Ah Paris!: From 'Bridget's Nights'

Seizing her butt in a tight grip Samuel positioned his body and gave one long deep thrust, sinking himself between Dolores' magnificent full ass cheeks. From the deep happy groan she gave and the ease he entered her it certainly wasn't the first time he had entered her back there. I knelt beside the pair of them, running my hands over them both and kissing Samuel, which gave me the opportunity to taste myself on his lips.

Speaking of tasting I thought. I lay down on my back and squirmed underneath Dolores. My head tipped up and I drug my tongue down her body all the way from her throat, between her breasts and down her belly till I could plunge my face between her legs.

Male vampires don't have a lot of cum for the same reasons that female ones take a long time to get wet. Our bodies just don't work the same as when we were alive. But Samuel had deposited quite enough for me to taste the marvelous mixture of his saltiness and her sweetness as I closed my mouth on her and sucked the juices from her pussy. I swallowed, and then used my tongue to lap up and down along her dripping open slit.

I heard a near growl and my bent legs were pushed apart before two hands grabbed my ass and held me as a long wiggling tongue impaled me. Good God, if indeed Dolores had never eaten another woman before she had missed pleasing a LOT of other females. The pair of us devoured each other, accompanied by the steady slap of Samuel's body meeting Dolores' ass.

The slapping sounds got louder and speeded up. I could feel his balls swinging under Dolores and impacting against the top of my head. Each time he drove his cock into her ass it seemed to force her down farther onto my tongue. When he bottomed I swore I could feel the head of his cock. Whether I really could or not wasn't important, the idea drove me to give Dolores the best tongue lashing I had given in decades and she responded to having both openings done by tongue fucking my cunt until I screamed into her. At that same time Samuel fell onto her, pinning me happily under both of them. There was no doubt I could feel his cock spasm as it shot into her ass. She squealed into me and the two of us girls came for each other.

The three of us snuggled together in one large pile of arms and legs, almost like three puppies. We all exchanged kisses and then dropped off to sleep. We barely woke up early enough to slip out and find a couple of parties of late night revelers for us to regain our strength from, without hurting anyone of course. Then we slept until nightfall came again and it was time for the ceremony.

My mind snapped back to hear and now as the priest said "You may kiss the bride." They did and Rafael and I threw rice over them as they scampered down the aisle. They paused to blow kisses back and then they were gone. I happily gave the priest a much larger amount of money than he had asked for and Rafael and I left the chapel ourselves.

"Think you'll ever get married Bridget?"

"Oh good heavens no. I'm having too much fun to even THINK about such a thing."

That remark just shows how good I was at fortune telling.

(The Present)

I sighed. As you do with friends over the years I had lost touch with the McAllister's. I knew they had escaped the Revolution but they had gone East to Germany and beyond while I went South to Spain and from there to America. I had come back again and again, obviously, but I had never seen them after that day. I hoped they were happy and still together. The idea of lovers parted by fate makes me sad.

I strained my eyes. I could not see the Palais Garnier, more commonly referred to as the Paris Opera House, from here. I doubted it had changed much, although nowadays the actual opera company was based at the Opera Bastille. It was there that I had one of the strangest encounters of the 500 plus years I had been on this Earth.

(1938)

I settled back into my chair, sipping from my cafe-au-lait. I swung my feet up onto another chair at my table and watched the late evening crowds bustle by. The glow of the street lights illuminated all kinds of faces; happy ones, sad ones, intense ones, closed faces that hid everything and faces that revealed the person behind it.

I had always loved the Left Bank. But then I had always loved Paris. Regardless of what else might be said about France, Paris was the most cosmopolitan city in the world. I swear this was probably the one place in the world where if the average citizen was confronted by the certain knowledge of the existence of vampires he or she would give that famous Gallic shrug and return their attention to wherever it had been drawn from.

All kinds of people passed me. Not just Frenchmen from every district of the country. There were people of every racial type, brought together from France's far-flung colonies. From Africa there were Senegalese, Moroccans and Algerians. Thais, Cochin Chinese and others from Indo-China and mixtures of all those races and more drifted in and out of my vision.

Strangely, some of those figures seemed to catch my attention out of the corner of my eye. I would snap my head around, thinking that it was someone I knew, only to see that it wasn't. Worse, I would realize that the person I thought I saw was dead and dust, some of them for centuries. I don't get cold, but I shivered.

Two hands touched my shoulders and I nearly jumped out of my skin before the soft familiar voice reassured me. "Cold, mon petite Bridget?" I relaxed and turned my head as the chair beside me was drawn back and Chief Inspector de Grandin of the Service Surete sat down.

I shook my head. "No Jules." I hesitated. "I think someone was walking over my grave."

Jules raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was aware of some of the various identities I was operating under, although certainly not all of them. He knew that I was an accredited counselor official from the Republic of Ireland, not actually attached to any embassy but officially assigned to the League of Nations. He knew that I spent a great deal of time working in Germany, where, among other things, I was hand-in-glove with what would one day become the Israelis, attempting to move as many Jews out of harm's way as possible. He might suspect that I also was feeding political, economic and military intelligence to, among others, the US State Department, British MI6 and the Deuxieme Bureau. But I knew he would never say any of his suspicions aloud.

I continued to stare out at the crowd, toying with my now empty cup. Sadly the smooth, subtle flavor was wasted on me, but I did enjoy the warmth of the beverage.

I knew part of my mood was the times. I remembered when a generation ago "The lights were going out all over Europe". It was happening again and it seemed that the darkness was even blacker now than it was then.

I shook myself, attempting to dispel the ghosts hovering around me.

"So what brings you down here Jules? You usually work the central part of the city."

"I came looking for you. I need you to do me a favor."

I let my gaze run over his body. Jules was a handsome man. Now in his late forties he was slender but wiry and stronger than one might expect. I had once seen him kick the crap out of three Apaches using his mastery of Savate. By the way, I'm not referring to American Indians from the Southwest but rather street criminals here in Paris.

"This is rather sudden mon ami, but I'm game if you are."

He laughed. "Not that I would not be flattered Bridget but my wife has a formidable temper and I am rather attached to my masculinity."

I had to agree. "Your wife is indeed formidable. She is also very beautiful as well as a lovely person and I would do nothing to encourage her to hoist your balls on a pike. So what is the favor mon vieux?"

"I want you to investigate something."

I blinked. "I don't understand. What in the world would you want me to investigate and why would you want ME to do it?"

"Because it is something beyond me, or my department. It is, in point of fact, a phantom."

"A phantom? A ghost you mean? Heavens above Jules surely you don't believe in ghosts? And even if you did, why me?"

He sat up straight in his chair and looked me in the eyes. "I didn't believe in such things. But I have learned that there are indeed 'More things in heaven and on Earth than are dreamed of'. And you are one of the reasons for that."

He waved away an attempt I made to protest. "Let us not fence mon ami. The Bureau has detailed records going back many years. Pictures are included. Interestingly you were an agent of Allied Intelligence during the war with le Boche and yet the English list you as a rebel involved in the Irish Uprising during the war. That was twenty years ago and you look exactly the same. Notes and scraps I have accumulated suggest you have passed this way many times over the years even before that. Your French is impeccable. It also carries the accent, the flavor, of long ago. Finally, I have had you watched. You never, ever appear in daylight."

He settled back in his chair. "I do not know what you are Bridget. But I know YOU, you as a person. Regardless of whether you are some creature out of legend or some wandering immortal or whatever; I know you are a good person and a friend. Therefore, I ask for your help."

I was touched. "Whatever it is, I will try to help you."

"It's the Opera House." He hesitated. "It appears to be haunted."

Now I was floored. After all, I had not only read Gaston Leroux's novel but seen a movie made from it that featured an American actor named Lon Chaney. I knew that Leroux had made a thorough study of the Paris Opera House before writing his novel but as far as I knew nothing supernatural had ever been detected there. I knew there had been rumors of hauntings there, mostly reaching back to 1896 and the accidental fall of one of the grand chandelier's counterweights that had killed a worker. I had always dismissed them.

"Jules, are you jesting with me?"

"I swear I am not." He went on to describe the happenings at the ornate old building. He admitted what I had already thought of, that there had been claims and rumors of ghosts and ghostly happenings for a hundred years but this was different. The visions were recent and more important all the reports seemed to agree on the major points. The apparition was a young adult woman. She was frightening of course but at the same time those who lingered before the cold and the fear drove them off said her most striking feature was the look of sorrow on her face.

"More than one person even attempted to linger to talk to her," Jules told me. "But she fled from them each time rather than the other way around."

"And you think I would have more luck with her why?"

"Because they were men, my Bridget. Perhaps the sorrow she shows needs to be confided in a woman."

Hmmm. I wondered if Jules had been monitoring my movements more than I thought. Perhaps he meant simply what he said; perhaps he was aware that while I love the company of men I also adore the company of women.

I shrugged. That didn't have anything to do with the situation. That situation was simple. A friend asked me for help and it seemed someone else was in trouble also. And what did it matter that the other person was dead? Hell, so was I. I could walk away from neither friend nor unknown.

I questioned Jules if there was any information about the woman's clothing or even her hair style. He confessed he didn't know. I did get a list of names from him and interviewed several of the men. None of them had paid much attention to the details I was curious about but I did manage to come up with a composite image in my mind that lead me to believe the woman's appearance seemed to date her from the end of the last century, around fifty years ago. How strange. I was in Paris then too. Jules managed to get me access to some of the Surete's archives and what I found there interested me and gave me a lead or two. Well, now it was time to find her.

There is no doubt that the Paris Opera House is a contender for the blue ribbon in the "Easiest Building to get Lost in in the World" contest. Rooms empty into more rooms; stairways run all over the place; hallways go on and on and bend and twist until you can meet yourself coming and going. Dressing rooms, storage rooms and rehearsal halls are everywhere.

I had descended as far as I could manage. It was down here at the foundations that the subterranean lake had been found that had helped inspire Gaston Leroux to write his famous novel. The lake was long gone, pumped dry over an eight month period during the original construction. Still, if someone lingered after death than this seemed to be the place for it.

I was not mistaken. After hours of waiting and searching I felt the air grow cold, very cold. A breeze sprang up where there shouldn't be one. And through the dim light of my flashlight I saw her.

She was misty and of no particular colors other than shades of gray and white. Her features were defined sharply but her body seemed to trail away. All in all she was a classic image of how a spectre was supposed to appear.

I was tremendously curious now. I had never encountered an actual ghost. If she was indeed the remnant of a dead person why was she here? What could be keeping her tied to Earth rather than going on?

I walked towards her. Her sorrow came at me in waves. I wasn't afraid. After all, what could a ghost do to me? I was already dead myself. Perhaps that was what allowed what happened next to occur.

I didn't speak. I just looked at her. I drew near to her. She looked at me and a glimmer of hope seemed to cross those pale features. Then she was right up to me, her insubstantial body pressed to mine and a flurry of images rushed through my mind as she pressed her lips to mine. They were confusing, one replacing the other almost before I could take them in, but as they continued I began to make sense of it all and her plight.

She was cold against me, so cold that if I had been human I couldn't have stood it. In fact, it was a very good thing I had taken the precaution of feeding before I commenced this night's investigation. I had fed from several of the revelers always to be found on the Left Bank so I was brimming with energy. Or rather I was until it began to flow from me to her.

I grew weaker and she grew stronger. She feeding on me, a concept I might have found amusing had it not been so dangerous. After all, something like this had killed me once. But I had realized what was happening and I hung in there, hoping that she would not need so much energy that I would end up here trapped myself. I knew she was not being malicious but rather that she was desperate.

As we clung to each other she grew less misty and more substantial. Her lips grew firmer and the swell of her breasts against mine, the very feel of her body became real. Then there was a real woman plastered against me and although my head swam with dizziness and I felt almost insubstantial myself, I could not stop.

Locked together as we were I knew her. My heart was nearly as broken as hers was as I read her history. Suzette, that was her name. She had come here over fifty years ago to meet Jacques, her lover, a worker here at the Opera House. He had never come. She had waited, and waited. Finally, her faith shattered she had left, only to fall victim to an accident before she ever learned the truth; that her lover was the man who had been killed by the fall of the chandelier counterweight. Her obsession, her need to find Jacques, to find the love that had been taken from her was what kept her here.

Her eyes that had closed with the start of our kiss fluttered open and met mine. I knew that she understood. Tears filled those eyes but they were tears of happiness.

I wasn't sure what to expect next. I felt strength flow back into me but then it stopped before she returned all she had taken from me. She broke our kiss and looked at me. Then her arms circled me again and she returned her lips to mine. Only this time the kiss had nothing to do with anything except passion. She was on fire and that fire ignited me.

My tongue invaded her mouth and my hands pulled at her old fashioned dress, one just like the ones I had worn back in those days. My fingers quickly regained their old dexterity at undoing those stubborn hook and eye fasteners. Then I was pushing her dress down her body and spreading it along the floor and lowering her onto it.

She was nude under her dress, as I expected. All she wore were her high button shoes and they were no obstacle to me. I strove to rid myself of my shirt and slacks without losing contact with her. She grasped the front of my blouse and yanked. Buttons flew and she yanked it down my arms. I tore open my slacks and struggled from them. I had not worn anything under my outer clothing either.

I knew what she wanted, what she needed, why she had waited so many years. I kissed her again and again. Her mouth opened, hungrily drinking in the kisses that she had been waiting to receive. It didn't matter to her that I was another woman. It certainly didn't matter to me. Our tongues twined and slid over each other and we tasted the sweetness of each other's mouth.

I turned my lips and tongue to her shoulders and neck. They weren't the pale white of a ghost or of an aristocrat who never saw the sun. They were tanned and the hands that ran up and down my back were work-hardened and felt wonderful. I found no pulse at her neck, but then I didn't have one either. I knew we were together only for a short time.

I lowered my head far enough to take her breast in my mouth. My left hand cupped the other while my right slid between us and explored downwards. Her nipples were hard under the caress of my lips and fingers and she strained up under me. I parted her bare labia with my forefinger and began to stroke her opening slit with the same rhythm my tongue and one single fingertip were synching with to roll her nipples.

If I thought she would be quiescent to my lovemaking I was wrong. A shapely leg jammed between mine and a firm thigh ground against my pussy. Strong fingers gripped my tight ass and dug in even as they pulled me against her. I slid two fingers inside of her opening and my thumb found the hardness of her clit.

We rolled back and forth on the dress, on the coldness of the floor. Now she was on top of me and now my body pinned her down. My fingers squelched in her wetness and I felt my own juices run down her thigh. Neither of us uttered a sound, even when her head tipped back and she arched wildly under me, her pussy locking on my fingers and her throbbing clit nearly exploding to my touch. I shuddered against her grinding thigh and my own orgasm matched hers.

We slumped into each other's arms. Her fingers tipped my head up and one more time she kissed me. I felt the rest of whatever she had taken from me return. As we kissed she grew slowly transparent once more.

I wanted to protest, to offer her my strength to stay. But she refused and I realized that she was ready to pass on to whatever came next. I held her as long as I could and then she was gone and I knew she would not be back. I scrambled from the floor, her vanished dress no longer under me. I dressed and then knelt and prayed that God in his mercy would let her find her Jacques. Somehow I knew that even as she had waited for him here that he was waiting for her on the other side.

Several nights later I was once again seated at my table at the cafe. This time I was not surprised by Jules' sudden appearance. He sat and looked at me, raising one eyebrow in a truly Gallic fashion.

"Well?" he finally asked. "How did you do it? Is she gone forever now? Tell me everything."

I wasn't surprised that he already was aware that the ghost of the opera House was gone. I smiled and began. "Suzette, her name was Suzette..."