as chaste on your wedding day as you are right now.”

“Rejean…”

Descending to the floor, he kissed her fingers one by one. “I realize this evening’s date is only our first, but we’ve been friends since childhood. Ondine la ballerine, je t’adore. Would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”

“Oui! Bien sur que oui!” Ondine exclaimed. Of course she would marry him!

Rejean’s hasty proposal was hardly surprising. In his letters, he often wrote that he dreamed marrying her. Perhaps it was cruel to plant a wicked idea in the gutters of his mind. Quelle dommage.

Relief enveloped Ondine like pink cashmere. Her plan was moving forward even faster than anticipated. Marry Rejean. Forget about Yvette.

“I would like to marry you as soon as possible,” she added.