Read Online Splitting Up and Park Hyatt Hotel by Galatée de Chaussy - Free Book Online
Authors: Galatée de Chaussy
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Splitting Up
We had decided to split up. Something had come between us: the children, the death of my mother? Perhaps we should have looked for answers rather than reasons. Basically, we never knew how to handle things, at least not until afterwards.
We would eventually have to tell the children and my father, move, sign papers, divorce. It would all be done calmly and with mutual respect. It was a case of mutual consent. Like a marriage. We both wanted it.
But we were still sleeping in the same bed, and there was still great tenderness between us. We’d often fall asleep with her drifting off in my arms. Marie was gentleness itself. Too gentle, perhaps. Doubtless she said the same thing about me. “Pierre is a gentle guy—so gentle !” Too gentle, I’m sure.
One night, however, Marie woke me up.
“I want to ask you for something …” she said.
As we were definitely splitting up, I thought she was hinting at the thing we had talked about and never done. “New Zealand?” I asked.
She gave me the little bright laugh that I loved. “No, that isn’t exactly what I was thinking about.”
“Tell me!”
“You really don’t know? Think about something very, very intimate.”
Suddenly I realized what it was.
“I’d like … before we split up …” she began. “You’re the only man with whom I want … with whom I could …”
We had planned how it would happen and tried several times. We needed a romantic place, a pretty room far from the children and our everyday routine. But every time, we shied away when it came to it. I hadn’t been able to put her at ease—I wasn’t at ease myself.
Now the thing appeared under a different light. Marie would soon no longer be my wife. I would be able to look at her with new eyes.
The following evening, we went to bed early. To read. But, curiously, our books fell out of our hands. I asked Marie if she would take off the long T-shirt she slept in and go down on all fours on the bed. It wasn’t a typical position for us; we usually preferred the light weight of her body on mine. She asked if she should also take off her panties. I invited her to do so.
I got out of bed and stood behind her. I asked her in a pleasant tone if she wouldn’t mind parting her buttocks with her hands. She willingly agreed, quite adroitly given her position and her lack of experience.
“Marie,” I said, “you have the most beautiful ass a husband could wish for,” which made her blush with pleasure.
The following evening, when I found my book as boring as ever, Marie asked, “You don’t want to see my ass tonight?” She had never used that word. Certainly not referring to her own backside.
I put my book down and again walked around the bed. But this time I got closer, kneeling so that my prick was hugging the crack in her buttocks. She moaned.
“What?” I coyly asked.
“That hard, warm rod feels so good!”
“Your rear is just as good.”
“Don’t you want to … with my hand, caress me in front?” She was soaked.
Later, we went to sleep in each other’s arms, mouth to mouth.
The next day was a Saturday, and the children went to school. At breakfast, Marie and I wolfed everything down. We were ravenous.
“So, you like it?” she asked me.
“I’m crazy about it! Obsessed with it!”
“Why do you like it?”
“Because it’s beautiful, soft, warm. Because it calls to my cock!”
“Do you like it enough to fuck it? Will you fuck my ass?”
I got a tray, cleared the bowls, the tea, the jam and honey, and I devoured Marie there on the kitchen table.
In the afternoon, we had the little ones under our feet. We couldn’t hold ourselves back. I suggested getting a babysitter and going to a hotel.
Marie refused. “We’ll do it here. At home. In our house.”
She asked her sister to take the children. Nothing strange about that—we were a few days away from splitting up. I drove the kids and brought back flowers. Marie threw them in the kitchen and
We had decided to split up. Something had come between us: the children, the death of my mother? Perhaps we should have looked for answers rather than reasons. Basically, we never knew how to handle things, at least not until afterwards.
We would eventually have to tell the children and my father, move, sign papers, divorce. It would all be done calmly and with mutual respect. It was a case of mutual consent. Like a marriage. We both wanted it.
But we were still sleeping in the same bed, and there was still great tenderness between us. We’d often fall asleep with her drifting off in my arms. Marie was gentleness itself. Too gentle, perhaps. Doubtless she said the same thing about me. “Pierre is a gentle guy—so gentle !” Too gentle, I’m sure.
One night, however, Marie woke me up.
“I want to ask you for something …” she said.
As we were definitely splitting up, I thought she was hinting at the thing we had talked about and never done. “New Zealand?” I asked.
She gave me the little bright laugh that I loved. “No, that isn’t exactly what I was thinking about.”
“Tell me!”
“You really don’t know? Think about something very, very intimate.”
Suddenly I realized what it was.
“I’d like … before we split up …” she began. “You’re the only man with whom I want … with whom I could …”
We had planned how it would happen and tried several times. We needed a romantic place, a pretty room far from the children and our everyday routine. But every time, we shied away when it came to it. I hadn’t been able to put her at ease—I wasn’t at ease myself.
Now the thing appeared under a different light. Marie would soon no longer be my wife. I would be able to look at her with new eyes.
The following evening, we went to bed early. To read. But, curiously, our books fell out of our hands. I asked Marie if she would take off the long T-shirt she slept in and go down on all fours on the bed. It wasn’t a typical position for us; we usually preferred the light weight of her body on mine. She asked if she should also take off her panties. I invited her to do so.
I got out of bed and stood behind her. I asked her in a pleasant tone if she wouldn’t mind parting her buttocks with her hands. She willingly agreed, quite adroitly given her position and her lack of experience.
“Marie,” I said, “you have the most beautiful ass a husband could wish for,” which made her blush with pleasure.
The following evening, when I found my book as boring as ever, Marie asked, “You don’t want to see my ass tonight?” She had never used that word. Certainly not referring to her own backside.
I put my book down and again walked around the bed. But this time I got closer, kneeling so that my prick was hugging the crack in her buttocks. She moaned.
“What?” I coyly asked.
“That hard, warm rod feels so good!”
“Your rear is just as good.”
“Don’t you want to … with my hand, caress me in front?” She was soaked.
Later, we went to sleep in each other’s arms, mouth to mouth.
The next day was a Saturday, and the children went to school. At breakfast, Marie and I wolfed everything down. We were ravenous.
“So, you like it?” she asked me.
“I’m crazy about it! Obsessed with it!”
“Why do you like it?”
“Because it’s beautiful, soft, warm. Because it calls to my cock!”
“Do you like it enough to fuck it? Will you fuck my ass?”
I got a tray, cleared the bowls, the tea, the jam and honey, and I devoured Marie there on the kitchen table.
In the afternoon, we had the little ones under our feet. We couldn’t hold ourselves back. I suggested getting a babysitter and going to a hotel.
Marie refused. “We’ll do it here. At home. In our house.”
She asked her sister to take the children. Nothing strange about that—we were a few days away from splitting up. I drove the kids and brought back flowers. Marie threw them in the kitchen and
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