French Connection

When I was in college, my younger sister took a year abroad with a host family in Nantes, France. She got on well with them, and my parents and I were invited to join them for the Christmas holidays. We, never having visited France before, decided to junk the usual holiday traditions and go. And so began what proved to be a coming of age experience such as I had never imagined.

It was not that I was completely naïve (those few relevant experiences comprised at the time of two rather forgettable groanings in the back seat of an '88 Chevette and a few drunken mutual gropings in darkened dormitory beds). It is simply that I had not encountered a woman like Etoile before.

She caught my eye directly when I stepped onto the train platform in Nantes and I had that catch-breath feeling of connection and desire, a bolt from the blue. Her hair was a shining black, blowing about her face and the high collar of her dark overcoat. Her hand clasped her coat closed, but there was an alluring triangle of pearly-white skin visible below her neckscarf and between the V of her collars, revealing the first rise of her firm, swelling breasts. But it was the eyes that did it, dark and sparkling. Imagine my surprise when I saw my sister next to her and realized that this was the mother in the family we were visiting!

Her name means star in French, and while we fussed with bags and made our greetings, my mind kept recalling a line of verse from a long-lost French author

La nuit est noire, mais la lune et les etoiles brillent (The night is black, but the moon and the stars shine through)

She kissed me on both cheeks, and her breath was warm. She smelled wonderful, like lavender in the evening, but not quite. It was more like a flower I had not discovered but now desperately needed to search out. I was enthralled, starry-eyed for a moment, and then I turned and her husband, according to his tradition, shook my hand and kissed me on both cheeks, causing me further befuddlement and feelings of weirdness. Cheeks or no, I'd never been kissed by a man before, and I wasn't feeling that European yet.

They were wonderful hosts. The husband was a local judge, much older that Etoile, and though his name was Jacques, I took to thinking of him as The Barrister, as that was the title on the door of his home office. He was a tall lanky man, and he cooked the Christmas dinner himself, bounding around their home in a chef's hat that nearly grazed the ceilings. Now Christmas dinner in France is something altogether different from the load-up-the-table-and-eat experience I was accustomed to. I lost track of the number of courses around seven. From the start of the hot hors d'oeuvres to the last glass of port, we were eating for more than five hours, and the sun had set. As the coffee and chocolates helped rouse us all from our slumberous states, the music began in the great room.

French folk music with a strong beat and vigorous men's voices boomed from the speakers in the room and the guests began to dance. I sat at the side, talking with one of the grandfathers, who had taken a shine to me because I was the only one of the family who spoke passable French, and he wanted to find out about the strange customs of the far-away city of San Francisco, among others.

I felt the touch on my shoulder and looked up, and there was Etoile, cheeks glowing and eyes shining, slightly out of breath from dancing with her daughter. She held my eye as she held out her hand, and when I hesitated, she glanced away, then back, and then she winked at me. C'mon. I stood, and put my hand at her back. She smelled still of some exotic midnight flower, and we began to jig around with the others to the rushing beat of the song. She was all eyes and smiles, glimmer and sparkle. I pretended not to notice.

The song finished and then began the first slow number of the night, and I had a moment of panic but she would not let go my hand, and so I pulled her closer and began to dance. I could feel the heat of her body through the light material of her blue print dress. Her skin was perfect, and the few lines at the corner of her eyes were all that belied her age.

She breathed into my ear, "Ahh, si j'avais encore dix-huit ans." (Ah, if only I were eighteen again.) My French was good enough to understand that, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up as a jolt of electricity ran down my spine and out to the tips of my fingers.

"Oui," I stammered, and though she couldn't have been more than in her mid-thirties, still I had never found myself attracted to someone more than a year or two older than myself.

She nustled closer to me, and I felt her soft breasts now pressed into my chest, through my shirt. Despite myself, I felt a hardening in my pants. I looked around, and the rest of the scene was unchanged, oblivious: the barrister twirling his daughter, the grandfather tapping his foot and smiling, my own parents foxtrotting gallantly and looking rather redfaced from the wine.

No one cut in, no one stopped the music, and I was left dancing close with this immaculate and miraculous woman. Her own cheeks were flushed, and she was writhing slowly, pressing harder when she pressed, and yet maintaining the veneer of the discrete dancing of the others. Trouble was brewing, as I was amassing a full-blown erection despite telling myself no, to stop, that this was crazy and dangerous and that I was going to find myself with one pissed-off middle-aged French husband in a few seconds if I didn't get this situation back in its box.

I guess it is worth at this point mentioning that I happen to have a large penis. There, that's out of the way. And we can go on with the story.

It was wearing fancy Christmas slacks, pleats in the front, and when I spun her around I glanced down and saw that I was pitching a more-than noticeable tent, if you catch my drift. I reached down to try and free myself, inconspicuously, and hoped to press my cock up against my abdomen, even tuck the tip under my belt if I could so it wouldn't stick out away from me. And just as I was about to, she finished her pirouette under my hand and pretending for an instant to lose her bearings, flung her body stomach to stomach against mine. I felt her press hard on my erection. The pressure freed it and pressed it up against my stomach, but I knew she felt it. It must have caught her in the left hip or something, and now I blushed, feeling my face hot and my fingers cold. She remained pressed against me for a moment, and she ground her hip into my now throbbing, embarrassingly large erection, and as she did it, she looked into my eyes. She raised her eyebrows and then leaned forward again and said, "Mon Dieu, vous etes tout d'un homme." (My God, you are all of a man and then some.) And then, thankfully, the song came to an end. I bowed and made the quickest exit I could for the bathroom.

I splashed cold water on my face and stared into my own face in the mirror. "You better get a hold of yourself," I said to myself, somewhat in disbelief, but I couldn't help the shit-eating grin. "You fucking stud, you," I said, trying on a different tact. It had taken a moment to sink it. I tried to do something with my erection, but at nineteen years old, after an experience like that, it's fruitless. I thought I'd have the erection until a week into the new year. I unzipped my pants and flexed once, feeling a tingle then a warmth and still amazed at that age at the size of my own member. I supposed it had stopped growing, but wasn't sure. I buckled up and grabbed my suitcoat from a chair when I walked back into the room. Stepping out onto the deck, I looked out over the snowy hills and moonlit trees, breathing in the cold night air and hoping that this would have some effect so that I could return to the party without my police billyclub proceeding me for everyone to see.

What happened later than night I suppose I brought on myself. I don't know why I did it; I didn't know what I was doing, but I did it anyway. You see, as the party broke up and I headed to the stairs, just then when she said goodnight and I said goodnight back, I winked at her.

The faintest curl of a smile formed at the corners of her mouth, as she looked down quickly and turned away.

It was a towering house, and my room was on the fourth floor under the eaves. I had just crawled into bed when I heard it. A soft knock at the door. I was up and opening it before I could catch my thoughts. There was Etoile, in her nightgown and robe, a stack of towels in her hand.

"Etoile," I said, surprised.

She held the towels up a bit, saying, "Avez-vous besoin?" (Do you need some...?) but the phrase died on her lips and the real question was blazing in her eyes. We held the tension of the moment between us for a long instant, and then I relaxed my shoulders and opened the door a bit wider, and suddenly she was through and her hot kisses were covering my mouth, my cheeks, my now-closed eyes. She pulled back, the towels cast upon the floor, and pressed a finger to her lips. Then she shut the door, and took the back of my head in her hands gently and began kissing me deeply. I kissed her back, terrified and yet elated, standing in my boxers, feeling my very much alive.

I was erect in an instant, and as she felt my cock brush by her as it rose up in its arc, she murmered "ooh la," and reached a hand down softly to caress me through my shorts. Her hand was now rubbing, firming its grip, and she moved to bite my ear, gently, and then whisper.

"Vite, vite. Oh, j'en suis desolee, mais tres vite...en silence," she breathed (quickly, quickly. Oh I am sorry but we must be swift and silent.), and as she did so I nodded and began to pull the robe from her shoulders. She pulled back and stopped my hands. Then she unlaced her robe and dropped it, and then pulled open the knotted string at the top of her nightgown and slip that down. In the cascading moonlight, her breasts stood round and soft, the nipples dark and jutting, and I just about passed out from the shock and candor of her ease of undress. She wore dark, high-cut panties, and when I came to my senses, I reached for them, but she grabbed my hand and brought it to her mouth. She drew one of my fingers into her mouth, then a second, and then she plunged her mouth down and sucked hard at them up to my knuckles, and I though for an instant I would come right there, standing up on the floor. But no, that would happen soon enough...

"Mon cher," she said, and then something rapid in French that I did not catch that was some kind of explanation or instruction, and I stood there waiting, until she put her hand on my shoulder and pressed down, and I sat on the edge of the bed. Then she knelt, for all the world like something out of a movie for the deliberateness and lack of nervousness of her actions, slipping off my shorts and standing my cock straight up to it full height.

"Ah, c'est vrai," she said (it's true!), and then a few other words I couldn't make out, but they seemed to be words of wonder and appreciation judging by the flash of the whites of her eyes in the moonlight. She gently wrapped one hand around the base of my cock, tender from its long-suffering erections of the night, and then wrapped her other hand around the shaft on top of the first, and still the head of my manhood was visible. I'm not one for rulers and yardsticks, so let's just say it's a two-fister, and then a bit. She kissed the tip, and then, taking it into her mouth, raked her teeth firmly across the top. Fireworks went off in my brain.

"Shhhh," she said, looking up, and then returning with gusto to the task at hand, she removed her top hand and took me long and hot, deep into her mouth, so that her lips kissed the top of the hand at the base of my now-throbbing thunderstick. God, but she was strong! I felt I was ready to come almost before I knew what was happening. She was pumping, pumping, her raven hair shining in the moonlight, her generous mouth taking in more and more, deeper and more lustily by far than those few timorous girls I had to date known, and I clenched my jaw as I felt that unique seized-up feeling in my balls that meant it was close, so very close.

She came up for air with a gasp, and said again, "C'est formidable!" (It's fantastic!) and then, seeing the expression on my face, she cooed, realizing how close I was. She then licked the first two fingers of each hand and grasped me gently, beginning to stroke. I was unsure if she wanted me to come on her or not, but it was all going to be out of my hands in a few more strokes. Then she bent down again, pushing my knees apart and pushing my chest so I lay down on my back. She climbed up onto the edge of the bed to better manage the angle, and began again with great deep strokes, and I arched my back, balling the covers into great fistfuls with my hands, and just as I did so, well, there's no other way to say it: she put her finger up my ass. This being a first for me, I was terrified, it felt strange and cold yet she squeezed my cock more firmly and in my nervousness I completely lost control, shooting grand hot bursts of cum into her mouth, while she swallowed and wiggled her finger and held me steady with her other hand. It was an otherworldly orgasm, and my hands tingled with loss of feeling, a pins and needles that went all the way up my arms into my chest. When I finished convulsing -- worrying with more concern that I would have liked whether this meant I was partly gay or depraved or some such thing that I had never considered -- she removed her hands and mouth and quickly stood and grasped a towel.

I pulled myself up on my elbows, massively swollen member now lying glistening in the moonlight against my body, while she hurriedly pulled on her nightgown.

"Adieu, mon petit chouchou," she whispered (Goodbye, my little pet), and then turned to go. At the door, she looked back one more time, and though the moonlight shadows made her face hard to see, I am pretty sure that just before she closed the door, she winked.