“You want me hard?” I asked, now into her game.
“Would you do that for me?” she asked, presumably innocently, as I started slowly to wank myself to a respectable hard-on.
Finally she said, “Perfect!” taking two more shots of me erect before she set the camera aside and joined me on the bed. “Breakfast can wait!” she said, leaning down and giving me a kiss before straddling me. Her practiced hand seated me once again in her pussy, which always seemed to be wet, and she whispered a question in my ear, one that it appeared she was rather ashamed to ask aloud: “Nicky…have you ever had anal sex?”
* * * * * *
Three days later – more like three weeks of exhaustive fucking with Maureen – I arrived in Grenoble and ended up at Lindy’s door. She wasn’t there. Her roommate, Carolyn, was, however, whom I hadn’t seen in three years or more…when she’d been in high school. “Lindy’s on a field trip to Colmar, looking at church art ‘n’ stuff. She won’t be back ’til tomorrow,” said the breathtakingly shapely young woman. “Please come in, though. We’ve been expecting you,” she said, fluttering like a bird and seating herself nervously on a double bed that served as a second couch in their living room.
I dropped my pack and set my guitar and straw-covered wine jug in a corner, then collapsed on the sofa. I’d become quite comfortable with my informal image by this time, and didn’t hesitate to press the point, especially since I knew this nymphet’s agenda. “Enjoying France?” I asked, ingenuously.
“Oh, Gawd, yes! I’m fluent, you know, and my grandmother was born here!”
“Didn’t know that,” I admitted. I’d first met this girl back home when she was a cute, shapely, though as yet underdeveloped, ballerina. Now, looking at her made my throat constrict because of her figure. Her curves made me drool, and I suspected that she knew what she was doing to me, the little wench. “Guess I’d better find a room, since Lindy’s gone, then catch a train,” I ventured.
“Oh, no…please stay here! There’s an extra bed…this one,” she said, smoothing out the wrinkles in its spread with a tan, blemishless arm and long, dainty fingers. “We’re having a party tomorrow night and all our friends from home wanta see you, ‘n’ talk about Berlin ‘n’ stuff.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna have some wine. Want some?” I’d filled my Imperial gallon jug at a wine store on the way from the train station.
“Sure!” she bubbled. “I’ve got some baguettes and some ham and pate! We can eat and…”.
Of all the women I’d seen since arriving in Europe, Carolyn was one of the most delectable: Five-feet-seven, with a 34C-22-34 body, all dreamy musculature that would make gym-worshipping women of four decades later hate her. This day she was dressed in a thin cotton, yellow sleeveless shirt-dress that scooped low across her breasts and down her back. It was so thin and skin-tight, in fact, that her braless nipples and aureoles showed brown through the material, as did the dark brown hair of her muff. The dress went to her ankles, though on each side it was slit to mid-thigh, showing the tight, muscular results of many years of ballet training in her legs. She caught me looking at her body more than once, and innocently responded with hazel-eyed stares that matched her dark-brown, pixie cut hair. “You’ve changed since I saw you three years ago,” I said, idiotically stating the obvious and at the same time causing her to preen like a peacock.