tagInterracial LoveProper Charlotte

Proper Charlotte


Author's note:

My apologies for the butchered French. Corrections welcome.


I kept sneaking glances at her as she sat alone, scowling at the menu. How could I help it? She was beautiful. She was also incredibly dark.

When I checked in, Mrs. James said there was only one other guest staying that week. That wasn't a surprise for a country inn in October, almost an hour from the nearest town. I only picked it because it was closer to the gypsum plant I had to inspect.

"And what would you like for dinner, dear?" Mrs. James was hovering over me. "I do all my own cooking, so if there's something in particular you want, I might be able to manage it."

I ordered something quick. Sometimes at home I'd try to cook myself something interesting, , but I was too hungry to be fussy.

When Mrs. James asked the woman, it became a long back-and-forth about the food and then choice of wines. The woman had a thick French accent and Mrs. James was struggling to understand. I studied Spanish and French in high school, so could make it out a little better. She was very particular.

When our meals arrived, I caught the woman's eye and raised my beer in greeting. She looked at me blankly and focused on her food.

She had to be in her late twenties, a little older than me. Her face was feminine and regal, her frizzy hair cropped close. Her eyes were captivating: dark and almond-shaped, but different somehow from the eyes of Asian friends I knew.

More captivating, though, was how dark she was. I'd been all over North America for my job and thought I'd seen every variety of people. Not so.

In contrast, I was terribly pale—light blond hair, pasty white skin, and light-colored eyes. My great-grandparents came from Scandinavia somewhere, so I was told. Even my eyelashes were light. I hated it.

When she finished eating, the woman left without even glancing at me.

I took my time eating and chatting with Mrs. James.

"You really run this place by yourself," I asked.

"Only this time of year, dear. My sons and grand kids come help in the summer. All the tourists, you see. But now in the fall I only get one or two people a week. I can handle it myself just fine."

"And this was your home?" I asked.

"We converted it to an inn when the kids left home. It does well in the summer. Now, I know the rooms are small, but there's the sunroom addition in back and downstairs is the new gym and sauna. Use them any time."

When I finished, I was walking up the dim narrow staircase to my room when I ran head-to-stomach into the woman coming down.

"Ooof! Regardez où vous allez!"

"Sorry!" I said. "I didn't see you."

She scowled and slipped past me down the stairs.

In my room I set up my laptop to prepare for the week. I did the pre-sales surveys for industrial machinery. There would be interviews, measurements, and blueprints to study. The first day was always the worst.

Thoughts of the woman distracted me. Was she visiting from France? Why was she alone?

Hours of driving to get to the inn also left me full of restless energy. I decided to see if the gym was any good. You never knew in these little places.

The basement gym had a good set of machines and free weights. Wicker chairs sat in one corner around a low table heaped with magazines. A large bathroom at the end of the room had a shower stall and whirlpool tub. It was all I needed.

After working out for an hour I felt much better, so went to find the sauna. I'd read how they were popular in places like Sweden, so figured that with my Nordic heritage I should try it.

Pulling off my sweaty shirt but leaving on my shorts, I grabbed a guest towel and found the wooden door of the sauna down the back hallway.

Hot, wood-smelling air blasted me when I heaved open the heavy door. A single dim bulb lit bare pine walls and benches.

When I closed the door behind me, I realized I wasn't alone. The dark woman sat on a towel on the far side of the room, naked.

She was leaning forward, palms on the bench at her sides, her full breasts jutting from between her arms. The whites of her eyes flashed as she peered at me in the gloom.

I blurted, "Oh, crap! Excuse me. I thought I was alone down here."

I turned to flee, but in that French accent she said, "It is okay. There is room."

"No, no," I said, "I'll come back when you're done."

"Ridiculous. It is for all."

I turned to her. She looked back with a blank expression, not seeming to mind her nudity at all.

I sat down on the opposite side. The woman gave me a curt nod, and then drooped her head, ignoring me.

The room was shockingly hot. I concentrated on getting used to it and tried to keep my eyes to myself.

As I adjusted to the gloom, I could make out the woman more clearly. Her breasts were capped with midnight-black, areolas and sloped upwards. Her legs were long and toned and her entire body gleamed with perspiration.

She must have felt me looking. She lifted her head and observed me. I looked away like a guilty child.

"It is not sanitary," she said.

I looked back. "Uh, pardon me?"

She indicated my shorts. "Clothes in the sauna. It is unhealthy. Les bactéries pousseront."

"Bacteria?" I said.

"Oui. Enleve-les. Take them off."

I remember reading that in Sweden everyone used saunas naked. Men and women together. Something about nudity not being a big deal with them, but it was in other places like France. In fact, I didn't think saunas were a French thing at all. I explained my confusion to the woman.

"Je ne suis pas de la France," she said in beautifully enunciated French. "Mais de la suisse. I am Swiss. Comprennez? There we use the sauna correctly."

Well, okay. I wasn't going to let this very correct Swiss lady think I was breeding bacteria in my shorts, so I stood and slid them off. She eyed my crotch quizzically, then nodded in curt satisfaction and focused on the floor again, ignoring me. I sat on my towel and tried to ignore her too, focusing on the intense heat.

After five minutes, she stood. I had a brief view of her womanly figure: long legs, full, firm breasts, lush hourglass body, and incredible round ass. She was stunning. She wrapped herself in her towel and she left without a word.

Ten minutes later, I had enough of the heat too. I went back to the gym, a towel around my waist.

The woman sat in one of the corner chairs, wearing a white robe and picking through a magazine. Again, she ignored me.

I went into the bathroom to shower. The cool water felt wonderful after cooking in the sauna.

Guest robes hung on the bathroom wall, so I put one on and went back out to the gym. The woman was still there, so I decided to introduce myself.

"Hi," I said, extending a hand. "I'm Travis."

She regarded me, then shook my hand curtly and said, "Charlotte."

"Nice to meet you. Staying here long?"

"Until Friday."

"Me too."

"Okay," she said and turned her attention back to the magazine.

I had planned to return for another session in the sauna, but after Charlotte's frosty reception, I just went up to my room.


That night I tossed, trying to get used to the too soft mattress. It curved like a salad bowl, a big central depression formed by years of couples fucking. I could only think of Charlotte. What a puzzle: from Switzerland but French? I thought they spoke German. And black? To me, Switzerland was one of the whitest countries imaginable.

Images of her lush, dark body blazed in my mind. Her beautiful face, her eyes, her breasts, that shapely ass, that smooth gleaming skin.

I had many questions. Too bad she was so damn unfriendly.


At breakfast, Charlotte again sat alone at her table dressed in a tailored suit jacket and skirt.

At my table, Mrs. James set a plate of eggs and sausage before me and asked, "Are you two working together at the plant?"

I looked over at Charlotte. "You're working at the gypsum plant too?" I asked.

"Oui. I review their finances this week."

"Oh? You're an auditor?"

"C'est ca. My client may buy them."

"Oh, yeah. I heard something about a buy-out. Just a rumor though."

She went back to her breakfast but said, "And you?"

"They're buying machinery from my company. I'm planning out the location to make sure has all the requirements before they finalize the purchase."


It was a twenty-minute drive to the plant. No other car was in the parking lot when I checked in, so I asked, "How are you getting there?"

"They come for me."

"Oh? How about you drive with me? I'm going there every day this week."

"They are already on their way."

"Phone them. Tell them you have a ride. I think they'll be glad not to waste time playing taxi driver every day."

Charlotte looked at me with suspicion, but she pulled out her phone and called.

"I must be there at nine hours," she said after hanging up.

"Great, so do I. Meet me at my car outside when you're ready, okay?"

As we drove, Charlotte looked out at the trees and kept to herself. I managed to get out of her she was visiting from Zurich and that she was lead auditor of mergers and acquisitions for her firm.

"I thought they spoke German there," I said, trying to make conversation.

"Yes, and of course I do. But my family speaks French. There are many French in Switzerland also."

"And your family is from Switzerland?"

She sighed. "I was born there. My parents are from Cameroon."

"That's, uh, Africa..."

Charlotte cast me a peevish look. "Central Africa. South of Nigeria."

"A long way from Switzerland."

"And you? Where are you from?"

I told her, and also explained how I had traveled across most of the U.S. and Canada for my company.

"But I haven't been to Europe," I said. "I want to go. Switzerland looks beautiful."

"Yes, beautiful." She said nothing else until we arrived at the plant.

At the gatehouse, a portly, impatient-looking little man was waiting.

"I'm Mr. Warner, plant manager. And you two are only here because I allow it, okay?"

I mumbled some pleasantry. Charlotte scowled.

"The owners say you're here all this week. Waste of time if you ask me. I could have given them all the information they needed. But you're here now. And while you're here, neither of you will disrupt production, got it? We have orders to meet and we will meet them, understand?"

"Yeah, of course, Mr. Warner," I said.

"That includes getting killed. I don't expect you two desk jockeys to understand, but we process gypsum here. It's dangerous. Conveyors that'll rip your arm off, kilns, rolling mills. Yard traffic. So you two will stay with your escorts. You will not wander. You will not touch anything. You will go only where I allow it. Get it?"

Mr. Warner harangued us about safety for ten minutes then spent another ten trying to impress us with his importance and knowledge. When our plant escorts arrived, it was a relief to get away from him. Charlotte went to the main office while I went to see the site where our equipment was to go.

I started by talking to the site managers and electrician about where they thought the equipment should go. I took measurements, scouted the HVAC, electrical, and water feeds, and collecting drawings.

Mr. Warner didn't seem to have much to do: he dropped by often, always to make unnecessary comments or incorrect assessments. I tried to be professional, but by the end of the day, my patience was worn thin.

At 5:00pm, Charlotte met me at my car and got in without a word. She sat with her arms crossed as we drove back to the inn.

"Did Warner bother you?" I asked and explained my experience with him during the day.

"Yes. He is... very rude."

After that, Charlotte was silent all the way back to the inn.


When we arrived, Charlotte went up to her room, and I called my boss to report on my progress. I also explained the situation with Mr. Warner.

"Yeah, I heard he's a bit of a prick," he said. "Just humor him and don't piss him off. He has the owner's ear and could cancel the contract."

Charlotte re-appeared at dinnertime and sat at her little table. I offered to join her, but she waved me away.

She scanned the menu with disdain and had another long discussion about alternatives and preparation.

"Sorry, dear," said Mrs. James. "I only keep so much on hand this time of year. I can cook almost anything though. I have to drive into town tomorrow for groceries so tell me what you prefer and I'll see what I can find."

After dinner, I went down to the gym to work out and again to the sauna. It was empty, but I still stripped naked and sat on my towel, soaking up the intense heat. I was starting to like it.

The door opened and Charlotte stepped in, breathtaking in her naked glory. She nodded at me, sat on the opposite bench and ignored me.

As we sweated in the small sauna, I tried hard not to look her. I studied my knees, the floor, the thermometer by the door, but my eyes kept drifting back to Charlotte with her shining body, her breasts and her legs.

Charlotte said, "Why do you stare?"

"Uh, pardon?"

"You stare at me when you think I don't see. It is not polite."

"Oh. Yes, sorry 'bout that. It's rude of me. I'll stop."

"Are you racist?"

"Uh, no. I mean, I don't think I am."

"So why?"

Before my brain could stop my mouth, I blurted, "Because you're beautiful."

I could feel myself blush. Smooth move, I thought.

Charlotte's eyes narrowed. "Beautiful."

I had already made an ass of myself, so I figured what the hell—might as well double down.

"Well, yeah. You're gorgeous. And so dark. It's... I dunno... fascinating."

"Dark is fascinating?"

"Sure. People aren't as dark around here. You're unique. New. To me, anyway."

Charlotte pursed her lips. "Then you should look. So it is not new. Then you will not stare."

She walked over to stand before me. Her gleaming breasts were right at my eye level. I saw a trimmed patch of fuzz between her toned thighs and the hint of dark pussy lips. She was so close I could smell her scent, hear her breathing and, despite the intense heat of the room, feel warmth radiating from her luscious body.

Charlotte gazed down as I examined her from head to toe and then she turned to present her back to me. Her ass was round and shapely. I longed to reach out and stroke it.

After a few moments, she turned back toward me. She said, "There. Bon?" Then she gasped. "Oh!"

I was horrified to see I had a powerful, throbbing erection. I quickly covered myself with the towel.

"Oh, God. I'm sorry," I said.

Charlotte scowled and shook her head as if disappointed by the antics of a small child.

That is exactly how I felt.


At breakfast, Charlotte barely acknowledged me and again stared out the window during our drive to the plant. I couldn't tell if she was angry about my reaction in the sauna, or if she was just being her usual cold self.

Mr. Warner interfered with my work at intervals all day, dismissing my suggestions, offering bad information and being a domineering ass.

After work, Charlotte was angry when she got in the car.

"Warner was rude again?" I asked.

"Rude. Yes. He is sexist as well."

"Why do you say that?"

"He calls me 'bookkeeper'. I have a master's degree in Banking and Finance from University Zurich. I am not a bookkeeper. And he calls me 'girl.' I am a woman, not a girl."

I said, "Uh, exactly how did he call you 'girl'?"

"'Come here, girl.' 'Do you get it, girl?' Like that."

I sighed. "I think that was racist, not sexist."

"What do you mean?"

"I think he meant 'girl' like people used to call black people 'boy'. It's a term from when there was slavery and segregation."

Charlotte considered. Then she said, "Yes, I think you are right. Sexist and racist. Le cochon."


"Pig," she spat.

I tried to remember my high school French and said, "Oui. Il est trés un cochon."

"Ah? Tu parle français?" She looked at me hopefully.

"Oh, only enough to ask where the bathroom is and to order more beer."

"Ah. Je vois." She nodded with resignation and was silent.


At the inn, Mrs. James greeted us with a bruised forehead and her arm in a sling.

"Are you all right?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Just a little tumble dear. While I was getting groceries in town. It's only bruises and a strained arm. The doctor said I'll be fine."

"That's terrible. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No dear. But I'm afraid I can't cook tonight. Maybe for the rest of the week. Don't worry though. There's a lovely restaurant in town. You can get your meals there."

"But it is forty minutes each way," said Charlotte. "Inacceptable."

I said, "Mrs. James, did you get all your groceries?"

"Oh yes. They're in my van."

"Then why don't we do the cooking? You show us where everything is. I'll bring in the groceries."

"No, dear. You're guests. I can't make you cook."

"Oh, I want to. I cook for myself at home. What else is there to do here at night?"

In horrendous French, I said to Charlotte, "Est-ce acceptable pour vous?"

When Charlotte protested that we were not licensed food service workers, I rolled my eyes.

"Who's gonna know? Does everything have to be proper with you?"

"Yes, of course."

Charlotte only agreed to help cook when Mrs. James assured her we were following local regulations as long as she supervised.

The kitchen was small and Charlotte and I struggled to find bowls, knives, and ingredients while Mrs. James sat on a stool directing us.

"Quel imbécile," she muttered when we bumped into each other and she dropped a mixing bowl.

When I knocked a plate crashing to the floor, she exclaimed "Allez! Idiot," her eyes flashing.

"Quel désastre!" she yelled when I tipped over the milk and it spread across the counter.

Later, I backed into her causing us both to drop what we were holding, Charlotte yelled, "Imbécile. T'es con comme un balai."

I had no idea what that meant, but her sour look said it all.

That was enough. "Nasty fucking bitch!" I said, scrunching my face in an exaggerated sneer.

Charlotte gasped and gave me an admonishing scowl. I scowled theatrically in return, to which she jerked her head back uncertainly. After that, she stopped calling me names.

The kitchen was a disaster after an hour, but dinner was cooked and we weren't bumping into each other as much and hardly spilled anything.

The three of us ate in the kitchen. Mrs. James told us about her family and her years running the inn, other disasters, and stupid things guests had done. I laughed at her stories but Charlotte only nodded in acknowledgment.

However, she did contribute to the conversation. She told us it was her first time traveling outside of Europe and how unfamiliar everything was.

"Everything is far," she said. "At home, in one hour the train can cross three countries. Here I will not get to even the next village. And the food!"

"You don't like the food, dear?" asked Mrs. James.

"Your food is good. But other places? Horrible. And they give so much. I see why everyone here is so fat."

"So, you came all the way from Europe just to audit this plant?" I asked.

"I have been away since one month. My client is interested in many businesses. This is the third I audit."

After eating, Charlotte and I worked to put things away and clean up the mess we had made.

"Foutu bordel," she muttered. "I will clean the counters. You broom the floor."

I chuckled.


"You say 'sweep the floor'"

"Thank you. You can sweep the floor... idiot." But she had a half-smile when she said it.

We helped Mrs. James with other tasks around the inn, then I changed into my workout gear and headed down to the gym. It felt good to exercise after such a frustrating day. An hour on the treadmill and lifting weights and I was ready for the sauna.

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