When I arrived at Jean-Luc’s flat he was still in bed. The door was answered by a tall, slim, dark-haired girl wearing only one of his shirts over her knickers. She introduced herself as Natacha, and called out to Jean-Luc:
“That English mate of yours, I think.”
“Get up, you lazy bastard!” I shouted.
“Jo? Shit!” There was an almighty clattering noise from the bedroom.
I’d made good time from Angers to Blois. Being deposited on the highway by my previous night’s host before 7 that morning helped, and Jean-Luc was never an early riser, but a single lift — a trucker, of course, who’d thought at first I was an off-duty national serviceman — brought me all the way. Two hours thirty through Angers and Tours rush hours in a speed-limited wagon wasn’t bad. I’d never been to the flat before, but the second person I asked knew the street and pointed me on my way.
I’d slept OK and felt reasonably bright given the amount of wine and beer I’d consumed the previous night with Georges, and of course the energetic shagging, sucking and licking I’d had with his daughter Marielle after hours. As expected, I’d felt guilty about Alana as soon as I woke up, but after a blast of strong black coffee, an unaccustomed French cigarette, and its concomitant coughing-fit, I reflected along with Kerouac that ‘The Road Is Life’ and I’d better get back on it
Perhaps that was the beginning of acceptance.
Jean-Luc had been my foreign language exchange partner when we were both fourteen, the pair of us spending a month in each other’s homes over the summer of that year. He was the most laid-back Frenchman I’d ever met, with little of his fellow-countrymen’s customary prickliness around cultural expectations in such vital matters as the proper temperature of beer or the correct way to cut cheese. He loved rugby and films, had been baffled by cricket and disappointed that there was no proper arthouse cinema in my home town (“Trouble is, there’s no British film industry” I told him “And the cinema chains only want American blockbusters anyway.”)
Now he had completed his military service, which presumably meant getting up before ten o’clock every day for two years, and was working as a commis-chef in his father’s restaurant. This was not, like Yann, because he was dedicated to making a success of the family business, but because he couldn’t think of anything better to do, his father was unlikely to sack him, and he could pursue waitresses, which he did with application and gusto, sending me detailed updates in each of his irregular letters.
He flew out of the bedroom in just his jeans, arms held wide to embrace me.
“Why didn’t you call? Oh, this is Natacha, by the way.”
He was smaller than me, but his scrum-half’s strength squeezed most of the breath out of my lungs.
“We’ve met. And I don’t have your number. Didn’t even know you had a phone.”
Remember this was all taking place in the Olden Times, when there weren’t even any personal computers and email, never mind smartphones capable of instant-messaging anyone in the world. Friendships and love-affairs had to be conducted face to face, or by pen and paper, or by using clunky blocks of plastic wired into a physical network of copper cables that frequently failed and cost a substantial amount of money to use.
He made coffee. Natacha got dressed and bade us farewell.
“See you tonight” she told Jean-Luc.
“She’s a waitress at my Dad’s gaff” he told me. “I’m cooking at midday and tonight, but why don’t you call in at the end of the lunchtime stint this afternoon? I’ll rustle you up something and you can meet my noble ancestors again.”
I accepted happily, then asked if it was OK to stay there for a few days. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me before that there might be a girlfriend in attendance. Knowing Jean-Luc, that was a negligent omission.
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Sure. No problem. That’s a fold-out sofa you’re sitting on. I’ve known you longer than I’ve known Natacha, and I don’t think she’s going to be sticking around, somehow. Hey — how’s your love-life? Perhaps we can find you a waitress too?”
I told him about Alana. A similar version to the one I’d told Georges, adjusted for the ears of a bloke my own age rather than a father-figure, with more sex but still leaving out the specialised interests.
“Bad luck, mate. Bretons can be stubborn bastards.”
He showed me how to fold down the sofa, and dragged a spare duvet from a closet in the bathroom. I’d thought I was well enough rested, but when I saw the bed laid out in front of me I felt immensely weary, conscious of the distances I’d travelled — physical, emotional, sexual — over the past few days.
“Sleep” said Jean-Luc. “I’ve got to go start prepping for lunch, so rest up. You remember where the restaurant is? Good. I’ll see you there at two-thirty. I’ll save some of the special for you.”
Jean Delgado Senior was, as his surname suggested, of Spanish descent, his own father a refugee from the Spanish Civil War. His restaurant, L’Etoile du Nord — The Northern Star — had been so named when he acquired Bostancı Escort it, just before Jean-Luc and I were paired by our schools as exchange partners. There wasn’t a whole lot northern about the menu there, which relied on Jean Senior’s childhood favourites and contained large quantities of chick peas, olives, and garlic. Jean-Luc was always trying to persuade him to change the name to something more authentically Hispanic to advertise its specialities. “The food’s authentic” his dad replied every time “That’s what people care about.” The concept of ‘peasant cuisine’ has become quite fashionable in recent years. Jean Delgado was doing it forty years ago.
I walked through the door at precisely two-thirty, rested, wearing a clean shirt, and hungry, and was immediately carried back six years by the rich, heavy aroma of Jean’s signature ‘sopa de ajo’ — garlic soup.
Lunchtime at the Etoile was usually quiet, and there was rarely anyone working the shift except Jean-Luc, his dad, and his mother, Celeste. All participated like the well-practiced team they were in cooking, waiting tables, and greeting customers. There were none of those here now, but the three family members were all sitting at a corner table wearing aprons, sipping coffee. Jean Senior stood to greet me with a garlicky Spanish hug and kisses on both cheeks. Celeste followed suite.
“Joseph! Wonderful to see you. How are you? How are your parents? Sit down. Have some wine. Eat!”
I ate. Jean’s famous soup was as good as I remembered, a meal in itself with the addition of shredded Serrano ham and a poached egg. He also insisted on serving Spanish wine, a hefty, almondy Rioja from a jug. By the time I’d finished, I was feeling fully restored. I told Jean-Luc’s parents about my travels thus far, omitting any mention of Alana. Somehow, she seemed so far away in both time and distance that it would have been like recounting a random episode from my early youth. It had actually been a little over three days and less than 200 miles.
When Jean Senior asked me how long I was planning to stay it became apparent that Jean-Luc had been speaking with his parents about me. For a start, it seemed to be taken for granted that he and I were now flatmates.
“You’ll probably want to earn some money” his dad said. “We need someone to wash the pots and pans and clean the kitchen. It’s not exactly a literary career, and the money’s not great, but the job’s yours for as long as you want it — if you want it.”
“When do I start?”
“When we’ve finished this wine. Bienvenido a la Estrella del Norte!”
“Waitresses!” Jean-Luc said triumphantly a few minutes later as he took me through to the kitchen.
I started the job proper that night. Celeste was on the desk, the two Jeans were cooking, one of the waitresses was Natacha, the other a shorter, plumper girl with dirty blonde hair called Therese.
They were obviously friends, spending what few quiet moments there were between six o’clock and midnight chatting and laughing. As I cleared away some cooking vessels from Jean-Luc’s food prep area he asked me what I thought of Therese. I’d suspected he was up to something. Now I knew.
“Will she do?”
I’m pretty sure Therese had the same conversation with Natacha, because every time she had to hand something to me throughout the evening she made a point of touching my hand or brushing against me in some way. After the secretive angst of Alana such blatant flirtation was cheering, conventional and cliched though it was.
It didn’t stay that way, of course. After Jean-Luc’s parents had finished cashing up and retired to their flat above the restaurant, he and I and the two girls did some last-minute cleaning and tidying. Alone in the kitchen I spotted half a tray of tomatoes in the prep area and, determined to do my job thoroughly, picked it up and carried it through to the cool store, a small room at the back designed to keep vegetables fresh without refrigeration.
I didn’t expect anybody to be there, but Therese was. Her waitress uniform was hanging neatly on a hook in the wall, with her street clothes next to it. She herself was wearing only her bra and pants. She had one hand down the front of the white briefs and was vigorously fingering herself. The other hand had lifted one breast out of its cup and was stroking its nipple. Her eyes were closed and her mouth open, wet pink tongue rolling around her lips.
She can’t have heard me come in, since she carried on for several seconds as I watched, astonished and growing harder by the moment. I could probably have retreated without her knowledge, but I was enjoying the sight too much. Eventually I said, in a voice that came out far higher than normal: “Can I help you with that?”
Her eyes opened wide, but instead of manifesting shock, fear or shame they stared straight into mine and said: “If you like. I always get changed in here, but tonight I heard Natacha and Jean-Luc fucking in the toilet and got a bit carried away.”
I’d wondered where the other two had got to.
I put the Ümraniye Escort tomatoes down on the low stone shelf she was leaning against, and slid my hand into her knickers between the fabric and the finger with which she was still rubbing herself. It was wet and slippery, and the fabric of her pants was also damp. The scent of her liquid cunt, stale piss and fresh cotton rose to my nostrils and strengthened as I knelt before her, pulled the pants down around her ankles, took her hand and sucked the juice off her fingers, then buried my face in her snatch and started licking. She leaned back against the shelf and spread her thighs, her wet knickers now round only one ankle.
Her cunt was well padded, its mound showing off a dark red slit surrounded by sparse natural blonde hair. She tasted of earth with a soaking of seawater, some indeterminate spice or herb, and that great animalistic musk that seriously aroused women give off — and of course of the garlic that infused everyone who ate regularly at the Etoile du Nord. As she got wetter and wetter I started to swallow her flow, licking the inside of her cunt in a circular motion, clockwise then anticlockwise, always giving a firm stroke to her clit at the top of each cycle. It was large and very swollen, almost like a little cock. She let go of her tits and grabbed me by the back of the head, forcing me into her so there wasn’t a breath I took that wasn’t completely infused by her deep interior odour.
“I’m going to cum!” she said, in an almost plaintive voice. “I’m going to cum!”
She came, rubbing herself over my face, dripping down the inside of her pale thighs.
“Jo? Therese? Where are you?” Whatever Jean-Luc and Natacha had been up to, they’d finished now. “Come on, stop necking, I’ve got the keys and we’re leaving now!”
I stood up, my face soaked. Everything smelt of Therese’s cunt. She was grinning beatifically, her eyes half-closed.
I picked up her pants, which had fallen from her foot, and dried my face as best I could on them. She fumbled herself, knickerless, into jeans and sweater then, as though she’d rehearsed the move, dropped to her knees in front of me, unzipped my trousers, pulled out my astonished cock, and wanked it vigorously into her mouth, which was nearly as hot and wet as her cunt. I came almost instantly, so fast and hard that she struggled to swallow fast enough.
When she finally came up for air she said: “Now, that’s fair.”
We walked out of the cool store arm in arm, the bulge in my jeans half semi-erect cock, half screwed-up soaking knickers.
It was a good start. We all worked together six nights a week. Sometimes both girls would come back to the flat with us, usually staying over. Therese and I fell into fucking in a variety of positions on the fold-out sofa-bed then, as we grew more confident, on the floor also and even in the kitchen and bathroom a couple of times. At work we’d touch each other up when we could, although we never risked the cool store trick again. Once she deliberately left the staff toilet door unlocked so I could go in and fuck her in the mouth while she pissed. Because of the unpredictable but occasionally frenetic pace of work I didn’t have time then to find out how she felt about any other piss games, but she obviously noticed that the smell of her pee was arousing me while she sucked my cock. The next time she came over she returned to bed from the bathroom and demanded I lick her, whereupon it became deliciously evident that she’d not dried herself. She obviously knew about my predilections, but for a while things went unsaid.
Then they very much were said.
Usually on Sunday afternoons Jean-Luc played rugby. If it was a home game Therese, Natacha and I would go to watch, and afterwards we’d usually go to eat hamburgers in one of the chains that Jean Delgado Senior wanted to see wiped from the face of the earth (“with nuclear bombs if necessary”) or to the cinema. Jean-Luc always tried to insist on the latest arthouse showing, whereas Natacha preferred the likes of Indiana Jones or Rocky, about which Jean-Luc had similar views to his father on burger joints. Therese said she’d try anything once, and I fancied she was giving me a meaningful glance while she said it. We’d always find something Jean-Luc and Natacha could argue about afterwards. Therese and I were content to sit in the dark with our hands in each other’s trousers.
One Sunday there was no game at all. Jean-Luc insisted that instead we go to an afternoon screening of a movie that had attracted great praise at the previous San Sebastian Film Festival, by a young Spanish director, Pedro Almodovar.
‘Pepi, Luci, Bom’ it was called, the title being the names of the three central female characters. It’s very funny, starting with a conceit of mistaken identity in which Pepi contrives to have a sadistic policeman who has raped her beaten up by friends in a gay punk band (yes, it thrives on the countercultural tropes of the period), only to discover that it’s the hapless identical twin of the fascist cop who’s been given the kicking, not for the first time, in revenge Anadolu Yakası Escort for the evil deeds of his brother. The scene that changed everything, though, was one in which the cop’s wife, Luci, is seduced by lesbian punk Bom, who, a propos of absolutely nothing that’s gone before, stands on a chair and pisses over her.
Therese was stroking my thigh while I was watching this, and must have noticed my cock suddenly harden. She began rubbing it, and I slipped my own hand up the loose skirt she was wearing, stroking her cunt through her pants. Her crotch dampened, then suddenly became hotter and wetter than ever before when I’d been fondling her like this, and I realised she was pissing through the cotton onto my fingers.
I came in my pants.
Somehow we made it out of the cinema and back to Jean-Luc’s without either of the others noticing that Therese had wet herself and I was walking slightly awkwardly. We stopped outside Therese’s parents’ house while she went in, ostensibly to collect a toothbrush, and came out wearing a different skirt. Back home, I rinsed my shorts in the bathroom and dropped them into the washing basket. Celeste did our laundry every week. I had no desire to scandalise her as I had Yann’s mother.
At the flat we sat around in the living room drinking wine and listening to Jean-Luc’s favourite album, The Doors’ ‘LA Woman.’ He routinely played it several times a night, but on this occasion there seemed to be little discussion cutting across it.
After about the third time Jean-Luc asked the question that was hanging in the air.
“So what about that scene in the film where Bom pissed all over Luci? Has any of you ever done something like that?”
I was drunk enough and ready enough to admit it, but Therese beat me to the punch.
“Didn’t you notice” she said “that I pissed all over Jo’s hand in the cinema, and made him cum?”
Part of me wanted to tell her to shut up, since I didn’t know how our friends would react. But in the same spirit as hers, I doubled down.
“I’ve had three girlfriends before Therese who pissed in my mouth” I announced. “I pissed over them too. It’s a pretty good thrill.”
Jean-Luc and Natacha sat there, on the sofa-bed, trying to restrain their jaws from dropping, attempting to maintain the required impression of cool.
Jim Morrison sang about a ‘city of night’ in the background.
“Watch” said Therese.
We were seated on the parquet floor opposite Jean-Luc and Natacha on my sofa-bed. Therese lifted her skirt above her waist, revealing that she was wearing no knickers, and ordered me to lie on my back. She manoeuvred herself so she was squatting above my face, her arse to my nose, facing away from me. She unfastened and opened my jeans, from which my rapidly engorged cock fell out like a dead weight.
First a hot trickle across my face, then a gush. If we’d been doing this in private I’d probably have clamped my mouth to her cunt to drink her, but I was aware it was a performance that had to be fully seen by our audience. I opened my mouth as wide as I could to catch Therese’s piss as it squirted out of her.
“The floor!” said Jean-Luc.
“You can get your bitch to lick it clean” Therese said, her torrent pouring down my cheeks and pooling behind my head. She was clearly enjoying herself.
She had my erect cock in both hands as I gulped down her final spurts, my nostrils full of both piss and the heady scent of piss.
“Come and suck this, bitch.”
She rocked back and sat down in the puddle, wet cunt brushing my wet hair. Natacha was leaning forward staring at both of us in complete amazement. I swear she was salivating.
“Take your jeans off” Therese ordered me.
I obeyed. So did Natacha. She knelt between my legs, bent over so her skirt fell up over her back, and slid her lips over my cock, taking it right back into her throat before fucking it fast with the full depth of her mouth. She certainly was salivating now.
“You suck like a whore!” I said.
I’d never been sucked by a whore, but the words seemed to excite her. Behind me I could hear the rhythmic squelch of Therese fingering herself as she watched. Then she leaned across, picked up one of the empty wine bottles, and pushed the neck into her open slit, roughly fucking herself as she continued to rub her clit.
This was all too much for Jean-Luc. He opened his fly and released his cock, knelt forward off the sofa, pulled Natacha’s black knickers to one side, and started pumping in and out of her like a piston. His eyes flicked between her mouth on my cock, Therese fucking the bottle and herself, and his own long, slim prick thrusting wetly in and out of his shared girlfriend’s cunt.
It was really a matter of chance who came first, but in the end it was me. The combined odours of Therese’s piss and cunt juice, the sound of her cunt as it slid over the neck of the bottle, the fervour of Natacha’s attack on my prick and her wide eyes watching Therese frigging herself all contributed to a sudden and colossal orgasm, my cum bursting into Natacha’s mouth and filling it so that she nearly choked, before swallowing the lot and taking me right back into her throat again. Then she orgasmed herself, squirting over Jean-Luc’s still-busy cock. He groaned and slipped out of her, sending a thick arc of spunk splashing across her shoulders and disordered hair.