A French Afternoon

It was an afternoon in Vichy, a sunny August afternoon of lazy ambling ambience and we were lounging our way through occasional window shopping in the ludicrously expensive ornate arcades and regular coffees, with the prospect of a pint or two by the bandstand before the evening struck. Beautiful people strolled by beneath the plain trees, the sun blazed through the leaves' dappling drift, and we sat outside the Café Imperial again with two pots of tea and a book of crosswords.

It was you doing the crossword mainly, as always, I just tried to fill in the gaps you couldn't get, I had a book open but I wasn't paying it much attention. I watched an elderly couple wander hand in hand, a stylish man saunter by and a couple of pretty girls giggle their way around the corner towards the traffic lights. I sipped my tea. Still too hot.

You looked up at me, smiled, noticed my gaze and looked around. The relaxation was good, no pressures of time whatever, and I smiled back beneath my panama and shades. You took another look about, two people left the table adjacent to ours and the waitress came over efficiently and cleared their crockery away swiftly and they were replaced by a whispering couple.

Carefully and slowly, trying to remain unnoticed, you smoothed the fabric of your dress over your chest tightly, holding it taut from beneath, you were carefully not looking at me as you did so; I did look at you. The swell of your small breast was firmly profiled, braless, your nipple clear in outline and before you let go, allowing the cotton to droop again, you brushed it softly, then looked up at me and smiled.

Beneath my linen trousers I'd certainly stirred and I stretched my legs out across the fine gravel, seeing your glance, I raised an eyebrow. You smiled, sipped your tea, and lifted the hem of your white dress to your knee, flapping the August heat away and showing me the pale intrigue of your thighs in glimpses of wishes. You leant into me, your cup in hand, suggested we moved on, but while I nodded, I was appreciating not your words or really agreeing, but watching the delicious lift of your firm breasts, loose beneath the fall of your open neckline, wishing my angle was better and I could catch a glimpse of your nipple too.

You laughed at me. Let's go.

We stood, leaving the money in a saucer, and sauntered off beneath the trees, past the men playing boules, beyond the opera house and toward the river. We strolled down side streets we'd discovered on our wandering a over the last few days, avoiding the busy direct streets to the gardens, taking in the churches and balconies, and as we walked I touched you softly. My fingers firm on the bumps of your spine, lingering in downward caresses as we changed direction, pressing against your arse as we paused on a corner to look, decide our direction, on a narrow street's tight bend we paused to kiss and I slid my hand between your thighs as we did, cupping your mound through your dress with snug emphasis.

We passed the mineral water springs and sat in the gardens by the river. People walked by on the promenade and small boats tacked back and forth on the river, finding a quiet spot away from too many other recumbent people, we settled again, you leant against a tree with your book, I laid on the grass, my book on the ground. You were reading Goethe, I Andrew Greig. I was hard against the summer grass because as I lay not really reading my book I was looking along the line of your pale thighs where you'd lifted you knees to rest your book. Your dress hung in folds across your knees, but nothing impeded my gaze and you knew full well I was looking directly at your cunt. I took my sunglasses off. I could see your lips through the darkness of your hair, relished the sight of the triangle rising from between your parted thighs, the smooth pale skin that highlighted the prominence of your sex. I imagined whether you were wet, wished that you'd part your lips and show me, or that I could reach forward and slide my finger within you, but neither of us could because there were people lounging nearby.

You smiled. Enjoying? I nodded. Good book then? And I smiled, oh yes, excellent.

You moved to lie beside me, a snug fit next to my arm, spread your book open on the ground and concentrated on the words. Or appeared to, because your other hand, the one that wasn't holding the pages open, slid purposefully beneath me to squeeze, stroke and manipulate my erection pressed against the ground.

I reciprocated, easing my hand underneath you as you lifted your hips slightly to assist my passage. Beneath you I wriggled your dress higher, bunching the soft fabric so I could delve beneath to reach the soft opening of your wet pussy. My fingers slipped between your lips easily, finding you soaked, slick moisture along the length of your crease and I slid a finger inside you, one knuckle deep, relishing the heat of your tightness; I circled within you, opening you. I withdrew, shifted the tips of my fingers to lie either side of your engorged clit, pressing together, flicking across the hard bump, slippery with your moisture.

I couldn't build any speed, so I slowly circled, rubbed firmly, back and forth, rhythmic, unceasing. I felt you press down subtly, rubbing yourself against my ever moving hand, and I loved the feel of your pleasure. Still you stared at your book, although I suspected you weren't really reading any longer, certainly I wasn't as you echoed my touch with your squeezing of my hard on.

Abruptly you dropped your head, pressed hard down twice, four times, against my pressing fingers and I heard the stifled gasps of your orgasm, my hand trapped beneath you unable to move from the hardness of your thrusts against me. You relaxed, smiled at me, squeezed me harder, but I recommenced my stroking, pressing my finger against your clit again, stroking the slipperiness, my finger gliding off and back again, Malays returning, pressing, flicking, and you came again until you whispered, enough.

On our way back to the bandstand, another drink in prospect before we found a bar to listen to the early evening jazz, you pulled me behind a wall. A narrow stretch of flags lay between the stone of the wall and the church, the wall was low in the most part, black iron railings skirting the road, but broad pillars about four or five feet wide separated each stretch of ornate cast iron. You dragged me back against one of these high columns pressed me against the sun drenched stone into a rich and deep kiss.

Behind the wall, with the odd thrum of slowly wending car along the narrow street, there was the occasional clip of heels, a murmur of passing conversation, here and gone, but we couldn't see them, secluded behind the well faced stone, entwined, lips meshed and tongues deep, probing against the other's. I held you, my hands tight on your rear, parting your cheeks beneath your thin dress as you pressed yourself hard against me, rubbing me through the summer linen's creases.

I turned you, pushing you back against the hard wall, lifting your skirt as you parted your legs for me, and I pushed on, two, fingers deeply and easily inside you, kissed down your neck and across your delightful sensuous collarbone, dipping my lips across the top of your chest, pressing my fingers against your breast and plying the hardness of your nipple between my fingers through your dress. You pulled one side of your dress down, exposing your small breast, lick me you said.

No. Just fuck me. You were undoing the buttons on my trousers as you enveloped me in the urgent words and in a moment you'd freed me and were holding my erection firmly, pulling me towards you. The air was warm and the breeze was thrilling as you pulled back my foreskin, running your thumb across the slippery head. In me, please. I pressed your shoulders against the creamy stone, bent my knees slightly and nestled the head of my cock between your parted lips. You had lifted your dress upwards, holding it out of the way, and you were looking intently between us, watching my slow entrance; a couple of inches inside you now, you opened your legs a little wider, sighing as I pressed a little deeper, withdrew shining with your juices and then slid firmly deeper. With each pressing intrusion I heard you sigh, gasps that closed your eyes momentarily, and I delighted in the tight heat within you, wanting nothing more than to go faster, to fuck you hard, but not yet.

I was deep now, our hair melding in twining shades of dark brown, your lips spread apart, I tightened my muscles, twitching inside you and you leant to kiss my shoulder, bite my shoulder gently, as I ran my hand strongly over your breast, tweaking your nipple neatly between my urgent fingers, holding the whole swell of you in the passion of my hand. I began slow thrusts, you arms looped around my neck, your breath warm beneath my collar, your eyes closed now.

Following your breathing I pressed into you, pushing upward deeply, up as far as I could reach, feeling in each thrust the bone beneath your mound hard on me, lingering in each push to press harder against you, making sure I emphasised my length's strong depth with an insistent press against your clitoris. Just fuck me. I did. Harder, speeding up, almost sliding out of you, leaving only the very tip within your soaked cunt and then thrusting again and again up into your as deep as you could take me, as deep as I could reach inside you. Behind the wall people walked, we heard them occasionally, once I looked swiftly left at the sound, saw a couple of passing girls and didn't pause in my urgency as I watched them pass. I didn't care now if we were seen, and I don't think you did either. As they passed from sight you dug your face into my shoulder, seizing me tight in throbbing spasms that almost squeezed me out and I had to hold you, my movement ceased for a moment as your legs gave.

I began again, no slowing now, fucking you swiftly, deeply, every thrust feeling as if it would be the last, on the edge for an age feeling the electric sensitivity, desperate now to fill you, come deep within you and hard. Come in me. I did. With a single long hard push, I pressed you back against the wall, holding you on tiptoes as in hot gushes I filled you in immense surges, holding myself as deep inside you as I could, grasping you tight as I groaned into your ear over and over and came.

We held each other a moment, allowing breathing and equilibrium to be restored and I stepped away, still semi-hard; you smoothed your dress swiftly, carefully arranged your breast and knelt before me, gently licking my cock clean of our juices, something you'd never done before, taking me into your eager and inquisitive mouth. You stood, smiling, maybe later. You tucked me away, but left the bottom button loose - leave it you told me firmly. Cup of tea?