Hakone was a quaint, picturesque town, located two hours out of Tokyo. Every view was as picture perfect as a postcard, and despite the bustling tourism, there was ample serenity in the rustling of amber-kissed treetops that enshrouded the region. In the distance, Mt. Fuji loomed over the horizon like an apparition as golden hour painted the snowy peaks brilliant peach, breathing life into the slumbering giant.
What a crying shame it was, then, that Gaspard wasn't here to admire the scenery.
“If I didn't know better, then I'd say you were ashamed of me."
“It’s a love hotel, Gaspard,” Xavier chided, as keyed open the door to their suite. "You asked for something 'discreet, but budget friendly', no?"
Gaspard laughed airily. "Mm, but this," she gestured with a sweep of her arm, "is almost barbaric."
Xavier scoffed, closing the door behind them. There was a brief moment of silence as the pair stood side-by-side, measuring the weight of their actions. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, though.
Gaspard's right leg was trembling from nervous excitement, like it always did before a show. With a tiny laugh, she briefly recalled the time when Chuck used to excitedly piddle all over the floor whenever she came home.
"I wonder why he only does that with you," Xavier sighed as she mopped spot where Chuck had swished and swashed his happy little tail through his mess.
"It's obvious," Gaspard grinned, cusping Chuck's cheeks in her hands. "You love a pretty woman, don't you boy?"
Thankfully, she was no Chuck. Instead, Gaspard's foot twisted and turned as she shuffled, rather pathetically, on the spot.
"Gaspard…?" came Xavier's hesitant voice. She must've noticed.
"Ah, yes?"
"Pipe down," Xavier said with that pleasant, almost sensual laugh she spared for their private moments. She grabbed Gaspard by the collar of her leather jacket, giving it a tug. Gaspard felt sweat pool at her brow as she watched as mischief tugged at the corner of Xavier's mouth, and before long, a salacious smirk had formed.
It was embarrassing, how all it took was a pretty woman to smile, and Gaspard's heart would beat erratically. Th-tha-th-thump, she was a PA system ready to blow. Slowly, Xavier hooked a long, slender finger into the carabiner attached to Gaspard's jeans. She tugged, hard. Gaspard shrieked, dissolving into a fit of guttural laughter that gave way to an aroused groan when Xavier palmed at her crotch.
It wasn't the first time they'd stolen away from the prying eyes of their entourage. There was something addictive about it: that sweet rush of adrenaline from the whispers in each other's ears, to the firm pats on her tummy, and the reassuring hand that rested on her back before a public appearance. The added secrecy only made this more thrilling to Gaspard.
It wasn't forbidden, not exactly. It simply wasn't for the world to know.
Gaspard wasn't expecting this peculiar rendezvous. She was content with taking a quiet evening to herself, back in Tokyo, painting her nails, applying an overdue hair mask, drinking champagne in the spa and then fucking herself in said spa. Once she was finished, she'd lie in bed scrolling instagram, flirt with a few people she had no real interest in seeing, and pass out til' morning.
But, as luck would have it, the plans Xavier made with someone else had fallen through. Xavier had trudged into their hotel room, quite dramatically, in the way that told Gaspard she'd been rejected. It wasn't often someone rejected Xavier, but Gaspard had noticed there had been an unlucky streak in recent times.
Not that she was counting, of course.
Gaspard opened her mouth to tease, but when Xavier looked at her, doe-eyes ablaze with vulnerability and desire, well…Gaspard could only oblige.
"Stay with me, tonight?"
"Of course."
They took the train out, arriving at sunset. Xavier seemed unusually chipper since Gaspard had agreed to accompany her. Xavier spent the entire train ride fussing over Gaspard, asking if she'd slept soundly, eaten well ("Mm, I will", which earned her blush and a scoff), and if she wanted to see the open-air museum on the weekend, to take photos and make silly jokes about Rodin and Bourdelle.
All of the above, she'd replied. Naturally. Gaspard was quite gluttonous when it came to holding Xavier's sole attention. That, she would never deny.
Still, Gaspard couldn't help but wonder what caused Xavier's sudden interest in her personal itinerary. Was it because Gaspard was the nearest warm body with a guaranteed non-disclosure agreement? Gaspard was also single. Mostly. Their arrangement was easy, convenient and familiar.
But most of all, it felt good.
Gaspard wasn't particularly fond of being second best, but they'd never spoken about this arrangement since it started. Not truthfully, anyway. It was, to Gaspard's understanding, supposed to be a summer fling. Except, it had been well-over a year now. Whatever this was—whatever it had become, it was simmering pleasantly between them.
She should know better than to question it.
Xavier had checked them in, rather business-like, which made Gaspard snort. The performative formality was a little endearing—was it nerves, perhaps? Xavier was rarely, if ever, a nervous lover. Quite commandeering, and oozing with confidence. She was sexy, and quite frankly, irresistable. Pleasure spiked in Gaspard's gut at the thought of having such an effect on Xavier.
The hotel was, to her relief, a far cry from the day-suite they'd booked before their show in Osaka. That room had been a nightmare, from top to bottom; a Barbie mansion brought to life, with hot pink walls, hideously ornate gold-trimmed furniture which had clearly been upholstered, and a four poster bed, enshrouded by silk drapes and lace frills.
The mattress had squeaked hideously, but Gaspard's memory of was of another sound — she had bore witness to the first time Xavier had came with Gaspard's name on her tongue; not whispered into the crook of her neck, or muffled by pillows. Xavier had growled, possessively. The fire in Gaspard's chest had marched her well-fucked body into venue that night, like a puppet on a string.
That night, she'd watched their entire performance from the rafters.
This time, Xavier opted for a modern, almost tasteful, monochrome setting. The room was simple, favouring function over form. The suite, dimly lit to set the mood, comprised of a queen-sized bed dressed in black silk and an impressive mirror which covered the entire left-side wall. Gaspard chuckled under her breath; she was eager to use that mirror to her advantage.
In the corner was a small bathroom, tucked behind iron bars, like a prison cell which made Gaspard's imagination run wild with depravity. Tonight, though, she suspected Xavier was feeling vulnerable. In that case, simple was best. She would leave her suggestions for tomorrow.
The gentle brutality of the hotel suite was illuminated by a deep, violet glow that burned away the boyish charm on Xavier's face. Her cheekbones, still sharp, gave way to something much deadlier. The thrum of anticipation rumbled through the air like a thundercloud, powerful and foreboding.
Gaspard swallowed thickly.
She had always possessed a deep, often troublesome, yearning for Xavier that she couldn't replace. She had tried — yes, tried — to bury that curious mania. But it had lingered, deep within her bones. To her surprise, one fateful evening, it had been met with mutual desire, not rejection.
It was torturous, almost, to be afflicted with so much desire for her best friend. They spent countless hours together in the public eye. Gaspard, often awkward, unsure of her — their? — boundaries, kept her arms glued to her sides. She wouldn't dare risk to place a hand on the small of Xavier's back on a red carpet, but she was sure she had slipped up once or twice.
Had anyone noticed the way Xavier no longer clung to her like a gibbon?
How careful was too careful?
"Strip bare for me tonight, Gaspard. I need to see all of you."
Gaspard undressed herself methodologically, the clink of her belt buckle ringing thunderously through their silence. Xavier did the same, slipping out of a pair boy-shorts. Black cotton, Gaspard noted, biting her lip in amusement.
Xavier hadn't expected this either.
It didn't matter what Xavier wore: she could be dressed in dirty rags and Gaspard would still bend her knee and beg for a taste of her cunt. But Xavier—well, Xavier liked to make an effort, some sort of grand statement. Xavier enjoyed wearing sexy lingerie—like it was a surprise, or a reward, depending on what she deemed Gaspard was worthy.
In return, Gaspard may have stolen a few pieces, stashed them like trophies in her bedside drawer at home. What she secretly did with them in private, well, she'd take that secret to the grave.
"What are these?" Alka had asked one day, with a smirk. She stared at Gaspard, brows raised, with a pair of Xavier's red lace panties hooked around her finger.
"Ah, shit," Gaspard mumbled under her breath. She quickly lit the cigarette between her lips. "They belong to…to an ex-girlfriend, yeah."
"I suppose mine will be next, someday," Alka laughed. Gaspard could tell she didn't believe her, but she didn't care for the truth.
Alka was good like that. Carefree, fun.
A little out of Gaspard's league.
Gaspard nodded. "Someday."
"Hey," Gaspard started, "thanks for…all of this."
"It's nothing," Xavier shrugged, betrayed by the fragile cadence in her voice.
It was the vulnerable, unspoken admission of desire, that finally quashed the jealous embers in Gaspard's chest. In their place settled a warm sense of victory. A sick pleasure in knowing her opponent, some strange, irrelevant woman, had been forgotten.
There it was again, that excited tremour, stemming from that deep validation of knowing Xavier wanted her.
Xavier perched herself on the edge of the bed, kicking off her combat boots, tossing them aside. Under different pretenses, Gaspard would have been a tad more pedantic. She'd carefully inspect the bed for stains and bed-bugs, floundering for a last-minute excuse to close the door on her shameful desires and leave a pretty face wanting.
With Xavier though—with Xavier, there was raw, unbridled desire, and with it came a total disregard for Gaspard's one night stand mantra. She tossed aside her casual proclivities along with her underwear. Here and now, that's what mattered. With Xaiver, she was present, in her body and mind. She cowered in the shadows, a caged lion resigned to a lifetime enclosed within four walls, and her ringmaster in the spotlight.
Some nights, it was a simple affair. They never wasted time with pleasantries, not anymore. The depth of their bond was too intimate for idle pillow-talk. If she were to ask, Gaspard knew Xavier allow it — to use Gaspard for torment or worship. She granted Gaspard a voice, as if staking a claim that Gaspard was hers. They were captives of one another.
Some nights—some nights were feverish. Their perfectionism, Gaspard often thought, was a blessing and a curse. Balanced composure could only withstand so much before the scales broke under the weight of unrealistic expectations…
…and break they did, tides tumbling to shore, barrelling against weathered rocks, pleasure sparkling into the spindrift, the fine sediments of fidelity sinking into the seabed.
Some nights, they left their studio sessions unsatisfied. Xavier would insist they expend their frustrated energy between silky sheets. Creative disageements forgotten, drowned out by the sound of skin on skin.
Gaspard could only oblige.
There was something a little clandestine about it all. The truth was sealed in their hearts, exposed only through a single, longing glance after a show, and the trail of love hotels behind them, city to city, coast to coast.
Some nights, Gaspard held Xavier not like a lover but a fragile bird with a broken wing, perched timidly upon her fingers. All it would take is one grave error, and Xavier would fly away with wounded pride. Gaspard knew, if that dreadful day were to come, she would fall apart.
“I’d like to keep this on,” Xavier murmured, sweet as sugar, as she slipped into Gaspard’s discarded leather jacket. Red was a nice colour on her — sexy and sharp, which was a dangerous, yet fitting match for Xavier's personality.
Gaspard couldn't help but smile at the way Xavier wore her jacket proudly, like a prize. Or perhaps she had donned it like armour; chic and chivalric, elegantly so. The jacket hung deliciously over Xavier’s slender frame, her petite breasts barely visible beneath the material.
“It looks good on you.” Gaspard licked her lips, smirking with approval.
The truth spilled so easily.
How could it not?
Some nights, it’s like this: Xavier on her back, looking like a kitten trying to bare her fangs — a feisty, playful, dominating little thing, clawing her way to the light. Xavier's temerity was one of her most admirable qualities, but it was her sensitivity to Gaspard’s tongue, intimate and calculated, from which stubborn resistance festered.
It was as though Xavier was eager to prove some twisted lie; that she didn't crave Gaspard's reverant touch, didn't seek her out, numerous times, to quell the heat between her thighs. That she didn't ache like Gaspard ached. But each each tug, twist, and twirl of Gaspard's hair told her otherwise.
This part, Gaspard enjoyed the most. She liked it a little sloppy and over-indulgent. Tonight wasn't about her pleasure. All she wanted was to savour the taste of Xavier's cunt, feasting upon each drop of arousal. Gaspard tried — oh, so desperately — to quench an undying thirst, to stop that ache in her fingertips.
Still, the sensation never went away. Instead, it filled her chest with led, drowning her.
Gaspard was aware of the size of her hands. They were large and inelegant, as if they belonged to a man, but she kept them soft and well-moisturised. Most of all, Xavier's slim waist fit between them like a missing piece of a puzzle.
With one hand splayed across Xavier's stomach, Gaspard lapped at her soft and slow. She kept her pace constant, never speeding up, nor slowing down. Gaspard knew this was exactly how Xavier loved to be touched, with reverance and devotion. Besides, it was Xavier who had promised that she would let Gaspard eat well tonight. She was now praying the precious price.
Xavier squirmed. "Gaspard—oh!"
Gaspard held her down. She wanted to hear Xavier sing, her pretty little bird, like that passionate night in Osaka.
Xavier bucked her hips. "More, please," she gasped, trying to press against the flat of Gaspard's tongue.
That wouldn't do. Gaspard pulled away, pressing one kiss to the inside of Xavier's thigh as a peace offering. She wanted to admire her efforts so far: Xavier's choppy black hair was matted against her sweaty forehead, her breathing laboured and cheekbones flushed pick. Gaspard could just make out Xavier's smudged mascara and her red lipstick had smeared across her face.
Gaspard was sure she looked no better. Her nipples were hard, her cunt ached for friction, and most of all, for Xavier's delicate touch. Each night, she got to witness Xavier play ballads upon those slender fingers, but her favourite was her own, and it had been a while since she'd last felt those fingers inside her.
Xavier, ever the tease, let Gaspard's jacket slide off one shoulder, exposing her breast. There were few things Gaspard admired more than tits and leather. It was a grave weakness of hers — one that Xavier often sought to exploit.
"I think I'll take it home," Xavier preened, nodding towards the mirror.
"You can have all of my clothes. Shirts, jackets, you name it. Just not this one," Gaspard grunted.
"Is that so?" Xavier purred. "You are a selfish thing."
"It's my favourite jacket," Gaspard argued.
"Ah? Funny, that," Xavier sang, "you see, I felt the same way about those red lace panties I wore on your birthday. They seem to have grown a pair of legs and escaped from my suitcase."
"Y-you probably left them on the floor."
"You're sick." Xavier laughed cattily, parting her thighs. "I forgive you. But you owe me a new pair."
"Don't know what you're talking about," Gaspard chortled.
This time, she started from Xavier's chest, trailing open-mouthed kisses down to her exposed breast, laving her tongue over the bud. Xavier's hands wove into Gaspard's curls, pulling her away, and pushing her further south.
Gaspard could only oblige.
Xavier's cunt was dripping, begging Gaspard for more. Gaspard knew she could get her off, as long as she played her cards right. Gaspard took Xavier's clit into her mouth and sucked. The sound, so undeniably perverse, was the most filthy kiss she could offer.
Somehow, it wasn't enough. She slipped a finger inside first, teasing, then another. Gaspard was eager to serve. Xavier was right: she was a selfish creature, and her servitude was the cruelest self-imposed punishment. Her insides coiled tight, sick with anticipation and longing. It terrified her, knowing that Xavier trusted her like this.
"More," Xavier gasped, arching her back. Gaspard then crooked her fingers ever-so-slightly, searching for that spot that drives Xavier mad with lust. Xavier always let her know when she found it — whimpering, panting, clawing at Gaspard's strong wrist. Gaspard moaned, feeling Xavier squeezing her, the sheer heat and sensation of being inside her almost too much to bear.
Gaspard could feel how synchornised they were — each jolt of pleasure that coarsed through Xavier's body, she felt in her own. It was like they were the same mind. With each pump of her fingers, her gut burned like it did whenever Xavier was inside her. Every muffled mewl and moan sent vibrations down Gaspard's pine.
The thread began to fray. Gaspard pressed her mouth against Xavier once more. Still moving her fingers, Gaspard generously swept her tongue over Xavier's swollen clit, revelling in her warmth, her taste. Xavier's breaths turned ragged, her chest heaving as she gripped the bedsheets. Gaspard wouldn't relent. The coils turned further and her spine tingled once, twice, until she felt her world shatter.
Xavier came with a choked-off sob, a sound so rare it tore Gaspard's chest in two. Her fingers slowed, but she continued flicking her tongue against Xavier's clit until Xavier pushed her head away. Gaspard collapsed beside Xavier, untouched, sated, halfway to ruin.
Moments passed. Hidden in their cage — no windows, no celestial bodies, not a soul to bear witness to fealty.
Softly, in the silence, a gentle cry was heard. Gaspard leaned over, kissing Xavier's tears away, allowing her a moment to gather her composure. Wordlessly, Xavier pulled Gaspard toward her, holding her against her breast, carressing her hair.
"Stay with me."
"Mm, til morning," Gaspard swallowed thickly. "I know how it works."
"No," Xavier shook her head. "Not—not like that. Not anymore. Stay."
For good.
The words, heavy with emotion, felt like a crown.
Gaspard smiled.
She could only oblige.
"Okay."