It was one of those sultry evenings on the French Riviera. The opera house in the grand square in Monaco, Monte Carlo, was all lit up, blazing. The crowd was sparkling with gay laughter, bright smiles, winking eyes. Sleek black limousines were lined up directly facing the fabled Opera, their chauffeurs puffing imported cigars, or just waiting--as they do.
It's a big part of the job, waiting. Maurice was waiting with the vloackoca, an Armenian rug, spread across his lap to cover the erect penis he played with to pass the time. Maurice had a lot of time to waste. His cock, more than ten inches long, was his closest friend. The limo came next.
Next in importance, where Maurice was concerned, was his splendid uniform. It was made of the finest Japanese silk, with black pearl buttons. It had an inner, hand-stitched velvet lining. Altogether, Maurice owned four of these costumes. His tailors, Le Canuet et Fils on the Avenue de Breteuil, Paris 07, also cut pedigreed cloth for royalty, politicians and IBM executives.
Maurice was in the employ of Mrs. Staunton. Her first name was Melissa and she was over forty years of age, with a lovely unblemished face, green-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, seductive lips, and a dimple in her left cheek.
Melissa Staunton lived in Cannes, near Monte Carlo. Her villa resembled one of those chateaux one sees in travel folders. There was no moat surrounding it, but most people thought there should be one, the first time they saw it. It had spires and turrets, stained-glass windows suitable for a cathedral, massive sections of masonry, and great oak doors. All of its fittings were scrupulously maintained and polished, and they glistened in the softest light.
Unlike most of the great chateaux and villas in that exclusive neighborhood--a place bountiful with palm trees, lush greenery, and Japanese garden--Mrs. Staunton's home had no name. But it was generally referred to by merchants, green grocers and tourist guides as Le Ne Trespassing. This was because of the signs in English indicating Mrs. Staunton's wish that trespassing be forbidden.
A long driveway led to the main entrance. It was cobble stoned, well-lit, and inevitably tree-lined. The chateau rested on a kind of elevated plateau, and from a distance, as well as from the air, it resembled a three-tiered wedding cake. Like most wedding cakes, the main building and the outbuildings were whitewashed. They were brilliant in the sunlight, oddly somber in afternoon shadow, and ominous at night, especially when the moon was full.
Mrs. Staunton kept a house staff of three. First, there was Nellie, the "tweenie" maid. She was (naturally) a Cockney, aged nineteen, pretty, freckle-faced, beautifully breasted, slim of limb, and narrow-waisted. Her fingers were those of a workingwoman despite her age. But she was full of pleasing smiles, evenly disposed as girls of her age and background are; and considering that she'd had no education, Nellie was really something of a surprise.
The second staffer was George. He was a combination butler, handyman, cook, gardener, gofer and confidant of Mrs. Staunton. George prepared the daily shopping lists and supervised the payments to the local trades people. He was also in charge of chateau security. He had the kind of physical presence you just don't fool around with.
The third staffer was Madam Andre, as attractive as Mrs. Staunton and likewise over forty. She spoke half a dozen languages fluently. Madam Andre was also a good driver, excellent on the telephone, a good cook, handy like George, and dependable. She served at table and supervised the scullery maids who were local girls. These girls were ferried in by Maurice, the chauffeur, and ferried out by him when chores were done.
This was more or less the setup when Stephen's impending arrival from America was announced.
Stephenson Bradley Gould looked young for his age, blond, delicate, and experienced in nothing. He was a quiet boy, a book-reader, a lonely walker, neat and clean. His name should have been Fletcher. Until he flew on the Concorde to Paris, he'd been literally imprisoned in boarding schools, summer camps for the well-to-do, and isolated apartments in different New England towns.
His mother--a woman wealthy beyond reason, since two of her husbands (one of them Stephen's father) had died suddenly and left her an astonishing amount of money--was Mrs. Melissa Staunton's best friend from her school days. Her name was Patricia, but the servants--behind her back, of course--called her Patsy. They didn't like her all that much, but they did appreciate the money she paid for their attention to her, to her son Stephen and to the duplex in New York.
If ever anyone had a thorn in her side, it was Stephenson Bradley Gould's exquisite mother, Patricia Gould.
Ever since Steve's birth, one after another, tutors, baby-sitters, counselors, guides, you-name-it, had been hired to do what tutors, baby-sitters, counselors and guides are supposed to do. And ever since Steve could remember, he hated every one of those people. He was always being shipped off, from here to there, back again, up and down, in and out. He developed so strong a drive toward rebellion that when his aircraft landed in Paris, all he could think of was flight--especially when he spotted Maurice waiting for him.
The silent drive to Cannes, then to Monte Carlo, took the entire day. By the time Steve and Maurice arrived both were exhausted, even though they'd stopped for refreshment. They had even taken a nap in a picnic park just off the road from Toulouse.
Melissa Staunton stood next to one of the windows overlooking the courtyard. She could see and hear the approach of the long, black limousine. She could see Maurice's black sunglasses and the visor of his cap. Mrs. Staunton hummed to herself as the big car was maneuvered into its parking space.
With her first glimpse of Stephenson, her lips parted slowly. There was an audible intake of breath. "God, he's a handsome child," she said slowly, one hand gliding down inside her robe to brush over her cunt. Her fingers crawled inside her satin panties. Her index finger found her clitoris. As she massaged herself, her eyes followed the path of Maurice and the boy as they crossed the courtyard and entered the chateau.
At the same time, Madam Andre was also watching Maurice carry the boy's suitcases. As the two strode across the courtyard, their heels clicking on the cobblestones, Madam Andre massaged her breasts. She pinched her nipples. She smoothed them and again she pinched them as if to reawaken them. She sighed.
She looked over her shoulder at George who had been standing behind her all the while. He was holding his naked prick in his hand, masturbating it as he rubbed up against the woman, her skirt raised up around her waist, her bottom bare, her asshole wet from George having tongued it as they waited for the arrival of the limousine from Paris.
"I am sure," Madam Andre said, her voice a husky whisper, "I'm sure he'll be suitable for her."
She meant Mrs. Staunton.
"He's rather good-looking, wouldn't you say?"
"Not too tall, not too small, just around right."
There was a moment of silence as Madam Andre and George watched Stephenson and Maurice disappear into the grand foyer of the chateau.
"George put it in again. I love your cock up inside."
George backed away from her for a moment. He knelt behind her. Gripping her thighs, he rubbed his face all over her naked bottom. He used his tongue to lick her ass cheeks. She wiggled when he began to kiss them more and more passionately. When George spread them apart and started to introduce his tongue into her anus, Madam Andre squealed.
"George--please--darling--your prick. Put it up inside me so I can keep it warm for a little while. I want it, George. Please. Please?"
George kept kissing, licking. "It needs your wetness, m'darlin'."