Eva's Further Education

This story will only make sense if you've read 'The Education of Eva.' Everybody in this story is over eighteen.

After the weekend at the mansion, we three girls returned to our routine, 'working' – if work is an adequate description for what we did – from our luxury Costa del Sol pad. I, for one, knew that my attitude was changed for ever, that, for me, there was more to life than parties, and being groped and screwed. My experience during that weekend, with Monique and her husband Jean-Paul, had left me with more questions than answers, it is true, and I still had no idea what I thought about Petra.

On the subject of Petra, she was strangely silent after the weekend, and when I showed her the welts Monique had inflicted on me, and described what had happened to me at the mansion, she was reticent about what the Arab, Ben Sayid, and his wives, had demanded of her. I dropped the subject – in any case, I didn't feel as if I wanted to share with anyone what I had felt for Monique during those two days, until time gave me a chance to find out what I really felt for the lovely Frenchwoman who had taken possession of me, and taught me the true relationship between pain and ecstasy.

But I was grateful for Petra's presence beside me in my bed, and her feminine softness was a joy whenever we returned after an assignment – which usually involved sex with some minor celebrity, politician or rich businessman.

By the time we were due to return to Madrid as the summer season drew to a close, the life of an upper-class whore was, I suppose, starting to pall. Because, dress it up whatever way they could, call us 'escorts' if they liked, that's exactly what we were – it's just that we didn't have to stand on street-corners like the poor kids out there on the Avenida Castellana.

Things went quiet after the summer season for a while, and when Tina dropped in from her flat nearby one day, and suggested that Petra and I might be interested in a bit of 'decoration,' we looked at each other, then back at the invariably exhibitionist Tina, who lifted her short skirt to reveal a spectacular tattoo – a brightly-coloured serpent, coiled around one thigh, its head disappearing into her shaven pussy. We both laughed, and I declared there and then that I 'wasn't into tattoos.'

But Tina wasn't to be put off that easily, and told us that the establishment she was recommending did all kinds of things, not just tattoos, from piercing to false nails and hair extensions. 'Come with me,' she said, 'you'll be surprised.'

We agreed to go along next day, and duly showed up at the smart modern premises in a commercial estate – not at all the sleazy back-street joint I had expected – with the very un-Spanish sign 'Body-Art' over the door.

A smiling blonde with a gold ring at the side of her nose welcomed us and seemed to be expecting us – clearly Tina had told her we should be coming.

'I know the way,' said Tina, and led us up a flight of stairs and through a swing door into a big clean tiled room like a clinic, with several reclining chairs and benches to be seen. Two of the chairs were occupied by young women, white towels draped over their abdomens, whilst another client sat on a stool, proferring her tongue to be pierced, and there seemed to be at least half a dozen assorted white-coated staff scurrying about. There was a smell of antiseptic.

Tina introduced us to an attractive middle-aged woman, whom she called Bibi, and who enquired as to what it was we wanted done.

I had long thought it time to have my navel pierced and said so, but Petra already had had hers done.

'I see you've already had your tongues done,' observed Bibi, 'but what about your labia, as you're here? Would you like me to have a look at them, and see what we can do?'

I nodded uncertainly, but Petra seemed more positive and so it was that I found myself in a vacant chair, not unlike the one at the dentist's, while Bibi and a younger girl prodded and probed. In no time at all I had had my navel pierced, and a silver ring threaded in. When Bibi asked me what sort of decoration I wanted, I told her that I loved things that dangled. She fetched me a tray, and I selected a triple silver chain about ten centimetres long which would swish around nicely against my belly.

Bibi had inspected my pussy closely and declared me an ideal subject for a pierced clitoris. She told me that few women had a clit big enough to achieve this, as it was normally covered by the hood, but that mine was just asking to be done, and that it would be enhanced beautifully. I was terrified, and asked her if it would hurt.

'Yes,' she said, 'for a moment, but it's terribly exciting as well. Would you like to look at mine?'

I nodded dumbly and she needed no further encouragement to lift her starched white housecoat and the silk slip she wore underneath. She pushed aside the gusset of loose silk panties she wore, and there, nestling in the pink crack of her neat pussy, was a silver ring, with a little opalescent stone set into it, projecting from the small protruding bud of her clit. It was all I could do not to reach out and touch it, and I wasn't sure that it wasn't what she wanted, anyway.

But the moment passed, and she turned away, a half smile on her face – she knew what had been on my mind.

It seemed I had agreed to have it done! Before I could say anything more, Bibi was between my legs – which were in stirrups – and she was teasing out my clit, an altogether pleasant sensation, despite my fears. But then she produced, as if out of thin air, the piercing tool, and told me to keep very still. I was trembling like a leaf, and then there was an awful, blinding pain, and an accompanying sensation the like of which I had never felt in my life, but which was close to that which I knew when I was whipped severely – a ferocious, searing, climactic orgasm that almost caused me to lose consciousness.

'It's done!' said a voice from a million miles away. It was Bibi, by my side, wiping my brow. 'No sex for at least two weeks – and apply this lotion every night,' she said, giving me a bottle.

I was soon reunited with Petra, who had been unable to have her clit done, as her hood covered it too completely, so had had a ring inserted in her hood – an altogether simpler process. Then Tina met us in the reception area, where she had been chatting with the blonde, and suggested we go with her and have some lunch, then return to visit another department.

'Fuck,' I said, 'no more pain, please. I've had enough today!'

'No,' said Tina, 'no more pain, trust me.'

We had a bite of lunch and returned to the 'Body-Art' headquarters in the afternoon. Tina led us to what she described as the 'nail-room' where we were seated and shown a bewildering variety of false fingernails, and given lots of advice. I had contemplated having a set fitted for a long time – it was just too much trouble maintaining my natural ones all the time, and when the long red porcelain talons were in place, I wondered why I hadn't had them done earlier.

Then Tina said, 'You like dangly things, don't you?'

'Yes, why?' I replied.

She brought a smiling little assistant to show me a brochure, with a picture of a nail, from which a tiny chain was hanging. I was intrigued.

'Would you like something like this?' she asked, and before I had the chance to reply she had produced a tiny pocket drill, which whined when she flicked it on. I nodded as she put it carefully to the nail on my left pinky, and, in a second, had produced a tiny, neat round hole. Into this she inserted a minute gold ring, which he squeezed up with pliers: from it hung a chain about three centimetres long, with a small stone set in a clasp at its end. I knew it was going to get in my way all the time, but discomfort was a part of sensuality – a reminder, somehow, of the borders of pain and ecstasy, that ven I couldn't have bgun to describe. I watched Petra being fitted with a similar device, and we exchanged knowing looks – she, at least, would understand!

When we returned to our apartment block, Olga had pushed a note under my door. It gave me a telephone number to ring, and said it was urgent. It was a Spanish mobile number – I thought, 'somebody doesn't have my mobile number!'

Wondering who on earth it could be, curiosity got the better of me.

I knew the answering voice instantly. It was a voice I had had dreams about, masturbated while I remembered my weekend with its owner, fantasised about what I wanted her to do to me again, about the kiss of her lash on my naked back, the feel of her tongue as it probed my most secret openings, and about her husband, Jean-Paul, his strong hands on my hips as his erect cock plunged deep into my anus, while she, my lovely Monique, let me kiss her sweet cunt.

My legs were weak as I spoke to her, and she heard the tremble in my voice as she arranged to meet me in a city centre coffee bar at ten next morning.

I hardly slept that night, troubled by the soreness in my pussy, but still more by the nervousness that my impending meeting with Monique was causing.

I got up early, made up carefully, brushed my hair to a silken sheen, dressed in a maroon silk dress with a flared skirt – the best I had – and a pair of good shoes, and took a taxi to our venue. Monique was already there, dressed in a white pleated skirt and brown silk blouse. She looked as lovely as ever, her dark eyes flashing, black hair curling down over her collar.

She held my hand as she spoke to me, and I felt all my love for her from a few weeks before surge back into me, take possession of me, and make me want to do anything, absolutely anything, that she wanted of me.

She made small-talk and played with the decoration on my pinky: I found myself telling her that I'd had my clit pierced as well. Her voice lowered half an octave as she told me how she wanted to inspect that, and I trembled with the anticipation of it.

Then Monique became suddenly businesslike.

'You know I told you we were going to the Seychelles?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you can forget that.'

'Oh?'

'Yes,' she went on, 'things have changed.' She paused. 'Have you read "O"'

It took me a moment to adjust to the abrupt change of subject. 'No, but I've seen the film,' I said.

'Good enough,' she relied, 'so you know about Roissy?'

'A fictitious castle where "O" is trained?'

'Correct. What you may not know is that "O" has a tremendous cult status in France. There are whole lots of people who would like to go to a real place like "Roissy" and even a club, the PRAGs'

'PRAG?'

'Pauline Reage Appreciation Group.'

'Oh!'

'Well, as you may not know, Jean-Paul's father left him a lot of money, and we have decided to open an establishment on similar lines to "Roissy" – though nowhere near Paris, as that would probably excite too much attention.'

'Monique,' I said, 'why are you telling me all this?'

'Because, darling, I should like you and your friend to be our first members of staff.'

'Petra as well?'

'Ah, so that's her name; Jean-Paul thought it was Paula. Yes.'

'Oh, Monique, I'd love to come. I'll have to clear it with my boss, of course, and I don't know about Petra, but I think she'll want to, as well.' In truth, I hadn't thought about it – what it would entail, what my duties might be, anything – just the idea of being around Monique and Jean-Paul, and with Petra there as well, that was all I could have wished for, and I just blurted out my acceptance!

Monique had to leave in a hurry, so I promised to let her know when I could come to Paris to meet her, and, hopefully, bring Petra, and we parted.

Petra was initially sceptical. 'You've gotta be joking,' she said, '"O" is a fantasy, darling. Places like Roissy don't exist. The police would close them down in no time. It's got to be some kind of a scam. You're just cuntstruck over this French tart, and….and, well, anything she says, you're easy meat!'

'And you just wouldn't be a weeny bit jealous, would you?' I rejoined.

A slow smile broke out on her lovely face, and she pulled me into her soft embrace, our studded tongues entwining. When we pulled apart, she looked deep into my eyes, and said, 'You're serious about this, are you?'

'What do we have to lose?' I asked her.

'A meal-ticket, for starters,' she said, my ever-practical Petra.

'Look,' I said, 'things are dead quiet at the moment. Let's ask Marta if we can go off for a couple of months, with the option of coming back for the Christmas season. She'll jump at it – it'll be two less to find work for.'

She did, and I called Monique the next evening and arranged to meet her in the French capital two days later.

Petra and I were, nevertheless, nervous when the Air France flight landed on time at five in the afternoon, at Charles de Gaulle airport, and we collected our scant baggage from the carousel. Monique told us we should travel light, as all the clothing we should need would be provided, and so we just brought one change of clothes and few cosmetics. When we emerged, a broad-shouldered guy in a chauffeur's uniform was holding up a cardboard sheet with our names printed on it, and he took our bags from us without much in the way of conversation. It was soon clear that we had very little language in common, anyway, as I spoke a little French, but Petra had none at all, and our driver, whose name I learned was Didier, had no Spanish, or anything else very much. So we sat in silence as we sped through the busy traffic to a leafy suburb near Versailles, and were deposited outside a well-kept old house with a circular driveway leading to a varnished front door with shining brass furniture. It opened as soon as we approached, and Monique was standing there, dressed in a black silk kimono, her arms open in greeting.

Jean-Paul was stood behind her, dressed in a track-suit, and they both looked pleased to see us.

After we had freshened up, we sat down to a convivial dinner, and they then outlined their exciting plans for their 'Roissy' facsimile.

Monique glanced at her Cartier watch. 'It's almost eleven,' she said, 'you must be exhausted after your journey. I know you'll need some sleep, and I've put you in separate rooms, but we'll try to give you both sweet awakenings in the morning!' She licked her red lips smilingly as she wished us goodnight, and had a pretty young maid show us to our adjoining rooms, on the first floor. I fell asleep just as soon as I had slipped out of my dress and crawled between the smooth satin sheets.

I awoke to the usual disorientation that you experience in a strange bedroom, but sun filtered through the shutters, and I was thinking about getting up when the door opened quietly and Monique slipped in, wearing a short white silk slip, which contrasted with her black curls.

'Good morning, darling,' she said, 'I didn't know if you were awake, but I thought I'd come and see, and I've sent Jean-Paul next door.' So that was what she meant by sweet awakenings!

I pulled back the satin covers, and made room for her to slide in beside me. It felt like forever since I had felt her smooth flesh, had her open herself to me. She explored my newly-pierced navel, having already admired my unusual nail decoration the previous evening. Then her hand crept down across my belly and to the folds of my labia, to where I had told her my most intimate decoration lay. When she touched the little ring I flinched – it was still sore, and she kissed me, saying, 'I know, darling, it must hurt, but you have made me envious, and Jean-Paul wants me to have one anyway.'

'It hurts,' I said, 'but I so want you to kiss me, to put your tongue inside me, Monique – please!' I had quite forgotten that the last time we were together I was obliged to address her as 'mistress,' and she didn't seem at all concerned.

As she sunk her tongue deep into my cunt, and introduced a long-nailed finger slowly, gently into my hot, eager, waiting anus, and I returned the favour by lapping the wet sweetness of her fragrant crack with my studded tongue, I heard rhythmic little screams through the wall dividing my room from that of Petra, where Jean-Paul was evidently enjoying paying her a visit. But really I had no mind for anything other than Monique's lovely body, and I came, with shuddering force, as did she, then we lay in each others' arms for a long time, savouring the moment.

As I sat over breakfast, Monique fussing over coffee in the kitchen, Petra appeared, eyes bright and shining. A knowing look passed between us, as Monique returned, and announced that we should get ready to go straight away.

'Where to?' I wanted to know.

'We're taking you straight down to the Abbeye de Morzac,' she said. So that was what the 'Roissy' copycat was called.

We were driven by the same po-faced Didier to Orly airport, where, at a small private terminal, a small but beautifully appointed Gulf Stream jet awaited us. The flight was short – no more than forty five minutes – and very smooth, and we disembarked at a small private airfield near Ste Etienne. A limo with blacked-out rear windows awaited us as we taxied to a halt.

An hour later, we passed through a village which bore the sign 'Morzac' and carried on, along minor roads, high into the lonely mountains of the Auvergne. When we turned off the road, down a narrow track, just wide enough for the big car, through dense pinewoods, there was no signpost. But the woods opened out and there, in front of us was a big grey-stone building, of forbidding aspect, with wide stone staircase leading up to a portico.

'Welcome to the Abbeye de Morzac,' said Jean-Paul, leading the way up the steps as the door was opened to us by a serious-looking young uniformed manservant.

Jean-Paul nodded to him and said, 'Merci, Henri.'

Monique took charge then, led us all into a great refectory, and made sure we all had a good lunch, served by two uniformed maids, then she adopted a businesslike manner and addressed the two of us, 'I know you two girls are accustomed to having a short siesta. I'll have you shown to your rooms, and leave you for a couple of hours, then I'd like to have a sesion with you on what your duties will be, and kit you out with your uniforms.'

'Uniforms?' we practically chorussed, looking at each other, then at Monique, who was smiling.

'Not like any uniform you have ever seen,' she said, mysteriously, and left the two maids to show us to our rooms.

My room was nice – nicer than any I had ever had, with a big double bed, en suite bathroom, toiletries and cosmetics in plenty, and a big dressing alcove, but, despite Monique's assurance that all our clothes would be provided, nothing in that line was yet in sight, except a long silk negligee, which lay across the bed, obviously for my use. In need of a shower after the journey, I took a leisurely one, slipped into the luxurious silk garment, lay on the bed and dozed off, without much of a care in the world.

After what seemed like a couple of minutes, but was certainly much longer, there was a knock on my door. One of the maids put her head around it and said, in halting Spanish, 'You are to please come with me!'

When I started to shrug off the negligee to get dressed, she said, 'No, no, you come…so!' I slipped on the sandals I had come in and followed her obediently along the corridor and through a door similar to mine, into a much bigger room, with a table and easy chairs. Monique was seated in one, wearing a long black kimono, which looked like the one she had worn the night before. Petra had already arrived, and occupied another. She was, like me, wearing a long silk robe.