The curtain had fallen.
The cast had taken their final bows and once they were cloaked in darkness the budding young soprano, Clara Josepha Cavalier, tore from the stage with her heels striking loudly on the wooden boards while she held up the voluminous skirts of her lavender dress. She pushed past the chorus, stage technicians, and wardrobe to her private dressing room. With the opera now finally over she could no longer hold back her pain or the tears rolling down her powdered cheeks.
Shutting the door sharply behind her, the perfume of the many bouquets of flowers left by fans fill her nose as she tears at her powdered wig. Choking back sobs, she throws the buoyant hair onto a nearby chaise lounge. Her own hair, darkly colored and tightly curled, coil against the sandy skin of her neck and down her back. No amount of pale powder or wig could hide her dusky color but that only seemed to add onto the novelty of Clara’s growing fame.
Sniffing back tears, the young woman attempts to pull herself back together as she stares into the mirror of her vanity. She wipes her makeup away with little care. The blush, the heart shaped “beauty spot” on her right cheek, the cherry painted lips, all of it must go. Then when she can sob more openly she does just that, sinking into the chair at her richly decorated vanity with only the flickering warmth of a candelabra to light her.
It is when she thinks she can cry no more that her door opens then closes softly and light but familiar steps approach her from behind. A rich and spicy cologne cuts through the sweetly feminine scent of the flowers, it is powerfully masculine and distinctive to one particularly masculine woman. Clara can feel her heart beating rapidly against the binding press of her stays.
“You were beautiful on stage as always, Clara,” the young woman won’t look up just yet, though the voice’s husky baritone warms her, “and your crystal voice captured every mind and ear in the opera house.”
The shuffle of clothes, the creak of the floorboards, the long curls of the woman’s lion’s mane hair brush her shoulders as she practically purrs in her ear. It sets the soprano’s nerves on edge and when she feels the pressure of a gloved hand on her arm she can stand it no longer and slaps it away.
“Captured every mind and ear but yours, Louis! You embarrass me! Embarrass me openly in your box while I perform!” Clara accuses venomously, finally whirling around to face the very source of her anger and despair.
Louis Héroux, well known as not only a lover of women but also so fabulously wealthy that what would be a scandal of her wearing men’s clothes and adopting a man’s name was almost entirely ignored. Yet she always insisted that she was a woman despite her handsome looks.
She was richly dressed to impress for the opera today. Her caveat was neatly tucked and crisply white, a stark contrast against the dark blue of her waistcoat, jacket, and breeches embroidered with gold thread. Her dark brown hair tumbled over her shoulders in an abundance of curls, most men wore a wig to achieve what came naturally to her.
Her olive skin spoke to her French countryside upbringing and her angular face carried a bemused smile at Clara’s accusations. The tall woman raises a brow and begins to pull her gloves off finger by finger before answering her.
“Embarrassed you how, my love. My eyes were only for you.” Perhaps her words were meant to be an inquiry but from Louis’ mouth it sounds more closely aligned to a command.
“Yet your hands and lips were for that snake, Selina von Wulfen! I saw you, everyone saw you!” Clara hisses as she gets to her feet, her voice cracking with pain and her full skirts pushing the chair back from where she stands. Against Louis, the soprano is a head and a half shorter than her statuesque figure but she won’t be intimidated.
“That would mean that I would have paid for Selina von Wulfen and I did no such thing.” Louis’ voice is calm and deep. Now finished removing her gloves she tosses them aside onto the chaise still holding Clara’s forgotten powdered stage wig.
“You are a liar, Louis Héroux. You lie to me! You think I am blind pretty parrot that you can keep in your gilded cage of-“
“Clara,” Louis interrupts, some bite in her voice that warns the younger woman that she is edging dangerously close to a line, “tread carefully with how you speak to me.”
This warning does make Clara shut her mouth but in her brown eyes it is clear the sun-kissed woman is seething with anger. And her anger wins.
“I hate you.”
Clara practically hisses the words and for a brief moment the air is thick and still. The two women stare each other down intensely, neither unwilling to break their position despite the unerring tension. In the end, it is Clara who lets out a breath first that makes her pressed bosom heave in her dress.
And then Louis is upon her.
She captures Clara in a deep kiss, demanding entrance into the smaller woman’s mouth as she pulls her up against her bahis firmaları own body by the waist. The singer is heaving, yielding yet grasping at her lover to hold handfuls of her embroidered lapels. She allows herself to be devoured, gasping for air when Louis’ attentions drift down to her jawline and neck while her hands begin to wander over her lavender dress. It belongs to the theater as a costume and thus is constructed to be overly voluminous and extravagantly decorated with rhinestones and taffeta ruffles but the trappings of it all seems to inflame the dapper woman even further.
Clara’s own fingers grip Louis’ jacket tightly in one hand while the other tangles itself in the French woman’s auburn mane. The handsome woman’s body feels strong and hard beneath her men’s clothes, she finds herself wanting to feel her skin, touch her further, remind her she is far more than a rising starlet beneath her patronage despite the anger that still gnawed at her blossoming lust.
“Never say that to me, Clara,” Louis practically growls in her ear, her teeth brushing against the shell of flesh, “those words they sting me. They wound me. They break my heart.”
“I hate you, Louis.” This time her words come with less of a sting and with more of a pleasured moan. The smaller woman stumbles against her vanity as Louis presses forward and she soon finds herself lifted onto its surface, her dress sending cosmetics and bottles clattering to the carpeted floor. Her thighs part easily for her lover and those hands that were once at her waist were now slipping over her stockings and bare thighs.
Despite being a woman of vast means, Louis came from a long line of outdoorsman and her rearing in the countryside made her hands strong and somewhat calloused. The pads of her fingers would catch on Clara’s stockings and tickle her smooth skin when they grabbed her ample flesh. With one sharp tug the French woman aligns the soprano with her crotch, grinding against her suggestively as she leans over to kiss her singer once more.
There is a familiar hardness in Louis’ breeches pressing against the very crux between Clara’s legs that leaves her gasping and whimpering against her lips. Her fingers tug at the woman’s hair as she kisses her back just as fiercely, slipping her tongue into her mouth and sharply tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth. Louis chuckles at her forwardness and the smears of her arousal against the front of her trousers.
“Your body does not lie like your words, cher. You are jealous, yes, but you cannot hate me.” Louise murmurs, a grin growing on her face as she looks down at her lover. She looks almost lost beneath her oversized costume yet her flushed face, mussed hair, heaving breasts, and flashes of bare brown thighs make for a stirring picture propped up on her gilded vanity.
Perhaps at one time she would have taken pleasure in carefully undressing her down to her stockings. But here and now, just like this with her angry lust and bedroom eyes rimmed with red from her tears was just as intoxicating as well.
“I mean it, I hate you. You are an incubus-” Clara hisses, her voice finding some conviction before it is sharply cut off by an involuntary moan. Gritting her teeth, she stares up at her lover, struggling not to show her obvious pleasure when her fingers slide over her thighs and firmly cup her sex. She’s so wet the sound of Louis’ fingers can be heard slipping between her folds and in small circles over her center. Clara’s head falls back against the mirror as her breasts strain with every breath against her stays at the sensation
“An incubus, beloved? If I am such a creature then you are a succubus. My Lilith drawing me in every night and wreathing your song to seduce me between these thighs…” Louis whispers lowly, her already husky voice becoming raspy with her own rapidly growing lust. She dips one finger into the opera singer to test her slick entrance and then adds another, groaning at the heat and feel of her tight walls. Her other hand firmly grasps the bend behind Clara’s knee, not only holding her open but keeping her firmly in place on the shallow surface of the vanity’s surface.
“Such words you speak but they cannot erase that I saw you in her ear,” Clara gasps in response, lust and anger on her lips even as she rolls her hips towards Louis’ fingers and curls her own around the woman’s loosened caveat, “I…I saw her blushing, saw you…saw you leaning and flirting you…you…”
Clara’s words fade away into breathless moans as Louis’ fingers pick up the pace, curl to press against her inner walls, and the broader woman leans in further to close the space between them. The dress and its many skirts are beginning to get in the way but she won’t be deterred. She pushes Clara’s leg back further, grips her even tighter to her and the body of the vanity rattles and creaks with her efforts. All of it a rousing symphony in itself when harmonized with the smaller woman’s heightening cries of pleasure.
Louis rests Clara’s knee on her shoulder and kaçak iddaa snakes her arm around to grasp the smaller woman’s soft jawline and delicate neck, tilting her head up for another demanding kiss that leaves both their lips swollen when they part. For now, Clara’s anger has been overtaken by her lust. Louis doesn’t dare stop the steady pumping of her fingers, pairing them with her thumb rubbing against the little bundle of nerves that leaves her lover writhing in her skirts.
But she knows it’s true, it won’t erase the memory of what Clara saw during her song.
“What you witnessed was your devoted patron whispering to Miss von Wulfen that she was not as sweet as you,” Louis murmurs, her eyes fixed on Clara to watch for her reaction, “and you saw me lean in to remark that she will never enjoy the fruits of my ventures and labors as you have.”
The growing flush on Clara’s cheeks spread, creeping down her neck to the heaving golden brown tops of her breasts. She sucks in a breath, once again trying to hide her passions but a third finger from her lover pushes another moan from her.
“You are a fiend, Louis…” Clara moans, arching her back and tightening her hanging leg’s grip around the woman’s thigh.
“I told her of how I had you. Where I’ve had you. That you are my sweet, sweet girl…” Louis continues, her fingers slowing but certainly becoming increasingly forceful and possessive with every thrust. Clara can hardly think or find the outrage in her anymore the longer this continues and the more she hears Louis’ declarations.
“I…I ha-hate…oh, Louis!” Clara’s cries of joy overcome her and her walls grip her lover’s fingers firmly, drawing them further into her warm depths and holding them into place. Her body quakes and struggles beneath the broader woman’s weight but she keeps her held against the mirror. The legs of the vanity creak and rock in tow but they hold steady until Clara stills, breathless and clinging to the golden embroidery on Louis’ jacket.
Slowly and carefully, the olive French woman pulls her fingers from between the soprano’s thighs taking care not to brush them against her voluminous skirts and slips them between her lips. She hums her satisfaction at the taste then offers them to Clara who sucks the digits down deeply, her tongue lavishing each finger delightedly.
“Would my sweet girl like what Miss von Wulfen will never have?” Louis asks lowly, her sharp face growing stoney and dark as she watches Clara kiss her dampened fingertips.
“Yes, Louis…” Clara replies, her previous anger now melted away into supine admiration. Her brown eyes have softened as she stares up at Louis, her swollen mouth now closing around the handsome woman’s thumb.
“Am I still a fiend?” Louis asks, pushing Clara’s mouth open to trace her lips and cheek with her thumb. Clara stares up at her and smiles delightedly, not even bothering to hold back a hearty chuckle.
The woman’s hand drops to grasp the front of the singer’s dress and sink her fingers into her stays, pulling her up by them and getting a brief glimpse into the shadow of her cleavage. Clara squeaks in surprise when she is made to sit up and her thigh on Louis’ shoulder slips down to curl around the tall woman’s waist.
Yet somehow she knows that this is her cue, Louis remains still with dark curls framing her face and her eyes fixed on Clara. The smaller woman pushes her dress out of the way and runs a hand over the crotch of her lover’s breeches. She bites her lip when she feels the hardness there pushing at her fingers, the fabric still smeared with her earlier excitement. Without another word, she deftly unbuttons them and a hard leather phallus springs loose.
Clara takes it in her hands as Louis makes a dive for her neck, kissing and nibbling lightly at the skin while she is stroked expertly. Her breathing grows increasingly labored in Clara’s ear and the vanity rattles again when her hands try to find purchase on its edge. She had such a way with her leather cock that she could somehow make it seem almost apart of Louis. Each push and pull of Clara’s hand over the length and girth of it also ground it rhythmically into her core, thus making Louis become increasingly wet herself.
And sweet as it was, hearing Clara’s voice would be sweeter.
Pushing down the puffy skirts so that she can gain a better hold on Clara’s waist, Louis angles herself just right before pushing into her with little ceremony. The two women gasp and moan together with every thrust of Louis’ hips between soft brown thighs and stockinged calves. The gilded vanity once more begins to rattle and creak in time with their efforts, the only other sound in the room outside of that of the opera singer and her patron.
Where Louis grasps at Clara’s legs to keep them open for her, Clara tugs at her lion’s mane hair, digs her teeth into the shoulder of Louis’ jacket, and holds tight to the waistband at the back of her breeches. They cling to each other desperately, Louis’ hips pounding kaçak bahis away as if she has been waiting since the first curtain call for just this moment.
Louis knew exactly what she was doing, this one in particular has always been Clara’s favorite.
“Am I still an incubus, my love?” Louis growls into the soprano’s ear, her hand shooting farther up Clara’s skirts to grasp a handful of her plump ass to pull her onto her leather cock. This makes the woman suck in a breath to try and quiet her cries but they soon come spilling from her anyway.
“Yes! Yes, Louis, yes!” She is so loud her voice almost sounds strained and it sends a thrill through the handsome woman that she could make her feel so strongly. She moves in to kiss her again, muffling the sound of Clara’s high-pitched squeals and breathless moans as her hips continue driving into her.
The smaller woman opens her mouth and her thighs to her, allowing Louis’ tongue to entwine with her own and spreads her legs as far apart as possible. For just a moment, she manages to hook the heel of her slipper into the arm of her forgotten chair and gain some leverage. But with one particularly hard thrust from Louis her foot slips and her slipper falls with a dull thud to the carpet below.
When Clara’s legs snake back around her waist Louis growls and breaks the kiss to grit her teeth. She has almost no room for a breather and her leather cock grinds into her pleasurably. It is growing increasingly hard to hold back with the vision of her golden paramour squirming beneath her but she manages, wanting Clara to succumb once more for her first.
Again the broader woman moves in on her lover, grasping her firmly by the neck yet not hard enough to bruise her brown skin or choke her precious voice from her. Only enough to have Clara tilt her head upwards and catch her lower lip between her teeth in a possessive bite. It dazes the woman and not long after sends her tumbling over the edge again.
Wave after wave of pleasure washes over Clara, leaving her near weeping Louis’ name again and again until she pulls away from her. Left atop her vanity, Clara is a freshly ravaged mess panting for breath with glowing skin. One of her shoes is missing, her skirts are hiked up to her waist leaving her stockinged calves and plump thighs bare, and she is near spilling out of her stays. Louis’ constant pulling and tugging at her dress have even loosened some of the carefully tied bows and flattened some frills.
Louis herself collapses onto the chair nearly pushed away earlier, her olive cheeks flushed and her leather phallus still slick with juices standing straight up from her navy breeches. Were it not for her untucked caveat, swollen lips, and a stain of Clara’s slickness on her clothes she might almost look untouched after their encounter. But where Clara is quite satisfied the dark glint of lust still made itself known on the handsome woman’s face as she looks over her panting counterpart.
She makes no show of finishing what Clara started and undoes her breeches, even lifting her hips so she can push the garment down her thighs. Louis’ specially made leather harness to hold her cock in place reveals itself and so do the glistening wet lips of her cunt as she lifts her hips again to push that down as well.
Clara knows exactly what is expected of her. She kicks off her remaining slipper and slides off her vanity, taking care to step over fallen bottles on the carpet. Her legs feel weak from the rough rutting Louis gave her earlier but they find their way between the woman’s muscled legs. As she sinks to her knees, the masculine woman rises so that she is now eye level with her sex. Clara stares up at the woman then places her hands on her thighs, steadying herself as she opens her mouth invitingly.
Louis wastes no time once she has permission, her fingers tangle themselves in Clara’s thick hair and she shudders when the woman obliges the core of her with the first swipe of her tongue. Grunting, she pulls her in further so her mouth envelops her completely and moans out loud at the wet heat of her mouth. Her thighs tense and release as she watches her pretty singer, so controlled yet expressive with her voice on stage, suck and lap eagerly at her as if she had not been singing of heartbreak in that same lavender dress just an hour ago.
Her fingers grip the woman’s hair tighter as her licking intensifies, her tongue eager to taste every depth and fold of her. Letting her head fall back, Louis shudders when her lips close around that little bundle of nerves and sucks wetly, almost sweetly on it with tender care. She can scarcely contain herself and she tugs at Clara’s hair, pulling her back for a breather and marveling at the silvery string of spittle linking their lips.
“Clara,” the tall woman pants, feeling her cunt pulse with anticipation of an orgasm, “are you still my good girl?”
“Yes, Louis…” Clara answers breathlessly, her large brown eyes now completely soft and her full mouth smeared with shining wetness.She can feel her fingers squeeze her bare thighs but she pulls away reluctantly. Louis steps out of her harness and breeches then seats herself on the chaise lounge, Clara’s theater wig and her tossed gloves resting at her side.