The Count of Monte CristoChapter 58 M Noirtier de Villefort
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An Actor’s Life For Me free porn video
An actor, that’s what I’d always wanted to be. We’ll, perhaps not quite always. In childhood, I had run the usual gamut of engine driver, fireman, policeman and soldier, but at fifteen, I had my first taste of audience applause, and that was it. I was lost to all sane society.
In high school productions of plays and musicals I basked in the plaudits of my admiring fans – well, mostly mum, dad and my grandparents. I knew I was destined to make it to the top on the stage, in films, or in any branch of the entertainment industry you cared to name.
After high school and a job in the local supermarket replenishing stock on the shelves, I became the pride of the local Amateur Dramatic Society. Any role that I wanted I got, but looking back to that time I now know it was because they could never get any young men to audition, except me.
Aged twenty I left behind the ‘little town blues’ and the admonitions of my parents, and headed for the big city to meet my histrionic predestination.
I had saved a huge sum of money from my labours in the supermarket, that in fact lasted about two weeks once I arrived in the metropolis. It covered the rent security I had to put down for one miserable room, and allowed me to eat for a fortnight.
I had little idea how one went about entering the world of professional acting, except that I had heard you needed an agent. I got to work with the telephone directory looking up theatrical agents. There were several listed, and so I began the rounds. What I didn’t know was that these agents wanted a ‘deposit,’ before they would put you on their books. I afterwards learned that once the deposit was paid, and your name was on their books, the chance of ever hearing from them again was negligible.
Thus, by the end of one week, with the ‘massive’ savings now seriously depleted, I was in trouble. It was rammed home to me in the lonely city, that I had to get some means of sustenance. But what skills did I have to offer, apart from restocking shelves and the untapped star quality of my acting?
Alas, restocking supermarket shelves did not seem to stand very high in the ‘Help Wanted’ advertisements. One blurb did catch my attention. It was some company calling themselves, ‘The House of Marguerite.’ They wanted an ‘ Intelligent and presentable young man to work in our Forwarding Department.’
‘Intelligent’? Well, more or less. ‘Presentable’? Most definitely. No other qualifications being asked for, I felt I could safely assume the job was mine. I rang the number on the advert, and was treated to a foreign sounding female voice. I was to present myself the following morning at their ‘establishment, nine thirty sharp.’
Next morning I arrived at the appointed time dressed in what I hoped was a ‘presentable’ manner and impeccably shaved.
The exterior of the building was something of a disappointment, its façade presenting itself in soot stained brick. Inside it was even less inspiring, and I had to climb two flights of creaking wooden stair before arriving at a door marked, ‘The House of Marguerite.’
On entering, I found myself to be in a large room, the walls of which were made up largely of mirrors. Very distracting to see one’s self in images apparently disappearing into infinity. However, there was an air of sophistication present. Around the room on tables was what looked like large portfolios. Being apparently alone I was about to examine one of these, when a mirror swung open, and a beady eyed little goblin entered.
The goblin stared at me for a moment then said in a creaking voice, ‘ ‘Arper, ain’t it?’
‘Er…yes. Raymond Harper.’
‘Ah! I’m ‘Arfur (Arthur) Buggs. This way, ‘Arper.’
I was signaled to pass through the door he had just entered by, and found myself in a heavily chromium plated office. Behind a chrome and glass desk sat a woman of considerable presence.
She seemed to be somewhere between thirty and forty-years of age, and had a glittering cataract of blonde hair, ‘Compliments of her hairdresser,’ I thought. Her face was long and thin, with a slightly beaky nose over a wide sensual mouth. Her eyes, a sort of piercing green, were made up in the style one sees in pictures of aristocratic females in ancient Egypt, very black.
Seen as a whole I must say she looked pretty handsome, but I couldn’t quite work out why.
The goblin indicated that I should approach the desk and its occupant, and as I did so the woman stopped looking at the paper she was pretending to read, glanced up at me, and rose.
As women go, she was rather awe-inspiring. About five feet ten tall, long slender neck, around 38b bras I conjectured, and from what I could see, long, slender legs. She was dressed in a shiny red dress that in my ignorance I thought was pure silk. I later found out it was a cheap artificial silk, and I advise you ladies not to buy it because it will not hold its shape for long.
The neckline and the hem of the dress seemed to be having a race to see which of them could reach her waist first. Much breast and leg was definitely exposed. My actual thought was ‘Is she on the outside of that dress trying to get in, or the inside trying to get out?’
Before I could contemplate this question further the goblin, who had entered behind me, croaked, ‘This is ‘Arper, Madame. ‘Arper, this is Madame Marguerite.’
Madame flowed round the desk towards me with heavily ringed hand extended.
‘Welcome to our establishment, Mr.’Arpeer.’ I detected an attempt at a phony French accent.
Her hand closed over mine in an attempt at sincerity, but only succeeded in causing me pain from the bristling array of spiky rings.
She smiled at me with what I suppose was intended to be a benign smile, but gave the distinct impression of a hawk that had just spotted its prey.
‘Please be seated, Meester ‘Arpeer. You have already met my partner, Meester Buggs?’ Her voice was very melodious.
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Excellent, most excellent. And you would like to join our establishment, Meester ‘Arpeer?’ I was now seated, and she loomed over me wafting little puffs of perfume with every movement she made.
Trying to look like a keen candidate for the office, whatever it was, I sat up straight and replied, ‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Ah, is he not a pretty young man, Meester Buggs?’
‘Humph.’
‘Do you not think he would suit us most admirably?’
‘Humph.’
I had expected some of that self-important but quite pointless cross-questioning that most prospective employers like to indulge in. It does nothing to help select the right person for employment, but it does help the employer’s self-esteem.
The Buggs ‘Humph’ appeared to settle the matter. I was amazed at the ease with which I had gained the post.
My amazement was somewhat diminished, or perhaps I should say, it took a different turn, when the matter of my duties and salary were discussed.
I had been rather taken with the environment, and pictured myself being very svelte and elegant, greeting customers in the mirror room with grace and ease. From this dazzling height I came crashing down when the salary was announced. It proved to be about sufficient to provide a mouse with cheese for one day in seven.
Before actually being told about my tasks, I was informed concerning the status of the House of Marguerite.
‘We are importeers of fine cloth and fabreec,’ said Madame. ‘We sell only to the most respected tailoring and dress making companies. Is that not correct. Meester Buggs?’
‘Humph.’
‘Your task will be in the preparation of the cloth and its distribution. By the by, is not your name Raymon?’
‘Yes, Madame, Raymond.’ I stressed the D, but to no effect.
‘I think while working here, you shall be ‘Our Meester Raymon’. Do you not agree, Meester Buggs?’
‘Humph.’
‘Now I will show you your room. This way, Raymon.’
There was a second door in the room and she opened it and invited me to step inside. My illusion now finally collapsed. I entered a dingy windowless room lined with shelves containing bolts of cloth. Down the centre of the room ran a large table with measurements marked along the edge, and a large pair of shears lying on it.
To cut a long story short, my job was to receive orders for cloth, cut the length required, parcel it up and get it to the customer.
Buggs abandoned his ‘Humph,’ and croaked, ‘And not a millimetre more than they order.’
Without asking me whether I would take the job, I was told to arrive at 8.30 a.m. Monday morning. Thus began my career as a cutter and dispatcher. My acting career seemed to be disappearing over the horizon, but when hunger looms and rent is demanded, needs must.
In the following weeks no word came from either of the two theatrical agents I had handed over money to. I worked in my unpleasant room cutting and parceling cloth, sometimes giving extra length to spite Buggs. I soon came to understand that ‘Fine cloth and fabric’ were misnomers for ‘Rubbish.’
Occasionally I was in the mirror room when a customer was present. If so, I was introduced as, ‘Our Meester Raymon.’ A few times, I was invited to join the gathering in a glass of cheap sweet champagne.
From what I saw of the customers they consisted of shabby looking little men who should have been selling ‘Feelthy Postcards’ at docksides in the days of the ocean liners, or tough looking women who seemed best suited to mud-wrestling.
The artificial sophistication of the mirror room soon failed to impress me any longer, and the elegance of Madame was shaken for me when I overheard a squabble between her and Buggs. Her line was something like, ‘You’re a tight fisted little bastard,’ and his riposte was, ‘And you a conniving bitch.’ I’m afraid the ‘French accent,’ disappeared with the rest of my fantasies.
My job was very boring, but I still had stars in my eyes, and expected any day that one of my agents would ring to let me know I had the leading role in something or the other. The job gave me some sort of income, and when after a month I was told I had ‘geeven satisfaction,’ and my pay was to be increased, I decided to hang on for a while longer.
Madame announced the increase in the presence of ‘Meester Buggs,’ saying, ‘He deserves it, does he not, Meester Buggs?’
‘Humph.’
The increase would allow my imaginary mouse to have cheese for two days out of seven, instead of one.
As time went on and my dreams of thespian fame faded, Madame seemed to spend more time with me in the stock room. She was always lively but never asked personal questions. Her presence helped relieve the boredom, and I started to look forward to her intrusions into my grotty empire.
The reasons for her presence were obscure. She might make a few notes, and ask me questions she already knew the answer to, like, ‘Did that delivery to so and so get off?’ I must say, I got to like her.
The House of Marguerite opened five and a half days per week, the half day being Saturday. One Friday night Madame asked, ‘Raymon, could you possibly work tomorrow afternoon? I wish to stock take and of course, you will be recompensed accordingly.’
Not averse to a bit of extra money, I agreed, having nothing else to do. Cut off from friends and family, and with insufficient money to go out to meet people, mine was a lonely existence.
When at midday on Saturday the ‘House’ closed for business, a take-away Chinese meal was brought in for Madame and I, Meester Buggs having departed. The meal over we went into the stock room and began work.
Madame was clad, unusually for her, in skirt and shirt, rather than one of the artificial silk creations she usually sported. ‘Dressed to do some real work,’ I thought.
For two hours we pulled out and counted bales of cloth and measured odd lengths. I did the pulling out and measuring while Madame followed me with clipboard and pencil. Then Madame called a halt.
‘Time for a leetle relaxation, Raymon, eh? Be a good boy and get a botteel of champagne from zee reefrigerator. One of zee botteels on zee top shelf, if you please.’
I did as I was commanded, noting that the bottles on ‘zee top shelf’ contained much better quality champagne than that served up to the clients.
‘What a good boy you are, Raymon, so willing, so kind and ‘elpful.’
She poured the wine and for twenty minutes, we drank until the bottle was empty. Madame discoursed on the need for relaxation and pleasure. By the end of the bottle, we were slurring our speech slightly, I had to concentrate so as not to seem drunk, and Madame’s French accent showed signs of wear.
Viewing the empty bottle, Madame said, ‘One more, I think…theenk,’ and I was sent to fetch it.
The bottle opened and drinking recommenced, Madame began to increasingly forget her French accent, and started to get cosy.
‘I like you Raymond – the D was now added – I like you very much. But I do wonder what a bright boy like you is doing in a dead end job like this. I can think of some much better things you could be doing.’
She had moved to stand close to me.
Her hand touched my face: ‘You are a very good looking boy, and I’ve got quite fond of you. Do you like me?’
‘Er…yes Madame.’
‘What about Marguerite while we are outside regular business hours, eh?’
‘Certainly Mad…Marguerite.’
‘Do you like me a lot, Raymond?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think I look nice?’
‘I think you’re a very attractive woman.’
She had moved to half lean and half sit on the table. She held out her hand to me and said, ‘Come here, Raymond.’
I took her hand and she pulled me towards her. She spoke in a low, husky voice:
‘I think we should be very nice to each other, don’t you?’
‘Er…yes.’
She pulled me closer to her. She had pulled up her skirt and parted her legs. I glanced down and saw she wore no panties and her slit, denuded of pubic hair, gleamed wetly.
She unbuttoned her shirt, and her breast came tumbling out, their flesh smooth ivory in colour, with pink nipples surrounded by light brown aureoles.
She reached down and unzipped my flies, then exposed my penis. She began to stroke it, saying, ‘You are a big boy, aren’t you, darling?’
She pulled the crown of my shaft hard up against her slit and said, ‘I think you know what to do.’
I had said almost nothing during this scene, but I pressed into her and suddenly I found my voice, ‘Oh my God, my God.’ Her vagina had gripped my penis as if in a vice.
‘Do you like that, darling?’ she asked.
‘Oh God, yes…yes.’
‘Good, good. Now careful, darling, I come very quickly and often.’
I longed to fondle her breasts and suck her nipples, but the situation proved too urgent for both of us. My hands behind her buttocks I began to move in and out of her. She was very warm and moist, and she continued to grip my shaft spasmodically.
Suddenly she began to cry out, ‘Darling, darling…Oh my darling boy…’ Then she began to shudder and heave her body as if she was fighting to get me in deeper.
‘Yes, my darling, yes…oh yes… Oh…oh…oh.’ Then a long drawn out ‘Aaah,’ followed by, ‘Oh my love…my love…’
At that moment my own crisis arrived and I was shooting sperm into her like repeated cannon fire, with her continuing the struggle, wanting to get my seed in deep.
We had finished, yet we had not. I stood, my penis still in her, my hands starting to roam over her beautiful breasts. I was not a stranger to sexual intercourse, but for all the awkwardness of the position we had adopted, I had just had an experience like no other. No girl or woman I had been with had made me feel as Marguerite did.
I think it is one of the features of such an experience, that the sheer beauty
of it brings a note of apprehension. ‘Shall I be allowed to experience this again? Is this a once only coupling? Will she want me again?’ Marguerite gave me the answer.
She was softly kissing my face, brushing over it with her lips as if they were butterfly wings.
‘Did you like that, darling? Do you like me a lot more now? Do you want to do it with me again?’
‘Oh, yes, as often as you like.’
She laughed. ‘Careful, Raymond, I’m a very passionate woman. You might regret those words.’
Fortunately, I have what might be called a ‘rapid recovery rate’ when it comes to sex. I endevoured to prove it by taking her twice more that afternoon, but a bit more comfortably with her laying on the table for one session, and I for another. She seemed well satisfied by the end of the afternoon, but no further stocktaking was done.
In the following weeks we regularly engaged in ‘Stocktaking’, as we came to call it. After Buggs had left the premises at the end of the day, Marguerite and I would engage in ‘giving each other pleasure.’
During our stocktaking adventures, I underwent a change of name. From Raymon, I had gone on to Raymond and from there to Ray. I think Marguerite found it more convenient during stocktaking to call out ‘Ray,’ rather than ‘Raymond.’
At the same time, it was revealed to me that ‘Marguerite’ was not her real name, which was ‘Margaret.’ Again, for stocktaking convenience, this was reduced to ‘Maggie.’
I was having a wonderful time. Going to work had never been such fun, and it certainly beat working at the supermarket, when the only sex was a very hurried screw with a checkout girl during her tea break in the back of the storeroom.
To the accompaniment of many Buggs’ ‘Humphs,’ I got further pay increases. This enabled me to consider more salubrious living quarters, and this in turn led to a very pleasant change in my lifestyle.
One evening, after our stocktaking pleasure, I casually mentioned my intention of moving. Maggie became thoughtful, then said, ‘Ray, how would you like to move in with me?’
This set me thinking. It was one thing to have a pleasant time with one’s boss at work, it could be another thing altogether, living with her. My view was that I served as her bit of fun, and she mine. During working hours, she was still ‘Madame’, and I was ‘Our Meester Raymon.’ To be with her as a live-in lover, was very different.
I suppose I was afraid of being tied down, be too much at her disposal. However intimate we might have become, she was still the boss, except that Buggs was also my boss, and I had the suspicion that he was Maggie’s boss as well.
Maggie seemed to understand my dilemma, and said, ‘Look, darling, I promise I wont ask any more of you than I do now. I wont be your boss outside working hours. I’ve been on the receiving end of that myself, I wouldn’t impose it on you. I would like to have you living with me, so why not think about it and let me know?’
I thought about it, and saw that it would have many advantages. I assumed that I would not be asked to pay rent, and also I would have the body of a woman I liked and enjoyed readily available. If she kept her word, and didn’t try to boss me around outside working hours, how could I lose?
What callous, self-centred creatures we humans can be! In weighing up what I might get out of moving in with Maggie, not once did I consider what I might give to her. If I thought about it at all, I assumed that her sole motive for having me live with her was so that her ‘Toy Boy’ could fuck her on demand, just as I thought only of rent reduction and fucking her.
I told her I would like to move in with her, and she kissed me very lovingly and said, ‘That’s wonderful, darling.’
I moved in with Maggie and found that sex life can be very much more comfortable in a big double bed, than on the stock room table. Another advantage was that we did not need to hang around until after work and Buggs had gone, to get on with the sex. We simply went straight home.
In this new environment, Maggie and I drew much closer. We talked more freely with each other, and when I first saw her denuded of all her makeup, I was amazed at how much younger and prettier she looked. I told her so, and asked why she dressed and made up the way she did at work.
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