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From: leopolt <leopolt2002@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} In Calvin's Town (by Leopolt} [M/F some D/s]
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Date: Sun, 16 Aug 2009 19:10:06 -0400
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"In Calvin's Town" is a love story; the story code, for those who find 
such things informative, is [M/F]. As you read it, you may find a strong 
element of [d/s]. There is one other element, a scene late in the story, 
which is not [M/F] but which I despair mentioning as it gives away a 
turning point in the story but if you insist it is [M/FF] and I hope you 
are no longer reading this sentence.

This story also an experiment in how much sex can be performed off 
stage, and the story still be considered erotica. Don't be alarmed! Keep 
your hands on your cocks and/or clits - there are plenty of exposed body 
parts and rubbed genitalia. But much of the contact is only hinted at 
and left to the readers imagination.

The locations are all real. The people have been changed.

  - Leopolt


			In Calvin's Town

  			By Leopolt


To be honest, when I first saw I did not think she was very pretty.

Her hair was short and fine, a dishwater blonde color, her eyebrows so 
thin and light as to be almost invisible. Her aquiline nose was slightly 
large for her face, but she had high cheekbones and clear, pale skin. 
She had a chipped tooth that was noticeable when she smiled, so she did 
not smile much, and covered her mouth when she did. Her body was 
slightly out of proportion, her hips wider than her modest breasts would 
have suggested, and she was a little on the heavy side, particularly in 
her thighs. She was dressed in jeans and a purple Kansas State t-shirt 
when I first met her, with some sort of black zip-up pullover that was 
unzipped, a bulky and beaten ski jacket on the floor by her stool.

I was sitting in the Brasserie du Molard on a typical cold, wet November 
evening in Geneva, drinking a biere blonde and eating a plate of pommes 
frites. The brasserie was full when I arrived, and the only empty seat 
was at the end of the bar next to her. I nodded to her when I sat down, 
but other than that we kept to ourselves. As my beer drained away the 
bartender came by and asked "Vous voulez une autre something something 
something?"

"Comment?" I asked him. My French is lousy; I usually have to make 
everyone repeat themselves.

"Anozer?"

"Oui, oui - encore." The bartender pulled another glass of the golden 
draft and placed it on the bar in front of me.

She looked up from her pizza. "American?"

"Yeah, does it show?"

"A little. You speak French with an American accent."

"I think you are being a little too charitable when say I speak French, 
whatever the accent. You sound American yourself."

She nodded yes, and went back to eating her pizza, but I thought I would 
try a little conversation. "Why aren't you home for Thanksgiving?"

"I can't afford it. I am going back at Christmas, though. And besides, 
my parents are divorced and it is usually a hassle to decide where to 
eat, so I guess it is easier to have an excuse." She was a quiet for 
while, and I had just about decided she did not want to talk. I was back 
to eating my fries when she asked me, "So, same question, why are you 
here and not in the States?"

"I guess Thanksgiving is just another day for me. No family to speak 
of." I lifted my beer glass in a toast. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

We clinked glasses. "Happy Thanksgiving," she said.

I pointed to her pizza. "So, how's your turkey?" She raised a hand to 
her mouth and laughed.

By the time we left the brasserie we were both a little drunk. She had 
told me all about herself, how she was a graduate student, working on 
her PhD at the CERN physics lab. She was from Kansas, had grown up in 
Manhattan and went to Kansas State. Now she was working for the 
University of Ohio. She tried to explain to me what she was working on 
at CERN, but a lot of it went over my head, so we talked about Geneva 
instead.

"It is the opposite of everything I grew up with. There are mountains, 
it's very international and sophisticated, there's not a ton of snow in 
the winter but the summers are mild. I think I would stay here if I 
could. How about you? Where are you from?"

"Florida. Grew up near Orlando. Also not a lot of mountains." She 
laughed. "Did you go to the University of Florida?" she asked. "I have 
colleagues on my experiment from there."

"No, University of Central Florida. Then I got an MBA from Duke later 
on. I do international sales now."

Since it was close to midnight, and the buses would soon stop running, I 
offered to take her home. She lived in an apartment in St. Genis, just 
across the French border.

"No problem. I am borrowing a friend's house in Ferney-Voltaire, that's 
not too far from St. Genis. But I'm parked at the train station."

We left the Place Molard and walked across the pedestrian bridge that 
connects the Ile de Rousseau with the two banks of the Rhone River, and 
then made our way through the tourist area around Cornavin station to 
the underground car park. I headed in the direction of the Geneva suburb 
of Meyrin, but then took the autoroute past the airport.

"I hope you don't mind. This way we'll miss some of the road 
construction," I said, "But it's a detour - we'll actually go through 
Ferney first."

"That's OK. I am not in a hurry." Her voice was hoarse, husky. It made 
me think of an old-time actress, like Lauren Bacall.

We drove through the tunnel that runs under the Cointrin Airport runway, 
then though the unmanned customs post. We were in France. "How about a 
nightcap at my friend's house, to top off our Thanksgiving celebration?" 
She agreed, and I drove to the small converted farmhouse I was staying 
at, parking on the street in the closest spot I could find. She stumbled 
a little getting out of the car, and held my arm as we walked to the house.

Once we were inside, I poured us both a glass of brandy. "Want to hear 
some music?"

"Sure."

"Do you like jazz?"

"I don't know. I don't think I have heard that much really."

I put on a Lee Morgan CD from my friend's collection. The syncopated 
rhythms of the opening of "The Sidewinder" skipped out of the speakers. 
I sat on the couch; she was still standing.

"Do you want to sit down?" I patted the seat next to me.

"I suppose." She sat by me, sipping her drink and looking straight 
ahead. "I have to admit I'm a little nervous."

"Why's that?"

She laughed a little, a nervous little laugh. "I'm not really in the 
habit of going home with strange men."

"Well, I'm really not that strange." That elicited a smile, which she 
hid behind her raised brandy glass. "Besides, we're just having a 
Thanksgiving drink. Let me know, and I'll take you home whenever you 
want me to."

She seemed to relax a little. "You never told me how old you are," she 
said.

"You never asked me. I'm 39. How old are you?"

"You are eleven years older than me - I'm 28." She paused a second, 
looking at her drink, and said, "I guess you're married."

"No. I was, but...well, it didn't last. Some people like to travel, some 
like to settle down and have kids."

"So, you don't want to settle down." She seemed like she was relaxing a 
little, she had turned on the couch a little so I could see her face.

"No, I think I am settled. I have a good job, I spend a lot of time on 
the road, but it's a routine like any other." I waited a second, a 
pregnant pause as they call it, and asked her if she was seeing anyone.

"No, not really. I was seeing someone in Ohio, but we decided to take a 
break while I was over here."

"And you haven't met any nice guys here?"

She looked me in the eyes for the first time that evening. "Not yet," 
she said.

  --/--/--

The next morning I had to take her by her apartment to shower and change 
clothes. I parked in front of her building. As she got out I said, "I'd 
like to see you again tonight. What's your number? I'll call you later."

She pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse and scribbled down a 
number. "That's my cell. Just don't try to call around 3:00 this 
afternoon, because I'll be in a meeting." She leaned over and gave me a 
quick kiss, then ran inside.

I called her around lunchtime and asked her to a movie. It seemed weird, 
like I was a teenager, and I was not sure how she would react. I had 
checked online, and there were a few American movies playing in English. 
She seemed happy at the idea, we agreed to meet outside of the lab and 
we would get dinner first.

It seemed she had taken a little more care in dressing that day. She was 
still in jeans, but had on a nice blouse, and she wore a long cloth coat 
instead of the beaten up ski jacket she had the night before. We had 
dinner at an Indian restaurant, and then went to a cinema in one of the 
shopping centers. There were only a handful of people in the large 
theater, and we picked seats in the back. The movie was a bit boring to 
me, some typical shoot 'em up, and it was not long before we were 
kissing, my tongue running around her mouth. I brushed my tongue against 
her teeth and she pulled back. "Don't do that. I'm self-conscious about 
my teeth."

There were a couple of things I could have said. I could have 
apologized. I could have complimented her, told it was not so bad. 
Instead I told her to shut up. I think it surprised her so much she 
didn't know what to say. I told her to open her mouth, and she complied. 
I took her lower lip in my teeth and pulled her to me. I ran my tongue 
over her teeth again, then pulled her tight to me and kissed her long, 
hard, deeply. When we broke the kiss her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Undo your pants." She did as she was told, unbuttoning the jeans and 
pulling down the zipper. I started kissing her again, and ran my hand 
under her blouse, then down into her pants, under her panties. I 
luxuriated in the warmth, the primal dampness of her, I slid my fingers 
over her cunt, probing in her, rubbing her clit. I pulled my hand out 
and smelled the dark animal smell of her, then put my fingers in her 
mouth. She sucked on my fingers, and then I quickly kissed her, catching 
the taste of her cunt on her lips. I returned my fingers to her quim, 
and spent most of the movie slowly fingering her, getting her close to 
orgasm, then stopping. Over again I brought her to the brink then left 
her squirming with frustration. The last time was as the credits began 
to run, people were getting up to leave, and just before they raised the 
house lights I let her come, covering her mouth with mine to stifle her 
moans.

"Let's go home," I said as the lights came up. She nodded her head.

The drive back over the border was quiet, she hardly spoke a word. When 
we approached a round-about, I told her, "Decide right now. If you want 
me to take you home I will."

"No, it's OK," she whispered. "I want to go home with you."

--/--/--

Sunday we went hiking. It seemed like a good thing to do, especially 
since nothing was really open in Geneva or the surrounding areas on a 
Sunday. We had spent most of Saturday morning in bed. I had gotten up 
early, dressed, and walked to the open market to get some bread and 
cheese, bought a roasted chicken for lunch and a couple of bottles of 
wine from a local maker. I felt terribly French, with my cheese and my 
wine and my young mistress waiting for me. When I got back to the house, 
she had made coffee while I was gone. It was cold by the time we came 
out of the bedroom again.

She said she could not stay the night again, she had some lab-related 
work that needed to be done before Monday, so I took her to her 
apartment after lunch. I spent the rest of the day thinking about her, 
off and on, which probably should not have surprised me, but it did. I 
had to admit to myself that I was infatuated. Had I reached that point 
where I needed a younger woman to prove I was still alive? Was this 
middle age creeping up on me, or something more? I worried about what I 
had started, whether the relationship was healthy. It was not just her 
age, it was the direction in which the whole thing seemed to be headed. 
I felt physically addicted to her, and addicted to the way she responded 
to me when we were together. It was hard to control myself when I was 
alone with her, and it did not help that she seemed to want me to take 
charge, to use her as I wanted. Maybe this was an escape for both of us 
- for her, she could escape from being the rational scientist and 
unleash a physical, animalistic side. For me, maybe it was an escape 
from the gray curtain of old age that every year seemed to hurtle faster 
and faster my way.

I picked her up around 10:00 Sunday morning. "Where are we headed?" she 
asked, as she got into the car.

"Well, it's too cold to go up to the top of the Jura, so I thought we 
would go down to Fort L'Ecluse. Have you been down there?"

"Not yet, but I have been meaning to go sometime." She seemed genuinely 
excited. Leaning over as far as the shifter would allow, she nibbled the 
side of my neck. "Did you miss me?"she whispered.

"Oh, were you gone?" She punched me lightly on the arm as she settled 
back in her seat. "You jerk."

Fort L'Ecluse was built in a valley through the Jura Mountains, where 
the Rhone River runs down from Lake Geneva towards the Mediterranean. It 
is a remarkable piece of engineering, a lower fort that guarded the road 
through the gap of the Rhone, and a warren of tunnels carved into the 
mountain side that led to the upper fort a few hundred meters above. The 
whole thing looked like a fortress out of the Lord of Rings.

It was possible to go up the stairs inside the fort, but I decided we 
should go up a wooded trail that ran through the forest alongside the 
fort. The trail was fairly steep, and slippery in many places, and after 
thirty minutes or so she had to stop and catch her breath. I had warned 
her to leave her coat in the car, that she would get hot climbing and I 
had rain ponchos in my backpack if the weather changed. She had on 
another sweatshirt, jeans, tennis shoes. Not really cold weather hiking 
gear, but this was not a particularly challenging trail. I asked her if 
she was sweating.

"A little." she said, still breathing hard. "You were right about not 
needing the coat."

I handed her the water bottle, she took a sip, and handed it back. I 
stared at her quietly for a little while. She tried to look away but 
kept turning her head back. "What is it?" she finally asked.

This was not something I planned, when we drove down or when I picked 
this trail. It was impulse. I told her, "Take off your sweatshirt."

"It's OK, I'll cool off in a second."

"I don't give a damn about you cooling off. Take off your sweatshirt." I 
tried to sound as stern as I could without actually shouting. "Come on, 
right now - take it off."

Still not quite believing what I was asking, she pulled the sweatshirt 
over her head. I told her to toss it to me. "Bra too. Take it off and 
give it to me."

"It's fucking freezing up here!"

"This is the last time I am going tell you, and then I am going to come 
over there and pull it off you." She reached back behind herself and 
unsnapped the bra, pulled it down her arms and tossed it to me. She was 
covered in goose bumps now, her big nipples puckered up hard.

"Now pull your pants down."

"No."

"I'm not going to make you pull them all the way off. Just pull them down."

"I can't," She hesitated a little. "I got my period last night."

"I don't give a shit. Just pull them down enough to show me some pussy 
hair."

She was blushing under her goose bumps, which was a remarkable sight in 
itself. She inched the jeans and panties down until the first wisps of 
curly blonde hair peeked over the top. There was the sound of voices, 
coming from the trail below us. She heard them too, and panicked.

"Give me my clothes back!" she hissed at me. I waited. She took a step 
toward me, but I shoved her back across the trail. I could hear steps 
just below us on the icy leaves. I tossed the sweatshirt to her just as 
a pair of hikers turned the last curve below us. She quickly pulled the 
shirt over her head and tugged it down over her still open pants.

"Bonjour," they said, nodding as they passed us. "Bonjour," I said, as 
she stood still and silent, her face burning with humiliation.

  --/--/--

"I could suck you."

She was on her knees in front of me, naked except for a pair of pink 
panties, the outline of a bulky sanitary pad clearly visible beneath them.

"What else can you do?" I still had on my slacks and a shirt that was 
mostly unbuttoned, sitting on the couch. I played leisurely with her 
tits with my bare feet, pinching her nipples between my toes.

"I could jerk you off. Or you could fuck my tits." She was red again. I 
liked to see her blush, to see her face glow with humiliation. "Do you 
really think your titties are big enough for me to fuck?" I asked her.

She stared down at the floor. I told her to come over and try. She 
shuffled over on her knees and pulled off my pants and shorts. Leaning 
into my crotch, my legs spread wide, she pushed her tits around my 
engorged cock. She tried to jack my cock with her tits.

"Wait a second, you need some lubricant." I sat up and leaned over to 
her and spit on her chest. The spittle slid into the crevice around my 
cock. A little better, I told her it was her turn. "Look at me," I said. 
She looked up at me. I grabbed the hair on the back of her head. "Open 
your mouth." She looked at me like a little bird, eyes closed, mouth 
open, waiting to be fed. I spit in her open mouth. "Don't swallow. Not 
this time. Let it dribble down on your chest." She did as she was told. 
I leaned back and start humping her spit slick tits, as she patiently 
pushed them together for me. Slowly I would slide my cock between her 
tits, until the head poked out like a snake's, ready to bite her. I 
pulled her head down, her chin touching her chest, and told her to lick 
me. Over and over we repeated the act.

I stood up, and put one foot on the couch. "OK," I said, standing up 
over her. "Now it's time to fuck your mouth, little girl." I grabbed her 
head with both hands, and she let me slide into her willing mouth. I 
started out slow, but gradually built up the tempo, fucking harder. She 
tried to reach up to push me back, but I slapped her hands down. Now and 
then I would give her a break, pushing her head down. Panting she licked 
my balls. I pulled her back and fucked her mouth some more, trying to 
reach her throat, to trigger her gag reflex. Tears were causing her 
mascara to run in black streaks down her cheeks. She was gorgeous. I 
gave her another break, pushing her down to my balls, then pushing 
again. "Lick that spot between my balls and my ass." She squirmed under 
my legs, lapping at me as I had told her.

I stroked my cock, squeezing it hard, immersed in the pleasure of her 
oral ministrations. I felt godlike, I wanted to beat my chest and yell 
like Tarzan. I felt like I could anything. Of course, I knew deep down 
that it was not true, it was just the chemicals rushing through my 
bloodstream, endorphins and dopamine and the rest. No, I could not do 
anything, but I could do anything to her.

  --/--/--

That week I flew up to Hamburg for a series of meetings with one of our 
parts suppliers. She sent me text messages every day, telling me about 
how her advisor was in town, and how she had a ton of work, and 
gossiping about other graduate students she worked with, none of whom I 
knew. It was the Digital Age version of the late night phones calls I 
remembered from high school. Some of the texts I replied to, many I 
ignored. By the time I flew back she was including little endearments, X 
and O kisses and hugs, telling me how she missed me. I responded to none 
of these, only sending her a text from the Hamburg airport Friday 
afternoon to tell her when my flight arrived and to meet me in the 
arrivals hall at Cointrin.

"I thought you were mad at me. Did you get my texts?"

"I was busy." We were in downtown Geneva, walking past the rows of shops 
along the Rue de Rhone.

"So you aren't mad at me?" I did not answer. We stopped in front of the 
display window of an up-scale dress shop in the Confederation Centre. As 
she looked at the dresses I stepped behind her and pulled her close to 
me, pulling her ass against my erection. "No, I am not mad at you," I 
whispered to her, as I bit her neck. She moaned slightly, rubbing her 
ass against my hard-on. Passersby must have noticed our little show. My 
arms wrapped around her, not letting her go, I asked if she saw anything 
she liked.

"Maybe. These places are way too expensive for me." I broke our embrace, 
and turned her around. I kissed her hard, and then told her to go inside.

She looked through a few racks, probably not really sure of what I had 
in mind. A saleslady watched us for a few minutes, trying to figure out 
what make of the man in the business suit and his young lady in jeans 
and sweatshirt. After a couple of minutes she strolled over to where we 
were. "May I help you?" she asked. "Perhaps I could assist the young 
lady in finding something suitable?" Impeccable English, a typical 
Geneva vendeuse.

"Yes," I said. "I want you to dress the young lady." The salesclerk 
looked confused, perhaps thinking I was using an American expression she 
did not know. I explained to her that I wanted to buy a couple of 
different outfits for my companion, something stylish that she could 
wear to a nice restaurant or club. The salesclerk's face lit up with 
understanding, and perhaps a touch of avarice, and she started picking 
out some possibilities.

"This place is expensive! I don't want you doing this."

"Shh...just do whatever the saleslady says. I want to see you in 
something other than jeans for a change."

Acquiescing, she looked at some of the items the salesclerk had pulled 
from the rack, and after a while she was clearly getting into full 
shopping mode. While she was in a changing room trying on some skirts, I 
told the saleslady that I wanted her to wear one of the outfits out when 
we left, and to put her other clothes in a bag. The two of them picked 
out several blouses, two skirts, and a black evening jacket. I asked the 
saleslady if they sold underwear or stockings, and that I wanted her to 
pick out some nice black stockings and undergarments for my girlfriend, 
something sexy. This caused a firestorm of blushing, offset by a slight 
smile when she heard me say "girlfriend".

Altogether I spent near three thousand dollars on her clothes. We left 
with three shopping bags, one containing her jeans and sweater. She had 
been in sneakers so I had the saleslady call a nearby shoe store and 
have them deliver a pair of black pumps. It took a couple of iterations 
to find a pair that fit and matched the rest of the outfit to the 
clerk's satisfaction. When we left, the saleslady wished us a "bonne 
soiree".

It was a new woman walking with me now, stylishly dressed, her legs in 
black stockings below the knee-length gray skirt, the heels accentuating 
her ass. Her attitude was different too, perhaps more self-possessed, 
more poised. She seemed to walk with her head a little higher. We walked 
up the winding narrow cobble-stone streets of old Geneva, passed the 
Cathedral St. Pierre where John Calvin once preached Reformation and 
damnation and the predestination of the Elect. We went up into the Old 
Town and ate fondue at the Restaurant de l'Hotel de Ville. During dinner 
she thanked me again for the clothes.

"So you like them?"

"Yes! Of course! I just can't believe you did that. I guess you are 
going to turn me into a kept woman now." She gave me a mischievous grin, 
though one quickly hidden by her hand.

"Do you want to know the truth?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"The truth is that you are a wonderful, intelligent young woman. You are 
independent and involved in very important work that I can barely 
understand. When we are here having dinner or walking around the city, I 
have nothing but respect for you, and I want you to understand that."

"Thank you," she said. "You've never asked me, but the truth is I have 
not had much luck maintaining relationships with non-scientists. I think 
most them are a bit put off by a girl who knows more math than they do."

"So have you dated other scientists, other people in your field?" That 
drew a laugh. "Oh, a couple," she said. "My last boyfriend was a 
physicist. I don't think I want to talk about the same things away from 
work that I talk about at work."

I took a sip of wine, and waited for the waiter to refill my glass 
before I continued. "So, why don't we talk about what we are going to do 
tonight?" I asked. She nodded her head. "Well, here is what I have in 
mind. We are going to finish this wonderful fondue and this bottle of 
wine, maybe have some dessert if you want any. Then we are going to 
drive to my friend's house in Ferney. We are going to go inside and I am 
going to take those lovely new clothes off of you, and I am going to 
treat you like an animal for the rest of this weekend. I am going to 
fuck you anyway and every way I can." I lifted my glass again, as if 
toasting her. "Now, if you want to call that being a 'kept woman', then 
be my guest."

Her cheeks were red, the way I had come to enjoy seeing them. "So, you 
buy me some clothes and you think that makes me your whore now?" She 
smiled when she said it, but she was also trying to be defiant, trying 
not to give in too quickly out of some sense of self-respect, maybe 
trying to shock me a little with a show of coarse language.

I laughed. "Of course not! I bought you those clothes because I want you 
to look nice, and because you deserve them, and because I can afford 
them. You are going to be my whore tonight," I said in a voice loud 
enough for the next table to hear, "Because you want to be."

Really, though, it is wrong to say I treated her like my whore that 
night. The fact is, women will do things for love that most whores would 
never do for money. Not that I had much experience with call girls, but 
from the few encounters I had I knew most whores will not let you choke 
fuck them until they almost pass out, or let you tie them across the 
kitchen table and spank their cunts, or let you sit on their faces and 
frig their clits to orgasm after orgasm while they lick your ass. Whores 
will not do that, but a lover will.

The next morning I made my usual rounds of the weekly market. I felt a 
pang of regret that I was not able to bring her with me, it would have 
been fun to pick out lunch with her. Oh well, maybe the next time. I 
bought cheese, some sausages, more wine, bread, some vegetables for a 
salad. I tried to get back to the house straightaway, there was a cold 
light rain falling and I did not want to get soaked. After putting away 
my purchases I walked back to the bedroom, and there she was, exactly 
like I had left her: tied to the bed, the lovely new black panties 
stuffed in her mouth. A little present I had picked up for her in 
Hamburg in a shop along the Reeperbahn, a pair of nipple clamps, were 
screwed tightly on her breasts. Finishing the bite of baguette I had 
pulled off, I went over to my partially unpacked bags sitting in a 
corner. There was another present I had bought for her in Hamburg and I 
wanted to try it out.

"Hope you didn't get too bored while I was gone," I told her. She lifted 
her sleepy eyelids, and saw the huge black dildo I was holding.

"Let's play some more."

  --/--/--

We were lying in the too small French tub that evening, sharing a glass 
of wine, the tap slowly trickling hot water to keep the bath water warm. 
I ran the soap over her as she reclined against my chest, gliding it 
over her stomach, her thighs. As I got close to her pussy she flinched. 
"I'm a little sore down there," she whispered. I kissed her cheek. The 
truth be told, she was not the only one. My cock was rubbed raw, and my 
balls ached.

She closed her eyes tight, like she was reading some internal script. 
"You frighten me," she said. "You scare me because when I am with you 
it...it's like I just empty myself out. I turn off whatever part of my 
brain controls independent thought and I let you take control. I've 
never been with a man before where that has happened."

"I think that's OK," I told her. "Does it bother you? Do you want us to 
stop?"

She turned over on her a side, not an easy task in the cramped tub. As 
she laid her head on my chest, and I stroked her hair, I felt a sense of 
being comfortable. That may sound strange, like I picked the wrong 
adjective, but it was such a feeling of being exactly where I wanted to be.

"No, I don't want us to stop." Then she added, "I guess I just want to 
know if I can trust you?"

"Yes. Of course you can." She relaxed a little more. After a while she 
asked me if I loved her. Was it a test? And did I know the answer? I 
stroked her cheek, and rested my hand on her shoulder. "I'm not sure," I 
whispered to her. "I might, I don't really know yet. I know I want to be 
with you in a way that I haven't wanted to be a woman in a long time. I 
care about you, but we've only known each other a few days. I don't want 
to lie to you."

She closed her eyes. "That's OK. It was an unfair question. For what 
it's worth, I'm not sure either if I love you, or just your cock."

I knew I would not be able to sustain the level of sexual activity I had 
advertised, so the next morning I told her we were going skiing. It 
turns out she had never been, even though this was her second winter in 
Switzerland. I had a ski suit, and we found another one in one of my 
friend's closets that fit her. We drove south from Geneva, taking the 
highway known as the Autoroute Blanche towards Mount Blanc. We stopped 
at a ski village called Les Houches, just north of Mount Blanc and far 
less crowded than the touristy region around Chamonix. I found we were 
in two very different situations - I could ski, and I did not speak 
French very well; she had never skied, but spoke passable French, at 
least as far as I could tell. So, after I let her arrange our rentals 
and ski lift tickets, I told her to go ahead and take lessons. We agreed 
to meet up for lunch at a restaurant at the base of the lift.

For nearly two hours I skied, alone in the marvelous vista of the Alpes, 
not understanding or caring what people around me were saying, in my own 
world of snow and cold and velocity. The snow was good, not great, a 
little icy in spots. I fell only once, even though it had been a couple 
of years since I had last been on skis. I kept an eye on my watch, 
remembering my lunch date.

It took a little longer than I had planned to make it down the run to 
the base of the lift. I found a spot to leave my skis and poles and 
trundled to the restaurant, spaceman-like, in the bulky ski boots. She 
saw me - she had already found us a table - and stood and waved and 
called to me.

"Thought you were never coming back down."

"Yeah, well, the trail was a little longer than I thought. How was your 
morning? Do you know how to snow plow yet? Or do they call it that over 
here?"

"Actually they do - I cheated and found an instructor who spoke English. 
I think I'm doing OK, but I'm not quite ready to go on the big hill. 
Maybe the next time we come down?"

"Oh, you little minx! Already planning ahead I see. So, did you fall 
down much?"

"A lot! My butt must be covered in bruises."

"Actually, I believe your butt was already covered in bruises." And 
there it was, that blush I loved so much. "In fact, I put them there. If 
it makes you feel any better, I can kiss them for you when we get home."

She sipped on her hot chocolate, spoke into the cup, "You like that, 
don't you? Making me feel embarrassed."

"yes, I do. I love it." She did not reply, but instead asked, "So, did 
you fall any?"

"Only once."

She smiled at me, and I noticed she no longer covered her mouth when she 
did. "I guess you are going to want me to kiss it and make it all better 
too."

"Oh, yeah baby. I've got a lot of things you are going to kiss when we 
get home."

  --/--/--

"When are you leaving?"

"I fly out next Saturday. How about you?"

I put another pillow under my head and sat up a bit in the bed. "I have 
a ticket back to Tampa for December 20, but I am debating just staying 
here. The guy who owns this house will be in the States until the end of 
January. I don't guess there is any chance you could stay?"

She snuggled close to me, her breath warm against my my neck. I held her 
tight. "No," she said, "My parents would kill me if I did not come home 
for Christmas, and besides the tickets are non-refundable." She ran her 
hand down my chest, my stomach, lightly touching my cock as it lay 
flaccid between my legs. "I guess we just have to make the most of the 
next week, huh?"

Every day I waited for her outside of CERN, waiting to take her to 
dinner, to walk around the town with her, to go to a movie or watch a 
DVD, to spend the night with her. She still left most of her things at 
her apartment ("It doesn't make sense to move in if I leave in a few 
days"), so every morning I dropped her off on my way in to our European 
office. Usually she sent me a text once, maybe twice, during the day. We 
visited the sites in Geneva, like a couple of giddy tourists - the 
Museum of Art of History, the Clock Museum, the Parc de Bastons with its 
bas relief statue of the major figures of the Reformation. "There's an 
American at the end," she said, as we walked past the long expanse of 
white marble, the figures stepping out of the stone, Calvin himself in 
the middle leading the way, like a phalanx of the Army of God, off to 
war against sin and iniquity.

I asked her who it was. "Roger Williams," she told me, "The guy who 
founded Rhode Island. He started the Baptist church."

"Yeah, sure - I've heard of him. I grew up Baptist, and I can tell you, 
he's got a lot of explaining to do!"

She laughed at me. "The funny thing is, he left the church he started, 
called himself a 'Seeker'", she said. "I guess in a way, that's the best 
description of any of us."

On Thursday evening, I took her to a restaurant in an area north of the 
train station called Paquis, an older, sort of funkier section of 
Geneva, with lots of bars and ethnic restaurants and lower rent 
apartments. Winding back through the streets of Geneva, we ended up on 
the Rue de Berne, in an area notorious for being a free zone for 
prostitutes. Despite the cold, there were a few call girls out and 
about, some older and shop-worn, a couple of younger women, one 
particularly good-looking Asian in a short leather skirt. I slowed down, 
obviously ogling the girls.

"Come on, they'll think you're interested."

"How do you know I'm not interested." She slapped my shoulder, and 
started tugging on my arm again. I stopped, and nodded at the Asian 
girl. "What does it hurt to be friendly?"

The Asian call girl walked up and gave me the traditional three-cheek 
French kiss. "Bon soir," she said.

"Bon soir. Parlez-vous l'anglais?" I asked.

"Only little," she said. I told her not to worry, my friend spoke French.

"Ask her how much for an hour."

"I will not! Jesus, come on - this isn't funny." She turned and tried to 
leave, but I held her arm. "Ask her."

She said something in French, and the whore replied with an amount, I 
could only catch "cents" and "Euros". "Was that for me or for both us?"

"For you."

"Ask her how much for both of us." She did, although clearly it pained 
her to do so. The whore replied. I smiled and said "Thank you. Maybe 
next time." We turned and walked off to the car park.

She was furious with me, she could not stop talking about it all the way 
to the house. "How could you do that? Jesus! I know you like 
embarrassing me, but how low do you think I will stoop?"

"I don't know," I glanced over at her. "You tell me - how low will you 
go?" That quieted her, but I did not let it go. When we were in the 
house, sitting on the couch kissing, her clothes mostly off, I asked her 
again "How low would you go for me? What could I ask you to do that you 
wouldn't do?"

"Don't. Don't make me say it."

I push her down the floor. I sat on the couch, her face in my hands. 
"Tell me."

She looked in my eyes, tears forming in hers. "Nothing," she said. 
"There's nothing you could ask me to do that I wouldn't do for you." And 
that night I tried in every way I could to make her prove it. I raped 
her, hard, not caring for her feelings, taking out on her every ounce of 
frustration I had ever felt toward a woman. It was after 2:00 in the 
morning when I finally dropped her off at her apartment. Her lips were 
puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears, a red hand print on her cheek 
visible even in the low light of the car's interior. Before she got out 
of the car she asked me, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Of course you will. It's our last night together before you leave. I'll 
call you tomorrow."

She leaned over and kissed me. "I love you," she said. Out of the car, 
closed the door - slowly she walked up to the apartment building.

"I know," I said, to no one.

I sent her a text during the day on Friday, telling her I had something 
going on and that I would not be able to pick her up until late. She 
replied OK, that she had work she could do. It was almost 9:00 by the 
time I parked in the lot outside of the main CERN gate. She was there, 
waiting for me, freezing in the cold. I kissed her when she got in the 
car and told her I had something special planned.

The woman I had hired, Lena she called herself, was sitting on the couch 
when we came in. She got up and walked over to us. "So this is the 
companion you told me about?"

"Yeah, this is my girlfriend. Why don't you two get acquainted?"

Lena kissed her cheeks while I poured some wine for the three of us. I 
think she was in shock, she did not say a word when I took her hand and 
guided her into the bedroom. She sat on the bed and looked up at me. 
"Who is she?"

"She is a professional woman. I found her on the Internet and contacted 
her. She advertised that she spoke fluent English and welcomed couples. 
I've paid her to join us in some fun for the next hour."

"Please...Oh God! Please...please don't make me do this!" I kissed her, 
and hugged her, trying to keep her from panicking. "Shh...shh, it's OK. 
It will be fun. You know every guy has a fantasy about being with two 
women. This can be your Christmas present to me."

Lena had undressed, and she was an impressive sight: thin, with 
short-cropped black hair and good-sized breasts, her pussy shaved. In 
the middle of winter she had still a tan, unbroken by bikini lines. I 
wondered if prostitutes could deduct tanning booth time as a 
professional expense. She got on the bed beside my girlfriend, rubbing 
her back, an attempted kiss met with a quickly turned head.

I took off my clothes, and together Lena and I undressed the silent 
woman sitting on the bed. "It will be fine," Lena whispered to her. 
"Just relax, darling. I'll do all the work." She slid down between her 
legs, kissing then licking her pussy. As she expertly administered oral 
pleasure on my girlfriend, I pulled on a condom and entered the rented 
cunt from behind.

I pumped the whore's pussy, squeezing her tight tanned ass, until my 
pleasure was disturbed by the sound of sobs. The girl who had told me 
last night that she loved me was leaning back on her arms, crying, her 
shoulders shaking, her face contorted miserably. Lena turned her face 
from the blonde cunt she was licking and looked over her shoulder at me. 
"I don't think she is enjoying it."

"No," I said, my erection fading, "No, I don't think she is. Dammit!" I 
pulled out of the whore and walked into the living room. Lena followed 
me. "I think I should go," she said. "I'll get dressed and wait outside 
for my ride."

"Yeah, that's probably best." I had already paid her in advance. I 
walked back into the bedroom.

She was curled up on the bed in a fetal position, still crying. "Take me 
home."

"OK, I will. But listen, I'm sorry, OK. It didn't work out the way I 
thought it would."

"It didn't work out! What hell did you think?" She wailed, deep 
breathless sobs. "Just take me home! Oh God, please...please just take 
me home."

I dressed, and handed her clothes to her, trying to help her put them on 
until she pushed me away, hearing the door open and close while we 
dressed. As we walked to the car I could see Lena standing a couple of 
blocks down the street, talking on her cell phone.

Neither of us said a word as I drove her to her apartment. When she got 
out she said, "Don't try to call me."

I got out of the car. "I love you!" I yelled up to her, as she ran into 
the building. "I really do! I am sorry about this evening, I don't know 
what to say - I screwed up. But I do love you!"

She stood with the door half open, not even turning around. "If you love 
me, you have a hell of a way of showing it!"

The tickets home to Tampa got used, it was preferable to spending 
anymore time in Geneva without her. Home for the holidays, in a city 
where the temperature on Christmas Day averages 75 Fahrenheit, and 
people put ornamental lights on palm trees, I missed the light snow 
falling on us as we walked the sidewalks of Geneva. I had no family in 
Tampa anymore, and the people I knew at work were little more than 
acquaintances since I was on the road so much. I returned to my travel 
schedule as quickly as I could, frankly bored by the holidays. Just 
after the New Year I started another long series of meetings in Europe, 
first in Hamburg and Dortmund, then back to Geneva again, where I stayed 
until February. My friend who owned the house in Ferney did not mind a 
roommate for a couple of days, and we had fun going out on the town and 
getting into as much trouble as you can in Calvin's town.

It was just before I was leaving for good, going back to Tampa for a few 
weeks before a series of trips to China and India that I worked up the 
nerve to call her. She hung up on me the first time, but I eventually 
convinced her to talk to me, and then to meet me for lunch at a cafe in 
the airport. I was there early and waited, and waited, and finally had 
given up on her showing up when I saw her coming up the escalator. She 
was wearing one of the skirts I had bought her, and new blouse or at 
least one I had not seen before. She stood beside the table, hesitating 
to sit down."Have a seat," I said.

"I really don't think I should have come."

"Like I said on the phone, I just want to talk." She sat down. I asked 
her if she wanted anything to eat, and she shook her head, so I ordered 
another coffee and one for her.

"I've missed you," I said. "Like I told you on the phone, there's 
probably not a day goes by I don't think about you. I am really sorry 
things...turned out like they did."

She looked like she was tearing up, her face was red but it was not 
blushing this time. "You've never explained why you did it," she said, 
in an angry shouted whisper."What could possibly have made you think I 
wanted that?"

The waiter brought our coffees, and I stirred mine while I thought about 
the answer. "I guess the real reason I did," I said," was because I 
didn't care if you wanted to or not. I was only thinking of myself. And 
I guess I wanted to see how far I could push things." I sat back, looked 
at her, picked up my coffee. "I guess now we both know."

"Yes," she replied, "I guess we do. At least you're still honest."

I asked her what it would take for us to go out again. She said she 
still needed some time, and I told her I was about to go to the Orient 
for a month. I agreed to pass through Geneva afterwards, and she 
promised that she would at least talk to me when I did.

About two weeks later I got an email from her, laying out her conditions 
for us to see each other again. When I was back in Geneva we went out 
for dinner. It was all very chaste, we did not have sex that first date, 
but after the second time we went out she returned to my hotel with me. 
We made love; it was sweet, gentle, loving. I knew then I was not going 
to let her go. The next morning we started to make plans: I had to go 
back to Tampa, and her time at CERN was almost up. She arranged with her 
advisor to take two weeks off before moving back to Ohio, and she flew 
to Tampa a couple of days after I did.

We got married late that summer, in her hometown in Kansas, a few days 
after she defended her dissertation. I convinced my boss to let me be 
based out of our Geneva office, and I sold my condo in Tampa and bought 
an apartment in France, in a small village on the slopes of the Jura 
Mountains called Thoiry. She was able to get a research job that let her 
return to CERN, although it was on a different experiment. Most of what 
she says still goes over my head.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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