| General Fiction posted August 14, 2018 | Chapters: |
3 4 -5- 6... 
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Chapter 5: Charles gets a shock
A chapter in the book The French Letter
A Modern Mata Hari
by tfawcus
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.
As we were leaving the café, Helen slipped her arm into mine and leaned in towards me. A heady scent of jasmine with faint undertones of bergamot and cardamom filled my senses as we bent against the wind.
The worst of the storm had now passed and the sun had begun to break through. The freshness in the air made it feel more like spring than mid-summer, and the blood coursed through my veins with unaccustomed vigour.
As soon as we reached my room, she sat me on a chair by the window. The intimacy of close contact as she slipped my sling over my head was almost more than I could bear. Her breasts were inches from my face, and I felt a natural physical response beyond my control.
"You'll need to slip that shirt off if I'm to re-dress that wound. Here, let me help you."
I stood up as she slowly undid the buttons. When she eased the shirt off my back, her hands brushed lightly against the bare skin of my shoulder blades and biceps.
"That wasn't too painful, was it?" she said, with a playful smile. "Now where do you keep your First Aid kit?"
"I don't have one, but there's a tin of Elastoplast in the drawer of my bedside table."
While I went to get it, she put some warm water in a cereal bowl and added a splash of vodka from a bottle on the kitchen sink.
"I guess this will have to do as a disinfectant."
"I think it might do more good taken internally," I said, "as an anaesthetic."
"Probably! But that is against hospital rules."
She grimaced a bit as she unwound the makeshift bandage around my forearm and tossed it into the bin. The cut had stopped bleeding and looked much less serious than I had first imagined. She dabbed carefully around with a pad of tissues soaked in the weak vodka solution. The sting of the alcohol made me wince, and I tensed with a sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry," she said, pressing a square of Elastoplast down over the cut. "There!" she murmured, lightly brushing her lips against my shoulder. "All over now!"
She got up from her knees and went through to the bathroom while I put a clean shirt on. I walked over to the window and looked outside. The clouds had cleared and the wind had dropped. Vapour drifted from the pavement as the sun gained strength, and I could hear the beautiful, melodic song of a blackbird in a nearby apple tree. All seemed right with the world.
I didn't hear Helen as she came up behind me, sliding one arm around my waist, but I felt the hard, cylindrical object pressed firmly into the middle of my back.
"I seem to have you at my mercy, Mr Brandon. I suggest you stay very still."
My mouth went dry, and a sudden bout of dizziness overcame me, causing the room to spin. As my knees started to buckle, she put her other arm around me to stop me from falling, and my electric toothbrush fell from her hand, clattering onto the floorboards.
She steered me across into a nearby chair and left me with my head between my knees as she went to the bathroom to dampen a flannel. While I was recovering, she gently bathed my forehead and ran her fingers through my hair.
"Wow! That was some reaction!"
"You really are a bitch, Helen. What on earth did you do that for?"
"Since you seem to have got it fixed in your head that I'm a reincarnation of Mata Hari, I thought it would be fun to play the part. I didn't expect it to have quite such a dramatic effect though!"
"I need a drink," I said. "If there's any of that vodka left, you'll find martini in the fridge."
"Shaken, not stirred, Mr. Bond?" she teased. "I believe that's how you take it?"
"I don't know about that," I replied. "You certainly stirred me up, and I couldn't have been more severely shaken."
"Poor Charles! If you had been James Bond, you'd have dashed my gun to the ground, swung me round and kissed me passionately on the lips. I, of course, would have melted in your manly arms."
"Perhaps we should replay the scene."
"Too late," she said with a smile. "You've missed your chance! Anyway, isn't it time we set out for Versailles to see what we can find out about the lady on your envelope?"
"You're right," I said, "but why don't we detour and pick up the makings of a picnic. The open air food market on Rue Poncelet is one of the best in Paris and it's on the way. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes in your Lamborghini."
"Lamborghini? I wish! I'm afraid a Fiat 500 is all I can manage – sorry! It's parked down the street."
"Oh dear. Not quite the Mata Hari image. Never mind - at least we'll be able to nip in and out of the traffic."
"Come on then," she said, draining my glass of vodka. "Let the adventure begin!"
As we were leaving the café, Helen slipped her arm into mine and leaned in towards me. A heady scent of jasmine with faint undertones of bergamot and cardamom filled my senses as we bent against the wind.
The worst of the storm had now passed and the sun had begun to break through. The freshness in the air made it feel more like spring than mid-summer, and the blood coursed through my veins with unaccustomed vigour.
As soon as we reached my room, she sat me on a chair by the window. The intimacy of close contact as she slipped my sling over my head was almost more than I could bear. Her breasts were inches from my face, and I felt a natural physical response beyond my control.
"You'll need to slip that shirt off if I'm to re-dress that wound. Here, let me help you."
I stood up as she slowly undid the buttons. When she eased the shirt off my back, her hands brushed lightly against the bare skin of my shoulder blades and biceps.
"That wasn't too painful, was it?" she said, with a playful smile. "Now where do you keep your First Aid kit?"
"I don't have one, but there's a tin of Elastoplast in the drawer of my bedside table."
While I went to get it, she put some warm water in a cereal bowl and added a splash of vodka from a bottle on the kitchen sink.
"I guess this will have to do as a disinfectant."
"I think it might do more good taken internally," I said, "as an anaesthetic."
"Probably! But that is against hospital rules."
She grimaced a bit as she unwound the makeshift bandage around my forearm and tossed it into the bin. The cut had stopped bleeding and looked much less serious than I had first imagined. She dabbed carefully around with a pad of tissues soaked in the weak vodka solution. The sting of the alcohol made me wince, and I tensed with a sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry," she said, pressing a square of Elastoplast down over the cut. "There!" she murmured, lightly brushing her lips against my shoulder. "All over now!"
She got up from her knees and went through to the bathroom while I put a clean shirt on. I walked over to the window and looked outside. The clouds had cleared and the wind had dropped. Vapour drifted from the pavement as the sun gained strength, and I could hear the beautiful, melodic song of a blackbird in a nearby apple tree. All seemed right with the world.
I didn't hear Helen as she came up behind me, sliding one arm around my waist, but I felt the hard, cylindrical object pressed firmly into the middle of my back.
"I seem to have you at my mercy, Mr Brandon. I suggest you stay very still."
My mouth went dry, and a sudden bout of dizziness overcame me, causing the room to spin. As my knees started to buckle, she put her other arm around me to stop me from falling, and my electric toothbrush fell from her hand, clattering onto the floorboards.
She steered me across into a nearby chair and left me with my head between my knees as she went to the bathroom to dampen a flannel. While I was recovering, she gently bathed my forehead and ran her fingers through my hair.
"Wow! That was some reaction!"
"You really are a bitch, Helen. What on earth did you do that for?"
"Since you seem to have got it fixed in your head that I'm a reincarnation of Mata Hari, I thought it would be fun to play the part. I didn't expect it to have quite such a dramatic effect though!"
"I need a drink," I said. "If there's any of that vodka left, you'll find martini in the fridge."
"Shaken, not stirred, Mr. Bond?" she teased. "I believe that's how you take it?"
"I don't know about that," I replied. "You certainly stirred me up, and I couldn't have been more severely shaken."
"Poor Charles! If you had been James Bond, you'd have dashed my gun to the ground, swung me round and kissed me passionately on the lips. I, of course, would have melted in your manly arms."
"Perhaps we should replay the scene."
"Too late," she said with a smile. "You've missed your chance! Anyway, isn't it time we set out for Versailles to see what we can find out about the lady on your envelope?"
"You're right," I said, "but why don't we detour and pick up the makings of a picnic. The open air food market on Rue Poncelet is one of the best in Paris and it's on the way. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes in your Lamborghini."
"Lamborghini? I wish! I'm afraid a Fiat 500 is all I can manage – sorry! It's parked down the street."
"Oh dear. Not quite the Mata Hari image. Never mind - at least we'll be able to nip in and out of the traffic."
"Come on then," she said, draining my glass of vodka. "Let the adventure begin!"
The worst of the storm had now passed and the sun had begun to break through. The freshness in the air made it feel more like spring than mid-summer, and the blood coursed through my veins with unaccustomed vigour.
As soon as we reached my room, she sat me on a chair by the window. The intimacy of close contact as she slipped my sling over my head was almost more than I could bear. Her breasts were inches from my face, and I felt a natural physical response beyond my control.
"You'll need to slip that shirt off if I'm to re-dress that wound. Here, let me help you."
I stood up as she slowly undid the buttons. When she eased the shirt off my back, her hands brushed lightly against the bare skin of my shoulder blades and biceps.
"That wasn't too painful, was it?" she said, with a playful smile. "Now where do you keep your First Aid kit?"
"I don't have one, but there's a tin of Elastoplast in the drawer of my bedside table."
While I went to get it, she put some warm water in a cereal bowl and added a splash of vodka from a bottle on the kitchen sink.
"I guess this will have to do as a disinfectant."
"I think it might do more good taken internally," I said, "as an anaesthetic."
"Probably! But that is against hospital rules."
She grimaced a bit as she unwound the makeshift bandage around my forearm and tossed it into the bin. The cut had stopped bleeding and looked much less serious than I had first imagined. She dabbed carefully around with a pad of tissues soaked in the weak vodka solution. The sting of the alcohol made me wince, and I tensed with a sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry," she said, pressing a square of Elastoplast down over the cut. "There!" she murmured, lightly brushing her lips against my shoulder. "All over now!"
She got up from her knees and went through to the bathroom while I put a clean shirt on. I walked over to the window and looked outside. The clouds had cleared and the wind had dropped. Vapour drifted from the pavement as the sun gained strength, and I could hear the beautiful, melodic song of a blackbird in a nearby apple tree. All seemed right with the world.
I didn't hear Helen as she came up behind me, sliding one arm around my waist, but I felt the hard, cylindrical object pressed firmly into the middle of my back.
"I seem to have you at my mercy, Mr Brandon. I suggest you stay very still."
My mouth went dry, and a sudden bout of dizziness overcame me, causing the room to spin. As my knees started to buckle, she put her other arm around me to stop me from falling, and my electric toothbrush fell from her hand, clattering onto the floorboards.
She steered me across into a nearby chair and left me with my head between my knees as she went to the bathroom to dampen a flannel. While I was recovering, she gently bathed my forehead and ran her fingers through my hair.
"Wow! That was some reaction!"
"You really are a bitch, Helen. What on earth did you do that for?"
"Since you seem to have got it fixed in your head that I'm a reincarnation of Mata Hari, I thought it would be fun to play the part. I didn't expect it to have quite such a dramatic effect though!"
"I need a drink," I said. "If there's any of that vodka left, you'll find martini in the fridge."
"Shaken, not stirred, Mr. Bond?" she teased. "I believe that's how you take it?"
"I don't know about that," I replied. "You certainly stirred me up, and I couldn't have been more severely shaken."
"Poor Charles! If you had been James Bond, you'd have dashed my gun to the ground, swung me round and kissed me passionately on the lips. I, of course, would have melted in your manly arms."
"Perhaps we should replay the scene."
"Too late," she said with a smile. "You've missed your chance! Anyway, isn't it time we set out for Versailles to see what we can find out about the lady on your envelope?"
"You're right," I said, "but why don't we detour and pick up the makings of a picnic. The open air food market on Rue Poncelet is one of the best in Paris and it's on the way. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes in your Lamborghini."
"Lamborghini? I wish! I'm afraid a Fiat 500 is all I can manage – sorry! It's parked down the street."
"Oh dear. Not quite the Mata Hari image. Never mind - at least we'll be able to nip in and out of the traffic."
"Come on then," she said, draining my glass of vodka. "Let the adventure begin!"
 Recognized |
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Image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Margaretha_Zelle,_alias_Mata_Hari.jpg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
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