An American Houseguest

As Isabelle and I approach the stable, the two of us astride the horse they call Lancelot, I see Antoine the groom out front. He's standing on the flatbed of an old truck filled with hay and he holds a pitchfork in his hands. His shirt is off and he's sweaty, as if he's been working hard for a while. I'm conscious of how this must look, the Isabelle and I riding barebacked, our hair wet and our faces flush, our bodies pressed together. I'm not sure how public Isabelle wants to be with our newborn intimacy. What she whispers to me suggests she wants to keep it secret.

"You had better slip off," she says under her breath.

I raise my leg and slide off the horse and take the halter in my hand. I hold the horse as Isabelle herself dismounts as Antoine jumps down from the back of the truck to help us. First, though, he picks up his t-shirt to put it on. It's a funny bit of formality. He can't, or doesn't want to, be seen by the mademoiselle of the house without his shirt. As he slips on his shirt, I notice how well-built his is. Not in the gym-honed way of the guys back in New York, but with strong arms hewed from actual physical labor.

Antoine takes the horse from me and he gives me a little nod. Is he simply thanking me for holding the horse or is it an acknowledgment between two men who share the same secret. He and Isabelle talk briefly in French. I can't understand it all but it has to do with the care of Lancelot. Antoine nods and takes the horse into the stables. Walking up to the house, I decide to broach the subject with Isabelle.

"You know, if you want to keep the story of our ride discreet, I completely understand," I say, trying my best to be non-chalant. I don't want her to misinterpret me, but I also feel a need for clarity.

Isabelle looks at me for a moment before she speaks.

"Jake, there is nothing about which I feel ashamed." I start to explain that wasn't what I meant but she cuts me off. "But I think discretion would be a wise choice for now. Thank you."

She squeezes my hand and we continue walking in silence.

On the terrace, Peter is sitting in the sun with a paperback in his hand and what looks like a cocktail.

"Bonjour kiddies!" he calls out with a grin. "Did you hike together?"

"Jake hiked the lake trail and I ran into him when I was riding Lancelot," she answers casually.

"Splendid," Peter replies, "and how was it?"

"Incredible," I say, glancing at Isabelle. "It's incredibly beautiful here."

"That it is," Peter agrees. "Say, listen, Father and I ran into Charles in the village. He's invited us to the Fete tonight. I told him we'd come. The whole family. Hope you don't mind, Izzy."

I remember something about Charles being the rich guy who's courting Isabelle. I can see from her reaction that I'm right.

"Oh Peter, did you have to?" she says, with exasperation. "I'm trying to get OUT of that obligation. Now, I HAVE to go."

"Don't worry, pumpkin," Peter replies kindly. "It'll be okay. Jake and I will be there to help you fight off the watch heir. Won't we, Jake?"

"But what will you wear?" Isabelle continues. "You haven't costumes!"

"Costumes?" I interject.

"Don't worry about it," Peter says. "Jake can wear my extra tux. And I picked up a couple of masks we can wear. It's all taken care of."

He gives her a little nudge.

"Come on. Don't be a stick-in-the-mud."

"Oh, alright," she answers, not entirely convincingly.

Peter turns to me. "It's an annual costume party. For charity. The host is Isabelle's erstwhile boyfriend. We'll go as her bodyguards."

"Can't wait," I answer. "I think I'll go clean up."

I pay my respects and head for my room. I undress and hop in the shower. As usual, my insecurities come creeping back.

That's just great. Now I get to meet the other guy, the Swiss watch heir who's trés riche and probably trés beau as well. Isabelle can see us side by side. The struggling, unpublished writer and the landed gentry who probably "winters" in Southern France and flies all over world. How can I compete with this guy?

I soap my body and let the water stream over my head.

Wait a minute. Who says I'm even in the game? She had sex with me. We shared an amazing afternoon together. That doesn't mean I'm a rival for her affections. Jesus, Jake, pull yourself together. As I dress in my khaki slacks and a clean white button-down shirt, I find myself replaying the tapes in my head that plagued me during my adolescence. You're nothing. You'll never amount to anything. Your dreams are just that -- dreams. Just then, there's a knock at the door.

"Entrez!" I call out.

Sticking his head in my door is Mr. Fleury, one of the servants.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur," he says, "Une message pour vous de Madame."

He hands me an envelope and closes the door. I open it. It's a hand-written note from Veronique, Isabelle's Mom.

"I'm waiting for you in my bedroom. Veronique."

My heart drops. I completely forgot. I had promised to recite one of my impromptu short stories to Isabelle's Mom earlier this morning. I hadn't had a moment to prepare. And now she wants me in her bedroom. Perfect. This will go over really well with Isabelle.

I take the stairs to the second level and find the room Peter pointed out was hers during the house tour. I take a deep breath before I enter. I will not do anything that jeopardizes what I have with Isabelle. Whatever it is that we have. I'm just not going to blow it by sleeping with her Mother, for God's sake.

I knock lightly and open the door.

Inside I find a high-ceilinged room with ornate furniture and a big window facing the lake. A Persian rug covers most of the floor and a large canopied bed faces the window. The afternoon light streams into the room. Veronique is laying on the bed, against an array of pillows.

"You're late," she says matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry, I just got back from my hike and I needed to shower."

"That's alright. I'm glad you're...cleaned up. It's just I've been anxious to hear one of your stories. You DID prepare a story for me, didn't you?"

"Sure. Sure I did." I step into the room and look out the window. The lake looks luminescent in the afternoon light. I turn and look at Veronique. She's wearing a silk robe with some kind of lacy outfit underneath. Her legs are exposed, and they're incredible.

"Would you like a drink?" she asks and I see a crystal decanter filled with a brownish liquid and a bucket of ice. I think about it but decide it might not be a good idea.

"No. Thank you. I need my wits about it. For the story."

"Suit yourself," She replies, taking a sip from the glass on the bedside table.

"So how does this work, exactly?" she asks. "Do you just make it up then?"

I walk slowly to the bookshelf, getting comfortable in the room.

"Something like that. I have a premise which I work from and then I just let my imagination go."

I'm lying through my teeth. I have no premise whatsoever. I glance at the bookshelf. It's lined with framed photos with high fashion models. After a moment, I realize they're all of her. Gorgeous haute couture shots of Veronique looking stunning.

"And you just go wherever your imagination takes you, is that it?"

"That's right."

"Well, I hope it takes you somewhere hot. I'm in the mood for something trés stimulée. Tu comprend, n'est-ce pas?"

I'm staring at a framed photo of Veronique sitting cross-legged and turning to the camera. She's not wearing a stitch. Her breasts are beyond beautiful. I look over at her on the bed and she's taking in my full form, head to foot.

"I'll see what I can do."

I step over to the window and look out. I've got to pull a rabbit out of my hat. I think a moment, staring out to the lake. I feel the rays of the afternoon sun caressing me. Standing in front of the window, I feel as if I'm being illuminated by the sun. I notice, too, that if I stand just so, I can clearly see Veronique in the reflection of the window, watching me from the bed. And thus arrives my inspiration.

"Long ago, a Queen lived in a castle next to a mountain lake. She was known as the most beautiful queen ever to have reigned in this or any land. All who looked on her were astonished by her beauty. The women envied her and the men desired her.

But her husband the King was a jealous man. He knew the effect his queen had on others. As he travelled to the far reaches of his kingdom, he wondered if she was truly faithful. His mind was wracked with worry and jealousy. He couldn't bear the thought of her with another man.

So the King issued an edict. Whenever he was away from the castle, the Queen must remain locked in her room. She could only be free when the King returned and could ensure her fidelity. And so, during the King's voyages she would remain in her room, guarded by not one but two soldiers, for a single soldier might succumb to her unsurpassed beauty.

At first, the Queen tolerated her imprisonment by reading, and drawing, and weaving, and all the sundry activities she could think of to pass the time. But after a while, she grew resentful. What right does the King have to keep me so? Why should I be punished merely for being beautiful? She vowed to rebel. But how?

As Fate allowed, there was a young Knight who was smitten by her beauty. He was a handsome young man from a far off land whose father had sent him to learn the ways of the world. He had seen the Queen in court and was enthralled by her radiance, her exquisite face, and her graceful body. He knew of the Queen's captivity and he felt sympathy for her plight.

The knight hatched a plan. At night, when all the courtiers had gone to sleep, he sneaked into a room in the tower directly opposite the Queen's bedroom. From the window in the tower he could see into her room, and from her window she could see into his. He placed a lighted candle on the sill and stood before it so that it illuminated him. Night after night he waited, illuminated in the window, waiting for her to see him.

As it happened, the Queen had also noticed the young Knight in court. He was handsome and strong with broad shoulders and dark curly hair. One day, at a jousting tournament, he had won the contest and when he came to bow before her and the King, their eyes met ever so briefly and she felt a fluttering in her stomach. That night, as she lay with the King, it was the Knight she thought of, his strong body, and his handsome face. Now, this same Knight was standing before her.

That first night, they stood there, each of them bathed in candlelight, watching each other, taking in the other's form and visage. And so it was the second night. But on the third night, as he stood before her, something different happened. His passion for her was so great, he couldn't help himself. He raised his hand to his face and gently touched his finger to his lips. He slowly slid his finger over his full lips, imagining it was her touching him. She, in turn, put her finger to her lips and slowly rubbed the luscious flesh.

His finger then moved down to his chest. He let them slide gently over his muscled body. Mirroring him, she, too, let her hands roam to her breast. She ran her fingers over her breast. She rubbed her nipples through the soft fabric. She imagined it was him touching her, feeling her breasts, rubbing her nipples. Soon they were hard, pressing against the soft fabric of her blouse. He could clearly see the outline of her nipples, standing up and out, and he felt a stirring in his loins. He unfastened his shirt and let it fall open, exposing his muscled chest to her."

Standing at the window in Veronique's room, I stare out at the lake, in a kind of trance as the story flows out of me.

"He raised his hand to his face and gently touched his finger to his lips. He slowly slid them over is full lips."

I lift my fingers to my own lips and slowly, sensuously, rubbed my lips, all the while watching Veronique in the glass.

"She, in turn, put her finger to her lips and slowly rubbed the luscious flesh."

In the reflection, I can see her raising her finger to her mouth. The writer in me loves the control I have over my audience.

"He let them slide gently over his muscled body. She, too, let her hands roam to her breast. She ran her fingers over her nipples."

Again, I mime the words as I speak them, touching my chest and then prompting her to do the same. I watch Veronique in the reflection. She's reaching under her silk robe and run her finger over both her nipples. She has no idea I can see her, but I can. Not only can I watch her every move, I feel like I can control them. In the reflection, I can clearly see her fingering her nipples. They're standing up now, pressing against the sheer fabric of her camisole. I start to unbutton my shirt. I watch her watching me, transfixed.

I resume my story, following exactly the actions of the Knight.

"He let his shirt drop on the floor and bared his chest for her. She saw the body of a man, a young man, at the prime of his life. His broad shoulders, his muscled torso, his strong arms. That he was baring himself to her, giving her that gift, moved her deeply. She felt a tingling between her legs.

He lifted his arms and leaned against the top of the window frame, the muscles in his arms tensing, his chest and stomach rippling. She felt he was showing her how strong he was, what he would look like when he was above her, about to take her. Her hand was drifting downward, from her breasts to her stomach, and further, slowly, hesitantly, but inexorably downward.

He could see he was giving her pleasure and that in turn pleased him. He liked to watch her touch herself. He wanted her to touch herself. Touch yourself. Right now. I want to watch you touch yourself while you look at me. That pleases me, he thought."

In the refection, I can see Veronique following my cue, reaching down to the space between her legs, her fingers sliding into the warm, wet folds of her pussy. She's in my control all right. "Her fingers found the wetness between her legs and touched herself, without shame, for she imagined it was him touching her. He watched her, pleasuring herself, and it lit a fire in him like he'd never felt. He felt himself growing bigger. And harder. Watching her touch herself. Watching her fingers loving her the way he wanted to love her. It made him so hard. He wanted to show her how hard he was."

Now, Veronique has her legs spread. She's spreading her lips with one hand and fingering herself with the other. I can hear her breathing fast now. She's getting hotter and hotter.

Knowing my words are inspiring this is making me hot as well. The pressure in my pants is almost unbearable.

"The knight slowly unfastens his pants and lets them slide down his body. Suddenly, she is taking in the sight of him fully naked, standing before her. He is displaying himself to her, to please her, and that moves her deeply. A deep and growing passion builds in her body."

I unfasten my own pants. I have to. My cock is pressing against them and I've got to get some relief. I let my slacks and underwear slide down my legs and step out of them. I'm still facing the window, my back to Veronique, showing her my back and my ass. I hear her let out a moan when I show her my ass.

I remember earlier in the day, when I was returning from my swim, with the water still dripping from my body, how she stared at my body, how fixated she was on my ass, and my cock. The way she ogled my chest and my legs. She devoured me with her eyes and now she was doing it again.

In the reflection, her fingers are moving more quickly and her breathing is more audible. I raise my arms over my head and move my ass slowly. I hear her let out another moan. I've got her right where I want her. I rotate my hips and flex my arms. The setting sun is basking me in a golden light. She's starting to gasp now, moving her fingers quickly against her clit. I reach back and grab my butt cheeks, the way I know she wants to, and squeeze them as if she's pulling me inside her. She lets out a loud moan.

The sound of Veronique bringing herself to orgasm is one of the hottest aural experiences I've ever had and my cock has grown into a huge erection. Still, I keep my back to her, moving my ass slowly, until the right point in my story.

"The knight is so taken by her beauty, so enraptured by her passion, that his own passion grows to its fullest height. He wants so much to be with her.....to touch her.....to feel her naked body under his....to push himself inside her....to penetrate her, again and again.....to fill her with every inch of his enormous love for her. But he can't. He can only watch her. Just as she can only watch him."

Veronique is moaning loudly now, she's coming, or is close to it. My words are carrying her over the precipice.

"The knight wants her to touch herself as if it was he who was touching her.....He wants her fingers to be inside her as if it were his manhood inside her....He wants her whole hand to push inside her, to penetrate her, because that's what it would feel like if he FUCKED HER WITH THIS!"

With that, I turn around and face her, and her eyes fall on my cock, thick and hard, standing straight up, the head swollen and throbbing.

I see her with her legs spread wide, her pussy is glistening and the fingers right hand is buried inside, while her left rubs her clitoris. I see what I couldn't make out in the reflection -- her body is trembling and her pelvis is jerking upward. Her mouth is open and her chest is heaving, her breasts bouncing with each pelvic thrust. She's in the throes of a complete, all-encompassing orgasm.

"She saw the effect she had on him. How big he made him. How much he desired her. It made her passion grow even more intense. Her beauty was enough to make him huge, even across the space between them, and that made her pleasure even greater."

She is quivering now, shaking like a leaf in a summer storm. I can see the perspiration on her chest, the wild animal look in her eyes. I step toward her. Her eyes are fixated on my rock hard cock.

I stand next to her bed. My big cock is stretched out, pointing at her. Taunting her. For the first time in many minutes, Veronique spoke. Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Fuck me....I want you to fuck me."

"She couldn't touch him. But she could touch herself. And imagine. And that was enough."

Her voice was dark. Desperate.

"No, it's not enough. I need you to fuck me. I beg you. Please!"

"And their secret love might have continued like this but, as fate would have it, a servant heard the moans of the Queen. Fearing she might be ill, she entered the room and discovered her pleasuring herself. Seeking favor, she told a member of the King's retinue and soon the King himself learned her secret, though he was unaware of the Knight's role in it. He resolved to deny her any opportunity for self-pleasure and he had her watched by a trusted guard all through the day. At night, he did'nt trust a guard to be with his beautiful wife, so he came up with another plan."

As I talk, I move to the ornate bureau that sits by the wall. I slide open the top drawer. Beautiful silken panties with the finest lace I've ever seen. I open the next one. Bingo. Sheer black stockings. I grabs several and return to Veronique on the bed.

"Each night, the King arranged to have the Queen bound. Tied to her bedpost. Hands and feet. Arms to either post. Legs to either post. She was spread wide. And the door was locked and the key given to the most revered Holy Man. Only thus could he ensure that the Queen would remain chaste."

As I speak these words, I take Veronique's arms and forcibly push them upward so I can tie her hands to the bedpost. Her eyes are big, full of fire and anticipation. When I tie her legs, I see just how wet her pussy is.