The Professor proved to be more attentive. Walking her home, he held her close, caressing her naked arm with gentle touches. He talked all the way. Justine could not hear; she was totally taken by the pulse of his hand floating over her skin. The soft strokes, though a bit annoying at first, seemed to punctuate each of his words. Arriving home, she released herself from his grip and began to climb the front stairway. She was feeling embarrassed and ran up the steps. She turned her head briefly and let a shy smile escape.
The family was watching the evening news, so she bid everyone goodnight and ran to her room. She undressed, tormented by the thoughts that were overcoming her. She lay on her bed, still feeling the soft touch of his hand on her arm. She was aroused from the pleasure that it was sending all over her body. She began to imagine his eager fingers touching, moving to her shoulders, her neck, maybe to the root of her hair. She fell asleep.
Now the history classes were somewhat attracting more of her attention than before. The professor appeared more handsome than she had believed. He carried out his teaching with the same professional deportment, but every so often, she could see enquiring eyes discreetly turning to meet hers. At first, she felt ill at ease and avoided his eyes. She began ignoring Christian at music classes. She felt that he would never notice the difference.
One afternoon walking back from school, she felt a hand begin to rub her arm from behind. She turned and there was the history teacher smiling at her. His smile seemed to penetrate her bosom and deliver warm sensations through her. He turned and she followed him, pulled eagerly by a strong desire to keep his hand on the bare skin of her arm. They entered a house, it was quite dark. He took her face into his hands and began kissing her gently on the lips. His fingers moved to the back of her shoulders and her arms, stroked her softly. She withdrew all resistance and pressed her pelvis on him. He parted her lips in search of her tongue.
They explored each other this way for a long moment, until she felt his manhood pulsing on her thigh. He pulled away, his face was red with embarrassment. He ran to the bathroom and came back with a towel. Surprised, she was abruptly shaken from her fantasy. He wiped her dress. She turned to the door and without a word, she left the house.
She was quite content that the classroom relationship had returned to normal and in her mind, she kept a pleasant memory of this early conquest.
Chateau de Hautefort
Victor had taken Justine for regular visits to the nearby Chateau de Hauteford as soon as she began to walk. The stories that he repeated at her insistence, about the romantic Middle-Age fortress became permanent features populating her childhood dreams. The “de Born” family’s notoriety came from the two brothers Constantin the Warrior and the famous troubadour Bertran de Born, who entertained the court with “Quan voi lo temps renovelar,” the Chanson de Geste, written in 1206. The park offered impressive sculptures, a wide variety of plants and a large pond with waterfalls. Victor never had enough of her excitement, when he described the wonders of one of France's most beautiful castles.
Justine was turning eight years old when Mimi invited her to riding lessons. Although ridding was only a passing fade for Mimi, it became for Justine a lifelong passion. On this occasion, she accompanied a group from her riding school. The school selected different castles and gardens for their weekly cross country rides. She could not control her excitement when Hauteford was selected.
Since her arrival at the riding stable in the morning, his eyes were riveted on her. He was tall, certainly the same age or older than Wilson, she thought to herself, but so ugly. His face projected a sordid, but fascinating ugliness. He had gone out of his way, to stay near her and assist her mounting her horse.
She was riding away from him, but he was gaining on her, approaching very closely to her side. She attempted to go faster, but at the same time, she could not refrain from looking at his ugly face. When she turned, it was too late and her horse came to a sudden halt propelling her toward a fence and…everything went black.
She came to, and noticed that her boots and her ridding pants were hanging on the fence in front of her. “Maybe it was not a great idea to wear my riding pants without underwear,” she thought. Her head was resting on the saddle. She saw the ugly man walking in her direction. He came to her side and after lifting the saddle blanket, began wiping the inside of her thighs with a wet cloth. She felt the sharp pain and saw the blood. She felt weak again. His eyes were riveted on the peachy mound of Venus, daring him from her long golden thighs. The sight was calling for all the passion and desires that he could never repress within himself. “Justine,” he called her name softly. Not hearing a response, he assumed that she had fainted again.
She began to feel a gentle caress between her thighs. She opened her eyes and shut them again, frightened at the ugly sight of the man’s half balding head bent over her belly. He looked so busy, running his puffy nose inside her crutch. She began to recall the race, when she was attempting an escape from the ugly man. Her horse stopping abruptly … then the blood. She squinted, to see that the old man was still busy exploring her nakedness. She was too embarrassed to show that she was awake and began wondering how she would extract herself from this strange situation. His assiduities were beginning to have an effect, not all that annoying after all. The wound on her thigh did not hurt anymore and her stomach tingled with excitement. She attempted to repress the feelings with all her might, hurting to stay still, but the strange feeling of pleasure was erupting in her throat, with increasing intensity and began rippling downward. She bit her tongue to refrain a scream. Then, she heard the cavalcade coming toward them. The man jumped to his feet, wiping his face. From the corner of his ugly eyes, a quick glance confirmed that she had been quite conscious of his undertakings. He covered her body with the riding blanket and began shouting, “Hurry, Justine is hurt, help me!”
All the riders were gathered around Maman’s car. The ugly man was helping Justine to the rear seat. He felt renewed excitement being so close to his prey. She smiled at him and expressed her gratefulness for his assistance, insisting on his very special attentions. From that day, she would always verify the roster and arranged her visit at the stable in the ugly man’s absence. She remembered seeing him once again, driving along the river road in a dark Jaguar at the gate of the family house, but she never met with him again.
At the stable, before and after mounting, she enjoyed her time alone with her horse. For hours on end, she would brush the shiny white coat and comb the long mane. Sometimes, she would climb and rest on its back, holding his strong neck between her breasts. Her mind would travel to a faraway country, where she would ride her horse on the bank of a great river holding his mane. A monkey would jump beside her, a bird would brush her face with its wing and she would feel the caresses of a cat pressing on her leg.
Busy summer in Corsica
Natalia and Sophia were relentless in their attempts in the course of their weekly phone calls, to bring Catherine to Corsica. Business, family demands and the little help from Wilson, had prevented any possibility of a lengthy vacation. Today, Catherine was excited to bring her three daughters to visit her friends of old. Lying on the bed, tending to the girls’ beauty cares one evening, she had told her girls Sophia’s legend about the birth of the Island of Beauty. The island, in ancient times, became a little paradise created by the Gods. They would escape from their godly duties and let themselves savor, far out of the reach of the courtiers, the pleasures of love. The Trojans, the Egyptians, the Greek and the Romans came to enjoy their prowesses as lovers, surrounded by the languorous settings of the island. It was believed, that a great sultan built a castle of such splendor for Scheherazade, near Bastia, that it remained a great wonder of the world, even surpassing Nebuchadnezzar’s Hanging Gardens or Cleopatra’s great Temple of Petra.
Justine was quite taken, and felt a distant reminiscence at hearing the story of Aphrodite being delegated to Corsica by Zeus, her father, from the castle above Petra t
ou Roumiou. Aphrodite had appeared on the island with the mission to investigate this new competition to the traditional role of Cyprus, the ancient capital of entertainment. Aphrodite was conquered by the island’s beauty and convinced her father to dispatch his son Dionysus to introduce the bacchanals on the island. They became the trendy form of entertainment of the day.
So Corsica was the stage developed over the centuries that would nurture Justine’s coming of age.
“Maman, turn to the right.” Justine was guiding Catherine in moving the car into a very tight parking spot on the lower deck of the boat. Mimi and Colette could not contain their laughter. “Turn a little more or you will ram into the wall.” Maman was not the driver that she pretended to be and her eyesight was fading a little. The semi darkness of the lower bridge was no great help. They had left the house in the morning, arriving in Marseille just in time to board the ship leaving for Corsica. All the way, the excitement in the car was palpable. It was the three girls’ first vacation away from home.
The gate of the summer house was opening slowly, revealing the luxuriant vegetation of the inner garden. From the patio, Natalia and Sophia came running to the car. “How wonderful to have you with us at last, dearest Catherine, and take a look at these beauty-queens. You must be Mimi, you Justine, and you? Natalia, take a look at this little doll, Romy.” Sophia could not hold back tears of joy running from her deep brown eyes as she attempted to hold them in her arms all at once.
They were shown their separate rooms. Justine was pleased with the light blue and white decoration. She opened a door in the back of the room. “Wow! A separate exit directly on the street. What a convenience, it may become very useful.” She was locking the door when she caught her face in the mirror, painted with the smile of satisfaction and a hint of malice. Her two sisters, she had observed, had no such facility in their bedrooms.
The next morning Natalia and Sophia had filled the table with mounds of pastries and fruits. It was high noon when Justine, sleepwalking, arrived on the patio. “J’ai faim!” she cried, her voice echoing in the garden. She pulled herself from her zombie-like lethargy, to join the lively conversation. “Natalia told us about a very good stable nearby where you can continue with your riding,” Maman said to Justine. “Maybe you could convince your sisters to join you? It would do them some good, instead of spending their days roasting their bottoms in the sun at the pool-side or on the beach.” Justine, with her intense blue eyes sparkling, brushed aside her mother’s suggestion and began to enquire about an introduction at the stable for the next day.
Vincent
She came to the stable to find the owner standing at the gate, awaiting her arrival. “Welcome Justine, I am Vincent,” and with a shy smile that she thought was quite pleasant, he extended his hand. “You are very pretty. I know you will like it here. Follow me.” She kept up to his rapid pace, engaging in the open barn door. She found him quite ordinary, short and dark, but impressively athletic in his movement. His maleness was sort of appealing to her. “Meet the wonder of our little family,” said Vincent. “Justine meet Valiant, Valiant meet Justine,” he exclaimed passionately.
Justine had only seen such a beautiful animal in her dreams. His pure white coat and broad mane shone in the dim light of the stable. He turned and acknowledged her with his strange pale eyes and welcomed her hand brushing on his powerful neck. “I think you are very quick at making friends,” Justine captured by her excitement did not notice Vincent’s eyes roving over her body. “You may need to wear something more suited to our stable environment. I am afraid that your pale blue shorts and white blouse will not last very long in this environment.”
She ignored his remark, laughing, “Valiant is so beautiful, I am in love.”
She grabbed the horse’s mane and eased herself gracefully on its back. Valiant raised its head to help her climb. She saw Vincent’s face smile at her, “I did not expect you to be so adept, let us see if you can ride.” He opened the paddock and Justine expertly guided the horse bareback in a slow walk out of the barn. Blinded by the bright sunrays, she felt Valiant turn to a smooth trot as if it had read her thoughts.
In no time, Vincent, satisfied that he was dealing with a proficient rider, entered his trailer to tend to business. She was in a light gallop feeling that she was riding a cloud. She bent her body forward and grabbed his neck between her breasts. Again in a dream, she saw herself wrapped in sunlight riding the clouds, in the company the familiar monkey on her lap, holding Mitridate the cat in his arms and a beautiful scarlet bird standing on her shoulder. In the sunlight, she thought that she saw a man holding a woman’s hand. They were smiling at her.
The summer days, on the Island of Beauty were filled with exciting moments. She would arrive at the stable every morning at eleven and leave at dinner time. By eleven in the evening, she could be seen dancing at the beach discotheque. She would remain on the dance floor for hours on end, interrupted by Guido the bartender serving her with a Vodka Orange, on the house. “A just reward,” he would say to his friends, “For the attraction of her gracious undulations on my premises.”
Back at the stable, Vincent had become more and more attentive to her every move. For hours he would watch her riding and jumping in the training ring. He had become addicted to the stunning beauty glowing from her face, escaping from the long blonde mane that was swaying in perpetual movement. He could not grow accustomed to the enticing curves of her golden body, of her legs that seemed to never end with the graceful appeal of her movements. He had learned the patience of the Corsican mountain hunter, fighting the untimely urge of excitement that would frighten the prey. After riding and grooming Valiant, she would visit Vincent in the trailer. She would delight him, just sitting in front of him, reporting with growing enthusiasm the events of the day.
“This afternoon, with the thermometer exceeding 45 centigrade, I decided to give Valiant time off from work,” she began. Vincent was watching her with renewed intensity, his eyes captivated by the damp spots expanding on her white tee-shirt, revealing hard pink nipples. Justine kept talking. She became aware of her sudden fascination for his full lips. She could feel a strange excitement overtaking her in the pit of her stomach. He stood up and came toward her. His face was very close. Despite this sudden invasion of her privacy, she could not come to respond to the inner command to move away. She sat still in her chair and closed her eyes. She felt his lips brush her cheeks and move slowly, very slowly, over her face. She felt the soft caresses of his nose and mustache following her hairline, halting after the contour of her ear before pausing on her earlobe.
The tingle of excitement had exploded downward, flowing in little waves inside her womb. His lips were engulfing her eyebrows one after the other and back, in a wild ritual. Her lips parted, inviting a kiss. Then it stopped. As softly as he had approached her, he withdrew. She opened her eyes to see him standing at the door. “Goodnight, Justine, you will be late for dinner,” and he left without another word. She sat still for a moment which, she was shocked to find, turned into much longer. She pulled out a Kleenex and opened her shorts to assess the wetness that was calling for prompt attention.
She could not however, wipe the smile off her face while she engulfed Tutu’s couscous, licking her fingers and thinking, “He is married. He is too old. But he is so kind, so gentle in his manners. He barely touched me. And he is so exciting.”
At the rhythm of her body swaying on the dance floor, these wild thoughts competed in her head. “I really expected that he would kiss me. Maybe he did not like me. Did I have bad breath? Will he try to kiss me again?” She was so taken in her mind, that she was not conscious of the music that was moving her hips sometime gently, sometime wildly. She hardly noticed a group of young Italian patrons getting off their motorcycles and invading the dance floor. They, for their part, were quick to take notice of the pretty nymphet. Coming out of her sensuous coma, she walked to the door, when two of the joyful companions invited her to join their
group. She was completely exhausted from the emotions of the long day. She stopped to say hello and excused herself after promising to join them on another occasion.
It had become a new ritual. After tending to the horse, she would enter the trailer. Without a word, Vincent would capture Justine on his lap. She just loved the feeling. After teasing her face, he would grow more daring, his nose and lips exploring her neck, first in the back and progressively down the front, slipping in the opening of her blouse but stopping short of her breasts. His face would rise again and he would pull her head backward, removing all remaining resistance. He would tease each lip from corner to corner, separately, repeatedly refusing her welcome to penetrate. Then, after what Justine thought to be an interminable, but pleasurable torture, his tongue would announce its arrival, licking her lips open. His tongue, thick and long, would then begin a slow exploration to meet personally each one of her teeth. It would move sideways, addressing each pore of the flesh inside her mouth. Then, Vincent would begin fencing with her tongue, in slow motion at first and then a little faster, but never excessively.
Quite curiously, he would avoid caressing her body and her breasts, both calling and aching for his hands. He would not give attention to her pussy, despite the damp revelation exposed on the crotch her jean shorts. With these lengthy daily lessons, Justine was becoming a master of the art of kissing. She was very fond of Vincent, but she knew she could never love him. He was a great teacher, she loved to use him and he loved to use her. She also learned to wear a sanitary napkin for special encounters, to contain her eruptions.
The Labyrinth of Passion (romantic experiences) Page 8
