In A French Country Vineyard

Yvonne Sarah Lewis IN A FRENCH COUNTRY VINEYARD BY YVONNE SARAH LEWIS Venus Press LLC 2 IN A FRENCH COUNTRY VINEYAR...

Author: Lewis Yvonne Sarah

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Yvonne Sarah Lewis

IN A FRENCH COUNTRY VINEYARD BY YVONNE SARAH LEWIS Venus Press LLC

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IN A FRENCH COUNTRY VINEYARD

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

IN A FRENCH COUNTRY VINEYARD Copyright © 2006 by Yvonne Sarah Lewis ISBN: 1-59836-311-5 Cover Art © 2006 by Jonathan Fesmire All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America. For information, you can find us on the web at www.VenusPress.com

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Yvonne Sarah Lewis

Tasting

Remembering how hot the village of Chablis had been the day before, Carol selected her lightest underwear and a loose-fitting cotton dress. Matching low-heeled sandals and a pretty, broad-brimmed straw hat bought in Auxerre completed the ensemble. She studied the image in the mirror: a tall, blue-eyed blonde, her shoulderlength hair smooth but flicking up at the ends. She looked elegant yet informal in a yellow shirt-dress that suited her lightly tanned skin. Smart but comfortably cool. Brian too wore a hat: a Panama, with his short-sleeved white shirt and shorts. He’d let his chest hair grow but his skull was shaved. He complained when she insisted on anointing it with sun block, but didn’t seem to mind when she applied protection to the prominent muscles of his arms and legs. He’d burned the tops of his calves so she made a special effort there, kneeling behind him and planting a kiss on the cotton-clad summit of each proud buttock when she’d finished. Then she had to endure the teasing, arousing process herself. “That’s enough!” she cried, when his hands strayed from her thighs to slip under the hem of her pants. It was already warm in their shaded room, and there wasn’t time to shower again. Much as she’d have liked to spend the day making languid love and cooling off in the shower, today they were changing hotels and moving to the South of Burgundy. There wasn’t a hotel room to languish in. Their cases were already on the coach. Besides, there were visits to Beaune and the Côte d’Or today, to taste probably the best wines in Burgundy, if not the world. Most of the people on the tour were older, though there was a silver-haired man with a young redheaded woman. Carol wondered if they were having fun with the sunscreen too. The redhead’s skin was very pale, she always wore a hat. They watched a lot but said little. They’d all breakfasted in the cool air under mature trees in the hotel garden. It was a small family-run place off the ring road in Auxerre, a pretty town on a broad river 4


crossed by a spectacular footbridge. They would be sorry to leave it, but Johnny, the tour manager and wine expert, seemed to have a knack for choosing delightful places to stay and things to do. They’d had a fabulous meal in Chablis the previous day and had walked two hundred yards down the dusty street afterwards to a chateau tasting of cru Chablis. Unfortunately, the food had been so good and waiters had filled their glasses so assiduously that they were an hour late and far from sober. Beaune was much hotter than Auxerre. It was market day and the streets of the centre were filled with stalls offering local produce and domestic articles. Johnny, tall and stately, led the way to the Hôtel Dieu, the major attraction, with its patterned roof of glossy tiles. It was cool enough inside and they spent time exploring, and imagining what it must have been like for patients and their families in their stalls of blackened wood. Hospital cases in the Middle Ages clearly expected to suffer yet be grateful for the attention they got. Brian and Carol wandered through the market and had a snack lunch in the dark interior of a small café popular with market stallholders. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and stopped to greet and have a joke with them. Carol felt even more outof-step when the staff bustled in and started to manhandle tables and chairs into the street, blocking it completely. They didn’t disturb their English customers, however, and when Brian caught the proprietor’s eye two more glasses of chilled pression arrived almost immediately. The coach took them South to the Côte de Beaune, along narrow winding roads to a tiny village with a small chateau. Then it turned onto a sloping gravel yard in front of an ornate three-storey building set into the hillside. Johnny got out, leaving everyone to sit happily in the air-conditioned coach while he went to talk to a man leaning on a shiny car. They were an incongruous couple: Johnny in crumpled linen slacks and an opennecked shirt and the stranger in a dark blue three-piece suit with collar and tie. “Makes me hot just to look at him,” Brian grinned, watching the stranger. “He must be boiling in that!” “Mmm, he doesn’t look hot,” Carol replied. The man was young and handsome, with neat dark hair. His shoes shone under the dark pants. Johnny came back to the coach and swung himself up the steps. “Phew, it’s hot out there,” he said, mopping his brow with a large handkerchief. Despite his age and bulk, Johnny was still an attractive man. His grey hair was thinning, 5

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but his goatee beard was still dark. He’d delighted the older women on the tour by flirting outrageously with them, but left Carol and the redhead alone. Johnny pointed with his thumb: “That’s Lucien de L’Artoisville,” he announced. “His family have owned this vineyard and winery for two hundred years. He spent the last two years working for Lafite as a sort of apprentice and now he’s come back home.” He grinned mischievously. “They give him jobs like showing us around to see if he’s learned anything before allowing him loose on the grapes.” They all laughed dutifully. “No, but seriously, his parents are on holiday in Switzerland and have left him in charge.” “He looks very nice; is he married?’ asked one of Johnny’s pet old ladies. There were sniggers from the others. Carol reflected that the response would have been unacceptable had Lucien been a woman. “He’s betrothed, so hands off, Mrs Durbridge. He’s come back to marry his child-hood sweetheart…” Johnny winked. “…who just happens to be the daughter of the people who own the neighbouring chateau.” There was much whispering and nodding. “Now, it’s cold in the cellar, so bring your cardigans.” Lucien introduced himself and the winery. He was a dish, Carol decided. Tall, athletic, with the grace and self-assurance only the scion of generations of French nobility could achieve. He spoke English with a perfect French accent. The language had never, nevaire, sounded so romantic. Carol could almost smell the pheromones rising from the ladies in the party—and some of the men. Lucien may have been cool in his suit, but he was hot. Instead of taking his perspiring audience into the winery, Lucien led them into the vineyard. Neat rows of vines led from the road they’d arrived on all the way up to the bare rocks and shrubs that marked the crest of the Côte. Despite the accent, Carol found her mind wandering as their host explained that Chardonnay was grown on the paler soil of the upper slopes, while down where they were, dark red soil supported Pinot Noir. There was a man driving a funny little tractor up and down the vineyard, trimming the vines, so she watched him. The tractor wheels fitted exactly between the rows, with the engine and driver perched above them. Carol marvelled at the importance of a crop that demanded a machine designed to fit it exactly. British tractors were multi-purpose beasts of about as much use in this manicured land as a bull in a china shop. Even the driver was miniature, a walnut-skinned man in a thick check shirt with a flat cap. Carol picked up and then discarded one of the trimmings: a 6


long, thin tendril, with broad, soft leaves. The air seemed thin, twice baked, and they were relieved and grateful when Lucien, still apparently comfortable in his elegant suit, accepted that there would be no questions and led them across the yard and into the winery. The talk was now of machinery and processing, but the hall where they now stood was spotless and deliciously cool. Carol stood still and allowed the moisture on her legs and face to evaporate while Lucien’s voice washed over her. He told them a little of his history: his father was the fourth Comte and he, Lucien would be the fifth in due course. Johnny’s wilting ladies perked up at that, and there were more whispers and nudges. Carol stepped to the side to get a better view of the handsome young man and incidentally, the bottling plant he seemed so proud of. She was momentarily dazzled by a misdirected spotlight and, when she moved out of its glare, found that Lucien had been similarly transfixed. He stood like a statue, staring at her. Carol looked round to see who he was looking at, only to see there was no one else around. Lucien coughed and quickly led them through the store of maturing casks to a rusty steel door set into the wall. “And now, the library,” he announced. The door had a large padlock and swung back with a clang. It was like one that Carol had seen on Jersey, where it gave access to part of the German Atlantic Wall defences. Behind it was a pitch-black hole. Carol wasn’t the only one to shudder. Lucien turned a switch and a weak light illumined a curving stone wall. “Be careful, the stairs are slippery and the walls are not clean.” He wasn’t apologising for the lack of maintenance. The filth creeping down the wall of the slimy staircase was the proud result of hundreds of years of damp and decay. The first Comte hadn’t seen fit to have it cleaned, so why should his heirs be so fussy? They descended cautiously, holding onto the thick, rope handrail that spiralled down, clamped in rusty loops. They arrived in what Carol speculated must be the dirtiest cellar in France. The walls were lined with bottles on stone shelves. Festoons of dusty cobwebs linked them and the edges of the shelves were grey and fluffy with mould. In this library there were no books except for a neat stack of folders on an upended half-cask. They were the cleanest things in the cellar, except for a neat rank of gleaming glasses in front of a short row of bottles. Brian nudged Carol and rubbed his hands: the tasting, at last! 7

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

Lucien explained the purpose of the room they were in. It was the wine library, containing samples of vintages going back over a hundred years. Occasionally an ancient bottle would be opened and the family and senior employees would be able to taste and compare it with more recent vintages. It was a way of seeing how they were maturing and what their potential might be. “Of course,” he admitted, “many of the bottles here are past their best. But it is astonishing how long a very good wine will keep in ideal conditions.” He spoke with pride and enthusiasm of past vintages and their tasting, glancing at his audience and making eye contact. It seemed to be going very well, but Carol could sense unease in his stance. He was avoiding her eyes. At last he started to pour the wine: white first, Bâtard-Montrachet. When he came to Carol his eyes met hers and he nearly dropped her glass. Under the tan he was blushing like a virgin. Brian took the next glass from him carefully but firmly and the moment passed. Carol’s hand stole into Brian’s and he gripped it while they sniffed and tasted the wine. It had a rich, complex mineral nose with the flavour of peaches and a long, nutty, buttery aftertaste. At least that’s how the others were describing it. To Carol it had the flavour of a handsome young man with eyes like deep pools, generous lips and soft, dry fingertips brushing hers. Perhaps it was the cold, but her nipples were erect and tingling. “Beautiful,” breathed Brian. Carol nodded, not sure what she was agreeing about. Lucien nearly lost it completely with the red. He seemed unable to concentrate on more than his speech and was grateful when Johnny took over the honour of pouring a rich, multi-layered Savigny-lès-Beaune. When he came to Carol, he had to take her glass and flick the remaining contents onto the cellar floor before dribbling the pungent, earthy liquor into it. Automatically she raised it to her lips, catching Lucien’s eye as she did so. It was like being caressed and made love to all over, inside and out. The perfume of him remained in her throat while Lucien hastily completed his talk and Johnny distributed souvenir brochures. The others chattered and giggled their way up the stairs and at last Brian ushered Carol before him, treating her like an invalid. In the gloom of the staircase she could imagine the young Frenchman blushing before her and savour him on her tongue. Conscious that something had happened, Johnny hurried them onto the coach and they waved goodbye. The air-conditioning must have been turned up too high, for Carol 8


hugged herself and shivered until Brian wrapped her in his warm arms and crushed her to him. He smelt good, but the flavour of the Burgundian persisted at the back of her mouth. Carol waited in the cool of the lobby of an impersonal modern hotel in Tournus while Brian queued up for a key. Then she was able to walk unaided up the steps and collapse onto the bed in their room. She lay, idly watching Brian strip and tidy away his clothes. He was about to take a shower but at the last turned and knelt by the bed. “Are you all right?” He frowned. “Yes, sure.” Carol licked her lips and swallowed. Burgundy. “I’m fine. Just felt a bit—” “—Faint?” “Ye-es. I suppose it was the smell of wine. But I’m all right now.” She needed to get the scent of Burgundy out of her head. Well, there’s one way… “Help me off with my things and we can take a shower together.” Brian helped her gently and quickly, but they didn’t make it to the shower. The smell of his fresh sweat and the salty taste of his body were almost all that she required. When they had finished and he lay on his back with his stout penis lolling to one side, Carol took it into her mouth and set about drowning the flavour of the wine with the flavour of her man, right to the back of her throat. There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Cunningham?” Carol grinned but did not let up as Brian gasped his reply. “Mr. Cunningham, there is a message for you.” “Ye-es?” “It is a dinner invitation.” Carol sat up on her heels, open-mouthed. “For Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, to dine at the Chateau de L’Artoisville.” Carol closed her mouth. Suddenly there was a funny taste in it.

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Yvonne Sarah Lewis

Chateau

Brian left Carol squatting on the bed and pulled on a bathrobe to open the door. Carol’s self-confidence and control had been torn from her, together with her sense of humour. The sight of Brian struggling to keep his unruly penis from poking through the robe failed to amuse. An abyss, flickering with frightening possibilities, had opened before her. Brian came back with a hand-written note on stiff yellow paper with an embossed crest. It was in French. Carol flinched when he offered it to her. “Don’t you want to go?” Brian demanded. The question felt like a blow. Carol searched her husband’s face. He was frowning, and when tears started to overflow her eyes he laughed bitterly. “Perhaps we’d better,” he said. “Or shall I just send you? That’s all he wants, isn’t it?” Carol said nothing. Suddenly the room was deathly cold and she began to shiver. If only Brian would touch her, strike her even… Yes, if he’d beat her, beat her until he’d punished her for the infidelity in her heart, beaten it out of her and satisfied his own lust for cruelty. But he didn’t. From a long way off she heard his voice again. It was soft and gentle. In a way, that hurt worse than his anger. “Have your shower. I’ll see what Johnny thinks about this.” The door closed behind him. Carol lay on her side, sobbing and shivering until she’d cried herself out. The abyss was now inside her. What if Brian insisted she went? And worse, what if he refused to let her go? The image of Lucien’s face rose out of the dark, again the imagined taste of him came to her lips. With terrible clarity she saw herself kneeling on the dirty floor of the ‘library’, Lucien’s brown penis filling her mouth with its aroma of Burgundy, while Brian, strangely shrunken, lashed her back and shoulders with a long whip. Streams of red wine ran from slashes in her skin. It was so vivid that she didn’t realise she was cupping her vulva in both hands until the orgasm overtook her. 10


Calm at last, she rose from the bed and showered. She’d no control over what would happen, no say about the invitation. Whether Brian decided they’d go or stay, she would accept his choice and its consequences, even if it meant replaying in reality the scene she’d just played in her head. Lucien! A hand reached through the shower curtain and gripped her shoulder. She realised with guilt that she’d been singing to herself and masturbating again. She instantly ceased both activities. Brian, water running down his arm and onto his bare torso, was looking at her in amazement. “We’re going,” he announced, pushing himself under the shower beside her. His muscular body was warm and smooth. Carol didn’t know whether to embrace him or not. He decided for her by capturing her hands and placing them on his groin. She soaped and stroked his erect organ while he told her of his discussion with Johnny. “Johnny would like us to go, so long as we behave ourselves…” Brian permitted himself a smile, and paused while her fingers’ loose grip teased him. “…he can’t afford to upset the family; he has to deal with them, after all, and he wants to carry on bringing parties to the winery.” Carol allowed Brian to thrust himself into the tunnel made by her joined hands but betrayed him with thoughts of doing the same for Lucien. Surely Brian wouldn’t place them both in the young man’s power? Would it be all right if she just did what she was now doing for Brian? “But,” Brian went on, “he did say that he was responsible for our welfare, as paying customers. He couldn’t put us into danger.” What danger would they be in? Carol thought of the heavy steel door and the darkness behind it. The chateau would have cellars like that. It was a castle, wasn’t it? Chateau was the French for castle. She’d crept down into the dungeons in castles in England and Wales. With electric light and the company of other tourists, they’d still filled her with fear. She imagined Brian’s body, gleaming with sweat and blood, shackled to a dungeon wall to watch her tormented on the rack. Stretched, beaten, branded… Brian took her wrists in his hands to still them. He was breathing heavily, but still had something to say. “Look, Carol, it’s from Lucien and his fiancée. He surely won’t try anything with his betrothed there.” 11

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“No, of course not.” Of course not. She was worrying unnecessarily. Perhaps the young man, in charge for the first time, had decided to try extending the wine visit by providing a ‘chateau experience’ for a selected couple from the party. Perhaps that was it. “Unless you want him to.” Brian’s brown eyes bored into hers, gazing down into her soul. Then he released her wrists and gripped her shoulders. He began gyrating his hips to slide his manhood to and fro again. Carol closed her eyes to hide from his, then concentrated on his pleasure. Soon she knelt under the running water to rinse and take him in her mouth. Her own orgasm was deferred. She didn’t know how long for, or who might share it. The car was to pick them up at eight. Brian took a cruel delight in making her look as alluring as possible. While she shaved her legs and made herself up, he laid out the clothes she was to wear. She’d brought a black cocktail dress, in case they needed to dress up for an evening out. Brian had selected a red platform bra that offered her breasts up to its low neck, with matching lacy pants. He’d found hold-up stockings and high-heeled shoes, and completed his selection with pearl drop earrings and a single fat pearl on a long chain, which rolled to and fro at the top of her cleavage. He fastened this last round her neck as she watched in the mirror. “Brian, why are you doing this?” “Doing what?” he grinned. “Dressing me up like this. Offering me to him.” “You want him, don’t you?” “That’s not the point. I’m married to you; I’m supposed—” “Do you love me?” “Yes, of course I do.” “But you fell for Lucien. Love at first sight.” “But—” “And he fell for you…?” “I suppose so.” “You want him, don’t you?” More than anything. “Ye-es, but—” 12


“But nothing. He wants you. That’s what this is all about.” Brian brandished the invitation. “Yes,” Carol admitted. She allowed herself to think of Lucien, the taste of him; only it wasn’t his real flavour, it was the taste of the wine… What did he really taste like? Brian, for motives of his own, was offering her the chance to find out. “Will you come back to me? When you tire of him?” Brian’s face was solemn, now. The smiling mask had gone. He was really worried, but prepared to risk his own happiness, their happiness together, to let her satisfy this whim. More than a whim: her vulva churned at the thought of Lucien’s face, the odour of his wine. “Yes, Brian I will,” she promised, hoping she could fulfil it. A dark thought struck her; perhaps it was the thought of dungeons and torture that made her think of it. “Brian?” “Yes?” “If I’m unfaithful to you, will you punish me?” Brian’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He closed it, and spent so long thinking that her mind had the opportunity to play games, showing her visions of agony, of her husband, in executioner’s leather hood, coiling and uncoiling a long, many-tailed whip. At last Brian cut into her reverie. “Of course.” His eyes glittered with mischief and cruelty. “Do you want to know what I’ll do?” She shook her head. Not knowing was part of the torment. He wasn’t to take that from her. She stood upright, like a guardsman, her gaze fixed on the wall, while he strolled round her, inspecting. He halted by her side and breathed an instruction into her ear. “Stand still.” Carol tried to stop her body trembling as his hand slid up under her skirt and cupped her lace-clad mons. He held it, without moving, for a long moment. When his hand was withdrawn she felt suddenly cold, and stumbled forward. “Stand still,” he whispered again. When she had recovered, he stepped in front of her and gave the last command: “Kneel.” The others were in the lounge, waiting for the coach to take them to a restaurant. Carol would have walked straight past and out of the front door, but Brian was not to be denied this opportunity to show her off. He looked smart in black trousers and the cream dinner jacket he thought suitable for sunny climes, and conversation in the room paused as he was greeted. Carol’s entrance created a stunned silence. She could feel the glow of 13

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Brian’s pride as he stood beside her. Johnny, wearing the creased linen jacket that went with the trousers he’d worn in the day, hurried up and smiled nervously. “Please understand that I’m very grateful to you for accepting this invitation. It’s not often we get the chance…” He tailed off and stared briefly at Carol’s décolletage as if he’d never seen a woman’s breasts before. “…Just be…” He gave his trademark boyish grin. “As my mother always used to say, ‘Remember, you are our ambassadors.’” “We’ll try not to upset anyone,” Brian smiled. “Don’t worry: I’ve told Carol she’s to be on her best behaviour.” Johnny’s face was a picture; a moving picture, as he tried to work out what Carol’s best behaviour was likely to be. Brian gripped Carol’s elbow rather too hard and steered her to the door. “’Bye, everyone. Don’t wait up for us.” Carol’s blush had time to fade before the car arrived: a long, blue Renault, driven by a sulky-faced young woman. The window buzzed down and she turned to look them up and down. Carol felt as if her skin was being peeled off by someone who was disgusted by what was beneath. The searchlight of the girl’s disapproval switched to Brian. “Mister… Cunningham?” The surname was spoken as if it was a rude word. Carol reflected that to a Frenchwoman, it probably was. Brian replied. “Yes. Good evening, Miss… Mademoiselle…?” He sounded nervous, obsequious. It wasn’t like him. Surely he wasn’t going to fawn on the French aristocracy? “Arabelle.” Just like that, no surname, like the Queen. You were expected to know. Carol wondered if they were supposed to kiss the young woman’s hand. It wasn’t offered, but they had to get into the car without assistance or acknowledgement. Maybe this surly girl was simply an employee, sent to fetch the English guests, and miffed at the extra task at the end of a long day, when she could have been home with her family—or her lover. Brian made a show of opening the rear door for Carol and seeing her settled, before getting in the front with Arabelle, who sat impassively through the whole performance, with her hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. They were off before he’d fastened his seatbelt. Their taciturn driver neither looked round nor gave a signal before plunging the car into traffic. Behind them, horns blared, but she didn’t even give them the finger. Perhaps this is the difference between French and Italian driving, Carol 14


pondered. The Italians invariably gave you the finger; the French didn’t even give you that. Brian finished wrestling with his seatbelt and tried to make conversation, “Nice car.” Arabelle grunted and shook her thick, chin-length dark hair. And that was the most they got from her on the all the long journey North. From the wistful glances Brian kept giving her—when he wasn’t focussed in horror on the road ahead—he wished, as Carol did, that he’d sat in the back with her. They could have whispered together and held hands. At last they arrived. Arabelle’s driving suddenly became sedate and they slid demurely through a stone gateway without gates and up a short drive to the chateau, coming to a halt on the threadbare gravel at the front. Carol opened the car door herself and stood by Brian. If he’d been expecting towers and pinnacles he was going to be disappointed. The chateau was a plain, rectangular building of weathered yellow stone, with creepers growing over the corners. It resembled nothing so much as an over-sized farmhouse. The honey-coloured stone was stained and scarred with age, giving a soft patina. The evening sun cast long shadows across its homely face, picking out bumps and hollows in the surface. It was a family home, unpretentious, comfortable, and above all welcoming. A place like this wouldn’t have dungeons: merely cellars full of dusty bottles and odds and ends discarded over generations. The slim girl standing impatiently on the steps wasn’t welcoming. She wore a blue velour dress that clung to her long limbs. It seemed a bit dressy for a member of staff drafted in to act as chauffeuse. Maybe she was herself going out, and this errand had delayed her departure. If it hadn’t been for the sour expression on her face she could have graced the pages of a fashion magazine. Her pelvis tilted invitingly, one hand rested languidly on the frame of the green-painted door, the other folded onto her hip. As Brian led Carol to the soft, worn steps, Arabelle grimaced and pushed the door open. Its paint was dull and peeling; it suited the house perfectly. Lucien appeared in the doorway and paused, as if for effect. He wore a black tuxedo with a white shirt and dark tie. In the slanting sunlight his skin was bronze, his neck long, his features crisp and handsome. The artfully tousled hair was longer than Carol remembered, curling over his forehead. The excitement Carol had had in her heart 15

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

ever since the invitation arrived expanded and descended, suffusing her abdomen with a hollow hunger. The taste of Burgundy rose on her tongue, though her lips were dry. Lucien nodded at the sulky girl and trotted down the steps to greet them. He shook hands with Brian, a firm, manly, arms-length grip. Carol reflected that the French seem to shake hands a lot more than the English are supposed to. But her he embraced. Carol hoped she wouldn’t collapse into his arms as soon as he touched her, but it was Lucien who trembled. He held her tight, his young body angular against hers, his face cool and smooth. He smelled of lavender and wood smoke. Carol felt bulky and untidy, unworthy of this young prince, yet here he was, pressing her slightly too close for slightly too long. He relinquished her, his warm hands lingering on her arms. She swayed, then stood still. “Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham: Brian and Carol, if I may…” The speech had obviously been rehearsed. “Welcome to my home. You have already met my fiancée Arabelle…” he paused and turned to gesture up the steps, but the sulky girl had disappeared. Brian met Carol’s eyes. So that was why she was so angry. Lucien blushed at their hostess’s rudeness, then ushered them up the steps, one hand timidly on Carol’s elbow. He can’t keep his hands off me. It was as much as Carol could do not to lean back into his embrace. The old dining room was half-panelled with dark timber, above it rough plaster was dotted with dusty hunting trophies and ancient firearms. Dead things that had been there so long that no one noticed them any more. Broad windows composed of dozens of tiny panes gave onto a formal garden that became dark as the meal progressed. Lucien welcomed them with a Crémant de Bourgogne, the region’s equivalent of Champagne. “This comes from a vineyard not far from where you stayed in Auxerre,” he explained. Johnny had been at pains to point out a small vineyard within the city, so they could well believe it. “It is light, but I find refreshing, no?” Brian agreed and Carol nodded politely. The wine was sharp and dry. Besides, Carol’s hunger was for something else. She faced Lucien across a long oak table, blackened and smoothed with age and use. At her side, Brian faced the uncommunicative Arabelle. There were no servants. They had evidently been given the night off. With Lucien’s parents on holiday in Lucerne, the four of them had the house to themselves. Had Carol and Brian been lured 16


into a trap? Whenever their hosts left the table to fetch food and wine, her hand stole into Brian’s. His support gave her the strength to carry on, despite the presence of Lucien a few feet from her. She pondered Arabelle’s role in this. Was she expected to bed Brian? She seemed not even to notice him. Poor Brian tried to involve the girl in the talk of wine and food, but she professed to understand little English. Arabelle slid plates of salad topped by slices of foie gras onto the table while Lucien poured tiny glasses of intensely flavoured Sauternes. “I brought this back with me from the Gironde,” he explained. “It is a small producer, but let me know what you think.” Brian sipped carefully. “Wow, it’s certainly sweet.” Lucien seemed disappointed. Brian sipped more. “It’s very fine… Very complex; a lot of flavours there.” “I think so.” Lucien seemed satisfied. Carol hadn’t had goose liver other than in a pâté, and found the firm greasiness rather repellent, despite the acidity of the viscous yellow wine. “I think I’d like to try the wine with something sweet, or a strong cheese,” she said. “Absolutely,” Lucien grinned, as if she’d said something clever, and nearly patted her hand. The main course was Beef Bourguignon. It was as good as they’d had at the hotel the previous night, in fact it was so like it that Carol wondered whether they hadn’t both been purchased frozen and microwaved. Served with it was a Vosne-Romanée of such stunning power and perfume that Brian sat and sipped it while his food grew cold. When the bottle was gone, Lucien winked at Carol, then left the table, returning with a dusty bottle of the same wine, together with a corkscrew. He carefully poured it into the empty decanter and topped up all their glasses. Arabelle clattered the plates together and stamped out, to return with an open apple tart and a jug of fresh cream. Lucien poured Carol a generous glass of the Sauternes. “Tell me what you think,” he urged. Carol’s eyes met his. Not in front of my husband and your fiancée. She tried the wine. It was delicious in this combination, the sweetness of the tart allowing the fresh acidity of the wine to show through. “I like it,” she said. “It tastes much different now, and I prefer it like this.” 17

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“I’ll stick with the Burgundy, if you don’t mind,” Brian murmured, patting the decanter. Then he seemed to withdraw into himself. Perhaps he’d had enough already. “Come on!” Lucien whispered to Carol, standing up and capturing the remains of the Sauternes. “Let’s go to find some cheese!” Brian was staring into his glass; Arabelle was gathering the dishes. Carol grinned and slipped out of her seat. Lucien led the way through a small door and closed it behind them. Then he pressed Carol up against it and kissed her hard. After the initial surprise, she gave in and kissed him back. It wasn’t difficult. She heard Arabelle’s voice from behind the door. She seemed to be haranguing Brian. The only thing Carol could make out, as Lucien led her away up a narrow staircase, was the word “Pimp.”

18


Chardonnay

Lucien was like a puppy, not knowing which to do first: take Carol up the stairs, or take Carol on the stairs. The wine bottle was abandoned on a handy windowsill. The staircase was narrow, a spiral of dark wooden steps within a rectangle of plain, white walls, against which Lucien would kiss and fondle her. His urgency was so charming that Carol didn’t press him to move faster, contenting herself with growing arousal and excitement. She was confined in each corner of the stairwell in turn, unable to move without pushing him away. Repeatedly trapped like this, it was easy to relinquish control and allow him to deal with her at his own pace. But when they reached a landing, she twisted away and rested against the banister rail to get her breath back. Her turned back did not perplex her lover for long. He pressed his body against hers and reached round to grasp her breasts. Soon he was rubbing his groin against her buttocks and kissing her nape. When he started to lift her skirt she again called a halt and grasped his hands. “Come,” she urged, “take me to bed.” He snatched another kiss then led her swiftly through a planked door into a gloomy corridor and along to a rather grander landing, also unlit. Carol got the impression of wood panelling and an open space to the left, with more white plaster and dark paintings. Lucien pushed open a door and drew her into his bedroom. The electric light was bright, illuminating a man’s room: plain painted walls, sombre furniture, and a four-poster bed without a canopy. The posts were of turned russet wood, as ancient as everything else in that house. Carol thought for a moment of Brian, and the use to which he might put such a bed, for her chastisement and delight. Here was Lucien, leaving on a bedside lamp and killing the main light before embracing her again. Behind him, a high window let in the dark of the night sky. Carol let his hands rove frantically over her from thigh to shoulder, thrilling wherever they 19

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

touched, before taking the initiative. She caught his hands again and held them to her breast. “Lucien, I want to see you naked.” He made to strip, but still she held him. “No, I’ll do it. You stand still.” If you can. He was quivering. She brought his knuckles to her lips. “Keep still. When it’s your turn…” He took a deep breath and nodded. “Put your hands down by your sides. You don’t want me to tie you up, do you?” Lucien’s face was a picture; or rather several pictures, one after the other: surprise, horror, curiosity. Carol immobilised his hands by pushing his jacket off his shoulders, then loosened his tie: silk the colour of a swallow’s wing. It would be a shame to tie knots in it, but it would leave his wrists unmarked. Lucien gasped impatiently as she hung it carefully on the door handle so that she could find it later. His shirt was starched and had hidden buttons, but Carol was quite happy to take her time with them. The hunger between her thighs would soon be satisfied, and a little delay would only sharpen it. Lucien’s chest rose and fell rapidly as her fingers worked their way down and proceeded to his trousers, which also were buttoned. Carol made a mental note to get Brian some trousers with button flies. They seemed so much sexier and personal than a zip. As each confining button twisted free, the member behind them stirred. When the heavy material fell away, Carol completed unfastening the shirt before investigating. Lucien began to struggle with his jacket, so she stood quickly and put a finger to her lips. “Shh!” Taking hold of the shirt collar, she peeled it slowly down and over his shoulders, binding him more securely. His chest was smooth, broad, and tanned, his nipples a deep red. They were as hard as thorns when she stroked her palms over them. Carol kissed each sharp nipple in turn, drawing the little peak between her teeth and nipping it gently. Then she slid her hands flat down over his belly and knelt. With his arms thoroughly entangled he was helpless. Lucien’s penis stood out in his white bikini briefs like muslin-wrapped salami. Every detail showed through the stretched cloth. Carol placed a kiss over the circumcised head then gripped the waistband and lifted it away to release a beautiful straight brown cock, with a fat glans the same dark red as his nipples. She resisted the temptation to open her lips and take him to the back of her throat—time enough for that, later. 20


With trousers and briefs round his ankles, Lucien was hobbled as well as bound. He was now utterly hers. Carol pressed herself against his naked body, feeling his penis slide over her belly. He was warm as toast, but shivering. She teased him with a peck on the cheek, before kissing him hard on the mouth, forcing her tongue between his teeth. He opened obediently and she pillaged his mouth while his penis surged against her belly. When the jerking of his hips became urgent she took pity—if that is the word— and released him. “Now it’s your turn,” she said, easing off his jacket, then his shirt, and allowing him to step out of his other things. “Oh, not yet, sorry!” She held up palms to stop him, then pushed him hard in the chest so that he fell backwards onto the bed. He sprawled on his back, surprised and angry, his penis towering magnificently from a patch of dark fur, while she captured his feet and held them up, immobilising him again. She drew them up to her face and took hold of one black sock at a time in her teeth and tugged it off, shaking her head and growling like a puppy. The shiny wooden posts of the bed were inviting. It would take so little to pull his feet apart and tie his ankles. Carol compensated herself by nipping his toes in her teeth and letting his legs fall. “Now it’s your turn,” she said, turning her back and slipping down the zip at the side of her dress. Lucien stripped her without delay or finesse. If she’d not loosened her dress he’d have torn it off her. Quickly her breasts spilled into his eager hands. He seemed so obsessed with their weight and size, poor Carol had to take off her own pants. She reached out and touched his cock for the first time. It was long and stiff and very warm. Lucien murmured appreciation, but continued nuzzling into her, discovering her nipples, which to Carol felt swollen enough to burst. She held his length in both hands, a little finger curled over the end to enclose it. He took a nipple into his mouth and caressed it with his tongue. Most men suckle too hard, but when the firm suction came, the nipple was so plump and ripe that Carol welcomed the discomfort as it was elongated and crushed against his palate. At the same time he thrust his penis in the loose tunnel of her fingers. Carol was conscious of his increasing pace but the sensations from her nipple were too intense. Lucien paused, took a breath, and switched to the other breast. Moisture began to dry on her nipple as it recovered from its ordeal, while a star of delight exploded from its neglected neighbour as it finally received attention. 21

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Then, suddenly, Lucien was choking and crying out, pulling away from her, but it was too late. His cock bucked and shook in her grip and fired its load into her fingers. The only point of contact between the lovers was Carol’s hands and Lucien’s spurting penis. “Shh, shh. There, there.” Carol knelt quickly and held her hands under his glans to catch the semen still pulsing from it. “It’s so beautiful. Let me see!” He sobbed, but did not pull away. In fascination, they watched the drama come to an end. Carol’s palms were coated with fluid. She would have drunk it all, licking it greedily from her fingers, but suddenly had a better idea. There’d be time to taste him later, anyway. Holding her hands carefully together, as if to avoid spilling a precious drop, she stood and then smeared it onto her breasts. “Help me smooth it into my breasts. It’s good for them.” She stroked them with her palms. “Oh, it feels so good.” Lucien watched for a few seconds, then joined in. Between them, they caressed his cream over her skin until it was completely dry. “See?” Carol gave Lucien’s cock a gentle squeeze. It was as stiff and hard as before. “Good as new. Now come to bed.” It was just as well that Carol had been lubricating all night, for Lucien plunged straight into her as soon as she lay down. She wrapped him in arms and legs and made him wait while her vagina recovered from the sudden distension. He was firm and filled her completely. When she could hold him no longer, she abandoned herself to passion and they plunged together to orgasm. Afterward, she again held him tight for a few moments before releasing him. They slept. Carol woke to find herself in a close embrace. “Hello, Lucien,” she teased, “What’s woken you up?” Lucien’s warm stiff penis was pressing urgently against her thigh. “Please, Carol, I love you.” Carol wasn’t sure he meant he loved her or whether he simply wished to make love to her. She shrugged; perhaps it was both. Lucien clearly wanted to enter her immediately. Didn’t he understand that a woman wasn’t instantly ready for sex? It took preparation, foreplay, wining and dining, flowers… Well, foreplay, anyway. “Lucien, you must kiss and caress me first. Get me in the mood.” “Mood? But…” 22


“I know; I’d been in the mood all evening; that’s why I was ready for you, before. Now I’m not.” Lucien’s face fell. He was like a disappointed puppy. So sweet. “But I could be.” He perked up. “You just have to handle me correctly.” He grabbed at a breast. “No.” She captured his hand. “You have to be gentle. Don’t you know how?” Carol felt the smile creep across her face. Suddenly she was readier than she’d thought. Readier than she was going to let on. “Do you want me to teach you?” He nodded. “You have to do everything I tell you.” Nod. “In the way that I tell you, not too rough… But not too soft, either.” Puzzled nod. “And for as long as I tell you.” Her smile reached for her ears. Lucien was nodding. “Come on, let’s lie on our sides, and we’ll begin.” Lucien obeyed with alacrity and lay patiently, waiting for his first lesson. Carol made a game of it. Lucien had to talk to her, to tell her fairy stories, in English or French, it didn’t matter, but with sincerity and love, as if he was confessing undying devotion. While he talked to distract her, he was permitted to touch her, at first only on arms and shoulders. If he thought he’d pleased her, he could try touching her flank, then her hip, and so on. It was a powerful feeling, to be in command of an ardent young male and to teach him to make love to her. He was ready to do anything she asked, happy to indulge her every whim, knowing that in the end, if he pleased her, he’d get his reward. If he pleased her. The things he learned that night, in this ancient, four-poster bed, would stay with him all his life. Every woman he loved would benefit from this training. A young, handsome man like Lucien was assured of a full and satisfying love life; there would be many women, or perhaps one woman, many times. In a sense, every time he made love he’d be making love to Carol. The thought of it was so arousing that she allowed him to advance his thumb into the shallow valley on the inside of her hipbone. When he went too far, or too quickly, or too roughly, Carol would withdraw a little. Soon she was playing on him with tiny movements, tensions and relaxations, in the way he thought he was playing on her. Every part of her was an analogue for somewhere else. She made him stroke carefully around her ear for several minutes before letting him progress to its whorls and thence to the lobe. It would take him as long to reach her nipple from her armpit, but when he got there he would know precisely what to do. “Try not to rub yourself against me,” she warned. “I need to know you’re interested, but that feels as if you’re using me as a sex toy.” 23

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“Pardon, Madame,” he said, inching away so that only his tip touched her. He’d abandoned English for his native tongue, but it sounded so exotic and sensual that Carol didn’t mind. She gathered that he was telling her of a girl, imprisoned in a tall, stiff tower, who had to let down her hair in order to be rescued. Carol wondered how the girl would respond to her rescuer, and how long she could delay before she permitted Lucien to rescue her. Lucien had a lot to learn. He’d obviously touched a girl between the legs before, but clearly more for his own satisfaction than for hers. Under Carol’s tutelage he learned the necessary delicacy and lightness of touch. He learned to steal moisture from where she had plenty, to anoint her hood, and to treat her clitoris like the delicate, supersensitive little penis that it was. When he slipped finger and thumb on either side of its tiny stalk, Carol lost control. The teasing, feather-light touch she’d insisted on brought her to the edge. Lucien gasped, the fairy story frozen on his lips, as her hands clamped his firmly against her vulva and her legs locked tight on top. Now it was Carol making the noise, a humming, sobbing groan, rising to a crescendo then cutting off suddenly. Lucien’s controlled progress had sensitised her whole body, so that the orgasm, when it came, was complete. Carol may have blacked out; she didn’t know, but when she opened her eyes, Lucien was staring at her in bewilderment. He looked so comical that she laughed out loud. Not understanding, he tried to pull away, but she held him tight. “Lucien, Lucien, that was wonderful. Didn’t you feel it?” Lucien looked puzzled, then gave a huge grin. He realised that the spasms, only now dying down, were the result of the careful work he’d put in. “Was it worth it?” she asked. He nodded, and grinned wider. “Gently, now,” Carol carefully opened her thighs and drew his hand to her lips. She kissed, and then sucked, each finger. The post-orgasm ultra-sensitivity faded. She wanted to be filled. Carol spread her legs slowly, nudging him. “Now come inside.” Some of Lucien’s training remained with him, for he gently parted her labia and brought his penis to her portal. “Softly, now, a little at a time. Peu à peu.” Carol coaxed. Advancing by tiny steps, then retreating nearly as much, Lucien slowly entered her, gradually distending her sheath. He was clearly feeling, and enjoying, the tremors of excitement running along 24


the walls of her vagina. When he was fully inside, he paused for a long time before starting a steady retreat. If Lucien’s love-making then had any faults, Carol decided, it was that he might be a tad too slow, relishing the caress of her interior, and filling and re-filling it with a measured cadence. Whatever, it was a good fault. At last, when her excitement had caught up with his and was in danger of overtaking it, he gave in to the demands of the little brain at the end of his cock and thrust wildly and quickly until they both came. At the end, he surged ahead, but the pulsing of his cock as it drenched her interior brought her to climax. “Thank you, Lucien,” she said, when she’d her breath back. “You’re very good.” “Thank you, Carol. You are a very good teacher. My school mistress,” he said proudly. They cuddled and slept again. Late in the night, Carol leant her elbows on the sill of the window and watched the glow of dawn driving the stars from the sky, while Lucien took her from behind, one hand generously pressed against her mons while the other whispered touches to her gently swinging breasts. Afterward they snuggled together under the duvet to recover from the chill. Carol woke to find the duvet had slipped to her waist but her breasts were nevertheless warm. Sunlight through the window heated them and illuminated their fine hairs so that they glowed like gold. Lucien was kneeling in the shadow beside her, simply watching their rise and fall as she breathed. When he saw she had woken, he spoke. “You are very beautiful, my Carol, and I love you. I want to spend my life making love to you. I love your breasts and I love your body. I love your vagina, your petite chatte.” “Chatte?” Carol wrinkled her nose. “You mean, like a cat?” “Yes,” he admitted, not understanding her amusement. “We call it ‘pussy’,” she explained. “A little cat.” “I love your little cat, your pussy. Pussy, it is a pretty word.” He took a breath. Carol, guessing what was to come next, tried to keep a straight face. “Carol, I would like to, if you don’t mind… I would like to look at your pretty pussy.” “Lucien, I’d love you to look at my pussy. If you’re good, then perhaps she’ll purr for you.” 25

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“Purr?” “Purr; you know: prrr, prrr.” Lucien laughed now, and they purred a conversation together. At last, he contrived to purr that he wanted to see her pussy purr for himself, so she kicked off the duvet and lay still, her legs slightly apart, for his inspection. Lucien knelt astride her knees, his cock and balls dangling delightfully in view. Then he leant forward and peered at her. Carol’s vulva was closed, but she knew her labia were peeping through. “May I kiss your pussy?” Poor Lucien: he looked as if he thought she might refuse. “My pussy will be very disappointed if you don’t kiss her this minute!” Lucien opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and leant forward to kiss the short fur on her mons. When she didn’t object, he began to work his way down. Soon he was kissing, then licking her hood and swelling labia. To encourage him, she purred. When he pressed his mouth against her lower lips and purred back, she nearly jumped off the bed. “Pardon,” he said, kissing her mons softly in apology, and glancing anxiously at her face. Carol gave him a lascivious smile and pouted as she purred low and long. To his raised eyebrow she nodded and purred again. Purring and licking, Lucien pushed his pursed lips into the opening slit of her vulva and caressed the edges of her inner leaves. To the soft-and-gentle lessons of the night he’d added another: when you’re on a winning streak, push your luck. Carol felt her vulva gape and swell like a hungry mouth. His nose nudged her hood and in response the button beneath sent shocks all over her abdomen. “Lucien?” Her lover paused and looked up. Her secretions shone on his face. “Do you want me to open for you?” He nodded, and slipped back so that she could draw up and open her legs. He made to kneel again, but she stopped him. “Pull me to the edge of the bed.” He quickly realised what she wanted. His penis bobbing proudly, he gripped her ankles and tugged her buttocks to the edge of the bed. Now when he knelt on the floor, he could rest his arms on her thighs and lap at her open sex like a kitten with a dish of cream. His tongue visited every fold, determined to explore everywhere. When he stopped as if to examine his handiwork, Carol took the opportunity to push a pillow under her head and observe him in comfort. 26


Lucien, his eyes watching her for the slightest cue, thrust his thumbs one after the other into his mouth. When they were withdrawn, glistening, Carol watched them travel slowly downward until they touched her. When she didn’t object, she felt her outer leaves gradually but firmly drawn apart. His tongue delved between the inner ones and licked the shiny valley from vagina to hood over and over, dipping further inside her at the start and flicking the tip of her hood at the end. Carol was panting now, and could deny him nothing; he only had to take it; so when he looked up quizzically and tapped her hood with his tongue-tip, she reached down with both hands and eased it back herself. He gazed in wonder at her tiny pearl then closed his lips over it, tonguing the tip. It was enough. At the peak of her orgasm, he quietly slipped two fingers into her vagina. Later, much later, Carol was to wonder how he’d known he should do that. When she came to herself again and looked down, he was still crouching between her knees, but his glistening hands were laid loosely on her thighs. He was content simply to watch. She caught his eye and he stood and joined her on the bed, drawing her up to cuddle with him. Sunlight bathed and warmed their bodies. “You are beautiful,” he breathed, “You taste sweet, like honey. I love you very much.” It was pleasant, just lying there together. Carol was content, and realised with surprise that Lucien was content too. He wasn’t eagerly pressing himself against her to encourage her to make love again, though his erect penis lay, dry and alert, on her thigh. He was ready; a man his age always was, but he was happy to lie quietly with her, if that’s what she wanted. Carol began to doze off, then woke herself with a start. They could easily sleep here all morning, but what about Brian? And the tour? And, of course, there was one more thing she wanted to try with Lucien before they said goodbye. “On your back,” she whispered, giving him a shove. He too had been dozing, but roused himself and complied without question. He trusted her to think of something good. Carol climbed astride him and sat on his hips with his penis jutting out between her legs, warm and firm against her sex. He smiled as if he knew that she was going to sit and ride him. He stroked her breasts gently and smiled encouragement. Lucien’s smile turned to surprise when she started to work her way down his legs. Released, his penis stood straight and lonely. She smiled mischievously then bent to kiss it. It jerked at her touch and its owner gasped. He gasped again when she opened her mouth and took the whole of his dark red glans into her mouth. It was plump, and taut 27

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like a balloon. And the taste…? Carol closed her eyes and savoured it, thoughtfully. A lot of the flavour was her own. Brian had made her familiar with that, tormenting her then making her swallow the evidence of her own arousal. The other taste was familiar, but elusive. It wasn’t the earthy, fleshy Pinot Noir she’d imagined. What was it? It was delicious; she’d happily hold him in her mouth for ages. That was another thing Brian had taught her. With his plum still lodged in her mouth, she peered up at Lucien. His eyes were bulging out of his head. She wondered if it was the feel of what she was doing, or the thought of it that excited him so. She released him and spoke. “Lucien, let me get between your legs.” The Frenchman co-operated and Carol settled down on her haunches. He seemed to be holding his breath, as if reluctant to risk breaking the spell. Partly in the spirit of investigation: what was that delightful flavour? And partly because she knew he’d like it, Carol conscientiously licked his penis from the scattering of strong, dark hairs at its base to the smooth crown’s dimpled slit. Her hands were not idle, either. Her victim gasped anew when she teased his balls out, stretching their sac to a translucent, smooth membrane. With its precious contents safely held in one hand, she explored the erect tissue of his perineum all the way down to his anus. From the way his thigh muscles clenched, squeezing her hands, he wasn’t ready yet for a cheekily intruding finger. Not today, anyway. Carol concealed her amusement and drew his cock back into her mouth. From the way he was quivering, it was about time. But what was that flavour? It made her think of wine; or was that just her imagination? Lucien’s body tensed and arched on the bed. Tremors ran from his anus all the way to his cock-tip, still enclosed in Carol’s mouth. She bobbed her head slowly, taking him deeper and deeper. His hips were rocking and he was making a high-pitched keening sound. Carol concentrated on her task, curling her tongue-tip into the groove between stalk and bud. He went silent and became rigid. A spurt of come splashed onto her tongue. She noted its arrival but continued pumping while the rest of his load pulsed up his stem and into her mouth. Ah, she mused, the vigour of a young man. Lucien’s spending filled her mouth and still a trickle was coming. Her palate was coated, and the rich, fresh aroma pervaded her nasal passages. At last she had the answer. Of course! She’d been thinking of the wrong colour grape. 28


Chardonnay! Not the austere minerality of Chablis, nor the exuberant fruitiness of an Australian, but the rich, buttery complexity of the white wines of the Côte. Careful to avoid spillage, Carol raised her head and savoured the young man’s vintage. Mersault! That’s what it was: Mersault. She would never drink white Burgundy again without thinking of him. She opened her eyes and watched Lucien watch her swallow his offering, a sip at a time. It was too good to gulp down. His face was red and wet with perspiration. He looked as if he’d run ten miles. His penis was still standing and yes, there was a last white bead at its tip. Just enough for a final lesson. Keeping him on his back, she climbed up beside him then slowly reached down. His gaze followed her movement. With a flourish, she picked up the final drop on her fingertip and made to bring it to her lips. She had his full attention. Carol disapproved of coercion, except where the victim would benefit in some way. So when she arrested her finger’s movement and redirected it steadily and firmly toward Lucien’s lips, it was with the determination that rejects ‘no’ as an answer. Before any woman swallowed his semen again, he would learn what it tasted like. If it wasn’t fit for him to drink, then why should it be fit for anyone else? To his credit, he hardly flinched. He opened his lips and sucked the droplet from her finger as if he was going to enjoy it as much as she had. The look of surprise on his face when he tasted it and found it good was so comical that Carol laughed. More in relief than amusement, Lucien began to laugh too. Soon they were both laughing, lying together on Lucien’s bed in the morning sunlight. They were still laughing when Brian knocked on the door and walked right in. The duvet was on the floor at the foot of the bed, so they simply sat up guiltily, side by side, naked. “Sorry,” Brian said, though he didn’t look it. His eyes studied the scene before him. “Is there anything for breakfast? I’m starving.”

29

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

Cluny

Brian strolled over to the window and looked out. The light made his white shirt glow. He seemed enormous. His presence in the room put what Carol and Lucien had been up to into a kind of perspective: children’s games. Here was a man. Lucien handed her a T-shirt and she slipped it on, not bothering to find her underwear. They both dressed in haste, ashamed to be naked in front of the injured husband, even though he paid them no attention. By chance, his shoe rested against her discarded red panties. They looked like a pool of blood, oozing from beneath his foot. “That’s a very pretty girl you’ve got,” he said. “Very pretty.” Carol wondered what he meant. Lucien held out a pair of faded jeans. They looked as if they’d fit. She took them absently. “She told me she was a virgin. I didn’t believe her, of course. You don’t, do you? But she was. I was surprised you hadn’t had her. Saving it up, were you?” Carol had to tug hard to pull the tight jeans over her thighs and buttocks. The snug-fitting denim was coarse against her groin. Her legs were a little sunburnt from yesterday. Brian was still conducting a sort of monologue. “Well, now you don’t have to, do you? Do they still have that business with the blood on the sheet, in the morning? You know, hang it out of the window to prove the bride was still pure? You’ll have to fake it, now. But I guess it won’t be the first time that’s happened.” Lucien stood like a statue, staring at Brian’s broad back. Carol fastened her trouser buttons and thought of her husband’s muscular buttocks, pounding between the long, slim thighs of that unhappy Frenchwoman. Had she really wanted that? She’d not had a civil word for him all evening. “She was the real thing, though. Squealed, till I put my hand over her mouth. Then tried to bite me—till I slapped her. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.” Carol and Lucien had been making a lot of noise, too, at the time. “And the blood! If you want a 30


sheet to show, later on, just put it in a plastic bag, in the freezer.” Lucien’s hands were opening and closing, making fists then stretching the fingers wide. “She cried, of course. Before and after. She begged, you know? On her knees. Lovely sight, naked girl on her knees, tears running down her face. Wished I’d brought a camera. I told her I wasn’t impressed—though I was. In the end it made no difference, it never does.” “What… Did you do?” Lucien demanded, his body rigid, quivering, eyes standing out of his head. “What do you think?” Brian turned to face him, a sneer on his lips. “Pretty girl to myself all night? When the man who should have been protecting her was here, having sex with my wife. Too good an opportunity to miss. And a virgin, too.” He rubbed his hands. “Did you think I’d kiss her goodnight at her bedroom door and go and sleep on the sofa?” He shook his head. “That’s what she wanted, of course. Silly girl. Still, she knows better, now.” Lucien attacked him, rushing forward, fists flailing. Carol had seen this sort of thing before. An assailant would see Brian was shorter than he was and think that gave him an advantage. Brian, moving quietly and gracefully for such a big man, twisted slightly and slapped Lucien so that he careened into the wall with a thud. Before the young man could recover, Brian had his wrists behind him and slammed him into the wall again. “Why don’t you go and see how she is?” he hissed. Then his voice softened, “I reckon she needs you right now, don’t you?” He thrust the Frenchman through the door onto the landing. “Who knows, you might get lucky!” Lucien stumbled out of sight and Brian turned back to Carol. He was dusting his hands with the air of a job well done. She smiled nervously. “You didn’t really do that, did you?” She hoped he hadn’t. “Do what?” Brian wasn’t smiling. “Force that young girl.” “Rape her, you mean? Do you think I would? Why shouldn’t I? You didn’t sleep on the sofa, either, did you?” Carol shook her head. This was different. “I’m sorry, Brian. I know you wouldn’t force her.” “I’d force you. Why not her?” 31

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“Because she’s only a girl. She wouldn’t like the things…” Carol took a breath. “She wouldn’t like the things I like.” Brian drew himself up straight and spoke quietly. “Put your hands behind your head.” Carol obeyed with alacrity, clasping her hands behind her neck and stiffening her body. She’d been half-waiting in fear and excitement for this sort of command ever since Brian had interrupted her merriment with Lucien. Perhaps her punishment would start now. She ached for his touch, but guessed he would make her wait. Waiting was part of the torment, part of the game. She stood at attention, her raised arms lifting her breasts and offering them forward. Brian looked her up and down. Her nipples were becoming erect, pushing into the soft white cotton. He watched them grow but made no comment. Her skin burned. There was a rough seam between her legs, pressing into her vulva. It would become uncomfortable if Brian made her hold this pose for long. It started to itch. Her husband walked round her, inspecting. Then she heard him sit on the bed, behind her. She stared ahead at the door through which her young lover had been thrust. He’d be horrified when he returned and found her like this, standing like a prisoner. Brian’s prisoner. “You’ll tell me what you and Lucien got up to last night.” It was a statement. The description would hurt him: what his wife did to another, younger man, and what that man did to her. What they’d shared. The pain would help Brian be cruel to her. Carol risked a glance down. Her nipples stood out proudly, as if eager to be pinched and twisted. “Every detail,” Brian went on. “Then I’ll punish you.” The seam between her legs was cutting into her. If she could adjust it, push it to one side… But she was bound to stay still until ordered otherwise. “We’re going to see the ruins of the monastery at Cluny this week. I’ve been reading about the monks and nuns in the Middle Ages. What they got up to. They never wore anything under their habits, you know. Except hair shirts and so on.” The itch was getting worse and she couldn’t scratch it. “They had to confess their sins publicly, in front of all the other monks and nuns.” Like adultery with a young Frenchman? “Then they’d have to prostrate themselves, lie face down with their arms outstretched. It was a punishment, on the cold stone floor, as well as a humiliation.” Carol imagined the gloomy interior of the Hôtel Dieu in Beaune, walking in a line of nuns, wearing coarse 32


robes that irritated her body and breasts and made them itch like the denim between her legs. Confessing her sins. And then… “Do it.” In her mind, Carol was already there. She knelt, went on hands and knees on the black-stained floorboards, then stretched out flat. Her breasts squashed against the uneven timber. When she extended her arms to the sides it was worse. The discomfort in her groin didn’t go away. It altered focus slightly, that was all. “Feet together, properly.” The boards were hard against her knees and bare feet. A slowly sharpening pain joined the itch. “For worse sins, they’d be beaten, too, of course.” The woollen robe lifted up, up over her head, so that everyone would see the shame of her naked body. The sting and burn of the whip on her back and legs. Then to lie prostrate for more hours, the robe abrading and sticking to the wounds made by the whip. With her nose pressed against the floor she could hear the wood creak as Brian moved round the room. He went over to the window and bent to pick something up. “It would be nice to have a dungeon to take you to, tonight. Somewhere you can make all the noise you like and no one but me will hear.” He knelt by her head and spent time straightening her hair with his fingers, drawing it to one side so that he could see her face. It was comforting to feel his gentle touch. If he’d allowed her to speak, she’d have told him how much she loved him. It seemed to burn in her chest. “If we do it at the hotel, I’ll have to gag you.” His hand appeared suddenly, close to her face. There was something in it, blood red. “Open.” Without waiting to see if she understood, he started to stuff something into her mouth. It was dry but slippery, the satin cloth of her pants. The fabric stuck to her tongue, but her mouth was already responding to them. Her saliva would soak them and she would have to swallow it. She would be unable to avoid continually tasting herself, as she had when she’d voluntarily taken Lucien into her mouth. It was a fitting punishment. Brian disappeared again and she heard the bed creak. The room fell silent. Birds were singing and chanting outside the window. Sparrows, blackbirds, doves. All English birds. It seemed odd to hear them in France. Hadn’t the French got their own birds? Somewhere in the house, human voices were being raised. A woman, shouting, then a man’s deeper, quieter voice. Brian laughed softly from the bed. “That’s Arabelle, giving him what for.” Carol would have agreed, but for the gag. The wad of cloth had swollen, for it filled her mouth. “Poor girl, sleeping through a 33

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hangover, then young Lochinvar comes bursting in after a night making love to another woman, and demands to see the sheet she’s lying on.” Carol had to squeeze the liquid out of her pants and gulp it down it before she could make any response. Then her shoulders shook with mirth. The shouting reached a crescendo then a door slammed. “Shh!” whispered Brian, tapping her bare heel. Carol tried to lie quietly. Lucien burst in through the door, came to a halt, and stood still. He was obviously aghast at the scene. The prostrate woman could imagine her tormentor’s amusement as he observed the young man. The silence went on. At last Brian spoke, quietly and slowly. “No, I didn’t rape Arabelle. I get my pleasure in different ways.” In the pause, Carol imagined both men staring at her prostrate form. “Whatever passed between us was with Arabelle’s consent. I’m not going to tell you what that was because you haven’t earned the right to know. Maybe, one day, when you have, Arabelle will tell you herself.” The boards creaked as Lucien changed his position. “You left me, a man you only knew as someone who was prepared to lend you his wife, alone with a defenceless young woman, all night. You didn’t know I wouldn’t beat her, rape her, and coerce her into doing whatever I liked. You’ve seen that I’m strong enough to do it. “She got drunk. That was your fault, because you made her so unhappy. I carried her up to her bed and we spent the night together. You want to think about that.” The bed creaked, and Brian’s foot tapped Carol in the ribs. “Up.” After only a few minutes she was stiff and uncomfortable. She took the opportunity to tug at the groin of her jeans. It came away from her vulva then slipped straight back when she released it. She’d have to put up with it. Brian held his palm under her chin and she spat her saliva-soaked pants onto it. He stuffed them down the front of her jeans, where they felt cold and clammy against her belly. Then he nodded and patted her face lightly. The acknowledgement, minor though it was, filled her with enough love to make her weak at the knees. Her vulva swelled, not with the pain of the tight jeans but with her need for him. “Now, I’m hungry. Where’s the kitchen?” Lucien led the way downstairs to a large kitchen with a stone-flagged floor that was cold to Carol’s bare feet. It was an unhappy mixture of ancient and modern. Next to the stoneware sink with wooden draining boards stood a huddle of white enamel appliances: freezer, washer, tumble dryer. On the other side were two stout free-standing 34


cupboards with marble tops. The scrubbed oak table in the middle of the room was cluttered with dirty crockery from last night’s meal. Brian found an upright wooden armchair by the cold cast-iron stove filling a kitchen alcove and sat facing the room. Lucien filled a plastic kettle from a brass tap and tipped instant coffee into mugs, straight from the jar. Responding to Brian’s hard stare, Carol set about tidying up, located the dishwasher and loaded it. She rinsed a cloth under the tap and mopped the table. The coffee was passable; it was at least strong and hot. The croissants Lucien took out of a big bag from the freezer and micro-waved were terrible. The best thing about the meal was wild blueberry jam from a tall, slim jar. Lucien took a tray up to Arabelle but brought it back untouched. “Let her sleep,” said Brian. “Then get her some decent croissants from the village. She’ll be hungry.” Lucien seemed about to protest then thought better of it. He was the only one to finish a leathery croissant. Before he’d finished, Brian stood up. “Get your things,” he said to Carol. “Then you can drive us back to Tournus.” The Frenchman looked up. He seemed thoroughly miserable. Poor Lucien. He wanted mothering, the comfort of an innocent cuddle. Brian was frowning at Carol. She hurried off guiltily, to retrieve her clothes and jewellery from the young man’s room. When she returned, her husband was wearing his cream dinner jacket. It had a huge red wine stain. There were matching splashes on his shirt, she now noticed. “Don’t ask,” he advised. The men sat in the front of the Renault, leaving Carol to get in the back by herself. It was another lovely sunny morning. They travelled in silence for a few minutes, then Brian spoke, his eyes on the road ahead. “What is it today?” he asked. Lucien gave a sort of grunt as if he’d thought the question was addressed to him. “Cluny, I think,” Carol ventured, hoping it was. Alone in the back, she could hold the sharp seam away from her groin, but she still thought about penitents prostrating themselves on the cold, stone floor. She knew what it was like to humble herself before her Master. “Monks and nuns, eh?” He was watching her in the rear-view mirror, but now it was Lucien’s turn. “What’s it like?” 35

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“Cluny? The traffic is terrible,” said Lucien, after a pause. “The abbey is mostly gone now, but it was once very large. It was destroyed after the Revolution. The remains are impressive.” “And a co-operative at Mâcon after lunch, since we’re down there.” “Mâcon is very different,” Lucien offered. “They make good wine, of course, but…” But it’s not the Côte de Beaune, Carol thought. “It will be interesting to see how the other half live,” said Brian, voicing the same sentiment in a different way. The car stopped outside the hotel and they got out. Lucien obviously wanted to embrace Carol, but Brian’s presence intimidated him. They shook hands instead. His gaze flickered over her body and back to her face. His eyes were large, moist, and pleading like a puppy. The morning’s events hadn’t cooled his passion for her. The handshake with Brian was brief and impersonal. He didn’t meet the big man’s gaze. “Thanks,” said Brian, “for everything. It’s been very interesting. Given us a lot to talk about.” Carol flinched at this threat. Her husband turned his back on the car and ushered her before him, up the hotel steps. She paused at the top. Some of the tour members were already in the foyer, waiting for the coach. They’d seen everything. She couldn’t face them without Brian’s support. “You know, Carol,” said Brian, catching up with her, “there’s something very tarty about high heels and jeans.” Carol nearly turned and ran. He patted her bottom and added, “I like it.” With her dress over her arm, conscious of her red face and the outstanding nipples of her unsupported breasts, Carol faced the crowd. Johnny, last for breakfast as usual, came down the stairs as they entered. “Ah, the Cunningham’s, returned at last,” he said, looking Carol up and down as if to say what the hell happened to you? “Have a nice time?” “Terrific,” Brian replied. “Very interesting, it was. Have we got time to change?” “Oh, yes, lots. There’s another half hour at least.” “Ten minutes,” corrected a florid gentleman with white hair. “The coach comes at nine. And it can’t park; we’ve got to get on straight away.” Carol wondered if he disapproved of everyone, or just the people he met. 36


“Bags of time, then.” Johnny was not to be fazed. “See you on the coach, then, in…” He looked at the officious man for confirmation. “Ten minutes,” repeated that worthy, his eyes bulging slightly. “You go on up,” said Brian. “I’ll grab some breakfast.” Carol had to endure the concierge’s scrutiny when she went for the key, then dashed up the stairs to get away from her audience. A hubbub of discussion broke out before she was out of sight. And she was going to have to face these people all day. In the corridor outside the room she met the redhead and her husband. The woman stepped into her way and insisted on greeting her. “Good morning,” she said, in an accent that sounded American. Carol took the proffered hand automatically. It would have been rude to refuse it. “It’s Carol, isn’t it? I’m Deanna, and this is Glenn.” Deanna’s green eyes studied Carol’s face as she gripped her hand firmly and for slightly too long. Then she passed it to blue-eyed Glenn, who held it for rather longer. His face was lined, but still handsome. He seemed impressed by her. “Hello, Carol,” he drawled. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” This latter speech was addressed to her bosom. Deanna whispered in her ear. “My husband finds you attractive but is too shy to say so.” Glenn grinned nervously then released her. “See you on the coach.” Carol nodded, then fumbled with the key and escaped to the brief sanctuary of her room. There wasn’t time for a shower, so she brushed her teeth, removed smudged make-up and applied moisturiser. They’d put on sunscreen on the bus. As she was slipping into a light cotton dress Brian arrived with croissants and crisp bread rolls on a plate. While he changed, she wolfed down the lot. Dismayed, he dabbed up the remaining crumbs with a licked fingertip. “Sorry, Brian, I thought…” He squeezed her wrist and kissed her tenderly. “I love you,” she whispered. He nodded and smiled. They arrived at the coach with seconds to spare. Johnny was last, after all. His excuse, that he was making sure everyone else was there, was wearing a bit thin. It was a long journey to Cluny. Carol tried asking Brian how he’d got on with Arabelle. 37

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“Well, she called me a pimp, and you a whore,” he began, then, at the sudden quiet, looked round. The whole coach seemed to be straining its ears to hear. He shook his head. “Tell you later.” Carol settled down to catch up on last night’s sleep. The traffic in Cluny was as bad as Lucien said it would be. And the Abbey was as big. As the coach inched its way along, Johnny pointed out fragments of architecture on both sides. The road they were on cut through the nave of the Abbey church. They were eventually dropped off at the Western end of the site, where the main door to the Abbey had been, to make their way from one end to the other. The scale, more than anything else, was impressive. The church alone had been over six hundred feet long, and that was a fraction of what had once been. “I thought it was only Henry VIII who dissolved the monasteries,” Brian said. “Odd to find the French did it, too.” “And the Spanish, in the Civil War.” Carol had been reading about it. “So much for the power of the Church, then.” There seemed to be disappointingly little left, though there was more to see as they moved Eastward down the site. It wasn’t easy to imagine monks and nuns lying face down on open expanses of concrete paving. When they’d had enough, Carol bought filled baguettes and fruit for lunch while Brian went shopping for souvenirs. She came out of the patisserie to find him waiting for her with large carrier bag and an even larger smile. “What have you got there?” she said, like a mother to a naughty boy. “Presents,” he said. “Who for? You know we don’t usually buy folk stuff. You always say its rubbish, and they’d be better off with a bottle or two of wine.” “They’re for you. Look.” From his bag Brian produced a wooden rosary, with an enormous plain crucifix on it, in dark stained wood. “Oh, thanks a bunch. When am I going to wear that?” “Oh, that’s just stage-dressing. This is your real present.” Carol watched aghast as Brian started to pull out a long piece of rope. “Not out here, damn it,” she cried, glancing round to see if anyone from the tour had seen this purchase. “It’s all right,” said Brian, pulling it all out. “It’s a bona fide souvenir. Look.” 38


Carol stared. It took her a little while to understand that it was the double rope belt worn by monks and nuns round their habits. It even had three knots at the end. At least it explained the rosary. “Come in handy, won’t it,” Brian smirked. “Do you want to carry it, or shall I?” “I’ll carry it,” she said, stuffing it quickly back in the bag. The rope would lie there, preying on her mind until evening, when she’d find out what Brian had in mind for it—and her. “Thank you very much. That was very thoughtful of you.” “I know,” said Brian, with a grin. “I know.”

39

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Hannelore

They found a shady bench in a garden to sit on to eat their lunch. There were abandoned lumps of medieval masonry among the dusty shrubs. Once they had been intricately carved with figures of angels, devils, and scenes from the Bible, but now they were broken and worn. Carol and Brian were about to tuck into their baguettes when two women loomed over them. “Entshuldigen Sie bitte,” said the bulky, shorthaired one, gesturing at the bench. “Pardon?” Carol spoke no German. Neither did Brian. The woman determined to communicate with Carol spoke no English. Her companion, a lean, hard-looking woman of about thirty-five with blonde hair drawn back in a pony-tail, stood back and allowed her companion to struggle. They were dressed like Carol and Brian: the blonde in a sundress and her mannish companion in shorts and shirt. With much gesticulation, grinning, and pantomime, Carol understood the woman to say that her name was Berthe and she and her friend Hannelore were tourists. They were hot and tired and were looking for somewhere out of the sun to sit and eat their packed lunch. There were other benches in the garden, but none of them were in the shade. Did Carol and Brian mind making room for them and sharing the bench? Carol said, “Yes, yes of course,” and pushed the grinning Brian to the end of the bench. Silent, aloof Hannelore was ushered to sit by Carol in the middle and her companion sat heavily at the other end. Everyone nodded and smiled inanely at everyone else, then it was as if an iron curtain had dropped between the two parties. They tucked into their respective lunches and spoke their own languages with gradually increasing confidence and volume. “You do realise we’re sitting in the wrong order, don’t you?” said Brian. “How do you mean?” “Sitting down to dine it should be boy, girl, boy, girl. Not boy, girl, girl, boy.” He smirked. 40


“Sh!” whispered Carol glancing guiltily at Hannelore, who was rubbing sunscreen into her narrow shins. The unshaved hairs on them glistened. She had on sandals, and her long toes were dusty. She gave Carol a shy smile. Her pale eyelashes were very long. “Tell me about you and Arabelle,” Carol asked, to take her thoughts off their lunch companions. “OK.” Brian took a drink of water from a bottle, then began. “You know how quiet Arabelle was?” “Yes. I thought she didn’t speak English.” “So did I. But when Lucien whisked you off upstairs, she gave me a proper mouthful. Accused me of pimping your body and demanded to know what your price was.” “And what was the price?” Carol teased. Brian gripped her thigh just above the knee and squeezed hard enough to hurt. “You know what the price is. And who’s going to be paying it tonight.” Carol rubbed her leg, aware of the blonde German’s scrutiny. Brian’s threatening action had transcended the language barrier. “She demanded to know if I expected to have sex with her in return for what you were going to do for Lucien. I said that she was a very attractive woman, and that’s when she threw a glass of wine over me.” “Quite right, too. That jacket’s ruined.” Brian nodded. “I mopped it up as best I could. She told me she was a virgin and asked if her virginity was part of the price Lucien had offered me.” “How old is she?” “Twenty-three.” “Good Lord.” “I tried to explain. I said you were a woman with complicated needs and that I loved you for it. You’d obviously fallen for Lucien the same way he’d fallen for you. Chemistry, I suppose.” “I’m sorry, Brian.” Carol rested her hand on his. The Germans were quietly spooning noodles out of plastic containers. “She said what if you fell in love with him properly and wanted to stay? I said I hoped you wouldn’t. I knew you loved me, and I loved you.” 41

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“I do love you. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I’m truly grateful you let me go to him.” “Was he any good?” Brian’s lips were smiling but his eyes weren’t. Carol considered her answer. “Very enthusiastic, of course, but totally inconsiderate, to start with.” “To start with?” Brian’s brow was furrowed with pain but he wouldn’t let the subject drop. “I gave him a lesson. If he remembers it, he’ll be very good, one day.” “But not yet.” Poor Brian, clutching at straws. “Brian, I love you, and I’m going to get infinite pleasure out of everything and anything you do to me tonight.” She nibbled his ear and slid her hand over the front of his shorts. “Now go on about Arabelle.” “She wanted to know why I let you go to him. I told her you were a grown woman and I trusted you to make the right decision in the end. If I’d said you couldn’t, then you’d have regretted it. People always regret the things they haven’t done more than those they have.” “Thank you for trusting me.” “Arabelle told me I was mad.” Brian grinned at her and bit off a piece of baguette. They ate in silence for a while. Hannelore made a long speech to Berthe, who replied in a couple of words. Carol wished she understood German. “Arabelle fetched the brandy and we had a few drinks. Armagnac, it was, Carrère, 1982. I didn’t think they did it in vintages. Very mellow, not as dry as cognac. Arabelle drank it like soda. You know what they say about not drinking anything older or stronger than you are…” “She got drunk?” “Uh-uh. After a while I picked her up and carried her to bed. She got a bit frisky then, insisted she never slept with clothes on, so I’d got to help her undress.” “You poor devil.” Carol rolled her eyes. “She’s very pretty, clothed or naked. Perhaps she could do with a bit more meat on her. I tried not to look, of course.” “Of course you did,” Carol challenged. “Like I said, she’s very pretty.” He shrugged casually, “It seemed impolite to ignore her totally. I made her sit up and drink two glasses of water. She was like a naughty schoolgirl. I had to be strict with her.” 42


“Took her over your knee, did you?” “Don’t make me eat my heart out.” Brian took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Then I’d got to get into bed with her.” He raised his palm to fend off Carol’s riposte. “I said she was like a naughty girl. She refused to go to sleep without her teddy bear. I kept my boxers on. I was going to wait until she went to sleep and then get out.” He sighed again and looked into the distance, remembering. Hannelore leaned forward to take a bottle of water from her bag. A tuft of golden fur escaped from her armpit. It looked soft and fluffy. What was it like to touch, to press your nose into it, smell its fragrance? The knowledge that the woman sitting next to her might like her to do just that was curiously exciting. Carol had never felt like that for a woman before. The German wore no make-up. Her full lips were naturally pale. Beads of perspiration gathered on the most ethereal of moustaches. She wore golden earrings with long dangling tassels that shimmered continually. They were her sole adornment. Brian was still talking. Carol tore her eyes away to listen. What were butterflies doing in her stomach? “She snuggled into my chest and wound her fingers into the hair. She called me her teddy bear then went straight to sleep. Every time I moved she’d wake up and cuddle closer. I tried to relax. It wasn’t easy.” Carol imagined cuddling Hannelore’s angular frame, the soft touch of her body’s golden fur. Did she shave anywhere? When Brian was bodybuilding he used to shave everything but his eyebrows. He liked Carol to shave her pubes occasionally, so that her body was completely naked. Her armpits and legs she shaved automatically, it was what one did. Maybe he’d like her to leave them. She could ask him. “Finally, I fell asleep myself. When I woke I still had a hard-on. I wanted a pee. Arabelle had rolled onto her back and was snoring. I love it when a woman snores. Such a charming human noise.” “Do I snore?” Carol demanded, but Brian wasn’t to be caught that easily. “No, of course not, never,” he lied straight away. Hannelore was saying something to Berthe, who responded with such a dirty laugh that Carol again wished she understood German. “So I got up and went to the bathroom. They must have given Arabelle the guestroom, because it had a modern ensuite bathroom. Maybe the sound of the flush 43

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

woke her up, because when I got back into the room she was sitting up in bed with the side lamp on. “I apologised and said I’d go and find somewhere else to sleep. She told me not to be silly. Now it was Arabelle who was the school-ma’am and me the naughty child. She asked, all haughty, was it me who’d taken her clothes off. I said, didn’t she remember? She told me to take off my boxers, saying it was only fair.” “And so…?” “And so I did. I stood there and she looked me up and down. Made me feel very small.” Carol laughed and got odd looks from both Germans. “Then she said did I want to have sex with her. I said no. Didn’t I find her attractive? She could tell I did. There was nothing I could do about it. You know me. Once I’ve got sex on my mind… At first she smiled, then I think she got a bit frightened.” “What of?” Carol was being disingenuous. She’d been nervous, the first time with Brian, and she’d not been a virgin. “You know,” said Brian, embarrassed. He moved his open hands over his groin to indicate exaggerated girth. Hannelore began to choke on something and Berthe merrily clapped her on the back. If she saw Brian like I’ve seen Brian, Carol thought, she’d have something to choke on. “I explained it was because she was a virgin. To still be a virgin at twenty-three meant it was important. Much as I wanted to, and by then there was no doubt of it, I couldn’t take that off her. She laughed.” Hannelore released her hair and it fell to her shoulders in a wavy mass. She combed it through her fingers before gathering it up and re-securing it with the elastic band she’d gripped in her teeth. The tuft at her armpit was long and fine, as if it had never been cut. Carol imagined rubbing it through her fingers to steal the scent. The lanky woman’s knees were spread as if to brace herself. Perhaps it was a way of allowing what little breeze there was to cool her. She’d no bra and her small breasts were relaxed in the heat. “She made me come back to bed as I was. When I insisted on lying on my side facing away from her, she pressed her body and legs against me and hugged me tight. I thought I’d burst.” 44


Carol had never had sex with a woman. She’d not even experimented—except years ago, at school. She’d never thought of asking Brian what it was like. Now she was as horny as Brian had been, with Arabelle climbing all over him. She’d willingly have sex with her blonde neighbour, or Berthe, even, if necessary. Was this how men were, all the time? Ready to fuck anything in a skirt? She’d been in a state of arousal ever since she met Lucien yesterday. Maybe that was it. Or was it the pheromones pouring from the undoubtedly unshaven, longhaired pelt between Hannelore’s spread thighs? Carol knew without seeing it that the rangy German wore no underwear. There was nothing between her sex and Carol’s fingers but air. Carol’s own swollen vulva, imprisoned in damp cotton, yearned to be touched. Their knees were a fraction of an inch apart. Brian was coming to the climax of his story. “She took her time, but eventually she touched it. I nearly came straight away. And when she took hold of it…” It would only take a touch or two… Those long brown fingers with nails trimmed hard back, probing and massaging... “She’d touched one before. She knew to be careful with my balls, and she soon got the hang of it.” We all learn new things, thought Carol. Her fingers knew how to play on her own sex, but would that technique suit the more experienced Hannelore? “I think she was diddling herself at the same time,” Brian went on, “because when she’d finished me she turned over and went straight back to sleep.” He paused for effect. “I had to sleep on the wet bit.” Poor Brian. Carol wasn’t in the mood to laugh. She wanted something else. Failing that, she wanted to talk about it. “Brian, would you mind if I made love to a woman?” She kept her eyes on his face, but Hannelore’s presence by her side was like a bonfire, searing her flank. “Could I watch?” Brian wasn’t taking it seriously, though the point he’d made was a valid one. Carol thought it out before she replied. “I don’t think so, not for the first time.” “Oh, all right.” He still wasn’t serious. “But it would be all right?” “Who have you got in mind? Arabelle?” “No.” Two virgins are seldom a good match. You need a teacher. Carol had done her share of teaching last night. She wanted to learn. “You mean…?” Brian finally cottoned on. He blinked, then stared down at Carol’s knees. Carol followed his gaze. Her legs had separated, and one was resting 45

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against Hannelore’s. No wonder she’d felt hot. Carol withdrew it in horror, then looked into the woman’s eyes. They were pale blue and had long, blonde lashes, and they were looking benignly at her. “Sorry!” Carol exclaimed, trying to look away and failing. Hannelore was smiling like an indulgent mother. “Don’t be, my dear,” said the German, grasping Carol’s thigh and drawing it back into contact with her own. The long fingers gripped firmly, tugging the Englishwoman’s legs wider apart and pressing her thigh against Hannelore’s. If she shifted her hand, sliding it upward between Carol’s legs, it would be all over. “You spoke English!” Brian’ cry was harsh, unkind, unwelcome. A man’s voice. “I speak French, too. We take it in turns. I speak to the French and Berthe speaks to everyone else.” “But…” It was odd how something so clearly wrong should have such a perfect logic. Hannelore’s hand was not withdrawn. Carol was completely lost. She would acquiesce to whatever happened next. Berthe spoke harshly to her companion. Hannelore raised her hand and withdrew it. Carol’s leg remained where it was. “I’m sorry, my friend is very jealous. Not so, your husband?” Carol came to herself and shook her head. “No.” Berthe’s hand clamped down on Hannelore’s thigh with a crack. It was meant to hurt, and it did. The lean German gave a cry. Berthe growled at her again. Her fingers were burrowing into the muscle. Carol was on the point of getting up to protest when Brian tapped on her other thigh. “Don’t interfere,” he whispered. Hannelore was speaking urgently, apologetically, to her Mistress, breaking off to cry out when the pain in her thigh peaked. The bulky woman let go. Her victim continued pleading, rubbing and kneading the injured leg. At last her tormentor nodded and allowed the woman to kiss her hand, which she did effusively, lifting it in both of hers and pressing it reverently to her lips and cheek. They spoke at length, and then Hannelore turned her tear-stained face to Carol. “Please don’t worry. Berthe loves me and I love her. Sometimes I hurt her and sometimes she hurts me. When she hurts me I know it is because she loves me. If she didn’t love me she wouldn’t hurt me.” She frowned. “Do I make sense?” 46


Carol nodded. “Perfect sense. Did you hear Brian’s story about Arabelle?” “Yes.” Hannelore grinned shamelessly. “We were enjoying it. Berthe wanted to know what you were doing while your husband was in bed with the oh-so-pretty Arabelle?” “I was in bed with her fiancé.” “No!” Hannelore laughed out loud, then, at a nudge from Berthe, turned and explained in German. Berthe joined in the laughter. “Was he a virgin?” Hannelore asked with a smirk. “No—and neither was I!” Both Germans laughed again. “My husband will punish me for it tonight.” Suddenly Carol was apprehensive. She tried to smile but failed. She sought Brian’s hand. He understood how she felt and squeezed her hand to comfort her. Hannelore looked horrified, then responded to Berthe’s sharp word with a flood of angry-sounding German. They spoke seriously together, then the blonde turned back to Carol. “Then leave him. You don’t have to suffer it, you know.” “I don’t have to suffer it, but I choose to,” Carol explained. She took the German’s hand. “I love him and he loves me. Sometimes I need to have him hurt me. He does it because he loves me and only because he loves me. We’re like you, you see?” Hannelore sat open-mouthed. Her gaze slipped past Carol to Brian, then back again. Berthe quizzed her urgently, and she turned to her and explained at length. Berthe started to smile and by the time the explanation was over, she was positively beaming. She looks quite pretty like that, thought Carol. Brian spoke for the first time for what seemed like half an hour. “I’m sorry, ladies, but we have to leave you now. The coach goes in about five minutes, and we’ve got to find it, yet. Hannelore, Berthe, it’s been fascinating and I hope you’ve enjoyed our company as much as we’ve enjoyed yours.” They all stood, and Hannelore thanked them on behalf of Berthe and herself. She shook hands with Brian and so did Berthe. Hannelore embraced Carol, lips to lips, grinding her pubis against Carol’s thigh while her own long limb sought and massaged Carol’s sex. Her body smelt of soap and fresh sweat. Carol yearned to explore all those furry crevices and learn each separate odour and taste. The German’s mouth, when she opened it to the Englishwoman’s probing tongue, was sweet, with a hint of garlic. 47

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Hannelore, more experienced of the two, broke off the embrace and led her to say farewell to Berthe. Carol couldn’t decide what was appropriate, but Berthe, squarejawed, with close-cropped brown hair and grey-green eyes, solved the problem. She looked her carefully up and down then gave her a bone-crushing handshake and slapped her hard at the same time. When the Englishwoman recoiled, holding her stinging cheek, she laughed and said something to Hannelore. Brian kissed her and led her away. They were halfway across the garden when Hannelore came running up behind them. They turned and waited. She ran athletically, as if she did it often. “Brian,” she said, “Berthe wants me to tell you that if you ever tire of Carol’s misbehaviour, you can send her to us.” She handed him a business card, which he put away safely in his wallet. “Thank you, Hannelore, I shall. And if you ever feel you’d like a change, and want a man…” Hannelore rolled her eyes and laughed then loped back to her Mistress. Carol watched her long limbs. “Isn’t she beautiful?” she breathed. Brian nodded, not because he agreed, but because he understood.

48


Pinot Noir

“Who on Earth is that?” An outburst of hooting had broken out behind the coach. Someone wanted to get past. The traffic in Mâcon was moving at a reasonable rate so the impatience seemed unjustified. At last a blue Renault overtook them at high speed on the wrong side of the road. Oncoming traffic was forced to take evasive action and above the scream of tires came an aggrieved chorus of car horns. “That must be Arabelle, judging by the driving,” Carol joked. “It’s the same sort of car,” said Brian. Then the coach performed an emergency stop as the car braked sharply in front of it. “That’s Arabelle, all right,” Brian decided. Everyone on the coach was shouting, and Johnny came weaving up the aisle to check for injuries. “All right?” he said. In answer to questions he shrugged his shoulders. When the coach didn’t move on again he peered forward. “There’s a car blocking the road… I’ll go and find out… Ah, there’s a policeman, it should be sorted out soon…” But it wasn’t. After talking to the driver of the car the policeman approached the coach and spoke to the driver. Johnny went forward to see if he could help. After a long talk with much gesticulation he came back, waving away enquiries. At last he stood by Brian. He was red in the face and leant on the seat back as if exhausted. “Mr. Cunningham, its Lucien de L’Artoisville. He wants to speak to your wife. He says he won’t move until he does.” Car horns were blaring behind them all down the street. “Won’t the police move him on? And arrest him if he refuses?” “I think they’d rather it was settled without fuss. I don’t think they relish the idea of explaining to Madame la Comtesse why they saw fit to arrest her son.” “Oh.” 49

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“Mrs. Cunningham,” Johnny looked embarrassed as he leant across Brian to whisper to her. “He says you took something. From the Chateau.” “What?” Carol began indignantly, then thought, “He gave me a T-shirt and an old pair of jeans to wear. They’re at the hotel. He can have them back if he likes. I didn’t think they were important.” “No, no, Mrs. Cunningham,” Johnny whispered uncomfortably. “I get the impression that it was something more than that.” “I can’t think what, then.” Carol had pleasant memories of her night with Lucien and now it was turning sour. What was he accusing her of? “We’d better go and see him,” Brian decided. “Sort this out.” “Yes, yes.” Johnny was backing off, relieved not to have had an argument. “Come on, love, we’ll sort this out.” Brian squeezed her hand and stood up. They made their way down the bus, feeling self-conscious, like pupils on their way to the headmaster’s office. As if everyone knew they had reason to be shamefaced but could only speculate what the reason was. The uniformed policeman was fiddling impatiently with the shiny flap of his holster as they approached the car. Had he noticed how uncomfortable the English are with public servants bearing firearms? Lucien leant against the car. He smiled nervously. “Thank you for coming, Carol,” he said. He wore a dark blue blazer over a white shirt and jeans. “Now, Lucien, what’s this all about?” Brian demanded. “Please…” Lucien was speaking to Carol. “No! What’s this thing Carol’s supposed to have taken?” “Carol, I love you. Come with me.” “You’re accusing her of theft!” “She’s stolen my heart.” “Faugh! Come on, Carol, back on the coach.” “Please, Carol, if you don’t come with me I will have to ask the policeman to arrest you.” “But I’ve stolen nothing, Lucien. Can’t you see that this is wrong?” Carol searched his face. His eyes were wet and pleading, like a dog’s, but his full lips were set in a stubborn line. He folded his arms. 50


“What do you want?” Brian demanded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cunningham, I want your wife. I love her. I know she loves me. I can’t live without her.” “And this is how you plan to get her, holding up traffic and threatening to have her arrested for something she didn’t do?” Brian was speaking calmly, slowly, as to a madman, yet Carol could sense his growing tension. She’d watched him pump up his muscles before a bodybuilding competition, using hand weights and callisthenics. But now his body was pumping itself up as he stood there. The shirt became taut across his chest and biceps. Lucien, despite his extra height, was dwarfed. He swallowed nervously and made another plea. “I need her more than anything. I’ll get her any way I can. I’m sorry.” Carol had to admire his courage. In his current state, Brian was physically capable of picking up the young man and throwing him clear over the car. The big man took a breath and leaned forward, slightly. He loomed, but Lucien defiantly stood his ground. A long pause, then Brian retreated, slightly. He seemed to shrink. “Look,” he said, “can’t we go somewhere and sort this out? Talk it over? The traffic must be backed up to Cluny by now.” He gestured at the policeman, who was talking quietly but urgently, on his radio. Was that a half-smile on Brian’s face? Lucien gestured to the car. “Please get in, Carol.” His face bore the smile of victory. Brian’s face was serious. “You’ll accept both of us or none at all. And just for the afternoon. We’ll have a quiet chat somewhere and come to an amicable settlement.” “Yes, yes. All right.” Lucien nodded, clearly thinking that he would persuade the Englishwoman to leave her husband and stay with him. He opened the rear door of the car, but Brian turned to Carol. “I want you to go and get our things from the bus. Tell Johnny that Mr de L’Artoisville has invited us out for the afternoon, and we’ve decided to accept his kind invitation. We’ll join the others back at the hotel this evening. Say that Mr de L’Artoisville apologises to all for any inconvenience.” With his back to Lucien, Brian’s broad smile was hidden from the Frenchman. “Yes, yes, of course,” Carol stammered, and hurried back to the coach. What was Brian up to? “And don’t forget your presents.” 51

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Now, she knew he was up to something. Johnny was at the door of the coach. He looked as embarrassed as Carol felt. She gave him Brian’s message. “We’re going with him,” she whispered. “To sort things out. He’s—” Hopelessly in love with me. “—a bit upset. I’ve not taken anything, honest. That was just his way of getting me to come.” Johnny nodded, though he didn’t understand. “I’ll get our things from the coach, and we’ll see you tonight. Back at the hotel.” I hope. “Lucien… Mr de L’Artoisville, apologises for the inconvenience.” “Yes… Right.” Facing the people on the coach was worse. Carol didn’t know what Johnny had told them if anything. He’d be tactful, of course, but they weren’t stupid. Those who hadn’t seen her stumble back into the hotel in jeans and a T-shirt, with her dress over her arm, would have had the scene described for them. They’d put two and two together and come up with a range of answers. The red-faced man who’d criticised Johnny’s time keeping was probably a retired Math teacher. Carol nodded to everyone as she scuttled down the aisle. She heard the sharp voice of the redhead, Deanna, demanding of all and sundry why it was that everybody seemed to be having more fun than she was. The policeman smirked and cast an unprofessional eye over her form as she slipped into the back of the car. Brian was already sitting in the front by Lucien. Carol waved the bag with her presents and he winked. Lucien drove noisily and jerkily, watching Carol in the rear-view mirror. She didn’t know where to look. Brian seemed determined to make conversation. “How is Arabelle?” “She is well, thank you.” “Recovered from last night?” “Yes.” “Still at the Chateau?” “No, she has gone home. To her own home.” “I’m sorry about that,” Brian teased. “Liked her. She’s very sweet. Very sweet.” Silence. “Busy at the vineyard?” 52


“No. The pruning following flowering is done. Now we wait for the grapes to fill and change colour.” “Quiet at the winery, then?” “Yes.” “No one about?” “No.” “Then that’s where we’ll go.” “Pardon?” “Take us to the winery. I don’t know where you were planning to take my wife, but you can take us both to the winery. We will have privacy there for our talk.” “But I was going to—” “The winery.” Brian’s tone admitted no further discussion. Lucien drove in silence. Brian turned to look meaningfully at Carol. He nodded towards the carrier bag. She slipped her hand inside and drew out a loop of rope. He shook his head, so she tried again. The rosary. Brian nodded, and she started to slip it over her head. “No, it’s not a necklace. Just hold it.” “Pardon?” Lucien wanted to know what was going on. Brian turned to face the front. “I bought Carol a souvenir in Cluny. Maybe souvenirs aren’t appropriate.” He sighed. “Not if she’s going to stay here with you.” Lucien sat up straighter. His eyes in the mirror glistened and opened wide. He was smiling. Carol hugged the crucifix tight to her chest. The hard, wooden edges dug into her. What was Brian up to? Surely he wasn’t planning to give her to Lucien? “The winery,” Lucien announced, unnecessarily. The car stopped on the yellow gravel in front of the entrance and they got out. Brian’s bulk was deceptive. He could move very quickly, and he’d pinioned Lucien’s arms behind his back before the Frenchman could cry out. When Lucien did, he was shaken like a doll. “I’m not going to hurt you. I have no intention whatsoever of hurting you,” he hissed. “I want to show you something, that’s all, and need you to be still and quiet to enjoy it.” He looked at Carol, standing thunderstruck. “Fetch me the rope.” Carol brought it to the struggling men. “A loop round his chest. Tight.” Brian had insisted she 53

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learned to tie knots. They’d learned and practised knot tying together, so she quickly secured Lucien’s arms to his sides. She let the loose ends of the rope dangle and stood erect, awaiting further orders. The sun was in her eyes but she didn’t put her hat on. Brian was going to make something happen. She waited. “Carol, do you love me?” “Yes, Brian.” “Do I love you?” “Yes, Brian.” “Do you trust me?” “Yes, Brian.” The repetition of her responses in the litany was strangely comforting, as it always was. Carol felt her will power slipping away. It was replaced by a deep-seated excitement, yet on the surface she was calm. Brian was in command. She need do nothing, she must do nothing, but obey. He would never ask her for anything she couldn’t deliver. She said Brian’s next question in her head as he said it out loud. “Will you do what I say?” “Yes, Master.” The change of response sometimes came on this question, sometimes on the next. Carol was grateful to be absolved of responsibility for what happened. “Whatever I say?” Carol nodded. “Yes, Master.” Of course, what else was there? Anything at all, so long as he loved her. If only he could ask of her something so difficult, so challenging, that performance of it would prove her love for him. “Master, I will do whatever you ask.” “Take off all your clothes, then.” Was that all? The sun was warm on her skin as she stripped them off, dropping each item in turn on the ground beside her. Lucien had stopped struggling. His eyes devoured her image, but she was naked for Brian, not for him. Even if Brian gave her to him, she would accept that fate as Brian’s gift. “And your sandals.” The gravel was uncomfortably hot and sharp to the soles of her feet, but she could bear it. She stood still, arms by her sides, welcoming the increasing pain. Heat gradually rose up her legs and suffused her body. Sweat started out on her face. 54


“When I say, I want you to go into the vineyard, lie down on the dirt between the vines and prostrate yourself. Do you understand?” “Yes, Master. Thank you Master.” She tried not to tremble, while she waited for release. It was all she could do, not to run joyfully to her punishment. Dazzled as she was by the sun, it was difficult for her to see Brian’s features, but she thought he was smiling. “Go.” Carol walked smartly but not hastily, her head held high and her shoulders back, to the gap in the hedge. They would turn and watch her, she felt sure, but even if they didn’t, Brian would know that she did it with pride. She knelt, then reached forward to lie flat. The vines here were not the Chardonnay she’d always associate with Lucien, but Pinot Noir, the earthy red grape that made pungent Burgundy the rich colour of blood. Between the rows the soil was clumped into dusty red clods and scattered with smooth oval stones. It formed a rough, hard surface that was uncomfortable to lie on. Here and there a hot spot indicated the presence of a stone that had been gathering heat all day. She’d made love to Lucien at dawn. The stones had waited for her since then, accumulating heat that they now released generously. They burned steadily into her, but the pain was not more than she could bear. Low down, between the rows of vines, there was no breeze, and the air was hot. The sun warmed the naked skin of her back. Baking in the oven of the vineyard, Carol waited, trying not to speculate what Brian planned for her next. He was thinking of her, and that was enough. The agony of love filled every part of her. Carol became conscious that she had drifted into that state of numb passivity that was the object of this phase of the game. Someone was talking and that had disturbed her. Perhaps it was Brian, it sounded a little like him. He wasn’t talking to her. The other person was speaking too quietly to hear. The cicadas in the vineyard were making a great din. While she’d lain motionless they’d crept closer. Suddenly they went quiet. Someone had come into the vineyard. Carol knew too much to leap up and call Brian’s name, nor indeed to make any sign to acknowledge his presence. He would know she knew. “Good.” At his voice, at his praise, her heart leapt. The pain she suffered was as nothing to the joy that filled her heart. 55

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“Lie still,” he said. Of course she would. Didn’t he trust her? She listened to his shoes crushing clods of earth as he positioned himself at her side. Swish! A line of agony scored her already overheated buttock. She gasped, blowing up a puff of dust into her face. But she didn’t move. As she closed her eyes, the echo of the injury blossomed. “Be patient, love.” Brian’s voice was firm. There were tiny sounds. Was he tearing leaves off a vine? Swish! Another trail slashed her buttock. Forewarned, she kept quiet. “Faugh,” said Brian in disgust. His disapproval hurt more than twenty lashes. “They’re too soft. They come to pieces straight away.” His voice softened. “They make a good clear mark, though.” Carol sighed in relief. She hadn’t disappointed him, it was merely the vine trimmings he’d whipped her with. In fact, the marks on her skin were the subject of pride. “Get up and stand straight,” he said. She complied, though her joints and muscles were stiff from inactivity. “We’re going inside, into the cool.” Carol looked down at herself. Lying in the vineyard she had sweated heavily, and she was smudged with dirt. She started to dust it off with her fingers. “No,” said Brian, “I want you dirty. In fact…” He picked up a lump of soil in each big hand and crushed them together. He rubbed the resultant dust carefully over Carol’s torso. The dirt was abrasive, but the big man was so gentle that the grit only added piquancy to his caressing adoration of her body. At last he was satisfied, though Carol was not. Her skin was supersensitive, her breasts and vulva swollen. “Master?” she begged. Brian smiled at her. “What is it, Slave?” “May I kiss you, Master?” In answer, he took her head in his hands and kissed her hard, his tongue forcing open her teeth and pillaging her mouth without mercy. It felt as if her whole being was concentrated between his palms and he was drinking her essence from the chalice of her skull. Her body became insubstantial, a wisp of a thing, fluttering away above the vines like the tail of a kite. Brian broke off the kiss, but continued holding her, staring into her eyes. Gradually her body reasserted itself. It wanted him. She wanted him. When he let her go, she swayed then regained her balance. His hands were outspread, ready to catch her if she fell, as they always were. Yet remained outspread. He allowed her the freedom 56


she wanted, even to spending the night with Lucien, or fantasising about Hannelore. But here, when she needed them, his hands were ready to catch her, hold her, caress and chastise her. “Come on,” he said, turning away sharply, as if afraid of showing too much tenderness. She stumbled over the rough ground, following his broad back across the hot gravel and into the winery. His white shirt was dusty and stuck to his back. It was cool in the shade, as refreshing as a cold drink. Carol was suddenly thirsty. She’d spent time under the sun without drinking and her mouth was dusty and dry. “Here.” Brian was offering her a wine bottle. Carol frowned. They’d learned the hard way that alcohol and domination didn’t go together. “It’s water,” he explained. The bottle held about a pint of metallic-tasting water, but to Carol it was nectar. She needed no urging to finish the lot. When it was gone, she pressed the cold bottle between her breasts. “Thank you, Master.” Brian smiled and led the way deeper into the winery, past rows of stacked barrels, each with year and initials roughly chalked on the end. She realised where they were going. Why had she not thought of that before? The cold of the water pervaded her body as she thought of the dark cellar room behind the rusty steel door. She stopped in her tracks and nearly cried out. Please, Brian, I can’t do it, I’m frightened. Please take me home. But she didn’t. Instead, she hurried up, her feet chilled and her toes numbed by the uneven paving of the wine store. Brian waited for her beside the steel door. He looked strong, as strong as the door, with its rows of rivets and streaks of rust. It was set into a metal frame built into the wall. They’d been told that in the War, it had been hidden behind old barrels, quickly emptied, but sacrificed to protect their secret. Carol thought of Nazis again, dragging their victims down to a torture chamber, kicking them with shiny boots when they fell. Tumbling down that slippery, filthy staircase to lie at the bottom. To be beaten and kicked until they struggled to their feet—or until they couldn’t. Again she wished she could plead with Brian, could fall to her knees and beg him to end it. But she didn’t. When Brian tugged open the door and let it clank against the wall, she stepped forward, head lowered, seeking in the darkness for the first step. Of course it was dark. Brian thought of everything. By her hand, on the wall, was an old-fashioned light switch with a Bakelite knob. She left it alone and began her cautious descent. The walls were slippery and her fingers quickly coated in slime that oozed over her knuckles 57

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and crawled down the backs of her hands. Not being able to see, Carol was free to imagine all kinds of horrors, creatures living in that gelatinous mess. Darkness became complete. The clang of the door as it closed thundered in that confined space and echoed from the cellar below. Carol felt a scream inflate her chest but before it escaped Brian’s hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. If he’d not gripped her tightly, she’d have twisted round on that narrow step and clasped herself to him. “Face the wall,” he whispered. Feeling for the step with her toes, she turned slowly to the left. “Both hands on the wall.” How could he see? It was utterly dark. Carol pressed her palms onto the slick masonry. “Against the wall.” Brian’s hand pushed her forward. The goo was cold and wet against her dry, dusty skin. He forced her close so that her breasts, belly and, with his fingers spanning from nose to ear, her cheek, were pressed into the invisible filth. She closed her eyes and tried not to breathe. Imaginary monsters crawled beneath the skin. At last the forcing hands left her and she withdrew, gasping. Light dazzled her, reflecting yellow. “Okay,” said Brian from above, by the switch. “Down you go.” Now she could see it, the slime seemed thinner, in places there was none at all. She had wet patches on face and breasts, but it was thickest on her hands. She was contaminated, unclean. She stepped down onto the damp floor of the cellar. It was coated with a black deposit so thick that it was impossible to tell whether the surface underneath was masonry or dirt. She looked round for something to wipe her hands on. Everything, the mouldy ceiling, the grimy shelves, the cobwebbed bottles seemed as filthy as she was. Except Lucien. He stood upright in a corner, his gaze flickering over her body, taking in her state. His hands were behind him. He didn’t move toward her. Because he couldn’t, she realised. Her rope belt present had been used to tether her ex-lover in his own cellar. “Say hello to Carol, Lucien,” said Brian, pushing her forward. “What has he done to you?” Lucien evidently thought Brian had gone mad. Carol shrugged, wondering what threats had made the Frenchman stand quietly in the dark while she was descending the staircase. No additional threat was needed to keep her silent—she had no permission to speak. A silence ensued. “Answer him.” 58


“Nothing I didn’t ask for.” The meaning was lost on the Frenchman. Carol’s excitement took over and she realised that right now, naked, dripping with foul slime in a chilly cellar, she was more alive, more engaged than many people were in a lifetime. “Lucien, I’m very happy. I love my husband very much and he loves me.” From his expression, he obviously thought Carol was mad, too. “Bring me his belt,” said Brian. Lucien flinched as Carol went on her knees before him. An hour earlier he’d have welcomed her attention in this position. His jeans were laundered and neatly pressed. Carol wiped her slimy hands on her flanks before teasing the belt from its buckle with her fingertips. It was new, embossed with a cable pattern and slipped easily through the loops. She stood, and holding it draped over her hands, advanced to offer it to Brian. Again she sank to her knees. Brian took the proffered belt. “Now prostrate yourself. No, facing away from our guest.” Carol turned round and lay face down, extending her arms. The dirt covering the floor was cold and moist. It smelled of mould and ancient wine. How many centuries had it taken to lay down such a patina? “You see, Lucien,” Brian was saying. “Carol is a woman with complex desires and needs that only a special kind of man—or woman—can completely satisfy. I flatter myself that I’m that kind of man.” If Carol’s buttocks were blushing as much as her face, then Lucien must surely see it. Maybe they were, for Brian went on, “She’s got a lovely arse, hasn’t she? Doesn’t it just beg to be smacked?” Clack! It didn’t take much imagination to work out that Brian had been cutting Lucien’s nice belt into a strap to beat her with. “Up!” Carol stood up. Loose material from the floor stuck to her hands and body. “Over the barrel.” The upended barrel was a little too high. Her toes barely touched the floor, and the whole of her weight pressed the sharp rim into her collarbones and groin. Her breasts and belly rested on the ancient surface. It seemed a lifetime since she’d seen it used as a table. Brian took his time, as he always did, caressing her vulnerable skin, slipping fingers between her legs, trailing them down her thighs and up her back to her nape, then down again. She was feeling breathless and antsy before the beating began. Not being tied down was an added torment. She could get up and walk off any time. Pride kept her fixed in place more strongly than fetters. She forgot Lucien, watching in horror, until he screamed. 59

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The first blow arrived before she could identify the source of the noise. She knew it wasn’t her. Then her buttocks were seared with pain. A steady rain of stinging slaps hurt and heated Carol’s thighs and buttocks, jarring her pubis against the barrel’s edge. The intensity grew slowly until each stripe seemed to scald. Lucien’ shouts and protests against her punishment died away. She was unaware of making any noise herself, though the cellar filled with a thrumming echo. If it was the strap or her own cries, she didn’t know. Brian paused only once, when a clang came down the staircase from the steel door. He grunted, then went on with the beating. At last it ceased. Again her tormentor stroked her softly, drawing out the pain and adoring the flesh he’d abused. The heat migrated from the surface to her core so that when he entered her, slowly but firmly, she was aching to receive him. She came almost immediately while he remained sheathed but unmoving, allowing her to take her pleasure simply from his intrusion. When she was done, and the pains where the barrel edges cut into her became irksome, he withdrew and lowered her to the floor. The presence of his penis, jutting unsatisfied over her head, roused her to a final effort. She knelt and greedily crammed as much as she could into her mouth, massaging the excess with her fingers until he came, swiftly and copiously. She was so exhausted that the last driblets ran down her chin. Brian lifted her to her feet and led her to where Lucien stood, sobbing, against the wall. “Kiss her goodbye, Lucien,” said Brian. But Lucien could not do it. Carol approached him unsteadily and he turned his face away. It was the first time she’d been hurt, really hurt, all day. She shivered. The cellar was very cold and she was naked. Brian turned her to face him and kissed her face: forehead, cheeks, lips and chin. “I think that means its over,” he murmured. “The spell is broken.” He picked her up and carried her carefully up the stairs, through the open door, and out into the winery. He left her shivering for a few seconds then helped her into an old, dirty blue work dress. “It was all I could find,” he said. He put it on her, fastening the buttons up the front as if she were an invalid or a child. The dress stank of ancient sweat and worse. He led her out into the dazzling sunlight. Arabelle was there, leaning against the car. She stood upright and a look of horror came over her face. She rushed forward. Carol was suddenly ashamed of her filthy state, but the Frenchwoman ignored it and helped Brian support her to the car. 60


They eased her onto the back seat and she relaxed into Arabelle’s bony embrace. Brian said something about Lucien and then he was gone. “What have they done to you?” Arabelle whispered, smoothing Carol’s matted hair from her brow. The human contact was comforting. A lump came to Carol’s throat. “Are you all right?” “Yes, I think so,” Carol croaked. “Yes, I’m all right. Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is. How did you get here?” “Brian rang me on Lucien’s phone. He said Lucien had been up to more tricks, stopping the traffic in Mâcon, and you’d brought him here to teach him a lesson.” The Frenchwoman withdrew slightly. “What has he done to Lucien?” “Nothing,” said Carol. “Brian just made him watch.” Unbidden, the pain of Lucien’s revulsion and rejection came back. She buried her face in Arabelle’s shoulder and sobbed. They stayed like that, the anxious Frenchwoman comforting the Englishwoman, until Brian returned. “Shall I drive?” he asked. “No, I’d better.” Arabelle gently transferred her charge to Brian’s broad shoulder and slipped into the front of the car. “What about Lucien?” “He’ll keep. I let him go but locked him in the library. I think he needs some time on his own, but he’ll be grateful to see you when you get back.” Arabelle drove and Carol slept. She woke briefly when Brian carried her up the steps and into the hotel, and again while he bathed her, but she was asleep before he slid her, clean and dry once more, into bed.

61

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

Sandres de Sâone

Brian woke her with a kiss. She reached out to draw him onto her, then winced: her hips and chest were bruised, and everywhere else felt sore. Opening her eyes, she found Brian had changed into a clean white long-sleeved shirt. “Hungry?” he asked. She nodded eagerly. “Then get dressed. The Canadians have asked us out for a meal. Just the four of us. I thought it would be easier than going out with the rest of the group.” “Canadians? I thought they were American.” “So did I.” He rubbed his chin. “They think the distinction is important. I suppose its like New Zealanders and Australians.” “Or Welsh and English.” “Point taken. Come on, get dressed, I’m starving. They’re called Glenn and Deanna. He’s a businessman of some sort and she’s… I can’t make her out, but she’s no more of a housewife than you are.” Carol wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not, but she slid out of bed and started to get ready. Once she was moving her aches and pains didn’t seem so bad. She felt rested, though she’d had only a couple of hours’ sleep. Her hair was lank, so she fastened it back in a ponytail like the German girl had yesterday. Was it yesterday? Or the day before? Brian sat on the bed and watched her dress and make up. His gaze was warm and appreciative. She felt self-aware and self-confident. He didn’t mind how long she took, he was enjoying himself. He loved her, and loved to look at her. It wasn’t threatening or intrusive, just a cosy familiarity. She knew she had only to raise an eyebrow—or her skirt—to have him on his knees in worship before her. This was power beyond mere ropes and chains. They found the Canadians waiting in the hotel bar. Both stood on their approach. Glenn was not much taller than Carol. Deanna only came up to his shoulder. He was 62


handsome, with an even tan and a full head of silver hair, unfashionably long but neatly styled. He wore a white tuxedo jacket. Deanna had green eyes in an oval face, with a cap of thick red hair. She had on a matching skirt and blouse in pale metallic blue. They shook hands all round. Glenn’s grip was firm, impersonal, as if he constantly met people who needed convincing of his sincerity and strength. Deanna’s grip was softer, but Carol found her own hand turned under, so that the Canadian’s pale one was on top. The nails were long and perfect, their varnish the exact shade of the rest of her outfit. Carol felt ashamed she’d not even polished her own short manicure. The green-eyed gaze was challenging, as if the Englishwoman was expected to press her lips reverently to the delicate skin clutched in her own brown paw. “I’ve found a restaurant a couple of blocks away, so I thought we’d walk there, if that’s okay,” Glenn announced. “After seeing that woman feed her dog at the table in the hotel last night—” He grinned, “—But of course, you didn’t…” “No,” said Brian. “What was the meal like, apart from the dog?” Carol was grateful Brian had fended off this veiled enquiry. “Not bad, though the service was poor. Not slow, but with attitude, as if the staff thought they were better than the customers.” “Don’t you hate that?” Deanna remarked. “At the end of the meal I asked the sommelier if he thought he was entitled a tip. He pretended he didn’t understand.” Away from the hotel, Tournus was an attractive little town that seemed rather to turn its back on the broad Saône River by which it lay. It had twisting narrow streets and elderly buildings with balconies enclosed in ornate ironwork and glass. The men led the way, talking of wine, and Deana and Carol followed. The petite woman linked arms, but left her in no doubt who was in control. Carol felt her own arm was coarse and sweaty, compared with the smooth, cool limb clutching it. “You must tell me what you two have been up to.” “Oh, nothing much. Nothing exciting,” Carol lied. The walk was easing the last stiffness from her joints. The streets were shady and no more than pleasantly warm. “No?” Carol glanced at her companion and met a level, disbelieving stare. Carol sighed. “We had a quiet meal with Lucien de L’Artoisville in the family chateau. Not so much a chateau, really, more a comfortable country house. Very old, of course, but quite plain. Homely.” “And then what happened?” 63

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“The wines were excellent. He’d brought back a wonderful Sauternes from Bordeaux.” Carol closed her eyes to remember the taste, but could only think of the rich Chardonnay flavour of Lucien’s discharge onto her tongue. Mersault. “I can still taste it, it was so long.” Unwisely she permitted herself a distant smile. “And then?” How could she deflect these questions? “It was late, and we’d all had a lot to drink—did I tell you Lucien’s fiancée, Arabelle was there, too?” “Was she?” Didn’t Deanna believe her? “Yes. An attractive girl, very fond of him.” If the concern she’d shown him this afternoon was anything to go by. This afternoon? “Oh. But you stayed the night?” “Yes, Lucien insisted we stay the night because it was too late to drive back. And as I said…” “You’d all had a lot to drink.” “So he brought us back in the morning.” Carol now remembered the last time she’d spoken to Deanna. She’d been stumbling, shame-faced, back to her room, dressed in only a man’s thin T-shirt and jeans that were digging into her crotch, and the Canadian had insisted on speaking to her. No wonder Deanna was burning with curiosity. “So why was he holding up the traffic in Mâcon this afternoon?” “Ah. Well…” Wasn’t it obvious? Carol reflected for a moment, then smiled to herself. “I’ll leave you to guess that, shall I?” Deana laughed out loud, a sharp sound like tiny bells. At the sound, the men stopped and turned round. Brian stared hard at Carol as if to ask what secrets she’d revealed to the diminutive Canadian. Deanna waved dismissively and the men resumed their walk. “We’ll play three guesses later on, shall we?” The Canadian’s grip on Carol’s forearm intensified. Now there was a degree of threat. There was no pain, but it seemed to suggest that there easily could be. The restaurant was tiny, just six tables. Glenn spoke in rapid French, with an accent the waiter claimed to have difficulty understanding. However, he succeeded in ensuring the starter was sweet green asparagus instead of the slightly bitter white variety they’d had everywhere else. Defiantly, Carol insisted they order a white Mersault to go with the Sandre de Saône main course. 64


“What about Chablis?” said Brian. “There’s a grand cru Valmur.” “The Mersault is premiere cru,” Carol pointed out. “I like Mersault.” “—Sandre, that’s pike-perch, you know.” Glenn clearly thought the discussion was getting out of hand. “And it comes out of the river just over there. But it’s common all over Europe. The Dutch call it zander.” “I’m sure the Mersault will be fine,” said Brian, nodding defeat. And so it was. They’d been a little concerned that the fish would have the muddy taste that ordinary pike often has, but it was perfect. Not a white fish, but meaty, and it admirably complimented the rich complexity of the wine. Carol privately stored away a nickname for Lucien: Zander. What was her handsome young Zander doing now? Carol switched from happiness to misery in a heartbeat. The last time she’d seen him he’d spurned her kiss and turned his face from her. Her dinner companions stared in surprise as tears rolled down her face. Her beautiful shiny fish had twisted away and swum off. She’d lost him. “I’m sorry,” she wept, “I just thought of something, that’s all.” Deanna didn’t seem the sort to offer sympathy, but she dutifully laid down her napkin and led Carol to the bathroom. By the time Carol had used the toilet and blown her nose she’d recovered. After all, the object of Brian’s thoughtful treatment of her at the winery had been to drive Lucien to reject her. It still hurt, but perhaps she’d needed to grieve. She waited sociably for Deanna to come out of the single cubicle. “Are you okay, now?” said Deanna, washing her hands. “Yes thanks, I’m all right.” These things happened, and she’d always have the memory of her night of love with Lucien—and of the cruel but arousing punishment it had earned her. Brian had been inspired. Carol could her imagine herself being prostrated when they got back home. Lying face down on the moist cropped grass of the lawn while he watered it, thinking of what was to come… Deanna was staring up into her face. “You’re sure you’re all right?” Carol nodded, trying not to smirk. “Yes, fine.” “Here, let me fix your hair.” Carol sat on a chair while Deanna worked on her, releasing her hair from its band and attacking it furiously with a small brush from her purse. The Canadian had tiny breasts and no shadow of an areola was detectable through the fabric of her blouse. Carol was conscious of her own over-abundance, and the little 65

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prominence on each peak. It was pleasant to be pampered, though, and she relaxed. Her hairdresser was pretty. Carol slipped into a reverie where they embraced, the boyish chest pressed against her face as she sought those invisible nipples with her tongue. Deanna paused and put her head on one side. “Does he beat you badly?” she asked, as if she was enquiring what lipstick the big woman used. “No, he does it very well.” The flip answer was out before Carol could think. Perhaps it was her interrogator’s calm, unflappable air that made her subconsciously want to shock. Or did she want to shove their relationship onto another stage? The Canadian raised and lowered her eyebrows, then continued working. The heat of Carol’s blush must be burning her fingers. The statement hovered in the air. It wouldn’t go away. The brush strokes became more severe. Carol tried to save her husband’s reputation. “Brian’s not cruel. He doesn’t beat me up, or anything.” The attempt wasn’t going well. “It’s just a game. You know?” “I know, all right.” Deanna held her chin in a pincer-like grip. “Is that what he did this afternoon, when you went off with the Frenchman?” She stared into her eyes, defying the larger woman to use her strength to break free. Carol gave in and nodded. The fingertips relaxed. “Tell me about it,” she said. Carol was about to describe the scene when she thought of Brian. It was for him to decide who was told, not her, and certainly not the little woman dressing her hair. “No, I can’t.” Why was she frightened of her reaction? She was surely a physical match for the diminutive Canadian. “Of course.” She shook her head. “I didn’t expect you to. Now stand up.” Carol stood. Had she just passed a test? It seemed so. In the mirror she could see that her hair had been dressed so that it swept smoothly down to her shoulders. “Thank you, Deanna,” she said, and made to leave. The other stood in her way. Carol could easily have picked her up and set her aside, but she didn’t. “Wait. I want you to show me.” “What?” “You can’t tell me, but you can show me. I saw you wince when you sat down just now. I want to see what he’s done to you.” “It’s all right, it really is,” Carol protested. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.” 66


“Turn round and show me.” It was a command, not a request. Carol shrugged and complied. It was too late to be shy. She raised her skirt at the back. Her bottom was pink and tender, she’d seen it in the mirror at the hotel. “Higher.” Carol obliged. “What did he use, a strap?” “Uh-uh.” “Did you come? Did it give you an orgasm?” Carol lowered her skirt and turned to face Deanna. This was too far. “No? You had one afterwards, though. Did you deserve it? Had you earned it?” The answers were coming out of the air, or directly from Carol’s mind. “Has he ever used a riding crop?” Horror on her face gave the answer. They’d considered buying one, but it had seemed too cruel. It remained one of Carol’s fantasies, though. The Canadian went on. “If I beat you—when I beat you—I’ll use the crop.” Not a crop, but the crop, as if she had one already. “You won’t be able to sit for a week.” She wagged her finger like a schoolmistress. “But I’ll make you come with it, too.” It was a promise. Carol stood transfixed. Her body was responding to the threat, not by fight-orflight, but by melting. The pouch of her sex was swollen and weeping. Her nipples pricked into her clothes. She said nothing as Deanna turned to go. “And take off that ridiculous thong,” was the Canadian’s parting shot. “They’re unhygienic. If you’re too sore to wear proper pants, then do without.” The door closed behind her trim rear. Carol took a breath and blew it out between pursed lips. Then she peeled off her thong and threw it in the bin. It was damp, anyway. The three others watched Carol enter and sit down. She tried not to wince, but was conscious that her sex was open to the air. Had they guessed? Or was it her nipples, prominent with excitement? Brian smiled benignly, but Glenn didn’t seem able to keep his eyes off her. Deanna took charge, ordering tarte tatin for dessert, to be followed by local goat’s cheeses. The talk turned to flying. Glenn flew frequently on business, and Deanna often accompanied him. She described sitting in an Italian airport, watching the display from the X-ray machines. “The things people take with them,” she remarked. “Sex toys are so obvious, even on X-ray. But airport security is tighter, now. You can’t travel with a pair of 67

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

handcuffs any more.” As if it was a perfectly normal thing to take, like a hairdryer. Brian met Carol’s eyes and winked. “Some people we know got really hassled. They were there for two hours, trying to convince them that the cuffs were for recreational use. Practically had to strip off and beat each other, to prove it.” Carol was suddenly hot, but whether it was embarrassment or excitement she couldn’t tell. Deanna stared at her before continuing. “You have to improvise a bit, create a story, and if possible buy what you need at your destination,” she said. “We have an imaginary niece who’s into horse-riding. Everywhere we go we buy her a suitable present. As long as it’s gift-wrapped for the flight home, nobody turns a hair.” She grinned. “She must have the world’s biggest collection of riding crops.” Carol dropped her fork and it danced on her plate. She knew with utter certainty that in Deanna and Glenn’s room a gift-wrapped present was waiting for her. She wanted to look away, but Deanna’s gaze prevented it. There was a long pause while those green eyes stared at her, stripping away clothes, skin, and flesh to expose her soul. When at last she was released, and could look elsewhere, she saw Glenn was grinning at her. Brian’s expression was harder to fathom. Deanna waved to the waiter to clear the desserts. They remained in silence while he did so. Carol’s hand stole to Brian’s knee and was grasped in a friendly way. She was floating over a precipice with only his firm grip to save her. The cheese arrived, with a sweet wine to accompany it, but Carol had lost her appetite for food. She stared down at her plate. “Brian,” Deanna said, “I’d like to borrow your wife for an hour, if I may.” Carol held onto his hand as if without it she might plunge through the gleaming white surface of her empty plate into a place of horror, a white-tiled room where a fiery-haired mistress ruled slaves with a cruel whip. “Oh. What for?” “Aversion therapy.” The green eyes glittered mischief. “Pardon?” “I’ve noticed that my wayward husband here can’t keep his eyes off her breasts.” They all looked at Glenn, who was now studying his own plate. “If I can borrow Carol for an hour, I may be able to cure him of it.” She paused. “Or at any rate, make him regret it. I won’t touch her. Neither of us will. I absolutely guarantee it. She’ll not be 68


harmed or hurt.” Carol was interested to find the Canadian drawing the same distinction between hurt and harm that she and Brian had discovered. If they promised to keep her safe, what damage could it do? “What about Carol? Have you asked her?” Brian squeezed his wife’s hand then released it. Her lifeline gone, she was isolated, abandoned. “In the circumstances I felt that it was appropriate to ask you.” The voice was steady, precise. The green eyes recaptured Carol’s gaze. “In this sort of matter, I’m sure she would be happy for you to direct her actions.” Brian was considering it! His eyes were on her, but she could not escape the stare of her Canadian Mistress. “She won’t be touched?” he said, finally. “I will not touch her, nor permit her to be touched, even if she begs,” came the cold, exciting response. Brian stood and took out his wallet. Deanna waved it away. “Our treat,” she said, ambiguously. He looked at his watch. “It’s just gone nine. It’ll take twenty minutes to get back to the hotel. I’ll take a walk, and see you at ten thirty, then.” He took Carol’s hand and kissed it like the betrayer he was. “Have fun.” They watched him walk out into the dusk. Glenn made to rise, but his wife raised a finger. “There’s plenty of time. Drink your coffee.”

69

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

Pearls

Leaving Glenn to pay the bill, Deanna shooed her charge through the door, latching onto her outside and marching her off. Evidently the ban on touching didn’t apply until they were back at the hotel. The cool arm linked through Carol’s was proprietorial. The woman was holding onto her, not to prevent escape, but for the satisfaction of ownership. It was only for an hour. But how long can an hour seem? Glenn rushed up and was made to walk in front. He was eager, like a puppy, pressing ahead then turning round, wishing they’d hurry up. He seemed suspiciously keen to begin his aversion therapy. Deana insisted on waiting for the elevator, though the stairs would have been quicker. At last they entered the Canadians’ room: the eager puppy, the apprehensive slave, and the confident Mistress. “Do sit down,” she invited, indicating an armchair upholstered in tan fabric. “Drink?” Carol shook her head and sat on the edge of the seat, knees primly together. The button-front skirt fell open and, remembering she wore nothing beneath it, she captured the ends and rested her fingers on them. It gave her something to do with her hands. Glenn had disappeared into the bathroom. His wife produced a long grey box from a drawer and laid it on the glass-topped coffee table in front of her guest. “Open it,” she said. Carol immediately guessed what it contained. She could think of nothing else that would fit in a box that shape and size. Lying quietly on a bed of tissue paper, like a snake in its nest, was the riding crop. Twenty-one inches of dark brown plaited leather, with a wrist-loop and a knob at one end, tapered to a folded leather flap at the other. “It won’t bite you. Take it out.” It looked as if it would bite. She picked it up. It was light and flexible, balanced where the wrist loop attached to the handle. Beautiful. It invited use, as if eager to begin its cruel work. She found herself flicking it, feeling it flex and listening to the hiss as it 70


sliced the air. She looked up guiltily. Deana was smiling. Glenn returned wearing a towelling robe and stood by her. “She sure likes the crop,” Deanna observed. “Show her what it can do.” He turned his back and dropped the robe. His shoulders and buttocks were criss-crossed with red stripes, very dark, very clear. Carol gasped. She’d never seen anyone so vividly marked. “Would you like to try it out on him, my dear?” The crop clattered onto the tabletop. It was as if it had suddenly bared fangs and twisted round to strike at her. Deanna picked it up with a laugh. “Show her what else it does,” she said. He turned round. Chest and groin were hairless. His balls were already clenched to his body. Above them stood a tall pink stalk with a fat rosebud head. “Pretty, isn’t he?” said his wife, tapping the long stem gently with the crop. The threat only made it stand straighter. It was indeed very pretty. Her mouth was dry. “Does the riding crop excite you, too?” The green eyes knew. They flashed mischief. “Sure it does, or you wouldn’t be here.” Carol said nothing. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to use it on you.” Deana smiled briefly. “Not tonight.” She turned to her husband and issued an order. “Towels.” Glenn brought clean towels from the bathroom and draped them over two upright chairs that he placed facing each other across the coffee table. Carol could not prevent her gaze following his bobbing cock. “Belt.” He pulled the towelling belt from his discarded robe and offered it to his wife. She made him hold the crop in his mouth while she pushed one of the chairs until the seat was under the table and secured him against the back of it, his penis jutting over the top. His hands hung loosely by his sides. Deanna beckoned Carol to sit in the chair opposite, then went into the bathroom herself. Her captives faced each other. Carol again held her dress closed while Glenn scanned her from knee to cleavage to face and hair and back again. The crop, still clenched in his teeth, looked more like the bit in a horse’s mouth than a pirate’s sword. Carol’s gaze kept slipping down his tanned chest to his naked white groin and the erect, pretty penis pointing at her face. What does he taste like? She moistened her lips, she wasn’t going to be allowed to find out. Not tonight. Deanna returned, wearing black: a short skirt, split at the left thigh, patterned hold-ups, and shiny high-heeled shoes. Above, her skin was alabaster white with a faint 71

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

tracery of blue veins that made it seem even whiter. Her tiny breasts were pale cones, moving hardly at all, their little pink nipples erect. In their way they were as pretty as her husband’s penis. Her flame-coloured hair was drawn severely back, close to her skull. “Let’s begin,” she said, taking the crop from Glenn’s mouth and flicking him lightly across the chest with it, making hardly a mark. “Show her what bad little boys do.” The crop tip tapped his bulbous glans. He grasped his penis in both hands then, at a signal from his Mistress, began to pump it slowly. Its red top bobbed as he did so. Though his eyes pleaded with her not to watch his humiliation, Carol was fascinated. Brian had once done this to tease her—she’d been bound at the time—but it wasn’t a sight she saw often. Men seemed ashamed, as Glenn was. Deanna strode round her prisoners, swishing the crop as she marched. “Stop! Hands by your sides.” Glenn now seemed as reluctant to stop as he’d been to start, but he obeyed. Deanna rocked her hips in silence for a few moments, making the skirt swing forward and back slightly. She seemed to be in a reverie, though Carol couldn’t see why. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out again. “Now you…” The crop pointed at Carol. “Give him some encouragement. Unfasten your dress.” Carol’s dress buttoned right down the front, but she made no move to obey. Crack! Glenn gasped as the crop bit his buttock. Deanna’s eyes were focussed on Carol. Crack! It bit him again. She’d hit him a third time before Carol realised what she intended. Her hands trembled on the first button. He’d been earned a respite, for the watchful Deanna lowered the crop. The second button. The third. The dress gaped of its own accord, exposing her cleavage and the dark blue platform bra she’d put on earlier, under Brian’s friendly scrutiny. But Deanna wasn’t friendly. Enough. Her hands fell to her sides and she stared defiance at the red-haired virago. Crack! Crack! As Deanna struck him, her tiny breasts quivered then became still. Carol could have watched them, over and over, but Glenn was being cruelly beaten. Crack! Crack! Carol gave in. If Brian hadn’t intended this to happen he wouldn’t have lent her to this tormentor and her victim. Feverishly, her hands fumbled with the other buttons until the dress fell open over her lap, exposing her bare belly. She pressed her knees together. “Got rid of the thong, then? Good,” Deanna said, staring at the patch of hair where her thighs met. “Get rid of the dress, too.” A wave of the crop was enough to force her prisoner to wriggle her arms out of the sleeves so that it fell away onto the 72


chair. She sat still, naked except for her bra, awaiting Deanna’s next move. Glenn’s eyes tried to penetrate her groin, but all he could see above her clenched thighs was her trimmed pubic badge. “Your husband has bruised you.” The marks of the barrel showed over collarbones and hips. Deanna turned to her husband. “She’s still very pretty, isn’t she?” Three or four taps with the crop encouraged Glenn to reply. He swallowed, then croaked, “Yes, Mistress. Very pretty.” “Show your appreciation, then.” He again took his penis in both hands and began to pump it. Deanna produced a small bottle of olive oil. “Dry?” He nodded, his fists thrusting vigorously. With each stroke his red plum appeared then disappeared. She pulled the cork from the bottle and was about to pour some onto him, when she paused. “Show him what he wants to see. Take off your bra.” Clearly, if Carol didn’t obey, the lubricant would be withheld. She didn’t want him sore, and the idea of his cock-head glistening with oil was appealing. Besides, it was all Brian’s fault, wasn’t it? Her breasts surged forward as the bra fell to the floor. “Like them?” Glenn nodded, his hands, shining with oil, were working feverishly. His face was as red as his cock-head. “Stop!” Deanna had to slash him hard across the chest before he stilled his hands and let them fall to his sides. She smiled conspiratorially at Carol. “We don’t want him to finish too soon, do we?” The man was panting, his gaze fixed on her breasts. The abandoned cock pumped on its own for a little, then was still. He’d been that close. “Like to play with them?” Deanna teased. “Of course you would. But you’re not allowed to touch, remember?” She turned to Carol. “You’ll have to play with them for him.” The Englishwoman’s mouth dropped open. “Go on,” she coaxed, but it was the spaniel look in Glenn’s eyes that made her take their familiar weight onto her palms and raise them. She enjoyed caressing herself, but not usually with an audience. Perhaps people—certain people—would pay money to watch? Carol slipped into a sort of dream, comforting and stroking herself, raising them so that they rubbed pleasantly against each other, imagining Glenn’s tall penis rolling between. She was vaguely aware of Deanna making that curious rocking movement of her pelvis, as if she too was being caressed. They were both moving when Deanna spoke again. “Show her how slowly you can stroke that thing,” she whispered. As Glenn grasped his penis again, she poured another libation of oil over his knuckles. “Slowly!” 73

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she commanded. His fists halted, then moved almost undetectable. It took many racing heartbeats and panting breaths before the gleaming bud appeared, its slit gaping under tension, to disappear as slowly. She could almost feel it sliding inside her, tormenting her hungry vagina with its patience. To the side Deanna was still moving rhythmically to an inner cadence. Carol was holding her nipples now, rolling and squeezing them in an attempt to make Glenn move faster. But he’d been well trained. Although his flat belly was quivering as his hips tried to thrust his penis back and forth, his hands pursued their infinitesimal movement. He was on the point of losing control when Deanna came to herself again and stopped him with a stripe across his chest. “She has fine big nipples, hasn’t she?” He simply stared at them and panted. “Like to clamp them, wouldn’t you?” Carol’s fingers stilled, though her breasts wanted them to continue. Clamp them? “But you can’t touch them, can you?” She turned to Carol, who quailed beneath her stare. “Maybe, if we asked her nicely?” The Englishwoman’s hands curled protectively round her breasts but her eyes betrayed her submission. She lowered her gaze, past the red-capped penis pointing at her heart, to its dull reflection on the coffee table. An object rattled onto the glass. Although it was in her field of view and she knew what it must be, she struggled to work out the complicated shape. It resolved itself into a length of silvery chain with a crocodile clip at each end. Her flesh crawled, she didn’t want it anywhere near her, yet the horror of it fascinated her: she couldn’t look away. The loops of chain looked like a silver snake with two fanged heads. “Pick it up,” her voice was calm as she indicated the object. The thing was coiled, ready to strike. The command was repeated, with the same tone and volume. “Pick it up.” Carol touched it. The links were cold, and slithered away from her fingers. She tried again, and picked up a clip in each hand. The chain swung heavily between them. It was a medieval instrument of torture. She had a vision of a man and a woman with their wrists chained above their heads, in a dungeon lit by flaming torches. A grinning gaoler attached heavy chains to their nipples using toothed clamps like these. For his own amusement perhaps he’d attach the man’s nipples to the woman’s and set the chain swinging, swinging… When the torment had aroused them both then maybe he’d satisfy them. Or would he simply leave them yearning, returning every few hours to set 74


the chain swinging again? After a day of such cruelty they’d surely confess their illicit love for each other—or for him. Each clamp had long toothed jaws that could be opened by squeezing the other end, like a clothes peg. A screw with a knurled head prevented the spring closing them completely and could be used to adjust their gape. “I’ve opened them as far as they’ll go,” whispered Deana. “I don’t want you hurt. The teeth stop them slipping loose.” Urged by curiosity and excitement, Carol opened one clamp and squeezed her nipple in her fingers, gingerly pushing its tender flesh between the jaws. They prickled but did not pierce her. Carefully she released the pressure. There was a sharp spike of discomfort and the mouth closed, gripping her in its teeth. She took her fingers away and the nipple was tugged and twisted as the chain swung. The toothed jaws held her securely without tearing the skin. It looked barbaric. It was more exciting than she’d dreamed possible. The other nipple was quickly clamped and the chain set to swinging. She closed her eyes. Deanna was whispering, but the sensations penetrating her breasts and travelling to her groin were too immediate, too intense to listen. At last, she heard the hoarse voice close to her ear. “You can tighten them with the screws…” Carol’s eyes sprang open. The Canadian stepped back and joined her husband, her hips swaying gently, in a cadence that was becoming familiar. The watchers’ eyes gleamed. The warm expressions on their faces seemed like love, or joy, or both. Carol bent her head and steadied a clamp with one hand while she twisted its knob with the other. A filigree of sensations pierced her nipple and sent messages into her breast. She twisted again, until the pain and pleasure became almost unbearable. It took longer to adjust the other clamp to balance it. She looked up. Her cheeks ached with smiling. The couple facing her was smiling too, though their nipples were not adorned like hers. She’d not noticed before, but Glenn’s were unusually long for a man’s. She was wearing his clamps. How exquisite would it be for the three of them to be linked by chains? Carol thrust her breasts forward slightly and the chain followed them, tugging outwards when they began to return. Deanna resumed hip rocking. The women moved in unison, as if the Canadian’s delicate nipples were clamped and chained too. Carol closed her eyes to concentrate on the sensation. Her breasts were linked externally, but 75

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internally they were also linked to her clitoris. If only she had a second chain—and a third clamp! She sighed and swung her breasts again. Her vulva cried out for attention. “Stand up.” She obeyed automatically, her hands seeking her sex as she did so. Unbidden, her thighs parted to allow access. She stood, eyes closed, feet apart, rocking her torso to and fro, clutching and squeezing her vulva in time to the tapping of the chain on her belly. “Begin again,” Deanna said, but Carol ignored her. She’d already begun. There was a noise, a rustling, slithery noise. It wasn’t her. Her arousal grew and her rocking slowed in order to defer the climax, to make the pleasure last. She reached a plateau. She could stay at this level of excitement for several minutes before her body demanded she progress to a higher level. The noise she’d heard was getting louder. Crack! She opened her eyes. Glenn’s red face was focussed on the stilled hands on her sex. His own hands were active. They grasped his penis and were pumping it violently. Crack! Deanna stood behind him and to one side, her pointed breasts quivering as she struck him again, swinging the crop in a wide arc. Crack! The redhead smiled grimly and whipped him more frequently. Crack! Crack! Both Canadians were breathing heavily. At last Deanna hit him across the wrists. His hands sprang obediently back, leaving his cock to jut alone. It was too late to stop it, if that was what she’d intended. His orgasm was already begun. Pearls of white fluid leapt across the table. None of them seemed to reach Carol, though she imagined a tiny cold spot on her clit-hood, like the invisible drops of rain she sometimes felt when the air was humid. The tabletop was spattered with white jewels of semen. A final droplet oozed from the now-purple glans and splashed on the glass. “Put your hands behind your back.” Deanna was in command. “Both of you.” Her prisoners obeyed. Glenn looked exhausted but Carol was desperate for sex, any kind, with any one. The redhead knelt to release her husband’s legs. Her breasts were beautiful. Was she naked under that skirt? Would Glenn recover soon? “Lick it up,” said Deanna. He knelt and started cleaning his semen from the glass surface of the table. When he approached Carol—a droplet had fallen just short of her— she could feel his gaze probing the open leaves of her vulva. She must not push her sex forward for him to tongue. The chain tapped her belly. She tried to keep still. “Enough!” called Deanna. “Now turn to face the wall.” Glenn stood and Carol saw that the old marks on his buttocks were criss-crossed with new, red lines. Deanna 76


had beaten him cruelly. Now she was looking at Carol. She glanced at her delicate gold ladies wristwatch. It was entirely out of keeping with the image of a black-clad dominatrix with a whip. “Time’s up,” she announced. “Off you go.” Carol opened her mouth to protest. Her body ached for release and she’d been denied it. “You can borrow the clamps until morning,” Deanna conceded. “But mind you return them. They’re probably the only decent set in Tournus.” She smiled. “Slip your dress back on. You can’t walk down the corridor like that.” The released prisoner picked up her rumpled dress and slipped it on. Every movement set the chain swinging, reminding her of what she’d seen and felt. She turned to go. “Wait,” came the quiet command. Deanna walked up to her, dropping the crop with a clatter on the licked-clean tabletop. “Kneel.” Mystified, Carol knelt. Tiny pink nipples jutted over her, above a flat, pale belly with a neat navel. “Look.” Deanna raised her skirt. Beneath it, level with the kneeling woman’s chest, the groin was a mass of flame-coloured hair. Something glittered between the pale, parted thighs: a thin gold chain about four inches long, weighted with a drop pearl like a blob of semen. As Deanna rocked her pelvis the pearl swung to and fro. She sighed with pleasure, then dropped her hem, leaving Carol to wonder what part of the woman’s vulva the tantalising jewellery was attached to. “When you reach orgasm, remove the clamps,” the Canadian advised, with a solemn wink. “Off you go.” She opened the door and Carol stepped into the corridor. Her mind was so filled with the memory of that swinging pearl that she nearly bumped into someone in the corridor. It was the red-faced man with the passion for punctuality. “Sorry!” she stammered, suddenly conscious that the top button of her dress was undone and beneath it she wore only erotic jewellery. “That’s perfectly all right, my dear,” he leered, staring at her mobile bosom. She felt his eyes on her all the way to her room. Mercifully Brian must have returned, for the door was unlocked. She slipped inside and shut it quickly.

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Beaujolais

“Are you on the run?” Brian was sitting on the bed in shirt and tie. He grinned conspiratorially and put down the book he’d been reading. “Yes! I mean, no.” It was good to see him. She needed him badly. “I just met Mr. Whatshisname in the corridor. You know. The white-haired old gentleman who disapproves of Johnny.” “Did he chase you?” Brian’s smile was mischievous. Carol smiled back. “I think he wanted to.” “Have a good time?” He wasn’t smiling now. “Not yet.” Carol was unbuttoning her dress. “Get your things off.” “You mean you didn’t…?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “She kept her word?” He dropped his trousers and set about the shirt buttons. “They didn’t touch you, then?” “No,” she said wistfully, “they didn’t.” The dress fell to the floor. Brian’s eyes popped open wide. Carol ran her hand along the underside of the chain, caressing it as it if was sensitive flesh itself. Tiny sparkles fizzed in her nipples. “I had to put these on myself.” She kicked off her shoes. “On your back.” He slipped off the rest of his clothes and lay as ordered. His penis grew gradually erect. Too slowly. She grabbed it impatiently and took the end briefly into her mouth. It swelled further at this encouragement, so she knelt astride him and crammed it into her. Because of its girth and the broadening at the base they didn’t often make love this way—it could be painful—but her vagina’s hunger was not to be denied, even such a surfeit. She was so wet that she engulfed him in a single movement. When her buttocks met his thighs the distension was extreme, and she sat, panting, to recover. Brian reached out and touched the swaying chain in wonderment. “Doesn’t it hurt?” She nodded. 78


“Of course. The teeth aren’t as bad as they look, and they’re adjustable.” She tightened each clamp slightly. A frisson of pain and pleasure ran through her, made its way downward and settled in the stretched opening gripping the flare of his beautiful cock. Brian was content to lie still and watch Carol make love to his body, rocking gently, pressing her groin constantly against his. The glittering chain swung further and further until it was slapping her belly. Her nipples sparkled with sensation. Watching carefully, at last he judged the moment ripe and slowly extended a fingertip between her thighs. As he reached her clitoris she remembered Deanna’s advice and squeezed the clamps to release them. The chain fell away. She didn’t hear it land. Pain and pleasure exploded from her nipples and filled her body. The echo of her scream rang round the room. She fell forward and he clasped her to his chest. She’d barely recovered when the hammering on the room door began. “Are you all right, Mrs. Cunningham?” “What’s the matter?” “What the hell’s going on?” There was to be a crowd outside in the corridor. How loudly had she screamed? Or were they standing there all along, with their ears pressed to the door? Her nipples were sore, but she’d had an orgasm of great intensity. She was still partly impaled on Brian’s penis. Poor Brian. Apologetically, he lifted her off him and threw on a robe to go to the door. He opened it a crack, with the bulk of his big right shoulder lodged firmly against it to prevent it being pushed from outside. A hubbub of voices wanted to know what he’d done to Carol. Had he struck her? Was she still alive? They wanted proof he’d not harmed her. She slid quickly under the duvet, then called out. “I’m all right. Honestly. Let them in, Brian.” Brian opened the door wider and the concerned tourists tried unsuccessfully to push past him. They could see her perfectly well from the corridor, he reasoned. She was sitting up with the bedclothes tucked up round her breasts, giggling. Mr Punctuality took a long, searching look before allowing himself to be shooed out with the others. “Good night everyone,” said Brian, by the closing door. “Sorry you’ve been disturbed. We were playing a game, that’s all—” 79

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“And I won!” Carol called, adding insult to injury. The poor old gentleman looked as if he’d either have apoplexy or eat his heart out all night. The door was locked and the disappointed tourists muttering on the way back to their rooms when the lovers snuggled back under the duvet. “Do you want to make love, now?” asked Carol, when they’d stopped laughing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really give you a chance to…” Brian shook his head. “No, I’ll be all right. You must be exhausted. Besides, I don’t think I could concentrate. I’d keep remembering that poor old bugger’s face. Like a dog without a bone.” Carol nodded contentedly. She’d make it up to him. Cuddled in his arms, she slipped off to sleep. Late in the night, Carol awoke. Brian was lying on his side with his back to her. His big frame was shaking. She rolled over to press against him. “What’s the matter, love?” she asked. It sounded as if he was trying to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. Was he ill? Choking? “Brian!” She grasped his shoulder, ready to use all her strength to drag him onto his back, but as soon as she tried, he turned right over and buried his face in her breast. He was crying! “There, there, sweet. It’ll be all right.” People cried on Carol’s shoulder all the time at work. Her size and maternal bosom seemed to invite it. Even men had found chaste comfort in her arms, when there seemed to be none in their lives. But Brian had never cried. Not since she’d known him. He’d always been the strong one and she’d thought that he was perhaps one of the few men who didn’t. To see him break down now was disturbing and rather frightening. From experience with others, she knew she must be patient and allow him to calm down, reach a plateau, before she could attempt to find out what the trouble was. Then he’d probably cry out his pain again. She’d time to consider and worry, but whatever it was, he’d be better trying to tell it in his own words than having her force her own guilty guesses on him. It was time for him to speak from his heart, not for her to project her real or imagined crimes onto his grief. His breathing was slowing, and he made an attempt to pull away, which she resisted. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “silly of me.” 80


“No it wasn’t. It’s perfectly natural.” She settled him comfortably against her and stroked his head, exploring the contours of his shaven skull. He’d got a very fine head: it would be a shame to hide it in a mat of thinning hair. “Now tell me what it is.” “I thought I might lose you,” he blurted. “Why—?” She ruthlessly cut off speculation. “I had a couple of drinks on the way back from the restaurant. Walked along the waterfront. It’s a bloody big river, you know. I’d only just got back when you came in.” “And…?” “I got to thinking about you. What you were up to. Whether you were happy with me, if you wanted to… To… To play with other people.” “Brian, I’m very happy with you. I’m sorry I worried you. I suppose I’m a restless spirit, and I crave a kind of excitement. But I always come back to you and I always will. When you made me lie in that vineyard this afternoon, and then beat me in that awful dungeon, I felt so excited, so alive. It was better than anything I did with Lucien. I loved you so much it hurt. The thought of being punished by you and then crawling back into your arms—if you’ll have me—that’s what excites me more than anything. More than Glenn’s nipple clamps. More than Deanna’s riding crop.” “Thank you, Carol.” He seemed calmer now, after her long speech. “I know the easiest way to lose you is to try to force you to stay, but… Sometimes, I have doubts that’s all.” “I wish there was a way I could prove I’m yours forever,” she said. An idea struck her. “I’d like you to put your mark on me. Permanently.” She thought a moment. “Not a tattoo: that’s too easy. And they can be lasered out.” A deep, shuddering breath. “Brian, I want you to brand me.” “What? With a hot iron?” He’d raised his head and was staring at her with dark, wet eyes. She nodded. “Yes, a hot iron. Choose a mark and a place where it will show. So anyone you lend me to will know who I really belong to and to whom I’ll always return.” “No.” The answer returned immediately. “If you’re really mine, I don’t want you spoiled with brands, tattoos or piercings. You’re perfect as you are.” “You’re sure? Even if I wanted you to?”

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This time he thought about it. “Yes. Perhaps if you had an indelible mark it would be easier for you to stay mine. I want it to be difficult for you. Then I know you want it yourself.” Carol nodded. Damn it, the man could still surprise her with his strength—and his intelligent cruelty. Well, he wasn’t in complete control of everything. She worked her way down the bed and took his penis in her mouth. Though he protested, and the organ was stubbornly flaccid, she persisted until she’d raised it and had swallowed every one of the liquid pearls he reluctantly surrendered. Then she curled up in his arms and slept like the cat that stole the cream.

**** It was pleasant to find a corner of the dining room away from their fellow tourists and breakfast among a group of young French people in business dress. They were evidently there on some kind of course, and were all either handsome or pretty. There was one gorgeous dark-haired girl in a red dress. She had long legs balanced on high heels, and the most splendid round, high-set buttocks. Brian kept trying to drag his gaze away from them. At last, Carol jabbed him in the ribs and he looked up, guiltily. There was a laugh—cut suddenly short—from one of the other students, and that rather broke the ice. Brian was banished to a table and Carol queued up for croissants. It would do him good to see the admiring glances—and stares—his own wife also merited. The croissants were light and flaky on the outside and soft and buttery in the hot interior. The jam was good, too. Carol took the bull by the horns. “Brian, apart from me, is there anyone you’d like to make love to?” “Apart from you, and that girl in the red dress?” he grinned. The girl in question was eating half a croissant with that air of confidence that the terminally attractive wear as armour. Half the room watched her brush a stray crumb from her lips with a fingertip. “Of course,” Carol agreed. “Who wouldn’t?” Maybe not me, she looks a stuckup, self-satisfied bitch. “There’s Arabelle.” His eyes focussed into the distance. “She’s a lovely girl, but I’ll never have her. I’d hate myself. She’s so perfect for Lucien. I reckon they’ll marry and raise a whole flock of de L’Artoisvilles. Maybe even a dynasty. I couldn’t spoil that.” “Anyone else?” 82


“Deanna. Though I think she might be a bit fierce.” He gazed into the distance. Maybe fierce was exactly what he wanted. “My dear,” Carol drawled, “Deanna is very fierce. I think she might be persuaded to have you, but not the other way round. She scared me. I thought she was going to draw blood.” “She didn’t touch you, did she?” Brian was concerned. “No, though I sometimes wanted her to.” “What happened?” “I took my clothes off. Was that all right?” Brian rolled his eyes and grinned. That had been the least he’d expected. “Glenn masturbated, and Deanna beat him till he came. All over the coffee table.” It sounded so crude, expressed like that. “She made him lick it up, afterward.” “I thought it would be something like that. She didn’t let you come, though, did she?” “No. She made me save that for you.” “So I noticed.” Brian smiled. “I didn’t get a good look at those clamps. Have you got them with you?” “Yes.” Carol took them from her purse and handed them over. “She wants them back.” In daylight they seemed even more cruel and impersonal. Brian was fascinated. He examined them intently, squeezing open the toothed jaws and trapping his fingers between them. Carol started to get nervous. Surely some of their French neighbours would guess the function of this strange jewellery? “The springs are pretty strong,” he decided. “It’d hurt if you really tightened them up.” Carol nodded. It had hurt, a wonderful, piercing agony, the memory of which remained in her mind and in her breasts. “I wonder how long you could wear them for?” The bight of chain swung between his hands, a clamp on each index fingertip. “All day might be a bit too much.” He tucked them away in his shirt pocket. The people at nearby tables were suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. The girl in the red dress gave Carol a cocky smile, then drained her espresso and left. Perhaps she wanted to telephone her boy friend—or her jeweller. “Do you want to know who I’d like to sleep with?” Carol watched the tour people filling up tables at the other end of the room. Brian peered at her over imaginary spectacles. 83

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“Not…?” “No, none of them. Not even Johnny!” “No? I’d have thought he’d be rather jolly.” “Brian, I want to make love with you. I want to spend every night with you. If I had to choose just one person—” “But…?” “I don’t want to sleep with Lucien again. I’ve done that, it was a lot of fun, but I don’t want to repeat it. Besides, I don’t think he’d have me.” Brian shrugged: he obviously wasn’t afraid of Lucien’s attraction. “I’m sorry, Brian, but I want Glenn. I suppose you saw that last night and that’s why you lent me to them.” Brian nodded slowly. “And, Brian, I want Deanna. She scares me and I know she’d be cruel, but I can’t stop thinking about her.” The pearl pendant hanging mysteriously from that flame-red bush, swinging to and fro, to and fro… Maybe her lips and tongue could discover its secret. “Well, here’s your chance to ask her.” Brian inclined his head. The Canadians were wending their way through the tables to sit at theirs. They exchanged pleasantries. Glenn looked worn out but content. Carol reflected that both men seemed more tired than their wives. Deanna leant towards her. “Glenn’s got something for you,” she whispered, giving him a nudge. He pulled a blue brassiere from his jacket pocket and handed it across the table. A man choking on a croissant broke the sudden quiet around them. His wife belaboured his back overgenerously. If nobody had recognised the nipple clamps, everyone knew what a bra looked like, even folded up. Carol stuffed it in her purse. Brian returned Deana’s property more discreetly. “I think we’d like to get some,” he said. “Is there anywhere local?” Deanna took a bite of croissant and shook her head. “You can get them in the larger towns, but it’s best to find a specialist. One of those shops for gays. I don’t know if you have them in England? They’re the best, because the stuff they sell is intended to be used, not just giggled about. If the customers aren’t satisfied”—she drew out the word—“they go back and complain.” She shook her head. “The springs on some of the ones from party shops are much too strong, and the quality of manufacture is generally poor. You want to be able to adjust the tension when they’re on.” She stroked Carol’s cheek with an air of menace, as if a slap was a moment away. “Don’t you, my dear?” 84


Carol’s face would have matched the dress worn by the pretty girl with the big bum. “Beaujolais today,” Glenn announced. “Johnny says it’s going to be very different: a real experience.” And so it proved. They spent an hour or so in a kind of theme park, more Coney Island than Côte de Brouilly. But it got the message across, of the succession of seasons and the parts played by soil, weather, viticulture and viniculture. After this curtain raiser, the serious tasting began. They made a review of Beaujolais, Beaujolais Villages, and then tried all ten Beaujolais ‘crus’ in the heaviest session yet. Those who swallowed instead of spitting were considerably the worse for wear by the time they straggled back to the coach. Johnny didn’t mention Beaujolais Nouveau—it didn’t seem polite to. For the afternoon they would be at liberty in Tournus. As the brochure had it, “Free to explore the quaint old streets of this historic town and perhaps purchase a few last-minute souvenirs and gifts.” It looked as though most people were going to spend the time sleeping off the excesses of the morning. The final farewell dinner was booked for a prestigious restaurant, and no one wanted to be too tired to go. Brian and Carol had avoided swallowing at the tasting, except for a particularly rich and fragrant Moulin à Vent, but she was still relaxed enough to insist on sitting by Deanna, who gave her an old-fashioned look that didn’t discourage the ebullient Englishwoman. “What do you think of Brian?” she demanded, without preamble. She’d get him fierce if he wanted it. Whatever it cost her. “How do you mean?” Green eyes flashed. “Do you think you would, you could—?” Deanna laughed out loud, a sound like shattering glass. “He’s a good-looking enough man.” She laid a steadying hand on her neighbour’s arm. “Would he want me to beat him?” Her face was full of mischief. Carol sobered up. “No!” She’d not thought of that. “It would be a meeting of equals, then?” “Yes, of course.” “Tell me, does he always send you to make indecent proposals to people he fancies?” “No!” It wasn’t his idea. 85

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“There’ll be a price, though. Are you prepared to pay it?” She thought about the deep red marks Glenn no doubt still bore. The sound the crop had made! She hedged. “What did you have in mind?” “If you want to play, you’ve got to pay. I tell you what, come to my room this afternoon as my abject slave and I’ll treat you as badly as you deserve. Then I’ll fuck your gorgeous big bear of a husband.” Carol was in that dangerous state of frightened excitement where she might agree to anything. At last she closed her eyes, took a breath and nodded. “And if my handsome, wicked boy wants to, he can fuck you. Any way he wants.” “Of course. Absolutely!” She didn’t even try to hide her smile. She was getting what she wanted without asking! The Canadian wagged her finger solemnly. “Any way he wants,” she repeated. When Carol didn’t demur, she went on. “Now take that smile off your face before I slap it off.” “Sorry, Deanna—I mean, sorry Mistress.” She stared at her hands, clasped happily in her lap. “Now send me that husband of mine then go and explain what you’ve done, to yours. When we get off the coach, you come with me and the men had better go for a walk together for an hour.” “Yes, yes. Thank you… Mistress.” Carol whispered, then, when the Canadian made it clear she was dismissed by turning away to look out of the window, set off back along the aisle to carry out the first step in her instructions.

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A surprisingly large number of tourists had enjoyed a brief snooze on the coach and were ready to take up the opportunity of being free to explore the town, but Deanna ignored them and led Carol right up the stairs. “Come in. Stand still,” she ordered. “Stand up straight!” Her captive stood at what she hoped was attention and tried not to look down on her diminutive Mistress. She was fizzing with excitement again. When this holiday was over she’d need a few days to recover! The Canadian stalked round her, inspecting. She stopped in front. “Do you know the rules?” she snapped. It was like being back at school. She stood, silent, not knowing what to say. She wasn’t sure she even understood the question. “Here’s one: when Mistress asks a direct question, the slave replies immediately, and in the proper form. Do you know the rules?” “No, Mistress.” “Okay. Listen up. A slave owns nothing and wears nothing unless Mistress says so? Understand?” “Yes, Mistress.” “Well?” “Pardon? Mistress?” “Strip. Earrings, hair grips, everything. The only exception to this rule is your wedding ring. While you’re folding everything up and putting it on that chair you can be thinking of the reason for that exception.” She felt clumsy and inelegant as she hurried to leave dress, underwear and jewellery in a neat pile. Her hair fell over her face and her breasts swung and quivered as she bent to push her paired shoes under the chair. The wedding band felt heavy on her finger. It was very precious. The thought that it could be taken from her was chilling. But she had an answer to the question. 87

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“Okay. Why does the slave retain her wedding ring unless expressly ordered to give it up?” “Because it was given her by her Master and can’t be removed without his permission.” Carol wondered whether she should curtsey or something, but contented herself with avoiding a self-satisfied smile. It was enough when her interlocutor nodded. “Not bad.” The inspection tour was repeated. The prisoner remained stiff and still. “I like my slaves naked from the waist down. It’s hygienic and shows the marks well. Does your Master like you shaved?” “Yes, Mistress.” “It doesn’t last long though, does it? Never mind, I’ll attend to that. Now take off your ring.” Ah! A trick! “No, Mistress, I can’t.” “You can, and you will. I’ve given you an express order. No slave can serve two masters at the same time. One Master may defer to the interests or wishes of another as a matter of courtesy. Where there is a conflict then the slave is obliged—yes, obliged—to assume that the masters will resolve it.” She curled her lip. “If they don’t, of course, then that is tough—on the slave.” Deanna turned her back and retrieved the riding crop from a drawer. She made a practice swing. It hissed angrily, as if eager to attack Carol’s disobedient flesh. “Take off the ring.” The ring had not been removed since Brian set it in place eight years ago. She had to suck her finger to release it. The gold band was heavy in her palm and the moisture was cold on the pale shadow it left. “Give it here.” Tears nearly obscured the steady palm as she pressed the precious object into it. She’d never felt so naked, nor never would again, not even if she sat for a portrait by Lucien Freud. Deanna was squinting at her through the open ‘O’. “Catch!” It span, shimmering high in the air and Carol caught it clumsily, twohanded. “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you.” She made to push it back on. “Stop!” Deanna held up her hand. “Hold onto it for the moment. If you’re good and quiet I’ll let you put it back on.” Carol stood waiting, the ring crushed in her fist. She didn’t know if she was relieved, frightened, or angry. From the Canadian’s serene 88


smile this was exactly how she was supposed to feel. She took a beige and blue packet from a drawer. “Now it’s time to relax while your kind Mistress pampers you. Lie on the bed.” Carol lay at attention, clutching tightly onto the important gold circlet. “That’s right. You hold onto that ring. It’ll help.” Help what? “Now make like a starfish.” It was easier if she imagined her limbs being drawn apart and secured by ropes. “Relax. Close your eyes.” The dream ropes tightened, extending her arms and legs, pulling at the joints, even when her Mistress pressed something firmly across the top of her mons and patted it. Rip! The pain was sudden and terrible, like being hit with the strap, except that there was no lull, the stinging continued, only fading gradually. Her eyes sprang open, she cried out and reached for her groin. “Shh!” Deana’s green eyes stared into hers. She dangled a waxing strip scattered with blonde hairs. “Hold onto that ring!” The weight and hardness of her husband’s gift was a comfort throughout the painstaking and painful process of stripping every vestige of hair from her sex. It helped too, if she tensed her arms and legs against the pull of the imaginary ropes holding her open. Despite the bursts of pain and increasing soreness, there was growing arousal. The Canadian’s cold fingers impersonally pressed down on one section of her vulva while her other hand steadily tore out the fur from another. Yet her labia were swelling and beginning to lubricate. At last Deanna paused and both parties took deep breaths. “Enjoy that?” she asked. Carol shook her head vehemently. “No, Mistress.” Her tormentor laughed. “Don’t lie to me.” She ran a finger between the inner lips. It slid freely on a film of moisture. The captive was invited to lick away the evidence. She opened her mouth and tasted shame. “Nearly finished, Slave. You can put your Master’s ring back on.” “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you.” She forced the shiny band over her knuckle. It felt hot with having been gripped so tightly. “Now lift your knees and hold them.” The undignified position now adopted exposed her completely. “Not much left to do.” In a couple more rips the sparse growth round her anus was torn out. “Keep still!” Carol grasped her thighs again and lay 89

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blushing while the contours from anus to mons were checked for stray hairs. “Okay, you’ll do. Up!” The Englishwoman struggled to her feet. Her sex was completely naked, a uniform pink, and beginning to itch as well as sting. “Now start my bath then come back here and tidy up.” She indicated the scattered wax strips. “But first, you can thank me.” Carol frowned in puzzlement. “Next time you come to me you’d better have stripped yourself properly first.” “Thank you, Mistress.” It didn’t seem enough—or was it too much? “No need to curtsey. Off you go.” Under Deana’s watchful eye, she tidied the room then stood at attention to await instruction. “Now you may undress me,” she said. “But don’t take any liberties.” Before this coveted task was complete, the disappointed slave was banished to complete preparations for the bath. She got to wash her Mistress’s body and hair, reverently soaping and sponging her every part, though a delicate foray into the red bush between her thighs was beaten back with an angry, “Too rough!” When Deanna’s body had been patted dry and her hair blown into a red cloud, the servant was permitted to bathe herself in the used bath water. “Think yourself lucky it’s not cold water and carbolic. That’s all slaves usually get.” Deanna took care of Carol’s hair, drying it and fastening it in two bunches. Then another inspection had to be endured, including bending over and holding her parted ankles. “Your areolae are too pale. Put some of this on them,” she said, finally. This was coral pink lipstick. She had to apply three coats and blot them carefully before the redhead was satisfied with the effect: a three-inch disk round each nipple. “Put some on your lips, too—not those! The ones between your legs. They’re nice and prominent, this will make them really stand out.” This was more difficult than her areolae had been. Deanna watched her struggle, then took pity. “Get plenty on your fingers and massage it in. Don’t get any on the outside, and don’t enjoy it too much. I want you alert for when the men come.” Carol had to rub the waxy cosmetic into and between her labia. When she’d finished, her vulva was gaping and two deep pink curtains of engorged flesh bulged from the open slit. They glistened with her own fluid. She was gasping, and a feather’s touch from orgasm. 90


“Now clean your hands and bring towels in from the bathroom.” Carol didn’t know what was required, so she gathered them all and returned with arms full of white flannel. Her Mistress directed her to lay out the room to a preconceived plan: two upright chairs draped in bath towels, the bed stripped to its bottom sheet. An armchair facing the door, padded with pillows and with a hand towel laid flat on the carpet in front of it. She followed the directions, a little mystified. A final touch: a bottle of olive oil and the riding crop set out on a small table by the armchair. Deanna inspected the layout and seemed satisfied. She perched upright on the edge of the armchair—to sit back would be to recline, owing to the pillows—and invited Carol to stand at attention before her. She wore the pearl pendant on a thin gold chain round her neck. It looked nothing more than an attractive, if plain, necklace. “Now, slave, I’ve lost count of how many strokes of the crop your clumsiness and lack of respect have earned you.” The crop’s scaled leather seemed to seethe with impatience. “So I’ll just see if you were paying attention this morning. I’m going to ask you a quiz question. If you get the answer right then I’ll let you off.” “Thank you, Mistress.” A chance of leniency, however slim, was better than the certainty of punishment. She bowed her head, hoping she looked suitably humble. “Of course, if you get it wrong…” The crop seemed to leap up of its own accord, as if only restrained by its Mistress’s will and the languid grip of her white fingers. It hissed with excitement. “Here’s the question,” announced the quiz-mistress. “Name the ten Beaujolais crus… in alphabetical order.” Carol sighed with relief. Knowing that Brian would want to collect them all when he got home, she’d paid special attention. She took a breath and began: “Brouilly, Côte de Brouilly, Chénas, Chiroubles… Fleurie, Juliénas… Morgon, Moulin à Vent…” Her mind went blank. How many had she said? Eight or nine? Surely there was only one left. She could only think of one, anyway. “And St-Amour,” she announced, unable to avoid a smile at her achievement. Deanna smiled back, inscrutably. There was a silence. Carol held her breath. “Very good. I don’t think many of the people now slumbering in their rooms could have done better…” Carol breathed again. “However… You missed one, and got another out of order.” Carol frowned. Maybe she had missed one, but as for getting 91

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them in the wrong order, she’d been careful to put Chiroubles after Chénas and to sort the two ‘M’s. She shook her head. “The one you missed was Régnié.” Of course! “And Côte de Brouilly comes after Chiroubles. I think two strokes should do it.” Carol was already punishing herself. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you Mistress.” Two wasn’t so bad. “Over that chair, then.” She bent over an upright chair. “Hands flat on the seat.” Her breasts swung between her arms. “Feet wider than the chair legs.” This brought Carol’s plucked mons nicely into contact with the towel-covered chair back. Swish-thud! The pain across her left buttock was intense, instant, and long lasting. She cried out involuntarily, then waited while Deanna moved to her right and took a practice swing. The crop hissed and Carol sobbed in anticipation. As a result, she was not ready when the real stroke came. She cried out, louder this time. “Be quiet,” her tormentor admonished, running comforting fingers over her victim’s skin and visiting the open pouch between her thighs. Her ample fluids were collected and spread along the lines the crop had visited. She must have glistening red marks across each buttock, leading downward and inward, and pointing at but not reaching, her vulva. “That will do nicely, I think.” Deanna left her. “Now come and thank me.” Carol marvelled that it was only yesterday, in the presence of Hannelore, that she’d even considered making love to a woman. Now she was looking forward to worshipping a woman’s body, burying her face in her vulva, as if she’d been lesbian all her life. The object of her desire sprawled indecorously in the armchair. The fur on her sex was like a flame. “Kneel, but keep your knees off the towel.” The prohibition prevented Carol sitting on her heels if her tongue was to reach that tantalising red bush. As a result, her striped bottom stuck up in the air. It must glow. She bent her head to the tempting task. “Well?” The crop tapped her shoulder. Carol strove to keep her eyes on her Mistress’s. “Sorry, Mistress. Thank you Mistress, for those two strokes of the crop.” “Would you like some more?” “No!—I mean, yes, if Mistress wishes.” “Better. Now move your knees apart. Would you like to kiss your Mistress?” “Yes, please, Mistress. I would love to kiss my Mistress, please.” 92


“Then you may begin.” Deanna was an exacting recipient of Carol’s attentions. The crop was ever present to direct and restrain. She knelt, her stinging bottom and swollen vulva exposed to the air, and burrowed slowly between her Mistress’s thighs, at last uncovering the delicate pink labia and clit-hood. It was a long time before her tongue was permitted past them. The Canadian seemed as able to control her own arousal as strictly as she controlled the actions of her slave. Even the sternest Mistress can melt, however. The seduction developed from a pleasure into a challenge then into a point of honour. Carol would not give up, though her limbs and back ached from the position she’d been forced into, and her neck from holding her head at the correct angle. But Deanna’s breathing was becoming ragged, her labia were inflating, and she started to release the fragrant nectar her servant craved. And then Carol’s exploring tongue-tip found the woman’s secret. A tiny metal ring, piercing and linking the two folds of flesh leading up to her clitoris. The hidden jewel must tap and tug insistently at her most sensitive part. With the pearl pendant attached to it the sensations would be intense indeed. Carol’s own vulva throbbed in response. A sharp tap on her shoulder: stop. She reluctantly raised her head. “Mistress?” Deanna took a couple of breaths before responding. “That’s a triangle piercing. It’s very delicate and I’m fond of it.” Fond? “If you’re good, then maybe I’ll let you touch it again. Leave it alone for the moment. Move down a bit.” Her poor servant had to obey. As she laboured, the ring floated before her closed eyes, tantalisingly close, spinning and winking at her. Her mouth and nose slowly filled with her Mistress’s odour of spice and musk. There was a knock at the door. Carol would have leapt up if Deanna had not grasped her bunches of hair and snarled at her. “Down, bitch! Who told you to stop?” Her eyes were fierce, her lip curled in rage. The slave might still have protested, but her head was shaken violently from side to side. “Get back to work!” Faced with such anger, she gave in and lowered her head. When her captor was satisfied that adoration of her sex had recommenced, she called out. “Come in, gentlemen.” The door opened and closed. A draught played briefly over Carol’s buttocks and sex. She squeezed shut her eyes and tried to close her ears as well. It didn’t work. 93

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“Pretty, isn’t she?” There were murmurs of agreement. Something touched her buttock. “Glenn! That’s for later. Go and shower. Now!” That left Brian. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Quite a tableau. Were these caused by the riding crop?” “Yes. Go ahead and touch her: she’s yours, too.” Brian’ fingers traced the stripe on each buttock, slowly, reverently, repeatedly. “I’ve never marked her like this,” he breathed. “Did she cry?” Carol was crying now. Tears rolled down her face and tumbled into the gap in the red fur in front of her. Deanna seemed content for this to happen. “She’s tougher than you’d think,” advised the redhead. The crop swished two or three times. Carol flinched, but the hands on her head pressed firmly until her face was back against Deanna’s pungent furrow. There must have been some kind of visual signal, because when the blow came and she screamed, her face was forced deeper into her Mistress’s vulva and locked there by thighs closed round her head. Through the mist of pain she heard the Canadian’s voice. “Again.” It was the other buttock this time and he must have hit her harder, because the pain was even worse. Her scream was muffled, but this time when it ended, the hands and thighs holding her did not relax. Deanna trembled and shook and pushed her slave’s face into her as if she wanted to be bitten in two. Carol was suffocating, but couldn’t escape. After an eternity it was over. Carol sat gratefully back on her heels and sucked in air. When she opened her eyes Brian was kneeling beside her with his arm round her shoulders. Together they watched the woman’s tremors diminish. Her eyes and legs were closed, and the secret ring was hidden from view, perhaps forever. At last her green eyes opened and focussed on the couple. “That’s got to be the best feeling in the world,” she breathed, shaking her head as if she still couldn’t believe how good it had been. “When your slave screams right into you like that.” Carol and Brian glanced at each other then huddled closer. What had they got themselves into? 94


Carol wanted to return to her room with Brian, even if it meant walking along the corridor naked as she was, but the game wasn’t over yet. Deanna recovered remarkably quickly and perched on the edge of the chair. She clapped her hands and Glenn stepped forward from the bathroom doorway, where he must had stood to watch. He was naked, his penis bobbed with each step as he brought his wife a towel. She dabbed perspiration from her face and neck then threw it back to him. “Come, slaves,” she commanded, “Help your Master to undress.” While Carol undressed Brian, handing his clothes to Glenn to fold, the big man stood quietly, his eyes flickering between the two women, as if he couldn’t decide which he wanted first. At last he stood naked. She was proud of him: the broad chest, welldefined musculature, and stout penis. It was a pleasure to show him off to Deanna and to bask in the reflected admiration. “Brian, you’ll have to beat your wife harder. She didn’t tell me you were so well endowed. No doubt the greedy creature wanted to keep you all to herself.” He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Here, slave, kneel and show him reverence.” Carol gratefully covered her husband’s penis with kisses, then took it into her mouth until her Mistress approached and pushed her away. She remained on her knees, watching Master and Mistress embrace cautiously, tenderly, then passionately. He swept the redhead off her feet and carried her to the bed. The slaves knelt side by side and watched them explore each other’s bodies before coupling enthusiastically. Glenn’s hand stole into Carol’s. It was some consolation to know that he felt as unhappy and excluded as she did. At last it was over. Carol wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and was not surprised to see her fellow slave do the same. The couple on the bed separated and lay on their backs. There was an imperious finger-click. “Come on,” Carol whispered, “I think she wants us to attend them.” They approached the bed, then Glenn insisted on changing places with her. As she licked traces of her Mistress from her Master’s cock, she wondered why it was that men were so averse to touching one another. Women were expected to be less squeamish. If she didn’t love Brian so much, she’d be quite happy to watch her fellow slave giving him head while she caressed her Mistress. A wicked thought came to her head: maybe Deanna would like to see that too. But now the Canadian was ready for the next phase. 95

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“Enough. Come, darling, we’ll sit in the chair and the slaves can put on a show for us.” The slaves waited anxiously to hear their fate while their Mistress arranged herself comfortably on their Master’s lap. “I’m sorry Brian, but I promised Glenn he could have your wife—so long as that’s all right with you?” “No, that’s fine,” he said, running his fingertips gently over her pointed breasts, “Let them carry on. I’d like to see it.” His eyes met Carol’s and he smiled inscrutably. Was it on her behalf, because she was to get what she desired, or did he really want to see her possessed by another man? “Let’s take a look at them first,” Deanna suggested. “Slaves: hands behind your heads.” Carol couldn’t see what it did for Glenn, but the action raised her breasts and thrust them forward. She warmed in her husband’s gaze. Perhaps he was seeing her as other men saw her: a sexual attraction, a source of arousal and envy. “Turn slowly round.” The shuffling slaves tried to turn in unison. “Stop!” Now they had their backs to the couple in the chair. “Have you used a whip on her before?” “No, but I think I will in future,” said Brian. “It makes such clear marks. Do they last long?” “If you beat her every three or four days she’ll always bear them.” Carol imagined carrying the marks of Brian’s cruelty, perpetually renewed. It was exactly what she’d asked for last night: a permanent reminder she belonged to him. The fact that the pain of application would recur and recur made it better. It would go on until he no longer wished to mark her, no longer wished to possess her. Perhaps forever. She hoped so. “It’s like a French greeting,” Brian observed, with a short laugh. Nobody understood. “She’s got a cross on each buttock.” The stripes her husband had laid over the ones Deanna had given her ran outwards instead of inwards. “A kiss on both cheeks,” Brian finally explained. Of course. “Quite so. I think he’d better do it, then. Go on, Glenn, kiss her ass.” He knelt behind her and took each stinging globe in turn, held it in both hands, his fingers slipping uninhibitedly into the crack between, kissed her several times. “OK. Now she’s yours. Enjoy her—but don’t forget you’ve got an audience here!” Glenn didn’t get up. He simply whispered, ‘Bend over.” Disoriented by the change of ownership, she obeyed, setting her feet apart in response to the hand pressing 96


between her knees. Her slave and master continued his adoration, kissing the crests of her labia, then working his fingers gently around and between them. She’d been lubricating for over an hour, so his hand was quickly wet and slippery. When he nuzzled his face into her parted buttocks and started to lick the valley between them, she nearly lost her balance. He steadied her with one hand while the other continued delving into her vulva. Then he kissed her anus. Softly at first, then with increasing passion, his lips nibbling at its pursed mouth. She’d never been caressed and adored in this private place. It was like being a virgin all over again. The crossover of sensation from her sex intensified the pleasure. When Glenn’s tongue ventured to test this new entrance she was not surprised—except at the delight she experienced. He treated her vagina less respectfully. Two fingers were already scissoring inside. When his tongue finally entered the narrow passage it became too much. Her legs suddenly weakened and if he’d not stood up and grasped her hips she’d have fallen. His penis found its way between her legs and rested lightly against the plump lips hanging there. It seemed very hot. He slid his hands forward and grasped her breasts. “Turn her round,” came the order. Carol found herself raised upright and rotated until she faced the audience. They were solemnly attentive, though their hands roamed continuously over each other’s bodies. The warm intruder again poked between her legs, and this time she captured it by bringing them together. The watchers made her selfconscious, she lowered her gaze to watch eager fingers clasp her breasts, curve round them and exploit their weight and smoothness. The trapped penis slid to and fro in the envelope of her thighs and vulva, but he didn’t seem likely to come like this. Nor did she. “Make her kneel.” Glenn’s pretty penis with its rosebud head was smooth and stiff and tasted slightly of her own stolen juices. She sat on her heels with her knees splayed and prepared to drink the liquid pearls she’d last seen him swallow himself. But this prize was denied her. Withdrawing from her thirsty mouth, he raised her up on her knees so that his cockhead prodded her chest. She’d dreamed of this. Without prompting she enfolded it in her breasts, raising and rolling them against the bar-stiff organ, rubbing and twisting it slightly. He watched closely, seeming to take as much pleasure from the sight as from the caress. 97

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“Now bend her over.” The Canadians must have worked out this next step together, because Glenn led her directly to a chair and bent her over its back. “Hold onto the seat.” She obeyed, breasts tumbling between her extended arms. She lowered her mons to the seatback by spreading her legs widely. He took his time, parting and tugging gently on her labia, before entering her with a single stroke. He wasn’t broad but he was nice and long. The flower head kissed her womb with each slow push. The chair compressed her clitoris and she was confident she could achieve orgasm as soon as he did. But after a couple of dozen thrusts he slowed and stopped. It was frustratingly as if he couldn’t decide how best to enjoy her. His penis remained resting inside her but his hands released her hips and clasped her buttocks. She flinched as cold liquid splashed between them, then relaxed when his fingers began to massage it in before it could run away between her legs. What was he up to? She quickly found out. Slippery fingertips probed and caressed her wrinkled opening. One slipped easily inside. The cold liquid running freely in her cleft must be oil. Fingers, seemingly a different one each time, penetrated the narrow passage, admitting more lubricant. The way was being prepared for the penis now waiting in the anteroom of her vagina. Brian had never used her bottom, and had never shown much interest in doing so. His cock was too alarmingly broad to consider it. Glenn, on the other hand… Poor Brian was going to watch while another, smaller, man took his wife’s anal virginity. She wished she knew what he thought, but her hair had come out of its bunches and hung in the way. The gentle, persistent attention was beguiling. She had to hope Brian didn’t mind. At last Glenn decided she was ready. He withdrew from her vagina and presented his cock-tip to the entrance above. He grasped and separated her buttocks, easing open the puckered mouth between them. Carol had thought she was ready too, as ready as she’d ever be for this new and disturbing experience, but at the last moment her sphincter refused to co-operate. “Relax, sweetheart,” Glenn urged. “You’ll be fine.” The long preparation he’d made had been effective, because when she did finally conquer the stubborn muscle, he succeeded in slipping in a little way. It was a strange sensation, having the head of him inside. Not pleasurable, but not painful either. Simply strange. Her muscles were tight 98


again and she forced them to relax. Some more slipped inside. How much more was there? He seemed to fill her up. She tried again and now it hurt. It stung, and she sucked in a breath. He could tell something was wrong, for he stopped pushing. “Nearly there,” he whispered. “Almost half-way.” Halfway? The pain subsided gradually and she made another effort. This time the stinging wasn’t so bad. She could bear it, even though a great length of him slithered inside. “That’s beautiful,” he said. “Oh, you’re so sweet.” The stinging went away again and he slipped home, his body pressing against her parted buttocks. It felt as if he was touching her heart. There was no pain now, just a feeling of great warmth, as if his penis was much hotter than her core. It was delicious. Her mons sought the chair-back: maybe she could come like this. It would be wonderful if she could. “Stand up straight. Put your feet together.” Deanna’s peremptory order was puzzling, but when she obeyed Glenn did seem to be able to penetrate a little further. Her clitoris lost contact with the chair. Glenn gripped her hips and drew her back onto him, before starting to fuck her properly, sliding into and half-way out of her slippery anus with a gradually faster cadence. It was still pleasant, but she was never going to come like this. Her vagina was empty, her vulva abandoned. “Brace your hands on the chair.” Her lover’s wife wanted her to steady herself so that he could enjoy her properly. She obeyed, blindly. By the time he surged to a climax and spat his pearls deep inside her, she was silently weeping. Satisfied, Glenn kissed her shoulder and withdrew. Then he saw the tears on her face and looked round in bewilderment. “Just go and wash yourself,” said Deanna. “We’ll see to her.” Master and Mistress took her in their arms and sat her on the chair. Deanna took a claw’s grip on her chin. “Listen, girl. No one said you were here for your pleasure,” she said. “Did he hurt you?” Carol shook her head. “You chose this. You offered yourself, remember?” She nodded. “Now calm down.” Brian simply held her close. The bulky muscles of his chest were warm and they smelled of the man she loved. She rested her head on his shoulder and nuzzled into him. Suddenly she was exhausted and didn’t feel like sex at all. The big man picked her up in his arms and she was asleep before he set her down again.

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Carol missed the farewell dinner. Somehow she got there—there were photographs to prove it, showing her wearing her black cocktail dress and with her hair and make-up just so. Brian told her that she’d had a very good time and been life and soul of the party, but she never had a credible memory of being there or of anything that went on. The food and drink were spectacularly good, if the menu she kept in a drawer at home was anything to go by. She’d apparently flirted shamelessly with Mr Punctuality, who’d sat beside her all evening and peered down her dress. He’d urged her to call on him back in England: his address and telephone number was neatly inscribed on the menu’s dessert page. At the end of the evening she’d embraced and kissed Johnny, squeezing his substantial buttocks with both hands until the poor man blushed. Brian had carried her to bed.

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Carol woke to find Brian padding softly round the room, folding and packing their clothes. He had on a white T-shirt and trousers. She languidly admired the way his muscles bunched and moved under the thin material as he worked. He was beautiful and she wanted him very much. “What’s the time?” she yawned. “Sorry, love,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” “That’s all right. What are you doing?” “We’ve got to be out of the room by ten to get the coach to Dijon. You looked so happy sleeping, I didn’t want to disturb you.” “I’m awake, now.” She stretched deliciously, feeling the duvet slide over her skin as she moved. “Come back to bed.” She held out her arms, conscious that her breast, with its erect nipple, was exposed. “The coach will have to wait.” Brian threw off his clothes and joined her. They made love lazily, working just hard enough to share a gentle orgasm. Then they lay like spoons, enjoying the warm comfort of physical contact. She was drifting off to sleep again when he roused her. “Come on, love, you’ve got fifteen minutes to shower and dress before breakfast finishes.” When she didn’t even open her eyes he carefully picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. She was still in that pleasant state between waking and sleeping when he propped her against him in the shower and bathed her. She leant against his warm, firm body while he washed her thoroughly, sliding soapy hands unselfconsciously into her armpits and between buttocks and legs. Then he patted her dry and sat her on the bed to dry her hair. If it hadn’t been for her returning arousal she’d have contentedly crawled back under the duvet. Now she came to think of it, being aroused was another reason for crawling under the duvet. 101

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Damn it, all that thinking had woken her up and now she was hungry. She opened her eyes. Brian had laid out clothes for her, and even here the big man had been considerate. White underwear: plain soft cup bra and cotton pants that extended from waist to thigh. The lingerie he loved her in: skimpy, lacy items in strong colours, was all packed. A lilac blouse and grey slacks with white low-heeled shoes completed the ensemble. She looked up to thank him. He was dressing with his back to her. She watched idly, ready to admire his perfect, round buttocks. She caught her breath. Each proud summit was marked with a dark red cross. “Brian!” He pulled up his shorts and turned round. “What happened to you?” He rubbed his chin. “I thought I ought to see what it felt like,” he admitted. “So I asked her if I could try it.” “But…” You’re not wired up like me. Pain is just pain to you. “I can’t tell what it’s like for you if I don’t.” He rubbed his bottom like a chastised schoolboy. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” “Yes,” she nodded, “but sometimes it’s…” Necessary. “I don’t expect you to…” She gave up. “Come here.” Brian came here and she embraced and kissed him. At last he broke free. “Come on, get dressed. I’m hungry.” They expected to be last down to breakfast and find the dining room deserted, but it seemed everyone else on the tour had slept late too. The French had all gone. They had the dining room to themselves. Everyone was very friendly, going out of their way to greet Carol and her husband. Mr Punctuality even insisted on joining them at their table. He was affability itself. “Dijon, today,” he enthused. “A couple of hours to look round, buy some mustard and lavender. Lovely town, lovely town.” “You’ve been before, Ken?” Brian asked. Ken? Was that his name? “Oh, yes,” he replied, “lots of times. If it’s your first time I can’t recommend too strongly the Musée des Beaux Arts. It’s the best one outside Paris. There are a couple of paintings that alone make it worth it. A David, and the girl on a swing…” Something triggered inside him, for he slipped into a reverie. His grey eyes focussed in the distance, as if he was seeing something that didn’t exist in the room. It was only for a moment, but the intensity of his feeling worried Carol. She almost felt sorry for him as he swallowed 102


a lump in his throat then blew his nose on a huge white handkerchief. His eyes were wet and their sockets red, as if he’d been crying—or was about to start. She laid her hand on Brian’s and their eyes met, so that when the old man came back to himself they weren’t staring at him, as they had a moment earlier. “Sorry,” he mumbled, concentrating on his plate of cold ham and scrambled eggs. When she thought he’d settled, Carol spoke. “Actually, we were hoping to find a present for our niece, who’s very keen on horses.” She smiled sweetly at Brian’s raised eyebrows. “Dear Yvonne, she’s having a pony for her birthday and we must get her something to go with it.” “Yes,” drawled Brian, taking a swig of coffee to steady his nerves. “Well,” Ken began, his unseeing eyes consulting a mental map of Dijon. “There’s a street of up-market shops not far from the Museum. I’m sure there must be a quality sporting goods shop there. You know: huntin’, shootin’ ‘n fishin’.” He looked hard at them, assessing, evaluating. “It’ll be expensive, mind. If it can wait till you get back to England you’ll get it much cheaper.” Carol looked at Brian and he stared brazenly back. “I don’t think it can wait,” he decided. “Seems to me it’s a matter of urgency.” Carol blushed, but he went on. “And little Yvette’ll be so excited, knowing we bought it in France and carried it all the way back with us.” “Yvonne, darling,” Carol said sweetly. “It’s Yvonne.” “Yes, yes, of course.” “Would you like me to show you the way?” Ken offered, a little hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure they were all speaking the same language any more. “Would you?” Carol gushed, putting her hand on his and pretending she’d a couple of buttons on her blouse undone. “That would be very kind.” “Oh, no trouble, no trouble at all,” he blushed. On the coach, they sat opposite Deanna and Glenn and the two couples grinned silently at each other. “Who the hell’s Yvonne?” Brian whispered. Carol laughed. “Don’t you remember your own niece?” She took pity on him. “Actually, she’s a new girl at work. Just got married and moved down to be with her husband. She’s very pretty, quite naïve. Husband’s something in computers.” “Why did you think of her?” 103

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

“I thought you’d like her. Your niece has got to have a name, and since you can hardly have Arabelle, I thought Yvonne would do.” “Would she, now?” Brian twirled the end of an imaginary moustache and winked. “Brain, she’s just got married. Very much in love. I borrowed her name, that’s all.” “So why does she want a pony for her birthday?” Carol rolled her eyes then looked out of the window. Ken—it was hard not to call him Mr Punctuality—was as good as his word. He led them direct to the Musée and issued comprehensive instructions for getting back to the coach and to the shops. As they walked away, he was trotting up the steps. The man in the shop was determined to help. He wanted to know everything about Yvonne—and the pony. Eventually, Carol explained that Brian’s sister-in-law Deanna had suggested a riding crop and they thought all the other options had been farmed out among the relatives. Brian choked at the name Deanna and had to be pounded on the back. There was a bewildering selection, from scary driving whips eight or ten feet long, down to hunting crops with antler handles. Brian settled for one exactly like Deanna’s. It was very expensive, and gift-wrapping was extra. As they left the shop Brian turned to Carol. “If she doesn’t appreciate the trouble we’ve been to I shall take it to her ungrateful backside.” “Oh, I’m sure she will,” breathed Carol, trying not to crush the delicate box in suddenly sweaty hands. Back at the Musée des Beaux Arts, they decided to see what Mr Punctuality thought was so great about it. The boy was beautiful. Carol stopped dead and stared. His features were handsome and his smooth, sallow skin was so realistic that one almost expected him to step down from the wall. His gorgeous body demanded to be touched. No young man had ever been so beautiful, so perfect. “That’s him, isn’t it?” she breathed reverently, as if they were in a cathedral. “David?” 104


Brian stepped forward to peer at the label, then nodded. “It’s not a painting of David,” he explained. “It’s by David, the painter.” Carol shrugged: what difference did it make? It was a wonderful painting of a wonderful boy. “He loved him.” They didn’t know if the painter liked women or men, but that didn’t matter, either. He loved him. After that, nothing much in the Musée seemed important, though it was full of good things. They trudged round, because they thought they should. “Isn’t that…?” Carol asked. A white-haired gentleman was standing in front of a painting, staring at it the same way as Carol had stared at David’s boy. “Yes,” Brian whispered. “What’s he looking at?” They crept into the gallery and stood quietly behind Ken. He was looking at a nude, a girl on a swing, her skin dappled by sunlight falling through leaves. It was pretty enough, but it wasn’t in the same class as the David. But Ken seemed to find it fascinating. Dirty old man, Carol thought, then looked again. “Brian,” she whispered, “look.” Ken was swaying very slightly, rocking to some internal rhythm. Carol looked up and saw what he could see: the girl was moving too. The girl, her pert look radiating from the canvas, was sliding to and fro through speckles of sunlight. As she moved she smiled, enjoying the sensation of swinging, the air brushing her pale skin, the moving patches of warm sunlight on her body, rising and falling over its contours. Carol could hear the old man breathing, or was it the sigh of the breeze caressing nude limbs and torso? They crept away, not wishing to intrude on the old man’s dreams. When they left the gallery he was still there, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, swaying slightly, in time with the girl on the swing. He was the last to get on the coach. They had to wait for him. Deanna cleared her throat pointedly, but responded to Carol’s urgent shake of her head. “What?” she hissed. “We know where he was,” Carol whispered. “Leave him alone. Poor old bugger.” Deanna shrugged, and let the opportunity to tease him pass.

**** “What’s this?” Carol asked, holding up a faded blue denim work dress. Brian had made a reasonable job of packing their cases, but the dress didn’t belong here. 105

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

“Oh, that,” he grinned. “I stole it.” “What?” “I took it from Lucien’s winery. I didn’t think they’d mind—it was filthy.” Carol remembered it now. Coming up from the cellar, shivering with cold and Brian covering her in a foul-smelling dress. She sniffed the armpits cautiously. There was a faint musty odour, but the human animal stench had gone. “What did you keep it for? And why did you wash it?” Come to think of it, when did he wash it? “I got the laundry people at the hotel to do it. I think they boiled it with the towels. I thought you could wear it.” “Me? When? It’s ancient.” “It’ll keep you warm, down in the dungeon,” said Brian. “You might be grateful for it.” “In the dungeon? What dungeon?” “I thought I’d convert the spare cellar into a dungeon. Move all the rubbish out of it.” The house had been built about 1900 and had two cellars, each with a separate entrance. Brian kept his wine in one but the other was unused. Carol had once sat in it, shivering in the dark. When Brian had carried her up the stairs her teeth were chattering and neither of them was in the mood for further play. He’d wrapped her in blankets and fed her hot drinks, but it had been hours before she felt warm again. “I thought if I did it properly,” he explained. “Install proper heating and plumbing. Make more use of it.” “Oh.” Carol remembered kneeling on the dirt floor of Lucien’s filthy wine library and how excited she had been. “Won’t it be expensive?” “You’re worth it,” he said.

**** There were no more surprises in the luggage, but they did receive some through the post. They’d been back about two weeks when a small but heavy packet arrived from Canada. It contained a letter from Deanna to Brian. Thank you both for making our holiday more interesting and exciting than we’d have thought possible. Glenn in particular has fond memories. Here is a token of appreciation and I hope you’ll think of us the first time you use it… 106


Brian threw Carol a manila envelope with something heavy in it. She tore it open and a silvery chain slid into her hand. At each end there was a cruel-looking crocodile clip. …Glenn’s coming to England on business next April, and I’m accompanying him. We’d love to call in to see you. If you don’t mind, that is… The last thing in the parcel was a pair of photographs. Brian glanced at them and laughed, then held them out to Carol. The first was a picture of herself, asleep, her head on the pillow, with a duvet tucked round her shoulders. She frowned. Brian explained without prompting. “Deanna made Glenn take some pictures and he couldn’t resist taking one of you. He said you looked so sweet, sleeping like that. What do you think of the other one?” The other was a picture of Brian, standing against the long curtains of the hotel room. He had Deanna’s legs wrapped round his waist and one of her hands on his shoulder. The other arm was laid demurely across her bosom. Brian’s hands cupped her boyish buttocks. The pose was quite decorous, exposing nothing to alarm the most sheltered spinster, though it was clear they were both naked. It was equally clear that the smiling Canadian was happily impaled on the Englishman’s penis. “What about this, then?” demanded Carol, flapping the picture. Damn it, it was the sort of thing Fred Karno used to show to his wife. “Deanna bet me I couldn’t do it. When I proved I could, she made me march round the room with her while Glenn took pictures. Jealous?” Carol thought for a little while. “No, not really,” she decided.

**** And then there was the wine. The following spring Brian received a phone call from the most respected wine merchant in the Midlands to say they had two cases of Burgundy: “Cuvée Arabelle” for him, and did he want it delivered? If, on the other hand, he would like them to sell it for him, it had already aroused a lot of interest and they could guarantee bidding would start at one hundred pounds. “A hundred pounds a case?” he asked. “Oh, no, sir,” came the shocked reply. “Per bottle.” Brian thanked them and said he’d think about it. The next day a letter arrived addressed to Carol from a Madame Arabelle de L’Artoisville. 107

Yvonne Sarah Lewis

As you can see, Lucien and I are now married. I apologise for not inviting you to the wedding, but I think your presence would have stimulated more curiosity than we could have satisfied. As recompense, and to thank you for all you did for Lucien and me, we have arranged for some of the wine served at the wedding to be sent to you via your local wine-seller. Please enjoy it with our sincere gratitude. Yours affectionately, Arabelle. P.S. Please tell Brian that in Burgundy we no longer hang our sheets from the windows.

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About the Author

Yvonne lives with her partner and cat in the rural county of Shropshire on the border of Wales. She’s a wine enthusiast and enjoys long walks in the beautiful countryside and Welsh Mountains. When she’s not involved in Amateur Dramatics, she reads widely, from Terry Pratchett to Ali Smith to Dominique Aury. Favorite quotation is from Mae West: “When caught between two evils, I generally pick the one I’ve never tried before.” Also available by Yvonne Sarah Lewis at Venus Press In An English Country Dungeon In the Japanese Knot Garden

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