Girl Who Was Not Called Mistral 02

"And did you become more assertive in the articulation of your needs, as a result of these adventures?"

"With my Dr Dawish Dado? Yes. After all, 'L'école Des Beaux Arts' is the place to further one's education. Back there, after the next session of 'private tuition', when it became time for me to demonstrate my appreciation, instead of bending forward over his document-strewn desk and raising my dress, I remain seated as he stands expecting my compliance. I hold up my hand to indicate both 'non' -- and 'wait'. Then reach out, and begin to unbutton his fly. This time it was his turn to be unsettled, as I reach in to extract his penis. To be honest, after my close encounter with Paul, it was disappointing, considerably smaller, less vibrantly virile, and altogether less impressive than his had been, and only semi-erect, but having taken events so far it would have been impolite to back down. Dado wasn't interested in my 'pearl'. So I recalled the expression on the face of the maid in the pornographic print, and know what I must do. Without further pause I take it into my mouth as deeply as I can, nuzzling up against the faintly musty material of his pinstripe trousers, and begin sucking.

'He was too surprised, pleasantly so, to express an opinion, or a preference. It stiffens and firms up against the roof of my mouth, easing me back, forcing me to relinquish a little of its growing length. And disappointingly, it doesn't take long. His breathing gets erratic, he grips the edge of the desk for support, dislodging a stack of documents which cascade down to shimmer across the floor. My technique was probably more enthusiastic than it was skilled, and my efforts were soon rewarded with a hasty and inadequate spurt of appreciation. He was appropriately grateful, by the end of the trimestre my marks were exceptional, I graduate with impressive grades. So the operation must be judged a success, although I was left with an anti-climatic feeling of 'is that all there is too it...? Is it that simple...? Can the male sex be so easy to manipulate...?' And yes, it's true, they can."

"I don't believe any of this. Can all this really be true? Am I expected believe that these things actually happened?"

"What do you think? Perhaps I'm inventing this because you asked me to. Or it might be true. You will never know. Not that I care, either way. But I do sometimes wonder what my friend Francine is doing now. Married advantageously to a well-heeled husband, no doubt. With a string of well-hung young lovers..."

"While you pick up strange men in Paris bars and allow them to abduct you. Yes, but you say you were disappointed because Professor Dado had a small cock?"

"Not small. I just said smaller. There's a difference."

"But it's important that you wanted and expected a big cock."

"You're twisting what I say. Important is the wrong word. Think of it like this. Every guy wants to have sex with a woman with big tits. Own up -- at least once, for the experience. It's shallow and superficial, but that doesn't mean it's not true. It's equally true that just because he wants sex with her, it doesn't mean he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. For that, you need other qualities as well. But just once, just for the experience, every guy wants to fuck a woman with big boobs. I can understand that. And in exactly the same way, yes, you want to get fucked by a huge cock, just for the experience, just to see what it's like. But this fascination, this obsession with penis-size, is more of a male thing. Penis-envy is what guys get when they watch each other in the shower. Don't try to deny it. Personally, I'd settle for a lover with an average-size cock, but a long clit-wise educated tongue, a lover who knows how to use it where it counts...Tell me, have you ever sucked another guy's cock? Have you ever fucked a guy's bottom, just for the experience, just for the hell of it?"

"I'm human, with all the contradictions and paradoxes that involves. So yes, when I was younger. Girls were mysterious magical inaccessible creatures. How do you approach them? How do you even talk to them? They smile impenetrable smiles and giggle unknowable secrets to each other. Mocking our inept fumblings in such wonderful, distant ways. They are beings from some other plane of existence. Leaving me tongue-tied and stupid. So what else can we dull males do to express all that burning sexual energy and curiosity that drives us to distraction? We do it to ourselves, alone -- I'd done that, or we do it to each other."

"And you did it how... at random? Or did you have one special, regular friend you do your grubby little furtive games with?"

"Should I say? Should I tell the truth... or fabricate teasing falsehoods? Which would you prefer? If I promise to tell only what is real, is claiming to tell the truth just a way to make a lie sound more convincing? If I tell you about the auburn-haired youth who reached out while we were showering, took my cock in his hand, and began to gently toss me off, smiling as he did so? And I let him. That was a one-off. Can't even recall his name. Or the more regular encounters with John. If I tell you that, will you believe me? We furtively trade our grubby little jokes and crude fantasies. We understand each other. One warm humid evening we climb the perimeter wall of the local municipal swimming-pool, and go skinny-dipping. Unconsciously eyeing each other's genital set-up as we undress, as guys do, as we dive and cavort. His body is smoothly hairless, with a neat clean cock set in a fringe of dark pubic hair. There's much splashing and game-playing, fuelled on testosterone. And we can't help but notice each others growing arousal. Semi-horizontal now, instead of down-hung. Soon we're sat on the edge of the pool side by side, masturbating together. And where there is hard-on, there is no sense. He reaches out to take my excited cock in his fist, squeezing, feeling me up. I not only lean back to allow him access, I reciprocate. His cock fills my hand pleasantly. His eyes are playfully bright. We both spurt our loads in high arcs, so the blobby evidence floats on the surface of the pool.

"Once it's done we get a little self-conscious. We dress quickly. Leave, and don't mention what's just occurred. But later we repeat it, in the privacy of his bedroom when his parents are out. In every other way we are regular hetero friends, sharing the usual passions in astronomy and weird movies. But once together we both know what's about to happen. He dares me to kiss his cock. My face is breathlessly hot. And very quickly, very lightly, I do so. Only when he returns the favour, his lips linger a little longer. My heart beating slow and steady. I suck his cock. He sucks mine. Both excited, naked and erect, we wind up sixty-nining. It seems a natural delicious progression, mutually contagious, the taste and slight aroma of him -- at moments I still recall the musk of his groin, the feel of his mouth working on me. Physically, he's similar to me. Sucking him is the closest I can ever get to sucking myself -- if that makes sense. If that explains anything. On other occasions, when we have nowhere else to go, there's a copse of trees in a hollow in the grasslands by the old weir beyond the edge of town. We can be private there and do... our dirty deeds, there..."

"Do you spit, swallow or avoid?" she giggles, hiding her face behind her hands.

"Funny, your words prompt some disturbing memories. You want stories? I have stories. Remind me to give you the full details. Although it never occurred to me at the time, I've wondered since. Every now and then, I've speculated. He must have done what we did together before me, with someone else. He knew what to do. Knew how to do it. To me, all that we did together was just cock-fun, without any connotations to anything more serious. We were young, it was just a way of testing out the potential of our bodies. This is the way it works. These are the pleasure centres. Compare and contrast, this with that, his body with mine. His cock. My cock. It wasn't until the sudden realisation, while chasing up definitions in a magazine, that what we were doing was not quite so innocent as I'd assumed, in the eyes of a vindictive and judgemental society, these were 'homosexual acts'. Vile and forbidden. And it wasn't what we were doing that scared me, what scared me most of all was the fact that I enjoyed it so much!

"Maybe he had a little more success with girls, so the uncertainties weren't as acute for him. But I was wracked with dark forebodings. What does this mean? Was I gay? Was I doomed forever to live as some kind of twilight outsider? Shunned and exiled from the straight norms of life? Flesh should be content to be flesh. I know that now. Yet pleasure is the source of so much needless guilt and pain. Today, things are easier than they were. Then, attitudes were harder, less forgiving, more cruel, and I made a choice. I cut him dead. He must have been so confused. Males don't talk things through. They don't articulate or express their inner doubts in case it's mistaken for weakness. So I never explained. I just drop him. Sometimes now I feel, if there's some way of contacting him, that I still owe him that explanation. An apology. But things pass. Times change. Later I wondered that, if ever I fell in love, it would be with a person, not a gender. Maybe that pleasing ambiguity is a legacy..."

"You're talking love now, not sex? That's not a guy thing."

"But you can't really separate the two, despite assuming the best nonchalant poses. Some argue sex is just the functional way evolution conspires to pass on your genes to the next generation and those beyond. That it's just a primal reproductive mating urge. That culture, society and romantic poets invent the prettifying myth of love to give it respectability. But you can't deny attraction. For some partners it's only necessary for the liking to last long enough for a one-night stand. For others you can be obsessive over a full lifetime. Infatuation. Desire. Flirtation. Longing. Affection. Lust. We're not all 'Tristan and Isolde'. But we're all subject to it. To a greater or lesser degree. I'm not saying it's the same depth of feeling or intensity for everyone. But you can't say it's not there..."

"You're killing the mood. This thing is not about guilt and pain. Come on, lighten up."

"Too late. We're almost there." Beneath a bruised-purple dusk swirling with grey clouds, he pulls the Renault into the open yard of the farm. Some of the outbuildings have already given in to slow gravity, their ribs open to the sky through pale ochre tiles. But the house shows signs of recent renovation. It is deserted. He steps out of the car.

She waits for less than a moment, then flips the glove compartment open and fumbles for the revolver. "Stop."

He turns slowly. Sees the gun levelled at him. "Hey. What is all this? Put that thing away."

"I want you naked. All mouth and no-trousers. Now. Do it."

He smiles a little uncertainly. Glances at the sky, then around the confines of the dirt yard. Eventually he shrugs indulgently and kicks his shoes off. Unbuttons his shirt. Once he's dropped it to the ground he slides the zip and shoves his pants down too. His palms are sticky moist. The atmosphere working up into a kind of edginess.

"Is that an erection in your shorts, or are you just glad...?"

"Yes. It's a hard-on." He straightens, as if suddenly self-conscious. She waves the revolver impatiently, and the shorts go too. He's nude. Her gaze keenly appraising him without reaction. She steps out of the car with deliberate slowness, the gun never wavering. She indicates the house. He turns, aware of the heavy sway of his penis as he walks across the rough earth. The ground warm on his bare feet. She follows at a safe distance, through the kitchen. The shutters in the lounge are closed, casting the room into a cool twilight despite the heat of the evening beyond.

"On your back, on the floor."

He does as she instructs. Then she crouches to stir his cock with the barrel of the gun. When he half-rises to protest she shoves the pistol in his face, and he settles back. "Your profession is women, is it monsieur? And you imagine I am your victim? But here all is permitted. Nothing denied. We, who have no names, no past and no history, we can invent everything."

She seizes his cock with her free hand and pulls it sharply. It stirs and stiffens, trapped in the cool grip of her fingers. His breathing comes hard and irregular as she repeats and quickens her stimulation until his balls jiggle furiously with the violence of the motion. He lies back with his eyes half-closed, his toes curling in a rage of sensation. Then, just as abruptly, she stops.

A bright strand of pre-emission swells and drools from the tip of his cock. She wipes it off delicately with her finger.

"See this?" She holds the gun to his temple, and extends her spermy finger to his mouth. "This is disgusting. You have no control." She presses the finger against his lips, which part reluctantly to her pressure, sliding it into his mouth. She watches as he sucks the finger clean.

With a smirk of satisfaction she straddles him. She wears on underwear. Raises his cock to meet her, and sinks down onto it. He groans as she grinds down onto him, and rests there. This girl who is not called Mistral, impaled on his sex. She moves to unfasten the punctuation of neat pearl buttons down the front of her simple black dress. Opening it all the way so he can see her body, her high breasts and firm prominent nipples, the mass of dark pubence that merges with his own. Then she works herself up and down on him, slowly raping him as he lies there with the gun at his head. Slow, then faster and faster, using him. Her breasts bob and shiver, her rich bush of pubic hair matted with juices. She gives a gasp of near-terror as he throbs expectantly inside her. And when orgasm hits them her body ripples back in segments like a caterpillar moves, a week-long climax through every pore of her body. A low animal moan as his embedded cock throbs and kicks. She writhes on him, and cries out "merde, merde, you bastard, you bastard."

Sheathed in sweat she sinks down onto his chest. The game is just beginning.

The following morning the sun fights to get in through the window, but only succeeds in creating shadows. She looks across the bed to where her husband lies. The familiar contours of his body still curled in sleep. He lies naked on his back. She fondles him possessively with her eyes.

Sitting up she reaches for a Gauloise, igniting it with a tall flame thumbed from the revolver cigarette-lighter that they'd used in their sex-play earlier. She wonders what erotic games he'll invent today for their amusement. For their mutual arousal. Already she experiences a deep frisson of anticipation.

As he sleeps, she reaches down to gently kiss his penis.

And her lips tarry there. For a while...