The French Affair Boxed Set

by Natasha Sparks

  Something was thumping in her ears. She wondered if he'd put some kind of music on in the background, but then she realized that no, it was just the sound of her excited beating, beating heart.

  "Yep. Yep. Yep," he said.

  His cock had elevated a good deal and its hard tip was stuck up, thick, its single eye staring up toward her. It looked like thick snake now, tasting the air, searching for something.

  She well knew what.

  On his knees he marched up stride-by-stride pushing her thighs wider apart. Then, with both hands, he cupped her buttocks and yanked them up. The erect penis was surprisingly accurate as it touched the opening of her vagina. He did not enter smoothly, but roughly pushed it in as far as it would go. It reached up to the head. He reared back, worked it in again roughly, and this time made enough inch. Back and forth, back and forth. Each movement devastated her. She realized suddenly that she was moaning and gasping. God, she was going out of her mind!

  Finally, pubic hair met pubic hair and he was pumping, pumping...

  Amazing, amazing, amazing. She felt so sensitive. Pain still throbbed in her breasts--more profoundly, since Walter's chest was falling on them, causing the clamps to bite deeper.

  She was in a haze.

  The book she'd been reading was on French history, specifically Napoleon, and somehow she thought of Corsica. Corsica, the Italian island near France that had been taken over by the French. Corsica, surrounded, attacked, invaded...

  Napoleon Bonaparte...

  "Napoleon," she murmured. "Napoleon."

  She loved the name. Loved it, loved his pictures.

  And then Walter pulled out.

  "No. No," she said. "Don't..."

  "Shut up," he said.

  He reached to her forehead and pulled her blindfold down.

  Suddenly she was in darkness. Before, handcuffed, she had felt as though she'd been in some kind of game. A fun, if painful, game.

  Now, though, unable to see Walter, see his fresh familiar good looks, she was blind.

  She felt helpless.

  He was breathing hard, but he got control of himself.

  The next thing she knew he was inside her again. His thick penis didn't pound her, this time, no, it just moved in and out in a slow motion, sending pulses of pleasure through her body.

  It was Walter's turn to groan now, and he did.

  Corsica. Napoleon Bonaparte.

  He was the only son of a large family. But his father and mother had bred survival into him.

  The Corsicans lost to the French, but Napoleon's father had contacts and he worked his way into the French aristocracy and government.

  It was in this way that his short, serious, son, Napoleon, was able to go to French military school with the sons of Marquis and Princes.

  And then came the French Revolution.

  "Napoleon," she said. "Napoleon."

  With her sight removed, all of Janice's other senses seemed accentuated.

  She smelled Walter's sweat, the rough maleness of him. She smelled the smell of sex rising from their liquid coupling.

  And more... more... other senses.

  He pulled out again.

  She said nothing. She was helpless. Helpless... Perhaps the way a small Corsican teen felt knowing only Italian in a French school.

  She heard paper. He was rustling in the bag. He pulled something out. More rustling. There was some kind of clanking sound.

  What in Heaven's name?

  A moment of quiet.

  "What's going on? Walter, what's going on?"

  "Just wait and see."

  She heard and felt him getting closer.

  "Walter. You're not... We agreed. I'm not sure..."

  He chuckled.

  She was alarmed. She almost said ‘aardvark’. But she didn't. She thought about Napoleon Bonaparte. Had he had a ‘safe word’ as a youth?

  No.

  The next thing she knew she felt a cold, slimy touch. His fingers were rubbing between her buttocks, right into her asshole.

  She yelped.

  It didn't hurt. It was just so... outrageous! "Oh my God, what are you doing?"

  Invading. Invading. Ravaging, raping...

  And she couldn't stop him--

  She held her breath as the next thing happened.

  She felt something hard invading her rectum, and it wasn't flesh hard like an erect penis. No, it was metal or plastic hard--slick, slick but hard. It slipped into her sphincter and she felt the pain of invasion.

  And then... Another. Another. She couldn't tell what they were, but one, two, three, four, five, six, Walter poked them in through her sphincter.

  "There,” he said.

  "What is it? What is it?" With an expulsion of breath.

  "Beads. Beads, baby. Relax. Relax."

  "Beads? What... What?" she felt panicked. What was her safe word? Somehow in her sensitized dementia, she'd forgotten it.

  "Oh, not honking big Ben Wa balls. Just anal beads. Relax. Take a deep breath.

  She heard his voice then. Napoleon's voice.

  "I have invaded you, mon amor. I have taken you. You must now worship your emperor. Now--say your rosary."

  She felt a tug. One of the beads popped out of her asshole.

  A charge went through her body.

  "Oh. Oh!"

  Another bead made its escape. Pause. Then another and then, quicker, they all came out, each seeming to drag across raw nerves.

  "You are in my power," said the voice of Napoleon Bonaparte. "You are in my complete power."

  Shuddering, jerking, she felt the beads coming out... She felt faint. She could almost see him, standing before her, in his hat and coat, his hand tucked into his vest.

  "Come for me, Janice," he said. "I command it. I--"

  She was almost there...

  Almost there...

  But the last bead was out, and the feelings faded away, and the inner image of Napoleon faded away into the smoky dark of the past.

  "Aardvark!" she said. "Aardvark."

  Without comment, Walter turned her over, clicked something open and the handcuffs were off.

  "Wow," he said. "You okay?"

  She just lay there for a moment, sucking in breath. She felt a droplet of sweat drip into her eye.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm okay."

  "Okay. I'll just give it a rest now, all right."

  "Yes, yes, that's a good idea."

  She found that the more oxygen she got inside of her the better she felt. In fact, after a few minutes of breathing, just breathing, her mind blank. She found that she was feeling very, very good.

  "Oh, my," she said. "Walter. Walter."

  He was by her. She kissed him full on the lips.

  "Thanks!"

  "You came?"

  She had to lie. Men and their egos. In fact, it was as good as an orgasm, that whole business, in her book.

  She'd had a vision.

  A marvelous vision.

  The Magnificent Éclair!

  "Oh yeah, about three times!"

  "Great!"

  There was a moment of silence as he looked down at his now limp dick.

  "Glad you came!"

  She unclamped the clips. "You want to try these?"

  "Uh... not this time

  "Interesting experience!"

  "Seemed so!"

  He had a hangdog, imploring look in her eyes.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  "You know, I just remember. Tonight I need to wash my hair and do my nails."

  "Janice."

  "And I've got a whole lot of studying to do." She yawned and stretched. "And I better get back home. Early night. Quiz in French literature tomorrow."

  "Janice!"

  He had a crooked smile on his face. He looked like the dorky guy in SCOOPY DOO.

  No wonder she hadn't been able to come. Walter was just a terrible, terrible actor.

  What she didn't need was a terrible actor in a ‘scene’ like the one
she'd just experienced. Rather, not an actor at all, but a guy, or a girl for that matter, or even an animal that was really, really into it.

  Like Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Of course, alas, Napoleon wasn't around to help her out.

  "Okay," she said, reaching over and starting to tug at his limp cock. "Where's that lubricant?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She took all day getting ready for the dinner with the most handsome and virile man she'd ever met.

  Oh, sure. From time to time, she'd read more of the books.

  Like in the bath.

  In the bath, (which she'd managed to conjure up from one of the servants and not without much ado, fire starting and damned bucket hauling) she lounged and read the book that she'd started reading before. The book about liberty.

  "In sooth (Janet read) I wonder again and again about the nature of so called morals," the American author had written.

  "It is with much relief that I now have the liberty to write this. Not much more than a century ago, should I have penned these words and set them free into the community, I surely would have been sought out and imprisoned. The stocks would surely have been an insufficient punishment to libertine proclamations such as I pen. For even though I have witnessed in London in my youth such things that would surely raise the hairs of our notable town leaders and such, I cannot deny that I have seen them--and, being in youth and much preoccupied with things of the flesh, fell victim to the pleasures, degradations and diseases set out before me like a rotting table.

  "Nonetheless, I did feel a freedom like I had never encountered in my life--

  "And the words of this (‘s’ presented like an ‘f’) writer by the name of the Marquis de Sade concerning the nature of freedom somehow did indeed ring true, much more than the words of some of our proven patriots here in these United States."

  As she was reading these words, she found herself holding the book up above the soapy water and perfumed steam, reading while fiddling between her legs with her left hand.

  It seemed somehow appropriate.

  In any case, General Murat had not been at all stingy in the packages he'd sent her.

  Packages! Yes! Nicely wrapped things. They'd arrived the evening after their time locked in pleasure and convulsions.

  Oh dear yes. He'd not asked her about her size, he seemed to either know it or trusted in the observing servants here about this place to order it.

  She'd arrived late in the morning in a carriage at this remarkable estate. She was shown to her quarters, fed and watered (with no little supply of wine, she was happy to see) and in the evening she'd received the packages.

  Oh my. And such packages.

  Now, as she walked down to the quarters of the chateau, the quarters described by the ugly disgusting and nasty French sergeant but holding the hot and heavenly American-French corporal she felt marvelous in the Spring air in her new dress!

  Marvelous!

  It was a lovely thing, with lace at the front with just the right amount of décolletage showing. The cut accentuated her bust, and then flowed down in a blue wash all the way to her ankles. It was somewhat of a Regency dress, she thought. Yes, and she felt as though she were in a Jane Austen novel.

  "Paddle my behind, Mr. Darcy," she said. "I've been so very naughty."

  But it wasn't just the dress that was wonderful. She had a matching hat--no, not so much a hat as a bonnet, which tied neatly below her chin in a modest bow.

  Daisies sprouted along the grassy sward by the path upon which she walked, and flowers of all sorts rose up from many beds throughout the area. Against the green of the neighboring forest, they were a riot of colors. They smelled heavenly as well, and she thought she'd died and gone to heaven when she reached the side of the chateau and got a whiff of the roses that grew along the sides.

  The chateau was part stone. It had once been a medieval castle. But the castle--for a time in ruins--had been built upon just years before and now it was a splendid large building of both stone and wood.

  Janice followed the directions that Sergeant Debussy had given her, and found herself going down a hill and then around to an area that had clearly been the old castle. She found a path of flagstones flanked by flowerbeds and there, as promised was the door. There was a sconce outside the door and there was a lamp, lit now even though the westering sun was still above the horizon. Lit for her, no doubt, a flame flicking behind its glass.

  Upon the door was a large old metal knocker. She lifted this and let it go.

  Pound.

  Again, twice more.

  Pound. Pound.

  "Just a minute!"

  She waited.

  Soon the door opened. Its hinges made a faint squeaking sound. Standing there before her was Sergeant Debussy.

  "Drat! I told them to oil the door. Nothing gets done right around here without me screaming my bloody head off. Oh, hello, my dear." He beamed and leered. "My, my, don't you look fetching in that dress!"

  He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

  "My it smells good. Good evening, sergeant. I trust that the corporal is making supper."

  "That's right, that's right. He's back in the kitchen now, cooking away. But come in, come in my dear. We've selected a very nice wine to start off the evening."

  The idea of wine was very appealing to her. She had been given a few bottles in her cottage, but she'd been so excited, bathing and reading and dressing, that she hadn't had any of it. Now though, now that she was here--she realized that she was a bit nervous. This American in his French uniform made her a bit weak in the knees.

  "I accept, sergeant," she said, sweeping in with what she hoped was dignity in this regal dress.

  "This way, my dear. Not far."

  She was ushered into a parlor stocked with delightful provincial furniture. The curtains were open and because the window faced the west, there was a beautiful view of the sun setting in the valley beyond.

  "My. Lovely view of the valley and the river."

  "That's right. That river is what brought the stones here to build this place, centuries ago.

  "You have lovely quarters here," she said.

  "Thank you. I planned it that way."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. Yes. I may not be an officer, but I am an important person, and I know how to be a friend to those in command." Still dressed in uniform, he dragged around an elegant high-backed chair and gestured that she should sit.

  She did so, as best she could in this dress. She didn’t want to show that she’d never worn anything like this before. Thank god it was so long that it hid the fact that she'd left the shoes given to her back there in favor of her more comfortable--and easier to walk in--slippers.

  "You see, I always found the position of sergeant the safest both in battle and in peace. After wars, officers tend to be removed or shot or whatever. Instead, I've positioned myself with a long military career. In a few years, I hope to retire and move to my own cottage in the south of France, along with some baubles I've picked up along the way, and hopefully a decent pension from Napoleon's government."

  "Napoleon is good to soldiers, isn't he?"

  "A gem! An absolute gem. And that is because he himself is a soldier. He is a warrior. He is the hero of the French..." He winked at her. "And my bank account."

  "He is a good man, no, a great man. I could see that when I met him."

  "Oh yes. Murat told me that Napoleon would have none of you."

  She changed the subject immediately.

  "Do you know Napoleon, sergeant?"

  "I do! I do indeed. I've fought with him in many campaigns. Managed to get myself out of those crazy Egyptian campaigns, mind you." He held up his hand. "Lost this in Italy before and had to recuperate, don't you know. I said, ‘Nappy, Nappy? Why Egypt?"

  "Well, he wanted to seize the Suez Canal. Or at least pressure the English that way." And, she thought to himself, there wasn't much to do in France. By continuing his successful warfare, he
could win the prize awaiting him back home when the current government weakened and crumbled as it inevitably would.

  The sergeant looked surprised. "Yes, yes, that's what he told me! Well, in any case, I'm back here now and ready for another campaign, if I'm called. Meantime--doing my duty with my faithful corporal."

  "Yes. Where did you meet him? The American, I mean."

  Debussy was busy with a bottle. It was uncorked already, breathing, on a tray with three glasses. One was already full. He took a sip from the full one and then decanted some more into a glass. Red, red, wine--deep and crimson in clear crystal.

  With his good hand, he handed her the glass.

  "Here it is. See if you don't like that?"

  She tasted it. It was a little bitter. But alcohol far better than the Four Loco her college student boyfriends tended to like in Kansas. Still, she'd had better--but she well knew that wine had in fact gotten better since the days of Napoleon as vintners progressed with their craft.

  "Excellent. Thank you." She took a larger gulp. Definitely bitter. And a faint taste of--what was that--wormwood? Musky... Anyway, what she imagined wormwood might taste like, since she'd never actually had any before.

  "Good, good. Yes, a good fellow. And being an American--I met him in America."

  "Americans came to France before either revolution. Look at Benjamin Franklin."

  Debussy shuddered. "I did, once. Ugly fellow. Hell if I know why the women liked him."

  Janice said nothing. She well knew what women liked about Benjamin Franklin. He hit on anything in skirts, and once said, "All cats are grey in the dark." Franklin fucked his way through France. Ugly women? No problem.

  But then again, who knew what the standards were? She, herself--though top heavy in the breast department--was pretty darn slim, despite the way that France, or rather Paris, had assaulted her with its delicious food and liquor. Janice knew she was fortunate, figure wise, for three reasons. She enjoyed a drink or two but did not overindulge in booze. She loved sweets, but never after a meal. And finally, and perhaps most importantly, she did not like cheese.

  Imagine that! A French fan who didn't like cheese!

  Well, in any case, cheese was all over Paris and the French loved it. True, they ate it in smaller portions than Americans. Portions? My goodness, a cheese lover from the mid-west big pants belt in Paris would just go nuts and cram so much brie and whatever in his or her mouth, they'd explode! Well, that was her take anyway.