The Last Flight. Chapter 5 - Sex Stories

The Last Flight. Chapter 5

... today, the press, investigators etcetera. Do you feel up it?” I sighed before replying. The next few days were going to be a nightmare I was sure. “Yes.” I said eventually, “Best to get it over with.” “I think you are right, Mademoiselle. You will not be alone unless you wish it and if it gets too much I will see that you are allowed to rest.” I looked at her for a moment, then: “May I ask where you learned your English, You have hardly an accent?” She smiled a far away smile. “I was married to an RAF pilot since before the war began. I lived in England until last year.” “So you both decided to come to France?” I asked, thinking what a lovely story. “Oh, no...” a look of sadness passed over her face. “I am afraid he was killed in a road accident two years ago. I stayed in England until all the formalities were cleared but as I had no family there. I came back to live here.” “I am so sorry.” a lump in my throat made the words difficult. “It is all right.” she said, “It was so unfair that he survived the war only to die at the hands of a drunken driver.” I didn't reply to that, didn't know how too. So tragic. There was a silent pause before she smiled again. “C'est la vie.” she said, “Such is life.” I smiled and nodded. Although I had never had a husband or even a boyfriend whom I wanted as a husband, I could easily understand how awful it must feel. “Anyway,” she continued, “Breakfast will be along soon and after...” “After?” I repeated. “After...” she said again, “your trial ...

... by ordeal will begin.” she smiled widely. “Oh yes, that!” I couldn't help but smile myself. Matron Blanchard was probably nearing fifty but she had the most infectious smile which made her look so much younger. Her deep brown eyes twinkled and I thought she must be one of those women who could make anyone feel at ease. Her dark, chestnut hair was flecked with grey but she was pretty, like a beautiful rose which was only just beginning to fade. I hoped, just then, that I would have the time to get to know her for already I was fascinated. “My name is Karen.” I ventured. “Pardon?” she seemed puzzled at this. “You called me 'Mademoiselle'. My name is Karen. She smiled as the understanding came to her. “Ah, oui. My name is Françoise.” She held out her hand which I took warmly. “Pleased to meet you Karen.” “And I am pleased to meet you too, Françoise, although under better circumstance would have been preferable.” I held her hand maybe a little longer than was usual but she seemed in no hurry to pull away. The very next moment a head appeared through the curtain and said something in French. The Matron turned to me. “Your breakfast is here, Karen.” She pulled back the curtain and a plate was placed in front of me containing a croissant with some butter and jam on the side. “Thé ou café, Mademoiselle.” The woman with the trolley asked, gesticulating the two metal pots. “Oh, coffee please.” I replied and watched as she poured the thickest blackest coffee I had ever seen and placed ...