Chapter 5
THE KINSOLVINGS HAD BEEN IN PARIS A WEEK now. Business details were going extremely well, it was understood that Midland would award the European franchise to M. De Fonseca, papers had been drawn up to that effect. As well as contracts stipulating the extent of M. De Fonseca's financial investment in the projected concrete plants and facilities.
This, of course, Joanna Kinsolving got second-hand-and vaguely-from Mayo. Joanna had a terrible business sense, she couldn't make head or tail out of the complicated talk of mergers, franchises, options, interlocking directorates, subsidiary rights and the like. The few times Mayo had tried to describe how vast business empires could be constructed with little or no money at all changing hands, her head had spun before he'd hardly begun.
Things were going well. Let it go at that. At least if she was to judge by the excited glow residing in her husband's eyes these days, by the fact that he and Roul De Fonseca were together almost constantly, were always on the go, meeting with bank people, partners and the like, seeking plant sites, shipping terminals, materials supplies. Then, of course, there were architects, tentative bids from French contractors, meetings with government officials.
Small wonder Joanna couldn't keep abreast of current developments.
Aimee De Fonseca had been every bit as good as her word, had become almost a second sister to Joanna. The ing‚nue American had come to implicitly trust and depend upon her new friend. If they weren't together in the flesh, they were on the phone; there was always an impending excursion, social afternoon, shopping jaunt.
Alone in her hotel suite this afternoon Joanna was somewhat fidgety. And yet, glad as well, for these few hours alone, to gather her wits. Paris was exciting, romantic, picturesque. They'd been to Versailles on Tuesday, had visited the historic cathedral at Chartes yesterday. Sandwiched in between had been visits to Sacre Coeur, the fantastic church atop Montmarte, Joanna had been moved almost to tears by the beauty of the city lying below them.
But there came a time when the human body must have a rest, when the brain is flurried, when landmarks and scenic views lose their power to touch the senses. And this afternoon-
Joanna sipped slowly at a small glass of dessert wine, a brand Aimee had recommended, she smiled bemusedly to think how quickly she was adopting her new friend's ways. The De Fonsecas' influence was insidious; it seemed she and Mayo were daily becoming converts to their free, liberal views on everything. She remembered how she'd been shocked at some of the astonishing things Aimee had told her those first few days-things most people back home never mentioned, and if they did, in soft whispers. Now the bawdy, intimate references barely fazed her.
As part of this change of philosophy, of this broadening of their outlooks, was the way neither she nor Mayo had mentioned, to this day, the very pagan love they'd made their second night in Paris. Aftermath of their visit to Le Frenetique.
She'd awakened the next morning to find that Mayo had already dressed and gone. Hung over, remorse-stricken, frightened, wondering what had got into her to make her flaunt Mayo's subtle dictates, she'd been glad when Aimee had offered distraction, had come to take her shopping at noon.
And yet, even at this moment, she had to admit that she'd felt somehow relieved, cleansed that morning. And damn the sickness, the guilt! Hadn't that love been wonderful, hadn't it routed too-long-repressed emotions, hadn't she tingled deep inside to review the wild things she'd done and said, hadn't she actually yearned for recurrence of the same?
She'd tried to talk about that erotic night with Mayo during the past few days. Each time, however, he'd given her short shrift, had acted extremely embarrassed at the reference. "We were drunk," he turned her off, "we both got out of control, acted like animals. Those things happen. The Paris influence, I suppose. We'll just have to watch ourselves. That wasn't exactly my cup of tea."
When she'd tried to pursue the conversation, he'd become angry. "Was it so terrible, darling?" she'd asked. "I mean we got carried away, I acted like a tramp, but isn't there a middle ground ? We don't have to go to such extremes, but on the other hand, this other we have ... passive, almost antiseptic ... can't be satisfying to either of us...."
"Forget it, Joanna," he'd snapped. "I don't want to talk about that. That wasn't you. I can't believe you really enjoyed having me treat you like that. And those things you said ... I was amazed." He'd turned his back to her in bed. "No ... we won't ever get like that again...."
Now Joanna smiled, something lascivious in her expression, to remember the love they'd made last night. Again after an evening with the De Fonsecas, after drinking a little too much, after visiting another wild club, one in which the atmosphere was only slightly more refined.
Afterward, in bed, Mayo had come to her, had inaugurated love overtures, had lain at her breasts for an exceptionally long time, had driven her out of her mind with desire. Involuntarily she'd let her hand slither down on his body, had agitated him still more boldly. Hoping against hope that this was signal of a change, a maturing, a new attitude on his part toward lovemaking, she'd gradually become more audacious.
Seemingly Mayo hadn't minded a bit, he'd suffered no spate of repugnance, he'd lent himself to every caress.
Their passion mounting, her breasts feeling like they would explode, he'd requested something he'd never asked for before. And even though she suspected this was a thing he'd practiced with his many mistresses, she obliged him. Thrilled, eager, she'd got over him, had braced her body with her arms, had let her breasts hang down over his face. She'd burned inside, had shivered reflexively as he'd gathered them, attended them with hungry lips and tongue.
Afterwards, when he was over her, was embracing her, his lovemaking had been more wild, more violent. And while she hadn't called out any of those words, while she'd confined herself only to pleasurable sighs and moans, she had at the end, let her body flow and twist and lurch in gorgeous answer to his. She had accomplished a stunning glory before he reached his.
Surprisingly enough Mayo had welcomed her reciprocal movements, he'd made no adverse comment about her energetic participation.
Now Joanna emerged from her reverie, was surprised to find her breasts aching, to find a hot searing deep in her entrails. Involuntarily she pressed her thighs together, the better to savor the evil sensation.
Talk about your sexed-up cases, she thought.
Her pulse quickened and she felt a giddy elation. Perhaps Paris, the De Fonsecas, were good for their marriage. Perhaps there still was a chance for them. If she could keep after Mayo, cause a gradual change. If she could get him to take her off that sky-high pedestal upon which he'd kept her all these years-
Her head swam at the delightful conjecture.
It was at this point, Joanna going to refill her wine glass, her temperature decidedly zooming, that her steamy introspections were interrupted by the phone.
Aimee was on the line. And after the usual amenities: "Joanna," she said puckishly, "did you notice how foolish our husbands were acting last night? What do you think of this 'night out' of theirs?"
"I'd forgotten," Joanna said. "But now that you mention it ... Was that supposed to be tonight?"
"Yes, tonight. I have an idea of what they are up to. I know my Roul only too well. I think he is taking Mayo to one of our special shows. A circus. You know what I mean?"
Joanna was confused. "No, I don't think so. You mean with lions and tigers? Clowns and animals?"
Aimee giggled. "Animals, yes. But a different kind of animal. Two-legged ones. I think you have things like this in America. Or movies of them, anyway. You call them ... let me see if I can remember the word ... stags. Only here we don't bother with movies. We have the real thing."
Joanna felt a visceral shift, a sodden lump suddenly formed in her stomach. She knew the word, she knew its significance. And yet she wasn't too shaken. After all, she knew her husband did worse things than watch movies.
"Joanna? Are you there? Do you understand?"
"I understand." She tried to make light of it. "I think it's a big gyp." She giggled, put on a bawdy front. "I think they should take us along."
Aimee laughed delightedly. "Ah, good, Joanna. You are becoming enlightened. But I'm afraid that is impossible. These things are only for men in Paris."
"You're sure that's what they're going to do?"
"I'm certain," Aimee said, acting out her role perfectly. For she was, of course, positive of where Roul and Mayo were going. She and her husband had discussed the circus even before Roul had broached the idea to Mayo. They had also discussed the following phase of their strategy at length, the kicker which was yet to be sprung on Joanna. For if they were to ever spread this libertine contagion among their gauche American cousins-
"What ... what are we going to do about it?" Joanna said. "Should I tell Mayo I know, forbid him to go?"
"No. Let the little dears have their fun. After all, they are men, men need these harmless outlets."
Bitterness gathered in Joanna's throat as she considered the irony of the situation. Men are supposed to be sensual, they're allowed to fool around, get their kicks. But women-especially this woman-
Her anger spilled over. "And what about us women? Aren't we supposed to have any fun?"
Aimee really giggled at this. "Oh, mais out, Joanna! I see that you are growing up. All my lectures haven't been in vain. You will be a woman of the world yet." She paused. "No, cher ami, we will not interfere with the men. But that doesn't mean we won't have some fun of our own, does it?"
Joanna suddenly tensed, got cold feet. Perhaps she'd gone a little too far. "What do you mean, Aimee?"
"I mean I know of a quaint little place where such diversions are offered too. Only with one restriction. The performances are for women only. We will go tonight, we will show those men...."
"No, really ... " Joanna balked, her heart thudding in panic, "I don't think I would care for a...."
"But of course you would, darling. Please. Trust me. This is part of your education. If you haven't seen a show like this once in your lifetime...."
"No, that's definitely out of the question. I couldn't look myself in the face afterward. I...."
"You're conceding then, that these things are just for men, that we women are nothing more than chattel, we haven't the right to this erotic enlightenment?"
Mme. De Fonseca judged her prey accurately. The barb goaded, stung Joanna. "Damn him, anyway ... " she growled. And the resolve was instantly full-blown. "All right," she snapped. "I'll do it. I'll go to your little ... circus ... with you. What time? What do we do, what do I wear?"
Aimee snickered gloatingly. "My treat of course. Now listen carefully. Here is what we will do." Aimee launched into a rapid-fire flurry of instructions. Then, as she closed: "I will come by for you at ten. Be ready. One other thing, dear ... "
"Yes?"
"Take a few stiff drinks before hand. You know ... to build up your courage a little? To make you more ... how do you Americans say ... broad-minded?"
Joanna did as Aimee suggested, downed two martinis before the solitary dinner she took in the hotel dining room. Mayo had called at six, had told her to go ahead without him. He and Roul had an important business meeting, they would be very late. She shouldn't wait up. Bitterness choking her, Joanna had accepted the fabrication without a word.
Barely picking at her dinner, the gin had cut in fast. As special precaution she'd gone into the bar afterward, had ordered another. Seeing it was almost ten by then, she'd fled to her room, had changed into the dark, simple dress Aimee had suggested, chose a black cloth coat.
She was in the lobby looking out, when Aimee's Daimler swept up before the hotel.
Entering the car she got a strong whiff of whiskey. Aimee wasn't quite as blase about their upcoming evening as she'd like Joanna to believe.
"How far?" Joanna asked in a hushed voice.
"Fifteen minutes or so," Aimee said, not looking at her. The ultra-auto purred off into the Paris night.
The street they turned into, drove halfway up, was in a modest, middle-class residential section. Already, at this early hour, the houses were dark, the walks were shrouded in shadow. The location was ideal, guaranteed the anonymity of the female visitors to the secret address.
Aimee's face was pale, her smile stiff as she took Joanna's arm, led her down the murky walk. "This way, dear. It's a few houses down."
The establishment they finally turned into was huge, hedge and wall surrounded, was at least three stories high. The windows glowed faintly, the drapes were drawn tightly. Joanna heard the tap of other female heels ahead of them on the winding stone walk, felt strangely reassured.
I'm not the only libertine abroad tonight, she thought.
A smallish, rat-faced man admitted them after Aimee tendered the proper French password. A plain-faced girl of perhaps sixteen led them up some wide stairs. Had Joanna been any more experienced she would have immediately known she'd just entered a bordello.
But a very unusual bordello indeed. As she was to discover later.
She and Aimee were ushered into a gloomy, hushed room. An eight-foot-high curtain blocked them. "Norn-bre dix," their usher said, opening the curtain at a precise spot, indicating a small booth, the back open, into which they walked. There was a rustle of paper as Aimee tipped the girl. Then they were alone in the shrouded booth, groping for chairs.
"Women are a little more discreet in these matters than men," Aimee said. She indicated the cowling of drapes separating their booth from the next, which cowling gave excellent view of the small stage-the fine silk curtain still drawn over it, the footlights glowing with firefly intensity-located not more than fifteen feet from where they sat.
But unless Joanna were to lean out, peer around the edge of that cowling, she couldn't see any of the other women present. But the depraved theater was packed. The lilting giggles, the miasma of perfume hanging in the air were testament to that. Alcoholically insulated as Joanna was, she still felt mean and cheap, she wondered why she'd ever consented to come.
A moment later there was a rustle and Aimee leaned back, opened her curtain a crack. The rat-faced man took the white envelope Aimee offered, disappeared.
Not too long after there was another rustle, and a waitress appeared, brought them each a drink, Joanna's an extremely potent martini, Aimee's a brimming, squat glass of Scotch-over-ice. Which each immediately drank as if their lives depended upon it.
The buzzing in the theater became more agitated. Still another drink came. "I shouldn't," Joanna whispered. "I can hardly see straight as it is."
"You'll see straight," Aimee chuckled. "Just as soon as the show begins. I guarantee that. Soon now."
There was a small commotion behind the curtains. Instantly a hush fell over the house. Nervous giggles, the clink of ice in glasses, was all that could be heard.
Hardly knowing what to expect, her breath burning her throat, Joanna leaned forward. As, at that moment, with no further fanfare whatsoever, the curtains slowly opened.
To reveal three men standing and kneeling in statuesque poses, all of them six-footers, all devastatingly handsome, two brunets, one blonde, all dressed in nothing but artist's posing straps. Each man was possessed of a spectacular body, was obviously a physical cultist. Their muscles were lightly oiled, the dressing making their tanned bodies glisten in a fascinating way.
A quick gasp escaped the female audience, and the show was commenced. The men were fantastically developed, their buttocks small, their legs, arms and chests slabs of solid, gleaming bronze muscle. Joanna felt her pulse quicken, wondered what love-with stallions like these would be like.
Even so she was somewhat disappointed. She had expected so much more. She was a little embarrassed for the men who posed on that stage. "Aimee," she whispered. "You mean ... this is all ... ? "
"No, silly. Be patient. These are just appetizers."
The men formed a beautiful tableaux of male flesh, they posed singly, then in representative groups. Little by little their poses became more suggestive, they turned so their fans could see unmistakable agitations within those tight straps. And not much later, one by one, making a prolonged, teasing strip of the segment, they began to undo the leather pouches, they drew them away by slow millimeters. In spite of herself, Joanna found herself leaning forward with bated breath, her eyes glued to the blonde, a man who reminded her slightly of her own Mayo. How would he compare?
Now, totally exposed, the men smiled arrogantly out at the women, they turned, posed anew, gave front views, profile views of their beautiful bodies. And if they were monumental in other departments-
Joanna heard a rapid patter of French from the booth next, the woman's tone definitely anguished. Comme sculpturesque!" she gasped. Aimee giggled huskily at the torrent of words. "What ... ? " Joanna asked.
"The woman ... as you Americans say ... is hurting...."
Again Joanna turned, had eyes only for the three men on stage, the spotlights bright now, the men staring boldly at the wide-eyed woman in their compartments. The blonde bull's gaze fell on Joanna, their eyes locked. He smirked when she had to look away. As she saw conclusive proof that her Mayo was badly outclassed.
Shortly the females became impatient, wanted more show than this. After all, the exorbitant price they'd paid-Joanna barely noticed when Aimee pressed a fresh drink into her hands. She drank, ogled, then ogled some more.
The men formed a last tableaux, their arms on each other's shoulders, their maleness boldly displayed, they smiled brazenly at their audience. Then the curtain was being drawn closed.
A furtive, self-conscious applause filled the room.
Three minutes later the curtains opened again. A bed had been hastily placed, small oddments of bedroom furniture were on stage. And on the bed, one of the dark-haired males, still naked, still in an excited state. A quick murmur of anticipation went through the girls.
As now a diminutive woman, extremely beautiful, a tarn on her dark hair, her sweater crowded to the breaking point, her ample buttocks waggling in her too-tight skirt, her feet in extremely high heels, sauntered onto the stage.
The pantomime that followed wasn't in the least bit subtle. The girl feigned initial shock at seeing the nude male on her bed. Then her eyes reflected interest, finally lust. Shortly she was sitting on the edge of the bed, admiring the arrogant man. First with her eyes, then with her hands.
She was very artistic. And every woman in the room received a vicarious jolt, imagined herself on that bed performing that tactile adoration. Her hands flowed, rippled, did outrageous things to the man.
Joanna felt like she couldn't get her breath.
Gradually the female became more agitated. She rose, quickly stripped off her clothes, revealed her tiny body to the audience. A quick gasp sounded as the women wondered how a woman so small, a njian so large-
For a long time the two bodies clung and writhed on that bed, their hands bold, inventive, moving everywhere on each other. Until finally the girl could withhold that ultimate adoration no longer. And rising, sitting on the edge of the bed again, her face to the audience, she began to kiss his muscular chest, the hard, flat planes of his abdomen. And not too much later, her hands frenzied, serving as advance guard. She adored the Adonis in still another way, A wave of sighs broke the silence.
The sight itself was inciting enough. But the artistry of the female, the wiles, the surprising accommodation she provided were fantastic. The man groaned and writhed.
The audience groaned and writhed also.
As now the man overturned the female. And crouching over her, she still busily occupied, began to reciprocate for the beautiful attention. His dark head disappeared, the vixen's legs tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed.
Joanna existed in an addled, torrid daze. She was transformed, she watched avidly, her breath came in quick puffs. She ached to the very roots of her being.
Now the couple played in other preposterous ways, they shocked and provoked, they assumed wild positions, arranged themselves in incredible knots. Until-
Both of them wild with lust now, they affected that final merging. The small woman sat atop her lover, she rode him like a child might ride an enraged stallion. She groaned, announced her initial glory. Almost immediately the man was lifting her, turning her. Her tiny body was almost hidden by the huge bronzed one. Then he was driving himself to her, driving, driving-
A wild chorus of moans erupted from the audience.
The pagan charade went on and on. Until finally-
The curtain went down again.
The next time it opened there were two women, three men on the stage. The one woman was larger, almost as muscular as the men. The other, a platinum blonde, was, once more, a tiny, child-like creature.
The show became more and more vile.
As the blonde was held in place by her Amazonian counterpart. And one man knelt at the end of the bed, attended her in a very maddening way. While another man knelt, higher on the bed, let the blonde minister to him in an extremely French manner. The third man kissed her breasts, handled them, used them coarsely.
The sin pantomime went on for an interminable time, the blonde squirming and screaming, announcing an artificially induced release. Whereupon everyone switched positions. Everyone except the blonde. The idle man moved to her, took her with a brutal lunge, made her scream.
And while the blonde took care of two of the brutes simultaneously, the muscular woman arranged herself on the bed beside her, her head down, her buttocks upraised. Shortly the third man neared her, crowded up behind her. Her anguished moan elicited other vicariously sympathetic moans from the on-looking females.
Then, for what seemed hours, the heathenish debacle went on. Seemingly the bed, beneath the weight of the five debauchees, should have collapsed. But it did not. It remained firm, steady throughout. Until the curtain finally came down, and the muffled applause built in the sin arena.
"My God," Joanna sighed, slumped in her chair. "I feel absolutely limp. I never dreamed...."
Aimee's eyes were glazed with lust, they glittered darkly. "The best is yet to come, my dear. Wait, the girl will come, take us to our room now."
"Our room? What are you talking about?"
"You don't think we can just go home now? As excited as we are? Non, chert. I ordered the complete package."
"I don't understand...."
"Don't be a ninny. This house is unique in Paris. There are men here, many men. Handsome, skillful men. For our pleasure, for the pleasure of any woman who has no man of her own. Any woman who can afford these magnificent brutes, that is...."
Joanna tried to protest, but Aimee was adamant. "Come," she ordered as the usher appeared, led them down a dark, deserted corridor, "at least look at what you are saying no to." Still dazed from the performance just witnessed, Joanna was pushed forward, forced to accompany her mentor.
She caught a glimpse of another woman ahead of them, a fabulously beautiful, well-dressed blonde, darting into a room. Blindly she stumbled on.
There were three men in the room, all seated on a low couch, all naked except for the leather posing straps. They put down their magazines, snuffed out their cigarettes as the two beautiful women entered. Instantly their eyes zeroed in on Joanna, the younger woman.
"Good evening, girls," one of them, a bold-eyed Spanish type greeted. "Come in. Here is where the fun begins."
Joanna felt cheap and ugly, she wished there were a crack into which she could crawl. "No, Aimee ... " she protested. "I can't ... I just can't...."
"Don't be foolish!" Aimee snapped. "They're already paid for. Pick any one you want. You can't go home all heated-up like this. That would be criminal ... After all, where is Mayo now, what do you think he's doing?"
Momentarily Joanna's gorge rose, she wavered. "I don't care," she shot. "I just can't. Not with a perfect stranger. Someone I've never seen before."
"Please, baby," a strikingly beautiful man, his eyes blue, babyishly soulful, said in broken English. "Take me. I'll do you fine. Love is best with strangers. No obligations, no involvement. You can concentrate on the most important things." He reached to touch her. "I'll do you beautifully, darling. I'll make you scream and moan...."
She recoiled, struck out at him. "No! I won't! I can't. You go ahead, Aimee. If you want. I'll wait."
"Silly girl," Aimee said scathingly. She shrugged. "All right, it's your funeral. Auguste is a fantastic lover, you don't know what you're missing." She wheeled, took in the Spanish man. "You, Antonio. I'll take you."
The man smiled broadly, went to open a door leading to inner labyrinthine passageways to his private room. Aimee looked back. "You won't mind, will you, dear? I just couldn't go home like this."
"No, go ahead. I'll be content to wait."
"Don't forget," she called back, "if you should change your mind ... Auguste, you stay with her, keep her amused."
Aimee and Antonio disappeared. As did the third man, a bull-chested redhead. And Joanna and her rejected lover were alone in the hushed room. She heard tapping heels in the hall, imagined another woman going to pick a purchased lover like so much meat in a butcher shop.
Auguste regarded her silently for some time. Then he moved closer. "Don't you touch me," Joanna said.
"Never," he sneered. "I don't have to touch women who don't want me. But once they've had me ... " His eyes rolled. "They're never the same again."
Joanna fell back, tried to stop her reeling head. She was so terribly confused. The drink, the erotic stimulation still were very much with her. Then, thinking of Aimee somewhere with that man, thinking of this handsome, proficient man, so near, so available-
This was all enough to make a saint melt.
Then she realized the professional lover was talking to her, his voice low, his words smug, wheezing. Taking her refusal as a personal insult, he was attempting to coax her into going to his room with her.
And for the next five minutes Joanna was forced to endure a scatological recital of the most appalling kind. As Auguste delineated, in gutter language, all the maddening things he'd do for her, as he described the multiple glories he'd create for her.
Moment by moment Joanna weakened, she verged on surrender, she sought some feeble justification for this ultimate self-deceit. At the end, however, she was strong. But not strong enough to resist the gigolo's final offer:
"Perhaps you would like to watch your friend? Antonio is a wonderful lover. Aimee too. They should be quite something."
"You must be out of your mind."
"No," he leered. "There is a peephole in the next room. One that opens into his bedroom."
"No, no ... I wouldn't be interested."
He touched her arm gently. "Gome with Auguste. He'll show you."
The sum total of her drinks, her non-stop exposure to raw sex, now took their toll. And a strange weakness infecting her, Joanna let the man raise her, lead her from the room.
"Be very quiet," he whispered as they went into the dark room. "The peephole is over here."
At first she suspicioned a trick. But the man didn't touch her. Instead he guided her through the gloom, sat her on the plush chair. Carefully he pulled the wide strip of tape from the crack between the partitions. "There," he hissed.
Unable to resist her wicked curiosity, Joanna leaned, peered into the room.
Instantly her heart froze, her face crimsoned furiously. As she saw (by light of the room's dim lamp) Aimee sprawled on the bed, her knees high, her head flung back in joyful ecstasy. While Antonio, totally naked, as monumentally endowed as those men onstage, leaned over her, attended her in an extremely servile way.
Mesmerized, she couldn't tear her eyes from the hole.
She never noticed when Auguste, no quitter he, stood close to her, began to stroke her bare shoulders.
Now Aimee went into a consummate fit of frenzy. She rejected her lover, made him lie on the bed. Then she was moving over him, downward, downward.
Joanna never noticed when Auguste worked up her skirt in front, began stroking her legs, her thighs, her trembling belly. He was gentle, extremely gentle, he knew precisely how to treat, how to inflame a woman.
Now Aimee and Antonio were on the bed, they were engaged in that final glory, they were oblivious to the world. Their bodies thrashed and ground, their groans and screams carried to Joanna.
Joanna was oblivious, she moved in a state of sensual levitation; her body and mind were things apart. Even when Auguste removed his strap, slid close to her, even when his one hand clutched and fondled her in that most intimate place, when his other guided hers. Even when she knew the prize she had bypassed-
Still Joanna was dazed, still she watched, unheeding of her own physical acts, her own physical needs.
At the last minute Auguste became too confident, he was too rough.
Instantly Joanna was flushed from her trance, she gasped an oath, wheeled away, struck at the man at the same time.
"Well?" Aimee sneered as she and Antonio returned to that outer room. Where Joanna and Auguste sat far apart from each other. " Did you avail yourself of my hospitality?"
Joanna didn't answer. "Auguste?" she insisted. "No," he said. "The woman is absolutely frigid."
"Did you let her watch?" Aimee smirked. "Yes, she watched."
"And still nothing."
"Nothing."
Slowly Joanna's face went red. "Aimee," she choked. "You mean you knew I was watching? And still you ... ? "
"Of course, my dear. All part of your education. Madame De Fonseca's finishing school. Did you enjoy yourself?"
Then Joanna knew true shame. She wheeled, lurched toward the door. "Home, Aimee," she sobbed. "Take me home now. No more ... no more...."
Aimee sneered, shrugged, turned to Auguste. "Pay me, cochon," she commanded. "You great whoremaster who can seduce any woman you have a mind to. Pay up our bet."
Joanna, thrown into even greater mortification at this new revelation, fell against the door, began sobbing hysterically.
Auguste went to a closet, dug out a pair of trousers, extracted a 100-franc note. "What an iceberg," he snorted, handing her the bill.
Aimee giggled. "These Americans. So narrow-minded, so priggish. They are the limit."
"Limit, indeed," Auguste growled, staring at Joanna a last time. "I'd like to have her one hour. I'd knock some sense into her."
"Home," Joanna blubbered, her stomach on the verge of rebelling, "please take me home now...."
"Yes, baby," Aimee sniffed exasperatedly, "we'll take you home now." Moments later, she led Joanna down the hallway, Auguste's last curse still ringing in her ears.