Five Times: Third Time

This is the third of five accounts I’d like to share with you about my experiences between 2008 and 2016. Previous accounts can be found here: <a href="https://www.solotouch.com/user/MrBrightside/stories/" target="_blank">https://www.solotouch.com/user/MrBrightside/stories/</a> This account took place in the summer of 2011 when I was 19. As with my previous accounts, this is a true story. Saturday morning.  I rang the bell and Martin’s mother answered the door. She gave me a big hug. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ she said, welcoming me in. ‘Are you excited about your trip?’ ‘Yeah, I can’t wait,’ I said. ‘Thanks for offering to take us to the airport. Is Martin ready?’ Martin’s mother rolled her eyes. ‘Nowhere near. He’s only just started packing,’ she told me. ‘You better go up and give him a hand. I’ll make you some sandwiches to take on the flight.’ Martin’s mother was from Japan, though she’d moved to England with her parents when she was just a few years old. She had two children – Martin, who was the same age as me, and Esme, who was five years younger. Their father, who was from England, had left several years ago. Until Martin had gone to university last year, he and I had been pretty much inseparable, so this place was felt like a second home to me. However, since he’d started uni and I’d started work, we’d barely spent any time together; our Amsterdam trip was meant to rectify that, give us a chance to catch up and recollect old times and have some fun. I went up the stairs to Martin’s room. He was wearing only his boxer shorts and he was stood on his chair, peering over the top of his wardrobe. ‘Dammit,’ he said, ‘I can’t find my suitcase.’ ‘Bloody hell, Martin!’ I said. ‘Our flight’s at two o’clock. Why aren’t you ready yet?’ ‘I’m nearly ready,’ he said. ‘Um, can you check whether there’s a spare suitcase on top of the wardrobe in the spare room? I’ll get dressed.’ I shook my head in disbelief. Martin could see I wasn’t impressed. ‘Honest, man,’ he said, ‘I’ve got all my stuff ready. I just need to bung it in a case and get dressed.’ I left him to put some clothes on and wandered down the hall to the spare room. Esme’s bedroom door was wide open, and I glanced in as I passed, not expecting her to be there. But she was there: she’d clearly just got out of the shower and was stood in the centre of her room, stark naked, drying her hair with a towel. I stopped dead in my tracks, mouth open, staring at her. Whereas Martin had taken after his father, with brown hair and cleft chin and weedy build, Esme had Asian features like her mother: she was short and slight, with delicate skin, wide eyes, and long, wonderfully soft-looking, straight black hair. She was fourteen years old now – though she’d be fifteen next month – and she’d grown up a lot since the last time I’d seen her: she’d grown taller and lost the baby fat around her cheeks, and her breasts – albeit still very small – had filled out. Esme towelled her hair for a minute or two, and only then glanced up, seeing me for the first time. I didn’t know what to do. I was still stood there staring at her. She laughed nervously. ‘Hey Dalziel,’ she said. ‘Um, I think I should probably close the door and get dressed, okay?’ She walked over and, just before she shut me out, she winked. I stood there, facing the closed door, still speechless. As she’d walked over to close it, I’d caught the smallest glimpse of her sparse black pubic hair. My cock was hard in my pants. Oh god, this was so wrong, I thought to myself; she was my best friend’s sister, and she wasn’t even fifteen yet. I shook my head, trying to dispel the image of Esme’s tight young body. Oh god. Then Martin came out of his room, finally dressed. ‘You found the suitcase yet?’ he asked. *** Martin’s mother dropped us at the airport and gave us both massive hugs. ‘Remember to phone me as soon as you land.’ We extricated ourselves from her clutches, checked in, went through security, boarded the plane – and my boner still hadn’t abated, not for a moment. I could still see Esme’s firm little breasts, the wisps of dark hair at her crotch, the casual way she’d said hello and winked at me. During the flight, Martin told me about a few girls from his art class that he’d been out with recently, and that didn’t help matters. In the past we’d always fantasised about girls, usually whilst masturbating in Martin’s bedroom. Martin’s recollections and my persistent thoughts of his younger sister only served to remind me that I was on a crowded flight with no easy way to relieve my sexual tension. ‘When we go back to uni in September,’ Martin was telling me, ‘both Hannah and Sally have agreed to pose nude for me. I’ll send you copies of my sketches if you like? Hell, I wonder if they’ll let me take a few photos…’ I squirmed in my seat and tried to discreetly adjust my erection so it wasn’t quite so obvious. ‘Tell me about the hostel we’re staying at,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘Have we got a room to ourselves?’ ‘No, they’re all shared rooms, between four and six bunks in each one. You get a bunkbed and a locker, that’s it. There are shared bathrooms and a kitchen and lounge on each floor.’ ‘I hoped we’d get some downtime,’ I said gloomily. “Downtime” was what we called our joint masturbation sessions. Martin shrugged. ‘It’s unlikely, I guess. But I’ve planned an itinerary, so we’ll be far too busy for that, anyway: coffee shops, you know, where you can smoke weed, the red-light district, a sex show, that sort of thing. I want to visit the Van Gogh museum too if that’s alright with you?’ I let Martin prattle on, and I closed my eyes and pictured Esme. *** Martin had chosen the hostel because it was one of least expensive he could find in the centre of the city, just south of the canal. As we entered, I had to admit that it looked cheap – the paint was peeling and the carpets were threadbare. ‘Hi guys, welcome!’ said the receptionist. She was in her early twenties with spiky purple hair and a nose piercing, and she had a German accent. We gave her our booking details and she tapped away at her computer. ‘Who have we got here…? Martin and Dall… Dazz…’ She faltered over my name. ‘Dalziel,’ I said, saying it the way it sounded: DEE-YELL. ‘Don’t worry, no-one ever says it right.’ ‘Dalziel,’ she repeated. ‘That’s a cool name. My name’s Anja. And it looks like you’re staying in my room.’ I said, ‘Really?’ at the same time Martin said, ‘Awesome!’ The receptionist laughed. ‘I don’t actually work here. I’ve been staying here as a guest for a few weeks and I’m low on cash, so I’ve been helping out, looking after reception, that sort of thing. And yeah, you guys are staying in room 6, same as me.’ Anja showed us to our room, pointing out the kitchen and lounge and showers on the way. ‘I know this place looks old, but everyone is really friendly, and it’s clean. And our room is one of the biggest, and it has its own bathroom.’ The room was enormous. Instead of bunks like Martin had suggested, there were six single beds, each with its own locker beside it. There were even two small sofas and a low coffee table in the centre of the room. At the end of the room was the door to the bathroom. ‘The lock is broken,’ Anja explained, pointing at a cloth hanging from a hook on the back of the door. ‘When you use the bathroom, put the flannel over the door handle, then no-one will disturb you.’ Martin asked which beds were ours. ‘Any of those three,’ Anja replied, pointing. ‘The one nearest the door is mine. Lena and Sofie have those two.’ ‘So, it’s just us two boys and three girls, right?’ asked Martin with a cheeky grin. Anja laughed. ‘Behave,’ she told him, ‘they’ll have you for breakfast! There is one spare bed, but it’s not been booked yet.’ ‘That can be the sex-bed,’ Martin said. I punched him in the arm, warning him he was taking it too far. Anja laughed again, then looked at me. ‘I think your friend needs to visit De Wallen,’ she said. *** ‘What did she mean?’ asked Martin when Anja had gone. We were taking a shower. We were eager to rinse off after our flight and get out to explore the city before it got too dark, and the bathroom was massive with a large shower cubicle. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ Martin had said. I didn’t mind, so we quickly stripped off and showered together. ‘De Wallen is the red-light district,’ I told him. ‘You way you were acting around her, you’re obviously gagging for it.’ ‘And you’re NOT gagging for it, I suppose?’ he asked, glancing down at my cock. ‘You’ve had that hard-on since we left England.’ ‘Oh, man,’ I said, groaning, ‘you won’t believe how uncomfortable it’s been. I really need to take care of it before we go out.’ ‘Wanna wank together, like we used to?’ Martin asked. *** I can’t remember the first time we masturbated together – we had probably been about thirteen or fourteen years old – but it had soon become a regular pastime. Sometimes we would watch porn, but usually we’d just chat and exchange fantasies about whatever girl we fancied at the time. And while we were quite open about watching each other and discussing techniques, we never touched one another. It wasn’t a rule as such; it was just that we were both comfortable in the knowledge that we were only sexually interested in girls. Although I couldn’t remember the first time we’d masturbated together, I could clearly recall the last time. It had been the previous summer, the day before Martin started university. We had been in his bedroom, stark naked and jacking off, when the bedroom door had opened and Esme had walked in. She had obviously just got out of the bath and was wrapped in a towel. Martin had yelled at her, and she literally jumped in shock and dropped her towel. For a long moment we were like rabbits caught in the headlights; and then Esme squealed and ran out of the room, leaving her towel behind. I didn’t know why she’d entered the room like that – but I didn’t care either. Martin had been put off stroke, totally disgusted by Esme’s intrusion, but the fleeting glimpse of his nude sister was enough to make me come. And now here we were, in a hostel in Amsterdam, masturbating together again for the first time in twelve months. I was already at half-mast – I had been all day – and it only took a few strokes to become fully erect. There was a bottle of hair conditioner on the shelf next to the shower, so I squirted some into my hand and used it to lubricate my cock, gliding my hand smoothly up and down its length. I glanced at Martin. His cock was still soft, but he was fondling it with one hand and caressing his balls with the other. He’d shaved off his pubic hair since the last time I’d seen him, probably in an effort to make his dick look bigger. (Martin had always wished he was better endowed, though I don’t really understand why. Flaccid, my cock was bigger, the bigger of the two – four and a half inches compared to his meagre three inches; but when erect, Martin’s cock grew to almost six and a half inches, exceeding mine by a full inch.) ‘Who are you thinking of?’ Martin asked me. I lied: ‘Anja,’ I said. ‘Oh, brother, me too.’ Martin closed his eyes and started pumping his cock with vigour. ‘I love that nose piercing,’ he said. ‘I wonder if she has any others? Like pierced nipples, or a pierced clit.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. My eyes were closed too, picturing Esme. First, I pictured her as she was a year ago, standing in Martin’s room, her towel at her feet: fourteen years old, no boobs to mentiont. And then I pictured her as she was this morning, drying her hair: tight, compact breasts, wisps of black pubic hair. She was so cute, and it felt wrong to be thinking of her like this – but then I remembered the sly wink she’d given me before she closed the door, and I grunted, and came hard. *** I left Martin to finish. I got dressed and went downstairs to the reception to chat to Anja and get some advice on places to visit in the city. When I got there, Anja was already speaking to a girl who had just arrived. It sounded like they were talking in French. The girl looked about the same age as me, with tanned skin and curly dark red hair. She had a heart-shaped face with wide eyes that reminded me of Esme. Rather than hang around whilst the girl checked in, I wandered outside and stood in the late-afternoon sun. A middle-aged man walked past, then stopped and picked something off the ground. ‘Yours?’ he asked. It was a passport. ‘Uh, no, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Can I see the picture?’ The man flicked through it to the picture page – it was the redheaded girl I’d seen inside. ‘Oh, it belongs to a girl in there,’ I said, pointing at the hostel. ‘Do you want me to take it, or will you take it in?’ The guy just shrugged and handed it to me, then went on his way. I glanced at the picture again, and the details printed beside it. It was a French passport. The girl’s name was Emile and her date of birth, I noticed, was 16 February 1993 – she was exactly one year younger than me, to the day. I took it inside. The girl was still there, chatting with Anja. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I said, ‘but I think you dropped this.’ The girl was grateful. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. She had a thick French accent. ‘I would have been totally fucked if I’d lost this.’ She gave me a huge smile. ‘No worries.’ I wanted to say more, but the girl had already turned and started speaking to Anja. ‘Um, catch you later, maybe,’ I said, and I went back outside to wait for Martin. *** I’m not going to write about everything we got up to in Amsterdam, but I’ll mention a few of the highlights (and, indeed, some of the ‘low’ lights) of our holiday. On the Saturday afternoon we just walked about the city and got our bearings, scouted out a few bars which we’d return to later in the week, and went to a sex-show. It was an awful affair, far more comical than erotic, with bored-looking performers. Within half-an-hour we’d had enough and left. On the second day, we went to the Van Gogh museum. Martin was studying fine arts at university and whilst I’d always been quite creative, I wasn’t particularly interested in art history and I wasn’t looking forward to an afternoon traipsing around a museum. As it happened, Anja did voluntary work at the museum, got us free entry, and wandered around with us. (‘Do you work anywhere else?’ I asked her. ‘The laundrette next door to the hostel,’ she replied. ‘I like to keep busy.’) We wandered through De Wallen a few times. It really came to life after dark, and there was a real buzz in the air as window booths lit up and the masses descended upon the cobbled streets (though the buzz was probably a result of the fumes from the coffee shops, Martin remarked). Martin was desperate to visit one of the girls, but it took several nights before he plucked up the courage. ‘Will you do it, too?’ he asked me. ‘No way,’ I said, but he wheedled and cajoled until I agreed. The woman he chose was a brunette in her mid-thirties. I hung back as he spoke to her and paid, and then he beckoned me in. Martin went first, and I sat on a chair and watched them, feeling utterly awkward. When Martin was done, the woman gestured for me to undress, but I chickened out and we left. Afterwards, when Martin complained, I told him I hadn’t been prepared to lose my virginity to a prostitute. We didn’t see our roommates very often. On the first evening when we returned to the room, we didn’t see anyone at all, and when we woke in the morning it was still only the two of us in the room. There were a couple of evenings that we saw Anja – usually already fast asleep by the time we came back to the room, and up and away before we woke up. On Wednesday morning we met a tall blonde girl, who was coming back to the room just as we were leaving, but other than a brief ‘Hello’ we didn’t stop and chat. It wasn’t until Thursday, the day before we were due to fly back home, that we met all of our roommates. We’d been out late the night before, and on Thursday morning we slept in until about 11am. No one was around when we woke up and, lulled into a false sense of security, we led in our beds and masturbated. The idea that at any moment someone might walk in and catch us made it all the more exciting and it didn’t take either of us long to come. Afterwards, Martin had a shave and cleaned his teeth whilst I showered, and then he had a shower after me. I cleaned my teeth and then, still naked, I sauntered over to my bed and tried to find something clean to wear from the pile of clothes in the bottom of my locker. It was then that the door opened, and two blonde girls entered, followed by Anja. One of the blondes was the girl we’d briefly met the previous morning. They were talking in another language, maybe German, and when they saw me – facing them, stark naked – the two blonde girls paused for a moment, said hello, and then carried on chatting as if nothing had happened. Anja caught my eye and gave me a quizzical look, then shrugged and sat down on the sofa next to the girls. I thought about covering myself, but it seemed a bit late. I glanced down. Thankfully, it was warm in the room, and I still hadn’t fully relaxed from that morning’s fapping session: my softening cock still looked slightly larger than usual, without sporting a noticeable erection. Nothing to be embarrassed of, I told myself, and I proceeded to get dressed. Once I was decent, I went and introduced myself to the girls. ‘Um, sorry about that,’ I said. They laughed and told me not to worry – it was one of the dangers of a shared room – and Anja introduced the girls as Lena and Sofie. They looked like twins – they were both tall and blonde with Slavic features – but as it turned out, they weren’t even from the same country, let alone related to one another; Lena was in her late twenties and came from Ukraine, while Sofie was twenty and from Russia. We chatted for a few minutes, and then Anja excused herself and made her way to the bathroom. Just as I was about to warn her that Martin was in there, the bathroom door opened and he stepped out. He was naked. Granted, that wasn’t to be entirely unexpected since he’d just got out of the shower. But he was also proudly displaying a six-and-a-half-inch erection. ‘Oh, man,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, with his stiff cock bouncing in front of him, ‘I’m gonna need to take care of this before we go out.’ And then, as he spotted the girls, he said: ‘Ah.’ I glanced at the girls. They looked at Martin, looked at each other, looked at me. Then they looked back at Martin. For once in his life, he was speechless. Then Anja broke the silence. ‘Well, it isn’t going to fit in your pants unless you do SOMETHING about it,’ she said. *** I sometimes wonder how that day would have turned out if Martin hadn’t made his entrance like that. I phoned him last night for a chat, and he asked me how I was getting on with writing my latest masturbation story. ‘Yeah, good thanks,’ I said. ‘Are you going to explain about the prostitute?’ he asked. ‘I’ve referred to it,’ I told him, ‘but I’m not going into detail. I’m focussing on the masturbation stuff, not the sex.’ ‘She gave me the best blowjob I’ve ever had,’ Martin said wistfully. ‘I still remember it so clearly. And then when I fucked her, she stroked my arse – I swear she was going to stick her finger up my butthole. You don’t know what you missed.’ I winced at that mental image. ‘So, um, yeah, the story is focussing on masturbation,’ I said. ‘Like with Anja and the blonde girls?’ Martin asked. ‘Hell, Dalziel… I still have dreams about that. God, I wish I could go back and do it all again.’ ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Just writing about it makes me horny. Most of the time I’m having to type one-handed, if you know what I mean.’ ‘And you’ve got me and my eight-inch-boner to thank for it,’ Martin said proudly, if a little extravagantly. ‘If I hadn’t walked out of that bathroom with a hard-on, none of that stuff with the girls would have happened.’ And the fact is, he was probably right. *** We pushed the sofas and the coffee table to one side and laid out a few blankets and towels in a circle on the floor. ‘Keep to your own blanket,’ Anja said, ‘and keep your hands to yourselves.’ Martin nodded happily. He was already laid on his back on his towel, slowly stroking his cock. ‘Touch yourself but no-one else,’ he said. ‘That’s fine with me.’ For a minute or so, we all watched Martin as he masturbated. His eyes were closed and he looked totally relaxed. Other than the steady, rhythmic motion of his hand moving up and down his shaft, he was totally still. A bead of precum formed at the tip of his cock and then started to trickle down his length; he stopped stroking for a moment, took a deep breath as his cock pulsed and danced of its own accord; and then he started to slowly stroke himself again. At this point I started to undress, in the hope that the girls would follow suit, but they just stood in the centre of the room, glancing between me and Martin. I got down to my underwear and then paused. I felt nervous – I’m not sure why, as the girls had already seen me naked – but I took a few deep breaths, then pulled down my shorts and stepped out of them. My cock was already starting to stiffen. Anja, Lena and Sofie all smiled at me encouragingly. Being naked in front of the girls gave me a rush, and my cock hardened quickly. I reached down and gently retracted my foreskin, and then, still standing, I started to masturbate. There was another long moment as the girls watched me, then looked back to Martin, then back at me. And then, at last, Lena started to undress, and Anja and Sofie followed her lead. And this time it was my turn to watch. Lena was the first of the girls to get naked. Martin still had his eyes closed, so I nudged him with my foot and he sat up. Lena stood before us for a moment, then gave us twirl. She had large, heavy breasts with big nipples that pointed downward, pointing the way to her beauty: it was completely shaven, with prominent, slightly asymmetrical labia. Then she turned, bent over to adjust her towel and, aware of the eyeful she was giving us – her long, thick lips and the puckered whorl of her anus – she blew us a coy kiss before she laid down. She spread her legs and started to touch herself, but because of where she was laid – directly opposite Martin – my view was obstructed by her leg. Martin’s view appeared unhindered; he was staring at her, his eyes wide, like all his Christmases had come at once. For a moment I considered taking a step closer to try to get a glimpse of Lena touching herself, but I remembered the rule: keep to your own blanket. And anyway, there was more on offer: both Anja and Sofie were naked now. Sofie was already led down with a hand between her legs – she kept her legs close together and what little I could see of her pussy was mostly covered by a thick dark blonde bush. Anja was still standing, watching Martin intently. With her short, spiky purple hair, her small, almost non-existent breasts, and her athletic build, there was something tom-boyish about her. Her stance – leaning casually against her locker with her legs slightly parted – showed off her best feature. She was totally shaved, revealing lightly dimpled, puffy lips. I glanced back at Sofie and Lena, wishing I could see between their legs. Then I sat down on my towel and I stroked my dick. I’d never been in a situation like this before. It was surreal. It seemed loud and quiet at the same time – the room was silent save for the sound of breathing and wet sucking noises as Lena and Sofie touched themselves, but that was almost drowned out by the thumping of my heartbeat in my ears. I’d never felt so heady, so invigorated, so erotic. Not even my evening with Violet, when I brought her to orgasm with my fingers, could compare to this. The throbbing, yearning pulse in my dick felt magnified, felt like it was thumping throughout my entire body, throughout the entire room. I don’t know what caused me to look up, but I was abruptly aware that there was someone standing in the doorway. It was the young French girl who’d dropped her passport, Emile. I don’t know how long she’d been standing there, but the moment that our eyes met she came into the room, quickly strode over to the locker beside what I had thought was the spare bed, and pulled out a rucksack. ‘Sorry, I just need to collect my bag,’ she said, and she quickly left the room. It all happened so quickly. Lena and Martin were oblivious – Lena was deep in the moment (not to mention finger-deep in her own pussy) and Martin was enraptured by her. Anja was the quickest to respond. She called after the girl – ‘Emile, come back!’ – but she was already gone. Without even stopping to get dressed, Anja ran out of the room after her. Sofie and I looked at one another. ‘Should we follow?’ I asked her. We both stood up and walked over to the door. It was still open. I poked my head out but I couldn’t see anyone in the corridor. ‘Anja will find her and explain,’ Sofie said. ‘It’ll be alright.’ She was stood beside me with her arm across her breasts and her other hand over her crotch. As I closed the door, I turned on the spot and my hard dick brushed against Sofie’s leg. I was about to apologise when she reached up with her right hand – the one that had been covering her breasts – and put her finger on my lip. ‘Shush,’ she said. She took a step back, giving me permission to look at her. Like Lena – I still kept thinking of the two of them as twins – she had large breasts, but unlike Lena’s, Sofie’s were firmer and perkier. Her nipples looked bright red against her pale skin. She still had her hand over her crotch. ‘Show me your beauty,’ I asked her. She frowned. ‘I mean down there,’ I explained. ‘Your pussy. Your beauty.’ She smiled, then moved her hand to reveal, for the briefest moment, a full dark blonde bush. Then her hand returned to her crotch; I thought at first that she was covering herself up, but with her index and ring fingers she parted her pubic hair and her lips, and she tenderly pushed her middle finger inside her, just for a second, and then withdrew it. She raised her hand and put her glistening finger on my lips again. I opened my mouth, let her run her finger across my tongue. The taste of her juices was exquisite, yet so difficult to describe: almost electric, like licking a battery or a penny, followed by an acidic flavour like cider, and finally a sweetness like apples. I sucked on her finger, eager for more of her essence. Without thinking, not really conscious of what I was doing, I reached down and ran my finger along her hairy slit – she flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away – and then I licked my own finger, tasting her again. ‘You taste so good,’ I whispered to her. Sofie blushed and turned away, then suddenly turned back and kissed the side of my mouth. Then she turned away again and made her way back to her blanket. I was about to follow her when Anja returned. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked her. She was still naked, and the thought of her streaking through the hostel without any clothes on made my cock twitch. Her hairless, puffy lips were glistening, and I had a sudden yearning to taste her, to compare her scent and flavour to that of Sofie’s. And then I noticed Emile. She had followed Anja into the room. ‘Emile,’ Anja said, ‘you remember Dalziel, don’t you? He found your passport.’ Emile smiled at me, but she didn’t speak. She looked apprehensive. I noticed she was holding Anja’s hand. She looked younger than I remembered. I reached out my hand. ‘Do you want to sit with me?’ I asked her. ‘You can share my towel if you like?’ Emile nodded. *** We sat cross-legged at opposite ends of the towel, facing one another, our knees touching. The rest of the room – Martin, Lena, Sofie and Anja – ceased to exist. We looked at one another for what seemed like a glorious eternity. I absorbed everything I could about her, committed everything about her to memory: the long, curling tresses of her dark-red hair; her soft caramel skin and wide brown Esme-eyes; a tattoo-like choker around her neck; her petite frame and narrow shoulders. She was wearing a halter neck top which showed her bra straps, and a short denim skirt which, because of the way she was sat cross-legged on the floor, revealed her underwear: it was tight and white and I could see the crease of her cleft through the thin fabric. ‘I’m going to touch myself,’ I told her. My cock had subsided slightly and my foreskin had slipped back over the head. ‘Is that okay with you?’ Emile spoke quietly. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it’s okay. I want to watch.’ ‘Are you going to touch yourself too?’ I asked. Emile gave me a shy smile, but she made no move to undress. She watched as I took hold of the base of my cock with my left hand, then rested the thumb of my right hand on the top of my cock, and gently massaged my frenulum with my forefinger, through my foreskin. We sat like that for several minutes. Emile was so close to me I could feel her gentle breath on my face. I gazed into her eyes, then dropped them to look at her crotch. ‘Do you want to see my kitty?’ Emile whispered. I think I fell in love with her a little bit right then, just because of the cute term she used to describe her beauty. Without waiting for me to answer, she hoisted her skirt further up her thighs. Then she reached down and pulled her underwear to one side, revealing the neatest, tidiest pussy I’d ever seen. Other than a narrow, dark-red landing strip, it was bare. Her outer lips met, concealing her inner lips totally, leaving just a narrow slit which begged to be delicately parted. As I watched, her lips lightly pulsed, and my cock throbbed in reply. Her kitty began to swell – slowly but noticeably – and her slit widened, just enough to expose tiny pink inner lips and the small nub of her clitoris. I was utterly transfixed by her arousal. I had seen female genitals in both their relaxed and aroused states, but I had never seen the transition. It was breathtakingly beautiful, almost like watching a time-lapse video of a flower blooming. She ran her middle finger along her slit, and her little inner petals seemed to flutter beneath her touch. She was already wet. She ran her finger along it again, slower and deeper; I couldn’t tell if it was due to the gentle pressure of her finger or her swelling labia, but her slit was widening further. She ran her finger along her pussy a third time, then reached down and dipped her finger inside her. She pushed her hips forward, pushing hard against her hand, thrusting her finger as deep as it would go; her hand trembled, and I could imagine her slender finger quivering inside her, and I wished it was my finger. My orgasm was close. I could feel it building in a thick band around the bulbous head of my cock, but also deeper inside me, between my balls and butt. The hair on my head felt like it was standing on end, and my toes – even my fucking TOES – were tingling. Emile withdrew her finger and a long strand of her juice followed, trailing along her leg. I wanted to reach across and run my finger through it, or better still to lean forward and lick it from her leg. ‘Can I taste you?’ I asked, but Emile just smiled and started to touch herself again. This time she focussed on her clit, rubbing in a circular motion – just like I was doing to my frenulum – around the nub without directly touching it. Emile’s eyes were fixed on my cock, and as my moment approached, it started to buck beneath my hand. Emile’s finger jiggled faster and faster at her clit so that it was almost a blur. HOLD ON, I told myself, ‘Hold on,’ I said aloud; and Emile said, ‘Let go, let go,’ and she gasped; and at the same time her pussy seemed to gasp, and her lips drew back further, her clit rose, and her inner lips pulsed and clenched, pulsed and clenched, pulsed and clenched. I imagined my finger inside her – no, I imagined my cock inside her, feeling her contracting against me – and then, suddenly, Emile gasped again and a small rivulet of clear liquid ran from her pussy, down her thighs, on to the towel. It was far from the projectile squirting I’d seen in porn, but it was enough to tip me over the edge. I surrendered and let the orgasm take me, felt my ejaculate rocketing along the length of my shaft and the blood rush throughout my body. When I was spent – I’d come in just three or four small globs rather than the voluminous ribbons I’d been expecting, probably because I’d previously masturbated less than an hour before – I led on my back on the floor. I felt Emile do the same, felt her legs brush up, then press against mine. For a long time we led like that, silent, in total peace. Little by little, the rest of the universe decided to make itself known to us. The room seemed to brighten, and the sound of heavy breathing became apparent. I tilted my head, looked around what I could see of the room from where I was led. Martin was still sat up, still intently staring at Lena, still pumping furiously at his dick. Lena was no longer touching herself, but her legs had fallen even wider open and I could now see her lips: they were thick and puckered and clinging together wetly. Sofie was no longer laid on her towel and I couldn’t see her anywhere – but the bathroom door was closed with the cloth over the door handle. Anja was still standing, almost directly over Martin, with her back to me. I raised my head and looked at Emile. She was still led on her back, but her legs were open and I could see her beauty, her kitty, gradually relaxing, gradually closing, slowly concealing her inner lips and clit until only a thin neat slit remained. My cock throbbed.Usually I would need longer to recover – a good thirty minutes or more – so I made the most of my reawakening erection and masturbated again, staring at Emile’s slit. She must have felt me moving, and she sat up in time to watch me tease a yet another small bead of ejaculate from my over-worked cock. *** Emile rearranged her underwear and pulled her skirt into place. She told me she was going to the communal lounge and would meet me there when I was dressed, and then she left. I grabbed my clothes; Sofie was still in the bathroom and it didn’t feel right getting dressed when the others were still busy, so I left the room and got dressed in the corridor. True to her word, Emile was waiting for me in the lounge. She was chatting to a guy; I felt an irrational pang of jealousy at this but she immediately smiled and motioned for me to join them. (As it turned out, during our relationship over the next year I would discover plenty of well-founded reasons for my jealousy, but I didn’t know that then.) We had our first proper conversation, and I fell instantly in love with her strong French accent, just as I’d fallen in love with her beauty. The following day, before Martin and I left for our flight home, Emile gave me her phone number and email address, and she ran her fingers through my hair and kissed me full on the mouth. She kept her eyes open as we kissed – her gorgeous wide brown eyes – and for a moment she reminded me of someone; but someone whom in that moment and, indeed, in all the long moments of the journey home to England, I could not recollect.