by Ben Boswell
It sounds more glamorous than it is. After my first trip to India—Bangalore during the monsoon season—to troubleshoot a development project there, I vowed to do all my follow-ups there by Skype. I still ended up spending a lot of time on airplanes. Hong Kong. Tallin. Jakarta. Exciting, interesting cities, and challenging work, but not really garden spots. More than once I recalled the old adage be careful what you wish for, you might just get it.
But when we signed a deal with a French defense firm for a major project, I insisted to my bosses that I needed to do a site visit to ensure success. Paris in Spring time. I cashed in some frequent flyer miles and got a second business class seat for Terri. We left the kids with her folks and jetted off the Europe.
I’d been to Paris once before. Terri hadn’t. Say what you will about the French, but they know how to eat and drink, and their capital is a beautiful treasure. Even the Nazis couldn’t bring themselves to destroy it despite Hitler’s orders.
I don’t claim to understand the French approach to business. My opposite number was an active duty French Army colonel, Jean-Pierre Thibault, temporarily seconded to a private firm to oversee software development. He met us at the airport. I had expected a software geek in uniform, and instead was welcomed by a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit.
He greeted us and appreciatively ran his eyes up and down Terri. Political correctness is far less advanced in France. Indeed, I think most French women would be more than a little offended if a man did not cast an admiring glance. Terri blushed slightly, though I couldn’t help but notice that Jean-Pierre was exactly her type: tall, dark, and very handsome. He spoke excellent, albeit heavily accented, English.
He drove us to our hotel and insisted on taking us out for dinner that evening. Was he just being a gracious host? Would I have received the same treatment had I been on my own? Who knows? But it was a nice offer, and we eagerly accepted.
We’d arranged an early check-in, and put on our tourist gear and walked around. Our hotel was close to Notre Dame, right in the center of the city, and we walked along the Seine, holding hands, playing tourist until mid-afternoon when we returned to the hotel and took a nice long nap before dinner.
We dressed. Chic. This was Paris after all. I wore my black suit. Terri had purchased a new dress, vintage style, black and white polka dot with a halter-neck that exposed a generous amount of cleavage.
Jean-Pierre took us to a lovely restaurant on the banks of the Seine with a view of the Eiffel Tower. We were on expense accounts, so Champagne cocktails flowed into a Sancerre with our shellfish appetizers and then a rich Bordeaux with the main course.
In addition to being a computer scientist and program manager, Jean-Pierre was an infantry officer and had seen combat in Afghanistan, Mali, and the Central African Republic. He had great stories of the kind only soldiers possess, but married to an amusingly French disposition that caused him to spare us the worst details.
“Ze fings I haf seen, I cannot bear to repeat in zese circumstances,” he intoned with the sort of earnest soberness that signaled existential angst. He could not have been more French had been wearing a beret and smoking a Gitane.
Terri noticed his wedding band. “Why didn’t your wife join us this evening?”
“Ah, my wife, she is in Nice. Wif our daughter. We just had our first grandson.”
“Surely not,” she replied gaily. “I don’t believe you are a grandfather.”
He laughed. “Zese fings, zay happen sooner zan we realize.”
We toasted to his daughter and his new grandson.
Terri pressed on. “Well, if your wife can’t be with you, surely your mistress would be available.”
He laughed again. “Yes, of course. All Frenchmen must ‘ave a mistress. Just as all our police inspectors are clumsy oafs who nonetheless stumble onto the solution to every crime. Tell me Terri, now zat Bill will need to visit France regularly for biziness, would you approve if he took a mistress?”
She looked at me with a naughty grin. “Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, no? What do you think?”
“Ze gander?” Jean-Pierre asked, puzzled.
I laughed. “That’s very generous, sweety,” I replied, putting my hand on her forearm. Then turning toward him I continued, “She’s all I can handle. More than I can handle, actually.”
He cocked his head to the side and smiled as he looked from me to Terri and back again. Then he raised his glass. “To our spirited wives, zen, more zan ve can ‘andle.” We clinked and drank.
The main course was followed by cheese and dessert, the first accompanied by a delicious aged Port, the latter by an Alsatian sweet wine.
Between jetlag and the alcohol, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. As we paid the tab, all I could think about was passing out in our nice, soft bed. So when Jean-Pierre offered to take us around to see some of the famous Parisian monuments lit up at night, I answered without looking up.
“I’m going to sleep,” I replied at exactly the same moment as Terri responded, “Sure, I’d love to.”
Jean-Pierre laughed. “Ah, vell, ve can do it another evening.”
There was a moment’s pause. Just an instant in reality, though it dragged out as if in slow motion to me. Finally, I talked myself into it.
“No, go if you want,” I said to Terri, who was watching me with shining eyes.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I smiled. “Of course. Why not? I surely have nothing to fear if you’re being protected by a dashing infantry officer.”
By Jean-Pierre’s expression, I could tell he was both intrigued and concerned. I rose quickly and shook his hand. “I put her in your hands.”
I leaned down and kissed Terri on the cheek. “Have fun,” I said loudly enough for him to hear.
“Don’t wait up,” she whispered saucily in my ear as I felt her hand snake into my suit pocket.
I stood and briskly walked out of the restaurant. I couldn’t bear to look back at them. The night air was chilly, which was a blessing because it revived me enough to make it back to the hotel. As I cleared the restaurant, I reached into my pocket. I already knew what she’d placed there, but the confirmation nonetheless sent a jolt through me as my fingers discovered her little black panties.
It was a short walk back to the hotel. Less than ten minutes. But I knew that Terri worked fast. Were they already making love? Were the French more understanding of bathroom hookups? Was I the last one at the table to learn that she’d slipped off her panties? All those thoughts thundered through my head, and more.
I stripped off my suit and fell into bed, drunk and tired. No, Terri was going to drag this one out. He’d show her around, probably trying to remain a gentleman, and she would tease him, tempt him, and then finally seduce him. She was going to give him a night to remember, and then she’d come back to me and relive it all. I fell asleep with a huge smile on my face and a raging hardon.
-------
After an amazing and eventful week, we flew home. Hugged the kids, did household chores, embraced normality.
Except not really. Not completely. Sometimes we’d catch each other’s eyes, and the memory of our latest adventure would make us share a connected little giggle.
And now, when I see her on the floor, playing with the kids, I realize that what I’m seeing is just a part of her, that there are layers beneath the surface, some of which I probably have yet to discover. And knowing that, somehow, makes me happy.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have been writing erotic fiction for myself for many years. A few years ago, I began publishing on Literotica.com, under the name misterstan. Most of my stories appear in the “Loving Wives” category, which has become a virtual cesspool of negativity. For every good comment I’ve received, I’ve also received five negative ones. And yet, the positive comments have just been a delight and more than anything are what have kept me writing and publishing. Over the years, I’ve received wonderful
support, both in the comments and through email from dozens of fans. They’ve encouraged me and their often constructive criticism has pushed me to write richer characters and most interesting stories. So, to all of you who’ve ever sent me a positive note, thank you, and I hope you will continue to enjoy my writing in this new format.
My biggest thanks, however, go to Kenny Wright. He’s a wonderful author in his own right. You can find his work at www.kennywriter.com. He reached out to me through Literotica. He encouraged me to try my hand at longer-form fiction, and he’s been instrumental in helping me polish this story. His suggestions, both substantive and editorial, have been superb. And he’s helped me begin to understand the process of online publishing. Quite literally, this book would not be in your hands were it not for his encouragement and advice. So, Kenny, thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I am longtime reader and author of erotic fiction. I’ve been publishing short stories on the free website, Literotica.com, under the name misterstan for the past several years. This is my first, but hopefully not my last, venture into longer-form fiction writing.
I write in genres that I find exciting and arousing. Most of my stories are in the slut wife, wife-watching genre, though occasionally I venture into other subject matter.
Reader feedback is what keeps me going. Please feel free to contact me at [email protected] or visit my blog at benboswell.blogspot.com. You can follow me on Twitter @BenBoswellAut.
