Paul's French Maid - Instalment # 1 free porn video

Paul & His French Maid by Justin Silk Copyright JustinSilk 2002. All Rights Reserved Chapter One: Moving In Moving to a new city is always exciting. A new country even more so. I have moved country several times. From England to France. Jamaica. The beautiful, mysterious Australia and now the United States of America. I'm here in this large city to set up my American operation. I have an apartment with a pool and furniture, a car and a ten-room office suite. What more could a boy want? ***** "How about a girl?" Harvey was my new best buddy and he and his blonde bombshell girlfriend, Sharee, hung around my place all the time. It was a hot Sunday and since Harv and I were next-penthouse neighbours, we shared a rooftop swimming pool. Thus it was that Harv had been my very best friend for fully nine days. Today, as usual, we talked garbage and Harvey necked a beer beside the pool. Perhaps this had struck Sharee as suggestive, since she was idly stroking Harvey's crotch. It was making an eye-catching impression in the gleaming fabric of his little spandex speedos. His cock, one couldn't but notice, was growing hard. Very hard. So hard, its head was in danger of was becoming visible with every pass of Sharee's finger. "Do you mind, young lady?" I said, trying to look stern. "That sort of behaviour could unsettle a young lad." Sharee struggled to translate my comment into a language she could comprehend. Harve spewed beer, laughed and coughed uncontrollably. "A young lad? Is that the way you all talk in England?" "Of course. We English are a serious and far-from-humorous nation. We don't approve of penile play in public. I shall have to put a notice on the wall prohibiting such folly." Sharee still didn't seem to understand a great deal of our banter. As she glanced from Harve to me and then back to Harve and back and forth, she started a little uncertainly to smile. I think she had a sense that I was probably joking. Either way, she soon returned her tongue to full engagement in encouraging the discomforting behaviour of her paramour's prick. "You need a chick." Harve looked at me and as he did so, half-stood as he simultaneously pushed his gleaming blue speedos down. "I'm not ready for another relationship," I said, unsettled, both by what was happening in front of me and by Harvey's suggestion. Getting up, I went to the ice bucket to fetch more champagne for Shar, as Harve insisted on calling his highly-aroused lady. I tossed an ice cube at Harvey's large and shiny cockhead. I was embarrassed to note that I registered the fact that this head was mushroom-shaped with a rim that made a large overhang. "Shit," said Harvey as, much to my surprise, I saw the cube hit its target. "Hey, pal, cut that out," said Harvey, unamused. "Jeez, fella." "Sorry. Right out of line. After all, I hardly know you," I said with what I hoped was obvious irony. But I sensed there was a side to Harvey I had not seen before. Sharee looked bewildered again, and took Harvey's cockhead into the safety of her mouth, where I could not hit it with another ice-cube. I continued our conversation, assuming that the sexual interchange now taking place between Shar and Harve was a traditional part of the local way of life. But I assumed there was more to it. "No. I'm just not up for a new emotional experience. For the time being, my sex life will be between my head and my right fist. The latter accepts my mood changes and still respects me in the morning. And never once has it nagged me for a new car or a new outfit. It's the kind of loyalty a chap values." Without missing a beat, although his breathing had started to sound a little less than measured, Harve made a further suggestion. "Then what about getting yourself a maid? She could be company for you and you'd never need to clean the apartment again." "I don't clean it now. I have a nice Italian lady do for me. Mrs Spaghiolla, I think her name is." "Is she good?" Sharee asked, looking up after licking some precum from Harve's glistening plum of a cockhead. "Er, yes," I said. "Is she pretty? Sexy?" asked Harve. "Er, no," I had to admit. "Maybe was. She has three grandchildren." "So get rid of her. Why don't you run an ad in the paper? On Friday. Interviews on Saturday. Baby boooooo oooy, get wired." Harvey started to become my advisor, his nerves clearly on edge. "A hunk like you could do-o-o-o-oooooh very nicely with a maid. Get the right one and she could even be your ho-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-stess until you find Ms Right." Hervey's cock head was probably beyond Sharee's tonsils the next time I looked. A 747 passed asthmatically overhead. "Unusual hhhhhh-eading," strained Harvey, looking up. "Don't usually come this way." But on this occasion he did. --- Lying in bed that night, I thought about Harvey's suggestion and decided that it wasn't too crazy. Don't think me too boastful when I tell you that I've never found it hard to acquire female company. People are kind enough to say that I'm fairly good-looking. But, I really don't want an involvement. After Sally and I broke up I vowed that it wouldn't happen again. Maybe what I need is a maid. The apartment was much larger than I really needed. Four bedrooms, two with en-suite. Three reception rooms and the rooftop pool and spa. So I took Harvey's advice and had my secretary place an ad in the paper for a live-in maid. Like a flatmate, but more practical. Oooops, there's my English background again. A housemate. --- The first call came at exactly five past seven on Saturday morning. And then calls happened at regular and exponentially shorter intervals until, after 30 or so calls, I decided to leave the phone off the hook and let the calls run through to the answering service. There was a mixture of women. One sounded like she'd be playing Ragas till four in the morning and stinking the place out with ganja and coriander. Others were clearly older and far too sensible. There was a gay guy so sibilant you could hear the star- bursts on his tongue. A secretary. A professor of Ancient Greek who had called the wrong number. A couple of ladies far too cheery for that time of the morning. I went out for Saturday lunch at the bar / bistro opposite. I sat in the courtyard and sipped an aperitif. I ordered a Caesar salad. A glass of French chardonnay, with which even a merely half-decent Australian wine would have been disgusted to share a name, went to the palm tree in the pot behind me. By the time I left, the owner was insisting I not pay for my modest meal (he'd seen my reaction to the wine) and that I join him for a glass of Hine fine champagne cognac. I insisted on paying for my meal, but suggested that I have the brandy next time I was in. The way he squeezed my shoulder and whispered that he 'would really, really like that' made me wonder if I wouldn't be even more welcome for breakfast than for lunch. --- There were two messages on the machine when I got home from lunch. One was from my secretary and the other from a woman with a smoky French accent and a turn of phrase that made me more than a little interested. She apologised for being so late in calling, but she hadn't woken before 11 and just couldn't speak to "h-a soul" before two cups of cafe and a Gitane. She hoped she wasn't too late. She "loved the voice on the telephone answering machine". She would like to meet its owner. Even for a ver' little chat. She would be at home that afternoon. She would be able to see the apartment early evening as she was dining with her brother in my area. "Please do phone to me," she pleaded. She didn't, however, leave a number. What a shame. The only voice that sounded even half way interesting and there was no way of contacting it. I remembered the old movie "Bells Are Ringing" and a song from it called " I'm in Love with a Voice " Crazy how these things come to mind. "Plaza 0 double four double three It's the perfect relationship I don't know him and he doesn't know me." --- As I dived (sorry, as I dove) into the rooftop pool outside my bedroom the phone rang. Climbing out, I stubbed my toe. Cursing, I picked up the phone. "Hello." "Pas la" Click. "Fuck." I missed her again. I switched the answering machine on again and made for the pool. Immediately the phone rang. "H-I forgot to leave my number. Please do call to me ." "Hello," I said. "This is Paul". "Aaah! Allo. This is Nicole Mercier. I left a message h-about the maid job." "And you would like to know if the job is gone. Oui?" "Ah, oui. Ah, bon. Vous parlez francais tres, tres, tres bien." Ah! A nice sense of humour. "Mademoiselle Nicole, I am stark naked, I'm dripping wet, I just stubbed my toe getting out of the pool to answer the phone and, in spite of living in Paris for three years, I know that I speak very bad French." A giggle came down the phone line. There was no doubt that Nicole had a wicked sense of humour. I warmed to her even more. "I will forgive you bad French if you are nude. And pretty." The giggling ceased and Nicole became serious. "Oh. Excuse me. Yes, I would like to know if the job is still available. " "It could be. I think we should meet," I suggested. "But is the job still available?" Nicole was now completely serious. "I think we should meet," I repeated. "That would be very agreable." "O.K. Do you know Sonoma Street, just off ..?" "Oui. Of course. Yes, I know it." "And do you know a bar / bistro called "Aerobleu"? "Yes. I was going to h-eat there with my brother tonight. Michel, le patron, the h-owner is a very close friend of h-ours." "You were going to eat there tonight? But not any more? " "My brother is busy tonight." "OK Nicole, I'd be delighted if you'd meet me for a drink at Aerobleu tonight." "Of course." "And IF we like each other, and IF you have nothing else to do maybe we can also have dinner there. " "That MIGHT be nice." The gauloisey voice at the other end of the phone sounded a little stern. "A sept heures et demi?" it continued. "Half past seven would be fine. I'll see you there. Tell the owner tell Michel that you're looking for Paul. I'll tell him I'm expecting Nicole." "Until soon, then." The click on the line came a little too quickly. The lady was not for spurning. As I showered, I wondered about Nicole. I wasn't entirely sure what I might be expecting. For all I knew, Nicole was a raving dyke with a square face and a blue crew cut. That I didn't need. I had a friend like that already. Going down in the lift, the elevator, l'ascenseur, the shapely legs, the sexy smile and the heady scent of a glamorous neighbour disturbed my speculations. At "Aerobleu" Michel's huffy response when I said that Nicole would be looking for me gave me something else to wonder about. "Yes, dear, I know. Nicole is coming, but Monsieur Andre is too busy." "I don't know anything about that." "Excuse me, Mr Paul. I am a little cross with Andre. What can I get for you?" At about ten to eight, a perfume takes my attention. Then a head of the most beautiful chestnut hair, superbly coiffed. Below, a perfect torso and the loveliest legs in silk hose and gleaming six-inch heels I had seen in almost an hour. As the click click click of the heels pass me and approach the bar, I begin hoping this is Nicole. Chapter Two: Paul Meets His Maid Copyright JustinSilk 2002. All Rights Reserved Michel smiled. "Mr Paul, I think you are expecting Nicole? She has gone to the bathroom. Would you care for a drink at the bar before you eat?" I followed Michel to the bar and almost as soon as I'd taken my barstool I heard the familiar tip,tip,tip of very high heels and Michel's voice introducing the vision of loveliness before me. I stepped forward and in a pathetic gesture of what the Englishman takes to be gallic charm, I took Nicole's hand and kissed it, looking her in the eyes all the while. Michel discreetly watched us very carefully, a slight smile hovering around his full lips. "Enchante, Mademoiselle Nicole, de faite votre connaissance." My equally-pathetic schoolboy French. "Very pleased to meet you, too, Mister Paul. Very pleased. Well, you 'ave a very sexy voice on the telephone, but I didn't imagine you would be more 'andsomer than Tom Crueez." Nicole looked me up and down and smiled, apparently approvingly. "No, because I'm not. And you didn't say anything about your being more exquisite even than ... Please, sit down." Her breasts were perfect. They seemed very firm and vibrated a little as she sat. Vibrated, I noticed, rather than wobbled. Her perfume was what they used to call heady. Under the tailored jacket, carefully cut to display no, to present very tastefully Nicole's lovely upper torso, was an inflammatory hint of expensive black lace and the subtlest glint of black silk satin. Her upper torso and its packaging was having a very direct effect on my lower torso. "Michel, bring a bottle of Krug please. You will drink champagne, I assume, mademoiselle?" "Yes, I would love some champagne. But one should not make too many assumptions, should one, monsieur?" As Michel left us, he and Nicole shared a tiny smile. A private joke perhaps. Perhaps to do with Nicole's brother? "You're right," I replied. "But there is obviously some significance in your saying so right now." "Assumptions are dangerous. We make assumptions about people, their profession, their social status, their sexual preference, their taste in wines or cuisine simply from a cursory first impression. Often, we are wrong. What, for h-example, do you assume that I do for a living? My profession." "Model?" "Ummmm, sometimes. But that is not my profession." "Expensive, top-of-the-market call girl," went through my head, but thinking that might be thought rude, I dredged up something frivolous to say. "University professor," I said flippantly. "Of what?" she added. "You ARE a professor?" "Well, no." I laughed. "Of course not. I was just joking." "No. I am a Lecturer. I teach art history at the University. I am especially interested in the eighteenth century in France. Rigaud, Fragonard, David. People like that. Would you have assumed that from looking at me?" "It's not what would have come to mind quickly, no," I replied. "Especially since you applied for the job of maid." "Another assumption." Nicole now looked very serious. "You assume that there is only one response to an advertisement for a maid. That I, for instance, would only be interested to clean your 'ouse." "That's what maids do," I said. Nicole looked at me with patience. "And I would clean for you, of course. But that is not the only thing for which I could respond. I respond to the style of your advertisement, to the area where you live. To the swimming pool you mention. To your apparent intelligence. I respond, therefore, to my own assumptions about you." I wondered how Nicole could do both jobs. "Nicole, how would you be a maid and lecture at the university? And, in any case, why would you want to be a maid?" "I teach only part-time. Just in the h-afternoon. Three days a week. And I was intrigued with your advertisement in the newspaper. I think I would make a wonderful maid for you." Michel brought the champagne. As I wondered about the practicality of the arrangement, I toasted Nicole. Putting down the glass, Nicole crossed her legs. Very slowly. I imagined I heard the friction of one stocking on the other. It was a sound that had always excited my imagination. There is even a word for it, but at that moment I couldn't think of it. I thought of Pinter's "The Birthday Party". That's where I first heard it. Consciously. Nicole's movement was hypnotic. The sound spread from my ears, was amplified in my brain and, echoing, shot down my shivering back. Then it slipped caressingly between the muscular orbs of my bubble butt, around my balls and into my cock. This caused my pupils to dilate. My heart to beat faster. And a flood of blood into my prick. It was quite pleasurable. Especially when I felt my hyper-sensitive uncut membrane begin to roll back. A first salty tear was slowly forming at my now uncurtained cock slit. I was falling in love. Or lust, at very least. It's Nicole's shapely legs. Her perfume. Her tongue on the thick, voluptuous lips. The hint of black lace at the hem of her short black skirt. Her laugh. The smoky voice. My name. "Paul? Paul? Are you OK?" "I'm sorry. A beautiful woman crossing such beautiful legs in sheer silk stockings. It does strange things to me. Always has, ever since I was eight years old and a teacher at my school did that. Forgive me. I felt quite dizzy." We were facing each other on our bar stools, our knees almost touching. Nicole reached across and stroked my thigh. She looked at me with a very serious gaze. "Perhaps I should leave now. In the course of one week I cross and uncross my legs perhaps the thousand times. I would hate to cause you to have a 'eart h-attack on my account." "I think I could cope," I said limply. "What would you like for your dinner?" "Paul, may I suggest something?" Nicole leaned forward again, once more revealing the full depth of her cleavage. "I would like to discuss terms about the job. I am also very excited to see the apartment. I would like to see where I might be working. And while I am still sober." "You plan to get drunk?" I asked, jokingly. "Peut etre. It depends." Nicole was playful again. "On what?" I asked. "Oh, on whether I could do the job and whether you would like me as your maid and whether we therefore agree to share a 'ome. Would you mind if we went to look now, if it is not too far? I am sure Michel could find room for us later." Standing up, I agreed. "Excellent idea. Good thinking. Let's settle things one way or the other." My god, I can be very pompous. "And if we can't? Maybe you don't want to know me if I shan't be your maid?" Nicole pouted and said in a little girl voice. "Paul is being nasty to Nicole." I laughed and called to Michel. "Michel, please postpone dinner. We'll be back later. I'll pay for the Krug now." As I shepherded Nicole out of the bar, following the silk stockings and the Opium and the tip, tip, tip of the pin-thin heels, I realised that every eye was on me. Outside, I hail a cab and help Nicole in. I instruct the driver. "123 Sonoma, please." Then, whispering," Just the other side of the road. Here's ten bucks." "You'd get her to bed quicker if you walked," grinned the cab driver. "but what do I know?" We slammed the doors and the driver swung the cab across the road, stopping outside my apartment block opposite. "123 Sonoma?" said the driver. "We're here," I said. Laughing loudly, Nicole said, "You English are mad." Then she reached up and pecked my cheek. The driver winked at me as I shut the door. --- As we waited for the lift, Nicole took my hand and looked up into my eyes. "If the flat is as handsome as you are " As the lift doors shut I felt a hand on my butt. "Hmmmmm" --- I had brought the bubbly with me and suggested Nicole explore the apartment while I poured some wine. From various rooms came the sound of a very happy francaise. Having left her shoes at the door, she eventually skipped back into the living room like a little schoolgirl. Sixth form. Year twelve. "Oh please let me live here," she pleaded. "Please let me be your maid." I gave her her glass. She took a sip. "Now. Let's talk turkey. I have had the terms of the appointment as I see them typed up and they are here. We can make small changes if you wish." For the next half an hour we discussed salary, hours, free-time and Nicole's duties. We talked about visitors. We talked about possible taboos. I showed Nicole her room with its walk-in and en-suite. We inspected the pool. We admired the view. We even went to the garage. "So, we have a deal?" I asked, matter-of-factly. "Bien sure. J'ai faim.' "Moi aussi," I said, rubbing my hands together. Coming up to me and looking up into my eyes, Nicole looked a little sad. "Do we 'ave to go just now?" "So you aren't hungry? I thought you just said you were." "Yes I am. I want to eat this." As she hypnotised me with the most enchanting eyes I'd ever seen, I felt her stroke my bulging crotch. "Hmmmmm" It appeared to be her favourite expression. Harve would approve, no doubt. I took her glass and, putting it down, bent over and took her in my arms. She was tiny, out of the six-inch heels and, standing on tiptoes, she reached up and slid her arms around my neck. I heard her catch her breath as my arms slid around her. We began a long, hard, passionate kiss. I have to confess that in spite of my lingering lack of enthusiasm for a relationship, at that moment I had rarely wanted a woman more. Picking her up, I carried her to my bedroom, the kiss continuing. Placing her gently on my bed, I began shaking as I unbuttoned the jacket. As I took it off I groaned with pleasure at her beauty. Her breasts sat, fully exposed and lifted by the tiny cups of a black lace-trimmed, silk satin basque, her nipples hard and pleading. I pinched one, gently at first and then more firmly. Nicole squirmed and the basque, responding, emphasised the woman's enormous sexuality. "Aaaaah! Oh Paul. Harder. Harder." I took the other nipple between my teeth and bit hard. "Ooooooooooh!!!" Nicole writhed on the bed. Then smiling up at me, she put a thumb in her mouth, her scarlet-nailed first finger around her nose. She looked like an adorable little girl. An adorable gamine in a black silk basque and with long, shapely legs swathed in sheer silk stockings the tops of which were exposed by a very short miniskirt. With her other hand she reached to my pants and slowly unzipped them. Then she got to her knees and gently caressed my prick that was stiffening in my silk Yves St Laurent briefs. She stroked the sensitive weapon with the silky jersey and soon had precum oozing liberally. "You 'ave good taste in your underwear," Nicole smiled up at me as she pulled down the front of the briefs. She took my prick into her mouth. Nobody had ever come close to giving me such exquisite pleasure. What she did with her tongue and her teeth and even the roof of her mouth was spectacular. I feared that I would come too quickly. The passion in her eyes blazed as she stopped sucking me and looked up at me demandingly. "Fuck me, Paul. Fuck me now. Fuck me hard. Fill me with your cock." "I'm on the edge, Nicole. I shall come too quickly." "Don't worry. That is natural. This is our first time, mon chou." My rigid member dripping long strings of precum was bobbing in front of me. I had never been so aroused. Never. I wanted to have this woman coil her legs around my waist and take me deep inside her. Just as I was about to tear Nicole's skirt from her, she stopped me. "Fuck me behind. " "What?" "It is the wrong time, you understand? But I want you inside me. I want you in my h-ass. Please Paul. Please fuck me with your beautiful cock. Now. Please Paul. I want you. Next time you can take me from the front" I went again to strip her skirt. Nicole stood and walked to the vanity. "No, fuck me like this. Like I am your whore. Maybe in a passageway. Fuck me standing. Here. So we can watch in the mirroir. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. NOW" I had never before had a woman from behind. "Nicole, you are tiny. A big, thick cock like mine will tear you apart." "No it won't. I have KY." Nicole was high on desire. Feverishly, she tore open her purse and squeezed lube on to my cock and the mysterious darkness between her hard, tight and shapely buns. There was to be no further discussion. Watching us in the mirror, she guided my cock to the tiny opening to her rear entrance. "Watch in the mirror as you fuck me the first time. Fuck me, darling. Don't worry, you can't hurt me. Just fuck me. " My cockhead gleamed with precum and KY. I spread her cheeks and pushed. She pushed back against me. I felt her sphincter relax and the rim of my gleaming head slip easily inside. She gasped as she slid back along my hard and throbbing shaft. I could not believe that she could take so much cock so easily. Or that I was offering it. Doing what I had never done before. As she began rocking back and forth in time with my own increasingly urgent movements, breathing hard, she managed to stammer out a few words to our reflections in the mirror. "Oh, god, Paul . you are what .. I . aaaah .. HAVE . dreamed of . since I . ohhhhhhhh .was ... ahhhhhhhhhhh, oh yes .. 15 years old yes, THERE . at school in YES YES YES Paris. I always wanted a man like you. Faster, darling. Harder, mon chou. Fuck me hard. Hard. With your beeeeuuuuuutiful cock. Push right through me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck . oh fuck, fuck, fuck oh Paul! O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h, mon ange, que tu es beau." As I fucked her, Nicole controlled the tightness of her sphincter as precisely as a maestro of the violin uses his fingers to tease the most subtle and satisfying sounds from a Stradivarius. Little shocks of never-known pleasure spread through me as she squeezed my shaft on the inward stroke, pulling back my foreskin. Then releasing it as I pulled back. The shocks reached every nerve-ending in my body. As our bodies flowed together and apart, it seemed that Nicole and I had become a single pre-orgasmic entity. My shaft and her ring combined to send the most sensational ecstasy throughout our beings. For the first time in my life, I felt that I knew what my partner was feeling. I'd never felt that with another woman. As she gasped out her mounting excitement and drew closer to orgasm, my soaking body reached fever speed. My fingers squeezed her nipples. My cock battered her ass. I began to hallucinate. I felt the stirring in my balls. Maybe 15 strokes later, Nicole froze, gasped, screamed and came. Violently. A split second later, a great bolt of spunk surged powerfully up my shaft. Six or seven heavy loads followed it inside my exquisite new lover. I fell heavily on her back, heart pounding. As my cock softened and eventually slid from her, I turned Nicole over and we kissed passionately. I lifted her and carried her to my bed. "Oh Paul, I just fell in love with you." I had no doubt that she meant it. We might have known each other for little longer than a knee-trembler, but I knew she was satisfied. As was I. We lay there smiling and content and exhausted. "How long before your period is finished?" I asked, quietly. "Period?" "So I can fuck you." "You just did. Have you never done it that way before?" "Never" "Did you hate it?" "Hate it? It was sensational. I never felt like I knew what was happening to my partner before." "That's because you never could have understood before, darling." "But I want to fuck you face to face." Nicole looked desole. I thought she was about to cry as she looked deep into my eyes. Her body started to shake and as I took the adorably sad little face in my hands, it broke into a smile. One second later the room was alive with the sound of laughter. "What's so funny?" I asked, not knowing why I, too, was laughing. "I'm sorry, cheri. It's not a tampon that gets in the way, darling. Just a rather large clitty. Here, give me your hand my gorgeous man." As my fist closed around a hard, thick shaft and before I could say a word, Nicole's mouth closed over mine and our lovemaking began all over. "Oh my god," I thought. But I'm not sure that I cared what any god might have thought of me at that moment. I sure as hell wasn't about to withdraw from this strange new source of pleasure. Chapter Three: Maid in Heaven Copyright JustinSilk 2002. All Rights Reserved "Bonjour, mon homme" Sunday started as it had not done for many a moon. I slowly allowed the unfamiliar to permeate my being. The unfamiliar sound of another's voice. The unfamiliar scent of a French perfume licentiously mingling with sweat and spunk. The unfamiliar squeeze of a soft and sensual hand. The unfamiliar sense of being loved. I opened my eyes and found an adoring face smiling at me. "G'morning," I lazily sighed and smiled back. "Aren't you the doll I fucked couple times last night?" I drawled in my best Sky Masterson Bronxy voice. "Five times," breathed Nicole as she took my nose in her mouth and did extraordinarily erotic things with her tongue, before letting it drift down over my upper lip and into my mouth. I lifted the silk sheet and looked down. No, I hadn't dreamed it. Nicole had a dick. She liked to call it her clit, but for me, straight-until-yesterday-boy Paul, it was a cock, a prick. "Another stiffy?" "In my clitty? My clitty h-always like to get stiffy. Especially now that it have meet your big, hard cock. Oh, Paul, I have never, ever ad a lover like you. You are just sooooo sexy." "Are you a transvestite?" I asked. "No. I have breasts and I never dress like a man," Nicole whispered into my face. "Would you like to know my history?" "Of course, I would. But first I will go and make coffee." "But am I not your maid? Am I the maid? If so, I shall go to make the coffee." Nicole found croissants in the freezer and returned with our petit dejeuner. "These are terrible croissants, cheri, but who cares." We ate our breakfast slowly and sensuously, feeding each other and sharing kisses between mouthfuls of food. When we had finished, I reminded Nicole that she was to tell me about her 'history'. "Ah, yes. Well, I was called Nicolas by my family. When I was 17 I fell for a boy, Gaston, at the Lycee. Gaston was one year h'older than I. And, oh, so 'andsome. Usually, I was a very sensible person. But I had a great passion for Gaston. I must have been crazy, but one day I told him what I felt. "Mon Dieu, how stupid. That night, Gaston and some of his friends beat me up. It was very terrifying. Anyway, to be brief, my cousin Chantelle, she heard what had happened and took pity on me. "She was 27 and she was a lesbian. She invited me to her home and asked why I had told Gaston that I wanted him. "When I was finished, she said she had guessed that I was gay, but I protested that I wasn't. I was born a boy. I preferred boys more than girls. But, but, but... Any'ow, after a while we worked out that I worshipped Gaston, not because I was gay and liked how you say rough trade, but because I thought like a girl. "Naturellement, because Chantelle is a lesbian, she was understanding. She asked if I wanted to be a girl. She was very protective, knowing that in h'our family there was not much sympathy for the gay boy. Her father was brother to my mother. He had a rage against the homosexual. He had disowned Chantelle and she did not want that I should be badly treated by 'im. "When she was convince that maybe I really knew what I wanted, she said she would show me how to look like a pretty girl. How to 'ave the operation. How to be a pretty girl. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. "Chantelle and her girl friend - and I, we had much fun making me to Nicole. We went shopping in all the best shops in Paris. "The funny thing is that I did not want to lose my penis. I thought I was travesti. And perhaps I was. Certainly, I would get so hot about being like a girl and would get so excited just to think about it. I would buy Elle and Marie Claire and every weekend I would go to Chantelle's friend's house and change from Nicolas to Nicole. "We would go to galleries and theatres and clubs and bars with me in dresses and make-up. Little by little my real personality took over and I would have to work hard at being Nicolas at school. "Three months later, two weeks after my 18th birthday, the three of us decided that I was ready for the ultimate challenge. The last school dance before I would go to the Sorbonne I would go as Nicole. "I was terrified to start with. But I knew I was gorgeous to look at, en femme or, then, en fillette. "Chantelle had had the difficulty to keep her hands from me when she made me up for the dance. Even before, men in the clubs and bars had never guessed I was a boy. Some of them knew me, but never realised that I was Nicolas. Only one, a neighbour, did say that I reminded him of somebody, but he couldn't say who it was. "Any'ow, at the school dance it was essential that nobody recognise me. But if they did not recognise me, they would wonder 'who is this beautiful girl and why is she here? You can't just turn up at a school dance just like that. "It was a problem, bien sure. "It would have been impossible without an escort. "One other boy knew I was not like the rest. Jacques Lebouteiller was his name. Jacques was gay. He made the camping with the scout boys so he could be close to Gaston, the boy I desired. Jacques was sensitive, like I, but more sensible. He knew to be careful about Gaston. In fact, he was much friendly with Gaston and Gaston had no idea Jacques was gay. I was the only one he had told after I had been beaten by Gaston and his friends. In fact, he was the one who found me and took me home." As she whispered this histoire to me, Nicole started to stroke my cock. I felt sure she wouldn't finish her story before I once again had to fuck her. And it wasn't long before the urgency of my need for her overtook my fascination with her story. My cock stroking her prostate and my hands her clitty, I was falling deeper and deeper in love with Nicole. And her response told me that, without doubt, her feelings for me were just as intense. We came together, my chest and six-pack spreading her semen over her stomach. Kissing and cuddling, we lay contentedly in each other's arms. Eventually, I said "You were saying before I so rudely interrupted you?." Nicole chuckled. "Your intrusion was very welcome. Any'ow, where was I?" "You were telling me about Jacques and Gaston." "Ah yes. Just before the day of the dance Jacques told me that 'e was scared that Gaston and his friends were beginning to guess his secret. Gaston keeped on asking Jacques why he have no girl-friend. Almost every boy had the girl-friend and every one would take a girl to the dance. So I say to Jacques that he should take me to the dance." Nicole exploded into a chorus of laughter. "Of course, he was horrified." "'You are crazy,' he said. 'If I shall go with you, they will know that I am gay. They will kill us, tous les deux both of us.' "So I showed to Jacques some pictures of me en femme. The look of surprisedness of his face was wonderful to see." "'This is you? Quoi d'extraordinaire. You can make yourself to look like this?'" "Certainly I did not have desire of Jacques, but I liked the idea to go to the dance as Nicole and this would solve the problem. I suggest to Jacques that he tell to Gaston that he have met this bad, bad girl at a bar in Montmartre. I give to Jacques the photographie and say he will show it to Gaston and say that he is bringing this girl to the dance." Nicole's story was intriguing and I could well understand that men had never guessed her secret. After all, it had taken me a full hour and a half. "So on the night of the dance, Jacques comes in a taxi and brings me to the school from my cousin's home. And all the boys are looking at me. Perhaps it is rude to say it, but I was the most beautiful girl at the dance. How funny that the girl who excite the most boys has the big cock. "Jacques and I danced quite a lot, but then, suddenly, he says that he is not feeling so good. We go outside for the air and he is very sick. He apologise and asks if I will mind if he goes home. We call a taxi and I ask if he wants me to come with him. He says he will be OK and that I should stay." "Of course, I am now very scared. Gaston and his friends keep looking at me. I wonder if they know who I am. But, of course, they did not." "Any'ow, now that Jacques is not there I am asked to dance by many, many, many boys. At last, Gaston was one of them." "Did you dance with him?" "Of course. But can you imagine what it is like to be, excuse me, beautiful and afraid and to want the most gorgeous man in the room? I felt so sick." "And?" "I teased him mercilessly. I rubbed my thigh into his crotch. Which I could feel made him very, very 'orny. Me, too. I was frightened that my cock would jump from my panties or that he would feel it and I would soon be dead. But you don't want to hear about my schooldays. Fuck me again mon grand amour." I thought I did want to hear about her clearly sexy schooldays, but since she was coaxing my hand to her sacred cloister I was reluctant to press her to finish the story. We returned to the present for the seventh time in the past eighteen and a half hours. Paul & His French Maid Chapter Four : Maid in Heaven Copyright JustinSilk 2002. All Rights Reserved We spent a lazy day that first Sunday and I lost track of how many times we made love. During the afternoon Nicole took a taxi home to 'get some clean knickaires, as she charmingly pronounced the word, and I took the opportunity to do a few officey things that I should have done earlier. Needless to say, I couldn't keep my mind off Nicole. Particularly that I had made love to a creature with a cock. Did that make me gay? As I sat in my study I considered what lust had prevented me thinking about during the preceding hours. Having spent the night with a penissed woman was, I reflected, slightly alarming, but I couldn't get away from the fact that the past few hours with the extraordinary Nicole had been the most satisfying of my life. Nicole was every inch a woman. Except that she had a good eight inch start on most women who look as good as she. She was, in fact, a man with silicone breast implants. Fully-dressed, she looked like a woman. She sounded like a woman. And smelled like one, too, except for the few most intimate minutes when the aroma was positively male. On balance and to all intents and purposes, she was a woman as far as I was concerned. Not that I was, in the least, for the present anyway, concerned. For a few minutes I drifted off into a mental debate about how you define such things as gender. She hadn't set out to fool me or take me in. I guessed that she had given up such delights as gender deception soon after the school dance she'd told me about. In her mind she had been a woman for years. I recalled, probably not exactly, a quotation I'd learned in childhood. "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so," as Shakespeare had written in Hamlet, the mind determines all. All our perceptions, all our desires, all our fears, all our 'understanding' are formed entirely in our minds. Most particularly, our prejudices. Our pre-judgments. And we're all inclined to prejudge, based on 'ideas' that have formed and hard-wired themselves into our brains, often without even the briefest thought. Prejudice is rarely premeditated. How many of us believe, perhaps in good faith, that our 'convictions' are based on logical observation? It was likely, therefore, I mused, that Nicole would, over the coming hours, days, weeks, reveal some of her own prejudices. Yet so far as her femininity was concerned, I was sure that it was her instincts, her courage and her intelligence more than any deviousness which helped her navigate through life. I wondered if she wanted to become a full woman. And it was quite a shock to realise that the last thing I wanted was for that to happen. But there was very little chance of Nicole wishing that. She had told me, during one of those post-coital interludes when secrets are shared, how, during her teens and after she had revealed her desires to Chantelle, her greatest wish had been to achieve breasts. "'aving only my chests was limiting. I would buy some gorgeous clothes and be very excited to wear them, but my chests spoiled the look. And I did not at all like the false soutien-gorges. I loved to 'ave the orgasmes from my penis, so I did not wish to fuck around with the 'ormones. Then one day I meet a danseuse from The Crazy Horse she was lover to Chantelle - and she tell me about the implants. Et voila!" I still worried about being gay. Unimaginably, I had that morning taken her very impressive prick in my mouth. I had eaten her to climax and although the first load of her semen had made me gag, I had swallowed almost all of it. I had certainly liked having that pulsing stem in my mouth. It was too early to say that it was 'love', but there was a fair chance that it was full-blooded, heart-charging, stick-stiffening lust. You can generally be certain of that. Tired from the exertions of this new involvement, I dozed off and it was dark when I was awakened by the insistent ringing of the intercom. It took a second or two for the significance of this to dawn on me. When it did I leapt to my feet and rushed to the door phone. "You don't want me h'any more?" whined a voice through the wires. "Come on up," I replied. "Will you please come down and 'elp me wiz my knickaires?" "Of course. How many are there?" I replied, charmed as always by her voice and intrigued by the fantasy her request created. Grabbing my keys, I slipped on some shoes and went down to the lobby. Nicole was wearing a stunning fur coat, under which, so far as I could tell, she could be naked. "I have brought my camion." I could see no lorry or truck. Outside, by the kerb, was parked a little Nissan Escargo van. "Your truck?" I asked. "Where?" "My snail truck," said Nicole. "The little Nissan truck." It was so very Nicole, the unexpected. I would have guessed at a Citroen 2CV, my own favourite car, had they still been easily available. Here, I recognised was a genuine eccentric. A very beautiful eccentric, to be sure. But an eccentric nonetheless. Opening the back doors, Nicole revealed that she had been joking only a little when she had asked for help with her knickers. Two garment racks stood side by side inside. Every manner of clothes hung from them, including some panties and bras and chemises (as I think my American friends call slips). "Hey, limey, how ya goin'?" The voice was unmistakably that of Harvey my neighbour. Beside him stood Sharee, breasts fighting off the attentions of a white satin dress through which her nipples were thrusting. "Hi," said a little noise emanating from a scarlet hole just north of her chin. "Hello, Harvey, Sharee I'd like you to meet your newest neighbour. Nicole may I present Harvey and Sharee, our next door neighbours. I employed, following your good advice, Nicole as my maid yesterday." "Plusieurs fois," grinned Nicole, guessing, I suppose, that Harvey might not have a great deal of French. He didn't have all that much English either, if one was frank. "Excuse me?" asked Harve. "Nothing, Harve. Just a French joke. Nicole is from Paris. France." "Nice to meet you," smarmed Harvey. I hoped that my new buddy hadn't re-discovered a long-forgotten passion for drop-dead gorgeous French transsexual university lecturers. He did have a slight resemblance to Tom Crueez. Glancing at Sharee, I noticed that she too had reservations about the friendliness of her lover's welcome for Nicole. I thought I heard her say "Shit". Quite a mouthful for Sharee. "Hey, Paul, need a hand helping mamselle move in?" "Non. Merci." Nicole answered on my behalf. Sharee and I smiled. As the neighbours drove away, Nicole and I started to unload the van. "I'll take this up and you can wait here, cherie." "I don't like that 'Arvey. And his girl friend, she is neanderthal, no?. Oooops, excuse-moi, mon amour. Keep your mouth closed, Nicole. Paul, embrasse-moi." I needed little prompting to kiss her. As we embraced the clothes rack began rolling out into the road. A pair of very expensive silk french knickers fell from it and as I grabbed the speeding rack a nattily-dressed man in his sixties picked up the transparent garment and gave it to me. With his silver-topped cane. "What exquisite taste in underwear you have young man." I think he was being ironic. Across the road, I saw Michel watching from Aerobleu. As I caught his eye, he waved. He looked sad, I thought. Paul & His French Maid Copyright JustinSilk 2002. All Rights Reserved Chapter Five : Into her Pants Over the next week, Nicole and I fell deeper and deeper in love. I had expected her to be less charming and more demanding as the days went by, but, if anything, she simply became more and more adorable. She gradually moved in the rest of her possessions helped by her brother, an openly-gay and strikingly handsome man perhaps a year or so older than Nicole. It was obvious that, like she, he came from a very good family. Since the university semester did not start for a week or so, there was little evidence of Nicole's academic career. One night when I came home, she was reading some lecture notes she had written during the day and the room we had turned into her study was strewn with books mostly in French on painters of the period she principally taught. It was the first time I had seen her in glasses and, not surprisingly, given my feelings for her, I instantly adored her intellectual appearance. She was a strange mixture of the enormously-intelligent academic and the air-headed slut. It was a wonderful combination. I had studied art during my younger days and still had a great love for painting in particular. I couldn't believe my luck. It was probably on the Wednesday evening that Nicole suggested she take me to a club she knew for dinner. It would be our first outing in both senses of the word - together. We showered, of course and, naturally, made love as we did so. [I won't bore you with the details: making love in the shower to a beautiful woman is, after all, a common enough pastime]. When she was satisfied that we were both squeaky-clean, Nicole led me to my [our] bedroom and took charge of getting us ready to go out. I say 'us' because she was very anxious that I should be dressed to her satisfaction just as she expected to dress for my approval. "Because you are such a 'unk - is that the right word? I shall get very excited if you are wearing ... this." From one of her lingerie drawers she produced a tiny pair of pure white silk jersey panties. They were very similar to a male silk bikini style I sometimes wore myself. But, unlike my own briefs, it was obvious even as she held them up for my appraisal that they were hand-made. "You want me to wear a pair of your panties?" I asked quietly. "Why would that turn you on? I thought you loved me because I am all-man. How could my wearing your silky briefs give you a buzz? If you want me to, of course I'll wear them, I love the feeling of silk, always have, but I can't see what's in it for you." "You 'ave never been excited by knowing something a secret - that nobody else can know?" Nicole was smiling faintly. "Of course I have. But I can't put myself into your mind, can I? I mean, I'm me and you're you and no matter how close we are, I can't ever have exactly the same thoughts as you." "Paul, I can't explain why I want you to do it, I just do. I definitely don't want to turn you into somebody like me. But a very masculine man wearing something very feminine always seems to me to be the man's ultimate expression of confidence. I would not recommend you wear a bra. With your physique it would just be too amusing. But these teensie weensie silky sexy pantie. Just sooooo erotique. But darling, if you don't want to, I won't force you, my gorgeous, wonderful lover." The truth was that I loved sexy underwear and had several silk items men's, of course of my own. But I took the panties from Nicole and, taking her into my arms, kissed her, our cocks rubbing against each other as I did. "Tell me about the Club," I said. "The club is ..." Nicole stopped mid-thought and taking the panties from my hand, ordered me to step into them so she could slide them up my legs. "The club is what?" I asked. "I can't remember what I was going to say, darling," she replied softly as she took my stiffening cock and carefully arranged it inside the gleaming satin. "You'll see." "Is it some academic place? You said it was not far from the university." "Yes. Quite close. But not h'academic. Aesthetically, I like it. It appeals more to my, er, senses than to my mind. But you will like it, I am sure. Let it be a surprise darling. I am paying. Just look at yourself in the mirror. Don't you look so very sexy in those tiny briefs? The starkness of the white against the bronze of your skin. The softness of the silk around the hardness of your shaft. Well, I think you look very sexy. And that is all that matters, n'est-ce pas? Oui? Look how they cling to your beautiful cock. Why don't all men wear sexy lingerie like that?" It's very hard to argue with the one you love about something he or she thinks erotic. So I smiled and agreed. I agreed because she was right. The femininity of the very plain and very tiny white silk garment seemed to emphasise the muscularity of my well-tanned body and, therefore, my total masculinity. The silk being so fine, the panties showed very clearly the contours of my swollen cock. But Nicole was now getting dressed herself, satisfied that I had done what she wished. She started with an underwired platform bra in the same delicate jersey as 'my' panties, but in black and edged with fine french lace. It left her swollen nipples to peak out from behind the lace. I had imagined that she would next choose a matching garter belt with six suspenders for each stocking, such as she normally wore. Instead she slipped on a pair of black silk panties (like mine save that they were trimmed with the same lace as the bra and garter belt. My god, she looked beautiful. As I was buttoning my shirt I watched her roll a sheer stocking up over a beautiful leg. She then repeated the process on the other leg. They stayed up of their own accord. I noticed, also, that she hadn't worn a gaff to hide her one remaining male attribute as I had seen her do once or twice before. I would soon enough discover why not. The black silk slip or chemise I can't work out if there is a difference was obviously new. I loved the cut of it and the intimations of erotic pleasures in its gleaming softness. I think that slips are my favourite items of female attire. I imagined they must be very erotic to the wearer. Something like fabric fingers. Nicole selected a torso-tight black dress, flared from the hips, and caressed it down over her curves, turning to the mirror to check its lift. I saw a flash of stocking-top as it lifted very prettily. Finally, she took from her - what do they call it in the US? - closet, a glistening black fur bolero jacket, to guard against the cold night air. Delicate little high black pumps with needle heels completed the ensemble. The effect was stunning. I applauded with fast and tiny little claps to show my appreciation. "Darling, you look adorable. Though won't the little bulge in your tiny panties, um, spoil the illusion? Should we dance and your hem go up, I mean?" "Little? My bulge is as big as yours, almost. What is that song they used to sing? 'Don't worry. Be 'appy'. I am happy very - as you see." And so that I didn't mistake what she was saying, my gorgeous Nicole drew her perfectly-manicured fingernails sexily up over her crotch, lifting the skirt to reveal the well-packed panties. What was a man to say? Nicole called for a taxi. We had decided that whenever we went out we would go by taxi, since, although neither of us drinks a great deal, Nicole, in particular, was quite strict about drink-driving. Being new to the city, I had no idea where we were going, but as the taxi drew to a halt outside a very grand building on the fringe of the downtown area I felt reassured. A young man in a top hat and uniform stepped out of the doorway to open the door of the cab. This club of Nicole's was clearly not run-of-the-mill. Stepping out of the car, I turned to help my beautiful escort into the street. I paid the driver and since I had my wallet in my hand, handed a tip to the doorboy. "Thank you, sir," he said. "If you and madame will follow me." So he was sharp, too, noticing Nicole's accent. Calling her 'madame' he looked her very intently in the eye. When we reached the front door he rang a bell and the door was opened by another young man who was instructed to show us into the club. This boy was clearly younger than and junior to the doorman. He wasn't wearing a top hat, but his uniform appeared otherwise to be very similar to that of the man who had brought us to the door. At least that's the way it seemed until we stepped through the door and in the light of the lobby I was able to see some differences. They almost made me gasp. He was practically naked, or might as well have been, so little did what clothes he wore conceal. It was clear that one was supposed to admire his body. And there was a great deal to admire about it. The short black jacket with its satin lapels was made of something that looked like chiffon and hugged his muscular upper body as a glove clings to the hand. Or a well-fitted black condom another part of the anatomy. Perhaps appropriately, the boy's pants, also of some dark diaphanous shiny material, would have revealed the hairs on his legs had there been any. You won't be surprised then to hear that, since he appeared to have forgotten his underwear, his considerable organ of generation was more than adequately displayed. Nicole noticed the startled look on my face. "How would you like to suck on that, darling?" she whispered with a giggle. I had no idea what to reply and, when our usher asked us to follow him, I did so with startled and slightly embarrassed fascination. Not wishing to look uncool, I hoped that nobody would notice. In spite of his outfit not being what the average young fashion-conscious male was, so far as I knew, wearing on the street, there was nothing overtly effeminate about him. He didn't mince, although I couldn't help watching the firm orbs of his backside undulate and rub against each other as he walked. I wondered if perhaps I should offer him the little panties I was wearing. But that, I thought, would make the effect even more erotic. And, in the way of these things (although I can't think why) I was reminded of something I hadn't thought of for years. Some years earlier, in London, at the home of a colleague, I had seen a black and white photo. It was one of the most erotic and disturbing images I had ever seen. As we discussed our business matters I found the large, framed print behind my colleague's head extremely distracting. "Sexy, isn't it?" he smiled, noticing my interest. "It's of a man called Peter Berlin. He took the picture himself." Redundantly, he added, "He's gay." Then, becoming embarrassed and probably wanting to change the subject, added, "Quite clever, his use of double-exposure, I always think." Emulsions, stop numbers and film speeds were far from my mind and I wasn't even gay. But I was getting a hard-on. In the picture, Berlin, wearing a transparent body-clinging top, tiny see-through string pouch and I think - boots and socks, stands over a supplicant and aroused youth, also portrayed by himself. "What a beautiful ass," commented Nicole unnecessarily, noticing that my attention was rivetted to the motion of our attendant's muscular orbs. "It's giving me a stiffy." "You are with me, remember?" I said, surprised at my annoyance. The first little flash of anger I had shown since we'd met. I wondered briefly what this was all about. Was I angry with Nicole? Or with my own fascination with the beautiful ass? Was it Nicole's focussing my attention on it? Was I, as the phrase goes, 'in denial'? My own sexual denial - was that what was getting under my skin? "I've got you under my skin." Nicole kissed me on the cheek. "Oh. Can it be? My wonderful lover is unsure of himself? Paul, cheri, don't be silly. I'm a woman and I like men's asses. I LOVE yours. I love YOU. But I can't help admiring a beautiful ass. Don't be silly." As she took my hand and tugged lovingly on my arm, I relaxed and smiled. The world was dishing out faster than I could ingest. Let alone digest. It was serving faster than I could return. I was on a learning curve that rose more sharply than even my dick so frequently had done these past few days. Normally - if there is such a state - most days for most people are ground hogged, if you know what I mean. The same things seem to happen in more or less the same sequence. Over and over and over and over. We like it that way. What a lot can be crammed into a few paces along a corridor. Nicole reached up and bussed me on the cheek again as we approached an impressive doorway. Two twelve- or fifteen-foot doors grew in impressiveness as we approached. To their right on the wall was a discreet plaque bearing a single word: "Xtase". I read it first as Xtease, then, re-reading it, thought it could be the name of some artificial sweetener. Finally, I realised that it was a misspelling of the French for ecstasy. In fact, I was about to discover, it might have represented all three. We were ushered through the doors into a large and graciously-furnished room in which a number of people were standing in groups. They were all elegantly dressed, men and women in equal numbers. There was the usual buzz of conversation and laughter. Few took any notice of our entry. We were asked politely to sign the guest book by a young lady in an elegant but revealing short black shantung dress which flared slightly at the hem and showed a majority of her sensationally long and shapely legs. The automatic thought that the legs were the shortest route to an equally-astonishing butt sprang into my mind. A glimpse of stocking-top had me mentally humming a snatch of Cole Porter. What I had seen in the past few minutes had indeed been shocking. "I can't bear it any longer, sweet lady," I said to Nicole. "Where am I?" Nicole looked me seriously in the eyes, her own flicking from one to the other and suggesting her own anxiety. "Darling, this is one of the most exclusive clubs in town. In fact, it's very 'ard to become a member. I 'ave belong for only two month." Nicole's pronunciation of club made me smile as she was interrupted by a waiter who brought a silver tray on which sat two glasses of champagne. I didn't dare inspect his clothing. "But what kind of club?" I pressed. "You will see. Just notice that there are other girls like me. And ordinary men and women, too. Also, sometimes quite well-known people, men, who like to dress like ladies. People like to come here because it is sooooooo discreet. And fun. And sexy. Not what's the word? sleazy, just sexy. The sexiest club I ever went to." With the champagne in my hand, I felt less uncomfortable. Until, that is, from behind my back, I heard a laugh which I immediately wished I hadn't recognised. "Oh no," I moaned. "Quoi?" "That's Harvey's laugh. What will he think if he sees me here?" "What do you think now you know he's here?" Nicole was right, of course. A friend of mine, a longtime member of a Twelve-Step group, had suffered for years from his particular addiction, frightened to go to the meeting that undoubtedly saved his life in case he might be known by some other member. "Darling, if you want to go, we'll go. I didn't think you would be so ... sensitive. Of course you feel a little strange, but there are many people here just like you. No, there is nobody here just like you. I promise you that you will have a wonderful time. Of course you will be a little shocked, just as you were when you, er, discover about me." "That was in private." "So you are embarrassed by me. You don't want people to know that you are in love with if you really are a transsexual. You are frightened that people will think that you are gay. Your mind is in conflict with itself. I love you, Paul. I can't believe how much I love you. When you are asleep I lie beside you listening to your breathing, your awful snoring, your talking to yourself. This is serious, mon ange. Very serious. If you feel this way now after the most exciting days of your life, after I have tell you things I have never tell to anybody else, what are we to do after a month, a year, two years?" Tears welled in the beautiful eyes I wanted to look away from. Everything Nicole said was true. I needed time to think, but that would give her time to think as well, about all the negatives in our relationship. "If you want we will leave now, Paul and I will go back to stay with my brother. Or we can talk some more about this at dinner, although I am no longer wishing to eat. Let us go." I had gone cold with fear. I had insulted Nicole with my comment about private being different from public. Something told me to pull her to me. She resisted, for a moment. Then she relaxed into my arms, little sobs slowly stopping. "Oh Paul, I love you so much. I never thought about how you will feel when we have to meet people. I have a doctorate and I like to think I am not stupid. But tonight I am so stupid. It's too early to bring you here, especially since you did not know to what I was bringing you." I lifted her chin. "I am at least as stupid. I'm so sorry about saying that our first encounter was in private. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. It was different. But you are right. How long could two people in love keep themselves to themselves. Perhaps seeing the boys in their outlandish outfits and ..." Nicole smiled. "We are both, what do you say, dick'ead. Of course there are complications. Perhaps they are more difficult than for ordinary lovers. Even gay lovers. But I really believe that we love each other. Even more important, we like each other. Complications can be solved. I don't want to lose you." "Would you care for more drinks sir, madame?" The bottle-blond with the carefully-applied lash-lengthener radiated some high-powered cologne in my direction. "Or are you ready to be seated for dinner?" "We'll be seated, I think. Will that be OK with you madame?" Looking at the sad little creature, I smiled. She reached up and kissed me lovingly on the lips. "I'll just go and repair my makeup. Then we'll go in to dinner." "Very good, madame," said the pretty waiter. Alone, I looked around the room to see if I could spot Harvey. I hoped I wouldn't. I did. And he me. He winked I wish he wouldn't do that and, making apologies to the lady to whom he was talking, came over. "Hey, Paul. Good to see yah. Didn't know you were a member, though. And where's that gorgeous Nicole?" We could have been at a football game, so unsurprised was Harvey at seeing me here. "What a surprise to see you here. Having been in this town for less than three months, I don't expect to meet many faces I recognise. It's quite a place. Been here before?" Harvey laughed. "Been here before? I been here almost every night since it opened last year. I'll let you in on a secret: I own the joint. Or a large part of it. But I don't put it about. Don't talk about my investments all that much." "Larry! Quel surprise! What are you doing here?" Nicole slipped a hand into mine and squeezed it as she directed a cold smile towards Harvey. "Larry, or Harvey as he prefers to be called, owns the place. But don't tell a soul." Harvey laughed heartily again. "Larry. I love it, Michelle." The hatred between the two of them was fresh and effective. "Oh Harvey, excuse me. I once knew a man in London called Larry and 'is second