Five Days Ch. 01

Story Info
Sabine's last tango in Nice...
2.6k words
4.12
7.8k
2

Part 1 of the 2 part series

Updated 10/24/2022
Created 08/27/2011
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Monday

Sabine arrived at the hotel half an hour early, the taxi dumping her brusquely on the sidewalk as if it knew her purpose in being there. She felt like the world was passing judgment on her: the gray, rain-soaked streets and buildings, the thundery sky that threatened overhead, the hurrying pedestrians with their heads down, eyes lowered away from her. As she stood there in dark glasses, raincoat and a silk Chanel head scarf she could hardly be any less conspicuous; but perhaps it was her own sense of guilt that made her feel so scrutinised.

She had chosen the hotel well; a squalid, two star place located in the slightly less chic part of town. She was certain that she'd encounter no one she knew here, not miles away from their villas and their yachts and their clubs. She would see no one from her exclusive circle of privileged friends, no prying acquaintances who might ask a happily married -- and very wealthy -- woman what she was doing in 'this' part of town.

But Sabine was early; and besides, she was not yet sure whether she was going to go through with this at all.

She decided to wait in the cafe across the street. She ordered an espresso and a cognac to steady her nerves. In a manner that shocked even her, she knocked back the spirit and asked for another, wondering what the proprietor thought. An alcoholic housewife, probably, she mused.

Sabine took the risk of sitting at a street table, where she smoked a cigarette and sipped her coffee and watched the hotel as if waiting for someone to emerge. Even now she was debating whether or not to make her appointment, or to forget this absurd whim and take a cab back to her house in the hills -- back where she felt safe.

There was an old man sitting at the table next to hers; he was reading his newspaper, a cigar smouldering in the ashtray beside a small, half-finished glass of beer, a little dog curled up at his feet. Sabine felt uncomfortable, even though the man had barely acknowledged her when she had first sat down and was now preoccupied with his newspaper. She shifted in her chair awkwardly, noticed a small splash of dark mud on her stocking. Wetting a forefinger she removed the mud and instinctively straightened her dress. She smiled briefly, almost imperceptibly, at no one in particular; took a sip of coffee. Each action was artificial, self-conscious, each speaking of her horrible unease. But no one seemed to notice it except her.

She looked at her watch.

Soon now.

How many times had she resolved to go home whilst sitting here at this sidewalk cafe? Twenty? Thirty? Oh, how the consequences of discovery had played out inside her head; the shame, the humiliation, the aftermath. She was almost certain to lose it all: husband, children, house, fortune -- everything. Could she be that careless?

For no particular reason her attention was at that moment directed to the bill, which was clipped to a little china plate and fluttered lightly in the breeze. Perhaps it represented the finality of making her choice, for after she had paid it she would leave and take one of two courses: hotel or home.

Sabine took a twenty euro note from her purse and placed it on the little plate; then, casually -- confidently -- she checked her lipstick in her compact, took one last look around (no one particularly seemed to be paying her any attention), and left the cafe, her decision made.

She was quite sure she'd made the right one.

Boldly, Sabine walked across the street and straight into the hotel lobby, but stopped within a few feet of entering the building.

There, she'd done it. She breathed a mental sigh of relief. It had been like walking into a hotel for the very first time.

She gathered herself, took a deep breath, and walked over to the reception area. The concierge was a young man in his early twenties. He was sitting behind the desk watching an American sitcom on the little television secreted rather obtrusively beside the computer. Probably a college student on Spring break, Sabine guessed, earning a little bit of money for the next semester.

"I'm meeting a friend," Sabine said, rather abruptly. She could hear the edginess in her own voice, remonstrated herself silently for not being able to control it. "Room 217."

"Of course, Madame," the concierge replied. "The elevator is just behind reception, to your right."

Is that it? she thought. No glib comment, no raised eyebrow? She had invented a whole catalogue of excuses in the short time she had been standing in the lobby and needed none of them. And thankfully, too, for she knew that none would be particularly convincing.

"Thank you."

"Madame."

Sabine walked through to the elevator -- one of those beautiful, wrought-iron antiques of the 19th century -- and closeted herself inside the stiff and creaking carriage that would take her up to the second floor. It rocked and buckled as it lurched slowly upward (it was no quicker than taking the stairs), and while she traveled inside it she looked at her reflection in the long, thin mirror that was fixed to one of the paneled walls. She had not yet removed her sunglasses, and still did not, even as she checked her appearance in the glass. There was something safe about them, something she could hide behind, and she kept the scarf around her head too, not caring that it merely encouraged assumptions about her business here.

The elevator arrived on the second floor with a jolt that was like the accusing hand of a store detective on her shoulder. She was glad to get out of it, almost hurrying into the hallway to relieve the claustrophobia. Next to the ironwork cage of the elevator was the top of a worn staircase, and for a moment she considered taking flight, considered rushing out of this hotel and into the street where she could breathe again.

The corridor outside the elevator was musty and dim and sordid. It reeked of a hundred thousand affairs; clandestine meetings between businessmen and hookers, cheating husbands and secretaries, lonely housewives and...

Sabine suddenly felt sullied. What on earth was she doing here, when she had stayed at the Four Seasons and the Crillon and the Gritti Palace? Nevertheless, she made her way down the badly lit hallway following the ascending numbers on the doors until she reached 217. Without thinking twice, she knocked.

After a moment the door opened.

Lean, muscular, and dark, sullen eyes. Unshaven. The young man stood in the doorway dressed in T-shirt and jeans, barefoot.

"Hello."

Sabine did not reply. The voice in her head was telling her to run, to get out of there, but her feet were rooted to the spot.

"I didn't think you'd come," the young man added after a pause, gruffly.

"Of course I was going to come. This was my idea, after all."

The young man smiled coldly and stood aside to let her in. "Well?"

Sabine steeled her nerves and stepped into the room, finally taking off her sunglasses and headscarf.

"So you really want to go through with this?" The young man walked past her without helping her out of her raincoat. Well, what did she expect from such a crude lout?

"I'm here, aren't I?"

The room was small and cheap and distastefully decorated. She'd stayed in places like this before -- sticky linoleum in the bathroom, faux oil painting on the wall -- but that was a thousand million years ago. She looked at the double bed with its gaudy headboard and felt disgusted at herself.

The young man stood in front of her, looked at her, appraised her.

"You're quite good-looking, I suppose. For your age."

For her age? Sabine was 39!

"And not a bad body, either."

Yes, it was; and she had worked hard to keep it that way, too.

"Take off your panties."

The request took her by surprise and she looked at him askance.

"Don't look at me like that. And do as you're told: I said 'Take your panties off'."

It had begun.

Sabine lowered her gaze and, rather self-consciously, reached under her dress to unfasten her suspenders. Without pulling up her dress she began easing down her panties. The young man watched as she wiggled her hips slightly to take them off, stepping out of them and holding them in a bunch in one hand.

"Give them to me."

She handed them over and the young man held them up to his face and breathed in deeply.

"Even your cunt smells of Chanel!"

His blunt manner appalled her.

He fingered the expensive panties thoughtfully before tossing them rudely in her face. She flinched and they dropped noiselessly to the floor.

"Show me your cunt."

Her jaw clenched at the repetition of that vulgar, grotesque word, and she stared hard at him. But when those dangerous, jungle cat eyes flashed back at her she lowered her gaze.

Sabine raised her skirt to her waist, presenting her private parts for inspection. She felt completely naked -- even though only a small part of her was exposed -- and knew that she was blushing. Looking down at the floor she could see her dark tuft standing out against tanned thighs, the garters hanging loosely about her legs.

"Very nice."

The young man gestured her to turn around.

Sabine did as she was told. As she turned around to show him her backside she could feel his unfeeling eyes evaluating her body like it was a side of beef in the marketplace.

"Not bad. Although you could lose the cellulite."

Cellulite? Why, she spent four mornings a week at the gym! She knew he was lying. Goading her. Salaud...

He roughly turned her back to face him, grabbing her by the shoulders. His face was cold, passionless.

He reached between her legs, startling her, ran a finger through the uncovered lips of her vulva. To her own surprise she found she was wet.

"You little slut! You're enjoying this!"

Sabine blushed deeper, keeping her eyes down more out of shame than obedience.

The man began unbuckling his belt.

"Since you seem so eager...perhaps you'd better get on your knees, whore."

She glanced up at him, knew that he could instantly see that look of fear in her eyes.

She looked immediately, submissively, to the ground.

"I said on your knees, whore!"

She dropped to her knees instantly, felt her slackened stockings loose around her thighs, the garters still unfastened and dangling uselessly. Her skirt was still up around her waist and she had her back to the hotel room door; she knew he must have been able to see her bare ass in the full-length mirror on the back of it.

She watched as the young man unzipped his jeans and pulled out his dick which, Sabine was surprised to see, was not yet hard. Despite its impressive size it looked rather absurd and unthreatening as he held it flaccid between his fingers. Sabine wanted to laugh - Didn't he want to see the look of admiration on her face when he pulled out his big, hard dick and said triumphantly, 'Suck it, bitch'?

But she fought the inclination to laugh out loud; besides, the reality of this whole sordid business made it impossible to find anything genuinely amusing.

Sabine was even more surprised when he roughly grabbed the back of her head and pulled her mouth onto his penis, almost choking her.

Instinctively, she put her hands out to steady herself, holding onto the young man's hips.

"That's it. Suck that cock, whore."

Sabine thought back to the last and only time she'd fellated a man. She was young and inexperienced and hated every minute of it. Now, twenty-one years later, she was still just as inexperienced and felt embarrassed at her lack of prowess.

Despite this, the young man's penis swiftly hardened and grew in her mouth. As it pushed against the back of her throat she closed her eyes and thought of her husband. She wondered how he had fought the urge to stick his dick in her mouth like this; this -- the one thing she knew all men were supposed to love. And her husband was flesh and blood after all, like any other man. He must have the same urges, the same desires, the same potential for passion...

She took the risk of glancing upwards. The young man's eyes were closed and it looked like he was smiling -- or grimacing. His hands were still holding onto her head, pushing it back and forth on his dick as it slid wetly in and out of her mouth. He was in total control of this act, for Sabine's hands were still flat against his hips and she could use only her mouth; all she could do was lick and suck as he fucked her.

The tears were streaming down her face now, a combination of shame and guilt and discomfort.

"That's it you dirty little cocksucking whore... I'm going to come... and I want you to swallow it all..."

The thought of this repelled her. First his salty, sweaty dick and now this...

She had always wondered what semen tasted like. She hated the smell of it, that pungent odor of boiled cabbage. She didn't imagine it tasted pleasant at all; she merely hoped it would not make her choke -- or worse still, vomit.

Just get it over with, she told herself.

With a series of animal grunts the young man came in her mouth.

Sabine fought the instinct to gag as the warm, thick fluid spurted over her tongue and hit the back of her throat. She wanted to spit it out but knew she could not, must not. And so she swallowed quickly in two large gulps, drinking the man's sperm and feeling it slide all the way down to her stomach.

She felt utterly soiled.

As the young man pulled out of her mouth Sabine knelt there in front of him, head dropped in shame, arms hanging loosely at her sides. The taste of semen was still strong in her mouth and her face was streaked with mascara.

Silently, soberly, they began to tidy themselves up, the young man stuffing his dick back into his pants and Sabine refastening her stockings. She stood up, dazed, nauseous, and finding some vestige of decency she pulled her skirt down to cover herself. She looked around in search of her panties -- her tousled hair falling in front of her crimson face -- found them and hurriedly stuffed them into her purse.

While the young man lay out on the bed she wandered into the bathroom to splash water on her face. She drank some, too, to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth, then gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

What the hell are you doing, Sabine? Debasing yourself like this?

She straightened her clothes and hair before walking back into the bedroom and preparing to leave. As she put on her coat, scarf and glasses, the young man watched her smugly, hands behind his head.

"I don't suppose you'll be back tomorrow?"

"That's my business."

"I went easy on you today. Think about it."

"I will."

Without glancing up at him, Sabine left the hotel room and kept walking until she found herself on the Promenade des Anglais and looked at the sea and tried not to be sick.

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Scotsman69Scotsman69over 12 years ago
A very finely-written tale.

I look forward to more. Thank you.

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