Ir-re-me-di-a-ble: Unable to Be Changed

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Her Favorite City on Earth, Paris

Lu’s day had gone exactly to plan. Right up to the moment it didn’t. When she saw Nigel, it was a tearful reunion. He was street side as her driver pulled up to 228 Rue de Rivoli.

“My Lu!” he cried. And swept her in through the double front doors and down the hall to his office. Their reunion was loud and tearful. Double cheek kisses. As Le Meurice’s head concierge, he knew everyone and everything. And had been staunchly on her side from day one.

As she settled in with her first glass of French bubbly, Nigel handed over her schedule for the day. Her eyes glanced around the room instead. “Nigel! Your office has changed.” It even had a window facing out along the street toward Jardin des Tuileries, Lu’s favorite place to run in Paris.

“You are my lucky charm, Lu,” he gave her the credit. “I have been promoted!”

A slim server knocked, then entered with a tray held high. “Votre petit-déjeuner, monsieur.” Nigel gave a wink to them both. “C’est l’œuf Benedicte.” Her favorite. Eggs Benedict. Hired as her personal assistant, Nigel facilitated every aspect of her life. As told when they first met, the man was a magician. And could make things happen. Anything. He proved this skill to her daily.

He talked as she ate. “Valentino first. Fittings for a new wardrobe. They have another special red dress for you.” She beamed. “A small celebration will follow with the presentation of your new contract.” He shoved the embossed invitation toward her. Lu represented their brand and, when in France, wore them only.

Lu nodded. And mumbled her assent as she ate.

“Numero deux,” Nigel pointed to her list. “Cartier.” Lu gave a thumbs’ up.

“They have scheduled your appointment for ‘fluff, buff, hair, makeup’ here at our spa.” She looked up at him with questions in her eyes.

“Yes, another photoshoot. They want to extend your contract as well.”

Lu stood up so abruptly her plate and eggs went flying. Her shrieks, their hugs, then tears of happiness. They high fived and danced around the room. “We have done it!” in unison.

“Who knew those pencil drawings I made out on the Greek island would lead to all this?” her voice was now humble.

Later, he joined her in the spa. As she was worked over, Nigel coached her, “When you go to Cartier, remember Mer will be there.”

Mer Baron. The CEO of US Cartier when Lu came onboard. He hired her on the spot when she came in for adjustments to her intimate jewelry gifts. Sapphire n****e clips from the Duchess of Windsor collection. And an amethyst c**t clamp. She was now the face of their private Back Room collection of similar intimate items. As was written into her contract, she was a guest contributor and submitted her own designs for inclusion. Her first pieces, her Lucille Collection, sold out immediately.

Mer Baron had celebrated with her the old-fashioned way. Ventre a ventre. Belly to belly. After that, he was a frequent night visitor to her third-floor suite in the old inherited Victorian mansion in the Pacific Heights area of San Francisco. A well-endowed older gentleman, he was perfect to be a caller. A wife at home? Even better. “C’est un Francais.” It’s French.

Nigel brought her back to reality. She had been drifting on the massage table. He wagged his finger at her, “Do not self-negotiate if they want to offer your new contract to be signed today.” He added, “Your next agreement must go through your agent Mr. Leonard and include stipulations and clauses for your own intimates line outside of Cartier.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” her reply over the sound of clippers. Her cunt was being buzzed. “Now hurry and get out of here,” he helped her up. “Your car is outside.”

Cartier was nearby, just down the street. Through Place Vendome. And at 13 Rue de la Paix.

A perfect gentleman at all times, sure enough, there he stood out front when her driver pulled up at the curb. She was whisked upstairs to a small amuse-bouche and bubbly. Then into his office for a chat. They talked about old times, amid considerable laughter. His thrusts had broken Lu’s bed in San Francisco. The bubbly helped ease tensions. His for not seeing her. Hers for not extending an invitation.

Mer moved on to his real topic. Their next big Back Room intimates line. “It is named Clarissa,” he began. Without knowing, she had contributed. “The inspiration happened when I met you for the first time,” he explained. His eyes softened with memory. “It was outside the San Francisco Cartier.”

His curbside glimpse of Lu’s spectacular t**s reminded him, for all the world, of the full-breasted wet nurse his family had employed in France. Clarissa. With a string of four younger brothers, young Mer could continue the benefit of the n****e, unnoticed. Until ruined, at last, when stumbled onto by his mother. When she attempted to discover if father had been at it, he had, she came upon her oldest son, instead. When mother made him stop, it broke his heart.

In Clarissa’s lap, as he looked up at her swollen round breasts, he would reach up for one of her raspberry n*****s. The following latch was the single best pleasure of his boyhood. Being nursed by five active little boys, and their father, she had swollen and reddened n*****s to where they perfectly resembled ripe August raspberries. One on each breast end. They tasted equally sweet as well. The incredible sight of all this was burned into his mind forever.

Shattered at his loss, he was sent off to boarding school and never saw her again. In later years, and for obvious reasons, he did try to find her. With no success.

This new line was intended to feature rare raspberry colored diamonds on n****e clips which most perfectly mimicked her n*****s. His sad end, “This is in commemoration to her. It is entitled ‘Clarissa.’”

Today, Lu would pose with each piece from that line for their catalog. And in a few months would be called back to model during private showings of these same items.

Besides a sizable salary, there were other extraordinary perks. The Paris apartment was part of her contract with Cartier. As was use of their corporate jet.

She sat wide-eyed with wonder as Mer described how this photo shoot would be set up. On impulse, he leaned forward and brushed back a stray blonde hair from her face. It was an intimate gesture. Yet these two were hardly strangers. Mer knew every freckle, every incredible inch of her. She felt his growing desire. All at once, the room felt hot and small.

This would be a departure from the Cartier’s usual black and white Back Room photos. “These will be shot in color,” he explained. “To showcase the raspberry color of the line’s gem.” The centerpiece of their high end story. The vivid fabulous framboise diamonds.

Lu’s lips opened with a soft sigh. “This all sounds lovely.”

He continued, “You will be photographed outdoors on our terrace upstairs. And possibly in the atelier. We want you surrounded by plants, greenery, and sunlight. Special lens filters will saturate and push the colors over the top. Off camera, there will be a circle of extras on their knees, hands outstretched up toward you.” Intended to emulate his own hands reaching up toward Clarissa’s luscious n*****s. Now Lu’s own ripe ones in the photos. He wanted her large bedazzled t**s to swing forward just as he remembered. In one shot, as a bit of a giggle, one face reached up instead. Mouth open. Unwittingly, the exact pose cemented in Mer’s mind.

The photos of each of the pieces came off without a hitch. Richard Whitaker, her favorite photographer, had been flown in from San Francisco to do the shoot. It had been a positive, seamless process. She wore them proudly. The first items were four different styles of n****e clips. Next a fabulous two inch high neck collar. The final items were two belly button rings, a new item suggested by Lu. There was a c**t attachment, which she did not model. Together, they would make a breathtaking ensemble. Individually, dazzlers.

Their final chat took place in Mer’s private office. Papers with her name were on his desk. Lu settled back into the classic Le Corbusier lounge chair as he began, “Lu dear. Ma chere amie.” This had been her dream. Her association with Cartier. She could barely wait, her hand over her heart. “The board has made their decision.” She was riveted to his words. “A new contract,” he handed it to her.

She was on her feet. Her smile was huge. “High points Mer,” her request.

“Double your current salary. Increased number of pieces you may submit twice a year. To publically launch there will be the usual appearances in Paris. We will extend the lease on your Paris apartment.” Her brows rose in astonishment. This was extraordinary. “Take it,” he coached. It would put her salary into the stratosphere.

Lu remembered Nigel’s words and hesitated. “This must go through Mr. Leonard’s office, Mer. You know that.”

Melvin Leonard. Her San Francisco agent, accountant, and financial advisor. The man was a genius in negotiations to get her the best possible deal. His insights of what to ask for, how high to set her sights, made him irreplaceable. He always had what was best for her in mind and was firmly in her life. When her revised contract came back a day later, in his true “Let’s Make it Better” motto, more perks had been added, the money elevated, and the overall package would be at a level rarely achieved in the field of jewelry design. Lu had made a name for herself in this small niche industry.

Reluctantly, she said goodbye. Mer had been relocated back to his native France several months earlier. His skills were needed at the Paris Cartier. They both missed their rendezvous. They had enjoyed being lovers. He asked, “Drinks later?” The romance part of their affair was the best Lu would ever receive. She was in her early twenties, Mer was sixty five. He was part of her preference for older men. Times with him and his attention to detail convinced her they were better lovers. As a rule, they took their time and knew their way around a woman’s body. The younger ones only wanted the release of a quick c*m then were off to something else. TV, sports with mates, off to bars. Lu was not a fan. A “nooner” or quickie was just not on her playlist. Mer had been continually full of good ideas, carnal and otherwise. His mind opened the way to hundreds of ways to get it on erotically. Some were, in fact, quite inventive. Knowing all this, she had still politely declined, “Sadly, I can’t this time.”

At that point, she thought she was being joined for a late dinner by Leo in their Ritz apartment. In fact, she had just texted him while she got dressed. And suggested they start with drinks first in the Le Meurice bar with Nigel. She wanted the two most important men in her life to meet.

On her way out of Cartier, the oldest board member stopped her. “Excusez moi,” followed by an enthusiastic Frenchie style kiss on both cheeks. She recognized him from the Cartier annual report. Françoise Bourdeau. Their chairman. He looked rather pleased with himself. He timed his arrival outside Mer’s office so well. “Might I have a word?” Predictably, in private was suggested. The Cartier board of directors comprised the usual wealthy older men. Many would be put on Lu’s preferred client list when she was ready to launch her own intimates line. Theirs was a world of a society acceptable wife and mistresses on the side from Lu’s set. This man’s eyes twinkled with ribald ideas as Lu’s cheeks flushed pink.

She was struck immediately by an idea. This man. His face and smile. She should draw him. He was the perfect image. The epitome of the Gentleman Caller. The name of her first Secrets gift set which included an exquisite ribbon thong and c**t stimulator creme. She could draw his face in her simplistic, bold black line style and put him on the “Gentleman Caller’’ gift box. He was perfect. She would draw him with his crooked smile and gaze out at the world with lewd thoughts clearly on his mind. And the sophistication to pull them off. She would try to capture that look when she got back to her apartment.

He still spoke. “May I escort you home?” His car was parked outside. A black Maybach with tinted windows sat idling at the curb. Her mind wandered. She could use “some” right about now. Clearly, he was a classic older man. Elegant. Polished. He looked like he knew what he wanted and how to get in there and do it. Her number one favorite thing in any man. Occasionally, some men did finally have to admit she was too over the top for them. All they did was stand around and drool. This man did not look that type. His personal card was tucked into her pocket.

At a different time? Maybe. This time, “No. We’ll speak soon, though. I promise.” And she actually meant it. Lu had learned not to burn any bridges. The time might come when she would say yes.

She did not want to waste anyone’s time. First, she would run the name past Nigel. To him, Paris was a small town. He knew everyone. “Françoise Bourdeau?” His comment was, “It might be wise to keep an eye on him, Lu.” Which was a top reference and green light in Nigel’s book.

After she left, Mer scrolled through the photos on his laptop. Time to make his selections for the prints. The impact of the colors was enormous. The whole series had a Garden of Eden vibe he hadn’t expected. Lu certainly looked like an abundant, ripe Eve. He liked it. He liked them all. When he came across the one which included the open mouth, tears twinkled in his eyes. A lump was in his throat. Again, this would provide an addition to his own private collection of erotic photography. And which would adorn the wall in his back office combination sanctuary. Right next to the black and white enlargement from Lu’s first photo session. “For My Eyes Only,” he called the set. Yes, indeed. He did love them all. Each one. They told his story exactly. Perfectly.

Mer’s long elegant c**k started to lengthen. He eased the zipper down and his hand began a knowledgeable fondle. Times with Lu on the third floor of her old mansion in San Francisco were vivid. The new photos stirred up memories. He had sung his own baritone aria of c*m, right along with her soprano. The only man who ever would. Their duet caused her gardener out back in the jardin to stop his work, stand still, and look up. It woke the Nob Hill parrots as they snoozed in her tall trees and sent them flapping off in search of a less noisy perch. And made a cat let out a horrific howl in the neighbor’s yard. Those were good times. Mer smiled. He daubed on lube and leaned back in his office chair, his hand gliding back and forth on his c**k. Rapidly, with his eyes shut. Then faster. He visualized a plunge into Lu’s warm pink hole. He was on the stairway to heaven.

In minutes, he stepped into his private loo, threw away the soiled tissues, and gave his hands a swish. Hung on these walls were framed black and white photographs from the infamous Possessions album of erotica. They had cost him a fortune. Their subject? Mr. and Mrs. Jack Stewart.

That reminded him. Their annual fete was in a couple of days. It was always held at their villa in the Bois de Boulogne. He usually went. They were good customers. He constantly pestered Lady Jane to pose as a model for Cartier’s Back Room intimate jewelry. She would be unimaginable. Rumor had it a second book was in the works. Eat. At the thought, he grew again. He would ask Jack to put him down as a preorder. He let out a satisfied sigh, turned off the light ,and headed for the door.

Tonight, he would reluctantly return home to his skinny model wife. Renee. A warm cunt she was not.