Splitting Up and Park Hyatt Hotel

Splitting Up

and

Park Hyatt Hotel

Sweet Pleasures

Galatée de Chaussy

We had decided to split up. Something had come between us: the children, the death of my mother? Perhaps we should have looked for answers rather than reasons. Basically, we never knew how to handle things, at least not until afterwards.

We would eventually have to tell the children and my father, move, sign papers, divorce. It would all be done calmly and with mutual respect. It was a case of mutual consent. Like a marriage. We both wanted it.

But we were still sleeping in the same bed, and there was still great tenderness between us. We’d often fall asleep with her drifting off in my arms. Marie was gentleness itself. Too gentle, perhaps. Doubtless she said the same thing about me. “Pierre is a gentle guy—so gentle !” Too gentle, I’m sure.

One night, however, Marie woke me up.

“I want to ask you for something …” she said.

As we were definitely splitting up, I thought she was hinting at the thing we had talked about and never done. “New Zealand?” I asked.

She gave me the little bright laugh that I loved. “No, that isn’t exactly what I was thinking about.”

“Tell me!” 

“You really don’t know? Think about something very, very intimate.”

Suddenly I realized what it was.

“I’d like … before we split up …” she began. “You’re the only man with whom I want … with whom I could …”

We had planned how it would happen and tried several times. We needed a romantic place, a pretty room far from the children and our everyday routine. But every time, we shied away when it came to it. I hadn’t been able to put her at ease—I wasn’t at ease myself.

Now the thing appeared under a different light. Marie would soon no longer be my wife. I would be able to look at her with new eyes.

The following evening, we went to bed early. To read. But, curiously, our books fell out of our hands. I asked Marie if she would take off the long T-shirt she slept in and go down on all fours on the bed. It wasn’t a typical position for us; we usually preferred the light weight of her body on mine. She asked if she should also take off her panties. I invited her to do so.

I got out of bed and stood behind her. I asked her in a pleasant tone if she wouldn’t mind parting her buttocks with her hands. She willingly agreed, quite adroitly given her position and her lack of experience.

“Marie,” I said, “you have the most beautiful ass a husband could wish for,” which made her blush with pleasure.

The following evening, when I found my book as boring as ever, Marie asked, “You don’t want to see my ass tonight?” She had never used that word. Certainly not referring to her own backside.

I put my book down and again walked around the bed. But this time I got closer, kneeling so that my prick was hugging the crack in her buttocks. She moaned.

“What?” I coyly asked.

“That hard, warm rod feels so good!”

“Your rear is just as good.”

“Don’t you want to … with my hand, caress me in front?” She was soaked.

Later, we went to sleep in each other’s arms, mouth to mouth.

The next day was a Saturday, and the children went to school. At breakfast, Marie and I wolfed everything down. We were ravenous.

“So, you like it?” she asked me.

“I’m crazy about it! Obsessed with it!”

“Why do you like it?”

“Because it’s beautiful, soft, warm. Because it calls to my cock!”

“Do you like it enough to fuck it? Will you fuck my ass?”

I got a tray, cleared the bowls, the tea, the jam and honey, and I devoured Marie there on the kitchen table.

In the afternoon, we had the little ones under our feet. We couldn’t hold ourselves back. I suggested getting a babysitter and going to a hotel.

Marie refused. “We’ll do it here. At home. In our house.”

She asked her sister to take the children. Nothing strange about that—we were a few days away from splitting up. I drove the kids and brought back flowers. Marie threw them in the kitchen and jumped on me.

The climb up to the bedroom was long and passionate. In the doorway, she pulled off my trousers and took the whole of my cock in her mouth. I pushed her onto the bed and began to caress her, the soft caresses we had enjoyed so many times.

“Not this time, my love,” she said. “I want you to go into my backside. I want you to come in my ass.” Which is what I did.

That was in 2007. Last April we celebrated our thirteenth wedding anniversary.

“I’d like you to talk blue to me …” she whispered in the privacy of their bed.

“Talk blue? Like singing the blues?”

“No. I’d like you to say blue words.” But he didn’t know what she was talking about.

His best friend was into psychoanalysis, so he asked him to interpret. “Literal blue words? Blue talk? Singing the blues? Which kind is she talking about?”

“I have no idea!”

“OK, you should know something: in the states, pornographic movies are sometimes called ‘blue movies.’”

“Are you saying … ?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just making the connection.”

Alone at home he tried his hand at coming up with those blue words. But it was so difficult! He didn’t dare say anything. “Your pussy,” he would whisper. “Your kitty.” “Your vajayjay.” It was all ridiculous. “My love, I want to kiss your kitty.” It just didn’t work.

That night, they made love. But he didn’t say a word, blue or otherwise. She didn’t let him come the way he liked to, between her breasts.

So he wrote down lines in a wire-bound notebook.
First I would like to, with my tongue …
But that was plagiarism. A Serge Gainsbourg cover. He turned to a fresh page. He thought of something pornographic:
an erect penis penetrating between open thighs
. You would’ve thought he was in seventh grade. He ripped out the page and threw it away.

“Don’t keep telling her what you are going to do,” advised his friend. “Tell her what you like instead. Talk about what you’re doing.” So it was all about paraphrasing, then.

That night, as he stood facing the spread thighs of his lady friend, who was holding a book and paying him no mind, he studied the shape of the crease he could make out through her white cotton panties.

“I love your … vulva,” he said.

Surprised, she lowered her book and looked at him, smiling.

“Oh really? What do you love about it?”

Damn it! He hadn’t prepared a follow-up. And yet, he knew exactly what he liked so much about it. She did have the most beautiful vagina in the whole world. Cute, exquisitely rendered, an eighteenth-century gem of magnificent delicacy with a clitoris that would swell like a nipple. But the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. They were stuck in his throat.

He stammered: “It’s … it’s really … wow!”

She picked up her book again.

Later, as he sat over her breasts, mindful—for he was gentle—not to crush her, he watched his erection go from her lips to her breasts.

“I love fucking your mouth,” he said. “I love seeing my cock gleam with your saliva,” which left her speechless (though she did have her mouth full). He had finally said blue words!

Afterward, while she straddled him, he let go of her waist, which he usually held in that position, and put his hands on her buttocks. “I am crazy about your ass,” he told her. “I love holding it, moving it against me.” She did have the most beautiful ass in the whole world; it swelled under her dresses as if it were crinoline, and you just wanted to eat it up—her ass, not the crinoline.

Then she climaxed. It had happened so fast, it took him by surprise! But
she
wasn’t surprised. For he had said those words. Those words, oh those words. Those blue words.

So now he spoke that way. All the time.

At breakfast: “I love your breasts, licking them. How they harden against my tongue. How they taste of apricot.” He’d often say that while sliding his hand through the opening of her pajamas, which were soaked through from her arousal.

At work, by text:
I’m thinking about your ankles, which I’m holding while your mouth swallows my cock and my mouth is glued to your pussy
. She would read his words
while clenching her thighs.

In the afternoon, on the phone: “I wanted to tell you that I’ve closed my office door and I’m imagining you on my desk, on all fours, in a glorious mess of swirling papers, offering your ass to my cock.” Across from her, her surprised colleague would watch her flush suddenly.

In the evening: “What keeps me hard all day is imagining your panties are soaking wet.” And so they were.

“See?” she would say, grabbing his hand.

At night, in dreams: “Your ass … all the way in … deep down inside … kissing me …” And it made her come. Every time. At breakfast, at work, in the evening, at night in her dreams.

But one night, as she had his manhood between her lips, she noticed he was slightly less hard. “Are you tired my love? Is there something I could do to turn you on?”

He leaned in close and whispered, “Yes. I’d like you to say something. I’d like you to talk blue to me …”

But when she tried to express the exhilaration she was feeling, nothing came … and she found herself completely at a loss for words.

I have known a few men before my marriage. Ten? I don’t know. And I’m not going to count. Nothing too memorable, at any rate. Good lovers, now and then. But I couldn’t have had children with any of them.

Then Thierry came along, and I married him.

My friends are mildly jealous; my colleagues would gladly make off with him. “He’s perfect,” my mother told me. It’s true. He doesn’t snore, and he doesn’t leave his socks lying around. But …

There is one
but
: he is a bad lover. There, I said it. He is handsome. He is loving. He is in love. But he is a bad lover.

From the very first time—from the first second—I knew it would never work out and that it wouldn’t get any better. It had nothing to do with inexperience or not knowing each other well enough. No. He just had no idea what he was doing; sometimes it hurt, sometimes it did nothing at all. It was short, or long, but never good.

I should have spoken to him about it. I just couldn’t. How does one say something like that?

What were my options? I could take a lover. Why not? Someone with experience, who would really fuck me. Oh yes! I so badly wanted a really good fucking!

It was becoming an obsession. I would make myself come in front of the bathroom mirror with my fingers stuck in my pussy and in my ass, saying, “Do you see how wet I am? How wet I am for you?”

But there was only me in the mirror. And my husband. For he always had a place in my erotic fantasies. The man who would take me standing up in the restroom of a high-end restaurant? That was him. The man I would fall to the ground with, in a field, in the mud and grass, in the rain, my lips around his cock and his tongue pressing down between my thighs? Always him. The one that I loved. The one that I desired.

Something had to be done.

I came up with a screenwriting class, with that guy who wrote
The Usual Suspects
.

“He’s French?” asked my husband.

“I was surprised, too.”

It was a class that mostly took place at the movies really. I would come back full of enthusiasm.

“Our teacher told us to act out our scenes. I mean, completely. Would you mind helping me?”

“No problem! As long as you don’t ask me to rescue people from some towering inferno!” he joked.

But my script was far simpler than that: two strangers meet in an elevator, and desire quickly builds up between them.

“He takes her in his arms …”

“Like this?”

“No. More like this,” I said showing him. “And because they’re both drunk, he undoes his pants, and she slides her hand in.” I paused, but he didn’t react. “What are you waiting for?”

“You want me to undo my pants?”

“Well, yeah!”

“Well, OK then.”

“Good. She strokes him, like this. There you go. And he’s getting real hard. Exactly like this.”