I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but as soon as I tried to lift my head from the pillow to look at the clock by my bed I wished I hadn’t. It felt as if a thousand hammers were thudding into my skull, my mouth tasted of ashes and I felt very sick. I groaned and shut my eyes and waited for the pain to go away.
I must have fallen asleep again because when I surfaced to some kind of consciousness again the world beyond my eyelids seemed brighter, although I still didn’t dare open my eyes. The pain seems to have receded a little too, probably because two sets of fingers were gently massaging my temples — small fingers, a girl’s fingers! What the hell? Girls weren’t permitted in the men’s halls of residence in those far-off days, nor men in the women’s halls come to that. It may have been the Swinging Sixties, but universities were still stuck in the dark ages.
For a while, I was content to just lie there. Trying to think was like wading through thick mud, so I gave up the effort of trying to remember until something like sanity returned. Slowly, however, random pictures began to rise up out of the miasma, and eventually I was able to piece them together into some sort of coherent story.
My newfound friend on the same landing in our hall — this was only a few weeks after the start of the fresher term — was a jazz aficionado and even had a collection of about fifty rather scratched vinyls and a Dansette record player. I had discovered jazz a couple of years earlier when my then-girlfriend gave me an EP of Duke Ellington for my birthday, but I was no expert. John, on the other hand, came from London and had been a regular at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club since his fifteenth birthday — he had lied about his age since you weren’t allowed into licensed premises until the age of sixteen.
Anyway, as soon as he arrived in Bristol he had looked out all the local jazz clubs, and every Friday night while we were all drinking in the Students’ Union Bar he would disappear, to reappear around lunchtime the next day with bloodshot eyes and the mother and father of a hangover. I have no idea where he spent the night, quite possibly sleeping it off on some bench in the university gardens — it was an unusually warm autumn that year.
That particular Friday he had invited me to go with him to a pub he had heard about near the docks where he said there was apparently a particularly good amateur combo topping the bill. We caught the bus into town — very few students had cars — promising ourselves we would leave the bar before well in time to catch the last bus. When we eventually found the place, it was in a dingy back street. The interior wasn’t much better — with a cracked linoleum-covered floor and walls stained dark brown by nicotine, all shrouded in a pall of thick cigarette smoke, but the beer was cheap.
The first couple of acts weren’t much good so we sank a few beers and got through a couple of packets of fags while we waited. Our patience was rewarded however, because John had been right, the main act may have been amateurs but they were electrifying — the sax player was good enough to play with any of the top bands, and his improvisations were out of this world. My problems started after they had finished. I’ve never been a great beer drinker, but I think I must have had at least ten pints and the last couple of hours are just a blur of fags, faces and the flatter of people talking far too loud. There was a girl I think. Actually, there must have been a girl since it was in her bed that I woke up, but that is moving on a bit.
Once I could think fairly clearly I began to piece together what I could remember about the girl, presumably the girl who was stroking my brow. Somehow she seemed to have joined us during the main act, very politely asking if the chair next to me was free. The first thing that struck me was her voice. Her English was good, but a little precise as is often the way with people where English is not their first language, with a delightful French accent. I don’t know what it is about girls who speak English with a French accent, but I had always found them extremely sexy ever since I had stayed with a family in Paris when I was fifteen. She was petite — probably not much over five feet tall — with short black hair, and wearing a red tee-shirt and a very short mini skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her pert bum. She was bare-legged and wearing black flat-heeled shoes that my mother would have said were slippers, not shoes. Oh, and she was braless, with small breasts but very prominent nipples that made the two most delicious points in her tee shirt. I vaguely recall thinking that it would be rather nice to suck them.
How I ended up in her bed I have no idea. I don’t remember leaving the pub or how we got there. Presumably, we walked. I have no idea what happened to John and I didn’t see him again until hall dinner on Monday evening. I later found out that her flat, which she shared with two other girls, was only about a mile and a half from the docks.
At last, when I felt a little stronger, I managed to prise open my eyes without feeling dizzy, and it was only then I realised I wasn’t in my room in the hall, but in a strange bedroom. I gingerly turned my head and took in the floral curtains, and dark red painted walls covered in posters. Finally, my eyes lighted on a vision of sexiness sitting next to the bed wearing a white cotton vest and knickers, looking at me with a concerned frown on her face and rosy lips pursed in thought.
“You need coffee,” she said in a husky voice, “proper coffee, not that instant muck you get in the shops here. But you are lucky. I brought a supply with me when I came over in the summer since I knew that you English were such barbarians. Stay there, and I will make some.”
Quite frankly she didn’t need to tell me to stay there, since I wasn’t going anywhere soon. I had the whole weekend and my imagination was already working overtime thinking about all the rather naughty things that we might possibly get up to, if I was lucky that is. My cock was well ahead of me, and was raising quite a tent in the thin cotton sheet covering me — I had quickly realised that I was naked and that she must have undressed me before putting me to bed to sleep off my drunken stupor.
While she was gone I had a closer look at the posters on the walls. Many were the kind everyone is familiar with … copies of Impressionist paintings and pictures of Paris … but there were a few racier ones of female nightclub singers in tiny black dresses and burlesque artists in very little more than a sequinned g-string. I had fucked one or two girls back home but they were all rather prim and proper, preferring to undress in the dark, but if her taste was anything to go by, this girl was something else altogether. I wasn’t wrong.
When she came back she cradled my head with one arm, with my face resting against her soft breasts, and fed me strong sweet black coffee from a mug. It was delicious and when I finished it I felt much better.
After she had put the empty mug down on the bedside cabinet, she glanced down at the sheet, and giggled, “I think we need to do something about that monsieur,” and stripping off her vest and knickers quickly slid under the sheet beside me.
She cuddled up to me and slowly slid her hand down my chest, across my tummy and through the forest of my pubic hair until she reached my cock. Circling it with her fingers she began to slide her hand up and down the length of my throbbing shaft which made it jerk. “You do have the most beautiful specimen of a cock monsieur, and I love that it is circumcised, it exposes the helmet so nicely, I must suck it,” and she dived under the sheet and took the head of my cock between her lips.
My god, she was a true expert. The way she sucked and stroked, and probed with her long pointed tongue was beyond heavenly. However she wasn’t going to let me cum, and every time my balls tightened and my cock muscles began to contract, she would give a little squeeze just below the glans, until the urge to ejaculate had passed. Then she would begin again, teasing me until every never ending in my body was tingling with delicious arousal.
After about half an hour of this exquisite torture, she resurfaced and kissed me passionately on the lips, her tongue flicking salaciously into my open mouth. “It is time for you to fuck me now monsieur,” she whispered, “see I am already very wet,” and taking my hand she pressed it against her mound of love, where her swollen inner lips were pushing through the tight curls of her pubic hair.
As I said, I had had little experience of female sexual anatomy, but even in my ignorance I realised that her clitoris was unusually large, like a little penis, and I squeezed it gently between my first finger and thumb which made her moan delightfully.
With cat-like grace, she swiftly straddled my upper chest and pressed her swollen labia against my lips. “Lick me monsieur,” she said, “and make me cum,” and began to ride my mouth with rapid undulations of her hips.
I had never licked a pussy before, but I soon caught on to what gave her the greatest stimulation, and I was soon alternating between licking her slit from her tight little arsehole to her clitoris, sucking her labia into my mouth and savouring them like succulent pieces of ripe peach, and sucking hard on her throbbing bud. The taste and scent of her juices were delicious, sweet and musky like the finest Muscatel wine. The way she writhed above me was the most erotic experience I had ever known up till then, and my cock became so hard it almost hurt.
She took my hands and lifted them to her breasts, “pinch my nipples monsieur,” she moaned, “harder, oh harder,” as multiple orgasms swept through her body as fast as clouds across the sky in an autumn gale.
After she had been cumming almost continuously for what must have been nearly half an hour, she slid down my body and impaled herself on my cock, taking my entire length inside the slippery velvet sheath of her hot vagina. Then like some Napoleon astride his mighty steed leading his armies to battle she rode me until time became a blur and my whole being was concentrated on my throbbing cock. I was not doing the fucking! I was being fucked by an expert and I loved it.