The Hot Adventures Of Cool Felise

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The Hot Adventures of Cool Félise

~

by Portia de Shade

CHAPTER I

The Dreadful Letter

He

should

have his face pressed up against my door-- he should be begging and pleading to have me back!

From the sounds coming from outside my apartment this morning, I imagined that it was my beloved Professor Stephan, that he had shown up, his ear pressed to my front door's peeling red veneer, pitifully knocking and listening to hear if I was inside. "How dare he think he can win me back now!" I sneered to myself, "After everything he did, after everything that's happened!"

"Félise," I imagined him whispering between broken chokes and sobs, "this is impossible, just impossible!" And then silence again.

"He has no idea how to treat a woman," I thought with fury. "Nor will he ever!" Then the sounds of knocking outside resumed.

"I beg you," I joyously imagined him crying, "on my knees, in tears, all the tears I wept upon the dreadful letter I wrote, don't abandon me this way!" Then the knocking ceased as I heard the familiar clink of antique locks unbolted and a creaking doorknob turn.

"Monsieur," said my landlady from next-door, "what do you have for me today?" She bid the postman enter. "Christ's tears, another letter from that abominable tenant!"

"Christ's tears, indeed!" I muttered, imitating my landlady's country accent. At least I wasn't the only one cursing unwelcome letters.

The last time I saw Stephan was the day I found and read the dreadful letter he'd written. Why our last encounter occurs to me at so inappropriate a time, I shouldn't say. But when I imagine he's alone, crying and pining for me, a freezing thrill steals down my sides. In any case, Stephan-- that is his Christian name-- is not exactly welcome in my thoughts just now. At the moment, I'm a little busy. My womb was just full of a boy's prick, a blond boy named Jean, and his hands were quite full of me. Hoping this afternoon to lure him like a minnow between my legs, I chanced upon him a few hours ago at the Café de Louys, where he sat quite innocently reading his little book in his lap. I could tell he didn't remember that we'd met before, and I wasn't about to tell him we did! Our first introduction, you see, came under very different circumstances.

But to call it a chance encounter isn't precisely right. I had definite designs on Jean before I was everywhere passionately fond of his hands and mouth on my body. And I've grown wildly fonder of him in the short time we've gotten to know each other. But just meeting him was no easy task. That's why I couldn't leave anything to the whim of chance. I strolled past his table at the café twice before I had the courage to approach him. The first time I passed by, I caught the fine lights of his eyes in mine; the second time, I took a gander at what he was reading-- Thomas à Kempis'

Imitation of Christ

. That happens to be a book I know well, and I was pleasantly shocked to see him reading the writings of a 15

th

century monk.

"But perhaps," I thought, "his reading a guide to repentance and holy living means he has something to repent of!" I envisioned a variety of scenarios involving Jean doing things to me that would later require him to enact some desperate religious measure to correct. When I finally did approach him, my uninvited-- nay, my unrepentant--boldness paid off for me like a sinner attaining heaven. Without asking, I slithered up to his table in my slinky dress and picked up his matches to light a cigarette-- pretty piece of impudence! Though I'd not said a thing, he looked up at me with a sudden expression, as if lost for a reply.

"You look as though you are on the verge of speech," I said, winking. He laughed. "I'm Félise," I added, extending my long white arm for him to take my sleek white hand. "I hope you don't mind, I'm taking this cigarette, ok? I like yours better. Mine are the cheap kind anyhow." Even though it was apparent he didn't recall our having met, what solitary boy turns me away -- a gorgeous nineteen-year-old girl-- to continue reading a book? None, I should think; that principle of nature admits no exceptions.

"Do we know each other?" Jean asked me.

"If you'd met me, could you forget?" I replied. He laughed, and I lit the cigarette he had no choice but to give me. "What's your name," I asked, sitting down in the chair he had no choice but to offer.

"My name is Jean, Félise. It's Félise, isn't it?"

"You've forgotten already!" I said with mock-surprise. That actually made him blush. Jean's lily-white cheeks going scarlet reminded me of a welt-covered bottom after a good flogging. At once, Jean's bashfulness set me to imagining his hands kneading and slapping my ass until they were red as his cheeks. "That's fine if you forget my name, Jean," I told him. "But how will I ever teach you anything if you can't remember?"

"Teach me? What do you mean?" was his retort, and he flung himself to the back of his seat. He lit a cigarette, and looked the other way. Now I thought I'd hurt his feelings, and had to act before my chance to get to know him really was ruined.

"I didn't mean anything bad," I said, putting my hand on his closest knee to smooth out the rough edge. "I meant nothing, really." Jean frowned at me. "May I?" I added, subtracting another one of his cigarettes from his inlaid silver case. He smiled at me and I knew he was my captive once again. It's wonderful that girls have it so easy sometimes, men can be so difficult. But once I'd regained my stride toward his bedroom, I was sure to pursue only the gentlest topics at hand, letting nothing pass my lips that wasn't aimed at his cock.

"So what are you reading there?" I asked, motioning to his copy of

The Imitation of Christ

. He told me the name, which I knew already, and I asked him why he'd be interested in that kind of book. From what he was reading, I guessed that he wasn't a Protestant, which sect I blame most of the world's problems on. If I'd found out, after fucking him, that he was a Calvinist sympathizer, or worse, a Lutheran, my cultural standards would have been dearly compromised. I might never have forgiven him for the dark deception of such an omission. But the facts of Jean's religious affiliation were far from my mind after he told me where he'd gotten his pious volume.

"My girlfriend let me borrow it," he said. "Her professor at the Sorbonne assigned the book in a class, but I don't think she ever read it."

"You have a girlfriend, then?" I asked. He squirmed in his chair and glanced around in search of an explanation to explain yet another lapse in his memory. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were involved," I said in a settled way, and feigned disappointment as I feigned getting up to leave.

"Yes, but she's-- Félise, don't go so soon!" cried Jean. "Why don't you join me for coffee? Come, come, sit here."

"But wouldn't she get mad if she saw us?" I replied, doubling the hurt in my voice. "I'll bet she would. What if she heard you were sitting with a girl she didn't know?" I twisted the barb just to see how bad he wanted me to stay; I already knew he'd bend me over on a moment's notice.

"Oh, she's not even in Paris right now," Jean replied.

"Your girlfriend?" I said with damnable iteration.

"Yes, she-- my girlfriend-- is spending the month in Toulouse with her parents."

"Is she?" I asked. "What is it, the 15

th

today? What's a boy to do with so much time between now and the 31

st

?" Looking at him, my suggestive green eyes narrowed.

"Well," he began, "since she's vacationing--"

"So does

she

have a name," I interrupted, "or have you forgotten hers as well?" I had the lofty sensation of looking down at him, even while we were sitting.

"No, I've still got it," he said smiling and pointing to his head. "I think it's Shalon."

"That's a lovely name to guess, silly. Is she as beautiful as her name?" I was amused to know how he'd describe her.

"She's a handsome girl," was all he allowed, which, to me, was a good sign. He was already trying to shrink her importance to make momentary room for mine.

"So what do you think of me, Jean?" I asked, knowing that would get the wheels of possibility turning in his mind.

"Well, you are very attractive, Félise, and you have a name that reminds me of snowflakes falling on the sea."

"So he has a glib tongue after all!" I thought, and giggled a little for his flattery. "So then you really don't mind if I sit for awhile?" I asked him. "It's so hot out today, and I've been walking around for the last twenty minutes."

"Yes, please, rest-- whatever you would like, Félise. Let me get you a drink." His voice was emphatic, but not overly so. I told him I wanted an espresso with a great deal of mint flavor in it, and Jean passed the word on to the waiter, who glared at us as was his duty. The time of nervous introductions soon gave way to our talking about philosophy. His lips, ever flickering under a thin shade of haughtiness, were soon rhapsodizing to me about Heidegger's concept of

thrownness

. My foot was already more than brushing against his, my anxieties over his girlfriend lost in the

throw

.

When I discovered Jean sitting alone in the café, I had already been trying to arrange a chance meeting with him for two weeks. I thought him charming and handsome the first time I met him at my girlfriend Amelia's party last April. He was there, I well recall, with his girlfriend, Shalon. Why they're together is beyond me, since she's neither intelligent, nor funny-- and as far from an imitation of Christ as one could be! All she can offer Jean is her body-- her long slender body, like a treasure tower. But God, her conversation is perfectly awful.

But Shalon may as well have ceased to exist when, a few hours after I'd met Jean, her boyfriend's cock was buried so deep in me it wouldn't go any further. And I had no idea how fervently he'd mouth his devotions at my dripping Venereal altar. From the moment Jean realized, sitting with me at the café, that I was dying for him to put me over his knee, or bend me over the table, and that I'd put up no struggle if he tried, the erection in his pants hadn't gone down an inch. That I couldn't keep from looking at it didn't seem to bother him, so I uncrossed my legs and, raising one, rested my foot on a vacant corner of his seat. My dress was not long, falling just down to my knees. By letting my legs fall further and further apart as we talked, I made sure Jean saw the long contours of my thighs. For fifteen minutes, maybe more, our bodies carried on their own dialogue, right under our clothes. But I think he was, at first, a little scandalized at the fact of my desire. In my mind, I was already spread eagle for him, but he thought we'd just met each other an hour before! I could've told him anything about myself and he wouldn't have known the difference. When he pressed for a reason why I, a complete stranger, wished to bestow all my favors upon him, I told him that I was just an innocent virgin and suggested that he give thanks to the Virgin Mary for sending him a girl so utterly wanton. He knew I was kidding, and of course, I was; but leaning forward I invited, "Jean, tell me I have the face of a virgin."

"Yes, Félise," he said, "you're so strange and beautiful," and that's when I started to kiss him. I doubt he was concerned with my credentials as a virgin as we kissed, there, sitting at a table in a wood-paneled café. In our conversation, Jean had mentioned to me a gorgeous botanical album of lilies he owned by the artist Redouté. I almost fell for him thinking that he even had a book of lilies. It sounded wonderful, and I thought it would make the perfect pretext for us ending up at his place together. Knowing he didn't have it with him, I asked, once our kiss had ended, if he wanted to show it to me.

"Here, Félise?" he asked, disbelieving my request, "You want me to show it to you here?"

"Jean," I replied, "don't be silly! I meant the book you were telling me about! Do you want to show it to me?"

"Yes, but Félise, it's at my apartment." I made no reply, intent on getting an invitation. There was no way I was doing everything for him! A moment later, Jean was clever enough to ask, "So, you wouldn't mind going back to my place to see my book?"

"I would love to see where you live," I replied, "is it very far?"

"Oh no, just a few minutes, if we can find a taxi that will take us."

On the cab ride to his apartment, all I could think about was what would happen, and wondered what he was thinking about doing to me. I didn't ask him, since inside the taxi it was too quiet for us to talk freely. The bare skin of my thighs slid on the dirty brown leather of the backseat when the car went around turns. We sat crowded against one another after some sharp corners, breathing and stealing glances at each other. My purse fell open on the floor as the driver made an abrupt stop. The three of us watched an old woman with her groceries cross the street. Jean took my hand in his and put it up to his lips. I let my free hand gingerly brush his hard cock under his pants. It stung me to touch him, but it also stung me not to touch.

The day outside was very warm, and heady smells from the cab's earlier passengers clung in the air. The scent of sweat, the lurking sense of unknown bodies, the dirtiness of the floor; for me, these possessed an uncommon, vulgar sexuality that heated the green embers behind my fairy eyes and put a ruby color in my famished lips. I leaned over Jean to check him from rolling down the window, touching his muscular arm to indicate my wish. My tits ached to have his hands crowded upon them; my very pulse stung for the desire to throb everywhere against his. I thought to myself,

"I'd let any of those strange, shadowy riders of taxis, whose smells and traces consume my imagination, I'd let any of them have their way with me, and not even ask for a name!" I was drunk on the aroma of our filthy backseat, and would've died to savor the moment forever!

Jean inched his hand up my thigh, then a little further under my dress, and whispered that he wanted to put his fingers in me. I raised myself up a little to let his hand go underneath, and his fingers slid into me beautifully. We smiled at each other in half-innocent surprise. My dampness came off on his palm as he pleasured me, going deep with one finger, then giving me two even deeper. He cupped me like a flame in his hand, careful of how sweetly I burned, and watched my hips undulate with his touch. When his fingers began to work my clitoris, I heaved a little sigh for him, and almost couldn't resist taking his prick out and putting it between my lips right there. But I did resist, and a good thing too. When I let my head lean back on the seat, I noticed the cabdriver was watching us in his rearview mirror. I said nothing to Jean, but bit my bottom lip red when two invading eyes caught mine gazing back under heavy lids. Considering my lusty state, had the driver been better looking, I might have let both him and Jean give it to me.

After we arrived at Jean's apartment, we refreshed ourselves for a moment from the heat. As he washed glasses in his tiny kitchen, I examined my surroundings: a dusty violin, literary newspapers on a table, a portrait photograph of a girl holding a dog; but no sign of his album of botanical pictures. I took my kitten heels off and sat down on the floor. His books, mostly lying in heaps around the periphery of a long couch, were not as good as I'd hoped. "At least he reads," I told myself. "I couldn't fuck him if he wasn't at least interesting." While waiting, I picked up Jean's student edition of

The Romance of the Rose

and looked through its well-thumbed introductory pages. As I tossed it back on the floor, he surprised me from behind with a glass of absinthe, which I took from him with a wink. Moving some books and papers aside, Jean and I sat on the floor together with our drinks. We stirred melted sugar cubes into our glasses, and together, watched them sink and melt away in the green liquor. We spoke very little; but Jean's green eyes were ever on me, searching my person over, relishing the insoluble mystery of the moment.

He took me to his couch kissing, squeezing me in his arms, and making love to my long white throat with his lips. I stopped fighting with myself and gave in. After such a long wait, I could dream no longer of my hidden foe, and so undid his belt with much impatience. But I didn't neglect fondling his shapely ass under his trousers while unfastening some shirt buttons. When I drew his impressive cock out of his pants, it was lust at first sight. My lips parted unconsciously, as if for amazement, but truly, it was for delight. I persuaded him to stand up with me, but then insisted that he sit for a moment longer. I wanted to feel myself up in front of him first. I stood and bent over to pull up my socks. I wondered if he could appreciate an ironic gesture. My hands caressed my belly and my thighs through my thin dress; then I laced my arms around myself and unzipped the back. I bit my lip, I pouted like a little girl for him, I drove him mad.

My teasing display lasted only a moment before he was standing in front of me. He held my wrist as we took turns licking one of my palms. My salivating hand descended to stroke his thick member with our mélange of spit. Our lips and tongues all but welded together, so violent was our kissing. I slapped his wet cock against his thigh when he bit my lip a little too hard, and a little laugh spoiled our kiss. But then such joy I had when he asked me to put out my tongue for him to suck. Merciful God, that made my senses swim right out of me! I got on my knees and gave my mouth and tongue over to fitting the full length of his cock inside. Doing my best to swallow the whole of it, my short hair flicked against his legs as my head nodded back and forth in front of him. Surely Jean was impressed with my skillful efforts on his behalf. Though I couldn't imagine things ending so soon, I dreamt of his cum spilling out of my mouth, covering my palms, and hitting my sweet little tits on the way down.

I shouldn't have bothered Jean with zipping my dress back up, but it is a little thing I always relish, to have it taken down again. After cradling his balls in my hand with his cock in my mouth, my will to defend the innocence of the Eden between my legs collapsed. I fell back onto the couch to let Jean devour my Altar of Venus, which he was more than willing to oblige. I spread my legs for him, but he raised them up instead, exposing everything for his viewing pleasure. He kept my thighs back with one hand as his tongue and several sopping fingers took turns swimming in my pussy. The sounds of our pleasure combined in a careless rhythm of moans and gasps, the pitch of wantonness rising between us. His breath between my thighs was as hot as a steam radiator, and long desperate exhalations came irregularly amid his efforts to make me come.

Rubbing and squeezing my nipples, I pinched them hard and softly in turn; and how well they deserved it! How like two cherries drowned in cream, despite my neglect of them for being so unhappy lately! To be truthful, it's moments like these, and none other, when my right mind is nowhere to be found, that I find myself again. What a superb tongue he had, and strong! Tapping and twirling it on my bijoux with the regularity of a clock, my brows knit tight together and the blood beat like waves in my temples! I knew high noon was perilously close as his minute hand ticked-off the seconds until my sweet demise! And if that were not enough, Jean started licking my ass and my secret beauties in tandem. I let my tits go to reach down my sides, spreading my ass cheeks wide for anything he wanted to do. With my finger's tips, I held the foremost edges apart, and let everything inside me relax so his tongue could go in as much as possible. I tasted the velvet sensation of his tongue sliding over my lesser altar, pushing in, thick with spit and supple pressure. From the cleavage of my ass to my clitoris, I was like a smile turned sideways!