A Week in Brittany

Saturday

Steve stared out of the ferry window at the cold grey waves as the ferry ploughed its way across the western end of the English Channel. By rights, if his friend Tom hadn't fallen off his motorbike and put himself in hospital, he should have been camping in the Lake District. Instead he was condemned to a week of purgatory going to Brittany with the family.

He'd tried pleading, he'd tried cajoling, he'd promised them the earth and more but, ever since last Easter when he had been left in charge of the house and there had been that stupid incident with the party they refused to trust him. Ok, so the police had been called but it wasn't as if anyone had got arrested or anything and, after all, they had replaced the glass in Mrs Jacob's cold frame. Bloody parents, they could be so unreasonable.

The worst of it all was that he was forced to share a cabin. Everything had been fully booked this close to high season; indeed they had been lucky to get Steve a ticket, and now they were all going to have to bunk down together. Whilst Allison, Steve's thirteen-year-old sister, thought this the greatest adventure, Steve just saw it as yet another inconvenience and had retired to the lounge. At least there he could relax with Metal Gear Solid and he wouldn't have to listen to their snores.

With a weary sigh he went back to his PSP. There was no way he was going to enjoy himself; absolutely no way whatsoever. His fingers stabbed at the buttons as he took his frustration out on the endless stream of aliens.

Sunday

The one hundred or so kilometres from the port of Roscoff to the picturesque village of Roscanvel had passed in a blur. Steve had had absolutely no interest in the rolling Breton landscape and its picturesque hints of the Celtic fringe. He had got so little sleep on the ferry crossing that he could barely keep his eyes open and he was still dozing when they pulled in to the narrow lane that led to the holiday cottage.

If your idea of the perfect holiday is to get away from it all then Roscanvel is an ideal destination. Right on the edge of the Finistere coast it offers a wild beauty and a peaceful quiet far, far removed from the hurly burly of the city. On the other hand, if you're a eighteen-year-old boy it offers absolutely nothing. The honey coloured stone, straw thatch and exposed beams of the cottage held no charms for him; rather they accentuated its remoteness. Steve found he couldn't get a single bar on his mobile and, as for broadband, they hardly had carrier pigeon. To top it all he was forced to share a room with Alison and, although he inevitably won the battle over who got the top bunk, this was a small victory in a sea of misery.

So it was that, when Steve's parents had suggested that they all head for the village and then on to explore the cliffs and beaches, he had replied in no uncertain terms that he would rather be dead and had even added a few expletives for good measure. His father, realising that a grudging apology for his language was as good as they would get, didn't press the point and Steve was left settle down in a patch of shade with Grand Theft Auto on his PSP. Even that wasn't enough to overcome his exhaustion and he soon dozed off and he was still lying there when he was woken from a deep sleep by the sounds of someone trying to attract his attention.

"Excuse me. Hello. Excuse me." A voice called out. "We're booked into the cottage opposite and I can't find anyone. Can you tell me where we get the keys?"

Steve shook the sleep from his eyes and looked up to see a goddess leaning over the garden gate. He and his mates often used the word 'fit' to describe desirable girls but never before had he met anyone for whom the term seemed so apt. Tall and athletic, she was dressed in a tennis outfit and neither the tight top nor the short pleated skirt did anything other than emphasise the curves of her body. She wore designer sunglasses that concealed her eyes but her wide smile was enough and Steve, completely tongue tied, stumbled to his feet and went over to the gate.

As he got there he could see past her into the lane where the car in which she had just arrived was parked. The silver BMW Z8 with the top down would have been just the thing to complete his perfect fantasy had it not been for the man, obviously her partner, sitting behind the wheel.

"Hi, I'm Greg and this is Simone." The man called out. "We're booked in to the cottage opposite and there doesn't seem to be anyone around. Can you tell us where we'll find the owners?"

Steve dragged his eyes away from Simone's cleavage and tried to remember where Alison had been sent when they had arrived.

"Oh... Yeah... It's the farmhouse... The one at the end of the lane. Shall I go for you?" Steve finally answered. There is no way Steve would have offered had Greg been on his own but for Simone...

"Would you? What a sweetie." Simone answered and Steve, completely smitten and anxious to please, dashed off to fetch the owners.

When he and Monsieur Reynard returned a couple of minutes later Greg and Simone were already unloading their bags from the boot of the car. They travelled light and apart from a couple of holdalls the only other item was a sports bag from which protruded the handles of two tennis rackets; it would seem that Simone's outfit was not just for decoration but practical as well. Monsieur Reynard went over to them and it turned out that Greg spoke perfect French the two of them were soon discussing the finer details of the cottage which left Simone and Steve standing at the gate.

"We come here because the cottage has its own private tennis court." Simone explained. "That and because Greg can't get a signal on his mobile; it's the one thing I insist on otherwise he'd be on the phone to the office all day. This way it gives him a real break and he just has to let go. Do you play?"

"Play?" Steve had again been too busy staring at Simone's cleavage. "Oh, tennis. Err... Just a bit, when I was at school. I'm awfully rusty."

"Nonsense, it's like riding a bike; once you learn you never forget. You must come and play a few sets with me." There was a shout from the house. "Oh, well, the Master calls. Gotta run. Don't forget, come and play a few sets. It will be fun."

Leaving the gawping teenager in the lane Simone turned and went into the cottage.

Monday

Steve lay in bed idly stroking his erection. The rest of the family had set off for the day exploring the local countryside and, once again, he'd cried off electing instead to stay at the cottage. Almost as soon as they had left he had gone back to bed and, whilst his imagination removed Simone's top and tennis skirt his hand pumped away bringing him to yet another orgasm. As he got his breath back he thought about going over to see her, err... them, but he was realistic enough to know that, even without Greg in the frame, she was a million miles outside of his class. His fevered imagination was the closest he was ever going to get to seeing her naked, let alone all the other things that were fuelling his libido.

By lunchtime hunger finally drove him from his bed and he went to the kitchen to see what he could do with a baguette and a lump of the local cheese. This, plus a bunch of grapes, made an adequate repast so he plated it up and set off into the midday sunshine. He lay full length on one of the sun loungers and, after washing down his bread and cheese with a glass of wine, drifted off into a hazy half sleep.

P'tang... p'tang... p'tang... "Oh, well played."

P'tang... p'tang... "That was out."

P'tang... p'tang... p'tang...

Steve rolled over, awoken by the sounds from across the road as Greg and Simone made good use of the tennis courts. Immediately his mind conjured up visions of the delightful Simone reaching for a difficult shot, her short tennis skirt offering tantalising glimpses and, as his penis stirred in his shorts, he decided to see if he could find somewhere from where he could watch. He could, of course, just go round; after all Simone had given him an open invite, but he was far too shy to do so and, anyway, they would insist that he played as well so, rather than do that, he walked into the lane between the two properties and looked for alternatives. On the far side of the house there was a small coppice and, surely, that offered plenty of scope for concealment. Working on the assumption that Greg and Simone were too busy playing tennis to be paying any attention to the surroundings he worked his way to the back of the woods and then crept through them until he found the perfect place. A tree had fallen some years back and lay on its side quite close to the edge of the tennis courts. By lying on the ground next to the log he could see under it and had an all but unobstructed view of the court. Furthermore, being low down, he was getting the view he wanted, or he would be if it weren't that she was at the other end of the court.

He'd only been there a couple of minutes when Greg missed a shot and had to retrieve the ball from close to where Steve was hiding. At first Steve thought he must be discovered, the bright tangerine football shirt he was wearing was a dumb choice for concealment and would be hard to miss, even under the log but he seemed to have got away with it as Greg simply picked up the ball and returned to the game.

And then, a few points later, everything changed. Greg picked up the ball and, instead of serving, went over to the net where Simone joined him. For a couple of minutes they talked together; Steve couldn't make out the words but Greg seemed to be making some sort of point, as if he were telling Simone what to do. After some discussion she disappeared towards the house and Steve was left wondering whether the game was over until she returned moments later. She went over to Greg and gave him a shy but wicked grin after which they went back to their game. However, as they took up position they had changed ends meaning that Simone was now at the same end as Steve who was now in the perfect position. Maybe three meters or so back from the edge of the court and low down he had the perfect view as the hem of her skirt offered endless tantalising glimpses, whether it be as she leant forward, ready to return service or as she reached up when she was serving. Time and time again Steve tried to check out what colour panties she was wearing until, as she bent over to pick up the ball, he finally got the view that confirmed his growing suspicions; he hadn't been able to tell because she wasn't wearing any!

By now Steve was completely hooked and couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. It was as if Simone was deliberately giving him increasingly daring views as, in all innocence, she reached for difficult shots, leapt high when serving or, best of all, bent over to pick up the ball. Steve wished he had his phone with him so that he could take pictures; as it was he was going to have to rely on his memory and he concentrated on memorising every inch of her firm thighs, every beautiful curve of the twin globes of her perfect buttocks.

"That's it, I've had enough." Greg finally called out. "I'm off for a shower; clear up here, will you. And don't forget the task I set you; come and tell me when you've done it."

"Yes, Sir." Simone replied leaving Steve to guess whether the 'Sir' was ironic or something else.

With Greg gone Simone seemed to be even less careful about exposing herself and, as she bent down to pick up the balls or sort out the bits and pieces in the sports bag, Steve was getting some of the best views yet. However the icing on the cake came when it looked like it was all over, all the balls had been retrieved and the sports bag was packed. Simone looked around the court and, with a wicked grin on her face came over to the end of the court, a mere three meters from where Steve was hidden and stood facing towards him with her feet maybe half a metre apart. Reaching down for the hem of her skirt she took it between her fingers and gently, slowly, tantalisingly started to lift. Slowly, one centimetre at a time, she pulled the hem up and sideways until, framed by the folds of white cotton, Steve had the perfect view of her shaven pubic mound, the twin lips of her labia plain to see between her half open thighs. With her free hand she stroked herself, up and down, up and down.

Then, as quick as it had happened, it was over, she let her skirt fall back into place and, with a wiggle of her hips, sashayed out of the tennis court, picking up the bag on her way. Steve was left with his mouth wide open and the hardest erection he'd ever experienced. Never, ever, had he seen anything so jaw droppingly sexy. Part of him wondered why, why had she done it? Had she known he was there? And, is she had, surely that would have made her less likely to expose herself so or to behave so outrageously. Still, the heat of his libido brushed these objections aside as he pushed down his shorts and reached for his penis. There was no way he was able to wait to get back to the house before getting relief.

Tuesday

"Stevie! Stevie! Come downstairs now. Mrs Anderson is here to see you." Steve's mother's voice calling up the stairs roused him from yet another dream of flashes of pantyless buttocks peeking beneath the hem of crisp white tennis skirts. Who the hell was Mrs Anderson and what on earth did she want with him. Tugging on a pair of shorts and a bright red Rage Against The Machine tee shirt he made his way downstairs. His mother was talking animatedly at the door and, as he approached she pulled back to reveal Simone standing there looking radiant.

"Ah, there he is." Steve's mother exclaimed. "It can be quite a struggle to get this one out of bed."

"Hello... Mrs Anderson." Steve said.

"Oh, there's no need to be so formal, you must call me Simone. Now, you've been a very naughty boy." She wagged her finger at him.

Steve blushed as bright red as his tee shirt as his mind reeled from the possibilities. What did she mean by naughty? Had he been spotted and was Mrs Anderson here to complain? If so, why was she smiling and why had she told him to call her Simone?

"Err... naughty?" he stuttered.

"Yes, naughty. You promised you'd come and play tennis with us and we haven't seen hide nor hair of you." Simone said, laughing.

"Stevie! You mustn't make promises and not keep them." His mother said sternly.

Steve, still half asleep, was completely confused. Primarily there was the relief that he hadn't been spotted, that this wasn't a complaint about him spying on them but, for the life of him, he couldn't remember making any promises to play tennis.

"I'm sorry." He said eventually. "I didn't realise... I thought you didn't mean it. Of course, I'd love to play with you, err... play tennis with you." If anything Steve blushed deeper at his unintended double entendre.

"If you're sure..." Steve's mother interjected. "It really is very kind of you. I know he'd love to have a game or two; I'm afraid our young man is finding our Brittany holiday a little boring but you mustn't let him make a nuisance of himself. Don't let him outstay his welcome."

"He'll be fine." Simone assured Steve's mother before turning back to Steve. "Shall we say ten thirty? That gives you time to have breakfast and so on. Don't worry if you haven't got your racket; you can borrow Greg's, OK?"

"Yeah, sure." Steve replied. "I'd love to."

An hour later, washed, dressed and a little apprehensive, Steve knocked on the door of Greg and Simone's cottage. After a moment or two the door opened and Greg invited him in.

"If you're looking for Simone she's out back. She said you would be over. I'd be playing but..." Greg indicated his laptop which was set up on the kitchen table and a pile of paperwork lying beside it.

Steve, amazed that anyone would work on their holiday went through the cottage and out to the back garden where Simone was lying in the sun, dressed in a bikini.

"Ah, there you are. Give me a second or two to get changed and I'll be with you. You'll find the gear by the back door. Be a sweetie and take it over to the court, will you?"

Steve found the bag and took it over to the courts. A few moments later Simone arrived wearing a white top and a short flared skirt similar to the one she had worn previously. Steve felt his penis swell in his underpants and hoped it wouldn't be too obvious. As Simone bent over to open the bag and fetch out the rackets the back of her skirt rode up and Steve couldn't help but glance over to check and, yes, it looked like, once again, she wasn't wearing any panties. He quickly turned away and, surreptitiously slipping his hand down his shorts, rearranged himself more comfortably.

The game itself was pretty one sided. Firstly Simone was a far better player than Steve and, even without working at it, could have beaten him easily. Secondly, and more relevantly, Steve was barely able to focus on the game as, time and time again, he was getting the same tantalising glimpses as yesterday. Trying to return her serves was a distraction from what he really wanted to do which was gaze on and worship; it was hard to watch the ball when all he wanted to watch was the hem line of her skirt. After an hour or so they were both hot and thirsty and when Simone suggested stopping for a cool drink Steve was glad to follow.

They went inside and into the kitchen. Simone was bending over fetching out some drinks from the fridge when...

"Simone! Are you wearing panties?" Greg asked, his voice stern.

"Please, Sir..." Simone replied.

"I asked you a question. Are you or are you not wearing any panties? Lift up your skirt and show me." This time Greg was even sterner.

"But, Sir, what about Steve?" Simone answered.

"If, as I suspect, you've been parading yourself around half naked all morning then there'll be nothing he hasn't seen already. If not then you've nothing to be ashamed of. Now get on with it or it will just be the worse for you."

Nervously Simone put down the drinks she had retrieved from the fridge and reached for the hem of her skirt. Looking suddenly young and uncertain she lifted the hem, bit by bit, until it was up to her waist and it was clear that she was, indeed, without any panties.

"You're a disgrace, do you know that." Greg said before turning to Steve. "I'm sorry for this. My wife is such a naughty little trollop that it can be quite a job making sure she stays properly dressed. Look at her, just look at her, flashing herself to all and sundry. I do apologise."

"Perhaps I should go." Steve said, turning towards the door. Much as he was enjoying the view whatever game Greg and Simone were playing was making him distinctly uneasy.

"On the contrary, I'd prefer it if you stayed." Greg said. "Her punishment will be much more effective if it's in front of you. After all, it was you she embarrassed by her disgusting displays; it's only fair that you should see her punished."

"Punished? What do you mean?" Steve asked now completely flabbergasted.

"Simone, perhaps it would be best if you explained." Greg said. "Tell Steve here why you need to be punished."

"Steve, when I've been a naughty girl, when I've misbehaved, done things like forgetting to wear my panties, Sir has to punish me, to help me behave better in future." Simone was still standing, holding her skirt up to her waist.

"And what do these punishments consist of?" Prompted Greg.

"I am to be spanked, spanked on my bare bottom." Simone answered.

"Yes, indeed, spanked on that cute little tush of yours. Now, off you go and fetch the paddle." As Simone scuttled out of the room Greg turned back to Steve. "Please, take a seat. This will only take a moment or two. She can be such a naughty little thing but a few strokes of the paddle soon puts her right."