French Letters

Your suggestion that I should ask SV if she would teach me French was brilliant! For the first time ever, she actually made (albeit fleeting) eye contact with me, and mumbled: 'Oui, c'est possible'. Initially she wouldn't come to my apartment, of course - she's too scared of men - so for the last few days we've been meeting in a café and sharing a bottle of wine after work...you know, the way one does in France!

Quite apart from slowly learning the language, I find her company therapeutic; she makes being apart from you just a little easier to bear. In fact, I no longer think of her as my shrinking violet; just my shrink! (You like that one? I'm quite proud of it myself.) She's quite cute, incidentally, with big brown eyes, short dark hair, and - when I finally got to see it - a radiant smile that comes and goes in a flash; I think you'd like her. She's not really my type (as you know), but something about her appeals to me: her aura of naked vulnerability, maybe? I find myself wanting to make sure that nothing bad ever happens to her again...as if that were ever possible. But you can rest easy... She'll have to handcuff me to stop me from eventually coming home to you, my love!

The way our lessons work is that she tries to speak only English, and - don't laugh! - I try to speak only French. It's not always easy. For example, two days ago she startled me by saying:

"I wish to see your prick."

"Quoi?" I struggled to understand what could she possibly mean. 'My prick? She wished to see my prick? I should be so lucky! No, that couldn't be it... but what?'

"Er... Est-ce que vous venez de demander à voir mon pénis?"

"Mais non! Quel horror!"

She blushed prettily. 'Well, it's not that bad', I thought.

"Quoi, alors?"

"Your puncture. I wish to see your puncture."

Riiight. This was getting us nowhere. What could she possibly mean? Suddenly it came to me: not my prick, nor my puncture... It was my flat! She wanted to see my flat!

"Vous voulez voir mon appartement?"

"Oui... Yes, please. Tomorrow, peut- être...er...perhaps?

"Okay; bien sure."

So yesterday evening she came up to my little garret. I poured us some wine and together we looked out over the rooftops of Paris.

"A votre santé!"

"Cheers!"

As we touched glasses, she looked at me speculatively.

"Quoi? Qu'est-ce que c'est?" I asked her.

"You are not like all the other men; you have never tried to...qu'est ce qu'on dit? How you say?... to hit on me. Pourquoi pas? Why not? Are you merry, peut-être? Or am I not attractive to you?"

"Merry? Ah, vous voulez dire 'gay'. Non, je ne suis pas...er...comme ça. Mais j'aime une fille dans mon pays d'origine." (Oh...do I ever!) "Mais tu es aussi adorable", I added quickly, daring to use the familiar form of address for the first time.

She smiled at me, the quick flash lighting up her face.

"She is long away." (Yes, she is!)

"Non, tu devrais dire 'far away'."

"Pardon! She is a far way away."

"Encore non. Tu devrais dire 'a long way away'."

"Oh, I will never learn your language!"

And after that, you seemed further away than ever.

"Then today I will teach you how to pick up a girl here...supposing you wanted to. Say after me: 'Je voudrais t'embrasser.'"

"Je voudrais t'embrasser." (Umm... Did I just say: 'I want to embarrass you?' I thought I'd done that already.) "Qu'est-ce que je viens de dire?"

"'I would like to kiss you'" she said, smiling at me.

Was there a message for me in her smile? And what if I wanted to go further?

"Très bien... Et si je voulais aller plus loin?"... Suddenly, I did!

"You might say 'Je voudrais faire l'amour avec vous'... You know what that means ? Or 'Je voudrais vous déshabiller': 'I would like to undress you'. Or..." She dropped her eyes, blushed prettily, and said quietly : 'Je voudrais te baiser.' For that, you would use the familiar form of address."

It was a new word in my vocabulary. "Qu'est-ce que c'est 'baiser'"?

"Well, it can mean 'I would like to kiss you', but it can also mean 'I would like to fuck you'. In France, one tends to lead to the other."

Was this still a language lesson? I wondered, my heart beginning to pound. Could I read the answer in her eyes?

"Est-ce que tu voudrais me baiser?" she asked, breaking the rules and taking my breath away. "Do you know what I just asked you?"

"I think you either asked me if I would like to kiss you, or if I would like to fuck you." Did she expect an answer?

"Very good! I think you understand me well."

'When in doubt, reach for humor', I thought.

"Mais je ne connais pas comment te baiser en Français."

She giggled: "Ooh la la! J'espère we do it the same way here as you do!" And then, suddenly serious, she said: "But you are right... We must do it my way," dispelling my last remaining doubt that we were still having a language lesson.

"Which is? Pardon!... Lequel est?"

"I will show you...demain soir. Tomorrow, you will come..."

'Well, that sounds promising', I thought...

"...chez moi...to my place, okay?"

"Okay," I said, wondering what you would have to say about it. "Tomorrow evening, I will come to your... puncture."

Smiling, she stuck out her tongue at me, but as she left she kissed my lips and ran quickly down the stairs like an altogether different girl. Leaving me - to tell you the truth - feeling like a somewhat different man.

So, my love... There you have it: to my astonishment, I think I've been propositioned by my shrink! I have no idea what 'her way' might be, but maybe they fuck differently here in France? I don't know, but I would love to find out so I could do it with you.

Please let me know what you think; I never want to hurt you.

You have all my love.

PS. I loved 'Some Day, All This Will Be Yours'. It's one of your best; publish it!

***

Virginia

Saturday, May 27th, 2017.

Oh my love, now I know exactly how I must have made you feel: conflicted, in spades! And in case you are wondering... Your brother is still here; I don't know how long he's planning to stay - we haven't talked about that yet. And of course we're still sleeping together; I couldn't send him back to the spare room now, could I? In fact, he's lying naked beside me again as I write this to you, sleeping quietly. Maybe I've worn him out at last! I really enjoy having him around the place; he reminds me so much of you. And to be honest (why do I keep saying that?), I find myself looking forward to our next...well, you know! But he's not you! And what's more, he goes on not being you...and I go on missing you.

Let me know if you want to hear all the details; I would enjoy telling you - you know how much I like writing about sex - but only if you want to hear. As for your brother's shyness...ex-shyness, I should say...it's a thing of the past! He often walks around the house naked (as I do most of the time, as you know), with his long prick swinging like a pendulum. I just had a thought: he always used to be hard up for sex, but now he's 'Hard! Up for sex!' ... You like that one? I'm quite proud of it myself... and who says that punctuation doesn't matter?

He seems to like fucking out of doors, too, so most afternoons we go down to the field and lie in the long grass there (on the safe side of the gate!). Yesterday he was kneeling between my legs (which happened to be resting on his shoulders at the time), when the farmer came by on his tractor! He gave us a cheery wave, and then sat there watching us fuck. Your brother was oblivious, off in a world of his own, so I thought 'What the hell!', closed my eyes, and let him get on with it. As he drove his delicious prick into me - which he's getting quite good at, by the way - I could feel my naked breasts jiggling in the sunlight, his balls slapping against my ass (and you know how much I love that feeling!), and the farmer's eyes glued to us both. All in a day's work around the farm, I suppose. The thought that I was giving two men so much pleasure at the same time gave me one of the very sweetest orgasms I've had in a while. And to top it off, your brother emptied his copious semen into my vagina. He seems to have a never-ending supply of the stuff!

You can probably tell that I'm trying to put off giving you my reactions to your upcoming tryst with Miss Violetta, as I like to think of her, but here they are: As I said, I'm conflicted: Part of me wants you to remain completely faithful to me in mind, body, and soul until we're back together again (and beyond, for that matter!). Another part of me wants to take your little tart with her radiant smile, and string her up by her pretty little toenails! Just who the hell does she think she is anyway, propositioning my man? But I know that's the surest way to lose you forever, so I chase my jealousy back into its cage and padlock the door. And then there's a very real part of me that is breathless with anticipation at the thought of you fucking her...just so long as you share every last fucking detail with me - okay? So, as my dear sweet sexy aunt once said to me under rather different circumstances: 'Go for it!'

I love you.

PS. I just submitted 'Some Day, All This Will Be Yours'. Keep your fingers crossed!

***

Paris

Monday, May 29th, 2017.

Well, my love... Do I have a story for you? I lived to tell the tale (as you can see), but there was a moment there when I had my doubts. I'll begin at the beginning, shall I? You asked for details, and details ye shall have...

I was useless at work - couldn't concentrate worth a damn - so as soon as I could get away I went home, showered, cleaned my teeth, and changed into my best jeans and favorite T-shirt (yes...clean underpants too!). When the time came, I walked to her apartment, picking up the inevitable bottle of wine along the way. I knocked on the door and listened to the prolonged rattling of locks and chains before she finally opened it to let me in. Paranoia? Maybe not; her abusive ex had probably tried to kill her.

She greeted me with a hug and a warm but ambiguous kiss: too long to be social but too short to be sexual. Nevertheless, the feel of her soft, open lips lingered deliciously on mine as I followed her into the kitchen to open the wine. At work, she always dresses very demurely, but here at home she was wearing a thin white chemise that barely covered her pretty little ass. It reminded me of that skimpy nightie of yours that I love so much. As far as I could tell, she was wearing no underwear, neither above nor below. Her legs and feet were also bare, and you know what that does to me! Now I know that as a civilized, liberated male, I am not supposed to draw conclusions from the clothes that women choose to wear, but it was difficult to ignore the message that she was screaming in my direction: 'Come and Get Me!'

Over the wine, I found the nerve (and the words!) to ask her what had happened to her abusive lover:

"Qu'est-il arrivé à votre amant abusif?"

"Someone stabbed him, and... he died. I was so happy, I cried for a week."

He died? Whoa!... What can you say to that? Not exactly small talk... In retrospect, maybe I should have probed a little deeper...

"That was more than a year past and ever since then, les hommes me terrifient... Er...the men frighten me. You are the first to come in here since he died."

Her first man in more than a year? Jeez! Why me?

"Pourquoi moi?"

"I think you are safe because you have your own girl. Et tu ne cherche pas mon cœur, n'est-ce pas?"

She was right about her heart, I thought. But the rest of her...? I was certainly cherching that! As she leant forward to refill my wine glass, she offered me a perfect view of her perfect breasts. I felt my body begin to respond in the way you know so well. She sat back and crossed her legs, giving me a flash of dark pussy hair. We smiled at one another, acknowledging the sexual tension that was growing thick between us.

"But I am still very frightened of men..."

"I would never hurt you; I swear! Er... Je ne te something-or-other. Je le jure!"

"Mais ce n'est pas assez," she said quietly, breaking the rules again. "It's not enough... I need safe sex."

"Bien sure! Je peux utiliser un préservatif." An image of canned tomatoes flashed through my mind. "Sure, I can use a condom!"

"Pas assez. It is not enough."

"Deux préservatifs?"

"No... For me, safe sex is different."

This was beginning to feel a bit like a job interview... and for a job that I was beginning to wonder if I really wanted. She must have seen the momentary doubt that flitted across my face, because she stood up, stripped the chemise off over her head and stood before me, naked and glorious. Suddenly I found that maybe I did want this job after all!

She is slighter than you are, with smaller versions of everything: narrower shoulders and smaller breasts (nonetheless delicious to my hungry eyes, I must confess), with protruding areoles the color of smoked salmon. Her nipples were already hard, expressing a desire for sex that I could feel radiating from every pore of her lovely body. She stood in front of me, inviting me to gaze at her nakedness as she watched the inevitable progress of my arousal inside my jeans. As if to lure me in like one of the Sirens of Greek mythology, she took my hand and slipped it between her legs, inviting me to feel her pussy, half-hidden by a triangle of soft, dark brown hair.

"Allez..." she said simply, leading me into the bedroom.

One look at her bed and I knew at once what safe sex meant to her (and I bet you've already guessed, too, my love!). Fastened around each bedpost was a serious-looking handcuff... Had she been reading my letters to you? No; these must be relics of her previous abusive relationship. I wondered what on earth had induced her to keep them after her abuser's timely death.

"He would tie me down and rape me presque tous les soirs... almost every night. Sometimes on my back, sometimes... l'autre côté. Then, when he saw my pain, he would weep and tell me he loved me and hated himself for what he had done. Et si j'avais menacé de le quitter, il a dit qu'il se suiciderait. Er... pardon! If I threatened to leave him, he said he would kill himself. Vers la fin, I began to wish he would. You see now why I must be sure that you cannot hurt me?"

I stared at the handcuffs, horror creeping up my spine: both for the agonies she had suffered here, and for what she was asking of me. Could I bring myself to do it? To put myself completely within her power, like you had for me that day on Intimacy Island? Did I have that level of trust?... Or that sort of nerve?

Again, she saw the doubt in my face, and I could tell that she was afraid I would refuse. Standing beside me - naked, defenseless, and achingly desirable - she looked up imploringly, tears welling up in her eyes as she thought her first chance of sex in more than a year was slipping away.

Now, you may have a hard time believing this, but at that moment I thought of you, my love, and what you would want me to do. After what she had just said, would you want to string my little tart up by her pretty little toenails (as you had written), or would you reach down into your bottomless well of compassion and, with a wry grin, say: 'Go for it!' Suddenly, I found myself unable to refuse her. Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I spread-eagled myself like an idiot on her bed, arms and legs within easy reach of the handcuffs.

"D'accord!"

"Vraiment? Really?"

"Oui. Ça va."

She wasted no time - afraid, no doubt, that the second thoughts that I was fighting to keep at bay would gain the upper hand. In a moment, I was tethered to her bed - still fully clothed - like a sacrificial lamb awaiting slaughter, while she looked down at me with a faraway smile on her pretty face. Who was the defenseless one now?

My clothes, of course, presented a problem. She couldn't remove them without undoing the handcuffs, which she was clearly reluctant to do now that she had me safely restrained. Without a word she left the bedroom, wiggling her tight little ass at me as she walked away. As soon as she had gone, the reality of my situation flooded my mind. 'God! What was I thinking? She could do anything... anything! And I could do nothing to prevent her... except perhaps scream.'

And when she returned to the bedroom, that is exactly what I felt like doing. In her clenched fist, she was carrying a large pair of kitchen scissors, holding them as if to stab something... or someone. Her words came back to me: 'Someone stabbed him, and he died.' Someone? I felt a massive surge of adrenaline course through my body, and I had to fight to retain control of my bowels. Had I let myself be tied down by a closet psychopath who was intent on wreaking her revenge on the male of the species? Undoubtedly one of us was mad; I hoped to God it was me.

'When in doubt, reach for humor' I thought, for the second time in two days. But my phrase book 'French Conversation for All Situations' hadn't imagined this one. 'I must write to the editors... if I survive.'

"Un autre... er... stabbing?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice from squeaking.

"Not just yet," she said, without smiling.

With the care and precision of a neurosurgeon, she calmly sliced my T-shirt - my favorite T-shirt! - up the middle of my chest. I felt the cold steel of the scissor blades sliding over my skin, then against my neck, just brushing my jugular. Christ alive! Had I ever been this scared before? One cut down each arm of my T-shirt and she peeled back its tattered remains, exposing my naked torso. I felt like the cadaver in that gruesome painting by Rembrandt: The Anatomy Lesson.

She was off somewhere in a world of her own, but was it sex she was anticipating or revenge? I couldn't tell. All I knew was that this was no sex game between two consenting adults, complete with mutually agreed safe words. No... This was the real thing!

Next, she set to work on my jeans, carefully cutting up each leg from the cuff towards my crotch. My best pair of jeans! But at least I had another pair. As she approached my testicles, I thought 'My best pair! Goddam it... My only pair!'

All that remained were my underpants: still clean, but only just. Completely focused on her task, she cut each leg up to the waistband and simply lifted the front flap off my belly, as if she were unwrapping a Christmas present. I don't know about other men, but when I'm shit-scared (as I was), sex becomes the last thing on my mind; and although I was in the presence of a gorgeous naked girl, my once-proud erection had wilted like an overcooked noodle. She pouted with disappointment, and set about trying to rectify the situation.

The last time a girl had knelt over my face and taken my prick into her mouth it was you, on my birthday, on our island. As she began to suck on my limp dick, the glorious memory of your gushing cunt came back to me and I felt the first glimmering of a hesitant nerve impulse trying to work its solitary way down my spine towards my prick. It was helped on its way by the sight, the smell, and the feel of her cunt which she lowered slowly onto my mouth. 'The condemned man ate his last meal' I thought, as I began to slide my tongue between the lips of her pussy, seeking her vagina. Clearly I couldn't fight - or talk - my way out of this situation; all I had at my disposal were my lips, my tongue, and my prick. Maybe I could fuck my way to safety? I resolved to give her some mind-blowing sex in the hope that perhaps she would reward me with a stay of execution.