Les Tentes
Once upon a time
Belle: she who was pretty by name was pretty by face, by smell, by nature.
I think I realised I was in love with her when we were five and she fell over in the vineyards where we lived. I felt so helpless as she cried. I didn't know how to comfort her, so I hugged her, kissed her cheek and hit the "naughty" ground that caused her harm. The next time I saw her cry was when her mother left her father to run off with another man; it was quite the village scandal. I felt much the same helplessness then. Even in her tears, she was beautiful.
Growing up in rural France, neither of our families had heaps of money, but we had everything we needed in each other. The working land where my parents and her father planted grapes was our playground; we played chase and made pates du boue in the dirt.
Our recreational activities were moved indoors when the weather was bad. We liked to play 'Les tentes''; we'd take blankets and duvets, arranging them over furniture to create a den for just the two of us.
Young love grew strong and ripe and ready. When Belle was sweet sixteen, I popped her precious cherry. Mais oui, it had to be me!
Our parents were out in the fields with their tools; we were in her bedroom with our school work.
By these days, I didn't stick to Belle's cheek when I kissed her. We brought new meaning to the term 'French kissing", our tongues tangling together, our hands feeling everywhere.
The rose I had picked for her had sweetened her up, and the homemade wine we'd stolen from the cellar had warmed us both up.
"Let's play tents, like we used to when we were little kids," I tore the bed sheets away from her.
"You want to play a game now?"
"Not just any game. Our game."
I got up and pulled the covers up enough so that I could crawl underneath them and up Belle's legs.
"What are you doing? We laid the sheets over the furniture!"
I peeked out of my covering. "I don't mean that kind of tent…" I dived back under.
She was wearing a yellow sun dress—my ray of sunshine. I smoothed my hands up her silky legs, taking it with me until I met the lace edge of her wide- legged knickers. There was something so sexy about them in an innocent way; we weren't having cheese with our wine; I didn't need something to grate it with, thank you very much.
I moved the modest garment down over her hips.
"Edward, what are you doing?" She asked again, more panicked.
I didn't emerge. I talked into the fabric of her panties, still pulling them down. I left them somewhere in the bed with us.
"I want to kiss your pussy—like I kiss your lips."
"Isn't that disgusting?"
I didn't offer any kind of answer until I'd traced my way back up her legs and brought my nose right to her clit. Then, I shook my head, my nose moving against it. She almost came off the bed, but I caught her and held her down while I dipped my tongue into her depths.
Belle's cup overflowed and I drank from her 'til I was drunk, my tongue dancing around, my lips spread against hers, smooching them as I would those of her face, like I'd hoped to.
Her sweet taste filled my mouth, along with the tangy after taste of the wine. A citrusy, floral scent filled my nostrils. All my senses were enhanced since I couldn't see Belle from the waist up, trapped in the wonderful bubble I was. It was so sexy, but as the heat rose, and, with nowhere to go, circulated back on itself, I got too hot and my need to see her face won out, especially when I thought she was working towards climax.
I threw off my cover and cast my eyes up toward her's as much as I could as I continued my crazed caressing of her flesh.
When I finally found my way inside her, a tear fell down her cheek, but this time I knew these were tears of happiness-beautiful.
Two months later, Belle's father sent her to live with her mother and her new husband in Napa Valley, US, so she could have a higher standard of living. I suspect he also sensed how serious Belle and I were becoming and thought the distance would be good for her.
She protested, of course, but he couldn't be swayed by the wind of words.
We were truly heartbroken. We weren't sure how long she'd be staying over there; how often she'd visit, if at all. We swore to stay in touch, keep our love alive, but time and distance trapped us in the cold and dark. I couldn't deal with the idea of her having a full, happy life I wasn't part of, the possibility she might meet someone else, so I stopped calling, writing...young love wilted on the vine.
Modern day, somewhere in Paris
I lost focus at school without Belle-focus in general really...and that's how I ended up where I am— in Paris, working for the rich. It was either that or resign myself to a forever in my family's fields…
I mow their lawns, I rake their leaves, I sit their houses...can you believe that? There are people who are so rich, they pay someone just to babysit their home when they're away.
Take tonight. A friend got me a waitering gig at some fancy affair. I'm wearing smart, head- to- toe black, like I'm going to a fucking funeral...the death of my dignity..?
There's to be dinner and dancing, then an auction. I'm on valet first. Then, I'm taking coats to the cloak room. It's ridiculous how much these folk can afford to spend on clothes; I hang one superbly cut, camel-coloured, designer overcoat that must be worth thousands…I itch to try it on.
Then, it's out to the tables to serve food and drinks, mingle with the more fortunate.
Some of them are fine with me, but others lack the manners to go along with their wealth. There's this one guy that's really getting to me. He reckons he ordered a bottle of the finest champagne "like a fucking age ago." He sounds American. And arrogant. He's adamant that I bring the bottle to his table right now, so as not to waste any more of his precious time. I don't want to waste the energy arguing with him and get my friend in trouble after he did me a favour, so I slide over to the bar, and, bringing the bubbly with me, follow Little Mr. rich kid to his table.
I'm stopped in my tracks when we get close enough to the table to see the occupants.
"Belle?" I say breathlessly.
"Edward?" She's equally out of breath.
She's as beautiful as ever, sat next to her mother and who I presume is her husband. Something is different about her, I register. She's not dressed as ostentatiously as the others, but I don't believe that to be down to her circumstances; looking good just always was so effortless for her.
Our silent reunion hangs in the air. Six years of mourning the loss of her, withering without her. So much I want to say to her, to ask her, but she beats me to it. I wait for epic words…
"You cut your hair."
Seriously? She always did know how to surprise me.
"You went blonde." I shoot back.
"You know this guy?"
I had all but forgotten about the fool who'd brought me back to Bella…
Her mother cuts in. "Jacob, this is Edward- he and Bella used to make mud pies together when they were little…"
Over simplifying our history a bit there…
"Oh, so you went from making the wine to serving it!" The little shit pats me on the back. But I only see Belle—always have only had eyes for her…
I stop the trip down memory lane; I need some space to think. "Yeah, well, speaking of which, I better get back to work."
I take my break, bringing my cigarettes out back with me. What is Bella doing here? How did she wind up with a world-class dick like that? What am I gonna do about it..?
I'm interrupted before I can come up with any answers. The back door swings open, and Belle is dragged out— by him.
He's bellowing at her. " Don't be getting any ideas in there! You know which side your bageutte's buttered!"
I immediately interfere, tugging him off her harshly.
"If you ever touch her again!" I don't need to finish the threat. It's implicit.
"Go back inside like a good boy, tell them Bella's just getting some air and she'll be back soon. Go bid on a new toy or something. I need to talk to Bella alone. It's well overdue."
He wages no more war with me, walking back inside. Coward can't even fight for her. Or won't. Well I will.
When the door is closed, Belle begins " He's not usually like that—he's just-—
"Belle, I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear you make excuses for that. I don't want to hear how much you hate me for how I've acted, although you should, and I don't want to hear all the gory details of your new life—with him. I just need to hear one thing."
"What?"
"Are you happy?"
She can't answer, because she never could lie to me. That's my queue.
I make my case with a kiss, crammed with meaning, steeped in honesty.
"Come with me, Belle. Right now. Before you make the biggest mistake of your life. Give me another chance to get it right."
I give her as much time as we can afford; I have nothing to lose. She has everything. I understand that.
She nods and it's now or never.
"I just wanna make a quick stop first," I say.
We swing by the cloak room, so I can swipe that smart coat I spied earlier; it probably won't be missed, and since I'm already going to hell, I'm going in style. I grab the keys to a sporty BMW too.
I substitute my black jacket for the sandy- coloured wonder, then we're on our way, like some sort of Cinderella story in reverse.
We shove our way through the crowds of chattering guests and across the dance floor, where I twirl her around and then bring her in close to me, her hand in mine. I take the lead all the way, finally.
There are wondering looks as we pass by, but we pay them no heed. I don't even head hunt Belle's mother and father-in law or Jacque le creep, to see if they're watching.
We make our escape into the evening.
"What now?" Belle enquires.
"I know somewhere we can go."
I guide her to where I parked the BMW earlier and help her in.
"Yours?" she asks.
Yeah, because all waiters and general dog's bodies own this kind of car. "No. I'm er, borrowing it..." I put the key in the ignition, hoping I can re-ignite our love so easily. The passion is definitely still there; it's palpable.
I speed through the lit streets of Paris and park up outside the house.
"This isn't mine either." I inform her about the huge mansion we're headed towards on foot.
"Then who's?"
"A client's. I take care of it while they travel the world. This is what I do, Bella."
"What you do. Not who you are."
We walk through the house to the doors leading out to the back.
"Why don't you take a look outside? It's incredible. I'll be right behind you; I just want to fetch something."
When I return out back, I can't locate her anywhere; she's not sat on the sun loungers, nor over on the lawn...I venture farther and I find her again.
In a rather ironic display, she's below me. She's down in the empty pool, looking around at the mosaic tiles.
I descend the steps quietly to join her.
"It's beautiful," she observes. I bet she has one just like it back in the States, but I humor her.
"I wouldn't say that with you stood there under the moonlight." No humor in that.
I hold the sheet I brought with me from inside around myself and her, nuzzling into her cheek. She knows what I'm hinting at with it; I don't have to ask. She cups my cheek, then turns in my sheathed arms, one hand round my neck, one against my heart. She kisses me.
I fan the sheet out and lift it over our heads, pressing her up against the side of the pool, pitching our tent. And pitching a tent in my pants...
The sheet is quickly thrown to the pool floor as I kiss her and slide my hands up her breton striped top, cupping her breasts. I bring them down her belly and hips, holding her legs up so she can wrap them around me.
I have to unwrap her and set her back down so that I can take off her slim trousers, sinking to my knees to kiss just above her knickers—modest as always. She helps me out of my shirt while I'm down there.
Then, it's my turn to be slammed against the tiles. She tugs down my zipper, moves my boxer shorts out of the way and wastes no time sucking me into her hot mouth. Her forefinger and thumb circle me, starting a motion that matches the speed of her mouth. I mess her hair with my hands, as if in disapproval of her changing it without my permission. But I love it. Almost as much as I love what she's doing to me. I wonder briefly if the curtains match the drapes, or if she's still dark-haired down below. I can't wait any longer to discover. I halt her just as she starts moaning around my dick, difficult as it is.
When she's at full height again, I kiss her, slipping her knickers down to her knees. There's a small patch of pretty brown curls when I look down.
I turn her around. I really want to have her with her legs around me once more, as close as possible and facing me, but I'm worried I'll hurt her back and there's no way I'd make it out of our cavern. She spreads her arms right out along the wall of the pool, standing up on her tip-toes, bent slightly, to let me get deep in her like I want to. She even pulls her cheeks apart–my good girl.
I get an idea: the sheet may not be thick enough to lay her down on, but it might be okay for her hands and knees… I stop to hurriedly place it on the floor and then us into position on it, me pumping into her from behind like I'm making up for the lack of a water pump. It's not long before she let's go around me, giving me a pass to let the waves of pure bliss take me under.
Later, I return the car, dumping it near the venue of the party—talk about a joy ride...The coat I'm keeping. And Bella. The best steal of all, although she was mine first. She waits for me at the house and I catch a cab straight back to her; I don't want to be separated from her ever again and we have much to talk about.
I go on one final criminal spree, thieving a bottle of wine from the fridge; it's not like they're short.
"It won't be like back home, but it'll do."
She giggles.
I give her a glass half full of wine to let it breathe as I do—deeply. We sit.
Before we can get to the serious stuff like what the fuck we're gonna do, I raise my glass in a toast. I know that whatever we do, wherever we go, I plan to be by her side. And we won't need a tent; we occupy our space when we're together.
"To us."
The End x
Glossary
Les tentes-tents
pates du boue-mud pies
Mais oui-but yes