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

opening of her pajamas, which were soaked through from her arousal.
    At work, by text: I’m thinking about your ankles, which I’m holding while your mouth swallows my cock and my mouth is glued to your pussy . She would read his wordswhile clenching her thighs.
    In the afternoon, on the phone: “I wanted to tell you that I’ve closed my office door and I’m imagining you on my desk, on all fours, in a glorious mess of swirling papers, offering your ass to my cock.” Across from her, her surprised colleague would watch her flush suddenly.
    In the evening: “What keeps me hard all day is imagining your panties are soaking wet.” And so they were.
    “See?” she would say, grabbing his hand.
    At night, in dreams: “Your ass … all the way in … deep down inside … kissing me …” And it made her come. Every time. At breakfast, at work, in the evening, at night in her dreams.
    But one night, as she had his manhood between her lips, she noticed he was slightly less hard. “Are you tired my love? Is there something I could do to turn you on?”
    He leaned in close and whispered, “Yes. I’d like you to say something. I’d like you to talk blue to me …”
    But when she tried to express the exhilaration she was feeling, nothing came … and she found herself completely at a loss for words.

A Perfect Husband
    I have known a few men before my marriage. Ten? I don’t know. And I’m not going to count. Nothing too memorable, at any rate. Good lovers, now and then. But I couldn’t have had children with any of them.
    Then Thierry came along, and I married him.
    My friends are mildly jealous; my colleagues would gladly make off with him. “He’s perfect,” my mother told me. It’s true. He doesn’t snore, and he doesn’t leave his socks lying around. But …
    There is one but : he is a bad lover. There, I said it. He is handsome. He is loving. He is in love. But he is a bad lover.
    From the very first time—from the first second—I knew it would never work out and that it wouldn’t get any better. It had nothing to do with inexperience or not knowing each other well enough. No. He just had no idea what he was doing; sometimes it hurt, sometimes it did nothing at all. It was short, or long, but never good.
    I should have spoken to him about it. I just couldn’t. How does one say something like that?
    What were my options? I could take a lover. Why not? Someone with experience, who would really fuck me. Oh yes! I so badly wanted a really good fucking!
    It was becoming an obsession. I would make myself come in front of the bathroom mirror with my fingers stuck in my pussy and in my ass, saying, “Do you see how wet I am? How wet I am for you?”
    But there was only me in the mirror. And my husband. For he always had a place in my erotic fantasies. The man who would take me standing up in the restroom of a high-end restaurant? That was him. The man I would fall to the ground with, in a field, in the mud and grass, in the rain, my lips around his cock and his tongue pressing down between my thighs? Always him. The one that I loved. The one that I desired.
    Something had to be done.
    I came up with a screenwriting class, with that guy who wrote The Usual Suspects .
    “He’s French?” asked my husband.
    “I was surprised, too.”
    It was a class that mostly took place at the movies really. I would come back full of enthusiasm.
    “Our teacher told us to act out our scenes. I mean, completely. Would you mind helping me?”
    “No problem! As long as you don’t ask me to rescue people from some towering inferno!” he joked.
    But my script was far simpler than that: two strangers meet in an elevator, and desire quickly builds up between them.
    “He takes her in his arms …”
    “Like this?”
    “No. More like this,” I said showing him. “And because they’re both drunk, he undoes his pants, and she slides her hand in.” I paused, but he didn’t react. “What are you waiting for?”
    “You want me