Chapter 2

Why on earth had she done what the little, perfumed piece of paper told her to? The paper she'd found with her tip? Why had she walked three long streets wearing nothing but a raincoat? Why had she slipped into a toilet stall after work to get out of her uniform, her bra, her panties even? And the most astounding why: why did she feel tiny drops of her juices run down the inside of her thighs? Why did her extended nipples get so achingly hard as they chafed on the coarse lining of her coat, all the way to the hotel?

The elevator doors slid open once again as she reached the ground floor. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the reception area. The damn music made her want to scream, but of course she didn't. What she did was curse yet again under her breath. What she did was walk into the vast open space, ignoring the pimpled nerd at the reception desk. But what she also did, was stop right in front of the revolving doors that led to the street. Beyond the reflection of her body she saw the deep dark wetness of a Quebecois night. Streets gleamed with dripping lights. There was the heavy drone of traffic. She heard a far away police siren.

And she knew.

She knew that if she would step into the well of those revolving doors now and walk out into the rain, she would kill herself. Not in the spectacular sense of heroic suicide. Just in the smothering, anonymous sense of giving up the last remnants of a life that ought to be hers. She would kill herself in the cowardly sense of letting her life slide slowly and definitely out of her hands.

The pale woman waiting for her upstairs might ridicule her, even humiliate her. She and the perfect African model friends that were with her at the restaurant might point at her shabby appearance when she showed up. They might double up with laughter. But that would not be the real humiliation, would it? The real humiliation, the definite one, would be her leaving now, without even trying.

Leave now, she said to herself, and you'll never be able to look at yourself again.

A tear formed in the corner of an eye. Then it rolled down her cheek. Not able to move a muscle she stood there. She looked into the dark night beyond her reflection. Then, slowly, she turned on her heels. She walked back into the cool marble space. She felt her teeth grind under the pressure of hard jaw muscles. But she kept walking - watched curiously by the reception boy.

The elevator chimed its optimistic chime. The doors opened before her. She stepped in. She touched the top button yet again and pushed herself in a corner.

"Going up!" sang the sickening female robot's voice in both languages. She felt the slight pull at her calves.

She prayed. She murmured long forgotten little girl's words. "Avé Marie, plein de grace..." She prayed to hold on to her newfound courage. She prayed to ignore the screaming fear behind her eyes. Most of all she prayed to be wrong for once in her life.

The dark hallway stretched out before her. She had made it out of the elevator. Now she felt her feet sink into the rug. Suite 2301, she remembered. Penthouse, sans doute. Posh penthouse, sans doute. Intimidating penthouse, sans aucun doute. The sign was in brass, of course. There was no bell. Then again, the door was ajar. From within she heard music. It was jazzy, voluptuous music. A hoarse female voice was singing. She knocked.

No reaction, so she knocked again. The merest hint of relief washed over her. Maybe the woman wasn't in. Maybe she now had a good reason to leave? Was it a last legitimate opportunity to cop out? She closed her eyes. Then she pushed the door open and sneaked inside. The hall was big, with doors all around. There was a mirror. A huge bunch of roses stood in a vase on a slender table. The door in front of her was open too. Her heart throbbed against her ribs. She walked through it.

A huge television set flickered without sound. An empty champagne bottle and glasses lay in front of it. There were pieces of clothing. A green leather jacket. A blood red dress. Stockings. Heeled shoes with loose spaghetti straps. They formed a colourful trail leading to the right. Her eyes followed it. Then her head froze.

Stretched head down on the leather of a huge couch lay one of the African models that had been at the restaurant. Her right, endless leg was raised over the backside. The other dangled to the floor. Her perfect ass rose high up into the air. And right behind her was the woman who had invited her here. Angique she had called herself.

She shone pale as the full moon against the darkest night of her lover. She knelt between the smooth shining thighs. Her lower body was pressed against the crotch. One pale hand pushed a leg aside. The fingers of the other hand made fast piston like movements into what must be the black girl's ass hole. But the centre of movements was a large, incredibly fat black shining dildo. It had been strapped to a leather harness around the white girl's hips. With it she was pumping the Negro girl's vagina so fast that her white, high breasts danced on her chest. The dildo became a blur of darkness.

From the pale girl's mouth poured a stream of incredible obscenities. But each one of them was uttered with the softest, loveliest sweetness. She was moaning and panting as she delivered them. It was almost as though she were praying a litany of depraved lust. Sometimes she bent forward. She kissed her black lover's satin skin and whispered into her ear.

The African girl had her eyes closed. Her mouth was open. From deep inside her throat came panting moans. Sometimes they rose to gurgling screams. Her left arm disappeared under her body. It twitched and moved, and betrayed how fast her fingers were rubbing her clit. Her lower body jerked and spasmed. It humped against the fingers in her ass and the cruel black monster that was fucking her.