La Suite Read online

  Jérôme, her husband, lover, best friend, sexual guide and partner is dead. What does life hold now for Gaëlle and her desire for erotic experiences?

  Gaëlle finds herself desperately alone. She’s missing Jérôme badly. Her sexual fires have burned low, but have they gone out? A chance meeting with Gabriella, her former secretary, reawakens thoughts and memories of those passions that had led her to explore the far reaches of her sexuality. Deprived of Jérôme, her husband, lover and guide, Gaëlle will have to accept the responsibility of daring to plunge into any new and exciting experiences. In that process, what will she discover about herself, her erotic desires, her friends from the gym and strangers whom she has yet to meet?

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  La Suite

  Copyright © 2013 MP Frank

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-601-5

  Cover art by Ashley Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  La Suite

  By

  MP Frank

  My patient editor and proofreader. You know who you are!

  Chapter One

  Gaëlle paused at the fitness-room door and took a moment to observe her friends in action. Beatrice, trim, dark-haired and, as usual, not sweating at all, was on the static bike. Beside her, the curvier, shorter and sweat-soaked Mercedes was talking as fast as she was pedalling. Leila, as lean as one of her compatriot distance runners, was striding out on a treadmill. Gaëlle looked hard at her and wondered whether Leila was becoming too thin, like Alice, who was doing her stretches. It wouldn’t be good if, as Alice put on flesh after her anorexia, she met Leila going the other way. Leila, Mercedes, Beatrice and Alice were all pretty women, she reflected, surely much more attractive than herself. Was that a partial explanation of why, as far as she was aware, she was the only one to have explored her sexuality so deeply and so extensively?

  On the other treadmill was a woman Gaëlle didn’t recognize. She was tall, with olive skin and short dark hair. The woman turned her head, perhaps sensing she was being observed, and Gaëlle caught a flash of dramatic blue eyes. She went to warm up.

  When Mercedes got off the bike, she came over to Gaëlle.

  “Potential new blood,” she said, hitching her head towards the unknown woman. “What do you think?”

  “Well, if you see her as a suitable candidate, go and ask her,” Gaëlle said, pausing in her bench-press repetitions. She listened in as Mercedes approached the newcomer, who had just stepped off the treadmill.

  “Hello, I’m Mercedes,”

  “Maya.”

  “When you’re done, would you care to take coffee with the international girls’ group?

  “Girls? I’m a bit old for that, aren’t I? And why international?”

  “You’ll have to meet them to see. And if you’re here, you’re young enough.”

  “Why not?” the woman said and laughed. “With an intriguing offer like that, how can I resist?”

  The woman called Maya had finished her workout, showered and changed.

  Mercedes reappeared. “Ready?” she asked. Maya nodded. Mercedes led her to where the gang was sitting round a table in the cafeteria and said, “Introduce yourselves, girls.”

  “Beatrice, Swiss.”

  “Leila, Moroccan.”

  “Alice, Breton, from Carnac.”

  “Gaëlle, Half-French, half-Italian.”

  “And I’m Mercedes from Mallorca. So now you understand the international bit.”

  “I do. My name is Maya and I can expand your geographical circle a little, north and east. My mum is Norwegian and my dad is from Greece.”

  “I knew it!” Mercedes said in triumph. “As soon as I saw you, I just knew you’d fit in!” And so the gang of five became six. Newly appointed as Directrice of a major Collège in the area, Maya was an entertaining and sometimes challenging addition to the group. Anyone who made a categorical assertion had to be ready to defend it against Maya’s rigorous logic.

  * * * *

  “Come on, girls, get yourselves over here,” Maya called, as soon as Gaëlle had left the changing room. Faced with Maya in teacher mode, the others gathered round.

  Maya had assimilated herself into the little group and after a couple of years, it was hard to remember a time when she hadn’t been a fixture. Now, it seemed, she was taking on the leadership role.

  “Circle time, Maya?” Beatrice asked.

  “More like a summit meeting,” Maya said. She looked round at the group. “I may be speaking out of turn, but I’m going to do it anyway,” she began.

  “No change there, then,” Mercedes murmured.

  “You’ve known Gaëlle longer than me—”

  “That’s not important,” Leila said. “Time is irrelevant when we’re talking about friendship. You’ve just as much right to call a meeting as any of us.”

  Maya smiled at her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said. “We owe a lot to Gaëlle,” she began.

  “Yes. Gaëlle listens, she helps, she’s always there when you need her, she’s a good cook—” Mercedes began.

  “If I may get back to what I was trying to say,” Maya interrupted, using her best classroom voice. “We’ve tried our hardest, but I think that we’ve maybe done too much for Gaëlle. She’s becoming dependent on us for even simple things. Her heart hasn’t been in her work-outs here for some time, and that can’t be good for her self-esteem. I propose that we pull back, and let her get on with her grieving. Feeling bad about Jérôme’s death shouldn’t stop her from doing her own shopping and washing. It just leaves her with more time to feel sorry for herself.”

  “I’d never have thought that of Gaëlle,” Mercedes agreed. “She used to always be so positive.”

  “None of us knows how we’ll react in those circumstances,” Alice commented. “I never expected to feel as awful I did when my mother died. We fought like cats, but it hit me hard. I ended up punishing myself, and look where that led. Without you all, and Gaëlle, of course, I’d be dead, too!”

  “We have to accept that Gaëlle is going to mourn for as long as she needs,” Maya said. “Can we agree to back off? We can organise a rota to call and visit, so she doesn’t think we’ve abandoned her, but adopt a lower profile for the time being. Settled?”

  “Settled.”

  * * * *

  Left to her own devices, Gaëlle was obliged to look after herself again. One morning, she was already in the shower with wet hair, when the rude noise from her shampoo bottle told her it was empty. Resisting a strong temptation to burst into tears, she dried herself, dressed and prepared to face the shops.

  As she left her new apartment in Petite France, it dawned on her that spring had arrived. Sunshine was lighting up the half-timbered houses that lined her street. It cheered her up just a little, and she decided to walk
into town to get some fresh air, as well as to buy her shampoo.

  She was drifting along when she became aware of the snarl of a large motorcycle, revving hard very close to her. She glanced up. Eighteen years with Jérôme told her it was a Guzzi; the cylinders sticking out were a giveaway. Jérôme! Her husband’s name brought tears to her eyes. She sniffed hard and moved on, vaguely aware that the motorbike noise had stopped.

  “Gaëlle? Madame Gaëlle?” called a rather muffled voice from inside the full-face helmet.

  Gaëlle stopped and turned. The diminutive figure in red leathers perched on the Guzzi was anonymous until the helmet was removed, releasing the long black hair and slightly red face of one of her former secretaries.

  “Gabi!” Gaëlle said, trying to raise a smile. “What a surprise!”

  “Just let me park the beast, and I’ll be with you,” Gabi said, putting her helmet back on. She fired up the engine, and ignoring the heavy Saturday morning traffic, shot across the road to a space just vacated by a car. She gave a one-finger salute to the man who had anticipated parking there, jogged back to where Gaëlle hadn’t moved, took off her helmet and hugged her ex-boss.

  “I heard,” she said. “I never knew your husband, but everyone who’d met him said what a lovely man he was.”

  “Thank you,” was all Gaëlle could think of or manage to say before the tears started.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve upset you now, haven’t I?” Gabi said. “Look, my apartment isn’t far. Come and sit down and have a drink of something.”

  She took an unresisting Gaëlle by the arm and escorted her into a nearby building. They climbed two floors in silence.

  “Here we are,” Gabi announced with pride, as she opened the door. “Welcome to my new Strasbourg nest. It’s small, I know, just big enough for one. When I’m in Brussels I share an apartment with another girl who does the same job as I do, but here, I wanted my privacy.”

  “It’s very practical, though,” Gaëlle commented, looking around. The apartment was indeed compact, a living room with a corner kitchen, and off it two doors, one half-open to the bedroom.

  “Can I use your bathroom?” Gaëlle asked. “I must look a mess.”

  Once inside she looked at herself in the mirror.

  “What a sight,” she muttered.

  The mirror made it obvious how uncared for she had become in the half-year since Jérôme had died. She had no makeup, her hair needed cutting, and the anorak she had flung on looked shabby. She took it off, looked at her reflection again and sighed. The pullover she had grabbed was in no better shape. She pulled a comb through her hair and went back into the sitting room.

  “I’ve put the espresso machine on,” Gabi told her. “Will coffee be all right?”

  “Oh, anything.”

  “Just give me a moment to get out of my leathers and I’ll be with you,” Gabi said, heading into the bedroom. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

  Gaëlle sat down on the sofa. It was ten years since she had seen Gabi, she calculated. It was evident that the young secretary she remembered had moved up in the world, and was now a confident thirty-year-old. Gaëlle looked around. She liked Gabi’s flat. It could have been gloomy but for a large mirror which brought extra daylight into the sitting room. A reflected flash of pink caught Gaëlle’s eye. She looked again. From where she was sitting, the mirror gave her a view past the half-open bedroom door, to where Gabi was changing. Her naked back and bare buttocks revealed that she’d been wearing nothing but a black thong under the scarlet skin-tight leathers. Gabi half-turned and the voluptuous breasts that Gaëlle remembered were revealed in the mirror. Gaëlle caught her breath. Gabi pulled on a tee shirt, then a pair of jeans. She was zipping them up as she emerged from the bedroom. Gaëlle looked away.

  “There,” Gabi said. “I do love the sensation of leather on my skin, but it’s not comfortable for sitting around.”

  “I hadn’t thought of you as a biker,” Gaëlle said, glossing over the fact that she hadn’t thought of Gabi at all for several years.

  “I wasn’t. I got the idea from my flatmate. We’re here half the time and half in Brussels, you know? She has a big Ducati for when there isn’t much to carry, so I followed her example. It makes the commute much more fun when the weather’s good or when I do it at night. Nose down, flat on the tank.”

  “I can see the appeal, but I think I’m too old for that sort of thing.” Gaëlle said.

  “Rubbish! You’re not old. When you were my boss you were, what, late twenties?”

  Gaëlle laughed. “I was at least thirty.”

  “You’re over forty? It doesn’t show. You know, I never told you how much I owe to you. And I’m not the only one. I can think of half a dozen other girls who appreciate how much you helped them in their career.”

  “I didn’t realise I had been especially helpful.”

  “You must be joking! We used to feel encouraged because of you, but secure, too. You were Madame Gaëlle, our guru, our big sister who’d made it to where we wanted to be! We admired so much about you! How you worked so hard, how you were fair to everyone, how you dressed, too, always smart, always impeccable!”

  Gaëlle looked down at herself with a rueful expression. “Not so impeccable now,” she commented.

  “Pah! That’s a passing phase. You’ve had a bad time. It’s normal that you should take a while to pick up.”

  “Thank you for your confidence in me, Gabi. I’m not sure I share it. It’s true that it’s been a bad year, though. First Jérôme…” Her voice cracked.

  Gabi stood up and went to pour coffee for them both. By the time she returned, Gaëlle had recovered her composure.

  “Then just last month,” she went on, “my own mentor, Anne-Marie died. If I was a help to you, she’s the one you have to thank. She protected and encouraged me when I was starting out.”

  “That’s a double blow you’ve suffered, then. It must be hard.” Gabi paused. “Drink your coffee.”

  Gaëlle obeyed. There was silence for a minute or so. Gabi’s face broke into a smile.

  “Do you remember the first time you invited me to your office to eat my lunch because Philippine had gone out and left me on my own?” she asked. “I was so much in awe of you, but you made me feel as if we were just girls relaxing.”

  “I remember it well.” Gaëlle’s own memory of that occasion included having an orgasm, something that she hoped Gabi didn’t know. “Is it so admirable to talk with people as if they are normal?”

  “Oh yes! And how! You were also the one who pointed out that a secretary, however skilled, would only ever be a secretary. That pushed me back into studying. I wouldn’t be where I am now without your words of wisdom! For me you were the woman who had everything, yet you still cared about the future of an ignorant young girl working on your reception desk!”

  “And now I have nothing.”

  “Isn’t that a little melodramatic? I bet your husband wouldn’t have wanted you to lock yourself away and grieve forever.”

  Gaëlle smiled, in spite of herself.

  “You’ve just used his exact words.”

  Gabi waved her arms in emphasis. “Then why not live your life? Just do it! To be true to yourself and to him. And besides…look. You told us girls things we needed to know, even unpalatable ones, but you did it in a way that made us think, rather than resent it. Who was it who warned me that I would need to work at keeping my body in shape or run the risk of becoming a big, fat, Italian mama? Madame Gaëlle, of course! So, can I be as honest with you as you always were with me? “

  “Go on. Be as frank as you want.”

  “There are millions of people in the world who would give their eyeteeth to be in your position. You’ve lost someone precious, it’s true, but you have your health; you have somewhere to live. I suspect you don’t need to work if you don’t want to, there is food and heating and hot water when you want them. You’re still young and still attractive. Tough life, huh? Point made, Madam
e Gaëlle?”

  “Point taken, Gabi. But please, just Gaëlle, now.”

  “Gaëlle it is, then.”

  Gaëlle smiled again, this time with a little more confidence. She blew out her cheeks.

  “You’re quite right, and I’ve needed someone to tell me that. I’ve allowed myself to wallow for long enough. I’ll try. Is that good enough?”

  “Philippine used to do a good imitation of you saying All we can do is our best. We understand the consequences of our actions.”

  This time Gaëlle couldn’t prevent the laughter. Gabi’s imitation was very true to life. “That’s another of Jérôme’s! Thank you, thank you, thank you, Gabi,” she said. “You said just what I needed to hear.”

  Gabi leaned across and hugged her. Gaëlle caught her breath, her fingers twitching. She fought the temptation to touch as Gabi’s firm, braless breasts were crushed against her. For the first time in half a year, she felt the draw of desire and sex. She controlled her breath and relaxed.

  “I should go,” she said, pulling away. “I have things to do.”

  “But now I’ve found you again, promise me you’ll stay in touch,” Gabi said. “You were there for me, so the least I can do is be here for you now.”

  “Thank you again, Gabi. You’ve made my day much brighter,” Gaëlle said. “Give me a ring in a week or so and we’ll have tea. I’ll show you my new apartment, if you want.”

  “I do want, and, believe me, I will!” Gabi said, with feeling. She kissed Gaëlle on the cheek. They exchanged phone numbers and parted.

  Chapter Two

  After Jerôme’s death, Gaëlle hadn’t taken long to decide she had to change her address. Their three bedroom apartment—one bedroom too many in any case—was too full of memories of Jérôme. Her new place was in the old part of town, and had two bedrooms. She’d had it gutted, redecorated and furnished just as she wanted. When she’d added up the life assurance and the pension that Jérôme had left her, she had discovered that she was better off than she could ever have imagined. It was true that she didn’t need to work at all. She had used that fact to take on a large part of Jérôme’s work for the charity, asking only for her social security payments to be met. It felt appropriate to pick up the work that he had cared so much about.