The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

WHITE NIGHT by Françoise Rey

Translated by Maxim Jakubowski

WE’D BEEN DRIVING for some time already. The night was cold and icy. Thin snow was falling. Suddenly, we moved straight into a blizzard. The flakes rushed towards us through the daze of the headlights, waltzing wildly, blinding our sight of the road. You slowed down.

“I’m married,” you suddenly said. This did not offend me, interrupting as it did a lengthy silence I had neither sought nor wanted.

“I know,” I answered. You looked down at your left hand and examined, as if it had never been there before, the ring, smiled as if confronted by undeniable evidence and my admission that I already knew. Which implied some form of idle curiosity on my part at least. Then you looked round at my own hands.

I think I wore five or six rings, but in the semi-darkness you had no time to count them as the road was becoming increasingly treacherous and invisible. You peered up through the wind-screen, changed the wipers’ speed, looked round at me again quizzically. I answered your silent question with a faint laugh and, still smiling, you accepted both my silence, and my wish to say nothing…

It was warm in the lorry’s cab, I was feeling good. Then you said: “My wife is at a ski resort, with the small ones.” I answered: “We’re also in the snow.” You put your hand on my knee and I closed my eyes.

Our meeting had been a bit of a miracle. Because of the time of year… It was the evening of December 24th…

My luggage in hand, I had crossed the road a bit too fast. There were a lot of people, many of them laden with parcels. A bike had shuffled against me, awkwardly squeezing me against the hood of a parked car, against which my case noisily brushed.

You were on the other side of the street, about to climb into your lorry. A big lorry which had probably just delivered oysters to the covered market which stood nearby. The company’s name was painted in large letters on the side of the vehicle, together with its address: “Rue B. Patoiseau – MARENNES.”

You halted in mid-ascent, then climbed down again to come to my rescue. I was a trifle shaken, no more.

“Are you OK?” you asked. “You’re not hurt?”

You picked up my case. You were much taller than me, film star-size. With a cheerful, sly glint in your winter sea green eyes, which reminded me – why not? – of clear, fresh oysters.

“You were leaving on holiday?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I was going to spend Christmas with my family in La Rochelle. But I’m worried that my train might be full and I forgot to make a reservation…”

You looked me straight in the eyes, pondered just half a second, turned toward your lorry.

“Say, I’ve thought of something…”

And there we are…

Just enough time for you to go to some office to complete the paperwork and for me to make a phone call, and we were on our way, on a long, unexpected, delicious Christmas Eve journey.

We had reached a hill. You slowed down, had to change gear, your hand left my knee for a moment, then swiftly returned. “The truth is,” you said to me, “I’m very shy.” And I was so enjoying this strange conversation where words seemed to be possessed of different meanings. The charming way you said “the truth is”, so pregnant with possibilities.

“Really?” Did I doubt you?

“Not usually,” you added.

“But tonight?” I sought confirmation.

“A bit.”

“Because of me?”

“Thanks to you.”

“And does it feel good?”

“It’s delectable!”

I thought that for a lorry driver your vocabulary was quite charming. And I loved the way you thought.

“How funny…” I said.

“Yes, for a lorry driver, eh?” you answered, and smiled once again. I looked back at you and drowned my gaze in your deeply lined brow. I had always known vile seducers had wrinkles just like yours. And I allowed myself to be seduced…

I put my hand on yours. It was warm, strong. Wise. I pulled my skirt up and encouraged your large hand to shed its innocence and explore further.

“You’re really funny!” you said. “You don’t really look like…”

“But I’m not…”

“What, only tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s Christmas!”

The disappointment on your face was almost comic.

“I thought it was because of me…”

“Thanks to you!” I corrected you.

And we sealed our complicity with an exchange of meaningful looks and smiles.

“Keep your eyes on the road. Our hands are old enough to look after themselves. Especially yours.”

“It’s not always an advantage to have such large hands,” you said, as your fingers approached the edge of my knickers.

I did not answer but pulled my buttocks up, and pulled off the piece of underwear obstructing you. And wedged myself deep into the seat, opened my thighs and again closed my eyes.

Your hand sported intelligence. At first, it made no demands. Wandered quietly over my fur, knuckles slowly skimming over its surface, a pleasing caress. The hum of the lorry’s engine and the bumps in the road echoed all the way through to my sex, where I could feel a whole network of nerve terminals vibrating in unison. It was like a sort of telephone switchboard in my lower stomach, impatiently awaiting calls and demands.

“Tell me…” you asked.

I did not misunderstand your request. All you wanted to hear from me was how I felt right then.

“I know it’s called a pussy,” I said. “I feel as if it’s about to miaow!”

“I love animals,” you answered.

“They always return your affection,” I whispered back, my voice suddenly quite hoarse as one of your errant fingers penetrated me.

You found it amusing to enter and withdraw from me in a slow, gentle rhythm. I slipped my hand under the palm of your hand, still warming my mons, found my bud and delicately landed on it, careful not to rush anything, to make this holy moment last as long as possible, this very instant when imagination moves residence and settles in highly secret places.

My dreams were at sea, balanced on the waves. My cunt was the sea, waves crashing against each other, ebb and flow, ebb and flow…

I was in the depths, dark, salty, wetter than wet and my stomach was initiating a new, steady pulse, ever increasing in strength: hold back, hold on, hold back, hold on… I was becoming an underwater cave, a dizzy abyss. Soon I would require something stronger, something to war against, to fight back, to digest. I beckoned the myths of the great sea serpent, the indefatigable swimmer, the steel-membered Argonaut. I begged to be taken…

You were still driving, your eyes on the road, a foreigner to all that was happening between my thighs. You kindly offered me another finger. It was welcome, but the angle of penetration slowed its movements, causing pain in the midst of pleasure.

“You’re wet!” you said.

“You’re the one who’s making me wet. I’m like a jetty covered in kelp, you know, after the wave has subsided… A jetty after the storm…”

I thought of mooring bitts. I placed my left hand on your flies.

You raised yourself slightly to allow me to unbutton your top button, as it was too tight. The rest came easy. I quickly found you.

It’s damn crazy to jerk off like that, a thick cock in hand, and dreaming of being elsewhere. Can drive you mad.

I don’t really know you, but there’s a place for you inside of me. Several places, even. This was the moment when I realized how perfectly we complemented each other. This cock I held in my hand, I wanted to take it everywhere into me, wherever it might fit. I also felt like devouring it, an imperious desire, a ferocious appetite, a pressing need to be one with it, to commune in agony. But if I bent towards you, you would have had to let go of me, and I did not want that. The explosion was approaching, I could no longer control it. I looked around at you, disturbed.

“I think I’m…”

“Yes, of course. Yes!” you gently said. As you would put a friend at ease. The kindness of this permission reassured me and banished all the mental storm clouds away.

But, please, don’t let it make you stop!

And you understood so well both the situation and the urgency clearly, and your fingers pursued their passionate, dizzy journey inside me, this hesitant waltz strong enough to melt all resistance, travails worthy of Sisyphus and the ocean and handfuls of planets. Forward, further, much further, gently, back a bit, almost pulling out, ever so slowly, forward, much further, back a bit gently… I keep company with you, with all my soul, with all my guts and I’m chased by a giant wave riding behind me, biting at my heels, catching me… Lo, here it comes…

I held your cock tight in the grip of my hand, froze, winced, riding the crest of the giant tidal wave lifting me up, sitting on the throne of an eruption of sheer undiluted pleasure, cushioning all its aftershocks…

You parked smoothly on the side of the road, switched off the engine. I turned towards you, short of breath, still boiling. You explained: “It was either that, or move into second gear…” I acquiesced. Yes, yes, you were quite right to do so! If you’d switched gears, the let-down would have been awful, a true low in my career… The teacher in me smiled at the analogy, but offered him no explanation… Anyway, all my energy had quite dissipated…

“It was good!” I said, with a lack of conviction that saw you roar with laughter.

“I’m absolutely delighted,” you declared theatrically, waving your hands upwards, and for just one second, I saw the sheen of my lust shine on your fingers.

Wait, just you wait and see how I can please you too!

I bend toward you. Your cock had a heady smell. Reminiscent of the corduroy fabric of your trousers. But also the smell of man. Wild. Lingering…

The joy in my stomach, which still hadn’t subsided, rose sharply again. I laid my tongue on the tip of your cock. It was slippery. A thin, appetizing, salty stream pearled out of the thin hole and I spread it all over the pink, round, bare, stirring glans. Men’s cocks are custom-made to be devoured. There’s nothing more eatable in a man. It’s firm, elastic, spongy, so soft you feel your tongue should dance on tiptoe over it, like a cheeky skater on a bed of ice.

Your cock is so thick I don’t think I could suck on all of it… At any rate, not in my present position… Under my skirt, the echo continues. My cunt is still quivering.

“Give it to me…”

“Ask, come on, you can ask better…”

“Please, please, please. I want it badly…”

“You can do better!”

“Come to me, please… I am so hot inside. Touch me, touch, I’m on fire, I’m so wet, put it inside, I’ll go crazy. I’ll suck you off so good. Come!”

“Ask! Ask again!”

“Damn it! Come… Look, how it needs me too: it can’t even stand still, it’s ready to burst if you don’t put it in, put it inside me, fuck me, please? Come. I’m hungry, hungry for you, hungry for it. Look, it will slide in so easily, it’s ready… You can’t keep it, this big dumb thing, all to yourself? Look, look, I’m opening up for it, see. See how I gape wide open, hurry, hurry, or I’ll come without you, just the thought of you screwing me… We will lose it all…”

The threats had the desired effect. You laid me down onto the seat, down on your knees on the other seat you pulled me across, pushed your trousers down… Lust stabbed through my heart. And I still hadn’t even seen your balls!

You move into me like butter. I can almost feel your taste. It’s a famished beast I have between my thighs. Eat, feast yourself, my little animal! It’s Christmas, I’m your midnight supper!

I swallow you whole with torrid pleasure. Your cock is hard, I can feel it butt against my walls, at the back, and the soft blows reverberate all the way through to my arse. It’s exhilarating… I’ve a finger on my clit, doing God knows only what, and it feels good, like a mandolin player. And with my left hand, I held your balls, heavy, thick, gorgeous. My imagination is on fire thinking of them, swollen and creamy. Eat, kiddo, eat! Soon it will be time for dessert… This guy is soon about to spurt all the way into you, the way you like it! My brain grows more excited as it pictures visions of eruptions surging upwards at the speed of light. I naively press hard against your balls, as if to empty them.

“Come, come…”

“No, not before you do. Come quickly.”

“I can’t. I just can’t, yet.”

How could I explain that my lust was dependent on yours?

“You first, you first… you keep on saying,” and I realize that you are going to wait as long as it takes while I’m almost suffocating here, suspended above the abyss.

“Tell me what you want me to do? Tell me… You’re so good to me.”

“Take me everywhere. Behind, also.”

You are obedience personified. My desires are orders. You stab my arsehole with your thick, aggressive, fiery thumb. It scares me and fills me with joy at the same time.

“Do you feel me, there? [Hard not to. I feel only you.] Are you ready to come, now? Ready?”

“If you keep on stretching me open so, everywhere, yes, yes, it’ll soon come… Listen, listen, it’s coming, it’s coming, it’s almost here, it’s… now, right now, give, give it to me, you too…”

You fell upon me. You’re much heavier than I thought you would be. And so much more gentle, too.

When I opened my eyes, the snow had stopped falling. You caught your breath back, readjusted your clothing, settled again behind the steering wheel. My chest is still resonating, my ears too, full of the roar of the giant wave that has washed me away. With sharp burns everywhere, their scars gradually declining and being replaced by a wholesome feeling of lassitude.

“You can sleep, if you want to.”

You indicate the cot, behind the front seats. No, I don’t wish to leave you on your own. I will not sleep.

And the journey continues, quietly, slowly. We’re in a sleigh smoothly sliding through a white and sleepy landscape.

From time to time, you stop. People wish you a merry Christmas. We go again. There are bells in my head, champagne flowing through my body, and my heart. Small bubbles sparkle and tickle me everywhere. You’re nice, you’re funny. I don’t regret anything.

In the morning, you lightly brush against my drowsiness.

“We’re arriving in La Rochelle. Where do you want me to drop you?”

I open my eyes, see a dead town amidst a still black dawn.

“At the railway station.”

“What?”

“Yes, I have to tell you. You know, when we met, I wasn’t leaving Lyon. I’d just arrived. I was going to spend Christmas there. I didn’t feel like it…”

“You’d just come from La Rochelle?”

“No, from Grenoble.”

“But…? Why did you tell me of La Rochelle?”

“I saw you. I saw your lorry, the sign ‘Marennes’. I thought, ‘That’s where that guy is going back to, tonight.’ And I reckoned ‘Why not?’”

Your eyes flickered with laughter.

“It’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Because, when you saw me, I was about to hand over the lorry to a mate. I wasn’t supposed to bring it back. I was scheduled to sleep in Lyon. I’d already been driving all day.”

“That’s why you had to go to the office?”

“Yes, that’s where I was meant to meet up with him. I told Dupre, ‘I’m replacing you.’ He didn’t mind.”

“Is it legal?”

“No, not really, but it can be done… He’d found this chick in Lyon. Gave him the chance to spend Christmas Eve with her. He was pleased.”

“Weren’t you supposed to spend Christmas with your family?”

“No, I was going to wait for the next lorry to do the journey.”

“So, now, what are you going to do?”

“First, sleep a bit. Then return to Lyon.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning, maybe.”

“So…?”

“Yes, why not?”