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by G. Russell © 2008
Naked, Claire knelt over her husband on the bed. She stroked his erection, then steered it where he wished it to go, the fingers of her other hand spreading her cunt. "Michel," she said smiling as she impaled herself on his cock, "fuck me, darling."
She cupped her breasts and smiled lasciviously. He thrust more urgently, his orgasm gushed into her cunt, and he pulled her down onto his kisses, while outside ocean crashed against the beach, the white shifting sand beneath the sky.
"Jeanine's visiting," Claire reminded, after. "Try to be pleasant to her."
Michel yawned and untangled her damp hair with his fingers. "What does that mean?"
"I'm asking you, darling, not to upset her. She's had a rough time of it lately."
"She's just left finishing school. What's there to derail your spoilt sister in Switzerland, too many cuckoo clocks?"
"That'll be her," Claire said as they woke an hour later to the sound of a car horn outside."Get dressed, sleepy head."
Michel fell back onto the bed. Jeanine! Oh great. Through the window he watched his sister in law bark orders at the chauffeur. The harried driver wrestled suitcases from the trunk of the car. Four suitcases. Michel leant further out of the window. Four large suitcases.
"Darling, you look fabulous," Claire kissed her sister and hugged her. "Michel, help with the luggage."
"Jeanine," Michel muttered, joining them on the driveway.
"Michel," said his sister in law. "Be careful with my luggage, will you?"
The suitcases fought him all the way up the stairs to the guest room until finally, he fell onto the bed, sweating, panting.
"Michel," called Claire from downstairs.
At a loss, Michel wondered from the kitchen to the lounge, to a window that opened onto the seashore, the ocean, the sky. There was nothing to do. Jeanine's voice followed him into the lounge. She lit a cigarette, leant out the window to the salt air, and flicked ash into the wind.
He glared at her. "Why must you always be so antisocial?"
"You haven't changed. " She moved around the room, bored, trailing cigarette smoke, defiant hips swaying.
"You guys," called Claire, "I'm off to the market. Coming, Jeanine?"
"Do you mind if I stay behind?" Jeanine replied, sitting on the window, elbows on her knees. "I'm still jetlagged."
"Do you want me to come, Claire?" Michel asked, watching from the doorway as she reversed the car onto the sand-strewn lane.
"Entertain Jeanine," she told him, turning the car towards the town.
For the first time in ages, he experienced fear. There she was, Jeanine, sitting in his chair, waiting. She pulled a face and said straightaway, "You're still cross with me, even after all this time, aren't you?"
"Of course not," he replied slowly." It was three years ago. We were different people then."
She'd followed him into the kitchen; he turned his back on her. She opened the parlour door, found a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"It was my wedding night. You practically threw yourself at me. You, the innocent bridesmaid." He opened the backdoor and confronted the garden, the sad little orange tree, the peculiar tall grass, the dust dunes of scrub and wild roses.
"I was drunk, you took advantage. I didn't know anything then." Jeanine rummaged in the cutlery drawer for a corkscrew, stabbed the cork, and poured the wine. "I didn't know about men, your sort."
"You drink too much," he said, taking the offered glass.
A look of anger, hurt, "How would you know?"
"I listen in on the party line."
She smiled nastily. "Nosey, aren't you?"
"There's nothing more to say, it shouldn't have happened but it did. I've moved on from then. You should too, Jeanine."
Under the shade of the forlorn orange tree Michel sat thinking about Jeanine and their conversation, relieved that finally they'd had that talk, finally acknowledged what had happened. Yet he felt apprehensive also about the past being stirred like grains of sand blown into eddies by the sea wind. 'I still feel guilty,' he realised, rightfully too. It had been an unforgivable act. Even though they'd both been drunk, there was no excuse, no excuse.He went inside into the lounge, calling Jeanine's name, softly to no reply.
"Jeanine?" He said, leaning over her. She was asleep on the sofa. One leg drifted apart; the skirt hem rose over tanned, slim thighs. Embarrassed, he tore his gaze away. A smile played on her lips. Even asleep she knew he was captivated as he sat beside her. Compelled, he lifted her left foot; it felt light, warm. He brushed his fingers over the sole, the sensitive skin; the foot arched, stirred. He touched the elegant ankle, and there, the feminine nub of bone.
"What are you doing, Michel?" she opened a sleepy eye and smiled.
"You have beautiful feet."
"You're the first to comment on them," she said with a laugh. "Do they smell?"
Seeking her permission with his gaze, Michel put her foot to his nose, inhaled."A little," he said, "but it's a beautiful, womanly odour."
"It's my sandals," she said, "I've had them on all summer; I'll buy new ones tomorrow."
Michel's excitement scaled greater heights. He pictured Jeanine's seasoned sandals indented with grooves where her toes had pressed into, and sweated into the soft giving leather. He closed his eyes. Imagined those toes, their painted red nails, inside his opened trousers, seeking his erection, caressing it to orgasm. He swallowed nervously; his hands moved over her heel, reluctant to relinquish this compelling desire birthed by his imagination.
"Why don't you give me a foot massage?" Jeanine said suddenly, with a hint of a teasing laugh in her voice.
Michel said, "Would you allow it?"
"If you're gentle with me."
A bead of sweat trickled down Michel's forehead. Her foot tensed and gave permission to his hands to continue their caressing. "An ankle bracelet?"
"You like it? Henri bought it for me in Tunis."
"May I remove it?"
"Why would you want to?" A veil dropped over her gaze and the familiar, suspicious Jeanine asserted herself. No doubt she was preparing herself for a joke at her expense Michel realised, and he hastened to reassure her that he meant nothing by removing the bracelet. The clasp snapped open. Michel held the fragile bracelet aloft. Sunlight piercing through the window blinds sparkled on the bracelet's tiny gems as he placed it to one side. Jeanine smiled mischievously and waggled her toes close to his hard groin, so near, close! He tickled her soles, making her laugh with gratification. Her hips shook. She hit him with a playful kick, prodding his belly through his shirt.
"Mister, you're getting fat," she said, probing his hairy belly button with her big toe. He gasped, and felt a warm stickiness flood through his underwear, then opened his eyes to reality, fearful, relieved.
"What's wrong with you? You've gone red. " Jeanine laughed, taking her sexy, whorish foot away.
Michel mumbled an apology and stood up before she could see a stain spread across his crotch.
In the bathroom he sat on the commode and held his head in his hands, wondering what had occurred, women's feet had never aroused him before. Never. He despaired. How could he look at Jeanine's feet without blushing or worse?
When Claire returned, Michel became attentive, helping with the cooking, the tidying, so that the sisters exchanged bemused looks at the abrupt change in Michel.Occasionally he glanced at Claire's feet, re-evaluating them. Her shameless feet pattered on the warm marble tiles. Her ankles were thicker than Jeanine's; her feet didn't possess the deeply tanned patina of her younger sister's feet; Michel was sure they didn't exude the coquettish odour of Jeanine's. He recalled the faintly vinegary scent of Claire's favourite Manalo Blahniks and grimaced in disapproval at the memory.
Beyond the window he saw two attractive girls in bikinis and shorts walk past. The cobblestones rang with the merry sound of their flip-flops as they passed.
In the evening, drinking wine and talking, Claire put her feet in Michel's lap. Jeanine said, "Careful, Claire. Michel has a passion about feet."
Claire threw Michel a look and laughed. "Why don't you massage them, darling? You can be as passionate as you want with them."
He obliged. Faked it. Handled them and rubbed them while Claire made appreciative sighs of pleasure. Her legs weighed heavily on his lap. He thought about the girls from earlier, and thought about Jeanine.
"Now me, suggested Jeanine from the opposite end of the sofa. "Do us both together."
Michel brightened at the prospect, and halfway through pleasuring both sisters simultaneously he arrived at his own secret destination.
Much later, Jeanine approached Michel while Claire finished in the bathroom. With an arched eyebrow she directed his gaze to the sandals she held. "I'll leave these outside my room tonight," she said, softly. "For you."
"Thank you," he said, with genuine gratitude. He put the sandal to his lips, and, just like on his wedding night, kissed Jeanine's shoes in slavish adoration.
"Thank you," he said, then added, with a twinkle of gratitude in his eyes the magical words; "Mistress."
© 2008 G. Russell. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
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