Bastille Day

Oh, I did! She wanted to lie on me and suck my cock and for me to lick her pussy - no, muschi, she called it - and I remembered that she had said that it was sometimes better for her than having a cock in it - to avoid using the word she didn't like.

I have to get carried away again.

What I was doing was as good as ever before, and not just for me; she loved having her muschi licked as much as I loved licking it - and her twitching asshole. She hummed with an approving, encouraging nod. But what she was doing was better than ever before, and better than what Petra or Marge or her sister-in-law had done.

One could naturally think that whoever is sucking one's cock is the best. At that moment, it always feels so good, couldn't feel better, more arousing. But it was, I knew it was! Her lips and teeth were moving further down on my cock than anyone's ever had before, and the head of my cock was rubbing on the back of pallet, rubbing it where it was most sensitive! And she was sucking and humming. God, she loved what she was doing! Couldn't love it more than I did!

As I gave myself up to anticipating my pending orgasm, I recalled that she had made me come first in this position last year; it would be all right if she did again now. My head dropped back, and I clutched her ass, as my hips began to twitch. Did she nod in agreement, or was it just a better nod on my surging cock? It was that for sure. My moans shifted to a sharp grunt, and I came, grunting again and again, as I felt my cock spurt in her mouth. Her moans vibrated on my cock.

She raised her head a little and licked around the head of my cock, nodding with an “uhn-hnnn.” I caught my breath and raised my head again. After a moment, she rose on her arms, turning her muschi down on my mouth, and after a few more moments, she sat up, letting me lower my head on the pillow. My hands found her breasts, and hers clasped over mine.

A minute or two later, her appreciative moans became more aroused ones, and then almost pained whimpers, but they were only the last prelude to her very juicy orgasm. She collapsed down on me, her head on my thigh, as her hand found my again aroused cock. It just held it, as though she needed something to hold onto. She extended her legs, and we recovered with rising and falling stomachs.

Her fingers slid down and fondled my balls, and she sighed with long moan. I rubbed her back. “Um-hmm,” she agreed.

Then she scramble around, lying on me with a smile. She planted a good kiss on my lips, not just on my lips, her tongue finding mine for a few moments. She raised her head with a pleased sounding moan, smiling again, and murmured:

“Oh, that was good! Just the way I hoped. … He does it that good too, … now. At first, oh, he wanted to, but then let me tell him what made it better.”

“Lucky father.”

“Me too, lucky daughter. He just loves it when I do that to him.”

“Not just he does. … Better than I remembered.”

“Hm-hmm! I hoped so. He thinks so too.”

“He should.”

“Oh! I forgot that you come like that. He doesn't. Oh, he does, just as much and just as good, but not shooting like that.”

“Hmm! I'm sure it is just as good for him.”

“But I like it the way you do. … Willy came more like he does.”

“Hope his girlfriend doesn't mind.”

“They're here, Ron and Willy?”

“With girlfriends.”

“That's good.”

“We thought so too.”

“Oh, Marge, sort of forgot her, … not really. Nice that you both wanted me to join you.”

“Very much.”

“Me too, … both of you, … if you know what I mean?”

“Hm-hmm! I am sure she does. I know she does.”

“Oh, I saw Petra a couple of times, like that, of course. Didn't tell her about this.”

“He knows?”

“That we do? Told him after the trip; not that we already had before. … Oh! But when he stopped worrying about it all, he once asked if I wanted to invite her.”

“To join you?”

“I think that is what he meant. I didn't, couldn't let her know I was sleeping with my father.”

“Of course not, but I can understand his curiosity.”

“Um-hmm, maybe imagining that it could be like here.”

“It will be.”

I rubbed her ass. She nodded and then snickered and said:

“Not just Petra; another girl at my university. I don't think she cares for boys, but she didn't mind that I do.”

“And boys?”

“Hmm! Too much trouble. … Not really, but not just for that, for this. He doesn't know about the other girl, and she wants to study in England this fall.”

I rubbed her ass again and remarked:

“Not just for this.”

“With you … and Marge, it's not just for 'this'.”

“I don't think so either.”

She smiled with a nod and kissed me, not like before, but more than a daughter should kiss her father, if they kissed on their lips. But she wasn't my daughter.

We agreed to get up and find Marge, agreeing that we should wash first. She remade the bed, and we went out to look for her.

When she took my hand, I liked that she did; lots of other couples in the resort went hand in hand. We dropped our hands when we found Marge talking with a couple of those from our group who had gone out in the morning to see where the Tour de France would be. She smiled, nodding slightly, and remarked:

“You'll remember Anna from last year. We invited her to stay with us.”

They did, of course, greeting her. I was a little embarrassed at what they might think, but it seemed that they just smiled. We heard that their outing had been successful, identifying where the ten and five kilometer marks before the finish line of the race would probably be. Someone suggested that we watch the race on TV to see how the last hour or so of the race that day would be reported.

We joined others in the bar, who were more serious fans of the bike race, where there was a large TV screen. A couple of others from our group were there for the same reason, which led to more discussion of our plan and interest by people who hadn't heard about it. We discovered that well ahead of the leading cyclists there was a parade of advertising vehicles to entertain the fans waiting along the route. Someone said that it was only shown when nothing interesting was happening in the race, but that suggested the our flash mob could get coverage by the TV crew waiting at the ten km mark.

The real fans got more excited as the race neared its end for the day, hoping their favorite would win. We watched the awarding of the yellow jersey. We understood that he had the best overall time, although he didn't finish first. Someone tried to explain to us what the other jerseys were for, but we didn't really understand. Most of us ordered another drink, and I got three for us, returning to find Marge and Anna speaking German.

There were few Germans at the resort, so I assumed that they could say things they might not have mentioned in English. They immediately reverted to English, Marge saying that it was nice that she could practice her German again. Anna immediately said that it was very good. We had moved away from the others in our group, and raised our glasses with smiles and nods and drank. Marge remarked:

“I guess you knew more about what Anna did last year than I did.”

“Well, maybe, sounded good.”

Anna nodded with a smile, but looked slightly embarrassed, glancing around to see if anyone near us was speaking English. What Marge had said was harmless, but Anna's nipples had popped out, relaxed again, when she looked at us and nodded, more looking at Marge. We all had a sip and were silent for a moment. When they still didn't say anything, I remarked:

“You girls probably want to freshened up before dinner, even if you don't have to dress for dinner.”

They exchanged slight smirks. Did all four nipples pop out? Anna's did. I would have had to turn my head to look down at Marge's, but she replied:

“That's a good idea; I need a shower.”

Anna nodded with a smile at me, apparently appreciating my suggestion. As she started to raise her glass, I said:

“You can take your drinks with you.”

Marge snorted and also gave me a smile, nodding with a wink. As they started to leave, I was tempted to pat Marge's bottom, but didn't. That might have been acceptable at the nude bar at Cap d'Agde, but didn't seem so here.

While I was complimenting myself for helping them get away together, since they both so immediately responded, a French couple turned to me, smiling and asking in English:

“Your wife and daughter?”

“No; she's too young to be her mother, and she's is not my daughter, just as well so.”

“Oh.”

The couple turned away from me, apparently slightly embarrassed that their attempt to start a conversation had gone awry. I made it easier for them by rejoining others from our group, suddenly recognizing, however, that people could be curious about us three, in their case, tactfully assuming that we were a family. What were they now thinking?

The people I joined had all been at Cap d'Agde, so they didn't have to ask, whatever they might be thinking, while we talked about the resort and our plan. Dinner was later than it would have been in America, so it was a good hour and another drink before the group broke up, most of them, like me, probably needing to go to the bathroom.

As I went to our place, I wondered if - no, hoped that - Anna and Marge had enjoyed each other's company. Speaking German again? No; they couldn't say much if they had been doing what I expected. But they were, when I knocked at the door, finishing their sentences before they greeted me in English, both grinning as they came from the bathroom together.

“Thanks for helping us get away,” Marge remarked. Anna nodded, adding:

“We wanted to, just felt funny about suggesting it ourselves.”

“I had hoped so,” I agreed, adding that I had to go.

They smirked with nods, and I went in the bathroom, letting them hear my strong stream splash in the toilet. As we went to the restaurant, I told them about the French couple. They snickered and replied that it was fun to let people think whatever they wanted. “Menage à trois,” one of them murmured. When they both took my hand, I wasn't sure that was necessary to make sure people thought the right thing, but I clasped their hands, not just a little pleased at the thought that people could be thinking that I - getting on to sixty! - could be the male in a threesome with two younger women, attractive younger women. Even Marge was young enough to be my daughter. I sucked in my stomach for a the next couple of steps - till I forgot.

In the restaurant, as we sat down at a table for four, it occurred to me that people might surmise - correctly - that we were closer than just sharing accommodations, that it might have been better to join others from our group. Too late: if they wanted to think so. We were a menage à trois, although we hadn't yet done anything as a threesome. Had we last year, just the three of us?

Before I could start trying to remember, Sans-culotte approached our table and asked he could join us. He was taller than me and in better shape - no stomach bulge - and looked a couple of years older. After we first met him, Marge had said that he was good looking, maybe from a family with a “de” preceding its name.

We all greeted him and invited him to sit down. I was pleased that he lessened the appearance that we were wanting to be by ourselves. Marge's and Anna's smiles suggested that they appreciated his company. He sat down and turned to Anna, remarking:

“Ah, Anna, nice that you can join us again this year.”

Before she could say anything, her nipples popped out. She smiled, looking a little self-conscious, and replied:

“Nice that you remembered my name. Yes, and nice to see you again; even nicer, that they invited me to join them, join you all.”

We all nodded with smiles. During our meal, we had a very pleasant conversation. When Marge asked about his friend Stephan, he said that he had come alone this year, explaining:

“I felt a little obligated to join you, after having been involved in the planning, also for the flash mob. Oh, I am enjoying myself, as I always do on this kind of a vacation. It's not so much Stephan's thing, although he obviously enjoyed himself last year.”

We nodded with slight smirks, probably all remembering the Bastille Day party in their suite. When we then talked about the flash mob, he reminded us that his position in a ministry precluded his participation, but that he would be along to hold everyone's identification in case the police didn't like the event. Then he told us that the resort had agreed to his calling a meeting for everyone to tell about the project. We finished our meal, parting with remarks about looking forward to seeing each other again.

After we left the restaurant, Anna remarked:

“He's nice. Last year, I don't know if I ever really spoke to him. I must have, since he remembered my name.”

“He is,” Marge agreed, adding:

“Maybe seems - seemed - a little more reserved than this evening, maybe from a family with, in German, a “von.”

“You think so? Yes, like that, like a 'Graf' I once met. What's that in English?”

“A 'count',” Marge suggested.

“You think he could be a count?”

“I'm not going to ask him.”

I chuckled and remarked:

“Kind of contradictory: a count hiding behind the user name 'Sans-culotte', an expression for the left wing commoners during the French Revolution.”

“Best place to hide,” Marge replied with smirk, adding:

“if one can hide anything without pants.”

Apparently, we all understood the meaning of the French expression, snickering. We agreed to attend whatever the nightly entertainment would be.

What it was is unimportant here, besides, I have forgotten what it was that night. Sitting together in dark, as it cooled off, we moved closer. When I saw couples put their arms around each other, I put mine around Marge and Anna, accepting that the people next to us and behind us would notice. That also didn't seem to disturb Anna and Marge, who leaned closer, then with their hands on my thighs. I tried not to let that disturb me - part of me.

Maybe the few couples I noticed leaving before the program ended recognized the same problem. When it did end, maybe that is why only minimal lighting came on to allow us to find our way out of the seating area. We left it, again with my arms around Marge and Anna, when there was space for us to walk three abreast. That was the appropriate word; in the dark, with only ground-level lights on the paths, both of them reached up and pulled my hands down on their breasts, their arms sliding around my waist. I held them, and we exchanged hums, but that wasn't going to make it easier for me to use the toilet.

In our room, they both snorted with smirks when they saw my problem. I let them go first, but still chose to use the washbasin, rather than having to lean down to aim at the toilet. We didn't wait to wash, returning to the room. They hadn't remade the double bed. We glanced from one to the other, smiling slightly, questioningly, tilting our heads from one side to the other, from one to the other of us, each of us suggesting that one of the others should suggest what we do. Marge snorted softly and remarked with a glance at Anna:

“We just did.”

“We did, too,” Anna replied, glancing at me.

I nodded with a better smile. Anna grinned and remarked:

“That leaves you two. I am just your guest.”

“Not just,” Marge replied, and I nodded.

We all snorted at our predicament, smirking slightly. It seemed like my turn to say something. I looked at Anna and remarked:

“If you think we should, but what about you?”

Marge nodded with a slight smirk as she glance at me and then at her. Then she snorted and said:

“Just turn off the light and lie down and see what happens.”

We all chuckled, and I did. It had already occurred to me that there were three ways we could all be involved - with variations of who did what. In the light through the window, I saw Anna gesture that Marge should lie down. She did with a chuckle, chuckling again as she clambered over me, dragging her breasts across my chest, before she settled down, half on me, her thigh between mine. Her hand found my now soft cock, but still a handful. She squeezed it and murmured:

“Want to fuck?”

“In principle, if it's as not so obvious as before.”

“Hmm! Just to please Anna.”

Anna dropped down beside me, almost giggling, and replied:

“I want you to, hope you really want to - 'just to please me'.”

We all chuckled. Anna's fingers had slipped around my balls, fondling them. Marge asked:

“And you?”

“I just want to help, sort of as a ...” she searched for the expression: “as a guest's present.”

Marge snorted and remarked:

“Just this one time. How?”

I already had an idea, and Anna confirmed it:

“Lie on him; I want to lick you both.”

Marge began to move over me. I let Anna correct her:

“No, on your back,” explaining - as I expected: “Like that night with Petra, when you were with the guys.”

“On my back? Is that what you did?” Marge asked, but without waiting for an answer, she turned over, just snorting, as she settled on me.

Funny, that the weight of a woman lying on one doesn't seem heavy that way, not in anticipation of what I knew was going to happen. Marge snorted again as my hands gripped the cheeks of her ass, separating them. Had I done that last year, I wondered, when Petra and then Anna and were lying on me? Or had it been first Anna and then in the morning Petra?

Marge understood what was going to happen, drawing up her thighs. I saw that Anna was about to get between our legs, but then she stopped and said:

“Can you move around? Edge of the bed; I want to suck your balls.”

Marge and I both snorted at her remark, but obliged. We moved, Marge rolling off me and then getting back on me, my hands again spreading the cheeks of her ass. Anna had dropped to her knees between our legs.

Although I was also looking forward to what Anna wanted to do, my cock had sort of forgotten after all our preparation. Anna seemed to like that, however, chuckling with a hum as she raised it up, holding against Marge's pussy lips, and then her tongue was licking up it, apparently enjoying licking where it felt most sensitive, but it didn't yet, but then soon did. She probably didn't need to hear my pleased moan as my cock became more aroused. Marge also felt that it was, chuckling with a nod. Then Anna's tongue was pressing the head of my not yet stiff cock between Marge's inner lips. Her tongue lapped quickly up to Marge's clitoris and then back down on that spot behind the head of my cock, and again and again.

We both moaned in appreciation. Anna had to use her fingers to hold my cock against Marge's pussy so that she could continue to arouse us both that way with her tongue. Then she gave up on that and sucked my cock in her mouth, but just for a few moments; Marge chuckled and then demanded, rocking her hips up:

“Put it in.”

Anna did. Marge rocked her hips back down, and we both moaned in response to the sensations of feeling my cock in her pussy. Her muschi, I remembered that she liked to call it. Anna's tongue licked up the back of my cock and then was on Marge. She gave a more emphatic moan, rocking her pelvis slightly.

I couldn't know how it felt for her to have her clitoris licked and nibbled, but it had to be as good as what Anna did when she sucked my cock. My hands found Marge's breasts, and hers encouraged them to arouse her nipples. Then Anna remembered that she wanted to suck my balls and did, my sack still loose.

It sure is nice being older and not so quickly aroused as a teenager, young twenty year-old; I hadn't done anything as a teenager. And if a girl had sucked one of my balls back then, I probably would have had an orgasm even if my cock hadn't been in a pussy - not that I could have imagined that possibility: my cock in a pussy while another girl was sucking and humming with my ball in her mouth. My cock twitched, and Marge's hips twitched, and she demanded: “Me too!”