I’m blissfully unaware that my face is caked in white crystals as I reply, smiling back. “Yes, I love eating snow. Always considered it a delicacy and you know what? Montgenèvre’s is the best I’ve ever tasted!”
I sit up and introduce myself.
“Salut. Je m’appelle Danni. Et toi?”
“Olivier,” he replies. “Je m’appelle Olivier.”
Rod pulls up in a flash kick-stop, spraying us with snow. “Are you alright, Mate?” he asks, with a modicum of concern.
“I’m fine, not even a bruise!” I hold out my arms. “Are you two going to help me up or what?”
Rod and Olivier take an arm each and hoist me to standing. I’m brushing off snow, about to ask Olivier what he was doing standing in the middle of the slope in the first place, when he says he has to go. I am in awe as I watch him speeding into the distance. Knees, feet and skis stuck like glue. I’m wondering if I could ever look like that when Rod playfully prods me, pushing me off balance, toppling me over in a heap. So I pull his leg hard until he too loses balance, falling like a domino on top of me. We laugh, each chucking a ball of snow at the other.
*****
When we get back to the Yeti after a full day’s skiing, Gina (the girl I’m going to be living with) and quite a few other people have arrived. I’m still struggling to find the person who it is that Gina reminds me of when she starts gently dragging me towards the door. “Come on Danni. Let’s go check out the nightlife for future reference. A bunch of us are going to the only bar that’s open in the resort at the moment.”
I reluctantly let myself be steered elsewhere and Rod follows behind. It’s a piano bar. When we enter, the pianist recognises our uniforms and interrupts his playing to cry: “Bon Soir, SFS, Bon Soir.”
I’m the odd one out, ordering vin chaud, a mulled wine. The rest of them have beer. A couple of hours’ boozing later the mood is merry, the air is smoky and the conversation’s deteriorated into lurid banter. It’s all spit and sawdust, a far cry from nights out in posh restaurants with Hugo. A far cry from watching challenging theatre with Hugo, from being encouraged to like opera with Hugo. This is another world, another time, another me.
I’m sandwiched between Gina and Lorraine, the lady who interviewed me. I remember her saying that she’d once been a rep in Montgenèvre. I turn to her, smile sheepishly, and raise my voice to that it can be hard above the raucous piano playing and chat.
“So Lorraine, who’s the talent here then? Any hot ski instructors?”
Even though I feel awkward asking my boss such a ridiculous question, she’s completely nonplussed and answers directly.
“Actually Danni, there are several attractive specimens here, but there’s one who’s particularly stand-out. I haven’t found a woman yet who doesn’t think so. The only problem is he’s apparently very happily married.”
“Who’s that then?”
“His name’s Olivier. Olivier du Pape.”
“Right,” I say. “I can’t wait to bump into him then.”
I don’t bother adding that perhaps I’ve
already
bumped into him, bumped being the understatement of the century. Besides, Olivier is a fairly common French name. The one I crashed into might not be ‘the’ one.
Exhaustion finally wins out. I admit to not being able to take the pace and say I’m heading back. Rod gets up, says he’s going to turn in too. As we walk out the door I groan that I’m too tired to even put one foot in front of the other and it’s all his fault for making me ski so hard all day, so he whoops me onto his back, jigging me all the way to Le Yeti. He jigs me all the way back to my room where he drops his load outside the door. He squeezes my shoulders.
“Thanks for a great day Denny.”
“Thank
you
for being such a great ski instructor.”
I take my key out, put it in the lock and step inside my room.
“G’nite then,” I say, smiling, before closing the door behind me.
Three days later, at 5pm, I jump at the unexpected catnap window of opportunity. I lie on my bed, alone, desperate for sleep to take me, but my body won’t play ball. My head is too full to drift off into slumber. It’s turning over every buddy-bonding exercise we’ve been put through in the last seventy-two hours. Buddy-bonding volleyball, buddy-bonding swimming races, compulsory 7am not in the slightest amusing run in the snow race and way too many drinks at the bar, with the token double espresso to help keep our eyes open. We’ve learned how to fill out insurance and expense forms, as well as how to make both us and SFS money on commission-making activities like torch-lit fondues. We’ve skied en masse for the first time and nobody even batted an eyelid at my inexpert technique.
Montgenèvre has a leisure centre which was where we were put through our paces. Rod and I were on the same winning volleyball side and in the same winning swimming team. He came first in the running race, whilst I came last, which goes to show that I’m a team player through and through. Rod sat next to me for the insurance lesson, the expenses lesson and the making commission lesson. He’s sat next to me on every chairlift, sticking so close to me that
Blue Peter
could probably use
us
instead of sticky-back-plastic. He’s buddy-bonded brilliantly with me in public, but there’s one thing he won’t do and it’s starting to get on my nerves. He doesn’t seem to want to make a move and I don’t understand why not. I sense that he’s attracted to me, and surely he must be able to sense that the feeling is mutual. There’s only four days left till he leaves.
*****
It’s post-dinner and as usual all the reps are propping up the bar, with the seasoned pros bragging about their latest gismos. Neil’s telling us about the pair of waterproof gloves he’s just bought, that have a special, handy nose-wipe patch. Wayne shows us his new mask made from the same material used for divers’ wetsuits – when he puts it on there are just tiny slits covering his eyes and even tinier holes for him to breathe through, but no matter that he’ll hardly be able to see anything when he’s skiing, because this thing will stop wind chill or whipping snow from numbing his cheeks and that’s what makes this a wonderful invention. Rod then pipes up that he’s got hold of some thermal underwear that keeps him warm at even minus fifty degrees.
Now, the temperature is unlikely to fall quite that low in Montgenèvre, because that kind of arctic freeze is normally reserved for the Poles or Siberia. But as a sufferer from cold extremities, I am genuinely interested in Rod’s undergarments. This, I decide, is my cue. I stand on my tiptoes, reach for his ear and am more brazenly forward than I ever deemed possible. “Your thermals sound intriguing,” I whisper.”
“I’m very happy to show you them,” he whispers back. “I’ll go to my room, give it five, check the coast is clear and then come up.”
I nod and he disappears. For a wicked moment I consider not going up at all, leaving him stewing in his room just for the fun of it. Then I decide that I might actually have more fun if I go
in
the room. A cool ten minutes later I pretend to need a wee, leave the group and head upstairs. I knock quietly on Rod’s door, my heart thumping. I feel like a nervous teenager. My last fling in an ‘off’ Hugo phase was at university, more than five years ago, so it’s been a while since I’ve been with somebody new. He opens the door ajar, makes sure nobody is around and then ushers me in.
“Hey Denny.”
“Hey Rod.”
“What took you so long?”
Ha, my delay tactic worked! I smile flirtatiously.
“Were you timing me?”
“No.”
There’s a slight pause.
“How weird,” I break the silence. “Do you realise this is the first time we’ve been alone since the day we got here?”
“I do and I also feel that there have been a lot of eyes watching us.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I think they’re wondering if there’s anything going on between us.”
“Then they’d be disappointed,” I say.
We’re standing in the middle of his room, pretty close, and for the first time he looks straight at me, quizzing my gaze, trying to work out what I’m thinking. I notice how dark his eyes are, a rich chocolate brown, which makes an alluringly contrast with his blonde hair. It gives him a coltish, less obvious look.
“What do you want Denny?”
Is that a fair question?
“I don’t know. What do
you
want?”
He steps in closer, runs his hands up and down my back and rests them on my waist. His proximity, the novelty of a new man’s touch, awakens my desire and sends a tingle shimmering through my body.
“Well, I think you’re gorgeous Denny, but we have only known each other for a few days. I don’t want to rush into anything.”
Perhaps they have a different code of practice down under. I may have been with Hugo for a very long time and I may be out of touch, but we’re two consenting not so young adults and this hardly feels like rushing into anything, although it’s kind of endearing that he wants to take things slow, especially for someone who looks quite as macho as he does. I’m not sure what to say, so I stifle a laugh and say nothing.
Hands still on my waist, he takes another step in, our faces impossibly close without touching. The size of his tall, broad, athletic frame dwarfs me, makes me feel gorgeously petite and feminine. I have a desperate urge to run my hands across the contours of his arms and am contemplating making the first move when he suddenly kisses me, deliciously warm, tasting of beer, deep, full and urgent. His style proves refreshingly physical. First we’re standing in the middle of the room, mouths meshed, frantically kissing, hands exploring over clothes, under clothes, over the clothes which are under the clothes. Then he lifts me and holds me up in the air. I try to daintily point my toes like a ballerina as I wrap my legs around him, but I’m not sure I manage to pull off much grace. Mouths still attached, he twirls me around, plonks me on a table, lifts my arms and removes my top, expertly unclipping my bra. I take off his T-shirt, all the while still kissing, all the while legs still wrapped around his, enjoying the sensation of his muscular torso brushing against mine. He gets restless with the stroking and groping and picks me up, twirls me around and pushes my back to the wall, where I feel his hardness through his jeans and feel more of a woman than I think I’ve ever felt in my life.
My legs still wrapped round his hips, he moves us from the wall, looking mischievous.
“What,” I catch my breath. “What does that look mean?”
“Mmmm,” he reflects, “I’m just wondering what to do with you.”
I’m thinking that I’m his, he is free to do whatever he likes with me, when he throws me down onto the top bunk bed. He undoes my zip, wriggles my jeans and panties off in one expert swoop, and stands there, surveying my nudity. I feel suddenly self-consciously naked, and am resisting the desperate urge to cover myself up, when he says, “Mmmm, I think I know
exactly
what to do with you,” before twiddling a dial on his divers watch.
“What on earth are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m preparing myself,” he jokes. “I’m going down.”
I’m wondering what on earth he’s going on about and then I realise and almost clap my legs shut in embarrassment. Talk about going from not wanting to rush things into the most intimate of acts. He runs his hands teasingly up the insides of my legs before burying his head between them. I’m about to object, embarrassed, new to this, Hugo never did this. But then his tongue starts gently flicking, lapping, circling my clitoris until I’m pulsing thick and hard and hot and it’s so damn divine that I succumb to his mouth, paralysed in sensational submission. Waves of heat and excitement come and go, at first less frequently but now more often, wave after wave of tingling pleasure that’s so divine I’m losing control. I moan, quietly clutching the headboard, until the wave gets so big I’m about to explode and then I do, with a burst and a shudder and a glorious shower of sensation. As he comes up for air my face wears a huge cheesy grin, like the cat that’s got the cream. The Hallelujah chorus is playing in my head.
*****
Now it’s his turn. I kiss him, tasting myself, and pull him up to lying beside me. His eyes close as I spend a long time running my hands teasingly, lightly, across his chest, his shoulders, up and down his arms, running my hands under him, up and down his back, his surfer’s body, his skin surprisingly soft. I flutter my fingers down to his stomach to his crotch, feel his hardness beneath, slowly, tantalising, opening his buttons one by one. He does the rest, removing his jeans and boxers in one masterful manoeuvre. Then I’ve got no idea where he’s looking, no idea what he’s thinking. No idea about anything, except for the fact that I’ve got to make sure I do
not
clap my hand over my mouth in shock. But that’s what I’d do if I thought that I could but I can’t and inside I’m screaming: “
Oh
!
My
!
God!
”
*****
I can’t believe this man is called Rod. Nobody will ever believe me, it will sound too made up to be true, but the man lying next to me has the biggest, the largest, the most exceptional penis.
I am in awe and am not convinced I will be able to accommodate him. I roll him onto his back and straddle him kneeling.
“Hang on a tick,” he interrupts proceedings.
I watch as he fiddles with his watch, releasing a
007
-like compartment at the back. As he pulls out a condom, you’d think I’d be thinking ‘where the hell does one buy a deep waterproof, cunnilingus indicator, contraception providing watch from?’ But I’m not. I’m just praying the condom comes in extra, extra large.
He places it on the tip, rolls it down his extensive shaft and I shuffle closer, rubbing up against him, the sheer size of it an aphrodisiac. Eventually, easily, he slides inside, filling me, reaching me in ways I didn’t think possible. Whoever said size doesn’t matter is lying, because this penis is hitting G, X, and Z spots I never knew I had. I arch my back as he strokes my breasts and my moans get progressively louder.
“Shush, Denny, the walls here are like paper. Do you want everyone to know what we’re up to?”
“I don’t know if I can help it,” I giggle. “You should be proud. I’m not normally this vocal.”
We get back to business and as Rod gets closer to climax and I make more and more noise and it’s tough, I can’t help it, let the whole damn world know. Pretty soon they quite possibly do because I scream and scream and scream until even he cries out “aaah” as he comes inside me.
*****
He rolls me over, hugging me.
“You are one hell of a sexy woman, you know that?”
I push my lips gently into his.
“You’re not that bad yourself, mister!”
I flop onto my back.
“I can’t believe I found the energy for all that,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so sleep deprived in my life!”
“I guess there are some things you can always find energy for,” he smiles, stroking my breasts again.
“By the way,” I remember. “You never did show me your thermals. I think you should get them out now and model them.”