Valéry Bahorel awoke late. He didn't wake like other students who might scramble to dress and flee their flat with the door swinging open behind them, texts and papers and hat all tumbling every which way as they rushed to avoid the wrath of one fossilized professor or another. No, Bahorel hadn't much intended to go to class anyway. Quite honestly, he wasn't even sure if he had one this morning.

Or was it afternoon?

Last night had been a night to remember, if he could. There had been drinks and women and several more drinks and then several more women (though these numbers may well have been an embellishment of the alcohol, one can only assume). Judging from the still lump in the sheets next to Valéry, he had retained a souvenir of the night before. Pity, he didn't much like it when they stuck around till morning.

Or afternoon, as it were.

Very slowly, with more regard for his aching head rather than his anonymous bedmate, Bahorel got out of the bed and began the daily process of looking for his trousers. He resolved to have another pair of the bothersome things made; just as soon as he won back some of that cash that he had parted ways with at the card table last week. If he just had more trousers, they would be infinitely more easy to locate in the morning. The odds would be in his favor.

Bahorel shot another glance at the lump in the bed; his senses returned a slight bit. He remembered a blonde at the restaurant...

...Waist like a wasp, hair like spun gold... Bahorel recalled his first companion of the evening. But they hadn't stayed at the restaurant, had they? They'd gone to a theatre in the less reputable part of town where most anything that you saw was going at a cheap price. There had been a rather fetching redhead there...

...Bright blue eyes and bosoms like ripe fruit... Bahorel shook his head and immediately regretted the sharp movement. Redheads made him suspicious, there was only one way to know if they were natural or not and he usually ended up with a slap in the face if he inquired as to an inspection. What about the giggling brunette at the wine shop where the crowd had ended up after the theatre?

...Not even that pretty, but she'd had too much to drink and kept winking at us... Bahorel tried to conjure up an image of the girl's plain face and wrinkled his nose, sneaking another glance at the bed. He hoped it had been the blonde, but he resolved that it had most likely been the tipsy brunette.

In this matter, as in others, there was only one way to find out. Valéry had become excited in spite of himself as he recalled the different ladies he had crossed paths with the night before, picturing them each in turn in his bed. His flaccid penis reared insistently against the half-buttoned fly of the trousers which he had so labouriously located. He followed this lead toward the bed, anticipation growing with each step.

Leaning over the lump in the bed, curled tightly against the wall, Bahorel gave the sheet a light tug. Nothing. He gave the sheet another tug, jostling the shoulder of the hidden girl. His efforts were to no avail and he was becoming quite impatient. His meaty hand grabbing the sheet tightly, he yanked it down to the sleeping girl's waist.

Her back was facing Valéry, but he could see she had a finely formed little body, of the palest white colouring, with a long mane of pale blonde hair which glistened in the noonday sun like freshly mown hay. Upon tugging at the girl's shoulder until she finally faced him, Bahorel also discovered that she had the purest blue eyes that he had ever seen. She was using them, much as she had last night, to stare at the ceiling. It was about this time, when, instead of noting her firm young breasts which were now fully revealed to him, Valéry Bahorel realized that the girl in his bed was as dead as a doornail.

That was when he screamed.

[Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8] [Main Index] [More by Laurence] [More about Bahorel]
URL:
Provider: MV Communications