Steve's heart swelled up inside his breast. All the time he'd been sitting there being bored to death with this stupid, dumb, boring Puccini opera, he'd wanted a beer so badly he could taste it. He'd also wanted to steal off and smoke a cigarette, but how he'd manage to accomplish that, he'd had no idea.
Melissa took his hand and they stood together. She was slightly taller than him. Steve could smell her delicious perfume. It was intoxicating. He also loved the feel of her fingers holding his hand. She would exert certain pressures that were reassuring to the boy. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. They shared another smile. Steve was beginning to like Melissa.
"Let's go," she said, grabbing for her purse. "And you bring the camera, okay?"
He looked at her. His eyes had a puzzled expression. "The camera?"
"Yes, we don't want to leave it here, though 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 social position, saying, "Are you kidding?" It was incredible!
Hand in hand, they went out of the lodge, parting the heavy velvet curtains, then passing through the great door out into the corridor, which led to the grand staircase, which in turn led to the entrance of the fabled building.
Maurice, sitting in the 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 zip them up. He then put the little French magazine with the obscene comics in a safe place under the dashboard and hid the small bottle of cognac in the glove compartment.
As Melissa Staunton and Steve passed down the stone steps of the opera house, Maurice saw her turn and quickly search for the limousine. He knew what this meant. It was her private signal to 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, Maurice 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 which faced the sea. He knew this was probably their destination, and sure enough, they came into sight after a few minutes.
Maurice had to admire Mrs. Staunton's walk. She had a delightful sway to her tall body. Her breasts jiggled perceptibly. Her hair, beautifully coiffed, bounced on her shoulders. Her long, slender legs, encased in expensive silk stockings, seemed even longer in her high heels with the thin, sexy straps covering her toes. Those sandal-like high heels exposed more of her stockinged feet than they concealed, and were one of her favorite pairs. Melissa had a vast collection of specially made high heels, boots and other footwear, for which she paid a fortune to an Italian boot maker who visited the chateau from time to time.
Maurice watched them enter the cafe and head for the secluded tables in the rear, under the palm trees, which flapped softly in the evening breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean. Something was happening between Melissa and the boy. Maurice could hardly believe his eyes. They were holding hands!
He turned off the parking lights, sat back and 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, squeezed it and began masturbating as he watched the passersby. Maurice especially loved to jerk off his cock while watching the trim ankles and the bare toes of strolling girls. This was a common and often spectacular sight in Monte Carlo. It was one of the best girl-watching locations on the face of the Earth.
Just as his pleasure was increasing, one particularly enticing woman walked slowly by. She was wearing a short skirt, nylons, and high- heeled shoes. Her ankles were slender, perfectly formed. He could see the bones jutting out to the sides of her ankles, and the strong bones that led from her heel upwards to her leg. She was fantastic, and walked with a slight sway so that her skirt blew softly around her upper thighs.
He moved his hand up and down his cock while concentrating on her legs, ankles and buttocks. He imagined taking her from behind, or having her massage his cock with her feet and toes. Yes! That's what she would do. Both would be sitting down, facing one another, and she would stretch her long legs into his lap, her toes wrapping around his hard cock, rubbing it. He imagined this as he continued to squeeze his cock.
He couldn't believe his good fortune! Just as he was about to come, pleasure rising like a fire in his body, she dropped something and bent down to pick it up, exposing the down swell of her buttocks, her panties moving delicately between them. Her legs, in this position were straight and seemed all the longer. Her buttocks were small and round, her ankles straining to hold her weight. He exploded into his fist, his come splashing on the steering wheel before him and then dripping off into his lap. He took another swig of the cognac and remarked out loud on his good luck.
Chapter Three
As the other members of the audience were returning to the opera house to continue their self-torture with the Puccini, 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 enjoying a heady beer.
"There's more cold beer at home," Melissa said. Her thigh was touching Steve's. He could feel the pressing weight of it. Also, the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume was intensified by the sultry night, and 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 Le Ne 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 something else." Melissa looked away. She opened her purse and put on a pair of dark glasses. She'd seen several old acquaintances with whom she had no desire to become entangled 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 after another bottle of cold beer or six. There are glasses in the car."
It was an open-ended sentence. "Would that be agreeable, 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, les curls des sacs."
Steven didn't know what les culs des sacs meant and he didn't ask. He did, however, feel a sudden thrill in his prick. He felt it stiffening and he credited this to the proximity of Melissa's warm body. He could see her ripe breasts snugly under the tight-fitting dress, which exaggerated her erect nipples, 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, and when she stood up suddenly.
As they sat there amidst the noises of the square, the passing of vehicles, the walking people, the whores, the pimps, the gamblers pondering their past and future, Steve couldn't resist the temptations his emotions were feeding.