(Thank you to Firebrain for her judicious comments: the scars will heal in time.x)
Marianne had a problem: in fact, several inter-related problems.
She was still getting used to the idea of being married to Pierre. He had swept her off her feet, and being essentially a down-to-earth, well-organised sort of person, she felt uncomfortable about this, though unquestionably exhilarated--like a little girl whirled into dizziness, giggling and frightened.
Her friend Élodie, whom she met most days for lunch in the café, thought when she introduced them that Pierre was exactly the right person to knock some of the irritating precision out of Marianne. Now, she suppressed a smile as they drank the rough house wine.
Pierre was a painter. How good he was, neither woman knew nor cared: they liked what he painted, of course, but they cared more for the fact that he was kind, lively, unpredictable, romantic, honest, independent and gorgeous. He was also very well-endowed, which was part of Marianne's problem --and, although she didn't know it yet, part of the solution.
Incidentally, Élodie knew all this because she and Pierre had had a short but delicious affair some months before the fateful party. She had said nothing of this to Marianne, who knew nonetheless by intuition and didn't mind. In fact it made it easier to talk to her about her problem.
Marianne had not expected to get married at all-- let alone to someone like Pierre. He was the exact opposite of her. Alone in her small appartment, she had led a very organised life. She had affairs of course—she was as experienced as the next girl—but she kept them neatly compartmentalised in her life. She was ambitious and she took her work seriously. Some time ago, she had joined a publishing house in the rue Belle Île, a short walk from the café, and she had prospered there. She had been very contented. Occasionally, she allowed herself a therapeutic fuck but generally she kept her natural urges in check with her slender fingers. She earned a lot of money and wanted for nothing.
And then, at Élodie's party, she had found herself instantly mesmerised by the charming hulk in the paint-spattered rugby shirt. She was quite prepared to fuck him straight away and was afterwards puzzled as to how she had gone home alone. And she had agreed to pose for him!
I must be mad,
she thought as she woke alone in her bed. She had wanted to have an athletic fuck with Pierre and then walk away, as was her wont. Somehow, she felt cheated.
The following Sunday, she found herself in a sunlit atelier in a scruffy arrondisement, surprisingly fully-clothed and uncomfortably still while Pierre, who alternated between intense silence and affable charm, made endless sketches. When she once again found herself at home and untouched, she felt as if she had an unreachable itch on a phantom limb.
All week, the sensation persisted. She found she couldn't wait for the following Sunday. Then the same thing happened, and the next Sunday, until Marianne thought she would go mad. She was in a perpetual sexual torment and for once even her clever fingers failed to douse the flames.
By the fourth Sunday, Marianne could stand it no longer. While Pierre was distracted gathering his drawing materials, she stripped off her clothes. And then? When Pierre turned and saw her naked? He gestured for her to sit on the threadbare sofa, took up his pad, and began to draw. For hours he sketched, speaking only to ask her to adopt a new pose, while in the poorly heated atelier Marianne froze from her skin to her heart. In the pose she had currently-- recumbent on the sofa with her legs pulled up--she thought of her miserably yearning pussy, of how it must be open and visible to Pierre, and she wondered
What is wrong with me?
Suddenly, she became aware of an unusual silence: Pierre often worked silently, but that silence was filled with the strokes of pencil or charcoal or brush--which were no longer there. Marianne opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyes were drawn from their contemplation of her pussy to hers.
"You're very beautiful," he said, and then his hands were on her thighs, pulling her down and around until her buttocks were on the edge of the sofa, her legs held up and apart, her pussy open to him. She felt helpless under his calm smile. Slowly, he lowered his face to her sex. His tongue felt incredibly hot on her chilled flesh, but she quickly warmed and moistened as he spread her folds and delved into her depths.
Marianne would never forget that first orgasm, lying hot and cold on the uncomfortable, tickly sofa. She screamed loudly, almost passed out. When she regained her senses, Pierre was still gently lapping the juices that poured out of her, wetting her bottom and the sofa beneath. She took his head between her hands and brought his mouth up to hers so that they could kiss. She thrilled at the taste and smell of herself on his mouth.
Together, they removed his clothes. As he stood to take off his jeans, Marianne got her first sight of his penis swaying before her face. It was huge: long and thick, the biggest she had ever seen. She had a moment of doubt, of worry: then she thought,
what the hell, it's perfect!
and she reached out for it. It wasn't easy to get even the head of it in her mouth but she'd learnt a thing or two about cocksucking in her life, and Pierre was very excited, so it wasn't long before he came. She caught most of his pulsing sperm in her mouth but there was just too much and she pulled away to let the last spurts splash on her face and breasts. She felt immensely aroused.
Pierre carried her to the bed and they warmed themselves beneath the covers until he brought his penis to her wet pussy and began to push. Ah! What a familiar feeling that had become.
"He completely fills me up. I've never felt anything like it," Marianne whispered when Jean-Charles, the café owner took away their plates and was safely out of earshot. Élodie remembered that feeling well.
"It sounds wonderful," she said. "So-- what's the problem?"
Marianne took a deep breath and then an even deeper gulp of her wine. She had always enjoyed sex and she was certainly no prude, but the sex she had with Pierre was something else. She couldn't get enough of him, and had startled herself by jumping at his proposal of marriage. And he was such a considerate lover. Aware that his size presented a challenge to her, he always ate Marianne to at least one orgasm before he penetrated her. She, in return, loved to do things to him.
She had become adept at sucking him and now prided herself on taking at least half of his immense penis in her mouth. She loved to make him come between her shapely breasts and attributed her good skin tone to the prodigious amounts of sperm he ejaculated over them. She had encouraged him to try different positions and particularly enjoyed being taken from behind, when she could feel his size to shattering effect. He too loved this position. He loved her bottom, kissing and licking it before he penetrated her, caressing it while he fucked her and sometimes withdrawing to come in the valley between her cheeks.
And here lay the fundamental problem which Marianne had been steeling herself, with alcohol, to talk about with her friend.
"Well.....Pierre wants to fuck me in my bottom." There, she had said it. She looked around quickly to make sure no one had heard her. But when she looked at Élodie, her friend looked annoyingly unfazed.
"So?" was all Élodie said.
Marianne's hands shook as she lit a Marlboro. Élodie's frank stare discomforted her.
"Marianne, are you telling me you've never had it up the arse before?"
"No, of course not!"
"But why not? It's wonderful! I let all my lovers bugger me."
"Élodie!"
"I find it incredibly sexy and exciting."
"But doesn't it hurt?"
"A bit, at first. But it soon passes, if your lover is patient. I find it helps if I touch my pussy at the same time.....Well don't look so shocked!"
"But I never thought....you...."
Élodie blew out her cheeks.
"Bof, come on!" With a sly smile, she went on. "You should have seen me last night! Jean-Marc had already fucked me twice—he's so strong!-- and then he told me to stand up and bend over. I knew straight away what he wanted. While I braced myself against the dressing-table, I could hear the squelchy sounds of him oiling his cock. Then I felt the head against my little hole, a gentle push and—hopla!—he was buggering me. He was gentle at first, but once I was relaxed and used to his size, he really fucked my arse. I kept thinking of how he could see my anus stretched tight around his cock—God, I came like so much I.....!"
Élodie burst out laughing. Marianne was bright red.
"I never took you for a prude," she giggled.
"I am not a prude!" Marianne replied hotly, "It's just so....." Her pretty nose was wrinkled in disgust.
"Dirty? Oh Marianne, you pee from your pussy, don't you? But you'd be very cross if Pierre didn't lick you out. You seem happy enough to suck his cock, and you know what else
that
