We, the publishers, are proud to present Miss Felice O. Stanley's first book an almost painfully timely novel which, while exceptionally subtle in its structure and development of ideas, is nevertheless down-to-earth in the best sense of the phrase.
Although 'A Teacher's Vacation' is extremely pertinent in that it deals with the questions and conflicts which we all face in today's troubled society, it can with equal impunity be viewed as a classical Shakespearean tragedy. None of the characters die in the end, it is true; but their bleak, loveless, unstructured life-styles render them incapable of anything but the most superficial meandering through the complex mazes of life.
Grace Gamble, the beautiful young heroine, is one of this brutally vivid novel's victims of man's inhumanity to man. Scott, her innocent young pupil, and his attractive but insecure widowed mother are also condemned to a tragic destiny by their particular character flaws which make them unable to adjust to the harsher realities of life. Even Robert Moulin, the unsympathetic avant-garde poet-cum-fortune hunter is, if one reads between the lines doomed to an unfulfilled and unhappy existence. No one, in this poignant, hard-hitting novel, comes out on top.
To those of you who are discovering Liverpool Library Press publications for the first time, we feel it our duty to offer the following advice:
Do read this book twice or better yet, three or four times. Upon each reading, we guarantee that you will discover new levels of meaning, new interpretations of our troubled, tumultuous society.
We repeat: read A Teacher's Vacation the first time for pleasure, for unpreoccupied enjoyment of its exciting plot, fascinating characters, and exotic location. Then, re-read it with an orientation toward the distressing facts you see in the pages of your daily newspaper.
When we met Miss Stanley for lunch one recent afternoon, the long-legged, redheaded authoress elaborated on her basic underlying theme.
"The Golden Rule," she stated, "is expressed in basically the same form in every language and culture on the earth. Yet, despite this universal knowledge that we must 'do unto others as we would have them do unto us', mankind still continues on its suicidal course. In my books, I try in my small way to enlighten my readers as to the heinous consequences of greed, pride, and avarice."
Despite the urgent importance of Miss Stanley's novel, we cannot in good faith recommend it to the emotionally immature or overly sensitive reader. The authoress, in her attempt to create a truly realistic atmosphere, has employed language and actions which could well offend those of overly sheltered backgrounds.
To those of our more mature, sophisticated readers, however, we urge that this book be read and reread, passed on to like-minded friends, discussed and examined in the most serious way. A Teacher's Vacation holds an important message for all thinking Americans, a message none of us under any circumstances can afford to ignore.
-The Publishers
CHAPTER ONE
On June 30 the official temperature in Nice, France, was 97 degrees Fahrenheit, and not a breath of wind stirred the tall pines surrounding Dubois' secluded villa high in the hills above that French coastal city. It was the first day that Scott Dubois saw Miss Gamble in a bikini.
The fourteen year old's mouth fell open in embarrassed admiration as he watched his shapely young tutor moving across the courtyard to where he sat at a white wrought iron table in a bougainvillea-draped corner. Although her breasts were hidden by an unwieldy pile of French instruction books and those peculiar French spiral' notebooks with graph paper inside, the fascinated youngster had a perfect view of her golden-tan belly and well-rounded thighs.
Wow! he thought in excitement. Miss Gamble might as well be naked! Crossing his legs in a futile attempt to hide the bulging protuberance inside his red nylon swim trunks, he eagerly awaited the moment when she'd sit down across from him and give him a good view of her breasts. II only the top half of her suit's as skimpy as the bottom....
Indeed, Grace Gamble's new bathing suit was far more revealing than any garment she'd ever worn before, and it was for this reason she'd not dared to appear in public in it before today. If only she hadn't forgotten to pack her sensible yellow-checked two-piece with its built-in bust support! But it was too late to think of that now, for in her rush to depart for the Riviera, she'd left it behind along with a number of essential personal belongings. The shops in Nice simply didn't carry modest bathing suits in any size she could possible fit her lithe young body into, so she'd recklessly decided to purchase this tiny orange bikini.
"When in Rome do as the Romans do," she'd rationalized as she walked out of the department store into the brilliance of a Mediterranean summer afternoon. "But it does seem a bit too much to pay seventy francs for something no bigger than two Kleenexes. Why, that's fifteen dollars!"
Now, however, Grace was neither thinking in philosophic nor financial terms; she was simply feeling shamefully over-exposed and wishing she'd at least put on a shirt. No matter how suffocatingly hot it was, she had no business parading around half-naked in front of her sensitive and impressionable young student.
Yet although the twenty-two year old language teacher knew she ought to head back toward the house and slip a blouse over her bikini, she nevertheless kept right on walking toward where little Scott Dubois sat waiting for her. Telling herself he was surely far too young to notice what she was wearing or not wearing, she plopped down in the chair across from her student and pasted a school teacher-like smile on her lovely face. If she noticed Scott's dark eyes darting toward her breasts straining against the thin orange fabric of her brassiere, she gave no sign of it.
"Good morning, Scott," she said in the calm, carefully enunciated voice she'd been taught in her education classes. "Isn't it a nice warm day! I hope you've prepared the homework I assigned you yesterday....? "
"Yes, Ma'am," Scott gulped. He desperately hoped Miss Gamble wouldn't notice the way he was squirming against the edge of his seat, but he simply had to do something to quell the urgent throbbing in his swollen young virility. "I finished the exercises for Chapter Seven."
The curvaceous young teacher flashed her pupil another rather artificial smile and leaned over to reach for the preferred grubby pages of homework. As she shifted her sloping white shoulders, the thin straps of her brassiere eased down enough to afford the attentive youth a tantalizing glimpse of the milk-white flesh of her melon-shaped breasts. For a brief instant he caught sight of the dimpled, rose-pink nipple...but then the teacher straightened herself and self-consciously tugged her bathing suit top straps tighter.
"Very well done, Scott," she said, scarcely glancing at the grass, chocolate, and mud-stained sheets. For some incomprehensible reason, she felt more and more nervous around the boy each day...really, she oughtn't to let his resemblance to her erstwhile fianc� bother her. "Now, let's go on to Lesson Eight's dicta."
As Scott Dubois scribbled down an English rendition of the French lines his beautiful young teacher pronounced in her melodious soprano tones, he was so distracted that he might as well have been writing in Indian sign language. Grace Gamble, for her part, was nearly as disoriented. Even as her full pink lips mouthed the unfamiliar French vowels, her emotions were furiously churning. What was the matter with her, anyway? Why was this attractive youngster with his serious brown eyes affecting her so oddly? The whole object in accepting this summer tutoring job in the South of France had been to remove herself as far as possible from all memories of Eric Johansen...and here she was thinking about her tall, handsome ex-fianc� every time she looked at her young pupil!
This job had seemed such a godsend when she'd first seen the advertisement on the bulletin board in the Foreign Languages Building at the University. Only a week had passed since that never-to-be-forgotten Tuesday when Eric had attacked her like a lust-crazed animal after their library date, and she'd thrown her engagement ring back at him after fighting him off with her virginity just barely intact...only a week, but she'd been feeling twenty years older than the carefree young girl who'd been eagerly looking forward to becoming Mrs. Johansen after her graduation in June. After seeing the advertisement and talking to Mrs. Dubois in her elegant Bloomfield Hills home, however, she'd regained a little of her former zest for life. Much to her worried parents' relief, she'd begun eating and sleeping again, and she'd managed to get through the last month of school and pass her exams by focusing her thoughts on her exciting summer ahead and trying her best to avoid running into Eric Johansen.
Now, as she sat on the sun-baked veranda absentmindedly dictating to Scott Dubois, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Certainly, the Riviera was even more beautiful than it had looked in the travel bureau's brochures, and the Dubois' small villa, a modernized stone farmhouse, was as charming and comfortable as she could have hoped. Yet despite all this she felt almost as lonely and sad as she had in Lansing, Michigan, and her memories of Eric Johansen were more obsessive than ever. . .
"Is--is that all, Miss Gamble?" Scott asked, for the bikini-clad tutor had paused in what appeared to be mid-sentence and was staring off toward the sea with a wistful, faraway expression in her large green eyes.
Grace didn't even hear her young student's query. Lonely, I'm so terribly lonely...she was thinking sadly. At least back home I had my family and friends even if they were all giving me those awful sympathetic glances or trying to find out why Eric and I broke up. Here there's no one but Mrs. Dubois and this little boy who makes me feel so nervous, and I feel like-
"Is that the end, Ma'am?" the boy's voice interrupted the pensive twenty-two year old's reverie, and she whipped her head around to stare at him, ashamed of herself for having let her emotions get the better of her.
Scott's eyes hastily shot from his teacher's half-exposed breasts back down to his notebook, but even as he stared at the page he was still seeing the ripely straining white mounds in his mind's eye. Once, at school, he'd paid a guy called Rodney Frazier five dollars for the privilege of peeking through the hole the older boy had chiseled in the back of his gym locker. He'd not really wanted to do it, for he disliked Frazier, a loud-mouth show-off who was making money hand over fist by selling the right to look into the girls' locker room, but after a while the temptation had been too much. In fact, all he'd gotten for his five dollars was an uninspiring glimpse of the seventh grade girls' swimming class changing into their shapeless black tank suits, but even the sight of their immaturely budding breasts with their delicate pink nipples had haunted him for months afterward since he'd never before nor since seen a naked female.
But now! Now he was sitting face to face with the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, so close that he could smell the flowery scent of her perfume and see the tiny pale golden hairs on her tanned arms. Scott fervently wished that
Rodney Frazier and all the other guys at school who'd kidded him about being a sissy with a French governess could see Miss Gamble. Perhaps he could get a photograph of her in that super-sexy bikini if he sneaked up on her when she was sun-bathing....
By now the young boy's erect penis was so achingly and noticeably swollen that he feared he would cum right there on the patio in front of Miss Gamble. With a great effort of will he forced his thoughts away from the alluring redhead's breasts and pussy and concentrated on what she was saying. In his own embarrassed discomfort, he failed to notice that her voice was a bit too shrill and very shaky.
"...take a look at the first part of your dicta before we go any further. This new irregular verb is rather difficult...."
Grace's voice trailed off as she leaned across the round table for the notebook with her right hand, her left hand clutching self-consciously at the straps of her brassiere so it wouldn't slip and reveal more of her forbidden flesh than it was already. When she'd looked up and seen the boy's gazing in wide-eyed fascination at her body, an unexpected tremor had rippled up and down her spine...a feeling which bore a disconcerting resemblance to the way she'd felt when her ex-fianc� gently caressed her breasts through her blouse.
Perhaps I'm catching a summer cold, the young teacher told herself, ignoring the evidence of her senses, and then she turned her attention to the sloppily scrawled dicta in front of her.
Normally Scott was a conscientious and clever pupil, but today his work was heavily laced with errors of the most basic sort. With a definite sense of relief she remarked, "Well, Scott, I think you ought to review the first several chapters again before we have our oral exercises. Let's discontinue class until after lunch."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Though the thirteen year old's voice was contrite, the expression on his handsome face as he followed Miss Gamble's undulating buttocks movements across the stone terrace was far more lustful than penitent. Her legs were perfect! he marveled to himself. Better than the girls in those sex magazines everybody reads at school! And most exciting of all, up between them nestled that fascinating and mysterious phenomena her PUSSY!
All the guys in the seventh grade class at Armstrong Academy were always talking about the finer details of female anatomy, but even the few who claimed not to be virgins seemed incapable of really saying exactly what a pussy looked like. Scott knew, from his five-dollar glimpse of the girls' swim class and from the popular sex magazines, that it was covered with curling hairs, and instead of memorizing his irregular verbs he puzzled over the interesting question of whether or not Miss Gamble's pussy was the same beautiful auburn color as the long hair that flowed over her shoulders, and the still more absorbing question of what lay beneath the cuntal curls. Only the fear that Miss Gamble, or Monique, the maid, or even his mother might appear on the patio kept him from rubbing his throbbing young virility until he achieved the blissful relief of orgasm.
In a way, the aroused youngster was relieved to hear the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen, and then Monique's heavily-accented voice calling out the luncheon was served. Afterward, during siesta, he could retire to the privacy of his bedroom and indulge in lurid fantasies about Miss Gamble while he massaged his painfully lurching erection. Masturbation, a form of entertainment he'd been introduced to at Armstrong Academy, had become one of the most important facets of the lonely pre-adolescent's life during the past year, and with the erotic stimulus of his voluptuous new tutor, he'd found himself doing it several times a day.
"Jeez!" he whispered to himself as he headed for the dining room. "What if I could really fuck Miss Gamble?! ! Wow! None of the other guys would ever treat me like shit again! And nothing else would matter nothing at all!"
These erotic fantasies so obsessed Scott Dubois that he was unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls of the cassolette, though normally the spicy, garlic-flavored white beans and sausage so different from the bland culinary offerings of Armstrong Academy was one of his favorite dishes. Every time he looked at Miss Gamble, who herself seemed very distracted and merely picked at her lunch, he felt an enormous lump rise in his throat. At last he was forced to excuse himself before the fruit and cheese course and head for his bedroom to relieve the urgent needs of his madly pulsing young penis.
No one took any notice of the youth's strange behavior save Monique, who complained loudly and vehemently to Maurice, the chef, about the "crazy Americans" who thought the help had nothing better to do than cook and serve lunch for two people who obviously hadn't a trace of appetite. Grace Gamble was too absorbed in her painful memories and subconscious guilt about her pupil to think of anything or anyone else, and Mrs. Dubois, as usual, was off having lunch with friends. The attractive, thirty-three year old widow had better things to do with her time than eating lunch with her young son, fond as she was of Scott, particularly since Robert Moulin, a well-known French-American avant-garde poet, had moved into the villa next door.
CHAPTER TWO
"Another aperitif, my dear?" inquired Robert Moulin, smiling at the golden-haired American widow in a way he knew from experience would melt her last reserves of Mid-Western morality. "This Pernod is so refreshing...."
Caroline Dubois succumbed to the young poet's calculated gallantry as smoothly as he'd expected. After all, she hadn't a chance of resisting him; the twenty-five year old artist had lived for many years in the states and knew exactly how to go about seducing up-tight but innately highly sexed American women of this lovely blonde's background it came as naturally to him as his tastes for the best wines and caviar.
"Oh, that would be lovely...dear," Caroline half giggled.
She hadn't really intended to add the endearing term; somehow, it had sprung involuntarily from her crimson-painted lips. A light flush crept up under her perfectly-applied makeup as she heard the word echo in her ears, but then she tossed her short curls and told herself that she was merely acting in the French way. Kisses on the cheek and flowery compliments were, as she well remembered from her late husband Raoul, as universally accepted as practical jokes were among Americans. Besides, Robert was a dear he treated her so courteously, yet so admiringly, and he'd given her a feeling of being a desirable and attractive female for the first time since her husband's unfortunate yachting accident two summers before. And he was so disarmingly handsome....
"Ah, regard the miracle of the azure sea!" Robert enthused as he handed Caroline her refilled glass and came to stand close beside her on the bougainvillea-draped balcony. Actually, the young poet spoke perfect colloquial American, having done post-graduate work at the University of Iowa, but he shrewdly ascertained that a French accent made him all the more attractive to the vulnerable Mrs. Dubois. "Our Mediterranean is the same beautiful color as that of your eyes, my lovely neighbor, and that so beautiful gown you wear today enhances your allure."
Caroline's blush grew so hot that it showed through her fifteen dollar a tube makeup, and she tittered in somewhat nervous pleasure. It had been so long since a man had paid her such compliments that she didn't quite remember how to accept them gracefully, and, more disconcertingly, another almost-forgotten sensation was teasing at her nerve endings.
I I want him to touch me! she thought in surprise. Why, I haven't felt that way about any male since Raoul died! Quite unconsciously, the young mother shifted the weight of her voluptuous figure toward her handsome host as she sipped her potent pre-lunch drink and stared abstractedly out toward the sea.
"Oh, Robert," she smiled, conscientiously pronouncing his name "row-bear", in the French manner. "You do know how to make a woman feel good!"
"And have you not been happy, then, Caroline?" the wily young author asked in a silken voice. He drew nearer his curvaceous guest and placed one arm around her bare, sun-reddened shoulders.
Caroline winced slightly, feeling embarrassed by the overly personal question, the tingling sensations that his arm sent whirling through her bloodstream, and the discomfort of her sunburn. Although her large blue eyes stared into his face, she couldn't bring herself to reply to his question.
Unhappy? she thought, her body tensing beneath Robert's gentle yet insistent touch. God knows I've been miserable since Raoul died! Lonely, longing for a man's love, for a man's company...yet unable to feel any emotions. I've been dead inside for two years....
"You suffer from the sunburn?" Robert asked sympathetically. "Your skin is too delicate to be exposed to the rays of our powerful sun, my love. You are like a fragile flower of the mysterious moon."
The young widow seemed to hear her late husband telling her the same thing, and her heart opened wider than ever to this charming young man. Instead of explaining that she felt like a sickly white fish next to all the sun-bronzed French females not to mention even her son's redheaded teacher, who'd achieved a gorgeous tan within three days of her arrival on the Riviera and that none of her friends and neighbors in Bloomfield Hills would even believe she'd been in the South of France if she hadn't acquired a splendid golden tone by the time she returned, she merely flashed him a girlish, flirtatious smile.
"But the sun feels so marvelous after that long Michigan winter," she said. "You've no idea how bleak it is...."
"But my dear, you forget that I have been a student in your Midwest. Indeed I remember the endless snows. And I am born in Paris, where the gray rain falls sadly all winter." He stared into Caroline Dubois eyes in a meaningful way which sent sparks of excitement shooting up and down her spine. "But now I am wise enough to stay here in this land of warm sunshine and beautiful flowers...this land of love. And you should do the same."
Caroline blushed again, feeling as shy as an innocent schoolgirl. Being around the charming Robert Moulin was as rejuvenating as taking an enchanted bite of the mythical golden apple of youth! Why, she felt far too young to have a half-grown son like Scottie!
"I love the Cote d'Azur as much as you and Raoul my husband...." she dimpled up at Robert, not allowing herself to be alarmed at the way his hand seemed to be slowly working its way toward her breasts. It was just the French way, and, after all, it did feel pleasant to have someone touching her as a real woman again. "But there's little Scottie to think of. Raoul wanted him to have an American education, he always said, and--and, well, my home's in Detroit, you know."
"I think it is most beautiful that you are a woman with a sense of home," Robert improvised as his experienced fingers almost imperceptibly glided along the swelling curve of the young widow's full breast. "It is the sign of a truly feminine woman, you know."
"Is it?" Caroline asked rather stupidly. Hot flashes of the sort of excitement she'd not felt in so long were darting through her loins in the most unsettling way possible, and she found it difficult to articulate.
Robert could feel his eager cock beating an impatient tattoo against his fashionably-cut bleached denim jeans. Christ, this slender young widow was one of the prettiest pieces of ass he'd laid eyes on in a month of Sundays, and she was such an easy plum to pluck that it was nearly laughable. If he'd ever seen a sexually frustrated broad, Caroline Dubois was one!
"Of course!" he affirmed. "But tell me, my delicate moon flower, why have you been unhappy?"
The half-intoxicated widow gulped down the last drops of her second Pernod and averted her eyes from Robert, wishing he'd not returned to this tangled topic of conversation. But the effects of the potent licorice-flavored alcohol and the seductive warmth of the Frenchman's gently caressing hand upon her left breast loosened her reserve enough so that she finally blurted out an incoherent explanation.
"Well...I-I've been...well, you know...lonely...n--no one but Scottie, and he's away at school and all...and, and...."
"Don't say another word, my love!" Robert interjected. "I understand your sadness. And I will do my best to make you happy once again!"
Without any more preliminaries, the adroit young author clasped the young widow in his arms. She gasped aloud as she felt her sensitive breasts crushing against the man's strong-muscled chest and filling her nipples with singing fire, and then she let out a low, submissive whimper as she caught a whiff of his masculine scent. How good it felt to lie in a man's arms after all this time...how secure and safe she felt...how totally alive....
Quickly, eagerly, Robert's lips meshed against the blonde mother's soft, lipstick-slickened lips. He didn't want to give her a moment to think what she was doing and become affected by that irritating Puritanical guilt he'd observed in so many otherwise eminently desirable American women. Somewhat to his surprise, she responded by tilting her head up to welcome his hotly snaking tongue and even treated his invading member with a hesitant little responsive swipe with her own tongue.
A real hot babe! he thought triumphantly as he firmly cupped her resilient left breast in one hand and began massaging the firm pliancy of her ass-cheeks with the other.
He's going too fast! Caroline thought, starting to panic. A nice romantic embrace was one thing, but a blatantly sexual overture was quite another. After all, she'd never known another man beside her late husband, and she wasn't at all convinced that she was ready to start living in the way the magazines and newspapers called "sexually liberated". She was the mother of a growing boy, and....
Robert's sudden tweaking of her nerve-filled nipple bud erased all logical thought from Caroline's brain. He twisted and pinched at it in a frenzy of lust, and the thin fabric of her blue flowered summer dress didn't provide more than the most minimal protection. Spears of unwilling excitement spiraled through her sensually awakening loins even as she weakly cried out, "No, no! No, Robert, nooooo!"
The young poet was aware of his victim's plaintive pleas, but he didn't take them seriously. As far as he was concerned, this woman wanted him as badly as he'd wanted her ever since he'd seen her moving herself and her obviously expensive possessions into the villa next door. One didn't really make very many francs these days being an avant-garde poet though one did get one's name in all the papers which mattered and it would be more than handy to have a rich female sponsor who would be able to fork out a few dollars when times were tough. Besides these practical considerations, she was a most alluring woman with the body of a perfectly proportioned Grecian sculpture.
"You're so beautiful...so soft...so tender...so in need of truly gentle love...," he murmured in his most romantic French tones. "I want so much to make you happy!"
Caroline struggled halfheartedly, futilely. This certainly wasn't what she'd expected from her handsome, dark-haired young neighbor who'd acted with so much gentility and respect all week long, yet it was perhaps what she had hoped for in her most corrupt dreams. Surely he wasn't really thinking of raping her...it was all some sort of game toward which she was over-reacting due to her love-starved condition.
Suddenly two servants clad in sparkling white work aprons descended upon the balcony and, most discreetly, set down platters of avocado stuffed with shrimp and various assorted hors d'oeuvres accompanied with crackers. Though the workers never even glanced at the romantically entwined couple, Robert's advances suddenly grew less ardent.
"Come, my love, shall we have some lunch," he beamed.
Although the erotically trembling Caroline told herself that she was very grateful for the interruption, the fact of the matter was that part of her was extremely disappointed. Her lushly ripened breasts burned and throbbed from his expert caresses, and she realized with a start of shock that her long-frozen vagina was tingling with a heated desire. What difference did commonplace matters like lunch, or her young son's emotional problems, or the falling value of her dollars make at a moment like this, she cried to herself. Perhaps she was too old to attract a handsome young man like Robert Moulin could that be it?
Bravely planting a pleased smile on her fair-complected face, the sexually frustrated young widow moved toward the laden table. "My, doesn't this look lovely!" she exclaimed with forced enthusiasm. "I'm so fond of avocados!"
Before she had reached the sumptuous spread, however, strong male hands grabbed her around her slender waist and tugged her toward him.
"Now they're gone!" he whispered in a way that made chills run up and down Caroline's spine again. "And though I, too, am fond of avocados, I am more fond of tasting your lips and body."
Robert's tongue raced over her trembling lips so ardently that the young mother felt swirls of dizziness spiraling in her Pernod-clouded brain. Then, before she had a chance to think if what she was doing was right or wrong, his hot demanding tongue was delving into her mouth in a deep French kiss. At the same time, he resumed his maddening tweaking of her over-sensitive breasts.
"Oooooohhhhh no," Caroline managed to pull her mouth away at last. "We--we shouldn't... "
"Why not, darling?" Robert's smooth voice hissed into her ear, and then her ear began vibrating with pleasure as he gently nibbled at the nerve-filled little lobe. "You are the most lovely woman I have seen in the South of France, and I want to bring you pleasure. And you do like it, don't you?"
"Nooooo," Caroline protested. Unfortunately, her cry sounded more like an invitation, even to her own ears, and she tried again. "Pleeeeeeeze nooooooo!"
"Yes, my love, yes!" Robert insisted, and then his eager tongue was once again spearing into the aroused blonde's butter-smooth mouth and she was unable to say anymore, not even when he began unfastening the buttons on the front of her blue silk shirtwaist.
It's wrong! her conscience accused. You hardly know this man. And he's almost ten years younger than you! It's--it's positively perverted!
Oddly enough, the thought of her own depravity only fired the frustrated widow's long-dormant passion. As her young neighbor's hands tugged away her dress and snaked around her back to undo her lacy blue pastel brassiere, something inside her seemed to snap and her willpower and sense of morality began to drain from her mind. Robert's tongue felt blunt and hard and obscenely wet inside her mouth, and his hands felt rough and impatient as he kneaded her now-baked breasts, but despite her shame a wonderful excitement was surging through her bloodstream.
Why not? a rebellious voice from a remote, long-ignored corner of her brain challenged her conscience. After all, I deserve to have some fun, too! I've been nothing but a mother and a widow whom people feel sorry for--for too long now! It's time to be a woman again! A REAL WOMAN. . .
Somehow Robert had maneuvered the breathless young blonde into a white swing in a secluded corner of the garden hidden from the house by a row of orange and lemon trees. He forced her limp but unresisting body down on the chair and then bent down before her to undo the rest of the buttons on her shirtwaist so that he could ease it off her shoulders. Next, he yanked off the loosely hanging brassiere, leaving her clad only in her tiny blue lace bikini panties.
"Oh, no, Robert!" Caroline whispered. "Not here! Not outside where anyone can see us! Please!"
"Why not?" Robert sneered as he dropped to his knees before the half-naked woman. "You know you love it!"
The young poet had dropped his French accent, along with his gallant attitude, and Caroline shivered as she saw an animalistic lust flicker in his eyes and felt his hot mouth fasten hard on her exposed left breast. His sharp white teeth dug into the brown areola surrounding her nipple, sending hot stabs of pleasure-pain dancing out to every nerve ending in her shamefully displayed body, and the half-intoxicated blonde mother began to whimper softly. Oh, God! Even her late husband had never done anything as obscenely exciting as make love outside! It was unthinkable!
As the sex-maddened poet continued to nibble first on one, then the other, of the voluptuous woman's berry-like nipples, he felt her whole figure begin to quiver. She's getting aroused! he told himself triumphantly. In five minutes she'll be begging me for it! She'll be my love-slave....
Indeed, Caroline was growing aware of an embarrassing twitching and moistening down between her full-fleshed thighs. She gazed down in acute dismay at her golden-haired pubic mound, wondering dazedly if this were really happening to her or if it were perhaps one of those nasty erotic dreams which had been plaguing her ever since she'd first met Robert Moulin. It must have been that Pernod which was giving her hallucinations, she decided. The French made such potent aperitifs she ought to have known better than to drink two!
Then, as the trembling young mother saw a large male hand trailing slowly, tantalizingly down over the gently rounded plane of her ivory-white belly, she knew that this shameful seduction was no dream. Sparks of undeniable delight shot through her naked loins, mingling strangely with her self-disgust to form a weird masochistic excitement.
"Nooo!" she moaned as the hand moved resolutely toward her hair-fringed pussy. "Not down there, Robert! Please, not there!"
The tone of Caroline's voice belied her protestations, and Robert paid absolutely no attention to her plea. His hand slipped under the tight elastic waistband of her panties and tangled in the silken-soft cuntal curls, engendering a strangled gasp from the naked woman, and then his middle finger crawled over the upraised pelvic mound to make contact with the smooth warmth of her quivering vaginal lips. Breathing harshly, the hotly aroused poet quickly slipped her panties down over her rounded ass-cheeks and parted the sparse blonde vaginal curls to feast his eyes on the moist pink flesh of the young widow's feminine flesh.
"Oh God! Oh God, no, no!" Caroline wailed under her breath. She had never been so humiliated in her entire life! And the worst of it all was that she was enjoying it in some weird way! Some perverted segment of her soul wanted to be ravished by an ardent stranger in full view of anyone who happened into the garden!
What if little Scottie could see you now? her conscience demanded in a last ditch attempt to regain control over her wickedly responsive loins. What would he think if he saw his own mother acting like a like a whore?!
The thought of her young son sent a perverse ripple of lust swirling through the mother's bloodstream, especially because just at the instant that she saw his innocent face in her mind's eye, her lover's skillful finger slid into the desire-dampened slit of her excitedly tingling vagina. An involuntary shudder wracked her entire body, and suddenly she abandoned herself totally to this forbidden debauchery.
"See, you do want me!" the dissolute man gloated. "Your beautiful pussy is already wet with the juices of love!" He teased his finger higher up into her automatically spasming cuntal flesh, relishing the way its butter-smooth walls clasped around his invading digit like a tight-fitting glove. "Now spread your legs," he commanded. "I want to taste your juices...the nectar of life!"
Even her young seducer's flowery language could not appease Caroline Dubois's horrified shock. He wanted to kiss her down there, to put his mouth on her most intimate feminine flesh!
Even her husband had never done that despicable thing! Oh, he'd tried at first it must be some horrible French perversion! but she'd informed him in no uncertain terms that nice American women didn't indulge in such vulgar acts.
Why did he have to get this sick idea into his head? Caroline agonized, stinging tears brimming up in her big blue eyes. My body needs loving so badly but not this! NOT THIS!
"N-no R-Robert!" she stammered, her eyes widening in panic as his head moved from her breasts over her quaking belly, licking its lewd path toward the forbidden triangle of pale golden cuntal hair. "It's...it's dirty! Nice American women--"
"I don't give a damn if it's nice!" Moulin's devilish mask of raw lust terrified the inexperienced widow so much that she shut her eyes in a futile effort to shut out the reality of her predicament. "You think you are a fine lady, that you are too good for me. All you American Puritans are the same! But soon I shall show you that you're no different from the most wanton whore in Pigalle!"
"No, no, no!" Caroline chanted in despair as viselike fingers grasped the tender flesh of her tight-clenched thighs and tugged them apart.
"No...pleeezze...no...."
A mirthless laugh of triumph burst from the young poet's lips as he stared at the glistening coral-pink succulence of his vulnerable victim's nakedly exposed cunt. Little pearl-like beads of feminine secretion glinted up at his lust-fogged eyes, and he once again congratulated himself on his latest conquest.
She'll be mine for the taking whenever I want her, once I get done with her! he told himself as he ran his tongue over his lips in hungry anticipation. And in a week or so I'll have her so much in my control that when I ask her for money to finance the publication of my latest poems, she'll hand it over without a whimper! The dream of my life has come true! I longed to discover a rich old woman here on the Riviera but now I find a beautiful, still young and very rich American instead of a bedraggled Italian princess with breasts hanging down to her thick waist.
An anguished groan burst from Caroline's lipstick-smeared lips and echoed eerily in the open air, but despite her humiliation, she did not try to force the young man away from her. What was the use? He was far, far stronger than she and could compel her to remain with force if he so chose. Besides, he was right; she was no better than the cheap streetwalkers of Pigalle in their buttock-hugging mini-skirts and snagged stockings...worse, perhaps, because while those wicked girls were at least earning their living with their illegal activities, she, Caroline Dubois, had no excuse at all save the force of her vulgar passions.
A little breeze tickled the exposed cuntal flesh between the guilty young mother's widespread thighs, and she shivered in shame mingled with unwanted anticipation. Suddenly she felt the young poet's heated breath against her pussy lips, and then the shocking contact of his wetly probing tongue against her ultra-sensitive vaginal flesh. Arrows of shameless arousal shot out to every nerve ending in her naked body, from the top of her scalp to her involuntarily curling white toes, and Caroline relinquished herself to the helpless masochistic bliss of being taken in this obscene way by a virtual stranger.
"Aaagghh," Robert choked out as he delved deeper into the perfumed depths of his fair-haired neighbor's reluctantly offered vagina. "As sweet as honey! I shall write a poem in honor of your lovely tight little cunt, Caroline!"
Oh my God! the naive widow's tortured mind wailed. It feels exquisite! How can I like such a sick thing? How?
Although the thirty-three year old mother had occasionally read of oral sex in the LUI magazine which her late husband had insisted on leaving around the house, she had always assumed that only the most bestial of men could possibly find pleasure in such a perverted activity. Until now she'd believed that the woman attacked in this way must feel nothing but pain and revulsion...that she must suffer far more than the first time she lost her virginity. Yet here she was experiencing the most intense flashes of bliss she could ever remember feeling something must really be wrong with her. She wasn't fit to be Scottie's mother!
"You like that, don't you?" taunted Robert in a muffled voice as he jabbed his long eager tongue still deeper into the tight-clasping depths of Mrs. Dubois's vaginal channel. "It gives you pleasure, no?! "
Robert's virile penis was straining against his fashionably form-fitting jeans in an aching erection, and he longed to rip off his clothing and take this helplessly aroused female right here on the terrace. Common sense, however, held him back. For one thing, he didn't want to be caught in a compromising position by either his servants or anyone who happened to stop by to see him he was the extroverted sort who knew nearly everyone who mattered in either a literary or monetary way from Menton to St. Tropez, and more importantly, he wanted to make sure that the rich widow was completely under his sway. If he merely brought her to a magnificent orgasm with his skillful tongue, denying her the cock she so obviously craved, and then forced himself to ignore her for several days, she'd be so hungry for full gratification that she'd come crawling toward him on her hands and knees!
"Open your eyes!" he hissed, reluctantly withdrawing his lips from the sweet-tasting depths of her hotly pulsating vagina for a moment. "Look at yourself...watch me while I tongue-fuck your wonderful pussy! See what a whore you are, my darling lover! Think of the erotic poem I shall compose in honor of your cunt!"
"Noooo!" Caroline wailed in a shrill, out-of-control tone which betrayed her intense arousal. "Stop! Ooouuhh pleeezze stop!"
Even as the words left her lips, the abandoned young mother knew they were a lie. More than anything else in the world, she wanted him to continue his amorous oral manipulations.
Teasing waves of impending orgasm were already building inside her tongue-invaded pussy and spreading out to every nerve in her long-denied body, and she knew that she needed this climatic release as much as she needed oxygen. Tonight in her sterile single bed and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, she would have to face the consequences of her self-indulgent debauchery...but now that didn't matter...nothing mattered but the ecstatic pleasure Robert was giving her.
"Lift your legs and put them over my shoulders," he demanded.
The kneeling poet watched Caroline's eyelids flick hesitantly open, and he let out a crow of glee at seeing how readily the older woman obeyed his lewd command. It was so easy getting what you wanted from females if you just knew how to treat them! That was the way he had gotten permission to live rent-free in this villa for the summer all he'd done was seduce a lovely young thing named Bernadette whom he'd met at La Coupole, his favorite Paris bar. He'd written a poem praising her beauty and sexual prowess and two days later had been offered the use of her family's dilapidated villa. It was too bad that Bernadette no longer had any money her father having squandered the family fortune at the Monte Carlo casino but it really didn't matter. He'd achieved his goal with this charming and vulnerable American heiress, and everyone knew that French women weren't nearly as generous as those from the United States.
Caroline Dubois gaped down in horrified fascination at the young man crouched between her obscenely splayed white thighs. His face glistened with beads of perspiration, saliva, and her own vaginal secretions, but the most wanton thing of all was the glint of animal passion in his eyes.
"Aahaaaahhhaaa," she moaned then shivered as the wanton sound of her own love-cry resounded in her ears. I really am a whore! she thought deliriously. I'm the most wicked woman in the entire world! But I don't care! I want him to keep licking me with his tongue!
"It gives you pleasure, doesn't it?! " hissed the diabolical young writer. "Tell me that it pleases you TELL ME!"
Sinful excitement rippled through the tongue impaled blonde at the thought of admitting to the younger man that she was enjoying his forbidden caresses. Nevertheless, although she had no conscious intention of doing so, she found herself wailing out her passion in a strange, lust-constricted voice.
"Yesssss! I like it...I need it! Oh, make me ccuummmm! Make me cum with your tongue! Please! Ppllleeezzee!"
At the admission of her unspeakable debauchery, Caroline's climax was upon her. Surging flashes of white-hot liquid lightning blazed through her helplessly spasming loins, igniting her orgasmic first and causing her to moan out her passion so loudly that the pigeons fluttered away in fright.
"Now! Yeeeaahh!" she wailed. "I'm there! Oh lick me! Fuck me with your tongue! Don't ever, ever stoppp! Aaaahhh!"
Robert certainly had no intention of stopping. His hungry tongue lapped up every bittersweet droplet of the older woman's flowing female juices as he savored the moist delicacy of her frantically spasming cuntal passage. He could feel every vein and fold of her tight little vagina opening and closing around his tongue, and his painfully throbbing penis responded by expanding to enormous proportions and thudding painfully against the constraining denim fabric of his Levi's.
Mon Dieu, she'd the hottest little bitch I've seen in years! he marveled as Caroline's voluptuous body thrashed about on the swing and her satin-smooth thighs clamped like a velvet vise around his head. How badly I want to fuck her now but I shall force myself to wait! To keep her completely under my control, I must humiliate her...that s what women really desire. Underneath their facades, they are all whores!
Totally oblivious to the cynical reflections of her unprincipled young seducer, Caroline twisted and thrashed on the swaying swing in the throes of the most intense orgasm she could ever remember enjoying. Pure erotic pleasure flooded through her tongue-tormented figure, and blackness punctuated by rainbow-hued displays of fireworks flashed before her tightly clenched eyelids. The blissful release seemed to continue for an eternity before her perspiration streaked body finally collapsed limply on the wooden swing and her breath began to come evenly again. At last, she opened her pleasure-glazed eyes and stared at the young poet, who'd withdrawn his head from between her thighs and stood over her smiling in an inscrutable way.
"Now," he said as calmly as though nothing at all had taken place, "shall we have some lunch...after that very pleasant hors d'oeuvre?"
Suddenly shame washed over the naked young widow's satiated body, and she lurched to her feet and began pulling on her discarded clothing without raising her eyes from the grass. How could she have let herself be used in such a degrading fashion? What was the matter with her? And now, Robert was acting as though he despised her!
Still without meeting his eyes, she stammered, "I-I must b-be going," and then hurried across the yard.
A mocking self-satisfied chuckle followed her. "I'll be seeing you soon, my darling," the young poet called after her hastily retreating figure.
Caroline stopped still in her tracks at the sound of the young man's taunting voice. "No, no, no!" she replied, her voice vehement as she tried to make amends for her unforgivable wanton behavior. "We mustn't ever, ever let such a thing happen again!"
Robert laughed again and suddenly the guilt-wracked young mother broke into a run. Behind her, she heard him call out, "Au revoir, Caroline. We shall see one another very soon. And next time we shall do something even better. You will like that, yes?"
No! No! No! Caroline's tortured mind screamed as she ran pell-mell down the narrow path leading to her own villa. Yet even as she fled from the scene of her humiliation, there was a sinking intuition of despair gnawing at her heart.
Oh God, he's right! she deplored. I do need him...I do want to feel his long hard penis inside me!
CHAPTER THREE
At the same moment that his mother was being forced down into the garden swing by her young lover, Scott Dubois was tiptoeing through the pine trees behind the villa toward the forest clearing where he knew his French tutor liked to sunbathe after lunch. His right hand clutched his miniature Kodak camera while his left hand absently massaged his throbbing virility which was already semi-hardened despite his post-luncheon masturbation.
A brittle branch crackled beneath his tennis shoe, and the thirteen year old's heart leapt to his throat. What if Miss Gamble should catch him spying on her like this? Then she'd hate him and treat him mean just like the teachers at boarding school did.
Stepping as stealthily as possible, the nervous youngster inched forward to a thick clump of bushes through which he had a good view of the small grassy meadow. Although he knew he ought to go back toward the house, his curiosity compelled him to remain where he was.
Miss Gamble lay on her stomach with her long sun-bronzed legs slightly spread so that the excited boy could see up between her firm-fleshed thighs to where the tiny strip of her orange bikini hid her mysterious pussy. At first Scott thought his teacher was sleeping, for her head was face-down on a large beach towel, but then his mouth went dry with shock as he realized that little moans were coming from her mouth and that her rounded ass-cheeks were twitching in the most peculiar manner.
Maybe Miss Gamble's sick, he thought, inching forward despite his trepidation. He paused at the edge of the trees, scarcely daring to breathe as he wondered what he ought to do now, but then much to his relief, she lay quietly again. After a few minutes. Scott gathered up enough courage to aim his instamatic camera at her voluptuous figure. Heart thudding against his ribs, he cautiously pulled the shutter with fingers that shook like tall grass wafted by the summer breeze.
Had she heard the low clicking sound? He waited a moment before turning the film ahead, his knees weak with relief that she didn't change position. Perhaps she was really sleeping, and her earlier whimpers had been the product of a bad dream. Scott decided to take the risk of shooting another picture even though he knew that he couldn't bear it if he incurred her antagonism. Now that his mother was ignoring him to spend all her time with her friends particularly Robert Moulin, whom the boy instinctively distrusted he needed his lovely young teacher's affection very badly.
Although the spying thirteen year old had no way of knowing this, Grace Gamble was far too absorbed in her thoughts to pay any heed to the sounds going on around her. She'd tried to make her mind blank to no avail, but haunting images of her young pupil intermixed with her ex-fianc� were still floating in the most distracting way before her tightly shut eyelids.
Ordinarily, the twenty-two year old French teacher welcomed the hours of siesta as a respite from her chronic malaise. The blazing Mediterranean sunshine had a soporific effect upon her overwrought nerves, and she could rest in the fresh pine-scented meadow as she was not able to do in her bed at night. This particular afternoon, however, she was unable to sleep due to the strange emotions she'd felt about Scott during this morning's lesson. Gradually, the odd tingling sensation she'd felt earlier in the day grew so intense that she had to rub her fire-filled pussy against the rough-textured towel.
"Oooohhh...oohhh nooo...." she heard herself moan softly it was at this precise moment that her young pupil reached the outskirts of the clearing and her buttocks began an involuntary undulation.
The instant Grace heard her own low cries, she cringed in self-disgust and forced her body to lie still as a statue. Hot tears pricked at her eyelids, but she blinked them back as she firmly told herself to stop being so weak and self-centered.
Think of all the people in the world who have good reasons to be miserable! her conscience chided. Here you are living in the lap of luxury in one of the most beautiful parts of the world what right have you to be acting this way? If you're going to be a good teacher, you must have strength of character!
In a rather ineffective attempt to remember the more unfortunate members of the human race, Grace forced herself to review the news which she'd read in the NICE-MATIN that morning. There'd been six killed and five wounded in a three-car crash outside of Nice: and that poor Russian writer exiled because of his convictions about justice: innocent tribes in Africa suffering from drought and starvation: soldiers and innocent civilians slaughtered in various wars in every corner of the world. It was all most depressing...but it in no way solved her obsession with her own problems. Within minutes the Nice-Matin was forgotten and the twin images of Scott Dubois and Eric Johansen were once again dancing before her eyes. Worst of all, the warmly tingling sensations up between her thighs had returned full force.
This is just the way I used to feel when Eric would drop me off after a date, she acknowledged reluctantly. Just the mere memory of those days when she'd step weak-kneed and trembling from her fianc�'s dilapidated Chevrolet and make the way up the sidewalk to her parent's old but well-kept frame house, increased the unwanted tremors in her over-stimulated body. Even her lips and breasts tingled at the recollection of his passionate kisses and fervent caresses of her sensitive breasts.
How wonderful love had seemed in those bygone days...how much she'd looked forward to sharing a bed with the handsome blond man, to learning to know every inch of his muscular body. She'd never suspected he was nothing but a mindless animal who cared nothing for her faithful devotion until that night when he'd attacked her in the front seat of his car and when she'd reacted with panic-stricken fright, had only menaced her with his enormous, blood-swollen cudgel of fully erect male flesh.
Caroline shuddered in remembrance of that terrifying evening, but oddly enough her unwanted excitation didn't diminish in the slightest. Although she succeeded in refocusing her attention on her young pupil, Scott Dubois, rather than the fianc� who had so badly wounded her, the orientation of her thoughts was still disturbingly sexual.
And what about young Scott? she thought before she caught herself. His penis must still be slender, immature...not in the least like Eric's big brutal shaft.
A second later she felt a hot rush of shame wash over her. What a way to be thinking about the youngster she'd been hired at an absurdly high wage to teach French to. Was she some sort of a pervert or something?
Just at that moment while the well-meaning young college graduate was trying to orient her thoughts toward something, anything neutral and totally unconcerned with the male animal, she heard a low clicking noise so incongruent with the peaceful woodland surroundings that she turned her head to see what it might be. Her cheeks turned bright pink then white as a sheet as she saw, half hidden in a thicket, the figure of her young student with a camera in his hand.
For the briefest, yet most intense of instants, their eyes locked. Then unexpectedly, Grace heard her own voice softly summoning the boy.
"Sc-Scott," she murmured in a tremulous voice. "Wh-what are you doing h-here?"
The beet-red youngster stared at the earth in acute discomfort. His teacher had turned onto her side, and out of the corners of his eyes he could see the perfectly rounded orbs of her half-exposed breasts. "I-I-I...uh...." he gulped nervously. "W-well, I was, I was j-just...."
The youngster was obviously so embarrassed that Caroline temporarily forgot her own unhappiness and tried to speak reassuringly. Really, her young pupil was a strange boy, and she should be paying more attention to helping him instead of being so selfishly preoccupied in her own concerns. It certainly wasn't his fault that he bore a resemblance to her ex-fianc� he was only a nice little boy who seemed too serious for his age and maybe needed a friend for he seemed to be always alone and even his mother paid little attention to him.
"...taking some photographs?" Her voice was warm and friendly as she finished his sentence for him. "Are you interested in photography, Scott? What do you like to take pictures of, hmm?"
Instead of answering his teacher, the thirteen year old blushed redder than ever and gulped several times. It was clear that he wished himself miles away from the forest glade.
Poor little kid! Caroline thought sympathetically. I remember how it was to be painfully shy like that. But I think he's even more timid than I was as a little girl I must try to help him come out of his shell, show him that I want to be his friend.
"Do you take nature photographs?" she tried again. Surely if she displayed an interest in the things he enjoyed, he'd open up a little. Come to think of it, she'd never really talked to him about anything at all except French until now. "Animals? Trees? Flowers?"
"Any-anything uh interesting," the tongue-tied youth stammered. "M-mostly people...."
"People?" Caroline smiled. "How nice!" But--but there aren't any people in the woods...."
Her voice trailed off and now it was her turn to blush. Goodness! The boy had been taking pictures of her! All at once she was acutely aware of her skimpy attire and remembered the strange way he'd stared at her this morning...the glint in his young eyes which had reminded her of the way Eric had looked when in an amorous mood.
Don't he ridiculous.' she scolded herself. How can you help this innocent child if your own obsession with sex keeps interfering? You're reading dirty thoughts into his head which simply don't exist!
Scott, realizing that he'd given himself away, tried to cover up his lapse. "S-sometimes I take other shots, too," he began. "I mean...I mean...."
It seemed time to change the subject. "And what an interesting little camera that is!" the blonde tutor remarked brightly. "May I take a look at it? I've never seen one like that before."
Moving as though in a dream, Scott Dubois stepped toward the half-naked young woman. When he was about two arms reach away close enough to smell her fragrant perfume but hopefully not so close that she could see the embarrassing protuberance tenting out his cutoff jeans he stopped and held out the little Kodak apparatus.
Caroline sat up on her beach towel, a little smile playing on her lush pink lips as she saw he was too timid to come nearer. What a strange boy he was, so much quieter and better behaved than the rambunctious seventh grade males who'd been in her practice teaching classes in Lansing, Michigan. His eyes looked so mature, so intelligent...
"Come over here and sit down," she patted a corner of the big yellow and red beach towel. "Show me how it works I really don't know anything about cameras, and I'd like to learn something."
The idea of actually sitting beside the voluptuous bikini-bedecked redhead was so disconcerting that Scott stumbled over his own feet and dropped down so clumsily that his leg bumped against Miss Gamble's naked thigh. An electrifying rush of pure lust charged through his virile young loins and sent his boyish penis thudding painfully against his shorts, and in his chagrin he began speaking very rapidly and explaining the finer points of his camera in a way that the non-technically minded French teacher didn't understand at all.
Although Grace Gamble smiled and oohed and ahhed at appropriate intervals, she wasn't even trying to comprehend the boy's blurted out explanation. It was nice to see him showing enthusiasm about something for a change, and she was reminded of the way her erstwhile fianc� had gone on about the old Chevrolet he was constantly fixing up. As a youth, Eric Johansen must have looked quite a lot like this handsome Dubois child, though Grace felt certain he'd been far more extroverted. It was impossible to imagine Eric not surrounded by a large group of friends, telling jokes and laughing his deep infectious laugh.
There I go again, thinking about Eric! she tried to block out her thoughts. I really must stop doing that!
But it was one thing to will herself to stop thinking, and quite another trick to actually do so. Remembering Eric's battered old automobile had brought on a fresh onslaught of emotion as she recalled their last date, and when she glanced out of the corner of her eye at the youngster beside her, his profile was so like the older man's that it was easy to imagine herself in the passenger seat of the Chevrolet.
Eric had parked the car on a low hill overlooking a small pond they often came here to sit in the dark and talk quietly together, to kiss and plan their joint future. On dates in the past he'd caressed her breasts, and although Grace knew it wasn't really proper to allow him that liberty, she'd liked the sensation so much that she'd given up protesting. After all, she knew her fianc� would never try to force her to do anything she didn't want to, for they'd discussed her wish to remain a virgin, and he'd promised to respect her.
That particular night, however, they'd been returning from someone's twenty-first birthday party where Eric had drunk far more than usual. Even Grace who usually counted her drinks carefully to avoid getting intoxicated, had been caught up in the gaiety of the occasion and had downed three Seagrams with Seven-Up, and she was feeling so giddy that she'd foolishly not reprimanded Eric when his eager hands eased under her blouse to cup her breasts.
It had been a warm summer night, she remembered, with the air rich with the scents of honeysuckle and apple blossoms such a different aroma from the pine and rosemary fragrances that she smelled here on the Cote d'Azur and the sky had been sprinkled with bright stars. Everything had been so wonderfully romantic that she'd just not had the heart to break their mood of mutual love, not even when Eric's heated lips had meshed against her own so hard that he'd bruised her mouth. It was only when his strong hands roughly pushed her down on the front seat and started clawing at her cotton skirt and panties that she'd realized her hitherto polite and considerate boyfriend had metamorphosed into a vicious mindless animal.
So absorbed was Grace in her disturbing memories that she never noticed that the youngster beside her, having at last run out of things to say about his camera, was staring at her in puzzled silence. He recognized the faraway expression on her lovely face as the same one she'd worn this morning when she'd abruptly stopped dictating, but this afternoon she was acting even more oddly. Her satin smooth thighs, mere inches away from him, were tensing and relaxing, causing her half-exposed buttocks to wriggle a little against the beach towel, and her breath seemed to be coming faster than before. As he watched her, consumed with curiosity about what was the matter, one softly curling strand of pubic hair worked its way out from underneath the elastic band of her bikini bottom. So she did have a red-haired pussy after all!
Indeed, Grace Gamble was even further away from the reality of the Riviera than she'd been that morning on the terrace, even less aware that the youth beside her was not the man she had once loved. Perhaps the hot midday sun had dulled her senses, but she found herself drifting off into a daydream whose vividness was heightened by her awareness of the male figure beside her. Teasing tendrils of remembered desire danced along her nerve endings and caused her thighs to quiver in involuntary response, and her eyes glazed over as she once again felt Eric's hands wrenching apart her unwilling legs.
Johansen had been breathing hoarsely down onto her face, and the smell of whiskey and Camel cigarettes had overshadowed the innocent fragrance of the spring night. There'd been another scent in the air, too, a vague but unignorable smell of sexual secretions, of glands reacting in the normal human way to the stimulus of another's ripely ready bodies.
How hard it had been to fight the hotly aroused man away from her! And the most difficult part of it, much as she hated to admit it, had been to keep her traitorous body from succumbing to the caresses it so needed. Finally, though, she 'd managed to pull out from under the oppressive weight of her boyfriend's panting body and had shrunk to the far side of the car. Sobbing in disbelieving despair, she'd asked him to take her home.
"You cock-teasing bitch!" the furious, sexually frustrated college man had sneered. "I've been waiting too long, and I just can't stand another goddamn minute of your fucking chastity. Why should I want to marry a cold fish who won't even give her man the satisfaction any normal guy deserves? Hell, the least you could do is jack me off or suck me!"
Now, several months later and thousands of miles away, Grace's raspberry-pink tongue automatically slithered over her full lips at the unheard of thought of actually taking a man's thick pulsating penis in her mouth. She'd seen how enormous Eric's male member was why, even as he'd snarled out that hate-filled insult it had been hanging out of his trousers and throbbing like a tree-trunk invested with life. In the darkness of the car, and it had been very dark now that clouds had hidden the stars, the erect cock had looked far, far too gigantic to fit either into her tiny vagina or her mouth.
Scott Dubois watched his curvaceous teacher's moist pink tongue dart over her full red lips and immediately thought of exactly the same thing she was ruminating about. All the guys at Armstrong Academy were fascinated with the idea of oral sex to the extent that whenever the number "69" appeared in an arithmetic problem or a historical date, the whole room would break into hysterical giggles. At night, in the dorm, the seventh graders had held endless discussions about the taste of a girl's pussy and the way they best liked to have their cock sucked; not a single one of them knew what they were talking about from actual experience, but one guy had a Danish pornographic picture magazine which he'd stolen from his dad, an airline executive who regularly visited Copenhagen, and he'd been more than willing to let everyone else see the fascinating photographs of women's slick red lips ovaling around cocks whose huge dimensions made most of the youngsters green with envy.
How would it feel to have Miss Gamble's mouth sucking my penis? Scott asked himself, and at the very thought, his eager young thickness gave another impatient jerk inside his denim shorts. I wonder if she has a boyfriend back home but of course she must; she's the prettiest lady I ever saw and I wonder if she sucks him off? Wow, I sure wish I were ten years older!
A low sigh broke from Grace's throat, causing her magnificent melon-shaped breasts to heave in a way that greatly excited the young male sitting beside her on the beach towel. Despite her student's close proximity, however, she was totally oblivious to him as she relived the heart-breaking moment when she tugged Eric's heirloom diamond engagement ring from her finger and flung it onto the floor of the car. Still another sigh wracked her body as she recalled how she'd fled from the Chevrolet and half walked, half ran, the four and a half miles back to town. It had been raining, a hard, driving rain which drenched her to the skin by the time she reached her parents' darkened house on the outskirts of Lansing, but she'd have paid no attention to the weather even if one of Michigan's infamous blizzards had been raging, so deep was her grief.
By now, after ten minutes of watching Miss Gamble's almost imperceptibly twitching buttocks and her ripely straining breasts, Scott's mind was filled with such wild fantasies that his painfully pulsing penis was beating an out-of-control tattoo against his restraining cutoff jeans. Fearing that Miss Gamble, despite her distracted stare into space, might notice the large, pulsating bulge between his legs, he attempted to hide the evidence of his arousal by crossing his long legs. Unfortunately, he knocked his bare calf against his lovely teacher's smooth knee in the process, and to his acute embarrassment, she jerked from her trance and turned to face him.
There was a moment's rather tense silence as the shamefaced older woman gingerly pulled her shapely leg a few inches away from her young pupil's teenage body. Though heartily ashamed of herself for falling into another unwanted reverie about her ex-boyfriend with her pupil sitting right next to her, she was still uncomfortably aware of forbidden tingling sensations down between her naked thighs.
"Well, that's certainly a very fascinating camera you have there," she remarked with forced enthusiasm, forcing the sinful sensations from her conscious thoughts. "Where did you get it, Scott?"
If his teacher's voice was overly shrill and a bit tremulous, the youngster was too concerned with his own embarrassing hard-on to notice.
"Mom g-gave it to me last birthday," he stammered, hating himself for not being able to act confident and mature. "Last July."
Grace considered her young student for a moment, her own cares mercifully fleeing out the window as she concentrated on his sensitive overly sensitive, perhaps chiseled features. On the TWA flight from New York to Paris, she'd read a very intriguing book called My World of Astrology, which informed her, in addition to saying that she, a Pisces, was incompatible with Leos except in a financial sense and it was quite true that she'd typed Eric Johansen's term papers for free and had also contributed to gas for his car and restaurant meals, although her parents could only afford to give her a most minimal weekly allowance, that she was astrologically compatible with Cancers. Well, it appeared that her young pupil was a Cancer, and indeed she felt a warm, sympathetic feeling for the good-looking boy.
"Well, that was nice of her, wasn't it," she said a little absently as she tried to recall what the book had said about Cancer male's personalities.
"Yeah." There was an almost bitter, very adult tone in the teenager's voice. "She always gives me neat stuff it's 'cause she feels guilty 'bout being away so much."
The auburn-haired tutor pulled herself to a more erect position by propping herself up on her elbows, unintentionally providing the troubled youth with a titillating view of her considerable cleavage. Wrinkling her smooth forehead in concern, she asked, "What on earth do you mean by that, Scott dear?"
Though Grace was quite unaware of either her exposed breasts or her unconscious use of the endearing term, "dear," young Scott Dubois was overly conscious of both these factors. Gulping, his face red as a beet, he stared at the yellow and red striped beach towel as he replied.
"W-well, y'know, she's always going somewhere with people." He paused, his fingers nervously plucking at the terry cloth towel. "She don't care 'bout what's happening to me, not really. Least not lately."
Grace's compassionate heart ached with sympathy for the unhappy young boy, for from his short statement, she could construct a clear picture of his bleak family life. Though she'd not given the matter much thought until now, it was true that she'd only shared a few meals with Mrs. Dubois, and that she'd never seen the attractive young mother swimming or playing tennis with her son much less sitting and talking with him. She always seemed to be hurrying off for some urgent rendezvous, or else sipping drinks on the terrace with the handsome French poet who lived in the villa next door.
Although the kind-hearted teacher ached with empathic understanding she, too, had spent a lonely childhood, what with her father away fighting in Korea and her mother working long hours as a waitress in a local restaurant she didn't quite know how to approach the unhappy youngster. Being young enough to remember her own emotions at the age of thirteen, she knew it was unwise to say anything like, "Oh you poor child!" Children at this age thought of themselves as adults, and her best bet for winning the boy's confidence and friendship was to treat him as an equal.
For a moment Grace hesitated, very aware that Scott's dark eyes were riveted to her face but not knowing quite what she should say to him. After all, he'd been making a confidential admission of his problems she certainly didn't want to reply in a trite manner.
At last, quite involuntarily, she reached out a hand and patted his knee in a way she intended to be friendly. His skin felt warm and smooth beneath her fingers, and she suddenly realized that this was the first time she'd had any sort of physical contact with a male save from kissing her grizzled father good-bye at the airport since that tragic night when she'd stumbled away from Eric Johansen and his lewdly exposed penis.
As Scott felt the soft fingers of the teacher he adored stroking his bare leg, he felt dizzy with excitement. Jeez! his mind whirled distractedly. What if the guys could see me now! And then another more poignant thought popped into his head: Why doesn't Mom ever treat me nice like this anymore?
The lonely youngster felt as though his world was turning light after having been bleak and dark for two desolate years. Ever since his handsome, dark-haired father had drowned in a freak yachting accident two summers ago and he'd been shipped off to Armstrong Academy by his distraught mother, he'd been living in a barely endurable purgatory of estranged seclusion. Since he was a clever student and caused no trouble, the boarding school faculty had tended to leave him alone; and as for his fellow students, they tolerated the introverted half-French boy at best, many of them resenting the fact that he received the largest allowance of anyone in the seventh grade class.
Vacations had been the most distressing times for Scott Dubois. His pretty, golden-haired mother, though he loved her with all the repressed emotion in his young soul, had at first been too crushed with sorrow for her lost husband to give her young son the reassurance and affection he so desperately needed. His uncanny resemblance to her late husband -aside from their different hair color, they were carbon copies of one another, at least in her grief-stricken eyes made it painful for her to be around him, and she tended to spend most of her waking hours in her bedroom munching aspirin and rereading her late husband's romantic love letters. When they were in France for the summer she wore herself out running to luncheons or on shopping expeditions with her sympathetic girl friends.
This summer was as far as Scott was concerned, the worst yet. Until now, his mother had ignored the numerous males who would gladly have become intimate with the voluptuous young widow, but suddenly she had changed her ways and was spending half her time with Robert Moulin. Although the thirteen year old was glad to see his mother smiling again, he didn't appreciate the fact that her joyfulness was engendered by Moulin, whom he instinctively disliked.
He wanted to be the one who made her laugh and smile in the way he remembered from his childhood.
Now, however, as Miss Gamble's warm hand gently stroked his tingling leg, all thoughts of his mother abruptly fled from his mind. This young French teacher who was more beautiful than any Playboy centerfold or Danish porno magazine model, was actually touching him as though she cared about him! It was simply too fantastic to be believed!
"Well Scott," he heard her soft voice through the ringing in his ears, "we're going to be good friends, real friends. Because I care a lot about you...."
The young boy couldn't believe his ears. This wonderful woman with a figure that couldn't be rivaled wanted to be his friend? And what, exactly, did she mean by "friend"? In his way of thinking, a friend was a pal, a guy you played baseball with or went swimming or talked about inaccessible chicks. Did she mean she wanted to be his girl friend? Jesus! No, that was impossible...yet she was massaging his leg in the most tender way....
"Y-you really mean that. M-Miss Gamble," he stammered. "I I mean, n-none of the teachers at Armstrong Academy w-wanted to really talk to me or nothin'. "
Grace Gamble's hand pressed down harder on the vulnerable young boy's warm thigh, and she flashed him a compassionate smile.
"Of course, Scott," she insisted. "I truly hope we can be true friends."
Suddenly, before either of them realized what was happening, the emotionally overwrought youngster had fallen into his teacher's arms. His entire body vibrated with excitement as his chest crushed against the heated resilience of her almost naked breasts, and even though his passion-distended cock was pulsing against her pliant naked belly, he felt too happy to pull himself away.
"There...there...." Grace mumbled distractedly. To her consternation, the feel of the ardent teenager's loins was arousing unwanted flickering of desire in her pleasure-denied body, and she didn't quite know how to handle the intense emotions surging through her bloodstream. "It's all right...everything's all right... "
Scott's eager young body quivered against her, but although he remained speechless, the teacher sensed intuitively that he, too, was feeling the same forbidden electrical arousal. She knew that she ought to pull away from him immediately, but she didn't want to risk doing some psychological damage to the sensitive youth. Besides, it felt so satisfying, somehow....
"I I can't believe you really like me," Scott murmured, his intense passion overcoming his normal reticence. "You're not...you're not putting me on?"
"Of course not!" Grace managed to exclaim.
The heated intimacy of the youth's tight-pressing loins was, in fact, affecting the redheaded teacher in a way she knew was not entirely innocent. Yet, by ignoring this subconscious knowledge, she was able to rationalize to herself that she was helping the unfortunate lad. Obviously, he needed the reassurance of being accepted and appreciated...and surely, her job as his teacher was to provide the necessary emotional climate....
"You're so pretty," Scott choked out as he buried his face in the soft warmth of his teacher's lap. "I-I think you're the nicest lady I ever knew, too. I never thought grownups could really treat kids decent like you do."
Grace scarcely heard the boy's heartfelt compliments, for she'd suddenly grown aware that his youthful shaft of male flesh was pulsing against her naked thigh. Scott might be an innocent child, but there was no denying that his boyish penis was stiffened into a virilely throbbing erection...just as Eric Johansen's much larger male member had been that awful night when he'd attacked her!
Isn't that abnormal for a youngster of his age? the troubled teacher asked herself. She tried in vain to recall what her college Education classes had taught about the psychology and physiology of thirteen year old boys, but nothing came to mind save the rather disturbing fact that she herself at this age had bought her first brassiere and had suffered a severe crush on a Mr. Davidson who taught Social Studies. Perhaps I've been thinking of Scott as being far younger than he is. she concluded nervously and tried to pull her half-naked figure away from his loving embrace.
"Now Scott... " she began in a quavering voice that betrayed her confusion and disquiet. "This...this won't do...."
As the affection-starved teenager felt the beautiful older woman drawing away from his clasping arms, he clutched her voluptuous body more tightly than ever. Holding her like this -feeling that she genuinely liked him and wanted his body close to hers was the most marvelous thing he'd ever experienced, and the exquisite relief her tight-pressing loins afforded his painfully swollen potency was so elating that it gave him a confidence he'd not suspected he possessed. He wasn't going to give up that easily!
Hell, he told himself. What would the guys at school say if they knew I'd gotten this far with the sexiest woman I've ever seen and just let it all stop before anything really happened? They'd say I was a chicken, and they d be right.'
The Dubois boy was not in the least bit stupid, nor was he half French for nothing. Instinct told him, though he was not consciously aware of acting diabolically, that Miss Gamble was the type of female who could best be approached by appealing to her emotions rather than to her physical desires, and he therefore pulled her back toward him and ground his aching adolescent penis against her soft upper leg more urgently than ever.
"What's wrong. Miss Gamble?" he whispered into her ear. Her silken-textured auburn hair tickled his nose and grazed his cheeks, exciting him more than ever. It smelted faintly of rosemary and thyme, just like the pine-covered hillside on which they lay.
Grace's only reply was a strangled incoherent stammer, but to Scott's delight, she allowed her lush body to fall limply against him.
"Don't you like me?" he persisted, his pulse accelerating as he rubbed his T-shirt covered chest against the pliant mounds of his tutor's breasts. "Are you just telling me lies like all the rest of them...like my Mom when she says she loves me, but I know she doesn't really mean it, she just thinks she ought to say it. Are you just like that, Miss Gamble?"
By now, Grace's head was spinning wildly, and her composure was completely shattered by her growing awareness that her body was responding to the teenager's impulsive embrace. The healthy young teacher's normal physical needs, repressed for so many years, were suddenly breaking through the barriers of her overzealous morality to react as though with a will of their own, and there was nothing she could do to stem the tide of her passion. To make matters worse, her unexpected erotic arousal was intermingled with a genuine concern and affection for the handsome young student.
Just another minute, she rationalized as Scott's eager fingers dug into her back and his hard chest flattened her sensitive nipples. I don V want to have him think I'm a hypocrite.
Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend that she was once again in the arms of her fianc�. Much to her shock, she realized that Eric Johansen's Scandinavian ski instructor-type features faded before her mind's eye only to be replaced by the similar but smoother and more artistic face of the youngster in her arms. Scott really needed her in a way that the self-assured college man never had, and this loving dependence roused great walls of tenderness in the warm-hearted French instructor.
"Of c-course I really like you, Scott dear," she said gently. "But but this uh this sort of thing just isn't right, you know. I mean-"
Before she could continue her muddled explanation of morality, the youth interrupted her. "Why isn't it right?" he demanded. "It feels so wonderful holding you, Miss Gamble! How can anything that makes me so happy be wrong?"
How indeed, Grace asked herself. It was certainly difficult to convince the thirteen year old that the mutual pleasure they achieved from each other's bodies was wicked when she wasn't at all sure she herself really believed that. For practically the first time in her twenty-two years, the inexperienced blonde found herself questioning the basic tenets of the conventional moral codes she'd inherited from her kindly but uneducated parents and from years of Methodist Sunday school.
Why does everyone say that lovemaking is immoral? a rebellious voice echoed from the back of her brain. It's something everyone in the world wants...surely it's part of God's plan for humanity. After all. what did I get for having the moral fortitude to refuse sex? A broken engagement and a broken heart, that's what!
Despite her own confused doubts, however, Grace Gamble did not quite forget her duties as a teacher.
"But Scott darling," she argued, "I'm--I'm ten years older than you are! You should have a nice little girl friend your own age."
"Why?" the boy asked again as he pressed his face against the older woman's sun-warmed shoulder. "I don't like them they're just silly kids, always giggling all the time. Anyhow, they're not beautiful like you are, Miss Gamble, and they don't really care about me. They just want a boyfriend 'cause they think it's cool to wear a ring and always have someone to dance with at Dance Class."
Her feeble protestation ended in an involuntary gasp as the boy's warm lips pressed up against her own in a long, tender kiss. Sparks of excitement sped through her body at the erotic contact, and it was several moments before she could summon the willpower to break away from Scott Dubois. She couldn't let this situation continue one minute longer! It was far too dangerous!
"Wow!" Scott exclaimed in ecstasy while his teacher was still gasping for breath. "Wow, Miss Gamble, that was far-out! You know, you're the very first girl I ever kissed, except in dumb party games."
Grace found her voice at last. "No, Scott, no!" she implored. "You mustn't ever do that again!"
The youngster's beaming face clouded over with unhappiness as he stared into his tutor's large blue eyes, and when he spoke it was in a voice that was flat and dull with despairing self-doubt.
"Didn't you like the way I kissed?" he mumbled. "Did I do it wrong? Wow, Miss Gamble, let me try again! I'll do it better this time, really I will! You can teach me how to do it. Please!"
Before the bewildered blonde could protest, she felt her mouth once again meshed against the youth's softly trembling lips. This time, in a desperate attempt to prove himself as adept as the many other lovers he presumed his beautiful teacher had, he experimented with what the boys at school called a "French kiss." Gingerly at first, then more eagerly, he teased at Miss Gamble's pearl-like teeth and her velvet textured tongue, and he felt a rush of triumph as he heard her low moan.
You sinful child molester.' her conscience screamed even as her own tongue darted out to meet Scott's. But then another voice drowned out the first: What's wrong with an innocent little kiss? You were both lonely and unhappy, and now you're feeling pure pleasure. What's wrong with that?
Grace, though she knew perfectly well that the kiss was anything but "innocent," found it strangely easy to block out her disquiet. For the first time in months her lithe body felt charged with life, electrified with tingling pleasure. Recklessly ignoring the murmurs from her conscience, she began rubbing her burning nipples against the youngster's close-pressing chest and cautiously undulating her churning belly against his stone-hard male thickness. She knew that she was playing with fire, but when she heard her amorous pupil's groan of delight, she no longer cared.
"You don't need me to teach you how to kiss, Scott," she murmured into the warm cavern of his mouth. "You're doing splendidly already!"
Indeed, she was obtaining more pleasure from this obscene French kiss than she ever had from Eric Johansen's embraces. Somehow, Scott's lips matched her own as though they had been formed from the same mold, and his gentler approach did away with the vague trepidation she'd always felt with her fianc� even when he was trying his best not to be rough. Maybe the slender boyish cock she felt pressing so insistently against her naked belly would perhaps suit her virginal vagina better than that terrifying angry-red flesh cudgel her ex-fianc� had threatened her with.
Horrified by the depravity of her own thoughts, Grace made one last token effort to pull away from her young pupil and regain her self-respect. In her heart of hearts she knew it was hopeless to fight against the urgent dictates of her hungry flesh, but nevertheless she drew together every last ounce of moral strength and rolled away from the youth.
"Th-that's enough," she gasped without meeting his eyes. "We'd b-better be getting back to the house...."
Miss Gamble's obvious appreciation of his amateurish sexual overtures had instilled the youngster with a heady confidence, and he wasn't going to accept an anticlimactic ending to his first erotic escapade. He felt quite certain that his teacher didn't want to go back to the villa any more than he did; she was just saying what she thought she ought to say, as adults had an irritating habit of doing. For a brief second he stared at her voluptuous body, his boyish penis pulsating so painfully that he feared it would explode right then and there.
What if she let me put it in her pussy? he asked himself. Beads of sweat broke out on his smooth forehead at the intoxicating thought, and his potent thickness gave an even more alarming lurch against his restraining jeans. What if she taught me about making love?
Suddenly, without consciously deciding to speak the brash words, he heard his own lust-hoarsened voice echoing in the quiet clearing.
"Please, M-Miss Gamble! Please let me m-make love to you! Please teach me how to do it!"
A shattering bolt of liquid lightning blazed through the near-naked redhead's body as she turned to stare at Scott's lewdly bulging shorts, and then a curious light flickered in her clear blue eyes. Of course such a thing was unthinkable, impossible...yet deep down in the pit of her belly and in her suddenly quivering vagina, she sensed the beginnings of an undeniable passion. She actually wanted to have intercourse with this thirteen year old child! What in God's name could be the matter with her.
"Please!" the boy pleaded again, his voice cracking with the urgency of his arousal. "My prick's aching so bad I can't stand it! Really, I'm not a kid any longer and I want you to be the one who shows me how to really be a man...."
Scott's voice trailed off into a gasp of excitement as Grace Gamble, her lovely face transformed by the strange new emotions surging through her blood into a mask of sensuality, reached out a trembling hand and stroked the thick protuberance bulging beneath his cutoffs. Stars swam before his eyes as her neatly manicured fingers slowly, tantalizingly, unzipped the fly opening, and for an instant, he thought he was going to pass out from sheer bliss.
'Take off your clothes, Scottie," Grace heard herself whisper. Shivers of shame careened from the top of her head to the tips of her naked white feet, but by now it was too late to quell the powerful forces which were driving her to the obscene deed. "And I'll take off mine, too. I'm not going to--to have intercourse with you, because...because...." She paused, not wanting, for some reason, to admit that she was a virgin, too. "...because it's against the law. But to prove that I'm really your friend, I'm going to do something you'll like just as much."
With shaking fingers, she began unfastening the complicated straps of her skimpy orange brassiere. Until the words had left her mouth, she'd not realized that she intended to suck Scott Dubois's erect young virility, but in fact the idea had been slowly simmering in her brain ever since she'd recalled her ex-fianc�'s parting comments. In face, she hadn't the faintest idea of how one went about performing oral sex, but some unexplainable impulse drove her on.
"But you must promise never, never to ask me to do this again," she added nervously. "And please, Scott, don't tell anyone that it happened." Her brassiere dropped from her shoulders, and she watched it flutter to the ground and settle in a bush of purple-flowered rosemary. "Really. I mean it," she added as a frightening thought of being led away to prison by a gaudily-uniformed French gendarme and then being forced to make her sordid confession before a grim-faced jury of righteous French bourgeois flashed before her mind's eye. "You must swear you'll keep this afternoon a secret."
"Cross my heart and hope to die," the aroused youth panted as he kicked off his shorts and tugged his T-shirt over his head.
As she hesitantly locked her thumbs around the elastic waistband of her bikini bottoms, the formerly innocent schoolteacher shuddered in recognition of her own wanton wickedness. Despite her overwhelming guilt, however, she continued to ease the garment down over her perspiration-slickened thighs and then tossed it onto the grass. Her eyes widened in stupefied astonishment as she looked from her own naked body to the exposed loins of the muscular youngster standing mere inches away, and then she let out a sigh of surrender as she bent toward him.
"Kneel down next to me," she breathed, her breath quickening and her mouth suddenly watering at the sight of his slender but iron-hard penis.
It's not real, the distraught young instructor's mind reeled. It's all a dream....
Even though Grace Gamble's conscious thoughts were unable to accept that she was performing salacious oral intercourse upon an innocent preadolescent's virgin penis, her body reacted with instinctive sensuality, and she found her face positioned just above her student's eagerly pulsating cock. "Playing the pipes" that's what the French call this nasty act, she thought distractedly, and then her lips sank down upon the youth's warmly throbbing hardness and all clear thoughts evaporated from her mind.
The naive young woman's first reaction as her tongue made contact with the boy's eagerly thrusting flesh pole was surprise at its agreeably smooth heated texture. Then as she delicately licked at the mushrooming cock-head and tasted the tiny droplet of pungent pre-ejaculation secretion, all traces of her initial reluctance vanished. Without hesitation she suctioned the blood swollen head into her warm wet mouth and began swiping her tongue around it as expertly as though she'd performed the obscene ministrations a thousand times in the past.
Beneath his teacher, the teenager groaned in pure delight. It never even crossed his lust-obsessed mind that the voluptuous naked redhead was just as ignorant about sex as he himself was. for his entire attention was focused on the wondrous sensations shooting from his throbbing penis to every nerve ending in his virile young body. Blackness interspersed with rainbow hued showers of fireworks blinded him, and uninhibited moans of pleasure poured from his lips as Miss Gamble's butter-smooth mouth sank further and further down on his heatedly pulsating cock-shaft.
Though Grace had, until today, regarded oral sex as an abnormal and unsanitary practice, she found that she obtained a perverse satisfaction from drawing Scott's eager hardness deeper and deeper into her throat. Each time he groaned out his ecstatic pleasure, she was infused with a new wave of enthusiasm, and her joy in initiating the innocent youngster into the marvels of sexuality mingled with an almost masochistic satisfaction until her senses were whirling with mindless passion.
Opening her eyes, she encountered the salacious spectacle of her lewdly ovaling pink lips and jouncing naked breasts. Instead of feeling ashamed of her wanton performance, however, she felt a heightening of her already flaming lust.
I'm wicked, sinful, her passion-drugged brain cried. And I love it...oh God, I love it.
Slender and immature though the thirteen year old's penis was, it seemed to Grace that every inch of her hungrily gulping mouth was filled with bittersweet-tasting male cock-flesh. Trying hard to keep from gagging, she forced herself to suck the youthful penis all the way down to the base until his velvet-soft testicles were bouncing against her bobbing chin, and her nose was pressing against his sparsely-haired groin. Then instinctively moving in the way which would most excite him, she slowly withdrew her clasping lips, teased at his secreting glans slit with her tongue, and plunged her head back down to once again suck in the entire length of his slender iron-hard member.
"Oooouugg!" Scott gasped. "Ooooohhh M-Miss Gamble it feels so goodddd!"
This can't be happening! the sensuous young teacher's lust-boggled mind shrieked. It must be a dream...a nightmare! But as her tongue shot out to tease at her pupil's blood-bloated balls and her nostrils were suffused with the salty, stimulating aroma of rampantly aroused male secretions, she knew perfectly well that she was not only awake, but in fact more alive than she'd ever been in her twenty-two celibate years.
"Aaagghh!" Scott wailed, his voice high-pitched and almost inhuman as he felt the most monumental orgasm approaching with the reckless speed of an out-of-control jet plane.
I'm gonna cum in Teacher's mouth, just like in those Danish pictures, was his last clear thought before his lust-boiling balls finally exploded in jet after steaming jet of heated white sperm.
The thick vein on the underside of the youth's virginal penis pulsed under his French tutor's teasing tongue, and then the cock-shaft plunging between her wide-stretched lips grew rigid as a sapling tree trunk. Before the inexperienced Grace Gamble knew what was happening, acrid-tasting semen was heatedly splashing down into her throat and flooding her mouth so that she had to swallow frantically to keep from choking. On and on the thick life-giving seed spurted in heated loads into her ballooned-out cheeks the flow was so copious that thin strands trickled in heated rivulets over her straining lips and onto her saliva-slickened face.
"OOoooohh...uuuhh...ooouuuhhh the tortured young teacher cried in a voice that was distorted by the ejaculating flesh pole plunging into her throat. "Aaagghhh!"
Despite the fact that the youth's deceptively slender-looking adolescent cock was filling her mouth to the utmost limits of human endurance, the lust-crazed redhead was wallowing in wanton ecstasy. Part of her pleasure derived from the fact that she was treating her lonely and sensitive student to what was obviously the most thrilling experience of his young life, but this selfless reaction was intermixed with a depraved delight in her own wild degradation. Even after Scott's last drop of fresh boyish cum had trickled down her throat and his spent penis was deflating to a limp replica of its former potent proportions, she refused to stop licking and suctioning it.
"Oooohhh, Miss Gamble!" the satiated youngster gasped blissfully. "Wow! Oh wow!'
Finding no further words to express his heartfelt gratitude, he closed his eyes and drifted into a half-sleep of post-orgasmic peace. Grace watched him lovingly as she slowly withdrew her cum-stained lips from his now useless member. How different he looked from the insecure diffident boy she'd faced across the table only this morning having helped initiate him into manhood was more than worth the guilt which was already beginning to erode her own lewd pleasure.
By the time the curvaceous, auburn-haired beauty had slipped back into her bikini and cleansed the incriminating threads of drying cum from her face with a bottle of facial cleanser which she'd luckily slipped into her beach bag, her shame had drowned out all vestiges of self delusion. Shuddering in self-digest, she averted her eyes from the naked youth sprawled out beside her to stare bleakly at the panoramic French Provencal landscape around her the rocky hillsides with their ancient terraces, the olive and pine trees, the aromatic and colorful wild herbs, the sapphire sea below and wondered how the world could be so beautiful when she herself was so stained and ugly.
How could I have done such a sinful thing? she wailed in silent despair. I've betrayed my profession and probably damaged an innocent younger psychologically. And I've destroyed my own self respect, too!
She rose to her feet, shivering despite the hot afternoon sunshine, not really wanting to return to the villa but unable to bear remaining at the scene of her heinous, perverted crime. Sighing sadly, she gave the naked boy a last glance before turning toward the downhill path. His athletic little body, glistening like polished bronze beneath the blazing rays of the Mediterranean sun, reminded her of a classical Greek statue portraying the ideal of vigorous, virile youth, and to her dismay she felt a resurgence of desire.
Scott's eyelids fluttered open as he heard Miss Gamble moving above him. "Don't leave," he murmured sleepily. "Please don't go yet. I want to kiss you again...touch your breasts...please...."
"No, no!" In the throes of her guilt, the anguished redhead's voice rang out more loudly and fiercely than she intended. "I told you that this must never, never happen again, Scott! And I meant it!"
Suddenly hot tears flooded into her eyes as she saw the boy's face cloud over in bewildered hurt. Choking back a sob, she turned from him and fled off down the path as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. Although nettles and branches scraped against her bare arms and legs and raised ugly red welts on her sensitive flesh, Grace felt no pain. For every ounce of her energy was concentrated on denying the fact that her traitorous breasts and vagina were still throbbing with frustrated lust.
CHAPTER FOUR
A week after young Mrs. Dubois and her son, Scott, had, unbeknownst to one another, been introduced to the delights of oral sexuality, they awoke in the early hours before dawn as a loud clap of thunder and flash of lightning jolted them from their dreams. Moments later, there was a sound like the hooves of a herd of wild horses galloping across the roof of the villa, and both jumped from their beds to fasten their shutters and keep the driving rain out of their bedrooms.
"Darn it all, anyway!" Scott muttered angrily as he slammed his window shut. "Now we can't go on a picnic after all!"
Miss Gamble, after days of treating him with an icy reserve and refusing to speak to him except during French lessons, had surprised him yesterday by suggesting a picnic lunch to a nearby mountain village where she said there were some interesting prehistoric caves. Something in her voice told him that, if he played his cards right, he would be able to kiss her again and maybe, just maybe, she might suck his cock or let him put it into her auburn curl-fringed pussy. But now it was raining, and would doubtless pour down all day long, and they'd be stuck in the villa with nothing to do but conjugate French verbs. What a drag!
Caroline Dubois was as irritated by the unusual summer storm as her young son, and for almost identical reasons. Snuggling down beneath her pink satin sheets, she tried to tell herself that surely one day without making passionate love to Robert Moulin would not kill her. After all, hadn't she lived like a nun for two long years without suffering any ill effects? Had she been transformed into an insatiable nymphomaniac, or what?
Just as her self-assured younger neighbor had prophesied, she'd been unable to stay away from him for more than two days. A long poem had arrived in the mail, impressively hand-lettered on thick cream-colored vellum, and although Caroline found the French handwriting difficult to decipher and the contents obscure at best, she was very touched by the gesture. As Robert had well known, her knowledge of the language was insufficient to catch the tongue-in-cheek tone of the avant-garde ode.
When he'd rung up about an hour after the arrival of the postman, she'd not had the heart to turn down his luncheon invitation. Inevitably, they'd ended up in his huge round double bed, and every noontime since had been spent in rediscovering the joys of sex in a more intensely erotic manner than she'd dreamed possible.
If only the young mother hadn't been bothered by vague worries about her teenage son. she'd have been totally happy during the past week. But Scottie was really acting strange lately, and try as she would she could not get his sullen, miserable face out of her mind, for she suspected that much of his resentment was directed against Robert Moulin. When she'd discovered that he and his tutor had planned a picnic in the mountains, she'd taken the opportunity of inviting Robert here for lunch for a change. Now, since her son couldn't seem to act decently polite in the vicinity of her handsome lover, she dreaded the noon meal.
"Worrying never did anyone any good," she muttered into her pillow as she forced her eyes shut. "If I don't get some sleep I'll look like a wreck tomorrow, and that's all I need, what with Scottie acting like a neurotic brat and that Miss Gamble flirting with Robert."
Actually, the blonde widow knew perfectly well that her son's French teacher had displayed ins a rather surprising lack of interest in the attractive poet next door. Nevertheless, it was impossible for her not to feel a certain resentment against the younger woman, who had an irritating way of appearing at the breakfast table clad in a rumpled Sears Roebuck bathrobe, yet looking as fresh and lovely as though she'd stepped out of the pages of VOGUE. Caroline, for her part, spent half an hour fixing her makeup and selecting flattering clothing before venturing downstairs.
Eventually, in spite of her sexual frustration and nervous speculations about her charming young lover, Mrs. Dubois was lulled to sleep by the monotonous drumbeat of rain on the roof of her villa. On the floor below, the twenty-two year old governess whose beauty so bothered her employer remained wide awake. The rain soothed her, for it reminded her of midwestern thunderstorms, and since she'd never lived in this climate and still went by the midwestern American adage, "Rain before seven, clear before eleven", she was happily speculating on the picnic she and young Scott had planned.
Everyone slept late, including the staff, since the morning was dark and unseasonably chilly. Caroline's first thought upon awaking was that she wished she'd sent young Scott to camp this summer instead of bringing him to France to instill in him a love of his father's country. Caroline's first thought was that this was the date when her marriage to Eric Johansen had been scheduled. As for thirteen year old Scott, he merely groaned as he looked at the rain-streaked window and wished he could sleep all day long.
As things turned out, the entire household might have been better off it none of them had left their beds that morning.
* * *
Lunch was just as much of an ordeal as Mrs. Dubois had expected it to be. Robert turned up for the noon meal in a black mood because the villa his Parisian girlfriend had lent him leaked in every room except the spare bedroom, and the staff whose quarters also leaked were in equally bad spirits and served a flat souffl� and wilted, over-oily salad with sulky impudence. In any case, no one was either in a mood for eating or for conversation, and an uncomfortable silence reigned over the table as they toyed with their unappetizing meal.
Before coffee, Grace excused herself and retreated to the privacy of her small bedroom to write letters to her parents and college girlfriends. To her dismay, however, she found herself plagued by "writer's block"; it was even impossible to describe the marvelous Riviera weather when rain was pouring down in torrents and strong winds were tearing the immature oranges and lemons from the trees outside her window. Finally, as she thought of her stodgy but generous and warmhearted mother who could never have been plagued by the compulsive sexual impulses which bothered her daughter, she rested her throbbing head on her arms and began to cry softly. How happy her parents would have been today if they'd been seated in the front pew of the local Methodist church watching as their only child promised to "love, honor, and cherish" her chosen husband...how shocked they would be if they knew what sort of dissolute life she'd fallen into here in Southern France!
By the time a timid knock sounded on her door, she'd dried her tears but was still feeling depressed and vulnerable. She expected Gisele, the young girl who normally tidied the rooms but who had not done so this morning, to enter, and her face turned white as new fallen snow when she saw Scott's dubious handsome face staring at her from the half-open door.
"Sc-Scott!" she stammered. "What--what are you doing here?"
The young teen flushed in embarrassment at this ungracious welcome. He'd been ousted from the living room after making one too many rude comments to his mother's friend, Monsieur Moulin, and he'd been feeling so low that he'd headed for his teacher's room in the hope that she'd reassure him that he was a significant member of humanity and not merely an irritant to the mother whom he simultaneously adored and despised. For an instant he was tempted to slam her door and retreat to his own room, but he was so genuinely depressed that he found himself stepping over the threshold and moving to where she sat slumped over at her small desk.
"I...I wanted to talk to you, Miss Gamble," he mumbled, staring at his scuffed tennis shoes.
After one look at the youngster's miserable face Grace regretted her sharp tone. After all, it wasn't Scott's fault that her mind was corrupted with sinful thoughts.
"Come in, Scott," she said more warmly. "Sit down. Would you like some coffee?"
"Yes, Ma'am," the unhappy boy replied.
Grace moved toward the shelf on which she kept her heating coil, saucepan, and jar of
Nescafe. She was grateful to busy herself with cups and saucers and teaspoons, for much as she wanted to help her young pupil, she was terribly troubled by her memories of last week's indiscretion and by her own undeniable erotic impulses. Keep calm, Grace! she cautioned herself as she measured out the instant coffee, but despite her high resolves she felt a wicked dampness staining her panties and an unwanted tingling in her breasts.
"Wh-what's troubling you, dear?" she asked as she handed him a steaming mug of coffee. "What did you want to uh talk to me about?"
The youngster swallowed, not quite knowing what to say now that he was actually sitting in Miss Gamble's room. Instead of replying, he glanced around and noted how his teacher had managed to transform the impersonal guest room into an extension of her own very feminine personality. Bouquets of wild flowers filled every available nook and cranny, and colorful necklaces, beads, and scarves adorned the stark whitewashed walls. Although it was the same house in which he'd spent his summers for as long as he could remember, he felt as though he were in a stranger's territory.
"What did you want to speak with me about?" Grace asked again.
"Well, I I...." the youth stammered, staring into the older woman's eyes to ascertain if the affection she'd displayed the other day was still evident. Buoyed up with confidence by the warm concern in her large blue eyes, he continued. "I was just feeling awful lonely," he confessed. "Mom treats me like she don't want me around now that this Robert guy's with her all the time. And...and...well, heck, I sure do get to feeling lonesome."
The auburn-haired French teacher gulped nervously at her Nescafe. Although she didn't want herself to be overwhelmed by emotion for the youngster as she'd been last week in the forest, she wanted to help him in any way she was able. It made her heart ache to see his handsome face twisted into this expression of sorrow, and, as his teacher, it was her duty to aide him in adjusting to the world even if she herself didn't feel at all able to cope with the intricacies of existence.
"You mustn't be too hard on your mother," she said at last. "She must have been very lonely since your father died, and it's natural that she's found a male friend."
"Hah!" Scott sneered. "Moulin's just a phony! He just wants Mom's money Dad left her lots of bread, y'know."
Grace set her coffee down on the desk in front of her with a loud clink that made her start nervously. It wasn't appropriate, she knew, that this child speak to her about such things...even though she quite agreed with his distrust of the dark and handsome young poet. And she really did wish he'd stop looking at her in a way that made her feel as naked as she'd been last week in the woodland clearing....
"But I wouldn't worry 'bout Mom," the adolescent's voice broke into her thoughtful reverie, "if only I felt like you really cared what happened to me. Wow, Miss Gamble, I've really felt shitty all week 'cause you won't even talk to me. Were you lying when you said you wanted to be my friend?"
A deep red blush rose over the uneasy teacher's lovely face, and her voice trembled as she answered her impressionable pupil.
"Of course I want to be friends," she assured him. And then, to her surprise, she heard herself adding, "I've been as lonely as you, dear. We can help one another... "
Without a moment's hesitation, Scott leaped across the small room and landed in his teacher's arms. He'd not intended to act quite so impulsively, but her tender voice sent his passion soaring and his youthful penis shooting to instant erection.
"Ohhhhh," Miss Gamble!" he exclaimed. "Please be my real girlfriend! If you'd make love to me or suck my cock like you did before, I wouldn't care 'bout anything else on earth! Really!"
And Grace, despite her fervent resolutions of the past few days, found herself drawing the boy close to her as her body began to vibrate with desire.
* * *
If either Grace Gamble or her young pupil had realized that their intimate discussion was being overheard by an intensely interested and ill-intentioned third party, it's certain that they would never have continued in their reckless adventure. As it was, however, neither suspected that their affectionate and incriminating conversation could possibly be detected. Grace's room, which had been added to the original house when it had been remodeled, was far removed from the central living area of the villa, the upstairs bedrooms, and the servants quarters, and thus afforded them with deceptive sense of privacy. Arms entwined, bodies pressed together and trembling in anticipation of lovemaking, they settled down on Grace's bed and opened their hearts to one another.
By some cruel quirk of fate, Robert Moulin happened to be passing by Grace Gamble's bedroom door at the exact moment when she had finally surrendered to her illicit passion and was kissing her young student full on the lips. If her low moan of lust had come either a minute earlier or a minute later, the distracted young poet would have continued along the corridor to the side door of the villa, never suspecting what was going on behind the slightly ajar bedroom door.
Robert's handsome face was darkened by a frown of annoyance as he made his way quickly down the hall, trying to forget how pitifully Caroline Dubois had wept as he stormed from her bedroom a few minutes before. If there were two qualities that he couldn't stand in a female, they were jealousy and bitchiness, and the young mother had displayed both these unpleasant characteristics. His nerves were already frayed by the intolerable weather and Scott's flagrant insolence at lunch, and he was in no mood to be understanding when his affluent lover started carrying on like a fishwife when he merely mentioned how attractive Scott's tutor was.
"Merde, I said only that the boy doesn't deserve such a beautiful teacher, and she carries on like a crazy woman." the angry young man muttered under his breath. "Caroline may be rich and pretty, but the Riviera is full of rich, pretty women ones who don't act like nagging American wives, ones who understand the delicate art of love affairs."
The well-built author had no way of knowing nor was he especially interested that Caroline Dubois was obsessively self-conscious about her slender, small-breasted figure, pale complexion, and unfashionably baby-fine hair. Every time a man praised another woman, she took it as a personal insult against herself. The older she grew, the more deep-rooted her sense of inadequacy became.
So, just as Robert was debating whether to go home and vent his frustration on the typewriter or to drive to Nice and look up some of his wealthier friends whom he'd been neglecting due to Mrs. Dubois, he heard a peculiar sound. At first he was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he ignored the shrill noise, vaguely thinking it must be a cat, but then something made him stop still in his tracks. Caroline, he knew, had a horror of cats and would not allow them near her house...anyway, the cry had been more human than bestial, and it had come from the door to the young governess' bedroom!
Tiptoeing cautiously toward the slightly open door, the curious French poet peered into the room beyond. At first he could see nothing, for the sound was coming from the far corner of the room which was hidden from his view by the door. Slowly, with infinite patience and care, he eased the door open a little wider with his toe and then stuck his head in so far that the tip of his nose would have been visible to the room's occupants if they'd not been so engrossed in each other's bodies.
Merde! Robert cursed silently. I still can't see in!
From the sound of the uncontrolled whimpers and moans, the fascinated eavesdropper guessed that Grace Gamble was masturbating. The thought of seeing the prissy, conceited young teacher with her finger madly pumping up into her own vagina was so intriguing that the aroused Frenchman threw caution to the winds and stuck his head almost all the way inside.
The sight that met Moulin's astonished eyes was so far beyond his wildest expectations that he nearly gasped aloud. The prim young French teacher was lying on her bed, naked save for a tiny strip of white lace panties, her flame-colored locks spread out around her head like a glowing halo of fire. And, even more bizarre, her entirely naked young pupil was lying beside her stroking and kissing the full mounds of her girlishly firm breasts.
Mon Dieu! Robert exclaimed in silent disbelief, licking his lips in excitement. I cannot believe it is possible! She seems so prim and proper...why, she wouldn't even look across the table at me during lunch today! Already his quick mind was churning with lecherous schemes for ways in which he could use this information to his own advantage.
"It's so wonderful to be with you again," he heard the youngster murmur into the snow-white mounds of Grace Gamble's magnificent breasts. "When you wouldn't talk to me all week, I thought I was gonna go nuts. Wow, I really wanted to hate you 'cause you'd lied 'bout wanting to be my friend, but then every time I'd look at you I wanted to kiss you."
"Oh, Scott!" the blushing young woman cried impulsively. "I hated acting cold to you, but...but...well, what we're doing is wrong, terribly wrong."
"Says who?"
"Ooohhhh!" Grace moaned, for the youngster's hungry lips were sucking at her ruby-red nipples and sending hot flashes of liquid lightning speeding through her frustrated figure. "Oohhh, Sc-Scott! Everyone says it's wrong. It's even against the law!"
"Everyone!" Scott scoffed, turning his attention to his tutor's other breast. "Who cares about other people? We're happy, and that's all that counts, isn't it? Do you really care about what a lot of assholes think?"
Grace restrained herself from commenting on the boy's crude language, for she realized that to do so would destroy their affectionate intimacy. Come to think of it, perhaps he was right; why were some words and acts "good" and others "bad". . .what did "right" and "wrong" really mean except in the context of an individual's personal life? Up until this week, Grace had had no real occasion to question any of the moral principles instilled in her by a rather conservative middle-class upbringing, but lately her undeniable attraction to her student, plus her totally alien surroundings, had aroused a host of doubts in her intelligent but undeveloped brain. Nevertheless, she was still sufficiently conditioned in her role as a teacher to feel able to share her ideas along these lines with her rebellious pupil.
"But the world isn't always the way it should be, Scott," she began, trying to speak calmly despite the arrows of lust shooting out from her tongue-teased nipples to every nerve ending in her healthy young body. "I mean, we have to consider other people and the rules they've made for society. What would your mother say if she knew we were...together?"
Outside the door, Robert Moulin stifled a snort of amusement. He could all too well imagine what Caroline, despite her own uncontrollable sexual appetite, would do if she discovered her darling son stark naked in bed with his governess! What a dramatic scene that would be! He must remember to put it in the film script he'd been meaning to get around to writing for the past two years.
At the youth's next statement, the unobserved listener's lascivious grin broadened. This unpromising day was turning out all right after all, despite his leaky roof and over-emotional lover's querulous complaints!
"Awh, who gives a damn about Mom," Scott sounded irritated by the mere mention of his parent. "She couldn't care less about me since she met that stupid Moulin guy, so why should I care what she thinks? It's none of her business what I do with my life I'm not a dumb little kid any more!"
Grace shook her long mane of reddish-gold curls slowly, as though she was trying to think of a reply but was too distracted by the naked boy's manipulation of her gently heaving breasts to concentrate.. Moulin noticed that glistening beads of perspiration had sprung out on her smooth forehead, and that her eyes were glowing in a way he'd never have thought possible.
"Scott, dear, I don't like to think that you're so full of resentment and hate," Grace spoke slowly, almost as though she were thinking aloud, as her slim white hands began caressing the naked youngster's sun-bronzed loins. "I'm sure your mother loves you very, very much. Remember, she's not had an easy time."
Scott pulled his mouth away from his teacher's breast and gave her a long, thoughtful look. "Maybe Mom loves me." he said in a voice so low that Moulin had to strain his ears to catch the words, "but she's got a pretty funny way of showing it. Shipping me off to that horrible school, and always yelling at me about something when I'm home. And now she's worse than ever since that weirdo poet started hanging around."
"I'm sure Mr. Moulin is a very nice man," the young redhead said without conviction.
"You don't really think that!" Scott's voice rose an octave. "You know as well as I do that he's a phony! C'mon. Miss Gamble! If we're really gonna be friends, we gotta be honest with each other!"
Outside the door, Robert's ears were burning. A phony, am I? he thought resentfully. What a disgusting child!
"Well, maybe you're right," Grace conceded. "I guess I don't like him very much, either. But we must have understanding and forgiveness for others, darling." Conveniently forgetting the resentment she still harbored against Eric Johansen. she added. "Promise me you'll try to feel this way, honey!"
Suddenly the youngster kissed his teacher full on the lips. "I won't hate nothin', " he exclaimed, "so long as I know you love me! So long as you let me f-fuck you, or suck me off again like you did in the woods."
Grace's lovely face turned bright pink and she murmured. "Oh, Scott we mustn't!", in a shocked tone. Moulin's keen eyes noted, however, that her lust-sparkling green eyes belied her protestation.
"Please, Miss Gamble!" the excited thirteen year old pleaded. "Let me make love to you! Teach me how to be a man!" His eyes roved over the rich curves of her voluptuous figure in avid anticipation. "Take off your panties and let me see your pussy! Please! I never saw a girl's pussy before, and I want you to be the very first one I screw!"
Mon Dieu! The young poet's brain churned with voyeuristic excitement as his swelling penis lurched against his tight-fitting trousers. I cannot believe the evidence of my eyes and ears! They're really going to do it but she seemed so stiff and prudish....
"We mustn't, we mustn't...." Grace mumbled again, but neither her aroused pupil nor the man half-hidden behind the door believed for an instant that she meant what she said.
"You can if you love me," Scott insisted. "Please show me how to make love."
"But...but...but I don't know any more than you, darling," Grace admitted in a trembling voice. "I I'm a virgin, too!"
"Then it's even better!" the teenager cried happily, kissing her again. "Then it's really special for both of us!"
No! I won't stand for it! Moulin exclaimed silently as, after a moment's hesitation, the red-haired American girl hooked her thumbs in her flimsy nylon lace panties and began to work them down over her well-rounded buttocks and firm-fleshed thighs. His dark eyes bugged from his head at the sight of her reddish-gold pussy hair, and he clenched his fists in fury at the thought of a little brat like Scott Dubois having such an opportunity. The bitch! Seducing little boys what the fuck is the matter with her?
Jealous anger surged through the tall French poet as he heard Scott's gasp of delight and saw his hand reach for the enticing red curl-covered pubic mound. The bitch! The bitch! he cursed to himself.
It was not that Moulin was shocked: on the contrary, he had no compunctions about any type of sexuality, so long as he himself was gaining satisfaction, and he'd experimented with nearly every possible erotic variation in his time. He'd been to the most exclusive whorehouses in Paris, had participated in hippie orgies in the Latin Quarter, had organized m�nages a trots, and was a familiar face at those establishments, peculiar to the French capitol, where one and one's compliant date could, after paying a substantial entrance fee, enjoy group sex with a crowd of well-dressed strangers. Black girls, oriental girls, females old enough to be his grandmother or nearly young enough to be his child Robert had been with them all. But there was one thorn which pricked at his pride: he had never deflowered a virgin.
It wasn't that the amoral young bachelor hadn't made an effort, for indeed he had exerted all efforts toward finding an innocent, untouched young female. Unfortunately, the women in his circle were simply not the sort to remain virgins for very long, and even the American college students he picked up all seemed to have a "hometown honey" to whom they'd given themselves one night in a parked car. The one time he'd really thought he'd succeeded in finding the ideal victim a little blonde thing, age sixteen, whom he'd spotted in the American library turned out to have been raped by her uncle in Alabama when she was fourteen. By now, Robert had almost given up all hope of finding a virgin and now one was lying naked before his very eyes, and giving her magnificently voluptuous body to a thirteen year old punk!
Just as young Scott Dubois, groaning in delight, was inching his finger toward the tantalizing "vee" between his curvaceous naked teacher's long, lithe legs, the eavesdropping young author pulled his head away from the salacious spectacle and tiptoed back down the hall. No impudent little teenager was going to deprive him of the erotic thrill of deflowering the curvaceous Miss Gamble!
Tiptoeing backward down the empty hallway, Robert flashed a vindictive, self-congratulatory smile at an ornate antique mirror. Once again, he gloated, his cleverness was going to help him achieve his lecherous goals!
Reversing direction, the scheming poet made his way down the corridor, but this time he moved as loudly as possible, coughing and jangling his car keys in his pocket. He felt certain that even the two naked people locked in illegal embrace could not fail to hear his approach, and he fervently wished it were possible to watch them fly guiltily away from one another and throw on their hastily discarded clothing. As he passed the slightly ajar bedroom door, he was highly pleased to at least her a low, feminine gasp and rustle of clothing.
Robert slammed the side door loudly behind him and strode toward his car, too pleased with himself to realize he'd left his umbrella behind and was being thoroughly drenched by the hard-driving summer rain. How intelligent I was. he reflected as he started his small Citroen, to steal Caroline's house keys and make copies of them! Now it will be the most simple of operations to pay Mademoiselle Gamble a little surprise visit tonight! And when I have shown her how a real man makes love, she'll never want to play with little boys again!
His long cock throbbing in anticipation, the evil-intentioned author drove home through the rain.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was just as well that neither Caroline Dubois nor her son's young tutor felt well enough to come down to dinner that rainy evening, for Maurice, the Cordon Bleu chef, had managed to curdle the hollandaise sauce, overcook the entrecote, and undercook the potatoes. Only young Scott appeared at the table to sample these culinary disasters, and from his nervous appearance and finicky appetite he might as well, as Monique remarked sourly to the chef later, have been eating that American horror, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
"Merde!" was Maurice's heartfelt reply. He had, after all, spent the entire afternoon bailing water out of his cramped quarters and bemoaning that the unseasonable flood had turned his precious shoebox filled with genuine herbes de Provence into a sodden, unusable pulp. How could these crazy Americans expect him to have enough energy to prepare dinner after that and then not even show up to eat it? And why was it that only the servants' rooms leaked? The whole business made his temperamental liver hurt, and he once again contemplated joining the local chapter of the Communist party.
Scott, his mother, and his governess were all far too distraught to give a thought to the plight of the domestic employees. As Maurice, the chef, ranted and raved in the kitchen, Mrs. Dubois was miserably inspecting her red-eyed, tear-stained face in her mirror and trying most unsuccessfully to repair the damage with the vast array of creams and powders that decorated the top of her dressing table. When even her favorite twenty-dollar-an-ounce pancake make-up proved useless and a fresh flood of tears sent her newly-applied mascara running down her cheeks in sticky black rivulets, Caroline heaved the pot of "Milady's Miracle Masque" across the room and began weeping in earnest.
"At least Robert might have rung up and apologized!" she choked out between sobs. "I know I'm insane to be going on like this, but I can't help it. I need him!"
Grabbing for the bottle of sleeping pills which always stood on her bedside table, the miserable young widow popped three into her mouth and crawled down between her pink satin sheets. Soon, lulled by the rhythmic thudding of rain on the roof and the medication swimming through her bloodstream, she drifted off into a dream.
She was standing in a stark white hospital room holding out a bunch of yellow roses to her son's tutor, who lay on the cot with her lovely face swathed in bandages. Beside her stood Robert, dressed in a doctor's coat and leering down at his patient in the most unprofessional way possible.
* * *
Just down the hall, young Scott lay stark naked in his bed staring balefully at the ceiling, which his mother, in a fete of whimsy, had instructed the decorator to paint with silver stars and a harvest moon wearing a broad smile. Normally the thirteen year-old paid no more attention to the ceiling than he did to the walls with their bright murals depicting cowboys, King Arthur's knights, and Robin Hood's merry men, for the room had been the same for as long as he could remember and there was no need to actually look at it. Tonight, however, he found himself irrationally irked by the coy pictures and stars.
"This ain't a man's room it's a place for a dumb kid," he muttered in sullen resentment. "It makes me sick! Damn sick! It's just like the way Mom always calls me 'Scottie'. Does she think I'm still ten years old or something?"
He glanced away from the offensive ceiling to stare at his long, though still boyishly slender, penis which was the proof of his maturity. Ever since that goddamn Moulin had come clomping down the hall and frightened Miss Gamble out of her amorous mood, his unsatisfied virility had been in a painful state of half-erection. Even jerking off hadn't helped...doing it by himself wasn't at all the same thing as making love to his beautiful French teacher. Masturbation was okay for kids, but not for a real man!
"Damn that creepy Moulin guy!" Scott growled under his breath. "The mother-fucking bastard!"
The sound of his own obscenities filled the youth with confidence, and he began to absently massage the thick foreskin back and forth over his blood-filled cockhead as he debated whether or not to pay a nocturnal visit to his voluptuous tutor. True, she'd been almost hysterically vehement this afternoon, saying that their narrow escape from discovery had been an omen, a foreboding of disaster, and that he must never under any circumstances visit her bedroom again.
"I d-do want to be friends, Scott," she'd whispered through trembling lips as she struggled into her clothes. "I h-hope you'll tell me your pr-problems. But we can't go on like this! I could never forgive myself if I hurt you, and that's the only possible result of doing something that's illegal and immoral in the eyes of the rest of the world."
He'd not understood what she meant at the time she said it, and now that he considered her words again, they seemed even more illogical. Hurt him? How could he possibly be hurt by doing what he longed to do more than anything else in the entire world?
She didn't really mean it, I bet, he told himself as he jumped to his feet and threw a terry cloth beach robe over his well-formed naked loins. Women always say crazy things when they get upset at least Mom sure does. And then they change their minds an hour after. Hell, I bet Miss Gamble's lying in bed wishing my cock was inside her and I was kissing her beautiful breasts like I did this afternoon!
His spirits buoyed up by his essentially accurate assumption of his teacher's feelings, Scott eased open his bedroom door inch by careful inch to keep it's hinges from squeaking. It had been an unnecessary caution, he realized as he saw his mother's dark and silent door, but nevertheless he tiptoed as he made his way down the corridor and then the thickly carpeted staircase. With his heart thudding against his ribs and his potent teenaged penis straining against the rough fabric of his robe, he turned the handle of Miss Gamble's door.
It was locked!
"Miss Gamble!" he whispered. To his dismay, there was a barely audible click and then the faint pool of light issuing from the thin crack under the door abruptly vanished. "Miss Gamble!" he called out again, a little louder this time. "Please open the door! Please!"
Inside the room, Grace shivered and drew the down-filled quilt up over her ears to shut out the plaintive, almost desperate sound of her young student's voice.
God knows I want to let him come in, she groaned silently, but I can't, I just can't! Oh, how did I ever let things reach this point? How could I have acted so shamefully wicked that day on the mountain, and this afternoon?
Beneath her lace-trimmed batiste nightgown, Grace was appalled to find her body tingling with a lewd hungering desire. Her breasts swelled and throbbed in remembrance of young Scott's eager kisses, and the crotch band of her little white lace panties grew shamefully damper each time his shrill voice called out, "Miss Gamble! Please!"
Dear God, let him go away soon before I break down and let him come in, she whispered into her pillow. It seemed like an eternity since he'd first rattled the handle of her door, and she was afraid she couldn't hold out much longer against his obvious grief and her own sinful yearnings.
At last, to her relief and unwanted regret the boy outside her door let out a heartfelt sigh, and then she heard the faint sound of his bare feet padding slowly back down the hall in the direction of the stairs. Whimpering sadly, she turned over in bed and forced her eyes to stay shut until at last she fell into a restless, nightmare punctuated slumber.
When, several hours later, she felt warm, strong arms folding around her drowsy body and urgent lips pressing against her mouth, her first reaction was pleasure.
"Ohhhh, Scott!" she mumbled sleepily, delighting in the sensation of close-pressing masculine flesh although her eyelids felt too heavy to open. "Uuummmmmm! That feels so nice...."
Robert Moulin, who was more than a little intoxicated after finishing off a bottle of vintage champagne which he'd filched from his house's flooded cellar, barely restrained a chuckle of lecherous glee. What a surprise little Miss Priss was in for when she opened her eyes! Still, he was sober enough to realize that it was to his advantage to keep silent long enough for the voluptuous virgin to become physically aroused, so he restrained himself and silently started to caress her resilient breasts.
"Oooouuuuhhhhhh," Grace moaned into her pillow. What a delightful dream she was having about her young student such a relief from the nightmares which normally plagued her.
Slowly peeling off the imported Scandinavian down-filled quilt, the inebriated French poet feasted his lusting eyes on the auburn-haired American girl's flimsily covered curves. Afon Dieu! What a magnificent body! he gloated as he teasingly tweaked at her responsively stiffening nipples. Through the translucent material of her white nightgown, the tips of her luscious breasts poked out like succulent ripe berries, and
Robert's hungry lips fastened on them as his impatient hardness began to beat a lewd tattoo against his trousers.
"Ohhhh, darling Scott!" Grace breathed as tremors of excitement shot through her sleepy loins. "That feels so wonderful...even better than it did this afternoon!"
"You can be sure of that!" Robert Moulin ploated before he could stop himself. To his chagrin, the girl's almond-shaped green eyes flew open at the sound of his lascivious exclamation, then widened in horrified shock as she recognized him.
"Surprise, cheri!" the hotly impassioned young author's lips curled up over his gleaming white teeth the vain young man had an American product called "Pearl Drops" specially flown over from the States to obtain this un-Gallic effect. "You are not with a little boy now, but with a real man!"
Grace felt her blood turn to ice in her veins as she stared at Robert Moulin's monstrously elongated male member and terrifyingly brutal facial expression. No longer the least bit sleepy, she commenced a valiant but doomed to disaster struggle against the male who had mysteriously appeared in her bed.
"Get out of here!" she cried, shoving him away from her with a fear-inspired force which caught her attacker by surprise and sent him sprawling on the other side of the bed. "How dare you?! "
Robert's pride was injured by having been pushed down by a female, and a very slender, delicate-boned one at that. When he spoke, his voice was a menacing snarl.
"What's the trouble? It is only the innocent little boys you like, not the men? Well, I shall soon change that!"
Grace scrambled frantically off the bed and stood gaping in bewildered horror at the invader, her entire figure shaking like a young free in the famous Provencal mistral wind. "No...no...no...." she choked out, backing nervously in the general direction of the door. Her brain was so sluggish from sleep and dulled by terror that she failed to grasp the significance of the man's taunting words.
He's going to rape me, murder me! was the only clear thought in her fear-tortured mind.
The Frenchman's handsome face contorted into a mask of raw animal lust as he lunged toward the voluptuous young teacher, and at the sight of the cruel glint in his dark eyes she was galvanized into desperate motion. With a strangled scream of fear she dashed for the door. but shock had melted her muscles into limp foam rubber and sent her crashing to her knees on the red-carpeted floor.
Cold, malevolent laughter echoed through the small bedroom as the lust-crazed poet loomed over his terror-stricken victim. "No escaping that way, cheri!" he leered. "I have taken the precaution of locking the door, so we shall not be disturbed."
"H-h-how did you g-get in?" the virginal teacher stuttered. She was dimly recalling an article she'd read in the Detroit newspaper several years ago which had advised women to try to stall off attackers by keeping them talking till help arrived. But what possible help was there for her? Her bedroom was too isolated for anyone to hear her screams through the thick stone walls of the old villa, and there was no chance that either the servants or the family would be wandering in this wing in the middle of the night.
"I I-I-locked the d-door...." she added in a voice that trembled with despair.
"Never mind about that," the Frenchman growled, stepping closer toward the nightgown-clad redhead's awkwardly crouched form. "It is important only that I am here to teach you the delights of fucking." His mocking voice emphasized the obscene term, and then, as if to make his intentions perfectly clear to the helpless female beneath him, his hand stroked the huge bulge in his straining trousers.
There was something so sadistic and threatening about Moulin's voice that Grace's blood ran cold and her teeth started chattering so badly that she could barely speak.
"D-don't talk to m-me like that!" she stammered through fear-parched lips as she tried to crawl away from him.
It was a useless effort, as she'd backed herself into a corner, and her eyes flooded with tears as she stared at the slowly approaching rapist. His trendy high-heeled shoes, she noted distractedly, were scuffed and rain-spotted, and his socks were two different shades of blue. She'd never imagined that the elegant-appearing author was a secret slob...but then, neither had she thought of him as a deranged sex maniac.
"Why not take off that nightgown and let me have a good look at your body?" Moulin demanded. "I want to see your how do you say in American boobs! Yes, your sexy boobs!"
Grace recoiled in an agony of shame and fear. This can't really be happening! her tortured mind wailed. I must still be asleep and having one of those nightmares that seem so real you believe you 're awake.
"Leave me alone!" she half-shrieked, wrapping her arms together in an ineffective attempt to cover her full breasts. You...you can't do this to me! You must be crazy!"
"I said get out of your clothes!" Robert's impatient penis was pushing painfully against the restraining fabric of his pants, and he decided he'd had just about enough of the silly American bitch's protests. "Hurry up! Do as I tell you!"
"Noooooooo!" the terror-stricken teacher wailed at the top of her lungs. "Get out of here, you, you PERVERT!"
Alcohol tended to bring out a mean, ruthless streak in the egotistic poet's personality, and those who knew him tried not to criticize or antagonize him after he'd had a few drinks. Now, maddened with passion as he was to deflower this beautiful auburn-haired virgin, he grew violent. How dare she resist him when she had been so simperingly sentimental with that Dubois brat?
"Pervert?" he roared as he fell to his knees and grasped hold of the tearful young woman's flimsy cotton nightgown. "I think it is you who are the pervert, you bitch! You think you are too good for me but you aren't too pure to corrupt innocent little children.
Grace gasped in horror as, with a sickening ripping sound, her last shred of protection was torn away from her. He knows about Scott! How in God's name did he find out? she cried in silent despair. Oh yes, he must have seen us this afternoon...didn't I have a feeling that something terrible was going to come of it? But this--this is worse than anything I ever imagined! A thousand times worse than when Eric attacked me!
"Noooooo, please, nooooooo!" she whimpered, her voice low as her initial indignant fright froze to an icy ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. "You can't! I'll...I'll scream...I'll...."All right scream!" the lust-enraged man sneered, bending down so that his face was level with the shuddering girl's ivory-white breasts. "No one can hear you, you know. And if they did, you would regret it, for I would tell them how I watched you seduce a helpless child. It's forbidden by law in France, in case you didn't realize that. You'll spend years and years in prison. You little cock-sucker. "
Grace was too distraught to consider that surely rape was no more condoned by the French authorities than was child molesting, or that it was only her word against Moulin's, and he was the one in the compromising position. Instead, her will to resist weakened in the knowledge of her shameful guilt, for her well-meaning parents and Sunday school teachers had instilled in her a sureness that one deserved punishment after committing a sin. And what sin, she asked herself, could he more degrading and evil than sexual perversion with a child who had been entrusted to my care?
As the panting Frenchman's avid hands groped at her naked flesh, Grace clenched her tear-filled eyes shut to hide the humiliating sight of her violated body. Nausea rose in her fear-churning stomach at the odor of strong, black tobacco French cigarettes mingled with the man's overpowering aftershave lotion, and for a brief instant she thought she would faint.
Please, God, she prayed frantically. Let me pass out! I'd rather die than have this horrible stranger put a finger on me!
At the thought of losing her treasured virginity to this half-drunk maniac, Grace made a last doomed effort to struggle from his clutches. Balling her slender hands into small fists, she beat against the intruder's arms in an attempt to shove him away. All she succeeded in doing was losing her balance and toppling face down on top of her torn and discarded white batiste nightie.
It's no use! her tortured brain sobbed. I'll never escape him he's too strong. As his hands clamped onto her upraised naked ass-cheeks and began kneading the tender flesh, she shuddered in despair. He's treating me like a common slut, and there's not a thing in the world I can do to stop him!
"Please!" she sobbed as his rough fingers gave her spasming buttocks a sharp, indecent pinch. "Pl-please, noooooo! I I'm a v-virgin!"
An evil, sadistic chuckle spewed from the alcohol and lust-demented French poet. "Of course, cheri!" he chortled. "And once you have enjoyed my fucking, you will be begging for more! You won't want to ever play with little boys again!"
As he spoke, the metallic sound of a zipper being yanked open reverberated in Grace's horrified brain. An instant later, his talon-like fingers were roughly flipping her over so that she lay on her back and found herself staring at Moulin's enormously swollen male member. He was lewdly massaging its angry-red length with one hand, easing the thick foreskin back and forth over the blood-thickened cock-head in a fearfully threatening manner that caused the innocent teacher to gasp in horror.
"You like it?" he grinned in sadistic satisfaction as the young American's pretty face blanched white as her lacy nightgown. "This is the weapon of a man, not the toy of a child!"
It was impossible! That huge flesh cudgel could never fit inside her without killing her! Even in the dim light of the moon shining outside her window, Grace could see that it was at least twice as large as her darling young student's boyish virility, and even thicker than her ex-fianc�'s penis. Filled with blind panic, she took advantage of the fact that he was tugging off his pants to try to struggle to her feet.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Robert leered as he knocked her back down so forcefully that the wind was knocked from her lungs and she had to struggle to catch her breath. "If you will not cooperate, I shall have to use force!"
Kicking away his trousers and shoes, he pressed one blue-sock-covered foot down on Grace Gamble's melon-shaped white breasts until the pliant mounds were flattened and she was moaning in agony. This pose, which made him feel like a handsome Roman warrior who was about to ravish a captured Sabine woman, served to flame the fires of his already red-hot passion.
"Oh, no!" Grace groaned. Her cry was one of weak despair, not protest, for she knew now that he was going to use her helpless virgin body in any degenerate way he wished and nothing she could say would have the slightest effect. The steel-cold glitter of ruthless lust in his dark eyes told her that all hope was lost.
"I should have let dear little Scott make love to me," she moaned in acute misery, unaware that she'd spoken aloud. "At least then there would have been tenderness, and not this nightmarish fear. This man's horrible thing's going to kill me!"
The only words which Robert Moulin understood from his weeping victim's incoherent whimper were "dear little Scott", and they made him wildly angry.
"Merde!" he swore. "You stupid bitch! You must not think of that little brat while you are with me! I'm the one who is going to teach you how to fuck, and you're going to like it whether you want to or not!"
Without a second's delay, he jerked the whimpering redhead's shapely legs apart so roughly that little red welts rose on her tender thigh flesh. "Open your legs, damn you!" he muttered, kneeling between her knees so that her efforts to pull her legs back together were thwarted.
"Noooo!" Grace gasped. "You can rape me, but you can never make me like it! Never!"
"You conceited bitch!" snarled the Frenchman. "You wait and see you are only a whore with a hungry cunt, like all the women in this world!"
By this time, the sadistic young author's pent-up lust and sense of outrage at her rejection of his advances had sent him into a vicious mood of vengeance. She will never forget Robert Moulin! he vowed, grasping hold of the soft mounds of her breasts and squeezing them as hard as he could. At the same time, he flicked his powerful hips forward so that his desire-throbbing cock-head was pressed up against the curling red-gold hair of her virginal vagina.
Grace recoiled and once again tried weakly to squirm away as the blunt, heated head of the Frenchman's huge flesh cudgel made contact with her never-before-touched pussy slit, but his hands on her burning breasts made it impossible to move. Much to her self-disgust, she realized that, despite her overwhelming fear and shame, her traitorous body was tingling with exactly the same pleasure she'd felt that afternoon when her young lover had sucked and kissed her breasts. As though with a will of their own, the tiny pink buds of her nipples were tautening into sensation-filled red erection and were sending arrows of undeniable excitement shooting out to every nerve-ending of her body.
I won't let myself feel anything! she swore in silent desperation. III do, I'm really nothing but a whore, just like this vile sex maniac said. I can't! I won't!
Although the ravished redhead exerted every ounce of willpower in her voluptuous body toward ignoring the teasing tremors of sensation, things grew worse instead of better. Robert Moulin, realizing through the drunken lust which clouded his brain that the girl was beginning to quiver for reasons other than fright, gave a vulgar snort of triumph and pinched harder than ever on her diamond-hard nipples. His rampant hardness pushed more insistently against her cringing cuntal flesh, and to his depraved delight he could feel the first evidence of feminine fluids seeping from her unwilling vaginal mouth.
"You enjoy this, yes!" he gloated. "You cannot deny it!"
A shudder of shame surged through the victimized young teacher's nakedly vulnerable loins at the man's cruel taunt, and she squeezed her eyelids shut and gritted her teeth, frantically trying to remember the lecture her mother had given her upon her engagement to Eric Johansen. The well-meaning mother's embarrassed but sincere pronunciations on the subject of her "wifely obligations" had heightened her only daughter's lurking apprehension about love-making, and now, as she lay on the floor beneath the heavy body of a demented rapist, the memory succeeded in drowning out her incipient tremors of unwanted arousal.
"Eric seems like a nice, polite young man, dear," the gray-haired, rather plump housewife had cautioned her starry-eyed child one Saturday morning as they sat together in the small kitchenette drinking a second cup of coffee. "But he's a man, and men are uh different from women...., "
"I know. Mom," Grace had intervened hastily, not wanting to listen to an awkward explanation of the lovemaking act. "We learned all that stuff in Health Class in high school."
Mrs. Gamble had blushed. "That's--that's not quite what I mean, honey," she'd explained with a nervous little half-laugh. "It's just that, well, men can't help behaving like animals. It's their nature. When they see a woman without her clothes on, they turn into primitive savages even the best of them, like your father. I've learned a long time ago that you must never, never undress in front of them. When they insist on uh love-making, you must tell them that it has to be in the dark, under the bedclothes. Otherwise they act crazy."
"Oh. Mom!" Grace had blushed, too, for she disliked thinking of either her kindly father or beloved fianc� in such vulgar terms. "Eric's not that kind of guy really! And of course I wouldn't go around putting on a strip show or something. You know me better than that!"
"Of course I know you're our good girl," the mother had smiled in relief. "And if you just remember to act like a modest lady, I'm sure you'll perform your wifely obligations without too much uh unpleasantness."
Now, months later, her mother's warning faded from the young redhead's memory as her assaulter's strong left hand left her tormented breast and insinuated itself up between her fear-quivering thighs. Ignoring her mewls of protest, he thrust his outstretched middle finger against her wetly throbbing pussy slit, then inserted another finger to pull apart the spasming lips of her virginal cuntal orifice.
"How tight your cunt is! his French-accented voice hissed in her ear. "More tight than any I have seen! So you were not lying when you said you were a virgin!"
Mother certainly never dreamed I'd end up being plundered on the floor like a cheap tramp when she told me to act like a "modest lady ". was Grace's last clear thought before she felt Robert Moulin's enormous male weapon pressing against her tightly resisting pussy mouth. Then he was ramming forward. Everything but the burning, inhuman pain between her lewdly splayed legs was forgotten as she let out a shrill scream of anguish.
"AAAHHHHHHHH!" her cry echoed through the small bedroom. "Nooooo! You'll kill me! It's too big! Ooohhhhhhggggg!"
"Too big? That is impossible!" taunted the lust-crazed poet. "A man's penis can never be too big for a woman!"
A sadistic leer transformed his normally attractive face into a devil's mask of evil frenzy as he forced his victim's velvet-soft vaginal lips further apart with his hand, then flicked his hips even harder than before to drive his aching member an inch or so into her quaking cuntal channel. Spurred on by her plaintive groans, he bore down upon her without heed for the pain or injury he might inflict, for the fact that he was taking this arrogant American virgin against her will made his blood boil with excitement.
"OOWWWWGGGHHHH!" the obscenely impaled teacher screamed again as his mammoth pole of hotly throbbing flesh forced its way still deeper into her fire-filled vagina. "Stop! Pleeeeeze stop! AAaaaaaaahhhhhh! I can't bear it! Nnnnnoooooo! Aaaaagggghhhhh!"
Never in her sheltered life had the twenty-two year old virgin imagined such intense anguish could exist. White-hot agony seared a torturing path from her violated vagina to every last inch of her naked flesh, and instead of abating the pain grew worse and worse as her ruthless assailant plunged ever deeper into her convulsing cuntal channel. At last, realizing that her abortive attempts to escape his thick raping cock were only heightening her suffering, she fell silent and lay completely stiff, scarcely daring to breathe, every muscle in her aching body tensed in fear of the next spasm of burning agony.
"Mon dieu!" Robert panted as he ground his swollen member centimeter by centimeter into the tightly resisting passage of the pain-frozen virgin's pussy. He could feel every vein and wrinkle of her wide-stretched vagina as he pushed into her butter-soft depths; it felt as though his aching hardness were being stuffed into an ultra-tight kid glove. In a moment, he jubilated, he would smash through the barrier of her maidenhead and really begin to fuck in earnest, and ever after she would be his helpless love-slave. What with this voluptuous redheaded beauty, plus Caroline with her millions, he would be all set for the most marvelous summer of his young and wild life.
A real virgin! he rejoiced. At last I have succeeded in fucking a virgin!
The exhilarating realization of his male prowess so stimulated the debauched French poet that his penis drove into the fiercely clasping virginal passage with the force of a battering ram. Groaning in ecstatic bliss, he shattered the thin tissue of her girlhood and rammed his conquering penis all the way to the hilt so that his blood-engorged testicles were beating an obscene tattoo against the shrieking teacher's smoothly pliant ass-cheeks before he even realized he had taken her virginity.
Heaven! his pleasure-dazed brain sang out. I am in heaven, and I am the king. And I shall write a poem called "The King of Heaven" which will bring me the fame and fortune which have unjustly eluded me all these years.
So absorbed was the egoistic author in his self-congratulatory reflections that he scarcely heard Grace's shrill shriek of pain, though it shattered the air like the cry of an anguished animal mutilated by a larger, more ferocious one. Intent only on accelerating his own illicit pleasure, he arched his hips upward to pull his embedded penis out of Miss Gamble's vagina in preparation for another vicious downward plunge.
"Aaaaiiieeeeeee!" the no-longer-virginal redhead screamed as a hot flash of pain charged through her impaled loins.
I'm dying! No one could survive this torture! her mind wailed in an agony of misery.
Then, to her intense relief, she felt the red-hot poker of male flesh pulling out of her burning pussy, dragging shreds of cuntal flesh with it as it withdrew. Thank God! It's over! she rejoiced, the tensed muscles of her cuntal passage involuntarily relaxing as the thick penis slid away. And I'm still alive! But I wonder if I'll ever be able to walk again? Will I be crippled for life by this sex-fiend? Maybe it would have been better if he had killed me...how can I bear the shame of going to a doctor...what can I tell my parents....?
A moment later, to Grace's horror, the thick fleshy cudgel rammed back down into her violated pussy channel. It surged all the way to her cervix within seconds this time, for her untensed cuntal muscles offered less resistance, and although the young redhead screamed aloud again and again, the agony was actually less unbearable.
"Noooo!" howled the ravished French teacher as sparks of pain exploded in her no-longer-innocent loins. "Stop! Aaaaaahhhhhhhrrrrggggggg!"
"I shall never stop," Robert panted, "until you are begging for more!"
He's insane! How could any woman do such a thing? the tortured teacher asked herself. But even as the thought ran in her pain-baffled brain, a strange unwanted masochistic sensation of pleasurable excitation was mingling with her suffering. Her healthy young body was automatically adjusting itself to this cruel rapist's brutal assault, and after a few more minutes even her acute sense of degradation could not block out the evidence of her tingling nerves and spiraling arousal.
"Nnnnnoooooo," the guilty red-haired American wailed, certain that never again would she really ever feel clean.
Her loud outcry was directed more against herself than against the man pumping mercilessly into her, for although she still felt a strong discomfort, the red-hot poker of agony had faded to a throbbing heat. Her mental despair, however, was increasing by leaps and bounds as the pain grew steadily more supportable. What a disgusting, horrible way to lose her never-to-be-replaced purity! No decent man would ever respect her now and worse, she could never be proud of herself.
But I deserve it! she sighed in silent anguish. I've known I'm nothing but a pervert ever since that day I sucked little Scott's penis in the forest, and I've earned every bit of pain and humiliation this dreadful man gives me. He was right I'm just a whore!
Oddly enough, the recognition of her own wanton depravity made the tingling masochistic pleasure grow more intense than ever. Finally, she could no longer deny that her traitorous body was responding to the lewd rapist in exactly the same way that it had reacted to the fianc� she'd loved and to the little boy she felt so much tenderness for.
Now I know I'm really sick! she thought miserably. Everyone knows that only the most vulgar sluts can feel pleasure from sex with a stranger who doesn't care about them. Well, that's what I am a tramp who likes to be fucked by anyone who comes along!
"Uuuuhhhhh...ahhhhh...." she heard herself moan, and to her astonished chagrin, she realized that she was mewling in pleasure rather than pain.
Oh, God! I must be going crazy! she shuddered in silent shame. Suddenly, out of the blue, the thought flashed through her head that this night was the very night when she should have learning about the pleasures of nuptial bliss in some romantic honeymoon hotel together with Eric Johansen!
Something seemed to snap in the sensuous redhead's brain at this point and, to the extreme satisfaction of the madly thrusting Frenchman above her, she began undulating her cock-impaled hips around the massive weapon of flesh in rhythm to its smooth in and out strokes. Her wanton wriggling motions made his lust-bloated balls whack against her satin-fleshed ass-cheeks and sent blissful spasms of raw animal pleasure surging through his blood; within minutes, he knew, his plunging penis would explode inside the lewdly writhing teacher and flood her newly deflowered pussy with heated sperm for the first time in her life.
"Aaaarrrggghhhhh!" he roared like a triumphant caveman after a victorious kill. "You sexy bitch! You like the cock of Robert in your tight little pussy, don't you!" His lust-glazed eyes peered at the naked redhead's perspiration-beaded face, and he noted with exaltation that she looked like an entirely different woman now that her features were distorted with wanton passion. "Tell me how much you want my cock!" he panted. "Tell me, bitch!"
I give up! Grace's mind shrieked as she writhed her hips up to meet the Frenchman's every punishing stroke with deliberate, self-punishing vehemence. There's nothing left for me no marriage, no profession, no hope of ever finding tender, honest love. I'm a dirty, corrupted slut! The only thing left for me is sex, so I might as well enjoy that. Why not? What does it matter anymore?
"Yeah!" she moaned in a half-hysterical, uncharacteristically vulgar voice. "Yeah, you bastard! I want your big cock! So fuck me! Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuccccckkkkk! Fuck harder!" Her fingers tightened into talons and she raked her fingernails down his back and shoulders as she wrapped her legs around his nakedly pumping buttocks.
"Aaaarrrggghhhh!" Robert Moulin howled for the second time as his no-longer-innocent victim's impassioned outcry triggered his orgasm. "I'm going to cum! Cum in your cunt, you sexy virgin bitch! Nnnnnnooowwww!"
Grace, inexperienced as she was, had never heard the term "cum" until now and assumed it was some French expression. Her own body was still a long way from reaching its climax, and she only wanted to wallow in masochistic wanton debasement as the rhythmically ramming male hardness gradually continued to transform the burning discomfort in her raw and bruised vagina to sinful pleasure. When hot jets of seething sperm suddenly shot deep into her ravished pussy, splashing all the way back to her sensitive cervix, she screamed in shocked astonishment.
"Ahhhhh...eeehhhh...." her shrill cries echoed through the. room, blending with Moulin's satisfied groans to form an obscene chorus of lurid lust.
The French poet was dimly aware of the young American girl's moans through the dizzying waves of his powerful orgasm, and with characteristic conceit assumed that he'd brought her to climax.
What a man I am! he thought ecstatically as his long, thick cock continued to spurt out stream after stream of heated white cum. My magnificent penis can satisfy even a virgin! Being an avid reader of erotic novels, men's magazines, and sexual manuals, he knew that this was a rather rare feet.
Beneath him, Grace Gamble's sperm-flooded loins were trembling in unsatisfied desire mingled with horrified shame at the way she had let herself turn into a mindless whore. Tears flooded into her tight-closed eyes as she felt the sticky warmth of the strange man's life-giving sperm fill her violated vagina and trickle out onto her quivering thighs.
What in God's name am I going to do with myself now? she asked herself in silent despair. My life is ruined, absolutely ruined! If only this awful man would just get off me and go away!
At last, after what seemed an eternity to the guilt-ridden redhead, she felt the satiated poet's thick penis deflating inside her aching, semen-filled vaginal passage. There was a lewd little popping sound as it slid from her painfully violated pussy, and then a curious sensation of emptiness deep within her unsatisfied loins as the exhausted male rolled away from her and struggled up from the floor.
It's over, all over, Grace thought dully. Now he'll leave me and I can take a bath....
But in the deflowered girl's heart of hearts, she knew full well that no amount of soap and water could ever cleanse her soul. For the rest of her life, she would have to live with the knowledge that she was a slut, a perverted whore. At the thought, a fresh flood of tears brimmed up behind her eyelids.
Robert stood staring down at the limply collapsed figure of the girl he'd raped, his sweat-slickened face beaming with self-satisfaction as he contemplated the drying rivulets of his semen trickling in thin threads over her sun-bronzed thighs and matted in her luxuriant red-gold pussy curls. This is a night I shall always remember! he gloated, too absorbed in himself to notice that the young girl was weeping. The night of my first virgin! And what a virgin!
"Night of the Virgin" struck him as being an excellent title for an erotic poem, and he hastily struggled into his clothes in order to get back to his typewriter before the inspiration left him. The amoral author was never one to hang around after achieving his sexual satisfaction, in any case; it seemed to diminish the glory of his achievement in some way.
"Well, Cheri, I think I have cured you of your unnatural appetite for young boys, no!" he smirked as he bent down and gave her lovely breasts a last disrespectful caress. "You and I shall have some more good times very soon!"
Grace shuddered at his touch which Robert regarded as a tremble of uncontrollable passion at the thought of another lovemaking session and lay absolutely rigid as she heard the door open and shut, and then the faint thud of his hurrying footsteps heading in the direction of the side door of the Dubois villa. At last, moving mechanically, she rose to her feet and locked the door behind him, then stumbled toward the pink-tiled shower adjoining her bedroom.
After thoroughly scrubbing her violated body, she quickly dressed, threw her few belongings into her suitcase, and tiptoed out the same door through which the unrepentant rapist had made his exit. A grayish-pink hint of dawn was just tinging the horizon as she reached the highway, and the first vehicle which happened along a large, bright red moving van with the words, "DEMEUBLEMENT NICE LYON -PARIS" on its side pulled to a screeching halt.
The driver, a young man in a stained T-shirt and well-worn beret, leaned out the window. Beyond him, Grace saw another man, slightly older and with a thick, dark beard.
"English lady?" the driver called out in broken English. "Want ride to Paris?"
The naive teacher hesitated a moment, thinking of the tales she'd heard about truck drivers. Still, there were two of them, so nothing could really happen and they were smiling in a friendly way. Besides, she was terribly anxious to get far away from the Dubois villa as quickly as possible.
"Thank you," she smiled back at the two men, too exhausted and distracted to notice the lecherous glance of triumph they exchanged. "Yes, I am going to Paris."
The truck drivers, whose names turned out to be Honore and Pierre, spoke almost no English and a peculiar Italian-French dialect which Grace could barely understand. They in turn could not comprehend her very proper college French, and the conversation soon lagged. Grateful not to have to make an effort to be sociable, Grace stared out the window at the magnificent sunrise and bleakly contemplated her future. She had only one hundred Francs about twenty dollars and no return ticket, for Mrs. Dubois had not yet paid her nor given her the promised ticket home, and she knew it was impossible for her parents to afford to pay her way back to Michigan, even if pride would allow her to ask them. No, she would have to go to Paris and try to find another job to earn her return fare.
The weary young redhead was so distracted by her thoughts that she never noticed that the driver had turned off the main highway onto a deserted side road leading through thick woods until the van jolted to a standstill. Only when Honore's burly arms encircled her slim waist and dragged her from the cab of the truck did she realize that she was about to be raped for the second time in one day.
CHAPTER SIX
The moment the sun's first bright rays shone in through his bedroom window, Scott Dubois woke up and jumped out of bed. Despite his disappointment at not seeing his beloved teacher the night before, he found it impossible to feel very pessimistic on such a beautiful morning. As usual in the South of France after a rainstorm, the air was clear and fresh and the sun so brilliant that the landscape looked like a color postcard.
Today everything'll be all right, he told himself as he threw on his jeans and a shirt. We'll go on that picnic she promised yesterday. It'll be like that other time in the woods! Wow! I can't wait!
Feeling so cheerful and filled with so much energetic anticipation that he couldn't sit still, the thirteen year old ran out into the warm summer morning, grabbed his ten-speed English bicycle, and pedaled away toward the forest. Around him, birds were singing and flowers were opening up to greet the glorious June day.
Everything was so cheerful that the boy broke into a loud, off-key rendition of his favorite rock songs.
When he saw the big red moving van on the road ahead of him, he fell silent. What's a big track like that doing parked on a back road like this? he asked himself, curious but not suspicious. Since he knew perfectly well that there were no villas along the country lane, which led to a forestry station, he presumed that the driver must be lost and brought his bike to a halt to see if he could help by giving directions.
Just as he'd stepped off his bicycle beside the huge van, a high-pitched shriek sounded from the trees on the side of the road. His heart leapt to his throat, but although he was tempted to jump back on the bike and get away as fast as he could, he decided it was his duty to investigate. If the truck drivers were killing some animal, he would do his best to stop them or at least report them to the local police.
Moving silently through the woods in his rubber-soled tennis shoes, he had no trouble discerning where to find the men. The sounds continued, though he couldn't for the life of him ascertain what sort of creature it might be that was moaning and wailing in that very human way. II it's a dog, I'll freak out, he thought nervously, for he loved dogs very dearly, and then he froze in his tracks as he realized that the cries not only sounded human they were human!
The voice was so loud that Scott was sure it couldn't be more than a few yards away from where he stood, although the trees and bushes were so dense in this remote wooded area that he could see nothing but branches and leaves. Cautiously, his heart thudding against his ribs in fearful curiosity, he inched forward as silently as he could.
"Nooooo! Not there! Uuuuggghhhhh!" the woman's voice wailed again.
The truck driver must be raping some poor chick, Scott guessed, and though he was horrified he was simultaneously filled with an irresistible desire to watch. Through the thicket he saw a flash of pink and blue flowered material which looked strangely familiar. Oh God! Miss Gamble had a dress like that. A spasm of fear surged through his bloodstream, but then he told himself that of course lots of girls must own the same dress, for only the privileged few like his mother had their clothes specially designed.
Scott stepped forward, trembling with forbidden excitement at the prospect of observing the act of intercourse which he so fervently hoped to experience himself with Miss Gamble. Even before he discovered a place where he could peer through the bushes and see the salacious spectacle, his potent young penis had swelled to full erection and was pulsating against the tight denim fabric of his jeans.
For a moment, the naive youngster could not really make out what was happening. There were three figures in the mossy clearing two males in dirty T-shirts with their work pants hanging around their hair-covered calves and one naked female sandwiched between their burly bodies. Moans and what he assumed to be French obscenities, though he could not understand the words, issued from the lewdly interlocked threesome as they rolled and writhed on the dew-covered forest floor, and their thrashing motions were so rapid and violent that it was impossible to see the woman's body save for a flash of white flesh every now and again.
Then, in the most horrible moment of his young life, Scott Dubois caught sight of the female's flaming red curls and realized in the same instant that it was his French tutor who was being ravished by the two husky truck drivers!
"Miss G-Gamble!" he stammered in a whisper. "Oh, no! No! No!"
His first impulse was to rush forward and save his beloved teacher from the two brutal rapists, but common sense intervened in time to tell him that it was utter foolishness to hope he could fight off two thick-set adults. No, the only hope he had of saving his beautiful lover for so he considered her from these brutal rapists was to get on his bike and pedal as hard as he could back to town and alert the police. He was just starting to turn back toward where he had parked his bike when he heard something that made his blood run cold in his veins.
"Oooohhhh!" Miss Gamble's high-pitched voice echoed through the trees. It was obvious even to the eavesdropping boy that her cry was one of wanton encouragement, incredible as it seemed. "Give it to me, you bastards! Fuck my cunt! Stick your big cock in my asshole! Harder, harder...hurt me! I deserve it!"
Gentle, tender Miss Gamble was writhing around in sordid ecstasy as the bewildered youngster whirled and refocused on the obscene trio on the grass. Her beautiful face, which had smiled at him so lovingly not twenty-four hours before, was distorted to a mask of recklessly abandoned lust, and there was a hysterical quality in her voice which made Scott wonder if perhaps his teacher had suddenly gone insane. How else could one explain the obscenities that issued from her passion-twisted lips, or the unbelievable fact that she liked having two strange truck drivers simultaneously fucking her.
And she told me she was a virgin! The Dubois boy thought in bitter disillusionment. She pretended she loved me! But she locked her door against me and came out to the mountains to screw two guys who couldn't care less about her. Hell, she's nothing but a whore!
Despite his fury and hurt, however, the thirteen year old couldn't seem to drag himself away from thee lurid scene. Blinking away the unmanly tears which had brimmed up in his eyes, he stared in fascinated repulsion at the never to be forgotten sight of his own Miss Gamble being impaled by two of the largest cocks he'd ever seen. Even the males in the Danish pictures he'd seen hadn't been as gigantic as these two gorillas! How could his tutor take two flesh cudgels like that inside her without being ripped to pieces.
I hope they're hurting her real bad! he thought angrily. I'll never, never forgive her, and III never trust another woman again.
"Bitch!" he cursed under his breath as Miss Gamble began to wail out her lewd delight again. "I'll get even with her!"
"Oooohhhhhh!" the doubly impaled redhead shrieked in mindless masochistic passion. "Gimme your cum! Cum in my ass!"
The two brutish truck drivers groaned out in reply, but Scott couldn't understand a word they said. Nor did he much care, for his entire attention was focused on the two huge male members plunging into Miss Gamble's wildly thrashing body. He could see her pussy at last, glistening coral pink as the bearded man's cock rammed in and out, and he could also see her tiny puckered brown anus, hideously stretched by the penis stuffed between her ivory-white ass-cheeks. In spite of himself, his virile penis throbbed in automatic responst to the salacious sight.
"Aaaaarrrggghhhhhh!" wailed the wanton teacher suddenly, and then her body began to spasm in a way that even the watching boy, who'd never observed a female orgasming, recognized as her climax. "I'm there! I'm cumming! Oh, fuck meeeeee! Fuck me! Aaaaiiieeeee!"
Just as the two punishing penises started spurting out their lewd loads of thick white cum, the hate-filled youth had had enough. Without bothering to move quietly this time the three orgiasts were making so much noise that they'd never hear him, and he didn't much care in any case he crashed back through the woods oblivious to the brambles which tore at his bare arms and snagged his clothing, Jumping on his bike, he pedaled furiously back toward the highway with his young brain churning with schemes for repaying the traitorous redhead for the pain she had caused him.
Just as he turned onto the main road, there was a loud roar behind him and the red moving van lumbered past, careening around the corner as though the driver were drunk or in a state of wild elation. Although he didn't want to look up, he couldn't stop himself.
There in the front seat was Miss Gamble, her lovely red curls tangled and matted with dead leaves, mud, and sticky strings of drying cum. The bearded man was leering at her as he kissed her hard on the mouth, ramming his tongue inside just as Scott himself had done the day before, and the formerly shy and modest teacher appeared to be making no attempt to resist him. If she saw the boy on the bicycle, she gave no sign of having done so.
Feeling physically sick, the teenager got off his bike and stood staring after the speeding van. His legs felt as weak as though his bones had melted to water, and there was a horrible taste in his mouth as he remembered the soft feel of Miss Gamble's lips, the delicious taste of her gentle mouth. Finally, hardening his heart, he set off down the road in the opposite direction. He couldn't take revenge on her, for he knew he'd never see her again.
"I don't care!" he declared to the incongruously beautiful world around him. "I don't give a damn. And I'll never give a damn about anyone else on earth, not as long as I live!"
And then the world around him misted and he was crying...weeping for something lost some unidentifiable thing that was so elusive he couldn't tell what it was. But even so, he knew he would never again in his life weep for anything or anyone...not even himself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three years later, just after Scott Dubois's seventeenth birthday, he saw Miss Gamble again in, of all places, the city of Tangier on the coast of Morocco.
It was five o'clock in the evening and young Scott, who'd been subsisting on hashish pipes, hashish cigarettes, hashish crepes and gateaux whipped up by his Parisian girlfriend, Isabelle, mint tea, and greasy hamburgers procured from a peculiar anachronism which went by the name of "Eric's Hamburger Stand," was well and truly stoned out of his mind on drugs. Nevertheless, the instant his former teacher appeared in the sun-dappled square where he sat sipping mint tea and trying to decide whether he felt hungry enough to amble over to Eric's, he recognized her immediately. Despite the fact that the lovely redhead's appearance had altered rather dramatically in the intervening three years she now wore buttock-clinging suede pants and an eye-arresting translucent halter top instead of modest flower-print cotton shirtwaist dresses her provocative ass-cheeks undulated in the same sensuous manner, and her Midwestern laugh rang out above the babble of Arabian voices in the same soft, soprano tone her former pupil remembered so well.
"Ooohhh, lookit, Harry!" she giggled up at the pot-bellied but elegantly dressed man who clung ardently to her bare arm. "This funny man wants to sell us some diamonds!" She gestured at the shabby, one-legged beggar who was offering up a filthy bag filled with "diamonds" as he plucked at the American woman's elbow and chattered away in an incomprehensible multi-lingual whine.
"Dollars...D-marks...Francs...Yen...." he warbled, sounding quite like a more-than-ordinarily-enthusiastic waitress reciting the available sorts of pie for the hundredth time that day. "Grand big jewel! Petite little price! Beautiful so on Madame's belle hand! True diamonds! Ja! Oui! Yes!"
The gray-haired man laughed so heartily that his well-tailored London suit jacket shook, in the manner of the proverbial Saint Nicholas, like a bowl of jelly. Oblivious to the fact that nine-tenths of the expatriates and wide-eyed back-packers who composed the clientele of young Scott Dubois's favorite cafe were pricking up their drug-sensitized ears at the sound of his unmistakable New York accent, he replied in a voice even more resonant than his chortle.
"Don't bother your head 'bout small-time stuff like that crap," he guffawed, squeezing his red-haired companion's arm in a possessive manner. "If you're a good girl, Sugar Daddy'll buy you the real thing next time he's in Belgium."
"Ohhh, Harry!" Grace tittered. "Really? No kidding?"
The conspicuous couple's voices faded from Scott's earshot as they moved toward a stall selling leather goods, and soon they were lost in the milling crowd of tourists and natives. For long minutes, the young boy's eyes remained glued to the spot where Grace Gamble had been, a scowl darkening his handsome face as memories which he usually kept repressed surged into his drug-heightened consciousness.
It had been relatively easy not to think too much about his traitorous tutor; for Scott had refused to spend any more of his vacations in the Riviera villa. Mrs. Dubois, though professing disappointment each June, was actually rather relieved to send her difficult son to camp, or later to give him a thick stack of traveler's checks and let him explore Europe on his own.
Her social life had grown so gay that she was partying every night, and it would have been awkward entertaining her numerous male friends with a sullen teenaged son slouching around the house spying on her. Besides, it made her feel depressingly middle-aged to have an almost full-grown child....
Scott's unwanted reverie was interrupted by Isabelle, the sixteen year-old brunette he'd met in Orly Airport in Paris. Shaking her waist-length hair away from her face, she demanded irritably, 'That's the matter with you now?"
He's always nice about buying me food and dope and jewelry and things, the pretty young girl was thinking as she absently toyed with a string of large, multi-color Moroccan beads hanging between her girlishly high-set breasts, and he's the best-looking boy I ever knew. But he's just no fun always sulking and never really talking to me. I really don't think he cares about me at all....
Isabelle was right: Scott liked the curvaceous Isabelle because she wasn't always bugging him about going steady and asking for romantic declarations of love, like so many of the American girls he knew, and because she was always ready and willing to suck his virile teenage penis. Being a good Catholic, she refused to take birth control pills and therefore would not allow him to fuck her, but he didn't really care. It made their relationship just that much less serious and the last thing he wanted was to allow himself to be vulnerable enough to really care for a girl in the way he'd once done with Miss Gamble.
Pushing his long blond hair out of his eyes, the Dubois boy glowered at his girlfriend. "Nothin's the matter," he muttered. "C'mon, let's get outta here. Let's go back to the bus and smoke some shit."
"I'm sick of smoking dope all the time," Isabelle argued. "I'd rather stay here in the cafe and talk to people and have some fun. "
Scott stood up, a deep frown etched in his smooth young forehead.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged without so much as looking at the pretty brunette. "I don't give a god-damned what you do."
Stumbling a little in his drug-inebriated condition, the tall seventeen-year-old made his way through the crowd and located the brand new Volkswagen bus his mother had bought him. I don't care! he told himself fiercely as he rolled a marijuana cigarette in the privacy of the curtained camper. I just don't give a damn!
He wasn't quite sure if he was thinking about
Miss Gamble, or Isabelle, or his mother...but it no longer mattered as he drew in the pungent smoke and relaxed against the cushions in a mindless trance.
