Blue Tango

Chapter Thirteen

Biarritz this season. In Biarritz I confront the essentials, the beach, the seagulls, the balmy air. And the memories. Oh yes, the memories. Oh dear yes. So close to Spain and the beginning of things. How extraordinary it is now, how extraordinary to come full circle. Madrid in its grace, the yellow dust of Madrid, that moment of majestic portent in a dusty railroad car. I had just sat down, just seated myself in a compartment on the train from Madrid to Paris. Suddenly the door burst open and a perspiring fellow with drooping eyes struggled forward with two large travelling-bags. I was the only one in the compartment, the only occupant. He apologized to me in broken Spanish. He closed the compartment door and began arranging himself on the bench across from where I sat. A moment later the train lurched and moved slowly out of the station. I'd expected to travel alone to Paris, but how it seemed I would have a companion.

Before long the gentleman introduced himself. He was French and his name was Fontan. Hector Fontan, he said. He seemed delighted to learn I was English and he immediately informed me he was an Anglophile. “I love the English,” he said. He talked without stopping, his face occasionally twisting into a grimace peculiar to the French. I learned he was a moderately successful manufacturer of four-in-hands, now returning to his home in Paris from a business trip in Spain and Portugal. I judged him to be about forty-five years of age and suffering from an excess of nervous energy. He seemed incapable of remaining still for a moment. He either talked at great length about one thing or another or he fidgeted quietly in his seat as he prepared his next comment. I was dismayed. I was certain I would have no peace until I reached Paris. Not a moment of peace in the presence of M. Fontan.

No other passengers came to occupy the compartment. Fontan pressed his conversation upon me. I listened politely as he talked about his life. Eventually Fontan spoke of his family in Paris, his wife and two daughters. “My purpose, Mr. Ransom. My family is my purpose.”

I was a thirty-five year old bachelor and all talk of family responsibilities thoroughly bored me. “Ah yes.”

“Life is a struggle, isn't it? We men carry the burden of life on our shoulders.”

“I suppose we do.”

“The women depend upon us. The little darlings. One carries them and one needs them, eh?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I have three. A wife and two daughters. A heavy responsibility, I tell you. What do you think? Is it so easy to manage it? I assure you it isn't. Most certainly not easy. The women must be clothed, the wife must be provided for, the girls must be married. A man finds himself surrounded by obligations. Let me tell you in confidence that as much as I adore my family and home, these trips abroad have become necessary to my well-being. Do you find that surprising?”

“I think it's quite understandable.”

He smiled. “But now it's time to be at home again, eh? I'm anxious for it. Anxious to see my wife and girls again. Especially the girls. Two beauties. And of course the wife. I always miss her too. I'm one of those men fortunate enough to have married a good woman. A loyal woman. Excellent in all respects.” He waved a hand at me. “And I'm certain the girls will be the same with their husbands.

Excellent women. When they marry. The oldest is ready. My favorite. Quite beautiful. You mustn't think I exaggerate. I'll offer some evidence, monsieur. Just a few photographs. I always carry them with me.” He extracted two small photographs from the inside of his coat and handed them to me. “You see? What do you think? Tell me what you think of my wife and girls.”

I was surprised. The women were indeed beautiful. One photograph showed the mother with two small children. A woman with dark eyes, a heart-shaped face, sensuous lips. The other photograph apparently showed the girls as they were at present. Two beauties, indeed. The faces were striking. I told M. Fontan he was fortunate to have the affection of three beautiful women. He smiled as I returned the photographs to him. He chuckled as he replaced them in the pocket of his coat. “Are you married, monsieur?”

I said I was not. M. Fontan inclined his head and winked at me. He seemed amused. He looked at the countryside through the window and began talking about his travels in Spain.

We had dinner together in the dining car and the conversation continued. Fontan was always animated, always talking, his hands and lips moving. I told myself the man wasn't as boring as I'd feared. I told myself it was better to have a travelling companion than to travel alone. The trip to Paris, after all, would be long and tedious.

After dinner, Fontan revealed to me that his daughters were also Anglophiles. “It's my own doing, of course. They adore everything about England. They pine to make their first visit to London.” He said his fondest hope was that his daughters would marry Englishmen. I was amused. The idea that a Frenchman might have such strong feelings for England was unknown to me.

When we returned to our compartment, we bantered about England and France. Fontan proved quite familiar with London. We played cards. Fontan brought a bottle of Spanish wine out of one of his travelling bags and I found the wine enjoyable. The long hours passed one after the other, a long day, a long night, then another long day and night. Finally at dawn one morning we were almost in Paris. Fontan asked about my plans. I said I had none. My expectation was that I would remain in Paris a week and then move on to London. I was in no hurry to return to England. It was the end of a long holiday for me and my travels had been completely enjoyable.

Fontan seemed pleased. He invited me to meet his family while I stayed in Paris. I accepted the invitation. I was intrigued by the beauty of the women. We talked about my hotel arrangements. Then Fontan had a sudden inspiration. “You must stay with us. What a clever idea. Yes, I insist. You must be our guest.”

He said the Fontan house was small but they did have a guest room. He said it would be no inconvenience. He said that his family would be delighted to have me.

At first I was reluctant. The offer was extremely cordial, but I thought I needed the comfort provided by a hotel. I should have less freedom in a private home. But Fontan pressed me to accept his invitation. He talked of how his daughters would be so pleased to have an Englishman in the house. Once again I considered the beauty of the Fontan women. I finally agreed to go with Fontan directly to his house in Boulevard Houssmann.

And so my first meeting with the Fontan women occurred on the day M. Fontan and I arrived in Paris. A fateful day. One never knows the really important days until they are long gone.

Madame Fontan looked exactly as she had in her photograph. Older by ten years or so, but the beauty was still there. The daughters were twenty and sixteen. The older was Claire and the younger one Julie. They were as beautiful as their mother. M. Fontan and his photographs had not lied. He had also been truthful about the liking of his daughters for England and Englishmen. I was quickly overwhelmed by the warm hospitality of the Fontan family. It wasn't something to be trifled with. Chance had thrust me into the bosom of a Parisian family and I told myself I had certain responsibilities as an ambassador. But of course I wasn't that naive about the business. Fontan had two marriageable daughters and I was yet unmarried and apparently with a decent income. I understood the situation perfectly. I told myself a few days in the Fontan house would be an intriguing diversion and nothing more. I had no intentions to marry a French woman. I could never imagine such a thing and the idea of it seemed ridiculous. It wasn't very clever of me. It's an amusement now, but I certainly wasn't the cleverest bachelor in England.

I found the guest room comfortable. The furnishings were ordinary. The Fontans were obviously not aristocrats, but there were signs of a former elegance in the house. Perhaps Fontan expected his daughters would restore the family's fortune. At the moment, the girl to be married off was Claire. She was slender and tall, with a haughty look that I found intriguing. The younger girl seemed more gay and vibrant. Two lovely girls. There were also two maids that shared a small room off the pantry. Five women in the small house with Fontan. I thought at times he must feel bedeviled. Did he rule the household? Or was it Madame Fontan that ruled? I suspected it was Madame Fontan, the dark-eyed mother, the one with the sensuous mouth. She seemed in total possession of herself, confirmed and comfortable. Yes, it was Madame Fontan that ruled. She ordered the maids to put fresh flowers in my room. I was to be treated like an honored guest.

At dinner that first evening, Fontan talked of his travels in Spain and Portugal. There was also some discussion of a farm in Normandy that Fontan had recently inherited from his parents. Then I was questioned about my life in England. The fact that I was a marriageable bachelor was of obvious interest to Hector and Odette. The youngest girl blushed when Madame Fontan pointedly asked if I intended to marry soon. The older girl remained aloof. She said nothing. She seemed totally disinterested in me. If her manner belied her inner feelings, I had no way to know it.

After dinner we moved to the drawing room and continued talking. Fontan offered a cigar and I accepted. Once again I was charmed by the beauty of the women. Or was it the effects of the table wine? I decided there was something to be said for the sparkle of French women. The girls were animated as we discussed the differences between Shakespeare and Moliere. Fontan looked on with a smile. He seemed content with his family.

We had coffee and brandy. I hadn't had any female contact in some time, and before long I began to look at the Fontan women more closely. There is always something to look at. An ankle, the curve of a breast in a tight bodice, the smooth skin of a throat, the play of slender fingers as they turn a wine glass. I was amused because it was Madame Fontan who actually appealed to me more than the daughters. Her face and figure promised an abundance of passion. I envied Fontan such a wife. Then I told myself that appearances were often deceptive. Madame Fontan might indeed be cold. One never knows. One never knows a woman until a degree of intimacy occurs.

During the next few days, I was constantly in the presence of the family. They dined with me several times in the Odeon district as my guests. They seemed pleased. I suspected the restaurants were more lavish than those familiar to them. I bought presents for Madame Fontan and her two daughters, a necklace of pearls for each, and a new hat for each of the girls. The Fontans seemed delighted by it all. In the beginning the idea that I might be a suitor to one of the girls was nothing more than a game. After four days it was an idea I decided to consider seriously. Why not? I wanted a wife. I had always found French women sexually appealing. I had no family of my own, and here was a family that seemed eager to welcome me into its arms. Claire seemed more and more interested in looking upon me as a suitor. When Fontan spoke to me privately, I said yes, I would consider the possibility of marriage to Claire. He was quite happy. He insisted we drink a toast. He was so French. I had a sudden feeling that I'd gone completely mad.

He told Madame Fontan, of course. I could see it in her eyes that evening. I don't think Claire was told, or at least she showed no sign of it. Claire and I hadn't talked much at all. Whatever courtship there would be hadn't yet occurred. There was still a chance I would change my mind and return to England. Was this the explanation for subsequent events?

The next morning my breakfast was brought by Madame Fontan instead of one of the maids. She said something about the maids being at the market.

Claire and Julie had gone off with their father to visit Hector's sister in Saint-Denis.

Madame Fontan bustled about the room, opening the shutters, fussing with my breakfast tray. She asked if I would like her company while I had my morning tea. She seemed pleased when I accepted the offer. She seemed delighted. She sat on the edge of the bed and we talked about Paris. One can always talk about Paris. She was a true Parisian. She asked me to call her Odette. I said it was one of the more charming French names. Before long I realized we were flirting with each other. Madame Fontan and myself. It seemed impossible, but it was true. Her fingers occasionally touched my hand as she spoke. Her eyes were the eyes of a woman responding to a male presence. I was amused. Then the amusement changed to a definite excitement. It was Madame Fontan, after all, who had charmed me all along.

We talked about national customs. About French customs. Odette recited an amusing story about the custom of kissing a woman's hand. Her eyes danced as she talked. She touched my hand. I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it. She laughed. I continued holding her hand and kissed her wrist. The laughing stopped. A flush came to her face. When I pulled her towards me, she yielded completely.

One always wonders about things. Was I completing her intent or did she decide to yield only at that moment? We kissed. Odette pretended to be flustered. She pulled away. She muttered something. Then she leaned towards me and kissed my mouth again. When our lips finally parted, she helped me moved the breakfast tray to the far side of the bed. Then once again we kissed. This time I slipped a hand inside her dressing gown to fondle her large breasts. She made a sound of pleasure as I lifted the weight of a breast in my hand. I rubbed her firm nipples. She kissed me more forcefully. Her hand searched the sheet that covered me until she found what she wanted. The evidence of my arousal. She gripped it fiercely. Then her grip relaxed and she fondled it more casually. Her eyes were bright. She said she wanted to look and soon the sheet was thrown to the foot of the bed. Her fingers worked at the front of my pajamas. She knew precisely what she wanted. In a moment she had me exposed, cock and balls in the air, her eyes feasting.

I was in fierce erection. Odette's face flushed with excitement, she cooed over it, complimented my dimensions. “Oh, how nice. How swollen you are. What a nice one it is. And the eggs.” She touched my balls, lifted them with her fingers. “You don't mind? I like to touch. Certain things must be touched. Well, you're vigorous, aren't you? When we first met, I said to myself now there's a vigorous man. And look how right I was.” Her fingers moved to my shaft, squeezed it to test its firmness. “Such strength. He's impatient, isn't he? Like a soldier impatient to do battle. I want to stroke him a bit. Just like this. Really, it's like a cannon. The two balls are the wheels of the cannon mount, aren't they? It always makes me think of a cannon. I suppose you think I'm awful. Do you think I'm awful, Edward?”

“I think you're ravishing.”

“A married woman…”

“Completely ravishing.”

“And the mother of two daughters…”

“You have the most beautiful eyes.”

“Tell me truthfully, what do you think of me?”

“I adore you.”

“You're a darling.” She smiled at my cock again. “And this is a darling, too. An apparatus, isn't it? Something made for procreation.”

“And pleasure.”

“Yes, for pleasure. You mustn't think badly of me. Do you really have an interest in Claire? Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“How lovely. She's a lovely girl, isn't she? If there's a marriage, then I'll be your mother-in-law, won't I? Well, we aren't so many years apart you and I. I'm not an old woman yet. I can still appreciate a cannon like this. You do want it, don't you? Now that we've come this far? I suppose we ought to get on with it. Just a quick one, darling. It's terribly wrong, you know. Yielding to the Devil like this. Just a quick one.”

After which she suddenly bent over to suck my knob. No more than a brief sucking. Her tongue rolled over the tip. I was quite overwhelmed. Upon awakening, I hadn't thought much of the prospects for the day. Now here was Madame Fontan busily sucking my root. She worked her sensuous mouth over the knob and stem. She fondled my balls. My flesh soon glistened with her saliva. She sucked lavishly. What a remarkable woman she was.

She finally pulled her mouth away from my organ and smiled at me. “Are you shocked, Edward?”

“I'm vanquished.”

She laughed as her fingers played with my erection. “I like sucking a nice one like this.”

When I begged her to show me her breasts, she laughed again and agreed. The dressing gown slipped from her shoulders and her heavy breasts were revealed. Full-blown. Each lovely gourd capped by a dark nipple. I took a breast in each hand. I toyed with them. I lifted her breasts and pressed them together. I caressed her thick nipples with my fingertips. Odette murmured and moved forward. She lifted her right breast with her hands and offered the nipple to my mouth. How delightful she was. I sucked her breasts one after the other until she complained I would make her swoon.

Finally she rose from the bed and removed her dressing gown. She stood naked before my eyes, heavy-breasted, her belly sloping, a thick forest of dark hair at the joining of her full thighs. She smiled at me and then lifted the breakfast tray to carry it to the dressing table. Her bottom was glorious, full and thrusting, a broad magnificent rump with a dimple above each buttock. What a divine creature she was. The mother of two grown daughters. A French beauty with flashing eyes and a face and body from one of Renoir's paintings.

I hurried to rid myself of my pajamas. I was anxious to make connection before I discovered I was in the midst of a dream, before she somehow vaporized in front of my eyes. But it was no dream. Odette smiled at me as I lay there waiting for her. She climbed onto the bed and kissed me. She fondled my swollen organ and gently squeezed my balls. Then she used her mouth again, briefly sucking my knob, wetting it completely with her saliva. After that she pulled away. She turned. Kneeling on the mattress, she bent over to completely expose her bottom. “In my rear, Edward.”

At first I misunderstood. I thought she was asking if I liked her bottom. I was overwhelmed by the sight of her full-lipped sex from behind. She was quite hairy, the dark hair growing beyond her sex and into the crack between her buttocks. My senses were inflamed by the intimate view.

Then I realized what she wanted. I was to fill the smaller orifice. The dark ring. Her bottom-hole. She said it was too dangerous in the other, place. She said in any case she had more liking for it in her bottom. She was quite matter-of-fact about it. She said my knob ought to be sufficiently lubricated by her saliva. If not I might try some of the fluid from her sex. She talked continually. I touched her sex, fingered it, probed between the lips. I did as she asked. I lubricated her bottom-hole with some of the liquor of her sex. Then I entered her. There was no difficulty at all, absolutely none. The road was obviously frequently travelled. She began moaning at once, moaning and shaking her hips like a wild woman. I was in a fever of excitement. I was ravished by her broad bottom. I stroked her hips as my organ pushed and pulled in her stretched rose. What a marvelous grip she had. Women without experience never have it. I was unable to go on. I wanted our connection to continue forever, but I was unable to go on. I spent a torrent in her bowels. She cooed and shuddered and cried out as I continued thrusting. A marvel. A total marvel of passion. I fell away from her with a final groan.

She came to hover over me. She smiled and kissed my lips. Then she donned her dressing gown and left the room.

As the door closed, I sat up on the bed in a daze. What did it all mean? I hadn't dreamt of an affair with Madame Fontan. What would happen now to the prospect of a marriage between myself and Claire?

The outcome was less catastrophic than I supposed. Things went on as before. My visit with the family continued. The allusions to a marriage to Claire continued. Madame Fontan behaved as if nothing had occurred between us. We had no further chance to be alone. Now I passed nearly all my time with Claire. We were usually chaperoned by Odette. I was struck by the irony of it. The memory of Madame Fontan kneeling on my bed constantly inflamed my mind.

I paid court to Claire. She seemed receptive. When I asked her to be my wife, she replied she would consider the matter. It was understood that her parents had already agreed.

After a few more days, I left Paris and the Fontan household. I returned to London, to an English life. I passed many hours wondering about the future. Then after a fortnight a letter from Claire arrived. She accepted my proposal of marriage and assured me of her affections. I returned to Paris with a ring for Claire and our engagement was formally announced.

Claire seemed happy. The engagement was to last no more than two months. I bought presents for the family. I insisted upon paying for Claire's trousseau myself. M. Fontan was grateful. He seemed satisfied that he'd succeeded in making a good match for his daughter. Claire would marry an English gentleman with a comfortable income.

And my own satisfaction? I think I was in something of a daze. During the engagement, I established myself in a small hotel near the Place Vendome. I thought of renewing my liaison with Madame Fontan, but she seemed to avoid any opportunity to be alone with me. I finally abandoned the idea. I concentrated on Claire. She seemed to bloom during the engagement. I realized how truly lovely she was. I was impatient to have her as my wife. The younger sister seemed envious of Claire. Claire said Julie was too young to understand anything.

Finally the day of the wedding arrived. We were married in a lovely church in Vincennes. The church was filled with the Fontan relatives and a score of my friends from London. Claire looked ravishing. I was amazed at how my life had changed as the result of a chance meeting in Madrid.

The ceremony ended. Outside the church I embraced my new mother-in-law. As Madame Fontan's bosom pressed against my chest, I recalled the view of her bottom and sex as she knelt on the bed in the guest room in the Fontan house. The image produced a violent erection. I struggled with the front of my trousers as I settled down beside Claire in the motor car that would take us to the railroad station. Claire smiled. She kissed my cheek and told me how happy she was.