Pisstory Pt. 02: Sur la route

"You didn't write to say you were coming?"

I held out my hand for her to shake.

"We're French. We kiss" she said, mockingly, and brushed both my cheeks with her lips.

Yann rolled his eyes.

"Miss Sophisticated" he said.

I remembered there had been a hay loft above the cattle shed and milking parlour which had now been refurbished. When Yann and Alana took me to look at it, it was clear it formed part of the same project, converted into another sleeping space at the same time as the space downstairs was split into Alana's bedroom and a bathroom. It was reached by open plan wooden stairs, more solid than the ladder that had gone before, but built on the same principle.

"Why didn't you nab the bedroom?" I asked Yann, who led the way, turning my head to wink at Alana behind me. "You're the eldest, after all."

"I was glad to get rid of the kid" he said. "This way I don't have to put up with her ugly little friends and their dreadful pop records when they stay over."

"Arsehole!" said Alana. "Better than your miserable Stivell and Prog!"

And to my absolute stupefaction, she pinched my bum.

Both the big windows, which gave onto the yard at one side and open country opposite, had previously been no more than gaps in the walls for hoisting hay up and dropping it down. Now they were fully glazed and had custom-built shutters painted, like all the others in the house, in a dusty shade of dark blue. The room itself felt larger than it ever could have before, aided by light throughout its entire width, obvious even though by this stage of the afternoon it was starting to dim. The floor was polished board, the furniture a bed, a table, lamp, chair, wardrobe, and wash basin.

"Yours for as long as you want to stay" Yann said.

"It's lovely" I said. "Thanks very much. But why didn't you want such a magnificent space, Alana?"

"I don't like stairs" she said. "And there are too many windows. I don't like feeling as though I'm being watched."

She was standing far closer behind me than she needed to in that wide room. I could feel the heat from her body on the back of my forearm beneath a rolled-up sleeve.

"My sister prefers living in the shadows" Yann said. "Like a vampire."

"Arsehole!"

"Mum'll find you some towels. Now, let's eat. And have a drink."

Alana and I stood aside to let him down the stairs. As he descended she suddenly grabbed my wrist, stepped in front of me and kissed me so quickly I could barely get my mouth open.

"I love you" she whispered, and followed her brother down.

Naturally, I could think of little else during dinner. In some ways it was good to have the distraction, because I found myself increasingly baffled as to what I was doing there in the first place. I told the family about my planned university course, my decision to travel for a bit to see old friends and learn a bit about the world. But when Yvon asked me what were my longer term goals I didn't know what to say. I feebly suggested that I'd like to write, but all I could manage by way of greater detail was "Novels, perhaps. Maybe poetry. Some criticism."

Yann was currently working for three days a week as an intern at a hotel in Nantes, and planning to go to business school the following year.

"I think Dad's idea to go into holiday accommodation is a good one. I want to learn as much as I can about the hospitality industry, so I can join him full-time."

"And take over when I die!" said Yvon, grinning and nodding at me.

"What do you want to do, Alana?"

We hadn't said a word to each other since we came back into the house. She looked at the tablecloth. Her black, centre-parted hair shone in the low table lights.

"I'm going to university for sure" she said. "Then maybe the law. Maybe the civil service."

"Alana works very hard. She's doing extra courses at the moment" said Yvon.

She looked up at me, then rapidly away, as though embarrassed at being complimented.

Berthe Morvan said very little between presenting us with food, but I knew when she did speak what she said would be considered and incisive. I also hoped she hadn't noticed anything between me and Alana.

"Have you been following extra courses before you go to university, Joseph?"

"No. I'm just, er, travelling."

"What do your parents think about you delaying, though?"

"They didn't understand at first, but I think my father does now. He'll explain to my mother."

"Write to her while you're here, won't you? Mothers feel things deeply."

Alana excused herself after dessert. Her disappearance was Yvon's cue once more to observe how hard she worked. For some reason this, on top of Berthe's observation, made me even more uncomfortable.

Eventually, I got to the converted cowshed myself. I'd had a fair bit of wine, and Yvon had insisted on my trying his home-made apple brandy, which was just a few octane short of rocket fuel. I'd numbed my apprehensions somewhat, and was disappointed there was no light from under Alana's door. I didn't want to wake her, as I still couldn't quite believe what she'd done and said earlier, and if I'd misunderstood in any way making an unwanted move on a friend and host's sister was pretty much unforgivable.

I woke in the middle of the night, feeling for the bedside light and managing to pull it over by the cable, fortunately not damaging the bulb but causing the lamp to clatter onto the floor. I swore loudly, in French, I was glad to note. I staggered across lightly creaking boards to take a drink of water from the tap in the wash basin, and as the cold settled on me realised I needed a piss. I found my jeans where I'd discarded them at random in a corner of the unfamiliar room, and endeavoured to tackle the steps by feel. I made it unscathed to the bathroom.

Alana was seated on the toilet, dimly picked out in moonlight through a small frosted window high in the wall. She was wearing an oversized striped pyjama jacket from which long, thin, bare white legs protruded. Her elbows rested on her knees, her long-bobbed hair hanging slightly forward across her cheeks.

"I heard you get up. I was waiting for you" she said.

Well, I wasn't imagining it, then. I had a flash of recall of Emma's story about being caught masturbating on the toilet in the shop where she'd worked, and that put paid to my immediate need for a slash myself.

I knelt in front of her, put my arms round her, and kissed her for a very long time.

"I love you" she said again when we came up for air.

"I like you a lot too" I said "But love's a very big word."

"I loved you all those years ago when you and Yann first became friends. You were the romantic foreigner who didn't even see me."

"You seemed very young then. And yeah, I know we're the same age, but I was, well, a bit of a prick then."

She laughed.

"I hope I don't seem too young now."

She unbuttoned the pyjama top and ran my left hand across her small breasts, shivering a little.

"Put your other hand in me. Please."

I slid my right between her legs, my middle finger seeking out her little slit in its soft nest of curls. Her lips were already slightly swollen and wet. I pushed my finger inside her cunt and started to stroke it. She shivered again, and a sudden spurt of her urine trickled into my palm and dripped from my wrist.

"I'm sorry. I... when I get excited..."

"Don't be sorry. I like it. In fact, I want you to piss on my hand. And in my mouth. And all over me."

Her eyes widened, and her cunt followed suit. A stream of hot piss gushed into my hand and along my arm. As I'd done with Emma so long before, I cupped my hand to catch it, brought it to my mouth and sucked it up thirstily. Then I soaked my hand again and, just as she was finishing, spilt its contents over her tits and spread the fluid around, licking her tiny nipples to erection and slipping my wet fingers into her willing mouth. I kissed her again.

I know now that all girls' piss tastes different. Some very good writers of wet erotica liken the flavours of their partners and characters to other things they like, like champagne or fruit, but to my mind that misses the point. Comparisons are OK, but I've found that you're far closer to the actual experience if you say, first of all, that a girl's piss tastes like girls' piss. Within that general category there are then variations that can be likened to other flavours. A bit like the vocabulary of wine tasting. Alana's piss that night had elements of a light Sauvignon Blanc, with a tinge of asparagus, a note of coriander -- and a lot of hormonal, ammoniac, salt-tinged urine.

I got her to sit forward on the toilet seat so I could get my tongue into her vagina and lick her out, something I'd never managed with Emma. I ran it from where the piss had mingled with her cunt juice, up past her urethra -- still pulsing out tiny splashes -- and upwards across her clitoris and back down again. She was now pushing her crotch into my face, which meant firstly that she was rubbing herself against my nose and I had the full arousing benefit of the smell of her -- coriander, asparagus, girl's piss -- and secondly that my tongue could now reach between her small buttocks and lightly penetrate her tight little arsehole, wet with her various secretions.

I pushed two fingers into her cunt, and with a third I explored the edges of her arse.

"Fuck me!" she said, her breath catching. "Fuck me with your cock!"

Said cock was more than ready. It had waited long enough. Then the horrible realisation.

"Shit!" I said. "I haven't got any condoms!"

The man who had thought he was so clever not to have repeated Kerouac's mistake with his shoes, who had anticipated difficulty washing long hair on the road, and even accidentally discovered a way of getting guaranteed lifts from truckers, conservatives, and other patriots, hadn't done anything about one of his few definite intentions on his travels -- to get laid.

"Shit!" I said again. "I'm an arsehole."

"I've got one" Alana said.

It turned out she'd spotted a packet of rubbers in a drawer in Yann's room when she was in there borrowing something, and stolen one out of curiosity. She dragged me into her room, a murky affair with dark velvet drapes and a candle burning. She almost pulled my jeans off me, and she fumbled in her bedside drawer for a crumpled foil packet, which she ripped open with her teeth. She held the column of my cock in one of her long white hands, and peeled the johnny over it with the other, as though that were something she'd been doing all her life.

"I'd imagined this was your first time" I said.

"It is. But how difficult can it be putting one of those on, eh?"

She'd lost the pyjama jacket somewhere along the way. She threw herself onto the bed with her knees raised and legs wide open, her arms above her head. Her dark pubic hair was echoed by dark patches under her arms where she hadn't shaved lately.

"Make love to me. Sorry, fuck me" she said. "Quickly!"

Now as I went toward her I feared it would, indeed, be quickly. If it hadn't been for the awareness that I still needed a piss I would probably have cum already. I nuzzled the tip of my cock against the entry to her cunt, and pushed, and nothing happened. I couldn't get in.

"Shit!"

"Push!"

"It's no good. You're too small."

"'Putain de merde!'" (there is no accurate English translation for this expletive.) "It's a cunt, and I'm French. It'll stretch."

She began rubbing her clit, arching her back as she did so, sporadically pushing first one, then two, then three of her thin fingers into herself.

"That should do." She grabbed my hand, and waited till I'd inserted two of my larger fingers up to the second joints and drawn them out shiny with her lubricant. "Now, fuck me. Hard. Please."

This time my cock went in and kept going. She was still so tight I could hardly feel my cock through the condom, but I thrust in and out of her according to the rhythm of her gasps, shrieks, and instructions.

"Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Bury your cock in me. Put your finger in my arse. Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Bury your cock... and so on."

I had to remind myself that this was my friend's sister, and the last time I'd seen her she'd been playing on a beach with my kid brother.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you" I said in her ear. "Every dirty thing you think about when you touch yourself."

"I want to you to fuck my cunt, my mouth, my arse. I want you to cum down my throat, in my face, over my tits, up my arse. I want you to piss on me."

"And what do you want to do to me?"

"I want to suck you dry. I want to cum and piss in your mouth. I want to push my fingers up your arse and make you... Oh God!!!"

And she came, bucking against me and scratching my back with her nails.

It was just as well. I'd cum about thirty seconds before and needed that narrative to ensure I remained hard for her. I don't think she noticed.

We lay around in the candlelight, kissing and stroking each other. Little Alana, the girl who took my virginity -- although I didn't tell her that.

"I actually do love you" she said.

I ran my fingers along her bony back and into that always-astonishing depression just above her woman's bum. My bladder was now stretched to capacity and I couldn't wait any longer.

"Did you say you wanted me to piss on you?" I said.

"Oh, yes."

"Let's go to the bathroom, then."

After she had knelt in the tub, after I'd pissed in her face and mouth, across her firm little breasts and hard nipples, over the hand with which she masturbated herself to another orgasm, after I'd got hard again and pushed my cock into her mouth, ejaculated on her tongue, after we'd kissed and combined our rank, salty flavours and swallowed them, after she'd told me she sometimes liked to piss on herself as she lay in an empty bath with her legs raised against the wall, how she could catch her own fountain in her mouth and make herself cum at her own taste -- after all that we showered together, gently soaping each other's tender parts and each taking turns with the single towel to dry one another off. We cuddled up in her bed, stroking and kissing. I slept for a while, momentarily unsure where or even who I was when I woke to the smell of an extinguished candle and the soft warmth of her body.

"You'd better go back to your own bed" she said. "Even though he hasn't got the milking to worry about my father still likes to get up before sunrise and walk round what's left of the farm. He never comes in here, but... well, there's always a first time."

"There is" I said, crawling out from under the duvet. "There is."

There certainly had been tonight. I kissed her again.

"My love" she said.

I slept late into the morning. When I pushed open the shutters on the field side of the room it flooded with the light of a bright blue winter morning, empty fields rolling away to the horizon, dead quiet. It felt like another world, which in many ways I suppose it was.

I dressed and went downstairs, tapping on Alana's door, on the off chance that she'd decided to bunk off college. She hadn't. I opened the door, suddenly desperate to see at least the room where we'd been together and feel something of her presence to convince me it was real.

The velvet curtains were still drawn, the dead candle sat in its pool of congealed wax, the bed was in disarray. I leaned over it to sniff for her scent on the sheet, and spotted the twisted fabric of her discarded underwear on the floor.

I unwrapped the knickers like a precious gift, held them to my nose and took a deep breath of her cunt, transporting me straight back to the previous night. I licked at the faint stains to reactivate them, tasting her salt and musk and rubbing it over my face. With my free hand I unzipped my jeans, released my erection, and wanked myself hard until I came all over Alana's pillow. I wiped my cock on her pants and replaced them where I'd found them, turning her pillow over so the marks of my obsession were not so glaringly obvious. Then I went out into the cold, bright morning.

Berthe was alone in the kitchen. Yann was at his hotel, Yvon had gone to see the land agent. Although I tried to persuade her she shouldn't bother, she insisted on making me an omelette for breakfast, serving it with the remnants of the previous day's bread and hot, sweet, milky coffee.

"A young man should keep his strength up."

I was suddenly seized by a great affection for her, as for my own mother.

"I'm going to write to my Mum today" I told her. "I'll walk to the village to buy stamps and get fresh bread while I'm there, if you'd like me to."

"You're a good boy" she said. If only she knew.

In common with other Celtic countries -- Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Cornwall -- Britanny has a hagiology of local saints unknown elsewhere or to wider Christianity. They crop up in placenames, as in that of the Morvans' village, and frequently involve obscure shrines linked to features like wells and springs, which probably date them back to prehistoric, pagan origins. There was one such at the end of the narrow lane from the farm to the public road, which marked the site where an underground rivulet would occasionally burst to the surface. Its waters were superstitiously believed to have healing powers even though, according to Yann, they "tasted like piss." This I remembered from the last time I'd been there, and of course now it amused me greatly. The site was dry at the moment, marked by a rudimentary stone Celtic cross with eroded words in Breton inscribed around its circle. From now on I'd think, privately, of it as Saint Alana's Fountain.

A kilometre further up the road the village proper began, and just before it came in sight around the bend I remembered Henri's bar.

It stood right at the edge of the settlement, the first building you came to going in and the last going out. It had no illuminated sign, or indeed sign of any kind, just 'Chez Henri' hand-painted next to the door in that looping cursive script that all French schoolchildren learn. Its position was perhaps emblematic of the status of its owner, Henri himself, who wasn't born locally but had lived there for so long that no one -- including Henri -- could say with any certainty when it was he'd arrived. He was both insider and stranger. When I'd been there four summers before there were a couple of tables set up outside on the rudimentary pavement, where Yann and I had sat for hours drinking coffee and the occasional beer, talking about music and chatting with three sisters roughly our own age who were there on holiday from Paris -- Henri's nieces, as it turned out. The man himself rarely left the dark interior of his establishment, where he was quite happy to sit reading the newspaper, smoking cigarettes, sipping occasionally at a permanent cup of 'express', and listening to Edith Piaf records on a battered stereo set up behind the bar. There never seemed to be any other customers, but that didn't seem to bother Henri.

Now I stuck my head round the door, wide open despite the season, and there he was, exactly as I remembered him, wreathed in Gauloises smoke and singing along to a chansonnier who, for once, was neither Piaf nor female.

"Hello, Henri."

He squinted at me, adjusted his specs, leaned forward and declared: "Name of God! Jojo!"

"You remember me!"

"How could I forget?"

He whirled out from behind the bar, wrapping me in his bearlike arms and kissing me on both cheeks. His long drooping grey moustache tickled my cheek. His hair -- similarly long, grey, worn in a ponytail -- had receded a bit from his forehead, but he still looked pretty well-preserved. I'd never been able to judge his age. All I'd ever known was that his younger sister was the mother of three teenage girls.

It also occurred to me for the first time that he was almost certainly gay. That would be why he gave everyone he knew a slightly camp nickname. I was Jojo. His niece Melanie was Mimi, Diane Doudou, and Zoe Zaza. Yann had to make do with Yanni ("Yaya sounds too stupid" Henri explained.)