Their Summer in France

Their Summer in France

Letters found between the pages of a diary, in a trunk in an attic.

Perhaps we journeyed through France, you and I? In a borrowed old car that misbehaved and made your hands black with grease when it sulked and demanded your hands, your love. I understood the car. I knew it needed love and wasn't just there for a ride, even though it liked puttering round the French country lanes in the shade of lime trees.

We'd sit with a little picnic of baguette, cheese and red wine, drunk from the bottle. Wiping its juice from our lips with the backs of our hands, then leaning in to share our happiness in another carefree kiss. I pulled a face at one cheese - you laughed when I tried to spit it out in a dignified way, then we both laughed. There is no way to spit out food in a dignified way.

We watched the little stream and its darting arrows of trout against the sand warm gravel where we cooled our feet. The water tickled our ankles. I wrinkled my nose as I looked across at you.

Then it was time to dry our feet and for you to pick the little twigs from my hair, because you'd pressed me down, your weight stopping me from floating away into the sky. The hunger of your mouth on mine, where I welcomed you with soft tongue and little sounds in my throat.

My inner voice said, 'Own my body, but be gentle. Push hard but let me have time to yield, let my flesh stretch to your hardness. Let me feel the nuzzle of your balls on my bottom and the comfort of being filled, the triumph of your orgasm in me.' My arms wrapped tight about your head, my unseen tears caught as jewels in the sun, as birds wheeled overhead, as translucent clouds like muslin over sailor blue drifted through my eyes, as I felt the promise of life come from you into me.

The little village with one guest house. Rickety stairs and creaking landlady with no English and a moustached joyful smile that knew lovers, had known her own, was happy for our love in her home. The cluck of chickens in the yard and the fierce cockerel. I shared a glance at you, indignant for the hens, shocked by the cock's arrogance and you laughed. You carried on laughing at my frown of disapproval until I looked away with a smile growing on my face. I found I was blushing.

You made me feel small, but significant. You made me feel loved and alive. Your hand at my breast reminded me that I am a woman and desired.

Old men in the afternoon shadows, playing boules. Are there no young people here? Just you and I. Eyes examined us, nodded towards us with wheezy laughing coughs of shared French jokes. Les English. You had cognac for the sake of tradition, I had lemonade with bits floating in it on a metal table with weathered rails that wouldn't stand still, but rocked itself drunkenly on the cobbles.

* * * *

I said, "Go up to the room. I'll go to the garage to talk to that fellow about the car. What repairs she might need to keep going."

"Don't be too long," you replied, touching your fingers to my arm.

I wasn't long - the mechanic was sure in his mind what was needed, and I left him to it - and when I got up to the room there you were, lovely girl naked, washing yourself, bending over the small sink. It's how I remember my first sight of you, your back to me, then turning, the silhouette of your breast and the long bones of your back. Your smile was shy, but brave at the same time, allowing me to see you those first times.

"Let me," I said, "dry you when you're done."

"Pfft, I can do it." You waved me away with a hand, fingers unfurling like a bird's wing when it turns.

"Yes, I know you can, stubborn girl, but so can I." You turned to me, your simple nude beauty glowing in the warm afternoon sun. You reached out to me, your hair falling.

"Silly man, what do you see, over and over?"

I reached for the towel. It wasn't very big, so I dried you in pieces, an arm and a leg then down the other side. You let me do it, and because I was gentle but persistent, you let me take you to the bed by the window where the sun streamed in, and you let me lie you down on the crisp sheets, stiff with the sun from the hanging lines in the yard, wooden pegs carved in winter by the fire.

Propped on a pillow, your weight resting on one elbow, you let me arrange you, let me look. With one leg straight down and the other bent up, your sex was my mystery.

"You want to see me, don't you?"

I wanted to touch you more, to feel the soft skin of your shell like place, soft as a butterfly's wing. Your inner thigh, it's so very soft, and there's a cup there, a hollow, where the muscle turns. You laughed, jerking away from the tickle, so I kissed it instead. Your sigh when I kissed your skin was like a breath turning a corner on the wind. I kissed you again, and you giggled.

"Your beard, it tickles."

My fingers opened you in reverence, it was my turn to be shy. "Like this," you said, and you showed me, your fingers caressing the places I'd found, carefully showing me the right pressure, the right place. Your colours grew darker as the blood heated inside you, and you spread your leaves apart.

Your hands went to my head, and held me to your body in a kiss. The sunlight through a tree outside the window dappled patterns on your skin.

"Why are you dressed, and me naked?" Always asking questions. It must be your curious mind.

* * * *

I laughed when the cafétiere upended at the café, staining your trousers. Your favourite pair too, which were so very elegant. Oh dear, you were none too pleased and you looked at me to say, "That will cost you." That look in your eye. I knew exactly what you meant and your gaze made me squirm in my seat, knowing what was going to come. A thrill of little beads melted in my sex.

Once you'd changed, though, we had a lovely day wandering the market of the fortified town -- I don't remember its name. Late in the afternoon, you drove the car, still needing to sooth her on the steeper hills, back to the farmyard. As you turned off the engine outside the guest-house, it was as though everything was in slow motion. You turned and fixed me with your eye. That look. I simply nodded.

I went up to our room and in a few minutes I heard your steps on the stair. I swallowed hard and my heart beat so hard in my chest. You stood in front of me, your legs filling my vision because I didn't dare look up. I saw your hands unloop your belt and I was already offering you my wrists, crossed like the wings of a bird. My fingers shook.

You put your purple tip to my forward bending mouth. You placed your hands in my hair, behind my ears and pulled me onto you. Slowly, so slow I felt every bump on your shaft, you filled my head with your impatient heat.

For a few minutes the room was silent and small noises crept in from outside. The cheep of sparrows like cicadas, the cluck of hens in the yard, a distant high plane flying people across the Atlantic.

You pulled your cock from my mouth and I was glad because my jaw ached.

"Turn around."

From the edge of the mattress, I turned and lay forward, awkwardly balancing my weight with bound hands in the folds of the bedspread. There were pretty red roses and gaudy green leaves in tufted patterns over its pink chenille.

I felt the cool of the room on my thighs as you lifted the hem of my skirt to my waist. Your hand on my thigh moved so slowly, your fingers bunching the cloth up. You were looking at me again. I knew it, by the silence. You weren't sure if my bottom was better in its plain knickers with their little red bows or if you preferred it bare naked. You'd tilt your head to ponder as I buried my head between my forearms, hair falling to hide my shame.

You ran a finger under the elastic, from left to right, and back again. You pulled it away and snapped it quietly to my aching skin.

You'd toyed enough. Tormented and shamed me enough. It's not why you're here with your proud male animality, eager to shed itself into me. I felt the waistband pulled down, exposing my bottom but not my sex.

I swallowed again. I must focus. I must relax and concede. I feigned humility but craved your pride.

Your flesh pressed against me, gauging its task. Purple sheen to my puckering pale rosette. My body begged, I wanted to hide.

The more you pushed in, the further I shrank back from you, until finally I had nowhere to go.

A tight coiled dancer stretched her limbs out like a growing flower, arms flowing and body rising until she tiptoed standing, pressing herself back onto you.

I heard you grunt in surprise. Your maleness vanished. My tail bone where your purple flesh should be. My cool skin pressed into your thighs, your thumbs pastry dimpled in my skin. A dozen soft hands gripped you, reluctant to let you slip from their grasp. You had work to do and many hands to help you.

Still gripping you impossibly tight, she dragged your sheathed skin, circled your sensitive glans. She's so hot inside, she enclosed you. She grunted a girlish noise, like a small animal. She accepted her obedience, knowing your lust, welcoming its fury. You pulled her little weight onto you, pushing and pulling her like a puppet but every time her body craved, "Stay!" You fed her hunger yet she clung for more, pushing back harder, absorbing you.

Her gnawing ache of gluttony, the blindness of her desire. At last, too soon, she tricked you into coming. Her soft wringing body overwhelmed you, the little hands drawing you under the waves like sirens. You fought with arching back but you'd already lost, you were drowning.

Your temptress was your saviour. Her quiet body, the rock to which you clung, spilling into her, your waves breaking over her. But you weren't drowned nor broken. She's still your love, clinging to your fading strength. You breathed in deeply, sharing the air from her lungs.

You stepped back to bow down to me, placing kisses on the fading red marks of your struggle. I felt your lips on my skin. Your soft warmth and bristled chin. The elastic placed carefully back returned my dignity and you told me to sit. You pulled me up gently, set my feet back to the floor, brushed the strands of clinging hair from my forehead and let me share your smiling eyes. I held my hands, with down-cast eyes again to spare your regret, and watched your lips kiss away the red bracelets I wore for you.

Your body had left mine, but still I felt your absence inside me. The ache of my muscles lingered, the heat of your passion melting inside. My first move was to cling to you, to pull you closer. I was still full of your passion and could not bear to lose your heat. My lips wet on your belly. My hair thick in your hands.

You hunkered down in front of me, your face close to mine. You smiled.

My eyes asked, "Am I enough?"

Yours answered, "You are. You always are."

* * * *

Another time you went up to the room ahead of me, your bottom level with my eyes. The stairs were very steep and uneven, and I was prepared to catch you by the waist if you stumbled. You weren't unsteady at all, but I still wanted to catch you.

Once in the room you dropped your bag on the table and half turned to me, looking down. Your hands were behind your back hiding, so I knew you were nervous, your mind whirling. I thought it best not to say anything, not to touch you. I went to the window and looked out, leaning on the window sill. I held my hand back toward you, my fingers turned up, my palm open.

After a moment you came up to me and buried your forehead in my shoulder. You pushed hard against me like a cat does, nudging for attention. I felt your hand creep into mine, taking me by two fingers, not quite ready to take four.

The moment became several moments, then I felt your breath on my neck, your lips on my throat.

"What's this about, honey? What's going on in that head of yours?" I don't turn.

"How do you do your stillness? It's so foreign to me, like twelve languages, none of them mine...

... if I was with you, and we'd had an afternoon under a warm summer sun in a dusty French village, this is how I'd imagine the afternoon ending...

* * * *

You were so cross the next morning. It was raining and that spoiled your plans, and the pout on your lip was adorable, but I thought it best not to tell you. So I lay back in the bed and watched you make more morning noise than was usual, as if by your will you could change it.

Outside, an old pipe dripped where it shouldn't, and the light was dull and grey. I had no doubt that eventually the sun would peep through, sneaking around shadows and sending little beams of light through leafy trees that would flicker and sparkle. On the path by the river where we'd dangled our feet, I knew diamonds would hang side by side with the morning dew, with only scuttering creatures to see them. I knew this, and was content with the knowledge.

You, on the other hand, took the rain as an affront, something personal. You leaned out the window, forgetting you wore only your favourite plain knickers, and tapped your fingers at it, the rain. Which fell on, regardless, disobedient. The air brought me treats though, for my eyes. When you turned, the cool air had tightened your nipples, pulled them up better than teeth could have done.

Seeing those high peaks and the dark flash in your eyes, my cock thickened. I waited, quietly watching the little human storm in the room. You must have sensed it, or turned to see a leg straighten under the covers, some indication. You turned, placed your hands on your hips as if to say, "Well, what you looking at, lummock?"

My lazy smile must have given you a clue, because suddenly you looked down at yourself, realised your situation, and quickly hid your breasts. My smile must have widened, because a hand dropped to cover your pubis to deny me the thought of your pussy. Too late, my cock knew it was there, even if hidden, and I was fully hard.

"Grrr, you're such a man. Stop moving those covers."

"Stop standing there, then, looking so adorably fierce."

"God, is this all you think about?" Giving in and pulling your knickers down, you came towards the bed. "Don't look," you commanded.

"Make your mind up, honey." I chuckled. Watching you be determined was joyful, the colour it brought to your cheeks.

"Don't put that thing near me," you said, lying right on top of me to clamp my shaft between our bellies so it couldn't move, even when you bit my nipples with your sharp teeth, even when you reached down and pulled my balls down to be cool against your bottom, even when you kissed me, your tongue finding and fighting mine.

"Don't you dare even think it," you said, reaching over to your side of the bed to grab a tube. Adept with one hand, you squirted the liquid on your fingers and reached between your legs to your sex.

"It's not happening. No way," you whispered, as you rearranged your body and placed your wet entry around my head.

With a guiding nudge from your fingers, spreading that final liquid coolness over the middle of my shaft, you sank down to surround me with heat.

"There's no way," you reminded me, "that proud prick of yours is ever going to know how deep my beauty is. There's simply no... fucking... way... that...

You love me.

© electricblue66 and stickygirl 2020