It was a snarl that would make the toughest cower. My fascination with her appearance is now a blood-chilling panic.
“Open your bag,” she growled.
Fuck.
Fixated on the safety pin through her nose and frozen to the spot, she peered in. The jangling guitar and spat vocals were the urgency to my embarrassment. Paralysed, I burned with shame for being caught and revealing my secret fetish.
Thou shall not steal.
“You thieving little fucker. Manager’s office, now!”
She slammed the shop door and flipped the sign to closed. Grabbing my wrist and yanking it, I marched with her. Bargaining internally, the swirling excuses dissolved in my adrenaline-poisoned mind. Dropped onto a harsh plastic chair, surrounded by tired white-painted walls, my nemesis perched on the desk. They dressed like this to shock and appal. I knew what she was and could not face her inevitable fury.
I did what any immature teenager would do and dissolved into tears. Eighteen, with my life ahead of me, she would call for a Gendarme. My parents would be furious, and I would lose my hard-won independence.
Her hand went under my chin, and a harsh thumb pinched it. Lifting my head, I expected her vilification and ridicule, and I would rather deal with a cold, detached policeman.
“So…” she sneered, “what are we going to do with you?”
With glowering eyes, the air was ladened with static, and I was exposed. Snivelling, her painted cat’s eyes narrowed into mine. Looking at her lips, they were curled, not with a sadistic satisfaction, but with a wicked smile.
“You like that dress so much that you would steal it and risk being caught?”
It was a solitary and reticent nod of agreement.
“Okay, Blue. Wear it for me.”
-=-
I am Therese, and nothing special. I am neither intelligent nor beautiful. Instead, I am unremarkable and anonymous. De Beauvoir wrote about female emancipation, and I am too stupid to deserve it. I live in the soot-stained city of Paris, and its faded grandeur is a symptom of sixty years of strife. If the Fifties and Sixties offered a reprieve and the promise of a new Belle Epoque, the Seventies are the miserable hangover. My parent’s generation wrung out every last drop of what this poor city had left to offer. They had the coquettishness of Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin, and we got cheesy Alain-fucking-Delon with Dalida. Sorry, Dalida, I love you, but he sold you short.
I dress like my parents, listen to their music, and my boyfriend is someone they approve of. I work in a menial job as a constituent of the vast majority. I am one of the ordinary worker bees, and society has its expectations of me.
My boyfriend, Jean-Luc has a degree; he is smart, clever, and handsome. He has a spark inside that will get him noticed and take him places. I have seen his roaming eye when we are out together, and it is a familiar story. I catch him, pretend to ignore it, and he tells me he loves me. If I have that fiery Parisian sense of independence, it remains dormant and unused. I know my place.
If I knew what disaffected meant, I would be it. All can see my unhappiness; I overeat, which is my only comfort. I would marry Jean-Luc, be his broodmare and doting housewife, getting fatter and more undesirable. I will tolerate the inevitable affairs and wallow in chain-smoking bitterness as my best years pass by.
It is the best I can hope for.
-=-
Being reduced to my underwear is humiliating, and it bites into my overfed carcass. At least I avoid arrest. The air has that sharp bite that only Spring provides. My breathing staggers as she hoists the zip at the back. Capturing my frame in tight black fabric with its shiny leather harness, I chose the wrong size, and stolen clothes constrain me.
Looking me up and down again, I am meat.
“My name is Puck,” and she leers at me. “It rhymes with ‘fuck’.”
I understand enough English and nod thoughtfully, “Therese.”
Flicking my hair with disdain, “No, you are Blue because of your eyes.”
Walking around me, my discomfort is obvious, yet she insists. Measuring me up and down, her side glance immolates my acute awkwardness.
“Not bad, Blue. You do have a figure underneath those terrible clothes,” she smacks my ass, “You have plenty to hang on to.”
Puck keeps doing this, knocking me off balance. She is a Punk, taller and would be elegant if it was not for the bright vermillion makeup and those heavily painted eyes. Her lurid green macrame top is torn, holed, and sits at a severe diagonal across her midriff. A black t-shirt underneath exclaims FUCK in faded, cracked lettering. She likes that word. Tartan trousers with too many zips and heavy ex-Army boots clomp around my quivering body.
A tilt of her head seers her gaze into the back of my mind. Shaved down the sides and middle of her head, her remaining hair rises as two pink shark fins. It dawns on me that this overt attention has an ulterior motive, exaggerating my plight.
Oh fuck, she might be a lesbian.
She grabs the harness, and I lurch forward; by the sound of her breathing, she is too close. Mine hitches, and I know what she wants, exposing my intense anxiety.
Puck lingers on my lips, and I close my mouth. The texture of them on mine revolts me, and my mind wants to push her away. They suck, press, and then suck again. My arms should come to my rescue, but they do not. She is not Jean-Luc, I am unfaithful, a thief, but I am not a lesbian. At the culmination of my distress, it is there in the distance, so deep and almost unfathomable. I can hear it as a voice growing louder and louder. Her hands upon me are not the firm shovels that take; instead, they caress with an evocative tenderness. I am cajoled and softening; I know she is a woman, and… and… I do not give a fuck.
Je m’en fous.
This is the juxtaposition to her visual severity. I am thawing, and this inner calling is deafening. My arousal surges, opening my mouth as my hostility melts away. I am falling into a bottomless and infinite desire, whimpering and riding on these exciting waves of lust.
Driven by instinct, my hands hold her lithe waist, and we fold into an ever-shifting embrace. Her caress is confident, and mine follows as a crash course of trial and error. Taboos shatter like panes of glass, her flexing curves slide against mine, and our breasts crush together. It is very wrong, and I want it to be.
Puck snorts, and I am so light as her fingers undo the last vestiges of my reluctance. Fuck, she knows the power of that erogenous caress of my elbow. She lingers on the soft underside of my arm. Placing her hand on my breast, I drag it down and hold it there. Its massage presses my lips to hers with an incensed passion.
Finally, she departs, leaving me trembling and panting.
Fondling my breast, she smirks, “Is this the first time a woman has kissed you?”
Biting my lip, I nod. I yearn for Puck to find my nipple, but so far, without success.
“Fresh meat, then. I knew you were a dyke as soon as I saw you.”
These sensations are the illumination at the end of my long tunnel. As a cocktail of novelty, tenderness and passion, my immolation scorches my boundaries. Puck is a Punk, and they enjoy violating those. I pull on her, and our rushed breathing gathers pace as a symptom of our hunger. Our mouths open, tongues sliding and goading, and our hands scour our bodies. A curve, a grasp of soft flesh, feeling her shiver as I caress her forearm. She gives me a soft moan as I experience the spring of her breast and the cushion of her behind. Puck is writhing against my thigh, and the idea of tasting her cunt, is the motive force powering my hips.
I pull her hand to my crotch, and she clasps it. With doe eyes, there is my silent cry for help, and from the cloying heat, she knows what I need.
She leans back and perches on the edge of the desk. Pulling down her trousers, Puck eases her panties to one side, and the compulsion possesses me. Nervous, our eyes meet as my white-hot blood surges. I am between her knees, mesmerised by her glistening folds; the musk of her sex is intoxicating. Pulling me towards it, my mouth cups her sex, and her grip on my hair keeps me there.
“Eat it, bitch!” she rasps.
Eat? I will devour, tasting her bittersweet juices and pleading with novice eyes. Eagerness, not experience, will have to provide her release, lapping hungrily at her heavenly cunt.
-=-
Say goodbye to your eighteen-year-old slave.
Why? It was a place, the Chalet du Lac, and the explosion of energy still resonates in my soul. I was there with Puck, and I still am. She is not the severe shop assistant now; we are lovers, and I have thought of nothing else for days. Amongst the three thousand, we numbered less than fifty. We all moved as one, jumping, clinging and pulling at each other, and no one would stop the sheer force of our will. Oh, some came looking for trouble, the Teddy Boys, and we showed them.
Everyone saw our passion, and everyone witnessed our lust. All the intensity of two women going at it, tongues, lips, and grasping hands, accompanied by jeers, cheers and whoops. We had sex at her dingy squat, unbridled, raw and animal fucking. Her fingers were a blur, that pointed tongue demonic, and I gave as good as I got. We thrashed together, panting and yelping, with two sticky cunts mashed together in a final act that shrieked the place down.
I got home at three in the morning, and my furious parents will never get through to me again. They had their fun in Sixty-Eight and left me with my grandparents for six weeks.
Red food dye stains the bathroom sink and my hair. The air is heavy with hairspray. It is a bouffant styled from a picture of Jordan, my new goddess. My mother’s dressmaking scissors rest on the bed. There is an empty box of safety pins, and my makeup bag bulges with black and candy pink. It rests alongside a copy of Melody Maker and a review of the Sex Pistols on that totemic night. It is a present for Puck, and I hope she can translate it for me. Rummaging in the back of my wardrobe, I find my Army surplus boots.
The stolen bondage dress is now ragged and glimmers with steel, and I find the fishnet stockings alarming. I destroyed my old life as a wilful act, painted in vibrant pink; I am a punk rocker, and so is Sheena. They will not miss the brown and tatty suitcase. What little I choose to keep from my wardrobe is cut and dyed.
I leave a brief note. I have nothing more to say: Fuck you, Johnny Hallyday. Fuck you, mother, father, and especially Jean-Luc.
-=-
Propped against the wall, my head lolls with a gasp. My groin is a smear of red and black, and her haunting eyes look up into mine. It lurches within, peels of distant thunder gathering strength towards another peaky crescendo. The prickle of shaved hair in my hand, my legs wide apart as Puck’s tongue dives into my folds again.
I am a glow, a spirit, and my body is the husk that provides pleasure. In my mind, stimulated by millions of nerve endings, it enjoys the flare of Puck’s hips. Her ass quivers as Dog thrusts into her. He was a street corner pick-up, and Puck always took the direct route. The lash of her tongue and its blunt point worms under my clitoral hood, forcing my body to awaken and writhe. Dog grins, and my weighted eyes delight in showing him my pleasure.
Watery January sunbeams streak over our naked bodies, their hue revealing how we struggle in the long shadows. A shove pushes her against my mons, and the rasp of her eager tongue makes me yelp loudly. For a skinny fucker, Dog knows how to do us good. His porcelain, sun-starved skin is blotchy, and we have worked him over once each already. His seed is cold and watery, drying on my wobbling tits.
What else is there to do other than boredom? Fucking comes for free, and fucking like this is a treasure worth more than all the jewellery in Vendome. Puck croaks, her eyebrows high and juice-soaked lips are glistening. Tiny crowfeet reveal themselves in the corner of her eyes when she exclaims her little death with shaking legs and trembling breasts. All his sinews are tight, and his stuttering body betrays him. I grin, witnessing the slashes of pearly seed all over her ass and back.
Puck dives back in with renewed relish as our gangly lover sidles over; I revel in the taste of their cum from his waning cock in my mouth. A long arm reaches my breast; how they love those. Scissoring its nipple, they know my weakness when I shiver, tense, and squeal through the big one that will sate me for now.
We are a tangle of bodies, and I pant, sandwiched between them. Puck’s arm and Dog’s leg over my body signify their possession. Lowering her hand, her fingers toy with the soft bush of my cunt.
“Hungry?” Puck murmurs.
“Uh huh,” we reply.
We always are, and these are all the words we can manage in our exhaustion. Puck calls him Dog because he is loyal; we are a contented three and fuck like this for hours. They have taught me well during that long, hot summer. Like the layers of an onion, they awakened all my desires.
Christmas Day was a festival of filth, and we gorged on what we stole or what the shops threw out when they closed. We fucked all day until we could not move, strung out in a sex and alcohol-induced stupor.
Puck clasps my hip and eases against me for warmth.
Nonsense, Therese, these are good child-bearing hips.
I shudder. I expelled my formidable mother from my life, yet, she haunts me. Being hungry has its compensation; I have lost fifteen kilos and emerged as a swan from a dumpy teenager. My wobbly ass has melted away, my stomach is flat, and I have a waist. Yet I have kept my breasts. The fulsome more-than-a-handfuls with Puck and Dog slathered all over them when the mood takes us.