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..."
*
