Chellist.
"Francis? Où êtes-vous?"
Ah, Francis can hear her heels clicking against the wooden floor. Green here, brown the- oops, he's gotten paint on his arms. A pity, he'd almost finished a painting without a smudge on him. Impressionistic painting has it's downfalls he supposes.
"Le studio, ma biche,"
The clicking stops and he can hear the sound of her heels, purse and mon dieu, her dress. Oh. Today's that sort of day for her, then. He strips his tshirt. Francis prides himself in always having his heart in his hands. Especially for Chelles.
"Qu'est-ce que vous la peinture?"
"Vous. Vous aimez?" And he can feel her as she walks behind him, leans against his back and wraps her arms around him. Can feel her smell him and he doesn't know why she does it, but it never fails to make him hard.
"Je n'ai pas jouer du violoncelle." That doesn't mean she doesn't like it though, Francis notes. It is quite a fine painting, he thinks. Rough little brushstrokes that accumulate into a picture of mahogany skin against mahogany wood, curves of a body versus the curves of the instrument it plays and the drape of green curtains that compliment a blue dress and red hair ribbons- harmonious in the most traditional of ways.
"Vous me rappeler d'un seul," Her fingers dip lower, and lower and Francis sighs, tilts his head back as she goes even lower, fingertips grazing the waistband of his pants.
"Dites-moi comment," He twirls her hair around his finger, puts down his paintbrush and growls his appreciation when she kisses his shoulder.
"Votre forme. Les courbes sont identiques. Plein et cintrée." He turns around and she is beautiful. All black lace and smooth skin. He fingers the strap of her bra, snaps it against her skin. She laughs, but it stops quickly when he holds her close and unties her hair ribbons.
"Et votre voix. Violoncelles sound sur le même comme une femme," Francis does enjoy the sounds she makes when he runs his fingers up her sides. Little hums when he presses the pads of his fingers against her hips and giggles when he tickles her.
"La couleur, bien sûr. Vous souhaitez faire un merveilleux violoncelle." She inhales, slow and deep and slides her leg right up his waist.
"Pouvez-vous me montrer? Vous pourriez être ma Chellist," And she puts her hand on his shoulder and hefts herself up. Francis, gentlemanly as he is, supports her. Not so gentlemanly as he is, he takes advantage of his position and gropes her ass. Hey. You take the good with the bad.
"Bien sûr. Mais violoncelles ne portez pas lingere" And he adds in a little more bad and slides his hands in her panties because it's always been better to feel her naked.
"Puis l'enlever,"
"Ici ou de la boudouir?"
"La boudoir," He sets her down gently and she walks off to his bedroom with a cheeky little swish that makes it impossible not to stare at her as she goes. He strips his pants and underwear and picks up his palette and brush as an after thought.
A Chellist indeed.
"Francis? Prêt ?" He takes his time walking into the bedroom and takes a minute to lean on the doorway and appreciate the sight of his beautiful girl laying in his blue bed sheets, posed just the way she knows he likes.
"Tu es très jolie,"
"Tu es très beau. Il n'est pas question, à moins que vous m'embrasser," Philosophically, that is a thought worth thinking about. He'll get to it when he's not so distracted by the spread of Chelles' legs in the afternoon sunlight.
"Tout pour toi, Chelles,"