Chapter 15: Season 4: Iberia

The remainder of the rail journey to Perpignan continued in silence. I sensed the Chevalier was disappointed with me and I was sorry for that. I admired and respected him and it pained me that I had caused him to have a poor opinion of me. But Madeleine Crozier filled my heart, and it was her I saw reflected in the window as I gazed from the train.

There was a self-drive hire car waiting for us at Perpignan and I drove the Chevalier to Port Vendres via Argeles sur Mer on the D914 rather than the longer route via Le Boulou. I unpacked the Chevalier’s travel trunk and hung his suits, jackets and trousers in the wardrobe, ensuring his shirts, other than those needing to be laundered, were neatly put away in the chest of drawers. The end of the season meant I was no longer required by the Chevalier, and after spending the next two weeks with my family in Le Boulou I would take up full time, unpaid, employment at the Vermilion Coast Hotel. Of course my accommodation would be the Chevalier’s suite, at his expense, and my food was free.

After seeing him settled into his suite I handed the Chevalier the keys of the car. “I will call my father to pick me up,” I said.

“I won’t be needing the car for some time, Rafael. Philippe and I have bridge competitions to attend and he will drive me to the venues. Take the car and bring it back after your time at home with your family.”

I thanked him. The car was a top end Mazda and I had noted the admiring glances thrown by attractive females as the car sped by them, not that I was going to be taking advantage of any attractive young females who came into my orbit. My heart was already taken by Madeleine Crozier and for most of my time at home I rarely left the house. I wrote to Madeleine every day, telling of my love for her and how I missed her and was counting the hours until we met again, the usual sloppy sentiments penned by an ardent swain to his love. My mother posted the letters for me and I could see she was dying to question me about who the recipient was but managed to curb her curiosity until near the end of the two weeks of my home leave. I only left the house to visit the florists and send a bouquet of red roses to Madeleine three times a week. I did attempt to contact her by telephone but could not get through to her office, although I told the switchboard operator the office identifier. I tried several times throughout the first week of being home, spending eight hours one day continuously ringing the Foreign Ministry, asking to be put through to Madeleine Crozier’s office until a rather irate switchboard supervisor came on the line.

“There is no such office with the designation Intel Assessment Unit No 3 at the Foreign Ministry, Monsieur. It seems you have been misinformed, and if you continue to ring this switchboard the gendarmerie will be informed. We have your number and know where you live.”

It was two days before my leave ended that my mother finally asked the questions she had been bottling up since my return. This was occasioned by a parcel arriving addressed to me. When opened on the dining room table the parcel contained all the letters I had written to Madeleine over the previous week. There was a typewritten note accompanying the parcel.

‘Do not send me any more letters or bouquets of flowers.’ there was not even a signature just her name ‘Madeleine Crozier’.

My mother saw the pile of unopened letters and her questions came tumbling out. “Who is Mademoiselle Madeleine Crozier? Where did you meet? Where does she live? What does she do for a living, and why has she sent back all your letters?”

I answered her questions as best I could. “Madeleine Crozier is the most beautiful girl in the world, who I love with all my heart. I don’t know where she lives but she works in an office in Quai d’Orsay where we met. She has returned my letters to test the depth of my love, which is fathomless. Once she realises how strong and robust is my love she will agree to marry me. Just give her some time, perhaps three months or so. A Christmas wedding at Le Boulou would be nice...” I paused. “Of course she might prefer to be married at her home church, wherever that is, but I’m sure her parents will be able to offer you accommodation, and any way...”

“Stop!” My mother screamed. “This nonsense has gone on long enough, Rafael. The girl has returned your latters unopened. It is plain as a pikestaff she wants nothing to do with you. Can’t you grasp that?”

The smile I gave my mother was benign, as was my voice. “As I told the Chevalier, Madeleine is playing hard to get. She will eventually realise I am the only one for her as she is the one for me.”

My mother gave a groan of despair, and, as usual when facing something she could not handle, turned to my father. “Try and talk some sense into him, Jacques. If I stay listening to his ridiculous words any longer I will do something to him I might regret, and he certainly will.” She left the room and I could see she was crying. That bothered me but would not deter me from loving Madeleine. I faced my father ready for whatever he was going to say or do. He fixed me with a steady, soul searching, gaze not too dissimilar to that of the Chevalier’s.

“You are an adult now, Rafael, and must behave like one. Your mother and I hope you will see reason and come out of this...” he paused, searching for a word that would not inflame, demean, or ridicule me, “ ... vagary, under your own volition. In your heart you must know there is no future for you with this young woman but you are as stubborn as your grandmother – God rest her soul. Eventually you will recognise your lunacy and dismiss it. Until then, I hope you don’t upset your mother again, else I will be most displeased.”

“I’m sorry I made mother cry and will go and apologise to her immediately.” Which I did.

I left for Port Vendres two days later, fences mended with my parents but still deeply in love with Madeleine. I was placed on reception duties when I reported for work at the hotel and threw myself wholehearted into the work, only thinking of Madeleine for most of the time rather than for all of the time. Renata was around and available, but I had forsworn all females other than Madeleine, at least I did for two more weeks and then human nature took control of my zob. A young man is programmed to impregnate young women, although thanks to the anti-birth pill and condoms, not as much impregnation occurs these days even if the penetration rate is greater than forty years ago. Soon I was horizontally dancing with chambermaids, receptionists, kitchen maids, and Margot, a rather tasty Personal Fitness Trainer who had been recruited to run the gymnasium and fitness suite. However, whomever it was beneath, on top, or in front of me when I was engaged in fornication they all took on the persona of Madeleine Crozier. They looked like her, smelled like her, gave out moans, groans, gasps, and shrieks like her, not that I had heard her making those sounds but I mentally transposed her speaking voice into her voice when approaching a climax. The transmogrification, transference, transformation, call it what you will, took place the instant I penetrated the female. Up until that juncture the girl was Margot, a receptionist, a chambermaid, or whichever female I had latched onto for the evening/night.

I have no idea how my brain could summon up a picture of Madeleine and then superimpose her image onto the features of the female with whom I was fornicating. My subconscious was easing the pain I suffered from being parted from her so that I convinced myself it was Madeleine I was making love with, and I was transported to where she was when my spirit, if not my flesh, coupled with her. As soon as the female I was with reached her climax ‘Madeleine’ disappeared. And it was the contorted face – still gripped in the aftershock of her orgasm – of Margot, or receptionist or chambermaid or whichever female I had as companion at the time, I saw as I withdrew from her quim.

As was usual the Chevalier spent the first few days of Christmas with us at Le Boulou, so was present when the local Sergeant of Gendarmerie called on us the day before Christmas Eve. Gerard Jardinière was a friend of my father and played in the same boules team. He was in uniform and obviously embarrassed when he knocked on the door, and made it clear from the start this was an official visit he wished he had not been ordered to make.

“I am here to serve a writ on your son Rafael, Jacques. I’m terribly sorry to have to do such a thing and at such a time.” He cleared his throat and then drew himself up to full height and in the officious tone of voice used by minor functionaries said, “Rafael Planchette. I hereby serve you with this writ, writ, I mean issued, by Magistrate de Lahaye.”

De Lahaye was the senior magistrate of the Perpignan regional court, and Le Boulou came within his jurisdiction. I took the document from Sergeant Jardinière’s hand and read the contents.

‘You are hereby ordered to cease and desist from sending any communications to Mademoiselle Madeleine Crozier. This includes letters, e mails, text messages, post cards, telegrams, greeting cards, bouquets of flowers, boxes of confectionery, singing rabbits, or any other type of street musicians, aerial sign writing, advertising hoardings, newspaper adverts, or via any social media platform or pigeon post. Failure to comply with this edict will have you arraigned before my Court.’

I handed the sheet of paper to my father who scanned the document and then handed it to the Chevalier before speaking to the gendarme. “Fair enough Gerard. My son will obey this order. However, he will be travelling with the Chevalier from April of next year which is why I have given him sight of the writ.”

The Chevalier handed the writ back to me and then addressed the police sergeant. “Rest assured, Sergeant; Rafael will abide by this instruction while in my employ.”

Having the writ served put something of a damper on the Christmas festivities and I had to junk the Christmas card, box of chocolate and bouquet of roses, and also cancel my request that a singing Père Noël serenade Madeleine on Christmas Eve from the street outside her office.

I was on duty at the Vermilion Coast Hotel the day after Christmas Day and drove the Chevalier to Port Vendres. He remained in the hotel for two days before departing for Morocco. I asked him to give my regards to Leilah and Doctor Puissant. He surprised me with his reply.

“Doctor Puissant is going to the Persian Gulf later this month to recce’ several interesting sites on Bahrain Island. The University of Morocco have taken over the Tiznet site. Idil and Ziri are in charge of any future excavations but I think we have found all that is to be found at that site. Leilah has grown rather fond of Amélie and will miss seeing her, as of course will I, although I will pop into the Sorbonne from time to time and hope to catch her in residence. I expect you would want to see her when next in Paris?”

I nodded but said no more. I would like to see Amélie again but that would be all. Any further instructing was off the cards now I was in love with Madeleine. ‘What about Margot and the receptionists and chamber maids?’ A quiet voice spoke in my brain. They were merely diversions, whereas Amélie was more than that ... yeah.

This transmogrification of any female I was penetrating into Madeleine Crozier continued when the new season began and I went back to work as the Chevalier’s gentleman’s gentleman and gigolo for hire. When fornicating with mature and young females of various shapes, sizes and complexions, the moment my zob filled their quims they transformed into Madeleine. It was she I saw writhing beneath me, gripping me with her long lithe legs, sucking my tongue into her moist mouth and my zob deeper into in her quagmire-like quim.

As for the females I consorted with during that season I have little memory of what they looked like, just a blur of faces. All I remember is as soon as my phallus penetrated their vagina it was ‘Madeleine’ who I saw. The places visited likewise are just as much a blur, although I know we went first to Minorca in the Balearic Islands before covering the mainland of Spain from Madrid – via Seville – to Cadiz. The latter place we stayed six weeks, although we had no April-December pairs to escort. The Chevalier visited the casinos while I spent four of those weeks employed at the Hotel di Cadiz on room cleaning duties, allowing me to plant and retrieve listening devices when called upon to do so. I have no idea who the occupants of the rooms were or why they had aroused the attention of Intel Assessment Unit #3. Mine not to reason why; I just hid the device in the specified room and retrieved same when the guests had left. I handed the devices on to the Chevalier who was also a guest in the hotel. My accommodation was in the dingy, sub-standard, quarters of the staff in the hotel basement.

I also serviced several mature females while in Cadiz. These were Cougars who used Grafin von Eylau’s website to meet young males for a hard pounding, and I duly obliged. I would visit the client in some hourly rented type of accommodation and do what I was paid to do, namely shag her brains out. I was ordered to tag one of the women with a tracking device, which I did after the brain shagging session was over and the woman was in the shower washing off the products of our exertions. I must have serviced at least six women when in Cadiz, and In every case their faces were overwritten by Madeleine’s the moment I entered them.

From Spain we moved onto Lisbon, where the Chevalier and I escorted an April-December pair for three weeks, and the Chevalier made up for his abstinence in Cadiz by spending most of those three weeks between the young girl’s thighs. The reason for his enforced self-denial in Spain was because the age of consent in that country is 16 and the Chevalier was wary of being caught with an underage girl. He did have carnal knowledge of an under 16 year old girl when we were in Minorca, which is an offshore Spanish island with a more relaxed attitude to sexual perversions as it is a prime holiday destination for the hugely immoral English. The Chevalier seemed unfazed by his illegality when surrounded by much worse degenerates.

The age of consent in Portugal’s is 14 and in Lisbon the Chevalier’s companion was not many months above that age. Her so called ‘mother’, for I think the young girl was one of Grafin von Eylau’s employees rather than a blood relation, was a keen botanist and spent most days searching for plants and flowers that she would pick and then preserve by pressing them between two heavy books overnight. She would also press me between her heavy thighs overnight and guide my stamen into her gynoecium, when her face would change from the rather chubby featured, dark haired, dark eyed Italian she was to the classic features and golden hair of blue eyed Madeleine Crozier.

After spending an exhausting but botanically educative time in Lisbon we drove up the coast to Porto and saw the rest of the season out there. The Chevalier was exhausted after his exertions with the young girl and relaxed on the beach and at the casino. I serviced three mature ladies from the Grafin’s website during the time spent in Porto (but not all at the same time) and still had the time, the inclination, and energy to pick up a young chambermaid in the hotel where I did waiter duties, and a more mature woman in a bar on the front. I can recall the name of the chambermaid and the woman from the bar; the only names remembered of all the many women I copulated with during that season.

Rosaria was a beautiful young Filipino chambermaid, – a ‘Pinay’ as she referred to herself – with soft and delicious skin. Her eyes were deep dark pools of serenity and her mouth sweet and tender. Had I not been so besotted with Madeleine I would have taken her home with me. We managed quick but exceedingly pleasurable bouts of fornication in a secluded gazebo in the extensive grounds of the hotel. Among the garden furniture in the gazebo was a sturdy chair that I sat on and Rosaria would mount me and drive me, and her, into paroxysms of pleasure. As soon as she slid her dripping, gripping quim onto my rampant zob her café au lait complexioned face, raven black hair, and dark brown eyes would transform into the pale skin, yellow hair, and blue eyes of Madeleine Crozier until such time when Rosaria/Madeleine reached her/their orgasm and ‘Madeleine’ would then disappear.

Rosaria and I worked the same late shift and we could always find an hour or so to slip away to our sylvan shag pad. Rosaria spoke no French, and during the brief times we spent in conversation we spoke English. Hers was difficult to parse at times but as I said we didn’t waste much time in talking although I did spend time in foreplay before she mounted me. Rosaria would whisper endearments or salacious suggestions in her version of English as I slid fingers and tongue into her welcoming orifices. However, when she impaled herself on me and Madeleine appeared ‘she’ would speak in French, urging me to go harder or slower or whatever. One night I was pounding into ‘Madeleine’, with her vocalising using disgustingly vulgar French phrases for copulation, when the voice changed from French to English and ‘Madeleine’ disappeared, to be replaced by Rosaria gasping and moaning between shouts of ‘Yes, yes, yes, I’m cuming!’ as she approached her climax. I was so astounded I paused in mid thrust. Rosaria opened her eyes that had been closed in ecstasy. “Why you stop, Rafael? I nearly there. Keep going.”

I continued to thrust, gazing anxiously at Rosaria, expecting her to disappear and Madeleine to show but she didn’t. Rosaria reached her orgasm, clenching me between her satin smooth but steel strong thighs, milking my zob with her clutching quim so effectively I erupted while she was still shuddering and writhing in post orgasmic shock, something we had not managed before.

We both sighed in mutual satisfaction. “Why you stop and look at me with funny eyes?” Rosaria asked. I had no answer and just kissed her. We then picked up our scattered underwear, dressed, and then went back to work. The following night I rode Rosaria to a noisy completion, expecting to see Madeleine appear at any time but she didn’t. Three more nights of frenzied fornication with Rosaria passed without Madeleine’s face showing on Rosaria’s, and I wondered if it was my fondness for Rosaria that was keeping Madeleine away.

There was a simple solution to this question. I took one of the vegetable preparation kitchen maids to the gazebo for an investigative copulation. She was a local, mature, Portuguese woman, not a patch on Rosaria to look at and probably hadn’t had a young man’s’ zob in her for some time but she was available and willing. The kitchen maid proved to be surprisingly accomplished, extremely grateful, and, in the afterglow of sex, quite attractive. She did not transmogrify into ‘Madeleine’ when I first impaled her or during the time I spent pounding into her. Unfortunately Rosaria heard of my ‘cheating’ and that was the end of my nightly trysts with her.