The French Apartment - Chapter 4: Couches
Second day in Paris, afternoon.
"Vivienne are you... smiling? Such a treat!" Francesca said in her high pitched Italian accent.
"Shut up!" Vivienne protested, and Francesca laughed. I could hear Vivienne's embarrassment in her voice and chuckled to myself.
I was in the bathroom, having just finished wiping the mixture of sweat and Vivienne's cum from the leather. At first I thought the couch had dried without any noticeable effect, but up close I realized there was a slight discoloration in the leather. Even more damning, the smell of sex remained surprisingly strongly around the couch. I could only hope Francesca's cooking would mask it.
"James? Don't let your pasta get cold!" Francesca called from the kitchen.
"Nearly ready!" I yelled from the bathroom while I washed my hands.
I thought of Vivienne's mouth, open in ecstasy and biting my palm, as I fingering her on the couch. It was the first time I've ever made a woman orgasm, and I smiled to myself. Then I remembered her final comment: she wanted me to use my mouth next time. The prospect was both exciting and terrifying. Much like Vivienne herself.
"James!" Francesca called again, annoyance seeping into her tone.
"Coming!" I said. I ran water over the towel and threw it in a hamper, so it would look like someone just used it to wash up after a bath, hopefully.
I returned to the kitchen and sat next to Vivienne. Her jet black hair was a tangled mess. Somehow, it still had an elegant way of framing her small, pretty face. Her eyes looked sideways to find me, and she arched an eyebrow.
"What?" Vivienne asked, as she took a small bite of pasta, and watched me curiously.
"Nothing, your hair just... looks a little extra crazy today," I said.
She snorted in response and shook her head, letting those black waves bounce a little around her face. I felt her thigh brush up against my leg. She was wearing her loose black T-shirt and Invader Zim short shorts, which barely covered much of anything. Her bare thigh touched my leg over my flannel pants, and a tinge of electricity shot through me as it usually did when she touched me.
"It is the fashion with young people these days!" Francesca tutted, in defense of Vivienne, and set a bowl of pasta in front of me with an elegant little twist.
The pasta was surprisingly pretty: the carbonara was spun into a neat mound in the center of the plate with just the right amount of sauce around it, and cute little chunks of guanciale (which as I discovered were basically fat chunks of delicious smelling bacon). It was all topped with finely shredded parmesan.
"Wow, I've never seen pasta look... pretty," I said.
I almost just wanted to admire the elegant little swirled mound... but I was too hungry and dove in.
"Because you are American, and Americans don't know any better! And anyway Claudine does not allow things into her apartment that are not attractive." Francesca chuckled to herself.
"A wonder she let James in, then," Vivienne responded. She watched me from the corner of her eye, grinning as she slurped spaghetti into her mouth. Under the table a hand slid a little over my thigh.
Francesca slapped Vivienne's arm lightly, though Vivienne didn't seem surprised or perturbed by it.
"Vivienne how can you say such a thing! He's a good looking boy, just a little... rough around the edges," Francesca said.
"Not as rough as Vivienne's hair, though," I contributed, and Vivienne turned quickly and slapped my chest, making a loud 'thwack.'
Francesca stood beside me, opposite Vivienne, and held my face in her hand to examine me. As she bent down, I tried not to stare at her chest jiggling under her blouse, not with Vivienne clearly watching me closely. Francesca touched my cheeks, turning my face side to side, and ran through my hair.
"See? The bones are good, he only needs some new clothes, a haircut... perhaps a lesson on how to shave his face properly," she said, as her finger curled over my cheek, finding some poorly shaved light stubble. "But this is why Claudine has some appointments planned for him, you see!"
"How does it feel to be examined in such a manner?" Vivienne asked, amused, as Francesca held my face.
Francesca laughed in her tittering, musical chuckle. She released me and went to the stove to get her own pasta.
"I feel like a toy," I mumbled.
"More like a horse," Vivienne murmured in a low, heavily French-accented growl, just above a whisper. Her hand slid again over my thigh, finding my half-hard erection under the table. Her fingers closed just slightly over it, and I clenched my fist, nearly dropping my fork from surprise.
Francesca returned to the table and sat down across from us to eat. Vivienne's hand returned to herself quickly.
Francesca used the time to ask me more about myself. I didn't think any of it made a terribly interesting story, but she seemed happy enough to hear about my life, family, and friends, and greatly approved of how I wanted to leave my hometown and spend a year in France to 'expand my horizons,' as she called it. I learned a few things from her too: she had been Claudine's housekeeper, or 'gouvernante' for nearly a decade. Her own introduction into the Valette household sounded like it was subject to as much scrutiny as my own: Claudine was apparently very serious about who she let into her house. Whenever Francesca didn't seem to be watching us, Vivienne's fingers, or knee, or foot, found me under the table, pressing lightly against me. The touches kept causing my cock to twitch in response, but she always pulled back quickly.
"So James... what dishes do you know how to cook?" Francesca asked.
"Well I always grill burgers and brats at our family's Fourth of July parties... I can do pasta if it's simple... and I can make a couple salads, like a Caesar, or a wedge salad."
"I do not think putting ingredients in a salad bowl counts as cooking," Vivienne snorted derisively.
Francesca scoffed. "Don't let Vivienne scare you away, James! She seems very mean at first, but she is actually a sweetheart once you get to know her. She just has a very big, uh..."
Francesca sat up straight in her chair and waved her arms in front of her chest as she searched for the word in English.
I looked over to Vivienne, and we shared a look of amusement and confusion.
"Are you saying I have large breasts? Is that why I am scary?" Vivienne asked.
"No!" Francesca said and her eyes opened wide in embarrassment as she realized what it looked like she was doing. She stammered for the word again as Vivienne and I laughed. Francesca closed her eyes and nearly yelled, "I MEANT TO SAY YOU HAVE A BIG 'WALL'! NOT THAT YOU HAVE BIG BOOBS!"
"Ugh! Are you saying I
don't
have big boobs?" Vivienne scoffed, as she straightened her back and stuck her chest out a little. When she sat with good posture, I realized she looked much more like her mother. I couldn't help but stare.
"Dio..." Francesca said, caught up in her own embarrassment. She looked at us both, exasperated, but then her frustration quickly turned to laughter. She leaned over the table and patted Vivienne's arm. "I would never say such a thing! I wish my mother gave me such gifts as Claudine gave you!"
I nearly said that Francesca certainly had nothing to complain about when it came to looks, but I stopped myself before I was dumb enough to open my mouth in front of Vivienne with such a comment.
"Everything's always about my mother, huh?" Vivienne said, with a huff of annoyance. "I cannot escape her, even when she is not here."
