Free Splitting Up and Park Hyatt Hotel by Galatée de Chaussy Page A

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.

Tell Me Those Things…
    “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