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“In a word, yes. I miss Father. I miss Grace.”She giggled.“I miss Sandrine, too.” She did not name Antoine, but she missed him as well. They’d left him behind at his request months ago on an island colonized by France. She didn’t know where he was now, but he could not return to their home island under any circumstances. He was relatively safe as long as he avoided English jurisdiction.Gérard hugged her and ran his hand slowly down her back. A little sweaty, a little ripe. The night was warm as nights always were and they had no need to dress after their lovemaking. Their youth meant they often needed to join more than once. They wouldn’t be disturbed. Captain Beauchamp, who was Amélie’s only other lover now that Antoine had left the ship, was busy with other pursuits this evening. He enjoyed the pleasures of men and women.Gérard kissed her.“There is news, Amélie.”She stiffened. The news couldn’t be good.“Is Father dead? Sick?”Gérard kissed her again and laughed and pressed his hand. Your eyes pull me closer, daring me to touch that spark and be warmed. Walking among the trees, we talk about our plans, the day, how beautiful it is, you turn to lift me on to a stump so I face you. You slip your hands under my dress, I smile ever so mischievously as you hands find that I have forgotten my underwear. As your hands explore, so do mine….I run my hands through your hair, over your shoulders, play in the dark and silver curls on your chest. My hands work over your body, finding my way to your manhood which is responding to my touch ever so wonderfully…strong, erect. so very hard and wanting me so much…in your eyes I see your smoky desires flaring into a fire. Your body is strong, hard, molding to me, our hips are even, we feel each others heat and desires…anticipation grows. My dress is a light, spaghetti-strap affair that ties at the side, you find the ties, loosen them, allowing my breasts with their hard nipples escape into your talented hands. As you play, I feel my.
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She’s much drunker than I thought, and much thinner than I remember, though her breasts haven’t suffered, she certainly isn’t bothering to hide them anymore. The dress she is wearing is low-cut and supportive; they’re practically bursting out of her blouse. My cock twitches in spite of myself. She stumbles towards the car from the curb and struggles momentarily before hauling herself into the backseat of my girlfriend’s Taurus. Shutting the door she falls over sideways on the seat, her dress hiking high up her thigh and her breasts barely contained by her bra. “Thank you…..soooo much,” she manages to slur. “No problem,” I say shortly, “Buckle up.” “Yeshur,” she says, with a half-hearted attempt to give an ironic salute from her position lying in the back seat, legs strewn hither and thither around the passenger door. She sits up and one of her dress shoulder straps fall revealing a black lace bra. She reaches for the seat belt over her shoulder, spreading her legs as she did so. I.

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