Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, First, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, .
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A slow developing story about a young man who is pursued by women for ten years, and he has no idea who they are. They keep appearing when he least expects them, and then disappear again to quickly to discover the truth.
Hi. Oh, sorry. My name is Winston Young, Win for short, Winston Allen Young, III for long. I've been in the steel business for almost ten years. It has been my career choice since I graduated from college, but I must admit that I didn't immediately go to work that first June. I had managed to scrimp during college, not spending all of the money that my grandparents had left me for that purpose, and taking in some extra income by charging my roommates rent on the their portion of the house we occupied. I failed to mention to them that I was the actual owner of that house as well, and thus collected enough to make the mortgage, insurance and utilities payments each month without even tapping into the funds set aside by my Grandparents for those expenses. I mention this only to explain how I managed to have enough money upon graduation to spend a year traveling around the country, mostly to places that were warm and inviting. I even managed to get to the south of France that summer, just to peruse the natives during their annual month long vacation.
Since my mother is a native of that area, I have been fluent in that language for my entire life. It comes to me almost as a native tongue, and I was able to meet and attract several young maidens presenting myself as a French bachelor sufficiently enough to allow them to award me their initial charms during the later portions of evenings. In my extended month of August in France, out of the numerous young ladies with whom I spent time indoors, usually in a prone position, I only slipped up one time. It was of no matter, fortunately, since our evening was winding down already. My cell phone rang as I was recovering from a period of robust physical activity with a certain young lady. Without thinking, I answered it in English and conversed for several minutes before remembering that, to my bed-mate of the evening, I was native French. Damn. Oh well. Her recent demonstration of physical skills was not all that memorable anyway. As soon as the phone call ended, she became the Chief Inspector, demanding to know who I was, really, and why I had deceived her. I tried to maintain my characterization of a Frenchman on the make, but once her suspicions were aroused, she would not believe anything else I said. So much for that evening. She got dressed and made her departure well known to anyone within earshot.
It is a curious thing the pairings of young ladies for a night on the town. Seldom does a person find a young lady out by herself for the evening, they most always travel in pairs, or worse, threesomes. The "pairs" thing is understandable, lest she might be perceived as a working girl if she was alone. It is the threesomes that are most troublesome to a single guy on the prowl. I can always find another guy to join in pursuit of two young ladies; that's seldom a problem. But that leaves the third girl unattended and unnoticed, usually for a reason. Somehow, it is destined that in every group of three girls, two will appear cute or pretty or even better, and one will only have a great personality--period. She will be the unnoticed one, either because she is anything but cute or perhaps and also because she has spent too much time in front of her dinner plate over the years. It may sound lecherous, but if I spend all day on a beach in the south of France surrounded by cute, pretty and beautiful girls, I am definitely not going to spend much time, if any, paying attention to those that apparently have a great personality as their only asset. (I know! I know! Not every girl is going to be beautiful--but then I am not trying to entice every girl into my bed.)
It was a great summer. I learned to appreciate the various talents of the Girls of France, to borrow a title from some porn magazine. They definitely seemed to have an edge on their American counterparts, and a true distaste for the missionary position. This may have contributed to their being decidedly more vocal in their utterances of erotic joy. Many was the morning when, while enjoying a cup of coffee on the patio of my hotel, one or another of the males guests would comment about easily overhearing the cries from the next room the previous evening. French girls seem to be screamers. Of course, given the climate and balmy evening temperatures, most of us allowed the windows to be opened, and the noise from one room traveled easily up and down the length of the building.
Following France, I moved on to Germany and then as winter approached, to the ski slopes of Switzerland. Here, too, beautiful girls descended, not only the slopes, but onto my manhood as often as possible. Interestingly, many of these girls were already married, traveling alone or with another married girlfriend while their husbands toiled away in the financial centers of Europe. It did not take me long to conclude that said husbands were spending far too much time in their jobs and, thus, ignoring the charms of their partner. These women were starved for attention, starved for affection, starved for what was obviously a long overdue orgasm and determined to fill up on everything they were missing. The frosting on the cake, as far as I was concerned, was that they wanted to pay for my room and food and skiing and liquor for their entire visit, which in the case of one young wife, extended to nearly four weeks. That woman was insatiable. We would fuck in the morning, get up, shower, have a light breakfast, fuck again, ski for several hours and then sit in the hot tub or sauna directly outside the room door. If we didn't fuck in the hot tub, we did it again as we entered the room. The balance of the afternoon and evening was spent in the lounges around the city, dancing and cavorting and admitting to her traveling companions our activities of the day.
I spent most of the winter in one resort or another, timing my arrival to be one day before the weekend, which is when most of the unaccompanied arrived. The Friday evening welcoming party thrown by the resort made meeting the newest group very easy. By early Saturday, or for certain by mid day Saturday, I would become confident that I had another woman interested in being my financial hostess for the duration of her stay. Hey! It was great sex, great company, great food, great drink-- and it was free! About the fifth week, the resort would suggest that I needed to move on, but true to their sensitivities for the happiness of their guests, they always suggested another resort which was on the "circuit". Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I happily obliged them and headed in a new direction. It seems that my sex starved sources of connubial bliss visited a different resort each year, always with the same purpose, but more or less in a rotation. So, off I went to another of their destinations.
By early spring, it was time to head home, and to the sunshine and beaches for spring break. Not much was different save that the girls were not as free with their money as the frustrated wives of Europe had been, and because most of the girls on spring break were single, there was actually a fair number of virgins that one encountered. While the mental enjoyment that a guy receives by being her "first" may be high on some guys list, the physical discomfort associated with it can, on occasion, dampen the enthusiasm of both participants. Add to that the likelihood of a less than stellar performance by the girl in that situation and a guy has to ponder the merits of virginal pursuit. That being said, my preference for the petite version of female form more or less assured me that I would experience more than a random share of first timers. Being twenty four years old, I had to be additionally cautious of the real age of some of the girls that I convinced to join me in horizontal workouts. The very least desirable outcome of a year of worldly tail chasing would be to end up in jail because some girl lied about her age.
As spring breaks came to an end throughout the south, I decided it was time to start the process of securing gainful employment. By the first of June, I was assigned a territory as a sales representative of a major steel producer, calling on manufacturers and selling the products of my employer during the day and when lucky, bedding the receptionists and secretaries of my customers at night.
Either it was a very lucrative territory or my sales ability is unusually great because I became the rising star in the region and was soon promoted, and then promoted again. After three years on the road each night, I was transferred to the regional headquarters and found myself assigned to a very plush office, not at the top, but certainly at an executive level. My days became less calling on customers and more in my office, tied to my desk or in meetings or planning sessions, and occasionally attending conferences. At the direction of my bosses, I began to specialize in selected product lines and soon was designated as product line manager for those products. This changed my role, once again, away from pure sales and moved it closer to teacher and specialist, which brought invitations to speak at seminars instead of just listening to others.
At first, the seminars were small, with twenty or thirty attendees, being a part of a larger group convention. I would present my information, answer questions for an hour or so and then repeat the process the following day or two, or three, depending on the size and length of the convention. What I discovered, in doing these, was that every convention has a staff responsible for its planning, and for the coordination of its speakers, and for their well-being. That staff is managed by the convention planner, a man or woman about my parents ages but who was surrounded with young, vivacious, intelligent administrative assistants, mostly fresh from college with a marketing degree. These young women find themselves in strange cities, living out of suitcases from convention to convention, sometimes for weeks at a time. This was nothing like the life after graduation that they had imagined. Where are the handsome guys to meet after work? Where are the fancy restaurants at which one is dined? Where are the nightclubs to dance the evening away? Since I had already been introduced to them during the planning of the seminar, it was not hard at all for me to find one to accept my invitation to dinner and whatever.
As I look back it it now, I realize that it was almost not fair to them. Sure, they were all college graduates, and had donated their virginity to some guy at some time in years past, And most of these ladies were in their first year after graduating, and had no real idea of how the working world really worked, or, to use an old, tired phrase, what was expected of them in their jobs. The result was that many of them ended up spending the night with me. A few even had boyfriends at home, wherever that was, but still joined me in bed because they thought it was a part of moving up the corporate ladder. I wasn't going to tell them any differently.
At one of my earliest seminars, a strange thing happened. One of the attendees looked very familiar to me. She sat in the back of the room, and I had no opportunity to converse with her directly. But something about her appearance told me that I had seen her before, or met her somewhere in years past. It wasn't that she was beautiful, nor stunning, nor any of those descriptors, so I was pretty confident that she had not shared my bed, but I just couldn't place her. I tried to jog my memory by studying the list of attendees and the limited bios that they submit upon registration, but there was nothing in the data to help. I let it go.
Six months later I saw her again, or thought I did. She was just passing the doorway of the room I was addressing when I looked up by chance, and she was looking in at me. At least I thought it was her, because I remembered her eyes. But everything else was different. I don't believe much in coincidences, and this fleeting figure was beginning to get to me. When I returned home, I began to look through my photograph collection. I found one picture that caught my attention. It was a scene in the lounge of a nightclub in France. At our table were sitting five people including two quite attractive young girls, myself and another guy, and a rather non-descript girl, who was pretty obviously not the object of my endeavors that evening. What made me look twice at the photograph were her eyes. How many people in this world can have eyes that are that mysterious? Who the hell was that girl, and who am I seeing at the seminars I address?
The months went by and I did not encounter the mysterious eyes again. Not that it mattered, from a companion standpoint, because I never seemed to run out of opportunities to be with beautiful women, and I was not going to let one mystery stand in my way. But I was beginning to move into a different phase in my life. I began to look for a long term relationship but my search was hampered by my now well established reputation as the playboy of our company. I was nearing thirty five and had never been seen by anyone in my company with the same woman on two consecutive nights. While I had spent many, many enjoyable evenings with girls and women from the community in which I lived, I had never given thought to selecting one of them as my life's mate and partner, and they undoubtedly knew it. Bedding the convention planners was nice, but then we both disappeared to our original haunts.
As crazy as it seems, I treated myself to a summer vacation, returning once again to the south of France. I did not bother with holding myself out to be French, although I still conversed with the hotel and wait staff in their language. I was sitting on the sidewalk of the cafe one evening, sipping a glass of wine, when I heard my name called, in a decidedly French accent. I turned, looked, and rose from my chair to be greeted by a very attractive woman.
She began in French, but then grinned and continued to address me in English. I was perplexed.
"Do I know you? Have we met before?"
"You don't remember?"
"I'm sorry, no."
"I'm not surprised. A man of your reputation, handsome, successful and single has probably bedded hundreds if not a thousand women by this point ion his life. That he should remember someone that he met years ago might be too much to expect."
Somehow, I knew this conversation was not going to be to my advantage. I was, I think for the first time in my life, at an honest loss for words. I mean, what could I say that would improve this situation? "Oh yes, you were the one that screamed so loud everyone laughed about it the next morning at coffee?" Probably not. I pulled out a chair and invited her to sit down with me.
"You still have no idea, do you?"
I shook my head, no.
"It was ten, no eleven summers ago, right here on this beach. I gave my virginity to a handsome young Frenchman who himself had recently graduated from University, and who promised to write to me after I left him three days later."
Still puzzled, I continued to remain silent.
"But you never wrote me. And then, I discovered you weren't French at all."
"And the next time I saw you, many years later, was on a promo as the guest speaker at a convention somewhere."
Immediately I looked at her eyes, but this was not the same girl that had been haunting my memory.
"It's what young men do," I protested feebly.
"Ah yes, it is what young American men do to attractive, but gullible, French girls. But it is no where as cruel as what those same young men do to less attractive young girls."
"What are you talking about?"
"There were three of us girls, that first evening, and you and another young man whose name I forget. As you approached, one of my friends said, quietly, that she thought you were an American, and she was delighted, because she insisted that she would only date American men. But then you spoke in perfect French, so perfect that you fooled the three of us completely, and you claimed to be from the Dijon area, and she was disappointed. You never spoke to her for the rest of the night, blatantly ignoring her, just so you could persuade me to climb into bed with you."
"I admit that I have a strong preference for beautiful girls."
"But you knew nothing of us, nor our families, and you selected me, strictly on the idea that I appealed to you more than my friends."
"Yes, but that is how nature works."
"But human beings have emotions and feelings and sensitivities. Because my friend was unfortunate enough to be burdened by excess weight, you dismissed her as if she was not even here. And while you and I spent the next three days and nights together, she spent them alone. By the time I returned to be with her, her morale was crushed and her holiday ruined. She has never forgotten the slight."
Now I was on the defensive, "But what could I have done? What would you expect of an admittedly horney young man? Guys aren't social directors. At that stage of life, a guy is just looking for the prettiest, most exciting girl he can find, and most will tell her anything that they can to get her to bed with them. I was no different. I admit that."
"That is what most American boys would do, but not most boys. European boys are much more sensitive and caring."
"But I still would have been attracted to your beauty."
"Ah, but what you didn't know was that the three of us had agreed before you came that if there was an American who did not know of our families, we would make certain that my friend was the ultimate center of attention, yet if the boys were French, or knew of us, we would deflect their interest from her."
"And you think boys are devious?" my voice rising in tone.
"It was necessary because of her family."
"Just who is this girl anyway?"
"If I showed you a picture of that evening, would it help you remember?"
She didn't need to. I have seen the same photo a hundred times. I nodded my head yes while she dug through her purse.
"It really isn't necessary," I told her while she continued searching. "I have looked at that photo so many time I can not forget it."
That may her stop looking for the photo and look straight at me. "Why would you look at this particular photograph?" She removed the photo from her wallet. Holding it out toward me, she asked, "Are you so old that you are reminiscing now?" The last comment was thrown in a bit sarcastically. She held the photo out in front of me.
"I should have known. I should have know that if I returned to this beach, I would find someone who knew of this photograph."
"But why is it of interest to you after all these years. You had me. I gave you my virginity. I gave you myself in every way possible. As I recall, you had all three of my virginal passages at some point in those three days. Surely you can't think that any of us would still be so reckless today."
"I have seen the girl in question since then, but I could not remember where I had met here, nor her name, nor anything else about her. It has been a mystery to me for several years. And then I think I saw her again, but it was a different girl, I am sure."
She just laughed.
"Why do you laugh at me?"
"Because you did, and because you are so shallow. You Americans think because you are handsome, and good in bed, that you need know nothing of your lovers as individuals. If you had even taken the time to learn her name then, you would not need to ask me now, and be puzzled by her for several years. And you, mister corporate big shot especially, would not be puzzled by her at all."
"She came to one of my seminars, didn't she?"
"Yes, after I saw the promo for it on a magazine. But she came to a second as well, not long ago."
"But I studied the names of all the attendees." I stopped when I realized what she had just said. "That was a different girl, I am sure."
"She used another name to disguise her family. That is the name she usually travels under. And it was the same girl, who is now a woman in her own right."
"You are making this all the more mysterious. How do I find this woman?"
She did not answer, directly.
"Are you going to offer me a glass of your wine, or are you going to be rude and hog it all to yourself?"
We drank that bottle together, and then another. I offered to buy dinner, but she had already eaten and was not in the mood for food.
By eleven, with no dinner in my stomach to absorb the wine, I was lightheaded and careless with my thoughts. But ten years of maturity had taught me to keep my thoughts to myself and more good things could happen.
As I was about to say something ridiculous, she said, "Look, I have traveled a long way today to find you. While this may be my last opportunity, I will say this to you. The last time I gave myself to you, you made me so sore that I could not possibly gain pleasure from it. Could you keep yourself together long enough tonight that I might possibly benefit from a repeat encounter?"
It is amazing what ten years will do or not do to a woman's body. In her case, she had remained the petite form that she had been at the age of (she finally told me) seventeen. Her breasts were still small, between "A" and "B" cups, but her nipples were more responsive to my touch, and hardened like rocks from my caresses. Her hips had filled out, rounding nicely, and she still had not followed the popular style of shaving her pubes. What surprised me was that she now took control of our lovemaking. She was on top, and rode me to several orgasms before she allowed me, or caused me, I should say, to involuntarily blast my load of baby makers deep into her vagina. She rolled off of me immediately, turned around and remounted my face, giving me no choice but to lick her clean of my recent deposit while she administered her form of CPR to my softening cock.
When it responded to her efforts, she slid off my bed onto the floor, kneeling at the bed side, resting her chest and head on the mattress.
"Get behind me, " she commanded, "and take me how you did that night."
I moved behind her and entered her doggie style, but she pushed me back, and grabbed my cock, re-aiming it for the other orifice. I took her anally, and at her command, did so with some force and strength to my thrusts. The orgasm she experienced caused her to clamp so tightly onto my cock with her sphincter that I was unable to continue thrusting, and my own spasms were from a stationary position, half way into her ass. She did not allow her muscles to relax immediately, rather holding me tightly while the rest of her "milked" my remaining cum from my cock. Once she finally relaxed, she climbed back up onto the bed, turned out the light and said that we would resume this in the morning.