(it happened at the) DALI

[rockie00]

Author's Note: This is a very detailed telling of a tale that took place in June 2011. It is not your typical "find um, snatch um, rape um" type story. I know many of you will find it interesting. All comments are welcome. Rockie



Dali
Sometimes something will happen to you that is so good, so utterly fantastic…..so surreal and amazing, that you just can’t keep quiet about it. This is the story about one of those things.
Jake was packing up and getting ready to head out again the first week in June. He never tells me exactly where he goes but I know it is not somewhere that I would prefer him to be. This time it could be as long as three or four months. As usual, on his last day in town he takes me wherever I would like to spend the day.
Sometimes it would be the beach, Sanibel or Honeymoon Island, but this time I told him I would like to drive to St. Pete and go through the Dali Museum. I had never been there and his artwork always intrigued me.
We had spent an hour or so walking around looking at all the different pieces of art when we came upon this sculpture of a golden nude girl lying on the ground in front of a black Unicorn who had just pierced a heart on a wall. As I stood there staring, Jake excused himself to find the men’s room. My imagination was completely captured by this piece of artwork. Anyone who saw me might think that I was a statue. I was totally lost in my thoughts. There was something…..enticing almost magical about the juxtaposition of the figures.
“Very sensual, don’t you think?” came the voice from over my shoulder.
“More like erotic.” I answered without even turning around to see who made the comment.
The accent was dramatically French and the voice rich in tone. It’s a strange thing, but I’ve always felt warm and safe when a man with a French accent speaks to me. As I turned to say hello, Jake had just re-entered the room.
“Watch out for this one Roxann,” said Jake with that wry smile, “He’s been hanging around museums and trying to pick up beautiful young ladies for at least fifty years.”
“Jacob! Old friend, it’s been such a long time.” came that beautiful French accent. It was nearly musical.
The two of them embraced warmly.
“Roxann, I want you to meet Jean Claude, Duquenoy (name changed) a friend of mine for longer than either one of us would like to admit.”
I recognized the name immediately. Duquenoy was a very well respected international photographer. He specialized in photography as a form of art and had his work displayed all over the world at some of the finest museums.
“I’m very pleased to meet you Mr. Duquenoy.” I said as he took my hand a bowed his head to kiss it,
He was a very dignified looking older gentleman, over six feet tall and appeared to still be very fit. His full head of silver hair was combed straight back and perfectly maintained as was his silver, pencil thin mustache and matching goatee. I couldn’t help smiling to myself at his ascot. I didn’t know anybody even wore them anymore. But he wore it well, it fit his overall picture very well and the blue silk was nearly as sparkling as his eyes.
“Jake, we were just discussing the meaning of Dali’s Unicorn here.” Jean Claude said with a wink at me.
“Well it’s quite obvious to me that the young lady is dreaming of the phallic shaped wall and the unicorn is upset due to his own, shall we say, shortcomings. So he attacks the object of her affection.”
“Aw Jacob, you’ll never change will you?” Jean Claude said as he patted Jake on the back.
We all had a good laugh and Jean Claude suggested that he buy us a drink at a nearby café where I could be bedazzled by his and Jake’s stories. We agreed and took our separate cars over to O’Clancys, an intimate little club most of the year, where artist, musicians and art students from the nearby college hung out to pick the brains and get advice from the professionals.
Jean Claude led the way in and was quickly welcomed as we made our way to his regular table. There were three young people already at his table who quite abruptly stood up and apologized for being there explaining that they had come to talk to Jean Claude about photography projects they were working on and that they didn’t realize he was having company today. Jean Claude assured them it was no problem and that he would be here again tomorrow, as he was nearly every day, to give them council. Jean Claude ordered drinks for us. “Still drinking that Kentucky swill you were so fond of Jacob?” Jake nodded. “And you my dear, what is your poison “
“I’ll have a double shot of Tia Maria next to a cup of black coffee thank you.”
They served the coffee on its very own little Bunsen burner which I thought was quite charming.
“They probably didn’t realize that your coffee would be long gone before it had a chance to get cold.” Jake laughed.
“I love these young artist” Jean Claude said with a dash of sarcasm. “So much enthusiasm, so much energy, and yet so naïve. Why, one even complimented a piece I had published in a national magazine and had the nerve to tell me I must have been using a wonderful camera.” He waived his hand in a dismissive gesture. “But now tell me Jacob, what are you doing nowadays, you’re not still chasing around the globe after villains Huh?”
“Sadly he is Jean Claude, as a matter of fact he is leaving me again tomorrow to chase off to some God forsaken country in Africa.” I said with my usual attitude when discussing Jake going away.
“I’ve settled down a bit, Jean Claude, you see I do mostly consulting work now. I’m a little too old to be tramping around in the bush anymore.”
Jean Claude laughed. “Is that the same kind of consulting you used to do in Southeast Asia?” He looked over at me and gave me a wink.
“So” I said, “I take it you two met in Vietnam.?”
“Oh no.” Jean Claude shot back quickly. “I started taking pictures of Jake when he used to beat up war protesters in this country in the sixties. You see Roxann, I was able to chronicle the war from San Francisco to Saigon, all the glory and all the gore. And now all the warriors are doing consulting work and all the protesters are Wall Street executives.” Jean Claude laughed wickedly and glanced up at Jake to watch his reaction.
Jake smiled the smile that said he understood his old friend’s position, but does not condone it.
“Is there nothing worth fighting for in your life Jean-Claude?” Jake questioned.
“Only beautiful women and fine Brandy my old friend.”
We all laughed but it was clear to me that this lifelong disagreement was at the very core of their friendship. They both related barroom debates that they had with each other over the years, both claiming to have bested the other. It was obvious to me that they both had a profound respect for each other.
Jean Claude parents had been murdered by the Nazis during the Second World War and he was bounced around from one family member to the next until his Aunt Pauline decided to take him with her to America when he was fifteen. Someone, he didn’t remember who, had given him a Brownie camera when they first arrived in this country and that was the beginning of his lifelong obsession with capturing the perfect picture. He had awards for the most vicious of pictures ever recorded like the execution of a suspected collaborator in Vietnam to the most artful and sensuous nudes one could ever imagine. He had an amazing ability to capture the exact perfect, or imperfect, moment in time.
Jean Claude went on to explain in vivid detail how He and Jake had met again many times in the passing years, Vietnam, Grenada, the Balkans and the first Gulf War. He had a way of telling these stories in such intricate detail that you felt like you were actually seeing a picture of what he was describing. He was absolutely mesmerizing in his ability to weave a story and paint word pictures.
After another round of drinks Jean Claude invited us to go with him to see his studio. It was right here in St. Pete he said and seemed to be very proud of the renovation he had done to it. He had purchased what had been an old cigar factory that had been shut down for years. It is a three story building that took up about half of a city block. He said he lived mostly on the top floor but used the other two floors for settings and equipment. “It is where I have done some of my best work.” He said proudly.
Jake told him we would have to take a rain check as it was getting late and we still had a ninety minuet drive to get home and an early plane to catch in the morning. So, we said our goodbye’s and promised we would get in touch when Jake got back in country.
We were mostly quiet as we drove along the I-4 corridor. “I wish you didn’t need to leave again so soon Jake. I’m not sure what it is you feel you still have to do over there. Is it true what Jean Claude said Jake, is it true that the warrior in you won’t let you stop?”
He reached over and patted my knee. “Come on beautiful; let’s not do this the night before I have to leave. This is what I do; you’ve known it from the start.”
“I know it is what you do Jake, what I don’t understand is why. We have a great life together, everything we need is here, money is not a problem and yet every few months you pack up your weapons and get on a plane for parts unknown, and I won’t even be notified if something happens and you never come back.” I cried the rest of the way home which is not like me in any way, shape or form; it was just one of those times.
He woke me about 4:00 am to say goodbye. “I love you Rockie…I’ll be back soon.”
“I’m sorry about last night Jake, it’s just so hard…….”
He smiled and put his finger on my lips and then he kissed me.
I overslept and didn’t get up to feed and let the horses out until after 10:00 o’clock. When I got back in the house and settled down with a cup, I found a note on the table from Jake.
“Don’t feel bad about last night baby, I’m at this damn near forty years and I’m still not exactly sure why I continue. Why don’t you take a drive back over to St. Pete and have Jean Claude give you the grand tour. He a great story teller and a very good man, a bit naïve for my taste but yet as solid as they come and the greatest photographer alive. Love you Jake.”
I dragged around the house the rest of the day but the thought of sitting and talking again with Jean Claude had really struck a chord. He was a very intriguing man, a world traveler much like Jake and a seemingly endless supply of captivating stories. I decided I would drive over the next day.
I felt better the next morning, maybe because I was excited about making the trip to St. Pete. So I hurried and did my hair and dressed. I felt sort of confused about what to wear, after all Jean Claude had photographed some of the most beautiful women in the world, not that he would want to take my picture mind you but a girl does want to look her best.
I settled on a black silk wrap around dress that hit just below my knees and opened up at the bottom when I sat down and crossed my legs. It was still summertime so I piled my hair on top of my head. It kept me cooler that way and had the sophisticated look I was going for.
The drive to St Pete seemed lengthy although the traffic wasn’t bad. It must have been my anxiousness to get there. It never occurred to me that he might not be at the Bistro today, after all he said he was there most days. Maybe I should have called first, I thought, but it was too late for that now.
When I pulled up to the front the parking attendant quickly opened my door and watched closely as I swung my legs out and stood up. There is just no way for a girl in a skirt to exit a Vette in a ladylike fashion.
The hostess greeted me and I asked if Jean Claude was at his usual table. “Yes he is.” She said, “He is expecting you.”
Expecting me?….That was strange. Maybe he told her someone would be joining him. Maybe someone was joining him…that would be awkward. She offered to show me the way but I told her I’d been here before and made my way to his table. When I approached he smiled broadly. “Have a seat my dear.” He sang in that beautiful French accent.
“I’m sorry Jean Claude, I don’t mean to barge in, the hostess mentioned that you were expecting someone. Did I come at a bad time?”
“Not at all Roxann…please sit. What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon.”
Just as I settled into my chair the waitress sat down a steaming cup of coffee and a double Tia Maria next to it. Now, how did he do that? I wondered to myself. Not so strange that he remembered my drink from the night before last, but how did he know I was here, and get the order to the waitress. Interesting I thought, but I wasn’t about to ask him and ruin the mystery.
“I take it you didn’t get enough of the Dali museum the other day when I interrupted your visit,” he smiled.
“It is an intriguing collection, his work is so unique.” I said, not wanting to tell him I came straight here and had not returned to the museum. “But much of it is contradictory and mysterious. I find myself staring at certain pieces for the longest time trying to figure its meaning.”
Jean Claude was sipping from a brandy snifter seeming to formulate a thought. “Dali once said that just because he didn’t know the meaning of his work, didn’t mean it had no meaning. Some choose the simplistic meaning such as your Jake did with the Lady and the Unicorn but I see the meaning being much deeper….especially in that particular piece.
A friend of mine once wrote about the Unicorn . As men we are seen as the threat and the shield, we are the ones who perpetrate the wrongs but also the ones who must protect from these wrongs. Sexually we must be strong and gentle, we have perceptions of the expectations women have of us based on our cultural influences. The lines are clear at times but so blurred at other times. When does the line between sexual strength and penetration cross over to aggressive violence and who determines that line. In solid relationships these lines are more clearly defined and understood but in the world of random action and self-gratification when does the phallic unicorn cease to be a beast of mythic strength and virility and become the perpetrator of something more sinister and hurtful.
Jean Claude held me spellbound with his knowledge of the art world. Not only photography but all forms of art. He knew more and was better at explaining meaning and various nuances than anyone I had ever talked to including my professors. And he had the kind of voice and delivery that made you want to hear more and more.
We talked for hours, mostly me asking questions and Jean Claude running on with long, intricate answers. After a couple more rounds of drinks he began to talk about the old days. His experience as a wartime journalist, how Jake and he had met and what a disdain they had for each other at first.
He told me a story of how he got Jake and Martin to take him along on a recon mission in Vietnam once after they had become friends, where he fell forty feet and ended up breaking both legs. Martin and Jake carried him miles through the jungle back to camp. Jean Claude had me laughing and crying with the stories he told of his time with Jake and Martin.
He finished his brandy and sighed. “They’re quite wrong you know…your Jake and his friend Martin, both very good men and the bravest I have ever known. But the thought of risking your only life for some politicians cause has never appealed to me.”
“But yet you risk yours by following them from war to war…..and why?” I asked in an almost trance-like state.
“The world has to know my dear…..the world needs to know.”
He signed the check and left the girl a twenty dollar tip. He stood pulled my chair out as I stood and we walked towards the front of the Bistro.
“Where is he off to this time, did he say?”
“Only that he will be somewhere in Africa, he is never specific.” I said as the parking attendant pulled up in Jean Claude’s Porsche.
The doorman rushed over and opened the passenger side door as Jean Claude took my arm, guided me into the seat and closed the door. I thought about begging off due to the late hour, it was nearly 9:00 pm, but we had promised to come back to see his warehouse turned studio and we had had such an interesting evening that I really wasn’t ready to say goodnight.
“Well this is kind of a scary part of town isn’t it” I said as we made our way through South St. Pete.
“Nothing to be concerned about, my studio is on the outskirts of this area. The only reason I come through this part of town is so I can avoid the traffic on Route 19.” He said as he wheeled the Porsche smartly around a corner .
“You enjoy driving this car don’t you” I said with a smile in my voice. I’ve always loved to watch people, especially men, doing something that they loved doing, and Jean Claude clearly enjoys the speed and the handling and the power of his Porsche.
“C'est une de mes passions” he said with that wonderful accent.
Before too much longer we pulled up to an overhead door and pushed a button on his dash. The door in front of us began to rise and shortly we scooted under it and the door reversed closing securely behind us. “Just like that” he smiled, “All safe and secure”
He hurried around to open my door and to offer me his hand to help me out . We walked in the direction of the only light. “I use this first floor mainly for storing props and sets that I have either used or I’m thinking about using for some kind of shoot. Way on the other end I have a couple of very old, antique if you will, automobiles that I plan at some time moving to the museum that I am assembling on the third floor. The second floor is where I live and do most of my work.”
We quickly approached the source of the light which was centered in the middle of one of those old time freight elevators that had those sliding wooden doors and then the accordion style metal gate.
“This looks exciting” I joked as we boarded the lift and Jean Claude punched the start button. I was amazed at all the different noises that could come out of this one machine. The clanging of metal parts coming together, the grind of the slow methodical chain drive that did the actual lifting and then the finality of the sudden bang when we reached the second floor and came to a stop.
Jean Claude opened the doors and guided me off. He begged me stay while he moved to a support pole about ten feet away and brought up the lights. What appeared out of the darkness was a wonderful array of scenes.
The room was enormous, after all it had been a factory with hundreds of workers for years. There were settings and different vignettes as far as I could see. Jean Claude took my arm and walked me to a an electric golf cart and ushered me in. We began to slowly go from one setting to another while he explained each one and what photographs he took at each one. There was the fireplace setting where he had taken “Beautiful Redhead at the Hearth” We moved next to a vignette designed as a three tiered rice field and the photograph on the easel next to it showed an anguished oriental women in tears and holding her fallen sons military shirt. I remembered seeing this picture years before in some magazine and instantly remembered the sickening feeling I had back then.
We turned the corner and now here was a reproduction of a city street with dirt roads that looked as if it had been under siege. This photo showed three little Vietnamese children laughing and rushing an American soldier who was offering them candy.
“ C'est le Ying et le yang Roxann…..the ying and the yang.” Jean Claude declared as he turned the cart again.
“These are wonderful Jean Claude, it’s amazing how you are able to capture so much emotion and meaning in just one instant.”
“You are too kind Roxann and I hope I didn’t bring you down with those last two settings. We’ll drive to the kitchen and fetch some coffee eh?”
“That would be nice.” Jean Claude saw the puzzled look on my face when we arrived at his enormous, al l stainless steel kitchen and the coffee was already brewed.
“The panel on the post with the light switch Roxann…also starts the coffee machine.” He smiled as he parked the cart and poured a cup for me and a brandy for himself. He opened a new bottle of Tia Maria and poured a double shot into my coffee.”
“I usually get my Tia on the side and mix it myself you know.” I teased.
“Ah yes…but you do that to be sure that the lowly bartender does not cheat you eh? And here you have no worry. Ici, vous pouvez avoir tout ce que vous voulez.”
I remarked about how elaborate his kitchen was with double Viking refrigerators, a five foot wide gas range, wine coolers and a ten foot long, stainless steel prep table.
“I have showings and other gatherings from time to time and a very picky chef comes in and insist on the best of everything for his preparations…so all this is mainly for his benefit.” He laughed.
We drove to a spot near the center of this huge room where there were two very large, pure white leather couches that faced each other and a very modern looking fireplace at one end of the conversation area. There were photos of African animals, Zebras, Antelope and open fields.
“This has a very peaceful feeling to it.”
Jean Claude went on to explain how these pictures were taken at a time when he had decided to get away from all the horrific scenes of war that had made up his career. A time when he had decided to concentrate on beauty instead. He went on for quite a while about this particular trip explaining each picture and how he prepared to capture it. He was an extremely descriptive story teller.
“The contrast of your silky black dress against the flat white of the leather couch is stark…..would you mind very much if I were to take some photos?”
I think I may have flushed just a bit. “No….not at all. I’d be honored Jean Claude.” Was he kidding? What girl wouldn’t want to be photographed by one of the country’s best known photo journalist .
He drove off in his little cart to fetch his camera while I checked my make-up in a small mirror over the fireplace.
He returned shortly with a camera bag and a fresh cup of coffee for me.
He took three cameras from the bag each one with a lens longer than the last. He brought something, I guessed it was a light meter over and held it under my chin. He sat on the couch opposite me looking through his lens and adjusting things. When I sensed he was about ready to shoot, I sat on the edge of the couch, knees together and hands folded in my lap.
“No no no my dear. Not so stiff and formal. I want you to just relax…be natural, sit back, cross your legs, drink your coffee. We will continue to talk and I will take pictures at just the right time.”
And so we did. Between the coffee laced Tia Maria and Jean Claude’s conversational skills we went from one story to the next. Grenada, Vietnam, Desert Storm he had hundreds of them, and just like he said at just the right time, when I was completely lost in his tale he would snap the shutter.
After a bit he stood and moved to his left, aimed his camera two or three different times but didn’t shoot. He seemed distracted, like he couldn’t get the correct angle. He walked up to me and ever so gently put his finger under my chin and lifted my head just an inch or so. He backed off and aimed again but still didn’t shoot. Back he came and took my right arm and put it on the armrest of the couch. Then he lifted my left hand, which I had in my lap, and opened slightly the split in my dress exposing a little more thigh than I was showing, and place my hand back down on my lap.
He quickly raised his camera and began shooting. “Fantastique” he exclaimed “Beautiful Roxann, very nice.”
Jean Claude switched cameras and it seemed like he was focusing on my upper half. He took picture after picture, talking all the while, moving my head here and there, adjusting my arms; it was exciting just to be involved with him. He was so full of energy and enthusiasm I found it hard to believe he was over eighty years old.
He came closer and closer, snapping the shudder as he came. He shot my face from the front, then the side again and again. “Right there Roxann…hold it right there….yes yes perfect. Mon Dieu ... quelle face ... quelle face”
He set his camera down and had me scoot over a couple of feet. “Yes that’s it, now, I want you to put your legs up on the couch and lean back on your elbows….stretch out, yes that’s it. That’s it. Beautiful.”
He was snapping picture after picture from every angle as he moved catlike back and forth. He asked me to bend my left leg at the knee which caused the slit in my dress to open even further and expose the tops of my nylons. He stopped after taking many shots and stared down at me as if he were trying to think of something. He leaned in over me and pulled the wooden beret from my hair that held it all together on top of my head. “Ah oui…oui, oui. That is perfect.” He swooned as he resumed taking pictures.
I was leaned back on my elbows with my head tilted all the way back and my hair flowing straight down when he sat on the edge of the couch next to me.
“Fermez vos yeux pour moi ma fille.” Although my French is very spotty at best I understood what he wanted and closed my eyes as he asked.
I heard the click, click, click of the camera and then just quiet. My eyes opened suddenly I as his hands moved gently to the silk belt that held my dress closed.
My eyes first went to his hands that were delicately untying my belt and then to his eyes. “J'ai besoin de capturer plus de votre beauté. I want…..no, I need, to capture more of your beauty.” He sang with that irresistible accent and that beautiful smile. His hands moved skillfully opening my belt and then slowly spreading the two sides of my dress apart. For just an instant I wanted to panic…to spring up from that couch and run for the door. But then I was being a little foolish I thought to myself. Jean Claude was the ultimate professional, he had photographed hundreds of women from nudes to high fashion models, why should I worry.
He must have noticed the concern in my eyes. “Relax my beautiful princess, you are in very capable hands.” And he put his thumbs on my eyelids and closed them.
The next half an hour was a whirl wind of photos. He posed me on my back, on my sides, with my legs draped over the couch back, all with my dress open, half open and off my shoulder. And all the while he talked. Making me feel that I was the most beautiful woman in the world. He asked me to sit back upright and when I did he dropped my dress off my shoulders. He posed me with my arms stretched out behind me, leaning on them, and my head tilted down demurely. When he showed me the pictures on the LED of the camera I couldn’t believe it was me. My nyloned legs were fully exposed including my garter belt , panties, and black lace bra, but the picture was absolutely classy. Nothing cheap or gaudy about it. He was truly an artist.
He asked me to stand and when I did of course my dress slipped the rest of the way off. Jean Claude held out his hand, “Join me” he beckoned.
He put me in the cart and he began to drive. He maneuvered in and out of his settings until we were once again in the all stainless steel kitchen.
Once in the kitchen he told me he wanted to make photos of contrast. “Your soft, sensual beauty against the cold and commercial stainless steel.” He helped me onto the stainless steel prep table and fixed me another Tia Maria.
Jean Claude was truly in his element as he fixed his camera settings and adjusted the lighting in the kitchen.
“Ah oui this is perfect” he declared as the click, click, click of the camera began. He must have taken thirty pictures before he paused. His hands were delicate, almost like a surgeons as he carefully unbuckled the straps on my high heels. One after the other he removed them and carefully placed them side by side on the table to my right and slightly behind me. “This is better oui?” he smiled as he again resumed his picture taking.
It was clear from the angle he was taking the pictures that he wanted to get the gold heels in the background . He instructed me on where to place my arms and legs, how to tilt my head, and when to smile and “half-smile” as he put it.
I could not help joining in his excitement as he moved cat-like from one angle to another, switching to one of the two different cameras that hung from his neck. “You are breathtaking Roxann…..your beauty and sensuality is beyond words.”
Jean Claude came to me and put his hand behind my neck. Without speaking he moved my arms from behind me and gently lowered me so that I was flat on my back on the table. He turned my head so that I faced away from the front and arranged my hair to hang off the table. He straightened my leg closest to the front and had me bend my other at the knee.
After shooting another round of photos he had me begin to move. First my legs in different positions “Straighten your legs my beauty….point your fantastic toes….” I did exactly like he ask. “Yes, oui oui you are beautiful.” He exclaimed.
He walked to the table and lifted my upper half and had me lean back on my elbows. “Perfect” he cried as he slipped my bra strap off my shoulder. Quickly he brought a camera to his eye and shot three pictures of just my bare shoulder. “Eyes closed” he ordered, “eyes open and head thrown back all the way” was his next command. Click click again and again he whispered an order and then shouted the next. When I didn’t move close enough to the front edge of the table he put his hand on my hip and slid me over. His excitement and passion were contagious…..very contagious.
He set the camera on my stomach and reaching behind me, unhooked my black lace bra smoother than I would have thought possible and so quickly I didn’t have time to object. He turned abruptly and walked to the other side of the kitchen carrying my bra. He raised his brandy glass and finished it. He held my bra to his face and took and enormously deep breath, set the bra down and said softly, “And now we begin.”
I couldn’t believe I was nearly naked on a prep table in St Petersburg with an eighty year old man taking my picture.
“Jean Claude…I think I need another drink.”
“Bien entendu, vous faire mon magnifique princesse” he said in that irresistible accent.
He came to me bringing the bottle of Tia Maria. He removed the top and put the bottle directly to my lips. his eyes never leaving mine. I opened my mouth and took a drink. His hand was wrapped tightly around the long, brown neck of the bottle as he offered me another drink ….which I took. I’m not sure what came over me that night or what in the world I was thinking, but when he started to pull the bottle away from my lips, I grabbed his hand. He looked at me as intensely as any man ever has as I slowly tipped up the bottom of the bottle spilling a good portion of Tia onto my breast.
He starred at the thick liquor as it slowly ran down my front leaving a sweet brown trail all the way to the top of my panties. I’m not sure if he was asking for permission or assurance when next our eyes met, I gave him neither, and he took my silence as his license.
I watched in an erotic state of shock as his mouth began it’s journey. Soft gentle kisses along the edges of my nipples, pausing just long enough to lap up the Tia Maria and taste me. His tongue pushed firmly at my breast as I felt the warmth of his breath. I reached down and took hold of the camera that was hanging from his neck and bumping against my hip as he moved from breast to breast with his masterful mouth. He kissed and licked and tugged on my nipples with his lips. Ever so slowly he collected every drop of Tia Maria stopping only when he reached the end of it’s trail.
My mind was swirling as he stepped back and began to snap more pictures. I was incapable of reconciling my elevated passion with his age, and my altered state convinced me to stop trying. I was moving on my own now, turning and moving as sensuous as I knew how, striking one pose after another and loving every minute of it.
Jean Claude set aside his camera. His fingers slid lightly under the waistband of my panties. He looked me directly in the eye. His fingers tightened and I knew the sound I heard was the tearing of my panties. First one side and then the other. My weak attempt to stop him in between tears was half- hearted and to no avail. He slid the torn panties out from under my fanny and draped them unceremoniously over my shoes. He walked to the range and came back with a bottle of oil that he apparently had been warming.
He gently lowered me to my back and handed me the bottle
He didn’t have to tell me…I knew what he wanted. I began to drip oil onto my breast and belly. A few drops on my shoulders and hips. “No need to conserve” he chided as he took the bottle from my hand and turned it upside down squirting half of it onto my belly and breast.
The warmth of the oil and the strong scent of amber as I spread it over my body shielded my mind from the fact that Jean Claude was removing my nylons and garter belt. He again took the oil from me and began covering my legs. Starting with my feet his, gentle yet firm hands, spread the oil over every inch of my calves and thighs. He handed me yet another Tia Maria as I laid flat on my back, completely nude, covered with oil, in complete erotic confusion, with an eighty year old photographer in St Petersburg Florida.
Jean Claude stood by my side starring as I finished my drink. He brushed my cheek with the backs of his fingers and whispered, “Magnificent.”
He quickly retrieved a second bottle of oil and told me he wanted me face down on the table. I started to object but immediately felt his strong hands on my hips turning me over. This time the oil was very warm….almost too warm as he poured it freely onto the small of my back. He began to massage it in right away giving me no chance to object. I wanted to say no, I knew this should not be happening, but his hands were masterful and the oil…and the Tia Marias.
He worked his way down my back and to my waist, kneading and prodding. He spread the oil over my cheeks and down my thighs. Once he made his way all the down to my ankles he reversed directions and with a grip more powerful than at any other time he moved quickly back to my ass.
I can still feel the fear and trepidation I had at that moment when his fingers spread my cheeks and the hot oil splashed into my crack. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and shouted “Jean Claude No! that’s far enough.”
He put one hand on the back of my neck and forced me flat on the table as his other hand slid between my cheeks spreading the oil. I tried to push myself up but his grip was too strong. His hands were all over my back and ass. Squeezing, pressing, massaging. There was so little fight in me as his talented hands began to arouse me in the way a woman can be aroused only when she is being taken by force.
It is a devastatingly powerless feeling.
Both his hands were now on my ass. He spread my cheeks again and I felt his finger rest on my rosebud. I began to twist and scream and soon felt his wrath as he slapped my ass hard with his huge hand. I yelped like a puppy as he pushed his thumb into my ass. “Jean…please no”
When this was all over days later I remember thinking that all the moves a woman makes with her body trying to escape from this type of attack are the same moves the rapist relishes in.
Each time I tried to raise my ass to get off the table his thumb went deeper into me as he used his fingers against my labia. His right hand slid easily from my shoulders to my waist, over the small of my back and along my spine as he showed me everything he was capable of doing with his left. His fingers were like those of a virtuoso pianist. Sliding across my labia slowly, then quickly harder and gentle. All the while his thumb pushing deeper and deeper into my now well lubricated ass.
He spoke to me constantly with his heavy French accent as he pumped and rubbed slapping my ass from time to time to elicit my screams and moans. There was no limit to his lust. He played with me forever it seemed bringing me close to orgasm time and again, each time backing off at just the precise moment to keep me from my erotic conclusion. God, how I wanted to cum.
His fingers worked feverously as my ass rose up from the table again and again for the next twenty minutes. I was determined to climax but Jean Claude had other plans. He swept me from the table throwing me over his shoulder in a firemens carry and headed back into his venue of sets. He came to stop in front of a huge, pure white bed and laid me gently down.
I laid there half in shock and half in anticipation of what was to come. He watched me intently as he began to disrobe. I tried to control my breathing but my state of arousal prevented it . He knew he owned me. First his shirt which he folded neatly and laid over a chair back. Next he unbuckled his trousers and let them fall to the floor. I remember feeling this huge rush of heat between my thighs when his trousers hit the floor. He may have been eighty but he had a gorgeous cock. It was at least eight inches and probably closer to nine but more importantly it was a good, no it was a great two and a half inches thick. He climbed onto the bed.
I turned face down on the bed as he mounted me. “Please don’t hurt me Jean Claude.” I wined.
He took a handful of my hair and pulled my ear to his lips as his manhood hardened against my ass. “I’ll hurt you as much as you can stand, and you’ll beg me for more before this night ends.” He growled in French as he slipped his massive cock past my labia.
His lips attacked the back of my neck as he split me in half with his manhood. He kissed my shoulders over and over again, speaking….almost in a growling French whisper about my beauty. He slowly worked his love rod deeper and deeper into me with all the precision of an accomplished artist. I felt myself tighten around his throbbing cock. By the time he was all in he had my wrist locked in his powerful hands and my arms stretched out over my head.
He began to cycle in and out of me with a wonderful cadence that lulled me into a state of sexual bliss. I could feel his strength and the firmness of his body as he again began to whisper the things that he would do to me before the night was over. The things he said…..the way he said them. He was taking complete control and there was nothing I could do to stop him….nor did I want to.
He took me near the edge again and again. I ached for my orgasm. But each time I got close he would mercilessly snatch it away from me. Each time his huge meat would invade my lusting pussy I heard myself moan and calling his name. I was soaked in my own sweat when he finally flipped me over and slid down between my thighs. His masterful tongue had found my swollen clit in no time at all. He licked and prodded every bit of my tender womanhood. His strong hands lifted my ass as he nibbled and kissed and licked my clit.
“Let me go Jean….please let me cum.” I begged him but it wasn’t to be. The more I begged him the stronger his will was to control my passion. He slid two fingers in me as he sucked my clit into his mouth. His speed and intensity began to grow. I held his head in my hands as he seemed to go wild. He kissed and sucked and licked swinging his head wildly, jamming my pussy into his face. He took me to the verge of eruption over and over but he seemed to be able to feel just when to bring me back from the precipice.
“Oh God Jean Claude please I’m begging you.” I moaned in my ecstasy ,but it wasn’t to be. My torture was to go on for hours as he decided how much pleasure he would let me have and how long I would be denied my ultimate climax.
Soon I was on my back, legs and arms spread to the maximum as Jean Claude masterfully eased his thick hard cock deep into my belly. He on his knees and holding my legs straight up, he cycled in then out, in and out, again and again ever so slowly forcing me to reach up off the bed with my hips, aching for more and more of that marvelous cock. He continued fucking me for what seemed like forever. He turned me on my side and held me suspended with his right arm around my waist and his huge left hand cupping my breast as his steady pumping cadence, slow and so erotic continued. I couldn’t believe his strength and stamina. Long love-making sessions have always been a part of my life but Jean Claude was like no man I had ever been with. He was a master and I knew that no matter what happened in my future, that this night would never be forgotten.
On my back again and covered in our combined sweat, I was talking constantly, quickly and relentlessly. Saying everything I could think of to force him to let me cum. Things you say to a man. Things you know from experience will turn them on and make them finish you. He began pumping faster as I continued my diatribe.
“Enough” He growled as his enormous left hand clamped down over my mouth.
My eyes widened as he started pounding away at my pussy like a jack hammer. With his hand clamped over my mouth I was forced to breathe through my nose and was not getting as much air as my activity demanded. He buried his huge cock in me time after time each time harder than the last. I could feel every ripple…every vein on his magnificent manhood as he took me to a place I had never been before.
It started deep in my gut as he hit me again and again. The sound of his hips slapping against mine as his cock touched me deeper that I thought was possible. With every slam the feeling grew and became more intense. He unclamped my mouth and grabbed my wrist stretching my arms straight out over my head forcing our bodies hard against each other. The weight of his muscled chest flattening out my breast set me screaming.
‘’ Regarder dans mes yeux vous putain magnifique’’
I opened my eyes as he demanded . The orgasm traveled throughout my body like a ravenous tsunami, sparing no part of me from the wave after wave of ecstasy. My own screams were the last thing I remember hearing before everything went black.
When I came to I was on top of Jean Claude and still fully impaled.
“You’re a cruel man Jean Claude, you take me by force and tease, torture and beguile me for hours before allowing me to cum.”
“So…you are complaining?” he said arrogantly. “Is it very often that you are in ecstasy for five or six hours, moaning and begging for more?” he smiled as he looked at his watch.
He gently pulled out of me and rolled me off. He stood and pulled a silk kimono around his shoulders.
“You haven’t cum Jean Claude.” I said with surprise as he was still fully erect. “Come here and let me finish you.” I couldn’t possibly let him give me so much pleasure and have him unsatisfied.
“I have meetings this morning and you need to go home and tend to your horses. You’ll be able to finish me, as you say, when you return “ he said softly with that oh so arrogant smile.
I dressed quickly and he drove me to the pub where my car was parked.
“What makes you think I’m going to return?” I asked with as much defiance as I could muster.
He reached over and patted the inside of my thigh. “Meet me here Saturday evening, we’ll have a drink and drive to Sanibel. I have a Chateau on a little island down there. There are fantastic sunsets, great for photography.
The red cap opened my door and helped me out. Jean Claude sped away.

To be continued.

copyright 2012