Impact 28: of Femme de Ménage

For those who are concerned with such things, as always, when Sarah is alone, the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together, the story is in the present tense.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of Femme De Ménage

For a moment, wrapped in Claire's arms, sharing the heat of our combined orgasms, and lying in a puddle of my urine is truly the most beautifully romantic and loving embrace I've ever shared with anyone in my life.

Until Claire burps.

The burp, or, The Burp - as it should more properly be known. The Burp is bigger than any burp I ever heard Danny or his buddies, or any other man or boy ever make.

The Burp is bone shaking. It seems to emit from some place older than Claire herself. The Burp isn't just prewar, it's prehistoric, or maybe Paleolithic, maybe even Mesozoic? And besides being loud and deep, The Burp is crazy looong. Like, I keep expecting it to end, but it doesn't!

I'm sure the fact that it echoes around the glass and tile shower stall make it seem even bigger and longer than it actually is, but seriously, it is super BIG.

For a moment we just stare at each other in wide-eyed disbelief. For my part I'm terrified Claire is going to be sick... and maybe she is too, because her eyes make tiny shifts, back and forth, up and down, focused on the middle distance - like she is taking stock, an internal accounting.

For myself, I'm sure my face is a frozen mask of shock and horror.

"excusez-moi..." she murmurs into the stunned silence. She looks deeply mortified.

Out of relief that she's not vomiting, we both start laughing. But our laughter is nervous and tentative at first, but then, when it seems clear she really isn't going to throw up, we reallylaugh - now with genuine relief.

"I think I just swallowed a lot of air," she laughs, letting me help her up.

We are still laughing and lifting each other off the shower floor when she starts hiccupping.

"hHIC!"

At first this just makes us laugh harder, but the hiccups persist even after I get her under a warm shower and am doing my best to relax her by gently soaping up her body and washing her hair.

"hHIC!"

If anything, they just seem to get worse and worse.

"hHIC! HIC!"

She tries holding her breath, and drinking sips from the shower. I even try scaring her - which kind of works.

"BOO!"

"SARAH!"

Claire is clutching her breast, looking at me, eyes wide in unfeigned fright. Clearly I accomplished half my task.

I hold up a finger, waiting to see if the other half succeeds, and for a moment it does-

"hHIC!"

It doesn't work.

The hiccups are high and sharp and painful sounding gasps. Between hiccuping fits she allows me to gently soap both ears with my pinkies, which is quite nice, and might have even been sexy except the hiccuping is clearly starting to hurt her.

"hHIC!"

She looks miserable, and they are only getting worse.

"hHIC!"

"hHIC!"

"hHIC!"

Once I'm sure I've cleaned all the piss off of Claire's skin and out of her hair and ears we get out of the shower and Claire sends me to the kitchen for a pint glass. Dripping wet she sits on the toilet and bends over double so her head is between her knees. From that position she tries drinking from the wrong side of the glass.

"hHIC!"

That doesn't work either.

Despite the fact that I tell her her breath smells fine Claire is very self conscious about it, so the two of us spend an extra long time brushing our teeth. She's heard the trick to getting rid of hiccups is not thinking about them, so she is trying not to distract herself by focusing on brushing.

Looking at her in the mirror, her mouth covered in white froth, brows pinched in concentration, it's impossible not to smile. She looks like an incredibly serious six year old.

"hHIC!"

Next she rinses and tries gargling - so much gargling.

"hHIC!"

It doesn't work.

"Come," I tell her, guiding her out of the bathroom and shooing her to the bed. I go to the kitchen and gather everything I need, carrying it on a plate, bringing it back to Claire in bed from assembly.

Wrapped in her towel like a shawl, she is pouting, and hiccuping loudly as I return. But she watches with real interest - or maybe suspicion - as I scoop a heaping teaspoon of sugar, squeeze lemon juice over it and then measure out drops of bitters onto the drenched sugar until the spoon begins to overflow with syrupy brown goo.

Cupping a hand under this sticky concoction so it won't stain the sheets or drip on her chest I raise the spoon to her mouth but she just furrows her brow and pulls her lips between her teeth, refusing to open.

"heeph!" she squeaks through tightly sealed lips.

"Trust me," I sooth, but she is unconvinced.

"heeph!"

"It's an Amelia trick," I promise, trying to assure her.

This seems to mollify her, but she's still frowning as she begrudgingly begins to part her lips.

"hHIC!"

I push the spoon in her open mouth, surprising her. She makes a terrible face but doesn't spit it out.

"Swallow, Claire."

She doesn't want to.

"Let me watch you swallow," I say, smiling, and petting the side of her neck, my thumb tracing the hollow beneath her jaw.

Scrunching her eyes and twisting her lips against the sugary/sour/bitters, she does as she's told.

It takes a while for her face to unscrew, and a bit longer before she will open her eyes. I watch her expression slowly relax as we wait in silence, finally she takes a deep shuddering breath and lets it out.

"Amelia..." she sighs in appreciation.

Waiting a long beat, maybe worried she's jinxed herself, she looks around the room nervously. But finally she raises her eyebrows and chin in salute.

"I will admit... I did not expect that to work!"

I'm a bit surprised it did too, but after how badly my scare tactic failed, I keep my doubts to myself.

The recipe was something long forgotten, dredged up from my deepest childhood memories, from the before-times, sitting across from Amelia in the kitchen of the big house on the cul de sac, watching her prepare the awful mess for me, while I hiccupped.

"Amelia said she learned it from Father Mike," I tell Claire, remembering how pretty my mother had looked, smiling and laughing with me when it worked - my eyes still full of tears.

"A miracle cure," she concedes. "But it seems more like a bartender trick than a priestly one, no?"

It's never occurred to me but Claire has a point. I'll have to ask Amelia about that.

I put the plate aside and curl up around Claire, squeezing and petting her gently.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know... for doing that, for almost making you sick?"

"tsk," she scolds softly. "You don't need to feel sorry, Sarah, not with me, and certainly not for doing what I tell you..."

She kisses me. Her mouth tastes like old fashioned candies - her toothpaste and mouthwash overwritten by the sweet citrusy botanical aftertaste of Father Mike's cure.

"You know the worst thing about all this?" she asks, blindly gesturing at the bathroom door and all that has transpired.

"What?" I ask, suddenly afraid I've disgusted her, that she regrets what we've done.

"It would make the best story," she says smiling, her eyes closed. "Every single bit of it... but there's no way to tell anyone even one part!"

I picture Claire telling the story at a dinner party, making everyone laugh at the absurdity of it all, casting herself as the butt of all the jokes - rather than my hero; my savior.

"I love you so very much," I whisper.

"I love you too, my Young Sarah, with all my heart and soul..."

I think she's going to say more, but she slips into sleep instead.

I disentangle myself. If Helen is awake she gets one last show. I move through the loft on the balls of my feet. Holding my breasts with my forearms, so they can't bounce, I make little ballerina leaps as I turn off the lights.

One.

By.

One.

Back in bed, I wrap myself around Claire who snuggles right back despite the heat. Claire's slow steady breathing is wonderfully relaxing, but I'm up for a long time fretting anyway. We didn't do any cleaning. When I finally do fall asleep, it's with my head spinning up images of everything that needs to be done... so of course I wake myself up with a start a few hours later.

I didn't set an alarm or anything, I'm just up!

The bed and pillows are an enfolding cocoon of linen and silence, however. The room is still dark and Claire is wonderfully soft and warm against me, her breathing deep and slow, lulling me back to sleep. But I can hear the distant sounds of garbage trucks, urban roosters. It's morning.

I will myself out of bed. I'm very careful to do so as quietly and as gently as possible, however, not wanting to wake Claire.

The afternoon and evening before, watching her pack and listening to her chatter, I could tell Claire was anxious. The loft is never messy, but it's never truly clean either. Her packing monologue felt nervous and she kept interrupting herself as she'd find a stain or gunk or something else that needs to be cleaned.

"EEYAH! There are HUGE dirt bunnies under here!" she announced as she pulled her luggage out from under the high four poster bed.

"Dust," I corrected.

"No, I know - It's SUPER dusty!"

I didn't try to explain.

"All this dirt is on the inside!" she complained, examining the rippled glass of huge old double-hung windows. "The building had a man come and rebel on a rope swing and clean the windows two weeks ago."

"Rappel," I correct automatically.

She just shoots me an irritated look.

"The counter is really gunky!" she calls out from the bathroom as she's stealing product from her mother to bring to my apartment.

"The floor here is sticky..." she observes as she retrieves wine from the fridge.

"Yuck! Look how dirty my feet are!" she demands, lifting a foot behind her and turning so I can see her black soles.

None of this is surprising to me. Claire's loft is always tidy, never truly messy, but that's not the same thing as being clean. I have long felt the loft was in need of a deep cleaning.

And while she makes her complaints as jokes, kinda, I can tell she was thinking the same thing as I was - that her mother would be arriving in a matter of hours and there was a LOT to do. But instead of focusing on what needed to be done to prepare for Brigitte, she focused on how I was feeling, on what I had told her about Stephanie, on making love to me...

For myself, I had had my own agenda for Brigitte's arrival - that did not include cleaning this morning.

Ever since Claire told me her mother was coming, I've known I wanted to prepare a special meal to greet Brigitte. I haven't exactly been planning the meal for weeks - but I have been thinking about it a lot... for weeks. Nothing too fancy; simple fare - a quiche, a salad, and bread... maybe a couple other things. No big deal.

It's a lot to do, but I'm up early enough, I can do it all.

I brought a bag of King Arthur flour with me from my apartment and I start the "sponge" for the bread first thing. It's going to need to sit, so my next stop is the bathroom. Besides the kitchen, the bathroom is the part of the loft that needs the most attention, and unlike the kitchen, the bathroom has a door. So I gather up my supplies and close myself in - to scrub!

I am careful to be quiet, and am almost done by the time Claire wakes up. She finds me on my hands and knees scouring the grout around the toilet. I'm kneeling on an old bath mat I've folded it into a little square to save my knees. The morning isn't yet warming up but with the door closed the bathroom is hot and humid. All I'm wearing is her little red running shorts and a ratty pink baby-T I know Claire doesn't like. No bra or panties. But even so, her clothes are clinging to me. I'm a sweaty mess. I've got my hair pulled off my neck and away from my sweaty forehead with an old blue bandana. The yellow rubber gloves from under the kitchen sink complete my ensemble.

"What are you-" she croaks, trying to take the scene in through the slits of her still puffy eyelids. She tries to blink them open.

"Almost done!" I chirp apologetically.

"I have to pee," she moans back.

I make way for her. Watch her take her place over the newly sparkling bowl. Knees together, feet apart, toes pointing inward. I wait for her to go, but instead she just sits blinking around at what I've done.

The giant mirrors are so clean you could walk through them. The fixtures all shine. The countertops are immaculate - no rings, no gunky spills. The shower tile has never been so white. There aren't even water marks on the glass partition. The tub is like a perfect alabaster sculpture. I even wiped down the walls.

"I didn't know the grout was white..." she murmurs.

"I used baking powder!" I say with a little too much enthusiasm. I'm still on my knees, holding up my now splayed and soiled old toothbrush. "... and bleach," I add, trying to sound more nonchalant.

"Sarah Beth," she sighs, "your toothbrush..."

"I'll get a new one," I say waving the old one, in what I hope looks like carefree indifference. "Whenever."

"You know what I mean," she sighs.

"I needed a new one anyway."

"What time is it?"

"Six,"

"How long have you been up?"

"Not even an hour," I lie.

With a soft, "oof," she finally lets go and takes a long loud pee. While she does I can see her fully waking up. As her pee dwindles and stops I can see her fully absorbing the amount of work I've done.

"Sarah..." she starts, sounding like maybe she's going to scold me for waking up so early and doing all this.

"Can I ask for something?" I interrupt, the heat in my belly starting to boil.

"What?" she asks, finally taking a real look at me, her face clouding with worry. "What's wrong? What is it?"

Spine bent, her body still drooping from sleep, but her continence is fully awake, her eyes are focused and attentive, studying my face. "What do you need, Sarah Beth?"

"I've... I've never cleaned for you," I tell her. "Will you watch me?"

"Watch you..." she starts, not understanding. "What? Clean?" she asks in disbelief.

There's a speech I could give, a long confession. I could try to explain the way I'm feeling, the way I have been feeling all morning. I've been trying to explain and justify what I want to myself while I scrubbed and polished, wiped and rubbed, but it all sounds so sad and twisted, even to myself.

"I want you to," is all I say.

Not breaking her gaze, she scoots back on the toilet seat, sits up straight and lets her knees drop open.

Familiarity has done nothing to lessen the effect Claire has on me. She remains shockingly beautiful.

Her skin is flawless, and besides the pale triangle protected by her bikini bottom, she is tanned a uniform honey gold - still a little pink from our day on Fire Island with Kip and the Bobs. She doesn't work out that I've ever seen, but she has a slim athletic build. Her lean muscles look strong, especially her thighs - which bulge. Her belly is perfectly flat and breasts don't sag at all, they sit on her narrow chest like a girl's. They are wonderfully round handfuls capped by small dark confectionary nipples. With her heels raised off the floor and thin ankles, her calves look endlessly long. What little body hair she had before shaving her pussy is a fine white down.

Pointedly reaching between her legs with a hand full of tissue she dabs herself clean all the time looking into my eyes. She is considering my request - brows knit in concentration.

I can see her studying my sweaty face, the tight, little shorts that have ridden up and bind, the clingy little shirt, my flush cheeks and swollen nipples. I lick bead of perspiration off my upper lip and watch the blooming awareness on her face.

She drops the tissue into the bowl and rests both hands on her open knees.

"This," she says, gesturing with her chin at me, but her eyes taking in the work I've done. "Is a sex thing?" she asks. "You're turned on right now."

It's not a question.

My face burns.

My belly has been on fire since I heard Claire getting up and realized that I was really going to ask her. But now I've done it, and I can see exactly how much I must be blushing. I can see my discomfort in the way she's looking at me, the amusement making her eyes glitter with mischief and curling the corners of her mouth into a naughty smirk.

"It's something I think about a lot..."

"Cleaning. For me?"

"Yes. I-"

"My mother is very particular and there's a lot to do, Sarah."

"I know, but-"

"So you better get to WORK!" she snaps sharply, cutting me off and making me jump a little. She's spread her knees even further apart, displaying herself. Her smirk is gone. It has been replaced by an imperious impatience. I start to smile, but she narrows her eyes at me, daring me to laugh.

The image of Claire spanking me until I cry flashes in my mind's eye, wiping the nascent grin right off my face. Instead I pull my lips between my teeth and drop forward onto my hands. I lean all the way over so my nose is just inches from the floor and begin scrubbing the last of the dark grout in front of the toilet again. The bathroom is silent except for the quiet skritch skritch skritch of my toothbrush that I've been listening to all morning. But it's different now, I'm no longer alone. Now I'm keenly aware of Claire's bare feet on each side of me while I work, of naked legs bracketing me, of her looking down at me like a stone goddess on her throne as I scrub away.

The grout here is especially badly stained, I imagine from years of men dribbling on the floor. She lets me work at it for a bit, every once and a while touching me with a toe so I will glance up at her. Each time I look up I wonder if she will masturbate, but she just looks down on me, legs obscenely spread, displaying herself. And after a while of this she gets impatient and shoos me away from my work with her foot.

"Go make me coffee!" she commands, flushing the toilet as we both stand. "I need a minute to finish waking up."

I do as she says and, when I get back, she's washed her face and wrapped herself in a skimpy silk robe that barely covers her ass. Her hair is up in a white gold cloud of bed-head curls. Sipping her coffee impassively she watches me kneel again and clean for her. She stands over me, crowding me while I finish the floor, pointing out spots I've missed with her toe, urging me to work faster.

The polish on her nails is chipped. I wonder if there will be time to give her a pedicure before her mother arrives.

"You are spending too much time on this one spot, you need to hurry up!"

She doesn't just oversee however, she steps out for a bit and I can hear her moving around. It turns out she is prepping things for my next task.

"Come," she snarls after inspecting the bathroom and declaring it "sufficient."

"Bring your towel," she tells me pointing at the bath mat. "And your toothbrush."

She has a bucket of hot water and detergent ready for me in the kitchen. There's a scrub brush, sponges, and a scouring pad.

"What you did in the bathroom gave me the idea," she tells me, tapping the old scrub brush with the side of her foot. "I think this is better than the mop," she says, pointing at the floor at her feet.

I kneel on my mat and grabbing up the brush, get to work.

Claire stands over me for a time watching me scrub the area in front of her feet, but again she busies herself while I clean. She starts clearing shelves, wiping them down once they are empty, and examining glasses, cups, vases and other glassware for water marks as she returns them to their places. She does the same with the flatware and utensils - making sure the empty drawers are clean before filling them back up. But she checks on my progress frequently. Standing directly in front of me she points a painted toe at a moisture stain under the hinge of the refrigerator door.

"Get that out," she warns.

I reposition myself to focus on the offending dark spot, my ass in the air.

"Is this sweat?" she demands, pressing the top of her foot upwards between my legs.

"You are very warm," she observes cooly, her tone clinical.

I can't help moaning.

"Your mind is wandering, I think! We don't have much time," she scolds as I roll my hips, hoping she will rub me with her toe.

But she pulls her foot away and barks, "Faster!"

When I am done with the kitchen floor she wants me to start on the windows.

"It's too early for the vacuum," she explains.

She has gotten out a six foot A-frame ladder. I have to stretch to reach the uppermost corners of the massive antique panes. The glass is rippled like calm water. Looking through it I often wonder if those soft waves are an artifact of a long abandoned Nineteenth Century manufacturing process, or if they are features of age. Glass, I remember learning, behaves like an extremely slow moving liquid. Windows from the colonial era are thicker along the bottoms - they are flowing down. Given enough time I suppose these great panes would flow out of their frames and onto the floor... but I'm not thinking about the glass today. I'm looking across the street at Helen's windows. Her apartment is hidden behind the morning glare, but I wonder if she's watching.

Sitting on the sill of the open bedroom window, Claire is smoking a cigarette. I've never seen her smoke in the morning. She must be more nervous about her mother's visit than she's letting on.

Taking a deep drag and carefully blowing the smoke out onto the street, she observes, "If she's awake, you're giving Helen, and whoever else might be looking, quite a show."

She's right.

The shorts are tiny and my midriff shows. I'm not wearing a bra and my boobs are bouncing all over the place while I work to clean as fast as I can. Sweat is dripping off my forehead into my eyes. I wipe them with the back of my wrist but my arms are beaded with sweat. It's dripping down my sides and between my breasts. I've also soaked the crotch of the shorts, but that's not sweat dripping down my thighs...

My problem is Claire. She is putting on a very distracting show herself. She is playing the role of cold hearted bitch, leaning against the window frame, one foot up on the sill the other dangling above the bedroom floor. Her leg in the window is uncovered and bare right up to hip. Her thigh blocks the view of her naked sex... from those outside, but I can see everything.

"You like that," she says, seeing me looking.

"Very much," I admit.

I can't help smiling, but she's turned away to blow smoke out the window.

"You don't have time to look," she says absently, looking across the street. "And it's my job to watch, not yours!" she scolds. "No more dawdling, hurry up!"

And I do.

Claire finishes her cigarette and goes back to dusting, now focusing on the bookshelves. But she keeps a weather eye on my progress. She makes sure I have fresh newspaper to wipe the glass cleaner with, taking away the soggy used newsprint as needed. And when I'm done with the last pane Claire is there with the vacuum.

"Start in the bedroom with the rabbits."

"Bunnies."

"Yes, yes! Hair hares! Gros lapin! Clean the dust and dirt! Everything!"

While I attack the dirt lapin Claire busies herself putting away the ladder and window cleaning supplies. She goes back over the sills with a rag to wipe up any drips, all the time checking to make sure I'm doing what she wants, just the way she wants it. She is demanding and harsh.

"Under the armoire as well"

"Here, beneath the bookshelves!"

But she's not just ordering me around, she's gotten the broom and is sweeping large areas so I don't have to. She makes little piles for me to vacuum up instead. We are moving fast.

Just as I'm finishing up the vacuum cleaner goes dead. I am down on my hands with the nozzle under the sofa searching out any errant filth. As the motor whirs down to silence I push myself up onto my knees and turn around to see what's wrong with the machine. I find Claire holding the plug, which she's pulled from the wall. She has the bucket and mop ready for me.

"Leave it!" she tells me as I start to gather up the hose. She has the mop and bucket ready for me. "Just a quick pass!" She insists as I begin mopping. "But don't skip anywhere!"

Even after being swept and vacuumed the floors are still filthy. Claire is kept busy swapping out buckets of filthy water while I mop. After twenty minutes the floors are sparkling and I am stowing the mop and bucket.

"It smells wonderful in here" Claire observes, and she's right it does. I'm a little winded and now drench in sweat, but the loft feels almost like a new space, it's so clean.

"Do you want Helen to watch you lick my pussy?" Claire asks.

The non sequitur is too much for my brain.

"Do I... wha-"

"Do? ... You? ... Want? ... Her?" she asks, punctuating each word like I'm an idiot. "... to watch you eat my pussy? Or not?!?"

""I just don't-"

"Yes or no, Sarah! Which is it?"

"Umm- yes?" I answer, glancing behind me out the window. It's impossible to know if she's watching at this time of day because of the glare.

"Give me your phone!"

"My-"

"Your phone! Give it to me!"

I twist around and retrieve my phone from the coffee table, unlock it, and hand it to her. She swipes and scrolls and after a short search presses it to her ear. I hear it ringing and then the murmur of Helen's sing song answer.

"Good morning to you too," Claire greets her, smiling broadly. "No - I know - this is Claire... everything is fine, I borrowed her phone... Yes, it is lovely to hear your voice too... no, I'm well, thanks! And you? ... oh I'm so glad... well, yes... My mother is coming so we're getting the apartment ready... Yes! She's been working very hard... Listen, I'm wondering, are you busy? Oh, it's just that Sarah is going to eat my pussy and I wondered if you wanted to watch? ... Oh good, I'm so glad I caught you! ... No, she won't mind... yes, I'm sure. She wants it very much, I promise. It would mean the world to her actually... wonderful! ... Yes, I'll buzz you in."

Claire hangs up and hands me back my phone.

"She's coming here?" I squeak - more than a little alarmed. I had thought Claire was going to invite Helen to look out her window.

Smiling at me, she uses her thumb to wipe the perspiration from my lip and smiles at me, dropping the bitchy pose.

"My Young Sarah has worked so very hard, and I wanted to give her a treat."

"But we still-"

"Have much to do... it's true. But this is important as well. I won't have you meeting my mother all wound up - so, GO! Jump in the shower and rinse off so you're not sweaty for Helen," she tells me. "Hurry! And don't bother getting dressed, just wrap yourself in a towel... Go! Go! Go!"

And I do.

Pulling off my sweat soaked work gear I leave the bathroom door open so I can hear the door - no moss grows on Helen! I am just stepping under the water when I hear the buzzer.

I intentionally take an extremely cold shower. I frantically rinse off and soap myself up, but by the time I'm washing the soap off, my skin has acclimatized to the icy water, and it feels good. Still I'm breathing hard as I shut the tap. Part of me wants to take a moment to wipe the splashed water and soap film off the glass partition and tile...

'It will just take a second!' some neurotic part of me justifies. But Helen is already in the apartment. I can hear them exchanging pleasantries.

"... so glad you called!" Helen is saying, her voice bright and cheery - just two friends, greeting each other.

'Stay focused, Sarah!'

"... we're very excited about the new job!" I hear Claire answering as I rush to dry myself.

"Such a wonderful surprise!" Helen agrees.

"You can't imagine..." Claire says

I will never get my hair dry, but I do my best to get as much water out of it, so at least I'm not dripping everywhere.

"... ice would be lovely, thank you," Helen gushes. "... oh, that's plenty! I have a whole day in front of me still..."

Pulling a comb through my hair with a little conditioner helps. I give it one last twist and squeeze, then wrap myself in my towel.

"... no, I want you here next to me. I insist!" Claire is saying. I pause to look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flush and dewy. Hair slicked back and glowering at myself, I look a little like a charwoman's Denise Richards in that poster for Wild Things - which might make me laugh if I weren't so nervous.

"You've never even seen that movie!" I tell my reflection. Just breathing the words my voice is quavering and reedy.

Claire is telling Helen about the paintings.

"... I'm always surprised, Americans don't know Hantaï," she is saying.

"I'm English!" Helen reminds her, exaggerating her normally delicate British accent. "... But I have been here a very long time."

"Ha! Well, he's very important in France; a procedural surrealist, in the tradition of Jackson Pollock."

Wrapping the towel around my back I fold it under my arms and over my breasts, overlapping the ends to secure it. Smoothing down the front I wipe my hands dry and take a calming breath. Turning away from my reflection I close my eyes and listen.

I'm shaking like a leaf.

"... It's really lovely work," Helen is saying. "I'm happy to finally know who it's by - and I've never heard Pollock described as a 'procedural surrealist'! I like that very much, I'm going to steal it!"

She sounds so nonchalant, as if everything is ordinary, as if nothing could be more normal than to drop by to watch me lick Claire's pussy.

I step out of the bathroom and turn towards them.

Claire and Helen are sitting together on the couch, facing each other so Helen's back is me, but Claire sees me emerge.

"Ah, here she is!" Claire announces over Helen's shoulder. Helen twists around in her seat and smiles up at me as I pad toward them. The floor feels wonderfully clean on my bare feet as I cross the enormous room.

They are drinking chilled white wine, Claire in her skimpy robe, Helen in what looks like a beautiful white dress.

"Good morning!" I say, greeting her. Holding my towel in place where it's twisted on itself between my breasts with one hand, I bend over to kiss her cheek, steadying myself with my free hand on Helen's shoulder.

"Beautiful," she murmurs in my ear.

"You're all dressed up?" I ask.

Her dress is fitted, accentuating her large round breasts and narrow waist. She's in heels, her hair and makeup done. She's wearing large diamond earrings and a sculpted silver necklace - not at all what she might normally wear on a Saturday morning. Her arms and neck are bare. Her hemline is just over her knees. She is a vision in white.

"I am off to the Hamptons for a garden party," she admits. "Work really," she explains. "But I'm going to be a little late," she says with a wink.

I thought Helen might be famous the first time I met her. Partly that's because I had seen her around the neighborhood, her face was familiar - except I couldn't place her at first. But it's also because of how fabulous and beautiful Helen is, how dignified, even regal she is. She's told me about her skin care regimen, which is intense, and has urged me to take mine more seriously, no matter how good Amelia and Mimi look. But generally Helen wears very little makeup; she doesn't have to. She has a beautiful complexion; fine glowing skin. And while I know now she had always been fair, she claims her natural hair color was "mousy", that she looks better gray. Her hair isn't gray, however, it's a lustrous white, and it looks gorgeous on her. She styles it playfully. Today it's pulled back in silvery curled waves to a beautiful roll. She is the image of voluptuous elegance.

"Come here Sarah," Claire tells me, indicating the floor on the far side of her feet from Helen.

Holding my towel so it doesn't fall off I start to lower myself into place.

"No." Claire insists. "Give me the towel so Helen can see how beautiful you really are."

She is holding out a hand, fingers beckoning. I unwrap the towel and give it to Claire who places it on the arm of the sofa. This is very different than knowing I'm being watched from across the street. I am totally naked, standing in front of these two beautiful, accomplished, and intimidating women. Both Helen and Claire are the types of women I fantasized about all my life, they aren't just sexy, they are a particular brand of sexy. They are both authority figures. Standing in front of them naked is like something out of a dream. I start to cover myself but this earns me a sharp look from Claire - and that's all it takes to make me drop my hands, but now I'm at a loss for what to do with my hands.

Helen sees my discomfort. She leans forward and reaches out a hand, takes my fingers in her's, and gives me an encouraging squeeze as I settle myself at Claire's feet, naked as the day I was born.

"Very beautiful," Helen agrees, watching me with an expression less hungry and more of open appreciation or maybe even wonder.

"Helen," Claire says, in a way that calls for her neighbor's undivided attention. "Sarah very much wants you here, very much wants you to watch her eat my pussy and make me cum. It's something I know she has wanted for some time. But I've told Sarah, she is not for you. You may touch her and she may touch you, but she will not have sex with you, you will not have sex with her. Are we clear?"

Claire sounds strict as she lays these ground rules, but not at all unfriendly. I watch Helen's face as she listens. She is looking into Claire's eyes, her gaze unflinching; focused and serious - but not at all put off. If anything the two women seem like they are discussing the terms of a straightforward business deal - except Helen is blushing and her breathing is shallow. She is still holding my hand. Her fingers are wonderfully soft; grandmotherly even. They are making tiny caressing movements.

"Perfectly clear," Helen replies, finally letting go of my hand and leaning back. "I didn't come here expecting to have sex."

"Oh no," Claire says, untying and opening her little robe. "You most definitely came here to have sex, and you are going to have sex - just not with Sarah - because before you watch her, what I want, is for Sarah to watch you eat my pussy - which is only fair I think, yes?"

Claire is smiling like that cat that got the cream. She doesn't wait for an answer, but instead offers Helen her hand.

"Please," Claire says, gesturing to the spot on the floor next to me, directly in front of her, "lower yourself down now."

It's not a request. It's an order.

"I'm not- it's just... Henry-" Helen starts.

"Does he watch us too?" Claire asks sharply. "Is he watching now?"

"No! No, not at all. I only..."

"It's too late to be the faithful wife, too late for these kinds of qualms," Claire says stroking her naked belly, hairless and smooth. "This is why you are here, Helen, to cheat. Now come, give me your hand, cheater."

Helen is clearly as caught off guard by this turn as I am, but after a short hesitation I am amazed to watch her take Claire by the fingers and begin to sidle her rump towards the edge of the sofa. As she does so, she is looking at Claire's nakedness. I can only imagine what Helen is thinking as she looks at her, at her powerful thighs and shaved pussy, glistening and open. Claire's nipples are erect, dark pink and shining with an oily perfection. Her lean body is female perfection itself. Her tan skin is flawless. Claire is the picture of womanhood at the peak of its physical powers.

She squeezes Helen's fingers.

"Go ahead," she says gently. "On your knees now."

I watch in open amazement as Helen, holding tight to Claire's fingers, slides the side of her knee and thigh down the front of the sofa, gingerly lowering herself to the floor next to me.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" Claire asks Helen, who seems unsure how to answer. She hesitates long enough that Claire answers her own question.

"I think you have been on the receiving end but never the giving?" Claire says with a sly knowing smile. "Sarah says you were a model. I think there have been plenty of women who have wanted to lick your cunt... but you've never returned the favor, have you, Helen?"

Claire is spreading her legs wide and leaning back. She is open and ready. Helen no longer looks like Claire's equal in a polite business discussion. She is on her knees at Claire's feet. She looks intimidated, unsure and maybe even a little afraid.

"No..." Helen says, swallowing. "I mean, you're right, I've never... given."

"It's all right," Claire assured her, her voice warm and soothing. "I like that I'm your first. And look at how flush and excited Sarah is, she's going to cum watching you lick my pussy."

And it's true. I'm beyond turned on. My face and chest are hot. My breasts feel swollen. I am holding and squeezing them.

How long have I been doing that?

Helen is looking at my nipples, which are dark pink cones ringed in purple and ache painfully.

"Look how she shakes!" Claire purrs. "Look at the flush rising up through her skin. Have you ever seen anyone become so transparently aroused? Have any of your lovers ever shaken Ike a leaf for you?" Claire asks, looking at me. "She amazes me. She can make herself cum without touching herself... her orgasms are so beautiful - but you will see. She cums just by making me cum. She says my 'capacity' is arousing... that she is excited by my sexual 'power'," Claire tells Helen. "You are going to show her my power."

Claire is bragging and lording her beauty and youthful potency over Helen, and it's clearly working. Helen isn't shaking but she looks nearly as aroused as me.

I want this so badly I can't breathe.

Claire is still holding Helen's hand and is drawing her forward.

"Come now."

Helen looks a little lost as she obeys. She glances at me nervously as she leans forward.

"Look at me, Helen," Claire tells her. "That's it. I want to see your eyes when you taste my cunt for the first time. I love looking into my Young Sarah's eyes when she licks me."

Looking into Claire's eyes Helen puts out her tongue and licks the peak of Claire labia like a kitten. She seemed to be trying to find Claire's clit.

"You are being timid," Claire soothes. "You are afraid to taste me. I want you to taste me, Helen. I want to see you taste cunt."

Claire is leaning back with her arms across the back of the sofa. She is rolling her hips and spreading her knees even further apart, making her entrance unavoidable, confronting Helen with her open channel.

Helen begins to edge her tongue lower, taking longer licks. As she does she squeezes Claire's thighs and closes her eyes.

"Keep them open!" Claire barks. "There... that's it... that's what I want! Now suck my cunt, drink me. I want you to fuck me with your tongue, Helen. I want it deep..."

But Helen is still holding back, being timid.

I reach for the back of Helen's neck. Her skin is warm and moist against my palm.

Helen moans at my touch.

"Here," I offer meekly, as much to Claire as to Helen.

She allows me to gently guide her forward, her tongue driving deep, her mouth enclosing Claire's wet cunt.

"Mmph!" Helen grunts, but she tips her head, slowly dragging her tongue upwards, all the time looking up at Claire.

"There she is..." Claire sighs approvingly. She is relaxing into her pleasure, eyes growing soft, mouth softening. She is still reaching one hand for Helen, but instead of taking her by the hair, Claire caresses her cheek, touches her working jaw. "Yes, now she is eating pussy like a woman," she proclaims.

Helen moans again, she is no longer being coy. She is pushing her face between Claire's legs, using her whole mouth, moving her head to match her lapping.

"My Young Sarah is very pleased to see you this way," Claire gushes. "Your beautiful face between my thighs; licking my cunt like she does. I think she is going to cum very fast."

And Claire was right.

I still have one hand resting on the back of Helen's neck, but with the other I am furiously fingering myself. All the heat that was in my belly all morning while I waited for Claire to awaken, while she watched me scrub and clean, ordering me around, commanding me... all that heat is boiling out of me.

"Helen is going to make me cum very hard, Sarahhh..." Claire moans. "Do you like this, baby? Is this what you want?" she asks, her color rising and her voice is tight.

Claire's hand has joined mine on the back of Helen's neck. My hand is no longer resting. I am gripping Helen tight, and Claire is gripping me. Helen's licking and sucking is as frantic as my fingering.

"AHHH YESS, SPYING BITCH!" Claire cries. She has thrown back her head, her voice ringing out against the ceiling.

"CHEATING FUCKING WHORE!"

Claire bucks and sprays Helen, shocking her, pulls back but can't get far enough away to avoid the spray because both Claire and I are holding her in place.

"Ahhh! NO! NO! NO!" Claire bellows, pulling her back. "Yes! THIS! Don't fucking stop you cunt! SUCK! Ah... yes... ah yess..."

Helen is suckling Claire's clit, still obediently looking up at Claire, whose face is a mask of intense pleasure. Cum beads Helen's lashes and brows, darken her curls. Claire has soaked her.

I am starting to shake and jerk just as Claire releases Helen and starts to push her away.

"here!" I gasp. It's all I can get out - hardly a breath. But Helen turns, sees me and for an instant concern flashes across her wet face, but then understands what's happening and reaches for me. I pull her tight, pressing myself against her, pinning my jilling hand between us.

Her face is wet. I rub my cheek against hers, smearing myself with Claire's cum then press my lips against hers and force my tongue into her mouth. I am hungry for the taste of Claire's cunt on her tongue. Our breasts are smashed together. Can't get close enough. The fabric of her dress is scraping my nipples because my hips are pumping. The seams structuring her bra are like barbs against the fragile swollen flesh. The clean scent of her perfume and hair, Claire's cunt, it's all too much, the feel and smell. I begin to spasm. Helen holds me tight, keeps me from collapsing, deepens our kiss, overwhelms me with her tongue. I moan into her mouth, suck her tongue and finally go slack. Helen eases herself back and me down, until she is on one hip and I am resting in her curled lap.

"... her breasts are simply amazing," she's telling Claire. I've missed something, a block of time. I passed out... but not long, they are too relaxed; just a for a moment.

My eyes are closed and I keep them closed, enjoying dark. Small shudders are still running through me. Helen is petting and pushing her fingers through my hair.

"This is a good word for her," Claire answers. "I never stop being amazed when I look at her."

"You must be so proud of her - the promotion I mean."

"I am beyond proud," Claire whispers. "She was very worried she had put you in a bad position with your... client? Employer?"

"I'm on retainer, and invulnerable," Helen tells her, she is petting my naked flank. "Henk was upset, but not at me. I've known him since he was a boy and he can be... volatile, but he doesn't dare lose his temper with me. His father would tear him to pieces if he ever did. Still, Henk isn't used to being told no, much less being slighted. He said she 'lectured' him. It sounds like she really let him have it!"

I'm relieved to hear Helen sounds amused, even pleased. She is cupping my left breast, hefting it.

"She is full of surprises," Claire says proudly. "Aren't you Sarah?"

"I am, Claire."

I open my eyes and raise myself up on my hip, so I'm still leaning over Helen, my breast still in her hand.

"That was wonderful," I tell her. Our faces are very close, and she gives me a peck on the lips.

"I hope kisses aren't forbidden?" she asks, looking past me and giving Claire a mischievous smile.

"Kisses are very much permitted," Claire allows.

"And yes, Sarah, that was lovely... and you, Claire. You become, quite... animated when you're aroused," Helen observes, smiling almost shyly at Claire.

"She swears at me too," I tell Hellen, sounding almost proud, like maybe I'm bragging. Perhaps I am. "It scared me at first," I admit. "But now..."

"It still scares her, but it excites her," Claire tells Helen. "It makes her frenzied."

"You're both remarkable," Helen says, smiling at us with open joy. "I feel so lucky to have met you, that you let me in... I can't tell you what a breath of fresh air you two are!"

"Here, come back up with me," Claire tells her, patting the cushion next to her. "But take off that dress first. We are not done having sex you and I!"

I can tell Helen is self conscious undressing in front of us, but she needn't be, her body is beautiful. Her breasts sag, but they aren't deflated looking, just the opposite actually. They are as big as grapefruits, wonderfully round and soft. She has upturned nipples that are thick and long but not overly large, and almost as pale as mine. Her complexion is mottled pink and cream from years and sun damage, with lots of pale freckles, big and small, that she's probably always had. But her skin is wonderfully smooth and soft. And naked, her body is all voluptuous curves and round shapes. Besides her legs she doesn't shave or groom - "I'm past those things!" she tells us - but she doesn't really need to. She has a small, pretty white bush and sparse white hair under her arms. She rubs at her skin when her bra and panties have left livid pink marks and pulls at her little bush, which is matted and flat. Her pubic hair is as fine and soft looking as cornsilk.

Her labia are full and very pretty. Her inner lips show and are bigger than Claire's but not at all big - I had imagined they might be very big, like Stephanie's, but they're not especially. She has a little round belly, and carries extra weight on her hips and ass and thighs, but it rides high on her muscles, adding to her voluptuousness.

I suspect Helen has children, but she has been careful to skirt the subject, and so I have too. I wonder if she has a daughter I remind her of and that's why she avoids the subject, but looking at her now I'm wondering if maybe I am mistaken, if her look-a-like daughter is perverse wishful thinking on my part. Seeing her naked I think maybe she hasn't had children after all. Her body is so fit. No stretch marks, or none big enough to look like childbirth.

"Do you touch yourself watching us?" Claire asks. Her tone is probing but gentle, she is genuinely interested.

"I do," Helen tells Claire matter of factly, settling onto the sofa next to her. "I have the most wonderful orgasms watching the two of you."

Claire strokes and squeezes Helen's thigh and beckons me with a lift of her chin, I lean forward on my knees and she kisses me.

"I want you to show Helen how you make me cum," she says to me, but for Helen's benefit. I am breathing very hard and fast. "I want to watch her cum when she sees how much you love eating my pussy, how good you are; how you make me cum again and again."

She kisses me so hard and deep it's almost violent. I go soft for her, let her pull and squeeze me and fuck my mouth.

"Show her you are my whore!" she hisses.

"Yours!" I promise, smothering her with kisses. I kiss her mouth and her cheeks and her eyes and nose and ears. I kiss her until she is laughing and then I begin to kiss her neck. I make my mouth soft and wet. I drag my tongue over her pulse and suck at her jugular until she is no longer amused, until her breathing grows ragged.

"Your mouth..." she sighs.

She and Helen are holding hands as I move down to Claire's nipples and begin my suck.

"How did you know?" Helen asks Claire.

She's leaning against Claire, her big breasts pushing together and resting against Clair's arm. She is holding Claire's hand in both of hers. The three of us, in that enormous loft are crowded over one small section of the sofa.

"About me," Helen purrs. "I mean... that I'd been with women, but never..."

"Reciprocated?" Claire teases, quietly. She is watching me and stroking my face with her fingertips. "A guess. You seem very straight to me. Does that make sense anymore?" she laughs. "I just mean, when I tried to picture you with other women, I could only picture you letting them eat you out, but you don't seem like the type who longs for women in... that way."

Helen is still holding Claire's hand, but she has wrapped an arm over her shoulder, so she can press closer to us, so her breasts are touching me too.

"The way Sarah longs for you," Helen suggests, her voice hushed.

"And I long for Sarah," Claire tells her, petting my sucking cheek. I look up at Claire who is smiling at me. Her cheeks are flush and her eyes a little glazed. Her lips look full too. Helen is looking at her with admiration... or maybe envy.

"Yes... well, I suppose I don't, or didn't..." she says, dropping her gaze.

"I have made a pussy eater out of you?" Claire asks, her voice dropping with excitement.

"I would like to again," Helen tells her. glancing down at me, but then pointedly back to Claire. "If you wanted."

"So maybe not as straight as either of us thought," Claire says.

I am still sucking Claire's nipples. I am making my lips fat, and drooling, squeezing her breasts greedily. They are both watching me. I don't ever want to stop, I want the three of us to stay curled around each other like this forever.

"No, maybe not. wWatching the two of you... It's been... years... decades really. Christ, I was just a girl. Younger than Sarah is now."

I am sucking harder now, suckling and chugging at her nipple. Claire's pussy is open and wet and hot against my belly. She moves the hand Helen isn't holding to the top of my head. She doesn't push me down, but she drags her nails across my scalp. I can feel her desire growing and her patience waning.

"Was it one woman?" Claire asks. "More than one?"

"More than one," Helen says, moving the hand of Claire's she is holding onto my head. Three hands now circle my skull. Claire's on each side and Helen's cupping the back of my skull. Their hands are wreathing my head like an affectionate, if restive crown. I am enjoying sucking Claire's breasts more than ever. I had to be gentle at first because they are very sensitive, but my suck has slowly grown more ardent and demanding. I've never suckled her this long and I am greedy for her tit. I like feeling her slowly building excitement while Helen whispers her confession, it's a drowsy slow kind of sex.

"There were a few... girls really. We were all girls, but I was the oldest," Helen tells Claire, grabbing my attention. This isn't at all what I would have guessed or expected.

"School?" Claire asks, reading my mind. I must nip her, because she swats me. I force myself to be gentle.

"Nooo," Helen drawls, maybe surprised by the swat, but letting it go. I wonder idly if I could provoke Claire into spanking me in front of Helen. I picture myself over Helen's knee, howling in pain while Claire beats my ass viciously. Helen's voice brings me back from this image.

" ... but we were school age. I was modeling. It was the seventies in Paris, which I'm sure paints a picture of drugs and orgies, but there was a great concern for our virginity. We were practically cloistered."

"It was a dormitory?" Claire asks. She is pushing me down, she is done with foreplay. I release her nipple with a loud "pop!" and a petulant "hmph!"

But they are both enraptured with Helen's whispering and ignore my fit of pique. And truth be told so am I. I go down without further protest or fuss, not wanting to spoil or even interrupt the story with drama.

"A town house,"Helen answers. "But we were crammed in there like a dormitory; so yes. There were twenty of us, all teenagers, British or the commonwealth..."

I am kissing and licking Claire's belly and squeezing her flanks, which makes her back arch and gasp, making Helen smile and momentarily interrupting her story.

"... there were Canadians, island girls from the West Indies. a couple Australians, even a girl from India proper - who had the most beautifully dark skin and hair so black it was blue... and a particularly clever tongue."

Helen pauses to smile and watch me as I make a show of finally putting out my tongue. Both she and Claire are staring down at me. Claire looks amused, she knows what I'm doing, that I am teasing her to show off, but she also looks very aroused, and not a little impatient. I am such a brat... And poor Helen looks like she's anticipating this even more than Claire. My mouth is wet and my lips feel fat from sucking Claire's tits so long.

I point my tongue and slide into Claire until my lips are pressing her labia out of the way, until they are wetting the sides of my mouth. I stretch my jaw and draw my tongue upwards, all the time locking my gaze with Claire's but watching Helen in my periphery.

"Mmmnnn..." Clare moans happily. "And how did it start, the cloistered debauchery?"

"I'm not sure. I've always wondered who started the rumors," Helen answers, she is stroking my head, encouraging me. I slip a hand under Claire's leg. Helen's leg is pressed up against Clair's. I snake my hand under Helen's, and up between legs finding her free hand, gently touching herself. I lay my palm on the back of her fingers, my fingers stroking the back of her hand, returning her encouraging caresses.

"Honestly," Helen continues, her voice a little higher. "I think it all began as baseless gossip - someone told someone else that so-and-so "went down on" so-and-so... I was from a little village. I didn't even know what "going down on" meant, but I remember the thrill in the eyes of the girls who told me the rumor."

"So-and-so and so-and-so?" Claire asks.

"Allyson and Grace," Helen admits, sounding a little abashed, that even after all those decades she was ready with those girls' names. "They were Irish; country girls like me... I doubt they knew what "going down" meant any more than I did. But as fascination grew around the rumors, we were all talking about what it meant, whispering about it, describing it to each other, and soon the descriptions became increasingly graphic. There were plenty of girls who were disgusted by the idea - or said they were - but even they were sharing the stories, and with the same excitement as the rest of us. Men and boys were kept out of reach. It was the forbidden fruit that was within easy reach. And so rumor, finally, became fact."

"For Allyson and Grace?"

"No, not for Grace. But for Allyson... the rumors made her want to know, she told me - 'They all think we do it anyway...'," Helen says, imitating a girl's lilting brogue.

"How did it start for you?"

"Allyson. She wanted to try it, so I let her," Helen said with a smile.

"Why you?"

"I was the prettiest," Helen says without embarrassment. " I was the one all the other girls were jealous of. Allyson was never jealous though. She had a terrible crush on me, and as it turns out, making me orgasam was something she loved doing... And as other girls got curious, well... they came to me."

"Even though you didn't reciprocate? You never once returned the favor?"

"Never once. Allyson called me a 'pillow princess'. She said I wanted to be 'waited on like proper royalty'," Helen says, again slipping into an Irish lilt.

She's proud of herself telling us this.

"... Which I suppose was true," she continues. "Henry used to say the same thing."

"You don't ever go down on Henry?"

"No, never."

"But he goes down on you?"

"He still does... from time to time."

"Never for any man?" Claire asks in disbelief.

"Never. Man or woman... until you. I have to admit I enjoyed eating you out much more than I ever imagined I would."

"Ah putain!" Claire laughs, her excitement surging. "You are a woman who gets what she wants!"

"Am I?" Helen asks. "Are you going to go down on me, Claire? Am I going to get that?"

Helen, who had parted her legs just far enough to discreetly touch herself, opens her knees as she asks this. I can immediately feel her hand moving more freely under mine, she is openly fingering her cunt now, making wet pumping sounds.

She wants Claire very badly.

"No, I do not think I will," Claire tells her seriously, but she is also rolling and pumping her hips. "I think I like the idea of being a pillow princess's pillow princess... but I very much want to see you cum. Will you cum for me Helen?"

"I don't think I could stop myself even if I wanted to," Helen confesses with a shaking breath. "The way she looks at you..."

Until now I have been restraining myself, putting on a show for the ladies while they get to know each other - keeping my movements slow and gentle; intentionally sultry. But Claire is putting her weight on the balls of her feet, flexing her legs and abs to raise her ass off the sofa. Her hands are becoming more insistent as well.

I glance at Helen who is flush, her face shining with perspiration. They are both close. I am smiling behind the mask of Claire's cunt, I let myself go.

I watch Helen's expression turn from open admiration to a yearning hunger as I begin to earnestly suck and lick. Gripping Claire's ass with my free hand I finally stop teasing and give her what she needs. With my other hand I can feel Helen fingering herself with ever greater urgency.

Claire lets go of my head and reaches for Helen's jaw. Turning her face she kisses her. There is no moment of trepidation, no soft start. The two women meet mouths open, twisting towards each other to embrace.

I am struck anew by Claire's sexual confidence. She is so much different with Helen than she was with me, so direct and unhesitating. I feel like I'm getting a glimpse of how Claire comports herself with men. I can imagine she was this no nonsense with Bernard. With me she was seducing a shy girl. With Helen she is subduing and taming a rival.

They are equals.

I am grunting with excitement. I can't help myself. I have never wanted to lick Claire's cunt more, have never wanted her to cum the way I want it now. I want Helen to see her power as she cums again and again.

"MMM!" she cries into Helen's mouth, her whole body flexing.

"MMMNNN!"

It's like she's gagged, she won't part herself from Helen's embrace. I want to gag and restrain Claire, to tie her to my bed and make her cum until she can't anymore.

"MMMNN! mmMM!"

I want to gag her so she can't swear or command, so all I can hear are her cries of pleasure.

"Sale pute!" she gasps, pulling away from Helen's mouth, but burying her face in the older woman's neck.

"ahhhh... my fucking sarah!" comes her muffled cry.

Helen is staring down at me again. Her face is transformed by a terrible pleasure. Her hand between her legs is beginning to flail and flop. I slide my hand under hers. Using my thumb I begin polish her wet clit, while fucking her with two fingers.

'Verboten,' some part of me that sounds like Stephanie whispers, but I don't care.

"Oh Yes! Oh God yes!" she cries, her hand abandoning her sex altogether so she can hug Claire tight. The two of them shaking with pleasure.

"I like this," Claire says out of nowhere.

We are at the farmers market on Greenwich down by Washington Market Park. I had brought some of what I need from my apartment, but I didn't have everything. I want nice farm eggs for the quiche and fresh greens for the salad, and maybe some other things...

I am sniffing the tomatoes, chewing my lip and fretting about quality. I can't help comparing everything to what I imagine Brigitte must be used to in Paris.

I look over and Claire is smiling at me.

"We've never done this, you know," she says. "Gone to the market together!"

"I wish we had time to go to Washington Square," I admit. "That's the best in the city..."

"I like watching you shop," she says, ignoring my worries. "I like seeing you pick and choose, and decide! It's a very serious business."

She's teasing me.

"It is serious," I insist.

"Oh, I know!" she laughs, kissing me lightly, in front of everyone, like it's nothing. "I mean it, I like seeing you this way."

Seeing me buy the eggplant and zucchini, she gets suspicious.

"What are you up to?!" She asks, frowning in mock disapproval.

"Ratatouille?"

"I thought you were making a quiche?" she asks, laughing. "How much do you think she will eat?"

"No, I am? The ratatouille will be in the fridge for her," I explain, "so she doesn't need to cook, so there's nice food in the house."

"She never cooks!"

"See!"

Claire rolls her eyes, but she is smiling and so am I. I thought for sure she was going to veto the ratatouille. She's indulging me.

Walking through the crowd Claire is careful never to lose contact with me. When the press of bodies forces us to walk single file she slips her arm out of mine, but takes my fingers in hers, letting me lead her. When I let go so I can choose micro greens I feel her hand rest on my hip.

"This is probably a good time to tell you we're not done cleaning," she says with a worried frown.

"What do you mean?" I ask, reviewing the loft in my mind. We just took a quick rinse after Helen left and slipped into sun dresses. We'll need to properly clean up again after walking around in this heat, and Claire has said she wants us to do our hair... so the bathroom will need one last going over. But we'd already gone over that. I can't think of anything else.

"I need to stop at the hardware store for upholstery cleaner," she says looking guilty.

'Did Helen stain the sofa?' I wonder.

I looked - it's fucking white after all - I didn't see anything. Claire was sitting on her robe... What could I have missed?

"I never had the cushions cleaned after the debacle with your boots," she admits, grimacing. "I just turned them over."

I turn to look at her in total disbelief.

"You're joking."

I can see it on her face. She is not joking.

"CUNT."

I don't yell it, but I do say it with a LOT of feeling, and my voice carries. Not a whole lot of swearing at the TribeCa farmers market so this draws stares.

"Why did you fucking wait till now?!?"

"Hey," some guy pushing a stroller says next to me.

"You hey!" I snap back with a look that makes both him and his wife and Claire flinch. There's a little girl in the stroller looking up at me.

"Sorry," I say to the young dad. "Sorry," I tell his wife, who looks like she's ginning up the courage to launch into me. I add, "meeting the mom for the first time."

This seems to deescalate if not entirely mollify the wife's anger.

"Good luck," she says, but to Claire, not to me.

Claire's eyes are as wide as they get, she's sucked her lips between her teeth clearly stifling the urge to laugh - wisely.

"You!" I say to her, making my eyes into angry slits. "Let's go to the hardware store before my head blows off."

The mess I made of the cushions is as bad as I remember, but the upholstery cleaner is more effective than I would have ever imagined. After twenty or thirty minutes of frantic scrubbing it's like nothing ever happened, except that the cushions are damp.

"They will dry fast in this heat," Claire predicts. "It's a dry heat..." she adds hopefully.

I do a bunch of frantic prep before Claire drags me into the bathroom and pulls me into the shower.

"We are good," she assures me. "I've been watching their flight, they had a late departure, they're not even on the ground yet. We have time!"

She explains all this while scrubbing me with a soapy washcloth. I feel like she's salting a side of beef. Claire is every bit as nervous about her mother's arrival as I am.

When it's my turn to wash her, I like to think I'm a little less frantic but no less thorough.

We take turns blowing out each other's hair and then, wrapped in my towel I leave Claire to reclean the bathroom while I go back to the kitchen. Claire passes me a few minutes later with a big armload of sheets and towels to drop off at the cleaners. She grabs my towel, leaving me to finish the ratatouille in the nude.

When she gets back the quiche is resting on the counter and the bread is in the oven.

Claire ogles the quiche, but then starts sniffing the air and looks around in utter stupefaction.

"Are you baking bread?!?" she cries.

"Simplest thing in the world!" I assure her, but her expression tells me she thinks I'm out of my mind, but then she waves the expression away.

"Come, you can't meet Brigitte in the nude," she says, gesturing at my boobs. "Although, I'm sure Morris would enjoy it..."

I swat her arm. The kitchen timer is ticking away as I follow Claire to the bedroom, skipping happily behind her and holding my boobs so I don't blacken my eyes - that's an Amelia joke.

Claire has packed our dirty clothes and other things in a duffle. She's laid out a sleeveless cornflower blue tent dress, a pale blue bra and matching boy shorts for me, which I slip into. The underwear is mine, but the dress is one of hers. I've never seen her wear it but I like it on me. It's a plain cotton mini, hemmed well above mid thigh - so thank goodness for the boy shorts. It has a scoop neckline that shows a little cleavage, but the cutout is gathered with a ruched detail that gives it a modest look, if - on me - not a reality. She hands me a pair of gold sandals. She's picked out a thin gold chain and matching earrings, which she puts on.

She has me turn, looking me over. The dress has a girlish bell shape that flares when my turns become a spin. The voluminous little dress puffs away from me, hardly even touching me.

"So cute!" she declares. "Now me!"

She is wearing much the same, except her mini is a stiffer black linen and fitted with a square neckline and oversized horn buttons down the front. Her hemline is shorter than mine, but much more dignified. She could probably get away with wearing hers at the gallery. I could never get away with mine at The Gray Lady. When she shows me the back it has a little strap with a brass buckle, which I cinch.

"Perfect," I tell her, touching her hair.

Just then the timer buzzes. She follows me as I run back to the oven. She watches me pull the loaves from the oven and rotate them before sliding them back in and checking that the tray still has water in it.

When I close it back up she is staring at me with tears in her eyes.

"Don't cry! No, really - DON'T!" I yell, waving my hands at her eyes. "You'll ruin your mascara!"

"You made baguettes..." she says as she tips her head, helping me fan her eyes.

"Shhhh," I hush "she'll be here soon - don't cry!"

I examine Claire one last time and she does the same for me before we head downstairs to meet the car.

"Don't be nervous," she tells me.

"I'm not," I lie, flattening my dress against my thighs. "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Claire laughs. "I've never really introduced anyone to my mother, not like this."

"Never? None of your boyfriends?"

"Never for her approval. Never anyone I cared about."

She kisses me and we sit down on the cast iron steps outside her door.

I point at her toes.

"I wish I'd had time to do your nails, which makes her laugh and kiss me.

"Oh my God!" She laughs, rearing back to look at me again. "Brigitte is going to looove you!"

And she totally does.

They arrive in a black Escalade.

"She will not open her own door," Claire predicts as we stand and dust off our bums.

Morris unfolds from the far side of the SUV. He is a tall man, nearly as tall as Kwasi, but thin, with narrow shoulders and a great cloud of flossy black hair floating over a round friendly face.

"He dyes it," Claire whispers. Making me laugh, because it's so obviously dyed.

"Ma louloute!" he calls, oblivious.

He moves around the back of the car and moves towards the passenger side door but driver beats him to it, opening the door for Brigitte. Morris offers her his hand while the driver holds the door. Claire's mother emerges from the car in a cascade of blonde hair, nubby pink linen tweed, and French spoken so fast I don't stand a chance of understanding half of it.

As she spins up the French even faster, she pulls off her sunglasses which look like the exact same pair Anna Wintour wears. She is a strikingly beautiful woman, more beautiful than her pictures prepared me for. Her face is animated and her expressions dramatic, her voice is high and musical and she talks even faster than Claire at her fastest. I'm able to catch snippets about the flight, the horrible drive, what a sight Claire and I are in the sun.. which is very bright.

She is boiling at us like a pink tornado.

Both Claire and I expect her to greet Claire first, who steps forward with her arms outstretched, but Brigitte brushes past her and embraces me instead. She never stops speaking, her French flies fast and almost entirely unintelligible but her embrace and many kisses are genuinely tender and motherly.

I am a beautiful girl, she is terribly sorry about my father, my poor mother. I think she likes my hair? She wants Claire to see how thin I am. That my father must have been a good man and she's sure she would have loved him. My poor mother! So tragic! On and on.

"hOw well does she Hunderstand?" she finally asks Claire in English, but doesn't seem to listen to her response - which is in French and so fast Claire sounds like she's speaking Spanish... Claire is scolding her mother! Is she afraid I'm overwhelmed? My face feels... frozen and my body is stiff. I probably look like a deer in headlights... I'm definitely a little overwhelmed. I force my body to relax, my expression to soften.

Claire's rebuke rolls off Brigitte like water off a duck's vintage Chanel suit.

Brigitte waves her sunglasses with a dismissive flourish aimed at her daughter and turns back to look at me with a great roll of her brilliant green eyes. Holding my face in her hands she gazes searchingly into my eyes, her expression concerned, her eyes shining with tears - is she contrite after all? But she is smiling - that same naughty mischievous smile I know from Claire. She isn't just unchastened, she's overjoyed. They are tears of happiness.

"She says yHou speak some French, that yHou Hunderstand," she tells me, her tone and manner less overwrought, more gentle.

Claire had warned me, but I am still unprepared for how thickly scented Brigitte's English is, it's like someone doing a comic impersonation of a French lady. When speaking English she all but drops her H's from where they clearly belong - which makes sense, since H is silent in French - but more mysteriously she transposes those same Hs to places they clearly have no business being...

"Un peu," I tell her before Claire can answer. "It's hard when you speak fast," I admit. "But I understand enough!" I quickly offer. "I'm also very sorry you didn't have a chance to meet my father. I'm sure he would have loved you as well!"

That's at least half true. I have no idea what my father would have made of Brigitte. I suspect he would have been intimidated by her wealth and not known what to do with her Frenchness. But Brigitte's figure puts the McNamara women to shame. She is the proverbial brick shithouse. He would have loved that.

"... And, yes, I very much look forward to introducing you to my mother," I add. "I'm so glad you want to meet her!"

"hEr note was so waHrm, so kind... Claire says she His like yHou, a great beauty!"

"I think she is very beautiful," I agree, blushing under her regard and dodging her compliment.

"AH and the flush!" she cries, taking me by the cheeks. "Exactly as yHou described, Claire!"

She lifts my face and turns it in her hands, examining my blushing face from every angle. I am preparing myself for her to pry open my jaw and examine my teeth when her attention drops downward to my breasts.

"hOw parfait! hOw magnifique!" she gushes, looking straight down my dress. "I see why yHou must keep hEr!" she tells her daughter, who looks truly and profoundly mortified.

"Maman!" Claire cries in alarm, as Brigitte takes my hand and spins me around by the shoulder to look at my backside. I make no effort to resist, but bug my eye at Claire as she flashes through my spinning field of vision.

"MaMAN!" Claire pleads.

"What? EEit's good what I said? Morris!"

"Sarah," Morris says mildly, stepping forward to rescue me from his wife. He reaches for my hands, ignoring Brigitte's wounded entreaties - and no doubt pulling me away before she can start squeezing me for ripeness like a tomato!

Morris's voice is curiously high and reedy. His hands are as soft as a girl's, but his fingers are long and blocky and very masculine. They feel strong and reassuring folding around my much smaller fingers.

"We've heard so much about you," he pipes, "and have so looked forward to meeting you! The news of your promotion is very exciting. I am very sorry it comes under the cloud of your father's passing. I can only imagine how disorienting this all must be for you right now."

If Claire hadn't told me Morris is American I would have guessed he was British or maybe Canadian. His English is slightly accented, but it's impossible to pin down from where - he is a blended man of the world. His accent betrays the eccentricities of a lifelong expat I suppose, habits of speech picked up from an arbitrary and entirely individual grab bag of places. Listening to him I wonder what that would be like, having one's own personal accent; being a nation unto your own...

"Everything happens at once," I agree, squeezing his hands back. "I can't tell you how much it meant to me and to my mother that Claire was able to come to the funeral, Morris. We are forever grateful you did that for us. We can never thank you enough."

"There's no need for more thanks. Claire passed on your gratitude and your mother's note was just as Brigitte says, so warm and gracious," he tells me. "I very much look forward to meeting her, soon I hope!"

"It His too hOt!" Brigitte complains. "Look at hEr skin! She will burn in thEEis sun!" she cries pulling me away from her husband to move me to the shade and kiss me again, examining me for damage

"I'm fine Brigitte-"

"Non! Call me Maman!" she insists. Then starts barking orders at Claire and Morris in rapid fire French. Brigitte holds me by the hand preventing me from leaving the shade while Claire and her stepfather help the driver unpack the luggage from the back of the SUV.

It's like a circus performance. As giant as the SUV IS, it's still somehow unbelievable that it can hold so much luggage. It would appear they are staying for months...

"Ah, non, non! Don't look at me!" Brigitte commands when she catches me checking her out. "I Ham Ha wrecked, I look Ha fright!"

"Not all! I was just admiring your suit!"

"yHou like EEit?" she asks, preening and radiating pure joy.

"I love it!"

Brigitte is in vintage Chanel, from head to toe. Her linen suit, matching pink clutch, slingback pumps... even her sunglasses are Chanel. But this is all besides the point. If Brigitte had arrived in a ratty house smock and slippers she would still look fantastic.

There is a familiar elegance that surrounds her - it's the same glamor Claire carries around herself, that something-something in her bearing that makes Claire look so glamorous no matter what she's wearing... or not wearing. Brigitte has it too.

Claire had commented that she wasn't sure if she would be attracted to Helen, that she had worried it would be like having sex with her boss, Paula. But Paula is frail, with the shaking voice and bobbling head of old age. Brigitte is probably who she really meant. Claire's mother could easily be as old as Helen but because she hasn't allowed herself to go gray and, according to Claire, has had a lot of work done, she looks much younger.

Claire has Brigitte's brilliant green eyes and I see aspects of Claire in Brigitte's face, especially her expressions, but I see why Claire says she takes after her father. Besides their coloring, I wouldn't take Claire and Brigitte for mother and daughter if I didn't know. But there is something familial about their aspect... - in the ways they move, express, and hold themselves.

"HI see Hinstantly why Claire becomes gay," she tells me matter of factly. "yHou Hare delicious!"

"MAMAN!"

Claire and I get the smaller bags while Brigitte leads the way holding her purse. Morris is behind us with the two smallest of the bigger bags, the poor driver is taking up the rear, comically overburdened with everything else.

"Ach, thEEis loft!" Brigitte snorts pausing at the first landing to stomp her foot. "HI told Morris to get Hus a rHoom at Ha proper hOtel..."

"It's fine!" I assure her. "I'm excited to have Claire stay-"

"Yes, yes, yHou Hand Claire will be fine, but what Habout me?!?" she demands, with real outrage, refusing to move forward an inch, despite Claire and i crowding her, pressing her forward. "There Hare no walls Hor curtains! HI feel like HI'm on display. And there's no room service Hor maid..."

"Poor maman!" Claire says teasingly, hugging her mother, who struggles to pull away.

I swear the driver is moaning, but Claire seems as oblivious as her mother.

"Non! I'm serious! HI don't want to come to New York to cook and life like Ha student!" she says, still not giving an inch and waving her hand to indicate the loft above us - easily the nicest apartment I've ever been in in my life.

I can't help but wonder where she went to school.

"See her face," Claire laughs, pointing at me. "Sarah is wondering where the hell you went to school!"

"HA" I bark, shocking them all, but I keep laughing, I can't help it. "I totally was!"

"yHou know what HI mean!" Brigitte says with another petulant stomp of her perfect foot, but she's laughing too.

"Brigitte..." Morris pleads from down below, he sounds out of breath.

She ignores him, raising her head and taking a deep breath through her nose.

"What's this wonderful smell?!" she demands.

"Sarah made baguettes!" Claire announces with glee.

"It's just-"

"And quiche! And ratatouille!" Claire continues as she finally pushes past her mother, in an attempt to break the log jam.

"Ah no, really?" Brigitte cries, spinning to smile at me, her complaints forgotten. "Claire hAs told Hus Hall Habout yHour cooking!"

Both Morris and the driver are groaning and swearing below me.

"It's nothing special!" I warn, a little panicked that the men might collapse under their burdens. I actually push Brigitte ahead of me, forcing her up the steps. "But I thought you might be hungry?" I tell her. "There's couscous and salad as well..."

"She made it all from scratch!" Claire tells her mother, beckoning her from above, urging her to climb faster. "She's been cooking and cleaning all morning - wait till you see!"

'And licking your pussy,' I think, just as Brigitte reaches the loft's landing and turns to me smiling. She looks so genuinely happy, so full of motherly joy. I feel myself flush with shame for my filthy thoughts.

"Elle rougit!" Brigitte exclaims, making me blush even hotter.

"Stop it, Maman, you're embarrassing her!" Claire says, pulling at Brigitte, trying to get her in the door. But she is smiling along with her mother, enjoying my embarrassment.

"We should go in," I press Claire, hoping to deflect attention. "Poor Morris!"

"I'm fine!" he gasps below me on the steps, clearly not at all fine.

"Yes, yes! He's fine, come in, come in!" Claire agrees unsympathetically - clearly this is payback for the grief he caused her at work. But enough is enough and she pulls me and her mother inside and clears the landing for the men.

"We brought wine!" Morris tells me with a big smile, pointing to one of the heaviest cases the driver is struggling with. Both of their faces are red and sweaty. And then stops himself to sniff the air. "Oh, it smells wonderful!"

We have flutes of mimosas and glasses of a white wine that just seeing the label made Claire cry "ooh la la!" unironically and whip her hand hard enough to make her thumb and fingers snap in appreciation - clearly something very special. The quiche is a hit as well, and so is the salad - Morris wants to know all about the micro greens. But the baguette is the real show stopper.

"Better than Paris!" Brigitte announces.

Now I want to cry. Claire sees me struggling and reaches for my hand, giving me a good squeeze. I hold it together.

"yHou Hare moved!" Brigitte observes, clearly pleased with me, her voice gentle.

"I'm just so glad you like it," I tell her.

Our brunch conversation is spirited. It turns out, knowing it was my work, Morris studied the Pickety piece on the flight. He hasn't read the book, but he wants to debate the merits of the book with me anyway.

"It's very fashionable to say you read the book, but no one actually reads it!" he says dismissively, holding his fingers far apart to show how thick it is. "The kindle data shows hardly anyone gets past page five!"

"Sarah read the book," Claire tells him. "At the beach. Stoned out of her mind."

"Claire!" I cry.

"Sarah!" she cries back, mockingly echoing my tone, then more mildly she informs me, "Morris is a stoner."

"I like a little puff," he says, shrugging his lips.

"More than Ha lEEittle," Brigitte interjects with a disapproving side eye at her husband.

"I'm not a stoner," I tell Brigitte defensively.

"Hof course not," Brigitte says with a sympathetic pat on my hand. "She corrupts yHou."

This earns eye rolls from Claire and Morris.

He turns the subject back to Pickety

"He wants the government to redistribute wealth - my wealth. I pride myself at being a conscientious philanthropist. I spend my money far more wisely than any bureaucrat."

"The point isn't redistribution - although clearly that's the means," I admit. "But the real point is wealth destruction."

"This is better?!?" he asks, clearly scandalized by the very idea.

"In societies with enormous gaps between the wealthiest and the poorest - like America, and increasingly, France - the wealthiest are more likely to suffer from mental illness than their wealthy counterparts in more economically equal countries. As a wealthy member of a badly unequal society you and the ones you love," I explain, gesturing at Brigitte and Claire, "are more likely to suffer from random violence, domestic violence, from addiction, mental illness - from every stress related illnesses and every other variety of societal ills than your wealthy coequals in more egalitarian nations - like, say... the Nordic countries, for instance."

"So what makes these countries safer and healthier isn't making the poor richer, it's making the rich poorer?"

"That may be a chicken-or-egg question," I tell him. "I'm not the author, I'm just a lowly journalist..."

"THE NEW YORK TIMES MULTI FUCKING MEDIA EDITOR!!!" Claire crows.

Which leads to a round of toasts. But it doesn't derail Morris, who keeps after me. He clearly likes sparring and debating. Judging by Claire's reactions she's used to it and seems to feel all is well. So I hold my ground. His grilling gives way to curiosity. He wants to know about our plans for the Pickety piece. I give him some tidbits, but nothing I would want the Review of Books or The Washington Post to know about in advance - not after all the trouble Morris caused Claire at work with Paula.

Finally Brigitte loses patience and calls an end to the grilling.

"She hAs Hanswered Hall yHour questions Morris! Leave hEr be!!!"

But really Brigitte just wants me all to herself, which is just fine, since Claire insists on cleaning up.

"Sarah worked very hard all morning," she says, smiling at me. "Now it's my turn!"

Pushing away from the table, Morris volunteers to help her and the two of them immediately begin to bicker in French as they clear the table. This suits Brigitte just fine.

"ThiEEs EEis their love language," she tells me with a disapproving frown. But she is smiling mischievously as she pulls me aside and begins telling me about Claire as a girl.

"She was such Ha wonderful Hartist. She Hused to draw Hall the time."

"Really? I didn't know, she's never told me she was artistic-"

"She hAd Ha very hArd time when we moved back to Paris, she Hand HI... hEr father gone."

Brigitte, is is all bubbly smiles, allows her face to fall, to regard me with real sadness.

"EEit was very lonely for Hus both. Hand she spoke French with Han HAmerican Haccent! hEr grandmother was hOrrified."

Slipping in and out of French she tells me how they lived with her mother, and how hard her mother was on poor Claire. That she was working in a department store and couldn't afford to move out.

"Hand the other children were terrible... The teasing was Hawful."

Again, in a mélange of English in French she describes the bullying, that the girls were especially cruel. I remember what Claire told me about being raped by the boy with the Coke can cock, how she had undone him by pretending to be sexually experienced, telling everyone he was a terrible lay.

"HI thought the Catholic school would be better, Hall girls... but they were vicious. The things they called hEr. The tears, yHou can't Himagine!"

Brigitte's eyes are brimming with tears. I squeeze her and she hugs me, whispering a stream of affections in French.

Claire has told me about some of her troubles coming back to Paris, how she was labeled a slut and a whore. All she has told me about her grandmother is that the old woman is very severe and strict. But she never mentioned the drawing.

Brigitte tells me how all consuming art was for Claire as a girl, how much she used to love to draw and look at art. That was all she did when they moved back to Paris, ditch school to go to museums and hide from her grandmother in her drawing.

Brigitte explains that she finally pulled Claire from the Catholic school in the middle of the year. and moved her to the International Bachelorette program, and there, finally, Claire found her place.

"Heverything changed!" Brigitte exclaims, eyes wet, but happy again. "ThEEis His where she met Benoit. Such Ha lovely boy - so sensitive..."

She sighs, clearly moved by nostalgia, but then something occurs to her and she sits up very straight, eyes bright with mischief.

"hAs she shown yHou hEr book?"

"Book?" I ask, picturing Claire in front of a typewriter, chewing on a pencil, writing a novel... or maybe a sketchbook, filled with drawings?

"Ah! Maman, non!" Claire cries from the kitchen when she realizes what's about to happen.

"Look, EEit's hEre!" Brigitte cries in triumph retrieving a thick zippered up nylon portfolio from beside the desk.

"MaMAN!" Claire cries in alarm. "NO!"

"Look hOw pretty she His!" Brigitte says unzipping the book and showing a spread of headshots of... a very young Claire!!!

"Oh my God! Has this been here the whole time?!"

"Sarah, no!" Claire pleads, her cry dwindling into abject surrender as Brigitte parks herself next to me and hands me the book.

"You're SO young!!!" I squeal.

Brigitte turns the page and there are pictures of Claire posing on a tennis court in a little white tennis skirt and headband, swinging a racket.

"Super star!!" I shriek.

"Sarah!" Claire begs from the kitchen. "Please! Don't encourage her! MaMAN! Stop!""

But it's no use. Brigitte and I are besides ourselves laughing and cooing at her younger self.

Claire and Morris finish cleaning up, Brigitte and I finish looking through Claire's modeling photos - the end of the portfolio is a scrapbook of her professional work. French catalog shoots, an Orangina ad, there is even a picture of Claire in French Vogue strutting her stuff on the catwalk - this is clearly what Brigitte is most proud of.

I ask Brigitte to make me copies, she promises she will. And then I join her and Claire in the bedroom, where we three talk and unpack her and Morris' things. He stays behind in the kitchen and makes a series of phone calls in French and German and English that all sound like work.

It's fun watching Claire speaking to her mother in French, her whole demeanor changes. It's less like seeing another side of her and more like seeing an entirely different person.

There is a small gift bag in her things that Brigitte presents to me. It's from a perfumery called Le Labo, the bottle is old fashioned and medicinal looking with a label that looks hand typed. It's called vanille 44.

"They are hEre Hin New York. But this His only sold Hin Paris," Brigitte tells me proudly. "très nouveau!"

As we are preparing to leave Brigitte disappears around the corner into the bedroom and returns with another gift bag, bigger than my perfumery bag, and familiar... but I can't place it. It's tied close with a bow. Morris is telling me about the apartment in Paris - the courtyard. I'm only able to watch out of the corner of my eye, but when Brigitte gives the bag to Claire she does so furtively...

Those two are up to something!

"We will be back tonight to pick you up for dinner!" Claire announces as we're leaving.

Honestly I have been so preoccupied with work and then the move and then cleaning and cooking I hadn't given any thoughts to the visit! I know Claire must have mentioned dinner plans but I can't remember what they are so I just smile and nod.

I wait until we are on the train to ask Claire what's in the bag.

"A surprise," is all Claire will say, looking away - at her reflection in the darkened window I beam supports flashing by, and my reflection next to hers in the glass.

"You're up to something!"

"I am!" she agrees.

I squint my eyes at her, but decide to drop it.

"Where's dinner?" I ask instead.

"Kwasi's."

This catches me short and I forget all about the mysterious gift bag.

"Near Kwasi's?" I ask.

"At Kwasi's," Claire says with an impish smile. "He is hosting."

I am beyond confused.

"What? How?"

"He's been trying to reach you all week," she says with a smug look of satisfaction. "He's hosting one of his dinners," she explains to me, "which you would know if you checked his emails and texts!"

I thought of all the emails I'd gotten after word got out about my dad dying, and how hard Kwasi had been trying to reach me. I'd ignored him because at first I'd mistakenly thought he was the one who had spread the word.

"Ugh - really?" I moan "I'm such a terrible friend!"

"You are not! He totally understood. We both did. You had a lot on your plate this week," Claire says, giving me a gentle look, and squeezing my hand. "He reached out to me and when I told him my parents were visiting he invited them - insisted I bring them, that there will be other French speakers there - et voilà!"

"This will be so much fun! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Because surprises are fun!"

Back at my place I start to tidy and unpack her things, but Claire stops me.

"Disco nap!" she announces, and starts unceremoniously moving the piles of her clothes off my bed and dropping them onto the floor.

"If I'm tired you must be exhausted," she tells me, and she's right of course. My mind is buzzing, but my body aches I'm so weary.

"Come!" she says, smiling and gesturing for me to lift my arms. I obey and she lifts the little blue dress up and off me by the hem - just like a little girl. She then presents me with her buttons which I undo one by one.

Smiling, we watch each other take off our bras.

"You know I didn't think I was going to find Helen so sexy," Claire admits as she pushes her panties down."I only meant for her to watch you. But when she showed up in that dress and all made up... I wanted to mess up her lipstick!"

"She looked amazing... poor Helen," I laughed, remembering the three of us in the bathroom cleaning Helen up in a panic, fixing her hair and makeup, getting her dressed again.

"Henry will be here any minute!" Helen cried, looking at her phone and laughing a little hysterically. The three of us were able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, and do it in time - or nearly so. Henry only waited a few minutes at the curb. Claire and I leaned out the window to watch Helen run out to the little convertible roadster just as he started blowing his horn. It was very easy to imagine her as a young model in Paris at that moment.

She'd called to him, and he'd been surprised to see her coming from the wrong side of the street, but she said something and gestured up at Claire's windows. He looked up and we waved happily. He squinted and waved back doubtfully.

"He's as blind as a bat," Helen had told Claire, when she pressed again to know if Henry watched us. "Terribly nearsighted, poor dear."

"It was hot," I tell Claire. "To watch you with her, to watch you..."

"What?"

"Well, you didn't seduce her?" I say as we crawl into bed together. "More like you subdued her, maybe?"

"Mmm. I think I like that; subdue...," Claire says thoughtfully, as if she's considering it, or maybe just picturing it. "What made it exciting was you," she tells me. "Knowing you were watching, how excited you were."

"It was exciting! It was... intense. You can do anything."

"Anything you want," Claire murmurs.

Her eyes are closing. It's been a long day already and we've been drinking. I'm tired too, but I watch her for a long time. Her parted lips making small sounds, her eyes moving in fits under her eyelids, and soon my rolling thoughts are slowing and cooling and I join her in sleep.

We wear the same dresses that night, except Claire puts be in white thigh-high stockings and black block heeled mules - which turns the girlish up to eleven.

For herself she adds black thigh high stockings and patent leather platform heels that transforms her outfit from something to wear to meet your mother, into a come-fuck-me dress.

Both dresses are short enough that a strip of pale flesh shows between stocking top and hem.

"We need to get you a bigger mirror," Claire complains as the two of us compete for space in front of my narrow full length.

We stop for flowers on the way back to the loft. It's strange to arrive at Claire's door as visitors. To knock and wait to be let in.

We all take another big black SUV out to Brooklyn together. The car feels brand new, as if we are the driver's very first passengers.

We are greeted with cheers and our flowers and wine are gushed over. Champagne flutes are passed out before invitations can even be made - which pleases Brigitte to no end - and I am toasted as "enfant terrible!" by Kwasi and "BOSS BITCH" by Claire, which makes me laugh and maybe cry a little.

A speech is demanded but I'm allowed off the hook when I blush red enough to alarm Brigitte, who comes to my rescue, hugging my face to her bosom and giving a nervous monologue in French over the back of my head about how lovely everyone is, what a charming apartment Kwasi has, and how wonderful the food smells - all with my face pressing between her boobs - which smell magnificent - and wrapped under her wing like a duckling under attack.

I love her so!

As I emerge from hiding, introductions are finally made.

Oliver is there and he has a date! A big beautiful woman named Mélodie, who is from Martinique and is studying to be a chef as well. Both she and Oliver are French speakers which pleases Brigitte immensely. Kwasi, whose French is better than mine, picks up on this and is quick to introduce Victoria and Drew next. They are from Montreal and speak French as well. She, it turns out, turns out to be a tattoo artist and he's a composer - they are both covered in a dense quilt work of tattoos, which seems to put Brigitte off at first, but she warms to them

Claire comments on all the accents, saying Victoria and Drew's is particularly hard to understand. "It's like if they were speaking colonial English?" she tells me. But as it is, everyone at the party speaks at least a little French and it is an eclectic and interesting group, which seems to energize Brigitte once she acclimates to "l'ambiance bohème!"

We are greeted with chilled wine and an enormous board covered in an assortment of cheeses from the Hudson Valley. Kwasi is very excited about "summer corn". He's prepared a cold corn chowder, roasted Mexican street corn, a fresh salad with raw corn, corn bread with fresh kernels of corn baked into it, a corn pudding... on and on.

"It's so sweet!" he trumpets.

Brigitte and Morris both clearly have a ball, eating too much, staying late, smoking joints and cigarettes, and drinking local spirits - again from the Hudson Valley, but also Brooklyn - Kwasi really went all out.

Finally Morris gathers Brigitte up and we put them back into a giant SUV. That's when the dance party starts. All of us doing shots. Claire and I dirty dancing with Mélodie and Victoria - that gets dirtier and dirty until God-only-knows, when the party ends with all of us stumbling around trying to help Kwasi clean up. But drinks are spilled and ashtrays turned over. We're doing more harm than good,

Laughing, he kicks us all out.

The city is empty as Claire and I speed home in a gypsy cab.

We're both drunk and talking over each other, laughing about nonsense. The driver must think we're idiots. We don't care, we're in hysterics the whole way home.

We laugh ourselves up my steps. Shushing and covering each other's mouths. Inside we are panting and drinking water. But it's when we get into my room that Claire's manner changes.

"Look at this mess," she tells me, pointing at the piles of clothes she threw on the floor. She's still breathing hard, but no longer trying to catch her breath.

I'm drunk enough that I can't stand I. One place without swaying. I'm having more than a little trouble making my eyes track.

"Now?" I blink.

But Claire just stares at me, waiting.

So stumbling around the bed I start gathering up her things. Holding a pile of dresses against my breasts I struggle to coordinate my hands enough to retrieve a hanger and get one of the dresses hung without dropping the rest.

"Careful!" Claire warns as I almost drop the stack, her tone stern.

She watches me struggle with basic tasks, and simple choices - like whether an item should be on a hanger or in a drawer.

"Don't wrinkle them!" she warns. She's watching me from the end of the bed, reclining on her side like a cat.

"The bathroom floor is disgusting," she tells me asI finish putting away her clothes. I don't hesitate, but stumble into the kitchen for cleaning supplies. When I come back, sloshing water from my bucket on the floor, Claire stops me before I can go into the bathroom.

"Strip," she tells me. "Don't ruin that dress."

I'm already wearing my rubber gloves - and I'm really drunk.

"Claire-" I start to whine but she shuts me down with a sharp "tst!"

It's hard to undress. I should just take off the gloves, but that seems harder. Claire doesn't help me, she watches as I drunkenly pull and twist until finally the little dress is finally over my head and off.

"Your underwear too."

I don't bother protesting, I just strip.

"Not the stockings!"

I obey.

As I turn to kneel I feel her more than hear her getting up and moving towards me. Her arm circles my waist from behind as I bend forward with the sponge to scrub, her free hand reaches between my legs and cups my sex.

"Show me how you clean for me you filthy slut," she whispers, and I do my best. I squeeze out my sponge around the base of the toilet, pushing soapy water around, but all I can think about is her arm around my waist, her hand pulsing against my sex, the front of her body pressing against my back. She's still in her dress. Horn buttons press into the crack of my ass.

"You are such a good girl," she purrs, kissing my ear. "I love the way you shake."

It's only as she says it that I realize I'm shaking again. The arm circling my waist is on the move. Her hand is seeking out my breasts, which are dangling and feel heavy, weighing me down. She's pulling and squeezing my boob like she's trying to milk me. Her fingers are inside me, pushing deep.

"Don't stop!" she barks as I falter and stop sponging the tile for a moment. Her hand is pulling at my breast and squeezing my nipple, forcing my face closer to the floor.

"Dirty fucking whore," she husks, gripping my muscles in her teeth and biting the back of my neck hard.

My head is pulled back like a marionette's, drawn by a line, and my mouth hinges wide to cry out but all that escapes is breath.

"HHHHH!!!"

She is biting viciously hard. Bruising me. My knees are spreading wide under her weight. I'm ruining the stockings. Fingers slick with my cum are pushing inside me, I have no idea how many. She's rubbing my clit just as fast and hard as I'm scrubbing the floor. My boob is being stretched.

"This is what you want, you little cunt?" she husks, her chin sliding down my spine lubricated by sweat and saliva. "You want to be my maid? My servant?"

I try to tell her what I really want but she bites my ass cheek even harder than my neck.

"WYYYYYYYY!!" I cry out, sprawling onto my chest. But this just makes her clamp her teeth harder.

"EYYYYAH!!! CLAIRE!"

"FUCKING CLEAN!" She shouts and I do. I start wiping the floor again, even though the side of my face is still pressed against the dirty tile, soaking me, soaking my hair and breasts.

"You think that's what you are to me, you little whore?" she asks, finally releasing my abused tit.

She's behind me, my ass in the air, pulling my cheeks apart, spreading me wide.

"You are my queen!" she tells me, licking my asshole hard, using her whole mouth. "You're my fucking princess!" she swears, licking and sucking my ass. "My baby girl! My most precious friend!"

She has pressed me forward so I am under the overhang of the toilet bowl, hugging its porcelain pedestal.

"You are my greatest treasure!" she tells me, slathering my asshole, her fingers still gripping my cheeks. "My lover! I will give you everything you want! Anything you want! You are my darling, my beauty, my boss bitch. I will never fucking stop!"

She is sobbing, or maybe just gasping - I can't tell which, but I can feel tears on my face.

"I will never stop loving you, Sarah!"

"AH... Jesus, Claire!"

The orgasm is crashing in on me. She feels it and grips my ass tighter, tongues and kisses me with greater ferocity.

"ah god," I plead. I am arching my back like a cat, clawing the tile with my nails. "jesus..." I gasp, her tongue drilling into my ass. "ahhh jesus god claire..."