by Alessia Brio
(06/04/08)

The ease with which Jacqueline Manceaux breezed through life provided a perpetual source of annoyance for Denise. She shone like the sun, even in her darkest hours, and she had more than her fair share of those.

Denise felt like an ogre in Jacquí's company. On those rare days when she felt well above average on the attractiveness scale, Jacquí would arrive at the office in a sleek designer suit and steal what little attention Denise hoped to garner. The leggy blonde epitomized "sexy" but had enough smarts not to even need good looks. To add insult to injury, she had the nerve to be one of the nicest people Denise had ever met. No one deserved to be that close to perfection.

Jacquí strolled past Denise's office carrying bagel and coffee. She lifted the foam cup in a g'morning salutation, with megawatt smile that might as well have been nails on a chalkboard for its impact on Denise's mood.

Denise hated the fact that she spent so much time trying to find fault with Mademoiselle Manceaux, to find some chink in her "charmor" that would let her legitimately despise the bitch. Maybe she abused small animals or kicked homeless people as they slept on the street. One could only hope. Shaking herself, Denise returned her attention to the day's schedule.

Few people wanted to look at real estate in the morning on weekdays, so Denise used the time to return phone calls, schedule inspections, challenge tax assessments, and scour the newspapers online for For Sale By Owner ads. Her commissions didn't suck, but they could be better. She longed to have the finesse other agents used to reel in reluctant do-it-yourselfers. Jacquí, unsurprisingly, led the firm in signing FSBOs.

The morning passed quickly, and Denise's stomach reminded her that she'd skipped breakfast. She signed off her computer and retrieved her purse, intending to grab a soup-and-salad special in the building's basement cafeteria.

"You look nice today," a dulcet voice called from the doorway. Even Jacquí's vocal chords evoked envy. Denise looked up. "Well, you always look nice, but I especially like you in green. Brings out your eyes. Um, sorry to interrupt, but can I talk to you for a minute?"

In spite of herself, Denise beamed. To be first complimented, then wanted -- for whatever reason -- by this ultra-smooth, ultra-savvy woman made her ego swell. It didn't take long, however, for her inner cynic to squelch that elation. "I'm on my way to lunch."

She enjoyed the flash of disappointment on Jacquí's face, but then she capitulated, "But join me. Downstairs for a quickie. I have to show an apartment at one on the other side of the city."

Jacquí grinned. "Let me grab my purse." She scurried down the hall as fast as her butter-cream Prada pumps would carry her. Denise forced herself not to admire the retreat. Before she could count to twenty, Jacquí returned with her matching butter-cream Prada handbag.

Denise tucked her Coach knock-off under her arm. Without matching faux-Coach shoes, she even failed as a competent fraud. The urge to compete was strong, but Denise knew that she could spend every spare moment at the gym and every spare dollar on clothes and still not even come close to stealing Jacquí's thunder.

Denise strove to make herself indispensable. That urge to overcompensate made her angry. Her envy angered her further. It wasn't as if she lacked either beauty or brains. She knew she could hold her own in most circles, even around much younger women, but Jacquí made her feel like a mutt.

They shared idle chit-chat through the lunch line. More than once, Denise wondered what was up. Jacquí opted for a two-person table against the wall.

Denise decided to cut to the chase. "So, what did you want me for?" she asked, mentally kicking herself for phrasing the question in that way.

Jacquí raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow but didn't otherwise react to the unintentional innuendo. "You know I just moved into a new place, right? The Garden Towers on sixty-fifth?" She paused to allow Denise time to nod in recognition of the exclusive luxury condos. "Well, I'm having a little dinner-slash-housewarming-party on Friday night -- just a dozen or so friends. Just come-as-you-are. And I was hoping you'd come...as you are, of course."

Denise attempted to decide if microwave popcorn and a stack of rented DVDs qualified as other plans and concluded that, yes, it did. She must've hesitated a bit longer than she realized, though, because Jacquí spoke before she was able to formulate a plausible excuse for declining.

"Did I do something to offend you? I get the feeling that you don't..." Jacquí paused, apparently struggling to form the words for such a foreign concept, "...like me."

"No, Jacquí, you haven't done anything to offend me." Other than exist, she wanted to snarl. Other than to grate every nerve with your face and body and hair and clothes and success and your sparkling fucking personality.

"Then you'll come?"

It was Denise's turn to raise an eyebrow, and she gave Jacquí an "A" for aplomb. Such composure should be rewarded, even if grudgingly. "Sure. Can I bring anything?"

"Do you have any of that wine left from the vineyard property you sold last month? I heard through the...um, grapevine," she chuckled at her little play on words, "that the sellers gave you a case as a bonus. If you have any left, I'd really like to try it."

As the week progressed, Denise hoped that Jacquí would just forget about having invited her to the "dinner-slash-housewarming-party." Jacquí's friends were likely to be a gaggle of Manceaux wannabes.

She did her best to avoid contact with her objet d'envie, and largely succeeded, given their busy schedules. Four closings and a slew of showings kept her out of the office. While at her desk, Denise kept the door closed -- the agency's standard Do Not Disturb protocol.

Denise often wondered how she landed in real estate, given the amount of networking required to be successful. Unlike Jacquí, schmooze wasn't her strong suit. Her background in interior design and minor in architecture, however, gave her an eye for property that many lacked. Someday, after she finished her MBA, she hoped to open her own design firm.

Late Friday afternoon, as Denise prepared to leave for the weekend, Jacquí dropped by her office to remind her about both the party and the wine she'd agreed to bring. While Denise felt ragged after a hectic day, Jacquí looked as if she'd just stepped out of a salon makeover. Over a few minutes of idle chatter about the party menu, it dawned on her that Jacquí didn't really need the wine. She had simply used it as a hook to ensure her attendance, knowing her ultra-reliable colleague wouldn't renege on a commitment. Smooth, Denise admitted to herself. Very smooth.

"See you at eight-ish." With a twinkle of her French manicured fingertips, Jacquí was gone.

Denise wondered if she had time to shop for something fresh to wear to the party. At the same time, she chastised herself for even considering it. Impulsively, she paged a delivery service and met the courier in the parking garage. Offering one bottle of the dry white as a tip, she instructed him to deliver the rest to the posh apartment on 65th Street.

That commitment satisfied, Denise could now bail on the party without guilt if she chose. The maneuver bought a measure of calm. She took her time on the evening commute and, once home, unwound with a glass of merlot and a bong hit -- the perfect mood adjustment. Mellow now, she dove into her closet.

"Come as I am, eh? We'll see about that." She pulled a short denim skirt from its hanger, followed by a soft, white blouse. While it was tempting to throw on sweats and a T-shirt, Denise compromised, and hoped that the other guests would be similarly attired. She knew better than to expect Jacquí to look anything less than perfect, regardless of what she wore. No use trying to compare.

Fueled by wine and weed, Denise wove her waist-length hair into a loose braid and slipped her bare feet into a pair of well-worn penny loafers. The macramé belt was an afterthought, but it blended well.

She set out, on foot and empty-handed, planning to hail a cab when she tired of walking. The evening was as comfortable as her attire, and she covered almost ten blocks before her feet began to protest.

Her nerves resurfaced when the taxi pulled in front of Jacquí's building. She resisted the urge to stop to primp, moving directly to the elevator. Seventeenth floor. Not quite penthouse level, but well above the city streets.

The walk down the hallway to Jacquí's apartment seemed unnaturally long, distorted by anxiety. Denise felt as if she was stepping into a social situation that would make her feel even more awkward and inadequate, hob-knobbing with the upper echelons of beauty and success.

Strains of classical music seeped through the door of 17-C, which opened just as she lifted her hand to ring the doorbell. Jacquí stood there grinning. Barefoot, in torn jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, she reminded Denise of a cast member from the movie Flashdance...only sexier. Her hair, worn up during the work day, rested on her bare shoulders in soft waves.

"When the wine showed up by courier, I figured you'd be a no-show. I'm glad you're here. C'mon in." She threw open the heavy door and gestured. "You're the first one. Make yourself comfy. Can I get you something to drink?"

Stepping inside, she looked around in awe. Creamy white carpet stretched in every direction. Eclectic décor screamed of expense coupled with a non-conformist's taste. Denise kicked off her shoes.

That earned a smile from Jacquí, whose toenails sparkled with a fuchsia polish that matched her fingernails and lips. "You like? I did it all myself -- against the advice of...well, of damned near everyone. It's my haven. Know what I mean? Here, let me show you around. Can I get you something to drink?"

The aimless chatter seemed out of character, which made Denise wonder what Jacquí was trying to conceal. She followed her down the hallway, only half listening to her ramble about each piece of artwork or furniture.

Miro on this wall, Manet on that. Even a Henry Moore piece, albeit a replica, on the ledge over the marble garden tub. She knew the art of which she spoke, too. It wasn't merely name-dropping. Jacquí understood every element of the design of her condo and its contents. Not only that, she wanted Denise to appreciate it.

"There's no one else coming tonight, is there?" The clarity leapt at Denise, impulsive but fully formed. She just...knew.

Jacquí turned. Her mouth hung open as if stunned.

The expression told Denise all she need to know. "I'll be going now," she murmured, shaking her head as she turned toward the door.

Silence followed her. As heavy as the mask of tomorrow's humiliation, it curved around her body and molded itself to her frame. Denise took a deep breath and willed her feet to move, to take her away from the embarrassment of being played for a fool.

"Please," Jacquí whispered. Her voice echoed in the corridor. "Stay. I'm sorry for..."

"For what exactly? For luring me here?" Denise spun and stepped toward Jacquí, her shoulders squared and mind blazing. "You think you can just jerk people around this way? Make them do your bidding 'cause you're so fucking perfect? Well, cross me off your list of acolytes, Ms. Manceaux. I don't play that way."

Jacquí sighed, but stood her ground, a defiant expression on her face. Denise fought the urge to slap it, to make her feel the sting of anger that threatened to escape its bounds. Her hands twitched at her side.

"I just wanted..." Jacquí reached out, her fingers brushing Denise's forearm. Denise wrenched her arm away, unintentionally catching the underside of Jacquí's chin with the back of her hand. She watched in shock as Jacquí's head snapped back, colliding with the wall.

Before she could speak, though, Jacquí righted herself and shook it off. She looked sideways at Denise, eyes narrowed, and snarled. "Go if you're going. I won't try to stop you."

"Why?"

"Why?" Jacquí rolled her eyes. "Because even though this is my house, and even though I invited you here, I can still be charged with battery. Because we work in the same office. Because..."

"No. Why the dinner-slash-housewarming-party story? Why?"

Sighing, Jacquí slumped against the wall. "I didn't lie about the party, y'know. I just...um...exaggerated the number of guests."

"Why?"

"Would you have come otherwise?"

Denise shook her head, not as a negative reply, but at Jacquí's misunderstanding. "No, why me? What do you want from me?"

A small frown line formed at the bridge of Jacquí's aquiline nose. Finally, she opted to act. The feather-light kiss caught Denise completely by surprise.

"You, of course," Jacquí whispered when she pulled away. "I want you. I've been trying to get your attention for months."

Of all the things Jacquí could have said, that was the last thing Denise expected to hear. It was so far outside the scope of her thoughts that it took several moments for it to register. Her body responded well before her mind, fueling her anger, adding another dimension to her sense of betrayal. When the shock released her vocal chords, she howled with incredulous laughter.

It soon had her doubled over, holding her stomach and gasping for breath. Each time she thought she'd gotten it under control, the improbability of the situation would bubble up and the giggles would again erupt. It wasn't until Denise saw the hurt expression on Jacquí's face that she was able to stem her laughter.

"I'm sorry." She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the backs of her hands. "It's just that...well, you wanting me...when you can have anyone you choose...male or female...is just...too...rich."

Jacquí pushed off the wall and stormed past. "Fuck you," she called over her shoulder. Making a bee-line for the front door, she threw it open. "I think you should leave now."

There was a long, suspended moment. No one moved. No one spoke.

Denise crossed the distance in a few long strides and slammed the door closed a bit more forcefully than intended. Its impact rattled the umbrella stand and knocked over a vase of fresh flowers on the small table nearby, but she barely noticed. "I don't think so," she growled, pinning Jacquí to the door with her body. "You think you want me, eh? We're gonna get past perfect and find out."

The bruising ardor of their first real kiss surprised Denise. She tasted blood but couldn't tell if it was hers or Jacquí's. She sucked hard on those fuchsia lips while her fingers wove through Jacqui's loose blonde locks.

Parting the taller woman's legs, she pressed her bare thigh against Jacquí's sex, eliciting a moan that vibrated on Denise's tongue. The heat radiating through Jacqui's worn denim caused a reciprocal reaction between her legs: Denise felt the crotch of her thong grow wet.

The harder she pushed, the more enthusiastically Jacquí responded.

"Manipulative bitch," Denise spoke into her mouth. "You play people to get what you want. I see it all the time at work. In return, they get to bask in your divine presence. You turn that megawatt smile on them, make their knees weak. Didn't work with me, did it? That had to bug the fuck out of you.

"If you want me, you're gonna have learn to be a lot more direct about your desires." She took a step back and reached for the hem of Jacquí's sweatshirt, whipping it off over her head.

Jacquí brought her arms down and crossed them over her breasts, eyes blazing.

"Hands at your sides. Now."

Denise didn't miss the smirk that teased the corner of Jacquí's mouth as she complied, and she vowed to give the woman far more than she bargained for. Taking her time, she studied Jacquí's breasts. Perfect, of course. Comfortable handfuls of firm flesh topped with oval, tea-stained nipples that puckered so invitingly. Denise's hands again twitched.

"Yes, they're gorgeous." Denise confirmed the challenge in Jacquí's eyes. "But you already know that. Touch them."

Jacquí nodded.

"No, not me. You. Put your hands on your tits. Show me how you want me to touch them. Show me how you touch them when you think of me."

Her expression went from one of confident defiance to one of apprehension.

"You must not want me as much as you claim, then. Get out of my way. I'll be going."

One fear must've overridden the other, for Jacquí's hands slowly traveled up her body to cup her breasts. She paused there, fingertips poised over her hardened nipples. Denise held her gaze until those fingertips began to pinch and Jacquí's eyes fluttered closed.

When she stopped and opened her eyes, Denise prodded. "Keep going. Your hands are mine. Show me...and don't stop unless I tell you to."

Jacquí leaned against the door and resumed teasing her nipples. Her eyes again closed and her mouth dropped open as the sensations intensified. Fighting the urge to take over, Denise snuck around the corner and grabbed one of the chairs from the dining room. As quietly as she could, not wanting to interrupt Jacquí's focus, she parked the chair about five feet from the door and straddled it, arms folded atop its back and chin resting on her forearms. She knew when Jacquí opened her eyes, she'd have an unobstructed view of her wet panties.

"Touch your pussy," Denise instructed in a firm but barely audible whisper.

Jacquí's eyes shot open, fear flashing briefly until rebellion overtook it. "I never imagined you'd be the dominant type."

"Don't give me that bullshit. You're getting exactly what you wanted. The sooner you admit that, the sooner we can stop pissing around and get on with it. Now, put your damned hand in your pants."

Denise had no idea if Jacquí had any sexual experience with women. She attended company functions with a male escort, but that was hardly surprising. Someone as business savvy as Jacquí would undoubtedly have a beard for such purposes. Since they didn't cross paths in other social venues, and Denise didn't partake of the office gossip, she realized knew next to nothing about this sultry beauty's private life. Not that it really mattered.

She watched as Jacquí unbuttoned her jeans and slipped one delicate hand into them, her wrist remaining visible above the waistband of a pair of brilliant blue panties. "Push your jeans down. I want to see your fingers working. Better yet, take them off."

With her head cocked to one side, Jacquí shrugged out of the tattered denim. She kicked the garment aside and, taking a couple steps forward, propped the ball of one foot on the chair between Denise's legs. Perfectly pedicured toes teased the hem of the skirt as it stretched taut across her spread thighs. The spice-tinged scent of Jacquí's arousal filled the space between them, and Denise licked her lips.

"Continue."

The exhibitionism tested Jacquí's composure, and Denise enjoyed the expressions that flitted across her fair features. At first, her fingers moved tentatively, but soon embarrassment surrendered to intense desire aided by dogged determination. Denise waited until she believed Jacquí to be fully absorbed in her own pleasure before again speaking.

"Stop."

Roughly pushing Jacquí's foot from the seat of the chair, she stood and spun it around. While her hands unknotted her belt, she instructed Jacquí to kneel. Denise repositioned herself on the chair, facing forward, and scooted her bottom to its edge. Trailing the ends of the coarse rope belt across Jacquí's bare back, she said, "You know what to do."

The eyes looking up at her held both contempt and gratitude as Jacqui's face moved between Denise's legs. Contempt, Denise thought. I still don't understand everything that's going on here. A hot tongue pushed her thong into her crevice, and teeth pulled it out. Again. Denise wove the fingers of her free hand through Jacquí's hair and yanked her head up to find eyes drunk with passion.

"Take them off."

Jacquí obeyed and immediately returned her mouth to its task, murmuring her enjoyment as she did so. The first swipe of the rope across her ass caught her by surprise, and she grasped the legs of the chair with both hands as she braced for more.

"You eat pussy like you've done it before," Denise growled, delivering yet another stinging blow. The growing welts on the tanned and toned flesh did as much for her arousal as the oral attentions. Perfection marked by pain. It seemed to stir Jacquí as well: each blow increased the vigor with which her mouth attacked.

Jacquí used the legs of the chair to pull her face harder against Denise's sex, and the repeated impact of the rope drew forth moans that resonated through her clit. Every time she started to slide into bliss, however, her guard would go up. Still wary of Jacquí's motivations, she couldn't quite relax enough to come. The spanking helped, but she still sensed that she was being used for some unknown purpose -- something beyond sex.

Jacquí had surrendered far too easily. Denise was missing some critical piece of the erotic puzzle. Without understanding that, she refused to give Jacquí the satisfaction of making her come.

Physical release would bring only vulnerability.

In that moment, only one outcome could bring comfort.

She twisted her hands into Jacqui's hair.

"Stop."

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