When he was about to come, he drove hard into her, pulling her by the hips as far back onto him as he could. He then leaned forward, buried his nose and mouth in her neck, moaned deeply, and shuddered. She could feel his cock's throbbing in the walls of her anal passage. No longer worried about balance – George would hold her firmly – she took her finger to her cunt and began to circle her clitoris, which was now hard and inflamed. She could still feel his enormous cock pulsating inside of her as the well-muscled walls of her asshole likewise began to throb and beat to his hardness. Afterwards, George pulled his dripping cock out of her and dressed.

Chapter Two

Melissa Staunton's box in the loge of the Monte Carlo opera was one of the most sumptuous there. Others nearby were reserved for local and visiting royalty, which included kings, queens, nephews, et cetera. Expensive purple velvet curtains graced the front of these booth-like areas. Inside were plush, comfortable easy chairs, gleaming bronze railings, and small lamps on the carpeted floors.

Each booth or private box in the loge overlooking the famous stage had its own private entrance, a door made of hardwood with bronze fittings. On each door was an engraved plate reporting the owner's name. The doors were heavy; their great weight insured their silence if they were opened or closed while a performance on the stage was taking place.

On Stephenson's first night in Monaco, he was bored to death as he watched a performance of an obscure Puccini opera. Below in the audience he could see people he recognized from their photographs in newspapers and magazines. Seated next to him was Melissa Staunton, also observing the crowd, listening politely to the opera, frowning from time to time when the mezzo-soprano struck a bum note, and clapping merrily at some comic antic on stage.

"Are you enjoying the performance, Stephenson?"

He wished he had the strength to tell her that among the many things he disliked about life and living was his name, Stephenson.

"Yes," he replied, nodding.

"I'm so glad."

He couldn't wait until it was over. Stephenson found it hard to believe anything on stage could be this awful. It was petrifying. He was also dying of thirst. He was forbidden to chew gum, and in the past, this had always helped. He kept wondering to himself if he could find some kind of an intelligent excuse to get the hell out of the place. On the way to the opera earlier, he'd spotted a brightly lit cafe with a terrace full of people. The moon was full, the air was balmy, and the sweet perfume of the fragrant jasmine had excited him.

Making up his mind, he turned to face Mrs. Staunton, uncrossing his legs. His eyes widened. From the position in which he had been seated, close to the front railing, often leaning on it as he saw others doing, but not draping himself or slouching, as he'd been advised not to, he hadn't been able to see Melissa. The easy chair she occupied was a bit to the rear of the box in deep shadow. She still had a decent view of the stage, but her position also permitted a degree of privacy. From nowhere in the loge or the upper balconies of the opera house could she be seen.

Melissa was relaxed in the easy chair. She had her eyes closed. Her feet were up on a hassock and, as Steve looked at her, her lips were slightly parted, her tongue weaving deliciously across them. Steve could not believe what he was seeing; she had her hand up inside her skirt.

It was moving ever so slowly, casually, meandering around, caressing and stroking her groin. Steve had no difficulty whatever seeing her fingers – which, with her skirt covering them, formed a tent in her lap – glide over and squeeze her sex. She was masturbating and breathing deeply, even sighing as her thoughts drifted.

On the stage below, the entire cast of the dumb opera was bellowing its brains out in a finale to Act One. When the trumpets let out a wild blast and the drums started banging, Steve turned. He shook his head. And, as he did, Melissa's eyes opened slowly. She sighed at Steve. He was once more looking over the bronze railing. She smiled. Then she sighed again to herself. She'd just had a wonderful time imagining him stark naked!

As the curtain descended, she reached forward with her hand, placing it on his shoulder. He turned.

"Stephenson.?"

"Mrs. Staunton," he said, half-looking at her over his shoulder, "I do wish you'd not call me Stephenson."

There! He's said it. Finally!

Melissa went back. Well, well, she thought to herself.

"Very well, what would you prefer?"

"Steve."

She smiled quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she wiped the grin off her face.

"Very well," she said, "on one condition."

"What would that be?" he asked, a little snottily. For some reason, which he couldn't figure out, he wasn't afraid of her.

"That you call me Melissa."

This shook him up. "What?"

"That you call me Melissa."

"I don't believe that."

"That's what I said, Steve."