Gene sensed it, too. Perhaps there was a new lease of strength growing in her. She let her fingers drift down from my chest to my belly, exploring my navel, advancing gently over my abdomen, combing through the hair until again they gently stroked the instrument of her enjoyment. Under her impudent fingers, which began to knead it more forcibly as it grew, it stretched out to the sun, reaching and reaching for it in a new passion.
"Harvey," Gene whispered. "I want to feel that you've possessed me completely before you go out of my life; to feel there's no part of me you haven't had. That way you can hurt me, make me feel completely given to you. Do you understand?"
I nodded and she added: "That will be something unique for me, between only you and me. But I can feel that it is something I want, that will give me to you."
I kissed her. Her words-who would have thought it to be intact-had begun to inflame my loins. Over in the wood the old man was still watching. I doubted if he'd have the strength for a second time.
"Be gentle," Gene whispered-and rolled over onto her face, clenching her hands, opening her legs.
I slithered rigidly onto her backside, pressing on her gently with my hips, indulging in the firm, smooth texture of her little buttocks against my hips. Then I knelt up between her thighs and my feelings were of passion and cruelty as I looked at her slim, small-waisted body prone in front of me, arms stretched tensely waiting over her head.
Her buttocks tensed rigidly as my hands ran over them, separating them slightly at their join, but after the automatic tautening, she relaxed the round mounds and as they softened, I moved them apart easily revealing the little virginal anus, which I should have expected to have been ravished on countless occasions. I kept the flesh of the buttocks apart with my thumb and forefinger, spreading the cringing anus slightly, revealing it fully as a target, and with my other hand, guided my throbbing rod down to the unopened aperture.
The closed mouth reacted with virginal reluctance, resisting the urgent knob. I persisted gently, allowing the buttocks to fall back against the stiff flesh so that their insides rubbed it into a peak of desire as it wormed gently up and down.
For a minute or two this continued, with Gene, hands clenched into fists, spreading her legs a little more. And suddenly I felt the merest tip enter, felt it suddenly nipped in a surrounding tightness of flesh and Gene's fists clenched and contracted until the knuckles were drained of colour.
Gently, penetrating no farther, I swivelled on this bridgehead, consolidating it, stretching the lips of the new source of love. And then, very gradually, and in small advances, I moved into the dark, untouched channel. As with a quick downward pressure I burst full in with the tip of my organ, Gene groaned and wriggled in an effort not to jerk away.
I consolidated again, a thousand needles pricking in my genitals, teeth clenched and then I rammed home, searing through the passage in a bulldozing thrust that widened and extended in a painful experience for both of us-painful but wonderful Gene cried out and her body arched into the ground-a movement which simply contained my organ more firmly in the contracting passage. Without more ado, I pushed her body down into the ground again, brooking no further resistance and sawed furiously in and out of the narrow, clinging tunnel while her groan echoed over the stream to the old man, who, I later noticed, was still standing in the trees an ardent witness of this glorious exhibition.
I held Gene firmly by the backs of her slim upper arms as I barraged into her bottom, and my legs forced her legs apart so that she could not escape in face of the pain.
And as I burst thickly, ruggedly into her, the ease of the operation improved until I was entering and withdrawing slightly with a rubbery facility, crushing and flattening her little buttocks under my hips with each in thrust.
After some minutes, by which time the unaccustomed tearing and pressure was pulsing my penis in a fierce rage, Gene shifted under me, pushing her bottom, came back with me on the end of my stem and she pulled her knees in under her so that she could better thrust and work the small junction against my genitals. With such an invitation I caught her hips and, pulling her back at me, thrust forward into her at the same time, burying the last of my vibrating penis into her slim back channel. She jerked forward again with the unexpected possession of more than she'd bargained for, but I pulled her back immediately and undulated small strokes into the softening passage.
Inside me I could feel the pulsation like a throbbing wound and my teeth clenched, my breath hissing through them and down my nostrils.
Gene, pinioned by my front at her rump, began to push back with abandon, taking it better and better. Her firm, little buttocks, distorted outwards in her all-giving position, wriggled sharply and with growing fury against my hips until at last she was rearing and thrusting her behind like an exotic dancer deep in the pulsating rhythm of a rumba.
She reached back behind her with hands flopping forward on her face as she did so, and grasped my thighs with her fingers, pulling me at her completely conquered treasure.
Screwing into her with a thick sensation as if a giant hand were tightly squeezing my organ, I felt the storm gather in my loins and rush in a mountainous fury along the coils to the outer protrusion, breaking at last in a great sensational burst into the opened gulf of her backside, shooting from my extremity in machine-gun-like explosions, penetrating deeply where such a penetraton had never before been known.
We lay quietly for some time, Gene not moving as if she wanted to contain in her bottom the load that had been unleashed there and was afraid to move in case she lost my matter, which for her signified our special, private intimacy.
Over in the trees, when I remembered to look, the old man was fiddling with himself in some vague unsure way, but I couldn't see very clearly what he was up to.
The sun was very low on the horizon now and as its heat began to fade on our skin, we dressed and walked back up the slope, through the hedge to the car.
With the fields preparing to sink into darkness, growing a paler golden red after the bright day, we sped along the road to the north, where Gene was to leave me at the first railway station that presented itself.
"I feel a little better now," she said, smoothing her skirt over her thighs with one hand as she drove. "You'll feel even better tomorrow," I said.
"I mean mentally," she retorted with a ghost of a smile.
"Both physically and mentally, you'll feel better," I assured her.
"And how will you feel?" she asked.
"Apart from my immediate worries, I shall be looking forward to getting back to Paris and seeing you there," I answered.
She caught my hand in pretense at a little business-like shake.
"I doubt if that will ever happen," she said. "But I hope it will."
Her pessimism, I thought, was becoming a little obsessional. She had no reason to doubt the possibility of a later meeting. Still less had she known I was going to Paris when I left her and not Geneva as she now thought. She must really have cared for me quite a lot for such premonitions to have weighed so heavily. But what did this represent? Something desirable unconquered. She'd be in love again in a week.
"Sure Henry won't be worried about you?" I asked.
"Oh, he'll be well occupied until much later. Anyway for two pins I wouldn't bother to go back to him."
In silence we reached the next big town and drove to the station. Waiting there for my train I thought that Gene was rather an attractive woman. If it had gone on much longer, I might even have fallen for her. She had a maturity-except for her lapse in falling in love with me so easily and obviously-which was a quality I liked in women. It occurred to me that if I met her in Paris-and I had every intention at that moment of meeting her-I might even take her to live with me. However, I'd see later....
Waiting in those last moments before parting, she suddenly pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, borrowed a pen from me and scribbled her New York address. She gave me the slip.
"I'm not giving you mine," I said bluffly, "because nothing's going to stop us meeting in Paris."
She turned back to me smiling suddenly as if something in my voice had convinced her.
"Give me your diary," I added.
In it I marked the number 110, 6E.
"When you reach Paris in a few weeks time," I said, "Go to this number post office in the sixth arrondissement as I've marked. There, poste restante, you'll find a note from me, telling you where I can be found. If there should be nothing it means you've arrived first, in which case, leave me a note and I'll pick it up as soon as I arrive."
Gene took the diary and pressed it in her hands.
"O.K." she said huskily.
Dimly forming in the dusk, the train steamed slowly in like a long sniffing dog, until in a slow groan of boredom, it halted as if a leash had been tautened by an irritated owner.
I climbed onto the step, circled Gene's slim waist with my arm and kissed her warmly. She swayed against me, crashing her lips on mine in a kiss which contained all the desperation of a final parting.
I stepped inside the train, calling down: "See you shortly-don't worry."
Gene said nothing, just looked up at me from the platform, staying there, watching as the train drew away in a series of jostles. I leaned out and waved as the platform seats, the waiting room, staff doors, a flower bed, slid by and receded. Gene half raised her hand, staring still and with a final flourish I withdrew into the compartment. I was a little tired of these under-surface emotional partings.
I settled down to sleep until I reached Geneva. There I would take off for Paris immediately.
It was a pity I had had to lie to Gene about my destination, but I thought it wiser that nobody left in my wake should know where I'd gone. It was, after all, probable that my pursuers would question her. I was well aware they might force her to tell where I'd gone. When I reached Paris I should have to lie low in case Jaswant had told the police I was there. But the police, I felt, would be a lesser enemy than the band of cut-throats after my blood. I felt in Paris a little less obvious than I should have in most other European cities.
Gluey-eyed from several uncomfortable attempts at sleep and nagging worries that I couldn't completely dispel, I arrived in Paris the following day, apprehensive and as wary-eyed as if I were in a be-denizenned jungle.
I took a taxi to within a couple of streets of Monique's apartment-studio and walked carefully to a small cafe a few doors down from its entrance on the opposite side of the road. I went in, ordered a coffee and a sandwich at the bar and watched that street through the open doors. I wasn't too sure what I expected to see, but I felt unwilling to declare myself yet I felt that somehow, by waiting in the quiet little bar-where only two old men were drinking at a table and patron was busily polishing glasses-I should discover how the land lay.
A second coffee followed the first and for perhaps half an hour I stood at the chromium painted bar, gazing in affected idleness at the thin flow of people and vehicles in the street. Once, as two policemen strolled past, I turned my back to the doors and studied the price tariff above the multi-coloured bottles stocked behind the bar. They passed on and after a few moments I paid and left.
Adjusting my wallet at the door, I watched the law wheel slowly and nonchalantly round a far corner and then I hurried without a sideways glance, but with the prickly horror of a dozen eyes upon me, to the courtyard leading to the studio.
A short silence followed my knock and then Monique's voice called out: "Who's there?"
"It's Harvey," I called back. "Harvey!"
A bolt was withdrawn, the door flung open and Monique had slipped into my arms with a little cry of joy. I found the ease with which a reunion followed a parting rather entertaining.
Tears matted the eyelashes of her shining eyes as she drew back to look at me.
"Oh, darling. I didn't expect you to be back."
And then the unexpectedness penetrated the joy misting her mind and a sudden shaft of apprehension withered the laugh in her eyes.
"What's happened? Are you all right?" She ran her hands down my arms, my body as if she expected to find some wound.
I ushered her gently into the studio and closed the door, re-bolting it.
"I'm fine," I said. "But how about you."
"Why ... why did you come back so soon? Did they find you?"
Her voice was a whisper and she glanced beyond me to the door as if behind it, a dozen men were waiting with guns drawn while I was allowed my last goodbye.
"Almost-but not quite. And that's why I'm back." I grinned cheerily to reassure her.
A reluctant smile intruded on her face and she held me close smiling quietly through the brink of tears.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're back," she murmured. "I was terrified, Harvey."
And then the story came out in a series of breathless sentences.
The leader of the toughs had picked her up one night as she was going home after shopping. He had forced her into a car and asked her where I was. She had refused to tell him and he had driven her out of Paris and then burnt her with a cigarette end on the arms and the thighs-she showed me the marks-until she broke down and told him I'd gone to the south coast. He'd tried to make her confess that she knew exactly where I'd gone, but as she didn't his efforts had gone unrewarded. Afterwards he had driven her back to Paris and put her out near a metro station, arms and legs smarting from the shriveled wounds. He had warned her not to give me any warning if she knew where I was and said that he'd see her again sometime just in case they hadn't caught up with me in the meantime.
"He seemed in a hurry to be off," Monique concluded. "I suppose he wanted to drive south immediately." She reached up and put her soft lips to my neck.
"Please, darling, forgive me for telling them which way you'd gone. I tried not to."
"You dear, sweet thing. You should have told him immediately. It's not your concern to shield me." I stroked her hair and tipped her head back so that I could see her face clearly. "We must get you away from here," I said "or your life will be tyrannized by these men."
"No. It's all right now you're back." Her young, brown eyes gave her welfare completely to me. Wryly I pictured myself as a protector of young maids. Sir Galahad of the left bank.
"Well they lost no time in finding me, but I think I've given them the slip now," I told her. "They'll probably cover half the continent before they think of coming back to Paris."
Monique was warming to the realisation of my return.
"We'll be all right," she said with a little laugh. "We can buy in food for a month and not go out. They don't know where I live-at least I don't think they do."
"Has there been any other excitement?" I asked, wondering how I could bring up the subject of police activity in the district.
"No-except that I came straight home after you'd left and painted a beautiful picture in the depths of despair."
As Monique searched for her masterpiece, I decided to rely on my own observation for news of the probings of the law. Obviously they weren't too close or Monique would surely have been interviewed, or at least have noticed a preponderance of policemen in the area-or would she?
That night, at least, I pushed thoughts of my lack of security into the background. We ate and drank with the relish of the half starved; we danced as if civilization were a dream we had almost forgotten and at last we made love as if we had been awaiting the moment for years through an intolerable pain of celibacy.
Late in the following morning, Monique went out like a happy, new housewife into the sunlit, busy streets to do some shopping-enough for a week if not for a month.
"Buy me some English papers while you're out," I said as she was going, "and some French ones. We'll have to have a little r
elaxation to occupy our confinement."
"You mean we can't spend the whole time in bed?" she laughed-and skipped out like a frisky lamb.
In one of the papers she brought back I found what I'd wanted to find-but not exactly.
In a jazzy English newspaper which probably thought it was doing its duty to somebody by "making known the facts" I found a short item which constituted a continuation of news on the Sussex attack. They still wanted to see me-in fact a warrant had been issued. But what was most shocking was that I was believed to be in or near Paris and that the father of the girl, Colonel Bateson-I might have guessed-was coming with his daughter to Paris to try, by his own efforts, to find me. The item, in fact, began with the ringing words: "This sort of beast should be stamped out of society-and if the police can't do it I will." The colonel, it seemed, was a little impatient of the wondrous workings of the law.
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