The call from my darling sister came as I would have expected - at an unexpected time. I was busily preparing a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, tomatoes and hash browns at the time - I've lived in France for years, but like most English I cannot abide their fucking fetish for a stale croissant and a tiny thimbleful of black, brackish coffee. Give me a cooked breakfast any day.
Anyway, Pippa was sitting at the kitchen table wearing only a pair of hot pants, watching me, wearing only an apron, doing the cooking when the call came.
"Get that, darling," I told her, as I moved the eggs round in the pot.
Pippa picked up the mobile and announced herself.
"Oh, hi mummy," she said. "Yes, yes, yes. I'm having a wonderful time, uncle's really looking after me." And with that she shook her lovely large naked breasts at me so they wobbled from side to side.
Then she stood and handed me the phone, whispering "I'll finish this".
I spoke to my dear sister. "Hi, Donna, what's up?"
"My fucking marriage," said my 40-year-old sister, who is two years older than me, with her Roedean accent, which always causes words like "fucking" to sound so alien to her mouth.
"Sorry to hear that," I said, not in the slightest bit sorry. Her lawyer husband was a cunt and she'd married way beneath her - not in social standing, you understand, but in style.
"I'm in Paris and I'm catching the 10 o'clock TGV for Avignon," she announced, in that typical "Do as I say" manner of hers. "Pick me up. And then you can buy me a decent lunch in Avignon, if such a thing exists, you know how much I detest train food."
I didn't, but an excuse to have a meal in Avignon was no problem, I knew dozens of trendy little eateries.
Donna flounced off the train into the baking sun on the platform and marched towards me. She looked stunning, as I knew she would. A large yellow sunhat was perched on her head, covering her long, brunette hair. A little frock did nothing to hide the magnificent proportions of her big breasts (40 inches at the very least and all natural), her lovely strong thighs and her suntanned calves.
Mens' heads turned as she planted a chaste kiss on my cheek, commented "That's a fucking disgusting baseball hat, Jack ", indicating my Cubs cap, and marched out into the car park.
Ever the gentleman, I opened the passenger door of the Maserati and noticed as the frock rode up her tanned thighs that while they were large they were also superbly toned. As she climbed in she displayed a flash of black satin panties at her crotch. Even though I was fucking her daughter like there was no tomorrow, I felt a tremor of lust run through me - if there's one thing I adore on a woman it's black lingerie. Unusual in a man, that, eh?
"Take me to lunch, I could eat a horse," she said, lighting a Gauloise as I wheeled out of the car park. "On second thoughts, don't take me anywhere they serve horse!"
"Well," she said, as I drove to one of the city's better non-horse-selling restaurants on the outskirts of town, "what do you think of my darling daughter?"
I gulped, aware that I was fucking her like crazy, then recovered myself. "She's lovely," I replied, totally honestly. "We're getting on very well." Again I was being totally honest.
"Better looking than some of those whores you photograph for a living, eh Jack?" she said, snidely, referring to my men's magazine job as a photographer of the female form.
"Yes, but she's probably too short to make it in the modelling business," I told Donna.
"Her and me both," she said, inhaling sharply on the pungent little Gauloise.
"Au contraire, my darling sister," I smiled, as I pulled up into the restaurant's car park. "You're about four inches taller than Pippa and, as the French would put it, a woman 'of a certain age'.
"There are some magazines that specialise in women who are 40-plus - and I'm not talking about their bust size. You'd go down a treat in them. Men around the world fantasize about making love to what the porn trade calls MILFs."
Donna arched an eyebrow, as we got out of the Maserati.
"MILFs?" she said.
"Stands for 'Mother I'd Like to Fuck,' and you'd be a quintessential MILF," I told her.
"Tell my fucking husband," she snorted, and we went in for lunch.
Over a typical French provincial lunch, washed down with a perky little Cotes du Rhone, Donna poured her heart out to me.
"That fuckwit of a husband is useless. He's not fucked me in months, he doesn't go down on me. I'm going to fucking leave him," she moaned.
"Thought about playing around?" I asked, sipping on the light red.
"Within my social group I'd be spotted in a nanosecond," she explained. "Not that I've not tried. I was so desperate one week-end when he was away with his boring bloody mates on a golf trip, I employed a male prostitute."
I inclined my head in a question. Donna licked her finger after dipping it in a bowl of bearnaise sauce. "Fucking useless. Wore a fucking condom, which I hate, came too soon - which I also hate - and muff-dived me like a fucking chicken pecking at its corn. Money down the drain."
I tried to commiserate, she drank another half bottle of Cotes du Rhone, I paid, we drove to my place.
Pippa was lounging by the pool in one of those string bikinis which hardly covered her nipples, never mind the sides of her areolae, and left her labia lips nearly peeping out from the sides of the crotch string.
"Hi darling," said Donna, bending to proffer a kiss to her daughter's cheek. "There was no need to dress formally on my account."
"Sorry, mummy," said Pippa, "but I like to tease Uncle Jack."
"And I'm sure you do a fucking fantastic job of it, my dear," said her mother. "Now I know what type of poolside wear is allowed, I'll go and get changed."
I told my sister where to find her bedroom and as she swept upstairs, Pippa hissed: "Wear a thong, Jack, make her feel at home."
My eyes bulged. "A thong? Are you insane? I wear a thong and she'll know something's up - especially with you dressed like a Hammersmith hooker."
"Nonsense," said my lovely little niece. "You've got a great body for an old man, you're nicely muscled and a thong suits you. Anyway, mummy is sex-starved and wants to look at a nice male figure - did she tell you about daddy?"
I nodded, slipping my Ralph Lauren jeans and Armani shirt off to reveal a tight little black satin thong. "She's fed up with him and wants a divorce," I reported.
"Good," said Pippa, sucking on a bottle of beer. "He's as useless as tits on a bull. Time she was shot of him."
I lay down on my recliner, next to Pippa's, leaving the outside one of the three to Donna, who soon reappeared wearing an outfit that almost caused me to shoot my wad!
She was still wearing the floppy sun hat and her high heels, but was now clad in a one-piece outfit that made me gape. Her large, toned body was tanned a deep brown - summer in England must have been a smasher this year!
But it was the one-piece that grabbed my attention. I'd never seen a woman in anything like it, and the fact that it was my sister did nothing to alleviate the stirrings I felt in my crotch.
The garment was made of some sort of metallic material which glowed in the light. It was a sort of purple colour and consisted of a bra which had a large cut out in the middle, and was just two narrow strips over the centre of her breasts. Her nipples stood out and must have been erect. The sides of her globes were brown in the Provence sunlight.
From the tops and bottoms of the bra, straps went around her neck to support it, and down to the crotch piece, which was similar to the bra cups, consisting of a narrow strap which widened slightly at the labia to cover her sex lips. As she bent to place her towel on her recliner, the straps at the back cut into her buttock cheeks, which were totally naked.
"Sorry about the informal wear, Jack," Donna smiled at me, "but since I saw Pippa was dressed like a 'lady' from one of your magazines, I thought I follow suit. Well, what do you think - would I go down well in one of those 40-plus mags you told me about?"
