Chapter 2

The Hotel Modern was situated on a narrow alleyway located just off the Boulevard de Clichy, smack in the heart of the infamous Pigalle section of Paris. Even the least perceptive of the Sunday School pupils were ogling the pornography shops and tawdry striptease joints with avid curiosity, but Monica Blakesley was so enthralled by the cobblestones and corner bakery displaying long loaves of genuine French baguettes that the seedier aspects of the neighborhood quite escaped her attention. It was all exactly the way the travel brochures had promised!

Even after she'd lugged her luggage up the warped staircase and flung open the fly-specked window to find herself staring down at a shop win- dow displaying a dusty collection of obscene books and magazines, her face still glow with childlike delight. Of course she didn't want to look at the nasty pictures, but she considered herself broad-minded enough to accept that each country had its peculiar customs. In any case, the same glossy-covered publication seemed far more offensive lying on a newsstand in downtown Chicago than it did here, where it could be classified as local color. Feeling rather smug for having assumed this unprovincial, liberal attitude, she turned from the window and began changing out of her rumpled traveling costume into a lightweight pink cotton shirtwaist.

She'd failed to identify the buxom bottle-blonde poised hand on hip across the street as a hooker, even though the girl had approached a swarthy North African type and sauntered away down the street with him.

A shower would have felt wonderful-Paris was every bit as hot and humid as the Midwest-but the Hotel Modern provided only a tiny cold-water basin and an object shaped like a distorted toilet which she identified as a bidet from her knowledge of French literature. She turned away from the thing, embarrassed though she didn't quite know why, and gave herself a quick sponge bath.

As usual, she modestly refrained from looking at her high-set white breasts, or the golden-brown triangle of sparse pubic curls nestled between her full-fleshed thighs while washing.

Then, lips parted in an unconscious half-smile of excitement, she skipped down the steep stairs to join her young charges for their scheduled bus tour of the French capital. For twenty-two years she hadn't traveled further from her tiny hometown in Southern Illinois than Chicago, but now life was unfurling before her like ripples radiating from a pebble tossed into a wishing well and she knew she would be magically transformed from a shy country girl to a radiant, worldly-wise sophisticate. Long suppressed, inexpressible longings stirred inside her, misting her amber-brown eyes with tears so that she had to hesitate on the lowest landing to regain her composure before descending to face Alan Dubois and the rambunctious adolescents.

Alan Dubois' spirits were at least as high as his female assistant's as the group scrambled on board the big bus, despite his annoyance at having to play pious pacifier to another noisy bunch of kids-and this particular contingent seemed the most troublesome he'd encountered in his nine months on the job. He'd nothing to complain about, however: he'd neatly upped the balance of his secret Swiss bank account by booking the World Worshipers in dirt-cheap dives instead of the respectable hotels he'd cited on his official itinerary-budget; he knew a sexy French lady by the name of Francine with whom he had every intention of spending an erotic evening once the brats were bedded down for the night; and, as an unexpected bonus, his helpmate on the particular trip wasn't the usual sour-faced old maid with sagging breasts and soggy buttocks.

Yeah, she's a good-looking woman, all right, he reflected, tuning out the tape-recorder travel monologue which was blaring throughout the bus. Even in that dowdy schoolmarmish dress, you can't miss those superb tits and ass! Wonder what she'd look like writhing around on a bed just after she'd cum . . . hair all tangled and no more prim little smile, I bet! Well, I've got three weeks to find out. But tonight'I'll ring up Francine and get the old pecker in practise with a real Paris-style fling!

Twelve hours later, the man's mood had switched to one of sullen gloom. What kind of red-blooded American male wanted to spend his sole night in Paris holed up in a grubby hotel room all alone with only 16 assorted bottles of best-quality booze for company? Not a guy like himself, an international swinger who'd made it with one hundred and thirty-three chicks in nineteen different countries, not counting his wife Gayle or the members of their swap club! Where the hell was Francine, anyway? He'd dropped her a postcard telling her to hold this night open for him . . .

"So what the fuck am I going to do now?" he muttered.

Perhaps a drink would help him make up his mind. Alan opened a bottled of Jack Daniels and rinsed out the smudged yellow plastic toothbrush glass, noting that the water looked distinctly rusty but deciding that the bourbon would counteract any contaminating substances it contained. Church bells chimed ten times; he'd try Francine's number once more, then give it up as a lost cause and go out alone before it was too late. Thanks to his detested job, he had to be up at the ungodly hour of seven tomorrow morning.

This time the receiver was picked up after the first ring, but the voice at the other end was shrill and clipped, quite unlike Francine's husky, provocative drawl. Her name was Marie-Claire, she chirped, and she was staying here to watch Fifi and Mouchette because Francine had gone to Martinique for a month to work as a secretary-companion for a traveling businessman.

He took a long gulp of the lukewarm drink. "Fifi and Mouchette . . .?" he asked blankly. "Her poodle. And her Siamese."

"Oh." Even though bird-voice's way of speaking grated on his nerves, she couldn't be too bad if she were a friend of Francine's. Might as well ask her for a drink and see what happens . . .

"Listen, Monsieur, I don't fall for that sort of trick twice!" her voice rose several octaves. "I'm not crazy!"

"Huh?

She switched into broken English. "I know of this telephone game from my experience. You men, you are crazy! You look on the phone number book and pick a name until you find someone like me who does not know how your face looks, and then you make the invitation. I have the experience! He invite me for dinner, and I must pay the bill because he is without money. Then he takes me home and . . . and molests me!"

"Gee, I'm sorry about that." It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard-so bizarre he suspected it must be true. "But look here, I'm not that sort of guy. I'm really Francine's old friend, and I'd just like to meet you because any friend of hers is a friend of mine. What do you say to some oysters in La Coupole-I'm 'fraid it's too late for dinner most other places now."

"I say-NO!"

The receiver at the other end banged down so hard that Alan's eardrums vibrated, and he slammed his own phone down with equal vehemence. "Bitch!" he snarled, pouring a second drink, and wandering over to the tiny window.

The streetlight was broken, but the narrow sidestreet was still fairly light thanks to the numerous bars and illuminated sex shop windows and the full moon glowing high above the aged tenements. Arabian music issued from the nearest tavern, haunting minor tones which sounded most out of place in this setting, and some of the voices which floated up to his window spoke French with strong accents. All the females looked French ... they also looked very available.

"All I need to begin a lousy trip through France looking at churches is a case of the clap ..."

Alan considered the other possibilities for this evening. There were prettier, higher-priced colleagues of the girls down below hovering around the Champs Elysees-Avenue Foch area, but he disliked paying for what could be had for nothing. In fact, he was so tight with his money that he appreciated Francine almost as much for her home-cooked gourmet meals as for her sexual skills. But Francine was on some goddamn African island, so he had to think of something else ...

Suddenly the sullen young tour director recalled an article about "Swinging European Capitals" which he'd read in PENTHOUSE some time ago, and he put through a call to Plainsf ield, New Jersey, to ask his wife to hunt for the magazine. If he listed it as a business conversation, the suckers at Worldwide Worshipers would pick up the tab, just as they trustingly accepted such expense accounts items as "Business Dinner for Two at Maxims, $372.00". That was why he'd stuck with the job, even though he was no fan of either religion or young teens.

Across the Atlantic, the phone rang once, twice, ten times ... Gayle was out, most likely with some man. For the second time that evening, Alan slammed down the receiver with a loud oath. It wasn't that he was jealous-he considered himself too modern to be plagued by such a Victorian hangup, and besides the passion had faded from their marriage long ago-but he did resent the fact that she was having herself a good time while he was cooped up in this hideous hotel with sixteen boring brats and-

And Miss Monica Blakesley! Why hadn't he thought of her sooner? Within minutes he'd descended to the first floor where the girls were quartered and was knocking on her door. His smile faded rapidly.

"Said she wanted to take a walk," yawned the acne-scarred desk attendant from behind his tattered copy of something entitled "Les Femmes Sexy". "No place for a pretty Mademoiselle to promenade after dark, if you ask me."

"What did she say when you told her that?" Alan demanded.

The youth turned back to his magazine with a shrug. "I did not speak with her, Monsieur. It was not my place to interfere with Mademoiselle's desires."

Dubois shrugged too, and climbed back upstairs. Either his shapely assistant was incredibly naive, or else her prim exterior disguised a most audacious secret self. He decided there was time for another bourbon before going out on the town . . . perhaps by then the mystifying Monica would have returned and they could get to know one another better . . . much better . . .

As a language major planning a career as a high school French teacher, Monica was naturally well-acquainted with the literature, history and culture of France. In fact, she'd read lots of books which weren't on the required reading lists, for something about the country had always intrigued her. Perhaps it was the striking contrast between the Gallic nation and the very conservative Illinois village of Orchardburg which had caught her fancy: smokey cafes where artists in berets and starving writers sipped coffee or wine and argued about Love and Life and Creativity, versus plump housewives gossiping at a kitchen kaffee-klatsch; haute couture and exotic perfumes, versus overalls and aprons; passionate poetry and romantic love songs, versus the Bible and the 6:00 a.m. Farm Report; lovers kissing on a bridge over the Seine after watching an art film instead of furtively groping at each other in the backseat during a drive-in movie.

Sometimes the yoqng coed worried about her obsession with all things French, for she knew full well what her family, her divinity student boyfriend, and old Pastor Briggs would think of the reproductions of nudes and anecdotes about adultery in some of her textbooks. What would have bothered them especially was her unholy hunger to taste the Devil's temptations of luxury and "loose" living. Still, despite a certain amount of guilt, Monica clung to the daydreams which enlivened her rather dull existence in Orchardburg. After all, she rationalized, she didn't want to smoke cigarettes or get madly drunk on absinthe or elope with a penniless poet. . . she just wanted experience in a world where any exciting thing was possible.

And now she was actually experiencing! The mere thought was so electrifying that it sent a rash of goosebumps tingling along her bare arms and legs and temporarily blinded her to the unscenic squalor of Place Pigalle. Only when the loud babble of English, German, Spanish, Arabic, Scandinavian, and occasionally even French finally caught her notice did she begin to realize that the Paris she was exploring was quite different from the Paris of her dreams. Neon-glaring cafeterias, cafes, sleazy nightclubs, and pornography shops ringed the traffic-tangled square, each establishment crowded with customers who were obviously not Parisians. From something called "Le Grill" came a rancid grease odor disappointingly reminiscent of the Burger Chef back in Orchardburg which made Monica's stomach churn with nausea for a moment. Where were those quaint little bistros exuding an appetizing aroma of world-famous French cruisine, she wondered helplessly. And was this really the Montmartre where so many artists were supposed to live ... these people certainly didn't look like artists to her.

A swarthy-complected man suddenly swayed against her, his hand accidentally-she hoped- brushing over her buttocks and sending a shudder slithering along her spine.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle. "He pushed his face right up next to hers as he spoke to half-suffocate her in a wave of garlic and onions. "I can perhaps have the pleasure of buying Mademoiselle a cafe?"

There was a look in the strange man's dark eyes which alarmed the American girl, even though she tried to tell herself she was acting ridiculous and that in Paris it was probably quite normal to invite someone for a coffee. It was the look of an animal .. .a hungry animal who'd just caught the scent of a hunk of raw meat. Instinctively she backed away, knocking an indignant German matron off the curb in her haste to escape.

"I don't speak French," she lied, then slipped away into the crowd.

Thank God he hadn't followed her! Nevertheless, she was still feeling uncomfortable and somewhat ill from the oppressive heat and smells and noise, and particulary from the wealth of obscenity which glared at her from every side. She tried to refrain from looking at the dildos and provocative lace underwear openly displayed in one window-was that really a pair of panties without any crotch? Oh, God!-only to find herself face-to-face with a huge photograph advertising the attractions of the striptease show inside. How could any girl ever let her picture be taken without any clothes on? she marveled, then hurriedly turned away for fear that someone would notice her looking at such filth and think she had a dirty mind, too. And maybe invite her for a coffee again . . .

Thinking things might be better if she turned off down a quiet sidestreet, the bewildered blonde rounded the first corner she came to. There were still plenty of pedestrians, but at least she could catch her breath here ... until she grew aware that most of the men and women were just sort of standing around, not walking anywhere in particular, and that they all stared at her as she passed. She hurried as fast as possible without being conspicuous toward the lights of another large boulevard ahead then headed into a cafe to try to regain her composure and to figure out just exactly where she was and how far she was from her destination, the beautiful Sacre-Coeur church they'd seen today during the bus tour. How lovely it must look by moonlight.. .

No sooner had she settled herself in an empty plastic booth and ordered a cafe au hit than two dark-haired young men slid in after her, one beside her and one across the beer-splattered table. For one horrible second she thought the one opposite was the man who'd asked her for a coffee earlier, but then she realized that he was just a similar Mediterranean type. Her instant of relief was short-lived, however, when she began wondering why they hadn't taken one of the empty booths and especially when she realized they had the same brutish glint in their eyes.

Monica stared fixedly at the stained table top while both males lit up rancid-smelling Gauloises and stared at her body with equal concentration. She could feel their eyes burning into her flesh like four red-hot daggers stabbing into her sensitive breasts, which for some reason had swollen and were throbbing uncomfortably against the cotton fabric of her sensible brassiere.

"Cigarette, Mademoiselle?" asked the one beside her. He pressed up so close to her that his thigh grazed hers as he thrust the blue package at her, and his breath reeked of garlic just as the first man's had. "You like cigarette with filter?"

By now, her nerves were too jangled to think to say that she didn't speak French and she only shook her head no, eyes still glued to the table. Why didn't that waiter hurry with her coffee so she could gulp it down and get out of here?

"You like American cigarette?" the other one got into the act. "Very good, very good!" He produced a pack of Camels, which he thrust against her hand, taking the opportunity to squeeze her fingers in his hot, clammy palm. "You like, yes?"

Her hand jerked down into her lap to tightly clasp her other hand. "I don't smoke," she managed to gasp, hoping she didn't sound as jittery as she felt. After all, they were harmless enough.

"Mademoiselle would like a drink?" persisted thigh-presser, who not only stank of his last meal, but also of perspiration and cheap after-shave lotion-a combination of odors which didn't help Monica's already queasy stomach. "I buy you a drink!"

"No . . . thank you. I-"

As she raised her gaze at last, she saw the man's beady black eyes slanting into evil slits of resentment. Apparently she was not playing the pick-up game right, and he was starting to lose his temper. He leaned even closer, letting his arm graze the edge of her full breast and making her nipples harden and sting almost painfully, then let out a laugh of sorts.

"She doesn't smoke, she doesn't drink," he leered at his friend. "But I'll bet she likes to fuck. How about it, Mademoiselle? Do you fuck?"

Monica honestly didn't understand the words, although the other boy's giggling reaction left no doubt that he'd said something obscene. For one thing, they spoke in accents totally different from anything she'd learned in her University French classes . .. and for another, they used words she'd never heard before despite her nearly straight "A" language record.

"D-do I like to wh-what?" She suddenly wondered if they carried knives-they looked the type. "Ex-excuse me, but-"

Another chorus of depraved mirth. "Fuck!" snorted the one beside her, who'd pinioned her against the far side of the booth by how. "Fuck! You see, I speak the English. Do you like to fuck? For fifty francs you like to fuck us both?"

This was only the second time in her life Monica Blakesley had heard the profane word uttered aloud; the first occasion had been a high school pep rally when one of the twon's "bad boys" had shouted it at the top of his lungs through a microphone and had consequently been expelled. She felt as though she were about to faint, and almost wished she could just to escape from this humiliating situation. These disgusting creatures thought she was a prostitute! It was too dreadful to be true!

"She has an ass made for fucking, nice and round and tight. You like ass-fucking, Mademoiselle?"

Her head shook numbly back and forth, back and forth, but the sheltered smalltown girl was simply too stunned to speak. To her horror, the Arabs miscpnstrued her gesture completely, and a wetly warm hand suddenly squeezed her bare leg below the hemline of her dress.

"We'll have a great time! We fuck you together okay-me in your ass, him in your cunt. At the same time, okay? One hundred francs at the same time!"

Suddenly something snapped inside the harassed young woman's brain. The North African's hand was clammily climbing right up under her skirt onto the most sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, while his hard-muscled arm rubbed against her equally tender breast-it was driving her insane. Clutching her handbag to the straining mounds of her breasts as though it were a protective shield, she leapt to her feet and forced her way past the surprised man. As she squeezed by, his bony knees dug against her upper legs in a humiliatingly intimate manner that made her want to scream, to hit him, to die.

"Fermez la bouche!" she sputtered when she was clear of him. It wasn't much of an expletive-"close your mouth"-but it was the rudest thing she knew how to say in French.

And then she ran, or rather stumbled, out of the cafe, colliding with the waiter who'd finally arrived with her drink drenching him in hot coffee with milk. He began swearing at her, but by that time she'd already hailed the first passing taxi and never even noticed. She also neglected to note that the driver had failed to turn on his meter and charged her triple, for by now all she wanted to do was reach the privacy of her tiny room and huddle down under the covers.

Had Monica know what awaited her at the Hotel Modern, she'd have been a lot more reluctant to return . . .