A Good Peace

by Troy Conway

  Walrus-moustache was shocked. He does lead a rather sheltered life.

  “Does she mean what I think she means?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “The two of us? Ménage-a-trois?”

  “She’s a Frenchwoman. The more the merrier.”

  “How extraordinary. What a remarkable creature. So well—ah—built too.”

  “Wasn’t she?” I had to laugh. He wanted her real bad but was too much of a gentleman to tell me to shove off. He’d never be the type for three in a bed. Me neither. Not when one of the three was another guy, anyway.

  “Well, Damon, I’ll leave you to your lady. I must be going.”

  I liked him that morning for some reason. Charity flowed in my veins. I held out my hand. He stared at it.

  “What’s that for?” he said roughly, suspiciously.

  “Give me the keys to the Renault. You will stay here with Brigitte and I will dash back to the Academy. Time’s awasting and I’ve had my three squares real good since I hit Paris. Relax. It’ll do you some good. Put sand in your spinach.”

  His face turned beet-red. He wanted to say No, but he clearly couldn’t. The room was inviting, memories of Brigitte’s chassis was dynamiting his libido. Like I said, she was one helluva piece.

  “But—but—but—” He was stammering for the very first time in our association. “If you go, she’ll be angry. How can she want me, after having had you?”

  “Pooh-pooh. She’s a woman. A good woman. That’s why she has no psychic scars and can adjust to her daughter’s death. You just give me the keys and I’ll be back later. This will make a man of you, my son. She’s an incredible lay. Try it and see.”

  “Damon, I—” He was trying to rally, trying to stay an unemotional, hard-nosed boss. But he was crossing his legs.

  “Keys, please. I’m tuned out now. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

  There was a rustle of impatience from the dim inner room. “Gentlemen, how long will you keep a lady waiting . . . ?” The voice was low, sultry and if I knew Madame she was really feeling her oats now. Walrus-moustache was in for a treat.

  “You see?” I whispered, taking the car keys from his dazed paw. “She’ll take us both. Believe me, she’ll settle for you. If you tell her I’m coming back. Once you get started, she won’t mind, though. I’m telling you. She lives to make love.”

  “Fantastic!”

  He was still mumbling that, tiptoeing meekly into the bedroom as I sneaked out the front door. Before I closed it softly, I heard one more thing—his trousers hitting the floor.

  “Oooolalala! How sweet of you to surprise me like this, my dear Walrus-face . . . ahhhhh . . . yes, my pet . . . you can do that again. And again . . .” Pretty soon there was nothing but muffled sighs and fierce melodies of passion. I couldn’t resist eavesdropping.

  I pushed aside a moment’s jealousy and continued on down the cabbage-smelling stairway. The Madame was the woman I had described, after all. But Walrus-moustache, for all his glib talk and Victorian denials, was a secret screwer. They’re always the worst kind. That crowd scores with best friend’s wives, minister’s daughters and prim virgins.

  But what about Madame Lilly de Jussac?

  I wondered what kind of man scored with that kind of cold, merciless fish? I didn’t intend to go to Copenhagen for a dame.

  I intended to find out. Sooner the better before the burning light in my breeches went out.

  As I put the Renault in gear in front of the house on the hill, I thought I heard Brigitte Lebeau scream out in ecstasy. But it was only a low-flying crow taking off from a rooftop. His black shadow raced across the sky.

  Which made me think of birds and then ravens and then Gaston Corbeau which I knew meant raven in French. The old fraud had led Danielle Lebeau to a mean death and I’d better get around to him before he flew the coop altogether. Government biggie or not.

  I was busy making up a lot of plans and stories and ideas as I shot the Renault toward the outskirts of Montmartre, looking for the highway that led directly to the Académie Sexualité.

  Maybe I could kill a few birds with one stone.

  A raven, a Lezzie and a whole flock of low-flying Red Chinese hawks.

  There seemed to be a rally of some kind going on when I wheeled the Renault into the heart of the grassy green quadrangle buried between the walled-in terra cotta. The green lawns were alive with about a hundred leather miniskirts and white middie blouses. There was a unified stretching and bending of all the shapely fannies and sculptured chests to the soft music of loudspeakers on the cornices of the buildings playing the strains of, so help me, Put The Blame On Mame, Boys. Gilda’s theme song played in a real low-down, honky-tonk beat I watched for a few minutes.

  Those Académie darlings had what it takes and it was going to be taken mighty soon by a lot of lucky boys all over the world. Ah, youth, youth. Looking at them made me feel all of nineteen again and just as horny.

  But I had a job to do. I parked the car, strode into the main building again and walked to the Registration Desk once more. I was surprised to see Viviane Fresnay on duty again; it was as if she hadn’t left since yesterday. The outfit of skirt and blouse, the long dark hair, the madonna loveliness was intact.

  She wasn’t reading Candy this time. She’d obviously passed it on. Now she had her nifty nose buried in another well-worn copy of Fanny Hill.

  I chuckled. “You ought to read The Bobbsy Twins On The Farm, sometime. Just for laughs.”

  “Ah, Monsieur Damon!” She closed the book and batted her sad lashes. “You came back. To go to Room three-two-nine? I leave the desk in one half hour, exactly. Or have you come to see Madame?”

  “Three-two-nine.” I repeated. “I’ll be there. But first I have to palaver with Madame. Can I walk right up or do I need a pass?”

  “You have free rein, Monsieur Damon. And I shall be waiting for you. Perhaps you will tell me all about the twins and their farm life?”

  I grinned. “I could tell you more about Rod Damon.”

  She blew me a kiss and I warmed myself with that all the way to the steel knotty-pine door that said Madame de Jussac lived there. I didn’t knock this time either. I wanted to catch the Madame with her pants down anyway. With her type, it’s always best to catch them off-stride.

  I hit the jackpot.

  She wasn’t only off-stride. She was standing on her head. Believe me, she was all by her lonesome, holding down one corner of the big room, by the wide windows, doing some weird kind of Yoga exercise. Her mini-skirt and blouse were draped in an orderly fashion over the chair behind the desk. She didn’t see me come in until I was almost on top her. Besides the head routine, she was pushing up and down with her strong arms. What this made the rest of her lovely body do was beyond description. The flaming red Venus mound was like a batch of fireflies rising and falling. Everything else was swinging nicely-nicely too. Especially the twin whammos.

  “Oo,” I said, “do that again.” She had elevatored right in front of me so that her exquisite mouth was at operating level—for me. I gladly pulled down my zipper. She said nothing and her lovely eyes scorned me as she continued her exercise. Her red lips were moving, counting silently. I stayed where I was and slowly allowed my pride and joy to obtrude into the scene. It sprang out like a divining rod.

  I was enjoying myself hugely.

  As her mouth dropped down and rose up again, I playfully did a bump and grind. I thudded harmlessly against the wall, toying with her. Then I had her bracketed and I lost my head. All of a sudden, the deep oval of her red mouth was directly in front of me. I was beyond all reason and I guess I wanted to see what she would do. I found out. It was a joyful surprise.

  She held herself up in a handstand and quickly sucked me into the maw of her mouth. And then every one of her thirty-two teeth bit down. But hard. As juicy as her lips were, the teeth were a different story. I howled out loud and tried to jump back but I couldn’t. She had me pinned e
ven though she was the one with her back to the wall.

  “Lemme go! You’ll ruin me for life!”

  She let up on the pressure. Only a little bit. I couldn’t hit her because I was afraid she’d bite me in half. She had me clamped tight.

  “Apologize,” she mumbled. It was hard to hear her clearly since she was talking around the biggest gag since Joe Miller.

  “I apologize. . . .”

  She laughed. Right around the tip of my soul, she laughed and then her teeth relaxed. I backed away, relief flooding me. I sagged limply to a chair. I felt like I’d been rescued from the jaws of Death.

  “Can’t you take a joke?” I gasped. “I was only funning with you. . . .”

  She snapped out of her head-stand with a forward snap of her superbly conditioned body and came up standing the right way. A velvety sheen of dew barely tinged her glowing flesh. Her eyes shot electricity and murdered me at five feet. Her howitzers had me covered.

  “Don’t ever show me that thing again unless I expressly ask it of you, Monsieur Damon. Do we understand each other?”

  “Oui, oui, lady,” I heh-hehed. “Just can’t take a joke, eh?”

  “A weapon like yours is no joke,” she said in a flat sepulchral voice. “But no matter—I am glad you returned to Académie”

  “In a word, why?”

  “I need you, Monsieur Damon. But very, very much.”

  All of a sudden she had gone formal on me.

  “For the symposium, you mean?”

  “No. To make love to me.”

  “Come again?” It was too soon after the biting for me to accept what I was hearing.

  “Have you no ears, man? I, Lilly de Jussac, head of this august institution, wish you to make love to me. On one condition, however.”

  “What’s that?” I was feeling like an awful fool. She had topped me every second I’d been in her presence since I met her.

  “I must be allowed to name the time and the place. And the weapons. . . .”

  It was screwy. She sounded like she was arranging a duel.

  “Sure. Name your own poison. But make it soon, huh? I’m a busy man and my schedule is crowded. There are a lot of women ahead of you, you know.”

  She folded her arms across her topless body, and that look of sheer icy coldness dominated her chiseled beauty once more. I tried not to get pneumonia looking at her.

  “I know,” she hissed. “But I will make you forget every other woman you have ever known.”

  “And how will you accomplish that miracle?” I showed her my own teeth. She was getting under my skin, which is not easy for a woman to do. Any woman. “I’ve had a full life. I’ve had every kind of woman there is, every which-way there is. You tell me. What’s so special about you?”

  She laughed her icy laugh. Her eyes sparkled.

  “You Americans have an expression, I believe. What is it again? Ah, yes—’that is for me to know and you to find out.’ Isn’t that the way it goes?”

  “Yeah. That’s the way it goes. You drive a hard bargain, Madame Lilly. I have to say yes without knowing the details.”

  “Where’s your sense of danger? Of excitement? Are you not the man who dares all? Did all? Don’t tell me you have changed your mind?”

  I glowered. “Anything you can do I can do better.”

  “Good. That’s the ésprit de corps I expected of you. Good man. And now let me get to my desk and give you all the details you need to know.”

  “Stop stalling. What’s the deal?”

  “Very well.” She systematically undressed me with her X-ray eyes. “Tomorrow, you will take me to a private party at the Les Deuces, a club here in Paris. There you will have your answer.”

  Les Deuces.

  Bingo, Jackpot and Game!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Viviane Fresnay wrapped her smooth legs about me, gave one ecstatic push upwards toward the ceiling of her room and then I plummeted merrily into the wishing well. Wishing can make it so but screwing makes it come true. The madonna-like registrar was a fooler, okay. All that Mona Lisa smile but it hid the heart of a wanton. Her little dormitory room affair had become a midafternoon bower of whoopee. Between the two of us, we’d managed to raise some much-needed hell. I needed some fun and so did she. Inevitably she’d gotten bored reading about it.

  Obviously.

  “Ah,” she murmured, catching her breath as I got off her. “That was good. I am so tired of Madame. She can never replace a good firm male.”

  “You’re a bit of a Wurlitzer too, you little minx.”

  She laughed and plucked some of my chest hairs from the creamy facade of her body. Her long dark hair and saucer eyes were twin assets for any boudoir. Every bed should have a Viviane.

  “You did not spend much time with Madame. I had barely got here and you showed up so promptly.”

  “She simply made me a proposition and then shooed me out. It seems she had about five students to see. Some of you ladies have been acting up. Sneaking little French boys into your rooms. Tsk, tsk. The Madame was quite put out.”

  “That lez!” Viviane pouted. She turned over on her side and began to play with my toys. Her fingers were cool and clever. “It’s a wonder they don’t turn her out. But the girls are all afraid of her. And, of course, some of them like her.”

  I pondered that. I was still off base, thanks to Madame Lilly’s odd proposal about Les Deuces. That shot had come in from left field and certainly upheld Walrus-moustache’s theory.

  “Tell me, Viviane baby. You good friends with Mady Morrow?”

  “The very best. Why do you ask? Do you tire of Viviane already and now want a taste of that bigger, bustier female?”

  “Says who?” I squeezed her underrated grapefruit and her fingers tightened around me. My temperature shot up about fifty points. She sucked in her breath sharply.

  “Bon dieu! Again, it rises. You are incredible, Rod Damon!”

  “Don’t lose your head. Listen. Would you and Mady come to a little private party I’m planning?”

  “At Les Deuces?”

  “Uh uh. This is my affair. Mine alone. I would like to show you and Mady and some other people I know how to really have a swinging time. France is really a backward country, you know.”

  She shot erect in bed and her breasts rolled. Her eyes shapped at me. She looked angry and downright beautiful. Her soft mouth quivered.

  “So. France is backward. And I suppose America is very progressive? Pah! You will note that the peace talks are being held in my country!”

  “Look—” I snuggled against her, letting my armament do my persuading for me. “Politics don’t interest me. Sex does. Freedom does. Abandon does. Put them all together and they spell the sort of party I want to give. In honor of Danielle Lebeau.”

  “Ahhhh—” She melted down like butter. “A noble thought. Dany would have liked us all enjoying ourselves instead of hanging crepe. But who else will be at this party of yours?”

  While she was asking, I had carefully found her glory spot again. She began to twitch and push most agreeably. I felt like a well-oiled drill. She had boundless recesses in her. Uncharted depths. She was still as brand-new as a girl can be. She hadn’t been explored that much yet. She shuddered in appreciation and her mouth bit into my neck. Her own pink tongue soothed the bite.

  “I’m going to invite you—” I pushed hard. “Mady Morrow—” I pushed harder. “Maybe the Madame—” I pushed three times and Viviane cried out in ecstasy. “And maybe some other very important people.” I redoubled the pumping, priming her with maddening regularity until she once more became a devotee of the Damon school of lovemaking. When it seemed as if I might stop, she let out a little cry of sorrow and quickly coiled her loins about me until she had me absolutely hung up and pinned. What else could I do but push back? Which was exactly the way she saw things too. In no time at all we were both like a couple of pounding pistons in an engine room. Viviane balled like hell. She didn’t know any better.
<
br />   And she was in a hurry to learn all there was to know. Who could blame her? It isn’t every girl that has a Damon walk into her life with his pants at half-mast.

  “Tell me how you’re going to invite me again. And all the other women you will invite. I so admire the manner in which you emphasize the names—”

  So we did that bit again.

  And I added all the other names I could think of. You would have thought it was everybody in the French Classified. I didn’t leave anybody out. To Viviane Fresnay’s great happiness.

  “Rod?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Invite Madame de Jussac again. You do seem to push harder when you use her name.”

  “I do?”

  “You do.”

  “A Freudian slip. Sorry. Very well. Madame—” She was right. In time with the name, I slammed her so far back, she lost her breath and a long, happy cry parted her lips.

  After that I allowed a bit more of love into the act. Then, when I had hit oil for the last time, she came up like a gusher. We subsided after that, gently letting the waves of delight bring us back to earth. Time limped to a standstill.

  “Ah, Rod,” she said in a faraway voice. “Is it always like this with you? Sex, I mean?”

  “Mais oui, Viviane!”

  “Wee?” She laughed again. “I would not say it was wee, at all. C’est magnifique!”

  We never did discuss Candy, Fanny Hill or The Bobbsy Twins On The Farm. As far as Viviane Fresnay was concerned, all those books were meaningless when it came to real sacktime. She was a smart girl, she would go far. With or without the Académie Sexualité.

  I slipped out of her room, sneaked down the hall and tried the back staircase. I headed for the closet where the brooms and Mady Morrow were waiting. I knew she’d be there. She was a smart cookie who knew how to time all her activities when I was in the building. With Viviane away from the desk and Madame de Jussac done with me, Mady would put two and two together and get broom closet. She didn’t disappoint me. I no sooner knocked on the tiny door but that it whipped open and I was pulled in again.