Monsieur Read Online Free PDF

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    Ellie
    MONSIEUR
    I’m often startled when I read your mails . . . as if you were a wonderful creation conjured up by my subconscious and my memory. Peter Pan . . . my very first unforgettable conscious erotic memory . . .
    Yesterday I read every line of your blog while watching the photos on your Facebook profile. It was later reflected in my dreams. I’m eager for you to wake up properly . . . not that I have any objection to imagining you sleeping, alone and lasciviously clad in some unknown garb, the thought of which gives me shameful and delicious ideas . . .
    I’m slowly waking up . . . My room is all red. Lascivious . . . I like your choice of words, Monsieur. I am lascivious and barely awake, waiting for the boiler repairman to arrive.
    This is where I regret spending fourteen years studying surgery while a boiler repairman’s certificate would have sufficed today . . .
    You have no sense of poetry! There is nothing more beautiful than your job. Anyway, maybe I need medical attention. You see, I’ve just twisted my wrist. I need you to call on me. To look after it, of course.
    Of course . . . to look after you . . . but are you alone?
    My father is working in his study. Why? Did you want to come round?
    How could I resist? My mind’s all scrambled . . . Tuesday seems so far away still . . .
    Doesn’t patience feel like a row of teeth biting into your stomach?
    Beautiful . . . Toothmarks exploring your flesh . . . your skin shimmering with impatience . . . and me behind my desk sitting awkwardly in an attempt to conceal the incongruous rise beneath my trousers from the gaze of all eyes in the waiting room.
    Enough! You almost make me want to break my wrist!
    Can’t have your wrist out of action. You wouldn’t be able to free the stranglehold of my belt . . . your light-coloured eyes wantonly seeking mine.
    My dear, I’m in a meeting with some journalist friends. You’ll make my cheeks go all red.
    (The truth: I’m burrowed inside my bed like a helpless cock-teaser running out of ideas, unable to come up with the right response to his provocation, even incapable of imagining myself looking into his eyes while I open the flies of his suit trousers.)
    I like making your cheeks go red . . . You have also . . . affected me . . . a lot. Is it a bad thing? Is all this wrong? And if so, would it change anything? Can I call you?
    This man, on the other side of Paris, at the other end of the line, light years away from me, showed such old-fashioned delicacy as soon as he guessed I was taken aback by his masculine banter. Now that I’ve revealed myself to him in words that vibrate from his mobile, he wants to hear my voice. And I’m absolutely terrified to listen to compliments about my body or my mouth – which he has never even seen. I can’t imagine his voice; can’t imagine the way he might chuckle at my possible wit or because he knows I’m going red in the face. But I’m sure his voice will be the voice of the devil, whether it’s deep and dark or clear and precise. And because I can’t confront the devil with any form of assurance, I can only contemplate this call with the guilt of a kid who fucks guys around in Internet chatrooms.
    Later that afternoon, as I had little else to do, I went to avenue Daumesnil to get waxed in a salon more used to older women. At least, that was what I assumed when I asked for a full Brazilian and the beautician gave me a puzzled look. In my handbag, my mobile was buzzing. Unknown caller. Unknown caller. Unknown caller.
    Once I was hairless, I found the nerve to answer.
    â€˜Ellie?’
    I knew it was him. It could have been anyone, but the voice had had a first name. Standing alone in a puddle of sunshine, my Wayfarers perched on my nose, I answered: ‘ Bonjour, Monsieur .’
    Did I mention how nice the city smelled that day? A lingering sun turning all the buildings slightly orange. Standing