Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 1) - Sex Stories

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 1)

... to cast over me in his presence. Ars Goetia. What’s the magic word, Penny? I followed Jules briskly out across the front hall, and my eyes widened as he drew open a pair of double doors to the dining room. From the ceiling hung a grand and dreamy chandelier that must have either been designed by Hector Guimard, or else by a very talented impostor. The table was dressed with blue linen, and set with silver and white china for just one. Though by my cursory count, it might have sat sixteen with elbow room to spare. I flushed red as Jules pulled out my chair. It was strange enough having someone seat me at a dining table for breakfast, but being there barefoot, and with my hair still wet, I felt utterly absurd. I scrunched my nose as he unfolded my napkin, and draped it across my lap. There’s no way . I knitted my brow. There’s no way Dmitri really lives like this. It would drive him crazy. Wouldn’t it? I glanced up at Jules as he poured me a cup of fresh coffee from an ebony-handled press, then a glass of fresh orange juice from a sweating carafe. It would drive me crazy. I frowned. It was all too contrived, too antique. I couldn’t imagine Dmitri needing a butler to pour him a cup of coffee in the morning. I sipped anxiously. “So…does Monsieur take his ‘dejeuner’ in here as well?” “It grieves me to say it, Madame,” he replaced the carafe on the sideboard, “but I am seldom allowed to serve Monsieur. He prefers...how did you put it, Madame?” he about-faced, “Ah yes, he prefers to ...

... ‘fend for himself’.” I smirked. Called it. “C’est dommage,” he went on, “My talents are quite squandered here until he brings me a guest. You see,” he returned to my side, and set a tiered stand o f Viennoisseries on the table, “Monsieur insists that I serve you. I should see that you want for nothing, Madame, so long as you are staying at Lacoste.” Want for nothing… I curled my toes, and suppressed a sour and ironical grin, a pair of sneakers might be nice. But a soft rumble in my stomach was the only reply I could muster. I’m not sure I knew how hungry I was until he set the food in front of me. I was ravenous, even in spite of our elaborate dinner the night before, and had Jules left me alone in that immense, ridiculous dining room, I may very well have devoured the little tower in its entirety. But he didn’t. And I didn’t. Much to the dismay of my plaintive stomach, I remained dutifully dainty, and selected the most modest of the croissants to spread with a dollop of apricot jam. He stepped away, “Some music while you dine, Madame.” …Music? I spun just in time to see him lower the needle of an honest-to-God gramophone. I smirked, and shook my head as a dreamy and Debussy-esque ditty began to twinkle from its scalloped, bronze bell. “Again,” he folded his hands, “Monsieur insists.” I nodded, still smirking. I was beginning to wonder just long this ‘leash’ Dmitri had me on actually stretched. Already that morning he’d circumscribed what I wore, what I ate, and what I would ...