Les
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Les Bohémiens free porn video
Author’s Note: Hello all. This is a one-off story, and you’ll find that there are repeated references to a particular tune—so many references that I feel I need to give a brief explanation before you get to the story. The tune, exactly as I hear it in my head and exactly as it is described in the story, doesn’t actually exist. However, it was heavily inspired by ‘La Campanella,’ which means ‘the little bell’ and is Franz Liszt’s 3rd Paganini Etude. I just imagine the main theme of the piece played slightly slower and on a calliope or on a fairground organ such as the Marenghi. Also, a quick note about the setting—Beaupays isn’t a real place either. It’s fictional town in France that I created for the purposes of the story. It literally translates to ‘beautiful land’. This story starts off quite mellow and then builds, so please do enjoy it and feel free to leave me a comment. Best wishes.
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Beaupays, France, May 1891
Lorens De Champs could not sleep.
Despite the fact that he had enjoyed an excellent dinner of haute cuisine and fine wines, despite the fact that the large, warm bed he lay in was dressed with genuisa, cotton silks and down, and despite the fact that the gorgeous courtesan Joséphine Baillet, currently his mistress, slumbered soundly beside him, Lorens De Champs could not sleep.
He sat up a little, his gaze steadily fixed on a spot of no consequence across the luxurious room. His eyes had long adjusted to the darkness so he could discern all the objects in the room fairly well. This was aided by the fact that the lace curtains in front of the balcony had been left open to admit the gentle lights of night.
It was late spring, early summer and a few windows had been left open a crack to allow some air to circulate. The weather had been very fine of late, warm enough to bring welcome relief from what had been a particularly chilling winter but cool enough for comfort and to assure that an uncomfortably hot summer was not set to begin.
Joséphine mumbled and tossed gently in her sleep, rolling from her side and onto her back. Lorens turned to look at her. As always, the sight of her did not fail to make his body stir. It was the reason he continued to invest considerable sums of money to ensure her exclusive services. Whatever the weather, Joséphine always slept in the nude and Lorens had never seen fit to make any complaints about it. Her dark strawberry blond hair spilled over her pillow and curled around her milky pale body with its ample curves. The covers were thrown over her waist, gently framing the curve of her hips and leaving the upper half of her body to be devoured by his eyes.
Idly, Lorens reached out to take one of her full, round breasts into his hand. He caressed it, squeezed gently, ran the pad of his thumb over the pink nipple and watched with a faint smile as it rose and hardened. Joséphine made a humming sound in her throat and a small kittenish smile touched her pink mouth, but she did not awaken. Lorens let his fingers drift down to her flat belly underneath the sheets to her hip.
He toyed with the idea of rousing her to wakefulness, of letting his body sink into hers and empty itself between her thighs. He felt his member stir. Perhaps then he would be rid of this damned insomnia and find some release, some rest.
He decided against it, but left his hand resting on her hip. The problem went much deeper than that. It was not something that could be solved with yet another hot roll in the sheets with the very talented Joséphine. It was a problem inside of him. More than that, he was not actually in a humor for anybody’s company but his own.
With a sigh of frustration, Lorens withdrew his hand. Suddenly, he was annoyed. He was annoyed at himself, at Joséphine, and at the whole damned world. Frowning darkly, he threw back the covers and lurched out of bed. His clothes were lying all over the floor of the room as were Joséphine’s dress, corset and undergarments—after they had returned to his house following their dinner earlier that evening, he had wasted no time in taking her. As always, she had been very eager to be taken.
Taking care not to jostle any furniture and wake her, he put on his trousers and shrugged into the white dinner shirt, leaving it undone. Running his hand through his sorrel brown hair, he further parted the lace curtains and unlocked the glass door that opened onto the balcony.
Leaving his mistress sleeping peacefully in bed, he stepped out into the cool night air. The breeze was balancing, it helped blow away some of the cobwebs in his brain. He leaned over the wrought iron railing, looking out at the view, at the subtle lights of night. From this vantage point, Lorens could see much of Beaupays, he could see the park and the town square, could trace the curves of the wide cobbled streets and the silhouette made by the houses and buildings against the sky. It was a charming town, he thought. Too bad he found life in it dissatisfying.
Lorens pulled his hands through his hair again. Dissatisfied. Yes, that was what he was. That was his problem. Yet he knew it was foolish to feel that way, for he had been blessed in every possible way. He was wealthy, the owner of this house, a large pastoral estate in Normandy and of a thriving business passed down to him from his late father. He was young—he had not yet reached his thirty-first year—he was handsome enough that he turned heads when he walked down the street, he had never been seriously ill and as his status as a man of wealth and power was respected wherever he went, he was treated with courtesy and deference. He had everything a human being could possibly wish for and he knew had no excuse, no earthly reason, to be unhappy. Still…he sighed.
Closing his eyes, he tried to get to the root of his problem. Why was he so dissatisfied, so restless, to the point that he could get no sleep at night? He had always been a light sleeper but his insomnia had never been quite this troublesome. It had worsened in the last few weeks. Pressing his fingers to his temples, he wondered if he was wasting his life. He spent much of his time working and the rest on leisurely pursuits. Was it time for him to begin thinking of others and not simply himself? Was he wasting his life as a bachelor on ephemeral things—fine dinners, expensive wines, expensive women? He turned his head to glance into the room at the sleeping Joséphine. Was he a fool and only hadn’t realized it? Just a few months ago he had purchased one of those useless, fancy new automobiles Benz was inventing. Simply to amuse himself. Was it not time that he stopped selfishly whiling away his time and made an investment into his future? He was thirty. He should be thinking of finding himself a wife and of putting his sons in her belly. There were plenty of lovely, virginal young girls in Beaupays. Being one of the most eligible bachelors around, he could have one with a mere snap of his finger. A few months of patient courtship would be the sum total of effort on his part, and would undoubtedly fetch him a more than suitable wife.
Lorens looked into the night, his blue eyes pensive. Perhaps if he had a wife and sired children, he might be happy. He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes again. Perhaps it would make him happy. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it would just make him feel trapped. He would think about it later. He would theorize and speculate later. For now, he just wanted his mind to be at rest. If he could tranquilize his mind, he would be able to get some sleep. With his head in his hands and his eyes closed, he tried to shut down his brain and think of nothing, nothing but the breeze on his skin and the comforting darkness of the night around him.
He was just starting to wind down when he heard the soft, distant strains of a tune played on a fairground organ. It was not a tune he knew by name, but he was certain he had heard it before. He listened closer. It was very melodic, a sw
eet, tinkling and slightly haunting and wistful tune that slipped into his brain. It was unobtrusive, yet memorable. It seemed to bring back abstract, intangible memories that fleeted into oblivion before he was able to decipher what they were. Before he knew it, he was quietly humming along to the tune.
Wondering where the whispering music was coming from, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Ah yes, he realized. It was coming from the town square where a temporary fairground had been set up. For the past week, there had been a traveling funfair in town. Gypsy travelers—les bohémiens, as they were often called—had come into Beaupays about a week ago. Due to popular demand, the mayor had permitted them to set up a temporary fairground in the town square and they had been playing that tune on and off since they had arrived. That explained why he could remember it. Then he frowned when he realized that it did not explain the faceless, indistinct memories that it conjured up in his mind. How could a tune he had heard for the first time a week ago inspire memories that seemed to be from many years ago—many lifetimes ago?
Lorens squinted, peering closely in the direction of the town square as the music tinkled on softly, brought to his ears on the wings of the wind. Despite the funfair having been in Beaupays for a week, he had not gone there himself. He had been too busy. He sighed. Too busy doing absolutely nothing.
He let the light and skipping, yet oddly melancholic tune slide into his mind and serenade him, seduce him. Even as his mind opened, his eyes closed. The music swelled in his consciousness, mesmerizing him, conjuring up its transitory memories. Lorens didn’t try to fight it. He just let it happen, let himself fall under its spell, let it have its way within his mind. The misty pictures ran through his head, a blur of colors and shapes.
Slowly but surely, they began to define themselves and form something more concrete. With his eyes closed, Lorens saw the shapes turn into a silhouette of a girl, young and slender. At first she was shrouded in complete darkness, but then he began to make out some of her features. Her curves were soft, subtle. Her skin was dark, a rich and warm brown. Her hair was black as polished coal, curling with abandon around her face before tumbling over her shoulders, all the way down her back, past her bottom and to her hips. She was wearing a red dress which once might have been fine, but it was frayed at the hem now and, scandalously, only came up to her calves. It was slit at the sides, up to the middle of her slender thighs and draped over the alluring curves of her young frame, the thin straps slipped from her shoulders. There was a red silk scarf over her head and around her shoulder, trailing to the ground. Gold earrings dangled from her ears, one of her wrists was stacked with colorful bracelets and there were silver anklets around both her ankles. Her feet were bare. Then he saw her face, her young and strikingly beautiful oval face with a slim, upturned nose and eyes as sultry and dark as her hair. She was young, about nineteen or twenty from the looks of her.
She smiled right at him, and then her lips parted as she prepared to speak. Her voice was soft and sweet. ‘Lorens,’ she said.
His eyes snapped open. The vision instantly vanished. Shaking, Lorens backed away from the balcony railing. His heart was thumping as he looked around him, half-expecting to find that he was not alone. He was alone, of course.
‘Calm down,’ he said aloud, rebuking himself. ‘Don’t be such a darned impressionable fool. You only drifted off to sleep. You were only dreaming.’
Even as he spoke the words, he knew that they were a lie. He knew had not slept, knew that he had been lucid the entire time. He knew this as a certainty, but it was easier to try to convince himself to the contrary.
The music tinkled on, but he shut his ears to it as he walked out of the balcony and back into the bedroom. When he shut the balcony door, he could no longer hear it. Good riddance, he thought irritably, drawing the curtains shut. The only problem was that he was even more wide awake now than he had been when he left the room. Joséphine slept on undisturbed.
Lorens was unsure what to do. He could hardly go to sleep as stimulated as he was and the thought of waking Joséphine for a little romp was now strangely unappealing. The image of slender young limbs, of gentle curves, of dusky skin, of a long, thick mass of shining black hair flashed before his eyes. He groaned as his loins stirred. There was a girl he wanted to bed, but right now that girl was not Joséphine Baillet. But did the dark gypsy girl even exist?
Within the confines of his mind, she seemed real. Real enough for him to touch—he had even heard her speak his name for heaven’s sake. But he knew that she could not really exist. That she did not exist.
Lorens looked around the room, searching for answers that he knew he would not find. The girl had been nothing but a hallucination. He was seeing things, hearing things. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be becoming psychotic, going insane. Perhaps his mind was attacking itself. Perhaps this insomnia that plagued him was actually the first symptom of a descent into lunacy.
He stood in the middle of the room for a long moment. One thing was certain, and it was that he wasn’t returning to that bed with Joséphine. Following his instincts, he began to fasten his shirt. He rearranged his trousers, put on his overcoat and, going to the mirror, quickly flicked a comb through his hair. He put on his shoes and his hat and left the room without a backward glance.
He was going for a walk.
He ghosted through the sleeping house, barely making a sound as he went through the corridors, down the stairs and out the door. He pushed past the gates of his house and was soon out on the cobbled street. He had no set destination, but it would be fine to amble around. He would walk until he was exhausted, and then he would come back to sleep in his dressing room. If his attraction to Joséphine did not return in a few days, he would sit her down for a serious and heartfelt discussion. Then he would take her out to the opera and for one last night of fine dining, he would buy her a new dress and a shiny new trinket, give her a final kiss and an envelope full of money and send her away.
He took a deep breath and walked on, watching as the houses grew smaller and gave way to shops and offices. A tall, handsome shadow in the night, Lorens turned into a dark, winding alley. It was long, but lights beckoned to him from the other end and he heard the tune again, louder this time, teasing his ears and his mind.
It was then that he realized where his legs had been taking him all along—to the town square, to the fairground.
He walked to the end of the alley, crossed the street and found himself at the south end of the town square. The scene spilling out before him was lovely. He had never seen the square so alive before. The organ music which had whispered in his ears before was now a loud boom. Everything was awash with light—there were lights from the many stalls dotted at intervals all through the square, from the gaslights above and from the giant carousel at the center of it all. There was laughter underneath the run of the music, the stall operators called out, inviting the revelers to visit their stalls with the promise of prizes and a goldfish for a lucky child and other swag. People milled about everywhere, old folk, children, young lovers.
Lorens smiled. He walked through the fairground, dodging the throng of people as he looked all around, humming along to the organ. He passed by a hoopla stall, a coconut shy, a puppet show stall with children cloistered around, and several high strikers. And all the while, the carousel was turning. The tune was tinkling.
He took a left turn and came upon a fortune-teller’s stall. A small, old
traveler woman smiled at him as he drew closer in his intention to pass by.
‘Won’t you stop here?’ she laughingly asked him, her dark eyes shining. ‘Won’t you let me tell you a thing or two?’
Lorens laughed in return as he paused by her stall. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, Madame, but I don’t believe in such things.’
She reached to take his hand. ‘None do, Monsieur, until it is proven to them.’
Lorens gently but surely drew his hand back before she could grasp it. ‘Well, in that case, let us say that I prefer not to be told my future. I prefer to discover it.’
She cackled with laughter. ‘A pretty way to phrase it. May I tell you one thing at least?’
Lorens would have preferred to keep walking, but he had been raised to be courteous. Breeding was a difficult thing to shake off, and so with a wave of his hand that seemed to say, ‘Alright, go ahead,’ he gave her permission to speak.
‘Tonight, Vicomte,’ said the gypsy. ‘Tonight, something changes. It changes in you and so it changes you.’
Resisting the urge to ask her what she meant by that and how she knew his title, Lorens gave her a slight tip of the hat, turned, and kept walking. For some reason he found her words unsettling. He contemplated them for a moment before telling himself to stop being a fool. He was no silly youth, to be taken in by the loose words of a phony gypsy soothsayer. He was the Vicomte Lorens De Champs, with good sense and the world at his fingertips.
He returned to the middle of the square to stand and watch the carousel as it turned, carrying a full load of laughing women and children. It was a very large steam-operated thing, artistically crafted, decorated and lit up. The painted wooden horses spun anticlockwise on their axes, slowly bobbing up and down as they went, moving to the sound of the tinkling tune. At that point in time, the carousel was in the middle of a turn, the horses which had been out of his sight before were now revolving back in his direction.
It was then that he saw her.
A shocked breath issued out of his lungs.
Lorens stared, his blue eyes wide on the girl who was seated upon one of the carousel horses. Her eyes were closed and her head was tossed back with her laughter. Clearly, she was enchanted with the ride.
She was slender, with her legs crossed at the ankles, ankles which were decorated with silver anklets. Her skin was a warm brown and her black hair spilled all the way down her back, past her waist and to her hip. The red dress she wore was tattered and frayed at the hem, and her red silk scarf was fluttering in the breeze. The gold earrings in her ears sparkled. Her feet were bare.
Lorens stared. He stared and stared and stared. A bolt of heat coursed through his entire body. He was rooted to the spot as the carousel brought her around, closer and closer towards him. Inevitably, as it turned, it took her away again. She was out of his sight for several moments, and then there she was again.
Finally the carousel began to slow down. It came to a stop, to the laughter and playful recriminations of the riders. Some disembarked. Others paid for a second turn.
Wrapping her scarf more tightly around her shoulders, the girl hopped off the horse and stepped off the carousel. Her movements were light and sylph-like, and her slender curves had just a hint of sway as she left the carousel behind.
She was passing by not three feet from Lorens, but evidently did not notice him until the wind blew a lock of her hair across her face. As she lifted her hand to sweep it away, bracelets softly tinkling, she caught his eye.
If she was surprised by the look of shock, wonder and awe on his face as he stared at her, she did not show it. Her steps slowed a fraction, her black eyes sparkling. ‘Good evening to you, Monsieur,’ she said lightly, her voice soft and sweet. Just as it had been when he had heard it before.
Lianne
- 29.07.2021
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