I found myself more fascinated by this woman than I had been affected by the female sex for some time. She had a quiet gaiety, an intelligent mind, which, while ready to listen sympathetically, was equally ready to question a poor argument. She was, above all, the very essence of quiet, superior sex-appeal. I had been able to take a good, full look at her as we left the plane and had imagined her tall, slender firmness in bed with mounting excitement. Her breasts were large and high poised under the well cut suit, her long hips slim and supple-looking. Ascending the hotel stairs, I had been unable to drag my eyes from the sinuous firmness of her calves and the promise above.
I ordered the best wine for our meal and steered the conversation onto the work she might have for me. She was more talkative, but still unwilling to go into details. The work, she said, would be for a friend of hers and there could be a lot of money in it. Something in the way she emphasized the word "could" prompted me to ask if the work was legal.
"You must see my friend," she said, in a tone of finality. "Let's not discuss it further now."
"I'm not so interested in the money," I said, "but I might demand some other compensation for working for you."
I looked into her eyes with a slight smile. She considered me for a moment with a countering smile which was half indifferent, half provocative.
"I'm afraid you'd be wasting your time in that case."
"It's not what I'd consider a waste of time," I said, purposely misconstruing her words.
"You'd better stick to the money. You'd acquire that more easily."
It takes more than words to rebuff me and I saw that we drank well, mixing at a night club later.
Climbing the stairs back at the hotel, I slipped my arm around her until I could feel the tight bulge of her breast. She didn't demur and at the top of the stairs I kissed her. She allowed herself to be kissed, making no response at all and I released her, outwardly amused, inwardly irritated.
"Thank you," she said, with amusement, "for a pleasant evening."
"Enchante," I said. "But the night, as they say, is very young. How about a drink?"
"You have drink in your room?"
"Certainly," I answered, "but I'll bring it to yours if you prefer."
"No. I think you'd better leave it in your room-and that I had better go to mine." And she had whisked away leaving me time only to stare after her with a smile that hid my disappointment. It seemed she meant it.
In my room, however, I mixed a couple of drinks, waited for 15 minutes and walked quickly along to Olsa's room. My discreet knock was answered by a low, "Who's there?"
"I've brought the nightcap you were too polite to admit you wanted," I whispered.
"Now please," her voice whispered back. "I meant what I said, really, you're not very courteous."
"Look, I'm only being friendly. I'll promise to be out in ten minutes-and you'd better let me in because I can hear someone coming." My tone was determined.
There was a whispered expression of annoyance and in a second or two the door opened. I stepped quickly inside, walked straight to a table and placed the drinks on it. When I turned, Olsa had closed the door and was looking at me with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
"Your determination is really rather intriguing," she said.
"And well worth it," I retorted, regarding her appraisingly.
She was swathed in a silk dressing gown which she had obviously donned hurriedly when I disturbed her preparation for a bath. Insecurely tied, it swelled out voluminously over her breast, outlining them with clear, silken strokes. A deep cleft down the front of the gown exposed the inner rising of smooth, white flesh.
"You must go in a few minutes," she said, sitting in an armchair opposite me. We drank quietly, watching each other. Her crossed legs as she sipped revealed a beautifully shaped calf and an inch or two of buttery-looking thigh, where the gown had fallen back. I was overcome by the realisation of her single precarious covering.
"Why this effort at puritanism?" I asked, suddenly.
"Upbringing," she answered, with a cheekily defiant smile, "and the fact that I'm in love with someone."
I felt a pang of annoyance, not so much at her words, but the conclusions she drew from them.
"I have no doubt," I said, "that your beloved enjoys himself while you're away. Surely you wouldn't find the same thing impossible."
She shrugged. "Some women are like me. There's no point in arguing."
I rose, crossed to her chair and sat on the arm.
"It's always worth arguing about these things," I said.
"Perhaps from your point of view," she said, and stood up.
I stood up swiftly beside her and put my arms around her firmly.
"All right. We won't argue," I said.
I kissed her, pressing her body against me, my hand slithering over the silk, down her back, stroking her buttocks, feeling my desire rising against her.
"That, I'm afraid, is not permitted," she said, cool and unruffled. She pulled away from me.
"Oh, please," I said, fiercely, catching at the gown. It pulled apart above the waist cord and I had a glimpse of one of the finest breasts I've seen, soaring magnificently from her body. I caught her again, and my hand seemed to tremble as it enclosed the jut of solid-feeling flesh. She pulled away again towards a small casual table and I saw, with growing heat, the gown twisting in a crushing embrace about her long slim buttocks. I moved quickly after her. This was really a prize too good to lose.
Before I reached her, she turned suddenly to face me, a handbag dropped to the floor and I stopped in astonishment.
"I thought that would surprise you," she said, quietly, levelling a small automatic at my navel.
"What the hell's the idea," I said, incredulously.
"Nothing," she replied. "Except to keep off the pawing hands of those who won't take no for an answer."
She smiled. "It's all right, I'm not going to shoot you. I know this method is a little drastic, but it's very practical and saves no end of trouble. Now if you'll just return to your room, I'll look forward to seeing you at breakfast with no hard feelings. Thank you for the drink."
"All right, my sweet," I said, composure recovered. "I congratulate you on a somewhat novel method of keeping the wolf from the body. But I warn you I shan't give up trying."
She smiled again. "Good night."
I returned to my room a little amazed, wondering about a number of things. I began to feel I was going to get more than I bargained for in mixing with this woman. But I went to sleep picturing her breast, momentarily revealed to me. She was a cool beauty. And I was determined to have her.
Beyond regarding each other on the following day with knowledgeable amusement, neither of us mentioned the incident of the night before.
We chatted about everything under the sun as we sped in a black Packard towards the Franco-Belgian border. At the flimsy red barriers, bored customs men at either end of the short stretch of no-man's land didn't even bother to open my passport.
"They're very lax, nowadays, unless they're looking for suspicious people," Olsa said.
Idly I wondered how the rape enquiries were proceeding in England. I didn't doubt my ability to escape notice even if I became a "suspicious person."
In no time we had passed Le Bourget airport and were speeding into the cluttered, nondescript, marketstrewn outskirts of Paris. Olsa dropped me on the Left bank near St. Germain-des-Pres. She arranged to meet me at a restaurant in four days time and drove off in the direction of Neuilly where she said she lived.
Sitting on the crowded terrace of a well-known cafe that evening, watching the colourful conglomeration of nationalities crossing the warm blare of light bursting into the roadway, I felt very glad to be back in Paris once more. Paris I had found, more than any other city was a vast clearing house for unexpected happenings.
I must, I decided, try to get an apartment, even a top-floor maid's room. Some
where, where the police would be less likely to make checks as they occasionally did on hotels.
It was while I was toying with this problem that the girl pushed her way through the tables and sat beside me, asking in French if I would care to see her paintings. I replied that I should be delighted. It had always been one of my pleasures to see the work of young artists who make their way from cafe to cafe trying to sell their work to tourists in order to live and go on painting. I always hoped I might make a discovery.
The girl, who spread a folder of paintings and sketches in front of me, was dark and wistful looking. She had small soulful features and enormous dark eyes, which sparkled from time to time in the light. Her tight blue jeans creased across her hips and her black jumper clasped her well-rounded bosom with a tight fondness. Her fingers as she turned the paintings one by one were long and slim, made for caressing. I invited her to have a drink and we were soon steeped in a discussion of her work. She showed considerable talent and I bought two of the paintings for something more than' they were worth and asked if she had any more work I could see.
We had been chatting for an hour and the girl, obviously flattered at my interest, said she had more at her brother's studio, where she was living while he was in the south.
On the way to the studio, I asked her frankly how she'd been managing to sell and she admitted, as frankly, very badly. I suggested she was not overeating either and she said with a rueful smile, that artists never did.
So, excusing myself as a fellow artist on better times, I insisted on calling at a charcuterie on the Boulevard St. Michel, which I knew stayed open late, a breadshop and a wineshop. Laden with bacon, tinned vegetables, bread and a few bottles of good wine, we arrived eventually, with some merriment, at the studio.
It proved to be an enormous room with a little kitchen, simply, but cleverly furnished to give an effect of luxurious eccentricity. While Monique-a perfect name for her dark, velvet looks, I had thought, busied herself with cooking in the kitchen, I sat on a bed which I noted was broad enough for three and studied her paintings.
Soon we were enjoying a meal washed down with strong, red wine and I was learning about Monique. She was 20, had been painting since she was a small child and always occupied her brother's studio while he was away rather than live with her parents at Bordeaux.
"I like to get away from them for a time," she told me. "They're so strait-laced. And they can't understand my preoccupation with what they regard as non-productive work."
I held her hand for a moment on the table. "That's very intelligent of you," I said. "No parental eye to ruin your happiness."
She smiled at me warmly and I could see that she was attracted to me and that her fundamental shyness was wearing thin from the wine. The meal over, we discussed her paintings in detail, continuing to drink steadily.
"I think I've had a little too much wine," Monique said, eventually, looking at me with a hazy little smile. "Do you mind if we stop this critical analysis for a while."
I didn't mind a bit and soon we were dancing quietly to a programme of soft radio music. We danced cheek to cheek and I stroked her long, black hair. It was obvious she was filled with the glamorous carelessness of the wine. When I kissed her she pressed herself hard against me.
We sank onto the bed and I slipped my hands under her jumper, unfastening her brassiere as I kissed her. Her eyes held mine as I caressed her breasts one after the other. The spark had flamed inside her and she kissed me, pulling down to her, breathing heavily.
"Have you had men in here before?" I asked.
"I've only ever been with a man once before and that was when I was 17," she admitted, softly.
"Did you go to bed with him?" She looked so young and trusting, that it occurred to me, that I was, perhaps to be the first.
"Twice," she replied. "And then he was killed in a car crash."
"You poor dear," I murmured.
Gently, I unbuttoned her jeans and slipped them down her slim legs. She lay with her eyes closed, lips apart, dressed only in transparent white briefs with a frilly edge.
Her breasts were not large, but looked full against her slim ribs and waist-slim and taut from her obligatory diet; her thighs were sinuous and strong, made for the convulsive union.
I slipped my hand up under the narrow join of her briefs and caressed the moist lips of her vagina. With a little moan she allowed her legs to fall apart and, pulling my head down to her, slipped her tongue between my lips. "Oh, it's been so long," she whispered. "Please." I undressed quickly, my only difficulty being the slipping of my pants over my pulsing erection. I pulled off the briefs and she raised her hips to help me do it. I stroked the hair of her mound, exploring the crease, again, with my fingers. Monique, eyes still closed, spread her legs, tightening her muscles and I moved gently between her thighs.
"Now, now," she whispered, face puckered into the pain of waiting.
I lowered my face onto hers, while with one hand I guided my penis to the moist slit between her legs, that most intimate of her belongings, now opened and offered unconditionally to me.
As her tongue searched my mouth I thrust into her, and the jerk and exclamation she made reminded me that her virgin days were not very far behind. "Be gentle at first," she begged.
And I moved gently and warmly into her, my penis throbbing the more as I saw her face, mouth opening and gasping, forehead creased with passion. All the years of remembering and longing coming out in an increasing abandonment of a woman who forgets her self, except for the enormous filling of her body down there with an unbearable pleasure.
I, too, was soaring under the effects of the wine and I slipped my hands under her soft, small bottom caressing the other opening of her body as she twisted and gasped. Gradually she opened her legs wider and wider and drew up her thighs so that with an extra little grin that brought forth an elongated moan from her I filled her body up to the hilt. I pulled my thighs close against the inside of hers, skewering my rigid rod of stiff sensitive flesh into her close-fitting channel.
Thrills of the unbelievable intimacy I was enjoying with a stranger hammered staccato in my stomach, my abdomen, my genitals as I thrust and ground, stabbed, rode into the sweet opening, the very core of her being.
Monique gave, I think, the most abandoned response I have known, writhing her whole warm body from side to side, twisting and wriggling her hips in a continuous almost rotating, movement, clasping my face with the long painter's fingers, spreading her thighs and tightening her legs in a scissors around my waist so that her feet pointed towards the ceiling, moaning and gasping all the time: "Oh, my God, oh, my God, I love you, I love you, oh, don't stop, oh, oh uuuugh!"
Her organ seemed to grow and grow until I was lost in it, grinding, a numbness all over me, then only feeling the nucleus of growing intensity somewhere in the red depths between her stretched-apart legs.
Monique, her head rocking, followed my example, reaching round my buttocks, jabbing her fingers into the sensitive flesh of my anus, gasping and groaning so much that I thought I was hurting her, but: "Oh, darling, go on, go on!" She could hardly mouth the words.
The nucleus was growing to a great tube of pain, growing to a twisting, clasped tautness until my penis seemed like an enormous balloon inside her, trying to push through to my fingers as they stabbed into her bottom and she shrieked, grasping my testicles.
Mounting, mounting, mounting as she was gasping, gasping, gasping and suddenly in a dizzy, head-roaring dazzlement the balloon burst and my creation swept in long waves, rushing into her moist widely receptive body, hurtling up in thrust after gasped-out thrust until a half oblivion of decline with caresses and passion dissolving into hot breath, her supple body so much plasticine.
I didn't stay the night, feeling disinclined with the afterward limpidity, wanting the fresh air as I did, and sleep to follow. But the next day I moved into the studio from my hotel.
I was aware that Monique in h
er loneliness liked to cling to the emotional sop I provided, but I considered the shield of a private studio worth the inconvenience. Police wouldn't visit the studio and were un-likely to bother me even if my passport overran its tourist limits.
Perhaps I may seem to have been fortunate in my meetings up to this point with women and the willingness I found, but that could be a thought only in an unadventurous mind. For any man of means and breeding, ten women are waiting for an illicit adventure, a fairy-tale romance, a grown-up affaire, a hoped for husband. He needs only the drive. He should have no occasion, sexually, on which he could look back and say: if only I had realized; if only I had taken the chance. Personally I would never insult a woman by leaving her frustrated.
Anyway, I found my time occupied extremely pleasantly, while I awaited my meeting with Olsa. During the day we ate and painted; during the night we made long-drawn, firm-bodied, abandoned love, exploring one position after another, Monique with the insatiable appetite of a young woman who has had only a memory of love for so long.
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