Afternoon Beauty Ch. 01

She stretches her leg and pulls the black stockings up to her thigh, both of them. She stands up and fastens the stockings in a garter belt of the same color. She admires herself, looking into a weathered mirror with a laboriously carved silver frame, set against the dusty wooden floor.

Her breasts are exposed and her nipples are pink, the beautiful tits of a mature woman. She sits on a bed of crumpled sheets, elegant she crosses her shapely legs.

The flame of a lighter ignites the thin cigarette, the tip glows and she exhales a long, sinuous blue smoke. Her thoughts float along with the smoky draw.

The client snores like a pig, fat and sweaty, stretched out on the bed like a boxer who has just been knocked out. The owner of a cock so small that she could barely hold it with her fingertips to masturbate. One more she thinks, laughing, wiping the nicotine from the tip of her tongue.

She takes a deep breath and puts on her stilettos, stands up and slips into her tight black silk dress. She pulls down the zipper in an acrobatic fashion. She tilts her neck from side to side, hooking her mother-of-pearl earrings. She finishes with the diamond necklace.

She goes to the mirror, squats down, draws a red mouth with lipstick, wipes the dried cum marks on her chin and forehead. The image of her children appears reflected in the old mirror.

If only they knew what their crazy mother does on hot July afternoons. She laughs at herself. The door creaks when she opens, the customer chokes on his own saliva.

She walks down the stairs of the cheap little hotel. The steps groan with her footsteps. She hands the black doorman, her old acquaintance, a twenty-dollar bill. From the radio, she hears the President's nasal voice announcing a bomb explosion in the middle of the desert in the Midwest.

"Do you need a cab, ma'am?"

"Not this time, Tom, I came in my car. It was an unforeseen."

She opens the door. The bell rings.

"See you, Tom, see you next time."

The black man flashes a smile wiping the sweat from his forehead with a striped handkerchief. The slender form parades by, tapping his shoes on the floor until she disappears from sight.

The man walks to the windows. He waits. A Bugatti snores loudly. A green patch glistens past in the sun, darts down a dusty road.

Weeks Later...

She sat in a wicker chair with a wide, rounded, richly crafted backrest and a cream leather seat. She dress in a silver silk robe, her loose breasts marking the fabric, her straight hair tied on top of her head. Her legs were elegantly crossed, and tanned, her feet dangling inside white leather sandals.

The newspaper lying on her thighs shows a headline: 'Berlin Surrounded! The Reds stop American convoys. The Cold War begins.'

She turns the page looking for other subjects. She bends down and without taking her eyes off the headlines in the paper takes a sip of a steaming cup of coffee in a delicately made Chinese porcelain cup.

"Madame. Mr. Patrick wishes to see you. May I send him in?"

She runs her finger over her forehead as if organizing her thoughts. She takes a deep breath and faces the butler standing in front of her.

"Good morning Albert! My husband has traveled, I don't know what Patrick could want with me?"

"Neither do I madam, but he seems agitated. If you don't mind my saying so."

She takes a deep breath, leans back in her chair, closes the newspaper, and drops it on the floor.

"Yes, send him in. And Albert, leave us alone, you may retire. Thank you."

Before long, a young man in a well-cut suit, with shiny hair, approaches with, an expression of concern. He holds a brown envelope in his hand.

"Monique."

"Patrick. Please, sit down."

The boy who could be your son is her husband's nephew.

"Trouble? Your uncle went to Dallas, the firm's business."

"I know. But it's not him I want to talk to. It's you."

"Me? What did I do this time?"

She says, lighting a cigarette, and crossing her legs in a way that shows her brunette thighs. The young man smiles and hands over the envelope.

"Yes, I think you will recognize the people in the pictures."

Monique tries to control the urge to scratch the face of the cheeky boy sitting on the other side of the table. Like an angry cat. She opens the envelope and examines the photos of poorly dressed men, her old acquaintances. She has a surprise with the last photo, her laughing with her friend, Tom, the hotel owner, where she has her 'dates' with such clients.

She bites her upper lip, and the cigarette ash breaks and splatters on the glass table. She itches her thumb with her finger.

"Have you spent family money to watch me, Patrick?"

"Who are They, Monique? Friends?"

She takes a deep drag, making the cigarette glow. She puffs the white smoke like a cannon shot, her green eyes shining.

"Isn't it your business, dear?"

"It's the family's business, the company's business. Imagine if my uncle finds out, your children?"

Monique laughs, a laugh that makes her shoulders shake, and her breasts sway loosely in her silk robe. She glares at the impertinent young man, her teeth showing.

"It's none of your business, Patrick! But all right, I'll tell you. You've discovered my secret, the secret that only your uncle knows.

"Ethan knows!"

"Of course he does! After all, how do you think the twins were born? Or don't you know about your uncle's 'problems'? Probably not, isn't that sweet, by the look on your face?"

"Aren't the twins his children?"

"What do you think? Are you going to say that you never suspected?"

Monique pulls out the ashtray and taps her finger on the end of the cigarette so that the ashes fall in the expected place. Patrick straightens his tie and shifts in his chair.

"And why do you get paid by them? You don't need it."

She savors the young man's discomfort, bites her lips, and rests her elbow on her knee, what's left of the cigarette pointing up, smoke rising.

"Your uncle knows I need it. I like it! I like to help, to satisfy the desires of Americans without manners. You need to evolve Patrick. At the table and in bed. Maybe one day someone will teach you the pleasures of life. This Anglican stiffness is sad. You need to learn from the French."

"You're not French. You were born in Martinique."

"Me and Josephine. And you know what she did for the Corsican. Napoleon would be nothing without her."

"Stop being ridiculous, exaggerated."

"She was Napoleon's talisman. When he exchanged her for the Austrian girl, he ended up in St. Helena. I do the same thing with your uncle. I am the lucky talisman of his family."

"It was the war, Monique, the war. Not least because you and she are nothing but..."

"Whores, is that it? Your uncle knows the truth, I do everything for him."

"Except in bed?"

"It's neither my fault nor his. What can I do?"

"Stop fucking strangers and getting paid for it on top of that. You have no idea what this could do to the family business! It's humiliating. Why?"

"La Belle de Jour, that's how they know me. Afternoon Beauty. I like to feel like a slut in bed, it gives me pleasure. Pleasure greater than cumming. And your uncle loves to hear about my encounters."

"You, tell him! Do you tell everything?"

"Of course! Ethan loves my stories."

Monique blinks, cracking a smile. The young man jumps out of his chair, a strand of hair falling across his forehead, his arms in the middle of his waist.

"You're no good, Monique! It won't stay that way."

"Watch how you talk to me, boy! Get out of here. Now!"

She crumples her cigarette against the ashtray and glares at her nephew standing in front of her. The angry man walks by slamming the doors.

Later that night...

A gale shakes the trees and the windows of the mansion. The doorbell rings insistently, the lights come on. Monique appears, opens the door, and takes a moment to recognize the wet man in front of her.

"Patrick!"

continues...