Angelic Beauty Page 2

  “Would ya watch where ya walkin’ mate!” Malachi’s heated breath enflamed Antaeus.

  “Who are you, and where do you fit in?” Antaeus asked sharply.

  “I’m Angea-Lea’s dinner guest,” Malachi answered razor sharply.

  “Is that so. Well save your sweet baby’s breath to blow out your fiery Bouillabaisse before it burns your already over-heated forked tongue.”

  Angea-Lea rubbed her paining ankle and promptly piped the point, “I do not remember inviting you to dine with us this evening.”

  “Remember honey, ya owe me one,” he loosened his tight tie to attract her attention.

  She looked towards him with a questionable look on her startled face. His reminder assisted in helping her recall the centrepiece for the dinner table and handed the willow basket to her mother. Thankfully all of the flowers were still intact.

  Junré thanked her daughter with a kiss and finally got around to asking her what that big Aussie Brute did to her petite teen as she placed the flower arrangement on the table.

  Angea-Lea explained that it was all just an accident and not to take it to heart.

  Malachi gave her a wink and a cheeky grin.

  “You may take your place at the dining table Malachi, beside Angea-Lea’s chair. I hope you will enjoy what is on the menu.” Junré dragged the padded pine chair away from the edge of the table.

  Malachi seated himself and dragged the chair under him.

  “Ouch, ooh, ugh, the pain is a strain.”

  “Stop your complaining Angea-Lea your ankle is only sprained, hobble over to the table yourself. The less you rely on males to assist you, the better,” Antaeus admonished in a totally thoughtless style.

  Grimacing, she dragged her swollen ankle with all the courage of a wounded Ibex across the polished wooden floor to the calf-skin seat.

  An entrée of black mussels poached in vin blanc were placed on a bed of saffron rice and served in little french porcelain spring narcissus decorated baskets. A mixed grill of barbecued escargot flesh (extracted from the shell) and deep sea scallops plus fresh eschalot were accompanied with a side platter of mediterranean roasted aubergine and capsicum.

  “Here drizzle some of this mouth-watering sauce over your escargot, it will enhance its delicate flavour. Try it, it is extremely subtle,” suggested Junré in her usual lively tone, sliding the bottled sauce and three types of flavoured soft cheeses on a little wooden platter towards the Australian.

  He gulped down his main meal then nibbled on pieces of cheese.

  “The cheeses are a welcome addition to a very tasty meal. Many thanks Mrs. Siffleur,” belched Malachi smiling so widely that the whites of his eyes were no longer visible.

  “Because of the internal heating summer dishes like these can also be consumed in the middle of winter,” Junré acknowledged. “Wonders of a modern age.”

  “Terrific, Mrs S,” Malachi said brushing the crumbs away from his mouth with the end of his tie.

  Antaeus made his way towards the dark store room behind the kitchen that doubled as a wine cellar. It was his official job to select the after dinner alcoholic beverage. Tonight, he chose the international all popular Peruvian Royale made from the bark of the medicinal Cinchona tree.

  The exotic wine, buried in chipped ice, took very little time to chill. Malachi hoisted his silver goblet for a double guzzle, uplifting all in song with Waltzing Matilda the best bush poem ever to emerge from Australia. With one last toast he chanted a psalm, all his own, a valediction for visitors to the Great Southern Land: “Bag the quintessence of ye ol’ Aussie woodland, a cropbearing paradise where frisky fairies frolic from sunset to sunrise inspiring spritely souls to hum Waltzing Matilda. I feel like a member of the Royal Family. I can’t recall ever having been entertained to this degree,” Malachi was full of praise as they all settled themselves amidst the sheltered terraced gardens at the rear of the unit.

  “It is you who entertained us,” said Antaeus. “Australia sounds like a peaceful wonderland to escape to.”

  “It certainly is.”

  The chilling bite in the air had eased. The snow ceased to fall.

  “Red meat and poultry are never on the menu in my house, let alone kangaroo or emu meat,” Malachi sternly mentioned.

  “Oh, why is that?” Angea-Lea asked with intent.

  “I feel sorry for defenseless animals, yet eating out of the sea doesn’t affect me that much. I may as well spill the navy beans – I’m a vegetarian veterinarian who absolutely loathes being referred to as Doctor. It’s far too professional, if I make one tiny slip-up the whole world shoves their tight-butted opinions in my face via the newspapers and the nightly network news.

  “It is a good thing we served a fish dish tonight then,” Junré told him happily.

  “Do you like to grow herbaceous edible plants in your country?” Antaeus questioned, cleaning his monocle and placing it back in his top pocket.

  “Yes, I certainly do, particularly parsley.”

  “Why that particular herb?” asked Antaeus.

  “I planted a plantation of parsley, it gives me strength and keeps my rod of iron in good repair. It keeps me hard and makes me fast,” he explained without shame. “Live your life and live it lively, that’s my motto.”

  Antaeus and his wife shuffled about nervously on the garden benchseat. Angea-Lea stared in amazement and uttered abrasively, “So that is your secret. That is what keeps you in constant flight.”

  Feeling somewhat sure of himself, Malachi nodded his head and answered, “You betcha.”

  Antaeus almost choked on the tension in his throat, but decided to overlook Malachi’s endeavourous attempts towards manliness.

  “I must be heading back to my apartment.”

  “Where are you staying?” Angea-Lea asked spritely, that lecturing look on her father’s face, she ignored totally, igniting a look of self-learning on hers.

  “At The River Gallery, the new floating set of apartments on the Seine River over the little arched bridge off Chantelle Boulevarde,” Malachi studied the nuances of her behaviour, sensing strongly that she was to ‘do one’s best’ under strict probation, to observe the rules of the one who rules the roost, it had been that way for him when he was growing up. Judging by his ruthless comment one would find it hard to believe and the changing look on Angea-Lea’s dial did not support the ‘don’t entice just to be nice’ look Antaeus tried with all his might to enforce.

  “We shall chauffeur you home in my Bugatti,” Antaeus offered.

  “Excellent!” Malachi uttered his goodbyes to Junré thanking her once again for the feast and headed for the garage with Antaeus and Angea-Lea. The nylon car cover was slipped off to reveal a nineteen-ten Berline Bugatti in two-toned yellow, the combination of colours commonly known as butter and eggs. The engine was cranked before all climbed into the vehicle. The streets were quiet but the occupants were not.

  “In the very same year this car was created to completion, it had been displayed for the very first time at the Paris Automobile Show,” Antaeus proudly announced.

  Malachi turned his head and glared at Antaeus in shocked disbelief. “Was this the very same model personally used by the famous Bugatti family?”

  Antaeus took a clean handkerchief from out of his coat pocket and wiped the condensation off the inside of the windscreen and responded readily to the burning question, “My father bought it from Ettore himself in nineteen-twelve, Ettore had built it for his own personal pleasure, that is correct.”

  The four-seater limousine chugged along at a speed of thirty-four miles per hour. The multi-coloured neon sign outside the entrance to the apartment complex flashed in fancy script: The River Gallery. Once over the bridge, they drove down the lamp-lit laneway and parked near the garden courtyard close to the entrance of the floating set of apartments.

  “Would you both like to come inside for a nightcap?” Malachi invited joyously. They accepted the offer and entered the lift to the three-bedroo
m apartment on the top level.

  Malachi keyed in the security number, the door opened automatically, the heating system he turned on, they stepped inside the warm, cosy interior. He headed straight for the wet bar and poured two glasses of Australia’s best Shiraz – 1997 Seaview Mclaren Vale red wine.

  “Did you purchase this at the International Liquor Fest?” Antaeus asked, inspecting the label on the bottle.

  “Yeah, couldn’t resist, it’s an old favourite of mine, been drinkin’ it for a year now. I’ll just wiz up a café-latté for your daughter.” Malachi splashed the snowy white and busty milk over the espresso, two inches of steamy creamy froth cropped the top like a crocheted beret. He handed it to Angea-Lea, she took her first sip then whispered sexily with a sweet smile, “I adore the way the velvety milk lies partly hidden underneath the protected veil of lacy froth.”

  The handicraftsman took a bow, his rule of measure lenthening to immeasurable proportions and behind her father’s back she peeked then blew him a kiss, he discreetly blew and blew and blew in return. He raced to the kitchen as fast as his propeller would propel him to retrieve one dozen ricotta cheese balls from the frigidaire to reheat in the microwave. He then placed them in a neat mound on an embossed sterling silver platter and rested it on the coffee table.

  Antaeus carried the filled wine glasses over and handed one to Malachi. After Antaeus sampled the fermented grapejuice he proceeded to describe what he’d tasted not noticing Malachi’s enormous erection begging to be set free.

  “The bubbly red-berry flavour lingers like the bespangled reflection of a moonlit harvest beyond the fall of a fiery sunset. Whereabouts in your country does it originate from?”

  Malachi proudly answered, “It is produced in the Mclaren Vale region, south of Adelaide in South Australia. Pretty description, its pong alone will take you there.”

  Antaeus nodded his head slowly and studied Malachi’s face. “Pong?” shot the question.

  The dry Aussie had left the refreshing old fella completely bamboozled with his odd lingo and he finally projected the answer – “fragrance.”

  Bubbles rose and burst forth in a belch from the windpipe of the formidable Frenchman as a fragment of time was lost in translation. As Antaeus rose to a standing position, his creaking backbone turned him temperamental.

  “What is the alcohol level in this drop, may I ask, Malachi?” he asked in a cranky voice. The sad truth behind possible cuptragic downfall in the bedroom scene lay ahead.

  “Thirteen point five percent,” came the tragic truth that hurt the most.

  Three glasses disappeared down the neck of Antaeus, it was a risk he was willing to take. His eyes became watery and bloodshot almost immediately. “Well if I can’t get it up naturally your wine shall have me dreaming of semi-naked high-kicking girls tonight, they will bring it up, but when I awake O! Oh! nightmares when I see my wife with a mudpack on, it may never rise again,” whined Antaeus.

  “Father must you insult Mother like that?” Angea-Lea asked him.

  They ate their way through the now, lukewarm ricotta balls, Angea-Lea rolling each one around in her drippy mouth, suckling madly as she eyed off Malachi’s balls secretly wondering what they contained, before noisily chewing them until they dissolved to nought. Fifteen disappeared in twenty minutes.

  Meanwhile…her father had completely nodded off in the corner of the lounge room.

  The outstanding features of the new residential floating masterpiece Malachi had been renting were featured in a glossy brochure of which Angea-Lea had picked up from the coffee table sliding her sweet little fingers over its slippery surface as her clitty throbbed to the beat of Malachi’s heartbeat.

  In a swift second she had crawled on to his lap like an excited toddler, she could feel a slimy substance ooozzz through her lacy panties onto his covered crotch. He gently tugged on her plump little earlobes then sucked on them, Antaeus snoozing loudly in the corner, Malachi’s hornbag and cocky plumpin’ up somethin’ shockin’. Pretty soon she was doin’ a spready-legged handstand with her palms gripping his upper thigh fronts as his bulky body sat bolt upright on the firm couch, her pleated skirt bunching to her babe-shaped waist, his eyes of fire poppin’ at her steamy plump puddin’ behind her see-through knickys, her perspiring flaps bulging either side of her gooey gusset he smooched sloppily, awakening her Pa from his powerful dream of clit-lickin’ and flap fondlin’ nudies and rudies all his own. The nudies – the chicks, the rudies – the chappy ol’ chaps at the bi-sissy bar. Luckily for Mal and Angea-Lea they managed to regain a decent position beside each other in a quick tic of the bodyclock. He could see Antaeus was struggling to get it up and it seemed nothing in the world could bring his down. He covered the wet patch with his large cupped hand and discreetly crossed his legs to hide the huge bulge, Angea-Lea quick-thinkingly passing him the brochure to cover both, of which he was immensely proud of and licked the slippery saliva from his slightly parted full lips.

  Antaeus swept away the sleepy dust from his tired eyes with the tips of his fingers.

  Malachi’s face redened a pinch due to feelings of guilt he quickly harboured over the cheeky stunt.

  “I’m thinking of purchasing this very apartment, they want four hundred thousand Aussie dollars outa me for it. You’d think it was built with ruddy gold at that price.”

  With a look of sensitivity on his handsome clean shaven face he watched as Angea-Lea let loose her hair from its clip of golden mesh and undid the top button on her double breasted floral over-coat with a look of polished ease saying, “I guess it is the panoramic on-water position against the city skyline that pushes up the price. You desire alfresco on-water living at its best you pay for alfresco on-water living at its best.” The comment she threw him was a tad unsympathetic yet somewhat realistic, Malachi felt.

  She walked across the plush peach coloured carpet to the glass doors and swished open the vertical blind and looked adoringly out over the waterside pool area and the bright lights beyond echoeing, “Also it is situated in the heart of Paris, you are just minutes from the Centro Business District, that too affects the cost Malachi.” She blew him a discreet kiss from her soft palm, he returned the signal of passion.

  “That is so true Angel Baby,” agreed Malachi. “The settlement date is July, two thousand.”

  Back and forth, back and forth paced Antaeus, calculating with intense precision, “It is not much time – six mois, but, I am sure you shall make it,” Antaeus finalized. “We had better be on our way and let you rest Malachi.”

  “Enjoy a deep, restful quality sleep on your King-size Chateau Ensemble your Royal Highness,” Angea-Lea buzzed tenderly then downed her coffee.

  “Thankyou little Angel Baby I shall have the highest quality sleep on my scientifically designed pocketed coil double decker, Miss Beautyrest. You’ll be in my heavenly dreams tonight,” he gave her a look of heavenly love as he eyed for a briefless moment her stunningly beautiful plump breasts shaking and shivering as he sealed the night with his tender kiss whilst her father was temporarily occupied in the little men’s room.

  Soon Antaeus was by his daughter’s side at the doorway, jumping slightly at the deep sound of Malachi’s sexy voice, “Merci, bye-bye, sleep well both of ya,” he peered once more into Angea-Lea’s twinkling eyes, his gem of a smile sparkling between two gorgeous dimples, tugging her heart nearer and yet nearer to his enflamed heart.

  Leaving Malachi in his ideal location they thanked him for the creamy coffee and the potent nightcap and motored through the prestigious precinct toward home.

  Angea-Lea doing a headstand on Malachi’s lap

  Chapter Two

  The River Gallery floating apartment tower was the latest award winning Joël Noëlle masterpiece, incorporating twelve, two and three bedroom apartments. Malachi’s had three bedrooms.

  He shuffled into the luxury vogue-style bathroom, the internal heating unit making him feel like a trapped victim in The Towering Inferno. Fresh air w
as just what he needed. His viking-like body dripped with manly sweat. Pushing open the vista view french window with his brawny tawny hand, he immediately breathed in the fresh scent of the Winter Rose Blossom Creeper. It boasted a delicate fragrance similar to warmed custard and had spread its winged shaped magenta flowers over a tall and wide jagged wall that separated his apartment from the one next door, the magnificent cascade screening off the bathing quarters.

  Malachi was born of a tough breed of farming giants. His father and grandfather before him owned a dairy farm in a place called Samford on the outskirts of the Australian city of Brisbane. It was the ice-cold winters that had toughened him, the early mornings of winter, when he was dragged out of his warm cosy bed, to face a three hour working bee, washing out the milking shed along with various other preparatory activities for a day’s milking.

  Aaron Castle’s only son was educated at home on a practical level during his primary school years. It was the best for the best, his father would say, having private tutors equipped him for higher education and good hard honest work built a strong character.

  The sky-blue toned fibreglass spa was filled with tepid water, a few drops of aromatic oil of spearmint was drizzled under the running liquid, the air outside suddenly stood very still, the refreshing mint scent tantalised him.

  If only Angea-Lea could join him, nothing would go to waste, he pondered, looking at his hungry member.

  He emptied his pockets and placed the contents into the bottom drawer of the chest beside his bed. In one corner of the bedroom stood a coat and hat stand made of brass. He took off his suede jacket and hung it on one of the hooks, undid his baby-blue tight weaved tie and slipped it from around his thick neck and hung it on the next hook along.

  He retraced his steps back into the bathroom, lit three candles and turned out the light. Unbuttoning his deep pinkish-red long sleeved checkered flannelette shirt he slipped it off and threw it carelessly over the padded floral cotton laundry basket and slipped off his white under-shirt. He unzipped the fly of his white wool blended cargo pants and they dropped to the floor. The mirror didn’t lie –‘look at you!’, it said, ‘aren’t you a dreamboat!’ It was not a habit of his to wear underbriefs in any season, as nothing annoyed him more than creepy, clingy elastic riding up his crack. It was, in the past, an embarrassing lesson, sensing high-class women sneering and jeering at what they termed uncouth activity, as they spied on him from a distance tugging on his bulging undergear. “I fill my pants nicely,” he was heard muttering under his breath to himself.