Bastille Day Ch. 06

Saturday morning, I looked at myself in the mirror, pulling in my stomach as I observed that my tan was also fading, and sat down at my computer, wondering if I was always going to be naked when replying to her emails.

I thanked her for her "delightful" message and wished her luck at what to tell her father, telling about my experience the first Friday night after the trip. Then I added that that wasn't a suggestion for what to tell her father. I ended with:

"I'm hoping you have had a nice weekend with your father. I would be interested to hear if it was like you hope.

Love"

After I sent it, I wondered if the last line suggested more than she was thinking. Had I wanted to suggest she should? Should what? Just think about him like she did about me? Take the initiative to do something with him? Yes, I wanted her to, wanted them to.

I showered and had breakfast before I got dressed to go grocery shopping.

During the following week, Buffy sent us all a message telling that he had put a report on his forum about the trip and that he had started two new forums: "Join a Flash Mob for Nude Day in France" and "Bastille Day is Nude Day, come to France." As he explained:

"The report is fairly tame, just pointing out that it was a group of Literotica fans who got on very well together, including a couple of girls who weren't part of the group but fit in just as well, to the delight of the two surplus men in the group. The new forums are invitations to join the flash mob on Nude Day, wherever the Tour de France puts us. Please sign up and let others know."

By the time I went to bed that evening, there were several round robin messages from others expressing their enthusiasm, also one from Marge:

"Can we afford to go? Can we afford not to go?!

More later after the seeing Liz and Rod.

Bet you want to know all!"

"Yes, I do!" I replied with a winking smiley.

Friday evening was drinks after work again, no longer with comments about my story, but my mind was wandering in that direction, wondering how Anna and her father had gotten along together.

That night in bed, I fantasized with various scenarios: how she could seduce him; how he could admit that he wanted to sleep with her. A couple of times my hand forgot what it was doing, when I got too involved in trying to make the one or the other version seem plausible. That might have been easier, thinking about Petra with her more direct manner, but my fantasies were about Anna. I skipped past how they got there and just thought about what they would then do, something I knew a lot about with her.

During the weekend, my thoughts often returned to the subject, sometimes admonishing me for thinking that they would have want to do what I wanted them to do; more often speculating about how they could. I hurried home Monday evening, hoping to hear from her, but there was no message from her. I chastised myself for assuming that she would so immediately satisfy my curiosity, that she would even want to - admit that she had slept with her father?! She hadn't really admitted that she wanted to. Much too much Freudian projection, not that I needed it, since I had slept with her every way possible; no need to have her father do it in my stead.

Tuesday evening, there was also no message from her. Silly old man, I thought to myself, wanting a girl you slept with a couple of nights in France to tell you about her love life, especially if it was with her father.

But Wednesday evening there was a message from her. Before I opened it, I got a beer. On the way back to my computer, I suddenly remembered decades earlier having done the same before opening letters from my girlfriend in another college. Silly old man! I opened it:

"Hallo,

Thank you for your message. :-) That was funny, what you told your colleagues. No, I didn't do that. I started to write you Monday evening, but realized that I wanted to write more than I had time to. I have started over, a Word document that I will send as an attachment when it's finished. Could be a couple of days. It's being fun to write, much more fun than trying to a write a short story for my English course here last year, and fun remembering.

That should tell you already that we had a good weekend together. You wanted to hear if it was like I hoped. I wasn't sure what I hoped, but it was.

Love, Anna"

I finished my beer as I read and reread her email, chuckling and smiling to myself. It was both promising and enticing. Did they, didn't they, but maybe would? It was going to worth waiting to read her attachment.

I got another beer and replied:

"Dear Anna,

Thank you. You know how to make me curious. Whatever you hoped, I am looking forward to reading when it's finished.

Love"

I read my other emails, a couple more in response to Buffy's message. In bed that night, I worked on more fantasies about Anna and her father, this time letting him be less reluctant.

Thursday and Friday there was no message from her, also not on Saturday, to my disappointment. How many times did I return to my computer to check? In the late afternoon, I computed that it was too late in Germany to expect that she would send it, and went out for the evening. When I returned, I still checked again.

But Sunday morning - finally! - there was a message from her, and with the symbol that it had an attachment:

"Hallo,

Finally! I just reread it this morning - before I got dressed. ;-) Think of me like that, now not so tanned. I hope you enjoy it, that you wanted us to. I should have worked so hard on that short story last year. This is one too, not a letter to you. I really want to share it with Papa, but then I would have to explain why it's in English. Maybe next time I see him, I can ask if he doesn't mind that I wrote it for you. We are going to see more of each other. Well, we can't really! I hope you like that. But you - and Marge - helped it happen.

So, thanks and love,

Anna."

I fondled my balls. Oh, I was going to like it! I replied:

"Dear Anna,

"I do like that; sure I will enjoy it. Just got up - think of me like that, too. In my second message to you, originally I wrote that I hoped that you 'would see more of your father', but changed it, not to imply more than you maybe meant. I'll have breakfast first, but then ...

Thinking of you," and sent it.

I washed and shaved and took time to have a good breakfast, but then hurried back to my computer with a fresh cup of coffee. Of course, I didn't wait to get dressed. I opened her attachment.

I found it delightful - and arousing - as she had seemed to have wanted it to.

[Readers can find it as separate story posted last year on Literotica: "He wanted to see more of me."]

It was a couple of hours after my first message to her when I finished reading it. I wrote a new one:

"Dear Anna,

Many thanks! That was how I hoped it would be, for you, for him, for me, and from your English. Sometimes I heard your voice between quotation marks. Delightful! I knew without your putting it in words how it was. That made it special for me, very special. Thank you again. I think Marge would enjoy it just as much, if you wanted to send it to her.

Since you said such nice things about me, told him them, I think he would understand that you wanted to share it with me. I mean, I think he would very much enjoy knowing how you expressed it all. If I were him, I certainly would. You can tell him that.

Oh, more tactful would be to explain that you want to send it to me, but only if he agrees. He doesn't have to know that I already have it.

Love"

I sent the message and clicked back on her attachment and enjoyed it again, even more, trying to hear her voice in all her statements. I hadn't finished it, when I received a new message from her:

"You're dear! I wish writing essays for my course were so much fun. Maybe if I knew I was writing for such an appreciative reader. Oh, it was so good! Thank you for helping it happen, and thank you for how you made it happen! We've already agree to 'see more of each other' next weekend. I was afraid that maybe he would have misgivings, but he hasn't, and I sure haven't.

Who needs a boyfriend? I spent a lot of time finding the right words, like "misgivings" just now.

'See more of each other," can be an expression in German, but not as common as in English, but so appropriate. I used it more often than we did. The story took on its own life. Fun, trying to make it good in English, but more effort than I had expected. But I wanted to, and your reply made it all worth the effort. Thank you! Also for your thinking that he would understand and like it.

Love, Anna"

That made my day! No, I didn't do anything: too many just fond and fatherly feelings. I check the calendar and saw that Marge would be spending the next weekend with Rod and Liz. That promised to be just as interesting, and I assumed that she would tell me what happened, but the thought that both of them would be enjoying themselves so well let me feel left out.

I googled to see if there was nudist club in my area. There was, but I decided not to try it and planned to do something else on the weekend to distract myself from thoughts about them.

I spent the weekend visiting a few historical and cultural sights in the area, the kind of places one takes guests to see, but never visits alone. That did distracted me from thoughts about them, but only until I saw families with teenaged daughters, and was reminded too much about Anna and Petra - and all the younger girls I had seen nude at Cap d'Agde.

I didn't have sexual thoughts about the teenagers, just appreciated that some of them seemed to be enjoying flaunting as much of their vacation tans as they could: hot pants, strapless tank tops, a few with bare midriffs. Some looked like they were experimenting for the first time with their now bikini figure, one that could hold up a strapless top. They did, some with tan lines on their shoulders, some without. Some of those were quite young.

Their parents seemed to have varying attitudes towards their daughter's obvious blossoming; some apparently pleased, proud; some looking less so, apprehensively watching if boys their age were ogling. And some parents were of two minds: dad obviously appreciating that his daughter was growing up; while mom kept her eye on him.

I didn't speculate further. Oh, I did, wondering why they let her go strapless, if mom apparently disapproved, because Dad said that she could? Would he have dared say that he thought she had the figure to do so? And the pleased, proud parents, especially one couple with equally good tans, was the family maybe nudists, they had seen their young daughter's seamless tan, like I had seen Anna's and Petras?

I tried to think about them, instead of wondering what kind of nipples the girls had - just intellectual curiosity. Late Sunday evening, Marge didn't disappoint me, and I forgot about American teenagers:

"Hi,

I know you must be very curious about my weekend. It was good!

I was a little apprehensive when I arrived Thursday evening. We kept our clothes on. Liz did ask if it had really been like that in France, but that was all. Friday morning, Rod went to work. When the sun was higher, Liz suggested we sunbathe. After joking that her tan was better, we sat down. A minute or two later, she asked me again about France, wanting confirmation that I had really slept with the girls and if that was good.

I'm keeping this brief; you can use your imagination.

I could see what she was leading to. Finally, she said: "I told Rod he could sleep with you, but I want to, too. Didn't tell him that."

We did. Of course, it was good; women don't need any experience to know what to do. She didn't. She was a little silly afterwards, giggling that she was pleased that she had dare to ask. In that light mood, she asked if all the women were shaven, asking if I hadn't felt 'overdressed.' I told her our conversation about that. Like a couple of teenagers, we did with some giggles, helping each other. We both look like we're wearing white mini strings with camel toe. But before we stood up to discover that, my fingers and then hers aroused each other. Good thing that I started; she hadn't expected it to be so good (understatement). Took her a while to make me whimper and laugh the way she had, better than when she did it to herself, she admitted.

Then we went back in the sun, agreeing to stay naked and surprise Rod when he came back. He was! Immediately surmising that that we hadn't just shaved. Liz blushed at his direct question, but grinned and confirmed that we had and that it had been good. We managed to have a round of cocktails before he insisted that we show him what we had done. You know what happened then, him with Liz. I really don't need to tell you how the rest of the weekend went. We did everything we could. I guess we were pretty regular about taking turns. In between, they wanted more details about what we all did in France. They were a little surprised that both girls wanted to do everything with you, but I assured them that the girls had shown good taste - from my experience.

Enough. Just need to catch up on lost sleep tonight, but too late for that already. You deserve a little - no, a lot of - thanks for my weekend; without you in France, it all would have been different.

Goodnight, Marge"

I clicked to answer her email:

"Hi,

Thanks. As you can see, I've been just waiting to hear from you. Glad it was sooo good, better than I could imagine, and I have been trying to.

Goodnight"

Before I clicked on "send", it occurred to me to say something about liking shaven pussies, but didn't.

Monday evening, there was a message from Anna:

"Oh gosh! He asked me to stop calling him Papa. I was already trying not to, but it just slipped out. He was delighted with my story, said I got it just right about him. He wasn't so sure about my sending it to you. Thank you for suggesting that I ask him, but Sunday, he agreed, with another wry smile. Another one only after the couple in response to my answers to his questions about you, luckily just about you and Marge. He agreed with me that you had much to do with (I don't want to say "responsibility for") what has happened and that you deserve to know, maybe with thanks from him. You know that you have my thanks, not just for what has happened here.

I won't send it to Marge, since it is too much about you. But if you think that wouldn't bother her and she would like it, you may.

Love, Anna"

I heard her voice as I read, wondering if she heard mine when she read my emails. I was, of course, delighted that he had agreed that I "deserved" to know, recalling that Marge had used the same word. Very nice to read that from them both, but not much good for me. Can't have everything, old man, I thought to myself; you had enough in France for the past year or two - or more - and maybe for the future, too. I clicked on the attachment to her of her previous email and enjoyed it again. I figured with the time difference to Germany, that I could postpone replying to Anna and went to bed and had a confused fantasy that included them both.

Tuesday evening, I did reply to Anna, trying to write something that could sound like my voice. Late Wednesday evening, I was very surprised to receive a short email from Marge again, and much more surprised at the long text from her brother, that ended with the suggestion that she invite me to join the three of them.

[Her email with his text was also posted last year as a separate story: "You started something."]

I replied with written snickers and that I wasn't sure about meeting them, but that it sounded most inviting. The next day, she replied that she should have added that she would like to see me again and that she thought I could get along with her brother and sister-in-law, "also like they mean."

In the following weeks, we just kept in contact. Anna wrote me after each visit with her father, not with any details, but it was nice that their seeing more of each other reminded her to think of me. I heard about everything else she did, and replied to that, sometimes thinking my comments sounded like those of a father, a sort of exchange of roles with him. Sometimes she replied immediately to them, which was nice, and occasionally she referred to our times together in France, even nicer.

The correspondence about the flash mob also continued. Near the end of October, the route of the Tour de France was announced. The étape on July 14th would end at Mont Ventoux, a mountain in the Provence that had several times been on the mountainous part of the tour.

This new information upset a few who had been looking forward to a vacation near Mont St. Michel, but then Sans-culotte sent an email to everyone, telling that there was a very nice nudist resort near the base of Mont Ventoux and also fairly close to Avignon, where there was an airport. He explained that it wouldn't be like Cap d'Agde, more family-oriented, but that it couldn't be more convenient for what we wanted to do. He also pointed out that it was a remote area, so that there would probably only be tour fans around, that a nudist flash mob would be less likely to be seen by people who were on a family outing our tourists to Mont St. Michel.

It seemed as though everyone clicked on the website of the nudist resort. The next day, there were many new messages thanking him for his information and agreeing that that is where we all should go. A few said that the Cap d'Agde experience did not have to be repeated, that they were especially pleased that the resort would be quieter vacation.

Marge and I agreed, independently and then together, when we saw each other's message, registering to join the group. Sans-culotte then pointed out that there were different types of accommodations and that we should make our own reservations. We looked at the possibilities. Then I got a message from Marge:

"Hi,

Just had a new idea that I think you would like. Just to avoid too much one-on-one, OF COURSE, what about inviting Anna and staying in something for three persons? 'Small Family Unit' is perhaps not the right expression for us, more the French expression for what we would be.

Do I hear your heart beating faster? I don't mind; I like her too, save her from Willy and Ron. Oh, they already mentioned that they had companions for the trip. All the better.

Doesn't have to be fancy; just a double and a single bed. What do you think? I'll split the costs with you.

Marge"

Yes, my heart was beating faster, but would Anna want to, could she? She wasn't receiving all the emails from the group. (I had checked.) I immediately clicked on the resort's website and found the cheapest and next cheapest accommodations that met Marge's description and replied to her with links:

"Hi,

OF COURSE, just to avoid too much one-on-one. You're a dear! (Why we need ... see first sentence.) What about one of these? [my links] If she can't join us, I'll pay the difference to what just we two would need, so that we can book as soon as possible. And if we decided to cool off, we would have an extra bed, but I hope not. She probably cannot decide immediately. She wouldn't have to tell her father. No, she would, if she returned home with another seamless tan. Have to point that out to her, but it will be fun inviting her. Or maybe you should. She knows that I have told you about what happened after the last trip. Let me know."

Marge replied immediately that she would split the cost on either choice, even if Anna could not join us, since it had been her idea, and also that she thought it was a good idea for her to invite her, saying that she would "cc" me on the message. I wished her success and reserved the less cheap - better, more expensive - accommodation.