by Rose Raven
"John?" she repeated again, trying to sit up. She looked around woozily, leaning on one arm, noticing herself in the mirror, naked but for the bunched-up dress around her shoulders. Her breasts and belly were white and perfectly sculpted in the moonlight while her lower belly was shadowed discreetly by the curve of her thighs. She smiled sleepily at the reflection of her own sweet curves and the hard male body standing over her, the narrow hips, the bunched buttocks with their promise of thrust and stamina. How beautiful can a penis get? she thought.
She inhaled the scent of his belly, leaning her face against his groin and whispering, so that he could feel her warm breath on his exposed flesh and her mouth against his hard shaft. "Did we make love, John? Was it good? I feel so strange. Did we drink anything? I have such a headache."
She sagged back onto the floor, eyes closed.
Worried that she might have a concussion, John, ignoring the almost painful tension in his belly screaming for release, lifted her up gently and laid her on the bed.
"If you want, you can take me again," she whispered and drifted off to sleep.
John shook his head silently.
"I couldn't," he whispered. He covered her up, turned off the light, and lay down on the floor beside her. Again he felt the frustration of his arousal as one of her breasts peeped over the side of the bed and one of her arms slipped down and came to rest against his groin. It sent a tingling, longing sensation through his crotch.
But he couldn't take her, not if she were hurt, not without her consent. And he couldn't masturbate, not now. It would be a cheap substitute for this woman. After a while, he forced his mind to think of other things and finally fell asleep, exhausted by the tension of the last few days—the travel, the new team, the danger of an imagined burglar.
He dreamed that they were making love, urgently, like animals in the wild. Gone were the refined Winters who took his time with the women he loved, the considerate lover who made sure his lady friends came first. Gone was Winters, the man about town with the gentle touch in bed. Here was an animal in rut gone wild at the smell of another animal in rut, pumping back and forth. Their lips and tongues were sealed together, pelvis thrust against pelvis and the heady smell of her womanhood filled his nostrils as they climaxed together in one great shout of pleasure and his sweat-covered torso fell on hers.
When he awoke in the morning, he felt strangely confused, as if his dream had been reality, after all. He smiled sleepily and shook his head. No, it had merely been a dream, the mother of all wet dreams, but it had seemed real all right. They had copulated like beasts in his dream. He could still feel a glow of satisfaction in his belly, even though his body was stiff from sleeping on the floor.
He sat up abruptly as he realized what was going through his mind.
He was on the floor. What was he doing there?
It was that damn jet lag. It had disoriented him completely. He tried to shake off his sleep. He continued to lie on the floor, looking at the ceiling while he replayed the events of the evening before, wincing when he remembered the chop he had given her, again feeling the shock when he realized it was not a burglar, but the realtor's luscious body on the floor of his bedroom. He wished he could fall asleep again and turn the clock back, but it was too late for that. It was time to face the music and to confront Alicia.
He looked at the rumpled blankets on the bed beside him, hiding the sweet intruder. Stiffly he got up to take a look, thinking that he might have to call a doctor if he had hurt her worse than he thought. Thank God it was the weekend. He couldn't have handled the pressure of a new job and the shame of this concussed woman all at the same time.
He forgot his stiffness immediately when he got to his feet. She was gone.
The blankets were heaped, as blankets will, but inside there was no female body, no Alicia Durand.
Slowly he sank onto the bed, shaking his head in disbelief.
This French assignment was turning out to be one hell of an experience with women stealing into his apartment at night and then disappearing like a ghost. He couldn't remember ever having had a similar experience before.
He felt the sheets. They were cold. It was as if she had never been there. Or had she left in the night, when he was still out like a light from exhaustion?
He wondered what she could have done. Had she gone off in her torn dress and without knickers? Impossible. She would have looked as if she had been raped. Well, in a sense, she had been. But if she had left the building in those clothes, she'd have had more courage than most. She was probably in one of the other rooms, perhaps in the bathroom. He walked over quickly to check. It was empty. The kitchen, then—but the kitchen, too, was empty and clearly unused. A little crease furrowed his forehead. Surely she must be somewhere? But the sitting room was empty and so was the second bedroom. She was gone, as simple as that. And her shoes, her lingerie, her keys were gone from the hall.
It was as if she had never been there. All that remained of last night's experience was a whiff of perfume in the hall, but that, he reminded himself, could have lingered from her afternoon visit, when she had shown him around the place.
He felt again that nagging uncertainty, that strange doubt whether he had imagined it all.
There was no hereditary madness in his family, but all the same, if he had imagined everything, if she hadn't visited like a burglar in the night, he'd need someone to confide in before his imagination got out of hand and he lost touch with reality. But how can you tell anyone something as crazy as this?
Chapter 2
He almost forgot his worries when the office called to request his presence, weekend or not, for a videoconference with his bosses in New York to outline his recovery strategy for the French firm. It didn't seem the right time to tell them he had only just arrived and had woman trouble and would rather have taken the Saturday off. Some of his colleagues back home would love to step into his shoes if the senior partners thought he was too lazy or slow. During the taxi ride to the office, he reviewed the information at his disposal, rehearsed the report he would give, and generally forgot last night's very odd experience. This was where he felt at home, and he resolved not to let his private worries detract from his professional efficiency. He did not blame the men at the top for driving him hard. He was too highly paid for that. They had heavy investments riding on their European operations and all of them had alimonies to pay and children in university. If they wanted him at the office, he'd be there.
The conference call went smoothly, and the men up top seemed reassured. They told him to take the rest of the day off.
The local partner who had sat in on the call invited him for a drink at a typical French cafe. They sat down at a sidewalk terrace overlooking the local market. His host ordered wine for both. He looked like a bon vivant, cheerful and talkative. He'd be the man to ask about French customs and what kind of conduct was acceptable towards women. In a roundabout way, John would also ask him about Alicia Durand. After all, this wasn't the first time her agency had arranged apartments for expats sent to the French office, and the partner might know her. It helped that he spoke fluent English, like so many investment managers.
The good wine mellowed the two men quickly. The Frenchman, François Moulin, seemed unwilling to let business problems interfere with his personal pleasures. Instead of talking profit problems, he was discussing the merits of various wines. He was obviously one of those happy-go-lucky talents who always fall on their feet when everybody else is getting fired for errors or getting ulcers from overwork.
Looking appreciatively at the deep red color of his burgundy wine, John decided it was time to shift the conversation to more personal ground. He asked casually, "Tell me, François, what're women like over here? I mean, what's the deal?"
Moulin grinned knowingly and raised his glass.
"The deal? Cheers! Isn't that what you Americans say? Or is it the English? I forget. Anyway, you're young and single and good-looking and in Paris, and you're wond
ering whether you can conduct yourself like a man over here without getting into trouble, right? Well, you can. This is not America, my friend. This is Europe. This is France. Women are emancipated, but they are still very feminine, even at work."
Moulin studied his glass against the light, obviously waiting for the other man to prompt him. He clearly knew how to get his audience interested.
"Yes?" John nudged, beginning to enjoy himself. The talk reminded him of his student days, when women and their incomprehensible ways had been the one topic to which he and his friends had always come back.
"Well, take Catherine Donnadieu, for instance, the young blonde goddess in sales. You've seen her?”
John nodded.
"Do you want me to tell you about her? Can I be frank with you?"
"Go on, man. I'm eager to learn from an old hand like you. I'm guessing it's sexual, right?"
"Right. What I'm trying to say is, do you think she gets upset when men flirt with her? Not at all! On the contrary, she'd be offended if they didn't. She'd start worrying whether she was desirable. She's the new breed, the one they write all the articles about. She's a party girl, that one. Panties are not for her. She's living in the fast lane, as you say in America, right?"
He paused to take another sip of wine.
"All right. So listen to this. She is my mistress. This is France, my friend, where the president has a mistress."
He chuckled. The wine had opened the floodgates of his mind and their easy chat was quickly turning into a no-holds-barred description of the man's sexual prowess. John suspected Moulin was rather proud of seducing a girl half his age and didn't mind him knowing it. They had finished their bottle by the time the Frenchman had completed his highly graphic description of their relationship and concluded, "I tell you, John, the other day I took her on my desk and when she came, the blotter was stained with her come. It was quite ruined. I'm thinking of framing it as a souvenir."
He chuckled again and filled their glasses from a new bottle. They drank.
"You look upset, my friend. Have I shocked you? I assure you I am happily married. Or is it that you fancy her? Do you want me to ask her? She's young and likes experimenting, that one. Between you and me, the way she spoke about her secretary makes me think she also likes women." He inspected his glass and said, almost to himself, "I'm thinking of introducing her to my wife and seeing what will happen."
John shook his head and sighed, half enviously, half shocked. Some people had it easy.
"No, I'm not shocked, at least not a whole lot. I was just thinking about something that happened to me last night."
He had decided to tell his adventure to this Frenchman, who seemed to take such a relaxed view of the whole sex business. Besides, his male ego had entered into competition with Moulin, and he wanted him to know that women fancied him too. It was all rather childish, when you came to think of it. Two guys boasting like teenagers.
But what the hell, John thought. His story has made me hot and horny, and now it's my turn.
François Moulin listened appreciatively. Apparently, he thought it all a bit of a joke.
"My friend, I congratulate you. You seem to have made a beautiful conquest on your first night in Paris. But miracles and fantasy do not exist. You didn't dream she was there. If you hit her, she was where you say she was. On the floor in your bedroom. Only she left, that is all. Maybe she has a husband, who knows? I know the girl you mean. Her agency has arranged several apartments for us in the past. A spectacular brunette with long legs, right? You've got good taste, John. I fancy her myself. Only I don't understand why you didn't take her, whether she was unconscious or not. Or is there something you haven't told me?"
John shook his head.
"No, it's the truth. Can't explain it, except that I would have felt like a sleazeball if I'd simply taken her without her consent. Guess I must be getting sentimental in my old age."
"I guess you're right." Moulin grinned. "Me, I don't know what I would have done."
They talked some more about women in general before Moulin excused himself, saying he had an appointment with his wife.
John stayed after Moulin left, randy and dissatisfied with their conversation. Every woman in the place seemed to remind him that he was missing Alicia Durand. He took the realtor’s visiting card from his coat pocket and stared at it for a long time.
Alicia Durand, client manager at Fimmrex, an agency established in a street named Rue St Anne, two steps from the stock exchange and his own firm and only a step from where he was now, according to his map of Paris. He decided to walk over. He wanted to see her again.
It was a beautiful day and the neighborhood had that old-world charm you find in so many European cities, with deep courtyards, narrow side streets at odd angles, old and rather dusty shops, bars and restaurants everywhere, and far too much traffic for the narrow streets.
In less than five minutes, he had reached his destination.
The agency had an unimpressive front with the usual advertising for services to the moneyed community of expats.
To his surprise, the lights inside were on. Someone was at work, weekend or not. After a brief hesitation, he decided to try his luck.
A pretty girl smiled up at him from her computer.
"Yes?" she said in English. She had obviously tagged him as a foreigner and a prospect.
John dropped the agency card on her desk, explaining that he had just rented an apartment from them and that he wanted to discuss one or two things with the woman who had shown him around.
"She's off today," the girl explained in good English. "But we maintain a 24/7 service to assist clients with problems. Can I help you?"
John shook his head, thinking on his feet. There was no way he was going to tell this total stranger about his personal life, even if she was Alicia's colleague.
"Sorry, but it's something she said. We seem to have a mutual family member in England. When will she be in?" He smiled disarmingly. "You see, I'm going to London next week, and I'll be having some loose time on my hands, so I thought I'd satisfy my curiosity while I'm there. Who knows? She and I may have remote family ties. Perhaps she has a phone where I can leave a message?"
The girl smiled blandly. She obviously didn't believe a word of his story, but she couldn't very well say so to a client. He tried to look sincere, but he could tell that she had him tagged. He wouldn't be the first client who wanted to see Alicia for personal reasons. He was sure she was going to stonewall him. She surprised him, however.
"You are in luck. I am normally not allowed to give out personal numbers, but she recently mentioned something about family in England and America."
He must have looked his surprise.
"I wouldn't try this again," she murmured sweetly as she wrote down a number. "There are escort services for that sort of thing."
"You're very direct. But if you think I'm here to—well, to obtain her telephone number for personal reasons—why give it?"
She sighed.
"Because you're not old and fat like some of them and because I'm a romantic. She needs a man to shake her up."
She threw down her pen. Apparently business was slack on Sundays, because she continued with relish.
"She's never had a man for all the years she's been working here. She's always moaning about remaining a virgin until she meets her dream man. She says she met a guy once who made such an impression on her that she's never wanted another one since."
She lowered her voice conspiratorially.
"But that doesn't stop her from making love to other women. I once found a letter she'd forgotten. I was straightening up the office and there it was, sticking out from under her mouse pad. It was from a girlfriend."
"Yes?" John prompted.
"It said she had the face of an angel, the cunt of a virgin, and the skill of a whore. And this from a woman." The girl grinned unashamedly. "Don't tell her I told you, though. I'm not supposed to know. And neither are you. Anyway, I
wouldn't mind you myself if you're ever interested. I don't have the cunt of a virgin, but my boyfriend tells me I have the skill of ten whores."
John smiled.
"You're a pretty thing, and your boyfriend is lucky."
"Don't explain. I can tell when a man is hooked and thinks of only one woman, so good luck." She raised her voice and straightened up. "Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Martin. Is it about the keys?"
The girl was once more all efficiency and impersonal courtesy as someone else entered the office.
"Au revoir," John Winters said, and left. He quickly took a taxi back to his flat, rehearsing the things he would say on the telephone.
His heart was thumping in his chest as he picked up the phone and punched in the number. With every ring tone, he became more nervous, but finally, just as he was about to hang up, the husky voice of Alicia Durand came through in French.
"'Allo?"
For a moment, he wanted to cut the connection, but then the voice came through again.
"'Allo? Qui c'est?"
John guessed that she was asking who was calling.
"It's me," he said, his voice hoarse. "John Winters."
A moment of silence followed.
"How did you get my number?"
"From the phone book." He lied, not wanting to get the other girl in trouble.
"It's unlisted."
He sighed, thinking that the conversation was not at all going the way he had planned, and confessed, "I went to your office. I told the girl there a story."
"No story is good enough to give out my number. I'll have to talk to her."
"I wanted to see you."
"You can. During office hours. At the office. For office business. I'm waiting for a visitor. Goodbye."
She hung up.
He sat looking stupidly at the phone in his hand. Was this the girl who had crept into his apartment last night? Or did her reaction confirm that she had never come near his place and that he had imagined it all? It couldn't be, or why would she have suddenly turned so cold? She must have remembered what he had done to her. That was all. Somehow he had to straighten out their relationship, even if it meant grovelling. He would never forgive himself if he let this girl slip through his hands and out of his life.
