Helena Robertson
Mousse
CHAPTER ONE
Monique threw her cigarette in the crystal ash tray. She got up and displayed her shapely voluptuous body in the fragrant breeze of that June evening. She listened for a while to the rumor of the nearby sea and of the moving pine trees in the starlit night; then, leaving the terrace, she entered the living room where her aunt and some friends of hers were seriously playing bridge. By the table, Max Darcourt was quietly smoking. He looked at Monique, a splendid girl of nineteen, fair-haired, whose body, dressed in shiny black silk, represented a perfect materialization of desires and lust. At each step she took, her splendid buttocks were undulating, supported by her perfectly shaped legs. She had a very narrow waist that accentuated the size of her rear. Her two breasts were like succulent and juicy pineapples. The face was very sweet, with wide eyes that looked at you as in perpetual surprise.
Monique, an orphan, spent her youth in a convent in Brittany, and later, she herself became a teacher in a boarding school. She was spending her vacations in the south of France with her aunt who was also her legal tutor.
She looked at Max, an old friend of her aunt. He was handsome, forty-nine, a gray-templed character, and one of her aunt's best friends. He had a little smile and winked at Monique. She replied by another smile and he came by her side. She poured him a glass of champagne and he asked her in a low voice:
“Will I see you like last year? Our little club is still in full swing and awaiting your visit.”
Monique looked around to be sure that no one could hear them and breathed:
“I know. The delightful lingerie that you sent me this morning brought back all kinds of memories from my last vacations; I will go to the club tomorrow to receive the deepest 'attentions' from the members…”
Max smiled to her, kissed her hand, and went back to the bridge table.
Monique then went to a sofa where her little nephew, Jacques, was reading comics. She caressed the head of the child. He had a very sweet face with delicate features. He smiled at her and hugged her close.
“You are not sleeping?”
“No, not yet, I just do not want to. What about you?”
“Me neither. Will you come with me on the terrace?”
Monique smiled, got up, and followed the young boy. The night swallowed them immediately as they walked side by side on the sand covered with dried pine needles. They stopped on a kind of terrace above the sea and Monique leaned against it, Jacques remained behind her, admiring her behind revealed by the pose. The dress lifted up, and the white flesh of the thighs, contrasted against the black silk stockings, was showing daringly. Her garters were of the same color. He knelt behind the young girl and put his hands on her hips. His head brushed the silky material of her dress. Monique shivered from head to toes at that contact that she had been awaiting since the day before. Did she want it? Maybe.
All the allusions that the kid had made from the day he arrived, about her shape, her figure, all the looks that she caught on her legs, often displayed generously by languid poses, were so many symptoms of the desire of her young cousin. What would be the limit to his ardor?
A terrible excitation was knotting her in-sides, she was deprived for five days of the caresses of her pupils; besides that, the fragrance and voluptuous climate of that country were giving a new energy to the blood that ran in her lascivious body.
She did not say anything, closed her eyes, expectingly. The child caressed the hips, the thighs over the dress. He guessed, by Monique's passivity, that she was consenting. His hands moved along the silky stockings, up and up till they met with the warm and soft flesh. They caressed it and, moving higher, arrived on the buttocks. He lifted the dress up and dug his face in the slit that separates the firm globes, in an ardent embrace, while his hands encircling the thighs were reaching, caressing, teasing her velvety intimacy.
Monique was abandoning her flesh under the caress while a warm sensation came from between her legs, where her flesh was softly brushed by Jacques' breath. She felt the mouth under her buttocks, on the sensitive place at the end of her sex. The hands were harder on her legs, trying to separate them. She had a reflex of modesty, but it was already too late- the tongue was greedily insinuating toward the sex. She sighed deeply, half shame and half pleasure. Obediently, she opened her legs, offered her bottom, and the mouth was on her sex, edging its way between the burning lips, and sucking at the little bud that was pointing. Then began a deep suction while the hands were still caressing the front of the girl's legs.
Monique was no longer listening to the murmur of the sea, or the sound of the breeze in the pine trees, but her own humming as it finally came like a song in the fragrant night. Her bottom was slowly dancing, with sucking of the child, and the spasm was getting closer. Monique was finding again the pleasure that she had missed so much for a long time. As in a movie, the face of her little pupils, also enjoying their vacations, passed in front of her eyes. Then lustier pictures came to her mind; she could see flagellated bodies moving lasciviously. Monique sighed under the violence of the sensation that she could feel, she shivered and swiveled on her trembling legs, her fingers pressed on the marble of the balcony till the nails rasped on the hard stone. From her throat came a continuous rattle, then a deep cry and a trembling of her whole body, pushing her bottom violently against the young face that was glued to her sex. Monique exhaled her satisfaction in a long cry…
The child remained a long moment with his face still dug between the buttocks his eyes closed he kept kissing the lips dripping with her juices. Withdrawing, he contemplated in the pale blue moonlight the propped bottom and the shiny extremities bulging under the fair hair. His shivering fingers were caressing the full mass of the globes. He caressed the milky flesh of the young girl's thighs and she let him do as he pleased, trying to recover from the violent pleasure.
She turned around to face and caress the young fair-haired head of the child still kneeling in front of her who was caressing the palpitating belly, kissing the velvety crotch, drawing with the tip of his tongue the contours of the delicate shaped navel.
Monique bent down, kissed the child on the lips; he was already grabbing the breast by the deep opening of the blouse.
She guessed the desire that was coming in the child:
“Not here, later… Not everything on the same day… Stop now…”
He insisted, and she resisted, so he finally gave up. Lowering her dress, she returned with him to the house.
The bridge game was coming to an end, she served a couple of cold drinks; and while she was doing so, Max, by her side murmured:
“Does he caress well, little Monique?”
Monique blushed. Max guessed at the lines under the eyes, and the extraordinary light in her eyes, the result of the little walk on the terrace. He also knew by another woman who told him that it was not the boy's first experience in the pleasures of Sappho.
Little by little, all the guests departed. Monique caught the look between her Aunt Sonia and Pierre Bernier; she also saw their lips whisper some words.
Sonia looked anxious and impatient to see everyone go away. She hardly answered Monique's chat before going away and retiring in her room. Monique looked at her while she walked out of the living room. She was a very elegant and appealing woman, well shaped in the clinging material of her white dress that made her thirty-three year old body look very sensuous. Her brown hair was a crown to her sensuous face.
Monique turned all the lights out and went in her room; she undressed and caressed her languid body. Throwing a silk kimono over her shoulders she went by the window and, leaning against the balustrade, listened to the sounds of the night. She could breathe the soothing air coming from the sea. Silence was complete and all the lights were turned off. Suddenly Monique saw a shadow moving in the garden. She recognized Pierre Bernier when he reached the terrace. He came in the house, and, a little bit later, the light filtrated through Sonia's Venetian
