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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Pam's Lost Hours At The Shopping Centre
by The Tall Man (tallman034@aol.com)
***
A cautionary tale about an attractive air hostess,
who's bored between flights and strolling in a shopping
centre to pass the time. There, she allows herself to
be seduced. The consequences are surprising, to say the
least. (Fm, ped, reluc, intr)
***
I wrote this story for Pam. She knows who she is.
***
Part 1: The Innocent, Unsuspecting Prey
---------------------------------------
I blame myself. It was my own fault, I shouldn't have
bought that bloody book of bloody erotic stories. But
you know how it is, we all have needs. Besides, a bit
of titillation is nice when you're at a loose end and
the love of your life is a long way away. It's normally
quite harmless – a distraction, that's all, an innocent
way of easing the boredom and the sexual tension.
That's the way I look at it, anyway. Still, maybe I
shouldn't have bought that book...
I can't tell anyone at all about this, especially not
Richard. Sure, he's a mature and modern thinking and a
lovely man, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if I
slept with a pilot or a steward occasionally when I'm
working away, just as I don't think for one minute that
he misses out on a chance to bang one of his pretty
young sales girls whenever he gets the opportunity.
We both have plenty of opportunity to screw around. But
if I told him what I did, what just happened to me, it
would blow his brains apart. I know it, his skull would
probably implode. No excuses, though, none at all. It
happened, and I can't go back and change it. You can't
squeeze the toothpaste back into the tube, can you?
Nice Airport (that's Nice, pronounced Neece, the French
place), here I am stuck between flights because of a
strike by ground safety crew – or "sapeurs-pompiers" as
they like to call themselves. Surprise, surprise, yet
another lightning action for more money and less work
by French so-called workers. Same old story, same old
national sport. Another one of those 'lost days' when I
don't know if I'll take off or not. But nothing is
going to move during the course of the afternoon at
least.
Of course, the airlines could risk taking their planes
in or out, but in the event of an accident and
supposedly no guarantee of fire fighting or rescue
crews on the ground, the potential downside from
lawsuits is inestimable. So, nothing will happen until
the whole dispute is resolved. To the complete
satisfaction of the unions, of course. There's a
meeting of management and unions later this afternoon,
but nobody expects a result, let alone a positive one,
at least until 18H00.
So here I am in Nice Airport. Anybody who's passed any
length of time waiting for delayed planes knows what
it's like to be stuck in an airport. The boredom factor
is very high. The traditional medication for boredom is
shopping and more shopping, coffee and more coffee. But
there's only so much coffee you can drink, only so many
times you can flick through foreign language newspapers
and magazines you can't even read and don't want to
buy. Only so much sudoku you can fix your weary grey
cells on. There's only so many times you can lust after
those fabulous but highly priced designer goods you
can't afford. And Nice Airport doesn't even have a Body
Shop for god's sake!
I call Richard; he only has a few minutes to talk and
says he'll be out of reach for the rest of the day. I
end up wet between my legs. I shan't see him for a few
more days, by which time I shall be in need of close
attention to intimate detail. And so will he, I hope.
I resist the temptation to have a private rub; I remind
myself that a moist kiss is better than a hasty orgasm.
What a joke! But I have to get out of this airport for
a few hours, otherwise I'll go crazy.
I could go to the beach, it isn't too far away. God
knows I could do with some sun on my body, I look a
little pale for summer. If I don't get any proper ultra
violet on my skin soon, it'll be the Clarins self-tan
for me. And besides, I love to strip down to the buff
and play peek-a-boo with the guys on the sands,
carefully angling my legs so that they can almost see
my bald pussy lips, and occasionally opening my knees
to reveal all, just for the hell of it, knowing what's
happening to their naughty bits.
It was Richard's idea, of course, that I shave my pussy
absolutely bald. He loves it. And I have to admit, it
gets me moist down there when men reach for their
towells to cover those delicious erections beginning to
break surface all around me. Even men with partners
lying alongside them simply can't resist peeking.
Hiding the precise direction of their eyes behind their
designer sunglasses and pretending not to notice my
charms, but swivelling their heads constantly. If
they're naked on a beach, it's not so easy for them to
hide a pumped up penis. I know I have a great body, and
I know the effect I have on them. I know I'm a tasty
bird, I know I have the power to excite men.
But then again, if I go to the beach in my uniform, I
also know I'll end up sweaty and salty, with sand in my
hair and in my pussy and in a quite unacceptable state
for work. If by some unexpected chance, i.e. miracle,
we manage to get a takeoff slot for this evening, I
have to be shiny clean, and ready for work at short
notice.
I sensibly opt for a cooler alternative. Someone
amongst the airport staff tells me about a massive new
shopping centre close to the airport. I grab a quick,
unsatisfying salad lunch courtesy of the visitors'
canteen, stow my flight bag and uniform jacket so I'll
be cooler in crisp, thin white blouse and sky blue
skirt, and armed with my shoulder bag containing, of
course, my credit cards, I leave the airport and take a
taxi to the brand spanking new "Centre Commercial
Lagrange".
The taxi driver is a road maniac, pure and simple. At
any time it's scary driving on the wrong side of the
road, but today I've never seen so many crazy
manoeuvres achieved by a taxi driver over such a short
distance. This one lives with his foot on brake and
accelerator at the same time, and only my seat belt
saves me from being thrown violently all around the
car. The worst, though are the French kids on motor
scooters. Suicidal two-wheel slalom at maximum speeed
seems to be another national sport. And when these
idiots don't have that two centimetre margin of safety
to rocket between the bumpers of two cars, they eyeball
me through their oversized smoked visors.
I'm nervous; I've travelled enough in a sometimes ugly
world to be wary of potential hijackers. I heard that
some of these vicious thugs even carry hammers, ready
to smash a car window if they see easy pickings. My
crazy taxi driver clearly knows all about it – he
watches every one of them, and his head swivels from
road to rear view mirrors all the time. When these
scooters pass alongside us and pause between death
defying lurches, I don't know whether they are ogling
my bare knees or my tits, or just on the lookout for
something to steal. My bag is carefully hidden out of
sight, but I don't give a shit if they can see my legs.
I have good legs.
So we get to the shopping centre, I pay the man an
indecent amount of euros plus a tip for the terror ride
and go inside by the magnificent glass entrance. When I
visit places like this, I always go straight to the top
floor and work my way down. So I start my tour of the
many shops, which are mostly blasting out obstinately
loud techno music from one doorway to the next. I'm
impressed by the quality of goods I see - all the
designer labels I know, plus a lot that we don't get
back in the UK, even in New York.
I'm tempted to bust my credit card limit and buy stuff
everywhere, but I remain sensible. I allow myself,
though, a very expensive bra and panties set in oyster,
and start anticipating straight away Richard's reaction
when I start to parade it for him next week at home. He
has this fetish about sexy underwear, and it'll be a
miracle if he can keep his cock in his trousers and his
lovely hands off me before I finish the striptease
number I shall do for him. There I go again,
anticipating hot sex with Richard and wetting the
gusset of my panties, without being able to do much
about it for days and days. And days.
So I walk around, knowing that I look good. In my
uniform I'm usually a kind of curiosity. I feel men's
eyes on me wherever I go. Standing outside women's shoe
shops waiting for their wives and girlfriends to exit,
they look at my jiggling breasts, my legs and the swish
of my hips under my thin blouse and skirt, which leave
no mysteries about my sleek curves.
There amongst the noise and the confusion of sour
elderly ladies with slow plodding feet carrying
shopping bags, I feel the eyes of French men mapping
their routes around my body and imagining what it would
be like to travel them. I'm aware of the occasional,
exaggerated and lustful double-take as I pass a man
head-on. I'm enjoying the sneaky, voyeuristic attention
but keeping my cool air, my eyes forward; my
sophisticated air hostess appearance is intact.
In a small, crowded boutique, I can't avoid brushing
against the body of a chunky, middle aged Frenchman
between rails of summer dresses. We both turn inwards,
so that our chests are touching, and he's apologising
even before we touch: "Pardon." He has a pleasant body
odour. I feel his barrel chest slide across my nipples,
and the metal of his belt buckle graze my belly, and
there is an astonishing charge of electricity as we
pass. My tit ends reverberate like crazy. I look back,
and see that he's trailing behind a waddling, pregnant
Emmanuelle Béart look-alike. I let him continue his
life.
Time drags by. I look at brochures in a travel agency,
but am more interested in drooling over the impossibly
handsome, bronzed male models depicted on the beaches,
than the holidays they're trying to sell me. Finally, I
run out of anything interesting to see on the top floor
of the "Centre Commercial Lagrange", and so I make my
way towards one of the moving staircases, anticipating
more treasures as yet undiscovered on the floor below.
Anything that will get me through the next few hours.
There, I notice a couple of youths making a nuisance of
themselves, blocking the way onto the belt. I'm not the
only one who appears uneasy, one or two people clearly
unnerved, walk away towards the stairs rather than take
the escalator. One of these very unsavoury looking
characters reminds me of Miss Piggy, an ugly sod, his
military-style cargo pants are hanging loosely down
below his MacDonald's inflated pot belly, where his T-
shirt has pulled up, showing a piercing ring in his
navel. He's not very tall. On his feet are unfastened
trainers, white tongues flapping out of their laces. He
sort of dances menacingly around a few metres in front
of me, like a low grade amateur boxer, showing his
teeth brace like a gum shield and uttering what I know
must be disgusting things in French.
The other one is taller and skinny, dressed much the
same, but less ugly, not so frightening. He pivots sort
of inanely too, but keeps looking furtively around him,
as though inwardly fearful of being seen by someone
from the centre sécurité. They both look at me with a
lewd adolescent interest as I approach, eyeing the
front of my blouse, then my classy legs. I see a long,
pink tongue eject itself lasciviously from the little
bugger's mouth, and I am very unsettled.
My nerves tighten and begin to hum. My heartbeat
quickens somewhat and I start to tingle inside with
budding fear. But according to my flight training, I
clutch my underwear package and shoulder bag against my
breasts, I stride forward, looking straight ahead. The
two nerds plant themselves in front of me and I stop
dead in my tracks. I look up at their pimply, grinning,
imbecile faces. Thoughts are flying around in my head
like pipistrels at dusk. I'm about to be robbed, I
decide. You hear stories of rape, but that's unlikely
here in broad daylight in a shopping centre, isn't it?.
Just then a stocky, dark skinned youth with longish jet
black hair brushes past me and literally shoulders Miss
Piggy, enough to knock him off balance and spin him
round to my right. The pig instinctively regains his
balance and turns back to square up to my saviour. But
equally quickly I see the grin has gone, and a look of
apprehension, even of recognition has appeared in his
eyes. When he sees the size and shape of his adversary,
he starts to move backwards, like he's doing a
moonwalk. The other juvenile delinquent, now on my
left, circles slowly around behind me trying to look
tough but clearly keeping his distance, and finishes up
beside his pal.
Then my tall dark knight in denim bermuda style shorts
and white T-shirt, whose tanned legs are a very nice
shape, I note, says something I can't translate,
directly at them. The pig inelegantly hikes up his
cargo pants, as though in final defiance, aims an
imaginary pistol at the good guy and fires once, blows
on the end of his smoking gun and slips it back into
its holster. Both young thugs slouch away into the
crowds, just like that. Game over, I say to myself. I'm
grateful for the timely intervention of my young French
vigilante hero.
The youth who has surely just saved me, deliberately or
not, from losing my bag and my precious credit cards,
maybe my new underwear, doesn't look back. He steps
onto the descending staircase and before I can come out
of my near catatonic daze, he too has gone.
My heartbeat slows almost to normal by the time I step
off the escalator at the bottom and continue my tour on
the lower level. Now I need a shot of quality caffeine,
and also I decide to get something to read. I'm lucky,
there is a large bookshop, or "librairie", as they say
in French, on this floor, with even an English books
section. They must get lots of anglo-phones from the
airport, passing though. I can read some French and
manage to speak it quite well after a glass of wine or
two. But novels can be hard work in anything other than
your mother tongue, and are certainly not relaxed
reading in French. So I'm especially pleased when I
find a small selection of erotic novels in English.
I shouldn't get myself excited, I know, with my Richard
a thousand kilometres away, but I give in to my
immediate need for personal cerebral stimulation and
pick up one of those ubiquitous blockbusters about
South Carolina rice plantations. You know the kind:
disgustingly rich American white masters and mistresses
on black slave-driven plantations in centuries gone by,
the men screwing the black slave women instead of their
own wives, and the white women bedding the big handsome
black bucks at will. 'Gone with the Wind' but with
blatant sex on demand, if you like. It's a nice thick
book, and I think it could keep me going for a few
hours, perhaps more if that strike goes on. And on.
I pay for it, carry on browsing the boutiques for a
while, looking for a place to escape the madding crowd.
I find a cosy looking coffee bar piping out bland but
quiet pop music, where I sit down and order a large
capuccino. I look around me and see people eating,
drinking, yawning, tapping fingers on tables, cracking
their knuckles, reading, talking on mobiles, dreaming,
even sleeping. I see heads swivelling in a dozen
directions. When my coffee comes at last, I lace my
fingers through the ear of the cup, feel the heat on my
palm, sniff in the odour. I open my book and sink
rapidly into my caffeine and erotic encounters. It's an
easy read; my eyes fly across the paragraphs, and
loose-end boredom soon becomes increasing lubricity.
I lose track of time somewhat reading about all those
black bodies and frantic couplings, then realise, not
only that my capuccino is finished and I am dribbling
love juices into my panties again, feeling a growing
urge for penile penetration, but I also need to pee. I
make my way to the ladies, there's always one on each
floor in these places. In the cubicle, I pull up my
skirt and slip down my panties. I notice how moist my
pussy lips are, am encouraged to take instant advantage
of this natural lubricant, am simpy overwhelmed by a
sudden urge to masturbate. Visions in my head of all
this interracial stuff has been just too much for me,
and I can't restrain my natural instincts.
I am a very highly sexed woman. I make myself a nest of
toilet paper on the wc seat, as I always do in public
toilets. Sitting there, I pee, and at the same time
start to finger my emergent love button as golden water
trickles, then spurts out of my pussy lips. I
manipulate my clitoris delicately at first and the
focus of my fantasies switches between my beloved
Richard who is several million miles away just when I
need him, and hard, sweaty, black male flesh.
I glance at puerile felt-tip pen sketches on the
cubicle door and walls, of cocks and pussies created by
either female sex fiends or frustrated artists; there
are even phone numbers. I try to decypher a few badly
written French words I can't understand. I resist the
temptation to write down the phone numbers. It's like
being in a non-speaking confessional. I close my eyes
to shut it all out, and I rub on my clit, enjoying the
anticipation of a burst of sexual release.
Suddenly I hear a high-pitched humming in my ears all
around me and feel a sting on my inner thigh. Fucking
mosquitos! How I detest those nasty little things. Why
me, I ask myself? It's uncanny just how mosquitos
always manage to find me when I'm anywhere south of
Gatwick. How they seem to love good quality British
blood! That's it, I say, rubbing session over, orgasmus
interruptus. I'm still wet, my insides are contracting
deliciously and I'm absolutely longing for a quick
climax, but I also know I need to get out of this
cubicle before the hateful little bugger tells all his
pals there's pure English blood to be had on the WC
menu and they all join in the sanguine feast.
I tidy my hair and freshen my makeup like all good air
hostesses do, and I wander on through the Centre
Commercial Lagrange looking anxiously for a pharmacie
and hopefully some cool soothing ointment that might be
available without prescription for my itching mosquito
bite. I also look over my shoulder periodically, you
can't be too careful. I check my voicemail. I hear my
Richard's soft sexy voice say hi darling, that he's
thinking about me between heavy and boring meetings and
has a hard-on.
My heart goes out of rhythm. Then I listen to an over-
long complaint about life from my mother which cancels
out the pleasant bumping in my chest. No news from the
airport is bad news I guess. After drifting in and out
of one or two more classy shops on this floor, after
successfully resisting overwhelming temptations to buy,
and then getting cross at seeing no sign of a pharmacie
anywhere, I need to get back to my book, back to my
fascinating story.
I spot another smart café bar, where I order another
capuccino and this time a "pâtisserie" and dive once
more directly back into my own personal, private,
erotic world of hot, steamy colonial rice plantations
and those utterly fascinating and endless black and
white fucking permutations, pausing only to slip my
hand furtively under my skirt on a regular basis to
scratch my itching thigh, where a large, angry red bump
has now developed. This is the only distraction from my
lubricity for a while.
"Mistress Anna whimpered, as she felt the hard callused
palm of Sam the plantation worker's hand slam across
her pale delicate face. She clutched her cheek as she
fell backwards, half sitting, half lying, onto her
wide, luxurious bed, looking up through tearful,
fearful eyes at Sam's sweaty, glistening, naked black
torso. She could smell his appalling odour; his black
chest heaved, showing his huge pectorals, and Mistress
Anna saw a mixture of lust and racial hatred on his
wide, flat-nosed, thick lipped face as he glared down
at her. He said nothing, but began to unbuckle his
thick leather belt. His baggy, filthy, worn out pants
fell to the ground, and his long, black snake of a
penis sprang out, distending and swelling before poor
Mistress Anna's eyes."
Wow, my pussy is dribbling worse than ever, and I just
can't stop the idea coming into my head of hurrying
back to the ladies' toilets for a long overdue rub in
the privacy of another uninfested cubicle. Then I catch
a movement in my peripheral vison. Without changing the
angle of my head, I raise my eyes to look up over the
top of my book. I find myself looking into a crotch.
I remain quite calm. Yes, I tell myself, it's a crotch.
I have to say also, it is a most impressive crotch.
There is no hiding the long, thick bulge of a denim
covered hardon staring at me. I know what an erection
looks like, hidden or not. And this one is not exactly
playing hide and seek. Below this bulge, out of
bermuda-length shorts, I see bronzed, well formed
thighs; the rest is hidden behind my table.
I raise my eyes, scanning a well-filled white T-shirt
with bare muscular arms, and end up looking into the
face of a very good looking young man – a boy. I guess
he is around fifteen, not much more, and he's smiling a
smile through sensual lips destined to charm and seduce
the opposite sex for many years to come. I can't help
smiling back in my own professional way, though
slightly embarrassed. I know my face is flushed; I've
been caught reading a dirty book, I reflect.
The smiling between us goes on, but I know somebody has
to speak. In my head, I panic and start to construct
complicated sentences in French, but I can't get one
together, so I say "Oui?" just like that. I try to read
a story behind his intense black eyes. I think maybe
he's going to ask me for money or a light for his
cigarette. Then I remember we're in a zone non-fumeur.
He doesn't reply immediately.
Then, rather astonishingly, in view of our public
location, I see the boy's hand come around in front of
his crotch, close entirely around this really
remarkable erection and squeeze it and rub it's length
lovingly for a second or two. I watch him do this, and
I suddenly want to do the same thing, but hold back. I
look up at his face, and at this very instant, looking
directly into my eyes, he says, quietly: "I've been
watching you. I want to make love to you." He says it
in English, but with a really heavy French accent, and
I wonder how he knows I'm English. Universal language,
of course, I remind myself.
This boy is sure of his territory, I think. To say I am
rather gobsmacked would probably be an enormous
understatement. In my ten year, globe-trotting career
as an international air hostess, I've heard all the
chat up lines that men could possibly dream up, I
reckon; there's one or two on every flight. But this
line takes my breath away, coming from one so young
looking. Then the penny, or rather the centime, finally
drops.
This handsome boy is none other than my young saviour
from the floor above, that I have really only seen from
the back. I try to act nonchalante. I place my open
dirty book face down and cover the title with my folded
hands. The Casanova kid drags out a seat opposite me,
drops his body lazily down into it and leans over
towards me, his hands together and forearms on the
table. That almost visually-magnetic erection is now
tucked away safely out of sight, and I can relax just a
little.
Sitting here before me at this French café bar table,
uninvited, is a dark skinned youth whose face is
excruciatingly beautiful, he's a young Cassius Clay
look-alike without stretching the imagination one iota.
His half-caste skin is matt, a wonderful colour, and I
can see that he has, in my opinion, a near-perfect
upper body. He has long, slim but muscular arms, one of
which carries a poor quality tattoo on the wrist; I
think it's a scorpion. I see the blueness of veins
around his slim, solid neck.
There is an unnatural tautness in his pectorals, and he
flexes them as he breathes, making me wonder if it's
deliberate. I spot slight perspiration around his
armpits. My heart is out of sync again. One part – the
lower, damp part of me - is still in the world of
colonial sexual indiscretions. The other part of me is
here in the real world, but with my very own plantation
Sam across the table. Except that this is no smelly,
brutish slave labourer, and I don't see any signs of
attack coming. But I do know he wants to fuck me, he
just said, "So..." His black snake of a penis sprang
out, distending and swelling before poor Mistress
Anna's eyes.
He's waiting for a reply. You now have to imagine an
exchange partly in English, which this beautiful boy
handles quite well, and partly in my pidgeon French –
franglais, if you like, or frenglish. I know I say the
wrong thing: "You've been watching me, and you want to
make love to me, just like that. Tell me how old are
you?"
His retort is instant, almost angry and I see his dark
eyes flash. "I'm eighteen, I'm not a kid. I know about
making love. I have a lot of girlfriends. And I have a
nice big cock, you won't be disappointed." I don't
believe his pretension to age eighteen, and at first, I
struggle with the French word queue. That can mean
'queue' as in bus queue, the same as in English. But it
also means 'tail'. In this case, I work out he means
'cock'.
I don't attempt to disagree with his modest self-
estimation of the length of his penis. I'm half making
comparisons with that black snake, in my imagination.
He returns to smiling that devastating smile across the
cappucino divide, and seems unready to let go of his
immediate ambitions to get into my panties.
"What makes you think I want to be made love to?" I
realise straight away that sounds clumsy in the
translation, but he understands. All the time, I'm
thinking that the one thing I'd enjoy right now is a
good working over, inside and out, with a 'queue' like
his. I immediately push that thought out of my head,
not to give anything away in my facial responses. I
just smile my well-rehearsed, bland air hostess smile;
it's always very effective in calming occasionally
over-excitable airline passengers.
"I've been following you around for quite a while, ever
since the airport. I like a woman in uniform. As soon
as I saw you, I wanted you. You can see what looking at
your body all this time has done to my cock. You're
bored and at a loose end. I think a nice French fuck
will be good for you right now." I say simply and
calmly, quite unnecessarily in fact, that I'm passing
the time waiting for clearance for my company's next
flight.
Again, he's very direct; young as he is, he seems so
sure of himself it's uncanny. He stands up straight
again and flaunts this magnificent cloth-hidden penis
before me for about ten seconds, before suddenly
leaving the table. I turn my head and see him striding
over to a large shop entrance, which I recognise as a
classy and stylish furniture store I visited earlier. I
see him talking animatedly to a dark, pretty but
sluttish looking young girl in a tiny top and mini-
skirt and indecently high heels.
She doesn't quite appear to be in total agreement with
something and gestures her discontent. The French
always talk so much with their hands, I reflect, as I
study their gests. I pick up my book again, but before
I can get back into my erotic story, the boy plants
brief kisses on each cheek of the gesturing, non-
smiling little tart and rejoins me at my table. Before
he settles back into his seat, I sneak another glimpse
at that big bulge, committing to memory approximate
length and girth.
I feel a kind of naughty-nice desire to play along with
his little game. I find it titillating, and I'm still
very wet between the legs from thinking about Sam's
glistening black torso. And of course, the snake. I
fold a paper napkin in half, slip it into Sam's page,
close the book and stow it safely in my shoulder bag
for my future pleasure. Sweaty Sam and the poor,
fragile Mistress Anna can wait for a while. Interracial
rape is on hold.
I give out body signals as if to leave, but instead of
getting up, I ask: "What's your name?" Realising that
I'm now at risk of going headlong into a proper
conversation with this brazen young sex fiend, instead
of doing the right thing by leaving for the safety of
the airport. I convince myself I need the French
practice, in the best interests of my work.
He tells me he's called Jean-Marie. I always find it
amusing that the French join girls' and boys' names
together like that. Jean-Marie, Marie-Claude and so on.
He's not impressed by my name either. I don't suppose
he knows many French girls called Pam. Then again, he's
surely heard of Pamela Anderson; her huge plastic rack
has been in all the magazines, and of course pretty
well all tumescent kids have ogled her bare bloated
tits on the net, the videoed fuck scenes with Tommy Lee
and all that are freely available to all. Playing
along, I remind myself, practising my poor French.
"So you want to make love to me, Jean-Marie. When?
Right now, this instant? Where? Here, in the shopping
centre? Where do you suppose we could do this?" The
solution is so simple, I ought to have thought of it
myself.
"I have a cousine who works here in this centre. Her
name is Michelle. She's in a furniture store on this
level, over there. I just talked to her, it's okay." He
indicates with his head. I note the feminine form of
the French word 'cousin'. "She will let us go to the
store room. We won't be disturbed because her boss is
absent. You won't be disappointed."
Again, I have all the reassurance I need from this
youthful would-be lover of mine with the looks of a
young Cassius Clay and an erection worthy of Sam, Sam,
the plantation man, and which I know is just begging
for my attention. He has it all worked out, the sexy
little, the presumptious little bastard. I play along
mentally. Against my better judgement, I begin to
imagine the scene. This excruciatingly beautiful and
sexually over-charged young French boy somehow knows I
need a good fuck.
He's been watching me and lusting after me for god
knows how long, even whilst I was at the airport. I
thought I was in a vaccuum, but it turns out to be a
vaccuum inhabited by two people. Was it so obvious that
I was in the middle of a serious sexual drought? Did he
see my book? I'm not wearing a 'fuck-me-quick' hat on
my head. Does he follow all the air hostesses around?
Shit, he's got a nerve, I think to myself. I could
probably eat him alive, he's so young.
So his damned cousine will let us use one of the
display beds in the storeroom, where he can get his end
away with a highly attractive woman at least twice his
age. And more: he has total confidence he can make it
feel good for me because he knows full well he has a
big 'queue'. For just an instant, I allow myself to get
a little indignant. I'm a classy, intelligent, well-
bred air hostess, and beautiful with it.
Richard tells me I have legs to die for; he can even
get off just looking at them, he says. I have great
tits too. He can't keep his hands off me, and there's
quite a few of the male airline staff, not to mention
passengers every day who would sell their souls to get
into my knickers. I could charge good money for what I
have to offer. So why should I allow this under-age,
well endowed foreign kid to even begin to imagine he
could fuck me?
I'm still flushed, my nerve ending are still
titillating, my tit ends are on fire, my pussy is
pumping out love juices. And I'm still not entirely out
of the plantation, out of Mistress Anna's bedroom, out
of big bad Sam's clutches and his obvious, violent,
penetral intentions. And Jean-Marie's hand is on the
back of mine, caressing it lightly with his thumb, I
can almost feel his hormones raging through his dark
skin onto mine. My heart picks up a beat or two or
three, and slowly, against my better judgement, the
idea of a quick, clandestine, anonymous fuck begins to
appeal to me, secretly and deliciously. And
irresistibly.
Part 2: Sliding Into My Predator's Skin
---------------------------------------
I have this thing about uniforms. It's probably because
of my aunt Clothilde. She's in the Gendarmerie
Nationale, she's a 'gendarmette', and looks sensational
in her uniform. Clothilde is my mother's kid sister,
twenty-five years old and she's a real beauty. She has
dark Mediterranean looks, the deepest black eyes and a
magnificent body. Delicious curves and and a sweet
kissable mouth. And her uniform turns me on. I never
saw her naked, but in her uniform she's the tops.
Nothing inspires my masturbation more. I would love to
fuck my aunt Clothilde one day. And she knows it.
When Clothilde comes to visit, two things happen.
First, I get a big hardon long before she arrives, just
in anticipation. If I know she's expected, I look out
for her on the balcony and wait for her to trip up the
steps to our apartment, her big breasts jiggling up and
down as she climbs, smiling innocently up at her horny
nephew. Especially in summer, when she wears the blue
gendarmerie shirt and no jacket.
It's a shame she has to wear a bra for work. Sometimes
it gets urgent and I have to jerk off beforehand. (I
like the expression 'jerk off', I learned it from some
American girls I met at the beach). When Clothilde is
with us at table for lunch I am in a state of constant
arousal, of uncontrollable lust, and as soon as she
leaves, I have to go jerk off again.
Once, Clothilde was particularly lively and vivacious,
smiling and laughing all through lunch and showing her
white teeth. When she giggles, her big titties bounce
up and down inside her blouse and I see her bra move
with them. I love to watch them. I was so wound up on
this occasion, I had to leave the table for five
minutes and go to the bathroom. I closed my eyes and
rubbed my swollen cock and thought of my wonderful
aunt, and jerked off very quickly into a fistful of
soft toilet paper. I returned to the table basking in
the pleasure of the ejaculation I had just shared
secretly with my aunt Clothilde.
Sometimes, just for a change, when Clothilde leaves, I
shoot over on my motor scooter to see my cousine
Michelle. If there's time at the end of her lunch
break, she takes me into her soft, generous mouth and
gives me a blow-job. (That's another nice American
expression I like). Michelle loves to suck, and she
swallows too. She always giggles when I ask her if she
enjoyed the dessert. She's a good kid.
Oh, and the second thing that happens when Clothilde
comes to visit us, is that all the petty crooks and
vandals in the neighbourhood disappear. A kind of false
peace is restored to the unsafe streets for a short
while, for a couple of hours. They all know who she is,
and keep their heads down while she's around. They know
I won't be a 'balance' - an informer - but they also
know they have to treat me with respect. There's a lot
of drug dealing and thieving in the poor quarter where
I live. I've tried smoking shit - hashish. I drink
beer, and I smoke ordinary cigarettes too. I do all the
things adults do. I'm fifteen, but I tell all the girls
who don't know me I'm seventeen or eighteen. They don't
care anyway what age I am.
I fuck girls a lot, too; they all like me. It was my
best friend Franck's widowed maman who took my cherry
when I was only twelve years old. That's normal, most
French kids get it from a pal's mother the first time.
Her name is Aline, and she's short and plump and
pretty, with big breasts. She was always putting her
arms around me and kissing me on the cheek from quite a
young age, calling me a beautiful boy. I started
getting hard-ons, then wet dreams because of all her
attention.
She would say: "You can't get on in life without being
good looking these days, Jean-Marie. You learn
languages and stuff, and you have the looks to go a
long way." She said that one day I would break hearts.
My mother's white, and never told me who my father was,
but I only have to look in the mirror to see that I
have Arab blood in me. I guess the blood mix has helped
me with my looks. Aline thinks so, anyway.
Aline always used to make a lot of fuss of me. Then one
day, whilst I was at their apartment waiting for Franck
to come home, she started cuddling me standing up as
usual getting me all excited. This time, she suddenly
slipped her hand down over my rampant queue. She
squeezed and rubbed it a few times and it made me
ejaculate very quickly in my shorts. I went weak at the
knees, as she massaged all the sperm out of my cock and
into my shorts. She was breathing and cooing in my ear,
saying how pretty I was and what a big cock I had for a
twelve year old boy. It was a new experience for me,
and not at all like having a wet dream in my bed. Aline
didn't stop either. She carried on manipulating my
queue and before I knew it I was erect again.
I thought Aline was going to do the same and make me
come another time, but instead she took me by the hand,
led me over to the sofa and sat down on the edge of it.
Because Franck was expected at any minute, it was a
very quick fuck that first time. She lifted up her
dress without waiting and pulled off her 'culotte' –
her knickers. I saw a woman's pussy for the first time
when Aline opened her plump legs wide and lifted up her
knees to show me; it looked very hairy, and the centre
part was all open, sort of engorged, pink and moist,
and looking at it made me very curious about sex. I
took off my shorts and I kneeled down like she said
between her legs.
Aline had to show me what to do, as I knew nothing yet
– I was only twelve. My cock was covered in slippery
sperm from my first ejaculation. Aline was cooing
again, holding my face in her two hands. I was over-
excited and once I got the head of my rampant cock
between her big, rubbery vagina lips, into that hot,
wet hole, I spurted very quickly into her cunt. It was
over in less than a minute. I couldn't believe the
pleasure of my first fuck.
Now, I fuck Aline every chance I can when Franck isn't
at home, sometimes several times in an afternoon. And
she's always willing; she's never refused me, not once,
not even when she has her periods. At those times she
sucks me and makes me come in her mouth. She loves
sucking my big brown cock. Franck says when a woman
gives you a blow job, she has total control over you,
but I don't agree, I stay in control all the time.
Aline taught me lots of good things: how to pleasure a
woman properly with my fingers and my mouth as well as
with my cock – which Aline says is the most beautiful
tool of lovemaking she has ever seen and had inside
her. I'm sure she has a thing for arab flesh. Now I
know how to slow it all down and take my time. I can
come quickly or I can spin it out. I learn lots of
stuff with Aline, which I use on other girls.
In summer I often go down to the private beaches and
become a kind of predator after the tourists, after the
young girls on holiday, bronzing their half-naked
bodies. I'm tall, so they don't know how old I am. I
pick the ones with the best 'nichons' and 'fesses' –
tits and asses. I prowl along the sand all day
sometimes, and I chat them up if they look tasty
enough.
I know enough English, so I listen for phrases that I
recognise, then I move in. I make sure they get to see
my nice erection pressing against my swimsuit, that
always impresses them. Later I look for them in the
discos and I make my selection. I've had a lot of
success; I've fucked English girls, Suedes, Americans,
all sorts. They all like me and my big cock. They go
home with nice memories at the end of their 'vacances'.
If I don't join Marseille as a professional footballer,
maybe one day I'll become a gigolo and make a lot of
money fucking rich bitches and lonely old widows. I'd
like to go to America, Florida maybe; there's lots of
rich old ladies there. So I learn English and American
phrases. England is too cold and damp for me, but I
still think the English girls are the classiest.
Sometimes I imagine I can fuck forever.
I love looking at women in uniforms, as I say. That's
why I skip school sometimes and go to the airport,
which is not far from where I live. Everybody wears a
uniform there, air staff, the car rental receptionists,
ordinary ground staff, everybody. I follow the pretty
air hostesses and female stewards around, thinking
about fucking them and then I sometimes go into a wc
cubicle to jerk off. It's my favourite pastime.
So far I only had one chance to fuck a woman in
uniform. She was a cleaner. She wore a kind of uniform,
so it was enough to get my equipment hard at the right
moment. This cleaner smiled at me in a knowing way and
then told me that she had seen me prowling around the
airport on several occasions. She must have spotted my
erection. She wasn't even young, nor pretty, but I
could tell from the twinkle in her eyes that she wanted
me, so I went into the toilets. She followed me into
the wc cubicle and before I knew it she was sitting on
my hard cock, bouncing up and down, her eyes wide and,
groaning like she hadn't had a fuck for a year. She
unbuttoned her coverall so I could play with her big
breasts and suck the nipples.
She tried to kiss me, but I was having none of it. She
came very quickly, shuddering and grunting quietly,
sitting there on my cock, saying how good it felt. But
she made me pull my cock out of her cunt before I
ejaculated and then finished me off with her hands and
toilet paper, which sort of disappointed me. Still, it
was better than jerking off by myself, I said. When it
was all over, she said I could come back, but I avoided
her afterwards, and just told my pal Franck where to go
if he was desperate and needed an easy fuck.
So this particular day in summer, I skip school, it's
the end of term anyway and I've had enough. I park my
scooter, and here I am inside the airport again,
prowling around, making sure I don't bump into that
easy-lay cleaner. Before long I spot an air hostess,
very tasty looking, about 30 years old. Pale skin,
which I like, short blonde hair, very pretty face,
tallish and very elegante. Air hostesses are always so
immaculately made up. I think at first maybe she's
Scandinavian, or British. I can't get a proper look at
her breasts, as she's wearing the uniform jacket, but I
find her long slim legs encased in classy stockings and
her swaying hips irresistible. That tight air hostess
skirt rides the crack of her ass, clinging into the
crease of each crescent cheek. I put on my cold eye, I
slip into my predator's skin and I start to follow her
around. I become invisible for a time, until I decide I
want her to see me.
I lose her tracks for a while when she goes into an
area forbidden to the public, but I hang around, and
less than half an hour later I see my blonde beauty
heading towards the taxi rank at the front of the
airport building. She's lost her jacket, so now I can
see she has great 'nichons', their fullness accentuated
by her tight fitting air hostess blouse. I can almost
see her big, hard nipples. I can't believe her legs, my
cock is already up.
I jump on my scooter and follow the taxi. I'm very
quick and skillful on my scooter. The taxi gets caught
in 'bouchons' - traffic jams as the English say. I can
weave in and out of cars and trucks. I manage to get
alongside the air hostess's car and get a good close
look at her legs; they really are 'formidables'. I
follow her taxi all the way to the 'Lagrange', then I
park my scooter and helmet and enter the centre by a
side entrance.
Shoppers in big centres like 'Lagrange' either go to
the top floor and work their way down, or they start
their shopping expedition on the bottom floor and
eventually end up at the top. Sometimes it depends on
whether they're hungry, in which case they go for the
restaurants and the fast food bars at the top level. I
sprint up the stairs to the top floor, and there she
is, wandering aimlessly from shop to boutique.
I can see she's bored. I watch her everywhere, always
keeping a safe distance, invisible, waiting for a
chance to make my move. She doesn't see me in my
predator's skin. My queue is as hard as flexed steel,
I'm enjoying the friction of my shorts against my cock
head, which is leaking. I don't wear a slip or anything
underneath, that way I can enjoy the stimulation all
day long and when I jerk off, I come a lot quicker.
Besides, if I don't wear underwear, I can get my
equipment out for action that much easier.
I see her go into a boutique selling ladies underwear
stuff. She buys a set of bra and panties, very sexy,
pale colour. I try to imagine what she will look like,
stripped down naked except for this set of underwear. I
check the rack where she made her choice, and the size
of her tits impresses me. I catch up with her moving
towards the escalateur, she's going down a level. Just
then, I see a couple of low life kids from my quarter
prancing around, acting like juvenile idiots. They've
spotted my air hostess prize, and it looks like they
want to have fun with her.
They're harmless enough, but they can really scare the
shit out of tourists with their antics. (I like this
expression too – scare the shit out of people).
Sometimes these kids steal handbags or even shopping
packages, but only if they've been drinking or smoking
shit and get bravado. So I overtake the air hostess and
push the chubby one, who thinks he's a tough guy,
aside. I never walk with my hands in my pocket, I keep
them ready for action. I know them both, these creeps.
I can see that they recognise me. I tell them to behave
and I'll take care of them later, and they back off
quickly enough. I feel good, having defended my air
hostess against these dumb kids.
I don't look back at her, I carry on walking as though
nothing happened, and go down to the next level and
wait for her. I know that the English woman will
remember me next time she sees me. Now I feel really
confident in myself that I'll fuck this beauty. And I
really need it; I haven't jerked off for two days now.
The urge to shoot my sperm is getting stronger by the
minute, watching my beautiful air hostess prey.
Below, on the next floor, I know I have to make my
move, in case she leaves, but I'm still a little
undecided as to where and how to do it. But what have I
got to lose? She's in a foreign country. If my tactics
don't work, 'tant pis' – too bad - she'll be gone
anyway at the end of the afternoon and I'll never see
her again. Then, if I really do need a fuck, I can
always go see Michelle when she finishes work, or call
on Aline.
I watch the air hostess, the main object of my
immediate lust, enter a 'librairie' and browse the
books. I realise that if she's going to read, in a café
bar for example, I could easily approach her there and
make my move. My twitching cock hardens up a little
more and my predator's instinct self-tunes up a gear or
two.
I need to empty my bladder in readiness, so I leave her
alone for a while; I can always find her again in that
uniform. I piss and have a smoke in the toilets – it's
not allowed but I don't give a shit about rules. What
will they do? Throw me in jail for smoking in the
toilets? I work up my script, thinking of as many
useful English words as I can muster, because I know
that even if she's Scandinavian, she'll understand
English.
Then I go looking for her. I track her easily in a café
bar. I watch her from the side for a while, and notice
that she's scratching her inner thigh occasionally.
Nice, I think. When she scratches down there, I see
thigh flesh; that makes my cock lurch in my shorts.
Lovely thighs, I think to myself – soft, pale and
smooth looking. The kind I'd like to lick, all the way
up to her pussy and her ass. Now I'm getting so
excited, I have a massive hard-on and I could almost go
back to the toilets and jerk off. But I'll save it for
my air hostess.
It's time to make my move, I decide.
I walk over to her table, where she is sitting alone,
her head is buried in a book. I make sure my hard cock
is at full mast, pointing upwards and prominent in my
bermudas, and I stand there just in front of her,
across her table. I don't wait long. She finally
notices I'm there, and looks up over her book and gazes
longingly at my erection. She can't fail to notice its
dimensions; I know straight away she's impressed. It
doesn't take her long to swallow the bait and talk to
me, just as I knew she would. Then I sit down, teasing
her by hiding my erection under the table.
So I say to her: "I've been watching you, and I want to
fuck you." She pretends to be shocked, but she knows
that I know she wants to fuck as well. We talk for a
while, and I learn that her name is Pam and she is
English. I was right, she is bored because her plane is
grounded and she's waiting for her next flight. I know
she's ripe for a good fuck, so I leave her to reflect
on my proposition while I go over to Michelle's
furniture store which is on the same floor, to arrange
the back room with my cousine. She's none too pleased,
but her boss is away, so I persuade her to let me in.
Besides, she loves my cock too, and she doesn't want to
get on the wrong side of me.
I go back to what's-her-name, Pam, who now starts to
play 'cache-cache' - hard to get, saying I'm too young
and such. But I know she's just flirting with me, and I
know what she wants. When a woman says 'no' she means
'maybe'. I tell her she won't be disappointed, and then
I see her get flushed and I see her eyes dilate, which
is always a good sign. She's noticed my cock for sure,
and wants a taste of the real thing. Five minutes later
we are on the way to Michelle's shop; she is a pace or
two behind me, like a good Arab woman.
Michelle watches us walk the length of the shop, all
the way to the back stockroom. En route, Pam is all
over me, groping my cock with her eager, soft hand,
which feels very nice at last, and I get to fondle her
tits too. They're big and firm and feel up to my
expectations. As we get near to the door into the
stockroom, I spin my pretty air hostess round and start
to kiss her hard on the mouth, making sure Michelle
gets a good eyeful. Pam's ready alright; she grabs me
around the waist, her tongue shoots into my mouth, and
she grinds her belly against my throbbing, rock hard
cock. She smells really good and doesn't wear too much
lipstick; I like that. I enjoy the pleasant taste of
café in her mouth. I can't wait to get my massive cock
inside her, to show her what a really good French fuck
is like.
I push the stockroom door open and, with Pam clinging
to me by the waist, licking my throat and squeezing my
cock through my shorts, I kick it shut. Amongst all the
furniture stock I see there are some new double bed
mattresses covered in protective plastic, standing up
edgeways against one wall. I pull blonde Pam over and
press her back forcefully against them, grinding my
cock into her pubes. She loves it.
She drops her package and bag on the floor. I kiss her
again and she's moaning and gasping like a crazy woman.
I tug at her blouse and reveal her bra, which I lift up
so I can feel her soft bare tits under my hands.
They're big and firm even without bra support, and she
has great nipples, so I lean down and suck them both
hard in turn. It drives her wild, and all this time
she's squeezing and rubbing my cock with one hand, then
pulling at my T-shirt or trying to find my zipper with
the other.
She wants to do everything all at once, so I pull my T-
shirt over my head, I lean back and allow her to pull
down my zipper, while I undo my belt. My bermudas fall
down around my ankles and my cock springs out for
action into the cool stockroom air.
She kicks off her shoes and rips off all her upper
clothes, her blouse and bra, and throws them away,
before grabbing my pulsating cock in both hands and
cooing her obvious delight at the discovery, as she
kisses me again with furious and uncontrolled passion.
Her hands are so clean and soft – not at all like
Aline's. She rubs the end of my cock with her thumb and
smoothes the slippery fluid leaking from the end all
around the head, then runs the fingers of both hands
all along the length of it.
Now I stop kissing her, I look down and see all of her
naked tits, shoulders, and arms. Such pale and soft
skin, she's lovely, this Pam. I watch her paying
uninhibited hommage to my gigantic organ with her
hands, and with all the attention she's giving it, I'm
already on the point of coming in her hands. I strain
to hold back my ejaculation, I want it to be inside
her, not wasted on a quick jerk-off.
This English rose is wild, I think to myself. I roll up
Pam's neat air hostess skirt way above her waist,
almost up to her fabulous breasts and rip down her pink
panties. I look down and see a completely shaved pussy.
I've never seen that before, and it excites me even
more. Her legs look great in stockings held up by
elastic. I want to drop to my knees and nibble those
luscious pink folds, but things are getting too urgent
for me right now. I start rubbing a finger between her
vagina lips, which I find are already sopping wet. My
middle finger slips inside easily and I feel Pam
shudder with her first orgasm.
She is really hotter than hot, I tell myself. I don't
need to wait any longer, I can't wait any longer.
Manoeuvring myself between her wide open thighs, I slip
my hands around behind her tight little buttocks and
try to lift her up. She lets go of my cock and sort of
wriggles a bit, tries to say something in French which
I don't understand. She reaches down for her bag lying
on the floor, and I get a superb view of her tight bare
ass as she fumbles inside and pulls out a packet of
condoms. I get it, but I'm too impatient now. I take
the packet off her and throw it aside. "We don't need
those" I say, "I'm clean, Pam, don't worry."
She just sighs aloud and says nothing, I know she's in
a hurry to feel my monster cock inside her. I grab her
firm ass cheeks in my hands again and I move forward
and lift her up. Her legs both wrap themselves around
my thighs and pull me in, directing my taught, anxious
organ towards her waiting bald pussy lips. I find the
entrance without needing direction. My cock knows where
to go all by itself, even if I've never fucked a bald
pussy before.
I breach those soft, smooth lips with the head of my
throbbing, leaking cock, sliding it into her cunt to
the hilt in one long, gigantic thrust. She screams and
comes again; I feel her cunt muscles contract and
squeeze the whole length of my cock, as she trembles in
passion. She clamps her mouth on mine, maybe to cover
the noise she's making, ramming her tongue almost down
my throat and gasping her capuccino breath into my
mouth.
I pause for just an instant or two, then start to pump
in and out of this English beauty's cunt, slowly at
first, to tease her a little, then increasing my tempo
in the way Aline taught me. Pam loves it; she whimpers
and coos and groans. A few French words she knows, but
mostly in English. I hear her gasp the word 'fuck' a
lot, which is a word I know well. She has her arms
around my neck and is holding on to me with all her
strength. She's wild with lust for my cock and
obviously can't get enough of it as I ram the whole
length of it all the way up to the neck of her cervix.
Then I feel her arms tighten around me and she starts
to tremble all the way from her waist down to her feet
and I know she's coming with a big one, just like Aline
does sometimes when she's especially worked up after
missing my cock for a few days. I also had the same
experience once with a Danish girl.
The vibrations going through this beautiful English
woman's body get more violent, and now it's too much
for me. I feel the immense pressure in my balls
mounting rapidly. I give one huge thrust of my hips,
trying to get my massive cock as far as possible into
her womb and I let go. I come and I come. Two days of
sperm buildup gushes out of my cock eye into this
lovely Pam's cunt and way up into her entrails.
The jerking of my cock inside this hot, wet paradise
and the spurting of my semen go on and on, as I
continue to thrust my hips against her and pump it into
her with all the force of my young body. At the same
time, she tightens her legs around the back of my
thighs and shakes and jerks her lower body against mine
with surprising strength. She's bouncing up and down on
my cock, her cunt muscles working overtime as though to
milk me dry. She is hot. She is hot, I say to myself;
I'll be ready again very soon, I say to myself.
Part 3: Life Is Full Of Little Surprises
----------------------------------------
I can't remember exactly at what moment I give in to my
own foolish and misplaced lust. My thoughts are a bit
hazy, fuzzy. Imprecise, you might say. I blame that
book really for getting me into this state. What I do
know, is that what I have just caught a glimpse or two
of, hiding there behind those scruffy denim bermuda
shorts, the vision of innocent but overtly sensual male
beauty looking at me across the table, those piercing
eyes, full of confidence and desire, fixed on me like
that, just kind of trigger off a sudden need to be
fucked.
I confess, it isn't at all sudden, really – the need's
been there and growing ever since I spoke to Richard,
my lover on the phone. But the fact is that I haven't
had any for two days - last time I was at home with
Richard - and there is no other prospect of any close
up and personal stuff for at least another three. I
can't justify it, I can't explain it any other way.
For an instant, no more than an instant, I wrestle with
the fact that that this dark skinned Adonis Jean-Marie
is probably no more than half my age. But the age of a
cock as visually impressive as this one doesn't seem to
matter, I say to myself; all that matters really is its
dimensions and what this cheeky young French bastard
can do with it. And young as he is, this Jean-Marie,
even if he doesn't know how to use it, I'm ready to get
myself off in a very short time, if only I can get that
thing up inside me.
The reasonable element of my brain hovers briefly over
the word 'disease', then passes on; I have some condoms
in my bag. I think so, anyway. It'll be anonymous and
no-one will know, I tell myself with palpitating chest.
It's not as though I reflect about all this for too
long. I'm really flushed, my heartbeat is indecently
up, my nipples are tingling and my vibrating pussy is
dribbling like it hasn't dribbled for a very long time.
My libido is bursting out of my skin. When I'm in this
state I'm anybody's, I have to admit. In my head I
silently say my excuses to Richard and to my own sense
of guilt, then I just look at the boy and I speak with
a slightly trembling voice, quite spontaneously and
suddenly: "OK. On y va." Let's go.
I hope he can't believe his luck. We stand up
simultaneously; he grins, I smile, but I keep it
tightlipped, looking up at his gloating, handsome
visage, then down at his bulging cock one more time, as
though to reassure myself of the motivation for my
decision to sin. He turns and strides off quickly
towards his cousine's shop and I patter behind him on
my sensible air hostess low heels, catching up with him
only as he goes through into the shop.
There is a lot of less-than-shy kissing and groping
between us on the way down to the stockroom at the far
end of the shop. Jean-Marie's hands are everywhere,
assaulting me with marauding familiarity. He grabs my
breasts in turn hard outside my dress, even undoes a
few buttons, trying to get his fingers inside my bra.
Then he gives up on the clothing protecting my breasts
and slides his hand down to my crotch, to rub my
pudenda, then my slit, much too roughly with strong
fingers outside my thin skirt.
I manage to get my hand on his cock for the first time,
and confirm that it is a real handful, of stunning
proportions. He is not the most delicate of lovers at
this early stage, I have to say, maybe adult foreplay
is not his best feature. I begin to doubt for a second
whether I should back out. Then he slams open the
stockroom door, pulls me inside and kicks the door
shut. The lighting is poor, but good enough. I know
it's too late to turn back. I know I don't want to
really. I need a good fucking. My whole insides are
drooling unashamedly, and I'm flipping at the prospect
of sitting on that weapon of his.
I drop my shoulder bag and package on the floor, before
Jean-Marie kind of half lifts me up in his arms, pushes
me against a pile of upturned plastic covered
mattresses and suddenly he's kissing me in a much too-
forceful manner. I taste tobacco on his tongue, which I
hate. But by now I can feel his wonderful bulge against
my belly and an urgent, unstoppable and rising need to
have the length and hardness of it buried inside me.
I forgive him his youthful inexperience. The iron-hard
bulge slips down off my belly, now he is thrusting it
against my pudenda, dry fucking me, which only serves
to increase my desire to have the real thing, good and
wet. He has my blouse and bra off in no time at all and
starts sucking very, very hard on my nipples. This bit
I love; I cradle his head in my hands and encourage him
with little noises, the mewing ones that Richard likes
to hear when he's chewing on the very same hard
nipples, making them swell up like bullets.
While Jean-Marie is driving my desire up to an
impossible level by sucking and nibbling on my nipples
alternately, I lift up his T-shirt and tug upwards. He
gets the message and soon has it over his head and
away. I smooth my hands lovingly over hairless, perfect
flesh and muscle. I'm in awe of this boy's body. I
reach down and try to get inside his shorts; I want to
feel that hard, throbbing spongy thing in my hands.
Finally he helps me, his shorts drop down to his feet
and at long last I can cradle this astonishing man's,
not kid's, organ in my fingers. He didn't lie to me
about his cock, nor did my own eyes; I get what I saw.
My two hands sandwiched between our bellies, I start to
rub its length lightly up and down between my palms,
knowing how the lightest of manual pressure back and
forth always works, especially combined with smoothing
his seminal leakings around his thick cock head with my
thumb. As I rub and tickle this monster of a penis, I
hear him expel loud, savage but unintelligible sounds
of appreciation in French, in between tongue lashings.
I give a moment's thought to Sam the snake; this is
better, this is real.
Next Jean-Marie rolls up my skirt over my belly. He
ignores my classy, expensive stockings (thank goodness
they're not tights, I think) and roughly attacks my
delicate panties, which finish in shreds on the floor
with my shoulder bag. I don't give a damn, I have new
stuff. I kick off my sensible shoes, spread my feet
quite naturally and his rough brown fingers start to
play with my bald pussy lips. He slips a strong digit
easily but indelicately inside my dribbling pussy and I
feel myself shudder deliciously. Now, keeping his well-
worn trainers on, he kicks away his shorts, stands
between my open thighs with that magnificent tool
waving up at me; I've never seen one so rigid, so big
and so ready.
Now I've been around the world; I know that we
shouldn't fuck with someone we don't know, without
protection. Inelegantly and with my crumpled skirt up
around my waist, I bend over and reach for my bag. I
fumble inside, panicking, fearing that I don't have any
condoms. I try vainly to think of the French word. I
finally fish out a shiny packet of one-size condoms,
and smiling, I hold it up in front of my face as a sign
of my thoughtfulness. But Jean-Marie's eyes soon make
it clear that he doesn't really appreciate my
protective gesture at all. He takes the packet from me,
and, muttering something that indicates he doesn't want
anything to do with rubber goods, the condoms are
flicked away to join my clothes on the stockroom floor.
Standing between my now wide open, welcoming thighs
again, this strong boy Jean-Marie dips his knees, and
with his muscular arms around me and his hands
underneath my bum, he lifts me up to cock-end level.
Now I've already given up the idea of insisting he
protects himself against catching AIDS or worse from
this blonde foreigner. I lift up my thighs high and
without hesitation Jean-Marie's lovely, adorable,
hardest of hard, monster of a young penis is inside my
cunt. One thrust, and his cock is all the way up to my
cervix and I come in a shattering, long overdue orgasm.
I can't ever remember a more rapid climax in all my
sex-driven days. Nor as intense.
I scream uninhibitedly at the pain and the pleasure,
struggling to believe it happens so quickly; I'm
shaking all over, gasping, and he's only just started.
His face is buried in my neck and my feet have found
their way around onto his strong, dark skinned thighs.
He supports my weight easily, as I shudder and pant
with pleasure, my two hands softly stroking his neck
and shoulders, a kind of gesture of gratitude, perhaps.
Now I don't care how old this kid is; it feels
sensational just having someone this big inside me at
last. My cunt is drooling freely and feels on molten
fire and eager for more. Jean-Marie hesitates for a few
long seconds, waiting for me to finish quaking, and as
I start to come down from my peak, I feel his cock
pulsating, not moving, just throbbing inside my still
tingling pussy.
He clamps his mouth on mine and, as though in direct
answer to my unspoken eagerness, starts pumping his
impossibly long and thick piece of dark meat into me,
very slowly at first. I have my very own pet black
snake inside me now, I think. I close my eyes, and we
move in a magnificent groaning partnership of sexual
give and take, like a single body with two heads.
But I need it faster, so I encourage him, working my
ass like crazy onto his cock, squeezing and thrusting
up and down, pulling him tighter against me with my
legs over his bum and my arms around his broad, dark
skinned shoulders. I can feel the firmness of his ass
cheeks against my calves and am in awe of the power of
his body. Especially his ability to make me feel
completely full up inside my vagina.
He pulls out his wondertool out slowly and lunges back
in hard, making me yelp with pleasure pain, repeating
the action several times, all of which triggers off the
beginnings of another climax. I can't stop it coming, I
don't try to stop it. I let it take me over, the most
intense and mind-blowing, unimaginable sensations in my
brain, in my cunt, on my tit ends, in my guts, just
about everywhere. And I feel my heart is bursting out
of my rib cage.
I'm overwhelmed by the supremacy of this young boy's
thrusts, the hardness of his man's cock, the pressure
of his pubic bone against mine. I rip my mouth from his
and welcome the arrival of my second orgasm with
another loud piercing scream of appreciation, as my
body seems to disintegrate into quaking pleasure. This
one is even more powerful and intense than the first
and I go into a kind of erotic trance, gripping Jean-
Marie's shoulders.
Now I'm licking inside his ear, scratching his shoulder
flesh with my nails, gasping uncontrollably into the
cool air of the stockroom, bouncing my ass up and down
on his erection, to get every ounce or gramme of
pleasure I can. He goes on pumping with amazing force,
I can hear him start to breathe heavier, then start to
pant and I know with supreme joy that his own climax is
on its way. I'm going to receive his young seminal
gushings in very short time, I know this from
experience.
I bounce harder on his incredible fuck-rod, pressing my
legs down onto his thighs, urging him on: "Vas-y! Vas-
y!" - come on! Fuck!" I yell hoarsely. I want that
seminal nectar inside me, and I want it now. I haven't
a single thought in my head of disease, Richard or
anything else but the outrageous and illicit pleasure
this under-age stud is giving me here and now, the
filled-up sensation in my cunt produced by his immense
young cock.
Suddenly, his knees tremble and buckle, he grunts and
says something unintelligible and I feel the power of
his ejaculation inside my cunt at last. It's like
opening a boiling hosepipe, and it pours and pours from
his cock high and deep into my cervix. I feel this
magical tool jerk and jerk again inside me with a
ferocity I've never experienced before. I find its
absolute power unbelievable, and I'm so uncannily
grateful, I suddenly want this to be the best fuck
Jean-Marie will ever have in his life.
So I go on bouncing on his 'queue', shouting "Oui!
Oui!" squeezing that hard gristle for all I'm worth
with my cunt muscles, just like I learned to do with
Richard, until Jean-Marie finally stops thrusting and
grunting, until his cock begins to lose its rigid
potency and finally stops spurting in my quivering
depths.
I know better than to say anything which will indicate
affection or gratitude. I cling on to Jean-Marie's
neck, he still has his hands underneath my ass cheeks
and I can feel his claws gripping my flesh. His face is
down and he is sucking a nipple again like a baby as he
starts to slow down. I don't want him to leave me, I
want him to recover quickly and fuck me again, just
like the first time. I feel like I can go on and on
being abused by this gorgeous big adolescent with a
truly manly body, at least until I get a call from the
airport.
We're both breathing very heavily, we're both hot and
my perspiration is indistinguishable from his as we
cling together, and now he's kissing me again with a
surprising tenderness. His lips and tongue are almost
gentle. Languishing in post-coital joy, it occurs to me
that with a little time and opportunity, I could teach
this young boy how to be a really gentle and capable
lover; he has all the quality equipment, he just needs
to work on his technique, I say to myself. Jean-Marie's
lovely cock slips out of me, allowing a huge dribble of
seminal fluid to burst from my innards and run down my
thighs. I sigh at its loss, the dark emptiness it
leaves behind.
I'm ready to go at it again, surely he can get it up
quickly at his age. But he eases himself back from me
and I think its all over; that's it, he's had his
wicked way with me now and will be off to look for his
next victim. But no, he pulls me forward and sideways,
then grabs the mattress I am leaning against. With a
wrench, he drags it away from the other mattresses and
repositions it at a different, lower angle. I see the
plastic covering is slick and wet with body
perspiration, just like Sam's torso. And there are
several huge droplets of seminal fluid running down it,
but I guess that tart Michelle will have to take care
of the housework, I think, inwardly almost giggling
with self-satisfaction.
Jean-Marie grabs my arm and spins me around, and before
I know it, he pulls down my rolled up skirt, throws it
away onto the floor. Now I'm bending over the mattress
with my ass in the air, my legs apart and my face,
belly and breasts against warm, damp plastic. I feel
his breath against my back, then lower on my hot,
sweaty ass cheeks. I sense wonderfully gentle kisses
and tongue caresses all over my flesh. I can't see him,
but I can imagine him kneeling between my spread legs
looking up into my ass crack. He licks my inner thighs
above my stockings, all the way up to the tops.
I feel his strong hands grip my cheeks and separate
them very gently as his tongue starts to lick along the
crease of my ass and underneath, flicking the tip of it
against my sopping, bald pussy lips. I twitch with
unexpected pleasure and hear my voice hum. I can feel
his nose is now pressed close to my ass. He doesn't
seem to mind the mess and the odour down there one
little bit. I wonder if he's up and hard yet, but I try
to be patient. I reach around and blindly caress his
head and neck, I make those tiny little-voice murmuring
noises that Richard loves to hear when I'm revelling in
his devoted oral attention.
He takes his time, this young but beautifully skilled
oral sex specialist, licking and nibbling, then
plunging just the tip of his rigid tongue inside my
vagina for what seems a very long time. He can't avoid
tasting all that stuff down there, he must enjoy it.
And at the same time he's running his big hands up and
down my outer thighs, up to my waist, over my belly and
back down, fondling and squeezing and separating my
hot, damp ass cheeks. I'm in erotic heaven, thinking
surely Sam couldn't be as good as this. One of his
hands reaches around to my front, fingers and frigs my
clit momentarily, causing me to flinch with a sudden
surge of pleasure, almost a tiny orgasm. God, I think,
I could let this go on forever.
I feel the damned mosquito bite start to itch again, I
try to ignore it. I close my eyes and drift away, give
myself up to the oral adoration Jean-Marie is bestowing
on my ass and cunt. He's good, very good at this; I
know he's done a lot of it, and I wonder with whom. But
much as I appreciate the consideration he's giving my
pussy, eventually I want to scream at him: "Fuck me
again, Jean-Marie!". Almost as though he's heard me, he
pulls away and I sigh excitedly and wait there bent
over the mattress, with tingling nerve ends and fast
beating heart for the exquisite re-entry of his sanity
saving cock.
I hear noises, a door opening, voices. They speak
rapidly in almost inaudible argotique French; a female
voice. Unhappy Michelle? Then men - no, boys -
whispering things. I don't understand a single word
except 'bonne' – good. I panic, I'm confused. I start
to raise my head up to see what's going on, but
suddenly my neck is gripped and immobilised by an
unfamiliar hand, a very strong hand. I'm confused. I
flap my arms up in the air in a useless attempt to get
up.
I grip the edge of the mattress and wriggle like a
snake, vainly trying to get a leverage to fight back
against the hand squeezing my neck. I can't even speak
for a moment, trying to breathe and struggling to get
up at the same time, my legs flailing. It all happens
very quickly; I hear the same voices again, a rustle of
something, a clink of metal. My thoughts are flying
around like frightened starlings. Pleasure placed on
hold, I need to clear my mind and just understand
what's going on here.
Somehow, and pretty quickly, I begin to work out what's
happening here. I hear giggling, a voice which I know
I've heard before coming from a pig faced asshole up
there in front of the elevator. I hear scuffling feet,
more rustling, more porcine giggles. I suddenly realise
I'm trapped, powerless, I've been tricked! I've been
fucking set up! This Jean-Marie has lured me here for
his own selfish pleasure and is now handing me over to
his fucking pals! Here I am slung over an upturned
mattress with my hot ass in the air for Miss Piggy -
and probably the other young thug as well – to gaze on
and get their juvenile rocks off to.
Then my already elevated breathing and heartbeat go up
ten-fold, as I realise the full seriousness of my
predicament. Two small hands grab my ass cheeks,
squeeze them violently and pull them apart. I close my
legs instinctively and wriggle my back end again, but I
feel a vicious kick of a hard rubber trainer on both my
ankles. I find my voice at last and squeal with pain,
and am rewarded with a sharp, hard slap on my ass, then
another. I stop moving. My eyes fill up.
I remember the word for a condom: "Capote! ", I manage
to squeal, but they ignore me, all I hear is snorting
laughter from behind me. And then I feel what can only
be a finger or a very small cock against my pussy lips;
it slips in easily past my cunt lips, aided by the mass
of Jean-Marie's seminal fluid and my own love juices
still dribbling out. Piggy has a tiny cock, I tell
myself; now he's inside my cunt, but I can hardly feel
a thing. I remember the piercing ring in his belly
button, now it's scratching my coccyx in quite a
painful way. But this boy's miserable dick's not
touching the sides of my cunt.
I can feel his balls against my ass cheeks more than
anything, as I get bumped forwards and backwards by the
pathetic thrusts of his podgy belly, my face and tits
sliding against plastic sheeting. The pig's small hands
lock hard on to my waist and I feel his tiny, sharp
fingers dig into my delicate flesh unmercifully as he
bangs me. Meanwhile the big strong hand is still
pressing down on my neck, and I know that my body has
become an anonymous black hole for inflaming the lust,
and depositing the sperm, of these appalling juveniles.
The hand gripping the back of my neck changes, and now
it's Jean-Marie's hand, I can smell tobacco. But he
says not a single word to me, and down here I can't see
anything but plastic sheeting. There seems to be
nothing I can do but lie still and wait for pig face to
finish, I decide. I try to concentrate on my itchy leg,
hoping it will take my mind of the fact that I'm being
raped by a baby moron. All the time his belly button
ring is scratching the skin off my coccyx; it's getting
as sore as hell.
My head is still immobilised, my is neck now hurting
badly, I try wriggling my ass from side to side again,
in a supreme effort to free myself of this rat pig's
tiny dick, and suddenly I hear him gasp out loud and I
just know he's going to come, he's going to spurt his
horrible kiddy stuff inside me. I wriggle my ass yet
again more violently and he squeals with inane
pleasure, then I feel a tiny, feeble spurt of something
hot and liquid hit the back of my leg. I foiled him, I
rejoice.
He didn't come inside me, he only got my leg with his
disgusting sperm. I feel him try to stuff his filthy,
leaking, shrinking dick into the crack of my ass,
probably to finish off his pathetic ejaculation against
my flesh; it leaves warm slippery stuff all over my
skin and around my anus, bringing in me an urge to
vomit. He's shouting lewdly: "Elle est bonne, elle est
bonne !" I feel disgusted and degraded, but I have the
last word, he doesn't plant his putrid, stinking seed
in me. Beam me up Scotty, I think.
But I know it it's not over; I know the other one, the
less evil looking one of the two thugs is there in the
stockroom somewhere behind me. I can almost hear his
breathing. I wonder if he already has his cargo pants
down and his evil cock in his hand, priming it, getting
it up nice and hard and ready to fuck me in his turn. I
wonder if it's as tiny as pig face's willy.
I wonder, too, what the adolescent Casanova Jean-Marie
is thinking, as he pins me down here helpless on the
mattress, watching all this going on. Maybe he's
enjoying it all, has a hardon himself. Maybe, just
maybe he's giving a single tiny, culpable thought to
that fuck of his young life I gave him just a few short
minutes ago. Shit, I never imagined earlier that I'd
find myself in such an awful, dreadful predicament when
I allowed this beautiful, charming and seemingly
credible boy to relieve my boredom and talk me into a
clandestine fuck. I try to imagine how I might one day
get my revenge.
I try to raise my head, make a half-hearted and useless
effort to get up again, then have to relax and brace
myself for the next assault, which I know is due any
second. I know there's no point in bringing my feet
together, I'll only get kicked again.
I feel the touch of two hands on my ass cheeks once
again, but this time, gentle and soft. I feel a finger
slide wetly along my smooth slit, slowly caressing the
lips and parting them. It's quite pleasant, and I think
to myself that this boy is not like the other one, the
porcine sod. This one inserts a finger inside my pussy
lips as though he's afraid he might hurt me and starts
a slow and careful finger fucking action, at the same
time running his other hand so lightly over my buttocks
and around my thighs, up along my back, smoothing it
over my shoulders and back, then down to my thighs. His
youthful hands are treating my skin almost with
affection, an unimaginable tenderness in a young
rapist, in the circumstances. As he caresses me I feel
the wet end of his rigid cock brushing against my upper
thigh.
Gentle or not, number three is still going to have me,
I tell myself. That's what I'm here for, that's why
I've been lured into this fucking stockroom, I tell
myself. I pray that a quick, free fuck is all they
want, and that they don't have any ideas about robbing
me or hurting me. I'm a big girl, I can take as much
rough sex as you want to give me, but please don't hurt
me, I say silently.
The gentle animal's finger slides lovingly in and out
of my still very wet and slippery cunt, then there is a
pause, and I feel the hard knuckles of his hand against
my ass crack, as he guides the head of his penis in to
touch my pussy lips. He's still gentle as he breaches
my sopping vulva lips with his stiff rod, which feels
really good and hard, and certainly a great deal bigger
than piggy's minute appendage did earlier. This one
isn't going to get lost like a banana going up Oxford
Street. He slides it in and it feels good, gentle like
that. So gentle. Rape or not, non-consenting or not, I
think if he keeps up this display of affection and
respect, I might just begin to enjoy his violation of
my poor body.
As the gentle one begins his oh-so-tender plundering of
my delicate, sopping and over-sensitive vagina, the
pressure on my neck suddenly lifts, and I feel Jean-
Marie's tobacco breath on my face. He talks into my
ear, and my heart skips a beat at the sound of his
voice, the first time I've heard it for an inestimable
length of time: "Relax, pretty English lady, you'll
enjoy this. Paul is good. He's not clumsy like Franck.
Nobody wants to hurt you."
With that, he pulls his mouth away from my ear, lifts
up my chin with his fingers, and I find myself looking
for the second time today at a bulge in his shorts.
That lovely big penis which had almost blown my brains
and body apart hours and hours ago is at full mast
again behind bermuda cotton; it looks like he's really
turned on by what's happening to me. Maybe he shouldn't
have got dressed so soon after banging me almost into
oblivion like that.
The gentle animal intruder's rigid gristle continues
sliding in and out of me from behind; it's very long
and slim, but now feels almost as big as Jean-Marie's
wonder tool, as though his own excitement has brought
him to new dimensions. Dazed, my body burning hot now,
I squeeze my cunt muscles and squeeze it like a vice,
and I start to wonder ashamedly if I dare let myself go
for another orgasm. I am enjoying those gentle caresses
on my back and buttocks. This boy has style, I think.
And he doesn't talk. If only there was someone to kiss
me tenderly, make me feel important again.
I look up at Jean-Marie's bulge and in an instant the
shorts descend, to release like a smooth tree branch
the object of my earlier lust. It's dark, several
shades of black, it's standing up high, wantonly, as
hard and stiff as ever I've seen a cock, and I see it
up close up for the first time. I see before me this
huge, circumcised head and an enlarged, dribbling cock
eye, veins throbbing before my very eyes, sparse black
pubic hairs. Above is his white T-shirt and below is
the tightest pair of testicles.
I know what's coming next; he kneels on the edge of the
mattress, and between his glistening thighs offers me a
feast which I'm more than ready for. I raise my head
higher, it zooms in, I open my lips wide and almost
devour his big cock head. The black snake twitches in
my mouth and I taste salty stuff. For just a tiny
second I wonder whether I should bite it off and have
my immediate revenge here and now. Maybe it would be a
good idea to cut short his pathetic, unsavoury career
forever.
But god, I'm so incredibly excited by the feelings I'm
experiencing right at this moment, the relentless and
now increasing tempo of the gentle animal's rigid cock
still plunging in and out of my burning, violated,
sopping cunt. How long can this boy go on, I wonder to
myself. I grip onto the edge of the mattress hard with
my hands, feel my fragile belly and tits sliding along
the unpleasant, wet plastic as my body moves with the
rhythm of his fucking me from behind. I think I might
faint away with pleasure, sucking now on the head of
this gorgeous love-tool in my mouth, tasting Jean-
Marie's abundant pre-ejaculatory seminal juices.
I suck harder and harder, I start using the increasing
rhythm of my rear-end aggressor's thrusts now, to
enhance the unrelenting suck-fuck motion on this Jean-
Marie's immense, taut organ. I want to get this over
now. All I want to do is give Jean-Marie, my one-
moment-in-time lover and erstwhile pimp the blow job of
his short, nasty existence. So I go at it with
everything I know.
Holding on to the mattress for balance, I lick the
solid head, I poke the tip of my tongue into his cock
eye, making him wince and draw back with pleasure. I
lean forward to recover the black snake, run my tongue
along the whole length of his darling, magnificent,
state-of-the-art prick. I bury my nose in his jet black
pubic hairs and tug at them with my teeth, revelling in
his perspiration in my nostrils.
I whimper and mew. I lick under his tight, sweaty
teenage balls. I enclose one testicle entirely in my
mouth and run my tongue around it lasciviously and suck
like it's a bonbon, before returning to lavish my
attention on the gristly head of his astonishingly hard
prick once more, and suck on it like it's going to be
the last blow job of my hostess career. Then I raise a
hand and cradle those tight, soft hairy spheres like
they are fragile crystal in my palm. I caress them
underneath, reaching through to touch Jean-Marie's anus
hole with a probing finger, scratching it with my
painted finger nail and making him wriggle his ass and
groan with pleasure
He grunts with appreciation, like before. And all the
time that wonderful, gentle animal cock behind is
probing the depths of my welcoming vagina, sliding in
and out, picking up speed, until I feel it pounding
into my very core, right at the entrance to my cervix.
I think I might just die with pleasure as I suck cock
and get fucked masterfully at the same time, here in
two separate worlds of lust. And I just know I'm going
to have another mind-blowing, shameful orgasm very
soon; there's no way I can stop it.
I hear a gasp from somewhere else behind me: "Allez-y!
Allez-y! Baisez-la!" Franck the pig's missing out on
all this. Or is he standing there jerking his dwarf
prick off to the sight of it all, I ask myself. I don't
give a shit, I reply to myself, as long as he doesn't
approach me. I'm in paradise, I want this amazing fuck-
fest to go on and on. I want to come again and I want
to syphon out all the sperm Jean-Marie has left in his
balls. I give only a tiny passing thought to Richard
and my job, as I gobble and receive in my burning cunt
the two most satisfying cocks in the entire universe.
My gentle animal stud is the first to come, and I feel
it start. He squeezes my ass cheeks ever so gently,
almost politely and slows his pace, bends over me so
that his firm young chest is pressing onto my back and
his face practically alongside mine; his skin feels
soft, cool, hairless, agreeable. I hear a sudden
outburst of air and voice, a soft grunt close to my
ear: "Putain bordel de merde!" – words I don't know at
all, then he slaps his thighs hard against my rear end,
forcing his long, thin cock in deep, deeper than I
thought humanly possible.
I imagine it coming out of my mouth and touching Jean-
Marie's cock end, it's so far in. I imagine their
simultaneous ejaculations colliding before my face,
flooding my visage with potent sperm. He rams his
rigid, wet tongue into my ear, sending a thrill of evil
pleasure though me, and goes on plunging his wicked,
wicked cock into me in short, rapid strokes, shuddering
against my ass and my back and gasping as I welcome his
young ejaculate into my depths like a powerful geyser.
I go over the top immediately. My body is suddenly
wracked with extreme pleasure, and I shudder too like
my aggressor, and I go over the edge one more time into
a gigantic orgasm. I almost black out with joy. I can
hear the pounding of my blood in my head. My legs
twitch, my knees go weak and I try to scream again, but
the delicious dark meat in my mouth only permits a
muffled groan to escape. I remove my mouth from Jean-
Marie's over-excited cock, to take breath and yelp.
Still in the throes of an intense and overwhelming
orgasm, shaking all over, still feeling the pumping of
cock and seminal liquid in my cunt as the gentle animal
finishes unloading his balls into my abused, swollen
orifice, I close my fist around the head of Jean-
Marie's adorable weapon and start rubbing furiously. I
realise I'm howling like a cat in heat. "Vas-y! Vas-y!"
I scream.
Now I want Jean-Marie to come, and I want him to come
good. And I want him to spurt all his stuff into my
mouth. Gripping his rigid black length just underneath
the swollen head. I rub his foreskin back and forth
vigorously and with total abandon. I jerk his throbbing
meat until my arm aches, and as I do so, I poke out my
tongue to lick around the tip of his rod and touch that
dribbling cock eye again and again. I'm an expert cock
sucker and licker and I know what works. In less than a
minute Jean-Marie starts to shake.
Almost there, I slip my hand down his rod and ram the
swollen head into my mouth again as that familiar
creamy, salty liquid jets into my throat. I love it. I
continue to jack his black, sweaty gristle all the time
as he loses control. Keeping my barely closed lips
around his cock head, I cradle his balls again in my
free hand. I consider ripping them off with my claws,
but squeeze them gently in my palm, as though trying to
press out every last milky centilitre. I swallow as
quickly as I can, I don't want to lose a single drop of
this provençale French semen. I swallow and swallow.
I hear the sound of Jean-Marie's loud exhalation of
breath, then panting totally out of control. With a
sudden outburst of: "putain de merde", he wrenches his
violently jerking cock from my eager mouth, spraying my
lips and nose, my neck and breasts with a residue of
thick, rich seminal fluid. I feel robbed again. He
collapses forward, pushing my head down, his belly
bearing down on my head and neck, his hot, sweaty
thighs against my ears. He cuts off my air supply, as
my face and breasts are flattened painfully against the
slippery, sweat-soaked mattress cover.
I hear a muffled sound, a door opening I think. What's
going on? Has Michelle's boss come back unexpectedly?
Is this the Police? Am I to be arrested for having sex
with minors? Shit! I daren't look, I darent move. I try
to hold my breath.
Straining to hear, I imagine Michelle the shop
assistant tart or her maybe boss, or both, standing
there, looking down at the what's been going on in the
stockroom, gazing at my headless, motionless, naked
body with its ass in the air and a trouserless,
anonymous rapist plugged into its rear end. I wish I
was invisible.
My gentle animal behind finally slips away, out of me.
I feel empty again, a sting of regret almost. Seminal
fluid is running from my cunt and down my legs; I am
soaked everywhere, I'm whacked, well and truly fucked.
I can hardly breathe with the weight of Jean-Marie's
sweaty, naked lower body on my head. But he quickly
recovers and I feel him get off me.
The mattress bounces down, then springs up, and I see a
long but softening black snake, the object of my lust
for an inestimable period of time past and present,
swing away out of view, still oozing seminal goo
profusely. I want to lick that stuff off the end of his
wondertool, tell him how good it tastes. I want him to
tell me it's been the blow job to end all blow jobs.
But he stays silent, except for a faint panting sound,
moves away out of my range of vision. I feel abandoned.
I can breathe again, and I realise I'm still wheezing
and whimpering and shaking, but I still can't move. I
don't want to move from where I am, I can't bear to
look up at my aggressors nor at Michelle. I close my
eyes and wait for my breathing to quieten, for my
guilty heart's pounding to slow down. I know that my
ass is still up in the air in an undignified posture,
and I wonder if my young aggressors are going to start
again, or that there is now someone else waiting there,
cock primed up and ready to take his turn. I keep my
eyes closed, and brace myself for a potential round of
assaults.
I hear Michelle saying something, again, more
'argotique' things I can't fully understand, but I
guess from the tone of her voice she's decided it's
time to end the party. I listen gratefully to the
rustling of clothes, the clink of belt buckles (or is
it jailors' keys?), the cretinous giggles of self-
satisfaction coming from the pig.
I imagine celebratory 'high fives' between them all,
them grinning like the cats that got the milk and the
cream. And the girl. Jean-Marie and the other one,
Paul, don't say anything, at least they have the
decency to be discreet, if that's possible, in my hour
of disgrace. Not the pig though, he says again and
again: "Elle est bonne! Elle est bonne! T'as bien fait
cette fois. Je te dois un service, jee-em" – that's J-M
in English. 'Service' in French sometimes means a
favour. 'Cette fois'? This time? How many times have
these thoughtless, immature savages done this rape
scenario, for fuck's sake? How many unsuspecting young
women have been lured into this stockroom, have
suffered this humiliation, like me? How many favours do
they owe Jean-Marie?
Then it's quiet, I sense the asshole has gone from the
room. I'm feeling numb, I can't move.
Jean-Marie's mouth is breathing warm tobacco into my
face again. "Thank you for that, Pam, it was
formidable. I hope you enjoyed it as much as we did.
Come and see us again, please, if you're ever passing
through Nice." I can almost see his beautiful, sick
smile though my closed eyelids. I say nothing, I try to
control my breathing, waiting for silence to wash over
me. Waiting to be alone. I hear him say to Michelle:
"Merci, chérie. A très bientôt" and the pop of more
French style cheek kissing.
Still not finding the strength nor the willpower to get
myself up from my utterly vulnerable position, I listen
and wait for my breathing to more or less normalise. I
don't hear any door noises, but I feel, at least I
hope, that they're all gone now, out of my life, now
that they've had their fun at my expense. Forever.
Finally I manage to haul my perspiring, trembling,
half-battered body up over the seamed edge of the
sopping wet mattress. I wince as my nipples bounce over
the rib of the mattress, and I slide down, panting, to
flop on my ass onto the cool, hard tiles of the
stockroom floor. I open my eyes and look over towards
the door, where I see Michelle's pretty legs outlined
against the bright light from the shop behind her.
I don't look up at her face, and her voice is tremulous
as she spits out venomously yet more unintelligible
French words I don't understand – probably: 'get the
fuck out of here' or similar, finishing with the word
'pute!' – whore. She spins around and slams the door,
leaving me in semi-darkness again. One word, full of
meaning. A label easy to hang on someone who has just
fucked her cousin-boyfriend and his worthless, immature
but virile and probably insatiable young pals.
I have no reply. I've been had. I'm fucked. I don't
have the vocabulary. Sitting there feeling hot,
deliciously abused and sexually satiated, but with all
my nerve endings still on high alert, just then I have
a sudden lugubrious moment of enlightenment, when I
realise that I have probably revealed myself to be a
sex-mad, half-crazed nymphomaniac. I know now what it's
like to have exceeded the speed and quantity limits of
orgasmic laws. My cunt is sore, swollen and throbbing
like never before, and there is sperm and more sperm
leaking abundantly onto the tiles between my thighs. I
can see that my expensive airline stockings are ruined.
My ankles hurt and will soon be black and blue. My
coccyx is sharply painful and probably bleeding. My
neck and ribcage ache, my tit ends burn like they've
had several cigarette ends stubbed out on them, are
sweaty and feel rubbed flat. I have vicious red weal
marks on my belly and probably the same on my bum
cheeks. My mosquito legacy itches like crazy. I can
still taste salty semen in my mouth, and slippery sperm
residue is all over my face and breasts. I feel hot,
sticky and degraded. And I'm crying, with shame and
pain.
I wait for my breathing to get back to normal, if
that's possible. I haven't yet come down properly. I
find a packet of kleenex in my bag; I wipe my face and
upper body and stuff a bundle of them against my sore,
soaking pussy lips. I say a thank you in my head to the
boys for not stealing a centime from my bag, and that
my new underwear is still intact beside me in its
designer bag. It could have been worse, I think.
I need to move, I tell myself, the party's over, I need
to get my act together, my ass in gear. So I start to
get up slowly, first onto my knees, onto my wiped-out
stockinged knees, then leaning heavily on the mattress
for support, I arrive finally on my shaky feet. Shock
sets in for the first time in a big way and I realise
that I ache all over. I gather together my sensible air
hostess shoes, my crumpled, dirty clothes and struggle
into them as best I can, except my panty, which is in
tatters and useless. I remember not to leave behind my
shoulder bag and new underwear.
I don't see Michelle as I walk back through the store,
and there are no customers around. I check my
appearance as I pass in front of a large mirror. It's
dreadful, I remark, I look like a fucked up tart.
In my head I whisper: "Please don't ask, Richard, I'm
fine."
I thank Michelle silently, and in French, for being
discreet and for keeping out of sight, as I leave the
shop and limp in an air hostess manner as dignified as
I can possibly muster, towards the ladies' toilets.
There's one on every floor in these places.
FIN (END)
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The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 53