She showed a definite interest in my chosen profession, but I couldn't help but notice that her attention was occasionally diverted towards my journal, still placed on the table next to me, firmly closed.
"May I read your journal?" she asked, all of a sudden.
"I'm afraid not, Madame," I replied. "It is a private journal that I keep for my own amusement, a diary, nothing more."
"And you record your experiences? You have tales of your journey, and your time in Vienna?"
"I do," I replied, "but as I said, they're for my consumption alone."
"I'm sure I'd love to read a little," she smiled, teasingly. "This trip has become so dull for me, and I crave the experiences of others. Couldn't I just glance at a page or two?"
It was, of course, impossible. My journal was frankly sexual, often explicit, and not something I wished to share with a coquettish little 20 year old, no matter how appealing she was. "No, I'm sorry," I replied, "my thoughts must remain my own."
"Why sir," she smiled, "I'm beginning to think you might have something to hide in there."
I fought the automatic impulse to blush; this was becoming an issue, but how to nip it in the bud? "As I said, Vanessa, this is a private journal, kept for my own amusement. It's not something I wish to share, I would hope you would respect that."
She giggled teasingly, leaning forward a little over the table, almost whispering to me, my gaze suddenly falling into her blouse as it drifted open a little around her gently curved breasts. "You do have something you wish to hide in there," she smiled. "I can barely contain my curiosity. Just a little glimpse, please Monsieur?"
She clearly wasn't going to let this drop. Perhaps a compromise would suffice. "Very well, Vanessa, you may look at my most recent entry, and no more."
"Ohhh thankyou!" she giggled, picking up the journal with indecent haste, and flicking it open to the latest entry with a smile, her fingers teasing the corners of the earlier pages, flicking at them almost innocently...
(to be continued...)