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Champs de Lycome Ch. 01

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The Rue de Souligny is a narrow street bordered with the high, prim houses of the French countryside. Whitewashed stucco gleams in the sunlight with voices and scents emanating from behind wooden slat shutters closed over open panes of window-glass. Aimée and her sister Stéphanie are our height – that is to say, Stéphanie matches my height in a long-legged and lithe, dark red haired way, prototypically chic. Aimée is your height, a sandy blonde shot through with streaks of middling red in such a way that suggests its a natural attribute to her shoulder-length hair. Her fashion is a light yellow sundress belted around a narrow waist, loosely-woven fabric fitting more closely to her form than her sister’s low-necked dress of pale green. A sprinkle of light freckles dusts Stéphanie’s neck and the top of her chest, probably extending to wrap around her shoulders. I try not to let such thoughts distract me.

Cobblestoned, the Rue de Souligny takes our combined weight and that of the sleek 735i easily. Soft leather seats in the back support the French girls, legs crossed modestly and yet enticingly; achingly curved calves and smooth, pale skin. They know what they’re doing, as my eyes flick over them in the rearview mirror and soft, small smiles grace their faces. The bright blue eyes of Stéphanie match yours, and your full lips part in a smile as my hand drifts from the gearshift to your thigh, encased in form-fitting denim. A quick stroke, gentle squeeze, and I feel the touch of gracefully long fingers across the back of that hand. The car takes even these sharp corners of Lycome easily. We’ve turned onto Boulevard de Souvenir, also cobblestoned, and the BMW silently, smoothly, comes to a stop beside a elegant structure built of mortared stone blocks, windows and shutters thrown open to fresh spring air. It is a true Château, that of Chevaler, a French Huguenot who suddenly found himself unwelcome in La Belle France during the Revolution. An arched stone doorway holds the heavy wooden doors that are opened to a tiled floor and stone walls, smaller wooden doors recently installed in the back of this entranceway. The French sisters bound from the car, doors thumping shut behind them as Aimée takes the stairs two at a time, passing through the arch to fling open two of the smaller doors. She turns, face lit by a white smile. Stéphanie waits as I offer you my hand and help you from the car, shut the door behind you, and look over the car’s roof to notice again the lack of wrought iron decorated gates or the stone wall that would have stood here earlier, shutting off this small plaza from the Boulevard de Souvenir.

We’re shown inside. Voices soon fill the space we’ve entered to its high ceiling as lightly accented English from either one of the girls informs us of history, architecture, that the boards used to make the wooden floor and stairwell that our shoes click on as we walk upstairs came from the woods across the lake, Lac du Montignac, which now boasts some trees over a century old and is veined through with packed earth walking paths. No ground clutter beyond mid-height grasses and the occasional fallen leaf in this season mar the idyllic area, frequented by the locals. Our bedroom is quite the sight; wood floors and plastered ceiling hung with a chandelier, elegant furniture against the walls, a large doubled bed. Your face lights up in delight as you realize it’s a canopied bed sheeted generously with crisp linens and a down-filled comforter. The pillows are also down-filled, clean white against the rich, tanned crème of the sheet just under the comforter. The curtains are either a very light inner curtain, a translucent cream as that one sheet is, or a more opaque, tightly woven and heavier curtain on a rail outside the inner rail, which carries the cream-coloured curtain.

Windows are open to the inside with the wooden shutters closed, fresh air flooding the room. A bookcase stands near the door, featuring a pewter-grey chain screwed into the doorframe on its plate and the matching receptacle on the door; when latched it would allow the door to open but a few centimetres before the chain stopped it. A full bathroom, modern, is behind a closed door. It has a soaker tub that could easily fit four, lowered flush with the tiled floor. A shower stall adjoins, no glass partition. The floors are very slightly sloped as all properly constructed bathroom floors are, to allow runoff to the gleaming drains. Already impressed by the decor, the bathroom nearly floors me. I tilt back on my heels and make as if to fall over backwards. Laughing, you “catch” me, to the pleased amusement of Stéphanie and Aimée.

Then we’re left alone. A few hours later, time we’d spent exploring the Château, I meet Aimée’s boyfriend, a tall Gaul with a few inches on my height and the same dark colouring. Thomas’s nose looks slightly crooked, as if he took a straight jab at some point and it didn’t quite set right as it healed. This does nothing to diminish his charm, I grin as Aimée turns to mersin escort putty in his embrace, then accept his offer of help. The four bags easily make their way upstairs over the polished dark wood of the stairwell. I decide I like this fellow despite the admiring, evaluative sweep of your figure his dark eyes perform as he meets you for the first time. A Gallic shrug outside on the plaza as we shake hands. I’m informed that I am a lucky fellow. Aimée strikes a pose as I look her way, eliciting a grin. I turn back to Thomas.

“Likewise. Take care.”

And then they’re gone, motoring out of the plaza in a finely maintained sport coupé of some kind I can’t recognize. This leaves me with Stéphanie and yourself, the former standing in the doorway and yourself standing framed by the shutters in our bedroom. You lean out as Stéphanie walks towards me, blow me a kiss. I catch it, brush my fingers against my cheek and return the kiss – surprised, our chic guide spins around and glances up, waves goodbye and calls out to you: “I need to borrow your man! He can drive me home!”

“So long as he comes back, Stéphanie!”

I open the door for her, close it gently and walk around behind the car. Before I open the door on my side, I look up to where you are again. You smile, I touch my closed fist to my chest, over my heart, and wave. You wave back and I get into the car. The German sedan’s engine turns over smoothly and I turn towards the gate – loathe to leave, I glance over my shoulder to see you turning away from the window and disappearing deeper into the room. Turning back, Stéphanie catches my eye with her expression, a small-smiled look radiating her thoughts, something along the lines of ‘adorable. Lucky girl.’ I smile the warm half-smile at her and let her direct me down cobblestoned streets. A large panel-sided truck spoils the pristine day, pulling ahead. On the narrow street there is no safe chance of passing him. Windows roll up at the touch of a switch and I drop back a few meters. The gaps between houses widen, I notice fuller yards, two children playing catch. The panel truck turns off into a cul-de-sac and my following glance in that direction reveals a house being moved into. I press the accelerator and let the car jump ahead on the smooth pavement of this suburban road.

“Close?”

“Not yet. I live in the countryside, away from the town. I like the quiet – and it was my aunt’s place.”

“Was?”

“She has a… penthouse suite, I think it is called, in Reims now.”

“Impressive, Stéphanie. What does she do for a living?”

Our small-talk continues for a while. In the lull, she turns on the radio, pressing “seek” until she finds what she wants. I don’t mind, being unable to think of anything interesting to talk about. In the lull between two upbeat pop songs, she turns her head in my direction.

“We’re almost there. A left at this intersection here, and then take the first dirt road you see. That leads right to my front door.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

Another pause. Then she asks; “What would you call me, if I were an English girl?”

“Of the same name? I’d call you Stephanie.”

“If we knew each other for a long time?”

“Ah, I see. Maybe ‘Steph.'”

“I like that. You’ll call me Steph?”

“Sometimes, sure. Why?”

She shakes her head slightly, then says, “I’m not sure,” quietly. Neither of us is particularly disappointed when the disc jockey dozens of kilometres away begins playing one of Alizee’s newer songs. I recognize her voice because I’ve heard it before, watching videos on the internet of her performances – entirely for her dancing. Stéphanie dances in her seat, upper body entirely. I grin and look across at her.

“A favourite?”

“Oui, certainement!”

Her even-toothed smile accompanies her response and she raises eyebrows playfully at me as she runs hands down her torso, over the seatbelt’s diagonal chest strap. “I think perhaps my woman wouldn’t appreciate that, Steph. Very nice though.” She smiles again.

The house is two storied and elegant. Freshly painted, it gleams in the sunlight. She roots around in her small leather handbag for the keys. I turn the car to face back down the driveway, which conveniently puts the passenger side closest to the house. I debus first and hold the door for her, offering an open hand into which she lays her own delicate hand with elegant, long fingers. It is but a gesture, those long legs taking her weight easily with the superb poise of a dancer.

Then, suddenly, she is startlingly close and seemingly off balance, leaning into me with eyes locked on mine. My left foot moves a half step backwards, left hand coming up to take her weight on the gently swooping curve of her waist to her hip. I suspect she feigns the loss of balance. Pressing against me she smiles and excuses herself gracefully while never once loosening her grip on my hand. I squeeze back, then stop, realizing that may be sending the wrong signal. mugladh.com Enchanted with her presence, inhaling subtle hints of perfume on an eddying air current, neither of us moves for long moments. She turns away first, I never see the mischievous smile that flickers across full lips. Then she’s inside, the tumblers of the lock turning easily. I don’t know why, but I find myself following her in.

It’s because she didn’t say goodbye, I surmise, stepping across the threshold and across wooden floorboards. She calls out, “In here!” I come to the sound of her voice, find her sitting in a living room on a low-backed couch. Her legs are modestly crossed, but the position of the couch means I’m standing close to her yet again. She tilts her head back to look me in the eye, exposing the white flesh of her graceful neck and the swooping skin that leads to the rise of pert breasts. Looking her in the eyes – vivid green – I can see that the dusting of freckles Stéphanie has does extend to wrap around her upper body. I inhale deeply and she opens her mouth, lasciviously parting her lips. Then I break the tension in the sunlit air.

“Now that I know you’re comfortable, I’ll be on my way, mademoiselle.”

She offers up a hand, palm facing downwards. I take it, kiss the backside with a grin. “Farewell, m’lady.”

From the sparkle of delight igniting the emerald green of her eyes, I think I’ve found a nickname she likes more than “Steph.” A minute later I’m back in the sedan, heart pumping more regularly as the distance between me and the sorely tempting French girl increases. My mind drifts to you, I wonder what you’re doing. I’m back on the cobblestoned streets of Lycome before long, drawing the powerful engine back in with my foot lessening the pressure on the accelerator. The 735i corners beautifully into the Château’s plaza, smoothly rolls to a stop where I want it. I pat the dashboard. And you thought renting this was a mistake. When you drive it, you’ll see otherwise. I laugh happily as I shut the car door behind me, then the double doors of the Château. I take the stairs two at a time, thinking to check the bedroom first.

You intercept me at the head of the stairs. I wrap muscled arms around you and lift you off the ground slightly, setting your feet back on the wooden floor with my lips finding yours and lingering for long moments. Your hands run up my back, my left finds its way to the small of your back and my right to the base of your neck. Another kiss.

“Hello again. Missed you.”

In the middle of this kiss, you disengage and your teeth take my lower lip between them gently. You pull back slightly, biting teasingly, lightly, eliciting a pleasured and surprised noise from deep down in my throat. I lift you again, your legs wrap around my hips, and my large hands rest on your perfect ass while I take the four paces to the bedroom door, opening it hurriedly, stepping through and kicking it shut with a backwards swing of my heel. There’s the bed, drapes pulled back. Your lips are locked with mine again, tongues dancing.

I make it to the bed, you slide out of my arms and pull me down with you, a finger hooked into the collar of my shirt. I work arms around your back and lift you from the mattress, rolling onto my back and sitting up. Your legs part and wrap loosely around my waist, sitting in my lap. Pausing for breath, you smile, then we kiss again, deeply. The tips of our tongues pass one another and we work to prompt small noises from the other. You’re biting my lower lip again as you did before while I undo your bra through your shirt. I feel your hands working the buttons of my shirt, starting at the collar and going down halfway, then their warmth as they lay flat against the muscle of my chest and shoulders. You press into me hungrily and I kiss you deeply once more. Another break for air, in which you pull your shirt over your head as I undo your pants, as you do mine, then the rest of my shirt is undone and you’re kissing the side of my neck. I twist my head and kiss the side of yours, the smooth line of your jaw, then your cheek. I slide both hands down your back to grip the firm lobes of your bum, watching you eye my lips and then raise your gaze to my eyes. I kiss you and turn onto my side, rolling you onto the mattress. Fingers bend into the waistband of your pants and underthings, pulling them down long smooth legs, and then you’re naked on the bed. I let my pants fall to the floor and step out of them. Then I brace myself above you.

One more kiss, then a kiss on your chin. Your building excitement has already gotten me quite hard, as your quickly exploring hands discover. I use a hand to take your left breast, fingers outspread, the flesh rising into my palm and as I gently twist my wrist back and forth, those fingers brush over a hardening nipple. My right hand holds your shoulder, pressing it back into the mattress gently, firmly.

My lips find the top of your chest, press a kiss between and above your breasts. Then they find their way to your right nipple. My tongue circles around it, over the hardening thing, flicking delightfully back and forth. Another kiss directly over the areola, then the tip of my tongue spirals outwards over your breast, hot breath and tongue on the soft flesh. My right hand takes over, caressing the breast as my left hand did earlier. A kiss between the two breasts, and my right hand slides up from below, cupping the soft mound before fingers play over it. Thumb and forefinger gently roll the nipple for the briefest of moments before returning to their places.

Tongue works its way in, spiralling towards the nipple. Left hand moves down along your side, stopping to heat an area just above your navel. Lips close around the nipple, pressing a kiss in. The motions are identical to what your right experienced. I feel your hands on my shoulders, pressing down. I lift my mouth from your breast and let my hand slide to it again.

“I will. Relax, breathe deeply. Enjoy. Rest your head on your hands, put them behind your head.”

You fold your arms up and back, which straightens your back and as you lay your head on your palms, I run my hands from your breasts up your upper arms to warm them. They then run quickly and firmly back down to your sides to your hips. My head follows, kissing down the center of your body to run this busy tongue around your navel quickly. It carries on to your mound. Stops, kisses, lips parted by the tip of my tongue flicking out against excited, flushed skin.

“Tell me if there’s something you really want.”

Your legs part for me once more, spreading wide and hooking over my shoulders. I feel your heels running down along my spine firmly and I groan, nuzzling my chin into the mound just over your slit. They relax their pressure and I slide backwards once more, bringing my lips to the top of your pussy, where there’s a kiss. The tongue comes from my lips to part yours, flicking inside, feeling exceptional heat, some moisture, tasting that moisture and bringing a small smile to my lips. I move down, kissing the bottom of your pussy, and flick my tongue inside again.

I free up my left hand, parting the lips of your femininity. Tongue flattens against your hot flesh here and parts the inner lips as it drags upwards over the hole, taking your wetness with it. I find the clitoral hood and kiss it, running my tongue along just underneath it until it retracts fully and then, to tease you, lick just closely enough that the side brushes lightly against the nub.

To vary the motions the tip of my tongue goes through, letters like X, H, V, A, R, O, G, S, and W trace across and around your clitoris. My lips occasionally press against the excitement-slicked skin before my tongue flattens and licks down to your wet opening before rising to the round, sensitive clit. For more variety, I switch to Cyrillic. That “F” especially causes a light, breathy sound to issue from your parted lips as I pleasure you. My left hand has no need to hold you open, so I let it rub near the bottom until my fingers are coated in your wetness. A pause as I lick down to your opening again and slide my tongue inside – “Australian Kiss” is the slang term. As a French kiss, just “down under.” I flick it around and vary the pressure it puts on your tightness. As it withdraws, I replace it with two fingers. My tongue works its way to your clitoris once again, lapping up your juices. When you’re ready, anytime.

Spread around those two fingers of my left hand, your pussy is incredible. Tightly pressed against my fingers, the combination of pressure, heat and wetness is perfection itself and I can hardly wait to press my erect shaft deep inside you. Rising closer to your climax, feeling the heat rise from your loins and nipples to fill your body, your hips press against my knuckles and mouth. I hope by now you’ve freed your hands from under your head and are working your breasts and running them up and down your torso. My right hand rests on the inside of your thigh, at the join of leg and groin, squeezing rhythmically.

A small noise from you prompts me to turn my left hand palm to ceiling and curl those two fingers inside you backwards on themselves, seeking out your G-Spot. Come for me, when you’re ready. Hard as you like, give in to the building pleasure and let it boil through your veins.

On the brink of it now, your hips thrust rhythmically against me. I still my right hand, and as your back arches, I clamp my lips around your clitoris and suck it between them. Surrounded by this soft pressure, the light touch of my tongue across the slippery surface is all you need to trigger that orgasm. Just as the fingers of my left hand register the tight convulsion around them, your breath leaves your chest in an orgasmic moan as your arched back thrusts towards the sky. I still my fingers and my mouth until you shudder to a stop.

Catch your breath. When you’re ready, we’ll move on. I lick my lips and fingers clean, kiss just above the mound, and look up at you. A close-mouthed smile as you prop yourself up on your elbows. I eagerly await your suggestion, or you telling me to surprise you.

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