The Bottom Line (22 page)

He moved his hand slowly across, patting and fondling the left cheek in turn. Again there was no reaction. Much bolder now he took his hand away to return it almost immediately, but this time under her skirt. The flesh was soft and warm and he thought he heard a throaty gurgle from Mathilde as he kneaded it. Moving again to the left, he pressed the edge of his hand into the cleft as he did so, and this time there was no mistaking the low murmur. Moving his hand again he slid his thumb between her legs until he could feel the labia beneath their downy covering. She was not yet moist but she was warm and yielding, pressing down against his thumb as he moved it to and fro until he could feel the first telltale beads of moisture as the lips parted slightly.

He took his hand away and lay back on the bed. She turned to smile at him and, although she was wearing a loosely fitting blouse that did nothing to enhance her figure, he could see that she was as shapely from the front as from the back. She smiled at him, the smile of a healthy peasant girl with no illusions about life but a sufficient appetite for the good things it offered. If she was not exactly beautiful, Laurent thought to himself, she had a pleasing smile, a glowing skin and the wholesome appearance of a peasant girl in full bloom. She smiled again, placed her palms on the bed and leaned forward, allowing Laurent to see that she was wearing no undergarment here either.

He began to thrust a hand inside her blouse but she intercepted and held it. He thought he'd gone too far and was being rebuffed, but she let his hand drop, peeled off her top in one easy movement and knelt above him on the bed, her breasts irresistible just above his face. He reached up slowly and took them in both hands, teasing them gently for a while and then pulling her on top of him so that he was able to take one breast into his mouth, filling himself with the melting flesh as he sought her nipple with his tongue. He remained in this position for some time, enjoying her breasts with his hands, his lips, his tongue and his teeth, though being careful not to mark her. He thought once or twice of the skinny whores to whom his army friends had introduced him during their weekend leaves, comparing them unfavourably with the girl back home whose richer assets he was so much enjoying.

After a while he disengaged a hand and manoeuvred it under her skirt, to find that she was now moist and open. He stroked her lips briefly and pushed a fingertip between them, looking at her as he did so. She smiled again, nodded and lifted herself clear of his body. For a moment she moved as though to straddle him, but he shook his head, asked her to kneel again and then moved behind her.

This time he didn't bother using his hand but pushed his swollen cock between her legs, trusting it to find the natural and lubricated channel which he furrowed for a few minutes, before taking himself firmly in one hand and pushing his cock deeply inside her. Once there he paused, feeling the tightness of her body as it closed round him and resisting the temptation to bring himself to a quick orgasm. Instead he reached round her with both hands and took her breasts again, tenderly this time, weighing them and rubbing the nipples with the palms of his hands as his cock began thrusting of its own accord.

He continued to fondle her while keeping his body movements minimal, until he could no longer resist the need to possess her. He released her breasts and seized her fiercely round the waist, pulling her back hard against him to make sure that he stayed deep inside her, and starting to thrust more powerfully, relishing the thwack of his belly against her arse as he completed each fresh stroke. He knew it could not be long now as his movements became more and more frantic. Continuing to pull her tight against him with one hand he slipped the other between her legs from the front and massaged her clit roughly, gasping with effort and fucking her as hard as he knew how, until with one final heave he emptied himself inside her.

Whether she had climaxed too he was unable to tell, but her panting suggested that she probably had. He stayed inside for a few minutes longer, returning both hands to her breasts and cradling them for comfort as he rocked softly to and fro, until he slid naturally and easily out of her wet body. He lay back on the bed and waited.

She turned to face him, smiled again without at first speaking until her breathing had returned to a more normal state, then she carefully swung herself off the bed, slipped off her skirt and said simply, ‘Don't go away.'

He lay replete, hardly daring to move as he watched her leave the bedroom and heard the door of the shower room open. After a while he heard the sound of the lavatory flushing and then she reappeared, carrying a cloth and a towel. Quickly, and to his considerable relief, she cleaned him up and towelled him dry. Illogical though it seemed, he didn't want to leave any telltale stains on his sheet. Dropping the towel on the floor she leaned over him again and kissed him, the first kiss she had ever given him.

It was a warm and affectionate kiss, but not a passionate one. It lasted for a few seconds and then she broke away, traced his lips with her finger and stooped to kiss him again, this time pushing open his mouth with her tongue, burying her own tongue inside him and staying there until both of them were gasping for breath.

Then she straightened up, pulled her blouse over her head and looked for her skirt. When she'd put it on and fastened it again she walked to the door, turned once to look back at him, smiled again and said, ‘Many happy returns.'

‘But it's not my birthday,' he replied.

‘Who said anything about birthdays?' she asked, as she disappeared down the stairs.

Laurent slowly got out of bed and walked over to the window. He looked down as Mathilde and his mother came out of the cottage together and said a few words. Then his mother turned and went back inside, while Mathilde began to walk away, turned, looked up to the bedroom window and waved coyly to him. Not knowing what to do or think, he smiled weakly at her and went back to his breakfast tray where the coffee, though no longer hot, was still drinkable.

The rest of the day he spent in a dream, understanding in a vague sort of way what had happened but incapable of taking in the implications or even of deciding just what those implications were. His mother said nothing but smiled knowingly when he went downstairs and his father, on returning to the cottage for lunch, asked whether he had slept well, whether he still found the bed comfortable, and whether he had yet seen Mathilde.

‘You could do a lot worse than Mathilde,' claimed papa. ‘She's a good, healthy girl and she'd give you fine children.' Laurent smiled, knowing that no reply was expected and conscious that he needed to keep his thoughts to himself, for the time being at least.

 

For the next few days he busied himself round the house and farm, catching glimpses of Mathilde when he went across to the fields to help papa, or when she helped maman by dropping in some small item of shopping. But there were no opportunities for private conversation, let alone any more intimate form of contact. Laurent thought he could probably have engineered a situation, but decided he would prefer to wait for a few days. In any case, he had already determined that he needed to pay a visit to town.

And so it was that, three or four days after returning home, and ignoring the market bus which left too early in the morning to suit his purposes, he set off one afternoon down the dusty track which led to the lane which led to town, having told his parents that he might doss overnight with an army friend who lived in town. It was early evening when he arrived, and he went first of all to a house whose continuing existence he had checked on his brief passage through the town a few days earlier. He satisfied himself of the facilities available, negotiated an acceptable price and arranged to return there at nine o'clock that same evening. Then he went to find something to eat.

Having satisfied one appetite, he duly returned to the house on the appointed hour, whereupon madame called for one of her staff to take him upstairs to meet Beatrice, who was to attend to his other needs. Beatrice was waiting for him at the door to invite him into her room which, as well as a bed, a couple of easy chairs and one or two minor pieces, had a rack running the length of one wall, from which was hanging a range of instruments of punishment. There were several paddles of varying specification, a couple of carpet-beaters, a few belts and tawses, several riding-crops, a number of canes of different length, thickness and curvature, and even some horrendous looking whips, including one with several knotted thongs.

Beatrice said nothing as Laurent inspected the collection, but waited for him to finish.

‘Have you seen anything that appeals to you?' she asked him.

‘Oh yes,' Laurent answered, pointing to one of the crops. ‘This one should do very well.'

‘Aha,' said Beatrice, ‘the hunting crop. Very good. I like using that one. It sits well in the hand and it has the right weight. But you'll feel it, I promise you that. It's not for playing games with.' She placed the crop across one of the chairs.

‘That's fine by me,' Laurent told her. ‘I'm sure I shall approve of that one.'

‘We shall see,' Beatrice replied, rather tartly. ‘And how many strokes does monsieur think he should receive?'

‘I'm not sure,' said Laurent. ‘Somewhere between a dozen and twenty, would you think? I quite like it to be spread out a bit. What is the normal ration?'

‘There is no normal ration,' Beatrice told him. ‘It depends on the customer and on his experience. It's something you need to find out about. Shall we say fifteen?' Laurent nodded. ‘But let me warn you - once I've started I shan't let you change your mind, so you'd better be clear about that.'

‘I shan't change my mind,' Laurent assured her.

‘You've paid madame for half an hour,' Beatrice reminded him, ‘but I'm sure she told you that you pay me direct for any extras during that time. Will there be any extra services that you require?'

‘Oh yes,' Laurent told her. ‘I shall require the full treatment - you know, complete satisfaction.'

‘That's fine,' she said, ‘but it'll be another two hundred francs.' She held out her hand for the cash, which Laurent counted out for her. ‘Now, before you get ready you may wish to use the bathroom.' She indicated a door that led off the bedroom.

‘No,' said Laurent, ‘that's okay. I'll be fine.'

‘As long as you're sure,' she warned him, ‘because there's an extra payment for any - how shall I put it? - little accidents.'

But Laurent stood his ground and was instructed to remove his clothes, put them on the bed and then stand still while she tethered his feet. He was a little surprised at this, but Beatrice explained that she had, in the past, been kicked by customers and was keen to prevent any repetition. Laurent shrugged his shoulders and complied. Then she asked him to hold out his hands while she handcuffed them together, using a pair of lightweight and padded cuffs with a ring let into the chain. He asked what the purpose of the ring was, but she told him simply to raise his arms above his head, which he did. Then she went to the wall and loosened a rope that was coiled round a cleat-hook.

Laurent realised that the other end of the rope ran through a series of pulleys up the wall and across the ceiling, from where it dangled a metre or so and ended in a hook. He made no comment as she fasted the hook through the ring, went back to the wall and hauled on the rope until his arms were straight above his head and his heels were just off the floor. Then she fastened the rope tightly to the hook.

‘Comfortable?' she asked him. ‘This is your last chance to change your mind.'

‘I'm fine,' he said. ‘Can we just get on with it. I paid for half an hour and the clock is running.'

‘There's just one more thing,' she said, approaching him with a folded cloth in her hand, which he assumed was a gag, and he shook his head violently at the prospect. ‘Okay,' she said. ‘Some customers prefer not to let me hear what a noise they're making. Please try not to shout or scream too much. You're going to get four strokes three times over and then three final strokes. Is that okay?'

He nodded. Beatrice picked up the crop, walked behind him and then there was a pause. He could sense she was inspecting him. Then he felt her test the tongue of the crop, first on his right cheek and then on the left, sliding it up and down each time before withdrawing it. There was a much longer pause and then the first blow landed.

It startled and hurt him but less than he had expected, as it landed across the centre of his buttocks, the tongue flicking viciously on the right-hand side. There was another pause and then the second stroke landed, slightly above the first and with a similar weight. Again he could easily avoid crying out or, indeed, giving any oral evidence that the blow had even landed. And so it was with the third, lower this time, but the fourth, across the very tops of his thighs and angled upwards to cut into the underside of his buttocks produced a sharp intake of breath.

‘Aha,' laughed Beatrice. ‘A reaction at last.' She moved back into view and patted his left breast with the tongue of the crop, then the right one. She repeated the action half a dozen times then dropped the crop, moved closer to him and rubbed both nipples. Then she seized them between thumb and index finger and pinched them hard as she pulled him towards her, so that he rocked on the balls of his feet while swaying underneath the rope and hook. Then she laughed, picked up the crop and disappeared again.