Sarah, Slave of Sex Ch. 03

John Bellis left Paris early that morning, hoping to avoid the rush hour traffic. He was on his way to Fontenay, where he had been invited to discuss a project he had in mind to write an article on the château.

He quickly picked up the périphérique, where all was running smoothly for a change, then turned onto the autoroute, which he continued to follow for about three hours, getting off at a small town called Berny, famous for its lace according to a large panel at the side of the road. He then drove for about another hour along some minor, but absolutely straight side roads, before taking a turning sign-posted for Fontenay itself.

He now found himself driving through a pleasant, well-wooded landscape. It was a surprisingly remote area, almost untouched by modern developments. The road wandered through the countryside in a manner which suggested that no-one was in any particular hurry to get anywhere, least of all from A to B, sometimes almost returning upon itself to take another look at some interesting feature, an old building, a run down mill, or a wood store with neatly stacked logs. It was all very beautiful and green under the early summer sun, which had neither had time nor been hot enough to parch the landscape, and the earth was giving out a strong sense of fertility. It was difficult not to be conscious of the sap rising. Indeed, his own body seemed to be responding to the energy present in the landscape, having maintained an almost constant erection since leaving Paris.

This was perhaps partly explained by the potency of the nature around him but also partly by the fact that he had spent the previous day with Céline, a typically seductive and mysterious French girl he had come across by chance in the metro.

She was dressed casually in a short skirt and a T-shirt through which, if you looked hard enough, you could make out the prominence of her nipples. Her long, straight hair, wide mouth, and smooth, olive complexion made him think of the sun and the South. As she turned to look this way and that, he took the opportunity to study her from all angles. Her breasts, he guessed, were on the small side, her rear, more than adequate, though he found that rather attractive, and could well imagine the sumptuous feeling of penetrating her from either front or rear. From the side her buttock gave a prominent curve away from her thigh, a fact which lifted her skirt in a way that suggested that she might occasionally show more of herself than she intended, and from the rear he imagined that there was space enough between the two cheeks of her backside to give a view of her sex that would raise the spirits of even the most diffident lover.

In all, and to put it bluntly, she was a very attractive package. It was impossible not to notice her.

When the train arrived at the next station, she got off. He hesitated, as his intention had been to go into the centre, and the train was still a few stops away from his destination, then, just as the doors were closing, he got out of the carriage.

He followed her along the station platform, through the ticket barrier, almost losing her in the crowd, up the stairs, and out of the station into the fresh air. He had no idea what he was going to do or say if he caught up with her.

She continued along the street, then turned a corner. When he turned the corner to follow her, she was waiting for him.

"Monsieur," she said, "pourquoi vous me suivez?" He was temporarily at a loss for words.

"Eh bien," he stuttered. "Parce que vous êtes belle." She smiled, showing him her perfect teeth.

"You are English," she said.

"Well, yes," he replied.

"I always wanted to meet an Englishman," she continued enthusiastically, brushing back her hair with her hand. It seemed like a reasonable place to start.

"Ah, I see," he replied. "And I... I always wanted to meet a beautiful French woman." She smiled again.

"So we both get something that we want today," she said. There was a brief silence while he searched for what to say next.

"John Bellis," he said. "Himself." He offered her his hand. She gave him hers, a small, delicate, narrow hand with beautifully manicured fingernails. It was evident that she looked after herself, or at least, her appearance.

He could not stop his eyes wandering over her body, as his mind groped for what to say next.

"Céline," she said, coming to his aid. "Céline Montauban. Herself." He laughed. "So why you say that?"

"What? Himself?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"It's a quirk," he said.

"A quirk?" she queried.

"A mannerism," he replied. "My father used to say it."

"Ah, I see," she said uncertainly.

"He was Irish," he said.

"But you are English?"

"Yes," he said. "Well, English, half Irish, part Scottish." She laughed. "And maybe some French."

"Really?" she queried, looking him in the eyes. It was clear that she found him amusing.

"My father always claimed to be descended from French aristocrats," he explained. "But then, he had all sorts of notions...."

"Notions?" she queried.

"Ideas," he said. "Ideas about himself, about history, and philosophy, and mythology.... he would have made a great poet, except he couldn't read or write."

"No?" she queried, wide-eyed.

"No, he always said that he was educated in the maelstrom of life," he said.

"Maelstrom?" she queried.

"Maelstrom," he repeated. "It's a sort of vortex, a spiral pulling you down." He made a spiral downward motion with his right hand to demonstrate. "Pardon," he apologised. "Je devrais parler français."

"No, no, I prefer you speak English," she said. "I do not get much opportunities, you know."

"But you speak very good English," he said.

"Oh, no," she said. "I think not. I need... how you say? ... practise."

"Well, I can fix that," he said hopefully. "Let me buy you a coffee, and you can speak English to your heart's content."

"Heart's content?" she queried.

"As much as you like," he explained. She hesitated.

"Why not?" she said finally, looking directly at him. In that look, he understood that she had warmed to him, and he began to think that there was a definite possibility of getting to know Céline a little better, given the opportunity, perhaps even as far as getting his hand up under her skirt. He was trying to figure out where and how.

They spent a pleasant half hour in the café talking about nothing in particular until she pushed her empty cup away and put her bag over her shoulder.

'Time to go," she announced.

"How about dinner?" he suggested. She weighed up the idea.

"OK," she said finally. "I will see you here at about seven o'clock." She then turned and made her way out of the café. His eyes followed. He fully appreciated the provocative sway of her hips as she went. What a derrière, he thought. It would be really something to pull her before he left Paris.

He spent the rest of the afternoon walking the streets, sightseeing and imagining ways in which he might be able to convince Céline of his qualifications as a stud.

Arriving back at the café at a quarter to seven, he ordered a coffee and waited. By half past, she had still not turned up. He ordered another coffee. A quarter to eight. Eight o'clock. It was ten past eight when she finally arrived, just as he was about to give up.

"Sorry I am late," she said. "I had some problems."

"That's OK," he said, getting to his feet. The skirt she was wearing was, if anything, shorter than the one she had worn that morning. That, he thought, was promising. Her t-shirt read 'Twin Peaks'. He wondered whether she knew what it meant.

She took him to an expensive restaurant by the Seine where they ate passably well, and she agreed to let him drive her home afterwards. She directed him to a block of flats in a not very fashionable part of Paris.

"This is it?" he queried, looking up at the building. She nodded.

"This is it," she confirmed. "Thank you for an interesting evening." He leant over towards her.

"Well, thank you," he said, bringing his face close to hers and placing his hand on her hip. He looked her briefly in the eyes, then tried to plant a kiss on her lips, but she half turned her mouth away so that he did not get full contact with her. He realised that this probably indicated that she was now going to play hard to get, and that he should probably stop there, but her proximity and the clear indications that she was now sexually aroused despite her rejection urged him on. He attempted to kiss her again, and, as he did so, brought his hand up under her skirt. A little struggle ensued. He had his hand firmly between her legs, and was beginning to stimulate her sex through her panties. He wondered how much force was justified as he bore down on her, looking for her mouth again. But she again turned away.

"Wait," she said. "Wait. I will show you." He hesitated. "You want to see my pussy?" she asked. He nodded. "I will show you," she said. He pulled away, allowing her to bring her feet up onto the seat, giving him a view of her sex bulging underneath her panties, then proceeded to strip them off, revealing all. She threw them into his lap. "A little present for you," she said. "A nice souvenir of Paris." Her sex was completely shaved. It was small, neat, inviting, revealing just a trace of the delicate pink of her inner labia along its length. He put his hand on the inside of her thigh and pulled so that her legs parted, exposing her further. He was about to slide his hand up the inside of her thigh and take possession of her when she opened the door and slipped out of the passenger seat, turning once to blow him a kiss before mounting the steps in front of the block of flats, giving him a fine view of her backside, then disappeared through the door.

He sat in the driver's seat, crestfallen. What had he done wrong? he asked himself. Perhaps, he thought, she needed more time, and a more subtle approach. Was she worth the effort? Probably not, he thought, remembering some of her inane comments during the evening about David Bowie and Johnny Halliday. He sat for a while, contemplating what to do next. There was no question that he would be able to find somebody to relieve his sexual tension at this hour without any trouble. But he hesitated to do so, having made a resolution not to use the services of prostitutes any more after his last, disastrous adventure in Hyde Park with one such. On the other hand, he did not want to go back to his hotel and masturbate.

It was as he sat reflecting on these important and difficult questions that an old man, who happened to be passing by with his dog, knocked on the passenger window. Bellis pushed the button to open it. The man turned and indicated a lighted window on the first floor of the apartment block in front of which Céline was undressing. Bellis watched.

"Une vraie pute," said the old man. The dog barked. Bellis wondered whether this was an invitation from Céline to follow her, until a young man in the apartment with her pulled her away from the window, and closed the blind.

The old man laughed and shook his head, then walked off, pulling his little dog after him.

"Merde!" said Bellis, banging on the steering wheel. "Merde, merde, merde!" But he wasn't going to give up that easily. He got out of his car, followed a very accommodating woman into the apartment block and made his way up to the first floor, knocked and, after a while, knocked again, harder this time. The door opened a crack, and he pushed hard. Now he was inside the apartment, opposed by a bearded young man holding a kung fu baton. Did he know how to use it? wondered Bellis, sizing up his opponent. Céline was standing over by the bedroom door, wearing a short nightdress.

The fight, such as it was, was over very quickly. The young man proved to be completely incompetent with his chosen weapon. Bellis quickly took it from him and beat him over the head with it, after which he was very happy to leave when Bellis opened the door for him. He then turned to Céline.

"Come over here," he said. She hesitated, then reluctantly obeyed. When she was within reach, he used the baton to lift the hem of her nightdress, exposing her sex. As he looked at her, he felt the desire rising within him to punish her in some way. He dropped the baton down between her legs, and tapped her sex, a little too hard to be pleasant, then told her to bend over the table. She looked at him uncertainly, clearly wondering what he intended to do to her, then obeyed. There was something in her manner which clearly indicated that she liked being treated in this way.

He lifted the hem of her nightdress, revealing her very attractive backside. It was, he thought, probably her best feature. He brought down one blow with the baton, then a second, harder this time, a blow that made her cry out, then a third, after which she tried to protect herself with her hands, and tears came to her eyes. She clearly enjoyed a little pain, he thought as he readied his penis for action. He stripped off his tie and used it to tie her hands behind her back, then took her panties from his pocket and stuffed them in her mouth. He would, he thought, give her all the pain she craved.

He got his first sight of the château from about two kilometres away, mostly hidden behind a clump of trees. Pulling up immediately, he picked up his camera from the passenger seat, leaned out of the window, and took a photograph.

It was an interesting building, almost a fairy-tale castle, and, from what he had read of its origins, it was perhaps intended to be that way by its original owner, who had partly demolished a Cistercian abbey to rebuild it for a favourite mistress. The white walls, grey slate roof and round towers gave the whole thing a very distinctive character, and, as he gazed at the place, he found he could very easily imagine himself in one of Perrault's fairy tales, arriving at the ogre's castle to save the fair maiden.

He had first stumbled across an image of the château on the internet some three weeks previously quite by accident, and experienced a strange feeling of familiarity with the place which he could not explain. He had heard of the phenomenon of déjà vu, of course, but never experienced it himself, and he was reluctant in general to look for supernatural or mystical explanations for things. But now, on seeing the place in reality, the feeling came back to him, only stronger, as though his memory was of itself trying to make an effort to bring to mind when or how he had come to know the building. One thing was sure: he had seen it before. When or how was more problematical, as he had never previously visited this part of France, to his knowledge. He wondered briefly whether it was possible that he had been here with his parents, in early infancy. The other alternatives were all bizarre, and he felt a great resistance against lending them credence.

At all events, his feelings on seeing the image of the château on the internet for the first time had been strong enough to prompt him to contact Mme Choisy, whose details were listed on the website, and he had been in email correspondence with her on the subject of writing some sort of article. She had been very helpful, and seven days ago had gone so far as to invite him over to discuss his project with her.

He replaced the camera on the passenger seat, put the car in motion again, and, turning the bend, came upon a UK registered vehicle parked up just off the road. He was surprised. Even more surprising was the figure of a girl, who was leaning into the car to retrieve something. He slowed down. Becoming aware of the approach of a vehicle, she pulled out of the car, and stood for a moment on the side of the road, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. He made brief eye contact with her. He had heard the word 'thunderstruck', but he had never experienced being thunderstruck. That, however, was the most accurate description he could give of his reaction. He just had time to signal a brief 'hello' with his hand as he passed. He then glanced in his rear view mirror. She was looking after his vehicle. He thought he had never seen such a divinely beautiful girl. Her face, her figure, her legs, her expression, her semi-hesitant, semi-inquisitive look, everything about her, in fact, seduced him. He turned his attention back to the road just in time to avoid colliding with a tree. Should he stop? he wondered. He glanced at his watch. He was already late for his appointment. He carried on driving, regretting his decision several times before arriving at the château a few minutes later, where he parked his car in front of the impressive flight of steps which led up to the piano nobile.

The girl he had seen on the side of the road was still firmly lodged in his mind as he mounted the steps to the front hall, where he was greeted by a very pretty maid, who dislodged her.

"Monsieur Bellis?" she queried.

"Oui," he replied. "Himself." She gave him a quizzical look, clearly not understanding the expression.

"Come wiz me," she said.

"Gladly," he replied, admiring her shapely legs as he followed her through the main entrance doors, across the black and white marble floor with its intricate inlaid designs, and into a salon sumptuously furnished in the French style. He looked around himself; fauteuils, mirrors, giltwood and parquetry, tapisseries, paintings, console tables, gaming tables, side tables, chandeliers, glass. He quickly realised that he felt completely at home in this sumptuously furnished room which spoke so much of physical domination, of the domination of the artisan over his materials, and of the domination of the aristocracy over its subject population.

The little maid asked him if there was anything he wanted. He was tempted to ask what was on offer as he scanned her body. Her short skirt and tight bodice left little to the imagination.

"Une tasse de thé, peut-être," he said.

"Thé?" she queried.

"Oui," he confirmed. "It's a hot drink made by putting the crushed leaves of the tea plant into boiling water and allowing them to infuse."

"Oui, Monsieur," she said, eyeing him with an expression of distant superiority. "Assam, Lapsang Souchong, thé vert....."

"Earl Grey," he said.

"Oui, Monsieur," she said, and turned.

"Oh, Mademoiselle," he said, calling her back, more for the pleasure of seeing her turn than anything else.

"Oui, Monsieur?" she queried.

"Il y a quelque'chose sur votre jupe," he said, pointing to the place, directly between her legs. She looked down at herself, picked off a single bird's feather, one of those soft, downy chicken's feathers, which had somehow become attached to her, then brushed down the front of her skirt.

"Merci, Monsieur," she said, looking up at him and smiling. There was, he thought as he watched her disappear, something highly erotic about that little encounter, and he began to daydream about some of that scoundrel James Boswell's encounters with the maids of the important people who invited him to dinner, all of whom, he assumed, he had the right to fuck, whether they wanted to be fucked or not. His erection, which had briefly subsided, returned. He adjusted his penis inside his trousers to give it full liberty.