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11 Cité Jean de Saumur

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11 CITÉ JEAN DE SAUMUR

 

The girl is so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful, it seems like she isn’t human, like she’s from some other world. Miranda still remembers the first time she ever laid eyes on those blonde locks and that pale, flawless skin with a faint blush on young cheeks. She is a master at controlling her emotions, but that moment, she failed. It didn’t go as far as gaping at her with an open mouth, but she sucked in her breath through her teeth. Madame Anaïs smiled.

 

‘Mademoiselle Priestly, je vous présente Belle de Jour.’ Normally Miranda would have made a comment about such a tasteless name, but at that moment the girl lifted her head, her hazel eyes locking with her own, her lips slightly parted, enough to allow the cigarette smoke to escape from her mouth. Instead she gave a polite nod.

 

‘Enchantée,’ she said which made the girl’s lips curl up in a smile. That was a year ago. She had come to this place after her marriage had failed, Andrea had left her and she had betrayed someone she considered a friend. Slowly she ascended the stairs to the second floor. The left door ironically had the tag ‘Mme Anaïs, modes’. It’s still there.

 

But now she has come here, knowing what to expect, what to do. Madame Anaïs recognizes her when she opens the door. She attempts to talk to Miranda, but fails. Miranda has only come here for one person, the girl, Belle de Jour. When she returned from Paris last year she decided not to think about the girl anymore, but as the weeks and months slowly creepy by and the loneliness started to settle in when she came home to an empty bed, she longed for the girl. Suddenly Paris was not just about the marvellous clothes, it was also about Belle de Jour.

 

When Miranda gives Madame Anaïs a simple ‘that’s all’ to her efforts to offer her a drink or something else, she just leads her straight to one of the bedrooms. She knocks one time and then leaves it to Miranda to open the door. For a moment Miranda stares at the door. She has the strange feeling that if she enters she will never want to leave again. But a softly spoken ‘oui’ is heard through the door and then without hesitation, she pushes it open.

 

She’s stands very calmly near the bed with the pink quilt. Her hair is loose and looks blonder than ever. She hasn’t changed, nothing about her appearance betrays that she has gone from 23 to 24. The room smells like sex, but the only thing Miranda notices is the smile on Belle de Jour’s face while she adjust her crème coloured robe.

 

‘Bonjour, Miranda,’ she says. Miranda is surprised that the girl remembers, especially when she thinks about how hard she tried to forget. She doesn’t reply to Belle de Jour’s welcome, but puts her purse on a chair and drapes her coat over. Turning back to the blonde, she sees that the girl has gotten rid of her robe and now stands in her white underwear and flesh coloured stockings, just like last time.

 

In a few steps Miranda reaches her, grabs her and kisses her, hard. She allows her hands to wander over the smooth, warm skin. Belle de Jour starts to unbutton her blouse and in a matter of minutes Miranda is only clad in black lingerie and black stockings. They’re the opposite in so many ways, but they’re the same in one thing. They both want and need to fuck. This isn’t going to be sex, this isn’t going to be lovemaking, this will be fucking.

 

Last year Miranda came to this place to vent, she needed to get all the anger out of her system and she did on this girl. When she drove her nails in Belle de Jour’s back, bit down in the soft flesh of her thigh or held her wrists too tight, Belle de Jour had enjoyed it, she seemed to get more aroused. It’s the main reason kept her nails long this time, even longer than the girl’s.

 

The next thing Miranda knows she is on her back, legs spread and Belle de Jour’s fingers driving in and out of her, her diamond ring scratching her inner walls. It hurts, she loves it. She’s close, closer than she wants to be, but Belle de Jour takes no notice. She sucks on Miranda’s nipple, scrapes her teeth over the tender flesh, adds a fourth finger and presses down on Miranda’s clit. Miranda arches of the bed and screams as she comes. Her hands hold Belle de Jour tightly as she draws four angry red welts on both sides of the girl’s back. The blonde moans when she feels the pain.

 

The orgasm is still running through Miranda’s body when she rolls on top of Belle de Jour. She positions herself between Belle de Jour’s thighs. Spreading the girl’s wet folds, she drags her teeth over her clit. Belle de Jour moans and clutches the sheets. With her free hand Miranda reaches up and scratches the girl’s ribcage. She digs her nails in the girl’s hip, pinning her down, the ache turning the girl on as she writhes on the bed. When Miranda pinches her nipple hard, Belle de Jour comes.

 

‘Merde,’ she breathes and collapses on the bed. Miranda wants and needs more from this girl, but she can’t. If she does, she doesn’t want it rough, she wants it gentle and loving and she knows that’s not what Belle de Jour wants. She’s so beautiful and Miranda despises herself for marking that perfect body. Quickly she redresses and leaves the money on the bed. She leaves the room and Belle de Jour without a goodbye.

 

It rains when she exits the building and for a second she considers going up again, but decides against it. Pulling her coat tightly around her body she starts to walk, the rain beating down on her. She promises herself not to return to that place.

 

The next fashion week she finds herself again at the same place. Madame Anaïs informs her that Belle de Jour has left and won’t return. She offers her other girls, Charlotte and Mathilde or whatever their names are, but Miranda’s not interested. She turns on her heel and leaves, not looking back at 11 Cite Jean de Saumur.