The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Beth helped me pack the night before departing.

“You’re leaving me again,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I turned to her, putting my arms around her, touching hip to hip.

“But this time it’s my decision. I’m doing it as an act of will.” I sighed. “That doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

She smiled, pulling me to her. “But you’ll be back.”

I reached around her, undoing the clasp on her bra. “Someone will be back,” I whispered. We made love without pretense—I gave myself to her, body and soul. She took me, body and soul.

One of Ben’s people picked us up for the trip to the airport. Beth and I hugged and kissed one last time before I left the house. In the car, Ben presented me with business cards, with some laminated as luggage tags. They didn’t have a title under my name, but then again, neither did Ben’s. I ran back to give some cards to Beth, and for another kiss and hug.

My second trip on an airplane was the very long flight to Paris. I was very appreciative of Business Class, especially after looking back at Coach. The Air France staff also treated us better when we spoke with them in French. When I told them we were buying wines, each had a favorite label, a favorite region, to tell us about.

One young stewardess flirted with me. She corrected my pronunciation as we talked. I loved the way she said some words, I told her. She was such a tease, having me purse my lips, coming closer and pursing hers, then backing away.

Air France did me an immense favor—they lost my single checked suitcase, containing all my clothes other than what I was wearing. When I turned to Ben, he shrugged and asked me what I was going to do. After quite a delay, I finally registered my complaint. The idiot behind the counter started talking in demeaning English, telling us there was nothing they could do. I lit into him in French, and not polite French, either. Ben joined in, with volume and enthusiasm. Soon we had an apologetic supervisor assisting us—assisting, but not finding my damn bag.

We were met by one of Ben’s associates, Monsieur Broussard. By the way I was introduced, some discussions about me had already taken place. We went to his Mercedes, and he drove us to Paris. I sat in back, trying to look every direction at once, to take it all in and not let anything get away.

M. Broussard had a very nice residence on a tree-lined street in Paris. I carried in Ben’s bags, but was instructed to leave them by the carport door. M. Broussard showed me to my suite, almost a detached part of the residence. This is where I would stay. Ben looked around with me, nodding appreciatively. We were told to wash up, and come to the salon.

When I asked Ben what was up, he laughed. We washed up. I stretched a little. Ben laughed, clapped me on the back, and said it was time. We walked through the house to the salon.

Standing a little to the side of M. Broussard was Mlle. Bridget, a stunning 27 year old. We were introduced. I took her hand and kissed it, murmuring a greeting in what I hoped was my best French. She looked amused at my antics.

Then I was told that she would be “completing my education.” The overtones of M. Broussard’s statement, and Ben’s laugh sent interesting sensations through me. I nodded to Bridget. Our first step, I was told, was to replace my wardrobe, at Air France’s expense. They’d have me looking like Ben’s protégé, and a Parisian college student in no time.

Ben laughed again, gave me a hug, and handed an envelope to me, and one to M. Broussard. Broussard handed him a set of car keys. Ben told me he’d see me in a week and a half. He turned to Bridget, gave her a brief hug, and with a Gallic laugh, told her to teach me well. He left.

Ben had given me an envelope full of francs. I did the mental arithmetic, and put the equivalent of about $150 in my wallet. My wallet was still pretty thin, and went in my front pocket. I had some folded travel brochures in my back pocket—Ben’s suggestion.

Bridget and I set out for clothes. Before we went out the door, she asked if this was my first time in Paris. Yes, I told her, and my first trip outside the States. How long had I studied French? A few years in school, and a few weeks working with Ben. Did I drive? Yes, some, but not today, please! Her laugh suggested she was relaxed around me.

Our first stop was the Metro station. I got a pass—I had my City College ID, so I got a student rate. We spent a few minutes at a wall map. I’d studied some guidebooks, so I had an idea where the major tourist attractions were. She had friends, she told me, so we could get into the Louvre and some major sites before the public was allowed in.

Then we were off to Galleries Lafayette, and some smaller shops for my clothes. Things were expensive. I ended up with some casual clothes, and a good looking sports coat for business. I’d been wearing my dress shoes, so I got a pair of running/casual ones. I also got socks and underwear. My electric shaver, toothbrush, and bath stuff I’d had in my carry-on bag.

When Bridget asked me what I slept in, I smiled and asked what she preferred. She laughed. When we were picking out underwear for me, she asked in passing if I was a virgin. “Would you like me to be?” I replied. She gave me a low laugh and a curious look.

We paused to consolidate packages. As we did, someone sneaked up and let all the air out of me. I was exhausted, jet lag catching up. It must have shown—she asked if I was okay. I told her I was tired from the trip. We made our way back to the house.

We arrived a little after five, which for me was something like two in the morning. We wouldn’t eat dinner until eight at the earliest—what would I like to do? I liked the way she smiled when she asked.

I wanted to shower. She nodded, and told me I should try and stay awake until after dinner. I smiled and told her I might need some help.

I’d run out of my favorite bath soap after about two weeks, I thought as I showered. It felt good to wash off the miles—I should start thinking in terms of kilometers—either way, I was far from home.

I’d tossed a towel over the top of the shower enclosure—my usual routine. I pulled it in and dried off most of the way, then stepped out of the shower.

Bridget was standing there, wearing a light robe, leaning against the counter with arms folded and a wry smile. I dried the rest of the way as she watched. She smiled and nodded in approval. When I started to wrap the towel around my waist, she took it from me and put it on the counter. She took my hand and led me to the bed.

Standing by the side of the bed, she ran her hands along my chest. I enjoyed her touch, sighing. I put my hands on her waist gently, running them up her back. We kissed. Her lips were thinner than Beth’s, and her tongue was more active.

We separated from that first kiss, and she had quite the smirk on her face. She slipped off her robe, placing it on the bed. I knelt down and started kissing my way up her body.

Her thatch smelled divine. I moved her to the bed, sitting her down. As I caressed her legs, she relaxed on to her back. I spread her legs and adored her, first with gentle strokes on her thighs, and then with my mouth, starting by kissing her thighs, and moving gradually to heaven.

The next time, I’d have to put some perfume on her. She squeezed me, moaning and digging fingers into my hair.

After a good loud shuddering one, she pulled me up on the bed with her. She kissed me without hesitation, sliding a hand to my cock.

“What do you need?” she whispered hotly in my ear.

I rolled to my back and urged her on top of me. She straddled me eagerly. We slid together as we kissed. She rocked on top of me, and as she leaned back, I played with her nipples. She sighed and moaned appreciatively. I helped move her, holding her waist. We set a good rhythm.

She looked down at me, put her hands on my shoulders, and did something with her hips. My eyes closed and I let go to the sensation. She rocked me through my orgasm, and leaned down to kiss again.

She tried to get up, but I held her, snuggling up. She moved closer with a contented sigh.

We got up and dressed a while later, actually a little after seven—I’d slept longer than I’d expected, and far less than I’d needed.

I helped with her bra, and with dressing her.

“Who was she?” she whispered in my ear.

“Who?” I asked with a smile.

“You were not a virgin,” she said with a wicked and satisfied grin, poking me in the chest.

“I am whoever you want me to be,” I told her, kissing her hands, and then kissing her belly, working my way up to her breasts. I put my arms around her waist and held her.

We arrived in the salon about a quarter to eight. M. Broussard was there, with a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She seemed to know who I was when I was introduced.

M. Broussard asked how our shopping had gone. I told him it had gone well, but the long flight had caught up with me. He handed me a glass of wine; I gave it to Bridget, and he handed me another, with a smile.

His companion remarked somewhat humorously that I looked rested. I nodded, said that I needed much more rest, and sipped my wine. I felt Bridget’s fingernails on my shoulder.

We were served a very nice meal. We talked about what I wanted to see in Paris and the surrounding area. I wanted to take it easy for a few days. When asked what I’d studied, I told them I was an ignorant savage, here to be educated. M. Broussard said I seemed to know a few things. Bridget growled in agreement, which brought laughter. I raised my glass and looking at her, said I’d been well taught, but still had much to learn.

I faded quickly after dinner. M. Broussard and his companion were going out, and we were welcome to come with them. Bridget put her hand on mine and told them I needed the rest. M. Broussard’s companion laughed.

My head was buzzing as I got ready for bed. I’d had quite a bit of water with dinner—Ben had cautioned me to drink plenty of water the first few days.

Bridget joined me in the bathroom, wearing her robe again. “Would you like to sleep alone?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Sleeping alone is bad for you,” I told her.

When we walked into the bedroom, I asked her, “Which side of the bed do you want?”

She looked to me with a smile.

“It’s an important decision,” I told her.

She smiled and jumped on the bed, rolling to the other side, giving me a little-girl smile.

I turned off the lights and got into bed, wearing a T-shirt. I snuggled up.

“Do you like to make love in the evening, or the morning?” she asked.

“Oui,” I responded, holding her a bit closer. I went to sleep pretty quickly. I got up once in the middle of the night, unsure what time it was, to pee. When I crawled back into bed, she snuggled up, and I held her.

When we woke in the morning, I made a quick trip to the bathroom. She got up as I returned. We snuggled more, and made love with me on top of her. I pulled my legs up, sitting, and paid appropriate attention to her button before she pulled me to a kiss, locking her legs around mine.

After we dressed, we went to a corner cafe for coffee and a croissant. She led me on a rapid trip through the Metro, some side streets, and in a side door of a place in an area I thought I should recognize. Soon we were both wearing triangular orange badges. We went through another door, into one of the side galleries of the Louvre.

We walked around, at times with a guide, and I started to learn an appreciation of art. I also asked them to help me with my French. At one point, I apologized for my pronunciation by saying, “Je suis Canadien”—our French teacher at City had told us Canadians would be treated as distant cousins, and cut more slack. Maybe not in Paris, but they laughed all the same.

Eventually, we started seeing more people. I looked at my watch—it was after noon. Bridget made a face at the entering throngs, and we wound our way back to the side door we’d entered. A uniformed guard opened it for us with a smile and a nod. We returned our passes, and as we left, Bridget told them we’d be back in the morning.

“May I buy you lunch?” I asked as we left. She smiled, and nodded. I took her arm in mine. “You’ll have to pick the place,” I told her.

We went to a brasserie in the Latin Quarter. Over lunch, she told me we’d visit the Louvre in the morning, and leave when the crowds started to get thick. We had other places to visit, but we could always go back for a rest. As I took another piece of our baguette, I told her a rest before dinner was nice. She picked up her wine glass and agreed with a smile.

After lunch, we saw Dem Bones. Napoleon is still dead, but they guard him anyway, for fear of the trouble he’d cause if he got up again, I guess. When we left, it was drizzling and cold. We ducked down to the Metro, and popped up in another section of Paris. We had coffee, and looked over a map, going over the areas we needed to visit.

She quizzed me on what we’d seen earlier, and also drilled me on pronunciation, repeating some words and phrases over and over. I realized I should be carrying a notebook.

When a guy (c’ mec) at a table near us made a wise-ass remark, I snarled back with one of the phrases I’d learned from Ben. Ben had drilled me on pronunciation on those. He looked at me in surprise, and his companion, a cutie with reddish black hair and a ring in her nose, chortled. Bridget smiled, patted me on the hand, and said, “Très bon!”

We did more window shopping, ducking into the occasional shop for Bridget to look closer.

We returned to the house, walking the last few blocks from the Metro station, arriving with cold noses and hands. We undressed quickly, and sought warmth where we could find it. Bridget pulled away from my cold hands—and I was expected to provide warmth. We made love, and snuggled close again, napping briefly.

It was quite clear after dinner, clear and cold. We took the Metro, and walked a bit. The lights were pretty. We returned home to have a small cognac and warm up. In our bedroom, Bridget let me undress her slowly.

She was about my height in bare feet. She was well proportioned, but not as full as Beth or Karen. The aspect that took me a while to place, though, was her physical condition. Beth and I ran and cycled together. Karen was in good shape, as was Rachel. Sherry and Donna were active cheerleaders, and did splits. There were things Sherry did with her body that Bridget couldn’t approximate. But oh, there were things Bridget did.... She had a way of rocking her hips that shuts off all conscious thought.

That night in bed, she asked what I needed, and I showed her how to hold me. It didn’t take her long to figure out what worked. I heard her sigh appreciatively.

After three days, I hypnotized her during our afternoon lovemaking. I caressed her thighs slowly, lovingly, as I spoke to her, easing her into trance. I eased her up and down, taking her deeper each time, finally plunging her down and fingering her to orgasm. When I brought her up, she took me on my back and rode me with abandon.

The following afternoon, I started by massaging her feet, and took her the long, slow, delicious way into trance, finishing up sitting by her head. I moved between her legs, and stroked her as I brought her up. She woke to a crashing orgasm as I slid into her.

In three more days, I could relax her with a touch, and bring her to orgasm with a word and a caress. I also taught her how to melt me in her arms. We evolved a mutual dependence and respect.

Together we explored Paris, and passion. They are one and the same. I learned so much—about art, language, culture, history, the curve of her hip and waist as she sleeps on her side, the soft spot on the inside of her thigh that elicits such wonderful sounds from her. She taught me—de l’amour, de la vérité, de lumière—of love, of truth, of light.

She was showing me Notre Dame, explaining the symbolism in the stained glass. She turned to me with a wry smile, and challenged me to make her come, there and then. When I raised an eyebrow questioning her request, she at first chided me that I couldn’t. I smiled. Then she took one of my hands, placed it on her coat over her breasts, and threatened that this would be as close as I’d get to her nipples. I laughed softly. She turned, and I held her hand and pressed the front of her body against a column, as I pressed my body against her back. I whispered in her ear as I caressed her neck.

Soon her cry rang out through the great cathedral. I took her hand and quickly walked to another stained glass window. When some officials came by shortly afterwards, I stopped one of them, and notebook in hand, asked about the symbolism in the stained glass. They looked confused, and hurried off. We continued our leisurely tour of the cathedral. When we exited, she gave me a very appreciative kiss once we were on the street again.

We took her little Ford to visit sites on the outskirts. Once we were outside the Perpherique, she had me drive. My first attempts at a stick-shift were quite comical.

We skipped our usual morning at the Louvre to visit Versailles. We were expected, and given quite the tour. Even on a slightly overcast day, the quality of the light was amazing.

Friday morning, Bridget told me to pack for the night. I had no suitcase. She left the room, and reappeared with a small, well-used one in a short time. She drove us to the Louvre, where she sweet-talked our way into a staff parking area. We only spent about two hours there, leaving early to get out of town. We stopped for bread, flowers, and a bottle of champagne. She gave me the keys, and led us out of the city.

We drove about an hour outside Paris to a chateau owned by a college friend. They were restoring the chateau, after some decades of disuse. The woman’s husband was a very wealthy Swiss-born financier. The restoration was expensive, but an act of love. We spent hours being shown around.

We had quite an old but nice bedroom for the night. The nearest bathroom was a little ways down the hall. We had a fireplace which worked, and we were told to use, if we wanted to stay warm. Bridget put an arm around me and said I was better than any fireplace.

We ended up in the kitchen, or the modern kitchen, and our hostess told us she didn’t have much prepared in the way of dinner. She was a better architect and historian than cook.

I smiled and offered my services. The two ladies glanced at me curiously. I surveyed the kitchen and the ingredients I had to work with. How many would I be cooking for this evening? Four. Where could we get vegetables and such? Our hostess smiled and said she’d drive. Bridget said she’d unpack.

While it was late in the day, we were able to get fresh herbs and some vegetables. We had plenty of eggs, if I got adventurous. Are we vegetarian, I asked. I received the reply, “Non!” with a look of horror. Do we like garlic? Naturellement! Of course! Luckily, the butcher hadn’t closed yet.

I barely had time to do a good Beef Burgundy, but I got it underway. I soon had Bridget and our host pounding on balls of pasta for noodles. I set a copper bowl in the refrigerator for later.

Our host wouldn’t be arriving until after eight, so we’d eat a little before nine. That gave me more time, and time for the pasta to rest. I was lucky the knives were sharp—I don’t know how to sharpen knives. I tested the oven with the casserole. It felt even—I’d go for broke for dessert.

Our host, Monsieur Dumont, arrived a little after eight. He was surprised when I was introduced as a guest, and the cook.

Dinner turned out damn good, if I do say so myself. I told them I was here with M. Carmichael and his wine importing business. When asked where Ben was, I raised my glass and said, “Picking flowers?” Telling them I would be going to Stanford, studying psychology and possibly pre-med brought interesting looks and comments. M. Dumont rattled off some names to Bridget, people I should talk to in Paris. She nodded. We talked about what I’d seen so far, and what was to come.

As our meal ended, I felt brave once more. My glance at Bridget was misinterpreted, though, as our host said he’d go tend to the fire in our room. Without taking my eyes off Bridget, I thanked him, and said I’d be in the kitchen starting our dessert; he should join us there.

A soufflé consists of sugar, eggs, flavoring, and skill. When done in front of others, it also requires bravado. I’d planned a lemon soufflé for dessert. I’d done it many times, for my parents, who had put up with most of the failures, then for my mom and me, and more recently for Beth, and Sherry and her folks. I hadn’t had a failure in quite a while, which either meant I was getting good, or was overdue for a flop. I’d found the wire whip, and the copper bowl was sufficiently chilled. I preheated the oven as I first prepared the soufflé dish, which looked to be older than all of us put together.

Our host returned, glanced at me and then to the ladies with an eyebrow-raised look of curiosity. As I was about to pour into the prepared dish, I asked, “Now I need your largest, sharpest knife.”

Our host rummaged, and came up with a formidable weapon. I poured the soufflé into the dish and placed it in the oven. I started the timer on my watch, hoping to hell I’d made the conversion from Fahrenheit to Celsius correctly. I picked up the knife, and menacing it at the others, said quietly, “No loud noises!” They smiled and nodded.

The moment of truth was near. I got four spoons. Our host sprinted off, returning with a small bottle and four wine glasses. He poured the syrupy-looking well-chilled wine. I took a breath, and crossed myself, standing in front of the oven. Oven mitts on both hands, I opened the door. The Goddess of the Hearth had been kind to me. My soufflé was tall, golden on top, and smelled delicious. I put it in the middle of the table on some hot pads. “Bon appetit!”

The complex fruit of the dessert wine went very nicely with the light citrus of the soufflé. Both were consumed quickly. When the last spoon hit the table, M. Dumont stood and applauded. His wife and Bridget joined in. I stood and bowed. I received hugs and not too ceremonial congratulatory kisses.

Then M. Dumont asked, “And what is for breakfast?”

I gave Bridget a steamy look and wiggled my eyebrows.

“Lunch, then?” he said, laughter in his voice.

“We have eggs, and cheese. I’ll do my best,” I told them.

“That will have to do. Sleep well. Get up when you want—there is no hurry tomorrow.”

Bridget was overflowing with compliments on my cooking. I shut her up by putting my tongue into her mouth.

A short while later, my tongue in another spot, her cries echoed through the chateau. There was something very special about that old bed, and those very, very old rock walls. Many of the walls in the chateau were older than anything white men had built in California.

I stoked the fire early in the morning, and visited the bathroom. I took her for a while at the edge of the bed, standing with my legs spread at the edge of the bed, her legs over my shoulders, and her bottom hanging over the edge slightly. We ended up with her on top of me, holding me to a nipple, and shutting off my mind again with the rocking of her hips.

Hot coffee and a fresh baguette, along with our host and hostess, were waiting in the kitchen. We were asked politely how we’d slept. Very well, I replied, running a hand over Bridget’s back as I sipped the hot, strong coffee.

I started to get things together for breakfast when our host asked me to wait a bit. A few minutes later, an old woman arrived. She was introduced as Grand-mère, Grandmother. She produced a small cloth-wrapped object from her coat pocket. She handed it to me with a smile.

It was a black truffle a little larger than a walnut. I held it with reverence, raised it to my nose, and inhaled deeply. Oh, it was complex, so complex.

“Grand-mère,” I told her softly, “I need help so I don’t squander this treasure.”

She smiled and nodded. She asked what I proposed. I proposed a simple egg dish, using the yolks left over from last night, some mild cheese, and cream. She rooted in the vegetables, and pulled out some scallions, instructing me to dice them. I did, then got out a pan, and started butter melting in it. She watched me carefully. I chopped the cheese into small cubes, then whipped the eggs and cream. As the eggs were cooking and the cheese added, she had me chop the truffle, dicing one part finely, and slicing the other into thin strips. We tasted it, raw, unwashed, uncooked.

The result was heavenly. I dished out five plates. M. Dumont told Grand-mère of the previous night’s dinner. Bridget told her of making the noodles, how I’d done the soufflé, and threatened them all with a knife as I’d put it in the oven. We all laughed.

Grand-mère departed, returning the remaining truffle to its cloth wrap. I thanked her, and kissed her old, leathered hands. She looked to M. Dumont and asked if I was going to be his new cook. He nodded and said he’d try.

We cleaned up the kitchen. He asked how long I was in the area. I told him I expected Ben back the following day, and from then my schedule was unknown. He sighed. Would I like to cook during the summer? I laughed and told him I just might. He handed me one of his cards, and shook my hand. His offer was serious. I told him I took it as such, and I’d need training.

We went up to pack. We left the door open—our host’s room was almost in another wing of the chateau. A fur rug of some kind had appeared in front of the fire, on top of some padding. The fire was going very nicely. It was quite an invitation, and one Bridget and I took eagerly.

Our room was above one of the larger restored rooms, accessed by a private staircase closed off by a heavy red cord. I was busy eating Bridget for dessert when I thought I heard sounds from downstairs. I ignored them and returned to my task. Bridget has quite the exhibitionist streak—she was quite loud. She put me on my back, and rode me. The fur was partially soft and partially prickly, especially as it rode up between my legs. She called on me to moan, coaxing me as she started rocking her hips. When she does that with her hips, I’ll do anything she says. She muffled me with a nipple as I got close, and finished me off with a delicious slow grinding.

We finally did get packed. As I started taking our cases down the hall, I looked out a window and saw a tour bus parked nearby. “O merde!” I called out. Bridget laughed and rubbed my back. We went down the other staircase into the private part of the house. I put our bags in the car. There was indeed a tour in progress. We met M. Dumont in the kitchen.

He looked quite amused, and when Bridget and I blushed, he laughed. Our cries had been noticed, but in response to a guest’s question, his wife had seriously intoned that portions of the chateau were haunted. And, he added, we were welcome to haunt it whenever we wished.

We caught up with Mme. Dumont in the garden, as the tour was departing. She hugged us both, and asked where we were headed now. “To haunt Paris,” I told her in my lowest tones. She laughed, and told us to return whenever we wished; the chateau needed more such spirits.

When we returned to the house, Ben had also returned. He looked quite, well, relaxed. He glanced at the two of us curiously, and asked where we’d been. I told him we’d been haunting a chateau. Bridget blushed charmingly, which seemed to surprise and amuse Ben.

Bridget and I played tourist during the afternoon. That evening, we all went to dinner. Bridget told the tale of my cooking. I tried my best to describe the wonder of that truffle, and the honor I’d felt handling it. With my eyes closed, I tried to describe the smell, the taste, the texture, the wonder of it. When I ran out of words and opened my eyes, a woman at the table next to us applauded softly, and raised her wineglass to me. Others joined her. I thanked them.

As dinner ended, Ben announced we were off for two weeks, at least. Bridget cried, and begged me to hurry back. Ben and M. Broussard looked astounded. I tried to go down on Bridget that night, but she wouldn’t have it, instead doing everything she could to please me. The next morning was just as delicious. She cried again as we departed after a late breakfast.

Ben shook his head as we drove off. He laughed and told me that he’d expected to return to Paris to find me quite domesticated. I laughed and told him I was, but in my own way.

I drove us around Western Europe, in foul weather and fair. We ate well. We drank. I learned so many different things. In Amsterdam I learned the taste of hashish, and the skill of a woman who did incredible things to and with me—the next day Ben confessed he’d challenged her to make me come as often as possible in our night together. I had no idea what the number was. He had to drive that day—I was tired, and sore.

I learned the taste of terror on the Autobahn, driving what I thought was very fast, only to have people speed past us as if we were standing still, my heart going faster than the wiper blades of our rented Mercedes, sweeping away the cold, pelting rain.

I will always remember, tired and cold at the end of a long day, driving through the mist, and seeing the twin towers of Chartres in the distance. Can anyone see that and not feel the touch of the Divine? We stayed in a small place in town, took our supper at a restaurant across from the cathedral, and attended services the next morning, sitting alongside locals who had been part of the same ritual for hundreds of years.

And I will always remember the taste of my own blood, after being thrown out of a bar in Marseilles. And I will always remember the young woman who took me in, and learned that while my face was bruised, my tongue worked quite well.

I learned from Ben. I helped him immensely. He challenged me in so many ways. And he relied on me. He went with my hunches, or at least gave them consideration. He also let me know when I was too young, or too eager—he did put me in my place on occasion.

We met wonderful chefs. We met ladies of the evening, some times early in the day. Most places we visited, we were treated with admirable hospitality. I learned from Ben to always treat people with respect, and with courtesy, even when we didn’t receive the same. May Belgium be overrun by rats—I hope they will find it to their liking.

We were returning to France, waiting for a car ferry. I’d talked with Beth on the phone that morning—we talked every week. She told me she missed me, and her nipples missed me. Then she told me about my dad. His surgery had been long, difficult, and his prognosis was uncertain.

It was gray, cold, and damp out. I was feeling lonely, homesick, and unsure of myself. We’d been stopped by police earlier—I’d been speeding. It took quite a bit of smooth talking by Ben to get us out of that. He drove the rest of the day, telling me those people tended to seize cars and let you explain later.

Standing there in the cold, waiting for the ferry, and with a smile and a sigh, I closed my eyes and tapped my heels together three times. When I opened my eyes, I was still in the same place. I laughed out loud.

Ben gave me a quizzical look. I explained it to him—from the Wizard of Oz movie, not the book—click your heels together three times, and say, “There’s no place like home.” With a shrug, I told him it hadn’t worked. He grunted and said I had the wrong shoes. He gave me a hug, laughing softly. We passed the ferry ride in silence. I spent quite a bit of it peering into the gray, trying to see what was before me.

Once back in France, he had me drive, and got me horribly drunk that night. He had to listen to me throwing up until almost early morning. He checked on me during the night, giving me some water, and patting me on the back. The next day he drove, feeding me bottled water and retelling tales of the times he’d been drunk. As I had onion soup and bread for dinner that night, I thanked him for his sympathy. He laughed.

I learned to identify wines, and cheeses. I learned more of the magic of truffles. Ben occasionally tested me, putting small amounts of a number of wines or cheeses in front of me. One evening when he did this, we were with two other men in a small establishment near Chambord, sitting at a table off to the side of a roaring fire. I tried one of the cheeses. I smiled and crumbled a bit of it between my fingers, inhaling. I mentioned a town we’d visited a few days before. Ben gave me a puzzled look and started to shake his head. I held my fingers under his nose. He took a sniff, and started laughing out loud—I thought he was going to fall out of his chair. When I said questioningly “Marie?” our compatriots caught on, and told Ben he’d picked a good protégé.

When we returned for our final weeks based in Paris, Bridget whisked me off to the Dumont’s chateau for four days, probably the most intense days of my life. We made passionate love in many rooms of the chateau. On more than one occasion, our cries were echoed by others from the other side of the chateau. In the mornings, someone would often mutter that the ghosts had been active again....

I cooked, many of the meals under Grand-mère’s keen and demanding eye. She occasionally slapped my hands, taking implements from me, showing me the technique she expected. I learned the proper ways to chop and to dice. I always thanked her, even when she pulled my ear and berated me, telling me the vegetables I’d picked out weren’t fit for pigs. She took me to a different market, and spent an hour with me, teaching me what to look for.

The chateau is open for private tours. Mrs. Dumont was leading a private tour of Japanese. I caught Bridget upstairs, took her quickly into trance, and brought her to a moaning, howling, shuddering, collapsing orgasm. Later, Mrs. Dumont congratulated us on our timing—the group had been suitably startled and impressed. Bridget dug nails into my leg and told her we’d be happy to do it any time.

Bridget and I returned to Paris for a dinner party. I entered the room with her on my arm. She looked stunning. I was feeling well worn and rested. She was quite subdued, even a bit light-headed. It must have been the mind-blowing orgasm I’d given her on the taxi ride over. Ben congratulated me quietly. Bridget kept me up almost all night, and I slept through most of the next day.

I was with Ben and one of our exporters, dealing with a petty French bureaucrat. Is “petty French bureaucrat” redundant? It must be. It was quite a study in maintaining my composure. At one point, when the bureaucrat stepped away to check something, probably to look for more fine print, I saw Ben close his eyes and tap his heels together three times. He opened his eyes and looked around, giving me a slight smile. I laughed and gave him a hug. He laughed as well.

It was time for us to return. Bridget and M. Broussard invited me to stay an additional two weeks. We spoke with Beth long-distance. They assured her I would be well taken care of, and my education continued. She laughed, and agreed. Over the phone, she growled to me that she expected me to show her everything I’d learned.

M. Broussard put me to work, mostly translating things for him. I didn’t translate blindly. I asked questions. We had an argument almost at once, but when I was able to make my point clear, he agreed, and gave me a bear hug. I also accompanied him on a three-day trip to London. British food is ghastly, but we did have great Indian food one evening.

Bridget did all she could to keep me. She introduced me to people at the Sorbonne—I could study there a year. I spent an afternoon with three people, drinking strong coffee and discussing psychology, particularly Assagioli. They helped me as I struggled for words, and gave me two books to read. Perhaps in a year or two, I told them, I’d return to study.

We were in the Virgin Records megastore one evening. She was looking for new music. Music is another area I need to study. She smiled, standing before one kiosk, and put a pair of headphones on me.

The sounds of a Beach Boys song filled my head. I broke into tears. “California Girls”—I felt so far away from home. I felt her start to take off the headphones, but I kept them on. I stayed with the feelings, breathing into them. When the song ended, I opened my eyes, took off the headphones, and kissed her. Someone making grumbling noises interrupted us. We moved out of the way, and I wiped my eyes as we walked. She gave me a most curious look at the top of the large staircase. I smiled, kissed her hand, and thanked her.

Back at the house, I held her in bed. I felt those hungry places again, and breathed into them, letting them come out to be filled. She held me, filling them.

She presented me with prints of pictures we’d taken. There was one of us kissing in the Louvre, taken by one of her friends. Another showed us standing together. One of my favorites was from the chateau—I was standing in the middle, wearing a white apron and holding a platter laden with food I’d prepared, with Grand-mère on one side of me, and Bridget on the other. Another was of our room, a fire in the fireplace, and the fur rug on the floor.

How could I be so heartless, Bridget asked, sending her back to those old men. Those old, rich men? I asked. I told her they could be trained, just as I was. She looked at me, pouting with her lower lip sticking out, as one of her hands found its way into my pants. And even with that stirring sensation, I felt those hungry places returning, and I begged her to take me, hold me, and fill them. She held me until I was lost, then rolled me to my back and rode us to ecstasy. Afterward, she whispered to me of how she would miss being held, especially in the morning.

We finally parted. I was welcome whenever I was in Paris, I was told. I thanked my hosts—I might be back for a shorter stay mid-June when Ben returned. Bridget’s nostrils flared and she whispered to me in low tones of barges on the Loire, making love under the stars, and even of me teaching her to cook, as we haunted the chateau.

As a final gift, I’d been upgraded to First Class for the return flight. Dressed as I was, and speaking as I did, they served me as they would anyone else. The wines were not up to what I’d been having.

I’d been gone nine and a half weeks. Was that a short time, or a long time? How had I changed? I’d learned, and grown, but I still had so much to learn. I laughed to myself as I swirled a dry white wine. I stuck my nose in the glass. I was so full of conflicts. The trick, I knew, was to move from seeing things as either/or to both-and. I wanted to be independent, but at the same time I knew I needed protecting. Holding someone in bed, I wanted to be protector and protected at the same time. I needed both. I should figure out how to do both.

I had learned so much, in such a short time. Everyone had been so helpful. We’d been shown such hospitality.

Of course, Customs at Los Angeles International Airport was a cold slap in the face. Where was I born? Long Beach, California. Where had I been? Western Europe, mostly France. Doing what? Sightseeing, studying. Had I visited farms? Oui, there are farms in France. Had I brought back produce? Non, of course not. Only one suitcase? Yes, I’m a student, and don’t have a lot of money. Open it. Of course. I’d been coached, and the top layer was days-old dirty socks and underwear. The inspector managed to find a pair of Bridget’s panties tucked into a corner of the suitcase, with a small, folded note. He glared at me; I smiled. To the wrapped things, it was, “What’s all this?” Gifts for my French teachers, maps and magazines, perfumes for girlfriends.

He opened one large cardboard envelope—it had been given to me closed, just before I left. It contained a sepia-toned print of the three of us at the chateau. I looked so alive, and so happy. So did the others. He looked at me, and I told him I’d studied in a chateau, and these were my teachers.

The Customs inspector waved me off in disgust. I put the picture back with a sigh, closed my bags, and walked to the large, opaque doors separating Customs from the arrival area.

I stopped, setting down my small suitcase, the carry-on still hanging from my shoulder. What was on the other side of that door? The lady, or the tiger? What did I want? What was important? What happens now? I had the prom to look forward to, or was that two proms? I could take Betty to the junior prom. How about the senior prom? Sherry? Rachel?

I looked behind me. I was ready to go back to France. I could turn around and get back on another plane. I’d been so alive on that trip—so many challenges, so many things to experience, to live, to learn. In that world I’d been Ben’s protégé—his assistant. I’d been a student and a cook in a chateau. And in the world beyond the door, who was I? Who did I want to be? Who did I want to become?

I turned to the doors again. Other people walked by me. The lady or the tiger? There was a bench seat nearby. I sat down.

I could go back and cook, learning French, and really learning to cook. Was that escaping? Was that a desire to do something, or to avoid something else? I shook my head, smiling a little. What did I have to avoid anymore? Not a whole damn lot that I could figure. I had the festivities for graduation, which were optional, really, and then show up at Stanford in the fall. The past was a closed book, the future an open one.

“Need some help, hon?”

A Customs woman put her hand on my shoulder, smiling, looking concerned.

I stood and picked up my bag. “No thanks,” I told her with a smile. She stepped away.

The lady, or the tiger? I laughed—why not both? I seem destined for both anyway.

I stepped through the door, from one world to another.