Chapter 90

0735 hours, local time
Tuesday, 15 July, 2014
Persen Residence,
Peterstown, West Virginia

I awoke in someone’s bed, but I wasn’t quite sure whose just yet. I arose to relieve myself, only to have someone rather light (thankfully) climb on my back and insist upon riding it all the way to the head. After I emptied my bladder and washed my hands, she (presumably a she from her lithe and limber body) climbed down to floor level and began kissing the back of my neck before dragging me into the shower with her. We washed each other off in the dark in the shower, and she continued to grope me, as well as move my hands all over her own body.

Before I knew it, I was inside her and she pushed enthusiastically at me, though I had no idea who she was just yet. We fucked for several minutes in the shower, intensely bucking our hips as I bottomed out inside my current lover. I didn’t know who this was, but she was resolved to mating with me and I naturally had no objection to that. Finally, as we came together, I slumped, we turned off the hot water, and we stepped out of the shower to dry off ... wherever we were.

I looked at her as the lights came on and realized that she was someone entirely new that I hadn’t noticed before. Well, I thought, that was another girl that I’ve given the Schumacher Syndrome, which will benefit her as she won’t have to wait to catch it from someone else. How hadn’t I been intimate with her yet? This was ... odd, at any rate. Still, I let it slide for now. She would tell me in time. She was a lovely dish of a girl, slender, elegant for someone in such a rustic locale, and with long, chestnut brown tresses of hair that mixed well with her dark blue eyes.

“Hello, I’m Athenais Marienne de Châlons. I’m ... Daisy’s niece. Her ... um ... French niece. Yes, it took a while to get here from Bordeaux, where I spent most of my life. I had to bribe, blackmail, and otherwise work my way from there to ... my last living relative, my American aunt. Aunt Daisy. Bet that she never told you that she had a niece outside the States, let alone in French wine country, oui? It was because her sister was French. That would be my mother, Adrienne. Don’t ask about my Christian name. Maman was ... a bit fascinated with the Marquise de Montespan and other royal mistresses,” she blushed a little, “I suppose that the apple doesn’t ... what is the American expression?”

“Doesn’t fall far from the tree. It means precisely what it suggests, that you inherited a certain trait or predisposition. Pardon an impolite query, mademoiselle, but just how old are you?” I asked the lovely young foreigner.

“Sixteen. Not that it matters as much these days. Age of consent laws are unlikely to be clearly defined, let enforced, for the foreseeable future. Oh, and I am not offended. I am ... your wife. Your newest wife. I just barely arrived, but Aunt Daisy believes that I should ... accompany you. She says that they have plenty of people here, but that you could use a ‘pretty French wife to add to your tribe.’ Also, I think that she wants part of her family to be planted elsewhere in the country, as an insurance policy, if you will, for the survival of our clan,” Athenais explained with a rather pleased smile on her face.

“I take it that this ... proposal pleases you, then?” I clarified.

“Oui, monsieur. Very much so. I am very glad that I returned when I did. I think that I found the love of my life. So what if I have to share him? That’s a grand French tradition, anyway. Sorry, I must seem like a silly teenage girl with a typical adolescent crush, but I assure you that I am in earnest. I wish to be your ... wife. Well, your newest wife,” Athenais reassured me as she slipped me no shortage of tongue.

“Well, we’ll have to ... make it official today. Probably this afternoon, if that works for you. Last full day before the departure,” I stammered a little, shocked even now at a fresh reminder of how fond she was of me.

“We can discuss it at breakfast, of course. I look forward to my future with you, Monsieur Clarke. I hear that your father ... your true father, was an ... archangel. Raphael. Impressive, as is your record so far. No wonder you’re a Prophet,” Athenais told me as we dressed and walked to breakfast.

Of course, “dressed” was a relative term in her case. Athenais chose to wear only one of my undershirts and a red satin thong. Yeah, that was ... fascinating, as was her desire to sit on my lap ... and squirm a lot while eating our breakfast of Belgian waffles, fried eggs, hash browns, and sausage. I washed mine down with orange juice and coffee. Athenais washed hers down with red wine. Yes, you read that correctly. She drank red wine, specifically a Shiraz, with her breakfast that morning. How stereotypically French, I thought, but then she was from Bordeaux, wasn’t she?