Impact Of Collision Ch 05

Chapter 5: Pretty/Dirty

This is a collaboration with the magnificent SiteNonSite, who has been co-posting it under Novels and Novellas.

We're now up to Chapter 5, meaning there have been four other chapters before it, hopefully you have read them all before starting on this Chapter, if not I would encourage you to go back and have a quick read.

As always I encourage you to take the time to read all of SiteNonSite's stories if you haven't already.

I hope you enjoy this story, that you will post comments.

Special thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for proof reading this chapter for us.

Pretty/Dirty

For a long time I'm not sure if I'm awake or not; almost dreaming. Strange thoughts and images play at me. The lights had been left on all night and I can remember fitful sleep under the light of the bug-eyed chandelier bearing down on me. But now the room is full of sunlight and I'm awake - I can't deny it any longer.

I open my eyes. I'm on my stomach, Claire is on her back. We're naked. My arm is draped over her thighs, my face pressed against her ribs, her arm on the bed above my head. My spine is twisted. My legs and free arm are in strange positions; akimbo, as if I'd been carelessly dropped here.

As I take stock of my aches and pains it feels like I must have been pressed against her this way, twisted in this half dream space of looping thoughts, for an hour or more. The shades are open and the bed is in full sun. I'm not cold now, but I remember being cold the night before, that we had slept without covers; had huddled and held each other for warmth.

I begin to straighten out my legs, raising my head just high enough to see Claire's breast, her dark nipple shining in the morning light. Her hand is in my hair, her fingers softly stroking my scalp. How long has she been petting me? The pace of her breathing quickens as I watch. Her breast is rising and falling fast, almost as if she was trying to catch her breath. I watch with hooded eyes as her dark nipple slowly stiffens and grows long, her areola puffing into a smooth cone shape. Her hand pulls me to her, tipping my head back as she does, pressing my face to her side, my lips against her ribs just below her breast.

"Mnnm!" I cry out as she twists towards me even as she pushes me down. My lips drag along her belly. I kiss, trying to keep up, pulling her in with the arm draped across her thighs, my hand squeezing her ass. I can smell her excitement. My mouth is wet, my tongue floods her navel with saliva.

Both her hands are in my hair, her belly rising up as she arches to meet my mouth. I slide down the bed as she opens her thighs for me. Her soft blonde pubic hairs grab at my lips as I crawl between her legs again and begin to press my tongue into her. The tangy taste of her core, already wet and open, is feverishly hot. How long has she been awake? How long has she been waiting for me to stir?

"SSSSSSarah," she hisses. I look up through the tangle of my hair, but I can't see her eyes. Her head is thrown back and to the side. She's biting at her pillow. I lick, dragging my tongue upwards until I feel the stiff fleshy prominence of her clitoris. I close my lips around her pearl and my tongue and begin to suck.

"Oh fuck, yessss..." she whines.

I feel her fingers tighten in my hair, grasping my scalp, holding me where she wants me, thrusting her hips, grinding her wet pussy against my face. I'm hers, however she wants to use me. I feel myself dripping with need, but focus on pleasing her - trying to feel what she wants.

I start to move my mouth down, to spread my tongue to lick her again, but she calls out.

"Ayyy, no Sarah! Suck! Yes, like this! Like this! Ah merde, n'arrêtes pas. Don't stop! I want you to suck. Suck Sarah - oh yes like that, yesss... ahhh!" She amazes me, I can't imagine being so clear and demanding. I try to imagine instructing her and feel my face flush hot. I don't even know what to do myself. I can feel the rise of her pleasure through my mouth and hands, through the weight of her heels resting on the small of my back.

"Put your fingers in me Sarah," she commands and I move my hand and slide two fingers into her gently. "I want to feel you Sarah! Don't be coy - oh fuck, baise moi, yes Sarah, YES!"

I'm moving my fingers in and out of her, they are making impossibly crude wet sounds, but so is my mouth as I desperately nurse at her clit. She is pressing her heels into the small of my back, urging me on like she's riding an animal. I have left all grace and dignity behind. She is fucking my face.

"AHGOD! Ah! Ah! Ah!!" she calls out. Her cry's are high and animal, loud and celebratory. "AH! AH! AH! AH! AH! AH! AH! AH!"

Claire is screaming. Her cries are birds bursting from the nest. They are the happiest sounds I think I've ever heard, and they are only getting louder and more intense. I feel them driving me to suck harder, fuck faster. It's too much. I'm rubbing myself with my free hand, no idea when I started, but I'm cumming. I'm moaning into her. Little loud bursts of sound, echoing her own.

"Mnn! Mnn! Mnn! Mmmn! Mn!" I'm ashamed of myself. Ashamed at the sounds I'm making, Claire, head thrown back, arms outstretched, is calling out for all the world; wild and free. But I'm whining, my moans sound needy and infantile in comparison. I can't stop.

"Mm! Mm! Mm! Mnn! Mn!"

We're cumming together.

"OH FUCK SARAH!! YESS! SUCE MOI! MON DIEU JE JOUISSE SARAH!! JE JOUISSE!!! AAAHHH!!

Cum floods my mouth; cum sprays me. I choke as I desperately try to swallow it all. She's holding me fast by the hair as her body jerks, her grip only loosening as we collapse; her thighs still hugging my shoulders, heels on the small of my back; she rode me. I crawl up and wrap my arms around her, her pussy open and wet against my belly.

My jaw and arms ache. My whole body aches. The two of us are slick with sweat. I'm rising and falling as she works to catch her breath.

"Ma petite pute," she whispers, her voice raspy and sore. "Ma belle bijou..."

I'm ahead of her as we enter the bath, we're laughing as she turns on the water making me squeal.

She's handsy with me, pushing the water over my skin and using her fingers to work the water into my hair. She's telling me about the shampoo as she rubs it into my scalp, letting me lather her skin while she does, but all her focus is on me.

"I'll give you a blowout after this," she says happily working her conditioner into my hair.

"You can do that?" I ask, my head is tipped back as she works the conditioner through to the tips.

"Mmhm, I do mine all the time," she tells me, we are pressed together, her breasts pressing into mine, her hard nipples stabbing me. "It's easy."

"It's not easy! I've tried it and it was a disaster," I confess. "But I've wondered about your hair, I thought you must be paying a fortune to have it done every morning."

"Mmmm, no!" She coos happily as she lets go of my hair and reaches for the soap. "We'll leave that in for now - don't worry, I know what I'm doing."

"I believe you, your hair always looks amazing... but won't it take too long?"

"Ten minutes," she says, pushing out her lip and hooding her eyes, in the most-French expression I've ever seen her make. Her face tells me, it's nothing, while her hands are washing my breasts like they are the filthiest part of my body, as if my nipples are dirtiest of all.

"Shut up!" I tease, as she slides her fingers under my arms, lifting them and lathering my pits. I bite my lips hard, feel myself opening and wet.

"Dix minutes!" she insists as her hands move down to my butt, and she slips her soapy fingers into my crack, fingering my asshole.

"Jesus!" I pipe.

"Ooooh, I think someone likes this," she murmurs in my ear, her soapy fingers sliding over the tight little knot, making me squirm.

"Claire!" I protest, trying to shimmy away from her probing finger.

"Suis-je la première qui touche ce joli petit trou du cul?" She asks in my ear, her voice is husky with lust. I'm struggling to free myself, my face hot with distress, as the tip of her finger pushes into me. "Vraiment, ma Jeune Sarah est-elle une vierge anale?"

"EEEEE!" I squeal. Finally wiggling out of her arms and doing so slipping in my haste. She catches me by the biceps as I nearly fall. She is smiling but her eyes are wide with alarm. I'm laughing hysterically, we both are.

Once I catch my breath and Claire feels she can let go of me, she begins to gently rinse the lather off of me. She moves especially slow and easy, perhaps afraid I'll jerk away again. I'm watching her hands move over my skin, enjoying her attention. She smiles at me and begins to hum.

"You're spoiling me," I warn her as she pushes the last of the suds from my legs.

"It's you who spoils me," she says as she stands and pulls me close, so we're both under the shower spray. She whispers in my ear, "I can... again," the words distorted by the water crossing her lips.

I feel a rush as her hands move down my arms, squeezing me, pulling me down. I lower myself onto my knees, settling between her feet as she widens her stance. She is looking down on me smiling as I take her in my mouth. The water cascading off her breasts, like a waterfall on my head.

I can't see her face through the water, but I hear her moans and feel her legs starting to quiver, she's already close. I focus on the feel of her against my tongue, between my lips, seeking out any hint of her pleasure. She pulls away from me, and I'm afraid I've done something wrong, but Claire leans back, setting her ass on the edge of the bath and spreads her legs wide.

I can see her face now, her eyes are glossy and wide, her cheeks flush, lips parted and full, almost swollen. The shower is drumming against my back and shoulders as I curl my arms around her legs, pulling her pussy and my mouth together. Holding her tight, my hands clutching her lower back to pull myself closer to her hot, wet centre. Her taste, previously dulled by the shower at first, is no longer watered down and is getting stronger as she gets closer.

Claire takes hold of my skull in her hands, soft at first, but gripping it almost painfully as she approaches her crescendo. My knees hurt and my neck is bent back awkwardly. I imagine we are being watched, that a roomful of people are watching me eat Claire out, listening to her cries. I imagine how proud I would feel to be seen this way, to watch Claire use me this way.

"You are so beautiful like this Sarah," she murmurs. Her words are blurry from water still dripping thickly from her hair, crossing her lips. I can just hear her over the white noise of the shower. I try to look up, but I can't. Instead I suck harder, pushing my tongue at her as I do.

"Where do you go when you suck me?" she asks. "You look so happy, so wonderfully content..."

The last word is drawn out to a hiss as her thighs flex and stiffen.

"OH SARAH!"

"Holy shit Claire, you should do this for a living!" She's looking back at me in the mirror, smiling brightly. She looks so proud of herself.

"Ha! I'd probably make more money if I did," she says with a self deprecating huff. My hair has never looked better. It took her longer than ten minutes, but it wasn't the forty five minute affair I'd expected.

"Seriously, this would have cost me like $200.00!"

"It's one of the reasons I wanted to move here. New York City women have the most beautiful hair. I think it's the water. My hair never looks as good in Paris or London."

"I bet that's not true."

"Non! Seriously, it's true!" she exclaims. "Now my turn, are you ready?"

"But I-"

"Don't worry Sarah, I will tell you what to do, now come on, vite!" she orders, snapping her fingers loudly.

I hop out off the stool like it's on fire. I hesitate when Claire hands me the blow dryer and her brush, but she commands me with a look, I am unable to deny her.

As I am trying to roll the brush and dry her hair the way she did, I feel clumsy. She asks what my plans are for the day. I tell her that there are some chores to be done; laundry, housework, meal prep, but nothing really until dinner with friends in Brooklyn. I invite her to dinner, but she says she wouldn't want to intrude. I tell her that's ridiculous, Kwasi and Darci are dying to meet her, it would be perfect.

"Peut-être," she responds.

"What are your plans, should we go for brunch?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"I'm taking you to an artist talk and treating you to brunch," she tells me crisply. Then handing me two clips, she lifts a section of her hair, and tells me "no, here! Like I did it - use them here."

Claire's instructions come fast and furious, but we laugh at my mistakes and To my credit I get the hang of it pretty quick.

When I'm finished, she tells me to sit back down on the little stool and starts doing my makeup.

"I have wanted to do this from the first moment we met!" Claire admits.

She wants me to join her at a gallery talk somewhere over by the New Museum. I tell her about all the things I need to do, but she won't hear it.

"I'll be so out of place, I really don't know much about art."

"It's not true," she tells me. "You were wonderful with Sophie. You charmed everyone."

"This is different. It's not a dinner, it's a lecture. I'm not-"

"You're being silly. It's no different, there's no test. It's called 'Green Pink Caviar'- you have to come!"

"But I only have my dress from last night," I complain. The little vintage dress is great for a Friday night date, but it's going to look a touch walk-of-shame at an 11AM gallery talk... not that I've ever been to one.

"Yes, it's perfect!" She insists. "You'll look darling. "

"I'll look silly," I pout, but she waves away my concerns.

"You'll look silly doing your laundry like this! She says gesturing at my reflection in the mirror. And she's right. My hair and face have never looked so good. I feel like a supermodel. My own vanity makes me blush. Claire misunderstands.

"Look," she says, picking up her little black dress from the night before, "I'll wear the same thing too!"

Standing on the street in SoHo in our heels and little dresses, our hair down, blowing in the wind, I feel glamorous, like we're in a movie. Claire whistles so loud for a passing cab I see heads turn a block away.

I stare out the window at the people and the buildings as we race crosstown. Claire is holding my hand and talking to the cabbie. They are discussing the best route and music. He's playing a Patti Smith album Claire loves. Smith is speaking without accompaniment about "the way you go down deep into the neck." I find myself looking up at the buildings and the clear blue sky, as Smith growls about Patty Hearst being such a lovely child and the music begins.

I realize I hardly ever look up in New York, that there's so much to see, but I'm always looking down. Smith finally sings "Hey Joe" clear and plaintive and I finally recognize the song.

"I like this song," I tell Claire, but she's leaning forward talking to the driver.

"Did you know Charlotte Gainsbourg sings a version of 'Hey Joe'?" She asks the driver before telling him to take the next right. The music is building in intensity and Smith is singing "I shot her" again and again as the driver mutters something and takes the turn.

I'm looking at all the second floor windows - at the world I never notice - martial arts studios, security specialists - all sorts of strange spaces I can't identify. There's a violin maker's shop. It has enormous windows and high ceilings. I can see instruments, parts, and strange tools and clamps hanging from the walls - and then it's gone. I wonder what it's like to be a luthier on the Lower East Side. Claire gives my hand a squeeze, pulling my attention back into the cab. She smiles at me, our fingers are interlaced, her index finger stroking my knee. Patti sounds furious as she sings that she's nobody's million dollar baby, nobody's patsy.

"Gainsbourg's version is super sexy,'' Claire assures the driver. "But Patti's is better."

Her fingers stroke up my thigh, dragging my hand with it. She's close to showing my panties. The corner of her mouth creases up, as she tells the driver, "you can pull over here, thank you."

The gallery is a whitebox space, maybe twenty five feet square. It has thick, rough hewn, wood columns and relatively low ceilings. It's modest compared to the gallery where Claire works. It's halfway down a narrow dead-end alley that is hardly wide enough for a car and covered in graffiti. But Claire assures me it's one of her favorites; a "very important space".

There is no entrance way, just surprisingly new glass doors, punched through the spray painted brick of the alley, opening directly into the gallery itself. There's no reception area, just a small reception desk tucked in a corner occupied by a pretty young girl. In the middle of the space they've set up about twenty cheap plastic folding chairs in three rows for the lecture.

But the paintings and photographs are amazing. Claire squeezes my hand in excitement as we look at them together. They are big panels painted with photo-realistic close ups of women's mouths, tongues out, overflowing with pearls, cut crystal, silver dragées, caviar and candy colored gels and jellies. Other panels are mounted with gigantic glossy photos of similar subject matter. And while it's impossible to see much more than the womens' mouths, all the faces are clearly beautiful. All the mouths look obviously young with full luscious lips, beautifully made up. I'm certain they're fashion models and wonder if I'd recognize any of them; if they're famous.

Further obscuring their identities, however, all of them seem to be seen through the fogged glass of a shower door. I think of eating Claire's pussy under the steaming spray of the shower, of the way she pulled me by the back of my head, forcing my open mouth against her as she came. She had used so much force, almost as if she had wanted to pull me into her womb.

'Would it be art or pornography if we were painted like that?' I ponder. The thought of someone photographing and painting us like that stirs something inside me; leaves me shaken. I take a breath to collect myself.

The young receptionist offers us plastic cups of champagne, and Claire begins to introduce me to the crowd that has been growing since we arrived.

The event is for a MoMA "young collectors" group. And there are about a dozen of us, all in our mid-twenties to early thirties. There are only three guys. Claire seems to know most everyone and is careful to introduce me to everyone she speaks to.

"Sarah is a journalist and designer. She does infovis at the New York Times," she proudly tells one person after another. "Her work is amazing, unbelievably beautiful."

I try not to blush and enjoy the attention as best I can. The group is attractive, confident, and well dressed. Claire and I are a little overdressed, but only a little, yet no one seems to care.

The artist is an older woman with a cap of nicely styled dark burgundy hair and clunky costume jewelry named Marilyn Minter.

She talks about growing up poor in Florida, her early work, starting with her student work, photos of her mother's drug addiction. The whole time showing slides as her work progressed into the 80s, of an ad she ran late night on network television. She tells us about being "expelled" from the art world by feminists for painting hardcore pornography.

"Maria Tucker told me I was too bad for the New Museum's 'Bad Girl' show," she laughs, gesturing over her shoulder at a slide of one of her older paintings. It shows three women in red lipstick sucking a long thick cock. "It was devastating!"