Among the Daughters


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The young girl standing in Madame Vieille’s doorway looked more like a tiger lily than a Rose. Red hair fell to her waist in pre-Raphaelite ripples, and her skin, dappled with tiny golden freckles, was less like a pink pearl than the ivory underbelly of some tropical flower. She wore a lacy white vest and voluminous olive-drab combat pants. Her breasts, unsupported and half-exposed, reminded Madame Vieille of plump golden apples. This would be an Eve she’d enjoy tempting.

Madame Vieille admired the woman next to Rose, not for the first time. Asha was in full butch drag tonight, jeans snug on her powerful twenty-year-old thighs, taut muscles shifting sensually through paper-thin denim. A stylish, sexual creature in her red silk vest, leather jacket and high-heeled boots, she looked like a Bollywood bad-girl.

‘I take it,’ Madame Vieille said, ‘that you have brought Rose here for a new toy?’

Asha nodded, but before she could speak her thick dark eyebrows drew down and her nostrils began to flare. She gracefully cupped her hands in front of her nose and mouth, muffling a throat-scraping ‘hahISSHEEW!’ She gasped for breath, inhaled deeply and wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. ‘Forgive me,’ she said formally to Madame Vieille. ‘Allergies. They’re always at their worst at night.’

‘What a pity,’ said the craftswoman, remaining poker-faced, although she’d spent plenty of nights with Asha, and the only time she could ever remember Asha sneezing like that was when a stoned Rastafarian street-hawker had tried to sell her a rose.

There were no roses in The Rose Garden, but the blowsy pink layers of the vagina, the tight firm bud of the penis- Madame catered for them all. Like Asha, Madame Vieille was horribly allergic to real roses- she too had sneezed as the street-vendor wafted the flower in front of her. Madame Vieille wondered what Asha’s agenda was. ‘Do come in, ladies.’

Rose set down her small khaki backpack. Asha dumped her jacket, rubbed her nose and led the way in.

Madame Vieille was a short, round woman, her woollen suit pulled tight over the swells of her breasts, heavily bound in black lace beneath her silk blouse. Her knee-length black skirt made hard concertina-wrinkles across her broad thighs. She led them into the back room, walking with such ease on her stilettos that she might have been born with them welded to her feet. She had once been a beauty, but had yielded to too many temptations to be anything but marked; still, the lines ravaging her face suggested an unusually pleasant downward trajectory, and her eyes were bright with intelligence and humour. Her black hair, which could still stop men’s hearts from the back, was gathered into a loose, cushiony bun, skewered into place with an arsenal of black pins.

Rose didn’t know why she felt so comfortable, especially as she didn’t know what on earth she was doing in this hot little leather-smelling room. She supposed this was something to do with last night, when they’d had their first proper argument. She’d accused Asha of not allowing her to take more control in their relationship and Asha, tired from a long day at work, scarcely opened her eyes to murmur that straight girls didn’t usually care for that sort of thing.

Rose told Asha that she would call herself what she damn well pleased and if Asha wanted to behave like the man, she’d better hurry up and grow a dick.
Asha called her a patriarchy-dominated barely-out-of-the-high-school-choir screwed-up narcissistic lesbian dilettante.
Rose opined that one of the reasons she’d been reluctant to have a lesbian relationship was the horrendous female tendency to use domestic rag-rages as foreplay.
Asha said that sounded like a damn good idea.
Then they’d laughed and fucked until they lay together panting, scented with each other’s perfume, too exhausted to wash the musk from their bodies. They slept with their arms wrapped around each other, Rose’s peachy cheek against Asha’s brown one, black and red hair entwined in ropes on the white thrift-shop pillows. Just before sleep kicked in, they realised how alone they were without each other, just for a slice of time small enough not to put a name to. Then it was gone.

When she’d woken up, Asha had been ready for work, beautiful in her severe black suit, midnight hair tied up in a chignon. She’d kissed Rose chastely on the cheek, gave her a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of her favourite Amaretto coffee (which Asha hated) and told Rose she had a surprise for her. Rose squirmed with the pleasure of anticipation until Asha gave her the condition; she had to know something about Rose that no one else knew. And, like a foolish village girl in a fairy tale, Rose told her.

Asha had laughed, said, ‘Well, I’ve heard worse,’ patted Rose on the thigh and left before Rose could ask for her surprise, or if Asha would ever consider indulging her secret.

Later, on the fridge, she found a note secured with a red heart-shaped magnet:

‘Honeysuckle Rose,

Meet me tonight at eight in the Josephine Baker cafe.
 I’ve got something for you.
It’s like a key to my apartment, only more fun.
I would have brought you a rose this morning,
but my allergies are acting up.'

Rose wasn’t sure what to make of that. Especially the last part. But she was here now; Asha had been plying her with sickly-sweet Cuban brandy and pineapple cocktails, and they’d consumed two fat spliffs. Still, panic was lapping in shallow waves at her. It wasn’t the horrors, just a feeling of being out of control.

Asha led Rose to a padded table covered in soft black leather. ‘Lie down, honey.’

Rose lay on the table, comet-tails of red hair against the black leather. She looked at the far wall. Beyond its stacked rolls of different coloured hides and piles of bound books, there was a corner with two battered green leather armchairs and a little fireplace, a terrace-cafe table parked awkwardly in front of it, bearing two sticky tumblers and a filthy ashtray exhorting its users to drink John Smith’s bitter. The rest of the room was meticulously clean, and Rose was relieved to see that the craftswoman was washing her hands in the large built-in sink, working soap into the crevices of her palm and under her nails.

Above the fire was a large sampler on aging cream linen. With its ornate capital letters and border of pink roses, little buds simulated by knots of pearly cotton, the sampler was a piece of chintzy Victoriana in Hell. Its words were strange: not ‘Lost: One Golden Hour,’ or even ‘Bless This S/M Dungeon,’ but:


Asha caught her looking. ‘The Song of Songs,’ she said. ‘Remember when we met?’


Rose did. She’d been in the process of a torturous break-up with the drummer of a fifth-rate indie band, a wild boy called Damien who liked to smash things when he made love to her. Every morning she’d get up, pale and violet-eyed, from the damp pillows, and go to the local gallery, a lesbian enclave run by Janet LaVine, an intimidating ex-JAP with long chiselled legs and an entourage of tattooed femme art students. Rose was in love with the new opulent selection of Brazilian and Portuguese paintings themed around the Song of Songs. She craved Janet’s enthusiasm, her willingness to talk for hours about how each painting was crafted, their trees and brown maidens traced with real gold and ivory. She didn’t ask questions, and brought Rose coffee and the odd Danish from the coffee shop down the block. ‘You need to keep your strength up,’ she’d say, not specifying what for.

The morning she’d met Asha, Rose had dragged herself out of the sea of smashed crockery- Damien’s apartment was starting to look like a Greek restaurant- threw herself into a wrinkled burnt-orange dress, the last thing she had clean, and went to look at the pictures. Janet was talking to a tall, statuesque Asian woman in a black sweater and blue jeans. Her black waist-length hair was straight, but looked as though it was usually braided as it fell with a faint undulating crimp, shining blue under the gallery lights. Janet was giving her usual overexcited talk about the collection, her dark hair, skewered with a chopstick, threatening to tumble down. Rose nodded at her and headed off into the other room, where she stared at her favourite picture, a beautiful girl on her knees surrounded by reddish pomegranates, her hair falling into her lap. The girl’s hair was like the Asian woman’s. The painting was called The Only One of Her Mother.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, wondering what she was going to do with her life, but after a while she registered the woman’s presence behind her. She smelt her first, a hot, spicy smell that formed words in her head, the traditional jungle-fruit clichés- cinnamon, yam, breadfruit. The woman’s breath on her neck was smooth and steady. Rose stared at the pomegranates, wondering why she didn’t want to move.

Then the woman sneezed suddenly and violently. ‘AhhTSSSCCHOO!’ She was standing so close to Rose that the sound rolled into her ear like a wave, the warm rush of the woman’s breath caressing her neck. A sprinkle of spray hit her jawbone like a miniature ejaculation. Even though she could feel her composure evaporating by the second, Rose turned, her eyes purposefully wide and calm, to acknowledge the stranger.

The woman was gorgeous. She could have stepped out of one of the paintings- her skin had the same velvety texture and her eyes the same onyx shine as the painting of the queen of Sheba. She smiled, looking slightly self-conscious, and rubbed her nose on her wrist. ‘I didn’t get you wet there, did I?’

If Rose had been feeling any more robust, she would have laughed. ‘A little,’ she admitted, wondering why she was telling the truth. Ordinarily, she would have said, ‘Oh, no, it’s fine.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The woman scrutinised the painting, the girl with her fruits and flowers. ‘Sometimes even looking at roses makes me sneeze.’ She grinned, looking even more like Sheba. ‘You know, I didn’t want to…I shouldn’t have stood so close. I was just trying to get a better look.’

Rose automatically stood back. The woman’s grin expanded. ‘No, no, no. Not of the picture.’

Rose found herself blushing. ‘I don’t look my best today,’ she said, feeling idiotic.

‘I’d like to see your best. Do you like this one?’

Rose nodded. ‘It’s my favourite.’

The woman looked up at it. ‘Hmm. I don’t think it’s mine…she looks too submissive, doesn’t she? That way she’s sitting. You’re expecting some kind of avenging angel to swoop down and punish her.’

‘Or save her,’ said Rose, too quickly.

‘It’s possible,’ the woman conceded. ‘Maybe she’s just waiting.’

Rose didn’t know why, but tears were starting to form in her sore eyes. The woman reached out and touched her hand. When she spoke, her voice was almost inaudible.

‘She is the only one of her mother,’ she recited. ‘She is the choice one of her that bare her. The daughters saw her, and blessed her; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.’

Rose sniffed, but she was still smiling faintly. ‘Who is she that looketh forth at the morning,’ she replied, ‘Fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?’

‘You, hopefully,’ said the woman, and the cheeky grin resurfaced. ‘When you’re looking your best, of course.’ Her grip on Rose’s hand tightened. ‘Come on, let’s go down the road for coffee. We’ll have to wait about six hours in that dive, but the lemon cheesecake’s worth it.’

After coffee and cake, which turned into lunch, cocktails, dinner and more drinks, when Asha had leant over on a red velvet banquette in an underground club, taken her shoulders and kissed her, it had just felt right. It was like flowers kissing, having sex with their lush-petalled heads. Little tingly buds erupted and blossomed beneath the surface of Rose’s skin, flowering on her lips. To her mingled horror and delight she felt herself blossoming down there too, the tight pink knot at her core unfurling. They had kissed for a few minutes and already she was dying for Asha’s hand between her legs. They groped each other in the hastily hailed taxi and sprang up the stairs to bed. Asha’s breasts were pomegranates in her hands, her cunt a rich spilling oasis of sap and juice, the layers dark tangy fruit from the earth. Asha tended to Rose like a well-loved garden, gentle and tender, but when Rose made her lose it, she writhed and moaned, every sound she made tinged with surprise.

Now, three months later, they’d reached something almost relaxed. Rose was sleeping over at Asha’s almost every night and Damien was trying to decide between two self-destructive teenage Goth groupies while he rebuilt his crockery collection, largely by stealing plates from the kitchens of the restaurant where he worked as a pastry chef, all chefs- like all drummers- being largely insane.

Unfortunately, not everything had changed- Rose was still vague, whereas Asha was still a control freak. She took it as read that because she’d been sleeping with girls since she was ten, she made the decisions, and every time Asha rode over her, Rose felt herself beginning to bridle. Now there she was in the Rose Garden, not knowing who was going to do what to whom, and she found it irritating as well as arousing.


‘So.’ Rose smiled at Madame Vieille’s broad back. ‘Who are ‘the daughters?’ she whispered to her lover, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

‘Tonight, my dear,’ the older woman turned back from the sink, ‘you are.’

A lovely blush swept its way up to Rose’s face, so intense that it tinged her chest pink beneath the thin white vest. ‘Could you explain what, um...’

‘Asha, the reading material is over there.’ Madame Vieille nodded into the corner.

The pictures were well-thumbed, parchment-thin in her hands. The girls in the photos were Playboy-perfect, but the indifferent style of the photography gave them a slightly tacky look. The uppermost blonde was wearing a harness, gathered around her hips in a complicated criss-cross of straps, leading down to a large red dildo. Another photograph, clearly taken in the studio itself, had a gorgeous slightly butch Halle Berry lookalike, the straps of her harness white poetry against her firm dark skin, the upthrusting phallus itself an uncompromising midnight-black.

‘Had her,’ Asha said idly, and Rose gave her a burning look.

‘I can dye the leather especially for you,’ said the craftswoman, showing her another photograph, this time of a tanned redhead in a mottled turquoise harness that cinched in her waist dramatically. ‘This one wanted a mermaid look- only mermaids, of course, do not have sexual organs… better to highlight them, I feel.’

‘Clearly,’ Rose said faintly, staring at another picture, a frank snap of another smaller dildo entering a woman from behind. ‘You can get, then, harnesses that... go into you, too?’

‘All holes,’ said Madame Vieille. ‘Asha has paid for whatever you like. It is best to go as far as you think you can...’ she touched Rose’s lip in the same spot that Rose’s own finger had been, ‘and better to go further. You are an adventuress, Rose, whether you know it or not.’

Rose looked into the craftswoman’s belladonna-black eyes. ‘Madame, I doubt you could get anything into me...’ she gestured behind her, ‘there... especially not something so big.’

‘I will measure you, of course.’ The craftswoman waved her tape-measure, faded rose-pink with time and use. ‘In the future, when you are in your private world, you will be able to do anything. Yes?’

‘But I can’t...’ Rose knew that she was blushing, and felt a hot, tight ball of tears in the back of her throat, ‘relax, not enough, not here.’

Asha put her arm around Rose’s shoulders. ‘This is a gift, love. It’s not meant to make you upset. Trust me, you will enjoy this.’

‘You must understand that such a task cannot be done on automatic pilot, Rose. I must engage with you to make the perfect tool, and you must do your best to engage with me. Asha will help. Please take off your trousers and underwear. Everything, if you like.’

Rose obeyed and lay back, feeling ridiculous to be wearing only her vest, but not quite comfortable enough to relinquish it. Madame Vieille looked down at her body with undisguised appreciation. The vest clung to her upright, unsupported breasts and the sharp curve of her ribcage. Its hem lay just below her breasts, revealing her stomach, the skin over her hipbones stretched like white silk.

‘This is art, my dear, like everything else,’ the craftswoman said gently, looking pointedly at Rose’s chest. ‘In the future when you use this, you want it to suit all of you. The shape and colouring of your breasts...’

Asha objected too quickly. ‘Madame, she is shy. You can take the measurements down below without seeing all of her. If she is comfortable enough, perhaps during the testing?’

She looked down solicitously at Rose, who nodded, not knowing what she was acquiescing to.

‘Propriety,’ said the craftswoman, ‘tends to have an adverse effect on the vaginal muscles.’

Asha was trying not to smile. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, yes?’ she said, laying an unforgivable stress on the word ‘come.’ She bent down and Rose felt her lover’s lips, moist as two freshly sliced segments of peach, cool against the hot, perfumed hollow of her throat, Asha’s hair trailing over her breasts like old penny silk. Asha looked into her face- her dark eyebrows had drawn down, giving her a look of desperate intensity- and pressed her finely-formed lips to Rose’s.

‘If that is the best you have to offer, Asha,’ Madame Vieille said, ‘you will never make her comfortable.’

Asha glared at her, tossing back her mane. ‘That, Madame, is not the best I have to offer.’

‘Glad to hear it. Now stop being such a Neanderthal and let me concentrate on your girlfriend. Rose, my dear, open your legs.’

Rose meekly obeyed. Madame Vieille sighed with pleasure. ‘Is she to your liking, Madame?’ Asha asked, with a credible pretence of detachment.

The older woman nodded. ‘I have seen few quite so worthy of my talents. A lily among thorns, indeed.’

She turned her halogen lamp on Rose’s body, adjusting the neck so the light travelled. Rose’s fragile skin contrasted with the stark black of the couch, bathed in the golden glow which created sensual pools of darkness between gold risings of flesh. Shadows outlined Rose’s sharp cheekbones, the darkness below her burning-brass eyes, her collarbones, and her erect nipples. Being watched was starting to excite her.

‘She is tense,’ said Madame. ‘She is too conscious of us watching her. Rose- I will give you a massage to relax you. Asha, take her out of herself for a little while. The body is always important, Rose, but the mind is the most powerful sexual organ, yes? We will wait for you to enter your mind.’

Asha cupped Rose’s pointed chin, holding her head back. Rose felt like a cat being forced to take a pill, but then Asha began to whisper into her ear. She spoke, her voice pitched too low for anyone but Rose to hear.

‘It’s night-time. High summer and the streets are just cooling down. I’ve been thinking about you all day. I want to dress up for you tonight. I want everything to be perfect. But there’s one thing that isn’t, not for me, anyway. I think I’m getting the sniffles. First of all, it just seemed like allergies, but usually they calm down, especially in the afternoon. I’ve stuffed myself with allergy pills all day, and you know I hate those things. Even when the pills stop me from sneezing, my nose still tickles...’

Rose couldn’t believe where this was going. Asha burrowed in deeper, burying her face in Rose’s hair as the craftswoman reached for a bottle of golden liquid which smelled of roses; she adored their perfume, freed from the effect they had on her. Rose appreciated the antiquated smell, like crushed rose petals in a drawer, secret scraps of silk and lace, Victorians’ secrets. The craftswoman’s hands were as eloquent as they looked, rubbing the rose-scented oil into her skin, palm flat against the curve of her belly, trickles of oil dampening the dim fire of her pubic hair, mingling with the tiny pearls of wetness starting beneath as Asha talked on.

‘For some reason, I’ve woken up with a tiny little tickle in the back of my nose which only ever builds to a stronger tickle, not a sneeze. It comes and goes, ebbs and rises, but no matter how annoying it gets I can’t sneeze. I’ve actually tried- on my own in the bathroom, that is- but it won’t fucking come. All day I’m distracted by the tickle growing stronger and stronger. I snuffle and blow my nose, my eyes are full of itchy tears, my nose is red... I look like I’ve got the most terrible cold, and I can’t sneeze once, isn’t that funny?’

Rose felt herself starting to get wet, imagining Asha at her desk, all dressed up in her black suit and Jimmy Choo heels, struggling with a tickly nose, but the image shattered as the craftswoman began to stroke her vagina, slowly but not clinically, tracing the tip of the lips while avoiding the softness inside, then running a finger up and down the plump swells of her labia and stroking the puckered silk between her cunt and anus with one damp, blunt-nailed finger. Rose tensed up again and the finger withdrew.

‘Rose,’ admonished Madame. ‘Your body is made for one of my toys- or rather, I will make one for your body alone. This is not the way that you are in your own private garden, is it?’

Asha laughed and quoted the Song of Songs again. ‘A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.’

‘Asha, stop showing off,’ said the older woman comfortably.

Asha straightened up from the table, hands in the small of her back. ‘Madame, this may take a while. Let her flow when she’s ready. May I have a chair?’

The older woman nodded and Asha drew one of the green leather monstrosities over from the fireplace. She perched on the high raised arm so she was level with Rose’s ear, her elbows propped on the table.

‘Are you sure that’s comfortable?’ Rose asked hoarsely, her eyes begging, ‘Keep talking.’

‘Don’t worry about me.’ Asha lowered her voice. ‘I thought it was my discomfort you liked, anyway.’

Rose nodded, trying not to look hungry. She still felt horribly compromised by her position, although Madame Vieille’s touch was far from unpleasant and she knew if she abandoned herself to Asha’s words... well, it would quickly become arousing. And then unbearable. Imagine if she actually came during this examination- what would that be like, this stranger watching her have an orgasm inches away from her lover? Rose was perplexed at how erotic she found this idea, but she vowed not to lose control, even as Madame’s fingers slipped in more easily. She knew the older woman felt the difference in her.

‘This is better,’ said Madame, ‘but nowhere near enough. Asha, stop staring and start talking. Put that big flapping mouth of yours to some use.’

Asha obeyed, her voice held in the back of her throat like a ball of explosive sweetness. ‘The air in the office starts to get to me. It seems thick with radiator dust, and that chalky smell of old classrooms that remind me of being a little girl trying to hold in a sneeze; now I’m trying to let one out. The tickle’s torture. It comes and goes, too strong to stand, then backing away slowly. I gasp and rear back my head as though I can convince myself I’m sneezing but it won’t happen... either I sneeze now, or I’ll be saving it for you all evening...’ she ran her fingers down the pale valley of Rose’s belly, ‘and I know which one you want.’

Madame Vieille looked up and smiled. ‘You are relaxing, Rose,’ she said. ‘Please, Asha, whatever you’re doing, continue.’ She went back to work, rubbing the sweet-scented oil into Rose’s mons and vulva, trying to avoid causing friction. The girl had a plentiful, flaming bush which somewhat restrained her access to Rose’s vulva. Already she could see that Rose’s outer lips were spreading wide, the inner ones blossoming open, but she had no real sense of Rose’s shape or sensitivity yet.

Asha continued, ‘I go home and get ready for you. Everything has to be just the way you want it. I wear the black dress, the one with the split up the back, and not a shred of underwear, though I spend too long staring at myself in the mirror from all angles to make sure no one else can see what you want to. My nose is still tickling a little bit and once or twice I drop everything and reach for a tissue, but the sneeze doesn’t come. I put my hair up and put on my jewelled silver bindi with the necklace and earrings to match, outline my eyes. My nose still looks red but I have no foundation to disguise it with, I know you’ll call me butch but I don’t like the damn stuff... besides, I know you’d love to see me with a cold.’

Rose sighed softly. How had Asha worked out that this was her weakness?

‘Rose,’ said the craftswoman, ‘to allow you the full effect, I will have to shave you. Is this a problem?’

Rose was staring into Asha’s dark eyes. ‘Yes... I mean, no. No, I don’t mind. Just be careful, please.’

‘I would never be anything but careful.’

Asha kissed Rose’s ear and continued. ‘Whenever I sniff, it aggravates my nose beyond belief, so I stuff my bag with tissues. Can’t risk a sneeze in front of you, can I? I slip out into the street- I’m sorry, but I haven’t dared to risk perfume. Even as I’m walking down the street, I’m giving false start after false start- ‘hah-hah-HAH-HAH...’ she breathed softly into Rose’s ear, simulating a miniature buildup, ‘and then I stop, unable to set the sneeze off. Once or twice it comes up, filling my nose, but it cuts off right before it can come out.’

‘Good, Madame,’ murmured Madame Vieille. ‘You are dilating nicely. But please stay still.’ She was clipping Rose’s springy hair slowly, getting acquainted with the contours of the girl’s mons and labia, watching the most beautiful, translucent white skin appear behind the clippers, darker gold freckles tracking across the delta. ‘When you see yourself like this, you will never go back.’  The older woman concentrated on holding the clippers at the perfect angle, not leaving too much for the razor to cope with or risking too-close contact with Rose’s skin.

Asha continued to whisper as the craftswoman shaved Rose’s mound, staying clear of the delicate flesh peeping through the jungle of hair, which she wiped away with a damp towel as she worked. ‘I go to buy your favourite wine, and while I’m buying it I have one last-ditch attempt at getting rid of the sneeze before I see you, because I want to give you my whole attention. So I stand at the counter and concentrate while the girl’s wrapping it up. I sniffle, trying to intensify the itchy feeling in my nose, blinking and hoping I won’t ruin my makeup... this stupid tickle, I wish it would just go away! I try to coax it out, breathe in the dusty air, and rub the bridge of my nose- that sometimes helps. It feels like it’s coming!... I’m going to sneeze!’ Rose tried not to move, but it was difficult. Even though she stayed as still as a mannequin, she felt herself opening up down below. ‘But no... it doesn’t tickle that badly. Besides, if I start to sneeze I might never stop. Imagine that, Rose, if the tickle never calmed down and I was sneezing for hours on end, in front of the TV, at night and over breakfast... we’d fuck like maniacs, come ourselves into unconsciousness. You’d love that. But of course, you haven’t told me that sneezing turns you on. Have you?’

Rose shook her head helplessly. ‘No, you haven’t. It’s still your secret little vice. And think of all the agony you could be saving us both. Unless, of course, you’re liking it... and I think you are. Damn, Rose... you know how much I love playing with you. Think of all the fun we could be having. Or maybe this will be fun.’

Still concentrating, the craftswoman eased Rose’s thighs even farther apart to lift the outer lips. For the first time, she touched Rose’s vulva. She felt a surge run through the young woman as she touched her and noticed that Rose was really beginning to open, showing shell-pink and moist as her fingers, and then the razor, moved down each lip. Madame recognised- and felt- the signs of extreme arousal beginning in the girl, and reached for a clean towel which she soaked in hot water and squeezed dry. Checking the temperature carefully, she applied it to Rose’s mons and vulva. Rose squirmed a little in pleasure, then relaxed and let out a satisfied sigh. Her eyes were gleaming, her lips slightly parted.

Asha was caressing Rose’s tummy, watching the craftswoman with hawk-eyes as she whispered, ‘You look beautiful when you open the door- you always do- but you’re wearing that lovely vintage champagne-coloured dress of yours, the one that’s hardly any more than a slip, and nothing else. I can see your nipples. You know I can. I wish I could fuck you right away, but I want to get you wet first.’

Madame began to cover Rose’s lips and mound with another substance, a cooling, strangely titillating gel which she worked into a soft lather. The tiny bubbles bursting against her felt exquisitely pleasurable.

‘You look so relaxed, so pleased to see me, that I almost tell you my nose is giving me hell, but the moment never really comes up... hard subject to introduce, really... and I’m doing quite well to keep it from you, even though you want us to have a glass of champagne before dinner- to go with your dress I suppose- and the bubbles torture me. When I scrunch my face, you smile at me. Like I’m the little ingenue and you’re not.’

When Madame Vieille drew the damp towel away, she saw a skein of vulval juice stretching across the fabric. Rose was breathing deeply, a lazy half-smile on her lips. The craftswoman patted some scented powder onto the parchment of Rose’s mound, sprinkling it finely and sparsely over the shaven areas. She smoothed it in with her fingers, lingering at the edge of the lips.

‘I can’t take my eyes off you. You draw my attention to your breasts, which, yes, do look a little fuller than usual; you’re going to have your period soon, and you’ve got that creamy look about you, a little more of a tummy and your skin touched with the most adorable pink blush. You don’t tell me, but I know that this time of the month you’re always turned on, that I can reach for you any time and you’ll feel like wet silk...’

Madame Vieille’s voice concurred, ‘You are very beautiful in the interior, Rose. Would you like to see?’

She inclined a jewelled compact mirror towards her cunt, the skin clear, denuded of shade, lying moist and plump. Her outer lips had spread wide and the inner lips blossomed open. Her clitoris stood proud and engorged. She was almost dripping with arousal, wetness glistening, juices mixing with rose oil and foam.

‘Beautiful,’ Asha whispered. Rose nodded, still lost in Asha’s words. She laid her fingers on her lover’s wrist and the story resumed. ‘All I do is kiss you, to show my appreciation for your beautiful tender breasts, and you’re on me like you’re trying to eat me up. I’m so, so tempted to slide my hand up your thigh, but I have to tell you to behave, holding your face tenderly in my hands so you’ll know I was loving it. Of course, you start acting cool again, though I know you don’t feel it- you’re all hot and sticky, aren’t you?- and we eat. Dinner’s perfect, of course, but I know that while you were making it, you were thinking about just what you’d like to do to me later, and my stomach’s so tight with anticipation I can barely swallow.’

‘Rose,’ the craftswoman said softly, ‘I think perhaps you are ready to try one of my toys.’

Rose nodded gratefully. ‘Yes, Madame. That would be... welcome right now.’ She couldn’t imagine how the hell she’d hold onto herself with Asha whispering sweet sneezy nothings into her ear and a rigid dildo pushing in and out of her tender, lubed-up cunt, but she smiled. Asha’s eagle-eyes noticed the way that she was gripping the side of the table. She smiled and talked on.

‘After a while, the wine relaxes me, though the tickle comes back even stronger. Oh God, I think, here it comes at last. I pinch my nose, trying to look casual, breathe through my mouth so I won’t spray a big wet sneeze all over you and the food, and I almost reach for my napkin when I hit crisis point...’

On those words- perhaps sensing the rise of intensity in Asha’s cadence- the craftswoman slipped the head of the dildo down to meet Rose’s cunt. Willingly, Rose arched her hips and made as if to swallow it whole, but the craftswoman was gently running it around her opening, drawing the soft leather of the tip between Rose’s lips and letting her juices wet it. Rose bit her lip hard, wishing the woman would just plunge it in.

Asha whispered, ‘but it goes away again, and I pretend I was smelling the herbs in the sauce. I try to disguise the build-up by clearing my throat. You don’t look convinced. You’re staring... has anyone ever told you that’s rude? Huh... as if I know I can’t outwit you, my nose is really starting to tingle, a weird, elusive itch that makes my whole head feel strange and my throat tickle. You know I’m not listening- my eyes are blinking, my lips starting to twitch. You shift in your chair, as though part of you is feeling tingly too. Is it, Rose? Is that why you’re making that little-girl rubbing motion against the seat of your chair?’

Rose nodded helplessly. Madame Vieille slipped the dildo in finally and Rose gave a little moan, shocked to feel herself stretching like she’d never been stretched before. The dildo was huge, but she felt it pass the inner gate with only a little pain, then it was onward and upward.

Asha raised her voice, ‘Is that all right, honey? Not hurting you?’

Rose shook her head. ‘It feels good,’ she said shakily.

‘Good,’ is not enough,’ said Madame, ‘but it’s a start. May I make some checks?’

‘Yes,’ said Rose and Asha together, Asha adding, ‘but nothing more than is necessary, Madame.’

‘Jealousy does not become you,’ said the older woman.

Asha possessively caressed Rose’s throat, ran her fingers down to the neckline of Rose’s thin white vest. Beneath the fabric, her nipples had hardened and were blushing a deep pink. Asha pinched the left one hard, then moved over to the right and put her mouth on the other nipple, sucking ferociously through the cotton, tasting perfume and detergent, the intoxicating taste of Rose’s flesh seeping onto her tongue. Rose moaned and clapped her hand to her mouth as the dildo moved inside her with graceful, almost balletic turns that stirred her excitement to fever pitch. Already she was dangerously close to coming. She had to hold it back.

‘Be natural, Mademoiselle,’ admonished Madame Vieille. ‘You would not do that at home, would you? Show your lover you appreciate her.’

Rose and Asha exchanged a warm smile. ‘She knows that,’ Rose whispered, and then to Asha, ‘Carry on.’

Asha resumed the position obediently. ‘You slip your bare foot out of your sandal and run it up my leg. Your nipples are really hard now-’ she caressed Rose’s chest again, ‘but your voice is dry, unconcerned- you’re not a bad actress, Rose. ‘Are you all right, Asha?’ you ask. No, I’m not all right, my head feels like it’s going to explode, and worst of all I want it to. I want to sneeze out the tickle...’

‘I want that too,’ Rose whispered involuntarily.

The craftswoman made no sign that she’d heard- the motion of her fingers at Rose’s cunt remained steady, touching and testing, her long skilled fingers sliding between the dildo and the moist hot wall of her vagina, increasing the stretch significantly. ‘Any pain, Mademoiselle?’

‘Yes.’ Rose cleared her throat. ‘In a good way.’

The craftswoman laughed. ‘Ah... you are an adventuress.’ Her hand, the fingers now warm and moist, moved up Rose’s mound and felt the dildo there, in place, beneath the fragile skin. ‘But you will get used to this one easily. You are very accommodating and something tells me you like a challenge.’

Rose nodded. ‘I’m willing to try.’

She squeezed Asha’s wrist as the craftswoman turned away to get another, and the litany began again. ‘I nod like I’m fine, knowing you need release as badly as I do. Your voice cracks a little as you say, ‘Well, you look like you’re going to sneeze...’ It would be so easy to nod and go for it, but wouldn’t that spoil a little of your fun? Or would you like it? You certainly are feasting your eyes on me... and speaking of food, you’ve hardly touched a thing. You’ll be hungry later.’

‘I’m hungry now,’ Rose blurted, and then clapped her hands to her mouth.

Once again, Madame Vieille remained poker-faced as she mutely removed the leather dildo, now wet and gleaming, with little twisting motions that thrilled Rose.

‘I don’t know if it’s just the steamy kitchen, or even the heat that you’re generating by yourself, but it’s getting difficult to breathe. My nose is so stuffed I can hardly sniff. I really do think I’m getting a cold. One of those huge end-of-summer ones that make me sneeze like a demon’s possessed me. My nose is running... and what do I do? Reach for the napkin and blow, or sit and breathe through my mouth and wait until a thread of snot’s hanging there right in front of you?... what the hell do I do?’

As the craftswoman left to get the next size up, Asha sat more comfortably and raised her voice a little.

‘Part of me is squirming, the other half wants to admit that I have a cold because I really want you to make a fuss of me. I ask you what’s for dessert so you’ll turn to the fridge- my voice is stuffy, but that’s not something I can ask in mime. You say, ‘Oh, something sinful. But I’m too full to enjoy it now. Let’s go outside for a little while. Have some wine and a smoke.’ You get up before I’ve said anything. You stand at the door. ‘The roses,’ you say, slow and deliberate, you little bitch, ‘are beautiful tonight.’

Rose was shivering with pleasure now. ‘Asha,’ she whispered, ‘please be careful. I don’t want…’

‘What, love?’ Asha was smiling like the Queen of Sheba.

‘To lose it.’

‘It’s OK.’ Asha stroked her stomach. ‘I won’t let you. Like you won’t let me. We’re in the garden… no. We’re not quite there yet, are we?  I don’t want to go. I’m starting to panic. I can’t stand the thought of the roses in your garden, even though I know if I get enough allergens in my nose I can put myself on the verge of a sneeze in seconds. I’m longing to sneeze, but I know I can’t do it in your company. What will you think? What will they be like? They’re bound to be huge from all those false build-ups, my attempts to hold back over dinner, and my sinuses are so full they’re going to be horribly wet and messy. And what excuse can I make for not going out there? All I can come up with is, honey, why don’t we stay here? Maybe I can get to the bathroom... Oh please, you say, the night is so beautiful. Why can I never refuse you, Rose?’

The craftswoman returned with the new dildo, and Rose immediately shook her head. ‘Too much.’

‘I think you should try it,’ said the woman expressionlessly. ‘But it’s up to you.’

Asha looked, sizing it up. ‘I’m not sure, Madame.’

Something about Asha’s tone made her want to disobey.

‘Fuck it,’ Rose said, her voice too loud. ‘Let’s see.’

The craftswoman nodded and brought it closer to her, running it up the soft white flesh of her inner thighs so she could get used to its shape and size as Asha talked on. Madame’s movements had the precision of cruelty, but her fingers were tender. Rose felt herself relaxing. She was too far gone to be hurt.

‘It’s cool and dark in the rose garden but the day’s pollen is still thick out there. The minute I breathe in, my nose protests. You hear me sniffle, and watch me like the little predator you are, wanting to watch me sneeze and blow my poor nose, if I had a tissue, which- damn it- I don’t. I still don’t know if I’ll be able to sneeze, no matter how much I need to. My nose itches furiously, the pollen’s already getting up my nose as I take my first steps outside. I can feel it clinging to the hairs on my arms, the back of my neck, the skin under my nose. Your hand, little and white but so strong, I wouldn’t have believed it of you, won’t let go of me as you sit down on the grass, completely unbothered by the horrible little grains in the air…’

Rose allowed the picture of Asha in discomfort to wash over her. She wanted to make love to Asha, feel their breasts together, their lips and skin chafing, raw with sensation. Instead, she arched her hips again.

‘Not quite there,’ Madame Vieille whispered. ‘A little longer.’

‘No.’ She heard her voice, loud, commanding. ‘I know what I want.’

The craftswoman arched an eyebrow at her and began to slide it in. Asha looked down at her lover, prone and vulnerable on the leather table. Rose wasn’t the first woman she’d done this for, but she was finding watching her immeasurably exciting. With a deliberate languor, she stroked Rose’s breasts, feeling her lover’s pleasure herself, drawing it up into her own powerful body.

‘In a moment, I know I’m dying to sneeze. I breathe in, my breath starts to hitch, the sneeze is coming- and you turn around and look at me, fanning my hand in front of my face like a matron, and laugh. Like a happy little girl- but it makes me so self-conscious that I want to stifle the sneeze. I can’t believe I was just going to sneeze in front of you. I’m biting my lip, sitting on my hands so I won’t pinch my nose - my nose is really tickling now and my breath’s starting to hitch. You ask me if I’m all right, and I tell you yes.’

‘Silly girl,’ Rose whispered. She was smiling as the craftswoman edged the tool completely in.

Asha laughed, soft and sultry. ‘My love, this is who I am. What I suffer, I bring on myself, and I can stave the tickle off for a little while, but the only possible remedy is to sneeze and even that won’t help because it’s going to be one of those huge sneezing fits I usually hate, the kind the kids at school called my twenty-one-gun salutes. You smell the roses, sticking your perfect, allergy-free little nose right into their hearts, as though taunting me, and you say to me, ‘They’re beautiful. Smell them, Asha.’ Look at yourself, standing there. You’re taking your clothes off, you brazen girl, not making me work for it at all… I bet if I slid my fingers into you, you’d be soaking slippery wet and hot as fire...’

In a strange inversion of Asha’s words, Rose obediently raised her arms as her lover took off her vest. Madame Vieille looked admiringly at Rose, the constellations of golden freckles on her back and shoulders, growing paler as they reached her breasts and trickling down between them like the markings of some exotic animal, a leopard perhaps. Asha broke off her litany to kiss Rose’s freckles, her tongue warm and lingering, then lapping at each pink, painfully erect nipple. Rose moaned, unable to help herself.

‘You are quite exquisite, Rose,’ said the craftswoman, ‘but perhaps we might slow this down a little, Asha? I still have much to do, and I feel that Rose is about to peak too early.’

Living up to her name, Rose blushed a gorgeous pink. Her nipples were blood-flushed, peaked into rigid tents, the soft biteable flesh gathered into twin raspberries. ‘I assure you,’ she said, clearing her throat, ‘that I will keep myself... under control. My lover is not making it easy for me.’

Asha laughed wickedly as Madame Vieille slapped her on the wrist. ‘Asha, your Rose is too sensitive for such treatment. Be a lady, or if you can’t, a gentleman.’

Asha’s black eyes sparkled wickedly and Rose could tell that she was really about to make her suffer. ‘Well, well,’ she whispered, ‘you are being a brazen girl. About to come all over a strange woman’s fingers, and I haven’t done a thing for you. I haven’t even sneezed!’ Rose had a small silver ring in the very top of her ear and Asha pulled on it sharply with her teeth before she spoke again, distracting Rose momentarily from her pleasure. ‘You’re on heat, girl, look, look at yourself, like a white wood sprite with that wild red hair and devilish smile, your breasts like little sleeping doves under the moon...’

Rose had no idea that Asha was capable of such lyricism, but she wasn’t complaining. ‘I’d rather look at you,’ she heard herself whisper.

‘Oh, I bet you would. I’m getting that pre-sneeze look. My ears itch, my throat itches, but you won’t let me go. I moan softly, but you have no mercy. You whisper, ‘You’re going to sneeze, aren’t you?’ your voice low and cracking, I can barely hear you. Rubbing my nose hard to try and keep the sneeze at bay, I tell you, Rose, once I sneeze I’ll be sneezing all night, you won’t get a wink of sleep…’

The craftswoman stared down at the girl on the table, enjoying the detached, powerful feeling overwhelming her sensibilities. Rose’s arousal hadn’t died down, but it had reached a plateau. She moved the tool in the girl very gently, not wanting to go up much further in case Rose’s calm was deceptive.

‘All right?’ she asked, her voice resounding in the room. ‘No pain?’


The craftswoman nodded at Asha. Perhaps it was about time to step this up a few notches. Asha caught the look and nodded infinitesimally back. She continued.

‘You laugh. You tell me that it doesn’t matter. You tell me that I don’t know how hungry you are for me, but I do. Even if you shut those big burning eyes, little tiger, covered your face with your hands, everything else would give you away. You’re so horny you can’t bear it and this beautiful pink flush, like dawn, is starting to cover your skin. You’re like a rose, pearled with dew, only it’s sweat. When you move, you send the pollen rushing up my nose; only a taste, but enough. Yes? You watch me as I rub my nose, hating the sound of my sniffles but too embarrassed just to let my nose run, sniffing up great nosefuls of pollen. The tickle’s really gaining strength, taking me over, getting worse the more my nose runs…’

Madame Vieille looked at the two women, both beautiful, both, in their different ways, helpless. She took hold of the tool again and moved it in and out in a slow, precise rhythm. She felt Rose’s body grow taut and scrutinised Rose’s face, slack with desire, eyeballs flickering beneath closed lids. For some reason, she felt powerful, victorious. Asha was the one giving it up as she whispered in Rose’s ear, playing with that mysterious, dark part of her lover’s psyche that only she was privy to.

‘You step over your dress on the wet grass and pluck me a rose, a small, tight pink bud of a thing that reminds me of how you feel, how you taste and smell when I go down on you. I know it’ll make me sneeze. Imagine if I went round the garden all night, one sneeze for each rose, each one different. You hold it out to me, and I shake my head. It’s all I can do to keep breathing, not to explode right in your face. You act offended. You’ve got some nerve, Rose, I’ll tell you that, sitting there naked pouting at me while my nose is on fire. I’m taking deep, shuddery, desperate breaths. I can actually feel my nostrils quivering and it’s making the tickle worse. All the sneezes that have been building up all day are about to hit me in one huge attack, and you’re still as calm as the moon. I’m wishing I could hate you, but I can’t, and I can’t hold my breath for much longer either. I have to sneeze the minute that bud touches the tip of my nose. I inhale- I have to- and start to shake and gasp with the build-up, and you sink down onto me, your fiery wetness against my cunt, seeping through the dress I had dry-cleaned specially to impress you. You watch me. I can tell that your cunt is just one big, wet, hungry ache, and I start to realise just what my nose is doing for you. Now that I have your rapt attention, I start to really work up to the sneeze. It’s coming, yes, coming... finally! I give in.’

Rose’s arousal was mounting slowly. Soon, she knew, her body would betray her. She could feel it readying itself, her hips lifting, her insides accepting the invasion, her neck pulled tight and her face arranging into an erotic grimace. She relished every contraction, every pull and bend of her sex as the craftswoman explored. 

‘I sneeze. Damn, it feels fantastic, but it comes so suddenly it disappoints you a little. You wanted something longer. You don’t know how uncomfortable I’ve been, and how can I show you? Anyway, it just explodes, and it’s such a glorious relief.
‘Hay fever?’ you ask. No, I tell you, but the roses are driving me crazy, and I think I’m getting a cold. You laugh and kiss me, pat me on the back like I’m a child.
I sniffle pathetically, trying to hold another one back. I’m starting to see that you want me to sneeze loud and open, and I tell you, trying to sound light-hearted, that I’m helpless to stop the tickling in my nose.
You’re teasing me now, telling me that it must be a big tickle to make me sneeze like this, that you want to see another sneeze, just as loud and ferocious. I can almost see you opening up to me. I like that this thing I’ve always been ashamed of can give you such pleasure, but sometimes I think you’d be into anything... the minute I saw you I could tell under that rose-and-ice exterior you were a brazen little bitch... but I’ll tell you a secret, Rose, I like to sneeze. I enjoy being overwhelmed, and I love being admired; but I’ve never had the two at the same time, especially not when I’m sneezing. My nose is trickling snot, I’m so stuffed with pollen I can’t even sniff and I feel like I’m leaking air instead of breathing.
I sneeze so hard that I jerk forward, bending at the waist, wipe my wet nose on my wrist, rear back, sneeze again. This is a positive allergic frenzy, and you’re loving it. My sneezes almost knock you backwards, but you’re holding on to me, your eyes wide and greedy. You could touch yourself, you know, but you’re letting it torment you, that hot achy quiver in your pussy. You’re waiting for me to attend to you.’

Rose was. She was tingling from head to toe like she’d come already. She needed Asha to leave.

She interrupted, her voice loud and brittle. ‘Asha, get my bag.’

Asha looked at her, eyebrows raised, a bit offended. ‘Why?’

Rose tried to remain blank-faced. It wasn’t easy. ‘My neck is killing me. I can’t relax.’ She heard her voice tremble, hated her own weakness. ‘I’d like to use it as a pillow.’

Asha went to get it. As she did, the craftswoman did a few things to her that she knew her lover would have objected to. Rose didn’t.

Asha returned, placed the bag under Rose’s head- lifting her rather too roughly and then letting her flop back. Rose’s breathing was a little more regular, her orgasm further away. She might be able to handle this after all; in fact, a little more stimulus would be welcome. She raised her head again briefly to sip a little brandy out of Asha’s glass, and then lay back, her gaze warm with invitation.

The craftswoman looked at the two of them again. ‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked Rose solicitously, resuming her gentle thrusts. ‘I think this might be the one for you, but we need to be sure.’

‘I’m sure,’ Rose said quickly. Perhaps this moment could be salvaged. She could pay the woman and jump her lover’s bones in the back of a car. It didn’t have to happen here.

‘How can you be?’ the craftswoman asked. ‘We have yet to take it for…well, a test drive, yes? I want you to surrender completely. You were almost there before. I want you there now. Asha, talk.’

Asha did. ‘You tip me back onto the grass and we lie there. The floodgates are well and truly open and you’re starting to realise what you’ve done to me as I sneeze out snot and saliva and pollen in a thick wet spray. The sneezes rush out of me, spraying freely in a rhythm you could fuck to, but you’re not. You’re just running your hands over my body, feeling me seize up and relax, wind up into a big sneeze then wind down. I make them long and loud and dramatic for your enjoyment alone, and they are intense, I’m not faking that. They’re getting louder- wetter, too, as the tears and pollen clog my nose. After a while, I start to enjoy it, though my throat is raw and my nose is running. Tears are trickling down my cheeks into my hair, and my nose is streaming like a child’s. I need a tissue, a hanky. You take a rose petal and wipe my nose with it; it’s torturous, but it feels good too, like your skin, like I’m wiping my nose on your skin...’

Rose had the dildo completely inside her now. She felt as though she would never be the same after this, that what the craftswoman was doing had permanently left its mark on the inside of her.

‘There’s pollen all over me now, so far up in my nose, mixed with the tears and snot I’ve sniffed back, and there’s no way I can get it all out. My nose is burning. The sneezes stop coming so fast and easy, and instead there’s this silence, this sneeze-less vacuum that neither of us are enjoying. It’s stuck. You hold onto me tightly, watching my nose wriggle and scrunch, and I try to tell you not to put your face so close to mine, that the next sneeze is going to be huge. I’ll never be able to control it. I’m sure I look ridiculous- my upper lip’s drawn right up, you know that sort of tiger look I get when I’m just about to hit acme, like I’m sneering but sexier... my eyes are rolling up and my nostrils are huge. I feel like that grimace is etched in my face. Your face in front of me blurs into nothing. I blink the tears away, I want to see you. This is the ultimate moment of intimacy. You’re enthralled, your mouth fallen open like an enchanted child. Do you know how beautiful you are and how we’re only here together because I trust you completely?’

Rose nodded, not sure whether or not to believe her. Expertly, the craftswoman was thrusting the tool up and down, intensifying the pleasure with each thrust.

‘You beg me to hold it back, you love so much to see me like this. I’m fixated on the sensation that controls me, and so are you. I’ve never let anyone see me like this. I tell you I can’t hold it much longer but I can, for you I could hold it for eternity. I try to fight it. I’ve never felt so close to you, but eventually I can’t see or feel you, I can’t feel anything but the sneeze or hear anything but my breathing or see anything at all. I lie there, at the edge of explosion, and hear you sigh with pleasure- and then it comes and it’s huge, even for me, made even louder by my attempts to hold it back. A real blast. Damn, it feels good, an even bigger relief than that first sneeze. You hold me tight and kiss me on the nose. For the first time all night, you bless me. You tell me I’m beautiful.’ Asha laughed, low in her throat. ‘You slut. You ask me, are there any more, any more of those beautiful big sneezes? I tell you of course there are, but they’ll take a little while to come. I know I can feel at least one more sneeze in my nose, but the build-up feels good this time, long and tingly, and I prolong it for over a minute. I’m enjoying keeping myself at the edge, giving my nose a break, being able to watch your big hungry tiger-eyes.’

Asha smiled down into them and Rose saw the utmost tenderness in her lover’s dark irises.

‘Then you do the strangest thing. You take my hand and rub yourself against it, and my fingers slip in easily, because you’re so slick and warm down there it feels like you’re running honey. Like putting my hand into some marvellous fleshy flower. You tell me, as if I didn’t know, that you’re close, and order me to keep breathing... I do, slow and deep, trying to encourage the faint tickly feeling in my nose into a sneeze to push you over the edge. My dress has fallen open and my hand is between my thigh and your cunt, rubbing...’

She felt Asha’s hand there. So deliciously, deliriously welcome. Knowing her. Rose let out a sigh that seemed to come from the deepest, darkest part of her as Asha found her clitoris, murmuring, ‘I find your little rosebud in seconds and you start to shake, telling me to take it slow...’

Rose’s breathing fluttered, a caged butterfly. ‘I can’t,’ she whispered, and then raised her voice, which cracked violently. ‘Madame, Asha, please. I can’t hold on.’

The older woman raised her eyes from Asha’s probing fingertips, dark points entering the wet flower between Rose’s legs, caressing the slick, fleshy tissues.

‘Cherie,’ she said, meeting Rose’s half-closed tiger eyes, ‘you’re not supposed to.’

‘You’re doing very well,’ Asha whispered. ‘But you know what you’re doing to me?’

‘No and I don’t...’ Rose panted, almost whining. ‘I don’t.. .want to...’

‘Oh, yes you do. You’re pressing your nose against mine. Right up. So the undersides of our noses meet and our nostrils are pressed together. It feels so odd, like a kiss, and I feel uncomfortable because your nose is so little and perfect and mine is such a mess. The minute you do that, the prickly tickle feeling concentrates itself into one point, stabbing into my nose like a thorn.

I tell you, as best I can, that this is going to be the biggest sneeze ever. You tell me, in that little-girl voice I can never refuse, that you want to feel what it’s like to have a sneeze like mine. You know how they look and sound, but how they feel... am I exaggerating when I tell you how intense they are?

I try resolutely to speak, assure you I’m not. I tell you I’m getting a cold, and you say you want to catch it. You want to feel everything I feel. I sniff, and feel the strange suction of your nostrils on mine. You’re feeling my nostrils flutter against yours. I need to sneeze, but I can’t. I’m still rubbing you, my fingers slipping deeper and deeper into your hot wet cunt. I can feel you. You’re close. Honey! I’ve barely touched you, can’t even touch your clit cause you’re so sensitive, and you’re going to come.  It’s going to be a big one, isn’t it? One of those massive orgasms that sends you out into orbit. Lucky girl.’

She smiled down at Rose, who was starting to buck helplessly on the leather-covered table, her hips riding an invisible lover to the highest point of her desire, alone with her orgasm in her own private rose garden. Her eyes were clamped tightly shut, her little white teeth sunk into her finger to stop her from screaming out.

Asha looked down the table at Madame Vieille, who gave her a secret smile, raising an eyebrow as though to acknowledge Rose’s beauty and prowess. Rose only dimly felt the two women marvelling at her- she felt as though she was performing, allowing them to marvel at all the complex secrets of her body laid bare. Part of her howled in shock and embarrassment, part of her felt as though it was cheering from the sidelines.

‘Good, Mademoiselle.’ The craftswoman’s voice was low and soothing. ‘You have almost earned your reward, have you not?’

Rose nodded furiously. ‘Please,’ she said, her voice strangled. ‘You don’t know... how close I am.’

Asha laughed sympathetically. ‘Oh, my love, we do! We’re the daughters, aren’t we?’

The craftswoman nodded. ‘For you to abandon yourself entirely to my art, and the art of your lover, would be the highest compliment. Asha, Rose seems to be having a little trouble finishing. Do help her.’

‘No,’ Rose moaned, feeling herself begin to unravel from the inside, the pleasure starting to surge the moment Asha’s warm lips touched her ear.

‘Oh, yes, love. You whisper, ‘Let go.’ And I do. I can’t believe it, but I do. A current of power surges through both of us and you sniff as I do it, actually sniff hard so your nose is open to the explosion. You sniff the fluid spray of my sneeze right up your nose, make it part of you. The sneeze is so powerful that it sprays out at both your nostrils and mine. It’s like an electric current, fusing us together. We’re both shaking all over and as the tickle finally ebbs away, as though you’ve taken it from me...’ Asha’s voice was stretched with triumph, ‘I feel you come all over my thigh.’

It was the most amazing climax she’d ever had, beating all her first times, all the hotel rooms she’d ever visited, all the random fragments of afternoon delight, every cock she’d known. She had never known such power between her legs, a strong, strange force- not like a rose in a garden, but a wholly man-made flower of pleasure, a bright, sharp-edged silky thing. And because it was not real, she didn’t want to hold it forever. She wanted to have it and move on and God, she was having it, feeling the rigid dildo disappear into her secret invisible folds, watching her lover’s beloved black eyes, the craftswoman struggle to remain forceful in the face of such beauty. The pulse drew towards its explosive conclusion and she let out a long, victorious yell. As terrible as an army with banners.

The three women breathed deeply and recovered. Asha lay down on the leather table next to Rose, her head on the little khaki backpack, and kissed her lover tenderly, extracting the dildo.

‘Good girl,’ she whispered. ‘You’re such a good girl.’

Rose smiled, silent. She didn’t want to be good. She wanted to be terrible.

Asha’s luminous, almond-shaped eyes were surprised as she took in a small hiccupping breath, ‘huh-huht...’

‘What is it, honey?’ Rose asked aloud. ‘Itchy nose?’

Asha tried to laugh. ‘Rose, what is thih... this...’ Her voice trailed off into a series of deep, rasping breaths.

Madame Vieille watched them, poker-faced as usual, enjoying the wicked light that had spread across Rose’s upturned face. With her slim hands chastely crossed on her belly, obscuring her navel ring, she looked like a red-haloed medieval saint instead of a woman who’d just had the orgasm of her life.

‘My turn to surprise you,’ Rose whispered. ‘It’s not meant to upset you, love. It’s just a bit of fun.’

Asha, rubbing her nose, glared furiously at her. ‘You don’t-’ her words had run together, ‘seriouslythink- you... you’re gonnamakemesneeeh... heeehhh...’ She made a soft whimpering sound, completely uncharacteristic of her, as the nose-rubbing reached a frantic pitch.

Madame smiled, knowing Asha wasn’t looking at her. She seemed to sense the smile though, wheeling round towards the older woman and fixing an accusatory, sneeze-tortured glance on her.

‘Let it out,’ said Madame Vieille, completely unfazed. ‘We’re all friends here.’

Asha looked at them, her face softening a little. ‘Ohhh. Oh God. Ha... have it your- huhISSSSHHHeeeoOO!’

The sneeze rose violently in pitch towards the end; it was drawn-out, long and expressive, followed by a shorter, more snuffly double, ‘Huuh... iPTSHHoo! IhptSCHUH!’ Asha snuffled and muffled another extremely snotty one in the palm of her hand, ‘HuhSSCCSCHM.’

Asha sniffed, bent down again and kissed her lover softly, her wet, irritated nose eskimo-kissing Rose’s. She felt the girl shiver lightly with arousal.

 ‘Feel good?’ she whispered. ‘You enjoy that?’

Madame cleared her throat. ‘I think it’s definitely time for one of our other models.’

‘You’re right,’ Asha grinned, lying down on top of her lover. ‘Perhaps this time I could have a turn?’

Rose wriggled under her, manoeuvring so that her damp, drooling, hyper-sensitive cunt rubbed against the chamois-soft denim at Asha’s inner thigh. She was so raw and wet down there, tingling with an unscratchable sexual itch, that the fabric felt rougher against her tender silken flesh.

Madame Vieille left the room and Asha stared down at Rose, who tried pointlessly to look away; her cheeks were flushed and she couldn’t meet her lover’s eyes. Asha’s face was contorting again.

‘Rose, I’m serious.’ She stroked Rose’s belly, her fingers straying over the newly shaved mound. ‘Uhhh.’ She sniffed harshly. ‘What... what’s getting to me?... I ha-hA. hahahah-hUUU-PTSCHOO!.. .feel so...’ Sniff. ‘Like I. Like I’ve got to... heh. heiiiIIICCSSHHOOOOOO!... whew.’ The last sneeze was so massive that it shook them both, Asha hazily moving her head to the side so she wouldn’t spray her lover right in the face, catching Rose’s marble-sculpted shoulder instead. Asha sniffed. ‘Jesus, honey, that was a big one!’

Rose slipped off Asha’s jacket and rubbed her back through the thin scarlet silk, her fingers straying under to the warm brown flesh. ‘Maybe you’re coming down with something.’

Asha smiled wickedly at her. ‘Maybe. And maybe you’re just coming. You dirty little girl. Is... aaaahh!’ she sniffed, ‘is this... ihuh-’ she let out two thick cough-like sneezes, ‘Ih-ih-ih-IHCUSHEW! I-uchhSHOO!... uhh...’ sniff, ‘some sort of trick?’

Rose smiled, sanguine. ‘Oh, I’d never play a trick on you. It’s just a surprise.’ She eased the vest straps off Asha’s shoulders. ‘Come on. Get naked. It’s your turn.’

Still sniffling and mystified, her lover took her top off, and Rose had to suppress a sigh of admiration at the sight of her lover’s breasts, full and rounded, their nipples a deep brown.

Rose desperately wanted Asha to sneeze again. Without so much as gently rubbing herself, she was close to exploding again. She had a feeling that this orgasm would be big too, but less wrenching, more controlled- more like plunging into a warm bath than exploding from the inside.

Asha was letting out irritated sighs as she tried to rub the itch out of her nose. As she kicked off her boots, slipped out of her jeans with the ease of an eel and wriggled out of her plain black thong, she was still struggling not to sneeze, her voice stretched with irritation when she tried to speak. ‘Oh God, Rose, my nose is tihh... tihckling... hitCSSHHOO!’

She sneezed again as she lay down naked next to her lover, a short, sharp ‘HutCHOO!’ which she directed away from Rose, followed by a tired-sounding, ‘IhTCHUH!’

As Rose kissed her tenderly on the cheek, she exploded into a perfect fusillade of sneezes. ‘hih... hih...’ Asha breathed, then exploded, ‘huhIHCCCSSHOO! ISHooo! HA-ISH-wheww!… Jesus, what the fuck is getting up my… my nose…?… ah… haAHH…HaCHOO! CHOO! Ahhh-CHOOO!’ her head jolting down so that she sprayed Rose’s breasts, the skin around her nipples crowding up into tight pink peaks. ‘Ooohhhh.’ She sniffed wetly. ‘Oh God, Rose, I need a tissue!’

‘Use me.’ Rose proffered her shoulder.

Asha rubbed her nose against it, then let loose with a partially muffled, ‘HuhTSSCHHmmmm!’ against her lover’s petal-fragile flesh.

Rose patted her back. ‘Bless you.’

Asha’s dreadful tickle seemed to abate slightly, although her nose was still full of snot- this was just the sensation she’d been describing in her fantasy, and it was driving her insane. ‘Poetic justice,’ she snuffled.

Rose smiled cheekily. ‘Better than a poem. God, Asha, you’re beautiful. I wish you would do this more often. I wish I just had a button I could press to make you sneeze and sneeze...’

Asha scowled. ‘Thank God you don’t.’

Rose rested her pelvis against Asha’s, the soft blackness of her lover’s pubic hair feeling strange against the bare flesh of her mound. ‘But just think, you could get me off in seconds.’ She was feeling such torturous heat building down there. ‘You’ve hardly even touched me,’ she whispered, ‘and I think I’m going to come.’

‘But I enjoy spending hours on you.’ Asha rested her head next to Rose’s again and then gave two sharp little coughs- a detail she’d left out of her story. Whenever she needed to let loose with a really big sneeze, she always coughed as though to ease it out. Rose looked a little surprised, but ecstasy was taking her over, massaging her body from head to toe with warm, teasing hands.

The build-up was torturous. ‘Huh. Hih-eh. Huh. Huuh... huhh... hohh. Oh God. huhh... huh!-’ then two rapid-fire explosions, ‘HehYEICHSHHUH! ISSHHHEWW!’ She sniffed wetly, her nose threatening to overflow.

Rose moaned softly. ‘Oh, you’re so beautiful, so beautiful...’ she was rubbing herself against Asha’s thigh again, slowly and rhythmically, feeling the pleasure build.

Asha had no idea why she was sneezing like this; she probably had something stuck in her nostril that was tickling her. This place was so dusty! She just needed to blow it out and she’d be fine. She raised herself up on one elbow, looking with bleary eyes for something to blow her nose on.

Rose tried to bring her back down, snuggle into her. ‘Come here. Don’t worry. Let it all out.’

‘I gotta-’

‘Asha, don’t move.’ Rose was whimpering, her voice torn with need. ‘I’m going to explode.’

Asha shook her head, another build-up starting. ‘So am I!’ But she obediently slid her hand into her lover’s wetness, feeling Rose writhe in pleasure. ‘Oh Christ, you’re not kidding, are you?’

Rose couldn’t answer, her head against the backpack, her eyes closed as she concentrated.

‘All right,’ Asha whispered, expertly manipulating Rose’s clitoris, stroking and kneading the slick folds beneath it. ‘If I make you come, you’ve got to give me a little relief. You got any tissues in that backpack?’

Rose shook her head, feeling her pelvis rise to meet Asha’s hands. ‘You don’t get tissues, darling,’ she whispered, her words buffeted about by the strong wind caressing her naked skin, taking her back to her most primal self. ‘You’ve done something very bad to me tonight. You deserve this punishment.’

Asha sniffed. ‘But Rose, this is unbearable. I’m serious. If... Ihhh...’ sniff. ‘don’t blow my nose soon…’

Rose buried her head in Asha’s warm brown shoulder. ‘Oh God honey. Oh.  Please give in, oh please...’

‘If I doh’dt...’ sniff. ‘Ih. huh. huh. huh. Huh. I’m really gonnah- haAHH!’

Rose thought she couldn’t get any more open, but she was starting to feel as though she was turning inside out. Asha’s fingers never faltered, diving deeper and deeper in until she thought she was endless, she was nothing but a mass of need, an ache slowly beginning to ease as her orgasm rolled and unfurled in her.

‘Oh please, I’m so close!’ Rose’s words were a muted howl.

Asha was panting like a dog. ‘Oh I gotta blow by doze. Otherwise I. Ahhh. Rose. This is... I thihk... this is gudda be a big sdeeze. I’mtryna... ohhh. Hodeitback.’

‘Don’t you fucking dare...’ Rose was bucking against her, trying to recapture the violent pleasure. So near, and yet so horribly, horribly far. One more sneeze, and she’d be there. ‘Oh Asha...’

‘Oh. Rose. Please. My. My nose. Tihhh... tickles so much. I ah! ah! ahh-’

‘Oh Asha Asha I have to come I’m gonna come I’m COMING...’


It resonated through Rose, and this time it was for real. Simple, effective, but totally organic, matter-of-fact as a tree, a flower. She felt like a struck gong, waves of pleasure spreading out across her skin. She screamed as the pleasure just kept coming and coming, rippling through her like tides against the sand, high hard waves shattering every time Asha sneezed helplessly into her shoulder.

Some time later, they didn’t know how long, they broke apart.

‘Right. I deserve this.’ Asha scrambled for the backpack.

Rose was shocked out of her bliss. ‘No!’

Half-blind, Asha seized the backpack and ripped it open, deaf to her lover’s protests.

Petals spilled out, cascading over her hands like butterfly kisses.

All the colours of confetti. Red. Amber. Pink. Yellow. White. Peach. Yellow stippled with red, white veined with yellow, ruched pinks, darkening crimsons crumpling like satin lingerie.

Rose petals.

Rose was giggling uncontrollably, her laughter spilling out like champagne from a shattered glass.

‘What the...’ Asha managed, and then began to laugh too. She looked down at her lover, her brave and crazy little girl. She could almost love a woman this wild. Rose gave her a Queen of Sheba smile.

‘I think there’s a word for this, Asha.’

Madame Vieille stood in the doorway, a black leather harness in her hand, which she proffered towards the women.

‘Oh, and what’s that?’ Asha said stuffily, gazing at Rose with mingled suffering and desire as her lover strewed the petals all over her. Wicked little fragments of flower-flesh gleamed like bridal jewellery on her cinnamon skin as she felt the older woman place the harness in her hand.

Madame Vieille sat down in her chair by the fire and poured herself a brandy, smiling.

‘You’re fucked.’