A French Summer

I had to dedicate a story to France this week, after certain political results at the weekend. A nice little romance for those who enjoy it. 

Part 1 of 2

All characters are consenting adults (18+)

It was difficult to decide whether the Manor was beautiful or terrifying. Whether it was in a state of disrepair, or whether the owners simply preferred the chaos of a building which had, at best, been overtaken by nature, and at worst, began to crumble. Yet, it wasn’t unusual to see such architecture in the area. Many people were proud to live in such ancient homes, and the Ducetts were nothing if not proud.

Olivier Ducett was born into wealth. As was his father, grandfather, and all the fathers before that. Somewhere in their lineage, the Ducetts had been Lords or Dukes or some other fairytale title, and Ducett Manor served as a reminder of their stature. Olivier, however, had spent his life gambling his families dwindling fortune, and the result was a son who would inherit nothing but a crumbling mansion. That son was an eighteen year old brat named Louis.

I first met Louis the day I started my work in the Manor. It was never intended to be anything more than a summer job. I was a twenty-two year old college student with no money and no family in the country, with only enough French to order a coffee, so I was limited in my options.

The job title was as demeaning as expected. The direct translation wasn’t much different than ‘Full time slave required for the summer months’. Duties included tending to the overgrown, unkept gardens. Cleaning every room, every wall and every door. Polishing the bizarre number of trinkets that the family kept, and being very quiet throughout.

An elderly woman gave me a fleeting tour of the dark home and handed me a bucket and a rag shortly thereafter. My training was complete, and so I set to work before finding the boy on the landing.

Louis was unlike his burly father in every sense of the word. Where Olivier was round, robust and showing signs of deteriorating health, Louis was a beautiful young man with the most fascinating face I had ever seen.

His features were as sharp as blades. His jaw looked as though it could cut through steel. His dark green eyes were windows into a very troubled soul, and he wore his black hair like every other French teenager at the time. What’s more, is that during our first ever meeting, Louis was completely and entirely naked.

“The bathroom is dirty” he said, holding a towel over his slender shoulder as beads of water trailed his naked flesh. “Clean it, please”.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t care about him. He didn’t care that between his legs sat a plump little cock and a round set of balls, and he didn’t care that anybody, at any time, could have come up the staircase and seen him. He strutted away, and I cleaned the bathroom.

Shortly after our first interesting encounter, I met Louis again. He was with a friend this time, and fully dressed, too. His mother, a very stern lady named Elodie was scolding him in French as he sat back on a chair out by the pool, and rolled his eyes. He was showing off in front of another boy, and his mother was becoming increasingly frustrated before finally giving up and marching away.

“You shouldn’t treat her like that” I said, cleaning insects from the pool. “Someday she’ll be gone and you’ll regret it”.

My unwelcome remarks struck a nerve with the boy. He glared at me before throwing some insults in my direction, which I only knew were insults by the tone of his voice. He could understand me, of course, but had yet to find the balls to allow me to do the same.

“Bitch” he added, before scurrying away with his friend.

At dinner time, the family ate separately. Perhaps it was tradition, or perhaps they still believed themselves to be too important to eat with the lowly servants. Whatever the reason, I was happy to take a plate back to my bedroom and enjoy my own company, and that is what I was doing when the first knock sounded.

“I apologise” Louis said, standing in my doorway. “For earlier”.

His accent reminded me of poetry. I smiled at him and shrugged my shoulders. I’d dealt with far worse things in my life than stroppy teenagers. He looked down at the book that I was reading.

“It’s no good” he said, “there’s a library downstairs, there are much better books there”.

I leaned up on my elbow. “There are no books that are no good” I told him, “every book tells a story, and every story has a place. Perhaps this book was not the place for you”.

His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps” he replied, and left.

On Tuesday, Louis disappeared into town with his friend, and I spent the morning polishing the brass. There was no shortage of brass in the Manor, and so it took many hours before I found myself standing inside Louis’ bedroom, massaging the doorhandles with an old cloth.

His bedroom was exactly as I expected it to be. Untidy, not dirty. Littered with sheets of paper, books, pens, pencils, a telescope, and some other bits and pieces. For the most part, I ignored it, and tidied up as best I could before finding a sketch that stopped me in my tracks.

It showed a naked man laying on a bed. His penis was far larger than it should have been, and his body was bulging with muscle. In a real world, the man was anatomically incorrect, but perhaps Louis’ world wasn’t real.

“What are you doing in here?” He asked, plucking the drawing from my hand and shoving it into a locker. “I didn’t tell you to come here”.

“Your mother wanted the brass cleaned” I said, taken aback by his sudden appearance.

“So why aren’t you cleaning it?”

He was shorter than me. Thinner, too, but the boy did his best to stand tall as he stared me down.

“You’re good” I said, nodding toward the locker where his drawing now hid. He didn’t answer me, but I could see by the splash of colour in his cheeks that he had no intention of discussing his artwork, so I left.

At ten minutes past six that evening. The second knock sounded on my bedroom door, and Louis entered. He closed the door behind him this time, and eyed the book again.

“You should really get a different book” he said.

“What would you have me read, Louis?”

He shrugged and began to stroll around the bedroom, running his finger over the surfaces as he considered it. “Something more exciting” he said, “Les Amitiés Particulières, for example”.

“You’d have to read it to me” I smiled, “I speak very little French”.

He ignored me as he stood at the window and looked out over the grounds of the Manor where he’d grown up. The dying sunlight made him look more innocent than he was.

“Don’t tell my father about what you found in my bedroom” he said, “he wouldn’t understand”.

“Wouldn’t he? The human body is complex, but I’m sure your father is aware of its existence” I replied, pressing him and smiling.

“Don’t patronise me” he said, shooting a cold look in my direction.

Louis walked back toward the door and opened it. “Goodnight” he said, and disappeared.

“Goodnight, Louis”.

At the break of dawn the next morning, I dressed and prepared for whatever mundane tasks the Ducett family had planned for me. I opened the door and found a book on the floor. Les Amitiés Particulières. It came with a note, handwritten and signed.

If every story has a place. Perhaps this story is yours. Louis.

I set it aside but kept the note. The boy was intriguing me more and more as the days went by. He was certainly more interesting than the other members of his family, which I was having the great displeasure of having to endure.

“This is not clean” Olivier Ducett explained, holding up a fork which had already been polished twice. “Do you see the streaks, boy? I do not eat with dirty cutlery. Re do it, please”.

Out by the pool, Mrs. Ducett was already drinking a glass of red wine. She seemed to prefer it to breakfast, but who was I to pass judgement?

“Have Louis come outside, will you?” She said, though I had no idea where she was looking, with her large, dark sunglasses. “He needs some air and the sunshine will do him wonders”.

“Is he sick?” I asked.

“All boys of his age are sick” she scoffed, and gulped. “Please don’t question me, just do as I ask”.

I held my tongue and returned to the Manor. I took the two flights of stairs, by the bathroom, swung a right and pushed open Louis’ door to find him sprawled on his bed, stroking his cock and squeezing his nipple. He leapt into the air, stumbled onto the floor, and covered himself with both hands as he gawped at me.

“Don’t you knock?!” He snarled, his cheeks rosy and his naked body dotted in beads of sweat.

“My apologies” I replied, straining to keep a straight face. “Your mother wants you to get some air”.

“I don’t need air!” He spat.

“Clearly” I replied, allowing my lip to curl. “Don’t keep her waiting, she seems off today”.

Louis remained standing. His smooth chest rose and fell rapidly until he calmed down, and then he dropped his hands, and my eyes slid down his body until they landed on his half-hard cock. The head was glistening with teenage excitement.

“Do you mind?” He asked, fingering his underpants into his hand, but making no effort to hide himself.

“No” I smiled, turning on my heel, “I don’t mind at all”.