Before I could continue Jola's story, I was summoned to a rather run-down hotel near Hamburg. Our Belgian network administrator had managed to combine favourable accommodation costs, personnel-availability and enough notice to enable Friday travel, arriving for dinner and then beginning work.
Following terrorist attacks including foreign visitors, the aim was to prepare for communication, in a second or third language, with police, emergency services, and others involved. My contribution was the provision and direction of dramatic scenarios intended to rehearse, and ensure memory of, appropriate dialogue and statements.
Although we get a list of participants, there are always last-minute arrivals and absentees, so I was not surprised to be greeted outside the dining-room after the meal by a late arrival who knew of me but whom I had not met. She was a little taller than me, thanks to high heels, in her early thirties. An elegant navy-blue suit, over a light blue blouse evidenced an attractive figure. Her short, neatly-styled, hair was a shade too dark to be blonde, but I wondered if it was natural. Although stereotypes are dubious, I identified her as Slavonic, thanks to the high cheek-dons, and the slightly slanted, grey-blue eyes, accentuated by eyebrows which swept upwards and outwards.
She offered her hand and drew me towards her. 'You are Norma,' she told me, rolling the 'r,' in an accented, warm, deep contralto. And without waiting for my nod, but retaining my hand, 'I am Zbyszka.'
It took a second, but then I said, 'You are Jola's -'
'
Tak
,' breaking into Polish, 'Sister of Jola and Kasza.' An interesting formulation.
'You are taking the Spanish element?' I asked in English.
'No, the German,' she said, still holding my hand. 'We have learned much of each other's languages.'
'Well,' I said, in English again, 'I'm working in English this time, so we won't be together, but I hope we can meet up in the free time.'
She was squeezing my hand, and, as we looked into each other's eyes, a curious sinking sensation swept through me, as if I were going to faint, though actually it was more an intensifying of consciousness than a possible loss of it. I also understood that she herself was feeling the same and knew that I was. Which was why she was gripping my hand for so long. She was waiting for me to catch on, or to catch up.
'I come to your room later,' she murmured in English. 'You will see about my hair.' She laughed and relinquished my hand.
Such immediate understandings are not uncommon. They obviate all the hintings, flirtings and negotiations often required to initiate a liaison. She had cut through the chase: no further confirmation needed. Was I being passed on by or from Jola? Perhaps intercourse with one of the 'sisters' opened the way to intimacy with the others. Whether or not, I was glowing with a heightened sense of well-being, that although I was thirty years older, this beautiful person desired me, wanted to consummate our mutual attraction. Indeed, I self-confessed, I had 'fallen in love.'
And being ever the linguist I self-diagnosed in Latin. As well as being the plural of 'Narcissa,' 'Narcissae' is the genitive singular, so I was harbouring 'Narcissae Amor.' And I was feverish with it, nipplerected, gushgusseted.. But now needing to go to work, with just time to knickerinsert a pantypad.
Halfway through the evening session, Zbyszka brushed past me during the coffee-break, murmuring, ' Don't wash for me, please.' So, she wanted me scented from a day's travel and her earlier stimulation, sweaty and cunty? Well, I myself also do rejoice in the panty-pong of an unlaved partner. So, I refrained from showering after work, but did remove the pad, since experience has shown that while pheromonic panties are inflammatory, such hygienic aids may depress the ardour. Knicker kleptomaniacs are common (usually male or trans) but padologists are rare. Mind you, some years ago, I had a one-night lie-down (we were not standing, I assure you) with a lesbian who collected such items as souvenirs of her encounters, though she complained that the perfume faded.
I was more than ready, leaking into my padless panties, when Zbyszka knocked on my bedroom door, and it was impossible to judge which of us was trembling more. We fell into each other's arms, hugged tight for some moments, our joined bodies shaking yet more, until our lips limpeted together and our tongues wove and strove in each other's mouths.
Eventually, Zbyszka actually seemed to be in danger of fainting, for her limbs went limp and I was holding her, looking into her half-closed eyes, a little alarmed at her lolling head, until she gathered enough strength to stutter out, 'Taking me, Norma. Make me. Please having me, now, Normaczka.'