The Next Step

The story is set in the south of France. Part I has already been published on this site as "Vineyard Adventures".

My father and I were turning bottles of wine in their racks in the vineyard's cellar. He said to me, "I'm glad Martine is becoming more at ease around you, Pierre."

I glanced at him, wondering if there was any hidden meaning in his statement, but there did not seem to be. I felt guiltier than ever - my father and mother had been treating Martine like an adopted daughter and, unbeknown to them, I had been letting her come to my bed.

"She's still rather shy in many ways," I said.

"That's understandable after all she went through before she came to us."

I, on the other hand, had been thinking about her apparent lack of expertise in giving a hand-job, and asked, "Does she ... has she had a boyfriend since she came to live here?"

"Not that we know of, Pierre. She is shy around males in general, not just you."

'But bold enough to touch me intimately', I thought, and then enquired, "Do you think she could have a normal relationship with a man one day?"

"Time heals," my father said. Then, unexpectedly, "Why do you ask?"

I tried not to blush. "I just think it would be such a tragedy if what happened to her spoilt her whole life."

"You're growing fond of her, then, Pierre?"

"I simply wish her well for her future," I evaded.

Un-fooled, my father said, "Treat her properly, won't you." It was not just a statement of expectation of my behaviour but the giving of his blessing to whatever might be going on between Martine and myself.

"I will," I said, and felt weighed down by responsibility.

What with Martine having abandoned my bed before I woke that morning, I was half expecting she would not come to my room again. Around midnight, however, while I was lying awake and wanting to hold her naked in my arms again, she tiptoed in.

When conscience made me turn on the bedside lamp rather than let her sneak into the bed, as on previous nights, she looked like a startled fawn in sudden brightness,her dark eyes showing her alarm at my unexpected action.

"Come and sit beside me," I said, as if encouraging a dear friend and speaking softly in our native tongue. She did as invited, staring at me shyly, uncertain of what it was I wanted. The hem of her cotton nightie came to rest half way up her bare thighs as she sat and, when I noticed, I had to tear my eyes away.

"I want to talk to you," I said, sounding paternal but not feeling it, remembering the closeness we had already shared, though it had not gone as far as intercourse.

Fearful about what I might want, she asked, "Have you stopped loving me? Is that what you want to say?"

"Never!" I declared. "I love you like..." I could not find the words to describe it. A lot of how I felt about her was protective; she seemed so innocent, and yet not. I managed to add, so as not to disappoint her, "...I love you like my heart is bursting."

She gave me a shy, happy smile. "Then do we really need to talk?" Her hands moved to the hem of what I just knew would turn out to be her only garment, and started to lift it.

"Wait," I said, and she stopped.

"What's wrong?"

"Even though you're eighteen you're so much younger than I am."

"I don't mind that you're older."

I said firmly, "I don't want to take advantage of you, Martine."

"You aren't, Pierre." She gazed into my eyes.

I blurted then, because it had been playing on my mind all day, "How did you know about bringing a guy off?"

Her expression turned haunted, and vulnerable. I had seen it so often that way since I came home from New Caledonia.

She whispered, "Why do you ask?"

"You seem so innocent, and yet you knew what to do."

Though I meant it as a compliment, her eyes filled with tears. I thought she was going to confess about having been molested by her uncle. Instead, she asked, "Would you love me any less if I wasn't really innocent?"

"Then you've had a boyfriend? Or did you learn about hand-jobs from other girls?" It seemed the only explanation. "I won't love you any less if you tell me."

I knew my guesses were wrong because tears trickled down her cheeks. She begged, "Don't make me tell, Pierre."

I felt guilty, but her reluctance made me want to know even more. I said unjustly, "If you love me, you'd tell me."

Obediently, as if she could not now refuse, she let her story start to tumble out, "I learnt ... it happened at the village school after I came to live with your parents..."

Suddenly, half of me no longer wanted to hear her admission.

"...I had a detention and was at the school late. There were no other teachers about when I went into the corridor afterwards. Some boys grabbed me and pushed me into their locker room..."

I felt appalled.

Martine's eyes stayed downcast, and her words kept coming, "They formed a circle around me and undid their flies. They made me look at their ... at their things while they stroked them until they became stiff..." Her voice caught in anguish, "I didn't think the boys at my school would do something like that... One stayed by the door to stop anyone else coming in and I was told to watch another boy jerk off in front of me..." Her voice quavered. "I didn't know what that meant then. He played with himself until fluid spat out of the end of his ... erection. It splattered on the tiled floor near my feet...

"Then I was told I had to do the same thing to each of the boys in turn – bring them off that is." Remembered indignation and outrage showed on her face. "There were six of them – all a year older than I was."

"Did you do it?"

"I had no choice." Her sad eyes lifted to mine for a moment then fell again. "The boys said ... they said they'd strip off my clothes if I didn't, and do things to me..."

"So you brought all six off that way," I concluded, trying to short-cut her account and lessen her ordeal from telling it.

"I did two boys – letting them come on the tiles like the other one..." Her voice dropped to an even more reluctant and softer whisper, "Then I was told to kneel down and open my mouth. A boy put the head of his ... the head of his cock..." She broke down.

Feeling rotten for having asked the question, I took her in my arms and let her sob. She drew away after a few moments, as if compelled to continue, "I was too petrified to call for help. It was like a nightmare, only I couldn't wake from it. The boy held my hair and told me I had to suck and lick him..."

My manhood began to harden under the sheet. "You don't have to tell me..."

Either she did not hear or thought I needed to know, carrying on, "He smelt horrible and I was almost sick. I felt disgusted by what they were making me do..." Her eyes briefly appealed to me. "When I wouldn't suck him or lick him he rubbed his cock back and forward on my tongue and then thrust it against the inside of my cheek. All the time he was stroking the long shaft...

"I tasted his cum when it came out, and gagged. Two boys dragged me to a hand basin and I vomited in it..."

"Did the boys stop then?" It was as if I could end her ordeal if she only confirmed they had.

"No."

I took her hand in both mine and held it soothingly, my voice shaky when I asked, "What did they do after that?"

"My blouse was soiled and the two boys made me unbutton it – then they pulled it down my arms. They washed the sick off and hung the blouse on a rail to dry. I thought they were being considerate..."

Her tear-stained eyes met mine again for a brief moment. "The boys were all staring at me. 'Let's see her tits,' one of them said... They took off my bra so I was naked from the waist up. They forced me to kneel down again, and two of the boys jerked off onto me at the same time – squirting the fluid from their cocks over my bare nipples and breasts while the others watched..."

At this stage, not able to stop myself from wanting to hear how it ended, I said, "That left one boy."

"He was the worst..." Tears rolled down her cheeks again.

"What did he do?"

"He made me undress completely..." Emotion choked her "...Then I had to get down on all fours and lick the boys' stuff off the tiles while everyone was ridiculing me and staring at ... at my private parts..."

All too readily my mind visualized her humiliating display from the boys' point of view. I could imagine seeing her butt crack and pouting pubes, and could not stop my manhood elongating, nor prevent the shame I felt because it did.

Martine said, "The boys were all jeering and calling me dirty names..."

"Did they do anything else?" I was still holding her hand, squeezing it to try and show my sympathy.

She gave me a distraught look, and then her gaze fell to the floor again. "One of the boys got a latrine brush and inserted the wooden handle in my ... in my back passage. A boy quipped, 'Now the on-heat bitch has a proper tail'. 'All bushy like a poodle's,' another boy said..."

Martine continued brokenly, "They made me hold the handle inside with my sphincter and crawl around the floor in the circle they'd formed..."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but I was unable to bear any more, and told her, "I've heard enough..."

"You wanted to know why I wasn't innocent," she accused.

"I don't any longer."

"Are you repulsed?"

"Not by you," I assured her quickly. "Just by the shameful way they abused you."

"They had only just started..." Her tears flowed afresh as she recalled it.

"Stop, please. I'd sooner you didn't have to remember it."

She let me take her into my arms. Her body shook with her sobbing.

"I love you," I said fervently.

"They said I was a dirty whore," she whimpered.

"You aren't! They should never have treated you that way."

Martine sniffed soulfully. "Your parents don't know about them doing it."

"You never reported the boys?" I was shocked.

She shook her head.

My erection had subsided with my disquiet. I felt as if I would never be able to touch her again for fear of seeming like the boys who had abused her. She looked past tears now, and I did not know what to say. She sat still for a moment then, unexpectedly, lifted to free the nightie from under her legs before pulling it off over her head. I saw her lovely nakedness totally exposed up close for the first time.

She rose to her feet and pulled back the bed sheet. Once she was lying in my arms, she said, "I never wanted them to do any of the things they made me do, Pierre."

"I know," I said, with deepest pity for her.

She stared into my eyes. "I want you to help me forget them."

"How?"

"By loving me – letting me see what sex can be like when it's wanted."

I exclaimed, lost for words, "Darling Martine!"

She added earnestly, "I want to give myself to you completely, Pierre."

I stroked her cheek tenderly then ran my open hand down the gentle slope of her bare shoulder. Her skin was soft, her body warm to the touch.

"Are you sure?"

"With every fibre of my being!" She pressed against me, nude, with youthful passion. We were lying side by side, facing each other, and I felt her fingers take hold of my slowly re-swelling manhood. They positioned it in the gap between the tops of her legs and,when they closed, her pussy was wet where it touched my penis. At the same time, between us, her pubic bone pressed into mine, and her thighs gently squeezed the hardened cylinder of sensitive flesh she had placed so intimately against her vulva.

All I could think to do with my own hand was stroke the lean contours of her back then down over the twin mounds of her buttocks where the skin was silky-smooth.

On impulse, breaking contact, I rolled her over me and onto her back on the other side of the bed. Then I tossed aside the sheet to admire her beautiful nakedness in the lamplight. She giggled happily. "Do you want to ravish me?"

"But no," I said. "I want to make love for the rest of the night to every wonderful curve of your gorgeous little body."

She giggled throatily, "I think I'd like that."

I rewarded her with caresses, touching everywhere except her breasts and genitals. Her breathing quickened each time she expected me to go to one or the other, but I teasingly skirted around, turning her on even more.

Her lips were full and soft whenever our mouths touched, and she returned my kisses. Her body strained towards my hand, begging to be stroked, either her young breasts or her pubic mound thrusting out.

I kissed a line down the centre of her chest to her belly, and then lower until my lips brushed the edge of her dark pubic hair.

"Three of the boys had sex with me," she said unexpectedly.

Barely listening, engrossed in foreplay, I licked her soft belly.

"They dragged me into a stall in the locker room and left the door open. One boy sat on the bowl with his trousers down. His erection stood up from his legs... The boy said he wanted to put it inside me 'through the hole that girls have'..."

I licked down her left thigh, skirting her pubic triangle.

"The boy asked if I knew where the hole was, so I showed him by pulling my labia open around it..."

I licked her other thigh, guessing she was trying to arouse me more with her resumed account of what happened. Her nipples were erect and she could not know how much I was aching to suck them into my mouth.

"So," I said, kissing just under her breasts, "by this stage you'd decided you wanted to be fucked."

"No! Everything they were making me do I found loathsome."

I lifted my eyes to meet hers, "Then why did you go along with what the boy wanted?"

"I didn't want to be raped."

I understood, but did not want to think about it. I stroked her inner thighs again, my nose filling with the genital scent from her loins. She shifted one leg further away from the other, wordlessly inviting me to touch her higher up.

I could almost feel the heat radiating from her groin.

She had to be psyching herself up for intercourse with me, because she went on, "The boy told me to straddle his legs and put his cock in my hole. I did what I was told and sank down on him until his male organ was deep inside me..."

I edged my mouth closer to her genital cleft, so close that she must have been able to feel my breath on it. She held hers for a second, and then said, "I knew the other boys could see through the open doorway. It was horrible!"

I flicked out my tongue and touched the pinkness that showed where the dark hair parted. Martine groaned, and her body trembled. I reached up blindly until my fingertips found one of her brown nipples and squeezed its rubbery firmness. She moaned again, presumably from a strong rush of sexual pleasure.

Somehow she got out the words, "I started lifting up and down on his cock because I wanted to get it over with - to no longer have it inside me, and I pulled off as soon as I thought he was going to come. Fortunately he didn't mind letting it spurt outside me. He told his mates, 'The little cunt obviously doesn't want to get pregnant'."

I moved my mouth a centimetre closer to Martine's swollen labia and, at the place where easiest penetration could be achieved, let my tongue probe her slit. She gave a little gasp.

"I was told to stay in the stall," she recovered enough to say. "Unfortunately, another boy wanted to fuck me next..."

The tip of my tongue had by this time tasted Martine's inner juices. She opened herself to me, her thighs edging further apart.

"The boy made me bend over the bowl with my hands on the seat so that all the boys could see my genitalia. He even held me open ... like this ..."

She put her hands between her legs and parted her labia. Pink flesh glistened wetly, begging my tongue to explore. I lapped gently at her nectar, played with the rim of her receptive entrance, but stayed away from even more sensitive parts.

"That was how he fucked me," she said, breathless from my tonguing, "bent over. With his hands gripping my hips I couldn't stop him spurting inside me, though he did it shallowly. Afterwards, the other boys made me face them, straddling the toilet bowl, to watch cum leaking out of my pussy... They made me feel totally humiliated, like I was nothing more than a farm animal they were servicing like bulls..."

My tongue probed deeper. Martine thrust towards it with a whimper. I withdrew, denying her, and started licking and kissing the silky softness of her thighs just below her labia.

When she resumed her story I suppose she was expressing her need for me to know everything. "When my pussy seemed to be drained the third boy entered the stall..."

Not listening anymore, just adoring Martine, and wrapt over what I was about to do, I extended my tongue to touch her clit. She stopped talking.

Her legs jerked taut as I probed, her thighs clenched, and she let out a long groan.

"Darling!" I breathed. (No matter what the means, nothing is more beautiful than causing a woman or girl of legal-age to have an orgasm.)

Urgently pulling at my shoulders, she re-spread her legs. Words weren't necessary to tell me what she wanted. I moved up until her soft breasts touched my chest. I felt her hand grip my manhood and guide it. A wet softness resisted the tip then gave way to yielding flesh that slid around and slowly engulfed my organ. I was inside Martine!

I marvelled at it. (What else can you do when someone you love lets you share the intimacy of genital penetration?) My love for Martine felt as deep as my desire to please her.

I became aware of her jerky breathing – of the need in it – and of the erotic scent of her juices mixed with the perfume she must have put on before she came to my room. I thrilled to how swollen and stiff my organ felt inside her, and was in awe over the way her vagina had moulded like a prophylactic to closely fit me. I indulged in the beautiful sensations of our flesh-to-flesh contact - as much as she seemed to be doing - and it was moments before anything else happened.

I felt her groin pushing upwards and, though it seemed impossible, I slipped deeper into her. Our pubic mounds touched then squeezed together, leaving a sensation of shielded contact with the hard bones underneath. She ground against me to pleasure us both and, aroused even more, I could sense how her labia had wetly splayed away from her clit.

Emotion overwhelmed me. "I love you," I said breathlessly, feeling it in every fevered nerve ending.

"I adore you!"

The words were hardly out of her mouth before she was whispering with urgent need, "Fuck me ... ple-ee-se! I want you!"

Few heterosexual men can resist a woman so much in sexual need – and I obliged her.

Somehow, without releasing me from her love-tunnel, she ended up on top. From that new position her hips could thrust with uninhibited vigour while my hands stroked her nubile contours, her clinging vagina dragging up my penis then sliding down again. It became so sensitive I felt like the shaft was about to burst. Instead, at its base, a dam breached and my body thrilled with the rush of semen into my swollen organ, and then thrilled thrice more at its jerking release, and my mind delighted in knowing I was pouring my seed into my beloved eighteen-year-old angel!

Whether she felt the gush of seminal fluid inside her or not I could not know, but her groans and gasps of orgasm blended with mine. If she reached the point of climax because I had reached mine, or was already at that point herself, was part of the mystery of our first coitus.

All I knew was that the sweetest little vagina contracted rhythmically around me until we were both spent.

She fell against my chest, her firm breasts flattening, our bodies tenuously linked until I softened. Then her vagina inadvertently expelled my manhood, even though she tried to keep it in place.

I held her close in my arms, in my bed, never wanting her to leave it, and knew I could not depart France again without her.