Terry is my oldest friend. It is a friendship which stretches back to our schooldays. We went fishing together, travelled across Europe to see Formula 1 races and holidayed together in Provence. Terry, a self-confessed Francophile and fluent French speaker, was in his element each time we crossed the Channel. So it wasn’t altogether surprising that he finished up buying a little gite outside a tiny village near Clermont Ferrand which, coincidentally, just happens to have a motor racing circuit! The cottage’s previous owners had established an impressive planting of a local black grape, giving Terry an inexhaustible supply of red wine to last him through the winter.
“Why don’t you come over to France and stay with us for Christmas?” Terry texted in early December one year. “You can meet my new wife, Claudette.” She was his third and I eagerly accepted, travelling down on a TGV express train. They met me at the local railway station in their battered old Citroen 2CV.
Claudette was certainly a stunner. She had vivid green eyes, with tiny clusters of freckles on either side of her retroussé nose. At least 20 years younger than my old friend, I soon discovered that this gamine creature had a penchant for wearing short mini-skirts. The view when she bent down to remove dishes from their ancient cooking range was especially revealing, as it was obvious that a) Claudette didn’t bother to wear any panties and b) she was shaved ‘down there’ to a lovely smooth finish. She invariably went around the house bra-less, making it easy to see that she was endowed with really tiny breasts. In my book, tiny titties and puffy nipples are an unrivalled combination.
For our Christmas Eve supper, Terry had bought a goose from a local farmer, which we enjoyed with all the traditional trimmings, washed down with liberal quantities of his own red wine. Claudette certainly looked good enough to eat as the horse d’oeuvres, in her red mink-trimmed elf’s outfit, complete with a white pom-pom-topped hat. If she had ever been one of Santa’s little helpers, I mused, she’d certainly have been sat up there beside the old man on his big sleigh, with one of his gnarled digits gently stroking her silky-smooth snatch or tickling her weeping love bud.
As Claudette stretched across the dinner table to reach a dish of brussel sprouts for me, her tiny red pleated skirt rode up to reveal her cute little bottom, which Terry stroked lovingly before winking at me. The gesture convinced me that the old roué had probably paid her more than one visit ‘by the back entrance’!
I got up to put some more logs on the fire and when I returned to the table Claudette was sat snugly on Terry’s lap. It was pretty obvious than in the time that my back had been turned, the little minx had discreetly lowered herself onto my friend’s cock which was now deep inside her. She gently rose up and down on his shaft, all the while smiling demurely at me, as if brandy butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. After half-a-dozen discreet little ‘jigs’ she closed her eyes – a sure sign that her husband was silently filling her quim. Moments later, she slipped off his lap, simultaneously snatching up a serviette from the table. “Be right back,” she called as she hastily retreated to the kitchen, holding the cloth to her crotch.
Terry gave me a broad grin. “As it’s Christmas Eve, mate, how’d you like a nice helping of ‘sloppy seconds’ when Claudette gets back?” The inference and the offer were all too obvious. “She’d love it. She’s been quizzing me on the size of your todger ever since you arrived, you old ram!”
“Well,” I stammered, “if it’s ok with you?”
“Of course it is - so long as I can watch!”
Claudette returned with a huge platter of plum pudding, decorated with sprigs of holly and mistletoe. From beneath her mini-skirt I could see the tip of the serviette protruding. Terry whispered in her ear as she served him, causing her to give a lovely big grin. “Bien sur, cherie,” she replied, winking at me.
We all tucked into our pudding, washing it down with some local brandy. Claudette got up from her place and moved round to stand in front of me. After receiving a nod from Terry, she cautiously undid my fly and slowly removed my erect cock. Then she ran her wet tongue across my throbbing glans several times, to Terry’s obvious approval. I watched her sensuous lips as she savoured the taste of my pre-cum.
The next stage was handled with balletic aplomb. Simultaneously, she flipped up her skirt, pulled out the serviette and, facing away from me, settled herself firmly down onto my lap. There was a very audible squelching noise as the contents of her cunnie began to slither down my shaft. I clasped her slim thighs tightly. “Oh merde, but that is just SO sexy!” she cried, rising up like an agile horsewoman, before lowering herself down once again, to more erotic squelches. From the table she took up the discarded serviette and sniffed it before pressing its dampest part against my face. I slowly inhaled the merged aromas of her own love honey and her husband’s fresh semen. Terry watched with fascination as I fucked his wife in front of him, all the while stroking his cock back to stiffness.
“Oh darling, fill me with your semence now?” Claudette suddenly pleaded. I needed no second bidding and shot several spasms of my spunk deep into her womb. I felt her vaginal muscles eagerly grip my shaft. Terry, about to finish too, stood up at the last moment so that he could anoint his wife’s freshly buttered bun with his creamy jizz.
It was a wonderful way to spend Christmas Eve, ending with memorable ‘sloppy seconds’ for all three of us!
