Alif (21) "Is it that you don't have any interest in men? Like Binta? Surely not." "I'm not sure. I don't know what to think. I just look at men, especially those who come to the Brothel, and I just don't feel any ... you know ... I just don't think of men as being the sort of ... I just don't know what I think!" "No. I can see that," purred Bezaffa reassuringly. "Many girls think like you before they gain any experience, sweetest. It doesn't mean that you wouldn't enjoy the attention of a man any less. It just takes time." "I don't know. I just don't know," repeated Ana sadly. She sat up in the sofa, resting the weight of her elbows on her bare bronzed knees. "I used to think about men. Well, some men. But I never thought of them in a ... in a ... I always thought of them in a romantic way. Buying flowers. Being kind and protective. Being comforting. Not as what they are when they come into the Brothel." Bezaffa stood up and wandered over to the sofa where Ana sat. She placed her heavy weight on the cushions beside her and placed a comforting bare arm around her shoulders. Ana felt the warmth and softness of her hostess's skin through the blouse's fabric. "It's quite natural to feel confused, Ana. One's sexual identity is never a simple thing. If anything, my years at the Brothel have taught me that. You mustn't let it trouble you unduly. I've had many moments of indecision and insecurity myself." "You have?" asked Ana, hardly noticing Bezaffa's plump hand take one of hers in its grasp. "Yes, I have. When you make a living as I do from selling your body for the carnal satisfaction of men, it can't help but make you think, can it? I've often sat alone at home surrounded by all the many things my successful career in prostitution has allowed me to afford, wondering about it. But I am nonetheless certain that I have made the right career decision and one for which I have been amply rewarded. How can something be wrong if it brings such great satisfaction?" Ana had heard that argument put forward before, but by Binta in justification of the love she and Ana shared. This recognition only added to the confusion she felt. She looked down at her small hand wholly swamped by the firm round fat of her hostess. She then turned her gaze to look directly at Bezaffa, who was smiling at her in a curious way, her eyes betraying an interest which puzzled her. "I'm frightened of men," Ana confessed. "I just don't know what to think about them. And I'm even more frightened of the thought that, as a prostitute, I wouldn't know who I'd be making love to on any day. Men are so intimidating. I'm so afraid." "Indeed, you must be!" Smiled Bezaffa kindly. She eased her arm around to grasp Ana more firmly around her furthest shoulder and brought her round to rest in her voluptuous breasts. "You mustn't be so scared. Familiarity is all you need. They're not so bad, really. You must believe me, cherry. Men are not demons!" Ana felt swamped by the massive wealth of Bezaffa's bosom, but found it at the same time so very comforting and reassuring. With little prompting, she put her arms around as much of Bezaffa's waist as she could and held on while her hostess gently stroked her hair. Ana felt one of Bezaffa's monstrous nipples press hard against her ear through the thinness of the dress and listened intently to the gentle heaving of Bezaffa's breath, which pressed her bosom against the contours of her face. "You're such a sweet, ... such a pretty ... little dear, aren't you, cherry?" Remarked Bezaffa in a strangely contorted voice. "So pretty. So vulnerable. So delightful." She lifted Ana's chin off her bosom and gazed into her eyes. Ana was charmed by their pale blueness, the softness of the cheeks and Bezaffa's tiny little nose, so dwarfed by the folds of her dimpled skin. She smiled deeply, feeling a warmth transmit itself through her skin and into the very depth of her soul. She didn't know how that smile did it, but it became the inevitable prelude to a passionate kiss with her hostess, full on the mouth, which unbalanced the two of them, causing them to roll over on to the length of the sofa, Bezaffa's tongue deep inside her mouth and her hands gradually shedding her clothes. Bezaffa's own dress came off with the barest of difficulties revealing a body of incredible whiteness and fullness. It somehow seemed so natural. So right. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was a deeper longing inside her. Ana, in a sense, didn't want to know. All she knew and all she cared was that she was enjoying another woman's body with just as much pleasure as, and just maybe more than, she enjoyed Binta's. 21 The pain in Ana's head pulced hard against her forehead and brought a flush of sweat to her cheeks and brow. She opened her eyes gradually, blinking in the additional pain inflicted on her sensitive constitution by a bright shaft of sunlight illuminating the bedroom and shining on the satin sheets that covered her legs and the mattress beneath her. Where was she? What was this strange bed? Suddenly aghast she remembered details of the night before and her lovemaking with Bezaffa. How could she? How could Binta ever forgive her? How had she allowed herself to be so led? It must have been the alcohol. She looked around the room. It was empty, but from a room further down the corridor she could hear the sound of a man talking on the radio and the relentless hum and roar of a washing machine. How much had she had to drink? This unpleasant nauseous feeling in her head and noxious sharp taste in her mouth must be what was known as a hangover. The nausea rose inside her chest, making her belch in a revolting way that brought small fragments of digested food to the back of her mouth. She placed a hand on her chest to restrain herself, but it got no better. Indeed, a sharp pain focused itself between her eyes, sweat burst out on her forehead and her stomach burst into an unpleasant life of its own. She realised with horror that this was a prelude to being sick. God! Where was the toilet? She must get there before she soiled the sheets. She jumped out of the bed, covering her mouth with her hand and dashed naked into the corridor. She looked up and down its length, and saw a door marked by a small floral plaque which she somehow remembered as Bezaffa's toilet. She ran in, knelt down in front of the latrine and spent several uncomfortable minutes relieving herself of surprisingly little vomit. She coughed and spluttered, the small foul-tasting solids she'd brought up refusing to be dislodged from her mouth. She eventually felt able to leave the bathroom and gingerly eased the door open to see Bezaffa, in a voluminous silk dressing gown, standing by the kitchen where the sounds of the radio and washing machine came from. "Are you all right, love?" She asked with a tone of concern. Ana nodded, covered as much of her breasts and crotch as she could with her hands and ran back into the bedroom to look for her clothes. They weren't there. Not on the floor. Not on the chair. Ah! They must still be in the living room, she thought, hurriedly dashing out of the bedroom to come straight up against Bezaffa who had wandered down the corridor towards her bedroom. "My clothes..." she explained embarrassedly, vainly trying to disguise her immodesty. "They're in the wash, dearest." "The wash?" Bezaffa smiled. "You probably don't remember, you poor little child. You were terribly sick last night. All over your clothes! So, I've put them in the washing machine..." "But what do I wear? I can't stay like this!" "Nonsense, Ana. There are no secrets between us anymore. You don't have to hide your pretty assets from me!" Ana wasn't at all convinced. "I must put something on." Bezaffa took Ana by the shoulders and pulled her close to her breasts. She gently kissed Ana on the cheeks and lips, while firmly pushing Ana's arms down. "Don't be such a silly! You can't put on your clothes until they're clean, can you? And anyway, how is your current nudity any different to that which I got to know so very intimately last night? Don't trouble your pretty head about them. Do you want some breakfast?" Ana shook her head. "I don't think I could. I'm sure I'd just be sick again." "You might be right," remarked Bezaffa thoughtfully. "How about some coffee and orange juice? That'll make you feel better. I'll get some paracetamol as well. Your head must be really splitting. You really aren't used to alcohol are you, cherry?" Ana had no spirit to argue, so she allowed Bezaffa to lead her to the living room and sat naked in the sofa while her hostess disappeared into the kitchen again. Out of sight from her hostess, she was more able to relax and concentrated her miserable thoughts on how she had betrayed her trust to Binta. She must never know! It had been such a ghastly mistake. It was all the fault of the whisky. She would never have succumbed otherwise. All she wanted to do was collect her clothes and return home. She bent her head down to examine her sore and powdery crotch. She would run the bath water, and just lie in it until the water was cold and every last vestige of her transgression washed away. Bezaffa returned to the living room carrying a tray with several glasses and cups on it. She placed it down on the coffee table, her dressing gown parting slightly to reveal her own nakedness underneath. Ana blushed at the thought of the close intimacy with it that she had so recently enjoyed. She was no better than a slut, she reflected with self-hatred. Bezaffa handed Ana a glass of water and two powdery tablets, which were gratefully taken and swallowed with almost the whole of the glass of water in a series of very rapid gulps. She wasn't sure whether it was the water or the tablets which began to relieve her nausea and the dryness in her mouth. She smiled gratefully at Bezaffa and picked up the glass of fruit juice, holding it in two hands, her body crouched forward. "Feeling better, dear?" Ana nodded, and was about to reply, but was abruptly halted by the sound of the doorbell which rang through her weakened frame in agonising spasms of dread. Who could this be? Bezaffa silently got up and wandered into the hallway at the end of the corridor, while Ana relaxed slightly. It must be the postman or someone like that, she reasoned. She needn't feel so alarmed by just a doorbell. However, her fears seemed well-justified when she overheard the sound of women's voices of which one was clearly Bezaffa's, and the other she wasn't at all sure. Perhaps just a friend of Bezaffa's. Surely she wouldn't let this woman into the living room. She became aware however that this was exactly what Bezaffa was going to do. "She's a little worse for wear!" Bezaffa remarked with a chuckle. "And her clothes got into a frightful state. She just couldn't hold her drink at all!" "And she's in here, is she?" The other woman replied. Ana's heart leaped violently into her throat. She grasped the largest cushion on the sofa she could find and huddled it against her chest in the hope that it would afford her some modesty. It was Khedra! What was she doing here? Khedra strode into the room, wearing what must have been her casual clothes, but still very smart for that. A silk blouse and tight trousers which came short of her calves. Her hair was tied back in a green bow. "Hello, Ana dear. Bezaffa told me you might be here. And goodness me! Not a stitch on you! Indeed, just like your friend, Binta." Ana nodded slightly, her cheeks red and a fresh flush of nausea rushing to the back of her eyes. "I'm terribly sorry. This must be very embarrassing!" "Not at all!" Replied Khedra with a broad grin. "I've often wondered what you might look like underneath your office uniform. And I must tell you, I'm not at all disappointed. You're a very pretty young girl. You may even be an Alpha Minus. Undeniably a Beta Plus." "I'm neither of those things!" Ana retorted bitterly. "I'm a secretary. Those grades don't mean anything to me." Khedra twisted her lips into a crooked smile, and without a word lowered herself into the sofa opposite Ana. She had a briefcase and a robust plastic carrier bag overflowing with bulky items which she placed on the cushions beside her. "An Alpha Minus for appearance definitely," remarked Bezaffa amiably to Khedra. "And if her performance is as good for more normal activity as it is for the more exotic variants, I'd say a Beta Plus there at least." Ana's eyes opened wide. What was Bezaffa saying? Wasn't she confessing to Khedra what they'd been doing? Why was she doing that? She looked up at Bezaffa with alarm, who nonetheless smiled at her amiably. "Drink your coffee, dear. It'll make you feel much better. It'll certainly wake you up." She grinned conspiratorially at Khedra. "Ana really didn't get that much sleep last night, you know!" "What an active girl!" Khedra remarked approvingly. "That's what we like in our girls. Stamina! Technique comes with practise, but stamina is rarely improved on. Have you got any coffee for me, Bezaffa sweetheart?" "Why, of course," said Bezaffa, rushing off to the kitchen abandoning Ana to Khedra, who leaned back in the sofa, smiling contentedly and with amusement at Ana's obvious plight. "You really mustn't think I'm bothered about your modesty, Ana. I see working girls every day in all states of undress and quite often in activities far more immodest than nudity in itself could ever be. If your clothes are in the washing machine, that is quite sufficient to me. I would never construe your nudity as an invitation of any kind." Khedra scratched the back of her head. "And anyway, I don't share your predilections, dearest. The law is quite wasted on me." Ana looked down at her bare feet in the carpet. If only Khedra would leave. If only she could leave. She was so embarrassed. Perhaps if she looked away from Khedra long enough, this humiliation could end. "And you still won't consider part-time work in the Brothel, dear?" Khedra wondered, taking no notice of Ana's attempts to ignore her. "Or perhaps our delightful hostess has convinced you otherwise. Surely, she's told you of the very many advantages of it. Has she, Ana? Tell me. Don't pretend you can't hear me!" Ana raised her head and glared at Khedra. Go away! Her thoughts commanded. "Goodness! Such a mean stare! You don't like me talking to you about these things, do you? Did you like it more when Bezaffa spoke to you about it? Answer me. Did she speak to you?" Ana nodded. "And have you changed your mind?" Ana shook her head. "Well!" Sighed Khedra. "You are a stubborn girl, aren't you? Quite willing to break the law when it suits you, but not willing to gain honest extra employment!" The doorbell rang again. It echoed through Ana's numbed skull and jolted a spasm from her throat which again threatened to introduce undigested matter into her mouth. She swallowed hard, and looked anxiously towards the door. She was horrified to hear the sound of a man's voice when Bezaffa had opened the front door. Her horror was further exacerbated as she recognised the voice as belonging to her boss, Mr Madir. What was he doing here? Bezaffa escorted him into the living room, carrying another tray holding three cups of coffee. Ana realised with another shock that both the Director and Khedra had been expected. Why was that? Had it anything to do with her being there? "Well, m'dear!" Remarked the Director, bareheaded but wearing a suit, carrying with him the sweet smell of cigarette smoke. "Fancy meeting you here! And so delightfully turned out, don't you think, Bezaffa? I told you I thought she'd have a good pair of tits on her. Not as truly magnificent as yours, but good all the same. If you like them small and pert that is!" Ana hid her breasts as well as she could, and felt utterly humiliated. She was imprisoned behind the cushion she was grasping to her chest, and quite incapable of standing up and leaving the room. "What are you doing here?" was the only response she could muster. "Is that the best way in which you can greet me? I must say, Ana m'dear, you have not learnt the respect that a man of such a position as I has come to expect. Perhaps your dykish tendencies have also perverted your sense of respect and good manners. And take that silly cushion off your lap. If you think, m'dear, that you've got something to hide I've never seen before you are most sorely mistaken."
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