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Klaasje, papers in one hand and high heels in the other, has found herself once again far from home. The elastic lame fabric of her dress hangs loose around her calves, swaying with quiet whispers as she strolls, bare feet pressing into cold sand –- but there is little room to enjoy the simple leisures of the coast. Snow crests everything around her, a shiver passing through her lean body. Wind sends her hair fluttering past her shoulders.
As she comes upon the edge of the water, a well-worn buoy bobs up and down to greet her. Part of it is draped in a cheap wig of seaweed. She opens it up and slips her documents inside, folding them up and hoping the buoy won’t spiral away into the sea.
She continues to walk for no particular reason, hoping to find a distraction or a reason to live or perhaps land’s end. In the distance, dilapidated buildings stand out dark and rickety against the starkness of the morning sky. Dark clouds smear the horizon like ash. Maybe it’ll rain tonight, she thinks to herself, approaching the dock.
On the edge of it sits a woman, hair messily framing her face in dark waves. She hums quietly, the sound resonating in her throat. The woman smiles as Klaasje approaches and it lights up the entire village like sunshine. Klaasje is immediately hypnotized, though she knows she shouldn’t be –- the pull of her eyes is magnetic, the crow’s feet that form at the periphery of them, everything about her is beautiful and it’s devastating. How such a bare gesture leaves her aching.
“Aye, miss,” she chirrups, voice warbling with her accent. “What brings a disco-dancer like you along a coast like this?” A genuine question, posed out of no judgement or disdain. Klaasje, moving with the grace of the sea itself, sits down carefully next to her.
A wry little smile twists at her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just looking for some good company –- I sure as hell won’t find any down there.” Klaasje gestures broadly at the scenery in front of them, but the net picker knows she means the Martinaise waterfront.
“Well, I hope mine will be enough. Oh, before I forget –- My name is Lilienne.” The name rolls smoothly off her tongue. In Klaasje’s mind, all other thoughts are discarded, everything focusing on that one word.
“Lilienne,” the disco dancer echoes with the low rasp of a smoker. Suddenly, she is itching with a desire to press something against her lips. “Klaasje. My name isn’t as nice as yours,” she says with small humour.
Lilienne looks at her curiously. Light halos the right side of her face in thin crescents, bright and brilliant. “Miss Klaasje..”
The woman holds up a bony hand, cutting her off. “Please, just Klaasje is fine. ‘Miss’ makes me feel awfully old.” The net picker laughs, agreeing with a cheery ‘aye’ and taking note of how her middle and ring fingers have their nails trimmed short.
A shimmering silver pile of fabric lays discarded beneath a yellow coat and other various (under) garments on the floor. Next to them, unstrapped high heels and boots lay on their side, stripped off in a rush.
Klaasje sprawls across the small bed and beckons Lilienne forward, one hand cupping her breast and the other laying across the V-line of her hip. Her slender figure lies amongst the sheets, open, inviting –- And how can Lilienne refuse? She gazes upon the disco dancer with an unspoken admiration, moving into the small gap between her legs, the bed frame creaking in protest. Tiny blonde hairs and cigarette burns mix with the pale expanse of Klaasje’s skin, the fisherwoman placing delicate kisses from inner thigh to stomach, chasing the trail of fuzz all the way up to between her chest. Klaasje’s hand moves to wrap around her as Lilienne gently kneads at her soft flesh.
Sunbeams drape Lilienne in a hazy glow as she looks down at Klaasje. Slowly, she rubs the tension out of her shoulders, thumbs massaging years of tension out with ease. Her fingers rub against the other woman’s vulva, crooking to dip inside of the wetness that welcomes her. First, a single finger eases in, then a second; Lean arms reach out to brace themselves on Lilienne’s shoulders, quiet moans filling the confined space of the washerwoman’s shack.
“Is this okay?” Lilienne murmurs, smiling up at Klaasje. Her fingers search for just the right spot to press at, enveloped by heat and passion. The disco dancer nods with confidence. She continues to curve her fingers, leaning to tongue at the nub of tissue just above Klaasje’s opening, reddened and tender like the aril of a pomegranate. She smells divine, the fisherwoman thinks, face cushioned on both sides by the plush of the other woman’s thighs.
Klaasje, head thrown back with bliss, pants headily. She cranes her neck forward to take the hand Lilienne has cupping her breast and presses her lips against it, murmuring affections that escape in quick breaths. It’s not long before Lilienne replaces her fingers with her tongue, the taste of salt and sex flooding her mouth. Deep, then deeper, aching, wanting…
The net picker pulls away, lips wet and shining. Her smile is one giddy and dazed with pleasure, thumb still slowly circling the other woman’s clitoris, almost soothingly. “Enjoying yourself, Miss Oranje Disco Dancer?” She teases. Klaasje, with her face flushed, sits up and brings her arms around Lilienne’s waist. Her hands perfectly cradle the dips of the other woman’s hips, warm and fair. Sun-strained eyes meet her own as they kiss again, Klaasje wilting into her embrace.
“We should really do this again sometime,” she huffs, breathless and beautiful.