Girl Who Was Not Called Mistral 02

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They say the imagination is the most vital erogenous zone of them all…

“You think our meeting at ‘Les Café Des Poetès’ was random?” he teases. “You think it was coincidence? It was not random. It was no coincidence. I know who you are. I’ve known who you are for some time. I’ve studied you. Your past. Your desires. Your tastes. Your life-style. I tracked you to ‘Les Café Des Poetès’ with the intention of meeting you. As it turned out it was so much easier than I anticipated. You were easy. A push-over. After all, you are here now. With me.”

“So what it this profession that requires you to carry a pistol in the glove compartment?”

“You don’t know? You haven’t guessed? My profession is women. I take them, fuck them. Then extract ransom from their families. From their husbands. I live well.”

She looks at him, a tiny frown between her big piscine eyes. “And now you’ve taken me, monsieur? I am your victim? Is this true?”

He ignores her question. “All is true, all is lies. All is permitted. Nothing denied. But you were telling me… your fantasy.”

“No. I’m no longer in the mood.”

“You must tell me. Sex is easy. Eroticism is the challenge.”

She glances back at him in the mirror. “Love is promiscuous, but it is never unfaithful.” Playful again.

“But sex is always a gift of wings. Tell me now. Tell me the first time you accepted that gift of wings. Tell me quickly before we arrive at our destination. I must know.”

“Well… there was an incident when I was seventeen. A holiday with my parents near San Tropez. I spent most of my time on the beach, by myself, bored…”

“You were topless?”

A hesitation. “No. I… lacked confidence. As a teenager my breasts — my tits, were not large. I felt gauche and awkward. I merely watch other people on the beach. There’s a boy nearby, perhaps a year or two older than me. He is sunbathing. He wears only loose khaki shorts. He is dark, attractive, but also seems shy. I watch the families beneath their parasols, the movement of trees, the lovers by the sea, but my eyes keep returning to the youth. He lounges languidly, his legs apart, and it’s only after some time that I realise, from where I’m lying, I can see the shadow inside the looseness of his shorts, and that within the dark tunnel of material I see the clear outline of his testicles. His balls. And once seen, I become hypnotised. I can’t look away. Of course, I knew in theory about testicles, but I’ve never seen them before. Not like this. Eventually his eyes intercept my gaze. I’m horrified, but he just smiles. His eyes are dark. I look away in an agony of embarrassment, afraid that he’s guessed the objects of my prurient interest. Yet when, agonisingly, I’m forced to glance back, he’s neither altered his position or made the slightest attempt at concealment.

“Eventually he stands, indicating I should follow him. Meekly I do so, without fully understanding why. Just that I feel a compulsion, a sense of mysterious intimacy that refuses to be denied. He leads me beyond the rows of parasols and cafes into the wide shaded margin of trees that rises gently from the shore into the hills behind the resort. There are pine-cones on the ground. We walk a long way, until we are some distance from the beach, with the sound of autos as muted as tide. He stops, turns to face me, indicating that I — too, should come no further. He unfastens his shorts and shrugs them down, releasing the long lazy curve of his penis. I inhale sharply, a little afraid, but excited too. He takes his cock into his fist, begins to wank, slowly with deliberate flourish at first, then faster and more self-indulgently as his excitation grows. I watch mesmerised. The rapid jerking hand, the winking single eye set into the inflamed blunt head, the bouncing testicles beneath in the enticing dark nest of hair. A tension so thick I can taste it. Then, as his stomach flexes and his head goes back, eyes closed, he ejaculates a fierce hail of sperm, long strands of semen spraying into the grass…”

“What happened then? Did he fuck you?”

She shakes her head. “It was only then, at that moment, that I seemed to be shocked awake. I turned and ran.”

“But did you want to fuck with him? Did you want to crouch down before him and kiss the last few drops of sperm from the end of his cock…?”

A long pause. “I don’t know. Perhaps I did. But it wasn’t like that, you’re spoiling it now. You’re spoiling the memory. I suppose — yes, I was moist between the legs. But in some ways what happened between us was complete in itself. The exhibitionist, and the voyeur. Although later I certainly thought about what had occurred, and visualise it over and over again. Memorising each detail. He was so attractive, shy in a way, afraid of contact. But what happened between us, even though we never spoke, never touched, it was beautiful.”

There are neatly paced rows of vines set into dry rust-coloured earth, and in the distance, a single white slouch-roof farm — an arch here, a balcony with gaziemir escort shuttered windows there. It leans into tired outbuildings with conical spires sheltered in the spattered shade of untidy trees. Pines and areas of gorse too, with beds of lavender and scrubby garrigue. The road reduces down to little more than a dirt track. The car leaving a haze of dust blowing in its wake.

“Why did you take me to the cemetery that first night?”

“Why? Because women like to make love there. It is forbidden. It is erotic. It is decadent, a Gothic novel of sex and perversity.”

“Do you take all your women there? Is it a regular part of your seduction scenario. Then, once it is done, how long do they last? You think you’re so wonderful, don’t you? The man who puts the phallic into Gallic. But how will all of this end?”

“Why do women always want to know the end, even at the very beginning? Isn’t it enough that we are here now? Tell me more. Tell me amusing lies. Tell me about your first time.”

She’s silent for long moments. Her eyes on the unravelling scenery. “The events I must confess to you are ones I can scarcely hope you will believe. They begin at the Grandes École. I was studying existentialism and romantic poetry. An intoxicating mixture of immediacy and sensuality. There was music in the cafés at night and revolution in the air. I have intense friendships and engage in passionate fiery discussions that extend well into the dawn hours. Then I go for what my lecturer — Dr Dawish Dado, terms ‘private tuition’ to his study which is illuminated by a log-fire burning in the grate, illuminating walls lined with academic literature and philosophy tomes. He talks of the meaningless of existence, that the only truth is what we experience through the senses. That we are our own creations. Free of all outmoded moral constraints, that it is our duty to be true only to ourselves. We must live for the moment and continually re-evaluate our morality because there is no such thing as permanence. All is fluid. Everything is in a state of flux. Distrust reason, trust only what we can see, touch and feel. Sartre and Coleridge. Kierkegaard and Byron. And then I demonstrate my appreciation of his philosophy and personal tuition by raising my dress and bending forward over his document-strewn desk so that Dado can lubricate, and take me… shall I say, in the way he most preferred.”

“And you found this pleasurable?”

“It was not… unpleasing in its way. You must understand that I was young and voracious to experience all the sensations that life has to offer. This was strange to me, and new. I was aroused by his ideas, flattered by his attentions. I needed his patronage in the end-of-term evaluations, and to object would have seemed disrespectful. It seemed an equitable arrangement, at least until I had achieved my grades. It seems that each trimestre he enjoyed such a liaison with a different favoured student, and I was merely fortunate enough to be the latest recipient of his generosity.

“To be absolutely honest, I feel he would have preferred me to have been a boy, he liked my bottom, my petite derriere, he explained that his mode of entry left my state of virginity intact, eliminated the risk of pregnancy, and it didn’t even matter when I have my period. ‘L’école Des Beaux Arts’ is the place to acquire education, c’est pas? You could say he was merely extending my education into some perverse extracurricular areas. And in all honesty my only real objection was that his mode of access meant I never get the opportunity to properly see his… you know, his cock.

“One weekend when I was at a loose end, my close friend Francine invites me home with her, she suggested we could stay over with her family who own a country chateau estate. I never imagined she lives in such opulence. She has a boyfriend called Paul who was also there. A brief train journey, and I was welcomed, a little over-awed by their privileged luxurious life-style, and dined with them. Later, in her bedroom, Francine and I confide dangerous secrets. We drink wine. I confide all the details of my affair with our literature professor to her. And we try on each others clothes. I sulkily draw attention to the fact that her breasts are more fully formed than mine. I was not well-blessed in that way. Yes, my tits were small, compared to her more womanly rounded mounds, I didn’t even need to wear a bra. I was curious, so we compare and evaluate each other, and she allows me to touch them.

“Although I was a little jealous, she counters that she is blonde, and has only the softest sparsest downy pubic hair. Almost pre-pubescent. While me, I was brunette, and much more luxuriant down there. So we compare that also. Yes, it’s true — she fluffs up my pubes with her fingers, then uses her hairbrush to style me in different ways as I relax and enjoyed her intimacy. She laughs a delicious low laugh and says that although I might be hairier, her own state of hairlessness means that men are more encouraged to kiss her down there.

I was puzzled, ‘they karabağlar escort kiss you down there? Paul kisses you down there?’

‘He loves to kiss my pussy. And I love to grant him this desire.’

I look at the crinkly folds of flesh so prettily visible between her parted legs, and inevitably I was induced to find out what exactly Paul finds so enjoyable. I kiss her there, nervously, a little self-consciously. ‘Is that what he does?’

‘Not exactly, I scarcely dare tell, he uses his tongue and goes… a little lower, to my clit.’

So, a little more adventurously, I lick into the cleft. Tasting the sharp tang of her moisture, catching the aroma of pussy-juice. It seems so divinely wicked, but I know my Simone de Beauvoir, I’d read the ‘Well Of Loneliness’, I know what we are playfully doing. My tongue has a mind of its own. She squirms delightfully. After I’ve been preoccupied down there for a while, we change positions, and she reciprocates. Soon we are both moist and flushed with mutual pleasure although, despite what she’d said, I found one of her pubic hairs trapped in my teeth. Later we lie together and I confess my frustration that I’ve never properly examined a man as closely as I’ve now been intimate with her.

‘You must be more assertive in articulating your needs’ she suggests brightly, then ‘you could examine Paul, girls must share their most precious possessions with their dearest friends.’

Again there is much girlish giggling. I couldn’t believe she was serious. He was in the garden, amusing himself by feeding the peacocks. We slip on chemises, and she calls for him, inviting Paul to join us. He is tall and dark. Not unhandsome, although without the bohemian intellectualism that always attracts and fascinates me. Nevertheless, Francine instructs him to drop his trousers for my benefit, and after a slight show of reluctance he does as she requests. After all, what man could possibly seriously object to being the object of such close erotic attention from not one, but two girls? I pretend to be shocked. I hide my eyes behind my hands, but I was fascinated. I was compelled to look. Even soft, he was large. He was uncircumcised.

‘May I touch it?’ I say to Francine.

‘Please do’ she urges. I sit forward on the bed and squeeze his testicles gently, raise his cock and draw the foreskin back to expose the shiny glans. Watching the gape-mouthed head responding to my touch. He stands there and allows me the freedom to do as I please, as his body reacts to my touch. I ignore him, and concentrate on just that one singular aspect of him.

‘Do you like it?’ says Francine.

‘It is so beautiful, and yet so ugly. Surely it must hurt when it goes into you? What must it feel like?’

‘You know, in England the girls call it their ‘fanny’. In America, ‘fanny’ means butt. Don’t you think that’s strange? We say ‘pussy’. And the pussy is elastic, it can accommodate all manner of large objects and household implements, I know, I’ve tried most. Purely in the interests of experiment. Why not try it yourself?’

‘Would that be alright, you wouldn’t object to me using it?’

Again Paul has no say in the negotiations taking place. We talk around him. I was dubious, yet at the same time incapable of not taking advantage of the offered experience. After less than a moment’s hesitation I shrug my chemise off and lie back, draping my parted legs over the edge of the bed. Laughing excitedly Francine sits beside me, takes his penis in her hand, the foreskin retracting from the knob as it firms, and she guides it towards me, rubbing its head up and down the length of my vulva, nuzzling my clit as I squirm appreciatively, as I moisten and open, then feeding it into me, slowly, gently, just the tip at first.

‘How does that feel to you?’

‘Strange. Nice.’

‘Have you had enough of it, or do you want a little more?’

I try to appear casual. Looking down I can see that by now I have taken less than half of its length. ‘A little more, I think.’

She smiles. Takes a sip of wine, then eases a little more, then more, my back arching in response, my bottom lifting off the covers, absorbing it into me until I’ve taken it all. We stand together for a moment. He begins a tentative fucking motion but she throws her hand up in alarm, ‘stop that, what do you think you’re doing? I didn’t grant you leave to do that!’ I was on the verge of saying it’s alright, that I have no real objection to him continuing, but I can tell she’s annoyed by his presumption. I had hardly spoken half a dozen words to him. I don’t even particularly like him. He was not really a consideration. Francine was loaning the penis to me, for my benefit. So it was not for me to go against her wishes. Instead, he was standing perfectly still, not moving, allowing himself to be totally controlled. I lie there, luxuriating in the sensation of total impalement. Eventually Francine reaches down and withdraws it slowly, I feel it pulling out of me, extracting.

I can see it in her fist, glistening kemalpaşa escort with my juices. She begins to work it, up and down. He was breathing heavily. I watch. Meeting her eyes in delighted conspiracy, never meeting his eyes, my attention totally transfixed on his erection. When he comes, spurting white stuff up over my stomach and drooling and dripping into my pubic hair we both laugh and applaud with glee. ‘Thank you, Paul’ she says, ‘you may go now’. He hastily pulls his pants up and does so. We hug each other in delight at our daring. ‘It’s ridiculous how absurdly proud they are about their shiny strutting erections’ Francine tells me, ‘as though it invests them with such invulnerability, yet it’s we who take them, drain them, and leave them shrunken and limp. Then we must wait for something like twenty minutes before they recover sufficiently to pleasure us again. It is we who have the greater sexual power.’ Then, in conspiratorial tones, she tells me to ‘get decent’, and she leads us through the house, upstairs to where her father has a library alcove with cabinets filled with books in order rows. She unlocks the shutters, moves a section aside and reaches behind for a cache of books hidden behind.

‘He foolishly believes no-one knows about these’ she laughs, ‘I’ve been studying them for years, secretly, of course.’ She peruses the titles, then begins flicking through the pages of one of them, an obviously rare and valued vintage tome — of erotica, it was an ‘ancient regime’ book with explicit art in lavish engraved illustrations. With delighted anticipation she selects one of them, which is obviously a favourite of hers, for my attention. At first it seems to be nothing more than a tangle of limbs, I can’t quite work out what is supposed to be happening. In a bedroom, there’s a naked maid straddling a prostrate’s man’s thighs, penetrated by him but leaning forward so that a second can enter her from behind (in the manner that my Professor preferred to take me), and so that she can take a third man, who is kneeling, into her mouth. The illustration sets up strange fluttering sensations in my stomach, and yes — a little lower than that too.

‘You see’ declares Francine triumphantly, ‘this proves my point about the power of female sexuality, it’s quite possible for a girl to accommodate three penises simultaneously, and then — theoretically at least, once those rampant squires have played their part and retired deflated, she can straight away service three more. A woman is perfectly capable of doing that.’ She seems pleased to have proved her point. I was a little more dubious. Possible perhaps, but scarcely comfortable… surely? Nevertheless, I could scarcely argue with the evidence of my eyes. And I was certainly unable to look away for long moments. The image stays with me. What would it have been like to be that maid?

‘Of course, it was a fictitious work of pornography dreamed up by prurient imaginations, it was not real, but it was not difficult to imagine something very similar happening in a chateau very much like this one, two or three hundred years ago. A maid at the mercy of three aristocratic rués, yet she is portrayed as an enthusiastic participant in the erotic configuration. Maybe brightening the tedium of her domestic drudgery with a little illicit excitement? Or perhaps supplementing her meagre income, buying herself a little independence, through pleasurable afternoon whoring? After all, how a girl chooses to use her pussy for purposes of leisure or commerce is something between the two of them — girl, and pussy, and it’s nobody’s business but theirs. In my imagination it was me walking down the long corridors, lured into the bedroom by inducements and innuendos, embraced and undressed by the lecherous trio, my employers, my social betters, with no power to resist or protest the invasion of their impudent fingers on my bare breasts, my bottom, questing to locate the moistness between my legs. Now they are divesting themselves of their own clothes and I am faced by three arrogant erections demanding my attention. It was a breathlessly arousing image, my thoughts circling around it. What sensations must she have experienced — endured, enjoyed, as she was debauched?

But, as I point out to Francine, what a sense of power it must give her, how flattering to know that your physical charms are so desired that they are responsible for such arousal in — not one lover, but three! She snorts in amused derision. ‘It means nothing. Their arousal is a promiscuous thing. If there’s no suitable woman available they’ll fuck each other, their domestic or farmyard animals, sheep, juicy fruit, anything. It has little to do with your physical charm, and more to do with blind lust.’

Nevertheless, later in the day, I can’t quite decide whether I’m still technically a virgin or not. Sure, I’ve taken a penis inside me, but I couldn’t really claim to have been properly ‘fucked’. I’m sure Paul would have been willing to take the situation further, but whenever I see him again during the weekend, we are in the company of others, although he leers unpleasantly at me in what I think he intends to be a secret shared intimacy. Anyway, he was an irrelevance. I’d enjoyed the experience — despite, not because of him, and I decided that I’d do it again for real, properly, as soon as I found a suitable penis, and penis-bearer to call my own…”

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