Chapter 5
Molly spent two full weeks in England, during which time she visited just about every tourist attraction in the country, and a number of lesser-known spots off the beaten track. When she went out sightseeing it was with either Eric or Peter, both of whom proved to be top-drawer guides.
Sometimes the three of them would venture forth to explore the lovely English countryside, or as a change of pace, the exciting, intriguing section of London known as Soho. Molly sensed that Peter and Eric were vying for her affections, or at least her attention, and she took full advantage of this, being careful to keep both happy in bed and out.
During her stay in England, she lived with Eric, in the hotel room he had reserved for a month. She fucked him regularly and with great passion, the two spending hours humping each other silly. But she also fucked Peter whenever the opportunity arose to do so.
The only thing she regretted was that, for some reason or another, they never got around to enjoying a three-in-bed sex session. Fucking Eric was fun, and fucking Peter was fun, but on more than one occasion, she found herself wondering what it would be like if she had them both at the same time. Interesting, to say the least.
But there was no point in dwelling on what might have been, thought Molly, reflecting on her stay in England, while enjoying a glass of red wine at a charming outdoor cafe on the Champs Elysees, on this, her very first day in France. The opportunity to fuck to attractive males at the same time would certainly come her way again.
Saying goodbye to Eric and Peter, however had certainly not been easy. They had tried very hard to talk her out of leaving, Molly remembered, and she had come close to giving in and staying around for another few days.
But it was good that she left when she did.
A longer stay could conceivably have resulted in the busting up of a long and obviously important friendship, since Eric and Peter were becoming, day by day, more jealous of each other.
Molly took another sip of her red wine, and savored its cool, refreshing taste as it slithered down her throat. She set the glass down on the red and white checkered tablecloth, and looked around, pleased that she had picked this spot to rest her weary feet after and afternoon spent sightseeing.
It was a delightful cafe, uncrowded, quiet and unobtrusive. The young men and women working as waiters and waitresses, respectively, were courteous and attentive, and there was about the place an air of romance and blossoming affairs.
The cafe was situated between a bank on the left and a florist on the right. A sparkling white awning shaded most of the round, wrought-iron tables and wrought-iron chairs. Sitting in the center of each table, in an attractive, transparent vase, was a long-stemmed rose.
Smiling inwardly, Molly picked up her glass and was about to take another sip of the delicious wine when she noticed out of the corner of her eye, a man staring at her. She set the glass down on the table without drinking, then started debating with herself whether to look the man's way or not.
Curiosity won out, and Molly, trying to act casual, glanced to her left, toward a table not far from the door of the cafe. The man who had been staring at her smiled and lifted his glass in a toast. Not knowing whether to return the smile or not, Molly stared for a few long seconds, and then turned away.
At least he was attractive, she thought. If she was going to be ogled, let it be by handsome men. Whoever was giving her the once over, had a beautiful smile and nice, even teeth. He was about thirty, she figured, although the bushy mustache he wore and the goatee adorning his chin made him look a few years older.
He was dressed casually, almost sloppily, in a loose-fitting white sweat shirt, faded blue dungarees, and brown sandals. It was the attire of an artist, Molly decided. He was probably a struggling writer, or maybe a painter, living from hand to mouth while he labored at the masterpiece that would stand the world on its ear.
It was rather nice to think of him in that light, thought the runaway housewife, who had left home seeking adventure. It was also kind of sexy. Creative people were supposed to possess great imagination in bed and out. The fellow ogling her might be a regular Romeo in search of a little stimulating companionship.
Feeling wicked, Molly looked over at the man again, a ripple of excitement coursing up her spine, when she discovered that he was still trying to flirt with her. She decided to return his smile, knowing that it would serve as a signal to him, an indication that he had her approval if he cared to join her.
The man smiled, gulped down what was left in his wine glass, then rose from the table, and started for Molly.
"Have you been told lately that you smile like an angel?" he asked, when he arrived at Molly's table, his accent confirming the fact that, as she had just naturally assumed, he was a Frenchman.
Molly smiled. Not the most original approach, to be sure, she thought. But at least he hadn't walked over and asked straight out if he could lay her. He would get around to that, of course. Some friendly conversation, a few laughs, and then, inevitably, the invitation to bed. And she might just find herself accepting.
"Would you permit me the pleasure of joining you. Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, all right." How about that, thought Molly. Thinking her younger than she really was, and unattached, he had used Mademoiselle instead of Madame. Well, he was starting off on the right foot, that's for sure.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pierre-Pierre Claremont."
"Nice to make your acquaintance, Pierre. My name is Molly Lawford."
"Ahh, an American. I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on you."
"And just how long have you been watching me, Pierre?"
"Yes, I know it is not polite to stare, but I just could not help myself. You are so very, very attractive." The Frenchman chuckled.
"I'll bet you say that to all the girls."
"Oh, not, that is not true," lied Pierre. "I am not what you Americans call a skirt-chaser."
"No?" said Molly, cocking her left eyebrow.
The Frenchman was quiet for a moment, then with a somewhat sheepish smile, "Well, I must confess to liking girls, especially beautiful ones like yourself. But there is no harm in admiring beauty, correct?"
"Correct," answered Molly, realizing that her pussy had started to purr. She was tempted to inform this brown-eyed Frenchman with the shaggy dark hair that flattery would get him everywhere, but she thought it best to find out a little more about him. Like what he did for a living, for instance.
"I am a painter," Pierre said proudly in answer to Molly's question.
"What do you do? Abstracts? Landscapes?"
Pierre smiled tolerantly, and shook his head. "I am a portrait painter. People come to my studio and-"
"Oh, you have your own studio?" Molly interrupted, thinking she might have been wrong about her would-be seducer's financial condition.
"No, unfortunately not," answered Pierre, causing the hopeful smile on Molly's face to fade. "I share a studio with a good friend of mind, Jacques Novale. He is a sculptor."
"Oh, I see. That's nice."
"No, not really. I like Jacques very much, you understand, but still-well, it would be nice to have my own place. This business of sharing is, how shall I say, a little tiring."
"I suppose it does get maddening at times."
"I think Jacques would like to work in private, too." Then, with a little shrug of his shoulders and a half-smile, he added, "But we will just have to wait until one of us becomes famous and has lots of money."
"That day may not be far off," suggested Molly. "New talents are being discovered every day, you know."
"Yes. And soon it will be my turn."
"Or Jacques'."
Pierre chucked softly. "Yes, or Jacques'."
The Frenchman started asking Molly if she were vacationing in Paris, where she was staying, if she knew anybody in France, and how long she intended to be in this country. Molly answered these questions, and others, politely, and often with a smile, twisting the truth of course, on occasion.
The minutes rolled by, and Pierre ordered two more glasses of wine. Molly came to realize that she liked the Frenchman. He was reasonably intelligent, charming, possessed a nice sense of humor, and of course, he was attractive.
So when Pierre asked her if she's like to visit his studio, for the purpose of looking at a few of his paintings, she answered with an unequivocal, "Yes, I'd like that very much, Pierre. Lead the way."
Pierre led the way, to Montmartre, a rather run-down section of Paris known for its cafes and night life, and where for decades, artists and would-be artists have lived and played. Molly offered a silent prayer when she stepped out of the taxi, for the Parisian cab driver, a madman behind the wheel, had gotten them there in what seemed like one minute flat.
The raven-tressed beauty was not at all impressed when she glanced up at the old red brick building housing her Frenchman's studio.
Climbing up the rickety stairs, she could not help but wonder if she had made a mistake in accepting his invitation. And when, on the top floor, Pierre unlocked the door, and pushed it open, thereby giving her a look inside, Molly knew for sure that she wasn't visiting the home of a successful young artist.
"Please go in," said Pierre, smiling.
Molly entered with something akin to caution. She had half expected to see a dark, dingy dirty little room no bigger than a walk-in closet and cluttered with this and that. What she found was a very large room, a loft, really, with a huge, rectangular window on one wall, and a skylight in the center of the ceiling. The studio was, for all intents and purposes, devoid of furniture. All she could see as she looked around was a battered old desk, a standing lamp, an unpainted wooden table, and there, sitting smack dab in the center of the studio, a king-sized bed.
Everything else was either a piece of sculpture or a painting. They were all over the place.
"Well, what do you think, Molly? Tell me the truth."
"It's different," answered Molly looking at the bare white walls, and wondering why some of the paintings had not been hung, to get them out of the way if nothing else. "It has a certain charm."
"Like me," grinned the Frenchman.
Pierre took Molly by the arm and started to walk her around the loft, giving her a guided tour of the place, when suddenly, from behind them, somebody called out, "Hey, Pierre, have you forgotten me? And you call yourself a friend of mine."
Molly turned around quickly, startled by the male voice. Her surprise, however, was like nothing compared to the shock of discovering a young but totally glad and bare-assed naked male grinning at her. She blinked, thinking that her eyes were playing tricks on her.
"This is Jacques, Molly," said Pierre, who didn't seem in the least surprised to see his friend stark naked. "Please excuse his lack of clothes. He always walks around like that."
"I must have freedom," explained Jacque, continuing to dry his hands with a paper towel, as he advanced toward Molly. "And clothes are so confining." He held out his hand for Molly to clasp. "Welcome to this poor man's paradise. Visitors, especially attractive ones, are always welcome here."
"Thank you," said Molly, half smiling as she shook the Frenchman's hand. He was a strange one, all right, and certainly very forward. And maybe something of a show-off. But he wasn't bad-looking at all. In fact, he was rather appealing standing there in the altogether, a broad smile on his face, and his pecker dangling between his legs. He was not as tall as Pierre, who was about six feet in height, and on the slim side, but he had a nice, if rather chunky body. It was funny seeing all that hair on his chest, and none on his head. His face was more round than oval, and unlike Pierre's, it was clean shaven.
"A drink for the lady," said Jacques, "and make it the good stuff."
"All we have is the burgundy, Jacques," said Pierre.
"That's fine," said Molly with another half smile.
"Let me show you my latest creation, Polly, while-"
"It's Molly," interrupted the runaway housewife. "Not Polly."
Jacques grinned. "Sorry, I meant Molly." He took Molly's arm and started to lead her toward one corner of the loft. "You must see what I'm working on at the moment. I think it will turn out to be my best effort."
"Pierre told me you were a sculptor."
"I am a genius," Jacques said matter-of-factly.
A moment later, the uninhibited Frenchman was unveiling his latest work and beaming like a proud father. Resting on a pedestal four feet high was a mass of stone chiseled into a thing resembling a pyramid, but for all she knew, it could just as easily have been something Jacque found on the street.
"I call it Rock Slide," smiled Jacques.
"Rock Slide," echoed Molly, suppressing a grin.
"It's ugly, but very beautiful," the Frenchman went on. And dramatic in its intensity.
Depending on how you look at it, thought Molly. To her, it was just ugly. Period.
Pierre appeared with three glasses of wine, two balanced on his left had, and the third on his right. Jacques took one of the glasses and handed it to Molly then took one for himself. Next he proposed a toast to the beautiful woman whose presence stirs the creative juices. The three clinked glasses and then sampled the burgundy, Molly failing to notice the broad wink Jacques gave his friend, Pierre.
One hour and two glasses of burgundy later, Molly was in no condition to notice anything. All thoughts save one had scurried from her mind. She could think of nothing but how badly, how desperately, she needed to be fucked. Her body was aflame with lust, her cunt screaming for prick.
Later, when thinking back on what had happened, Molly would try to explain this sudden swelling of her passion, this satanic explosion of lust. Now, however, she was in no condition to question anything. All she cared about was getting a cock in her cunt, to stop the awful itching there.
"Here, give me a hand with her sweater, Pierre," said Jacques, who, with his friend had steered Molly to the king-sized bed and sat her down. "Let's hurry and strip her."
"Lift your arms up, Molly," Pierre ordered. "That's it. Now hold them like that."
Working together, the cunning Frenchmen pulled the powder blue sweater up over Molly's bra-encased breasts and then tugged it up off her head. Pierre reached around and then undid the clasp of her cream-colored brassiere. In a moment, in was lying on the floor on top of the sweater.
"Beautiful," smiled Jacques, staring at Molly's bare bosom. "Her tits are fantastic."
"Quick, let's get the rest of her clothes off," suggested Pierre, his cock thickening in the constructing confines of his slacks. "Up you go now, beautiful. On your feet."
"Yes, make me naked," breathed Molly.
Jacques and Pierre pulled the cock-craving woman up onto her feet. Molly stood on shaky legs, one hand holding tight to Pierre's right arm, while Jacques dropped to one knee and quickly took off her comfortable white walking shoes. In no time at all, Molly was standing in her bare feet.
"Now her slacks," said Jacques, clamping his hands onto Molly's hips for leverage as he pushed up to his feet. He found the button at the front of her coal-black, form-fitting slacks and worked it loose, then, taking hold of the slacks, he tried yanking them down.
"Wait, Jacques, there's a zipper in back," Pierre informed his friend. "I'll get it."
"Hurry," whimpered Molly. "Oh, hurry." The horrible itching in her vagina was getting worse. She thought she'd go out of her mind if she didn't get a prick soon.
Pierre pulled the zipper down and then, with Jacques, worked the slacks around and off Molly's shapely hips and then down her legs. Jacques dropped to one knee again, this time to work the slacks around and off Molly's bare feet. The task accomplished, Molly was left clad only in her wet-at-the-crotch undies.
"All right, now let's get her back into bed," said Jacques.
"What about her panties."
"I'll take care of them while you're undressing. Now help me stretch her out on the bed."
"Fuck me, dammit," breathed Molly.
The Frenchmen got the unprotesting woman into bed, laying her on her back. Pierre then set about getting his clothes off. Jacques was sporting an average size but firmer than firm erection, and he crawled into bed with Molly, who immediately threw her arms around him and again demanded cock.
Pierre kept an eye on what was happening on the bed, as he undressed. He smiled a wicked smile as his friend commenced a heated massage of Molly's hungry snatch through her panties. The beautiful woman's moans of pleasure were like the sweetest music to his ears.
It worked all the time, he thought. A little Spanish Fly in a glass of wine was all it took to turn a female inside out with lust. One had to be careful, of course. Too much of the potent aphrodisiac could prove fatal.
The proper amount however, administered to an unsuspecting beauty like Mademoiselle Molly, worked wonders on the vagina.
He would not soon forget some of the other women whom he had talked into visiting his studio. The Spanish Fly had turned them into raving nymphomaniacs, and he and Jacques had spent hours putting their pricks into all three orifices. Sometimes the women passed out on them. What nights there had been!
When he was naked, Pierre joined the couple on the bed, taking a position on Molly's left while Jacques remained on her right. He placed one hand on Molly's breast, squeezing that succulent melon of flesh hard as he mashed his lips against hers and smothered a moan.
A moment later, having broken the kiss, Pierre was asking Jacques what he wanted to do first.
Jacques, still kneading Molly's twat, answered, "I think I will eat her first, and you Pierre?"
Pierre thought for a moment, then grinned lewdly. He cupped Molly's chin and turned her head toward him. "You are going to suck my cock, Molly. Does that please you?"
"Yes, let me suck it," pleaded Molly, continuing the frantic massage of Jacques' genitals she had started seconds after he went to work on her pussy.
Pierre looked at his bald-headed, thirty-three-year-old sculptor friend and chuckled.
"So what are you waiting for, Pierre?" asked Jacques, grinning. "The beautiful lady has requested your organ in her nice mouth."
"And I will not disappoint her."
So saying, Pierre maneuvered into position so that Molly could get at his tumescent manhood. In no time at all, he was straddling her creamy-smooth chest. He took hold of his rigid pecker and proceeded to tease the passion-soaked woman by rubbing it over her face-everywhere but in her mouth.
Molly begged for it, turning her head this way and that on the pillow as she tried in vain to capture the moving manhood with her mouth. "Let me have it, dammit, don't do this to me!"
"All right, all right," said Pierre, grinning down at the frustrated beauty. "Open wide and I will feed you."
Molly opened wide. His grin fading, Pierre steered his organ into her yawning oral cavity, his buttocks lifting up off Molly's boobs as he found the proper angle and dipped his dong into that inviting mouth.
A grateful Molly clasped the hung of meat between her lips and started sucking immediately, with obvious relish.
Jacques, meanwhile, had scooted down the bed, and worked himself into position between Molly's legs. Kneeling now between her spread legs, he took hold of her warm pants and ripped them down the front, the flimsy material tearing easily to give him an unobstructed view of her glistening snatch.
He smiled down at Molly's dark-haired cunt, his brown eyes feasting on the scintillating sight of that tempting taste treat. Then, dropping into a low crouch, he worked his hands between the woman's well-shaped bottom, and the sheeted mattress and plastered his face against her aroused womanhood.
Molly moaned around the delicious cock in her mouth when she felt Jacques' hungry mouth on her twat. To encourage him, she pushed her hips up off the bed, and drove her twat into his face. A few moments later, she was moaning again, or trying to, as Jacques zeroed in on her already inflamed and throbbing clitoris.
"Eh, Jacques," grinned Pierre, "what are you doing to her back there, tickling her?"
"What do you think I'm doing?"
"And how does she taste to you?"
"Delicious. She is so soft and tender."
"She is very wet, not?"
"It is coming out of her faster than I can lap it up, Pierre."
"Be careful not to drink her dry, Jacques."
"You just take care of your end."
Molly paid little attention to this exchange between the two horny Frenchmen. With wanton abandon, she sucked the tasty tool, her head lifting and falling, lifting and falling, as her tightly-pursed lips slid wetly over the fleshy flank.
"Yes, suck it good, Molly," said Pierre, smiling down at the passion drenched female milking him. "Take it down your lovely throat."
Molly groaned.
With licking tongue and munching mouth, Jacques tended to Molly's soupy cabbage of a cunt. He never wandered far, however, from her excited clitoris, returning again and again to that cute love button to thrill it with a lick, a nibble, or with a gentle sucking motion of his pursed lips.
Finally, when he could wait no longer to penetrate Molly's sopping wet pussy, Jacques stopped slobbering and pushed up into a kneeling position. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then, hooking his arms under Molly's legs, and dropping them onto his shoulders, he shuffled forward on his knees.
"Eh, Jacques, what are you doing now?" asked Pierre feeling the mattress sag behind him.
"I must fuck her now," explained the eccentric, bald-headed Frenchman. "My cock is aching."
"But what about me?"
"What about you?"
"I want to fuck her now, too."
"You will just have to wait your turn. You went before me last time."
"You mean with Grethe?"
"Yes, with Grethe."
"But Jacques-"
"Besides, Pierre, you are already fucking her. You are fucking her face."
Chuckling over his little joke, Jacques took hold of his aroused prick and stuck it into Molly's hot, pulsing hole.
Then he shuffled forward another few inches, his bloated pecker sinking into Molly's mushy softness, as he positioned himself so that his knees were right up against her buttocks. Her beautiful legs were now perpendicular, at a right angle to her torso.
They rested against his hairy chest, the toes pointing to the skylight in the ceiling.
It was like this, with his hands clamped onto Molly's legs, an inch or so above her knees, that Jacques started reaming the hole he had been feasting on with a glutton's glee. In and out he worked his swollen manhood, savoring the hot, pulsing wetness of her clasping cunt.
"How is she, Jacques?"
"Good, very good."
"Is she tight, Jacques?"
"Tight enough. It is a good fit."
Pierre thought for a moment, then, still smiling down at hot female mouth gobbling his root, he said, "I think I 'will come in her mouth. She seems to be very thirsty."
Jacques grinned. "Does she suck good, Pierre?"
"She knows what her mouth is for, Jacques."
The feel of Jacques' blood-fattened tool jerking in and out of her slushy cunt and the idea of Pierre's warm, syrupy semen gushing into her mouth made Molly want to shout for joy. As if to express her gratitude, she started sucking Pierre's bloated prick even harder, pulling it so far into her hungry mouth, that she came close to gagging.
Pierre, while he prided himself on his staying power, was no superman. And so it was, that he shot his load a minute later, the creamy come rushing through his pecker and then streaming into Molly's mouth. "Drink, Molly, drink!" he cried, a wild look in his eyes.
Molly didn't even have to swallow. The warm, satisfying semen poured into her mouth, and gushed right down her throat. There was, however, a lot of come, and this overflow spilled over her lower lip and ran down her chin when she opened her mouth to keep from choking.
And then suddenly Jacques was coming, a gutteral moan of pleasure tearing from his throat as he blasted his gooey seed into Molly's hot, dripping vagina. He screwed his eyes shut and threw back his head, the ecstasy of ejaculation ripping through his body, and clouding his senses.
Molly came, too. Hers was a strong, thumping climax, the kind which, at any other time, she would have considered eminently satisfactory. But this was not any other time.
Something was different, and while she couldn't put her finger on what it was, she was very quick to realize that she wanted to orgasm again. She had to come again. Again, and again, and again. Until that satanic itch in her vagina had been scratched to death.
Thus it was that a few minutes later, with Jacque and Pierre standing close together at the side of the bed, Molly could be found hungrily sucking their cocks, working hard to transform them from limp noodles into long thick instruments of pleasure.
"She is good, eh, Jacques?" Pierre grinned at his friend.
"The Spanish Fly is good, you mean," said Jacques.
"She will keep us busy for quite a while."
"So? Do you have anything better to do?"
"Maybe I should be painting."
Jacques chuckled. "You can do a quick sketch of her later, to add to your collection."
"But of course," said Pierre, a lewd gleam in his eye.
Molly labored like one possessed on her two pricks, sucking on one and then the other. Not for a second, did she ignore either cock. When she wasn't sucking a tool, she was pumping it with a hand, keeping it hard until she could return her mouth to it. Not surprisingly, it didn't take the lust-crazed beauty very long to make the Frenchmen hard again.
And when they were ready to please her, their cocks once again turgid, and throbbing, Molly swung her legs up over the side of the bed, and positioned herself on her back with her legs spread wide.
"Please," she gasped, "do it to me again. One of you, now, please."
"Pierre, I think it is your turn at the lady's cunt," said Jacques with a smile.
"I will do my very best, Jacques!"
"Enjoy yourself my friend."
"Please, somebody fuck me," Molly cried out. I can't stand it anymore." Using both hands, she started rubbing herself between the legs, the pained expression on her face indicating the flaming in her cunt that had to be assuaged.
"I don't want her that way," said Pierre.
"Then how?" asked Jacques.
"Like this," he said, grabbing hold of Molly's arms. "Come on, Molly, get up," he ordered, pulling her towards him. "I want you on your hands and knees."
"All right, all right," breathed the passion-soaked beauty. "I don't care how you do it, just do it." Breaking the hold Pierre had on her arms, she twisted around until she was on all fours and facing away from him. "Now fuck me, dammit!"
"Like a bitch in heat, no?" said Jacques with a grin.
"Exactly," agreed Pierre. "And now I will mount the beautiful bitch in heat."
So saying, the French stud positioned himself directly behind Molly's taut, creamy-smooth posterior, which was on a line with the side of the bed. One hand, his left, he placed on her left buttock, the other going to his tumescent pecker to direct the sturdy cudgel on target.
"In me," cried Molly. "Get it in me, dammit."
She rammed her ass back at Pierre to get him moving. Pierre lunged forward, driving his bloated manhood deep into Molly's aching, itching vagina. She let out a gutteral moan of pleasure, and started grinding her behind back at him as he commenced thrusting. It was as if she had been waiting months and not minutes for the feel of that wonderful tool filling her and stretching her.
"Give it to her, Pierre!" shouted Jacques, who now stood off to one side watching the action while he lazily stroked his well-sucked prick. "Fuck her crazy, my friend."
"She is already crazy," said Pierre. "Crazy with lust."
Molly dropped into a low, subservient crouch, her beautiful breasts flattening against the mattress as she pushed her bottom up into the air. Her arms stretched out over her head, and her fingers curled and dug into the mattress. She wore a mask of pleasure-pain and whimpered piteously as Pierre continued thrusting into her hungry cunt from behind.
Within her, there lingered a sense of panic, a disturbing awareness of trouble ahead, for a tiny voice in one corner of her lust-clouded mind kept telling her over and over again that this humping would not be enough. She would need another.
And another and another and another.