Russell Smith
Ecstasy on fire
Chapter 1
It was one of those sultry evenings on the French Riviera. The opera house in the grand square in Monaco (Monte Carlo) was all lit up, blazing. People were also sparkling, gay laughter, bright smiles, winking.
Limousines, black, long, sleek, shiny and expensively cared for by their chauffeurs, adequately fueled, lush and plush, many of the rear seats pure velvet, padded footrests, chrome ashtrays, even a rug-were lined up directly facing the fabled Opera, the chauffeurs puffing imported cigars or just waiting-as they do.
They are supposed to wait. This would include Maurice and the vloackoca, an Armenian rug spread across his lap, covering his erect penis he plays with to pass the time. Maurice had a lot of time to waste. Most chauffeurs do, and his cock, more than ten inches long, is his closest friend; the limo comes next. A real, genuine phallic symbol.
Next in importance where Maurice is concerned is his splendid uniform. It's made of the finest Japanese silk, black pearl buttons. An inner velvet lining, hand-stitched. Altogether Maurice owns four of these costumes. His tailors, Le Canuet et Fils on the Avenue de Breteuil, Paris 07, also cut pedigreed cloth for royalty, politicians and IBM executives.
Maurice is in the employ of Mrs. Staunton, first name, Melissa, over forty years of age, a lovely face unblemished complexion, green-blue eyes, an aquiline nose, seductive lips, a dimple in her left cheek.
Melissa Staunton lives in Cannes. This is near Monte Carlo. Her villa, and she owns it, resembles one of those chateaux one sees in travel folders. There is no moat surrounding it but one should be. There are spiraling turrets, stained glass, cathedral-sized windows, massive masonry sections, great oaken doors. All of the fittings are highly polished brass that glisten in the softest light.
Unlike most of the great chateaux and villas in the exclusive neighborhood, palm trees, lush greenery, Japanese gardeners and everything else that comes with this kind of luxury, Mrs. Staunton's place has no name. But it is referred to generally by merchants, green grocers and tourist guides as Le No Trespassing. This is because of the signs in English indicating such is Mrs. Staunton's wish.
A long driveway leads to the main entrance. This is cobble stoned (Belgian brick), adequately lighted and of course, tree-lined. The chateau rests on a kind of elevated plateau and from a distance and from the air, resembles a three-tiered wedding cake. Like most wedding cakes, the well-designed building and the outbuildings are whitewashed, brilliant in the sunlight, somber in afternoon shadow and ominous at night, especially when the moon is full.
Mrs. Staunton keeps three house staff. They are called just that: staff. There is Nellie, the "tweenie" maid. She is naturally from Great Britain, a Cockney, aged 17, pretty, freckle-faced, beautifully breasted, slim of limb, narrow waist, and her fingers are those of a working woman despite her age. But she's full of pleasing smiles, evenly disposed as girls her age and background are; and considering she has no education, well, Nellie is really something of a surprise.
The second, staff is George. He is a combination butler, handyman, cook, gardener, ‘go-fer' and confidante of Mrs. Staunton. George prepares the daily shopping lists, supervises the payments to the local trades people. He is also in charge of the security of the chateau. He's that kind of physical specimen you just don't fool around with.