My French Holiday

They were the two most beautiful young men I’d ever seen. Both tall, around six feet, and slim they had the olive complexion, brooding eyes and floppy dark hair that characterises so many young French men. I’d learned they were both studying at university, English and Business Studies, they’d told me. In the summer they came back home to the village near Deauville to work as waiters in a local restaurant.

On a whim I’d decided to take a break at a friend’s house on France. Kevin, my ex had negotiated as part of the divorce settlement that he could take Sarah, our fourteen year old daughter, on a three week holiday every other year. I hated being without her but was powerless to resist when he’d said he was taking her to Australia via Singapore and back through Bali. I knew that in some ways it was good for her for. Despite the acrimony of a divorce brought about by his persistent unfaithfulness, we’d tried very hard together to make the trauma as harmless as possible for her and I’d let him have quite generous access..

The thought, however, of three weeks alone in the Docklands apartment with all the memories of Sarah around me was horrible. So I phoned Marcia and asked if I could use her house in Deves, a tiny village twenty or so miles inland form the famous French resor of Deauvillet. I’d been there once before with Kevin visiting Marcia and Bill and had though it to be idyllic, but we’d only stayed one night on our way back from the St Tropez. She readily agreed saying, “stay as long as you like no one will be using it for weeks yet.”

I’d driven down in my new BMW using the train through the channel tunnel from Folkestone to Calais. The roads had been radically improved since the last time I’d been there and I was surprised to find myself driving through Deauville no more than two hours after disembarking from the train. I did some shopping and then set off down the back roads for Deves. The village and the house were every bit as lovely as I’d remembered and I settled in quite quickly. I reacquainted myself with the four bedrooms, the quite extensive gardens and small swimming pool. I explored the house noting how well furnished and appointed it was but wasn’t surprised for both Marcia and Bill had great taste and oodles of money. I felt that I was going to enjoy myself and soon found I was able, albeit a little guiltily, to put Sarah out of mind, most of the time.

I’d gone to the restaurant the first time on the recommendation of the old lady in the local boulangerie. She told me when I bought my bread the next day that it was the best in town, not surprisingly, I later learned, as it was owned by her cousin. It was a small, very typical French country restaurant. More like the front room of someone’s house really. Just eight or so tables it had a limited menu and was very much a locals place to eat.

I saw Luc and Richard the first night I went there. They served me the most delicious meal at the most ridiculously low price. Although we passed some pleasantries, after I found to my relief they spoke perfect English, acquired I subsequently understood from having learned it from the ages of five and from having spent a year in Bournemouth and London as part of the course. We didn’t say much that first night.

Although there were other restaurants in the village there’s was at the end of the main road nearest to the house that was a couple of kilometres outside the town. I didn’t want to drive for I liked to accompany my meal with a bottle of wine and I’d seen quite a few local gendarmerie around, so I walked.

“Hello again,” Luc said brightly as I walked in,, “ table for one is it?”

“Yes please,” I replied feeling pleased he’d remembered me.

“Hi,” I heard from behind me, “welcome back.” It was Richard coming out of the kitchen holding two plates for the only other diners in there.

I sat down and Luc came over and with the rather blunt way of the French he told that I was almost too late for dinner as the restaurant closed at nine and it was nearly eight thirty now.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t realise,” as I remembered how quirky restaurant opening hours can be in many of the off the beaten track areas of France.

“No problem but we do run out so you may not have much choice, I’m afraid. We only have a very small menu of choices the chef gets in the market each day,” Richard explained brightly.

“That’s ok, what do you have?”

“Let me check with the chef.”

He went away and returning after a few minutes explained that there was either guinea fowl or fish. I chose the former with goats cheese and rocket salad as a starter and a bottle of the local white wine. As I waited Richard came up a couple of times bringing the bread, some olives and the wine. He was friendly asking whether I was on holiday and I told him I was explaining where I was staying.

“Oh right Bill and Marcia’s house?”

He told me that they often came in here and that he liked them both very much. Just as he was saying that Luc delivered my starter and Richard told him where I was staying.

“That’s Marcia’s house isn’t it? Luc asked, aAdding, “they really are lovely people, they come in here a lot and we’ve got to know them well.”

“Yes I’ve told her that,” Richard said pushing Luc jokingly as he went on, “she knows we think they’re lovely.”

As we were all l laughing the four other people in the restaurant left. Richard poured me the wine to taste and then they left me to get on with the starter. It was absolutely gorgeous as was the guinea fowl and the soft tort dessert. In fact everything was wonderful. One of them brought me coffee and the other offered me the house after dinner drink which was an aniseed tasting liquor. They stood around as I sipped the coffee and the drink and we chatted with them explaining what they did and why they spoke English so well.

They were easy ttalk to and seemed interested in England and me so the time passed quickly. They gave me another drink and had a couple themselves pulling chairs up to my table.

“I’d better be going,” I said after at least an hour had passed after I’d finished dinner, adding, “I thought you closed at nine.”

“We do really but that’s just for food and the locals. For others and especially for pretty women we have no hours,” Luc said smiling broadly.

I liked the flattery of course and I sat chatting to them for another half hour or so before I said I’d have to go. I suppose a little nervous thinking of the couple of kilometres walk down the dark street so I was relieved when they said they’ run me home as it was on their way to the small flat they shared in a large farmhouse set back in the woods behind the town.

It became my regular. I ate there for the next couple of evenings having the most delicious basic French food prepared and cooked to perfection yet in a simple manner that only the French seem able to get away with. I spent my days walking in the hills and woods, taking drives into Deauville and Honfleur and visiting the beaches and war graves of the Normandy landings. I’d brought my PC with me so I did some writing and kept up to speed with my e-mails and with work and I had the pool so I could swim and top up my tan in the solitude of Marcia’s garden. It was tranquil, beautiful, restful, interesting and fucking boring. I had so much time on my hands, I met so few people, I got sick of woods and hills and if I saw another war grave I think I’d have screamed. I was dying for some fun, some adventure and thrills, some excitement, anything to break the bloody boredom of what I was doing.

I began looking forward to my evening meal more than anything else. At least there I got to have some intelligent conversation. And I was getting to know Richard and Luc as well as the chef Henri quite well. They seemed to like having me around so as well as having dinner there most of the first week as that ended I began popping in for a coffee in the mornings. That relieved the bloody boredom a bit.

On about the fifth evening we sat chatting longer than usual sharing a bottle of wine. Just the three of us, Henri had gone, “to see his hooker,” Luc had said laughing.

“Really?” I asked, surprised at how open he was.

“Yes of course, a man like Henri has to have his pleasures doesn’t he?” Luc stated in a very matter of fact fashion.

Laughing, Richard added, “and what woman would havehim other than for money?”

We all joined it the laughter and I said, “oh that’s not fair or kind Richard.”

“No but it’s true Amanda, could you imagine being in bed with his fat sweaty body?”

“Well no I couldn’t,” I agreed the vision of the chubby, short Henri, naked coming into my mind.

Then out of the blue Luc said, “

“Do you imagine the body of anyone in bed with you Amanda?”

I didn’t know quite how to answer such a blunt, open and personal question so I sipped my wine silently.

“Well? Richard asked smiling, “do you Amanda?”

“Sometimes I do yes,” I said trying to hide my embarrassment.

“Who do you imagine in bed with you?” Luc asked resting his fingers lightly on my wrist.

“Oh you wouldn’t know him,” I muttered lightly.

“Oh I feel disappointed,” he smiled looking right into my eyes.

The enormity to me of what he was saying made me feel a little funny but as he laughed making light of it I thought that possibly he was joking or that I’d got the wrong end of the stick.

In bed later that evening the conversation came back to me and I suddenly felt so lonely and frustrated. It had been several months since I’d lain in a man’s arms and many more since I’dbeen in the arms of a man that I felt a lot for. Months of sexual deprivation, of longing and wanting but not wishing to put myself through the agonies of an affair. Months of missing the feel and touch of a man, his roughness and his hardness. Months of frustration and months of using the substitute for that which I recognised I was starting to use now.

As my hands found my breasts and as my fingers pinched my nipples so the feelings welled up so very quickly. As I caressed and cupped my full, sensitive 35 d cup breasts so my body was filled withla longing that I knew I would have to satisfy. As I did that. As my fingers found my wetness and gyrated that wonderful piece of gristle so I did visualise someone in that bed with me. I did imagine I was not alone and that it was a man giving me the shuddering feelings. But it was not a man I knew, well not sexually. And it was not a clear vision. The edges were blurred, it was a combination. Flashes of different men. Two different men. Yes I was in bed with an amalgam of Luc and Richard.

I felt a little foolish as I showered after having a remarkaby strong orgasm. Not silly at having done that for, after all, it’s natural isn’t it? Well at least it’s natural when your body is as starved of sexual gratification as mine is. No, foolish at visualising being in bed and making love with such a young man, one, biologically at least, who could be my son. But it hadn’t been one man had it? No it had been both of them, well not actually both at the same time, that was ridiculous. No it had been each of them at different times. The vision had been of Luc holding me for a while only for his features to fade out to be replaced by Richard’s face on my breasts. At one time it was his back who my arms were around and then Luc’s hips around which I wrapped my legs. Richard holding me as my orgasm soared out of control and Luc comforting me as it subsided.

As I went to the restaurant the next evening I felt slightly embarrassed at the thoughts I’d had of my two friends. Two young men just pleased to have the chance to use their English and happy to show off their restaurant to me. Two good looking guys that could have the pick of any of the stunningly attractive young, slim French girls I’d seen around this and the adjoining villages. That I, a thirty eight year old divorced woman with a daughter nearer to their ages than I was, could even entertain such rude and outrageous thoughts appaled and slightly frightened me.

“Was I becoming so frustrated,” I wondered, “that my mind could imagine such things? Would the inevitable increase in the feelings of denied sex make me think about even more and more outrageousacts?”

They’d told me that there was going to be a little party in the restaurant that evening. A local’s birthday so it would be more formal than usual. The French, even in the country can be quite dressy I’d noted on such occasions.

“You look fantastic Mandy,” Luc said quietly as he showed me to my usual table near to the window. Holding my seat out for me and flicking the napkin undone I felt his eyes roam over my body bringing back the visions I’d had in bed about him the night before.

The white silky dress I was wearing was tight across my breasts and high at the front but plunged down at the back almost to my bra strap. It was slightly above my knee and had slits up each side to round about mid thigh. I wasn’t wearing stockings or tights of course and my tanned legs were set off nicely by the white of the dress. I’d even painted my toe nails that poked out from the strappy, mid-height heeled shoes. I felt that I did look good but Luc’s compliment was still reassuring and welcome.

“Oh Amanda,” I heard Richard say equally softly as he brought the bread and olive oil, “ how pretty and wonderful, what a gorgeous dress, you look magnificent.”

As they both stared at me I felt myself blush a little. I was also acutely aware that my nipples were hardening and I saw them staer at them before discretely looking away. There was no doubt, though, that they had seen them and that just made me blush even more.

The party of ten, three other couples and one other old man by himself filled the restaurant and it was noisier and much busier than it had been any other night. Although this meant that the two of them had their hands full they still paid me lots of attention lingering at my table either alone or together on many occasions. As usual we chatted easily but this time there seemed to be more intensity about their words that seemed to more and more come round to rather intimate matters. More compliments on my dress and figure, questions about what I got up to in London, remarks that were flattering if a little near to the mark at times. I put it down to the way of the French who can be amazingly blunt and too the point, especially about topics that most other races would consider too delicate to discuss.

They had music playing tonight, something that hadn’t happened before. And yes, it w as the typically French, Stefano Grappelli, Django Rheinhardt and Edith Piaf stuff. As the other diners finished their meals and after Luc and Richard had cleared away and brought out loads of wine and beer the tables were pushed back a little and the people from the party began to dance. I thought of leaving and letting them get on with that but they wouldn’t hear of it and quickly I found myself dancing with one of the party. It was fun, I enjoyed it and I danced and chatted to the party of people as best as my broken French and their little English would permit.

With the kitchen now cleaned up Luc and Richard joined in and I danced with both them. Rather energetic jiving with one and shimmying on the spot to quite fast music with the other. Around ten the main party started leaving and then there was just the three of us left. Richard poured us each some Calvados and put on an Edith Piaf’s greatest hits CD. Luc took my hand and pulled me up into the centre of the room as her haunting voice filled the place. In his arms he pulled me close, far more closely than decorum usually suggests. So close I could feel his body against mine from our heads that were touching across our chests and stomachs and down the front of our thighs. Although the slow music indicated hardly any movement was required it was a provocative and very sensual dance. It made me feel a little light-headed, made my heart beat a little faster and it gave me a feeling of slight excitement. As I felt his fingers trailing across the bare skin of my back and as the most famous Piaf number, Je ne Rien Regrets, oozed around the room so my head started to swim.

“Do you have regrets Amanda,” he whispered right into my ear.

“How do you mean Luc?” I asked.

“About your marriage, about your divorce about not having a man?”

“Of course,” I replied a little hesitantly, “we all have regrets don’t we?”

“Yes but I was asking about your regrets wasn’t I? Are you happy with your life, being alone and all that?” he persisted again taking our conversation down very personal lines.

“I have some,” I said softly feeling in part a little concerned at the intimacy of the questioning but also comforted that we’d become so close that we could discuss such things. His hands were moving on me. Not quickly or overtly suggestive but slowly around my back and waist.

“And what are they if I may ask?” he breathed as one hand slid a little further down to rest just where the cheek of my bottom balloons out from beneath my waist. He softly rubbed me there. The feeling through the thin dress as my body was pressed against his was disturbing.

“Oh it’s all so complicated Luc, too long a story to go into now,” I replied avoiding answering him but enjoying his emrace.

“I think it’s my turn now,” I heard Richard say as he came and stood beside us.

I danced with each of them twice. Both whispered questions and compliments to me and each of them lightly caressed my body. It was heady stuff indeed.

They gave me a lift home seeming to completely ignore the drink driving laws.

“What are you doing tomorrow Mandy?” Richard asked as I got out of the car.

“I haven’t anything planned,” I replied

They said that tomorrow, Sunday, when the restaurant was closed, as it was on Wednesdays as well, oddly but then it was France, would I like to spend the day with them visiting a market in a town some twenty kilometres away? I was pleased to agree.

We had a lovely day. I drove for they only had a beaten up old Peugeot. We had a walk round the market with me buying a few bits and pieces for the flat and some clothes for Sarah, had lunch at a restaurant overlooking a beautiful lake and then wandered round the lake in the dense pine forest. As we walked we held hands, me in the middle.

We sat on the bank and chatted letting the warm sun beat down on us and we paddled in the cool waters. They both took their tops off and I pulled my loose flowing voile skirt up to let the sun get to my legs. We laughed and joked and told each other about our lives. As we lay side by side on the pine needles, I explained about my divorce with both of them saying how mad Kevin must have been to have strayed away from me. I told them how things change during a long term relationship that neither of them could have experienced. But still they insisted that he was crazy to, as Luc put it,

“Abandon the comforts I had.”

I laughed saying, “what do you mean comforts?” Was I fishing for compliments I wondered as Richard replied?

“Well your beauty and your body. You are a beautiful woman Amanda.”

I felt a little uncomfortable at such blatant compliments with such obvious undertones but knowing they were said sincerely and with the Gallic charm of their race I simply smiled at them and said,

“Now, now, not too much flattery you’ll make me feel big headed.

“But it’s true,” Luc went on raising himself on one elbow and looking down at me. “You are wonderfully good looking Amanda, you don’t look your age and you have, er, a magnificent figure.”

I didn’t know what to say being so unused to such forthright views. Richard continued.

“It’s true you have the body of a younger woman and the face of an angel.”

That made me laugh for it was going a little far but the words also had other effects on me. After all what woman wouldn’t be flattered by having two young, French men extol her virtues? It made me feel warm towards them and, I have to admit, a little aroused.