lower portion of Honey’s anatomy,
carefully wiping down each long leg and even spreading apart her toes to dry between them. At last the young maid returned
to the center of Honey’s ripe figure, wiping her buttocks. Finally, kneeling before Honey’s fiery red bush, the young woman
brought up a corner of the large towel and dabbed at the labia. Her excitement growing, Honey spread her legs wide, allowing
freer access, wondering just how far the young thing was prepared to go.
The more the maid wiped at Honey’s lower set of lips, the damper the towel became. As if giving up a lost cause, the maid
dropped the towel and from beneath her apron brought out a small onyx-handled brush and proceeded to comb out the soft triangle
of red hair, plumping up the bush into a bonfire of beauty. While Honey trembled with rising heat, the young maid surveyed
her handiwork and, satisfied, redeposited the brush beneath her apron. Dried, teased, and coiffed, Honey waited with bated
breath for the next domestic duties of the serious-eyed maid. Alas, the young woman rose from her knees and asked politely
in French, “Will that be all, Mademoiselle?”
Honey could barely find breath to answer. “Unless you want to eat my cunt,” she rasped in English.
“Pardon? I do not speak your language,” the maid replied, again in French, with a saucy toss of her head.
Not wanting to press her demands or insult the Marquise’s hospitality, Honey sighed, “
Très bien. Merci
.” Reluctantly she pulled on her traveling robe and, with a sad smile, walked unsteadily from the bathroom.
A few minutes before eight, Honey, elegantly gowned in a striking black and white dress by Givenchy and refreshed by a long
nap in the canopied bed, entered the large, formal dining room. The Marquise was already seated at the head of a long, white-damask-covered
table laden with crystal and silver. Bowls overflowing with spring wildflowers of the region had been placed strategically
about. Honey bent to kiss the lightly powdered cheeks of the Marquise.
“
Très, très jolie
,” the Marquise praised Honey’s stunning beauty, and waved her graciously into the chair on her left. “My son will be down
shortly. Do you mind waiting?”
Honey said she did not and they sampled an exquisite champagne, nibbling on fresh caviar from Caspian sturgeon,
foie gras des Landes
, and smoked Scotch salmon on toasted crisp wheat bread. Shortly, Yves Bouscaral strode into the room in formal velvet dinner
clothes, a man in his mid-forties who was obviously at ease with himself and the world around him. Ruggedly built, with gentle
brown eyes, he appraised Honey warmly, kissed his mama devotedly, sat opposite Honey, and began at once to get soused on all
the lovely home-grown wines that accompanied each course, and for which Chateau Bouscaral was renowned worldwide.
By the dessert, raspberries with
crème fraîche
, Honey was also feeling the heady effects of all the scrumptiouswines, but her impatience had grown because the Marquise had yet to bring up the subject of the missing Kolina. Even though
the lovely older woman had drunk just as much as her son and honored guest, she remained alert, loquacious, witty, and decidedly
charming. It was not until the rich, black demitasse coffee was served that the Marquise inquired of Yves if he had been aware
that Kolina was missing from Bon Coeur.
“
Mon Dieu
,” he cried, with just a shade too much shock. Abruptly his flushed cheeks drained of color and he reached for a newly opened
bottle of champagne. Pouring a healthy glassful, he looked across at Honey, who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Tell me, Miss
Wildon, why are you involved in this messy business?” His words were slurred, his tone cool.
She smiled as best she could. “I am a friend of her sister, Barbro,” she lied. “She asked me to help, as the authorities are
getting nowhere with the case.”
“Ah, Barbro,” he
carefully wiping down each long leg and even spreading apart her toes to dry between them. At last the young maid returned
to the center of Honey’s ripe figure, wiping her buttocks. Finally, kneeling before Honey’s fiery red bush, the young woman
brought up a corner of the large towel and dabbed at the labia. Her excitement growing, Honey spread her legs wide, allowing
freer access, wondering just how far the young thing was prepared to go.
The more the maid wiped at Honey’s lower set of lips, the damper the towel became. As if giving up a lost cause, the maid
dropped the towel and from beneath her apron brought out a small onyx-handled brush and proceeded to comb out the soft triangle
of red hair, plumping up the bush into a bonfire of beauty. While Honey trembled with rising heat, the young maid surveyed
her handiwork and, satisfied, redeposited the brush beneath her apron. Dried, teased, and coiffed, Honey waited with bated
breath for the next domestic duties of the serious-eyed maid. Alas, the young woman rose from her knees and asked politely
in French, “Will that be all, Mademoiselle?”
Honey could barely find breath to answer. “Unless you want to eat my cunt,” she rasped in English.
“Pardon? I do not speak your language,” the maid replied, again in French, with a saucy toss of her head.
Not wanting to press her demands or insult the Marquise’s hospitality, Honey sighed, “
Très bien. Merci
.” Reluctantly she pulled on her traveling robe and, with a sad smile, walked unsteadily from the bathroom.
A few minutes before eight, Honey, elegantly gowned in a striking black and white dress by Givenchy and refreshed by a long
nap in the canopied bed, entered the large, formal dining room. The Marquise was already seated at the head of a long, white-damask-covered
table laden with crystal and silver. Bowls overflowing with spring wildflowers of the region had been placed strategically
about. Honey bent to kiss the lightly powdered cheeks of the Marquise.
“
Très, très jolie
,” the Marquise praised Honey’s stunning beauty, and waved her graciously into the chair on her left. “My son will be down
shortly. Do you mind waiting?”
Honey said she did not and they sampled an exquisite champagne, nibbling on fresh caviar from Caspian sturgeon,
foie gras des Landes
, and smoked Scotch salmon on toasted crisp wheat bread. Shortly, Yves Bouscaral strode into the room in formal velvet dinner
clothes, a man in his mid-forties who was obviously at ease with himself and the world around him. Ruggedly built, with gentle
brown eyes, he appraised Honey warmly, kissed his mama devotedly, sat opposite Honey, and began at once to get soused on all
the lovely home-grown wines that accompanied each course, and for which Chateau Bouscaral was renowned worldwide.
By the dessert, raspberries with
crème fraîche
, Honey was also feeling the heady effects of all the scrumptiouswines, but her impatience had grown because the Marquise had yet to bring up the subject of the missing Kolina. Even though
the lovely older woman had drunk just as much as her son and honored guest, she remained alert, loquacious, witty, and decidedly
charming. It was not until the rich, black demitasse coffee was served that the Marquise inquired of Yves if he had been aware
that Kolina was missing from Bon Coeur.
“
Mon Dieu
,” he cried, with just a shade too much shock. Abruptly his flushed cheeks drained of color and he reached for a newly opened
bottle of champagne. Pouring a healthy glassful, he looked across at Honey, who was eyeing him suspiciously. “Tell me, Miss
Wildon, why are you involved in this messy business?” His words were slurred, his tone cool.
She smiled as best she could. “I am a friend of her sister, Barbro,” she lied. “She asked me to help, as the authorities are
getting nowhere with the case.”
“Ah, Barbro,” he
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