Cecile, on the Couch, in the Afternoon Sun
When my host mother suggests that her daughter's best friend might have a crush on me, things quickly escalate...
Cecile
"Our daughter's friend has a crush on you. I think that's the right word? Crush?"
My host mother's English was a thousand times better than my French, but it wasn't her word choice I was concerned with. While my temporary family's daughter had left soon after I arrived for a stint in Switzerland, her best friend had made it a habit to lurk about the house, especially during meal times.
Which was understandable. Freshly baked bread, cheese I could barely pronounce, produce from a neighbor, and a constant flow of wine, all made regular appearances at our dinner table. And Cecile was not one to miss out on decadence.
"She seems nice?" I said, uncertain about the correct protocol. Was it an invitation or a warning?
"She's, how do you say, a bit of a flirt? They like to talk about her. You know?"
"I think so?" I said, wondering if she was trying to tell me the girl was a slut. In her sweet and completely inoffensive French motherly sort of way, of course.
"You should spend time with her. She'll be over later, I'm sure."
The morning burned by with flaky croissants and too-strong coffee which left me fidgeting. Whatever studying I might have done was banished by the thought of the blonde neighbor with big eyes who could barely speak to me without blushing.
If I told you she smelled like fresh hay and buttermilk, you'd know I was lying, but you'd also understand.
When a knock came on the door, the sun was hovering towards the horizon, leaving streaks of gold streaming through the transom and into the living room where I sat. I said bonjour, she blushed, and before I knew what was happening, she kissed me on both cheeks and sat down next to me.
I won't be so crash as to describe her dress, but I suspect you already know.
We chatted as best we could, neither of us especially proficient in the other's language, and since I had been given the proverbial green light, I leaned in a bit closer than I might have until I found my hand resting on her knee without a hint of protest. When I pushed a strand of blonde hair behind one ear, she closed her eyes and sighed, and when I tell you her lips were strawberries, you might try not to laugh.
Our kiss began gently.
It was a tender exploration as we looked for signs of desire and direction in each other's touch. She smiled when we pulled apart, and I laughed kindly. But when I pulled her onto me, swinging one leg over my lap, what was once sweet turned hungry. I kissed her neck, she pressed down against me as I grew hard, and when both straps of her dress slid dangerously low, I made a solemn vow to study much harder.
Cecile kissed me gently with her head tilted to one side, and it was her mild distraction that caused me to look up. My host mother was standing by the door, hidden in the shadows of the fading sun. Before I could speak, my young friend kissed me again as if to say it didn't matter.
When Cecile sat up, her back arched as her dress slid lower, the sun caught in her hair like a gold coin flickering in a stream. With her breast to me, her head down, and her eyes looking up, she smiled coyly as the woman in the corner took the first picture. My protest was again cut off by a kiss, and since I now had two of the most perfect breasts within reach of my hungry lips, I gave in with thought.
Her nipples grew hard at my touch, and her sighs grew more delightful as we kissed and groped on the couch while the quiet sound of the shutter made its own music.
When I lifted Cecile's dress, she helped me pull off her white country cotton beneath it, pausing for what I assumed was a scandalously delightful photo opportunity. I gripped her ass as she unbuttoned my pants, and when I touched her chin with my hand so I could stare into her eyes, her blush grew needy.
She stood ever so slowly, and I couldn't look away as she let the dress fall to the floor. The sun glanced off her skin as I gasped in awe and adoration while behind her, my host mother took picture after picture of the prettiest sight I had ever seen. When Cecile slipped to the floor, her fingers making easy work of my fly, I said a prayer of thanks and forgiveness to whoever might be listening.
She opened her lips around me, teased me so gently I cried, and then took me into her mouth while our silent voyeur moved closer.
The warmth of her mouth was something from another world, and her hands and fingers joined seamlessly as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I touched her hair, looked into her eyes, and finally pulled my shirt off over my head, so I wasn't sitting fully dressed with a naked girl in front of me.
Besides, I thought it might make for a lovely picture. I’m sure you know what I mean.
"She's so beautiful," my host whispered in my ear as my darling Cecile stood and sweetly wiped her mouth with the soft back of her hand. As the girl climbed onto my lap, the shutter clicked, pausing only long enough for a woman I now felt awkward calling Maman to take me in hand and hold me still so her daughter's best friend might slide me inside her.
The second she engulfed me, whatever doubt I had left vanished in a sigh of pure bliss. Cecile opened her eyes wider, wrapped her arms around my neck, and we kissed the kiss of a thousand dreams. I managed to lose my pants as we made love on the couch, wrapped up in something as transcendent as it was breathtakingly normal.
She bit my shoulder, and I pinched her. She scratched my back, and I gripped her ass until lovemaking became fucking. Beautiful, awkward, fucking that knew no limits or shame.
The sound of the camera left me relieved instead of embarrassed because I knew that even if we died in the throes of passion, this perfect moment would live on.
Needing to look into her eyes forever and ever, I guided Cecile to her back, where I crawled between her legs, tasted her until she begged, and then took her again as I stared down at the impossibility of her existence. She laughed and kissed me with small bites and a snarl, and I pinned her arms above her head and growled right back.
When I sat up, burying myself deep within her as I stared down at the junction of our bodies, the camera made her come. I took her hips in my hands, raising her off the couch in a pornographic display, and while she spared me a brief smile, her more longing and lustful look was reserved for the lens only a few feet away as it captured our glorious sin.
She tightened around me as the reality of what we were doing ran through her, and soon she was trembling and biting her hand as I thrust into her harder and faster, with a singular goal in mind. I collapsed against her now glistening skin, kissed her messy mouth, and began to come, unable and unwilling to hold back for a moment longer.
Cecile wrapped her legs around me without letting me go until our bodies gave way to exhaustion. We kissed, laughed, and kissed some more without noticing that someone had covered our naked bodies with a light blanket.
As I nestled next to her, I realized that we were alone for the first time all afternoon, and I mumbled words of poetic adoration in broken French that I had memorized rather than learned.
It grew dark outside as we touched and kissed until our bodies responded again, and we gave into our earthly need for more. But this time, we were alone and less frantic than before. This time we were content with ease and slow discovery as we learned new ways to make each other blush.
It was only when we heard sounds from the kitchen that we found our clothes and returned to the strange world of confusing domesticity. At the table, nobody said a word.
The wine was cool, the bread was warm, and Cecile blushed each time I touched her hand.
Month later, back home, life moved on, and while sweet memories lingered, they gradually faded into something less tangible and more imagined. Years went by, new lovers came and went, and I traveled to different places where I only occasionally succeeded in learning enough of the language to say I love you.
One day, many years later, I received a letter from my old host father with a small sealed packet of photos with my name written on it in her clean, familiar script. Sad news mixed in with memories as I looked down at the dreamy montage on the table in front of me.
Maybe now I'll finally write to Cecile, I thought. Her address must be somewhere, and besides, who doesn't like a handwritten letter full of old love and nostalgia? Would she want to see the pictures? Did she cherish those memories as much as I did? There was only one way to find out.
If I told you that I eventually did send that letter, you might be kind enough to believe me.