Sinead

Hauntingly beautiful, Sinead is a woman perpetually enveloped in a hazy mist of desire, her entire being reminding those who meet her of molten metal undulating with ethereal eroticism and enigmatic vitality. Her husband, once a common member of the French bourgeois preoccupied by numbers and the delicious ruffling of foreign cheques, worked for the French head office of the Bank of Zurich as its Accounting Executive. He had brought Sinead to Paris with him from New York where she had been a model, because he adored her the way a young boy would parade his toy truck or a politician would polish his public image. He dressed her in the most exquisite of outfits and took her to the most expensive nightclubs in his Carrera GT, where he entertained, or tried to entertain, his colleagues and clients with almost calculated enthusiasm and feigned sentimentality. He loved Sinead when his superiors loved her, and in his precious spare time took more interest in the intricacies of hunting and high class automobiles rather than in her. When they made love each Saturday -- because this was his schedule -- he would always wait for her to remove her clothes and move over him, watch her try to seduce him with dutiful anticipation stretched across his face like cellophane, and take her mechanically when she, or he, was exhausted by boredom or impassivity.

As a result Sinead secretly took on many lovers despite her rudimentary grasp of French, which was not difficult as her smoky eyes, long smooth legs and swaying hips exuded an erotic scent wherever she went. It attracted the hounds of desire in hordes, both male and female, but she did not care for most of them. Her own husband's lack of affectivity made her restless, partial to innocence and raw energetic displays of ardor.

One of her regular lovers, a tall, catlike young Russian artist of 25 whom she'd met at an exhibition, had satisfied her in ways she asked to be taken in. He would call her and invite her to his apartment, a set of small, incense filled chambers in the heart of Montmartre. When she had entered the front door and stood in the corridor, he would suddenly emerge naked from the shadows and slam her against the wall, biting her neck and shoulder with startling ferocity. His cock would wedge against her thigh, pulsating steadily while she moaned, indulging in the exquisite pleasure which lie in the sensation of being mauled. He gave the impression that he was never defeated. His teeth would sink into her flesh until she cried out; digging her fingernails into his tense hardened back and he would strike her thighs, grunting with wet banal pleasure with each loud crack.

He would heave her up between the wall and his body, tearing open her blouse and lace bra, tearing and twisting her small nipples with his fingers, filling his mouth with her breasts and gliding over the tips with his burning tongue. When he slid off her panties it was always sticky with anticipation which excited him, who loved to inhale its musky odor and then push it between her half open lips. Then he would heave her on his shoulder and carry her into his bedroom, throw her on the linen covered bed in all her glorious disarray and attack her voraciously. Halfway through his thrusts he would withdraw, admire her sprawled open helplessly in front of him, dripping wet and disheveled and begging him to return and fill the void burning inside her, then take out her damp gag and shove his cock into her mouth. He told Sinead that he loved her flexible, hot tongue gliding across the tip of his engorged sex, and afterward, when he returned the favor, he would kiss her between the legs and ease his tongue deep into her warm moist darkness, while teasing, circling her clitoris with the tip of his finger. He was able to give her so much pleasure with his tongue that she often came before he slid himself back into her, to claim her through wolfish assault which ended in his exploding orgasm, and her, head lolled back against the soft down pillow, immersed herself in the gently fluctuating seconds of blankness that accompanied each violent sexual climax.

With the progression of their sexual games the young Russian courted Sinead consistently and fell in love with the image of her he had constructed in his mind and on paper. He had many lovers of his own, but they were mostly mindless young girls whose heads filled with shallow illusions and expectations of romance where they played the pampered princess. In the Russian boy's own immature indulgence, he considered Sinead the woman most befitting to him and began to badger her to leave her husband. As a result Sinead began to extricate herself from his life, and eventually stopped returning his calls altogether. The young Russian was jilted. He made hundreds of sketches, all of them of her in various poses: clothed; half clothed; naked; her legs spread open to reveal the soft pink petals of flesh in between. He drew her head on the bodies of young men being penetrated from behind. He stared at them when he was not working and slept among the sketches naked, often waking in the morning with a raging erection and black marks all over his sweat drenched body. But he could not possess Sinead as deep down he knew of his incapability to control her.

So for a time Sinead wandered aimlessly from one lover to the next. She changed the color of her hair -- from chestnut brown to mahogany, then to a silver blonde that reflected sunlight and sharpened its rays into small daggers. She changed her sexual persona to suit each of these colors. When she was a brunette her sexual stance became retracted, rational and calculative, submitting to the whims of her partner like a sheepish young girl, then tying him to the bedpost and torturing him with controlled sensuality. As a redhead she teased her lover lavishly, took risks in public places where she enjoyed pleasuring him with her mouth, crouching and hidden beneath the protection of his long expensive trench-coat. With a cascade of luscious silver blonde hair, she was a goddess exuding overwhelming sensual power, and she made her counterparts submit to her desires without question, even if this meant sharing her with another, or not taking her at all. She would sometimes play the voyeur to her prey, usually a man and a woman tangled together in a wild sexual dance with one another, each in a desperate bid to win her affection until, stirred by their abandonment, she herself would join them, and they would clamber over her with predatory ferocity, biting and sucking.

While Sinead enjoyed her new found freedom, she was also taken by the hollow sensation of being spread thin, of fading slowly into an unfocused sea of eroticism in which she could not find firm footing. She began to have feverish dreams of being taken by several faceless men, one on top of her and kissing her fervently, his tongue massaging hers while his hand reached for a breast and kneaded it; another man rested between her legs, lapping her moist sex with the delicacy of a small cat at the saucer, his rough hands leaving scratch marks on her inner thighs; and the last lying beneath her, bearing her delicious cumber with his arms around her, fingers squeezing her nipple and the other hand reaching down to probe and flick her engorged clitoris. She would awake from these dreams frightened, damp and panting, her mouth open with the words please fuck me on the tip of her tongue, then look frantically to her husband beside her, sleeping soundly with his back to her. Then the current of long neglected shame and sorrow would weigh her down, and she would go downstairs to sit and read until the morning came. Gradually, she started to view the reoccurrence of these dreams and her emotional instability as a sign that she was being punished for her promiscuity. She began to turn her attention once again to her husband, who did not seem to notice her internal turmoil but rather somewhat taken aback by her sudden show of affection.

[continued Part 2]