Marigolds, Ajax and Paris

There were different sizes available but her boobs were so big and heavy that anything that came close to her bust size was like a sack around her hips. So she chose something that fitted her waist, almost fitted her backside and sort of fitted her chest. Boob windows; gaps between the buttons. She usually wore a bra that was fairly low-cut, if people were going to see something she'd rather them have an eyeful of skin than some shabby grey underwear.

If the poppers popped while she was busy cleaning there was usually no-one to get the benefit except a resident and they were mostly semi-conscious and never complained either way. The man in this room was different, she always made sure that her uniform unfastened for him. She liked him; when he'd arrived he'd spoken to her, shared daily conversation and banter. Most people treated the cleaning staff as invisible, beneath their dignity. But he hadn't, he always greeted her, knew her name and gave her Christmas and birthday cards with a little something inside.

It had started as an accidental flash of cleavage that they'd laughed over. After that it turned into a joke; she would bend over on purpose straining the poppers to the point where they'd give way and allow her to spill out. Sometimes she wore a front-fastening bra that he called the 'front-loader' that she could unclasp and let herself dangle loosely for him to admire. Eventually they had teased and taunted each other to the point that she'd started to fondle him, giving secret hand-jobs under the sheets.

Getting him stiff, a bit of friendly pleasure for the old man before moving on. Not too much, she didn't want to be cleaning up his bedding.

He was asleep today so she did his room briskly before moving on. The next room was where another man slept, unless he was awake of course. That was logical, covering all the bases. He was entertaining; he had regular arguments with the coat-stand, especially if someone had put a hat on it. Screaming and swearing, convinced that the thing was a neighbour who he had decided to hate a long time ago. She often wondered why the people in charge didn't simply remove it and have guests hang their jackets over the chair.

No thought, that was the problem. The staff never had a proper conversation with the residents, even those who were a bit more active and spent their days in the common room. She had noticed once when she hadn't been there long, watching the old folks being wheeled out and placed in a semi-circle around the big TV. Always in the same position, facing the same way. One lady was always upset, so one day she sat down next to her and asked what the matter was.

The lady had told her that her best friend was on the other side of the room and wanted to sit next to her. So she had moved the two next to each other, but then the nursing staff wanted to know why they were in the wrong order.

The next day everyone was in their usual positions again. It was sad.

Later she settled down in the canteen area for her tea break. She now had a thick sheaf of the old man's writings and if she left them in his room when he passed everything would be cleared up and disposed of, so she kept them safe. She had read much about Helen from the memoirs but there were gaps in the story, it wasn't finished and the way things were going it was going to stay that way.

Perhaps a relative would turn up to collect his belongings when the time came, but none were evident at the moment. That was all too common; of all the residents there, only a single one had regular visitors. Most hardly ever saw anyone apart from the staff after they had stayed there for a few months.

Father's Day, Mother's Day and Boxing Day were crowded as people's consciences were pricked, but normally the relatives found other things to do on the weekend. And on Christmas Day nobody visited. At the back of the manager's office there was a storeroom lined with white cardboard boxes of deceased patients' property, crap that no-one wanted. It would all end up inevitably in the land-fill, many relatives only turned up if there were gold chains and rings to claim. Or gold teeth. Someone had once demanded the teeth from their father's dead head. Bastard.

Was this the inevitable story of everyone's lives? Would she end up one day in one of these beds, an anonymous resident with an unknown life? Overweight and unable to communicate, the television set to endless raucous game shows (religious broadcasts on Sundays)? Sitting next to people you'd never liked? The prospect made her wince.

The old man had been on many holidays; he had written much of his experiences with Helen, the joy of her flesh, her body. Did all women feel the same to all men? Was the softness of their pussies alike? The aroma? The weight of their breasts in a gentle hand?

The hardness of a good penis was familiar, unquestionably. And the weight of a pair of warm balls after she'd emptied them. But the tender and delicate feel of labia? Only her own body was known to her.

That wasn't true though. She did know, she was kidding herself. She had a flash-back, a sudden memory of a lady with her femininity pressed against her. Oh goodness, the scent. She inhaled deeply with the recollection.

Green and red ink, a flower imprinted onto tender skin. An stiff clitoris emerging from the forbidden folds, begging for attention. She had tried to erase the memory, but the more she tried the more she remembered.

* * *

It had been in France. Like in the old man's stories, Janice had been there herself as a youngster. Impulsive and in lust, she had ridden on the back of her boyfriend's motorcycle across the countryside.

What was his name? Damn it was surprisingly difficult to remember. There had been a few boys in her life and she could remember the name of her first easily, the second with some effort, but those that followed were harder. Ron or John? Something like that, or was it Don? Ron probably. Anyway he was a cheerful guy who styled himself after someone from Status Quo. Long hair, centre parting, drooping moustache. Permanent denim jacket and jeans and a motorbike that he called his 'Kettle'. With no commitments and no worries, she'd climbed on the seat behind him with a rucksack on her back and her passport in her pocket and followed him literally wherever he wanted to go.

She had been half her size then - she probably wouldn't fit on that bike now. The front wheel would be in the air with her on the pillion, now she'd need a sidecar just to carry her boobs. Where the hell had they come from? She'd always been healthily built but in the years since then she'd ballooned.

Who cared, she liked eating and there weren't many other joys in her life. She'd heard people call her 'Norma' as a nickname, behind her back. Short for 'Norma Stitz', which she knew full well was intended to sound like 'Enormous Tits'. She smiled at the thought that she was admired from the rear -- not only for her bum, but for the way her boobs could still be seen because they were too big to be hidden by her body.

Ron (or whatever his name was) spoke hardly a word of the French language and she spoke even less but miming and pointing got them through. The weather was balmy and the Kettle rasped in her ears and left a haze of blue smoke in their wake. Then after a few days deep in the countryside they had passed a home-made sign for accommodation.

They'd been riding along slowly through the countryside, looking at the scenery and trying to shout at each other over the noise of the engine when they had anything to say. The sign was at the end of a farm track, with a little drawing of a holiday-maker. So in the spirit of adventure they followed the lane.

High hedgerows lined the way and weeds grew in the middle of the lane where wheels rarely touched but the Kettle rasped its way along effortlessly leaving a haze of blue smoke behind them. Ron always said that it was supposed to smoke like that, that was because of the type of engine it had. He kept on saying 'emissions' and 'two stroke' in a lewd way so she wasn't sure if she believed him.

In that random method they found an old farmhouse with a barn that had been converted to an apartment. There was still hay stored in the ground floor space but upstairs there was a bedroom that had a quaint iron bedstead and a china basin and jug to wash with.

Luckily there was also a primitive shower on a balcony at the rear with a bamboo screen providing privacy. If she stood up in the room and peered through the roof window there were stupendous views of the countryside with the flat grasslands of an estuary in the distance. The lady who owned the place was called 'Jeanne' and seemed much older than her -- possibly as much as ten years older, but still slim and with short hair brushed in a strange spiky style. She was stylish in an effortless French way with a loose white top and army 'camo' trousers low-slung on her hips.

Jeanne had pointed to a small swimming pool in the corner of the garden, indicating that they could use it. There was a lot of pointing, but Janice thought that it should be easy enough to work out how to stay in a room with a pool.

Janice thought that the place was excellent, much better than some commercial chain motel alongside a toll motorway that had trucks rumbling past all day and all night. Corporate beige paint, an oversize coin-operated television that featured mostly porno channels and the room to be vacated by 8am with a production line breakfast - not exactly romantic accommodation. She had found room in the rucksack for a swimsuit so they both changed out of their dusty jeans and relaxed. She had a quick dip in the pool and lay on the lawn in the late afternoon sun.

* * *

She was awoken by the sound of a splash; she hadn't realised that she had dozed off. Looking up she saw that it wasn't Ron in the pool, but Jeanne, her spiky-haired head bobbing steadily with gentle strokes. Ron must have gone back into the room so Janice turned over and contemplated the view of the countryside such as she could see through a gap in the low hedge.

After several laps Jeanne climbed out. Surprisingly she was covered in colourful tattoos and completely naked. Her clothing had covered her earlier, but now Janice could see that brightly coloured designs swept over her entire body apart from her face and hands. Barely an inch of skin was left unadorned with flowers and foliage. Janice realised that she was staring but Jeanne smiled and didn't try to avoid the gaze. In fact she held her arms naturally by her side and her legs were slightly apart. She was shaven and the tattoos even continued down there. Janice had never seen a lady in such a state, lower lips clearly visible. She kept her own pubic hair neatly trimmed into a landing strip so that ugly curls didn't escape from the sides of her bikini but that was all.

Drips of water fell around Jeanne as she started talking, which was distracting as Janice couldn't understand a word she was saying. There was a lot of gesticulating and soon Janice shrugged, in the international language of 'no understanding'. In response Jeanne reached out and began tugging at the shoulder straps of her swimsuit, cold wet fingers on her hot skin.

Then she pointed to a tiny notice with the same picture that had been on the roadside sign. It was then that Janice realised that the picture was of an unclothed lady. She had missed that detail, by accident they had stumbled upon a naturist place.

The woman raised her eyebrows expectantly as Janice looked around. Ron wasn't there, but neither was anyone else. She'd been naked in front of other ladies before, usually in swimming pool changing rooms but that wasn't a deliberate exercise in being nude. It was part of removing one set of clothing and replacing it with another, maybe with a quick shower included. Even then she had always tried to be discreet and had never thrust herself forwards to be admired.

Some women had done that, parading themselves around the changing rooms to be noticed. Show-offs, talking loudly to their friends with towels piled around their heads; beaver and boobs on show. They knew they were being checked out, their erect nipples were a giveaway. That's what Janice had always noticed, there was always at least one or two like that playing a game of 'trophy-boobs'. She had always been a more private person, not that she had anything to be ashamed of. She was slim in those days and had always possessed a decent pair of tits -- plenty enough to be proud of. But she had kept provocative exposures for the bedroom and had received all the admiration she needed from her boyfriends.

She had always taken her time even to get to the stage of showing her body to a guy, usually at least two months. Her speciality was virgins, lads who were in awe of her body and wouldn't sneer and call her a slut. Was she a slut? She didn't think so, she chose carefully and never got herself screwed in a shop doorway half an hour after meeting someone drunkenly in a bar.

No, she enjoyed a lengthy tease. The back seat of a car was reserved for when she'd been going with a boy for several months, after a few drinks when she wanted a quickie. A fast fuck on the way home, a slower one when they got there. With a new boyfriend, her clothing became a little more skimpy on each date, a little more revealing while she considered which occasion would be best for the ravishing. It was as much about teasing herself as the boy. Sometimes she span it out too long and he gave up the pursuit for easier prey -- and on one unmemorable evening the lad shot his load in his pants just as she unclasped her bra. She had flashed her bosom, he had clutched his hands over a spreading wet stain and stumbled from the room. She had been embarrassed for him as well as herself.

It didn't normally end that way of course, usually she would end up at some point with her knees wide apart and her prey eating her pussy enthusiastically, making her toes curl. Licking her like a 99 with sprinkles and extra strawberry sauce. Once it had literally happened; a chocolate flake had been slowly pushed inside her, followed by the shock of cold ice cream against her skin. Oh my, oh my. White melted cream oozing out mixed with red and brown streaks. It looked disgusting but the boy had licked away every trace -- even the chocolate that had dribbled down between her ass-cheeks. God that had made her squirm.

And then he pressed his chin against her pubes and asked her how he looked with a beard. What an idiot, completely destroying the moment.

Right now this French lady with beautiful tattoo of a flower across her right breast was expecting her to undress in broad daylight. Janice slowly eased down the shoulder straps of the swimsuit, one side at a time. This met the approval of Jeanne. Then nervously she exposed her boobs, white and untanned in the sunlight.

The suit was now down to her midriff and she looked around but Ron was still not there. He must have gone into the room for a sleep after the journey. She knew that she was being inspected but her waist was trim and her belly was flat so that gave her confidence. Her mother had always told her that she had good proportions; 38, 32, 36 with solid DD cups. All the good beauty pageants required C cups, so she'd have never won one of those competitions, would have been at a disadvantage from the start.

As a youngster she had lost interest in education at the same time as she had developed, and had actually gone from an A to a C in 8th grade. In both senses.

At least she hadn't gone A to M.

She would never have made it in pageants anyway, her mouth was too large. It gave her a ready laugh though, and a talent to win a pub challenge; she could insert a beer bottle into her mouth right up to the label. That together with the 'Bouncers' had made her popular and kept a steady stream of boyfriends eager for her attention. Despite her best efforts at keeping them covered in public, she was well-endowed and there was no getting away from it.

Her mind came back to the present. She raised her bum from the ground so that she could wriggle the costume right off, then sat naked on the cool grass with her arms automatically clasped across her chest. She was being inspected and it made her uncomfortable so her knees kept firmly together.

Jeanne then looked up at the sky and back to Janice, expectantly. Janice looked blankly back so she stood up and strode away, to a bag that had been left on the other side of the pool. Jeanne returned carrying a towel and a bottle of sun cream. She dried her hands and waved to Janice to lie down. Soon Janice felt the warm fluid being spread over her shoulders, being smoothed by gentle hands across her skin.

Down onto her lower back the cream was massaged, with regular circular strokes. She rested her chin on her forearms as the hands continued onto her bottom. It was the first time she had ever felt the touch of a female in that region, and it was strangely erotic knowing that the lady was as undressed as she was.

Eventually her thighs were addressed, fingers straying dangerously close to the zone where she had only been touched by those nervous boyfriends. But Jeanne showed restraint, the hands didn't go any further. She had a feeling of relief -- or was it disappointment? She wouldn't have found it difficult to move her feet and knees, make some room for those fingers so they could delve into the gap. But the hands left her body.

Then Jeanne spoke again and Janice found that she was expected to turn over onto her back. Show her parts, shamelessly. She complied, keeping her eyes shut and forcing her arms down by her side.

Janice allowed the cream to be applied to her belly down as far as the line of her body hair, trimmed specially for the holiday and then up, over her boobs. Around and underneath, each one in turn with a flat palm brushing her nipples. She forced herself to ignore the embarrassment and found that it wasn't unpleasant. She sneaked a glance up to see small decorated breasts quivering above her.

Then Jeanne moved down to her legs, kneeling over her feet so that she could oil both legs at the same time. She felt disappointed, it was an enjoyable sensation having her breasts massaged by this female who obviously knew much better than any clumsy boyfriend how hands should be used.

She felt her shins and calves being oiled, as those hands were sliding up and down her legs. A weird thought occurred to her that her toes were a fraction of an inch below Jeanne's body and instinctively she wriggled them. In a heart-stopping moment, she found that she was correct. She touched soft, chilled damp skin. Pressing upwards, a firm body that resisted the pressure. She was rubbing against a bare pussy.

She froze. Very slowly she curled her toes downwards. If she closed her eyes the whole experience would no longer exist surely. Unfortunately the warm strokes continued and the gaze of the woman was on her nakedness. At last the job was done, Jeanne finished with a final stroke over her hips then settled down to admire the result. Janice was feeling tranquil after the massage and closed her eyes.

* * *

That night, alone in the darkness of the room over the barn she squeezed Ron's hardness. He took the hint and soon his tongue was between her legs. She showed willing and took him into her mouth, letting him move back and fore. Down below his tongue was nice but his chin was scratchy, unshaven. Spreading her knees to allow him to give her the pleasure she desired, she wondered what it would feel like with fresh smooth cheeks against her sensitive, silken skin.

* * *

The next morning, the sun shone brightly as Janice opened the door and looked down at the pool. She let the rays fall across her body and listened to Ron snoring behind her. She took a brisk shower while waiting for him to stir, but when she came out towelling herself down there was still no change.