He felt warm. He felt cold. He felt secure. He felt scared, especially when he felt the pressure of Melissa's thigh against his, or when she'd look into his eyes, or when she'd slide her tongue over her moist lips and then slip it back into her mouth.
He loved the smile in her eyes. He loved her long, tapered fingers, her 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 knew her eyes were looking at him when her head was turned. And most of all, Steve loved the smell of her. It was a combination of cleanliness and sweat mixed with the 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. His mother was always dragging him to those places, making him wait for her, ignoring him. Somehow, he loved the aroma, the mingled scents.
Steve also enjoyed the envious glances of the 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, and what he did, how he came to be with this beautiful, older woman. It aroused him to think of these strangers and their questions.
He liked how Melissa was making him feel closer to her. At one point he could actually feel wetness on the tip of his prick and he wondered if he were going to stain the inside of his tight jockey shorts and what would happen if this were discovered.
He wondered if she wore panties. The mere thought of her underwear was positively thrilling to him. The way Melissa would cross and uncross her long legs, the brief glimpses he'd get of her silky stockings, her heels, her thighs, the way Melissa would sigh as they talked; it was highly stimulating to him.
Steve had never been with a woman before, much less one so much older than him. It made him feel very good. And yet, he was unsure of himself, frightened by what he feared she would perceive as his inadequacy.
In his imagination, of course, he had always been strong and virile, so that when he masturbated to images of himself with women, he was always the dominant one, taking them by force and possibly even unawares. Then he would pump his cock in and out of them, as they limply gave in, overwhelmed completely by his raw masculinity.
But that was his imagination. What would it be like in real life? he wondered.
Steve couldn't forget the image of Melissa playing with herself in the box in the loge. He could still see her hand rummaging around inside her skirt. He could imagine the damnedest things happening, and as the time passed, he found himself feeling more and more unafraid of her; in fact, his courage was growing in leaps and bounds.
Melissa had almost finished her glass of beer, but before the last of it washed down her throat, she passed the glass to Steve. As he sipped, he could taste her lipstick rippled on the rim of the glass. It tasted sweet. He liked it. When 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 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. He was so calm, so gentle, and oh-so-observant, so terribly conscious of what went on around him. Unlike many 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 first, then put her arm through his. He could feel the curve of her left breast pressing his side. When their eyes met as they walked through the cafe and out onto the sidewalk, the exchange was vibrant.
Across the road, Maurice started up the big 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, who seemed terribly excited as she held onto the boy's arm.
Having parked, Maurice 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 separating 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 all just too fabulous," he said.
Melissa crossed her legs. As she did, her skirt crawled up her legs and his eyes fell. He could see the tops of her stockings, and the sharp contrast between her milky white thighs and the darker tint of the expensive, sheer fabric.
She wore two garters. Steve felt his heart thudding as he watched her fingers rearranging the garters. Her leg was stretched out, her foot arching over the steep rise of the high heel; the top part of her foot was crisscrossed with thin straps, and her toes, sheathed in silk, wiggled excitedly.
"You like my legs, Steve?"
Steve caught his breath. "Yes. They're lovely."
"I'm glad they please you, I think you're pretty, too," she said, putting out her other leg. Not caring, she allowed her skirt to rise up above the stocking tops, exposing her white thighs and even a small portion of her panty crotch. Steve was sure he could see black pussy hairs sneaking from under her panties, and he could imagine the lips of her plump cunt because he'd seen lots of naked cunts and panty- covered cunts and shaved hairless cunts in the girlie magazines back in the States.
"They do."
She moved closer to him. She rested her head on his shoulder. Her skirt was still up high and, as she turned slightly to face him, it rose higher. Steve just couldn't take his eyes away from her mound. Then at last 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."
There was a moment of silence.
"Steve," she said, her hand on his upper thigh, very close to his penis, which was 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 to kiss his cheek.
"Do you, Steve?"
"Is it important?" He asked this in the tone of an adult many years beyond 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 eyes, the way they burned into his crotch, or the way she licked her lips. She could see the outline of his cock, how hard it was, how it was lengthening. 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?"
In a second, they brushed over his erect penis. They touched. He flinched. He held her close with his arm around her neck.
"Steve, do you mind… do you… if I touch your prick?"
The moment this word shot into Stephenson's ear, his young handsome prick exploded, spurting come all over the shorts, his cock throbbing and doing a crazy dance as her fingers lay lightly upon it, her face buried in his shoulder.
Chapter Four
Suddenly Steve began shivering and his arm shook as he held her around her neck.