The Elite Agency by Xavier P. Xavier – Adult Content

You emerge from the wet room, naked. Walk down a long corridor and into your bedroom where you dress in a lacy white thong, a lightweight short-sleeve translucent blouse in lime green and coral pink.

No bra. No footwear.

Outside the mercury hits twenty-seven degrees Celsius. Inside you have the air-con set at nineteen. Yet despite all your efforts to stay cool, heat rises to your skin, chasing away goose-bumps.

The icy-cold shower you got out of only moments ago is already a distant memory. You cannot stay cool. Physically. Metaphorically.

Nothing you do to take your mind off Vincent Baldacci works.

You convince yourself you must not clock watch. Immediately fail at that. The Abraham-Louis Breguet carriage clock, a thirty-seventh birthday present to yourself you picked up at a Paris auction last spring, tells you it’s midday.

Six hours to go.

According to Baldacci’s itinerary he is booked on the first ferry leaving the mainland and as the ferries usually run close to time the likelihood is he is already on the island.

You imagine he’ll take in some of the sights around the harbour and in the old town, before dining at one of several overpriced seafood restaurants that huddle around the marina or at one of the marginally less expensive places in the back streets at the western tip of the bay. What is certain, Baldacci will arrive at your home, Bay View, by taxi, at six o’clock on the dot.

The Elite Agency have taken care of that. Booked his flight. Arranged his transfer. Paid in advance for a ferry crossing.

The Elite Agency don’t leave anything to chance.

Neither do you.

Vincent boasts a five-star plus rating. Maxes out in every department. Discretion. Manners. Looks. Stature.

Sexual prowess.

Feedback is key for the men-and-women-for-hire-brokers and of course you look forward to participating in the customer satisfaction survey.

Ticking some boxes.

You paid through the nose, so naturally, you told the company rep who Skyped you, you expect the best. He assured you Vincent was the best. A perfect physical specimen. In short, the rep said; Baldacci has no faults. No shortcomings.

Ergo – no danger of disappointment.

Everything about the deal, the Elite people insist, is guaranteed. And that includes a not satisfied then get your money back promise.

When Vincent arrives later in the day your maid Nina will be waiting for him at the main gates. She will drive him in a golf buggy to the largest of three guest cabins situated on the perimeter of the grounds overlooked by a steep ridge clad in mature pine.

His luggage arrived yesterday by courier.

Situated three-quarters of a kilometre from the main house the air-conditioned single-storey red-tiled cabins in white stucco cluster around a cobble-effect courtyard with stone cherubs frolicking in a fountain as its centre piece.

The three cabins share a gymnasium, an outdoor pool and a games room. Each one has its own kitchen/diner and a large double bedroom with en suite facility. The cabin you have put Vincent in boasts a wet room. The master bedroom, mirrored ceiling and mirrored wardrobes running the length of two walls.

It is where you and Vincent will have sex.

Many times.

But not tonight.

Tonight at seven Nina will serve your ‘guest’ a tuna salad with homemade pesto she prepared earlier in the day.

Vincent will make his own breakfast, lunch, too. The fridge/freezer combination in the open-plan kitchen/diner is well stocked with white wine, cheese, milk, cold meats, olives and sundry items to supplement the evening meals Nina will ordinarily prepare.

Should Vincent have the occasion to wine and dine you, you feel confident in the knowledge he will not hesitate when choosing the apposite wine to accompany, for instance, grilled fish.

A rack of mid-range red wines are stacked on top of the mahogany worktop to the left of an electric hob and range. Before the afternoon is through you will visit the cabin yourself and select one of the better Merlots. Remove the cork to let it breathe.

After The Elite Agency’s Five-Star Escort has finished off his salad he will no doubt enjoy a glass of the red, possibly two, but, as you have been led to believe, no more than two.

Nina will be gone by nine. On her way out she will stop at the kiosk by the main gates and share a joke with Paul, the eight till eight overnight guard.

Everything is in place.

Yet despite running through all the arrangements a dozen times you fail to occupy your mind long enough to keep your imagination in check. In truth, the harder you try not to picture Vincent Baldacci naked, the more a kaleidoscope of erotic tableaux dominates your thoughts.

You take a seat on the veranda.

No sooner have you done that your housemaid Nina brings you a glass of iced tea. No lemon. You pick up the book you started reading a fortnight ago. A Nordic crime thriller, which, unlike the thought of Vincent Baldacci, fails to captivate you. Still, others in the popular series have been slow to come to the boil so you intend to persist with this one a little longer and remain hopeful you will be rewarded in the end, and yet, after reading the same paragraph what feels like a hundred times, you put the book down.

Finish the iced tea. Make your way downstairs.

It’s not the book that’s the problem, it’s you.

When you reach the foot of the stairs you unbutton your chiffon blouse and step out of your thong. The Spanish tile is cold under foot even at this time of day.

The patio doors are closed. You open them. There’s a breeze coming off the sea from the south-west. It caresses your body. You surge toward the pool. Jump in. Plunge to the bottom arms by your side.

The rush you experience is everything you expected it to be.

When you surface, your arms pointing skyward, you see your blouse disappear beneath the water, caught up in a swirling current buoyed by a flurry of bubbles. Its pale pastel colours and translucent quality, its fluid movement, remind you of a huge jelly fish you saw when snorkelling with friends off the south of France. It was your first holiday without mother. You were seventeen. You lost your virginity the first night. Before the holiday was over you foolishly thought yourself an expert at lovemaking. You tried out a variety of positions, mastered some.

You blush with pride when you remember your first fumbling attempts at performing fellatio. When you get out of the pool you realise you’re deceiving yourself about the oral sex. You only did it once and it was a disaster. It wasn’t until Majorca two years later you really got the hang of it.
~
An hour before Vincent arrives you return to your bedroom and the veranda that overlooks the bay. You put on a thin cotton short-sleeved blouse with a gypsy neckline. Sit in an antique peacock chair you snapped up for five hundred Euros at the final bazaar of last year’s season when most of the tourists had gone home.

You lean back. Pull the blouse up toward your breasts. Place the flat of your hand on your tummy and close your eyes. You raise your right leg off the floor and hook it over the side of the vintage wicker. You barely feel the scrape of sharpness to the silky flesh at the back of your knee. Later, you wonder how you got a scratch there.

Your second and third climax are brief but agreeably more intense than the first.

When you open your eyes you see the last ferry of the day depart the old harbour. There are few people aboard.

 

Xavier P. Xavier