Helena Robertson - Mousse

The next morning Monique realized that she needed the contact of the male, and she decided that she would soon remedy that lack in her needs.

In the morning she got her kicks with little Jacques and let him contemplate her belly and her intimacies, and she also let him suck for a long time at her breasts.

Around noon, she called Darcourt on the phone. He was very happy over it, and asked her whether she would like to come to his place for a glass of port after the bath. He said that he was receiving two monks.

“Then in plain clothes?” asked Monique disappointed.

Max hesitated, then:

“Well, half and half, unless my instinct is completely wrong.

“I think you will have to play quite a part after the usual glass of port. They are interested in art, and whoever says art, means amateur of beauty. I do not think that you will have to put on any underclothes, after all, I have such good mirrors at home.”

Monique smiled and accepted.

On the beach she told Janine that she could not stay with her; the poor child was very upset over it all. Then Monique returned home to get dressed. She put on transparent black silk stockings, high heels, and then hesitated a little in front of her drawers, trying to find out the most suitable attire. She finally selected a black silk skirt, that went slightly above the knee, and a long sleeved, black cotton cardigan. She added a little white lace collar; no powder, no rouge, but a little beret on her simply combed hair, that added to her childish looks. She thought that her breasts were showing outrageously, and put on a little black bolero. A book in one hand, she crossed the little wood that separated her villa from Max's home. He was in the sitting room, in full conversation with two monks in their forties, looking smart and rather handsome. Her bolero open, her legs crossed higher than usual, Monique was taking part in the conversation, trying to follow the men's eyes under her skirt.

She was hot, having too many clothes on her. Max realized it and suggested:

“Why don't you take off your bolero, you must be boiling?”

“Well, as I have nothing under my cardigan, I am afraid that I would not be too decent.”

“Now, now,” said one of the monks, “I hope that this will not stop you. We do not want to be the cause of your discomfort, and your cardigan, that fits you quite well, could not be more decent. Besides, this is just a friendly reunion, is it not Darcourt?”

He agreed, Monique stood up and took off her bolero, her voluminous bosom immediately showing under the too thin material, like a pair of gorgeous cantaloupes. She was watching their excitement grow in their eyes, and was getting her kicks from it. She looked like a little schoolgirl as to her face, but a fully formed woman as to the figure.

Max asked her to be the maid of the house, and she accepted, her natural taste for exhibitionism finding a perfect way to express itself in that occupation.

She brought a little table, made of glass, to the window. It was a very nice old-fashioned iron-mongered thing, that hardly came level to her knee. She placed four glasses on it. On a nearby tray she placed the bottle filled with cool and sparkling wine.

The three men came close. Her back to the window, Monique faced them across the table, her knees touching it. She started pouring the liquid in the glasses. It took her one single glimpse to see that her trick was a complete success. The three men, while speaking more slowly, were staring at the table, on which the skirt, open like a lamp shade, was reflecting the thighs and the velvety triangle of her pubis. Max glanced approvingly at Monique's showing how much he appreciated her delightful idea.

She gave him a glass, then turning around she offered them, while preparing the cake, the exciting sight of her tightly closed buttocks and rotund bottom.

The collation went on like that: the white wine, but also the pointing breasts under the cardigan, the thighs outrageously displayed by the mirror of the table, were as many reasons to the men's excitement. While cutting the cake she opened her thighs, and when she turned around she guessed, by the way they looked, that the men had completely discovered the secrets of her femininity.

But she soon got another idea. As they thought that the weather was delightful, she proposed to carry some cushions to the window, and they all sat on the ground, facing the sea. She then cleared the glass table, feeling if it was solid, and then sat on it, to avoid catching her skirt under buttocks. Her flesh was in contact with the cold mirror. She crossed her legs, and the skirt was lifted over the knees. Monique was slightly reclining, her hands on the table, smoking an oriental cigarette. Under the skirt, the closed thighs, half leaning on the table, were reflected in a symphony of blacks and whites.

The men, facing her now, were looking at the silk clothed flesh, and the little bar of the garters, on each side of her thighs. Little by little Monique opened her legs, slowly displaying for them the inside of her thighs and its reflection. Through the screen of her eyelashes she was following the eyes of the men, impatiently waiting for the moment when the compass of her legs would be open largely enough to allow a complete vision of her sex. Out of fun, she moved her knees very slowly, then suddenly she bent on one side, to put the ashes of her cigarette in an ashtray on the table by her side. She opened her legs completely, uplifting one for more security. She remained like that for a good moment, excited by the sudden density of the silence, and also by the caress of all the looks that she knew were on her legs, on her sex. The men's throats were hard and dry, their eyes shining. They were contemplating, under the relative shelter of the black skirt, higher than the black silk stockings and the garters, between the plump and pulpy thighs, the fair hair of her pubis, as a crown on her cunt between the lips of her mount of Venus. The mirror was reflecting it too, and the men were facing a twin image. Monique innocently resumed a more natural position. Then tactfully started again answering the questions in the discussion trying to avoid the looks of the men on her anatomy, including Max's. Then once again she opened her legs and played with the men's desires for several times. Max himself did not know what to think about the Monk's attitude; they were excited but nothing was happening.

Monique got up, and once again served some alcoholic beverages, and each time she was revealing her charms in the mirror of the table. A lusty ambiance was beginning to come in the darkening room. The sunset was giving off strange red lights that accentuated the voluptuous character of the place, and of what was happening, or going to happen in it.

One of the monks clumsily spoiled his white dress with liquor.

“Monique, would you please show our friend to the bathroom and with your fairy fingers repair that little damage?”

“Of course. Please, father, follow me.”

The stairs are dark, and Monique does not turn the light on. She climbs the steps slowly, side by side with the monk. He takes her by the arm, his hand shaking with desire:

“What a charming guide you are for such an escalade.”

She laughs softly, and through the dark and narrow passage, brings him in the bathroom. She turns the lights on, and easily with some water, fixes everything alright. He is blushing, his desire is evident, but he does not know what to say. Everything is silent; they go out. She turns the lights off, and they are together again in the dark corridor.

“Damn it,” says Monique, “I do not know where the button to the light is hidden.”

“I know it,” says the man by her side.

And his hands are on the blouse. He takes the young girl in his arms, and, through the thin material he caresses the nipples, already erected.