The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica (70 page)

Choissisez nous pour le ravissement.

I parsed the first message. “
I know not what
” Huh? What was that supposed to mean? Some sort of joke? No, wait. That had to be the name or catchphrase for the . . . the
whatever this card was for. And Merry Christmas was obvious. The third one, I had to struggle with, and finally retrieved my dog-eared French dictionary from college.

Choose us for
. . .

My throat squeezed shut. That last word meant delight, or ravishment, or seduction.
Tess
, I thought.
Tess
making a very bad joke. What was she thinking? Or was this her idea for a
good-bye present?

I flung the card into the wastebasket and went back to my thank-you notes, but my hands shook so badly, I had to rewrite three cards. And typing emails was not an option. Not in our family.

Finally I gave up and pressed both hands against my eyes, listening to my pulse beat a tired tattoo.

I’m lonely.

Of course. It was Christmas. Tess had taken up a new lover. And here I sat, in my tiny apartment, where every metal-framed designer print, every muted colour and expanse of polished wood
suddenly felt like an anti-choice. No wonder I felt an odd vertigo going between here and Great-Aunt Gabriella’s house crammed with knick-knacks from the 20th century.

Vertigo. Another of Tess’s recent favourites.

I sighed again. Another four or five hours, and I would be immersed in that old-fashioned world again. Facing Tess and Lucia. Maybe it was a kind of good-bye present, but there was only one way
to find out.

I flipped open my cell and dialed the familiar number. One chime, two, three. Maybe Tess wasn’t even home.

“Hello?” said Lucia.

I took a deep breath. “Hey, Lucia. It’s Maura. Is Tess awake yet?”

“Urn, yeah. Are you mad?”

“Maybe. But that’s not why I called.”

“Then why – Oh, never mind. Hold on a minute.”

A muffled conversation followed between Lucia and Tess. Before I could lose my nerve, the cell changed hands. “Hey,” Tess said. She sounded wary.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Yes, I’m unhappy. No, that’s not why I called. This might sound stupid, but did you sneak a gift card into my bag last night?”

There was a moment’s puzzled silence, then, “Oh no! I forgot to bring yours. No, God, I . . . I got you a book. I’ll bring it tonight. Really. Urn, what kind of gift
card?”

I clapped a hand over my mouth and shook with silent laughter. Tess. Dear, forgetful, eternally curious Tess. “Something from a place called
Je Ne Sais Quoi
,” I told her.

“
Je Ne Sais Quoi
?” Her voice scaled up. “Oh. My. God. Someone loves
you
, Maura. That’s the spiff new techno-spa that just opened last month.
Très
expensive. Hey, maybe Donny gave you the card.”

I shuddered. “What a horrible thought. Thank you for mentioning that possibility.”

“You’re welcome,” she said brightly. “See you tonight.”

Cousins
, I thought, as I clicked off the phone. Still shaking my head over Tess, I fished the gift card from the wastebasket. This time, when I tilted it just right, a cell number
appeared, shimmering like raindrops against the black surface. So. A treat with no name, and therefore no strings attached. And just for me. Did it really matter who the giver was?

Still not certain, I called the number. Amazingly, they were open, and when I described the card, the woman gave a soft laugh. “Ah, yes. Our Christmas treats are quite popular. You might
even come today if you like,” she said with a velvety-dark purr. “You will need one hour, no more. We guarantee total relaxation.”

Good God, I thought. But curiosity ran all through our family, and one hour gave me plenty of time before Christmas dinner. Better than staying here and feeling sorry for myself.

I brushed my hair, changed into better clothes. Then, armed with directions from MapQuest, I drove to the new Ninth Square project downtown, where a cluster of boutiques and expensive
restaurants had appeared during the summer. Parking, usually nonexistent, was no problem today.

And there, between a coffee shop and a chocolatière, I saw a discreet illuminated sign that said
Je Ne Sais Quoi
.

The front door hissed open as I approached. Oh very nice, I thought, noting the fresh orchids in the windows, the chocolate-brown carpets, the tasteful photographs of landscape stills from all
over the world. There was no particular scent in the air, just a fresh clean aroma that made my skin prickle with energy.

“Good morning, cousin.”

I jumped. Behind the reception desk sat my cousin Lia, dressed in dark blue wool trousers and a darker blue silk shirt, and with her hair pulled back in a shining brown cascade.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

She laughed. “Working between semesters. Didn’t Aunt Delores tell you? Oh that’s right. You left before she started her recital of who did what and when. So what are
you
doing here?”

I hemmed a bit, sounding like Tess. “Urn, mystery present.”

She grinned. “Those are the best kind. May I have the card please?”

I handed it over. Lia inserted the gift card into a slot on her desk. Her eyes widened slightly. “Here,” she slid a clipboard with a pen over the desk, “fill these out while I
check the equipment.”

Equipment?

But Lia had disappeared through an arched doorway. I skimmed over the form’s questions.
Name, address, profession, classical or jazz or other, favourite books
. . .

I jotted down the answers, wondering if I could answer these same questions for Tess. Or if she could do the same for me. Families. We hardly knew each other, in spite of crowding together every
week or two. My cousin Lia, for example. At family dinners, she tended kids and acted the good niece. It was easy to forget she went to grad school for microbiology, and was heading for a research
job. Then again, we all slid into different skins at those affairs. Me. Lia. Eugene. Even Donny, in his own weird way.

Lia reappeared and took the clipboard from me. “Go through here,” she said, pointing to a doorway on my left, “and into dressing room number three. You’ll find robes and
slippers, if you want them. Remember to put the mesh suit on first if you want the light massage.”

Mesh suit? Light massage?

Puzzled, I went through the doorway Lia indicated, and down a short hallway, which ended in a plain octagonal room. Four white doors faced me, all of them closed. The dressing rooms,
obviously.

I opened the door labelled “three.”

Oh, my.

No wonder Tess had squeaked. Antique prints hung on creamy beige walls, polished wood edged the ceiling and doors, and when I stepped inside, a dusky rose-coloured carpet cushioned my footsteps.
But it was definitely a dressing room, with a shower stall, locker, hooks for my clothes, and a padded bench before a table stocked with brushes and combs and other toiletries.

The door swung shut behind me, and a woman’s voice said, “If you wish to use the locker, touch the fingerprint pad with your index finger and thumb. This will key the lock for your
visit.”

The woman’s voice sounded low and soft, but with a faint blur that made me think this was a real voice filtered through electronics. They do it with motion detectors, I told myself. And
heat sensors. And pre-recorded instructions. Still, my mouth turned dry at the thought of someone observing my movements. I swallowed and touched the keypad.

The locker clicked open. Inside I found a soft cotton robe, which smelled of fresh soap, and the suit Lia mentioned, which turned out to be a full-body leotard made from a stretchy material.
There were even fingers and toes and a hood. Curious, I ran my fingers over the silky mesh.

After another glance around, I changed from my clothes into the leotard. It fit me perfectly, and the material clung to my skin as I stretched and twisted, testing its comfort. “When you
are ready, please go through the next door and lie down.”

I twitched, then scowled. Resisted the urge to make rude signals to the invisible camera. Was that faint laughter, or the ventilation system? Whichever, I ignored it, pulled on a robe and
stacked my clothes and purse in the locker. Another touch of my fingers to the lock, and the door clicked shut. At the same moment, the second door swung open on its own.

Motion detectors, I repeated to myself, but my nerves were jumping as I peered into the massage room.

It was empty, except for a long padded bench with a pillow at one end. Stepping inside, I had the sense of floating through an ocean. Floor, ceiling, walls were painted in shades of green,
rippling from pale green to streaks of emerald. The bench itself was covered in soft black leather, making an anchor point in that unsettling room.

“Take off your robe and lie down, please.”

Again, that contralto voice.

I let the robe drop onto the floor and stretched out face-down on the bench. The leather was softer and warmer than I expected, and had the faintest scent of roses, which I found soothing. No
sooner was I comfortable than music started to play from unseen speakers – a slow, contemplative piano piece. Modern, but I couldn’t recognize the composer. Between the soft perfume,
the lighting, and the music, it would be easy to fall asleep, but I doubted that was the point of this mystery gift. Hopefully the attendant would arrive soon.

Somewhere, an unseen machine whirred into life. A moment later, warmth rippled down the length of my body. Startled, I jerked my head up.

“Hush,” said the voice. “This is the light massage.”

Still unnerved, I rested my head on the pillow. Now the music changed slightly – a clarinet joined the piano, weaving a counter-melody – and the light dimmed, making the walls look
even more watery. Another ripple of warmth circled my legs, merged, then divided to travel down both arms and brush my palms.

A cello sounded a rising arc of notes. The piano answered with a brighter trill, joined by the clarinet’s throaty voice, which reminded me of the invisible woman, and lights flickered over
me, echoing the path of warmth that touched and teased my skin. Like whisper soft feathers, stroking my body. Like silk-soft hair brushing over my skin.

It shouldn’t be this easy
, I thought.
That’s what happened with Tess. That’s why it hurts so much.

“Are you crying?” said the voice.

“I can’t help it,” I whispered.

“Then let me help,” came the answer.

Tiny electric pulses, counterpoints in sensation, just like the counterpoints of the music, tickled my cheek where it rested against my arms. Tiny kisses nibbled my throat, my fingers. I wanted
to protest, to say this was no massage – not alone, watched by a stranger – but my greedy body refused to obey.

The pinpricks came faster now, spiraling outward from my belly toward my breasts and thighs, light stings that sparked a flame in my belly. Fire kisses running from my scalp to my toes, dancing
over my skin and drawing my nipples to hard points. Another moment and I would reach a climax.

What if I electrocute myself?
I thought hazily.

Soft laughter sounded in my ear. Or was it the music, which had quickened its tempo? Flutes and piccolos trilled brightly, the piano thundered now, and the violins and cellos cried, while the
suit flexed and contracted, as though an enormous hand caressed me. Sweet, soft, hard, and sure. This lover’s hand knew me. I was sobbing and crying out, beyond caring who watched. Again, and
again, the heat flashed over my body. The mesh rippled like fingers from an invisible lover, squeezing my breasts, diving between my legs, and licking me with fire, then plunging into my vagina
– though surely that was not possible – once and twice and more, until that last delicious explosion that left me limp and sprawled on the bench.

And with the tide receding, so too the music and the warmth; the flutes and piccolos danced away, next the violins and cellos, leaving only the piano in a soft slow melody, while the suit
clasped me loosely.

I lay there, breathing in the sweat and satisfaction.

“Lovely,” I murmured.

“Satisfied?” said the invisible woman.

“Oh yes,” I breathed. “Thank you.”

“The gift is mine.”

She did not speak again. For a while, I did nothing but stare off to one side, until the last few sparkles and ripples of passion faded away. Only then could I coax my body to stand and walk the
few steps to the dressing room.

A brisk shower woke me up. I dressed, dried my hair, and returned to the reception area. Lia waited behind the desk, a curious smile on her face.

“Did you like the gift?” she asked.

Still unable to talk, I nodded.

Lia’s smile dimpled her cheeks. “You look thirsty. Would you like some water?”

Barely waiting for my nod, she disappeared a moment and returned with a large tumbler of sweet, cool water. Her hands wrapped around mine to steady the glass, reminding me of the night before.
This close, I could easily smell her perfume.

. . .
the scent of roses. A woman’s soft low voice
. . .

All the clues shifted into place.

“You,” I whispered.

Lia went very still. Her friendly smile had vanished, replaced by a cautious look. “What about me?”

Even so, I noticed she had not removed her hands from mine. “You gave me the gift card, didn’t you? You set up this appointment.”

A long silence. Her answer, when it came, was like a sigh. “Yes.”

“But why?”

Please, not because you felt sorry for me. Please, not that.

A faint blush edged her cheeks. Lia dropped her hands and turned away. “Do I really need to say why?”

A wisp of hair had escaped her hair clips. I set the glass aside and brushed the wisp back into place. Her blush deepened. “No,” I said softly. “You don’t need to say
why. But were you going to keep this a secret? The gift, I mean.”

Her gaze flicked toward me, then to the floor. “Oh. Well. It all depended on you. Before last night . . .” She drew a deep breath. “Before, I didn’t think I had a chance.
But I wanted to give you something special. Just because.”