Guy with a one-track-mind - Going International
Published December 16, 2009
And when I say 'thinking about', of course I mean 'wanking about'
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Ooh la la - our anonymous scribe recalls his first French fancy…
Having royally shafted myself as far as the UK's modelling community was concerned (by royally shafting far too many of them), I decided that I needed to spread my nets and resolved to make the continent my new catchment area. No longer were domestic females sufficient, now it was time to go international!
My first thought was to get in the mood by thinking about the one foreign girl I'd had up to that point. And when I say 'thinking about', of course I mean 'wanking about'. Audrey was the archetypal French girl - style, Gallic passion and that unparalleled sexiness that comes with the accent. And she gave the best blow job I'd ever had – did I mention that? I don't know what they teach in Paris schools but the curriculum was bang on in terms of sex education. Audrey and I had had a brief but intense fling a year earlier when she was studying in London and working part-time at the cafe next to my office. The sex had been unbelievable, but I hadn't thought about it much since she'd left as I'd had plenty of locally-produced females to concern myself with. But now I thought back on it, cock in hand, I decided that maybe Audrey could have been the one…
However, after the box of tissues and I had finished our reminiscences on that Monday night, I just got on with my working week as if nothing had happened. So, at lunchtime the next day when I checked my Hotmail, imagine my shock when I saw an email from none other than the sultry temptress herself, picking up my masturbation vibes and firing them back at me through sub-Channel fibre-optic cables. Clicking on the message with a lump in my throat (and my trousers), I read with increasing wonder how she had been sitting at home the previous evening thinking about me too. Was this synchronicity at work – two causally unrelated but meaningfully connected events occurring together? Did that make it wankronicity? Had the power of masturbation really taken my thoughts across La Manche to Paris and into the sexy little head of my former femme? After meditating briefly on this spiritual – metaphysical even – question, I decided to damn the means and concentrate on the end: specifically, all the beautiful things that Audrey was going to do to my end, the achingly stiff trouser baguette I had waiting for her. So, after swapping chit chat and formalities I floated the idea of a rendezvous. At first she was understandably reticent, us not having contacted each other in over a year and there being hundreds of miles and a significant body of water between us, not to mention the countless other conquests that fallen before me since she left. But then I remembered that Audrey was always a believer in the supernatural, so I played my trump card and unfolded to her the spooky events that had led from me furiously wanking about her to her thinking of me hundreds of miles away. The power of my orgasm, that she felt all the way over in Paris, surely warranted a saucy international liaison, did it not? In the end, she had no defence in the face of the awe inspiring power of the wankronicity and booked a seat on the Eurostar for the coming weekend.
After an unnecessary night's drinking on the Thursday, I phoned in sick the next morning and headed to Waterloo to pick her up. I always loved the way that we made the Frenchies arrive in London at a station named after one of our most famous military victories over them. Bienvenue a Londres, mes amis Francais! ....And have that you cheese eating surrender monkeys! If only they would change St Pancras’s name to Trafalgar. Anyway, as I idled in the station in my hungover fog silently thanking Wellington that we didn’t all have to eat frogs' legs for breakfast, through the crowd appeared the vision of loveliness that was Audrey, a feminine effervescent for my morning-after state. Since leaving London she had lost the couple of pounds of puppy fat and was now a sculpted French goddess, her loose brown curls bobbing in front of her deep black eyes as she glided across the concourse towards me. Wrapping her in my arms, I smuggled her into the nearest taxi as if she was a precious gem I had just liberated from the Crown Jewels; we were kissing before the cab door even shut. As we pulled away, Audrey shot me a look of undiluted filth and leaned over to the driver, asking him in her sexiest Gallic purr to please excuse us, we were lovers long kept apart by this cruel world. With this, she began to undo my flies and – to the unconcealed amazement of the driver (not to mention myself) – delivered one of her textbook blowjobs, her hair sheltering me from the cabbie's boggle-eyed stare as he struggled to stay on the road.
When we got back to mine she pushed me back onto a chair and proceeded to perform a striptease so French that I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd turned it into a can-can with full complement of chorus girls. As she got down to just her underwear, delectable black lingerie clinging to her tight tanned body, she told me she had another surprise. “Do you like my tan?” she half whispered. “Well it goes all over.” And sure enough, she peeled her bra and knickers off to reveal a perfect bronzing as far as the eye could see, even as she bent over to give me a full view. “I think my neighbour enjoyed himself this week when I was on the roof getting this...” No shit baby.
Before I could get over to throw her on the bed, she wagged a finger at me to stay where I was and moved there herself. “The show is just beginning, mon cherie.” Lying back on the bed, she kept my gaze as she licked a finger and started circling her nipple with it, making little panting sounds. Spreading her legs, she wet her finger again and began to play with herself, slowly working herself up until she was almost in a frenzy. By this stage I was on my feet with my dick out, imploring her to let me join in, but she just shook her head as she writhed around and kept touching herself until she was on the point of coming. Finally, she screamed “Maintenant!” and pulled me inside her. We both came almost instantly.
As we lay there contented recovering, Audrey taught me some beginners' dirty French – “suce moi la bite” and “Je veux lecher ta chat.” It took me hours to get over the fact that the French for pussy was actually “chat”, by which time I was ready for my next practical lesson.
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