Frenchie the Uncut

Diane wiped the sweat from her brow after a grueling twelve-hour shift at the Aspen Valley Hospital, her scrubs clinging to her skin like a second layer of exhaustion. The summer sun had dipped low over the jagged peaks, painting the trails in shades of amber as she hiked up Maroon Bells, her favorite escape from the sterile halls. The air smelled of pine and wildflowers, a far cry from the antiseptic tang of the ER. She'd been in Aspen for three months now, trading the chaos of city life for this high-altitude rhythm—hikes that left her legs burning, free classical concerts in the park where violins cut through the evening chill, dinners at spots like the crepe house downtown, and nights dancing to indie rock at the bars with her nurse buddies, their laughter echoing off the wooden beams.

But lately, her thoughts had snagged on one thing: the French bistro tucked into a quiet corner of town, La Petite Auberge. It wasn't the escargot or the bouillabaisse that drew her back, though those were damn good. It was the chef, Frenchie—real name François, but everyone called him Frenchie for the way his accent rolled off words like butter on a hot baguette. Diane had brushed up on her French during her second stint in college, then lived in Paris for four years after graduation, waitressing at cafes and soaking up the language like a sponge. Now, at 32, she loved slipping into conversations with him in the kitchen pass-through, trading phrases while he plated orders. "Votre ratatouille est divine, chef," she'd say, and he'd grin, those dark eyes locking on hers a beat too long. He was attractive in that effortless French way—tall, lean from years on his feet, with stubble that shadowed his jaw and hands scarred from knife work.

Tonight, the group had piled into the bistro after a hike, the table littered with empty wine glasses and half-eaten plates of coq au vin. Diane sat at the end, her sundress hugging her curves, feeling the buzz of a few glasses of Bordeaux humming in her veins. It had been weeks since she'd had sex—her last fling back in Denver had fizzled out with a guy who talked more than he touched—and the flirtation with Frenchie had been building like a slow boil. He'd comped their desserts, leaning over the table to murmur, "Pour la belle Américaine qui parle français comme une Parisienne." His breath was warm, laced with garlic and herbs, and she felt a spark low in her belly.

As the others trickled out, waving goodbyes, Diane lingered, nursing the last of her wine. Frenchie emerged from the kitchen, apron off, sleeves rolled up to show forearms dusted with dark hair. "You stay for coffee?" he asked, switching to English with that lilt.

She shook her head, heart picking up. The wine made her bold. "Actually, I was thinking... my apartment's not far. I have a bottle of '98 Château Margaux I've been saving. And some Debussy on vinyl. Care to continue the evening?"

His eyes lit up, a slow smile spreading. "Margaux? You know your wines, Diane. Lead the way."

The walk to her place was short, the mountain air crisp against her flushed skin. Her apartment overlooked the Roaring Fork River, a cozy two-bedroom with exposed beams and a deck that caught the first light of dawn. Inside, she kicked off her shoes, the wooden floors cool under her feet. Frenchie wandered in, taking it all in—the bookshelf crammed with French novels, the abstract prints on the walls from her Paris days. She dimmed the lights just enough, slipped a record onto the turntable, and the haunting strains of Clair de Lune filled the room. Pouring two generous glasses of the deep red Margaux, she handed him one. He swirled it, inhaled, then sipped, his eyebrows rising. "This is exceptional. You surprise me, Diane."

They settled on the couch, thighs brushing, the music weaving around them like smoke. Conversation flowed—her time in Montmartre, his years training under Michelin-starred tyrants in Lyon. Two glasses in, the wine hit her like liquid heat, loosening every knot. She turned to him, their eyes meeting, his gaze dark and intent. Without a word, she leaned in, her lips brushing his. Frenchie responded like he'd been waiting, his mouth hungry, tongue slipping past her teeth in a deep, demanding kiss. His hands were immediate, one cupping her face, the other sliding to her breast, thumb circling her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. She gasped into his mouth, the touch sending a jolt straight to her core. God, it felt good to be wanted like this, no hesitation, just raw pull.

They made out like teenagers, heavy and urgent, his stubble scraping her chin as he nipped at her lower lip. Diane arched into his hand, feeling her pussy throb with need. It had been too long since she'd fucked a French guy—back in Paris, they'd been all passion and no apologies, leaving her sore and satisfied. Frenchie's confidence was magnetic; he wasn't asking, he was taking, and she loved it. His fingers pinched her nipple harder, drawing a moan from her throat.

He pulled back just enough to stand, unzipping his pants with deliberate slowness. The clue was clear, and Diane's pulse raced as she slid to her knees on the rug, tugging his jeans and boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick and already hard, the foreskin partially retracted over a flushed head. She paused, a flicker of surprise hitting her—she'd been with mostly circumcised guys in the States, and this uncircumcised dick was a novelty, the skin soft and veined in a way that intrigued her even as it threw her off. It was huge, easily eight inches, curving slightly upward. Wrapping her hand around the base, she peeled the foreskin back fully, exposing the glistening tip. He groaned, fingers threading into her hair.

Diane took him in her mouth, lips stretching around the girth. The taste was musky, clean, with a hint of salt. She bobbed her head, tongue swirling over the ridge, but as she pushed deeper, the size hit the back of her throat, making her gag. She pulled back, coughing lightly, eyes watering. "Fuck, you're big," she muttered, wiping her mouth.

Frenchie chuckled low, guiding her back. "Take your time, ma chérie. But don't stop." His voice was rough, commanding, and she powered through, relaxing her jaw, sucking harder. She worked him with her hand at the base, twisting gently over the foreskin, feeling it slide under her grip. His hips bucked, breath ragged, as she hollowed her cheeks and hummed around him. It was messy, saliva dripping down her chin, but the power of it—the way his thighs tensed—turned her on. She remembered a spontaneous blowjob in a Paris alley once, the thrill of the risk, and this felt like that but safer, hotter.

He came with a guttural curse in French, thrusting shallowly as hot spurts hit the back of her throat. Diane swallowed, the bitter tang coating her tongue, milking him dry until he softened in her mouth. She pulled off, grinning up at him, lips swollen. "Your turn," she said, but he was already hauling her up, kissing her fiercely, tasting himself on her.

Frenchie took charge then, no preamble. He stripped her dress off in one fluid motion, unhooking her bra and shoving her panties down. Naked, she felt exposed and alive, her skin prickling under his gaze. He pushed her onto the couch, spreading her legs wide, and dove in, his tongue lapping at her pussy like he was savoring a fine sauce. Diane bucked against his face, fingers clutching the cushions, as he sucked her clit and plunged two fingers inside, curling them against her G-spot. She came fast, a sharp cry escaping, her walls clenching around him.

But he wasn't done. Flipping her onto her stomach, he entered her from behind, his cock slamming home in one thrust. "Putain, you're tight," he growled, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Diane pushed back, loving the stretch, the fullness. They fucked like animals on the couch—him pounding into her pussy, her moans mixing with the fading strains of the violin. Sweat slicked their skin, the slap of flesh echoing in the room. He pulled out, slick with her juices, and pressed against her ass. She'd been excited about anal before, with an old flame named Graham, but never gone through with it—this felt right, urgent.

"Lube?" he asked, voice strained.

"Drawer," she panted, nodding toward the side table. He grabbed it, slicking himself and her, then eased in slow. The burn was intense, but she breathed through it, relaxing as he filled her. "Fuck, yes," she whispered, the pressure building into pleasure. Frenchie started thrusting, deeper, his hand reaching around to rub her clit. "Harder," she demanded, surprising herself. "Fuck my ass harder."

He obliged, gripping her shoulders, slamming into her with a rhythm that shook the couch. Diane shattered again, the orgasm ripping through her, ass clenching around him until he followed, coming deep inside with a roar. They collapsed, panting, but after a few minutes, he was hard again—French stamina, she thought with a smirk.

They moved to the deck next, the night air cool against their heated bodies. Stars wheeled overhead, the mountains dark silhouettes. Frenchie bent her over the railing, entering her pussy from behind, the chill making her nipples pebble. She gripped the wood, the risk of neighbors hearing adding edge, as he fucked her steady, one hand fisting her hair. "You like it outside, Diane?" he murmured, biting her earlobe.

"God, yes," she gasped, remembering semi-public romps with Marcus, the adrenaline rush. He switched to her ass again, slower this time, letting her adjust to the exposure. She came twice more, once squirting a little onto the deck boards, her legs shaking.

Back inside, they ended up on the large dining room table, her sprawled on her back, legs over his shoulders as he drove into her pussy. The wood was hard under her, but she didn't care—his weight pinned her, cock hitting deep. They switched positions: her riding him, grinding down, then him flipping her for doggy, alternating between holes until she was a quivering mess. Anal again, her begging for it harder, his thumb pressing her clit until she screamed through another climax. He finished in her mouth this time, watching her swallow with hooded eyes.

Hours blurred—three rounds, maybe four—until exhaustion claimed them. In the pre-dawn hush, Frenchie kissed her deeply, tracing her lips with his thumb. "I must go, the restaurant waits for no one." He dressed, slipping out like a shadow, leaving her sated and sore.

Diane watched the door close, a lazy smile on her face. Over the next weeks, she'd pop into La Petite Auberge, catching Frenchie's eye across the dining room. A knowing glance, a flirtatious wink as he passed her table, murmuring "Bonne nuit" with a promise in his tone. She remembered his firm handprints on her hips, the thick uncut cock stretching her in ways she'd crave again. One evening, after closing, he texted: "Margaux at your place? Debussy awaits." She replied instantly, already pouring the wine.

As summer faded into Aspen's golden fall, their encounters became a ritual—stolen nights of wine, music, and unrelenting sex. Diane found herself bolder, her hikes energized by the ache between her legs, her shifts at the hospital bearable with the memory of his command. Frenchie wasn't just a fling; he was the spark that reignited her fire, turning Aspen's crisp air into something electric. And in the quiet moments, she'd think, who knew a chef's knife skills translated so well to the bedroom? Life in the mountains had never tasted so fucking good.