In early 2000 I found myself single, and in a reluctant house share with a rather annoying and regularly unemployed chain smoker. To a 31-year old me, the then 55-year old divorcee who lived up the leafy lane behind our house was no replacement for the 27-year old woman who’d just left me. This woman wasn’t unattractive, far from it, she was slim, immaculately dressed and extremely French! She was the type of French woman who became more attractive the more she spoke, and she had a way of making even mundane sentences appear sexy. She spoke through youthful, pouted lips, and I found myself fixated on her every word. Watching her mouth form the shapes necessary for her to strangle the English language in the nicest possible way, was quite fascinating.
I started to see her more frequently when my washing machine died on me that winter. I’d visit her like a useless teenaged son, my black bag full of laundry swung over my shoulder I’d trudge up the hill in the rain, often staying for lunch on weekends. We became closer and enjoyed vibrant conversation that became more open and of an adult nature as time progressed. When I was lamenting the recent demise of my 2-year relationship she commented on how sexually frustrating it must be for me and that living with an unemployed insomniac wasn’t an ideal situation if I wanted some “private time”. Before too long we were sharing long wine fueled meals at her house and I was regularly staying the night in her tiny guest room, rather than walk back home to watch my house mate pace up and down lighting endless cigarettes.
One Sunday morning she poured me coffee and asked me how I’d slept. “Not so well,” was my reply. “Oh you must be so frustrated,” she said, “you need to release ze stress and mazturbate yourself before you sleep.” I think I had an instant erection hearing those words spoken with a heavy French accent, especially as she was mimicking the masturbation hand action as she said them. I didn’t know what to say at that juncture, so I just smiled nervously and shifted my gaze.
The following weekend I was staying as her house again. It was late and I’d just said good night before heading upstairs to bed. “One moment,” she stopped me in my tracks. “I ave ziss for you,” she said, handing me a box of tissues. “But don’t worry if you make a little stain,” she continued with a cheeky wink, “make sure you sleep well.”
I hesitated a moment. “Er, thank you,” I said sheepishly.
I was rock hard before I’d even reached the bedroom and fumbled with my clothes as I undressed in anticipation. I’d been given the all clear to masturbate, more over I’d been instructed to masturbate and to use the tissues she’d supplied, it felt amazing. I remember stroking slowly that night thinking about her as I shot long ropes of sperm onto my chest and the bed sheets. In the morning there was a little tap on my door and my French neighbour was standing there brandishing a cup of coffee. This wasn’t uncommon if she was heading out early, she’d leave me coffee and a key and say goodbye before I was up. As she walked into the bedroom she spotted the crumpled tissues on the floor next to the bed and bent down to pick them up. “Someone ad a good night’s sleep,” she said smiling and placing the coffee down. Not much else was said, she just collected the tissues and left.
From that moment on this became our morning routine if I stayed over. She’d bring me coffee and collect the tissues and check the supply, asking If I needed more. She started to be more inquisitive and would joke that I was her “happy wonker” and however I tried to coach her that the correct pronunciation was “wanker” it still sounded like “wonk” when she said it…..I gave up! I became open and relaxed about masturbating in her house and would often go to bed early when I stayed over telling her I wanted to head up to bed to "relax" for a while. I would leave her watching TV downstairs as I took care of business in the bedroom. “Ok, enjoy,” she would say, “sleep well.”
On one particular evening I was required to sleep downstairs on the couch as she’d been decorating the guest room. In the morning she padded down to the living room where I was still half asleep and sporting a fairly impressive morning wood. She made me coffee and I shifted over so that she could sit next to me on the couch, unconsciously exposing the prominent bulge in my underwear. “Oh no,” she gasped. “I forget to geev you ze Kleenex.” She stood up and came back with a handful of tissues. “I can see zat something wants attention,” she said, winking and smiling. My heart was pounding and my erection felt like it was going to explode there and then. “Allez,” she continued as she flicked the TV on, “it is fine for me.” I didn’t hesitate, pulling my already rock-hard penis from my shorts, and began stroking it up and down, slowly at first, building up speed. I was nervous and my heart was pounding. My French lady friend was flicking through the channels as I worked on my wood, hardly paying my frantic hand movements any attention, but for the occasional glance to see how I was getting on. “Oh…I think something’s happening,” she said, probably detecting the change in my breathing. I shot a good load of hot sperm onto my stomach and exhaled loudly as she watched. “Feels good?” she asked. “Now you feel better.”
It was a wonderful feeling to masturbate openly in front of my neighbour with her full endorsement and without any shame. How on earth had we gone from being on polite nodding terms only six weeks earlier, to me openly stroking my erect penis in front of her as we watched the morning news? It was quite bizarre, but we were both adults and she clearly thought it a good idea. It was a great idea, and I certainly wasn’t complaining!
Many weekends passed and our routine remained the same until I took delivery of a new washing machine, I turned up at her house that evening clutching 2 bottles of wine to thank her for all she’d done for me. We had sex that evening, but it was awkward sex, the kind you regret in the morning, the kind that makes you skulk around the following day looking for an excuse to leave as soon as possible. There was one other drunken attempt at intercourse a few weeks later but it didn’t really click between us. I continued to masturbate at her house when she invited me over and that was more than enough for me.
Finally, as winter tuned to spring my luck changed for the better and a new job and a new girlfriend came into my life. I left the chain-smoking housemate and my French neighbour behind and moved out of town for a fresh start. Regrettably my weekends of wine and wanking in the company of that wonderful French woman were now over. She’d taught me not to be ashamed of a little, or even a lot of solo pleasure and I never looked back. Perhaps it was her relaxed approach to my sexual needs that helped me become the “happy wonker” that I am today!
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