Of course I was astonished. Then furious. Claire sought to mollify me. She said she wanted it so much. She called it a present. She wanted my agreement. She kissed me. She unbuttoned my trousers and fondled my root. Then suddenly she dropped to her knees and captured my knob between her lips. I was overwhelmed. She had always refused it before. But now she sucked my tool with great skill. At the moment of crisis, she removed her lips and milked me with her fingers. I was helpless. I spent in a great flood. I gushed like a fountain. I had to agree to the scheming with the von Brodas. I was convinced it was madness.
The next day Claire drove off with the Baron to visit a museum in a town twenty kilometers distant. I was left with the Baroness. I told myself I ought to make the best of it. The Baron had my wife; I would have the Baroness. She was not unintelligent. We had tea. I found my eyes drawn again and again to her large bust. She seemed amused by the situation. We talked of Europe, of the various spas, of the origins of various customs. Before long she took me to her room. She kissed me. She said I must wait while she undressed. I waited in the corridor. She finally called me and I went in.
The Baroness was quite methodical. She knew precisely what she wanted. I remember the pink dressing gown she wore. She sat in a chair near the open French window. When I was naked, she held my balls in her hand as she sucked my knob. She asked if I found her age distracting. She had to be past fifty. I answered as gallantly as I could. The fact was at the moment I didn't care. She was the Baron's wife. Her lips looked voluptuous as they spread over the thickness of my organ.
She was clever enough to stop sucking at the right moment. She talked frankly about what she wanted. I was to take her from the rear (she would bend over the chaise), but I was to withdraw before the end and spend between her breasts. Then she opened her silk robe and held her large breasts in her hands to show me the final target.
One recovers the moments, the isolated images. The Baroness naked, bending over the chaise, her milk-white rump, her strong thighs, a breeze from the open window. Then connection, my tool pushing between the plump lips of her sex, the hot gripping of her grotto, the warbling in her throat. She muttered something each time I thrust forward. I thought of Claire and the Baron. Did he find her clever? Did he find my wife clever in the accomplishment? I withdrew according to play, the Baroness turned, settled upon the chaise, called me forward to straddle her bosom. Her eyes shone as I spent between her large breasts. “Finish, it, darling, don't stop. There's more, isn't there? How nice.” I think she was saddened by the Baron's escapades, but of course one never knows the reality of such things.
Later I went down to the steps of the hotel to wait for Claire and the Baron. That evening Claire seemed satisfied. We had dinner alone and nothing of any importance was said. I remember we talked about the wine. I thought Claire looked fatigued and I felt a sudden sympathy for her. For myself I felt only pity and bitterness.
Chapter Fifteen
I was a member of a dreary club. One wet afternoon I sought refuge in a chair at my club, a chair beneath a lion's head. The lion, it was said, had been shot in East Africa. I sat with a glass of claret and imagined myself stalking a large beast across the bush country. Around me the men of the club talked of shares of West Indian plantations. I preferred Africa; I have always preferred Africa.
Then I heard them talking of something else. They talked of European nationalities. One fellow, a stranger to me, talked about the French. He said he would rather have a French wife than any other.
Perhaps some of the men in the group glanced at me. They may have been aware I had a French wife. I learned the man who had spoken was John Dallow, a balloonist well known in certain circles.
Later I introduced myself to Dallow. I reminded him of his comment concerning French wives. I said I had a French wife myself. He seemed pleased to make my acquaintance. I ordered another bottle of wine. I sat with Dallow in a corner. I talked of the Fontans and mentioned the availability of Julie. Dallow showed a degree of interest. We amused ourselves discussing the various capacities of women. “You might visit us in Paris. My wife and I will be there in a fortnight, and you might come by to pay the family a call.”
Dallow smiled. “Oh yes. Marvelous idea. Yes, I think I'll do that. That's very good of you.”
And so the next time Claire and I were in Paris, John Dallow came to call at the Fontan house. He met Julie. Two days later he came again, this time to sit with us at dinner. Hector was soon eager to have Dallow as a son-in-law. The three of us, Hector and Dallow and myself, spent long hours smoking cigars. I remembered the journey with Hector from Madrid to Paris. I remember Hector's enthusiasm. Now Dallow received the entire effusion of Hector's passion for the English.
Dallow did not return to London; he remained in Paris. I suppose if Claire and I hadn't occupied the guest room in the Fontan house, Dallow might have been cajoled into occupying the room himself. And would the interlude with Odette repeat itself? The question pulled at me for days. I wanted Odette's comforts again, but this time she refused. The Fontans were too preoccupied with the prospect of having John Dallow as Julie's husband.
Julie was modest, unwilling to say much, but one could tell she found Dallow appealing. Before long John visited the Fontans nearly every day. One afternoon he told he approved of Julie. He told me he would proceed with matters. That evening, after Fontan had returned to his hotel, I announced the positive result to the family. They were all quite pleased. I felt a sense of accomplishment.
Dallow's courtship of Julie began soon after that. The pattern of my own courtship of Claire seemed to repeat itself in all the essentials.
After Claire and I returned to London, I did not see Dallow again for some time. We heard from the Fontans that Dallow had gone off to a meeting of balloonists in Budapest. He'd given Julie his promise to return to her in the spring. In February I found myself in Paris without Claire, on an errand for an acquaintance in Whitehall. As usual, I stayed at the Fontan house. With malice, I suppose, I decided to amuse myself with Julie, to seduce her if possible. I wanted revenge against Odette, against Claire, against Hector, against all of them. I felt a sudden wave of hatred for Dallow and his stupid ballooning. I told myself I would have Julie. I would have her sweetness, her ebullience. I made plans to remain in Paris until I succeeded.
The Fontans seemed pleased when Julie and I began to spend much time together. We visited museums, occupied tables at the popular cafes, strolled along the boulevards. I found her not at all like Claire. I became more and more intrigued. She would smile at me when I complimented her appearance. She seemed receptive to my advances. I kissed her in the Luxembourg Gardens. The kiss was returned. She pressed against me. When I suggested a hotel, she nodded. We hurried to a place in Rue de Vaugirard. A bright little room with a window overlooking the park. As soon as I closed the door, I took Julie into my arms again and kissed her. She pulled back a bit and smiled. “We mustn't, you know. You won't force me, will you?”
I answered with another kiss. My fingers worked at the buttons of her gown. “I must look at you.”
She was amused at my frenzy. She remained passive as I undressed her. At last her breasts were revealed. Full gourds, a full ripeness, the nipples already swollen with excitement. She had Odette's skin, Odette's breasts. Her buttocks were superb. Full thighs tapering to graceful legs. Beneath her belly a dark bush of hair, the fur thick and prominent.