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mon cabanon et Rene
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mon cabanon et Rene  As a young woman, when I lived in France, I knew a much older man named Rene. He was a businessman who knew the artist with whom I was living, the photographer who lived a village away, the owner of a hotel in St. Tropez, so many others. Rene was a tall man with a broad frame, dark hair beginning to silver, a thick nose, eyes the color of the sea on a stormy day. He was deeply tanned, almost always without shoes, with long spatulate fingers that smelled of gauloises, sunshine. We swam together almost daily. His laughter was sonorous, rich. He ate with his fingers, feeding me bits of things I’d never dared try, laughing at my moue of disgust, licking grease off my lips. On the beach one day, a man was selling jewelry. Rene bought me a necklace but placed it round my belly instead, watching it slide up and down as I breathed. He sent my artist to Paris with his paintings to see a gallery owner. When I returned from the market that day, the women told me there was a message for me at the bar. Of course, they accompanied me, stood there as I opened the missive, observing me carefully. The note was in English, how disappointed they were, straggling off. That night, I stood outside my cabanon, no lamps lit within. I never heard his approach. I felt his breath on my neck, his fingers twisting into my long curls, the pressure and sting on my scalp as he pulled my head back, his other hand roaming my body, spreading my legs, lifting an arm, sniffing my skin. I knew it was my choice. Nothing would happen or everything could. To feel such power is a heady thing. I was unsteady as His hands released me. I turned, taking a step back. In the dark, I was still able to see him perfectly, his body relaxed, yet somehow poised, ready. I pulled my camisole off, stepped out of my skirt, pushing it aside. He watched me, eyes hooded, unmoving. Not knowing if this would be the moment when he would turn away, I went to my knees in front of him. His hand, a benediction, on my hair. “Ah, tu comprends. Merci ma petite soumise.” And so we began our week. I knew nothing about bdsm. He knew everything. I learned the basic positions; more because he enjoyed protocol, than because they played a major part in our time together. Also because he adored the female form and the positions show it such good advantage. When I knew it was time for Him to arrive I would kneel, back straight, knees spread, my bottom resting on my heels. He preferred a modified position. Not one with my hands palm up on my thighs He preferred my hands behind my neck so my breasts rose up, the rest was the same, head slightly lowered so my eyes were looking downward.. He would tip my face up by my chin, always with a compliment, a smile, hold out his large hand, for my small one once inspection was complete, lift me to my feet. Did I mention I was naked? I was always naked when He was with me. Sometimes we ate together at restaurants, sometimes he would take me to parties. He chose my public outfits carefully, my body always accessible to Him. But mostly, mostly we spent hours in the cabanon….the heat intense. There, the lessons were part of the warp and weave of the day. The slightest pressure on my shoulders sent me to my knees. A hand at the base of my spine adjusted my body’s curvature. He could read me, knew when I was too far out, when I drifted, when I was on the cusp. If my words were gone, He read my body, my eyes, my breath, like a maestro, blending everything together, from cacophony to cohesion, building to the crescendo. My safe word was cadeau. I never used it. After, He would wrap me in his arms like a tiny beloved thing, soothe me, allowing me time to return, His voice never stopping, a sort of constant call to home. When I finally moved, his laughter would fill the room, while I grinned up at him. Then, if I was lucky and there was more time to be had, we would talk. Stories of submission, of Dominance, question after question always probing to see what it was that I wanted, needed. I whispered things to him that I had never said to anyone, his smile a sonstant reassurance. He never once made me feel anything but beautiful, desired, womanly. Over time, I sent a friend to Him; she stayed with Him for two years. His Jean Baptiste came to stay with me for a summer. We danced in rain puddles, sat up until dawn talking. He was his mother’s . I saw Rene four more times before he died. The last time I saw Him, he was nearly crippled with RA, his hands gnarled, in pain. I was in first position when he entered my apartment. His eyes scanned quickly, he used his cane to spread my knees further apart. I was a puddle on the floor when he left. You cannot conceive the many without the one. |
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France would have been a beautiful part of the world to grow up Wicked. ty for sharing this beautiful and very interesting part of your life as well. You did meet a very remarkable man as well. Giving you an insight into this different world. hugssssssssss V Become a blog watcher sweet_vm
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[image] cabanons are set outside of the main village. they have no running water, no electricity, mine had only one door and two windows. it was made of stone with a red tile roof and it had a tree much like this one. the heat of the sun would make it so hot inside that all doors and windows were always open in the summer. often birds would fly in and out, even nest inside. You cannot conceive the many without the one.
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WE Thank You  Visit my Blog Older but no Wiser and find out more
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So evocative. What a lovely read.
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Beautiful
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Ah, yes. A master is forever.
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Normally when I open your blog I worry that I'm not going to get it - what it's about or even what decade it's set in. But this post is absolutely brilliant - it's timeless but open to all sorts of interpretation. I think you're a brilliant writer.  
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Wonderfully written. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish. ~~ from Antony & Cleopatra
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You were lucky to find someone to give you what you needed. Vive La Difference
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What an amazing experience. The writing style made it all come alive.. I had to read it three different times so I would not miss any of the emotions. Thanks WE (Virtual Symposium Group) use Virtual Symposium Group
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Great writing thanks
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Extraordinary man: extraordinary experience, extraordinarily formative. To have such a well of memories to return to, to draw from, is a treasure. Wonderfully written, the essence of that time so nicely conveyed.
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