Out of all the possibilities at her disposal, why had Jean arranged a “lesbian scene” to seduce him?
Could it be… could it be that she knew him better than he thought? Yet surely he had never so much as hinted that he found the spectacle of two young women cavorting sexily together an exciting one? He couldn't have! As far as he could remember, the subject had never arisen in their infrequent conversations.
Was it that indefinable (and probably fictitious) quality they called “feminine intuition”? Perhaps… Michael felt rather uneasy all the same. If, somehow, Jean did see through to his most secret fantasies, she was in possession of a deeper knowledge of him than he realised. It implied a greater understanding of his psychological make-up than he himself possessed.
Absently, lost in this uncomfortable speculation, Michael reached out and crushed the remains of his cigarette to a mashy pulp in the ashtray.
Perhaps Jean was a better partner for him than he had previously imagined. He didn't want to believe this, but the idea was taking firm root in his mind and refused to be shifted. Also, Michael was growing increasingly aware of the fact that Jean had shown no trace of embarrassment or shame when he burst in upon the girls.
Quite the contrary. And when she and Monique were making love, Jean had been the one to take the more dominant role. He saw suddenly that his wife simply couldn't have been caressing Monique merely for his benefit! Obviously not!
She hadn't suffered a rather unpleasant intimacy solely to please her husband. Jean had got as much enjoyment out of the situation as Michael!
He allowed the thought to settle, to sink fully into his brain. It changed quite a lot of his feelings towards her; she was clearly a far more complex person than he'd understood her to be. Well, he mused, he would see what developed during their next bout of love-making.
After all, there was no need to choose between the two girls yet. For tonight, at least, he could enjoy them both!
Michael felt comforted and reassured by this last thought. It was nice not to have to make a decision of any kind — and there was plenty of time to make up his mind whether Jean or Monique would ultimately become his lover…
He could now hear them coming back down the stairs, their soft footsteps just discernible as they approached the bedroom. Michael's heart beat faster, his imagination rushing ahead to imagine what the girls would look like in their “slave-girl” costumes. He was confident that they wouldn't disappoint him…
PART THREE. Monique
1
Alone in the attic, Monique rubbed a duster over an antique mirror and examined herself critically. The gilt- framed glass showed her a striking reflection: a row of imitation pearls, the beads thick and large, hung around her neck — falling across her breasts just above the nipples. Two brass-coloured bangles were looped about her wrists, and, most eye-catching of all, the girl had tied a brilliant red scarf around her hips; arranging it so that the knot came slightly below her navel, with the rest of the silk falling down in front of her crotch.
It wasn't quite long enough to completely conceal Monique's sex: the fringe hung across her pubic mound, tickling the lips of her cunt every time she moved. The girl tugged her “loin-cloth” further down her hips until it more effectively hid her private parts from view, then turned around, looking over her shoulder to judge the appearance of her rear.
The scarf did nothing, of course, to hide her bottom; the cheeks were as naked as the day she was born. But the tightness of the silk across her waist certainly accentuated the curve of her hips — making them jut out more sexily than usual.
Monique faced the mirror again, well pleased with her improvised costume. She wondered why Jean was taking so long: it seemed as if she had been up in the attic for ages, and she was impatient for eyes other than her own to admire the rather bizarre picture she presented.
Somehow, it seemed perfectly natural to her that she was waiting for Michael's wife to join her and dress herself in a similar fashion — before they both went downstairs and allowed Michael to treat them (in sexy mock seriousness) as his slaves.
Such a very long time seemed to have elapsed since she had awakened that morning and, for the first time in her life, played so shamelessly with herself in the bath! Monique smiled, scarcely able to believe that she had felt so guilty and stricken with remorse over such a silly, perfectly natural incident.
And then, from that moment on, events had crowded one on top of the other. So much had happened to her today! She had changed completely in the space of those — what? twelve hours?
After Jean had made that shocking proposal to her that they permit Michael to share both their charms, the two girls had made love again. Throughout most of the sunny, warm spring afternoon their bodies had been in close, intimate contact; experimenting with ways of bringing each other to wilder and more voluptuous orgasms, or simply content to cuddle one another in sweet, almost ineffable bliss…
Then her growing nervousness as the time approached when Michael was expected home — and Jean's hurriedly whispered instructions to her when they heard his key turn in the lock.
Monique had felt terribly afraid as the man's footsteps came softly up the stairs. She knew that without Jean's support, without the woman's amazingly bold approach to her husband, she would have died on the spot! But things had gone so smoothly after that. Almost as if they were repeating their parts in a drama which had been enacted many times before…
She moved her shoulders, shuddering involuntarily as the curious deja vu phenomenon stole over her. For a moment, Monique felt sure that the three of them had lived this day again and again… and that they were doomed to spend eternity going over and over the events, never being quite sure that they were on an endless treadmill, but always having that awful, nagging suspicion…
“Oh, nonsense!” Monique exclaimed out loud. She moved away from the mirror, smoothing her hands over the sleekness of her thighs in an attempt to dispel the unsettling mood.
“It's this old attic that's filling your head with these ideas', she told herself. And it was true that the disused room, with its low ceiling and dusty trunks; its long-discarded toys and assortment of forgotten junk, possessed a rather dismal and faintly oppressive atmosphere. As if it resented being used as a repository for unwanted oddments and the long years' accumulation of worthless bric-a-brac.
Monique went to the door and was thankful that Jean had at last appeared on the stairs. The woman seemed lost in thought, not noticing Monique at the doorway until she was almost on top of the girl.
“Is everything all right, Jean?” Monique asked anxiously. The expression on Mrs. Cameron's face made her fear that Michael had undergone a change of attitude since she'd left the bedroom.
“What? Oh yes; everything's fine', Jean said absently. She walked past Monique and moved into the attic.
“You look worried, darling', Monique persisted, following her into the room. “Are you sure nothing's gone wrong?”
Jean's eyes blinked rapidly and she seemed to pull herself together. “I'm sorry', she smiled. “I was miles away!” Her manner changed; she became brisk and business-like. “You look charming, Monique — really charming! Now: I must try to make myself as sexy as you. Where shall we begin…?”
Monique moved to her side and picked up the second silk scarf. She tied it tightly around Jean's hips, then worked the down-hanging loops so that they fell in front of the woman's bushy cunt.
Jean turned so that she faced the mirror — and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “My!” she exclaimed. “I do look rather peachy, don't I?”
“We haven't finished yet,” Monique told her. “Here — let me put the beads around your neck”. The girl took up a string of pearls and fitted them round Jean's neck, having to lift her beautifully long black hair out of the way so that she could fasten the clasp.
Jean kept her hands at her sides, letting Monique adjust the beads across her bosom; feeling the girl's sweet breath blowing softly on her bare shoulder as she bent forward.
