Little Bird

August 20, 2007 Danae Klimt

A Tale of Nouveau Montmartre

“It takes all sorts to make a world.” So my mother likes to say. It’s an old Terran proverb that lives on in Nouveau Montmartre, like so many other things of Terra that are forbidden there now. And it takes all sorts of patrons to make a Courtesy’s career, which is why I’m sitting in front of my studio mirror wearing a gold lame dress and high heels, putting a third coat of color on my lips.

I’ve never done this before. I am a *very* pretty man, and most of my patrons choose me for that. Lots of men like fucking pretty boys, and lots of women like to fuck pretty boys, too–or be fucked by them. But there are plenty of Courtesies who cross-dress for performance; we call them “dragons” now, though nobody knows why. Patrons who enjoy travestie call on them rather than on a generalist like me.

My goal for this session is not to look like a woman, but to look like a pretty boy wearing women’s clothes and wearing them well. The dress leaves my shoulders bare with its spaghetti straps and barely reaches the middle of my thigh. My glossy red pumps are as bright as Dorothy’s ruby slippers, with heels so high only a Courtesy could walk in them. Under the dress is a plain black garter belt that supports sheer thigh-high stockings–and it doesn’t support anything else. I’m not using false breasts or binding up my assets; my patron will find smooth thighs, smooth balls, and available cock under my skirt. My hair is long enough now that I don’t need a wig, but I do need to pretty it up. A few strokes of the brush and a lovely holding spray that contains gold glitter does the trick. I inspect myself carefully, critically one last time before leaving the mirror for the loo.

Oh, my. Even *I’m* impressed when I hike up the gold lame and discover my prick. I hope my patron enjoys this tryst as much as I shall.

She’s seen my picture, of course, but I haven’t seen hers. My new patron turns out to be a tiny little thing, so tiny and femme she makes me feel l’homme despite the drag. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, and her wrists are as slender as swan’s neck, white and breakable. Her face is hidden by her neat cap of thick dark hair, until she smiles.

“Hello, Vee.” Her name is Virginia, but she prefers to be called Vee.

“Hello, sweetheart.” And she prefers not to use my name, at least not on this occasion. That’s all right. A name can be as much a part of a costume as a dress, a necklace, a sword. Tonight I’m Sweetheart, her dragon boyfriend. I am whatever she wants me to be.

I put down the tray I’m carrying without bending my knees, giving Vee a classic look at my arse. Sitting down beside her, I offer her a glass from the tray: chilled white wine, dry and crisp, its glass as frosted over with condensation as my face is with cosmetics.

She takes the glass with a little smile and clinks it against my room-temperature merlot.


We both sip, eyes locked over the rims of our glasses. Lovely girl. Looks younger than she probably is; in her blue jacket, plaid skirt, and little white socks, she could be a hopeful tween waiting for her coming of age, but the way she carries herself is too adult.

I love the contrast of her schoolgirl costume and my glamour, and I’m sure it *is* a costume, just as much as my glamour is. I leave my lipstick printed on the goblet; Vee doesn’t.

“You’re so lovely.”

Her wistful, yearning tone isn’t what I expected, and I feel a touch of sadness. Am I a fantasy of how she’s always wished she could look? Every Courtesy knows how much easier it is for a man to look like the ideal woman. Every Courtesy learns to make his or her patron into the ideal woman or man for as long as the session lasts. I touch her cheek lightly with one fingertip, noticing the perfect shine of my newly manicured nail. Her face is very warm. “So are you.”

She surprises me by turning her head and catching my fingertip between her lips. Just as quickly, she lets go, not daring to go any further. Needs a little encouragement, then. With my best saucy grin, I dip my finger into *her* glass of wine and trace the outline of her mouth, getting the result I’d hoped for: Her tongue follows my finger, licking at the wine and me.

She’s like a little cat that wants to be petted, curious yet shy. I mustn’t rush her. When she lets go my finger, I sip more of my wine, and she drinks from her own glass, with a deep breath that’s almost a sigh.

“The wine is very good,” she ventures.

“I’m glad you like it.” I sip a little more and lick my lips, getting another almost-sigh. More encouragement, then.

“Do you like what I’m wearing?” I get up and twirl around, spreading out my arms. It’s a silly gesture because the tight, clinging lame of my dress isn’t going to balloon out and swirl around my legs, that’s for certain. But it makes my earrings swing and sparkle–faux rubies to match the necklace that slinks across my collarbone. And it makes Vee’s eyes go wide, reflecting all the sparkle and shimmer, the glossy and sleek, that I’ve put on for her this evening.

“Very much.” Her fingers go to her neckline, trailing over an invisible necklace, one she dares not wear, perhaps. I should like to give this one a makeover, show her how very pretty she is.

“Now let me have a look at you.” I hold out my hand to help her to her feet, and I think it’s my hand that draws her; no amount of coaxing in words would do it. She stands up, steps into the center of the room, and I give her hand a little tug that sets her spinning like a top.
Her small breasts press eagerly against her blouse as she raises her arms. Her feet are so small they make no noise. And her blue and green plaid skirt flares out, revealing smooth, solid white legs. I’ll bet she’s wearing white cotton panties under that skirt. I can’t wait to see them and slide them down her pretty thighs.

I reach out again and catch her hand as she twirls, drawing her closer. For the first time, I catch a whiff of perfume, a very modest citrus fragrance. It’s stronger in her hair, on the side of her neck. Very lightly, I touch my lips to that scent, feel her shiver, welcome her hands sliding up my arms.

“Your skin is so smooth.” Smoother than most women’s, I imagine; I depilated for this evening, everything below the eyebrows–*everything*–and moisturized obsessively.

I brush my fingertip across the side of her throat, just where I kissed her, but say nothing, only look at her throat pulsing under my touch. It’s the right decision, because Vee rises on tiptoe and kisses me.

Sweet breath and girl softness, and she seems like a tween again until her arms twine around my neck, her small hands muss my hair. She knows what she wants; I just have to wait until she lets me know it. Kissing is fine for now, her bare legs rubbing against my stockings, her back warm under my hands.

I let her go when she draws back, noticing that she sits down on the couch again without looking away from me. I wait, picking up my glass for another sip of garnet warmth. Vee licks her lips nervously, her hands poised on her knees, then raises her chin.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

I drain my glass and put it down, letting her look down the dress into my nonexistent décolletage. Saunter over to stand before her with a sway that’s half flirtatious girl, half stiffening prick.

Vee reaches out with one small hand. Her wrist looks as slender as a child’s, decorated with one thin gold bangle. Her extended finger slips under the hem of my dress and lifts it up, exposing my prick and balls, my smooth belly and crotch.

Her face turns red, like an embarrassed child’s, but her smile looks anything but embarrassed. “Touch yourself,” she whispers, childlike yet not. “Rub your cock for me.”

I should have guessed that this one would like to look. Smiling, I fist the hem of my dress in one hand, deliberately crumpling up the expensive fabric, and cradle my prick in the other hand. It rises to full hardness with one stroke, and I back off, using fingers more than palm, giving her plenty to see. A light tickle under the head with one fingertip has me almost quivering, and it’s tempting to get lost in the pleasure my own skilled touch can give me instead of watching my patron, gaging the pleasure I’m giving her. She is watching breathlessly, her mouth open and rounded, her eyes shining like a child’s on Winterfest morning. I have to smile at the thought of my cock wrapped in ribbons and paper, a gift to be opened, and remind myself that my goal tonight is to unwrap Vee.

I roll my balls in my other hand, not so much for the sensation as for the look of the thing, then trail my fingers across my belly, hiking my dress up slowly until she can see my nipples. She licks her lips, sweet sight, and I push the game a little further: I turn my back on her, saunter away, and then bend straight-legged, glancing back at her over my shoulder as I finger my arsehole.

“Stay right there.” Her voice has turned hoarse. I keep my pose so she can come up behind me and run her hands over my arse, feel how hard and smooth it is. Her hands slip down to the insides of my thighs–silk, by God–and over the velvet of my scrotum; forward to my prick, and back and up to my moist arsehole. I am hoping she’ll want to fuck me.

Her small hands turn me around, and to my great astonishment she drops to her knees in front of me and starts sucking my cock.

Oh. My. She holds up the hem of the dress with both hands, and her nails scrape me pleasantly as her fingers slowly open and close against me, like a nursing kitten’s paws. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth makes a lovely rosebud as she suckles the head of my prick, teasing underneath it with her tongue. I’m afraid to move, as if a hummingbird has lighted on my hand–afraid I’ll scare this delicate creature away.

When she starts to go down, I have to tighten my muscles and think of England, as Fionn used to say when he was training me. Our private joke for thinking of something cooling, distracting, even unpleasant, to stave off orgasm. Fortunately, she doesn’t linger for very long, but suddenly scrambles to her feet, licking her lips as though I were an ice cream cone. I would love to see her licking up my come, or even some ice cream, but on with the show.

“That was lovely, Vee. I thought you were going to make me spill.”

Again a smile that looks girlish and shy, as if I’d praised a school composition instead of a sexual technique. Still smiling, she begins to unbutton her white blouse.
Once again I get that watching-a-hummingbird feeling. I slip the tip of my finger into my mouth, posing myself so she can watch me as I watch her. She unbuttons the blouse and pulls it out of her skirt, but leaves her navy blue jacket on. She’s not wearing any support under the blouse, and really, she doesn’t need any; her breasts are small and girlish, with perky plum nipples. On the upper curve of her right breast is a small dark tattoo; I can’t quite make out what it is as she comes closer again to kiss me.

She’s leading the kiss this time, not so shy, a little hungry, and my instincts tell me to steer her toward the bed. She cooperates, and we wind up with me sitting on the bed, Vee on my lap, still kissing. I slip my hands up under her loosened blouse and feel the fine warm skin of her back, the slight indentations between her ribs. At last she draws back, with a sigh, and I take a good look at the tattoo. It is the shape of a small bird done in blue or black ink, perhaps a finch, standing on a branch with two leaves, its beak open as if in song.

I trace the outline of the figure with one finger and follow the quiver I feel in her flesh down to the small, stiff nipple. Vee’s eyes sink closed as I grasp it between thumb and forefinger, carefully; after a moment, her hand closes over mine, urging my fingers to a tighter grip.

It seems that a bit of rough play is what she wants. She clings hard to my arms as I play with both nipples, twisting and pulling. Her head thrown back invites my mouth to her throat, and she groans aloud at a judicious bite. Taking a chance, I wrestle her onto the bed, kissing, biting, now pulling at her nipples, now tickling her sides.

She laughs, squeals, fights but not really, gets in a few jabs of her own, and kicks her legs about in a most satisfying manner. When I feel her push me away, I stop and roll away a few inches. She’s smiling, breathing hard, eyes still closed, and her skirt has ridden up her legs to show just a hint of panty. I lay my hand on one good solid thigh and stroke her gently. She opens her eyes and looks at me, responds with her hand to my face.

“I want to be on top,” she says.

Nodding, I run my hand further up her thigh, underneath the rumples of her skirt. She stills, like a wild thing that’s spotted the human who has spotted it first. I wait, but she doesn’t pull away, so I reach further and push the skirt up to her waist.
White panties, just as I guessed. With little lace ruffles round the leg-holes. I slip my finger under the ruffle and touch crisp hair covering deep warmth.

She shifts onto her back so I can pull the panties off her, and I kiss her thigh as the white cotton slides away.

One of the things we are taught, as Courtesies, is to look at our patrons, as deeply as they will allow us. To look at their faces, first; at their bodies, clothed and unclothed; and at their genitals. No two bodies are alike; each cock, each pussy, is distinct. A man’s sex isn’t just his prick and whether it’s rampant; a woman’s sex is more than a hole. That is why we have names for the whole of a man’s or woman’s genitalia, names of goddesses and gods which we keep secret and do not tell.

I look at Vee, at the triangle of dark hair between her pale thighs, and I want to see more. I kneel between her legs and stroke her thighs open with firm caresses, coaxing her with my hands and with words that weren’t words to let me see her secret.

I feel the stiffness in her thighs and the moment when it flows away, the moment before she lies back on the pillows and spreads her legs for me. The crisp dark hair, the same near-black as the hair on her head, lies thick over modest labia that curve inward. Her pussy is as shy as she is, but the pearl-pale rim of her cunt lips gleams with moisture. I lick my lips, deliberately, and wait for her nod before I settle down between her thighs.

I press my lips to the coarse hair below her belly, then lower, where her clitoris is hiding behind the twined strands. She stirs under my mouth. I only breathe against her; put out the very tip of my tongue and run it along her cleft, just tasting the salt-sweet gleam there, not delving into her flesh, not yet. Vee breathes more deeply, and her hands stray to her breasts, flit away and hide under the folds of her jacket. I smooth kisses onto her mound, her labia, her inner thighs, feeling certain that I must not hurry with this one. Only when she sighs and draws one knee up do I search out her clit with my tongue.

I trace out the shape of it and then lick it gently with the flat. Vee twitches and murmurs–not an encouraging sound. I take a deep breath, inhaling her scent–citrus, ocean, bitter spice–and remind myself of the first two things I learned in my training in cunnilingus: First, the clitoris we see is only the tip–the organ extends five inches into the body; second, all men like fellatio, but not all women like cunnilingus.

I lick very softly but not lightly over the whole of her inner lips, not concentrating on her clit but not ignoring it. Her ocean flow fills my mouth, so I know she’s enjoying it–as I am–but she’s not near to orgasm. When I slip one finger up into her cunt, she moves with it, whimpering softly. So, this one likes penetration. I slip in two fingers and massage the front wall, not thrusting. Press my thumb on her clit when her whimpers escalate, and presto! Vee comes, her muscles fluttering around my fingers.

She sits up, smiling, and I take my cue that she’s had enough of my tongue and fingers and wants my cock instead. We exchange places on the bed; I lie down with my dress hiked up over my hips, arms above my head and legs together; Vee, kneeling, reaches up under her plaid skirt to finger herself, just so, catches her breath on a quick orgasm, then climbs astride me and settles down.

Ah, that’s nice. She’s wonderfully tight and as silky as a fresh oyster; every movement she makes is a caress. I let her get comfortable and set her pace, lying back and admiring the tableau of rumpled jacket, open blouse, pert little breasts, and pleated skirt spread over my thighs. She rocks gently on my prick, and her fingers creep under her skirt again, working on her clit until she makes little hiccupping noises and comes again.

She doesn’t pull away when I reach for her tits. I’m not gentle, squeezing her nipples, pulling, twisting them, and it’s plain that she likes it; her breath comes in rough gasps, and her hips quicken, along with her fingers. I make myself keep still, except for my busy hands, wanting to make her lose control, to demand more. Her breaths come faster, gasps deepening into moans; she clutches at my arms, using me for leverage as she lifts and drops her hips in short, sharp strokes.

Suddenly she arches back, with a cry, her hands slipping down my arms, and I feel the powerful grip of a really strong orgasm around my prick. She flails for a moment, grips my thighs behind her, and prolongs her pleasure as long as she can; her fingernails bite into my skin. At last she coils forward onto me, arms soft around my neck, and doesn’t resist as I roll her onto her back. She moans softly as I nibble and nip her breasts and comes again, I think, shortly before I come myself.

She feels so small under me, I don’t let myself lie on her as long as I might. She sighs when I pull away, smiles at me from the pillow next to mine. I lean over and kiss her cheek.

“Do you need anything, Vee?”

“Not right this minute.”

Her voice is soft, is drowsy. It seems safe to allow us both a little rest, even though Courtesies do not sleep the night with their patrons. I wake quickly when she pats my shoulder, her touch light as the fall of a leaf.

“May I take a shower?”

“Certainly.” I sit up, stifling a yawn, and show her to my bathroom. “Help yourself to anything you need.”

I give myself a quick wash at the sink, not touching my face, and exchange the lame dress for a robe. When Vee returns, she’s fully dressed again, her clothes fresh from a run through the quickpress.

Smiling, I go to her with arms extended, but she doesn’t respond as I expect. Instead she takes my hand, clasping it as a friend’s.

“Thank you, Dermot.” I am surprised to hear her use my name. “It was really, really wonderful. But I have to go.”

“Of course, Vee. It was a pleasure to please you.”

She seems not to be meeting my eyes. “May I. . . may I call on you again?”

“Of course. You can make another appointment whenever our schedules allow, or look for me in the Salon.”

“Good.” She bites her lip, half-turns toward the door. “Thank you for a wonderful first time.” She rises on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, then scurries out the door.

First time? she was a *virgin*? Holy Kleite, why didn’t she tell me? I would have– or would I? But my little bird has flown away.


Entry Filed under: Nouveau Montmartre

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to comments via RSS Feed




August 2007
« May   Mar »

Most Recent Posts

%d bloggers like this: