Barbra Beard - Au Pair Girl

Gently, her fingers pulled the lips open, peeling them as far apart as possible and revealing the red wound which they normally concealed. Unable to stand any more self-teasing, Jean dipped one long feminine finger straight into the centre of the deep slit and pushed it as far as it would stretch up inside her cunt.

Her other fingers released the lips, letting them snap back into place around her fully buried digit. Straightening up into an erect position. Jean met her own eyes in the mirror and stared into them defiantly. She began to frig herself boldly, without the slightest trace of embarrassment or shame. Her finger described a rhythmic circular action, turning around and around inside the tight hole of her cunt. It felt so sweet, so perfectly beautiful, this firm but gentle pleasuring! Not since she was in her teens had she experienced this sort of leisurely self-stimulation, but Jean found that she knew instinctively just how quickly and deeply to fondle herself.

She let her other hand hang limply at her side, fingers brushing lightly against her thigh. A faint but unmistakable sucking noise had started from between her legs and Jean increased the rhythm of her frigging, feeling her finger being anointed with that familiar hot juice…

She squashed her thighs tightly together, making the ministering finger seem even more firmly wedged inside her cunt. Her buttocks clenched and unclenched in quick, urgent spasms and — tickling as frantically as she possibly could — Jean shuddered out her orgasm; the spunky fluid pumping sweetly out of her over-eager quim and moistening the heated softness of her thighs.

She stood there, panting harshly, finger still tightly imbedded in her sex, eyes glazing over. And not until she heard the sudden gasp from the doorway and realised that Monique was standing there did Jean come back down to reality, a deep blush spreading over her face as she turned sideways to the bedroom door, her finger still crooked into her cunt…

Monique turned to go, backing out of the room in confusion, her hand at her open mouth. “Excuse me", she mumbled. “I didn't know — ”.

Jean never knew what exactly it was that compelled her to go to the girl and draw her back into the room. She acted on the spur of the moment, feeling she had to convince the au pair girl that she wasn't really ashamed of what she had been doing. But, much later, she would see a considerable ambiguity in her action — as if she decided at that precise moment to set in motion a plan which her unconscious mind had been formulating for many months…

“Please — don't go, Monique", she urged the girl. “Come in, I must talk to you”. Jean took her wrist and led Monique back into the room. She pushed the door shut and walked quickly to the chair where her dressing gown was draped. She got into it and fastened the cord around her waist.

“You mustn't go away like this, thinking all sorts of terrible things about me", she said. “I want to be frank with you, Monique. I couldn't bear you to feel embarrassed for the rest of your stay — so let's be sensible and grown-up about what you saw me doing”.

The French girl was staring down at the floor, unable to meet Jean's eyes. “I was playing with myself — there's nothing so very terrible about that, is there?” Monique was silent. “It's a perfectly normal, natural thing to do, you know”.

Jean smiled, surprised at the cool way she was dealing with the situation. “Why on earth should either of us be ashamed or disgusted? I'm sure every girl — and every boy, too, come to that — has done such things. And if someone walks in and sees them doing it: well, so what?”

Monique still didn't reply. She stood there, nervously twisting her fingers, looking uncomfortable and disconcerted. Her short, almost boyish, blonde hair was cropped in an urchin cut, her slim young figure lissome in a form-hugging grey sweater and pleated skirt. She wore no make-up but her pretty face with its high cheekbones and pale blue eyes looked rouged as her colour deepened at Jean's frank conversation.

“Why don't you sit down, Monique?” Jean suggested. “Mr. Cameron is away and Cathy's school holidays don't start till the end of the week, so there's no great rush to get the housework done. And, besides, I'd like to get to know you a little better. This seems like a good opportunity, don't you think?

Rather reluctantly, Jean thought, Monique moved to a chair and sat gingerly on the very edge of he cushion. “That's better”. Jean stepped a little nearer to the girl and helped herself to a cigarette from the box on the bedside table. “You don't use these, do you?

Monique shook her head. Jean smoked in silence for a moment, then: “What do you think of us, Monique? I mean, what do you really think of us?”

The girl looked up at her in surprise. “What do you mean, Mrs. Cameron? I'm very happy here, of course — ”.

Jean wagged a finger at her. “It's Jean", she insisted. “I told you when you first came — you're to call me by my Christian name. You're not a servant, you're one of the family.” She looked at her cigarette with distaste. “These are foul first thing in the morning!” she grimaced. And stubbed it out quickly in the ashtray.

“No,” she continued. “I can't really expect you to answer that question, can I? Besides, in three weeks you hardly ever get to know people really well. Not English people, anyway”. Jean regarded Monique thoughtfully. “But I would like to know you better, my dear", she said softly. “I hardly ever meet people, apart from the neighbours — and they're so stuffy, most of them! Retired colonels or businessmen commuting to London — like Michael”.

She was conscious that she had put a faint but distinct sneer into the words “like Michael”. Monique evidently noticed it, since the girl at last looked up and met her eyes.

“Aren't you happy here, Jean?” she asked. And Jean was gratified to hear concern in the girl's voice. “I thought you had everything you wanted: a beautiful house in the country. A husband, a child”.

Jean broke in impatiently. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “I've got all the trappings of a good life — I have the house, I eat well, I have quite a few clothes… And it's all as empty as hell!”

She reached out for another cigarette and as she put it between her lips realised that her fingers were trembling. “You must have seen for yourself that Michael is hardly ever at home! To keep us in all this — ” she waved her hand contemptuously around the room — “he has to work almost round the clock. And when he could be here with us he prefers to — ”.

Jean stopped, realising that her voice was growing hysterical. She waited a moment, controlling the panic which was welling up. Softly, she finished: “He prefers to sleep with other women! He treats me like a machine, an object!”

The tears were running down her cheeks before she was aware that she'd started to cry. Jean brushed them away angrily. “I'm sorry, Monique", she said. “I shouldn't burden you with my problems — it's not fair. But I've kept this bottled up for so long…”

“It's all right, Jean'.' Monique was at her side, her arm stealing around the woman's shoulder, drawing her face against her stomach and stroking Jean's hair tenderly. “Cry — it's the best thing to do!”

When Jean's sobbing subsided, Monique gave her a handkerchief and helped her to dry her tear-stained face. “There, there", she soothed gently. “I'm sure things aren't really so bad. You're just upset, you'll see — in a moment you'll remember all the good things and the bad times will disappear…”

Jean managed a rueful smile. “I am a big baby, aren't I?” she said. “I'm sorry, Monique — I'm sorry about everything. Especially about your seeing what I was doing to myself!”