Whiter Shade of Pale

by Jukebox and thrall

(Note: This story is the middle of the White Album. It may be enjoyed on its own, but follows "A Hazy Shade of Winter" and precedes "Love Like Winter".)

*

"Breakfast in bed, perhaps?"

Abby groaned and rolled over. Flora Weinstein was standing beside her with a pair of butlers bearing trays of, yes, actual breakfast. Abby shielded her eyes, even though the morning light leaking through the windows was strained by winter clouds until it was thin and gray. "Uhhhm," she mumbled, "God, I'm exhausted....Flora, what are

you

doing here?"

"Well, let's see." Flora touched a finger to her chin. "Why don't I bypass the expected, 'I should be asking you the same question,' and just skip straight on to, 'You're welcome'?"

Abby frowned. For some reason, nothing seemed to be sinking in this morning. She felt like she could roll over and sleep another ten hours. "Welcome?"

"For letting you spend the night, sweetheart. But after all, I pride myself on being a good hostess. I wouldn't have turned you and Carly out in any case, since you weren't in any condition to drive."

"Carly?" At some point, Abby hoped her brain would kick in enough that she could talk in complete sentences. But for the moment, she settled for nudging the covers back enough to see her wife beside her, curled in a fetal knot. Carly looked like Abby felt, her ashen pallor testifying to a night of overindulgence. Abby knew they must have drunk a lot, since she couldn't remember what they drank or how fast they drank it. "Right," she mumbled. "Carly."

"I tried waking you both up," Flora continued as her butlers set down their trays in disconcerting unison, "but you were spark out. Whatever the three of you did up here, it certainly must have been vigorous. In the end, I decided just to let you sleep it off." She paused a moment as the butlers lifted the lids. "I hope you don't mind vegan pancakes, but I couldn't remember your feelings on meat."

Abby felt suddenly ravenous, as though she hadn't eaten anything in years. She'd shoveled several forkfuls into her mouth before Flora's words even registered. "Free?" she managed around a mouthful of pancake.

"Of course they're free, dear," Flora sniffed. "You're a guest."

"No," Abby said urgently, "Free!" She held up three fingers for clarification.

"Oh! I see!" Flora let out an unexpected giggle even as Carly began to stir, the scent of food achieving what the conversation hadn't. "Yes, Dalila left hours ago. That was when I came to check on you; I wasn't too concerned about the three of you sneaking away together--and don't look at me like that, darling. You're not nearly so stealthy as you think. You didn't need those two burly friends of Dalila's in front of the door, either. I was more than happy to give you your privacy. It's a party, after all. People are bound to sneak off and have sex. Why did you think I left the fire going in here?"

Abby fumbled around in the fog of her brain, trying to locate any memories of last night's events. She hadn't even remembered meeting Dalila until Flora mentioned her, but one new realization led to another. She and Dalila and Carly, talking about...about... "We, um...it wasn't sex," she mumbled, swallowing a bite of food. "We were just taking some pictures."

"I see," Flora answered brightly. "And you thought that a shot of your panties dangling from the lamp would make a nice tableau?"

Abby glanced to one side, then groaned. Those were her panties, all right. She peeked beneath the sheets. And Lord only knew where Carly's had ended up; they certainly weren't on her. She patted her wife's face gently until her eyes opened.

"What?" Carly mumbled, licking dry lips. "Is it time to get dressed for the party?"

"My party?" asked Flora, leaning in. "Or are you two popular enough to have them back to back?"

Carly frowned at the older woman, then back at her wife. "Abby, what's Flora doing in our apartment?"

Abby sighed and began to scoop up whatever clothes were within reach. "We're not in our apartment, love. Let's get dressed, and I'll explain on the way home."

*****

Going over the events of the party helped Carly patch a few memories together, but only a few. Abby couldn't explain much when she kept drawing blanks, herself. In the end, they realized that pooling their recollections amounted to pooling their ignorance; so Abby settled for getting Carly home, getting them both showered and fed (they were both hungry enough to eat a second time, a testament to the amount of energy they must have burned the night before) and settling back into bed. Her second sleep was as deep as the first, and was only broken by the ringing of the telephone.

Abby fumbled the receiver to her face and adopted the false, overly bright tones of the recently awakened. "Hello?"

"Darling!" Dalila's voice sounded lush and welcoming on the other end of the line. "So nice to talk with you again. I'm sorry to call you so early, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm running a little behind, so if you could turn up at 3:45 instead of 3:30, you'd be doing us both a lovely favor. You won't need to twiddle your thumbs waiting for me, and I won't feel guilty about making you twiddle them."

Adrenalin shocked Abby to true wakefulness. "3:45? Today?"

"For the shoot," Dalila answered patiently. "You do remember last night?"

Abby cringed. Should she bluff it out, or admit that her memories of the party trailed into a bank of white fog that lasted all the way to morning? In the end, her resolve broke. "I can't remember anything after the camera started clicking," she admitted, her voice sounding small and weak in her ears.

Dalila seemed more amused than annoyed. "Oh!" she answered. "Well, then, allow me to fill in the gaps. The shoot went wonderfully--I took the camera with me to look at the pictures; I hope you don't mind. You can have it back this afternoon when we're done. Then I told you I'd be thrilled to shoot with you again in a more professional setting. I suggested you come to my studio at 3:30 this afternoon, you agreed, and I left you and your lovely wife to celebrate the arrangement together." She paused. "You must have celebrated more strenuously than I expected."

Each word of Dalila's filled Abby with more certainty than the last. Abby still couldn't remember most of last night, but her new friend's descriptions somehow felt more real than actual memories. She nodded absently, then realized Dalila couldn't see her through the phone line. "Oh, yes," she said. "I remember now. So...could you e-mail me directions to your place?"

"I already did," Dalila answered smugly.

Three hours later, Abby stepped out of the cab and chivvied her camera bag further up her shoulder. Then she gazed up at the four rows of identical windows and whistled softly. From outside, Dalila's home looked like a typical collection of SoHo lofts; but Abby knew from the e-mail that the simple facade hid a beehive of interlocking apartments, all owned by Dalila and housing not only her but also several dozen of her closest friends. Who knew, Abby thought as she started toward the door, she and Carly might end up moving in, too.

She chuckled at her own foolishness, then paused. Something dark had flickered in the corner of her vision, right at the edge of the building. It was gone the moment she noticed it, but Abby could have sworn she'd seen a man's head peering around the corner and then ducking out of sight. Just a typical New York weirdo, she guessed. She dismissed him with a shake of her head and rang the bell.

"Abby, darling, you made it! And right on time!" Dalila's voice sounded warm even over the tinny speaker.

"I wouldn't want you to twiddle your thumbs waiting for me," Abby laughed.

The buzzer sounded, and soon Abby was riding a lavishly appointed elevator with a stone-faced operator she thought she recognized from the party. Of course, he wasn't wearing the face paint today, and his hair was auburn instead of white, but that look of blank complacency seemed pretty familiar.

The man let Abby out at the penthouse level without ever speaking a word; then another ex-harajuku ushered her through a succession of living spaces, each with its own rich set of colors and patterns. Dalila's tastes were astonishing and eclectic; yet somehow she found ways to tie every element of every room together, from the ancient Persian rug on the floor to the modern art on the walls. Abby was happily agog, even before she'd been ushered into the presence of the model herself.

Dalila looked like a completely different woman today. She'd ditched the elaborate kimono in favor of a simple black dress, and she'd washed out the hair dye and let her naturally dark hair hang down past her shoulders. Without the body paint, her skin was a rich shade of olive; Abby practically salivated at the thought of how it would look on film. None of the changes had dimmed Dalila's beauty; on the contrary, she glowed as though she walked in her own private spotlight. "Oh, sweetheart!" the model exclaimed, embracing Abby like an old friend and drawing her deeper into the penthouse. "I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this."

"Me too," Abby beamed, realizing only now how much she meant it. She

had

been looking forward to seeing Dalila again. She'd been looking forward to it with an almost physical ache. Dalila leaned in for a kiss, and Abby felt her own lips shaping into a bow. The thought of Dalila's skin against hers made her shiver deliciously. Her eyes fluttered half-closed in anticipation--

Then Dalila gave her a peck on the cheek and said, "Shall we get started? I've converted several apartments into studio space; I'm sure they'll have everything we need." She headed deeper into the maze, and Abby fought to unpucker her lips as she trailed behind.

Dalila was right, though; the studio did have everything Abby needed for a professional shoot. The lighting was absolutely wonderful, and the wide space gave Abby plenty of room to set up her equipment. The air was a bit on the cool side, but Abby knew that once they got going, the lamps would raise the temperature to sweltering. And that meant Dalila would be comfortable wearing light clothing, or even no clothing at all--

"Darling?" the model asked, waving her hand back and forth in front of Abby's face. "Are you still with us?"

Abby wiped absently at the damp corner of her mouth. "Um, yeah," she said. It felt like the temperature had already risen five degrees, and she hadn't even unpacked her lights yet. "I'm fine. Just thinking about...um, about what we're going to be doing together." She blushed, grateful that her dark skin hid the reaction. Her words sounded like a clumsy seduction attempt, and she wished she could take them back.

Dalila didn't seem to have noticed, though. "I can't wait to find out," she said. "Shall we start by choosing a wardrobe? My admirers have given a number of lovely outfits over the years, so I'm sure I have something you'll want to see me wearing today."

"Um, yes, that sounds...that sounds fine," Abby managed. Somehow she wasn't in control of the shoot, and that was strange; normally, she'd be the one telling the model what to do. But that seemed inappropriate with Dalila for some reason. All Abby really wanted was to let the other woman guide the course of events--

No. That was a lie. All Abby really wanted was to drop her camera and fall on the couch in the corner with Dalila on top of her, to feel Dalila's silky skin against her own. But Abby was here on assignment, she was married, and Dalila probably wasn't even interested in her like that.

...but what if she was? Abby felt her knees wobble, just barely.

Dalila, meanwhile, had turned away and was opening the doors of a gigantic walk-in closet. Abby gasped at the vast array of dresses, shoes, lingerie, catsuits, and even more exotic under- and outergarments. Her fingers trailed eagerly along the fabrics. It was so easy to imagine Dalila's skin beneath them, then to imagine Dalila's skin beneath her fingers. She drew in a long, slow breath; and yes, she could, very faintly, catch the scent of Dalila's body. It was at once unbearably exotic and exquisitely familiar.

Abby leaned in even as Dalila turned again, reaching for a dark, gauzy confection beaded in black and bronze. "This one, I'm thinking," she said, and hugged it to her chest. "It brings back so many pleasant memories."

The model had chosen a vintage flapper dress of such thin material that Abby already knew what would happen to it under the lights. "It's lovely, Dalila," she answered with total sincerity, then bit her tongue against the warning she wanted to add. Dalila must already know about the gown's transparency; she'd probably chosen it for just that reason. And if not--

The sparkle in Dalila's eyes told Abby that she knew perfectly well what would happen under the lights. She knew, and she couldn't wait to demonstrate the effect.

Abby couldn't wait, either. She wanted to shoot Dalila like that, posing her so that the shadows artfully hit what the fabric wouldn't bother to conceal. She wanted to watch Dalila shift position, each motion unveiling new and delectable vistas of flesh. Other people would see the pictures and fantasize, but Abby would know. Tonight, when she had sex with Carly, she'd be picturing Dalila. Whether she meant to or not.

Abby tried to keep Carly in mind as she replied, "Yes, we can use that one," but her voice came out as a squeak, and she knew the reason for that squeak must be abundantly clear. Dalila nodded and turned away, giving Abby a moment of relief. Then the model slipped out of her dress, and all thoughts of Carly fell away with the fabric. In fact, all thoughts fell away from Abby's mind, period. Her eyes traced the curve of Dalila's buttocks as carefully as if she were running her finger along them, and she felt a surge of heat between her thighs. Dalila hadn't been wearing anything under her dress all this time. The realization became a tangible weight in Abby's mind, growing and growing until it was impossible to ignore. At any time, Abby thought, she could have reached down underneath the skirt and felt warm, wet flesh under her fingertips. At any time, she could have knelt down and, and, and--

Dalila slipped the dress over her shoulders, but it didn't help. Even without the lights, the fabric barely concealed anything. Abby felt like she couldn't breathe, even though she heard herself gasp quite distinctly.

"I hope you don't mind my changing in front of you," Dalila said, turning to face her again, "but I figured that as long as it was just us girls..."

Abby didn't respond. She couldn't say anything; she couldn't think anything over the pounding of her own heartbeat. She just stared at Dalila's chest, unable to tear her eyes away from Dalila's large, dark, oh-my-god-they're-stiff nipples.

"Oh!" Dalila exclaimed theatrically. "Sorry, I forgot that you were...." She made an attempt at covering her body; but there was simply too much skin to hide, and she didn't seem to be trying all that hard anyway. At last she chuckled and let her hands flutter back to her sides. "Anyway," she said brightly, as Abby fought to keep her own hands where they belonged, "let's pick out a set. How about this one, with all the comfy cushions and throws? I believe it will work perfectly with this dress."

Abby trailed helplessly in her wake as Dalila led her to a corner where rich, dark, velvet cushions clustered under palms in Art Deco vases. "Yes, perfect," Abby managed, because it was. It was perfect for the dress; perfect for the shoot; and perfect for, oh, a whole boatload of other things she really didn't need to think about right now.

Dalila threw herself down on the pillows and Abby squatted beside her, beginning to unpack her bag. Out came the first light. Out came the second light. She forced herself to remember that she was a professional, here to do a job. She forced herself to remember that she had a wife at home. Then, just when she'd finally bought herself a second of lust-free concentration, the tip of Dalila's toe brushed the back of Abby's hand.

Abby looked up into Dalila's eyes, glittering almost as darkly as the sequins on her gown. Then the corner of her mouth curled, and all the niggling little pieces fell together in Abby's mind. As they locked into place, they left her unable to think of anything else but this: Dalila did want her. More than just want; Dalila

hungered

for her. Abby could feel it, and she couldn't resist it anymore. She let her thoughts fade into a hazy white fog of bliss.

This had happened before, Abby almost-thought.

Then she tasted Dalila, and she stopped thinking altogether.

******

Abby stepped out on the sidewalk, the breeze from the opened door making her loose hair fly around her face. She brushed a blonde lock behind her ear and paused, letting her eyes adjust to the light. It gave her the perfect excuse, as if any were needed, to dig the metaphorical knife further into her gut. God, what had she been thinking? Carly would never have cheated on her, and up until a couple of hours ago, she'd have sworn she'd never cheat on Carly. Now, though, she couldn't even swear not to do it again. Dalila was just--she just--she did something to Abby that Abby couldn't explain. All she knew was that she'd never felt anything like it before, and the mere thought that she might feel it again made her legs wobble. "Oh, Carly," she moaned, and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

"Did you see the corpse, or had they burned it already?"

Abby jumped and spun, instinctively swinging her camera bag at the head of the man behind her. Unfortunately, her boots had high heels and he was a little shorter than she'd expected. The bag only caught the topmost sprouts of his lank black hair.

The stranger fell back and held up his palms, looking more than a little panicked. "Hey, whoa! I'm not the one you should be attacking!" He paused and cocked his head. "Unless you're already in so deep that you know everything, and she's put you up to this." The panic vanished instantly, and he took on the expression of a mathematician puzzling over a particularly knotty equation. "If she remembered me from the party, if she saw me in the other taxi and knows that I'm getting too close, then she might--" He chewed a thumbnail, then looked back at Abby as if he'd just remembered she was standing there. "Um, never mind," he muttered. "Just thinking out loud."

By now, Abby had stopped trying to clobber him and was swinging rapidly from confusion to pity. "Hang on," she said, rummaging in her pockets. "I think I have a few quarters. I can't spare much--I don't usually carry cash, and I'm going to need some for the fare home--but it'll be enough for a cup of coffee."

The stranger drew himself up with an air of offended dignity. "I am not a homeless person!" he snapped. Abby wasn't ready to take his word for it, though. He had a sharp, ferret-like face with haunted eyes that darted around the street as if expecting a descent of cops at any second. He hadn't shaved in about three days, and his clothes were stained and shabby...no, not shabby, Abby realized as she examined him with a photographer's eye. They were new, but ill-used. Like he'd been running through hedges or something. They also carried a multitude of stains that Abby hoped were only food.

"I understand," she said, reaching out carefully with her change. "You're temporarily disenfranchised, that's all. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

The man slapped at her hand, spilling the coins across the sidewalk. Then he grew panicked again. "Sorry!" he stammered. "I didn't mean to--" He bent down and began to pick up the money. "My name is Geoff, Geoff Coen," he said, concentrating hard on the pavement. "I'm a dermatologist. That's important, you see. She can't lie to me like she does to all the others. I know. I know every single skin disorder, and she didn't have any of them." At last he turned his face up to Abby's, and the grief in his eyes made her gasp. "I'm sorry. I'm not making sense. It's hard to explain all this without sounding crazy."