Memoirs of a French Cyclist Ch. 03byTimothyM©
Another warning is due: the first half of this chapter contains m/f sex. If it was on its own, this part should have been in EC. But as the other half is very GM, I hope you'll be able to forgive the momentary lapse into straight sex.
All through the spring and summer after I'd lost my secret lover, my father not only encouraged me to date, he even tried to introduce me to young women. Of course he knew very well that not many girls would be interested in me or vice versa. Not because he had any suspicions of me being gay. No he just realized that in order to have a successful date between a guy and a girl, there should be at least some sort of common ground. And I had no other known interests than cycling.
So my parents did their best to find friends or acquaintances with daughters in the right age group and at least a rudimentary interest in cycling. Not that there were many of those, so I think they almost despaired at one point. But then I suddenly managed to have a long conversation with the twenty-two year old daughter of a couple, who were visiting just by chance. Veronica, as the girl was called, was not someone my parents had thought of as a potential girlfriend, but her father worked in the same company as my father.
Our talk was not caused by any attempt of mine to chat her up, it was just the result of a weird coincidence. During dinner Veronica had talked of a holiday in Spain, where she'd visited a girlfriend. I'd listened politely but without much interest, until she mentioned the name of the town. It was the area near Madrid where Miguel had lived, and suddenly I wanted to know all about the place. I didn't expect Veronica to know of him of course, but somehow I felt connected to my lost love by hearing descriptions of streets and cafés he might have visited.
I asked and listened avidly, and she went on about the town for a long time, clearly pleasantly surprised by my attention. Afterwards the conversation moved to other subjects, and I gradually realized that talking to girls was pretty easy. All you had to do was find something they were interested in and ask the right questions. Then they would do the rest and even consider you to be a really nice guy too. To the great joy of my parents I'd absolutely no difficulties chatting up any of the girls they introduced me to after that night.
Even at lycée (high school) I gradually became quite popular with the girls. Due to my dedication to cycling I'd been given an extra year, which meant I had changed class at the beginning of the autumn term. I was thus a year older than the other students, and I'd not gotten to know any of them very well in the past year. After all most of my attention had been on my clandestine love affair with Miguel and the subsequent heartbreak caused by his death. But now my parents urged me to go to various social functions, and to my surprise I had success in the company of girls.
Not the kind of success the other teenage boys in my year wanted, i.e. making out with girls or getting in their pants. At parties and other gatherings I'd sit quietly and talk with the girls, and not just the plain and less popular girls, but also some of the attractive babes. I didn't like dancing, but on the other hand I didn't touch their bodies without invitation or persuade them to 'go for a walk' or try to kiss them. I let the other guys take my 'conquests' away, just giving a careless shrug and a smile, or even encouraging the girl to dance with her suitor. This meant that I wasn't subjected to their anger or envy over being in the midst of females.
At the time I wondered if most of the girls just saw me as a nice diversion, someone giving them a break from the continual harassment by horny guys. If maybe some of the plain girls considered me as proof that they were able to attract attention from the other sex, even if it was completely platonic. Looking back I can see that I never flirted or pretended to want more than talking, but it wasn't intentional. It just didn't occur to me, because I'd no interest in going out with a girl and wouldn't have dared to with a guy, broken heart or not. I wasn't devious or clever enough to realize that if you want to hide that you're gay, it's a good idea to pretend to be into in girls.
I honestly never thought about whether the girls expected anything more from me. A lot of the time I'd listen to them complain about guys who had deserted them or that they liked, but couldn't get. Commiserating with their sorrows somehow made it legitimate for me feel sorry for myself too, and at the same time I felt detached from and above their silly chattering. Nothing they'd experienced – or at least told anyone about – could compare to my personal tragedy. Not that I ever breathed one word of my loss, even when the girls occasionally asked me about girlfriends. After all I could deny having had one with perfect honesty!
No matter what, socializing with other people my age and especially being in the company of girls constituted a nice safety measure against both my parents' worry and my own anxieties. I didn't know what I feared most about the thought of getting physically or emotionally involved with a man again: Having my heart broken or my future as a professional cyclist destroyed. Because I had and have absolutely no doubts that any possibility of a career in this sport would vanish if I – against all expectations – fell openly in love with a man.
When our final exams were over, a round of celebratory events started, two official ones at lycée and many private parties. To my utter astonishment I was invited to almost every private party, which had never happened at similar occasions in the previous years. At first I meant to decline most of the invitations, but my parents thought I should grab the opportunity to celebrate my good results and even more the future awaiting me. To the great joy of my father (and me of course) I'd been approached by several cycling teams and I'd signed a contract with one of them for the coming season.
Anyway, I was going to start just after Tour de France was over, so until then I had a whole summer month with nothing to do except cycling and relaxing. I could see my father's point: "Jean, I hope that every year from now on you'll be busy in the season and most of all in July. So it's OK to enjoy yourself just now, feel young and carefree." The last part was so unlike him, but as always I followed his advice. I'm glad I did, as this period was my main experience of ordinary (straight) teenage life. I went to parties, chatted with girls, drank alcohol – though not too much as I wasn't used to it.
I even let some of the girls persuade me to dance with them, if they insisted. Several of my dance partners were kind enough to proclaim that my warning about not being able to dance was utter rubbish. But maybe they were just relieved that I usually avoided stepping on their toes or didn't weigh too much if I did. Most of the parties went really well, and I actually enjoyed myself. I'd still go home relatively early and take my usual bike ride the next day, after having the luxury of sleeping much later than normal. But for the first time in months I felt content and hopeful and just, well, normal.
That lasted until a week before I had to start training with the cycling team that had employed me. The final and most important party of the post-exam period was held by one of the richest and most influential men in the neighborhood. His daughter Belle was naturally one of the popular and sought-after girls in the senior student year, pretty, well dressed, self-assured and charming. To be honest I'd been very surprised at getting an invitation to this event, since I'd never spoken two words with her or her parents. In spite of the fact that her father – or rather his firm – had actually sponsored me for a couple of youth racing events.
I told myself that since everybody else from my class had been invited, I'd just been included in the lump of invitations. My father had insisted that I participate, even though the party happened the day I turned 19, saying that I could celebrate with the family the evening before. I made sure to dress particularly well, with a new shirt to go with the expensive tailor made suit that had been one of my parents' graduation gifts. My father drove me over and promised to pick me up the next morning, as the party was meant to last all night and end with breakfast.
Naturally the food and wine was amazing, and it was a proper formal dinner served by real waiters. Belle's father stood up at some point and made a speech, and he was actually both eloquent and funny. In addition, he not only congratulated his daughter but all of us on our achievements. He even mentioned quite a few of the more outstanding students, whom we all knew were destined for going to the best universities and so on. I'm sure he'd had someone dig out all this information for him, but he still impressed rather than embarrassed a room full of teenagers. No mean feat.
To my surprise it turned out that he actually knew who I was, though we'd never met. He was looking directly at me, when he congratulated me on my cycling contract as part of the speech. I actually blushed with pleasure when the whole room cheered me and applauded the announcement that his firm would "continue sponsoring our local hope for a future Tour champion". Even if our host did it for effect to make himself look good, the fact that he made my peers cheer me with happy approval, assured him my everlasting gratitude. Which made what occurred later even more awkward.
Luckily, at my father's urging I'd already prepared a few sentences thanking him for earlier support, just in case. My father was the first but not the last to instill me with the need to be courteous and obliging to sponsors. I got to deliver my speech of gratitude fairly soon after our host had spoken, as several people at my table for some reason insisted that I should be one of the first to reply. I even managed to say something very flattering about Belle and her older sister Chantal, who was seated on my right. In fact, she was the first to urge me to give a speech and soon got everyone near us to support the idea.
Chantal was maybe 23 or 24 years old, even more beautiful than her sister and with the assured elegance of an experienced woman. She was petite and slim, with chestnut hair, mischievous brown eyes and a sensuous mouth above a stubborn chin. She had the same charm and convincing personality as her father, and I didn't stand a chance. From the start of the meal she'd engaged me and those seated next to us in delightful conversation, and I soon hung on every word. Chantal even drew me out and made me feel that she was actually interested in hearing about my cycling ambitions.
After I'd made my speech, Chantal revealed that she already knew of her father's sponsor plans. I wondered if my luck in getting seated next to her was to help him spot me during his speech. But I didn't care, she made me relax and feel happy, I enjoyed her wit and respected her opinions. Without realizing I sipped my wine whenever Chantal did, she would smile at me over her glass when I politely saluted her and agreed with her on the taste and quality of the wine. Not for one moment did I feel that she was flirting, nor did I consider her in a sexual way, so I never got shy or anxious.
Once dinner was over, I escorted Chantal to one of the sofas in the drawing-room and fetched her a cup of coffee. When I got back, one of the most popular guys in my class sat next to her and was obviously doing his best to charm her. I immediately withdrew, feeling relieved and strangely disappointed at the same time. I'd had such a nice time in her company, but on the other hand Chantal was rather overwhelming as a person. I wandered around and almost everyone I met congratulated me on my birthday as well as on my prospects in cycling. Most of the girls gave me hugs and kisses on my cheeks too.
All this attention was flattering but together with the heat in most rooms and the fact that I was rather intoxicated, made me feel slightly dazzled after a while. I decided to go outside to get some air; it was a beautiful summer night and there was a huge garden, almost a park around the house. Other guests had had the same idea and were walking around in small groups or as couples. However, ten minutes after I'd gone out, the live music started, and most people hurried inside. I looked at the open doors of the large dining room that had now been cleared for dancing, but didn't really want to go back yet.
Instead I kept walking further into the park, craving the solitude and silence I was used to when outside. There was moonlight to see by, but also lanterns placed along the paths. I finally sat down on a bench by a small pond, and this was the place Chantal found me half an hour later. "So this is where you are hiding." Her low sensual voice behind me made me squeak in fright, I jumped up and tried to apologize and object at the same time. Chantal laughed and waved my attempts at explaining away with a careless flick of her hand. "No need to say any more, Jean, I quite understand why you prefer being out here."
She came closer and studied me intently with her head tilted slightly. There was an almost predatory glint in her eyes that for some reason sent a shiver down my neck. "My sister and her friends did tell me that you're an expert at escaping. Comme un poisson mignon, a cute little fish slipping off the hook, getting away from girls who try to catch you." My jaw slowly descended towards my chest, and my eyes opened wide in astonishment at her words. Chantal laughed again, probably because I no doubt resembled a stranded cod.
Another couple of steps and she was right next to me, I was taller than her, but felt helpless. Her soft palm settled against my cheek, I closed my eyes and mouth and tried not to gulp too loudly. Her fingers caressed my jaw line, played with my hair, gripped the back of my neck gently. Two soft lips against mine had me shaking in part delight, part distress: no one had kissed me since Miguel. "Happy birthday, mignon. What sort of present would you like, mmm?" Her other hand landed on my crotch and squeezed my intimate parts carefully.
I gasped, and she chuckled with delight in my ear, when a little fondling produced a distinct bulge in my pants. Within moments my manhood was fully erect, I was so desperate for intimacy and sex, it didn't matter that it was a woman touching me. I craved release by any means other than wet dreams which only caused sticky messes in my underwear and on the sheets, but no real pleasure. My balls felt swollen and heavy with sperm, my cock throbbed and ached after months of abstinence. It wanted to be touched, licked, stroked, sucked, to achieve ecstasy one way or another. I was so young and needy that anyone could have lit the fire in me.
But it happened to be a beautiful and experienced woman who took care of me. I followed her unresistingly as she led me to a group of tall dense yew bushes. In the dark, enclosed space between the concealing evergreens it was easy to ignore that it wasn't a man who undid my shirt buttons and caressed my chest and stomach. The hands that unzipped me, made my trousers drop and pulled the front of my briefs down could have belonged to a boy my own age and size. I moaned as they enclosed my shaft and cupped my balls. I let my left hand slide into my briefs and found my anus.
I massaged the entrance to my neglected hole, while the shadowy figure on my right rubbed my hard cock and fondled my balls. Daringly I reached out and touched Chantal's pert ass, my hand squeezed her firm buttock, pretending it was male. I moaned again when I managed to slip my finger past the sweat soaked sphincter of my butt and the deft digits on my manhood increased their tempo and brought me to the finish line. Without warning I exploded in a violent eruption, spraying my cum into her hand, which had left my scrotum to help working me into orgasm.
Nothing existed at that moment but the wonderful feeling of two soft hands expertly milking my seed while my anus convulsed around my finger. It was lucky that I was used to being quiet when I came, or I may have yelled my exquisite release for the whole world to hear. As soon as my climax was over, I came to my senses, and acute shame flooded my mind. I would probably have tried to flee if possible. But my trousers were pooled around my heels and Chantal still had hold of me.
"Take your clothes off," her voice brooked no disobedience, and I pulled my hands away from their naughty locations and started complying. Chantal turned away from me, knelt down and fumbled with something in the purse she had let drop to the ground. My eyes were getting used to the dark and when I bent down to take my shoes, socks and trousers off, I could see she was wiping her hands on some tissues. Blushing in embarrassment I averted my gaze and placed my folded clothes on top of my shoes. I was still wearing my briefs and had pulled the front up to cover me again.
But it was no use, Chantal's quite "Venez ici, mignon" had me step to where she was kneeling. She pulled my last piece of clothing off, and I almost screamed when her wet mouth descended on my still half erect cock. Two soft lips slid past the head, careful, barely touching, it felt good in spite of how sensitive I was right after coming. Chantal sucked me lovingly and gently, soon bringing me back to full arousal. I just stood there in the dark, rediscovering the delight of having my cock licked and fondled. Mon Dieu I needed it so badly....
Just then I didn't think about the fact that it was a woman kneeling in front of me and what this meant in terms of my sexuality. I was very careful not to think about the fact that I was having sex with the daughter of my host who was also one of my sponsors. Even if she was the one who'd initiated this clandestine rendezvous, it was utterly unacceptable behavior. But I managed to wall it all away from the here and now, as I'd done with my loss of Miguel. It was only later that I tried to sort through all the confused issues and implications tied up with this unexpected but not wholly unwelcome birthday present.
"Lie down on your back", the order had me reclining on the ground next to Chantal in moments. I was almost relieved because my knees were shaking badly, but then she really freaked me out. Before I knew what was happening, she straddled me and guided my stiff slick manhood inside her body! Chantal was wearing a figure hugging red dress which went below her knees, but had slits half way up her thighs. Her black stockings either stayed up by themselves or were held up by an invisible garter. If she had been wearing panties, they were gone now.
Thus Chantal was able to mount me just by hitching her dress up a bit. Her warm wet cave swallowed my shaft all the way to the base and I gasped in shock. It felt so different but still nice. My bare ass was pressed into the soft layer of yew needles, as she rode me. I couldn't see her clearly in the dark, just feel her buttocks against my lap and the silky soft moist walls enclosing and hugging my delighted cock. It'd be a lie, if I said I didn't enjoy the sex, but I knew immediately that it didn't turn me on like being with a man.
In combination with my recent ejaculation the result was that it took a long time before I came again. Somehow I realized even at the time that Chantal appreciated my staying power, maybe even counted on it. She rode me eagerly and she had at least one orgasm, as far as I could judge. She stayed silent, but her movements became intense, and she was grinding down on me hard. All at once her whole body shuddered above mine, and somehow the warm sheath around my manhood became tighter. After a short break, during which she was breathing heavily, Chantal resumed her ride.