(The title is from the 1965 novel by Stephen Vizinczey. It was too good not to steal.)
The pool is surrounded on three sides by high, ancient walls, covered with climbing plants. The fourth leads only to the house. Nobody can see in, for the owner values privacy, but the same events play out every day of that hot summer.
The woman is in her forties, with a wedding ring and an expensive haircut, and a toned body that hints at regular exercise and a careful diet.
Today she lies on one of the daybeds in the shade, pretending to reading an Italian fashion magazine. She wears an oversize floppy hat of the kind expensive women take to the beach, beetle-like dark glasses that cover much of her face, and a white one-piece swimsuit. The swimsuit is cut so that it barely covers her pubis and small, firm breasts, and blatantly shows off her pert bottom. She is the guest here and can wear what she wants.
The housekeeper finishes her rounds and bustles down to let her know that she is leaving. The woman thanks her as usual in a few words of French and a smile, and then the cleaner leaves. She takes a sip from her glass of white wine.
As soon as the clatter of the cleaner's two-stroke car engine recedes down the dusty lane to the villa, a young man appears, wearing a dark blue cotton shirt and a pair of swimming shorts and carrying an oversize towel. He drops the towel and shirt on the other sunbed and dives into the water, watched by the woman, who clearly finds him of more interest than her magazine. A close observer would note that she has a pronounced camel-toe at her crotch, which she does not bother to adjust, and her nipples are erect and clearly visible through the swimsuit.
The young man surfaces, climbs out of the pool, wipes his face and hair with the towel. He walks over to the woman and refills her glass. She takes off the hat and sunglasses, for they are clearly at ease together, talking and laughing. Now we see that she is very pretty, with blonde curls and large, deep blue eyes.
He sits beside her again and they kiss, tentatively at first but with growing urgency. Their hands begin to explore each other's bodies in well-practiced patterns; his hands on her breasts and between her legs, her hands in his shorts, both searching and teasing, driving each other on. They have clearly done this many times before. At her request, he stands and pulls off his single garment. His rigid erection bounces upwards. She sucks him briefly and then stops, laughing; her attentions are clearly not necessary to make him hard. They are about to make love.
We have seen them before and know that they have a varied repertoire of positions. Sometimes, she pulls the swimsuit off and lies back with her legs pulled up, inviting him to kneel between her thighs and enter her. Or if their need is particularly urgent, she goes on her hands and knees so that he can fuck her from behind.
Today, at her suggestion, he lies on his back on the sunbed, his erection jutting upwards. She pulls the swimsuit's crotch to the side and straddles his face. He begins to tease her with his tongue, running it up and down her slit and teasing her clitoris.
After a few minutes he has brought her to a state of such excitement that she quickly dismounts, sits astride his hips, and guides his rigid hard-on into her, not bothering to remove the swimsuit.
He slides in easily, for his early tongue-play has excited her and made her wet, and she gasps as she settles her hips over his. Balancing herself by placing her elegantly manicured hands on his shoulders, she rides him slowly as he pumps his hips in time with hers. At one point the strip of material that usually goes between her buttocks slides back against his cock, and she impatiently reaches behind to move it aside so she can continue pleasuring herself with his rigid erection. Throughout their lovemaking his hands are on her breasts, stroking and rubbing her nipples, which turns her on even more.
As her pleasure builds she is clearly telling him what she wants, and he starts thrusting into her harder, deeper, faster.
The moment when she comes is unmistakable. Her hands grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, but she is clearly gasping with pleasure as her hips squirm astride him.
When she has finished, she collapses on top of him, her chest and breasts heaving as she gets her breath back, his rigid cock still inside her.
For the younger man is (in most ways) a gentleman, and has always been told that ladies come first.
Now it's his turn, and he can focus on his own orgasm. He's made a superhuman effort not to come so far, and it only takes a few more hard pushes into her tight pussy and then he is spurting and emptying himself deep into her trim body, just as he has done every day for the last two weeks. Knowing that he has held back for her pleasure, she rewards him by tightening the muscles of her vaginal walls in time with his thrusts, making his orgasm even more intense.
After she has rolled off him, they lie side by side for a few moments, her legs carelessly apart, one of her hands idly towing with his wet cock. Then she stands up and wipes herself with his shirt, despite his protests; perhaps it has just come from the laundry. She laughs again, throws the shirt at him, and blows him a kiss before heading back into the house to shower.
The young man, of course, was me, and the woman was Sarah. I was twenty-two, and she was exactly twenty years older than I was. And, for two months that summer, we were lovers.
* * *
I'd met Sarah for the first time at the villa. I was in the final stages of my master's degree, with had a fifty-thousand word thesis to write and two months to do it. The project needed somewhere quiet where I could focus. I didn't want to rent a room on the university campus, as summer schools were on and I knew the residences would be full of noisy outsiders. Returning to my parent's house would have been cheap but with too many distractions.
And then the villa in France fell into my lap. My parents were friends with the wealthy owners, who were unable to go there this year because of pressing business in the US. They didn't want to leave the property empty, and my mother suggested that I might take up residence for a few weeks as caretaker.
We agreed a few ground rules: no parties or uninvited guests (not likely, I knew nobody in the area), I would keep an eye on things, maintain the pool, and live at the property while I wrote the thesis. It was ideal; rent-free and as quiet as a monastery, and the owners were pleased with the arrangement.
Of course, it didn't quite work out that way.
I packed a rucksack with books, a laptop and a few clothes, bought a cheap airline ticket, and went down to Gatwick where I changed some money into euros. The flight was to one of those obscure regional airports that is usually a long way from where you actually want to go, but conveniently was only a hour's bus ride and a brief walk from the villa. I arrived in the heat of the afternoon and let myself in.
The first few days went well. I made a good start on the thesis and found there was a French car, a 2CV, in the garage, that came with the house. Once I'd got the hang of the peculiar gear stick, it turned out to be fun to drive, especially with the roof rolled back. It wasn't a touristy area and the prices were low, and I would return from my trips to the market laden with fresh produce, local wine and that incomparable crusty French bread.
My mother rang mid-morning during the second weekend. It seemed I wasn't to have the place to myself, after all.
"They have a friend who's going though some marital problems and wants somewhere quiet to stay for a while. The Sullivans thought she might come and stay at the villa. I've met her a few times; she's called Sarah. Very nice lady. You can keep each other company."
Well, it was a big villa; I wouldn't necessarily have to see much of her.
* * *
She arrived in the cool of the evening, two days later, in a black chauffeured Mercedes. I welcomed her and helped her with her baggage; in her forties, slim with fair hair, she looked pale and drawn. Sarah had been given the master bedroom by the owners, and declined my offer of something to eat, saying she'd had dinner on the plane from Miami. Instead she turned in early and locked her door.
The next morning I heard her showering and found her in the kitchen making coffee, dressed in a linen shirt and slacks. She looked ten times more relaxed.
"Sorry I was so distant last night. It's been a rough couple of weeks and I just wanted to get to bed."
I completely understood; jet lag hits different people in different ways.
"I know you're here to do some writing," she said. "Ed and Jane offered me somewhere to stay off the beaten track, and this villa is perfect. I'm just going to take it easy, read, relax in the sun. I won't get in your way."
That suited me. Plus, I noted, she was very attractive. If I was going to have a housemate, I could have done far worse. I showed her where everything was, poured some coffee, and went back to my desk.
