Message-ID: <5333eli$9710312241@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Mark Bastable" Subject: Alphabet Stories: F - Requested Repost Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <878342723.27940.0.nnrp-05.9e982592@news.demon.co.uk> French Trip. ------------ I was cycling through the Loire Valley - possibly the most rewarding cycling in the world. It was midsummer - hot, but with a breeze that took the edge from the heat. I stopped in a tiny village at about eight o'clock and found a room in the kind of wayside inn that's so impossibly French that they must pack it away in crates at the beginning of October when the tourists leave. I showered, changed and went down to the bar. I took my beer outside and sat at a table by the roadside, soaking up the last of the sun. The French have reputation for insularity, but I think this is the fault of the stand-offish Parisians. Out in the country, the people are open, chatty - amused by one's fumbling attempts at their language, rather than scornful, as the citizens of the capital tend to be. I got talking to an old guy. He told me about the village - how most of the people were employed, one way or another, by the Chateau, producing fine wine. He had lived there since the war, having left Nice when the Fascists came. We chatted for half-an-hour, during which time four or five cars passed. He complained of the constant traffic. He could remember when you could sit here all day and not see a car. Still, it was a quiet, peaceful place. If he was honest, an old person's place. The youngsters mostly left as soon as they were old enough. He supposed that he couldn't blame them. A couple of young men passed by, and bonsoired the old fellow. They were going into Pinochelle to the club. There was a band playing. When they'd left, I asked my drinking companion how far it was to Pinochelle. A couple of kilometeres - a little walk. We talked for another fifteen minutes or so, and then I decided to take a stroll to this next village, if only to enjoy the evening air - but maybe to see what quaint, provincial nightlife this somnolent region had to offer. As I got up to leave, a Renault Espace - one of those micro-bus jobs - pulled out of the sideroad that ran behind the small hotel across the square. It swung around, cutting past the statue of some obscure, dead nobleman, and picked up speed as it passed the table at which I'd been sitting. There were eight or nine young women crammed inside - all dark hair and flashing smiles, hilarious at the thought of a night out. A couple of them waved - not at me specifically; just for the sheer fun of waving at pedestrians from a car. I waved back. "Students, probably," the old man said, nodding. "They come here to holiday and, perhaps, to earn some money in the vineyards." "Cheers the place up, I guess," I shrugged. "Certainly cheers me up," he grinned. It was a fine walk to Pinochelle - good to be on my feet rather than on wheels. The village turned out to be larger than the one I had left, but still small enough that it was no trouble finding the 'club' - a large, converted house on what I suppose I must call the main street. As is my habit, I sat at the bar with a bottle of wine, and observed the people. They were all young - none over twenty-five, I'd imagine - and loud and laughing. The band was no more than competent, knocking out rock standards in fetching Gallic American. "Born in ze USA". "Ze Man Oo Sold Ze Worrrld". I was happy merely to watch the women, as they danced, whispered, clapped. I thought I recognised one group as the girls from the Renault. When one of them glanced in my direction, I raised my glass and grinned - as if I were complicit in their good time because I'd seen them travelling to it. The girl who'd caught my eye waved back at me from across the room, and nudged one of her companions. Two or three of them turned and looked at me, smiling. They waved again. I simply nodded, smiled. I didn't want to speak to them particularly. Or, if I did, I suppressed the desire, knowing that I would stumble, stutter, make myself look stupid. I preferred to remain on my barstool - where at least I might give the impression of being self-assured and enigmatic. Perhaps, if I am blunt, I really would have liked to get to know them - but, equally frankly, I was certain that I didn't want them to get to know me. I'm one of those men best left to the imagination. The lights of the bar came on sometime after one o'clock. I shrugged on my jacket and walked out into the street, raising my eyebrows in an almost imperceptible gesture of farewell to the Renault girls as I passed them. Setting off back to my little village, I realised that I was somewhat drunk. A quick calculation - two bottles of wine, a couple of brandies and no food. Yup, that'd do it. I'd walked no more than three or four hundred metres in the dark, when the lights of a vehicle loomed, throwing my shadow ahead of me into the trees. I stepped to the side of the road to let it pass, but as it drew alongside me, the vehicle stopped. It was, of course, the Renault Espace. The door to the rear compartment slid open, and one of the girls leaned out. Did I want a lift? It was a long way to walk in the dark, n'est-ce pas? I peered in. They were pretty tightly packed in there. I didn't think there was room for me, and said so. Rubbish! They could squeeze me in the back. One of the girls in the rear seat said something which I think must have been a little risque, because they all howled with laughter. Evidently they were as drunk as I was. Thanking them, I clambered into the bus, and wriggled between the two girls in the very back seat. It was a tight fit. Each of my thighs was pressed unavoidably against the legs of the women on either side. One had thrown her arm along the back of the seat behind me in order to make more room for my shoulders - and as the Renault started forward again, I could feel her breast brushing against my bicep. It was pitch black inside, as we left the outskirts of Pinochelle, and the headlights playing on the road ahead only deepened the gloom in the back of the bus. The girl whose arm was draped behind me, and whose face was, inevitably, turned half-towards me, said, "You are comfortable enough, yes?" Her voice was low, breathy. She was speaking almost directly into my ear. I turned to look at her. In the gloom, I could see only the white evenness of her teeth and the way her dark, wavy hair fell in strands across her eyes. "I'm fine. Very comfortable," I told her. I was whispering too - as one does, I suppose, when crammed together in unfamiliar company. The others were chattering away in slangy French, shrieking with laughter and discussing the evening's entertainment. My French wasn't up to following most of it. I simply sat there, acutely aware of the bodies packed around me, and the almost psychedelic mixture of perfumes which seemed to cling to my face like a deep kiss. I was staring straight ahead, watching the winding country road unfurl in the headlights, when I felt lips trailing down the side of my neck. I turned my head sharply to the girl on my left, and she simply smiled at me. Her hand came up to my cheek and she pushed my chin back to the head-on position, and bent forward to kiss my neck again. Her lips dragged moistly to my collar bone and then lazily sailed back up the line of my neck-muscle to my ear. I felt her tongue loop around my earlobe, licking it gently and insistently. I turned towards her again - amazed, but not about to ask questions - shifting my shoulder back so that I could bend my face to hers. I kissed her, open-mouthed, feeling her tongue hard behind my teeth, and her smile surrounding the O of surprise that my own lips had made. All around us in the bus, the conversation was still raucous and disinterested. We kissed still, our tongues fought. She was a good kisser, pulling me towards her with the arm that had been draped along the seat behind me. My own hands were immobile in my lap, when I felt her fingers close around my wrist. She tugged my hand upwards, and put it on her breast. She had small, braless, pointed tits - typically Gallic. I massaged them with my open palm, feeling the nipples rise, push, tighten. Her right hand clenched in the hair on the back of my head and she groaned faintly into my open mouth. I shifted forward slightly in my seat and maneuvered my other hand to her breasts, slipping it inside her t-shirt as it travelled there. She pulled the t-shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, to give me room to move, Her tits were hot - really hot and, even in the dark, I could feel the smooth tan on them. She had one hand on my cheek and the other entwined in my hair - so I was more than a little astonished to feel a third hand on my thigh. It took me a moment to realise that it was the girl to my right, who was perhaps feeling rather left out of the action. She brought her fingers to the front of my jeans, and began to rub my cock, quite harshly, through the denim. I didn't want to break away from the kiss I was so thoroughly enjoying, but I also wanted to keep the second girl interested. I took my 'upstairs-outside' hand away from the breasts of Fille Gauche, and reached back, unseeing, towards Fille Droit. Unable, in that position, to raise my arm much above waist height, I landed my my searching fingers on Droit's thigh. It was bare. A little blind exploration discovered a short, tight skirt. I wriggled my fingers between her thighs, clasping the warm flesh. Her hand, meanwhile, had unzipped the front of my Levi's and was worming inside. She managed to slip the tips of her fingers inside the elastic of my underwear, and I felt her gently squeezing my trapped and swollen knob. Tongue still flicking, left-hand still kneading tit, I attempted to move my right hand upwards, along Droit's thigh, to her snatch. The short, tight skirt that had seemed such a Godsend at first, now formed an obstacle. As she parted her thighs to give me access, the hem was pulled taut and my searching hand was stopped in its tracks. My fingers waggled hopefully in the space beneath the fabric, but only the faintest, skin-thin tips of them brushed against her panties. Suddenly, I felt her push my hand away. Had I gone too far? No. I felt her shuffle her bottom forward on the seat, simultaneously twisting towards me, and encircling my waist with her arms. Her tits - large, soft - were pressed against my back. From either side of my hips, her hands descended upon my crotch, undoing my belt. I raised my ass slightly, still with my face glued to Mademoiselle Gauche, and Mademoiselle Droit pushed my jeans down, just a few inches - just enough to give her hands a straight run at my desperate, eager cock. My right hand reached back again, gliding simply along the line of Droit's inner thigh. The angle was perfect now. My fingers met her damp panties, pressing the fabric into her hot folds. I hooked my little finger under the leg of the underwear and tugged it to one side, attempting to slide my other fingers along that wet gash in the same easy movement. The maneuver was far from perfect, but I shifted the panties sufficiently to enviegle one finger inside her slippery hole, whilst rubbing across her mound with my outstretched thumb. All this time, both her hands were clasped around my cock, stroking it, alternately fast and slow. First frantic, a blur. Then easy, langurous, a walk in the park. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Gauche was becoming impatient. Progress needed to to be made. My lips left hers and moved down, pushing her back to expose the tender flesh of her neck. She had very little room to shift position, but she gamely slid forward so that her knees were spread against the seat in front, and her arse was at the edge of the padded bench upon which this impromptu bacchanal was taking place. My hand bade a fond farewell to her hard, insistent tits and slid down. I had to turn somewhat to achieve this, so that I was again, facing straight ahead. Mademoselle Droit adjusted her position, leaving one hand pumping my grateful penis, and the other resting lightly at the top of my ass. My right hand was now cupped over her cunt, the middle finger dipping in and out rhythmically. I adopted a symmetrically satisfying style with Mademoiselle Gauche, slipping my hand inside her panties to feel an almost hairless cunt which oozed juice so copious it made my mouth dry. I rested my head back, eyes closed, concentrating on maintaining a regular stroke with both hands simultaneously. I pressed the balls of my hands into their cracks, hoping to excite their clits as my middle fingers probed and wiggled. I felt Mademoselle Gauche lean forward slightly, and then, suddenly, there were two hands on my cock again. They alternated, one girl rubbing the shaft from the balls to just beneath the glans, whilst the other squeezed and teased the glans itself and the tight knob-end. Then, I felt Mademoiselled Droit convulse, bringing her thighs together, up, shaking. Her hand stopped moving on my prick as she came, sinking her teeth into my shoulder to stop herself crying out. I kept my eyes shut - still concentrating on my own pleasure and that of Mademoiselle Gauche. I knew that I would lose it soon, and I very much wanted the second of my unexpected lovers to come too. I pulled my finger from her sopping cunt and sought out her clit. Finding it, I set up a swift rhythm - barely touching it as my fingers thrummed above it like a hummingbird's wing. She let out a series of almost inaudible moans - uh. uh. uh. uuuh - but, unlike her friend, kept up the complementary beat on my cock. At the moment I heard her relax into a single long, quiet groan - uuh-ooooooooooh - I let myself go, cumming all over her hand and my own shirt. I spurted maybe six times, and she gamely wanked me to the last drop. I let out a deep sigh, and opened my eyes. Every girl in the bus was looking at me and my two new friends. Also, I realised, the bus was stopped - may, indeed, have stopped several minutes ago. I certainly wouldn't have noticed. I was, momentarily, mortified. Then they all burst into a spontaneous and sincere round of applause, laughing and giving me high-fives. I grinned, nodded. I thought about my cycling holiday. I'd been on the road for a week. Maybe it was time to take a break and spend a few days in one place. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /