Her Life

According to my birth certificate I was born in a small town in France, but I've no memory of ever being there. It says, "female," and I agree with that. I'm very female and I enjoy it. The birth certificate records my name as Celine Laurent and identifies a woman and a man as my parents, but I've never met them and have no idea who they were. Nor have I ever felt any need to find them and introduce myself. They might not approve of what I've become. But then again they abandoned me at birth or soon thereafter so I owe them nothing.

My earliest memories are of an orphanage in rural France where I was raised to age 12 (assuming the date on my birth certificate was correct). During my youth Europe was still a smoldering wreck recovering from the carnage of World War II, but I was oblivious to the status of the society outside the walls of the nunnery. The nuns who ran the orphanage were kind to me. They provided me with a good basic education. By 12 I spoke fluent English along with my native French and I could read and write (in both languages), had basic math skills, and probably the same level of education in history and science that other children my age received in France before the war and likely better than under immediate post-war conditions.

My parents, whoever they were had done me a giant favor in leaving me at the orphanage, or perhaps they were simply victims of the fighting unable to raise me because of their death. I will never know.

There has been a great number of adverse reports about child abuse in institutions like the one I was raised in, but I have to say strongly that I had no such experience nor was I ever aware of any of the other children I grew up with being abused. We were required to work of course. As in any orphanage there were chores as soon as a child was old enough to perform them. There was also discipline, not physical, but none the less clear consequences of misbehavior in terms of additional chores or denied privileges such as dessert trips into the village. We were all raised to understand the importance of controlling our urges and following rules, training that has served me well throughout my life.

When I was 12 I was called into the Mother Superior's office. I couldn't think of why Mother Superior would want to see me. I had done nothing wrong that I was aware of nor did I expect a reward for exemplary conduct of some kind. I was apprehensive as one always is when called in to see the powers that be. Her office was a large one. She sat behind a big desk and looked at anyone who came in over the top of a pair of half shaped reading glasses secured by a chain around her neck. I knocked and heard "

Entrez

," spoken by Mother Superior. I opened the heavy door and stood in it looking across the wide office. In addition to Mother Superior, there were a man and a woman sitting on a couch on one side of the room. The man was tall and angular. He wore a dark brown suit which, although well-tailored, hung about him a bit as there was apparently not an ounce of fat filling out his frame. His black oxfords were shinned to a gleam that could only result from daily polishing. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, oiled (almost to a gleam matching his oxfords), and combed over a clearly thinning top. His face, like many in Europe at that time showed signs of long-term malnutrition, thin and bony with a pronounced beak of a nose. The woman wore a well-tailored dark suit with a skirt that came well down over her knees, dark nylons, and a pair of black, high heeled, pumps. Her legs were crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Her dark hair was twisted in a coil around and atop her head. Her make-up emphasized her high cheek bones and dark eyes. Even with lipstick her small mouth gave her a severe look. Like her partner she had a lean and hungry look. Each of the visitors looked to be in perhaps their mid to late thirties. They said nothing as I stood in the doorway, their eyes scanning my tall and gangly frame from top to bottom.

It was unusual for us to have visitors at the orphanage (Who visits an orphanage? People leave children there to get them out of their life, not park them for occasional visits). Their presence enhanced my insecurity at being called to Mother Superior's office. "Yes Mother Superior," I said as I stepped into the office. "You asked for me?"

"Yes. Come in please. And close the door behind you." I stepped in and after closing the door I stood before it, my hands down and crossed before my workday dress and my eyes focused on the floor. I couldn't imagine what kind of trouble I was in.

"Celine, this is Monsieur Fabric and Madame Sante (not their real names I would learn later). Please have a seat. They have a few questions they would like to ask you."

Before I could sit the woman first asked me to walk across the floor to where they sat and to turn before them. I did as requested and then walked back to the seat mother Superior had indicated. As I sat down I saw Madame Sante look to Monsieur Fabric and nod her head in approval. They asked a few questions about where I was born (the town on my birth certificate), how long I had been at the orphanage (my whole life), and whether I knew my parents (I did not nor did Mother Superior). They spoke French with a heavy English accent. There were other questions which when I looked back on it later assured them that I was purely a product of the orphanage. After a few minutes of questioning they looked at each other and nodded. Monsieur Fabric looked at Mother Superior and said, "Yes, she will do."

"Very well," Mother Superior responded. "We can have the papers completed shortly."

"No need for papers," Fabric said.

"But we will need a record," responded Mother Superior with concern.

"No," said Madame Sante. "We will take her now. We don't want papers."

Mother Superior bowed her head and said, "Very well." She turned to me and said, "Celine you will be leaving with Monsieur Fabric and Madame Sante. Go and pack your things."

"There will be no need for that," Madame Sante said. "We will get her new clothing when we get to Paris."

Mother Superior rose and said, "Very well. As you wish." Looking at me she said, "Celine you will be going with them now." I am sure that Mother Superior simply viewed the whole transaction as one less mouth to feed and body to house in her always over-filled orphanage. As I left Mother Superior covertly slipped an envelope into a pocket of my work dress. It contained a copy of my French birth certificate, which I still have today. I suppose that makes me a French citizen, but I have never tried to claim my rights as such. American citizenship has met my needs.

We did not go to Paris, instead going only to Orly field where we boarded an aircraft that took us to London and then on to New York with a refueling stop in Gander. It was 1955 and I was one of thousands of orphaned children in Europe, but I had been rescued and had a new American identity by the time we reached Customs in New York the next day. I was Carolyn Smith, born in Waco, Texas. The only thing I kept from my childhood was my birth year of 1943 although the specific date on my new birth certificate was a few days off. Beyond getting my birth date nearly correct it was a complete fabrication, listing parents I would discover later had never existed. We went directly from La Guardia airport to a mansion a few miles above New York City on the Hudson River.

I would live there for the next 7 years as the daughter of the head caretaker of the mansion's extensive gardens. Hamish, as his name indicated, was from Scotland, then in his late forties. I lived with him and he cared for me for the next 7 years, but our relationship was never that of father and daughter. It was obvious to me from the start that looking after me was just another part of the duties assigned Hamish by the property owner. Hire the gardening staff, make sure the lawns are mowed weekly, the bushes and trees trimmed as necessary, and annual flowers planted each year; and oh yes, look after the orphan with the funny French accent. I was just another task for Hamish even though I shared his cottage on the back of the grounds.

I had the run of the mansion grounds, almost a hundred acres, but there were, just as in the orphanage, rules: attend the classes with the tutor for the children of the staff; do my schoolwork; and above all, stay out of the Manor house at the front of the estate. There was a kitchen in the basement of the Manor house that I was allowed in. It was the domain of the resident staff (the gardeners, the cooks, the stablemen, and others who made the place work) and their families where meals were served three times a day. There was also a classroom there where a tutor ruled over the education of the children of the staff, such as me. She was severe and we quickly learned life would be best if we did our assignments when and as directed and did not cross her. Living with Hamish remained passive so long as he was not receiving complaints from the tutor about my performance or conduct. All in all, I had a good life for the next 7 years. Hamish was far from nurturing, but he was okay to live with once I learned to decipher his Highland Scottish dialect and followed his rules about how to live at the manor as one of the staff.

My French accent stayed with me as I grew up. Later I would learn to manage my accent as the circumstances dictated. Generally I spoke English with that basic California everyman's dialect. That became my go-to choice. Later I developed the ability to be Upper Eastside, Southern, or even French. I also retained my ability to be fluent in French if the accent would be inadequate for my purposes. Language and dialect I learned were simply another tool to be used in creating the persona you chose to present, like clothing, hairstyle, make-up, etc.

Hamish being the dour Scotts' bachelor he was, wasn't about to have anything close to the traditional 'father daughter' talk with me. That was left to Mrs. Crenshaw, the head cook, who did a passable job of standing in as a mother. She wasn't a mother I could go crying to when things went wrong nor was Hamish one to hear my sad tale. Recovery was up to me. But Mrs. Crenshaw did provide me with the basic facts about the birds and the bees, men and sex, pregnancy, and other things a young girl needs to know and more detail than Hamish about the Manor and it's rules. Needless to say there was no sex education unit in our classroom training (it was the late 1950s after all). I learned a bit more about sex from the stash of graphic porn magazines Hamish kept hidden beneath his bed. He never knew I looked at them, but I found them shortly after my 18

th

birthday. After examining them in secret I had developed a burning curiosity about all the things Mrs. Crenshaw had told me not to do until I was much older.

There was one thing Hamish and Mrs. Crenshaw were adamant about—I was to stay away from the groomsmen. There was an extensive stable and a group of about five or six young men who cared for the horses, saddled them for riders, mucked out the stables, cleaned and shined the tack, and generally did the chores required to make the stables work. Although they often ate meals with the rest of us, they were not considered a part of the Manor staff as they returned to their homes in a nearby village most nights. As with any 18 year old when I was told so often and so strongly, with no explanation, not to do something it virtually assured that I would do exactly what was proscribed. I correctly assumed the reason for this prohibition had to do with sex and that just made it all the more enticing.

About six months after I turned 18 I wandered into the stables one evening after supper. I wore only sandals and a thin cotton dress that had reached below my knees when I was younger, but since my latest growth spurt stopped well above my knees. The upperpart of the dress, which had once hung loosely was now stretched tight across my bosom fitting only because I had left the top two buttons open. My breasts, like my legs, had grown dramatically in the last year or so. I wouldn't say it was indecent, but the dress certainly didn't hide much, especially given that I wore no undergarments. The groomsmen had a small shed behind the stables where they took their breaks and repaired tack. I soon found myself in the shed drinking whiskey with the two that had not yet gone home for the day, Carl and Jim.

I was a virgin, but that was just a technicality. After reading a bit of Hamish's stash of porn, I had fashioned myself a dildo from some plastic tubing I found in a trash heap. I used a nail file to smooth the rough edges on what I defined as the working end. Pretty primitive but with its help my hymen was long gone and I had decided I liked having my cunt filled and my clit diddled well before I went down to see the groomsmen. Could one of the stable boys provide me with as good an orgasm as my primitive dildo and my fingers could? Time to try the real thing, I thought.

I took a sip or two of their whisky and decided I didn't like it much. Getting drunk was not the reason I had come down to see them. I was a little nervous and I suppose they were too. They weren't much older than me. But as usual horniness and a little whisky overcame nerves. I hadn't been there for fifteen minutes before I was opening their pants and finding their dicks.

"Wow you guys are big," I said as I sat between them with a rigid dick in each hand.

"Ever seen a dick before?" Carl asked.

Jim was the silent one. He didn't ask anything; just started fondling my tits through my dress.

"Yes," I lied. I was enjoying what Jim was doing to my tits.

"So you're not a virgin?"

"Nope," I said with a smile. "Not a virgin." Jim had the buttons open on the front of my dress and was fondling my tits directly, no cloth in the way. It felt even better. His hands were warm, rough from his work but the calluses felt delicious as they dragged across my swelling nipples.

"So you like to fuck?" Carl asked. Such a smooth talker.

"Mmmm. Yes," I said as I leaned over to kiss the end of Carl's dick. I had never sucked a dick before, but I had read about it and seen pictures of it. I opened my mouth and slurped in Carl's dick. My god. I loved the way his warm dick filled my mouth. Then I started pumping him in and out, sucking hard each time.

I got up on my knees to do a better job which put my butt more or less in Jim's face. He pushed my dress up over my hips and began playing with my pussy. No real skill there. I think it was his first time. But I groaned when he slid first one and then two fingers into my dripping wet cunt.

My blow job was far from artful but Carl being at most 20 years old didn't care, couldn't care. Within moments he blew a huge load in and on my face, my dress, and my tits which were hanging down and out of the dress. I spun around and did the same with Jim only this time I took my dress clear off and tossed it aside. Jim didn't last any longer than Carl and I found myself sitting between them stroking their cum slickened dicks and thinking that this was fun, but not what I had come down here for.

'Why don't you guys get your clothes off. That was fun, but we can have more fun if you get naked." When a naked young lady tells a couple of young men to get naked it's amazing how fast they can disrobe. They were both lean and well-muscled. Not movie star handsome but they had that American glow of health I had not seen as a child in France where nearly everyone was starving. They worked hard and the Manor house kept them well fed.

It's amazing how quickly a young man can recharge. Carl was already fully erect and ready to go and Jim hadn't really gone fully limp. "Stretch out on this couch Carl," I said. "I want to fuck you." No point in beating around the bush about things, I thought. Carl stretched out on his back and I threw a leg over him and arranged myself so his dick was poised at my entrance. Jim stood watching stroking his rapidly recovering cock.

When I let myself down onto Carl's cock it was bigger than I expected. I had to push to get it in and it hurt. Apparently he was bigger than my junk yard dildo. But once his bulbous head slid past the ring of muscles guarding my entrance the pain faded and I felt deliciously full. "Oh fuck," I said. He slid into me for what felt like forever, filling me and stretching me. When I was fully seated I crooked a finger to invite Jim over. I replaced his hand on his dick with mine and I started slowly rising and falling on Carl's cock while I stroked Jim's now rigid dick. God this is fun, I thought.

For the first time since I had walked into their little shed both men were speechless. Carl with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed letting me set the pace as I rode his cock. Jim stood in silence before me as I stroked his now fully recovered dick with one hand. It was still slippery from the massive load of cum he had discharged earlier. It didn't take either of them long to lose control. I felt Carl dumping squirt after squirt of cum in my cunt and Jim's dick exploded shooting streams of cum in my face and on my tits.

Jim recovered quicker than Carl and I was soon lying on my back on the couch, my legs spread, my feet in the air, and Jim's dick pounding away at my cunt. He wasn't as long as Carl but he was bigger around, stretching me even further than Carl had. He wasn't bottoming out in my cunt like Carl had but on every stroke I could feel his pubic bone mashing my clit. He had a bit more staying power and he was still going strong as I felt my first orgasm threatening me. I came with a scream, but it didn't bother Jim. He just kept pounding away at my cunt until he too lost control and emptied another load. He groaned and rolled off the couch to the floor.

By this time Carl, who had been leaning against a tack repair bench jacking his cock as he watched us, was fully recovered. He stepped past Jim, picked me up and set me on my feet before the tack bench. "Lean on it and spread your legs he said. Grabbing my hips and adjusting my stance to get to the right height he lined his long cock up and shoved it roughly into me. "Ahhh, I groaned. Then he fucked me furiously while I leaned on the tack repair bench. I came twice more before he finished (I've always liked that position). Then it was Jim's turn again.

The boys were far from artful. But being young they had strength and staying power, taking turns fucking me to climax after climax over about two or three hours. I don't think I ever kissed either one of them and my cock sucking was limited to whatever was needed to get the next boy hard enough to replace his fallen comrade. No grace and no style. Just hard repetitive fucking. It was just what I had come down there seeking. Needless to say they gave no consideration whatsoever to reciprocating the oral sex I gave them. I would learn about pussy licking later from other more experienced lovers.

After a couple of hours they were tired and so was I. I drank a shot of their whiskey, put my cum stained dress back on and walked home. Fortunately Hamish was sound asleep and snoring loudly when I slipped in the door. I was sore as hell the next day and stifling a shit eating grin that I couldn't show anyone.

I came away from my evening with Jim and Carl with a much better understanding of why I was told to stay away from the groomsmen and with a better appreciation of sex, as least as it was practiced by those two roustabouts. I was sore for a couple of days but not particularly traumatized by the whole experience. They were rough but the sex, the sheer power of the multiple orgasms I had experienced, was so good, so fantastic, that I was convinced that I had to do it again. But I also knew that it had to be kept secret. It was after all the number one thing on both Hamish's and Mrs. Crenshaw's list of forbidden conduct. I swore both men to secrecy and said nothing to anyone I knew.