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Nothing came close to the feelings created for the writer by the women of Baisez-Moi. She had developed a taste for all things decadent, hyper-sexual, marginal. It went beyond the fact that the women there were beautiful; that was a given. It was something more than that. There was a drug-laced allure in their eyes, a little opiated, Asiatic perhaps. She craved it, yearned for it night and day. She had lost all perspective in the world outside the club. In her mind, there was a new hunger.
Have you ever noticed that the look on the face of someone filled with desire looks a lot like hunger? The writer had seen a movie once about modern cannibals. In the film, there was a beautiful dark-haired woman-cannibal who, one day, starving to death for flesh, looked out of her room with hunger at a boy. He mistook the look for sexual desire and broke down the door to get to her. Once inside, she devoured him, literally. Somehow, that's how the relationship between she and the erotic dancers had become, metaphorically speaking. She devoured them with her eyes, sought them out from a place of deep, animal hunger. Touching them was one thing, but looking at them was what really satisfied her longing.
Always wanting to up the stakes a bit, the writer began wearing a strap-on under her clothes before going into the club. This excited her beyond expression, giving her a feeling of power and seduction. One night, whilst sitting wearing her hidden toy, she was enjoying a dance and a young woman approached her. She was not a dancer; she was a cocktail waitress at the club. Her name was Tamara. She was small, Italian, dark-skinned, with rich brown hair and almond-shaped eyes. Her body was voluptuous, but perfectly fit. She was sublime. She sat down beside the writer, offering her a vodka martini on the house, which the writer gladly accepted.
Tamara introduced herself, enjoying a much-needed break with the writer, sipping a White Russian. As they drank, they began to talk. Tamara told the writer she had been watching her for weeks. "You fascinate me," she said. "You come in here by yourself, surrounded by all these men, enjoying private dances and going up to the upper deck with some of the most gorgeous strippers in here. I don't think you understand how unique you are."
The writer demurred with, "Oh well, I'm not sure I'm unique. I expect I come in here for much the same reason as the men."
Tamara replied, "Yes. But, you ARE a woman, and that is different. In all my time working here, I have never seen another woman come in here alone and enjoy herself the way you do, without doubt or compunction....It's erotic to me, just watching the hunger in your eyes."
Somewhat shyly, the writer told her, "I'm sure I am of no particular interest really. You are no doubt bored with your work and I'm just a little out of the ordinary run of the mill."
"No," Tamara said. "You are quite unique. I have always wanted to be with a woman, and there is just something about you that makes me, well, want you."
The writer paused at that and looked into Tamara's eyes. She knew she was quite serious from the look of her. Tamara smiled, a long, soft, sexy smile. The writer felt the waitress's hand on her inner thigh, moving upward slightly, pausing and letting her fingers rest there. The writer did not take her eyes off Tamara. Their mutual gaze was intoxicating, and that hand stayed on her thigh.
In the background, a soft soul song was playing with a heavy bass beat. The dancers were moving round the room, the men drinking and paying for their views. The music played on....
Back to life Back to reality Back to the here and now, yeah
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Show me how Decide what you want from me Tell me, maybe I could be there for you....
However do you want me However do you need me However do you want me However do you need me.......
The writer's growing excitement began as a soft pulsing flood of feeling inside her stomach, moving down toward her groin. She felt herself grow wet. Tamara's eyes never left hers.
The writer could see hunger growing in Tamara, and she was ravenous now for her, for her sweet sex, for her trickling joy on her fingers, on her thighs, on her face. She wanted her badly now. She knew Tamara wanted her too. They finished their drinks quietly. The unspoken words were choking them both to death. The want, the need, the desire. The slow, aching need was growing in them.
Tamara asked the writer, "Can I go home with you?"
The writer signaled in the affirmative with a nod of the head and a smile, heavy-laden with desire. Tamara's shift was ending, and they both swiftly went to the door of the club. The manager's balked at Tamara wanting to leave with the writer because it was forbidden for the girls to leave the club with customers. Tamara said she didn't care, and they walked together toward the writer's flat just off of Chartres Street.
As they entered the writer's apartment, Tamara grasped the writer's black velvet shirt front and yanked it so hard that the buttons came off, exposing the writer's beautiful breasts, so pale the skin, like a white peach, with full pink nipples, hardened with desire. Tamara's hands grabbed rabidly at the writer's breasts, tugging them, squeezing them, then sucking them hard.
The writer's head fell back; she moaned softly, running her tongue over her own feverish lips as Tamara devoured her breasts. The writer yanked Tamara's hair and pulled her up to face her. She kissed her with such ferocity that Tamara nearly fell backward. But, she was her equal in every way. Their desire perfectly matched. They kissed as though these were the last kisses they would ever bestow on another person.
The writer yanked at Tamara's white clinging t-shirt, and ripped it in half as she tore it off her. She fiercely tore Tamara's bra off and grabbed her tits, perky little gold nuggets in her hands. Loving them, she held them, touched them tenderly, then she began licking them, and they fell together onto the floor in a beautiful pool of desire.
The writer pulled her skin-tight Levi's off to expose the strap-on to the cocktail waitress. Tamara was excited by this, and she demonstrated it by immediately going down to the writer's crotch. She grabbed the strap-on with both hands and looked up at the writer. She said, "This is what you want, isn't it?" With that, she took the head of the cock into her mouth all the way down the shaft and sucked it hard enough to produce little puckish sounds that sent a thrill through the writer's very bones, her very blood.
After sucking her for a long, long time, Tamara pushed the writer down on her back. She stood up, removing what was left of her clothes, and straddled the writer's make-believe cock. Taking the head of the strap-on, she took the very tip, and rubbed it around and around the outer edge of her throbbing pussy. Tamara's face took on the look of a greedy animal about to satisfy her needs. She sighed, moaned loudly, and then rammed herself with the cock. She rode it hard and fast, her pussy making a slurping noise, and the sound of flesh on rubber was heady. She then slowed her rhythm. The writer reached around to Tamara's asshole and probed it softly with her fingers. It was wet. The writer inserted a finger. This provoked Tamara to no end, and she said, "More, more! Please more!" The writer inserted another finger and began pressing it in and out of her tiny hole. The pressure mounted, and Tamara jerked hard and frantic on the dildo, coming with a wild, outrageous scream, as the writer laid back and watched her body quake.
The writer was filled with pleasure, overwhelmed by a feeling of bliss. Tamara and she took a long, hot wordless bath together, and the writer loaned her some clothes to get home in. They kissed good-night. The writer returned to her room, picking up her pen, sitting down at the table with her notebook, and began to write. She knew this was worth writing about, and that there would be more and more...
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