Roland Harding

Teen Queen

CHAPTER ONE

It was, at first, no more than just a suggestion of light – a lessening, rather, of the dark into a deep grayness through which objects could gradually be observed.

But it sufficed for the sleeper to move, in her slumber.

And having moved (such is the process of human awakening), she stirred again, as if she were trying to wring from her unconsciousness that final ounce of relaxation.

While she fought to relinquish the last luxury of her rest, the day dawned with its accelerating tempo that drove eventual sunlight against the drawn curtains.

Louise stirred for the last time, as a knock sounded at her door. She heard the knock but was reluctant, even in waking, to give heed to it.

When the rat-tat-tat sounded again, she opened her eyes and came instantly to full consciousness.

"Yes?" she called, directing her voice at the blankness of the closed door. "What is it?"

"Room service, Madame," came the reply. "Your morning tea – may I enter?"

"One moment," she called, automatically. Then, remembering: "It's O.K. You can come in. The door's not locked." The handle depressed and into the boudoir came a steward, adroitly bearing a tray in the supple wristed manner of men trained to hotel service. He was dressed in a short white monkey-jacket, gold-epaulette, ending at the waist. From his waist down were tight-thighed navy blue trousers, descending to black, patent leather shoes.

"Good morning to you, Madame," he bade politely, as he crossed to deposit the tray on a bedside table. Louise Henderson acknowledged the greeting, noticing with interest the efficient movements of the tall, wavy, dark-haired man as he set down her tea things. New, she thought. But good.

On an impulse to talk, she queried: "It will be hot again today, do you think?"

The steward answered: "At this time of the year, Madame, here in Nice it is always hot."

"No chance of rain?"

"Clouds, perhaps, in the afternoon. But seldom rain. In Nice, the rain comes in the winter – when the tourists have all gone."

"I see. Tell me, that perfect English of yours. You are not French, then?"

"No, Madame. I speak French. But by birth I am a South African. Here in Nice I am learning the hotel business, so that I may return one day to one of the big hotels in my own country."

"Interesting," commented Louise.

Desire, elemental and carnal, had risen within her as they chatted. Dare she…?

She wondered, dispassionately studying him, how best to provoke him into a quick realization of her needs. Should she leave it for later? Or should she try to gain his interest right there and then?

She decided on the spur of the moment, as the steward inquired, with trained courtesy: "Shall I pour tea for Madame?"

"No thank you. Pouring tea can be so – so one's own affair, I always think. Don't you?"

And as she spoke, Louise raised herself on one elbow, twisting round to attend to the tray. She took care, as she did so, that her breasts should fall, visibly, against the flimsy gossamer of her pajama top.

She knew too, and wickedly, how voluptuous were the curves of those breasts.

Released from the confines of her daytime brassiere, they were full, vast breasts, and firm fleshed. When Louise stood nude, they seemed to defy gravity as they stood out, proudly abreast of her body. Obviously weighty, they should have sagged. But, not so obviously well-muscled, they did not sag. They projected. Big, deep-valleyed, statuesque in their beauty, they stood out and round, the very acme of her undeniable femininity.

In her sheer, positively transparent night attire, those breasts were virtually nude as she poured her tea. And Louise knew it.

She knew, too, that she would be perfectly safe in stealing a quick glance into the eyes of the steward, to observe from his expression what effect her minor exhibitionism was having on him. No matter what his training was in keeping a bland, non-committal exterior at all times, no man could be immune to the full bombardment of Louise, when she chose to cut loose.

It was exactly as she had thought. The steward never noticed her quick, probing glance. His gaze was concentrated upon the lush woman-hood spread out before his eyes. Nothing could have claimed a fraction of his attention at that moment.

Never, thought the man, had he seen so much woman so blatantly exposed! Never had he seen a torso so exquisitely proportioned. If only she would freeze into the pose she then held, forever, he thought…

Louise permitted a sly smile of triumph to creep into her expression, as she devoted her attention once more to the pouring of her tea.

"When I asked about the weather," she continued easily, "I wanted to know how to dress. My husband arrives today from South America. What I wear to meet him will have to do for all day lunch, afternoon, and no doubt, the evening as well. We do not see each other often, my husband and I…"

The steward made a noble, if not quite successful attempt to collect his scattered wits. He literally dragged his eyes from the vision so tantalizingly exposed before him.

"Your husband, Madame?" he stammered. "He… he – you will be leaving the hotel today, then, perhaps."

Louise laughed, almost mockingly.

"Oh, no," she said. "We almost never stay together. It is because we almost never travel together. He has his business interests. I have mine. He makes his arrangements. I make mine. But when we do meet, it is always like some lovers' tryst for us."

"He… he has been gone from you for some time, then?"

"For six months we've not seen each other. Do you know something?"

"Madame?"

Louise sat up suddenly, bolt upright in her bed. Again, those magnificent breasts, jouncing now at the sudden movement…

"You," she said. "You are extraordinarily like him. The same hair, the same height, the same expression about the eyes. I was watching you walk a moment ago. You even have the same gait."

Confused, the steward could only gaze dumbly, quite enslaved, as she spoke.

"Tell me, what is your name?"

"Andrew," he managed to utter. And remembering his position: "Madame does me honor."

"Madame could do you greater honor still," she replied, cheekily provocative. "If, that is, if you have the time. What time is it?"

Andrew felt as if he remained on his feet only through the support of some invisible gyroscope deep within him.

"It is early. Something… some few minutes past six. Madame's was the first call for tea this morning. There is nobody else to serve before – oh, half past seven."

"You are not expected anywhere else, then?"

"Not until the half-past seven breakfasts," he replied. Then, grasping fleetingly at a sudden surge of courage, a male instinct not to be as stupediedly dominated by this woman as he had been, he summoned the strength to inquire, almost archly: "Did Madame have anything else in mind, then?" Louise let another of her rippling laughs fall musically into the quiet of the bedroom.

"Did I forget to assure you, Andrew, that you are young and astonishingly, tantalizingly, the very image of my husband?"

"So Madame requires…?"

"After six months, Madame requires the assurance that Madame will not fail her husband when he returns to her today. Madam requires that – most urgently. And almost immediately – if, that is, Andrew is perfectly certain no trouble will pile up if he is absent from his duties for a little while?"

Still the courage flowed from some hidden source into the soul of the steward. The danger point had come and gone. It left him, if not in command of the situation, then at least no longer absolutely at her mercy.

"Andrew is perfectly certain about that, Madame, as well as about one other thing, if he might be so bold."

"And that is?"

"That Andrew has never seen anything more desirable, not in his whole lifetime, than Madame. And that if it is the greatest good fortune that will happen to him this year, that Andrew is selected to deputize for this missing husband, then Andrew will do his very best to take his place, with all the competence at his command!"

Louise's laugh rippled out again, charged this time with the throatiness of her sexual urge. And as she laughed, she said, happily: "Then what, Andrew, what in the bloody hell are we waiting for?"

In a tomboyish gesture, she gathered her knees up to her chest and then, straightening them suddenly in a double kick, she thrust all the covers from the bed in one movement.

And there she lay, her exuberant body exposed delectably from head to foot, clad only in the sheerest and shortest of pajamas through which all her femininity was shown. The silky whiteness of the under sheet served to accentuate her loveliness.

CHAPTER TWO

It took Andrew no more than sixty seconds to peel off his formal, boiled-shirt uniform.

The short monkey-jacket was off in an instant. The shirt, with a click of buttons, followed it into an armchair near the bed, and he stood revealed from the waist up, naked, sun-bronzed and broad-shouldered.

Muscles rippled under his healthy skin as he undid his trousers. His socks and shoes followed, and he stood before her a virile being, devoid entirely of all badges of rank that separated his social station from that of the hotel guest in whose boudoir he was. "My God!" broke involuntarily from Louise, as she witnessed the fast metamorphosis. And she thought: What a man this Andrew is!

In wispy nylon shorts he stood before her, his desire made plainly apparent by the erection of his penis within the clutching confines of his underwear. "There they go!" he quipped. "The badges of rank. The things that make me a servant, and you the woman I serve. And now, my love, we meet on the same plane!"

And, as he descended upon her, Louise murmured: "But Andrew, your shorts."

Mockingly, still bearing down upon the bed in one lithe movement, Andrew grinned: "Until you take off your pajamas, woman, the shorts stay. Where they are!"

And then he was beside her, and upon her, and his seeking lips had found her mouth and his cupped palms the bounty of her breasts. And Louise surrendered her body to him.

In the midst of her embraces, she sighed.

And her sigh was the involuntary apostrophe: "Ah-h-h-h-h! Ah-h-h-h, my Hector, my darling!"

Hearing it, Andrew smiled, deep down within himself. He caressed her lissome young body the more fiercely. Hector! Her husband, he thought accurately. Returning to her, in fantasy.

And now his hand was upon her rounded, voluptuous belly, and he allowed it to glide over the satiny smoothness of nylon, over feminine skin. And now, beneath his palm, he encountered the pubic hair, coarse and vigorous over her rounded pubis.

And as she felt his touch upon her cunt, she twitched with the involuntary nerve reactions of her lust. Oh, for this brown, athletic, God-like creature to possess her!

And he chuckled, feeling her wince in pleasure.

Sensing his amusement, but misreading its meaning, she moaned, through her kiss: "So demanding? So urgent in your passion, my Andrew?"

And she melted into his embracing arms.

"Not so demanding, my beloved," he murmured, "that I cannot spare the time to love you as a woman like you deserve to be loved. For the passion, for that, we can wait."

Wet-lipped and open-mouthed, he was kissing her again, drinking in her fragrance while his seeking, exploring fingers went at their task of stirring up unendurable ecstasy in her.

With quivering thighs, she closed his fingers against the warmth of her cunt, soft and nestling in its bed of curling, vigorous hair, beneath the prison of the panties of her pajamas.

"Oh-h-h-h-h!" he sighed. "But these things – off with them!"

With her own hand fondling the length of his staff beneath his shorts, evoking in him the tumult of lust, she breathed back: "Only when yours are off, too, my love!"

So they paused, and with one twin writhing, each was free of clothes, resplendent in their nudity.

And now her fingers upon his throbbing penis were practiced, experienced demons of provocation as, palm-wet from his juices, they slithered back and forth across the phallus, torturing each nerve…

But Andrew, in his turn, had insinuated equally unendurable fingertips into the warm, oiled slither of her sex, so that the girl was reduced to a writhing jelly of spasmodic twitching in her lust for him.

Together they uttered weird, primeval cries of passion into each other's mouths until she could bear it no longer, and she lapsed into bursts of obscene profanity, which were wrung from her during the most intimate moments.

"Have me!" she cried. "Possess me! Now! Fuck me, ah, I beg of you! Christ, I can stand this no longer, not another moment!"

Andrew still persisted in stirring within her eager, pulsating vagina, resisting her attempts to arch her way beneath his muscled, youthful physique.

But mercy eventually prevailed upon him. With barely a perceptible effort he lifted her up, using only his forearms. And then he allowed her to fall athwart him at precisely that that second when his throbbing penis was erect, poised to penetrate the pubic hairs beneath which throbbed her cunt.

Louise felt the warm heft of her man being absorbed in the lubricated length of her vagina, and twitched in spasms.