Living for Myself

By the end of her stay, we still hadn't come up with any answers. We had shifted a lot of gin, curry, pizza and wine but I was still back to being poor old, celibate Robyn. The deprivation I now felt weighed on me far more than before Nicole fortuitously walked into my life. I was still in touch with her, and she rejoiced in regaling me with her naughty tales, but I missed her more than I could have ever imagined.

I also missed Yves. He too had left a lasting impression on me. As the end of another year approached, it was almost as if my brief glimpse of this amazing netherworld was a cruel joke. A tantalising, fleeting brush with a parallel universe that had, for a split second, touched mine before spiralling off at the speed of light, leaving only cherished memories and a burning desire for more.

In the seemingly vain hope of returning to France, I took an intensive online course in French. I would never be fluent, but it came back to me better than I expected and soon I was conversing with Nicole on social media solely in her native language.

Then, two weeks before Christmas, the spiral galaxy I had inhabited so briefly bounced off a few stray constellations, collided with the Starship Enterprise, changed course and re-entered my timeline via Stargate SG-1.

I was elated to find that even after what seemed like millennia, this strange universe was still inhabited by Nicole Bouvier and Yves Marchand.

When Yves called me on that miserable, cold and wet December morning, I tried not to act like I had when Harry Ingram led me to my first meaningful encounter with the opposite sex. Just the sound of his voice filled me with joy and when he requested my presence at his Chateau over the festive period, I was reduced to a gibbering wreck, barely able to respond to his urbane tones and soothing voice.

Within moments of ending our call, Nicole was on my case. She demanded that I spend some time with her to top and tail my visit to Champagne-Ardenne. Clearly there had been some collusion between them, and I was so grateful that I cried my eyes out at the thought that these two wonderful people who had given me so much pleasure wished to see me again.

I could barely contain my excitement as I booked first-class Eurostar tickets. I drank champagne with my breakfast and Yves had a limo waiting for me at the station in Paris. Our reunion a few days before Christmas was blissful and settled me in nicely for the forthcoming festivities.

In my early married years, we held some spectacular bashes for friends and family at Christmas, but the festive season with Yves was like no other I had experienced. This was in a different league and the food, wine and surroundings were beyond comparison. His friends were delightful, his family welcoming and if his dear Maman did not approve of an English lady in his life, she hid it well.

The afternoon get-together on Boxing Day was almost as good, with friends and relatives of all ages in attendance. As Yves had told me, the two formal holidays were an excuse to get the more genteel parties out of the way before the 'real' festive season began. I was assured that now the family affairs were out of the way, it would be wall to wall naughtiness from there on in.

And of course, if there was naughtiness to be indulged in, then no-one was going to keep Nicole Bouvier from the action. She breezed in one mid-afternoon on the arm of a handsome forty-something gentleman and I wondered if she ever made love to anyone her own age anymore. The four of us sat sipping Chablis, making small talk and studiously ignoring the fact that in a few hours, Yves drawing room would become a heaving den of iniquity.

There were twelve of us in all. Yves claimed it was a 'modest' bash. I tried to imagine an immodest one and failed miserably. As I already had sexual knowledge of Yves and Nicole, that left a further nine people I would more than likely be involved with in an intimate manner.

I wasn't even sure if I'd had nine sexual partners in my life before I embarked on this little odyssey. I did a quick count up and just about got there, but it was touch and go. Whatever; if they were all like Yves, Nicole and her partner Jean-Pierre, it would be an evening to remember.

It could not have started in a more diametrically opposed way to how it ended. Twelve immaculately dressed, responsibly behaved and well-mannered adults ranging between mid-twenties and early fifties; conversing, eating, drinking and making merry as the hired caterers scurried around us, providing splendid provender. When the caterers left we withdrew to Yves drawing room. Knowing what was to come, I imagined gentler times when the gentlemen enjoyed their cognac and cigars and the ladies made small talk and crocheted the night away.

For the first twenty minutes or so, the conversation continued in a subdued, genteel manner and I thought crochet would be an exciting alternative. I was in a discussion about the merits of the Cotswolds with a very elegant lady of around forty, while her husband and Yves tried to outdo each other with their tales of derring-do on the golf course. It was all pleasant enough, but I could see one or two people becoming a little agitated at the lack of action.

Then, a tall, younger woman in a tuxedo unravelled herself from her chair and stretched herself like a cat. She winked at me and mouthed, "It's time!"

While everyone else in the room was in a cocktail dress or lounge suit, Nicole had of course dressed to be noticed. The tux jacket was only part of a mismatched ensemble that should have looked so wrong, but on her looked utterly sensational. A bowler hat was perched at a jaunty angle on her tangle of brunette hair and her dress shirt was open half-way to reveal her glorious cleavage. She wore it outside her trousers so that the tails hung down below the level of her jacket. A bow tie that had begun the evening in its proper place now hung down from her collar.

Every pair of eyes in the room turned to her as she stood in the midst of us, hands on her hips. She ran her hands across her thighs and my heart stood still as the flicker of a hundred candles was reflected in the sheer black PVC of her trousers. Spike-heeled, red leather ankle boots completed her attire and I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of the things I had done with this exquisite, enigmatic creature. She was a wet dream on PVC-clad legs and I had to pinch myself that I called her a friend and lover.

Her face was a mask of concentration as silence fell and she looked around the room as if appraising us all. Then her gaze snapped back to a gentleman on a chaise longue and she extended a long, languid arm and beckoned him towards her. He hesitated for a moment before his partner pushed him in the back with a huge grin on her face and he stepped forward to a small round of applause.

Nicole sank to her knees and unzipped him. There was a whisper in my ear. "I think maybe we will continue our discussion of the gentle Cotswolds another day, Robyn?"

The sigh I let out was as deep as the one that emanated from the man in the centre of the room as Nicole took him in her mouth. "I think you are right, Sylvie. It looks like the party has begun at last!"

Sylvie's hand caressed the inside of my thigh as Nicole worked her magic on her willing victim, all eyes glued to the little tableau in the centre of the room. Satisfied the man was fit for purpose, she pulled off him and pointed towards a lady away to her left and pushed him towards her. Smiling, the woman held out a hand and took his erection willingly as Nicole now gestured to Sylvie's husband, Alain.

He was already erect as she took him all the way. Sylvie gripped my arm, her voice a husky rasp. "What a fucking turn-on that girl is." She turned to Yves. "Yves, you are the host. Two ladies need attention here, so get fucking hosting!"

As Yves stood and Sylvie extracted his erection from his trousers, I got a brief glimpse of Alain being sent on his way towards another woman, her mouth wide open in anticipation. Sylvie's full, soft lips closed on mine and her hand slid further up my thigh and under my hemline. At the moment she took Yves in her other hand, I once again fought down a brief shiver of panic. Then, as I had done with Nicole and Yves, I screamed at myself inwardly that this was why I was here. Her tongue probed and she rubbed Yves' erection across our cheeks as long fingers eased into my panties.

I pulled off her briefly to catch my breath. "Fuck, Sylvie -- you're only the second woman I've ever kissed."

Grey eyes gleaming, she raised an eyebrow. "And?"

I waved an arm around the room. "Four more lovely women here -- I'll have kissed six soon. Now stick your fingers in me and we'll suck Yves' cock together, because I've never been to a party like this in the Cotswolds."

By the end of the evening I was sure I could never attend another 'normal' party again. I had heard of swinger parties in England and never even considered that I could take part in one, but here I was being tossed between partners of both sexes like a rag-doll and relishing every moment. At times, I had no idea who was doing what to me or who I was attending to orally, but it added to the frisson of it all -- the sheer excitement, the occasional slight pang of fear, the desire to push myself further and further as the night progressed.

I didn't know whether it was at Yves' or Nicole's instruction, but Sylvie took me under her wing. She made sure I was fine with everything and checked on me with little nods of her head. Once she heard my delighted purrs, moans and gasps I think I convinced her I was enjoying myself. When I took a well-earned break from proceedings to cool down, clean up and grab a drink, she followed me into the kitchen.

"You all good, Robyn? Seem to be taking to it like a duck to water!"

I took a drink. "My God, Sylvie - a few months ago, I never thought I would be capable of anything like this. Now I think I'm addicted and the thing that scares me most is how I am going to feed my addiction back in England. I may have to resort to male escorts!"

She smiled. "The way you are fitting in, you'll be back here a lot. Same happened to me over twenty years ago. In my late teens, I came from a small village to Paris to have some fun and thought I'd never fit in." She sighed contentedly and her heavy breasts shook. "I'm still here and still having a blast!"

We both turned as a voice carried from the kitchen door. "So get in there and blast then, Mesdames!" Nicole tipped her bowler hat to us as she reached for the drinks trolley. The hat was now all she wore. "Sylvie -- Robyn here has a burning desire to experience what the Brits call 'spit-roast'. Jean-Pierre is ready for another round, so fire him up and get this lovely lady working hard at both ends and get another tick on her bucket list!"

Oh, did she get me working hard at both ends? She took tender care of Jean-Pierre, her thick mane of jet-black hair bobbing, grey eyes glazed with lust as I fingered her and took on her husband Alain. In his mid-fifties, he was a good deal older than Sylvie, but still in good shape. I thought that there must be something in the water - or maybe the wine - in this region that meant the older men were popular with the younger women.

Her fluffing of Jean-Pierre an unqualified success, Sylvie moved away and he entered me from behind, big strong hands gripping my hips. Even with my restricted view, I was aware that people were looking on, watching it all unfold as they took a break from proceedings. Nicole stood in the kitchen doorway, a little smile on her lips. Yves gazed down at me with his arm around Sylvie and nodded his approval. I assumed he also approved of the way her hand moved on his erection as his hand slid down and squeezed an ample breast.

I was suddenly the centre of attention as nine people watched on as I was ravaged by two middle-aged Frenchmen. For a fleeting moment, I felt like running a hundred miles away, then I realised something with the utmost clarity.

It was one of the moments of my life. I was on my knees in the middle of a drawing room in Central France and two men were rutting into me like stags in heat as I fulfilled a fantasy that had almost consumed me at times. Nine other people watched on, stroking each other, getting off on watching me -- fifty-year-old Robyn Christie - as I fucked two complete strangers.

It was the most empowering and thrilling moment I could recall and when Sylvie licked Jean-Pierre's cum from my face and Nicole sucked Alain's from my sticky, wet pussy and we shared it in a three-way kiss, I knew with all my heart why Nicole wanted to be a porn-star. It was utterly exhilarating to have those things done to me, but for people to be watching and getting off on my fantasy fulfilment gave me even more of a kick.

After that, I was afraid of nothing. When we did it all again a few nights later at a grand New Year party at friends of Yves, Nicole was back in Paris. Our hostess Beatrice had been at Yves' party and took me to one side as we sipped champagne and asked me if I would be the one to 'break the ice'.

I almost refused, but had what Leigh refers to as a 'What the fuck?' moment. I was flattered, Bea was charming and I knew Nicole would be thrilled if I took up the offer and disappointed if I said no.

I could never hope to rival Nicole, but as I knelt in the middle of the floor with an erection in my mouth while Yves and almost a dozen strangers looked on, I knew this was where I belonged. I was not done until every man in the room had been in my mouth. Just before I released the sixth one, I wriggled out of my panties. I then turned, hoisted the hem of my dress and he entered me, both of us almost fully dressed. Now my view was restored, the place was rocking. Others joined us, my clothes seemed to melt away into thin air, and once again I let myself go on the tide and went wherever it took me.

The countdown to New Year was unforgettable. At the behest of Bea, the six of us ladies got down on all fours, facing each other in two rows of three. At fifteen seconds to midnight, our own partners entered us from behind and we counted down, each number accompanied by a hard thrust. As the chimes of the town clock struck, we were oblivious to the fireworks going off outside. We had indoor fireworks of our own.

Back in England, I would have been in a circle singing "Auld Lang Syne", shaking hands, air-kissing and wishing everyone a Happy New Year. Here the menfolk moved in a circle around the six of us until we had all been with everyone's partner. We then formed a line of six and took them by turn in our mouths, before we lay down and they reciprocated on us. Finally, one by one, we lay on our backs as every other lady straddled us and we lapped at them for a few moments, all overseen with expert attention by Bea, who conducted us like a symphony orchestra.

As a way of seeing in the New Year and making new friends it was unique to me, but so many New Year parties were lost in the mists of time. This one would be with me until the day they put me under the earth.

Our little round-robin over, we briefly stopped to drink a glass of champagne, then all hell broke loose and a dozen individual bodies became one writhing mass of flesh. Fuelled by fine wine, lust and sheer joie de vivre we were somehow still going as dawn broke. It was the best New Year I'd ever had and I just hoped the rest of the year could live up to it.

As Yves and I lay in an exhausted heap the next morning, he told me he had a confession to make. My heart sank for a moment until I saw the glint in his eye.

"Sorry, little bird, but I did not tell you that Alain and I have a golf challenge on the second day of each New Year. Eighteen holes, come rain, snow or shine. We have been doing it so long, our wagers began in Francs, not Euros. We still have some token Francs to exchange to this day."

I stroked his chest. "You go, Yves. I could do with the rest. Play your golf tomorrow, then come back and I'll make you squirm with lust." I tapped his nose. "But only if you win!"

He smiled. "I always win. But no rest for you, little bird. Sylvie has invited you over for canapes and wine."

I sat back in mock horror, covering my breasts with a sheet. "What, that terrible woman who cum-swapped with me and Nicole? The one that made me do all those awful things to all those poor people? Do you mean that Sylvie?"

He nodded, trying not to laugh. "Oui, le meme."

"Only one question, Yves."

"Oui?"

"Why don't you play thirty-six holes?"

Sylvie and Alain's place was only a little less ostentatious than Yves'. The driveway seemed to go on forever and given the depth of the gravel in front of the house, I hoped Yves did not spin his tyres on the way to the golf course, otherwise the glazier's bill would be astronomical. Two well-built gardeners tended to the borders alongside the path and it never occurred to me that it was hardly the time of year for gardening.

When the men left, the fun started. It was a good job I loved Chablis and Champagne given the region I found myself in, and Sylvie assured me it was not vulgar to drink vintage Champers at eleven in the morning. I recalled my gin-fuelled 'bad days' with a little shudder and told myself things were different now. As we drank, I was happy to speak solely in French -- I was becoming more fluent by the day and any opportunity to practice was fine by me.

I had struck up an immediate rapport with Sylvie at Yves' party and had been disappointed she was not at the New Year bash. When I asked her about her party, she yawned ostentatiously and told me how jealous she was of the rest of us, as she saw the year in with relatives.

She shrugged. "They never liked me -- see me as a gold-digger, fifteen years Alain's junior. I love him just as much now as I did at twenty-five." She winked. "You saw why the other night!"

I had to admit, he had been every bit as fine a lover as Yves.

Sylvie took a sip from her glass. "So, Robyn. Tell me more about the Cotswolds." The look in her eye told me the game was on. She had a naturally mischievous nature and after a lifetime of jousting with Leigh, I was ready to play too.

I gave what I hoped was a decent gallic shrug. "Oh, nice little hilly area with lots of pretty villages and pubs. Very English."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Ah, ok. Hoped you'd say more. So in that case, would you like to brush up on your conversational French?"

When I responded, she sucked in her cheeks, trying not to laugh at my apparently garbled misuse of her native tongue. Roughly translated, it came out as, "We is talking French very much good, thank you please."

She gave me a wry grin. "We is indeed. Like a native. So, as your conversational French is so impeccable, how is your bedroom French?"

"Needs work."

"Want to work on it?"

"Fuck yeah!"

"That was English."

"You understood it, though."

"Fuck yeah!"

Just to show we were not hanging out for it, we had another glass each, then took the rest of the bottle upstairs with us. We were just nicely settled and getting into nipple nibbling when she sat up with a start.

"Merde, I clean forgot something!" She got up and dashed to the window, her long hair flying, big boobs bouncing very alluringly. She was a buxom lady and quite a handful, and I wanted my hands full at that very moment.

To my dismay, she opened the window, despite the temperature outside being just the right side of freezing. Then I realised why there were two hunky gardeners on duty.

"Mattieu, Krystov -- time to do what I really pay you for."

She returned to the bed as though nothing had transpired and resumed her nibbling. Then she looked up at me as I lay there in sheer dismay. "What? Didn't really think I need gardeners this time of year did you? The size of those two, it will be one hell of a spit-roast. I swear they will meet in the middle somewhere in your tummy!"