Tuesday, May 31, 2011
He was waiting, as we’d arranged, by the florist, clutching a bouquet of flowers that he handed to me with what I can only describe as a Gallic flourish. At least, I hope they were intended for me. A blind date is one thing; a blind date with someone who doesn’t even speak your language, and who isn’t a date either, is something else. But Genevieve had sent me a couple of photos, and I assumed he’d seen some of me as well, and as she couldn’t make it to meet me from the ferry, her dad was the next best contender.
France. For a girl who’d never even visited Paris, Texas (350 miles), let alone Paris, France (5,000 miles), this was a serious adventure, even if it did turn out to be simply an extension of a business trip to London. And I wasn’t going to Paris, either; a ferry over the English Channel dropped me in Le Havre, and Genevieve’s dad would see to the rest. The rest being, taking my luggage in one hand and my arm in the other and, while I clutched my flowers and smiled like an idiot, ushering me out to the parking lot. While keeping up a non-stop barrage of what may have been questions about my health and journey, but could as easily have been the soundtrack to an unsubtitled European porn movie.
I know it’s a cliché, but it happens to be true. There is something so fucking hot about a cute guy speaking French to you, especially when you don’t have a clue what he’s saying. My grasp of the language is the written word only, and even then I need a dictionary, phrase book and thank-god-for-Google-Translate to get me past more than a basic “bonjour.” Which was never an issue with Genevieve, whose English is better than most Americans I know, and whose e-mails and IMs were what brought me this far. We’d been internet friends for so long that I felt we were already the best friends in the world, so when this trip came up and I looked at the map… mon dieu! Le Havre is about the same distance from London as my local Borders is from my house. And I make that journey every month.
It was good to be back on the correct side of the road. I’d spent a week in England alternating between pedestrian roadkill and panicking passenger, but the moment I climbed into Didier’s jeep, I felt … well, not quite at home, because the road signs, the buildings, the everything was alien. But at least I wasn’t covering my eyes every time we took a corner.
At least I’m not doing that! Didier kept up his monologue of whatever-he-was-saying, and I nodded and giggled as he chattered away because he knew perfectly well that I was not comprehending a word of it. And I didn’t care because … sacre bleu! Genevieve had told me her dad was a looker and yes, his photos were kinda hot too. But in the flesh? Eeeek! He was positively edible. Dark hair that was just considering a distinguished gray tint; piercing dark eyes that I’d swear I could still feel despite the shades that he put on in the car. A white shirt open just enough to look good, and I swear, a pair of shorts that could have been cut specifically for him.
Tanned skin, strong legs, bare arms, and not too much body hair. A voice that made me think of chocolate éclairs, a laugh that would melt the polar ice caps, and a touch… I read somewhere that the French are a very tactile race, that they will embrace you at a moment’s notice, and lay hands on your arm with every other sentence. And I’d wondered how I’d react to that.
With laughter! Because the laughter covered the hunger that swept through me every time his fingers traced a line on my skin and I swear, if we’d not been haring down the N182 in an open top vehicle with the whole world looking in… and then I had to laugh even louder because I was going to be staying in this man’s house for four days, and if ten minutes in his company left me melting into my car seat, what would I be like after a couple of days?
Well, now I know.
It was late afternoon of my last day in France. Genevieve, who was everything I’d ever hoped a friend could be, had taken the whole week off work, but was called in last minute to help chair a meeting. So Didier decided to keep me entertained. Which could have gone in any one of a thousand directions, but somehow wound up at the end of the garden, baking under a summer sky while we threw the names of our favorite authors at one other and laughed at the ensuing mispronunciations. And laughter leads to tickling, and tickling leads to wrestling, and suddenly I was pinned beneath the most handsome man I’d been this close to in way too long, while birdsong and bug buzzes melted into the fragrance of the garden, and his own sweat sheened sweetness made me dizzy with joy…
… then he kissed me, and it was my turn to melt, folding myself into an embrace that had swung from rough-house to romance in less time than it takes to type the words, and the wine we’d been drinking tasted better on his tongue than it ever could in the bottle. And now he was speaking words that I understood, slow whispered murmurs that made my heart pound, and his body against me was translating them for me…
I knew that the next move had to be mine. He was too considerate, too polite – and maybe, too romantic – to push any further. So I did the pushing for him; pushing him onto his back, pushing his shorts down over his hips, and then pulling him into my mouth. All of him.
He tasted… he tasted of Didier. All of the sensations I’d felt when we first met; all of the laughter and cool, gentle gallantry that had kept my heart pounding all the time I’d been here; all the imaginings that I’d pushed away at night, and the giggled “he likes you” that Genevieve dropped; all of those things leading to this, his cock in my mouth and my mouth on his cock, my tongue tracing from base to tip with such greed, my teeth on his shaft and the head in my throat… my feast, my fun, my fervor.
I knew he was coming long before he said anything. I could feel it building in the balls that tightened in my hand, in the sudden tensing of his cock as it strained against my jaw, and in the barely perceptible sensation that he’d grown an extra half-an-inch, as though preparing to leap down my throat.
My fingers clenched around his buttocks, holding him tighter, drawing him closer, taking him deeper. And, as he called, first my name, and then a sharp word of warning, my throat opened up to accept the coming flood. And then he was gone, jerking out of my mouth with such violence that I almost toppled over, while his seed spurted thick, wet and white across my face.
He laughed and, though his words eluded me, I knew what he meant. “Wow! That was close!”
Yeah, but not close enough. I smeared a hand through the goo and licked it, then smiled and kissed his chest. A true gentleman – or as much of a gentleman as a guy could be, with his balls banging against somebody’s chin, and his prick rammed down her throat. And then my eye caught a shadow in the lee of a tree, a shadow that didn’t move fast enough when it ducked out of view.
I raised my head, cum dripping from my chin, and my tongue swooped to clean some from my lips. I smiled, and Genevieve smiled back, shyly at first but with a grin that kept growing, and then a laugh that took me completely by surprise.
“Typical dad. Always making a mess.”
Next time (and I was already sure that there'd be one), I'll make sure he doesn't.
Posted by Jenny Swallows at 11:49 AM