Foreign Bodies

part 3

Camille liked her wine. She didn’t savour it though. I melted into the armchair as she went about describing the wine, it’s body, palate and finish, as if in some past life she was a sommelier in a Michelin starred bistro. But she devoured it with far too much gusto. Fortunately her bar was well stocked. We spent some hours drinking the fine stuff, hours that rattled by, filled with the most stimulating conversation. We shared many interests. We discussed our travels (hers predominantly), distant cultures, geopolitics, the natural history of my homeland (which she was most interested in), immigration and the outlook for the new E.U entity. I can only imagine her husband would have been as intelligent and engaging in discussion as she. I imagined them sat in this very intimate space, dissecting the days news over a bottle or two of Bordeaux’s finest 89 vintage. Debating fiercely their own views before embracing their differences and retreating to the bedroom for some kind of dirty sex. Perhaps with Camille at the window sill offering up her behind. This is how I pictured her world. And I was intrigued.

Camille turned out a delicate platter of cheese and fruit to accompany the wine, but it didn’t help prevent me from getting quite drunk. A heady, rosy cheeked red wine drunk. Generally a good thing. But on this night instead of relaxing my inhibitions, for some reason it deepened them. Although I had had a skin-full, there was a piqued wariness that, for some reason I just couldn’t shake. Of course it didn’t stop me from enjoying the night, or the magnificent company Camille provided. Nor could it diminish the feeling of sexual tension in the room. Ever since the episode in the bath, Camille knew she had the ability to flick the on switch, and I in turn was well aware that despite my protest, the sexual prowess of this woman had infiltrated my conscious and ignited a carnal instinct. Almost effortlessly. With but a stroke of the hand. This could get messy.

Camille continued to quaff her vino and her impeccable English became less so. The pitched down hybrid language that she spoke was certainly no less attractive, just slightly more difficult to pick up. And my powers of concentration were waning. Although I fought the sensation for another topic or two, it was time for bed.

I suggested to Camille that I was terribly exhausted and in dire need of the bed. She agreed, saying that we were perhaps already past this point and overdue. I hadn’t detected the nuance in Camille’s statement or manner. As she devoured the last of her wine I removed the remnants of platter and my own empty glass to the kitchen. Camille told me not to concern myself with any cleaning. I fetched myself a glass of water and with as much panache as I could muster, staggered toward the bedroom. I pointed to the obviously unoccupied side of the room and it’s single bed, asking if that was mine for the night. Camille nodded a oui. I didn’t need any further information than this. I stripped down to my boxers and climbed into the heavenly comfort of a soft pillowed warmth that had escaped me for, what now seemed, a minor age. A blissful security swept through me as I curled into a ball. Instinct dictated that I face out, with my back to the wall so as to survey the scene. I couldn’t see Camille from where I lay, but I heard her make her way down the hall to the bathroom. In her absence the room was, for the first time, deathly quiet. I surveyed the scene with an edge gilded curiosity. There was actually very little that spoke of human habitation here. Nothing on the floor. Nothing on the walls. Against one wall, in the middle of the room was a chest of drawers, beside it, near the foot of my bed a wardrobe. There was nothing on top of the drawers other than a couple of books. No mirror, no make-up, brush, box of tricks, nothing. At the foot of Camille’s bed was a small table with the only light source, a lamp, perched on a lace doily at its centre. There was nothing on the table except what looked like, and after focussing intently was confirmed as, a spent condom. Obviously fresh, full, and undisposed of. A substantial horror penetrated my silent sanctuary and I curled tighter into a ball. As if on cue, Camille returned and latched the front door behind her. I listened to what sounded like the fumbling open of pill bottles in the kitchen and then the tap.

The lights went out, the only remaining light was that which illuminated the rubber full of some strangers army, on which I couldn't help but fixate. My corner of the room was bathed in an unsettling darkness. Camille breezed past me and into view. She stood at the drawers and began to undress. Her backlit form provided me a welcome distraction. She first removed her earrings and then proceeded to unzip her full length skirt, shimmying it over the now obvious curve of her hips. It fell in a pool at her feet and I couldn’t help but admire her bare legs as they kicked out at the cloth, consigning it to a corner by the wardrobe. Camille possessed an air of grace even in inebriation. Her attention then turned to the polka dot blouse and although I felt I shouldn’t, I found it impossible not to stare at her in a throaty anticipation. Her actions, all consuming, had the associated effect on my manhood. It grew rapidly. I remained tucked in my ball, but the tiredness I felt had evaporated. I was now experiencing other drunken sensations, drunk on my own fantasy, reminded of the many times I’d spied on my neighbours, through gauzy lace or cracks in the curtains, personal moments of theirs I’d infiltrated, as they readied for bed or perhaps the shower, occasionally I’d seen acts of self love, and marital fucking. But now, right here, my perversion played out in the very same space that I occupied, and I could scarcely believe my eyes.

Camille peeled away her blouse, revealing the outline of a curvaceous vixen, cupped and clad in a dark matching set of under garments. She moved to the wardrobe and fetched a hanger from inside and hooked the blouse on the wardrobe knob. She then turned to face me and, fearing I’d been busted staring, I half closed my eyes, not wanting the interaction but maintaining a devious blurry fix on Camille as she stripped. My heart was beating loudly in my ears as Camille reached around to unclip her bra. As it fell off her shoulders she revealed an ample chest which although once would have stood proud, now relaxed under the gloriously gentle yet persistent force of gravity, with beautifully natural effect. She possessed the kind of bosom that one could dive into and get lost in. Her nipples peaking splendidly within darkish, highball sized areolae. The kind of breasts that I just wanted to grab.

Camille hooked the bra over the same wardrobe knob and moved back to the drawers. Turning to face the lamp she then noticed the used rubber and swiftly leant over to brush it from view. It either landed in a bin out of sight, or on the carpet. 
Regardless, it was too late.