Monsieur by Emma Becker Page A

as I wiped the cum on to the sheets. Thinking I was trying to move away, you tightened your grip on me: ‘Stop fidgeting!’
    Further captive caresses. I only truly got used to them much later, after the time for tenderness had passed. How sad.
    For a long time we didn’t talk. I was scared of looking into your eyes. I was studying the structure of our silence. I was the first to speak.
    â€˜So, you came.’
    It was all I could think to say. I was still surprised, shocked that you’d had the guts to leave your flat and journey through the streets separating the Latin Quarter and Convention to climb the twisting stairs of the tiny hotel to our room after four days of holding your hard cock in your hand and reading our texts.
    I can’t summon the subtlety of the dialogue we exchanged, and it’s a pity: I’d give anything to be able to screen in my mind the film of my first morning in your arms! I listened to the tone of your voice, echoing like music. The perfect voice of the hundred faceless lovers who had hitherto kneaded my body for ten minutes before I fell asleep each night. Until you held me down for the first time.
    â€˜You didn’t imagine it would happen as it did?’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜That I’d be like that. Did you think it would be so gentle?’
    (So gentle, Monsieur. How true.)
    â€˜That I would enter the room silently, that I would caress you and wait for you to wake? I could have rushed in, jumped on you and raped you. Torn your stockings apart and sodomized you.’
    Sodomized me? Monsieur! How crude! I have only a faint memory of the moment, but I think my ears shrivelled to hear that. I felt a brief spasm of disgust, thinking that ‘arse-fucked’ would have sounded so much better from your lips (as we soon discovered when you whispered the dreaded word into my ear on another Tuesday morning). Anything but ‘sodomized’. One day, Monsieur, I will be accepted into the Académie Française and I will expunge that word from the dictionary, if it’s the last thing I do.
    Do you remember, later that morning, you released me reluctantly and I put on a Liberty slip rolled down to the waist? I lit a cigarette, leaned back against the cast-iron bed posts and displayed myself, like a tramp, as you watched, constantly caressing the tips of my breasts. I could see myself reflected in the large mirror facing the bed and, fag hanging from my lips, I postured, talking about books, university, the friends I’d been with the previous evening. A veritable ballet of open thighs, studied lazy stretches all the way down to my toes, contortions against the bed posts, then bending over in a pretence of picking up my hair slides so I could show off my bum. Your smile was both sexual and paternal, just right for the situation, blessing the spectacle of my youth and your maturity with perfect insolence: Monsieur sprawled in a hotel bed with his naked, post-adolescent Lolita still gaping from his ministrations.
    It was one of those mornings you only get in May. The sun rising slowly while time stands still, immutable.
    From time to time, you would interrupt to say: ‘You’re so beautiful!’
    And I felt like a star among stars. (Much later you would ask yourself how I could have surrendered myself so completely and develop such a passion for you. The spiky adoration I had for you surprised you: you were unable to determine at which stage our traditional roles had switched. I don’t know. But I’m sure that the compliments and love in your seductive eyes had a lot to do with it.)
    I lay down against you, between your arms and knees, and you cupped your hand around my right breast.
    â€˜This little tit is going to be lonely when I leave,’ you predicted.
    The truth is, it took me a week to miss the caresses and the rest. Remember: attraction, repulsion. You fascinated me. There was something highly toxic about my unholy attraction