She moved her shoulders, shuddering involuntarily as the curious deja vu phenomenon stole over her. For a moment, Monique felt sure that the three of them had lived this day again and again… and that they were doomed to spend eternity going over and over the events, never being quite sure that they were on an endless treadmill, but always having that awful, nagging suspicion…
“Oh, nonsense!” Monique exclaimed out loud. She moved away from the mirror, smoothing her hands over the sleekness of her thighs in an attempt to dispel the unsettling mood.
“It's this old attic that's filling your head with these ideas", she told herself. And it was true that the disused room, with its low ceiling and dusty trunks; its long-discarded toys and assortment of forgotten junk, possessed a rather dismal and faintly oppressive atmosphere. As if it resented being used as a repository for unwanted oddments and the long years' accumulation of worthless bric-a-brac.
Monique went to the door and was thankful that Jean had at last appeared on the stairs. The woman seemed lost in thought, not noticing Monique at the doorway until she was almost on top of the girl.
“Is everything all right, Jean?” Monique asked anxiously. The expression on Mrs. Cameron's face made her fear that Michael had undergone a change of attitude since she'd left the bedroom.
“What? Oh yes; everything's fine", Jean said absently. She walked past Monique and moved into the attic.
“You look worried, darling", Monique persisted, following her into the room. “Are you sure nothing's gone wrong?”
Jean's eyes blinked rapidly and she seemed to pull herself together. “I'm sorry", she smiled. “I was miles away!” Her manner changed; she became brisk and business-like. “You look charming, Monique — really charming! Now: I must try to make myself as sexy as you. Where shall we begin…?”
Monique moved to her side and picked up the second silk scarf. She tied it tightly around Jean's hips, then worked the down-hanging loops so that they fell in front of the woman's bushy cunt.
Jean turned so that she faced the mirror — and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “My!” she exclaimed. “I do look rather peachy, don't I?”
“We haven't finished yet,” Monique told her. “Here — let me put the beads around your neck”. The girl took up a string of pearls and fitted them round Jean's neck, having to lift her beautifully long black hair out of the way so that she could fasten the clasp.
Jean kept her hands at her sides, letting Monique adjust the beads across her bosom; feeling the girl's sweet breath blowing softly on her bare shoulder as she bent forward.
“Turn round", Monique commanded. “I can't quite judge the effect from this angle”.
Jean allowed herself to be turned, Monique's hands exciting her as they grasped her shoulders. Pursing her lips, the girl carefully arranged the string of pearls so that they actually touched Jean's nipples: making the woman shiver as the cold stones brushed against her warm red teats.
Then she stepped back a pace, head cocked on one side, pleased with her artistic adjustment. “They set your breasts off beautifully, Jean", she cried. “Oh, I wish mine were as big as yours!” She put her hands beneath her own titties and lifted them ruefully.
“Don't be silly, darling!” Jean smiled, pleased with the compliment, knowing that her figure was more well-developed than Monique's and glad that the girl envied her the ripe, buxom breasts. “Yours are just as nice as mine… Maybe not quite so large, but those darling nips more than make up for that!”
Monique rubbed her fingers over her nipples, making them perk up almost immediately. “Mmm”. she sighed slowly. “All the same, I love to feel your titties so much, Jean! If they belonged to me, I could touch them whenever I liked, couldn't I?”
Jean paused a moment; then, in a quieter, more deliberate voice said: “They could belong to you, darling, if you wanted them to! You could treat them as your own… your very own, you know.
You only have to ask me — ”.
Despite the intimacy of their relationship, Monique felt herself beginning to blush at Jean's words. She brought her hands up, away from her breasts, and reached them out towards the woman.
“Wait”. Jean held her away, though Monique could see that she, too, longed to move into a warm, passionate embrace. “Don't forget that Michael is waiting for us. We'll have to go down now, darling. But soon we'll be able to hold each other and do everything we want… Come on.”
She took Monique's hand in hers, intertwining their fingers, and led the girl through the door. Their hands brushed constantly against their bare thighs as they walked downstairs — making a silent promise that in just a few more minutes they would roam freely all over the more intimate parts of their bodies…
As they re-entered the bedroom, hand in hand, Jean kicked the door softly shut with the flat of her foot. Demurely, eyes downcast, they presented themselves for Michael's approvaclass="underline" standing at the foot of the bed, looking like girls out of a thrilling but impossible dream.
Michael sat up slowly, his eyes wandering with an expression of mounting pleasure over their scantily-clad bodies. They were playing their parts to perfection, he thought. Monique, the shorter of the two, strongly resembled an Eastern slave girl, with her lightly tanned skin, her small but firm breasts and her slender, petite waist.
He stared at them for some time, feasting his eyes on the voluptuous spectacle of his wife and the French girl standing before him, meekly awaiting his commands. Finally, visual stimulation became insufficient: he desired the greater delight of actually touching these beautiful, submissive creatures.
Accordingly, he clapped his hands loudly and beckoned them to approach the bed. Slowly they drew nearer to him, moving with a cat-like grace, keeping their eyes on the carpet.
Michael waited until the girls were standing right next to him, then swung his feet off the bed — planting them on the floor between Monique and Jean, pushing between them and separating their bodies. He raised his hands, letting them glide softly on the girls' outer thighs. His fingers moved slowly upwards to caress their long, naked legs; his face only a few, exciting inches from their bellies.
Whilst they stood there in silent resignation, the man ran his hands possessively up and down their firm fleshed thighs. He stroked them insistently, revelling in the fact that they were so docile, so eager to please him.
Monique held Jean's hand tightly. More and more, the French girl was falling under the spell of her “role”: she allowed herself to half-believe that she really was enslaved to Michael, and that Jean was her sister in bondage. A curious fairy-tale atmosphere seemed to have been kindled in the bedroom. As the man pressed their thighs, making them tremble with a mounting excitement, Monique recollected the stories of the Arabian Nights. To her fevered imagination they were now remembered as being full of incidents where girls had been held captive- completely at the mercy of a ruthless, highly-sexed Sultan, who did exactly as he pleased with them…
When she had first read them as a young girl, Monique had felt a strange, rather discomforting sensation in the pit of her stomach. It had spread to her loins, firing them with an unfamiliar and disturbing heat.
Without being consciously aware of the fact, she had closely identified herself with those sorely-tried young maidens, whose destiny it was to be nothing more than objects of pleasure to the insatiable rulers of harems, palaces and mosques.
Whenever she imagined herself dressed in their scanty, revealing garments Monique felt a thrill of sheer ecstasy shoot through her body. To be forced into doing all sorts of terrible things… and in the presence of other, similarly dressed girls…
She had never been able to bring herself to go further and act out in her imagination what exactly would happen in such a situation. And when Michael had suggested to her that the three of them should play the very game she had secretly yearned for since her childhood, Monique had known an intensely powerful excitement: it was almost as if he had psychoanalysed her and understood the deep, subconscious sex-fantasies which she scarcely admitted even to herself.