Chameleon

by Ashe Barker

  Women like Fleur Mansouri were a rare treat. Submissives like Fleur even scarcer, more precious. He hoped her experiences with him would not be her last in this lifestyle, though the thought of her gorgeous body exposed for the attentions of some other Dom left him feeling less than impressed. She was his. He had discovered her. He had introduced her to the pleasures of pain, the wicked delights to be had from a decent spanking. But she was delicate and she needed to be handled sensitively, fully appreciated. She deserved no less and her response had both astounded and delighted him. Another Dom might not realize her subtleties, might not take sufficient care of her. He did not like that thought, not in the least.

  He watched as she reached the end of the corridor, where she hesitated for a moment. He thought she might be about to turn around, possibly even come hurtling back down the corridor and into his arms.

  I wish.

  She did nothing of the sort. She turned the corner, heading purposefully for the central foyer then presumably the hotel clinic. He seemed to recall that she was not on duty for a while yet but she had dressed for work. He didn’t think she intended to return home first. He might even be able to see her again before he left, just one last time.

  He stepped back inside the riad and closed the door, firmly rejecting that notion. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough, for both of them. She certainly wouldn’t thank him for forcing the ordeal on her again, and he wasn’t entirely sure he could go through it either.

  He picked up the hotel phone and dialed reception. In true Totally Five Star style, the call was answered by the second ring. Ethan made arrangements for the porter staff to collect his luggage and ordered a taxi to be outside the front entrance in thirty minutes. That just gave him time to help himself to a refreshing drink of sparkling water from the minibar, which he took out into the courtyard. He leaned against the fountain, remembering the beauty of this space when Fleur had been in it. And felt the desolation now that she was not.

  He finished his drink and headed back inside. He picked up his hand luggage, did a final check for his passport and tickets, more out of habit than any real sense that they might not be where they should be. He patted his back pocket to check that he had the room key card to hand, and felt the crinkle of the folded paper Fleur had given him. He smiled to himself as he pulled it out and unfolded the single sheet. Although written in French, he could understand enough of it to get the gist. And sure enough, she had managed to give him her phone number, at work, at home, her mobile too. He pulled out his own phone and quickly transferred the details. If he needed to show the document at Customs, he had no way of being sure he would still be in possession of it at the end of his journey. Better not to take the risk.

  He hadn’t intended to return to Marrakesh, but his plans could easily change. He had a suspicion that they already had. He would want to know how to contact her if—when—he came back.

  Thirty minutes later, he sat in the back of an air-conditioned taxi. He glanced over his shoulder as the car pulled away from the hotel entrance. Despite his resolution, and hers, he wondered if he might catch just one last glance, one final fleeting glimpse of his beautiful Berber princess. It wasn’t to be. He turned to face the front again as the taxi slipped into the teeming noisy chaos of the city traffic, leaving Fleur Mansouri behind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three weeks. Three long, endless weeks, and no word from him. None. Nothing at all.

  He could have phoned or texted, if only to let her know he had reached home safely. Not that he had said he would, nor had she asked this of him. It was just… Well, he could have—he knew how to reach her. All the details had been there on that paper she’d given him. He must have realized.

  Maybe he had forgotten her already. Maybe he was not missing her or didn’t as much as she missed him. Which was far, far too much, she was quite certain about that.

  It was not meant to feel like this. Her brief fling with Ethan was only ever going to last for a few days, a passing thing at best. An experiment, perhaps, just a way to find out if what she had always thought might be true. Of her. Ethan had offered her an opportunity, and she had taken it. Grabbed it. With both hands. She was fast realizing that he had offered far more than that. He had offered her safety, caring, security, and she had gladly accepted the entirety of his gift.

  The first few days had been the worst. She had barely functioned, just managing to drag herself through her daily routine. Home, sleep, hotel, work, home, sleep, hotel, work—and so it went on. And on and on. Fleur told herself it would pass, this heavy, sad mood of hers. It was to be expected, perhaps, after the intensity of the experience with Ethan. She made it her business to read about the psychological aspects of BDSM and convinced herself that she was suffering from sub-drop. Perhaps she was, and if so, the right course of action would be to seek out her Dom and ask for his support. She was entitled to it.

  But her Dom was gone. She could not contact him, because although he had her phone number, she did not have his. And even if she did, would he welcome a call from her? Perhaps not. Probably not, in fact. He would be back in the UK, immersed in his everyday life by now, and a call out of the blue from some distraught, depressed ex-lover would be the last thing he wanted.

  No, she was on her own. She would get through this. There was no alternative, really.

  By the end of the first week, she had convinced herself that she was managing, improving even. Her appetite remained non-existent but she no longer burst into tears for no good reason. A grumpy or over-fussy patient, a late delivery of pharmaceuticals, even the news that her favorite brand of deodorant was temporarily out of stock at the Totally Five Star boutique had been enough to plummet her into a fit of weeping. By some stroke of luck, she’d contrived to keep her fragile state of mind a secret, at least at work. At home, it was a different matter.

  Yasmine was normally more than a little self-obsessed, but even she could not miss Fleur’s dismal expression, her moping, her general misery. Fleur’s parents were worried, and it took them precisely one look at her stricken expression when she arrived home late on the evening of Ethan’s departure to work out what the cause was. Her mother made no bones about tackling the matter head on.

  “You are in love with this Englishman, oui?”

  “Non, Maman. Il est parti et…”

  “Yes, I know he is gone. That is the problem, n’est-ce pas?

  “It is not a problem. He was only ever to be here for a few days.”

  “A few days—cela suffit. It is enough to fall in love.”

  “I am not in love with him. I never was. I liked him. I enjoyed his company. I miss him, that is true, but…”

  “But nothing. Do I look to you like a fool? Does your father? We know you. We know what we see. We care about you.”

  Fleur had no answer to that. She settled for weeping instead, her face buried in her mother’s smart silk jacket. Her mom stroked Fleur’s hair, muttered the usual nonsense about getting over it, he might come back, she could always call him, it might help to talk…

  Fleur knew she could not contact him, and as far as she could make out, there was nothing that would help. She was alone, again, and would stay that way.

  Said was less direct, but equally concerned. Fleur saw the pain and confusion in his expression, the frustration that on this occasion there was nothing he could do to put things right for her. There would be no marching in and snatching her away from the source of her unhappiness, not this time.

  On her first day off work following Ethan’s departure, Fleur found it difficult to convince herself that it was truly worth the effort of getting out of bed. Her father appeared in the bedroom doorway, a tray of her favorite lemon tea in his hands.

  “Thank you, Papa, but I am not thirsty.”

  “Tea is not for thirst. Water is for thirst. And for washing, I daresay. Tea is for conversation.”

  “I do not want to talk either.”

  “No? Then I will talk.” He
placed the tray on a low table and brought it alongside her bed. “May I?” He did not wait for her answer before seating himself beside her and reaching for the teapot. He poured two small glasses of tea and handed one to Fleur. She took it wordlessly, sipped the steaming liquid as she watched him over the rim.

  “He is a fine man, your Ethan. I liked him.”

  “He is not my Ethan.”

  “He was, for a while at least. You slept with him, yes?”

  “Papa!”

  “Ah, you do not deny it. He did not either. You were together that night, after you both left here.” He shook his head gravely as he sipped his tea.

  “It was not like that.”

  “Like what, my daughter?” He smiled at her, not a hint of reproach in his expression.

  “It was not what you are thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “That I should have… That I might… I do not know. You are angry?”

  “Do I look angry?”

  “No. You look—sad.”

  “I am saddened that my girl is unhappy.”

  His girl. Ethan called her ‘girl’, but it had not the merest hint of the paternal about it. This was so very different.

  Her father continued, “I want you to smile, to enjoy your life, however you choose to live it. As I say, I like Ethan. As do you.”

  “But he had to return to England. His life is there. He is not coming back.”

  “Is he not?”

  Fleur just shook her head, the tears flowing once more. Said made no attempt to stem their flow, just drank his tea calmly and waited. Eventually Fleur raised her tear-ravaged face and managed a watery smile. “He will not be back, Papa. Never.”

  “Never is a long time. Who knows what could happen? God has his ways and you may meet your Ethan again, Insha’Allah. Next time it might be different.”

  Fleur smiled. Her father’s rare flirtations with invoking the will of God tended to be reserved for when he had exhausted all more practical courses. He was clearly at a loss, and so was she.

  Another week dragged past, sluggish, monotonous. Fleur’s existence seemed more bleak with every passing hour, every endless, meaningless day. She persuaded her mother to phone the hotel and tell them that she was ill, having convinced herself that she just needed a few days of peace and quiet at home to pull herself together. The manager at the Totally Five Star sympathized, said he had noticed that she seemed off color and insisted that she take as long as she needed. The other locum doctor would take her shifts, and the regular incumbent of the post was due back in a few days.

  That last snippet of news should have dismayed Fleur. Her post was a temporary one, and she was by no means certain that the hotel would wish to retain her services long term. She loved this work—or she had. The apparent kindness of the hotel manager was code for ‘Take your time, we don’t really need you.’ She really should do something about negotiating a permanent role, or a transfer to another hotel perhaps where locum cover was required.

  All that would require energy, though, and at least an appearance of enthusiasm. She could muster neither. She took to her bed again.

  “Your grandmother is unwell. She has asked if you could call on her today—or tomorrow, whichever is more convenient for you.” Yvette called the words over her shoulder as she headed out of the door.

  Her mother was on duty at the hospital all day and would not be back for at least twelve hours. Her father was away on business and, of course, Yasmine was occupied elsewhere. With the exception of the local woman who came in three times a week to clean and polish, Fleur would have only her own company to enjoy all day. Ordinarily that prospect would not bother her. She might even welcome the solitude. She liked to read, to listen to music, sometimes just to walk the souks and bazaars of Marrakesh and soak up the atmosphere of her beloved city. Having time to herself was a gift.

  But not today. Fleur dreaded the silence, the emptiness of the day yawning ahead of her. A drive out to the mountains and a couple of hours of her grandmother’s idle chatter would be pleasant. Therapeutic, perhaps.

  Fleur adored her grandmother, she always had. The feeling was mutual.

  Yvette and her mother-in-law had never been close—the differences in culture and outlook, not to mention their religious beliefs, had proven insurmountable over the years. They did agree on what they had in common, though—their shared loved of Said, and in time of herself and her siblings. This had been enough to maintain a fragile peace. If her mother thought Tilleli, the elder Madame Mansouri, required a visit, this did not bode well. Fleur hoped that the old lady was not seriously ill as she dug in her bag for her car keys.

  An hour later, she bounced slowly over the dust track leading from the main road up to the farm that had been in her father’s family for generations. It was a large property, and prosperous, but her uncle, who now ran the place, seemed unwilling to invest in a proper access road. Her grandmother also insisted that things were fine as they were—those whom she wanted to see could find her well enough. Change and modernization were not welcomed here in the mountains, and for her part, Fleur was glad of it.

  The final leg of her journey took about fifteen minutes of cautious maneuvering, easing her city-loving Opel between the pits and furrows of the unpaved road until eventually the low, white-painted buildings of the Mansouri farmstead came into sight. The place seemed to glitter in the midmorning sunshine, the light glinting off the roof-mounted solar panels and water system. Fleur pulled up about a hundred meters away and parked her car in the shade of a couple of olive trees. She would walk the rest of the distance and be glad that she had made the effort when it was time to leave and her vehicle was not baked to a crisp. She hated trying to drive when the steering wheel was too hot to touch with her bare hands.

  She got out of the car and did not bother to lock it. There was no need here. She started to pick her way across the dry, hard soil surrounding the property to be greeted by a loud bellow coming from her left. She turned to see Agwmar, tethered beside an outbuilding, also benefiting from what shade was available. She smiled. Her grandmother refused to part with the elderly animal, even though his useful days were long gone. The Mansouri agricultural machine no longer used donkey power to haul the plow or transport produce to the markets, but this old boy continued to live out his days here, munching oats and languishing in the shade. Fleur turned and made a detour to say hello.

  Agwmar lowered his head as she approached, his ears pricked forward to be tugged and tickled. He knew what to expect from her and nuzzled her pocket for the usual treat of a polo mint or perhaps an apple, if he was especially lucky. Fleur had not thought to bring any fruit, but fortunately for the donkey, she did have a packet of mints in the bottom of her bag. They may not have been scrupulously clean, but he seemed ready to overlook that failing on her part as he munched happily.

  “So, old man. You had a lift home, yes? I am sorry I left you, but I had to drive that idiot Englishman. It could not be helped.”

  The donkey tossed his head, which Fleur interpreted as a nod. “Good, I knew you would understand. How is Grandmère?”

  Agwmar stamped his front hooves in the dust, seemingly irritated that the supply of mints appeared to be drying up. Fleur patted his neck, then flung her arms around him, burying her nose in his coarse mane. She breathed in the warm smell of him, the smell of her childhood, the aroma of comfort and security, and of timeless certainty. And now Agwmar evoked other memories too. She associated him with that fateful meeting on the mountain road, just a few weeks ago.

  She had murmured to the faithful donkey the whole way as they had ambled slowly down the tarmac. She had complained to the faithful beast about the manners of some people as she had eyed the lone tourist parked at the side of the road, the man who had watched their progress every inch of the way. She had thought him rude and she was sure Agwmar shared that view, but at the last moment, the stranger had taken his sunglasses off and she had seen his eyes. She had
changed her mind then and simply thought him beautiful. She had said as much to Agwmar, who had not disagreed.

  “He is gone, old friend. He left and he is not coming back. What am I to do now?”

  The donkey nuzzled her shoulder, his low snuffling sounds sympathetic but offering no persuasive answers. He seemed to be as much at a loss as was she.

  “I need to go. Grandmère is ill, I understand. I have come to see her. And you, of course.” She kissed the donkey’s flat forehead, giving his ears a last affectionate tug. “I will see you before I go, though, and maybe we’ll go out for a walk. You are getting fat.”

  Agwmar’s answering snort may or may not have been agreement, but Fleur was fairly certain he would welcome a change of scene. “Later, lazy beast.” She managed to locate one last mint in her bag and used that as a parting bribe before resuming her cautious journey up to the farmhouse.

  The door stood ajar when she arrived, as was usually the case during the day. People came and went the whole time, her grandmother, her uncle and his noisy family. Two adult sons, her cousins, worked the farm with him and lived in several of the buildings scattered around the main house. Her grandmother did not lack for company, but still she had asked for Fleur to visit.

  “Bonjour, c’est moi…” Fleur called out as she entered.

  The entrance was empty. Fleur pushed open the door to the large kitchen, the heart of this house, to find that unoccupied also. Next, she looked in the living room. Still no one. She turned at a sound behind her to see her grandmother trotting through the door, a bucket of freshly gathered eggs dangling from her hand.

  “Ma petite! How lovely to see you. I was not expecting you…” The old lady placed the bucket on the floor and rushed forward, arms outstretched. Fleur had a moment to note that the elderly Berber woman looked as hale and hearty as Fleur had ever seen her before she was engulfed in a strong hug. Her grandmother might be a lot of things, but ill was not among them. At least, not right now.