tagSci-Fi & FantasyMy Biarritz Babe

My Biarritz Babe


I treated myself to a long weekend in Biarritz last winter. I spent my days strolling along beautiful sandy beaches, watched surfers brave the freezing water to ride the waves, and basked in the French sun for a few days rather than shivering my way through cold, dark, miserable Scotland. I sat outside pavement cafés in outrageous Hawaiian shirts, watching the locals bustle past bundled up in heavy overcoats, making me realise just how much warmer the elegant, friendly city would be in the height of summer. I also bought myself a new friend.

She stood 3 inches tall and hung on the end of a key chain. Well, to be more accurate she knelt 3 inches tall. She's a plastic figurine, and she was hanging on a board outside one of the surf shops in the back streets of Biarritz. I was just ambling along the street, browsing the shop windows, and she immediately appealed to me. She's a nurse, but the sort of sexy fantasy nurse you see in saucy British films of the 1960s. (For anyone who knows what I'm talking about, think Barbara Windsor and Shirley Eaton.)

She has chin-length black hair, in which nestles a white cap, shaped more like a tiara really, with a red cross on it. Her skin is light brown, reminding me of caramel. Impossibly large blue eyes, with a twinkle painted into them, share her face with a pert nose and pouting red lips. Well-defined collar-bones point the way to a magnificent chest, threatening to bulge out of a tiny white dress, the first three buttons of which are open, displaying a Grand Canyon of cleavage. Because of the material from which she is made, her breasts reflect light, as if she'd been oiling her body just before coming on duty.

The uniform dress barely reaches her waist, revealing white stocking tops. She seems to have been caught in the act of falling - the end of her hair is slightly flared, as if she had just pitched forwards, her weight rests on her right knee, and her left hand is flat on the ground, to steady her. Her left leg, an amazingly long, slim, shapely leg, is splayed out to one side, her foot encased in a black high-heeled shoe most unsuitable for a nurse - no wonder she fell. Her right arm is crooked at the elbow, and in the hand, between fingers with red-painted nails, she holds a syringe about a third full of some white liquid.

Even at first glance she stood out among the other little figures hanging there. In amusement I tipped her upside down, and revealed grey suspenders and tiny white panties, fringed with grey lace, running between her legs and revealing the first curves of a very pert bottom. She was a few Euros more than the other key rings on display, and I was on a tight budget, so chuckling I put her back and moved on. Over the next couple of days, though, I found myself passing that shop a number of times (the centre of Biarritz is quite compact), and each time I lingered to look at my nurse again. It was silly, but she was growing on me.

Finally, on my last day, half an hour before I had to leave for the airport, I made a snap decision. I rushed down to the town centre, grasped my last remaining Euros and thrust them into the hands of the bored teenager behind the counter. I was in luck - there was just one of my nurse figurines left in the shop. Ramming her into my pocket, the pointed toe of her shoe digging into my hip, I dashed for a taxi to get my flight.

I named her Bébé - I don't know why, it just seemed to suit her. I knew if my girlfriend saw her in my flat she'd think I was daft wasting money on what was in essence just another thing to dust; so I unscrewed the chain from the top of her head, and my little French nurse found a home in front of my computer on my desk at work. She definitely had something: two of my mates noticed her on her first day, and admired her.

Each morning when I came into work my eyes alighted on Bébé, and I smiled - she seemed to have that effect on me. Her eyes twinkled back at me, with their hint of ooh la la naughtiness. Each evening before I left I gave her a last glance. The funny thing was, though, as the days and weeks went on, I found I was looking at her more and more. When I was drafting something on my computer, and paused for inspiration, my eyes inevitably swivelled down towards Bébé's impish face, and her oiled boobs. When I felt fed up - which happens about 75 times a day in my job - I found myself drawn to her, to cheer me up. When I drifted into a daydream, I began to find myself studying Bébé's perfectly formed collar-bones, her long fingers, that shapely leg, those oiled...

I really wasn't having sexual fantasies about a three-inch plastic doll, I told myself. But, I rationalised, plenty of men toss themselves off to pictures of nude women in magazines, which aren't much bigger - at least Bébé was a real, 3D image. No I just, er, thought she was a particularly skilfully crafted figure, a fairly realistic image of a sexy dream girl. That was all it was. Unfortunately, my girlfriend went quite cold on me when I casually suggested that she might like to try a bit of role play, dressing up as a nurse. And as for the idea that she dye her blonde hair jet black, and cut it shorter, well, the sound of the door slamming behind her will live long in my memory.

I normally take it quite hard when a woman dumps me -- I have plenty of experience! - but this time, for some reason, I wasn't that bothered. The next morning I sat at my desk, drinking my first coffee of the day, and said, "Oh well Bébé, looks like it's just you and me now." The woman who sits opposite me gave me a strange stare, and I quickly buried my head in my work.

That was a tough week - just like every other week in fact. One quiet lunchtime I'd just read a stinking e-mail from a guy in another team who I'm at war with, then seen a memo from my boss demanding three impossible things within a ridiculous timescale. Slumping back in my chair, I wondered yet again why there weren't any other employers out there recognising my innate genius and begging me to let them double my salary. I closed my eyes in frustration and world-weariness, and as I rubbed my hands down my face, I heard a soft voice, like liquid chocolate, intone, very close to my ear, "Oh ma pauvre m'sieur, you must be a beeg strong boy for me." (Yes, I do know French people don't really speak like a bad Maurice Chevalier impression, but that's what I heard.)

My eyes snapped open and I glanced around. There was only one other person in the office, and I asked, "Gerry, did you say that?"

He glanced up from the report he was studying. "Say what? I didn't hear anything."

I gave him a hard stare, and said, "Come on Ger, are you winding me up?"

He stared back, genuinely perplexed. "What are you on about Richie? It was dead quiet in here till you started on me."

I blanched, and muttered, "Okay, sorry, forget it, I must have imagined it."

Gerry clearly wasn't responsible. Even assuming he could do a French accent - of sorts - there was no way he could make it sound so mellifluous, so downright sexy. At that moment Gerry got up to make himself a coffee. As he passed me he leaned down, chuckled and, in the purest Glaswegian growl, said, "Hey, mebbe it was that wee French dolly o' yours, tryin' to seduce ya." As Gerry waddled off chuckling to himself, I glanced at Bébé. Strange, I hadn't remembered her little painted smile being quite so wide.

I somehow struggled through the rest of the day, and by the time I'd finished performing miracles for my manager I was the last one in the office. As I switched off the light I heard - quite distinctly - a girlish giggle, and the same voice I'd heard before singing out, "Good night my m'sieur - think of me in your dreams." I stared open-mouthed at my desk. With the office in darkness, a shaft of light from a street lamp pierced the window, and landed perfectly on Bébé, just like a spotlight.

I did dream about her that night. I couldn't remember the details in the morning, but I knew the dream had been pretty vivid, as evidenced by the embarrassing sticky stain on the underside of my duvet. Feeling dopey with lack of proper sleep, I yawned my way into work. When I entered my office I paused at the door and stared at Bébé. There she was, exactly where I'd left her, with her slightly-wider-than-yesterday smile. Shaking my head I hung up my coat and bent down to switch on my computer, which stands on the floor under my desk.

As I doubled over I felt - I swear - a light, playful tap on my bum, and I heard that same girlish giggle. I straightened like a jack-in-the-box, nearly braining myself on the underside of the desk. Bébé still knelt there, her eyes sparkling, looking as innocent as a barely dressed French sex bomb can look. I glanced around: none of my colleagues were within ten feet of me. Warily, not taking my eyes off her, I sat down and logged in, before going to make myself a strong black coffee. Bugger, there was that giggle again!

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful, except that I probably spent more time glancing nervously at Bébé than I did looking at my work. That evening, just as I stepped through the office door into the corridor, I heard, as faintly as a light breeze, a cooed "Au revoir, my sweet m'sieur". I spun round but all of my remaining colleagues had their heads down working, apart from Gerry, who gave me a bit of an odd look.

I watched TV rather distractedly that evening, and turned in for an early night wondering if I'd dream about Bébé again. I did, of course. Again I didn't remember the details except, just as I was beginning to wake up, with my duvet sticking to me again, my ear tingled, as if soft lips had just brushed it, and I heard a whispered "Take me 'ome, mah beeg Scottish stallion, and we can make zis real." God, the dream was so lifelike that on the drive into work I could still feel her gorgeous knockers pressed against my ears. But, try as I might, I just couldn't drag back any more details over the horizon of my memory.

When I arrived in the office, naturally the first thing I looked at was Bébé. Her smile had a quizzical look to it this morning, and one long eyebrow was cocked, as if in mocking challenge. I was sure she hadn't looked like that the day before. I watched her carefully all day, and the expression never changed. I nearly asked Gerry if he thought her look was different, but on reflection I decided I probably wouldn't like the food in the psychiatric ward.

At five o'clock, as I was about to head to the office door for home, a soft, sweet voice echoed in my head: "Take me 'ome...we can make zis real." Not really understanding what that meant, and unsure why I did it, I nevertheless scooped Bébé up and nestled her gently in a folded tissue in my sports bag. Several times on the journey home, above the snarl of the Edinburgh traffic, I was sure I heard that giggle again. No, it was different this time - more of a throaty chuckle, ripe with the promise of sensual adventure to come. I pressed just a bit harder on the accelerator pedal all the way home.

When I got there I felt a bit of a prat. What was I supposed to do, get into bed with a small piece of painted plastic lying next to me? Indulging myself in whimsy, I placed her on my dining table and started talking to her. "Okay Bébé, you just relax there while I make us a nice microwaved sausage and mash dinner. Would you like to slip into something more comfortable? No? Good, I love you in that uniform of yours, it's very sexy."

After dinner we watched a football match together on TV, Bébé perched on the arm of my chair. Was it just my imagination, or did she seem to get a bit excited when a French player scored at one point? I then had a long luxurious bath - I wanted to smell my best for my dream girl. Bébé sat on the side of the bath ogling me, the saucy little minx! Finally, unable to resist my curiosity anymore, and certain I was in for another erotic fantasy, I slipped into the shorts I sleep in and went to bed. I gave Bébé a kiss on the hair which flopped over her brow, and placed her tenderly on my bedside table. The last thing I said to her before I switched off the light was "I'm ready when you are, honey."

I awoke with a start. The room was in darkness. I glanced sideways and saw the eerie green neon numbers on my clock: 11:52. I'd been asleep for less than two hours. Then I felt my skin prickle. I glanced across the room to the old wicker chair that stands by my window. There was someone sitting in it! Was this a dream? No, I was absolutely certain I was wide awake. A shaft of moonlight edged its way between the curtains, to reveal a shadowy figure. Long, slim legs, crossed at the knee; pale skin, silver in the moonlight, a dark mop of hair - with a little white nurse's cap perched in it.

In shock, not taking my eyes off the figure, I reached out my hand and scrabbled for the switch of my bedside lamp. The room flooded with light, momentarily blinding me. When I opened my eyes again, Bébé uncurled from the chair and the wicker squeaked as she stood and, in a quite feline manner, stretched and gave a little sigh of contentment. Then she turned her big blue eyes on me me, with a huge smile which revealed perfect white teeth. "Ah, you are awake, cheri. C'est bon. I thought I would 'ave to crawl up under ze duvet and surprise you again, like last night." She favoured me with her trademark giggle, like a crystal champagne flute shattering.

God, she was tall - well over six feet in those heels (I'm only five-eight). Her half-exposed boobs glinted in the light, the little dress stroked her stocking tops, and her legs seemed to go on for ever. My mouth gaping open in disbelief, I gently slapped my face - if this was a dream, it was the most realistic one I'd ever experienced. No, I was definitely awake - yet how could I be? Bébé giggled again at my reaction. "Oh darling, you look so 'andsome when you first wake up. But zen, you look 'andsome all ze time to me. And now, my beautiful Braveheart, it is time for your injection."

I watched with horror as she reached behind her and lifted up a huge syringe, containing a milky liquid. She noticed my reaction, and said, "Oh don't worry my beeg, strong m'sieur, it is just a small prick - but zat isn't where I'm going to put ze needle! Just my little joke, darling," she laughed, and swayed towards me.

Mesmerised by the sight of the needle, which looked big enough to stun a rhinoceros, I stammered, "What, what is that stuff?"

Bébé gave me what I assume she considered a reassuring smile, wiggled her eyebrows and said, "It is a special formula, an elixir d'amour. It will give you an extra, what is ze expression, ah oui, va va voom. Now, you must be a big, brave boy for your little Bébé." I had risen to a kneeling position on the bed, and my face was inches from her magnificent breasts. They glistened before me. As her left hand gently wrapped around my right bicep I took a deep breath and pressed my nose between them. I reached my spare arm around her and slid my hand under her pants, cupping my fingers around a buttock. Her skin felt like warm, soft silk. She giggled again, and cried, "Oh, my darling, what a verrry naughty m'sieur! Now, 'old still un moment so I don't 'urt you."

I yelped into her boobs as the needle jabbed me. I don't know what the stuff was, but within seconds of her pumping it into me my already excited cock felt as if it was trying to burst through my skin, it was so stiff. I felt like King Dong! A moment later I gasped as a hand slipped into my shorts and wrapped around my stem. Bébé sighed, "Oh, but I always forget, my leviathan, it is not a small prick at all, it is magnifique, truly!" I'd always considered it fairly average, but I certainly wasn't going to argue with her!

I felt a twinge of disappointment when she removed her fingers from me, but as she grasped my shorts in her hands I swung into a sitting position and lifted my bum to allow them to pass down my legs. A moment later, stocking-clad toes began to knead my balls and my glans. "Darling," she husked, "my leg has gone to sleep, would you massage it for me please?" It was the right leg, the one that was usually curled under her. I wasn't surprised it had gone to sleep after all those months of her sitting on it.

I did my best, kneading her calf while she purred, but it wasn't that easy to concentrate with my face back in her cleavage and her silky toes stroking up and down my cock. I reached up a hand and undid a couple more of her buttons. Then, nudging the dress aside with my nose, I exposed a plump cherry red nipple, as hard as a bullet. She chuckled as I closed my lips over it and grazed my teeth gently down it. Licking it was amazing: it wasn't just cherry-coloured, it actually tasted of cherries; no, of cherry brandy. I reached both my hands around her waist, and she leaned closer to me as I slipped them up the legs of her panties, grasping both of her luscious bum cheeks, my fingers brushing the outer edge of her pussy lips.

After a couple of minutes, she pressed her hands against my chest. "It is no use, I cannot wait any longer ma cher. I must lick your juicy lollypop." I fell onto my back on the bed, and Bébé followed me. Laughing, she traced her tongue down my chest, swirling it round my nipples. She tugged playfully at my pubes with her teeth, then my eyes crossed as her, soft, warm lips slid down the length of my rod. Bloody hell, it was like liquid velvet had been wrapped round my cock! She made little moans and squeaks of pleasure as she slid it in and out of her mouth, and her tongue traced every contour.

I decided I wanted to taste her too, and made a move to pull her into position. She guessed what I wanted - or maybe we'd done it before, in the dreams I didn't remember - and instantly swung one of her legs over my head, swivelling her mouth round my prick. And there were those tiny white panties, inches from my nose. Bébé pulled her legs in close to my head as I dragged the pants down her stocking-clad thighs - it was a bit awkward, but I made it - then she lifted a knee to allow me to get them off that leg. Her pubes were as black as her hair, short and frizzy, extending in a thin line along her slit - exactly the way I like it. I took a firm grip on the top of her slim thighs, and dived in.

I was a bit out of practice -- my last girlfriend was funny about that sort of thing -- but Bébé squealed with delight as my nose and tongue made contact with her slit, and redoubled her efforts on my prick. What she was doing to me was so good I had to really concentrate to manage to pleasure her in return. I was craning up at her but she made it easy for me, easing her weight back so that she was sitting on my face, screwing her quim down onto me. Her skin colour had always reminded me of caramel, and I was amazed to realise that her gorgeous pussy actually tasted a bit like caramel - soft, rich, creamy, and so, so sweet.

I lapped my tongue at her, supplementing it with a couple of fingers inside her as she moaned around my cock. I felt my organ beginning to tense in her mouth and knew I was about to come. I began to drive my fingers fast into her hotbox, licking hard at her, then my hips jerked. At exactly the same moment Bébé gave a long, wailing groan and clamped her pussy down firmly on my face as we came at exactly the same moment, both gushing at each other's mouths, squirming with pleasure. As I pumped my load into her she shot a long finger up my bum, with the speed and accuracy of a Cruise missile, and stars exploded in my head.

I slumped back exhausted, my face wet with her cum juice. Instantly though, Bébé was on me, planting wild kisses on my face, pushing her tongue between my lips, its taste was slightly salty from the remnants of my jizz which she'd swallowed. As she broke the kiss, she gasped, "Mon dieu, but you are incredible, my titan, a true god among lovers." I thought that was a bit over the top, even for my own fantasy, but who was I to judge? It momentarily occurred to me to wonder if maybe there was a real life Bébé somewhere in Biarritz, with a 3-inch model of a marginally overweight, bespectacled, ginger-haired Scots insurance clerk by her bedside. Well, it could happen!

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