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Subject: RP: French Tickler     MFF, mast
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(Note: I am not the author, only the archivist.  

The author's name has come unattached from this story.  If you are the
author, please email me.  I like to see writers get credit for their 
work.

Moderators's note ------

Mark Bastable <markb@aboy.demon.co.uk> is the author.

------ end note

The following story deals with themes of explicit sex.  If you're not
old enough to be here, you're not old enough to read it.  Scram.)


A little charmer with a foreign flavor.



                        French Tickler.
                        ---------------


I was cycling through the Loire Valley - possibly the most rewarding cycling in the 
world.  It was midsummer - hot, but with a breeze that took the edge from the 
heat.  I stopped in a tiny village at about eight o'clock and found a room in the 
kind of wayside inn that's so impossibly French that they must pack it away in 
crates at the beginning of October when the tourists leave.

I showered, changed and went down to the bar.  I took my beer outside and sat at 
a table by the roadside, soaking up the last of the sun.

The French have reputation for insularity, but I think this is the fault of the stand-
offish Parisians.  Out in the country, the people are open, chatty -  amused by 
one's fumbling attempts at their language, rather than scornful, as the citizens of 
the capital tend to be.

I got talking to an old guy.  He told me about the village - how most of the people 
were employed, one way or another, by the Chateau, producing fine wine.  He 
had lived there since the war, having left Nice when the Fascists came.  We 
chatted for half-an-hour, during which time four or five cars passed.  He 
complained of the constant traffic.  He could remember when you could sit here 
all day and not see a car.  Still, it was a quiet, peaceful place.  If he was honest, 
an old person's place.  The youngsters mostly left as soon as they were old 
enough.  He supposed that he couldn't blame them.  

A couple of young men passed by, and bonsoired the old fellow.  They were 
going into Pinochelle to the club.  There was a band playing.  

When they'd left, I asked my drinking companion how far it was to Pinochelle.  A 
couple of kilometeres - a little walk.  We talked for another fifteen minutes or so, 
and then I decided to take a stroll to this next village, if only to enjoy the evening 
air - but maybe to see what quaint, provincial nightlife this somnolent region had 
to offer.

As I got up to leave, a Renault Espace - one of those micro-bus jobs - pulled out 
of the side road that ran behind the small hotel across the square.  It swung 
around, cutting past the statue of some obscure, dead nobleman, and picked up 
speed as it passed the table at which I'd been sitting.  There were eight or nine 
young women crammed inside - all dark hair and flashing smiles, hilarious at the 
thought of a night out.  A couple of them waved - not at me specifically; just for 
the sheer fun of waving at pedestrians from a car.  I waved back.

"Students, probably," the old man said, nodding.  "They come here to holiday 
and, perhaps, to earn some money in the vineyards."

"Cheers the place up, I guess," I shrugged.

"Certainly cheers me up," he grinned.

It was a fine walk to Pinochelle - good to be on my feet rather than on wheels.  
The village turned out to be larger than the one I had left, but still small enough 
that it was no trouble finding the 'club' - a large, converted house on what I 
suppose I must call the main street.

As is my habit, I sat at the bar with a bottle of wine, and observed the people.  
They were all young - none over twenty-five, I'd imagine - and loud and laughing.  
The band was no more than competent, knocking out rock standards in fetching 
Gallic American.  "Born in ze USA".  "Ze Man Oo Sold Ze Worrrld".  I was happy 
merely to watch the women, as they danced, whispered, clapped.  I thought I 
recognised one group as the girls from the Renault.  When one of them glanced 
in my direction, I raised my glass and grinned - as if I were complicit in their good 
time because I'd seen them travelling to it.  The girl who'd caught my eye waved 
back at me from across the room, and nudged one of her companions.  Two or 
three of them turned and looked at me, smiling.  They waved again.

I simply nodded, smiled.  I didn't want to speak to them particularly.  Or, if I did, I 
suppressed the desire, knowing that I would stumble, stutter, make myself look 
stupid.  I preferred to remain on my barstool - where at least I might give the 
impression of being self-assured and enigmatic.  Perhaps, if I am blunt, I really 
would have liked to get to know them - but, equally frankly, I was certain that I 
didn't want them to get to know me.  I'm one of those men best left to the 
imagination.

The lights of the bar came on sometime after one o'clock.  I shrugged on my 
jacket and walked out into the street, raising my eyebrows in an almost 
imperceptible gesture of farewell to the Renault girls as I passed them.  Setting 
off back to my little village, I realised that I was somewhat drunk.  A quick 
calculation - two bottles of wine, a couple of brandies and no food.  Yup, that'd do 
it.  

I'd walked no more than three or four hundred metres in the dark, when the lights 
of a vehicle loomed, throwing my shadow ahead of me into the trees.  I stepped 
to the side of the road to let it pass, but as it drew alongside me, the vehicle 
stopped.  It was, of course, the Renault Espace.

The door to the rear compartment slid open, and one of the girls leaned out.  Did I 
want a lift? It was a long way to walk in the dark, n'est-ce pas?

I peered in.  They were pretty tightly packed in there.  I didn't think there was 
room for me, and said so.

Rubbish!  They could squeeze me in the back.  One of the girls in the rear seat 
said something which I think must have been a little risque, because they all 
howled with laughter.  Evidently they were as drunk as I was.

Thanking them, I clambered into the bus, and wriggled between the two girls in 
the very back seat.  It was a tight fit.  Each of my thighs was pressed unavoidably 
against the legs of the women on either side.  One had thrown her arm along the 
back of the seat behind me in order to make more room for my shoulders - and 
as the Renault started forward again, I could feel her breast brushing against my 
bicep.  

It was pitch black inside, as we left the outskirts of Pinochelle, and the headlights 
playing on the road ahead only deepened the gloom in the back of the bus.  The 
girl whose arm was draped behind me, and whose face was, inevitably, turned 
half-towards me, said, "You are comfortable enough, yes?" Her voice was low, 
breathy.  She was speaking almost directly into my ear.  I turned to look at her.  In 
the gloom, I could see only the white evenness of her teeth and the way her dark, 
wavy hair fell in strands across her eyes.  

"I'm fine.  Very comfortable," I told her.  I was whispering too - as one does, I 
suppose, when crammed together in unfamiliar company.  

The others were chattering away in slangy French, shrieking with laughter and 
discussing the evening's entertainment.  My French wasn't up to following most of 
it.  I simply sat there, acutely aware of the bodies packed around me, and the 
almost psychedelic mixture of perfumes which seemed to cling to my face like a 
deep kiss.  

I was staring straight ahead, watching the winding country road unfurl in the 
headlights, when I felt lips trailing down the side of my neck.  I turned my head 
sharply to the girl on my left, and she simply smiled at me.  Her hand came up to 
my cheek and she pushed my chin back to the head-on position, and bent 
forward to kiss my neck again.  Her lips dragged moistly to my collar bone and 
then lazily sailed back up the line of my neck-muscle to my ear.  I felt her tongue 
loop around my earlobe, licking it gently and insistently.

I turned towards her again - amazed, but not about to ask questions - shifting my 
shoulder back so that I could bend my face to hers.  I kissed her, open-mouthed, 
feeling her tongue hard behind my teeth, and her smile surrounding the O of 
surprise that my own lips had made.

All around us in the bus, the conversation was still raucous and disinterested.  We 
kissed still, our tongues fought.  She was a good kisser, pulling me towards her 
with the arm that had been draped along the seat behind me.  My own hands 
were immobile in my lap, when I felt her fingers close around my wrist.  She 
tugged my hand upwards, and put it on her breast.  She had small, braless, 
pointed tits - typically Gallic.  I massaged them with my open palm, feeling the 
nipples rise, push, tighten.  Her right hand clenched in the hair on the back of my 
head and she groaned faintly into my open mouth.  I shifted forward slightly in my 
seat and maneuvered my other hand to her breasts, slipping it inside her t-shirt as 
it travelled there.  She pulled the t-shirt out of the waistband of her skirt, to give 
me room to move, Her tits were hot - really hot and, even in the dark, I could feel 
the smooth tan on them.

She had one hand on my cheek and the other entwined in my hair - so I was 
more than a little astonished to feel a third hand on my thigh.  It took me a 
moment to realise that it was the girl to my right, who was perhaps feeling rather 
left out of the action.  She brought her fingers to the front of my jeans, and began 
to rub my cock, quite harshly, through the denim.  I didn't want to break away 
from the kiss I was so thoroughly enjoying, but I also wanted to keep the second 
girl interested.

I took my 'upstairs-outside' hand away from the breasts of Fille Gauche, and 
reached back, unseeing, towards Fille Droit.  Unable, in that position, to raise my 
arm much above waist height, I landed my my searching fingers on Droit's thigh.  
It was bare.  A little blind exploration discovered a short, tight skirt.  I wriggled my 
fingers between her thighs, clasping the warm flesh.  Her hand, meanwhile, had 
unzipped the front of my Levi's and was worming inside.  She managed to slip the 
tips of her fingers inside the elastic of my underwear, and I felt her gently 
squeezing my trapped and swollen knob.

Tongue still flicking, left-hand still kneading tit, I attempted to move my right hand 
upwards, along Droit's thigh, to her snatch.  The short, tight skirt that had seemed 
such a Godsend at first, now formed an obstacle.  As she parted her thighs to 
give me access, the hem was pulled taut and my searching hand was stopped in 
its tracks.  My fingers waggled hopefully in the space beneath the fabric, but only 
the faintest, skin-thin tips of them brushed against her panties.  Suddenly, I felt 
her push my hand away.  Had I gone too far?

No.  I felt her shuffle her bottom forward on the seat, simultaneously twisting 
towards me, and encircling my waist with her arms.  Her tits - large, soft - were 
pressed against my back.  From either side of my hips, her hands descended 
upon my crotch, undoing my belt.  I raised my ass slightly, still with my face glued 
to Mademoiselle Gauche, and Mademoiselle Droit pushed my jeans down, just a 
few inches - just enough to give her hands a straight run at my desperate, eager 
cock.

My right hand reached back again, gliding simply along the line of Droit's inner 
thigh.  The angle was perfect now.  My fingers met her damp panties, pressing 
the fabric into her hot folds.  I hooked my little finger under the leg of the 
underwear and tugged it to one side, attempting to slide my other fingers along 
that wet gash in the same easy movement.  The maneuver was far from perfect, 
but I shifted the panties sufficiently to inveigle one finger inside her slippery hole, 
whilst rubbing across her mound with my outstretched thumb.  All this time, both 
her hands were clasped around my cock, stroking it, alternately fast and slow.  
First frantic, a blur.  Then easy, languorous, a walk in the park.

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Gauche was becoming impatient.  Progress needed to 
be made.  My lips left hers and moved down, pushing her back to expose the 
tender flesh of her neck.  She had very little room to shift position, but she gamely 
slid forward so that her knees were spread against the seat in front, and her arse 
was at the edge of the padded bench upon which this impromptu bacchanal was 
taking place.  My hand bade a fond farewell to her hard, insistent tits and slid 
down.  I had to turn somewhat to achieve this, so that I was again, facing straight 
ahead.  Mademoselle Droit adjusted her position, leaving one hand pumping my 
grateful penis, and the other resting lightly at the top of my ass.  My right hand 
was now cupped over her cunt, the middle finger dipping in and out rhythmically.  
I adopted a symmetrically satisfying style with Mademoiselle Gauche, slipping my 
hand inside her panties to feel an almost hairless cunt which oozed juice so 
copious it made my mouth dry.

I rested my head back, eyes closed, concentrating on maintaining a regular 
stroke with both hands simultaneously.  I pressed the balls of my hands into their 
cracks, hoping to excite their clits as my middle fingers probed and wiggled.  I felt 
Mademoselle Gauche lean forward slightly, and then, suddenly, there were two 
hands on my cock again.  They alternated, one girl rubbing the shaft from the 
balls to just beneath the glans, whilst the other squeezed and teased the glans 
itself and the tight knob-end.

Then, I felt Mademoiselle Droit convulse, bringing her thighs together, up, 
shaking.  Her hand stopped moving on my prick as she came, sinking her teeth 
into my shoulder to stop herself crying out.  I kept my eyes shut - still 
concentrating on my own pleasure and that of Mademoiselle Gauche.  I knew that 
I would lose it soon, and I very much wanted the second of my unexpected lovers 
to come, too.  I pulled my finger from her sopping cunt and sought out her clit.  
Finding it, I set up a swift rhythm - barely touching it as my fingers thrummed 
above it like a hummingbird's wing.  She let out a series of almost inaudible 
moans - uh.  uh.  uh.  uuuh - but, unlike her friend, kept up the complementary 
beat on my cock.  At the moment I heard her relax into a single long, quiet groan - 
uuh-ooooooooooh - I let myself go, cumming all over her hand and my own shirt.

I spurted maybe six times, and she gamely wanked me to the last drop.  I let out a 
deep sigh, and opened my eyes.  Every girl in the bus was looking at me and my 
two new friends.  Also, I realised, the bus was stopped - may, indeed, have 
stopped several minutes ago.  I certainly wouldn't have noticed.

I was, momentarily, mortified.  Then they all burst into a spontaneous and sincere 
round of applause, laughing and giving me high-fives.  

I grinned, nodded.  I thought about my cycling holiday.  I'd been on the road for a 
week.  Maybe it was time to take a break and spend a few days in one place.

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