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Red Suede

by Valentine Bonnaire

“As a body everyone is single, as a soul never.”
                                                          —Herman Hesse

erotic fictionIt begins with remembrance.  A set of stairs.  The scent of a crushed geranium leaf.  A little balcony where two lovers once wrapped themselves.  He was married.  You were expecting me to tell you something about the two of them, weren’t you?

I should begin with her lips.  Those were the first things that Emile saw on that gray day on the little cobblestone street.  They seemed to emerge as if from the milky mist like a beacon.  Her hands were like that too.  Birds fluttering, the fingers long, the nails perfectly shaped ovals.  He saw only the delicacy as he sipped his cognac.  The red of her came into view in the tiniest glances he would take, like sipping at something that was nectar.  Sipping with his eyes.  What lengths will a man go to, to no longer be a shadow of himself?  To have one moment of that red, laid along the parchment tale that is his life?

We are all made of such scrolls.

One day he followed her, his shoes moving softly through the mist, not stalking her, but staring at the surprise of the red along the soles of her tall slender-heeled black shoes.  She wore a pencil skirt, the edges of it dropping just below her knees and hobbling her.  The black peplum of her fitted suit glanced against her hips and the slim tailored ruffle tapped every now and again against her fully curved ass.  It swayed from side to side in time with the little clicks her heels made against the cobbles.  His ears with filled suddenly with music.  A Parisienne metronome ticking as she descended the stairs at Place Pigalle in a perfect staccato.  Emile carried the leaf of a red geranium in his hand.  He had tucked the flower into the lapel of his double breasted charcoal suit.  Ever since he had first seen her, he had wanted the red of her near him.  His wife said little at first.  The flower at his lapel had been a new appearance, and she said nothing as wives are wont to do. 

She had grown the geraniums in little pots along the terrasse of their apartment, but it was only the red flowers Emile had been plucking, as he stood looking out over the rooftops of the city, crushing the leaves between his fingers and carrying the scent to his nostrils.  He had forced his wife to smell the bitter fragrance every now and again, holding her arms behind her back with one wrist, forcing her tiny breasts forward until they jutted out over the street below.  Sometimes she had been nude, sometimes her neck had arched like a swan’s and he had watched the corners of her eyes for tears.  That scent was volatile, the oils releasing stung at her, and were enough to make the tears begin to flow. 

“Tintin phoned about the Opera,” she whispered.

“Did he?”

“I’ve tried to decide what to wear.”

“The peach silk, with your little flats.”

“The peach?”

“It suits you.”

“But I’ve had it for...”

Emile pulled her arms more tightly, pulled her backwards against him.  It had been so long since they had made love, since he had made love to her.  Her neck arched as he rubbed the geranium leaf against it like perfume.  “This scent,” he said.  “For you.” One of her blonde curls fell from the upswept curve of the hairstyle he demanded she wear.  Her lips parted.

“A brandy?”  she asked, her voice much quieter.

“I’ll take it in the studio, tonight.”

“Emile the peach won’t...”

“You will wear what I fancy, Claudette.”

He released her so suddenly she slipped and fell at his feet.  She looked up at him, eyes wide with something. 

“Let me see you on your back, and part your thighs.”

His wife stretched along the floor as he had commanded.  She glanced at the pierced brocaded golden ring on her finger that denoted a form of slavery she was born into.  Or born for.  A slavery only men can make of women once they own them.

Her panties were white cotton, the elastic frayed.  It seemed to have been years since she had gotten new ones.  Once Emile had taken her on his arm as they strolled the little streets in their charming arrondissement.  He had fed her éclairsand kissed her endlessly, running his hands underneath her chemises, fastening upon her reddened nipples as if they were cherries, his mouth paying homage to each breast in turn as lovers do.

Claudette opened her thighs before Emile.  The lips of her sex opened under his glance and she felt herself becoming wet.  His eyes swept from thigh to thigh.  She was milk-white.

“I don’t want you to bathe tonight.”


“I want your thighs scented of geranium.”

It took only a moment for Emile to pour himself a glass from the snifter and to pluck twenty leaves from the vermillion geranium for her to crush and rub as perfume against the whiteness of her opened thighs.  He had no plans to touch her.  He placed the geranium leaves at her side and settled into the leather chair that had once held the two of them while they fucked long and hard into the night.

“Your thighs are not open enough for me.  Use your hands, Claudette.”

The simple cotton of her skirt in beige and turquoise faded tiny flowers fell in folds as she gripped her knees and opened herself to him.  At this point, and after ten years, he had trained her to do his bidding until she had no voice at all in the matter.  Her pussy hungered for his touch, straining plumply against the tired white cotton of every day.  She rocked back and forth a little as if to entice him, but his eyes were cold.

The light was white against the sky full of multi-layered little clouds.  She could see them scurrying and scudding across the skylight’s narrow expanse.  It would be easier not to look at Emile.  He had ordered her to touch herself before, ordered her to stand naked against the windows while his fingers slipped against her sex, ordered her to hold a mirror to herself and watch her nether lips fatten while his finger traced her in the half-light of certain dusky afternoons when he chose to be most cruel and not take her sexually.  *How long had it been,* she wondered?

“I saw a pair of shoes today,” he said slowly.  “With the strangest soles.”

Claudette scanned his face for any sort of clue.  All the veins seemed plumped in his hand as he touched the red geranium at his lapel.  The petals scattered like tears, as they drifted from the deep velvet red cluster.  Some fell in his lap, against his sex.  It was dormant in his pants.  He crossed his legs slowly and distractedly as he swirled the brandy, brushing the petals away.

“I want you to touch yourself as I tell you about them, Claudette.”

Her eyes followed the line of his trousers, up his leg, up to the leather belt at his waist, up to the white of his pressed shirt that had wrinkled slightly into the afternoon, up to the stubble along his cheek, up to the fall of his dark hair streaked with grey,  to the wallpaper just behind him.  She had picked it for this room, white against black, the flowers formal and blooming as if they were thin black lace against white cream.

Claudette swallowed uneasily as she watched the wall.  Emile was bringing something to life just behind him, in the shadows of the wallpaper.  She watched it warily.

“Use only one finger, and only on the outside of your panties.”

Emile swirled the brandy as he looked at her.  “Your middle finger, down the center of your lips.  Are they full, Claudette?  Are they full of wanting?”

She nodded uneasily, swallowing again.  *What was Emile doing,* she wondered, as her middle finger began to lightly stroke up and down the sullen slit between her thighs.  It felt warm, as she traced the finger.  Emile stared at it, as if his mind was someplace else.  As if her finger, her married finger tracing there wasn’t even hers.  The Opera would begin in four hours.  They were supposed to dine with the Bergeres and those friends of theirs that lived along the quai.  *How could she ever be ready in time to meet them?  And the peach dress.  And the geranium essence.*  A few more petals fluttered to the floor as Emile tipped his snifter.  She felt herself getting wetter as she stroked herself as he had instructed, watching the petals like red tears.

“I watched a woman’s ass today, Claudette.  She was very beautiful and as she swayed down the street I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.”

Claudette froze against the floor, her hand lay limply between her thighs, as she met his eyes again.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“No, but...”

“You will listen to me.”


“Pull your panties up so that I can see the lips on either side of your sex, Claudette.  I want to watch them redden as I tell you about her.”

“Emile, I...”

“Say nothing.”

“The Opera, I...”

“Tonight, all night, the lips of you will be fat and thickened with need between your thighs.  As we walk down the quai, as we dine with Tintin and the others.  And no one will know except the two of us.  You will feel yourself sitting uncomfortably full of want, won’t you Claudette?”


“Plant your legs further apart, you are not open enough for my tastes today.”

It took a moment for Claudette to raise herself off the floor, for her to adjust the panties as he wanted.  She felt her lips below be splayed apart, pulled apart, until she couldn’t stop the liquid of his words and their silent licking against her, causing cream to form deep inside her.  The panties were pulled so tight they almost hurt, she was split like a fruit, split like a peach with subtle juices, split asunder into a mass of slowly writhing aromatic trickle.

“Use two fingers, but only touch your outer lips, Claudette.  I want to describe the heel of her shoe, and how I imagine it dangling along my ankle at a little bistro one day.  Or the shape of her hips and how curved they were, and how I felt myself getting harder and harder as she walked.”

Claudette knew he was thinking of le cinq à sept.  *So, this was it, now,* she thought.  A tiny tear rolled hotly from the corner of one of her eyes.  She would not let Emile see.  Instead she would do as he asked, shifting her legs even wider, even more open, the thin white cotton stretched so tightly across her mound it was almost unbearable against her clitoris like a taunt, cutting into her until she burned with desire.

“Lightly, Claudette, as if you are whispering your little curls apart down there.  Make a V-shape with your fore and middle fingers for the channel so I can watch you plumpen.”

Her hand began shakily at first as she settled into  a light teasing rhythm against her own nether lips, they were excited and she couldn’t stop, so badly did she want to please him.  Her fingers moved up and down the channel between her widespread thighs as Emile cautioned her again not to come, and that they had perhaps only an hour more together before dinner at the bistro.  She watched the wall of black lace flowers and a mysterious figure of a woman, the woman that Emile was describing, began to appear as if in a relief, as if she were protruding like a statue from behind some sort of paper veil, as if she had come from behind the wall and was watching.  As if she were some kind of film, moving slowly along the reel as he spoke her into being frame by frame.

Emile stood, intending to fill another brandy for himself.  The Courvoisier glinted amber into the light of afternoon.  He reached for the pile of geranium leaves and crushed them in his fist, releasing the juices, massaging them as he spoke.  He settled back into the leather chair and sighed as he watched her fingers trace up and down.  He could see how wet her panties were, how the juices of her were relentless at her delicate, unmanicured natural finger’s slightest touches.  His eyes began to warm as he looked at his wife.  Her pussy was swelling as he spoke, each slow word like the painful thrust of a knife against her heart, driving agony, driving his power over her against her.  The scent of the geranium leaves filled the air around him.  He would make her anoint herself with this juice later.  Her pale natural nails gleamed as they traveled up and down the wettened crevasse.

“Shall I begin with her hands, Claudette?  Or shall I begin with her beautiful ass, and how she was walking.  How her calves were so different than yours, how they flexed at each step.  Or about her beautiful lips.  They were sumptuous dark cherries.  I watched her apply her lipstick and powder.  She was so careful about that.  So unlike you.”

Claudette moaned softly as another tear fell.  Emile had never wanted her to wear heels.  Only little flats, and he had told her that women who painted their lips were the kind he could never respect.  He had never allowed her to varnish her nails after they had married.  And now he was going on about the stranger’s nails as if they were rubies, as if her hands were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  He told her to use her nail on her clitoris, just a little, while he described the strangers long oval ruby nails and how he wanted to feel them run down his back, over and over.

“Her ass was so sumptuous as it swayed, Claudette.  So very sumptuous.”

He stood, slowly, and advanced toward his wife with the geranium leaves reduced to a pulpy green mass in one hand.  “Take these,” he said.  He began to unbutton her blouse, then pulled her breasts from the cups of her little brassiere.  “Do you remember when your nipples were like cherries to me?”

“Scent yourself,” he said.  “As she must, with her perfumes.”

The crushed ball of leaves was warm from his hand, as he curled her fingers around it.

“I expect she scents her breasts, don’t you?”

Emile lifted her hand from between her thighs and brought it to his lips for one moment.  Then he stretched that arm out over her head along the floor.  Her fingers curled retracting against themselves.  Along the wall just behind him the woman smiled silently at her, a phantasm.  He placed the brandy snifter in her hand, uncurling her fingers one by one until her palm was flat, bringing his lips to her armpit for a tiny nibbling kiss that ended in a sharp little sucking bite, as he flicked at her pussy. 

Claudette’s eyes moved from his to the emergent nymph like a ghost behind him.  She swayed forward and backward as her breasts heaved against the paper of the wall.  Her lips smiled like a curved blackened cerise secret.  He ran his fingers sharply against Claudette’s labia, pulling the panties even tighter against her until she moaned as he stroked the edges of her plump lips, toying with the little blond curls, and pulling the hair now and again, sharply, while his wife shivered and made tiny cries of desire under the roughness of his palm.

“Anoint your nipples...” he began in a low tone. There was a ring suddenly, from the next room.  The sound of the phone had startled Emile and he rose to answer it.

The scent of crushed geranium flooded Claudette’s chest and curled through the air until it reached her nostrils.  It was acrid with green, acrid with the smell of the forests, unadorned with any flowers.  She listened as Emile made the arrangements for dinner with Tintin.  She thought of her peach dress and her little flats and her tiny breasts against the voluptuousness he had described.

It would be time to dress soon, and he hadn’t wanted her to bathe.  She was swollen with desire for him when he returned, her nipples plump and dripping with the herbaceous green juice, erect.  Her eyes were filled with tears from the clouds that swam as she gazed at the skylight.  Or was it the scent?  Or was it the plump lips below so full of desire, the lips he had pinched and pinched again as if he were testing how much she could take, the hair as he pulled at the curls, pulling her further and further open like a gaping ruby flower.

“Do you know what I plan, Claudette?”

She shook her head in vain, as he removed the brandy snifter from her hand and settled back in the chair.

“I plan to fuck her and then tell you everything, each night just like this.  I’m going to tell you about what she wears and all the things I plan to buy for her.  First will be the red suede shoes I saw.  They are perfect for her.”

There was a deep silence, as Claudette’s lips trembled, and she moaned softly.

“The corsets I plan to buy for her, just for an evening, will cost more than anything I have ever given you.  Her shoes as well.  And when I fuck her, I will lift her gorgeous ass in my hands as I split her in two with the ferocity I want to thrust into her.  I’m going to fuck her for hours and hours, Claudette.  My cock has been hard for her ever since I saw her.”

There was another silence as the strange truth of their marriage began to rear itself in their tenth year.  That this was what he wanted.  That he was going to make Claudette splay in front of him and touch herself while he regaled her with his conquests.  That he would make her drench herself in her own juices with excitement, that he would make her touch herself, prostrate herself with her ass upended into air, his punishing fingers moving along her cleft, over and over and over and over.  He pulled the last of the red geranium from his lapel and crumpled the petals over her bare chest as it rose and fell, choking back sobs.

“You will learn to come by the feel of her shoe, against you Claudette. The suede of her, the beautiful gorgeousness of her is what you will feel when I stroke her shoe along your plump and rosy pussy lips,” he promised. “Now get up, and put on your peach dress and your flats.  I don’t want you to ever wear anything under your clothes again.  Only the bare skin I want to torment.  The skin that belongs to me, alone.”

An hour later, Tintin was knocking at the door with the Bergeres and their stunning guest.  The Opera was to start in less than two hours. 

“We must hurry,” he said.  “I have reservations for us, Emile.”

Emile smiled, with Claudette by his side.  No one knew how she felt when she glanced at the beautiful stranger dressed in a coal dark shimmered sharkskin pencil skirt and jacket, the fullness of her beautiful breasts curving over the corset she wore.  Her black peplum jacket was open and the scent of her subtle perfume laced the air like music.  Her hands fluttered like birds as she extended one to Claudette, the deeply varnished oval nails like ruby talons.  It was then, just then, that Claudette saw the red soles of her black leather shoes.

© 2013 Valentine Bonnaire. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Valentine Bonnaire's work can be found in the archives at and at ERWA in the galleries and Treasure Chest. "Flowering" appears this year in The Mammoth Book of Quick and Dirty Erotica edited by Maxim Jakubowski. “A Little Irish Honey” will appear in Book Lovers coming this Spring from Seal Press.  She’s working on shoe stories this year and you can see her storyboards at Pinterest.


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