Annabella takes me shopping, around ten o’clock in the morning, on a beautiful Thursday, the second this May. The taxi leaves us on Boulevard Haussmann, next to Galeries Lafayette, where we spend a couple of hours. Trying dresses and dessous.
“There are gentlemen turned on by inner linings, you know?” I find myself telling her about my custom fetish filming from early this week.
“How is that, inner linings?” Wonders Annabella.
“Here,” I show her this Mia Short Heritage trench coat from London Fog, which I take on me, pushing my left hand in the pocket, “see how I turn the lining up? Imagine.”
“Let’s imagine that we go looking for Etat Pur. Follow me!” I put the slate trench back.
Soft body cream. Excellent idea. I follow her.
An hour later, we hit the street, two bags in each hand, one black evening dress for me, another red party dress for me, actually for Don’s eyes because he loves seeing me in it, more than I like being wrapped like a twinkie, a tube of lait fondant hydratant and two tubes of Centella asiatica, anti-aging skin care. Then the Triumphs, in my other hand: bodysuits, often mistaken as leotards in my photo sets. Oh, and I went back to grab the trench coat too. Who knows.
We stop at Le Manoir where I order Pennes à la provençale.
Shortly before three o’clock, we are back home. Annabella wants to keep the cab but I insist, inviting her up to my penthouse. In the elevator, a long silence tells me subtly about her nervousness.
“Do you wish for a glass of wine?”
“Uh-huh. Do you wish we try the Triumphs?”
“Uh-huh,” say I dropping the bags on the parquet, excusing myself for a second, rushing to the fridge, picking the bottle of La Vieille Ferme, that I’ve opened the other evening, after dinner, and looking for two clean glasses. I don’t like what I see in the cabinets. Where are the classy glasses? Ah, on the terrace, in the bar. I can see them through the window. Okay. “Was I long?, sorry to keep you waiting. Do you like Luberon Blanc?”
“I love it,” smiles Annabella, blushing a bit. Or am I confused by the crimson of the marquee? “Shall we sit on the terrace?”
“Of course, please, make yourself comfortable. Drop the bags here, next to the table. Let me get the glasses.” I move, fast, and pour, slow. “Santé!”
We sip, exchanging sideways glances. “Did you like my black Triumph? You know, from the April photos.”
“I–, I– think, I do.” She’s blushing again, beating the crimson shades above our heads.
“The one that we’ve bought today feels, dunno, like more pleasant to the touch. Can I try it? Do you mind?”
“N-no, not at all.” I dominate the field and I love it. Always!
Annabella grabs the bottle to refill her now empty glass. Her fingers are trembling a bit. Time to make my move.
Taking her glass, along with her hand, in mine, I kneel in front of her and speak. “I know why we are here, enjoying this cozy afternoon together. You know as well as I do. Let’s release the unspoken emotional pressure. I like being told what to do. It’s part of being a nude model. So how about you tell me what to do. Every move. You wish I do this, tell me. You wish I do that, speak it to me. Talk to me, Annabella!” I stand to retreat back to my corner of the sofa, not before allowing my little finger to caress her palm.
“Tell me about your sex life, Doris.”
“Oh my, which part of it? The public one or the private?”
“In private, I am the passive part, have always been.”
“Do you touch yourself, in private?”
“I seldom have the chance to masturbate. In private.”
“Because I take what I need, and sometimes more, from him. And then, he wants to film me. Then I masturbate, in public.”
“And do you come?”
“Sometimes yes, some other times no.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Most of the times, yes. When I don’t, you can see it on screen and that’s a huge turn off. This is why I don’t do what I don’t like in front of the camera.”
“I’ve watched some of your masturbation movies and they were quite convincing. I can tell you!”
“Glad that you enjoyed watching them. I am convincing because, almost all the time, I already had a couple of mind blowing orgasms. So when masturbating, I only climb down the hill, or the mountain, depends.”
“Climbing down the hill?”
“When I lose myself, then I climb up. I could show you, but I’d need him to start my engine first.”
“Better stay here with me. Play with yourself in front of me. I wish to play with myself more often.”
“How about we masturbate together? Here on the terrace, now!”
“Won’t the neighbors hear us? Aren’t we too exposed? Those flats up there–”
“The buzz of this city is our best cover. Besides, would you mind a voyeur or two? They have binoculars, top notch equipment.”
“You know them?”
“A few, yes. I’ve got my own camera. Got pictures of them. Good to keep the records tidy.”
“Nah, I won’t mind.” After her third full glass of wine (I uncorked a second bottle), Annabella gets the courage to scream, covering the buzz of the city. “Let’s masturbate together!”
Good that my French neighbors are all anglophobes. Not that the word would be hard to guess, or the sight of two gals opening the second bottle of wine on the terrace.
I push my denim mini dress down along my legs. In slow moves, the same way I do this in front of the camera. Wish to tease her, to blow her mind away. I am a very narcissistic woman, but you all know this already.
The white panties, all cotton and so comfy, are about to stay on my buttocks. I like stretching them, revealing my clit rapidly. No more than a moment I’ll show her the secrets behind the camel toe, even if the white is not dry any more, in between my inner thighs. The wet grey spot grows in a visible puddle. I know she’s getting wet too. Wondering when, but let me ask her.
“Annabella, will you join?”
“You want me to–?” She asks shyly.
“To play with yourself. The way I do.”
“Do you wish I show you?”
“Yes, show me!”
That was yesterday. The photo montage below is from today. This morning.