Start with part 1. This material is (a) for mature readers and (b) contains elements some readers may find disturbing.
His other fears about the position had been farther from the mark. True, it was quite hot here, but one acclimated. His quarters beside the river caught the breeze from the water, and the workers, being native, seemed to hold up well in the heat.
And certainly Paris was far away, but Marrakech had its own delights and it was only a dusty hour’s drive to that retreat. Alard had first met the young lady beside him only six months ago, on one of his visits to Marrakech. She was a lovely Berber flower, sixteen years old then, and shy around the few men of France who made their way into the dingy brasserie where she was serving.
He had smiled at her, and treated her gently. He could never be entirely sure if it was his respectable position or the presence of his security detail, but when he inquired as to her cooking and cleaning skills they parted with her easily enough. She had ridden in the back of the truck when he returned to the labor camp the next day.
He had made her bathe, of course, and instructed her in how he expected his house kept and what spices he liked and didn’t like in his food. He was especially clear regarding how she was to treat the officials who would come from time to time to check on his progress.
That night, he had given her her first wine. She had tried to refuse it, being musulman, and he had been forced to strike her once. She was not a stubborn girl and, after that, he had no further difficulties with her. He smiled and smoothed her hair tenderly as she sniffled and grimaced her way through first one glass, and then another. When her eyes had begun to lose focus, he took her to his bed.
She had cried a little, that first time, but he was more than twice her age and knew that this was normal. She would need time to learn the things that pleased him.
Six months later they were stretched out on the boards at the end of the scaffolding, high in the air, under a blazing field of stars, and he told her that she had made him very, very happy indeed. He buried his face in her hair, softly tasted her lips, and caressed the slight swelling of her belly that he had noticed only the night before.
With only the gentlest pressure — just enough to communicate his desire, and no more — he guided her face between his legs. While she took him in her mouth and did what she had become so very good at, he lay back and considered that he was really in no hurry to get back to Paris.
He savored every moment and made it last for as long as possible. She did as he had taught her, and stayed on him until his last shudder had quieted. When she sat up at last, it was with the grace that only the young retain after bending for so long.
He planted his foot below her breasts and shoved her backwards. She was gone before she’d finished wiping her mouth.
Afterward, he finished the wine and dropped the bottle into the diversion channel far below. He was vaguely disappointed that he couldn’t hear the glass shatter over the sound of the water pouring through the rocks. As he made his way back along the scaffolding, he was already planning his next trip to Marrakech.
One bottle of wine was not enough to prepare him to find her waiting for him in the truck.