This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don't read it.
Unfortunately no politicians or lawyers were injured or killed in the writing of this story, and no one else was either.
If you enjoyed it, then please Email me and tell me. If you hated it, Email me and lie.
I will always welcome contact.
AUTHOR'S HEALTH WARNING
Dear Reader,
Life can be a crock sometimes, so if it all right with you, I actually prefer happy endings. So, if you want the hero(ine) to have a really miserable time, READ SOMETHING ELSE.
But if you want to see good prevail, and end up with a soppy smile, then I have achieved what I set out to do.
Please enjoy.
Tanya
tanya_jaya@yahoo.co.uk
The legal stuff.

This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.

Monique

by Tayna J

Part 17.

The next morning, Saturday, I said goodbye to Nancy, and Chris took me to Langley. I was introduced to the back-up team of four, who would be my extra eyes and ears. Then I went off and returned looking like someone else.

I had grown nearly two inches in the last few months, and my figure was now trim, and at the same time a little fuller in the bust department. They had restyled my hair and changed it to a deep red, and one of the girls taught me how to use a different style of make up, that made me look very European.

They looked through my clothes, and as some of my dresses cost over $500, they decided that it would not really be appropriate for an exchange student to be seen wearing top labelled items. I went shopping, and returned with a distinctly down-market wardrobe. They did let me keep some of my own nicer clothes, but warned me against looking too fashionable.

I was allowed to call Alex. He had passed his board for the Army, and was now waiting a date for SandhurstMilitaryAcademy. I was very pleased for him. He wanted to spend a long time talking to me, as we hadn’t spoken to each other for ages. I still felt the same about him, and missed him dreadfully. So most of the conversation was 100% mush. Reluctantly, I had to end the call, and I promised to call him again soon.

I was supplied with a dog-eared French passport, and other documents, and taken by car to the airport. I was dressed in black jeans, boots with high heels, a black top, and a black leather jacket. I was wearing about seven rings, bangles and neck chains. I jingled as I walked. I even wore a little gold ankle chain - under the boots, I hasten to add. They allowed me to keep the shoulder bag that I had bought in Heathrow airport. The Glock was back, and was in my shoulder bag.

As the Air France plane taxied to stand, I was at the Immigration desk with a US entry Visa stamped in my French passport, and joined the passengers as they headed to the baggage hall. My case was already on the carousel, and I simply lifted it off and walked through Customs, and into the arrivals concourse.

I saw a man holding a sign, M.Vasselles, so I walked over to him.

“Bonjour, Je suis Monique Vasselles,” I said.

“Hey Honey, I don’t speak French, do you speak English?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Good. Is that all you have?”

“Pardon?”

“Just the one case, baggage?”

“Oh, baggage, yes, one only,” I said, enjoying the accent once more.

He was a very chatty man, and talked all the way to Baltimore. I hardly spoke, and he took great delight in pointing out all the places of interest on the way.

“Is this your first time to the States?”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“Do you like it?”

“I do not know, I have only been here a little while,” I said.

He nodded again.

“I was in France once,” he said.

“Oh, where?”

“Paris. The wife and I did Europe in a week.”

I smiled.

“It would be hard to do Paris in a week,” I said.

“Heck. We went to the Arc de Triumph, and the Loov, and up the EyefulTower. It was a swell day.”

I just smiled.

On arrival at the University, I was taken to meet the head of the department for overseas students, Mrs Halliday. She was a middle-aged lady, who thought she spoke French. There were six others, three German boys, a Spanish girl, and Dutch girl and a young man from Belfast.

We were given a welcome pack, in English, and then taken on a guided tour of the faculty. The three of us girls were taken to the female boarding house, and shown our rooms. They were small single rooms, but well appointed and the house was comfortable, and everyone was welcoming.

We were all here for the rest of the semester, and studying a variety of subjects. It was my first experience of American Young Female culture, and I found it quite an experience. It was very handy being ‘French’, as I could remain a little aloof, and blame the language barrier. I found the American girls very friendly, and some were over the top.

I had been given an impression that the Americans were not as worldly as they made out. This impression was reinforced when I met more Americans, as I found that many were actually very ignorant of the wider world and of Europe especially.

A couple of girls actually believed that people in France spoke English all the time, but with a French accent. They didn’t realise that French was a language in its own right.

Sunday was spent settling in, and I found myself making friends with Rachel, the Dutch girl. She was a small girl, with very fair short hair, and a pleasant round face. She was a little plump, and was very shy. Her English was quite good, and she and I either spoke in English or German.

I was lying on my bed, reading my welcome pack, when she came in and sat on my chair. I always left my door open, so I was aware of what was going on. There was an unwritten rule in the house that a closed door meant do not disturb.

“Hi Monique, have you not finished that yet?”

“It is written for Americans, I find the language strange,” I said.

She laughed.

“I find the Americans strange,” she said.

“Why?”

“They are different, I never know how to take them.”

“My papa told me they are like children, they like simple things. Simple food, simple entertainment and simple money,” I said, and she found that funny.

“Do you like it here?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Je ne sais pas. I do not know, it is too soon.”

“I find it different to how I thought. They are not really interested in anything outside America. Some do not even know where my country is.”

I smiled.

We chatted about life in general, and went and took a walk across to the student’s club. It was well into fall now, and the leaves were falling. I had still kept to my black leather look, and already had a few male heads turning my way.

The German boys were playing pool against some American boys. One of the Germans asked Rachel if she was okay.

Rachel blushed, and replied in German that she was.

“We were on the same flight, and I had an upset stomach,” she explained, still in German.

The Germans then realised that I spoke German, and they all introduced themselves to me. The one who had enquired after Rachel was called Werner, then there was Klaus and Herbert.

The American lads thought that Rachel and I were German too, and one made an unsubtle joke about Krauts.

He was a skinny boy, and with my high heels on, I looked down at him.

“Excuse me, m’sieur. My name ees Monique, and I am French, not a German, and neither ees zis girl, but please do not be insulting to my friends. It ees ignorant and very rude.”

He was very embarrassed, and his friends laughed at him.

“Way to go, Monique,” one of his friends said.

I just looked at him, and he grinned. He was a tall young man, short dark hair, and was wearing an American Football shirt. It fitted him too.

“I’m Wayne Edwards, the runt is Carl, and that there is Stevie Ross,” he said, and we shook hands. Carl was still embarrassed, and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Rachel and I watched the Americans beat the Germans, and we glanced at each other and smiled. There is a common European bond, as everyone likes to see the Germans lose, except the Germans.

“Hey do you guys fancy going out for a pizza or something?” Wayne suggested.

“All of us?” I asked.

“Sure, why not? We got two cars.”

“I don’t mind,” I said, and Rachel stuck with me. The Germans were torn, they wanted to stay together, and one wanted to come, but two were not keen, as they were expecting phone calls from home.

It ended up with just Rachel and I going in one car with the three American boys.

We went to a nearby mall, and to a vast area with about eight different food outlets. There was a Chinese, a Mexican, Pizza, Burgers, Indian, Super Subs, donuts and an ice cream shop. There was a huge arcade where the local kids were playing computer/video games. There was even an indoor crazy golf course.

I had some Tortillas, and Rachel went for a Chinese. The guys chomped their way through three of the largest Pizzas I had ever seen. After eating, Wayne challenged me to a game of golf, and I accepted. The others watched, and cheered and jeered as appropriate.

I had played Golf since I was about eight, and so knew enough to give him a good game.

By the tenth hole he realised this wasn’t going to be the walkover he expected, and he got rather serious. By the sixteenth, we were even and I realised that if he lost, his pride would be hurt. I smiled, as once I would have been like him, now, I just couldn’t care less.

I won the seventeenth, and I was about to win the last, but deliberately missed the putt so he could win and that meant a tie.

He grinned at me.

“You missed that on purpose,” he said.

I just smiled at him.

“Let me buy you a coke.”

“I’d prefer a beer,” I said, and he grinned again.

He took us to a bar on the way back to campus, and it was just like the set from Cheers on the TV.

We sat in a booth, and Wayne was about as close as he could get to me.

“So, Monique, where are you from?”

“Lille.”

“That’s in France, right?”

“Last time I looked.”

He laughed, and Rachel rolled her eyes.

“Have you a boyfriend waiting for you back in France?”

“No,” I replied, with perfect honesty.

“You do surprise me, a beautiful girl like you,.” he said.

“Thank you, but my boyfriend is in Scotland, not France.”

“Oh,” he said, his disappointment apparent.

“His name is Alex, and he wants to be a soldier.”

He nodded, and looked at my left hand. I still wore his ring with the funny blue stone.

“Serious then?”

I nodded.

“I guess so,” I said.

He grinned.

“Pity.”

“C’est la vie.”

“Huh?”

“That’s life.”

“Oh. I guess it is,” he said.

They dropped us off at the house, and made a lot of noise as they drove away, just to get themselves noticed. Rachel and I just walked in, and went up to my room. We got a few curious glances from the other girls, and a pretty blonde girl came to my room.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Stacey.”

“Hello. I’m Monique, and this is Rachel,” I said, and Rachel just smiled.

“That was pretty quick,” the newcomer said, with a smile.

“What?” I asked, frowning.

“The guys.Who picked up who?”

“We met them at the club, then went for a meal and a beer,” I said.

“You have a wonderful accent, where are you guys from?”

“I am from France, and Rachel is from the Netherlands,” I said.

“No shit? I heard you were coming. There is a Spanish girl here as well, somewhere.”

“Somewhere,” I agreed.

“I love your hair, is that your natural colour?” she asked me.

“No, I change it often,” I admitted.

“Cool.”

“I bet this girl doesn’t know where the Netherlands are,” Rachel said to me in German.

Stacey looked at her, and just grinned.

“Don’t bet your ass, sugar. My Daddy was stationed there for five years. I even speak German and a bit of Dutch,” she said, and Rachel blushed.

“I am sorry, but everyone else we have met are very ignorant of Europe,” Rachel said.

Stacey sat next to me on my bed.

“That’s because they are stupid yokels. They all think the world revolves around the good ol’ US of A,” Stacey said, not in the least bit offended.

She saw all my rings, and Alex’s in particular.

“Hey, that is a gorgeous stone. What is it?”

“I really do not know,” I said.

“I wish I had learned French, it is far more sexy than German,” she said.

“My boy friend, he gave me the ring,” I said.

“Cool! You know you have it on your wedding finger?”

“I know,” I said, and smiled.

“How did Wayne take it?” she asked.

“Not well,” I said, and grinned.

“Nah, he can’t bear competition. But you watch, he’ll try anyway. We are in the same year, and he was a pain in the ass in second year, until I got Brad to come down and just tell him a few facts of life.”

“Brad is your boy?”

“Yeah, he’s cute. He is in the Air Force.”

“My Alex is going to get a commission in the army,” I said.

“Alex, is he French too?”
“No, he is from Scotland.”

“Oh, I went out with a guy from Scotland. He was in the RAF in Germany, he was cute. Daddy didn’t approve, he wasn’t an officer.”

“Ah, your Daddy, he is still in the Air Force?”

“Yeah, but he is based in DC now, at the Pentagon. How about your Dad?”

“My Dad is dead,” I said.

“My Dad is a lawyer,” Rachel said, and I sat back. She was quite shy, and I didn’t want to have to talk about myself too much. But the ice was broken, and the three of us chatted away for ages. Stacey wanted to see our clothes, and then she showed us hers.

“I really love the way you dress in Europe. You can dress down, and still look chic. Take you, Monique, jeans and a black top, but an American girl would wear sneakers, not those sexy boots, and the jacket, it is so cool.”

“You look great too,” I said. She had a nice pair of trousers and a baggy sweater.

“Yeah, these I bought in Hamburg, and have you ever noticed that girls here either look like Barbie, or a destitute street child?” she said.

Eventually, we all went to bed, and I knew that my job would start in earnest on the following day.

since 08/16/04