He looked at her. His eyes had a puzzled expression. "The camera?"
"Yes, we don't want to leave it here although it's safe enough."
"But… aren't we coming back for the rest of the opera?"
"Are you kidding?"
This made him giggle. He couldn't imagine a woman like Mrs. Melissa Staunton with all her money and elegance, her charm, her age, her position in society saying "are you kidding?" It was out of sight!
Hand in hand they went out of the loge, parting the heavy velvet curtains, then passing through the great door out into the corridor that led down to the grand staircase that; in turn led down to the entrance of the fabled building.
George, the chauffer, sitting in the long black, sleek limousine, saw the couple leaving the opera house. He wrinkled his eyes. This was highly unusual. Had something happened?
But he didn't start up the engine. He just sat there. He did stuff his prick back into his pants and then zipped up. He put the little French magazine with the obscene comics in a safe place under the dashboard. He hid the small bottle of cognac in the glove compartment.
As Melissa Staunton and Steve passed down the stone steps of the opera house, George saw her turn and quickly search for the limousine. He knew what this meant. It was her private signal with him to move the vehicle to another spot where she could climb into it without being seen by any of her many acquaintances.
This happened infrequently but when it did, George was always astonished. Quickly, he turned on the ignition and deftly began moving the car out of the line. Backing into the street, he drove slowly around in back of the opera house. He parked near the rear entrance of the cafe that faced the sea. He knew this was probably her destination.
After watching for her and the youth, both came into sight after a few minutes.
George had to admire Mrs. Staunton's walk. She had a delightful sway to her tall body. Her breasts jiggled perceptively. Her hair, beautifully coiffed, bounced on her shoulders. Her long, lean legs encased in expensive silk stockings, her high heels with the thin, sexy straps covering her toes, these sandal-like high heels exposing -more of her stockinged foot than they concealed, were one of her favorite pair. Melissa had a vast collection of especially crafted high heels, boots and other footwear for which she paid a fortune to an Italian bootmaker who visited the chateau from time to time.
George saw them enter the cafe and head for the secluded tables in the rear under the palm trees that flapped softly in the evening breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean.
He scratched his head. His thoughts flew back to Nellie at the chateau. Hadn't she said that something was bound to happen soon between Melissa and the boy?
It was happening. They were holding hands. George could hardly believe his eyes. They were holding hands!
He turned off the parking lights. He sat back. He sighed. He reached into the glove compartment. He swigged from the bottle of cognac. Next, he opened his zipper. He took out his semi-erect penis. He fisted it, then squeezed it and soon began masturbating as he watched the passerbys. George especially loved to jerk off his cock while watching the trim ankles and the bare toes of girls strolling. This is a common and often spectacular sight in Monte Carlo. It's one of the best girl-watching locations on the face of the planet Earth.
Chapter 3
As other members of the first act audience were returning to the opera house to continue their self-flagellation with the Puccini opera, Melissa and Steve were relaxing at a corner table in the open-terraced cafe.
He was sitting next to her rather than opposite. They were sharing a beer. The waiter refused to bring two. Serving minors in either France or neighboring Monte Carlo (Monaco, the Principality of-) is positively forbidden, verboten but done whenever the money is swift and the cops aren't looking. Trying to do just about anything in France or Monaco without one, two or a dozen cops looking over your shoulder-well, you'd better believe.
In this case, because of all the jewelry the patrons of the opera were wearing, including diamond ankle bracelets, there were more cops per capita than American tourists. That's saying a whole lot.
"There's more cold beer home," Melissa said. Her thigh was touching Steve's. He could feel it. Also, the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume was intensified by the sultry night. Also, the aroma of sweet jasmine seemed stronger. It was the way the small winds from the sea nearby were blowing, ruffling the palm fronds, stirring up the cigarette smoke from the ashtrays on the many white clothed tables.
Steve flinched at her use of the word "home." He hadn't thought of the childish appellation home in a long time. And he hadn't yet associated the chateau Le No Trespassing as his home even though he was beginning to realize he might be there for quite a spell. It all depended…
"Is that where we're going?" he asked.
"If you want to, Steve. If not, then we can do other things." Melissa looked away. She opened her purse and put on a pair of dark glasses. She saw several old acquaintances she had no desire to become involved with at the moment.
"Like what?"
Melissa sighed. She pressed her thigh against his. He didn't flinch and he didn't indicate that he even noticed.
"Well, we could send Maurice for a bottle of cold beer. There are glasses in the car."
It was an open-ended sentence. "Would that agree with you, Steve? We could take a little ride along the coast. It's fun. You've not seen it yet. Really, it's a fun thing to do. Maurice knows all the little places, the turn-offs, the culs des sacs."
Steve didn't know what les culs des sacs meant and he didn't ask. He did feel a sudden thrill in his prick. He felt it stiffening and he credited this to the proximity of Melissa's warm body, her ripe breasts at which he could look nestling so snugly under the tight fitting dress that exaggerated their rich fullness, that exaggerated her nipples he could see if he dared look closely. He knew she was wearing no brassiere: He could tell by the way her lovely breasts jiggled and bounced when she walked, when she sat down, when she stood up suddenly.
As they sat there, the noises of the square, the passing of vehicles, the walking people, the girl strollers, the whores, the pimps, the gamblers pondering their past and future, Steve couldn't resist the temptations his emotions were feeding.
He felt warm. He felt cold. He felt very secure. He felt scared, and especially when he'd feel the pressure of Melissa's thigh, or when she'd look into his eyes, or when she'd lick her lips, her tongue sliding over them, moistening her lips, then slipping back into her mouth.
He loved the smile in her eyes.
He loved her long, tapered fingers, the pale pink nails, her thumbs. He loved the way she smoked with the long, distinguished cigarette holder made of pure African ivory.
He loved the way she looked wearing the dark glasses, how he couldn't see her eyes but how he knew they were looking at him when her head was turned.
Most of all, Steve loved the smell of her. It was a combination of shower-clean and all sweated up and also like that wonderful combination of smells and delightful fragrances one associates with a perfume counter in one of the exclusive boutiques he'd visited from time to time in the company of his mother back in the States. She was always dragging him to these places, making him wait for her, ignoring him. Somehow he loved the aroma, the mingled scents.
Steve also enjoyed the glances of envy from people who would pause momentarily on the sidewalks, or purposely linger so they could study him and Melissa.
He liked how older men admired him. He loved the looks from young girls wondering who he was, what he did, how come he was with the beautiful, obviously much older woman; questioning their relationship.