Blown near Bordeaux

I spent a term in Bordeaux when I was twenty. I made a friend, Luc, from an old-money family and bagged an invite to his father's (or grandfather's, it was unclear) country home, a sun-soaked estate of mysterious grounds and near-ruined outbuildings replete with generations of material accumulation.

On the Saturday evening Luc played host to a soiree of the local gentry's scions: tall, tanned, hirsute mecs in stylishly tatty suits, and elegant young women in reassuringly expensive dresses and heels. We drank gins and tonics, rums and cokes, and Spanish beer to a booming EDM soundtrack, and I circulated Luc's acquaintances testing how far my French and caché as the rugged Scotsman (rather than the weird foreigner, I hoped, would take me).

Several drinks in, when everything was warm despite the sun setting and every background was pleasantly blurred despite an array of electric lights, I found myself in conversation with one Sophie. Sophie was a little shorter and -- not plump, but a little less thin -- than her cohort but no less visibly and audibly elite. She was close to me in a pair of chairs, her big brown eyes smiling over a thick nose.

"Your French is very good for an Englishman." She saw my disapproving eyes.

"Desolé, a Scotsman. How did you learn?"

"Years and years at school."

"Years and years. That is a good -- how you say?"

"Idiom."

"Idiom," she repeated, with a pair of open 'ee's and a 'yum' for a good measure.

We'd been talking about French politics, English food and Scottish tailoring -- specifically my kilt, which I'd brought out for this very occasion and was succeeding as an eye-catcher and conversational piece. The evening was cool but not cold, at least to my Norther, hair-strewn legs; Sophie's, bare under a short red dress, looked less resilient. "Jordan, shall we walk," she said as she rose suddenly, and a little (but not alarmingly) unsteadily. "I want to see the pond."

The pond was hidden from the main garden and its revellers, whose voices had trailed to a distant hum, by perhaps a kilometre's walk and a thicket of trees. We started the walk gingerly, finishing our bottles of beer which we jammed into a muddy patch. Sophie held (and sometimes lurched into) my arm as she navigated the stony path that took us half the way there. "Hold me," she said as we reached the end of the track and the soft ground beyond; she braced against me while removing her black heels. "Hold zese," as she strode barefoot onto the grass, and then led me hand-in-hand to the water.

I felt a frisson with her fingers in mine and then as she turned and looked in my eyes, with hers so vast and open and smiling that I knew she wanted me. But I stood at the edge of the water in my leather shoes and woollen knee-socks as her red-painted toes led her into the shivering pond. "Isn't that freezing?" I enquired.

"It's not so bad." Sophie smiled at me. "I like the water on my feet. It makes me feel...with nature." She looked at my shoes. "You should come with me. You are Scottish -- this is not so cold."

I laughed. "These take forever to take off, though."

"Are you in a hurry?" She raised an eyebrow. So off came the laces, the snugly-fitting shoes, and the scratchy feeling of woollen socks to be replaced by the soft wet grass against my soles, and then the chilling evening waters against my calves. I came up knee-deep with her. She looked me deeply in the eyes, and then without warning whipped cold water up into my face, smirking mischievously. "Do you feel at home now, man from Scotland, in the cold water?" I did the only things I could: I splashed her back, eliciting a playful streak as wet patches formed on her dress; then with a wet hand I grabbed her back, pulled her to me and kissed her; she reciprocated, her warm mouth and soft tongue all I could feel.

Then I felt her hand against my kilt, running down to its rim. She addressed me in an almost-whisper, "I hear things about Scottish men and their kilts."

"And what is that," I uttered back.

"They wear nothing else." I felt my manhood rising, and the glint in her eyes told me she not only suspected as much but was eager to find out.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know."

"Would you like to find out?" She nodded subtly, as if not meaning to, and her hand slipped under my kilt and crossed to the inside of my thigh. Though it edged up slowly, it didn't take her long to learn the truth. Our eyes locked as the back of her hand brushed, and then turned -- so to speak -- to face it, her cool fingers pressing into its flesh. She dipped her hand in the water then brought it back, this time not just to touch but to stroke, this time fixing her eyes on mine. She saw me wince at the cold spray.

"You are cold? I thought you were a hard man from Scotland."

"I am a hard man. Can't you tell?"

We grinned. "Ooh, yes, a very hard man." She gripped me a little tighter. "But too cold, even in France."

"I would just prefer to put it somewhere a little warmer."

"Warmer?" I slid my own hand up her thigh, under the subtle seam of her dress to the ridge of her panties where the skin was warm indeed, and watcher her eyes widen as I traced her lips through the fabric.

"Yes, warmer. Do you know a nice warm French pussy I could put my hard Scottish cock?"

She moaned, but then surprised me with a spare hand on my wrist, pushing it away as she leant into my neck to whisper, "Not tonight, desolé." She stopped stroking me, instead leading me back to shore by the hand. "I will make it warm another way." She led me to a tree trunk and lay me down, pulling my kilt aside and leaving my erection -- gentle tugs aside -- exposed to the dark and the chills of this still-empty space. I lay back and felt her hand and her weight depart; then the former was back, and then, something wet. I opened my eyes and met hers, smiling from between my legs as her tongue grazed my length. She teased me, taking in its curves, inspecting it and then me with rising eyebrows; then came the pleasure, as she parted her lips and coated it with her saliva. Another way to make it warm, indeed.

She sucked smoothly, diligently and firmly. At first I watched her, her wavy walnut hair and high cheekbones bobbing over my reddening member, which had captured her attention entirely. Then I looked around, at the party that was happening in the not-too-far distance and worried that others might head this way, perhaps for their own amours. But then there might actually have been some cred to be discovered out in the woods with my kilt upon, inching into a pretty girl's throat. Then I imagined her, thought of her breasts climbing out of the red dress hugging them -- her nipples would be wide, and firm, I surmised -- thought of her hitching that dress up, exposing what I guessed would be an elegant trim of black hairs against pink, fleshy lips. Her other lips were pushing further up towards my curly hairs and I knew my musk was flowing freely into her nose, whose tip ever neared my belly.

"Do you like it?" It seemed strange for her to start a conversation in the middle of it, but perhaps no stranger than a woman I'd met a couple of hours ago sucking me off on a country estate.

"Of course I like it. You're very talented. Don't French men like it?"

"What makes you think I know what French men like?" Her chestnut eyes crinkled as her fingers slipped up and down the member that throbbed by her cheek.

"Je crois que c'est pas le premier fois pour toi."

"Peut-etre," with a small Gallic shrug. "Do Scottish women do this well?"

"Not as well as you."

"Well you must say that." But the corners of her lips curved upwards a little before they parted again, planting a kiss on my tip before absorbing it over her tongue and then into the roof of her mouth. Her fingers drifted to my sac; she gently kneaded first the one, and then the other. She found some more lubricant in the back of her throat and dribbled it over me. I felt the coarseness of my kilt against my buttocks, the tightness of my dress shirt across my chest, and the cold damp grass under my soles ever more keenly as Sophie warmed me inside her face and nourished me with her spit. I faced the stars and enjoyed how her cheeks pinched me while her tongue pressed my underside and her fingers tickled my balls until they gripped my shaft as her mouth closed and sucked and together raised the tempo...

My reverie was interrupted, as it often is, by a desire more intense and more practical than sexual bliss, but also -- as it less often is -- by a question, one that popped out of Sophie's mouth moments after my penis, which received instead her closed fist with a thumb across its head and a renewed vigour. "Is it time to finish?"

I thought I knew her meaning, but still: "Don't leave me like this!"

And she played along, standing up suddenly, her palm playing with that part of me that stood near-painfully erect in the cold of an evening now long since the sun set. "You want me to stay here?" She stepped around and towards me until she could whisper in my ear, "Tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you your mouth," I breathed, thumbing her moist lips. "I want you to finish me with your mouth."

She held me with her eyes, which said -- I thought -- what she couldn't. So here you are, a greedy foreign man, who right now wants nothing more than to plunge his thick, ugly, veiny penis into her mouth, a mouth that spoke her first words and sang her first song, and now like a vagina will milk your organ until it releases its seed. You know, and I know, how debauched a desire that is; what you might only guess at is that, though I shouldn't, I enjoy who I am when your prick's between my teeth, and will consider your seed on my tongue a triumph. She knelt beside me this time, and jacked me before and then while she blew me.

The finish came quicker than I expected. I was completely enwrapped in her efforts, then that all-pervading pleasure grew out of me. I thought to warn her but it was pointless, and then my ecstasy was upon me. She finished gently and elegantly, if haughtily -- after I had calmed and softened but before I opened my eyes I heard the crunch and then splash of her feet. I suspected my tadpoles had been set free upon the pond. Then she was back, beaming, upon the trunk.

"Merci beaucoup," I managed, with a hint of irony.

"Je déteste le gout. Sorry. But you are very welcome, Scotsman."

"Perhaps I can repay you?"

"Another time. We should get back to the party. People will wonder where we are."

A short while later, as the festivities diminished and Sophie and I had parted, Luc and I were talking. The tall Frenchman had a glint in his eye as he said he'd seen the two of us leave a while back.

"She's an interesting girl. We went for a walk."

"She is interesting. There is one particular thing about her that I've always found very interesting."

"And what's that?"

Luc leant in. "She is incredible at -- how do you say? Blowjobs."