Ectasy on Fire

He loved the way she looked wearing the dark glasses; how he knew her eyes were looking at him when her head was turned. And most of all, Steve loved the smell of her. It was a combination of cleanliness and sweat mixed with the delightful fragrances one associates with a perfume counter in one of the exclusive boutiques he'd visited from time to time in the company of his mother back in the States. His mother was always dragging him to those places, making him wait for her, ignoring him. Somehow, he loved the aroma, the mingled scents.

Steve also enjoyed the envious glances of the people who would pause momentarily on the sidewalks, or purposely linger so they could study him and Melissa. He liked how older men admired him. He loved the looks from young girls wondering who he was, and what he did, how he came to be with this beautiful, older woman. It aroused him to think of these strangers and their questions.

He liked how Melissa was making him feel closer to her. At one point he could actually feel wetness on the tip of his prick and he wondered if he were going to stain the inside of his tight jockey shorts and what would happen if this were discovered.

He wondered if she wore panties. The mere thought of her underwear was positively thrilling to him. The way Melissa would cross and uncross her long legs, the brief glimpses he'd get of her silky stockings, her heels, her thighs, the way Melissa would sigh as they talked; it was highly stimulating to him.

Steve had never been with a woman before, much less one so much older than him. It made him feel very good. And yet, he was unsure of himself, frightened by what he feared she would perceive as his inadequacy.

In his imagination, of course, he had always been strong and virile, so that when he masturbated to images of himself with women, he was always the dominant one, taking them by force and possibly even unawares. Then he would pump his cock in and out of them, as they limply gave in, overwhelmed completely by his raw masculinity.

But that was his imagination. What would it be like in real life? he wondered.

Steve couldn't forget the image of Melissa playing with herself in the box in the loge. He could still see her hand rummaging around inside her skirt. He could imagine the damnedest things happening, and as the time passed, he found himself feeling more and more unafraid of her; in fact, his courage was growing in leaps and bounds.

Melissa had almost finished her glass of beer, but before the last of it washed down her throat, she passed the glass to Steve. As he sipped, he could taste her lipstick rippled on the rim of the glass. It tasted sweet. He liked it. When he put the glass back on the table, their eyes met.

"I'm glad your mother let you come here, Steve."

"Me too. Me too, Melissa."

She wanted to tell him how much she hungered for him but decided against it. She wanted to tell the youth how she yearned, how she craved, how desperate she was to have any kind of a relationship with him. Also, she wanted to tell the boy how good-looking he was, how pleasant his face, how clean-cut he was, and how she loved his manners. He was so calm, so gentle, and oh-so-observant, so terribly conscious of what went on around him. Unlike many others.

She slid her chair back. "Well," she smiled, looking around, catching the waiter's eye as she placed a ten-franc note under the empty beer glass, "shall we, Steve?"

He nodded. She took his hand first, then put her arm through his. He could feel the curve of her left breast pressing his side. When their eyes met as they walked through the cafe and out onto the sidewalk, the exchange was vibrant.

Across the road, Maurice started up the big limousine. The mighty engine purred with power. Shifting into gear, he glided the vehicle over to the sidewalk, his eyes caressing Mrs. Staunton's body, who seemed terribly excited as she held onto the boy's arm.

Having parked, Maurice leaped out of the car, came around the front, opened the rear door and bowed.

"Good evening."

"Good evening," said Mrs. Staunton.

"Hi," said Stephenson.

In the back of the car, Melissa pressed the button that automatically raised the shadowed glass partition separating the chauffeur's seat from the rear of the spacious limousine. This impressed Steve. He grinned.

"He can't hear us, either," said Melissa, squeezing his arm, snuggling next to him.

"And he really can't see?" asked Steve.

"No."

"This is all just too fabulous," he said.

Melissa crossed her legs. As she did, her skirt crawled up her legs and his eyes fell. He could see the tops of her stockings, and the sharp contrast between her milky white thighs and the darker tint of the expensive, sheer fabric.

She wore two garters. Steve felt his heart thudding as he watched her fingers rearranging the garters. Her leg was stretched out, her foot arching over the steep rise of the high heel; the top part of her foot was crisscrossed with thin straps, and her toes, sheathed in silk, wiggled excitedly.