Frederic of Francs

Diane kicked off her nursing clogs at the door, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to her scrubs like an unwanted shadow. Twelve hours of stitching wounds and dodging frantic families had left her bone-tired, but the good kind—the kind that begged for a hot bath and a stiff drink. She peeled off her clothes in the living room, tossing them into a heap by the couch, and padded naked to the kitchen for a bottle of merlot. The wine was bold, the kind she liked after shifts like this, with notes of black cherry that hit her tongue sharp and warm. She poured a generous glass, then another, feeling the familiar buzz loosen her shoulders as she built a fire in the stone hearth.

The flames crackled to life, casting flickering shadows across her bare skin. Diane sank into the oversized armchair, legs draped over the armrest, the heat licking at her thighs. She was frisky tonight, the wine stirring something restless in her gut. No plans, no calls from work—just her, the fire, and a mind wandering back to France. Late twenties, that wild stretch after college when everything felt possible. She took a slow sip, letting the memory pull her in.

It started with Stewie, her mathematician husband, the one she'd met in freshman bio lab. He was all equations and late nights even then, but she'd fallen hard for his quiet intensity. They married young, too young maybe, and chased his career to Paris. Stewie dove into collaborations with other brainiacs, leaving her alone in their cramped Montmartre apartment. No nursing gig lined up—visas and all that bullshit—so Diane filled her days wandering. The city was her playground: crooked streets, hidden patisseries, the Seine's lazy curve under iron bridges.

Mornings, she'd hit the corner bistro for espresso, black and bitter, before heading out. That's where Frederic came in. He was the waiter, early thirties, with tousled dark hair and a smile that crinkled his eyes like he'd just heard a dirty secret. Cute in that effortless French way—fitted shirt hugging his lean frame, apron tied low on his hips. Her French was decent but accented, American edges softening the vowels, and he loved it. "Votre accent est charmant," he'd say, leaning on the counter, eyes lingering a beat too long. She'd laugh, practicing her phrases, the language rolling off her tongue like foreplay.

Flirting started innocent: him recommending the best market for cheeses, her teasing about his endless energy. But French had a way of turning sultry fast—words like "désir" slipping in, his voice dropping low as he described the "chaleur" of a fresh croissant. Diane felt it build, that spark she'd been missing. Stewie was buried in proofs, their bed cold for weeks. Frederic made her feel seen, desired. One morning, after her third espresso, he slid into the chair across from her during his break. "Rejoignez-moi pour une aventure aujourd'hui?" he asked, eyes gleaming. Join me for an adventure? She said yes, heart thumping.

They started small: a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens, him pointing out sculptures with stories she hadn't heard, her hand brushing his as they shared a pain au chocolat. He was a history buff, off-duty from the bistro to guide tours, and Paris unfolded under his touch—hidden alleys, forgotten fountains. Days blurred into mornings of coffee and afternoons exploring. He accepted every invite, his laugh easy, his gaze hungry. One evening, along the Seine, the sun dipping low and painting the water gold, he took her hand. His fingers intertwined with hers, warm and sure, sending a jolt straight to her core. It had been so long since touch felt electric, not obligatory. Diane's pulse raced; she squeezed back, the neglect from Stewie fading like a bad dream.

They stopped under a willow tree, branches draping like a curtain. Frederic turned to her, thumb tracing her knuckles. "Tu es belle," he murmured, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers. Soft at first, exploratory, then deeper, his tongue slipping in with a confidence that made her knees weak. They made out there by the river, hidden from joggers, her back against the rough bark as his hands roamed her waist, pulling her closer. She tasted espresso on him, felt his erection press against her thigh through his jeans. It was reckless, thrilling—Diane's body waking up, demanding more.

Stolen moments snowballed. A week later, in a quiet corner of the Tuileries Gardens, they ducked behind a hedge during a rain shower. Water dripped from leaves as Frederic pinned her to the stone wall, kissing her neck while his fingers worked under her skirt. "Je te veux," he whispered, hot breath on her skin. She gasped as he dropped to his knees, pushing her panties aside and burying his face in her pussy. His tongue was relentless—lapping at her clit, circling slow then fast, fingers sliding inside her slick heat. Diane bit her lip to stifle moans, the park alive with distant chatter, but she didn't care. She came hard, thighs clamping his head, her juices coating his chin.

They fucked there, quick and desperate. She made him roll on a condom—safety first, even in lust's haze—but it didn't dull the rush. Frederic hiked her leg over his hip, thrusting deep, his dick thick and hard, filling her just right. She clawed his back, whispering "plus fort" until he pounded her against the wall, her orgasm ripping through again as he groaned into her shoulder.

Paris haunts became their playground. In a dimly lit absinthe bar off Rue de Rivoli, after too many green fairies, they slipped into the back alley. Frederic bent her over a crate, skirt flipped up, condom on as he slid into her from behind. The air smelled of rain and garbage, but his cock hitting that spot inside her turned the grit erotic. He gripped her hips, fucking her steady, one hand reaching around to rub her clit. Diane pushed back, meeting every thrust, her pussy clenching as she came, muffled cries lost in the night.

Along the river again, one twilight, they found a secluded bench under Pont Neuf. No condom this time—trust building, desire overriding sense. Frederic laid her back, eating her out until she squirted on his tongue, a first for her, the release messy and intense. Then he flipped her over, ass up, and took her anally. Slow at first, lubed with spit and her own wetness, his dick stretching her tight hole. Diane moaned, the fullness overwhelming, pain twisting into pleasure as he rocked deeper. "C'est à toi," he growled—it's yours—fucking her ass while fingering her pussy, double penetration driving her wild. She came screaming silently, and when he pulled out, he came on her back, hot spurts marking her skin.

Oral became their ritual. Mornings after coffee, they'd detour to his tiny apartment near the bistro. Frederic would strip her slow, kissing every inch, then guide her to her knees. His cock was veined and curved just right, and she'd suck him deep, tongue swirling the head, tasting his pre-cum salty and addictive. He'd fuck her mouth, hands in her hair, but always pulled back to return the favor—spreading her legs on his bed, licking her from asshole to clit, fingers pumping until she gushed.

The half-day at his place was the turning point. Stewie was at a conference, so Diane had the afternoon free. Frederic's apartment was a third-floor walk-up overlooking the rooftops, cluttered with books and half-finished sketches. They started on the couch, making out like teenagers, clothes shedding in a frenzy. He bound her wrists with his scarf—light bondage, playful—tying her to the armrest as he teased her nipples with his teeth, then trailed down to devour her pussy. Diane writhed, begging, until he untied her and they moved to the bedroom.

It turned animalistic fast. No condom now; she wanted him raw, his cum flooding her. Frederic flipped her onto all fours, slamming into her pussy from behind, balls slapping her clit. "Fuck me harder," she demanded in English, and he did, grunting as he pounded, switching to her ass mid-thrust, the glide seamless with her arousal. She rode him reverse cowgirl, grinding down, his hands spreading her cheeks for deeper access. Oral interspersed—her sucking him clean after anal, him lapping her mixed juices. They went at it for hours: missionary with her legs over his shoulders, him eating her ass while she jerked him off, even a standing fuck against the wall where she squirted down his legs.

By the balcony, sweat-slick and spent, they overlooked Paris at dusk. Frederic bent her over the railing, the city sprawl below, and fucked her pussy slow, building to a crescendo. "Cum inside me," she pleaded, and he did, pumping rope after rope deep, her walls milking him as she orgasmed, clenching around his bare dick. They collapsed laughing, tangled, his seed leaking from her as they watched the lights flicker on.

That night, Stewie came home early, unusual for him. He was amorous, pulling her to bed for vanilla missionary—lights off, routine thrusts. But Diane was still buzzing from Frederic, his cum remnants slick inside her pussy. As Stewie moved, she imagined it was Frederic's load mixing with the friction, pushing her over the edge unexpectedly. She faked a bit more enthusiasm than usual, but the secret thrill made it hot.

Their thing with Frederic grew naturally, not forced—texts turning to meetups, adventures to overnights. He was confident, attentive, everything Stewie wasn't. Even after she left France, divorce papers signed amid Stewie's bewildered protests, Frederic sent letters. Long, handwritten pages in French, romantic and steamy: descriptions of what he'd do to her next time, memories of her taste, her moans. She kept them in a box in storage, yellowed but treasured.

Back in the armchair now, fire dying to embers, Diane's hand drifted between her legs. The wine had her wet, memories vivid. She pictured Frederic's mouth on her, his cock stretching her ass, cum filling every hole. Fingers circled her clit, dipping into her pussy, slick with need. She rubbed faster, thumb on her asshole like he used to, building that pressure. The orgasm hit hard—body arching, a guttural "fuck" escaping as she came, waves crashing, soaking her fingers. Panting, she smiled, the release cathartic, like closing a favorite book with a satisfied sigh.

But life wasn't just memories. Diane's phone buzzed on the side table—a text from Graham, the guy from that Aspen wine tasting, bold and flirty like Frederic had been. "Drinks tomorrow? Practice your French on me." She laughed, typing back yes. Paris was a chapter, hot and fun, but new pages waited—passionate, exciting, just how she liked it. The fire popped, and she rose, warm and sated, ready for whatever came next.