style="font-size:15px;"> Yeah. I can’t keep a smirk from crossing my lips. What hands that artist has. Stroking, rubbing my clit in perfect rhythm. I imagine him licking the insides of my thighs until I can no longer stand up; then I collapse into his arms and he catches me; before I can think of the right French idiom for fuck me hard, he kneels and puts his mouth on me and makes me climax un, deux, trois.
Yes, I’m willing to believe I’ve traveled back in time, if that will keep this scenario going and help me find Paul Borquet.
First, escape.
Inside the Black Beau bistro I’m surprised to find it so small it has no table. And no customers. Only a bar and a couple of chairs stacked in the corner. Heavy steam pours out of the big pots cooking on the stove. I pull back to escape the hot vapors before they scald my exposed skin. I hear the angry stomping of leather boots outside. Close, too close. I take one step backward, then a second, and find myself flattened against the back wall of the tiny bistro.
Crazy. I’m hiding out in a deserted restaurant in a market demolished long ago, the dark, worn wooden chairs and dented pots casting distorted images of a past where I don’t exist.
Until now.
My heart races; my body is flushed.
“Where’s the girl with the red hair?” I hear a man’s voice yell, the crack of his whip cutting through the still morning air. I peek through the tiny hole in the door. It’s Monsieur Renard.
“She went into the Black Beau,” someone says.
I look around. Where can I hide? There’s no back door, and no one attending to the steaming pots of hot liquid boiling on the stove. Talk about lousy customer service. I wish I knew what to do next, but I don’t. I’ve used up my smart chick trick quota for today. A wave of fear washes over me as I grab a big, heavy broom to defend myself. I’m not going down without a fight. I will never allow that thug to snatch me, grab my breasts, his yellow teeth closing around my nipples, biting hard.
I begin whacking a big pot of boiling soup across its belly, sweating and grunting, until the kettle starts wobbling back and forth on the stove and the steaming hot liquid splashes out onto the floor. One more push. I strain with a loud grunt and over goes the pot, crashing and splashing over the worn, wooden floor.
“Attention! Watch out!” someone yells outside as the flood of scalding liquid spills out of the tiny bistro.
I protect my face from the hot steam with my hands, peeking through my fingers to see what’s happening. Outside I see the angry crowd, including the black-bearded man and another man, jumping and bumping into each other, shrieking and cursing. A melody of yells, then accusations.
“It’s your fault, monsieur!”
“Not so, monsieur—you started it.”
I’ve got to make a run for it. I take a deep breath, lower my head, gather up the soft folds of my red cloak, when I hear—
“Over here, mademoiselle,” whispers a man’s voice. “Hurry!”
Who? What? I can’t believe it when I see a trap door in the floor rise slowly like a musty clam opening its shell and a hand beckons me.
What have I got to lose?
Without hesitation, I run toward the trap door and peer down into the hole. A rich, velvety darkness awaits me below. Okay, so it’s not a good idea to jump into a black hole that could lead me to nowheresville. I should have thought about that when I imagined this madcap adventure. I didn’t, so I don’t have much choice. It’s that or be ripped apart by an angry mob, my body bucking against the intrusion of more than one vile cock.
“Jump, mademoiselle,” urges the same voice from deep inside the cellar. “Jump.”
I hear a crackling sound as a bullet shatters a hanging oil lamp, splattering the thin glass everywhere. Someone’s shooting at me! I take a deep breath and jump…
…and land unhurt on top of what I think is a large wine barrel. I can’t see much. Carefully feeling my way in the dark, I let my legs dangle over the side. Only a faint sliver of light beckons me into the darkness. Before my eyes can adjust to the dim light, a breeze skirts past me, making me hold my breath. I smell strong liqueur.
“Shut the trap door, mademoiselle, before they find us and we go together to claim our place in hell,” orders a man’s voice. Impatience slurs his words, but I get his drift. I pull the cellar door shut, fasten the handle in place, then turn my attention to the caped figure holding a candle in one hand, a cane in the other.
Paul Borquet.
I smile. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone.
“I owe you my life again, monsieur.” Our eyes meet and I begin to understand the flurry of emotions engulfing me. From the first moment I saw him, I was wildly attracted to his gallantry as well as his cock.
“Mais non, mademoiselle, it is I who owe you. Your beauty inspires me, fills me with passion to paint.”
We face each other, and in that breathless moment, I recognize he’s more than a dark and mysterious superhero clone in a black cape and crotch-hugging tights. We are artist and model, a creative work of art yet to be defined that defies time and rationale. I lean into him and he strokes my neck, his fingers working at the fastening to my cloak, then stops. I sense his pleasure and something else. Fear. We’re not out of danger yet.
Nibbling on my lip, I ask, “How did you find me?”
“No time for questions, mademoiselle,” the artist says, the light making a halo around him as he extends his hand out to me. “Take my hand. We must move quickly. It won’t take that beast Renard long to start tearing up the floor, looking for you.”
His strong, muscular hand grips mine as quivering candlelight guides me down to the dirt floor below. Then, wrapping his cape around him, the artist leads me through a twisting, underground tunnel barely big enough for him to crawl through on his knees. Pulling my cloak around me, I follow him, crumbling dirt hitting the top of my head, the tip of my nose. I keep his tight butt in sight. I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees with David, but the view was never this good.
Then, without warning, the candle flickers and goes out. I panic, but instead of being thrown into blackness, I’m surprised to see a spotlight of sunshine greeting me like a warm smile. I look straight up. The way out of the tunnel is an old, dry well laced with rusty, iron rings and small stone steps spaced about a foot apart on the cracked stonework.
“I’ve used this escape route many times when my taste for liqueur overrides my taste for a woman’s pussy,” the artist says with amusement. “Every sharp cut of stone is an old friend.” He clasps his hands together and bends over to give me a boost. “After you,” he urges.
I lift my eyebrows. “So you can stick your fingers up my rear end?”
“You have a sharp wit, mademoiselle.”
“Not as sharp as the end of your cane.” I cast my eyes downward. He’s sliding his cane up and down my butt. Sensuous. Provocative. No mistaking his visual cue. I wet my lips.
He laughs. “Allez, go!” he calls out, insisting I start climbing up the wall whether I want to
