"I can be fierce when I need to be. I think it was an American president who said 'Speak softly and carry a big stick,'" Rochelle said offhandedly, and took a hearty quaff from her drink.
"How do French people feel about, you know, homosexuality?" Poppy asked, remembering that she had meant to research the subject before her trip, but had entirely forgotten. From what she had heard from others in the gay community, it paid to know the climate of tolerance when visiting anywhere that wasn't, well, California.
"France is the country that gave birth to human rights," she said simply, but added, "It depends. There are, of course, pockets of homophobia, but it's generally accepted, or at least met with tolerance."
"Good to know," Poppy said, lifting her glass. "Cheers. To the most unpredictably wonderful vacation that I couldn’t even imagine ever having."
They clinked glasses, drank, and Rochelle lifted her glass.
"Cheers," she said, "to romance in the City of Love."
They clinked glasses, drank, and Poppy lifted her glass again.
"To sexy tour guides."
They clinked, drank, and Rochelle raised.
"To tempting tourists."
Clink. Drink. Think.
"To… I'm out of ideas," Poppy said, flushed. "Let's just make out."
Clink. Drink. Kiss.
Rock Paper Scissors
After another hour, and another round of drinks that slowly diminished between kisses that grew more and more impassioned, Rochelle looked at the time, and gave Poppy an apologetic look.
"I have work in the morning," Rochelle said, with a frown.
"Does that mean our night is over?" Poppy asked, nuzzling her face against Rochelle's neck.
"I truly wish the answer was 'no,'" Rochelle sighed. Poppy gave a whiny groan. "When do you leave, again?"
"Soon. Saturday morning," Poppy moaned.
"Hmm," Rochelle hummed. She rested her chin on top of Poppy's head and ran her fingers through Poppy's hair. "Then we have tomorrow, don't we? Let's have dinner after I get off work. I’ll try to make it an early day."
"Can't we just stay here? Forever?" Was it the alcohol making Poppy feel so mushy? Or was it just Rochelle?
"If only, my darling. If only."
They rose from the table, Poppy extremely wobbly on her legs, and Rochelle only slightly more stable, so they leaned on each other for support as Rochelle hailed a taxi. They sat in silence for the ride to Rochelle's flat, Poppy cradled limply in her arms.
When they arrived, Rochelle paid the fare and helped Poppy out of the cab.
"Let me walk you to your hotel," Rochelle said. Crap, thought Poppy. She had forgotten about that lie. Crap, she thought again. The Metro ride back was going to be awfully lonely and cold. A soaked pair of panties was only going to make it worse. But hell if it wasn't worth it.
"No, I want to walk you to your door. Like a proper date."
"I took you out," Rochelle said, tenderly fixing Poppy's bangs. "I insist."
"I insist," Poppy responded. Rochelle gave her a facetiously stoic look.
"We'll play Rock-Paper-Scissors for it." Poppy laughed.
"Ok," she said, placing her fist on a flat palm. "On three. One, two, three."
"Rock beats scissors," Rochelle said, her fist gently knocking Poppy's vee sign. "Where's your hotel."
"Can I be honest?" Poppy said, too drunk to be truly embarrassed.
"Of course."
"My hotel isn't around here. It's back by that café where we met."
"But you told me…"
"I lied. I just wanted to spend more time with you that day. It was just so nice being close to you, and I was so stupid wild about you, so I, you know, pretended I was staying nearby."
"So other times…"
"Yeah. I had to take the Metro back across the city. I'm sorry, I'm… I don't know. It was silly, but once you thought I was staying close to you, I didn't want you to know I was lying."
Rochelle stared at her, mouth slightly agape, cocked her head, and gave Poppy a lingering kiss.
"Well," she said, caressing Poppy with the knuckles of her finger, then occupying herself by fixing Poppy's bangs again, as they were blown askew by the growing breeze. "I can't send you all the way back alone… in this cold weather… in this big old city.... So…" She just smiled.
"So…?" Poppy asked, giving her best bedroom eyes.
"C'mon," Rochelle said, taking Poppy by the hand and leading her through the door beside the market.
Heaven
Rochelle's flat was more anarchic than Poppy had expected—she imagined Rochelle's living space being extremely neat and organized, but there were books and magazines placed haphazardly about the room, and articles of clothing, shirts, jackets, bras strewn carelessly on tables, chairs and the hardwood floor. There was a crumpled blanket on a couch facing a television, with a few used dishes on the end table, and a desk with a disarray of papers. It was compact, chaotic, and the whole placed smelled like Rochelle. It was wonderful.
"Excuse the chaos of my life. I usually don't entertain company in my home." Poppy stood just past the door for a few moments, taking it all in. She looked to Rochelle.
"Is this heaven?" she asked, a childlike expression on her face. Rochelle laughed, and pulled her in for a kiss, her fingertips lingering on Poppy's neck as their lips parted.
"No," she said, placing her fingers under Poppy's, and leading her with the lightest pull towards a door on the far side of the space. "That's in the next room."
Faire l'Amour
Rochelle's room was small, cozy and somewhat less messy than the rest of her flat. The bed was another surface for books and clothes, and after Rochelle pushed them onto the floor, Poppy didn't have a chance to take in any more details about the room. Rochelle tossed off her jacket and thrust her body against Poppy's, pinning her against a wall with a kiss even deeper than before. Fingertips raced up and down the sides of her waist beneath her shirt, and the ends of nails skimmed along her skin in a way that sent electricity through Poppy's body.
Poppy felt the hands, and the sensations they delivered, moving up toward her ribcage, hardly aware until they were rising up her arms that her shirt was being lifted with them. The shirt fell to the floor, and Poppy was vaguely aware of the chilly temperature in the room until a hand pressed against her bra-clad chest and a pair of lips was on her neck, leaving a trail of kisses from collarbone to ear.
As the kisses continued, they intensified, lips pressed deep into the soft skin, causing Poppy to clutch tighter and tighter at Rochelle's still-clothed body. Hungry kisses quickly became the caress of the tip of a tongue painting designs on her neck, heightening Poppy's desire twofold, first with the dew of Rochelle's mouth, then with the zephyr. Poppy felt herself losing the strength to stand, grateful for Rochelle's embrace holding her up against the wall, as tasting became nibbling.
When Rochelle's tongue began to wash Poppy's neck in broad strokes, and she felt the gentle tug of teeth at her earlobe, her legs completely gave out. Her incognizant stumble was directed to the bed by the attentive Rochelle, who turned Poppy around to land sitting at the edge of the mattress, and setting herself down by Poppy's side. Poppy fumbled to find Rochelle's lips with her own, attempting to repossess herself. She wrapped an arm around Rochelle's waist, and the other cradled the back of her head, Poppy taking a more adamant role in the kissing, sucking on Rochelle's lower lip.
Poppy's eyes opened to see Rochelle's heavily-lidded gaze staring back, a soft look of surrender in the French lover's leer, allowing Poppy to take the lead in kissing. In the southern regions of her body, however, Rochelle was moving her fingers like armies over the knoll of Poppy's thigh, and unbuttoning and unzipping, dismantled the defenses of Poppy's jeans. She grabbed a belt loop on either side of Poppy's hips, and dragged the denim halfway down Poppy's thighs. She felt the trails of Rochelle's fingernails gliding along the exposed skin, up to Poppy's point of weakness, guarded only by a thin layer of cotton.
Poppy squirmed and whimpered as Rochelle's fingers pressed against the cloth wall, lingering still between her thighs until Poppy couldn't stop herself from thrusting and grinding against Rochelle's digits.
Finally, Rochelle's fingers climbed the barrier of Poppy's panties, and slid down inside, caressing every bit of the tight space except the slit that craved Rochelle's touch madly.
"My, it's damp in here," Rochelle whispered, fingers still facetiously exploring the tight, steamy space, wandering through the crop of hair, teasingly stroking the sides of her wet outer labia. Poppy could only give soft grunts in the place of words. "Oh," she said playfully, as a single finger slid down the center of Poppy's slit, sank into and became entrenched in the warm moist hole. "That's why."
The finger bobbed in and out a few times, and Poppy muttered curses. Something so simple shouldn't have felt so good, but the all-day build-up had made Poppy much more sensitive than she normally would have been. Rochelle's finger, slick with Poppy's cream, began to run concentric circles around Poppy's clit. Poppy could hardly do more than breath in gasps against Rochelle's parted lips.
Rochelle's hand rose out of Poppy's panties, and her face gained a few inches of distance from Poppy's. Rochelle lifted her glistening middle finger to her mouth, licked a drop of the liquid from her fingertip, and made a pleased noise. Her lips rounded in a pucker, and the finger disappeared inside, and reappeared clean.
"I wish I had known you have such a fantastic flavor," Rochelle cooed, her hand sliding down Poppy's stomach and back down into her panties. "I wouldn't have waited so long for a taste."
Poppy felt two fingers enter her this time, causing her to writhe and clutch Rochelle's shoulder as they dipped inside her. They rose again, middle and index finger coated in Poppy's juice. Rochelle licked away the fluid from her index finger, front, back, then sides, with an obvious relish, sucking deeply to get any lingering traces. She then looked at Poppy, her eyes devious and hungry, and Poppy felt the cool sensation of her own essence being applied to her lips like a gloss. Rochelle's middle finger penetrated Poppy's lips, and she tasted her own saltiness on her tongue.
As the fingers retreated from Poppy's mouth, Rochelle's lips mashed against hers, kissing, licking away the moisture she had placed. Rochelle dominated Poppy's lips, her body gradually looming over until Poppy leaned back onto the bed, and was held down not by the weight, but by the sheer gravity of Rochelle's body. Entangled, they slithered around the bed until Poppy's head lay on a pillow, her pants abandoned somewhere along the process.
Poppy caught her breath as Rochelle looked down upon her, straddling Poppy's hips, hands on either side of her head, and Rochelle's sleek black hair showering down around her smiling face, like a moon illuminating the night. Poppy's hands went for the crotch of Rochelle's pants, and she had hardly fumbled her way through the last button when Rochelle buried her face in Poppy's neck, kissing, licking and nibbling at a much less leisurely pace than before.
Determined not to lose control again, Poppy maneuvered into a position in which she could parry Rochelle's seductive prowess and struck for her exposed neck. As Rochelle began to release small groans, Poppy pushed down handfuls of cloth, exposing the tan-skinned hips and ass, victoriously clutching the lush cheeks. Through a tangled collaboration of legs, Rochelle's bottom half was rendered completely nude, with nothing left to separate the grinding of moist sensitive spots against thighs. The friction, the call and response of moans, the visual of the gorgeous woman atop her all caused Poppy to feel as if her climax might come at any moment—the ominous inevitability, as she didn't want the intimacy to end, and yet she couldn't stop herself from humping, groping and kissing.
As Poppy was powerless to put a stop to the motion of their bodies, it was Rochelle who broke from the enraptured squirming after several minutes. Poppy felt Rochelle's tangled mass of hair lowering, planting kisses in winding trails along her stomach, and Poppy's body grew stiff with the anticipation of Rochelle's mouth, which hovered near her pussy, grazing her thighs with kisses.
Poppy looked down at Rochelle, her face inches away from her lustful opening, wearing only a black, feminine T-shirt, her tawny ass in the air where she crouched, situated between Poppy's thighs. Poppy heard Rochelle make humming moans, buzzing around Poppy's blossom for her nectar. With every kiss against the inside of her thighs, every brush of lips against her pussy, every suck and nibble so close to, and yet not quite there, Poppy squirmed, limbs gently flailing, hands clutching sheets, teeth sinking into the pillow case, not knowing what to do with her body.
Rochelle decided to cease teasing Poppy, pressing her mouth firmly against and French kissing Poppy's lower lips. Poppy's back arched and her hand pushed into the back of Rochelle's head. Poppy wasn't surprised that Rochelle's tongue, which had mastered so many languages, was fluent in cunnilingus. Her body rattling and her breathing spastic, Poppy opened her eyes to meet Rochelle's gaze, lips wrapped around her muff, the calm, sultry look in her eyes doing nothing to betray the rapid flicking of her tongue against Poppy's nub. It was too much.
"I'm gonna…" Poppy groaned, her jaw hardly functioning. Her head fell against the pillow, chin raised in the air, the room blurring as her eyes glossed. "Fuck!"
Every lap of Rochelle's tongue was another crack in the dam that was about to burst, and when the final lick broke through the threshold, Poppy felt her orgasm wash over her. For half a minute, she twitched and jerked her body, clamping her legs around Rochelle's head, and finally letting out a loud gasp for air.
She released Rochelle, both women catching their breath, and Rochelle climbed back up Poppy's body. By the look of her face, lips, chin, cheeks and nose coated with Poppy's juice, she could see that Rochelle had taken the full force of Poppy's deluge. Rochelle pulled off her shirt to wipe her face, and Poppy traced along the lines of her exposed abdomen with her fingers. Even after her sexual satisfaction, Rochelle's body still filled her with desire and craving.
Poppy pulled Rochelle down into a kiss, remains of her own honey being fed to her by Rochelle's tongue, which she sucked hungrily. Poppy's hands trailed up Rochelle's spine until they found the clasp of the black lace bra, and undid them. Rochelle lifted herself from Poppy, straddling her waist, and allowed her bra straps to slide down her arms, at first coyly covering her breasts behind folded arms. With a smile, she released them, allowing her breasts to hang, perky and free. Poppy's brought her fingers to the small, brown nipples, hardening at the touch of her fingers.
"Lie down," Poppy said, and Rochelle obliged. Poppy experienced the sensation of each nipple between her lips, kissing back and forth between the two breasts. Rochelle's hand wove into her hair as she sampled the pert nipples, soft, small areolas and firm handful of each breast. Rochelle's thighs opened immediately at the promise of Poppy's lowering fingers, which dipped eagerly into to the warm heat. Rochelle's hips bucked gently against the fingers, her body as hungry for satisfaction as Poppy's had been.
Poppy covered every inch of Rochelle's breasts with her mouth, kissing, licking, grazing with her teeth along the sweet, supple flesh, nibbling at Rochelle's sensitive soft apexes, engrossed in sucking. Her hand led the bucking of Rochelle's hips, growing more and more intense, Rochelle's come glazing Poppy's fingers and dripping down to her palm.
Rochelle's moans were like music, and when they grew louder, when her nails dug into Poppy's back and she felt her wrist squeezed by Rochelle's thighs, she knew she had succeeded in bringing Rochelle to her climax—the gushing that flowed over Poppy's fingers was just the icing on the cake.
La Petite Mort
Languid from liquor and love-making, Poppy could barely keep her eyes open. She had never felt so satisfactorily spent, and her mind was in a daze.
It occurred to Poppy that her own bra was still on, so she removed it—better late than never—and tossed it onto the floor. She looked down to Rochelle, who smiled up with eyes which expressed that she shared the same lethargy of sexual satiety that Poppy wa
s feeling. She fell next to Rochelle, nestled into her arms, and exhausted the last of her energy on one final kiss before both bodies went limp.
Morning with Momo
Friday
Poppy's night was a swirl of images of rain on bridges, flaming crêpes, stretching planes of locks, peaches and wine glasses—her mind was too tired to even coherently dream. Music entered her head, and after a moment she began to acknowledge how obnoxious the tune was… and how loud it was… She wanted it to stop, but she didn't know how.
She roused slightly, still not quite awake, but closer to waking than sleeping, with the rustling of the body next to her, though the light coming from the window was too bright, and she had to keep her eyes firmly shut against it.
Rochelle, she thought, feeling tender inside.
No, no. That was a dream. A wonderful, wonderful dream, but a dream nonetheless. But there was someone lying next to her, and that was definitely a naked breast in her hand. Shannon? No, please god, no. She had been drinking last night—a dry mouth, slight headache, and vague sense of nausea informed her of this more than memory—so maybe she had made a mistake. She was in Paris, though, wasn't she? She opened her eyes, squinting.
Rochelle.
Rochelle, her French Canadian Japanese Filipina Aphrodite incarnate, was lying in repose, lids half-opened, traces of the previous day's makeup accenting her face, a morning-after mask that was gorgeous in its own right, and her hair, usually so sleek and neat, was tangled and wild. Poppy lifted the blanket, and gazed down at the topography of Rochelle's naked body: the rising mesa of her collarbone from her neck, the rounded hillocks of her breasts, along the smooth prairie stretch of her stomach and hips, the crests and valleys, all the color of clay-rich baked earth.
"Good morning, my little Poppy Seed," Rochelle cooed, and pressed her lips against Poppy's, a simple, soft kiss that filled her with a waking warmth so much gentler and more invigorating than the sunlight pouring in from outside.
The Peach and the Poppy Page 11