The name meant nothing, just something random to call his hard-on.  Paul had been feeling playful and after Charlette referred to it as<i>that thing</i>, Francois popped into his head.  More than likely, he got the name from the last hockey game he watched.  Some French-Canadian kid with that name deked the goalie left, then right, then buried the biscuit in the basket for a beautiful goal.  Soon, he was about to bury<i>his </i>biscuit into<i>her </i>basket.<br/><br/>Said basket was becoming creamier with each passing second.  Paul could tell due to Francois’s recon mission inside of her pajama shorts.  No doubt she was aroused, exactly like he was.  Just ask Francois.  As Charlette leaned into him, rubbing that ass against him clearly proved.<br/><br/>His eyes locked onto hers as she looked back at him, biting her lip while doing so.   Paul wondered if Charlette had any clue whatsoever how sexy she looked when she bit her lip.  The gesture (from her anyway) reminded him of a silent form of pleading.  In this moment, he knew exactly what she was pleading for.  And it wasn’t chocolate candy.<br/><br/>Instead, Francois positioned himself between her butt cheeks, and glided up and down, but not entering the Promised Land.  Not yet anyway.