Melissa Staunton's box in the loge of the Monte Carlo opera was one of the most sumptuous. Others nearby were reserved for the local and visiting royalty that included kings, queens, nephews et cetera. Expensive purple velvet curtains graced the front of these booth-like areas with their plush, very comfortable easy chairs, the gleaming bronze railings and the small lamps on the carpeted floor.
Each booth or private box on the loge overlooking the famous stage had its private entrance. This was a door made of hardwood with bronze fittings. On each door was an engraved plate reporting the owner's name. It was heavy to open or close and the reason for this was that the great weight guaranteed silence when the door was opened or closed while a performance on the stage was taking place.
On Stephenson's first night in Monaco he was literally bored to death as he watched a performance of an obscure Puccini opera. Below in the audience he could see people he recognized from their photographs in newspapers and magazines.
Seated next to him was Melissa Staunton, also observing the crowd, listening politely to the opera, frowning from time to time when the alto-soprano would strike a bum note and clapping merrily when some comic antic on stage solicited the desired response.
"Are you enjoying the performance, Stephenson?"
He wished he had the strength to tell her that of the many things he disliked about life and living, was his name, Stephens on.
He nodded. "Yes," he replied.
"I'm so glad."
He couldn't wait until it was over, Steve couldn't believe anything on stage could be this awful. It was stagnating him. He was also dying of thirst. He was forbidden to chew gum and in the past this had always helped.
He kept wondering to himself if he could find some kind of an intelligent excuse to get the hell out of the place. On the way in he'd spotted a cafe with bright, lights, people sitting on the terrace, the moon full, the air balmy, the perfume of the fragrant jasmine. The sweet scent had excited him.
Making up his mind, he turned to face her, uncrossing his legs. His eyes widened!
From, the position in which he seated, close to the front railing, leaning on it as he saw doing, but not really draping himself or slouching as he'd been advised not to, he hadn't been… able to see Melissa.
The easy chair she occupied was a bit to the rear of the box and she sat in deep shadow. still a decent view of the but this position also permitted her a degree of privacy. From no where in the loge or the upper balconies of the opera house could she be seen.
Melissa had her eyes closed. She was relaxed in the easy chair. Her feet were up on a hassock and as Steve looked at her, Melissa's lips slightly parted, her tongue weaving deliriously across her lips, he could not believe what he was seeing. She had her hand up inside her skirt.
And, it was moving ever so slowly, so casually, marauding around, caressing and stroking her groin. Steve had no difficulty whatever seeing her fingers glide, squeeze, make a tent under her skirt. She was masturbating and breathing deeply, even sighing as her thoughts drifted.
On the stage below the entire cast of the dumb opera was bellowing its brains out in a finale to Act One.
When the trumpets let out a wild blast and the drums started banging, Steve turned. He shook his head. And, as he did, Melissa's eyes opened slowly. She sighed at Steve. He was once more looking over the bronze railing. She smiled. She sighed to herself.
She'd had a wonderful time imagining him stark naked!
As the curtain descended, she reached forward with her hand, placing it on his shoulder. He turned.
"Stephenson…?"
"Mrs. Staunton," he said, half looking at her over his shoulder, "I do wish you'd not call me Stephens on."
There! He's said it. Finally!
Melissa went back. Well… well, she said to herself.
"Very well, what would you prefer?"
"Steve."
She smiled quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she wiped the grin off her face.
"Very well," she said, "on one condition."
"What would that be?" he asked, a little snottily. He wasn't afraid of her for some reason he couldn't figure out.
"… that you call me Melissa… "
This shook him up. "What?"
"… that you call me Melissa."
"I don't believe that?"
"That's what I said, Steve."
He liked to hear the word "Steve" from her lips. It did something to him. It made him feel more adult, less boyish, more of a man. The sound of Stephenson made him feel like a choir boy, some prissy boy student in some prissy boy school wearing a white shirt with a black bowtie and the school blazer.
"You mean," he began, "that I can call you that, like anytime? In public, too?"
"If you wish, you may," she said slowly, pausing, then adding, "Steve."
As the opera house lights came on, suddenly catching more than one elegant member of the jeweled audience dozing off out of utter and complete boredom with the stuffy performance, Steve turned to Melissa.
"I'm dying for a drink of water… Melissa."
Her hand touched his knee and this shocked him. The smile on her face was extremely tender. She looked like a woman half her age.
"You want to know what I'm dying for?" She had a wide grin now; and this made him smile in return.
"Yes."
"A drink, but of something little more substantial than water. Maybe an ice cold beer, huh?"
Steve couldn't believe this either.
"A beer? Where?"
"Across the street. In the cafe. They have a back room where… "
"Where they serve minors, right?"
She laughed softly. "Yes, but I'm sure that if we sort of sat in the shadows and attracted the attention of a waiter swiftly, we could have two ice cold beers."
Steve's heart swelled up inside his breast. All the time he'd been sitting there being bored to death with the stupid, dumb boring Puccini opera, he wanted a beer so bad he could taste it. He also wanted to steal off and smoke a cigarette, but how he'd manage to accomplish this, he yet had no idea.
She took his hand and they both stood together. She towered over him, her full ripe breasts at his eye level.
Steve could smell her delicious perfume. It was intoxicating. He also loved the feel of her fingers holding his hand. She would exert certain pressures that were reassuring to the boy. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. They shared another smile.
Steve was beginning to like Melissa.
"Let's go," she said, grabbing for her purse. "And you bring the camera, okay?"
He looked at her. His eyes had a puzzled expression. "The camera?"
"Yes, we don't want to leave it here although it's safe enough."
"But… aren't we coming back for the rest of the opera?"
"Are you kidding?"
This made him giggle. He couldn't imagine a woman like Mrs. Melissa Staunton with all her money and elegance, her charm, her age, her position in society saying "are you kidding?" It was out of sight!
Hand in hand they went out of the loge, parting the heavy velvet curtains, then passing through the great door out into the corridor that led down to the grand staircase that; in turn led down to the entrance of the fabled building.
George, the chauffer, sitting in the long black, sleek limousine, saw the couple leaving the opera house. He wrinkled his eyes. This was highly unusual. Had something happened?
But he didn't start up the engine. He just sat there. He did stuff his prick back into his pants and then zipped up. He put the little French magazine with the obscene comics in a safe place under the dashboard. He hid the small bottle of cognac in the glove compartment.
As Melissa Staunton and Steve passed down the stone steps of the opera house, George saw her turn and quickly search for the limousine. He knew what this meant. It was her private signal with him to move the vehicle to another spot where she could climb into it without being seen by any of her many acquaintances.
This happened infrequently but when it did, George was always astonished. Quickly, he turned on the ignition and deftly began moving the car out of the line. Backing into the street, he drove slowly around in back of the opera house. He parked near the rear entrance of the cafe that faced the sea. He knew this was probably her destination.
After watching for her and the youth, both came into sight after a few minutes.
George had to admire Mrs. Staunton's walk. She had a delightful sway to her tall body. Her breasts jiggled perceptively. Her hair, beautifully coiffed, bounced on her shoulders. Her long, lean legs encased in expensive silk stockings, her high heels with the thin, sexy straps covering her toes, these sandal-like high heels exposing -more of her stockinged foot than they concealed, were one of her favorite pair. Melissa had a vast collection of especially crafted high heels, boots and other footwear for which she paid a fortune to an Italian bootmaker who visited the chateau from time to time.
George saw them enter the cafe and head for the secluded tables in the rear under the palm trees that flapped softly in the evening breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean.
He scratched his head. His thoughts flew back to Nellie at the chateau. Hadn't she said that something was bound to happen soon between Melissa and the boy?
It was happening. They were holding hands. George could hardly believe his eyes. They were holding hands!
He turned off the parking lights. He sat back. He sighed. He reached into the glove compartment. He swigged from the bottle of cognac. Next, he opened his zipper. He took out his semi-erect penis. He fisted it, then squeezed it and soon began masturbating as he watched the passerbys. George especially loved to jerk off his cock while watching the trim ankles and the bare toes of girls strolling. This is a common and often spectacular sight in Monte Carlo. It's one of the best girl-watching locations on the face of the planet Earth.