A three-floor penthouse apartment in New York was filled with decent jazz music. Live jazz music, notably. Guitar, bass and piano, all electric so that the instruments could be properly amplified to fill all rooms, at least those on the top floor, where the salon opened to a grande terrasse. The apartment was located in Manhattan, of course. No place more cosmopolitan in the whole universe, was there? And no hipper place either. And, of course, the apartment was not located in Hell’s Kitchen. Everybody imagined it to be such an extremely hot and cool place, just because of the name. But it neither was hell nor could you find a restaurant at every corner. No, the apartment was in Upper East Side, just one block away from the Guggenheim Museum directly facing the Central Park.

The person throwing a party in the fancy apartment did not own it. He did not have to, his country owned the place. The French attache des arts had invited politicians, artists, the inevitable celebrities and other people considered sufficiently important to warrant an invitation, to spend a nice evening overlooking the Central Park and New York around it, talking BS and maybe some business stuff while munching overpriced appetizers accompanied by overrated French wine.

Even though the apartment was huge, there was little room to move, since so many people had been invited (and probably more than expected had actually shown up). In a corner, in front of a modern painting equally ugly as expensive by some yet unheard-of French painter, stood a small group of people, chattering about the influence of le film noir on American novelists. The women were dressed in decent dresses, one more impressive than the other, their hair styled perfectly and their make-up matching their eyes. The women were putting themselves on show, as they say. As some might say, they were trying to hide their shallowness behind expensive curtains, but people who would say such things did not get invited to parties of this sort. The men interspersing the glamorous women all wore black and seemed to differ only by the value of their wrist watches and the width of their bellies. They were the dark background against which the women could shine. Yet of course, the men were – on average – much more important than the women. This was how things were, at least in the Western world.

One of these men, a nice, older guy, seemed bored and a bit uncomfortable. Maybe he was here just because his wife had been invited and he had tagged along (or more likely: she had made him to tag along, because she had not wanted to show up alone). Anyways, the nice, older guy excused himself (which no one in the small group in the corner seemed to notice) and went for the bathroom, for some more overrated wine or just wanted to get some fresh air on the crowded terrace. As he went, he passed by a woman, who did not look like any of the other women at the party. She had the chuzpe to wear a pantsuit instead of a dress. A black pantsuit together with shiny, black, flat, laced shoes and a white blouse. Her long, dark hair was bound at the back of her head, around her neck she wore a black necklace with a shiny amulet which the old, nice guy could not make out in the short time it took him to pass by the woman.

She stood there, trying to make out familiar faces in the crowd, sipping a glass of vin de Champagne. She would have preferred prosecco, with a shot of Aperol, but from time to time the French sparkling wine (Mon Dieu, never call it that in the presence of a French person!) was enjoyable. A man came up to the woman and engaged her in conversation. The type of conversation, which went on and on, and which could impossibly be summarized in more than, let’s say, two meaningful sentences. Party chatter, small talk, producing hot air, babbling along, BSing, call it what you will. The talk of the upper glass, complaining about things normal people could not even afford or imagine.

»Now, how do you keep yourself occupied during the weekdays, if I may ask?« the man chatting up the woman said.

»I destroy souls.« she answered and sipped her champagne.

»I beg your pardon.«

»I am in legal business. You know, being paid filthy fees to sue people’s pants off.«

The man uttered a relieved »ah« followed by a bemused »oh« and then laughed mildly.

»I first thought you were a politician. Thank god, you’re not.« he smiled and began to talk about his experiences with the US legal system, which bored the woman to death. But she was a professional and hid it effortlessly.

After a while, the woman’s glass of champagne was empty. Promptly, it was refilled by a waiter wearing white gloves. As the woman intended to take another sip, a last one before she would dump the boring man and move on to one of the groups of people, which inevitably formed at parties, somebody bumped into her. A bit of the champagne spilled on her flawless white blouse, leaving a slightly yellow stain. A woman wearing a dark grey dress and a lot of eye shadow had bumped into her at the shoulder. Briefly, their gazes met. Cold looks were exchanged, then the woman moved on without an excuse or even a single word. The woman in the pantsuit followed the other woman with her eyes as she moved through the crowd until she vanished outside onto the terrace. She was not listening to the boring man anymore, muttered an empty yet polite excuse and headed to the bar.

With a click of her finger she got the attention of the barkeep.

»White Russian.« she ordered.

»I am sorry, ma’am.« the barkeep answered, »We do not serve cocktails, just wine. May I offer you a glass of–«

»You got coffee?« she cut him off.

»Of course, ma’am.«

»So you also have milk, right. Get a hold of a bottle of vodka, then mix me a White Russian.«

The barkeep stared at the woman, unsure about what to say. A White Russian was mixed with coffee liqueur instead of coffee. And a good one with cream instead of milk.

»Allez!« the woman said and shot a fiery look at him.

Of course, they had vodka, which bar didn’t? So, the barkeep gave in and mixed her a White Russian. She took it, went through the crowd to the large double-door leading out to the terrace, and stopped to take a large sip. The milk left a white stain on her upper lip, she licked it off with her tongue. Slowly, and without hiding it behind her hand or a napkin, which would have been appropriate. Some guests noticed and looked at her in disgust. The woman did not care. Her eyes were scanning the terrace.

She spotted a glimpse of dark grey cloth, moved a little out onto the terrace, and then she found what she was looking for. The woman, who had bumped into her, was standing right at the railing, which consisted of slightly tinged glass in order not to spoil the magnificent overview over New York, the capital of the universe. She was talking to some guy, tall, designer stubble and muscular. The type who drives muscle cars and thinks he looks cool in them. The type who makes girls suck him off and then does not have the decency to lick them once he has fired his load. The insignificant type. Useless biomass. The woman in the pantsuit was after the woman, not after him. She was smoking a cigarette, held it between her ring finger and middle finger, and took long drags. She blew out the smoke through her mouth and nose at the same time. The type playing it cool. The type snipping the burnt butt right into your face, driving by in a convertible, club music playing from the car stereo. The arrogant type. Arrogant, but not insignificant. Arrogant, and – for some reason, which did not matter – interesting.

The woman in the pantsuit moved up to the two, placed herself closely to the smoking woman, and sipped her White Russian. They noticed her and stopped their conversation. The woman gave her a condescending look and blew out the smoke of a long drag partially in her face.

»What?« she asked, annoyed.

The woman in the pantsuit just stared her in the eyes, again sipping her drink.

»Do you know this woman?« the guy asked.

»No, never seen her before.«

»Listen, lady, you’re scaring my–«

»Shut it, pretty boy.« the woman in the pantsuit cut him off, fixing her gaze on the woman next to him, »Rid us of your presence, will you.«

»What the hell? What did you just say?«

»Either you leave us alone, me and the smoking lady here, or I will set a team of very well-trained lawyers on your butt, scanning every bit of your life and what you might be doing for a living. Any piece of shit they find, as little as it may be, I will blow up into a fuckton of crap and then throw it right on a fan standing in front of you. In other words: I will sue your dick off and take your balls as penalty interest if you do not leave.«

The guy opened his mouth, but closed it again without saying a word. After exchanging a baffled look with his acquaintance, girlfriend, fuck buddy or whatever she was to him, she nodded him to leave and he did so.

»You might impress him with your fancy lawyer talk, but it ain’t gonna work with me, honey. Who are you anyway?« the woman in the dress asked.

The woman in the pantsuit just sipped her White Russian.

A moment went by in silence.

»Be careful with that cigarette.« the woman in the pantsuit finally said, »You might burn my suit coat with it. But if you want to burn something, why don’t you take my hand instead.« She held out her left hand, palm up.

The woman in the grey dress took an extra deep drag, exhaled almost all the smoke through her nose and then pressed the burning cigarette right onto the palm of the hand so willingly offered. The burning tip touched the bare skin, not just slightly, but also not strong enough to put out the cigarette. It touched the skin for a second or two, maybe even three. The woman in the pantsuit did not make a sound, only the corners of her eyes tightened a bit. Finally, the woman in the dress pulled the cigarette away.

»Sue me.« she provoked.

»Don’t intend to.«

»What do you want?«

»Talk to you, to begin with.«

»About what?«

»You.«

»Oh, yeah?« This time she blew the smoke directly into the face of the woman in front of her.

»Yeah. Really. And if you want, you can put out that cigarette on me as well. But not on my hand.«

Now, a trace of interest washed over the face of the woman in the dress.

»What’s your name?« the woman in the pantsuit asked. She did so with unintended sharpness.

»Sharon.« she answered a little too quickly for her liking, »And what might be your name?«

»Right now, I am Lara.«

»Right now? Is this some kind of cosplay game for you?«

»I don’t play games.«

»Good, me neither.« Sharon said, and let her eyes examine Lara’s body. Judging by her mild smile, she liked what she saw. »Hold out your hand again.«

Lara did so. Sharon dropped burnt ash of her cigarette onto it.

»You’re quite talented as an ashtray.«

»I’m talented to take other stuff, too.«

»That so?« Sharon’s gaze wandered back and forth between Lara’s eyes and her lips, which were covered by a decent lipstick.

»Yes, that so.« Lara did not sip her White Russian, she lowered her tongue into it and took a slow lick like a dog from a bowl.

Sharon smiled. Of bemusement, and of fascination. Lara was so very direct, so strangely submissive, with an aggressive touch to it. She decided to go for it. Again, she ashed into Lara’s hand which she still held out.

»There is a speck of dirt on my left shoe. Make your tongue useful again.« she said.

»Not here.« came the prompt reply.

Not the answer Sharon had expected, but a good answer after all. It would be wise to take this game elsewhere. Was it a game? Lara said she did not play any, so what was it then? A dance maybe, or rather a duel? Time to find out. Even though Lara said, Sharon could put out her cigarette on parts of her body other than her hand, she pressed it hard against the palm of her hand, where she has ashed into before, and extinguished it. Lara flinched just a little, and then enclosed the cigarette butt with her fist.

»Drink up.« Sharon ordered.

Lara downed the rest of her White Russian.

»Mine, too.«

Lara also downed the rest of Sharon’s champagne.

»Good girl. Follow me.«

Sharon led the way. Through the salon, passing the band, which was playing a song by Django Reinhardt Lara recognized but could not name, down two floors, passing by many faceless people indulging in their importance, right to the private elevator and down to the garage. Sharon went to a dark blue convertible and swung her pretty butt onto the driver’s seat with an elegant movement. Of course, she drove a convertible, no other car would be fitting. Lara got in on the passenger seat and off they drove. To Lara’s surprise, the car stereo played a song by the Glaswegian band Texas. She loved the band, especially the singer. And she hated the thought that Sharon obviously was a fan, too. It was not right, but she did not say anything.

They drove through New York’s urban canyons. The evening had not progressed far, so the neon lights were still fighting against the last rays of light which found their way through the skyscrapers down to the streets. Sharon’s hair whirled in the headwind, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, which were equally cool as useless at this time of the evening, the sun was long gone behind the skyline. For six and a half Texas songs they drove through New York, neither of them saying a word. Sharon did not even take one look at Lara. She already owned her, she was her catch of the day, her pet, her property there on the passenger seat. No need to look.

They parked the car in another garage, which looked the same as the one they came from (don’t all garages look the same?) and took the elevator up to the 21st floor. Only as Sharon unlocked the door to her apartment, she cared to look at Lara again.

»Now show me how talented you are.« she said and lead the way through a short hallway into her living room, where she dropped her small purse on the couch. For New York, the apartment was large. Three or four rooms plus bathroom, with a view to the Hudson River. Lara wondered how Sharon could afford such a place, but skipped the thought. Now, it was not the time for things like that, now it was time for getting down to business.

»Take off your coat.« Sharon said, and Lara obliged.

Her white blouse fitted tightly, Sharon could make out well-defined muscles on Lara’s upper arms through the thin cloth, the shoulders looked strong as well.

She made her next request: »Open your blouse. But don’t take it off.«

Slowly, Lara unbuttoned her blouse and untucked it, her eyes never leaving Sharon’s expectant gaze.

»As I said at the party, there is a speck of dirt on my left shoe. Lick it off.« Sharon ordered.

»As you wish.« Lara said, not sounding like a submissive underling, rather like a tamed tiger baring his fangs in a circus arena against his hated tamer. But still, she got down on all fours and licked Sharon’s left shoe. Slowly and carefully.

»Good girl.« Sharon said, »Now show me your tits.«

Lara opened her bra and threw it to the side.

»Are you stupid? Take off your blouse, too!«

Without a word Lara obliged and threw her blouse over the back of the couch next to which Sharon was standing. Sharon examined Lara’s breasts, her muscles which obviously were the result of regular workouts and then directed her eyes on her lips again.

»Put your tongue to good use a little bit further up.« she said.

Lara allowed herself a smile and hitched up Sharon’s dress. Slowly, letting her hands feel every inch of Sharon’s legs. For a moment, she stroked her knees, then moved the dress further up. Sharon leaned against the back of the couch and assisted by holding the dress up for Lara, so that her hands would be free for other tasks. She had Lara kneel before her, right in the position she wanted her to be. Below her, submissive, and eager to please. As Lara’s hands moved up her thighs she held her breath for a moment. Lara was a good girl, she would be a perfect slave. Certainly better than that Ronaldo she had been talking to at the party.

Sharon’s skin smelled nice, it smelled of youth with a hint of roses. Lara kissed her left thigh, while she let her hand play around her right hip. She closed her eyes, kissed and licked Sharon’s thighs, caressing her, taking in her beautiful scent.