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I WAS WORKING in what passes for an office in the back of the house, ghost writing a paper for some Ph.D Chinese chemist in Nashville. Claire was in France at a conference of some sort, so I had the house to myself for a week or so. Then the phone rang and everything changed.
“Allo, Jack.” It was Luce, my sister-in-law. I guess I was expecting the call. “Your sister’s not here,” I responded, in the best French I could muster, which has never been all that good.
“I know. It’s you I want,” she began in French. Kind of direct, with a double or triple entendre to boot.
“Well, here I am. Talk.”
“Smart ass. You know I didn’t call to chat.”
“Yes, I know.”
Two years are not long enough to forget someone like my sister-in-law:
“I’ll be there for you, and you’ll be there for me.” (Actually she said: Je vais etre là pour toi et tu vas etre là pour moi.) I was scared, and she said that was the idea. It is hard to dismiss something like that, especially considering the blow job that preceded the declaration.
“I know you want me now. You’re getting hard just talking to me.” I was silent. What could I say? She was reading my mind or at least my libido, and yes, I am getting a bit stiff listing to her whispering in French.
“Bon. The Ritz-Carlton in Atlanta tonight.”
Before I could say “whaaat?,” she hung up. I think I was supposed to fill in the details. I did, of course.
Atlanta was convenient for us both. Regular non-stop flights from MSY and YUL. I had checked that out long ago. I’m sure that when it’s time for me to go to hell, I will have to change planes in Atlanta. So, I put a few items in a backpack, donned a not-too-wrinkled blazer and caught the 4:01 to Hartsfield. After the usual delays and waits, we landed not too too late, about six-forty-five or so. I took a cab to the Ritz.
She was waiting for me at the lobby bar in the hotel. Electricity shot through my body and guilt through my mind as I walked in her direction. We greeted each other in French, then in English, and engaged in what must have been the most passionate kiss in the history of the Ritz-Carlton lobby. Bodies together, hands on boobs and crotch, and lots of heavy breathing. Hell, I mean I had been excited and ready since hanging up the phone in the morning, and now…
We moved to a booth to be more comfortable and sat facing each other, largely so we could gossip a few minutes before beginning what we came for. We had a round of drinks and another and munched indifferently on bar food, or hors d’oeuvres as the Ritz called it. A forgettable trio was playing elevator music in the corner, which if nothing else kept our conversation private.
I began: “Been thinking about you forever, it seems, especially the last couple of weeks.”
“I know,” she replied in French. “And when Claire went to Europe, you wanted to call me but you were afraid. So, I called you.”
“You don’t have to be a psychic to figure that out.”
She undid the third button of her blouse, her Aztec necklace dropping between her tits and silently shouting she was wearing no bra. But I knew that: Her nipples, long, hard and protruding through the silk had signaled that upon my arrival.
Her breasts were neither large, nor small, but firm and exciting. She was really just as I remembered her from two years ago: hazel eyes peeping through round tortoiseshell glasses, a round face looking Silivri Escort out between her short brown hair parted in the middle. Her large, round earrings were a perfect complement to her long and ever-so-sensuous neck. Earlier I had noticed how her figure hadn’t changed at all. Hips that were wide but not too. Jeans that were tight, but not too. As I think I’ve said before, she was pretty but not too, slutty but not too, and sensual as hell. And, of course there was that little mean streak.
We swapped small talk, explained what we had done since that weekend at the lake – my tryst with the neighbor, her weekend with the warlock. (I didn’t ask.) I was in a depressive phase, and about to give up writing and do nothing but editing. She reached over and took my hand. “In that case, let’s go upstairs. Maybe we can find something for you to write about.”
I grab my backpack and hand-in-hand like high-school sweethearts we head for the elevator to the 15th floor. We are alone in the elevator, allowing us to kiss and hold on to each other and to touch and feel each other’s body. I squeeze her ass tightly and press her body against my rising cock. Her tongue traces the contours of my ear while her hand presses between our bodies and down the front of my jeans. The excitement, the expectation, the anticipation. I am that hungry for her. I wonder if she has the same effect on other men – or women, too, for that matter – at least those who are not sorcerers or brothers-in-law.
As she rubs my cock through my jeans, I reach under her blouse and let my hand climb her spine. I take a nip of her ear lobe, gently, deliberately. She sighs. A near moan, really. We nearly fail to notice the stop on the 15th floor. I stick my arm out to stop the door from closing, Luce picks up her shoes and we leave the elevator. She hands me the little card that replaces a key. And after a quick trip down the hall I somehow manage to unlock and open the door.
It is an enormous suite with a sofa at one end and a monster of a king-sized bed on the other. She walks to the table next to the sofa and pulls a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from an ice bucket. Still terribly cold. She hands it to me and while I clumsily open the bottle she fetches two glasses from a shelf. I pour.
We give a silent toast, touch glasses and drink, the bubbles gliding over my tongue and down my throat. We quickly finish our flutes, and I pour two more. I’m being melodramatic, of course.
She leans against the table and grins, a wicked, conquering grin. She kicks off her shoes and puts her arms around my neck and pulls me onto the coach. I land on top of her, we kiss once more, a deep, sensual kiss, our champagne-soaked tongues searching, probing, meeting; our breaths drawing faster and stronger, her body drawing closer and closer, our bodies and beings melting into one. I move my fingers up and down her spine, from the tip of her ass to her long neck, feeling each vertebra, each finger working slowly, meaningfully.
This woman made me want her, made me desire her, made me crave her, all of her. She has captured my soul, captured me. I am a fly in her web, but a willing one. I reach for that right breast, with the taut, long nipple, the flesh soft in my hand.
I kiss her neck and behind her ears, and softly blow my warm breath into her ear. “I want you, Luce. Je te désir.”
“Of course you do.” Her legs part beneath Silivri Escort Bayan me and I brush my erection against the silk panties covering her pussy. Her jeans at her waist and my cock struggling to be free of my own jeans, we roll over, and we continue our simulated fucking.
She stands. Her jeans fall to the floor as I push her blouse off her shoulders. She stands before me in her panties. Gloriously naked. She wants me to admire her form, and I do. Taut breasts. Large dark areolas. Café-au-lait skin. Trim waist. Athletic legs. Perfect hips. She drops to her knees, her torso between my legs. As she unbuttons my shirt, I continue to stare. She keeps her glasses on. Though I never thought of her as really pretty, those glasses make her look sultry, and I imagine she knows my sentiments, as she knows all my other thoughts.
As I begin to stand for one reason or another she shoves me back to the sofa and finishes unbuttoning my shirt, her magical fingers working quickly and skillfully. She presses her soft hands against my chest and shoulders and arms to remove the shirt – I am already going crazy, clutching at the fabric of the sofa to keep myself from exploding.
She puts her hand on my cock. Whoah! I take a deep breath as she begins to undo the belt, then unhooks the button and slowly unzips the jeans, my cock, stiff, thick and straight, protruding through my shorts. I shut my eyes, grit my teeth, take another deep breath as she pulls my jeans to the floor. That conquering smile returns. Cradling my balls in her hand she laughs as her head bows over me. (Was that an evil laugh or am I just paranoid?) She licks up the shaft and kisses the head before taking it – taking it all. I nearly scream. I grab her shoulder to steady her and myself, as her head moves up and down on me, taking as much as she can with each motion. She takes me deep and lightly bites my shaft. My body is shaking, shivering as I grow harder and harder and bigger and bigger. My own hips are moving back and forth, my eyes closed, my breaths coming long and hard, and I moan. Damn, do I moan. And she suddenly stops. That conquering smile sending her silent message: “A toi. Your turn…”
Well, it’s my turn, indeed, and I am eager to get to work. She stands and walks to the bed, falling on her back into the huge pillows. I move toward her to remove her panties, and kiss the insides of her creamy thighs, moving steadily and excitedly upward, passing over her pussy, my face fully in her bush, and down to her toes and back up again. She moans and turns, which, of course, adds to my own excitement – if that’s possible. And I dive into her dark spongy mound of Venus and bury my face in her love juices, my tongue hunting for and finding her clitoris, already long and firm. I suck on it, massaging it with my lips and stroking it with my tongue. Her strong scent is driving me crazy, crazy with desire, crazy with lust. And she moans and twists, and I can feel the rush of her passion. I am drowning in her essence.
She pulls on my hair, lifting me up. I go without an argument. I think I am afraid to do otherwise. I kiss her lush body all the way up until my mouth touches her breasts. I am eager, as is she, and I rise to kiss her neck and her ears, my throbbing penis pressing against her legs, her sides, across her tits, leaving droplets of pre-cum as I go, and finally her neck. I stroke my cock under her chin and across Escort Silivri her shoulders before descending again, to allow me to kiss her lips as I position myself at the entrance.
Then, I drive my cock inside her, sliding swiftly and easily through our juices. I come back slightly, then drive in again, trying to give as much pleasure as I can, and maybe even some pain. Yes, the pain could be a revenge of sorts, a revenge of the future when she ruins my marriage. She arches her back, and with a sudden gasp of breath she cries out in joy and agony. I try to imagine that I am filling her body, even choking her with my thick cock. I pull out, slowly all the way out. Her muscles seem to grip my cock to keep it from leaving. I pull out, but only for a moment, then I pound in, pounding and pounding and pounding as if I were trying to rip her apart. Maybe I am.
We turn and suddenly she is on top, now the one in charge. She sits atop me, that same conquering smile as if despite all my efforts she at last has me, and she does. She rises off of me, then back down. In and out and in and out and in, and out. I watch as my hardness, red and purple, disappears inside her, then reemerges amid more moans and sighs. And I am moaning and sighing, too, grabbing the edges of the sheets to stay under control… I press hard to stay in control and she just laughs and tries to rush me to climax, knowing full well I want to refuse.
Then, she begins to quake and that conquering smile and confidence fades. Her movements become hurried. And she jerks, as I begin to explode, crying her name in a muffled scream, “Luce, you devil, Luce, you bitch.” She just continues to moan and softly cry her “O mon dieu, my god, yes, yes, oui, oui, it’s there, it’s there, c’est là, c”est là, C’EST LA.”
I am now on top again, holding her wrists over her head against the mattress and staring down into her face, her glasses now somewhere under a pillow or on the floor. I want to stay in control as long as I can, but… “Jack, Jack. … O mon dieu, Jack, C’est là, c”est là, Jack, O my god” again and again and again. I let go of her wrists and pound harder and harder, and we come together in a niagra of sex in a duet of moans and tears. Then she collapses in silence. I give a final moan and final rush, and I hold her tight in my arms.
# # #
I think she fell asleep first. The next morning, as the sun entered the room through the large window at the left of the bed, I woke with her massaging my dick, and before I could reach out to touch her, she went down on me. The same phenomenal blow job as in the car on the side of road two years before.
We showered, soaping, shampooing and caressing each other, then dressed and went to breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Neither of us had had dinner the night before, and we ate quickly and fully. We returned to the room an hour or so later, undressed, smoked a joint and fucked. We watched a porno movie, then fucked again. Same thing after lunch and before dinner. I couldn’t get enough of her, her soft skin, her deep hazel eyes staring into mine, her full muff glistening with the dew of passion, her dark hair hiding her face, her welcoming and tight vagina pulsating about me. Minutes after succumbing to her, I was ready to take her in turn, hard, eager, hungry.
When morning came again, after an evening marked by more groping and kissing and fucking and blow jobs, we shared a taxi ride to the airport. With Luce snuggling against me and rubbing my limp dick, I stare ahead, dead tired. As we neared the terminal, I drew her close for a final kiss, my hand on her breast.
She got out at the first terminal. “Next time,” she said. And again, that conquering smile.
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