“Your home?”
“Yes!”
“And what would the venerable Jonathan say to that?”
“Him? I would tell him to keep his mouth shut!”
“And if anybody would see me enter at such a late hour. What would people think?”
“If you care about that, my darling, I will tell them that I am painting your portrait. I won't tell them that like the labors of Penelope, I shall never finish it. Please, Julia, you do love me, don't you?”
“Of course, my big boy. And to prove it to you, I am going to do something terribly silly.”
“Now you are making sense.”
“But, dearest Michael, you must give me your solemn promise that you not remember tomorrow what is going to happen tonight!”
“I promise anything, darling. What is your plan?”
“You go back to Paris, as you planned. But be in front of St. Paul's church at nine o'clock.”
“The one in the Marais district?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“You'll see… or are you afraid?”
“I am only afraid never to see you again.”
“I swear to you that I will pick you up.”
“Then I will go now and practice patience.”
* * *
Nine o'clock. The sonorous bells rang out the time, and Michael was standing on the steps of the church, his heart pounding. At the same time a simple cab halted, and a heavily veiled woman came out, walking toward him. He ran toward her, grabbed her hands.
“Well, is this punctual enough?”
“I thought it would never become nine!”
“Come,” she said, taking his arm. She led him through a series of dark and dank little streets.
“Where on earth are you taking me in this God forsaken neighborhood?”
“Why there,” and Julia took a little key from her pocket, opening a heavy gate.
They were in a huge garden.
“Wow! You seem to know your way around here!”
“Possibly.”
They crossed the garden and soon, as the reader undoubtedly has guessed, they were at the foot of the huge stairs which led to the mansion on the Rue Charles V. The lanterns were burning but there was no servant in sight.
“It seems to me as if we are in a magic palace,” Michael finally said.
“Yes, we are in a palace of love.”
“That's right, because we are here.”
Suddenly, as if she had come out of the ground, Dorothy stood in front of her mistress. “Oh, it's you Madame,” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, and what is so surprisingly about that? I did not expect you to be here. Why are you?”
“Madame Evergreen asked me. Do you want me to leave?”
“No. Light my room and help me dress.”
Dorothy disappeared and a few minutes later Michael Lompret found himself in the boudoir of Madame Pomegranate Flower, being the first to see her without her mask.
He was too much of an artist not to notice the almost lascivious-though extremely tasteful-decorations of the place.
It would be untrue to state that he was happier here than in his own studio, which was simple compared to the sumptuous surroundings of the little palace on the Rue Charles V. Something had been added, though.
He no longer was confronted by a woman who desired nothing but to be subdued. He found a female who gave herself freely, enthusiastically, who screamed at the peak of her highest lust, who squirmed, kissed and bit, who was well versed in every possible passionate position, whose body was feverish with lascivious desire and who knew precisely what to do to make a man drunk with lust and love.
Upon the big bear rug in front, and later upon the blankets of the enormous bed, Michael Lompret went through a battle of love such as he had never experienced in all his born days. Protected by heavy walls, secure in the knowledge that there would be no possible distraction, the refined comfort, and an enchanting beautiful woman… who could possibly have said that Michael Lompret was not the happiest man in the world.
He was barely alone with his girl friend, had barely satisfied his curiosity glancing around the rooms they went through when Michael again felt the same desire which had so unexpectedly taken hold of his senses that morning in the forest. And, to be perfectly honest, Julia had similar desires.
Even though her memory of the night with the Count de Paliseul was not one of her happiest, the marvelous hours she had spent in Lompret's embraces had wiped it away. She had found in Michael's arms that physical ecstasy which once only Gaston Saski had given her. And, since Michael was stronger and younger, it was clear to her that it could only be better than ever. Especially since they knew each other already, there was no need for hesitant preparations, drawn out preliminaries and all the other niceties which had made her feel like a rutting courtesan and which, obviously, had been the thought of Raoul. Oh, could she ever forget that miserable rogue!
Dorothy helped her change quickly.
She looked charming and enticing dressed only in a Chinese kimono made out of extremely thin, sheer silk which covered her light chemise. Her naked feet were kept warm by fur lined slippers. Michael swept her off the floor and held her in his strong arms. Then he sat down and held her on his lap. The entire atmosphere had made it abundantly clear to him that his woman was very experienced, and therefore he did not bridle his own unlimited imagination.
His hands wandered quickly across intimate paths, caressing the slender alabaster columns at whose top the love grotto awaited. He felt around in the thickets which covered it and did not hesitate to separate the finely curled pubic hairs to look at this beautiful, rosy slit. He feverishly took off his own clothes and showed himself to the young woman in the full glory of his young manhood. With an exclamation of joy, Julia threw herself on his chest and he lifted her high in his arms as if she were a little child. He held her behind up higher than her head, kissing the marvelous buttocks wildly. Then he put her down upon the bear rug, keeping her in the same position because he was going to penetrate her from behind. No sooner thought than done-and his expert fingers played around with her clitoris. She had a long, shuddering orgasm almost immediately — a double exclamation of joyful ecstasy, because Michael, too, could no longer hold in and his hot juices squirted with enormous strength deep into Julia. The two lovers rolled around upon the carpet. For a moment they thought they were going to die, but soon their pounding hearts subdued, and consciousness returned Michael was not wild with lust and desire. His nerves were taut, overstimulated; he had long been waiting for this exercise. He realized that this woman fully matched his own hot temperament and his attacks doubled and tripled in any possible way his wild imagination could think of. Their lips ground together, his hairy chest mangled Julia's ripe breasts and both thought they would die of sheer happiness.
Julia's eyes ranged over her lover's body. His broad, muscular shoulders and arms, his curly hair, well defined chest, his flat belly and narrow waist, hard buttocks and long, muscular legs. His large, dangling testicles were half lost in the shaggy covering of blond hair. She began to stroke them and soon his rod jutted out over her again, thick and straining.
Michael quickly lay down against her once more, running his hands in fluid movements over her body so that she began to quiver and tremble. He caught her hand, pulled it against his penis and she closed her fingers around the stiff, bursting flesh. Michael's whole body was alive; he had to do it again.
Picking her up from the floor, he threw her upon the huge bed. He moved one leg over Julia, lowering it between hers, and moving his body onto hers he drew over his other leg in the same movement so that his hips were between Julia's thighs. He drove into her again.
His body again was one great yearning, a hot, jellied feeling concentrated in his loins.
He began to grunt, his breath grating in his throat. He held Julia with all his force, crushing her, rendering her body helpless. He reached down, drawing her legs apart and up around him, plunging deeper into her love nest. There was nothing gentle about the union.