Clignotants

A short little tale of caution, of the trials and tribulations of a small businessman. How for the sole trader, working on his own, unexpected events can wreck your schedule.

Enjoy my little tale but beware!

Beware that one day this could happen in a garage near you.

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"Ello!"

She was French.

Not the car you understand but the driver.

The car was a ... Never mind about the bloody car, and why would you when you took a look at the driver. I run a successful one man band garage in a rural area, so most of my clientele were locals.

She wasn't.

She was French.

She was bloody gorgeous.

"I 'ave ze problems wiv my clignotants," she informed me as I stood there, mouth open, gazing at the most amazingly perfect example of the female species that I'd ever seen. All sort of slim and svelt and leggy and very ... Well very cute and French looking.

"Clignotants?" I repeated dumbly.

"Oui, my clignotants," she confirmed, the smile on her perfect face sending shivers down my spine. "Zey don't ... Er ... Zey marche pas."

"They don't work then," I struggled to translate with my limited French.

"Ah Bon!," she declared triumphantly. "My clignotants work don't."

"And what exactly are your clignotants?" I queried, in no hurry to bring our conversation to an early end.

"I go round ze bends wiv zem," the vision of loveliness grinned at me, her long shiney dark hair swirling about her shoulders as she proceeded to demonstrate what she meant.

"Your steering wheel," I ventured a guess, giving my impression of holding a wheel, much as one might do for a four year old.

"No! Zese things" she giggled, bending over to point out the offending items and nearly giving me a heart attack as her tight jeans tightened even further over her deliciously curved bottom.

"Your indicators," I declared.

"Indicatoes?" She struggled with the word. I guess my London accent didn't help much.

"Your flashers," I gave her the option of an easier word.

"Zat is it," her loveliness laughed in relief. "I want to flash but I can't flash."

"You want to flash?" I repeated, trying not to grin. The though of this pretty young thing doing that, immediately right up there with my widest dreams; playing for the Arsenal only just managing to keep its nose in front.

"Of course I want to flash," she replied seriously. "I know I must flash all the time or ze men behind me vill be tres'angry."

"The men in front of you as well," I added, unable to resist it.

"Excatement!" she declared with a gallic flourish. "I am Freeench girl, but I know I 'ave to do ze flashing . I like ze flashing."

"Good job to miss," I agreed, bending down to undo the plastic cover to check the bulb, hiding the huge grin on my face.

"What you do?" She demanded.

"I'm unscrewing this," was my reply.

"Ah good," she chuckled. "You do screwing and then I can do ze flashing."

"Something like that," I agreed and then could no longer hold my laughter back.

"Is funny?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"The word flashing has a different connotation in English," I explained.

"Confrontation? What is confrontations?"

Oh dear - here we go again.

"Different meaning," I went on. "Flashing is slang for something else that some people do."

"Something nasty?"

"Not at all," I managed, as I established that the bulb was fine, so the problem had to lie elsewhere.

"You 'ave done zis flashing?"

"Not personally," I answered quite honestly. "But I'm all in favour of it in the right circumstances."

"Can I do it?"

"I'd like that very much," I chuckled back to her.

"What is zis flashing?"

Oh dear!

I told her.

I had to.

She gasped, which was quite delightful, and not only because it made her breasts bounce, as she held her hand up to her mouth in surprise.

"Your relay has gone. Probably burnt out," I broke the silence with, trying to get our conversation back on course, and resisting the temptation to remark that it might have burnt out because she flashed too much.

"Can we do it now?"

"Bit difficult miss," I started to explain. "It could take half an hour and I'm half way through another job."

"Mais je ... Excusez moi. I must get chez me, and I don't like it if I can't flash."

"If you were to flash me then I just might do it miss," I burst out with, immediately regretting my rather inappropriate cheekiness.

She laughed, obviously not upset by my boldness, but shook her head no. She wasn't going to do that, but she did offer to help me.

"Ok," I agreed, relishing the prospect of her tight slim body up against mine. "I'll find you some overalls."

"It's too hot," she stated firmly.

"But you might get oil on your top," I pointed out.

She thought about that and declared with a cheeky grin that maybe she had another solution.

I gulped!

So would you have done.

Her solution to not getting oil on her top was incredibly simple.

She removed it!

I'm ready," she told me. "What you want me to do?"

"Take your bra off perhaps," I ventured, almost choking on my words, waiting for my little world to come crashing down.

"You nice but I tink that is sexual Harrison maybe."

"I'm sorry miss," I leapt back with my apology. "I think you mean sexual harassment, and I wouldn't want you to think that."

"OK, no sexy Harrison, but you tink I get ze oil on my bra?" she asked, seriously.

"Could do," I grunted back, nodding my head sagely. I was the technician after all and certificate to prove it.

"It's new and tres jolie, don't you tink?" the girl let me know, cupping her bra clad breasts in a most unladylike way.

"Pity to spoil it," I encouraged her, my voice little more than a squeak by then.

"But if I take it off, it is not ze flashing, OK?"

"Of course not," I agreed, and had to hold onto my work-bench as my legs went weak, as she reached behind her back.

Voila!" she declared with a laugh, and never was there such a voila, as she stood there naked to the waist, as if it was quite a natural thing, her not overly large but none the less beautiful full, young breasts on display for my pleasure.

"You like?

"I like." I replied and never did I speak truer words. They were ... Really rather nice actually!

"No touch zem, OK"

"OK."

"You make zese tings go hard," she surprised me with, giving her nipples a tweak, "What are you call zem?"

"Clignotants," I blurted out, without thinking.

"Clignotants," she repeated, giggling. "Tres'amusant."

With that we both went to work and I left it to her while I gave instructions, surprised at quite how capable she was.

"Zat is eet," she declared at last as she gave the last bolt a final tug. "Un bon travail, non?"

"Perfect!" I declared, though I confess at the time my eyes were glued firmly on her bare breasts, swaying around, right there in front of me. "Do you want to wash your hands?"

The pair of us strolled casually over to the wash-basin, me in my overalls and her naked other than her painted on jeans and cute little high heels, where we stood alongside one another washing our hands as if it was a quite normal situation. Maybe it was for her, but it certainly wasn't for me.

"Zut alors!" the cute Mademoiselle exclaimed as we were sharing a towel to dry our hands. "Regardez! Look! I 'ave ze oil on my tit a gauche. 'Ow did zat 'appen?"

"So you have," I agreed, leaning forward to examine as close as I dare, the small but none the less obvious black smear, that ran from under her left nipple and curved saucily up the inside of her breast.

"My 'ands are clean," she sighed, sending my pulse racing. "Could you 'elp me please?"

And that folks, is how the no touching rule went by the board!

Indeed that folks, was why I never did get the other car I had been working on finished that day.

Indeed that folks, is how over the next few weeks, the little French miss proved to me that she did indeed enjoy flashing; a fact that my pals and the guys down the local pub declared their undying gratitude for.

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Plus Tard (Quite a lot actually)

"This baby is always hungry," my lovely wife of some three years told me as I arrived home from the garage. "Just like his Dad, he's always wanting to suck on my clingnotants."

"Sensible little fellow," I smiled back at her. "Let me know when it's my turn."

Yes folks, my wife's English had improved no end over the last few years, but her boobs and clignotants hadn't.

No way to improve on perfection!

FIN!