The silk ribbon in the closed dressing room
Elena Cerruti had the habit of measuring the evenings in threads. Every Friday, the sewing workshop in her attic in the Malasaña neighborhood closed the blinds before four o’clock; no one came in without an appointment or key. That Friday of June, the light that entered through the skylight dyed the fabrics of a whitish gold and the room smelled like sandalwood from the last packaging she had received: ten meters of ivory crepe and three of black organdí embroidered by hand. Elena wore a white cotton shirt and a straight rust-colored skirt that showed, when crossing her legs, a little of the lace garter she herself had made the previous week. The shoes, however, were new: cherry-colored patent heels, five centimeters exact, red sole, as a secret that only she knew.
At 4 am she called Victor Landa. She was the supplier of buttons and buckles, but also the only person Elena allowed to lock the door of the workshop while she was still working. The ritual was born without prior agreement: he brought a sample, she tried it on the skin or on the cloth, and between the two they decided if the order deserved to be duplicated. The first meetings had been brief; now they lasted all afternoon. They didn’t talk about money until the end; the real deal was sealed with texture.
"Good morning, Elena," said Victor as he entered. "He brought the worn leather case and a grey linen jacket that barely rubbed his broad shoulders. He left the briefcase on the center table and waited. She did not look up at the court she was going through with the scissors, but smiled barely.
"Shut it down," he replied. "He turned the key. The click sounded like a pulse between the two mirror walls. Then he took off his jacket and hung it from the coat rack. Underneath he wore a white linen shirt and dark blue wool pants. Black shoes were greased skin, without laces; when he stepped, they sounded just like a rub of fingers on silk.
Elena finished cutting and left the cloth aside. She approached the table. Together they opened the briefcase. Inside there were velvet boxes: pearly buttons, burnished brass buckles, grosgrain ribbons in tones that seemed drawn from a painter’s palette. But what Elena was looking for was in the last compartment: a nine-millimeter silk ribbon coil, of the exact color of the cherries of her heels.
"This one," he said, touching the coil with two fingers. "How much can you bring me?"
Victor watched the tape slide between her fingers, leaving a matte glow that looked damp. He held a breath that would otherwise have sounded too high.
The supplier has stock, but the price goes up if you want it dyed to measure.
Elena looked up. Her eyes were the color of the diluted ink, almost grey. She wore her hair gathered in a low bow from which some dark locks escaped.
"I don't want to dye it. I want you to use it first.
He arched an eyebrow. Elena explained:
"I want to know how it is against the skin before cutting it. The heat of the body modifies it. I want to feel it warm before deciding.
Victor nodded. His shirt was rolled up to his elbow. The forearm was brown, covered with soft hair. Elena unwrapped fifteen centimeters of tape and placed it on the skin, just below the vein that marked the pulse. The silk absorbed the heat in seconds and adapted to the contour as a second skin. She slipped it upward, slowly, until the elbow flexed. Then he removed it and smelled it.
"It smells like you," he said. "Now the other way around.
Two buttons were unbuttoned, only enough to show the beginning of the lace he was wearing under him: a French vanilla tulle bra, without rings, only seams that followed the curve of the breasts. The cherry ribbon was then against his own chest, and the contrast was so vivid that Victor turned his eyes apart for an instant, as if the color could burn. Elena smiled, but she did not laugh.
- Now take off your shirt.
The order was soft, almost a suggestion. Victor obeyed. He hung the garment on the back of the chair and stood, torso naked, dark pants, black shoes. He had small scars on his shoulders, vestiges of a motorcycle accident that no longer hurt. Elena approached a chair upholstered with green velvet bottle and sat in front of him. He crossed his legs. The rubbing of the silk media against his thigh caused a tiny sound that filled the workshop.
"Turn around," he asked.
He turned. She stretched the tape between both hands and placed it horizontally on Victor’s back, just under the shoulder blades. He tightened it until it was tight, but without cutting its breath. Then he cast it into a very small bow, so that the ends would fall to the hips. Every time he breathed, the silk would tighten one millimeter and release another, like a caress that he did not decide to reach the end.
"Don't move," Elena whispered. "I want to see how the cloth responds.
He got up. He took two steps to the coat rack and took another garment that he had prepared that morning: a pearly grey linen gauze batin, long to his knees, without a belt. He put it over his clothes and tied the closure with a satin cord. The fabric was so light that it stuck to the body at the slightest movement. He placed behind Victor and, without touching him still with his hands, drew his mouth to his neck. The breath ran through the spine like a trail of heat that the silk ribbon amplified.
"Now walk to the mirror," he said.
Victor obeyed. Each step made the tape slip a little over the skin, reminding him that it was attached without being tied. In front of the mirror of three bodies he saw the bow as a delicate mark. Elena placed herself next to him, with a profile. He took off his shoes and left them aligned, tippers inwards, as if keeping a ritual. Then he bare his stockings, one by one, rolling them from the knee to the ankle. Each half remained in his hand like a smoke cocoon. He placed them on the back of the chair and remained barefoot, nails painted of a matte red that combined with the abandoned heels.
Victor looked at the reflection of his feet. The worn wood floor kept the afternoon heat, and she noticed it through the plant. He advanced until his fingers almost rubbed his fingers.
"Now you," she said.
He crouched, without untying the loop of his back, and untied the laces of his own shoes. He left them aside. Then he took off his socks. The feet, wide and with straight fingers, remained on the same wooden board. Elena watched them, then came so close that the gauze of the batin rubbed his forearm. The brush was so light that it could have been the air, but they both felt it as a current.
"Come," he whispered.
He led him to the divan at the bottom of the workshop, an antique furniture upholstered with mustard velvet. Before sitting, Elena took from the coat rack a silky water of champagne, straight cut and long to the ground. He passed it over the head, above the batin, and let it fall into a cascade. The fabric covered the abandoned heels and brushed the fingers of both when it spread. Then he lay on the side, an extended leg, the other slightly flexed, so that the petticoat would open in a triangle that revealed the beginning of the thigh and the league that held the invisible half.
Victor sat on the edge of the couch. The cherry tape on his back caught on the velvet cloth and threw gently, reminding him of his posture. Elena stretched out a hand and touched his knee, only with the fingertips, drawing a very slow circle. Then he climbed up the leg, over the pants, to the hip. He did not unbutton anything yet. He let the palm rest on the cloth, feeling the heat emanating.
"Describe to me how you feel," he asked.
“The silk of your petticoat against my skin. The weight of your hand. The bow that holds me to my back. The smell of sandalwood that remains in your hair.
Elena closed her eyes for a second, savoring each word. Then she joined, knelt down in front of him on the couch and started unbuttoning his pants. She did it with deliberate slowness, each button a different sound: the first one click, the second one rub, the third one sighed from the thread that gave way. When she reached the fourth button, the garment opened wide enough to show the edge of a pearly organic cotton briefs, identical to the tone of her batin. Elena passed the cherry ribbon over the edge, brushing just the hair that appeared, and left it there, like a mark.
"Now take it all away except the bow," he said quietly.
Victor got up, lowered his pants and left them bent over the arm of the chair. Then he took off his briefs. He was naked, except for the tape that crossed his back and the bow that fell on his hips. The erection was evident, but he did not hurry. Elena looked at him from the couch, still kneeling, and extended her hand to touch him. She did not grab him; she wrapped him with her palm open and slipped him up and down, once, slowly, as if measuring the length with the same tape she had just worn. The brush of the skin against the skin caused a very soft wet sound.
"Now you play," she whispered.
She lay on her back on the couch and opened her arms. The gauze of the batin opened up completely, allowing her to see the tulle bodice and the silky petticoat that began to wrinkle under her weight. Victor knelt next to her. She began by the feet: she took one between her hands, rubbed the bow with her thumb, then climbed up the ankle, through the calf, behind the knee where the skin was thinner. When she reached the thigh, the petticoat had already climbed up enough to show the lace league that held the middle that she was no longer wearing. She passed two fingers through the edge of the league, without entering under the cloth, only rubbing the transition between skin and lace. Elena sighed, but asked no more.
He continued to ascend. He came to the belly, flat and soft, and covered it with his palm. Then he went up to the bra. With one finger, he drew the edge of the tulle that surrounded the left nipple, without touching the nipple itself. The cloth was moistened just by her breathing. Victor bowed and blew over the damp spot. The heat of the breath went through the tulle and came to the skin like an indirect caress. Elena arched her back, but did not incorporate. She continued lying down, letting him mark the rhythm.
"Now take off my petticoat," he asked at last.
Victor took the hem and slid it up. The silk cloth rubbed his thighs, belly, chests, and ended up in a champagne puddle next to her head. The bra was left alone. Elena got on just enough so that he could unbutton the three little hooks from his back. The tulle fell forward, releasing the breasts that the heat had become heavy. The nipples were dark, erect, shining just because of the dampness that the breath had left. Victor took them between his lips, one by one, without teeth, just the flat tongue and the heat of his mouth. Elena groaned for the first time, a low sound that lived in the workshop.
"Now I want to feel you inside," she said, looking at her eyes. "But slowly. I want the tape to remain there.
Victor placed himself between his open legs. The erection rubbed the inside of his thigh, hot and soft. Elena stretched out a hand and took the cherry ribbon that still hung from the loop of his back. He rolled it around her own wrist, strapping it with a loose knot. Thus, each movement of Victor forward would pull the tape, reminding him that it was attached. He entered it inch by inch, stopping when she held her breath, advancing as she released the air. The penetration was slow, complete, without haste. When they were completely united, they stood still for a long moment, feeling the pulse of the other through the tape that united them.
Elena began to move first. She lifted her hips in a very soft, almost imperceptible rhythm, just what was necessary for the friction to grow. Victor followed her. Each attack was deeper than the previous one, but never faster. The tape was tense and loosened with the movement, marking a shared heartbeat. The sounds that filled the workshop were the brush of the wet skin, the whisper of the silk that was left between them and the slight rustling of the velvet of the divan each time they moved.
When Elena felt the orgasm approaching, she released the tape from her wrist and passed it between her own breasts, letting it fall on her belly. Victor picked it up with her mouth, without letting it go, and kept it between her teeth as she kept moving. The contrast between the softness of the silk and the firmness of the onslaught caused her to bow violently, nailing her heels into the couch. The orgasm arrived in long, silent waves, which roamed her from the center of the belly to the tips of her fingers. Victor waited for her to finish before he allowed her own: she retired almost completely, then went back in with a final deep onslaught and stood there, trembling, melting inside her while the tape, still between her teeth, moistened with saliva and breath.
They stayed together for several minutes, breathing at the same pace. Then Elena untied the loop from his back and rolled it into a perfect circle, like a coil. He got up, barefoot, and walked to the center table. There he rolled the tape used next to the new coil, as if both were the same story. He turned to Victor, who was still on the couch, and smiled with his lips swollen.
"Now I know that I want it dyed to measure," he said. "The exact color of your skin when you sweat.
He laughed low, with no strength yet to rise.
- I'll ask for the dye tomorrow.
Elena picked up the water from the floor, passed it over her head again and let it fall on her naked body. Then she took the cherry heels and put them on. The sound of the heels on the wood marked the return in the afternoon. Victor dressed slowly, without haste, put his shirt in the briefcase and put his linen jacket on. Before leaving, she approached her and kissed the back of her hand, just where the tape had left a very slight red mark.
"Until next Friday," he said.
"Bring more tape," she replied. "This time I want to try it on both of you.
He nodded, turned the key and opened the door. The evening light entered oblique, golden, as a promise of uncut cloth. Elena was left alone in the workshop, barefoot again, with the heels lined on the floor and the cherry ribbon rolled between her fingers, waiting for the next ritual that would begin when the workshop closed again.
Comments