A Taste Of Honey Read online

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  Copyright ©2008 by Christiane France

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  CONTENTS

  Also By Christiane France

  A TASTE OF HONEY

  Christiane France

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  A TASTE OF HONEY

  By

  CHRISTIANE FRANCE

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  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  Also By Christiane France

  Amorous Intentions

  Bad Boy Blues

  Blame It On Fate

  The Butterfly Girl

  Ciao, Ciao, Bambina

  Double Delicious

  Fast Forward

  The Gallery On Main Street

  Inseparable

  Just One Look

  A Moment of Madness

  Oh, George

  Proud Mary

  Sabotage

  Satisfaction Guaranteed

  Some Place Only We Know

  Something To Talk About

  Strangers In The Night

  This Time For Keeps

  Time Shift

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  A TASTE OF HONEY

  Antoine Auguste, Marquis de Vernnay, lay on the chaise in his mother's bedchamber, playing with his stubbornly unresponsive cock while he stared up at the white-painted ceiling. He could not recall even one single second in his entire twenty-four years when he'd felt quite so miserable and depressed as he did at this particular moment. He was bored with his friends, bored with the stream of simpering young ladies his mother constantly paraded before him in the vain hope he would take one of them to be his wife, and bored with the phony screams and crocodile tears of the whores at the house on la rue Charles V.

  The girls in that house were supposed to be the best in all of Paris—or so Antoine had been told by his friend, de Sade—trained and experienced in the complex desires of men to the point he would have thought they understood a little pain increased their mutual pleasure a thousand-fold. But no, the merest touch of the whip on their delicate little backsides, the sight of the tiniest drop of blood, or the odor of burning pussy-hair from the brush of a hot poker, and they were screaming for madame, and madame was doubling, and sometimes even tripling her fees, then threatening to send for the police if it happened again.

  Antoine wouldn't have minded so much about madame's charges or her threats, if he'd received at least some satisfaction for his money. But lately, it seemed all his efforts were in vain, no matter what new devices he used or bizarre efforts he made on the basis of suggestions made by de Sade and others in their group of friends. If he was lucky enough to get an erection, which was happening less and less often, the whore made such a fuss about his methods he had to stop what he was doing to her, wait for her to collect herself and leave, and finish the job himself. Then there were those totally appalling days, like today, when he couldn't even get his dick to whimper a little, never mind actually stand up. At his age, the situation was embarrassing to say the least. He was only twenty-four—a young man in his sexual prime, not some doddering, old fart to whom sex was only a memory.

  With a sigh, he got off the chaise, pushed his flaccid penis back into hiding and fastened his breeches. He needed to find something or someone more intriguing and more titillating than those bitches on la rue Charles V. It was too bad the pretty one he'd met that day at lunch, the one he'd intended to take away from de Gaspard, had spoiled his fun by running away. The instant she'd picked up that fork and stabbed his hand, he'd known she was the one. The one person who just might give him the kind of challenge he'd long been seeking—a woman with fire in her eyes, passion in her blood, and a mind of her own. She was not the type to let him have everything his own way, and that was exactly what he wanted and needed. He could even imagine her picking up the whip ... practicing until she could make the thin strip of leather sing as it passed through the air and then, once she had the knack, she'd use it to caress his buttocks until they sang like a cage full of larks.

  As he smiled in remembrance, he picked at the tiny scab still remaining on the back of his hand, and already he could feel a stirring between his legs. Returning to the chaise, he re-opened his knee-breeches and released his now hard and throbbing shaft.

  Closing his eyes, he began to caress himself as he recalled the pretty one's face and features, then tried to imagine those soft, sensuous lips and darting pink tongue paying homage to the magnificent fellow nudging against his hand, begging for release. She would suck him into her mouth, one millimeter at time, and when he was all the way in, she would play with his balls, while she teased him with her tongue. And then, just before he came, he would withdraw from her mouth, open her legs and feast on the hidden delights waiting for him there.

  A shudder ran through his body as he remembered the miniscule taste of her that he'd managed to steal that day at lunch. She'd tasted delicious, like strawberries and cream. The memory made his fingers move even faster as he thought about tasting her again. He imagined his tongue, slipping between her folds, licking and nuzzling until her juices flowed like a river and he could sup his fill. He'd wait until the very last moment before entering her hot, dark depths, and when he did, he'd empty himself inside her and just maybe...

  His fingers had taken on a life of their own, and he forgot about the girl as they began moving faster and faster until, finally, he pushed himself up, over the edge and into the longest-lasting and most glorious orgasm he'd had in months. As the wonderful feeling gradually faded and he flopped back against the cushions, tired and spent from his exertions, he realized this was the first time he'd managed to satisfy himself without the use of elaborate rituals or devices since he could not remember when.

  Perhaps that was the answer to his problem—he needed something or someone who excited and inspired genuine passion in him, rather than a jaded, nameless whore who made him feel like a pervert and a freak, a man incapable of producing a man-sized orgasm. Remembering the girl at lunch had given him a moment's pleasure. But a moment was all it would ever be. Even if he'd bedded her once or twice, the attraction wouldn't have lasted. She'd have faded from his memory as fast as any other pretty whore.

  But then he'd always had trouble in that way. When he'd confided his secret to de Sade, his friend had introduced him to the orgies, the rituals and the devices in the belief it would cure the problem. For a while, it had helped. For a while, he'd felt as invincible as the next man—he'd even succeeded in outdoing de Sade in some respects by thinking up wilder and even more outlandish practices. Now, he was bored with it, sick of the game playing and all the other nonsense, because the truth was he could no longer even count on that to bring him the kind of release he craved.

  Perhaps his problem lay in the fact that he adored sex, but had never felt comfortable with women and their constant whining and complaints. Even within his own family and class, he'd never found a woman capable of capturing his attention for more than a few minutes at best. He'd never met one with whom he shared a common interest, or whose conversation progressed beyond the latest rumor or scandal, which was the real reason why marriage had never appealed to him. He wanted a partner, a confidant, and a lover with whom he could discuss subjects of int
erest and share his innermost thoughts and fears. But if not with a woman, then with whom? Must he follow the example of some of his friends and resort to the attentions of a willing young man on occasion?

  He wanted something new and different—new friends and new amusements, and different avenues of pleasure to pursue. And while he was perfectly willing, even eager, to experience sex with another man, the question was where did he find a suitable partner?

  He wanted someone who could give him more than the momentary satisfaction provided by encounters with whores or even a mistress. He wanted to feel true passion, he wanted to care whether the person lived or died, he wanted to feel their anger, their despair, he wanted to both need and desire such other person with an intensity he could only dream of—deep, emotional feelings that would control his life and hold him in thrall, hating and regretting each and every moment they were out of one another's sight. He wanted the kind of passionate, committed relationship that would perhaps, if he took the greatest care of such a treasure, last him a lifetime.

  He had friends, some of whom were married, who he knew preferred sexual encounters with other men and were reputed to take their pleasures wherever they found them—in the stables, a dark stairway, or even an attic or outhouse. He'd even heard of such an accommodation being made available to anyone who might be interested at the house on Charles V. But he couldn't ask any of the men he knew for advice or instruction, for the simple reason it was unlikely anyone of them would openly admit to enjoying anything most people considered a weakness.

  Unsure where to start searching for what he had in mind, he returned to his rooms and summoned his manservant. The perfect liaison would be with another man of his own class, and while everyone knew that type of secret liaison existed, he had no idea how the arrangement began, let alone the mechanics of how it worked. He could hardly approach another man and pay court the way he would with a woman who'd caught his eye.

  After his manservant had helped him out of his soiled clothes and into something suitable for taking a drive in his carriage or visiting friends, he said casually, “I need your advice, Jacques. I'm feeling dreadfully bored and out of sorts, too. I need to find something different and interesting to occupy my mind. Something that will restore my good humor and make me laugh. Do you have any suggestions? You always seem to know what I like. Perhaps you've heard of something. Something you think might amuse me, yes?"

  The manservant, who had attended le marquis' needs since childhood, gave his charge a knowing grin. “I'm sorry, my lord. If the house on la rue Charles V no longer captures your interest, I'm afraid I know of nothing better. And as for something new, I know of nothing ... except..."

  "Except what? Spit it out, man. A new café? What?” Maybe that new club he'd overheard the odd whisper about. He didn't know where it was located, its true purpose, how one gained admittance, or even if it actually existed. But if it did exist, he was certain Jacques would know.

  "Not a café, m'sieu. A new club where I understand fashionable young men such as you can meet and perhaps play cards, or simply enjoy each other's company. I'm not sure what they do, my lord, or even if it offers anything you might find to your taste. But I think I may know someone who does. If you wish, I'll speak with him and find out the details, then you may go there and see for yourself."

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  Later in the day, his manservant returned with a little more information. But Antoine waited until well after nightfall before ordering his carriage and giving the driver the address in Montmartre that Jacques assured him was a new and exclusive club for men. Whether it was the same club Antoine had been hearing about recently or something else entirely, he had no way of knowing. What he did know was that it behooved him to proceed with extreme caution. There had been a lot of unrest in the city of late, and Antoine half-suspected the club could be a meeting place for young men to indulge in dangerous political talk. If his suspicions proved correct, he would leave immediately.

  However, there was also the very real possibility the club had been opened for an entirely different reason—one that nothing to do with politics or traitorous thoughts. The few intriguing scraps he'd overheard related to a secret club that catered to certain sexual tastes rather than politics, and perhaps this was it. Until now, he'd had neither the opportunity nor the courage to investigate the rumors.

  The address in Montmartre turned out to be a tall, narrow house on a quiet side street. The windows were all tightly shuttered and, for an instant, Antoine was tempted to tell his driver to leave. But just then the door of the house opened and a liveried footman trotted down the steps and opened the carriage door.

  "M'sieu?" the man inquired with an interrogative lift of thick, dark eyebrows.

  "Is this the new club I've heard about?” Antoine asked, not knowing what else to say.

  "Perhaps. Did someone recommend you?"

  "Not exactly."

  "You heard about us somewhere?"

  "I've heard a few comments at parties and in the cafés. And I believe my manservant may have mentioned something."

  "And you wish to come in?"

  "Umm...” Antoine knew better than to bring the king's disfavor on his mother by involving himself in politics or negative talk directed against the royal family. But with a few carefully posed questions, perhaps he could discover the real purpose of the club without actually going inside. “I'm not sure. I'm looking for a new diversion. Something that will amuse me and spare me the boredom of a long evening that would otherwise be spent alone."

  "Ah.” A knowing smile teased the footman's thin lips. “I assume you realize there are no women available here, m'sieu.?"

  "None?"

  "Not even one, m'sieu."

  "And what about conversation? Will I be expected to partake in stuffy, boring conversations on subjects of which I have no knowledge and, therefore, no interest in discussing?"

  "No, m'sieu. Whatever reason prompts one of our guests to seek us out, I can assure you it is not for the conversation."

  So, there had been a little truth to all that whispering. “I see."

  "Do you still wish to come inside?"

  "Why not?"

  "And your name, m'sieu?"

  After telling his driver to wait, Antoine gave the man his name, along with the bag of coins his manservant had assured him was the price of entry. He then allowed the footman to assist him out of the carriage, feeling a sharp thrill of anticipation as he followed him through the door and into the building.

  He'd heard talk of houses where men were trained in the art of pleasuring other men, but it hadn't amounted to more than a little ambiguous chatter and a lot of lewd sniggering, so he had no real idea what to expect. Inside, it was much darker and more mysterious than the house on la rue Charles V, but at least the salon to which the footman showed him was a tiny scrap brighter. Enough for him to see there were a dozen or more men scattered around the room, either standing or lolling on the chairs, but not enough for him to recognize anyone from this distance.

  Just then, a young boy appeared at his side. “Would you care for something to drink, m'sieu.?"

  "No, thank you.” Antoine wasn't about to compound his foolishness in coming to a place like this alone by accepting drinks from unknown sources. For now, he needed to keep his head clear and his wits about him. If he decided to leave at some point, he could do so without difficulty.

  As he looked around the room, unsure whether he should sit down and await events, or strike up a conversation with one of the other men, he felt a hand glide down his back and come to rest on his buttocks.

  "You are looking for company, mon ami?"

  Antoine turned toward the speaker, a sleepy-eyed young man with his hair pulled back in a simple queue, and informally dressed in tan breeches and a partially opened, loose white top that looked rather like a nightshirt. Antoine guessed the man to be perhaps two or three years his junior. “Company?"

  The young man smiled and lifted his slim sh
oulders in an offhand shrug as he moved his hand to the juncture of Antoine's thighs. “If you wish, we can sit here and talk. Or, if you prefer, we can go to one of the private rooms and get to know one another better.” He paused, his mobile lips twisting in a faint grimace. “Alternatively, if you prefer, I can introduce you to someone else."

  "No. No one else."

  Until tonight, Antoine had never been touched in so intimate a manner by a member of his own sex. He'd never experienced even the slightest urge to be touched like this, and he couldn't believe he was allowing it to happen now.

  But the truth was, he found the experience rather stimulating, and he suspected the man knew it, because the moment the fellow inserted his hand between Antione's legs, Antoine had started to stiffen and grow. There was something special about the man now caressing his cock, something in his eyes, and something mysterious and addictive about his touch that Antoine couldn't identify, but he knew he didn't want the man to stop. Although poorly dressed compared to everyone else Antoine had seen in this establishment so far, the young stranger had the most wondrous golden skin that appeared to glow in the candlelight.

  Antoine's mouth felt suddenly dry, and he rubbed his tingling fingertips down the side of the his white satin breeches. One glance was enough to tell him that the man's skin was the kind that just begged to be touched and petted. He could just imagine how it felt ... soft like satin, and it probably smelled wonderful, too—a combination of jasmine, roses, verbena, cinnamon and clove and a thousand other exotic spices and scents.

  "We give only first names here. Mine's Honey,” the man said. “What's yours?"

  "Antoine.” He sighed as the man opened his breeches and slipped a hand inside, and he felt the delicious touch of cool fingers slide down his unusually responsive prick.

  "You've never done this before?"

  "No."

  "But you've found your way here tonight, so perhaps it's something you've been wanting to do, yes?"