Jobs

Act 9 – The Seamstress

First inch I gasp. Second and third I keen. Fourth and fifth curls my toes. And then you push your sixth. Seven and eight is a hard, burning pain. And then you push some more, with your ninth, and I revel in the fullness. Just when I think we’re ready to move you whisper, again, asking if I’m ready. I say ‘What?’ in a dazed expression and you grin, slamming into me with your tenth inch without a warning. Oh no. No, no, no. I’m ripped! It’s then I realize what it truly feels like…to measure you…inch by inch.

~ Origami Rose

“Length, 10 inches. Width, 3 inches. Circumference of the head is … huge. Hmm. Very huge. Tell me if it’s too tight so I can lubricate the seam.”

“Interesting choice of words, Ms. Rose,” he cooed.

“Oh,” I blushed looking at him, “I see what you mean,” I pursed my lips looking down, embarrassed, understanding that my measurements weren’t off, but my language was, “Apologies. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.”

“No…” he crooned, “No need for an apology sweet thing. I love the way you talk,” he stated with a tinge of malice that warranted him a smack upside the head from his lady partner, “Ow!” he snapped to her, with eyebrows sewn together, lower lip sticking out in disbelief, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Wench! It’s not like she’s using her mouth to measure me,” he commented and got another resounding slap in the head, “Gah!”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes as she combed her hair with her long fingers, “Forgive him, Ms. Rose,” she addressed me with kindness in the mirror stuck against the wall over the small vanity table with incandescent light bulbs lining the corners, “Men are generally primordial beasts. Programmed to hit on just about anything with a pulse, and a hole,” she said, boldly, making me shift uncomfortably where I stood. I bit my lower lip in an act to somehow quell my amusement.

The mirror reflected his irritation, “And women…” he air-quoted, “…are “programmed” to be that hole for the men,” he remarked and I lifted an eyebrow, “Ow!” he shrieked as I poked him with the bobby pin, “S-sharp,” he squeaked and pouted like a kid.

She turned to him, “I don’t think women are the only ones programmed as holes for men. You yourself have a hole you know,” she noted, and he visibly shivered where he stood like he was emptying his bladder in the urinal after hours of holding his piss.

“Brrr…” he shuddered, “…never. I would never. My hole is off-limits,” he waved a strong hand in the air as if the action was going to immortalize his statement.

The lady officer adjusted her cap, “Never say never, Garth. You just might be a natural bottom for all we know,” she winked in the mirror and he shivered again.

We were at my little makeshift boutique. And when I said ‘little’ it literally is tiny. It’s basically the shed where I used to keep the lawnmower, rake, and shovels. A very small space, just a little wider than my bathroom, and it was attached to the side of my petite house.

I remodeled the shed with the little money I had to somehow jumpstart my small business, which was basically freelancing as a seamstress wherever my services were needed.

I’m Origami. Origami Rose. Born in Okinawa, but lived in Washington for as long as I could remember. My parents decided to fly me to America at a young age, back when I was sixteen, forcing me to live with an aunt who eventually didn’t want anything to do with me. The last time I saw my parents was when they waved their goodbye to me in Shibuya Airport. I thought they were going to follow shortly. However, months rolled into years, and years into a good decade.

“I don’t understand the need for new uniforms,” Garth commented dryly as I loosened the measuring tape around his neck, “It’s not like we’re celebrities for f**k’s sake,” he exaggerated by waving his hands in the air, an expression filled with his condescension.

“Stop complaining,” Ms. Winchell countered, “It’s not like you’re paying for anything. Besides, a new look is a new perspective. Security needs to be more visible as per Mayor Baker’s orders.”

“Pfft,” he vibrated his lips in a gesture of surrender, “Whatever.”

I smiled as I continued taking their measurements from head to toe. I needed to sew together an entire ensemble which I estimated would take a good week or so, given that these two were the last in a group of ten who needed new uniforms, “I think I got it.”

“Oh yeah,” Garth loosened a few kinks on his shoulders and winded them back, “Wham bam thank you Ma’am,” he moaned and got another slap in the head, “Jesus Christ, Wench! Don’t you ever get tired of slapping me in the head!?” he screeched indignantly and Ms. Winchell laughed. I think I understood why.

“Yes Garth. I like slapping your head. A lot,” she smirked to accentuate the innuendo and I felt my boutique get even smaller as my head inflated with thoughts of malice and perversion, “Thanks again Ms. Rose,” she embellished her statement with a cheery smile, “Need a week?”

“Yes. A week. A week is all I need.”

Together they vacated my small shop, strolling past my white picket fence to their police car. Garth rolled down his window and blew me an air-kiss which got him another smack upside the head. I chortled as I waved my goodbye. I’d like to believe that they weren’t just partners. They were probably lovers too, “Hmmm…”

I hummed a tune under my breath as I re-entered my boutique, splaying and tacking the measurements on paper to the corkboard which I observed thoughtfully. I mentally calculated the time in my head if it was indeed possible to finish in under a week, trying to compute my hours and divide the labor it would take for each seam, pleat, and button I needed to sew and incorporate in the garments, “Mm…”

This job was a gargantuan undertaking, but I knew I could muster the girl power to do it. And I had to. I wasn’t making a lot of money doing freelance work. Being a seamstress didn’t pay that much. What I was earning was just enough to get me by. I had no savings to spend on myself, and whatever balance I had in the bank was just enough for an emergency if I were to catch a flu.

Seamstresses like me often work with top designers who are praised by their designs. Accomplished designers didn’t always have the time to sew the garments themselves because they are busy building their empire. That’s just how it is. Therefore, we do the sewing for them.

We go and see them like models, presenting our own portfolios in the hopes of getting a side job to sew their designs into completion, and hopefully make a good buck or two. It’s somewhat frustrating when the praise I should be getting for a garment I basted goes to the designer. But that’s just how it is. Just like a friend of mine who’s a ghost writer, writing the vision of other writers who don’t have the time to write the books themselves.

It’s sad really, because I too have my own sketches and designs, and I think they’re good enough to rival that of the top designer brands. But my dreams could never take off since I didn’t have the funding to jumpstart my own business. All I had was this nifty little shop, with incandescent light bulbs, brightening what was gloomy about my business.

I kept humming the familiar tune under my breath, a melody that my mom used to croon close to my ear after a bedtime story. I sighed as I pulled my sling bag over my body, “You’re gonna make it someday,” I smiled in the mirror as I smoothed a wrinkle on my white silk blouse, which I myself designed and sewn with intricate embroidery. I turned to view my subtle backside which was covered by a frilly, short black skirt, which was also my design. I did my own clothes because it was cheaper than buying discounted items at a thrift shop. With just ten dollars I could already put together a polished and decent head-to-toe look.

“Right…” I murmured as I tied my long dark hair into a ponytail, pushing the band against my scalp then pulling it to the side for me to drape the slightly wavy ends over my right shoulder, “You’re gonna make it someday,” I repeated like it was a prayer. My Japanese heritage taught me that a strong prayer could set things in motion. And in that thought I surrendered my fate, repeating the words till good fortune finds me … someday.

“Origami,” Jacqueline Roseau, a lady French designer, based here in Washington, with boutiques in NYC and Cali, called my attention, “Mr. Le Blanc is due for his fitting. I need you to take his measurements and get to work as soon as possible, oui?” she ministered while stirring a flute of Cristal champagne in her long, spindly fingers.

“Yes Ma’am,” I bowed my head in front of her, an impulse I never got to get rid of because it was unique to my upbringing and culture.

I sauntered in my flats to where a work station was available, sitting and getting to work, looking left to right at the other seamstresses who showed me a welcoming smile. Most of them I knew, and a few new to doing freelance.

Hmm-mmm-mmm…I hummed under my breath as I stepped on the footpad for the machine to start knitting the fabric. Hmm-mmm-mmm…it’s a seductive melody that my mom used to coo all the time. She called it ‘The Harpy’s Malevolence’ which was this unique melody that requires you to smile while humming its tune.

“Rose,” one of my fellow seamstresses called my attention, “Your client just arrived,” I looked bewildered from her to the man. I couldn’t make out his features from where I was sat because I had poor vision. I couldn’t afford glasses so I make do with what I had, squinting and bowing low whenever I stitch because it was the only way I could do my job, “It’s Mr. Le Blanc,” she whispered conspiratorially and I bristled in my seat. This was the first time I was meeting him so I needed to make a good first impression. Not that there was a chance for a second impression, but I just wanted to look professional.

I pushed my chair to stand up and reached forward with an open hand, “Bonjour, Mr. Le Blanc,” I greeted as his blurry face formed before my eyes. A pompous wrinkle formed at the corner of his lips. It’s then I realized that an affluent man would never shake hands with a lowly seamstress.

“You Origami Rose?” I jolted when he took my handshake, “Nice to meet you. And no need to French me, darling. I don’t speak fúcking French,” he smiled and it was a warm kind of welcome.

He was handsome. His American mixed well with his French. He had a darker than usual five o’clock shadow which told me that there was more of the French in his blood than he would like to admit.

I heard a phone ring, must be his, “Sorry,” he let go of my hand, leaving the nerves in my wrist with a strange, unfathomable ache, “Bobby, yeah, what’s the status?” he started speaking, walking off to where the floor-to-ceiling windows were, looking at the commercial street outside ‘The house of Jacqueline Roseau’ which apparently is the name of Ms. Roseau’s clothing line. She could’ve come up with a more original concept for a name what with all the different fashion houses already but nah, not my problem. When I get to have my own clothing empire I—

“Psst,” the seamstress sitting beside me whispered, “You have work to do. Sit your ass down.”

“Oh. Right,” I startled, the thick fog in my mind clearing up as I sat myself down, “Hmm-mmm-mmm…” I hummed The Harpy’s Malevolence under my breath, all the while looking at Mr. Le Blanc, bathed in the light by the windows, his form gleaming with masculinity and power. Hmm, I wondered if his first name was as sexy as his last.

Mr. Le Blanc was supposed to have his fitting for a suit today but he needed to reschedule. There was a call he needed to attend to. I found out from a fellow seamstress that he was a business tycoon in his mid-thirties. A well-off man who was well-rounded not just with his business, but also with the ladies, “Ori, you hungry?” invited another fellow seamstress and I had the mind to shake my head, “Don’t work too hard,” she squeezed my shoulder and I was about to say thank you but I forgot her name. I just nodded.

Seconds later the click-clacking of heels sashayed to where I was stationed, “Origami, would you kindly take a model’s measurements in our show room,” Jacqueline, the b***h troll said, “I’m taking an hour to do my Botox and will be back at three. Should Mr. Le Blanc return, I want you to take his measurements swiftly, you understand?” she reminded me and I bowed my head again out of impulse, “What’s with the bowing? Are you Chinese?”

“No,” I spoke softly, “I’m Japanese,” Hmm, really? Was it hard to distinguish Japanese from a Chinese and a Korean? I mean, Japanese have alabaster skin. Chinese are ocher, a pale kind of yellow. And the Koreans, they have somewhat of a pinkish alabaster glow.

She jutted her lips to the side, and despite the fog in my vision I could see that she was grinding her teeth, “Yeah. Whatever. You’re Asian. Just do what I asked you to do.”

I bowed, again, wanting desperately to stab her with a needle.

She perched her oversized Givenchy glasses over the bridge of her nose, turning to walk outside her fashion house wearing an overly-accessorized maxi dress which was over-embellished with tacky detailing and overworked pleats. In my mind I already was editing her look to a more understated, chic kind of elegance, a thought that would remain just that … a thought, because I would never get any of my designs out to sale. Not a chance.

I pursed my lips in faux righteous indignation, pulling my measuring tape from my sling bag and a set of clothing pins, the pen strewn over the shell of my ear and a small piece of paper between my lips.

I hummed The Harpy’s Malevolence as I made my way to where the show room was. It was a well-lit area of white walls with high ceilings, cute panoramic windows, and clothing racks walling every corner, “Hello, I’m Origami Rose. I’m here to take your measurements for Ms. Jacqueline,” I said as his blurred masculine form came into view.

“Hey.”

Hmm, ‘hey’ … the way he said it too was a little slurred. Maybe he was high or something. Okay then, “Hey to you too,” I smiled, cordially, “You may—” I didn’t get to finish because he already was stripping, leaving his underwear the only article of clothing he had on. I turned around in shock but then realized how stupid an action that was.

I turned around, again, but now with a genial smile, yet I was still overtly conscious in his presence as I fastened the pin cushion around my left hand. I knelt in front of him to measure his ankles going up, pulling wide strips of fabric to check if it complemented his skin coloration. I pinned the fabric to stay and thought if the color looked good on him. After a while I nodded, then resumed measuring him from his ankles going up his neck.

That’s just how I did my measurements. I always started at the bottom going up. I don’t know why I do this. Probably a strange designer quirk of mine, “Do you models eat anything?” I observed as I wrapped the measuring tape around his waist, all the while turning my face away from his crotch which for some reason looked bigger from when we started.

He chortled. It was a malicious kind of laughter, “Yeah … we eat pussy.”

I grinded my teeth in revulsion, yet I kept my cool, “Come here,” he said pulling me up, “Let me take a look at you,” I bit my lip as he caressed the back of his hand against my face, “Wanna have some fun?” was his lust-filled invitation, it made me shiver.

“I can’t. Not today,” I remarked playing along, my heart racing, desire flooding my bloodstream.

“Why?”

“I have my period,” Liar! You’re a virgin! “Times like this I think God’s a b***h,” I commented, brushing him off, “My uterus is killing me. Like my uterus has a uterus, and it’s throbbing with pain.”

“Aw s**t. That’s messy,” he cringed, balling his fist as he bit down on a knuckle.

I rolled my eyes to stress my fake predicament, “Yeah. Tell me about it,” Liar~!

We continued. I making sure I got his measurements correct, and he with his bulge limping against his underwear, deflating at the thought of defiling my fake menstruation.

Four days of non-stop sewing and I feel like my skin was the only thing holding me together. In-between working with Jacqueline’s overdesigned winter collection and the Metropolitan Police uniforms was a call from Mr. Le Blanc, telling me that he couldn’t make it for his fitting at Jacqueline’s house, and would have to be serviced at home, the address of which led me to this majestic portico, an ornate white metal gate that took my breath away. I felt so small standing outside the gates, looking in at the driveway of a house that gleamed majestically from a distance.

I heard the keypad beside the gate bleep with a prompt, a matronly voice spilling from it, goading me to come in. The greeting was probably from one of Mr. Le Blanc’s many butlers and servants.

The gates swung open to a walkway of Grecian cobble with an outgrowth of short, green grass spilling from the cracks. Oh my. Rich. Grand. Opulent. Only the wealthy could afford such a palatio.

I walked up and was cocooned left and right by a blend of greens, yellows, and orange leaves, from the trees that were hovering over my head, caving together alfresco-style. It’s like walking through a dense canopy of varying colors. Hmm, Mr. Le Blanc’s gardener had knowledge of landscaping I could tell, “Hello!” greeted a woman, clad in denim jumpers, her clothing doing nothing to flatter her obviously buxom figure, “Mr. Le Blanc is waiting for you,” she smiled and my eyes flitted to the gardening shears in her hands. Oh my. A woman gardener. That’s new.

I wished my eyes could see better. My descriptions couldn’t possibly do justice the magnificence of Mr. Le Blanc’s palatial home. It was like the French countryside, in the heart of Washington.

I came from a small family, and I remember our house to be the size of a very small apartment, a gaudy duplex that had neither width nor height. So to me, personally, a house that required me to lift my chin up was something I consider palatial. And in my awe, as I await the doors to beckon me inside, I found myself looking down, realizing how small I really was in the world of the rich and wealthy.

The door creaked open and I was welcomed first not by the sight, but the smell of his affluence, smoldering off of him like a very potent and enchanting caress. The notes of his perfume were masculine, the kind of scent you sprayed the night before and it stayed with you and clung to your every inch, “Ms. Rose, welcome, come in,” I expected a maid or a servant to open the door, but I was ushered by the man himself. I bowed my head in respect of the gesture as I crossed the threshold.

You know that weight you feel when you enter somebody else’s home for the first time? And it’s not because there’s voodoo going on but because everything feels sort of otherworldly? It’s what I felt as I stepped inside his palatial home, with every corner decorated and maximized with opulent upholstery and modern set pieces. A mix of the old and the new. Eclectic. And very inviting.

“Shall we?” his deep voice pierced my stupor, beckoning me as he waved a welcome hand to the direction of wherever he wanted to take me. I walked alongside him, all the while stealing glances as I squinted to refocus his features before my eyes, appreciating the handsome masculinity of a very strong jaw line, a broad neck, and a much darker five o’clock shadow. I wish I could see the color of his eyes but I couldn’t and— “Sorry I rescheduled,” he quickly turned to me and I snapped my attention straight ahead, my mind buzzing with fear as my heart pounded inside my chest. Gosh, I could have been caught ogling had I not snapped my attention forward, “I knew about you from a few contacts. They all tell me that you’re a great seamstress.”

Oh? What fresh news. I guess all my years of sewing for another designer is finally paying off.

“You’re very quiet,” he observed as he turned his face around, blocking my view.

“I guess there’s nothing for me to say,” I replied, pushing a shy smile to surface.

He smirked, or what I thought was a smirk, “Guess so, please, go on in,” he opened the door to what looked like his private office. I craned my head into the room, testing if I’d be welcomed by the same heavy feeling I felt not a moment ago. No heavy feeling. Good. That meant I was already over my initial awe.

His private space was stark and utilitarian, complemented by fixtures of old Victorian, “Your taste for furniture is…” I was finding the right word, testing which vocabulary would best fit my description, “…interesting.”

I looked to him and squinted and I think I saw a small V form between his eyebrows, “Why do you always squint so much?”

Oh my. It was the first time someone asked me that question, and it jerked me into realizing that my squint might be a little off-putting, “I have poor vision,” I relaxed my eyes, and in effect his masculine features softened like an oil painting, “Let’s take your measurements, Mr. Le Blanc,” I initiated, fingering for my tools inside my bag.

“It’s DuJean. Just call me DuJean,” Du-Zhawn. Hmm. Sexy. I looked at him, and smiled as hard as I could get my cheeks to go up, pushing the squint into my eyes, and in doing so I caught the color of his eyes … deep blue. The hue pulled everything together in his handsome face, “Where and how do you want me?” he asked, and the underlying message rang in my ears, pushing a dull kind of electricity to the tips of my fingertips as I awkwardly stretched the measuring tape with my trembling hands, “You need me naked?” he lifted an eyebrow and I found myself grasping at straws of emotion, unknowing of what I could possibly say to engage his thoughtful repartee.

“Depends on the look you’ll be wearing,” I swallowed and steeled my spine, “If you desire a full look then I would need to measure you from head to toe,” I squared my shoulders to show that I wasn’t intimidated. God, why was my heart beating so fast? Was there alcohol in his perfume? Of course there was. But heck, it’s like smelling him was making me more and more intoxicated, and the more his scent became my oxygen, the more I feel like I couldn’t breathe, “Let’s start.”

The measuring tape unrolled and it fell into a cascade on the Persian-carpeted floor. As soon as I winded the tape around his socked ankle, I knew that my method wasn’t going to work. He needed to take his pants off. My subconscious warred with the idea, but there was nothing I could do, “I may need to take your measurements without your clothes on. Just to ensure a snug fit. Because I believe…” I looked at the order slip bearing his specifications, “…you prefer a very tight fit?” I re-confirmed.

I heard the weight of his coat drop before I saw it on the floor, “Yes. Yes indeed. I like it tight,” his eyes were half-lidded as he said those words, the tip of his tongue visible with his mouth ajar as he unhooked the cufflinks. I snapped to look elsewhere as I’m greeted by his hands making slow work of his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt down with insidious ease, deliberateness, and adroit precision. He peeled the shirt from each shoulder, shrugging it off and pulling each arm away from the long sleeves. His healthy, yet muscular body, came into view and I took a lungful of air that made me shiver, trying to calm my nerves as my blood unfurled with a seductive ache.

I thought I saw a smile before he turned his back, walking towards the couch, draping his shirt over the plush burgundy chesterfield. Momentarily I was treated with the sight of a naked back, toned muscles flexing as he threw his open shirt over the padding of the sofa, “It’s not polite to stare,” his voice startled me which jostled my heart to a tight squeeze.

I don’t understand. Why do I feel this urge to respond with my body, and not with my tact? He hadn’t turned around, yet he knew that I was staring. How did he know that? I turned my gaze away, like I was slapped by the mischievous hands of malice. But then I heard the fall of his belt buckle and my skin tightened. His footsteps were a slow procession as he snapped the button atop the zipper, peeling either flaps to unzip his pants. The zipper parted slowly to afford me a delicious view of a hale and hearty manhood in good physical shape.

Fabric pooled around his ankles and he lifted each knee to pull each socked foot after the other, “Do I need to remove my socks too?” he asked and I realized that he was standing in front of me, smoldering in his height, looking down at me with those eyes, the color of which I could see as the slivers of sunshine spilled through the curtains to line his face.

I saw his eyes again. They were deep, darkening even more with something raw and foreboding, like a gentle warning of a storm that was about to come, “No need,” I swallowed and impulsively my hands shot to flatten over his chest, “Oh God,” it was a hard battle, and desire won as I curled my fingers through the hair and over the muscle of his burly chest.

“I’m a walking hard-on. And horny as hell. What are you gonna do about it,” he murmured leaning down, the words melting in their syllables, tickling my most sensitive parts, “I have somewhere to be in two hours. Go on and do your job,” he whispered, and it’s an order. I felt the hot breath that came with those words, falling over my flushed cheeks, igniting my nerves with hotness, sweeping my body with carnal ache, his sensual seduction hotwiring my brain not to think anymore but to surrender to the feeling of my baser instincts … my ripening womanhood … my unexplored sexuality … my body teeming with profound excitement because this was the first time I had ever been under the speculation and probing of a man.

My nerves were on end, aching and swelling, the thrill of being wanted by a man oozing outside of my pores, wrapping my body in a low state of arousal like a sensitive film, flimsy and fragile in its state, about ready to burst at the slightest touch of intimacy.

My mouth was dry and my heart was racing as I knelt to take his measurements around the ankles, whispering the measurements in-between as I slowly grazed each shin with the tape measure, tightening and boning around each muscular, hairy thigh to secure the width of each pant leg. I swallowed hard as I stood, torturously leaning over to fasten the tape measure around his strong waist, the numbers resting and adjusting around the muscular V of his hips. Oh my.

“If…” I licked my dry lips, “…if you desire a tight, snug fit, then I may have to sew the fabric over your body,” I braved, swallowing hard as I lowered my gaze down the ridges of his fleshy abdomen, hard abs darkened by a trail of dark, dense, rich hair.

“I don’t mind,” he rasped, and my pulse quickened, “Not at all,” he swept his knuckles by my arm, testing my reaction which in itself is an impulse that betrayed me because I found myself robotically leaning against the touch. s**t! “You’re softer than your silk blouse, Origami,” his voice was a heady contrast to the delicacy of the material he’s touching, and instantly my body flared with volcanic heat, a red flag of warning standing erect at the edge of my mind, waving frantically for me to run. But I … I couldn’t move. My impulses betrayed me, traitorously melting against his touch.

I looked up and saw blue orbs of lust, raw and dripping with malice and need, deep blue eyes following the caress of his fingertips as they travelled from my elbow all the way up, “Does your heart beat fast when I do this?” he asked while frisking the lining of my blouse near the cup of my bra. Oh no. His words and his actions were a wake-up call to my heart as it pounded with alarm inside my chest. I could hear my blood roar in my ears, my nerves singing and soaring with need, “It fascinates me why designers use silk as a material for blouses. It’s the worst fabric to use, because it can never hide a hardened n****e,” s**t! My n*****s hardened the second he punctuated his statement.

Ooh…my n*****s strained against my bra, rubbing and hardening, “Oops … a strap just came off,” Oh my, “Oops, there goes another one,” Oh God. Everything he said he would partner with actions, making hard what was soft, harder what was already hard, moist what was drying, and wet what was damp. Ooh.

This unexpected shift in the dynamics of our professional working relationship was fast becoming unprofessional.

My palms tightened in alarm over his chest when he pressed his hard body against mine, my backside perching against the edge of the window, the curtains of which he pulled across shut to afford us the semblance of privacy, “Mr. Le Blanc I’m really nervous,” I shivered, my words breaking in its message as he once again forced the weight of his hands over my shoulders, peeling the silken straps of my blouse down my arms, “Please, I’m, I—”

“Ssshh…I’ll be very gentle,” he smoothed the back of his hand on my face and I keened softly, “You need to open yourself up to what’s waiting for you,” he murmured.

My supposed response died in my throat the moment he spread a hand and closed it around the curve of my right breast, squeezing and tweaking the n****e with such lustful possession that I felt like I didn’t own my own breast. Like it was his and he wanted it back, “Hmm, I like how small your breast is in my much bigger hand,” he cooed as his face dipped.

Oh God, the warmth of his boorish hand got replaced by a mouth that sucked, lips sweeping over my areola, tightening to a close around the much smaller bead in the middle, which slowly hardened with a swelling ache the harder he sucked, “Aah, please,” I begged, and I begged not because I wanted him to stop. I begged because I wanted more. More. More!

Desire detonated in the area his lips had touched, tingles spreading outward to hug my swollen breast and make it heavier, elongating my n****e and hardening its jut. Oh my, such sweet, sweet pleasure. The kind of ache that made my blood sing inside my veins. The kind of ache that made me writhe my backside against the wood of the windowsill. The kind of ache that squeezed my s*x with a clenching need to be abused … robbed of its virginity … claimed and possessed by the growth of his ample manhood that was rubbing between the V of my legs, hungry to get buried inside my virginity, “I’m always horny for Asian women,” he swept the bridge of his nose against my n****e, breathing hard as he lifted a hard tongue against it, “Everything about an Asian woman is tighter … because everything is much, much smaller … like your lips,” he brought his face up to my panting mouth to kiss me and I moaned at the feeling, “Your face,” he mopped his lips across my cheek, down to my jaw line and behind my ear, nipping the skin to leave a love bite, “And your cúnt,” Aah! He pressed his hard length between my legs, pushing it hard against the fabric of my skirt which felt so thin in its fabrication. What … how … why … when did he remove his underwear? Oh God. He was rubbing … rubbing hard.

My body traitorously arched of its own volition as he deepened the kiss down my neck, my pulse tightening in its cord as he bit close to my collarbone and sucked hard to leave another hickey.

I looked down gasping, short-of-breath, to see the V form between his brows as he molested my swollen n****e and then the next, laving one and then the other, and then back to the first one then the second, back and forth, giving each one equal and meticulous attention. He was savoring each areola like a meal, and it made my arousal unfurl in my veins in a low state of humming frustration, testing my patience as my s*x pulsed with the need to be bruised by the hot nakedness of his impressive manhood, “Please, Mr. Le Blanc. Please,” I begged.

“As you wish,” he breathed while retracting from a wet and abused n****e, which was hardly recognizable because the areola had swollen twice its size and the battered jut an elongated bead that fell hard in the middle.

He scooped me up but not before tearing the open seam of my skirt, destroying a five-dollar article of clothing which was a drop in the bucket among the presence of everything that was posh about this room, “Do you take your shots?” he asked, concerned, and I blanched, “Are you okay?” he solicited, running his fingers through my hair that had come undone from its ponytail.

“I don’t. I’m sorry,” I replied.

“Why is that?” he wondered, then c****d his jaw to the side, “Doesn’t matter. I can use a condom,” he huffed, resigned, his hands gathering to scoop my thighs and was about to lift me up when I found myself gripping his shoulders with alarm, “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he observed, warily, loosening his grip around my hips, “Do you have HIV?”

“No!” I startled, shocked, “I’m … let’s just say I’ll be much tighter than you thought I’d be.”

His mouth formed into a small O of realization, which he then pursed into a smirk of malicious mischief, “Nice,” he hissed, and along with that one word came the darkening of his eyes, the intent behind them full of wickedness, “I’ll make this a f**k you will remember, forever,” he murmured thickly as he scooped me up in my fragile state, a much smaller person wrapped around his body by his waist, my legs quivering as I realized that I was unusually slippery between my legs, “You already had a mini-orgasm and we haven’t even started yet,” he observed and I trembled as something so small, yet so powerful trickled from within my s*x.

Oh God. This was torture. I wrapped around him tight as he carried me to the wide couch propped against the wall, below a painting of what I was sure was a patented masterpiece of the French Revolution.

My veins were throbbing with the need to explode as he sat down. My short, naked legs impulsively wrapping around his much longer ones like a vine, “Give me those lips, my geisha,” he invited and I succumbed, deepening my kiss as I leaned against his hot body, his arms and tight grip fastening around my hips as he scooted to the edge of the sofa near the small vanity.

I pulled away from his kiss, breathlessly, as he pulled the drawer to open to reveal a box of Trojans, “You have a 99.9% chance of getting pregnant. I’m not risking that. You’re too young. Just how old are you?”

“I’m no child. I’m 25.”

“I’m thirty-five. Nice.”

He took the casing of the condom between his teeth and ripped the packet, the rubber jumping out with a faint smell of something musky and sensually aromatic, “Hot cinnamon,” he said.

“What?” I inquired, bewildered.

“The condom’s flavor,” he enlightened as his one arm circled around my waist to lift me up. His other hand stroked the condom down his hard-on with such tactile precision that recognition dawned on me, making me realize that this man, to whom I was going to offer my virginity, f****d many a woman already.

He sat me down again and Oh! My mouth dropped as a sharp stabbing pain pierced my opening. He stilled upon seeing my reaction, “Damn. Whoa. s**t, you’re tight,” his body shook and mine did too as the pain lanced through my body with such an unbearable ache that made me cry.

“We’ll do this an inch at a time,” he murmured, and I could feel his heart pound beneath the sensitive touch of my right hand as I squeezed his chest, my left hand and all its fingers strewn together as I rubbed my poor pudenda, which was fractionally getting ripped open for the first time, an agonizing inch at a time.

Tears sprang from my eyes as I realized how painful s*x really was, “I can’t, please,” he didn’t listen nor sympathize, and instead eased himself slowly with his hard rod disappearing inside my lush virginity, which was now red and pulsing with an indescribable ache I had never felt before. My muscles clenched and burned as I felt my insides adjust to accommodate something foreign, thick, long, and hard, filling my body with a weight that wasn’t mine, “Oh God. Please sir, please move,” I found myself saying out of sheer, potent greed, realizing that the initial pain now opened to a feeling of rapture.

“O…” he stretched the tired syllable, groaning low in his throat as desire, hot and wild, tightened my nether regions as he started to move, or rather … me … it was I … I was starting to move. Oh my. What witchcraft was this? It was like my hips were moving on their own, trying to help my body achieve that delicious clench every time I rolled my hips in forward, sweeping motions.

“O…are you sure you never done this before?” he asked, bewildered, almost confused, with his mouth a variation between an ‘Ah’ and an ‘Ooh.’ “Ah s**t,” he grinded his teeth, the sinful profanity was as tight as the hands that gripped my thighs as I plopped, dunking myself over and over, lifting my thighs for him to slide out partway before I crash back down to make me feel whole again. Ooh. Wow. Aah.

Hot pleasure kept on detonating over and over the more I dunked myself to swallow his hard-on. I was moaning incoherently, an embarrassing and strong wail that bounced off the walls, my own sound ringing in my ears, drowning his whimpering as he grunted against my tightness. Pain. Pain. Sweet, sweet pain kept shooting through me over and over like a spritz of pleasure getting juiced over and over, repeatedly.

“You. Are. So. Tight.” his sentence broke into syllables and I opened my eyes. They were scrunched so tight I didn’t even notice. I had forgotten the man who was causing me this mind-blowing s****l awakening, sweating in his flushed state of protest as his mouth froze in a silent Ah!

Ooh…what the…I don’t know what he did, but I felt his tip hit something inside me and it’s now throbbing, hardening the pleasure which was already oozing through my pores, “What did you do?” I asked, panting, heaving, gasping, as I wrapped my hands around his thick neck, grabbing it as my lifesaver as I felt a very low, but powerful ache, build around the region he was poking, “Ah!”

“Eat me. Eat all of me,” he grunted hard as he scooted low near the edge of the sofa, allowing his lower body purchase to move and f**k me hard. Aah! God! Aah! It hurts … but it feels … so right.

His legs were shaking as his back sank into the couch, his hips slamming to meet me thrust for thrust; burning, building, thrumming, vibrating, vibrating in a low state of arousal that was building, burning, threatening to burst in its fragility, over and over I felt it as the thick layer of film that kept me from exploding thinned the more he rammed me brutally like a mangy beast.

“Come for me. Come for me,” he implored and I opened my eyes once again, and I was met with hooded eyes, a face contorting with pleasure, and a mouth frozen in a silent O! of protest. The letter O was puffing through his breaths and I took it as my cue to move, move like I never had before; sweeping, stirring, rocking, pounding, and dunking, over and over, again and again, in, out, in, out, in, out, in, deeper, harder, faster. My inner succubus unleashed and in full force as I savored the feeling of riding him … riding him hard … riding him possessively. He matched my hard rhythm, slamming against me with recklessness and with no sympathy for my pudenda.

We were a potent fusion of groaning, eyes scrunched tight falling in and out of consciousness, hands squeezing everywhere, and then it happened, the sheer thin film that held my arousal broke, tearing at the seams, bursting with rage as my orgasm, my very first orgasm, flowed in copious amounts. I threw my head back with my mouth open, wailing in the sheer magnitude of it all as I rocked my hips to build once again the thin film and break it over and over again as I came multiple times; resting, then sweeping, and rocking once again as I rode my climax to build and swell and explode into one, two, three, no, make that four multiple orgasms. All the frustrations my body had sealed shut for years now flowing out, angry and in rage, and the feeling was glorious as it exploded beneath me and inside my chest. I barely recognized his cry of pain as he let go, calling out my name which he laced with profanities, grunting and heaving as he fought for much needed air as he came, slamming his hard tool inside me, his body shaking and covered in sweat, and his manhood … his precious manhood … drowned by my ripe, twenty-five-year-old orgasm.

I lowered my torso as he slowly slipped partway, half still inside me as my muscles closed to a tight clench, “Thank you, kind sir,” I whispered, trying to calm my wild heart, “You freed me.”

He rubbed my shoulders lazily, “Pleasure’s all mine. I’ll pay you for the clothes and for the f**k. Claim in the bank. That alright?” he asked, and I nodded.

“Sign here, please,” said the clerk behind the glass. It’s the Saturday of mid-September, a couple days after my s****l awakening with Mr. DuJean Le Blanc, “Here you go,” she handed me my check, “And also…” she thumbed through envelopes bearing correspondences, “…here’s a letter from Mr. Le Blanc.”

Oh? First I opened the letter to read his correspondence.

Origami Rose,

Great things come to those who wait. I hope the amount in the check is ample enough for your services. Visit an optometrist to get laser for those eyes. Then, if you still want me, come and visit. Oui?

Mr. Le B.

I quickly slipped the check outside the white envelope and immediately my hand flew to my mouth in shock. Tears sprang from my eyes as I saw six zeros before the number one. And then, from somewhere unbidden, I started hearing my mother’s melody, The Harpy’s Malevolence.