Alice’s kitchen table. That’s where it started. I was 38, helping her with letters. She sat across, décolleté plunging just right. Smiling like nothing happened. But everything had. A month earlier, our first hug ignited me. Passionate kiss, quick fuck standing. I came too fast, left her hanging. Shame hit hard. She’s ‘old,’ I thought….
The kitchen smelled of crepes and salt spray from the raging ocean. Rain lashed the windows. My hands shook clutching Georges’ letter. Heart slamming my ribs like waves on rocks. Jeanne at the stove, apron tight around her slim waist, flour dusting her cheek. Her Icelandic sweater hugged those small, firm tits I’d spied through…
The train rattled through the Swiss landscape. Same old route. Boring views. But her. Across the aisle. Slim, almost skinny. Salt-and-pepper hair in a tight bun. Tanned skin framing turquoise eyes. Bags everywhere. Laptop on her lap. Fingers flying. Muttering to herself. I stole glances. Heart thumping already. Forties maybe. No rings. No frills. Just…
It was July 1982, their quiet pavillon in Paris’s 17th arrondissement. Sun filtered through the salon curtains. I was 18, fresh from my Bac, heart pounding as I sat on the leather armchair. Clémence, mom’s best friend, faced me on the sofa. 50 but looked 45, fiery red hair, green eyes, satin blue peignoir hugging…