Separate Vacations

I turned and walked back to the Mercedes. There was no relief for me here. Daren still liked them young. I had probably been lucky that we went about it for so long that he hadn't realized that I had aged out of his preference zone until there was a hiatus in our relationship.

* * * *

"I wondered if you'd ever come home."

"I had a pickup at a winery out toward the Blue Ridge," I said, holding the three-pack carton up for Jean to see—as if I needed to justify my absence from my own house. I had seen him sitting on my front porch by the front door as I drove up the hill of the curved driveway and into the garage I'd opened automatically. Rather than going on into the breakfast room from the garage, I came back out of the open garage door and to the front porch.

"I don't understand," I said, genuinely confused. "How did you know this address?" I'd only seen Jean at the Oratorio Society practices. I had no idea how he knew where I lived. Although then it occurred to me that we all had access to a master Oratorio Society mailing list on the Internet. But I was running up a false lane on that.

"I followed you here. Monday night."

"Monday night? I didn't—"

"No, you said you were coming straight home. But you didn't. I wanted to see you more than I wanted to go to the bar with the choristers after the practice. So I followed you. You went to Club 216."

I stood there, looking into his face. He knew what Club 216 was. And he knew I'd gone there.

"I saw you in the club. And I saw you leave and come here. I find you very attractive. I would like to fuck you if you'll have me. I tried to tell you that the other night."

That was the point that I almost dropped the carton of wine. But he was quicker than I was, rising out of the cushioned garden chair on my front porch and steadying the wine before it crashed to the ground, helping to lower it to the brick walkway and pulling my numb fingers away from the handle. My eyes were downcast, looking at those elegant, sexy, hair-covered toes of his. As always he was wearing leather sandals without socks.

"Shall we go inside?" he asked.

"Yes," I whispered—in that one word telling him all he needed to know, giving all over to whatever he wanted.

"Here, give me the key; I'll do it. I'll do everything," he said, as I botched the job of trying to get the door key in the slot, my hands were shaking so badly.

"Are the French always so straightforward?" I murmured as he worked the key in the door.

"When we see what we want, yes. And the French are inventive in love," he continued. "I hope you don't mind."

We didn't get the door shut behind us, but we pulled far enough into the foyer to not be seen from the street—although there was enough tree cover between the house and street set below the rise the house was on that there wasn't much danger of that happening anyway.

We stood there rocking against each other, deep in a kiss, his hands cupping my chin to hold me too him, and mine ineffectually drooping at my sides. My thoughts went to the couple fucking against the wall on the other side of the beaded curtain at Club 216 and my cock gave a lurch. Jean obviously felt that as he pulled away from the kiss and gave me a smile and low, throaty laugh. He moved his hands to palm my buttocks and pull me tight into his crotch, and I could feel the hardness of him too. He began moving his pelvis against mine in a slow rhythm, and his lips went back to mine and I opened mine to him.

His hardness against mine and his tongue inside my mouth cavity inflamed us both. We were tearing at each other's clothes. We were in a duel, as he unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off my back while I was busy at the same time trying to pull his T-shirt over his head. My heart raced at, first, the sight, and then the feel on my chest of the profusion of black curly hair on his chest. My hands went to his belt buckle and fumbled with his zipper, while he just took the waistline of my trousers on either side and jerked down hard, making them clear my hips and fall down to my knees. I stepped out of them, while he knelt before me and started sucking my cock through the cotton material of my briefs.

I stood there for several moments luxuriating in the exotic working of his tongue and teeth on me through the material. I was swaying slightly, not sure I'd be able to remain standing, not even sure I wouldn't fire off much too quickly. Then he was pulling on the waistband of the briefs and I was stepping out of them and he was swallowing me deep—and humming—the resonance on my cock making me groan with pleasure. His hands were clutching my butt cheeks—possibly the only thing that was holding me upright.

"Wait. Please," I murmured. "I don't want to come yet. Here. Sit over in this chair. Please."

He pulled his mouth off my staff and looked up quizzically at me. But he smiled. "No, we wouldn't want you to come too quickly, would we?" he said. And then he obediently stood and walked to the chair we kept next to the secretary in the foyer and sat down and looked coyly at me. Upon retrospect, I think that was the last time he let me give a command for the next several days. And I shudder with pleasure at the memory of the commands he gave me.

As he turned and sat, I pulled his trousers and briefs down to his knees to make it easier for me to remove them, which I knelt and did. Looking up and seeing his cock for the first time, I gasped with pleasure. It wasn't thick, but it was impossibly long and curved menacingly up toward his flat belly like a Saracen sword. A perfect match for his long, sensuous toes and fingers. And he was hirsute. He was pelted with black curly hair all over his body.

He looked on in amusement and then with astonishment and interest as I unlaced his sandals, one after the other, and licked up the soles of his feet, again one after the other—and plopped his toes—one after another—in my mouth and gave them suck.

He was breathing heavily and running his hands through the gray hair on my head as I tongued my way up his pelted calf and thigh. He groaned as I took his balls into my mouth, lodging one in each cheek, and began to hum just as he had done with my cock. The suck I gave his cock would have been almost anticlimactic after that if I hadn't also run a hand between his thighs to his hole and snaked a finger in to find and rub on his prostate.

I was working his piss slit with my tongue when he croaked "Enough of that. Now it is I who might come too quickly."

I laughed and said, "Just as you said, we couldn't have that. Come, I will show you what's upstairs."

I offered my hand to him, but he rose on his own, taking his trousers up with him. "Show me."

I started to mount the stairs, Jean behind me. But half way up the stairs, I felt his chest come down over my shoulder blades and he was forcing me down on the stair treads.

"What—?"

"Hush. I can't wait for the top of the stairs. And I'm French. We do it right here." He was encircling my waist with his arms, but he also had his trousers in a hand and was fumbling around in the pocket, coming up with a string of condom packets. He ripped one off the string and heaved the rest of the string up onto the upstairs landing.

I remembered that these had once been called French letters and I laughed nonsensically at the coincidence.

I panted, plastered to the stairs, breathing raggedly in anticipation, as he opened the packet and rolled the condom on his cock. Then he was pulling my hips up with his arms embracing my belly and pulling my knees up onto one of the stair treads.

I felt his bulb at my entrance, and then I closed my eyes and panted and moaned as I felt him enter and enter and enter me. Having gotten the measure of my channel and demonstrating to me how deeply I would be pierced, he pulled back and, with that upcurved cock of his started rubbing, punishing, making love to my prostate as one of his hands went to encircle and squeeze and work my cock.

I came quickly and would have collapsed if he wasn't holding me up with an arm wrapped around my belly. He laughed a low, throaty laugh, whispering something in French. And then I was yowling and writhing under him as he thrust deep inside me again and rode me hard in long and deep strokes to his own ejaculation.

"Can . . . can we . . . go up to the bed now," I whispered through heavy pants.

"No, not the bed. We do it in every room, on every other surface. In positions you've never imagined before—so often you'll be begging for mercy. I will take you to hell and to paradise. But not on the bed. I'm French."

And we did all of that—for most of the remainder of my glorious separate vacation.

It was three days even before I remembered that the front and garage doors were open and a carton of wine bottles was sitting out on the front walk.