This is a work of fiction, using characters from the film, “Proof of Life”.  No insult or invasion of privacy or infringement of copyright is intended. The story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

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Ravel

©2009 by: Jackie

The drummer starts. Just him, a chair and a snare drum; he seems all alone centre stage in a pool of spotlight. You take a quick look around the concert hall. It’s very well maintained and actually very beautiful. Think the Paris Opéra, only smaller. Red velvet every fuckin’ where, crooks and nannies in abundance. You make a mental note to check how many it will seat while at the same time your mind tries to come up with a suitable figure of how big a detail you are going to need to secure the place. Demented killers could hide here in droves.

You keep thinking you’ll never do it again. Wet work, black ops, going loud, it’s always messy, and there’s always this bloody hangover, both physically and mentally, when the adrenaline has drained from your system, you’re licking your wounds and you’re waiting for your muscles to stop aching. No matter how fit you are, you always come back hurting like a bloody bugger. Sometimes, if you’re as thick a fucker as yours truly, you even manage to get hurt in the heart region.

So this time when you stagger back into the office for the first time after you made it out of the hot zone (dangling from the heli’s landing skid, hovering over LZ2 for a full minute, one hand cut and bleeding like a pig, dodging bullets; a full bloody minute before your business partner who also happens to be your best mate decides he’s good and ready to haul your arse aboard), you say it out loud. I’ll never do this again.

A flute lays down the first thread of the theme. Despite its momentary restraint, it is bold, striking, passionate and full of promise. A smile tugs at your mouth when the clarinet takes over the melody.

She leans in and murmurs “I love this piece, don’t you?” as her refined scent invades your olfactory system.

As you utter these words, I’ll never do this again, Marcia, your secretary, runs in, waving a printed email. The email originates from Savoia, a European country smaller than Andorra but bigger than Monaco. The language is French, the coin is Euro, and its ruler is a Prince who has a wife and a heir in the shape of a daughter. The daughter turns eighteen just about… now. You know all this because you have at one time negotiated for a businessman who originated from Savoia, and you are meticulous where research is concerned. So meticulous that it borders on anal. You know background knowledge can mean the difference between a dead and a live extraction. Photographic memory, you muse, is a blessing sometimes.

 “A bodyguard gig,” your business partner-cum-best mate says to you, glancing up from the print he deftly snagged from Marcia’s fingers. “This is just what you need; a cushion job. It’s excellent money and five star treatment. And all you have to do is guard the Princess. It’ll be her eighteenth birthday, huge party in the capital, big concert in her honor, the works.” He smiles at you, because he knows that you know that the Princess in question is a stunning little hell raiser who has been partying since her fifteenth birthday and whose most recent boyfriend was a 35-year old coke capo from Colombia. Filthy rich, ruthless, psychotic and lethal. He might decide to turn up for the festivities. Uninvited.

And so you find yourself in Haute-Saitiers, the capital of Savoia, at the side of a young woman of astounding beauty. A beauty that is only enhanced by the fact that she seems to teeter on the brink of extremely sophisticated, cosmopolitan womanhood while at the same time the teenage girl she carries inside her, the teenage girl that perhaps never had her chance to shine, seems to shine out at you now through those luminous hazel eyes. You are older than the Colombian coke capo. Not much, but older. Less affluent, obviously, but taller and more muscular. You have done your homework. You are very aware of yourself.

She gives you another shy yet sly smile. The melody on stage slowly intensifies and deepens as more instruments join and build upon the theme. She is wearing a little black dress, and that’s not just an expression. It’s a dress, it’s black, and there is astoundingly little to be had of it. You have to wonder though what it will have cost; it looks decidedly couture. Her hair is dark and luscious, her lips are full, she wears elegant heels. She is very classy, yet she radiates sex. She doesn’t want you there but she’s decided to tolerate you for now.

When you first arrived at the palace and you met with the Prince, you quickly deduced he had to be a sensible man. Intelligent. Capable. When the Princess-heir walked in though, it became instantly clear that her father could very well be able to rule his little country successfully, but he would never rule his daughter. She had that air of indomitability that was at once slightly frightening and a little eroticizing in so young a woman.

She took one look then dismissed you out of hand. It rankled. And so, pitching your voice just so, you suggested she observe you as you surveyed the venue where her birthday concert would take place. You gave her a glib smile, honeyed over with an appreciative glance, and added that if she’d find herself satisfied with your professional approach, she would then perhaps find it in her heart to consider allowing you to guard her safety during the festivities.

            She snorted elegantly at your phrasing (no small feat in itself) then favoured you with a long, slow, intense look that burned and leaked along your body, and it was all you could do not to squirm under her shameless scrutiny. You were personnel, and you might not make the grade. But eventually, she nodded acceptance and said you should accompany her to the concert hall that afternoon. There was a rehearsal for her birthday performance scheduled. She had requested the complete Andre Rieu orchestra, ballroom dresses included.

More instruments join in as you slowly make a tour of the ground level of the concert hall. You count the rows of chairs and the many doors that give entrance to the ground floor boxes; you take notice of the elegant curtains that could so easily hide a man with a gun. And a silencer. Christ, probably even a rocket launcher. She follows you closely and looks where you look. She is trying to see the place as you see it; as a potential hazard. When you shoot her a quick glance, you see a new understanding dawning in her eyes. And a flicker of… respect? Or maybe that would be too much to ask for.

You walk up to the stage, the Princess just one step behind you. The orchestra, all young, beautiful people in jeans and tees, is completely focused on the roll of the beat, the lilt of the melody. The director faces his musicians and waves his violin about madly until they all smile, his romantic floppy hair sticking out in all directions. You feel a smile of your own lurk around your mouth but you suppress it. The princess shouldn’t be aware of your sense of humour; she may doubt your professionalism.

            You turn your back to the stage and look up. There is another row of loges one floor up, and another one above that. And somewhere in the middle of that, there is the Principal Loge, from where she will hear this piece played again on her birthday.

“Your Highness?” you venture. “I’d like to have a look up there.”

She takes the lead. Chooses a door to exit the concert hall proper and indicates the stairs with an almost imperceptible nod. Oh yeah. You’re not supposed to let women go first walking up the stairs, you smirk privately, and you bravely climb up. You feel her eyes burning holes in your back and, surreptitiously, you check by way of a dark oil painting in the stairwell, framed under glass. It’s an excellent mirror, and yes, she is looking at you. She might even be looking at your bum.

The music is still audible, muffled now, but the leading melody clearly discernible nonetheless. For a moment you believe you can actually hear the joy the musicians feel in playing this piece; as if the walls temper the actual music and so leave more room for the emotions attached.

The stairs elegantly wind up to the next floor, your footsteps muffled in luscious inches of red carpet. A murderer’s footsteps would go equally unnoticed. You step into the corridor that encircles the loges, and again your sense of smell pings into awareness as the Princess steps up beside you.

“Do you intend to inspect every one of the loges?” she asks, her head slightly cocked.

For a split second you wonder if she is testing you. No. You don’t have to wonder, really; you know she is testing you. Should you say yes, to be thorough? Or would that be ridiculous? As the split second winds down to its end, you decide to follow your intuition. It has served you well up until now.

“The Principal Loge will suffice, Your Highness,”

She gives you a look. You think it is meant to be disdainful, but there is something else in there as well. Something… longing?

“Do you know my name?” she asks sharply.

“I do. Princess Marguerite,” you respond, matching her sharpness with as much warmth as you can muster. You are not trying to impress her, you tell yourself, nor are you trying to make her see you as a man instead of a servant. No games of seduction, however innocent. She is a cushion job. Marguerite is nothing but a cushion job.

She halts when she hears her name fall from your lips, her hand resting on the doorknob to the Principal Loge. She gives you a quick look, and you see it again, hiding behind her haughtily arched eyebrows. That young girl, desperate for… something.

“So use it!” she almost spits, but then she relents and smiles, “Mr. Thorne, I insist.”

“Princess Marguerite,” you say it again, you understand how it moves her, and you deliberately, very deliberately, say it softly, on a gentle exhale that whispers on after her name and wraps itself around her. She blinks, opens the door and immediately the music washes out and over you, surprising you with its intensity; you had almost forgotten it was there all along.

She enters first. You follow, eyes sweeping the corridor to the left and right before you close the door behind you and survey the Loge itself. It is all rosewood paneling and dark red velvet. There is room for about ten, though only four chairs are present.

“These are my Mum and Dad’s,” she points at the two grandest chairs, the crest embroidered on the velvet of the backs. You can’t suppress your smile now; her casual mention of her parents has truly brought out the young girl before you. It only enhances her beauty further.

“I will be sitting in this one,” she indicates a chair marginally less grand, but still rather impressive. You make a show of it, feel the velvet, check the back, kneel down and check under the seat.

“No wires, no explosives,” you announce as you get up again with a soft grunt. Her eyes seem glued to your chest. “What is it, your Hi… Princess Marguerite?” you ask, a little gruffly and clearly not as protocol would dictate. It came out before you could stop it and you suppress a wince. Not very professional of you.

She doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you… armed?” she asks; a little breathless and clearly intrigued. You realize that your jacket must have fallen open while checking under the seat of her chair, offering her a view of your shoulder holster where your Sig Sauer P226 sits. You’ve had it since SAS times, have seen a lot of action with it, you’re attached to it, and you feel a little annoyed that she should have seen it. Almost as if it’s private. Then again… this can’t be the first time she’s been around firearms. You gingerly lift your jacket by the lapel and afford her another glimpse.

And then she surprises you. She steps in really closely, her indescribable scent attacking your senses again, and she extends a finger. You had intended to let the jacket fall back into place straight away but something makes you wait, something that truly… likes having her so near. Something that immensely enjoys observing that little concentrated frown on her forehead as she reaches out and touches your gun. It’s just one finger, but she is touching your bloody gun! A jolt runs through you as you realize the underlying symbolism and you breathe in a little sharply, causing her to look up. Your eyes lock on hers and you see dark, starry pools full of conflicting emotions. There is duty in there, and power, but also a sharp, painful longing for freedom, for escape from the predestination of her life. There is youth, recklessness, offset by an unexpected wisdom for her years, and there is desire there. Yes, pure lust, but also a yearning for simple basic human contact, for touch, for love, for belonging. For this brief moment in time she is an open book to you and her complexity is framed magnificently by the music that pulsates off the stage, building and building.

Her finger softly lands on your chest and stays there a while and you fight for something to say, anything, anything at all, but nothing comes. You grab the back of her chair as her finger begins to move, slowly trailing down. She cocks her head, daring you to stop her. You don’t, you wouldn’t know how to, so you just keep her eyes locked to yours and you grip the seatback, frantically wondering where the bloody hell this is going.

It is going down under, very slowly but unmistakably. Her finger slips lower and lower, and you have a hell of a time suppressing a shiver and remaining still. She trails her finger past your navel and you allow your eyes to close for one second, imagining your polo shirt gone, imagining her touching your bare skin. Would she like that? Would she like the shape of you, the muscles, the slight padding, the soft hair growing upwards towards your navel?

The orchestra on stage adds another layer of instruments, another notch up on the intensity scale, and her finger comes to rest on your belt buckle. You swallow, and study her face, and suddenly she breaks eye contact to look at her own finger, lingering there. She seems to think about it for a bit, but then surprises you mightily when she cups your whole gear in her elegant little hand. You are rock hard in an instant, an apology burning on your lips, but she does not shy away, so you keep silent. She grabs you. Cops a feel. And seems to approve, as her pointy pink tongue slips out and licks at her luscious bottom lip. You would like to ravage that mouth, investigate that tongue, let your hands roam over her lithe body in return. But you do nothing. Say nothing. You just grab the chair a little tighter.

Princess Marguerite. Hell raiser. Oh yeah. Cushion job? You aren’t so sure now. And then she surprises you again, so much so that you can’t avoid a sharp intake of breath as she slowly, elegantly sinks to her knees and deftly, expertly, opens your belt buckle. She’s done that before, for Christ’s sake! She pops your buttoned fly and – you grin amidst the madness – gasps softly when she finds out that you are commando under those black Levi’s. It doesn’t deter her for one instant, though, because she lifts out your eagerly twitching cock, wraps a hand around it to feel its girth and solidity for a moment, and then, your eyes are almost crossing, she wraps those luscious lips around it and begins to suck.

It feels… there is no describing how it feels. The orchestra is playing for all that it is worth, you are in the Principal Loge, you are not entirely sure if the musicians could see you standing there if they’d look up from their sheet music, and there is a bloody Princess attached to your cock, giving you the BJ of a lifetime and apparently enjoying it as much as you do. Her face is flushed, her breathing comes fast and shallow and you note her nipples peaking against the soft, expensive fabric of that little black dress of hers. No bra then. You choke back a groan at the thought and squeeze the back of the chair so tightly that you have to wonder if you’re drawing blood. Her teeth graze your tip and now you can’t prevent a soft sigh of mounting ecstasy.

You look down at her working face, drop your hand on her head and softly rake your fingers through her dark silky strands. It takes all you have to stay still and not pump into her mouth. She looks exquisite in her passion, and you notice her knees splayed apart a little, her hand under the hem of that short, short dress, and working, working… is she wearing anything at all, underneath it? The sight of her masturbating as she sucks your dick is almost enough to push you over the edge, but you want more. You want to know. Know what is under that dress. Is it a silky little butt flosser, or just her silky curls, all moist with lust and need?

You grab her upper arms roughly and drag her to her feet, and she squeals softly but the misty look in her eyes tells you all you need to know. She likes to be handled a little roughly. It turns her on, maybe even more than this very public little stunt she’s pulling.

You walk her to the darkest corner of the loge, her feet barely touching the ground, and you lean her against the wall. Grab her leg and lift it, up, up, all the way past your hip, and you feel her hot, wet core against your tip, calling, beckoning.

“Do you know my name?” you growl at her, pushing in a little, reversing the roles.

She moans, her eyes no more than feverish slits. “Yes…” she manages in between pants.

“So use it!” you order, and you enter her completely, pinning her to the wall. You start moving, slow, controlled, deep thrusts that fill her up completely. You feel her orgasm building with each time your tip kisses her womb.

“Terry… Oh, Terry…” she whispers, and you shift a little until you can slip a finger in between the two of you, joined at the groin, and massage her hot, hard clit. She moans loudly now, and you think good job the orchestra is playing so loudly. Her moan is lost in the onslaught. As is the soft thumping of you riding her hard against the rosewood paneling of the Loge. You try to time your thrusts to the music, but you know you’ll eventually fail miserably when instinct takes over and you just want to root, root yourself into oblivion.

You always need a good root after a dangerous extraction, but lately, you haven’t really had anyone waiting for you when you came home. You have told yourself you wanted it that way; that it’s easier that way, especially after Alice.

You do the occasional airline hostess. A pick-up in a bar here and there. And when your famous best friend and business partner Dino is around, there’s always that chance of ending a night in a five star house of ill repute. Not necessarily your favourite, but lately you have been taking it as it comes. No pun intended.

The timing for this gig is perfect. She is a client though, and you swore you’d never get involved with a client ever again. Yet here you are, fucking her senseless against the wall of the Loge. You have only met her this morning, she is a real life genuine Princess and you are pounding into her hot, narrow, eager wetness like it is your last chance. You just have to question your sanity…

But then she clenches up with an agonizing yet sweet little yelp and you know she’s reached her peak, her passage contracts around you, clenches almost painfully around your pumping cock, and just as you knew you would, you lose the rhythm and just pound and grind and rage and there is no time to question anything, you just need

to

come

…now!

Your balls lock tight and you feel the spasms of your explosion wrack you, and you shudder against her, clinging to her, moaning in her hair, “Marita, Christ, luv…”

She clings to you with equal force, her face hidden against your neck, and suddenly you feel warm wetness there… and she shakes and softly sobs. You gather her to you completely and hold her, hold her, stroke her hair and hold her, your breath warm in those fragrant dark strands, “Shhh, shhh, I’ll keep ya safe, luv,” you whisper, softly rocking her.

“What did you call me?” she asks in a small voice.

“Marita… you like that, luv?” you softly rumble, your heart all warm for the fragile young girl you’re holding, the fragile young girl who so expertly seduced you, who arched her eyebrows at you, who introduced you to regal arrogance that must have taken generations to breed. None of that now. Now, she’s Marita, a beautiful young woman you have just made passionate love to.

She delicately extracts herself from your embrace, but she stays very close to you. For now, it is only for now; you know instinctively that it will be temporary, this display of vulnerability. You enjoy it all the more, knowing that. Her beautiful face is wet with tears, but she looks you right in the eye nonetheless. You quickly fish a clean white linen hanky from your pocket and hand it her, and then you swiftly

tuck yourself away. Her scent is still on you. You like that.

She wipes her face, then cleans herself below. No panties. Bloody hell. She’s a perfect match for you, you think as you surreptitiously adjust your bits a little.

“I’m going to keep this,” she says with that shy/sly smile, lifting the damp hankie. “For good luck. Terry,” she says. You can hardly hear her voice over the music that now fills the concert hall completely. “Terry… my father thinks he has found you and hired you to guard my safety… but who do you think put the file for T&D Inc. on his desk?”

“Marita,” you whisper. She is devious. She is beyond smart. If she weren’t tied up in this Princess gig you’d offer her a job on the spot. And a ring, perhaps. Who knows. Life with her would never be dull. It would be a bit of a ravel sometimes, but never dull.

Epilogue:

She walks in front of you, you follow unobtrusively like a good bodyguard should. In her hand is your white linen handkerchief, scrunched up and hidden from view, but you know it is there and you almost smile.

Her father looks up from his desk. “Back so soon?” he inquires, smiling at this little girl. He has no idea, you think, no idea of the things his little girl can do.

“And is Mr. Thorne to your satisfaction?”

Now you have to bite your cheek to keep the grin at bay. To her satisfaction, bloody hell.

“Oh, yes,” Marita says with a sunny smile in her voice, “he will do fine. He likes his Ravel.”

THE END