My Friends the Allens -- French Kiss
by Mark Aster

= = =
Note: this story takes place in a fantasy world where
vaccines against AIDS and pregnancy are safe and common,
and casual sex with strangers is not suicidally stupid.
The real world, sadly, is not like this: so don't try
this at home, kids.

Also, it's been a long time since highschool, and if
I've misspelled or misremembered any of the French
speech in here, it's entirely my fault; Daphne would
have gotten it right.
= = =

Pat, Julie, and I were all fascinated by Daphne Bouchard,
but I was the first one to get her into bed.  Or more
accurately, onto rug.

Daphne is a gorgeous, exotic creature, of indeterminate
race.  Her skin is a rich mahogany, light but deep, her
large eyes a warm coffee-brown.  Her hair is midnight
black, but fine and straight, worn loose, swirling
down her body.  Her nose is thin and Roman, her
lips full, her cheekbones high.  Her body is incredibly
lush, big round breasts above a flat stomach, wide hips,
and a curvy voluptuous rear.  Her native language is
French, her accent pure upper-class Parisian.  The
first night we noticed her, at dinner in the ski lodge
we were staying at north of Calgary, Julie whispered
to her sister, "Oooh, Sis, can I have her for Christmas,
can I, pleeeeease?".

The girls lost no time in getting us introduced to
the luscious Frenchwoman, showing off their knowledge
of her language, and making arrangements for the three
of them to go into town together for some shopping the
next day.  Between my high-school French and her
tentative English, Daphne and I also managed to talk,
enough for me to feel that her fragrant brown body
housed a warm, humorous mind as well.  My great triumph
of the evening was a handshake goodnight, in which I
told myself I'd felt a soft rush of chemistry and desire.
That night in our room, as Pat and I fucked enthusiatically
on the bed, Julie sat naked in front of the mirror, brushing
out her hair, and fantasizing about our new friend.  "Doesn't
she smell like heaven?  And that shape...," and she ran
her hands over her own breasts, small but exquisite, and
sighed.  Pat and I came shudderingly, both, I suspect,
thinking of Daphne's wide French curves as we enjoyed
each other's bodies.

Despite the sisters' best efforts, they made no progress
the next day towards the Parisian's warm private softnesses.
"She's sweet, but relentlessly straight," complained Pat before
dinner, "maybe you'll have better luck."  And the girls turned
Daphne over to me.  I invited myself to her table at dinner,
and we continued our assault on the language barrier.  She
was wearing a short frock-dress, tight and marvelously
revealing, and I made no effort to hide my admiration of
her body.  Her breasts moved round and heavy under the
thin material as she breathed, and I was very much aware
of the curve of her hip next to my mine as we sat and
ate.  Pat and Julie left the table early to go out, but
Daphne and I stayed for dessert.  Our hands met casually
over the sherbet spoons, and her warm fingers remained,
as though by accident, under mine on the table.  I felt
an erection building from the simple heat of her skin,
and when I next met her eyes I saw that indefinable
something in her smile that means "Yes, m'sieur, you
have some slight chance of getting into my pants tonight."
As we rose from the table, I suggested a drink in my
room, and she immediately agreed.

The lodge has no particular moral standards, and I think
the sisters like it partly because of the odd little
peepholes and mirrors scattered suggestively here and
there.  Nevertheless, for the sake of appearances, we
had rented two adjoining rooms, each with its own hallway
door.  We spent most of the time in the girls' room,
since it had the bigger bed.  But I took Daphne to my
half of the suite; we sat on the couch, the light on
dimly, and sipped at our drinks.  After some friendly
smalltalk, she turned the conversation quickly to sex.
"Your friendz," she said, "I think they are the lesbiennes?"
I grinned and reassurred her.  "Pas de tout," I said "not
at all!  They like men very much also."

"Ah," she purred, "c'est ca.  But it is not propair,
a woman and a woman, I think?  L'amour, c'est one cock,
and one pussee, no?"  My own cock hardening in my pants,
and the thought of her pussy strongly on my mind, I had to
agree.  "Oui," I said, "ca marche bien.  That works very
well!"  And I slid casually closer to her on the sofa.

She looked at me for a moment with those aristocratic eyes,
then snorted.  "You Nort Americainz, you are so... so shy!"
And she reached up under her dress, giving me a breathtaking
view of the smooth flesh of her thighs and flanks.  With a
single motion, she slipped off a pair of black satin panties,
and tossed them to the floor.  "Voila!" she said hotly, "Now
you know what it is in my head, yes?"  "Oui," I breathed, and
took her in my arms.  Her lips opened eagerly under mine, and
her tongue probed my mouth hungrily.  Her breasts pressed
my chest through our clothes, and her hands ran through
my hair, pulling my mouth tightly against hers.  I stroked
her sides and the swells of her breasts, and she rubbed one
hand between my legs, outlining my swelling prick.  I was
about to begin my exploration of the dark golden softness
of her thighs when she was distracted by a sound from the
next room.

"Qu'est ce que c'est?" she said, startled, as the soft
whimpering, as of someone in great pain or pleasure, came
again.  "I'll look," I said, and stood up, walking to the
place where I knew there was a peephole in the thin wall.
Bending over and looking through, I saw what I had expected
to see; Pat and Julie had returned from their excursion, and
now Pat was stretched naked on the bed, propped up on her
arms, as Julie, still fully clothed, knelt between her legs,
eating her.  Pat's full firm breasts pushed spectacularly
upwards, and her panting and moaning were incredibly erotic.

"Come see for youself," I said, beckoning Daphne over.  She
walked over, and bent down curiously to see.  The curve of
her magnificent ass presented itself to me, and I caressed
her through her dress.  "Ah," she breathed, obviously moved
by the sight, "your not-propair friendz.  Mai elle est tres
jolie."  "Yes," I replied, reaching around from behind and
gently cupping her breasts, "and you are very pretty, too!"
Through the peephole, Pat was beginning to buck and writhe,
and her mouth was open in a long silent scream of delight.

I quickly undid my trousers, and got rid of my shorts.  Kissing
Daphne's ears and neck as she bent over watching Pat's orgasm,
I slid my stiff cock in between her legs and began to stroke,
using my hands to hike the dress up off the globes of her ass.
She sighed and spread her thighs apart enough for me to enter her.
Her pussy was tight and wet, and I slid in easily.  As I stroked
and fondled her big tender breasts from behind, she rocked back
and forth, taking me deeply into her, and then sliding back out
again.  In and out, and in and out, and her breathing became rough
and heavy as we joined.

Then suddenly she pulled her sweet cunt up and off of my
swollen penis, and turned around.  Without a wasted motion,
she slid out of the dress, unclasped and removed the shiny
black bra, and gently pressed me down on my back on the
thick shag run.  She straddled me, and then lowered herself
onto me.  I pulled her down so I could reach her naked breasts.
As she began to ride up and down my shaft, moaning and quivering,
I took her boobs in turn into my mouth, kissing and licking
each tender mound, and sucking each hot dark nipple.  "Ah,
yess, ah, yess," she whispered, "one cock and one pussee,
one beeg 'ard cock and one so wet pussee, ah, dieu, ah, do
fuque me, ah YESSSS!!"

It went on for longer than I would have thought possible,
as my cock swelled larger and harder, and she impaled herself
more and more deeply, kissing my face with her hot helpless mouth,
and moaning desperate French obscenities, her infinite brown eyes
rolled up in their sockets, her breasts crushed softly against my
chest, her hips rocking, lifting and lowering, pulling up and
sinking down, until we both came in a great rush of bliss.  Her
cunt-walls squeezed my cock, painfully hard and long, and sunken
deep into her quivering softness I began to spurt cum as I arched
my back and took her ass in my hands, encouraging her as she
pumped and groaned and writhed.  Afterwards, we lay spent on the
rug, idly stroking each other's bodies and whispering bilingual
nonsense into each other's ears.

Pat and Julie did eventually get their chance at Daphne's lush
and exceptional pleasures later that week.  But that's another
story.

My Friends the Allens -- French Kiss
by Mark Aster
The End