On the backseat of the 1952 Chevrolet, Lancelot, his cat fur just as black as the car itself, is purring on Sophie’s lap while Elizabeth quietly drives on the two-lane road under an all-orange sunset. The AM radio is airing the most famous Parisian signer, Edith Piaf with La vie en rose…
“Quand il me prend dans ses bras, qu’il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en ro-ose! …” (When he holds me in his arms, and whispers to my ear, I see la vie en rose…)
Elizabeth signs along, driving with the sun visor down toward that sky, which is presently ablaze with a grandiose ballet of golds and oranges, from the most delicate yellows to the brightest flame red, with clouds blurred in that window of eternity where evening gives a fiery orange as a participation gift to the dying day.
Our new friend Sophie is quietly listening to Edith Piaf’s aired signing, half asleep as she keeps stroking her purring cat. I watch her as she dozes off.
The sunset casts a wonderful sheen of gold on her white-pure face, but I love even more the way her slightly open mouth and pouty lower lip, wearing no rouge, make her look like a high-school girl dozing off during class. That dainty hand of hers as she keeps stroking Lancelot reminds me of her small feet when I saw her for the first time in the presbytery.
“We’re approaching the village of Repentigny, lover. I’ll need to stop at a gas station. We have less than 20 miles to go before Montreal. Since all restaurants are closed for Easter, I’ll drive all the way to the apartment my agent has rented for me on Rue Parthenais. We’ll need to ask for directions when we get there, but in one hour, we’ll be at my place, all three of us. What do you say, lover?”
“Sounds great to me. I’ll phone my parents and tell them I’m fine; I won’t tell them where I am, don’t worry, but I want them to know that I’m fine and I’ve left willingly. This is in fact the best. There’s no way the police could trace us all the way to your pad in Montreal.”
“You said a pad… You mean an apartment? You speak funny sometimes around here. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Aahh… I’m tired. These priests near Sainte-Anne-de-la-Pérade! They really gave me a mighty shaking! You weren’t so bad either, handsome! I’m tired, but I want more of you… Meow!”
Elizabeth playfully meows as she caresses my thigh with her white-gloved hand while she keeps driving; the western sky is all on fire with hues of gentle pink presently making an appearance at the smoky edges of some clouds.
“Wow! The sunset is gorgeous tonight! It is one truly magic moment we’re sharing, sweetheart…”
“Oh, darling! Call me sweetheart again… But, ooh, this is a lovely French song… J’attendrai!”
With her delicate gloved fingers, my lovely—and much older—girlfriend turns the chrome knob to hear the song louder.
“Yeah, I know this one. She has dark hair a bit like yours, this singer… She’s half Italian, half French. What’s her name? I think it’s…”
“Rina Ketty. I’ve met her once in London. She has class with a capital see, as in, you have to see her to believe she’s real. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! She’s mystic, truly mystic… Listen to the poetry in her words…”
Rina Kitty’s soft, Italian-coloured voice fills our car with her lyrically plaintive notes of hope, along with a soft jazz quartet, the horn and violins adding to the sorrow of the young woman who sits home, waiting for her love and hoping he’s still alive. The lyrics tell the story of a young wife waiting for her man to return from the war.
With the loving warmth of her wonderful Scottish accent, Elizabeth signs along…
“Les fleurs pâlissent; le feu s’éteint. L’ombre se glisse, dans le jardin. L’horloge tisse, des sons traînants. Je crois entendre ton pas… Le vent m’apporte, des bruits lointains. Guettant ma porte, j’écoute en vain… Hélas! Plus rien…Plus rien ne vient… J’attendrai, le jour et la nuit, j’attendrai toujours… ton retour!”
(The flowers fade into paleness; the fire dies. The shadow creeps in the garden. The clock weaves lingering sounds. I think I hear your footsteps… The wind brings me sounds from afar. Watching the door, I listen in vain… Alas! Nothing… Nothing more… I will wait, all day, all night long… I’ll always wait for… your return!)
“Oohh… Lover! It is so beautiful! When I was playing theatre during the war, we would often listen to that song while sipping coffee. They played it often in England, you know.
On days we were in luck, we had some cognac to jazz up our coffee with, but, uho! There’s a gas station… Time to fill up the gas tank! Oh, lover, do you know which side I need to park with that car? I’m still all shaken up; ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“I… I think it’s the tail light on your side, Ma’am! I mean, sweet girl!”
“Oohh… But it does excite me when you call me Ma’am…”
I watch her dreamy white gloves challenging the thickening night as she gently pushes the three-on-the-column lever up and downshifts into second gear, then she gracefully turns the wheel to the right and slows down, before coming to a halt right beside the rectangular fuel pump overlooking the car like a thin, lawful sentry, always on duty even on the night of Easter. On its top sits a white circle with a ketchup-red star.
“Here’s a handful of dimes, lover. Buy some potato chips and Pepsi-Cola. That would be nice to feed your giggling girl. And don’t forget Sophie! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha… Almost home!”
The teenager manning the Texaco station looks at Elizabeth with saucer eyes as he fills up the Chevy, and I have no doubt that he’s doing just that with her in his dreams.
He has more food for his eyes as Sophie emerges from the backseat with Lancelot. The short girl stretches her legs along with her black cat, looking like a little teenage witch that hugs herself against the chilly April evening; she’s wearing only her plaid shirt over her mud-brown skirt that covers a third of her lower legs. The cat never goes farther than two or three yards from her saddle-shoed feet.
As I stand in my suit, all six feet one of me, wearing my fedora hat under the darkening twilight, I probably look old enough to be Elizabeth’s companion to this young station employee.
If this were a gangster movie, this would be the exact moment when a large car with four armed men would pull in the station, rob it and kidnap the two girls they find—Elizabeth and Sophie.
In my wild imagination, I visualize the black and white movie of what they would do to them, four mean guys with these two gals who end up enjoying all that. I have a raging erection tenting my tweed trousers just as my gaze falls on Sophie’s petite figure and her all-teenage ponytail. I love how her skirt hugs her thin hips as she bends over and takes the cat and hugs him in her arms.
She catches my gaze and giggles while Elizabeth pays for the gas. This reminds me that I have no money of my own and I’m living on Elizabeth’s purse; this is not right. If my stay with her stretches over days, I’ll need to find some work to make some dough of my own.
The night is quiet in Montreal and traffic is few and far between.
After we passed Bridge Le Gardeur, Route 2 eventually morphed into a large street, Sherbrooke Street.
The house windows are alight with Easter joy as families are dining and rejoicing to be together. My heart sinks as I think of my folks—my mother, my pops and especially my sister Suzanne. I miss my sister a lot more than I would ever think possible; this is weird. Well, I love my sister.
Finding someone walking down the sidewalk proves challenging on that night where everybody’s inside. We finally find a patrolling policeman, afoot, who kindly tells us where to find Parthenais Street.
Rue Parthenais is a quiet middle-class neighbourhood lined up with tall, majestic trees. The buildings are all three-story high and look like they were built between 1900 and 1940.
As a Scottish lady, Elizabeth is used to park a car on the left side of the street, so she struggles a bit to park parallel when she finds a nice spot nearly in front of her place. She laughs and giggles as she kills the engine.
“We’re home! Home sweet home! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Kiss me, my love and never mind my lipstick…
“Mmhh… And you, Sophie, I welcome you under my roof. You’ll be my guest for as long as you wish. I’m here until August to shoot a movie.”
“You… You’re really an actress?!”
“M-mh… A B-movie actress only known on the other side of the ocean, but yes.”
“I… I don’t know what to say…”
“Well, say nothing and get your things up. I’m on the second floor, number 66 he told me. Why did he have to pick this number? He does want to make me look like a modern-day Jezebel, and of course, Sophie, Lancelot is welcome too. With a black cat, the Jezebel picture is complete! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
We cheerfully ascend the steep stairs, freshly painted in grey with thin black-iron railings, until we’re at number sixty-six B, where Elizabeth turns the key into the hole and opens a white door into a new chapter of my life.
“He said the building is from around 1920 and everything was redone a few years ago. Please, do come inside, and oohh! Kiss me again, lover, and make my world spin round!”
“It already…”
“It already does, I know! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Je t’aime à la folie, mon amour!” (I’m crazy for you, my love.)
Before long, we make ourselves at home. Sophie and Lancelot will sleep in the smaller guest room, and we’ll take the master bedroom, me and Elizabeth.
The lights are warm and they cheer up the dark woodwork with tawny accents. The walls are either painted in an unctuous cream peach colour or decorated with mint-green wallpaper with plenty of arabesques and silvery flower patterns.
The floor is wooden and properly waxed. Lancelot is already exploring each room’s nooks and crannies while we undo the luggage and put over our food in the kitchen.
This is an all-furnished pad with a full-belly refrigerator, and there’s already some butter and dried fruits in it. We find plenty of canned food and even bottles of maple syrup in the pantry.
There’s word from her agent…
“Dear Elizabeth. Now that Canada is graced with your lovely presence, I hope that you will find this apartment comfortable and a fitting place for such a lady of quality as you are.”
It is signed by a Jérôme.
“Is he… I mean, does he… Would he think of… with you?”
“Jérôme?! Good heavens, no! Bless me, he’s one of these men who likes boys. In fact, I will want to keep you hidden from him! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ohh, you silly… Now, let’s find some cans and eat a bite. I’m positively starving!”
After putting some Chef Boyardee spaghetti sauce on the stove along with a hefty helping of pasta in boiling water, we help ourselves to a comforting spaghetti dinner and wish each other a happy Easter. There’s even some parmesan cheese and herbs such as basil and parsley.
We find Carnation evaporated milk for our coffee. Lancelot gets this for his dinner along with some Viau cookies after tuna from a can. He meows with his tail gently wagging as he eats heartily.
“Looks like Lancelot found a new home!” I say.
I feel Elizabeth’s gaze on me. She’s looking at me intensely; her lips are silently moving; they’re forming letters and words… I love you.
“I love you too, sweetheart!” I whisper as I gently kiss her while caressing her raven hair while Sophie starts clearing the table and bringing the dirty dishes to the sink. I can see that she did this a lot when she was living with Father Sam and Robert.
As I watch her walk around in the kitchen, my eyes naturally follow the movements of her waist and hips, which are hugged and highlighted by her thin leather belt and the same mud-brown skirt that she wore in the presbytery.
Her waist is even slimmer than Elizabeth’s and she’s probably a good three inches shorter, which would make her a school-girly four feet eleven.
And she does have boobs! Her girly shapes are unmistakeable under her neatly tucked-in plaid shirt where gold and greens criss-cross each other, forming squared patterns that follow her teenage curves as she moves about and I help her cleaning the dishes.
With Elizabeth wiping the dishes dry—and watching us keenly as we stand close to each other—the dishes get washed in no time.
“I need a good shower now! I still have their smell all over me. I’ll feel much better once I’ll be fresh and wearing my pajamas… No, no, I’ll have my shower alone, handsome. Chat a little with Sophie; you haven’t really met! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Elizabeth giggles and leaves us between teens. Isn’t she jealous and scared that I’d want to have some alone-time with a girl my own age? I’m quite puzzled as she walks to the bathroom, humming Rina Ketty’s tune, J’attendrai.
Sophie doesn’t offer me much in the way of an invitation. She just raises her shoulders and goes off to the living room, where she kicks off her saddle shoes and promptly removes her socks before sitting on a sofa of rose sateen upholstery with her pretty legs folded under her lithe body. Lancelot immediately jumps on her lap.
She smiles at me as I take my seat on a cushioned chair, quite shyly I might add.
There’s something childish in her expression as she playfully smiles at me while fidgeting with her hair with one hand and stroking her cat with the other. The shortness of her figure emphasizes her puerile look. She fascinates me and very strongly arouses me, as I know that she’s in fact a year older.
“You… you can sit with me on the sofa; I won’t bite you, you know? Come on! Didn’t you ever sit on a sofa with a girl your own age? Come on, shy boy! Mhi! Hi! Hi! Hi!”
“As a matter of fact, no. Other than my sister, I never did.”
“Neither did I. I’ve never been with a teenage boy… I’ve only been with older men, and I mean much older men.”
“Do you like this?”
“I’ve never known anything else. Why do you keep looking down at my feet?”
“S… Sorry… I… I…”
“You like them? You like my feet, don’t you? When we first saw each other, over there, and I stood barefoot in the kitchen, I noticed that you looked at them.”
“Well, uh, yes… and, and you playfully curtseyed.”
“Yes! But do touch them if you want. They’re a bit smelly after that long drive, but… I don’t know, I… It would be the first time a boy of less than thirty years old touches me, and… I don’t want to steal Eliza’s boyfriend, but, you know, I’m… I want to start a new life. I want to start fresh…”
As she speaks, I move Lancelot out of the way and I take one of Sophie’s feet in my hand. Oh, God! Her foot is deliciously small and it feels… There are no words to describe how it feels to hold her foot in my hand.
I start to gently caress it; her foot is throbbing and warming up as she giggles. It feels like I’m holding her entire girly essence in my hand. Only lads who love a girl’s feet truly understand that feeling. Oh, God! I love her smallness! She’s my opposite and touching her makes me feel complete.
“Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Careful, I’m tickly! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi!”
She laughs and giggles while stroking her purring black cat. She looks like a little teenage witch. Her giggling sounds different from Elizabeth’s. Sophie sounds a lot like the little girl that’s still within her, while Elizabeth is really a young woman acting the part of the teen girl she once was.
“How long have you been with her?” Sophie asks, nodding toward the hallway, where the shower can be heard from the bathroom.
“Don’t laugh! We just met yesterday.”
“No kidding!”
“We met yesterday and she literally kidnapped me. Well, I’m not exactly complaining… She took me in her rental car and we drove off from Quebec City.”
“And you had a wild night at the motel, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah. That’s about the size of it.”
“And she let herself get gang-fucked by Father Sam and Robert on the dining table. That was so hot! I watched everything!”
“You did?! So you’ve seen me and you…”
“Yes, I saw you when you banged Eliza… And when you came, you said my name, loud and clear!”
As she speaks, she suddenly has fire in her blue eyes. I take the hint and begin caressing her legs higher and higher, while listening and making sure the shower is still running. Her white skin feels like live silk under my hand; I feel she likes this. She’s breathing heavier.
“Gaston… I don’t think we should be doing this. Eliza is very kind to me. It’s not right for me to do this with her boyfriend…”
I become shy, all of a sudden, but I let my hand linger on her foot and let my gaze get lost in her long, warm chestnut hair, which she wears in a simple ponytail. She’s a country girl all right.
“I… I like your feet, and your legs… I… I like you very much, Sophie, but I think you’re right. I…”
I suddenly realize that Sophie is kissing me. Did I hear Lancelot meow and jump off her lap as she moved in for the kiss, or did I feel the fleshy softness of her lips on mine? I will never know which came first.
For all I knew, she was frantically kissing me and my hands were presently moving up along her legs, up on her hips and presently reaching and cupping her lovely breasts, so ungodly firm and perky!
I thought that Elizabeth had firm, teenage-like breasts, but as I gently caressed Sophie’s boobs through her country-style plaid shirt, I instantly learned the difference between teenage-like firmness and a true teenager.
Such wonderful moments are lived in an intense present, but as soon as you’re living it, it’s already gone and past. Memories are made of this.
“Gaston, no… We must not! Eliza is my host… I’m curious, very curious, but we… We must not…”
With new resolve in her limbs, she gently pushes me away from her while tenderly looking at me. The shower is still running. It’s all happened like a dream. I was kissing her and caressing her breasts through her plaid shirt; now we’re sitting near and looking into each other, both of us shy.
Something tells me that Elizabeth would perhaps enjoy watching me with another girl. Didn’t she enjoy getting fucked by other men with me watching? Why not the other way around? Such a prospect is cheering to me.
I look at Sophie’s breast shapes and feel a very intense desire to strip her topless and suck her tits. She follows my gaze and blushes, but she says nothing. Lancelot jumps back on her lap and she starts stroking him; he’s purring again.
I even want to test the waters right away with Elizabeth. All I have to do is to take Sophie by the hand and lead her to the bathroom, and there we would be, taking a hot shower between all three of us!
I can’t find the courage to do this. I only tell her she’s right, but I keep caressing her legs and feet.
“Look, Sophie, nobody’s in a hurry. I’ll massage your feet and… Let’s see how she reacts when she sees us like this.”
“No! It’s… It was a bad idea! I… I think she’s finishing her shower now. You… You better sit on that chair by yourself…” she says in a slightly panicked tone, yet her eyes tell me that she does want me to keep caressing her. She’s breathing hard and very clearly aroused.
My bladder settles the debate within myself. I rise from the sofa and go to the bathroom door, where I gently knock. Elizabeth lets me in. She’s getting out of the shower with a towel around her Eve-nude figure.
I find it so very fascinating, to know that within less than forty-eight hours, the two of us went from complete strangers to intimate enough for us to share a bathroom. Life is so strange! Love is strange.
“Watching my feet again, eh? So, did you got… acquainted? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! She’s a lovely girl, isn’t it?”
She looks at me, very much amused at my flabbergasted expression and leaves me by myself in the bathroom with my crimson-red face and a full bladder, which I presently relieve.
We spend the rest of the evening in the living room, which offers peach-painted walls that glamorously contrast with the dark woodwork and furniture. The hot-water heating radiator, standing its dutiful watch under the tall-curtained window, gives us comforting warmth and we forget the chilly night outside.
On the wall, I notice an antiquated pistol, no doubt purely decorative. It’s the kind with a flint that was loaded and fired one bullet at a time back when Canada fought its last war against the then-young United States of America, while Napoleon was fighting against all Europe.
Then, there’s a decorative plate showing a lovely dark-brown-on-off-white painting, where a musician wearing impossibly large whiskers plays the fiddle while a dozen lads and gals are dancing on his reel, dressed like on a Sunday a century ago. The painting is so skilfully crafted that I can feel the reel from that silent fiddle and the dancing footsteps from days gone by.
Elizabeth, wearing her strawberry-pink pajamas, snugly sits close to Sophie on the leather-cushioned sofa while I sit by myself in the cushioned chair with lacquered wooden armrests. As usual, Lancelot is purring on Sophie’s lap as we listen to the radio program.
Lancelot lets Elizabeth stroke him on his head and he intensely purrs.
“He likes you, very much… I’m jealous!” Sophie playfully remarks.
“Yeah… This is a lovely Mister cat! The two of us are going to get along fine together!”
Did Elizabeth say this referring to her and the cat or to her with Sophie? Both?
Elizabeth intensely smiles at me as I watch her sitting right close to Sophie. By Jove, she’s leaning against her! Sophie’s a bit surprised, but she soon relaxes.
Both girls are barefoot with their lower legs plainly visible as they both sit with their legs folded, in what would make the most lovely living-room painting one could imagine, complete with a purring house cat.
On the radio, a lyric group of men is signing a traditional song a capella. Their four or five voices ranging from bass to baritone offer a comforting tune…
À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener, (As I was walking by the clear fountain,)
J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y suis baignée. (I found the water so lovely I had to bathe.)
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime, ja-mais je ne t’oublierai… (I’ve loved you for so long, I will never forget you…)
Sous les feuilles d’un chêne, je me suis fait sécher. (Under the oak’s leaves, I lay and dried.)
Sur la plus haute branche, un rossignol chantait. (On the highest bough, a nightingale sang.)
Their voices seem to come from afar, from deep within my heart. Once they are finished, the radio host informs us that the Quattuor de Lorraine is presently giving a special live performance for Easter in Oratoire Saint-Joseph.
They suddenly interrupt the program to make a tragic announcement. The Bishop of Three Rivers, Monseigneur Gilles Laurent Clairmont has died suddenly of a heart attack. He was eighty-two years old.
Father Samuel, the priest of Sainte-Géraldine-du-Fleuve, reports that His Excellency was indisposed in the morning and could not sign the mass.
He further tells the news reporter that His Excellency felt better during the afternoon and decided to take a stroll. He suddenly collapsed shortly after he was back.
Father Sam offers no comments as to why His Excellency was at that small countryside parish on Easter Day while he ought to have been in Three Rivers.
We all recognize his voice…
“No comments, please, no comments. This is a very trying time for all of us in this parish. The Lord has called his loyal servant back to His side. Please, join me as I pray for his departed soul…”
“See?” Sophie suddenly says. “See? He could have said something about you, Elizabeth, and your young lover, but he won’t. He knows that I know things, so he won’t speak in the hope that I keep my word and say nothing about him.”
“Will you? I mean, he stole money from the parishioners. Don’t you think that…”
“I can’t. If I expose him, then he’ll expose you, and the scandal would hurt you. Believe me, people here in Canada will usually tolerate a man seeing a teenage girl, but absolutely not the other way around! My hands are tied.”
“But this is not right, sister. I mean, all those good people…”
“Those so-called good people,” she suddenly snarled, “are not really much good. Whenever I was taking a stroll near the church or going out to fetch firewood, I had to be very careful not to run into some honest husband or young man who felt a bit lonely, if you know what I mean. Most of the time, I had Robert with me outside.
“Right now, I want to just be here in Montreal and not have to worry about anything else. I’ll let Father Sam sort out his issues by himself. He shouldn’t have become a priest to begin with; he likes women far too much to be a Catholic priest, and I think you’ll agree with me on that, Ma’am!”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, sister, but don’t call me Ma’am. Call me Eliza,” she says as she tenderly strokes Sophie’s chestnut hair. Sophie looks back at her with surprise and puzzlement in her eyes, as if she never learned that two girls can kiss and greatly enjoy it. I would have immensely enjoyed watching them kiss and make out.
Two days ago, I would have been shocked and flabbergasted, but now, after Elizabeth told me about her encounters with black men and her intimacy with her fellow actress Margaret Lockwood, I am learning not to expect the unexpected.
“Please, Ma’am, I mean Eliza, don’t call me sister. I’m not ready to call anyone my close kin. Sophie will do fine. Aaaww (she yawns)… If you don’t mind, I’ll turn in for the night with Lancelot. I’m dog-tired! Good night!”
She nods at Elizabeth, then at me with what I had hoped to be more than just a short nod, but she looks very tired indeed. It is such a big change of life for her.
As I hear the soft pitter-patter of her feet on the wooden floor, I watch her lithe, nearly childish figure and get one last look at the way her skirt hugs her slender hips as she leaves the room without looking back at me, like I was secretly hoping she would.
I love the way the ceiling lights play with the warm chestnut of her long hair. My ears drink that lovely pitter-patter as she walks away. I regret having lost the opportunity to kiss and lick her feet.
I suddenly realize that she does like me and I may have her if I want to. Yet I do love Elizabeth. I’m like all confused and torn up inside, but I do have a loudly proclaimed erection pushing and making a tent with my trousers.
“Tell me, lover, now that we are between ourselves, would you like it to have both of us in bed together?” Elizabeth whispers as she softly runs her hand on my thigh, slowly approaching my bulge while I think about opening Sophie’s shirt and uncovering the bright-pale mysteries of her breasts.
“But, Eliza, I’m with you, and you’ll… won’t you be a bit jealous?”
“Not so loud, handsome; she’s going to hear us! Yes, perhaps I’d be jealous, and… and if I were a character in a cheap novel or movie, yes, I would make a scene! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! But we’re not characters; we’re real people living life.
“That girl, Sophie… she’s really decent. She’s a very honest girl. You know I love teen boys. Well, I can also like a teenage girl, at times. Now, handsome, I want the whole truth… Did you kiss while I was taking a shower?”
“Well, I… That’s… That’s a lovely tune the radio is playing. I…”
“Don’t try to change the subject, lover! I’m an experienced girl. Why do you think I left you alone together? Look, handsome. You were a virgin yesterday morning, and if you decide to go steady with me, like I hope you will, then you will never know what a true teenage girl feels like, and trust me, by the time you’ll be twenty-five or thirty, you’ll want to experience it before it’s too late.”
“Well… I… Yes, we kissed.”
She suddenly looks at me with a stern look on her face and yes, fires of jealousy in her eyes.
“Sweetheart?! Didn’t you just tell me that…”
“Don’t sweetheart me! You’re clearly a boy! You never, ever tell your girl that you did something with another one! Never! She’ll guess it. She’ll deduce it. But never directly tell her; never, on any consideration! Tonight, you’ll sleep on the sofa, alone! And don’t even think of visiting me during the night!”
She promptly leaves and I listen to the angry pitter-patter of her lovely feet while admiring her figure, clad in that same strawberry-pink pajamas she wore in that motel room. Her wavy black hair makes a fitting crown as she walks away like a stern queen.
If she wanted to make me feel like a teenage blundering fool, she hit a bull’s eye. She also made me angry.
I take off my jacket and my shirt, which is beginning to get quite smelly since I’ve been wearing it for two days straight. I go through the empty room and find a blanket, a nice wool blanket and I prepare to sleep on the sateen sofa, resting my head where Sophie sat an hour before. Some of her scent is still lingering there.
As I rest my head on the cushion and find a comfortable sleeping position, I feel mad at Elizabeth. And with all this, I forgot to call my folks in Quebec City. By now, they certainly have informed the police and the fuzz are looking for me.
The hour is quite late, but I owe it to them, so I find the phone in the living room, resting on a side table right near the sofa. It’s a round-base rotary dial phone, black with a straight cable as always.
I call the operator and she brings me to the long-distance number I ask. The phone rings and I’m all filled with butterflies. I hope it won’t be father! His angry voice would positively terrify me.
“Yes, mom?” I ask when someone picks up the phone.
“Gaston?! It’s Suzanne! Where are you?! Mom and dad are so worried. They called the police a few hours ago…”
“Ohh, sister… Are you in your pajamas right now?”
“Huh?! Why do you ask this? Yes. Where are you?”
“Tell… Tell mom and dad I’m all right. I’m with someone and there’s no need to alert the fuzz. I came with her of my own free will.”
“With her?! You mean, you’re with a woman?! Where are you?”
“Good bye, Suzanne. I’ll phone again, or at least I’ll send a telegram; long-distance calls cost a fortune. Tell mom and dad I’m fine. I love you.”
I hang up the phone, feeling suddenly very shy as I realize that I asked my pretty sister if she was wearing her pajamas. What for? The answer positively frightens me and fills me with unspeakable guilt. I’m presently having a boner while thinking of my sister in her pajamas. Shame on me!
While I feel guilty from thinking about my sister in such an immorally sexual way, it dawns on me that anything else is comparatively a trifle. I’m aroused and I want a relief, and this apartment contains two beautiful girls in two separate bedrooms. All I have to do is go there and conquer! They’re in pajamas too.
Elizabeth has proven just how unpredictable a woman could be. She needs a good shake-up and I’m going to give it to her! Boys my age fought in wars. Father Sam told us about how he fought in Mafeking against the Boers when he was only fifteen.
What’s this compared to what I’m about to do? Perhaps this is what Elizabeth secretly wants from me—to disregard her orders and overwhelm her.
Let’s go!
I first get rid of my smelly t-shirt; I’m going to need some new clothes tomorrow, but one problem at a time.
Bare-chested, I exit the living room, turn left and make my advance in the dark hallway, slowly, as my eyes adjust to the near-pitch darkness. I presently reach the nearest bedroom, to my right. Holding my breath, I quietly turn the brass knob. I make a low hiss of frustration—it’s locked!
I gently knock. I knock again. Elizabeth doesn’t answer. I knock again, a bit louder. No answer still. The two-bedroom apartment is sleeping in silence and midnight shadows.
That door knob is a round brass knob that offers no visible hole. I have no idea how to pick that lock.
But there’s Sophie’s room, further away. Why not? Why not? I’m sure that she’d love to continue what we started in the living room. And Elizabeth is right; if I don’t experience lovemaking with a girl my own age, I will no doubt come to regret it later.
Thus, I make further advance in that long hallway and try my luck with the other bedroom, which is to my left, past the bathroom and just opposite the entrance to the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of the tall sink and its brass faucet in the silent kitchen as I reach for the brass knob and find that it isn’t locked.
I open the door to Sophie’s bedroom and step into the profound darkness.
I slowly, carefully walk and find the bed. I feel with my hand to locate Sophie and make sure I’m not going to squash the cat. My hand meets her leg, and I lovingly caress it through the blanket, all the way up her hip as I understand she’s lying on her side.
“Sophie… Are you asleep?” I whisper to her ear and gently kiss her cheek as she softly stirs. Her delightful scent is somewhat familiar.
My voice has a detonating effect. It starts a hurricane in that bed as the girl becomes fiercely alive and bolts and does her utmost to wrestle me off her, and as she strains and curses at me, I recognize Elizabeth’s voice and realize—too late—that I’ve confused her bedroom with Sophie’s.
“Gaston! How dare you call me by her name again!” she shouts and keeps shouting, “Get out! Get out! Tomorrow you go back to your city and I don’t want to ever see you ag… Mmfffhh… Mmhh!”
I kiss her while wrestling her on the double-size bed. Her five-foot-two frame is not very difficult to pin under my six-foot-one blossoming manliness. Wrestling her increases my pleasure tenfold; I’m hunting a sweet game and it is truly delightful. Having her after this fight will be amazing!
The more she tries to fight me off, the angrier she gets and the more excited I become. I grab and pin her wrists firmly on the mattress on either side of the pillow, where she shakes her raven head of hair and keeps trying to shout at me, but I keep pressing and forcing kisses on her. She’s already getting tired.
I leave her mouth and start kissing the pale silk of her neck while my eyes are beginning to see better in the dark. Instead of uttering the shout I was expecting, I hear her panting, and I suddenly realize that she’s no longer resisting.
“Oh, Gaston! I’m so happy you turned up! I… We’ll talk about Sophie later… Shag me! Overwhelm me! Ooohh, you shake my world from top to bottom, Gaston! I’m like a volcano! I’m your Jezebel, and I’m caught! Do with me as you like!”
My hands move down on her and I grab the hem of her pajamas top. Everything suddenly goes so fast that the action sinks into the past even before I’ve done it.
With a degree of brutality, I roughly pulled up the top of her pajamas, crudely exposing the resting mounds of her breasts as she lay panting under me.
Her hands wrote her savage excitement as they ran like crazy through my hair while I engulfed one of her wonderful breasts in my mouth and felt the bud of her nipple under my tongue while kneading the divine dough of her priceless boobs. I’m defying customs and basking in this forbidden delight with my hands softly sunk into her dented softness as she moans and calls me her young buck.
Through the firm yielding of her breasts under my hands, and through the fascinating scent and taste of her nipples in my mouth, I sense her urgent desire for sex.
She yelps with unadulterated delight as I toss her around and roughly pull down the bottom half of her pajamas, fully exposing the lovely expanse of her butt. Her booty powerfully feeds my erection, even in the dark.
I move her up to her knees and as she takes a position on all fours with her elbows supporting her weight, I sniff Elizabeth’s pure-white butt and get a whiff of unrestrained female arousal as she begs me to shag her and to do it right now.
I run my hands around her lovely contours, with a devilish grin in the dark as I know I’m torturing her; I can’t get enough of her curves. There’s something so simple and mysterious in the bottom of a woman that I can’t wrap my head around. I just can’t.
Licking Elizabeth’s buttocks is priceless and brings me an unspeakable sense of satisfaction. It’s immediately followed by an even more powerful sense of domination as I fully realize that I’m about to fuck her doggy style, which is becoming my favourite position, in close competition with having her with her legs all the way up and her feet where I can kiss them.
Sex is fraught with tough decisions between different, lovely options.
Before I even know it, the penetration comes. I feel her boundless arousal throb and tightly massage my captive manhood as I begin to pound her and delightfully take hold of her waist while she herself repeatedly drives her bottom against me to meet me and take me deeper inside her.
“Faster! Faster! I want it rough… Please, handsome… Punish me… Punish me like the bad Jezebel I am!”
Holding her tight waist while feeling her derriere as it constantly buffets against me is a delight beyond words, very much like the rest of her.
There’s wonderful depravity in copulating doggy style with such a glamorous woman as she starts whimpering and keeps calling herself a bad Jezebel while her face remains cushioned on the creaking bed as she offers me her protruding butt.
Strangely enough, I’m not even thinking about the way Father Sam, his deacon Robert and the now-departed bishop gang-fucked Elizabeth on their dining table. No.
As I keep delightfully banging her while she whimpers on all fours, I’m running my fantasy with Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind…
The slaves have revolted. She runs from the blazing fire devouring her father’s white colonial house. She runs, but the slaves, the slaves catch her. They catch her and take her inside the stables where the distressed horses are neighing. Scarlett doesn’t resist as her father’s African slaves break centuries of taboo by ripping off her dress and destroying her corset. She starts whimpering as they finish stripping her naked and force her to kneel and display the luminous treasures of her body on the straw floor.
I feel the pressure become tighter and tighter while I keep fucking Elizabeth, holding her lovely waist and banging her butt the same way as the leader of the slaves is now banging Scarlett O’Hara…
She moans and squeals, begging them to please stop, but she isn’t resisting and she secretly enjoys the feel of that African man inside her as he keeps shaking her on her knees and they all cheer around her, calling her a dirty little strumpet from Atlanta while the leader keeps telling her that “Milady is a tight and sweet mistress”.
I grunt and groan and I no longer know where I am. Scarlett’s and Elizabeth’s white butt are now one and the same; one is in a dark bedroom in Montreal while the other is brightly exposed under the flaming lamps held by revolted slaves, who are all masturbating and waiting their own turn while Scarlett O’Hara is being given the roughest ride of her life with her pretty face in the straw and dirt of the stable floor while horses keep neighing.
The large, strongly built slave is clearly painted in my mind as the man’s dark-brown face gets lighted up with saucer eyes and an open mouth as he marvels at the enormity of what he’s doing—fucking his ex-master’s daughter.
I get lost in the savage, primal act. Ooh, God! The butt of Scarlett O’Hara! She’s Eve-nude amid fifteen slaves, all hot and ready for her! The unthinkable is happening.
“Ohh yes! Yes! Yes! My young buck! Punish me! I’m just a dirty little Jezebel… Ooohh… Oohhh…”
And she keeps moaning under the relentless onslaught, and the man enjoying her suddenly bolts and frantically accelerates his pace, holding her waist urgently and making her wince and yelp with pain and delight as he ragingly and repeatedly drives her butt into his lap.
He powerfully erupts inside her and fills the place with a loud, unmitigated scream of victory.
I only have time to picture the next slave, a loyal servant in his late forties, as he kneels behind his owner’s daughter and Scarlett calls his name, Henry, as he begins to take his pleasure inside her; I only have time to do this before my legs turn to Jell-O and the vision fades away as I let myself fall down next to my thirty-something girlfriend as she presently lays on her back and masturbate…
“Oohhh! Oohh! Ooohh… They punish me! I’m just a dirty little Jezebel and now… Now I am caught! Caught! They all mount me, one priest after the other…”
She frantically repeats, “I am caught, I’m Jezebel and I’m caught!” as she fingers herself; I can’t see much, but there’s no doubt about this. She suddenly bolts and yells, “Oh my God! I’m Jezebel!” and she detonates with a high-pitched series of moans that echo loudly throughout the dark bedroom.
I gently stroke her hair as she’s heavily panting from her blissful exhaustion. I love Elizabeth and I want to show it through my actions. I’ve always thought I was going to be an affectionate and caring man when I grew up into a tall teenager.
I’ve always known and hoped that I was going to have my first time with a raven-haired beauty. I had no idea she was going to be this old and this beautiful.
“Ohh… Gaston! Kiss me! It was so lovely…”
As I kiss her, I’m under the impression that we are being watched. It immensely excites me to know that Sophie was perhaps—probably?—there and watching me fuck Elizabeth. I add two plus two and conclude that she must be horny if she watched.
“Sophie is a fine girl, you know,” Elizabeth says while still recovering her breath. “I’m jealous, yes, but I know that you need to experience love and sex with a girl your age before making any decision to get engaged to me.
“I’m serious, Gaston! Time is ticking. I’m no longer twenty-two and I’ll need someone by my side as I grow older. We’ll have to wait until you’re seventeen or eighteen, but at any rate, if we go along that route, people will talk and gossip about us.”
“But, Elizabeth! It would ruin your acting career, won’t it!”
“Yes, I think you’re right. Nothing’s free in life. Defying social customs comes with a heavy cost. But I have some money from a family inheritance. We could lead a simple, quiet life in Glasgow. If you want.”
“But, gee… You love acting, don’t you? This is what you are, an actress, and when you called yourself a Jezebel, you were so beautifully acting… It felt like I was really making love with a captive Jezebel. What I mean is acting is what makes you who you are. Who are you going to be when you’ll no longer be an actress?”
“You… That’s a very profound question! You surprise me, handsome, so much a man and so intelligent already, while I’m just a giggling girl in your arms. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oooh, waaahh… Sorry if I’m yawning now. I’m suddenly very tired. Good night, darling!”
“G… Goodnight, my sweet girl!”
“Hhmm! You know exactly what to tell a girl! Good night, darling!”
“Those were two loaded days…”
“That’s why we needed the relief… G’night…”
I don’t answer. I scoop her into my lap and gently hold her as we lie side by side. The scent of her dark hair sees me off to sleep.
(To be continued.)
