"Oh god. Armando," she said.
Then, he began to withdraw. He moved a bit, putting a little swing into it, and making it slow though, deliciously slow. He let his cock come up to the edge of her, then pushed down, pushed down fast, pushed down hard.
A jolt of pleasure jumped inside her heart.
And then, with a miraculous rhythm he began his pumping. In and out, in and out, with a passion and a heart that she had never known before in a lover.
She moaned and moaned some more, and she felt herself almost leaving her body. Time seemed to suspend and she could feel herself becoming slippery with sweat.
Her eyes popped open with a particularly emphatic hump and she saw Armando staring down her, dark and intense. Veins of concentration and need stood out on the side of his neck like cables.
"Fuck me harder!" she gasped. "Harder, Armando."
He said nothing, just obeyed, pushing himself with more power, faster and faster inside of her as though released from his mind itself, just a raging beast seeking some dark heart of release and satisfaction.
"Come for me," she demanded.
The rhythm was inspired. She felt him play amazing things inside of her, and she responded with her own music, sighs and groans and moans. Finally, he built himself up to a crescendo of movement.
This is it, she thought.
Oh God, thank you, this is it.
The crescendo built and built and built and then he pushed harder, knocking her down somehow deeper into the mattress. A blot of sweat fell from his cheek, dropping into the valley of her breasts.
And then he stopped moving, but somehow maintained his force.
She could feel him coming. She could feel his coming like she felt the strength and power of a freight train behind the back roads of Kansas, pulsing with incredible might. His eyes opened wide, wider and he gasped and bellowed like a bull.
Finally, with a whimper, he fell down.
His breaths were now shallow as he lay upon her, sopping with exertion.
"I did not know such joy existed," he cooed with a laughing voice. He reached out for her and touched her face. "You are so beautiful, my love. My good student."
She smiled up at him as he rolled off her, cooling in the afterglow. His hands were no longer chains, but gentle devices of calm, stroking her back, raising tingles of relaxation in her.
They rested for a while, and she delighted in his soft breaths, fragrant with the Galois cigarettes he smoked.
Finally, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her.
The look was penetrating and curious.
"Janice?"
"Yes, Armando. Time for you to go for din-din?"
"Din-din? What English word is that?"
"A childish word for dinner."
"Ah. I see. Well--"
"I'm being an asshole. Sorry."
"Ah ha. I have heard this word in American movies!" He grinned.
"Sorry, like I say. You were about to say something?"
"Yes I was." He scratched his mustache as though he was trying to frame his words properly. Then he spoke.
"My dear, that lovemaking was fabulous."
"A good fuck, huh?"
"You Americans! So brusque. But yes a good fuck. I came quite forcefully."
"I did notice that come to think of it."
"Please don't mock me, my dear."
"I'm just teasing the teaser."
He raised an eyebrow, but let that pass. "No Janice. You will forgive me, but I must ask this."
"Ask away, but please don't be late for dinner."
"I have noticed that you seem to enjoy yourself very much during our lovemaking."
"Very true."
"But, in truth--I do not think you have the little death, le petit mort."
"Come? Orgasm?"
"Yes. Those are the words. The terms."
"You don't have to worry about that."
"But I do. I care for you. As I say, you give me much joy. I wish you to have commensurate joy."
"You are very considerate."
"But it is true then? You do not come?"
"I come as much as I need to."
A lie, of course. A lie--but she did not wish to bruise this Frenchman's ego. In the affairs of the heart, in French men, there was a larger place for the ego than the heart.
"Perhaps not with me, but with others?"
"I come as much as I need to."
"Not."
"Not, of course."
"But no, not with anyone else either."
"Do you come with yourself? I mean... when you menstruate... "
She laughed. "You mean masturbate."
"Oh forgive me, yes. My broken English. Mssr. Malaprop, yes?"
"You speak English beautifully. And though it's none of your damned business, I'll have you know that when I am fingering myself, I come as much as I need to.
Liar. Liar, pants on fire.
"I see. Well, what more can I say!" He tossed up his hands in a familiar gesture of futility. "But truly, I enjoy our trysts. I love my time with you. So if you care to tell me more at any time, feel free."
"Thank you, Armando."
There was a long silence between them, while Armando thought with that peculiar intensity the Gallic soul owns.
As for Janice, she was not surprised. She did not fake climaxes. She did not fake her pleasures either, so she felt as though she was an honest, if slutty, woman--the kind of integrity that allowed her to look at herself in the mirror.
Nonetheless, Armando's awareness and questions--though no surprise--did reach her somewhere deep.
She knew she did not climax. Not the way other women did, anyway. She had spoken to doctors about this, and they had checked her and she was fine, they said. Healthy as a heifer. All systems go. Just relax and let her rip, her shrinks had said. But sometimes, it was just no go.
She did not believe them.
There was something wrong.
Not with her. There was nothing wrong with her. She knew that on an instinctive level.
It was just that she had not found the right lover.
Not yet.
"Well, my dear," said Armando. "Yes, well, I should go then. But remember. If there's anything you want when we get together... you need but ask. Remember. I have studied unusual methods of pleasuring women."
"I will remember that indeed," she said.
He turned to go dress, and as he did, she watched his behind move. His French behind. His old French behind. It wasn't very attractive, actually, come to think of it. Rather hairy, in fact. But he did somehow carry that behind with dignity and professorial grace.
"Armando?"
"Yes."
"Back in the French Revolution--the bit we've been studying recently--do you think there were people watching the executions of aristocracy..."
"Oh great crowds."
"No, let me finish. I mean, people watching who... who were masturbating."
Armando stopped in his tracks for a moment, his balls hanging out of his briefs, his shrunken penis looking smaller than small.
"Well?" she asked.
He laughed awkwardly. "That is a sexual deviation I never wondered about."
She laughed. "I mean, think about it. Here's this great production number. Drumming, marching. Up goes the aristocrat onto the stand. 'Guillotine, guillotine!' cries the woman in the front row. The guards pull the aristocrat over toward the structure. The guillotine stands like a sentry over hell. The blade at the top the scaffold gleams in the afternoon sun. Are the men by the rope hooded? What does it matter? The blade is sharp and ready. The guards bully the aristocrat forward. A man? A woman? Does it matter? A human being. He or she is trussed up. Tied for the execution. I would rather imagine in this new Utopia there is no priest. Some French words are perhaps said and then the prisoner is thrust onto the platform below the scaffold. She struggles. Her breasts fall out of her blouse and bounce about. Her eyes are wild in terror. She tries to pull her
bonds off, but she is tied too tightly. She is sobbing, but she looks up at the gleaming blade of the guillotine with a kind of awe. Then the strong men thrust her into the rack, position her head, holding it down--and then clamp the wood into place. Lock it. They step back and signal the executioner. 'Off with her head!' someone cries in the crowd. The rabble roars with approval. The executioner steps forward with great solemnity but with a kind of sadistic glee in his eyes. He takes the handle of the guillotine and hurls it forward. Shrift! Down comes the sharp blade, like Death's own scythe, whacking with great measured force through the wood slot and through the flesh and bone and tendons of the woman's neck. Her head is lopped off. Her blonde tresses flutter as the head falls into the basket. A jet of blood spurts over the top of the blade, reaching for the crowd like a red hand. A man wearing the standard garb of the revolution steps forward, reaches down into the basket and yanks the head out. It drips as it stares out at the crowd--more beautiful in death than ever."
"And so the question, Professor. The question is, are there men in that mob who've got their hands in their pants and are beating off?"
She felt flushed as she said it; red in the face and excited. She could feel her heart beating, fancied she could hear it--and wondered if Armando could hear it.
For his own part, Armando just stared at her a moment. He cocked his head. "I never thought about that."
"I think maybe so. And I think that the women in the mob went home and had sex with anyone they could find."
"Hmm. Right. Well. My, look at the time. Janice! It has been marvelous as always. We should have more of these historical discussions.
She smiled at him, her eyes glittering.
"I'd like that. And I also want to know more about--you know who."
"Yes. Of course."
And with a polite bonjour, the history professor was on his way.
CHAPTER THREE
Him!
She remembered now. She remembered him.
She'd been a student at the Sorbonne in 21st century Paris.
Now she knew--felt with every inch of her being and soul--she was still in France. But it seemed somehow a different France.
And there it was now, in front of her, angry and stiff and hard.
The hooded man's penis, large, thick and demanding.
"You see now that I mean what I say. I am in no mood for naysaying, my dear," said the hooded man.
"I remember now. I remember finding myself in the countryside. And then--"
"Such beauty cannot stay ignored forever. When I heard of you from my men, I knew that you could be the right one for my Master."
"Why do you have to tie me up?"
Somehow, though she was not afraid.
Somehow she was beginning to feel thrilled with anticipation.
And slowly she was remembering...
She had gone to the countryside for the day. A beautiful medieval town north of Paris. There had been a fete, a market. She had eaten fresh goat's cheese. And then she'd strolled in a forest and a glade, not mindful of a gathering storm, not mindful of the thunder in the hills.
And then, suddenly, the lightning strike.
The rush. The carousel of lights.
The hard fall onto the grassy sward.
And then, she was awake, to a sunny morning.
A sunny morning--with soldiers.
Soldiers dressed in the style of early 19th century France.
She had seen men dressed as knights, jousting at the fete, she naturally assumed that somehow she was still in the midst of some entertainment. But how peculiar! So early in the morning! And when she tried to speak to these people, they spoke back in a French that sounded different than she was used to.
"Tied up?" said the hooded man. "Well, I suppose you are. Technically. However, be assured it is only for everyone's mutual good."
"You don't intend to harm me then?"
"Harm you? You may die, madam. You may die many times. But you will not be harmed." His voice was full of deep, gracious and aggressive humor.
Another thrill raced through her. "You are not going to ravish me?"
"Ravishment? Barbaric! Barbaric indeed. No of course not."
A slight pang of disappointment came to Janice, but she took a brief breath that must have sounded like relief.
"You will do what we say, however."
"How can I do else?"
"And later, Mademoiselle--later perhaps you will get your ravishment--if you wish!"
The man pulled off his hood. The hood swooshed down.
Janice had suspected a monkish look beneath the monkish outfit. A tonsure perhaps. Stern, worn features. Eyes gray with years of penance. Stark and weary anger with virtue and the fight with the devil and the sin.
Instead, from the hood shook loose brown curls with highlights of auburn catching on the candlelight. Above a bristling mustache was a long patrician nose and there glowed about the man the complexion of youth and exuberance. Long sideboard whiskers stretched down the side of his face, and a merry, lusty gleam glittered in his mischievous eyes.
"Mademoiselle. You are tied down.
"Shall we then discuss the philosophy of ravishment?" said the Monk. "Pardon me while I adjust myself." He tucked his credible penis, already detumescing back into his pantaloons. He looked to his side, found what he was seeking, pulled a straight-backed chair--with a beautiful and ornate hand-carved back--and settled his buttocks there upon. He smiled over at her splayed nakedness from his new, more relaxed, perch. "But forgive my rudeness. All part of the show, don't you know. But my name is Murat. General Murat of the French Army."
Janice took a deep rush of breath. No. No it couldn't be.
"But now, as I was saying, the philosophy of ravishment." He reached deep into his robes and pulled out a pipe. He reached further and drew up tobacco. Then over for the candle, and soon the pipe was puffing away, pouring a dense cloud of smoke over the room. The smoke was aromatic and sweet. "Ah. You notice. From the Americas, of course. Virginia, I think. And look how this smoke molests your air. It does with you as it likes, and I do with the air as I like. You can do nothing because you are tied down. Now is that ravishment? Well, yes, technically. A form, I suppose."
"I usually think of ravishment as a woman being penetrated against her will."
He was looking at her with interest, this General Murat. "Yes. Well. Now that I think of it, I realize that I know now who you remind me of?"
"Who?"
"There was an American I met before the Revolution. He spoke French much as you speak French."
"You mean, with the same accent."
"Yes, and with the same bluntness and dispassion. Which makes me wonder if you are an American."
"I wonder if that's true myself."
In fact, she was realizing that it was true.
"Hmmm. Well, it shall come to you eventually. The drugs will wear off, as I say. Now then though, where was I, oh yes, the philosophy of ravishment. Well, as a soldier, I myself have witnessed so-called plunder and pillage by soldiers. And yet many the time, I see the women welcoming the victors with their favors."
"Maybe they don't want to be slaughtered!"
"A blood mad soldier's lust for blood is quelled when his other lusts are quelled. Not always true, but there you are."
"That's disgusting."
A puff of smoke plumed around his head like a garland that could be a halo or horns--or a halo propped by horns.
"We are all creatures of passion! It is this country that gave birth to the age of reason. And yet, witness what happened. Civil war! Massive death and disruption. The revolution! Certainly not reason. You see, my dear, we do not understand ourselves. We claim that we are creatures of reason by birth and yet this is not so. No, no. We are creatures of Nature, and Nature is an odd beast, often violent, often gentle, often fierce--often full of death. But always when we bow to Nature--whether the Nature we see around us in the lands and seas, or the nature we see in others and the n
atures we feel in our own breasts and loins, our hearts and minds--then we bow to Life itself." His nostrils flared with enthusiasm. "Yes, and when we bow to Life, when we give ourselves fully to Life... Is that not the time when we are fully alive? Most fully ourselves. I think so, my dear. I think that is very much the case, but I do enjoy proving it.
Those nostrils seemed to flare wider. Smoke squeezed out of his nose in a huff of enthusiasm and General Murat sat forward to the edge of the seat, brandishing the pipe stem toward the naked woman like some obscene instrument.
"These things I have learned. Yes, and I learn more every day. Especially now that I am back from Egypt and back in my beloved France, where live the most beautiful and delightful women in the world." He grinned crookedly at her. "Although, now that I have come to know you better, I will be sure to try to make it to the new United States."
"Fascinating," said Janice, quite sincere. In fact, that was one of the things she loved about France--and in this France it all seem particularly true. Men got much more excited about women and about love and about living it all out with their thoughts only for the day, the hour, the moment. "But I don't think you have to tie me up to tell me these things. I have paid to hear these things from teachers and entertainers."
"Ah ha, but you do not understand. There is much more that goes on here than meets the eye." He leaned back in his chair with a grunt of self-satisfaction.
"You mean, more than a lecture about ravishment?"
"Ah ha! Yes. You understand. But this is but the first course. The lecture. And let me tell you about ravishment. It is a crime. It is a villainy. There should be punishment for it... Yes. But the true rapist is not for pleasure, not for the pleasure of the victim or even their own pleasure. But there is much, much more there... Much, much more... It is deep in the blood. I do not understand it, so I will not try to understand it."
"Have you violated a woman?" asked Janice. "You seemed as though you were about to. In any case you seemed to want to. Or a significant and rather enormous part of you wanted to."
"Of course not! I live for honor." Again the sly smile. "And in truth, my dear, I have never had to."
"So... Why don't you just untie me? We can have a glass of wine and we can talk about ravishment. Where can I go? What can I do?"
The French Affair Boxed Set Page 2
