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Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - A European Escape
Chapter 2 - By The River of Passion
Chapter 3 - Greece: Slippery When Wet
Chapter 1
A European Escape
I Am Gabrielle
The curving ribbon of the Seine flashed a stream of sunlight from far below as our big 767 descended over Paris. The tiny Eiffel Tower, a toy Arche de Triumph, the Notre Dame, all its architectural wonders lay unreal and absurdly small outside my window. What a strange dream, this European honeymoon with Antonio, this man I’d never have imagined being with even three months before. Was I just on the rebound? After a life of careful calculation, always placing rationality over passion, this sudden, unpredictable eruption. Yet the glow that filled my being was unmistakably love, it matched what I’d always heard in love songs and the romantic imagery we women immerse ourselves in throughout our lives. No, I’m analyzing – this was something deep in my heart, something pure and real and very hot. I liked this feeling, loved waking up with it, Antonio next to me, loved his reaching out for me in the dark when he should have been sleeping but couldn’t, loved being awakened, disturbed by the press of his body against mine, his warm hands all over me, hearing his breath, those soft, demanding growls of his. I always welcomed him, arched my back and thrust my ass outward to his touch, for his fingers to probe the wetness they found within me any hour of the day.
My parents thought I’d gone crazy. A man with whom I could barely speak, twelve years younger than I, without visible means of support. We’d met in Golden Gate Park as I was walking Natasha, my big Russian Wolfhound. I feel so protected with her. Even in a city as forward-looking and civilized as San Francisco, a woman can feel vulnerable, and the paths can be narrow in some places in the park.
That day, I remember spying off to one side as we walked, a clump of lovely Birds of Paradise in full flower. It was late summer and I was surprised to see them so full of color. I actually plucked an especially pretty one from the group, guiltily of course, for that’s quite against the law – but there was something so seductive about it. It was just then that Natasha began barking and pulling at her leash. She’s always been so well behaved, but when Antonio came strolling toward us she got excited, pulling me powerfully toward him, wagging her tail, snuffling at his feet and begging for attention. What can I say? Our eyes met, he smiled, these things mean nothing to you or anyone else, but for me it was pure magic.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “She’s never like this.”
“No problem, no problem,” he laughed. “She is nice, you are nice. Come, we sit down.”
“OK, let’s.”
‘Come we sit down?’ ‘OK, let’s?’ Where did that come from? But there was that bench and there was I, moving toward it and Antonio sitting down next to me, scruffing Natasha’s collar as she made agitated attempts to lick his nose. And the two of us gazing, well, not gazing at each other, but in the moment it felt like that, because every time our eyes met I felt such a rush. I’d always had a thing for Latin men – from a distance, coming as I do from Marin County, where they’re the guys who tend our lawns and sweep our pools. Or maybe wait tables at the restaurant. I’d seen hot young Latin guys on whom I’d play out my fantasies in the dark, alone in my bedroom, but before, when one actually came on to me I’d turn as ice-cold as the most racist rich bitch you could imagine.
Admittedly, I’m still quite attractive in my 30’s, maybe even more than ten years ago I sometimes think, admiring myself in the morning mirror before heading off to teach a class at San Francisco State. I certainly get enough admiration from my young male students, some not-so-subtle flirtation. I sometimes worry about spending too much time at the full-length mirror, primping and checking my body. My college boy friends always used to tell me I reminded them of a dirty-blonde version of Meg Ryan, which pleased me no end. My breasts are in the perfect range, round and full without being saggy. My nipples are nice and pink, surrounded by aureoles not too big, but still full enough to be a delicious mouthful for any hungry man. In my nighttime imagining, he is on his knees before me as I sit at the edge of my bed, my head thrown back. He’s lavishing first one breast, then the other with his kisses, his hands gripping my nice, slim waist, my thighs enclosing his. Then I stand, turn around and offer him my pièce de résistance, a soft, heart-shaped little ass, the kind all men dream of drooling over and poking their big cock-heads into. All the oral pleasures he bestowed are now directed there, and I slowly bend down over my sheets as he licks every inch of ass and pussy he can consume and penetrates me with his fingers until I’m so wet he can…but I’m running on a bit, aren’t I?
Anyway, in those constant day and night dreams it has always been a dark skinned man, a guy who looked like, well, looked just like Antonio. And now here he was! I had just sat myself down next to him on the bench.
“So,” he said, “what are you doing?”
“Well, I…” Unaware of Antonio’s grammatical limits, I wondered if he was a therapist trying to getting me to analyze why I sat down with him.
“Are you student? Are you housewife?”
Ah! He had meant what do you do?
“Oh, no, I’m not a student – I teach. At San Francisco State.” I was pleased he thought I looked so young. I was too close to forty for comfort, though in my mind I was still twenty-something, unmarried and free – whatever free means when you watch Jay Leno at night and go to bed lonely.
“I want to take your class – every day,” he added. “What is your, your…topic?”
“Ancient Cultures.”
“Then you are traveling all over the world everywhere!”
“No, not that much. Just a lot of research in the library.
“But you must travel! It’s your job!”
I barely contained my laughter.
“Well, no, you see…”
“No, no, I think you will travel, you must! Me, I am in Europe many times, traveling around to many places. Europe is wonderful. There is more style there in people!”
He looked away as if remembering someone, turning his profile to me. There was an elegance to it I found very attractive.
“Tell me…ah, I don’t know your name yet!”
“I’m Gabrielle.”
“Happy to meet you, Gabrielle. I am Antonio. Now tell me, you are, how can I say…a little stuck?”
“Stuck? Whatever do you mean?”
“Last night, you had a dream about…”I smiled condescendingly. He was a trickster on a tightrope
“…flying?”
But he was right! In that instant the image came back to me. I had arrived in a room filled with party people, carrying two big bottles of beer, trying in a narrow kitchen to deposit them into a refrigerator. It was so claustrophobic, the little apartment was absolutely packed, but suddenly I knew I could fly and rose through the roof, floating over a darkened city. I saw the bridges on either side and swooped over close to the Golden Gate Bridge and hovered over it for a few moments, then my body felt pulled away from the sea, speeding eastward, I saw the white crests of the Sierras in the distance and then they faded and I snapped into wakefulness.
“How did you know?” I asked. For just a second, he looked surprised. “Well,” he said. “This thing comes to me.”
In those first few moments, I barely noticed how broken h
is English was. They say women respond to something masterful in a man, a sense that he moves easily and powerfully through the world. Very soon I saw that Antonio cared nothing about mastering the world or acquiring power, not in the conventional sense. He worked at the bicycle shop at the east end of the park. He told me he was from Argentina, near the end of his three month tourist visa, but planned to overstay, he had planned it from the beginning. He’d finagled the job at the bike shop somehow and simply hoped to stay in California undercover as long as he could. At 22, everything was a lark for him. “I can do trouble tomorrow,” he laughed. He was so far from what a woman looks for in a man, yet his detachment, his insouciance was somehow masterful. Despite his powerlessness in the great white world around him he seemed in complete, serene control. I know that sounds impossible but, with a fraction of the English he should have needed, he managed to find out all about me, make me laugh and charm me off my feet.
But in falling for him, in the crazy decisions of the next two weeks, was I rescuing him – which of course means, was I rescuing myself? I can’t deny it. Even though the marriage I’d recently extracted myself from had left me with a home out on the Avenues, and I’d saved up a nice nest egg over the years, my self esteem was minimal. Now, at 36, after Sam, my ex-husband’s, brutal betrayal, I was desolate and empty hearted. I had found the classic evidence – credit card charges to hotels and restaurants we’d never been to, the telltale scent of love on his body, stupid man that he was. The detective I’d hired came up with enough irrefutable evidence for him to settle out of court. A lawyer of his stature knew my demands were both reasonable and inescapable.
But could new love come suddenly like this? Few would believe it. But fewer still would believe what transpired next, the strange journey my relationship to this young man would lead me on. A journey into a new world, into a new paradise, into a new me.
Then we were off to Paris. To anyone else’s eyes, I was completely out of control. He kept talking about a European holiday, about wandering freely for a month or maybe two, and suddenly money meant nothing to me, I bought the tickets and it was understood I would be paying for everything. “Don’t worry about the money, my love,” I told him. “We’ll never have this chance again. I can’t put a price on what you’ve given me!” I took a leave of absence from teaching, explaining I wanted to do research on a paper I was preparing for a conference the following year. Luckily, the term had just ended. Our timing was perfect. We would stop in Paris first, then visit Rome, then visit Corinth to study the Temple of Persephone, and finally a romantic five days on the incomparable island of Torino.
Paris! We had just left an incredible Paco de Rivera concert, when we came upon a strange little Persian bar on the left bank near the Rue de Prochaine. When we entered, the bartender acted as if he knew us, he was so friendly, but that’s when things got a bit strange. He led us to what seemed a small room in back, but in fact it was a dark and rounded hallway that twisted around a corner, then another, until it felt as if we had plunged into a medieval catacomb. I had the strangest feeling of descending to some underground level, though the hallway was perfectly flat. Off to the sides were alcoves in which small groups of people were drinking and chatting amiably in French. Their bonhomie lessened my discomfort, and soon our host escorted us into our alcove, containing a low table and cushions to recline on in the Arab style. We ordered a Merlot and a sampler of cheeses. It was only semi-private, for through the curtains we could see into the adjacent salon, where two men were sipping wine and laughing. The one with long hair looked like a rock musician, the other man was a little older and appeared to be a teacher or writer of some kind. They kept glancing in at us. It bothered me because I thought they were flirting.
We had nearly finished our bottle of wine when the professor-type got up and came across to our little room. He poked his head into our alcove and spoke to us in English, but in a charming French accent.
“I cannot help but hear your voices and your English. It is exciting for us to have foreign visitors in our local restaurant.” He seemed to pause to sense our response. Antonio, relaxed from two full glasses of a good Merlot, responded genially.
And we are so happy to be here, mon ami! Wherever it is we are. It is, you see, the first night in Paris – and we are newlyweds also!”
“Here is a happy couple then, as we, my friend and I, suspected. Can we persuade you to join us for a toast to your marriage?”
I remember thinking his English was surprisingly good, an educated man, obviously. But I was reluctant, sensing he was somehow too friendly, a certain edginess in his smile. But Antonio seemed enthusiastic, so I agreed. Their room was a bit bigger, with deep cushions and soft lights. It turned out the younger guy was a musician after all, French country-rock, he said, whatever that was. He had light brown hair that fell to his shoulders and long, lean legs under his jeans. And the other guy taught French literature at the Sorbonne! He seemed like a typical middle aged Frenchman, his hairline receding a bit, very European, but when he took off his jacket, I could see he was muscular under a fashionable dress shirt and tie.
We tried to keep up with the conversation, they were both so well educated, and funny too. We drank more wine, and then the younger man brought out a cigarette for us all to share – he said it was marijuana and no one would mind. We'd had enough wine, so we really didn't care, we were having such a good time. I guess it was then that they must have slipped something into our drinks, something that overcame Antonio’s ability to move or speak. We were pretty high by then, and I was laughing at every little thing.
They seemed to keep looking at Antonio. He told me later that as the drug flowed through him, first he couldn't speak, then his hands became numb and soon the rest of his body was paralyzed.
When they knew he couldn't stop them, they both moved closer to me on the cushions, telling me not to worry, that they’d hypnotized Antonio and this was some sort of game that the French like to play, that after it was over we would never see them again. There was something in the sound of their voices that was so relaxing, as the professor began stroking my hair and leaning in to whisper into my ear. It was then I began to suspect they had slipped something into my drink. I felt like another woman, fearless and playful suddenly and then he slipped his fingers up the back of my neck and grasped my hair from behind and slowly, powerfully pulled me down onto the cushion. Then he just covered my lips with his and began to kiss me, still keeping my head back by holding my hair, demonstrating his physical control over me. When the young musician came closer, I tried to resist, but the professor reached over and held my arm back so that my breasts thrust out toward him, I could see his muscles bulging under his shirt, and the musician - his name was Maurice - snuggled up to my breasts and began tickling them through my pink sweater.
There I was, on my back, a middle-aged Frenchman kissing me, deeply now, another young man beginning to squeeze my breasts, reaching under my sweater to softly rub my stomach and then higher, to touch the soft, yielding flesh above my bra. Antonio could see him do it, but couldn’t lift a finger to stop them. Finally I began to return Jacques' kisses, sucking his tongue into my mouth, arching my back to receive Maurice's caresses. I broke free once to look at Antonio with a mixture of shock and helpless passion, as if to say, "Why don't you help me?" but then I realized all he could do was blink. I knew then they had drugged him as well!
Now Maurice's fingers had reached lower to lift up the little black skirt I had worn that night. I could feel there was a moisture spot between my legs. I was overcome with a wave of desire. And when I looked at Antonio staring at us I clearly saw his cock swelling in his pants.
I moaned as Jacques pulled his tongue out of my mouth, licked my lips a few more times and slid behind me, my back resting against his chest. He reached around to clasp my breasts in his hands as long-haired Maurice slid down to slide his hands under my ass and rub his face in my panty-covered pussy. He was licking me through the cloth, I co
uld hear him sucking up my juices through them, and that’s when Jacques pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around my mouth to keep me quiet. By the time he had done this, Maurice had pulled off my panties, slowly licking my legs all the way down. Then he took them and threw them at Antonio! They landed on his chest where they intended for the perfume of my pussy to intoxicate him. Now he leaned down with his head near my pussy and spread my creamy vagina lips apart. I had trimmed it the night before and my pussy was almost little-girlish and now it was slippery all over. He looked up at me and slowly extended his tongue. It was the longest tongue I ever saw, or maybe I was so high it just seemed that way. He started by tenderly kissing my sweet pussy all over until I was moaning through the mask, and then he slowly stuck his big tongue deeper and deeper inside me, it was like a cock, then he pulled it slowly out, then pushed it in again, all the while lazily flicking my clitoris with his finger. Faster and faster he went, his head moving up and down, and then he just sucked on me for a while, I could hear him drinking in all my juices, and that was when I came the first time. “Oh, I’m gonna come…” crying helplessly with pleasure, because my pussy felt so good, and I had surrendered to these men and to the moment.
Meanwhile, Jacques had gotten my bra loose and was squeezing my breasts, making me even hotter. He had buried his face in my neck, moving up and down, biting it and licking inside my ear and flicking his tongue behind it and then back down to my neck. He lifted up my sweater and I could see his hands all over my breasts, rubbing them and pinching the swollen nipples. Then he took a small bottle out of his other pocket and poured oil on my breasts and rubbed them in circles and kept pinching the nipples as he bit my neck and moved his open mouth up and down it.
I couldn’t believe what I saw next when I glanced over at Antonio. The drug must have begun to wear off, because he had reached down and pulled down his zipper and pulled out his aching cock. It jumped out just as Maurice looked over at him and smiled, as if he knew this would happen. For me, it was the last thing holding me back from surrender. My head fell back on Jacques’ shoulder as Maurice inserted three fingers in my pussy and began slowly massaging inside it. Jacques could feel me give up, so he slipped from behind me and watched me fall back down against the cushions. He stood up and undid his belt and zipper and pulled a big cock out of his pants and raised up my head to it. He slipped it into my mouth and I started sucking and licking it passionately. He had his hand behind my neck, pulling my mouth deeper onto that big thing. He began fucking my mouth and I put one hand on his ass and reached down to caress his balls. How could I be doing this, I thought, but at the same time I wanted Antonio to watch. It was so sexy and he was enjoying it and it was so fantastic, part of me thought it was a dream and I’d wake up soon and should just enjoy it.
Ancient Passions (Ancient Passions Series # 1) Page 1
