Marie Jardiniere Epilogue Pt 01

© 2022, All rights reserved -- mimaster

Epilogue Pt 1 : Dark Phoenix Marie Jardinière, evil incarnate.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Early Saturday Evening, October 5th

Her prefect body was on top of a chic blue and white striped towel stretched out to cover the lounge chair. She had been showing off her spectacular tan amidst the thinning crowd that had swarmed South Beach in Miami earlier that fall afternoon. She still was, as she sat slightly reclined, offering the appearance of a Goddess. She was stunningly beautiful, as if a she had been dropped from the heavens onto the pristine white sand the fronted the rolling Atlantic.

History is littered with odysseys and novels written about such creatures that lived among the mere mortals. She radiated an exotic aura that was both sensual and electrifying. Pheromones wafted naturally through the warm breeze, casting an ethereal net intended by the cosmos to attract those worthy of her physical form. She was built for sex, and anyone that saw her knew it instantly.

Every molecule within her pulsed with sexual energy; every beat of her heart emitting the bouquet of intimate bliss she could offer. The seascape that surrounded her was an aromatic cocktail; the combination of the ocean, sunscreen and her natural tang making for a sensory experience like no other.

Her long, jet-black hair had strands of deep blue highlights. There was a slight curl to it, the thick, silky tresses flowing back in the light easterly wind. She was talking on her cell phone as the very last golden rays of the early October sun washed over her voluptuous body. It was about to become dusk in the next hour or so.

A patrol officer pulled up right in front of her on his four-wheeler. Shifting it to idle, he looked in her direction and politely said, "Excuse me," then he waiting for a response. She ignored him, continuing with her conversation as if he wasn't there.

"Excuse me, please," he said more bluntly in an attempt to gain her attention. He couldn't tell if she was looking in his direction because of the mirrored sunglasses she wore. Waiting another thirty seconds, he was forced to address her a third time. "

Excuse

me!"

She lifted up the glasses, resting them on top of her head. Her eyes shifted in his direction, the blaze in her brilliant blue irises nearly knocking him off the vehicle. She motioned that she was on the phone, but he persisted. "I need a word with you please."

Talking a bit louder, her sexy voice landed on his ears. So did the language she was speaking.

"Je vais devoir te rappeler, Julie. J'ai un policier qui dit qu'il doit me parler. Oui. Je t'aime aussi. Au revoir."

[I'll have to call you back, Julie. I have a policeman who says he has to talk to me. Yes. I love you too. Bye.]

She ended the call and gave him a disgusted glare. "Comment puis-je vous aider, officier?"

[How can I help you, officer?]

"I'm sorry. I don't speak French. Do you speak English?"

She sighed, spreading her thighs wide so she could sit up. She placed her feet on either side of the chair, digging her French-tipped toenails into the sand. Nodding, her accent was thick when she calmly replied, "Oui. How can I help you officer?"

"I... uh... you see. South Beach isn't a nude beach. We'll allow you to be topless, because we get a lot of visitors from Europe like yourself, but... I need you to at least put your bottoms on."

"What is the matter? Does my pussy offend you?"

His eyes flashed to her bare mound and the parted lips of her glistening slit; a silver bar was pierced into het clitoral hood, adorned with blue gemstones on both ends. They matched the ones in her erect nipples, as well as the large dangling pendant that decorated her navel. To the uninitiated, they would have been mistaken for simple costume variety because of the types of body jewelry they were. But he recognized rather quickly that the items were not only made of sterling silver, the stones embedded in the settings were actually real sapphires. The set she was wearing was extremely expensive... he guessed in the neighborhood of ten grand total based on the size of the gemstones used.

Finding the strength to tear his eyes away from the heavenly view between her sexy, tanned thighs, he answered her with a pensive, "No... no ma'am."

"M'dame! Est-ce que je ressemble à une putain de vieille dame pour toi?"

[Ma'am! Do I look like a fucking old lady to you?]

He sensed her anger in his choice of pronoun, an offered a quick reply. "I... I apologize if I've offended you, but I have to enforce the ordinance. If you want to visit a nude beach, I can recommend..."

"Was there a complaint against me?

"Well, no. I just noticed you. It's my job."

"You

noticed

me. I am not bothering anyone. I was on the phone with my friend. No one is near me. My legs were crossed. I do not understand the problem."

"It's against the law."

Shaking her head in disgust, she grabbed her bikini bottom off the top of the book she'd brought along to read, revealing the title. It was

The Story Of O

, which caught his attention, even though it was a French edition. It also perked his interest in a woman that had no qualms about reading such a provocative novel in public, for he knew the subject matter was bondage and submission. He'd not read the book himself, but he'd seen the movie from mid 70s starring French actress Corinne Cléry. It was screened at a midnight showing he attended with some friends when he was in college a decade before. With that erotic plot in his mind, his eyes were focused on the beautiful woman as she stood, holding the small item of clothing in her hand, her pussy dripping at that point. Yet her ire was up, and she barked at him.

"Des Américains stupides et prudes. Vous dirigez le monde dans la production de porno, mais une belle femme sur une plage est nue et vous perdez la tête. Et pendant tout ce temps, tu regardes ma chatte. Putain d'idiot."

[Stupid, prudish Americans. You rule the world in producing porn, but a beautiful woman on a beach is naked and you lose your mind. And all the while, you stare at my pussy. Fucking idiot.]

She slowly put it on, pulling it up her long, shapely legs. She worked to get it in place, her big breasts bouncing wildly as she moved her hips. It was so microscopic it actually made her pussy more noticeable once in place.

"Are you happy, Monsieur officer? My pussy will not hurt anyone now."

"Again, I'm sorry if I offended you, Miss... "

"Ha! At least you called me Miss that time. Is that your way of asking my name? In France they simply ask for identification," she said as she bent over and reached in her beach bag, those bare breasts swaying gracefully underneath as she did, proving they were natural and not enhanced. She pulled out her small wallet, fishing for her ID as she walked to him, her nipples becoming more erect as she approached

"You're not under arrest..."

"My name is Marie. Marie Jardinière."

"And you're from France."

"Originally," she said as she handed him a Florida driver's license. "Here are my papers."

"Papers? I'm not the Gestapo," he laughed.

"Yet that is how it starts, by removing the citizen's personal freedoms. Non?"

He looked at the license, smiling at the picture. She actually looked incredible in the photo. "You live in Florida now," he said with an arched eyebrow.

"I was an expatriate. I am now a duel citizen. Surely that cannot be a foreign concept in Miami. Do you only consider Cuban-Americans to be that? French-American is a possibility too, oui?"

"You're right. I've just never met one before."

She reached in front of him, switching off the ignition to the four-wheeler.

"Well you have met one now. And despite the misconceptions about our reputation, it is

the French

that do not like rude. If a gentleman is going to engage me in conversation, I expect him to give me the courtesy of his full attention. Please, get off the toy, Monsieur."

"It's not a toy," he laughed again as he dismounted. He towered over her, standing at least 6'4". He was powerfully built, the dry-fit shirt he was wearing stretched tightly over his chiseled chest and abs, showing the definition. His badge was attached to his belt, which was there only to hold the rest of his police gear, as the shorts he wore clung to his body like a second skin. She could clearly see the outline of his huge cock and balls, although she was doing a great job of focusing her attention on her dark brown eyes. The dark grey uniform was athletic wear for cops that had to patrol the long stretches of sand along Miami's shoreline. His sunglasses perched on top of his head like hers were. In spite of the black military style boots, he came off as more lifeguard than police officer.

"All boys have their toys. Conversely, some women have boy toys," she teased with a wink. "Are you going to tell me your name, or should I be asking for your badge number," she said as she glanced at his belt, using that as a pretense to blatantly stare at the impressive bulge he was suddenly having trouble concealing.

"I'm officer Wallace."

"Is that what I am supposed to yell out in passion later tonight?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Does officer Wallace have a first name I can use instead, or is it a mystery?"

He'd become lost in her sparkling sapphire irises. Against his better judgment, he said, "Rashon. What do you mean 'yell out'?"

"What time are you off duty, officer Rashon?"

"Pardon?"

"Hmm... not a detective yet, I take it."

"I'm a lieutenant."

"My point. Not exactly Hercule Poirot. More like Inspector Clouseau," she teased. "You should introduce yourself as

Lieutenant

Wallace. Allowing me to deduce that you are merely an officer does not command the respect your rank deserves. Then again, I can see you are not very good at reading clues. So Clouseau it is."

"I don't understand."

"Oui. I am aware. As you wish, Rashon, I will be more direct. I want to know what time you get off of work."

"Why?"

"So I can fuck you."

"I'm sorry. Say that again."

"Non. You understood, even with my accent. I love black cocks. You have not taken your eyes off my pussy since I spread my legs for you, even after you made me cover it. By the way, shame on you for making me put it on. However, you are going to make that up to me by fucking my brains out tonight. Now what time can I expect you? I am making a hotel reservation for us for the night," she said as she opened her phone.

"You're booking a room? Where?"

"A hotel is right behind me, oui? This first time is on me. After this

it is up to you

to find us a place to play," she said as she finished. Holding up her phone, she showed a reservation conformation for that night at the Ritz-Carlton directly behind her. He didn't know she had the details already preloaded into the app hoping to find someone eager to fuck her that evening.

"Holy fuck. You're not joking."

"If it were up to me, I would let you fuck me right here. That is what I would do if we were in Europe. You Americans miss out on much fun by being such prudes. It takes away spontaneity."

"Wow. This is a lot to process."

"Oui. That is my point. Too busy processing when I could already be sucking your cock in my throat."

As she was saying that, she'd moved inches closer and reached for his zipper. For whatever reason he didn't stop her as she lowered it. Looking left and right, there indeed wasn't anyone on the beach near them at that hour in early October. The sun had just passed over the buildings to their West, sunset fast approaching.

Dropping to her knees, she whipped out his huge cock. She was thrilled it was ten inches, but more so because it was also very thick and veiny. He was stunned, but stood silent as she did exactly what she said. In under a minute she was deep throating him wildly. Just as quickly she pulled off and stood. Removing her bikini bottom again, he came to his senses.

"What are you doing?"

She turned and bent over, her hands grabbing the end of the lounger. "Are we doing this here, or there," she winked, pointing at the hotel.

"There," he said as he struggled to tuck his hard prick back in his shorts.

"Am I under arrest, Lieutenant Wallace?" she asked as she wiggled her ass for him, giggling while doing so.

"No."

"Shame. I was looking forward to being frisked," she said as she stood and turned back to face him.

"I'm off at eight. I can be there by ten."

"Eight? Seems a random time for shift end, oui?"

"I'm on the beach until a half-hour after sunset. It sets at 7:05 tonight. Then I have to file my reports at the post, so tonight it's eight."

"Will I be in your report for indecent exposure and performing a sex act in public?"

"Uh... no."

"Again, shame," she winked as she grabbed her bikini top and put it on, then the bottom. She was dressed, if you could call it that, when she grabbed her phone again. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she asked for his phone. He reluctantly handed it to her, and she dialed her number into it, pressing send. Shaking it while she grinned, she showed him the number ringing on hers. Ending the call, she put her name in his contacts, saying she needed to spell it for him. But before she handed it back, she pulled her bikini top to the side and took a selfie. In seconds she'd made it her profile pic.

"There... so you do not forget what I look like when you come to the room."

She was busy adding him to her own contacts, catching him off guard when she took his picture for an avatar to use. Then she tucked her phone into the front of her g-string bottom for safe keeping.

"I saw you looking at my book," she said innocently as she put her tits back in place and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Uh... yes. I've heard of it."

"Ha! Americans. You have heard

of the movie

. You have probably seen it."

"I've also seen

Murder on the Orient Express

and

The Pink Panther

. The originals, with Albert Finney and Peter Sellers. Not the horrible reboots with Kenneth Branagh and Steve Martin. By the way, Hercule Poirot was Belgian, not French."

"Oui," she smirked.

"Got that from the movie," he shrugged with a smugness that rubbed her the wrong way.

"Of course you did. Americans would never be bothered to be taken to another world in the pages of a novel. Too much work to use your own imagination," she dismissed with her biting sarcasm.

"You seem to have a pretty harsh take on this country."

"Oui. Especially when it comes to sexuality. While I love it here, America is twisted by religion. You pretend to be holy on the surface, but your underbelly is wicked and obsessed with sex. The world leader in making porn? America. The leading consumer? Also America. Yet you wish the world to believe you are puritans."

"I'm not going to argue that point. There's too much truth to it."

She moved and picked up the book, intent on making another point. Returning to stand in front of him, she fanned through the pages.

"Americans would not read this version, if they were to read it at all."

"Probably because it's in French."

"Non. It is because there are not any illustrations. They cannot climax without visual stimulation. Imagination is diluted in this country. True novels require imagery.

This

novel. It is French. It was written in 1954 by a quiet woman named Dominique Aury. For decades she hid behind the pseudonym of Pauline Reage," she informed, pointing at the author's name on the worn cover of the well-read paperback. Using her incredible memory, she recalled an excerpt of a commentary she'd once read online and quoted, "It is also a dangerous book. It is a romance of violence. It is a book which should come with a health warning...

The Story of O

might seduce your heart. It might claim your soul. It could even change your life."

She paused, her passion for the medium showing in the fire behind her eyes. She had always been a voracious reader. Books had been a way for her to escape the pain she'd endured during her childhood. She'd first read a version of the novel she was holding, translated into English, when she was in high school, shortly after being sexually molested by her father on her eighteenth birthday. That event shaped her psyche, but the book gave her a different perspective on her budding sexuality, offering her a glimpse into a world she didn't know existed. She read it a second time, in it's original French, during college, and she discovered nuances that were lost in the translation. The second reading transformed her, which was why she kept the book. She was re-reading in for the umpteenth time; but the first since she'd moved to Florida. The difference was significant, because she was actually embracing the culture of the author.

"So you have seen the film, Rashon. Oui?"

"Yes. About ten or eleven years ago when I was in college."

"And you looked at it as porn?"

"Yes. It was hot."

"It is shit."

"What?"

"The adaptation of the book for film is shit. Most films cannot capture the essence of a great novel properly. Despite Ingrid Bergman winning an Academy Award for her role in

Murder on the Orient Express

, it pales in comparison to what is on the pages that Agatha Christie wrote. That says nothing

for a bad

novel. A bored English bitch writes

Fifty Shades of Grey

and the Western world acts as if the subject were just discovered. But this!" she said passionately, shaking the book in her hand in front of his face. "

This

is true BDSM!

This

is a life of submission! E.L. James' work is a poorly written insipid fantasy for suburban mothers with empty sex lives. I could not even finish the first one, it was such trash. The dialogue alone was excruciating. It is erotic drivel masquerading as being edgy and fresh when it is neither. Dominique Aury wrote with an elegance, about a place in our minds most dare not go. She did it nearly sixty years prior to

Fifty Shades

being published, and gets no credit for the visionary she was. There is no comparison."

"You seem offended."

"Oui. I am. There is a reason crayon pictures hang on refrigerators and not in The Louvre."

"Wow. That... was... you are one incredible woman."

"You have yet to really see," she winked. "Bring your handcuffs tonight and I will allow you discover the real difference between Anastasia Steele and O."

"God damn," he grinned.

"You should bring your baton too. I do not have toys with me. You will have to improvise if I need

two

holes filled."

"I'll see you at ten, Marie," he grinned as he fired up the vehicle.

"I will text you my room number once I check in."

"I'll be looking for it!"

"You found it three hours ago."

"I found what?"

"The woman you were looking to fuck."

"I... I don't understand."

"I am not stupid, Rashon. I have Mensa level IQ. You have been passing by me all afternoon as you patrol. You knew I was naked the first time. You waited until everyone was gone to approach me. Fortunately for you, I was also looking... for the man I am going to fuck tonight," she winked. "Quel chanceux êtes-vous."

[Lucky you.]

Rashon left smiling, and Marie was giddy inside. She called up her friend to tell her.

"Hey Jules, it's me."

"Are you done fishing?" she laughed.

"Yep. And I hooked him. He's a big one too."

"How do you know?"

"What do you mean how do I know? I sucked his cock. I'm not leaving that to chance."

"No you didn't." There was silence on the phone, and she rethought that statement. "Oh my God you did! Right there on the beach!?"

"There's nobody here now. I knew he was eventually going to stop. Although I was beginning to wonder if it would be dark by the time he did. He played the long game. I was completely naked for over three hours."