Year of The Cheetah Ch. 01

Francoise felt it, like a cold current, a cold breeze slicing through the entire villa the day her husband passed away. After the funeral of the white patriarch in Abidjan, and the crowd sweating under their suits and ties, she perused the entire photo library Robert had meticulously compiled over five decades of their life in the Ivory Coast.

"I will always be there for you now, Maman." Djambo promised.

Francoise looked up into his eyes. She remembered how, at the beginning, she hadn't been too keen on her husband bringing young Djambo into their life: Her life.

In her mid-thirties, when Robert Martin was an expat, she felt lonely at first, missing home, France, and the fun of 1960's Paris. Then she began enjoying her quiet solitude, discovering her own sensuality for the first time in her life. She particularly enjoyed the company of younger men as long as they were over eighteen.

Djambo's arrival at the villa changed everything, and she no longer had the delicious privacy of her afternoons. She became a mother again, and the logistics of loving became too complicated. So she vowed chastity, renewed faithfulness to her husband, and began raising Djambo as her own child.

Now, in the ornate living room in Chatou, looking at her, Djambo remembered too. She had been a wonderful stepmother, helping him with the intricacies of mathematics and science in High School. In the absence of Papa Robert she became his confident when it came to the things of love. He confided to her about his romances at school, his timidity with girls, and his adolescent natural shyness. Girls scared him at the beginning. They were such a mystery. He was attracted to them, but feared them at the same time.

"It's natural" Francoise had said; "It's your age."

"I wish I weren't so afraid of speaking with them, inviting them to dance, Mom."

"You won't be. A day will come and you will meet a nice girl. Let love come to you, you're so young. The world belongs to you. You shouldn't be so worried, so curious."

But he was curious. It was stronger than him, universal. The romantic current that brings men and women together started young, always. Djambo felt it with the first vibrations of his heart, and it stayed with him for the rest of his life. Francoise knew he would be fine. As long as he was heterosexual, all would be fine with her.

She was reassured about it when she felt his presence watch her sunbathe in the nude. Under the sun, heating the inside of her thighs until it burned sometimes, she occasionally overheard a step, a movement, behind the thick bougainvillea bushes surrounding the pool.

The thought alone that it could be him, her little Djambo, her adopted native son, flattered her. His voice had been muting. He was becoming a man. Djambo turned eighteen at the beginning of Junior High but he was still a virgin.

With his stepfather, he only discussed the things of nature, hunting, politics, the things of the world, but never women. Robert Martin had a certain catholic modesty about him that made him almost a puritan when it came to sexuality.

His wife Francoise came from the same vein, from the Loire Valley, but life in Africa had changed her and she became more daring in her thirties.

That early fall in Junior High, he was turned down by a girl at a dance party. It occurred at one of the expats home one afternoon, and Djambo felt rejected and lonely. It was the end of the rain season and extremely hot outside.

Francoise saw it in his eyes, the sadness of youth, and found her own loneliness in them. They were in the villa's kitchen, drinking Coca Cola with lemon to cool off, and he wanted to confess his attraction for her, but he couldn't. Francoise knew; she felt it. She gave him a little kiss on the lips and kept him snug against her. Djambo was already much taller than her. She climbed on the ceramic kitchen counter to reach his height. Swiftly, she bounced up on it and was facing him, while he stood still next to the refrigerator.

He had kissed some French girls at school, but those early attempts were hidden, quick, and never prolonged or sensual. Francoise knew that too. She gently caressed his neck with her left hand, kissed him more, and offered him her wet and expert tongue, very slowly. He let go of the refrigerator door, which plunged the both of them in the sweltering shade of the kitchen. Robert was away at an embassy cocktail and wouldn't be back until very late. They had all the time in the world.

Djambo could feel Francoise heels bouncing nonchalantly in the back of his thighs, her hands, up and down his bare back, and her tongue showing him, the cheetah, how to kiss a woman. With his both his thumbs, he hesitated first, and then found the vicious hardness of both her nipples under her thin shirt. Francoise smiled.

She temporarily abandoned her caress to lift up her generous breasts, and offer their wide brown areolas to her son in law.

"Doucement," she said. "Suck them softly."

His tongue reached out to his stepmother's extended nipple for the first time in his life. Francoise closed her eyes, pushed her ravishing extremities closer to him, and began enjoying the moment.

She hadn't had a man in ten years, ever since Djambo had moved in. Robert had neglected her. Suddenly, at almost forty, with her eighteen-year old stepson, she was re-becoming a woman.

She was shy and hesitant too at first, but in the glistening evening heat they were soon entirely nude, locked, and trapped in the promiscuity of the tiny kitchen. Djambo was afraid to go further. He was learning to lick the long nipples slowly, and occasionally it made a little sound on the finish. The slight pinch at their end gave Francoise a cosmic urge to capture him. She did not want to let the opportunity elude as it had so many times before.

She lifted her right thigh and pushed him down so that he could discover more of her femininity. Djambo quickly found the scent of his mother's opulent black forest.

It was delightful, abundant, secretive, and yet unique in the fragile pink oasis it harbored at its very center. She enjoyed her young man's scent as well; His sweat, his strong body odor, and the obedient up and down movement of his dedicated tongue.

He looked up at her brown eyes, now wide open, seeking more. She noticed his ferocious erection. She had never seen him in that state. It was all for her, only for her now.

It needed no attention from her mouth. It stood as if it had waited years for that moment. She gently caressed his chocolate softness, brought it up close to her, and slid back further to the wall behind the cool tile counter.

Now they were both looking at it: The powerful young cock she was holding, beating it very hard against her moist pubic hair, searching for her lips, was giving her devastating waves of pleasure every time she found them with it.

Djambo joined his hands behind his back as to show respect to his stepmother, and let her guide their first encounter fully. He too was feeling the streaks and the intensity at each and every impact inside her welcoming lips. But the best hadn't begun yet. Francoise wanted the tip of him to swirl around her clit until she would be completely ready. Djambo's heart was beating violently when he saw the pink thumb of flesh emerge aggressively. He had never seen one before. Francoise looked deep into his eyes and kissed him again to reassure him. Now he realized she had a little penis too. It was not comparable to his, but it seemed to show the same eagerness, the same insatiable untamed curiosity.

Francoise's heart was beating just as fast as his. She opened her mouth and was breathing through it, straight into Djambo's chest. Now both tips, hers and his, were conjugating their passion by brushing each other under her firm hand. She could see his cream already oozing under his savage impatience. She allowed Djambo's head to explore further in the sweetness of her wider lips.

She felt him, wide, powerful, profound, dedicated, obedient, and hungry. She welcomed his first thrust, and seemed surprised at how deep he penetrated her. Djambo saw himself disappear into Francoise and his instinct took over. He mimicked the young women of his village, rotating their hips, and he began pushing forward and pulling back, with rhythm, like a dance.

Francoise was sweating and screaming.

"Oh Djambo! My little Djambo! My darling, you've grown so strong!"

"I love you Mom." He said, and he meant it.

"Please not yet. Please not yet. Please continue."

Djambo could feel the world, the stars, the cosmos, scintillating inside his entire being, but he abided by Francoise's request. She always gave the orders at the house, and he followed them. She had the power.

"Let me move son, stay where you are."

She turned around on the ceramic counter. Now Djambo had a full view of her imposing behind, with the abundant black jungle growing outwards, already seeking his menacing somber circumference.

He beat on it again, from behind this time. Violently, his cock was slapping her humidity, bringing out wetter squeaks and screams from Francoise.

"Take me now. Don't wait any more. Take me, son." Francoise asked, holding on to the rusted plumbing tube running along the wall.

He penetrated his stepmother with vigor, and particularly savored the contrast of his fully stretched skin coming out in unison with her pink lips every time. It was equally gratifying for Francoise. She could no longer see his face. She impaled herself on him violently, and immediately ejaculated. She had never screamed this much in her life. She was hanging to the steel tube, vibrating, matching the clinging metallic sounds with the relentless cadence, yet imposing her will on her young buck all the while.

Their secret would last his entire senior year in every room of the villa. Now, thirty years later, she was saying good-bye to him again as he disappeared in the winter night of Chatou.