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

Other Colors -- Ch. 15 (part 1)

... hear; knocking down three of the five Aristotelian senses in one fell swoop. I didn’t mind it. It was, after all, precisely what I’d signed on for the night before. But I rather wished that if he intended to be so domineering of my minutia, he wouldn’t have to do so from a distance. But the music was painfully pretty. The coffee was perfect, the croissant buttery and soft. I took another nibble. It was snowing outside. Through three arched windows on the far wall, I watched the white flakes waltzing erratically in the sunlight. And for just a moment, I caught myself seduced by the quiet opulence of my captivity. I imagined the first mistress of the estate—Madame de le Coste herself, Duchess of Gascony, ex- maîtresse-en-titre to Louis XV—seated in her ball gown on the far side of the table, languidly lifting an egg spoon to her painted lips. I suppose she probably thought quite little of luxuries afforded her at Lacoste. Quoi? Une salle à manger pouvant accueillir que seize ans? Très provinciale, Monsieur Partout… Jules cleared his throat, apologized, and my little reverie unraveled. I blushed, and finished up as quickly as I could. I was neither an exiled duchess, nor anyone’s maîtresse-en-titre . It seemed very silly to me that Jules should be kept waiting on someone who until very recently was living on a borrowed sofa. He cleared my plate, and asked if I’d like a tour of the house. I did my best to decline without injuring his pride. I needed some time to myself—time to ...

... think, time to recoup, time to be alone, and decide whether or not my agreeing to this meant that I had utterly lost my mind. He nodded politely, and gave me a quick verbal floorplan for the house. He did not, I noted, make any mention a washroom, which was unfortunate, because I was too embarrassed to ask. The only one I knew of was all the way up on the third floor, abutting to my bedroom. But he told me how to summon him if I needed anything, and that ‘goûter’ would be given in the parlor at two. About that, I assumed he was kidding. But in the evening, he reminded me solemnly, I would be dining with Dmitri. “Avez-vous des questions, Madame?” I shook my head. I should have asked about the bathroom. “Non. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.” “Tout le plaisir est pour moi.” He bowed, and covered the soiled plates with a small silver dome. I watched him balance the dishes gracefully as he lifted the needle from the gramophone, and then he vanished into the hall, drawing both doors shut behind him. At last, I was alone again. I sat for a while, my chin and elbows on the table, and gazed blankly out the windows, listening to the snowflakes whisper against the glass. It didn’t seem fair to me. There I was, right where he wanted me, a willing hostage in his house; and yet I’d have to wait until the evening to see him. At that very moment, he was out there somewhere in the city, probably brooding at the window of some metallic uptown skyscraper. I closed my eyes, picturing us as Ingres’ ...