Spontaneous Combustion Page 3

  Throw away the fantasy. This was real!

  A flesh and blood man. A huge demanding, unshakable force, climbed into her world that morning and took control, as if he had a right. As if he owned her. As if she’d already said yes to what should have been lengthy and deliberate D/s negotiations. He assumed, he didn’t ask. He assumed she wouldn’t balk. He counted on her obedience, and she didn’t deny him. He’d won her outright, and to his authoritative tone she surrendered without a moment’s hesitation.

  Her mind spun like a dervish – thinking, listening, absorbing the message, realizing, even then, how he had taken charge of her and she made no effort to stop him. She didn’t want him to stop. She wanted that voice in her head to go on forever. She wanted his human voice, the deep bravado, the authority and quality of strength it conveyed. For the first time in forever, the old haunting masculine voice that had been with her all her life had been silenced, replaced by something real. The man with the leather belt was no phantom, no crazy piece of magic but a real man.

  When the call finally ended, she lay on her bed for a long while, trying to figure out who he was that he could invade her space from miles away and have her captured. Who was this man? Good lord, she hadn’t even met him and she was ready to give herself to him, body and soul!

  Stunned. Giddy. Exhilarated by this sudden, bold advance, she shook her head in wonder. Who the hell was he?

  Chapter Two

  Rouen, France

  “I awoke this morning with my manhood standing stiff at attention. I thought of you taking it in your hands. As your face gets closer, I can feel your warm breath against it. You give the head a loving kiss and then slowly suck the shaft into your mouth. As my cock disappears I feel nirvana begin to well up inside of me. It begins to throb as you work the shaft, as your hot lips take it deep into your mouth until there is nothing visible remaining. You suck long and hard, drawing it out and then swallowing it whole again. As I look down, I’m mesmerized by the action and I finally explode, filling your mouth with warm cum.

  Do you like your mouth filled with cock and cum? Do you like the taste of cum? Do you swallow? If you don’t you will learn.

  By the way, I just reread Spontaneous Combustion. Damn, that’s hot! I do like how it ends with you naked, collared and sitting at my feet. I imagine you sucking my balls. In fact, I’ve been thinking about that scene all day. It’s been a long time for me.

  Have a good trip.

  P.S. Picture of my toys attached”

  “You sure do know how to wake up a woman! Funny you should ask…oral has never been my passion. Although over the last few years, I grew to enjoy it very much, giving and receiving. And yes, I DO swallow, what’s the point of not? I found that taste often changes during the day…something about cum after midnight…it always tasted sweeter. Weird, huh? I love to play with a man’s balls, too – you should be happy about that – my taking them into my mouth and sucking ever so gently. Hummm…thinking of that now. I do have a strong gag reflex, but otherwise, I think I can be pretty good at oral, though you would be the judge of that. It’s an intimate act for me that I enjoy only with someone I care about. But then, I suppose that’s true of sex in general.

  I plan on having a great trip – Just arrived in France…can you imagine that? I’m really here.”

  ***

  Jeni stepped onto the streets of Rouen, a city just NW of Paris, and suddenly time warped around her, throwing her centuries into the past when Old Rouen was a jumbled mix of half-timbered houses with high peaked roofs, all smashed together, all looking a little odd and disjointed, but perfectly mesmerizing with their dark wooden beams and the white plaster in between. Gothic. Worn. Spruced up to look pretty for the 21st century. But too ruggedly Medieval to be considered sweet or quaint. The world of Rouen was a step away from reality, seeming oddly out of kilter, teetering precariously between two worlds, between its past and the current incarnation – not unlike Jeni’s first day in France…

  Her morning began with her arrival, a whirlwind of conflicting sensations and images. Little snapshots of this new reality bombarded her brain, hopefully recorded somewhere in the back of her mind to be remembered later. The chaos of Charles de Gaulle airport quickly morphed into a brisk bus ride into Paris, where her first taste of France was the elaborate graffiti spray painted on concrete walls along the highway, jumbled together amid an unruly cityscape as disordered and tattered at the edges as any big city she knew at home. Certainly not the pretty pictures of travelogues and the tour brochures. But this was the landscape of France, too. And Paris – By the time they finally reached the famed city, Jeni was too dazed from jetlag for much conscious thought at all. As the airport shuttle wound its way through Paris streets toward the boutique hotel where the tour gathered, there was only one thing she cared to see, one thing that might focus her scattered thoughts.

  Suddenly, there it was. In the distance. The Eiffel Tower, just the top of the spire arising from amid the trees and the 19th century buildings. The sight of it thrilled her and settled her at the same time.

  After a quick lunch in the hotel, they were off again, traveling into the sunny countryside for a far different experience of France. Following the hectic morning, Jeni welcomed the peaceful green and the clear blue sky – so reminiscent of home that she could imagine herself just miles from her house – at least until they came upon a village, where houses built of stucco, brick and stone, with pitched roofs and blue shutters faded from the sun reminded her that she was far from home. As her eyes settled into the peaceful scenes she began to feel the ancient world beneath the modern one calling to her. Her body vibrated in reply.

  But then, the world suddenly changed again the moment she landed in Rouen, as if she’d stepped onto another planet. As if she’d been swept into a picture postcard, everything stood out in high relief. The streets were narrow. The pavement rough, grey cobblestone. The half-timbered buildings housed tiny shops selling Old World curios. Next to them, modern buildings displayed the finest of French fashion for hefty prices. Patisseries along the street sold baguettes and croissants; small markets and bistros offered cheeses, cured meats, crepes and twenty-five flavors of gelato. In the open-air market farmers sold their fresh produce and colorful bouquets of flowers. Merchants from the local area displayed antiques, clothes, pottery and fine fabrics.

  People traveled on foot, on bikes and small scooters. Tourists. Locals. Merchants. Some moved with purpose, others merely strolled. An occasional car wound its way through the street forcing pedestrians to move aside. By late afternoon, Jeni’s overworked senses had a tough time keeping up with what she saw; so that much of what she experienced disappeared into a mélange of sights she’d have trouble remembering the next day.

  In the midst of it all, a massive Gothic cathedral, sprawled out for blocks at the center of the old city, seeming to loom above the streets of Rouen in solemn silence, peering down in judgment at the mishmash of cultures that walk beneath it. She stood beneath the imposing edifice gazing upward to the tops of the tall spires, and grew dizzy from the effort. If only she had the time to sit in the lovely garden at the base of the cathedral and allow herself to fully appreciate this alarming monument to God. Monet painted that edifice 54 times, all from the same perspective, all with the idea of capturing the shadows as they moved with the angle of the sun and the change of seasons. The world isn’t patient like that anymore. Everyone is too busy going elsewhere to sit unwearied by the effort in order to notice the subtle shifts and changes in the cathedral’s façade as the day advances.

  If only there were time for that…

  But there wasn’t time on this busy tour to savor such a simple thing as a shift in light on that ancient church.

  She would be content to savor what lingered with her. The hushed sexy blur of the language roused her. So did the mood of the crowd, the way young men gawked from store fronts with hooded eyes and sly smirks, and young women wearing sheer white blouses with sexy black b
ras beneath displayed their uncomplicated sensuality, but not to flaunt it. Their sensuous stylishness was as much a part of them as their easy laughter and alluring smiles.

  The romance of France had certainly captured her attention, and she briefly allowed herself a moment to consider the possibilities.

  It took little time for her to dispense with French men. This was as it should be, she thought. She had men enough in her life for now – two in fact: the one that haunted her from the past, and the one who continued to leave sexually graphic emails in her inbox, like the one she received that morning. He’d sent pictures of his sex toys – the whip, the flogger, the nipple clamps. Her response had been swift, fierce and intensely physical, adding to the overwhelming sexual ache she already felt. She could have stopped the emails and put Jack aside for the trip. But that was impossible to do. He’d been in her life a meager twenty days and there was no way to unilaterally remove him – certainly not when his messages fed her imagination with the kink she craved.

  She felt suspended between two worlds, between France and Jack. Both great unknowns. Although he might have reminded her of home, much of him remained as foreign to her as cobblestone streets and a centuries’ old cathedral. His influence doggedly pursued her, an unrelenting and determined presence she could not ignore – not that she would have wanted to if she could.

  No need to think about other men. She had enough stimulation in that part of her life. On the other hand, French women? They were an entirely different matter.

  For dinner the first night in Rouen, the tour took them to a small bistro along one of the long blocks of half-timbered buildings. Tables were cramped together. Conversation in French and English was brisk. And the aromas in the small restaurant were sinfully delicious. Jeni sipped her wine, feeling a pleasant buzz, and let her mind drift. She must have looked like a dazed child gazing around in such awe with very little to say.

  Then something caught her eye. Across the table, beyond the couple from Arizona who were chattering away with the woman next to Jeni, she spotted a young woman with white blonde hair and a pretty face, speaking in an easy going cadence to an equally lovely brunette sitting opposite. A massive timber supporting the old building prevented her from getting a good look at the brunette. But the blonde was so striking that Jeni was unable to look elsewhere, and for nearly a minute, she stared at the girl’s full, sensuous lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss them. A flutter of arousal rose up from deep within as the fantasy took hold, and she wriggled her crotch discreetly against the wooden chair beneath her. She smiled privately, daydreaming about short skirts, no panties, and grinding her naked pussy against that firm, smooth seat.

  The blonde’s eyes sparked with sensuality, sultry and dark one moment, bright and compassionate the next. Flawless complexion, short sexy hair, voluptuous breasts. Jeni couldn’t recall when she’d seen a more perfect creature, or one more desirable. Love at first sight? If not love, certainly undisguised lust.

  And how crazy was that? She was in the midst of a crazy affair with a Dominant male, and now this! Oddly enough, it made perfect sense in Jeni’s world, where men and women could be fantasy lovers, that all she could think about as she sipped her wine and ate the tiny cheese tart in front of her was her hands combing the girl’s soft flesh. She wanted to be in bed with her, under the sheets and between her legs, the taste of pussy in her mouth as she sucked on the girl’s swollen clit. The thought was enough to make her pussy spasm. While her dinner companions remarked about the food, her mind was between the blonde’s breasts, pressing her lips against her creamy skin, tasting the perspiration and drinking in her scent. Jeni’s warm liquid pussy continued to move erotically, discreetly, against the seat of her chair. Within her tiny space in that French bistro, she was in an erotic world all her own.

  In the morning, Jeni sat in the hotel dining room eating her Camembert, croissant and jam, as she gazed into a shop window across the street. She smirked to herself, seeing the transparent black bra and panty set clothing an elegantly posed mannequin. Her body heat picked up where it had left off the night before. She checked her watch. Nine thirty. The tour didn’t meet again until eleven, which left her time to snap a picture of the sexy shop window to send to Jack.

  She left the hotel minutes later with her phone in hand. However, by the time Jeni was on the street headed for the boutique, with the urgency of sexual desire propelling her forward, she forgot about taking pictures. She stepped into the shop instead and gazed around. A full scale assault on her senses immediately transported her into a distinctly feminine world. The scents were spicy and sweet. The color palate like peaches and cream. The air glittered softly around her, while the haunting sound of a female singer and an erotic melody played in the background, drawing the mesmerized Jeni deeper inside.

  She was in the domain of women, a place uniquely familiar, although this French version of a woman’s boutique had its own peculiar appeal. She passed a cabinet of shimmering jewelry, hair clips and tubes of lipstick, then spent some time gazing at bottles of gleaming nail lacquer inside a round display case. There were clothes, racks of them, artfully arranged throughout the shop. None were squashed together, and there were no brightly colored sale tags. Designer clothes. Delicate lingerie. Silk. Satin. Linen. Lace. Fabrics in gold, silver, white, black, vibrant hues and soft pastels.

  Women came here to look sexy, to become desirable, to plan seductions, private late night rendezvous with handsome lovers and bisexual females. They came to transform themselves – although for a French woman transformation was no more than an extension of what is natural to her heritage. Jeni thought of it as a peculiar gene for glamour and beguiling bestowed on them at birth and nurtured by a society unashamed of sexuality. This magical property must have had its origin centuries ago, and has now so infused the culture that it permeates the air, the water, the landscape, the food and the physical essence of the people that fall under its spell. It was an atmosphere laden with sexual mystery that Jeni felt the moment she stepped in the door. Not unlike the mystery she found around every corner, in every shop and bistro and along the streets of Rouen.

  Thoughts of Jack and kink and the erotic romance of France already had her hot with lust. And now this place…

  She moved quietly through the boutique, stopping to finger the delicate lace edging on a cream colored chemise. She marveled at the feel of a butter soft cotton t-shirt; and visibly shivered as she touched silk panties like the ones in the window. If only she had the means to purchase all these pretty things. But at 35 euro – for just a pair of panties, she decided to love them all, but enjoy without having to possess them.

  Never had she lived through her senses as she did now, where the experience of the thing, the touch, the taste, the sound, the feel was more important than the desire to buy. She loved this altered state, though she struggled to know how she could possibly become more aroused, feel more erotic than she felt now, and still take in more.

  She circled a display of blouses, then stopped abruptly, noting a small tickle of excitement at the back of her neck. She turned around and stood stock still. Something unexpected awaited – and that flash of intuition almost made her weak. She soon knew its source. Emerging through silky drapery at the rear of the boutique was the girl with the white blonde hair from the night before. Jeni stepped back, an involuntary response, as if from ten feet away the girl had the power to knock her down. She caught herself, and had the presence of mind to close her gaping mouth. The sudden shudder of desire hit hard against her fear of being found guilty of undisguised adoration. Of course, she wasn’t stalking this lovely creature – but she had to reign in her desire before it became conspicuous.

  Of all the places and designer boutiques in Rouen, all the sexy blondes in this city of beautiful blondes, that Jeni would stumble on this particular woman in the shop across from her hotel seemed strangely eerie. Small coincidences were not uncommon in her world. It wouldn’t be the first time her fantasies
materialized in real life. Was it happening again? Had she drawn this woman to her? The idea was completely absurd. This was where the girl worked, she just happened to enter that boutique. A quirk of fate, nothing more.

  When the blonde approached her smiling, Jeni’s heart leapt, and her body shivered deeply. Her nerves were already in tatters from anxiety and she wanted to flee out the door and into the street. And yet, there was something in the girl’s aura that gently closed in around her and held her there.

  “Puis-je vous aider?”

  “Oui.” She struggled to recall the French translation, and when that failed her, she smiled self-consciously. “Excusez-moi, Je ne comprend pas. Anglais?

  “Oui, Madame.”

  “Ah, merci. I was looking at the mannequin in the window…?” she pointed toward the front of the shop.

  “Ah oui, the bra and panties,” the blonde said. She spoke in beautifully fluent English, and like the night before, falling naked into the girl’s embrace became a thought Jeni found difficult to ignore.

  “The price, sil vous plait?”

  “Ah, I think it would be 75 euro, for them both. Would you like to try them on?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “No, merci, I was just admiring…”

  “May I help with anything else?”

  “No, mademoiselle, merci. I’ll just look around.”

  “I am Justine if I can help,” the blonde girl said, smiling warmly, then she moved away. Infatuation, Jeni, that’s all this is. Don’t let it own you.