| Subject: In the Shadow of Simone 4 (ADULTS ONLY) |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 19:24:54 12/21/01 Fri
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "In the Shadow of Simone - Sequel to Redemption" on 23:28:26 12/17/01 Mon
Michael stepped into the steamy stall of the shower with a sense of expectation he’d never felt before. He’d known Simone barely an hour and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d known her forever.
Simone stepped inside after him, “Okay--yeah, I know, there’s that word again--assume the position.” She pushed him deeper into the shower stall and back into the spray of the water.
“Get wet--hair too.”
He complied without comment.
“Okay--”
He grinned at the word and got slapped on the hip for it.
“Now, turn around.”
“What for?”
Simone showed him the bar of soap in her one hand and a natural sponge in the other, “Three guesses what I’m going to do with these,” she quipped sarcastically.
He couldn’t help the comeback, “Can I watch?”
“Around! Nature-boy!” She insisted, gesturing with her forefinger on which direction to go. “And the rule is, you can’t move from that position unless I tell you, you can.”
Michael turned around and placed his hands flat against the wet tile wall. “Is this the position you had in mind?”
She didn’t answer, but Michael felt her hands kneading the soapy sponge into his lower back. It felt wonderful, and he marveled at the strength in those tiny hands of hers.
The sponge, rinsed, and began again, this time, swirling foamy suds across Michael’s back and shoulders--then her arms came around him and soothed their way across his chest in large circles.
She played there for a short while, before dipping lower across his abdomen, and then lower still--teasingly light, before retreating again. It was enough to arouse him and he closed his eyes at the sensation.
When he opened them again, Michael blew out the lungful of air he’d been holding. “Simone. . .”
Simone responded with a whispered, “Shhh, don’t speak--just feel. Close your eyes and think of doing this to me. Your hands----here,” she stroked his chest as she rubbed her slender body, slick with soap against his back. “See it, now, in your mind. . . “
He could “see” it and feel it—her nipples raking a trail down his back and up again.
Michael felt her hands start to slip down, then around him. “Now, here. . . “ She dragged the soapy sponge down his back, over and around his buttocks, then between his legs-- and up. She followed, slipping through the arch of his legs with the agility of a gymnast.
She toyed with him, bringing him to the brink of fulfillment, with the stoke of her hands and the silk of her mouth, only to stop and give her attention to another part of his anatomy that was less sensitive at that crucial moment when he thought he might just die, if she didn’t continue.
After the third time, he arched his face to the ceiling and begged in a wretched whisper, “Please, Simone--please.”
Simone stopped anyway, and pressed her self full against him. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He kissed her back, so hungry for her if she had been candy, he would have swallowed her whole.
Simone smiled. He was rock hard and fever-hot against her abdomen
“Michael--open your eyes and look at me.” Simone said releasing his mouth.
He obeyed, while holding her close and trying to press and rub her slippery body against his, where it was most desperate for the friction.
“Make me ready for you, Michael. Show me what you’ve learned.” She whispered against his neck.
He wanted to cry--he wanted to die-- and be buried inside her! God, it had been so long!
“Show me,” she continued seductively, “make me want you, Michael.”
With one last long look at him, she turned and planted herself, in the same spot and position as he had occupied moments before.
With a deep breath, Michael gathered up the sponge and soap and gave it a half-hearted try. He managed to soap her breasts while standing behind her, but got frustrated because he wanted to see them. And taste them. And feel them. He tossed the sponge away and used his hands to massage the soap into them instead. It wasn’t enough so he pulled her against him and held her there, full against him, his arms forming an “X” across her breasts.
“Simone. . .” He kissed her neck. She sighed and squirmed against him.
One hand reached down, exploring at will, while he held her close with the other. It found treasure and went to seek it further---Simone’s breath came out in a rush.
“Yesss!”
Michael was relieved to hear it!
“Don’t stop, Michael,” she begged. “Don’t stop. . .” she panted.
‘God! I’m going to die!’ He thought to himself, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He was inside her, but not in the way he desperately wanted to be.
“Oh Michael, I’m so close,” she moaned and arched against his hand.
That was the final straw!
“Oh no, you don’t, not without me.” He spun her in his arms, picked her up and buried himself to the hilt inside her in one fluid movement. He pressed her against the tiled wall of the shower and held her there for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath.
Simone started to wiggle and Michael gasped and tightened his hold on her, “For God’s sake, don’t move yet!” He groaned, trying not to come. But Simone was insistent, wrapping her legs around his waist and forcing the issue.
“Michael, please!”
He bit his lip, trying to oblige her and started moving, pumping into her until he was afraid he’d hurt her. But just as he thought it, Michael felt her come, her tiny body milking his until he groaned with exquisite relief and sagged against her.
Simone rested her head on Michael’s shoulder, and wondered how he was still standing when she felt limp enough to go down the drain. She could hear his heart pounding against hers; and his breathing still ragged and fast against her breasts. She wanted to tell him how incredibly good he was, but couldn’t say the words for exhaustion and a sudden shyness. What was Madeline thinking? There was nothing wrong with his man’s sexual prowess. Nothing at all!
When she could finally find the energy to lift her head, Simone smiled against Michael’s ear and whispered, “Ooh la la, he’s French all right.”
Michael hugged her and laughed--then yelled--as did Simone, when the water suddenly turned from comfortably warm to icy cold. Laughing and shrieking both fumbled their way out of the shower stall. Michael managed to turn it off while Simone dug a couple of towels out of the closet.
“Well!” Simone said, squeezing the excess water out of her hair with the towel. “Aren’t you glad that’s over?”
Michael was puzzled and paused at drying his own hair.
“What do you mean?”
“Lesson one.”
“That--” Michael gestured to the shower, “was lesson one?”
“Yeah.” Her dimples peeped out again, a sure sign she was up to something--Michael had already learned to recognize.
“I have a checklist to complete—you get an “x” in the block where it says “can do it in the shower”. Question is, can you do it in a bed?”
Michael kept a straight face and stepped closer, “Well, that depends. . .”
“Does it? On what?”
“Do I get time and a half for overtime?” He made a quick attempt to grab her but she ducked under his arm.
“Only when you can do it on Operation’s desk—while he’s sitting at it!” She squealed and ran from the room.
* * *
Crashing, falling glass. Fire and blood. There was blood every where! Fountains of it, spraying everything. Etienne!
“No! No! Etienne!”
“Michael!” Simone sat on Michael’s chest, her slender body struggling to hold him down. Michael thrashed around, screaming, crying, until Simone slapped him hard across the face.
With a final burst of strength, Michael flung Simone off the bed and against the bedroom wall and sat up. It took several seconds for Michael to realize where he was, seconds more to realize what he’d done.
“Simone!” Michael was on his knees at her side, his hands cupping her face.
“It’s okay. I’m all right.” She said in a quiet voice, as she sat up painfully.
“Simone, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He was weeping and simply folded up on himself on the floor.
“Shhh, It’s all right.” Simone scooted across the floor to him, and gently coaxed him to put his head in her lap.
“What is it Michael? What hurts you so?” She combed her slender fingers through his cinnamon tangles. He shook his head, he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t.
“Come back to bed, Michael. Come.” Simone stroked his cheek when he had calmed some. “Come on--it’s December and this is a cotton nightgown and my butt’s freezing.” She kissed him on the cheek, putting a touch of seriousness to her comedic comments.
Michael eased out of her lap, but before she could get up, he caught her hand and kissed the palm of it. Then he scooped her up and reverently placed her back on the bed.
Simone wasn’t quite sure how to take his action. It scared her, more than the dreams had.
“You okay?” She asked. Michael nodded, then climbed into the bed next to her. Next he lay his head on her breast and wrapped an arm around her waist. She stroked his hair some more.
“It’s what you did to land in Section, isn’t it?” Simone asked quietly.
Michael didn’t answer, but Simone knew she had guessed correctly when Michael turned and buried his face deeper against her.
“Whatever it was, Michel,” she spoke to him in French, “You have done your penance. You are forgiven. Everyone has forgiven you, except yourself. Let it go, mon brave.”
“I killed my brother.” He said in a whisper.
“But you didn’t mean to.” Simone said with assurance, if not knowledge, that she was correct.
“I built a bomb. I killed him. I killed so many.”
“I have killed men. Do you hate me?” Simone asked, scooting down to look in his face.
“No” Michael answered.
“Why not?” She asked stoking his face.
“You do it because we have to.”
“Not the first time.” She said. “You think I’m in Section by accident?”
Michael didn’t answer.
“I will tell you what I did, then you can tell me what you did, and we can forgive each other, oui?”
Michael didn’t answer, but Simone continued anyway. “I killed the man who raped my sister.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Simone.”
“Ah well, so was he.” Simone said with a dark chuckle. “Marie was the eldest, very pretty. But she was a child, you know, in here.” Simone tapped her forehead.
“Retarded?” Michael asked.
“Ugly word, but yes. The man that did this--who raped her, was a very important man in the local government in Viet Nam. He was, for a time, my mother’s lover—‘her protector’, as he liked to call himself.
“Where was your father?” Michael turned on his side to face her. He pushed several strands of her dark hair behind her ear.
“My father.” She tossed her long hair over her shoulder and paused in her narrative. “You want all the dirty linen at once--well, why not? I never knew my father. He was an American G.I. stationed in Saigon during the war. He promised my mother--his mistress, to take her to the States. He left one night and never returned and my mother was left with her shame--my sister and me.”
“So sorry, Simone.” Michael kissed her gently.
“When Saigon fell, my mother desperately tried to find my father. She had American children and she was terrified for us. She showed the American soldier’s my father’s picture and brought us to Saigon airport during the evacuation, but she was refused. No marriage, no evacuation.”
“What happened then?”
“Saigon fell.” Simone said simply. “Mother feared a bloodbath, but things didn’t get that bad. But my sister and I--we were living proof that mother collaborated with the Americans--the enemy. To feed us, she prostituted herself.”
The words, “like mother, like daughter” crossed Michael’s mind, knowing Simone was thinking them. He kissed her forehead, as if to tell her he understood what it cost her, to tell him these things.
“And the man?”
“Yes, “the man”. A very important man in Saigon after the war--many political connections with China and Cambodia. He had a wife, a woman he hated, but married for her position. Her father was a leader in the Communist government. He said, he loved my mother.” She paused and smiled at the obvious joke.
“At first, my sister and I loved him. He always brought us things when he visited Mama. We were too young to understand who and what he was at first. He was just the nice man who brought presents and made Mama smile.”
Michael saw a tear fall in the pale light of their bedroom and knew Simone was about the tell him the worse. He wanted to stop her, to tell her it wasn’t important to know, but knew she needed to speak about it and remained silent.
“It happened when Marie was sixteen. He came to visit. Brought gifts. Marie was so pretty. Mama had done her hair, with roses. Marie was excited. He’d brought her a doll. She loved dolls.” Simone smiled briefly at the memory, then her expression hardened.
“That night, when we were asleep. He came into our room. It was Marie crying that woke me up. He was on her, trying to keep her quiet--but she wouldn’t be quiet. How could she? He was hurting her!”
“Simone, don’t,” Michael heard the pain in her voice, and took her hand. But it was if Simone no longer had control over her words. They tumbled out in all directions.
“I guess he figured because Marie wasn’t “all right”, that she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. But he forgot she could cry. I watched. I watched. I didn’t know what he was doing to her except that he was hurting her. He was afraid someone would hear so he covered her face and held her down until she was quiet again. Then he left. The next morning Marie was dead.”
Simone moved off the bed and began to pace the floor.
“He smothered her and went back to bed with my mother as if nothing had happened.”
“You mother knew?”
“No. She loved him. Trusted him. I was fourteen and afraid. Afraid he’d do to me, what he did to Marie, so I said nothing.”
“That was the last time he came to see Mama. They said Marie died naturally--that because she wasn’t “right”, she died. But I knew the truth.”
“Two years later, Mama died. Then he came. He came for me, to “take care of me”. What he did was make me his mistress. He was now a very, very important man in the government. He traveled to the West and he took me with him. I killed him in Paris.”
‘I killed him in Paris.’ Michael felt every word although she said them almost as an after thought. She stood at the foot of the bed staring at it, her head bowed, her long hair shielding her face.
He slipped off the bed and went to her, pulling her tiny body against his, holding her close. “I love you, Simone.” He said. And she wept.
Michael wasn’t sure exactly--when it had happened, his falling in love with Simone. For months, they had trained together, and slept together, all with the blessing of the Section. While Michael wondered about it, he had been too happy to question things too closely. It was enough, seeing Simone everyday--getting to hold her every night.
She softened the pain of his nightmares, holding him when he cried after them, never judging him for the monstrous things he did to stay alive, just as he never judged her, for those dark things she had to do. They shut those unspoken things in a box and put them away, when they were together.
She laughed all the time--always with a wise comeback, afraid of nothing and no one, except Operations. There was something between them, something dark that Simone wouldn’t talk about. It made her upset if she was asked about it, and so Michael learned not to speak of it, even though it hurt some part of him deeply, that she couldn’t confide in him as he had been able to in her.
When he finally told her about Etienne, she wept with him. Michael never told her how much that meant to him, because it was beyond his capacity to explain it, but on some level he knew she understood how very grateful he was.
The physical part of their relationship was intense, but Michael found it was Simone’s company he craved more than her body. She kept him alive, and made him glad he was living.
“Michael?” Simone turned on her side towards him.
“Hmmm.” He grinned and tried to tickle her.
“Hold me?”
Simone’s request took Michael by surprise, “Of course.” He wrapped his arms around her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, but. . . “ She pressed her lips together, “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, Simone,” Michael barely breathed the words.
“Don’t look so serious--it’s yours,” she quipped, before biting her lip and looking away.
“I’ll be okay,” he said kissing her cheek, then her forehead. But both of them knew it would not be okay.
“Marry me, Simone.” Michael said, kissing her mouth tenderly.
“Michael, this is Section. You don’t want to marry me.”
“I love you, Simone. Please, marry me.” He had tears in his eyes.
“You don’t have to cry about it,” she teased him, then began to cry herself.
“I love you, Simone. Please say yes.”
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