tagExhibitionist & VoyeurBeach Etiquette, Marseilles Style

Beach Etiquette, Marseilles Style

byPraeparvus©

I was 26, it was an unusually hot May, and it was my last chance to enjoy a month of unlimited travel on Europe's trains at the bargain student price.

I was a lone traveller, and looked younger than my years. I was a very late developer, and though I had experienced one or two fumbling encounters with girls, I was, to be honest, still a virgin.

I had decided this European tour would be make or break - and I headed for the beaches of the south, where I was sure I would find some liberated young Europeans who would be happy to rid me of these anglo-saxon inhibitions.

Mind you, I knew was also I was doomed to fail. What convinced me wasn't my background or my upbringing, it was simpler than that - anatomy. The size of my penis was the true reason.

From an early age I'd been aware I was a lot smaller than other boys. It hit me the first day at the hated all-male secondary school, when we were forced into communal showers, stark naked, as the games teachers slapped us with their wet towels. I hated sport, and became so plump that I could barely see my own genitals. I was given a new nickname - a Latin word, "Praeparvus", meaning very, very small indeed. The shame of this had been branded deep into my psyche, and had affected almost every aspect of my life since - especially, needless to say, my (non-existent) sex life. Basically, my self-confidence had been destroyed.

All these thoughts were going round in my head as my train pulled into Marseilles. I found a cheap room in a very scruffy hotel, and started to explore.

After a day in the hot city I yearned for beaches. I'd read about the secluded "calanques" down the coast, so next morning packed trunks, towel, camera, and food and caught the bus to the nearest one.

It was a hot day and the bus was packed, mainly local students, I thought.

We reached the end of the line, everyone bundled off, all heading the same way. I followed a group of four noisy French girls, who seems to be eager to get away from the even noisier boys who'd been teasing them on the bus. I held back, and saw that the French boys had given up and were chatting up three Scandinavians with blonde pigtails and backpacks.

I stumbled down a very steep, rough path and soon got onto a lovely rocky beach, with plenty of boulders to hide behind. Not that there were many others there to hide from.

As I unrolled the towel, I heard voices from above. The French girls from the bus were aiming for a patch of beach about 10 metres away from me. They staked their places and started unpacking bottles and food and sun lotion and so, chattering and giggling.

I rolled over and let the sun soak in to my poor pale body. I had awkwardly changed into a pair of rather worn black Speedos. They'd done for my last six holidays, so why not this one? I must've been fatter at 19 though, as they seemed distinctly loose.

I was half-reading, half-snoozing when a girl's voice asked me something in French.

I twisted around and sat up and was staring into the gorgeous, grinning face of a girl, about 20, and she was making the gesture of rolling a cigarette with her two thumbs and index fingers. She wore a stringy light-blue bikini, her olive skin gleamed. Her small yet full breasts were gently, loosely, cupped in the minimal material.

She needed Rizlas - presumably for a joint - and knew I had them from the half-smoked roll-up wedged between my fingers. I got the pack out of the bag and handed it to her. As she took out about 12 leaves, she seemed to scan my poor white speedo-clad body. I felt a tiny stirring.

She said: "You are English, right?"

"How did you guess"

"You look like English hippy".

It was true I had shoulder length hair then, and as I was thin and a bit curvy, I was sometimes even mistaken for a girl.

She thanked me and went back to her friends. I decided to to take a swim, but kept looking back at that group of girls. I came in to sunbathe and put oil on as much of me as I could reach. But I was thinking all the time of that gorgeous girl, with her playful, smiling eyes. And of course, her three friends as well.

I watched them sneakily from under my right armpit as one by one they got changed, and trekked up and down the beach, some having a real swim, some just messing. Two of them got topless. I very carefully got the little digital camera out of my bag and propped it on stones under my t-shirt, set the zoom to max and surreptitiously snapped 10 or 20 shots of them. They all seemed to me unbelievably gorgeous and attractive.

A few minutes later another of the group came over. She had cropped bottle-blond hair and mischievous elfin face with dark brown eyes. She said, "You come talk us in English, please? Is good if we speak with real English man, yes? Please, come and smoke stuff?"

The former tiny stirring returned with force. |t appeared someone had pushed an AA battery down the front my trunks, perpendicular to the body.

That - to be frank - was the size of it, and as I glanced down I saw that she had also glanced down and the ghost of a quizzical smile flashed across her face.

"Please, yes? Just five minutes?"

I fluffed, groping for jeans and shirt and said I 'd just put some clothes on and join them. I was urgently hoping that I could do something to suppress the seven centimetres of arousal before standing up. I cursed my foolishness at wearing Speedos - the worst thing, obviously, for someone with my inadequacy. Now I come to think of it, this must have been a Freudian thing all along - I was subconsciously inviting humiliation even before I realised it.

"No need clothes, come, come!"

My face was now bright red, but I was able to waddle over the beach without revealing anything more by holding my bag firmly in front of my crotch. They greeted me warmly with the offer of a joint and a swig of wine. We exchanged names, we talked music and cities and all those usual things in a mix of languages.

"J' adore your voice" said the girl who'd approached first. Her name was Cecille. I adored her instantly and could tell by the way she kept asking questions, and her smile, and the fact that we loved similar writers and music.... I could tell that, just maybe, she was thinking I was OK as well. Then another of the girls, with jet black hair and fringe and huge eyes, said something like, "Oh we like more than your voice mister" - which made everyone laugh. And made me blush again.

The elf, name of Juliette, asked for more Rizla so I plunged into the bag, pulling stuff out in my search, and out rolled the camera. One of the girls who had so far not spoken had a lovely North African look and indeed her name was Saana, she was perhaps of Algerian origin. She said "Tres belle" or something to that effect and picked it up. The fourth girl, who they called "Pomme", grabbed it from her and they had a pretend tug of war, they clearly liked my camera and wanted to play with it. "We study art", she said. "But we do not have such nice equipment".

Then she said," Ow you make image?" So I switched it on and said: "Like this, easy!"

She took the camera back but Saana again snatched it, and in doing so she must've touched the playback button, because suddenly her face changed, and she almost spat out - Regardez! Regardez ce que ce perv a fait!"

She was looking at the photos I had just taken of these girls as they undressed on the beach, and although I had not even looked at them myself yet, they were clearly quite good, because they made these four girls very animated indeed, in a sort of mix of anger - real or feigned, I am not sure - and stoned hilarity they started pushing the camera in my face.

"Ah, you like us? you like us? You think we are sexy girly bodies for you to photo? "

"He thinks we are models but you have to pay models hundreds euros!" said Saana.

I was so totally shocked and flushed red and trying to make my excuses and apologies and was standing up to go, to pretend it was all a silly mistake.

But their strong hands grabbed my ankles and an arm and a shoulder and pulled me back on to the shingle. These were sassy Marseilles girls and you do not mess with sassy Marseilles girls - believe me.

"No, no, no, you do not go," said Cecille, pinning my arms out like a crucifix on the beach, whilst Juliette held my legs.

I could tell immediately that Cecille was really upset. Partly because I now remembered taking a particularly compromising shot of her struggling into her bikini bottoms - but also because she had started to like me, and now I'd revealed myself as just another creep.

"You pay us 500 euros!" shouted Saana, "Non, mille, mille euros!"

I told them they could have the camera but I only had about 70 euros cash on me, and they laughed, and said by their looks that they would find other ways to make me pay. I was being mugged by girls I thought were nice in broad daylight on a beach in France!

Juliette now jumped onto me, her thighs straddling my feeble, bony chest. "You like these?," she said, squeezing her breasts together so that the now prominent nipples were almost touching each other. " Each of the other girls knelt around my head. "If you like, you can have, but you pay! "

"So now we photo YOU!" We photo you without clothes yes? You like this, yes?", laughed Saana.

While Juliette held my shoulders down, and Sanaa kneeled behind me, clamping my head with her knees, two others shuffled down to my feet, one with my camera in her hand, the other reaching up for my waist. They all looked very intently at the front of my speedos, where again, that AA battery had arisen like a miniature tent pole.

There was more giggling, and then the chanting, , "Let's see, Let's see!"

"Our English is good, no? Let's see, his little pee-pee!"

"Le petit soldat!"

"We speak English, we all wanna see tiniest Englishman's petit oiseau!"

I thought they were going to strip me there and then, but I was wrong. The quiet one, Pomme, who was also the skinniest and had a truly athletic body with a visible six-pack, kept picking at the waistband, but she didn't pull it down. Yet. She slid a couple of her fingers in there but didn't find anything. She lifted the fingers and told Sanaa to take a look down there - was there anything in there?

Strangley, my erection had again died and the little bird was back in its tiny nest. "Rien, absolutement" said Sanaa in disgust.

Then Cecille said something that stopped them all for a second. She had been looking through my bag and had pulled the leather belt off my jeans.

Suddenly I was being lifted up. They frog-marched my up the beach. We got to an old sign about 6ft up on two rusty poles. Before I realised what was happening they were tying my wrists with bits of my own clothes - a t-shirt and torn underpants - to those poles, so I was stretched out like a scarecrow.

Cecille held the belt menacingly and walked behind me, swishing it around. The other three - but no, there were now five, six - were taking their places in front of me, like an audience awaiting a show.

I tried twisting round to see what Cecille was doing, she was in deep discussion with Saana and and they were laughing conspiratorially. Clearly they had been calling up all their friends to come over to this part of the beach quickly to witness some fun at my expense.

By now there must have been eight girls sitting or kneeling around the posts, and again they started chanting and clapping. At least I was not disgracing myself in the way I had earlier. In fact I could feel myself shrinking more, if that was possible. At one point three or four boys drifted over as well. They took one look at what was happening and shuffled off chuckling.

Saana started strutting around, talking loudly, saying something about justice and that each girl who had her photo taken by me could give me "vingt coups" of the belt.

Then she said, with comic exaggeration, and very slowly, "sur les fesses nues!" - which caused a scream of laughter and a big cheer from all the girls, and my heart almost stopped.

I could no longer tell who was doing what but I felt hands pulling at the back of the speedos, and someone - I think it was Cecille - pulled them down just far enough to expose the white cheeks of my bottom. More laughter, and more photos were taken.

My frontal modesty was now very precariously preserved only by the waistband of the speedos snagging on the couple of inches of pencil-like penis beneath.

There was a sudden silence and many of the girls shifted around so they could get a view from behind me. I did not know what to expect - I had not ever been beaten. I was less worried about pain than about the danger of indecent exposure. But surely I could trust them not to go so far as to expose my penis. They would surely not want that.

I twisted my head round and saw Cecille raising the belt. She caught my eyes, there was anger there but something else - sadness? She faltered a bit, then raised the belt higher, and brought it down across my bottom for the first time with real force and accuracy - making a much louder 'smack!' than I imagined possible. It stung badly. I just could not believe this was actually happening. Why was no-one telling them to stop it? But I realised we were invisible from both main beach or the path above. I was doing sums - four girls, 20 lashes each - eighty lashes!

The girls all chanted with each lash. "Deux" hurt much more. "Trois" was mis-aimed and got the back of my thighs, also somehow stinging my scrotum, which I realised must be visible from behind. With that thought, some hardness returned to my penis, so that the half-pulled-down Speedos were now under a dangerous strain, and the girls were noticing and beginning to giggle again.

"Quatre" hit full across the bum with a very loud 'whack!' and for some reason this made my poor little prick leap to a hardness I had not experienced before - but the old Speedos still contained it, just about.

"Cinque" was an odd one - she'd let more of the belt out, and it came right round my hips and curled inwards, licking my balls with enough force to make me gasp. "Six" went the same way, but this time it hit higher, and somehow nudged the lycra waistband down a little.

This seemed to give huge encouragement to my tormentor, as she began swishing the belt with real fury, and she was definitely aiming at my front as well as the backside. She also seemed to lash downwardly, which had the effect of tugging the trunks ankle-wards.

After the 15th lash, I felt a curious peeling sensation, and then....oh no, please, no. I could not bear this humiliation. I felt hot blood rushing into my cheeks. So many extreme sensations at once. No, it was not possible that a dozen laughing French girls were about to see the bit of me that I had been hiding from the world all my life - and to see it at its most pathetically, ridiculously stiff.

But there was no doubt what this new feeling meant, the feeling of warm air on my even hotter, now stinging and pathetically erect member.

I looked down desperately to see the trunks now slipping down my thighs. For indeed, I was now fully exposed, the little rod with its pink tip just pushing out of the tight foreskin, quivering above the small testicles packed tight inside the tea-bag-sized scrotum.

After what seemed an age of astonished silence there were gasps, then short bursts of disbelieving laughter from all eight - or was it now twice as many - girls sitting around that old sign. There was even some clapping and oohing and aaahing, as they took pity on the poor little pathetic thing, standing out from my stomach, its tiny pink hat now glowing, with a glistening drop of something right at the tip.

This was not possible. I had never in my life allowed any female to see me naked or even in underpants. I could not allow this to happen, and yet - it had happened. I struggled but could not get my arms free, and Saana, seeing what I was doing, tightened the knots with a malicious grin.

Then they chanted "seize" and again the belt stung hard on the buttock, making my cock twitch ridiculously.

It was bad, but worse was to come. Several of the girls were now taking photos with their phones, and they were getting closer. They seemed truly fascinated, like scientists. A beautiful, fragile looking girl wearing a one-piece swimsuit and a floppy hat picked up a bit of driftwood and tentatively probed, pushing my erection downwards with it, then let go and laughing even louder as the tiny one jumped back up.

Another was focussing my camera expectantly as the chant of "dix-sept" unleashed a new level of humiliation. The belt again curled around me and hit my scrotum, harder this time. The result was that my erection collapsed, the pain made me force my thighs together and both balls and cock were pulled back into my body.

This new departure caused great hilarity. More photos were taken. The eighteenth stroke again came round to the front, like a cruise missile seeking out that tiny bud of wrinkled skin, which just wanted to disappear completely.

One bold girl decided she needed to verify that I did indeed have a penis, as it now looked like the head of a very small button mushroom on the tight-shrunk tea-bag of my testicles.

She held it gingerly in two fingers and pulled, just as "dix-neuf" hit my backside with a tremendous crack, and the little stick stiffened up again in the girl's fingers. She look astonished, her eyes widened, and she held it tighter, and touched the little tip with the finger of her other hand, grinning like mad.

And then came "vingt" - the sting went deeper, connecting with a spasm of pleasure coming from the tip of my penis, and the two produced a delicious, almost electrical jolt. It went through my body, and I jerked forwards - and then I realised to my horror that I had produced a tiny drop of semen.

The girl let go quickly and looked at me with scalding contempt, stood up, got the stuff onto her finger and flicked it back into my face.

Cecille put down the belt and angrily dragged my Speedos back up to cover the source of my shame and mortification, as though she was disgusted by the sight of this tiny thing. Then she took her place in the front row of spectators, by now a good dozen or so.

The belt had been handed to the next girl, and the lashing continued. Very soon, the Speedos were back around my knees. Many of the girls were taking pics on their phones, texting the pics to all their friends, no doubt, and then started taking it in turns to yank at the stupid little member. At one point three of them kneeled next to me with their faces right up close to my crotch, their tongues rudely stuck out within an inch of my penis, while others took photos.

Stoned and drunk, the girls crowded closer. One turned her back on me and pushed herself against me, "twerking" me. This started a trend, they all wanted a go. The third twerker peeled down her bikini bottom, and got going with some gusto. She even put her hand between her legs, grabbed my half-pencil sized member and started rubbing it hard against what I imagined might be her clitoris.

This was a new sensation for me. I always imagined I did not have the length to reach that far, but when she pulled me, I got the curious sensation that her rhythmic convulsions were beginning to draw me in, guided by her busy fingers...but of course, there was less than an inch available at the point, she could not possibly be enjoying this, could she?

I would not find out. Two others pulled her off me, they had another belt, sort of towelling from a bathrobe, and they tied that around my genitals. They pulled quite hard, as the leather belt continued to bite into my now very raw rump. I looked down saw this curious little package - tiny penis atop a tiny pouch of testicles - being pulled away from my crotch, as though they were going to castrate me. Of course, they just tugged a bit, it was just another source of amusement, a novelty.

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