Shadow Girl by Mael d'Armor Read Free Book Online Page B

The circle is lopsided, it says. Her heart sinks. She is trying so hard. And she is boiling inside. And feeling so dizzy.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ says the voice, ‘I’ll give you something to model your lips on. Make sure your tongue is positioned correctly, at the back of the mouth, well away from your teeth. Lingual retraction is a feature of the French O.’
    Something is inserted into her pout. Something round and soft. She cannot tell straight away what it is for the swelter in her flesh has numbed her senses. Then she guesses. A finger. No, a thumb. She should be shocked but the song of the voice is robbing her of the will to object.
    â€˜The O, or circle,’ the voice purrs on, ‘is an ancient symbol, used in all cultures. It is found everywhere. On the masterpieces of the great painters, in the sacred books of the astrologers, in the plans of the great walled cities of antiquity, in the Tibetan mandala, in the Aboriginal rock art of the Panaramitee period. It is a reflection of the planets and a symbol of the macrocosm. A figure of completion. But it is also a sign of intimacy and fertility, and as such an emblem of womanhood. This is why it is crucial to get it right. Do you hear me, Sandra?’
    She nods, tensing and relaxing her lips on the thumb, tasting its cool, musky aroma with relief. With relish. Somehow that thumb is keeping her dizziness at bay, offering protection from the fire in her limbs.
    It is no longer motionless but sliding back and forth. Brushing and pressing against her tongue, tickling her.
    Panaramitee, ancient symbol, macrocosm, womanhood . . . The words drift through her without meaning. All she wants is to satisfy the echoes in her mind, indulge that comforting, all-powerful presence. Keep it happy. Drape herself in it so she does not collapse on the floor. She dimly perceives it is no longer her pride which keeps her striving for the elusive sound, but cannot find the strength to care.
    She sucks on.
    The thumb is taken out abruptly. For a moment, she is disoriented. But the voice coils around her again. She is filled with glee, and an odd kind of passivity.
    â€˜We have strengthened the lips. We must now stretch the chest and relax the diaphragm further. To achieve this, your position must be altered.’
    This time, her consent is not requested.
    Her hands are dragged along the rug and she slides forward, her shoulders subsiding. Her motion is arrested by the couch. The potted hibiscus on the coffee table sheds a bright red petal, which catches in her hair.
    Her buttocks are positioned much higher than her head. Her blouse has come partially untucked and her skirt, no doubt stretched beyond what is recommended by its manufacturer, has shifted further up her thigh, revealing a large swathe of skin above the boots.
    She is oblivious to this and only thirsting for the solace of the voice.
    â€˜I will help your breathing directly with a circular motion on your diaphragm,’ he informs. ‘This circle will replicate the roundness of your mouth and the shape of the O. Three distinct but interlocking loops, the ancient unifying symbol of the Borromean rings. This will pull together your energies and allow for the flowering of your linguistic potential.’
    The words swirl around her like a spell. Before she can register what is happening, nimble fingers are unfastening the buttons of her blouse. The blouse hangs loose around her. The fingers are still busy. They unclip her belt, unzip her skirt and peel it back past the hips, revealing her panties.
    An atom of protest spirals somewhere in her mind. This is going too far . But the thought is too weak, consumed by the heat, dissolved by the hypnotic tones of the voice. She can only manage half a whisper.
    â€˜Too far . . .’
    The voice picks up on her plea. ‘ Oui, tout faire. Tu dois tout faire pour me combler . You must do all you can to please me.’
    She latches onto his words. Yes,