14 August 1959
"Oh, god," Jean moaned, hardly able to contain the sounds of her own pleasure as she lay amidst the tangled mess of Lucien's sheets, his head buried between her thighs. The evening had led them easily from the parlor to his bed; they had danced together, one song flowing gently into the next, until the tension of their proximity and the anticipation of what was to come snapped their self-restraint, until he gathered her into his arms, laughing, and carried her here, to his bedroom. Their clothes lay scattered in a heap at the end of the bed, the pair of them completely bare, now, save for the little gold necklace that still sparkled at the base of her throat. Lucien had so far been relentless in his attentions; no doubt he was relieved to find himself alone with her and utterly unconcerned by the ticking of the clock, for the way he ravished her now was slow, unhurried, and she delighted in it, and him. She stroked the fingers of her right hand gently through his soft blonde hair, and her left was pressed hard to the headboard, using it as leverage to help her grind her hips ever closer to his questing mouth.
Oh, that mouth, full of clever words and a clever tongue, those soft lips that could smile at her so warmly, could undo her so completely. His mouth teased her, claimed her, consumed her, and she gave herself over to it, to him, to the feelings he inspired in her. The warmth and wet of his mouth, the delicate scratch of his beard against the most tender part of her, the strength of his hands wrapped around her thighs, holding her to him, forcing her from bliss to bliss with each strangled breath she took; she had never known anything more beautiful than this, and in this place where she need not worry who might overhear she let her voice carry as loud as it would, let him hear the sound of her whimpers and moans, the sound of her begging for him.
Against her Lucien grinned, and released his hold on her thigh so that he could join his hand to his lips in their pursuit of her pleasure, Jean trembled as two of this thick fingers slid into easily into her wetness, curling against her and sending her careening maddeningly towards a shattering ecstasy. No coherent words could form in her mouth; there was no thought in her head, only the wild beating of her heart, the clenching and tightening of her body around him, the desperate gasps he tore out of her with every thrust of his hand, every pass of his tongue against her. Onward he went, unceasing, and at last her release washed over her and a cry like that of some wild bird escaped her, but Lucien was not finished; he continued on mercilessly, his fingers curling inside her, his palm grinding against her tender folds, his lips wrapped around the bundle of nerves at her center, his nose buried in her dripping folds, and Jean was flung from pleasure to pleasure by the current of his will, bearing her ever onward.
She felt as if she might fly apart; her fingers abandoned his hair as she pressed both of her palms to the mattress, her body twisting into a graceful arch as still he urged her onward, and she let him, hardly able to breathe at all now, what little air she could draw in leaving her in a steady, desperate whine. It seemed he knew what she was capable of, what heights of bliss he could bring her to, and he seemed bent upon his task, devoted entirely to the ragged, wretched ecstasy of her body beneath him, and when she shattered the second time she went boneless and limp, shuddering as she collapsed against the mattress, and still he kissed her, and the only thought in her head was how badly she wanted those lips of his pressed hard to her own.
But Lucien knew the rules, even if Jean herself had nearly forgotten them in the moment of her rapture, and he did not slide up her body to let her drink the taste of herself from his tongue. Instead he held his fingers fast within her until she relaxed enough for her body to release its hold on him, and then he shifted just enough to bless the points of her hips with kisses, each in turn, a gesture of benediction, full of the kind of affection she knew he harbored for her, the kind of affection she knew she could not ever claim for herself.
"Lucien," she whispered when at last she found her voice. He was resting his head against her soft stomach, watching her over the rise of her body, his eyes warm and soft and full of love. Already her breasts were reddened and tender from the heat of his mouth, already she had mapped the plane of his chest and the thick column of his throat with kisses, already they had spent an hour in his bed together and had countless more to enjoy without need of interruption, and her heart was full, then, with grief as much as with love. He had left her dripping and aching for want of him, and though she could not see him she knew he must himself be hard as marble and desperate for his own release, but he had waited for her, had rested in the cradle of her hips and let her body calm and quiet before rushing to the next pleasure, in no apparent hurry to seek his own gratification. For a moment she considered returning the favor, taking him in her mouth as she had done once before, but she was exhausted, and full of longing for him, and besides, she knew there would be further opportunities for such endeavors. Perhaps it would be best to save that particular act for the morning.
"Come here," she breathed, and he did at once, stretched himself out along the length of her body, holding his weight off her with his hands pressed to the mattress by her head. He bowed his head and let their noses brush together, and she smiled at the quiet tenderness of such a gesture, even as she lifted her trembling legs, let his hardness settle against her glossy folds and ran her hands over the ruins of his back. They had shared so much with one another, and the scars beneath her palms and the unselfconscious way he let her touch them were a gift all on their own, a reminder of his trust in her, and hers in him. If only trust alone was all they needed to carry them through this life, she thought.
Some gentlemen preferred a more exciting experience, when they paid for a woman. Some wanted her atop him, doing all the work, some wanted her on her hands and knees, her face hidden from them as they sought to fulfill their own desires, some wanted things their wives could not even imagine, and Jean had seen most every possible configuration between two people over the course of her work. In this moment, though, she did not want to rise above him, or roll away from him, did not want his heat at her back or the strain in her thighs as she rode him. She wanted him just like this, above her, surrounding her, wanted to see the heat and the want in his eyes, wanted to rock against him and feel his powerful body surging within her, and so she did not wait, or give any thought to rearranging them.
"Jean," he whispered, the word a gentle kiss against the rise of her cheek.
"Yes," she answered, sighing. "Yes, sweetheart."
The word left her before she even realized what she'd said, before she could think better of speaking to him so tenderly, but he had called her darling already, and she lay in his bed, not her own; the lines between business and love had blurred so completely that in the moment she quite forgot herself. Lucien smiled, and kissed her cheek again, and then shifted his hips while another little sound of want passed her lips at the press of his cock against her oversensitive flesh.
He took himself in hand, and slid into her slowly, gently, their mouths almost touching as they groaned together at the sensation. No other customer had ever touched her so deeply, her heart as well as her as body, and perhaps it was her heart that made her feel as if he were the most beautiful man she'd ever known. He sank against her and she canted her hips to meet him until he filled her most completely, and banished her grief, for however short a time.
There were benefits, Jean had found, to age in men. A young man might recover more quickly, and find his pleasure more than once in an evening, but an older man could hold out longer, and devote himself more entirely to his lover's pleasure. There was no need for a second showing, when the first was long and intense, and it was that intensity he gave her now. His eyes bore into hers, her hands wrapped around the solid muscles of his forearms, as his hips rocked against her, slowly, slowly, her body arching in time to the rhythm he set, their chests rising and falling as they breathed in sync with one another, lips nearly touching, hearts racing. As he built her up, higher and higher, he freed one of his hands, slipped it between them to touch her where she needed him most, fingertips slipping through the wetness of her as still his cock plunged into her, again, and again, and when she shattered he groaned, delighted, but did not falter, only carried on, determined.
"Lucien," she gasped, his name the only word her lips could form, "Lucien."
He did not answer her, only continued on, until she lost all sense of time and place, for how many minutes she could not say, nor could she care. Slowly, slowly, he moved within her, and was rewarded for his patience by the way she took him in, by the expression of bliss upon her face, by the softness of her breasts against his chest and her voice crying out his name until at last such patience seemed to desert him, and all the power and fervor of him came to bear against her. His hips slammed into her again, and again, the thrust of his cock within her driving her ever closer to the brink of madness, the wet sounds of their union echoing through his bedroom until Jean could bear it no longer, and fell apart, almost sobbing her relief as she clenched down hard against him. Lucien swore, undone, and thrust against her in a frenzy until he, too, found his release, groaning long and slow and deep as he spilled himself inside her.
When he collapsed against her Jean only sighed, his length still buried within her fluttering heat, and held him close while he pressed tender kisses to the curve of her neck and her body trembled with love of him. They stayed like that a good long while, holding one another, panting, her toes brushing against his calves while her hands soothed the sweat-slicked skin of his back, while her heart thundered in her chest, until at last she found the strength to move.
Gently she kissed his temple and rolled away from him, left him lying on his belly, watching her with hooded eyes, exhausted and yet smug, somehow, as if he were as pleased with his own performance as Jean was herself.
"I'll only be a moment," she told him, and then she made her way out of his room on silent feet, naked as the day she was born, the mess they had made together sticky between her thighs. While Lucien had given her a tour of his home she had made a special point of remembering the location of the downstairs bathroom, and it was there she went now, intent on a bit of cleanup. It was reckless, she knew, to let him enjoy her without any sort of protection, but she had enjoyed herself, too, and such worries could keep for another day. But as she entered the bathroom she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and was drawn up short by her own reflection. Clearly she could see the mark of his mouth against her breast, her hair mussed from his attentions, her eyes still hooded from recent pleasure, her face seeming to glow with the joy he had given her. The joy he had given her so freely, and which she meant to cast back into his teeth come Sunday. Was it wrong, she wondered now, to let him shower her with such affection when she only meant to part from him? Was it unfair of her to hide the truth, to use this time to commit him to memory while allowing him no such grace? Jean knew in her heart she was saying goodbye to him each time she touched his skin, but she had allowed Lucien no such chance for closure.
As those terrible thoughts swirled through her mind the door behind her opened, and she turned to find Lucien standing there, smiling at her. He too, was naked, his spent cock hanging heavy above his thighs, his eyes watching her so full of delight.
"I was thinking," he said as he prowled slowly across the room, pressed himself against the length of her back and lowered his lips to her ear. "The bath is big enough for two, if you're so inclined."
She could see that indeed it was, and while she had been looking forward to a few minutes of solitude in which to collect herself now it seemed to her that nothing would be finer than to sink beneath the hot water of a bath with his strong arms around her, banishing her guilt and her doubt for a little while longer.
"I think that's a fine idea," she told him, and he grinned, and so they began, again, to fall together.