critical to me. If she had been at all reluctant, nothing could have come of the two of us.
“You never tell me anything about yourself.”
Fair enough. Not that she was much better at that. I leaned back in my seat with a smile. “Ask me a question and I’ll answer,” I promised. “But there’s a catch. You’ll have to answer the same question.”
She gave me a slow, considering look. “Fair enough,” she replied. Then she flashed me a smile. “Have you ever measured your dick?”
I laughed out aloud. Smart ass. I reached forward for a piece of cheese. “Of course,” I deadpanned. “I was sixteen. It seemed like a very necessary thing to do.”
She laughed as well. “Why? It’s, ahem, rather sizeable.” She blushed as she spoke.
My dick was stirring in my pants, aroused by her humour and her flat-out sexiness. “Sixteen year old teenagers aren’t particularly rational, Jenny. Was that the only thing you wanted to know? ”
“I was just being funny,” she admitted. “Okay, I’ll play. Tell you what.” She held up the magazine she was reading. It had a lurid pink cover. One headline blared ‘ Learn to please your man in 5 easy steps. ’ “There’s a quiz here.” She read the passage, then looked up. “Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?”
That was simple. “We are headed there. The farmhouse in Provence.”
“Why?”
I thought about the warmth the house always radiated. The lime-washed walls, the large copper stove, the pots and pans that hung from the ceiling. The smell of baking that lingered in the kitchen.
Sunlight felt different in Provence; the air itself smelled sweeter. The tiled courtyard was flanked by lavender bushes. The fading walls were covered with climbing roses. The sloping terracotta roof flashed red in the light and the gardens were everywhere.
This was the farmhouse I grew up in when I wasn’t in boarding school. I had memories of walking through the vegetable gardens in the back, plucking sun-warmed cherry tomatoes off the vine. I used to lie in the middle of the fragrant fields of lavender and dream the hours away. In the winter, when the cold wind blew, the flames roared in the fireplace and the big kitchen table would groan with food.
“When I was in boarding school, during summer break, I would go to the farmhouse and during winter break, I’d visit my father. My father’s home was always filled with presents and toys and servants. The farmhouse, on the other hand, just had my aunt, who was always dour and taciturn. But the farmhouse was still home.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“I can’t explain,” I replied. “I just feel connected there. Rooted. Everywhere I go, every single place I live in, I try to recreate Provence. My rooftop garden, for example.” And in the first house I ever bought, in a suburb in Paris. The house that I took her to the first night I met her. “You’ll see. We are heading there tonight.”
Her eyes softened. “Thank you for taking me there,” she said.
From the first day, I’d wanted to show her my home. “Your turn,” I told her. “Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?”
“On an island,” she said promptly. “In the middle of the sea.”
“Why? Do you like the water?”
“I do,” she said. “But that’s not why.”
“Why then?”
She hesitated. She took a sip of her wine. I could tell she was wondering how to answer my question. “On an island,” she finally confided, “I’d feel safe. I can see everything. There’ll be a hill and my house will be right on top. From all sides, I’d be able to see the water. I’d be able to know if someone approaches.”
I thought of the image she was painting, one of a sad girl sitting in a glass house on top of a hill, always watching for her tormentors. This was more than simple domestic abuse, more than a master beating his submissive without her consent. This was trauma,
“You never tell me anything about yourself.”
Fair enough. Not that she was much better at that. I leaned back in my seat with a smile. “Ask me a question and I’ll answer,” I promised. “But there’s a catch. You’ll have to answer the same question.”
She gave me a slow, considering look. “Fair enough,” she replied. Then she flashed me a smile. “Have you ever measured your dick?”
I laughed out aloud. Smart ass. I reached forward for a piece of cheese. “Of course,” I deadpanned. “I was sixteen. It seemed like a very necessary thing to do.”
She laughed as well. “Why? It’s, ahem, rather sizeable.” She blushed as she spoke.
My dick was stirring in my pants, aroused by her humour and her flat-out sexiness. “Sixteen year old teenagers aren’t particularly rational, Jenny. Was that the only thing you wanted to know? ”
“I was just being funny,” she admitted. “Okay, I’ll play. Tell you what.” She held up the magazine she was reading. It had a lurid pink cover. One headline blared ‘ Learn to please your man in 5 easy steps. ’ “There’s a quiz here.” She read the passage, then looked up. “Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?”
That was simple. “We are headed there. The farmhouse in Provence.”
“Why?”
I thought about the warmth the house always radiated. The lime-washed walls, the large copper stove, the pots and pans that hung from the ceiling. The smell of baking that lingered in the kitchen.
Sunlight felt different in Provence; the air itself smelled sweeter. The tiled courtyard was flanked by lavender bushes. The fading walls were covered with climbing roses. The sloping terracotta roof flashed red in the light and the gardens were everywhere.
This was the farmhouse I grew up in when I wasn’t in boarding school. I had memories of walking through the vegetable gardens in the back, plucking sun-warmed cherry tomatoes off the vine. I used to lie in the middle of the fragrant fields of lavender and dream the hours away. In the winter, when the cold wind blew, the flames roared in the fireplace and the big kitchen table would groan with food.
“When I was in boarding school, during summer break, I would go to the farmhouse and during winter break, I’d visit my father. My father’s home was always filled with presents and toys and servants. The farmhouse, on the other hand, just had my aunt, who was always dour and taciturn. But the farmhouse was still home.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“I can’t explain,” I replied. “I just feel connected there. Rooted. Everywhere I go, every single place I live in, I try to recreate Provence. My rooftop garden, for example.” And in the first house I ever bought, in a suburb in Paris. The house that I took her to the first night I met her. “You’ll see. We are heading there tonight.”
Her eyes softened. “Thank you for taking me there,” she said.
From the first day, I’d wanted to show her my home. “Your turn,” I told her. “Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world?”
“On an island,” she said promptly. “In the middle of the sea.”
“Why? Do you like the water?”
“I do,” she said. “But that’s not why.”
“Why then?”
She hesitated. She took a sip of her wine. I could tell she was wondering how to answer my question. “On an island,” she finally confided, “I’d feel safe. I can see everything. There’ll be a hill and my house will be right on top. From all sides, I’d be able to see the water. I’d be able to know if someone approaches.”
I thought of the image she was painting, one of a sad girl sitting in a glass house on top of a hill, always watching for her tormentors. This was more than simple domestic abuse, more than a master beating his submissive without her consent. This was trauma,
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