The French Affair Boxed Set
By
Natasha Sparks
Copyright 2013 by Natasha Sparks
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Book One: The French Affair
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
Book Two: The French General
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
Book Three: The French Marquis
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
EPILOGUE
Book 4: The French Emperor
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER Five
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
EPILOGUE
Book One: The French Affair
CHAPTER ONE
When she awoke she found that she was tied to the bed with ropes. Not just any bed, nor any ropes. It was a bed of satin sheets, dark and cool and comfortable amidst a sea of down. And the ropes? The robes were exquisite China silk, soft and luxurious. When she struggled, they bit into her wrists and ankles tight, yet gentle as four lovers, holding her down.
"Hello?" she said to the darkness. "Is anyone there?"
She meant it to be polite and vulnerable and feminine. Unfortunately, a bit of fear showed through with a shrillness.
She was silent for a moment, struggling to remember. Where was she? How did she get here?
Who was she?
This amnesia at first was frightening and she moaned softly to herself. She then became aware that she was clothed in some kind of linen and chiffon nightclothes, drifty and frilly. There was also the scent of perfume in the air. Lilac, lilies--a crush of roses? And with the rose smell, she calmed, for she knew that this happened sometimes to her--this loss of memory--when she woke up in a strange place, perhaps after too much wine.
She did not feel drunk. She did not feel the aftereffects of drinking--but still.
I must be calm, she told herself. Be still and calm. I may know more about this than I think I do. There was, after all, some kind of adventure going on--she felt that deep down in herself. Some kind of travel...
Travel. Yes. Travel.
"I am in France!" she said aloud. And she was startled to hear herself speaking, for she knew she spoke the words out loud in the French language, a language she was not born into.
"My God," she said.
And it came out, "Mon Dieu!"
Quietly she lay back for a bit, her head drifting back into pillows. The dimness receded as her eyes adjusted, and she saw that there was some light, if only a tiny candle fluttering in the corner. She was in a room with plush curtains, beautiful old furniture and a table with a basin and a pitcher. The bed upon which she lay--no, upon which she was tied!--was a sturdy four-poster of oak. Overhead stretched a luxurious canopy of some ornately embroidered material.
She shuddered.
But it was not entirely from fear. There was something delicious and strange here...
"Hello!" she said again.
After a moment or two, there was a knock on the door.
"Mademoiselle," came a voice. "Are you indecent?"
"What--Who?"
The door opened with just the faintest of squeaks from its hinges. It swung opened. A figure started walking into the room. A figure dressed in a long flowing robe. A dark hood covered its face. Slowly and ceremoniously it stepped in. She could see that in the middle of the hood was darkness. Like a hole into mystery. The figure came forward and then stopped by a table to the side of the bed. Here it took up a match and lit another candle. Still the figure's face was in shadow, but the light flickered into the folds of the robes, showing the white of bare flesh.
A thrill of excitement coursed over her despite herself. A delicious danger danced inside her.
"I trust you are comfortable in all the right ways," said the man in rich tones. "And uncomfortable in all the right ways as well."
The tall man's voice was rich and deep and though it felt powerful and commanding, it was also musical and playful.
"Who are you? Where am I?"
"You do not remember? Ah, that, then, would be the wine. Or rather the potion I put in the wine. Rather too much it would appear. It took you hours to wake up, and now it seems to have removed what shreds of memory you had. Do you remember who you are, my dear?"
"As of matter of fact... no... no... Can you tell me?"
"I was rather hoping you could tell me."
"Before. Before this wine you mention. Could I tell you then?"
The tall robed man seemed to ignore the question.
"You must not fear for you life, my dear," he said. "Your virtue? Well, that is another matter entirely. I dare say your memory will return soon enough. And your youth and delicate beauty--and might I say, your spirit--are intact. You are here in a safe place. It is my honor and privilege to be placed in charge of your--" Thoughtful pause. "Preparation."
"My preparation. For what?"
"For the greatest honor that can be bestowed upon a woman!"
"I'm tied up in a bed--for preparation!" With much of her actual fear gone, now she felt nothing but indignation. "This is madness! This is outrage!"
"You might very well think so, but it is not my duty to comment."
Empowered by this rage, she raised her voice. "Help! Help!" she shrieked. "Someone help!"
The figure did not move. "Spare your sweet vocal chords, woman!" he said and then laughed as he spoke. "We are in a chateau leagues and leagues from other civilization. All our employees herein are well paid and well understanding of the sounds that may emerge from this chamber."
That hushed her. "What... what sounds are expected?"
"Oh, perhaps that is best left to your imagination."
Suddenly, with a zinging sound, a dagger emerged from the folds of the robe. It sang through the air, shining silver fire, to settle at the nape of her neck. She could feel its point--sharp and chill against her skin.
She froze. Despite her terror, her instincts told her to not move. Not a muscle.
"I obtained this dagger in Egypt, on our campaign then. It is not an ordinary dagger. It is not a weapon as such. It has caused no deaths." The man chuckled throatily. "Not of the large variety, anyway."
"I don't know what you are talking about. Please. At least let me know why I deserve this... this torture."
"It is, as I said, the Preparation."
The edge of the blade described a delicate, almost tender circle, and then slipped down her neck to her chest, on down to where a drawstring--a pink drawstring--was tied in a bow. Disregarding the bow entirely, the dagger pulled on the string, pulled hard, and snap, cut through. The lacy top of her nightclothes came away, revealing the swell of her bosom rising above her bodice.
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"Lovely. Lovely indeed," said the robed man. "Let us explore a bit more, shall we?"
Thus saying, with a hard flick, the dagger sliced open the lace, laying bare her right breast. Then slowl
y and delicately, he used the tip to begin teasing downward, downward, to where the nipple rose up, red and swollen.
The sensation was indescribable. There was a sharp, razory feel and terror, combined with pure pleasure that swept through her entire body. The tip of the dagger played and teased some more, describing one, two, three circles around the aureole.
Despite herself, she gasped.
"You see," said the robed man. "Not so bad, eh?"
"Stop. I beg you."
"I do not truly believe you, but I will stop. For the moment, anyway. But I wish to show you the effect that you have... the power your loveliness exerts on me."
He laid the dagger down, and parted the folds of his robes. Below them was, half open at the chest, a white jerkin, stretching down to his midsection.
"I am happy to say, I can use my dagger with surgical skill," said the man. "And I have been told my skill with this other dagger of mine is greater."
Lifting up the tip of this jerkin was the man's large erect penis.
And then she remembered.
CHAPTER TWO
It felt so nice to Janice when her professor kissed her on her neck as they made love.
Today, somehow, it felt even better.
"Ma cheri," he murmured between kisses.
Was it those thick sensuous Gallic lips of his? Or that thick bushy mustache, giving each touch an extra tingle? She wasn't sure, and as they swept themselves deeper into the sheets she gave the matter less and less thought.
"God, I love it when you kiss my earlobes too, Armando. Do that, will you?"
"But of course," he said in English. "On the condition that we do not speak in French."
"But I like to speak in French. I'm in France. You're French!"
"As I said before, Janice. I want to practice. " He said it close to her earlobe, and then nibbled a bit.
"Oooh. Nice. Whatever."
"Whatever. That is a peculiar American word."
"I don't feel like translating vernacular right now, okay."
"Very well," he said, amusement in his tone. "What exactly do you feel like?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she said, playfully. She fingered a bit of the rich patch of chest hair.
"Know? Wouldn't I? I do not understand."
"Know what? Like, dude, I wouldn't pause to give American vernacular too much thought. Just go with the flow, okay?"
"Okay. I know okay. Okay. Have you ever thought, Janice, what a peculiar word that is, 'okay'?"
"Armando!"
"I am sorry! See, I commence my slave duties, my princess."
He kissed her in that delicate wonderful way and she sank comfortably into his muscular enfolding arms.
Janice Evans wasn't terribly surprised to find herself sleeping with her History professor at the Sorbonne University in Paris, France. After all, as a young girl in Topeka, Kansas, that had always been one of her fantasies. And many of her fantasies had a tendency to becoming fulfilled. However, she'd never realized how much she would enjoy being with a man over twenty-five years her senior, old enough to be her father. It was all rather delicious--definitely the meaty part of a steak frite, so to speak.
She really should, she knew, pay more attention to her graduate studies, and at least more to the other, younger men in her bustling life here in the City of Lights. However, there was something about Dr. Armando Michelin. Maybe it was the way, after sex, he would tell her stories from the deep catacombs of his knowledge about the old and arcane sexual practices of the 17th, 18th and 19th century France. Tres delicious!
"Alas, I cannot dally too long about your gorgeous face, although I do enjoy looking into and kissing those cornflower blue eyes, my Janice," he said between breaths and puckers. "I must meet my wife for dinner you see."
"How romantic," said Janice. "You make love to a girl and talk about your wife."
"A man has his duty and his affairs. I warned you early that although my wife does not demand marital fidelity, she demands punctuality. And she is a good cook."
"You must invite me sometime."
"Perhaps."
Suddenly, she felt a twinge. She felt a bit irked. She pushed him away and wrapped the sheet around her nakedness.
"What is this?" said the Professor. "First you demand kisses, then you push me away?"
"I'm just taking a break."
"We have little time."
She shrugged. "There is always tomorrow."
He sighed. "When you fell into my arms you knew I was married."
"You pursued me."
"You encouraged me."
He sighed again. "Janice, you are a very beautiful girl. And very intelligent. You are charming. But I told you I have a wife and a schedule. You cannot deny that. Moreover, I had the impression that you were very interested in understanding the secrets--and understood the ways of the affair!"
"Oh, I do," she said. She snuggled against him, let the sheet slide. The tips of her breasts slid along his hairy chest and she felt a stream of pleasure. "I'm sorry. I just would like to meet your wife. I feel excluded. And I am wrong to feel so. Can you forgive me?"
"I certainly can, my dear. But I can not guarantee that significant portions of my anatomy forgive so easily."
"You mean "portion", don't you?"
"I think you know what I mean."
She reached down and felt between his legs. Yes, his cock had been hard as a rock before. Now it dangled limp and despondent, like the tongue of a tired dog.
"Oh Armando. And I have wasted time with my silliness," she said. "I will make amends."
She kissed him amorously upon the mouth and then let her kisses trail down his neck, across that thatched chest, down his roundish professorial belly and then to where lay his penis. It seemed to have awoken just a bit from its nap, so it was easy to take up in her fingers, stroke a bit. It pulsed in response, and so did Armando.
"Oh," he said. "Right to the point."
"Time wastes me, now I waste you," she said.
"Richard the Second? Shakespeare?"
"Armando the Second. Evans."
"There was an Armando before me?" he said, but said no more as she got to work.
She licked the tip of his cock lightly, then traced the underside of it with the tip of her tongue. Then she got down to the real business of getting it up. She enfolded the glans with her lips, then, mouth slick with spittle, she slowly pushed herself down aways, aways more. Then up, then down, then up, then down. Tickle. Lick. Down again. Perhaps fifteen seconds of this was enough to remind the cock there was a lady in the room. It started to swell, and rise up in her mouth. Encouraged, she cupped his balls with her hand and massaged them gently.
This did the trick.
Soon Armando's cock was fully hard and at its full length, bumping into the back of her mouth and fooling with her uvula. It was salty and good in her mouth, and she had a pleasant sensation of fullness. She let a finger drift down a bit, teasing a bit toward his butthole, but then pulled away. No reason to let the pipe burst too soon. Satisfied that his cock was going to stay hard (as long as she didn't mention his wife) she gave it a fond kiss and then squirmed back up, retracing her kissing her journey.
"Now," she said. "I must use a French phrase. Deja vu."
"And now I remember my mission of the afternoon."
He gently rolled her onto her back, letting her long blonde hair stream out over her pillow. She looked up at the bad plastering job of her old Montmartre apartment, smiling at the tatty light fixtures and the tilted frames of cheap prints on the walls. Back home this would have seemed just junky. But in Paris it was exactly right.
He whispered more English words into her ear and his hand did wonderful things with her breasts first and then slid down to test the waters below them. English words, yes, and rude ones, but the Parisian intonations made them sound like proclamation of the God of Love himself.
"Ah, but you are so wet already," he said.
"You did mention a time fact
or."
"I shall complete my mission then."
"Yes, please, oh missionary."
She liked the missionary position.
In fact, she loved the missionary position. Plain vanilla stuff she well knew, vin ordinaire. Tossed out of the Kama Sutra early on, surely. But nonetheless, she liked it. Was it because it invoked her sense of religion? No, she wasn't particularly religious. Perhaps, that did have some slight something to do with it though, because as she lay on her back, her legs spread, she, the good Methodist girl from Kansas, felt absolutely naughty and independent of her stifling past.
Mostly though, it was because she liked the way a powerful man felt with his weight on her, pressing her down. Holding her down. Not allowing her to move, doing the hard work as he worked, worked, worked, pumping and huffing his intense need for her deep, deep, deeper.
Yes, that was it.
She especially liked it with Armando.
Armando sensed things she liked, and then did them--eventually.
Although he had a slight belly, he worked with weights and his arms were thick and strong. He was spry too, and quick as he first hovered over her, pinning her arms to her side with his hands as he positioned his cock for entry. Slowly, he guided himself until the tip of his penis brushed her vulva.
"Oh," she said.
"Perhaps you are not ready."
"I'm ready, I'm ready, dammit," she said.
"I do not know. Perhaps a bit of jelly, eh?"
"Fuck me. Just fuck me, you bastard."
He laughed knowingly and pushed himself slowly inside her.
It was as though something far from her control were entering her, sliding inside, invading her. He pushed himself slowly, slowly in, stopping at intervals to wiggle around a bit, and the ripples of the pleasure circled around her. She shuddered and gasped again, arching against him as though to push him off.
"Stay still, my sweet. Stay still," he said, gripping her arms and pushing her down into the bed.
Armando weighed twice as much as she, and the power of his arms was great, so it was not difficult for him to take physical action on his demands. He moved all the way inside her, all the way to the hilt, deep into her vagina, and she felt pinned, absolutely pinned to the mattress. He pushed her down, harder, harder and she could barely breathe.
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