Foreign Tongues Pt. 01

PART 1.

The restaurant was slowly clearing out. I had been waiting for her for over three hours.

"Stood up again," I thought.

I had three glasses of white wine, and the appetizers I had ordered were left untouched. I didn't feel like eating. Actually, I wanted to get drunk. But not here, not at this place, the wine alone was going to set me back about 30 euros. I was hoping to impress her. Her. Celine. We had been trying to make this work. It seemed like we were always trying. What is the expression the yanks like, 'A for effort'? It was something like that.

We didn't work. The sex was amazing! But a relationship can't exist on that alone.

In truth, she had texted me. She wrote an hour before we were set to meet and said, 'I'm sorry, I can't do this.' But I was stubborn. Yes, that's me, an adamant Frenchman. That's what she liked to call me. When it came to pleasure, she wanted it, "my unyielding Frenchman!" she would call me. I could satisfy her over and over again. That is when stubbornness worked; that is when we were a match.

She liked it - a lot. So when she would stay at my place, I would run to the bakery and buy her fresh croissants. Then, I would tiptoe out and sneak back in. I'd make my famous coffee, adding my signature cardamon seed for flavor, then take the coffee and croissant to her. She would be wrapped up, breathing gently and rhythmically, her breasts barely peaking out of the covers. Finally, I'd strip down, still watching her, getting harder just breathing in smell, inhaling the scent from the previous night's intense passion - sweat and cum.

"Bonjour, ma belle!' I'd say, tugging down the cover just a little to expose more of her pink nipples. She'd moan slightly, a soft exhalation that'd make me even harder.

"Babe, good morning." I loved the word 'babe.' It was so American, or so I thought. At first, I thought it seemed immature, like something from a teenage series straight from Hollywood. But she was anything but immature. On the contrary, she was a publishing agent living in Paris and working for "The House Above," an agency with several big-name authors. Moreover, she had graduated from Harvard at the top of her class. Doubled majored in international relationships and Germanic studies and was absurdly well-traveled.

This was my favorite part of our mornings together. Our schedules permitted us a few days each week to have this time together; I drank in every second of it!

She stretched; as her arms lifted above her head, the rest of the heavy comforter fell away from her beautiful, well-formed breasts. I buried my face into her neck and began gently kissing her. She was warm soft. She released a gentle sigh, a soft moan. I nibbled her ear, then whispered "bonjour," she responded, in the cutest accent that always drove me wild, "bonjour."

"I'm going to run to the bathroom," she said.

Sitting up fully, she glanced down. As I had been kissing her, I was leaning over and was now sitting upright. My cock was fully erect. Then, standing up and getting out of bed, she stood over me. Running my hand over the small of her back and down her firm buttocks, I gave it a gentle slap.

She ran her left hand through my hair and forcefully pulled my head back before kissing me. At the same time, her right hand reached down and began stroking my cock. She took one step back, knelt, and took it entirely into her mouth. Falling backward, I propped myself up on my elbows, she looked up, and I fell into her hazy eyes. Often I wondered if I could get off looking at her eyes. Her gaze was so intense. I reached up and held back up her hair; she maintained eye contact. Usually, I liked it when she used her mouth and hands. The stroking and sucking together. But she didn't want me to cum. I knew this. She knew I knew this. She wanted me to look at those eyes. With her two free hands, she reached up and ran her nails from my stomach down both of my thighs. My cock popped out of her mouth and flopped onto my lower abdomen with a wet slap.

"Oh, dear, our coffee, and croissants! They'll get cold," she said.

"Really?" I replied, chuckling lightly. I sat up and began stroking myself. We played games like this; we teased each other, we drove each other crazy.

She stood up and wiped a line of drool that had been slowly inching its way down the corner of her mouth. Using her index finger to do so, she walked over to me. I was always awestruck by how fantastic her body was. It wasn't just now, being crazed with desire. At times, even without my raging libido, I'd catch sight of her and have to pause and think, 'my god, she's beautiful!' Walking over to me, drool still on her index finger, she tilted my head back as she had done a few moments earlier. Pulling her to me was automatic. I wrapped both my arms around her waist.

"Open wide, my dirty little Frenchman," she said.

She licked the drool off her finger, then slowly let it fall into my mouth. Then, leaning down, she gently bit my lower lip.

"Good boy," she said

I had to break myself from this bittersweet daydream to answer the server.

"Sorry," I said, "I daydreaming."

"Not a problem, monsieur. Would you like me to clear your appetizers?"

"Please, thank you. I am still waiting on someone. What time do you close?"

The server looked at me with a mix of pity and inquiry. "Not for a few hours, monsieur. I am sure they will show up."

Again, that look of knowing. Had he been stood up before. Should I ask? Maybe he can console me. But, no, that's not what I need. I need something else..

"I'll have another glass of the house wine, please."

"Right away, monsieur."

I glanced around the restaurant. It was indeed quieter now. Celine wasn't coming. I knew this. I decided on one more glass of wine. I seldom came out. I was, in all honesty, a bit of a recluse--an artist who wouldn't even attend his gallery openings. An artist who spent his days walking in parks and nights holed up in his studio. An artist who seldom dated had a few close friends and had crippling anxiety.

I was playing with the silverware on the table. I'd rotate the spoon and fork, shift them, and then put them back in place. I hated the idea of everyone being on their phone in public. I only had a flip phone. I wanted something for emergencies and nothing else. So, fiddling with utensils, it was. As I rotated the spoon, I caught the reflection of a woman sitting a few tables away. She was looking at me - or at least in this direction. I put the spoon down and turned to my left, in the direction she was sitting. Our eyes locked; she had been looking at me, not just in this direction, but at me. She smiled softly, then looked down. Her hair was a bit of a mess; she looked a little frazzled, and her tabletop had several books on it with a laptop open. The wine had slowed me down; that was evident; perhaps I had been staring for some time because she looked up again and gave a slightly awkward smile. In the meantime, the server delivered my fourth glass of wine. I looked at it, then looked at her.

'You won't even go to your openings, but you'll toast a stranger?' I asked myself.

"Santé," I said, raising my glass.

She turned partly towards me, raised her glass as well, and said, in a very soft voice, "cheers."

I took a sip, which was probably more like a gulp, and I fell back into reverie.

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