The French Affair Boxed Set

by Natasha Sparks

  "There we are. A pleasant bed, don't you think?"

  Napoleon pointed.

  Pleasant bed? It again was fabulous. No, no, more than fabulous. It was wonderful, again swirls and swirl, but these were of the richest materials. Oh, and the blues! The reds! The golds! And the creamy white linens. They seemed all built together in a wonderful mound of oriental pillows and ancient yet fresh delights.

  "Oh yes!

  Oh yes indeed, Janice thought. I could come in this bed.

  Napoleon took her hand. "Now then, Janice. Here we are. And please... allow me to introduce... another special friend..."

  Napoleon Bonaparte whipped back the covers.

  And there, in his bed, looking sleepy but ready for anything, was another woman.

  "Hello. Hello!" she said. "Napoleon. We have a new companion for our frolics?

  And astonishment upon astonishments, Janice found herself looking at the woman in her vision, brunette curly hair and all. Only while she, Janice, had selected a white negligee--this gorgeous, remarkably curvy woman wore a black one.

  "Janice. My dear. Meet my other new friend," said Napoleon.

  "My name is Clairwil," said the woman, extending a welcoming hand for Satan knew what. "Clairwil. At your service.

  A plump and white boob fell out of her blouse.

  ~~~

  She woke up in the darkness and cried out.

  She began to sob.

  The door opened.

  “My dear Janice, my dear, dear Janice,” said the Marquis de Sade. He hastily lit a lamp.

  “Oh, oh,” she said. “Oh Marquis.”

  He knelt beside her on the bed. And she embraced him, shuddering.

  “My dear, you’ve just been dreaming!”

  She shuddered for a moment longer.

  Slowly, slowly, she recovered.

  “Yes. Yes. Just a dream.”

  “What was the dream? Perhaps if you speak about it, its power will diminish.”

  “Marquis,” she said. “I have a rival!”

  EPILOGUE

  Off the coast of Cornwall, England, a British frigate churned through a smooth sea.

  A beautiful dawn had just broken, sending fabulous sprays of light through puffing cumulous clouds.

  Just finishing watch, Lieutenant Joseph Hooker yawned, stretched and checked his watch, expecting his relief. He’d go up to the galley then, have a biscuit and some tea and have a well-earned nap and–

  And that was when, scarcely fifty feet from the HMS VANGUARD, a beautiful naked woman with dark and curly hair fell from the sky and into the sea.

  Book 4: The French Emperor

  PROLOGUE

  She came.

  And she went.

  One moment Penelope Woodrow was being fucked by the arm stump of Lord Horatio Nelson--no, make that an actor portraying the famous British Admiral she'd hired--and having at out-of-the-world orgasm. The next, she was transported out of the world--21st century New York City--and into...

  Somewhere else.

  Midair!

  Dawn was just breaking over some seacoast. She was just above, not the coast, but the sea itself. There was the smell of salt and she glimpsed the whip of sails on some British naval frigate.

  And then Penelope Woodrow fell into an early 19th century sea.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Janice couldn't believe it.

  I've got a salon!

  "Mademoiselle," said Colonel Juneau. "I must say, I enjoyed yesterday so much, I had to return today!"

  The Colonel--a rising officer in the Napoleonic Army--sipped at his cup of coffee, sat back in his chair, looking very much at home, and smiled, with a glint of gentlemanly lust, at his beautiful hostess.

  "Why thank you, Colonel. Thank you so much! But this little gathering would be nothing without the participation of General Murat!" Janice beamed a radiant smile over to her benefactor, General Murat.

  Murat, as usual, was dressed to the nines.

  No, thought Janice. All the way up to the elevenses.

  This gallant French general was known as one of the first dandies of the 19th Century. Had Beau Brummell taken a hint or two from General Murat? Probably not, as the Beau of Regency England was not in the military, and this dandy certainly was. In truth, the uniforms of Napoleon's army were outrageously gaudy. And today, the tall handsome mustachioed General--and lover--was most certainly nothing if not gaudy!

  For starters, it was a stunning blue of a rich expensive fabric. Plumes and epaulets sprouted, along with a gallery of proud metals. Above all this, like a peacock holding his head high above his feathers, the curly visaged Murat surveyed the nine people in the room, looking very regal and proud, yet at ease. He was the sort, Janice thought, who would stand in a corner at a party with a cigarette, looking like he owned the place.

  In fact, Murat did own the place. Or at least paid the rent.

  It was a luxurious apartment in the Montmartre, with a large drawing room. Here the guests mingled with the hostess, this entrancing and beautiful new addition to French society, squired in by Murat Murat had been so kind! It had so been worth all the blow jobs.

  Now, every time she looked down, she could not believe the sheer beauty and elegance and yet simplicity of one of these dresses he had given her! All it had taken was a surreptitious trip to his wife's dressier, the necessary amount of francs tucked into a palm--and voila! Here she was, looking every bit as regal as Josephine herself!

  "But surely I sure not outshine the wife of Napoleon herself!" she'd said.

  He'd tut-tutted.

  "All women follow the lead in fashion of Josephine! It helps our mercantiles!" Murat rolled his eyes. "This damned English naval embargo!"

  "It would seem," said Janice, artfully sending a bit of breeze her own way with a Chinese fan. "That the only country that France is not at war with is mine!"

  "Oh yes. The American colonies," said a young Lieutenant, a gorgeous boy who seemed far more interested in how far he could peer down the valley of her breasts than anything else.

  "Please," she said, making sure her pronunciation was correct. "The United States of America. We owe much to France!"

  "And we owe much to the country that sent you to our shores," said Colonel Clueasea, delicately touching his lips with a lace napkin. "And you say you are from Virginia?" He popped another bit of cheese in his mouth and chewed enthusiastically.

  "Yes. Virginia."

  "It was named thus after the Virgin Queen, was it not?" said Captain Voltaire, leaning on the back of Janice's chair, also angling for a look down her dress.

  "Yes. Queen Elizabeth."

  "English," snapped Murat. "No English woman escapes the age 12 as a virgin!"

  "Eight! Eight, surely--and King George has half of them!" quipped another officer.

  There was boisterous laughter at this.

  "I have no love for the English," said Janice. "But surely you do not believe all the nonsense you hear about them?"

  "The British Army is renowned through the ages," Murat said, "for their lack of civilization and their pure barbarity!"

  "Aye! And just ask a Scotsman after the Battle of Culloden," said another officer, a short and handsome fellow with dark hair and darker looks.

  "War is always awful. Dress it up as much as you like in all your proud uniforms and colors and flags--" said Janice. "There is still death and blood and horror in its wake. But enough of this talk. You live in times of glory and I shouldn't want to take that away from you."

  "Better blood beyond our borders than the guillotine and blood in the streets of Paris!" said Murat.

  "Hear, hear!" pronounced the others.

  "I wonder, though," said the captain. "If the young lady wonders how a Frenchman looks and acts out of his uniform!

  Janice cocked her head at the Captain thoughtfully.

  A slow, knowing grin spread over the Captain's face. Doubtless he had a reputation with the ladies, and felt he'd made just the right kind of risqué
remark to lead the conversation into amorous areas.

  However, at this moment, he wasn't exactly Janice's cup of tea for more reasons than one.

  For one thing, a fact that was in her favor as far as looks went, by the light of day did no cosmetic favors for young males--or for that matter, females.

  Already her fair complexion had been remarked upon, her physique and sturdy build also, the luster of her remarkable auburn hair, a true dance of shades when she combed it and combed it with the proper brush.

  Nutrition. It's all nutrition, she thought now as she'd realized before.

  For all the 21st century pundits had complained about nutrition in the United States, what with MacDonald's shakes and Big Macs and thick-cheesed pepperoni pizzas clogging arteries, it was far, far better than that of two centuries before. This was France before the gastronomic upsurge of the 19th century and the average diet was low in much that was healthful. Thus, the young men tended to have pasty complexions, or spotty complexions. And as there was little known of disciplined exercise, she'd so far found no one with chests and shoulders the size of some of the men of her day. And for certain, nothing near anything close to the size of body builders. But then Napoleon was famous for his yellow complexion, part of which was due to his work regimen and eating habits, and she still found him every bit as fabulously beautiful as in his painting, if not more so.

  In fact, the nutrition aspect gave her an edge. She was, after all, a corn-fed girl of the Midwest and she exercised and watched her weight--and so she not only positively gleamed with good looks, but good health as well--something, she knew well, oozed out in her pheromones.

  It was certainly driving these men crazy!

  They looked at her as though she were the most ravishing creature they'd ever witnessed. These horny army men were probably used to half-starved camp followers, furtively fucked in the back of a shabby tent. Not only, Janice realized, was she much more the beauty here than back in the 21st century--what was merely average good health for a woman in the prime of her twenties was absolutely voluptuous to men of this age. (Also, she knew a few simple makeup tips from basic stuff she could find in a woman's toiletries to gild the lily even golder!)

  "How does a French army man look out of his uniform? Why, naked I presume," Janice said. "Would any of you gentlemen oblige us with a show?"

  The room hushed. The men stared at her, stunned.

  Then abruptly they all burst into laughter.

  "Good! Very good!" said Murat. "Beautiful and witty." He playfully began to unbutton his jacket, causing more laughter.

  "Please, General," said Janice. "Give us a moment to shield our eyes from the brilliance and glory."

  Again, more laughter. Murat looked a bit discomfited at first, but then cocked his head, grinned a rakish grin and buttoned himself back up.

  "So true. You all need your eyes in service of Napoleon."

  However, he lifted an eyebrow at Janice.

  ~~~

  Later that night, he rode her like a galloping stallion.

  It was good, too. She'd worked up a fierce lust from all the male attention at her salon. Afterwards, both a bit drunk, they'd said farewell to their guests. Immediately Murat had dragged her to her bedroom. Here he'd set up a little ‘playroom’. With padded ropes, he tied both her arms, then both her feet to the rope, while she'd giggled.

  Then he'd gone into the other room and returned, wielding his military saber, bared and upthrust like a long, thin, shiny, metal penis. With a cunning grin and scalpel skill, he’d begun to rip and tear her dress apart, until it was just shreds lying on nudity.

  "General, General!" she had cried. "It was such a nice dress."

  "I bought it for you, slut!" he said. "I can do what I like with it."

  He then threw it aside, drew his flesh sword from his pants and crawled over her breasts, where he crammed it into her mouth.

  She liked it. He was sweaty and nasty, and his big penis pushed itself into her mouth deep, but fortunately she’d had plenty of practice and could accommodate him.

  He eased himself into a steady glide back and forth, snarling down at her as she took him and sucked.

  "I saw you out there, you tart! I saw you waving those pretty titties in the faces of those of those young officers. You wanted to fuck them, didn't you? You wanted to take them all on at once. All at once and suck... suck... suck and fuck... fuck... fuck... each of them dry!"

  She didn't say a thing. She couldn't, his cock was in her mouth.

  After a while, he pulled out. He smacked her across the face.

  "You like that, don't you?"

  She laughed at him. "Hop on soldier. Let's charge the enemy."

  He laughed and laughed. "You are a player, aren't you? By gad, I'd love to see you on a fine mare with a lance in your hand, charging at some fuzzy wuzzies in Egypt. But I shall oblige your wish. This time."

  His penis was still stiff and ready, and so it was no problem for him to get in the saddle. He gave her a brisk smack on the bottom, cried, "Huzzah!" and started ramming. Smacking her behind and ramming. Ramming, ramming, ramming.

  Murat's eyes started from their orbs as he pushed and pushed and pushed harder. Harder. She couldn't move her arms and legs much, but fortunately the bed mattress had some give. Even so, she felt as though she was about to be split apart. God, she could see why this man was a top cavalry officer. He was a madman in the saddle.

  She didn't come, of course. She rather enjoyed it, but she didn't come. Even if she pretended he was Napoleon Bonaparte, which was hard, because Murat was so tall and Napoleon so much shorter.

  However, Murat did come.

  His eyes almost seemed to pop out of his sockets. He groaned and moaned and pushed down, red in the face as though, he himself, had just been gored by an enemy weapon. He floundered and coughed and snorted.

  Murat had given one final gasp, and then rolled off her like a dead man.

  Now they lay together. She untied and played with his beautiful curly hair.

  "There now. Feel better?"

  "Yes my darling."

  "And you really shouldn't be cross with me. I mean, you brought those men to meet me, didn't you?"

  "I did. I wasn't cross. I was just, naturally, jealous. And just because I am jealous doesn't mean I don't have control of it!"

  "Oh?"

  "Oh no, my dear. You see, one's emotions of love--you must have them, but you must ride them as one rides a horse! And I am a good rider, am I not?

  "You are indeed."

  Murat looked thoughtful. He stroked his huge mustache. Janice found that this was the time when Murat thought his deepest. When he stroked that huge bushy, but well-groomed mustache, that tickled so when he kissed her.

  "Yes, and a fine mare I have beneath me," he said.

  "And on top at times."

  "Oh yes. Yes." He played lightly with one of her nipples. "Damned pert thing, ain't it?"

  "You were thinking about my nipple just now, then?"

  "No, of course not. I was thinking... I was thinking of a plan."

  "Plan. Now there's a good word."

  "Yes indeed. Now, your purpose is one of love. You love Napoleon Bonaparte. You wish to get him into bed with you and make passionate love to you. No?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, I'm thinking of a better way to use these little salons."

  "Oh?"

  "I shall be terribly jealous, of course. But it will be of tremendous advantage to me as well."

  "Sounds excellent," said Janice. "Please continue."

  "I know all of Napoleon's higher officers. And other government men. Older men than the youngsters I had over today. And rich. With their own wives and mistresses... Oh, and very powerful and influential. Napoleon has made them rich."

  She looked at him. She blinked. "I think I know what you are going to say..."

  "Well, allow me to say it then, my dear." He laughed. "Suppose I add some of the more powerful men into the salon.
Oh the magnificent aromas you conjure up, such charm. You see there is nothing an older man envies more than a younger man in stud. But say, my dear, one of these men were approached by you... yourself. And is taken into your bed. Why he would fall in love with you! And thus, you--and I--would have great influence with Napoleon--and much, much more!"

  "Napoleon rides France to take over the world. But you ride me to take over Napoleon."

  Murat laughed heartily. "There are other benefits to riding you, my dear."

  "For one thing, when you charge on me, no one shoots at you."

  Murat sniffed. "Unless you have a husband somewhere."

  "You would truly be in trouble then--but no, my friend. This interests me!"

  Murat got a far away look in his eye. "Yes. Yes, I think it will be of great service to both of us. And I also have some unusual dignitaries in mind."

  "Oh. Who, may I ask?"

  "Let me assure you." General Murat patted her fondly on the behind. "Close. Very close. Now let us open that bottle of champagne to celebrate our endeavors."

  Janice shivered with anticipation.

  And it wasn't because she was looking forward to champagne.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Janice," said General Murat. "I have the very great honor of introducing you to a high minister in Napoleon Bonaparte's government. Monsieur Charles Talleyrand."

  The new arrival bowed deeply, quite a feat considering he used a cane and had come in limping heavily. He was a striking man in his forties, whose clothes were sharp and elegant, yet subdued in color. Tasteful. He slowly took up Janice's hand and kissed the back of it. "Charmed to meet you."

  He kissed it gently but with a curious slowness, as though he was able to taste her with his lips and he very much liked the flavor.

  Talleyrand! Oh my god, Talleyrand! The great diplomat, thought Janice. Perfect!