The Inventory

Montpellier in August is half full and half empty. Toward the beaches, it’s full of summer visitors and tourists. But in many residential neighbors, it’s empty, since the year-round residents have taken off for summer holidays abroad or for visits with family elsewhere in France. Arriving from the States to take up residence for a year, this was a good time to settle into my furnished sublet before my wife Jane and our two children arrived in early September. From Charles-de-Gaule airport I got the TGV, then a taxi from the Montpellier station to the elegant but slightly worn nineteenth-century apartment building on the elevation overlooking the central city.

Awaiting me, by appointment, was the agent of the inventory service who had the key to the apartment. Mademoiselle Sylvie Lachaise was waiting at the street door of a large apartment block. The French, of course, excel at formality, and getting into a sublet is not a simple matter of picking up the key. She explained to me, after a rather perfunctory handshake, that she did not represent the rental agency but was instead a certified inventory-taker from a service hired by the rental agency. We were to spend the afternoon noting everything in the apartment, quantities, state of repair, and location, and my signature, next to hers, on the procès-verbal would be legally binding should anything be amiss at the end of the lease.

Mademoiselle Lachaise seemed to be about twenty-five years old. She had long chestnut hair in a bun, wire-rimmed glasses, brown eyes, a very pretty oval face, firm medium-sized breasts, and long legs. She was wearing a loose white linen blouse, a flower-print skirt, no hose, and sandals. She held a bundle of keys and a large canvas bag blazoned with Services d’inventaire du Midi. Despite her serious professional demeanor, she had a very young, shy and awkward air. Later, when she told me she had a degree in classics from a nearby Catholic university, it all made sense. She had little experience of the “real” world.

Sylvie, as I was later given permission to call her, opened the heavy oak street door, punched a code into a digital lock, and let us into the cool dark lobby, where we took the elevator to the top floor. The building seemed deserted and dark, but when we opened the door to the apartment, there was a bright and breathtaking view down over the coast toward the sea. Sylvie put down the canvas bag and took out the tools of her trade: tape measure, calculator, digital camera, a book of regulations, pads of inventory forms, and pens. She had also brought a couple of bottles of water. “It’s going to take several hours, Monsieur Smith, I know that we will need some water.”

At that point, with my jet-lag, I thought that I could use more than water. However, I was a little light-headed and was fascinated by the pretty young woman with the big eyes and the touching accent with whom I was going to spend my first afternoon in France.

Sylvie noted the numbers from the electric meter and gas meter.

She led the way to the kitchen, started the fridge and put the bottled water it in. Then, for the next half-hour we counted spoons, dishes, glasses, etc. and Sylvie carefully noted everything in exquisite detail. Since the inventory was to be in French and English, from time to time I had to help her find the right English word, pointing out, for instance, that the metal utensils with handles were “sauce pans” in American English and not “casseroles.” After an hour and a half, we worked our way around to the bedroom. There we counted the pillows, wool blankets (noting the torn edging on one), duvet, framed pictures, and so forth. It was all very quiet. We did not hear anyone come up the stairs or even call for the lift. Sylvie seemed a little embarrassed to find herself alone in the bedroom with a middle-aged stranger, standing side by side and necessarily brushing against one another as we picked up the sheets and towels to count.

Then, all of a sudden, things got interesting.

Sylvie opened the drawer in a dresser. Most of these drawers were empty, but one was full of bondage equipment. She had no idea what it was.

“This is a bunch of trucs in leather with metal fastenings. How am I going to write down the proper names?”

I suggested to her that she just write “various leather items with metal studding” and leave it at that.

“No, that would not make a proper inventory, Robert,” (she pronounced my name Row-bear). “Suppose you take some of them away or damage them. It is my duty to make sure that all can be identified and accounted for at the end of your lease.”

I had never tried bondage, but I’d seen enough videos to have a pretty good idea about what these things were. Sylvie, on the other hand, thought that they were fashion accessories! Her innocence was hilarious and also touching.

“I think that I can come up with the English names for the things, but you’ll have to find the French equivalent.”

“I can do that, Robert, with a dictionary in the office. Since you are anglophone, your signature to the English names will suffice for today.”

At that, we started picking things up to identify. We found a leather cuff with studs and a metal loop, and then we found another larger one. Sylvie wanted to know if there should be a pair. I rummaged some more and found another small one.

“This must be a pair of women’s wrist-cuffs,” I explained.

“How do you know they are for a woman?”

“They are small. See, they would fit you.” I put one on Sylvie’s left hand.

“It makes a nice bracelet. I could wear this to a party,” she joked.

“Here,” I said, “try the other one.” She put down her pen and pad so that I could put the other one on her right wrist.

“How do they feel?” I asked.

“I think that the one on the right is loose.”

I looked and agreed that it was not a pair. I poked around in the drawer and found another. I replaced the one on her right wrist.

“That feels better,” she said. She went over to the mirror and looked at herself.

“It’s not my style, but it looks nice.”

“Here,” I said helpfully, “try on this collar. It matches.”

Sylvie waited patiently while I somewhat awkwardly fastened the collar from behind. She smiled at her reflection.

“The black leather goes well with my white blouse.”

“You look very pretty,” I agreed. “But does it give you any special feeling? After all, people wear these to … put themselves in the mood…”

“The mood to make love? No, I don’t feel anything special.”

“Perhaps that’s because the cuffs aren’t fastened together. They call it bondage gear because you need to be bound to experience it properly.”

“You mean my hands have to be attached?”

“Yes. Here, there’s a clip on this one. I could attach it to the left one. Put your hands behind your back for a moment.”

Sylvie put her hands behind her and waited while I fastened the left cuff to the right. She now stood in front of the mirror with her hands cuffed behind her.

“No, I don’t feel anything special. Does that disappoint you, Robert?” She was smiling in the most innocent way.

“Well, perhaps it takes some time. Stay there for a moment while I go out to the kitchen to get some water.”

I went to the WC, washed my hands, and then went to the kitchen. The water was a little bit cooler, and I brought one bottle back to the bedroom. Sylvie was looking a bit impatient.

“Don’t you think you should take these off now?” she asked.

“I think that you are just beginning to feel the effect,” I said. “We should continue for a while. Would you like some water?”

“I can’t drink if I can’t hold the bottle,” she pointed out.

“No, you can drink if I help you. Here, take a sip.”

I opened the bottle, held it to Sylvie’s lips, and started pouring. Some of the water ran down her chin and on to her blouse.

“It makes me feel helpless, like a baby.”

“Yes, that’s the idea. You should feel helpless. You are beginning to see what bondage is like.”

“Why would anyone want to feel this way? It’s crazy. We need to keep on with the inventory.”

“Why, do you have an appointment soon?” I asked.

“No, only this one. Then I was going to go shopping. I need to shop before closing time, otherwise I can’t eat tonight. My parents are out of town.”

“Then we have plenty of time, Sylvie. But we can continue working. I’ll see what else is in the drawer.”

I found some ankle-cuffs, women’s size, and a chain with a leather handle. I showed the leash to Sylvie, and then fastened it to the collar.

“Here, this is how we can use the leash.” I led her away from the mirror, over to the window, and then back to the mirror. She followed without having to be pulled.

“Good. I like it that you are so docile. But I can also give you a different feeling with the ankle-cuffs.”

She said nothing, so I knelt and put the cuffs on her ankles, noting her very nice legs. I found a short chain to attach the two cuffs.

“Now you would find it impossible to run away. But you could scream.”

“Yes, but today no one would hear me.”

“Yes, that’s right. But other times it might be necessary to silence you. That’s what this is for.” I had found a ball-gag.

“Before I use it, let me make sure that it’s perfectly clean.”

I went to the kitchen, found a little detergent, and made sure that the ball was nice and clean. Sylvie waited patiently, bound hand and foot in front of the mirror. She looked delicious. I asked if she really needed her glasses and she said that she only needed them for reading or driving. I took them off and put them on the dresser. Then I asked her to open her mouth. She let me put the ball into her mouth and fasten the strap behind her neck.

“Does that feel OK?” She nodded yes.

“Now does it feel good, being bound and gagged?” She hesitated and then nodded.

“Do you trust me?” Sylvie nodded without hesitating.

“Good,” I said. “You look so perfect right at this moment, we need to take a picture.”

I went over to her pile of tools and took the digital camera. She looked at me with a frightened expression. I said, “You can easily erase any photo you don’t like.” Then I took several shots of her from different angles.

I asked, “Can I let your hair down?” She nodded, and I undid the clip that held her hair in place. Her brown hair fell down around her head and touched her shoulders. She was breathtaking. She continued to look at herself in the mirror.

“Do you like what you see?” She nodded.

After a few more shots, I put the camera down and stood behind her. I reached around and started unbuttoning her blouse. As soon as I touched the first button her body started to shake. I stopped and waited. She stopped shivering. I proceeded until I had unbuttoned all the buttons and pulled the blouse out from her skirt. She looked lovely with her loose hair, her tight tummy and her bra now revealed.

Standing behind her again, so as to give her a clear view of herself in the mirror, I cupped her breasts in my hands. She shook violently but made no gesture. Her nipples pushed stiff and hard through the nylon fabric. She stopped shaking and relaxed into my embrace. I loved the feeling of her warm, full breasts and the nipples against my palms. I made little circles with my hands and then, taking my left hand off her breast, I pulled aside her hair so that I could kiss her neck.

I kissed her neck for a long time. She made little moaning noises. Then I reached under her blouse from behind and unhooked her bra, letting the back straps fall to the sides. Again, there was a wonderful trembling and then stillness. Reaching around to the front, I pulled her bra cups up, releasing her firm bouyant& breasts. Her nipples were bright, bright pink, almost red, and stood out like little nails.

As I leaned forward to do this, my crotch pressed against her cuffed hands. I could feel my erection pressing against the front of the slacks and I was aware of the warm wetness of her sweaty palms.

I grasped her with two hands on her sides just above her skirt, enjoying the feeling of her smooth skin. Her eyes were taking all this in as she gazed into the mirror. I thought, silently to myself, “Through the looking glass! Sylvie in wonderland, where everything is backwards to normal life.”

We stood very still in the quiet room. I began to sway so that my cock pressed rhythmically against her hands. If I had not been holding her, she would have fallen. It was like a strange, noiseless, dance.

I asked, “Shall I put you on the bed? I know that it is difficult for you to stand.” She nodded yes.

We moved somewhat clumsily over to the bed. I was half-carrying, half-dragging her. When we were standing by the bed, I unclipped her hands, and removed her blouse and her bra. Because her white linen blouse looked so nice gaping open, I had her put it back on, unbuttoned, and then I reattached the cuffs with her hands on her belly. Then I laid her down like a large, bare-breasted doll.

She lay there with her blouse open and still wearing her skirt. Her breasts and the pointy nipples were irresistible, looking sweeter than strawberries. I started on the left one, licking around the nipple before touching the tip of my tongue to the nice little round of her nipple-tip. Then I turned my attention to her right nipple. It amazed me that her nipples could swell still more, but they grew noticeably as I licked. She was wiggling a little and breathing hard. I decided that I should take off the gag.

“What are you doing to me?”

“I’m not sure what you say in French, Sylvie. We might say in the States ‘sexing you up.’”

“It’s making me feel very strange. Between my legs… We should stop. You’re married.”

“Sylvie, baby, I should punish you for saying that, being so rebellious. Bondage is about submission. Don’t you want to see what it’s like? You may not get another chance.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “Oui, tu peux continuer. Mais ne me fais pas mal.”

I put my hand on her crotch and felt the wet cotton. She moaned a little.

Moving my hand to knead her right breast, I sucked for a while on left nipple. As I did this, I could feel my briefs getting wet from the dribbles of pre-cum. But I wanted to make things last. I took my time unhooking her skirt, uncuffing her ankles, pulling the skirt down and off. With her legs spread, I grasped her white panties in my left hand, moving the crotch aside so that I could get a good look at her pink splendor.

Since my wife Jane has had her pubic hair lasered away, I was at first started to see the glistening brown fur that sprang out of the panties, but it was a thrill to move my index finger through the fur to uncover the treasure it partially concealed.

“Sylvie,” I said, “the important inventory should include your jewels. Does your boyfriend inspect them carefully, as he should? Does he enjoy tasting them?”

On saying that, I leaned forward and pushed my tongue between her swollen pink lips. Her salty tang was wonderful!

“Jean-Pierre never does that to me!”

“But do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“You should ask him to taste you.”

“I could never do that!”

Without further talk, I went back to licking her, listening to her rapid breathing, looking up occasionally to see her eyes—she struggled to keep her eyes open and to watch what I was doing, but they kept closing as she approached her orgasm. Finally, with a yelp and a surprisingly nasty Ah, foutre! she started to shake all over and came.

I had not yet come, and I really needed some release. To occupy Sylvie while I undressed, I pulled the sopping wet panties down Sylvie’s thighs, over her ankles, and off. Then I placed Sylvie’s hands on her wet pussy. They were still cuffed together, and I helpfully placed the two middle fingers of her right hand on her clitoris.

“Masturbate for me, Sylvie.”

“Oh, no, it’s too embarrassing!”

She really was a gem! An innocent Catholic schoolgirl of a kind I thought had disappeared from the face of the earth as surely as Triceratops! I rolled her on to her side so that she was facing the large mirror on the armoire next to the bed. She could see herself clearly there, and I told her to watch herself as she stroked her clitoris. I held her fingers with my hand and guided them in a circular motion on her clitoris. Gradually she began to finger herself on her own, and she watched with fascination the girl in the mirror.

With Sylvie occupied with this new experience of self-love and with the stimulating sight of a beautiful, nude masturbator, I took off my shoes and my clothes. I knelt down behind her while she was busy, and I parted her cheeks to look at her little light-brown flower. Wetting my pinkie, I rubbed it over the little radiating sphincter-ridges before starting to work it into her hole.

That startled her out of her dreamy stroking.

“Non, non, jamais! Pas ça!”

She turned vehemently back towards me with a defiant air. I simply said,

“You are being disobedient and need to be better trained. I’ll start by putting the gag back.”

She looked crestfallen, and I had another idea.

“Since you’re Catholic, you must go to confession. That’s a kind of inventory of sins, isn’t it? What do you tell the priest when you have sex with Jean-Pierre?”

“It doesn’t happen often…I confess that I have been impure.”

“That’s all? Doesn’t the priest ask any details?”

“Yes, he asks with who, and I just say avec mon petit ami. Sometimes he wants to know if it’s with a married man, or with… a woman.”

“So, have you had sex with a married man or with a woman?”

“No, never.”

“But you must have to confess when you think bad thoughts, no?”

“Yes, I say I had impure thoughts.”

“I’m more curious than the priest. I want to know about your impure thoughts. When you masturbate in your bed, what do you think?”

“Non, ah ça, tu demandes trop!”

“I can put the gag back on.” I cupped her pussy in my right hand and then let my middle finger sink into her parted labia.

“No, not the gag. I think about boys and what they could do with me.”

“Jean-Pierre?”

“Yes, but…not only…” I paused and waited for more.

“Sometimes Jean-Pierre and his friend Antoine, and sometimes also his friend Paul…”

“The three of them together?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Usually?”

“Yes, usually it’s the three of them.”

“So when I touched your sweet little back hole, you shrieked, but I bet that in your fantasy you let them give you pleasure there.”

It took her a while to answer. With my left hand I grabbed the gag. That got her started again.

“Yes, in my fantasies I let them use me there, Antoine and Paul, but Jean-Pierre takes me only the normal way.”

This was really fascinating, and I realized that my cock, which was resting on her right thigh, was oozing little grey-white smears on her smooth skin. Basically, I knew that I was either going to start masturbating myself against her thigh or I would have to find some other way of relieving the pressure.

“In your fantasies you must give head.”

“What’s that? Give head?”

“I mean, you must put their cocks in your mouth until they spurt their juice into you.”

“Yes, in my fantasies and with Jean-Pierre, that’s what we usually do. The priest says it’s not so bad as the other way, the way that could make me pregnant.”

“Show me how you do it.”

I straddled her face with my legs and let my cock into her open mouth. She closed her lips tightly on my cock and then started rubbing her tongue on my cock-head. It was divine! Jane doesn’t especially like giving me blow-jobs, so my reaction to Sylvie was explosive. I tried to resist, but within less than a minute, I had discharged a very large load of semen into Sylvie’s waiting mouth.

I moved quickly off of her and knelt next to her to see how she took it. She just swallowed and said, “You came fast! I wanted to show you how I do it with Jean-Pierre, but I didn’t have time!”

“What else do you do,” I asked with sincere interest.

“He likes it when lick up the sides of his stick—how do you say?—and then suck his balls into my mouth one at a time.”

“You can do that later, Sylvie. You can get me ready to put my stick into your sweet little pussy. You say the same in French, don’t you? Your chatte?”

“No, Robert, we do not have preservatives! You cannot make love to me like that without one!”

I laughed, then I explained to Sylvie. That was one of the big jokes when I took French in college. If you say préservatif in French it means “condom.” So guys were always making jokes about going to the store to ask for yoghurt without condoms!

“But I am going to fuck you Sylvie, je vais te baiser. We will get dressed, go out and buy some dinner and some preservatives, and then come back to continue, d’accord?”

She nodded eagerly. It was getting late, we had been playing for a while. I detached her cuffed hands, removed the collar and the cuffs from wrists and ankles, and handed back her skirt. She reached for her bra, but I told her to leave her bra and panties and just put on the blouse and slightly damp skirt. She pouted, but complied, buttoning up the front of the blouse. Her breasts pushed nicely at the linen, and her nipples were quite visible to the discerning eye—the eye of any French male who might see her.

Both dressed, we took the tiny little cage of an elevator that descended in the middle of the spiral staircase to the ground floor. In the elevator, I undid a few buttons to reveal very sweet cleavage. She looked at me with exasperation, but then kissed me, shooting her tongue deep into my mouth.

In August, except down near the beach, there are not a lot of stores open in the residential areas, so we headed to a traiteur to get a roast chicken and fries, a baker for a batard and some croissants for the morning (what a blessing that her parents were out of town!), and a grocer for wine, salad, butter for the croissants, and coffee beans. Each time the shop people looked at us as just another couple. Sylvie was rather touchingly affectionate, holding my arm as we walked from shop to shop. She said that it felt strange the way her breasts swayed against the linen. She had quickly brushed her hair, but not put it up, so her brown locks swirled around her slender throat and brushed her shoulders. The old man in the grocery shop was so distracted by the sight of her that he had to total up the purchases three times before he got it right!

When we came to the pharmacy, where I bought some lubricant and the condoms, Sylvie refused to come in with me. It was too embarrassing, she said. People would see her with me, the way she was dressed, my wedding ring, the condoms and draw the obvious conclusion.

As the elevator clicked off the floors up to the top of the deserted building, I asked her to take off her blouse.

“Right here, in public?” Then she realized how silly that was in the cool shadows of the old stairwell. A few kilometers south of us, her friends at that very moment were down at the beach topless and perhaps wearing nothing at all. She took off the blouse and was an idyllic picture of natural beauty in her cotton skirt and sandals as she walked across the landing to the door of the apartment.

As our meal came to an end and we were near the bottom of our second bottle of chilled rosé, Sylvie, who, as I knew already, was a very neat and methodical person, was about to toss the empty bottle into a basket for glass recycling.

“Sylvie, not yet, we can use the bottle.”

“What can you use an empty wine bottle for, Robert?” she asked, standing there so beautifully in her flower-print skirt and nothing else.

I told her to lift up her skirt and to sit back down at the kitchen table. Taking a large sip from my wine glass, I knelt and irrigated her pussy with the rosé, eliciting a surprised “ohhhh!” as the cool wine made contact with her warm moistness. Licking the mixture of wine and Sylvie-juice from between her lips, I savored the mixture of sweet and salty before inserting the tip of the bottle into her vagina, wiggling it gently as I pushed it in.

With the bottle in my right hand, I used the thumb of my left to press and stroke Sylvie’s clitoris. She watched in fascination, twisting her torso somewhat as she made little noises that gradually became louder. I took her left hand and placed it on the bottle, telling her to hold it and use it for her own pleasure. Then I took her right hand and placed her fingers on her very swollen clit.

The scene was beautiful beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed. Sylvie had tossed off her sandals and now her feet were up on the seat of the chair, so that she was squatting there, her thighs exposed. She offered a clear view of both her love-holes, and the long tapered bottle was now much deeper in her vagina than I had pushed it. Her brow was furrowed with the intensity of the feeling as she fucked herself frenetically.

I couldn’t resist pulling my cock out and joining her in this post-supper masturbation. Within a few minutes of our separate but equal efforts, we came. My jizz splatted on her breasts. We were both in a daze for a few more minutes, then Sylvie pulled out the bottle while giving herself a few more strokes with her left hand.

I stripped and got the lube and the condoms. Sylvie stood behind me, reaching around to grab my cock, checking to see if I was ready. The feel of her cum-coated breasts on my bare back, plus her drenched bush of pubic hair rubbing on my cheeks, along with the little nibbling kisses she gave me on the back of my neck within seconds had engorged my cock to a respectable size.

“You are so much more fun than Jean-Pierre! You get me to do really wild, perverse things, Robert. I really, really want you to fuck me. Baise-moi dans mes deux troux!”

With that enthusiastic invitation to sink my shaft into her, fore and aft, I guided her to the living room.

“Shouldn’t we go to bed?”

“No, baby,” I said, “I want you doggy-style on this nice thick carpet, facing the sea.”

One reason for choosing this apartment a bit uphill from the center was its terrific view of the Mediterranean. Now the sun was setting to the west, on our right as we faced outwards, and with the evening sun flooding into the salon I knew that it would feel almost as if we were fucking in public.

I placed Sylvie facing the window on all fours and I knelt behind her. After covering her adorable, firm cheeks with kisses, I circled her tight little hole with my tongue. Only a couple of hours before, she had been scandalized and rebellious when I started exploring her sweet knot, but now she just said,

“That feels good! I never dreamed anyone would tongue me there!”

“Not even in your fantasies about Antoine and Paul?”

“No. I just dreamed that they would stick their cocks in and then have orgasms there.”

“Baby, I promise I will come in your ass if you want. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please. I want to see what it feels like when your warm semen is inside me back there.”

I put some of the lube on my little finger and started poking it in. She made some little gasps, then said that it felt good. Taking my time, I got two fingers in, then three. I loved the feeling of getting into this tight little French girl.

I put on one of the condoms and slipped it first into her very wet pussy, which was still stretched open from the reaming Sylvie had given it with the bottle. This felt so good to both of us that I was tempted to just fuck her vagina, but…a promise is a promise!

After a few more probes with my fingers into her sphincter and a few more squirts of lube, I was ready to start easing my cockhead into her hole. Since she said she wanted the feel of my cum in her anus, I asked if I should take off the condom. I was rewarded by a happy “Oui, oui!” So discarding my préservatif, I carefully but firmly pushed my tip into the small hole, while I reached my right hand around to her clit.

By this point, after the several hours of our acquaintance, our private parts were old friends. My fingers felt completely at home as they rubbed and squeezed Sylvie’s hot love-button. Then I began a slow in-and-out movement, swaying with my hips and feeling Sylvie’s answering thrusts back towards me.

At this point Sylvie was talking a streak of French so fast, and I think, so vulgar, that I couldn’t take it all it. Of course, when a man has his cock in the asshole of one of the most beautiful brunettes he has ever seen, his mind is not on linguistics. It sounded like “encule-moi! sodomise-moi bien! je suis ta garce! défonce-moi!”—whatever she was saying, the lust in her voice was unmistakable, and it was hot, hot, HOT!

Sylvie suddenly bucked violently against me and said MERDE! It was only a few seconds later that I flooded her intestines with cum, while I brought her to another orgasm with my thumb.

We both collapsed onto the carpet and lay there with the evening sun on our faces. After a while we staggered into the bedroom and collapsed into the bed.

The next morning, Saturday, I woke late, alone in bed. For a few instants I thought that I had just had the most intense wet-dream of my life, induced by jet-lag. But then I smelled the coffee and heard Sylvie singing in the kitchen.

The croissants were good—crumbly and soft. And while we drank our coffee we talked about the only puzzle that remained: what about Jean-Pierre and Jane?