Chapter 5

My father, a famous doctor, as is natural with doctors, had a great deal of acquaintances in the medical world, both in Switzerland and abroad.

As I've told you before, he was extremely fond of me, maybe too fond . . . He was always delighted when I accompanied him on his frequent trips abroad.

I had been at his side when he had been received at the Medical Academy of Berne. And, in Venice, I had been with him when he had pronounced a famous speech before other doctors on the subject of nervous diseases and their consequences.

So, one evening, he gently took my shoulders in his hands and told me:

"I think my little girl doesn't know London, do you?"

"No, I don't, daddy."

"Well, if you wish to come with me, I have to go to a medical congress which is taking place in London next week. What do you say?"

My answer was to embrace and kiss him warmly.

A few days later we were in a jet bound for Croydon.

Several times during the trip I heard my name being mentioned by other passengers:

"She's the daughter of the famous Swiss surgeon, Doctor Delac" I heard them say.

It was quite pleasant to be the daughter of a famous man for, apart from the congress, it meant nothing but receptions, evening parties, etc.

Proud as an eighteen-year-old girl can be, I was delightfully flattered when I heard people whisper in various tongues as I passed by:

"She's really pretty."

"Comme elle est jolie."

"Wie hubsch."

"Una bella ragazza."

"Guapa la mujercita." And so on in several languages.

One week-end, we were invited by a famous Scottish surgeon, Bruce Mackay, to his sumptuous shore residence.

The society was brilliant and a dance crowned off a very successful day. The orchestra was excellent and the atmosphere very gay.

They were all deluging me with compliments.

I had already danced with several partners: Italian surgeons, German psychiatrists, Austrian doctors, etc. As each of my partners, after a few dances, had accompanied me courteously to the buffet, the result was that I had absorbed a real mixture of spirits, and I was very near to being drunk, but not quite I was feeling as if walking on pink clouds.

The band struck up a famous Strauss waltz.

I'm no musician, but the old time waltzes all have the effect of making me sweetly attuned and romantically minded, even when I'm sober.

And as I wasn't particularly sober, I don't have to tell you that the effect was doubled.

Suddenly, a grave voice asked me:

"Can I have the pleasure of this dance?"

There stood before me a man who could be 35 or 40, impeccably dressed in tails, and bowing ceremoniously.

"Of course," I answered.

He was quite a good dancer. He held my body without undue force and led me with a soft pressure of his left hand.

The whole orchestra was vibrating under the bows of the string section.

The peculiar rhythm of the waltz made us all whirl softly as in a dream world; skirts and gowns were swirling and the whole scene would have looked wonderful in Cinemascope and Technicolor.

Then, suddenly I feel a strange sensation.

It seemed as if an indefinable fluid were emanating from the body of my partner, something that made me cling close to him and feel like nestling against his chest.

I rarely resist impulses of that kind.

So I unhesitatingly held myself close against him and we went on waltzing.

When he had invited me to dance, he had spoken in French, but in a somewhat halting French, that of an educated Britisher.

He showed a perfect example of self-control when I clung to him: his face remained perfectly impassive, but he did have a reflex which he couldn't help, that reflex usually brought about in the stronger sex by a feminine body held close against one. Namely, my partner developed a tremendous hard-on.

But then, the music stopped.

We came out of our embrace.

I noticed that he was red in the face and that his eyes were shining with a light I knew well.

But he pulled himself together quickly and bowed formally.

"I've just danced an unforgettable waltz," he said to me, after having bowed and kissed my hand, "with Miss Rochelle Delac, the daughter of a great doctor. May I introduce myself Dr. Rodney Peters."

"You were decorated in the war, I see," I said, putting my finger on a medal on his lapel, small but distinctive.

"You're quite observant, young lady. Indeed I was a pilot in the Air Force during the last war.

"A glorious pilot, I see."

"Spare my blushes and grant me a favor, will you? Please present me to your father. I have great admiration for him and his talent and it would be an honor for me to meet him."

"So you don't know daddy? He's really somebody, you know," I said proudly.

"I know. Unfortunately I haven't yet been introduced to him. I know him well from reading his remarkable works and especially his Treatise on cerebral surgery several times."

"Father loves flirting," I said mischievously.

"And, do you?" came the unexpected question.

I wasn't in the least put off, and, looking him straight in the eye, I answered:

"A lot, when the partner is worthwhile."

I could see that his hard-on had become bigger than ever. He took me to the shadowy part of the park, silent and fragrant.

The next day, I asked my father:

"Daddy, did you know Rodney Peters?"

"No, I didn't, and I'm very glad you introduced him to me."

"Had you ever heard of him?"

"Oh yes, he's remarkable. He's relatively young, and yet he has already performed brilliant operations in the domain of skin grafting. He teaches at the Royal Academy and his courses are deeply interesting.

"Good. Thanks."

My dear father was modern in his outlook, but not at all blind. He was often affectionately ironical in some of his remarks which I accepted readily from him but which I wouldn't have tolerated coming from anybody else.

It was one of those moods that he spoke to me then:

"I would add, to complete your documentation, that he is one of the heroes of the Second World War and that his behavior in 1940 has been admirable; that he's rich (which is far from spoiling his record), that he belongs to the London gentry and that, besides all those qualities, he also dances divinely. Just imagine: after a few fiery waltzes he succeeded in drawing my daughter to the park for a couple of hours. What they said and did during those two hours, only the lawns and the shrubs can tell." I burst out laughing.

"But I thought you were too busy flirting outrageously with . . "

"That is perfectly correct. Your mother is very indulgent on this subject, and it's precisely because I myself was in the park with . . . (but never mind who), that I saw you and Rodney Peters in the semi-darkness, tenderly setting with each other."

"Oh, I see."

"Anyway, my dear child, congratulations.

You could hardly have chosen better your new lover belongs to the elite."

Thus ran the conversation between me and daddy about Rodney Peters, distinguished surgeon and impeccable waltzer. He might even have thought that Rodney screwed his daughter, but he was 'modern.'

The congress came to an end a few days later.

Daddy and I returned to Switzerland.

That brief evening had left in me an unforgettable romantic trace. Never before, with my two lovers, had I experienced the same sensations as on that evening.

When Rodney had taken me to the dark park he had at first contented himself with holding me softly but firmly by my arm.

Then he offered me a cigarette and, pointing to an isolated bench surrounded with small trees, he had suggested with a handsome smile:

"How about a little rest after all those dances?"

I agreed.

It was one of those rare nights in England, although very frequent on the Riviera, for instance. It was quiet and warm and there wafted up to us the fragrance of roses, carnations and hydrangeas which, added to the far-away strains of romantic music, created a sweet and dreamlike atmosphere.

As we were seated, I had felt Rodney slip an arm round my waist. As you know, I am rather slim, so that he had no difficulty in cupping one of my titties in his hand while holding his arm round my middle.

I enjoyed feeling those male fingers separated from my bare tit by only a gossamer dress.

Then, he had become bolder and his other hand had slipped into my wide neckline, imprisoning my other breast in his nervous, yet soft, fingers.

I remember it had made me sigh and that I had eagerly given him my lips which his own had been seeking as he played with my knockers.

The English have a reputation for coldness.

If that is so then, Rodney was the exception that confirmed the rule. He kissed so well that a spinster from a Moral League would gladly have sucked him off.

Later, as the orchestra had packed up, there had reigned a supreme silence a silence perfumed with roses and lilac.

I had lost the notion of time and stopped realizing where I was.

I would have loved him to toss me on to the moonlit grass and shove his huge hard-on up my willing, wet cunt. Perhaps then would I have felt that famous voluptuousness I was so ardently seeking and which had so far eluded me. I was sure that his superb shaft was the one that would make me come.

Of course, that would have been bare-assed folly, for there were other couples walking in the park.

And what a scandal it would have been if Rodney Peters, the famous medico, had been found laying the daughter of the famous Swiss surgeon.

Finally, we had left the park with a lingering soul kiss, tonguing like mad.

I recall that evening with an intense passion.

No man had ever given me so much moral satisfaction, that of finding by my side a man to whom I was so much attracted.

Of course, he had not made me feel the much-vaunted physical thrills, but then we had not performed the final act. The only thing he put between the lips of my cunt were his fingers.

I had the impression that Rodney's cock would give me that eluding feeling, that voluptuous spasm, that divine thrill which the girls were raving about.

I kept thinking of him in my room in Lausanne. Let him come as he had promised me, and I would offer myself wholly to him. I would put myself naked before him, with my nipples stiff and my pussy available to his dear cock, and I would offer him everything so that he should hump me into divine ecstasy and climax.

Well, he came as he had promised he would.

I was out on that afternoon. I had gone to Vevay with friends, I came home at eight p.m. and, as usual, went to kiss my mother, who was in the parlor with a girl-friend.

"Is daddy there?" I asked her.

"Yes, he's in his office, with somebody you know."

"Who is it?"

"Go and see that will be your surprise." So I knocked on my father's door. "Come in." he said.

My father was sitting at his desk and, beside him, stood Rodney.

"Good evening, Mr. Peters. Good evening, papa."

"Good evening, my child."

"Good evening, Miss Delac."

How solemn my Peter sounded.

My father, with his usual gentle smile that lit his face, told me:

"Sit down dear. The three of us are going to have a conversation."

I obeyed.

"Now, Rochelle," my father said, "you're going to be surprised, just as I have been. I'll go straight to the point: Mr. Peters has come specially from England to speak to me about an important thing."

"Ah," I said, "which important thing is that?"

"He came here to ask for your hand." I was dumbstruck with surprise. I had not been expecting that. I did not know yet how different from ours British mentality is.

So he had liked me; my family was very honorable and my father was an eminent surgeon. He had only seen me a few hours but the hard-on I had given him must have been unforgettable.

As far as I was concerned, he aroused me a lot, more than any other man, but it's quite different thing getting married to a man one has seen only a few hours.

That's why I answered with sincerity:

"But the idea of marrying never entered my mind. Besides I'm not yet 19."

"That's what I told Rodney," my father said, "but he replied with his British phlegm: "Young and distinguished as your daughter is, she's bound to get married some day, and even soon. So, since I love her, why not with me rather than with another?"

Well, that was certainly one way of looking at it.

I was a free-minded girl, even very free, especially about sex. So I was not relishing the prospect of getting married to a man who, under the pretext that I was his wife, would hold me more or less in bondage.

That's why, on that evening, I said neither yes nor no to the proposal. I decided to have a frank talk with Rodney on this point.

As soon as I saw him again, I told him:

"My dear Rodney, as you know, my father told me about your asking for my hand. It's very flattering. You're a handsome man and an eminent doctor. Briefly, you're 'somebody.' Besides, I like you, and I could add that you're the first man to whom I feel attracted both physically and morally.

Only, there's a 'but.'

And that 'but' is that I hardly know you. I don't even know you at all.

You see, Rodney, you belong to English society and I to the Swiss elite. Herein Switzerland, usually, married women are free. Our husbands, or at least the great majority of them don't waste their times being jealous.

I wonder is it so in England too? I don't know.

I'm a free-minded girl and I don't want to wear a chastity belt.

I want to be a devoted companion to my husband. I want to help him in everything. I'll try to be pleasant to him, but I must have freedom.

I've been frank and outspoken with you. Please answer me candidly.

You see, I want to have your assent to live with you as Hike, and that means trying fucking with other men if I want as long as I avoid scandal.

So that's it. I've given you a blunt account of my wishes. Now, what do you say?"

He looked me straight in the eye, and he smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. With ironical calm, he answered:

"My darling, I understand your apprehension and it can be justified. But don't make the mistake of generalizing. Apart from some toothless spinsters and impotent old men, both aristocratic and middle-class people are far from being puritans, believe me.

As for me, personally, as a doctor, you can imagine that my profession, which I've been practicing for nearly twenty years, has instructed me sufficiently on life and it's taught me that life is short and full of perils and that we must make our best of it before it's too late.

So you see, we share the same point of view.

On the other hand, you can be sure that I knew already that you were a modern girl, even very modern sexually.

I'll add that if you had been a narrow-minded, naive girl I would not have asked for your hand. That's my answer."

This conversation was taking place in a fashionable tea-salon. There were table neighbors who could easily hear what we were saying, but I didn't care, and I didn't give them a thought when doing the next spontaneous thing, which was to throw myself into Rodney's arms and kiss him passionately on the mouth.

"That'll be perfect, darling." I said.

Two months later we were married.

I had had everything as a girl. My mother had spoiled me, My father adored me and he was a great personality in the medical world. We were well off and I had led a golden childhood.

But I knew that there was something missing. And that was a companion. I can't give the name of companion to the two lovers I had screwed. They were just passing fads.

The companion I missed was simply my husband.

Except on the matter of "coming" you know what I mean, don't you? the beginning of my marriage was what I could call perfect happiness.

London's high society welcomed me with open arms and my husband's renown was a key to all doors.