CAPTIVE WOMEN
By Don Winslow
Excerpt from: Captive Women
Acutely alive to his silent gaze, the dark-haired girl suddenly feels a
flush of warmth come over her. She knows it. It is the heat of his
unspoken admiration. And it inevitably follows the quiet shiver of pride
that thrills her each time that look of pleasure brightens up the English
Lord's pale, blue eyes. Nicole's response is an almost imperceptible one:
a slight drawing back of her undraped shoulders, a subtle stiffening of
the spine. Sitting imperiously erect now, her gaze passes over his head,
to dwell on an age-darkened painting of some long dead Duke: a stern
Elizabethan figure, whose forbidding image graces the opposite wall, hands
crossed on the pommel of a slender sword that angles down to a point
resting in the ground exactly between his booted feet. There is a
lecherous, vaguely evil curl to that smirking nobleman's neatly bearded
lips. Contemplating that cruel face allows her to avoid Lord Breedlowe's
silent regard; yet she is never unaware of his intense interest, the man's
obsession with her.
And there is much to admire. The French girl's face is exquisitely made.
Her observer drinks in her crisp beauty. He can never get enough of her
cool lines: the neat precisely-sculpted features, those eloquent eyes that
are large, and dark, and inquisitive. There is a wonderful sheen to the
girl's smooth black hair: the silken fringe of bangs that layers her brow,
the soft bell of even hair that falls in a slight curve, curling in
slightly till it kisses her collar. She feels his gaze as it lovingly
caresses the soft curves of her bare shoulders, before trailing down her
front to dwell on her naked breasts. Firm, young breasts, high set and
slightly conical, they jut out and up at a jaunty angle, offering to the
world a pair of pert, uptilted nipples. Are her nipples perhaps a bit too
large?, Nicole sometimes wonders. Breedlowe once said, smiling at her and
rubbing a protruding tip between his fingers, that her nipples were
perfectly delightful; that they presented with a certain "pouty
insouciance".
At first, Nicole felt ill-at-ease. It was not so much a sense of shame, as
that she felt a bit awkward, self-conscious at the idea of taking off her
clothes in this lavishly appointed room, to sit at this rich man's table
with her so breasts openly displayed. Not that the girl is excessively
modest. Far from it! Nicole is a free spirit, who enjoys flaunting her
young, fit and trim body. She works out and she frequents the beach often,
and there she can be found sprawled out on the hot sand, carelessly
topless. Indeed, that was where Breedlowe had first seen her, as she lay
eyes closed, stretched out on her back, hands at her sides, legs loosely
parted, her body languid, in the heat of a warm summer's day, gently
mounded breasts casually served up to the sun god. But what seemed so
natural and easy in the soft warmth of the Mediterranean afternoon, left
the girl a bit disconcerted in the evening formality of the chateau's
elegant dinningroom.
It didn't take long to overcame this initial embarrassment. Soon she found
it wasn't such a difficult thing after all. It required no more than
striking a pose, holding herself with the prefect poise of a high fashion
model, slipping into a role like some supremely consummate actress. By
now, the slender dark-haired girl was able to sit erect, self-composed,
with the aloof indifference of a sculpted idol. She might have been some
bare-breasted Egyptian goddess, blithely unconcerned that lesser mortals
might contemplate her ageless beauty, that maidenly bosom which left
openly, proudly displayed -- for all the world to see.
When she thought about it at all, Nicole concluded that it was a little
thing really, a trifle, a modest enough request; no, not a request, she
corrected herself, more of a demand, a softly uttered demand. Like most of
the strange Englishman's "requests", on this, he was implacable. He never
failed to remain soft-spoken and courteous, his fine patrician face
betraying little emotion, even though she knew it excited the man
terribly-- to have her like this.
****** ****** ****** ******
The instructions he gave when setting down the routine were clear; and
they never varied. His driver, Ramon, would come for her at promptly at
seven. Nicole was to be ready: smartly dressed in a narrow tailored skirt
and a light silken blouse, one that buttoned down the front, always to be
worn with dark-tinted pantyhose and high heeled pumps. He insisted on that
exact outfit, allowing only minor variations from time to time. Old
Gilles, the butler, would nod his grey-fringed head in deferential welcome
and, blank features serenely undisturbed, would lead her to the spacious
dinning room with its dark wooden paneling, high arched, cream-colored
ceilings, and those narrow gothic windows with heavy purple drapes always
pulled shut against the light of day.
Lord Breedlowe (she never learned his first name), was probably in his
mid-fifties, tall, lean, and aesthetic-looking, with startling blue eyes.
He would rise to greet her, impeccably groomed in an expensive suit, white
shirt, and vaguely regimental tie. There was something of a military air
about the man, his carriage, the sense of command he exuded; the
impression of someone who is used to being obeyed. Like the man, their
intimate dinners had a formal and restrained air about them: the polished
sliver, sparkling china edged in guilt, and Waterford crystal in elegant
place settings for two, the black velvet gloves carefully laid at her
place. The cavernous room was heavily shadowed though the table itself was
an island of light, ablaze with light from glistening candelabras. Soft
music, delicate strains of Mozart, came from some cleverly hidden source.
They take their places at opposite ends of the highly polished, rosewood
table, and the liveried butler silently glides in with the sherry,
offering to pour, with a hushed "Madam", and a muted "Sir". Breedlowe is
inevitably courteous, always the English gentleman, toying with his
wineglass and making small talk like an attentive uncle, asking about her
day, had she been shopping, et cetera. In this way they pass a few
pleasant minutes till the butler has left them. And once they are alone,
Breedlowe places his glass on the table, and politely ask his young guest
if she would remove her blouse.
Without a word, she complies, taking the napkin from her lap, carefully
folding it, before getting to her feet. She comes around the table to
stand a few feet from her host, who pushes his chair back from the table
to be able to examine her while she undresses for him, for Breedlowe
dearly loves to watch the willowy, exquisitely-made girl slowly take off
her clothes. His insatiable eyes follow her every movement, missing
nothing -- the way she brings her slim hands up to her to the front of her
collar, the way the long delicate fingers work open each pearl button,
opening a long narrow vee down the front of the silky white blouse she
wears. Nicole arches up and peels the loose blouse back off her shoulders,
letting it slither down her extended arms before working on the cuffs and
finally pulling her arms free, all the while, her eyes seductively
lowered.
Nicole in her brassiere is a powerfully stirring sight! The pale violet
bra that bands her lithe torso is a wispy, insubstantial thing of lacy
straps and sheer satin cups; soft pouches in which her tautly rounded
breasts are cozily nestled; thick, provocative nipples poking against the
press of hazy fabric like two hard roseate points. The young woman reaches
up behind her, undoes the catch, and the bra springs open, spilling her
juddery breasts. She peels the thin ribbons off her shoulders, and gathers
up the flimsy cups to dispose of her brassiere. She might be undressing in
the privacy of her own bedroom, so nonchalantly does the girl bare her
splendid young breasts to the warm moist air
Copyright 2000, Don Winslow