From Jenny to Mei Ch. 18

Philip and Ai woke at about nine. They showered together with nothing more than light hearted laughs, soft kisses and gentle groping.

Towelled off and happy, Ai was back to her bouncy, effervescent self as if the run in with Hector, her erstwhile manager, hadn't happened the night before.

She took out a black bra, thong and a black day dress from one of the suitcases she'd hastily packed at her apartment. The garment was cotton lace with sleeves three quarters to her wrists and hugged her body like a sheath. With a spray of some fruity smelling cologne she was ready; five minutes from fabulous naked to fabulous dressed.

"You look..." Philip couldn't find the exact word, the one word that would capture all that she did look: thin, tan, cute, sultry, innocent, provocative; no one word could do so much. "You..." he stared at her face, paused then changed his thoughts, "Beauty is so hard to describe. The way your cheek curves to your chin, your hairline, the wisps of hair at your ears. Your eyes are..."

Ai spun to show him her backside and halted. Her hair caught up with her twist and gathered at her shoulders. "Would you say all that again when you make love to me? And look at me like that?"

"Sure."

"Anyway, thanks... I've got to look great. I'm meeting my new girlfriend today," she said with a giggle. "Sounds funny doesn't it? Anyway, it's true, it's life and I can't wait."

"I love you, Ai," he said, overlapping her words, and they both realized it was his first time.

She hopped to put her forearms around his neck and kiss him. "I love you too, Philip." She lifted her knee and wrapped it around him, "Let me show you how much," she said, and breakfast was canceled.

At ten to ten he called Mei to check in with her and see how the rest of her night with Karla went. She was just finished dressing, debating foundation or no foundation and decided against it. "Great... we had the best time. It would have been fantastic if you were here, I missed you, but you were right. It wouldn't have been the same for Karla."

"Ai is here and can't wait to meet you."

"Oh... so you changed your mind? Good."

"No, there was some trouble at her place and I went to get her. Everything is ok. When do you think you'll be here?"

"The taxi is waiting for us and Karla is scrambling to get ready. About forty-five minutes if that's ok?"

"Perfect. We'll be in the restaurant."

"Bye, honey."

He said goodbye and Ai looked even more nervous. She lay under him, and having heard Mei's half of the conversation, said, "She's going to be so beautiful and I'm going to look like a kid." She frowned.

"You should see Karla," he said, not thinking she wouldn't need the added anxiety of comparing herself to yet another woman. "But you, Ai... you are, and this isn't a complement to make you feel better, you're the most beautiful woman I've met in person."

She gave his cock an extra squeeze which unintentionally forced it out of her body. "You say the nicest things. Let me wipe off and get ready."

"We've got forty-five minutes to kill," he said. "Mei likes it when I suck my cum out of her and dribble it in her mouth."

"Oh my god," she squealed in perverse excitement, "would you?"

"Sure. What's sauce for the goose," he said, sliding down her body to kneel on the floor and take her small ass cheeks in his palms.

Getting head, the slower the better, and feeling that feeling of a soft tongue on her pussy lips felt so much like love to Ai.

"Oh, ummmm, this is the best." She squirmed a bit at the sensation of the softness of his tongue. She thought, 'he's sucking his cum out of me. Holy cow! That's HOT!'

He did suck, taking his time, not freaking out when she pushed a glob of his viscous ejaculate into his mouth. He gathered what he could, using his fingers to scoop out a bit more and she quivered, mouth open, as he smiled, pulled on her nipple, opened his lips and let his cum fall from his tongue.

Her head spun as she tasted his semen and kissed him, letting it swirl together between them before she swallowed.

"Oh my," she said. "That was the most romantic thing a guy has ever done."

"Tastes like zinc," he said and returned south.

Ai didn't have to coach him, didn't have to ask him to slow down or put his finger right there or nibble her clit every so often. She did encourage him with her sounds, as much for his pleasure as her involuntary emotional response, but without acting.

He patiently finished the job with two fingers, stretching her wide with a long digit to either side caressing her g-spot and sweeping her clit with his tongue. He let her arrive on her own schedule, happy to prolong the experience for her because he loved licking pussy more than just about anything.

He noticed again that she had this adorable way of pushing and grunting as she came, pulling his hair and sort of saying her name, 'Ai, Ai, Ai' as she rubbed his face against her. It was probably more like 'I, I, I,' with a very faint 'ə' sound. It was cute and endearing.

##########

Markèta prepared for her visit to the Élysée Palace with particular care. While her clothing had to be business neutral in France that gave her a lot of leeway. She selected a black jacket and skirt combination that accentuated her thin hips and an ivory blouse that would present her breasts to advantage without being slutty. For underneath she decided on the white bra and garter set and clasped the gold chain around her slim waist. From Sophie she learned he liked a bit of accessory jewelry, that he liked mid-morning trysts and had a penchant for anal.

She was cleared by security and met by Sébastien, the president's personal assistant, in the grand foyer for her ten a.m. appointment. She was led to the First Lady's rooms and was left to peruse her wardrobe. She knew her consultant and had a grudging admiration for the little fairy. He did a good job of hiding the older woman's unfortunate hips.

It was twenty minutes into her visit when Pierre entered and took a seat against the mirror. They spoke of her opinion of his wife's wardrobe and Markéta spoke highly of her clothes and the job her consultant was doing. She didn't want his job.

"And for a gift for her. What do you suggest?"

"What do you want the gift to say?"

"I appreciate you. You see she is accommodating of my duties and the personal stress my position entails. That and the many duties she performs for the state. She is in Nice today opening a clinic for immigrants, for example."

She knew she would be away but his signal was the important point.

"Jewelry speaks of passion, clothing says this is how I see you," she said.

"Hmm."

"A party tells her you want to display her, that you are proud."

"We attend too many parties."

"Do you wish that the gift be an intimate gesture of your love for her? Presentation can be as effective as the gift itself."

"I do love my wife but the time for intimacy such as that is past perhaps. I had thought maybe of a desk set, A Mont Blanc pen set."

She frowned slightly.

"No?"

"No, I think perhaps that sends the wrong message."

"What would you like to receive?"

She smiled slyly as she fingered through the First Lady's lingerie drawer.

"Personally, my favorite gifts are of a more intangible nature."

"What would a man reward you with, Markéta? A woman as unique and lovely as yourself?" He stood and approached her.

It was going exactly as she suspected it would, right down to that question.

"I enjoy experiences, adventures, an exploitation of romantic boundaries. Clothes and jewelry are wonderful, of course, but for me a man can show me how he feels only with himself."

He was next to her, his fingers toying with a pair of his wife's red panties. "So you have a sensuous nature, Markèta? One that enjoys the feel of silk against her skin?"

"Silk, certainly," she looked at him, turning slightly in the closet, "or leather, or the bite of a good hemp rope."

His set his hand on her shoulder and he cupped her breast with the other. "I have all those things."

She could have simply knelt down and started blowing him but she knew men like him appreciated some challenge in the seduction. She gently disengaged his hand and moved to his wife's shoes, looking behind her to gauge his attitude, careful not to smile. His look showed a shadow of apprehension.

She bent her knees, knowing the skirt would stretch to show her figure. She shook her sandy blond hair and let the curled waves bounce at her back.

"Perhaps shoes will say what you wish?"

He was tired of the pretext. "No, shoes are a woman's choice."

"And so is her body, Pierre. Who she shares it with and when."

This wasn't in the script, he thought. This was supposed to be an easy conquest. A quick effortless tryst. Would she dare to refuse him? He was considering retreating and postponing sex until his dinner with Sophie when she said, "You are a man of unusual tastes."

He grunted a reply.

"One, Sophie tells me, who has a particular..." she looked up and let her blue eyes tell him one thing while her mouth said another, "disgusting fetish."

"I am a man who, yes, has needs. Like any other." He was confused by the word 'disgusting.'

"We may have coinciding interests, Pierre. Have you found anyone to indulge your special perversion?" Anal sex was anything but a perversion in modern day Europe and that's not what she meant. She was risking a lot by this attitude but if she were correct in her judgement and if she were going to push aside Sophie, or at least take position as alternate mistress, she had to be bold.

"And what..." she stood as he spoke, with a shoe in her hand, "... perversion is that?"

She stood close in the smallish closet, pressed in by the dresses and silk slips on hangers to either side of them. His fascination was evident as she brought the high healed patent leather pump up for him to gaze at. She was now confident her supposition was correct. She moved it slowly and caressed his cheek with the shiny black toe. In her most seductive, husky voice she said, "I don't mean your love of fucking girls in the ass, Pierre. I mean your secret desires. The ones you only hint at with Sophie. The ones she scoffs at and calls you sick for having. The one that so disgusted your previous mistress." She put her hand on his chest and moved it up the buttons to his neck.

"You are the president of the republic," she placed her fingers around his throat and squeezed hard yet kept her voice calm. "But you're a fraud, a charlatan, an incompetent fool who is beyond his depth running a farmstead much less a great nation. You're a filthy pervert not worthy of being the dustman in a unemployment office in the smallest provincial backwater. Isn't that right, Pierre?"

He said nothing, only looked at the shoe and then to her eyes to gauge this extraordinary, bold woman.

She let go of his throat and brushed his chest as if to sweep away crumbs. "So Pierre? Have you found your real mistress? The one who understands you? The one who sympathizes with your condition, knows how to relieve you of your guilt?"

He was unsure of himself. She was bluffing, assuming that all men of authority have such doubts and weaknesses. But she was saying what he felt, speaking the very thoughts that haunted him. How could he, Pierre Abélard, youngest son of a tax accountant and a stay at home mother of six, be a great man, the man his country needed? He was terrified that this dream would evaporate and he would be revealed as the impostor he was, naked before the public, ridiculed and laughed at in the streets.

The stress of his job had made it worse. The bastards he was forced to appoint to his cabinet conspired behind his back, leaked damaging details to the press of a financial scandal that hit too close to home. They wanted his job and at times he wanted to step away from it all and grow tomatoes and return to teaching. One day soon, he was sure, the press would turn on him and some determined young reporter would discover the details of the defense contract's irregularities. Anyway the chairman of the consortium knew, even if it were set up through several intermediaries. It had happened before, no matter how careful one was, money could be traced, people could be forced to speak and he would be ruined.

"No one can help me," he said in despair and wiped his face with his hand. This what not what he expected but a sense of relief filled him. He wasn't sure how she had known what he so desperately wanted. He had only hinted before to any of his women. Only his wife knew but she would not have discovered this from her. Perhaps she was in tune with him. Maybe she just saw the truth, a woman's intuition. He needed redemption, forgiveness, he needed his mother's love again.

"So Pierre. What shall we do about your problem? Do you need my help?"

"This... this is a bluff."

"Of course not," she said as though the thought were ridiculous. "You're a hopeless piece of shit, Pierre, but perhaps for the state I can do a service." She brushed the front of his pants and felt his erection. "Look at you, Pierre." She leaned in close, her breath against his cheek, her hand stroking the tip of his cock. "Is this your tiny cock? Is this what Sophie's been satisfied with?"

His attempts at rebuilding his confidence over the past months had settled on sexual exploits. He could do very little as president, he was an incompetent as she had said, a fraud. He could win no legislation, make no improvement's to France's economic fortunes. He was wasting his opportunity to lead France and was just marking time until he would retire, disgraced and humiliated.

She unzipped his pants and reached inside "This really won't do."

He cupped a breast in an attempt to regain control and she crushed his balls in her hand.

"Remove your filthy hand," she hissed.

"Yes," he gasped and let go, letting his hands fall to his sides and letting his will collapse. "You won't touch me, Pierre. You have that little whore Sophie for that. For you there is something else."

He was speechless.

"I know what you need, Pierre." She petted his cheek and spoke softly. "I know how you hurt inside. I have seen it in your eyes when you tried to be jovial and gay. Your bravado and bonhomie works on some, the stupid people you've surrounded yourself with, but not on me. I see inside you. You are crumbling. You are weak. You need guidance. Someone who cares enough about you to let you vomit out all the shit inside you and show you where you've gone wrong. Someone to crush your balls and spit in your mouth. Someone to make you cry and then let you suckle at her breast as she combs your hair with her fingers."

It sounded so good. He knew he needed something. His fantasies had tended in this direction for years. It all started going wrong when he allowed himself to be seduced away from academia to run for mayor twenty years ago. But he was so full of himself. First as a professor, then Mayor and then elected to the National Assembly, he thought it just a run of good luck, just fortune rewarding him for chances taken. But the system was designed to accommodate incompetence and laziness in its leaders. No one expected him to know the slightest about running a city or the issues relating to legislation. No one took the talk of a presidential bid with anything but amusement. However, a deadlock froze the parties' top candidates in a bitter public battle and he was the agreed compromise, all sides knowing he would fail. So he was chosen to lead the party in the last election. Still no one had any hope he would win until fate stepped in and his opponent killed a child in an automobile accident on his way home from his gay lover's bed early one morning. That was two weeks before the start of balloting. This ensured his election, and now two years later the leader of France was a wreck. The state was leaderless and followers of both of the bypassed candidates of his own party were engineering his downfall.

"Lie on the floor and lick my shoes while I consider."

This was the critical moment she thought, but he didn't hesitate. He was at her feet in moments, his tongue tentatively touching her pumps. "Long, slow licks, shithead!" she said and he began to lick from toe to heal.

"Tell me what you need to say. But don't bore me."

It poured out of him between his licking. His confessions of inadequacy, incompetence and moral corruption spewed forth as did quiet sobbing.

When she got bored she selected one of his wife's thin leather belts. She noticed with approval that it was Hermès which, she recalled, started as a saddlery over a hundred years ago. 'How appropriate,' she thought, 'for whipping a man.'

"You are shit."

"I am shit. It's true. My daughters won't speak to me."

She doubled over the belt and whipped his ass through his chinos. "Don't whine to me you sniveling little shit." The president's yelp transformed into louder sobs. "Confess and I will decide when you can unburden your soul and tell me your personal feelings."

"Yes, mistress."

Crack! "Do not call me that!" Crack! "That whore Sophie is your mistress." She struggled to find what she should call him and the only thing that came immediately to mind was therapist but it didn't have the right tone. "I am your conscience, your confessor, and if you come to understand your wickedness and embrace humility, then perhaps something else."

His crying and the licking of her shoe continued. She could feel his saliva run down her instep. With disgust she pulled it away and told him to lay his head flat on the floor. Stepping on his face she said, "Tell me what I am."

"You are my dominatrice, my nemesis come to destroy me."

"Pull out your tiny penis."

He did so but it wasn't tiny by anyone's judgment. The president of France was packing a respectable piece.

"You're such a fucking pervert. Look at you with a little boy's cock. Try to make yourself come you filthy pig. Rub yourself like you did as a boy, guilty at your sin, cowering and silent so you mama didn't find you out and whip you."

"Mama," he moaned and Markéta found one of his triggers.

##########

They had just ordered coffee in the restaurant when he saw Mei. She was wearing the pearls, silk blouse and accordion skirt that Markéta had selected and the Choo guy's shoes. She was radiant with pink/red lipstick and walked like she owned the hotel. Karla was behind her a step, dark ruby red hair bouncing over a simple black turtle neck and jeans. Her skin was much darker than the average pale-skinned redhead. However she definitely looked white against Mei's coloring, but appealingly so. As a pair they looked astonishing, like models, except models never looked this spectacular in person.

Philip stood as did Ai, who walked around behind him.

"Mei," he said as her lips touched his cheek, "this is Ai." He turned but Ai had moved and as he spun around, locating her on his opposite side. He said, "Ai, this is Mei Chun and Karla."

In a blur, Mei hugged Ai and with a kiss on the cheek she whisked her off deeper into the restaurant. "Ai, I am so glad to meet you," she spoke like there was some kind of time bomb about to go off and if she didn't get a hundred words out that instant it would explode and kill them all. "He's told me about you and I want you to be completely comfortable with it and, I know I am, and... oh we are going to be such good friends, and you are so beautiful," she pushed Ai away to look at her dress, "but I knew you would be and I'm so glad you were here with him last night, you have to tell me everything, absolutely everything."

"Mei-Ch..." she got that much out before Mei resumed.

"And look at you. I'm going to have to get used to not being the prettiest girl in his bed, but that's ok... I mean," she stopped, "You do like girls, right, I mean, that's not going... he said?"