Free The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

a
young lad in a darkened, foul alleyway, but does your courage take you any
further?”

 
    She reached then for the
front of his trousers, stroking his growing erection through the serge wool.
She found the buttons, and soon gained entry within, her hand cool against the
heat of him. Her fingers ringed the base of his member, squeezing, and then
dropped lower, to his testicles.

 
    A haze of lust fell upon him
at her touch. What kind of woman was she to inflame such desire? At every
meeting, he began under the illusion of having the upper hand and, each time,
she so swiftly educated him.

 
    She looked directly into his
eyes now, and saw there the look desired by all women: the look of a man
spellbound, obsessed, hers to command and hers to submit to.

 
    Despite the nearby sounds of
the main street, and the sight of passersby so near, he moved his hands
swiftly, unbuttoning her rough-hewn britches and untying the cotton bloomers
she wore beneath. Pushing aside the confines of the fabric, he found her golden
gate, entering her with his fingers. Her breath was already coming quickly, her
velvet walls eager to receive him.

 
    He raised her from below her
arms, pinning her to the wall then with his chest, so that her cunny was placed
for his entry. Her legs were restricted in their movement, so that she could
not wrap them about him as she desired, but he pushed down her garments to the
extent required and guided his phallus between her legs. Its head nudged at her
labia, and then drove home. His hands he placed beneath her buttocks, so that
her weight was fully supported.

 
    She could move but little.
However, the angle of his penetration proved fortuitous, since his shaft
pressed to the front, fully against her clitoris; each stroke brought an
intense wave of pleasure to her. She groaned so loudly that he feared her noise
would draw the attention of those in busy Audley Street.

 
    The danger of the situation
added a great frisson to the act: she reveling in the public nature of being
held fast and speared by his weapon; he fearful of being observed yet incited
by her hunger for him and determined to prove himself a match for her
never-ending challenges. He would show her that he could meet any trial she set
before him.

 
    Her cunny clenched about him
as she climaxed. Such was her noise that he brought his mouth upon hers,
attempting to stifle her cries. His groin awash with her delicious juices, his
own crisis followed close, his rod pulsing to its peak of gratification.

Chapter Twelve
    Achilles’ Heel

 
    They had gathered themselves
into a decent state, shared a knowing smile, and exited from opposing ends of
the alley.

 
    MacCaulay took a short cut through Hyde Park, past the statue
of Achilles, created in likeness to some figure on the Monte Cavallo in Rome. It was a sculpture he had always admired,
the musculature of the hero’s body appearing too lifelike to be formed merely
from stone. Shield upheld and sword in hand, he stood in defiance, ready for
war. MacCaulay , vain and egotistical as he was, had
never thought to compare himself with the majesty of the demi-god, dipped in
the River Styx to render him invincible, but for the heel by which his mother
held him. Now, he felt some affinity with the noble warrior, whose pride and
courage led him into the thick of danger at Troy.

 
    His battlefield was less
tangible but he felt it nonetheless: an inner conflict, in which his head and
heart conducted their own havoc. As for his Achilles’ Heel ,
her name remained unknown to him, despite the planes of her face being etched
upon his consciousness. MacCaulay stood he knew not
how long, pondering his feelings, wracking his heart and mind. Other
pedestrians bustled speedily now that the wind had picked up and drizzle was
descending. At last, he turned homeward, the final leaves of autumn eddying
about his feet.

 
    He passed the old ‘Route du Roi ’ – corrupted incongruously into its