Over breakfast on a gloriously sunny Provence Saturday morning I told Pippa about Yvette, my lovely little blonde mistress from Avignon.
"We've been an item for about six months, Pip," I told my lush-breasted 19-year-old niece, "and she's sensational. And while she's no prude, I'd be obliged if you didn't wear those ridiculous little strips of material you laughingly refer to as bikinis when we're by the pool."
Pippa put on a dramatic pout. "Uncle doesn't want to see ickle Pipple's lovely ickle titties and botty," she said, in a ludicrous "little girl" act.
"Unky wants to see a lot less of ickle Pipple 'cos it gives unky wunky a fucking hardy wardy," I replied in kind.
Pippa laughed, and moved to where I was buttering toast. "I'll behave, but I don't know that I've got anything other than those 'ridiculous little strips' as you describe them," she told me, running a hand over the front of my jeans, provoking an instant stirring of my cock.
"Well then, you can cycle into the village and go to Madam Boucheron's shop and buy one. I've seen some in the window and they're much more suitable for when my lovely lady's around," I told her.
After breakfast Pippa did exactly that and while we were gone, Yvette's rusty old Citroen banged its way into the forecourt and the beautiful blonde climbed out.
Her lustrous blonde hair fell to her sun-bronzed shoulders. A little black bikini top supported her firm 35-inch breasts, and a scandalously brief little pair of shocking white hot pants completed her outfit. It was almost as if she'd been to Pippa's couturier!
The high-heeled beauty stepped into the hallway and kissed me greedily on the mouth. "'Ello, you lovely 'unk," she said, rubbing her bikini-covered breasts against my bare chest.
Yvette is Sorbonne-educated and speaks perfect English but for an irritating habit of dropping her "hs", which was an affectation I knew drove British male tourists mad with lust, but pissed me off no end.
"'Ello you 'orrible little 'arlot," I replied, because there are times when I cannot resist ribbing her about those dropped aitches.
Yvette laughed, and stepped out of her hot pants to reveal an exquisite little black thong which matched her bra. "All right," she said, draping her pants across a kitchen chair, "where is she? I want to see 'er."
I explained that I had sent Pippa to Madam Boucheron's to buy a semi-decent bikini, and Yvtte laughed. "For someone 'oo makes 'is money by photographing naked women you're very prudish at times, Jack," she told me.
Just then, Pippa walked into the kitchen, her brow gleaming with perspiration from the long uphill incline back to my place from the village.
"You must be prudish old Jack's lady," said Pippa, who had obviously overheard Yvette's remark. Pippa walked up to the blonde and kissed her on the cheek.
"I'm Pippa and I'm going upstairs to try on my new bikini. I'll model it for you in a minute or two!" And she skipped off upstairs carrying a little brown paper parcel.
Yvette looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "Jack, she's so pretty – you're a very lucky old uncle!"
I stepped into her arms and kissed her full on the mouth. "I'm lucky because I've got you," I said. After taking off my jeans to reveal a small black thong, we went outside, lay back on recliners and sipped on cold Kronenbourgs while waiting for Pippa to put in her bikini modelling appearance.
Minutes later, my niece emerged from the wide doorway off the kitchen and pirouetted around in a black bikini, which did nothing to hide the outline of her lovely breasts and buttocks, but at least covered them a lot more than her "string" jobs.
Yvette, though, was far from impressed. "Oh Jack, that's dreadful – look what you've made 'er do! If she wears that 'orrid little thing for more than 'arf an hour she'll die of 'eat exhaustion," my blonde mistress informed me.
"Pippa, darling," Yvette addressed my teenage niece, "go upstairs and put on one of those little bikinis that this old prude 'ere so objects to. I want to see it."
Pippa grinned a broad grin, poked her tongue out at me and disappeared while I chided Yvette. "Those things are so brief they wouldn't be out of place in a porn magazine," I informed her.
"Well, my darling," she replied, totally unfazed, "you should know!"
There wasn't much to say to that, so I let it ride and sucked on my beer. Then Pippa made her reappearance.
She had chosen the red "bikini", which consisted of narrow strips at her breasts – so narrow the outer edges of her areolae were visible – and at her pussy. The strip down there was similarly scandalously brief, so much that the outer sides of her lush labia lips protruded from the sides.
Yvette, the little vixen, applauded! "Oh my god," she exclaimed, "that is
so
'umungous!" And I know she chose the word "humungous" deliberately so she could drop the fucking "h"!
Pippa, playing up to her, spun around and then stood by the side of my recliner, spread her feet wide and bent over, grasping her ankles. The bikini strap only covered the centre of her lovely little brown anus, and I felt my cock rising inexorably in my thong.
"Oh Pippa, you look so magnifique," said Yvette, lapsing into part-French. "I'd love to try one on – 'ave you another like it?"
Of course she has, I said to myself, and Pippa grinned at me again and poked her tongue out at me - again. "Come on up to my bedroom, I'll show you my collection," said my little vixen of a niece. "Uncle, you stay here," said Pippa, "and try to keep your hands away from your cock! We'll be back in a few minutes. In the meantime, fetch me a beer, this modelling is fucking thirsty work!"
