Monsieur Read Online Free PDF Page B

motionless in the middle of rue Dugommier, I bit my fingers while I weighed up the sound of his voice, the depth of his laughter. All around me, people moved in the slow motion that only belongs to summer, unaware of the story that was about to begin right there under their gaze. In spite of the muted heat of the waxing, a strange buzz was spreading under my skirt and, fearful that Monsieur might notice – God knew how – I moved the conversation into inconsequential areas. He answered, slowly, politely, complacently even, but somehow it was better than talking about sex. This man knew. This man had read my words. Maybe he was being gallant, pretending to believe my innocent-student spiel. Was that the impression I was giving? Was it really me?
    And then, out of the blue, anything but spontaneous, I had to say something else: ‘Your voice sounds so young!’
    He burst out laughing, and I did too. Then, embarrassed by my gaucheness, I floundered in a sea of clumsy explanations.
    â€˜Not that you’re old! It’s just that your voice sounds young in comparison to . . . I mean, I was expecting . . .’
    â€˜An old geezer!’ Monsieur was still laughing.
    â€˜No, just a deeper voice!’
    Under my silk blouse, my back was wet with sweat.
    I miss your voice already . . .
    When I said you had a young voice, it was meant as a compliment. You have a lovely voice, clear and serious. Young, which you also happen to be. Well, not as young as me, I’m just a baby, even more so after what the beautician just did to me.
    Hmm. I love it . . . My lips are already quivering at the thought of assaulting you there . . .
    Stop saying things like that! You almost made me swallow my cigarette!
    Things like what?
    When you referred to my depilation.
    I can’t stop imagining the likely crimson hue of your mound following the recent treatment.
    You’re the devil incarnate. I just confessed I was now smooth and vulnerable, and you’re already taking advantage of it by text. I just hope that in the flesh you’d do the same.
    I will . . . totally . . . You’ll find out how much by feeling how hard I would be against you . . . rock hard . . . against your smooth baby skin . . .
    What shocking sort of perfume might you wear?
    Habit Rouge by Guerlain. My sort of smell.
    Do you talk? I mean, during.
    I speak, I listen.
    Cool.
    (When you are five years old, the advent-calendar chocolate is the equivalent of a morning erection, peacefully waiting to be unsealed. Fifteen years later, Monsieur’s mails are like the onset of a heart-attack.)
    I’ve just arrived in Holland . . . My thoughts are full of your wisps of blonde hair, your cheeky smiles and adolescent sex . . . I am obsessed with you, Mademoiselle . . . I’m counting the hours . . . I’ll be silent . . . I’ll undress . . . and my tongue will move towards you and lick your drowsy stomach . . . My inquisitive hands will invade you . . . My sex will feverishly seek you out . . . You will pretend you’re asleep . . . but once my tongue has begun exploring you and I’ve tasted the dew dripping between your thighs . . . felt your breath rise in your chest . . . your hands grip the sheets . . . I will bite your neck and almost trigger a scream that will linger in your throat until the moment my hard cock dives deep into your little pussy . . . while my fingers delve into your shuddering little arsehole . . . my cock plunging even deeper . . . making you beg ever more indecently for things I cannot write down here but which I promise to do to you . . . You try and hold back the pleasure and it’s oh so terribly painful . . . but the expectation of an even more intense explosion helps you hold on longer . . . You shamelessly growl . . . impaled . . . restless . . . sweating profusely . . . eyes wild . . . the tip of your little pink tongue emerging between your half-open lips . . .
    Did you get the text messages I sent