En France - The Confessions free porn video

Fizzy energy rippled through my body, I wanted to leave my desk, get out, and just walk.  Staring at my screen, flashbacks of last night pestered my restless mind.  Aggravated by the industrious silence, constrained by cream walls and utilitarian furniture, I had to escape.  Anne-Pierre liked games and last night was her best one yet.  Almost two weeks, five encounters, I thought I had the measure of her; then came the sucker punch. 

Sat in my office chair, weary muscles pleaded for freedom.  Caught in an endless loop, my mind waded through the morass, and my libido refused to quieten down.

Last night, I broke my promise. 

This morning, I hoped to restore it. 

Elodie walked past, a façade of carefree happiness; I knew I had done the right thing.  Stabbing the keyboard, the impenetrable paragraph blurred.  When she walked back, it remained where I left it.

Her shadow darkened my face.

“English, I hope you do not mind but you look unhappy.  Are you okay?”

I huffed, “Yes, I just do not want to be here.”

“Ah, I understand, I want the weekend to hurry up and get here too.”

“Just one more day to go.”

Elegant hands and painted nails clutched a folder to her chest.  A little makeup, genial features, eyes bright and welcoming; she lifted my mood.  Her back to the tall windows, an aura of daylight illuminated her blonde hair.

She smiled, “English?”

I blew out my cheeks, “Sorry, it is such a nice day, such a shame to waste it in here.”

“Yes, I agree,” she mused, “I like being outdoors on days like this too.”

Instantly, I got the hint.

“Elodie, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You can say no if you like, but are you doing anything for lunch?”

“Non.”

“Oh yeah, walked into that one,” and waited for Elodie’s laughter to ease.

“Sorry English, that was too easy.  Where would you like to go?”

“In a courtyard lined with wisteria and roses, there is a very good brasserie.  The food is good and it is the perfect place in this weather.”

“Ooh, it sounds beautiful, when would you like to go?”

“Now?” I pleaded, “I really need to get out of here.”

“Sure, let me get my bag.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Wednesday evening, the source of all my troubles, Anne-Pierre called me and I came running like an obedient pooch. 

Her apartment door closed behind me, she stood there, one hand on her jaunty hip.  That leer fixed on a closed mouth smile, all sultry eyes, and messy red trestles.  She pulled the bow and the satin shimmered when it fell.  Naked, I took it all in, broad shoulders, full breasts generous on her petite frame, areolas crunched tight, and two nubs proud.  She approached, her gaze never wavered; an elegant economy of movement except the seductive swish of her hips.  Magnetically drawn to the hillock of her mons, the rush of arousal thumped in my chest and loins.

Two fingers wrapped around my tie, she grasped it, and pulled.  Our kiss escalated from a soft smooch to tongues entwined without warning.  Quick fingers eased open my shirt buttons and I quivered at her first touch of my naked chest; straight to my nipple.  No meandering tease, her hand clasped my crotch.

“Good,” she purred, “hard already.”

By my tie, she led me to her bedroom and crawled to its middle.  Reclined on her elbows, legs open, she made a simple demand. 

“I have been masturbating and I needed you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Take what you want.”

I stripped hurriedly and mounted her, wrists in my hands, eyes expectant, and the hot exhalation of her breath caressed my skin.

I held it and scrutinised her as the corpulent head rubbed up and down her slit.  I pushed and watched how she gasped.  Engulfed in slippery muscular heat, I gave her every stout inch in one slow invasion of her sex.

The slap of my first thrust pulsed its rich reward into my core, “You are soaking.”

“Then fuck me, fuck me hard.”

Deceived by her supine position, her strength took me by surprise.  Locked in a jostle for supremacy, we writhed, and her relentless limbs tried to overwhelm me.  Clasping hands, fingers that explored, lips locked and snorted air; she consumed all my senses.  A crocodile exhausts its prey this way and she rolled me, I countered.  Skewered hard, she clasped my back with sharp nails and gripped me with her legs.  Hard clattering thrusts made her quake and tremble.  Sudden gasps, the plosive grunts of exertion, she flipped me over.  Silky with wetness, piledriver slaps rose over our groans, she mashed against me with a rapid grinding motion.  I tipped her over, brought her ankles to my shoulders, leant over to trap her, and replied in kind.

“Yes, fuck me… putain… putain.” 

In this cat and mouse game, neither of us gave ground.  Now on my knees, she laid before me, her legs embraced in my grasp; piston shoves shook the fight from her.

Finally, she melted before my eyes, “Merde!”

Bodies blotchy with arousal, beads of sweat ran down my face and body.  Proudly overt, brazen, she rubbed her clit while I hammered into her. 

“How many times have you cum, Anne-Pierre?”

With another whimper, she swallowed, “Not enough times… putain… keep going.”

I could not reach her temptress mouth to kiss it.  Noisy exhaled air, flushed cheeks, and heavy eyes revealed the portents of her orgasm.  I felt the tension grip me and drove on harder than before.  Flailing hips with nowhere to go, she hinged on her shoulders, nimble fingers strummed, glossy with her juices.  Crying out, it shook through her legs and ricocheted into her body.  Gripping her tight, I fought against the clasping spasms and the desperate undulations of her body.  The alacrity of her cries rose and mixed sudden gasps of air.

The seizures of her climax convulsed around me.  Clasping, squeezing, the unbearable friction overwhelmed my self-control.  The ferocity of each thrust shook the bed.  Tying up, we stared into each other’s eyes.  Groaning in relief, I filled her with my seed.

Flushed, sheened with perspiration, and crumpled on the bed; she giggled.  Rolling me over, she rested her head on my weakened body.  Grabbing my arm, she draped it over her

Amused, she watched me catch my breath, “Even two days is too long for you.”

Still panting, I huffed, “Yeah.”

Rays of evening sun competed with the yellowy lamplight.  The surges of restless blood slowly quietened.  I retrieved a fallen trestle of hair and rested it around her ear.  The antiquated fan rattled, it swept over my torpid body and delivered its welcome chill.

“Don’t say anything English, let me look at you.”

Captivated by her gaze, she placed her soft lips to mine for a tender kiss.

“What was that for?” its incongruent nature made me suspicious.

“Because.”

“Why did you call me?”

“Because,” she giggled.

I tutted, “Anne-Pierre…”

She purred, “When I think of you, I become very aroused.  I needed to have you.”

“Really?  Well, I am flattered.”

Surrounded by the ephemera of posters and over-filled shelves, I caught our reflection in the dress mirror.  She gestured to the open blinds that showed the dusk beyond. 

“Do you think anyone watches us English?”

“Who knows, maybe.”

“That arouses me a lot too.”

My curiosity piqued, “It does?  What else arouses you?”

It roused our competitive spirit, a meandering tour of erogenous zones prised out a few reticent confessions.  From a casual indifference, her patient persistence reduced me to a trembling mess.  Provocative kisses toured my body and aggravated my need.  Stroking my erection, curiosity etched on her face, I surrendered to more questions. 

Straddling me for a languid soixante-neuf, nothing remained unexplored.  Her surreal horizontal monologue unfolded, the depth and breadth of more desires.  Lapping at her clit, I fingered that crunched knot of muscle.  Taunting her, she confessed, and rattled the bed in climatic penitence.

Looking up, between my legs, her warm mouth goaded my erection.  A subtle twist of her wrist and a prying finger invaded me.  I surrendered to her stern expression and all her questions.  Maddened by arousal, I agreed too easily and we turned to our experiences with others.

It all came out so easily, rewarded by her reaction, I enjoyed how it enamoured her.  She knew it all, everything in this tit-for-tat exchange, oil poured on the fire.

She prowled the bed as a dangerous tigress.  Adjusted to a three-quarters view, captured as a reflection in the mirror, she exhibited herself out of the window.  On all fours, thighs splayed, she raised her pert derriere.  That mane of red hair swept around her head hung and grazed the bed.  Those devilish eyes narrowed, full lips pouted, heat in her feline cheeks - ripe for the taking. 

Sheened by soft light, the undulation of her curves, rise of her shoulders blade, and the curve of her breasts.  My gaze descended the canyon of her spine through to the small of her back, the cleft of her peachy behind, and stopped at her plump sex, glossy and swollen.

“You want people to watch you fuck, huh?”

Nodding her head, she enjoyed my reaction; pulses of blood stiffened my semi-flaccid cock.

“Stroke it for me English, make it throb for me.”

Watching me, she clasped a cheek of her behind, it gaped her sex.  Two slender fingers dipped inside and made a sticky sound.  Selecting one, she impaled her arse and her features melted.

“Fuck! Anne-Pierre!”

Biting her top lip, she pushed it up to her second knuckle and gasped, “Fuck me there.  If anyone is watching, I want them to see it.”

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Breathlessly, she gasped again, “I like you in there.”

I rose and it jutted from me, a full erection that cut a vicious angle on tight sinews.  The animal within raged on that single thought and each heavy thump of excited blood.  Tracking my movements, her glance dipped to it, hunger in her eyes as she purred to hurry up.  Slickening my raging shaft, I rounded the bed.  In full view of the window, crouched like a dog to his bitch, I pushed against it.  That moment of defeat and penetration, she flinched with a gasp.

It was an easy liquid friction, each tender thrust filled her deeper than the last.  Gripping her behind, there was no energetic abandon this time; it was determined – deliberate.  Caught in the mirror, that snug ring of muscle clasped my girth.  The searing heat compelled me to give her more each time.

I gathered her hair up and pulled gently, “Let them see your face.”

Air ladened with hot perfume and the musk of sex, the fan scattered it as a listless breeze.  Gripping the bedsheets, she tried to push back, and I impaled her fully to change her mind. 

“Putain!” it trailed off as quickly as it arrived.

“You like that?” I hissed, “You like how it looks?”

Her moan warbled, “Oui…” and groaned, “Oui...”

Every lunge forced out gasps and acrid yelps, a litany of short stabbing motions made her breasts quiver.  I found a new tempo, tick-and-tock, in-and-out.  Thrusting from tip to hilt, halted by the cushion of her rump, we clashed with a delicate slap. 

Pausing, filled completely, she turned to glance at me, her wild hair cast as a shroud on the bed.

“More?”

Biting her lip, she whimpered as I filled her completely again, “Oui…”

Adrift in a haze of bliss, her eyes flickered and closed. 

“Rub your cunt, finger yourself,” and with a whimper, she obeyed.

She took my two fingers into her silky mouth and sucked longingly.  Its innuendo inescapable, pussy, arse, and mouth in use, I felt the buzz of her stronger moans.  Maddened by the pulses of pleasure, it spurred me on to feel more.

“Putain… English… it…it…it is so good.”

A slave to the tempo, it took its toll, perspiration fell onto her enlivened body.  Struggling for purchase, strained muscles felt their reward.  Squeezed tightly, our reflection forgotten, she whimpered and shook with every fluid lunge.

“Lie down,” gruffly delivered, and she obeyed my command.

Falling prone, flat as a board, I followed her.  Confined by my presence, weighed down, my arm around her neck, short dogged thrusts slapped her behind.  Her arm animated under her body; I bucked harder to take more.   

“That’s it Anne-Pierre, make yourself cum.  They are watching you and doing the same.”

“Putain…”

Kissing her neck, I nuzzled her shoulder.  She bore down, and I felt my need run away from me.  I had to go faster, the cushion of her behind slapped loudly by every shove.

Her busy hand did not stop, “Keep going, keep… going…”

My strength fading, her frantic cries ebbed away.  Her arm extended, fingers splayed, it clenched at the sheet and pulled tight.  She croaked, groaned loudly, and I did not relent. 

“Cum Anne-Pierre, they want to see you cum.”

The bedstead creaked and rattled, back and forth with the rhythm of my body on top of her.  Tight muscles burned with fatigue, surges of blood thumped in my chest.  With no means of escape, I felt her tremors build.  One obscenity after another demanded my seed as our slippery bodies writhed. 

“Do it, cum Anne-Pierre, let them watch.”

“Putain…”

Barely a whisper now, she bucked and shuddered.  Struggling to contain its violence, I held her tight as she cried out vehemently.  Stuttering, Anne-Pierre quaked through her hips, and my hand replaced hers.  I found it, hard and slippery.  Oversensitive, she squealed and shuddered again.  Her leg aloft, toes splayed, it flapped like a flag in a storm.  An unbearable friction goaded my length and I relented.  The spectacle, sensations, its noise, and fury took me closer to the precipice; I did not stop.

“Continue à me baiser! Ne t'arrête pas, ne t'arrête pas!”

Shrieked loudly, I understood her, so did the neighbours, they banged on the wall.  She sucked on my finger, my frantic attempt to quieten her.  She fought against me and more helpless yelps swelled my determination.  Tart slaps and the whole of my length, slippery fingers hit their target, and she croaked as if drowning.  Convulsing, the alacrity of her cries matched the tension that rattled through her stricken body. 

My fluidity lost, I growled with each thrust.  Muscles binding, short frantic lunges swelled the need for release.

“Tell me Anne-Pierre, tell everyone where it is going.”

She croaked, “In my ass, cum in my ass…”

Everything zeroed in on that moment and the first thumping peals of relief rushed forwards.  Crying out for one last shove, everything stiffened as I pushed.  Her cries mixed with my heavy explosive grunts; each one announced the throb-throb-throb of relief. 

Soaked by the perspiration that fused us together, we fell apart.  Her face obscured under an explosion of lifeless hair, limbs scattered, snatched breaths mixed with the rattle of the fan. 

I slicked back my wet mane, “Fuck...”

Slumped onto my back, battery acid pumped through my veins.  Floating away, a vacant stare filled with white ceiling and cornice.  I lost count of how many times the chill from the fan tried to revive me. 

Mauled pillows, sheets crazed and dishevelled, we laid side-by-side.  Amidst this warzone, eye to eye, she traced tender patterns with her fingers upon me. 

“English?”

She gave me a weak smile.

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you want?”

I groaned, “Right now?  I want for nothing.”

A playful smack stung my thigh, “No silly, what do you want from me?”

I heard the hint of emotion, an unfathomable tone to her question.

“Everything, Anne-Pierre, I want it all.  That is what you want, no?”

She purred, “I can see it in your eyes.  I can tell you have done this before.”

I nodded weakly, “I should not admit it, you could do terrible things to me.”

“I know,” and she kissed me, again, a moment of tenderness.  “English, there is one thing left I want to tell you.”

It piqued my interest, “Oh yeah?”

She bit her lip and nodded, “Yes, but it is too hot, we should open a window and cool off in the shower.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Thursday had two halves, not just at high noon, but an emotional pivot too. 

I awoke that morning and ate toast with Anne-Pierre for breakfast.  The mundanity skirted too close to being a de-facto couple.  What we knew about each other, it existed as an awkward third-person in an emotionless entanglement of two.  She did not kiss me goodbye like couples do; she stuffed her hand down my trousers.

We parted with my morning routine as disturbed as my thoughts.

Lunch with Elodie, I appreciated its normality, a natural continuation of Friday night at the bistro, and our regular lunch on Monday.  Soothed by her presence, my restlessness ceased.

Casting her gaze out over the courtyard, I caught her elegant profile.  Amongst lilac wisteria flowers and the first bloom of wandering roses, this place suited her.  Slender bare arms, the white piping on its sleeve, and her figure perfectly captured in a fitted blue dress.  The wisp of breeze animated her hair.

I think she knew I was looking at her. 

Turning to me, she lent in, bare elbows on the wrought iron table, “What are you thinking?”

“I am just glad to be here.  What do you think of this place?”

She nodded, “Oui, very satisfactory.  I like the wisteria flowers, they are beautiful.”

I smiled.

“And you?” with a mercurial smile, she tilted her head.

“Nothing else really.”

Elodie took a sip from her drink, “What about your lovely surprise?  It is, erm, how do you say, prestigieux?”

“Prestigious,” I placed my napkin on the table.

“So, this is why you asked me to lunch?”  A playful lilt in her voice invited me to play along.

“I think you wanted me to invite you to lunch.”

That curl on her lips lingered, “I did but I did not expect this.” 

She moved in closer as if to divulge a secret, “So English, tell me?  Why the tickets for the opera?”

Deadpan, hard to read, I smiled at the challenge.

I leaned in too, “I have my reasons.”

“You are teasing me,” Elodie pursed her lips.

“Okay, it was a moment of impetuousness.”

Elodie frowned, “Pardon?  What is im-petu-ous-ness?”

“A sense of urgency, to do something without really thinking about it.”

“Ah, impétuosité.  I see, is that all?”

It was impetuous to call the ticket office more in hope than anything else.  As late-cancellation tickets, I did not baulk at their outrageous price. 

There were many reasons: annoyed at how willingly I confessed to Anne-Pierre’s questions.  Dragged into the mire of past misdemeanours for her titillation, it was my own fault.  I measured last night against last week, and what I shared with Elodie.  Without her, there would be no comparison between new and old.  Without Elodie, last night would have been a ‘good thing’.  Last night lacked something, that elusive ‘thing’ I felt now.  I valued that and wanted to say thank you.

There was a fleeting thought, a risk: Elodie might construe this surprise as a ‘rendezvous’.  I was resolute on that matter; we were friends.

“English?”

Looking at Elodie, a sentiment of encouragement in her expression, I sighed, “Okay, not just impetuousness.  I wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” she looked confused, “Why?”

“For helping me realise something important when I told you my secret last week.  I have been thinking about it ever since.  It is such a huge weight off my shoulders.  You understood me, I never thought anyone would.”

“Ah I see,” Elodie paused to reflect perhaps, “and how did you know I liked the opera?”

“We walked past the Palais after we left the bistro, you mentioned it then.”

“Oh yes, I did, do you always listen so well?”

I smiled, “Only when it is important.”

“Yes, this is true, I know this.” she nodded thoughtfully, paused, and leant back in her chair, “Carmen, this is a very good opera.”

“You like it?”

Her eyes lit up, “Yes I do, and it is in French.  You are lucky that I am not doing much on Saturday.  Well, I am going out with a few friends for drinks, they will not mind if I miss it.  It is the Palais Garnier, they will understand.”

Her smile was always so infectious, “That is fantastic!”

“So, where are we sitting?  Will we get a good view?”

“Erm, the premier balcon?”

“Ooof,” Elodie recoiled, “You must really want to say thank you.”

I felt a little sheepish, “It was all they had left.  Are they good seats?”

“Yes, they are,” she paused; perhaps with a pensive expression, as if there was more to say.

“Everything okay, Elodie?”

“It is me that should be thanking you.”

I shook my head, “No really, you do not need to.”

“Yes I should, not many people would listen like you did.  They see Elodie the always-happy-person and they assume nothing bothers me.  Like you, I felt better when I shared my, erm, misfortune.  In France, women should keep their men interested.  It is our culture.  We should be tough too, especially Parisians.  So my secret is as grave as yours and like I said, my friends are no help.”

Sincere and heartfelt, there was no hint of sadness or rancour.

“Do your friends know what happened?”

Elodie shook her head, “Non, they see me as confident and happy.  I let them think what they want to think.  You saw that at the bistro, they are so, erm, frivole?”

“Frivolous?”

“Oui, bien sûr, erm… of course.  I love them very much, but they live for the moment still.  I get bored of it sometimes.  I feel I am more grown-up than they are and now I am a little wiser perhaps.”

“I understand, Elodie.”

“You did last week and you seem so grown up to me as well,” her eyes smiled again.

Happy to be misconstrued, I nodded, “Then I think we helped each other.”

“Yes, I think so too.”

So comfortable in the moment, we sat in silence for a while.

Her sudden intake of breath startled me, “Oh, I nearly forgot, I have something for you.”

“You do?”

“Oui.”

She fetched it from her bag, clean, ironed, and folded, my handkerchief.

Placing it on the table, “Et voila!  There it is, my thank you to you.”

I laughed and she joined in.

“English,” she paused, “you were very… erm… galant?”

“Gallant?  Really?”

“Oui, you were gallan-t.  Very English.”

“Thanks, I think.”  It was not a word used to describe more before; I found it hard to accept but liked it nonetheless.

“English?  All these words are so similar, are they always like this?”

“I wish they were.  My French lessons would not be so hard.  Like the words, I guess we share some things in common too.”

She nodded slowly, “I think we do too.”

It ended with a smile, a little mysterious perhaps, it lingered until I had to avert my eyes.

The memory of this conversation endures after so many years.  Odd really it should be that moment, just a spontaneous lunch.  For its sense of depth and meaning, and glimmers of possibility, most of all, I never forgot the feeling of serenity. 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As Wednesday night drew closer to Thursday morning, Anne-Pierre rested on my chest.  Draped across me, her arm symbolised possession.  Usually, we spoke in simple exchanges, a seductive prelude to the carnal act.  That night, there was a difference: in the listless pauses, hints of tenderness.

Dark outside, I kissed the top of her head.  Stupefied by an evening of carnality, I had no idea why.  Cool air replaced the warmth of her body.  The wandering caress of her hand roused me.  I turned to look at her, cheeks still peaky, lips red, her eyes fixed on mine. 

Stroking me, I began to stiffen, “This is the last thing I want to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Oui.”

My inhibitions long departed; a willing hostage to her desires.  I tracked her movements, and she engulfed my erection without hesitation.  The warmth of her mouth stole my breath. The need to moan grew and I would not stifle it. Eyes full of obedience looked up, cheeks sunken as she conjured my erection.

Crawling up over me, the faint caress of her breast to my torso, she kissed me deeply.  Still kissing, she rolled onto her back and took me with her.

“Put it inside me.”

Sinews stretched tight either side of her sex, thighs open, she pleaded again.  Helpless eyes cast upon me; a simpering pout completed her act of submission.  On her back, knees bent, shins clasped tight by her hands, it was too easy to breach her.

Her body stiffened, and she pressed back to limit my urgency.

“Slowly English, I want to feel everything.”

“Tell me Anne-Pierre.”

Leaning in, her feet on my chest, we kept to a delicate rhythm of sticky sounds and airy gasps.  Slowly, we succumbed to its syrupy pleasure.  Her story unfolded, not embellished with salaciousness, just perfunctory words.  As two couples together, she felt a new caress, soft and feminine.  Driving into her, a sudden wetness slickened these easy thrusts.

“I burned for it English.  It felt so good yet I felt afraid.”

“Go on.”

Taking her to the hilt, she pouted, “Oui… go slowly…”

On my knees, I kept to this easy pace. 

“What did you do?”

She gasped, “I… I froze, yet I felt so… so aroused.” 

Reaching out, I scooped her up and I pulled her onto me.  Sat on my lap, we embraced, the spring her thighs took me.  Prolonged deep kisses animated her body, those delicate hands roamed, clasped, and squeezed.  A long groan of defeat, she flexed and took me faster; that torrid mouth peppered kisses on my neck and shoulders.  Leaning back, suckling her breast, the first smack of our eager bodies leeched through the open window. 

“It drove me insane English, I let them both have me, one in my pussy, one in my mouth.” Her long hoary groan rattled through us, “They took it in turns to fuck me…. hard, I wanted her to watch.”

She explained that the tender caress returned, so different, very feminine; Anne-Pierre wanted to call out for more as the sensations overwhelmed her.  Her sudden climax stunned them, a big release that left her quaking on the bed.

“I came so much, I could not stop shaking for a long time.”

I eased her down into a simple missionary position.  Rising above her, she clasped my behind to keep me there.  I locked my elbows; her hands would not leave me.  Strong legs wrapped over mine and eager heels stabbed to set the rhythm. 

“English, I wanted her so badly.”

In and out, I teased, long strokes, short stabbing ones, a delicate circle of my hips.  Slickened by arousal, I kept going attuned to her gasps.  The vice of sex tightened, the friction pulled at the heat in my core.  Her eyes aflame, she lunged for me, all hips and limbs.  Clasping my body, she pulled and pleading for more.

“I… I… wanted to kiss her…”

Our fury built, our gasps announced the clash of urgent bodies.  Bound to her by taut flanks and slender arms, we writhed together.  All our finesse ebbed away with fevered cries and the bedstead rattled louder.  Looking to the mirror, slotted perfectly together, she ground upon me with fluid agility.  At the apex of her rising hips, I impaled her so hard, she yelped. 

“I want to do it again and go further.”

Skin against skin, breasts crushed, our bodies tacky with heat, I wavered between lust and exhaustion.  I felt it, distant and fleeting.  Driving harder amidst deep kisses, I gorged on the pleasure she gave me.  Her cries of encouragement spurred me on.  The bed slammed against the wall.  The caress of hot breath, sucking kisses, and sharp nails fused pain to pleasure.  She gnawed at my shoulder, clasped my behind, and implored me to go faster.

I plunged into her with such zeal, the tumult of cries, metal on brickwork, and the relentless squeaking bed frame - the neighbours banged on their ceiling.  As two flames, we burned at our brightest.

“I want to do it again… putain…”

Words interspersed with whimpers painted more pictures in my mind.  She pleaded with a question, to do it with her and my reaction surged through me.  Quick thrusts calcified our supple bodies; the lash of her tongue flicked my earlobe and provoked the pressure within.

“Be there with me… say you will be there with me,” she gasped and reached out to grip the bedstead.

Seized by its intensity, the maximum swell of my shaft squeezed against tightening walls of silky muscle.  Barely able to utter a whisper, I grabbed her legs, rose, and clattered into her hard.  A loud slapping sound drowned out her gasps, a fierce slamming motion, and a desperate effort to expel the lust from me.

“Putain… oui, oui…”

She twisted at the waist, taut abdominals revealed and I held firm.  Clasping the sheets, her back arched and I plunged in deeper.  Drops of sweat fell to her shaking body, febrile, animal, single-minded; I could not relent. 

“Say you will,” she croaked, “please…”

"I will… I will…”

Rising up, she shook hard, collapsed, and shuddered.  Hard desperate lunges liberated her wretched climax of seizures and explosive yelps. 

“Putain!  Oh, Putain!”

Caught in its vice, squeezed by rolling convulsions, I threw myself into her.  My body could not contain hers as she flexed and contorted beneath me.  She squealed between hard gasps, grasped me tight to hold me in place.  Driving in, her grip loosened, a croak and she tensed up once more.

With the measured latitude of each thrust, it eased over that spot mercilessly.  In spasm, she juddered and trembled again.  Fighting that vice grip, the pressure inside swelled and demanded more.  Snorted air and incendiary kisses accelerated the lunges into her stricken body.  Crying out, more tight spasms made me groan, and the floor banged again in protest.  Clinging to me, she shuddered harder and stifled herself with her teeth plunged into my shoulder.

“Fuck!”

With brutish thrusts, it rose from within.  From that tentative first pulse, I scooped her into my arms and embedded it in deep.  Her body limp, she took my release with deep stabbing motions until I slumped into her. 

Hunting for air, soaked in perspiration, I ached under this shroud of exhaustion.  Hot, sticky, paralysed and still inside her, I could not move. 

Tender fingers ran through my wet hair, “Did you like that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You are tired, English?”

I mumbled, “Yes.”

“I am not surprised.  You gave me everything, non?”

“Everything.”

A consoling caress followed, I rolled onto my back.  There were a few words, fragments of chatter interspersed with long silences.

“Stay with me tonight.”

“Are you sure?”  I mumbled.

In no condition to negotiate my way out of it, I gave in to the soothing warmth of her body against mine.  I felt a sheet thrown over us.

Her hand placed tenderly on my chest, she kissed my forehead, “Oui, I want you next to me tonight.”

Her thigh placed over mine, the heat of her sex, and a breast pressed against my torso.  I could not rouse myself.

I mumbled, “Okay.  Wake me at eight.”

“I will, do not move English, you look so peaceful.”

I roused a faint murmur, “Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir, ma chérie.”

With a click, behind my eyelids came an inky black.  A tender kiss on my cheek, the soothing cadence of her breathing carried me away.  Anaesthetised, light in body and mind, I slipped freely into the darkness.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Elodie reached out and gripped my hand; it surprised me. 

At this tumult of chorus, orchestra, and the power of the soprano, I felt it too: a quake through my soul.  I glanced over as the aria reached its climax, her features etched with wonder, a glassy eye welled with a tear.

The powerful emotion of the music spoke to me too.  I caught a few words, a couple more verbs than I would normally.  Elodie sat motionless, rapt in the performance; her hand never left mine for the whole of the first act.

During both intervals, we drank champagne; it felt proper. 

The Palais Garnier is an impressive building, imposing, decorous and difficult to miss.  They named the Arrondissement after it - ‘Opera’.  Inside, as we walked in, it stopped me in my tracks with its sumptuous grandeur, effortless in its opulence.  Scarlet red carpets and gilt, light-grey marble lovingly sculpted into towering columns, statuettes, and swooping curves.

Under chandelier light, in a Mondrian block print dress, Elodie’s shiny blonde hair licked at her shoulders and collarbone.  It gave tantalising hints of her curves, knee-length, and her fabulous legs taut on high heels.  A little make-up, light pink lipstick that suited her azure eyes, nothing on the eyes as usual.  A beautiful woman in beautiful surroundings, we chatted, or rather Elodie did and I listened.  Her delight impossible to contain, eyes bright, cheeks dimpled, and that wide smile effervescent with joy.  She caught a couple of admiring glances from passers-by and I smiled at her reaction.

“It is because you look fabulous, Elodie.”

She demurred for a moment, “You think so?”

I nodded, “Yes, I know so.”

“Thank you, this place… this is just… just… so wonderful.” 

The lights flickered and the tinkle of a bell announced the need to return to our seats.

In the remaining acts, I recognised some of the other arias.  Admittedly, I heard them on TV or radio commercials.  Delivered with conviction in their correct setting, nothing prepared me for their intensity.  Occasionally, I looked at Elodie a few times; she looked back and smiled brightly.  Her hand seized mine at the tumult of arias in the second and third acts; I let it rest there.

As a bravura performance, at the final curtain, the ensemble and principal singers accepted a standing ovation. 

My first opera, accidentally I chose well. 

The lights came up, I blinked a little, and Elodie looked at me with a beaming smile.

“English, C'était merveilleux!”

“Marvellous?”

We laughed; the words were the same - again.

“Did you enjoy it too?” she asked, still smiling widely.

“I did very much and I liked the music a lot.  You must tell me the story though.”

She frowned, “You do not know the story of Carmen?”

I shook my head and smiled, “Well, I watched carefully, she had her pick of two men, erm…” and I shrugged, “Okay, I have never been to the opera before.”

“English,” she looked a little dumbfounded, “you sat through all that for me?”

“Yes, I did really enjoy it though.”

“Why?”

“Well I said, you liked opera and I wanted to say thank you.”

“English.  I love opera.” She spoke with a low pitch, reverent almost.

I mumbled a little, “Oh.”

“Mon dieu,” she gasped, “then I must explain the story to you.  The best seats in the house, this is one of the best opera companies in the world, in one of the best opera houses, it is my responsibility!”

She laughed heartily at my reaction, “Come on English, allons-y!”

Helping her through the narrow space between the rows of seats, she did not let my hand go.  Out of the auditorium, we made our way down the wide-sweeping stone staircase.  Elodie took them gingerly; she always wore such impractical shoes.

Amongst the throng and the echoic chatter, she described the story of Carmen.  I had a certain empathy for her.  Elodie made me laugh when she la-la-la’d some of the key passages and what they meant.  Each time I glanced across, she caught me, as if she knew I was admiring her.

She kept looking back as if she wanted me to admire her some more.

Descending the steps, I realised what I had done: this was not lunch; this was a big gesture.  My sentiment was honest - a genuine thank you.  I had no idea about the ceremony and dignity of opera, the importance of the Palais Garnier or the premier balcon.  Nothing prepared me for its emotion and I knew nothing of how much it meant to Elodie.

“I have always wanted to come here English, thank you so much.”

This was special and easily our first ‘rendezvous’, everything I assumed was wrong.  Still so young, I made these kinds of blunders, and emotions were hazards easily tripped over.  Normally, I panicked, clammed up, made my excuses.  For once, this was a happy accident and in the pit of my stomach, I felt butterflies.  A giddy sensation I associated with puppy love even at my advanced age of twenty-four. 

How little did I know; it amuses me even now.

Amongst the marble and gilt, slowly, we navigated our way to the exit.  The crowd on the expansive mezzanine approached.  Only a few steps left now and Elodie might let go of my hand; I did not want her to. 

For a moment, there was a moment of clarity and the staircase became a metaphor.  We would get there, a step at a time.  Looking at her so relaxed and happy, it glowed through me, a crackle of joy from this selfless act.  Like old times, I suppose, not burnished with cynicism and self-doubt.

Stood next to me was the person I owed that to, someone who deserved it.  I got this right somehow, and a new sense of confidence flowed through me.

“English?”

“Yes?”

“My friends are only a short walk away on Rue Daunou, they will still be there, would you join us?”

“For a drink?”

“Yes, Harry’s Bar,” her expressive eyes, full of hope.

I took a deep breath and sighed, “I would be delighted.”

Stepping out of the opera house, we walked out into the warm air of a summer evening…

… and she held my hand.