The Ball Drops

Speaking of kissing…

Monsieur and I stayed up late on New Year’s Eve, talking. The kids tried to stay up to watch the calendar change but they all were asleep by 11:00 PM. We sat in the quiet living room, listening to the radio as it played weird jazz. His brother, as is his custom every year, sent him a case of his own wine from France, which his brother bottles himself, with, Monsieur says, “mixed results”. We opened one and it was quite good but I only had a sip. And we talked about us.

He wanted to know about how I’d been feeling out the whole thing and I admitted that although I loved living here and loved him and the boys, I needed more. Not just hugs, tenderness, affection and kisses … I admitted I needed more sex. I thought he would be upset or angry so I watched his eyes carefully as this came out, and I tried to be gentle about it.

“I can sometimes withdraw when I am troubled. You know,” he revealed, “I’ve been going to grief counseling.”

“No,” I said. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, and of course they generally do not recommend one to start a relationship so soon after a major life crisis, such as the death of a spouse.”

“I see.” My eyes were on my lap.

He took my hands in his. “I have reason to believe, for certain people, that grief counseling is of little value after a certain point.”

“Do you now?” I smiled.

“I am of the type that naturally avoids profoundly traumatic emotion, you see. And, after a few sessions I have given it a lot of thought.”

“Tell me your thoughts,” I said, as he held my hands.

“First, I am given to believe that for me, the emotional and spiritual support that friends who care can provide might be far more useful than therapy.”

“I’m certainly willing to provide you with that, Monsieur.” I placed my hands on his shoulders. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I believe it to be true,” he said, smiling, “since I can think of no other reason why you would stay here and work so hard, simply to help the children and care for them.”

“Well, of course,” I admitted, “I love the boys as well. But as for you, I love you deeply.”

“You are not dissatisfied with me?” he asked, his eyes so softly looking into mine. My god the man has the most liquid brown bedroom eyes I have ever seen.

“Oh no! Well, I mean,” I continued, “I am very demanding … after the lights go out.”

“I have been plagued,” he said, “by guilt about that recently.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling guilty myself, about being so needy.

“I need to stop that guilt,” he said. “I was hoping that the counseling would help with that, but of course they are seeking what they call ‘closure’ and try to help me through this pre-defined path of grief.”

I held his hands, listening.

“I don’t think there is only one path to it. I am not normally given to distress, emotionally or physically. I have been denying myself the ability to go past this trauma, simply because I have been thinking that I should be faithful to Maggie’s memory, and so forth.” He had a sip of wine. I didn’t know what to say, so I listened.

“Maggie would not want me to be unhappy, depressed, isolated, alone,” he said, staring into his wine glass.

“I agree, Monsieur.”

“Maggie would want me to live.”

I took the wine glass from his hands and placed it on the coffee table. I held him in my arms and then I kissed him. He held me, tightly, caressing me. I kept kissing him, not forcing it but not pulling away either.

It felt good.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally said, after a few moments. “Of course it is the sort of thing that may be personal, so please don’t tell me more than you feel you should.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Who is John?”

“John?” I asked.

“His telephone number is on your dresser upstairs – on a note. It says, ‘You’re beautiful, call me, John.’”

“Oh. Right.” Damn. “Some guy, came in with some people to the restaurant, gave me that with his tip. I guess I overdid it on the friendly banter, and he may have thought I was interested.”

“Are you, then?” Monsieur asked.

Blush. “No! I mean, flattered, yes … I … I guess I was, I mean I wasn’t going to call him.”

“But you kept his number? You were tempted?”

“Please! I just forgot to throw it away!” I felt cornered. I stood up.

“It’s not a bit of my business, and I won’t ask,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I think I have made some mistakes with you, and have moved too quickly –”

“Mistakes?” I could feel my blood rising.

“ – But I don’t want that to place the rest of our relationship in jeopardy.”

“First of all, the biggest mistake you could make would be to think I would call some guy who gave me his phone number, when I am only here to take care of you.” I felt my face getting hot.

“I didn’t mean–”

“Second biggest mistake is that I’m a very low maintenance sort of girl in almost every way, except … at bedtime.”

He laughed a little. “I agree,” he said. “I’m sorry if it seemed as though I wasn’t trusting, but I was afraid we were drifting apart.”

I sat back down, next to him. “I’ll forgive you, on one condition. Just drift a little closer.” I kissed him, my mouth hungry.

For a long time.

My hands were all over his body and when I could feel his heart beating in his chest, I knew that he was ready and I started lowering his pants.

“I’m not used to asking for it,” I whispered. “Usually the guy asks me, but you’re not like other guys.”

“I can try to be,” he whispered.

“No, just be yourself. I like that.”

I got his pants off, his cock thick and red, swollen and erect, curving up like it was straining to reach me. I lowered my head and licked it. His breath made a noise like a tire deflating. I opened wide and sucked on the head, drooling wantonly, stroking him with my hand, trying to remember all the pointers I recently got from Desireous and Introspectre, VH and my other personal idols when it comes to cock pleasing.

His hands wandered over my body, one hand finding its way to my bottom. He pulled the waistband of my pajamas down and fondled me as I sucked.

He moaned. His fingers pulled my panties aside and slipped in past my rubbery wet labia – thick, strong, insistent fingers. I moaned, my mouth full of him, my pussy full of him; I looked up at him. I let his cock pop out of my mouth.

“Do you like that?” I smiled, stroking him.

“Oh you know that I do. I am quite ready,” he whispered.

“Ready to come in my mouth?” I asked, my eyes sparkling.

“I … I don’t know if … if I can …”

“Let’s try this, then.” I got up on the couch. “Stand up,” I said. He obeyed. I love how a man with a hard-on will do almost anything. I lay down on my back, hung my head off the edge, and pulled his cock to me, licking it then sucking it in.

He moaned again. I pulled it out. “Now, you’re gonna have to fuck my mouth, and don’t be such a gentleman for once. I really, really want this. All right?”

“All right, chère.”

I put his hands on my head, so giving him permission to really use my mouth to please him. My hands teased his swinging balls, stroked his shaft, and after only a few minutes of his cock head stretching my mouth, jaw and lips … I felt a pulse along the shaft, his scrotum tight against his body, then a gasp and something French from his lips … then another gasp and something hot, thick, and oh, so rich filling my mouth as he fucked it. Triumph.

I pulled off, stroking him and trying to get it all. There was a lot. I don’t think the poor man had had an ejaculation since the last one he had with me, a month before. It covered my face deliciously, my hair, the floor …

I sat up, wiping my face with my shirt, licking my lips.

He fell to his knees and began to tongue me as I licked the last of him from my fingers. My legs went up and open, resting on his shoulders as he licked and sucked, then when I was totally flowing I started playing with his cock with my feet. I felt it harden then he picked my legs up, spread them wide and slid his tongue deep inside me and fucked me with his face till I came, hard, biting my hand to keep from waking the kids. My head was spinning.

I remember that he got up on his knees and was teasing my entrance with his freshly hardened cock.

“Please, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“Please what, my love?”

“Please, will you take me?” I begged.

“Take you where, mon ange?” he smiled.

I was pulling him, humping, trying to get him inside me. “OH! You’re so mean to me, why?”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, “it’s just that I really like the look on your face when I finally give you,” and then he held me open and slid into me, “this.”

“Oh!”

It burrowed into me, what I’d been missing, dreaming of, hoping for, into me, making me blind with pleasure, filling me up and burying inside me in…

One.

Smooth.

Stroke.

He kissed me, our faces sticky with each other, and he hooked his elbows under my knees and lifted my legs up as his cock filled me. Oh, it was so thick. In my delirium I remembered to try bringing my knees to my chest like Cardman described. I was sitting on the edge of the couch, and his kneeling in front of me was the perfect angle. Monsieur could then pull all the way out and slowly slide all the way in, from the crown to the base, with each stroke. Yum. I came in three or four strokes, and he could keep going for I don’t know how long before it welled up and soaked me.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, kissing me through my happy tears. I looked at the clock. It was 12:45 AM.