Roland Harding - Teen Queen

It was, at first, no more than just a suggestion of light – a lessening, rather, of the dark into a deep grayness through which objects could gradually be observed.

But it sufficed for the sleeper to move, in her slumber.

And having moved (such is the process of human awakening), she stirred again, as if she were trying to wring from her unconsciousness that final ounce of relaxation.

While she fought to relinquish the last luxury of her rest, the day dawned with its accelerating tempo that drove eventual sunlight against the drawn curtains.

Louise stirred for the last time, as a knock sounded at her door. She heard the knock but was reluctant, even in waking, to give heed to it.

When the rat-tat-tat sounded again, she opened her eyes and came instantly to full consciousness.

"Yes?" she called, directing her voice at the blankness of the closed door. "What is it?"

"Room service, Madame," came the reply. "Your morning tea – may I enter?"

"One moment," she called, automatically. Then, remembering: "It's O.K. You can come in. The door's not locked." The handle depressed and into the boudoir came a steward, adroitly bearing a tray in the supple wristed manner of men trained to hotel service. He was dressed in a short white monkey-jacket, gold-epaulette, ending at the waist. From his waist down were tight-thighed navy blue trousers, descending to black, patent leather shoes.

"Good morning to you, Madame," he bade politely, as he crossed to deposit the tray on a bedside table. Louise Henderson acknowledged the greeting, noticing with interest the efficient movements of the tall, wavy, dark-haired man as he set down her tea things. New, she thought. But good.

On an impulse to talk, she queried: "It will be hot again today, do you think?"

The steward answered: "At this time of the year, Madame, here in Nice it is always hot."

"No chance of rain?"

"Clouds, perhaps, in the afternoon. But seldom rain. In Nice, the rain comes in the winter – when the tourists have all gone."

"I see. Tell me, that perfect English of yours. You are not French, then?"

"No, Madame. I speak French. But by birth I am a South African. Here in Nice I am learning the hotel business, so that I may return one day to one of the big hotels in my own country."

"Interesting," commented Louise.

Desire, elemental and carnal, had risen within her as they chatted. Dare she…?

She wondered, dispassionately studying him, how best to provoke him into a quick realization of her needs. Should she leave it for later? Or should she try to gain his interest right there and then?

She decided on the spur of the moment, as the steward inquired, with trained courtesy: "Shall I pour tea for Madame?"

"No thank you. Pouring tea can be so – so one's own affair, I always think. Don't you?"

And as she spoke, Louise raised herself on one elbow, twisting round to attend to the tray. She took care, as she did so, that her breasts should fall, visibly, against the flimsy gossamer of her pajama top.

She knew too, and wickedly, how voluptuous were the curves of those breasts.

Released from the confines of her daytime brassiere, they were full, vast breasts, and firm fleshed. When Louise stood nude, they seemed to defy gravity as they stood out, proudly abreast of her body. Obviously weighty, they should have sagged. But, not so obviously well-muscled, they did not sag. They projected. Big, deep-valleyed, statuesque in their beauty, they stood out and round, the very acme of her undeniable femininity.

In her sheer, positively transparent night attire, those breasts were virtually nude as she poured her tea. And Louise knew it.

She knew, too, that she would be perfectly safe in stealing a quick glance into the eyes of the steward, to observe from his expression what effect her minor exhibitionism was having on him. No matter what his training was in keeping a bland, non-committal exterior at all times, no man could be immune to the full bombardment of Louise, when she chose to cut loose.

It was exactly as she had thought. The steward never noticed her quick, probing glance. His gaze was concentrated upon the lush woman-hood spread out before his eyes. Nothing could have claimed a fraction of his attention at that moment.

Never, thought the man, had he seen so much woman so blatantly exposed! Never had he seen a torso so exquisitely proportioned. If only she would freeze into the pose she then held, forever, he thought…

Louise permitted a sly smile of triumph to creep into her expression, as she devoted her attention once more to the pouring of her tea.

"When I asked about the weather," she continued easily, "I wanted to know how to dress. My husband arrives today from South America. What I wear to meet him will have to do for all day lunch, afternoon, and no doubt, the evening as well. We do not see each other often, my husband and I…"

The steward made a noble, if not quite successful attempt to collect his scattered wits. He literally dragged his eyes from the vision so tantalizingly exposed before him.

"Your husband, Madame?" he stammered. "He… he – you will be leaving the hotel today, then, perhaps."

Louise laughed, almost mockingly.

"Oh, no," she said. "We almost never stay together. It is because we almost never travel together. He has his business interests. I have mine. He makes his arrangements. I make mine. But when we do meet, it is always like some lovers' tryst for us."

"He… he has been gone from you for some time, then?"

"For six months we've not seen each other. Do you know something?"

"Madame?"

Louise sat up suddenly, bolt upright in her bed. Again, those magnificent breasts, jouncing now at the sudden movement…

"You," she said. "You are extraordinarily like him. The same hair, the same height, the same expression about the eyes. I was watching you walk a moment ago. You even have the same gait."

Confused, the steward could only gaze dumbly, quite enslaved, as she spoke.

"Tell me, what is your name?"

"Andrew," he managed to utter. And remembering his position: "Madame does me honor."

"Madame could do you greater honor still," she replied, cheekily provocative. "If, that is, if you have the time. What time is it?"

Andrew felt as if he remained on his feet only through the support of some invisible gyroscope deep within him.

"It is early. Something… some few minutes past six. Madame's was the first call for tea this morning. There is nobody else to serve before – oh, half past seven."

"You are not expected anywhere else, then?"

"Not until the half-past seven breakfasts," he replied. Then, grasping fleetingly at a sudden surge of courage, a male instinct not to be as stupediedly dominated by this woman as he had been, he summoned the strength to inquire, almost archly: "Did Madame have anything else in mind, then?" Louise let another of her rippling laughs fall musically into the quiet of the bedroom.

"Did I forget to assure you, Andrew, that you are young and astonishingly, tantalizingly, the very image of my husband?"

"So Madame requires…?"

"After six months, Madame requires the assurance that Madame will not fail her husband when he returns to her today. Madam requires that – most urgently. And almost immediately – if, that is, Andrew is perfectly certain no trouble will pile up if he is absent from his duties for a little while?"

Still the courage flowed from some hidden source into the soul of the steward. The danger point had come and gone. It left him, if not in command of the situation, then at least no longer absolutely at her mercy.

"Andrew is perfectly certain about that, Madame, as well as about one other thing, if he might be so bold."