The French Affair Boxed Set

by Natasha Sparks

  The thing was she hadn't quite found a way to hookup with her ‘Perfect Guy’.

  Now, though... this was a fun experiment.

  The cock? Absolutely normal! What did other women have problems with? Clean, a guy’s cock was so much fun. Zero problems. Best thing that could happen, from her hook-up point of view was that within a few sucks, bam. There was a lot of come in her mouth.

  Other girls liked to spit this out into Kleenex or something.

  She kinda liked the salty taste, and the guys she sucked off were such nerds, that for sure there was nothing at all evil in their semen.

  Down the hatch! she'd told herself.

  And so now, she was sucking at Lord Nelson's cock.

  "Ohh!" he said. "Ohh."

  That brought her around. That wasn't quite in the script. No indeed.

  "Sorry," she said. "More of that later. Now... I want to feel that gorgeous stump. And you know where!"

  Her hireling, dressed in gorgeous plummery, looked at first a bit taken aback. But then, understanding passed over his face. "You mean this, madam?"

  He took off his undershirt, brandishing what was left of a right arm.

  "Oh yes, Lord Nelson. If you will."

  "Very well. However, I would request that you not make much noise. The men above decks would think I was committing murder."

  She felt very excited. Very excited indeed. Her insides fluttered as though she was indeed on a ship, and not in an apartment in the South Bronx.

  She lay back, legs spread wide, as he approached.

  "Such fine stems!" he said. With his left hand, he stroked from an ankle to a knee, and then down, slowing as he neared her pussy.

  "Oh," she said, arching to meet the hand. "Ohhh!"

  His fingers just touched the tops of her pubes, though, giving them a quick brush and then moving back up the inside of her thigh, to her knee, and then down to the other ankle.

  "Thus are the waves of the sea--a natural thing, madam, but that which we must navigate."

  He got down upon his knees, and positioned the edge of his stump just inches from her pussy.

  She strained to reach it, but he dodged the movement.

  "Are you sure you want this, madam?"

  "Yes!" she gasped.

  "Are you prepared?"

  "Oh yes, please. Please."

  "Please what, madam?"

  "Please, my Lord! Please!"

  Gently, he positioned himself and touched the top of her vulva with the stump. It was slick and ehe hesitated there, working the knob end of his stump around as though it was a phallus or a dildo. With the combination of his movements and her own grinding, it was soon playing touch and go with her clit. Rolling, rolling, playful and yet demanding. Seeking entrance. Millimeter by millimeter, pushing its way into her.

  The sensation was beyond amazing. She opened her eyes and looked down at the working Admiral.

  "That hat!" she said.

  "Pardon madam!"

  "Put the hat back on!"

  Without stopping his movements, Lord Nelson looked around on the floor, spotted the thing, picked it up.

  "Yes. Yes, the hat!

  It was a beautiful thing. Tri-cornered and expensive felt, with silver emblems sparking greatness.

  It was a beautiful thing indeed and he tapped it onto his head.

  "Oh Admiral Nelson!" she said. She could feel herself dripping. "Fuck me. Fuck me harder!"

  Propping herself up and getting better traction, Lord Nelson pushed the stump in, pulled it out a bit, put it in deeper. In and out and in, and thus and thus and thus. Within a minute of working it back and forth, he'd somehow managed to contrive a much larger opening in the vagina. Push and pushing yet more, he was soon able to get more than half the stump, thicker as it got nearer the shoulder, into her.

  Back and forth, in and out.

  She gasped and squirmed. It was as though he were rowing her in a violent sea. It was as though she were a teasing mermaid that he had now split in half with a harpoon.

  "Oh," she said, as the rhythm increased, pushing against her g-spot insistently with its hugeness. "Sing it! Now sing it!"

  Lord Nelson commenced to sing:

  A British tar is a soaring soul

  As free as a mountain bird

  His energetic fist should be ready to resist

  A dictatorial word

  His nose should pant and his lip should curl

  His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl

  His bosom should heave and his heart should glow

  And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.

  Yes! She could feel Lord Nelson's fist. Balled and grabbing a hold of her soul, her spirit and heart, ripping it apart.

  "More," she gasped. "More."

  Lord Nelson obliged.

  His eyes should flash with an inborn fire

  His brow with scorn be wrung

  He never should bow down to a domineering frown

  Or the tang of a tyrant tongue

  His foot should stamp and his throat should growl

  His hair should curl and his face should scowl

  His eyes should flash and his breast protrude

  And this should be his customary attitude

  "She could feel her eyes bulge. They felt as though they were going to blow out of her head.

  She could feel the whole power of the British Navy in this man, the hope, the glory....

  A bright flag of a British Jack of an orgasm began to unfurl inside her.

  "Ohhhh," she said, pushing herself against the stump harder. "Ohhhhhh!"

  Suddenly, the rolling sea seemed to eat her up. Suddenly she was swirled in a delirious maelstrom beyond pleasure, full of pulsing destiny.

  She was falling. Falling. Falling...

  And she felt herself being hurled elsewhere on the winds of ancient wings.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Civilized?" she said.

  "Yes. Civilization does have its comforts! And above all there is language. Communication!" The older man smiled slyly. "Let us speak."

  Janice looked around her.

  I'm hanging on a cross in a dungeon. I've just been banged, more or less against my will, by that guy on the ground there, while Marky Mark here has been whipping him.

  “This is civilization?”

  "I tried that before!" she said. "Look, I'm kind of tired. And come to think of it, I might be feeling a bit queasy."

  "Me too!" said Sergeant Debussy. The small man attempted to get to his feet, holding his gut, and then fell down again with an, "Oof!"

  "I cannot blame you. Debussy. Have yourself a vomit discreetly in the corner, and then come over here with those keys I asked for!"

  "I'll do what I can." Somehow he managed to get up onto his knees and, without throwing up, managed to push his way over to the corner, where something jingled.

  "Here we go. Oy! Corporal. Give us a hand."

  The corporal, on the floor as well, lying quiet as a dead doornail, did not respond.

  "Ah well," said Debussy. "I guess that's a pussy whipping the likes I've never seen before. If you know what I mean, de Sade."

  "Enough of this nonsense," said the Marquis. He clopped over on his fine shoes, grabbed the keys up and went to Janice.

  "Now let's see about these locks. Nothing too complicated, I should think." He fussed a bit here and there, and then with a "Voila!" had one of the locks open.

  "Thanks you."

  "Just a few more to go. Debussy. Would you please be so kind as to get this young lady's clothing? And have a care that you don't throw up on them."

  With a few more clicks and tugs, the locks were open and the chains were off Janice. Somehow, Debussy managed to get her clothes over to her.

  "Now see to the corporal here," said the Marquis. "Then get dressed and go to bed. We will discuss all this with General Murat tomorrow afternoon. Late tomorrow afternoon, after all and sundry have had a proper rest."

  "But doesn
't the lady need to be escorted back to her cottage?"

  "That might be too much of a distance," said the Marquis de Sade. "Tonight Janice will be my guest in my own quest quarters above in the chateau."

  Janice said nothing. She was having too much of a struggle getting her clothes on.

  When she finally did, she was too weak to do anything but just sit on a step beside the cross.

  Debussy had splashed some water on the corporal's face. Semi-roused, they both shuffled off into the night.

  The Marquis sat by his new charge.

  "Ah yes, you seem quite--beat, Janice."

  "You are a devil, aren't you?"

  "Oh, please be assured that I am happy to know my reputation has spread far and wide.

  Farther than you'd ever guess, thought Janice.

  "Now then. You fascinate me. I must say--and I'll say again... you indeed fascinate me. You are different."

  "Oh? How?"

  "It is hard to say. I know you are not of this country. And that would be enough for most French people, I suppose. And I assume you are of the new United States of America. This is true?"

  "Yes."

  "Excellent. And yet, I am a man of many years and much time for experience, thought, perception and understanding. My sense of you is that--well... somehow you are different from most Americans of today."

  She said nothing for a bit.

  "A witch perhaps?" she suggested.

  De Sade laughed at that.

  "Perhaps I am indeed a witch," said Janice. "How would you know?"

  "Well, in the loose sense, I know you are a witch because you have bewitched me," said de Sade. "But otherwise, of course you are not a witch, because, of course, there are no witches."

  He said it with such verve and finality that there was no reason for her to continue on that line.

  "Besides," he said in a softer more humorous voice. "If you were a witch, I think that Debussy would be a smoldering puddle of ooze on the floor now, eh? And also--" He caught himself. "But never mind. Come up with me for my quarters. I shall make you comfortable and we shall talk and then I will leave you to a restful, undisturbed sleep."

  Restful and undisturbed sleep? Why, that certainly sounded good.

  She followed the Marquis as he strode forward, collected a candle, and set off up the stairs.

  It was a winding, ancient coil of stone steps they ascended. The Marquis' candle fluttered a bit, casting strange shadows all around, but somehow the wick stayed alight and they made it up two, three, four flights. The stairs opened upon a gate, a wood gate with heavy iron latches. De Sade paused and nodded down at the dungeon. "Oh yes, I am quite used to such as that down there. I grew up in a chateau, you see, filled with such. Doubtless it darkens my imagination... but perhaps... perhaps it also creates my imagination. And illuminates the darkness that dwells in all of us, my dear."

  "Is it locked?" said Janice, feeling a bit worried and eager for the Marquis de Sade to move on out of his element to the more civilized surface before he got any more imaginative ideas."

  "No. Of course not."

  With an odd strength, the older man easily lifted the bar of the latch. The door scraped open and they were through.

  Immediately the difference could be felt. The air was fresher, less dank. There was no trace of fetid hay. There was a taste of cleaning soap in the air. Ye, obvious cleaning maids, who would not venture downstairs, kept this area clean.

  They moved through a dimly lit chamber, where shivered a fire in a large hearth.

  "They say First Consul Napoleon must have a fire lit in all his rooms," said de Sade.

  "Is Napoleon Bonaparte here?"

  "No. If he were, I should have to hide. I am close to General Murat, but Napoleon disapproves of the likes of me. In principle, at any rate." He gestured. "But come. It's just this way, in the east wing. It enjoys a very lively sunrise. I don not know, for truly I have been keeping my curtains closed tight. I am a late sleeper you see."

  They travelled across nicely appointed rooms filled with oriental rugs lain across cold stone and all warmed by fires. Oil lamps burned in the hallways dully. There was a smell of camphor and pork rubbed with garlic shading the air.

  De Sade guided her down one of the corridors a long way. At the end of a hallway, he said, "Ah. Here we are." He found a clanky collection of keys in his coat and dug them out. Inserting one, he turned it. Paused.

  "You see, my dear. A key and a lock teaches us much. They are like a cock and a pussy. The cock can go in and out all it likes, but the door will not open. However, if the cock is maneuvered properly." The inner workings of the door clicked, de Sade twisted the knob, and the door opened. "And there! We have entrance."

  "You are clearly full of wisdom," said de Sade. "But now... " He lit a lamp with the candle, turned up the oil gauge, and there was light. The servants had indeed left a fire in the rooms of these apartments, but it was still slightly chill.

  "Yes, yes, why don't you warm yourself in one of these chairs by the hearth. I believe we have a blanket. Yes, perfect... A blanket." She followed directions and soon found herself comforted. "Now then, my dear, a bit of wine? No, perhaps not... After all of this."

  "Have you any water?"

  "As a matter of fact, we are in luck here at this chateau because there is a spring that bubbles very close. Delicious and fresh! We of Paris must boil our water. Why not drink only wine, eh? But here.

  De Sade went to a back room. He returned with a silver tray. It sparkled in the oil lamp and the soft rays provided by the fire.

  He lifted a decanter and poured.

  From the mouth of the decanter, glittering in the almost faerie light provided, came a flow of the most miraculous fluid that Janice, no novice to fluid, had ever seen.

  It simply danced.

  From crystal came crystal, and it poured and flowed and danced down into a clear goblet.

  And then fizzed.

  Farie fizzed.

  Janice watched this.

  Shit. Was she still high?

  When the shaded goblet was full (shaded a faint hint of violet) it seemed to brim at the top, sparkling and pushing up.

  "Marquis! Fizzy water!" she said in English.

  The Marquis seemed taken aback. For once he seem to have nothing to say. Surprise spread over his face.

  "I mean... uh..." She rapidly switched back to French. "I mean--effervescent water."

  "Oh yes. Yes, that is what indeed it is." He looked at her again. "You reverted to English there."

  "I am from America," she countered.

  "Hmm. I see."

  "Well, you do not need to worry that I am a spy from England!"

  "Mademoiselle!" he said. "Do I seem like a patriot of this regime? I'm sure the English would make short shrift of me, but we share a similar dislike of the present Catholic Church and the Pope and such nonsense."

  "Oh good, she said. "The last thing I want anyone to think is that I am a spy from England!"

  "Why?"

  "I shall be guillotined?"

  "Surely not. No, you have other intentions. I can tell that. I have known many women! And I prefer, I assure you, beautiful women! I count you high, high, and higher amongst the beautiful women that I have met and seen naked!"

  "Oh?”

  "Oh, truly indeed. And can I tell you a secret not well known amongst the rabble?"

  He said the word "rabble" with utmost sarcasm.

  "You may, I suppose," she responded.

  "All... and I repeat... ALL, farts... stink! They all smell foul! But if you can pass the foulness... there are intimations, in a good gust of immortality!”

  "Immortality?" said Janice. "That's nonsense."

  The Marquis's eyes danced once more. "Of course not! Did I say ‘Immortality?’ Hah. Silly, silly me. I meant, of course, 'mortality'."

  "Immortality? Mortality?" After that release, she was feeling much better. The wine started kicking in again, and though she felt a bit tired, s
he also felt a bit pleasantly drunk. "Aren't we dealing with high concepts here? I mean, I just farted. And it felt good. But how, pray, my good Marquis de Sade, does farting get metaphysical?"

  "Metaphysical?" said the Marquis de Sade. "Can those beauteous lips, not far from those lips that have just been fucked so many times recently, have uttered the words ‘metaphysical’?"

  "Sure!"

  "Do you, pray tell, madam, know the works of Plato? Of Aristotle?”

  "Yes. Greek philosophers... What matter?”

  The Marquis de Sade, sitting down on the edge of a chair near her, folded his hands together in a steeple shape. He looked, thought Janice, like nothing so much as a praying mantis.

  "Ah. Matter? Well, yes, matter. And matters." He laughed. "You seem educated then, mon ami. Are you familiar with the work of Russeau?"

  "Oh certainly. A French philosopher of note! Not so many of those. Descartes, I suppose... and..."

  The Marquis de Sade's eyes flamed. "Silence! You now show you ignorance." He tapped his chest. "I am a philosopher!"

  "Oh. Pardon me."

  The Marquis regained his humor.

  "Forgive me. You are an intelligent woman, Janice, but of course there seem elements lacking in your education." He waved his hands. They were like fluttering wrinkled butterflies. "You seem... to have some knowledge, yet much is blank in you. And you are... different. Very different in a way that intrigues me."

  "Oh?"

  "I note your hair. Your flesh. Your eyes. You are not fat, Janice, but your teeth... they are perfect! You are quite beautiful even without rouge. You glow with a rude sexuality born of... health. And yet you speak a French that is not truly of today's America. And not of the lower classes of France." He wriggled his fingers. "And most certainly you are not of the upper classes. As I said..."

  "Please," said Janice, "Marquis. Tell me of this Russeau."

  "You humor me. You know something..."

  She shrugged. "He led a French movement of idealists who believed that civilization is the cause of human evil. Mankind, in its basic natural state, is pure and good, and yet becomes corrupted by the constraints that society places upon it."