As other members of the first act audience were returning to the opera house to continue their self-flagellation with the Puccini opera, Melissa and Steve were relaxing at a corner table in the open-terraced cafe.
He was sitting next to her rather than opposite. They were sharing a beer. The waiter refused to bring two. Serving minors in either France or neighboring Monte Carlo (Monaco, the Principality of-) is positively forbidden, verboten but done whenever the money is swift and the cops aren't looking. Trying to do just about anything in France or Monaco without one, two or a dozen cops looking over your shoulder-well, you'd better believe.
In this case, because of all the jewelry the patrons of the opera were wearing, including diamond ankle bracelets, there were more cops per capita than American tourists. That's saying a whole lot.
"There's more cold beer home," Melissa said. Her thigh was touching Steve's. He could feel it. Also, the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume was intensified by the sultry night. Also, the aroma of sweet jasmine seemed stronger. It was the way the small winds from the sea nearby were blowing, ruffling the palm fronds, stirring up the cigarette smoke from the ashtrays on the many white clothed tables.
Steve flinched at her use of the word "home." He hadn't thought of the childish appellation home in a long time. And he hadn't yet associated the chateau Le No Trespassing as his home even though he was beginning to realize he might be there for quite a spell. It all depended…
"Is that where we're going?" he asked.
"If you want to, Steve. If not, then we can do other things." Melissa looked away. She opened her purse and put on a pair of dark glasses. She saw several old acquaintances she had no desire to become involved with at the moment.
"Like what?"
Melissa sighed. She pressed her thigh against his. He didn't flinch and he didn't indicate that he even noticed.
"Well, we could send Maurice for a bottle of cold beer. There are glasses in the car."
It was an open-ended sentence. "Would that agree with you, Steve? We could take a little ride along the coast. It's fun. You've not seen it yet. Really, it's a fun thing to do. Maurice knows all the little places, the turn-offs, the culs des sacs."
Steve didn't know what les culs des sacs meant and he didn't ask. He did feel a sudden thrill in his prick. He felt it stiffening and he credited this to the proximity of Melissa's warm body, her ripe breasts at which he could look nestling so snugly under the tight fitting dress that exaggerated their rich fullness, that exaggerated her nipples he could see if he dared look closely. He knew she was wearing no brassiere: He could tell by the way her lovely breasts jiggled and bounced when she walked, when she sat down, when she stood up suddenly.
As they sat there, the noises of the square, the passing of vehicles, the walking people, the girl strollers, the whores, the pimps, the gamblers pondering their past and future, Steve couldn't resist the temptations his emotions were feeding.
He felt warm. He felt cold. He felt very secure. He felt scared, and especially when he'd feel the pressure of Melissa's thigh, or when she'd look into his eyes, or when she'd lick her lips, her tongue sliding over them, moistening her lips, then slipping back into her mouth.
He loved the smile in her eyes.
He loved her long, tapered fingers, the pale pink nails, her thumbs. He loved the way she smoked with the long, distinguished cigarette holder made of pure African ivory.
He loved the way she looked wearing the dark glasses, how he couldn't see her eyes but how he knew they were looking at him when her head was turned.
Most of all, Steve loved the smell of her. It was a combination of shower-clean and all sweated up and also like that wonderful combination of smells and delightful fragrances one associates with a perfume counter in one of the exclusive boutiques he'd visited from time to time in the company of his mother back in the States. She was always dragging him to these places, making him wait for her, ignoring him. Somehow he loved the aroma, the mingled scents.
Steve also enjoyed the glances of envy from people who would pause momentarily on the sidewalks, or purposely linger so they could study him and Melissa.
He liked how older men admired him. He loved the looks from young girls wondering who he was, what he did, how come he was with the beautiful, obviously much older woman; questioning their relationship.
He liked how she was making him feel closer to her. At one point he could actually feel his prick oozing and he wondered if he was going to stain the inside of his tight jockey shorts and what would happen if this was discovered.
He kept wondering if she wore panties. The mere thought of this possibility, one way or the other, was positively thrilling. The way Melissa would cross and uncross her long legs, the brief glimpses he'd get of her silky nylons, her heels, her thighs, and the way Melissa would sigh as they talked, often sitting back, or leaning forward.
Steve couldn't forget the image of her playing with herself in the box in the loge. He could still see her hand rummaging around up inside her skirt. He could imagine the damndest things happening and as the time passed he found himself feeling more and more unafraid of her and what would happen between them. In fact, his courage was growing in leaps and bounds.
Melissa finished the glass of beer but before the last drop washed down her throat she passed the glass to Steve.
As he sipped he could taste her lipstick on the rippled edge of the glass rim. It tasted sweet. He liked it. As he put the glass back on the table, their eyes met. "I'm glad your mother let you come here, Steve."
"Me, too, me, too, Melissa."
She wanted to tell him how much she hungered for him but she decided against it. She wanted to tell the youth how she yearned, how she craved, how desperate she was to have any kind of a relationship with him. Also she wanted to tell the boy how good looking he was, how pleasant his face, how clean cut he was and how she loved his manners. So calm, so gentle, oh so observant and so terribly conscious of what went on all around him.
Unlike others.
She slid her chair back. "Well," she smiled, looking around, catching the waiter's eye as she placed a ten-franc note under the empty beer glass, "shall we, Steve?"
He nodded.
She took his hand, then his arm and put her arm through his, the continental embrace. He could feel the curve of her left breast. When their eyes met as they walked through the cafe and out onto the sidewalk, the exchange was vibrating.
Across the road Maurice started up the big black long sleek limousine. The mighty engine purred with power. Shifting into gear, he glided the vehicle over to the sidewalk, his eyes caressing Mrs. Staunton's body. She seemed terribly excited as she held onto the boy's arm.
Parking, he leaped out of the car, came around the front, opened the rear door and bowed:
"Good evening."
"Good evening," said Mrs. Staunton.
"Hi," said Stephenson.
In the back of the car Melissa pressed the button that automatically raised the shadowed glass partition that separated the chauffeur's seat from the rear of the spacious limousine. This impressed Steve. He grinned.
"He can't hear us either," said Melissa, squeezing his arm, snuggling next to him.
"And he really can't see?" asked Steve.
"No."
"This is just all too fabulous," he said.
Melissa crossed her legs. As she did her skirt crawled up and his eyes fell. He could see the tops of her nylons and the sharp contrast between her milky white thighs and the tint of the expensive sheer nylon.
She wore two garters. Steve felt his heart thudding as he watched her fingers rearrange the garters, her leg out, the high heel on her small foot really exciting, the straps of it, the way her toes under the nylon seemed to wiggle, the tint of her toenails.
"You like my legs, Steve?"
Steve caught his breath. "Yes."
"I think they're pretty, too."
"They're lovely."
"I'm glad they please you," she said, putting out her other leg and not caring, allowing her skirt to come up to above the stocking tops, exposing her white thighs, even exposing her panty crotch, and Steve was sure he could see black hairs sneaking from under the panties, and he could imagine the lips of her plump cunt because he'd seen lots of bare cunts and cunts under panties and naked cunts and hairless cunts in girlie magazines back in the States.
"They do."
It was as he said this, "they do," that she moved closer. She lay her head on his shoulder. Her skirt was still high up and as she faced him now, it rose higher. Steve couldn't take is eyes away from her mound. Now he could see the plump lips clearly. He loved the sight.
"Steve?"
"Yes… Melissa?"
"Steve," she said in a soft voice, almost husky; "do you think you're-going to like me?"
"God, yes. I do. I do."
A moment of silence.
"Steve," she said, her hand on his upper thigh, very close to his penis smoldering hot and hard under his clothing, "Steve, do you think that people will start talking about us?" She held her breath.
"He put his arm around her shoulder and she raised her face. She kissed his cheek.
"Do you, Steve?"
"Is it important?" He asked this in the tone of an adult many years his own age. As if he were a gallant, a flaneur, a man of much experience.
She smiled to herself. He couldn't see her lips, her eyes, the way they burned into his crotch, the-way she licked her lips. She could see the outline of his cock, how hard it was, how it was lengthening inside. God, she said to herself, am I going to have the courage? Am I??
"Steve," she said, again her voice so soft it was a gentle caress.
"Yes… yes Melissa?"
She reached her fingers and in a second they brushed over his erect penis. They touched. He flinched. He held' her close with his around her neck.
"Steve, do you-mind… do you… if I touch?"
And the moment this word, shot into Stephenson's ear, his young handsome prick exploded inside his shorts, spurting his boy scum all over the shorts. His cock throbbing and doing a little crazy dance as her jerked it, her buried into his shoulder.