French Lessons

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The term ‘reserved occupation’ was used by many European countries in WWII to categorise certain trades and skills which exempted people from being conscripted for military service. In Britain, farming was one such skill; and as a farmer, my Uncle Ned (not a real uncle) was able to continue with his arable farming. He had recently taken a new bride: half his age and strikingly beautiful.Colette was a French refugee and the talk of the village. Some said Ned was a lucky man to share his bed with such a gamine creature; while naysayers believed she’d only married the old man for his farm. Local rumour had it that Colette entertained three regular visitors during the weekdays when Ned was out in the fields: there was the young athletics instructor from the village school (all toned body and rippling muscles); the village postman, who never stayed less than an hour; and, perhaps bahis şirketleri most surprisingly, given that this young French woman was a fervent Catholic, our pipe-smoking Anglican vicar.Harvest time was upon us and I knew there would be a big party in the barn when the last of the straw had been brought in.It was a hot and sultry afternoon when I walked up the drive of Gattings Farm. The studded farmhouse door was swung open, allowing a cool breeze to waft down the tiled hallway. I entered the spacious kitchen to find Colette seated at the big table, shelling peas. She wore only a cream-coloured robe, which hung open, revealing a tempting glimpse of her small firm breasts and pert dark brown nipples. The wooden pannier into which the peas were being dropped was set firmly between her thighs.“Nicholas, cherie! How simply lovely to see you,” she exclaimed.“I was wondering bahis firmaları if there was anything I could do to help prepare for tonight’s party?” I stuttered, trying (but failing) to avert my gaze from her thighs. I could clearly see that she was wearing no panties beneath the pannier, which she nonchalantly lifted and placed on the table, making no attempt to close her legs. Her crotch was covered with a dark downy bush, which she idly stroked with the two middle fingers of one hand. Although I was eighteen, this was the first time (apart from my mother’s) that I had seen this most private of female places.“Be an angel and fetch me a glass of water, would you Nicholas? I’m parched. And then come and sit beside me.”I did as instructed and drew up a chair.“Would you like to stroke my pussy?” she whispered after draining the glass. “It’s quite safe; Ned won’t be home for kaçak bahis siteleri hours.” I froze in my seat, unable to speak or move.“Here, let me help you.” She reached across and took my hand, placing it onto her swollen mound. “When you have stroked it a few times, you will find it will become quite wet with my love juices. That means it is safe to push your finger inside.”Once again, I silently followed her instructions. She rocked her head back slightly and closed her eyes. “Merveilleuse!” she murmured, quivering slightly as my fingertip encountered a tiny ‘nub’ just inside her opening.“Now taste me?”This instruction confused me. But ever-resourceful Colette came to my aid. Lifting my hand from between her legs she brought it up to my face and pushed a wet index finger between my lips. It tasted warm and salty. “Now kiss me, cherie, “she demanded, “so that I can taste my quim juice?” Once again – in the middle of our sexy clinch – she gently quivered. She stroked my cheeks tenderly and smiled. “Ever done that before?” I shook my head. “Ever had sex with a woman?” Again, I had to confess I hadn’t.

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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32