Voyeur Abroad

by uksnowy

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Fiction, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, BBW, Big Breasts, Hairy, Small Breasts, Nudism, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Wealthy British voyeur takes his wife to a naturist resort and meets a like minded local

Part experience, part imagination, a lot of observation and a lot of viewing of voyeur videos. All expressing in my word, my particular likings

“That”s more my style Peppe,” I chortled, nodding with my eyes, across the glitzy foyer of the Hotel Mercure Golf Cap D “Agde. “But Meester D – a granny?” he quizzed with eyes wide, looking up from the newspaper we had been lustily sharing at his desk. “Yes but grannies have a lot of experience, much better than those little beauties, and she oozes class and she’ss no granny,” I persisted, pointing at the photos in the French tabloid with a feature on some beauty award contest and shaking my head. “No never,” he chuckled, then “Look at those girls going out.”

A giggling throng of teens and older girls were exiting the front doors, bums showing under their tight arsed brief shorts, tits thrusting through tee-shirts, tanned legs carrying them on some exciting mission judging by the squeals. “Two of them, the black one and the chubby white one with her, work here,” Peppe confided. “They are room maids and their friends – finished for the day, going to the beach – very nice,” he giggled. “You must see.”

The noise died down and I reverted my gaze to the couple at the reception desk, Peppe back to the newsprint. My wife Thelma and I had stayed in this five star hotel over two weeks now, partly on a golf holiday, partly on catching this gorgeous area in the deep south of France and partly visiting old friends, Chris and Maureen in Bezier, who had deserted good old blighty and were now thinking had they done the right thing twenty years ago, long before Brexit. Peppe was the Italian concierge, minutes away from off duty, and he and I had become firm friends, partly because I had pulled a muscle in my sixty year old back and was spending a lot of lazy days in the hotel gardens, in the pool, the bar, men’s excursions with Chris as he drove - equally bored or dis-interested in Maureen’s ideas, wandering locally or just chatting in quiet moments in the foyer with Peppe or other hotel guests, while Thelma and Maureen did a lot of walking, sightseeing and shopping, mainly for wine in the Languedoc-Roussillon region. They were visiting some fine château today and that’s not on my to do list, likewise, churches and museums.

The fifty eight year old, grey, smooth haired, Zapata moustached, fit, man from Napoli chuckled and pointed again at a photo of a French pop star in a bikini on the beach, with part of her nipple exposed. Very typical of tabloids the world over - and I enjoyed what he showed me. He gestured the international hand sign creating a loop with finger and thumb on one hand and poking his other first digit through it, his eyes glittering acknowledgement and agreement. I sipped my coffee and with a nod expressed with a lips together, pursed forward, closed mouth and nodded in a lascivious gesture with a dirty grin.

We had exchanged many rude ideas, fantasies and gestures in our daily chats, mostly about women, prompted by passers by, hotel guests, newspaper pictures. It seemed he and I shared the same interests in all things female in great detail. We discussed bodies of course, dress, shoes, hair, colour, their walk - everything. I think as an experienced long serving concierge, he had the making of everyone in his domain and lonely as the job could be, he warmed to being a sympathetic like minded soul for company over the years he had been in the hospitality business. His marriage had collapsed a few years back.

With my knowledge of naturist beaches elsewhere, I quizzed Peppe on facilities on his beach, like changing and toilets. He confirmed that changing cabins were metal screens standing high off the sand without any security and toilets were a bank of what Thelma calls and hates squat and aim. I told him of stuff available online, with chaps with cameras, it must have been chaps, being in the adjacent cabins with video cameras and you could see every detail of females changing, even in some cases showering. He knew all about them. The toilet scenes often featured people, men ... with video cameras actually in the chambers where piss and shit would be deposited direct from the unsuspecting woman’s cunt and shit hole. We discussed them at length.


“But this is disgraceful,” came a whining in French voice from reception. It’s tone was so light and shrill I thought it was the “granny” as Peppe had put it, but when I looked it was the man with her. He was small, completely bald, grotesquely fat, sweating and undoing his tie. She stood back from the desk fussing with a handbag. “American,” Peppe whispered and I nodded. “Just arrived, I think Rudi can take care of them – I am soon off duty and the boys will help.” Rudi obviously could, the German duty manager was in charge and instructing the two porters about bags, golf equipment and a huge bunch of flowers the woman thrust at him. “Rudi is new eh?” “He started with the hotel last season,” Peppe replied as a junior porter joined the party. “OK for a Kraut.” He giggled as I did at the derogatory term. “Be extra careful with those flowers,” ordered the woman, also in impeccable French, attracting attention from me on the sidelines, almost out of her sight, whilst directing the poor French lad struggling with her enormous Hermes bags and the precious flowers. Her voice was deep, almost husky and yet unmistakably female. It sounded like it could flay the skin off a man, a sandstorm in the desert. She was striking, medium to large build and very tall, statuesque, think Miranda Hart on British TV but far shapelier, smaller teeth - figure in the right proportions, not beautiful in the classic sense of the word, no supermodel, but there was something about her that I could imagine men killing each other for.

Straight, gleaming, black hair to her shoulders. Purest, flawless white skin, high cheekbones, slight Roman nose and eyes that hinted at a Middle Eastern background. Maybe mid to late forties with perfect posture, but there was something about the way she held herself suggested a much greater age kept expensively at bay,. She wore large, severe, black framed, what I would call business style spectacles, but somehow they added to her statuesque beauty. Dressed totally in an elegant, black, silk trouser suit, four inch high designer shoes, but for a deep claret blouse, which looked to house a nice set of tits. She had cherry-dark lips. The couple were like the F1 boss Bernie Eccleston and his giant wife, dwarfing the man, who was arguing something with Rudi and getting nowhere but in the nicest possible cool, calm, German subservient way.

Peppe was now interested. Him and I have had some fascinating and revealing chats about females, but I think it was the way she stooped gracefully to pick up a stray rose and stuff it back in the big red bunch. It was so elegant – not a full bend, just a cute bending to one side of tight together sheer clad legs, I caught a glimpse of hose, in vertiginous, stiletto, glossy black shoes and a sweep of dark painted nail hands – like a black swan. Her knees weren’t bony, in fact I couldn’t see any bones but she wouldn’t have stood without them, but the woman was near perfect everywhere, dressed, her lower limbs were strong but softly sculptured and her long white neck stayed upright. I could see no sign of visible panty line, it was poetry in motion.

Whatever turmoil it was in the foyer seemed to be sorted and she stalked off towards the lifts, her pathetic husband, I guess, scuttling behind. Peppe glanced at me, his thumb down turned and pressing into the arm of his chair and rolled his eyes and I grinned.

“I will go now Meester D, to my beloved beach and the scenery,” Peppe chuckled with a sly wink, tapping his nose, going off to his room to change – off duty.

I had come to know he would spend the end of the afternoon from three o’clock at the beach every day. He often asked why I and Thelma don’t do the beach. She didn’t like beaches - sand, noise, sea - all reasons and more, give her the chance to spout about it. I more or less had the same feeling, but I loved my golf, swimming in the hotel pool, doing my own thing which Thelma gave me full unquestioned freedom in also resting in complete comfort in the grounds of the hotel. My business life was intense and hectic with schedules and flights to meet, then came the decision making affecting many employees of mine and other companies. I did know that the local beaches were all naturist and no textiles as the French cutely call clothes, apart from small designated areas, but I’ve seen my fair share of naked women either in strip clubs, escorts or as Thelma never knows – on naturist resorts when travelling on business. My wife just doesn’t agree with total nudity in public and moans like buggery when I strip off everything in our garden in Hampshire.

There was initial fancy that I would visit the nudist beaches with my cameras, but felt there would be maximum security, CCTV everywhere and constant patrols to hunt the pervs, which I classed myself as one. I would have had plenty of opportunities with Thelma away for hours each day unless we were doing something together, but I was hugely concerned with getting caught, the ultimate shame and scandal in the press, considering my status in certain high blown communities, businesses, charities and committees. I decided against the risk and be ultra careful.

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