Canada Days: La Belle Belle-Soeur

Blonde

LA BELLE BELLE-SOEUR

FRIDAY MORNING. Everybody had gone to Emile’s chalet/camp in the mountains, on some lake about 100 miles away or so. I stayed back so I could talk to Phil, who was editor of bunch of pop-science journals. In a previous life, I often edited some of the stuff for his magazines. I figured I could take the train or maybe hitch a ride with my anthropologist sister-in-law, Dr. Luce, PhD and everything, the whole kit.

Phil agreed to email me some raw copy from time to time, and I left for Emile’s downtown apartment where we were staying and telephoned the train station — next train was at 10 that night. Not relishing a bus trip of any length at all, nor arriving at Emile’s after midnight, I telephoned Luce’s office. She was supposed to join the party at the lake after she took care of one of her grad students later that afternoon. “The woman just called to cancel,” she said in English, continuing in French, “We can get something at Café Degas and leave right afterward.”

That was how I found myself sitting at a corner table in an expensive café, with my sister-in-law in the chair on my right and a backpack of shorts and T-shirts in the chair on my left. She had prepared it all before I arrived: Salad. Mussels and fries. Entre Deux Mers. Coffee with Armagnac. Simple. It was a trap, of course.

Still, I was determined not to fuck her. She’s a gossip and can be quite mean spirited toward her sisters. I was certain she would get drunk one night and just for spite announced that she had fucked the husbands and boyfriends of her sisters, aunts and cousins, listing names and places.. (I think she did it to chalk up victories, the way golfers keep count birdies. I didn’t want to be listed on her scorecard.)

Oh, there was a time, quite long ago, when I would think of fucking my oh-so-tight and ever-virgin 17-year-old sister-in- law, my own French Lolita. It was a fantasy that lasted a year or two… at least until my tryst with the teenage tennis player got me fantasizing about her. I worked the late shift at a newspaper then and would often get home at 2 o’clock, after a stop down the block for a drink or more. Claire was usually sound asleep, and often the drinks and the well built bartender left me hard and randy. On those nights I would go into the study and stare at a picture of my bikini-clad teenage sister-in-law and spend rivers of cum in her honor. As I was ready to finish, I would close my eyes and whisper, “Luce, Luce, Luce,” and hear her echo with my name as we came together.

Years later, when Claire decided against sex, it didn’t occur to me to think of Luce, by then a 30-something bitch of the first order.

# # #

I think I realized how much she had changed when we were at my in-law’s a few Christmases past. The weekend before the holiday, we went to Emile’s apartment for drinks. Luce, still in graduate school, arrived stoned. She kept bumping into me, her modest boobs brushing my back, shoulders, arms. She even managed to rub her knee against my crotch a few times. It was no mistake, but I was cautious. I mean, wife, mother-in-law, father-in-law in front of the Christmas tree.

After a couple or three drinks we left for a restaurant down the block. Luce managed to slip on the ice as she was walking past me and gave me this terribly devilish smile as I helped her regain her balance. As I said she was stoned. She sat on my right in the middle of the long table against the wall. I had a whiskey, straight up, while everyone else had beer or wine. I figured I was going to need as much liquid support as I could get. Emile’s wife raved about the salty raw oysters on the menu, but I was the only one who seemed interested. When I volunteered for half a dozen, Luce agreed to share a dozen with me. (Ah the power of bivalves.) The whole evening she kept rubbing my leg, running her fingers up the inside of my thigh from time to time, almost to my crotch. At first I was a bit put off by her approaches, but after the whiskey kicked in, I was beginning to enjoy it. After consuming more than my share of the Chianti, I found myself getting a hard-on. I was trying to organize those long-ago fantasizes, but was conflicted between fantasy and sanity, considering the company at the table. At the end of dinner, I was the first out the door. I just wanted to get away.

As I mentioned, I suffer from what they used to call manic-depression, which I Silivri Escort keep under control more or less with lots of pills. But, after a week of steady drinking the dope was losing its effect — I needed a few belts every day to help me endure the in-laws. With the meds in an off position, I soon found myself in a manic phase, talking constantly, driving 90 on the expressway, and assessing the asses of ever woman I saw. (Wife’s uncle’s wife had a terrific one — I may have even told her so once.)

By the time Christmas Eve came I was crazy enough to take aim at Luce. And as the whiskey went down the manic went up, and soon I was in lust again with my sister-in-law. But she, now straight and sober, seemed to spend the evening trying to avoid me. And, without the marijuana, she was mindful of being among the family.

# # #

That was then, Now, let me get back to Café Degas where Luce was going out of her way to make sure I got a good look at her breasts: as I said, not big but firm. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and I was expecting any moment for her to spill water across the front of her silk blouse. Kind of a wet T-shirt contest for the lunch bunch. After we had eaten, she took my hand and placed it on her knee,. She smiled that devilish smile from oysters past and excused herself from the table. “Encore d’Armagnac,” she said as she headed for the ladies room. As always, when a woman speaks, I do as I am told. I ordered two more brandies.

Luce apparently knew about our platonic life down South. And she knew full well the signs of mania and its symptoms, one of which is having a series of dangerous affairs, the more dangerous the better, like my tennis playing teenager. She knew I was manic and she knew my resistance would be down. Thus with enough booze and a little patience, she could add my scalp to her belt. Spider to the fly kind of thing. I knew I was in a manic period, and I knew I should have left the Café right then, and waited for the night train to the lake.

But, jackass that I am, I just stayed glued to my seat trying not to think about what my sister-in-law would be like in bed. It was hard, so to speak: I couldn’t focus on much else. The Armagnac arrived before Luce came back, and I was tempted to down both in one gulp. But, at least for this part, I knew better. Back at the table, she lifted her glass in a toast of sorts and proceeded to finish half of the glass. She then reached for my hand under the table and put her panties in my palm.

I balked before saying to myself, “Why not? It will probably happen eventually anyway.” I took a whiff of my sister-in-law’s and, saying “fuck” in disgust semi out loud, reached over to let my fingers move up the inside of her thigh.

I guess I had crossed the Rubicon, and as discretely as possible, I put the panties to my face and drew in the aroma of the sexy spider who had lured me into her web. I took another whiff of the panties, and I didn’t care. I wonder if anyone saw that?

###

We took a taxi to her apartment in the upstairs of a well located fourplex. In the back seat of the cab, when I went to kiss her for what would be the very first time she stopped me and shook her head. “Pas ici. (Not here).” But, she snuggled up to me and let her hand move up my leg to grab my growing cock. My hand returned the favor, moving up the bare leg under the dress, my finger under her panties and searching for her clit. This she didn’t mind, and turned to look at me with a smile.

When we arrived in front of Luce’s house, I discovered I had only a pocket full of quarters and four American Twenties. So as Luce descended from the taxi I gave the Greek cabbie a picture of Andrew Jackson and held my hand up to signal I didn’t have time to wait for change. The driver looked at me and smiled his own knowing smile… I don’t think it was just the tip.

Luce had by now ascended the front steps and was unlocking the door that led to her upstairs apartment. I tried not to hurry — neighbors, you know. I still had time to turn back. The taxi was still at the red light on the corner. But there was no turning back: Caesar fording the wrong river and everything. I walked up the porch stairs and pulled open the door, I stepped into the entry and the door closed behind me. Luce fell into my arms immediately.

We finally had that first kiss. I can’t remember a first kiss as wet and passionate. Silivri Escort Bayan Her long tongue in mouth was sensational. I pressed her close to my body. I was sure she could sense my growing erection. She smiled and grabbed for my crotch. I felt for her unbridled breasts, and cupped one in my hand as our kiss continued. She squeezed my cock. I began unbuttoning her blouse, when she broke the kiss:

“We should go upstairs.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be more comfortable up there.”

“I’m quite comfortable right here.”

And I drew her in as close as I could and began kissing her neck and behind her ear, the whole time massaging her now bare breasts. She put her hand down on my crotch and felt my by now bulging hard cock trying to explode through my trousers. I ran both of my hands up and down her sides kneading each rib through the fine silk of her blouse. I was now concentrating on her neck, and I could sense her purrs of enjoyment between each kiss.

With one hand on my neck, she unzipped my jeans. My hard cock shot through the cut in my shorts and out the opened trousers. The head of my cock moist with white juices. I grabbed for her ass and unhooked the clasp at the back of her skirt. You could feel the heat rising and when we kissed again, long, deep and wet, a searing passion filled the stairwell. You could almost see the steam rising up toward the door at the top of the steps. She went down on one knee and quickly took me whole. It was all I could do to keep myself from coming. I was stiff, hard and thick, and ready to explode, as much from Luce’s attentions as from those revived fantasies of earlier times.

Suddenly — Luce did everything suddenly — she stood up, turned around and rushed to the landing at the top of the stairs, turned, fell to the floor, opened her legs and called for me without speaking a word. Her pussy was wonderful, the dark folds of her lips and the pink of her vagina showing through. She had a most full bush, moist from more than an hour of foreplay. I couldn’t do anything else but dive in head first.

And it was sweet, oh so sweet. With my face in her pubes and my lips about her clitoris, I was in heaven, and so was she. Could being so mean be so much fun? I moved my mouth slightly to let my tongue rush into the entry to her vagina, the taste and smell were ambrosia. She jerked and squirmed as I lightly bit her clitoris, and her hands reached under my arms and shoulders as she tried to pull me up. But, since she had won the first moves of her game, I thought I’d just continue to enjoy my moves until I couldn’t take it any longer. Her juices kept coming and coming and I drank them as they poured forth from her body. She began pulling my hair and I continued to resist UNTIL: “Jack, Jack, oh god, oh god, JACK!!” Just like in my fantasies.

That was enough. I climbed on top of her and let my chock rub her abdomen and pass over her tits, leaving a spot of my juices on her nipples, which I proceeded to lick and suck. I put my cock on the edge of her vagina and waited a few seconds to catch my breath.

“Yes, Jack. Take me now. Take me now.”

I drove in, taking possession of my sister-in-law. Or was she taking possession of me? She had taken me prisoner, and the more I enjoyed her the tighter the chain around my neck. But, she was as tight as the teenager I had enjoyed in my fantasies, and when she nearly screamed as I first entered her, the old fantasies returned more vivid than ever.

I should have been angry about being trapped like this, but I kept pounding and pounding and Luce kept moaning and crying. I was too caught up in passion and pleasure to be upset. She soon began shaking and her moans and cries became louder. She arched her back as wave after wave of electricity shot through her body. She was having orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, crying out my name, “Jack, Jack… O mon dieu, Jack, C’est là, c”est là, C’EST LA…AAAAH” and running her long, sharp fingernails across my back. I am sure she had drawn blood. For some reason, though, the more she screamed and shook, the more I was able to stay in control.

I guess it was the blood on my back that shook me out of my passion, and under my newly found control I was determined to keep plunging in and slowly coming out as long as I could. Anyway, Luce was having much too much fun to complain.

When, at last, I could Escort Silivri feel her flagging just a little, I whispered in her ear, “Luce, you little bitch.” And I pulled nearly all the way out and reentered fast, strong and hard. She screamed the loudest of screams, “FUCK ME, JACK, FUCK ME.” Between my own moans, I continued to whisper her name as I had in my fantasies, “Luce, Luce, Luce, adding the “you little bitch” part now and then to keep everything up to date, as I came in buckets and buckets. And we shook in unison for what seemed like forever.

Lying on the landing at the top of the stairs, I stayed inside her as long as I could as she continued to flex her muscles around my flagging cock. When I finally pulled out, we both realized where we were: Up, And where our clothes were: Down — except Luce’s long cashmere sweater, which was under her, stained with our love juices. She sat on the landing, her feet on the first step down and covered herself in her sweater. It may not have been all that cold but we were both quite over heated and sweating. I walked to the bottom of the stairs fetching jeans, skirts, shirts, underwear and such along the way, including my jacket, in the pocket of which I had my cigarettes, and the purse that contained Luce’s key. We then went inside.

The first thing I did was light two cigarettes out of habit, (I have since quit smoking) and sat down next to my still naked sister-in-law on the floor with our backs against the sofa. I didn’t touch her this time. I wanted to fuck her, not make love to her. She reached for a small wooden box on the coffee table, opened the lid and pulled out a joint. Without asking me or even looking my way, she lit the thing, took a long hit and passed it on to me. Like I had a choice. In the past I could fuck like a rabbit when stoned, over and over and over, with vivid feelings, sensations and hallucinations. I took a long hit and tilted my head back.

“No, not now,” she said.

“What made you think I wanted to?”

“Because you do.”

I was not going to rise to the bait this time. So I took another toke and went to her ice-box looking for a can of ale. When I returned, she had finished the joint by herself and was lying back on the sofa, moving her head in circular motions. I think she preferred that to fucking. I also think she was probably as sore as I was. I turned on her music before sitting down to drink my beer. Diana Krall doing Popsicle Toes. — that voice could make “Jingle Bells” sound erotic.

I was beginning to feel light, though not really out of it, which had much to do with maintaining my supposed indifference toward another go. I finished my beer, got up and went to the bathroom for a shower. Only a few seconds after I had stepped in, the shower curtain opened and Luce stepped in behind me, singing Popsicle Toes. We washed each other, her paying special attention to my cock and I to her pussy. But there was no “clean sex.”

So, semi-stoned, we dressed and went to her car in the back. It was now 5 o’clock and Friday afternoon rush hour was in full swing. I lay back in the passenger seat and let Luce drive through the mess. It took an hour before we left the city. I guess I slept a bit because the next thing I knew we were parked on a dead-end dirt road under a canopy of pines.

My seat nearly fully reclined, Luce fell on top of me, reached down and grabbed my cock and proceeded to run her tongue about my ear. I kissed her neck — hoping to leave a mark. After a few minutes of attention, my cock was quite stiff. Luce, pulled herself up, unzipped my fly and gave me the blow job of my life, starting, stopping, teasing, kissing, swallowing. She took in every drop as I groaned and gasped.

She said softly in French, “That’s so you will know that I will be there for you and you will be there for me.” [[Je serai là pour toi et tu seras là pour moi.]]

“That’s what I am worried about.”

“Good, that’s what I want.” (Bon, c’est ça ce que veux.)

Luce backed up the car and drove to a roadside café. We had a quick coffee and arrived at Emile’s chalet before dark, spent and quite hungry… and for me more than a little scared.

I was nice and polite to everyone all weekend, though I spent most of my time reading by myself on the pier that juts into the lake. I had turned off my “French antennae” so all I could hear was gibberish. On the way home, I counted myself lucky that I would at least have a few weeks or months or years of peace.

I liked my marriage, even as it was. But I knew, sooner or later, Luce would call for me, and I would go. Or worse, I would be included on the list next time she wanted to get even with the family.

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