Lovely

Paris, 1900

"Mam'selle Angelique?"

The one who stands nervously at the door to my chamber is, I am certain, close to my age--perhaps only slightly older. His long fingers clutch and curl awkwardly at the brim of his hat, and I cannot help but be amused. It is impossible for him to be a virgin, not in a city where men are wont to plunge their cocks into nearly anything that will move, so this is either his first dalliance outside of marriage, or his first time with someone like me. Perhaps both.

I smile and pat the empty part of the settee next to me, forever the coquette.

"Oui, Monsieur. Please, won't you join me?"

A sharp, wordless nod and this dark-haired boy-man closes the door behind him, crosses to me and carefully folds his tall length to sit upon the burgundy velvet. He lays his hat carefully on the seat beside him, and clasps his palms together. His hands seem strong and capable, and his fingers are long.

There is a long moment, difficult for him, I suppose, where I patiently watch and wait. It is necessary for me to gain whatever knowledge I can, to be able to judge precisely what I am to do. It is an art, this learning moment, and I long ago discovered it was in my best interest to listen to my instincts. They usually do not fail me.

He is handsome, this man-child. Clean-shaven, with a strong jaw and full mouth. Dark, unruly curls play atop his head and down his neck, and his expressive, guileless eyes are the same hue. The scent of wealth is on him, from his fine wool suit and clean shirtfront to his shiny black shoes. Whatever else I may say about him, he is well-bred. He does not immediately paw at me like some beast in heat, though perhaps that means nothing--others whom I thought to be men of dignity and honor would have barely heard the click of the door before their trousers were around their ankles and I was on my knees.

It seems I shall need to take charge this evening, but I do not mind. He is not the first to require it, and he shall certainly not be the last. Besides, his air of innocence intrigues me.

"Monsieur?" I ask. "What is your name? What may I call you?"

A flicker of a glance in my direction, and the flash of a shy, beautiful smile. "Alexandre."