Chapter 7: La Belle Dame Sans Merci

“What’s your name?” She said, unfastening the top button of my shirt.

“Philippe.”

“Philippe what?”

“Philippe Soissons.”

She undid another button. “Philippe Soissons what?”

I knew where this was going and played along with her. “Philippe Soissons, Madame.”

She gave a slight smile. “Yes, remember who I am, Soissons.” She undid another two buttons of my shirt. “And what are you doing here, Soissons?”

“Having my shirt removed by the lady of the house, Madame.”

She slapped my face, hard. “Don’t be insolent, Soissons. What were you doing in my house?”

“I was waiting table at your dinner party, Madame.”

“That’s right. You are nothing but a hireling, a menial.” She unbuttoned the last of the shirt buttons and pulled my shirt open, baring my chest. “And do you know why I asked Estelle Charbonneau to have you to help me clear up after the dinner party?”

“No, Madame, I do not. “ I spoke the truth. Stefan and I had carried out our normal duties, helping Stella serving the meal at Madame Chardonnay du Plessier’s dinner party, and I was astonished when after the dinner party ended and the guests had left Stella informed me Madame Chardonnay du Plessier wanted me to remain behind to move some furniture into the dining room. I could see Stella was uncomfortable with the idea of me being left alone with Chardonnay, the Black Widow, but I could hardly contain my pleasure and excitement, and anticipation.

“Be careful Philippe. She’s up to something and I don’t think it bodes well for you,” Stella had said.

“I’m a big boy, Stella. I can look after myself.”

“An erect prick drains all the sense from a man,” Stella said and sighed in resignation. She and Stefan then left, leaving me and Chardonnay alone in the house. After I had stacked some chairs and moved some tables, Chardonnay du Plessier, not looking me in the eye but with a smirk on her face, called for me to come up stairs to her boudoir. ‘This is where I get my reward. She must be gagging for it.’ I thought.

Now, face to face with her in her bedroom it didn’t seem I had read the situation correctly.

“Well, I shall tell you why you are here, Soissons,” Chardonnay continued. “I remember you from the dinner party at Antoinette de Bergerac Frossard’s place. You undressed and raped me with your eyes, and even here in my own home, where you were supposed to be waiting table at my dinner party, you could not keep your lecherous eyes or your lust filled mind off me. You want to fuck me don’t you, Soissons?”

“No, Madame. I want to make love to you, and with you.”

I could see my answer unsettled her. She stared, unblinking, at me, and then slowly trailed a scarlet tipped finger delicately down my chest. It took a huge effort on my part not to let out a groan of pleasure.

She continued her searching gaze of me. The tip of her tongue flickered over her full lips, wetting and making them even more inviting. “If you stand absolutely still, not moving a muscle while I touch you, I might consider your offer. But if you make the slightest move to grab me I will scream rape.”

“Is that what happened to those two former lovers of yours who committed suicide? You accused them of rape?”

She ignored my question. “Do we have a deal, Soissons?”

“Try me,” I said.

She came closer, paused, and then scored my chest with the sharp nails of her left hand, causing a snail trail of blood. For a few seconds Chardonnay du Plessier watched the blood ooze slowly down my flesh before she leaned forward, snaked out her tongue, and licked it up.

I stood rock still.

I could see she was surprised, maybe even disappointed, that I had not reacted. She kissed me softly on my mouth, the blood wet tip of her tongue gliding along my closed lips.

I stood rock still.

“Open your mouth.” She ordered husky voiced. I parted my lips and tasted my own blood as her tongue met mine in my mouth. At the same time she ground her groin against my erection. My arms were hanging limply by my sides and it was a gigantic effort not to grab her rounded buttocks and impale her on my now rampant penis while sucking on her tongue.

I stood rock still.

She could see I wasn’t going to move and stepped back from me. “Drop your trousers.”

“What?”

“Is your hearing impaired, Soissons? I said drop your trousers.”

I unfastened by belt, pulled down the zip on my fly and my jeans fell around my ankles. Fortunately I was wearing a new pair of designer (Yves Saint Laurent) underpants and my penis tented the fashionable but extremely expensive fabric.

Chardonnay gazed at my erection with a sneer on her face. “Not much of a man are you, Soissons? My ten year old nephew has a bigger penis than that!”

If she was trying to humiliate me she had failed; and if she knew the size of her nephew’s penis then she was a child molester. Something I could use against her. Her comment regarding my penis was water off a duck’s back. I had been humiliated and insulted by experts during the four month of basic training in Corsica. The Legion first demolishes you and then rebuilds you to the Legion’s requirements. Part of the demolition process was for 2 CEV’s instructing staff at Corte Citadel to cast aspersions on your paternity, your masculinity, your mental health, your physical ability, and by far the greatest mortification, the size, or rather the lack of size, of your penis. After a company FFI (Free From Infection) inspection on the parade ground, where we all stood to attention with trousers down while our genitals were examined by a doctor for signs of STDs, a sneering Caporal-chef said to me, ‘Your dick is the smallest I have ever seen. You probably can only stuff ants with one that small!’

‘That’s not what you said last night when I had it stuck up your arse, Caporal-chef,’ I replied.

His punch knocked me to the ground, but the laughter of the company was enough for no one else to cast aspersions on the size of my penis, which I admit is not the largest but neither is it the smallest. In any case it is how you use it that counts and I have the seal of approval of the Madam of The House of Joy in Grenoble. ‘Nuff said.

To destabilise Chardonnay du Plessier I had to use a different put down.

“I’ve worn down my prick stuffing Estelle and Antoinette; you will be having their leavings and should be grateful for that.”

Her slap was nearly as hard as the Caporal-chef’s punch but I just laughed at her. “Maybe your nephew had also been with Estelle and Antoinette to have such a small penis? If so you, and they, could be indicted for child molestation.” She swung her hand for another slap but this time I caught hold of her wrist. “No more violence please, Madame du Plessier, or I might lose my good humour.”

She stared at me, obviously thrown by my nonchalant attitude. She took a breath and then nodded. “Yes, perhaps it is now time for us to fornicate.”

“Suits me,” I said. “Which side of the bed do you prefer?”

We fornicated, had sex, and it was purely a physical encounter. She took the dominant position above me and showed no sign of enjoying herself as she moved on me. After only a few minutes I ejaculated into the condom she insisted I wore but I don’t think I would have brought her to an orgasm even if I had taken all night. She had determined not to enjoy herself or give me any pleasure. It was a sterile meeting of two bodies and no minds.

She rolled off me after my ejaculation. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said, “and I don’t want to see you in the morning when I awake.” With that she turned away from me and was soon asleep. I lay for a moment savouring, well not savouring but considering whether to continue with this obviously unhinged woman. I got from the bed and gazed down at the sleeping beauty. There was something about her that had got under my skin but I wondered if she was worth the effort. I decided she wasn’t and left her bed, her house and her life. Fortunately Madame Chardonnay du Plessier’s villa was in the area where we ran our 20 kms-20 kilos runs and I soon found my way back to HQ.

For the following two weeks my life continued as normal. Hard training with les Pionniers de la Légion étrangère and hard pounding with any available girl from the clubs and bars in Aubagne. Stefan and I continued helping Stella at dinner parties and after that work Stefan and I continued double penetrating and spit-roasting an appreciative Stella.

“I bet you didn’t get anything like this with Chardonnay,” Stella said after a particularly hectic après dinner party. We had cycled, and tandemed, through our repertoire and Stella and I were getting back our breath. Stefan was flaked out, snoring. “I’m so glad you saw sense and didn’t go back to her.”

“I might be a randy little sod, Stella, but I’m not that stupid,” I said. However a few days later I proved I was that stupid.

It was Saturday night in the Striking Cobra Club, one of the venues where lecherous legionnaires and wet and willing women came together, in more than a manner of speaking. I was lip locked with the redhead who wasn’t a natural redhead, looking forward to some energetic and enjoyable sex with her later that evening. I broke the air-starving suction of her lips to allow some breath into my lungs and happened to glance over to the bar entrance. Framed in the doorway was Chardonnay du Plessier. She saw me looking at her and beckoned me with a finger. I slid off my bar stool, told Red I’d see her again, and like a lemming followed Chardonnay out to her car, a yellow Lamborghini. Miura. She handed me the keys “Can you drive?”

I nodded and got into the driver’s seat – which I hoped was an omen for the coming evening – started the motor and gingerly drove away. She gave me directions and we ended up outside some sleazy hotel in a back street in downtown Marseille. I was concerned about leaving the expensive super car in such a dump but Chardonnay was unperturbed. “The door man will watch it.” she said. I hadn’t noticed the gorilla in the shadows who smiled at Chardonnay as she walked past him.

“Another lamb for the slaughter, Madame?”

She ignored him, stopped briefly at the reception desk and picked up a key. We walked up two flights of stairs then along a dingy corridor lined with doors which from behind I could hear the sounds of copulation in all its many degenerate forms. Screams, moaning, shrieks, sounds of naked bodies slapping against each other, of whips beating flesh, and hanging like a fetid blanket over the entire building the miasma of sexual arousal and depravity.

The room was clean, the bed comfortable, and this time I was on top but that was as far as being in the driver’s seat I got. There was no kissing or any other manifestations of intimacy between us, merely mechanical copulation. There might have been a bit more animation from Chardonnay than on our previous encounter. I noticed she was biting her lip as if to stifle an exclamation of pleasure as I slowly rotated my pelvis while buried deep inside her, an action that would normally have my partner moaning and panting in lustful enjoyment. I also used my beard, rubbing my chin on her pussy, and she arched her back and clenched her muscles, seemingly desperate not to come. Once again I ejaculated but Chardonnay did not reach an orgasm. She had a quick shower; she didn’t invite me to join her. I had a quick all over wipe down with a damp sponge and then we left. When we got to her car she got into the driver’s seat. I got the impression she had not been over impressed with neither my driving nor my fornication skills.

I was rather surprised when Chardonnay drove me to the entrance gate of Quartier Vienot. As I got from the car she handed me a card. “My telephone number is on the back. Ring me Thursday at six pm. Not before or after but exactly at six pm.” She kissed me on my cheek before driving away, leaving me staring at the card. It was a picture of Munch’s ‘The Scream’, a painting that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and scares me to death. As I walked through the gates of the camp the legionnaire on guard duty, who was a fellow member of Les Pionniers, called out. “That was a very expensive car you arrived in, Professor, and a very sexy lady driving it. You seem to have fallen on your feet.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Tonto,” I said. “Time will tell.”

I cannot explain my fascination, captivation, and entrancement with Chardonnay du Plessier. She was physically attractive but only in the same way most young females are. I say ‘young ‘but she was at least 30 years old, 10 years older than I was – I could be classed as her toy boy I suppose. Her features were regular but not particularly classic; a full lipped mouth, wide set, large, brown eyes, a Nubian nose, and dark brown hair she now wore longer than when I first saw her at de Bergerac Frossard’s dinner party. She was tall for her sex, a head shorter than me, and her figure was shapely and slender but no more so than a thousand other girls. She seemed to glide along when walking, as if hovering a few millimetres above the ground. There was no doubt that Chardonnay du Plessier had got under my skin big time. It was her air of not so much of mystery but mystifying otherworldliness, not quite in this world but in some place just out of reach of most people. It was something I cannot describe or explain but she certainly had me hooked. Chardonnay was an itch I needed to scratch, but it was if I was wearing boxing gloves. I debated whether or not to phone her on Thursday, but of course I did.

“Do you possess a suit, a decent suit, not one of those ghastly massed produced ones from Tati?” she asked when I rang her at 6.00 pm on the dot.

Actually my suit was from Tati, a perfectly good suit in my eyes, so I just said yes.

“Good. Wear it tomorrow and meet me at The Red Onion Club in the Chemin de Riquet. Get a taxi if you don’t know where that is, and when you arrive at the club tell reception you are my guest. They will pay the taxi. Seven pm sharp.” She hung up before I agreed to be there, but she knew she had her fish well and truly hooked.

The Red Onion Club was an exclusive drinking, gambling, and dancing venue with a number of medium sized function rooms. On arrival I was directed to the Versailles Room where I found Chardonnay and a half dozen other young women dressed in expensive and revealing dresses accompanied by young men in Tati suits. I recognised one of the men as being a fellow legionnaire from 1RE. Chardonnay seized my arm. “We will spend an hour or two here, depending on how you behave yourself. My girlfriends will attempt to get you away from me by offering you their bodies, but if you so much as touch one of the sluts I will cut off your penis. Now go to the bar and get me a Cosmopolitan and something for yourself. You won’t have to pay.”

The bar was at the far end of the room and when I got there I saw the other legionnaire, Paxo, who was also getting a cocktail for his ‘date’. While the bartender made the drinks Paxo filled me in on what the score was with the females and their male attendants.

“The men are here for the girls to do whatever they want with them. The girls pick up the men like we pick up girls in bars, but these females like demonstrating their power over males. We will be humiliated, demeaned, and generally made to look like fools for their benefit. But we get rewarded when we take our dates back to their homes where they get well and truly screwed by males making sure their manhood is recognised after having it denuded at this party. Take Annabel, the girl I’m with.” Paxo pointed to a voluptuous blonde on the dance floor who was shaking her large but shapely derrière in time to some up tempo tune being played over the sound system. She had more breast flesh on display than a nursing mother, but wobbling so much with her gyration a baby would never be able to keep their mouth on a teat. “Later this evening she will have me on my hands and knees, barking like a dog, stripped down to my underpants and being led around the room on a leash, making me look a complete idiot. But when I have her in her bedroom I can do anything and everything to her. She’s like a bitch in heat, and howls like a siren when I’m shagging her. Talk about depraved! These girls must have gone to a College of Debauchery to be so perverted. I hope you have the strength to deal with Chardonnay, she is supposed to be the most degenerate of the lot.” He picked up the cocktail the bartender had just made. “And for your information Annabel’s tits are real but she is not a natural blonde.” He waked back to the jiggling Annabel, who took the glass from him without a word or a glance and tipped the contents down her throat while keeping to the beat of the music.

‘If Chardonnay is a degenerate I haven’t seen any signs as yet, but perhaps the best is yet to come’ I thought.

The evening developed as Paxo had described. The men were given silly tasks to complete and the girls howled with laughter at their antics. I was ordered to get on hands and knees and then Chardonnay and another girl, it might have been Annabel, got on my back and rode me around the room, digging their heels into my ribs and shouting ‘Go on little pony; giddy up little pony!’ When the girls were tired of their amusements us men were ordered to remove our shirts. I wondered if this was going to lead to a full disrobing but fortunately all the girls did was run their hands over our chests, remarking on the muscle tone of our biceps, abs, etc. I was probably the tallest of the group but not the burliest, which was probably Paxo, although he was several centimetres shorter than me. A dark haired girl with a deep tan, a plunging neckline and a cleavage to match, ran the palms of her hands lightly over my body. They stopped their roaming when reaching the belt around my waist.

“Are you as well built below the belt as you are above?” she asked, and her tongue flicked across her parted lips. I wouldn’t have minded letting her know by taking her outside and giving her what was below my belt and almost bursting my zip, but before I could say or do anything Chardonnay stormed over.

“Get your slutty hands off him, you bitch! This one is mine and I’ll scar any girl who tries to get him into her bed.”

The hubbub of sound, music and talking, stopped, and the dark haired girl backed away. “OK, Chardonnay. Don’t get in such a state. You’ve not brought this one here before and I was only looking to see what the new stud you’ve got was like.”

“You look with eyes not your hands, Bettina. And I’ve told you before that I don’t share, not like you and Annabel.”

Bettina tossed her head, dark hair flying. “Yeah I know, and look what a miserable bitch it has made you.” There was a ripple of laughter and Chardonnay’s face went white with anger. Fortunately the music restarted and dancing resumed before her anger exploded into action.

“Put your shirt and jacket back on and dance with me, but no rubbing that bulge into me,” Chardonnay ordered, regaining her poise and the initiative. We danced; she moulded onto my body but I kept slightly one sided until my erection had subsided enough for us to dance belly to belly. She was feather light on her feet. Although I’m no John TravoIta I can keep to a rhythm and manage the basic steps, and we moved as one. A pity we couldn’t achieve a similar union in bed but perhaps this was the turning point when Chardonnay would allow me more and fuller intimacy.

The party began to dissolve into not so much dancing but dry humping on the dance floor. Chardonnay took my hand. “They will be copulating on the floor soon; we’re out of here before the vice squad are called in.” I noticed most of the girls and some of the men were high on something. The dark haired slut, Bettina, was wrapped around her man like a vine and grinding her groin into his, her eyes glazed and a trace of white powder under her nose.

There was a taxi awaiting us outside the club, Chardonnay gave the driver directions to her house. I assumed she would drop me off at the gate of Quartier Vienot en route but I was still in the taxi when we arrived at her home. We had sat close, but not entwined, in silence during the ride. Once in the house Chardonnay went upstairs to change and I was ordered to make some supper from what I could find in the refrigerator and the large storage cupboard in the kitchen. I cobbled together anchovies and a ricotta cheese salad (something else Stella had taught me) and when Chardonnay came down fresh from her shower we sat at the kitchen table and behaved like a couple home from a night out, discussing the people we had been with.

“I was at school with most of the girls at the Red Onion club,” Chardonnay said. “They led me astray and got me into trouble. Bettina was expelled; she is nothing but a dirty slut; she and Annabel, and several other of the girls, spend a week or two on the Côte d’Azur and indulge in orgies with men they pick up at Tropez or Cannes.”

‘Sounds like my sort of females, ‘ I thought, but said nothing aloud.