Between the Vines

I'm wandering back to the kitchen, the place of my imprisonment this summer. One of the guests is sunning herself on the patio - the art class was a bit too much for her, poor thing. I smile sweetly and raise my hand in greeting. She waves back. She's bored and she wants to chat. But I'm busy and I wouldn't want to anyway. If nothing happens with Chloe, there's better talent out here than her.

So back to the kitchen. That's been my job this summer - preparing lunches and dinners for our guests; They've paid through the nose for that all-inclusive Provençal experience with a pretentious dollop of art thrown in. It's an odd mix we get - a few retired couples, some of whom have been coming for years, but to be honest it's mostly middle-aged singles now.

Most weeks there's at least a couple of women in their early thirties. You know the type - they've suddenly woken up to find that life is passing them by. They're stone cold single while all their friends are having babies. They come out here to 'find themselves'. Mostly that involves farting around with oils and watercolours, drinking too much and sleeping with Will or with me. Yup, they're pretty desperate. Easy pickings really.

Occasionally you get a virgin. They do exist at thirty, but they're always the boring ones. They're either so shy that they hardly say anything or they trying so hard to pretend they know what they're doing, that they deafen you with their shrieks. More than once I've woken up with painful eardrums.

The divorcees are the easiest - they practically throw themselves at you. They're so desperate to get the bad memories banged out of them, that they drag you into their rooms as soon as you show up with a fresh stack of towels.

Ah yes - the fresh towels trick. It never fails. That was how I lost my virginity last year. That was to Anthea Harrison - the one Will was talking about. She got married at twenty-six to some hot shot lawyer in London. But he lost interest in months and moved on to a younger model. He strung her along for a few years, while she desperately tried to pretend he wasn't cheating. But the inevitable happened - he chucked her out and moved his pregnant mistress in. Aged thirty-one and divorced for five months, she ended up over here, desperate to reinvent herself.

It wasn't difficult to seduce her - she took an inordinate amount of interest in one of my recipes and force fed me wine before insisting I help her back to her chalet. Five minutes later she was on her knees, with my cock stuffed down her throat.

Five nights in a row, I ploughed Anthea's barely used pussy, exorcising her demons. She liked it hard from behind, liked to bury her face in the pillow - liked to hide her shame. Most do actually - and that suits me. It's the ones who want to pretend it's meaningful, who want to kiss forever before going down on you - they're the worst. You don't go back to them for a second helping; they get very clingy if you do.

Occasionally we get girls the same age as me and Will. We always look ahead in the bookings, check them out on social media, just like we did with Chloe. If we think they're fuckable, we put them in the twin room in the main building - that's the one where the girls are now. It's nice and convenient you see. The door at the end of the corridor - you go through that and then you're on our side, the private side, of the main house. The first rooms you come to are our bedrooms. And trust me - that door has very well-oiled hinges!

You've probably worked out that Will's worse than me - much worse. He's the one who taught me all the tricks. The older brother I looked up to. It was fun to begin with, but to be honest, things got a bit out of hand last year.

It was right at the end of last August. Two sisters came for a week with their mother. We put the mum in the furthest chalet from the house, right next to the pool. The two girls were up in the twin room. We shared them on their second night - my first ever foursome. My brother banged the older one while I popped the 18-year-old's cherry on the other bed.

It was going OK until they got on their knees between us and begged us to wank onto their faces. That was a bit much, seeing them both striped with Will's cum, while they waited, tongues out for my load. By that stage I'd sobered up too much. I felt a bit disgusted with myself. I don't wanna do that again. I'm not fucking anyone in the same room as my brother.

Things went a downhill after that. Mum caught Will balls-deep in a divorcee by the swimming pool the week before he was going back to university. She proper flipped out - I mean a right proper scary flip out. I've never heard her shout like that. She made Dad put up a CCTV camera, so it couldn't happen again. It was after that, she got ill. That's why my parents aren't here. They've gone back to England for the summer. It's cooler there for Mum; better for her health.

So Will and I are running the place. It's our penance for our behaviour last year. Will's general manager and I'm the chef, but frankly I'm the one doing all the work. He just lounges around pretending to be important. But he has behaved himself. He had to. We had to. For Mum.

----

Chloe's POV

----

Bright sunshine wakes me, blasting through the curtains and filling the room with light. Blinking, I reach for my phone. It's almost seven in the morning and there won't be any breakfast for an hour.

I glance across at Emma's bed. It hasn't been slept in, but I'm not surprised. She'll be curled up with Will - I won't see her till lunchtime. She was all over him all through dinner last night. It was embarrassing really - he was the waiter! What did the other guests think?

I push the curtains aside and look through the window. The long grass courtyard below me is deserted. Everyone's still sleeping off their wine. I didn't really drink at all, I was just too tired. I'm not a big drinker anyway. I went to bed about ten. The other guests probably all think I'm very boring. They're probably right.

I can just about see the swimming pool from my vantage point - or at least one corner of it. We went down there yesterday evening before the meal, just to check it out. There were quite a few people in the water, but Emma and I didn't join them. There were lots of signs and safety notices - typical France, safety notices everywhere. But I don't remember anything about opening hours. So, I presume it's OK - I can go for a swim now.

I take an age to select a bikini from my suitcase. I bought five new ones, just for this holiday. Of course, you know who I had in mind when I was choosing them, but I'm not sure he's going to see me in them. I plump for the most conservative and put it on, throwing a t-shirt over the top and a wrap skirt around my waist. I don't want anyone to see my legs.

A minute or so later and I'm pushing open the gate to the pool area. To my surprise, Pierre is there, kneeling down on the side, holding something in the water. There's a small box of test strips and a notebook beside him.

"Oh hi," he says, looking up at me. "I'm just checking the chlorine - I'll only be a minute."

"That's alright," I mumble, taken a bit by surprise.

I choose one of the sunbeds behind him and spread my towel out on it. The pool is beautiful, about fifteen metres by ten, part-shaded by two tall Cypress trees at the deep end. I should really take a photo for Instagram. I'm glad I've got my phone with me.

"All done," calls Pierre, turning to me. "You can get in if you like."

He picks up the test equipment and disappears into the little wooden shed at the far end of the pool. I jump up and take a few shots with my phone. The sun isn't in the most helpful place, but the light reflecting off the ripples looks quite artistic. I can take a better one in a few hours maybe.

I go back to my towel and type out a message for Dad. I reassure him that I'm still alive and that the hotel is as nice as the website said it would be.

Pierre is walking back towards me now. He stops a couple of sun loungers over and starts to lift his t-shirt over his head.

"You don't mind do you?" he asks as he drops his top onto his lounger. "If I don't swim now, I don't get any exercise all day."

Why on earth would I mind? I'm about to see him in his swimming shorts. Who in their right mind would say no.

"No, that's fine," I smile back.

I study him surreptitiously, hiding behind my sunglasses as I fiddle with my phone. What a fantastic torso! Nicely defined pecs with a light dusting of chest hair. I've seen it before on his social media, but it's so much better in real life.

He turns away from me to slip off his shorts. I gasp. Underneath he's wearing a pair of tight, black trunks, which cling to his perfect butt. Oh yes, Emma was right - that butt is perfect! He bends down a little awkwardly to free his ankles, giving me an even better view.

He turns around and my eyes nearly jump out of their sockets.

"Sorry about these," he says pointing at his speedos. "It's the rules over here. The French have a problem with swimming shorts. They think they're unhygienic or something."

"Er, um, don't worry," I mumble, my voice catching in my throat.

Seriously. No girl is gonna have a problem with those.

That bulge... I mean, that bulge. He's huge!

I bury my head in my phone, letting my long, blonde hair fall forwards around my face, hoping he won't see me blushing. He's walking past me now, around the shallow end of the pool to the shower on the far side. This is intense, I'm not sure I can take much more! And he hasn't even touched me. He's hardly even noticed me.

He turns on the tap and water begins to cascade over his shoulders and down his back. He's facing away from me. He doesn't know I'm watching. It'd be nice to sneak a photo, but I'm afraid he'll catch me. If I wait any longer, he'll have turned around and I'll have missed my chance.

As subtly as I can, I lift my phone and take two shots in quick succession. As I take the third, Pierre starts to turn. Hurriedly I pretend to be typing. But it's OK, he hasn't noticed. He's lifting his head up and the water's running through his hair. But I'm not looking at that. It's those tight black trunks; I can't rip my eyes from them!

I'm still in a dreamworld as he shuts off the tap and shakes the excess water from his hair. What a spectacle! It's almost as if he's putting on a show for me.

A splash wakes me from my thoughts as Pierre dives gracefully into the pool. He swims up and down for a few lengths, making strong, powerful strokes. I'm beginning to feel a little intimidated - my doggy paddle won't hold a candle to him. But it's gonna look really creepy, if I just sit on the sun lounger and watch.

He swims over to me and rests his arms on the side of the pool.

"You sleep alright last night?" he ventures.

"Yeah, great thank you," I reply.

That sounded so dismissive, almost rude. Why am I such an idiot?

"You gonna join the art classes today?" he asks.

"Yeah, I thought I'd give it a go," I answer. "I'm not very good, though. And everyone here seems so knowledgeable. I haven't drawn or painted for years."

I sound so defeatist. I'm so pathetic. I brush a few strands of hair away from my face.

"Just give it your best shot," he says with a smile. "It's not about what other people think, it's about what your art means to you. And they're a friendly crowd, this lot," he adds, "I'm sure they'll be really supportive."

I smile and nod. I wanna keep the conversation going, but I don't know how. Should I ask him what he's up to today? Or is that being too nosey?

This silence is becoming awkward.

"You're not getting in?" he asks, backing away a little from the side. "The water's nice and warm."

"I thought I'd let you finish. I wanna get some sun first."

A briefest frown flits across his forehead.

"Fair enough," he answers. "I won't be much longer. I've got a lot on today."

I watch him swim away. I'm so embarrassed. What must he be thinking? He came over for a friendly chat and I just shut him down. Twice. He must think I'm very rude.

I close my eyes and pretend to fall asleep as I listen to the rhythmic splashes. Five minutes later and I hear him get out. He turns away from me to dry himself, and I watch him wrap his towel around his waist.

He walks past and gives me a half wave. He says he'll see me around.

Then he disappears without a backward glance.

I've really blown it.

----

Pierre's POV

----

She's cripplingly shy. It's a shame really, 'cos she seems quite a nice girl. I'd normally swim for about twenty minutes, but I got out after five. It was just a bit awkward with her sitting there watching me. I thought she'd at least get in the water.

She's definitely interested though. I saw her take those pics with her phone while I was showering. She thinks I didn't notice, but I did.

But I kinda know how she must be feeling. She's fresh outta high school and it must be her first time away without her family. Three months' of university and she'll be as confident as anyone else. But right now, she's still a nervous, self-conscious teenager.

Yup - she's like all the girls I popped in my first term at Oxford - overprotective parents, all-girls school, draconian internet filter, sweet, innocent, never seen a cock before - you know the type. Two glasses of wine and they're an easy lay. They practically throw themselves at you. Chloe'll be the same. She'll be sunbathing topless by the weekend.

I reach the back of the main house and greet Benezet and Marianna, the old couple from the village who sort out breakfast and generally help in the kitchen in the mornings. I don't stop with them for long - they're hard at work and I need to go and change.

I walk down the corridor and open the door to the office next to the lobby. To my surprise, Will's already there. The computer's on and he's checking the hotel emails.

I mean, it shouldn't be a surprise. He's meant to be down here at eight every morning to sign the cleaners in and check people out. But, of course, he never is. And shouldn't he be banging Emma around now?

"You been kicked out of bed?" I jibe.

Will swings round in the chair.

"No, I thought I'd make some coffee and get some breakfast to take up," he replies.

"Well, you won't find coffee in here."

"Ah, but I did find you."

"Ah, so that's why you're here. You wanna impress your girlfriend with breakfast in bed, but you still need your little brother to work the coffee machine?"

"I do know how to use it," Will protests. He gives me a fake smile. "But you do it so much better than me."

"I do most things better than you," I mutter.

"Except fuck," he jabs back.

I'm about to snap back at him, when over his shoulder I catch sight of the CCTV monitor. It's showing the wide-angle view over the swimming pool. Chloe is clearly visible, back to the camera, preparing to dive. We watch as she bends forwards and launches herself into the water.

"Hmm, nice perky bottom," Will comments. "She's got a good figure actually. I like those pointy tits."

I feel a little protective, a little angry perhaps.

"Oh that's your game is it?" I snap, nodding towards the monitor. "Your own girlfriend who you haven't seen in two months, is upstairs in your bed - and you've slunk down here to perve on her friend? How long have you been watching?"

Will gives a forced laugh.

"You know she was taking photos of you when you were showering?" he taunts.

He saw that?

"So you've been watching for at least half an hour?" I give him my sternest, most disapproving look. Not that it stands a chance of working on him.

"Twenty minutes," he replies dismissively, waving away my indignation. "No, I was checking up on you. You've lost your touch. You couldn't even get her in the water. I mean she didn't even take her clothes off!"

I decide it's best to say nothing.

Will turns back to the monitor.

"Yup, right little voyeur you've got there," Will continues. "I'm sure she's snuck pictures before. Bet she's spied on me and Emma."

I don't want to listen anymore. Will gets off on the thought of people watching him; I've never understood it. It wouldn't surprise me if his girlfriend's the same. Maybe that's the attraction.

"But that's virgins for you - especially girls," he goes on. "Looky looky but no touchy touchy!" he laughs. "But sometimes they just need a little nudge. Maybe we should put on a show for her? For the both of you?"

"You're disgusting."

"She really has got a nice figure," he says, ignoring my outrage and squinting at Chloe as she pulls herself out of the water.

She turns to face the camera. The water's running off her body, making her skin glisten in the morning sunlight. We watch as she walks round to the deep end and prepares to dive in again.

"Very long legs," Will murmurs appreciatively. "Shapely."

I reach over and flick the switch on the monitor. The screen goes dark with a snap of static.

"Finished?"

I'm kinda angry now.

"Ah ha! Someone's a bit protective? Don't tell me you've fallen for her already?" Will mocks. "That's the first rule - never fall for them - you'll never get 'em undressed if you play the gentleman."

"Mind your own fucking business," I snap.

"Just trying to help," he smirks. "I think you're going a bit soft. Maybe you're getting out of practice."

"You need to get your girlfriend some breakfast, otherwise you'll be the one out of practice," I snap.

He gives a mocking laugh.

"Sooner you get the water boiling, the sooner I'll leave you in peace," he jibes.

It's easier to give him what he wants. Hopefully he'll leave me alone for the rest of the day.

"Fine," I shrug with a weary air of resignation. "I'll go and make your fucking coffee."

"Just the coffee please," he replies with a smarmy grin. "I'll take care of the fucking!"

----

Chloe's POV

----

I hate it here. I wish I hadn't come. I've been replaying this morning over and over again in my mind. Pierre must think I'm a right boring bitch. He must really hate me. I haven't seen him all day. He's probably trying to avoid me.

The art classes are almost as bad. This morning we were meant to be doing watercolours, but I just ended up with a soggy sheet of paper. And this afternoon it was charcoal drawing, but all I did was make a giant smudge.

I didn't quite realise how much older everyone else would be. I thought there'd be a few in their early- or mid-twenties - student types to hang out with. But actually early forties is the youngest. Quite a lot of the other guests are retired. And they seem to know each other well. A lot of them come back year after year.

We've just finished dinner. We're still sitting at the tables, outside in the courtyard. The food's delicious and I quite like the wine. But everything else... I tried to join in the conversation, but the level's so far above my head. It's all talk of artists and galleries I've never heard of and unfamiliar words ending in -ism and -ist. I stick out like a sore thumb. But I always stick out like a sore thumb.

Emma is loving it though. And they're loving her back, of course. She's completely at home with all their pretentious talk. Frankly she's encouraging them. She hasn't taken a blind bit of notice of me. I spent the whole meal listening politely to the older gentleman next to me telling his life story. Fortunately he's been disappearing regularly to the bathroom.

Margret the art teacher sees that I'm on my own and comes over to sit next to me. She's been welcoming and very generous. She's found a million tactful ways to tell me that I can't draw or paint. I feel so guilty. I'm wasting her time.

"How are you my dear?" she asks, in her soft Edinburgh accent.