French Connections

This story is based on reluctance and coercion in an interracial lesbian setting. It's fantasy, for the enjoyment of people who take pleasure in such themes. But if this type of storyline is not for you, thank you for stopping by but please pass on.

Chapter 1

My moans urged Pierre on as he thrust down into me. This was the first time my husband had fucked me in our new home and with the moonlight peeping in through the partially open curtains, it was even more of a thrill than I'd anticipated.

What twenty-five year old girl wouldn't be turned on by fucking in a four poster bed in a French mansion? Pierre had lived there for several years and now it was my home, too.

He grunted as I wrapped my feet around his heavily sweating back. With an affectionate growl, I dug my heels into his ass and pushed him even deeper inside me.

Suddenly the air was full of expletives. Pierre couldn't hold back his language during moments of extreme passion and it never failed to increase my arousal. Was there a sexier language than French? It was that accent that had first attracted me to him. We'd been making love for well over half an hour and sweat was dropping from his forehead onto my body. Despite the twenty year difference in our ages, his stamina matched mine. I closed my eyes, momentarily reflecting on how good life was.

Everything had happened so quickly.

We'd only met six months ago and now I was his wife. It had been a whirlwind courtship, carried out across Europe while he pursued his goodwill Ambassadorial duties for the French government and I carried out my modelling commitments. We'd managed to spend most of that time in one another's company, apart from one weekend when he was delayed in Zurich while was on various catwalk's in Milan.

Pierre was panting hard now, a sure-fire indication he was closing in on his orgasm.

"Let me on top, darling," I told him, wanting him to last just a little longer.

I slid from underneath him, manoeuvring our positions so that I could settle on his lap. His eyes went to my freckled breasts and I shook them at him before bending forward to allow him to suckle each erect nipple in turn. That always made me cream.

If I sheathed him again he'd cum almost immediately and I wasn't ready for that. Before he could react I shuffled my body upwards, leaving a damp trail of juices across his stomach and chest as I slid my sex towards his face.

"Just for a few moments, Pierre," I told him.

He needed his orgasm but I wanted satisfaction first and with my knees clamped over his arms, he had no way out. An Irish girl at University loved bringing me to orgasm this way and while that was a few years ago now, how could I forget?

Marie O'Flanagan had been eighteen then, the same age that Pierre's daughter was now. I hadn't seen Françoise since the wedding. The eighteen year old was as beautiful as her father was handsome and we got on well together, thank God.

It would be early tomorrow morning when she arrived with a friend of hers to spend a long weekend with her father and I. That had given us tonight alone to enjoy ourselves. Pierre was not only a good lover, he was charismatic, wealthy, and had already taught me much about the finer things in life. We were a perfect match.

I clamped my thighs around his head, gripping his hair with one hand and encouraging his mouth to my sex. The French had a real talent for cunninglingus. When he stretched his neck upwards and ran his tongue across my clean-shaven opening, I shuddered.

"Yes, darling, like that," I moaned, grinding down onto his Gallic lips. "Just like that..."

His arms curled under my thighs, holding me in position as I began to gyrate. He knew how wild this position made me and I began to growl as I rode his face. As he sucked my clit between his lips I leant backwards, resting one hand on the bed and circling his thick girth behind me with the other. I wanted him hard for when the time came.

Just as it had always done under the oral ministrations of the red-haired Marie O'Flanagan, my orgasm quickly sprinted through me. I always came harder this way and I waited until Pierre's experienced mouth had sucked up my juices before slithering back down his body, scraping my breasts and hard nipples along his sweaty chest.

"Such a good boy," I whispered, sheathing him and jerking down on his hardness. "Now it's your turn..."

*

Pierre was already out of bed, conversing in French on the telephone as he paced the bedroom floor. There was some problem in Brussels and his advice was being sought. I slipped the cream silk robe around my naked body and left him to it, sauntering out onto the large balcony and allowing the warm morning sunshine to hit my face.

This was my new home and I breathed in the glorious French air as I rested against the stone balcony rail. The view across the grounds was stunning, a series of rolling hills with not another building to interrupt the vista.

Could life get any better?

A noise from below caught my attention and I leaned forward to gain a better view. Two young women were stretched out on the sun beds beside the large outdoor swimming pool. The curly haired black girl in the red bikini had a voluptuous body but it was the honey tanned white girl I recognised instantly.

The short cut blonde hair was unmistakeable, as was the slender athletic body on display in the skimpy gold bikini. I'd suggested to Pierre that she could easily make her way in the modelling world and I'd already sounded out a couple of photographers. Ever the pragmatist, he wanted her education completed first.

The two of them were casually spread out on their sun beds, chatting, when suddenly the black girl pushed up into a sitting position. As she reached for the bottle of sun tan oil her full breasts bounced tantalisingly inside the loose confines of the bikini top. I felt my nipples rise in approval. I hadn't been into girls since Marie O'Flanagan, but my reaction during Fashion shoots confirmed I could still appreciate the female form.

Some of the other models had stunning figures but none of them quite like this one.

With a frustrated sigh, I began to turn away and chastise myself, but I caught further movement out of the corner of my eye. Françoise's young friend had handed the bottle to her and was casually unhooking her bikini top. I quickly turned back, an unwanted voyeur. Her naked breasts—surmounted on their crests with chocolate, almost perfectly circular nipples—defied gravity as they thrust proudly from her young body.

A pool of appreciation formed between my thighs.

Pierre's voice made me jump. The thought of being caught watching his daughter and her friend flooded my body with guilt and I began to swing away before I realised he was simply informing me he was about to take a shower. The warning should have been sufficient for me to return to the bedroom but as I heard the en-suite door close I was unable to prevent my gaze from glancing downwards again.

Both girls had changed position. The black girl, still topless, lay back on the sun bed, both hands behind her head. Françoise was kneeling beside her, holding the bottle of sun oil over her stomach and allowing the dark liquid to trickle slowly downwards onto that ebony coloured flesh. There was something intensely sensual about the scene.

When a small pool had formed on the girl's skin, Françoise began to work the oil across the glistening skin of that flat teenage stomach.

I imagined the young girl's eyes were closed but beneath the dark sunglasses it wasn't easy to tell. It occurred to me that if she looked upwards it would be impossible to miss my head craning over the balcony and I leant back a little and checked behind me. Pierre couldn't to return to the bedroom without my hearing the en-suite door open but even so, my voyeuring guilt made me nervous.

There was a definite sensuality to watching one woman oil another and when Françoise's hands rose upwards to cup and massage the oil into those delectable black breasts, I felt my breath catch. Any pretence at simply applying some suntan protection had gone. Her movements were sexual as she kneaded those magnificent swells.

I told myself to return to the bedroom but I was hypnotised.

Françoise's fingertips came together with each sweep to delicately pinch those chocolate nipples and the girl's back arched a little under each touch. When the faint sound of a mewing noise floated up to my ears, I felt my own nipples begin to tingle.

Suddenly the black girl spoke again to Françoise. I couldn't quite hear what was being said but she was giving an instruction. Pierre's daughter nodded obediently and reached for the ties on the girl's red bikini bottoms. With a theatrical, almost slow motion pull of her fingers, she freed each in turn. My breath caught in my throat.

The girl lifted her ass so that Françoise could pull them from her now naked body and I felt a surge of static electricity as my eyes drifted down to her cleanly shaven pussy, the skin a deep ebony colour like the rest of her body. Most of the models I worked with preferred the bare look, too, while I held an affection for my own dark landing strip.

Françoise trailed her hand across the girl's baby-smooth sex, her white fingers providing an erotic contrast to the black flesh. Her movements were lazy and unhurried, and it was clear this wasn't the first time they'd engaged in such a practice.

The girl spoke to her again—another instruction?—and a smile creased Françoise's face as she nodded. She bent forward to suck one of those delicious nipples into her mouth at the same time as sliding a single finger inside the girl's sex. It occurred so gently, in such a matter-of-fact way that, at first, I wasn't sure it had happened. But then the black girl's hands were gripping the top of the lounger behind her as her body began to gyrate on the working digit.

My heart was pumping and I couldn't resist the urge to reach inside my robe and run my fingers across my rapidly emerging clitoris. Watching them was an incredibly illicit sensation and it was difficult to judge if guilt or arousal was my primary feeling.

The girl spoke to Françoise once more and I gasped as Pierre's daughter withdrew and then licked her finger. As she shifted position so that she lay between the girl's legs, it instantly became clear what she had in mind and the shock hit me like a thunderbolt. Despite the privacy of the mansion, they must have known that either Madeleine—the housekeeper—or even her father or I could interrupt them at any moment.

If they did, they didn't care. The black girl caressed Françoise's hair just as Pierre's daughter's tongue was beginning its journey across the dark, glistening opening.

The sound of the en-suite bathroom door opening made me jump out of my skin. My husband's sense of timing was wretched and the thought of him finding me watching his daughter go down on her friend sent blood rushing to my face. I leapt up and quickly headed back into the bedroom, guilt written all over my expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked, towelling his hair.

When his eyes flicked over my shoulder towards the balcony, I thought for an awful he was going to check out there and my survival instinct kicked in. I grabbed his arm and pulled him with me to the bed, opening my robe as I fell onto my back.

"I need you," I mumbled, opening my legs. "Lick me..."

*

Pierre and I had emerged for a late breakfast and were immediately joined—their bikinis covered by kaftans—by his daughter and the black girl, who was introduced to me as Sherrilyn. The young teenager turned out to be a 'close' friend who Françoise had met at their all-girl private College. Pierre had told me that they'd become inseparable lately and I was beginning to understand why.

Despite their activities by the pool, neither showed any undue affection for the other and I would have swallowed the friendship story had I not known otherwise. Thank God that Pierre had no idea. Even though he was imbued with the normal French laissez-faire approach to most things, I couldn't even guess at what his reaction might be.

Throughout breakfast the two teenage girls bombarded me with questions about my career and wanted to know the ins and outs of the modelling world. Françoise was her normal gushing self while Sherrilyn was more reserved, very much in control of herself and her emotions. When she spoke to me she made a point of looking deep into my eyes as if she was listening to my thoughts as well as my answers.

When, eventually, Pierre said he intended to drive into Deauville to visit the local wine dealer, Françoise asked if she could accompany him. She hadn't seen him for ages, she pleadingly said, and it would give Sherrilyn an opportunity to get to know me better. Her teenage friend had just smiled at me, those penetrating black eyes not missing a thing.

Before they left, Pierre led Sherrilyn and I to the conservatory and made sure we were settled comfortably. He gave me a soft peck on my lips and then asked Madeleine—the housekeeper—to bring us two glasses and a bottle of expensive red wine from his collection. He promised that they'd return within the hour.

"Do you think I could make it as a model?" Sherrilyn asked, once Madeleine had departed and we both had a full glass of burgundy in our hands.

I smiled, but felt goosebumps running up my spine at the recollection of her naked body.

"Absolutely," I replied.

I kept my voice steady. Was it the image in my mind's eye of Françoise going down on her that made me feel nervous? Being so well travelled and used to seeing all sorts of things going on when the other models partied, I normally took things in my stride.

She rested her glass on the small table beside her. Smiling at me, she gracefully rose to her feet and stepped out of the black kaftan she wore over her red bikini. Without a hint of embarrassment she sashayed across the room, stopping at the far end to send me a model-like stare before walking directly towards me. One hand in her hair, the other on her hip, she stood not more than a couple of feet away and raised an eyebrow.

"Well?"

I fought back the tightness forming in my chest. This wasn't an audition; it was some sort of sexual challenge. Pierre and Françoise had been gone for less than ten minutes and the teenager was deliberately displaying her body to me. Why would she do that? She couldn't have seen me watching the two of them, could she?

"You have a good figure, Sherrilyn," I non-committaly said, "but there are lots of young women with good figures who want to get into the industry."

I kept my voice soft and cold as I delivered the put down. I had no intention of being intimidated by a teenage girl.

"Mmm-hmm?" she murmured, cocking her hip to one side.

She studied my expression as she picked up her wine glass, as if trying to get inside my mind. After taking a long drink she replaced the glass and, without warning, her hands went to the back of her red bikini top. My eyes widened in surprise she untied the back and pulled it from her body. As she wanted, my gaze was drawn to those well-nigh perfect black breasts as they bounced and settled.

"What about my tits?" she asked, as she provocatively cupped them with both hands. Her black eyes didn't move from mine as she rolled them in her palms. "Some women think my ass is my best feature but others love my tits. What about you, Adrianna?"

I took a few seconds before answering. The girl knew which spots to hit.

"There's a lot of demand for well-endowed models nowadays," I said, trying to keep the conversation within the context of my career. "But it's not just about your breasts. It's the whole package, your body, look and personality. How you look on camera."

"You misunderstand me," she dismissively answered.

Her hands went to her hips, exposing her full breasts to my gaze again. They bounced before settling and despite myself it was impossible to stop my startled eyes from admiring them. Her chocolate nipples were so hard...

"I was interested in your personal preference. You like women, after all."

I felt my breath catch. She was deliberately pushing my buttons and there could only be one reason for her comment. I'd been seen.

"No I don't," I lied.

My eyes dropped to my glass as I swirled the wine around the insides. It was obvious to me where this conversation was heading and I refused to meet her intimidating gaze as I desperately tried to think of a way out. She didn't give me one.

"Did you enjoy watched Françoise service me by the pool, Adrianna?"

The words startled me. Service her? Those were a word that Marie O'Flanagan used when she was in a mischievous mood.

"I saw you watching us from the balcony."

I played dumb but the flush of my cheeks betrayed my embarrassment.

"The balcony?" My heart was palpitating. "I wasn't watching you, Sherrilyn. I was just taking the air."

She simply smiled and we both knew that I had been caught in a lie.

"I was watching you all the time you spied on us," she calmly responded. "That's why I told Françoise to go down on me. It was quite a turn on, having her service me while you watched. I could sense how turned on you were."

She turned her back on me and swayed back to her chair. My eyes dropped to the way the skimpy red bikini bottoms clung to the firm cheeks of her black buttocks. They were fractionally too big for her body but that only enhanced her appeal.

"Did you tell her father?" she asked, swinging around and flopping down into the chair.

The question took me by surprise. "Of course not."

"Good. He wouldn't approve."

I felt a prickle of annoyance. How would she know what Pierre would approve? So what if his daughter was gay or bisexual. Most young women were into experimentation nowadays. She read my mind.

"At college, my friends and I have are members of a club we call Black Sorority. We each have a little white girl we let go down on us. Françoise is mine, although we do share them around from time to time."

Shock was written all over my face as I struggled to comprehend her words. They were clear enough, but difficult to believe. She'd been playing with me until now and that disclosure was almost a knockout punch.

"So you see, Françoise's father wouldn't approve, would he?"

I shuffled in my seat. The girl was only eighteen and she had me speechless.

"Did it excite you, Adrianna?" she asked, increasing the pressure. "Watching us?"

My mouth was suddenly parched and I took a sip of wine to ease the dryness as well as give me time to think. She took advantage, sliding her fingers inside her bikini bottoms.

"Do you want to watch me now?"

"Sherrilyn, stop this, we both know it's completely inappropriate. Whatever you and Françoise get up to is between yourselves. Don't—"

I paused as she slouched lower on her seat and I found my gaze drawn between her thighs. I could see the curl of her fingers under the thin red material, the way her arm was flexing. Her breasts swayed slightly with each movement. I should have instantly told her to stop but the words wouldn't come out. She took advantage of my confusion.

"Most young white girls can't get enough black pussy. What about you?"

I felt my cheeks burn. She was sitting there, only a short distance between us, masturbating while she talked dirty to me. Thoughts of my time with Marie O'Flanagan flooded my mind. The way she used to make me go down on her with just a few well chosen words. I could see her sex in my mind's eye as I sank to my knees to worship her. Only this time it wasn't her. It was a black pussy.

I could feel was a fire burning deep inside my loins. Sherrilyn must have felt it too.

"It's in the eyes," she said, pulling her hand away from her lap.