by Galia Ryan
There were other aspects of his appearance that had started to bother him, things he had never noticed before. Just that morning he had peered closely into the bathroom mirror to see if his jaw-line really had started to soften, or was he imagining it? And the lines around his eyes, had they always been so pronounced? At least he still had his hair. He was inordinately proud of the abundant wavy brown locks that reached down to his collar, even though the style was ten years out of date.
He sensed Stephanie watching him closely.
“Older men are far more interesting than boys,” she said after a while. “They know how to treat a woman.”
“And you’ve known how many older men?” he said with a smile. There seemed little point in pretending to read if she wanted to talk.
“Only you. But I’ve seen the way other men look at me.”
“Boys look at you that way, too. I’ve noticed.”
“Does it make you jealous?”
“No.”
“Then it fuels your ego.”
“Yes, I think it does.”
“Sexy young girl, older mature man. Such a cliché.” She cupped her breast, caressing the swollen nipple. “I think we should see how old you really are.”
Immediately she was kneeling beside him. Her head dipped, and her mouth began to move over his belly. Her tongue was hot and wet on his skin. He sighed in pleasure and closed his book to fully enjoy her ministrations. Nothing could come close to a horny sixteen-year-old, he decided happily.
“See?” she said, peeling open his swimming shorts. “Look.” His already erect cock sprung free. “You’re not old at all.”
She was kissing the tip, and the sensation of her tongue flicking over and around the glans was beyond anything he had known. Just as he had taught her, she sucked on the head before gently closing her teeth under the rim. Then, her lips tight around his shaft, she sank down until she could take in no more of him.
It was their last evening and they were dining in a small and intimate restaurant not far from the apartment. He knew something was up from the way she looked at him. She put every morsel into her mouth in such a deliberately provocative way that he couldn’t help but follow the journey of her fork. Every sip of wine somehow involved her tongue touching the rim of her glass. That she was turning herself on as much as she was him was obvious from the way her braless nipples stood out under her silk top.
With a smile she excused herself and disappeared to the toilet. When she returned, she casually placed her g-string beside his plate before sitting back down. “I don’t want to wait.”
“I can see that.”
She picked up her glass and leaned forward, a hint of command in her voice. “I want you to fuck me before we get back to the apartment.”
“Anywhere in particular?” His hand closed over the fabric. It was still warm from her body.
“In an alley.”
“Are you that desperate?”
“I want to try it.”
“And what if you like it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Alleyways are for sluts and whores. Which one are you?”
Her eyes were wide with shock. Her mouth opened and closed again. He fully expected to be rebuked, but then she eased apart the opening of her blouse to reveal the lush roundness of her breasts.
“Well,” she said, regaining her composure, “we could argue that you have paid for the use of my body with the apartment and the credit card. I think that makes me a whore, doesn’t it?”
* * *
They left Cannes the following morning, and by early evening she was home, unpacking her bag. She had locked her bedroom door. There were certain things she would rather not explain. Like the Gucci dress she was holding up. It was crucial that Amelie not find any of the clothes Charles had bought her. She would want to know where they had come from, and that would be awkward. She could hardly say she had borrowed them from Gabi. Even though they were the same dress size, her best friend’s taste leaned more towards afro-centric clothing and dangly earrings, and although Amelie and Gabi had only met a few times, her stepmother wouldn’t be fooled for a minute.
They would have to go to the back of the wardrobe. In a few days she was returning to school and could sneak them into one of her suitcases. She would need them when she saw Charles again. And she would definitely need them when she returned to Cannes in a few weeks.
She thought of the deal she had made—her virginity for the Cannes apartment. It all came back to her father. He was the one who once told her that everything had a value and therefore a price. Not that he intended her to use his advice in the way she had. She stifled a giggle.
She had seen the way Charles had looked at her the night of her father’s birthday party. It was the same appraising look she had seen on the faces of other men. It had been so easy to get what she wanted. A bit of encouragement here, a little innocence there. He hadn’t a chance really. Men were so predictable.
It was obvious that her virginity would have to go at some time, so why shouldn’t she dictate the terms? Her father would be even more horrified had he known how much she enjoyed being fucked. And the orgasms. Wow! Why had no one told her how great they were?
But who could have? Certainly not Amelie. Their relationship was nowhere near close enough. Not Gabi or her other friends, either. There were no secrets among them—until now—and anyway they were all still virgins.
That left the nuns, who would never know the joys of sex, premarital or otherwise.
Her unpacking complete, she flopped onto her bed and reached for the novel she had started before leaving for Antibes.
On the whole, things couldn’t have turned out better.
Chapter 7.
Like many of his friends, Charles maintained a family home in the country and a city apartment. The latter was for business; he was often required to be in the city for meetings. It was also useful for the odd occasion he and Antoinette came up to town for a social event.
A few weeks after their return from Cannes he took Stephanie there.
As far as he was concerned, their relationship still had a little mileage in it, and the apartment was the perfect place to meet. It was convenient and discreet.
* * *
Stephanie had known Charles all her life, or thought she had. It was turning out she had much to learn. The apartment, for example, had been a surprise. She wondered if her father knew.
Or worse, had a similar place.
Wandering from room to room, she imagined the other women Charles had taken there. She wasn’t naive enough to think she was the first.
She was in the salon, standing in front of a painting when he found her.
He offered her a glass of pale gold wine. “White Bordeaux. I think you’ll like it,” he said.
She took a careful sip and wrinkled her nose.
“Too dry?” he asked in concern.
“No. It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but she wouldn’t tell him so. “You have quite an art collection,” she said admiringly.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I like this one.”
The reclining woman, richly clad in harem pants and a loose blouse, appeared to gaze out at them just as intently as they were looking at her. The work was opulent, seductive and powerfully erotic.
“Do you?” He sipped his wine slowly, as he too considered the painting.
“Yes, it’s beautiful. Not just the woman, although she is intriguing. I like the colours and textures too.” In fact there was something almost mystical about the subject, something drawing her in.
“Then perhaps one day you shall own it.”
She was surprised that he would be so generous. Surely the painting was valuable?
“Thank you. I would like that.”
“Do you know who the artist is?” He slipped an arm around her waist.
“No.”
“Henri Matisse.”
Hearing the pride in his voice, she ventured,
“Wasn’t he an Impressionist?”
“A little later,” he replied, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “The Fauvism movement.”
She stiffened. He obviously had no expectation she possessed any knowledge of the subject, even at a basic level. Just what did he think she did at school all day?
Oblivious to her indignation, he continued, “Have you been to the Musée National d’Art Moderne?”
“Not recently.” Her tone was saccharine sweet. In fact, only a few months earlier Soeur Marie Therese had shepherded a select group of her art class through the halls as part of their studies. Stephanie couldn’t remember seeing anything like this, though.
“A lot of his work is displayed there.” He was behind her, murmuring against her neck. Her perfume, a hint of citrus overlaid with sandalwood, was the one she had worn constantly in Cannes. She wondered if he would remember.
“Then you should take me again,” she said, leaning her head back to allow him to slip a hand under her t-shirt and cup her breast.
“It will be my pleasure. There are more paintings like this. She’s an odalisque.”
“What’s that?”
“She belongs to the sultan. She’s a slave.” As he spoke he was lifting and squeezing her flesh.
“Does that mean she serves him?” Her voice caught. He was playing with her nipple and she was finding it hard to breathe.
“She might. And if she pleases he will take her to his bed.”
“Do I please you?” she moaned.
He bit her neck gently in response. “More than you know.”
“Then I want to be your odalisque.”
She felt his body tense. There was a long silence, and then he took his hand from her. She was mystified as to what she had done wrong.
He moved away, over to the sofa. “Come here.”
She sat where he indicated and allowed him to take the glass from her hand. Unsure of what was happening she tucked her long legs beneath her. Considering what he had been doing to her only moments before he was looking frighteningly serious.
“Stephanie, what we enjoyed in Cannes was beyond all my expectations, but you have your life in front of you.”
She moved to protest, and he cut her off.
“Wait. I’m not saying I don’t want us to carry on. I will be honest; it’s not what I planned, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t continue seeing each other. Before we go any further though, we need to agree on what each of us wants.”
“Okay,” she said, reaching forward to undo his tie. For a dreadful moment she’d thought he was going to tell her their relationship was over. “But fuck me first, and then we’ll talk.”
“No.” He grabbed her wrists. “This is on my terms.”
“Okay.” She shrugged in mock disappointment. This was serious.
“Firstly, I don’t want your father to find out about us. Ever. Or my wife. It will be our secret.”
He waited until she nodded agreement.
“Second, when we are not together you will act as if nothing has changed. You will continue with your studies, and you shall,” he emphasised the word, “get good grades.”
She rolled her eyes. “So, what’s in it for me?” she asked petulantly.
“What do you want?”
“To go back to Cannes as often as possible.”
“I think we might be able to arrange that.”
“And to be fucked whenever I want.”
“That too, although as I have said there is a need for discretion.”
“Will you take me to restaurants and theatres?”
“When we are not in the city.”
“And will you buy me sexy underwear?” She had straddled him.
He sighed. The discussion was apparently over. “Of course.”
She took his hand and, selecting a finger, sucked it into her mouth. It was funny, but before they had gone to Cannes all she had wanted was the one fuck. To do the deed, so to speak. But then things had changed. She wasn’t in love with him, or anything stupid like that. He was far too old, for one thing. But she did like him. He made her feel good—and she loved the sex.
“Then what more could I want?”
Perhaps it was their inability to see each other on a regular basis that kept an element of freshness and novelty in their relationship. Charles would find reasons to be in town, and on those occasions Stephanie somehow managed to escape the ever-watchful nuns and the convent. Their lovemaking was uninhibited and passionate—a demand for extreme fulfilment within the limited time available. There were precious few times when they could spend longer together, but they did manage a few days at the apartment in Le Suquet again.
There were also periods, though not as many as they would have liked, when he was required to be in other places and would arrange for her to be waiting in his hotel room.
“Am I your only mistress?” she asked once, riding his cock. They were in a strange bed, in a city she knew only by name.
“You know you are. But you’re more than that. You are my whore,” he replied. “You just save me the bother of paying for it.”
She trembled in delight at his words. While savage and base, they were meant as a compliment, or at least that’s how she understood them. Tying them together by their need. Words such as love did not apply to those who fucked for the pure pleasure of it. Love meant wedding rings and routine, monotonous sex.
“Yes,” she agreed, lost in the pleasure of it all. “I’m your whore.”
At first he tried to insist that she also enjoy the company of boys her own age.
“Why?” she wanted to know.
“Because you and I have no future. You know that.”
It was too late to soften the words.
“You want me to fuck them too?”
“If it’s what you want.”
“Then I will,” she said, stomping off.
She refused to meet him the next time he was in town.
He hadn’t intended to make up the quarrel. In many ways he thought the parting timely. She would have soon tired of the affair in any case.
He missed the sex, though. The crazy, impromptu, energetic fucking she so loved. It made him feel young. When she called some months later and said she wanted to see him, he didn’t hesitate.
He felt the need to acknowledge his error with a gift—a slender gold bangle studded with tiny diamonds. They were in a restaurant, one of the more exclusive in the city and therefore, unsurprisingly, one of her favourites.
As she sipped her champagne he passed the jewellers’ box to her.
“So, you did miss me,” she said happily, slipping the bangle onto her wrist. “Thank God. No more immature boys.”
“Didn’t you enjoy being with people your own age?”
“It was okay.” The diamonds flashed and twinkled as she held her arm away to get a better look, “at least until we fucked.”
“Why? What happened?” It was as if he was deliberately probing an aching tooth. Did he really want the details? He ground his teeth as the image of her naked under a horny young stud flashed into his mind.
“Boys,” she was looking sideways at him and smiling knowingly, “they just have no idea what a woman wants.”
Their next quarrel was to have far-reaching consequences. They were in Madrid. He was there to follow up the potential acquisition of a troubled Spanish company. She had joined him for the last few days.
To all intents and purposes he was extremely pleased with the way things were turning out. Naturally there were risks in the new venture, but he believed they were within acceptable parameters. He felt he had accomplished enough to warrant spending the last afternoon relaxing by the hotel pool.
The bottle of wine they had shared with their late lunch had made him drowsy. That, combined with the restorative effects of the sun on his body meant he was content to do little more than doze on the sun-bed.
Stephanie lowered her magazine. “I’m going swimming. Coming?” she asked.
&n
bsp; “Not this time.”
“Okay.”
Through half-closed eyes he watched her stroll the short distance to the edge of the pool. She could so easily be a model, he thought. Not only was she beautiful, she was graceful and lithe. Not to mention so very, very sexy. Especially in that tiny bikini. Pausing on the edge of the pool she casually gathered her hair and caught it up in an elastic band. Charles knew he was not the only one taking notice when she raised herself onto her toes and, with the perfection of an athlete, dove into the water.
He was about to drift off again when his attention was caught by a group dining at a table on the opposite side of the pool. All four were casually following Stephanie’s progress through the water. One of the women turned to talk to her partner, and his heart almost stopped.
It couldn’t be, could it?
If it was, what was she doing in Madrid, of all places? He was suddenly wide-awake and thinking fast. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence. He recalled a sister who lived somewhere in Spain. Where the hell was it? It was no good, he couldn’t remember. He sat up quickly and gathered his things. No point in courting trouble. He’d return to their room before he was noticed. Stephanie would wonder where he’d gone, but that was okay. She would follow when she was ready.
He risked a second glance. Mathilde was looking right at him. Even at that distance he could see the smile playing on her lips. She had lowered her sunglasses and tilted her head.
Knowing he could hardly do otherwise he lifted his hand in reply.
Mathilde turned away, and suddenly all four were focused on him. He recognised her husband, Philippe. The man was pushing back his chair and standing to beckon him over. As if to make matters worse, he was happily waving a wine bottle.
Charles heart sank even farther.
Knowing that to do otherwise would appear not only discourteous but also odd, he made his way around the pool. The group were already shuffling chairs to make space for him.
“Philippe. What a surprise!” he said, leaning forward to take the offered hand. Then turned. “And Mathilde.”