A Period of Adjustment (20 page)

A gigantic terracotta plinth supporting a huge urn frothing with a bounty of white impatiens and scarlet geranium. Two enormous cedars left and right of a pleasant, unremarkable, but cared-for late-eighteenth-century house. Tall chimneys, long windows, white shutters, a curved portico over an open front door flanked by two rearing griffins. There was also a peacock, and Frederick running towards us trailing a kite.

‘Hi! So you found us. It wasn't so far, was it? I have a kite, but there's no wind this morning. We can go to the lake. There's a lake through the trees.'

Giles had clambered out of the car, had hitched his jeans, looked round at me. ‘Awesome!' he murmured, and to Frederick he said, ‘Can we swim there? I've brought my things.'

And then she was on the top of the steps tying the scarlet scarf round her hair, long legs apart, a cream chiffon dress light on her slim body.

‘Hi, there! I'll be right with you. Frederick, you can't
swim today. Not without Henri present, and Henri has gone and messed up his foot. So
no
swimming.'

She came down the steps slowly. I was standing by the Simca, and then she was beside me, an envelope in her hand. ‘But you can use the pool. I hate you to be in that lake. Henri can be Nanny by the pool, right?' She only looked at me during this, calling over a shoulder. She handed me the envelope and in a low voice said, ‘This is where to meet. Full instructions. I'll follow you. Twenty minutes.'

I took the envelope. She was smiling, her eyes bright with complicity. ‘I do not, at any time, believe that my right hand should ever know what the left one does. Do you? Just wait there in the
parking:
I'll be driving a little car, a Citroën. The Mercedes is too obvious.' She turned away and started back up the steps calling to the boys. ‘Frederick. Take Giles to see the monkeys. We have monkeys, Giles! Don't get bitten.'

Giles turned and looked at me with a vague smile of disquiet, not about the monkeys, I felt certain, but about being left.

‘I'll be back, don't worry. About five, or maybe before. Enjoy yourself. And put on your hat. Sunstroke.'

Frederick yelled, ‘Come see, Giles!' But he stood watching me, still uncertain, the bundle of swimming things slipping under his arm. I crossed my heart. He smiled, nodded, waved, and ran off shouting, ‘Where are you?'

She was still at the top of the steps, a tiny breeze frilled the light hem of her skirt, floating it. She stood there smiling. ‘You have to do that always? Crossing your heart?' I nodded, she went into the house. ‘Twenty minutes after you. Right?'

Just outside Sainte-Brigitte, in a modest block of inexpensive new flats, three storeys high with sprinkler-watered lawns, two tall imported palms, and an oval swimming
pool, deserted and tidy, I parked the Simca and sat under a spray of violent bougainvillaea to wait for the Citroën. Her envelope had contained the address and a note to say that she'd bring a picnic. ‘We'll just rough it. Won't that be exciting?' It was unsigned.

I waited quietly under the ugly creeper and saw no sign of a living soul. The flats were built on a ridge looking down over the town and the soaring view below. It was a clear sign of what was about to happen to the area in the near future. Modest retirement flats. ‘Studios', the large sign-board said, for modest incomes, elderly people from Paris, Lille, Amiens and places north. A pleasant, inexpensive nest for the aged, arthritic, rheumatic or just ordinary, retired shopkeepers, bank officials and insurance clerks. Unpretentious, discreet. An odd place for Lulu de Terrehaute to hang out in? Perhaps she didn't? It didn't matter one way or another, lust had risen within me once again. Long, long suppressed desire and need was swelling me, infusing my whole being as if I was a randy eighteen with spots and a bad haircut.

And then, with a soft whisper of tyres, she had arrived and driven her car into the
parking
just a discreet way from my Simca. There were no other cars to be seen. Maybe the elderly only used their Zimmer frames to get about? It looked as though no one had
ever
swum in the crystalline pool.

‘No one ever does,' she said, a large lidded hamper in one hand, a bunch of keys in the other. She had covered her head with the scarf, wore the wrap-around dark glasses, no jewellery. ‘This place is strictly for the aged, fat and ugly. I borrow the flat from a girl I know who is as discreet as hell and is, presently, away on a trip to Rio, or Saigon, or maybe Athens. You can never be certain of her. This is her secret place. But I have a key! That's all that matters.'

We were in a neat, unscarred lift. ‘They are all empty in
this block. We are right on top. Great views. If we get time to look at great views.' Her hand was suddenly on the zip of my jeans, slid up to the brass pull, slid down again, caressing my growing strength. ‘I guess we can find lots of other things to look at, don't you?'

The lift murmured to a stop. A light, narrow corridor, a couple of doors, left and right, one green, one pale blue. She opened the blue one and we were in a dim, shuttered room. The door slammed behind me, the hamper was dropped and she reached eagerly for me again, crushing her mouth brutishly over mine before I could even yell, which, with the force of her grip, and the suddenness of the attack, was almost obligatory. It was a greedy, vicious joining. I matched her easily. I lacked restraint too, and matched her greed now that I realized the situation. Good manners were not for today. If this was the ‘lunch' she had suggested, then I was ready and able and we'd have one. It was also being made clear that we were not into
nouvelle cuisine.
This was to be a banquet and I, from where I stood, braced against the door, legs astride, was to be the main course. With a groan of impatience she pulled away. I could see her eyes in the filtered light from the louvred shutters. Diamonds, they were so hard and bright.

‘Get the message?' Her voice was as hard as her eyes.

‘Loud and strong,' I said.

‘And so is this,' she said, and struck me sharply between the legs. I lurched forward gasping but she grabbed my belt-buckle, pulled me into a sitting-room.

Light filtered, a smell of dust. She unzipped her dress, let it slip to the floor round her feet. Kicked off her shoes, pulled the scarf from her head and, as her hair fell to her shoulders, told me to remove my shoes.

‘I'm going to strip you, babe. I don't mess with shoes. Get rid of them, then come to me.' She walked into the pearl light of the room, opened a window with care, eased a
shutter. The light became a little stronger, when she turned back to me I was shoe-less. Her nakedness overwhelmed me completely. Slight, smaller than I had realized, her breasts taut, shining, jutting upwards, waist narrow, firm thighs, long legs. She had no body hair; glowing, bronzed, satiny. Only white, pure aching white, at the fork. Her arms raised wide in invitation, head to one side, the cat-smile.

‘Here I am,' she said. ‘But
where,
my randy fellow, are you? Shall I look? Feel the package? Guess what I got? I'll look. Just you stay very, very still so I can strip you all the way down. To your “bare essentials”.'

She lowered her arms, the provocative cat-smile faded. I needed no provocation. If this was how she played the game I would go along with her. She came towards me arms reaching, hands curled into predatory claws, and ripped my shirt open to the waist. Buttons scattered. ‘No vest. Great …' The shirt was tugged roughly from my jeans, dropped. ‘No hairy shoulders. I
hate
hairy men.' Her hands caressed my breasts. ‘Smooth. Sweet.' She pinched a nipple roughly. I cried out.

Her hands were on the wide buckle of my belt. ‘Jockey pants! You wear
those?'
The buckle gave, she wrestled impatiently with the metal button closing the zip. ‘I could
feel
you.' Her voice was rough, the button gave and she ripped down the zip, split my fly. Then she sank slowly to her knees pulling the jeans to my thighs. ‘Stand tall. Get these off.' Jeans and shorts crumpled round my ankles. ‘Heavens to Betsy! That is all a wicked girl can desire. What have you got here? Why hide it.'

She took me in her hand, squeezed and cupped me as if she was weighing fruit. Looked up again, the little smile, teeth glistening. ‘Step out, spread wide, babe.'

I complied willingly, her hands splayed on my thighs, her head bowed down, and I was greedily, furiously, engulfed. I think that I cried out, her fingers clawed my flesh, I arched
my back thrusting out to her, and heard a harsh sobbing which can only have come from the depth of my guts and then I was suddenly, and monstrously, released; sweat running, gasping for breath, spent. After a moment, she pulled away, wiped her lips. ‘Don't hang your head.
He's
not hanging his, look!' She rose, took my hand, and pulled me across to a small divan under the window, pushed me down on it. I lay still, drained indeed, arm across my eyes, gasping for breath. Heard her moving about somewhere.

When I looked up, blearily, she had the hamper, set it on the floor, produced a bottle of vodka, two cheap glasses. ‘Refreshments, mouthwash, or whatever. To keep everything up.' She gave me a half-filled glass. I eased on an elbow to drink it. ‘Not too much. You haven't touched base yet. The best is yet to come.'

She had filled her glass and emptied it easily, got to her feet carrying the hamper through a small curtained archway. I lay slumped, the glass tilted in my hand, the liquid burning into my empty stomach. Behind the curtain she was rustling about, treading softly. I reached for the bottle which she had left on the floor and she was instantly at the arch. ‘No! No more. I want my “lunch”.'

‘I thought you'd just had that?'

She came into the room, took the glass away, ‘Just the hors d'oeuvres. Now I get to have a feast. C'mon.' And taking my prick, still alert, she forced me to my feet and led me through the archway. A large Victorian bed. Curly brass, black bars, stripped. No sheet, no pillows. Flat. A tight white rubber cover. It smelled slightly of sweet chocolate. I was pushed down, backwards, on to the bed. Sun from the louvres raked her body with rippling stripes. With a quick surge of anxiety I saw cords trailing at the head and end of the bed. ‘Now, look, no silly buggers,' I said.

‘This is going to be silly as hell, I tell you.' Quickly, and expertly, she bound my arms wide apart above my head,
moved briskly to my feet. I was spreadeagled, helpless as she intended, flat to the sickly smelling rubber. My body raged, she slapped it lightly, kissed it with pursed lips. ‘I just want you to realize I am reversing the general situation. Usually the lady gets to be in your position, correct? And the gentleman gets to be where I am! Reversal of fortunes, you could say? You'd be right. This way it's not
me
who is the vulnerable one, babe, it's you. This is “Girls' revenge”. Wait for it.'

‘Oh God! Go easy. Please, go easy.' I closed my eyes.

‘No one ever went easy with
me
…' A cool liquid spilled on to my belly, trickled down my thighs. I tried to raise my head from the sheet.

‘Baby oil, for a smooth finish.'

‘What the hell are you doing?'

‘I am in the process of doing you.' She set the bottle aside. I dropped my head, tried to pull away.

‘Oh Christ! Go easy – Lulu – stop. I can't hold it -'

‘Don't you dare! Don't waste a drop! You have a real hard gut, you know that? This strictly does not work on flab.' Her hands were wanton, sliding, caressing, cupping.

‘Don't! Don't! I'll let rip – I'll lose it -' I was writhing.

Suddenly she clambered over me, spread her thighs wide across mine, bent down and bit my breasts, the right, the left, savagely. I know I yelled, I know I heaved and pulled against her weight. Heard her laughing from a mile away. ‘Don't
pull.
Silk ties. They won't budge, just tighten.' With thumb and forefinger she twisted my nipples again as if they were bottle tops. I bucked, pleaded.

‘That may mark you: the ties won't.' She twisted again. I rolled in pain. This was suddenly no fun at all. Flat to the bed, head to heel. An insane, voracious woman straddling my thighs, her hands sliding, pulling, pinching. ‘Lulu! Don't! No more – no more!'

‘Never did this before, babe?' Her voice was rough.

‘Never, never. Stop, I beg you, stop—'

In a sing-song, her voice: ‘
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross
… ' She had me tight in her fist, ran a sharp thumbnail over my bursting cap. ‘Wow! Look what I got. A real crimson acorn just for me … To
see a fair lady astride her big horse
!' And then, in a very different voice, ‘Let's go for it.'

I felt her weight lift for a moment from my thighs, slippery fingers pull my scorching body roughly upwards, holding it tightly she gently lowered herself down on to me and cried out in pleasure. I half raised my head, watched her slowly sink down on me, her hair spilling wildly about her face, hands gripping my hips. I yelled, matching her cry, arched up to join her, and then the ride commenced. Slowly, slowly, gathering pace as we matched the same rhythm. Her cries became sobs, the trot became a canter, the canter a gallop, and then we exploded simultaneously in a torrent of raging lust fulfilled. She crashed down on to my body, lay sobbing, gasping, half laughing.

After a while I felt her ease me out of her body, pull herself up to my belly and roughly, fingers in my hair, grabbing me by the head, force me to take her breasts. Tight, lemon shaped, firm, nipples as hard and bright as rubies, she pulled my willing mouth to each, allowing me to suckle like a greedy child, tugging my head from one to the other, judging, for herself, when
she,
not I, was satiated. She had absolute control over me, her body and everything else. She had won. Quite soon, abruptly even, she had finished the game, pushed herself from my sweaty body and slid beside me on to the rubber sheet. I lay as for dead, listening to her breathing.