Mid afternoon at the Cafe de la Petite Mort

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Mid afternoon at the Cafe de la Petite Mort
Stella blinks as she emerges from the dimness of the cafe onto the large patio. The patio is mostly shaded by enormous, ancient oak trees but here, at the edge, the sunlight is bright.

She squints into the dappled shade, looking for table 27. It is on the far edge of the patio, which is busy today, every table occupied. There is no direct path from here to there; Stella must meander between the tables. And so she begins, careful with her tray of two drinks. Careful also with her walk – her heels are very high, and the stone surface is treacherous.

As she walks, Stella is aware that conversations pause, and heads swivel to follow her. Apart from the heels, she wears only a kind of loincloth – a white silk cord slung low around her hips, with a white silk modesty panel in the front, and another in the back. She feels the scrutiny, from the women as much as the men, but she does not make eye contact.

Eventually she arrives at table 27, stands politely, and waits for direction. The table has two occupants. The man is handsome, elegantly dressed in a very expensive suit, white shirt, dark tie. This sounds like business attire but it is not. Somehow Stella knows that this is simply how he chooses to dress, an expression of his personal style. The woman is blonde, beautiful, dressed in a filmy slip of a sun dress, and large, dark glasses.

Stella keeps her eyes down, but she can see when the man makes a gesture that allows her to move. She bends elegantly at the waist, deposits their drinks, then stands and waits for further instruction. The man looks at the blonde and raises his eyebrows in a question. The blonde looks at Stella, looks back at the man, pushes her sunglasses down to look over them, and raises one eyebrow in a kind of shrug.

Stella sees the man’s hand make a delicate twirling gesture. She güvenilir bahis complies, rotating in place as the blonde watches. It’s a smooth, graceful movement that she has practiced.

Now the blonde takes over. She motions Stella to come close, and with a series of gestures positions her to face the man, with most of the patio at her back.

Stella’s heart rate increases. She has been here for a week and so far nothing has happened. She was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her.

The touch of the blonde’s hand on the back of one thigh is electric, but Stella does not visibly react – that would be a breach of protocol. The hand moves smoothly upward, but not too far, before retreating downward. Then upward again, a little higher this time. On the third upward stroke, the back of the blonde’s fingers make the lightest contact with the inside of Stella’s other thigh. She suppresses a gasp. The blonde removes her hand and makes a two-fingered spreading motion. Stella moves her feet further apart, and the hand continues its journey, up the back of her thigh, under the modesty panel, and smoothly onto her buttock, where it lingers with a slow circling caress before sliding to the other buttock.

Stella’s heart is racing. She is aware without looking that every eye in the place is on her, and the buzz of conversation has died away. While the circling caressing of her buttocks continues, Stella feels the blonde’s other hand begin its journey up the front of her thigh. Up and down, up and down, until the back of the hand brushes against her pussy, which today (like all days) is shaved as smooth as a baby. Stella is unable to completely suppress a gasp at this contact. The blonde hesitates for a moment, then begins to explore, very slowly with the lightest of touches. Stella becomes aware of a growing wetness between her legs internet casino and realizes, with a quick flush of shame, that the blonde will soon notice it too. She does. Again she hesitates momentarily before beginning to explore the wetness with gentle back and forth motions of one finger tip. Without warning the finger slides completely inside, and is gripped by a hot, wet embrace as Stella clenches involuntarily. The finger probes in and out several times before sliding out entirely, pulling moisture onto Stella’s clit, where it commences an irresistible circling. And so it continues – a slow, sensual circling, with periodic trips inside to replenish the silky moisture.

Stella has begun to experience a kind of closing down of her senses. All sound has ceased. Her eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, breathing heavy and ragged. She is no longer aware of her surroundings. In the whole world, nothing exists apart from her clit, and the blonde’s insistent fingers. In the deepest recesses of her mind, some small remnant of her consciousness is aware that if this continues, she will come in front of all of these strangers. But she is no more capable of caring about this than she is of resisting it.

And then it breaks over her like a hot tidal wave. She groans, buckles slightly at the knees, and is forced to place a hand on the table to steady herself. Her hips thrust rhythmically in time with the waves of ecstasy, and she is at once horrified and powerless to stop it.

The blonde withdraws her fingers, but continues her soothing caresses of Stella’s buttocks. Slowly, Stella’s senses return. The sound of her own ragged breathing is replaced by the chirping of the birds in the trees above. The buzz of conversation is back, and she can hear the sound of traffic in the distance. She lifts her hand from the table and stands upright, legs perabet still trembling. As the final pulses of her orgasm subside, she opens her eyes, keeping them downcast, not thinking clearly beyond the current moment.

The blonde stops stroking and withdraws her hand. She looks at the man and gives an almost imperceptible nod. He looks at Stella and nods – she is dismissed.

Stella turns back towards the Cafe entrance, and is struck by the enormity of the task ahead of her. Somehow, still shaking, she must make her way between these tables back to the shelter of the doorway. Under the gaze of all of these strangers, who had just watched her lose herself in the most private and intimate of all experiences. It does not seem possible; the door is infinitely far away.

Somehow she takes the first step. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the blonde stretch her hand across the table, and the man lean forward to sniff, and she nearly crumbles under the weight of shame and humiliation. But she does not crumble, and one step follows another. She becomes aware of a polite smattering of applause as she passes, and one woman blows her a kiss and laughs. But her mind is all chaos; she cannot process any of this.

Eventually, after what seems like years, she passes though the patch of bright sunlight and into the cool, dim sanctuary of the cafe’s interior. Just inside the swinging doors to the kitchen there are tables and chairs where the waitresses can catch a quick break between orders. She staggers to one of these, slumps into a chair, crosses her arms on the table, and lets her head fall onto them. Her mind still refuses to make a coherent thought; it’s just a jumble of overwhelming feelings and impressions. Did that really just happen? With all of those people watching?

Her reverie is broken by a click of approaching heels. She hears a glass touch the table, with a tinkle of ice cubes, and a hand rests briefly on her shoulder. As she looks up, the other waitress is walking away. She has said nothing. Nothing needs to be said. Stella knows she is truly one of them now…

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