Pam's Lost Hours At The Shopping Centre free porn video

1. The innocent, unsuspecting prey.

I blame myself. It was my own fault, I shouldn’t have bought that bloody book of 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? This is how it was:

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 unions and management later this afternoon, but nobody expects a result, let alone a positive one, at least until 18H00.

So here I am in Nice Airport. Anyone who’s passed any length of time wating 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 clitty 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 peekaboo 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 private 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.

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 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 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 is the 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 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 B?t 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 this Centre Commercial 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 nervous, 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 s?rit?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 the little bugger’s mouth, and I am very uneasy.

My nerves tighten and begin to hum. My heartbeat quickens, 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 into its holster again. 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 level below. 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 anglophones 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 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, endless sex on demand, if you like. It’s a nice thick book, and I decide it could keep me going for a few hours, perhaps more if that ground 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. 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. Sittting 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 up 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 hardon. 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 caf?ar, where I order another capuccino and this time a p?sserie 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 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 help 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 eighteen, 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. Casanova 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 caf?ar 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…the 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 nearly twenty, I’m not a kid. I know about making love. I have a lot of girlfriends. And I have a big cock, you won’t be disappointed.” I don’t believe his pretension to age twenty, and at first, I struggle with the French word queue, pronounced ‘kerh’. 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 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, 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 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, artificially 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 had been a vaccuum inhabited by two people, it seems. 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 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.

*******************************************************************************************************************

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 latin 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 eighteen, but I tell all the girls who don’t know me I’m nineteen or twenty. 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 this Spring. 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 hardons, 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 young 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 young and inexperienced. 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 take my time and 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. They don’t know how old I am, I look older than 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 get to 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, 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 passtime.

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 even wasn’t 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 and wriggling 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, 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. 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 idots. 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 caf?ar for example, I could easily approach her there. 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 caf?ar. 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 hardon 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 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 whatshername, 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. 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 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 caf?n 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 homage 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 ass as 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.

******************************************************************************************************************

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 with a virile male 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 power and 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 deep 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 my motivation. 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 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 aw