Chapter 25: Season 8 - The Beginning of the End

Season eight was scheduled to be spent entirely in Italy. No complaints from me. It is a delightful country; wonderful scenery both female and bucolic, food and drink I enjoy, enough culture to satisfy a charabanc full of Sorbonne professors and marvellous music. What’s not to like? Our itinerary took us from Venice, which we flew into from Perpignan, on a jaunt along the east, Adriatic, coast of Italy; to Ravenna, Rimini, Ancona, Bari, and Monopoli. A first for me and, surprisingly, also for the Chevalier. After that we had Naples, Rome and Livorno to visit.

I was no longer Rafael the French teenager, who mature ladies fantasied over as being their son or nephew as they indulged in an ‘incestuous’ relationship with me, a delightful taboo. I was now Carlos the Catalonian, a full blown gigolo/stud-for-hire. ‘Have phallus, will travel’. I had transmuted from the one persona to the other over a number of years, and for a season or two I was both ‘Rafael’ to the December mature whose April ‘daughter’ the Chevalier was porking, and ‘Carlos’ to the Cougar I was servicing/ escorting. In Rafael mode I would sometimes fornicate with the young girl companion of the December but only with the Chevalier’s consent after he had been seriously sexually debilitated by the young girl. His bed companions were young girls between the age of 14-16 and during the early years as the Chevalier’s gentleman’s gentleman I had no compunction or shame in bedding them as enthusiastically and as often as I bedded their mother/aunt/guardian or whatever the relationship was between the April –December pair. However, on reaching the age of twenty I began to have qualms of conscience when penetrating young girls. A few years between us was OK but when the age difference between me and the young girl beneath me became five years or more I felt guilty, as if I was taking advantage of their innocence, which was ridiculous seeing as they had already spent plenty of time underneath the Chevalier, a man many decades older than me.

On this season there were no April-December pairings to escort. Obviously I was not a teenage boy, and the matrons who had been my staple diet for the past seven years had taken up with younger men, boys. Now I was now a full time stud and escort, equally at home with a furtive, frantic, one night stand or squiring a Cougar for a week or more, frequenting restaurants, casinos, theatres, and night clubs and spending, in all senses of the word, evenings and nights in their beds, or occasionally in mine. I did what I was paid for and really enjoyed my work; my partners in lust were always left with smiles on their faces. Several of them would give me presents and money that I accepted with alacrity and grateful thanks; no longer concerned I was a paid prick-for-rent.

Part of my remit when working for Madeleine’s intelligence unit, one of the many clandestine French intelligence services, was to bug some of the Cougars I plugged. I don’t mean I had to annoy them but plant tracking devices on them, download text messages from their portables, film and record them without their knowledge or permission, and generally behave like a minion of Big Brother government, which I was by then I suppose.

Actually I should now refer to Madeleine as Madame Crozier Beauregard. She and Gussie had married in March, and it was quite a social event. They tied the knot at Notre Dame Cathedral, the deed being carried out by the Cardinal Archbishop of Reims. Guests at the ceremony included the President of France, the Vice President of the United States, one of the English Princes -- the ginger one, and a horde of A-List celebrities that would have made Oprah salivate - in fact she was also there. The wedding banquet was held at Versailles in the Hall of Mirrors. Truly a glittering occasion.

The Mucky Duck Organisation bought the exclusive rights to photographs, interviews, and back stairs gossip; the fee they paid allowed the happy couple to jet off to Tahiti for a four week traditional honeymoon, cut short when Gussie, after only three weeks of connubial bliss, was flown to Australia for bypass heart surgery and to have a Pacemaker fitted. I was surprised a man of his age lasted as long; Madeleine being such an enthusiastic and energetic lover. Fortunately the general recovered and has since retired from the army. He is now Madeleine’s assistant at her office in Strasbourg. I wonder if he makes the coffee, and should I send him my recipe?

On this trip the Chevalier had no Aprils to accompany and filled his time at casinos playing cards and at brothels specialising in young females, porking the speciality of the house. He seemed to be enjoying himself and looked fit and full of vim and vigour, or at least he did before spending the night in the clasp of a nymphet. However, he would certainly look his age when finally released from the clamping thighs and gripping quim of his partner. When my stint as duty penis had ended and before the next Cougar arrived to be serviced he and I would spend time together, usually at concerts and art galleries, where he shared with me his deep and all-embracing knowledge concerning culture. I also spent time working in hotels but now at a more senior position. I would welcome guests at reception, act as Deputy Maître D or head bartender, and often worked in the back office on hotel management – supply, personnel, or finance – tasks.

Venice furnished me with two Cougars; both were porked solidly for three nights (not the same nights, obviously) and both sent on their way satisfied and gratified. The Chevalier was still re-building his sexual vigour after his stay in Agadir and contented himself with a trip to the Venice lagoon island of Murano. He returned with enough glassware to start a branch of Glass R Us. ‘Presents for the women in my life,’ he said. No wonder we would need a pantechnicon, an extra-large van, to cart the stuff back to France.

Next stop was Ravenna, and a completely different sort of female to contend with than the pair I had porked in Venice.

Mavis Nugent was like no other Cougar I had ever come across (no pun intended). She was about fifty years of age, slender and slight of build. She had fair, greying, hair and her bright blues eyes peered out over a narrow and slightly pointed nose. Mavis looked to be someone’s maiden aunt, a birdlike female with a nervous disposition and dull plumage. At first I thought there had been a glitch in Grafin von Eylau’s booking arrangements. But no, Miss Mavis Nugent was my companion for ten days of escorting, and it looked to me that escorting Mavis, in real terms, would be all that I would be doing. We had met in the lobby of her hotel and I confess I did not know how to proceed after introducing myself.

Mavis appeared to be the most unlikely of Cougars but surely she knew what I did for a living? She had made the arrangement via Grafin von Eylau’s website, so must know I was a stud-for-hire rather than a tour guide. She was definitely English; I made sure of her nationality before asking anything else of he, and spoke precise – Castilian – Spanish, much more accurate and grammatically correct than mine. By her diction and attractive sounding voice I took her to be a teacher or lecturer. Mavis was staying at the Hotel Honorius in Ravenna, a three star establishment not far from where the Chevalier and I shared a suite in the Hotel Theodoric. I had thought I would be spending the ten days, or to be more accurate the ten nights, in the same bed as my date but by first impressions I would instead be sharing the Chevalier’s suite.

Did she want to get straight down to business, I wondered? It was late afternoon, nearing dinner time, and most Cougars wanted bedding before feeding but as I said this female was not a typical Cougar. Fortunately Mavis was not as nervous a person as I thought her to be.

“Let us go out for a meal and get to know each other, Carlos.” She said, and then gazed at me thoughtfully. “I am told you are Spanish but you speak the language as if it were a second language.”

“I am Catalonian. My fellow villagers speak the same way as I do.”

“Hmm, I think you are probably French. Say something in French.”

“Why do you want me to speak French?” I said in that language.

“Because I believe you are sailing under false colours, or rather false nationality,” she replied in far better French than I spoke to her.

I sighed and confessed. “I am French, but my mother is Spanish and I speak both languages.”

“Good. Now we have got that out of the way we can proceed.” She said in French and linked her arm in mine. “There is a very good restaurant around the corner, we will dine there and I will give you our itinerary for the next ten days.”

It was clear I had completely misread her character. Mavis Nugent might be someone’s maiden aunt but she was certainly nobody’s fool.

After the better than decent meal; we both had what the waiter recommended, a locally produced cappelletti di Romagna, with a basket of piadina, Mavis sat back in her chair, took a quaff from her glass of Chianti and smiled.

“I love Ravenna, and think it is one of the most fascinating cities of all Italy, a country that has a plethora of fascinating cities. Do you know why I love this city so much?” Before I could even think of an answer she answered her own question. “You probably have no idea and care even less, but it is the place that I believe kept the flame of civilisation, of Christianity, burning while the rest of the Western Roman Empire dissolved. Tomorrow we will visit some of the UNESCO sites and I will explain more clearly the debt we owe the inhabitants of this place of sixteen Centuries ago.” She finished her drink, pushed back her chair and stood up. “Now we will go to my hotel room and you will do what you are famous for and I will do what I am famous for!”

She linked her arm in mine, smiled graciously at the waiter and thanked him in excellent Italian, and I, in a daze from her previous statement, walked arm in arm with her back to her hotel.

Three hours later I lay prostrate in her bed. Not merely exhausted but completely drained and depleted. Mavis had not only emptied me of man juice but I felt even the marrow from my bones had been extruded. I was utterly and completely spent and had not put even a centimetre of my penis into her quim. I had been deep throated by a female who put even Grafin von Eylau in the shade for fellatio. Mavis did more than just deep throat me; I have been expertly deep throated before and thought Grafin Irma von Eylau had been the most proficient in that art but this maiden auntish looking, English school marm spinster, had far surpassed what Irma had achieved. My penis had been simultaneously sucked and massaged and all the time Mavis was making a guttural droning sound that rose and fell in pitch. Annette in Dinard had a trick of humming while sucking on my penis but what Mavis accomplished was even more mind blowing than that.

“How do you do it?” I managed to croak after a half hour recovering my breath and getting my head back from where it had exploded.

“Khömei, throat singing, also known as overtone singing or biphonic singing,” she said. “The extensive training required to throat sing gives the stomach, chest, and the vocal tract a particular strength, and when I have a penis in my mouth I utilise those organs to make fellatio something extra special.”

“You certainly achieved that, I’ve never been so drained.”

She smiled. “Well now it’s your turn to pleasure me. I’m told you are quite an expert in cunnilingus” She lay back on the bed and opened her legs. “I’m looking forward to the sexual jolt of a well sucked and licked vagina.”

“Don’t you want my penis...”

“Going by previous results of my throat singing assisted blow jobs you will have a Mister Floppy for at least another hour, Carlos.”

She was correct. I was a limp as a wet lettuce leaf, but my tongue and lips were not and I brought Mavis to a shuddering, noisy, orgasm using tongue, teeth, lips and fingers. She gave a great sigh of contentment after I withdrew my tongue from her well licked, kissed, sucked and nipped, quim.

“Your reputation for giving excellent cunnilingus is well deserved, Carlos.” She said before kissing me, her tongue flickering in my mouth like a captive moth. “I will be ready for another session at sunrise so I advise you to get some sleep.” With that she rolled over and was asleep in minutes.

Next morning, after giving Mavis an orgasm via tongue and fingers, we had breakfast then it was culture time. We visited the Galla Placidia Mausoleum where Mavis waxed equally lyrical on the superb mosaics; the richness of the colours: peacock blue, moss green, gold and orange, and then on the character and achievements of Galla Placidia.

“She was a daughter of an Emperor, a sister of an Emperor, a wife of an Emperor and a mother of an Emperor. Taken hostage by the Goths she married a Visigoth who was later assassinated. She married the Emperor and bore him a son. She ruled as Regent for twelve years and I believe it was she who helped save Western civilisation, Carlos. Ravenna was the capital city of the Western Roman Empire...”

“I thought Rome was the capital?”

“Emperor Diocletian moved the capital of the empire from Rome to Mediolanum, Milan, in two eight six AD. Then in four oh four AD the Roman Emperor Honorius, Galla Placidia’s brother, transferred the capital of the Western Roman Empire from Milan to Ravenna as a security measure. The Goths; Visigoths and Ostrogoths, were seizing and settling in huge areas of the Western Roman Empire and in fact the Ostrogoths sacked Rome in four ten A D when Galla Placidia was taken as a hostage. Ravenna was protected by inaccessible swamps and marshes. Safe behind its defences Ravenna enjoyed a peaceful period when early Christian art could flourish and the Roman Empire in the West continued for another seventy years.”

She could certainly give a good lecture, but I was more interested in having more of her throat-singing powered blow jobs, and after that first day of site and sight-seeing she took pity on me and we got into a routine that suited us both.

Mavis was an expert on Ravenna during the Fifth Century CE (although she used the old fashioned and non-PC terminology AD). Each morning she would treat me to a guided tour with an in depth commentary of one of the several buildings in the city that had been given UNESCO World Heritage Site status. She also added to my knowledge of the many artefacts, paintings, and statues dotted about the city, including the tomb of Dante Alighieri, a Florentine exile who found refuge in Ravenna, where he died in 1321. He was some sort of poet I believe; Mavis had glossed over him but did give me more details about a painting reputed to be of Galla Placida we viewed earlier.

“This was painted several centuries after she died but there is a statue supposedly of her from the Fifth Century AD and the artist would have used some artistic licence when it came to hair and eye colouring to produce this painting. Observe the medallion she is wearing.”

I peered at the medallion hanging about her neck. It looked to be a head and shoulders portrait of a woman painted in bright reds, gold and blues, similar to the colours used on the portrait of Galla Placida.

“The medallion is a portrait of herself,” Mavis said. “It was known she wore such a medallion during her life although it is not shown on the statue. Imagine the self-assurance of a woman who would wear a medallion with her face on it? The local craftsmen do a good trade in producing copies of the medallion as souvenirs of Ravenna. Of course the materials they use do not match the gold, enamels, and semi-precious gems used to construct the original medallion.”

Arrogance was the word I would have used rather than self-assurance. The look from the bright blue eyes of the portrait of Galla Placida sent an unambiguous message. ‘Mess with me at your peril!’

When Mavis saw I was cultured out for the day, usually not long after lunch, we would return to her hotel room where I would receive a throat-singing trained blow job; sending me into orbit, out of my mind, and extracting every millilitre of spunk from me. I was then of use to no one, especially a randy female historian, until I recovered enough energy and could reciprocate with a quim eating experience that had Mavis moaning, bucking and writhing under my tongue and fingers.

For the next three days it was a similar routine. She would take me around a UNESCO Heritage Site where she would explain in great detail what I was looking at. Then to a shady restaurant for a local delicacy of a meal before heading back to her hotel room where I was taken to paradise at the expense of my man juice and sexual vigour. After a suitable time for recovery I would give her a quim eating that had her clenching her toes and shuddering as if in a fit.

The fourth day was different. After she had drained me, and I had responded by bringing her to a teeth and tonged climax, there was a change of routine.

“Would you mind awfully if the Chevalier takes me to a bridge game this evening, Carlos?”

“I didn’t know you had met the Chevalier.”

“We met in the lobby of your hotel yesterday when you were recovering from...”