Chapter Six

Ondine

 

 

“I love this country.” Ondine sipped the sweet tea Imelda’s maid had brought to the garden. “But my heart belongs to la france. For me, France is ballet and ballet is Yvette. Through dance, I feel I can recapture my passion for life. I lost that passion when I left my country and my lessons with Madame Beaudoin.”

“But you could easily have resumed your studies when you moved here, could you not?” Imelda asked.

“As a wedding gift, papa gave Rejean and I enough money to establish ourselves here in Canada. Of course, I had to tell my husband it was my desire to come here. That silly boy loves me so much, he moved without question. His parents still pay for his University, but I have no money for ballet.”

“Oh dear.”

“Rejean and I both work in a restaurant so one day we can afford to begin my training again. Madame Drinkwater, if you become my patron I can start my lessons now. If not, my body may be too old to start up again.”

Heavens above, with a body like Ondine’s, she owed it to the world of dance to resume her training! Though she was quite slim, her body still struck Imelda as luscious. It was all in those full, crimson lips. They were calling out to be kissed.

“And your father is unwilling to pay for further lessons?” Imelda inquired, trying not to imagine pressing the girl’s shoulders into the green grass, descending upon her, kissing those pouting lips…

“I don’t think papa will ever truly forgive me for what he saw. Me and Yvette, I mean. To him, it goes against God. It’s difficult to forget everything papa taught me to believe, but I feel that God wants His children to be happy. Yvette brought me the greatest joy I’ve ever felt. I don’t agree that my love for her was a sin.”

But what about Ondine’s husband? Was he really so blinded by love that he couldn’t perceive his wife’s Sapphic desires?

“Pauvre Rejean,” Ondine reflected as they strolled the vast grounds.

The poor girl spent most of her wedding night crying in the bathroom, mourning the choices she’d made. All she had left to cling to was her belief that making love with a man might cure her of her attraction to women.

On an intellectual level, she wanted to go to bed with her new husband. Maybe the experience would change her. On the physical level, she had trepidations.

When her mind finally won out over her body, Ondine left her hiding place and joined her husband in the only other room of her apartment… the one with the bed in it. She closed her eyes to kiss him, but this time when she pictured Yvette, her father’s booming voice sounded in her ears. Gouine salope!

Her eyes shot open and she gazed at her husband, unsure how to proceed. Without her Yvette fantasies to save her, she was truly alone with him. Everything about this experience was unnerving, like parking at the edge of a precipice and trying to enjoy a film.

Rejean whispered, “Ondine, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon. Your splendour and grace are second to none. I will love you as long as I live.”

If only she felt the same way. Despite her best efforts to make it nice, kissing her husband was nothing like kissing Yvette.

Rejean removed her wedding gown delicately. They had all the time in the world, he said; they were husband and wife now. As he removed his own clothes, Ondine laid her body out on the bed like a school uniform. Staring up at the canopy, she wondered what could possibly come next. Yes, she’d listened to innumerable stories of Yvette’s conquests, but she had no idea what it would feel like for her.

Tension seized the muscles in her legs and arms until they were stiff as wood. Rejean’s body was neither large nor small, neither muscular nor atrophied. Strange, for him to be so close, for him to be right on top of her. Not knowing where to look, she closed her eyes.

It hurt when he entered. Qu’est-ce-qui ce passe? It was all so bizarre, to make love without feeling love. And there was Rejean, right on top of her, whispering how beautiful she was, how much he adored his new wife. Why did he have to say all those things? Didn’t he realize she didn’t want him? The whole experience was just so very odd. How strange it felt to be prodded this way, for this boy she’d known from childhood to be grunting on top of her.

And then it was over.

As Ondine lay in contemplation of the non-event, Rejean enveloped her in his arms. A great affection overtook her, spreading through her veins like molten chocolate flowing from a petit gateau. She hugged her husband back, basking in his body heat. She didn’t like to feel his wet penis against her thigh, but everything else was quite pleasant.

Perhaps she’d been too self-conscious to enjoy their sex. Or maybe she’d convinced herself their encounter would be awful, and so it was. He was her husband and he wanted the best for her. If any man could help Ondine abandon her attraction to girls, it was Rejean. They would try again. They would keep trying until Ondine found pleasure in the man’s sensual embrace, and until she thought no more of other women.

Over the next six months, she realized she would never enjoy making love with her husband. She’d been convinced that, in settling into their new city and navigating their surroundings together, their love would blossom. Mais non. As much as Ondine treasured Rejean’s sweet embrace, as much as she liked having someone’s hand to hold in public, and as much as she valued the philosophical discussions, their marriage bed became a place for sleep only.

Though Rejean worshipped at the altar of Ondine, he never pressured her. Nevertheless, her heart wept as she watched him come to the slow realization that his wife didn’t love him. How full of regret she grew for exploiting the most honourable young man she’d ever known.

Ondine wavered. There were days when she tried to be the wife Rejean deserved, much to her own chagrin. Other days, she treated him as though he were the root of her unhappiness.

 

* * * *

 

Imelda pitied Ondine her tale of woe. Setting her teacup down, she relaxed on the stone bench. In the midst of the fragrant rose garden, whose many trellises and arbours offered some privacy, she and the lovely ballerina could converse unobserved.

“I would be very happy if I never had to make love again,” Ondine said, biting her scarlet fingernails. Imelda couldn’t stand to see the young woman so distressed, and pulled Ondine’s hand away from her mouth the way she used to do when little Gavin sucked his thumb.

“With a man, you mean?” Imelda asked. Her hope glistened like the sunlight dancing against the girl’s dark hair.

Picking at her cuticles, Ondine affirmed with a nod.

Imelda held her tongue, though her heart inflated as she watched the girl stretch her long legs out and cross them at the ankles. Ondine was so fashionably French in her knee-length skirt and white knit top. But it would be so wrong to abuse her position of power. Mrs Drinkwater offers her patronage in exchange for a good romp. Is that how she wished to be seen by the arts community?

When Ondine raised her pensive head and a solitary tear fell, Imelda couldn’t keep her attraction in check. Placing a hand on the girl’s thigh, she made a daring offer. “Let me show you what you’re missing.”

Ondine’s gaze slipped down the centre of the orange wrap-around blouse under which Imelda wore no bra. The ballerina’s blood-red lips parted slightly, as though she were about to speak. They closed, then parted again, making a smacking sound that got Imelda’s lower regions salivating. Those cat’s eyes pierced her very soul, and Imelda smouldered with anticipation as Ondine’s perfect mouth uttered those two wonderful words, “Show me.”

Her critics might contest that her carnal acts of adultery constituted seriously unprofessional behaviour, but Imelda would argue that making love with Ondine represented an act of humanitarian generosity. This girl needed physical love from another woman. She was a flower, dying without mother earth and sister sunshine. More than that, love was the strongest force in the universe. Anything done out of love was right and good. This poor Saph needed somebody to show her the way.

To enliven the girl’s sleeping cells, Imelda ran her fingertips along Ondine’s knee, brushing her inner thigh. When she’d nearly reached the point of no return, Imelda circled her hand around, travelling back down to the dancer’s knee. Underneath that very French skirt, Imelda squeezed her athletic thigh and the girl moaned softly, “Je suis a toi, completement a toi…”

“My French…” Imelda said, wanting to understand every precious word passing through Ondine’s sweet lips.

“I am yours, Madame Drinkwater,” the girl translated, pupils dilated with desire. “I am yours completely.”

Oh, words! Those words of love sent Imelda spiralling into temptation. She couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried, and she wasn’t about to try. She kissed the girl whose warm mouth put up no fight. Her velvet tongue gave in to Imelda’s attack, and she purred like a kitten as their tongues danced a jubilant pas-de-deux.

On that bench, amidst the heady scent of blooming roses, Imelda awakened the girl’s sleeping body. “Now, are you certain this is what you want? I shouldn’t like to force your hand.”

A vicious smile bled across her lips. When Ondine nodded, Imelda’s body seized. Sparks flew downward, straight through her pulsing cunt. When they culminated at her throbbing clit, she thought the anticipation might be better than whatever would happen next.

“In my dreams of Yvette…” Ondine’s seductive accent sent Imelda’s mind reeling off into travels, off to Paris, to free love. “I want very badly to press my naked breasts against another woman’s breasts.”

Wasting no time, Imelda pulled Ondine’s fitted top over her head. Ondine unclasped her simple white bra, but covered her naked breasts with her forearm as though overcome by a sudden burst of bashfulness.

Having come this far, Imelda could not but go further. She untied her top, sliding it from her sun-kissed shoulders to expose the pair of magnificent orbs she so loved to parade. Imelda was obsessed with her own breasts, and loved simply looking at them and touching their mass. On certain occasions, she could even reach orgasm by fondling her tits. Or, better yet, by convincing some beautiful young thing to kiss and cuddle them for her.

Anxious to reveal the girl’s nubile breasts, Imelda petted Ondine’s pale arm until it fell away. The very sight of those perfectly round tits, nipples erect and begging to be caressed, made Imelda dizzy.

Taking the ballerina’s hands in hers, she brought ten trembling fingers to her massive tits. Ondine traced them top to bottom, like droplets of condensation running down a windowpane. Imelda gasped at the lightness of her touch before fulfilling the girl’s fantasy of pressing their tits together.

Their breasts floated weightless, as in space, nipples brushing past one another, over and under, sensitive flesh tapping softly against bundles of nerve-endings.

Kissing the girl’s neck, Imelda slid a deft hand down the front of Ondine’s skirt and stroked her mound over cotton panties. Ondine released a low-pitched ohhh and threw her head back. She admitted to Imelda, between breathy ejaculations, that nobody, not even her husband, had ever touched her like that: both gently and vigorously at once.

“Oh, darling one, I’m only just getting started!” Imelda cooed, slipping off the girl’s panties.

In those days, she had no trouble getting on her knees, but she paused on her way down to worship the girl’s pretty young nipples. While her own sizeable breasts floated against the ballerina’s open legs, Imelda ran her nose across Ondine’s naked chest, kissing the spheres of flesh and licking the proud buds sprouting from them.

As she stimulated Ondine’s little breasts with her mouth, Imelda took her own ample tits in hand. She ran her nipples up and down the girl’s wet pussy, rubbing her massive breasts between the ballerina’s thighs. How wonderful it felt to slide those substantial orbs along silky pussy lips as she suckled hard nipples.

“Ca c’est incroyable,” Ondine moaned. That feels incredible!

Imelda smiled as the girl’s pussy juice sparkled on her confident mams.

“Now tell me, how does this feel?” Imelda lowered herself between Ondine’s long legs. With the greatest of care, she ran her tongue along the ballerina’s lower lips.

Ondine let out a throaty moan as Imelda licked those juicy lips softly, softly, with the tip of her tongue. The sweet-and-sour taste of pussy unleashed what was left, in shreds, of her inhibitions. With the summer sun beating down on her naked flesh, she wanted more, more, more!

Blonde locks brushed Ondine’s white thighs as Imelda lapped the girl’s nectar. She shrieked with delight while Imelda alternately flicked and sucked on her bud, sending one and then two nimble fingers inside her wet slit. Ondine seized her own breasts and clasped them tightly as Imelda licked, sucked and slurped below her waist. The fragrance of roses wafted on the passing breeze as the pretty ballerina squealed for more.

 

* * * *

 

“I kept at that darling girl until she absolutely exploded,” Imelda told me as we polished off the second stolen bottle of champagne. At that point I was still listening to her story, but sometimes with my eyes closed or my head propped against her shoulder.

“You wouldn’t have believed it,” she continued, her words somewhat slurred. “She screamed so loudly my gardener came running to see if everything was all right. Fortunately, Ondine was in such a state of bliss I might have paraded her naked around the town and she wouldn’t have cared a farthing.”

“Sounds nice,” I said, and then hiccupped.

“I remember looking up at that girl’s sun-drenched body and thinking, ‘This girl is the epitome of female beauty.’ I told her as much. She was the very image of perfection. Divine. A dark-haired angel. Ondine was meant for me, a gift from God. Her fears all subsided when I showed her how delicious the carnal act could be. One might say Ondine became my pet after that. I awarded her the Drinkwater Company’s patronage even though, I must admit, she was not the worthiest candidate that year.”

“Ohhh…” I closed my eyes, setting my heavy head on Imelda’s shoulder.

“We couldn’t bear to be apart,” Imelda said with a sigh. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I loved that girl. She was quite spectacular, with an energy and comportment uniquely her own. At first, I always gave and she always received, but I was happy to provide her with what pleasure I could. That’s what one does when one is in love. In good time, Ondine returned my favours and our trysts became more balanced. I introduced her some mild discipline, role play, and the like. I can still hear the crack of the leather belt she used against my backside.”

With a dorky snort, I asked, “You let her whip you? That’s hard to imagine.”

“When one has a great deal of money, and hence a great deal of power, one sometimes desires to be placed in a position of subservience.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” I chuckled, recalling my bare my cupboards and the cheque that would fill them.

The click-clack of hard-soled shoes echoed down the hallway as some unknown person approached us. I might have reacted if I haven’t been quite so plastered.

“Excuse me, but is one of you guys Evelyn Fon?”

When I turned around to see who was asking, my head seemed to keep on going, spinning in pirouettes on my neck. Focussing my eyes, I realized the voice belonged to a young man in one of those preposterous 18^th century porter outfits.

“That’s me,” Imelda shouted. She tried to stand, but promptly fell back down on the sofa. “Fon, James Fon. James Fonda. Would you like to Goldfinger my buns of steel?”

“Shut up, you’re not me,” I laughed, giving her shoulder a playful jab. As I turned to address the porter, I got her Goldfinger joke and laughed some more. When the second wave of hysterics died down, I told the young guy, “Don’t listen to her. She’s not me, she’s just drunk. I’m Evelyn Fon.” Trying very hard not to slur my words, I went on to ask, “Are you a fan of my work?”

The boy pretended to be amused. “No, Mr Drinkwater told me to find you. He said dinner’s going to start soon and you still have to change.”

“Change into what? Into a frog or a… or a leprechaun?” I chuckled.

“Change into your dress, ma’am,” the boy clarified.

“I’m already wearing a dress. It’s purple,” I whispered, as if that were something he couldn’t distinguish simply by looking at me.

As the young porter helped me to my feet, Imelda addressed him in that hoity-toity tone people sometimes use when they want to convince others they’re not as drunk as they seem. “Pardon me, young gentleman boy, but Ms Fon and I are just in the middle of a conversation at this particular moment.”

“Oh, Imelda,” I said, placing an overly apologetic hand on her shoulder. “I have to go get my cheque. I have no fridge in the food… no fridge in the fridge.” I laughed hysterically as the steady young man guided me away. “I’ll come to your gallery and you can finish the stormy. The story, the story, sorry. Tell me quick: happy ending or sad ending?”

“It’s a love story, dear heart.” Imelda offered a sorrowful smile as the porter led me down the hallway. “All love stories end badly sooner or later.”