The Queen's Boudoir, memoirs of a Lightworker (Book 2 of the Queen's Saga)

By Paula Liebe

In Book 2 of The Queen's Trilogy Paula Liebe describes how she travels back to Holland from her Mexican adventure, determined to find that big investor for the ecological and spiritual community she passionately wants to be part of. She imagines herself an intelligent courtesan of the 20th century and starts to work as a high-class escort, entertaining ambassadors and bank directors. Paula is convinced that the intriguing journey through this dangerous and erotic world will eventually lead her back to the Mayan mysteries in Mexico. At the same time Paula is very conscious of the fact that this sensual and sexual experience will uncover the darkest passage of her childhood abuse.

To further heal the wounds of her abuse Paula decides to continue her studies with the sacred plant medicine Ayahuasca and she travels back to the jungles of the Amazon, but instead of Brazil she is guided towards Peru. There she finds a female shaman with whom she strongly connects. Finally it looks like she is able to create a spiritual center and connect with the love of her life she's desperately looking for.

With a raw, sexy and humorous style Paula Liebe describes her life that reads like a sensual, spiritual and adventurous novel, but is in fact a true story.

The multi talented and free spirited Paula takes you on a fun and exciting rollercoaster of a read. She tells you the naked truth: sexy and powerful. She brings you to exotic countries where she reveals an amazing intellect, disclosing the true origins of the human race and a great diversity of cultural and esoteric subjects. She's a philosopher, a survivor, an enigma and a Woman of the World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paula Liebe
• Release date: Apr 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301880409

Paula Liebe

Paula Liebe (1965) was born and raised in Holland. The Queen's Trilogy is her first published work. She lives happily in Playa del Carmen, Mexico with her husband and their dog. She currently dedicates herself to teaching yoga and performing with her '30s style Cabaret show.

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART 1

1st PROLOGUE

1. FIRST ASSIGNMENT

2. NEXT

3. BUSINESS AS USUAL

4. TELLING MOM

5. PRETTY WOMAN

6. A VERY FAMOUS BROTHEL

7. SOMETHING IN COMMON

8. SALSA MUSIC

9. A FALLING STAR

10. BEDROOM CURTAINS

11. ANGEL GABRIEL

12. DINNER AT THE EMBASSY

13. A YOUNG DRAGON PAYS DOUBLE ATTENTION

14. HAPPINESS INSTEAD OF PLEASURE

15. IN LOVE

16. ANGEL IN DISGUISE

17. GOD SEND CREATURE

18. THE CONTRACT

19. I BET MISTER GOD WILL LET YOU INTO HEAVEN FOR THIS

20. TIGGER AND EASTER EGGS

21. TELLING DAD

PART 2

2nd PROLOGUE

1. MY 40th BIRTHDAY

2. ONE LOVER ONLY

3. DIFFERENT WAVELENGTH

4. AYAHUASCA SAVIOR

5. TARZANA IN PERU

6. A DREAM SHATTERED

7. A DISTURBING LETTER

8. MISSION IMPOSSIBLE

9. THE CHICKEN AND THE EGG

10. WASTING MY TIME

11. GET YOU ASS OVER HERE

12. A BIG WORKSHOP COMING UP

13. A WOMAN IN A SHAMAN’S BODY

14. THE ENERGY OF MARY AND JESUS

15. LETTER TO NORMA

16. ANOTHER YEAR, ANOTHER CHANCE

PART 1

1st prologue

Oh, oh my God, ohhh… he groaned heavily into my ear and immediately I felt the rhythmical gushes of warm sperm spread between my thighs. Within a few minutes he left my room without saying a word. I felt alone, disgusted and completely humiliated.

After a while, when I was convinced he had fallen asleep in his downstairs bedroom, I tiptoed down the stairs to the bathroom and stepped under the shower to wash of the sticky cum from my belly and my legs.

My father’s nightly visits had become less and less frequent, almost to a level of non-existence. Maybe because I had forcefully pushed him from me one night, loudly articulating that I didn’t want this anymore. At least he had stopped the kissing, relieving me of the foul odor of his moustache.

I never could remember exactly when he started his sexual acts with me. From a certain time period there were clear memories, but the sexual performance was in such an advanced stage, almost like a consensual act, that it appeared we had been doing it for a while. I could vividly remember the small apartment we occupied. My mother had lived there before, but she had moved to the French Riviera with her brother. In one room my brother and sister were sleeping and my father and I were watching television on a mattress on the floor in the other room. We watched an episode of Sergeant Pepper with Angie Dickinson, who played an undercover agent in a jail and where she got attacked with a pair of scissors.

During those intimate moments he was nice and considerate and treated me like a adult. He gave me attention. I felt special. We kissed like real grown ups and with his saliva he wet my young hairless lips. Then he placed his big, hard penis against the labia of my small pussy and then he started to ride me. Naturally my clitoris was stimulated and I would automatically experience an orgasm from the friction. He never tried to penetrate me. I was not quite ten years old.

I remember my age, because during the summer of that year we visited the French nudist island of Ile du Levant. It was the best vacation I had ever had as a child. Our father was consumed with the construction of his new restaurant Bajazzo, so we spent a fearless six weeks running around buck naked with lots of other kids, playing and swimming. We saw our mom every single day as well as our favorite grandma, who played the role of our nanny. This was total paradise for us.

In August of that memorable summer, the community of the island held a beauty pageant and my mother had decided to enter. She was only twenty-seven years old, sweet and good-looking. I remember clearly that I hungered to be there on that stage. I was convinced that many men would go crazy for me, realizing at the same time I was only ten years old and that it was strange for such a young age to feel such strong seductive emotions.

Because I was convinced that my father had never penetrated me and because his visits finally stopped around the age of fourteen I never took his abuse seriously. I had thought to myself that it wasn’t that bad. It could have been much worse. I had read true horror stories. My experience meant nothing compared to theirs. I was actually lucky.

There was only one solution to erase the imprint of that sick sexual exploitation by the man I hated and despised with all my being: making love to a beautiful man, a real man. With a few boys at my high school I had tried some French kissing and they had fumbled innocently with my breasts, but that just wouldn’t do the trick for me.

I was young, my world was small, but my imagination was big and I was fully determined. During the daily walks with our two dogs, my sister, my brother and I passed the busiest and trendiest bar on our street, called Café 2005. My father had the most successful restaurant on the same street, called Charcoal and from what we understood the most original in the whole country.

A young man was working at Cafe 2005, whom I perceived as one of the most handsome men I had ever known. He was very tall, had a head full of big blond curls and the most beautiful blue eyes in which I could simply drown whenever he looked at me. Sweet and sexy twinkles appeared in his eyes when he smiled. I think I must have admired him for many years, but why would he notice a pre-pubescent girl when he looked like a rock star and was always surrounded by beautiful women?

In due time, little girls do grow up and he did start to notice me. I was ripe for sex. I fantasized about sex and I fantasized about making love to him. Nevertheless, I was considered much too young for adult affairs. My father wouldn’t even allow me to have a boyfriend. This was going to be difficult and I needed all my creativity and a lot of patience to make my plan work.

My mother and her husband often had a drink at the bar he worked at and at last a time arrived when I was allowed to join them and have a cup of tea or a soda. Immediately I took the opportunity to carefully start some small talk with this, in my young teenage eyes, godlike man. It wasn’t often I had the opportunity to actually hang around the bar and start a conversation, but I was a few steps closer to my goal.

His name was Honza. He had a funny accent because he came from the Czech Republic, the country he had fled from ten years before. The Russian invasion was the reason for his illegal departure. He was not only the sexiest god I had ever seen, he was also the most heroic man I knew in my small world. In addition I found out he was married, which made things more complicated.

Weeks, months and years went by. Whenever I walked by the bar, I scanned the front window to see if he was working and whenever our eyes met, I looked into these blue dreams with the deepest longing for his touch. Eventually he noticed.

One late summer afternoon, when I had just walked into the Denneweg heading home from my ballet class, I saw him leaning against the façade of the bar, relaxed, sexy and clearly interested in talking with me. As I walked towards his tall stature, in what seemed like an eternity, he looked straight into my eyes with a warm and sexy smile. I didn’t feel nervous, but rather, I felt a sense of excitement. Finally there seemed to appear some progress in my plan.

Hi! he started self-assured.

Hi, I responded a little uncertain, slowing down my pace.

Those eyes, that sexy smile and that beautiful deep masculine voice.

Where you’ve been? he asked with a special tone in his voice, a quality that made you stop walking and want to answer his question.

I just came from ballet class. Peter Leonev is my teacher.

Pfff, a Russian, Honza grunted.

Actually, he’s not really such a nice man, I apologized. He’s very serious and very strict and he never smiles.

A day not lived is the day that you haven’t smiled! he spoke with his beautiful deep laugh.

So, I… I had no idea what to say.

Where are you going? Home? He was a professional at keeping the conversation going.

Yes. But first I need to pick up some publicity material from the drugstore further down the street. I do my rounds in the neighborhood to make some extra pocket money. And sometimes I wash cars.

Your father doesn’t give you any pocket money?

Pfff… I grunted in exactly the same way. If I would have gotten a dime for every single one of my father’s shirts I have ironed in my life, I would be a rich girl. Well, a little richer, I tried to joke.

So you like to iron?

I’m good at it, let’s put it that way. You first do the collar and then the arms and then the larger parts, because if you do them the other way around, you wrinkle the large parts again when you fumble with the collar. Those American shirts, you know that fabric wrinkles easily, I seriously explained.

He looked amused. My wife used to iron my shirts.

Not anymore?

Not since we got divorced

I’m sorry to hear that, I said, hoping he wouldn’t detect a sense of relief in my voice.

Don’t be. We’re still good friends and we will always be. It was time. I’m very much enjoying my freedom, but there is one thing I really don’t like about my freedom.

And that is?

Ironing my shirts. I hate ironing.

I came up with an idea. It was now or never. Well, you know… I started casually, maybe I can iron some of your shirts and in that way I can make some extra pocket money. I honestly don’t charge much, I ended with a serious tone.

We quickly agreed on a price per shirt. We picked a day and time in the afternoon in the upcoming week. I would visit his place to do some household chores. He told me the address, which turned out to be only two blocks from my house. I had no idea how to pull this off at home, because I had no free time. It was school, walking the dogs, ballet classes, chores for pocket money and the rest of the time I was home. Everybody always knew were you were, were you were going and when you were coming back. A ‘tour de force’ this would be.

The following Friday evening I spent the night at my mother’s apartment. My brother, sister and I were all individually allowed to sleep one evening a week at my mother’s. My mother and her husband both worked the evenings in restaurants, so in the mornings they slept in late. I was wide-awake as soon as daylight dawned. All I could think of was Honza. I thought of his laugh, his voice, his eyes, his beautiful hands and the intense desire to be in his strong arms and make love to him.

Suddenly I had a brilliant idea. My mother probably wouldn’t wake up before ten o’clock, so I could take advantage of those hours when nobody knew where I was. I would say that I went to the beach for a walk, even though it was cloudy and a little chilly. I needed to think. I figured she would buy my story. I wanted to get some croissants, so I waited until eight o’clock before I left the house. Half an hour later I pressed the doorbell just a little too long, holding a bag with two fresh croissants in my other hand.

I wasn’t sure if he really was that happy to see me at this unexpected hour. He seemed a little foggy and grumpy. In my young world I had never experienced a hang over or too little sleep from a long night of partying. I couldn’t relate and barely seemed to notice his physical discomfort.

Let me take a quick shower to wake up alright? he said, still friendly as always.

While I heard the sounds of a running shower, I noticed the romantic loft. The coffee table was covered with ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and a few half empty glasses with some gold colored liquid. I also saw a little antique box filled with hashish and some large rolling papers. Those specific items I recognized from my mother’s apartment, although my mother was very discreet about her use and wouldn’t leave them lying around. The ironing board was standing in the middle of the room, the iron clearly missing. Small stairs led to the upper part of the loft where I could see a large bed. I placed the bag of croissants on the ironing board and I walked up the stairs towards the bed. I took off all my clothes and lay down on the mattress completely naked, impatiently waiting for him to find me. I had nothing to lose.

His surprised look at this unexpected and bold action of mine quickly turned into an admiring one, his eyes following the curves of my young body. I noticed a moment of hesitation.

How old are you really, my little Paula?

Seventeen, I lied with a determined voice.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently started caressing me. He caressed my hair, my face, my breasts and my belly, all the while looking at me as if I was the most precious thing he had ever seen in his entire life. He started to kiss me, first softly and soon with more urgency. His kissing was delicious and I could feel his lips forever on mine, but he pulled himself away from my mouth. Covering me with little kisses, he slowly moved his face from my breasts down towards my belly until he landed his tongue between the little auburn colored curls, finding his way towards the soft flesh of my lips. I thought I was in heaven. Nobody had ever touched me that way. I had no idea this was possible.

He continued to lick me and suck me, once in while looking up to watch my face that was lost in pleasure. When I did look up, I saw his mouth shining from my juices and when I noticed his smile, I was convinced he was in heaven too. He continued until I had the most intense orgasm and for a moment I forgot where I was.

After a while I heard Honza’s warm voice. Is this the first time a man has touched you?

Yes, the very first time, I lied.

Then we have much more to explore.

Yes, we do.

Again we started to kiss, more passionately this time, our bodies entwined in a sensual dance, his hard penis finding his way between my lips. For a while we rode each other, enjoying the rhythmic friction of his penis against my clitoris. Then he carefully started to enter my vagina, the round tip of his penis barely covered. I suddenly jerked back.

No! I said firm. That, I don’t want.

He was so big. It would hurt.

Don’t worry, it’s okay, he whispered reassuringly. Sweetheart, nothing will happen. Nothing that you do not want.

We continued, me on top this time. This felt like making love, this was the way it was supposed to be and soon I had another orgasm. I moaned ever so softly.

Of course my mother didn’t buy the stormy weather beach story. A few more times we saw each other secretly, but we had to admit that we found ourselves in the most impossible situation. I was too young for him. He was too old for me. My father was too dangerous for both of us. He probably would have killed him if he had ever found out.

As a young teenage girl, I once had displayed my femininity a little too much to his liking. He threatened me with the same fate that pretty Jewish girls had in the camps of the Second World War. Between his rows of books I had found a book, a diary of a young beautiful Jewish girl from Poland who was forced into sex slavery in the Nazi camps. She wrote in detail. Yeah dad, lesson learned.

CHAPTER 1.

FIRST ASSIGNMENT

Swiftly I stepped into the idling black car and the young driver told me reassuringly it would take around fifty minutes to reach our destination. I had no desire to chat with Raymond, because I hardly knew this blond chap. More importantly, I wanted to prepare myself mentally and emotionally for the task at hand. I didn’t feel any nervousness, but I did feel a sense of excitement and anticipation for this first assignment in my new career.

Comfortably I positioned myself in the back seat and promptly the black car accelerated towards the highway. Some vaguely familiar pop songs filled the car. As soft orange and purple hues of a typically Dutch early summer sun beautifully colored the landscape rushing by me, my mind wandered back to what led me to the situation I found myself in at this very precise moment.

After living a fulfilling season in the magical Mayan Riviera, I had recently returned to Holland to refuel as well as to find an investor for the ecological jungle village ‘Pueblo Sacbe’. Eventually I would return to the place I felt at home, Playa del Carmen. There was no doubt of this. When and how this return would unfold I would leave to the exquisite mastery of the Universe.

Omar, my mother’s ex-husband, had generously offered me his home while he moved to my mother’s apartment. They were a picture perfect example of a divorce that had ended well. Through the windows I could see the elderly home across the street where my grandmother was residing. She had moved there four years ago when she couldn’t take care of herself anymore. She very much enjoyed the group activities, as she was a very social person. She even had found some romance. Her health was now deteriorating rapidly and she was now permanently held at the medical ward of the elderly home. She had taken me in her home when I ran away from an abusive father at the age of sixteen. She had taken very good care of me while I finished my school and even after those years she was always an enormous emotional support for me. At times she was my only confidant. Now it was my time to take care of her.

There was no defined illness that barely allowed her to move, let alone speak. It was simply the final stages of an eighty nine year old body that had lived a full and rich life. The moment I entered the room her wrinkled face would light up with a frail smile, grateful for my presence and my loving care. Since she could hardly move she needed to be fed. The nurses had little time for these tasks, only giving her a few spoons when they delivered her meals. She was a dedicated vegetarian, but the food she was offered did not include any protein replacements, so it wasn’t any wonder that my grandmother was practically wasting away. Immediately I took a trip to the health food store and stocked up with some protein filled and easy to swallow items. I also bought her a small portable radio/cd player, so my omi could enjoy her favorite classical music. Twice a day I would visit her, kiss her sweet little face, massage her purple brown legs, feed her and tell her about my Mayan adventures. Weeks went by until one Sunday morning she quietly left her body. She had waited for the moment neither my mother nor myself were present in order for her to be alone with her mother who was waiting to welcome her into the heavenly realms.

Unlike my younger brother’s memorial service seven years before, my grandmother’s funeral was almost a happy one. My mother and I worked closely together on the preparations for her cremation, never once shedding a tear, but lovingly working side by side. My mother created a beautiful corpse shroud with the ivory colored lace of my great grandmothers wedding dress.

It was a warm and sunny spring morning when the invited family members and close friends started to arrive in the hall where the silhouette of my beloved grand mother lay under the subtly formed piece of fabric. Everybody was dressed in white as we had requested. Her daughter danced a performance from ‘Giselle’, her great granddaughter Kimmy recited a poem and her favorite gay couple sang a song from a musical accompanied by piano and saxophone. Before everybody would have the opportunity to bid their final farewells I completed the ceremony with a guided meditation dedicated to the vivid remembrance of a flamboyant and creative soul who believed in God and the good things in life.

After the ceremony we moved outside. The agreeable temperature and a bright sun pulled us towards the beach where our oddly dressed group of people sat in front of the beach club ‘La Cantina’. We ordered beer, wine and some snacks. We sat or lay in the sand on large pieces of Indian colored cotton or beach towels, talking, laughing, and celebrating life exactly how my grandmother would have wanted us to do at her final earthly goodbye party.

With a hint of a smile around my lips my mind returned from the musings of my grandmother to the present reality. I noticed a subtle darkening in the colors around us. Soft lavender and sweet mandarin hues that were present earlier were replaced with rich oranges and dark rubies.

Raymond sweetheart, how much longer until we reach our destination? I asked with a distinguished but honey-coated voice, already preparing myself for my upcoming character.

Maria, we are not far from our destination. Maybe another twenty minutes. He responded politely, aware of the situation that I was new and about to be delivered to a specific address. For some reason I didn’t feel like a new comer and I comfortably returned to my thoughts.

A few days after my grandmother’s funeral I found myself at my mother’s shop, assisting her with her most recent project; creating bedroom curtains for the new Royal couple, princess Maxima and crown prince Alexander. We were applying the last details when my mother remarked that her work of art was missing a final touch: a label with her name. Just in case that princess Laurentine was inspired by her sister in laws’ interior design and wanted to make use of my mother’s services.

I pulled out the Yellow Pages, quickly found a suitable company and placed an order for elegant cotton labels with my mother’s name, Hermione Liebe, written in an antique font. While flipping through the pages my eyes had been caught by an advertisement that kept on lingering in my mind for days to come. It was a large classified ad with a classy design that read: WOMEN OF THE WORLD; run by women, done by women. Instantaneously my mind was drawn to the story of one of my most favorite movies, A Destiny of her Own. This movie was the historically based drama of Veronica Franco, released in the late nineties. I had seen that movie at least half a dozen times, absolutely and utterly convinced that her story was one of my past lives; the life of a high placed courtesan at the Venetian court.

This was the only profession, and unquestionably a highly regarded and respected career from the 14th through the 19th century, that allowed women to enter libraries and read. They mingled among intellectuals, intelligent and highly placed politicians and royalty, when other women, no matter their breed, upbringing or wealth, were barely allowed to read more than the Bible. More than anything a courtesan was successful for her wit, her intelligence and sense of humor. Cultural, political and historical education was an important part of a courtesans tutoring, as was classical music, poetry and other fine arts, culinary etiquette, and the more sensual aspects of a courtesans duties.

People who held high positions married for political reasons and often did not live together for most parts of their lives, making the profession of courtesan a common accepted necessity. Furthermore it was not uncommon that a woman at an already high position in the aristocratic peck order was married to a man of lesser breed and in order for her husband to move up that order, she would court some royalty for a certain period of time who desired her intimacy. Business as usual.

More often than not though, the life of a courtesan ended unfortunate. There were times when courtesans were prosecuted by the church. Their promiscuity was seen as evil and their power over men interpreted as witchcraft. To hold a position at the court past their prime years was a challenge and internal intrigues, poisonings and murders were not an unusual part of the courtesans’ life. Nevertheless, some women used their intelligence to safeguard their future, both financially and professionally and turned out to be savvy businesswomen.

I found it extremely amusing that the members of the Dutch Royal court had unintentionally initiated my new career move that was based on centuries old customs at other European courts. The Dutch Royal family inadvertently had a hand in my decision to spread my legs for money. Considering their covert political schemes and worldly intrigues that are so typical for Royal families and their courts, this probably was one of their lesser sins.

How many women at one point in their lives have dreamed of playing the role of an expensive escort? The daydream of being picked up by a shiny limousine in a metropolitan city like Paris, an older but handsome businessman overwhelming you with expensive gifts and all in return for some intelligent conversation, feigned affection and a few sexual activities, which often weren’t unpleasant at all. Many have dreamed, but few have had the balls to act out on their dreams.

Before I made any rash decisions on pursuing my new career I decided to consult with my three most intimate friends. Mary, a slightly older and very close American friend, was an extremely spiritual and intelligent psychologist and I valued her opinion immensely. Pom, an older aunt and certified homeopath, was the only family member at that time that I chose to consult with. And of course Mariska, the girl that had generously offered me a room in her small fisherman’s house at the time I was preparing for my move to Playa del Carmen. She was one of those women who once had that dream and indeed had the balls but not the right spirit to do this kind of work. She was like a partner in crime, but without committing the sin.

At the age of thirty-six, without any financial troubles nor alcohol or drug related problems, but with a healthy spiritual life that consisted of a regular yoga practice and weekly Santo Daime church visits, my decision was based on a strong desire to make this dream come true. Actually, it wasn’t only that. I absolutely needed to do this. It was my destiny, a destiny of my own. I was made for this. At least, that’s what two of my friends had said to me. All three of them completely supported me in my decision and we came to the conclusion that this conscious choice in my life would serve as one of the final parts of my healing from the sexual abuse of my father. Not only did I full heartedly want to do this, I most definitely needed to do this.

The slowing down of the car woke me up from my contemplations. A few turns later the car stopped in front of the house of my first client. So much for my imaginings of arriving at a villa of a rich businessman. This was an ordinary house on an ordinary street. New girls were always being sent to this specific client first. He liked new, inexperienced girls and I was to find out why later in the evening. I was ordered for two hours. I mentally reviewed my instructions: don’t forget to introduce yourself with your working name, first call the agency to inform them that you have arrived safely, then handle all financial issues, don’t leave your drink unattended as they might put something in it, don’t share any personal information and talk as long as possible because when the sex act is done, you’re gone. Last but not least, always use a condom. Easy. Well… maybe not that last part.

I took a deep breath, tussled my long copper colored curls, straightened my skirt