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From: Gaucho <100550_1306g@csi.com>
Subject: Viviane 1/5 The appointment (F/? subway nc)
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This is a work of fiction written for my own entertainment.
Please refrain from reading if you're offended or too young.
If you like it, send me a note: 100550_1306g@csi.com
There are yet three parts, and I intend on writing two more.

Vivianes Appointment
                               Part One

        This was definitely not going to be Viviane's day. When she woke

at around 8:30, she realized she had ignored the alarm. A strange dream
had kept her in a soft, warm and wonderful place. It took her an
eternity
to fight her way out to reality. She felt physical pain when she became
aware that it had only been a dream and when she looked at the alarm,
she already had forgotten what she had dreamt. What remained was the
feeling of great loss and loneliness.

        Viviane raised from the bed. "I've gotta speed up," she
thought, tumbling to the bathroom. She stepped out of her boxer shorts
and sat down on the toilet. Sloppy as she was she had completely
forgotten to run the washing machine so she was left with what
underwear she could find in the stack beside the tumble dryer:
a gray cotton body stocking with only one button left to close it.

        She brushed her teeth while checking her face. With twenty-
nine years she still had the looks of a little girl: A small stubby
nose covered with freckles and big green eyes, that shone in a
dreamy stare. Even though she had quite a good figure, sometimes she
looked just like she had grown too fast. Her wild mane of dark blond
resisted every effort to bring it into shape, so she gave up combing
after some useless strokes with the brush.

        She fought her way into the body stocking and went to the
bedroom to complete her wardrobe: A gray cotton skirt and a pair
of white cotton tennis shoes. In the kitchen she gulped down some
cold coffee that was left from yesterdays breakfast and while tumbling
down the stairs she slid in her jacket.

        Today she had to make a presentation at a clients office. For
two month now she had been designing logos, artwork and color schemes
for a new company. A difficult task, because there was not much she
new about the company itself - a TV producer, preparing a new game
show for the pay-tv-market, all top-secret. Some brainless nonsense,
where moron housewives had to guess the price of washing powder,
microwave ovens and beauty lotions, Viviane thought with distaste. The
design had to be sexy but decent, her boss had insisted. Whatever that
meant.

        Sexy seems to be the new fashion word of the entertainment
business, she thought. Well, her layouts were sexy, the goddamned
best artwork she had made in month. Funny thing was, the client's
company had urged her boss that the presentation had to be done by
herself. Gerard wasn't quite happy about that. He'd rather have his
marketing-assistant Jean-Luc do the job. Jean-Luc was gay, but he had
charm and was great in convincing hesitating clients.

        Viviane was not really charming. She had a blunt way to deal
with people that would not share her opinion. But Gerard had to give
in even though he knew her opinion about TV-people and now she was on
her way.

        Halfway down the staircase it came to her mind that it would
be a good idea to bring along the large cardboard folder containing
her layouts. She climbed up to the seventh floor again - to find out
that she had forgotten to close the front door.

**********

        Viviane worked as a graphic designer in a down ridden art
bureau in Paris' IXth Arrondissement. Her office was located in a
grayish building on the lower Rue St. Denis. Making the way to her
workplace was always running the gauntlet: Whether the hookers that
usually line the pavement of Rue St. Denis took her for a competitor, or

passersby whispered obscene invitations to her - there was no single
day that passed without insults, molestation or worse.

        After two years Viviane still hadn't found out why: She was
six foot tall, so she never wore high heels. Her breasts hadn't grown
since she was fourteen and with what little she had, she didn't have
to bother wearing a bra. Her fingernails were short and colorless
because she couldn't quit the habit of biting them down when she was
concentrating on a problem (she spent hours to trim them afterwards
because she didn't want anybody to find out about nevertheless). Apart
from a pair of simple Creole earrings she never wore jewels either.
And day in day out she dressed in simple cotton or woolen skirts,
mostly in black or gray.

        To cut it short, her outfit couldn't be the incentive to all
the humiliations she had to endure on the short way between subway and
office. It was in fact her physical appearance, the dreamy, startled
look on her face, her long slender arms and legs, that gave her an air
of being most vulnerable and inviolable at the same time.

        When she left the office yesterday, Gerard, her boss, had once
more tried to make sure she was aware of the importance of this
particular client: "Yanel will be the key player on the pay-tv-market
in one year, you can bet. If WE get the account, we're back in
business. Don't mess it up!" He went on with half an hour's
explanation about what they would do with the money - building up a
whole department for the animation- and trailer-stuff, their TV-client
would need, web design and all that crap - if only Viviane would get
the account and so on and so on.

        Viviane shrugged. She had her own ideas about selling her
abilities. She played with a pencil as Gerard again outlined the offer
he wanted her to explain to their future client. When he was through
with it she gathered the files she would need from her desk. It looked
a mess, she admitted in her thoughts. Piles of unread magazines with
pizza cartons and filthy dishes on top beside her Macintosh, whose
keyboard was covered with a grayish layer of grease. Some photos she
had clipped from newspaper were pinned to the wall, showing the
grotesque side of life - she had a weakness for absurdities like cows
with two heads or the like. "Not much to give up," she thought.

**********

        Viviane entered the metro station and a wave of human scent
hit her like a wall. It was a warm day in June and people seemed to
emanate even more natural odors than on any other day. The station was
packed and she had to push through the crowd, trying not to get caught
with the unhandy cardboard folder. She checked her watch. The metro
heading to Rive Gauche seemed to be late. If she caught that train,
she would have an hour or so till the appointment.

        She relaxed as the train entered the station. She got on a wagon

holding out the huge briefcase in front of her like a shield.
When the doors closed, she was trapped in a closely packed crowd. All
of a sudden she fellt the strong urge for a restroom. Dammit, she tried
to eliminate the thought from her mind, but when the metro rolled on,
a huge ad for Evian mineral water came into view, showing a clear blue
waterfall. Viviane swore. Everybody around her stared into thin air,
trying to avoid the looks of their fellow passengers. Viviane could
hardly
breathe. The air in here was even worse than in the station. The train
gathered speed and the acceleration pressed her against an amorphous
wall
of human flesh. She struggled to hold her balance, unable to reach out
for
the handles hanging from the wagons ceiling.

        Just in front of her stood one of these businesslike guys in
an indefinable age between thirty-three and fifty-five. She tried to
read the ads fixed in plastic frames above the wagon's windows. The
train rode through darkness, the lights from within the wagon
illuminating just now and then some graffiti, that some crazy sprayers
must have had the nerve to paint here in the guts of Paris.

        Viviane mused about the rendez-vous with the Yanel-people when
suddenly she felt an irritating movement in her back. She was
unable to move, the large folder she carried across her chest had
caught between the nearby standees, immobilizing her. There it was
again, a hand nestling in her back. In a feeble attempt she tried to
turn but soon had to realize there was no way. She breathed a little
faster, feeling alarmed.

        Viviane turned her head as far as she could, but couldn't make
out the perpetrator of her irritation. The fumbling went on. She tried
to relax, to get accustomed to the activity at her backside, when
suddenly something cold forced its way between the waistband of her
skirt and her body stocking right in the small of her back. Viviane
started, her sudden movement causing angry looks from her fellow
passengers.

        "This is outrageous," she was about to exclaim when suddenly
her buttocks felt a slight breeze and she realized that whoever had
fumbled in her back had cut the waistband of her skirt.

        Viviane's face flushed bright red with embarrassment. Her
helpless struggles started to draw the attention of the fellow
passengers. "Some f - ing teenage creep tries to make fun out of me,"
she thought, persuading herself to keep calm. She forced on a blank
smile. An elderly woman, who had studied her with curiosity turned
away when Viviane made a face at her.

        But now an impudent finger pulled at the thin strap of her
body stocking that disappeared between her buttocks. The cloth was
drawn away from her skin and that force was enough to let the remaining
button, that had fastened the body stocking in her crotch, give way
with a light snap, leaving her sex exposed to the warm humid air
that filled the wagon.

        Viviane shuddered, her heart began to race and she tried to
move forward, when the business guy turned his head. "Can't you see
that there is no space to move in here? So would you please refrain
from pushing." She stood still, sighing. At her back, she could feel a
slim finger entering the cleft between her buttocks. She tried to
press her checks together when she felt something being moved between
her knees, forcing them apart. Struggling to keep her balance she fell
forward again. "Now would you please stop floundering," was what it
earned her.

        Whoever was standing behind her was slowly pushing a suitcase
or a box between her feet, preventing her from closing her legs.
Viviane started sweating.

        The train slowed down and came to a screeching halt. The doors
opened and more people forced their way into the packed crowd. The
doors made several attempts to close and finally the metro picked up
speed again. As soon as the shaking journey continued, the slim finger
made contact with her bare behind again and entered between her spread
buttocks.

**********

        As a matter of fact Viviane never had a lot of pubic hair.
Since adolescence, she was always subject to the jokes of her
classmates when they found out that she was almost as bare as an egg
at places where the other girls grew hairs in thick curls. She tried
to avoid going to the showers after sport lessons, knowing that her
childish appearance would provoke nothing but mockery. Over the years,
not much had changed. Now and then, when she paraded in front of the
mirror, trying on new underwear, inspecting her flat tummy and butt,
she came to a stop, putting her hands on her hips, standing square in
front of the mirror: "I'm looking like a thirteen year old girl."

        Even with her legs closed the space between her thighs was
four fingers wide and nothing concealed the pink bud of her clitoris
protruding between her bare labia, giving her vulva the appearance
of a flower about to open. "My lips are way too short," she thought
angrily. She would never wear a silken skirt without panties - at
first look everybody, who saw her at the right angle against the
light, would know every detail about the most intimate part of her
anatomy. "At least I haven't got to trim my hair when wearing a
bikini," she thought, but it wasn't much help.

**********

        Suddenly Viviane felt the smooth fingertip on her sphincter.
A shudder went through her body and she jolted. The finger made a
little circle over the taut ring of muscles and traveled further
down, trailing the fissure between her labia. The tall girl was
trapped, her knees spread at least one foot apart by a bulky piece of
luggage, her hands clasped around the folder, her backside exposed
from the hem of her leather jacket to her feet. Viviane gasped when
the warm hand between her thighs gently forced her to open her legs a
little more. By now she nearly had to stand on her tiptoes and was
about to stumble.

        "Excuse me," she mumbled to the gentleman standing right
before her, "I just wanted to - oh!" When she made a little step to
have a better stand, with the lightest of movements a cheeky fingertip
made contact with her protruding clitoris. Her heart stopped for a
second.

        The passenger opposite to her, blocking her way, himself
cramped in the crowd, turned his head again. "Are you OK?" he asked,
studying the confused expression on her bright red face.

        "Thank you, I'm - ahhh - nghh," was all she managed to answer,
when the sleek intruder continued his assault. Right now the fingertip
was running in a delicious circle around the tip of her clitoris.
Whoever stood behind didn't want to hurt her, so much for sure.
Quite the opposite. Viviane was startled. The finger playing with the
most sensual part of her body must belong to a woman- she was sure
she felt the soft scratching of a long nail against her labia. A man
would never be so sensitive, she thought.

        She grasped the cardboard harder, her knuckles turning white,
when the finger retreated towards her vaginal opening. She held her
breath and sensed her inner lips opening like petals of a blooming
flower. "This is not happening," she tried to gather her willpower,
but when the fingertip lightly slid over her urethra, her clitoris
filled with blood as it was touched by a fingernail.

        Then the finger made contact with the soft tissue of her
vaginal opening. Viviane felt the moisture that had gathered at the
entrance of her vagina, cursing herself, hoping that her tormentor
wouldn't feel it too, and realize her arousal. When the tall girl felt
a small trickle of saliva running over her chin she realized she had
her mouth open.

        Just when she was about to close it, the finger slowly started
to slip into her vagina. The air, that had built up in her lungs,
escaped with a long sigh. "Unghhhhhhhhhh - " was all she was able to
articulate, when she felt the first joint of the intruding finger
passing the ring of muscle, that guarded the entrance. Due to the
lubrication she emanated, there wasn't much resistance and the
finger slid in as easy as if penetrating melting butter.

        "Ahhhhh - " the second joint had made its way inside. The
finger advanced ever so slowly until it was completely buried inside
her and she could feel the flat of her assailant's hand resting against
the skin of her buttocks. Viviane's heartbeat sped up a considerable
rate,
her breath became flat.

        The finger came to a halt. At the same time, two fingertips,
belonging to the same hand, started a slow stroking motion through the
folds of her drenched labia, alongside the swollen shaft of her
clitoris. Viviane had to bite her lower lip as the lust, radiating
from her genitals, raged through her nervous system. Another movement,
a slight bending and as slowly as it entered the finger began to
retreat, sending delicate shivers down her spine each time a joint
passed the entrance. She felt the walls of her vagina contracting in
an involuntary movement, trying in vain to prolong the retreat.

        When finally the finger, covered with a film of her fluids,
broke free and her flesh closed again, she couldn't prevent arching
her back, sticking out her bottom. Her knees felt like jelly and
Viviane was afraid they might give way when the man in front of her
turned his head again, having heard her dreamlike sound of
disappointment. He managed to turn around and stood now only inches
away, his body separated from hers only by the huge cardboard folder
she held on to. The man, clad in a dark double-breasted suit, white
shirt and a red silk tie, began to study her face.


        Viviane realized she gave indeed an astounding sight, her
mouth and eyes wide open, her cheeks bright red, her face a contorted
mask. Suddenly a musky smell hit her, and Viviane thought she would
die from shame. The scent of her fluids dispersed from her sex and
through the trains compartment. "He must smell my arousal," a panic
filled thought raced through her mind: "I must stop this."
She fought to regain her composure, trying to concentrate on her
business meeting, third-world-hunger, her grandmother, anything,
when the finger started his cruise again.

        This time it spread the fluid escaping her sex around her
tight anal opening, traveling between her sex and her anus in a slow
and gentle massage. Viviane's eyes started to fill with tears. This
delicious torture was more than she could bear. The fingertip went the
other way between her inner and outer lips on one side towards her
clitoris and back again on the other side. Another massage of her
sphincter and the finger returned to her clitoris, which by now stood
out like a sprout between her open labia. Again the fingertip started
a circle, avoiding direct contact with the bud itself.

        Viviane started to sob. This was too much. She knew that only
one
touch would send her over the edge. Orgasming in the middle of an
indifferent crowd, in a metro wagon, in the face of a stranger who
wouldn't let his eyes off her face, who studied the contorted
expression of lust on her face, the silent begging for release in her
wide open eyes, the tears of frustration running down her cheeks.

        "Just touch it - please," was the only thought she was able to
hold, herself indifferent to the crowd, to the stranger in front of
her, to the humiliating nakedness of the nether half of her body, her
juices by now trickling down the inside of her thigh. "Oh my god,
please," she whispered when the tormenting fingertip finished another
circle. Her clitoris felt like it would burst any moment.

        Viviane had lost all notion of where she was and where she was
going, her mind centered around her painful lust. Her tormentor must
be perfectly aware of her state of arousal. The finger moved with a
delicate ease through the soft folds of her sex, touching her most
secret places with exception of her clitoris: It stroked the left side
of the shaft, the right side, then tensed the tissue at the entrance
of her genital cleft so that the hood of her clitoris retreated
further and the engorged bud came to stand out still a little further.

        Viviane couldn't stand no more, her eyes sending pleading
looks. "Please - hrch - ohmygodohmy - gnnnrrach," she gritted between
her teeth, yet the finger retreated again, collecting more fluid from
her vagina, massaging her anus once more. Viviane was about to burst,
her genitalia felt like a volcano, hot lava running down her leg. She
prayed for an eruption, sensing it so close yet out of reach, beyond
her control.

        The fingertip continued to massage her sphincter, applying
more and more pressure in the center until suddenly it broke the
slight resistance of the ring of muscle. Viviane lost control. When
her rectum relaxed, she felt her she couldn't hold the content of her
bladder. A few drops of urine escaped her urethra. She tried to hold
it back, but a constant trickle of liquid found its way out. She
closed her eyes in shame, avoiding the staring look of her spectator.
The invading finger stayed completely still.

        "Oh my god no please don't stop it I can't take no more
please," she sobbed - and, as if her tormentor's heart finally found
pity on her trembling body, he withdraw his fingertip from her rectum
and without further delay placed index and thumb on either sides of
her clitoris and started a rubbing motion - as if counting money.

        Viviane jerked, caught off guard in her tantalizing reverie,
her eyes about to pop from their sockets. And with opening her eyes
again, she saw the red recording light of a handy cam, pointing at her
face. The shock swiped away what little composure she still had. With
a ferocity she never thought possible, the orgasm flashed through her
body like a lightning. Her muscles gave way and a stream of warm urine
washed over the hand which continued its stroking motion.


        "Ohnohh - ohhhhh - nooohhhhhrch -." Her nervous system
approached overload, the knuckles of her fingers pale white, wringing
the cardboard in her hands, saliva dropping from her open mouth. The
camera was only inches from her face, still recording. Her whole body
shook. The fingers around her clitoris exercised the same movement
over and over again and still there was no stop to the stream of warm
liquid escaping her bladder.

        The smell of warm urine spread through the wagon. Viviane was
about to collapse, but then her climax subsided and the warm trickle
of urine came to a halt. The eyes of every passenger in the
compartment were set on her. The subway came to a screeching halt. The
doors opened with a hydraulic hiss and passengers poured from the
wagon out into the station. The man with the handy cam had vanished,
she couldn't remember when.

        Viviane felt the suitcase being torn out between her weak
knees (it must be covered with piss, she thought in a blush of shame).
She didn't have the strength to turn around. Already new passengers
made their way into the wagon when Viviane came to her senses and
pushed her way out of the train. The doors closed behind her, the
train pulled out of the station and gathered speed when she realized,
that from her waist down she was naked. Her skirt - probably soaked as
well - was on its way to the outskirts of Paris.

to be continued



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