Vineyard Adventures

I didn't manage to do that for an hour after she, having laid a burden of trust on me, innocently fell asleep in my arms.

When I woke daylight was streaming through the window. I had an erection under the sheet, and there was a hand around it, not my own. 'Martine is holding my manhood!' My brain had jerked into gear.

Her head lay on my bare chest, her long auburn hair spilling over it, and the bedcover was pulled up to her shoulder. Despite the impression I got that her breasts were naked, she was still wearing the nightie.

I must have started because her hand drew guiltily away. I pretended to be waking, saving her embarrassment. Her head lifted and her eyes gazed into mine. "Good morning, Pierre." "Good morning, Martine."

We sounded like sappy newlyweds waking after their wedding night. I was happy and she was shy. Her breasts were no longer touching me and her hand had gone somewhere that did not have any contact with my body. Only my erection had stayed the same, lifting the sheet that covered us.

Her eyes moist and warm, she said, "I'm grateful for what you did for me at the river yesterday." "Any gentleman would have." "I hope your nose is all right now." She looked at it. "Quite recovered," I said. "I should go." She immediately flipped back the bed cover on her side and slipped out.

I thought of a line from the movie Romeo and Juliet: 'Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?' But I did not vocalise it and, instead, chastely watched her tiptoe over to the door and leave, casting one last look at the steepled part of the bed cover.

Needless to say as, aching for her, I gave myself satisfaction I recalled the touch of her breasts against my chest and how she had inquisitively fondled my sex organ while I slept, either responding to an erection I already had when she woke, or causing it.

All day, Martine avoided being alone with me, and did not arrive at the table for dinner. "Her period must have come early," my father commented with his usual Gallic openness about matters to do with sex and reproduction. "During the time of her menstrual flow she's exceptionally shy." "Insists on using pads not tampons," my mother contributed, sounding very modern for her age.

It was my turn to feel awkward at the table, and to wonder if Martine had other reasons for avoiding me. Innocent though it had turned out to be -- at least until she woke in the morning -- could she regret having expressed her gratitude by spending the night in my bed?

The next night, late and unexpected, my ghostly angel came to me again and cuddled in my armpit. I could sense her breasts near me even though they weren't touching my side this time. As before, she had worn all she needed for modesty in the moonlight.

Deciding after a few moments that I was awake, she whispered, "Do you always sleep with nothing on?" I wondered how she could tell, and said, "Even in winter in Noumea, except for a mosquito net."

There was silence for a few moments. Then I felt a small feminine hand slide down my chest and rest on my belly, excitingly only a few millimetres away from my pubic hair.

"And this?" She touched my organ with one extended finger and giggled softly. "Is it always the first to rise in the mornings?" "Every morning since I've been here." "Who do you dream about -- your girlfriend back in Noumea?" "I don't currently have one."

She digested that information in silence while I was wishing her finger, or even better her whole hand, would come back to touch my penis.

"Whom do you dream about then?" "You." "Really?" She giggled softly again. "Because of this?" Her hand began fondling my manhood. "Because I like you," I managed to say. "We hardly know each other." "I'd like to remedy that."

My manhood, though telling her no lies, any more than I was, had started to grow like Pinocchio's nose. She was now stroking it, but inexpertly. I threw back the sheet so that we could both see my swollen member standing up in the moonlight. I showed her how to hold it with three fingers spread along the underside of the shaft and a thumb on top rubbing the foreskin over the rim of the glans.

She whispered with delight, "It feels so big and hard!" "I love the feel of your hand on it!"

With little kisses, her lips started caressing my ribs. Then I heard her ask, "Do you want me to bring you off?" As if in anticipation, she increased the pace of her milking, leaving me startled she knew about such things. She had appeared to be so shy and innocent.

I wanted to tell her how it would be a waste and that I really wanted to come inside her, but I said, "If you like." "Would you like?" "Very much!"

Her hand flew even faster, and I groaned in pleasure for her without having to pretend. She giggled, amused, and then concentrated harder on what she was doing.

Seconds later, with me craving relief, her hand produced a gusher, gouts of semen spurting upwards then subsiding over her wrist and fingers.

The next thing I knew she had slithered on top of me and was pressing her groin against my subsiding erection, her lips passionately finding mine.

She did not seem like a girl anymore but very much like a woman.

I hitched at her cotton nightie and she lifted a little to free it to the waist. Settling again, her hair-fringed vulva nestled nakedly against my penis -- deflation stalled by the delightful intimacy. (My father had been wrong about her menstruating early.)

My hands found her buttocks and squeezed down. She let out a little groan of pleasure, pressing her belly into mine. Groping lower, I drew her buns gently apart. She raised her upper body, her hands on my shoulders, and pressed her wet flesh against my still swollen shaft. While she did a delightful bump and grind against my manhood I kept holding her open, down there, as best I could.

I was stiff enough to have entered her but she reached a climax without penetration, forestalling, and perhaps not wanting, full intercourse. Maybe frightened I might, she leapt out of bed and wordlessly left me. Aching for her, I felt bereft and alone in the room.

The next day I worked in the vineyard with my father. At dinner, Martine sat across the table and kept giving me shy glances. Once, whether by accident or not, her foot touched my leg.

I wasn't sure if she would arrive in my room again or not. I waited, and thought of going to hers, but worried it might seem too aggressive given her age and circumstances -- far better that I take things gradually and she come to me of her own freewill.

She did come in the end. This time she stood by the bed and lifted her nightie off over her head. For a moment I saw her young body up close, nude though shadowed, and wished there were no clouds over the moon.

She came in with me and cuddled up. For the first time, skin-to-skin, I felt the magic touch of her soft breasts and nipples on my chest.

"I just wanted to be with you like this," she whispered. "It feels wonderful," I said, hugging her closer and giving up any expectations of having sex. "I love you," she said shyly. "I love you too, little one," I responded, meaning it, hugging her delightedly because she felt so wonderfully bare from head to toe. She settled even more comfortably into my embrace. "Good night, Pierre." "Goodnight, Martine."

I spent the long hours with her chastely, not sleeping much, but when I woke after dawn found her already gone from the bed, perhaps scared off this time by my morning erection.

Eventually,I know she will be ready to go all the way and, once she is, she will want to be totally mine.