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                        French Trip.
                        ------------


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 sideroad 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
enviegle 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, langurous, a walk in the park.

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Gauche was becoming impatient. Progress needed to
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 Mademoiselled 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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