Alice at the Palace
In the heavy, expectant silence of a seventeenth floor office, a lone paper fluttered dejectedly to floor, the fingers having let it fall too busy flitting uncomfortably in the air to grasp at it's fleeting edges.
Miranda scowled. "Alice," she murmured to herself thoughtfully. "Alice Andrea Sachs."
Leaning forwards in her high-backed leather chair, the editor retrieved the fallen personnel file from the expensively carpeted floor and stared quizzically at the offending name. It seemed Andrea had been holding out on her, operating under false pretences since she'd shuffled into the gleaming offices of Runway eleven months prior.
But Andrea 'call-me-Andy' Sachs' neglect in informing Miranda of her full name wasn't what was causing the editor's throat to constrict now; nor was it the fact that the reason the personnel file had come under scrutiny in the first place was because Miranda's uber assistant was up for promotion- though the loss of Andrea as fetch-girl would be a sore one. The precocious would-be journalist had become so much more than that.
It wasn't even that Miranda would have bothered to correct the young woman of her mistake in not revealing her full identity- the first four months of Andrea's employment under the Dragon Lady would have found the fashion maven calling her 'Emily', regardless.
No. It was that name. That bloody name. Miranda shuddered, an indefinable sensation creeping unnervingly up the column of her spine, her cheek hot under the cool fingers she pressed there. Miranda closed her eyes.
…...
"Minette, are you listening to me?"
The young, ginger-haired woman roused herself to the dull tones of her dubious employer. "Of course, Monsieur," Miriam replied politely, twirling the mother of pearl pin head between her fingers, even as her stomach roiled at the cloying nickname.
He discerningly added a pleat into the cascading folds of the piece draped experimentally on the judy, and cast his hand back for another pin.
Sighing somewhat boredly, Miriam withdrew a sleek, silver stem from the cushion in her hand, and passed it forwards, shuddering when greedy fingers surreptitiously brushed against her wrist. The aging Anton Bessette was harmless enough, but if she had to fend off one more of his poorly disguised attempts to fondle her, Miriam was going to slap him, geriatric or not.
A few more months, she told herself, four at the most, and she would have enough experience to apply for a job she actually wanted; an editorial apprentice at Chic magazine. Miriam could put her tireless ambition to good use there, and if she wasn't the editor within the year, well, she didn't deserve to be.
She handed off a third pin, withdrawing her hand quickly. For now, she would have to entertain herself with what little intrigue could be found at the hands of the doddering, though talented designer who was currently prickling the expensive bolt of silk to merry hell with a barrage of dress-making accoutrements.
"We have a client coming in this afternoon," Anton commented, fussing with the edge of a rebellious fold. He didn't usually bother to appraise his apprentice of the comings and goings of the small fashion house's clientele. What was different this time?
"Oh?" Miriam queried disinterestedly. "A new client?"
Anton abandoned his survey of the dress on the stand and looked pointedly at the young woman, his bushy eyebrows threatening to crawl off his forehead. "Not at all. Madame Reshetnikova is a very established customer. Very," he paused then, for effect- "loyal."
Miriam pursed her lips in contemplation, and Anton drew his impressive brows together disapprovingly, his brown eyes reproachful. "Why must you make those faces?"
The young woman spitefully mashed her lips into a thin line, just to be contrary.
"When you're forty," the older man warned, " you'll have wrinkles from all of that frowning."
"When I'm forty," Miriam countered acidly, abandoning the pin cushion on a high, three legged stool, "I'll be too influential for anyone to dare mention them. Who is Madame Reshetnikova?"
Anton frowned, his nimble fingers returning to the folds of fabric. "A wealthy eccentric, Russian born, raised in England. She summers in Neuilly-sur-Seine, the estate has been in her family for generations." The man grimaced as the silk continued to resist his fashioning.
Miriam stepped forwards, a somewhat indulgent smirk softening her sharp features. "You've given me a very condensed biography, Monsieur," the assistant murmured, deftly creasing the silk, much to Anton's chagrin. "However, you've told me nothing. What does this Reshetnikova do? Who does she know? What are her influences? What are her tastes in design?"
"So many questions, Minette," the older man chastised. "You have no patience."
Miriam grinned outright. "If more people lacked your propensity for putting off the necessary, the world would be better for it."
Anton chuckled, though he nodded approvingly at his assistant's handiwork. "These English ideas- are you trying to revolutionize the whole of Paris? Because if you are, you're about two centuries too late, ma cherie."
Miriam's wry retort was stayed by the silvery chime of the bells as the opening door disturbed their rest. An elaborately dressed woman in her early fifties swished through the entrance, the afternoon light glinting off her white blond hair before the door closed behind her, shutting off the sun as if a switch had been flicked.
"Baroness Reshetnikova," Anton gushed, rushing forwards to bring the woman's delicately extended hand to his lips. Miriam suppressed a snort of laughter. Who did this woman think she was, for god's sake. It was the seventies, and even though Miriam had been born in a country which still held the antiquated monarchy in highest regard, this nonsensical title of 'Baroness' seemed so far removed from her own contemporary sense of the world that Miriam almost wanted to glance outside, to see if the woman had arrived in a horse-drawn carriage.
Anton glared over his shoulder at the strange face his assistant was making, and turned back to their visitor with a saccharine smile. "It's a pleasure to once again welcome you to my shop. How are you enjoying Neuilly this year?"
The woman offered a snarling smile, and pulled her hand away, barely seeming to suppress the desire to wipe it clean on the flowing fabric of her wide-legged pants. "It is much the same as any other year, Monsieur. But let's not waste time on trivialities. What have you prepared for me?"
If Miriam had been expecting her mentor to quail under this harsh response, or perhaps burst into a fit of tears, she was certainly surprised when Anton merely offered a shallow bow, before shuffling off to the back room of the shop to fetch the sketches and sample swatches he had been rifling through earlier that morning.
Miriam was left to Madame Reshetnikova's devices, and wondered briefly at why she hadn't fled the room along with the older man- certainly his presence was less uncomfortable, and far less dangerous. Despite her unease, the young assistant turned to the older woman, offering a curt smile. Vivianne removed her high-collared jacket, revealing a plunging, ruched halter top, which in actuality was an extension of her billowing trousers.
Mirroring her earlier formalities, the fashionable woman extended her pale, heavily ringed hand towards Miriam, who's fingers gently trembled before clasping the elegant wrist and pressing her lips to the waving crest of the older woman's knuckles. The young woman was overwhelmed by a familiar scent which seemed to elude definition. It was sweet, almost cloyingly so, and Miriam resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.
"Vivianne," the woman offered suddenly. "Reshetnikova." She spat the last name out like she was choking on something foul. "But you may call me 'Vianne'. What's your name, dear?" Her voice, which had been like ice water down the younger woman's neck, was suddenly light, casual, but Miriam sensed a test in the question. What should happen if she answered incorrectly? Vivianne seemed a woman full of unpleasant consequences.
"Miriam," the younger woman offered after a short pause, straightening her spine defensively. There was no help for it.
"Oh no," the woman sighed, pouting dramatically. The down-turned corners of her mouth seemed comfortably at home. "No- that won't do at all."
Miriam blinked, frowning, and opened her mouth to voice her distaste when the woman held up a forestalling, graceful hand.
"No, no," Vivianne chastised calmly. "Don't be naughty, dear." The older woman paused, deep in thought, and then, her smile somewhat feral, the look of dangerous epiphany in her eyes, she placed a cool hand over the younger woman's, leaning forwards decisively. "I shall call you Alice."
Miriam should have protested the older woman's strange presumption, made some kind of fuss; anything to grasp hold of her fleeting dignity. She was mute, rendered dumb by whatever power Vivianne held over her. And oh, there was some kind of power there. Whether it was the older woman's wealth, or uncanny sense of ownership of anything, or anyone, she cared to adopt, Miriam didn't know. But whatever it was, it existed, like a slithering constrictor which twined around ones ankles, up the body, unnoticed until it began to squeeze.
Miriam fought for breath, held captive by the older woman's possessive gaze. She sighed in relief when Anton wandered in, laden with a large portfolio and an arm full of lush, expensive fabrics, rushing to help her mentor, relieved to have any excuse to flee Vivianne's intense presence.
Fumbling a little, Miriam took hold of the swatches and began spreading them out on the high counter near the back of the shop, smoothing a rectangle of chantilly lace across the wood surface, the web like réseau, which seemed to have been spun by the silkworms themselves, soft and soothing under the young woman's still trembling fingertips.
Anton, who had fanned the contents of his worn leather portfolio over a lower worktable, beckoned Vivianne towards the desk and began introducing the imposing woman to his designs.
As the baroness leaned forwards to examine the drawings, her breasts sunk together and created a shadowed valley into which Miriam's gaze wandered curiously. She remained lost there, until Vivianne, who seemed bored and not altogether impressed by Anton's efforts, glanced distractedly at Miriam and found the younger woman staring unerringly at her chest.
The baroness narrowed her eyes, the deep lapis irises glinting like blue steel when Vivianne shot the assistant an amused, ratifying smirk. Miriam blushed impressively, and rather than dive behind the counter, as she so badly wanted to do, the young woman stared back at the baroness, as if having accepted whatever challenge Vivianne's silent smile had issued.
Anton, completely oblivious to the strange goings on around him, continued to chatter away excitedly, punctuating his speech with small, short jabs at any given facet of his designs. Vivianne peeled her gaze lazily away from Miriam and glanced back towards the sketches.
"Yes, yes," she murmured, waving her hand about in the air negligently. "These will do, after some minor adjustments, of course. You'll have to take measurements now, l assume."
Anton nodded smartly and looked expectantly towards Miriam for a measuring tape. She pulled a long white ribbon from a nearby drawer and approached her mentor, a pad and pencil clutched somewhat desperately in her other hand in order to write down the numbers. If she could only keep her fingers busy, her mind engaged in the details of her job, perhaps she'd be able to keep her impertinent eyes to herself.
As Miriam moved to hand the measuring tape over, the baroness cleared her throat abruptly, causing the young woman's hand to stay in mid air, and her fingers to lose their grip on the ruled ribbon in her hand. Fumbling unsuccessfully, Miriam had to stoop to reclaim the lost item, and as she knelt with practiced grace in her smart, well-tailored pencil skirt, Anton Bassett's assistant experienced the unnerving sensation of having her rear examined by someone other than the usual suspect. And what was that other sensation, Miriam wondered. Satisfaction at having garnered a reciprocal ogling from the baroness herself? She balked at the notion, even as her pulse fluttered excitedly in her throat.
Miriam's sweaty hand slipped against the smooth coils of the tape and she chastised herself under her breath, and stood quickly, her head dancing as all of the blood in her body seemed to flow to the tips of her toes. Miriam swayed pendulously for a moment, and was grateful, this once, when Anton invaded her frequently beleaguered personal space, his arthritic hand incongruously strong under her arm.
"Aren't you feeling well, Miriam?" the designer's voice was concerned, but the wary glance he shot towards the baroness belied an anxiety which had little to do with his assistant's welfare.
"I'm fine," the young woman waved off Anton's care flippantly, and made a great show of handing over the measuring tape. Vivianne watched the exchange, mild disappointment greying her eyes.
"You're assistant is capable of taking the measurements, is she not?" Vivianne's voice had a malignant, coy lilt.
Anton blinked, and shoved his half-spectacles further up his narrow nose, peering curiously at the young woman in question. "Of course, Madame Reshetnikova," he mollified, placing the much transferred measuring tape back into Miriam's still opened hand.
Miriam tried to shake her head imperceptibly, no, and seeing the triumphant glint in Vivianne's eyes, wondered if she could pass the gesture off as a mild case of turrets. Judging from the baroness's knowing smirk, completing the subterfuge seemed unlikely.
"Don't dawdle, dear," the baroness chastised, stepping towards the young woman, raising her arms expectantly.
Miriam chewed the inside of her cheek so harshly she wondered, perhaps, if her teeth would pierce through the abused flesh. Breathing shallowly, she approached Vivianne, the length of ribbon sliding smartly between her fingertips. She measured the distance between the older woman's shoulders. Forty-one centimetres; Miriam wrote down the number.
Twining the measuring tape through her fingers again, she pinned one end at the base of the baroness's slim neck, and gently pulled the length of it taught, until her left hand rested at the curve of Vivianne's spine. The older woman arched her back lithely, seeming to enjoy the ghosting touch of Anton's assistant.
"Hold still," Miriam murmured, distractedly trying to read the ruled numbers as the baroness' muscles rippled beneath her pale skin.
"So sorry," Vivianne whispered, a sigh of amusement coasting on her hushed tone. Miriam frowned, and made another note in her book. Forty-four and a half centimetres.
Willing her hands steady, the young woman extended her arms around the front of the baroness's body, and reclaiming the loose tail of the silk measuring tape, wrapped the ribbon around the woman's narrow waist. Sixty-two centimetres.
Miriam's heart hammered expectantly against her rib cage as she slackened the loop and raised her hands around her model's bust line. Her fingertips grazed the sides of Vivianne's breasts, and the young woman exhaled shakily down the back of the baroness' neck, startled when the older woman shivered, despite the warmth of Miriam's breath. Eighty-seven, no, god help me, too tight, ninety and a half centimetres. The young woman tried to stay her uneven breathing, even as the tip of the pencil skittered tellingly across the legal pad.
Miriam raced through the remainder of the measurements, precision less important than disguising her obvious attraction to the exotic, provocative woman standing so perfectly still before her ineptly wavering fingers.
Trembling violently, the young woman stalked to the rear of the store and handed off the note book to her employer, who was going over his accounts and writing receipts.
"The same as last year," Anton offered, not looking up from the ledger.
"And every year before that," confirmed the baroness, her face alight with mischief.
Miriam frowned, and dropped the notebook onto the counter forcefully. "So you- I took-" the young woman blustered, and eventually stopped trying to make sentences happen. "Oy bollocksing vey."
Vivianne delicately covered her serpentine grin with the back of her hand, her obvious amusement at Miriam's telling colloquial slip only serving to further incense the younger woman's frustration.
"I'm taking my break," Miriam announced somewhat frantically, snatching a slim, pewter cigarette case from her purse. Anton nodded wordlessly as his flustered assistant fled the small shop, the bells crying out, harassed, as she slammed the door viciously behind her.
Outside, Miriam slumped against the tan brick façade of the couturier's shop, heedless of the way the rough stone caught mercilessly against the delicate silk of her short sleeved blouse. Haggardly, she forced a light, auburn wave of hair from her eyes and cursing colourfully under her breath, withdrew a cigarette from the cool, metal case.
Who the hell, Miriam wondered as she lit up and exhaled harshly, did this Baroness Reshetnikova think she was, anyway? Obviously, she was cultured, wealthy, accustomed to being treated as royalty. She certainly acted that way; Miriam could recognize when someone was behaving above their stature. After all, wasn't she the lofty little shnorrer who had abandoned her struggling, if blissfully ignorant, family in search of a lifestyle better suited to someone of her high ambitions? Hadn't she renounced her religion, her heritage and even her deplorable cockney accent in exchange for the elusive more that always seemed just a little too high on the shelf for her desperately grasping fingers?
Miriam puffed a cloud of smoke out, annoyed, and watched as the haze dissipated into spiralling tendrils, carried off by the spring breeze. But Vivianne's delusions of grandeur weren't the cause of the young woman's current displeasure; it was Miriam's own shame at having succumbed to the baroness' beguiling nature which had the couturier's apprentice so unnerved.
"Smoking is a filthy habit," Vivianne commented mildly, and Miriam only narrowly avoided the release of a startled shriek. If nothing else, the chimes on the door should have signalled the older woman's approach.
Miriam watched the baroness warily, and rolled her eyes when Vivianne held her hand out, two bejewelled fingers poised, delicately awaiting the cigarette which had not yet been offered.
Miriam obliged, somewhat sourly, and took a heavy drag from her own dwindling fag. "Do you ever just ask politely for something?"
Vivianne held her hand out for a light. "Why would I do that?"
The young woman dropped the silver butane lighter into the baroness' expectant palm, feeling more harassed by the second. "To amuse yourself?"
Baroness Reshetnikova deftly flicked the action and dipped the end of her cigarette into the sunset flame. "I find I derive more amusement from doing exactly the opposite. But perhaps that's just me." She smiled, and blew a cloud of smoke pointedly towards the young woman. "You don't like me."
"I don't trust you," Miriam clarified, tipping ash on to the sidewalk. "There's a difference."
Vivianne nodded thoughtfully and drew another lungful of smoke into her lithe body. "It is interesting," she began pensively, "that you should speak of trust. You have no investment in me, dear Alice."
"Haven't I?" the young woman groused, almost accusingly. "You're my employer's client, you pay him, he pays me. That's how it works, you know. And quit calling me Alice."
Vivianne abandoned her lightly smoked cigarette to the gutter, and Miriam glowered at the loss. She was making a pittance as Anton Bassett's assistant; rent, acceptable clothing and food barely left enough to feed her developing nicotine addiction.
"You might've asked me if I wanted to kill that," Miriam charged coolly, her blue eyes dolefully resting on the three quarters of butt bobbing serenely in the early spring runoff.
"I might have," Vivianne agreed calmly. "But I didn't. You could fetch it from the curb, you know. Dry it out for later. Of course," she added teasingly, "It may taste of rotted leaves and dog's droppings. Do you think you could acquire a taste for dog's droppings, Alice?"
"Could you?" Miriam snapped, snatching her lighter back from the older woman's warm hand. "Perhaps I'll fetch it after all, and save it especially for you, the next time you assume I have the means to cater to your passive aggressive power tripping."
Vivianne narrowed her eyes coldly. "Mind your temper, dear," she instructed lightly, her tone in perilous juxtaposition to her steely glare. Miriam, like a hound brought to heel, nodded briskly and moved towards the shop door.
The baroness caught the young woman around the arm, and held her fast, fingertips pressing almost painfully into the muscles of the assistant's upper arm. Miriam could feel the older woman's pulse through the thin fabric of her blouse; steady and slow. It seemed unfair that Vivianne could be so composed when Miriam's own ribcage threatened to shatter under her heart's unsteady assault.
The young woman writhed in the baroness' constricting grasp. "Let go," Miriam gasped, twisting her arm and throwing all the weight her slight form possessed away from the older woman, with little effect.
"You'll only hurt yourself," Vivianne warned, and the young woman winced under the continued pressure of Ms. Reshetnikova's pinching fingers.
"I?" Miriam scoffed as she once again lunged towards the sidewalk, wondering a little hysterically if the baroness would suddenly let go and send her flailing to the curb; she could ill-afford the concussion. The baroness snickered.
"Did you know that a snared rabbit will break it's own legs attempting to escape the trap?"
Miriam gaped at the older woman, and stilled her frantic attempts to release herself. "Please," she whimpered, suddenly overcome by an eerie instinct to give in to the silken-voiced predator.
Vivianne's harsh glare seemed to falter a moment before her grip loosened mercifully. "How disappointing," she remarked, the tips of her fingers thoughtfully caressing the developing bruise on the young woman's bicep. "Perhaps you won't do, after all."
Miriam had half a mind to be insulted by the baroness' disapproval, but she was too grateful at having been let go; she staggered backwards to the door of Anton's shop.
"Then again," Vivianne mused, "perhaps there is potential there, still. We shall see, tomorrow evening."
Miriam felt her morning cappuccino rise up her throat in a wave of fear. She shouldn't ask. She shouldn't stand there, exposing herself to the toxic aura of the baroness a moment longer. But curiosity was a dangerous and insistent vice. "Whatever do you mean?"
Vivianne slid wordlessly to the curb, and plucked the soggy, limp butt from the gutter. "Dear Anton will have finished revising the sketches by tomorrow," she said, offering the sodden cigarette to the young woman, who took it without thought. "You will courier the new designs to me after you've finished with work."
Miriam chewed her lowed lip nervously. Another crossroads- and yet the decision had already been made. By herself. By the baroness. She nodded silently.
"Until next evening," Vivianne simpered, leaning in to brush her cool lips against the young assistant's cheek, perilously near her quivering lips.
"Bugger me," Miriam gasped sharply, unable to stop the words from tumbling so vapidly out her mouth.
Vivianne turned slowly, and swished down the sidewalk towards her waiting chauffeur. The smartly dressed driver opened the door, and the baroness crouched lithely into the car. Miriam exhaled a sigh of relief, only to choke on her breath moments later when the sun glinted off one of the baroness' larger jewelled rings as the woman put her hand out to stay the closing of the door.
Vivianne leaned back out of the car, and the younger woman, unable to quell the betrayal of her feet, felt footfall after footfall draw her once again to the aristocrat. The woman beckoned Miriam down, her lips almost pressing a soft kiss to the shell of the assistant's ear. "I'd love to, dear Alice."
Part Two
Miranda opened her eyes, lashes fluttering slowly against the heavy haze of memory. It didn't happen often, but when she chose to remember Vivianne, Miranda always felt her carefully woven mantle of independence slip neglectfully from her shoulders, leaving her cold, bereft; a mewling kitten, matted ginger fur still damply clinging to her trembling body.
But the baroness had pulled her from that state of innocence, had warmed her; not with kindness or any kind of particularly maternal ministrations- but with a kind of tempestuous fire, as if having stricken the young Miriam with lightning. And now, three decades later, Miranda still hummed with that strange current; it seemed to the editor that she would never be rid of it.
Miranda glanced down at Andrea's personnel file, and with a curious sense of possibility, leaned forwards in her expensive office chair to retrieve the paper which had summoned her past and whispered of her future.
…...
Miriam rolled down the window of Anton's '51 Citroen and lit a cigarette, glaring sideways at the portfolio full of revamped designs, which was riding shotgun. When she'd entered the shop the previous day, after Vivianne's unsettling departure, Monsieur Basset had informed his unusually disquieted assistant that she would be taking his car to Neuilly, rather than a cab.
Miriam was grateful, of course, for his generosity, though the only indication she gave her employer was a cold nod and a tight smile. She should have been more amiable, really, for the thought of taking a cab- or worse- being chauffeured to the Baroness' estate by one of her estranged man-servants and falling subject to Vivianne's limited mercy had caused Miriam's tongue to go numb and the metallic taste of fear to fill her mouth.
But no, thank god, the young assistant was now cruising towards the Parisian outskirts in her employer's vintage automobile, puffing somewhat desperately away at her cigarette while devising complicated escape manoeuvres for any Reshetnikovian contingency.
Miriam flicked the butt out the window, and as it bounced helplessly down the roadway, she ran her fingers distractedly through her mussed ginger bob.
The thing to do, really, was to arrive quietly, hand the portfolio off to whichever Vivianne's lackeys presented himself first, and floor it all the way back to her dingy, store-top flat before the Baroness had a chance to sink her talons in any deeper.
But Miriam found herself wondering if perhaps- instead of bounding in and out of the Baroness' estate like a hare in a fox hole- she shouldn't see if dealing with Vivianne was at all possible. The way the older woman had nearly dismissed her the day before- as if Miriam were unworthy- made the young fashionista sick with rejection. But unworthy of what, really? On what prerequisites had Vivianne so harshly judged her? It hardly mattered; Miriam had no room in her mind for failure, on any scale.
And it was, as Miriam checked the directions curled in Anton's impeccable handwriting, that the young woman decided to maintain an open mind concerning whatever advances the Baroness Reshetnikova might offer towards her.
With her convictions tightly wound, Miriam pulled up the long gravel drive which curved serpent-like towards Vivianne's country estate, and gasped when the full decadence of ecru masonry and scrolling stonework dropped on her like a sack of sand; Miriam felt burdened with the knowledge, as if being aware of this opulence, this lifestyle the Baroness possessed somehow made clearer the full reach of the older woman's power.
Miriam's decision to bend with Vivianne's overwhelming will solidified like concrete, quite suddenly, when she realized how influential the eccentric could be; there was no way to be certain what would befall the young couturier's assistant should she continue to refuse the Baroness' advances- the nature of which had become startlingly apparent. Miriam Princhek would place herself in a dangerous position indeed.
For Vivianne Reshetnikova wanted her, and even in the short time Miriam had spent in the woman's presence, it was obvious that the Baroness was rarely, if ever, denied that which she coveted.
Miriam thrummed with a kind of growing power, which having begun timidly enough now seemed to wrap the young woman in a veil of potentiality. It was almost thrilling.
Buoyed slightly by her own growing sense of self importance, Miriam retrieved the portfolio from the seat beside her, and keys jingling somewhat jauntily in her purse, flounced towards the grand entrance of Vivianne's French country estate.
Noticing the antiquated bell pull which seemed to be the only means of garnering an audience with the Baroness, Miriam snickered. It seemed there were no lengths to which the older woman would not venture to preserve her presumably hard worked for aura of mystique.
Yanking the cord, and hearing a deep chime echo from within the bowels of the mansion, Miriam had to admit, the ruse was disturbingly effective.
Footsteps sounded from behind the ornately carved oak doors, and with a silence born of obsessively oiled hinges, the door swung slowly inwards to reveal, not some lowly peon, but the Baroness Reshetnikova herself.
Miriam tried to stay her resolve, but wilted somewhat under the familiar glare of disdain, laced incongruously with desire.
The sickly, floral scent of what seemed to be Vivianne's signature fragrance did nothing to ease the young assistant's discomfort.
"Good evening Madame Reshetnikova," Miriam opened, her voice uneven, and treacherously timorous.
"Alice, dear," Vivianne began serenely, "I've told you. Call me 'Vianne'. There need not be any pretence between us."
"Vianne, yes." Miriam mumbled the correction, clutching the portfolio tightly against her body, no doubt irreparably crumpling the sketches within.
The blossoming fashionista doubted that Vivianne would be much bothered by the loss; as everything else, the small stack of drawings were only a sacrificial piece of the much larger game the Baroness played. The only outcome for Miriam, it seemed, was capture- or destruction.
Defences crumbling, the normally staid young woman was quite unsure of which ending she preferred.
"Will you stand on my front step all evening, Alice, or are you going to come in and be sociable?"
There. Some of the familiar sting had come back into the older woman's manner. It was almost a comfort Miriam thought as she swallowed tightly. "I only meant to leave the designs with you," she explained timidly. "I've taken Monsieur Bassett's car, you see, and I really only meant-"
"Nonsense," the eccentric scoffed cheerfully, cutting her guest off, for the young woman seemed deplorably close to repeating herself, a flaw the baroness simply could not abide. "You've driven all this way- you must stay for supper. I told chef we were expecting company, and he's been slaving all afternoon in preparation for your arrival. Anton, I'm sure, expected you to stay the evening."
Miriam chewed her lower lip and glanced over her shoulder at her boss's car, as if she'd expected it to have disappeared by way of some unholy magic. But no, there it sat, the colour of forget-me-nots in a field of well-raked gravel; her only avenue of escape.
She turned back to Vivianne, who having sensed the younger woman's nearing acquiescence, smiled triumphantly.
"Won't you come in?"
Miriam nodded dumbly, remembering the promise she had mad to herself not twenty minutes earlier. Viviane did frighten her, but beyond that, the older woman intrigued her. Miriam stepped through the doorway, and followed her hostess into a lavishly decorated living room with soaring ceilings and lush, turquoise and gold damasked walls.
The Baroness glided towards an antique brass bar cart, and turned to gaze expectantly at her guest. "What are you drinking?" Vivianne inquired lightly. "Mine's a gin twist, on the rocks."
Miriam, who had never been exposed much to alcohol- save the mouthful of cheap Shabbat wine she drank after her father had recited the Kiddush- could only reply, "I'll have what you're having," and hope she didn't sound as pathetically out her element as she felt.
Vivianne didn't seem to think so as she plucked cubes of ice from a bucket with a pair of silver tongs, dropping them into a pair of crystal tumblers with a dull clink. She chattered inanely as she poured the aperitifs, rambling on about the rare breed of flag iris her groundskeeper had planted in the lakeside garden as her nimble fingers curled long strips of zest from a juicy lemon, a delicate citron mist bursting into the air as each twist of sweet, sunny ribbon curled from the fruit and fell into the waiting spa of pine fresh spirits.
Vivianne snared the beverages in her arachnid grasp and rounded on the shallowly breathing Miriam, whose hand staid in mid air when she realised there was no way to accept the offering without brushing the Baroness' fingers with her own trembling ones.
The aristocrat smirked, too quickly catching on to her young guest's dilemma. Miriam glowered. Vivianne's obvious delight at having disarmed her so quickly stoked an ire in the burgeoning fashionista; the Baroness' subtle mockery a prodding poker to Miss Princhek's growing flame of impatience. Cattily, the couturier's assistant lunged forwards and snatched the crystal tumbler away from her unlikely hostess. She brought the drink to her lips, but her celebratory toast was waylaid by the off-putting odour of the liquor.
"It smells like Dettol." Miriam took a wary sip. "And it tastes like Dettol."
Vivianne laughed outright at the unschooled grousing. "Well if it smells like it, and tastes like it, I suppose you've caught me out, lovely Alice. Because, as I'm sure you'll readily believe, my reason for inviting you here could only be that I planned to murder you, and before we could have any fun at all."
"Fun?" Miriam asked quietly, taking a much larger quaff from her glass; other than that, she displayed no quandary with the older woman's elusive statement. Miriam had quite forgotten her trepidation; it seemed to be reclining, abandoned, with Anton's sketches on the floor.
Vivianne nodded, and Miriam imagined that the Baroness seemed just a little flushed in the low light of the sitting room. The young woman watched a curl of lemon zest as it wound itself lovingly around a quickly melting ice cube.
"And are we going to have," Miriam paused for effect, her voice falling lower "-fun?"
Vivianne nodded, seeming not to breathe at all. "I should hope so."
Miriam mimicked her unlikely companion's movements, her head dipping in a manner which was ironically similar to the mating machinations of a Grebe- or, Miriam thought a little hysterically, a penguin. Perhaps the young woman's deranged musings on the ritual dances of randy birds were what caused her to say what she said next. Or maybe it was that Miriam had zeroed in on Vivianne's one weakness so spectacularly; it hardly mattered. Not when Miriam considered exactly how deep a grave she was digging for herself with one loaded little word.
"Together?"
It seemed that Vivianne had been breathing after all, for the audible catch which signified the cessation of that oh so necessary function was a thunderous sound in the desperate quiet of the sitting room.
"Is that what you'd like, my darling?"
Miriam jolted at the strange, sweet endearment as it tumbled so incongruously from the lips she knew could spout such cruelties. "Yes," she hissed, trying to hold on to valuable oxygen as stars prickled her vision. "That's what I'd like."
There was no sense in lying about it now.
Vivianne nodded, and picked the young woman's clammy hand from the settee, raising it to her lips as if to kiss it. Gently, she turned Miriam's hand in her own, and pressed a ghosting caress along the young woman's wrist, Miriam's pulse flickering, then surging beneath the painted lips.
Vivianne surveyed the girl, grey eyes flinty and scrutinizing under kohl-lined lids and velvety lashes; sparking to life as Miriam swayed into the wing of the sofa, her smooth, ivory neck exposed as her head fell back, floating on the surface of a wellspring of yet undiscovered pleasure which the older woman's simple eroticism evoked.
Vivianne smiled, and bit harshly down into the cream skin with straight white teeth. Miriam moaned at the unexpected, burning pain, so stark against the arousal which seemed to glow from the marrow of her bones. And yet-
The Baroness flushed as the girl arched her back, hips squirming against the plush cushion of the settee.
"I didn't expect you'd like that," Vivianne commented blithely, though Miriam delighted at the undercurrent of electric excitement in the timbre of the older woman's voice. "You've surprised me, my Alice."
"I've surprised myself," Miriam murmured the confession, and moved to capture Vivianne's hand, which was currently smearing a small amount of blood over the developing welt on the ginger assistant's arm.
The Baroness withdrew sharply, but before Miriam could question Vivianne, who seemed to have forgotten their incredibly intimate interaction just as suddenly as Miriam had initiated it, was interrupted by a source-less bell tolling within the house, which told the young guest that the dinner hour had arrived.
Vivianne stood abruptly, abandoning her untouched drink on the low occasional table of dark walnut; Miriam stood to follow, and pounded back the rest of her gin before stoically marching after her retreating hostess. She trailed the agitated woman into a relatively small room, made smaller by the gargantuan, ornately carved table which seemed to hail directly from eighteenth century Andalucía.
"Sit," Vivianne ordered quietly, and Miriam hastened towards the nearest chair, settling herself down eagerly lest she anger the Baroness in some fashion and risk never feeling the older woman's soft lips pressed against her skin again. With that terrible possibility coasting at the forefront of her neuroses, the young woman warily eyed Vivianne, wondering if the aristocrat would seat herself at the other end of the impossibly long table, or if she would breach etiquette, her draw to the fresh, supple naivety before her too strong to quell.
It seemed, indeed, that Vivianne was warring with the same choice, as the older woman prowled along the narrow walkways left by the high backs of the lushly upholstered dinning chairs and the gleaming walls, which Miriam decided were covered entirely in gold leaf. Ostentatious, she thought, but not entirely without an ethereal kind of beauty.
The young woman seemed willing to try any menial tactic to distract herself the present company, who was still stalking the room like a caged victim of safari.
Happily- or at least fortuitously- a tall, stooped man in a pristine apron shuffled into the room, bearing a silver tray laden with small jewels of canapés, and the Baroness had no choice but to sit, or appear to her guest as though she'd entirely cracked her nut.
Vivianne abruptly stopped pacing the room and sat around the table corner from her guest, smiling almost serenely at the young woman she seemed, in some strange way, to be trying to impress.
And then she did the most improbable thing. She asked Miriam about herself.
"Where in England are you from?"
The aspiring fashionista eyed the tray of h'ordeuvres longingly, wondering if she shoved one in her mouth quickly enough, she could avoid this disturbing occurrence of small talk.
But Vivianne eyed her expectantly, and Miriam was once again reminded with a surge of fear that she would be ejected, no doubt painfully, from the Baroness Reshetnikova's presence if she did not behave exactly as the older woman wanted her to.
"Bethnal Green," Miriam managed to choke out over a wave of nauseating embarrassment. "Although, I think they call the area the East London Boroughs, now."
Viviane nodded, as if she were completely un-phased by her guest's meagre origins. "So, you're quite out of your element in chic, central Paris, then."
Miriam frowned. "I prefer to believe that I was born out of my element, Vianne." She drawled the older woman's name out with forced confidence, trying to hold her ground. Vivianne regarded her seriously for a moment, and just when the young woman was beginning to feel she'd regained some control of the unwieldy conversation, the Baroness dissolved into peals of ironic laughter. Miriam scowled.
"You're adorable when you're indignant," Vivianne offered suddenly before popping a canapé into her mouth.
"Am I?" Miriam countered disinterestedly. So much for her optimistic sycophantism.
"Mmm," the older woman confirmed. "Quite."
For lack of an appropriately scathing response, the couturier's assistant daintily selected a cherry tomato, stuffed with what appeared to be sautéed mushrooms, and placed it just as delicately into her mouth, chewing slowly; avoiding having to answer another question about a past she'd rather forget for as long as possible.
As it turned out, Vivianne was willing to offer a brief respite. Of a kind.
"What are your plans for yourself, then?"
Miriam didn't blink; didn't falter. "I'm going to run a fashion publication."
"Are you?" the Baroness queried indulgently.
"Oh yes."
The older woman pursed her lips thoughtfully. "So you think quite highly of yourself, it would seem."
"I know what I'm capable of," Miriam corrected icily. "And I refuse to accept anything less of myself."
Vivianne smirked. "Which is why you've apprenticed yourself out to our dear Monsieur Basset."
The young woman sighed her growing frustration, and jabbed viciously at another of the tomato h'ordeuvres; she watched with mild satisfaction as it toppled over and rolled about the plate, scattering little crumbs of buttery mushroom in spirals until it slowed to a stop. "I have no choice in the matter. I have no name for myself. Some people have to start at the bottom and work their way up."
"Now, now Alice," Vivianne chastised gently, though there was a dangerous lilt of patronization to the words. "You have a temper, my dear. A nasty, vicious temper. You'll have to learn to control it, or suffer the consequences."
"Consequences?" Miriam riled.
"You know what I mean, Alice. We could have such a lovely time together, you and I- but there are rules. Many rules." Vivianne paused to accept a glass of wine from a smartly dressed young man, whose silk gloved hand seemed to have no trouble handling the smoothly curved crystal decanter. "You're a smart girl, Alice. But I fear you may disappoint me, after all."
"No, Vianne." Miriam hated the wanton desperation in her voice. "I won't. I promise."
Part 3
The editor jolted with an embarrassingly evident twitch out of what could only be described, quite pathetically, as a daydream.
"Miranda?" Andrea stood in the doorway, a ponderous expression in her dark eyes, completely unaccustomed to seeing her boss doing, well, absolutely nothing.
"That is my name, Andréa," the editor commented scathingly. "Were you simply practicing, or is there actually an issue which requires my attention?"
Andy stood up a little straighter, angling herself away from Miranda's ire. "I have Patrick's assistant on line one," she explained, plastering a huge, fake smile on her face to cover her growing confusion with the older woman's strange behaviour.
Miranda stared at her assistant, frigid eyes eroding holes through Andy's forced calm with the full force of a glacial migration. Andy cringed. What in God's name was the woman looking at her like that for? The young assistant knew she didn't have anything on her face- there'd been no time to even think about thinking about a lunch break, what with the next issue going to print in only two and a half days.
Andy then risked a surreptitious glance down at her outfit to scan for anything offensive; a piece of lint, a stray hair, perhaps. But the silk slip dress was as flawless as it had been when she'd removed it from the dry cleaning bag at five that morning during her frantic scramble to get dressed.
The young woman chanced a dangerous moment of eye contact with La Priestly, and was surprised to see that Miranda's gaze had turned to something more contemplative, almost curious. Andy frowned, and the editor, having finally picked up on her assistant's obvious discomfort, seemed to shake herself from whatever strange and inexplicable 'moment' she'd been suffering.
"Put him through, then get me a latte. Also, make sure Nigel has the final photos from the Barcelona shoot on my desk no later than two forty-five. That's all."
Andy nodded briskly, turned heel, and fled to do the older woman's bidding. If Miranda was on the verge of some kind of nervous breakdown, Andy wasn't necessarily sure she wanted to be around to bear witness, regardless of how the older woman's intense ogling- had it been ogling?- had sent thrilling trembles of excitement up and down her entire body. But Andy quickly convinced herself that her boss, her maddening, albeit downright sexy boss, had been doing nothing of the sort. With that sobering thought in mind, the first assistant to Runway's personal Ice Queen texted Nigel in his den of artistic genius, and waited for the editor to pick up her office phone so the call from Demarchelier could be transferred.
Behind her desk, Miranda languidly draped one leg over the other and allowed herself a pleasant respite as the image of her retreating assistant- more accurately, of said assistant's swaying ass- hovered in her short term memory, then, shaking her head, picked up the phone.
The conversation was short, frustrating as usual; Patrick's go-between seemed to be growing less and less competent by the second. And when Miranda had finished verbally eviscerating both the photographer, and his personal assistant, she placed the phone less than delicately on the hook, and prayed that Andrea would appear with her coffee promptly: as in, five- minutes-ago-promptly.
Sitting there in her cool, swanky office, Miranda had to laugh at the puzzled expression which had blossomed so prettily on her assistant's face. And when she stopped laughing, she recalled with relish the delicate blush which had graced Andrea's lily-smooth cheeks when it had become obvious to both of them that Miranda hadn't quite been able to help herself staring.
Because Miranda knew exactly what the gentle flush of rose petal pink had meant- if not by some divine ability to read the young woman's mind, then from her own experience.
Not as Miranda Priestly, who always maintained a flawless complexion of cool alabaster; but as Alice.
"You haven't touched your duck," Vivianne commented mildly. "Don't tell me you're anorexic. Or worse," she smiled. "A vegetarian."
Miriam, who had been intently been rearranging the sautéed vegetables on her plate into something resembling a guillotine, smiled sweetly. "I suppose I'm a bit distracted."
"You suppose?"
The young woman bobbed her head embarrassedly. "Alright," she conceded. "I am completely distracted. The very last thing I want to be doing at this moment is poking at half-raw waterfowl."
Vivianne's expression remained neutral, but Miriam's astute gaze did not miss the zephyr of approval which briefly warmed the Baroness' steely eyes. She flushed, somewhat proudly, at having surprised the older woman.
Perhaps this was the 'more'- the more that Vivianne had expected, the more which Miriam had spent most of her life searching for.
"Did you want to move on to dessert, then?"
The young woman tried to keep the eager glow from her smiled as she formulated a response. "That depends."
"On what?" Vivianne asked, an eyebrow ascending slowly up her smooth forehead. Miriam was inwardly pleased with her ability to pique the older woman's interest.
The couturier's assistant smiled coyly. "Entirely upon whether or not you are on the menu."
The Baroness chuckled indulgently. "Oh," she laughed, unable to keep reigns on her mirth. Miriam's wounded bravado slunk under her chair to lick the gaping wound it had presently suffered. "Sweet Alice. You have no idea what you're talking about, of what you're suggesting. Or how completely you've misinterpreted my intentions towards you. I'm not on the menu at all, darling girl. You are."
Miriam blinked, stunned. What had she gotten herself into?
"Whatever do you mean?" she warbled, the tremble in her voice too pronounced, too telling.
Vivianne leaned forwards, trailing her fingers lightly over Miriam's bare wrist. "We are here for you; for your pleasure. For your-" she paused, though it seemed theatrical- "for your education. I thought you knew this, Alice."
Miriam swallowed tightly. "I had anticipated a more, um, mutual interaction. Am I not permitted to, uh-" she fumbled through her short list of appropriate sexual euphemisms until Vivianne provided one for her.
"Permitted to fuck me?"
Miriam nodded, blushing spectacularly.
"Of course not, darling. Why would you want to, when you could relax and let me take care of you- of everything?"
The young woman chewed her lip, twined a strand of copper hair between her trembling fingers. She was disappointed; confused. Miriam had no lofty notions about her own attractiveness, knowing that most only thought her beautiful in that harsh, cold kind of way- or worse, ephemeral. Which translated, too easily in Miriam's mind, to 'weak'. But she did have lovely auburn hair, her only point of vanity, and an hourglass figure, even if it was a bit slight for most people's tastes.
"Do you not want me to?" Miriam continued carefully. "I suppose I might not be very good at first, because I've not had much practice with women- but I learn fast, and I've so wanted-"
"That's enough, dear," the Baroness interrupted sharply, her words hanging between them like a cold window full of hoar frost. "I've told you how it will be, and I see no reason to explain myself further."
Miriam nodded, rather slowly, as she tried to process exactly what was being offered to her.
"Do you want this, Alice?" Vivianne's voice was low and clear; it sent a wave of hot excitement through the young woman.
This was it, then. The moment on which everything hung. Miriam felt she may even be able to muster the willpower to deny the Baroness, still; to escape, unscathed. But if she said yes, it wasn't just Vivianne's attention she would receive. Miriam knew that the older woman was more than capable of setting jumper cables to her career, and then some; everything would change.
And at this point, Miriam Princhek wanted everything the Baroness had to offer.
And deeper, down deeper through the rabbit hole Miriam fell.
"Yes," she whispered. "I want this."
The Baroness smiled serenely. "So you shall have it, my darling girl. Come, let's retire to a more comfortable location, if you're finished with your supper?"
Miriam glanced at the carrot and asparagus guillotine; the bleeding breast of duck. "I'm quite finished."
Vivianne stood languorously, smoothing her silken trousers over her hips and down her slim thighs. "I thought you would be." And just as suddenly as she had the first time, Vivianne departed again; the legs of Miriam's chair shrieked dolefully against the slate tiles of the dinning room as she moved hastily from her seat and scrambled after Vivianne.
The Baroness seemed to glide down the dimly lit hallways of the country estate, the only indication of her humanity the sharp clack of her heels as they connected with the heavily waxed hardwood floor. It seemed to Miriam that she followed Vivianne's spectral presence for hours through the winding hallways of the massive home- though it could only have been her own anticipation of what was to come that made the journey seem so long.
The procession of two passed enormous paintings, gilt mirrors of silver and gold, lushly draped windows; Miriam saw nothing of the grandeur, nothing except the quickly receding outline of swishing white silk and platinum hair glinting in the occasional moonlight. The young woman followed, footstep after footstep, pulled along by a rope twined of desire, of curiosity, and perhaps most strangely, most dangerously, of hope.
For one did not place hope in a viper, or a scorpion; one anticipated the poisonous kiss, of sickness and of death. Of ending.
Was that how it would be with Vivianne, Miriam mused, not feeling nearly as fearful of her impending doom as she should have been.
Perhaps the Baroness was more like a cobra, a swaying, writhing hypnotist- or a lamp fish, luring unsuspecting prey towards a deathtrap of needle teeth, a mesmerising beacon bobbing with a friendly buoyancy in the darkest, sun-starved depths of the ocean.
But really, when one was so thoroughly ensnared, did it really matter how one had gotten there? At this point, Miriam realised as the entered a small, dimly light room that seemed to be furnished entirely by large, exotically patterned pillows- probably not.
She allowed herself to be led into the den, her hot, slippery fingers ensconced lightly in the Baroness' calmly cool grasp.
"Why don't you make yourself comfortable?" Vivianne suggested lightly, and Miriam shakily stepped out of her pumps, reclining on one of the plush pillows; the down surrounding her body like a gentle lover's caress.
The Baroness watched her guest appreciatively, then settled herself about four feet away, crossing her legs sinuously in front of her and kicking off her strappy heels. She sighed contentedly. "Why don't you- introduce yourself, my dear?" It was phrased like a question, but it was clearly a demand.
Miriam experienced a moment of puzzlement- hadn't they already been through this? Her meagre beginnings? Her plans for the future? She briefly wondered if Vivianne was a little drunk, but discarded the notion quickly. Miriam had been watching the hostess all evening, and the woman hadn't taken more than a cursory sip of anything alcoholic when Miriam had been in her company.
Meanwhile, the young woman scoffed to herself, slightly giddy, while she considered the fact that she was easily more than half in the bag herself. And almost in the sack with the Baroness. She giggled to herself, and Vivianne continued to regard her with a most unnerving look in her eyes.
So what exactly was the Baroness suggesting- her voice so low, too sensuous to merely be asking about-
Oh. Oh. And by the amused smirk pulling at the corners of Vivianne's lush mouth, Miriam had finally caught on. She smiled a little to herself, and began unbuttoning her blouse. Apparently, the dear Baroness wanted to watch.
The young woman moved slowly, her fingers deliberate as fastening after fastening slipped away, the soft, buttery fabric pulling away inch by inch, revealing the gentle ebb and swell of her breasts as they heaved against the light cream lace of her brassiere.
She was trying to be coy, sexy; but Miriam couldn't resist a nervous look towards Vivianne, who sat, with relative calmness, taking in the erotic vignette in the privacy of her very own den of inequity.
"Touch yourself," the Baroness urged, her voice barely registering as sound it had fallen so low, so breathy. "Show me what you want me to do to you."
Miriam shivered, the velvety undertone of the older woman's voice almost a moan. She brushed her fingertips across the thin lace covering her nipples, only a little surprised to find they were already hard, and ached when she teased them. Miriam arched into her own caress- no one had ever asked her to do this before; it was so shameless, so wanton.
Her breathing becoming heavy and uneven, the young woman slid her hands down her ribcage, over the swell of her hips, and slowly pulled down the side zip of her skirt as the Baroness looked on with heavy lidded eyes.
Miriam shimmied quickly out of her skirt, any nerves or misgivings carried away on a tide of arousal and a deep rooted need to please this woman who held such power in her hands. And as Miriam allowed her shirt to cascade from her shoulders in a wave of silk, she imagined it's caress to be that of the Baroness.
Because if she concentrated, if she thought back to a time where to imagine something was to make it realised, Miriam could almost make believe that it was Vivianne's own fingers that touched her so softly as to make goose bumps prickle up and down her pale, freckle dusted arms; not a casually selected article of clothing from her scantly inhabited closet.
Miriam writhed a little with her satisfying delusions, then returned to her display of auto-eroticism, a warm hand stealing between her thighs to press against the damp gusset of the less than practical lingerie she'd donned that morning in hopeful anticipation of her visit to the Baroness' lavish hidey-hole on the Seine.
Miriam's fingertips spun teasingly over the damp lace, arousing waves of pleasure which throbbed through her abdomen, glowed hotly in her belly. She moaned.
"Take the rest off, darling," Vivianne intoned from her privileged position, irises all but swallowed up by the agate expanse of lust in her eyes. "Let me look at you whole."
The younger woman, who was quite suddenly through with her nearly pathetic attempt at a strip tease, disposed of her underwear with unabashed haste and lay panting, flushed with desire, her auburn hair clashing horrifically with the puce silk pillow beneath her head.
"Gorgeous," Vivianne murmured, shifting almost imperceptibly closer to the object of her strange desires. She surveyed her gift, unwrapped and ready, begging her come nearer; to indulge.
"I've had enough of this game, Alice," the Baroness announced, standing fluidly and picking her way through the cushions, a garden of foreign imports.
"Have you?" Miriam said, the words coming out on a great gust of nervous air. Vivianne was getting closer, the young woman could smell the heady scent of the Baroness' perfume; an alchemy of allure, of cloying, nauseating sweetness. She tried to calm her breathing, to stay the rapidly increasing rhythm of her heart; neither attempt was successful. Her heart pounded away, and air entered and exited her lungs erratically, almost in the same breath.
This will surely kill me, Miriam mused almost cheerfully to herself as the Baroness knelt beside her and graced her oversensitive skin with delicate fingers, the many extravagant rings leaving tiny trails of ice within the melting, spreading wake of hot arousal.
"Relax," Vivianne cooed, pressing her palm up the young woman's body, resting it directly over Miriam's left breast, smiling as the telltale hammering gave away her new plaything's excitement.
Miriam lifted her chin, almost defiantly, the Baroness hovering a foot or so above her, hazel eyes glittering with power and want and something a little more sinister.
Relax? It wasn't possible. It was unthinkable.
But Miriam nodded anyway- because really, at this juncture, at this stage of whatever 'game' Vivianne spoke of, there was really no sense in arguing with the older woman who offered so much pleasure, whose touch was so evocative of something Miriam had never felt before.
"Good girl," the aristocrat murmured, lowering her head to the girl's chest and welcoming a coral nipple between her thin, delicately painted lips. On impulse, Miriam reached up to cradle the Baroness' head to her breast, threading her fingers through soft, white-gold hair. She was shocked to have her hands quickly slapped away.
"You mustn't touch, dear," Vivianne chided lightly, but firmly; Miriam could only groan in response as the older woman shifted slightly, her smooth silk wrapped thigh pressing up between her legs as her mouth went left and started sucking on the yet untouched breast.
It felt like sin and melting chocolate and a thousand tiny icicles dripping on to her nerves. Miriam writhed, arched her back, and strategically shoved her hands under her bum, trapping them effectively from their insistent rule breaking. God help her if she did something to stop this wondrous, sinful experience.
But oh how Miriam wanted her- how she wanted to slip the straps down over the lightly freckled shoulders, walk her fingers down the nape of Vivianne's elegant neck and drag her nails over the crest of the older woman's spine. And it would have been alright, really- Miriam had always known she could be as attracted to a woman as she could be to any man, her sexuality was not an issue. Not in the seventies. Not in Paris.
But Vivianne Reshetnikova- or Vianne, as she insisted Miriam call her- whoever the woman was, the Baroness was dangerous, a radical, a free agent. And could young, driven, focused little Miriam Princhek afford to anger this woman by interrupting her playtime? Would it really be so hard to enjoy the sensual attention being lavished upon her- even if she didn't get to join in? Miriam thought with a wry grin, probably not.
Vivianne's tongue suddenly left the young woman's tender breasts and lapped a winding path over a xylophone expanse of ribs, making several tender circles in and around Miriam's navel, then down, down, nipping at smooth, trembling thighs, finally resting along the crest of the girl's neatly trimmed pubic hair.
"Oy geval," Miriam moaned after several long, tortuous seconds of inaction. "Mach shnel, krasavitse."
The Baroness blew cool tendrils of air through the auburn curls, and the young woman wriggled, ticklish and in agony.
"I'm not necessarily sure," began Vivianne as she teasingly swiped her tongue through Miriam's slick sex, "whether your liberal use of Yiddish during sex," another maddening lick, "is entirely ridiculous," she pressed her tongue flat against the girl's throbbing, swollen clit, "or completely delicious."
Miriam nodded stupidly, her breath hitching as the Baroness' mouth moved lower and her tongue pushed up inside, then withdrew.
"At any rate," she continued blithely, "you are most certainly quite pleasing on the palate. So I suppose you're half gone murmurings, whatever the language, are really quite inconsequential."
Vivianne replaced her tongue with two or three slim fingers; Miriam panted, clenched her hands, and thrust herself desperately forwards.
"You're close, darling." Vivianne stated, returning her mouth to the younger woman's sex, sucking, nipping at Miriam's clit.
"Yentz," the girl hissed in anguish, twining the material of her blouse so tightly in her hands she was in danger of ripping either the silk, or her own skin.
"Come, Alice," Vivianne mouthed against Miriam's slippery cunt. "And don't be quiet about it."