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Belle Epoque Part 2
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Belle Epoque Part 2 Have you ever experienced the intense isolation of a moment that seems to focus everything in on where you are and who you are with. Madame G's words hung in the air and I could feel the cool outline of her hand cupping my bottom while, for some reason, I saw with sudden precision, the patterns the motes of dust made as they circulated in the air of the shop. "Quite close?" I thought, 'Exactly how close would I have to be to a sibling to snuggle naked with them in such an erotic pose?' "Yes, she was quite a 'beet' ", Madame G's pronunciation twisting the word "bit" slightly, " older 'zan' me." She paused and her hand shifted on my bottom, stroking me ever so slightly, although I am not sure she was even aware of what she was doing, so caught up she was in her reverie as we both stood gazing at the charcoal drawing, "She was the of my mother and her lover; a man who was, sadly, killed before my father ever came into my mother's life." "Thibeth," Madame G pronounced it Tee -bet, "lived with my mother and father and I when I was just a little girl and she was in her late teens." Again there was a thoughtful pause. "She was a beautiful woman, Thibeth was," Madame G continued to stroke me as she reed her relationship with her step-sister, "and she had been a beautiful ." She sighed. "Unfortunately she is gone now, but she, she taught me so much as a little girl, about what it meant to be a woman, a beautiful woman." I was embarrassed on a few levels. First, because I had no control over the physical response my body was having to being stroked by her beautiful cool hand while standing naked, except for my high heels, in front of her as she told this story laden, I thought, with sexual overtones. My nipples were painfully erect and I could feel the dew-like emergence of "juice" in "la chatte". I was afraid that it would start to run down my leg and I would not be able to hide the fact from Madame G that I was erotically aroused by both her touch and her story. Second, I was trying to process what she was telling me. Did her much older step sister introduce her to the experience of female on female sex when she was quite young? Was this molestation she was revealing to me? Or was my mind just a little more twisted than I'd like to think? Imagining a naked teenage girl - long limbed and with nubile breasts - wrestling with her pre-adolescent sister in an erotic fashion, perhaps stroking her, even as Madame G had been stroking me just now, hand wandering a little further between the legs, lips grazing the tiniest buds of breasts, tongue tracing the outline of just barely forming female curves. Madame G seemed to shake off the haze of remembering as she, a woman much tinier in stature than I, turned to face me, instead of the charcoal drawing, and withdrew her measuring tape from the pile draped over her arm. Her manner was brisker, more business like, "First, I must find out your exact measurements," she explained, her face almost pressed against my breasts as she lifted my arms and then drew the tape around my bust line. I could feel her breath, as cool as her hands had been, as she continued to speak while tracing the contours of my body in order to find the exact place to measure my waist, my hips, and then the length of my torso. For this, she had me hold the end of the measuring tape to my collar bone while she tapped my legs apart a little and then delicately drew the tape down under my crotch and up the other side to my shoulder blades. If she felt or saw the wetness between my legs, she made no comment. For each measurement, her hands continued to stroke and cup whatever flesh of mine she touched. Breasts, thighs, waistline, it was as if she was memorizing my body with her hands. And perhaps she was, as not once did she note with the silver filigreed pencil tucked behind her ear, the measurements she was finding . Her touch was not the rough or kneading touch of a male lover - my husband included - but the most delicate whisper of skin on skin that left virtual trails of coolness on my flesh. Each place her fingers lingered experienced, like the ripples emerging from a pebble thrown in a stream, a repeated tingle of nerves so that, when she was done, every inch of my body felt alive and on fire with stroke after stroke after stroke, although her fingers had only grazed each area once, as was required to obtain the measurements. So mesmerizing was the experience that I stood with my arms out and my eyes linked with hers as she stood back and looked the full length of my naked body. "Yes," she seemed to almost hum the word, " I am beginning to see." And her eyes roamed over my figure as she held up various fabric swatches to my skin, "you have a very long torso," she explained, "we will have to adjust the camisoles accordingly. But, yes, this will not be a problem," she nodded her head as if agreeing with her own conclusion, talking more to herself than me. And then she glanced up at me, meeting my gaze again, "You are very, very pretty," and I began to protest in the self-deprecating modesty many North American women seem to adopt. "No," she held up a hand, "No, do not deny it. That is foolish. You must celebrate everything about yourself that makes you a woman, that makes you feminine. It is the way, you see, the way to wear what I will make for you. Not only do I make it for you, but I make it for me. And I make it for every around you. You must give my clothes what I give you, the most feminine of airs and graces and the acceptance of who, or what, is deep inside of you, the goddess, my dear. The Goddess who is woman herself. If you do not, you are not worthy to wear what I make. But I think deep down you are. You just must undo this thinking that the feminine body, your body, is something to be afraid or or ashamed of. No. No. You must give the clothes what I give you. A sensual, sexual celebration of being a woman." Madame G paused in the intensity of her lecture, and then met my eyes again and smiled. "You understand?" She was apologizing, softening her diatribe with her smile, acknowledging she was not just wanting to reach me with her words, but that she was venting against a societal norm that had somehow lost touch with femininity, with the goddess herself. I nodded my response. "Very well," Madame G was all business woman again, "you come back in, let's see," she seemed to examine her mental calendar, "in month. I will be done. You will come back and I will present you with what I have made for you to take home." I was confused. At no time had I told her what under garments, exactly, I was looking for, nor had I selected any fabrics or styles or told her my colour preferences. She seemed to take for granted that each decision was up to her. And perhaps it was, for I found myself acquiesing with a slight nod of my head, "In a month, then. . . . I will return here, to your shop?" Again, I seemed to be in a tangle of mental uncertainty, cognition subsumed by a hyper awareness of my body, my skin, for I'm not sure where else I would have expected to meet with Madame G. "Yes," her tone concluded the conversation, "I will see you here in a month," and she disappeared once again behind the heavy velvet curtain that separated the shop from whatever area - work room or storage place or some Harry Potter like magical cavern - she had emerged from earlier. I was almost trembling as I slipped the clothing I had come in back on. So rough the soft cotton now felt, as I drew the panties up my legs and then reached behind to fasten the clasp of my bra. My dress, a translucent handkerchief linen so appropriate for the hot summer sun, it had seemed earlier, felt like a prison I could no longer stand to be captive in. I wanted to run naked through the streets of Paris, so on fire was my skin from this<b> bizarre </font></b>experience. And yet, of course, I did not. Instead, fully clothed, I demurely stepped out of the little boutique and back into the heat of summer. I stopped on the steps of the shop before I reached the street and looked back. What exactly was going on? Was I drugged somehow, perhaps with the absinthe that scented Madame G and her store? Had I got what I had come for? And what exactly was that? And I stifled a giggle. Yes, I wanted to acquire what was perhaps the best lingerie in all of the world, never mind Paris, but the lingerie wasn't for me, per se, it was for both my husband - if he noticed at all - and my lover. What would Madame G think if she knew? Shaking my head, a small smile barely curving the corner of my lips, I thought, "Oh well, I will come back in a month and see," and I made my way back to the line up of cabs sheltered beneath a grove of beech trees a few blocks away, and then back to my apartment, miles it seemed, from the magic of Madame G's boutique. To be continued  |
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Another beautiful tale! You capture the sensuality of the moment without demand or expectation, just pure presence. You paint a moving image of the sensuality of touch that I could almost feel viscerally. I was drawn into the 'trance' along with you. I also love Madam G's rant about the habit women often have of denying their beauty. I have said much the same thing on a number of occasions. Thank you!
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