Perfect Freedom (6 page)

“I've wondered. I wondered if it was right to take it. I think not. You can't take money from people just like that.”

“But it's all right if you do something for it—like going to bed with them?” This was the tricky part, this was where he risked hurting her feelings.

“That's natural,” she said as if it went without saying.

“Even if you go to bed with people you don't want, just for money?”

“Want, want,” she burst out. “Rich people do what they want. The rest of us do what we have to do.”

He smiled at her placatingly. “Not necessarily. You didn't have to do anything for that present. Would you've preferred it if you had?”

“I wouldn't have wondered then,” she said.

“You make it difficult for me,” he said, his smile becoming mischievous. “I can't do anything for you without asking something in return.”

“Of course if you put it like that—” She took a thirsty swallow of her drink and looked at him with unabashed desire. “I find you odd. You make everything seem different from the way it usually is.”

“You haven't answered my question. Can you get along on fifty francs a week?”

“I could manage for the moment, as long as my friend lets me stay with her.”

“Well, I can spare it for the moment. I don't know for how long. For the next few weeks anyway.”

“Just like that?” she asked.

He avoided meeting her eyes directly so that whatever she might see in his wouldn't give her the impression that there were strings attached. “Just like that.”

A small frown creased her brow. “I don't understand you. When you look at me, you make me feel that I please you.”

“You do, very much.” He wished she were holding his cock again to prove it. “I just want you to know the money has nothing to do with it—”

“I don't understand but I believe you. You're nicer than most men. You know what I want more than money. You've warned me not to expect it.” As she spoke, she became merry and playful once more.

Stuart was pleased. He had managed it without offending her. He chuckled as she leaned her breasts against the table and tilted her head flirtatiously at him. “Then it's all settled. I don't have much money with me. I'll give it to you at Boldoni's on Saturday.”

“You're very good. Maybe some day I can pay you back. Anyway, I would do everything I could to stay out of that house—because you want me to.”

He touched her hand and let himself enjoy the titillating sexual currents that swirled around them. A man could want every girl in sight without doing anything about it. He shifted in his chair and put a hand in his pocket to make adjustments for comfort. Her hair was bobbed and combed out around her head in a windblown effect. He wanted to run his hands through it. He thought of the fun he'd had with Marguerite and felt sixteen again. It would be ridiculous to start acting sixteen. “I really must stop thinking how much you please me,” he said, letting her hand go. “After all, I'm a married man.”

“Oh, married men.” She gave a saucy shrug of her shoulders. “We'd all be virgins if it weren't for married men. I'm sure your wife would agree.”

“I doubt it. I haven't been unfaithful for years.”

“No? If you make love I'm sure it must be in style—candlelight, champagne, silk sheets. That would make infidelity difficult.” She was teasing him but it summed up the impression he made on her. He seemed made of some finer substance than any man she had ever known. The texture of his skin looked smoother, his coloring finer and more delicate, his whole being godlike. She could see the hard line of his chest muscles under his light shirt and the thought of being taken by him made her head reel. In spite of his exquisite perfection, he was a real man where it mattered but even there he was different, hard but smooth, like iron sheathed in satin.

“Specially the silk sheets,” he said, laughing with her. “I can't take them with me wherever I go. What about you? Can you be seduced without candlelight and champagne?”

“Me, I'm French. Wherever we find ourselves, that's the place to make love.” Her laughter sounded rich and creamy in her throat.

“Well, here we are. Is this a good place?” he said, taunting her. He couldn't see how she could take him up on it.

She met his eyes boldly. “We wouldn't have far to go.”

“You mean it?”

“But of course. We want each other. I found that out the other night.” She dropped a hand onto his lap and ran it over him, exerting pressure. He remembered the arguments against infidelity. They had to do with lies and deception, with mutual consideration and not cheapening the relationship he valued most in life. They were useful in circumstances that offered time for thought but lacked force when a pretty girl was caressing his cock. He began to ache for release. Their eyes explored each other and little bubbles of mirth escaped her.

“Nobody will know?” he asked. He wasn't going to a room with her or anywhere that Helene might find out about. The possibilities were safely limited although he wished she could go on playing with his cock to her heart's content.

“Don't worry.”

“I don't have anything with me, let alone silk sheets. Is that all right?”

“Everything is all right.” Her last abortion had taken care of that problem.

“I'm fascinated. What do we do now?”

She gave him a marvelously frank and lustful look. “Come with me.”

The price of
pastis
was marked on a blackboard beside the door. Stuart put a few coins on the table and they rose together. He kept a hand in his pocket for decency's sake and checked their surroundings as they started along the uneven cobbles of the little quai. There were a few fishermen in sight puttering about with their boats. One of them lifted his eyes to them as they passed. Would village gossip travel as far as Boldoni's? She wasn't holding his cock now; perhaps this was the moment for thought.

The buildings facing the tiny port petered out at a big ramshackle structure near the jetty that thrust a short arm into the sea. It looked as if it had been a boat-building works—wide doors on rollers like barn doors, rusty tracks running out from them. They skirted it and were immediately cut off from the little port. Rocks tumbled into the sea in front of them and beyond was a stretch of beach curving around in front of low farm land. It looked awfully exposed for what she had in mind. He didn't know whether he was glad or sorry.

“What a wonderful spot,” he said. “Somebody should do something with this place.”

“It's convenient for us.” She followed the back of the building until she came to an open door sagging on its hinges. She stepped through it, reaching back for his hand to lead him in. He was definitely glad to get out of sight.

They were in a vast dim cathedral of a room that rose two stories around them. It was cool and smelled of mildew and the sea. Light entered from windows high above. Some old crates lay about, and an overturned boat. He saw at the farther end a sort of loft with a ladder leading up to it and sails hanging over a railing. She started for it as if it were their destination. Had she brought other men here? He was thinking hard now, wondering if he could withdraw gracefully.

“You've certainly learned your way around town,” he said, remaining near the door. The loft looked like a trap he didn't want to get caught in. Anybody could walk in; she was pushing spontaneity to extremes.

“My friend warned me about certain places,” she explained. “They call this
la batellerie.
It's used for lovers' meetings. She warned me not to come here with a man unless I wanted it to happen. I never have.” She took a few steps back to him and faced him, looking playful and alight with anticipation.

“If it's so well known, I'm not sure I should be here.” He lifted his hands tentatively toward her, preparatory to suggesting that they postpone their pleasure for a more favorable time and place. She moved quickly to forestall his reluctance. Buttons no longer confined him. His cock sprang out rigid in her hands. He gasped with the thrill of the release.

“
Ah, quel bel animal
,” she exclaimed, staring at it and sliding her hands along it. She made quick adjustments to her clothes and directed it into her. It was happening before he had time to take any initiative. He was being raped. “
Va-s-y. Fonce. Oh, que c'est bon. Fonce jusqu'au bout. Quelle bitte incroyable
,” she cried.

He was suddenly gripped by basic urges, exulting in the excitement he was arousing in her and in his mastery of her. He planted his hands on her buttocks and tilted her to him and drove hard into her. She locked her legs around him and they grappled with each other to discover the possibilities of this impromptu position. She rode him avidly, crying out and moaning, her eyes rolling ecstatically in her head. Her body opened to him and he felt himself asserting his possession deep within her. There was no question of prolonging or embellishing the act. They were copulating as simply as animals in a field. He cried out with his orgasm and slowly released her and they leaned against each other for support, her head against his chest. When he'd caught his breath, he wondered what the excitement had been about. It was over as quickly as it had started.

“
Je vous adore, mon beau
,” she murmured. She lifted her head, looking tousled and radiantly pleased with herself. “Am I very wicked? I couldn't let you go. I've never seen anyone like you—your man-part is superb. I hope I'll see it often. I must find a better place for us.”

He detected a calculating note in her voice but dismissed the thought. There wasn't a calculating bone in her body. He stroked her hair and smiled down at her. “Well, we managed without silk sheets.”

She laughed and they broke apart and shook their clothes into order. “I'll go first. Wait a moment. If you go to the right, you'll find a path that goes up to Boldoni's. You don't have to go back through the port.”

“Good. I guess we better not push our luck. I'll see you Saturday if not before.” They kissed lightly and she was gone. Alone, he almost convinced himself that it hadn't happened. It had been like pausing to light a cigarette. It didn't count as an infidelity. Yet a connection had been made, a connection with the girl, a connection with the life here. It could have happened only in a place where he felt at home. He glanced up at the high loft. One of the locality's secrets. Definitely not for tourists.

He found his family sitting out under the trellis with books. He greeted them from the door. “I'm sorry if I'm a bit late. I've got to run up and change my shirt. I'm covered with hairs.” He had a quick wash under the primitive shower and checked his discarded clothes. There were no telltale traces. He changed and joined Helene and Robbie under the trellis, feeling recharged with energy and high spirits. He ruffled Robbie's hair as he sat and felt Odette's against his fingers. “Did you have a good afternoon, youngster?” he demanded.

Robbie lifted his startling eyes from his book, Helene's eyes, full of adoration. “Oh yes, Daddy. We swam and swam. I made a picture of Mummy. Do you want to see it?”

“Of course.” The boy jumped up and ran inside.

“That's a very good haircut,” Helene told him.

“I had to wait long enough for it. I didn't get away until about half an hour ago. I ran into Odette. She didn't recognize me with my new coiffure. I took her around to the little fishing port for a drink.”

“That was kind of you, dearest. I was beginning to worry about you.”

“The perils of St. Tropez. Did you think I'd got run over by a bullock cart?” They laughed comfortably together. “I talked to her some more about finding other work. She—”

Robbie came scooting back to his father's side. He held out a sketchbook open to a pencil-and-crayon drawing. Stuart recognized Helene instantly. The boy had caught her elegant line and the set of her head as she sat in a deck chair wearing her bathing suit.

“Excellent. You're getting very good, young fellow. Maybe we have an artist in the family. Should we get you some watercolors? Have you tried them?”

“They're quite difficult,” Robbie admitted, basking in his father's interest. “Maybe if I practice with them, I could learn to use them.”

“Good. I'll look around for some in town.” Stuart called out in the direction of the kitchen. Boldoni's boy, Michel, appeared, a sullen loutish lad, two years older than Robbie but not much bigger. Stuart ordered
pastis
for Helene and himself and a lemonade for Robbie. The boy punched Robbie's arm as he passed. Robbie leaped up and landed a punch on his retreating back.

“
Tu me fais chier
,” he cried.

“Hey. That's enough of that,” Stuart reprimanded him.

“But he hit me. You saw him,” Robbie protested, dropping back into his chair.

“I'm not talking about what you did. I'm talking about your language.”

Robbie's great eyes widened. “Oh. That's another bad word, isn't it?”

“Of course it is.”

“He uses those words all the time.”

“Well, it may be all right between boys, but not in front of ladies—remember?”

Helene didn't think it was all right at all. Finding suitable playmates for the boy would be a problem if they stayed. She doubted if there was much to hope for from the local school but Stuart seemed to think he offered all the companionship a nine-year-old needed. She had to admit that he was a wonderful father, almost too devoted for her comfort. “You were telling me about Odette,” she interjected, feeling as if she were intruding. She gave herself a little mental shake. Only an unnatural mother could be jealous of her son. Michel provided a further distraction as he brought the drinks. Hostilities hung in the air but weren't resumed.