Ectasy on Fire

Chapter Two

Melissa Staunton's box in the loge of the Monte Carlo opera was one of the most sumptuous there. Others nearby were reserved for local and visiting royalty, which included kings, queens, nephews, et cetera. Expensive purple velvet curtains graced the front of these booth-like areas. Inside were plush, comfortable easy chairs, gleaming bronze railings, and small lamps on the carpeted floors.

Each booth or private box in the loge overlooking the famous stage had its own private entrance, a door made of hardwood with bronze fittings. On each door was an engraved plate reporting the owner's name. The doors were heavy; their great weight insured their silence if they were opened or closed while a performance on the stage was taking place.

On Stephenson's first night in Monaco, he was bored to death as he watched a performance of an obscure Puccini opera. Below in the audience he could see people he recognized from their photographs in newspapers and magazines. Seated next to him was Melissa Staunton, also observing the crowd, listening politely to the opera, frowning from time to time when the mezzo-soprano struck a bum note, and clapping merrily at some comic antic on stage.

"Are you enjoying the performance, Stephenson?"

He wished he had the strength to tell her that among the many things he disliked about life and living was his name, Stephenson.

"Yes," he replied, nodding.

"I'm so glad."

He couldn't wait until it was over. Stephenson found it hard to believe anything on stage could be this awful. It was petrifying. He was also dying of thirst. He was forbidden to chew gum, and in the past, this had always helped. He kept wondering to himself if he could find some kind of an intelligent excuse to get the hell out of the place. On the way to the opera earlier, he'd spotted a brightly lit cafe with a terrace full of people. The moon was full, the air was balmy, and the sweet perfume of the fragrant jasmine had excited him.

Making up his mind, he turned to face Mrs. Staunton, uncrossing his legs. His eyes widened. From the position in which he had been seated, close to the front railing, often leaning on it as he saw others doing, but not draping himself or slouching, as he'd been advised not to, he hadn't been able to see Melissa. The easy chair she occupied was a bit to the rear of the box in deep shadow. She still had a decent view of the stage, but her position also permitted a degree of privacy. From nowhere in the loge or the upper balconies of the opera house could she be seen.

Melissa was relaxed in the easy chair. She had her eyes closed. Her feet were up on a hassock and, as Steve looked at her, her lips were slightly parted, her tongue weaving deliciously across them. Steve could not believe what he was seeing; she had her hand up inside her skirt.

It was moving ever so slowly, casually, meandering around, caressing and stroking her groin. Steve had no difficulty whatever seeing her fingers — which, with her skirt covering them, formed a tent in her lap — glide over and squeeze her sex. She was masturbating and breathing deeply, even sighing as her thoughts drifted.

On the stage below, the entire cast of the dumb opera was bellowing its brains out in a finale to Act One. When the trumpets let out a wild blast and the drums started banging, Steve turned. He shook his head. And, as he did, Melissa's eyes opened slowly. She sighed at Steve. He was once more looking over the bronze railing. She smiled. Then she sighed again to herself. She'd just had a wonderful time imagining him stark naked!

As the curtain descended, she reached forward with her hand, placing it on his shoulder. He turned.

"Stephenson.?"

"Mrs. Staunton," he said, half-looking at her over his shoulder, "I do wish you'd not call me Stephenson."

There! He's said it. Finally!

Melissa went back. Well, well, she thought to herself.

"Very well, what would you prefer?"

"Steve."

She smiled quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she wiped the grin off her face.

"Very well," she said, "on one condition."

"What would that be?" he asked, a little snottily. For some reason, which he couldn't figure out, he wasn't afraid of her.

"That you call me Melissa."

This shook him up. "What?"

"That you call me Melissa."

"I don't believe that."

"That's what I said, Steve."

He liked to hear the word "Steve" from her lips. It did something to him, made him feel more adult, less boyish, more of a man. The sound of Stephenson made him feel like a choirboy, some prissy boy student in some prissy boy school, wearing a white shirt with a black bow tie and the school blazer.

"You mean," he began, "that I can call you that, like, any time? In public, too?"

"If you wish, you may," she said slowly, pausing, then adding, "Steve."

As the opera house lights came on, catching more than one elegant bejeweled member of the audience dozing off in utter and complete boredom, Steve turned to Melissa.

"I'm dying for a drink of water… Melissa."

Her hand touched his knee and this shocked him. The smile on her face was extremely tender. She looked like a woman half her age.

"You want to know what I'm dying for?" She had a wide grin now, and this made him smile in return.

"Yes."

"A drink, but of something a little more substantial than water. Maybe an ice-cold beer, huh?"

Steve couldn't believe this either.

"A beer? Where?"

"Across the street. In the cafe. They have a back room where."

"Where they leave you alone, right?" He was shocked that he'd said this.

She laughed softly. "Yes, but I'm sure that if we sort of sat in the shadows and attracted the attention of a waiter swiftly, we could have two ice-cold beers."

Steve's heart swelled up inside his breast. All the time he'd been sitting there being bored to death with this stupid, dumb, boring Puccini opera, he'd wanted a beer so badly he could taste it. He'd also wanted to steal off and smoke a cigarette, but how he'd manage to accomplish that, he'd had no idea.

Melissa took his hand and they stood together. She was slightly taller than him. Steve could smell her delicious perfume. It was intoxicating. He also loved the feel of her fingers holding his hand. She would exert certain pressures that were reassuring to the boy. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. They shared another smile. Steve was beginning to like Melissa.

"Let's go," she said, grabbing for her purse. "And you bring the camera, okay?"

He looked at her. His eyes had a puzzled expression. "The camera?"

"Yes, we don't want to leave it here, though it's safe enough."

"But… aren't we coming back for the rest of the opera?"

"Are you kidding?"

This made him giggle. He couldn't imagine a woman like Mrs. Melissa Staunton with all her money and elegance, her charm, her age, her social position, saying, "Are you kidding?" It was incredible!

Hand in hand, they went out of the lodge, parting the heavy velvet curtains, then passing through the great door out into the corridor, which led to the grand staircase, which in turn led to the entrance of the fabled building.

Maurice, sitting in the limousine, saw the couple leaving the opera house. He wrinkled his eyes. This was highly unusual. Had something happened?

But he didn't start up the engine. He just sat there. He did stuff his prick back into his pants and zip them up. He then put the little French magazine with the obscene comics in a safe place under the dashboard and hid the small bottle of cognac in the glove compartment.

As Melissa Staunton and Steve passed down the stone steps of the opera house, Maurice saw her turn and quickly search for the limousine. He knew what this meant. It was her private signal to him to move the vehicle to another spot where she could climb into it without being seen by any of her many acquaintances.

This happened infrequently, but when it did, Maurice was always astonished. Quickly, he turned on the ignition and deftly began moving the car out of the line. Backing into the street, he drove slowly around in back of the opera house. He parked near the rear entrance of the cafe which faced the sea. He knew this was probably their destination, and sure enough, they came into sight after a few minutes.

Maurice had to admire Mrs. Staunton's walk. She had a delightful sway to her tall body. Her breasts jiggled perceptibly. Her hair, beautifully coiffed, bounced on her shoulders. Her long, slender legs, encased in expensive silk stockings, seemed even longer in her high heels with the thin, sexy straps covering her toes. Those sandal-like high heels exposed more of her stockinged feet than they concealed, and were one of her favorite pairs. Melissa had a vast collection of specially made high heels, boots and other footwear, for which she paid a fortune to an Italian boot maker who visited the chateau from time to time.

Maurice watched them enter the cafe and head for the secluded tables in the rear, under the palm trees, which flapped softly in the evening breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean. Something was happening between Melissa and the boy. Maurice could hardly believe his eyes. They were holding hands!

He turned off the parking lights, sat back and sighed. He reached into the glove compartment. He swigged from the bottle of cognac. Next, he opened his zipper. He took out his semi-erect penis. He fisted it, squeezed it and began masturbating as he watched the passersby. Maurice especially loved to jerk off his cock while watching the trim ankles and the bare toes of strolling girls. This was a common and often spectacular sight in Monte Carlo. It was one of the best girl-watching locations on the face of the Earth.

Just as his pleasure was increasing, one particularly enticing woman walked slowly by. She was wearing a short skirt, nylons, and high- heeled shoes. Her ankles were slender, perfectly formed. He could see the bones jutting out to the sides of her ankles, and the strong bones that led from her heel upwards to her leg. She was fantastic, and walked with a slight sway so that her skirt blew softly around her upper thighs.

He moved his hand up and down his cock while concentrating on her legs, ankles and buttocks. He imagined taking her from behind, or having her massage his cock with her feet and toes. Yes! That's what she would do. Both would be sitting down, facing one another, and she would stretch her long legs into his lap, her toes wrapping around his hard cock, rubbing it. He imagined this as he continued to squeeze his cock.

He couldn't believe his good fortune! Just as he was about to come, pleasure rising like a fire in his body, she dropped something and bent down to pick it up, exposing the down swell of her buttocks, her panties moving delicately between them. Her legs, in this position were straight and seemed all the longer. Her buttocks were small and round, her ankles straining to hold her weight. He exploded into his fist, his come splashing on the steering wheel before him and then dripping off into his lap. He took another swig of the cognac and remarked out loud on his good luck.