When I open my eyes, she’s standing in the doorway looking at me, her t-shirt just too short to effectively hide her -unwrapped- mons. Definitely from below.
“Get any sleep?”
“Oh, yeah, good bed, that. Can I sunbathe topless here? Or do you want me in bikini?”
“Let me your judge. The neighbor is 84 and has a weak heart. We don’t want to drop him dead off his stoop, do we?”
In a quick swing, her t-shirt is on my head. For a moment I enjoy her scent, but my curiosity is greater. I yank the pubic veil from my eyes and see her gorgeous, dark body in all its feminine glory before my eyes. Earnestly, I try to reach her face, but the route from pubes, alongside prickly nipples is long. She laughs, knocking my deck back “caught!” when she sees little Desi standing there pointing up. “Come, dirty old man, naked breakfast on the patio.”
Table set, the marguerite just delivered by boulanger Renée already broken, breakfast tea poured, toppings, enfin, complete. The sun shines on her skin. When she puts thick jam on her sandwich, I hope she spills, on her prongy breasts. And so I say.
“You have a horny mind. And then licking me clean for a long time, for sure.”
I blush. “I’ll pump up a double air mattress for you. And you need to lubricate yourself, here, we’re at 720 meters, UV XXL here. I have oil, milk and cream on my desk, choose while I spread your bed.”
She chooses oil, as I hoped. “Do me back” and reaches for the spay. My hands wander from her shoulders down her spine to her tailbone, over her full buttocks and down her side back up. I stir the base of her breasts; she giggles.
“You are so different! With all men, I’d already been on my stomach, with their nail deep inside me. “
“Oh, no, gosh. can I do your front too?” She nods “Lie down then” And then I spray the oil over her beautifully pronged breasts and rub her nipples tight with my palms.
Then southward, her tight belly, the v down to her full mons, then up from her feet, until I get to caress her tight, hard thighs, on the inside. She spreads enough to feel her lips with my little finger and side of my hand, not too erotic, Desi!
“Readyyyyyy girl, lie back and stew, I’m going to work in the garden.”
I drive by with my wheelbarrow too often, she hears me on the softly squealing and she poses a bit. Desi grows a little.
I cut hand-sized roses – warm orange ‘pink compassion’ – and put one in the slit under her mons, one on her navel and two on her nipples and two on her armpits. Beautiful contrast to her dark skin. She smiles, I grab her smartphone and take some pictures to share later. She looks sweet and -as far as I’m concerned- still virginal….
She smiles “Let me get a good look at you” and I spin around in front of her, proudly showing that I don’t have a bulging old man’s belly, have to hold my arms high to avoid having hangover tits, twist my nipples hard and make rapier movements with my proud, thin prick, quite long for his age. I pull back his cap a little, so he can watch too. The heat makes my balls hang low swinging. She thinks it’s cute how my buttocks sink into my thighs a little wrinkled. And that’s what I find embarrassing about my body. “No, I think that’s sweet, so furrowed. My brother of 16 is tight and smooth, but still a lousy lover. And you must have pleased many women already.”
I pull a parasol over the airbed and flatten my tanned body against her side, boldly placing a hand on her belly. She falls asleep and snores softly, sweetly. I let my eyes slide unabashedly over her body in erotic fantasies, but I too sink into a sunbathing sleep. I jolt awake as Desi pours his manly pleasure over my navel, shockingly, without hands.
“I must be teasing you too much” she says and runs a finger through my still warm seed, licking a finger off, chuckling and washing my belly white.
“« gicler sa foutre » is what it’s called here, do you have a wet slit now? “
“For your information, yes. Sounds sexy by the way in French, squirt goo, you can hear it rustle…. do you want to watch me get myself ready? “
“And that in turn is called « jouir », there’s something about getting happy in it, better than getting ready, that sounds so pragmatic…”
I sit cross-legged between her spread legs, paying close attention to where her long fingers with bright red nails seek out her fun spots. Her glossy black lips fold open to the flaming flamous I hoped she would have. As her belly tightens and her mons jerks, my eyes jump from pussy to face, orgasm reading is so beautiful. “Jouiiiiiir” accompanies her womanizing. Her fingers shine wet. She looks me straight in the eyes until it is quiet again behind her mons. She smiles “you are right, jouir is happier. Or is it because you’re the first guy I trust enough to look at my fingers? “
As we step into « La Commerce », both in skinny jeans and clinging t-shirts, she with all too effective cleavage, Hervé greets me with bisous on both cheeks, looking at her questioningly.
“Diane, une amie de ma nièce Lizz. She’s been keeping me company for a while” I introduce her.
He wraps his arms around her “Jolie, n’est elle?” and the bisous get charge as she presses against him with her knee behind his buttocks. I can imagine, Hervé is a beautiful man, I would love to feel his hard crotch against mine too.
The plat du jour today is rabbit, lapin chasseur, with salade gésier beforehand, and a red Saint-Pourcin. When we are seated, he pours us a sparkling Vouvray, “to celebrate you” he says, looking into her eyes, still too tight in his jeans.
“Nadine will thank you, she gets nailed before three this afternoon. Bet she brings the salad? Curious who’s spearing her cock.” And I’m right. Nadine winks at me, as if she knows, what I think, she will experience. Or does she assume, that we are amours?
“Look who came to take stock, and in no time the whole commune knows I’m being grandly spoiled. Shall we leave it at that?” she puts her hand on mine and caresses my forearm against the hair.
Later, as she sucks the soft meat from her rabbit leg, her face takes on the expression, which I saw a moment ago. “Jouiiiiir” I whisper softly and she nods, as the sauce drips from her chin. So seductive. “You spill” and I wipe her mouth.
She doesn’t really want any cheese, but when Hervé explains that tomme de montagne comes from his uncle, I get to feed her a slice. She thinks it’s too bland. She likes the spicy blue cheese from Larequille, le bleu d’auvergne, better, sharp on the tongue.
Nadine brings us desserts, dame blanche, no, dame noire, variation d’Hervé today. dark chocolate ice cream with white chocolate sauce on top. “Looks like his foutre on me belly” she says in such a way that Hervé hears. He grins hornily. After coffee, she slides a fifty into his waistband and grabs there for a moment as if he were the stripper. A tip like that makes you popular.
I have arranged a VPN through Moengo and Diane chats with her friends in Amsterdam on her tablet as we lie on sunbeds in the dark looking at the clear starry sky.
Then I ask if she knows where her last name Yellwell comes from.
“We are a family of strong women, that’s because of slavery. Men are there for pleasure, but they can be sold just like that. We were always taught not to get too attached to them, even after the manumission. We women take care of ourselves. One foremother, 150 years ago, was always very loud when she had a man and the whole plantation heard if he did well. They called her yellwell and proudly she took the name of Servina Yellwell as a free woman at manumission.
We are descended from one slave named Frits, who had been brought to the Caribbean from Nigeria around 1690. ” In the moonlight she sits proudly straight, almost singing:
“I am Diana of Francina of Georgiana of Fransisca of Cicilia of Andrea of Brigita of Servina of Martina of Anna of Cornelia of Andrea of Regina of Dianora of Christina of Cicilia of Frits.”
“Indeed, a line of women, back to before slavery and no man to be seen except your ancestor. You learned that from mother to daughter?”
“Yes, and on annual parties, first the little ones show off that they know it, while everyone quietly listens in, and then again all in chorus. My chod, I’m going to miss them with me year anniversary next month!”
Cogs in my head are already starting to turn again, to create a surprise there.
“Family, so full of stories. Made me want to do anthropology, non-western then. Would it be safe to make contact here at the Uni? Here sits the guru of French-African cultures, from which I also read dissertations. Would love to meet him so much.”
“Must be a little less exuberant then, than you were with Hervé” I warn her. “I can call around for you tomorrow, because to understand the English here, you need to know French, so let me.” I get a duckface kiss.
Unfrench, I get the professor on the line immediately in two steps. He knows Diane’s publications and more importantly, his English is Oxbridgian. They talk for fifteen minutes and make a working appointment for next week, along with a few students. He should know, how we sit here on my terrace in our naked buts, also unfrench.
We make a shopping list, replenish what has not come along. Bath odors for example. “What you use now is so Lizz and my love. I think you are a woman for « Fleur de Figier » by Rogier & Galet, naughty and sweet.”
“Are we going to smell, they have at least 10 others, shows here on me mobile. And for you, we need to find C-strings and jockstraps. You have a drawer full of flags and haven’t bought underpants in a hundred years!”
“But I always go commando!”
“And if we have to get out of our clothes somewhere neat, then?”
“Okay, but for you a set too, tight over your mons and your camel toe. Chic, right?”
“And a push-up for your ass.” she laughs at me.
From her purse she pulls out a roll of 50s and tosses them to me. “Put them double folded in your breast pocket, I love it when I’m paid for, that macho.”
I don’t know if in the perfume and lingerie shop we are looked at as granddaughter and grandfather, or me as dirty, old guy. I think the latter, given our color difference…..
At the perfumery, I was right, no attention to rose scents, but a full, sweet fig. She compliments my choice, while in my mind I play old girlfriends with those scents on a tissue paper under my nose.
For underwear, we each went into a different magazine, surprising each other later. I found the support for my ass combined with a push up front, which suddenly gave me a full bulge behind my fly. I was reminded of a friend -cup pancake- who stuffed her bra with cotton balls and the surprise, when I unhooked it…. Furthermore, I took too challenging and too tight thongs. ‘Ponkje’ was the name of the thing in my Frisian youth, but that was for earthenware marbles, glass ‘koegels’ and ‘bakkerts’.
She grins when I catch up with her at the checkout, I can tell from her eyes, that she has pranks in mind. “You’re going to see!” And I pay quite a bit out of my breast pocket, unabashedly as if no pin paying existed….