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.

“No chasing the girls Peppe,” I grinned, rotating my finger. “I will not chase, just look – and – maybe get you a photograph Meester D.” His tan was weathered and made his skin leathery, his eyeballs shone round his droopy dark eyes. “That would be nice. A topless one?” “Puuff, they are all topless,” he gurgled dirtily. “All naked, you know?” he added, knowing I knew. “You show your lovely wife?” “Fuck no,” I replied. “She doesn’t like that sort of thing.” “She look very nice topless,” the mature, romantic and dirty Italian suggested, nodding with his eyebrows high. He grinned and sauntered out as I pondered on his suggesting that Thelma would look good topless.


My wife Thelma, is 5”6”, dirty blonde, neck length thick hair, styled professionally every two weeks, pale skin, but compared to the new arrival - almost coloured. She is stout bodied, waist defined, grippable hips, sturdy legs, nice ankles and huge boobs. I think they’re what Peppe had in mind, as I had spotted him ogling her in the evening, as we passed his desk on the two nights he did duty. When dressed for dinner, especially when we taxied out to a local restaurant, she insisted that we both dress formally. I did fund her ever increasing wardrobe, but I was wealthy and she did consult me when a new garment was on the cards.

Her tits were the element that sealed our togetherness forty years back. She made a great show of them, actually liking her boobs herself and never complaining about their weight or back ache and the like. She’s 44DD and in her low cut evening dresses shows quivering deep cleavage. Her reasonable waist and belly, yes there was a roll, two in fact, one just above her navel, the other - which when naked was starting to droop and mask her genitals, but at her age, after two kids, was well trussed in when dressed, she still turned eyes mostly from the mature guys around, but now and again a youth would ogle her. She was good North East UK stock with an excellent family pedigree as good as the many horses her father owned and trained. Her bum was meaty and I never told her how much it wobbled – I liked it. She did have a preference for big pants however and I can’t remember her wearing a sexy pair of briefs, a thong or a pair of high cut knickers, and I had put in several requests and suggestive gifts.

Thelma had a real go at me that evening, telling me Chris thought I was joining him for some golf and I forgot to tell him about my back. I didn’t really give a fuck, he wouldn’t have made a huge song and dance of it, not like Thelma did. When she ranted off on her high horse, she was formidable, virtually impossible to get my angle in to discuss rights and wrongs. That was in our room and now my mind was otherwise occupied by a rather chubby Moroccan waitress, who when she bent over to serve diners, exposed a large expanse of swarthy, bare legs and kicked off my fantasies of up-skirting her. I had surreptitiously packed my two mini cameras, thinking I could sneak away from Thelma in a market or shopping mall and capture up the skirt views of choice females. It was my hobby/fetish/addiction amongst others in the dark world of voyeurism and I had a network of cyber pals scattered around the world who loved my videos and we swapped. I had calculated with vast experience the lesser risk of detection up-skirting as against public beach stuff.

The wife was like a proverbial limpet at all times when at our friends chalet, so I got zilch chance to go videoing upskirts.

The new arrivals had swept in to the hotel restaurant, well she did, haughtily, him anxiously trying to keep up with her. Earlier I was at reception for some directions for Thelma, Rudi assisted me thoroughly, as I always tip generously, paving the way for any problems wherever we stayed and he would do well out of me. I managed to debrief him about the fracas in the foyer, me being nosey as is my want, extracting details of the troublesome couple, but trying for anything about the tall spectacular woman Peppe and I had noticed.

Monsieur and Madame Hartog were actually Canadian, from Quebec, here for a funeral of her uncle, a locally well known contractor/property developer and then a wedding later in their stay. Rebekah Hartog was extremely wealthy internationally, a result of her father’s bequest. I looked her up later on good old Google and found she owned precious metal mines, a Pakistani textile supplier to major stores, a string of filling stations in UK, a chain of boutiques in Germany, a race course in France and several desirable properties across the world - wow! An eclectic range of interests.

Rudi didn’t offer much, maybe he had none, information about the little man with her.

I also found she had been a straight - A student, BA in modern arts, Phi Beta Kappa, sum-ma cum laude, followed by an MD at a top business school, then a prestigious internship and residency and board certification in business law. Some brain as well as beauty. As far as I could see, she was the king pin and her little man Henri was nothing, but there must have been something between the ill-matched couple.

Nowhere as loaded as she was, I was content in my own world and the latest Jag outside had carried us comfortably touring France over four weeks so far staying at five star hotels. Next winter we would be in our chalet in Courcheval for a month skiing and partying. Thelma loved and was good at both.

Rebekah Hartog”s main gripe was that some of their bags had been dropped at a sister hotel, in Bezier, but would arrive later and they had. Other than the chubby waitress”s legs, the domineering lady two tables along took my attention. Her silky black hair was turned up and held with some jewelled pins in a slightly bohemian, not ultra tight fashion, deliberately stray, long hairs cascaded round her ears and brow. Her ear rings were spectacular hoops and an Arabic symbol design necklace adorned her seamless neck. The same red lipstick creamed her lips and her nails were painted very dark.

She wore a full length, pencil slim, black, high necked, sleeved dress which was transparent over her shoulders until just above her bosom, which was not small and looked to be held in a supporting, seamless, black brassiere, such was the definite tremble of her breasts when she moved around the buffet. They were held but not constricted, like Thelma’s balloons. My voyeur brain kicked in and thought how nice it would be to see her intimately.

“Maureen adores you, you know,” giggled Thelma, interrupting my thoughts in other directions. I turned to her guiltily, but she was used to my mind wandering. “That’s nice,” I answered dutifully, not really caring, my mind having to swing from a spectacular female totally commandeering the whole male population of the dining room, to the over dieted and sports hating woman I had targeted for bedroom viewing. My other main hope apart from up skirting the females of France was the stick like 52 year old ex-work friend of Thelma’s. Not a great catch in female attraction I know, positively a skinny bird, a pleasant always smiling face, but views of her changing and doing women’s stuff in hah hah privacy had interested me as much as any woman I got the chance on, but the bait was missed in that I had absolutely no opportunity of being free enough to set the cams up in Chris and Maureen’s bedroom, so mega zilch so far. “You are her idol, she’s pissed off with Chris ... I mean you are so intellectual and love art, theatre, jazz and classical concerts and he’s not,” she chuckled carefully teasing muscles from their shells. “Does she want to fuck me?” I grinned. “Hope n...” “Oh you ... honestly - your brain is still in your cock,” she smiled, chewing and rolling her eyes. I imagined shagging Maureen, the bag of bones, the pasty parchment quality of her skin and total lack of humour – urghhh.


Like a limpet this morning before we got up, I stuck to Thelma’s ample round buttocks, ramming her luscious cunt in classic doggy fashion, her favourite position, aiming to get the bad vibes from last night’s minor tiff out of both our minds, but the prime reason was to fuck my wife solidly – simple as that. Over the years I had found the secret to any bad words, was to get on the nest as quickly as possible and Thelma’s nest was purposely left untrimmed at my request which she very obligingly allowed, unlike her carefully designed and coiffed hairstyle.

She was a fuck star, which pleased my randy nature no-end and fucking good at fucking, often demanding in the nicest possible way, to be fucked – anywhere, anytime - for instance on the tip of the famous Cobb in Lyme Regis at about midnight after a boozy session in the Pilot Boat pub. Funnily- well not funny, but even though she desired the doggy position often, she wouldn’t let me shaft her arse hole. I could play with the cute buttons of sphincter membrane clustered round it, but as for inserting anything – NO not even a finger tip. I remember mistakenly trying that on the Cobb, she was bending over the steps up to the top level at the time, not caring about her designer jacket on the still puddly stones after an afternoon storm, she could buy another, but anything up her bum! Fuck! She howled in protest and waved me away; any persons around would have come to her rescue.

Like I said, I have sampled many cunts world-wide including the myriad and often taboo temptations of Bangkok, but entering the big, hairy, always wet, wifely bulge in my home bed was the best. She could have made a fortune in sex – somehow – but was never happier when I was somewhere near her crotch, with intentions. Her vaginal clutch wasn’t a minge, too small a word to describe her pussy pouch – ah yes that’s the word, it was a pouch. It was wide and full, like a Big Mac bun, the tasty meat between the thick, fleshy, pasty, dough like flesh was always oozing a secretion that we both loved to sample, she would moan that she couldn’t lick her own twat – but who can? Maybe a contortionist - to taste it neat without her or my fingers.

With each stroke I watched her tissue heavy breasts wobble, her nipples scraping gently on the sheet beneath; she liked to vary that pressure on her stubby teats, controlling it by bending up and down. Her tight shit hole winked at me naughtily, teasing my desire and reminding me of the very similar view I had in Thailand, experimenting with a fucking gorgeous lady boy and surprising myself how good professional anal sex had been. In that case I had a view of a pair of ballocks swaying below. The lady boy wanted to return the compliment but I refused.

I satisfied myself by lightly fingering Thelma’s ring piece without attracting her displeasure, watching her long, unpainted fingernails twiddling round her clitoris and it’s hood. Occasionally Thelma shoved her hand further, parting her fingers to grip my cock and sometimes nip some of her labia round my shaft. I came long before her and flopped out to sink down beside her, fondling her knockers until she tired, flipped over and masturbated herself to an overwhelming orgasm, she knew I loved to watch while I played with her teats.

“How’s your back, you sexy stud husband of mine?” She snickered. “Fine, it”s only when I swing it gives me gyp.” “We’re not swinging here matey,” Thelma chuckled. “I am keeping you for myself, told you that.” Hmmmm! Little did she know about minges I had minged, I mused as I kissed her and entered the shower. I could be hers exclusively for as long as necessary.


The Hartog’s didn’t appear for breakfast. Thelma and I chatted to a Russian couple, the man lusting after my wife’s heaving bosom as she manipulated plates and stuff at the buffet. She wore a loose, filmy, hip length, white top and had left several buttons undone betraying the acres of pale, billowing tit flesh. She was, I know, feeling perky, as she always does after fucking good fucking. Her wobbly bottom was tightly mashed in white, three quarter length jeans, which revealed as always a big panty line. Her feet were in Jimmy Choo flat wedged sandals. His wife was hugely obese, not a pretty sight and with peasant like features making her plain ugly.

Thelma needed some stuff from the local pharmacy having given her Rudi’s directions, so off she went and I took my usual lounger in the garden near the pool. Up strolled my new best mate Peppe, he had some news info to be spilled. Greetings were kept brief then he launched into his news “Oh Meester D, yesterday on the beach it was fabulous. You remember I told you about the room maids...” “Yes the black bitch and friends...” “Yes yes, them. I have never seen them on the naturist beach before - they go to the textiles and I go nude as you know,” I nodded. “Their friends must be naturists and they all came to my beach today, it was fabulous...” “Yes yes you saw their tits, wow black girls- I love them...” “Yes, no but yes, I saw their pussies ... I work with their their fucking pussies ... you know,” Peppe snickered, looking around again to see if there were other hotel guests in our vicinity. “Black pussy!”

I did wonder why he was so elated about it, knowing he was a regular on the naturist beach and must have seen pussy and arse holes galore. “I got some great views of the black – how you call her? black bitch, and the others mamma mia! One girl, tiny tits, was on period but still was nude I saw the ... what is it ... string, the other had a huge bush ... you know hair ... and their friend must have also been on and kept her panties on. It was fabulouso”. “That was good Peppe, I wish I had been with you,” I said, somewhat disconsolately. “You can show me some photos?” “Photos? Pah! I can do better...” he peered round the garden again and slunk down from his chair to sit on the end of my lounger. I shifted a little. “I make the vids, the videos you know, myself. I have done many, I can show you,” he beamed triumphantly. “You take a camera and video them? Fucking hell, you crazy Peppe?” “Meester D I am not stupid, yes I video them but they do not see,” he giggled. “I know how to do it, many years I do this thing, mucho practice,” he chuckled tapping his big nose. “Just be careful Peppe...” “Meester D, it is OK. I know the beach guards.” “OK Peppe, but if those girls report you to the manager, you will lose your job,” I reasoned. “Meester D,” he protested with a look as if I was crazy. “The owner, the big boss is father of my daughter’s husband, he is German, a Kraut,” he chuckled and winked.

I nodded, not thinking that would do him any favours if the girls were really bothered. In silence I pondered the fact he didn’t know me that well and was he saying too much, but then he surprised me further. “I show you ... the vids ... you know ... pussy, black pussy? You like? I am your friend,” his deep, dark eyes were puzzled, brow deeply furrowed, his handsome head cocked to one side. I gulped and coughed, dying to see, but how, where, not out in the open surely, and was he trying to push his tip up further. “Yes I would like Peppe, but where?” I gestured round, as I followed my gesture, the very empty garden. He followed my arm, shook his head and dug into his beach bag to unearth a very small camera. I was stunned, it was virtually the same as mine. Tiny and black, about two inches tall and three quarters of an inch thick and wide. I noticed a couple of extra buttons. He must have seen the mixed look of amazement, glee and recognition on my face. Next out of his bag emerged a small tablet and he plugged the camera to it with a thin cable, pushed a few buttons and with another glance round the succulent growth surrounding us he budge his butt next to mine, our bare thighs intimately together as his gnarled, mahogany coloured hand sheltered the screen from direct sunlight.

The seven inch screen was showing sand, beach, sky, umbrellas, chairs, loungers, ocean, waves and people. They were all nude as I expected, male and female, many elderly, tubby, fat, wrinkled and wobbly, but equally many of all ages, upright, shapely, toned, glamorous even kiddies playing happily amongst the throng, splashing in the shoreline ripples. It seemed Peppe had taken in the whole scene as he claimed his spot. “Not edited yet Meester D, just watch,” he murmured, handing me the tablet. I glanced guiltily around, but we were isolated and I relaxed slightly. The screen changed to confusing flashes, out and in of focus, jumble of clothes, feet, bags, sand, distant bodies, flask, legs, bottle of wine, more bodies upside down, glasses, books mixed with sky, bodies walking, sand and hairy legs and I guessed the camera was being juggled as it’s pervy owner was settling and staking his pitch. He peered over my shoulder, his garlic breath strong but normal in the South of France.

Finally it settled and four fidgeting naked young girls occupied the whole screen and my eyes widened, recognising them instantly. “Wow Peppe, this is superb...” He tapped my knee as I stared at the naked vision of four teenage beauties, laughing, joking, flicking hair, chatting, painting lips, swigging from water bottles, preening, coating nubile perfect bodies with sun protection. Gorgeous unblemished, firm tits, one big pair, thighs and butts bounced and quivered with each stroke of greasy hands. One bikini bottom seemed alien amongst the blatant display of firm, fresh bodies. “Wait Meester D,” he grinned. “You will see...” I wondered what else as they bustled about naked, sitting, kneeling, crouching, flashing crotches and cute bottoms. Peppe pressed a button on the camera and fast-forwarded until it rested once they had settled to sunbathe, still active and fidgeting The camera was enveloped in a mass of hands and fingers in close-up until it stilled, clear view of the targets, then irritatingly masked by hands and fingers until it settled and remained settled. “I put it on the blanket on the sand,” he explained. “Ah! so it’s firm.” He nodded.

We both viewed the screen a few minutes, then he fast-forwarded again until the view changed and the tangle of hands and fingers dominated the view and suddenly it was a view elevated much higher and framed by two hairy side bars, but with a much better angle. Now we could see the girl’s crotches, bare naked fucking crotches. The camera stayed fixed for a while then jiggled sideways showing a different array of parts of the nubile bodies, then it jiggled the other way with the same magnificent result. “In my knees Meester D, like this,” Peppe whispered, the garlic becoming overpowering such was his closeness. He put a matchbox between his bony, hairy knees and held it there and I could see how we were getting a higher and better view right up the girls slits, through the slit of his hairy knees. It was stunning and daring – I was transfixed as the video rolled on, showing the uninhibited actions of the four main targets. Now and then a naked pair of hairy legs would wander past, pause, then wander on. Peppe chuckled. I asked him why and he told me they were men having a close look. “Dirty buggers,” I giggled. “Pure genius,” I added, patting his shoulder... “It gets better,” he replied and disconnected the two IT gadgets and put the camera to the side. He shuffled even nearer if that was possible. He fiddled with the tablet and nodded eagerly at it – as I did. “Look I have modified it,” he told me pointing to the top edge of the grey plastic rectangle.

I told him I didn’t see what he meant and Peppe explained with glee and much garlic vapour, that he had changed the camera in the tablet to point forward instead of at the operator and disguised it inside a book he pretended to read while on the beach as if not interested in the naked beauty in front of him. It became very obvious to me. He had control of the little device and could zoom to a much greater level than the mini camera he’d used between his knees. The views he then achieved were spectacular.

The scene was full on the chubby white girl he had defined as one of the room maids. She lay supine. Her round knees were up and her legs were constantly opening and closing and the camera was trained on her cunt. She was slapping on protective sun lotions. The fat she was carrying roamed down to her pussy pouch, reminding me of Thelma’s thick one and this one – Doris, from Metz, he mentioned her name and home town, had much thicker and more protruding labia than my wife. Doris’s cunt lips were tucked in at the top of her bulky slit, big, fat, crinkled and chunky out at the bottom. On screen there was the hardened thread of tampon string curling from her menstruating vagina. It was very white, maybe fresh for the beach, strangely sexy to see a blatant, fuck you, display of femininity out in the open like this – she was a brave girl. Beyond her crotch and just beyond the dome of her undulating belly I could just see her tits, which weren’t big, but she had puffy nipples which were mini tits in them selves, large cones, topped with buds, quite different to what I had seen anywhere. In her movements shuffling round to get the best sand level under her rug, she had collected some of the pearly, white, fine beach sand on those shaggy, full meat curtains and it looked cute.

Then I saw the black girl in a similar position as Doris. Peppe whispered this was Jade from Marseilles, a work colleague. He nudged me in a knowing way, but I was already very excited. She was sat up reading a small paperback, with her legs straight out, feet together, showing me that delicious pink pigmentation on the soles of her feet the Negroid descendants are blessed with. Certainly not a pretty girl, slim and rangy, I remember her walk through the hotel foyer as being elegant; her face was very round with a heavy forward jaw, a protruding upper lip and quite small piggy eyes. Peppe nudged me again as if to say this is good eh? She had tiny tits, what you might call bee stings and her nipples were very dark little buttons and hardly any areolae. But – her cunt was bare, hairless and she had a bulging, smooth mons with just the top of a simple, uncomplicated, no outer lips, dark slit evident. Jade had a jewel in her navel. She giggled and glanced at the girl on her left and I could see parts of white legs, arms and a towel being moved. It would have been perfect if she had swiped her fingers through her snatch, flashing it open and displaying that very sexy pinkness as on the soles of her feet, but she didn’t.

Peppe then whispered that this next couple of scenes were fucked and he replayed what we had viewed, telling me that he would have better views of the other two nubile crackers tomorrow when his compatriot Piero who was a beach guard, finished editing. When I asked, he explained that Piero was also from Naples, his longest, oldest friend and they had ‘worked’ this beach and hotel several years - adding a huge wink. He advised that I must see what he had captured as it was extra special.


Thelma and I went to Bezier the next day to have a lunch with Chris and Maureen, but I knew we had to be back at three to allow my wife to use SKYPE and talk to her sister Angela about something or other, so I could go and see what Peppe and his pal had in store. It was weird at lunch as I sat beside Maureen, with Chris and Thelma opposite and the stick-insect had chosen to wear a very loose, shirt/blouse thing. It was sleeveless and had enormous arm holes. The folds of the white material were substantial. Maureen wore white, skin tight denims over inch high, wedge heeled sandals, from which peeped bright red toenails – actually very summery of course, very smart in a completely sexless way, from my point of view. She did have a very cute childlike bottom too – no sign of VPL.

I must admit, although not being the slightest interest to me as a voyeur, except missing out on the bedroom activities, which wasn’t a sad loss, but could have been revealing, the ex-school marm had the most accomplished and coloured make-up, tasteful but complimentary with a neat hairstyle, coupled with an exotic perfume, so I did enjoy the lunchtime get together. Chris was nothing but golf and football talk and I humoured him. In full flow about Rory McIlroy, he misheard his wife asking for some water, so she reached over the table, having to rise a little from her chair. I was topping up the wines at the time and there next to me was a delicious, albeit skinny, side boob view into Maureen’s upper torso from her neck down to her waistband. The fucking gear was side less and I was stunned.

The shirt was so full of floating material the front portion hung vertically and when I finished the pour, I leaned back in my chair, shielding me from Thelma’s bored indifference. This allowed me to enjoy for a brief moment a sight I would never have imagined. The woman had certainly enjoyed the sun in her South of France residency and parts of her torso was as tanned as her face, emphasised by the stark contrast to white below her neck and armpits. She always wore a one piece, bulky, dull material swimsuit in our pool meetings and she didn’t do beach. To me, nothing compares to Thelma’s tits and her pal’s were hilariously laughable – shrunken, tiny, even stretch marked paps – but they culminated in some quite outstanding nipples. In times when I had studied her dressed persona, there wasn’t the slightest indication she had any buds like those and I drank in their beauty.

Maureen’s flat, bony chest sported only a large, dangling pendant, which swayed around in the cave under her shirt – or blouse – whatever it was. But that was not important to the sexual voyeur in me, but her glorious nipples were. Never thought I would be expressing praise in relation to what I supposed, and maybe is, a frigid looking woman, but they resembled inverted acorns. Inverted in that they were smooth, chestnut tones for about five millimetres from their growth out of her breast, ten millimetres thick then thickened and widened to crusty, ochre coloured, blunt ended caps. I had never seen similar. I wondered if Chris liked them. They were gone in seconds but I had seen them. Her scrawny, angular fore arm reached and raised her glass and the conversation rambled on. I aimed to see more of this female phenomena, but didn’t.

Back in the hotel by taxi at two, it’s only thirty minutes, we changed into casual sloppy clothes, Thelma deciding to sleep off her lunch in our suite and I went to my usual pool place. Twenty minutes later we had to evacuate the building - only a routine alarm test - my wife worried about her visual contact with Angela. At the contact time, she retreated to our suite and I had a brief chat with on duty Peppe telling him I would be at the pool and he stating with the usual winking and nudging, still garlic flavoured, he had some fabulouso stuff to show me. As guests were making their way back inside, a stony faced M. et Mme Hartog were stepping into the foyer from their chauffeur driven limo. Peppe swiftly stepped forward and held the door open and I went to the pool.

He arrived at my side, flustered, annoyed, in a bad temper – not good for a concierge, but he was now off duty. Mdm Hartog had gone for him because the limo driver cocked things up route-wise, the restaurant table Peppe had reserved for them had no sea view, their table wasn’t ready and they had been held up because of French lorry drivers blockade on the autoroute. As if it were all Peppe’s fault.

After he calmed down he suggested we retire to his meagre apartment to view the beach videos. He had a typical staff apartment, one poky room and a bathroom for which he apologised profusely, giving me a cool Peroni then setting up the techie stuff. He kept up a constant muttering about the Hartogs and banged his fist on anything hard. Finally he settled with remote in hand, checked I had enough beer and we watched.

Initially it was re-runs of his footage, a delightful intro and then the footage he had cocked up. The screen then went into a perfect cinema mode, clear and focussed, with very little shudder and shake and from a higher level as per Peppe’s lower angle. The four target girls held the whole screen and after lingering over the two Peppe had captured, vastly improved close-ups of Doris’s tampon string, again with sand attached to her her lower labia and also the end of the string. The lens switched to the girl next to Jade, he didn’t know her name. She looked very tanned all over and experienced and I remembered she was a regular nudist, but she wore a pale yellow bikini bottom. My pal explained that this video was the work of Piero from his elevated vantage point but with a professional video camera. Her boobs were delightful, upright, no sag, firm and lick able and very bronze. He zoomed into her crotch, the tan complimenting the yellow strip of material that hid her twat from view. The detail through the lens was astounding – there was something odd but I couldn’t nail it. Peppe nudged me excitedly.

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