The early morning air, lightly scented with apple blossom from the nearby orchards, wafted pleasantly through the open window. A mild spring breeze was blowing from the Surrey Downs and it caught the upper branches and leaves of an overhanging pear tree, making them slither softly at the pane The ripening foliage brushed and tapped against the glass, creating a rustling murmur in the room.
The girl stirred languidly, stretching herself reluctantly into wakefulness. As her arms lifted, the single pink sheet which covered her fell away from her breasts. The cool air played on the bare white globes, raising goose-pimples on the delicate skin.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking at the bright morning light which now flooded into the room. Her nipples felt itchy and large: the sudden change in temperature had caused them to harden instinctively and stiffen into a tight rosiness. The girl smiled to herself, her hands slipping over her breasts and giving them a brief but possessive fondling.
She sighed, wishing for a moment that she could snuggle down in the bed again and let her fingers roam dreamily over her body… But in a few moments she knew the alarm would begin to shrill and it would be time to dress and prepare breakfast.
Monique released her breasts regretfully and threw the sheet back. She jumped quickly out of the warm bed and snatched up her robe. Tying it tightly around her waist so that the shot-silk garment clung sveltely to her curves, the girl crossed to the window.
She breathed the crisp, clean air gratefully, drawing it deeply into her lungs, feeling the fumes of sleep being quickly banished. She looked out across the green English countryside — at the chequer board of ploughed fields alternating with the neat squares of distant meadows. The view was comforting; it gave her a strong feeling of serenity and peace, assuring her that spring would always return, that the renewal of life was constant and permanent, and that her own youth and beauty were eternal.
Monique pushed the window open a little wider. The sky was light blue, a few fluffy clouds scudded lazily overhead. Cattle grazed on the verdant grass and a cock started to crow, heralding the new day loudly and boastfully. The girl stood at the window for several minutes, lost in sweet contemplation of the tranquil landscape which stretched as far as the eye could see.
She had repeated this ritual daily since the first morning she'd arrived at the Camerons' house, but it never failed to fill her with renewed delight and pleasure. Regularly, she awoke before her alarm sounded and spent these few precious minutes staring out at the panoramic expanse of countryside.
It seemed to still the frequent pangs of homesickness which overwhelmed her whenever she was alone in the house. Not that these periods of loneliness lasted very long: Jean Cameron was in the house with her nearly all day and even when the couple went out in the evenings she had the television and radio to keep her company.
But early in the mornings and at night when she went to her room, Monique would feel a sharp yearning to be with her own relations again and to breathe the air of her beloved France. When this longing became so intense that it threatened to overwhelm her completely, she would stand before this open window and stare out at the rural scenery which was so reminiscent of her provincial home town.
The view served not only to remind her of France. It enabled her to slip into a sweet reverie in which she pretended to herself that this really was France — that she was home again, speaking her own language, once more living among her own people…
Monique smiled at the way she dramatised the situation. It was a bit melodramatic to have feelings like this — especially as she'd only been in England for three weeks! And in another three weeks she would be going home anyway!
Still, this vacation was her very first trip abroad and, after all, she was only 18 and a rather sensitive, imaginative girl. Although the Camerons had done everything possible to make her feel at home, Monique was glad that she was kept busy during most of the day. The household chores helped to occupy her mind and stop her thoughts from straying towards her loneliness — the loneliness which gnawed just below the surface of her mind.
She jumped, jolted out of her day-dreaming by the sharp, insistent jangling of the alarm clock. Quickly, Monique switched it off and started to make her bed. In a few moments the sheet was tucked in and the eiderdown was smoothed neatly over it.
Monique opened the door softly (Mr. and Mrs. Cameron wouldn't be awake for another fifteen minutes) and tip-toed to the bathroom down the hall. She turned the key in the lock, ran the water and washed her hands and face. While her bath was filling, she brushed her teeth, having to wipe the mirror free of the steam which was rapidly spreading over the glass.
She hung her robe on the hook behind the door, pausing before she stepped into the bath to admire the shapeliness of her young body. The reflection was half-obscured by the rising steam, but this only served to enhance the lovely vision: Monique's figure was blurred and partly concealed, shadowy and mysterious under its blanket of condensed air.
The girl stretched up on her toes, just able to see the dark patch of hair around her crotch in the half-length mirror. Impulsively, Monique gave the glass a thorough wipe then stepped back again. She could now see herself clearly — though the mirror was beginning to cloud over already.
Her nipples were still taut and ripe, thrusting from the centre of her breasts with a hard, pearllike prominence. Monique touched them lightly, rubbing the sensitive buttons with the tips of her fingers.
They tingled sweetly, stiffening into an even firmer and harder rigidity. Dreamily, the girl passed her hands beneath her breasts, raising the white mounds and keeping her fingertips on her nipples. She rolled them slightly, letting her fingers press into the soft and supple flesh.
Gradually, the steam rose to obscure the mirror again and Monique moved away from it. She climbed into the bath and let the hot water cover her body completely, sinking down until the caressing warmth lapped around her neck. Before she soaped herself, Monique liked to spend a few moments luxuriating in the sensuous feel of the water around her. She opened her legs, letting the suds envelop her sex — feeling the scented water steal between the parted lips of her cunt and seep into her body.
Her chin resting on the surface of the water, Monique returned her hands to her breasts. They felt even softer and smoother beneath the warm water, the flesh delicate and gentle. She stroked and fondled them with careful movements of her fingers, giving her breasts only the lightest of touches — only the most tender of caresses.
The girl's eyes closed in a sweet ecstasy as she felt how tremendously large her nipples had grown. As if she was exploring teats that were strangers to her fingers, Monique cautiously squeezed the buds between her thumbs and forefingers. She increased the pressure very gradually, slowly nipping the hard buds until a sensation of pleasant pain began to spread out from her breasts, enveloping her entire body in a sweet but urgent delight.
Her eyes opened a little and she looked down at herself, at the clever way in which her hands were bringing her pleasure. They seemed to be the strangers now — massaging fingers which belonged to a daring and extremely bold girl who had climbed into the bath with her and was, completely against her will, playing expertly with her breasts and nipples.
Powerless to intervene, Monique watched helplessly as her titties were turned this way and that; lifted almost out of the water so that the nipples were clearly visible, then modestly lowered beneath the surface again. She saw them being pressed firmly together, the warm globes rubbing fleshily against each other. She felt her nipples perking up under the ceaseless touching of the clever fingers, itching furiously now… begging to be released — yet longing for the caress to continue…
She could feel her eyes growing hot and misty. They were clouding with desire. Her mouth felt dry and she could hear her breath coming in long, excited gasps.
Monique rubbed her hand down over one breast and let it slide deliciously down her stomach until her fingers touched the tight curl of pubic hair. The growth was soft and silky, the strands floating upwards as the hot water swirled gently around it. The girl fondled the hard rise of her veneris, reaching her middle finger down the velvet slit until it slipped easily into the precious sex itself.
Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Monique began to work the finger deeply into the heart of her quim, pushing it urgently into the pink wet hole until it was buried completely. Her forefinger teased the folds of flesh as widely open as possible, then searched for the stiff button of her clitoris.
The sensitive red clitty felt incredibly sexy to her touch. Monique fought to control her breathing as she started to wiggle her finger around and around the well-concealed bud, flicking it from side to side with her fingernail.
Her hips writhed, grinding slowly beneath the steaming water. She began to frig herself more quickly now as her desire mounted and the tickling sensation in her loins quickened.
The water lapped into her open-lipped cunt, bubbling hotly as Monique fastened her finger all the way inside her sex and forced it in and out of the maddeningly tight hole. She forced herself to keep her eyes open so that she could see her breast being punished by her other hand. The fingers squeezed almost brutally into the resilient dumpling, clenching the white orb into unusual and provocative shapes.
And all the time the cheeky forefinger twiddled at her red nipple — tormenting the poor, sweet bud with a ceaseless backwards and forwards movement across the inflamed and sorely treated rosebud.
Almost before Monique realised that it was upon her, she started to come. Helplessly, feeling herself slipping into a frenzy of furious lust, the girl released her spunk into the water — merging her frothy white juices with the suds. Her body arced upwards out of the bath, straining tensely as she fought to sustain her climax for as long as possible.
Sobbing, she drove her finger ruthlessly up and down the narrow channel of her cunt — spluttering as her mouth went under the water. She threshed wildly, throwing her hands out to grip the sides of the bath.
The spell was broken instantly: her desire left her as quickly as it had come, leaving the girl feeling unrelieved and frustrated. She dragged herself out of the bath and buried her face in a towel, a mixture of guilt and anger forcing the tears to flow unchecked down her cheeks.
She hated herself. She felt dirty and unclean; like a schoolgirl masturbating behind her parents' back. What had possessed her to touch herself like that? Monique had never before allowed her emotions to get the better of her — she had never, never played with her sex in so open and blatant a fashion. Not in broad daylight, not watching herself like that…
At night, curled up in bed with the lights out and her eyes shut tight, she had secretly slipped her fingers between her legs and given herself a little pleasure. But to lie in the bath and…
Monique shivered with self-reproach. Caressing her body was one thing. Merely running her hands over herself to admire the feel of her skin and the shapeliness of her curves… that was very pleasant and was certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Every girl did that… of course they did!
But what she had just done to herself was very different. Monique suddenly remembered that when she had woken up this morning with the cool breeze playing on her nude breasts she had felt the desire to do things to herself. The impulse had been easily dismissed — or so she had imagined. But with the feel of the warm water all around her body, its liquid heat soothing and caressing her…
Monique let the towel drop to the floor. No, she told herself sharply. It's not just that you touched yourself — that's not making you feel like this. She recalled, forced herself to recall, that she had pretended another girl had been fondling her in the bath. And it was this fantasy which had disturbed her so much.
She had played a private game with herself. A game which involved the imagined presence of someone else. Someone of her own sex. Like an electric shock the insight jolted through her entire being — forcing her to acknowledge a desire which she wanted to keep hidden.
Another girl… It was impossible now for her to suppress the image. Her body ached with longing for the gentle hands and fingers of a soft-fleshed female to caress her into a dreamy state of bliss. To coax her lovingly into a merging of naked bodies, breasts pushing against breasts…
Monique realised that she was trembling from head to toe. Her body was glistening with water from the bath and the quivering was causing droplets to trickle teasingly down the valley between her breasts and tickle like gentle fingertips down the inside of her thighs. She shivered again.
Monique: the innocent, the virginal Monique. The girl who had scarcely explored her own body let alone allowed her charms to be touched by other hands. Monique: whose sexual awakening, long delayed, was now blossoming — making her ripe for new experiences.
She let her eyes travel with a new wonderment over her nudity, over the firm swell of her thighs; over the flat whiteness of her tummy, at the sleek curve of her hips. The body which no lover had yet known…
She began to dry herself, rubbing the towel quickly over her moist skin until it tingled and glowed a healthy pink. Deliberately, Monique forced herself to concentrate all her attention on the act of towelling her body. She refused to dwell any longer on the sexual implications of her experience. There was work to be done; Jean and Michael would be up by now and their breakfast had to be prepared.
Monique slipped into her robe again and cleaned the bath. Her heart still pounded and she could feel her pulse racing wildly. She knew that no matter how hard she tried to control her feelings, they could never again be completely repressed. Always, with every reminder of her beautiful young body — every time she felt her breasts thrusting outwards (as she did now, at this very moment, nipples brushing against the material of her robe) — Monique would feel again the glorious excitement when she had imagined another girl holding her breasts possessively and teasing her nipples into erectness.
And she knew, too, though she tried desperately to hide the knowledge from herself, that she could never again be completely innocent. Although the seeds of desire had taken a long time to flower, they were now too vibrant to be ignored. Somehow, Monique thought with a thrill of pleasure, somehow she would make her fantasy a reality. Only then would she be able to rid herself of the lingering self-disgust and shame. By bringing her secret longings out into the open and facing them without fear and remorse she could exorcise them.
Monique closed the bathroom door behind her and went back to her bedroom to dress.
Downstairs, Jean Cameron stared at the empty place on the bed beside her. Michael hadn't returned all night and she felt that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her he had been with another woman.
There was no proof, of course. He was far too considerate and clever for that. There would be no tell-tale hairs on his collar, no smudges of lipstick. And he would be kind and considerate to her for a few days; their relationship would, on the surface, be closer and warmer and he would talk to her more frequently.
But then, slowly and almost imperceptibly, his attitude towards her would change. He would start to find fault with everything she did, then withdraw completely into himself — ignoring her completely and making any form of contact between them impossible.
One day he would announce that he was leaving on a business trip and she wouldn't see him for a few days. And on his return, obviously to drown out the voice of guilt and conscience, Michael would once again act out the role of a tender, loving husband.
The pattern had been established for over a year. Jean had searched herself desperately to find a clue to the cause of their marriage breakdown but was still unable to understand what had really happened to them. She couldn't even pinpoint the exact time when they had begun to drift apart.
Michael rarely made love to her now, and on the infrequent occasions when they had sex it seemed to her an impersonal, almost clinical exercise — as if he was merely using her body to relieve himself… although Jean could see that he was inwardly suffering from their cold and remote relationship, Michael refused to discuss the subject with her. He would grow angry and almost violent if she tried to draw him out on the reason for his behaviour. They had reached an impasse. And if it hadn't been for Cathy, Jean felt that she would have left him long ago. To their daughter, Michael was always affectionate and warm; it was obviously something which she, Jean, had done which had caused their present situation. But she could never discover what…
The tension generated by their estrangement was growing more and more intolerable. If only Michael would talk to her!
Jean pulled herself out of her contemplation and got up. As she moved towards the wardrobe to choose a dress, she realised with a start that this time Michael hadn't even told her he was going away. She bit her lip quickly, feeling the familiar tears springing to her eyes.
This was a new development — he evidently did not intend to inform her of his comings and goings. She wasn't considered that important any more!
Fighting back the helpless crying which was threatening to engulf her, Jean pulled the wardrobe door open and dragged a dress off its hanger. She threw it onto a chair and was about to shut the door again when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full length mirror.
Her hand dropped to her side and she stood quite still, staring at the woman who was facing her. She was amazed at the attractiveness which confronted her: the waist-length black hair which Michael had loved so much was untidy and rather dishevelled, but it seemed to add to her beauty rather than detract from it.
The shoulder straps of her nightdress had fallen away and the swellings of her large breasts would have been completely visible if it hadn't been for the shimmering cascade of hair which streamed across her bosom. Through the tresses, however, she could plainly see the tips of her ruby nipples — poking through the silky hair as if they were determined not to be hidden.
Jean ran her eyes slowly down the rest of her body, unable to move an inch; fascinated by the sexiness which she saw in the mirror. It had been so long, so very, very long since she'd examined her figure so carefully. Now she saw the fine slimness of her waist, accentuated by the tightness of her nightdress. She gazed on the shapeliness of her thighs, the slim line of her legs…
Thoughtfully, Jean turned her body so that she could admire her rear view. The thrust of her buttocks under the clinging silk of her nightie was arousing and intriguing. She put her hands on the cheeks, pressing them softly. The flesh moved easily under her touch — lifting with a firm, supple grace as Jean pensively rubbed her fingers over her bottom.
She really didn't look like a woman of 34 with a daughter aged 15, she thought proudly. Her figure was as voluptuous as ever: no sign of fat anywhere, and the flesh was soft and smooth to her hands.
Jean turned back again to face the mirror. Perhaps I should take the nightie off, she murmured. I ought to be really critical before I start to feel too pleased with myself. Let's see if I still look as good without any clothes on at all…
She pulled the bow at her waist and allowed the nightdress to rustle down her body to the floor. It fell slowly, giving her plenty of time to savour the sensation of the silk as it slithered off her flesh. Raising her feet demurely, Jean stepped out of its folds and once more returned her eyes to her reflection.
Her beautiful hair still partially covered her breasts and she shook it impatiently out of the way. As it moved off them, her breasts shook delightfully, wobbling freely in a sexy, bouncing action. Jean ran her hands up her body to encompass them, taking the orbs in her palms and raising them gently.
Preciously, she held the warm melons — though they were firm enough not to require the added support of her hands. Jean swayed her hips softly, raising her eyebrows slightly and adopting a legsapart stance. She let her fingers move up over her breasts until they released the full white globes, letting them fall back heavily into their normal position.
Then her hands travelled up her neck, lifting her hair and bunching it in a thick pile on top of her head. She pouted at herself. “You sexy bitch!” she whispered. “You sexy damned bitch!”
Although she had scarcely touched them, Jean's nipples were already thick — the tight little petals flowering quickly under the urge which had suddenly seized the woman. Jean stared at them in the mirror, deliberately shaking her shoulders so that her breasts swung slowly from side to side.
Childbirth had left them even larger than they had been before and they now measured a generous 39 inches. Jean posed brazenly for herself, adopting first a shy, demure attitude with legs pressed tightly together; then, as if weakening in response to a plea from her audience, she let her thighs open a little — just enough for the pink and prominent lips of her cunt to be glimpsed.
Warming to her performance. Jean shook her head silently and admonishingly. She bent one knee slightly, dipping her thigh so that her sex was again hidden.
“Naughty, naughty!” she teased. “I shall have to turn around if you're going to peek!” And she coyly swung herself on her heels until her back was facing the mirror. Her knees bent forward fractionally and she thrust her buttocks out, looking over her shoulder so that she could see what sort of picture she was now presenting.
Jean's bottom, cheeks snowy white and curved in a beautiful pair of fleshy hemispheres, stared out of the mirror at the woman — looking so desirable that she couldn't resist the temptation to reach around and stroke them. Her fingers moved all over the succulent cheeks, glorying in the rich creamy texture of the skin. They strayed to the base of her spine, then crept slowly down the globes again, now opening them so that the crease of her arse was brought into full view.
Craning her neck, Jean could just about glimpse the bush around her sex as it peeped from between her thighs. But try as she might, it was impossible for her to see the cunt itself from this angle. Sighing, she straightened up and let her hands slide around her hips until they covered her abdomen.
She crossed her fingers modestly, intertwining them so that they hid the cluster of tightly-knit hairs around her crotch. Then, a pretty sigh escaping her lips, Jean very, very slowly turned back to face the mirror.
Her fingers were pressing quite firmly into her cunt-lips and the proximity of her digits to her long-neglected quim made the puffy labia pine for a closer, more intimate contact. She studied herself, keeping her eyes fastened on her loins, as her fingers gradually came away and loosened their possessive concealment of her quim.
When they were almost exposing the entrance to her sex, Jean curled them inwards so that they could take hold of the lips. She felt an immense thrill pass through her body as her fingers closed on the fat slickness of her cunt and drew the folds of protective flesh away. She allowed her thighs to open widely, stooping a little so that she had an uninterrupted view of her activities.
Gently, her fingers pulled the lips open, peeling them as far apart as possible and revealing the red wound which they normally concealed. Unable to stand any more self-teasing, Jean dipped one long feminine finger straight into the centre of the deep slit and pushed it as far as it would stretch up inside her cunt.
Her other fingers released the lips, letting them snap back into place around her fully buried digit. Straightening up into an erect position. Jean met her own eyes in the mirror and stared into them defiantly. She began to frig herself boldly, without the slightest trace of embarrassment or shame. Her finger described a rhythmic circular action, turning around and around inside the tight hole of her cunt. It felt so sweet, so perfectly beautiful, this firm but gentle pleasuring! Not since she was in her teens had she experienced this sort of leisurely self-stimulation, but Jean found that she knew instinctively just how quickly and deeply to fondle herself.
She let her other hand hang limply at her side, fingers brushing lightly against her thigh. A faint but unmistakable sucking noise had started from between her legs and Jean increased the rhythm of her frigging, feeling her finger being anointed with that familiar hot juice…
She squashed her thighs tightly together, making the ministering finger seem even more firmly wedged inside her cunt. Her buttocks clenched and unclenched in quick, urgent spasms and — tickling as frantically as she possibly could — Jean shuddered out her orgasm; the spunky fluid pumping sweetly out of her over-eager quim and moistening the heated softness of her thighs.
She stood there, panting harshly, finger still tightly imbedded in her sex, eyes glazing over. And not until she heard the sudden gasp from the doorway and realised that Monique was standing there did Jean come back down to reality, a deep blush spreading over her face as she turned sideways to the bedroom door, her finger still crooked into her cunt…