The Théâtre des Champs-Élysées is brimming with life.
In the centre of Paris, in the year 1913, a notably ravenous woman is on the way to meet a very special lady. Lady Renderghast, at twenty six years of age, in a silken, ivory dress with simply bursting, ripe breasts to match, trails her way down the aisles into the seat right at the front, right in the middle of the audience. She descends into the seat with a special form of refinement. Others stand around confused, waving their glasses of Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque around with reckless abandon, as they cry meek protestations.
Why oh why has that darling lady taken the seat right at the front in the middle?
Oh, she will strain her neck so, it cannot do to be a lady with improper posture.
Whatever could be her reason to sit so far away from everybody else? Does she assume with her blonde, buxom locks and porcelain features, that she is simply better than the rest of us?
But she does not care for these insignificant, lifeless corpses. She is here for one reason only. Her lover will be here, and she wants a front row seat to the show.
The lights begin to die down, the remaining audience members taking their seats. Lady Renderghast drowns out the monotonous announcements over the intercom, staring at the marble rose gracing the dome of the theatre. It stares back at her, the centre of the rose one iridescent, all-knowing eye. It knows what she is about to do, and it is waiting to be entertained.
Then the show begins.
Luscious ladies donned in fluorescent feathers and glittering beads prance up and down the stage, waving their feathered boas along sleek shoulders. Smooth, juicy thighs rub together under sweltering stage lights whilst powdered breasts sweat and sag as they bounce left and right.
Lady Renderghast is disgusted by the masculine chuckles and chortles ringing in her ears from the audience behind her. She cares not for this trivial, selfish display. She wants something more private, more personal. This macabre, fake camaraderie is a mere ploy, a performance which benefits nobody, leaving the dancers sweat-soaked and violated, whilst the audience are rendered aroused, and yet wholly unfulfilled, to return home and argue with their misshapen whores of wives.
Lady Renderghast knows that when those beautiful women return backstage, there will always be that one, timid young child, who is overwhelmed by the intensity of those blistering eyes upon her, and will break down in frightened tears, feeling their fat, bulging fingers spreading over her virgin body.
The acts keep appearing, over the period of an hour. More dancers, magicians, a dazzling opera singer. But Lady Renderghast is here for the final act, the most pure, beautiful young girl she has ever seen. The reason she has booked the middle seat in the front row in every performance of this show every day in Paris.
Lady Renderghast was hopelessly overwhelmed by the fragile, innocent and all-consuming Adelisa Andre.
As the lights dimmed and the slender, shaking form stumbled its way on stage, cello in hand, Lady Renderghast took a sharp intake of breath, her misshapen heart taking in misshapen, crooked heartbeats.
Adelisa was a sweet girl of seventeen, with a pale complexion the same lifeless ivory as Lady Renderghast’s dress. Her knobbly knees and bruised knuckles simply yearned to be kissed, the way you’d nurse a child’s scraped knee in the back garden. Her hand me down, cerulean dress dragging down to her ankles contrasted the lifelessness of her tawny eyes.
Lady Renderghast squeezed her legs together as Adelisa spread her legs apart to accommodate the cello between them. The cold, hard wood against her legs made her shiver for a split second, and Lady Renderghast’s eyes ate up the sight, as the young girl gave a small intake of breath, her cheeks blushing a gentle, rosen pink.
And she began to play.
Deep, dulcet tones rocked the theatre in a way words could not describe. The once cackling audience were rendered speechless, as they were every week, every time this young soul stumbled her way across the stage like a nervous fawn caught in the headlights.
Lady Renderghast loved the soft, thoughtful impression on the girls’ face as she played; closed eyes and puckered lips a deep, rosy red. She loved the lacy, blue ribbon in her hair, which would sometimes work its way loose, tracing its way down her bare shoulder and down into her dress. But most of all, Lady Renderghast loved those beautiful hands of Adelisa’s; those long, dainty fingers that she imagined touching and kissing, sucking on them and hearing the sweet girl’s surprised moans at this before unexperienced contact.
Yes, Lady Renderghast was simply besotted. She consumed the entire scene, devoted it to memory and would never let it leave her.
The cello quickened its pace, the familiar appassionato tune bringing itself to a close.
This was the time, Lady Renderghast mused, the last time.
Her eyes never left the girls’ face, the beads of sweat dripping down her forehead, tracing down her nose and dripping with a silent thud onto the cello, reverberating down the silken wood as she plucked at the silver strings. Her fingers were a blur, the intricate motions with those bruised knuckles and dainty fingers looked so very sweet and kissable. Lady Renderghast was quite beside herself. Sat alone, in the middle of the front row, she felt this was a moment between the two women and those two only. Nobody else could infringe on this precious moment.
Then it was over. With one final strum of her fingers, Adelisa brought herself to a stand, her legs scarcely holding her weight. She quivered side to side nervously, picking at the frayed blue ribbon, some of which had worked its way into her mouth. Her pink tongue lapped it away hastily, but the damage was done. Lady Renderghast was trying her very best to control herself, but with little success.
The applause rocked the theatre for several minutes, cries for an encore seeming to never cease. The girl was so happy, her plump cheeks spread out into a pristine smile. As she looked out, she met the eyes of the lady in the middle of the front row.
Adelisa stared at Lady Renderghast quizzically, wondering just why this beautiful woman was sat all on her lonesome, her body so tight and twisted as if she were afraid that opening herself up would cause her to spill out, like a split fountain about to burst.
Adelisa pondered this odd scene for some moments, until a voice brought her to her senses, and she returned backstage.
One of the dancers from earlier was still sat, red-eyed, clutching her ostrich feather fan to her exposed chest. Her laboured breathing mirrored that of the woman in the front row. Adelisa was not sure how to feel, she knew that deep down she had been exposed to the same morbid, cannibalistic sensation as that dancer sat a few steps away from her, staining her cheeks sore.
And yet she didn’t feel anything but intrigue. Something new and exciting had awoken inside of her.
Taking a few more steps aside, she discovered a stage assistant, stood moving props back to their assorted bags. She gently tapped him on the shoulder, and he started. Turning around, she smiled at him. That pure, innocent smile that she knew how to do so well.
‘Excuse me sir, please may you ask the lady in the ivory dress on the first row to come see me in my room backstage, room 34? Its quire urgent, thank you.’
Want to read more creepily sexual stories? Check out my Gothic series, For I Am No Lover of Lilies
Alternatively, if you want to read more stories based off of music, check out my other series, A Tendency For Bitterness
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt