Forbidden Fruit

When I arrive at the house it’s Friday afternoon. It’s an old English hunting lodge, established in the 18th century. Fabulous place, as you can imagine. Absolutely reeks of money and class. And it all belongs to Alistair, the art and wine dealer I’d met on my last visit to London.

That visit was the genesis of this weekend. I’d been invited to stay by Alistair – he suggests we can mix business with pleasure. What he didn’t tell me was that it would also involve a family wedding.

Caroline, his wife, is charming, sophisticated and cultured. She’s giving me a guided tour of the house and its grounds. The house has been in the family for over 200 years – the deer in the forest have been protected for a thousand years – some of the paintings in the lounge are worth thousands – so she says. Then she shows me to my room, in the west wing, overlooking the courtyard. It’s gorgeous. I thank her most profusely for her generosity and hospitality – and for once I really mean it.

On Saturday morning I meet their daughter. After breakfast in the dining room – beautifully decorated in classic English style – I’m about to return to my room. As I pass the function room, where the wedding reception is to take place later that day. I can’t but overhear the raucous laughter coming from within - five young women chatting and giggling at something. The laughter immediately subsides and the group disperse, save for one. What are you staring at, she says, hands on hips.

For once I am lost for words, and hesitate before replying.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..it’s just. You’re very beautiful.
The girl tosses her mane of auburn hair and laughs.
You’re the French lady, arent you? Daddy’s told me all about you. She holds out her hand. I’m Miranda.
I’m still staring. It’s hard not to. I’m looking at one of the most delightful faces I’ve ever seen. The eyes deep and dark like pools of ink. The teeth white and perfect, like her delicate cheekbones. Then there are the lips, full and pink. A slender neck, and the cleavage of her bosom stretching the fabric of her dress. The outlines of her erect nipples, almost piercing the surface. An english rose.

I step forward and we shake hands, then trembling slightly, brush both cheeks.
My name’s Sandrine.
She smiles, still holding my hand, starts to drag me toward her.
Come on, I’ll show you my room. You can help me get ready if you like. For the wedding.
Of course, I reply, why not.

I follow Miranda upstairs, along the gallery, through another corridor, to her room. It’s even more splendid than mine, with a huge four poster bed, views over the terrace and across the front lawn.
Miranda is at her dressing table in front of a large mirror, in her scarlet bridesmaid’s dress. I watch as she carefully brushes the glossy auburn hair.
So, are you having an affair. With daddy, I mean. She giggles again, like she did downstairs.
Of course not, it’s strictly business. I’m trying to sell him wine, on behalf of my company.
Bet he wouldn’t mind though. Shagging you, I mean. You’re a lot younger than mummy. Her voice, whilst very upper class, has just a hint of coarseness.
I’m sure it hasn’t crossed his mind.
She turns to look at me. You’re not married are you?
No, still single.
I wonder why that is, she says, returning to the brushing. I mean, you’re so chic, tres jolie aussi.
D’you think so?
She’s staring at me now, smiling. Well. I’d fancy you. If I was a bloke, I mean. She laughs out loud, and her bosom heaves.
I want to kiss her. I want to roll her panties off and slide my finger into her, make her come. I want to caress her body, lick her all over, thrust my tongue into her mouth. I feel hot and moist.

The thing is, I venture boldly, it’s not your father I fancy. I’m looking her right in the eye, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid.
Wow, she gasps. I mean, that is bloody amazing.
I find you very attractive.
I had sort of guessed that, she says. The way you’ve been looking at me.
You didn’t mind?
She shrugs. I’m pretty laid back. Its not like it hasn’t happened before.
You mean…
Oh no, I didn’t mean that. I meant, other girls have fancied me. It just never developed.
You didn’t want it to.
It didn’t feel right.
I swallow some wine, a lot. What about now?
I don’t know, she says. I mean, I like you, and everything, but it still feels strange.
I take a chance, run a finger through her hair, feel her pulse quicken, a shudder. I’m watching her face in the mirror, keeping my eyes locked on hers. I allow my hand to trace the nape of her neck, the curve of her breast, heading towards her nipple.
You’re so beautiful. I want you, so badly.
Her eyes are closed, as my fingers close around her nipple. I start to kiss her neck and run my other hand through her hair. Her breathing becomes shallow. Shit, she’s saying, oh god.
Then she breaks away suddenly.
Not now, she says, not here. I just can’t. I’m sorry.
It’s okay, Miranda. I need to make some business calls anyway. Perhaps we’ll see each other later.
She shrugs. I wouldn’t be surprised. We’re both here for the weekend.
But the cool English rose now looks very flustered.