A sudden downpour as I turned the corner towards the café; I could have taken shelter under an awning but there was no time to spare. I burst in, soaking wet and laughing: “Did you leave any for me?” “I left it all for you,” he smiled, passing me the cup of steaming coffee. “But let’s not drink it here…”
The rain had already stopped as we walked into the Love Hotel hand in hand, then stopped in our tracks when we saw: there was another couple there before us! I eyed them surreptitiously: a mid-forties man in a business suit, with an over-weight black woman wearing heavy make-up and a rather sullen expression. Client and prostitute? I felt a little frisson of excitement. We stood there so obviously not – holding our cup of coffee! and giggling as we pressed up against each other in our rain-soaked clothes. Finally the receptionist checked us in – “same name? same number?” – and I fell onto the bed, peeling off my layers until I was wearing just my pink sports bra, black over-the-knee socks and a barely-there G-string. I smiled lasciviously as I crawled towards him on the bed. Things seemed to have soured between us lately, but this time, I knew it would go well. Laughing, he grabbed hold of me – by the flesh of my stomach! – and pulled me towards him. I began to suck him; I felt his come rising already in his cock and he pulled out, swung me around and made me kneel on the bed on all fours, then entered me swiftly. Where in the past I had yelped in pain, this time I was so aroused, it didn’t hurt me at all. As he fucked me, I began to feel the pleasure spreading through my body. He pulled out of me, picked me up and threw me on to bed, where he mounted me and began to fuck me vigorously, faster, then slower, always changing the tempo, keeping me on the edge. And then he began to thrust hard and deep, hitting my swollen G-spot with the head of his cock; I pushed my hips up against him, my legs wrapped around him, holding him to me tightly as I came, then exclaiming in dismay as the contractions pushed him right out! My legs still writhing, I could do no more than lie there gazing at him, and I could see my son’s face in his as he smiled back at me, through an adoring fog.
“So you missed me then?”
“Oh, a little!”
“Come suck me,” he commanded, but I could barely move. Finally I dragged myself up to him and sucked him until he made me turn over again on my back, fucking me with fast, shallow strokes. I could feel him stiffening and swelling inside me; I knew it could mean only one thing, and, sure enough, he dragged me up towards him – “finish me with your mouth” – I sucked him until he came, licking every last drop of warm, sticky come from his throbbing cock. Then I quickly checked the time. He began to reach for his clothes, but I stopped him – “We have time.” “We do?” “Ten minutes.” We sank back into bed, laughing.
“So what were you doing in Geneva?” he asked.
“Oh, you know me – just gadding about,” I answered coquettishly, then quickly changed the subject. “What are you going to do about your mother?”
“I’m going to buy her some DVDs,” he sighed. “And send them to her for Christmas, with a little note. Saying, ‘Bitch’.”
Normally, it would have upset me to hear this, because, of course, I think he ought to be grateful that his mother doesn’t have terminal cancer, like mine, and also because I fear that one day it will be my son, for whom I’ve sacrificed everything, lying in his mistress’ arms and calling his mother a bitch. But I was still so high with endorphins that I just giggled and didn’t care at all.
Nor did it matter to me that all the Arab tradesmen on the rue St Denis were watching us kissing outside the sex shop, and, after we parted ways, I could hear them calling after me “c’est beau, l’amour!” as I made my way to the metro. “Ne faites pas de bébé,” one of them added, cheekily. Too late for that, mon gars – too late!