This urges him on further.
His tongue licks and twirls and gives every part of my pu**y a good scrubbing. I twist and turn myself, trashing my head to my left and right. The tip of his tongue dips into my pu**y hole. I gasp, especially as it worms itself in pretty deep.
Once inside, it oscillates within my pu**y tunnel, circumnavigating my walls thoroughly. Now and then, it strikes against my G-spot, and I can’t help but attempt to close my legs for the sheer pleasure of it.
His hands come down and firmly press my thighs against the mattress.
He continues his oral loving, as he calls it. I squirm and writhe in escalating ecstasy. My hands claw his hair, and then dart upward to grasp the headboard, and then the sheets, and the pillow again – all in a succession of pleasurably agitated activity. My pu**y is creaming and staining the sheets, and he laps my juices up, tasting and savoring them as if they were ambrosia.
I moan and make guttural noises in my throat. I feel like climbing the walls.
When he finally thrusts two of his fingers into my pu**y – right smack against the hollow of my G-spot – I explode.
I dissipate into a series of helpless cries and shudders. My body rocks violently against his grasping hand, still with his two fingers embedded in me. He throws his torso on top of mine so that I cannot squirm away from him, and he takes his pleasure in watching me as I come and come – my juices flowing copiously down his beaked hand.
When I slowly descend from my moment of clouds and rain, my body juddering now and again like a livewire, he withdraws his fingers.
“Did you like that?” he murmurs.
His lips are still smeared with my creams. It’s a most seductive sight.
I nod breathlessly.
“Want to replace it with a solid member of my body?” His smile is teasing and very infectious.
I nod again.
“Then open your legs, baby.”
My tears have mostly dried, and so I gladly let him mount me. As his wonderful c**k spears my pu**y, I focus on his beautiful face above mine – shining and regal and loving. And my troubles melt away.
Temporarily.
Chapter Three
“Your hair is flat,” Madame Fournier pronounces.
“What?” No one has ever said that to me before. My hair is actually wavy and I’m rather proud of it because it’s get-up-and-go hair – the kind you can run a brush through once or twice and look fairly decent when you head out of the door.
“It’s flat,” she decides. “It needs a makeover. I’m taking you to Moldavia’s top stylist.”
“He’s not coming to the palace?” I ask in amazement. I’m actually being let out – royal pariah that I am?
“He needs his paraphernalia.” She gives me a knowing smile. “Besides, I have a plan.”
The stone-faced Jasper takes us to the stylist at Rue Champignon, a fashionable district with a cluster of upmarket restaurants and shops. The cuisine there is multinational – French, Italian, Greek, Spanish, with even an English pub called ‘Dirty Nelly’s’.
Academie de Coiffure occupies an entire three-storey section of an 18th century gabled townhouse. The stylist is at the entrance to greet us himself.
“Welcome, welcome,” he says with a French accent. He beams like the moon.
“Her hair is flat, don’t you think, Monsieur Danton?”
“Flatter than my mother-in-law’s chest.”
OK, I think we have established that my hair needs a total makeover.
As I walk in with Madame Fournier, the ladies in the rather full salon all look up. A hush ripples through the entire place.
Uh oh. Is this really a good idea?
I dart a glance at Madame Fournier, and she nods comfortingly. “Go on, take a seat. You can’t hide from the world forever.”
I suppose she has a point. Since all this started, I really miss my freedom and anonymity, as much as I love Alex.
“This way, please, Ms. Turner.” Monsieur Danton gestures to a chair in a corner, a little distance away from the cluster of now whispering women.
I’m extremely self-conscious as I take my seat. I swear that all eyes in the room are upon me, and the remarks made in mostly French aren’t too kind either.
Monsieur Danton himself works on me. He lathers my hair into a generous froth and rinses it. Then he gives me a layered cut that shortens my hair length by at least three inches. Next, he streaks it with honey and caramel highlights. He finally blow-dries it into a dazzling, shimmering cloud of silky and chunky tresses.
“There now,” he says with a flourish, “you look like a zillion bucks, as you Americans say it.”
I do. I really do.
I’m beaming into the mirror myself.
I will never be really beautiful, but I do believe that with this new hairstyle, I may swing heads.
I glance at the entrance of the salon. I can peer through the glass doors, and what I see fills me with dismay. The paparazzi have arrived and are waiting for me.
“Oh no,” I say to Madame Fournier in a low voice. “Do you think one of the women in here called them?”
I’m wary of what happened the last time with Claire, of course.
“Certainly not,” she replies. “It was I who called them.”
“You?”
OK. Color me stunned.
“Of course. You need to present a good image to the public. Now walk with me outside. Hold your head up high.”
I stumble to my feet. I’m wearing a new pair of pumps. Jimmy Choos, I believe. I make myself walk without tripping over my feet. My pulse is a hummingbird straining to get out of my neck.
All eyes are upon us as I nervously trudge after Madame Fournier to go out of the door.
“Remember, you look like a zillion bucks,” she murmurs, “so you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Monsieur Danton opens the door for us. With a cringing heart, I step outside, smiling as we practiced.
The cameras all go off.
*
I stare at the newspaper headlines. I’m on the bottom half of the front page, my hair a glorious vision of mahogany and honey and caramel.
The press has now given me a nickname: Dizzy Lizzy. I suppose it could be worse.
The headlines say:
‘DIZZY LIZZY SPORTS NEW HAIRDO FROM FAMOUS MOLDAVIAN STYLIST.’
Madame Fournier wears a smug look on her features.
“Excellent,” she pronounces in satisfaction.
“What’s so excellent about it?” I complain.
“You’ll see.”
*
Rue Grenadiers is famous for its eclectic one-of-a-kind boutiques. Madame Fournier once again makes sure the paps are there when I step into Stella Catalan’s boudoir. Stella Catalan is an up and coming Moldavian designer, specializing in fluttery, asymmetrical dresses in wonderful fabrics.