Often, one does not identify the happiest day of one's life until after it is already over, or almost over. And this was no different.
I was a mess of nerves for days beforehand, wondering what to wear, how to avoid getting caught in an elaborate lie, and whether I would be able to make myself seem interesting to him for such a long period of time. In fact I was busy messaging the Clone that very morning debating how long it would be before he pulled over and asked me to get out of the van!
I pretended to go to work that morning, only to turn around halfway and come back home, where we had an hour or so to kill before the van was ready. Sadly I can no longer remember the details but I believe it ended with his come in my mouth.
That taken care of, we made our way to the Gare de Lyon, and the car rental place. Watching him at the desk, filling out the forms and dealing with the car rental people gave me an indescribable thrill. I felt privileged, to be a part of such a mundane activity, and yet at the same time a voyeur, witnessing aspects of his life which I had no right to see.
We sat down at the little cafe opposite for a coffee while we waited. We talked about holidays, he told me about his honeymoon. I was so jealous.
The van was ready, we went out to pick it up. It was smaller than I knew a van could be. But I knew I would be uncontrollably turned on to watch him drive it. In fact, I couldn't take my eyes off him, from his impatient fidgeting and tapping of the steering wheel as we inched past the street market at Daumesnil to his look of steely concentration on the open highway - even when I was writhing in my seat with his fingers in my pussy (though not so much with his cock in my mouth).
We must have tried every pit stop between Paris and Calais in our quest to find somewhere to consummate our love. But even the most secluded and promising spot would suddenly reveal a harried family picnic in progress, a somnolent trucker reclined behind the wheel, or a motorcycle gang passing jubilantly through.
Eventually we decided to satisfy a different sort of hunger, and stopped at a nondescript place offering sandwiches and french fries (and, I discovered inside, a buffet of hot food - but this was no time for gluttony!). He suspected the woman behind the counter might have taken it upon herself to toast a couple of jambon panini for us - indeed she had. Perhaps if I had been someone other than a finicky vegetarian we would have just had those. But he corrected her mistake and we had goat's cheese instead, as we discussed the convertible we had spotted in the parking lot outside, and the boring banker types who eventually returned to it. He commented on my delicate manner of eating - all an act for him, of course.
We got to Calais eventually, driving through crowded streets where he made me come on his fingers, to a parking lot in the centre of town. It was cold and windy, and there was no-one around, so he took me in the back of the van, bent over, in the dark, and then my shins rubbing against the dusty floor as I straddled him. I was worried about my stockings, until we discovered that I could rest my legs on his arms, and, in fact, he could use them to help rock me back and forth with his cock even deeper inside me.
We emerged cautiously for a stroll around town - a short stroll, for, as became apparent from the way he was hopping from foot to foot in front of a statue of King Edward, he needed to use a restroom, badly. (A circumstance which I found unutterably cute.)
And yet I can't remember exactly where we found this restroom - did we stop somewhere for a drink? I think perhaps we did - we must have - yet where, and what, escapes me.
Then followed a long, cold, windy walk to the beach, queried for directions by a couple, roughly the same age and ethnic make-up as us. (I wondered if this had predisposed them to us... and also if they noticed, and what they thought of, our passionate embrace under a bridge a few minutes later.)
We got to the beach, and it was just as a beach should be - cold, windy, deserted. But not deserted enough for him to take me, as I coyly proposed, in the narrow space between two changing cabins, for we could see a group of intrepid youngsters playing in the sand behind. So we kissed for a long time, but nothing could warm me, not even his amorous hands on my cold body, so eventually we were drawn to the relative shelter of a dismal snack bar, where we purchased two insipid waffles, liberally doused with candied sprinkles, which even I could not bring myself to consume.
Back in town, after a brief stop in the van, we found a nice place to have dinner, and freshen up. I returned to my seat, somewhat self-conscious under his gaze. "See?" he said. "How every man turns his head to look at you as you walk by?"
The day was ending. We drove out to the other part of Calais, where I would catch my train back to Paris, and parked outside the station for another interlude in the back of the van, where by now it was really completely dark, and I only knew he was coming when I felt his hot semen shoot into me, and then stream down my thighs as I lay there, utterly wasted.
However we still had some time to kill before my train, so we sat in the front necking until a car pulled up beside us - the police! They made us dismount and interrogated us. All this only added to the fun! But when we'd finally gotten rid of them we decided I had better check in, and he left me at the gare.
Sitting in the train, leafing through a magazine article on Jarvis Cocker, I was already crest-fallen. It had been one of the best days of my life, and it was over, and I knew nothing like it would ever happen again. He had fed me, and fucked me 'til my pussy felt like it was gaping open and dripping with come, and yet I felt a hollow emptiness, where he should have been, and wasn't.
