Russell Smith - Ecstasy on fire

It was one of those sultry evenings on the French Riviera. The opera house in the grand square in Monaco (Monte Carlo) was all lit up, blazing. People were also sparkling, gay laughter, bright smiles, winking.

Limousines, black, long, sleek, shiny and expensively cared for by their chauffeurs, adequately fueled, lush and plush, many of the rear seats pure velvet, padded footrests, chrome ashtrays, even a rug-were lined up directly facing the fabled Opera, the chauffeurs puffing imported cigars or just waiting-as they do.

They are supposed to wait. This would include Maurice and the vloackoca, an Armenian rug spread across his lap, covering his erect penis he plays with to pass the time. Maurice had a lot of time to waste. Most chauffeurs do, and his cock, more than ten inches long, is his closest friend; the limo comes next. A real, genuine phallic symbol.

Next in importance where Maurice is concerned is his splendid uniform. It's made of the finest Japanese silk, black pearl buttons. An inner velvet lining, hand-stitched. Altogether Maurice owns four of these costumes. His tailors, Le Canuet et Fils on the Avenue de Breteuil, Paris 07, also cut pedigreed cloth for royalty, politicians and IBM executives.

Maurice is in the employ of Mrs. Staunton, first name, Melissa, over forty years of age, a lovely face unblemished complexion, green-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, seductive lips, a dimple in her left cheek.

Melissa Staunton lives in Cannes. This is near Monte Carlo. Her villa, and she owns it, resembles one of those chateaux one sees in travel folders. There is no moat surrounding it but one should be. There are spiraling turrets, stained glass, cathedral-sized windows, massive masonry sections, great oaken doors. All of the fittings are highly polished brass that glisten in the softest light.

Unlike most of the great chateaux and villas in the exclusive neighborhood, palm trees, lush greenery, Japanese gardeners and everything else that comes with this kind of luxury, Mrs. Staunton's place has no name. But it is referred to generally by merchants, green grocers and tourist guides as Le No Trespassing. This is because of the signs in English indicating such is Mrs. Staunton's wish.

A long driveway leads to the main entrance. This is cobble stoned (Belgian brick), adequately lighted and of course, tree-lined. The chateau rests on a kind of elevated plateau and from a distance and from the air, resembles a three-tiered wedding cake. Like most wedding cakes, the well-designed building and the outbuildings are whitewashed, brilliant in the sunlight, somber in afternoon shadow and ominous at night, especially when the moon is full.

Mrs. Staunton keeps three house staff. They are called just that: staff. There is Nellie, the "tweenie" maid. She is naturally from Great Britain, a Cockney, aged 17, pretty, freckle-faced, beautifully breasted, slim of limb, narrow waist, and her fingers are those of a working woman despite her age. But she's full of pleasing smiles, evenly disposed as girls her age and background are; and considering she has no education, well, Nellie is really something of a surprise.

The second, staff is George. He is a combination butler, handyman, cook, gardener, go-fer' and confidante of Mrs. Staunton. George prepares the daily shopping lists, supervises the payments to the local trades people. He is also in charge of the security of the chateau. He's that kind of physical specimen you just don't fool around with.

The third staff is Madame Andre. This woman is also over forty, also attractive as Mrs. Staunton. She speaks half a dozen languages fluently. Madam Andre is also a good driver, excellent on the telephone, a good cook, handily like George, dependable. She serves the table and supervises the scullery maids who are local girls that change frequently. These girls are ferried in by Maurice, the chauffer, and ferried out by him when chores are done.

This was more or less the setup when Stephen's impending arrival from America was announced.

Stephenson Bradley Gould, young for his age, blond, delicate, experienced in nothing, as said. A quiet boy. A book-reader, a lonely walker, neat and clean. His name should have been Fletcher. Until he flew on the Concorde to Paris, he'd been literally imprisoned in boarding schools, summer camps for the well-to-do and isolated apartments in different New England towns.

His mother, a woman wealthy beyond reason except that two of her husbands died suddenly (one was Stephen's father) and left her an astonishing amount of money, is Mrs. Melissa Staunton's half sister. In this case half-sister means they had different fathers.

Her name is Patricia but the servants, behind her back, of course, call her Patsy. They don't like her all that much but they do appreciate the money she pays for their attention to her, to her son, Stephen and to the duplex in New York.

If ever anyone had a thorn in her side, (which means Patricia suffers the tortures of the proverbial damned), it is Stephenson Bradley Gould's exquisite mother, Patricia Gould.

Since Steve's birth, one after another tutors, baby-sitters, counselors, guides, you name it, have been hired by his mother to do what tutors, baby-sitters, counselors and guides are supposed to do to earn their money.

And since Steve can remember, he has hated every one of these people. Always being shipped off; from hereto there; back again; up and down; in and out-the kid has developed so strong a drive, psychologically called rebellion, that when his aircraft landed in Paris (Le Bourget), all he could think of was flight-especially when he spotted Maurice waiting for him

The silent drive to Cannes, then to Monte Carlo took the entire day and by the time Steve and Maurice arrived both were exhausted. But drive they did, stop they did for refreshment. They even took a nap in a picnic park just off the road from the entrance to Toulouse.

Melissa Staunton stood next to one of the windows overlooking the courtyard. She could see and hear the approach of the long, sleek, black limousine. She could see Maurice wearing his black sunglasses, the visor of his cap. Mrs. Staunton hummed to herself as the big car was maneuvered into its parking space.

And with her first glimpse of Stephenson, her lips parted slowly. There was an audible intake of breath. "God, he's a handsome child," she said slowly, one hand gliding down inside her robe to brush over her cunt. Her fingers crawled inside her satin panties. Her index finger sought and found her clitoris. As she burned it with friction, her eyes followed the path of Maurice and the boy as they crossed the courtyard and entered the chateau.

At the same time, the "tweenie" Nellie was also watching Maurice carry the boy's suitcases. As the two strode across the courtyard, their heels clicking on the cobblestones, Nellie massaged her breasts. She pinched her nipples. She smoothed them; again she pinched them as if to reawaken them. She sighed.

She looked over her shoulder at George who had been standing behind her all this while. He was holding his naked prick in his hand, his fist masturbating it as he rubbed up against Nellie, her skirt raised up around her waist, her bottom bare, her asshole wet from George having tongued it as they waited for the arrival of the limousine from Paris.

"I am sure," Nellie said, her voice a husky whisper, "I'm sure he'll be suitable for her."

Her meant Mrs. Staunton.

"I agree."

"He's rather good looking, would you say?"

"Yes."

"Not too tall, not too small, just around right."

"I agree.

There was a moment of silence as Nellie and George watched Stephenson and Maurice disappear into the grand foyer of the chateau.

"George?"

"Yes, m'darlin?"