Diana

Written by Richard (UK) (Nov 99)

Diana's eyes shot open.
For a second or two she couldn't make out where she was.
The backfire from Rob's departing car had woken her from a jumbled labyrinth of dreams and she lay quietly, in the middle of the double bed, half naked body covered by a sheet.
Despite the morning sunshine, the room was all was darkness and silence.
Consciousness slowly recaptured her mind and she remembered the ghastly drive down to this place and Rob's anger with her inept navigation.
She could recall turfing him out sometime during the night and removing her pyjama bottoms, luxuriating in her freedom to move and spread within the bed.
After several hours on her own and a deep sleep her headache had subsided, leaving her feeling curiously languid and hungry.
She often felt like this after a migraine - hungry and very sexy.
She longed for protein, a rare beef sandwich or lots of slow love making.
This thought aroused a different, stirring hunger and her cool fingers wandered up the side of her bed-warm body until they reached her thigh.

Diana's breasts and long legs were her star attractions.
She had other delights but it was always the firm single handful of upturned breast with small brown nipple which first excited each and every lover.
When they had stopped drooling - figuratively or literally - over these delights they would then discover those firm thighs and mass of tightly curled hair.
Diana's hand continued to move slowly from her knee along the top of her thigh.
She could feel soft, downy hairs against the movement of her hand.
She listened carefully. There was no sound, confirming that Rob and Simon had left Mespoulet.
Alone in this strange bedroom, Diana had herself all to herself.
She did not usually indulge in self-help - a long line of eager lovers and, occasionally, Rob kept her more than satisfied. But this morning - well, she was alone, felt great and it was day one of a three week holiday.
She gently pushed one thigh away from the other.

As her fingers edged their way towards familiar territory to commence their slow rotations suddenly, from the kitchen, there came a noise.
Diana couldn't interpret the nature of the sound. A curious creaking, a clink, then a swishing noise.
Directly below her bedroom, Patric Desin, tool bag in hand, was climbing the stairs.
He was surprised to see the shutters on the corridor windows still closed, but ignored them.
He opened the door into the bedroom.
Once more, no daylight. 'Oh, well,' he thought, 'they have simply left in a hurry and forgotten to open the windows.'

Diana, heart thumping noisily, lay on her back and watched Patric creep towards the en suite bathroom.
He had not noticed her lying there.
A thin sheen of perspiration coated her body as her hand dropped slowly from her thigh and lay chastely at her side.
At first, when he had opened the door, she had been scared rigid.
This emotion switched rapidly to excitement when she realised that her visitor was a Frenchman.
Not Alain Dumey but presumably someone who helped him.
He was tall and slim and dark.
He was bare chested. He was wearing khaki shorts. His slim thighs were matted with tightly curled black hair. He was was just her type.
Her left hand lifted back - an old fantasy had suddenly become reality.

Patric put his toolbag on the lavatory seat, took out the hose Alain had given him and held it against the existing fitting.
Good, he thought, it will work, Alain won't have to spend more money on a new one.
Within three minutes he had the old hose off and was about to tighten up the final screw on the replacement when he heard what sounded like a groan. It seemed to come from the bedroom next door.
He was used to these old buildings which teemed with small rodents and birds and realised that the noise he heard was human.
But surely the Grants were all out? Alain had assured him that he had seen their car drive off half an hour earlier.
He shrugged and went back to tightening the tap screw.
The second time he heard the sound it was louder and unmistakably female.
Patric decided to investigate.
As quietly as he was able he opened Herves toolbag and, taking out the largest spanner he could find, quietly opened the door to the adjoining room.

The glow of Diana's thighs, tanned and shapely; the disarray of the linen sheet, rucked up over one hip; the steady rocking of her body awoke in Patric thoughts which he had devoted long hours to suppressing.
Diana's pyjama top fell from one shoulder, her eyes shut tight in her slow mounting fantasy.
Patric watched in the shadowy light then moved closer to the bed.
She gave no sign that she had noticed him, moving in ever more urgent strokes.
Her free hand moved up to undo the last buttons of her pyjama top, releasing one small round breast as Patric positioned himself gently on the edge of the bed.
Without thinking of the consequences he put the spanner on the floor, and with his foot pushed it from sight beneath the bed.
In one movement he bent his head to Diana's breast and softly touched the nipple with his lips.
Still she gave no sign that she had noticed his presence.
His wet tongue traced small circles as her body rocked steadily beneath him, breath falling warm on his cheek.

Suddenly, both arms were around his neck and salty lips pressed tight against his.
Diana's tongue, hard and thrusting pushed into his mouth meeting the tip of his own tongue and a small surge of electricity coursed to his thighs.
Her eyes, now wide open, crinkled into a luxurious smile as she grasped his arm and moved it under the sheet and down the length of her bare body.
She felt his hand moving over her stomach resting on the tangle of wet hair.
Slowly, like a feather, his forefinger touched and Diana shuddered, rolling her head to one side to watch the enjoyment on his face.
She moved in the bed and the sheet fell away to the floor.
Now quite naked, she raised her hips.
She was in a dream, a film.
First the side of his finger, then a delicate brush with its tip.
Long, confident strokes took her rapidly to a plateau. Diana tried to stop the inevitable but as the point of Patric's tongue circled her hard nipple and his wet lips covered the goose pimples around its base, she gave in.
One short cry, then another, longer one.
Her body arched; a deep moan, a shudder followed by a slow expellation of satisfied breath.

'My God' she whispered, 'Oh my God. That was just ....' 'Ssshh' Patric closed her mouth with a kiss, his finger still in place. 'Ssshh. Say nothing.'

'Here, let me feel you,' Diana demanded as she tried to locate the top button of his shorts.
She gave up and dropped her hand on to his thigh, fingers hunting beneath.
She found what she was seeking and held him tightly for a moment.

'Come on, get these shorts off,' she demanded. 'Let's see what you French men are made of.'

Suddenly - Bang!!! Bang, bang!!! The noise coming from the front door rocked Diana into action.

'My God, it's them. They're back. Get off - get off the bed. It's my husband. Quickly, go. He'll murder you if he finds us here. Quickly!'

Patric rushed into the bathroom and gathered up the remaining tools and thrust them into the old toolbag.
He ran his fingers through his hair and holding the bag carefully in front of his trousers tried to walk as nonchalantly as possible down the back stairs.
Meanwhile, Diana had leapt out of bed and shot into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her.
She sat for a moment on the edge of the bath, heart pounding in her ribcage, sweat covering her naked body.
Below, she could hear voices.
They seemed normal, not raised. She prayed that Rob and Simon had not noticed Patric as he crept from the gate
'Diana, are you in there?' Rob's voice from the bedroom.
'I'm in the bath. I'll be out in a couple of minutes.'
Rob opened the shutters and looked around the room. It smelled of bodies and bed.
He opened the windows wide and hooked them back to the outer wall.
He decided to make Diana's bed while Simon lit the barbecue for lunch and was plumping the pillow when his eye caught a curious stain on the cover.
He examined it. Pale yellow, moistly fresh it spread over three centimetres.
He lifted the pillow to his face and sniffed. Oil. Lubricating oil.
He could recognise it a mile off. But why on his wife's pillow?
The moment of understanding was accompanied by a kick in his gut.
Of course, that bloody French guy, Alain something, he's been here 'fixing the shower'. He couldn't even wait beyond day one.

Rob sat still on the edge of the unmade bed.
Behind the bathroom door he could hear Diana sloshing about, humming contentedly.
Rob looked across to the window.
Tall trees stood motionless against the perfect sky and he caught the smell of newly-lit charcoal which Simon was lighting below.
Perhaps he was over reacting, after all, he thought.
There is no doubt a simple explanation.
He got up and continued to make the bed. Yes, he thought, even Diana wouldn't risk ruining a summer holiday this early on.

Finally convinced and by now feeling quite hungry, Rob was reaching across the bed to smooth the cover when his foot hit something beneath the bed.
He reached down to see what it could be.
His hand swept the area where he thought he had felt the object and was surprised to feel cold metal.
He pulled the large spanner out, held it and looked at it for well over a minute.

'Bloody fucking bastard. Bloody bitch. That bloody bitch.'
Tears stung his eyes as he stumbled away from the bed. 'Bastard fucking bastards.'
He threw the spanner hard and accurately at the bathroom door.
It embedded itself in the soft wood surface, swung for a second then dropped noisily onto the carpet.

'You are a bitch.' he shouted towards the top of the stairs. 'Do you know that? A thoughtless bloody cow. I hate you. I always have.'

From the bathroom the sound of water and humming had stopped. In the bedroom, in the g”te there was silence.
Outside a small breeze had got up and the tree tops swayed, slowly painting the sky.

Once he had recovered his composure, Rob walked slowly over to Mespoulet, spanner in hand.
Hugh McGregor was leaning across the bonnet of his car studying a large scale Michelin map and did not notice Rob knocking on the kitchen door.
There was no reply so Rob walked around to the front of the house where he could hear the put-put of a motorised lawn mower. In the distance he could see Alain sitting astride the machine creating elegant patterns in the cut grass.
He wondered vaguely how Alain had had time to get from their gite to his mower and to cut that much grass.
Rob waved, then shouted and eventually Alain spotted him and drove across. He cut the engine and lifted himself off the saddle.

'Monsieur Grant, good morning. I hope you and Mrs. Grant slept well. Oh, and Simon too, of course.'
Rob ignored him.
'What is the meaning of this?' he held the spanner aloft. 'Eh? What the hell do you think you're up to?
We've only just got here and already you are messing around with my wife.'
If he had noticed Hugh McGregor, who had come up alongside, Rob made no indication.
'Er, frightfully sorry,' Hugh backed away from the tableau. 'I seem to have come at rather a bad time. I'll come back later, Alain.'
It was then that he noticed the spanner clenched in Rob's hand and wondered whether he should remain at a discreet distance in case things got nasty.
Rob ignored Hugh and went on. 'I'm only away from the place for a couple of hours and what do I find when I come back? A bloody spanner under my wife's bed and oil on the pillow. Can you explain that? Can you?' he urged.

Alain held out his hand.
'Please may I look?'
Rob handed him the spanner and stood, shoulders heaving as Alain turned it over in his hand.
Engraved on the shaft were the letters 'HD'.
It was one of his father's tools, the one he had given to Patric that morning to mend the shower hose.
He nodded and put his hand on Rob's shoulder.
'Monsieur Grant, I can understand your concern and, yes there is an explanation. If you would care to join me for a late morning eau de vie and a coffee I believe I can explain everything to you. And I will also take immediate and appropriate action if we can substantiate your apparent allegations.
Together, the two men walked towards the house.
Hugh McGregor returned to his car and folded the map, placing it in the glove compartment watching as Rob and Alain walked towards the kitchen door.
He could still hear Rob's words and found them hard to comprehend.
He had obviously misjudged Alain who had turned out to be a typical randy Frenchman.
Oh, well, good luck to him, Hugh grinned to himself.
Silly to have got caught, though, he thought.
I can't wait to tell Lizzie. She seemed to think rather a lot of her Monsieur Dumey.
I wonder what she will make of this turn of events.