French Lessons Ch. 03

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Babes

The Blues

It was May, near the end of the school year. Jean-Paul and the rest of the “French Teachers” would soon be going home, with only a few returning in the fall. None of the women I knew were planning to come back, and neither was Jean-Paul. To arrange for their return all the Teachers, with a few exemptions, gathered at the Department of Education in Baton Rouge for a thank-you dinner and encouragement to return the next year. None were buying it.

One of those exceptions was Claire Blues, Jean-Paul’s girlfriend. She was called Blues because of her preference for B.B. King and Lightn’ Hopkins, and her massive collection of albums by dozens of obscure blues and jazz musicians.

After doing her school duties that day she had driven to LeBlanc’s Shell with her Ford Maverick for one or more of the multiple repairs associated with a Ford Maverick. She was there when I arrived to get gas.

“Jack,” Claire called from the garage. “Glad you’re here.”

I returned the salutations and walked over to see her while the Shell gas jockeys (remember them?) tended to my car. I remember asking why she was not in Baton Rouge, and she provided an explanation that I never really understood. Her English was rather good – much better than my French – but some explanations can get complicated.

“They won’t be able to get to my car until tomorrow – a part they need, I think. Can you give me a ride home?”

“Of course,” I said. “But first I have to go across the street to the Winn-Dixie to pick up a few things. My cupboard is bare.”

“Quoi?”

“English nursery rhyme: Mon placard est vide.”

“D’accord, OK, I think. But I can make you dinner.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I did like the idea, but I wasn’t sure what Jean-Paul would think.

“I won’t let you say no. My cupboard is full. So is my Frigidaire.”

“Well, at least let me buy us some wine at the store.”

“You’ve got a deal,” she offered, followed by something in French which I didn’t understand – I had run into an awful lot of that lately, and not all of it from the French Teachers.

So, we drove across the street to the Winn-Dixie, bought a bottle of Chianti and a loaf of bread, and drove to the House of the Three Claires. Actually, the “House” was a portion of the second floor of the old rectory, situated across the street from the church.

You know, following Claire up the tall stairs was a treat: Damn, she had a terrific ass. If you’ve been following my tales of The French Teachers, or any of my stories for that matter, you know how I hit the jackpot in my new job. Someone who likes ass as much as I do couldn’t have found a better place to be. But Jean-Paul’s Claire? Nah, too complicated. I’ll just have dinner. No pot, just half the bottle of wine.

“Do you like Italian food?” Claire asked.

“Doesn’t everybody,” I answered. “But, really, just make it something simple and quick. I can’t let you go too much out of your way for me.”

“Carbonara: bacon, onion, pasta, egg and cheese. Fifteen minutes. Mostly to cook the linguini.”

“Can I help.”

“You can chop the onion.” I think she said that to get me out of her way while she cooked.

Claire went into the pantry, emerging with a box of pasta, a jar of seasoning and a bottle of Caribou, a fortified wine once popular in French Canada that I was about to taste for the first time.

Claire filled half of two juice glasses. I took a sip, expecting a wine-like taste. Bong!!

“This is what we drink in Quebec when it’s cold. It’s got wine and whiskey and maple syrup.”

“And formaldehyde?”

“No.” And she finished her glass in a single pull. So, I did the same. Claire refilled my glass, this time almost to the top, advising, “Not so fast this time.”

I did not intend to do so. In fact, I had no intention of even having another.

So I sat at the table in the kitchen alcove, sipping Caribou, chopping a small red onion and staring at Claire’s ass.

“You know Paul and I are just friends,” she said as she stirred the bacon in the Teflon skillet.

“Could have fooled me.” I was sort of hoping it was true but I knew better. “I see your Maverick in the driveway and you coming up and down the stairs at all hours of the day.”

“He uses my car most afternoons. I have no use for it. I absolutely hate to drive. I walk over to pick it up at night canl─▒ bahis ┼čirketleri or early morning so I can get to school. That’s probably when you see me. You know, on weekends we sit around talk, about France and Quebec, and listen to jazz and blues. We like the same writers and poets, too. French and Canadian.”

“Well, you two were certainly making a racket last night.”

“That was Louise. You know, Paul had never been to bed with Louise until last night. I thought everybody did her.”

She glanced at me with a quick smile and returned to the bacon.

This was not the kind of conversation I wanted to get into. Claire may have felt my uneasiness. Or maybe she was feeling some uneasiness of her own.

So, we talked about Louie Prima and B.B. King, and how much we didn’t like Conway Twitty and Willie Lamothe. Record albums – wax 33 1/3 – were still in use, so, while Claire finished making dinner, I went looking through the combined collections of the Claires.

Before I could find anything, Claire directed me to turn on the tape, a reel-to-reel setup perched atop a book case.

“Just push the button.” (I loved the way she said button – boo-tawn.)

So I pushed the boo-tawn, and Caliope smiled on me, but only in French. I listened, failed to understand a word, and hoped the Beatles or at least Simon and Garfunkel would follow.

“We mixed the tape together, all three of us. That’s Johnny Holiday. Claire, with the freckles, likes him.” Simon and Garfunkel finally came on as did the Rolling Stones and Miles Davis and the Rev. Gary Davis.

By that time we were seated at the table in the small living room/dining room/kitchen, a bottle of Caribou on one end, and a bottle of that Chianti that comes in a basket on the other, and a pile of linguini and bacon in the middle.

Claire was staring at me with this almost na├»ve smile on her face. I was enchanted, naively enchanted to tell you the truth. After finishing the glass of Caribou – my second or was it my third? – and a glass or two of wine, I found that I was enjoying just listening to and being with Claire. As I said she was the best looking of the French Teachers, the prettiest face, the wide hips, great legs and terrific ass. Her boobs were small and she seldom wore a bra, but sometimes, depending on her choice of blouse or dress, you could see her nipples protruding slightly.

This evening, she was wearing a beige, shapeless dress, though her shape filled it out just fine. The dress had buttons at the top, which I imagine were closed at school, though not now.

I had been trying all these months not to think of her in sexual terms: Jean-Paul and all. But now I was beginning to reassess my thinking.

The music changed to French, singers, bands and songs I never heard of.

“Sure you’re not shitting me about you and Jean-Paul?” I asked before I got too wound up in my new assessment.

“In the beginning we were almost lovers,” Claire said. “But we never got the chance. We did have as much fun as you can in a Maverick, though.

“I was living in a house in Lafayette with five or six other French Teachers, and Jean-Paul was living alone on top your garage. One of the obnoxious male teachers at the Lafayette house decided I should sleep with him, and was very persistent. He never got physical other than trying to put his arm around me. He tried to kiss me once. No.

“Jean-Paul and I had been a couple from the day we arrived in Louisiana. One weekend, he came over to the house in Lafayette, and he and my obnoxious housemate got into argument which ended with the housemate smashing Paul’s nose in.

“I tossed a few things into the Maverick and we left. The idea was for me to move in with Jean-Paul, at least for a few days. But, on the way to his apartment we laughed so loud and so long that the blood streaming from his nose never got the chance to clot at all.

“When we got to the garage, we just didn’t want to make love. We were having too much fun. He knew the other Claires were looking for someone to fill the third bedroom at the old rectory. He called them, and here I am… and here you are. Jean-Paul’s nose healed very quickly. We are very close friends.”

She poured Caribou into her wine glass. I did the same. I also gave my imagination free reign.

“D’accord, now you tell me about you and Claire.”

Turnabout canl─▒ ka├žak iddaa being fair play but I didn’t want to be too, too honest.

“Claire was the ‘funest’ person I ever met, a flaxen ball of energy. I couldn’t keep up with her, dancing, riding a bicycle, playing tennis. She liked riding in my car with the top down even when it was raining. As you know the exercise she liked best was sex. I wasn’t jealous about her other lovers, at least not at first. Then came the pictures, which are great by the way. I just got jealous, simple as that. But I think I was more upset about the photographer than the photographs.”

My story told and done, I sat back to admire Claire. That was easy to do: She had the prettiest of eyes behind those big horn-rimmed glasses, and unlike the other Claires – and most of the other French Teachers – she always wore dresses or skirts and blouses, dry cleaned and pressed, and low heels to school. She was nearly six-feet tall. Her hair was long, jet black, and often twisted into a bun, which was a good idea for May in Louisiana.

“Go sit down while I clear the table,” she said.

“I won’t let you.” And I stood and began herding plates and utensils into the dishwasher before she could stand up.

Claire filled the pot and the skillet with soapy water: “Now let us both go and relax on the sofa.”

We each picked up our wine glasses, and I took the half bottle with me to the couch.

Jane and Serge’s “Je t’aime” softly filled the room. (Whoa!)

She undid my tie, and I put my arm around her. She melted into my arms. We kissed for the first time, slow, long, romantic, but also strong and powerful. There was a sense of something to come that would be more than just “fucking.” I felt it in my bones, as well as in my bone. I didn’t necessarily desire to “do” Claire or to pound her ass until she screams. I wanted to make love to her.

I have mentioned other women here as being beautiful and sexy and exciting, and they were. But Claire really was beautiful above all else. She certainly knew how to keep a man – me – interested and was certainly not a prude. She had had her little flings and been in a few beds since arriving in Louisiana. Even with her college professor attire she was exciting. It obviously was a studied look.

Claire held me around my neck as if to never let me go, as I pressed her small breasts through the rough material of her dress. She bit my ear, then lay on the sofa, with me atop. It was a most enjoyable feeling. I ran my hands up and down her sides as we continued to kiss. I lifted the edge of the dress and ran my fingers up her leg and massaged her through her pantyhose. Claire massaged my hard-on through my pants, then smoothly unbuttoned my shirt and began massaging my chest.

We were both breathing hard, and both enchanted with one another. It was a good feeling to make love to the best looking French Teacher. It was an even greater feeling to make love to someone who had cast her magic spell on you.

I don’t recall if I had ever run into pantyhose before – or even after for that matter. I tried to remove them in my awkward fashion. Claire took matters in hand, or at least in hands, lifting her great ass and pushing pantyhose and panties down to her knees, where I was able to take over. Again lying on the couch we continued where we left off. Her kisses were as sweet as ever, and her body soft and warm and supple against mine.

I reached again under the hem of her dress and felt the electric fur of her pubic hair with my whole hand before letting my fingers press her clitoris. She kind of purred, then reached down to unfasten my belt and unzip and unbutton me. She was unhurried and methodical, despite her evident excitement. As she stroked me with her soft hand I felt I was in dream. I just wanted it to go on and on and on, So relaxed, so sensitive.

I unzipped her dress in the rear so as to more easily fondle her small tits. The first one filled my hand as I cupped it, her brown nipple between my spread fingers, I took it into my lips while I massaged the other breast, sucking, nibbling and playfully biting. All the time my other hand was lost in her very wet and warm pubes and vagina. Her hand continued to fondle my testicles and penis.

I tried to remove her dress, but was making a mess of it.

“We will be plus comfortable in my room,” Claire again rescued canl─▒ ka├žak bahis my clumsiness.

She stood and let her dress fall to the floor. She was naked now, head to toe, gloriously naked. Her small tight tits, her wide hips, her dark pubes, those long legs, and her. She untied the scarf holding her long black hair which flowed over her shoulders and face. Botticellian, I guess.

I stood and followed her into her bedroom. We sat on the edge of the bed and resumed “making out,” our hands exploring each other. I wasn’t really naked myself. I still had on my socks and my unbuttoned white shirt.

As we settled into the bed, she moved down and began kissing my testicles and my cock, as I lay on my back. I just let her alone and settled back to enjoy.

Hard as I could be, she went down on me, sucking, kissing, swallowing. I had never enjoyed anything like it before. It was like being a virgin again with a virgin mate. The truth, of course, was off but the feeling was close.

I was moaning and pulling at the sheets. And I was crying, too, as she gently brought me to the edge.

“I am about to cum, I naively said, warning of the load I was about to spray just in case it was unexpected. It wasn’t. She had no reaction, continuing to take as much of me as she could, up and down and up and down.

And I erupted. All the passion. All the relief. All the feelings. It was everything at once. Of course, she swallowed it all.

Soon she was in my arms, staring at the ceiling. We lay there in silence, under a single sheet, staring together at the single-bulb fixture on the ceiling. I wanted a cigarette at that time, and I imagined she did too. But neither of us wanted to interrupt the moment. It was a first moment. We knew others would come.

I fondled her small breasts lightly and we kissed again and again, sweet and warm. My fingers discovered her soft skin and touched her muff, with the wet hairs and the stiff clitoris. She nestled closer to my neck and to my body, and purred in my ear: “Si bon, si beau,” so good, so beautiful.

And I moved down the bed, kicking open the tucked-in sheet, and found her muff. I dove in. It was fantastic. It always is. But this was something special. I could feel that. She closed her thighs about my head, as I drank all her flow and nibbled at her clit. The purrs and moans grew stronger and louder, and I moved up the length of her warm, smooth body.

We kissed and I entered. “Ooooo.”

For the longest time we were still. We were enjoying the thrill of my being inside her. I raised myself on my hands and looked at that face, that pretty, school teacher face.

She later told me this was the moment she had been fantasizing about since she first saw me walking up the garage stairs behind George Lasseigne’s house. Not sure I believe that.

When I did begin to move it was slowly, a slow rhythm. She was as tight as I thought she would be – maybe her list of lovers was not so long. Because it was my second time up I was able to go on and on. She trembled, arched her back and moaned, but softly, her hands behind my neck, as she had orgasm after orgasm.

“Ensemble,” Claire said. Together. And we did climax at the same time, a long, powerful eruption that seemed to last all night. “Si beau, si beau, si beau,” she whispered. So beautiful.

With her in my arms, and Ella and Frank “Putting their Dreams away,” we fell asleep.

Next morning, we made love again. Missionary again. (I am quite boring.) Soft and slow and sweet again. We were showered, dressed and drinking coffee at the kitchen table when the other Claires came back from Baton Rouge. I’m sure they knew what I was doing there at eight in the morning.

For the final two-plus weeks of the school year, we saw each other almost daily. And she stayed with me in the rooms over George Lasseigne’s garage more nights than not. By the end of the month all three Claires were gone. A year later I went to Canada myself.

When I got to Montr├ęal, I found a newspaper job — cash under the table — and set out in search of the French Teachers, one in particular.

The Blues found me at a Metro station – she was on the down escalator and I was going up. Up and down and up and down, right out of a Harold Lloyd film, though we finally ended up on the same platform.

Later Manpower Canada, the True North version of INS, came to the newspaper offices and rounded up six Americans – they missed just as many. They took us – the Montreal Six – to an immigration office, where we told we had two weeks to get out.

So 13 days later I drove back to Louisiana. Claire came with me.

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