Jeanne almost didnât notice Giselle at first. The cafe bustled with activity in the morning, Parisiens filled the seats to drink their first coffee of the day, coming and going with such dizzying rapidity that a devoted layabout like Jeanne couldnât possibly keep track of it all. But gradually, the leggy blonde began to stand out from the crowd simply by the absence of what others possessed in so much abundanceâmovement. The beautiful woman with the smooth, porcelain features hadnât so much as raised her coffee cup to her bright red lips in a full twenty minutes. And once Jeanne began to actively watch her, it became clear that the person sheâd come to know as Giselle wasnât doing anything at all.
She didnât stand, she didnât sit, she didnât twitch, she didnât fidget, she didnât even so much as blink. Giselleâs eyes remained fixed in a singular stare, focused on a random patch of wall for hours as the morning turned into early afternoon and Jeanne added a sandwich and another few cups of coffee to her tab. Occasionally a waitress would pass by, and with a chuckle theyâd undo a button or pull down a strap. By the time the lunch rush came and went, Giselleâs blouse hung open to reveal a stark white brassiere and a girdle that she patently didnât need. Jeanne stayed where she was. She wanted to see what happened next.
By the afternoon, the cafe was quiet. Nobody had any interest in a coffee at 4 PM, and the staff became even freer in their treatment of the still, silent woman across the terrace. âThatâs our pretty Giselle,â one of them cooed, undoing a snap on the side of the frozen blondeâs burgundy skirt. âDeeper and deeper, sweet bird!â another one burbled, patting her on the head as they passed. Occasionally one of them would shoot Jeanne a smug, knowing look as they posed and primped the helpless young woman, removing her clothing altogether. She understood the significance of the glancesâby watching, Jeanne had to some degree become a willing accomplice in their activities. She found that it troubled her less than she thought it might.
By six o'clock, Giselle was down to just her underwear. She had on a lovely pair of stockings that accentuated the curve of her long legsâJeanne hadnât made a particular study of womenâs bodies before now, but something about the absolute helplessness of the stranger made her seem erotic in a way that Jeanne was only now discovering. She slowly, languidly squeezed her thighs together, enjoying the sensation of her swollen clit pressing against her slick labia as she watched the waitstaff undo Giselleâs bra and expose her bare breasts. The terrace was quiet, secluded, invisible from the street. They could do whatever they wanted. Nobody would stop them.
The sun went down, but the staff merely turned on the lights and continued to strip Giselle naked. She had on only the stockings and garters now, and waitresses took a lewd delight in reaching down between the helpless womanâs thighs and coming away with wet fingers. âThatâs our good girl,â they murmured. âYou love this so much. You canât get enough, can you?â Giselle never responded, not even with a quickening of breath, but Jeanne could see the growing stain on the chair beneath her. Whoever Giselle was, whatever this was about, it was clearly turning her on beyond measure. Jeanne wondered if theyâd simply leave her out overnight like this, or whether the game ended when it was time for bed.
She watched pinches, gropes, teases, a host of familiarities small and large, unable to look away. She barely even recognized how turned on she was; the fascination made Jeanneâs arousal seem dreamy, passive, a thing that was being done to her rather than her own indulgence. But it wasnât until one of the waitresses finally approached her and said, âYou can have this too, if you want it,â that Jeanne realized sheâd stopped moving at all. She tried to nod, and found her body wouldnât respond. It was only by her total absence of motion that they realized she was consenting to join Giselle in her frozen submission to their will.
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