(from 17-December, 2008)

The four short months I’d taken of high school introductory French were definitely not enough to save me.

I stared at the one page menu in the overly dim candlelight— I could tell one side was wine, the other side was cheese. And… that was about it. Lost, and letting the menu fall flat on the table, I instead took to observing my companion. Not that I could understand her either— one side feminine and softly sweet, one side sharp-bitter and intensely dangerous.

Her eyes caught the lit tealight and twinkled, the dancing flame reflected as twin sparkles atop her pale rosy cheeks (she was still feeling the chill from the short walk we took outside) bisected by her nose which led to her lips— faintly mouthing the words as she scanned the page. I could only imagine her voice effortlessly breathing out the foreign sounds, lips and tongue together tenderly shaping and forming each syllable, each accent— these little phonologicalities.

She put her menu down and proclaimed the name of some chateau, or some vineyard, the enthusiastic grin on her face wide and true. “Et vous, monsieur?” she asked, her lips pursed on the last word.

“Je ne parle pas français,” I answered, ironically the only thing I can correctly (and genuinely) say in French.

It wasn’t too long before the bottle delivered to us was more than two-thirds empty, the accompanying wooden palette-plate of Camembert, rustic dried tender-crisp baguette slices, and grapes also in an state more consumed than not. I swirled the wine in my glass, the red liquid almost black in the dim light, only the edges catching enough of the candle to glow a deep blood red-crimson.

The wine itself was dry, almost bitter, the grapes seemingly picked too early— not enough sweetness left, my tastebuds complained. It made my lips purse slightly, my tongue feel coated and suddenly rough and as if it were twice as large. I felt as if I needed to touch something, anything, with my tongue, it now sensitive and needing attention— I let it scrape along my teeth slowly. And as the flavour subsided, I was left wanting more; a willingness to endure the sensation all over again.

Curiously enough, she had the same effect.

I had nuzzled up against her ear, as we sat on the couch, back home from the wine & cheese bar, breathing softly past the wisps of hair leading to the back of her neck. Her perfume conjured up the sweet smell of coconuts mixed with an airy musk, filling my nostrils before I exhaled again, the hot air on her skin, our bodies closing in on each other. Using my head to nudge her gently, we fell sideways in slow-motion, her hair fanning out beneath her as she slipped into a laying position, my body angling and bending to keep pressed against her.

Knees slightly apart, she pressed her hips upward as my leg slipped in and between her thighs, my weight shifting, my arms holding the bulk of my weight with the rest of it pinning her gently to the cushions. I could feel the lace push-up bra beneath the thin fabric of her black knit turtleneck. Lifting my head up, I put my face in front of hers, our eyes already used to the dim light, now staring at each other. I exhaled and pressed my lips against hers, the pressure of her pucker subsiding as our jaws loosened and our tongues rushed forward, desperately seeking attention and contact, scraping against each other with the last traces of the wine slowly fading away.

I reached down and back, pushing up her skirt with a palm flat against her leg, moving up from the tops of her knee-high stocking-socks she wore (a necessity for the tall boots she had slipped her feet and ankles out from) brushing past the back of her knee and up her thigh; she hooked one arm over my shoulder with fingers curling upward through my hair, the other around my waist and lower back.

Our noses bumped and brushed against each other, the air thin and my head already dizzy, her hands at my belt, the front of my pants, the shirt tugged and pulled upward at the same time. I slipped a hand under her back and fiddled with the back of her bra, met with mumbled protest. I instead tugged at her as we rolled over and flipped over, me now on my back as she pulled both my pants and boxers off, her turtleneck now lifted up and off her body as I unbuttoned and removed my shirt hurriedly. The lace bra was fancy, black, and pink – and I saw now, a front clasp making my earlier attempts futile. She wore a mischievous grin on her face as I flicked it open, breasts releasing onto my chest with nipples hard points now pressed into me as she leaned back down, hair falling around my face and our lips meeting again.

Her skirt was now around her waist, her hips rocking against mine, the heat from her pussy soaking through her sheer panties and spreading fast on my upper leg. My cock at full attention already, rubbing stiff against the outside of her thigh, she rubbed herself against me, one of her hands disappearing down her body between us and finding her clit.

Looking up at her, she bit my lip and pulled back, her body lifting up and off me, she stood up and shook her hips, the skirt falling off and to the floor. Stepping out of it and in only her sheer low-cut bikini panties, she straddled my hips with her back to me, grabbing my cock and giving it a stern tug, her weight on my hips and stomach momentarily as she spread her legs and reclined, her back landing on my chest.

My hands immediately wrapped around her chest and went to her breasts, cupping each as she scooted her body down, her pussy resting against the thigh of my leg, bent at the knee. Her panties were drenched— wet, sticky, hot— rubbing on my skin from the rocking motion of her hips, her fingers on her clit running circles that occasionally jabbed her fingernails into me when she slipped.

She writhed and wriggled on top of me, grasping the base of my cock almost like a handle as her back arched and my body contracted to meet her in a half-sit-up, half-crunch, my mouth finding her neck and biting gently. I let go of her breasts and moved my hands on top of hers, fingers spreading wide before closing in, one hand riding the hand furiously rubbing her clit; the other guiding her hand on my cock up and down. She responded breathlessly, panting and gasping for air, body rocking and legs spreading wider as our movements gained speed, urgency, intensity.

Her head kicked back and hit my shoulder as she froze, clenched, and held her breath. Her hands stopped moving and she shuddered, cumming hard. I kept my hand on her hand on my cock pumping once, twice, three times; resulting in the familiar twitch as I felt my own orgasm spread rapidly, my hips tighten and cock releasing streams of cum into the air, landing on her stomach, her thigh, her hand, my hand.

I noticed the wetness on my thigh, the thick moisture of my cum rolling off her body and onto mine, the slick beaded sweat on her back spread against my chest, the damp hair right beside my head— with the sudden dryness in my mouth and throat. I felt her panting and swallowing hard too, her head turning to the side and our lips pressed in another kiss— and we drank each other in, a thirst sated, a desire yet to be quenched.