Erotique by Wayne Mansfield

Author:Wayne Mansfield [Mansfield, Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-08-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 4

Brenton and I become inseparable. I thoroughly enjoy his company and it’s obvious he enjoys mine. For two weeks we’ve haunted The Moulin Rouge and that little club, Le Cul Noir, with the red and gold front room, and the dark and lusty back room. He takes me to the Louvre again and out to Versailles to see the palace. What a spectacle of glamour and history that is.

“I have a surprise for you,” says Brenton early one morning.

I struggle to open my eyes. I roll over in bed and expose my morning erection.

Brenton smiles when he sees it.

“I’ll take care of that later,” he says. “Now, come on lazybones. I’ve hired a motor car. We’re going to the country.”

I rub my eyes and wonder if this isn’t part of a dream I’m having.

“The country,” I say before yawning.

“Now, that’s a mouth that could take a black cock,” says Brenton, chuckling. “Yes, the country. You know, the place with trees and cows and insects.”

I roll out of bed and relieve myself in the chamber pot, wash my face and hands then pull on some casual clothing.

“Take a hat, too.”

He bundles me out of the room and into the lift.

“What about breakfast?” I ask, my head resting on his chest. My eyes closed.

“All taken care of, my darling. I’ve had a glorious hamper made up with enough food and drink to feed an army.”

I nod. “Where’d you get the motor car from? You didn’t buy one?”

“No, I told you. I hired one. I asked around and found a garage owner who allowed me to hire his motor car for the day.”

“Your French much really be coming along.”

“Ahhh. These Frenchies know more English than they let on. It’s amazing how bilingual he became when money was mentioned.”

The lift door opens and we walk out into the lobby of the Hotel Regina. I no longer give its opulence and luxury a second thought. Brenton leads me out to the front of the hotel and points.

“There she is. Our very own motor car. At least for the day.”

He opens the door for me. “Such a gentleman,” I say as I climb in.

“Anything for a lady,” he quips.

I laugh, but I don’t let him see me.

He navigates the streets of Paris with aplomb, the way he does everything else. I’ve never known anyone to take to things so quickly and without failure. I suppose I could try to learn the mechanics of such a machine. Driving it looks reasonably easy, although the mess of pipes and metal under the hood look too complicated for a thirty-year old man raised travelling in horse-drawn carriages to fathom.

The countryside is beautiful, like a Millet painting. There are haystacks, sheep and birds, groves of trees and small forests. The towns are small and the houses quaint; built solid from rock and capped with either thatch or slate tiles. Chickens run freely and we nearly collect a couple of them as we go whizzing by, drawing more than a couple of curious stares.

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