The rite of black velvet

The rite of black velvet

Isadora León’s workshop occupied the top floor of a brick building seen in the Arts district. At nine o’clock at night, there was only one amber light behind the thick linen curtains. The designer had asked her client, art historian Elena Voss, to arrive on time and without a clock. Elena fulfilled both conditions. She wore the grey wool coat buttoned up to her neck and the heels Isadora had given her months ago, two fine black rods marking the wood floor with a deliberate and dry blow.

Isadora waited standing by the cut-off table, dressed in an ivory silk shirt knotted around her waist and a pair of high-sized pants that showed off the silver buckle of her belt. The dark hair gathered in a low bowline exposed the back of her neck, a place that Elena was always tingly in advance.

"Close the door with a key," Isadora asked without raising her voice. "Today we will not open for anyone.

Elena obeyed. “The sound of the bolt sounded like a heartbeat.

Isadora pointed out a three-panel screen that concealed a small dressing room. On top of a stool he expected a set already arranged: a black velvet corset with satin straps like shoulder straps, a pair of fine stockings with back seam and long gloves up to the elbow made of the same velvet. It all combined with the heel shoes that Elena wore.

"Put your coat and dress on the hanger. Don't take off your heels or your own socks until I say so."

Elena crossed the screen. The wood of the floor creaked under her footsteps. She took off her coat slowly, bending it over herself as if each wrinkle was important. The silk-colored dress came slid down her shoulders to the ground. Below she wore only a pair of black lace panties and a matching bra. The fresh air of the workshop lifted her skin. She sat a moment on the stool to check that the heels were well centered, and then began to put on her new clothes.

The corset weighed more than it seemed. Isadora had made it with flexible whales that hugged the chest box without getting to imprison it. Elena passed her arms through the satin strips and closed the brackets one by one, starting at the bottom. Each click caused a slight vibration that went up to her throat. When she reached the last one, she inhaled deep and felt the garment adjust to her waist, raising her chest and widening her back. The stockings slipped her legs to the thigh; the contrast between the soft nylon and the velvet of the corset forced her to stop for a moment and catch her breath.

When she left behind the screen, Isadora had already placed two chairs in front of a full - body mirror. The designer sat on the first one. The second one was empty, but a black silk ribbon rested on her seat.

"Sit down," Isadora said. "Bring your legs. I want you to notice how the edge of the corset tightens the top of the thighs.

Elena obeyed. The silk of the bow was so thin that, by placing it on the back of her neck, she barely weighed. Isadora bowed forward and added the ends with a simple bow that left two strips hanging on the collarbone.

"That bow sets the limit," he explained. "As long as it is tied, you can only look. When I undo it, you can touch.

Elena nodded. “The pulse was beating in her temples.”

Isadora got up and turned around the chair. Her steps were silent; the only sound came from Elena’s heels every time she crossed or crossed her legs. The designer stopped behind her and, without touching her, bowed her face until her breath brushed Elena’s ear.

"Look in the mirror. See how the velvet absorbs the light. Look at the way your breasts rise with each breath.

Elena obeyed. The reflection returned a more carved, more contained, and at the same time more exposed version of herself. The corset ended just under the ribs; the skin in the air seemed more sensitive than ever. The stockings shone faintly under the light. The gloves, even unused, rested on the lap of Isadora.

"Now I'm going to put on my gloves," the designer said. "Stretch your arms."

Elena raised her hands. Isadora unwrapped the first glove and slipped it an inch to an inch, starting with her fingers. The velvet fabric was dense but elastic; it wrapped each phalanx like a second skin. When it reached the elbow, Isadora adjusted the opening with a small snap. He repeated the process with the other hand. The gloves reached so high that they rubbed the lower edge of the corset, creating a continuous line of velvety black from the shoulders to the tips of the fingers.

Elena closed and opened her hands. The inner brush of the lining against her palms gave her a chill that lowered her spine.

"Put them on your thighs," Isadora said. "Don't move them.

Elena fulfilled. The weight of the gloves reminded her that her hands were no longer entirely hers; now they were part of the ritual.

Isadora surrounded her again. She stopped in front of her and knelt down gracefully. From that position, her gaze stood at Elena’s knees. The designer stretched out a hand and, with the back of her fingers, grazed the edge of the middle just where the elastic ended. She didn’t go up anymore. Elena felt the heat of that minimal contact as a line of fire going up her leg.

"Breath," Isadora whispered. "I want to hear the air come in and out.

Elena inhaled slowly. The corset limited the depth of her breath, forcing her to become more conscious. Whenever the diaphragm expanded, the velvet creaked slightly.

And Isadora stood up, and went up to the coat rack, and took a shawl of black organization; and he returned with it spread out in his hands, as if it were an offering.

"This shawl does not touch the skin. Only the air between it and your body creates the sensation. Understand?

• Yeah.

Isadora placed the shawl on Elena’s shoulders, letting the tips fall on the corset. The fabric was so light that it was barely noticeable, but every time Elena moved, the rub of the organza against the velvet produced a soft sound, like a whisper.

For several minutes, Isadora merely watched. He walked around the chair, adjusted the fall of the shawl, relocated a strap of the corset that had been twisted. Each intervention was minimal and deliberate. Elena began to notice how desire accumulated not in direct contact, but in waiting for that contact. The silk loop on her neck weighed more than before.

"Now you will cross your legs," Isadora said. "Slowly."

Elena did it. The sound of the half rubbing against the other half filled the silence. Isadora knelt again, this time between Elena’s open legs. She placed her palms up, without touching.

"Feel the air on the inner face of the thighs," he said. "Tell me what temperature you perceive.

“Cold,” Elena replied. “But it is warming up.

Isadora smiled barely. She got on and stood back behind the chair. Her hands descended on Elena’s shoulders, still without removing her gloves. The velvet against her naked skin caused a heat surge that lowered her chest.

"Now you can touch me," Isadora conceded. "Only with the fingertips, through my shirt.

Elena raised her gloved hands. The bow was still tied; the permit was partial. She brushed the edge of Isadora’s shirt, just where the silk opened over the sternum. The cloth was fresh and, underneath, the designer’s skin radiated heat. Elena drew a vertical line from the collarbone to the first button. Isadora held her breath.

"That's enough," the designer said, though her voice sounded snoring. "Now it's your turn.

The cloth slipped through Elena’s shoulders and fell on the corset. The gesture released something more than the back of the neck: it released the permission.

Isadora surrounded the chair and stood in front of Elena. She took one of her gloved hands and carried it to her waist. Elena felt the heat through her shirt. She slipped her fingers to the first button and unbuttoned it. The second one. The third one. Every time a button gave in, the shirt opened a little more, allowing to see the soft curve of Isadora’s chest. Underneath it was not wearing a bra. The skin appeared pale under the amber light.

When the shirt was completely open, Isadora took it off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. It was exposed in torso, with only the high-size trousers and the silver belt. Elena extended her hands and placed the flat palms on the designer’s sides. The contrast between the velvet of the gloves and warm skin caused her to moan.

Isadora bowed and kissed the corner of Elena’s mouth. The kiss was slow, exploratory. When they separated, the designer took Elena’s gloved hand and guided her to her own chest. Elena closed her fingers gently, feeling the weight and texture. The nipple hardened under the glove.

"Now I take something from you," Isadora said.

He knelt again. This time his hands climbed up Elena’s legs until he found the edge of the stockings. With measured movements, he went down, one by one, to his ankles. The stockings were rolled over the heels. Isadora kissed the inside of the right knee, then the left. Each kiss was a pause, a question that Elena answered with a slight hip movement.

When the stockings were out, Isadora joined in. She took Elena by the hand and led her to the cutting table, which had been cleared and covered with a velvet quilt identical to that of the corset. Elena lay on her. The tissue was dense and fresh; Elena’s body left a heat print that slowly expanded.

Isadora went up to the table and strung herself over Elena’s hips, without leaning at all. The silver belt shone as the designer leaned forward. She unbuttoned the corset from above, releasing a hook each time. With each hook that gave way, the corset opened a little more, allowing Elena’s chest to expand. When the last hook jumped, Isadora pulled away the two halves of the corset but did not remove it altogether; she left it open as a frame around the bare torso.

Elena felt the edge of the corset against her ribs, a constant pressure that reminded her of where her skin ended and the garment began. Isadora bowed and passed her tongue through the center of Elena’s sternum, climbing up to the base of her neck. The warm breath contrasted with the coldness of the velvet that still surrounded Elena’s body.

"Now it's my turn," Isadora whispered against Elena's skin.

The metal sound of the buckle filled the workshop. He lowered the zipper from his pants and removed them with fluid movements. Underneath he wore a pair of lace panties identical to those that Elena had worn when she arrived, except that those of Isadora were ivory. He was left alone with those panties and heels, which had remained on all the time.

Elena sat on her elbows. She extended a gloved hand and brushed the lace from Isadora’s panties. The texture was different: more delicate, more transparent. She could feel the heat that the designer’s skin was shed through the lace. Isadora moved forward until she was strung over Elena’s chest. The weight of her body was light but present.

"Take them off," Isadora asked.

Elena hooked her fingers on the sides of her panties and slowly lowered them. Isadora lifted one knee, then the other, helping the garment to stay out. Now she was completely naked except for the heels. Elena felt Isadora’s moisture brushed her bare skin. Direct contact, after so much waiting, provoked a gasping in both.

Isadora bowed and kissed Elena more urgently. Her tongues met, retreated, and met again. Elena raised her gloved hands from Isadora’s back, feeling every vertebra, every muscle that strained and relaxed. The designer moved until she lay completely on Elena, skin against skin, velvet against skin, heat against heat.

For a long time there was nothing but friction, kisses, and short breaths. Isadora explored Elena’s body with her mouth and hands, stopping at the places where the corset had left marks: a red line under the ribs, another at the top of the thighs. Each mark was kissed, licked, blown. Elena responded by arching her back, pressing her thighs against Isadora’s hips, seeking more pressure, more friction.

When Isadora lowered her hand between Elena’s legs, she did so with her palm up, first rubbing the inside of her thighs, then swollen lips. Elena was soaked. Isadora’s fingers slipped easily, tracing slow circles around the clitoris before penetrating her with two fingers. Elena groaned and squeezed her gloves against the designer’s shoulders.

Isadora moved her fingers with constant rhythm, curving them slightly to touch the point she knew that would make Elena tremble. With the other hand, the designer held one of Elena’s wrists above her head, immobilizing her against the velvet quilt. The contrast between the grip and the caress caused Elena to run with a choked scream, contracting around Isadora’s fingers.

Isadora did not stop. She waited for Elena to stop shaking and then removed her fingers, taking them to her mouth to lick them slowly. Elena looked at her with glassy eyes. The designer stood up and strung again on Elena’s chest, this time higher, until her sex was at Elena’s mouth.

"Now you," Isadora said.

Elena raised her head and passed her tongue through the wet folds of Isadora. The designer groaned and grabbed on the edge of the table. Elena licked and sucked attentively, alternating pressure and softness, following the rhythm Isadora marked with hip movements. When Isadora ran, she did so with a long and severe groan, pressing her thighs around Elena’s head.

Then, they lay next to each other on the velvet quilt. The corset remained open around Elena’s torso; Isadora’s panties lay forgotten on the floor. The two women remained silent for several minutes, catching their breath. Isadora was the first to move. She joined and began unbuttoning Elena’s gloves, one by one. She dropped them on the quilt. Then she kissed Elena’s bare palms, first one, then the other.

"Thank you for trusting the ritual," Isadora said.

Elena smiled. The black silk ribbon was still on the floor, next to the chair. Outside, the night was going on, outside the workshop where two bodies had learned to speak through the cloths before touching each other.

Elena sat up and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The open corset, the stockings rolled up in the heels, the red marks on her skin. Isadora appeared behind her and placed the organza shawl on her shoulders. The fabric brushed the marks as a final caress.

"I am waiting for the next full moon," said Isadora. "Bring the wine dress. This time we will start with it on."

Elena nodded. She dressed slowly, guarding each garment in the reverse order from which she had been removed. When she arrived at the door, Isadora had already begun to fold the velvet quilt. Elena opened the lock. The sound was softer than when she arrived.

Before he left, he paused for a moment and looked back. Isadora looked up and smiled. The ritual was over, but the workshop still smelled of warm velvet and contained desire. Elena closed the door without making noise and went down the stairs with the heels marking each step, carrying with her the memory of every texture, every pause, every promise to return.