The words sent Marcia fumbling across the table for her French to English phrasebook. Already she could feel the blush spreading across her chubby pink cheeks-she convinced her parents to let her spend the summer before college backpacking across France in the blithe confidence that three years of middle school and three years of high school had given her a solid command of the language. But after only a week, she was finding out the hard way that the French she’d learned in the classroom was almost useless in the real world. People spoke quickly, they used slang, they mumbled and slurred and stammered and spoke in dialects. On a good day, with a very patient individual, Marcia could make out about one word in three.
This wasn’t a good day. The tall Caucasian man with the piercing eyes and the silver, slicked-back hair slid into the booth next to her and placed his hand on hers, stilling her search for the dog-eared dictionary almost before it could begin. He cupped her chin in his hand confidently and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “Raygardsmayeuze,” he murmured in a calm, commanding voice, fixing her with an imperious stare and stroking her wrist smoothly and evenly as he spoke. “Raygardsmayeuzeaydaytond.”
Marcia shook her head in bewilderment, looking helplessly up into his unforgiving gaze and stammering out, “T-tres desole, I… um, je, je ne comprehends-” Her tentative attempts at speech trailed off into silence as the stranger made a conjuror’s pass with the hand that had been holding her chin, pressing a finger to her lips in a gesture that transcended language. She winced-more than a few people had expressed disdain for her halting, badly-accented French, but not many had gone so far as to literally shush her.
“Profond,” the man said, his hand stroking Marcia’s bare arm all the way up to the shoulder and back down to the wrist. “Profond, profond, profond.” Marcia wanted to tell him that she didn’t know what ‘profond’ meant, but at the same time interrupting his rich, mellifluous baritone with her stammering efforts at his native tongue seemed almost too embarrassing to contemplate. She settled for giving him a hesitant shrug that he totally and completely ignored.
She tried to look past him, to see if there was anyone in the little restaurant that she could flag down and ask for a translation, but the few patrons that she saw all seemed to be wrapped up in their own business. Not that she had time for more than a glance-the moment Marcia’s gaze shifted away from the stranger’s eyes, he cupped her chin again and drew her attention to his deep, penetrating stare once more. “Sangray,” he growled, his hand moving her head up and down in a slow, lazy nod. “Sanponsay. Sanzyday.”
He leaned in closer to her, not quite uncomfortably intimate but definitely close enough to emphasize the difference in their heights. Even sitting down, Marcia was probably a good three inches shorter than the stranger, and even with her head tilted back uncomfortably far, she found herself having to look up to keep her gaze locked onto his. It occurred to her that she didn’t actually have to keep looking him in the eyes, but every time she tried to even so much as glance away, he gently but firmly directed her chin back in line with his dark, piercing stare.
“Plonjaydanzmeyeuze,” he murmured softly, taking her wrist in his hand and beginning to swing her arm gently back and forth. “Plonjaydanzmongray.” It made her muscles feel oddly loose and rubbery, as though he was shaking all the strength out of them and leaving her limp and passive in his grasp. Marcia opened her mouth to object, but the stranger simply pressed it closed again and Marcia found herself too distracted by the weird, tingling numbness that spread slowly through her hand and forearm to protest again.
“Pawploodugray,” the man purred, his fingers stroking up and along her cheek soothingly. The constant juxtaposition between his overbearing, constant physicality and the sheer tenderness of his touch left Marcia feeling bewildered and off-balance; she didn’t know how to react to anything he was doing. She’d fended off more than a few creeps in her first week in France-that part of the country’s reputation, at least, held a little justification-but this didn’t seem sexual, or at least not sexual in any way she was wired to recognize. He simply seemed to be asserting control over their interaction, and Marcia couldn’t seem to find any compelling reason not to let him.
“Pawploodayponsay,” he said, his voice rich and sensual in her ears even though she still couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. Marcia’s brow furrowed in confusion, trying to summon up memories of stultifying classrooms and verb conjugation and endless vocabulary lists, but the stranger’s soothing fingers stroked away the tension from her forehead and left her face as relaxed as her swinging, swaying arm. The numb sensation had spread all the way up to her shoulder now, almost as if the limb didn’t even belong to her anymore.
“Pawploodaisyday,” the man cooed sensuously, his fingers tracing a path down the bridge of Marcia’s nose over and over again. Each time, he pulled his hand away in that same strange, abrupt conjuror’s pass of a gesture, fluttering his digits in a way that made Marcia’s eyes water with the effort of refocusing her gaze away from the stranger’s imperious stare onto the motion between them. Each time, it got harder to remember exactly where she was supposed to be looking.
Supposed to be… Marcia suddenly realized how odd the phrase sounded in her head, how bizarre the whole situation truly was. Somehow she felt as though she was being directed, like each one of the gestures and touches and soft, soothing caresses was guiding her along to some unknown mental destination. She had a profound, acute awareness of just how much control she’d ceded to this total stranger in only a matter of minutes, balanced uncomfortably against a total absence of awareness of how to take it back.
Physical struggle? Marcia’s arm felt utterly slack and lifeless in the man’s grasp, passivity radiating up through her body until the mere thought of motion seemed impossible. Verbal protest? Even if she could fit in a word between the continuous repetition of, “Profond, desond, profond, desond,” that he’d settled into, she didn’t know if she could make him understand her before he simply shushed her again like a naughty child. Make a commotion? Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them. He wasn’t hurting her. Maybe this was just how people hung out in Bordeaux, and Marcia was the unreasonable one. She had no idea. The whole situation took on an unreal air, as though she was dreaming it all.
The stranger’s fingers darted through the air in front of Marcia’s face, abruptly flicking from left to right, up and down, side to side. It made Marcia feel almost dizzy, her eyes constantly dragged away from the silver-haired man’s piercing gaze to follow the motion of his deftly flickering hand, given just enough time to refocus her stare back onto his before he tugged her attention in a different direction all over again. And still that same strange chant, “Profond, desond, profond, desond,” delivered in a rapid monotone until the meaningless words became even more meaningless still.
The stranger drew up his shoulders, rearing up and leaning in at the same time, and Marcia’s head wobbled with the effort of keeping his eyes in focus. His hand moved in a rapid circle, fingers fluttering and dancing around the edges of her field of vision until Marcia couldn’t quite figure out where she was supposed to be looking and her head began to go soft and fuzzy with exhaustion. She caught herself squinting, her eyelids so heavy and weary now that she had to strain to keep them open, and it suddenly hit her just how inexplicably tired she really felt.
The thought had just enough time to sink into her confused and groggy mind before the man’s fingers darted in and tapped her firmly on the forehead. “Door,” he said, pulling her arm suddenly toward him, and Marcia’s whole body sagged limply into his arms as her drowsy eyelids finally gave up the struggle and sank shut.
After that, everything seemed so much simpler. Marcia didn’t need to try to think about what the man was saying anymore, or about anything for that matter; his voice flowed over her soft, foggy mind like warm water rinsing through her hair, soothing and relaxing her deeper and deeper while he rocked her body comfortingly. All of the confusion, all of the bewilderment that had built up inside Marcia’s head seemed to have popped like a soap bubble, leaving her calm and placid and utterly limp in the stranger’s arms. She sighed, sinking deeper into his soothing touch and letting all the tension melt out of her muscles.
Marcia didn’t know how long he held her like that, petting her hair and whispering to her in a soft, soothing voice. Time seemed to have vanished just as easily and as wonderfully as all of her other concerns. She only knew that when the man guided her to her feet, she seemed to float loosely in his grip as though her body had become completely weightless. At the same time, though, she couldn’t imagine moving of her own volition. She felt perfectly content to pause, comfortable in whatever position he posed her until his hands set her into motion once more.
The stranger put his hand on the small of Marcia’s back, gently steering her out of the restaurant and down the street. Marcia’s eyes fluttered open just enough to watch where she was going, but somehow she couldn’t make her gaze focus on anything in particular; the world seemed to drift along in front of her in a haze of blissful indifference as the silver-haired man whispered softly into her ear and lulled her mind deeper into placid, drowsy relaxation. She didn’t need to think about where she was going. She didn’t need to think about what she was doing. She was a deliciously passive observer in her own body, sleepwalking along in dreamy relaxation, and it felt wonderful.
When they finally made it back to the stranger’s apartment, Marcia sank even deeper into soft, lazy bliss. She didn’t need to do anything anymore, not even walk, and her muscles melted into limp, boneless relaxation as he gently settled her back on the bed and brushed her eyelids shut once more. Marcia felt her mind drift deeper into passive, dreamy oblivion as the man’s words washed over her, his coaxing tone telling her everything she needed to know even without understanding anything he said. She didn’t need to understand any more than she needed to move or to think.
The stranger was taking care of everything for her. His fingers peeled Marcia’s top up and over her head, revealing her pendulous breasts. His hands pulled down her shorts and panties, giving him easy access to her sensitive pussy. His lips suckled and kissed her nipples, teasing her into slick, mindless arousal in a matter of moments. And the soft, gentle sound of his voice lulled her thoughts deeper into peace and pleasure. Marcia could relax completely now. She loved that so much.
When the man’s cock slid into her, rubbing her clit with practiced skill as he found just the right angle to plow her dripping cunt, Marcia felt her mind simply evaporate like dew in the summer sun. The sexual pleasure wrapped around the base of her brain, found those last few traces of awareness and stroked them away into sweet, blissful oblivion. Marcia sighed happily as her legs instinctively wrapped around the stranger’s hips, pulling him deeper and deeper into her tingling pussy and helping him fuck her thoughts away completely. She didn’t need to think anymore. She only needed to cum.
“Saymafeel,” the stranger husked out, his body shuddering with arousal as he pumped over and over into Marcia’s wet, aching pussy until her clit incandesced with pleasure. “Saymabonfeel, saymabonfeel…” Marcia still didn’t understand a word he said, but the praise in his voice saturated her sleepy mind until she squealed in ecstasy. All she wanted to be now was his plaything, his mindless and perfectly relaxed toy… and as she finally felt him cum inside her, his climax spoke to her in a way that transcended speech.