Elle's Adventure Ch. 02

I was nervous.

In Paris I had hardly ever given my mixed-race identity a thought - except when that bitch Marine Le Pen and her Nazis stirred up race hate at election time. Genvilliers was one of those banlieue which was ignored by politicians of all stripes, and while I was darker than some of my friends, I was lighter than others, and who cared anyway? Then I came to Durham in the UK. I stood out like, what is that English phrase - a sore thumb? (Why should a sore thumb stick out? The English!).

It had taken me forever to get to university. People from my background simply did not think of such a thing: we worked in the cafés and restaurants; we waited tables and tended bars; we cleaned the streets and the shops and the hospitals; we did whatever it took to bring in the money; and yes, I had some friends who did that too. Were they prostitutes - putains? Well, as Marie said to me: "I'd fuck men anyway, I might as well get paid for it." It was a transactional service - just a little more intimate than others - and not for me.

I had waited my fair share of tables, and then managed to get a job as an administrative assistant at Paris IV. It turned out that I was efficient and capable. It paid enough for me to give up the day job, but allowed me time to wait tables of an evening, and to begin some part-time studying. One day, as I was reading while having lunch in the university refectory, professor Curbelle, one of the professors in my department, saw me and asked what was absorbing my attention. I showed her my book, on child development and education. She seemed impressed and I though nothing more of it, until a few days later when, as I was arranging details of the classes for graduate students in the Faculty, she asked me into her office.

"Fabienne, you don't have a degree, do you?"

"No, professor, never had the chance."

"Well we are committed to providing opportunities for those who never had them, and we have a quota of free places for suitable students. As a member of staff you would be entitled to a cut in fees anyway, but I'd like to offer you a free place on our teaching course - part-time of course as we don't want to lose you!"

I had been stunned.

When I told my mother that evening, she looked at me as though I had gone mad.

"Fabi, you need to get married, have some kids and settle down. What is this degree nonsense at your age?"

That was my mother. My older sister was married with two kids, and my younger brother was already working on the metro. Her expectations of her kids were not high, and they did not include her runt of a daughter getting above herself.

The medics had diagnosed me with some syndrome or other when mum had taken me to them when I was five. She had worried that I was small for my age, and she wanted to know if anything could be done about my squint, poor hearing, and weak ankles. The doctor had taken one look at me and said it was a syndrome about which nothing could be done. Mum should not worry, he had said, kids with it usually died young. So that was it; labelled for life.

When other girls sprouted their femininity at puberty and had a growth spurt, I remained as I had been. By eighteen I was still only four foot eight and had no breast development at all; my periods, when they came, were irregular - and painful. It was "the syndrome," the doctors said, and nothing could be done.

But I was a stubborn child. Maybe it was "the syndrome", but I had unusual powers of concentration and an excellent memory. So I had ignored the prognosis and taken the menial jobs to make a living. But with professor Curbelle's help, I could do better. So, as usual, I had ignored my mum.

It was not easy. Studying in our apartment was difficult, as Mum had the telly on all day, and my brother listened to some awful hip-hop music at top volume. But I could not afford a place of my own, and Mum let me live there free, in return for doing the cleaning, so I put up with it. I did some cleaning for a contractor at the week-ends to help save for a place of my own some day.

I was able to carry on working for the faculty as an administrator and did my bachelor's degree in literature part time. After that, thanks to my ability to live on next to nothing, I had saved up enough to go to the IUFM (Instituts universitaires de formation des maîtres), and found the programme demanding. If I had been recruited in part to show a commitment to "diversity", I repaid that by becoming something of a poster-girl for the minority communities. I got featured in publicity material about how women from my background could "make it." Did I feel patronised, sure, but I was used to it. Petite women tend to get treated like kids anyway. I got the last laugh, and even mum seemed proud when I got my certificate. Then came the chance to each abroad.

In France, teachers work for the State, so at the advanced age of thirty-two, I became a civil servant and, for the first time in my life, I had a salary as opposed to a wage packet. I could finally give up all other work!

I was assigned to a school in the fifth arrondisement, which was a nice, respectable middle-class school. I enjoyed the job, and thought I was doing well, but somehow the coveted "assistante" posts in England always went to my middle-class colleagues. But one morning the Director summoned me to his office. Yvette, who had won one of them, was coming home, having fallen pregnant. He offered her post to me.

"It is only for eight weeks, but it will look good on your cv."

He had assumed I would take it; he was right.

My mother was somewhat incredulous, and Didier equally so. I was delighted,

The arrangements all had to be done in a hurry, and there were problems. I had no passport - no one in Genvilliers had. That had meant a whole day off school waiting. But I got it. Yvette's lodgings were still available, so that was taken care of. I went by train because it was so much cheaper than flying. I calculated that I could manage on my stipend. It was so exciting.

As I boarded the train at the Gare du Nord, I could hardly believe that I was going abroad.

London St Pancras was bewildering. My English was good, but to hear it spoken in accents and at speed was a challenge, but I knew Euston was next door to St Pancras and dragged my suitcase and myself there.

I watched, bewildered as the unfamiliar countryside passed by. I'd never even been out of Paris before, and here I was, in England.

The man who checked the tickets asked for mine. I showed him.

"Miss, this is an adult single, you should have been sold one for a child. Shall I give you a form for a refund?"

And there it was. In England, as at home, the assumption that because I was tiny, I was a child. I smiled sweetly, accepted the form, and said nothing. No point embarrassing a man who was just trying to be helpful.

At the station I caught a taxi to the lodgings. My landlady took one look at me and was clearly disconcerted.

"Mrs Jerome?" I asked.

"Yes, what can I do for you, girl?"

"I am Fabienne LeGoubin, Yvette's replacement."

The shock on her face told its own story.

"But you're, well not what I expected."

"I am sorry about that."

Why did I do that? She should have been the one apologising, but as ever, I did it.

I settled in.

I went to the school in the morning, and met the head, Mrs Gordon, who seemed, and indeed was, a kind and conscientious soul. She asked me how I was, and then gave me a tour of the school. By French standards it was not large - my own school had more than a thousand students, St Mark's had three hundred.

Mrs Gordon gave me lunch, which saved me some money, and said it might be best if I started on the morrow with a French class for final year students who were thinking of doing a year abroad. Keen to start, I said yes at once.

The deal with Mrs Jerome included breakfast, so I had some indescribable stuff she said was "scrambled egg with bacon"; I could see I would have to do some cooking. She offered me what she claimed was coffee. I needed that Gauloise as I walked to work.

I spent part of the morning familiarising myself with the city, and once I felt comfortable, went to school. I was too nervous to eat, and too early to go to class, so settled down with a coffee and something they claimed was a pain au chocolate. That was when I saw her - Elle.

"Hi, mind if I join you. I'm waiting for the French class and got here a bit early."

I looked up to see a vision of beauty. She was tall, well I know, to me everyone is, but she was tall and athletic with the most beautiful blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She had on a baggy sweater, which if anything, emphasised the fact that her breasts were on the large side. Her tight blue jeans were tucked into fashionable brown boots. And she wanted to sit with me!

As we talked it became clear that Elle, as she was called, thought I was a fellow student. As she never asked my name, I lacked an opportunity to correct her. She asked if I wanted a drink afterwards, and so I agreed. It was not until we got to class that Elle realised who I was. I winked at her.

The students, unlike Mrs Jerome, seemed just fine with me as I was, and the class went well. I'd assumed Elle, now she knew who I was, would pass on that drink date, but to my surprise, and delight, she didn't. Being fair, I thought I ought to warn her about me.

Ah yes, I did not mention that did I?

I think I got away with not having a boyfriend because of my shape and size. Mum seemed not too bothered. Helene, my sister, had given her a grandson and a granddaughter, and as "the syndrome" meant I could not conceive, she never asked why I never brought a boy home. Didier, my useless kid brother, did say to her once that he supposed it was "because Fabi looks like a kid that she gets no dates;" the little shit. He may have been right for all I know, but what neither he nor mum knew was that I did not like boys at all in that way.

At school I had been excused the gym and games activities because of my ankles, but I had offered (being a helpful sort of girl) to help Mlle Fabrice get the equipment out and clean afterwards. I had an ulterior motive. I loved watching some of the older girls in their gym kit.

It was only when I was working as a cleaner for Helpling that I found my true sexual vocation.

Cleaning helped me save for a place of my own. I did it at the weekend. Helpling were flexible and paid decently. I loved working the block they gave me in the Fourth Arrondisement in the Isle de France. The apartments were elegant, and best of all, they were usually empty on Saturday and Sunday as their owners all seemed to have houses in the country; they also tipped generously.

So, it was without thinking that I let myself into Mme Duclos' apartment at six thirty-one Saturday morning. Oddly, there was no tip. Well it happened. I got the cleaning basket out of the cupboard where she kept it and, to kick-start myself after nearly an hour on the Metro, I put the stove-top coffee pot on. I went to the toilet to relieve myself. As I flushed, on the way back I heard a noise from one of the bedrooms. It was a voice.

'Hell!' I wondered, was there a burglar there?

I crept to the door. Standing right next to it I could hear a female voice.

"Oh fuck yes, yes, that feels so good. Yes, I did. Yes. What? No I can't say that. Yes Miss, okay. I love sniffing my stepdaughter's knickers. Yes Miss, they taste delicious. Yes, yes, damn you, yes, I'd love to lick her there. Fuck!"

I had listened with interest - and a growing tingling feeling at the top of my thighs - but then I too thought 'fuck' - the fire alarm had gone off. The coffee!

I dashed into the kitchen and turned the gas off. A moment later Mme Duclos emerged, her robe open, her large breasts showing how aroused she had been, and her hairy pussy on view.

"Merde! Fabi, I did not know you got here this early. I had to cancel my trip to Normandy, did the Agency not tell you"

"No Madame!"

"Fuck!" She hastily tied her robe together.

The alarm had stopped. I looked at her and she looked at me.

"Did you hear what I was doing, Fabi?"

I wanted to say no, but I told the truth. I do not know if the devil was shamed, but I was.

Mme Duclos seemed first as embarrassed as I was, but then her eyes glinted.

"Sylvie will have gone now. We were due to be together in person, but work got in the way, so we thought we might Skype."

I still did not know which way to look.

"Fabi, I am horny as hell, I don't suppose by any chance I could pay you a bit extra for some personal services?"

"Madame," I responded, rather insulted, "I am not a prostitute."

"No, sorry Fabi. But I saw the way you were looking at me, so I am guessing you like other women?"

I blushed.

"I do, Madame, but, well I have no experience."

That made her laugh.

"Well girl, this is either my lucky day or yours. Look, I am sorry for offering you money so blatantly, but will you let me pay you for your time, as I really, really need an orgasm. I was so close."

How could I refuse? I liked to be helpful, and Madame was clearly in need. If my time was worth money, I rationalised it, was that prostitution or something else?

I smiled and agreed.

"Great, now get your uniform off and get into my bedroom - now!"

And that was just what I did.

I was only wearing a pair of none too new knickers, and by the time I reached the bedroom, Mme Duclos was on the bed, naked, knees flexed and legs open.

"Have you ever eaten pussy before, little one?"

"No, Madame," I replied truthfully.

"Okay, we remember, it is sensitive, treat it was though it was your own pussy. Where you rub yourself, lick me."

Any embarrassment I felt at any reference to my secret masturbatory habits was dispelled by the charms facing me.

I could smell her arousal, and there were droplets of juice on her pubic hair. As I knelt in on the bed, I could see how swollen her lips were. My hands touched her to peel her lips apart and she moaned.

"Yes, fuck, I want your tongue there girl!"

I obliged.

I slowly moved my tongue along her pink wetness until I reached the v at the apex of her vulva, as I Licked her clit, I felt her hands on my head, pushing me in. Her aroma was pungent; she was so wet. The combination of the smell and the taste of her pussy, tangy and tart, made me want to devour her. My tongue pushed back and forth, slipping into her sopping wetness. I started to kiss her harder, slightly pushing her clit with my nose. She pressed me in.

So much for "gently does it", I thought. She ground herself against my mouth, and slipping my hands under her fleshy bum, I pulled her closer. My tongue was like a tube inside her, my nose digging into her; she was wiping her pussy on my face.

"I am going to fucking cum all over your slutty face, yes, yes, yes!"

She had already been aroused by her earlier conversation with Sylvie, so it did not take her long to orgasm, even with my amateur attempts at pussy-licking. As she stiffened, my face was suddenly covered with her cream.

"Yes, yes, oh you good girl!"

I could feel my own pussy was wet, and wanted to touch myself, but dared not.

After a few minutes she seemed to calm down.

She pulled me up to face her and kissed me.

"Mmm," she said, pulling away, "I do taste nice."

I smiled in agreement.

"Was that really your first time, Fabi?"

"Yes Madame, really."

"I am flattered then. And did you enjoy it"

"Loved your taste, Madame."

"Now what on earth are those things you are wearing?"

"Sorry Madame, I was not expecting anyone to see them."

"Well," she smirked, "you can have these."

She leaned over and grabbed a pair of black knickers.

"They are my stepdaughter's; she won't miss them. You did, I take it, hear what I was saying to Sylvie?"

"Yes Madame."

"Do you think I am a pervert?"

"It is not my place to judge Madame."

"Well, put them on."

I removed my old knickers, but as I did so, Madame pulled me to her.

"Are you a virgin, Fabi?"

"Yes Madame." I blushed. It was hardly normal where I lived for a twenty-year-old woman to be a virgin.

"Oh my goodness!" She exclaimed. "Go to the bedside drawer over there and bring what you find back to me."

I could feel her eyes on my naked backside as I walked there, and she seemed transfixed as I walked back with a phallus and a harness.

"Fuck, you are a little thing, aren't you? Are you really twenty-five?"

"Yes Madame."

"Lucky me!"

Madame slipped the harness on and tightened it.

"On your knees, slut!"

I was so aroused I did not object to being called a slut, in fact, at that moment the words aroused rather than upset me.

Madame made me suck her phallus. I knew, from talking to friends that boys expected us to do that for them, but I was a bit surprised Madame did. But as I sucked, she explained:

"Good little cock-sucker, I want you to wet it, so it slides in easily."

And there was the rub,

I was a virgin. My hymen was intact. Would it hurt? How would it feel?

She did not make me wait long to find out.

I can't say that the cock-sucking did anything for me, but it did for Madame, which excited me. She pulled it out and slapped my face with it.

"Now, head down, ass up ma salope algérienne."

The reference to my colour also clearly excited her.

It was with trepidation as well as arousal that I presented myself to her. The consciousness that my virgin pussy and my asshole were fully on view and available to Madame both embarrassed me and excited me at the same time.

I felt something wet and hard pushing through my wet and swollen lips, and then a little pressure. There was some pain, then more, then I felt it. I moaned. It hurt, but it was a sharp pain of short duration, and as my pussy stretched to take the invading girl-cock, I wanted to clench on it.

Madame pushed in slowly but with determination, and for what seemed ages, she fucked me. It felt good, but something was lacking.

"Now, ma chienne algérienne, touch your clit, go on, you know you want to."

At that moment I knew what had been missing. Though I had been aching there, I had, for some reason, not dared to touch myself. Now I could.

"Ah ma bonne fille soumise, you may come for your Mistress!"

The very words, indeed, the whole concept of her controlling my orgasm sent me over the edge and I came, hard and long.

Afterwards, Madame pulled me to her ample bosom cuddling me.

"I hope I was not too much for you, darling Fabienne."

The switch to a loving, caring mood, was just what I had needed. In the height of my erotic arousal, her words had excited me, but as I came down, I worried. What if she did think of me as an Algerian whore? Her affection reassured me.

"No, no Madame, and I am honoured that you took my virginity."

"The honour is mine, Fabienne."

"One thing puzzles thought, Madame?"

"What is that my little one?"

"Well when you were on the call with Sylvie, it seemed like she was in control, but with me, you were."

Then she explained to me that some women liked to "switch". In some moods and with some people, they could be submissive, but equally, with the right man or woman, they could take control.

I never did finish the cleaning that day, but did leave with a big tip and a nice pair of black knickers - pre-loved as they say!

Hélène, Madame Duclos, became my sexual mentor. With her I would, on occasion, "switch" and use the phallus on her, but for the most part, she loved me to submit to her. Our relationship continued until I finished my degree, and then she got a year's secondment in Belgium just as I gave up my cleaning duties. She gave me a silver anklet with an "H" on it, and I put it on. She took me for a final supper at a good restaurant, and we made love afterwards. Since then I had been celibate