Melanie Ch. 01

- Slainthe, Melanie. Here's to a pleasant and successful festival for both of us. And thank you for such a delightful evening. The glasses clinked in the still evening and she smiled at him.

- Yes, here's to both of us. And thank you for a lovely time. I never expected my first evening to be so... but tell me Sandy, what are you reading tomorrow?

He took a hardback from the desk drawer and, putting on his glasses, signed it with an italic fountain-pen, handed it to her.

- I still haven't finally decided, but I'll probably go for chapter four. It's the shortest, and I should be able to read the whole piece in my allotted time. Better than a part-chapter I think. Not that I've much first-hand experience of readings!

- Thank you Sandy. Excuse me a moment, she said, rising. I need to go and get mine for you. And she slipped from the door.

During her brief absence he tried to pick his way through the turmoil in his mind. This woman fascinated and attracted him as few others had in his life. He knew it went far deeper into him than any old away-from-home opportunistic affair. But she was happily married, and lived, literally, on the opposite side of the world. He had to tread with such care.

*****

She slipped in the open door and handed him a slim hardback volume. As she did so, he became aware of her elusive scent again - but it was stronger than he had noticed previously. He smiled his thanks and as he flipped the book open, noticed she had signed inside the fly-leaf. He couldn't read it without his glasses but its form was delicate and decisive.

- And what are you going to read Melanie?

- Ah...my task is both easier and harder than yours, she smiled. There is only one long poem, too long for the reading. So my choice is wide open, apart from that one. But I've slipped papers in to mark my shortlist.

- I'll read them tonight before I sleep, he promised. And you'd better read well tomorrow. I'll be there, and expect me to be your sharpest but friendliest critic!

- Hah. Then you need to be careful too. Your reading is before mine, so I get the first shot. So I too will prepare carefully tonight!

- Hmm. Please don't be too hard on me Melanie?

- Silly! She stood and bent to his head, lifted his chin, and kissed him warmly: We're both in the same boat here Sandy, festival virgins on our lonesomes. I think we could be a good mutual support team, don't you? Of course I'll be kind to you at the reading. The entrancing look of mock-severity flashed across her face: Always provided of course, that I think you deserve it!

He rose to stand beside her: How late do you want to stay up lassie?

- Why? She murmured.

- Just had a thought. Would you like to read me something, now? A sort of dress-rehearsal for tomorrow? And maybe let me read to you? Briefly, of course?

She glanced at her watch: It's after midnight, but you're not on till late morning, and I'm in the afternoon. Yes, why not? In fact, the more I think, that's a fine idea Sandy.

- You go first then, he said. But excuse me if I get comfortable. You know that if you lie down, more blood goes to your brain? He took his whisky and lay down on the bed: Now, poetess, please read to me?

She raised her book and flicked through the pages. But from the top of her eye she looked at Sandy as he lay on the bed, still in highland dress. Noticed the firm muscle on his legs. Felt the dampness in her groin.

Then she coughed and began reading.

Sandy closed his eyes, more fully to concentrate on the poem. Her voice was melodious. The poem was incisive and striking. He asked her to read it again, as it had taken a few lines before he had picked up where it was going. Her scent – definitely more powerful now – and her voice, drove the poem with a sensual immediacy. When she finished her face was slightly flushed, her eyes proud, but with the edge of a question as she looked at him.

He rose to sitting and looked her in the eye: Melanie, that was one of the most powerful things I have ever heard. It was beautiful, so direct, so deeply human. You must read that one tomorrow, my dear.

The endearment had slipped out before he noticed and he made to speak. But she collapsed onto him on the bed, clutching him, sobbing her heart out. He stroked her soft dark hair wonderingly. Whispered: Melanie my sweet, whatever is wrong?

Her sobbing eased and she pulled back from him a little: I just don't know Sandy. You have no idea what went into that poem. I've read it to a few folk, but for the first time tonight, I saw it go right deep into someone. She sobbed through a wide smile: You have no idea how good that was for me. To know for the first time that I have truly communicated with someone with that little piece.

He pulled a clean hanky from his sporran and wiped her tears, then offered it to her. She took it, sniffing: Thank you.

- Melanie, you must know that your few perfect words told me something new about the human condition? It was wonderful, my sweet, and how nobody else has seen that so far I don't know. I haven't looked at the others yet, but if I were you, I'd save that for the last of the set tomorrow. If there are any human beings there, it'll bring the house down.

She was lying across his lap now, looking up at him, and he saw the edge of uncertainty finally flee her eyes. Thank you Sandy, she whispered. That's the loveliest thing anyone has ever said about my poetry.

- Ach weel lassie, he grunted, easing her up from him. My turn now! He shifted her onto the bed, then stood and reached for his novel. As he turned to look she was splayed untidily, following his every movement. He was pierced by a deep stab of care and ...yes, longing, for this beautiful and wonderful poet who lay on his bed, so open to him.

He coughed, focused on his book. Started reading. He knew he read well, and he was so close to this chapter he could almost recite it.

When he looked up at the end, she was fast asleep.

He burst out laughing, quickly covering his mouth to stifle it. The poor lassie was totally exhausted from the long flight and the shock of a new world. He didn't dare waken her. So much for his powerful fiction!

But he was still giggling as he put the book down and poured himself another dram. A large one. Slipped onto the balcony, carefully drew the door shut behind him, and rolled a cigarette. Inhaled deeply, first smoke since he'd left Glasgow twenty-four hours previously. Sipped his whisky as he gazed out on the now-cooling Paris night.

*****

What the fuck are you going to do Sandy? Paris on a lovely summer night, and the most entrancing woman in the world is fast asleep on your bed. What the hell to do?

He had no answer, so he drew on the fag and sipped his dram. Slipped inside to refill it, returned outside. Rolled another fag. Drew deeply on it.

A new moon hung over the planes, limes, and poplars which dotted the campus. Wispy cloud drifted over it. But neither the moon nor anything else held any answers for him.

But he knew what he had to do. He had three choices. He could doss down on the chair, or the floor, and make the best of it. He was a mountaineer, used to roughing it in more inhospitable places than this.

Or he could go into Stephanie's purse, take her room-keys, and go sleep in her room.

He ruled that out immediately. He could no more invade her privacy like that, than take a trip to the distant moon, hovering up there.

Or he could share the narrow student bed with her. Non-starter.

He would doss in the room.

He finished his fag, returned inside. Couldn't see that he could sleep on the chairs. The floor it was. Searched the wardrobe: a pillow and a spare blanket. Perfect. Started to undress, hang his fancy dress up. Then he realised that Melanie was still in her gorgeous evening dress. She couldn't sleep like that. It would crumple, and it was so beautiful. And she'd be uncomfortable, sweaty. But could he, should he, dare to make her comfortable?

Maybe the whisky blurred his judgement a bit, but he decided he had to undress her. He turned to where she was lying, contemplating her svelte form. The dress seemed to unzip at the back, and in the state she was in, he thought, hoped, that he could get it off without wakening her.

He gently turned her over on her belly. The zip went down to below her waist. It was sleeveless. If he took the zip down, he should be able to wriggle the garment down off her fairly easily.

He set softly to the task, had her on her back, working the dress from her shoulders, when he realised she was bra-less. Her breasts were small, sweet. He resisted the urge to suck them as he manoeuvred the silk fabric over them. But as it slid over her pink nipples, the fabric inevitably brushed them. He watched in awe as, gentling the garment down her, the nipples engorged and she moaned softly, moved a little. He stilled and she seemed to settle back to sleep. Lifted her buttocks and managed to get the dress over her hips. He could scent her sweet arousal as he bent over her groin: dared not even look at her enticing red silk panties.

Eventually she was undressed. He moved to cover her near-nakedness, knowing he had intruded too far on her privacy already. Eased the duvet from under her sleeping form, and spread it over her. Then lifted the sensuous garment to hang it in the wardrobe. As the silk brushed his arms, he couldn't resist lifting it to his face. Relished the soft fabric, and the scent of her which lingered on it. Both the subtle fragrance she had chosen to wear, and the hint of her sweat. And maybe – as his nose ran over the silk – just the tiniest hint of her arousal?

He sighed deeply, glanced at her sleeping form on the bed, then hung the garment carefully in the wardrobe. He was more deeply and completely aroused than he could ever remember.

He arranged pillow and blanket for himself on the floor beside the bed – there was nowhere else he could lie. Turned to gaze once more on her shape under the duvet, shadowed in the lamplight. Her long dark hair fell over her face and it was all he could do to resist stroking it.

He poured a whisky to steady himself , rolled another fag, and moved onto the balcony to cool off, let his excitement wither. Heard the last few residents return to the buildings, fragments of several languages drifting up in the still of the night. But his erection was insistent, and he knew he couldn't sleep beside her until it was attended to.

He was ashamed to masturbate. It felt almost as if it would be a violation of her. But it was necessary. He touched his erection. Stroked it, thinking of her, wanting her...remembering her engorged nipples, the scent of arousal from her panties as he slid the dress from her. The relief when it came was enormous, and he stood trembling for some time.

He switched off the small lamp and settled to sleep, calmed finally by the steady sound of Melanie's breathing, just a few inches away.