The Gypsy King

The Gypsy King

By

Morgan Rush

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Gypsy King

Copyright © 2008 Morgan Rush

ISBN: 978-1-55487-068-4

Cover art by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

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To Tania, for always believing in me.

Vfavorite path in the woods at a furious pace.

She paused occasionally to light another Gitanes, smiled as the lighted match bathed her delicate chiffon dress in a yellow glow, and for an instant, she imagined being on stage, looking over an adoring crowd. A crisp red ribbon accentuated her curvy nineteen-year old hips and another

matching ribbon pulled her chestnut brown hair into a tight, bouncing ponytail secured crisply with a herringbone clip.

She carried her shoes in one hand and held her cigarette between long fingers in the other. While she argued with the voices in her head, she relit the cigarette that seemed to be constantly going out. She caught herself mimicking one of her favorite film stars and managed a half-hearted laugh.

“I’m in such a dramatic mood tonight,” she

whispered, “I’m introspective, stubborn, angry and exasperated all at the same time! I may
look
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like a film star under this moonlight, but I certainly don’t
feel
like a star these days.”

Veronique giggled and murmured, lost in

thought, as she slowed her pace to a brisk stroll through the moonlit woods. The lights from her town were miles away now and the hills of

southern France at night were hushed and serene.

She heard only her breath and her dress swishing and sometimes the snapping of twigs and

branches clawing at her harmlessly.

“Finally, some real peace and quiet! The woods are so perfect at night.”

She sighed, thankful she escaped for some

much needed alone time. As she walked pensively now, she pictured being on a film set, playing the heroine in her current favorite movie,
All Quiet on
the Western Front
.

“Yes, that’s me, a silver screen diva in chiffon, red ribbons, dirty feet and smoking a Gitanes. Is it any wonder nobody understands me?” She

paused, twirled around slowly and pushed her hands up to cup her ears. “Can somebody tell the people in my head to please be quiet!”

The woods, leaving nothing except croaks,

buzzes and leaves rustling in response, swallowed her voice. She was so frustrated she wanted to scream into the gray-black darkness just to hear something other than the roaring voices in her brain. They, along with several glasses of Cabernet and a glass or two of champagne, were pounding 2

Morgan Rush

her into a fog of confusion and indecisiveness that was literally driving her crazy!

Veronique smiled thinking about how she

ducked out of the celebration. Successfully escaping a party, especially one hosted by Leone and the Rodell family, was no easy feat. The Rodell’s were known for throwing the finest parties in the town, but she wasn’t in a party mood lately and especially not for another gala event at the Rodell estate celebrating the

uncorking of this season’s Cabernet and Bordeaux.

After just an hour of what should have been the celebration of a lifetime, she found herself sashaying around the party feeling as anxious as a caged tiger. She was polite though, talking with many guests, but actually listening to very few, then feigning the need for fresh air after a few
too
many glasses.
Wink
.
Wink
.

Honestly, she would have said and done

anything to get the hell out of there, ring or no ring. “Grrr,” she growled in anger and sneaked out the back veranda doors into the quiet, lush woods that stretched for miles and miles

surrounding her town.

“But not being in a party mood isn’t what has me in this vitriolic mood, is it?” It was a rhetorical question and, as she pondered over it, she felt a more intense anger mounting up inside her again.

Hot tears filled her eyes and the path became murky and difficult to navigate. She stopped, 3

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dropped her chin to her chest and stood, sullen, alone and a little drunk.

“I can’t believe he wanted to fuck me in the wash room!” Her voice shook and she held her face in her hands as she tried to control her sobs.

“On the same night he announces we’re getting married he wants to take my virginity with me leaning over a cold, filthy bidet!
Merde
!” She gritted her teeth at Leone’s truly asinine insult to her as his fiancé, and most importantly, to her as a woman.

“What an amazingly selfish asshole!” She was crying now and kicking dirt and roots and

wishing answers would come to her. If not

answers, at least some peace and quiet in her head. A late night walk usually helped, but tonight she was jumping out her skin. The prickly heat from frustration burned through her whole body until she felt like she was going to explode unless she screamed louder! She let her mind slowly wander, gratefully, toward a better

memory. “I remember finding this path, this beautiful path to the river.”

Veronique was hunting for Marceau, one of her family’s frenetic foxhounds. She laughed thinking about his long narrow nose and wet snout. He had decided a spooked rabbit would be a better meal than the fava beans and bone marrow from dinner the night before. And he never came back. She spent a full week calling for him in these hills and 4

Morgan Rush

woods all around her town. Veronique cried for three days straight, but the mystery of that childhood loss unearthed this lush, peaceful trail.

In the winter, her trail in the woods was thin and splotchy like a soiled and slippery white ribbon blotted with patches of dirt in the snow.

But in the summer, on a night like tonight, the smooth well-trodden dirt and clay trail felt like a warm animal beneath her feet. She followed it for over an hour, winding her way through the woods and eventually to a fork where she had to make a decision. One way led up to a rickety footbridge, several hundred feet above the River Chamois.

The other led to a nice cool walk along the river’s edge. Not feeling energetic enough to make the climb up to the footbridge in one of her nicest party dresses, she opted for a walk along the river.

Veronique recalled playing in the Chamois as a child, skating on its runoff ponds in the winter and walking out onto the teetering footbridge spanning one of its widest points over the river.

The view from high atop the forest floor and over the river became her personal reward for

successfully navigating the somewhat treacherous, but always exhilarating, climb. More than one bone-bruising slip on the sometimes dangerous trail taught her to pay careful attention. Long ago she memorized every root, half-hidden stone and even watched her favorite trees grow through season after vibrant season along her secret path, 5

The Gypsy King

which was as lush as any garden in her town.

She relaxed a little more. Walking here was one of her favorite ways to get away and think, and the only place she could really let go of her inhibitions and let her mind, and curious hands and fingers, wander freely. Deep in these woods is where Veronique also enjoyed her first lover.

“Well, my
imaginary
first lover,” she corrected with a sly giggle, “My first forest fornication.”

She looked up to the dimly lit heavens and

smiled as she felt the surge of wetness spread and heat up her inner thighs, making her glistening and moist. Years ago, she realized that being alone in the woods turned her on immensely. The

complete privacy of surrounded by nature so thick and pungent she could almost hear the trees and river breathing, never failed to arouse her. It was thrilling to walk alone for hours and pretend she was going to meet her lover in a secret rendezvous location. It was even more titillating to wait, sometimes another mile or so, before she imagined finding him hard and waiting for her where she could finally succumb to his hungry embrace.

As she walked in the night under the warm

moon, still a bit wobbly from the evening’s festivities, she purposely strolled past last week’s rendezvous point while reliving the entire scene in her mind—from the food, to the wine, to the embrace, to his succulent kisses, to the perfect mind-numbing orgasm wrapped in his arms.

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Morgan Rush

Although she had a strong, sometimes bittersweet imagination, Veronique found that her fantasy lovers never failed to bring a warm trickle to her tender lips and soft delicate folds. It was even better when she teased herself.

She found an important part of the game was never picking the same location twice. This added even more tension since it made her wait to find just the right spot before she settled into the lush vegetation and treated herself to one, two, sometimes many more if she had the time,

releases. Her mind danced through some of her best orgasms as she walked and smoked, cried and smiled while she struggled with herself and her voices.

Veronique thought about the time she had

spent looking for a perfect spot and she laughed at how the little things became critical once the name of the game became
pleasure
. When she managed to get away from work for a morning or even an afternoon alone, she would stroll and look for hours sometimes, until finding an ideal location for her naughty, deliciously selfish enjoyment.

Perhaps it was a small area completely covered with lush ferns and ivy, or a thick, solid tree that provided an impressive shaft of shade from the midday sun. She would stop and listen intently for several agonizing minutes until sure she was alone.

Satisfied, only then would she innocently

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pretend to be startled by him out alone in the woods. Of course, he wasted no time with small talk and embraced her quickly, picking her up off the forest floor and passionately driving her back helplessly against a tree, or throw her down onto a thick, mossy embankment. Once discovered, she would feign shame and, if she felt really jazzy and jumpy, would show him her demure, submissive side. Once she was forced to acquiesce to all her lover’s desires, she imagined him bold, but gentle, demanding, but giving, and his pleasure quickly became her own.

As her magical imagination went to work,

Veronique smiled and walked along the moonlit path while her frustrations and irritations slowly faded away. She flashed back to last Wednesday morning in the woods and found her pace slowing to a crawl. She stopped, lit another Gitanes and let her mind run wild again, just her, alone, in a forest of trees and light.

She had been walking for over two hours when she finally collapsed against a thick, mature pine and caught her breath. Veronique looked up

through the forest canopy, began taking deep breaths, closed her eyes and let her hands discover her fully flushed body like it was her first time.