Urgently opening my bodice with one hand and fondling my luscious breasts, he reached down with the other and lifted my skirts, then stroked my firm, rounded bottom through the thin cotton of my semi-transparent drawers before yanking them down to my knees.
Throbbing cock straining against the grey fabric of his trousers, he pressed hard against my by-now naked pussey and kissed me so passionately I felt I was being eaten alive. Parting my legs as far as my dropped panties would allow, I rubbed my glistening cunt against his stiff, serge-clad prick, leaving a damp, fragrant trail on the rough cloth. I felt for all the world like a randy female cat, leaving her scent on a favourite mate. A little something for him to remember me by, I thought to myself with a naughty grin.
Then, deftly unbuttoning his fry, I pulled his yearning cock free and caressed it for a moment or two, feeling it hot, dry and pulsing with life in my hand, before transferring the little drop of pre-ejaculatory cum from its tip to my finger, and from there to my tongue.
Smiling appreciatively as I savoured the salty taste in my mouth, I placed his eager prick at the entrance to my cunt, clasped his boyish arse in both hands, squeezing and massaging the taut, manly cheeks, and wriggled around a little so that the tip of his cock, wet with my love-juice, found my erect clitoris which jutted out like a tiny, miniature penis.
This was more than the poor boy could stand and, with a low moan of pleasure, he thrust his cock into me like a dervish, feverishly squeezing my sweat-sheened tits and pumping back and forth as though his life depended on it.
Should we have been discovered at that moment by some unsuspecting browser, what a picture we would have presented! Me with hair awry and breasts naked and free as nature intended, my dress pulled high around my waist and panties and stockings at half-mast around my knees. Michel, panting with exertion and quite red in the face, fucking my cunt with the enthusiasm of a man left starving in the desert having chanced upon a cool oasis with running water to slake his thirst and abundant date palms to satisfy his hunger. It occurred to me that I was most probably the first girl he'd fucked since he'd last been home from school. How utterly inhumane, I thought, to deny these young and virile flowers of manhood-many of them at the very peak of their sexual prowess-the opportunity of fucking pretty young ladies of a similar persuasion. Were I to be put in charge of the education of these sexy young tigers with their rampant cocks, I'd see to it that they received frequent visits from naughty girls such as myself, well versed in the art of de-spunking.
After what seemed like several minutes of glorious abandonment, I felt my orgasm approach like a tide of warm treacle through my loins. Then, with a tingling thrill of intense pleasure my senses exploded, at the same time as Michel, with a cry of delight and cock pulsating, shot jet after jet of warm spunk into my eager pussey.
We hugged each other tight for a moment or two then pulled away and smiled, wordlessly, into each other's eyes. As we straightened our clothing, Michel gazed into my eyes and said:
'Rosie, chere, that was one of the most glorious fucks I've enjoyed in many weeks. (My fears were confirmed.) 'Thank you, darling…' With that he kissed me on the nose, took me by the arm and led me back to the entrance of the glasshouse. As we parted to go our separate ways he said: 'Rosie, I have a little boat moored on the beach below and I'd planned to take my friend, Antoine, for a row on the lake next Saturday afternoon. Would you and one of your delightful friends care to join us? If the weather's good perhaps we could take a picnic, no? I'll arrange for our finest local shopkeeper, Pierre Bassinet, to prepare us a hamper, and I'll tell him to include a bottle or two of champagne.'
As he mentioned the champagne, I noticed a very definite twinkle in Michel's eye. Could it be that his plans included more than a simple row on the lake followed by a delicious but modest dejeuner sur l'herbe! Would my 'friend' and I be expected to perform in some as yet unspecified way? I certainly hoped so!
'Please say you'll come, Rosie,' pleaded Michel.
'But of course,' I said. 'We'll meet you at the pier at midday on Saturday. Meanwhile, au revoir, Michel… You scheming scoundrel,' I whispered to myself, giggling wickedly in anticipation of the forthcoming weekend's frolics.
Saturday morning dawned. Sleepily I opened my eyes and gave them a little rub. Brushing a stray, pale blonde curl from my cheek-which was still baby-warm and slightly damp from my recent slumbers-I gave a long, low whistle, parted my blushing lips in a sexy smile and began to giggle in a decidedly wicked manner, the sound emanating from deep within my throat.
I immediately recognised this particular expression of humour as similar to that which habitually issued forth from the full lips of the delicious Dora, a saucy and voluptuously popular lady of the night who for many years frequented the inns and taverns of London's Highgate.
Dora was notorious for her brashly extravagant and wantonly revealing ballgowns, worn day and night whatever the weather or the occasion, the necklines of which were cut so incredibly low that her big round breasts were all but completely displayed in their full, naked glory. Her modesty, if any, was preserved by a tiny strip of fabric which barely covered her succulent, and frequently well-sucked, red nipples, the generous contours of which were plainly evident under the lush material of her gown.
Men of all ages and from all backgrounds and walks of life had been known to pay vast sums of money for the voluptuous thrill of burying their faces between Dora's warm, white-fleshed tits and suck at her big, erect nipples. As a result, the fortunate Dora never found herself without a roof over her head or the price of a nip of brandy or a plate of oysters. More than a few gentlemen of means had offered to set her up in furnished rooms in a smart part of town if only she'd save her heavenly breasts and wicked favours for them alone, but Dora was by nature a woman of the street and while she still had her strength and her looks, on the street she'd stay.
The younger street girls would follow her, catcalling and rudely mimicking her swagger as she made her daily round of the taverns, gaming houses and licensed betting establishments, searching for handsome, horny men of discernment who were aching for a fuck with a woman of experience, and were willing to be parted from their hard-earned cash for a rummage in her drawers and a squeeze of her ample bosoms.
But I digress. The cause of my good humour on this particular morning was the delightful memory of a wickedly sexy dream I'd had before waking. I'd dreamt I was a young and beautiful concubine belonging to the king of Ancient Egypt.
I spent my days in the luxurious splendour of the royal harem, partially clothed or completely naked for the most part, bathing in warm scented water, rich with costly oils and essences, dining on wild honey and extravagant sweetmeats, or swapping wild stories and saucy anecdotes with the other women.
The older, more experienced concubines would delight in schooling us younger ones in the gentle, feminine art of pleasing men. In language of a most explicit nature and amid much hilarity, they'd teach us how to seduce, cajole and tempt a man on the one hand, while reducing him to a quivering mass of red-hot lust on the other with skilful displays of stroking, sucking and fucking to please even the most jade of male palates.
From these women we discovered the secret of nocturnal success in the royal sleeping chambers, and how to maintain the king's favour and keep him hungry for more of our bodily delights. We pure, gentle doves were trained to become ravening, sexy she-cats at the switch of a shapely hip or the wink of a glittering, black-lashed eye.