I sat fuming at the restaurant table in Hôtel du Pont de Saint-Rémy de Maurienne. Snow battered the windows, blocking our path to the family chalet above Valloire. Opposite me, my mother-in-law Mauricette poked at her composed salad, her black almond eyes flashing annoyance. Christmas Eve, and here we were, delayed by blizzards, car pile-ups, and her endless chit-chat replacing the radio.
We’d left late after grabbing her forgotten bag, coffee delays, and Lyon traffic. GPS rerouted us through icy backroads in Isère and Savoie. Night fell hard near Chambéry. Maurienne’s entrance loomed, but Valloire was impossible. No way to sleep in the car with her in sub-zero temps. Called my old mate Florian, hotel owner. One room left under the eaves—big bed, no bath, just a sink.
The Stopover
She balked at sharing. ‘Not with my son-in-law!’ Fine, I’d take the floor, begged a sleeping bag. Florian seated us by the crackling fireplace. She sulked through dinner, face like a wet weekend. Service over, she stomped upstairs. I lingered with Florian, swapping stories over his homemade hooch till midnight. Buzzed, I climbed creaky stairs, keycard beeping the lock. Dim moonlight through slats. Stripped to boxers, unrolled the bag on cold boards.
‘Jérémie, don’t sleep there—you’ll catch death.’ Her voice soft. I slid under the thick duvet, rigid on the edge. ‘Goodnight, Mauricette.’ Snores answered. Then she pressed against me, tits firm on my back, habit from her husband. Uncomfortable, but sleep came.
The storm hit—thunder, lightning like bombs. She clutched my chest, nails digging. Foudre cracked nearby. Blackout. Then daylight, walls gone? No, dream haze. But reality blurred.
The Transit
She rolled me over in the dark, lips crashing mine. Hands yanked my boxers. ‘Storm always gets me wet,’ she growled. Her nightie hiked, no panties, bush thick against my thigh. Cock sprang hard, slapping her knee. She mounted, grinding frantic. Pubes scratched, cunt soaked. Tits heavy, nipples dark raspberries. I flipped her missionary, pounding raw. Slaps echoed off beams. She clawed my ass. ‘Jérémie! Fuck yes!’ Climax hit, flooding her.
Eyes open: her sweaty face, grinning. ‘Hope you don’t have AIDS.’ Real. No dream. We’d fucked like animals. Her pussy clenched my cum.
Morning awkward. She washed at the sink, ass plump, bush dripping suds. I dressed fast, erection twitching. Downstairs, Florian grinned: roads clear. Breakfast silent, eyes locked hungry.
Checked out, keycard surrendered. Suitcases thudded into the car. Silent drive to Valloire, hands brushing. Anonymity gone tomorrow, but that night burned. Best soup from old pots.