The Raconteur

… The English Woman …
Let me introduce myself, I am Gaston and I have lived in the village deep in rural France as man and boy. I am a raconteur, a teller of stories; I see, I hear, I store in my brain the images that my eyes have seen and words that my ears have heard. I am old so there is much that is stored, but age sometimes plays cruel tricks with the memory so I trust, my friends, that you will forgive an old man any inaccuracies.
Now, my dear readers, I have to tell you that I speak the English “like a Spanish cow” so you must understand my mother tongue in order to enjoy my words. Already I see that you are so much more clever than I, and indeed it seems to you that my writing is in your mother tongue; you have my undying admiration. As my tale is of a pretty English girl whose sensuous tongue trips over my natural language, I must define to you all, the moments that she reverts to the English language. For example if she was to say “Monsieur” it is in plain text, but if she forgets, as she does so often and says “Mister” then I will enclose the English word in parentheses thus – [Mister]. Do we have accord? Yes – already I am impressed with your command of my language.
So! The story that I want to tell you is of a big change in the village – the English are here!
Summer of 2002 was long and hot, but that is usual in the south west. I rose early as usual and nothing in the air that I sniffed at my doorway hinted at the changes that were to be brought about that day. The weeds in the vegetable plot had been prudent, sending their roots deep to seek out the dwindling moisture in the dark, rich soil. The vegetables never learned and lie prostrate in the morning sunshine; I would have to go to their aid later with the heavy watering can. I sigh and arch my ancient back in anticipation of the load it must bear and the protestations it will make. I wave and shout “good day” to young Veronique who lives across the stream from me; she is hanging out her laundry and I squint to see if she has chosen to let me delight in the view that her tiny panties, hanging on the line, afford me. Just before her womanly cycle, with her hormones rampant and libido at a crest, she sometimes massages my old heart with a flash of a bare ass and a string that threatens to cut her in two. She smiles mischievously and proceeds to tease me with socks and pants, sheets and pillow covers, then a pair of her husband’s boxers; I begin to despair, but like the good girl she is, she rewards my wait with a pair of my favourite blue, lacy panties. I wave encouragement and call to her that she has an infestation of moths in her laundry. Veronique feigns horror and embarrassment that I should stare at the garments that will cover her most intimate parts, and grips at the crotch of the material to hide it. Ma Belle Veronique, I have seen that pudenda at your birth, it is only since you are grown that I do not glimpse the treasure that I would gladly eat for breakfast.
Veronique is the love child of a long departed friend of mine. Pierrot was the lover of the village; every man wanted to be him and I believe that every woman had slipped him between her thighs to ride on the staff of pleasure that he would sport to anyone, anywhere. As young men, relieving our bladders which we filled to the brim with cheap beer then spent in hot streams against the wall of the Tabac, we would boast of the conquests that all knew to be untrue; except Pierrot. Having urinated, he would treat the village to a display of his ability to gain an instant erection without touching it. It was of course a gross, mutated appendage, measuring ten inches in length and a girth of eight. How any woman could bear to be torn asunder by such a monstrosity I would never fathom; my eight inches pleased many.
Pierrot was in his fiftieth year and unmarried when he impregnated the young wife of the president of the local hunters’ group. Details of the terrible accident with the gun are still shrouded in mystery, but suffice to say that it occurred only days after the woman admitted to her husband that her pregnancy was not as a result of his passion; it turned out he was impotent anyway! Poor Pierrot was buried in the local cemetery with many women wishing to see his body lying in its coffin, and gently patting the crotch of his burial suit to discover if he had an erection even in death.
Much speculation filled talk around the village for the next nine months as to whether, if the child was a boy, he would be blessed with his father’s gift of a monstrous penis. Both young and old women whispered in excited groups as to what pleasures would be available in seventeen or eighteen year’s time. Her mother was relieved to see the genitalia of a female at the birth of the baby. But enough of this gossip, I will return to the subject of the sweet Veronique at a later time.
After breakfast I made my slow way up the hill to the meeting of the Council members at the Mairie (the ‘town hall’); Madam Trousseaux was at her open window and we passed five minutes spreading and re-spreading gossip before Jean-Christophe yelled for me to shift my ass and get to the meeting as there was a lot to discuss. Matters were proposed, were discussed and agreed as is the way of democracy in my country, until… A vehicle sped into the Mairie courtyard, screeched to a halt in a cloud of red dust that invaded the council room and had its occupants coughing and spluttering. From the large 4×4 sprang a figure of which none of us were able to catch a sight as it flashed into the front door of the building. Through the normally soundproof door filtered a female voice, which proceeded to butcher our beloved language, interspersing it with words totally incomprehensible to all. [Hi, um…] “hel…lo”, [um], there followed a giggle, “I am, [um] my name is [Missus] [oh] Madame Wilson and my, my, ah, [oooh, what’s the word?] husband and I have [bought] the [old] Gendarmerie over there.” Stephanie the receptionist and secretary said later that she almost fainted with the shock of this woman bursting in and assailing her ears with words that should have been familiar but carried very little sense. Being of an inquisitive nature, I went to sort out any confusion.
What greets me is a vision, a delight to my discerning senses. Standing as tall as I at five feet six inches – understand that I was, as a young man, six feet tall although none of my contemporaries seem to remember this – she is slim, with beautifully rounded breasts threatening to push their way to my itching hands through the thin fabric of a pale yellow floral dress. Curvaceous legs appear from below the hem of the dress and with difficulty she prevents them from walking closer to me. Slender arms flow from her bare shoulders and I admire her fortitude in restraining their desire to encompass me, for she knows that her lips of the darkest Bordeaux wine would only suck on my mouth and she would be mine forever. “Good day Madame, may I be of service?” I croon. I am sure that she meant nothing by wrinkling up her tiny nose as if Monsieur Patinior’s pig had entered. She sighs and launches into another sorry attempt at my language, which is best left for you, my reader, to shake your head at sadly as you now so expertly understand me.
The lovely Stephanie prods rather viciously at my ribs; it appears that while I have been doing my civic duty in assessing this new interloper, the secretary has been trying to gain my attention. By this time the committee has joined us in the small entrance and each man, it seems, is propelled close to the English woman. I of course retain a modicum of decorum and politely excuse my comrades for pushing me quite so close to her. Her perfume is heady, and although I try desperately to prevent it, my head drops into her cleavage; once again I mumble my apologies. [Please!] She cries. At the mercy of this rampant herd, desperation forces her to resort to a slip of paper in her hand and she blurts out, “My husband and I have purchased the former gendarmerie on the D684 with the intention of converting it to our permanent home with adjoining offices please I would like to make an appointment to see the Mayor to present plans for approval if that is possible.” The committee is stunned by the unpunctuated stream of words in (almost) their language. After a pause, the poor creatures stumble over themselves to ingratiate themselves to this vision of an English rose. I, being the perfect gentleman, allow myself to be bundled aside by the horde.
………. oOo ……….

… AT THE GENDARMERIE…

The Committee arrived punctually at the former gendarmerie at the invitation of the new owners, Monsieur and Madame Wilson. In the courtyard there was much activity with most of the local enterprises busy at their jobs; Jean-Michel the electrician, Jean the plumber, George the butcher from the nearest town, Joel the builder, Patrice and his son Martin from the Tabac, etc.

The English couple was obviously determined to make the dilapidated buildings at least habitable in the short term prior to the substantial renovations.

May I take a moment of your time, my readers, to describe this place? Thank you for your indulgence. The large edifice was approached down a dirt track leading off the minor road west of the D684. The stone walls describe a square around the large open courtyard, once the barrack square. To the west is the two story former barracks, to the east the stables with hay loft above, to the south the imposing gateway flanked each side by the guardrooms with accommodation above, and finally to the north, on the ground floor the administration rooms, above which the former accommodation and dining hall of the commandant, and the officers’ quarters.

I survey the buildings and remember the activities here all those years ago when even then the place was being run down in anticipation of new and smaller quarters in the nearby town. Suddenly my heart misses a beat and for a second I believe that my reminiscences are about to play a trick on me. I hear the unmistakable sound of shod hooves on the hard surface of the courtyard and I expect to see mounted Gendarmes returning from a sortie but instead my eyes greet the wonderful sight of a magnificent beast trotting through the double gateway. He is mounted by the diminutive figure that we met at the Mairie; Madame Wilson.

The horse’s eyes and nostrils flare as the rider reins him back; he has been ridden hard! The animal stops before me and I step back as the rider dismounts. She is wearing riding pants that mould to her every contour, and gratefully I appreciate the fold between her legs as the material tries to insinuate her private parts. Here the pants are darker from perspiration generated by her exertions; no lines mark the smoothness of the garment stretched across her fine ass to give witness to underwear. Her feet float to the ground and kiss the hard surface; now she is within inches of me, and my nostrils feed to my brain the headiness of her perspiration and a tang of an all-time favourite of mine, a woman’s sexual fluid. Leather boots reach almost to her knees and are flecked with grass, which is witness that she had had the steed at full gallop across the fields.

Madame turns and is surprised to find my face but inches from hers; [Eeeek] she exclaims, obviously pleased to see me, [Oh fuck, it’s you again]. I smile at her personal greeting to me. Those heaving breasts are within my reach, but she must wait for the pleasure of my rough hands squeezing and pinching at her protruding nipples.
“Good day Madame Vilson.” I smile again.

“Good day Monsieur”, [WILSON!], for some reason she emphasises the name. “Excuse me,” she says in what could pass as my language. “I go stable to [um] horse,” she continues and I find my lips moving in synchronicity with hers as I stare at her moist mouth and sparkling teeth.

My God, as Madame turns and walks her horse towards the stables each of her buttocks fights the other for its share of the tight pants and I later discover they are called Jodhpurs; a word ever emblazoned in my memory.

“Good day Messieurs, how are you all?” The voice is English but it speaks a good version of my mother tongue.

“Going good,” comes the collective response of our group.

“Please to excuse me that I speak little of your language at the moment, but I have Madame Smith here to make this meeting more easy.” The Monsieur demonstrates why he is a successful businessman; he is immediately in command of the situation.

Madame Smith is known to us all, for she has lived alone in an isolated cottage a kilometre from the village for many years. She is Irish but speaks our tongue fluently, and indeed is a registered translator. My dear readers remind me later to relate a tale or two of the exploits of Madame Smith; I think you may enjoy the details, as I figure in at least one!

Since the time when the child that I was stood, knees knocking, before the commandant, this is the first time I have seen the inside of what was his large office. Not as large to a grown man, but impressive nonetheless. Now temporary supplies of electricity hang festooned from the ceiling, feeding the two computers at which sit two young ladies. I move closer; to investigate the technology, you understand.

The perfume from the lady nearest me has my head reeling and I stumble slightly, having to put out my hand to prevent an embarrassing fall. It is unfortunate and a complete accident that my hand slips from its first resting place on the lady’s shoulder to brush down and over one of the ripest and firmest breasts I have ever had the pleasure of grasping. Why she screams and leaps from her seat has me mystified, but I apologise profusely. Madame Smith comes to my rescue by calming the girl and explaining that it was an accident. [Pay the dirty old sod no mind dear] coos Madame Smith. [He has been a dirty old man all the fifteen years that I have known him but he means no harm], she continues [It’ll be yer arse he pinches next]. Oh how I recall the comfort that Madame Smith’s ample breasts have afforded this old head!

The young one looks less than reassured and will not return to her seat until I move to the next computer. This next young person is as blonde as was the other one dark and before I can do more than greet her with “Good day”, she finds that she has to go find something or other that eludes her, until I join the others of the committee at the meeting table. I position myself at the table so that I may dutifully maintain surveillance of the young female duo. The dark one reminds me so much of the sensuous and curvy Sophie and I am lost for a while in reverie… and in my mind I suck with relish at the clay pipe on my mantle shelf.

………. oOo ……….

… Sweet Danielle …

My most sincere apologies to my loyal readers; I have been somewhat remiss in the telling of my stories. You will understand I am sure, my eagerness to relate the start of a long relationship between myself and my delightful Sophie. I promise that you shall delight with me as I recall her many visits to our village and to me. However, I am depriving you of the further exploits with my first love, Danielle. Without doubt you will recall how she and I first stumbled in our initial attempt to join our bodies in the act of fornication. In those far off days when many people ventured no further than the agricultural market in the neighbouring town and men toiled from dawn to dusk in order to make enough to barely survive, there were many women who, how can I put it, who were lacking not just meat in their bellies but meat pushed hard into their inner depths by way of the canal between their legs.

Now, as a young man, although I too worked hard, I was strong and had considerable endurance; the latter quality was to hold me in good stead and between the thighs of many a “hungry” woman. I am not a boastful man, you understand, and feel the fire of a, how you say, blush of self-conscious embarrassment burning my cheeks. But my point here is to explain briefly that before long I was a young man with considerable experience of the warmth of the female pudenda, and knew many ways that a woman was to be pleased by my rod of iron.

Danielle: slim but not bony, adventurous but not foolish, full of fun but not silly, and generous to a fault. On hot, sunny days the two of us could be found – but not found, if you can understand me – on a secluded bank of the stream above the village. Others were reluctant to face a battle through the vicious stinging nettles to access the small pool that would build in a turn of the stream. I would wrap sacking around my legs and arms and carry the girl high above the weeds. There she would fire my libido by carefully and sensuously kissing any stings that I may have received. Was I deceitful in deliberately allowing the weeds just a chink in my protection? I bow deeply at your understanding and gracious encouragement.

It became our habit to divest our bodies of the trappings of propriety and we were soon naked. My eyes never failed to feast on her form: small breasts that pointed their shoe button-sized nipples to the sky and jiggled as she bounded around the clearing. Wisps of fine blonde hair had formed above her cleft, and in moments of reverie her fingers teased and scrabbled there, causing my already erect penis to want to join those fingers. I have to state most emphatically that after the first few occasions that we romped naked together my self-control grew, and an initially rampant penis began to know how to behave.

Of course, it would not have done its duty to nature if it didn’t instantly respond to her glance or reference to it! With water glistening on our bodies from another bathe in the waters we lay side by side, our eyes meeting in silent adoration of the other; her hand warmly grasping my yet again hard penis and my hand casually caressing a small breast.

“Gaston?” she smiled and I marvelled at her bright blue eyes sparkling beneath fair brows, her white teeth set in the mouth that was bordered by full pink lips that kissed so softly. The raise of my eyebrow acknowledged her and invited her to continue. “Gaston, it is the gossip of the village that you have discovered how a bull serves and satisfies a cow.” She waited for a response. I merely raised the eyebrow once again. Her grip on my penis tightened and she waited again. I allowed a hint of a smile to appear at the corners of my mouth. Without blinking we stared into each other’s eyes; without relaxing her grip her hand slid down my penis, drawing down the skin covering a now red head. “It is your manly duty to service the female, and now.” She emphasised the last word. To make it unequivocal, Danielle turned to assume all fours as she had on the first occasion. My hand on her perfect hip brought her to a stop and she looked at me quizzically.

Gently I lowered her back to the grass and her eyes widened in anticipation. Insinuating my body between her slim young thighs I took delight in the sight of her virginal vulva. Placing one of her legs either side of my waist I sucked at a finger and pressed it onto her cleft; the labia parted easily and demonstrated that she was aroused sufficiently for me to proceed. I encouraged Danielle to grip my penis to position, guide and control it as I pushed it firstly onto her outer labia, rubbing the tip smoothly over the length of her cleft to fully open her, then with the tip at her entrance, very slowly pushed into the opening of her canal. As it began to enter her tunnel her hand gripped tightly on my penis and I hesitated; she was comfortable and her hand urged my penis deeper, her eyes wider open than I had ever seen them. Not a sound did she make as her pliant but tight tube swallowed more and more of me; so gentle was I, and so excited was she, that I swear neither if I could say with any conviction the precise moment that the hymen ruptured. Dear readers, I have to admit to some nervousness when Danielle’s heels dug into my back and she attempted to hold me in her depths, for birth control was not only little known, but also contrary to our religious doctrine.

This tube was not at all like the all encompassing and frankly rather sloppy ones of the married women I was used to serving. This one gripped tightly at the whole length of my rod; indeed it seemed throughout the length of penetration that I had met some unknown barrier to further advancement. Danielle’s eyes returned to their more natural size but now shone and sparkled; her mouth opened and from it came a long loud sigh, “Oh Gaston, Ohhhhhhh. You are truly a bull, you must promise to serve me often and leave those old women to their husbands.”

As a man I had no need to accept or decline as I felt that now, with my enormous member sunk into her innards that she had joined the ranks of others that would beg for just a few minutes with me between their thighs.

If my dearest Danielle had entertained the thought that she was in heaven and that a single penetration was as good as it got, then the thrust that followed an almost complete withdrawal of the bull’s appendage sent her to seventh heaven, for her eyes almost popped from her head and the moan was so loud that I was sure that the entire village would have heard. One more deeply penetrating exploration of her deepest, tightest and wettest parts, then I teased her with short, fast reciprocations, which ended with her begging me for more. Two more deep and punishing thrusts and she squealed like a pig at the slaughterhouse as her climax was upon her. This was not the time to explain to a young girl, fearing that death was upon her, about the sensation that is the finale for her.

With my appendage having wallowed in uteri torn asunder in childbirth, this fresh young tube had me struggling to prevent the inevitable. Ever fearful of spending deep within Danielle, I withdrew and insisted that the girl pump me to discover what a rampant bull sprays into a cow. Still in the daze of her orgasm young Danielle did as she was bid, and the magnificent spurts of semen that sprang onto her face and chest awoke her afresh. It took me many minutes to convince her that the ‘evil smelling mess’ as she so eloquently put it, would not be the cause of one baby let alone twins. You must understand that all the women in her rather large family had been victim of the devil’s curse; more than one new mouth to feed at a time was considered a curse.

May I note here that much later in life I was introduced to a device of contraception (banned by my religion) that the person who gave me it called a [French Letter], the significance of which was to mystify me for years. This device brought to me fresh admiration and renewed demand of my services from women far and wide. Yes, my dear reader, I am damned forever and I will find myself inevitably stoking the fires of Hades; I believe it to have been worth it.

I digress. Danielle was now my lover and whilst this in itself was very agreeable, it was then that we were no longer just innocent friends. There were times that she covered her body from me and I missed the former days. That is not to say that our relationship suffered, for we coupled at every opportunity. Indeed, following my initiation into oral delights by the succulent Sophie, Danielle and I reached new heights.

The recounting of these happy and energetic days is exhausting and I will rest now, but be confident that I have much more with which I shall regale you all.

I suck once more at the clay tobacco pipe…

………. oOo ……….

… Sophie and the pipe …

Dear readers, I am reminded that I have not explained the reason that I seek comfort from the clay tobacco pipe from time to time.

Money was a thing that I had not, for although it would have been possible for me to earn a high living as a “Rake,” I could not bring myself to charge for services that pleased me so; that the women had no money either was, of course, an added factor. Thus, tobacco being expensive, I merely sucked at the clay stem, looking even more suave than before.

Now that I am reminded, I take down from the mantle shelf my most treasured relic of those times: a clay bowl with amber mouthpiece. This was a present to me from my dearest Sophie and was stolen from a large store of expensive items in the Papal city of Avignon.

One may think this a simple gift from a simple girl to a simple man; I prefer “unsophisticated” to “simple.” I thanked her and promised to repay her in the way that she loved: energetic fornication in which, at one stage, we sample and savour each other’s genitals at one and the same time.

“Gaston, my handsome, brave and accomplished lover, I am sure that you will as ever excel and please me until I pass out with divine pleasure,” she acknowledged. Modesty decrees that I wave aside the truth that she reveals, but she continues… “But I wish to teach you a use for the present that may not at first be obvious to you.” In order to give me just a taste of what was to come and to leave a souvenir, Sophie sat in front of me on the ground, lifted her skirts and opened her legs wide.

For this woman, my staff rises without other prompting and this was no exception. “I see that your rod is suitably impressed with the pinkness of its plaything, Gaston. He may, if you allow, peek at the moistness of me, but there is no time for him to enter the gateway.” I dropped my pants to the floor and held the rod steady to prevent any travel towards the girl and her passage. “Now I will extract for you a sample of the juices that you love to imbibe, and retain them for your tasting at a later time.” With that, my beautiful and sensual girl pushed the clay into her channel, twisted and turned it, then withdrew it and placed the pipe into a small silken bag that she brought from her bosom. Laughing, she bade me, “For your dinner Gaston, for your dinner.” A kiss for my weapon and she was on her way.

I suck at the amber stem and memories flood back; do I detect the sweetness of Sophie or the saltiness of Monique? It matters not. Monique, you enquire? Yes, yes, Monique, the saltiness of a larger woman whose thighs almost crushed me… ah yes, Monique. Later, my friends; have patience.

………. oOo ……….

… The English Woman falls for me …

As I muse and prepare to excite you with yet another story of my exploits, a knock at my door brings my senses to the present. I rise with the difficulty of a man in the third age and shuffle to the door. What greets me sends me reeling, during my reverie the sensuous young woman that is Madame Wilson has come, obviously to throw herself on my charms, and as embarrassing as it is, I must admit to sliding slowly to the hard stone floor by way of the doorpost in a faint.

“Eeeek!” A distant scream penetrates the fog in my brain. [Oh shit, shit, shit, now I’ve killed the silly bastard], follows the scream. I peek surreptitiously through a squinting eye and that eye becomes full of the most delicious décolletage of young breasts overflowing their captivity.

I moan softly. [Oh jeeeze, you’re alive, thank fuck for that, come on get up, pleeeeeze!] Is this an angel; am I at last dead and passing through heaven on my descent to Hades? A hand shakes me but I feign death once again, as I have heard tell of a technique taught to young, succulent English women in which it is necessary to place their full, moist and open mouths on that of a victim in order to attempt resuscitation.
I wait, holding my breath. [Stop it – you are not dead! … Are you?] There is desperation in the sounds that she makes, although I am not of the comprehension of her words. I manage to induce limpness in my body that has me slithering to the floor flat on my back; I pray that I now look more convincingly lifeless. To her credit she decides that indeed I am in need of the life-giving kiss and prepares to give it. [Ewww, why me? This is sooo gross! Now what have I done to deserve this?] Her soothing words are obviously meant to reassure me and they do. I will her to progress quickly, as I fear I am turning blue from the lack of the air of life. A finger firmly pushes on my chin and forces back my head; this in turn causes my mouth to open. Now, my nose is gripped by her finger and thumb; I do not wish to appear ungrateful, but I feel that a little less pressure would have sufficed.

Oh, what glorious dreams I shall have of the moment those red lips pressed upon mine and her sweet, sweet breath entered my mouth and rushed to my lungs. It was, as I am sure my loyal readers will acknowledge, simply a natural reaction that my long and practised tongue snaked into her divine oral cavity, both washing it and tasting her fine tongue. Her screams, I was told later, were to be heard in the next village and thrust me into wakeful if shocked consciousness. [Oh you disgusting and deceitful old bastard!] she screamed at me. Again, had it been that she welcomed me back to life a little less loudly and in my own language, it might have meant more to me, but I took comfort from her words.

Of course Madame Wilson was upset; she had just seen an old man die – then, with her mouth, brought him back to life! Quite why she left without explaining the purpose of her visit still eludes me. I shall pay the divine young thing a visit and express my gratitude a little later. It is of course possible that, having found my kiss so appealing, she will demand more; I am ever hopeful.