Rock Star

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Willow sharply, holding on with a sudden show of strength.

  Buzz did not back off. He continued to try to pry Bo from her protective grasp.

  ‘Stop it!’ she shouted, a touch hysterically, turning to Kris for support.

  ‘C’mon, let Buzz hold him,’ Kris urged. ‘He’s his godfather. He’s entitled.’

  Willow glared at her husband, reluctantly allowing Buzz to take Baby Bo for a second or two.

  ‘’Ello, mate,’ Buzz said, peering down at the child.

  ‘That’s enough,’ announced Willow crisply, snatching her precious bundle back.

  Kris had only met his wife’s mother a couple of times, and not under the best of circumstances, but he was beginning to realize with growing dread that Willow was just like the snobbish Mrs Wigh.

  Buzz drove like a maniac, the battered jeep careening along old cobbled streets at full speed, his foot jammed down hard on the gas.

  Petrified, Willow sat silently in the back, squeezed in next to their luggage, with the baby bouncing around on her knee. ‘Can’t you slow down?’ she pleaded a couple of times, but neither of them heard her as the jeep sped along the increasingly bumpy roads towards its destination.

  Their holiday home was a run-down, dusty villa by the sea, and they were not the only occupants. Along with Buzz and Flower lived Inga, a blonde, strapping Swedish girl, plus Klaus, a bearded German man who spoke no English, and twenty-year-old American twins, both female, named Chick and Chickie.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me there were other people living here?’ Willow hissed angrily.

  ‘How was I supposed to know?’ Kris replied, dreading what would happen when she found out what was really going on. Buzz had filled him in as soon as they arrived and Willow and Bo were safely deposited in a damp bedroom with a sea view and an old mattress on the floor.

  It’s free sex,’ Buzz confided with a knowing wink. ‘You want it – it’s yours.’

  Buzz always had liked the hippie lifestyle, and Flower obviously raised no objections.

  Kris knew he was in for trouble – one way or the other.

  * * *

  ‘You’ve got a lovely body,’ Chickie whispered in his ear.

  ‘Smooth skin,’ murmured Chick.

  ‘When are we gonna get it on?’ they asked in unison, a chorus of hope.

  Kris knew he was developing a hard-on, no need to check it out. Christ! Where was Willow when he needed her?

  Shifting on the hot sand, he rolled onto his stomach and glanced furtively around. Buzz was lying nearby wedged between Swedish Inga and delicate Flower. What a picture postcard that made, since both girls wore only the bottom halves of their bikinis. Inga’s huge knockers made an interesting contrast with Flower’s small buds.

  Willow and the baby were nowhere in sight.

  ‘Well?’ teased Chick and Chickie, running their fingers up and down his spine.

  This was torture! All he really wanted to do was turn over and ram it into each of them one after the other. He was so horny it hurt.

  Well, who wouldn’t be? They’d stayed on the island for over two weeks, and Willow was consumed with anger about the sleeping arrangements, the half-naked house-guests, the food, and anything else she could think of.

  ‘I won’t tell wifey,’ Chick whispered, bending over to reach his ear, which she proceeded to nibble, her bare boobs brushing tantalizingly against his back.

  Chickie followed suit. ‘Nor will I.’

  It was more than any man could reasonably take. ‘I’m goin’ for a swim,’ he said weakly, getting up and making a wild dash for the sea.

  Plunging in, the shock of the cold water abated some of his excitement. Not enough. Especially when Chick and Chickie, full of giggles, bosoms jiggling, ran down the sand to join him.

  Jesus! What was he supposed to do? They’d been coming on to him ever since he’d arrived. And while on the one hand he liked the idea of making it with the dynamic duo, on the other he was a married man, and his old-fashioned values urged him to stay true – even if Willow continued to deprive him.

  Chick swam towards him, with Chickie in close pursuit. The two of them wore very determined expressions.

  The answer lay with his wife. Willow, my love, he thought grimly, you are just going to have to put out, or else.

  With that he dodged the randy twins, swam ashore, and hotfooted it up the beach towards the villa.

  ‘Where are you goin’?’ called out Buzz.

  He didn’t stop. Whatever Willow was doing, she was going to have to drop everything and give him what he wanted. He was her husband. He had his rights.

  The villa was peaceful and quiet, which meant Baby Bo was asleep. Perfect. Maybe she was taking a siesta too, and he could be all the way to paradise before she even realized. what was happening.

  Treading quietly he entered their room. Bo was asleep in his carry cot, a thin muslin cover protecting him from any marauding bugs or mosquitoes. The kid looked great, suntanned and healthy. He even looks a little bit like me, Kris thought proudly. Yeah. Willow might have trapped him, but it was all worth it when he saw his son.

  The wife’s probably in the kitchen, he decided – she’d spent most of their holiday hunched over the sink washing anything she could get her hands on. You couldn’t even take off a pair of jeans without her grabbing them.

  No, she wasn’t in the kitchen, nor the big dusty living room. He wouldn’t put it past her to be snooping through Buzz and Flower’s room – she had an insatiable desire to know everything about everyone. ‘Nosey little cow, isn’t she?’ Avis had said when she’d caught her going through their bathroom cabinet one Sunday lunch with the family.

  She wasn’t in Buzz and Flower’s room. Chick and Chickie’s was also empty. And as Inga slept on the couch, that left only Klaus, and his door was closed.

  Kris knocked, and getting no response he pushed it open. Spread-eagled on the bed, naked from the waist down, lay Willow. A pillow covered her face, but he would recognize that uptight, suburban pussy anywhere.

  Kneeling between her thighs, his bearded face embedded in fairyland, was Klaus, the German.

  Rafealla

  1976

  To Rafealla’s consternation and eventual disappointment, Eddie Mafair did not bother to call her. And it wasn’t until almost a year later that she bumped into him at the rather elaborate wedding of the daughter of one of her mother’s friends. He was the best man, and heading in the direction of being extremely drunk.

  ‘Hello,’ she said sulkily, when he didn’t acknowledge her as he attempted to stagger past her table at the reception.

  Glancing at her vaguely he said, ‘You’re going to have to remind me, sweetheart. I’m pissed.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ she replied coldly, aching all over with the desire to be in his arms once more, even if it was only on the crowded dance floor of Annabel’s.

  Peering closely at her he said, ‘Suzanna?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Diana?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A clue?’

  ‘Rafealla.’

  Her name obviously meant nothing to him either. ‘Nice to see you,’ he slurred, and was off.

  So much for mutual attraction. She had thought he liked her. In fact she’d been positive, and made up a million excuses why he hadn’t called. Now it was quite obvious he didn’t remember her.

  Still . . . she wasn’t going to let it get her down. After all, she was sixteen now, no longer the stupid fifteen-year-old who had fallen for his casual charm. There had been several close encounters over the last year. Stefan, the twenty-two-year-old male nurse whom she’d sat next to at the movies and secretly dated for several weeks until he tried to go too far. Jimmy, a young American college student who took her dancing and taught her the fine art of giving what he called a ‘blow job’ because she refused to do anything else of a sexual nature. And Marcel, a young French waiter who worked in a local restaurant. He took her for
long walks in the woods and kissed and caressed her breasts for hours on end, bringing her great pleasure. Until in return – after many weeks of pleading – she finally gave him the special ‘blow job’ Jimmy had taught her, and marvelled at his ecstasy and gratefulness.

  She wanted to do the same for Eddie. It gave her a gratifying sense of power, and did not interfere with her virginity, which she planned to hang on to until marriage. Odile and she had discussed it many times, and decided that everything else was allowed, but going all the way was definitely out. Too risky for one thing. Unnecessary for another. Boys were perfectly satisfied with the alternative.

  The wedding was a riotous affair, a mixture of young friends of the bride and groom, and the older contingent of relatives and close family friends. Rafealla knew quite a few people, and found herself on the dance floor with a variety of enthusiastic would-be suitors. Occasionally she glimpsed Eddie. He seemed to be attached to a sinewy blonde in a mini-dress who was almost as drunk as he was.

  Rafealla stared at him. She was not used to being ignored. With her long dark hair, exotic features and slim figure, she usually received more than her fair share of attention. How dare Eddie Mafair not even remember her.

  The band began playing Beatles songs – a request from the bride. ‘Yellow Submarine’, ‘Eleanor Rigby’, ‘She Loves You’.

  Eddie was crotch to crotch with his blonde on the dance floor.

  Feeling the urge to do something to make him notice her, Rafealla brazenly approached the bandleader. ‘Do you know ‘Yesterday?’ she asked.

  ‘We certainly do.’

  ‘Can I sing it?’

  ‘Can you?’ the bandleader asked with a quizzical look.

  ‘Of course I can,’ she replied, full of bravado.

  ‘All right, darling, show us.’ He handed her the microphone.

  Oh boy! What had she done to herself! She loved singing, but only in the privacy of the shower with that wonderful echo making every note sound good. Oh wow! How was she ever going to pull this one off.

  ‘Yesterday’ her voice wavered, ‘all my troubles seemed so far away.’ Everyone was looking at her. She had to make this good. ‘I believed that love was here to stay. Oh, I believed in yesterday. ’

  She had it! Sounding good. Getting everyone’s attention, including her mother’s, who was staring at her, probably really annoyed that she was making an exhibition of herself.

  Her voice was pleasantly low, an older sound than her years. She sought out Eddie Mafair with her eyes, and finally – yes – she had his attention. Now he’d remember her.

  When it was over there was applause and a lot of ‘I didn’t know you could sing.’ And finally there was Eddie, who said. ‘Where have you been hiding all my life?’

  Before she could reply her mother appeared, ruining everything with news of their imminent departure. At least he now knew she existed. That was something.

  Two weeks later she left for France, and a summer vacation with Odile. Arriving at Nice airport and rushing outside to find her friend, she felt a surge of excitement, for standing no more than three feet away was Eddie Mafair, arguing in fluent French with an irate cab driver.

  Just along the kerb a waving Odile emerged from her stepfather’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes.

  Rafealla stood transfixed.

  Odile yelled, ‘Kid! Over here.’

  Eddie stalked away from his cab and marched into the airport without noticing her.

  Odile ran over. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she scolded. ‘Are you deaf?’

  ‘No,’ Rafealla replied dreamily, hugging her friend. Just in love!’

  * * *

  Odile’s mother had married into show business. Her husband was Claudio Franconini, an aged Italian crooner with an enormous European following. He had been a star for many years, and revelled in his success. Marrying the widow of the prominent politician Henri Ronet was another plus in his life. Claudio adored the spotlight.

  Odile had always considered him to be a bore. And on the occasions Rafealla had met him before, she was forced to agree.

  ‘He still colours his bald spot with boot-polish,’ Odile confided with a wild giggle. ‘And he still thinks that every woman should fall at his feet with delight. Nothing changes.’

  ‘I don’t know how your mother stands it,’ Rafealla commented.

  With a Gallic shrug Odile said, ‘She doesn’t mind. They’re good together. Mama is very patient, as you well know.’

  Claudio greeted Rafealla warmly, kissing her on both cheeks and saying, ‘Welcome, welcome. What a joy to see you again, my dear. Our humble home is yours.’

  Their humble home was a magnificent gated chateau in the hills above Cannes. Guards were on permanent duty. Ten servants looked after the guests. And there was a party every other day. Claudio loved entertaining.

  ‘We’ll make our own fun,’ Odile promised. ‘We don’t have to hang around here with the old fogies.’

  Rafealla wondered what Eddie Mafair was doing at the airport. Probably on holiday. Too bad he’d left.

  The weather in the South of France was glorious. After a rather dreary English summer, Rafealla was delighted to lie in the sun doing absolutely nothing. She found it entertaining to observe Claudio Franconini and his constant stream of guests. Odile and she staked out their corner of the pool and watched the famous come and go. There was a Greek shipowner and his fiery mistress. An American gangster with his very proper English wife. A financier with two girls not much older than they were. A black female singer and her lover.

  ‘This is what I call entertainment!’ Rafealla said. ‘Is it always like this?’

  ‘Yes’, Odile assured her. ‘Last year we had dozens of movie stars, a President’s widow, oh . . . all sorts of strange people. You should’ve come.’

  ‘I wanted to. But as you know, my dear mother always considered I was too young to enjoy the wicked pleasures of the South of France until now.’

  ‘I guess sixteen signals wicked pleasures are okay. Right?’

  ‘I bloody well hope so!’

  When they got bored sitting beside the pool, the chauffeur dropped them off in nearby Juan-Les-Pins, where they wandered around the colourful shops and open pavement cafes. Sometimes they water-skied from the beach. Male attention was not lacking, for they made an alluring if very young combination. Odile – so blonde and innocently pretty. And Rafealla, dark and mysterious. They were the perfect foil for each other as they stalked the beaches in minuscule bikinis, attracting an avid following of admirers.

  Odile struck up more than a friendship with a Norwegian law student, and Rafealla found herself practising the fine art of the blow job with an extremely handsome Swiss medical student. She met him on the beach every evening, and they had a perfectly delightful time. This all had to take place before ten o’clock, when the chauffeured Mercedes would arrive to collect the girls and transport them back to the Franconini luxury chateau high in the hills.

  ‘I feel like Cinderella,’ Rafealla joked. ‘You know – it’s as if we’re leading a double life or something.’

  ‘We are,’ Odile said grimly. ‘My mother will kill us if she ever finds out what we get up to.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  A pause, and then Odile added, ‘Surely they were young once? They must have done all these things.’

  ‘And more,’ agreed Rafealla, although she could hardly imagine her mother ever doing anything as rude as giving a man a blow job. Come to think of it, she couldn’t even imagine her mother making love, and yet it was patently obvious she had – at least once.

  Rafealla’s medical student decided it was time she went one step further. ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor – well almost,’ he said. ‘I want to give you pleasure too.’

  She had never allowed anyone below the belt. Too intimate, too sticky, too embarrassing.

  The lure of the white sand, the balmy nights, and the seductive lapping of the sea finally got to her. Besides, he was very-good look
ing, and a medical man. Pushing Eddie Mafair to the back of her mind, she allowed him to embark on a short exploration of uncharted territory.

  Removing her jeans and the bottom half of her bikini, he began gently touching her with his fingers. She had to admit it did feel good, especially when his fingers moved in a strangely soothing circular motion. Automatically she spread her legs, gasping at new-found sensations which suddenly and unexpectedly culminated in a rush of pure pleasure.

  ‘Your first orgasm,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  Her heart was pounding. This was something else. This was great.

  ‘Now let me just put it there,’ he continued, working his way on top of her. ‘Nothing can happen now.’

  She felt pressure, and warning signals fired off in her head. ‘No,’ she said, quickly shoving him away.

  ‘Yes,’ he insisted, moving back on top.

  ‘No!’ she snapped.

  ‘Do you plan to stay a virgin forever?’ he asked nastily.

  Absolutely not, she said silently. Only until I can have Eddie Mafair. And I will. Oh yes, I will.

  * * *

  One morning Rafealla got up very early, before everyone else, and went down to the pool to swim lengths. She was bronzed to perfection, her long limbs oiled and gleaming, her stomach flat and faintly muscled.

  ‘You have a beautiful body, my dear,’ said a thick male voice with a slight accent.

  She turned and encountered Marcus Citroen, a record magnate who had arrived the night before from New York with his ultra-chic wife.

  Rafealla grinned – she didn’t know what else to do. There was nothing worse than trying to avoid the lecherous leers of dirty old men. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and dived in the inviting pool, hoping he would be gone when she surfaced.

  To her surprise, when she came up for air, Marcus Citroen was in the pool, close to her.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said cheerfully, as if he’d spotted some unique form of starfish.

  Without thinking she peered below the clear blue water.

  Marcus Citroen was taking risks. The man was stark naked, with a full erection.