Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2) - Sex Stories

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 2)

Chapter 15 (part 2) I backed away a bit further before turning. Even then, I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder. More than likely, I had it all wrong. It was nothing, and I had only to worry about the devils I knew, not the imaginary ones that he kept locked away. Be that as it may, I still wanted nothing more at that moment than to put a healthy distance between myself, and whatever the hell was hidden behind that door. Without any real sense of where I was headed, my feet hastened me all the way back to the foyer, where upon rounding the last corner, I ran headlong into Jules who was coming from the opposite direction. I swallowed a shriek as I stumbled backward. He caught me by the elbow just before I could fall. “Mon Dieu!” he set me upright. “Je suis vraiment désolé, Madame. Vous vous êtes fait mal ?" “Pas du tout,” I shook my head, embarrassed. “Je vais bien, ne t'en fais pas." Suddenly, the urge in my bladder returned as my adrenaline dwindled, "I was, um… I was just looking for the washroom, actually.” “Bien entendu," he straightened his tie. Our collision had left it lopsided. “This way, and then to the left, Madame,” he gestured. “And perhaps then you would care to return to the parlor? I was just on my way to fetch you,” he folded his hands, “ C'est presque l'heure du goûter .” ... Goûter ? My brows arched as I scurried away down the hall. Christ, he's treating me like a child, isn't he? I lingered at the sink to splash some cold water on my face. With each ...

... beat, my heart was still thrashing against my chest, but little by little its pace was returning to normal. I gazed at myself in the mirror. You are pale, Penny Foster. I pinched my cheeks to give them some color, and sighed. You really think you’re cut out for this? I shut off the water, and rubbed my eyes. He's not even home yet, and you're already falling apart at the seams... Jules was waiting back in the parlor, standing alongside a rolling brass tea cart. He’d brought out yet another overwrought tray of savory baked goods, sliced terrines, a little smoked salmon, and fresh fruit. He poured the tea, and sat me down on a gray settee beside the fire. "Pardonnez-moi mon impertinence, Madame," he handed me the steaming cup, “but I must know. What did you think of our little garden?” My hand was still a bit unsteady as I raised it to my lips. “It’s like a dream, I guess,” I answered softly, and set down the tea before I could spill it. “Much prettier than I could’ve imagined.” He grinned, “Mais oui. It was taken from Alphonse Balat's design for les Serres Royales de Laeken,” he offered me the tray, and half-reluctantly I stole a couple of morsels from the upper tier. “Le maître de la maison—he was an amateur botanist, and a president of the Grand Trunk Railway. C'est vraiment dommage. He had the glasshouse commissioned with the 1910 renovations,” he sighed, “but I'm afraid he drowned before it was finished." I knitted my brow. "He drowned?" "Oui. On the Titanic, Madame," he ...