I was eighteen when my parents sent me off to France. Most of my friends were either taking a gap year or going to college but I didn’t really have much choice. My parents had firmly decided that it was culturally important for me to experience life in a foreign country and learn the local lingo. When I arrived at the train station, I could still hear my mother telling me how to introduce myself to my host.
“Bonjour, Madame Dubois,” I said politely, holding out my hand.
“Bonjour, Philippe,” she replied, calling me by the French version of my name and shaking my hand.
Madame Dubois was a lot younger than I’d expected and a lot prettier than she’d looked in the photos my mother shared with me. At first, I wondered if perhaps Madame had sent her daughter to collect me, but I didn’t dare ask her or make any comments. She had a slender, curvy body, with shapely legs dressed in black seamed nylons. The last time I’d seen nylons like that was in a girly magazine. She had shoulder length wavy dark brown hair, large brown eyes, a thin turned up nose and full red lips. It was all quite intimidating for a young man, but exciting at the same time.
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She drove us back to her house, then showed me the room where I was to stay for the next six weeks. It was a smallish room, with a single bed, a bedside table, and a large wardrobe, all made of a solid, dark colored wood. There was also a sink on the wall at the foot of the bed, above which there was a large plain mirror. Looking around the room I noticed a wooden Catholic cross hanging on the far wall.
“This is where you will stay,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Thank you,” I answered, thinking that a room couldn’t be any drabber than that.
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It was around ten o’clock by the time we finished dinner, having chit-chatted about life in the UK compared to life in France and what I could expect during my stay. Madame Dubois had already arranged for me to follow an intensive French submersion course at the local lyceum, with the agreement of my mother.
“You must be tired, my dear,” she said, “I have put some towels in the bathroom.”
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I took a shower thinking about the day gone by. It was only ten hours since I’d left home and here I was in France, another country in which people spoke a different language, and with a female host who was much younger and friendlier than I’d expected. My mother had portrayed Madame Dubois as a reliable, trustworthy, mature lady, but I already saw things differently. During dinner, she’d commented about how good-looking I was and how the local girls would all be swooning over me.
“They will have to beat me first,” she’d said, smiling wryly, “And I’m not easy to beat.”
I felt my cock swelling when I remembered her words and the look on her face.
I didn’t have much experience with sex, but I definitely felt the vibe when she looked at me that way. There was something telling me that there may be some action. I soaped up my cock and tugged at my shaft, but just as I was getting into it, the water went cold. I rinsed myself off and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist.
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I hadn’t expected Madame Dubois to be standing there, right outside the bathroom door. She was dressed in a black silk dressing gown, exposing her black negligee and ample boobs.
“I thought you might like a nightcap,” she said softly, “It’s Cognac.”
She held out one of the two glasses she’d been holding. I took it from her, expecting to retreat to my room, but as I opened the door, she followed me inside. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat down on the edge of the bed. She sat down beside me, crossing her legs, the silk gown sliding open to reveal her thighs.
“It’s not poison,” she laughed, holding up her glass.
“Cheers,” I said, the blood rushing to my cheeks.
“Do you like my legs?” she asked, “I see you looking hungrily.”
“Yes, they’re very lovely.”
“You can touch them.”
I reached over and ran my fingers gently across her thighs. Her skin was soft.
“Touch them like a man,” she said, “I want to feel your passion.”
I stroked harder, running my palm up and down her thighs. By now my cock was throbbing under the towel, about to spring forth. She leaned in toward me and whispered in my ear, her hot breath making me feel even hornier.
“Take me like a beast, part my legs if you can.”
The look on her face told me that this wasn’t just a game. She really wanted to know if I could seduce her, satisfy her. There was no doubt that she wanted me to conquer her.
Instead of trying to pry her legs open, I pushed her back on the bed, straddled over her and pulled off her bathrobe, then ripped open her negligee, exposing her breasts. She lay there staring at me.
“What next?” she asked, sarcastically.
I pinned down her arms and kissed her neck, then moved down toward her breasts, kissing her nipples in turn. After just a few moments, her legs stopped flailing wildly and I was able to push my knee between them.
Looking straight into her eyes, I said: “This is what’s next.”
I pushed the tip of my cock against the entrance of her pussy and effortlessly slipped inside.
“Fuck me hard,” she gasped.
I didn’t need further encouragement. I pounded her like crazy while she came several times, her juices soaking the sheets.
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Twelve hours previously, my mother had warned me not to get involved with any French girls.
