Eau de Monique

I doesn't happen very often, but it has happened: I will talk to somebody who's French-Canadian like me, only we don't know it, so we speak English instead of French. Monique and I had seen each other's picture online, so we set up a date over the Internet. She was from Manitoba and spoke English fluently, without an accent, so I assumed that she was an Anglophone. I was living in Toronto at the time, so I had lost my accent after a few years; she thought I was an Anglophone as well.

"What do you say we meet for a secret rendezvous?" she suggested flirtatiously over the telephone. "There's a place on Prince Arthur Avenue..."

"Sure," I replied.

She told me how to get there, then I took the Metro to meet her there. The place that she suggested was one of those imitation English pubs, except that it was three storeys instead of one; had probably been built in the 19th century, then the owners kept adding to it until it was three storeys. I don't know much about architecture, so I would say it was 19th-century Victorian or Edwardian, if there is such a style. It was a nice and cozy place: you know, something out of a Sherlock Holmes mystery, except that I don't read Sherlock Holmes and I don't like mystery stories.

I decided to wait for her at the bar on the ground floor. I ordered some fish and chips, though I don't usually eat the greasy fare, and waited for her. To go with it, I ordered a pint of — what else? — Guinness Stout. Though Guinness is bottled and brewed in Ireland, its headquarters are in London, so you could say it's really an Anglo-Irish concoction — a plot on the part of those evil English bastards to keep the Irish perpetually drunk. Or, the beer of choice for soccer hooligans from the UK. But don't think I don't like the English — I just don't like bastards or hooligans.

But let's get back our sheep. She showed up about twenty minutes later, took a few steps towards the bar, then asked me, "Are you Alain?"

I nodded and asked, "And you are Monique?"

She smiled, replied in the affirmative and sat down next to me. Monique was no more than five feet tall with thick chestnut-brown hair in a widow's peak that touched her shoulders; she had beautiful hair. She was what the French call bien en chair, or "well in the flesh" — what English-speakers call "buxom" — with large breasts, a full ass and a bit of a belly. Her face was exotic, demanding closer inspection: round, with small round eyes the colour of chocolate chips and a button nose like Frosty the Snow Man. She was cute, with a smile full of cunning. With a red hat and a red down jacket, she could have been one of Santa's elves, I'm sure.

She told me she was working for some telecommunications firm whose office was on the CN Tower, but I forget the name of the firm now; I think she was in sales. I told her that I was manager of a printing company with branches all over Canada and the US, but I have since left that position. I didn't have to deal with the public like she did.

Then, at some point, she asked me, "What's your sign?"

"Here we go again!" I thought. I don't like it when strangers ask me my sign, because I consider it personal information. Whenever you tell people who believe in astrology your sign, there's always the chance that they're going to say, "We'll, I don't like people born in Gemini!" Therefore, people should get to know you a little first before they ask you your sign.

However, I told her my sign: "I'm a Gemini..."

She smiled and said, "Really? I'm a Gemini too!"

Then she told me her birthday: the 8th of June. I told her that mine was the 6th of June. She was two years older than me. She grinned and said, "Small world, eh?"

She said that she was a from a little town called Fond-du-Lac, Manitoba; it means "Bottom of the Lake" in French, she informed me, though I already knew that, since I spoke French. I told her I was from a small town in southeastern Ontario just across the Ottawa River from Quebec. Though 95 per cent of the people in Ontario speak English, about 85 per cent of the people in my native town speak French. However, nearly everybody in my town speaks English as well, except the very young or the very old. In an English-speaking world, you speak English to get by.

I should have known that she was a Francophone when she said "pardonne-moi" a few times, but I thought she was just flirting with me. After a few pints, we were really flirtatious, you know. Then, with her forehead up against mine, while slowly running her index finger up and down my pine trying to break through my pants, she said, "I'm really horny, and I have need of a man..."

When she kissed me, she stuck her tongue in my mouth and licked my upper lip.

So we found a hotel within walking distance of the pub and checked in. Like Tomas with Tereza in "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," I commanded her to strip; she obeyed silently. Then, when she was completely naked, I commanded her to do a complete turn, slowly, so that I might inspect her whole body. Again, she obeyed. After I indicated that I liked what I saw, I told her to take a shower. "But don't dry off, eh?" I told her. "I want to see you nice and wet."

"Okay, mon cher..."

But before she entered the shower, she gave me a long and wet kiss, sliding her serpentine tongue into my mouth again; she was an expert kisser. Through women like her, men learn that the tongue bone is connected to the cock bone very quickly.

As she took a shower, I pulled out the chair from the bureau, sat in front of the bathroom, and waited. When she emerged from the shower, as wet as a fleur-de-lis after a spring shower, and saw me sitting, she smiled with certain cunning. Then she sat on my thighs, all wet, put her arms around my neck and said, "I may hurt you tonight..."

Then she kissed me tenderly on the lips and executed a little pirouette on my lap, where she rubbed her wet ass against my crotch. At first, she was a little heavy, but then her body felt increasingly weightless as she turned around and slithered up and down the front of my body, rubbing her large football-sized breasts in my face from time to time, inviting me to suck or lick her medium-sized nipples. Then she turned around again, her back to me, and let me squeeze her breasts while planting kisses across her shoulders and up and down the nape of her neck as she continued to shimmy her ass on my crotch.

At one point, she turned around, face to face with me, and rested her ankles on my shoulders with her arms around my neck. Then she let go of my neck and did a reverse somersault off my lap and onto the floor, landing on her feet with her arms raised up into the air. I couldn't believe it! I was amazed at her agility, because she didn't have the body of an acrobat. But she said that she had taken ballet as a child, and executed some ballet manœuvres à poil across the floor of what settled for a living room to prove it.

She took me by the hands and told me to stand up. Then she smiled and said, "I must warn you that I'm a dominatrix..."

But her next act was a gesture of submission, not of dominance. She pulled down my pants and boxer shorts, fell to her knees, then did a pipe, slowly at first, then faster. It was one of the best I ever received. When I was fully erect, she looked up at me, smiled and said, "Oh, you're so big!"

Then she went back to doing the fireman. I imagined myself as a rock star in the booth of a recording studio being serviced by a groupie with music tracks in the background. There was the steady buildup of tension, a groan from me, a moan from her; it drove me crazy! I wanted to come, but somehow, she was able to prevent me. She took her time, in no hurry to make me come.

Then, without warning, when it seemed that she was bored with the whole thing, she suddenly shoved her finger up my ass and made me explode into her mouth. If had known she was going to do it, I probably would have tensed up, but instead I almost passed out, it was so intense — my knees were all wobbly! There was a band in my head playing "Shakin' All Over," I'm sure!

We laid down on the bed, her hair still wet from the shower. She looked like a Rastafarian, or maybe Medusa the Gorgon, with a head full of snakes. But that was okay — I liked snakes; I liked dreadlocks too. After kissing her on the mouth for a while, I planted a trail of kisses on her neck, from shoulder to shoulder across both clavicles and down her sternum to her navel in the shape of a cross, then I licked and sucked the nipple of each breast, both of her large breasts soon hard, engorged with blood and desire. The nipples of her breasts shrunk as I stimulated them with my tongue and my mouth, one by one, her moaning gently.

Then I inserted my middle finger in her sex, stimulating the g-spot, which felt like a bicuspid or tricuspid valve. She moaned repeatedly with delight: "Oh, yes!"

After a few minutes of stroking the g-spot, she had a very intense orgasm, opening her mouth and crying out, her eyes closed and her tongue licking her upper lip. It was beautiful, watching her face as she came.

Then I lowered my face to her sex, where she held it. First, I stroked the exterior labia with my tongue, then the interior labia. It may sound clinical, what I was doing, but the results were hardly clinical. When the praline exposed itself, I licked it with my tongue, then nibbled at it with my lips. She responded to both direct and indirect stimulation, her sex soon wet from both my mouth and it secretions, her pubic hair soon glistening with dew drops.

She asked me to use my teeth, so I gnashed at it gently with my front teeth, then chewed it. Then she suddenly thrust her hips hard into my face. "Ughhh-ughhh-ughhh!" she cried, as she took her foot.

If her sex had been something hard, she would have broken my front teeth, but her mons puberis was a mountain of flesh, not of rock.

You must remember that I was talking to her all the time: "Oh, you have such beautiful breasts!" Or: "I want to hold onto your ass for dear life!" I always reminded her how beautiful she was to me, because, with her body laid out before me like a table, she was a feast for all of the senses — she was indeed beautiful.

Then she got on all fours on the bed and offered me her behind. "Fuck me like an animal!" she moaned.

We started doing it dog-style, but she had me stop, spun around on my cock without breaking apart from me, and had me do it with her legs on my shoulders. Oh God, how l loved her legs as I drove into her! In the beginning, when she first emerged from the shower, her legs and her ass looked chubby, but now their muscles were taut, like the legs and the ass of a dancer. She had an amazingly powerful body — that's why she was able to hurt me.

When she came, she arched her back like a ballerina and cried out, her toes pointed out, her sex emitting a musky odour that made my nostrils swell up as I exploded into her. I wanted to bottle up her scent and sell it on the open market, Eau de Monique, because she had a heavy, but clean smell — guaranteed to make your nostrils and eyes dilate with desire. Just dip a finger in her sex and put a dab behind the ear.

She was a vegetarian who didn't smoke, she said afterwards, the reason why she smelled so clean.

After we were done, we held each other and kissed until the passion gradually died down, little pecks here and there. Then we cuddled and talked. She was very cuddly. "I need lots of affection," she said, smiling.

We fell asleep in each other's arms. The next morning, I woke up when I heard her cell phone ring. "Âllo?" I heard her say. "Non, c'est pas vrai... Parle-moi s'en!... Non, dit-lui que l'offre c'est final — bye-bye!"

When she hung up, I said, "Wow, you really are French!"

"Bien oui, monsieur," she replied, smiling. "Fond-du-Lac is a little French community in Manitoba."

"J'suis Français aussi, moi," I replied, "ma famille restant à tous deux banques de la Rivière des Outtaouaises, à l'Ontario, au Québec..."

She grinned and replied, "Small world, eh?"

After talking in French for a while, we found out that we were actually related, our family trees actually crossing twice within the last 150 years. Both times, one of my ancestors named Joseph Blais had married one of hers named Marie-Thérèse Paquette. "We've committed incest," she exclaimed, laughing. "We're going to hell!"

So our little rendezvous was a secret rendezvous in more ways than one: two Francophones who didn't know initially that the other spoke French, a man and a woman who were related by blood. As well, I had a girlfriend with whom I was in the process of breaking up, while she had a boyfriend on the west coast to whom she was obviously less than faithful.

We "committed incest" a several more times over the summer, hardly une saison en enfer, before her company transferred her out west to Victoria, where she worked on an account with a Chinese firm. The sex was always good with her, because her best feature in bed was her mind. She was a very creative, very intelligent woman, uninhibited without being too wild, the perfume of Eau de Monique filling my nostrils, its taste sticking to my lips like a kiss that wants to be permanent.

We e-mailed a few times after she moved out west, then lost track of each other.

La fin