A Parisian writer boldly extends herself to a newly-interested party.
Georgie had spent all day wearing a smile she didn’t expect to wear so long. Time had positively flown by in the presence of a woman she didn’t think was worth bothering with. They’d met a collection of times before, sometimes in the presence of others, sometimes not. She was supposed to be some up and coming woman in known Parisian circles, a celebrity, very forward-thinking, and today quite the charmer.
If nothing else, that was the one word to describe her disposition: charmed. There was genuine fascination, rising interest in the meaning her words concocted. Every other word Georgie uttered only furthered her need to know more, to hear more.
“When you raise your eyelids, it’s as if you were taking off all my clothes.”
Colette spoke with a prose, a sincerity profound enough that time seemed to stop. Georgie recognized that with every meeting, Colette’s personality grew more confident, did not mind a single bit being more outspoken, and threw caution to the wind, caution that determined the behavior of every Parisian woman held to the standard of being a “lady.” Colette was undeniably that, but almost a lady of another time, a future time, a time women like Colette would lead the rest of the world into.
Colette’s last sentence hit her so bluntly, she was in disbelief of them. Remembering that some of her fame was attributed to writing, obviously provocative writing, she looked at it from a poetic angle. Maybe Colette meant that the look being given to her was quite probing, wanting to be exposed to all the writer’s thoughts, to leave nothing unrevealed as she took everything like a willing sponge.
Georgie settled on the poetic angle, belying the look she received to compliment the words. Deep down, they meant something else, and she had to look away, lest embarrassment turned her cheeks the color of her hair. She refused to believe the blunt meaning, and how the more blunt it was, the more it seemed like not a bad idea. A lady of her standing, in her time, was beyond such things, such notions. There was a time when her reaction to such words would be met with a blunt reaction feeling the standard air of decency had been desecrated by crass, unprovoked, unbecoming suggestions. This time was different.
“Don’t look away.”
And just like that, time stopped. The world was still, and maybe Georgie with it as her breath caught, her body motionless except for her eyes which searched the face of the woman who’d just given her a command. She was more than willing to act boldly against someone outside of her sphere of usual contact, but nothing was more bold than Colette. She strode up to Georgie casually, yet as commanding as her spoken cadence.
Colette’s features confirmed everything she couldn’t deny anymore, that this was happening. Colette’s words probably were blunt, and Georgie accepted it, because she couldn’t look away, because she really didn’t want to. She felt her insides churning, turning, like water impossibly flowing upstream. It wasn’t at all unpleasant; she was adapting to…to liking it.
“Look at me looking at you.”
Georgie didn’t know if it was Colette’s dark, inviting gaze, the low, sensual tone of voice, or the heat that passed to still lips from hot breath carrying hot words a short distance. Georgie didn’t know that all of those things affected her, but they were features compared to the main function the new given command. For some reason, it didn’t sound very new. It echoed in Georgie, pervading every open sliver, every echo carrying the same word, but spoken in different ways. Her insides swore she’d heard it a hundred times already. Spoken matter of factly, spoken curiously like it had more meaning to the speaker than it did to the listener, spoken deeply like it should mean more to the listener than the speaker, spoken in such a soft whisper that the body would’ve leaned forward just to confirm it heard what it heard, and now spoken with passion, that led her body to remain still yet shake in inconceivable pleasure, creating new needs.
The world resembled a painting, colored but still, and Colette was the only thing animated. She was somehow in the painting, or the painter. She composed, made brush strokes with insistent words. Georgie didn’t look surprised anymore, she looked like her painter, in breathless anticipation of what she didn’t know that deep down she needed more than anything. Colette inspired her, rocked her world like an earthquake, reshaped it in a way that made her ask herself why she wasn’t as bold as her inspirer, made her believe she could attempt to be so bold.
She wanted to be bold.
She wanted to be bold enough to feel what she felt.
She wanted to be bold enough to feel for a woman.
She wanted to be bold enough to let a real lady define her.
She wanted to be bold enough to obey a real lady.
Happiness sprung from deep within when Colette’s words echoed enough that she realized she was that bold.
That realization made it easy for Colette to reach forward, to take the once incessantly-rigid, insatiably-pretty Georgie, and pull her into a genuine kiss.
The Parisian writer knew from the moment they met that she wanted to change that woman into someone more agreeable. She’d proven through her writing that she could change minds, and she knew her own words could be as provocative if she really believe them. From there, she took every opportunity she could to be in Georgie’s presence, to test the waters, to inevitably groom her into Colette’s way of thinking. It was slow, methodical, and proven well-planned in the end.
She turned Georgie into a mirror of her own desires. Their embracing lips certainly matched what each felt. Colette couldn’t help but smile a little in how forward she was being, and how pliable the new Georgie was.
Georgie kissed back like she meant it, pulling away only to breathe, and to reflect on how much more she wanted. The plan worked better than the artistic planner could’ve anticipated. Before long, she wouldn’t necessarily have to specifically command Georgie to “look at me looking at you.” The desire would constantly be there, unstoppable, no longer unbelievable, always ready to express her feelings boldly, with soulful eyes and sultry lips.
But Colette would still use “look at me looking at you” often, to further program and condition her new lover, to always be so bold as to obey.
She gave the signal to her mind one more time, plunging her deep into her pliable state of mind, letting her linger in it on the way to their bedchamber.