by Fifi Flowers
Everything tasted divine. The company was great. Everyone was gregarious. But, it turned out to be an earlier night than usual since the Americans were catching a late night flight back home. They had arrived three days ago, toured the vineyard and concluded all of their business dealings. To thank them for continual support, my father insisted that they let him throw a dinner party in their honor. Who could turn down an invitation to a gourmet meal complimented by bottles of Pinard Vineyard boutique wines? I certainly wouldn’t.
Though the guests of honor were departing, my father invited the rest of us up to the house for snifters of a limited reserve, golden liqueur made by a vintner friend to finish the night. “We’ll be up to the house shortly; I need to speak to Avril alone. Give us a few moments,” I told my father with my hand on her shoulder, stilling her from rising.
Once the wine cave was void of everyone but us, I wasted no time. I had her out of her seat and over the table with her skirt up around her waist. “Oh, no panties. Someone was prepared.”
Behind her, I pushed her legs wider apart and sunk to my knees for my first true taste. She was glistening. “So wet.” Swiping my tongue from front to back, “Oh, so good, your essence is like a perfect bouquet. I knew it would be from the first day your delightful aroma perfumed my nose.” My tongue explored the hollows of her open legs, the sides of her swollen pillows. Teasing, my lip skimmed and her body squirmed. My mouth consumed and sucked while my little tongue flickered, enticing moans. “Mmmm,” I vibrated against her swollen lower lips and she pushed back into my mouth. Climaxing, she collapsed into the tablecloth with a breathy sigh, then raised her head enough to take a sip of wine still in her glass.
Still behind her beautiful bottom, I adjusted her legs perfectly for me to slip inside. “Do you like the soft, smoothness of the wine?” I moved at a leisure pace.
“Yess…” Her voice was so sexy.
Fuck! She nearly had me blowing my load. “Do you like a full body?” I thrust all the way inside of her in a pulsing motion and began a rolling movement of my pelvis, side to side, then added a circular swivel of my hips. Over and over I moved, changing up my pattern.
I liked her purred answers, “Yess…”
With deep in and out strokes, her breathing escalated as did my rhythm. “Do you like its boldness?” I crashed into her more vigorously, holding her in place with one hand firmly to the small of her back.
“Yess…” she panted, more than once.
“Such a good pet.” Reaching down between her legs, stroking her, I took us both over the edge and home with a mutual orgasm. Slumped over her, I gently, kissed her exposed neck while listening to her rapid breathing. Once it was back to a normal flow, I stood and pulled her up, adjusting her skirt. “We better get out of here before the staff arrives to clean up.”
“You mean we could’ve been caught?” I saw a twinkle appear in her amazing lavender eyes.
“Yes, who knows, maybe they saw us and slipped just out of sight and continued to watch me penetrating your luscious pussy with my tongue and cock.” With my words her chest rose, and her body quaked. “You are still intrigued with the notion of being fucked while people watch?” She didn’t answer; she just looked at me intently. “Let’s go up to the house, they’re waiting for us.”
Walking in through two open doors, we could hear voices coming from a cozy sitting room adjacent to the kitchen.
“Join us,” my father said, lifting a crystal decanter to pour two glasses for us before returning to a chair near Caron. “We’ve been telling stories about meeting our lovers.”
I turned to look at Avril, remembering her sprawled out on the cobblestone with a hint of lace enticing me. She didn’t notice my stare, as she was more interested in my father and Caron’s story.
“Please don’t tell ours, everyone has heard it,” Caron protested.
“I would love to hear it,” Avril spoke up quickly, moving to a vacant spot on a sofa, smiling like she had acquired a front row seat. I joined her and listened to their familiar story.
“While I was on one of my évasions… travels, I stopped into a champagne tasting room. Before sampling their offerings, I went to use the toilet. Walking through the door, a woman—a very beautiful red-haired woman—stood naked, wringing out clothing in the sink. Lust at first sight!”
“He liked the goods and pursued me… eventually.”
“Years later. But, I hadn’t forgotten.”
“Non, he definitely had not, and turned my face three shades of red—bright maraschino cherry to deep burgundy.”
“As I remember, it was a lovely rosé.”
They laughed together. “The first day he saw me, I was working at a well-known champagne château when a magnum bottle of bubbly literally exploded all over me. I was drenched from head to toe. In a rush, trying to rectify my problem, I forgot to lock the door. I was mortified, more so, on the day we reconnected at an event in the village here when Pinard pointed at me, blurting out, ‘Naked Champagne Girl.’ I wanted to crawl under the nearest tablecloth as everyone turned to gaze at me. Charming, this one,” she lovingly caressed his shoulders, standing behind his chair.
Reaching up, he covered her hand. “Luckily, she overlooked my outburst.”
“He was much too handsome to let him get away, again. He hooked me into working at his vineyard.”
“I needed her champagne production secrets.”
She hit his hand gently. “You wanted my goods.”
“Who could blame me?” He tilted his neck to smile up at her.
Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “Okay, I’m out. See you all tomorrow night, hopefully. I’m heading out before dawn to see my boys. Lovely to meet you, Avril. We will be sure to meet for lunch or dinner before you leave,” she suggested. My father stood, said goodnight, and scurried out after her, grabbing her so she giggled seductively. I was thankful to be staying on the other side of the house, away from their bedroom.
Left with my cousins, we exchanged tales from our mischievous boyhood days running the streets of Pigalle. Avril laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. God, she looked gorgeous sitting next to me. I wanted nothing more than to throw her over my shoulder caveman style and take her to my room. Knowing that was not going to happen, I continued to sit up with the guys and drink until Avril finally excused herself to go to bed. Being a total shithead, I said, “Goodnight,” and stayed glued to my safe spot, drowning my brain in hopes that I would pass out dreamless.
Chapter Twelve
Avril
Waking up late, and alone, in a beautiful, white, antiqued, iron bed was not what I had imagined when Émile had asked me to join him for a weekend away in the French countryside. I thought that we would, at least, be bunking in the same room. We weren’t teenagers. His father didn’t strike me as the type that would ask that we slept apart. Yet, we were separated by a shared bathroom. He didn’t even attempt to sneak into my room, either. It was like his way of being able to escape, to run away, even though he was only a mere room away.
Thoughts of him yesterday, when he pulled up in front of my apartment in a convertible gunmetal gray Porsche Boxster with a garnet red interior, filled my head. He looked incredibly handsome sitting behind the wheel, dressed in loose fitting denims and a tight, v-neck, white t-shirt. I had never seen him so casual, so contemporary—modern. I imagined seeing another side of Mr. Capet for the weekend. Excited about the prospect, I slipped into the passenger seat and boldly leaned across to place a light kiss to his stubbled cheek. I had to stifle a moan that threatened to give me away.
Stretching my naked body along the cool, crisp, luxurious linens, my nipples pebbled and my thighs moistened while I pictured him. Sliding off the sheets, I went to my bag, sitting on the floor in the corner. Pulling out a battery-operated friend, I returned to the bed, and began skimming my hands down my body. My skin felt warm and tingly. My senses came alive; I could smell the need of my sex. Pinching my nipples, I moaned, imagining É
mile’s hand sliding between my legs.
Feeling empty, I slipped the vibrating toy inside my wetness. I heard a noise in the en suite bathroom, but ignored it—I didn’t stop. Pulling my faithful companion out, I slid it back and forth over my folds and then back inside; I needed to be filled. “Oh, Émile,” I whispered in a pant as I rubbed my enlarged nub hard in a circular motion, increasing the plunging motion more vigorously. Fucking myself, I sensed I had an audience. Flipping over on my knees, I spread my legs wider, and continued to chant, “Give it to me, Émile. Yes. Yes. Oh God, Émile. Yes. Just like that…” until I climaxed, soaking the sheets. Completely sated, I collapsed to the moistened mattress with the vibrator still buzzing inside of me.
“Nice show, my pet,” Émile said, pulling my friend out of me. With a huff, and feeling empty, I flipped over, and watched him wash my toy through the open bathroom door, then return it to my bag on the floor. “Get up. Time for lunch, Avril. Get a shower. My father is waiting.” As Émile walked close to the head of the bed, I smiled, but without touching me, as I longed for him to do, he grabbed my copy of Romancing the Cobblestone from the nightstand, and strode out. I punched the feather pillow next to me—I was even more frustrated then before, if that was possible.
Hopping out of bed, I padded heavily into the bathroom to clean up. Showered, I dressed in a floral print, knee-length wraparound dress, no panties or bra. Slipping my feet into a pair of blush-colored flat sandals, I grabbed a casual drawstring canvas bag, and bound down the stairs. Uncertain about what we would be doing after we ate lunch at the farmhouse (farmhouse—I still couldn’t get over that name), I brought along the French journal. Maybe we would be relaxing and Émile could read it to me?
Following voices out of a pair of multi-paned, wood doors, I found a very hot Émile with his father. They were sitting outside on a cobblestone paved patio, covered by a wood pergola at a white and rusted, round, wrought iron table. Vines of lime green leaves and dark blood-orange trumpet flowers entwined the structure. The view from the patio was so picturesque; rows and rows of grapevines, red rose bushes, fields of tall grass, several different trees, and lavender. It didn’t look real—more like something you would see in a fairytale book.
“Good morning… afternoon, Avril,” Émile joked as he stood and pulled out a red striped cushioned chair for me. Sitting back down, he lifted a folded newspaper that was on top of the book that he had taken from my room, and handed me the book section.
“Where did you get that book?” Pinard asked, pointing to the infamous Romancing the Cobblestone book now visible on the table.
Émile picked up the old book to examine it, as if it had changed since he last looked at it. It certainly was a mystery: why people wanted it? Where it came from before appearing in a Paris shop? “It came from Francesca’s Collectibles. Actually, I didn’t find it; Avril beat me to it on the very day that I had first received an email inquiring after it.”
He watched as his son flipped through it, gingerly, with his hand. “Was that the only one?”
“It’s rare. Only so many in existence, I’m told,” he replied to his father.
“Non, I mean, was there another book with it? Did she find anything in it?” Funny, he asked him as if I wasn’t sitting at the table across from them; they were both so engrossed in the bound pages.
“Actually…”
Émile began to speak, but I cut him off, joining their conversation, “Oui, there was a journal with folded pieces of paper in it—letters. I only peeked at them briefly. There were five, very fragile, single sheets of parchment paper, dated from the late 1880s to early 1900s. They were all written in English by a man named Simon Blakeley. The journal is written in French; a tan leather, unlined travel diary. It’s small, something you could sketch or write in. It was tied shut with twine that had hardened and was falling apart. I removed it and retied it with a lavender ribbon. My French is not good enough to translate the journal.”
They both sat staring at me as I finished and took a sip from my wine glass. Finally, Pinard addressed me, slowly. I wondered what he knew about the book and its additional components that he was obviously so interested in. “Do you have the journal with you? The notes, too?”
“The letters, no. I put them into some special archival envelopes. I’ve ordered a special book with archival sleeves. Once I get them, I plan to unfold the yellowed parchment carefully while wearing special acid-free gloves. Then I will place them into the sleeves to preserve and protect them.”
Pinard turned to Émile and said something to him in rapid French which I did not grasp. I found it rather rude, until his son laughed, and responded so that I knew what he had said about me. “Oui, Père, she is a keeper and yes, too good for me. Very smart, you are right—no dummy.” Looking in my direction, he continued. “If I had things my way, she would work in the bookshop; she has an amazing eye. She has her own online book business—successful too.” Then he leaned toward me, lightly wrapped his hand around the back of my head, and tilted me slightly to place a kiss on the top of the head like a child, or a pet.
Shaking his head at the affection expressed to me, Pinard addressed both of us: Émile first, “Profess your love later and in a more romantique way, my son.” Then to me he turned, “I’m interested in seeing that journal, if you don’t mind, Avril.”
“Of course, let me fish it out.” I grabbed my bag from the seat next to me where I had set it when I arrived at the table. “I would love to know what is written in it. I brought it hoping Émile would read it to me this weekend.”
“Oui,” he said, rubbing my leg under the red, blue and yellow Provencal clothed table, and winked at me as I raised my head. “Avril gets quite excited when I translate her French books.” I wanted to kick him, but thought better of it.
Widening the drawstring top more, I dug around inside of the canvas sack. Not a large bag, but it was amazing how fast things could be lost in a lady’s purse. “Shall I assist you?” his hand skimmed my leg again as he asked, I slapped his hand away that time. How did he think it was okay to molest me with his father at the table, but he wouldn’t fuck me several rooms away, behind closed doors?
Finally locating the small journal, I handed it to Pinard. In his hands, he immediately started to gently flip through it, like he was familiar with it or that he was looking for a clue… an answer. “Do you mind if I read this today?” he asked. “I’ll get it back to you as quickly as possible.”
“Mais oui, of course,” I answered, and he stood to leave.
Stopping momentarily, he turned. “Everything is set up. Émile, why don’t you show Avril around the vineyard.” Then, after taking a few more steps away, he returned. “Oh, son, may I have that book, as well?” He pointed down to the mysterious storybook sitting on the table.
“Of course, mon Père.” He handed him the book. Pinard flustered, said hello and then goodbye, then begged our forgiveness, and hurried away. He was so engrossed in whatever was in that book and journal, he apparently couldn’t think straight. Everyone seemed to be intrigued with Romancing the Cobblestone, and its supplemental readings.
With his father gone off, Émile went to the kitchen and instructed the staff that we were ready for our lunch. Sitting, drinking wine, eating a mushroom and brie omelette, a naughty, playful Émile once again began his hand movements under the tablecloth, directed more closely to the inside of my thighs. He baffled me, “Émile, why will you not take me in the bed? We never have sex in a bed.”
“Are you complaining?” He stroked even closer—one more inch and he would’ve known that I was sans panties. “Do I not satisfy you, my pet?”
I sighed as he retracted his hand, “Yes, you more than satisfy me.”
Back to eating and drinking, I thought the conversation was finished, but I believe I struck a chord with him. Maybe he didn’t like my questioning. His early tone was light; his new one was less jovial. “Then, why do we need a bed? I thought you enjoyed the wine cave last nig
ht? I almost had to carry you out of there, you felt limp after I took you from behind. And, even before, as I feasted on your sweet, sweet pussy. Much better than Frederick’s pastry, I might add. Hmmm… are two orgasms—rolling orgasms—not pleasing for you?”
What could I say to all of that? If I had been wearing panties they would’ve been soaked. As it was, I was afraid that there would be a wet spot on the back of my dress and the seat cushion when I stood to take our stroll around the property. I was hopeful that the floral print would hide it.
Changing the subject, we finished our meal, then made our way out to the vineyard. It was a perfectly sunny day with just the right amount of puffy, white clouds in the bright, blue sky. A gentle breeze blew, igniting a delicious fragrance through the air. I couldn’t put my finger on the exact scent as there seemed to be a large array of floral and greenery growing around the vineyard, throughout the valley, where the property was located.
Beginning our stroll through the grape vines, there was a lot of activity going on. Workers were chatting, laughing, whistling, and singing while they tended to the fruit. The succulent grapes that hung on the vines surrounding us in a variety of shades would one day be plucked, stomped, fermented, and made into various wines. I loved listening to Émile tell me what each grape would become; a red, a white, a rosé, and someday, a sparkling. Pinard and Caron were developing their own champagne. Although, I’m not sure if it would be called champagne or sparkling wine as the vineyard is not in the Champagne Region of France. To me, it didn’t matter what they called it, I adored a bit of bubbly, sparkling wine or champagne.
