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I’d been monogamous while I was with Rania. I was anxious for strange pussy; multiple strange pussies.

Remember I said that women just seemed to fall into my lap. It was less than a month after Rania left that it happened.

Other than a romp in bed with sixty-year-old Claudia St. Germain; “eat me some more, Marty, be my French lover. Your tongue, Marty, oh your tongue;” there wasn’t anyone else.

Spring comes early in the south of France which means women on holiday from all over northern Europe are anxious for the Mediterranean warmth. Anxious to take off their clothes.

I’d enjoy the view as they frolicked in the surf, sunbathed or walked the beach. Of course, I didn’t just look.

There were gorgeous blondes from Scandinavia; horny Brits and eager and enthusiastic Germans, Poles and Dutch girls and women.

Single, divorced and married. It didn’t matter to me or to them.

Speaking of married women. Did you know that some married women insisted that fucking was cheating on their husbands, but giving blowjobs and getting their pussies eaten wasn’t cheating?

Yeah, me neither. I had to laugh but enjoyed their mouths and their juicy pussies.

“Marty, I just can’t but I’d love to please you with my mouth.” Those women almost universally were cocksuckers; some highly skill.

Naturally, I was anxious to reciprocate. “Frau Schmidt, you have the sweetest pussy.”

“Tell me again, Marty. Herr Schmidt hasn’t told me that in ages.” She pushed my head back into her pussy.

“How do I say it in German?”

She told me, but “Marty, you need to practice, and I should tell you that I and every other German woman won’t be upset if you get it wrong if your tongue is busy,” she laughed, “maybe, you won’t sound as bad if your voice is muffled by my pussy.” She pushed my head down and held it there.

I mumbled.

Frau Schmidt laughed, “that sounds so much better. You’ll be speaking German in no time.”

I never really learned German, Polish, Russian, Dutch or any of the Scandinavian languages, but apparently, “Olga (or Greta or Gryzna or whomever) you have the sweetest pussy” is understood by women the world over.

It was a marvelous Spring and Summer. It was rare that more than a week went by that some woman on holiday was not in my bed.

Of course, not all of them were married.

There was Madame Elvira Beauregard-Wilmotte. She walked into the Classic Hotel’s dining room as if she owned the place. While most women were wearing beachwear and a cover up, like Suzette, even in the warmth of the Mediterranean Spring she was wearing a Russian Stable stole. Most women and most men wore sandals of some fashion; this woman was wearing heels. Her face was perfectly made-up. Her lips painted a striking red.

To top it off, her nose was so far up in the air, I wondered if there was enough oxygen for her to breath, and she demanded the best table in the restaurant.

Of course, as a regular in the hotel’s dining room, my table was next to hers.

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