Prologue:

My name is David Franklin. I am an American citizen from Los Angeles, California. I love my country. That said, I know that the U.S.A. is not perfect. There are many social, legal, economic, cultural, ecological, educational, military and political problems in the U.S.A ... I also know that it’s not the only country in the world.

When I was very young, I wanted to be an explorer. I wanted to know the world. My heroes were the great explorers in history. Never mind that many of them were rapacious and greedy. I was fascinated by history, geography, archeology, anthropology, and sociology. I had an interest in comparative religions, psychology, photography, art, and music. For those reasons I set about to see the world. I have worked in, studied in, lived in, and visited many countries on several continents: North and South America, Europe, Africa, and the Middle East (Asia). I consider myself to be multi-cultural, or cosmopolitan; a citizen of the world, what have you.

France is a wonderful country. Outside of my own country, it’s my favorite country in the world. I’ve lived and worked with French people. I learned their language. I’ve studied their history and culture. They amuse me. I am a francophile. I would be perfectly happy to live in France for the rest of my life. Once again, neither France nor the French are perfect, and I do not profess to have a perfect understanding of them. And, try as I might, I will never be French.

The French have helped me to be liberated from puritanical religious values. Partly because of them, I am an atheist and a nudist.

The following is an episode in my life that took place in France.

When I was 24, I was an exchange student at the University of Aix-en-Provence in 1981. At the request of my program director, I participated in a cultural exchange program with the French school system. My first assignment was to give a presentation to a high school English class. I had chosen to present an “Introduction to the Blues.” I was sent to stay with a host family in Gap, France. Gap is a mountain town in the Haute-Alpes, approximately 150 km from Aix-en-Provence.

I arrived in Gap by bus from Aix on a Friday afternoon in April. I took a taxi to my host family’s home. The host family were the Maurins: father, Jacques; mother, Simone; and daughters, Marie-Helene and Veronique.

They were all home when I arrived. I introduced myself to the family as “Dave.” They didn’t get it. They couldn’t pronounce it. I told them to try “David.” I pronounced it the French way for them, “Dahveed.”

“Ah! Dahveed!” they all said at once. That worked.

Mr. Maurin was an aerospace engineer in his forties. He was tall, balding, and bespectacled. He had been stationed for three years in French Guiana, working on the European Space Agency’s Ariane rockets. His family had lived with him there, but they had all recently returned home to France.

Mrs. Maurin was a housewife. She was in her forties, too. She was slender, with short, brown hair that she parted just off-center. She wore elegant, chic, clothes, including a designer scarf, at home. She helped her husband to entertain business associates and clients for his career advancement.

The eldest daughter, Marie-Helene, was seventeen, in terminale (senior year in high school). She had short, dark-brown hair and a pleasant, Gallic face. She dressed in muted colors, charcoals and grays, mostly wool knits.

Her 15-year-old sister, Veronique, had similar coloring and features, but she was pudgy and coarser-skinned, not cute to my eye, with acne on her face. If she had ever brushed or combed her hair, it must have been in a previous year. It was to her seconde (sophomore year in high school) English class that I was to give my blues presentation.

We had dinner on Friday evening, en famille. Then, the girls and Mr. Maurin watched television and read magazines while I talked with Mrs. Maurin in the kitchen. I spoke French with her. (All the conversations in this story were in French, but I’ve written them in English.) Among other subjects, she told me about her daughters. She mentioned that her eldest, Marie-Helene, had a boyfriend. She and her husband allowed him to “sleep” with her in her room. She said it was safer that way. Since her daughter was going to sleep with him anyway, Mrs. Maurin thought it would be better that she do it at home, instead of in the back of a car, or in a park, or “Je ne sais pas où” (“I don’t know where”). I thought that was quite liberal of Simone.

“Does Veronique have a boyfriend, too?” I asked her.

Mrs. Maurin said, “I don’t think so. She’s still so young. She doesn’t seem interested. She goes out with her girlfriends.”

The evening ended, and we all went to bed. Since there were only three bedrooms, and, since they were all occupied, Mrs. Maurin gave me a sleeping bag. I used it to sleep on a mat in their small sewing room. I didn’t make a fuss about that. I take whatever hospitality is offered me.

On Saturday morning, I accompanied Veronique to the lycée (high school). They had Wednesdays off and Saturdays on. I didn’t know why that was, but I went with the flow. I presented my lesson about the American Blues music genre. I even had the class of 15-year-olds write a 12-bar blues song as a group. They enjoyed it. They applauded me at the end of my presentation. I was surprised when a bunch of them took a cigarette break on campus after that class. Hey, “when in Rome!” I smoked one with them while we bull-shitted with their friends and they horsed around.

When Veronique and I returned to her home, her mother asked her to prepare some escargots for cooking. The escargots were going to be hors d’oeuvres for a large cocktail party that night at another family’s home. Mrs. Maurin took out some big cans that were filled with empty snail shells, lots of them. She removed a large bowl of garlic-spiced butter from the refrigerator, and another bowl that was filled with shell-less snail bodies. The butter had herbs mixed in with it. Both she and Veronique took spoons, inserted a snail body into a shell, then packed it with the butter. They placed the packed shells on a tray.

Veronique’s two girlfriends showed up shortly thereafter. I had seen them at the lycée, but I had not been introduced to them. I stood up while Veronique introduced me.

“Dahveed, this is Veronique.”

The new Veronique gave me a two-cheeked bise. (“La bise,” or “faire la bise” is the traditional French greeting. There are norms which govern with whom and how to “faire la bise,” but I won’t go into them here. When I write, “kissed cheeks,” I mean “faire la bise.”)

“And this is Veronique, too.”

“Another one?” I chuckled.

“Yes.”

The third Veronique kissed my cheeks.

Veronique number 2, I’ll call her Veronique-2, was tall and lanky, with dark hair that was cut short with bangs, sort of a Dorothy Hamill cut. She had a mouthful of crooked teeth that she flashed unashamedly. She had a Roman nose. She wore jeans and a pullover blouse with full-length sleeves that flared at the cuffs. She had a foulard (scarf) wrapped around her neck and one, large, pendulous earring that dangled from her left ear. She had glossy, red lips.

Veronique-3, was shorter than Veronique-2, with shaggy, blonde hair that pouffed up on top, but no bangs. She had a pleasant, fresh, impish-looking face, with just a light sprinkling of acne. She wore no makeup. She wore a dark blue corduroy cover-all with straps that went over her shoulders and a big scoop in the front that exposed what would be her decolletage. It had three large buttons down the front of her tummy. Her small breasts were squeezed between the straps of the “salopette” and they pushed through the scoop. Underneath the coverall, she had a long-sleeved pullover shirt. It was apparent that she was bra-less. Her nipples poked the fabric of her shirt.

The newly-arrived Veroniques 2 and 3 joined Veronique-1 at the table to help stuff the snail shells. I watched and listened as they talked and giggled while working. They were fifteen-year-old girls after all. Once they had finished, Mrs. Maurin stacked the full trays in the refrigerator. She, then, prepared a light dinner for all of us: charcuterie, bread, cheese, lettuce and tomato salad with vinaigrette. Water to drink.

After dinner, the girls and I repaired to the salon. They talked about their friends and the funny things they liked to do with one another.

Veronique-2 said to me, “You should see what Veronique can do!” She indicated Veronique-3 with a motion of her head. “She can fold her toes together without using her hands!”

“What? I don’t understand,” I said.

“I’ll show you!” said the grinning Veronique-3.

She plopped down on the carpet and removed her shoes. She spread her knees apart and joined the soles of her feet on the carpet in front of her. She held her arms outstretched, with the palms of her hands touching. She interlocked her fingers. Then, without touching her feet with her hands, she interlocked her toes! I had never seen such a thing! I took a picture of her doing this. She unfolded her toes and put her legs in the lotus position. She leaned forward, placed her head on the carpet, clasped her hands behind her head, and set her elbows on the carpet.

“Help me Veronique!” she said to tall Veronique-2. Veronique-2 pulled her up into a headstand. Veronique-3 maintained the lotus position of her legs. Veronique-2 stood behind her and spread her arms apart and said, “Voila!” I took their picture. Veronique-1 and I clapped for them.

Veronique-3 wasn’t finished. She dropped down from her headstand, unfolded her legs and did the splits. She raised her arms and said, “Ta da!” I forgot to take a picture.

“Showoff!” said Veronique-2 as we clapped again.

Once “show and tell” time was over, the girls began to fidget.

Veronique-1 asked me,”What do you want to do now?”

“Is there a pool near here? I’d like to go swimming if there is.”

The three Veroniques exclaimed, “Oh, yes, let’s go!”

I went to my room and fished my dark blue Speedo, towel, and goggles out of my bag. Veronique-1 got her swimming gear, too. Mrs. Maurin drove us to the other Veroniques’ homes so they could get their suits and stuff, as well. Then, she dropped us off at the nearby Olympic-sized pool.

I went in the men’s locker room and stripped. I put my clothes in a locker, keeping my swim suit and goggles with me. I showered and put on my speedo. I went out to the pool. I waited for the girls to come out of their locker room.

All three came out together. They were dripping wet. They looked me up and down in my Speedo and giggled as they came toward me. I checked them out as they approached.

I should also mention that the age of consent in France is 15 years old. The French do not understand why, in most of the U.S.A., it’s 18. And, vice versa. The Americans are aghast at the French. Which culture is right? Both think that theirs is. I go with the flow.

“When in Rome...” once again.

That said, here they were.

Hefty Veronique-1 wore a modest black-and-white bikini that covered her large breasts well. Her bikini bottoms came up to her hip bone and they had wide side-panels. She had a bit of a muffin top, and her navel was a deep “innie.”

Tall Veronique-2 wore a blue, lycra bikini. The top had inverted triangles which covered her small breasts. While I assumed that the top was lined, that didn’t prevent the swell of her nipples from being apparent. The bottoms were smaller than Veronique-1’s, stretching across her lower basin, just barely hiding her pubic mound. The seam in the middle of the front was tight between her legs, causing a “camel-toe” effect. They tied with a string on both sides.

Pixie-ish Veronique-3 wore a cotton, flower-print bikini. The top was bandeau-style with ties attached near her armpits that looped over her shoulders and attached to the strap across her back. The bottoms were the same style as Veronique-2’s, but they were cotton, not the stretchy, clingy, lycra material.

The pool was rather busy, with lots of swimmers. Luckily, there were lane lines, so we jumped into one of the lanes in the middle of the pool. The water was 2 meters deep in that lane, perfect for lap swimming. I put on my goggles. I always swim with goggles if I can help it. They protect my eyes and allow me to see underwater. The girls had no goggles. Amateurs.

I took off across the pool, using the crawl-stroke. The girls followed after me, using the slower breast-stroke. They were not strong swimmers, not trained as I was.

I flipped at the far turn and began my return toward my starting point. I saw Veroniques I, II, and III coming toward me in a line. I checked out their strokes and bodies in the water.

Veronique-1 was swimming too fast for her fitness level, and her stroke was uncoordinated. Her young body looked okay, if only a bit chubby.

Lanky Veronique-2 did not stay with the breast-stroke. She alternated between breaststroke, side-stroke, and crawl-stroke on every other stroke; in no particular order. Her swimming was a mess, but her long, lithe body looked good in the water.

Bringing up the rear was pixie-faced Veronique-3. Her breast-stroke was long, slow, and rhythmic. She wasn’t hurrying. She took a full breath between strokes. I looked at her body as she passed along side me. She was slender, well proportioned, and... “Wait a minute!” I thought. “Were those her nipples?”

I kept swimming to the wall. I flipped and started the next length doing the breast stroke myself. I was catching up to the girls. The first two girls reached the wall and pushed off back towards me. I slowed down so I could look at Veronique-3’s crotch as she spread her legs wide for each old-style frog kick. Back in those days, French girls didn’t shave their bikini lines much, especially if it was out of season, as it was that April. Therefore, I could see the edges of her dishwater-blonde muff poking out on both sides of the crotch of her bikini. My cock started to swell in my Speedo. Veronique-3 reached the wall and pushed off in the prone position. When she took her first stroke off the wall, the bandeau-style cotton top of her bikini caught the water like a sail catching air. This pulled it down and out, away from her breasts. She was effectively swimming without a top. I could see her conical breasts and darker nipples. Her bikini bottoms did the same thing, exposing her pubic hair from the front. She passed beside me, swimming in the opposite direction.

I touched the wall and took off using the crawl stroke, guiding down the middle of the lane. As I came alongside Veronique-3, I glanced again at her breasts and pubic hair as they were exposed with each stroke. It was an eyeful. I passed up the first two Veroniques, too. I flipped at the wall and cruised back toward the on-coming Veronique-3. She was still flashing inadvertently with every stroke. I continued swimming.

The girls did a total of four lengths of the pool. I had lapped them twice during that time.

They were tired, hanging onto the wall. When I saw they were stopped, I stopped, too. I hung onto the wall between Veroniques 1 and 3. They were breathing hard, resting.

Veronique-3 turned to me and said, “You’re a good swimmer! I saw you zooming past us.”

“Well, I used to swim competitively in high school. I’ve been a lifeguard and swim instructor for the past two summers.”

She reached over and squeezed the bicep on my left arm.

.

“It’s hard!” she exclaimed.

“I’m hard all over,” I replied, raising my eyebrows at her.

Veronique-3 gasped in surprise, her mouth wide open, and she immediately splashed me in the face. She giggled as I sputtered with the water up my nose and in my mouth. At the same time, she reached behind me and pushed down on my shoulders so as to clamber to the other side of me. The front of her bikini bottoms and legs slid across my back as she glided over to Veronique-2. The word “frottage” popped into my head.

Veroniques 2 and 3 put their heads together and whispered to each other, glancing at me from time to time.

I turned to Veronique-1 “What are we doing?” I asked.

“We’re getting out,” she said.

“Already?”

“We’re tired of swimming. Besides, we want to go to the night club. Veronique thinks a guy she likes might be there tonight.” A tilt of her head indicated Veronique-2.

“Okay. Can I swim a little more? I can change quickly afterwards.”

“Yeah, we have to shower, then dry our hair. It will take a little longer. Why don’t you swim for another ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

Veroniques 2 and 3 pulled themselves up and out of the pool. Veronique-1 tried to do the same, but she didn’t have the strength to pull her heavier body out. She hung onto the gutter and shot her right leg up onto the deck.

“Vero! Help me!” she cried.

As I watched from my vantage point in the pool, both Veroniques bent down to help her: one pulling on her leg, the other pulling on her arms. As she bent down, Veronique-3’s youthful breasts were exposed to me once more. I nearly pushed up on Veronique-1’s dangling butt to help them pull her out of the pool, but I decided against it. I didn’t want to risk offending her. Grunting and giggling, Veroniques 2 and 3 finally beached poor Veronique-1 by themselves.

Once Veronique-1 was standing on the deck, they all wrapped their arms about their middles, as girls and women do when feeling a chill. They scurried into the locker room.

I swam for another ten minutes, then, I went to the men’s locker room to shower and get dressed. Once done, I hung around in the pool’s entrance lobby until the girls emerged ten minutes later. They had all put on make-up.

Veronique-1 told me, “We’re going back to my house to dump our stuff. Then, we’re going to the night club.”

We walked from the pool to Veronique-1’s house and deposited our swim-gear there. Mr. and Mrs. Maurin had gone to their party, taking the escargots with them. Her sister, Marie-Helene, and Marie-Helene’s boyfriend, Alain, were there. Alain was a skinny, 17-year-old guy, with long, greasy hair, and no apparent shoulders (I jest). He had a prominent nose and a habit of tilting his head back, mouth slightly agape, so one could see up his nostrils.

When Veronique-1 explained where we were going, Marie-Helene said that she and Alain were coming, too.

All six of us set out walking in the cold night toward the night club. The three Veroniques walked arm-in-arm down the street, talking and giggling, while Marie-Helene, Alain, and I followed 3 meters behind them. Marie-Helene held Alain’s hand.

I remarked to Marie-Helene, “Boy, it sure is strange to have three girls named Veronique be best friends together.”

“I know!” she said. “It can be very confusing. Plus, they fight all the time, so I never know who’s in or who’s out.”

“They fight?”

“Yeah, mostly about boys. They get jealous of one another.”

“I thought they didn’t have boyfriends.”

“That’s the problem. When one likes a boy, the others go for him, too, and it ruins it for everyone.”

Alain inserted, “They can always have a menage-a-quatre!”

“Oh, shut up, Alain!” said Marie-Helene, punching his arm. “They’re just girls.”

Alain looked at me with a sly grin. I nodded my head at him.

When we arrived at the night club, the girls went right in, no showing of I.D.’s. They were known at the club and they were just waved in. Alain and I stopped at the cashier’s window to pay the cover charge of 20 francs (about USD 5.00). It wasn’t a lot, but it pissed me off that the girls got in free and we didn’t.

What the girls called a night club, I would have called a discotheque. There was a small dance floor, a bar, some couches, and chairs with tables on the perimeter walls of the club. It was hot and smoky inside.

We were clumped together as a group at the bar. The three Veroniques were simultaneously talking about what to drink and who was going to pay, as well as scanning the night club for a place to sit or stand with their drinks.

Tall Veronique-2 saw a man across the room that she knew. We watched her as she left the group and went up to him. They kissed cheeks. He a had a cigarette in one hand, and, with the other, he led her to the dance floor. They began dancing “le rock;” he smoking while he danced, she smiling at him. To my eye, he didn’t look a day under 40. He was shorter than Veronique-2 by about two inches. He had a receding hairline. His dark hair was slicked back to a short pony-tail at the nape of his neck. He had a five o’clock shadow. He wore a leather vest and tight, black, leather, biker’s pants with room for a bulge in the front.

While they were dancing, the rest of us got our drinks; Coca-Colas for the girls. Alain asked me to order two beers so he could drink one. I did. The drinking age was 18, but, they were lenient at that club. We found an empty, high, round table. We stood around it while we watched the dance floor.

I asked Veronique-1, “Who’s that guy that Vero’s dancing with?”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, that’s Henri. Vero thinks she’s in love with him, but he’s so disgusting! Look at him!”

Henri had lost his cigarette now and was dancing, full body contact, with Veronique-2. He was leaning back and practically dragging her around the dance floor with her toes trailing.

“So, you’re not jealous of her?” I asked Veronique-1.

“Noooo!” she said. “He’s too old. He’s ugly. He’s disgusting.”

“Why does she like him?”

“She mostly likes his motor-bike and his money. He takes her for rides. He always buys her things. And, he’s a good kisser.”

“First-hand experience?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“No! Don’t be stupid! It was Vero who told me that herself.”

“So, she just kisses him? She doesn’t do anything else?”

“I don’t know. She won’t say.”

While Veronique-1 and I were talking face to face, Veronique-3 took my beer, guzzled down half of it, and slammed it back down on the table.

I turned toward her and said, “Hey!”

She laughed and grabbed Veronique-1’s hand.

“Let’s dance!” she said.

They went to the dance floor and started dancing cheek to cheek, laughing. There was just Marie-Helene and Alain left at our table. They had their heads together, sharing I-don’t-know-what secrets. They ignored me. I finished what was left of my beer. I walked towards the bar to get another. I heard my name over the music.

“Dahveed! Dahveed!”

I looked toward the sound. Veroniques 1 and 3 were motioning with their arms for me to come over to them. I walked onto the dance floor and bent my ear to them.

“Dahveed!” said Veronique-3. “You’re all by yourself. Dance “le rock” with us! Please!”

They were both smiling at me.

“Okay, if I must!” I said.

I took one hand from each of them and twirled them in opposite directions. I had danced with two girls before, in Panama for Mardi Gras, so this wasn’t new to me. I was able to keep things going without having them crash into each other or me. My two Veroniques kept laughing and laughing. In one move, I twirled them out on both sides, then snapped them back into my sides, each having one arm and mine wrapped around her waist. We were three abreast and I didn’t let them go. We danced in place for a moment. They stopped laughing and recovered their breaths. They lay their heads on my shoulders.

“This is fun!” said Veronique-3.

“Yes!” responded Veronique-1.

“Had enough, my girls?”

“No!” they said.

“Here we go, then!” I told them.

I spun them back out, and then around, over and under, arms crossed, et cetera, et cetera; all the fancy moves. The songs were all fast songs. Then, when I heard the first notes of an intro to what I knew to be a slow song, I spun them back to me, released their hands, and put my arm around their waists. They wrapped their arms around each other’s waists and mine. We danced in a huddle, in place, our foreheads touching, perspiration dripping off our noses.

“I’m hot,” said Veronique-3.

“I’m tired,” said Veronique-1.

“What about me?” I asked. “If anyone should be hot and tired, it’s me! I was doing all the work!”

“Imbecile!” said Veronique-3.

“Idiot!” said Veronique-1.

I pulled my head back. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Veronique-2 draped over Henri on a couch. They were sucking face, he with a cigarette in his hand.

“Don’t look now, my girls, but Vero’s over there, kissing Henri,” I told them.

Of course, they popped their heads up and looked, eyes wide. Henri, despite being occupied, saw the girls looking at him. He waved with his cigaretted hand. Vero-2 released her lip-lock on him and looked back to see what had caught Henri’s attention. She saw us still dancing the “slow” together. She waved, smiling.

All of a sudden, both of my dance partners started kissing my cheeks, over and over.

“What, the heck?” I thought.

Then, Vero-3 kissed my lips. Vero-1 bumped her away and kissed my lips. Vero-3 did the same. She bumped Vero-1, and came at me again. Then Vero-1 again. I dipped Vero-1, stuck my tongue in her mouth and held her there.

Vero-3 pounded me on the back, saying, “Hey! No fair!”

I straightened back up and let Vero-1 go. She jumped up and down, hands in the air in a victory dance.

“I won!” she shouted.

Vero-3 grabbed her, dipped her and kissed her, tongue in mouth, hand on tit. Vero-1 shrieked in her mouth. Vero-3 let her up, let her go, and then did her own victory dance.

I was standing there, open-mouthed. Veronique-1 was laughing as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Over on the couch, Veronique-2 was laughing, too. She got up, and came over to the dance floor. The other two Veroniques rushed over to her, took her hands and jumped up and down with her, all of them beaming.

Henri came over and got Veronique-2’s attention.

“Let’s go!” he said.

Veronique-2’s face darkened for a moment, then she smiled and acquiesced. The other two girls looked disappointed. She went to the couch and shouldered her purse and coat while Henri put on his leather jacket. They exited the club. The other Veroniques and I followed them out. Veronique-2 kissed her girlfriends good-bye and she shook my hand. Her girlfriends and I stood there in the cold, arms around one another’s waists as first Henri then Veronique-2 put on their helmets and mounted his motor-bike; she behind him. Henri fired it up and Vero wrapped her arms around his waist. Henri gunned it, popped the clutch and accelerated down the street.

“I wonder if it’s going to happen,” mused Veronique-3.

“Shsh!” shushed Vero-1.

I was puzzled.

“We should go, too,” continued Vero-1.

We went back inside the club. Marie-Helene and Alain were slow dancing. Veronique-1 told her sister that we were leaving. They followed us to our table. Everyone put on their jackets and scarves and took their bags if they had one. We left the club.

Marie-Helene and Alain led the way, arm-in-arm. Marie-Helene settled her head on Alain’s shoulder. Veronique-3 got between Veronique-1 and me, and put her arms around our waists. We walked in silence.

After walking a block, Veronique-3 kissed Vero-1’s cheek. Vero-1 turned and kissed her lips. I watched them. Then, Veronique-3 turned and kissed me on the lips, too. She pulled back and smiled at me, then faced front and continued walking. She tightened her grip on both of us.

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the Maurin’s house. We unwrapped ourselves from one another at the front door. Then, we went in.

It was late, but Mr. and Mrs. Maurin had just returned from their party. They both wore aprons over their party clothes and were washing and drying the escargot trays. They put all the empty shells in the sink and added soap and hot water.

Mrs. Maurin said, “I’ll finish cleaning them in the morning. Papa and I are going to bed. I’m glad you’re all home. Are you staying with us tonight, Veronique?”

“May I?” asked Veronique-3.

“Sure, Veronique! You’re always welcome here! Vero, get another pillow for Veronique. She can share your bed.”

“Okay, Maman!”

“Okay, everybody, bed-time!” she said, removing her apron. Mr. Maurin did the same and he followed her to the master bedroom on the far side of the house.

Marie-Helene and Alain went to their room, Veroniques 1 and 3 to theirs, and I to mine.

I stripped down to my briefs and a t-shirt and I slid into my sleeping bag. I wished I could have taken a shower after all that dancing, but, “Such is life,” I thought. I lay there thinking about the three Veroniques, and, of the day we had spent together. Tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I was aroused. As I thought about Veroniques 1 and 3 kissing me, my hand went into my briefs and I began to masturbate slowly. I pulled the top of my briefs down and released my cock from its confines. I became fully erect. I was about to flip the sleeping bag open so I could really masturbate when Veronique-3 burst into my room, wearing only T-shirt and panties. I stuffed my cock back in my briefs as fast and as best I could. I was still hard.