Anonymous

Ectasy on Fire

Chapter One

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. The crowd was sparkling with gay laughter, bright smiles, winking eyes. Sleek black limousines were lined up directly facing the fabled Opera, their chauffeurs puffing imported cigars, or just waiting — as they do.

It's a big part of the job, waiting. Maurice was waiting with the vloackoca, an Armenian rug, spread across his lap to cover the erect penis he played with to pass the time. Maurice had a lot of time to waste. His cock, more than ten inches long, was his closest friend. The limo came next.

Next in importance, where Maurice was concerned, was his splendid uniform. It was made of the finest Japanese silk, with black pearl buttons. It had an inner, hand-stitched velvet lining. Altogether, Maurice owned 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 was in the employ of Mrs. Staunton. Her first name was Melissa and she was over forty years of age, with a lovely unblemished face, green-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, seductive lips, and a dimple in her left cheek.

Melissa Staunton lived in Cannes, near Monte Carlo. Her villa resembled one of those chateaux one sees in travel folders. There was no moat surrounding it, but most people thought there should be one, the first time they saw it. It had spires and turrets, stained-glass windows suitable for a cathedral, massive sections of masonry, and great oak doors. All of its fittings were scrupulously maintained and polished, and they glistened in the softest light.

Unlike most of the great chateaux and villas in that exclusive neighborhood — a place bountiful with palm trees, lush greenery, and Japanese garden — Mrs. Staunton's home had no name. But it was generally referred to by merchants, green grocers and tourist guides as Le Ne Trespassing. This was because of the signs in English indicating Mrs. Staunton's wish that trespassing be forbidden.

A long driveway led to the main entrance. It was cobble stoned, well-lit, and inevitably tree-lined. The chateau rested on a kind of elevated plateau, and from a distance, as well as from the air, it resembled a three-tiered wedding cake. Like most wedding cakes, the main building and the outbuildings were whitewashed. They were brilliant in the sunlight, oddly somber in afternoon shadow, and ominous at night, especially when the moon was full.

Mrs. Staunton kept a house staff of three. First, there was Nellie, the "tweenie" maid. She was (naturally) a Cockney, aged nineteen, pretty, freckle-faced, beautifully breasted, slim of limb, and narrow- waisted. Her fingers were those of a workingwoman despite her age. But she was full of pleasing smiles, evenly disposed as girls of her age and background are; and considering that she'd had no education, Nellie was really something of a surprise.

The second staffer was George. He was a combination butler, handyman, cook, gardener, gofer and confidant of Mrs. Staunton. George prepared the daily shopping lists and supervised the payments to the local trades people. He was also in charge of chateau security. He had the kind of physical presence you just don't fool around with.

The third staffer was Madam Andre, as attractive as Mrs. Staunton and likewise over forty. She spoke half a dozen languages fluently. Madam Andre was also a good driver, excellent on the telephone, a good cook, handy like George, and dependable. She served at table and supervised the scullery maids who were local girls. These girls were ferried in by Maurice, the chauffeur, and ferried out by him when chores were done.

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

Stephenson Bradley Gould looked young for his age, blond, delicate, and experienced in nothing. He was 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, since two of her husbands (one of them Stephen's father) had died suddenly and left her an astonishing amount of money — was Mrs. Melissa Staunton's best friend from her school days. Her name was Patricia, but the servants — behind her back, of course — called her Patsy. They didn't like her all that much, but they did appreciate the money she paid 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, it was Stephenson Bradley Gould's exquisite mother, Patricia Gould.

Ever since Steve's birth, one after another, tutors, baby-sitters, counselors, guides, you-name-it, had been hired to do what tutors, baby-sitters, counselors and guides are supposed to do. And ever since Steve could remember, he hated every one of those people. He was always being shipped off, from here to there, back again, up and down, in and out. He developed so strong a drive toward rebellion that when his aircraft landed in Paris, 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. By the time Steve and Maurice arrived both were exhausted, even though they'd stopped for refreshment. They had even taken a nap in a picnic park just off the road from Toulouse.

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

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 found her clitoris. As she massaged herself, her eyes followed the path of Maurice and the boy as they crossed the courtyard and entered the chateau.

At the same time, Madam Andre was also watching Maurice carry the boy's suitcases. As the two strode across the courtyard, their heels clicking on the cobblestones, Madam Andre massaged her breasts. She pinched her nipples. She smoothed them and 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 the while. He was holding his naked prick in his hand, masturbating it as he rubbed up against the woman, 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," Madam Andre said, her voice a husky whisper, "I'm sure he'll be suitable for her."

She meant Mrs. Staunton.

"I agree."

"He's rather good-looking, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes."

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

"I agree."

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

"George…?"

"Yes, m'darlin?"

"George put it in again. I love your cock up inside."

George backed away from her for a moment. He knelt behind her. Gripping her thighs, he rubbed his face all over her naked bottom. He used his tongue to lick her ass cheeks. She wiggled when he began to kiss them more and more passionately. When George spread them apart and started to introduce his tongue into her anus, Madam Andre squealed.

"George… please… darling… your prick. Put it up inside me so I can keep it warm for a little while. I want it, George. Please. Please?"

George kept kissing, licking. "It needs your wetness, m'darlin'."

"Oh, George.!"

Madam Andre turned. Facing George, she lowered her head. She kissed his mouth. She sucked on his tongue. She licked his face, his nose especially. She sucked on his nose.

"M'darlin'?"

"Yes, George?"

"Wet my prick."

"Oh, George."

"Suck it… suck on it… wet it with your slime."

The woman grinned. She rubbed her fingers all over her hairy bush. She inserted two fingers up inside her hot cunt, coating them with her pussy juice. She looked at her lover and smiled.

She gripped his thick, hot cock with her wet fingers and began to masturbate him. Her other hand flew between her legs. She pushed her fingers into her cunt and when she pulled them out dripping, she spread the warm wetness from her cunt all over her hot asshole.

"It's ready now, George."

She bent over, placing her hands on the windowsill and splayed her legs far apart. He grabbed hold of his cock, rubbing it up and down, then placed it between her legs. She pushed her buttocks into his belly and pulled away.

Guiding his cock with his hand, he found the wet, full opening between her legs and thrust inside of her, pushing gently but firmly until his cock was buried deep within her. Both groaned. She balanced herself on her hands and began to move to his rhythm. He moved in and out of her, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, until he was pumping with such violence he upset her balance, pushing her forward then pulling her back again.

When he was about to come, he drove hard into her, pulling her by the hips as far back onto him as he could. He then leaned forward, buried his nose and mouth in her neck, moaned deeply, and shuddered. She could feel his cock's throbbing in the walls of her anal passage. No longer worried about balance — George would hold her firmly — she took her finger to her cunt and began to circle her clitoris, which was now hard and inflamed. She could still feel his enormous cock pulsating inside of her as the well-muscled walls of her asshole likewise began to throb and beat to his hardness. Afterwards, George pulled his dripping cock out of her and dressed.

Chapter Two

Melissa Staunton's box in the loge of the Monte Carlo opera was one of the most sumptuous there. Others nearby were reserved for local and visiting royalty, which included kings, queens, nephews, et cetera. Expensive purple velvet curtains graced the front of these booth-like areas. Inside were plush, comfortable easy chairs, gleaming bronze railings, and small lamps on the carpeted floors.

Each booth or private box in the loge overlooking the famous stage had its own private entrance, a door made of hardwood with bronze fittings. On each door was an engraved plate reporting the owner's name. The doors were heavy; their great weight insured their silence if they were opened or closed while a performance on the stage was taking place.

On Stephenson's first night in Monaco, he was bored to death as he watched a performance of an obscure Puccini opera. Below in the audience he could see people he recognized from their photographs in newspapers and magazines. Seated next to him was Melissa Staunton, also observing the crowd, listening politely to the opera, frowning from time to time when the mezzo-soprano struck a bum note, and clapping merrily at some comic antic on stage.

"Are you enjoying the performance, Stephenson?"

He wished he had the strength to tell her that among the many things he disliked about life and living was his name, Stephenson.

"Yes," he replied, nodding.

"I'm so glad."

He couldn't wait until it was over. Stephenson found it hard to believe anything on stage could be this awful. It was petrifying. He was also dying of thirst. He was forbidden to chew gum, and in the past, this had always helped. He kept wondering to himself if he could find some kind of an intelligent excuse to get the hell out of the place. On the way to the opera earlier, he'd spotted a brightly lit cafe with a terrace full of people. The moon was full, the air was balmy, and the sweet perfume of the fragrant jasmine had excited him.

Making up his mind, he turned to face Mrs. Staunton, uncrossing his legs. His eyes widened. From the position in which he had been seated, close to the front railing, often leaning on it as he saw others doing, but not draping himself or slouching, as he'd been advised not to, he hadn't been able to see Melissa. The easy chair she occupied was a bit to the rear of the box in deep shadow. She still had a decent view of the stage, but her position also permitted a degree of privacy. From nowhere in the loge or the upper balconies of the opera house could she be seen.

Melissa was relaxed in the easy chair. She had her eyes closed. Her feet were up on a hassock and, as Steve looked at her, her lips were slightly parted, her tongue weaving deliciously across them. Steve could not believe what he was seeing; she had her hand up inside her skirt.

It was moving ever so slowly, casually, meandering around, caressing and stroking her groin. Steve had no difficulty whatever seeing her fingers — which, with her skirt covering them, formed a tent in her lap — glide over and squeeze her sex. She was masturbating and breathing deeply, even sighing as her thoughts drifted.

On the stage below, the entire cast of the dumb opera was bellowing its brains out in a finale to Act One. When the trumpets let out a wild blast and the drums started banging, Steve turned. He shook his head. And, as he did, Melissa's eyes opened slowly. She sighed at Steve. He was once more looking over the bronze railing. She smiled. Then she sighed again to herself. She'd just had a wonderful time imagining him stark naked!

As the curtain descended, she reached forward with her hand, placing it on his shoulder. He turned.

"Stephenson.?"

"Mrs. Staunton," he said, half-looking at her over his shoulder, "I do wish you'd not call me Stephenson."

There! He's said it. Finally!

Melissa went back. Well, well, she thought to herself.

"Very well, what would you prefer?"

"Steve."

She smiled quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she wiped the grin off her face.

"Very well," she said, "on one condition."

"What would that be?" he asked, a little snottily. For some reason, which he couldn't figure out, he wasn't afraid of her.

"That you call me Melissa."

This shook him up. "What?"

"That you call me Melissa."

"I don't believe that."

"That's what I said, Steve."

He liked to hear the word "Steve" from her lips. It did something to him, made him feel more adult, less boyish, more of a man. The sound of Stephenson made him feel like a choirboy, some prissy boy student in some prissy boy school, wearing a white shirt with a black bow tie and the school blazer.

"You mean," he began, "that I can call you that, like, any time? In public, too?"

"If you wish, you may," she said slowly, pausing, then adding, "Steve."

As the opera house lights came on, catching more than one elegant bejeweled member of the audience dozing off in utter and complete boredom, Steve turned to Melissa.

"I'm dying for a drink of water… Melissa."

Her hand touched his knee and this shocked him. The smile on her face was extremely tender. She looked like a woman half her age.

"You want to know what I'm dying for?" She had a wide grin now, and this made him smile in return.

"Yes."

"A drink, but of something a little more substantial than water. Maybe an ice-cold beer, huh?"

Steve couldn't believe this either.

"A beer? Where?"

"Across the street. In the cafe. They have a back room where."