Training Emily

"You're glistening!" I said, as Emily rejoined me at the bar.

Telling a woman that she is glistening could be offered as a compliment, that she is iridescent with beauty, or with desire. Emily certainly was shimmering with her own, very special loveliness. A coy, shyness to her sexuality complemented the sheer sensuality of an exquisite body, but it was not the erotic attraction that she evokes that I was describing. I meant it literally. Her slender neck, and her delectable breasts, were moist and glistening beneath the ever changing nightclub lighting.

I lowered my eyes to confirm to Emily just where, on her body, she was glistening. She followed my gaze to her breasts. Checking her neck to see how it looked would only have been possible had there been a mirror, but the way that Emily's exquisite breasts stand proud, in stubborn defiance of earth's gravity, they were well within her frame of vision. The upper slopes of each, already patterned with a light scattering of freckles, were now splashed with rivulets of recently ejaculated, creamy semen, trickling towards her light pink areoles, and reflecting the reds, blues and yellows of the nightclub's disco lights.

Emily smiled, her white-blonde, frizzy hair, cut level with her dimpled chin, framing a face so innocent that she could have been an angel, if angels were to use bright red, glossy lipstick on lips as full as hers. Her face was lightly freckled like her breasts, her eyes bright blue, the whites as clear as snow, the lashes and brows their natural white blonde, untouched by mascara, almost invisible, her nose cute, her lips full, a face so innocent it contrasted with the semen splattered just below, except those lips so red were high class call girl scarlet, and not innocent at all.

"I know," she grinned, fully aware of how she looked. "I thought you'd like to see."

I was impressed. True, we were in a swingers' club, and most women, like Emily, were dressed to expose their bodies rather than conceal them, but no one else was blatantly wearing the clear evidence, not just to me, but to everyone she had passed in coming back to join me at the bar, and to those immediately around us, that she had used those scarlet lips to pleasure someone, and bring them off, and let them spew their semen where they wished.

In three short weeks, my latest wife had come so far. Some women live whole existences in denial of their inherent sexuality. Had she lived one generation earlier, Emily would have been that woman. Born just too soon to be a true millennial, she had still come very close to that repressed, restricted life. Her parents, and the close-knit Pentecostal community where she was raised, would have wanted that for her, to cleave to one man, and just that one.

Sex, to them, if they ever allowed themselves to say that word, was for procreation, not enjoyment. Wombs are God given, part of his purpose, to be impregnated, breasts to provide milk to the each new-born in turn, but otherwise, a woman's body is a thing of shame. That was Emily's understanding all her young life, except Emily had met, and fallen deep in love, and been loved deeply in return, by a guy who saw sex to be God's gift to men and women for mutual pleasure, with no boundaries, biblical or otherwise, no restrictions or taboos, and Emily was now learning just how much pleasure could be taken, given, even shared.

Introducing Emily to Cap d'Agde, watching her discover who she truly was, had been exceptional. Few men have the privilege of initiating an ingénue into the pleasures of carnal eroticism. It had been adorable, beautifully cute, the look of raw shock on Emily's face as we drove into the naturist complex, its walkways already busy with holidaymakers from all over Europe and beyond, strolling stark naked to the beach, or to the shops, or to a bar for coffee. A startled gazelle, picking up the scent of stalking lions, would not have been so wide-eyed, horrified, or full of fear, as Emily, sitting in the front seat of my car.

"People can really go around like that?" Emily asked, in the soft tones of her Californian accent.

That might give the wrong impression. Emily was born in Pittsburg. That is not the Pennsylvanian Pittsburgh, with the final 'h', but in California, though she had never been a string bikini beach babe. Her Pittsburg was a conservative, church attending community of righteous servants of the Lord, and Emily had grown up to be a homely, smock wearing, neighbourly young woman.

"Not can," I said, in answer to her question. "It's obligatory here. Except at night. At night people like to get dressed up."

I left the details of how people got dressed up until later. She would find out.

"Ss..., so...", she almost stammered, "you want me to..., I mean..., I can't!"

I kept my voice calm. I have been teaching all my life. You learn that asserting authority is not about being loudly aggressive. It is about assured authority, and the giving of directions with conviction, confident that they will be obeyed.

"You can," I said, as I reversed into a parking bay. "And you will. We'll leave your bags in the trunk and walk to the apartment."

I have learned a few words of American over the years, and called the trunk the trunk, and not the boot, which Emily might not yet have understood.

Emily did not argue, but her nervousness was palpable. Her body was almost shivering with apprehension as she alighted from the car. The startled gazelle, instead of bounding for its life across the flat savannah, or in Emily's case, out though the complex's entrance, forced herself to stay exactly where she was, amidst the danger, and began to shed her clothes, and bare her soul, under the summer sun, right beside the car.

There was something endearing about a young woman with a figure most would give their eye teeth for, being so anxious about the prospect of being naked. Even the way she had dressed for her connecting flight from Paris to Montpellier, reflected the conservative, fundamentalist upbringing she had lived, jeans and a plain, all covering, beige, turtle neck jumper, the only visible skin anywhere, her face, hands and Jesus sandalled feet.

"Just put your clothes on the seat," I suggested, as I removed my own things by the driver's door, "but keep your sandals on to walk."

She started with her jumper, pulling it up and over her head. Her Nordic blonde hair, pulled high by the tight neckline, tumbled back into place, centre parting now uneven, hair that had pulled straight contracting, their natural curls acting like springs that when extended, would revert to their natural shape. Had it not been for its innate bubbly liveliness, her hair-style would have been quite plain, but then that was how Emily had been told to see herself, and to present herself to others, plain and unassuming.

Her bra was white, with wide back straps and full cups of dense fabric. She kept it until last, removing it only once she had taken off her jeans and a pair of the kind of knickers that a nun might wear, butt covering, wide sided, reaching almost to the navel. When she finally reached behind her back and slipped the straps of her bra down her arms and the cups from her chest, her previously constrained breasts took up their natural contours, and you could understand why a modest, well brought up young lady would have worn the style of bra that Emily had.

That first day at Cap d'Agde, my latest wife was understandably self-conscious. You cannot be brought up to be modest and reserved, and feel comfortable and at ease displaying breasts as perfectly moulded as Emily had been blessed with by the Lord. They are full, though not as full as some, but unlike some, Emily's breasts refuse to acknowledge the effects of gravity. They stand proud of her rib-cage. Instead of resting on it, as do most women's breasts, the undersides of Emily's breasts curve outwards.

Crudely put, Emily's breasts are truly melon shaped, projecting from her torso, although since there are over twenty-five varieties of melon, that alone does not describe them. A google search suggests one called Crenshaw would be the closest their shape, torpedo like, oval, and with a slightly pointed end.

Even that is not quite accurate. It does not account for Emily's areoles, or her nipples. Where most women's areoles continue the smooth curve of the breast tissue, Emily's protrude. They swell from the breast tissue, egg shaped, perhaps two inches in diameter, augmenting the contour of her breasts by at least a further inch of taut skinned protuberance, with thimble sized nipples adding to the overall projection. Enhancing their perfection, her areoles and nipple stubs, instead of projecting directly forwards, tilt ever so slightly upwards.

Which explains Emily's choice of bra, and jumper. Without the control, and rounding effect of her firm bra cups, her jumper would have been stretched tantalisingly between the two projecting, firm nipple stubs of those delectable breasts. The jumper itself disguised their overall size, if not their natural shape. With neither bra nor jumper to contain them, her projectile breasts were perfect.

Which also explains the semen spattered over those same breasts, just three weeks later. Single guys, mostly from the local area, mix with couples in the Cap d'Agde nightclubs, their cohones bursting for the chance to play. Emily was their dream recipient, her breasts the ideal place to aim, objects of pure lust, deserving to be drenched, hosed, sluiced, and flooded with hot, spurting ejaculant.

In fairness, as she undressed beside the car, Emily may also have been conscious of her complexion. Most of the people we had seen walking around the complex were tanned, some golden, some dark as mahogany. Emily hardly tans. Her Nordic ancestors brought with them to California an inherited complexion that is translucent white, and that lends itself to freckling, rather than turning to an even gold. Even her areoles are pale, the egg shaped protruberances a delicate shade of pink, her nipples hardly any darker. Her skin is so fine, here and there, blue tinged veins show through. Hers is a complexion suited neither to the Californian sun, nor to that of the Mediterranean, evolved generation by generation in the cool twilight Nordic waste. Standing beneath the sun, she may rightly have been nervous of its strength.

I undressed as well, of course. Having already spent several weeks at my apartment there, I was already tanned all over. Car doors closed, car locked, I took Emily by the hand and walked her towards the built complex, black thong sandals on my own feet, brown Jesus sandals back on hers.

The route to the apartment took us along the marina, boats one side, bars the other, through a small shopping area, boutiques rather than provisions, down a walkway between a line of tiered apartments on one side and low level town houses on the other, to another set of shops and bars closer to the beach. All of this was frequented, the walkway itself reasonably busy, people in the shops, the outdoor bar seating areas not full, but far from empty.

Emily received the looks that she deserved. You cannot have her figure and expect to be ignored. She may not, when she was at school or college, have been an athlete, but her body is slender, seemingly long limbed thought she is average height, with a taut butt, contrasting with the fullness of her breasts. She walked like a gazelle, nervous of stalking lions, naked and vulnerable, eyes darting nervously around, her hand in mine, tremoring with nerves.

People who passed us looked, at her face, her breasts, her pubis, and back again to those incredible breasts, smiles forming on their own faces. Breasts like Emily's should have swayed from side to side or bounced a little, as she walked, but hers barely moved. Their firmness maintained their contours, almost as if invisible hands were cupped beneath them, or holding them by the nipples, pulling them in front, and lifting them.

Emily should have enjoyed the looks that she received, but instead, repeatedly, she glanced away, avoiding gazes. She had not been brought up to be the object of so much attention. She was supposed to be demure, not ostentatiously naked, attracting interest, stimulating thoughts in other's minds too shameful to be contemplated.

Yet three weeks later, that same Emily joined me at that bar, those incredibly beautiful breasts no longer pure white, but spattered in light brown freckles, with semen globules that had run from her neck, down the ski slopes of her breasts to where the swollen areoles had brought those globules to a standstill, and she was smiling.

"How many?" I asked her, while holding a twenty euro note towards the bar attendant, letting her know that we were ready to be served.

"Three," she said.

"That's good," I said. "Can you point them out to me."

I like to know which guys are involved. It is a mild turn on for me, knowing who my current wife has pleasured. Stranger sex is like that. It stimulates the guy who orchestrates it.

"By the pole platform," Emily said. "White shirt, black hair. Beside him, blue shirt, shaved head. The other guy might still be in the corridor. He was arab looking, maybe Algerian, or Morrocan."

"Interesting choice," I said. "Borderline interracial! I'm impressed."

"Do I get a drink as a reward" she asked.

I felt proud of this new Emily, no longer a shy newbie to the scene, but confident, self assured, and poised, and a product of my own design.

The bar attendant had come to check what I was ordering just as Emily suggested the reward. She might have been Goth, the sides of her head shaved, the top and back left long and spikey, a nose ring, lower lip ring, multiple ear rings, and a pair of bar-bell piercings set through nipples that had been turned black, whether tattoo or lipstick, I could not tell. In contrast her complexion was pure white, like Emily's before it turned to freckles, unusual in southern France, and so different to all the tanned flesh in evidence in the club.

"Whisky on the rocks, and a diet Coke," I ordered.

The diet Coke was Emily's drink of choice. That, or water. Her church and family had not approved of alcohol. Pentecostals can be pretty strict. But then that was why Emily had needed to be brought out of herself, sexually at least. I had no desire to persuade her that alcohol, also, could be enjoyed.

The girl looked at Emily.

"Serviette?" she asked.

Emily looked at me to help, although the word in English is the same. Perhaps the girl's gruff, southern accent left her bemused.

"Merci, mais non," I said, in French. "Elle est belle comme ça."

The girl shrugged, and busied herself getting glasses for our drinks.

"She was offering you paper towel," I explained to Emily. "I told her you are beautiful as you are."

Emily glanced down at her breasts again. The globules had not moved, still thick and creamy, but static, resisting the pull of gravity.

Other than the bar attendant, Emily was the lightest skinned person in the club. A high factor sun cream, child strength, had kept her skin from burning, and kept her freckles to a minimum. But they still covered every inch of her, face, breasts, arms, back, butt, legs, and even on her mons.

Mention of her mons reminds me of Emily's second day at Cap d'Agde. I had made her an appointment with one of the several beauticians on the complex. Emily had never, ever, trimmed her pubic hair. Like her head hair, her eyebrows and her lashes, it was light blonde, a copse of curls, shrouding her slit if not quite hiding it completely. It had to go.

This, too, caused Emily several anxious hours before her appointment time was due, baring not just her body but that which should never be displayed, other than to her husband, the private, intimate entrance to her womb. The beautician took no more than twenty minutes, expertly skimming Emily's mons with a small electric trimmer to cut the curls to manageable length, then tearing the remnants from their follicles with wax sheets. Her mons reddened from the procedure, Emily's private, pink, protruding labia were revealed for all to see, admire, envy and desire.

Labia, like breasts, come in all forms. Emily's form thin, almost triangular flaps, flagging the way to her entrance, their apex midway down, protruding a full inch, more than enough to suck inside your mouth and tease between your teeth, or to hold between thumb and forefinger, or, if you were that way inclined, to pierce, and set a ring through, much as the bar attendant had had her nipples pierced with bar-bells, and with a ring, Emily could be walked naked on a leash attached directly to her cunt. Labia as prominent as Emily's invited thoughts like these, not that it would happen.

Yet, anxious as she had been before the beautician had used her expertise, and in spite of the prominence of her nether lips, Emily was already beginning to display a hint of pride at looks men gave her even as we left the salon. She stepped outside with a confidence that was new and growing by the hour

We had walked the beach the day before, not just once, but the full two kilometres of its length, right to the sign denoting "Fin Zone Naturiste" at the furthest end, all the way back to the inlet to the harbour that defined its nearer end, and then again, three times more, not for the exercise but to accustom Emily to being naked, to receiving looks, to having people admire her openly, to having men virtually drool over her breasts and body, some tripping on the sand from the distraction that she caused.

We bought ice cream from a vendor at a wheeled stand, queuing with twenty others, bodies close in front and right behind, Emily almost skin on skin with other people, several openly admiring her breasts, even commenting, women as well as men. We licked melting cones, while men around us day-dreamed of licking Emily's swollen teats.

"Oh, la, la, quel seins magnifiques," did not require translation, even when whispered with discretion. Nor did the looks, or smiles.

Walk the beach in Cap d'Agde four times over, and you will see so many varied, naked bodies that the instinctive anxiety at being naked soon evaporates. Emily gradually relaxed, no longer the frightened gazelle, more assured, relaxed, composed, still placid, but her unease substantially reduced.

So that the following day after, her pubic hair removed, once it was gone she had less concern about that ultimate nakedness, the smooth, depilated mons that exhibited her womanhood. The gazelle was less anxious, little realising that in Cap d'Agde, she was still prey. It is a sun soaked playground for couples and families of all ages, but for many of the men around us, it is a sexual jungle, their hunting ground, and for them, women like Emily were prime game.

For the next three weeks, I introduced Emily to and guided her through that hunting ground, but that night, in the club, she had gone alone, into a dark corridor where she had known she would be vulnerable. The room we were in, along with the bar where she had rejoined me, had space for dancing, seats and low tables, a pole dance stage with two floor-to-ceiling poles, and beside that stage an entrance to this corridor that zig-zagged past play spaces, allowing those who walked within to view. It was dimly lit. It could get crowded, and in the low lighting, and the crowd, men took advantage.

I had first brought Emily to the club mid-way through the initial week of her training, for that is what this holiday was all about, Emily's training to be the kind of wife that all men dream of, unless of course, they prefer other men to women.

We had eaten out the previous nights. The flight bag of clothing that Emily had naively packed and brought with her was still locked in the trunk of my car, her normal choice of clothes unsuitable for evenings here. Instead, I had dressed her in a black number bought in one of the several boutiques, backless, tie string around her neck, those amazing nipples pushing out the front, naked beneath, the hem mid-thigh, a dress that could be worn in any club, bar or restaurant, sexy, though not outrageous, but one which the old Emily would never have possessed.