The Blue Guide (16 page)

Tripping down the stairs in a pair of spike-heeled black ankle boots that I've chosen in favour of the flat pumps I usually wear when working, I rush out into the street and hail a taxi, which takes me across Marylebone and to Carlotta's hotel in five minutes. Asking the driver to pull up on the opposite side of Langham Place from the hotel entrance, I climb out and stand outside the Nash church looking up at the windows of her semi-circular drawing room. I breathe in, savouring the moment, the anticipation. What pleasures await me inside? What new raptures will be mine today?

Suddenly I see Carlotta step up to one of the windows. I gasp. She's naked – at least what I can see of her, from the waist up – palms pressed up to the pane of glass, staring down at me. She brings her hands to her breasts, starts circling her nipples with the pads of her thumbs, smiling. Then she beckons me with her head.

I start running, weaving across the street between lines of oncoming traffic, then dash up the steps into the hotel and through the lobby. In the lift I stand panting, my hand on my heart, fearful that it's going to burst. Nothing I've ever experienced has made me behave like this. Is Carlotta some kind of witch? What has she done to me?

As I approach her suite, the door opens and Carlotta is standing there, framed, resplendent, blonde mane cascading down over bare shoulders. Her nipples are still all bunched up like walnuts from where she was playing with herself. There's a soft white towel around her slender waist, tumbling down to her calves.

‘Come in,' she says, taking my hand and drawing me inside, kicking the door to behind us. I go to kiss her but she holds me at arm's length, both hands in mine now, just drinking me in with her eyes. ‘This way,' she says at length, and we walk into the drawing room hand in hand.

Straight out she leads me over to the cream couch, where she indicates that I should sit down. As I do so, she arranges a few of the scatter cushions into a pile behind my head and gently pushes me back. Not taking her eyes from mine, she reaches down and unzips my ankle boots, slides them off my feet together with the cashmere socks I had on underneath. Taking my feet firmly in her hands, she begins to massage them, pressing into the soft flesh of my soles, up and down their length. Still looking into my eyes, she brings her face to my feet and takes my toes into her mouth one by one, making me giggle and wriggle as her tongue slides and darts between them like a little fish.

I'm rubbing at my pussy through my jeans, more than ready for her, but she's determined to string me along, I can tell by the slow deliberation of her
movements as she stands up and saunters across the room. Beneath her towel her buttocks swell invitingly. I want to get up and chase her across the room, tear off the towel and push her roughly to the ground, then mount her. The only reason I don't is that I know she has something in mind and I don't want to miss out on whatever treat she's got lined up for me.

She disappears into the master bedroom, and I hear her open and shut a drawer. Then she calls back, ‘Close your eyes, angel,' and I obey, offering myself up to blackness, to uncertainty. My pussy tingles.

I hear her move back across the drawing room, towards me, and I'm reminded of some big cat moving stealthily in on its prey. The thought excites me, and I squeeze my cunt again through my jeans. Even through the thick denim I can feel my wetness. I can't help but let out a moan. I am so horny I could scream.

Suddenly she's kneeling beside me; I can feel her breath on my neck, and I know that she's turned on too because it's coming fast and irregular.

‘Don't open your eyes,' she whispers, her voice choked in her throat, and I feel her hands about my head. Something is being pulled across my face, and the darkness behind my eyelids becomes inkier, a deeper indigo blue.

I feel like I'm falling backwards in space, and I submit myself to the sensation, to the delicious fear of putting myself entirely in the hands of another person, of renouncing myself entirely. At this moment I am just a body, a body that wants, ardently, but that is being controlled by another body, a body being driven by a mind. I shiver with desire: I am Carlotta's plaything, and I have to trust her. I suspect she is going to take us to places neither of us has ever been before.

Her hands are behind my head now, securing the tie,
which I suspect to be the scarf I wore around my neck when posing for the drawing, in place of Victorine's slim ribbon. She does it gently but tightly, so that not a chink of light shows through when I manage to open my eyes a slit. Then she moves her hands down my body, to the lapels of my jacket, which she uses to pull me up towards her. Our mouths touch fleetingly, and I try to kiss her more fully, but she's moved her head before I can plunge my tongue into her mouth in search of hers. Her face is against the side of mine, and I can feel the slightly angular curve of her prominent cheekbone as she jabs at the peach-fuzz lobe of my ear with her tongue, as she snacks on it with her teeth. At the same time, she's slipped my jacket off my shoulders and, pushing up my T-shirt, is rubbing my nipples through my bra, brushing their nut-hard tips with her thumbs just as she did her own in the window not fifteen minutes ago.

I've never been blindfolded before, and I'm thrilled by how much more intense everything feels when you can't see it, by how your senses are reawakened to familiar textures when you are rendered blind to them. The fluffy towel at Carlotta's hips feels ephemeral as a wisp of cloud beneath my palms, and when I yank it away from her, the skin of her buttocks reminds me of the padded little cheek of a well-nourished baby. I bring my hand round to the front of her, entwine my fingers in the scant tendrils of her bush, fine as spun sugar. They grow slick at once with the dew I can feel seeping from her core.

‘Oh God, Carlotta,' I say. ‘Nothing . . . has ever . . .'

‘Shhh,' she says, placing a finger across my lips, then slipping it inside my mouth. I suck on it like a newborn at a teat. She's moved her other hand down to my crotch, where she pops the button flies one by one,
then pushes my jeans and knickers down over my hips. I start as I feel a finger shoot up inside me, pull her closer to me. I want to engulf this woman, somehow take all of her inside me, eat her up whole. The sudden cannibalistic urge surges at me from nowhere and scares me with its wildness.

‘Not yet,' she says as I try to pull her in, and she draws her finger out of my cunt. She's sitting beside me on the edge of the sofa, I can tell, but I can't know what she's looking at – my face, desperate with lust, my tits, my pussy, smouldering away for her, oozing all over the place.

‘
Please
,' I murmur. ‘I can't –'

She leans forwards now, strips off my T-shirt and then reaches round to unclasp my bra. When she does so, I feel her breasts graze my belly, and more juice leaks out of me. I can't help but reach down now and start working at my clit. If Carlotta tries to stop me, I may end up wrestling her off the sofa and onto the floor and taking control of this. I'm finding being at her mercy more difficult than I could have imagined.

She moves down my body, pulls my jeans over my legs and feet, then my knickers. ‘Mmmm,' I hear her say, and I feel her grow still.

‘What are you doing?' I ask.

‘Licking your panties,' she says with a dirty little chuckle.

‘Give me yours,' I say, straight out.

‘What?'

‘Your knickers,' I say. ‘It's only fair.'

I hear her jump up, cross the room. In a moment she's back, and I feel her sliding something down over my head, over the blindfold, to the bottom half of my face. On my cheeks I feel the sheen of the material, but across my nose and mouth she's positioned the undies
carefully, so that the cotton of the gusset is right against them. All at once my nostrils are filled with the scent of her, a musky, sour-honey aroma similar to that I smell or taste on my own hands when I've been wanking, or that I taste on a lover's penis when I go down on him after we've fucked. I probe it more, sniffing hard to bring more of its essence to the receptors inside my head, and I'm surprised by a sudden manly odour, the sharp salty tang of semen, mixed in with it. Carlotta must have worn these knickers after screwing Paco. I inhale deeply, as if snorting some powerful drug. The two of them at once – now that really would blow my mind.

Carlotta has grown silent, and I wonder what she's cooking up in that filthy little head of hers. ‘Where are you?' I say, and I realise there's an almost plaintive note to my voice.

‘I'm here,' she says, from an indeterminate point in the room. ‘Come and find me.'

I sit up and am immediately disoriented, probably partly because the smell of Carlotta and Paco's melded love juices are still coursing through my brain. I reach out, find only empty air in the immediate vicinity.

‘Carlotta,' I say.

‘Over here, baby,' she says.

Given what I know of the room layout immediately surrounding me – namely, the large square central coffee table with its hard, sharp corners – I have no option but to slide down to the floor and start moving forwards on my hands and knees. Otherwise, I just know I'd trip over and do myself a serious injury. I giggle slightly as I envisage being tended to by ambulance men on the floor of the suite, naked and blindfolded. How fucking embarrassing would that be?

I kneel up, reach out my right hand and feel the
smooth polished surface of one of the ceramic eggs in the middle of the table. Drawing back my hand, my fingertips brush the glossy cover of one of Carlotta's art books. I inch forward on my knees, confident of my direction, if not the whereabouts of Carlotta. When I'm sure I've got beyond the table, I dare to rise to my feet. Like a ghost in a clunky old horror movie, or like Frankenstein's monster, I walk slowly forwards, arms out before me.

I run up against the rounded wooden edge of the dining table with my belly and grasp it with both hands, as if I've found a port in a storm. Fingertips graze the back of one of my hands, then fingers wrap themselves around it and coax it forwards. The pads of my own fingers meet something frilly, something with almost the texture of young, unspoilt flesh. There's a soft meatiness about it. I open my hand, allow the array of petals to tickle the underside of my palm. Then Carlotta is pushing me gently forwards over the table, and as I inhale the heady scent of fresh roses, her fingers play at my own furled little bud between my buttocks, flitting at it like a hummingbird seeking flower nectar.

Then she turns me around by the shoulders and starts steering me away into the room. I try to keep a tab on the direction we're going in, but in my intoxication I lose my bearings almost immediately. I've just convinced myself we're heading back across the drawing room towards the two deep armchairs facing the dining table when my hips bump against another jutting edge and I'm brought to a halt. At the same time I become aware that beneath my bare feet the baby-soft carpet of the drawing room has given way to cool stone, from which I deduce that we are in the hallway. I've just realised that I must be beside the table supporting
the glass sculpture when Carlotta takes my hands and brings them forward to touch it.

One hand on either side, with Carlotta's hands on mine like pale shadows, I caress the sculpture from its sturdy base to its pointed tip. Carlotta's body is pressed against mine, her breasts flattening against my shoulder blades, her bush tickling the point where the ripe fruit of my arse splits. Her breath is almost scalding on my neck, on my ear, as she whispers wicked things to me.

‘Feel that,' she says as our hands ascend to the tip once more. ‘Feel how smooth and hard and long. Imagine it going up inside you, further than any man ever been. You feel it? You want it? You like cocks?'

‘I love them,' I gasp. ‘Yes, I want it.'

‘You want be filled up, full of cock?'

‘Yes,
yes
.'

‘But what about
this
?' she says, prising one of my hands away from the sculpture and feeding it through a slit just above the base. ‘What about this hole, here, wide open for you? It turn you on?'

‘Oh God, yes,' I say. ‘Carlotta, you know it does. More than anything else. Let me take you.'

She spins me around again, leads me back, or so it seems to me, in the direction from which we came, into the drawing room.

I begin pleading with her, try to drag her to the ground so that we can let loose on each other. There's only so much teasing a girl can take. But she keeps leading me, guiding me round a piece of furniture, which I take to be the coffee table again. I'm proven right when she pushes me up and forwards onto one of the aubergine armchairs, with my back still to her. Keeping one palm flat against my lower back, she lifts
first my left leg and then my right, so that I am kneeling on each arm of the chair.

Standing back – the more, I suppose, to appreciate the full-on view she has obtained of my arse and pussy – she reaches forwards and runs a single finger from my clit and across my slit and my perineum to my anus. I howl, beg her not to stop.

I feel her body hang a little to the right as if she is reaching for something. I seem to remember that there's an occasional table at the point where the armchair and the sofa meet at right angles, but it's in vain that I rack my brains to recall what's on it.

My memory is jogged by the feel of the cold, flawless glass as it rolls down over my sphincter and back across my wide slot, retracing in reverse the route taken by Carlotta's finger a moment ago. It must be the smaller of two ornamental crystal domes that grace the table. As it crushes up against my clit, my right arm shoots out involuntary and meets the larger of the balls. I run my fingers over its polished surface. It feels like a surgically enhanced breast looks – the right basic shape but too hard to be sexy, lacking the essential, delicious squidge factor of normal boobs.