Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  She pulls herself over me, slippery and warm then rising to her previous position, straddling my buttocks; she takes my arms in her hands and leans back pulling them with her like reins of a horse. I can feel her pelt against me, grinding out little pleasures shuttering forth on currents of her own nectars.

  A moment passes, two, and after a couple of breaths and a sigh, she dismounts and cool air washes across my bare skin.

  My eyes remain closed, anticipating where her hands will go next. And, just as I should have guessed the dribbling returns to warm the audience before the main event and this time over my buttocks and down the backs of my legs. The little jar goes back to the small heater on the side table to remain warm and molten, while her hands return to me spreading the slippery substance across my backside and down my legs to my feet and between my toes. With both hands, she bends each foot inward then kneads the tops and soles before deftly running her fingers between and around each toe. She takes a toe into her mouth like an offering to a deft tongue for suckling and fondling.

  Never have I ever experienced such pleasures at the most unlikely end of my anatomy. And why should not those all important pedis of human anatomy, the two extremes on which we depend to carry us through everyday of our lives, to dance and play and for women to wrap in Jimmie Choos; why should not these wings of Mercury receive the attention Tanya is so lovingly bestowing upon mine?

  Though they be the farthest end of our anatomies, it is but a simple U-turn for Tanya's hands as they find their way back up my calves and along my thighs, pressing hard, like an earth compactor breaking stubborn tissue and muscle along the way. She signals for me to spread my legs wider, so she can continue her journey up the inside of my thighs and underneath. I raise my hips a little to give her hands room to run over the fronts of my thighs.

  When my legs are thoroughly oiled and assaulted from the backside, she again mounts the table, this time clamping my two calves between the vice of her legs. Reaching for the small jar, she amply oils her hands, rubbing them together like a surgeon preparing to reach into a woman to extract something. She pushes down, hard against my buttocks, one hand on each cheek, kneading them vigorously with the heels of her palms. Then, rising to her knees, and leveraging all her weight, she folds her hands into fists and digs into the muscle, twisting and turning until they scream. With each upward push, my buttocks spread and the cool air of the room finds it's way into places rarely visited.

  She stops and reapplies a new bath of warm oil. Then, placing one hand against the center of my lower back and rising up on one knee she signals for me to lift. She reaches around and takes me into the grip of her hand and squeezes me while a single digit from the other traces its way up and between my buttocks, sending Morse codes of indescribable pleasure to my brain. The same route is retraced a couple more times, softening my resistance until she comes to a certain place when, without notice, she invades.

  It was an awakening, and I snap around her finger like a noose, but she remains, unperturbed and confident. After a moment, the digit wiggles, then circles, slowly coaxing me to relax. When I do she assaults me with a second ambush, this time to the hilt. Again, the noose snaps like a bear trap, but it's too late because now she's massaging my prostate, and I'm lapsing into a mild insanity. Do I complain? And risk expulsion from this institution of higher learning where pleasure trumps sanity? No way. And this was only the first level.

  Post-graduate studies came when the first hand, in which I was happily cocooned below, tightened its hold and like a pump in simultaneous effort - above and below or in front and behind, whatever - launches me into a place where if I could spent the remainder of my days, and retire there, I would.

  She says nothing, and neither do I. At this juncture, words are an anachronism.

  Bringing both hands together she returns to my buttocks, each grasping a cheek. And with thumbs side-by-side, pressing into my cleavage, she spreads and I can feel her face and her cheeks pushing against me while something else flicks like butterfly wings creating a sensation so unexpected, so unfamiliar to those regions, yet so intensely erotic and wicked, I lose myself a second time into the linen underneath. When she senses I am finally and completely exorcised of all strength, like Delilah's haircutting Samson, she backs off and dismounts the table with the agility of a gymnast. Now here I lay, the last vestiges of strength having been drained away along with all the blood in my body.

  She returns to the heating oils and again anoints her hands liberally before approaching the head of the table where my face is mashed into the circular rest like a mute death mask scrutinizing the floor. Up against the face rest, she leans her whole self across me pushing her slick hands down my back. On their return she reaches under my armpits and pulls both of my dead arms around her waist.

  “Hold me, Tucker while I reach across you," she says.

  I do, and with her hands gripping my hips she hoists herself up and over me until her legs wrap around my head, and her face lays against my buttocks. Again, she spreads me and again flicks at me with another round of the same incredible sensations I'd never imagined to have. It was wonderful but on this go-round, she was beating a dead horse. I can only say to this new and unusual experience, while I thoroughly enjoyed the receiving end, I am not at all certain I could find myself on the other.

  When the Guns of Navarone, this time, failed to fire, she dismounts, again with the same agility of a gymnast coming off a pommel horse, and I brace myself for those two dreaded words of every masseuse, "times up," but no.

  Standing on the floor next to the table, she says, “Now, Señor, please turn over onto your back and scoot down the table, so I can remove the face rest.

  Holy shit. There's more?

  She asks me to lie so my head is hanging backward off the table. I humor her, but when I'm in position, the joke's on me because I'm now privy to a full view of her small V-shaped pelt, only upside down. The urge to crawl back from whence I came is overpowering.

  She spreads another liberal hand bath of oil over her entire front, her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs and over her thighs then taking the heated dish, she dribbles oil over my chest and stomach and groin and thighs before replacing it to the side table.

  She returns to her standing position in front of my upside-down head and pushes into my face leaning over me spreading oil as far as she can reach. Her hands glide with an incredible feminine touch and each time she leans over me, stretching herself forward her pelt pushing into my face, and each time I inhale, I am intoxicated. I'm so hard and erect, all over again; it surely must belong to someone else.

  Once I am as thoroughly oiled as a turkey ready for the broiler, she leans her whole body forward, pulling herself over me, sliding just enough, when she spreads her legs, they separate exactly over my face and I can taste her at will and inhale her aromas, and I do.

  With her bare belly pressed across my chest, and her breasts spread softly over my belly; her hand wraps around me guiding me into her mouth. Our bodies’ slip and slide across each other like two slabs of greased meat. And like a metronome squeezing out synchronized rhythms of pleasure, her thighs tighten around my head until together, as one, we're pushed upward into an exploding crescendo of ecstasy. It was a raw and unfettered release.

  As the aftershock tremors fade away, and she's squeezed out every last drop, her head collapses onto my groin. Moments later, her breathing tells me she's fast asleep, with only a thin sheen of slippery, warm lubricant separating us.

  I too fall into a dreamlike state and awaken only when she slides off and drops to the floor with a thud. Ouch. Fortunately, like the over-relaxed drunk surviving the impossible automobile accident, she's okay.

  How do I feel? Better? Physically, I am regenerated into my youth of twenty-one; tons better. But, it's not enough to prevent my thoughts returning to Monica, and backsliding into my funk of despair. Guilt backwashes up my throat, and I'm again seized in the paralyzing grip of helplessness that al
l is lost with Monica. Dragging myself into the bedroom, Tanya follows, but I tell her, not tonight.

  "I'm sorry. You were wonderful company, and the massage was the most awesome I've ever experienced, but I need to be alone tonight."

  “You are missing your woman, aren't you?"

  “I'm afraid I may never see her again."

  “But, you might too. You should not allow yourself to give up, Señor Blue. She is still out there waiting for you. You are probably her only hope, and unless you do something, she will be doomed. Maybe you cannot save her, but you do not know because you have not tried, and if you do not try you will never know, and she will be doomed for sure.

  Señor Blue, I am Romanian, and I too was kidnapped and sold into slavery when I was but only thirteen. My father tried to save me, but he was killed while trying. My brother tried to save me, and he too was killed. Eventually, I escaped, but I never forgot what my father and brother tried to do for me, and if they had not, I would have surely been killed too. Instead, their trying gave me a determination to escape, and I made my way here, to Madame Bovarie. It may not be the best thing in the world for me, but I know that, anytime I want, I can leave. I am not a slave to this place. I am here because she was decent enough to take me in, and she treats me very well. But, I will never forget what my father and my brother tried to do for me, never. And why did they do it? They did it for love, because they loved me. Not the same love Señora Monica has for you and you for her, but love nonetheless. Love is love. Love is when you are willing to do anything, to give up everything, even your life for the other.

  I only wish I could give up everything for love - someday maybe. But, you have your chance to do it now. You could save Señora Monica, and if you do, you will have love. If you do not, you'll never have it because you will not be deserving of love. You cannot pick and choose love. Love picks and chooses you, if you are lucky. So what, you might lose everything? What better thing is there to lose if not everything for love? What could be more honorable, what could be more romantic? You know yourself if you do not do everything within your power to defeat these evil people and save your woman, you'll never have love again because you will never again be deserving of it. Without sacrifice there can be no love. Besides, who said you cannot defeat these evil ones?

  She's counting on you. She loves you, and you love her, so what is the problem? Get out of your depression and get mad. What do you have to lose? Is anything worth losing love over? You have nothing if you do not have love.

  Good-luck Señor Blue. I will leave you to yourself tonight, and you can dwell on what you must do. I know you will do the right thing because I know you are a good man. I could only wish I was as lucky a woman as Señora Monica to have a man like you coming to save me."

  With that, Tanya walked out and left me to do what I have to do.

  forty-eight

  Wee Morning Hours, Monday, 8 September.

  The El Raval Apartment.

  What Tanya said to me - someone half my age and twice as worldly-wise, especially about love - really got to me.

  I can't sleep, my mind is racing and telling me falling in love with a total stranger after only a week of knowing them - and how much do I know about her anyway? Nothing really, is about as stupid a notion as there could possibly be. Even so, my heart screams I do love her, and no amount of analysis and rationale is going to change it, so shut up, and mind your own business. You know nothing. Your idea of love is an algorithm for robots.

  ***

  The sun hasn't yet risen, and I'm laying here in bed, mad as hell, fuming about all that's happened, furious at the sheer audacity of these people that they can diddle with people's lives with such impunity. This flight crew, the piss-ant midget of a doctor, and now this scum bag Rakim - bloodsuckers all!

  You think you can have your way with this ole dumb American and take everything, including my woman, stomp on my heart like a cockroach and leave me for road kill, so framed up I'll slither into the sewers of Barcelona never to be seen or heard from again? Well, today the worm turns. I will scorch the earth with you bastards before I let that happen, and I will rescue Monica no matter the costs because I have nothing to lose now. That's what you've created - all of you - a man with nothing to lose - the most dangerous animal, there is. So, look out motherfuckers because . . .

  HERE COMES TUCKER!

  And the first maggot on the agenda this morning is Rakim.

  I check the bedside clock, 5:00AM. Holy shit, I've hardly slept and never felt better. I pick up my cell phone and dial Rakim. Five rings go by before a sleepy voice answers.

  "Rakim, this is Tucker. Meet me under the Green Dragon in one hour."

  "What? The green what? Are you mad, Blue? What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about our meeting this morning you idiot. What do you think? Get your ass out of bed and meet me at the Green Dragon on Las Ramblas in one hour. Be there or be square, ass-wipe. (Even I can't believe I just said that.) You want this ticket or not?" I say.

  "Green dragon? How do you know about the Green Dragon?"

  Good, he knows where it is.

  "You have no idea how much I know, Rakim. Just be there. You've now got fifty-five minutes. I'll wait two minutes. After that I'm gone like the wind." (Gone like the wind. Am I original or what?). I hang up, put on a pot of coffee, and jump into the shower.

  Wait. Maybe I should skip the shower and leave the perfume of the sweet Tanya lingering for good luck. Yeah.

  Fifteen minutes later, I'm dressed and armed with my coffee, a stun gun, and half a dozen tiny GPS transmitters.

  I decide to take the Mini Cooper and save having to find a cab. And when I get in the thing, the huge Cyclops of a speedometer dominating the entire dashboard appears to promise I'm going to have some fun driving this baby. I remember Madame Bovarie mentioning something about armor plating and bulletproof glass, and a souped-up engine. When I crank the thing up in the enclosed garage, the rumble from this bad boy confirms, Madame Bovarie knows of what she speaks.

  The only thing missing for this meeting is a plan. It's going to be an improv.

  By five-forty, I'm parked in a space on the Ramblas sipping my coffee across from the Green Dragon. Barcelona is only just now beginning to stir from her sleep, and all is quite except for the occasional motorcycle or two arriving every couple of minutes to park in a clutch of other bikes on the far side of the street.

  When my watch turns to five fifty-five, I step out of the car and leisurely make my way across the Ramblas, stop for a moment to inspect a poster of the two kidnapped girls, Sophia De la Riva and Elena Basso, and consider their lovely young faces, wondering how anyone, even the most depraved, could harm such innocents. They were last seen in Puigcerda. And the awful photo of the flayed woman invades my mind but this time the nausea rising within me before is a hot rage. My teeth clench until my jaw hurts trying to keep the furies from screaming their way out. I rip the poster down and stuffing it into my pocket, I cross the Ramblas with the walk of an angry man on an ugly mission until I'm standing directly below the Green Dragon and his umbrella. The shop is closed.

  No more than a minute passes when a voice calls out from behind. It's Rakim.

  "You are the early bird catching the worm; I presume?" he says.

  I turn and offer my right hand. He takes it, and we shake while my left hand pats him on the shoulder in the manner of good friends, attaching the small GPS transmitter to his jacket just under the collar.

  "So good of you to come and meet with me, my friend," I say wanting to gag, but enjoying his wincing at my unexpected friendly manner.

  "You've had your coffee, I see," he says.

  "Sorry, I'm such a bear first thing in the morning. But, a coffee or two later and the bear's a pussycat. I'm not quite there yet, but I could be with a tad more. Want to join me for cup of Joe? We can discuss our business over there," I say pointing to the outdoor cafe centering the Ramblas where several tables are being set up fo
r the day. Before he has a chance to answer I'm already walking in that direction, and he's forced into the role of follower, and he doesn't like it one bit. Tough shit, because it is I who possesses the prize he so desperately seeks.

  "Is this acceptable?" I ask, ignoring him and taking a chair anyway. I wave the waiter over and order two coffees and breakfast menus.

  "So Rakim," I say looking him straight in the eye, "what is it you have for me?

  To say my question startled him would be an understatement. It caught him with the surprise one might expect to see from a kid suddenly and unexpectedly called upon by the science teacher to recite the autobiographic allusions from Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy.

  "You've given the matter some thought, right? I mean, surely you must have devised an ingenious plan of attack by now," I say with all the seriousness I can muster in spite of the urge to fall over in sheer laughter at the dumfounded expression seizing his face. I wait and watch as his confusion morphs into a seething rage.

  "Are you okay Rakim?" I ask with exaggerated concern. "Do you need a glass of water?" I turn and wave again at our waiter, motioning for two waters. He acknowledges and in an instant, he's at the table with two full glasses.

  "Mucho gracias," I say. "My friend here seems to be at a loss for words. I think a little water might help dislodge them." He nods and retreats and when out of earshot, Rakim has his anger under control enough to speak.