5 comments/ 53177 views/ 3 favorites French Connection By: PKing "That's it! No more U-turns until you work out exactly where the hell we are" I said slamming on the brakes and stopping by a small farm building. "It's not my fault" said Sarah angrily "if you slowed down a little instead of driving like a maniac I might stand some chance of reading the bloody map." I looked across the road at a herd of cows sheltering in the shade and sighed, "perhaps if you turned it the right way up so you could read the place names I wouldn't have to slow down." "Look, if you think you can do any better help yourself" she said flinging the map on my lap and folding her arms. "Oh for Christ's sake! How the hell do you expect me to map read and drive at the same time" I fumed looking at the car clock "at this rate we're going to arrive too late for dinner." We left the channel port of Calais that morning. Breezing down the slip road onto the autoroute south with the top down on our sports car in anticipation of two carefree weeks in Italy seemed a distant memory now. This was to be our first decent holiday since getting married 18 months earlier and we had been looking forward to it for weeks. Now we were hopelessly lost somewhere in the Alsace mountains with the whole of France gripped in a cruel heat wave. When the air temperature reaches the point where a breeze no longer cools then an open car without air conditioning becomes a liability rather than an asset. I pulled the roof up to get some relief from the sun and studied the map.... We decided to call it a day and stopped in a small village high on the slopes of a minor pass. By now we were hardly talking. The hotel was basic without dining facilities and the room had no air conditioning. I opened the shutters slightly to let in some daylight but protect us from the still furnace-like glare of the suns rays. Sarah peeled of her sweat soaked clothes without ceremony and headed for the shower while I unpacked some overnight gear. Sarah's French is very good (mine is nearly non-existent) and had found out from the hotel manager that there was a small restaurant within walking distance in the village so at least we would eat. By the time I got out of the shower Sarah was sitting at the end of the bed painting her toenails. She was wearing a very short yellow print sundress with thin shoulder straps. She looked very beautiful, her golden blond hair falling over her shoulders her face set firmly in concentration. "Do you have to do that now?" I said "we are late for dinner already." "Unless you are going out like that" she said sarcastically without looking up "you're not ready yourself." As I walked past her, one leg was drawn up exposing her abundant freshly washed pubic curls. "You should wear underwear with that dress," I said. "I'll wear what I want" she said defiantly "I'm a big girl now and I don't need you to tell me what to do." We walked down through the narrow streets in silence. Sarah had been given directions to the restaurant and to my great amusement and her fury she had got us lost again. Despite the fact that the sun had set it was still appallingly hot. The walls of the buildings radiated the heat of the day and I was sticky with sweat just walking slowly downhill. Finally, after taking a 'short-cut' across some open ground, we found the tiny restaurant, which to our despair, was full. Fortunately the waiter took pity on us and persuaded a couple to share their balcony table with us. Pierre and Catherine introduced themselves and we thanked them for their generosity. Pierre spoke in English some of the time but Catherine only spoke French. They had just started their first course and seemed to be in convivial mood. Sarah brightened up immediately and started conversing in French without bothering to translate leaving me to sit there like a lemon staring at the view. We ordered and I slowly wormed my way into the conversation by asking questions that Sarah translated for me. Pierre and Catherine were on a walking holiday and were staying in rented accommodation in the village. They lived in Paris and had only arrived that afternoon. Apparently it was so hot that several people across the country had died from heat exhaustion. I estimated Pierre was a few years older than us, a muscular man, with curly black hair, sharp dark eyes and a wide amiable grin. He wore shorts and open neck shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms displaying a good deal of body hair. He had the relaxed air of someone completely at ease with himself. Catherine was more our age - mid 20's. She was slender to the point of being thin with long dark hair and smooth pale skin. Her eyes too, had dark pupils but they sparkled with life in the candlelight. Her face had angular features that defied categorisation. I imagined that artists would love to have her pose for them as an interesting beauty. When she spoke it was quiet, polite and sparing never interrupting and always interesting. She wore a striped sleeveless top revealing long slender arms and a plain skirt. As the evening progressed, Pierre introduced us to Eau de Vie, a strong clear spirit, available in a variety of flavours, most of which we drank, together with some extremely pungent cheese. Sarah became quite drunk talking animatedly with Pierre and paying little attention to me. Catherine would occasionally try to include me in the conversation by speaking in broken English but it was clear to me that Sarah was punishing me for our earlier row. The restaurant was closing so we paid the bill and Pierre suggested to Sarah that we walk back to their place for a nightcap. As we walked up through the village Sarah openly flirted with Pierre, laughing at the occasional joke then leaning on his shoulder for support. Catherine and I walked a few paces behind in silence. The heat was still oppressive, hanging like a blanket with little or no breeze. The effort of climbing up the hill was exhausting and I could see patches of Sarah's dress sticking to her as she walked ahead. Sarah tripped on the cobblestones, swore, and hopped over to some nearby stairs to remove her sandal. She sat down and raised her injured foot, resting it on her knee, to inspect the damage. It was obvious despite the dim streetlights that Pierre, who was standing directly in front of her, was getting a grandstand view of her bare crutch. Pierre said something in French and Sarah giggled saying in French something about it being too hot. Unhurriedly she uncrossed her legs and, accepting Pierre's hand, stood upright and carried on walking leaning against him for support. The house, on the edge of the village, was typically French, set on a grassy mound with a garage underneath the main living area and steps up to the front door. The living room was baking hot and stuffy. Catherine immediately opened the patio doors that led onto a wooden deck and turned on the outside lights. Pierre handed out glasses of Calvados. "It's too hot" Pierre said in English "it is a pity we do not have a pool." "How could we swim anyway without costumes?" Sarah grinned, "you must understand we English are very modest!" "Yes, I have seen this modesty" Pierre said straight-faced. Sarah smiled "It's too hot in here I feel like I'm melting". She said standing up and walking out on to the deck. "You can see the whole village," she said leaning against the handrail "you could spy on everyone from here." "Yes, and everyone can spy on us" Pierre said joining her "You see that mountain over there" he said putting an arm around her waist and pointing into the darkness "that is where we will walk tomorrow." Sarah glanced back to where I was sitting. There must have been cold fury in my eyes but she just smiled sweetly and looked back to where Pierre had pointed. Catherine came and sat beside me. "She is teasing you" she said quietly "are you not jealous?" "Are you?" I said looking her in the eye. "Oh no" she said cheerfully "why should I - he is my err brother." My mouth went dry before I could speak and Catherine giggled resting her hand lightly on my forearm. "I am sorry" she said, "You look so funny!" I turned away and looked at Sarah. Pierre was talking in a low voice in French. Sarah laughed at what he was saying as his hand dropped down to squeeze her bottom through the thin material clinging to her body. Sarah again glanced in my direction to see if I was watching. My heart was beating like a drum! I was subconsciously relying on Catherine to intervene if things went too far. I felt trapped. After our row there was no way I wanted to act the jealous husband. Perhaps Sarah was relying on Catherine as well? "Do you think Pierre and Catherine look alike for brother and sister?" I said clumsily. "Oh yes" Sarah smiled "I think they are very much alike - they make a handsome couple" she mocked turning back to Pierre. Their heads were inches apart as they talked in low voices. Pierre slipped a finger below her hem and lifted it slightly so he could touch the bare flesh at the top of her leg. Sarah straightened imperceptibly as if she wasn't expecting it but kept smiling and talking. I stood up and went to the toilet to organise my thoughts while sluicing cold water over my face. When I got back Pierre had slipped his hand under Sarah's dress and was gently stroking the exposed flesh at the base of her bottom. Pierre said something and Sarah spoke without turning her head "Pierre wants to know if you mind him touching me". "It's not my arse," I said grumpily. "Well" she said softly "what would you have me do then?" "You're a big girl now, remember" I said icily "I don't tell you what to do anymore." Sarah's expression changed fleetingly as the implications of what I had said sunk in. She was on her own. Keeping his eyes on her the whole time Pierre stepped between Sarah and the handrail raised the back of her dress to her hips and placed a hand on each cheek of her bum. "I think he understood your answer," said Sarah a little shakily. I watched, transfixed, as this stranger proceeded to caress Sarah's bare arse. Catherine whispered in my ear and made me jump "I think she wants you to rescue her." "Why? She seams to be having so much fun," I said coldly. "OK" she said brightly "I like to watch!" "Turn around" Pierre said in English. Sarah hesitated then slowly turned her back to him to face Catherine and me. As she turned his hands slid round her raising her dress at the front and coming to a stop on her hips. She was now naked from the waist down. She looked straight at me and said, "That's much cooler Pierre, thank you". "But I think you are still hot," said Pierre sliding one hand down from her hip across her belly and pushing his out-stretched fingers through her pubic hair. "Yes, I can feel the heat just here" he said curling his middle finger and pressing it into her. She gave a little gasp and said something in French, not for the first time, a flash of concern on her face. Pierre whispered in her ear, glanced up at me then nibbled her neck all the time gently stroking her with his middle finger. Sarah's labia parted making it easy for his finger to delve deeper inside her. She leant back against him with her head to one side giving him access to her neck. He must have found her clitoris as her legs gave way momentarily but she straightened and parted them wide to aid his access still further. By now she was breathing heavily, her eyes staring ahead unfocussed. "Do you want this to happen?" she breathed. "I told you, it's up to you, not me. You have control, not me" I said shifting to accommodate my growing erection. "Don't you care?" she said irritated. "Don't you?" I said throwing it back at her. Sarah was clearly very aroused by now. Pierre's finger was glistening wet as it slid smoothly in and out. Suddenly he stopped, quickly pulled off his shorts revealing a huge erection and pulled his shirt over his head. "Now you can see I too am very hot". He said turning Sarah towards him. He took her hands and placed them on his cock. She looked at it in wonder then gently, tentatively explored. "It's very beautiful," she said running one hand down its length and fondling his tight ball sack. "They are just like people, she said vacantly "they are all different." Her attitude stiffened and she said something in French. Pierre lay down on the floor of the deck with his head towards us and Sarah went down on all fours above him. Pierre rested his hands on her hips as slowly she lowered herself down until her cunt gently touched the tip of his cock. She swung her head up and looked directly into my eyes and mouthed "Please?" We stared at each other for a long time. Slowly I nodded. She smiled at me and pursed her lips in a kiss. Sarah knelt upright, reached down with both hands, grabbed Pierre's cock and started rubbing the tip against her sweet spot by rocking her hips back and forth. It didn't take long. She screwed up her face and moaned "oh, OH! Aarrgh oh OH! Increasing the speed until she yelled so loud I thought she would wake the whole village. As she came down from her climax a little, Pierre said something in French. "No I won't take my dress off, that is for my husband," she said looking at me. Her hair was stuck to her forehead, her face red and perspiration was glistening on her arms and legs. "Now it's your turn" she said looking down at Pierre. Very slowly she sank onto his cock, swallowing it an inch at a time until their pubic hair mashed together. I heard a noise next to me and turned to see Catherine with her skirt pulled up and her hand pressed under her small pink knickers rubbing herself, Her eyes met mine briefly then returned to the scene on the deck outside. Without looking she reached across to my hand and pulled it to her pushing it under her knickers. "This is so sexy" she breathed. While I brought Catherine relief with my hand I watched Sarah lifting almost completely off Pierre then moving down a little then up, teasing him. Finally she plunged down all the way and he groaned. She lent forward placing both palms on his hairy chest and started pumping up and down, sometimes full strokes sometimes not, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Pierre was ready to explode so she sank onto him and stopped moving for a few seconds while regained his composure. She lifted off fully exposing his shining tool hesitating at the top then plunged all the way down. Slowly she increased the rhythm. Pierre couldn't take anymore and roared as he let go. Sarah took in his full length as he pumped into her, then lifted up again, sank down and ground her pubic mound into him rocking back and forth sending herself over the edge for a second time. Catherine was much more discreet, she pushed my fingers hard against her sweet spot and threw her head from side to side whimpering as she bucked uncontrollably against my hand. Sarah lent forward kissed Pierre on the forehead and said "Merci Monsieur." Lifting up gently she disengaged herself and stood up pulling her dress down. She walked unsteadily towards me bent over and cupped my face in both hands. "Thank you" she said and kissed me on the lips. She glanced sideways; my hand was still in the front of Catherine's knickers. "Come-on" she said, "I think we have outstayed our welcome". We never saw Pierre or Catherine again. French Connection When I was in college, my younger sister took a year abroad with a host family in Nantes, France. She got on well with them, and my parents and I were invited to join them for the Christmas holidays. We, never having visited France before, decided to junk the usual holiday traditions and go. And so began what proved to be a coming of age experience such as I had never imagined. It was not that I was completely naïve (those few relevant experiences comprised at the time of two rather forgettable groanings in the back seat of an '88 Chevette and a few drunken mutual gropings in darkened dormitory beds). It is simply that I had not encountered a woman like Etoile before. She caught my eye directly when I stepped onto the train platform in Nantes and I had that catch-breath feeling of connection and desire, a bolt from the blue. Her hair was a shining black, blowing about her face and the high collar of her dark overcoat. Her hand clasped her coat closed, but there was an alluring triangle of pearly-white skin visible below her neckscarf and between the V of her collars, revealing the first rise of her firm, swelling breasts. But it was the eyes that did it, dark and sparkling. Imagine my surprise when I saw my sister next to her and realized that this was the mother in the family we were visiting! Her name means star in French, and while we fussed with bags and made our greetings, my mind kept recalling a line of verse from a long-lost French author La nuit est noire, mais la lune et les etoiles brillent (The night is black, but the moon and the stars shine through) She kissed me on both cheeks, and her breath was warm. She smelled wonderful, like lavender in the evening, but not quite. It was more like a flower I had not discovered but now desperately needed to search out. I was enthralled, starry-eyed for a moment, and then I turned and her husband, according to his tradition, shook my hand and kissed me on both cheeks, causing me further befuddlement and feelings of weirdness. Cheeks or no, I'd never been kissed by a man before, and I wasn't feeling that European yet. They were wonderful hosts. The husband was a local judge, much older that Etoile, and though his name was Jacques, I took to thinking of him as The Barrister, as that was the title on the door of his home office. He was a tall lanky man, and he cooked the Christmas dinner himself, bounding around their home in a chef's hat that nearly grazed the ceilings. Now Christmas dinner in France is something altogether different from the load-up-the-table-and-eat experience I was accustomed to. I lost track of the number of courses around seven. From the start of the hot hors d'oeuvres to the last glass of port, we were eating for more than five hours, and the sun had set. As the coffee and chocolates helped rouse us all from our slumberous states, the music began in the great room. French folk music with a strong beat and vigorous men's voices boomed from the speakers in the room and the guests began to dance. I sat at the side, talking with one of the grandfathers, who had taken a shine to me because I was the only one of the family who spoke passable French, and he wanted to find out about the strange customs of the far-away city of San Francisco, among others. I felt the touch on my shoulder and looked up, and there was Etoile, cheeks glowing and eyes shining, slightly out of breath from dancing with her daughter. She held my eye as she held out her hand, and when I hesitated, she glanced away, then back, and then she winked at me. C'mon. I stood, and put my hand at her back. She smelled still of some exotic midnight flower, and we began to jig around with the others to the rushing beat of the song. She was all eyes and smiles, glimmer and sparkle. I pretended not to notice. The song finished and then began the first slow number of the night, and I had a moment of panic but she would not let go my hand, and so I pulled her closer and began to dance. I could feel the heat of her body through the light material of her blue print dress. Her skin was perfect, and the few lines at the corner of her eyes were all that belied her age. She breathed into my ear, "Ahh, si j'avais encore dix-huit ans." (Ah, if only I were eighteen again.) My French was good enough to understand that, and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up as a jolt of electricity ran down my spine and out to the tips of my fingers. "Oui," I stammered, and though she couldn't have been more than in her mid-thirties, still I had never found myself attracted to someone more than a year or two older than myself. She nustled closer to me, and I felt her soft breasts now pressed into my chest, through my shirt. Despite myself, I felt a hardening in my pants. I looked around, and the rest of the scene was unchanged, oblivious: the barrister twirling his daughter, the grandfather tapping his foot and smiling, my own parents foxtrotting gallantly and looking rather redfaced from the wine. No one cut in, no one stopped the music, and I was left dancing close with this immaculate and miraculous woman. Her own cheeks were flushed, and she was writhing slowly, pressing harder when she pressed, and yet maintaining the veneer of the discrete dancing of the others. Trouble was brewing, as I was amassing a full-blown erection despite telling myself no, to stop, that this was crazy and dangerous and that I was going to find myself with one pissed-off middle-aged French husband in a few seconds if I didn't get this situation back in its box. I guess it is worth at this point mentioning that I happen to have a large penis. There, that's out of the way. And we can go on with the story. It was wearing fancy Christmas slacks, pleats in the front, and when I spun her around I glanced down and saw that I was pitching a more-than noticeable tent, if you catch my drift. I reached down to try and free myself, inconspicuously, and hoped to press my cock up against my abdomen, even tuck the tip under my belt if I could so it wouldn't stick out away from me. And just as I was about to, she finished her pirouette under my hand and pretending for an instant to lose her bearings, flung her body stomach to stomach against mine. I felt her press hard on my erection. The pressure freed it and pressed it up against my stomach, but I knew she felt it. It must have caught her in the left hip or something, and now I blushed, feeling my face hot and my fingers cold. She remained pressed against me for a moment, and she ground her hip into my now throbbing, embarrassingly large erection, and as she did it, she looked into my eyes. She raised her eyebrows and then leaned forward again and said, "Mon Dieu, vous etes tout d'un homme." (My God, you are all of a man and then some.) And then, thankfully, the song came to an end. I bowed and made the quickest exit I could for the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and stared into my own face in the mirror. "You better get a hold of yourself," I said to myself, somewhat in disbelief, but I couldn't help the shit-eating grin. "You fucking stud, you," I said, trying on a different tact. It had taken a moment to sink it. I tried to do something with my erection, but at nineteen years old, after an experience like that, it's fruitless. I thought I'd have the erection until a week into the new year. I unzipped my pants and flexed once, feeling a tingle then a warmth and still amazed at that age at the size of my own member. I supposed it had stopped growing, but wasn't sure. I buckled up and grabbed my suitcoat from a chair when I walked back into the room. Stepping out onto the deck, I looked out over the snowy hills and moonlit trees, breathing in the cold night air and hoping that this would have some effect so that I could return to the party without my police billyclub proceeding me for everyone to see. What happened later than night I suppose I brought on myself. I don't know why I did it; I didn't know what I was doing, but I did it anyway. You see, as the party broke up and I headed to the stairs, just then when she said goodnight and I said goodnight back, I winked at her. The faintest curl of a smile formed at the corners of her mouth, as she looked down quickly and turned away. It was a towering house, and my room was on the fourth floor under the eaves. I had just crawled into bed when I heard it. A soft knock at the door. I was up and opening it before I could catch my thoughts. There was Etoile, in her nightgown and robe, a stack of towels in her hand. "Etoile," I said, surprised. She held the towels up a bit, saying, "Avez-vous besoin?" (Do you need some...?) but the phrase died on her lips and the real question was blazing in her eyes. We held the tension of the moment between us for a long instant, and then I relaxed my shoulders and opened the door a bit wider, and suddenly she was through and her hot kisses were covering my mouth, my cheeks, my now-closed eyes. She pulled back, the towels cast upon the floor, and pressed a finger to her lips. Then she shut the door, and took the back of my head in her hands gently and began kissing me deeply. I kissed her back, terrified and yet elated, standing in my boxers, feeling my very much alive. I was erect in an instant, and as she felt my cock brush by her as it rose up in its arc, she murmered "ooh la," and reached a hand down softly to caress me through my shorts. Her hand was now rubbing, firming its grip, and she moved to bite my ear, gently, and then whisper. "Vite, vite. Oh, j'en suis desolee, mais tres vite...en silence," she breathed (quickly, quickly. Oh I am sorry but we must be swift and silent.), and as she did so I nodded and began to pull the robe from her shoulders. She pulled back and stopped my hands. Then she unlaced her robe and dropped it, and then pulled open the knotted string at the top of her nightgown and slip that down. In the cascading moonlight, her breasts stood round and soft, the nipples dark and jutting, and I just about passed out from the shock and candor of her ease of undress. She wore dark, high-cut panties, and when I came to my senses, I reached for them, but she grabbed my hand and brought it to her mouth. She drew one of my fingers into her mouth, then a second, and then she plunged her mouth down and sucked hard at them up to my knuckles, and I though for an instant I would come right there, standing up on the floor. But no, that would happen soon enough... "Mon cher," she said, and then something rapid in French that I did not catch that was some kind of explanation or instruction, and I stood there waiting, until she put her hand on my shoulder and pressed down, and I sat on the edge of the bed. Then she knelt, for all the world like something out of a movie for the deliberateness and lack of nervousness of her actions, slipping off my shorts and standing my cock straight up to it full height. "Ah, c'est vrai," she said (it's true!), and then a few other words I couldn't make out, but they seemed to be words of wonder and appreciation judging by the flash of the whites of her eyes in the moonlight. She gently wrapped one hand around the base of my cock, tender from its long-suffering erections of the night, and then wrapped her other hand around the shaft on top of the first, and still the head of my manhood was visible. I'm not one for rulers and yardsticks, so let's just say it's a two-fister, and then a bit. She kissed the tip, and then, taking it into her mouth, raked her teeth firmly across the top. Fireworks went off in my brain. "Shhhh," she said, looking up, and then returning with gusto to the task at hand, she removed her top hand and took me long and hot, deep into her mouth, so that her lips kissed the top of the hand at the base of my now-throbbing thunderstick. God, but she was strong! I felt I was ready to come almost before I knew what was happening. She was pumping, pumping, her raven hair shining in the moonlight, her generous mouth taking in more and more, deeper and more lustily by far than those few timorous girls I had to date known, and I clenched my jaw as I felt that unique seized-up feeling in my balls that meant it was close, so very close. She came up for air with a gasp, and said again, "C'est formidable!" (It's fantastic!) and then, seeing the expression on my face, she cooed, realizing how close I was. She then licked the first two fingers of each hand and grasped me gently, beginning to stroke. I was unsure if she wanted me to come on her or not, but it was all going to be out of my hands in a few more strokes. Then she bent down again, pushing my knees apart and pushing my chest so I lay down on my back. She climbed up onto the edge of the bed to better manage the angle, and began again with great deep strokes, and I arched my back, balling the covers into great fistfuls with my hands, and just as I did so, well, there's no other way to say it: she put her finger up my ass. This being a first for me, I was terrified, it felt strange and cold yet she squeezed my cock more firmly and in my nervousness I completely lost control, shooting grand hot bursts of cum into her mouth, while she swallowed and wiggled her finger and held me steady with her other hand. It was an otherworldly orgasm, and my hands tingled with loss of feeling, a pins and needles that went all the way up my arms into my chest. When I finished convulsing -- worrying with more concern that I would have liked whether this meant I was partly gay or depraved or some such thing that I had never considered -- she removed her hands and mouth and quickly stood and grasped a towel. I pulled myself up on my elbows, massively swollen member now lying glistening in the moonlight against my body, while she hurriedly pulled on her nightgown. "Adieu, mon petit chouchou," she whispered (Goodbye, my little pet), and then turned to go. At the door, she looked back one more time, and though the moonlight shadows made her face hard to see, I am pretty sure that just before she closed the door, she winked. French Connections This story is based on reluctance and coercion in an interracial lesbian setting. It's fantasy, for the enjoyment of people who take pleasure in such themes. But if this type of storyline is not for you, thank you for stopping by but please pass on. Chapter 1 My moans urged Pierre on as he thrust down into me. This was the first time my husband had fucked me in our new home and with the moonlight peeping in through the partially open curtains, it was even more of a thrill than I'd anticipated. What twenty-five year old girl wouldn't be turned on by fucking in a four poster bed in a French mansion? Pierre had lived there for several years and now it was my home, too. He grunted as I wrapped my feet around his heavily sweating back. With an affectionate growl, I dug my heels into his ass and pushed him even deeper inside me. Suddenly the air was full of expletives. Pierre couldn't hold back his language during moments of extreme passion and it never failed to increase my arousal. Was there a sexier language than French? It was that accent that had first attracted me to him. We'd been making love for well over half an hour and sweat was dropping from his forehead onto my body. Despite the twenty year difference in our ages, his stamina matched mine. I closed my eyes, momentarily reflecting on how good life was. Everything had happened so quickly. We'd only met six months ago and now I was his wife. It had been a whirlwind courtship, carried out across Europe while he pursued his goodwill Ambassadorial duties for the French government and I carried out my modelling commitments. We'd managed to spend most of that time in one another's company, apart from one weekend when he was delayed in Zurich while was on various catwalk's in Milan. Pierre was panting hard now, a sure-fire indication he was closing in on his orgasm. "Let me on top, darling," I told him, wanting him to last just a little longer. I slid from underneath him, manoeuvring our positions so that I could settle on his lap. His eyes went to my freckled breasts and I shook them at him before bending forward to allow him to suckle each erect nipple in turn. That always made me cream. If I sheathed him again he'd cum almost immediately and I wasn't ready for that. Before he could react I shuffled my body upwards, leaving a damp trail of juices across his stomach and chest as I slid my sex towards his face. "Just for a few moments, Pierre," I told him. He needed his orgasm but I wanted satisfaction first and with my knees clamped over his arms, he had no way out. An Irish girl at University loved bringing me to orgasm this way and while that was a few years ago now, how could I forget? Marie O'Flanagan had been eighteen then, the same age that Pierre's daughter was now. I hadn't seen Françoise since the wedding. The eighteen year old was as beautiful as her father was handsome and we got on well together, thank God. It would be early tomorrow morning when she arrived with a friend of hers to spend a long weekend with her father and I. That had given us tonight alone to enjoy ourselves. Pierre was not only a good lover, he was charismatic, wealthy, and had already taught me much about the finer things in life. We were a perfect match. I clamped my thighs around his head, gripping his hair with one hand and encouraging his mouth to my sex. The French had a real talent for cunninglingus. When he stretched his neck upwards and ran his tongue across my clean-shaven opening, I shuddered. "Yes, darling, like that," I moaned, grinding down onto his Gallic lips. "Just like that..." His arms curled under my thighs, holding me in position as I began to gyrate. He knew how wild this position made me and I began to growl as I rode his face. As he sucked my clit between his lips I leant backwards, resting one hand on the bed and circling his thick girth behind me with the other. I wanted him hard for when the time came. Just as it had always done under the oral ministrations of the red-haired Marie O'Flanagan, my orgasm quickly sprinted through me. I always came harder this way and I waited until Pierre's experienced mouth had sucked up my juices before slithering back down his body, scraping my breasts and hard nipples along his sweaty chest. "Such a good boy," I whispered, sheathing him and jerking down on his hardness. "Now it's your turn..." * Pierre was already out of bed, conversing in French on the telephone as he paced the bedroom floor. There was some problem in Brussels and his advice was being sought. I slipped the cream silk robe around my naked body and left him to it, sauntering out onto the large balcony and allowing the warm morning sunshine to hit my face. This was my new home and I breathed in the glorious French air as I rested against the stone balcony rail. The view across the grounds was stunning, a series of rolling hills with not another building to interrupt the vista. Could life get any better? A noise from below caught my attention and I leaned forward to gain a better view. Two young women were stretched out on the sun beds beside the large outdoor swimming pool. The curly haired black girl in the red bikini had a voluptuous body but it was the honey tanned white girl I recognised instantly. The short cut blonde hair was unmistakeable, as was the slender athletic body on display in the skimpy gold bikini. I'd suggested to Pierre that she could easily make her way in the modelling world and I'd already sounded out a couple of photographers. Ever the pragmatist, he wanted her education completed first. The two of them were casually spread out on their sun beds, chatting, when suddenly the black girl pushed up into a sitting position. As she reached for the bottle of sun tan oil her full breasts bounced tantalisingly inside the loose confines of the bikini top. I felt my nipples rise in approval. I hadn't been into girls since Marie O'Flanagan, but my reaction during Fashion shoots confirmed I could still appreciate the female form. Some of the other models had stunning figures but none of them quite like this one. With a frustrated sigh, I began to turn away and chastise myself, but I caught further movement out of the corner of my eye. Françoise's young friend had handed the bottle to her and was casually unhooking her bikini top. I quickly turned back, an unwanted voyeur. Her naked breasts—surmounted on their crests with chocolate, almost perfectly circular nipples—defied gravity as they thrust proudly from her young body. A pool of appreciation formed between my thighs. Pierre's voice made me jump. The thought of being caught watching his daughter and her friend flooded my body with guilt and I began to swing away before I realised he was simply informing me he was about to take a shower. The warning should have been sufficient for me to return to the bedroom but as I heard the en-suite door close I was unable to prevent my gaze from glancing downwards again. Both girls had changed position. The black girl, still topless, lay back on the sun bed, both hands behind her head. Françoise was kneeling beside her, holding the bottle of sun oil over her stomach and allowing the dark liquid to trickle slowly downwards onto that ebony coloured flesh. There was something intensely sensual about the scene. When a small pool had formed on the girl's skin, Françoise began to work the oil across the glistening skin of that flat teenage stomach. I imagined the young girl's eyes were closed but beneath the dark sunglasses it wasn't easy to tell. It occurred to me that if she looked upwards it would be impossible to miss my head craning over the balcony and I leant back a little and checked behind me. Pierre couldn't to return to the bedroom without my hearing the en-suite door open but even so, my voyeuring guilt made me nervous. There was a definite sensuality to watching one woman oil another and when Françoise's hands rose upwards to cup and massage the oil into those delectable black breasts, I felt my breath catch. Any pretence at simply applying some suntan protection had gone. Her movements were sexual as she kneaded those magnificent swells. I told myself to return to the bedroom but I was hypnotised. Françoise's fingertips came together with each sweep to delicately pinch those chocolate nipples and the girl's back arched a little under each touch. When the faint sound of a mewing noise floated up to my ears, I felt my own nipples begin to tingle. Suddenly the black girl spoke again to Françoise. I couldn't quite hear what was being said but she was giving an instruction. Pierre's daughter nodded obediently and reached for the ties on the girl's red bikini bottoms. With a theatrical, almost slow motion pull of her fingers, she freed each in turn. My breath caught in my throat. The girl lifted her ass so that Françoise could pull them from her now naked body and I felt a surge of static electricity as my eyes drifted down to her cleanly shaven pussy, the skin a deep ebony colour like the rest of her body. Most of the models I worked with preferred the bare look, too, while I held an affection for my own dark landing strip. Françoise trailed her hand across the girl's baby-smooth sex, her white fingers providing an erotic contrast to the black flesh. Her movements were lazy and unhurried, and it was clear this wasn't the first time they'd engaged in such a practice. The girl spoke to her again—another instruction?—and a smile creased Françoise's face as she nodded. She bent forward to suck one of those delicious nipples into her mouth at the same time as sliding a single finger inside the girl's sex. It occurred so gently, in such a matter-of-fact way that, at first, I wasn't sure it had happened. But then the black girl's hands were gripping the top of the lounger behind her as her body began to gyrate on the working digit. My heart was pumping and I couldn't resist the urge to reach inside my robe and run my fingers across my rapidly emerging clitoris. Watching them was an incredibly illicit sensation and it was difficult to judge if guilt or arousal was my primary feeling. The girl spoke to Françoise once more and I gasped as Pierre's daughter withdrew and then licked her finger. As she shifted position so that she lay between the girl's legs, it instantly became clear what she had in mind and the shock hit me like a thunderbolt. Despite the privacy of the mansion, they must have known that either Madeleine—the housekeeper—or even her father or I could interrupt them at any moment. If they did, they didn't care. The black girl caressed Françoise's hair just as Pierre's daughter's tongue was beginning its journey across the dark, glistening opening. The sound of the en-suite bathroom door opening made me jump out of my skin. My husband's sense of timing was wretched and the thought of him finding me watching his daughter go down on her friend sent blood rushing to my face. I leapt up and quickly headed back into the bedroom, guilt written all over my expression. "What's wrong?" he asked, towelling his hair. When his eyes flicked over my shoulder towards the balcony, I thought for an awful he was going to check out there and my survival instinct kicked in. I grabbed his arm and pulled him with me to the bed, opening my robe as I fell onto my back. "I need you," I mumbled, opening my legs. "Lick me..." * Pierre and I had emerged for a late breakfast and were immediately joined—their bikinis covered by kaftans—by his daughter and the black girl, who was introduced to me as Sherrilyn. The young teenager turned out to be a 'close' friend who Françoise had met at their all-girl private College. Pierre had told me that they'd become inseparable lately and I was beginning to understand why. Despite their activities by the pool, neither showed any undue affection for the other and I would have swallowed the friendship story had I not known otherwise. Thank God that Pierre had no idea. Even though he was imbued with the normal French laissez-faire approach to most things, I couldn't even guess at what his reaction might be. Throughout breakfast the two teenage girls bombarded me with questions about my career and wanted to know the ins and outs of the modelling world. Françoise was her normal gushing self while Sherrilyn was more reserved, very much in control of herself and her emotions. When she spoke to me she made a point of looking deep into my eyes as if she was listening to my thoughts as well as my answers. When, eventually, Pierre said he intended to drive into Deauville to visit the local wine dealer, Françoise asked if she could accompany him. She hadn't seen him for ages, she pleadingly said, and it would give Sherrilyn an opportunity to get to know me better. Her teenage friend had just smiled at me, those penetrating black eyes not missing a thing. Before they left, Pierre led Sherrilyn and I to the conservatory and made sure we were settled comfortably. He gave me a soft peck on my lips and then asked Madeleine—the housekeeper—to bring us two glasses and a bottle of expensive red wine from his collection. He promised that they'd return within the hour. "Do you think I could make it as a model?" Sherrilyn asked, once Madeleine had departed and we both had a full glass of burgundy in our hands. I smiled, but felt goosebumps running up my spine at the recollection of her naked body. "Absolutely," I replied. I kept my voice steady. Was it the image in my mind's eye of Françoise going down on her that made me feel nervous? Being so well travelled and used to seeing all sorts of things going on when the other models partied, I normally took things in my stride. She rested her glass on the small table beside her. Smiling at me, she gracefully rose to her feet and stepped out of the black kaftan she wore over her red bikini. Without a hint of embarrassment she sashayed across the room, stopping at the far end to send me a model-like stare before walking directly towards me. One hand in her hair, the other on her hip, she stood not more than a couple of feet away and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" I fought back the tightness forming in my chest. This wasn't an audition; it was some sort of sexual challenge. Pierre and Françoise had been gone for less than ten minutes and the teenager was deliberately displaying her body to me. Why would she do that? She couldn't have seen me watching the two of them, could she? "You have a good figure, Sherrilyn," I non-committaly said, "but there are lots of young women with good figures who want to get into the industry." I kept my voice soft and cold as I delivered the put down. I had no intention of being intimidated by a teenage girl. "Mmm-hmm?" she murmured, cocking her hip to one side. She studied my expression as she picked up her wine glass, as if trying to get inside my mind. After taking a long drink she replaced the glass and, without warning, her hands went to the back of her red bikini top. My eyes widened in surprise she untied the back and pulled it from her body. As she wanted, my gaze was drawn to those well-nigh perfect black breasts as they bounced and settled. "What about my tits?" she asked, as she provocatively cupped them with both hands. Her black eyes didn't move from mine as she rolled them in her palms. "Some women think my ass is my best feature but others love my tits. What about you, Adrianna?" I took a few seconds before answering. The girl knew which spots to hit. "There's a lot of demand for well-endowed models nowadays," I said, trying to keep the conversation within the context of my career. "But it's not just about your breasts. It's the whole package, your body, look and personality. How you look on camera." "You misunderstand me," she dismissively answered. Her hands went to her hips, exposing her full breasts to my gaze again. They bounced before settling and despite myself it was impossible to stop my startled eyes from admiring them. Her chocolate nipples were so hard... "I was interested in your personal preference. You like women, after all." I felt my breath catch. She was deliberately pushing my buttons and there could only be one reason for her comment. I'd been seen. "No I don't," I lied. My eyes dropped to my glass as I swirled the wine around the insides. It was obvious to me where this conversation was heading and I refused to meet her intimidating gaze as I desperately tried to think of a way out. She didn't give me one. "Did you enjoy watched Françoise service me by the pool, Adrianna?" The words startled me. Service her? Those were a word that Marie O'Flanagan used when she was in a mischievous mood. "I saw you watching us from the balcony." I played dumb but the flush of my cheeks betrayed my embarrassment. "The balcony?" My heart was palpitating. "I wasn't watching you, Sherrilyn. I was just taking the air." She simply smiled and we both knew that I had been caught in a lie. "I was watching you all the time you spied on us," she calmly responded. "That's why I told Françoise to go down on me. It was quite a turn on, having her service me while you watched. I could sense how turned on you were." She turned her back on me and swayed back to her chair. My eyes dropped to the way the skimpy red bikini bottoms clung to the firm cheeks of her black buttocks. They were fractionally too big for her body but that only enhanced her appeal. "Did you tell her father?" she asked, swinging around and flopping down into the chair. The question took me by surprise. "Of course not." "Good. He wouldn't approve." I felt a prickle of annoyance. How would she know what Pierre would approve? So what if his daughter was gay or bisexual. Most young women were into experimentation nowadays. She read my mind. "At college, my friends and I have are members of a club we call Black Sorority. We each have a little white girl we let go down on us. Françoise is mine, although we do share them around from time to time." Shock was written all over my face as I struggled to comprehend her words. They were clear enough, but difficult to believe. She'd been playing with me until now and that disclosure was almost a knockout punch. "So you see, Françoise's father wouldn't approve, would he?" I shuffled in my seat. The girl was only eighteen and she had me speechless. "Did it excite you, Adrianna?" she asked, increasing the pressure. "Watching us?" My mouth was suddenly parched and I took a sip of wine to ease the dryness as well as give me time to think. She took advantage, sliding her fingers inside her bikini bottoms. "Do you want to watch me now?" "Sherrilyn, stop this, we both know it's completely inappropriate. Whatever you and Françoise get up to is between yourselves. Don't—" I paused as she slouched lower on her seat and I found my gaze drawn between her thighs. I could see the curl of her fingers under the thin red material, the way her arm was flexing. Her breasts swayed slightly with each movement. I should have instantly told her to stop but the words wouldn't come out. She took advantage of my confusion. "Most young white girls can't get enough black pussy. What about you?" I felt my cheeks burn. She was sitting there, only a short distance between us, masturbating while she talked dirty to me. Thoughts of my time with Marie O'Flanagan flooded my mind. The way she used to make me go down on her with just a few well chosen words. I could see her sex in my mind's eye as I sank to my knees to worship her. Only this time it wasn't her. It was a black pussy. I could feel was a fire burning deep inside my loins. Sherrilyn must have felt it too. "It's in the eyes," she said, pulling her hand away from her lap.