He liked how she was making him feel closer to her. At one point he could actually feel his prick oozing and he wondered if he was going to stain the inside of his tight jockey shorts and what would happen if this was discovered.
He kept wondering if she wore panties. The mere thought of this possibility, one way or the other, was positively thrilling. The way Melissa would cross and uncross her long legs, the brief glimpses he'd get of her silky nylons, her heels, her thighs, and the way Melissa would sigh as they talked, often sitting back, or leaning forward.
Steve couldn't forget the image of her playing with herself in the box in the loge. He could still see her hand rummaging around up inside her skirt. He could imagine the damndest things happening and as the time passed he found himself feeling more and more unafraid of her and what would happen between them. In fact, his courage was growing in leaps and bounds.
Melissa finished the glass of beer but before the last drop washed down her throat she passed the glass to Steve.
As he sipped he could taste her lipstick on the rippled edge of the glass rim. It tasted sweet. He liked it. As he put the glass back on the table, their eyes met. "I'm glad your mother let you come here, Steve."
"Me, too, me, too, Melissa."
She wanted to tell him how much she hungered for him but she decided against it. She wanted to tell the youth how she yearned, how she craved, how desperate she was to have any kind of a relationship with him. Also she wanted to tell the boy how good looking he was, how pleasant his face, how clean cut he was and how she loved his manners. So calm, so gentle, oh so observant and so terribly conscious of what went on all around him.
Unlike others.
She slid her chair back. "Well," she smiled, looking around, catching the waiter's eye as she placed a ten-franc note under the empty beer glass, "shall we, Steve?"
He nodded.
She took his hand, then his arm and put her arm through his, the continental embrace. He could feel the curve of her left breast. When their eyes met as they walked through the cafe and out onto the sidewalk, the exchange was vibrating.
Across the road Maurice started up the big black long sleek limousine. The mighty engine purred with power. Shifting into gear, he glided the vehicle over to the sidewalk, his eyes caressing Mrs. Staunton's body. She seemed terribly excited as she held onto the boy's arm.
Parking, he leaped out of the car, came around the front, opened the rear door and bowed:
"Good evening."
"Good evening," said Mrs. Staunton.
"Hi," said Stephenson.
In the back of the car Melissa pressed the button that automatically raised the shadowed glass partition that separated the chauffeur's seat from the rear of the spacious limousine. This impressed Steve. He grinned.
"He can't hear us either," said Melissa, squeezing his arm, snuggling next to him.
"And he really can't see?" asked Steve.
"No."
"This is just all too fabulous," he said.
Melissa crossed her legs. As she did her skirt crawled up and his eyes fell. He could see the tops of her nylons and the sharp contrast between her milky white thighs and the tint of the expensive sheer nylon.
She wore two garters. Steve felt his heart thudding as he watched her fingers rearrange the garters, her leg out, the high heel on her small foot really exciting, the straps of it, the way her toes under the nylon seemed to wiggle, the tint of her toenails.
"You like my legs, Steve?"
Steve caught his breath. "Yes."
"I think they're pretty, too."
"They're lovely."
"I'm glad they please you," she said, putting out her other leg and not caring, allowing her skirt to come up to above the stocking tops, exposing her white thighs, even exposing her panty crotch, and Steve was sure he could see black hairs sneaking from under the panties, and he could imagine the lips of her plump cunt because he'd seen lots of bare cunts and cunts under panties and naked cunts and hairless cunts in girlie magazines back in the States.
"They do."
It was as he said this, "they do," that she moved closer. She lay her head on his shoulder. Her skirt was still high up and as she faced him now, it rose higher. Steve couldn't take is eyes away from her mound. Now he could see the plump lips clearly. He loved the sight.
"Steve?"
"Yes… Melissa?"
"Steve," she said in a soft voice, almost husky; "do you think you're-going to like me?"
"God, yes. I do. I do."
A moment of silence.
"Steve," she said, her hand on his upper thigh, very close to his penis smoldering hot and hard under his clothing, "Steve, do you think that people will start talking about us?" She held her breath.
"He put his arm around her shoulder and she raised her face. She kissed his cheek.
"Do you, Steve?"
"Is it important?" He asked this in the tone of an adult many years his own age. As if he were a gallant, a flaneur, a man of much experience.
She smiled to herself. He couldn't see her lips, her eyes, the way they burned into his crotch, the-way she licked her lips. She could see the outline of his cock, how hard it was, how it was lengthening inside. God, she said to herself, am I going to have the courage? Am I??
"Steve," she said, again her voice so soft it was a gentle caress.
"Yes… yes Melissa?"
She reached her fingers and in a second they brushed over his erect penis. They touched. He flinched. He held' her close with his around her neck.
"Steve, do you-mind… do you… if I touch?"
And the moment this word, shot into Stephenson's ear, his young handsome prick exploded inside his shorts, spurting his boy scum all over the shorts. His cock throbbing and doing a little crazy dance as her jerked it, her buried into his shoulder.
Chapter 4
Suddenly he began shivering and his arm shook as he held her around her neck.
"What is it?" Melissa sat back, just the suggestion of alarm in her voice, her eyes.
Poor Steve was humiliated, mortified. How could he answer?
"What is it, Steve? Are you well."
He felt like crying.
"Are you okay?" she urged.
His entire body trembled again and she held him as a mother would a young child. She rubbed her cheek across his brow as a mother would to determine if he had a fever.
"… it's nothing," he said slowly.
"It is something," Melissa said, firmness in her voice. It was plain to Steve that she had no idea that his young prick had blasted off a load of scum inside his shorts.
"Well," Steve began, "I just had a little accident not too much to talk about," he added. His embarrassment was leaving and he was feeling that wonderful sense of what is called afterglow, his prick still throbbing, leading, probably spitting gallons more of his scum into his shorts.
"What?" she pressed on. Melissa was still sitting back, still the look of alarm, but it was vanishing.
Again she rubbed her cheek against his brow.
"You're very warm."
"It's the weather."
"You know the car is air conditioned? Want me to buzz Maurice and tell him to turn it on?"
This made Steve laugh. "No."
All of what just happened took place in the space of about three minutes as the long, sleek black limousine sped along the curving highway in the direction of Cannes. Stars twinkled in the sky. Out in the harbor were sailing craft of every description, their lights also blinking as the vessels bobbed up and down in the gentle waters of the harbor.
"Will you tell me?" she asked, distracting him from looking out the unshaded portion of the rear window.
"Yes, but it's very embarrassing."
This remark brought a smile to her attractive face. "I think I can guess, Steve."
"It wouldn't be all that hard," he said, "to guess. It's just embarrassing. Like I said."