Nice Family Vacation Ch. 01

Nice Family Vacation, Ch. 1

Author's Note: This story builds slowly, so if you are looking for some real action, we have that for you in chapter 2. And chapter 3. And chapter 4... So, hold tight and enjoy this prelude to the real naughtiness.

All characters engaging in any sexual activities are 18 years or older. This story is a work of fiction, and any similarity between any characters and any person, living or dead, is only in your dirty little mind!

The jet engines thundered to life and thrust the plane forward down the runway.

My parents decided to take the whole family to France for 2 weeks that summer, back in the 80s, when I was in college. There were 4 of us: Mom and Pop, my sister Alyssa and me. Our parents were sitting behind us so we all had window seats or the one next to it. I decided to be nice to my kid sister by giving her the window seat to enjoy the view.

Alyssa was crying before the plane's nose started to rise. She tried to hide it, quietly and not saying anything, but she turned around when I said something about being on our way and her eyes were red and cheeks wet. Instinctively, I knew she was not still upset about her messy breakup with the guy she dated all the way through high school. I took her hand, and she squeezed back.

"Are you afraid of flying?"

"Don't say anything!"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"Everyone was so excited about this trip, I was afraid to say anything."

To comfort her, I squeezed her hand back. "Well, we are flying now. Maybe we can get you some alcohol to calm you down."

"They don't serve you unless you are 21. I checked. Until we get to France, they won't serve 18-year-olds."

"Are there any drinking ages in France?"

"I don't think so," she answered.

"Well, until we get there, I will sneak you some." The flight attendant checked my ID—in this case, my passport—and still looked at me like it was a fake driver's license at a bar. No one in my family looked their age, and she obviously did not believe I could legally drink.

She was impressed with how well I held my liquor, though. As the flight went on, I kept asking for more of those little mini-bottles. Alyssa was drinking Coke, so I kept ordering rum. In order to avoid suspicion, both our cups were on the tray in front of me; Alyssa kept hers folded up, making it easy to pour into her drink without anyone paying attention.

It worked, too. First, she relaxed. Then, she got sleepy. By the time they served dinner and dimmed the lights, she was leaning on her pillow against the window.

"Sleepy?"

"Yes, but this is so uncomfortable!" She pounded the pillow, trying to fluff it.

"Here," I said, raising the center armrest. Lean this way. My shoulder's more comfortable than that wall."

Impressed that I knew about the armrest, discovered while flying back and forth to college, she rested her pillow against my shoulder and the edge of my chair and leaned over. Alyssa was tiny at 5'2" and thin, so her weight didn't bother me and her head did not get in the way. In seconds, she was asleep.

"She isn't keeping you company?" The flight attendant asked in a flirty way. "Would you like some more rum, or perhaps a blanket for your girlfriend?"

"Sure, both will be great, thanks. But, she isn't..." I stopped, realizing she paid me quite a compliment.

Alyssa was pretty: very blonde, with amazing green eyes that everyone commented on. Her 105 pounds distributed over her short frame so nicely, my friends had drooled over her far back as I could remember, overlooking her nerdy style. Prettier than my girlfriend, in fact, which is one of the problems with having a gorgeous sister. I was nerd, too, so nerdiness did not bother me.

And, she was lying against me exactly the way my girlfriend would have. My own fault for folding up the armrest, which probably would have sounded pervy if the flight attendant knew she was my sister.

My parents chatted through the gap in the seats for a while, but wine made them sleepy, too. I can't sleep on a plane, so I read and watched movies. Alyssa wrapped her arm around mine when I returned from stretching my legs, so I put the blanket over us and tried to snooze for a few minutes.

Never quite falling asleep but I did drift a bit until a jolt of turbulence over Greenland or somewhere jostled me fully awake. My hand was on Alyssa, and she stirred from the bump, so I squeezed to reassure her without thinking where my hand was. Under the blanket, I moved in an effort to determine where my hand was.

I was rubbing the inside of her thigh!

Just as I started to ease my hand away before she noticed, she wrapped her arms tighter around mine, locking it down where it was, and her head snuggled against her pillow, which, by then, was down on my chest.

Pervy as it felt, her thigh felt nice. I tried not to figure out how high it was, hopefully not as high as I imagined, tried not to squeeze again—basically left it where she held it and tried to focus on the movie. Alyssa moved, and that tugged on the cord of the headset, pulling it off the ear on her side. My natural reaction was to use the hand on her leg, but controlled that impulse and managed to get it on with my left hand.

Soft, yet tight through her jeans...okay, I forced myself not to think about the inside of my sister's thigh.

More turbulence about 20 minutes later jolted her awake, and she let go of my arm and I let go of her thigh and acted like it was completely normal. She sat up and fluffed her hair. "Oh, I've gotta go to the bathroom!"

Before I could get my tray up and stand to let her out, she was on her feet and scootching past, her little ass less than an inch from my face, and I wondered how I had missed how tight her jeans were?

Pop reached up between the seats to tap my shoulder. It made me jump with fright. "What's going on?"

My heart stopped. What had he seen? "What do you mean?"

"This movie. I still don't know what a blade runner is."

"I am lost, too," I admitted." For the last 20 minutes or so, I was not paying much attention.

When she returned, she picked up a paperback. I asked, "What are you reading?"

"Flowers in the Attic."

"What's it about?"

"It's like a Gothic horror romance."

"Any good?"

"It's pretty amazing," she answered.

The rest of the flight went normally, neither one of us letting on anything inappropriate had taken place. Did she sleep through it? Probably. Whew!

We landed in Marseille, a rough, industrial city on the Mediterranean coast, France's second largest city. It was morning, and at the train station we boarded a filthy, yet somehow romantic train car. The countryside captivated us as we followed a beautiful coastal path across vineyards, through mountains, and occasionally just upon the edge of the Mediterranean. After almost a day of travel to Marseille, and then train from Marseille to the Riviera, we arrived at our destination, Nice.

#

Pop is the one who labeled it our Nice Family Vacation, mixing up the pronunciation between the English nice and the French city name of Nice. When he said, "Nice," someone invariably pronounced it in the other language. Yeah, we were a family of dorks. That first day was a blur from the jet lag. I didn't know much about Nice, but it looked like the Duran Duran video for Rio. After an early dinner, we all crashed before sunset and slept for 12 hours.

The next day we took a sightseeing tour to get our bearings and learn about the city. We hit a museum. The last time I spent this much time with Alyssa, we were kids. To my surprise, she was fun and laughed at my corny jokes. She really had changed this last year I was away at college. When I left, she was still a hormony, self-absorbed teenage nerd. Before that, I was a hormony, self-absorbed teenage boy, so years had passed since we got along.

The food in Nice is fantastic! Fresh seafood, traditional French cuisine, patisseries on every corner—I was ready to skip my senior year at college and stay right here! The four of us sipped red wine at sunset overlooking the Mediterranean when Alyssa planned our next day. "Can we go to the beach tomorrow?"

Everyone was enthusiastic, but Mom cautioned, "Luckily, the resort is not one of those topless beaches they have here."

And that's how my mother ruined my first day at the beach on the French Riviera.

Don't get me wrong—it was a great beach full of gorgeous, tanned women in tiny bikinis—some of the tiniest I have ever seen. But they all wore tops, and ever since my Pop mentioned going to Nice, I thought, nice! Titties at the beach! Alyssa looked good, I noticed, but her bikini looked scandalously conservative on this beach.

Also, we found out it's not a beach as we in America think of one. Beaches are composed of two essential elements: sea and sand. The Med was there, its blue waves washing gently ashore every few seconds. There was no sand, though. This "beach" was billions of rocks ranging in size from small to tiny—rocks of every size except sand. Thank god for the lounge chairs the hotel provides for its guests.

That night, our parents turned in, leaving me in charge of babysitting my 18-year-old sister while she enjoyed legal wine. Okay, not exactly babysitting, because we had fun. Alyssa wasn't half bad, now that she'd grown out of her snotty phase. She was naturally nerdy, and I think struggling to try to fit in with the cool kids took a lot of energy.

She had been popular with the guys, though. And, come fall, frat boys would swoop down on her again. For now, though, she and I enjoyed the dorkiness of a Nice family vacation.

"I need your help." Sure, I agreed. "Tomorrow, I want to go to the beach. The thing is, I want to try a topless beach, so they can't know."

My heart suffered momentary arrhythmia. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Tell her we're going somewhere else. We need to get away from them and have an alibi."

"We?"

"You don't think I'm going to a topless beach by myself, do you?"

"Well, yeah." The only person on the planet less likely for her to take to a topless beach was Pop—and only by a close margin.

"It's not going to make you feel uncomfortable, is it? I mean, I assumed you would enjoy being around hundreds of topless women."

"Well, yeah," I said again, still somewhat dumbstruck. "The thing is one particular topless woman will be there, and I am surprised you want me around to see."

"Well, if that bothers you..."

"No, it's just..."

"Because, with all the foxy Frenchies running around topless, I assumed you wouldn't notice."

It is so cute when women are so utterly clueless. I suppose women chuckle at us guys when we completely fail to understand something equally obvious about the other sex. The fact that she might actually imagine me disinterested in seeing my sister's boobs shocked me in its naivety. Alyssa is a smart girl. Perhaps smarter than I gave her credit for—or crueller than I credited her with.

"Well, I can try to focus on all those other naked boobies instead of yours."

"Oh, god!" Emeralds rolled around her eye sockets. "If I thought you wanted to see mine, I wouldn't take you with me."

"What do you think the point of a topless beach is, exactly?"

"Okay, point made. But I am sure there will be hundreds of boobs more interesting than mine."

Our hotel was suites, and our parents had one bedroom, Alyssa and I shared the other. Neither of us thought about it that first night, because we were so tired, and the second just felt like a family trip of a decade ago, when our parents got 2 rooms and left us in one. My mind was so obsessed with our trip to the beach the next day that, when Alyssa went to her bed in her bulky PJs, I asked what was about 50% a legitimate request.

"To avoid me gawking tomorrow when we're, you know, at the beach, I was thinking..."

"Uh-huh..."

"Maybe it would be a good idea if you take off your top tonight, so tomorrow I will be used to it by then."

"You want me to take off my top? Here?"

"Well, you are going to tomorrow, so why not?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why? So you can look at them?"

"Well, since I will see them tomorrow..."

"No. Absolutely not. You are so weird."

Can't blame a guy for trying, right?

Sleep did not come easy that night. Anticipating spending the day with your sister's naked tits has a way of keeping you aroused. In every way. So many scenarios ran through my head, complete with clever lines to respond to each—I was ready for anything!

Basically, we told our parents the truth: we were going to the beach again. We just left out we were not going to the beach at our family-friendly resort. We went a mile down the road to Nice Beach.

Let's just say, Nice Beach is not as nice as you imagine. Nor did it meet Alyssa's sales pitch. First of all, the main difference from our hotel's private beach was the absence of chaise lounge chairs. Everywhere, people lay on towels atop thousands of hard, lumpy, uncomfortable rocks. Semi-prepared for this, we each had a small towel and we packed a large, double towel, the size of a blanket for a double bed.

Second, yet far more disappointing, were the sights. Sure, there were hundreds of topless women there, breasts bronzed dark as the rest of their bodies. I'm going to guess their average age was 57. Sure, there were women in their teens and twenties, a few hotties in their thirties—crowded as the beach was, the closest to where we laid our towels was probably 75 feet. Big, shapeless sacks or golf balls in tanned socks made up no less than 80% of the bare breasts on this beach.

"Um, you are going to be popular here," I snarked.

"Maybe we should leave."

"Sure, if that's what you want," I said. And, if she did want to leave, I would lead the way for her. But I was not giving up that easy. "Why did you come here? Did you want to flirt with guys our age or compare your assets to 25-year-old French starlets?"

"No, I just wanted to have the full French experience and feel free like Bridget Bardot."

Bridget's grand-mère might be here somewhere. "Avoir de l'expérience." It either means have the experience or to be experienced. I still had a week and a half to learn French.

"Promise not to look?"

"Oh, I will look." I brought my camera, too.

There was genuine fear on her face, her eyes wide and green as she contemplated facing her fear. Shaky fingers unbuttoned her white shirt with thin blue stripes from the bottom up. Sea breeze caught it, blowing it open, revealing a tight sky-blue tee-shirt underneath, her final chance to chicken out. Tight enough to reveal, with the outer shirt laying on the towel, that she wore nothing under it.

"Here goes nothing!"

One of the last words I might have chosen was nothing. Rien in French, spoken with that sexy blurring of the R and the N sounds. No, this was going to be something. Quelque chose d'exceptionnel!

Her breasts hung for a fraction of a second on the hem of the stretchy blue shirt, lifting them, and when the fabric let go, they bounced quite impressively. Breasts always look so good when a woman's arms are raised, and my sister's were no exception. When those arms dropped, they looked fantastic, too.

Alyssa wore B-cups; I knew this from the laundry around the house, a fact that puzzled me. My girlfriend also had Bs, but looked a full size smaller both fully dressed and, now, bare. And they had a lovely hang, however slight, the way large breasts do. Skin of alabaster, so white it appeared translucent and contrasted with the tanned skin round them, making them stand out even more than they otherwise would. Rose nipples, large and light, were located high on her breasts and slightly turned out, away from the center toward the sides.

Those nipples reminded me a little of Marty Feldman. Many of you probably don't know what I'm talking about, but back then, he was quite popular, and died suddenly shortly before our trip. When he appeared on screen, all eyes were on his eyes pointed away to the sides. You just couldn't look away, as I could not look away from Alyssa's breasts.

The comparison ends there.

Her eyebrows drew down, presumably warning me to put my jaw back in place, and she whirled around and lay on the towel. Her breasts glowed in the famous sunlight and my dick began inflating despite my best efforts to control the damn thing, so I quickly lay down beside her, praying a tent pole did not arise inside my pants.

"Oh, almost forget the sunblock!"

Sweet holy Jesus! She rubbed Coppertone 30 into the skin of those beautiful breasts! Back then, sunblock was a white, oily cream that, as she rubbed it across that pallid skin and over her nipples, looked exactly like she was rubbing jism all over her tits! I had to put my book over my lap.
Soon as she covered every inch of her breasts and looked beyond amazing doing so, she lay a small, folded hand towel across her face the way she usually does while sunbathing to keep the sun off her face, which always has seemed counter-intuitive while sunbathing. To keep her complexion from getting too dark, she explained—again, pretty much the opposite of sunbathing's purpose. This time, I think, she either used it to hide or as blinders to keep from seeing the dozens of eyes aimed at her. Hundreds.

"Are you looking at my tits?"

"Does honest count?"

"Yes."

"Then, yes."

"Stop-stop!" A hand blindly swatted toward me, hitting me on the third or fourth try before she started laughing. It was magnificent when she laughed. They shook like two large bowls of vanilla pudding with giant cherries on top. "Is anyone looking at me?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

"Because you are laying there topless, so it's difficult for me to see anything else." Vanilla pudding again shook magnificently, but this time, she remembered precisely where she located my arm, and instead of an open hand, swung a curled fist with the middle finger out to induce maximum pain.

A beatdown from the Road Warriors would have been worth it for this view.

"Stop looking at my tits!"

"Okay."

"Stop looking at my tits!"

"OKAY! I'm not looking at your tits!"

"What are you looking at?"

"You left a little streak of sunscreen on your sternum, right between your tits. If you want, I can wipe it off or rub it in or something."

Cherries shook atop the vanilla pudding again. "I hate you."

"I know. For good reason, too."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"At least say something!"

"About your..."

"I know you're thinking something, and I know how guys judge, and I'm feeling extremely vulnerable and foolish and vain and I need to hear you say something other than avoiding saying what you are thinking."

"Honesty still count?"

"Yes—I think."

Funny how all the English superlatives are virtually the same in French. Superb. Sublime. Marvelous. Remarkable. "Magnifique."

"Really? You aren't just saying that to make me feel better about lying here topless in front of God and everybody?"

"Stop worrying! Honestly, they are beautiful." How I avoided using the word perfect I still do not understand.

Her little towel over her face was the second-best part of this whole experience, because I could look the whole time without her confirming her suspicions. My wood got out of hand and threatened to tip over the book tent erected to hide it, so I rolled over so dozens of rocks could poke it painfully. And what a blessing that pain was, causing the swelling to go down. My view was almost as good, and allowed me to turn my face toward her without the appearance of ulterior motive.

When she lifted her towel and saw me prone on the rocks, she too, rolled over. "Ouch!"

"Rocks?"

"Until this very second, I didn't know how sensitive my boobs are."