Good Girl Revenge

by Christine Morgan

For Brian Vigue
8000 words, March 2001

Author’s Note: Bluette, Celest, Centura, and Blade Ballet belong to Brian Vigue; all other characters created by the author. Mature
readers only due to sexual content and language.

    Bluette bounded into the suite, gym bag swinging, to discover that what had been peace only an hour before had descended into
chaos. She could hear hysterical sobbing from one of the bedrooms even over the babble of alarmed conversation among the staff, the
other girls from Attraction, and one uniformed hotel rent-a-cop.
    A pair of maids were cleaning up the sad petal-strewn remains of what had been a really nice floral arrangement, while a third delicately
tweezed broken glass from the carpet and a fourth sopped up water. The last time she’d seen the vase with its spray of roses and baby’s
breath, it had been on the round little table beside the mini-bar, and now it was clear across the room in pieces by the sliding glass door
onto the balcony. Someone had pitched it, elementary dear Watson, and given that it had been sent to Maeve by Dustin “D.J.” Mack,
Bluette was able to put two and two together without much strain of the old gray matter.
    Centura was nowhere to be seen, but Celest was lounging against one wall. Catlike and sultry in black leather and high boots, looking
better without trying than the hottie from The Matrix could manage even with a full team of wardrobers and makeup personnel, the brunette
was observing the proceedings with one sardonically raised eyebrow.
    “What hit the fan?” Bluette asked Celest, noting that even in the midst of their concern, the bellhop and the rent-a-cop were instantly
distracted by her arrival.
    Their gazes swept greedily from Bluette’s cap of blond hair to the mouth that made half the men in America wish they were microphones,
skipped to her most prominent attributes where they strained against the formidable harness of her sports bra, slid down her bare midriff,
lingered on the curves displayed by painted-on spandex short-shorts, traced the long and muscular lines of her legs, didn’t bother with her
feet, and jumped back up to about chest-height. All of this, Bluette regarded with her usual mix of disdain and glee, making sure to shift her
hip to one side and inhale deeply as she half-turned to catch Celest’s response.
    “Little Maevie is realizing certain truths that should have been self-evident,” Celest said dryly.
    “Dumped her.”
    “The flowers? Decoy?”
    Celest shook her head. “Don’t know.”
    “The shithead couldn’t have waited one more night?” Bluette groused. “We came that close to a perfect tour and now our opening act
is throwing a major wobbly over her scumbucket boyfriend. Remind me to send him a big fat thank-you note. Has anybody talked to her?”
    “Not since she chucked that vase against the wall and threw the phone out the window and slammed out of here like a March wind.”
    Bluette did a double take – sure enough, the phone in the living room was dangling half in and half out of a hole in the window, from
which cracks radiated like those electric bolts imprisoned in crystal balls. “For someone as little as she is, she sure can throw hard. What
about Sandi or Tess?”
    “Between them, they don’t have the brains God gave long-grain rice or the guts He gave a flatworm.”
    Bluette sighed and glanced at the digital clock. “Give me five minutes to grab a quick shower? Then I’ll see if I can talk to her.”
    Celest shrugged and adjusted the trademark orange headband that seemed to glow against her dusky skin. “No nevermind to me. She’s
in her own room now and if she wants to trash it, no skin off my nose.”
    Before she could escape to her own room – the suite was really most of the hotel’s top floor, six wedge-shaped bedrooms around a
circular living room – the rent-a-cop seized the day and approached her.
    “Bluette!” he hailed, sounding like he would have been right at home among the crowds of hopefuls that waited backstage after each
concert, all hoping to catch her eye and be taken around the world by one of MTV’s video pinup goddesses, and get a feel for themselves
to find out if the Famous Two, the members of Blade Ballet that never got listed in the album credits, were real or not.
    He was twenty-something and kind of cute in a clean-cut sort of way, and Bluette’s first impression was that he’d gone into the security-
guard biz because police work was too dangerous and the various branches of the armed forces were too much work, so this was the only
way he could wear a snazzy uniform and carry a baton. California-boy blond and tan, which probably meant long hours in a sunbed here in
dreary Seattle. Teeth like a Colgate commercial, must have cost his parents a fortune.
    “Yeah?” Artful toss of the head, speculative look from under long lashes, and it didn’t matter that she was still sweaty from an hour of
    Johnny Rent-A-Cop’s baby blues bugged out and he visibly forgot what he was going to say. What did it matter if Attraction’s good girl
Maeve Colwyn was crying her head off in the other room when he was up close and personal with the one, the only, Bluette?
    “Uh … um … er,” he said brilliantly.
    “Make it snappy, One-Adam-Twelve,” Bluette said. “I’m on my way to the shower.”
    At that, his eyes glazed over, and she didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know he was seeing her preening under the spray in the tiled
steamy stall, lathering herself all slick and soapy, probably rubbing a washcloth in slow, languid circles over her breasts while suds coursed
the length of her body. Bluette slapped her hands together briskly just in front of his face and he jumped like he’d been gunshot.
    “Right!” he blurted. “Yes. Well. I was hoping to get … uh … a statement from you on the incident.”
    “I wasn’t even here,” she said. “All I know is what I’ve heard since I got back, and that’s not much. So, do you mind?”
    He looked crestfallen, as if he’d hoped she would ask him if he had a minute to come in and scrub her back, or maybe use his Schick Blue-
Blade chin as a living loofah. “Sure. Thanks for your time. I … uh … I’ll be at the concert tonight. Row 7, seat J.”
    “I’ll look for you,” Bluette said, and he grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.
    Tess, the Attraction drummer who was never going to be awarded an honorary degree from MIT, broke away from the cluster of hotel
employees to tap hesitantly at Maeve’s door. From the other side, the sobbing stopped long enough for a breathy and gasping, but still clear-
as-water voice to call out, “I said leave me alone!” followed by the solid whack of something – five’ll getcha ten it was the room copy of the
Good Book – hitting wood and rebounding. Bluette checked the clock again, did a little mental math, and hoped she would have time to sort
this crap out before showtime.
    She went into her own room, making sure to close the door firmly behind her and deter any curious peeping from the bellboy or her
uniformed admirer. The complimentary gift basket, from which she’d scarfed two gourmet chocolates after lunch and then guilted herself into
a workout, was still on the nightstand. Avoiding it, she stripped and made for the shower, where just for the sake of old One-Adam-Twelve
she did spend a bit more time than purely necessary soaping up.
    After, with her hair blow-dried into a fluffy cloud (she’d leave the styling to the team that would be waiting at the Key Arena) and wearing
soft gray sweats with a navy-blue logo shirt autographed in iridescent silver ink by all of the Seattle Mariners, said shirt knotted well above
her navel, she went back into the main room.
    The debris was cleared away and the staff had finished with whatever questions they’d been asking, probably most of which were about
liability and their fears that this was going to turn into one of those metal-band destructathons. Celest and Sandi were gone too, and Tess was
sitting on the round couch that circled the sunken fireplace, pretending to read the latest copy of VIP and throwing frequent, anxious looks
toward Maeve’s door. Only ominous silence came from behind it now, and while Tess might not be the sharpest crayon in the box, she was
imaginative enough to buy the notion of Maeve pulling a “goodbye cruel world” stunt.
    Unfortunately, Bluette could see that too. Maeve, a nice Irish girl whose parents had come from the Auld Sod itself, was operative-word-nice,
and totally in the wrong line of work. It would be just like the silly twit to hang herself or slit her wrists over D.J. Mack, guitarist for the Flirty
Boys. Not since 1997 when Blade Ballet had toured with Scarlet Angel had Bluette met such a scuzzball.
    She crossed the living room with a purposeful stride, and Tess watched her with a plaintive puppy-dog hope. “You gonna talk to her?”
    “See if it’ll do any good. You know what happened?”
    Tess shook her head. “We came back from the Music Project exclusive tour, and she said she wanted to call him. Next thing we knew,
    “Kapow,” murmured Bluette, and knocked.
    “Go away!” came Maeve’s reply.
    To which Bluette opened the door and walked on in. The room was considerably neater than she expected, even neater than the amiable
whirlwind in which Bluette herself lived. Aside from the Bible on the floor and a scatter of crumpled-up balls of paper, the place was pretty
much okay.
    Maeve Colwyn herself was another matter. The looks that had turned Bluette’s thoughts to idle speculation more than once on the tour
bus had deserted her. That sweet heart-shaped face was both ashen and blotched. Her eyes were puffed and so red-rimmed she could
have passed for a lab rat. Like Bluette’s cha-chas, Maeve’s hair was so perfect everyone thought it had to be fake, but that hip-length
cascade of curly strawberry-blond was real, unpermed and undyed. Normally perfect, that was. At the moment, it was in tangles and long
strands, as if Maeve had been pulling at it, not quite literally tearing her hair out in her despondency.
    But her wrists were unmarked, and she obviously hadn’t hanged herself. She was hunched over the desk scribbling busily on the denuded
pad of guest stationery, and upon reaching the bottom of each sheet, she tore it off, wadded it up, and flung it violently to the floor.
    The sight of the girl with her streaming eyes and wild hair and simple green dress triggered some vague association in Bluette’s memory.
Something fitting with Maeve’s heritage, maybe … yeah. Those crazy ghost-women who washed the clothes of those about to die, crying
to themselves as the blood flowed down the streambed. Celest would know for sure; she had the most eclectic storehouse of historical and
cultural facts of anyone Bluette had ever met.
    “Look, Maeve, we’ve got to talk about this.”
    “I don’t want to!” Even hoarse from sobbing, there was no mistaking that lilt.
    Bluette deliberately picked up the nearest paper-wad and smoothed it out. Scrawled across it in thick black strokes were words she
wouldn’t have expected out of Maeve, not in about a million years. Words she wouldn’t have even thought Maeve knew.
    “Give me that!” Maeve all but flew at Bluette, scrabbling for the paper.
    “Here you go.” She let her have it, then sat right down and made herself comfy. “So what finally tipped you to the fact that he’s an asshole?”
    “How did you know?” The childlike hurt in Maeve’s face stirred both pity and a hint of exasperation in Bluette.
    “Everybody knows. Everybody in the business, anyway. Not the fans. They think the bad-boy look is all for show, like his brother Joey
and the rest of the Flirty Boys. But it’s no secret that D.J. is the biggest dick – and believe me, I don’t mean that literally – since Nick Diamond
got himself killed.”
    “I thought he was nice!” Maeve wailed. In times of stress, the accent that she’d almost totally lost came back, turning ‘thought’ into something
close to ‘thoot.’ “I thought he was a nice boy!”
    “Naïve … sorry, Maeve,” Bluette said, “what ever gave you that idea?”
    It had to have been the strangest pairing, at least from the inside view of the music world, in a long time. D.J. Mack, for whom the sex and
drugs were more important than the rock and roll, and Maeve Colwyn, who despite the protestations of other girl-band stars, probably really
was the only virgin in the field. But the blinders were off now, and Bluette had to ask again.
    “What tipped you off?”
    “He sent me flowers.” Maeve’s manic, tearful agony had departed, that one last wail taking everything else out of her that she had left to
give. “It was so sweet of him … but then, when I talked to him on the phone … he said … he said …”
    “He’d found someone else?”
    “No … but that if I didn’t ‘loosen up’ soon, he was going to. We’d only been together three months! I told him I wanted to wait, and he
said …”
    “Put out or get out,” Bluette guessed.
    A miserable Maeve nodded. “I told him I wasn’t that kind of girl and he laughed, and told me that all women were … were … I don’t even
want to think of the word he used. Except me. I was, he said, nothing but a useless little girl. Oh, how could he be such a … such a bastard?”
    The floor-litter of written testimonials aside, Bluette was sure that had to be the strongest word Maeve had ever said out loud. She moved
to sit beside the distraught Maeve, putting an arm around her.
    “It’s okay. You’re better off without him.”
    “And all this time, to think that everyone knew!” Maeve turned wide, guileless eyes on her, eyes as blue-gray as the winter ocean off the
Irish coast. “Did they, Bluette? Did everyone know?”
    “Well, yeah. We were surprised he didn’t show his true colors sooner, if you really want the truth. He’s been in and out of more holes than
a prairie dog who can’t remember where he lives.”
    “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Now a new, shamed pain crept into Maeve’s voice. “Why didn’t my friends warn me?”
    “I bet they tried. I bet you didn’t listen, or just insisted he was a nice boy.”
    Maeve hung her head. “I may have done.”
    “Look, the thing to do now is forget about him. He’s scum. You’re better off, believe me.”
    “But to think that he tricked me, lied to me, all this time!”
    Bluette grinned. “What, so you wanna get back at him?”
    “I wouldn’t even know how,” Maeve confessed.
    “When it comes to getting even with men, you’ve got an expert right here.”
    “You … you’d help me?” A new, probably entirely new to her, hard and angry glint turned those eyes to blued steel. Gone was the lamenting
Juliet and the driven-insane-by-grief Ophelia … something a little more Lady Macbeth was in its place. Out, damned D.J.
    “Gladly. I never miss a chance to make a man crawl.” Bluette laughed, and Maeve smiled tentatively, no doubt thinking that Bluette was kidding
and really having no idea how very true it was. Men were okay in their place, but then, so was Preparation-H. “Tonight’s our last show, so what
did you have planned after that?”
    “I don’t know if I can go on like this --”
    “Horseshit. You can and you will. Don’t you think he’d love it if you had to cancel? He’d eat it right up. So you’re going to go on and you’re
going to sing your ass off, Maeve. You’re going to give Seattle the show of a lifetime!”
    She saw Maeve’s resolve waver and took the girl by the shoulders, got her face almost kissing-distance, and stared straight into her eyes. The
sheer force of Bluette’s personality couldn’t help but overwhelm the poor thing, forcing Maeve to cave in as easily as an ex-jock trucker might
have forced a computer geek’s wrist to the table in an arm-wrestle.
    “You’re right,” Maeve said. “That’s just what I’ll do. Sing … sing my ass off.”
    “Way to go!” For a moment, Bluette considered closing the rest of that distance and kissing Maeve, but two things stopped her. First, if she
did, Maeve would probably jump right out the window in her shock and it was a hell of a long way down from here. Second, Maeve wasn’t exactly
at her delectable best this particular moment. Leave that for later, she decided.
    “I was supposed to fly back to Los Angeles tomorrow,” Maeve said. “We were taking a couple of weeks off before hitting the studio to record
the new album. D.J. and I … we were going to go to the new Disneyland park.”
    “No, that’s great.” Figures, she thought, Disneyland, why not the malt-shop and the sock hop while you’re at it? “I’m headed for L.A. too. Hef’s
birthday is coming up and I promised I’d be there this year. Anyway, this is what we’re going to do …”


    Bluette arrived at Maeve’s cottage at seven-fifteen, under a riotous Los Angeles sky filled with color. The brush fires in the mountains had lent
the sunset a particularly vivid glow, which almost made up for the dense layer of smog worsened by the smoke.
    Cottage. There was no other word for it. Like something a Disney princess might live in while hiding from her evil stepmother and awaiting the
handsome prince who was going to make everything just peachy.
    “Guess that makes me the fairy godmother,” Bluette snickered to herself as she parked at the curb and eyed the long, steep flight of steps that
climbed the slope, to where the cottage nestled in a cluster of trees and flowering shrubs.
    The contrast between that whimsical setting and herself was apparent even to her, and if any of the neighbors had seen her, they would have
goggled or fallen dead on the spot. The neighbors – the Three Bears, the Seven Dwarves, the Three Little Pigs, Hansel and Gretel … it had to
be, because every other house Bluette could see was just as cute as the one in front of her.
    She looked around, expecting to see a host of friendly woodland animals doing yard work. Closest she got was someone’s dog, but in this
fairytale neighborhood even the mutt scrounging around the trash cans was wearing a bright pink bandanna, and cocked its head so adorably at
her that she wouldn’t have been surprised if it started to talk. Or sing.
    In such a place as this, one did not expect to see a busty blonde bombshell in a black vinyl microskirt, boots, an unzipped denim jacket
tattered artfully into long strips from the shoulders to the waistband, and a halter top of electric-blue that mimicked the Survivor logo (not that
it was readable, the lettering strained and squashed as it alternately rose and dove over the hills and vales of Bluette’s cleavage). Her hair was
teased until it begged for mercy, large silver hoops depended from her ears, and her make-up was sultry without being cheap – for the price,
it had damn well better not look cheap!
    As she began the long trudge up the steps, Bluette wondered if sometimes she dressed a little extreme even for a rock star …
    She reached the porch at long last, small muscles in her thighs and calves twitching from the exertion – it wouldn’t have been so bad in athletic
shoes, but in five-inch heels, her legs were crying for mercy. The porch was lined with – heaven help us! – gnomes. Seven of them, and could
she guess their names? What do you think? There were also windchimes shaped like fairies and unicorns.
    Maeve opened the door before she could ring the bell. “I don’t think I can do this,” she said by way of greeting.
    “It’s going to be fine.”
    Bluette stepped inside, and Maeve’s entire face turned into an exclamation point as she got a good look at the outfit. Maeve herself, following
Bluette’s instructions to ‘dress like a bad girl,’ wore black suede pants that looked like the sort of thing a highwayman or 18th century poet might
wear, and a shiny gold tank top with – gasp! – no bra. She was clearly unhappy about it too, crossing her arms over her perky but small breasts.
Her only other token nod to bad-girldom was lipstick of fire-engine red.
    “I called as soon as the message came in,” Maeve said, averting, with effort, her eyes from Bluette and gesturing to welcome her into Fantasy-
land. Every available space was crowded with prints and paintings and sculptures and carvings that continued the same theme begun outside.
Amid all the knickknacks and novelties, the few electronics and appliances seemed weirdly out of place. “It went just like you said. I didn’t
answer when it rang, just listened to him.”
    A red light was blinking on the answering machine. Maeve pushed a button, and after the beep, D.J. Mack’s voice filled the room. “Hey, Maeve.
Okay, okay, I’ll come by tonight and get my CDs and stuff. Don’t know why you couldn’t send them over. I guess you want to yell at me. Suit
yourself. I’ll be there around eight.”
    After that, a click and then nothing. Maeve fiddled with the machine, so that the light began to flash again, giving the impression that she hadn’t
checked her messages at all.
    “I don’t know if I can do this,” she said again.
    “Sure you can.”
    “But …”
    “You want to pay him back, right?”
    She nodded, that strawberry hair a paler echo of the sunset.
    “Relax, would you?” Bluette set a companionable hand on her arm and felt Maeve thrumming like a high-tension wire. “We’re just going to order
some pizza and have a good time.”
    “Are you sure this is the right idea? To make him think I’m … I’m …”
    “He was pissed at you because he thought you were a stuck-up Miss Priss prudy-girl, right? So the absolute worst thing you can do to him
is make him realize you had some secrets of your own, make him want to drop dead in agony at the very idea of what he’d been missing.”
    “What if he tells?”
    Bluette tossed her head, earrings jangling, and laughed. “Who’d believe him? Sour grapes because you broke up with him – don’t even say
it; as far as the rest of the world needs to know, you did the dumping. With your reputation, it’s the last thing anyone would ever expect.”
    “Just so,” said Maeve. “It’s ludicrous. No one would believe it. Not even D.J. How could I ever hope to convince him that ...?”
    “He’s not going to need much convincing. Every guy is ready and willing to believe that about any gal. The magazines they read and the videos
they watch will have done all the groundwork ahead of time. The problem’s in making sure it looks natural.”
    “Exactly! How can something like that ever be natural?”
    “We can debate that one another time. The important thing is, Maeve, that you come across as relaxed and enjoying yourself. That’s the
impression you want to give. Relaxed. Enjoying.”
    “I don’t know if I can.”
    “That’s why I’m here to help. Come on. We’ve got a while before the pizza gets here.”
    Bluette led the pliant and unresisting Maeve through the cottage, to the single bedroom at the back of the house. It was primarily in shades of
cream and pink, and Bluette saw right away that while the chair by the window would work fine, the twin-sized daybed simply wasn’t going to do.
The carpet, however, a plush expanse of dove-grey with roses, was deep and soft.
    Maeve, in her bad-girl outfit of black and gold, stood in the middle of her own bedroom looking as though she felt as out of place as a nun at a
strip club. She would have felt far more comfortable and at home wearing some frilly white nightie. And slippers. With bunnies on them.
    “What do we need to do?” she asked.
    “Make it look genuine.” Bluette nonchalantly began to undress. Jacket, boots, and she was reaching for the zip in the back of her skirt when she
caught Maeve’s goggle-eyed stare. “What? Never been around another naked woman before? Nothing I’ve got that you don’t have too. Only
diff is, I’ve got the economy-sized, Costco packaging on some items.”
    A red tide washed over Maeve’s face, but she giggled all the same, and even if it was a shrill and nervous one, it was a noise Bluette was glad
to hear. “That’s certainly true. And I have. Seen other women, I mean. I went to an all-girls boarding school in Boston. But you … you’re …
they’re …”
    “Real.” The zipper undone, she began wiggling her skirt down past her hips. Beneath were high-cut panties in a snakeskin pattern, but of a
metallic blue that Mother Nature had never envisioned. A tattoo, a butterfly in bright hues, graced one inner thigh, and this in particular caught
Maeve’s glance like a magnet. “Though sometimes they even doctor the pictures, can you believe it? Like they needed to. So tell me more about
this girls’ school.”
    “There isn’t much to tell.”
    “No after-hours playtime with your roommates?”
    The red tide turned to scarlet. “I don’t know what you mean!”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    Stammering and fixing her gaze on the floor, Maeve confessed, “Well, there was one time … one of the older girls … she snuck into my room
one night and got into bed with me. She wanted me to touch her, wanted to touch me too.”
    “Did you let her?”
    “A … a little. She was insistent, and I didn’t know any better. But I made her leave.”
    “Why?” Bluette could tell that the recollection was having an effect on Maeve; against the thin fabric of that gold tank-top poked two little points.
    “I … I was afraid.”
    “Because it felt good?”
    Mutely, Maeve nodded.
    “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s supposed to feel good.” Bluette moved closer and pitched her voice low. “Did you come?”
    “But you almost did. And that’s what scared you, that’s why you told her to scram. But it’s okay, Maeve. You touch yourself, don’t you?
No harm in that, is there? So there’s no harm in touching someone else. Or having someone else …” here she stroked Maeve’s hair, “touch
    Maeve shivered. Her gaze darted up to Bluette’s, then dropped to the floor again, but she didn’t draw away.
    “If we’re going to make this look good,” Bluette whispered, “we’ve got to relax and trust each other. I’m not going to hurt you, and I
know you’re not going to hurt me. Go ahead.”
    Slowly, shakily, Maeve touched Bluette’s wrist. Her fingers crept, timid and mouselike, up to the elbow.
    “See?” said Bluette. “I don’t burn, and I don’t bite.” Her breath wanted to quicken at the fun of this seduction, but she controlled it and
kept it calm. That strawberry hair was as lush and silken as it looked, and she could hardly wait to see it spread out across the carpet as the
perfect and only backdrop for Maeve’s nude body.
    “I don’t know what to do,” Maeve said.
    “Try this.” Bluette leaned in and brushed her with a light, brief kiss. She felt the other girl’s intake of breath in a gasp. There was a sweet
taste to her mouth, a pink taste, and maybe it was the association with the hair but Bluette’s first thought was of strawberries again.
    Grasping her shoulders gently, Bluette pulled Maeve against the cushiony pillows of her breasts and kissed her again. A firmer kiss this
time, and as she flicked her tongue swiftly over Maeve’s lips, she caught that taste again and placed it – not the fruit but the flavor, pink Quik
powder stirred into milk.
    Maeve sighed and put her arms around Bluette, palms against the bare-skinned curve of her back. A subtle change went through her body,
the tension seeping away. It wasn’t quite relaxation, but it was bordering on acceptance.
    So Bluette took full advantage of the moment and turned the testing kiss into a full-blown frenchie that left Maeve breathless and more than
a bit starry-eyed; Bluette had never personally kissed D.J. Mack, but she knew people who had, and was fairly sure that she could outdo him
with one lip tied behind her back.
    After that, it didn’t take much coaxing for Maeve to agree to let Bluette lift her tank-top over her head, revealing no tan lines on skin that
might have never been hit by direct sunlight, pale and beautiful. Her breasts were just as small and perky as envisioned, but tipped with nipples
of delicate pink, the very shade of strawberries just ripening to succulence.
    Maeve glanced from herself to Bluette and a shadow of doubt began to come back, a shadow of inadequacy, as she measured her own
against the Famous Two. Before that doubt could find a foothold, Bluette cupped one in each hand and murmured the old adage about more
being wasted, and all objections seemed to melt away like frost.
    Emboldened now, Maeve tried to fit her hands around Bluette’s, confined as they were by the electric-blue spandex. She caressed them
diffidently and unsurely, but she did caress them, and when Bluette tugged the bandeau down to her waist to let them spring free in all their
proud glory, Maeve didn’t make so much as a murmur of protest.
    Nor did she when somehow the two embracing women got lowered to the carpet, nor when Bluette couldn’t resist any longer from finding
out if those nipples tasted as strawberry as they looked. Maeve uttered a small soft cry of mingled pleasure and disbelief as Bluette’s skillful
mouth went to work, neglecting neither side.
    Once she had indulged for a while, she leaned back and wordlessly invited Maeve to reciprocate, and only the barest flicker of hesitation
preceded Maeve bending her head to first kiss, then lick at, a rigid, coral-red peak. A luxurious torrent of silky hair fell over Bluette’s bare
torso. She curled her hand around the back of Maeve’s head to urge her to greater diligence, none-too-subtly encouraging her to alternate
teasing fluttery licks with the hard, deep suckling that she liked so much.
    They were writhing on the floor in slow languor and Bluette had just decided it was time to move below the waistband of Maeve’s black
suede pants when the doorbell chimed – it was one of those musical jobbies and it didn’t surprise Bluette in the least when the tune it played
was a snippet of ‘Over the Rainbow.’
    Maeve sat up, startled and blushing as if caught doing something nasty – which, let’s be honest, they were from the perspective of most of
the uptight country. “It’s him! It’s D.J.! I can’t let him see me like this!”
    “That’s the whole idea,” Bluette said. “But settle down. It’s just the pizza guy. I’ll go let him in.”
    “The what? Let him in?”
    “All part of the plan.”
    “But … but …”
    “Trust me. I know him. Not all pizza guys are scrawny pimply dweebs or burning-eyed psychopaths.” She sprang up, shucking the bandeau
that had been relocated to service as a belt, and pranced through the cottage in just her metallic snakeskin panties.
    Opening the door, she smiled brilliantly at the man on the other side. He was wearing a red uniform with a white and blue Pizza X-Press patch
on the pocket, a nametag that read “Lance,” and white high-top sneakers. A steaming cardboard box was balanced on one hand, the tantalizing
scents of cheese and crust and spices following the breeze into the house.
    Bluette looked past him, down the long flight of stairs, to where a nondescript hatchback was parked behind her car. It had a plastic lighted
sign mounted on the roof – Pizza X-Press, Hot and Ready in 30 Minutes or It’s Free.
    “Are you?” she asked with a sly smile.
    Lance, who was six-foot-heaven of muscles and bronze all overtopped with a tumble of chocolate-brown hair, grinned. “Aren’t I always?”
    “Where’d you get the car? Nice touch.”
    “Couldn’t drive my Beemer.”
    “No, guess you couldn’t.” She stepped back and beckoned him in, leaving the door slightly ajar.
    Lance’s lip curled as he took in the setting. “Kinky. So what’s the deal? Debbie Does Wonderland?”
    “Damn near.” She took the pizza box and led him toward the back of the house, refreshing him on his role.
    Maeve was still sitting in the middle of the floor, her discarded tank-top clutched to her chest, eyes eating up her face. “Bluette … Bluette,
what’s going on?”
    “Don’t worry. Lance is just here to watch.”
    “What?” Her face went dead white. “Watch us?”
    “Take it easy,” he said warmly. “I swear, it won’t do a thing for me.”
    “Lance is an actor. And gay. I know him from way back, and asked him to do us this little favor.”
    As Maeve tried to assimilate this knew information, Lance stripped out of his red jumpsuit as casually as Bluette had shed her own clothes. He
had on skimpy black briefs underneath, which bulged with an impressive package.
    Bluette watched him with a sort of wistful appreciation, thinking ironically to herself what a shame it was that one of the few guys she could
actually tolerate was one she couldn’t ride like a carousel pony. Or maybe that was why she could tolerate him. He was one of the limited selection
of the male population who could actually carry on a coherent conversation with her, and not just stammer and drool and never raise his eyeballs
above her collarbones.
    Lance situated himself in the chair, legs stretched out. “Whenever you’re ready, ladies.”
    “I don’t understand?” quavered Maeve.
    “It’s okay.” Bluette rejoined her on the floor. “Let’s just pick up where we left off.”
    “But …”
    Bluette silenced her with a kiss, and soon overcame Maeve’s concerns. Part of it was her own skillful strokings and nuzzlings, part of it was
Maeve’s increasing confidence as Lance merely sat there and watched with all the interest of someone dragged by a blind date to a movie he
had no particular interest in seeing. Soon, thanks to Bluette’s ministrations, Maeve was beyond caring, or even remembering, that they had an
    Seeing her distraction, and seeing by the nightstand clock that it was five minutes until eight, Bluette gave Lance a signaling wink. He nodded
in return and closed his eyes, drumming up some private fantasy of his own. It didn’t take long until he was primed and ready – hot and ready in
30 seconds, or it’s free, Bluette thought, and laughed.
    Bluette peeled those suede pants off of Maeve and found white stretch-lace panties with clusters of little sateen roses and ribbons at the hips.
She had never realized before what fantastic legs Maeve had … long and lithe and shapely, and what a darlingly sleek little rear end.
    Lance brought out a finely-shaped instrument and began to play, his fist curled loosely around it as he worked it up and down.
    Maeve didn’t notice. Her eyes were dreamily closed, her hair fanned out just like in Bluette’s imaginings. She had initially mustered enough
modesty to press her thighs together as Bluette’s hand slid between them, but as Bluette persisted, gradually Maeve’s legs relaxed. It was an
easy task after that to persuade her to let Bluette roll those panties down. The thatch of hair beneath was downy and kitten-soft, and a red-gold
a shade or two darker than that on Maeve’s head.
    The girl was quivering, in anticipation rather than fear. Her eyes stayed shut, rapid breaths slipping in and out of her parted lips. She mewled
faintly as Bluette nudged her knees apart and took position between them. Watching Maeve, taking both pride and delight in the way every new
touch brought rapturous expressions, Bluette gently petted and fingered until Maeve was moaning in abandon.
    From the front of the house came a perfunctory knock. The door, ajar, would be swinging open … he would be frowning, stepping inside.
Having seen the pizza car outside, he’d be smelling the aroma of it on the air. Seeing the light blinking on the answering machine, hadn’t she
gotten his message? Didn’t she know he was coming over to get his stuff? Where …?
    Bluette ‘psst’-ed a warning to Lance, who was lost in a world of his own – a world no doubt populated by more hardbodies and hunks than
a double-sized International Male catalog. He opened his eyes and pretended to be absorbed in the spectacle before him as his hand continued
to pump, faster and slick.
    Parting Maeve wide, opening those tender strawberry-pink folds, Bluette put her agile, knowing tongue to work. The first contact made
Maeve’s back arch off the floor, and a surprised, ecstatic cry burst from her. She sank her hands into Bluette’s tousled blond hair and held
on as Bluette lapped and circled and probed.
    Out of the corner of her eye she saw the bedroom door swing the rest of the way open. D.J. Mack got a full step into the room before the
scene hit him, and stopped dead in his tracks. Bluette spared him a single glance, a single smoldering glance straight off of the most recent cover
of a Blade Ballet album, making sure he recognized her.
    Absolute thunderstruck astonishment rooted D.J. to the spot. Bluette experienced a sudden weird transference and saw what this must look
like from his perspective, exactly as she’d planned it to look. There in front of his bulging amazed eyes, his prim-and-proper ex-girlfriend was
thrashing and crying out, on the verge of an unbelievable orgasm. And one of the most desired women in America (in nothing but snakeskin-
pattern undies and a smile), was about to give it to her. While some guy, some incredibly lucky stud of a pizza guy, pleasured himself eagerly
while looking on. That same lucky guy who would, in all probability, join the pair of minxes for the second course!
    A senseless gabble of sound came from D.J. Mack. Bluette, with a haughty sniff at the Flirty Boy, bent again to her delicious task and applied
herself with vigor. Maeve came like the Fourth of July, one dazzling series of explosions after another, wailing a long and drawn-out “Oh, God!”
in that clear, unmistakable voice.
    Lance, whose timing excelled and who was ever the showman, went off at that moment too, grunting like a lion and spouting like a whale.
    “Oh, God,” Maeve said, this time in a strengthless gasp. Still with eyes tightly shut, she half-rolled onto her side and draped one thigh over the
other, shuddering in reaction.
    Bluette rocked back on her heels, licking her pouty lips and purring and in all ways acting the cat who’d just been at the cream. She pretended
to be ignoring D.J., but actually kept a close eye on him as the shellshocked look on his face gave way to one of slow but incredulously dawning
    “Hey, what the hell?!” he said.
    At that, Maeve jumped and looked around, and saw him standing there, gape-mouthed. “D.J.!”
    “What the hell? What the holy fucking hell?” he elaborated.
    “Who’s the guy?” Lance demanded.
    “Who’s that guy?” D.J. countered.
    “Is that the shithead that dumped you?” Bluette asked.
    Maeve scrambled to her feet, that gorgeous hair flying around her, stark naked and beautiful, high color in her cheeks and sparks snapping from
the blued-steel of her eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here?” She delivered the line, F-word and all, with brilliant anger and purpose. Bluette
could have applauded.
    “What are you doing?” D.J. shot back.
    An insane but brief urge to yell “Wazzuuuuup!” seized Bluette. She resisted, keen to see if her coaching had paid off.
    It had. Maeve glared at D.J. as if she could fry him to a grease-spot with the power of her fury. “Get the hell out, you son-of-a-bitch!”
    “But … no, hey …” D.J. looked from her to Bluette – idly stroking her own breasts just to rattle him – back to Maeve. A greedy piggish glint
had come into his eyes. “Hey … I’m cool … I’m not mad.”
    “You dumped me, or did you forget?”
    “That was … hey, that was before I knew … I thought you were --”
    “I know what you thought I was,” hissed Maeve. “You thought I was a nice girl. I thought you were a nice boy. Looks like we both had our
    “I guess he didn’t know you very well,” Bluette said. “What a dumbass.”
    “Maeve, honey, listen to me. We … um … why don’t I just …” He kind of flapped his hand at his shirt buttons. “We can work it out. I know
we can. I made a mistake.”
    “I’ll say!” Maeve said. “Get out.”
    “No, don’t be like that … you want to have fun with other girls, hey, believe me, that’s A-OK with me!” He probably didn’t realize how pleading,
how desperate, he sounded.
    “You want to stay.” Her voice dripped contempt. “That’s what you’re thinking?”
    D.J. swallowed with an audible click, rasped his tongue across his lips, gorged on Bluette and Maeve with his gaze, and bobbed his head like
one of those tacky spring-necked dogs found in the rear windows of cars.
    “Yeah, right,” sneered Bluette.
    “Hey, aren’t you one of the Flirty Boys?” asked Lance, as if he hadn’t known, though of course Bluette had given him the whole story beforehand
when she’d set all of this up.
    “You want to stay,” Maeve said again. “You really want to stay. You like the idea of two women going at it, is that it?”
    Bobbing, faster, that rear-window dog in a car going over train-tracks at high speed.
    Bluette suddenly knew where Maeve was headed with this and held back, with effort, a hard-edged grin of admiration. Hadn’t taken much to
bring out her inner bad girl, after all! Lance picked up on it too and looked at Bluette with a tilt of the head as if to ask if he was really hearing that.
She nodded slyly.
    “You think,” Maeve went on, “that we’d want you to join in.”
    “Sure,” said D.J. “Girl-girl, that’s only the warm-up act.”
    Maeve planted her fists on her hips, jutting her perky little breasts arrogantly at him. “Well, I tell you what. I’ve always wondered about watching
two men together. Why don’t you and Lance there do a warm-up act of your own, and then we’ll see if we want to join in?” She glanced to Bluette
for support, and Bluette gave it in the form of an enthusiastic nod.
    “Fine by me,” said Lance, and evidently it was, because although he’d just shot jets all over the upholstery, he was rising to attention again just at
the idea of having one of the Flirty Boys get down on his knees and wrap some hot lip-synching lips around his unit.
    D.J. couldn’t have frozen faster if he’d been dunked in liquid nitrogen. If his eyes had bulged before, they bugged out now like they were going to
yo-yo out of their sockets. “Huh?”
    “You heard her, stud-boy,” Bluette said. “You wanna play? Those are the terms.”
    “I’m no goddam fag!” D.J. proclaimed, staggering back a pace, as if he thought Lance might just leap out of the chair, drag him down, and slide
in the back door before he knew what was happening.
    “I do believe that is a double standard,” Maeve said. “I guess you’d better go.”
    “Yeah,” said Bluette, standing and coiling an arm around Maeve. “We have some … unfinished business to attend to.”
    “That’s right.” And, magnificently, just as if she’d done this sort of thing a million times before, Maeve turned to Bluette and soul-kissed her.
    A whine of sheer agony burst from D.J. When they parted, he tried again. “You don’t need this guy! Send him away, and I’ll take care of you
both, you never had it better!”
    Bluette laughed, not her patented girlish Betty-Boop giggle but a full, throaty, mocking laugh. “Oh, sure!”
    “You want to stay, you heard the conditions,” Maeve said, daring him with her eyes, though underneath the dare, Bluette sensed a tremor of
apprehension – what if D.J. took her up on it, and then she had to follow through?
    D.J. risked a look in Lance’s direction, quick and scared as if he thought Medusa might be sitting  over there and one glimpse would petrify him.
Lance, idly rubbing himself, dropped an inviting wink, and D.J. almost leapt out of his skin.
    “Huh-uh, no way, not gonna happen!” he announced in a shrill squeak. “This is crazy! This is totally crazy shit!”
    Maeve shrugged. “Your stuff is in a grocery bag on the kitchen table.”
    “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” added Bluette.
    “But … but …”
    “Sorry,” she amended. “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out.”
    With a final look of utter wounded disbelief, D.J. backed out of the room on stiltlike legs. Maeve followed to throw him the bag of his belongings;
it smacked into his chest and he only caught it by reflex. Bluette, lounging in the bedroom doorway, smirked at him as he tried one last time to beg
his ex to reconsider, and Maeve cut him dead with a look.
    She slammed the door behind him hard enough to make two fairy dragons and a sculpture of Cinderella’s castle leap to their ceramic dooms from
a shelf, and watched through the curtains as D.J. presumably tottered down the stairs to his car.
    “Fantastic!” Bluette cheered. “Did you see that sorry piece of crap? You were wonderful, Maeve!”
    “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that really happened!”
    “Damn,” said Lance. “I was hoping he’d go for it.” He had retrieved his clothes and dressed as gracefully as a Chippendales dancer in reverse. “I
better get going too. You owe me twelve bucks for the pizza, Bluette. Plus tip.”
    Bluette rolled her eyes at Maeve. “Most guys would tip us for getting to see what he just got to see.” She fished a twenty from her purse and told
him to keep the change.
    With Lance gone, it abruptly struck Maeve that she was naked. On the heels of that, the rest of the realization of what she’d done loomed over
her, poised to topple like a pre-earthquake-code building. She sank against the edge of the kitchen table, blinking.
    “Oh, God,” she murmured, but there was no orgasmic joy in it this time, only a numbed, stunned shock. “I … you …”
    “Mmm-hmm,” said Bluette. “And how.”
    “Was it … convincing?”
    “More than convincing.” She smiled her most sultry smile. “I’d call it genuine.”
    Maeve nodded, almost against her will.
    “So,” Bluette said, “what now?”
    “Well …” Maeve blushed and looked shyly at her. “You did say we had unfinished business …”
    Bluette grinned and held out her hand. Maeve took it, and they returned to the bedroom together.


The End

Copyright 2001 Christine Morgan /