Date: Sun, 17 May 2015 05:44:47 -0400
From: Phillippe La Mer <naturiste@Safe-mail.net>
Subject: "The Rock" Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE
LATE JUNE 2015
PARIS

	Jean-Paul Pederson locked his bike in front of the Piscine
Josephine Baker. The pool floated on a barge along the bank of the Seine,
near the Mitterand libraries. His Saturday routine included an early
morning swim. It was a beautiful day, the first weekend in June, and the
pool's giant sliding roof was rolled back. He would get a bit of sun. He
needed it.

After changing into his little square-cut trunks, tight to the body as
French public pool hygiene required, he slipped into the water for some
hard, fast laps. It was early and the pool would not open for free swim for
an hour, so he shared a lane with a surprisingly fast middle-aged woman and
pushed his body hard. Eventually the bell sounded and the attendants
started rolling in the lane dividers to make the pool over for free
swim. Jean-Paul came to a rest on the steps, his breathing slowing,
stretching his muscles. As usual, he discretely watched for any cute boys.

Today was a gold star day. As he relaxed, a slim bronze-skinned teenager in
a very small black speedo came out onto the deck. Flipping back his long
brown hair he headed for the steps, and as he came down he looked at
Jean-Paul and gave him a smile, an almost lecherous smile. How old was he?
He could be anywhere from 13 to 17, obviously adolescent, but smooth and
tight, with a body that was growing but whose skin hadn't lost its rubbery
childhood look. As Jean-Paul watched, the boy took a few languorous strokes
and swam around idly, seeming to keep near the end of the pool where he was
relaxing. After a while Jean-Paul realized if he watched much longer he
might grow an embarrassing erection, so he climbed from the pool and headed
up the stairs to the sun deck, grabbing his towel along the way and finding
an open lounge chair on the half empty deck. He laid down his towel and
laid back, closing his eyes.

His thoughts drifted, as he often did, to what he had started to think of
as the "recruitment video". His private investigation had stalled. First,
he had tried hacking into the computer systems of the naturist camping
centre, which was popularly known by it's nickname the "Rock", figuring he
could pull a list of guests over the last five years or so and run them
against facial recognition. But the Rock's computer systems had carried
surprisingly robust encryption. Interestingly, he's found that the centre's
ownership was hidden behind a shield of corporate holdings; officially the
Rock was owned by a Luxembourg holding company that was little more than a
tax shelter. He'd found nothing by searching social media for mentions of
the camp on Dutch and German networks. General facial recognition had
produced a few hits, but as was so often the case he couldn't be sure if it
was the boy or girl he was looking for or just a look-alike. The video was
at least 3 years old, meaning the boy would be in his mid-teens and the
girl into puberty. Change happened so swiftly at that age.

The lounge chair squeaked and he opened his eyes to see the teen boy from
the pool taking his place next to him, a bit unusual as the deck was only
half filled. The boy opened his bag and took out a bottle of lotion,
squeezing it with a splurt and commencing to rub himself down
absentmindedly. He was lean with the long, knobby legs and graceful look of
a colt, his tiny little swim briefs showing a narrow stripe of pale skin
that offset his deep copper color even more. He had the tight, developing
chest of a swimmer and his dark hair was shaved fashionably on the sides
and back, hanging in a sweep over his forehead. Jean-Paul looked away so as
to be discreet as the boy greased his smooth flawless skin, but after a
moment the kid turned to him and offered him the bottle.

"Do you want some cream" he asked with what seemed a bit of lecherousness
to Jean-Paul, who eyed him a bit suspiciously, then reached out and took
the lotion from him. He squirted some onto his palm and started rubbing it
on his own well muscled chest and flat stomach. He'd had the hair above his
navel lasered off and he was in his way as smooth as the boy, though of
course much bigger and more well muscled.

"You're so pale" the boy pointed out. "You need it more than I do. Don't
you get any sun?"

"I do. But it's only the beginning of summer. Most people aren't so tan as
you yet" Jean-Paul remarked, a bit nervous to admit he'd been noticing the
boy.

"Oh we were just in Grand Canary. Plus I'm on the swim team so I'm in the
pool a lot. We usually go to Brasil in the winter too."

"It must be nice to get out of the cold winter here to someplace warm."

"I couldn't stand it otherwise. I hate wearing clothes."

Jean-Paul glanced over to notice the grin the youngster was giving him. The
boy was flirting with him, no doubt. How old was he? Jean-Paul only ever
fucked young twinks but he had to be careful. "Who does" he replied,
willing to keep the flirtation going for now.

"Not me. I'd go totally free every day if I could. Clothes are silly. I'm
Sid." The boy offered out his hand, and Jean-Paul took it, giving the lad's
rather limp palm a tight squeeze.

"Hello Sid. I'm Jean-Paul. How old are you Sid?"

"Why do you want to know?" the boy replied coyly.

"I'm just curious. I can usually tell but I'm not sure with you." Jean-Paul
had to estimate the age of kids from the porn videos he reviewed at work
all the time and considered himself to be pretty good at it.

"I'm fifteen. You know, legal" replied Sid, making reference to the age of
consent in France. Jean-Paul glanced quickly at the boy, who was giving him
his hardest, poutiest sex-face. It was a face that only an adolescent would
attempt, almost cute in its obviousness. The policeman didn't so much as
blink, staring right back, and after a moment the boy broke into delighted
giggles and leaned back, slipping on his fashionable sunglasses.

Jean-Paul had fucked a few sixteen-year-olds since he'd become a cop, but
no boys as young as Sid. It was risky, especially given his membership on
the team that dealt with online child sexual exploitation. While it would
be technically legal for him to fuck the boy, he would probably lose his
job if it ever came out. But that was a big if. However, he decided it
wasn't worth the risk. He sat up and gathered his towel.

"Are you going somewhere?" the boy queried with a hint of surprise.

"Nice to meet you Sid. See you around son."

Jean-Paul walked off to the lockers with the pleasant memory of the
profound look of disappointment that crossed the boy's face. It was good to
know he had what it took to excite the interest of a barely legal gay boy
like Sid.

Jean-Paul changed out of his clothes and headed back onto the quay to
retrieve his bike. As he was unlocking it a shadow fell across him, and he
looked up to see a pair of very beautiful long smooth thighs. There was
Sid, in a pair of very short little shorts and a tight-fitting polo
shirt. "Wanna give me a ride" he asked casually. Damn, the boy was
persistent. In response to Jean-Paul's doubtful look, he offered quickly "I
can sit on the handle bars".

It was that idea, the idea of being able to check out that fine tight ass
while he pedaled along that finally changed his mind. He let out a
contrived sigh of annoyance.

"Where do you live?"

"The Marais" the boy replied, breaking into a broad smile that showed off
his straight white teeth. "On the Rue des Mauvais Garcons" he added with a
leer. The "Street of Naughty Boys" had originally been named for the reform
school that once occupied it, but had become a tart commentary since it was
now found in the center of Paris's gayberhood.

"That's on my way" Jean-Paul replied. It wasn't, really. He lived closer in
the 12th, near the Nation. But it was at least on the right side of the
river. The boy jumped lightly onto the handle bars, balancing his skinny
ass comfortably, the stretchy lycra of his shorts offering a nice view of
his two tight globes. They pedaled west towards the Marais, crossing at the
Austerlitz bridge.

It was a short street right off the Rue de Rivoli, and #6 was a narrow
house, no more than three meters wide, but rising to a considerable six
stories. Sid guided him to a stop and hopped off, flipping his backpack off
his shoulder and flipping back his brown hair with his fingers.

"Come up. I owe you a coffee." He turned on his heel and unlocked the
battered blue door, never doubting for a second that the older man would
follow him. Jean-Paul could feel this was a moment of decision, but he told
himself he didn't have to do anything he didn't want. It was just coffee,
after all.

The narrow house was elegant, with a polished oak staircase running up the
left hand side. Jean-Paul followed Sid up the stairs, continuing to admire
his tight butt. He passed the second floor, which contained a classic salon
full of dark, heavy furniture offset by large black and white photographs
of famous musicians. Up on the third floor was a level that was a large,
open kitchen and dining room. Sid dumped his backpack and headed over to an
elaborate coffeemaker the size of a washing machine. Beyond him the windows
overlooked the green leafy Place Baudoyer. The boy was expertly pulling an
espresso and Jean-Paul took a moment to look on the framed photos on the
wall. There was Sid, on the beach, with his arms around a very cute younger
boy with his same sharp-jawed looks and thick brown hair, his arranged into
a mohawk. And there were both boys standing in the street on either side of
a middle-aged man with long hair. Jean-Paul was shocked with
recognition. It was Johnny Dûr, the father of French new wave punk from
the 80s. He stared slack-jawed for a moment.

"Yeah, that's him. My papa" Sid mumbled. Johnny Dûr was an icon. With
his band Les Machetes, he'd torn through the once-conservative Paris music
scene like a horse on fire. He became famous when, once seeing Serge
Gainsbourg in the street, he'd thrown a beer bottle at him, hitting him on
the head and requiring several stitches. Gainsbourg had refused to press
charges, instead naming him the "true prophet of punk" and revealing he was
a fan. Johnny had had a famously tempestuous marriage to his bandmate, the
beautiful Cassandra Le Clair, that had ended with her heroin
overdose. Johnny had himself gone into rehab, coming out clean but still
angry. In the 90's he'd announced his bi-sexuality and mellowed
remarkably. He'd been one of the first French citizens to have children by
surrogacy; the tabloids reported how he'd gone to a clinic in San Diego and
paid them to impregnate a surrogate with his sperm and some frozen eggs
that Cassandra Le Clair had had cultivated when the two of them were still
junkies, looking forward to the day they would go clean and want to make
babies. The story had been a notorious scandal at the turn of the
century. Now here he was, with one of those two babies, who was handing him
a coffee with a flirtatious grin.

"Come upstairs, I'll show you something."

The boy scrambled up the stairway as only a slim, light adolescent could,
taking the steps three at at time, perfectly at ease in the home he'd known
his whole life. Jean-Paul followed and found himself on a landing with a
large print of the famous photo by Jock Sturges of twin adolescent boys,
sanding mother naked on a beach, one holding a large rock as they smiled
enigmatically at the camera, their long thin bodies and long thin penises
mirroring each other, all knees and elbows and narrow hips. There were two
doors, the bedrooms of Sid and his Brother Henry. He'd read in some tabloid
that the boys were named after famous punk musicians.

Sid's bedroom was nearly half the floor, a long room with its own bathroom,
as large as Jean-Paul's entire apartment in his far less fashionable
neighborhood behind the Gare de Lyon. There was a low suede brown couch
across from a massive screen and an X-Box scattered across the antique
parquet flooring. At the end of the room a very large bed covered with
black sheets sat below the window looking onto the street of naughty
boys. Next to the couch sat a long electric bass guitar on a stand, and Sid
picked it up and handed it to Jean-Paul.

It was Cassandra Le Clair's famous bass. Pale pink; on closer inspection it
had been painted to resemble folds of labia, with the tailpiece located
right where the clit would be. She'd been photographed playing it often,
leading to persistent rumors that she was a lesbian. When asked about it
she'd famously replied that all girls loved playing with their pussies.

"I saw your dad when I was thirteen. It was the first show I went to when
we moved to Paris. My friend's big brother got us into the Fleche D'Or. It
was one of his first concerts after... after he went solo."

"You mean after my mother died."

Jean-Paul looked at the thin boy. He could see Cassandra Le Clair's sharp
features, her high cheekbones and full red lips, her straight brown hair.

"Yes. It's cool that you have this.""

"Well it's all I have. The stupid cunt od'ed before I was even born. Where
did you come to Paris from?"

"I moved her from America."

"America! Cool. New York? I love New York."

"No. A place called Utah."

"Isn't that one of the shitty states full of fat people who believe the
bullshit in the bible?"

"Something like that."

"Why the hell would you live there?"

"My father was from there. My mother was French."

"Ah. Well lucky for you to escape, right?"

Jean-Paul thought for a moment of the granite mountains, the tidy fields of
grass, the dusty smell of the arid summers.

"Yes. I think so."

The teen bounced up off the bed and came towards Jean-Paul, who froze in
place. Then with a wicked smile he walked right past him, pulling off his
shirt and dropping it behind him, revealing his lean, tan body and the
delicious strip of white where his shorts rode down his hips and across his
ass.

"I smell like chlorine. I'm taking a shower."

Sid didn't bother to close the door into the bathroom, and though the
shower wasn't in his line of sight he heard the boy's shorts hit the floor
and the water start. As he looked towards the bathroom door he caught a
glimpse in the mirror of slim cut torso, naked pale hip and a flash of
white ass. Then the tone of the water changed when it started hitting
flesh.

Jean-Paul stood there, holding the pussy guitar, caught at the
crossroads. After a moment he sighed and put the bass back on its stand,
glimpsing a bit of the shower as he turned around. He started to head for
the door and the landing and the stairs and the street. But right before he
reached the door Sid called out.

"Hey dude, come here."

The boy's voice was high and sweet and full of fun and testosterone, and
Jean-Paul stopped. Then, he slowly turned back and walked around the corner
into the bathroom.

Sid was standing in a large walk-in shower, its clear glass lightly fogged
by the steam. He was an indistinct figure facing away towards the shower
head on the wall, a dark form offset by the sheer whiteness of his ass that
could be noticed even through the steam. He turned his head and said "get
me the shampoo. It should be on the counter."

Jean-Paul turned to see a bottle of shampoo, as if left there on
purpose. He picked it up and turned back towards the shower, where Sid was
now reaching for the glass door. He opened it without hesitation, facing
Jean-Paul naked with the most enormous erection he'd ever seen on a
teenager. The boy was anything but bashful.

It was a fat pink thumper, pointing up at a diagonal, foreskin only halfway
back. There was a graceful curve to it as it came up from the bottom of his
pubic funnel, lifting off from his Sid's big brace of hairless balls like a
jet rising towards the horizon. Jean-Paul's eyes couldn't help but fix on
the piece of fat meat just hanging there in the air, offset by a small
patch of well-trimmed pubes right above the base. With one hand Sid grabbed
his cock like a boy grasping the cross bar on a roller coaster, and with
the other he reached out and took the shampoo from Jean-Paul's
shock-loosened fingers. With a casual insouciance he gave the length of
teen peen a few swift strokes and smiled his best ruby-lipped ladykiller
smile.

"You like? Cuz if you want you can have a go at it. I'm cool. You're hot
for like an older guy." Sid then turned around and squirted shampoo in his
hair, lathering it up with his eyes closed. He'd made his pitch and either
it would work or not.

47 seconds later Jean-Paul placed his hands on the boy's hips, stepping up
behind him, also naked, also hard. Sid smiled and licked his lips. The deal
was clinched.

Jean-Paul reached around and took the boy's proud baby-maker in his
hand. The cop had tough hands from the weightlifting he did at the gym, and
he squeezed the member tight while reaching up and twisting the boy's right
nipple. Then he swung Sid around and stuck his tongue in the teen's
mouth. They made out for a moment then pulled away. The cop looked hard
into the boy's eyes.

"Do you know what you're doing? You've done this before?" The sexy teenager
laughed.

"Man, so many times! I'll show you."

With that Sid went right to his knees and took Jean-Paul's rigid dick in
his hands. The cop had a thick member, pretty long though not as long as
the younger male's. It was fat and tasty looking though, rising from a bush
of sandy pubes that trailed up to his belly button, and Sid was
relieved. He'd have sex with pretty much anybody but it was nice if they
were hot. This dude was built and cute. This was gonna be fun. He opened
his lips and with a practiced turn swallowed the cock to its root.

Jean-Paul was impressed. A guy that young that could swallow him entirely
in one breath, without the slightest gag — his tip was tickling the back
of the boy's throat. He let out a moan and flexed his ass cheeks, thrusting
his hips forward. He had a great ass from all the biking and Sid
instinctively reached up and grabbed his tight cheeks, squeezing them
hard. The boy started bobbing up and down. As he did he looked up under his
brow at the man. From above, Sid looked even younger than 15, his body
almost hairless, as slim as a pre-teen with only the washboard abdominal
muscle definition of adolescence and the swing of the fat poker between his
smooth thighs indicating he wasn't 12 or so. What a cutie.

Jean-Paul felt the massage of the water on his back while the boy used his
talented throat. He was as hard as he could be, and he needed to get his
fuck on. He reached down and lifted the boy up by his armpits, easily
standing him on his feet. They kissed and the boy's erection rubbed against
the underside of his own hard dick. He reached behind Sid and turned off
the shower, kissing him hard, then turned around and stepped out, grabbing
a towel off the warming rack. He threw the extra towel to the boy, who was
smiling wickedly at this point, and they both toweled off, Sid spending an
inordinate amount of time drying his oversized pud. Then the boy walked
jauntily into the bedroom, his skinny ass swinging, and jumped up onto the
bed, landing on all fours, arching his back and popping out his ass.

"In the drawer" he growled, nodding towards the bedside stand. Jean-Paul
opened it and saw a large bottle of lube and an assortment of dildos.

"Condoms?"

"Fuck me bare."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. You look clean."

Jean-Paul knew he had no std's, but the boy was a different matter. However
given how young he was, it was a chance he would take. He pulled out the
bottle and squirted a large dollop into his palm, running it up and down
his shaft. Then he squirted another shot on his fingers, climbing on his
knees up onto the bed and reaching out to finger the kid and lube him
up. Sid groaned as the man's fingers got his asshole wet. His ass was pale,
tight, hairless and firm, and his rosebud was tight and warm to the
touch. Jean-Paul got two fingers inside, and the boy was clearly no
virgin. He climbed up behind the boy, lined up his own stiff member, and
pried the clean white cheeks open with his hands. Then he lined up his fat
head, slid back his foreskin, and wedged his fat red head into the boy's
muscle. Then with a careful pressure he started sliding in.

"Fuuuuuuuccccckkkkk" Sid sighed in English before flipping back into
French. "That's so good. Nice and thick. You're so hot dude. I want to feel
your pubes against my cheeks."

Jean-Paul obliged the boy, driving forward until his bush pushed against
the boy's smooth rubbery skin, still damp from the shower. The boy was hot
and tight and Jean-Paul ran his hands up and down the firm, slim body,
running across his tight chest, flipping his puffy adolescent nipples, and
thrumming his fingertips up and down the boy's firm ridges of abs, down to
his tight fold of crotch, down to the entirely outsized pole of flesh that
rose from between his legs. He grabbed it and stroked and stroked as the
boy's hips jutted back and forth with each tug on his vital member, pulling
the boy's ass forward and back on his cock. He could feel his balls
churning and after a few minutes he pulled out, flipped the boy over,
grabbed his ankles and thrust them back next to his head, opening Sid's ass
up nicely for a second round.

"Ungh ungh ungh" the man grunted as the boy whimpered with each
thrust. Showing an admirable flexibility, without removing his cock
Jean-Paul rolled his back and, holding Sid's lengthy cock in one hand, ran
his tongue over the tip. This made the boy pant like a dog on a summer
day. This was full-bore hard-ass man-teen fucking.

Jean-Paul rolled the lithe teen onto his side and thrust one thigh forward,
giving him another point of access to the kid's steaming cunt. He leaned
over the boy and jammed it in hard, showing no tenderness now that he knew
the lad could take it. Hell, from the lust-drugged look in Sid's eyes, the
kid was in heaven. Jean-Paul could fuck for hours with his usual tricks,
but this young cutie was going to get his load momentarily.

Sid reached up with one long-fingered hand and grabbed the man's left tit,
twisting it hard while his other hand did the same to himself. His fat cock
was swaying with Jean-Paul's thrusts as the man's straining balls slapped
rhythmically against his slim hairless thigh. The boy was looking up at him
with concentrated desire and consent written across his face. Fifteen or
not, he wanted this desperately and was enjoying himself as only a horny
teen could. Oh fuck, that lust-filled smooth face, the straining neck, the
thick tassel of wet hair plastered across his forehead, the way the kid was
licking his red fuckable lips, that was it.

Jean-Paul leaned back on his hunches, his cock popping out of the boy's ass
with a slurp. He gave his member three tight flicks and started cumming,
his first fat load landing across Sid's pale hip and tanned ribcage. The
boy, realizing what was happening, jackknifed forward, a second spurt
hitting him across the chin and neck, and swallowed the man's still firing
pistol as he squeezed every drop from Jean-Paul's plump balls. His other
hand flew up and down his favorite boy's toy, and Jean-Paul could see the
kid was going to cum by his curling toes and clenching ab muscles. He
leaned over and with a deft twist he repeated Sid's move and sucked the
boy's cock into his mouth as it started firing strings of creamy teen ball
juice. Jean-Paul swallowed every drop greedily. He'd always been a cum pig.

The man collapsed next to the boy and they both continued to suck each
other's now-tender dicks, nursing every last bit from each other
gently. After a minute, they looked up into each other's eyes.

"That was super hot" the boy chirped, no sign of the slightest post-nut
guilt. Instead a gentle smile turned up the corners of his sexy lips.

"Let's do it again."

* * *

LANGUEDOC

	Rose Palliere reclined on the chaise in the garden of her little
cottage. Summer had finally arrived in force, and she could feel the heat
penetrating her 82-year-old flesh. This was her favorite time of year, when
the heat first came down on Languedoc, warming the sand and water, making
the pines fragrant and the cicadas chirp in the green sea grass. There was
a fresh breeze off the sea and it the coolness of the shade was a tangible
thing, but out here in the sun she let the warmth suffuse her. After all
these summers her skin was like Russia leather and her close-cropped hair
as white as the fur of an Arctic fox. She was a thin, long-limbed woman
ravaged by time but her eyes were clear and her bones still strong.

The garden gate banged and she shaded her eyes to see her grandson Marc
turn the corner, carrying a heavy bag of potting soil over his
shoulder. The boy was of course naked, wearing only a sturdy pair of
leather sandals and an American baseball cap emblazoned with the logo of
the LA Dodgers. His well-built copper body glistened from his labor, his
fat cock swinging as he lifted the bag from his shoulder and put it on the
ground. He sighed heavily, the universal male symbol of "look at my labor
woman", and stretched his back, giving his beloved grandmother a smile.

"Thank you Marc. Go get yourself a Coca-Cola."

"Thanks Nana!" The soda, forbidden by his health-nut parents in their home,
was a favorite of the boy, and the 14 year old darted into the house, his
firm ass pumping. He returned in a moment with his cold sweating can and
sat on the chaise next to her, savoring the drink.

Rose looked at him with admiration, a tingle in her withered pussy from the
boy's beautiful neck, his clean, hairless face, his well-built lightly
muscled smooth body a slick as a seal's. He was a good looking kid, anyone
would agree, or anyone who wasn't too terrified to admit the truth, as her
husband used to say.

Marc was a clone of his grandfather Arnaud as he had been at 14; and the
thought took her back to when she had known him then, and to one particular
memory. It was at the end of August the summer of the invasion. They had
come out of the chateau's basement a week before, to find parachute silk
snagged in the large mimosa tree, a kübelwagen with three rotting
Germans just outside the gate (Arnaud had covered her eyes) and the
headquarters of the 1st French North African Commando down in the
village. The fighting had only lasted a day; the combined airborne and
beach landings of Operation Romeo quickly overran the boche and they had
already pushed up the Cap and seized Bormes and Le Lavandrou, meeting up
with the Americans. For the Palliere children, their war was over.

It was safe now to go out in the little boat, and Arnaud had taken a bit of
their preciously hoarded gasoline and started up the engine, which he had
re-built on the table in the empty barn over the long winter months. They
went along the coast, admiring the blackened ruins where the Royal Navy had
pounded the cliff-top pillboxes that held the German guns. The cement had
mostly resisted but now the ugly little buildings were silent and dirty,
dirty in a way the Germans never would have allowed.

Near the old Fort de Bregançon, Arnaud had dropped the boat's anchor in
a hidden little cove with a sandy white beach not more than three meters
across. They had stripped down and plunged into the clear water, warm this
late in the summer, and swum to the beach. Rose had climbed onto the sand
while Arnaud looked for mollusks in the pools. She could feel the sun
warming her flesh to the bone. She had laid there watching him, wet and
slick as a seal as he went in and out of the water, prying up blue mussels
and periwinkles and tossing them into the boat for their dinner. As she
watched him her young girl's fingers wandered down to her slit and found
their home drumming on the exciting little nub there.  Eventually Arnaud
noticed what she was doing and he came up dripping onto the beach, water
pouring off his erection. He sank down on his knees before her and leaned
forward. The water that ran off of him and fell splashing onto her skin was
cool and clean, and when he kissed her she tasted the salt on his
lips. With a practiced motion, not breaking the kiss, the young teenager
gently pushed his erection into his eleven year old sister's cunt.

"Nana" she heard Marc call from far away, and she floated up from her
daydream. "Nana, are you horny?" The boy was whispering, and Rose
remembered that she was in her garden, out in the open, where anyone
wandering down the shaded campground lane could peek over her hedge and see
her fingering herself absentmindedly. She instantly removed her spotted
hand from her crotch and smiled up at the boy.

"It's fine honey. I was just having a nice memory of your grandfather."

"If you want to go inside I'll fuck you Nana."

"Don't you have work to do?"

"No, yours was the last chore today" the boy lied. "Dad wanted to make sure
you were coming for dinner but that's not for an hour."

In addition to her three daughters and her son, Marc's father, she had 14
grandchildren now, and five great-grandchildren, soon to be six. With the
way her oldest granddaughter's 12 year old son was coming along, she'd be a
great-great grandmother before too long. Her loins had been very fruitful,
and she had multiplied Arnaud's seed generously. Any fucking at her age
would just be a pale shadow of their love, the love that had given birth to
her family, to this place. She was rarely horny anymore, but when she was
nostalgic like this, lost in her memories, she enjoyed the sex. Any of her
grandsons could do to remind her of the man she had loved against all
convention. Any of them had inherited to different degrees his body, his
scent, his timbre of voice. If she drifted off just a little during the sex
she would think it was him, the man she had loved so fiercely.

She rose slowly, her body older than that lovely eleven year old girl could
have imagined, laying on that warm little beach over seven decades ago. the
boy reached out and steadied her, taking her by her elbow with his firm
young grasp. They turned towards the cottage, and she led him into her bed.